#for the luci fans while I finish coding 🤲

[disenchantedif]

Here’s a commission I did for @stephschoices and her MC Lili since we’re all in a Luci mood lol. While I code the rest of Luci’s scenes, here’s this to tide you all over 🤲

Remembering the anniversary of a relationship that’s ended is a unique kind of torture, you think. It was once a day you celebrated and now it caused nothing but pain. Time is ruthless, and nothing stays the same.

Well, some things stay the same.

Like how your heart skips a beat when you see him slumped over the railing in the hallway, looking out at the night sky. That’s never changed, and you don’t think it ever will. Lucien Rivera will, perhaps unfortunately, always take your breath away. Then your heart sinks as you see the ruffled wings, the whiskey bottle dangling between limp fingers, the way his head is bowed as if in prayer.

He’s not praying, you know that much. Despite being part angel, Lucien never had much faith in anything.

You approach quietly, your steps silent against the concrete. He’s too far gone to hear you anyways, you realize, reaching out a gentle hand to nudge his shoulder. He spins around, the shitty overhead light reflected in his wide eyes.

It’s quiet for a moment, then your name tumbles out of his clumsy lips, “Leliana…”

Maybe it’s providence, be it of fate or the divine or something you aren’t even aware of, that you brought you both here. Maybe it’s your shit luck, or maybe it’s a chance you’ve been wishing for in the depths of your heart. Either way, he’s here and so are you.

“Lucien,” You force his name out, and it feels like the air has been knocked out of your lungs, “I think…I think you’ve had enough.”

You glance pointedly down at the bottle. He looks away.

“I’d disagree,” He mutters.

When you hold your hand out, you don’t expect him to actually hand the whiskey over. He does, though, obediently and with shaking hands. There’s no lid in sight, which tells you he fully planned on drinking the whole thing tonight.

“Is Cameron back at your dorm?” You ask, and the knowledge that you don’t know the ins and outs of his life anymore is like acid on your tongue.

Lucien gives a stilted laugh, “No. He’s with his aunt.”

You offer your arm when he tries to stand on wobbling legs. He stares at it for a long moment, like he isn’t quite sure if he’s imagining it or not. Then he moves gingerly to take it, his skin on yours both foreign and familiar.

You know very well where his dorm is. Perhaps you’re over conscious of it, the fact that he lives just down the hall. It was stinging, at first, that he was so close yet so far. That seems to be the common theme between the two of you.

“Why?” Lucien asks, his gaze dismal.

“You need help,” You say, as if it isn’t tearing you apart from the inside out to be so close to him.

The look he gives you calls you out on the lie, but he’s retained enough manners to say nothing.

You reach his dorm, and he’s left the door unlocked. You’d fret about safety if it was anyone else, but it’s Lucien, so you push the urge down. He ambles to the couch when you release him, sitting in a heap of mussed curls and disheveled feathers. You open the fridge, cringing slightly at the lack of food as you get a bottle of water.

“Drink this,” You say, handing it to him before you drift back into the small kitchen.

The crinkling plastic tells you he listened as you pour the rest of the whiskey out. He doesn’t object, despite seeing you do it. When you turn, his eyes are locked on you, a half empty bottle held in his hands.

“Do you need anything?” You can’t help but ask, surprised when the question makes him wince away.

“You,” He mumbles, sullen and slurred.

At first, you think there’s more to what he’s saying. That he has some request for you. You almost ask a question, to clarify, when the realization strikes you.

It’s just…you.

Perhaps you sit next to him because your knees are weak, or because you feel like you can’t quite breathe, but either way you end up on the couch. His hand is so close to yours, and you long to reach out. When you look up at him, you see he’s looking down at your hands as well. You wonder if he has the same impulse, the same desire.

You think he does. You hope he does.

“Do you-“ You swallow the words down, unsure if you should ask.

Does he remember? Does he know what today is? Or is it just another thing lost, another thing time has consumed in its ruthless pursuit of your memory?

You already risk forgetting his touch, his skin, his smile. The way his voice used to sound, so kind and in love.

“I remember.” He says, voice rough.

Is that better or worse? You don’t know. Then his fingers brush yours, bold, and you lose track of any thoughts you’d been scraping together.

“You should rest,” You say, instead of the thousand other words that threaten to spill out.

“I…” He hesitates, his lip trembling before he bites it, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh.

“I can stay,” You offer, unsure if it’s wanted.

“Please,” He whispers.

It’s wanted. You’re wanted. You thought being forgotten was torture, but this is so much worse. Knowing he wants you and you want him but history and pain and things that can’t be taken back are pushing you apart…

You curse fate, the divine, your luck, whatever it is that brought the two of you to this point.

“Okay,” You nod slightly, “I’ll stay for a bit.”

He leans forward, curling into the couch, tucking his wings around him like a blanket. He keeps ahold of your hand, though, clutching it like a lifeline. He rests his head on the stiff upholstery, turned so he can still watch you.

“Would you sing?” He asks, his voice painfully small.

You falter slightly. He squeezes your hand. He wants you to sing, so you sing. It’s a lullaby, one that lingers in your memory from a past long gone. Just another thing time has ripped away. The Latin spills out easily, as if you know it by heart, your voice shaking just like your mother’s used to.

He doesn’t care. Not about the shaking, or the way your hand trembles in his. He looks at you with shining eyes, fighting the fatigue that threatens to close them. He doesn’t want this to end, and neither do you. In the dim light of the living room, he watches you sing like he’s finally found faith.