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pairing: natan
warnings: sfw, mentions of violence
word count: 1300
notes: thank you C.S. Lewis for the title.Ā for @natanweek day 2 - fear/courage
For all his talk, his bravo and his boasting, heās an awful coward.
Heās usually just good at hiding it.
Thereās a lot that goes into his facade, apathetic asshole that he pretends to be, and some days heās reminded just how exhausting it is to keep it up. His entire image is nothing save for an elaborate hoax but heād rather relive every instance heās been maimed in excruciating detail than to let anyone see the cowering, doe-eyed brat that lurks underneath the illusionary brawn.
He buries his insecurities under false confidence and flawed ideologies. He tries not to think about what he would (not) have done if he hadnāt amassed so many supporters in Heaven.
Sometimes, he wonders if heās really a leader or if heās become a follower, too, just like the rest of them. He doesnāt know if heās acting off of his own beliefs or off of what they expect from him anymore. His motives have become jumbled over the years and he would claim heās too indifferent to pick them apart, but thatās a lie.
(Heās afraid.)
He grips his illusion so tightly sometimes he even deceives himself, but only sometimes. Inevitably, he has to face what he is and is not and stamp down his self loathing when heās in anyoneās company save for his own.
After all, heās got a leader to play.
Itās almost an effortless gig with humans. Heās equal to if not worse than the dreaded monster under the bed, only heās one who will drag you down to hell for eternal suffering. He takes comfort in how easy it is to scare them. They make it all too easy to slide into his role, to play it up, to be the monster they claim he is.
He cringes away from the word internally, it reverberates throughout every deadened part of him, shaving off another piece of his soul. Does he even have one anymore, or does he just share the ones that rage inside of him, screaming and clawing and fighting for control of his body? Is it even his body anymore, or is it theirs?
Hell is his own eternal suffering, his punishment for being the very thing he fears the most. Despite what humans think, heās no more the lord of hell than he is the lord of chocolate chunk brownies, but a vessel for it, hollowed out and filled with all those as vile as he is.
But he lets them think what they want. Itās easier that way, and itās handy in keeping them away from him. After all, his hatred for them is what got him here in the first place, wasnāt it? Even now, that was something he maintained, something he could confidently say was his own.
Natalie was an exception.
She was the exception.
To everything.
She was everything he wasnāt and couldnāt be. She didnāt cower before him, or before anything else. He had always thought that courage was the absence of fear, but she proved him wrong.
She had fears. She just wasnāt afraid to face them.
āItās like, growth or something,ā she had told him once, and left it at that, smiling and laughing all the way. He hadnāt really gotten it then, just staring at her as if she had a screw loose. The more time he spent with her, though, bound to her by a contract and maybe a little bit of something else, the more he understood.
There was nothing brave about facing something you werenāt afraid of. Bravery was her, standing unwavering before Hell even as it fed off of the bitter tang of her fear, ready to pull him back into his body at any cost. Bravery was her, staring into the face of Death himself with a shuddering breath, and jumping to reassure him that things would be alright.
Bravery is her, opening her arms and heart to the Devil and bracing for rejection.
Except there isnāt one because heās still a coward and even though he knows turning her away would be whatās best for her, he knows it wonāt be whatās best for him. Heās terrified of what rejecting her would mean.
Heās had a taste of what it means to be loved ā genuinely, wholly, irrevocably ā and he canāt bring himself to end it here. He doesnāt know what will become of him, wretched beast that he is, if he did otherwise.
Even this short taste of something other than suffocating loneliness, than crippling self loathing, has made him feel alive in a way he hasnāt in a long, long time. Itās selfish and itās cowardly but thatās who he is, thatās who heās always been.
Itās not until theyāre laying together, under the stars in some cheesy teenage romance-esque fashion that he doesnāt actually hate as much as he claims to when they first climb onto her roof, that he realizes his newfound definition of courage isnāt complete.
āYou know,ā Natalie starts, and he would have begrudged the loss of their peaceful silence if her voice wasnāt so soft, like sheās got a secret to impart to him. He canāt quash his own curiosity. Thereās a pause and he gets impatient, turning to look over at her.
Sheās staring up at the sky, and thereās a thoughtfulness on her face thatās uncharacteristic. Sheās not ever one to think about what sheās going to say. She speaks first and deals with the consequences later, so watching her turn her words over in her head is a strange experience in and of itself.
āWell? Spit it out, kid.ā An ironic smile turns up her lips because he can hardly call her that anymore without slighting himself, not with the things theyāve done and do, but thatās an argument for another day.
āI was just thinkingā¦ā
āDonāt hurt yourself.ā She laughs and hits his arm, before reaching down and fumbling until she finds his fingers in the dark. She twines them together and he lets her.
āJerk. I was just thinking about ā and donāt run away now ā love.ā She tightens her grip on his hand and he narrows his eyes at her, and sheās still not looking at him but she laughs again anyways because she knows him well enough to sense his glare.
āAnd?ā
āAnd⦠I think loving someone is the bravest thing anyone can do, you know.ā Thereās something in her tone that has him tensing. Heās never talked to her about his cowardice, but thereās something there that suggests she knows. It wouldnāt surprise him if she did, sheās always been able to read him better than anyone else, but itās disconcerting nonetheless.
He stays silent and she finally turns to face him.
āDonāt you think?ā she asks, softly. āYou have to open up your heart and thatās scary. Youāre, like, giving someone a piece of you. Itās like⦠I dunno. Maybe all Iām trying to say is that what⦠what we have isnāt for the weak hearted.ā
She smiles brilliantly at him and her eyes are bright in the moonlight and he is frozen. He can only watch as she raises up onto her elbows to look down at him.
āItās not for cowards,ā she says, and if heād thought the topic a strange coincidence before, all doubts were wiped away at her vehemence. She leans down and brushes her lips against his, and it feels like sheās breathing life into him.
She pulls away and her smile is still in place, but she doesnāt say anything else and she doesnāt prompt him for a response, either, which heās grateful for. She lays back down beside him, resuming her stargazing.
And if she notices his grip on her hand tighten, she doesnāt say anything.
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summary: day one, wrath/happiness. there are many sides to their story.
notes: happy natan week my guys! i am dead
word count: 772
Alcohol doesnāt look good on her, he decides, eyes flicking over her ruddy cheeks and heavy eyelids, lips lifted into a perpetual grin. Even when she stumbles and nearly faceplants onto the cement, sheās smiling like sheās won the goddamn lottery. She hangs uselessly off his arm as he catches her, her own hands dangling limply in the air, two pendulums swaying in every direction.
Sheās so hilariously clueless like this; heās not sure if he wants to bite back a laugh or a sigh. Either way, heās definitely going to be holding this over her head tomorrow. Heās about to mention that sobering fact to her, but she looks at him with that dopey smile and suddenly the words are lost in his throat.
āIād die for you, you know,ā she says then, and any rational thought he mightāve had fizzes over like champagne. He can only stare at her, with her mouth so wide she can fit the crescent moon in her smile and the gleam in her eyes and her rosy cheeks and strands of hair falling in her face--
Jesus Christ, alcohol is really not a good look on her.
When they get home, he gets her settled into bed, tucks her hair behind her ear before he retreats to his beanbag chair. Nothing unusual between friends, he reasons, but even to himself itās a strikingly hollow excuse. Thereās a new, unwelcome ache in his chest, burning softly underneath his skin.
He sits quietly until the sun rises.
She gets back home late from her date with Jericho, but heās fairly certain that the only reason her cheeks are bright pink is because of the biting cold outside. Still, he feels nauseous, like someoneās chained him to a church pillar and left him there to rot for a few days.
Some newly archaic side of him feels a need for retribution, regardless of the fact that the only thing that creepy-faced shitstain has done wrong is want to be close to Natalie. Has been alone with Natalie. Has maybe tried some things. With Natalie.
His hands clench automatically, his mind briefly entertaining the thought of crushing that assholeās feeble arm between his fingers.
For a moment, he's tempted. He's done plenty worse for lesser crimes.
āItās freezing out there,ā she says, unwinding her scarf. āWe should make cocoa or something.ā
They do, and then do it again because Natalie manages to swap the sugar for salt the first time. She puts on a movie and they drink their hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and caramel and he manages to force the thought of her and Jericho to the back of his mind.
He doesnāt even know why it bothers him so much.
At first, he doesn't realize what's happening.
Blood blooms out from a hole in his stomach, and he looks down at the wound in confusion, the amber of his eyes reflecting sickeningly in the dark liquid. He feels it soaking the back of his sweatshirt. Natalie, he realizes numbly. It must be Natalieās wound. His hands come up to touch his neck, and theyāre wet and smell like iron and he feels his stomach clench, more blood spilling out of it as his muscles contract.
He needs to go. He needs to go right now.
And suddenly, heās there.
āThat hurt, you asshole,ā he snarls at the man, slamming his elbow into his face.
Thereās a hurricane swirling underneath his skin, ready to burst through the seams of his flesh and unleash itself on this man, this piece of shit thatās saying that heās the new Satan, Jesus, right now thereās nobody in this world that he wants to kill more--
āIām gonna rip you apart,ā he says, fists clenched.
āLucifer!ā
Heās not used to his brother being the voice of reason, but he looks over and sees him leaning over Natalie, whoās in tears. In pain.
He feels his rage drain out of him like rainwater.
āYouāre late.ā
The words are flashing through his mind again and again and again, an unforgiving reckoning scratched into his arm. The cuts are pretty deep. She might have scars. His head pounds harder in his skull.
Her face keeps bubbling up in his mind. Her rosy cheeks, her tipsy smile. Her laugh at his hot cocoa mustache and the light feeling in his chest. Her face, rain-soaked and contorted with pain.
āIād die for you,ā she had said.
He grits his teeth, hitting the wall of the building with enough force to crack it.
Heāll burn this place down, if only to see her smile again.