#lofty au

 /"Take me to church--I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife."/

 ‘Possessive’ would be a kind understatement. 

 He knew what was his--and he wasn't the type to share. 

He was completely, utterly, and hopelessly devoted to his lover--more than he'd like to admit, sometimes. He absolutely hated seeing the blonde interact with other (possible) lovers, he hated knowing that he wasn't solely his, not anymore. 

 He was the only thing that gave him a real reason to live, the only thing that made him feel like someone. That someone thought that he, of all people, was special. 

 He absolutely hated the thought of someone taking that away from him. What he hated even more, though, was obstructing his lover's happiness. 

No matter what you do to me, I'll always be by your side.

He would abide by that. That was their often-unsaid agreement, wasn't it? 

Even if it hurt him to see him go off with other people, no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he wanted to stop it, he couldn't, and he wouldn't. He had no right. It was hypocritical of him to. No matter how much it hurt. 

He would step aside, regrettably, begrudgingly, and leave it be--scribbling away at his journal, slicing away at already broken skin. 

Who cares how he felt, right? Because everyone would just do whatever they wanted, anyways. Those who wanted Ren would still pursue him, anyways, no matter what he wanted. No one cared. No one ever did. 

So he wouldn't either. 

1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3, drink.

Sometimes, on his worse nights, when he couldn't sleep and was drowning in his depression and crippling insecurities, he felt that alcohol was his best friend. He sat at the kitchen table at unholy hours of the night, and he drank and drank until the pain went away, until he couldn't feel a damn thing anymore, until he was numb to the touch.

1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3, drink.

It was his relief system, it was the only thing that made him feel better, even with the killer hangovers he'd get the next morning. Whenever someone would ask if he was okay, he would just say he hadn't slept well that previous night, and that he'd be fine. He didn't want anyone to know that he was falling apart. His brother could tell, he

knew

his brother could tell. They were good at reading each other like that. But everyone else? They didn't need to know. They pictured him as the epitome of confidence, a literal ray of sunshine, and he was going to be just that. For his husband's sake. For his children's sake. For his brother's sake. For

everyone's

sake. He was scared, he felt alone. He didn't want to open up to anyone. He'd rather suffer in silence. He didn't care if his anxieties and depression ate him up from the inside out, as long as he had his alcohol. Nobody would have to find out. Nobody

needed

to find out. Painful silence worked for him.

1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3, drink.

Sometimes, he would go through bottles upon bottles of wine in one night, and he'd be so drunk he could possibly get himself landed in the hospital. He always walked a thin line between being miserably drunk and severe alcohol poisoning, but he never quite crossed over into the latter. He'd get drunk enough to pass out for the night, to not worry about a damn thing for the rest of the night.

There's no shame in this,

he'd think to himself,

drinking my problems away. It's not like anyone's noticed . . . no one ever does.

He'd eventually just

laugh,

holding a half-full glass of wine in his hand --

They were death.

Moving silently through the chilling, winter breeze, with absolute grace and swiftness, they continued on their search for the poor souls they were required to reap--with hearts full of fire and stomachs filled with dread.

They never asked to become what they were. Yet here they are.

Two sets of frighteningly icy sapphire orbs focused onto an old, crumpling building that was now burning down to ashes. They exchanged emotionless glances--as if they could read each other's minds--before they each tapped the ends of their large scythes on the cracked cement, willing the souls of the burning victims to be sent to heaven, or hell--wherever they were meant to be.

The shorter mop of strawberry blonde hair shot a glance at his twin brother, gripping his scythe tightly with both hands--the weapon nearly double his size and weight. The other Reaper returned his gaze soon enough, holding his own scythe over his shoulder.

"We should return home."

"Of course."

Without another word, they both vanished into the shadows cast by the still-burning building.

He was afraid of the dark.

It enveloped him, suffocated him in its shadowy grip. He felt like he couldn’t breathe in the dark, it made him want to cry out.

But he would always bite his tongue—he force a rather nervous looking smile, shake his head slowly and press on until he found some light, or until he could create his own.

He was a light-based daemon; he was the sun. He shouldn’t ever have to fess up to his childish fear, no one would ever have to know.

However, one late night, that suffocating feeling crept up on him as he slept. He suddenly jolted up from his slumber, pressing a hand to his tear-covered cheeks. A terrified squeak left his shuddering lips as he curled up into a ball, sobbing into his knees and hugging his legs tightly.

The blonde demon was awake, slowly opening a sapphire orb with a slightly confused expression. He finally sat up and glanced over at the snowy haired boy before pulling him into a gentle hug, stroking his soft snowy locks gently.

"You’re okay," he mused reassuringly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of the daemon’s head. "Everything’s okay."

The boy shakily gripped onto the other’s shirt, his grip so tight it was as if he were afraid he was going to disappear. He pressed his face into his chest and shut his eyes tightly, sobbing into his shirt. The blonde simply rested his head against his, holding him close and rocking him comfortingly.

"Th-thank you," he finally breathed out, after a few, long minutes. He slowly released his grip on the blonde’s shirt and wrapped his arms around him, snuggling up against him.

The demon smiled softly as he pressed another gentle kiss to the top of the boy’s head, continuing to stroke his soft white hair.

               It was freezing cold.

                Much to pyro demon’s expense (and the cyro daemon’s benefit), the heater in the house had broken earlier that day, for what it appeared to be no real reason at all.

                He had himself huddled in at least three blankets on top of the bed, hugging them close to his cold-blooded body as he shivered and shuddered rapidly in his spot. He was amazed on how he managed to not pass out yet.

                But he felt like he was about to.

                He felt light-headed and like his joints were beginning to lock up—not at all good signs. A shaky sigh escaped his lips as he slowly opened an eye, piercing blood red meeting the icy gaze of the cyro.

                “Wh…what do you want?” he muttered out—slow and quiet, just like the current beating of his heart.

                “Well,” Frost began to murmur, walking over before slowly and almost hesitantly crawling onto the bed beside the demon. “I figured you were going to be half frozen to death. And, you’re in my bed.”

                “S-sounds like quite the personal problem, c-c-cyro.”

                “Even half dead you’re still snarky and rude, eh?”

                “Sh-shut the f-f-fu-fuck up.” Miaka hissed in reply, pulling the covers over himself even tighter and shutting his eye again.

                The daemon simply rolled his eyes before reaching over, pulling the demon into his lap and resting his arms around his waist. The pyro’s eyes quickly reopened at the sudden warm touch, an irritated blush appearing on his cheeks.

                “E-eh?? Why are you…touching me…” he muttered in quiet protest. But he was too drawn to the body heat of the other—he couldn’t help himself, he wanted it, he needed it. He simply pouted before resting his head against his chest, still huddled up in his pile of blankets.

                “You’re welcome…”

/Hey, if I agreed to try and hate you, wouldn’t you try to love the me that’s beyond caring about your feelings?/

                “…what do you want?”

                “Nothing…why do you always assume I want something?”

                “Because you never willingly come and talk to me unless you want something.” his petite looking face formed an unpleasant looking grimace on his lips as he glanced over at the taller blonde, raising a single eyebrow. They hated each other, of course, why would he come over here just to be here?

                That was preposterous.

                “…hmph. I could fuck you up again instead, how does that sound?” he rolled his eyes with an irritated frown, leaning against a nearby tree with his arms folded together, occasionally dusting off his shoulders as he carefully observed the smaller blondes reactions and movements.

                “Tch…whatever.”

/The “he” that needs you is now gone, “he’s” not here anymore. At all./

                “Why should I care, anyways…you said you were gonna do it again sooner or later. Because you want me dead still, don’t you, hm…?” he glanced off to the side, blinking as his eyes slowly drooped to the ground, the faintest traces of hurt in the dull red and blue orbs.

/It hurts, you know?/

                “Yeah, but if I killed you I wouldn’t have anyone to mess around with anymore…hmph.”

                “…sure.”

                “Tch, it’s true. Don’t go thinking I like having you around or anything…that’s stupid.” he huffed in an irritated type of tone, staring off to the side as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Your days are still fucking numbered…and have been ever since the day you first possessed Eri.”

                “Whatever you say…Kurai.” he frowned again, rolling his eyes before shooting the blonde a cold, near emotionless stare.

/If only you had the ears that I have, then I would sing you a song from the bottom of my heart. But would you?

If only you had the heart that I have, then I would flood you with all the love that I have. But would you?/

                “I’ll be waiting for that day, then. Because I don’t believe you in the slightest.”

                “And why not, hm…?” the blonde glared at him before walking over, roughly gripping the shorter boy’s chin and tilting his head upward so that he would look him in the eyes.

                “You don’t scare me.”

                “I should.”

                “But you don’t.”

/Today, I don’t need to reach your deafened ears, and I don’t need to try and fill your empty heart./

                He frowned and released the boy from his grip, turning away as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “Whatever.”

                “See…you could’ve done something there but you didn’t. Therefore…I don’t believe you.”

                “Fuck off.”

                “Tch.”

“Maybe because the power got knocked out and it’s the middle of goddamn November, in a huge rainstorm…?” he hissed in reply, rolling his eyes before noticing the boy’s obvious pain and distraught, an evil smirk appearing on his lips.

“What’s the matter…? Too cold for the little pyro?”

“Sh-shut up…”

“You’re dying, aren’t you…” he continued to prod him on, leaning closer to the freezing blonde spirit who turned his head away in response, shutting his heterochromatin eyes.

“…yes. Isn’t th-that just great news for you hmm…?”

“It’s the best thing I’ve heard all day, honestly.” his smirk grew as he folded his arms, turning away from him.

“I would’ve rather had killed you myself though…”

“…I feel sooooo fucking loved. Wow. Was that supposed to make me feel better, o-or are you just venting out all your thoughts about me b-before this freezing cold ends me?”

“Maybe both.” “Fucking moron.” “Little prick.” “Mmn…” he let out a soft whimper as he rested his head against his knees again, his eyes shut tightly as he listened to his own mellow heartbeat, as it rose slowly in his chest before falling again, the beats gradually becoming further and further apart as time went on. He always thought if he died, it would be by Kurai’s hands, if he had to die anyways. He never wanted to go, not like this. “…Kurai.” “What?”

“…if it’s any consolation, I w-would’ve rather died by your hand, anyways.”

“…hmph.”

The blonde stared at him for a moment before slowly blinking his cerulean orbs, his smirk slowly fading. He then sighed before walking into another room and grabbing a couple blankets, dragging them back into the living room and dropping them onto the floor. He then sat down, glancing at the boy.

"C’mere."

"…what are you doing."

"Trying to keep your scrawny ass alive. Now are you gonna come here or are you gonna sit there and become a pyro popsicle?" he didn’t know what exactly came over him, what even drove him to helping the other spirit, he hated him with all his heart, mind, body and soul.

Yet here he was, inviting him to cuddle in a heap of blankets just to keep him alive.

Sheesh.

"…mmh." he stared at him with an emotionless expression before slowly and painfully getting up from his spot, his petite yet toned limbs visibly shivering as he hesitantly made his way over to the fellow spirit, sitting down next to him.

The other then wrapped the two blankets around the both of them, huddling (hesitantly, albeit) closer to the smaller blonde as he glared off to the side.

"…there."

The pyro blinked slowly and stared at him for a few moments, still with his emotionless expression. He then finally gave the tiniest hint of a smile as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek before resting his head against his chest.

"…thank you. Even though I know you’re probably only doing this to kill me yourself later."

"Partly, yes," he teased, a hint of a smile on his lips as well.

"Moron…"

"Prick."

He rolled his eyes before shutting them again, blushing softly as he remained silent for a few moments before speaking again.