#lila's wips: aet

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Adventures of the Existential Three #1: The Great Debate Over Whether Damien Would Look Good in Gold (Turns Out He Looks Better Than)

AHHHH THE FIRST SHORT IS HERE!! remember how i said i'd post these very saturday? yeah that was a lie. also remember charys was supposed to be a non villain villain? yeah all the villain in him is the aesthetic. mans is the nicest softie ever

i thought about making the first one an introduction to their world and them, but i went with going straight in instead. i'm so proud of this, i'm so happy to be writing for the first time in weeks, and i hope you guys love this and all the rest of the shorts as much as i do <3<3 enjoy please

word count about 3100

tws kissing

-

It starts with, “I think you’d look wonderful in gold,” said with that characteristic eagerness and shit eating grin on Paris’ face. He leans back in his reclining chair and crosses his hands behind his head, glittering from hair to bootlace in his perfect gold. The sleeveless gold coat Charys chose for him tonight shines in the sunlight, and his golden suntanned skin has been rubbed with glitter.

Charys sighs, knowing he’s in for something. He sits back in the chair facing the vanity where they've been watching Damien prepare. Might as well let it happen.

Why does it always seem to start with Paris?

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Damien says, running two hands thick with oil through his dark hair. The three of them are preparing for a night at Charys’ favorite theater, putting on one of his favorite plays. While his lovers have heard him ramble about it at length, they’ve never seen it all together.

Charys was looking forward to the attention he’d be getting, surrounded by all his favorite people and things, but he has a feeling this conversation will steal it all away.

He’s less mad about the prospect than he expected. It’s not like it’s a rare occurrence, or an unpleasant one, when the idea of one of his lovers in something takes his breath away. Even the candlelight on the vanity casts gold shadow onto Damien's light brown skin, a suggestion of an idea.

“Gold is your color, Paris,” Damien says, shaking his head like it’s a stupid idea. Charys’ mind is already spinning, spinning, with possibilities, fabrics, textures…

“What, so no one else could look good in it?" Paris retorts. "I think you could put on a potato sack and you’d look just as good as you do now.”

Damien goes still and quiet as he does when he’s completely overwhelmed by even the cousin of a compliment.

“I’d have to second that,” Charys agrees, sitting up to place his hands on Damien’s shoulders. He startles at the touch, relaxing slightly when Charys begins massaging his stiff shoulders.

Charys just wanted to feel the dark green velvet jacket that looks just as good on Damien as he predicted, perfectly complementing his dark hair down to the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. But the allure of touching his lover overtakes him.

He’s done himself in by putting Damien in white earrings that drip from his ears and sparkle in the light.

“I’m sure I’d look in gold just as I do in everything else,” snaps Damien, sensitive, unwittingly agreeing with them. He stands up, and Charys mourns the loss of warmth under his fingertips. “What about Charys?”

“What about me?”

“You’d be—beautiful.” Charys sees and appreciates the difficulty Damien has pushing the word out. Expressions of his love said aloud have never been his strong suit. The effort makes him smile and his chest flutter like he's learning Damien for the first time. It takes laughably little to bring him back that feeling of giddy newness.

“That’s true,” Paris says. “He always looks beautiful, though.”

“Oh, my gentlemen, you flatter me, but I’m inclined to agree with Damien this time. Gold is not my color. My hair—my hair would clash,” he defends, as the others start arguing. "My skin is white as milk, yellow and I have never been friends, gold neither."

“What are you saying? Your black hair and gold were made to be."

“The dark blue streaks and the gold? My gray eyes? I’m not so sure. Gold is too bright for my image, anyway.” He stands up. “We’re going to be late.”

The others let it go. The conversation falls from Charys’ mind as the three of them finish fixing their hair and climb into a carriage with that meddling gold curling around the edges.

“Only the best for my gentlemen,” Charys says despite their protests, settling back into black leather cushions and closing his eyes for a brief moment. The moon is rising through the orange glow of Paris’ sunset and a thin layer of clouds, and the evening air is wonderfully cool.

Paris and Damien argue that Charys is treating them like always when they should be treating him, this night is about him, and Charys argues that subjecting them to his favorite play should require some compensation. They retort that to share his joy is a luxury in itself—well, Paris argues that, Damien is too shy to say it aloud.

Charys lets Paris win. His chest fills with a warmth he’s never found anywhere else.

They pull up to the theater, and everything gold drops from his head.

***

The topic doesn’t come to mind again until Charys is trying on old clothes and fitting together new ones. A rare eventless day lends them time to sort through the depths of their wardrobe and prepare for the next time they go to the theater—or to the square, or even to the bank of the river to watch Paris play in the black water. Charys would never miss an opportunity to be dressed in their finest just to go outside, if it meant being seen by other people.

The only opinions and attention that truly matter to them are those of their lovers, though. They won’t pretend otherwise.

Hanging on a wooden coat hanger are long golden robes in a similar style to their favorite black ones, the ones they have five pairs of and wear most often. The sleeves of those very robes, wide and embroidered in dark blue, fall down their arms as they pull the gold robes free.

These golden robes, however, have strips of fabric meant to trail behind them, made of a thin and shimmery fabric . A thin layer of dust coats the shoulder padding—these are surely Paris’, bought for the colder months when he actually bothers to cover his chiseled chest. Somehow it wound up in here.

Paris wears his gold and wears it well, with pride, the frequent white chitons offsetting his golden hair and the permanent tan of his skin. No one can deny he is the incarnation of golden sunsets, from their color to their warmth to their aura of simplicity and comfort. But Charys harkens back to his suggestion a few weeks ago, the delectable idea of Damien in gold, their own dismissal of how gold would look on them.

Charys hesitates with the hanger in their hand, wondering. There’s no way Damien will agree to this, but that doesn’t mean they can’t perform an experiment.

The three of them don’t have an outing planned this evening, just dinner and falling asleep in a pile on the couch, perhaps to the soft sound of Damien reading or Paris singing.

The chipping white paint on their nails, chosen by Damien, will never go with this, but that’s an easy enough matter to fix discreetly. Charys has used their free moments over their immortal existence well to teach themself very valuable skills—they haven’t messed up nail paint in years and years, and the last time was because Damien was distracting them.

They blow off the robes again, resigning themself to trying to fix the creases in the skirts before the others get home.

An hour later, as Charys is fiddling with their earrings and turning every which way in the mirror, dinner from the fish place down the black river laid out on the table, the front door begins opening.

They quickly smooth down their robes one more time and wait, hands clasped, for Paris and Damien to round the corner. The two of them are talking in low tones, followed by the unmistakable sound of Damien’s soft laugh, before his short wavy hair enters Charys’ line of sight.

“Charys, you wouldn’t believe the kind of day we’ve both had, souls thinking they were both dead when—” Damien stops in his tracks.

Paris, who was evidently expecting an answer to a question, says, “Damien?” and comes to stand beside him. “Holy River Black.”

Charys can only smile.

Paris stalks toward them, walking around them and muttering awed endearments. The pin of his own chiton has come undone, as it usually does at the end of the day, and the white trails along the floor while his glorious tan chest lays exposed.

“I know it was my suggestion, but you have no right to look this good,” Paris says, hands on his hips and attempting to glare. He can’t keep the pure wonder out of his ocean eyes, though, and his defiance dies when Charys steps toward him.

“See?” Damien says, much more composed. The hood of the coat he wears to banish the cold in the in the between is down—black today instead of the usual white—an indication he's relaxed. “The gold goes supremely with your hair and your eyes. I know you’re the expert on these things, but I think we’ve found your blind spot.”

Charys resists the urge to roll their eyes. “It’s just some clothing. I’m still me.”

Paris closes the gap between them to place his hands on Charys’ face, kissing them hard. “Don’t for a moment think we’re saying we only love you because of the outstanding things you wear.”

“That’s certainly part of the reason,” Damien says, leaning against the column holding the ceiling up with his arms crossed.

“Damien! I’m trying to tell our dear lover, who will probably look better than we ever will in anything because they actually know what the hell they’re doing, that we love them for much more than their clothes.”

Some of Charys’ burning vulnerability from all the attention vanishes. They grin. “Oh, Paris, I’m not offended in the least. My dear Damien, was that a joke?”

Damien smiles, letting it overtake his whole face the way Charys knows is rare. They take the skirts of the robes in their hands for something to do, swaying idly back and forth. The fabric may be light, but the bulky shoulders and light sleeves in the middle of this summer heat make Charys roll their shoulders to dispel some of the heat, or at least try. This just makes Paris groan.

“You look even more ethereal than always,” Paris cries. “I pity the public the day they see you like this.”

Charys shakes their head. “This is just for you.”

“Aw, Charys—”

“It would rather destroy my image if I were to be seen in anything brighter than dark green dark enough to be mistaken as black.”

Damien grins at the ceiling. Paris groans.

Charys stares at the bits of gold in Damien’s eyes and wonders. “Damien…”

Damien turns his relaxed, loose, beautiful smile to Charys, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. “Yes?”

Charys doesn’t say a word. Paris begins chuckling as he figures it out.

Damien is next. His smile slowly fades and he points a finger at them both. “No. I will not wear your damn robes.”

“Please, my heart,” Charys says, taking his cheek in their hands. Damien sighs and leans into their hand, kissing the tips of their gold painted fingernails. “For me? For us?” they add.

“You know you don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” Paris cuts in. “You know we would never force you into anything at all.”

Damien smiles faintly, still refusing to meet Charys’ eyes. “For you,” he mutters at last, dragging his eyes up, and the look Charys finds there makes them shiver. Only a hint of hesitation shows in the deep brown, the rest is all interest.

Charys smiles slowly. “I look forward to it.”

The moment is broken when Paris asks, “Charys, you bastard, did you get the fried fish from that fish place down the road? Damien, come on, forget about gold!”

***

The day Damien finally puts on gold is when Charys is least expecting it—though that’s rather the point, probably.

This time, it’s Charys who’s out of the house all day with the others at home. It’s a long day of comforting the usual frightened souls struggling to comprehend their status, watching older ones slowly relax into the afterlife they’re discovering is better than their life, and visiting the ones who’ve been there the longest and luxuriate.

Some days Charys is so busy with welcoming newly dead souls that he has no time for the seasoned ones, but when he does, it brings a sweet ache for home. Home lies with Damien and Paris, where Charys’ heart has taken residence equally in the depths of theirs, but he longs for the comfort of the riverside house, despite usually having left it that morning.

That’s not always a given, either—there have been many occasions where one or all of them have had to sleep in their respective places of business, and there have been days and weeks when they haven’t seen each other or the riverside house at all.

Those reunions are always sweeter than sweet, but thankfully Charys didn’t have to wait weeks to see his loves again. He only had to survive a long twelve hours in the mansion of the dead starting at the crack of dawn. Leaving the warmth of the bed and the tangle of four arms who seemed intent on making him stay was the hardest part—it always is—but now he’s back at the riverside house, letting some of his walls come down.

He pauses for a moment outside the white front door to regain the breath he’s been short on all day, letting his shoulders slouch and rolling up the sleeves on his dark robes a bit before pushing the door in.

All is silent. Perhaps the others aren’t home yet? No, Charys has a foggy memory of Paris telling him they weren’t going to work today. The three of them have assistants who are capable of handling most minor problems and the routine work of registering new souls to the afterlife and helping ones still in their life, but they all prefer to work themselves.

They are the patron of the dead, the lord of the in between, and the ambassador of the living. To leave their duties in the hands of someone else feels instinctively wrong.

Charys pushes further into the house, the wide sitting room to the right and the kitchen further beyond, around every support column, the bath chamber hidden behind a wall to the left, and when he still finds no one, he finally heads up the creaky wooden stairs. He checks their offices, the study, the little library that’s really just there for him, the empty bath chamber, and their shared bedchamber at the very end of the hallway.

Resigned to the fact that he’s the only one home, he begins unbuttoning his robes and reaching for the closet on instinct when he notices that it’s already open and a lantern is lit inside. Paris stands next to Damien, who is wearing the brightest, most delectable golden robes Charys has ever seen.

They’re not even the robes Charys wore. These are entirely different, without the puffs at the shoulders and closer in style to Paris’ beloved chitons. A crown of golden laurel sits on Damien’s hair, free of its usual oil, and when he moves Charys notices the black boots and gold laces going up to his knees.

Charys can’t speak, can’t move. He gains an appreciation for the way the two of them felt upon seeing him in his own gold. Damien is staring at him with a flush painting his cheeks, an embarrassed smile spread across his mouth. Charys swears there’s gold glitter on his cheeks, but the only way to be sure is to step closer, his plan anyway.

Paris is equally flushed, pink atop his tan skin. His head turns to see what has so captured Damien’s eye. The moment Paris clocks him, he drags Damien close by the lapels and kisses him with a clearly pent up passion. Charys is still speechless, he can only watch and feel his heart thaw and heat and melt into a molten puddle.

The love in his chest that blooms and grows for them only seems to blossom more every day. It’s the most precious thing Charys has ever had, and just getting to watch them kiss like this still makes his breath hitch after all this time, like he’s kissing them himself. Oh, what he would give to be able to give both of them that attention at once.

He finally gains control of his feet and strides toward them. He doesn’t know where to put his hands in the face of such pure beauty as Damien wrenches away from the kiss, gasping. A stronger one than Charys can resist Damien’s pink lips, wonderfully framed by the gold and brown. Charys is torn between the insatiable urge to kiss touch and the yearning curiosity to feel those boots, individual of fashion that he is.

The moment he has his composure again, he’s going to demand to know where and when Damien got this outfit, especially those boots, and also how he carried it out so secretly. He underestimates Damien’s capability for secrecy. Being the most mysterious man in three realms seems to have that effect.

“Hey, hey, let me have a turn,” Paris says, shaking Charys’ shoulder. “I was going to kiss him the moment I saw him, but he made me wait until you got home. I know it wouldn’t have been the same, but honestly, can you blame me?”

Charys wrenches himself free of Damien to point his finger and say, “You are not allowed to suggest something for any of us to wear ever again. This is what happens. Are you trying to kill me?”

“You are the patron of death, I would think you’d be well equipped—”

Charys takes his shoulders and kisses him, too, hoping he’ll feel every bit of his spite and revenge. He hates how good Damien looks. He can’t get it out of his head even as he has Paris grasping at the back of his neck, attacking him like a starving man.

The gold compliments Damien so well, he glows with it under the yellow lantern light in this closet that’s too cramped for three people to stand in.

Charys has to tear away to look at him again, especially the way the crown suits his hair. Charys has always been a sucker for Damien’s hair without oil, anyway, when his almost-curls get to be free for Charys’ fingers to run through without feeling disgusting.

He looks so much softer like that, too. People call him brooding, scary, reclusive, but only Charys and Paris get to see the smiling, eternal boy under the white hood he wears to the in between.

“You know I hate it when you fight over me,” Damien says, breathlessly.

“Oh, darling, we’re not fighting over you,” Charys says. “We’re both appreciating your majesty in our own ways.”

“It sounds like you’re fighting over who gets to appreciate me the same way first.” Damien smiles softly again, obviously still self-conscious, and Charys is really so in love he could happily die. They’ve had debates over whether he is actually dead, as patron of death.

He’d only be happy dead if he could keep these two by his side in any of their realms, though. Life, death, afterlife, he couldn’t ever do without them, no matter what color any of them are wearing.

Things like gold and Damien's hair without product and the keen glint in Paris' eye just remind Charys why he wants to share every moment of his existence with them.

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Adventures of the Existential Three #2: Charys’ Heartwarming (if Vexing) Ordeal of Getting Out of Bed

this is just cuddles. just cuddles. nothing more, nothing less. enjoy <3

word count about 1k

Charys wakes his favorite way: arms wrapped around his waist, the strength of Damien’s chest at his back, the warmth of Paris’ legs twined with his. This is far from the only way they’ve woken up tangled together, but this is the most frequent, his favorite. Also it puts Charys in the hardest position to escape from for work once the sun comes up.

The warmth of it all, the comfort and the security that’s so intense it makes Charys want to cry, makes it harder to even think of moving. Only the thought of taking a bath some mornings when he’s been putting it off, in their bath chamber or in the river if it’s warm enough, can get him up quickly.

Those times, he's learned how to worm free of their tight grips and ignore the way their whines of protest tug at his heart. The air is always cold and harsh outside of the bed, but he’s learned to deal with it.

Sometimes he wakes with just one of them, the other having left already, and while it’s sweet, it’s never the same. Something is always missing. If the sun is streaming through the balcony door and Paris is not with them, the light burns instead of warms. If Damien is the one absent, Charys’ back is cold while the rest of his body is hot, too hot, and he finds himself missing the refreshing chill of the lord of the in between.

He is not the lord of the in between when he is with them like that, just as Paris is not the sun, giver and ambassador of life. Charys has never felt less like a figure of any power or authority over anything, not just death, when he’s with them. They all leave their duties at the door. It’s one of thousands, millions, of things Charys loves about living with them, loving them.

Other times, when he just bathed the previous night and has no pressing need to be at the mansion of the dead, getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain.

The moment he moves, one of them, usually Damien, wraps himself tighter around him in his sleep like one of those mythical creatures of the deep sea. If that doesn’t work, and Charys inevitably tries again a few minutes later, the other will try their hand—or leg. If Charys tries a third time, one or both will mumble, “Don’t go,” in that slurred, sleepy tone Charys would die not to disrupt.

It’s like the two of them have worked out a routine to keep Charys in bed as long as possible. Of course, it’s much the same for Charys when one of the others threatens to leave, if he even wakes up enough for that, but that’s beside the point.

He gets up before them and goes downstairs to bring up a tray of breakfast and coffee from across the river, juice of the finest local oranges for himself, despite Paris’ relentless teasing—you’re the one who wears black and has the black hair, the dark makeup, the one who goes to work in a damn mansion, and you abhor coffee?

You’re the incarnation of the sun and you prefer the liquid of the dead to the juice of the living, Charys loves to retort. Damien, of course, is better than either of them and drinks a tall glass of water before even touching his food.

When Charys comes back up the stairs, he spares time to congratulate himself on not spilling anything or falling down the stairs before the sight in the bed hits him. Damien and Paris, now curled around each other in the space Charys left. Paris has his face buried in Damien’s neck, only recognizable because of his hair sticking out in the sunshine, the sheet pulled up to his shoulders.

Damien’s arms are wrapped around Paris’ back, his sleevelessness showing how toned his forearms are. The bracelet symbolizing them both on his wrist is unveiled, usually hidden under clothes. His tattoos are on display, dark and mysterious like the rest of him until one gets close enough to see that they’re of simple wonders like waves, flowers, butterflies.

Charys looks at their positions and sighs. He’s jealous of both of them.

If Charys had hands free, he’d be pulling his lavender dressing gown—a color favored on him by Paris—closer around his shoulders where it’s slipping down. It’s a chillier morning than he’s used to in summer. All the more temptation to forget the food and crawl back into bed to the warm arms awaiting him. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve forgotten food in favor of each other.

Charys climbs onto the edge of the bed, tray in hand, and has to unfortunately dodge Paris’ hand reaching back for him. The frustrated, confused noise Paris lets out makes him smile. “Easy, easy, wait. You don’t want your eggs all over the sheets, do you?”

Damien raises his head, shifting one hand to push back his hair from his eyes. Charys thinks he looks unfairly, powerfully adorable, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm Damien with such words when he’s barely conscious. That’s an experiment for another time.

“Good morning,” Charys says belatedly, smiling and sitting back on his heels, watching his loves come back to him. Paris mumbles some protest as Damien stirs but doesn’t move, conceding the fact that he’ll have to rise soon. Maybe it’s the smell of coffee that helps, his acclaimed stimulating mind juice.

Charys will never understand it, but as long as it gets Paris to drag himself upright, reaching out for him instead of the coffee mug, he doesn’t care.

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Adventures of the Existential Three #3: The Great Travesty and Torture of Hot Weather (i.e. When Charys Put Their Hair Up)

the short that i have been waiting to write and post since the day i came up with these 3,,,,the hair short. please enjoy, i enjoyed writing this immensely <3

word count about 2400

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It is well known that Charys’ hair is one of the most beautiful things in the world they know. Paris and Damien are far from the only ones to privately and publicly express their adoration for the way the black and dark blue shines in the sunlight, how it captures the darkness in the night or in the dim clubs Charys so loves.

Charys’ eccentric outfits cause enough of a stir, usually in interest, jealousy, or attraction from humans in all states of life and death. The population and Damien and Paris should be thankful that he wears his hair down and plain and spares them all some mercy. Instead, they’ve taken it for granted.

Because today, it is hotter than Paris and his sun have ever been, leaving him to swim all day in the river outside the house while Damien sits under the tree and watches. His eyes keep drooping, tired but too sweaty to take a nap, too lazy to go join Paris in the water.

At the sound of Paris’ gasp, Damien sits up, suddenly on full alert. He finds Paris still in the water, dripping in a decidedly distracting way under the sun, his mouth hanging open and eyes pointed towards the house.

Damien turns to see what has caught his attention—and mutters a soft curse.

Charys is standing in the doorway, head tilted down at a book, wearing none other than a pair of thin square spectacles. While both adorable and attractive in a way that makes Damien’s breath stutter, the real kicker is the messy and loose bun Charys pulled his hair into at the back of his head. In this angle of light, the blue streaks of his hair are especially highlighted, one of Damien’s favorite parts of the outside of him.

Damien must let out some noise of his own. Charys’ eyes drift up from the book and lock onto him. His eyes drift between Damien and Paris, brow furrowing. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, quite the opposite,” Damien says before he can stop himself. Charys raises a brow. “Your—your hair.”

Charys’ hand drifts up, playing with his bun now that attention has been called to it. Damien’s eyes track every movement. “What about it?”

“It’s different,” Damien says lamely, obviously.

“It’s hot.” Charys shrugs and turns his eyes back to the book.

“Yeah,” Paris breathes, “it is.”

Damien is still too stunned to slap him.

***

Charys does it again.

They’re reading a different book at the kitchen table, another in the same series they’ve been raving about as of late. Of course, Damien listened to everything Charys had to say about those books, but now he can’t remember a damn thing about the books. Probably because when Charys told him late at night, Damien understood, tired as he was, since Charys had their hair down.

Damien has a little bit more coherency this time, enough to figure out what exactly is so mind numbingly attractive about the hair. Charys is always so put together, so focused on looking good, beautiful, composed, that to see them like this is a wonder. A privilege. Damien and Paris are the only ones Charys would do this in front of. Reading glasses, hair up, wearing but a silk dressing gown, chin in their hand.

Damien could never forget the magnificent creature that takes his breath away every time they go out and more, but this quiet, soft version of Charys is quite different. quite attractive. He’s convinced no one in the three realms can make such a casual style look so good—except Paris, heavens help him if Paris gets any more ideas—and that it should be a crime to do so.

He’s not sure if it’s the heat, actually Charys, or his insistence on wearing long sleeves and high necks during the summer, but Damien feels more than a little hot under his collar. Without thinking, he unbuttons the top two buttons of his jacket and sweeps his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Now that’s unfair,” Charys says without looking up from the book.

Damien startles, not knowing Charys had been aware of his presence. “Unfair? I’m hot! It’s hot out. I need to cool down.”

“Yeah, this heat is wicked,” says Paris from across the room. “I’m going to go swim in the river. Damien, join me?” It’s an obvious ploy to tempt Charys into coming with them, so that Paris can have them close—at least Damien thinks it is until he realizes Paris can’t see them yet. His footsteps grow louder as he enters the kitchen, where they promptly stop. Charys literally stopped him in his tracks.

Charys moves their glasses down their face, unreasonably attractive in its own right. “You need to cool down. And I need to see.”

Paris makes a wounded noise and presses a hand to his chest, dramatically bracing a hand on the wall and ducking his head. “No. No. You can’t do this to me.”

Charys looks up with that same curious expression they wore when the two of them first reacted like this, but now they smirk and push the glasses up a bit as it clicks, if it didn’t click before. They know what they’re doing now, even if they claim not to understand it.

“Oh. Oh. You bastard. We’re doing this again, are we? Fine.” Paris pulls free the blue paper fan he’s taken to carrying around to deal with the incessant heat, and fans himself.

Damien almost laughs.

And then Paris hands him another one of his own, this one bright green. Damien does not usually play along with the others’ games like this, but this time Charys is simply being unreasonable. Have they seen themself?

Damien rapidly fans himself and tilts his head back. He can feel Charys’ hungry eyes on his throat.

“I’m trying to read,” Charys says. Damien can hear the little lilt in their voice suggesting they’re suppressing a smile.

“Your fault,” Paris tells Charys. “Your damn fault. You made this mess. Be the one to clean it up.”

Charys closes the book with a snap—well, as much snap as a paperback can have. “What would you have me do?”

They’re so different like this. Casual they may be, but the glasses and the hair seems to give new confidence, as confident and carefree as they already were. Damien supposes that’s his and Paris�� own doing, and they’ve secured themselves their own place in the afterlife with such a dramatic reaction.

If they—or more accurately, Paris, Damien will put the blame on anyone else—would’ve kept quiet, Charys wouldn’t have known it affected them so and the two of them would’ve perhaps been spared.

Though in their current situation, securing their own places in the afterlife wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He can’t imagine it’d be much better or different than life with Charys as is. If Damien is even alive. If he even has a soul to give to the afterlife.

Now is not the time to debate the nature of Damien’s existence.

Paris looks vexed for the first time as he’s forced to consider what he actually wants here. Damien doubts getting Charys very thoroughly alone with the two of them would fix the problem. If anything, Paris would be even more distraught the next time Charys put his hair up.

“I don’t know,” Paris says, thrashing his hands like a child throwing a fit. “Just—do something. Come swim with us.”

Charys’ smirk spells nothing good. Damien kisses them to distract himself.

***

Charys does something, alright.

Paris always has to open his big mouth. He should’ve listened when Charys told him to stuff it.

Because, indeed, “This is what happens!”

Paris has the decency to look ashamed, ruffling his windswept hair in a way almost enough to drag Damien’s attention from the matter at hand.

The matter being Charys in a brilliant new set of green robes—without the glasses, at least—and his hair up in that same infuriatingly messy bun.

The robes are a dark green, not quite dark enough to be mistaken for black, like the color of dark forest leaves. They’re stitched in gold, bringing back memories of the way Charys looked in those gold robes, offsetting the golden glow of the sun itself. Damien saw everything about his two lovers in that gold, and that is just one more distraction and reminder he does not need right now.

At least he left the damn glasses at the house. they’d be impractical going to the theater, but Charys seems to be fueled more and more on spite these days. He’s always cared less about what other people think than the two of them, despite his attention to his appearance. It’s all for them, reactions from others are minute.

Damien wouldn’t put it past him to wear something like that, disrupting his outfit, just to torture him and Paris.

But the hair…

This time it’s done a bit more neatly, slowly, less stray hairs spilling out. Everything Charys does is careful, calculated, from the glossy black paint on his nails to the dramatic black wing on the edge of his eye to the gold buckles on his shoes, another callback.

He’s already taller than both of them, if only by a bit, but his hair and the heels on his boots make him tower. If he wouldn’t already be commanding attention, he will be now. Watching the public suffer alongside him might be the only consolation Damien will get.

Paris is in gold, head to toe, complete with the gold laurel Damien picked out for himself. As Damien prepared to call Charys in to dress him tonight to his liking the way he always does, Paris grabbed his arm and made him stay. “Let’s dress in the most devastating things we know of,” he said, a crazed gleam in his blue eyes. “Revenge.”

Damien still isn’t sure one can get revenge on problems that one created himself, but he smiled and went along with it. Anything to see this new composure Charys developed break down.

So that is how Paris ended up in his classic gold, a chiton draped halfway across his chest and pinned properly, for once, so at least Charys does not have to suffer his warrior’s chest unveiled in the packed theater. Paris does not need it, but gold glitter is sprinkled in his hair, the laurel crown a hopeful comeback to Damien’s apparently mind blowing appearance. The only part of him not gold or tan is the blue of his eyes, glimmering with mischief.

This is what they’ve become. They’re content with their jobs, their lives, and each other, so they descend into battles of spite with fashion as their spears. It’s so ridiculous, Damien smiles.

And then he and Charys see each other and suddenly this is very serious again.

Charys’ mouth opens, probably to exclaim or swear, but he shuts it at the last second. Damien doesn’t know when their battles turned to war, but it’s been a long time since he’s walked away from a fight. Long time since he’s fought at all. Doesn’t mean he’s lost the art.

The look Charys sends him is smoldering.

“You’re beautiful, Paris,” Charys says, to which Paris preens. Jealousy spikes over Damien’s skin the way it hasn’t in a long time.

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?

He doesn’t care if he’s acting like a petulant child. He seats himself with Paris between them, arms crossed, stubbornly watching the play. Despite himself, he tries to enjoy it as much as he can, because it’s Charys’ favorite thing and he always wants to try and cherish everything his lover loves. Even while in a war with him, his instincts betray him. His own fault.

During some of the duller parts of the play, Damien contemplates the way his emotions have unfolded since the debacle of Charys’ hair up began. Awe to raw attraction to disbelief to annoyance to revenge and finally to the pettiest form of spite: taking it seriously.

“I can hear you thinking,” Paris whispers, squeezing his hand lightly to bring him back to the present. A spike of guilt climbs through Damien’s chest, and a whispered apology turns his eye back to the scene.

They always get a private box in every theater, but that only gives Charys and Paris more freedom to stare shamelessly at Damien’s profile. He and Charys can’t see each other well with Paris in the way, but Damien still feels eyes dragging over him, hungry and heavy. The hardest challenge is not returning the look. He’s losing the plot of the play more rapidly by the minute.

They haven’t fought like this—if this even counts as such—since they were new lovers, still unsure and competitive in many ways. Paris has never been competitive like them, but this dance, romantic in many ways, reminds Damien of the early days.

He’s not surprised that it’s Charys who breaks first.

When the play closes and the applause begins, the lights dimming, Charys leans across Paris to kiss him. the distractions of celebration below provide the perfect opportunity. Damien smiles into it, already dreaming up ten kinds of goading comments about Charys’ lack of self-control, his own irresistible charm. The passion in Charys’ kiss sweeps him and all his words away.

He loves this. there is nothing better. All logic in his mind melts into a pile.

“This is a nice view,” Paris comments, making Damien finally pull back. Charys is gasping, burning, the slightest bit ruffled. His hair is still intact.

Damien pulls him back in with a grip on the back of his neck, determined to change that.

“I am convinced,” Damien says against his lips, “that you and your hair can command realms, my love.”

Charys laughs, Paris complains about being left out, Damien holds back the needling comments Charys doesn’t have a filter for. Charys is too passionate, too open, too small a vessel for life’s majesty to restrain himself and his words, but when he is like this—Damien cannot claim he is anything but one of the two luckiest men in the realms.

aet taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @47crayons @chayscribbles @metanoiamorii @ashen-crest @doggo038 @artsietango

[writeblrfantasy]

paris' love language is words of affirmation, damien's is physical touch, and charys' is acts of service

[writeblrfantasy]

happy wbw lila!! i wanna know more about this new wip :D what is everyday life like?? how is it the same or different from our everyday life?? what are some "chore" type things and some hobbies that people have?? and how is everyday life different for people (based on location, religion (?), anything)?? hope your day is splendid~

happy wbw rose!!

i'm going to focus on the everyday life of the trio, since i don't have many side characters/the masses planned right now and they're not going to be featured too much in the shorts!

to answer this, i have to answer "what does being a lord of the living/dead/in between entail" and the answer is uh. a lot of talking. people in any of these categories are either sad, stressed out, having an existential crisis, you know, all that good stuff. aren't we all tho?

damien, in particular, has a long audience always waiting for his answers. i haven't exactly worked out how some souls go to him and others go straight as dead to charys, but that's their work!! just, yknow, keeping the world in check

when the 3 of them are not working, they're with each other and doing hobbies or just hanging! charys loves fashion design and consuming theater, they have ambitions to write a play but they don't think they're good enough :( of course the other two put that idea right out of their head

paris LOVES surfing, swimming, being in water since that's part of his domain, it's always felt natural and welcoming to him pjo vibes. when he's not celebrating with or about humans you can find him in the water or lounging beside it, or finding some new food to try out. he loves food <3

damien loves training animals, particularly arctic foxes/huskies/white rabbits/thick fur cats. snowy animals, wintry animals, he's like snow white with them. also, adorably, he loves fixing up the house the 3 of them share he's so precious

also, it's well known between everyone that these 3 do what they do, and humans love to talk to them about it!! there's several shorts that get started because of curious humans asking about their past.

religion isn't a huge thing, though that might change. location is kinda ambiguous too.

thanks for the ask!! <3

[writeblrfantasy]

happy WBW Lila!!! I'm already super stoked for the new shorts to happen, so: what does the world of these lovers between life and death look like?? what vibes are being clocked, what colors and sounds?? any setting ideas yet?? I hope you have an awesome day!!! - @magic-is-something-we-create

happy wbw!!

i want to keep the physics and sort of, where and whats of the world a bit mysterious, a bit foggy, but in the shorts you will see each of them in their own domains at different times. the three of them have a big ol house together with balconies and big bay windows right next to a river shamelessly inspired by the styx. huge, dangerous to most (paris has domain over water tho so he's fine) rapid rushing, and magical.

paris' domain is beaches, surfing, water of all kinds, sunshine, light, taverns and parties, drinking, celebrations, confetti, also vanity with looks. everything you can associate with a rowdy time and being alive and feeling complete. his color scheme is gold, sky blue, and yellow!! like the sun, he is kind of everywhere and doesn't have a "place of business" like the other two.

charys' domain is darkness, dark rooms, smoke, the moon, a dark theater with a singular spotlight on, music of all kinds, any sort of masquerade or quiet, dark, creepy place is his. also makeup is associated with him sometimes--get this boy some mascara and nail polish and he will be a happy man. if you're wearing an extravagant outfit as well.

his color scheme is black and dark blue. he has a dark mansion of dead souls bc of course he does. they are all treated very well, though, with wine and pretty chandeliers and classical dance music, except for the ones who Aren't. we can associate the screams of the damned with him as well.

damien's domain is about cold and snow and ice and fog, as per the poem. the hush of a whisper, a quiet room but also whitenoise, and wind of any kind are also things i associate with him. he has a throne made of white fur and ice where he speaks to souls.

his colors are blue-green and white, also hints of black and silver. animals are associated with him, anger, secrets, emotions bottled up, just emotions in general.

the river is the one thing connecting all three of their worlds, it runs everywhere you go. other than that, there's not much rhyme or reason to how you get between the worlds, what that means, any logical shit like that. they're just Vibing

thanks for the ask <3<3

[writeblrfantasy]

[image description. A drawing of charys, damien, and Paris from adventures of the existential three. Charys has their arm around damien’s shoulder, who is sitting on a box. Charys and Paris both have their hands up, waving to the camera. The writeblefantasy watermark is at the bottom. End image description.]

the existential mlm trio!! Ahh this came out so well I love them

will reblog with taglist when I get home