#the fucking anger and absolute misery of the prompt possessed me

[diggingfordragons]

You'd never expected anything, really, to happen after death. It was all a big surprise, wasn't it? That was the point? That no one knew? That anyone could hope to have any of their beliefs?

Probably.

You hadn't really spared a thought about it in a while, is the point you're trying to make, though. You hadn't expected to die for a while.

Getting hit by a truck tends to take you by surprise like that.

Oddly, your first thought - well, the first that comes after the pain, and the dark, and the weird light that twists and absorbs and- where were you? Ah, yes. Your first thought, when you feel aware and kind of awake and kind of real again, oddly, is not for yourself.

It's for Debbie.

Deborah.

Your best friend- Well, your ex-best friend, according to the police, but you'd never really given up hope. She'd just up and vanished one day, no message, no nothing, simply didn't show up for work and everyone had been so fucking worried she'd been declared missing in an hour after she'd left home for the last time.

She had been so loved, Debbie.

You still love her so fucking much, it hurts. It hurts because she's not here, the police is pretty sure she's dead in a ditch somewhere, and now- now you're probably dead in a ditch too, and if death is as unkind as life, then you're not even going to see her again. You're not going to see her, or anyone else, for that matter. Fuck, your dog. Who's going to take care of it? Your brother? He better. You'll haunt him if he doesn't. You'll figure out how to become a ghost. Surely it can't be that difficult.

If you become a ghost, then your brother won't miss you that much either. But oh, he will. He'll miss you. And your mom- she's going to cry so hard. What about Thomas? What about Steph? What about-

Fuck.

Fuck, now you're crying.

Weird, right? Being dead, you'd think you wouldn't feel sad anymore, that you wouldn't start sympathy-crying because you're thinking of all the people you love and that loved you that are going to have a closed-casket funeral - because let's be real, that truck hit you real hard and you just know whatever's left is not pretty nor going to be put back together.

And yet, you're crying. Your eyes sting, and your nose stings, and you feel your cheeks start to hurt and a terrible sob catches in your throat-

Wait.

You blink open startled eyes, blurry because you're absolutely bawling, and fucking hell, you can see! You can see- You're-

"What the fuck?" You sob out, in misery and confusion.

Aren't you dead? Is this the hospital? Did they somehow manage to revive the paste that the truck turned you into?

A loud, sudden SLAM! makes you jump.

You almost lose track of things again because okay, you jumped? You startled? You're alive and well, and apparently you broke no bones on impact somehow? Because that didn't hurt? What?

"Rion!" A tearful person slams into your side full tilt.

Who????

You blink away the tears as best as you can, trying to wipe the wet trails and the snot somewhere that isn't the person currently crushing you to death - again, hah - but you're not very successful. When your eyes are less blurry, you squint.

And squint harder.

Okay, mystery person is still a mystery, unless Steph decided to dye their hair a light lavender color. Very recently, too, because wow, even the roots look lavender. You'd know - the mystery person has shoved their head right under your nose, so you can only see the hair. Incredible, soft, lavender all the way, hair.

"Oh I was so frightened!" Mystery person exclaims tearfully. They seem very okay with wiping snot and tears on you, huh. "When you fell and wouldn't wake up, we thought the worst! We even called the saintess!"

When what? The who? What?

You've never been so fucking confused in your entire life. Or at least, not that you remember.

"I'm- sorry?" You attempt. "I'm very confused. Who are you?"

Mystery person gasps, and leans away. You get a good look at their face and- yeah, no. That's not someone you know. You'd remember someone that looks so weirdly perfect, with eyes that are so fucking big and purple. Is that contacts? Is that natural?

Dread starts to fill you.

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You've never thought about it before, you don't think about death much but- was Debbie right? Or rather, were the stupid fucking stories she liked to read right?

Did you just get isekai'd?

"Rion," mystery person says, tearful, "You don't remember me? Lilac?"

You shake your head no, even as you note the name. Lilac. Unoriginal, given their hair and eye color. Were their parents just lazy or what? Their name can't be Lilac. You don't know a Lilac.

Your name's not Rion either.

Fuck.

FUCK.

"I'm calling the saintess!" Lilac exclaims, immediately jumping away and running out of the door.

Leaving you, confused, alone, in a room you don't know at all. It's not a hospital room, though.

Small mercies.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for Lilac to come back. They're followed by several other people, all of them wearing absurd clothing, and with hair and eyes that are all sorts of impossible colors. Your head starts to hurt just looking at them. If the red - actual, strawberry red - haired and eyed person is named Rose or Tomato, you vow to just find the nearest window and jump.

Or maybe push them. It'd be a mercy for them, right?

But your wandering attention, confused and overwhelmed and distracted as you are, stops with a sudden, mental screech of tires - haha, you know that noise intimately now, isn't that fun - when you spot who can only be the Saintess that Lilac mentioned. She's wearing the sort of robes you'd expect from the pope, if the pope was a cross between an elf, Gandalf, a magical girl and, well, the pope.

She also looks a lot like Debbie.

Like, a lot a lot.

Sure, she looks like Debbie if Debbie was a pope-elf-magical girl-gandalf mix, but her face, her eyes, that small gentle smile- That's just Debbie. She even has that one mole, right under her chin, that she's always hated but that you thought was funny. That same mole you've obsessed over the last few months because you thought that would be the thing you'd have to recognize a dead body by. You spent hours imagining the morgue, and a still body, disfigured, and they'd ask you is that her and you'd see the mole and you'd know and you'd start crying.

Well now you see the mole, and you somehow can't fucking find the tears that you were crying just a minute ago.

That's Debbie.

That has to be Debbie.

But it can't be Debbie-

"Saintess Debbie!" Lilac cries.

Nevermind!

"Please, Rion doesn't seem to remember any of us!" Lilac continues.

Debbie smiles at Lilac, all cool and collected in a way Debbie's never been. She looks at you, and while you've recognized her on sight she doesn't. You can tell. There's no recognition at all. She doesn't know you.

Do you look different? You must, right? Your name's not Rion.

Unlike Debbie, who has her name and her own face, you seem to have taken someone else's.

"Don't worry, Lilac," Debbie says and oh, yeah, that's her voice. That's her voice, and man, you've missed it. You've missed her. So much. "I'll figure it out and fix it."

Everyone immediately goes starry eyed, clearly believing her, and you can't manage to find your words. You want to speak, to say something, to tell her how much you missed her fucking voice. Your throat is all clogged up by emotion and shock, though.

You think you're allowed, though.

You just died.

Debbie's there.

Is this heaven or some shit?

Before you can react, Debbie waves her hands, and there's a fucking light show. Literally. Lights everywhere, circles and shapes, all sizes and color. Magic, pure and simple, no other way about it.

Holy shit.

Your best friend really is a magical girl elf gandalf pope.

That's amazing.

But then Debbie frowns.

"Oh," she says, before the frown clears. "Ah! Oh, I see how it is! Well, this will be a little more complicated-" she gives everyone else a bright smile. "But don't worry, I know the solution. I will need all of you to wait outside for a moment, though. It requires a lot of magic and concentration!"

A few of them hesitate. You see Lilac open their mouth to protest, but they falter under the force of Debbie's bright smile. With a last, hesitant look at you, Lilac follows everyone else out of the room. The door closes with a quiet click.

Debbie immediately sighs and sits at your bedside. She gives you a look, the look that she used to keep for her siblings when they did things that she had to fix before her parents came home.

"So you're from another world, huh?" She asks. It's a rhetorical question, you can tell because she doesn't actually give you time to answer, waving a hand, "Let me guess. A truck hit you. Or you fell down the stairs. Or you fell in a river. And now you woke up here and you're very confused and you'd like to go home."

Well- Yes.

She's very right.

You nod, at a loss for word.

But you can't remain silent forever, not when your best friend is right here. Not when you finally found her and she's miraculously alive!

"Deb-" You start, choked up.

"Don't worry," Debbie cuts you off, not even noticing you'd started talking.

That's odd. Debbie used to be so much more mindful. A bit anxious, really, about speaking to others, though she'd grown more confident with the years. Still, that's a jump in confidence right there.

You wish you could feel happy about it, but the dread from earlier is now back with a vengeance. You don't like this.

"It happens every once in a while," she tells you, like that's actually a normal thing. "Fortunately for you, I'm the saintess. I've got powerful magic, and I know how to send you back. Alive," she adds, knowingly. "It'll be like nothing happened. You'll get back to your world, in your body, just ten minutes before you die, and that should be enough for you to avoid the danger."

That sounds... That sounds great.

You try to feel happy about it.

You fail.

Debbie keeps talking, explaining to you how painless and instant the process is, how it'll all be fine. How she's done this many times. Why, she's from a different world, wouldn't you know, that's how she knows how to do this. Why, in fact-

"What if-" you start, and Debbie pauses, looking surprised to be interrupted in turn. Tough shit. You're having a bad feeling about this. "What if I don't want to go back?"

"Oh, well," Debbie looks uncomfortable. "That's not- I can't really allow that."

That's her uncomfortable lying face. You know it. You grew up with it.

"No?" You ask, and oh, the dread is absolutely making a home in your gut, but it has invited friends now. You're feeling a lot of things. None of them nice. "Why not?"

"Well you see," Debbie hems and haws, and then, waves her hand about a little, "this world can't really have that many people form other worlds running around. It'd destabilize reality."

Bullshit.

Bull-fucking-shit.

"Besides, you'd be stealing Rion's life!" Debbie continues, more confident now in her nonsense. "And- And don't you have a family waiting for you? Friends?"

"Don't you?" You ask.

Debbie's smile grows awkward.

"Ah, no, you see, I don't have- I mean-" she looks to the side, and looks very convincingly sad - to anyone that's not you. "I don't have anyone to go back to."

Oh, really.

"No one," you say, and you hear your voice, flat, as if muffled through water. The feeling invited by dread is growing. You recognize it, absently, as utter and complete fury. "That's very sad."

"Yeah," Debbie says, looking even more awkward now. She claps her hands. "But it's fine, you have people to go back to, and I can send you back in a snap-"

"But if you wanted," you interrupt. Just to check. "If you had people to go back to. You could? You have that ability?"

"I, yes," Debbie says, slowly. She seems to register something's gone wrong, but she doesn't get what. "I could, but I don't want to. I told you."

"Yeah," you say. And then, finally, you find the dam bursting, "Yeah, you told me that. I can't fucking believe you, Debbie. No one left? What about your parents? What about your siblings? Do you know how devastated Flora and Simon are?" Debbie rears back as if you'd punched her. Rage makes you see red. How dare she look like you're hurting her! "No one! NO ONE! So Thomas isn't anyone? Steph? What about David? What about Georgia? What about the team?" You point a finger at her, harsh and accusing and wretched. "What about me?!"

Debbie has gone very pale now, the blood drained from her face.

You don't care. You don't think you can.

"It's been months!" You cry at her, incensed and horrified. Your vision's gone blurry again - you've always cried too easily. "Do you know what the cops told us? Do you know how horrible it was? How horrible it is?" You throw the covers of the bed away, and jump out on unsteady legs, just so you can stand in front of her. "We were told to prepare a funeral, Debbie! Without a body! For you!"

"I- I-" Debbie blubbers. "It's not my fault-"

"It is." You say it with furious certainty. She cannot refute this. "You're- what, the saintess? Some sort of magical über being? You told me you could go back to your world, but that you don't want to."

And isn't that the truth? Isn't that what she told you.

She did.

She thought she was talking to a stranger, so she told the truth, hidden in white lies, and the truth is-

The truth is that she could have come home at any point. Any time. All these months, laying awake at night, calling Thomas and Steph because you'd suddenly gotten worried they would vanish without a trace. All the searches. The entire fucking town, spending a full week without working, without school, everyone that knew anyone was combing the entire area, the woods, they'd gone through the whole county searching for beloved, missing, poor Deborah Mason.

There's still her picture stapled to lightpoles. You see it every day, going to work. Debbie, her bright smile, the outfit she was wearing that day. Have You Seen This Person? In bold, large letters, and several numbers under that, along with Debbie's information.

The pictures have gone faded, some were replaced by some ads or missing posters for pets instead. But most of them remain.

You've missed her so much.

You loved her so much it hurt.

It hurts now.

It hurts more than you can say.

"I can't fucking believe you, Debbie," you say. "You just... You just left us. Like that."

Debbie's hands clench.

"Well you can't blame me for that!" She explodes, anxious and angry and teary-eyed. Like you're the one wronging her. "I was so lost and confused, when I got sent here! But then- Then I got magic! I was important! I was doing good, you see? Helping people!" She opens her hands, and there's light pooling in them, gentle and warm. Debbie smiles through her tears, and it's the ugliest fucking thing you've ever seen. "I can heal! I can rewind time a little! I can cure sickness and wounds and plagues! I can purify the air, grow trees! I can do so much! By the time I learned the spell to get home I- I couldn't! I made friends here too! I couldn't leave them! They needed me!"

You needed her too, though, and she left you very easily.

Those new friends of hers haven't known her for more than a few months. You've known her your whole life.

Hah.

"You've always wanted to be useful," you say, and it sounds dead even to your ears.

"Yes!" Debbie cries, and she grabs your hands like you just gave her absolution, like you understand. You do, you hate that you do, you hate that the reason you do is because you know her and love her and so you understand her insecurities like you would your own. You understand. But Debbie doesn't see that it doesn't make it okay. Debbie just smiles, still through tears, "Yes, you see! In the other world-"

"The real world," you tell her.

"-I wasn't making a difference!" She continues, heedless of your words. "I wasn't helping anyone! What was I good for? Here, I'm helping whole countries! I'm helping millions!"

But she's wrong, though.

At home, Debbie wasn't helping millions but she was still helping many people. Kids, and locals, and her friends and family. Sure, numerically that's less, but-

But isn't that the most important?

Aren't you - you and Debbie's other friends, and her family, and everyone else who has stared at her picture so long that now they all know Debbie's face by heart, know where that fucking mole is so that if the cops call they'll all know how to identify the body - more important than a million strangers? A million strangers from a different world?

"Maybe you'd keep your magic," you say, numbly, and you're not sure if you're trying to convince her or if you're pleading to the void. If you're trying to see if she's really going to give everything up, give you up for power and good intentions. "If you came home. You could still help."

"I can't risk it," Debbie says. Then, slow and cautious, hopeful. "But now, you're here! It doesn't matter! You can stay with me!"

It hurts.

It hurts.

You close your eyes.

"No," you say, and it's exhausted.

You're exhausted, suddenly. All the anger in the world, gone like that. Gone, like the girl you knew. Like the Debbie you love. Like the Debbie you mourned.

All the grief in the world, back in town under a new name and with a fake mustache, because now you need to mourn Debbie again.

She's alive, and yet, she may as well be dead.

Fuck.

What are you going to tell the others?

You realize, you can't tell them the truth. It's eating you alive already, but it'll kill them too, and you can't mourn more people. You can't.

They won't believe you anyway.

You look at Debbie.

"No," you tell her, quietly. "Send me back. But don't send me alone. Give me your body."

"What?" Debbie says. "But-"

"I don't want to stay," you tell her. "I want to go home. I want my dog, and my brother, and my mom. I want Thomas and Steph and everyone else." You feel the tears drip down your face. "And I want you to give me a body, a fake, something. Something so we can hold the funeral for you. So we can move on."

The way she has moved on.

Debbie stares at you, and she's crying as well, but she's doing so silently. You're not doing so good. Every breath whistles in your throat. You know your face is all blotchy.

Debbie's face in unnaturally still pretty and perfect, even with her tears, in a way it never was before. It must be magic.

Or maybe it's just because she's dead.

"Okay," Debbie says, choked out. "Okay then."

"Okay," you say as well. And, because fuck, she's still your best friend, she was, and you missed her and you will miss her forever now, you lean in and hug her, hard. "Okay. Goodbye, Debbie. I hope helping millions of people is worth it. I hope you're very happy here. I hope you find love, and have kids, and- and-"

You can't continue, your words devolving into an ugly sob.

Debbie can't answer either it seems. Her tears soak your collar, and her hands clutch at your back. And then, sudden and warm, you feel light enveloping you.

You hear her voice, one last time.

"Okay," she says. "Goodbye-"

And then she's gone.

You're standing on the sidewalk. You're about to head downtown. You stare, and for a second, you think this was all a vivid dream. Some twisted, fucked up fantasy made up by grief and exhaustion and months without Debbie.

But then you head towards home, and at the next crossing you hesitate.

A truck goes in front of you, full speed.

It would have hit you.

Smear on the pavement.

You stare after it, wide-eyed. And then, something bright attracts your gaze. You can't help but look, and surely it must just be the sun reflecting on some puddle, but no, it's coming from the riverbank next to the road.

Heart in your throat, you head down there.

Ah.

There she is.

Debbie.

Lying there, cold, dead. Perfect, even though her body should be unrecognizable. You look at her chin, and you almost laugh.

She fucking forgot the mole.

Someone close to you has gone missing for months, and you've just learned that they were Isekai'd away to a fantasy world, and you are horrified to discovered how quickly they've moved on from their old life and you in its entirety.

[acnelli]

A Moment of Truth

My second entry for Ron’s Chessboard Fest 2021.

Pairing: Ron/Harry

Rating: T

Prompt 13: A Moment of Truth

Summary: Harry ruined the best thing that ever happened to him. But the Boy-Who-Lived is determined to make it right again.

Thanks again to TheUltimateUndesirable and to the best beta @accio-broom!

This story is kind of a follow up to the fic Thinking About You by Solstice Muse. You don't have to read that story to understand mine, but I highly recommend getting on LiveJournal and befriending Solstice Muse for their amazing stories. Pure talent, believe me! I also got permission from the author to write my story based on theirs.

You can also read this story on AO3 & FFN.

Harry wondered if he had ever felt more alone in his life as he stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. If he would’ve thought about it hard enough, he might’ve remembered several instances where he felt just as lonely, but Harry simply didn’t possess the strength right now.

Ron left him.

The  thing he would miss the most left him, and the only person he could blame for it was himself. It took the better part of the last two weeks for Harry to realise it and all of yesterday to really accept that ugly truth.

The day Ron had walked out of their flat was nothing but a giant blur. He had drunk himself into a stupor, and if the broken mirrors were any indication, he pretty much had lost it. When he woke up the next morning, violently retching into the toilet, he called in sick and just went to bed again.

Although he had gone to work the following days, he floo called his PR manager, telling Liam to cancel all events for the time being, offering a half-arsed explanation and reminding him that it was  his  job to make up stories for him.

Harry had appeared at work as early as possible and left for home when the cleaning staff threw him out of his office. He didn’t want to return to the vacant flat, Ron-free and, therefore, absolutely miserable. But he was also trying to avoid Arthur, Percy and Hermione. Especially, Hermione.

Harry’s favourite pastime these last two weeks had been to curse and blame Hermione for all of this. She had obviously waited outside that day, escorting Ron to her parents’ place where she lived at the moment. Harry had watched them through their living room window as they walked hand in hand to the next apparation point.

Everything had been fine, after all, hadn’t it? Taking his manager’s advice to feed the monster to protect his actual private life and his loved ones from the press, he had found his celebrity life rather comfortable and even enjoyable. After years of Harry having been announced to be Bachelor of the Year, rumours started to form about why he had still been single. Together with his manager, he worked out a way to lure the press away from the truth, and there hardly had been an instance anymore where Harry wasn’t accompanied by one beautiful witch or another. Events and parties full of photographers did not bother him anymore as long as they only captured him socialising and having fun. Almost every day, the papers had a story to tell about him, but never about who he really had gone home to. Never about Harry being gay and him being madly in love with his best mate.

Most of the time, he concentrated on this feeling of betrayal and silently cursed Ron and Hermione for wanting him to come out officially. Didn’t they see how intrusive and destructive the press had been all his life? Didn’t they see how dangerous this could be for Ron? For himself?

But deep-down, Harry knew it wasn’t like that. Ron would never demand Harry come out. The only thing Ron wanted from him was the freedom to live his own life out in the open. It had been a perfect situation for Harry these past months; working, going to parties and then coming home to Ron.

But for Ron, it hadn’t been perfect.

Harry remembered that horrible night when he came home from some Ministry ball, only to find a note telling him Ron went out with Hermione to some Muggle gay club in London and that he doesn’t have to stay up should he come home earlier than Ron.

Shame and guilt threatened to choke Harry when he thought about his terrible actions that night. Harry had seen red the second he read the words  Muggle gay club, immediately assuming some dirty fuck will try to steal his Ron.

When he finally found them, he watched Ron and Hermione dancing like there was no tomorrow, looking absolutely ridiculous, but like they had the time of their lives. He watched Ron having fun, smiling like Harry hadn’t seen him smile in a very long time. He watched as Ron got approached by a very handsome Muggle and Hermione finding herself another dance partner, winking at Ron. He watched Ron turn the man down. And he stopped watching when that fucker ignored it and tried to kiss him. Before Ron had the chance to shove him away, Harry forced himself between them and snarled into the muggle’s face to fuck off, seconds away from beating the shite-eating grin out of him.

Harry knew now that this night must have been the turning point for Ron because after screaming at Hermione for luring Ron into that gay club, he completely lost it on his boyfriend. They had a terrible row that night, but Ron had forgiven him once more.

All feelings of betrayal got soon replaced by guilt. Over and over again, he recalled Ron’s wounded expression every time Harry asked him to not join him for one party or another, Ron’s anger and hurt when Harry exploded on him the few times Ron had gone out for the night without him or asked more than accusing questions afterwards. He imagined himself at these parties, having fun, drinking and talking about Quidditch most of the time. And then he imagined Ron, sitting alone in their flat, waiting for Harry to come home, just as alone as he was now. Ron wasn’t happy anymore, but Harry had refused to listen to his words and see Ron’s misery.

He suddenly hated himself — not just hurting his lover but also his best mate. Harry most likely ruined the most wonderful and perfect thing in his life and probably killed any chance to get Ron back. Maybe he even bollocked up their friendship for good, just like he had with all his other friendships if all the declined Birthday invitations Ron sent out before their break-up were any indication. Hermione always had been very vocal about what she thought about Harry’s treatment of Ron, and he just had been too deliberately blind and busy to notice everyone turning away from Harry.

That’s why he lay in bed. All alone. On his Birthday.

The only guest he had today had been Ginny, bringing him a little basket with some snacks Mrs Weasley prepared for him. She had been smart enough to not wish him a Happy Birthday.

While Ron hadn’t asked him to come out of the closet, Harry wanted to keep Ron inside it. He should’ve known better than anyone what it means to be hidden away for being different from the rest, for a dirty secret not allowed to get out. This comparison with the Dursleys made him hate himself even more.

If he wanted to have a real shot at getting Ron and his friends back, Harry had to clean up his own life first. Slowly, he got out of bed, determined to get a long overdue shower. Before he went into the bathroom, though, Harry summoned some parchment and a quill, writing a short note and a rather long letter (for Harry’s standards anyway).

He quickly delivered the note to his manager’s assistant through a short floo call, telling her it was urgent.

His owl Athena nibbled on some owl treat he gave her while Harry tied the letter to one of her claws. “Alright, Athena,” he said, his voice unusually wavering, “please, deliver this letter as fast as possible, okay? And make sure Hermione reads it.”

*******

Ron was well aware of Hermione’s worrying glances in his direction.

They both sat on Hermione’s bed, with their backs leaning against the headboard as Ron distracted himself with the wonder that is a television, and his best friend unsurprisingly reading a book beside him. He was glad she didn’t force him to talk about his feelings right now.

Over the last two weeks, Hermione had gone out of her way to keep Ron from thinking and worrying about Harry. An impossible task, really, but she did such a great job of trying to cheer him up and even succeeding sometimes that Ron often felt overwhelmed by the need to hug her.

Today though, Hermione knew Ron couldn’t be kept from thinking about Harry. It was the last day of July, after all, and Harry’s Birthday. And it would be the first Birthday since Harry turned 17 that Ron and Hermione wouldn’t be with him. It would be the first Birthday in the last four years that Harry and Ron weren’t a couple anymore.

In the moment, sadness and hurt seemed to choke him, and he wondered if Harry had even considered them a couple in the first place. Right at the beginning, when they started dating after some unbelievably awkward confessions of feelings, it had been like a dream come true. Finally, the times of mutual pining had been over, replaced by a sense of such content and happiness that Ron often had woken up in the morning, sure it all just had been a dream. A second later, though, with Harry’s arm around him, reminded Ron that it was genuine.

Despite Ron missing Harry terribly, he knew it was the right decision to move out. For the sake of his own sanity and happiness, he had to leave Harry. Ron knew that Harry loved him more than anyone else. It had taken him a long time to realise that sometimes, love wasn’t enough.

Hermione wrote a short letter to Harry this morning, wishing him a Happy Birthday. They both signed it, deciding it would be best if they sent one letter together. The other day he floo called Ginny, asking her to check on Harry today because Ron knew that his best mate wasn’t fine. None of all these parties, charity Quidditch matches and Ministry galas could change that. At least, not after two weeks. A very selfish part of Ron hoped it never would.

Ron was about to suggest to Hermione to grab some ice cream when Harry’s owl tapped on the window glass, wildly flapping her wings. Instead of letting Athena in, Hermione looked at Ron with her eyebrows furrowed but with a questioning look directed at him.

Letting out a deep sigh, Ron stood up and opened the window. The owl flew inside, flying straight towards Ron’s opened and still not fully unpacked trunk. Landing gracefully on top of one of Ron’s bright orange Canon t-shirts, she lifted the claw the letter was tied to and hooted loudly at…Hermione?

“Well, it’s yours, apparently,” Ron said, pointing at the cream-coloured envelope. “Maybe he just wants to say thank you for the Birthday wishes.”

“Ron, you know th–“

“Please, just open it, Hermione.”

Her brown eyes held the kind of anxiety he felt too, but she still freed Athena from the letter and gave her an owl treat. Apparently, the bird got the order to make sure Hermione read the letter, as Ron knew that she would’ve been long gone after receiving her treat.

“Are you really sure, Ron?” Hermione asked, looking up from the unusually thick letter, “Will you promise me to not floo over, right away? Regardless of what that letter might say.”

He slowly nodded at her, his gaze fixed on Harry’s letter. This certainly wasn’t a simple ‘Thank You’ note, and the fact Harry wrote such a long letter at all scared him to the point of pure panic.

“Please, open the letter, Hermione.” If it was because of his panicked voice or Hermione’s own curiosity what the letter might say, Ron couldn’t tell, but she finally opened the envelope, took out the note and held it in a way both of them could read it.

Dear Hermione,  

First of all, I’m sorry for any potential annoyance Athena might have caused, but I told her not to leave before you have read this letter.  

What I have to tell you is crucial for both you and Ron. I know you will show Ron this letter right away; maybe he is even reading it with you right now. But this letter is actually primarily for you. What I want to tell Ron, I have to tell him in person, and maybe after today, he’ll give me a chance to hear me out.

Hermione, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for all the reasons you expect me to be sorry for, but I’m also sorry for letting our friendship crumble and fall apart. I had been so angry at you for stealing Ron. Stealing him, like he is some kind of possession to lose. The last two weeks, I was consumed by this unreasonable rage that I thought was gone after Tom Riddle’s soul left me forever. Yes, it took me two weeks to finally realise that you just were a good friend to Ron.  

Because a good friend is what you are. And I know you tried to be a good friend to me for the longest time. I took you for granted. Just like I took Ron for granted and everyone else I turned away from during last year. I turned into a horrible person without noticing it, or rather, refusing to acknowledge it. And because of that, I also turned into an awful friend.  

I could blame many things for my behaviour, like fame or the press or my manager or my childhood. But after taking a hard look at myself, I concluded that I can’t blame anyone or anything for this but me.  

Before I even try to make it right with all of you, before I can look into Ron’s eyes again, I have to sort out my life first. Actually, I’ll start to do this today.  

Both of you have to up your security. Use any charm you can think of. I doubt you will be in any serious danger, but I have no idea what kind of reaction this will cause. It’s best if you stay away from Diagon Alley tomorrow. I won’t mention Ron’s name, of course, but expect journalists trying to corner the two of you for interviews.  

Do you remember the beach cottage we celebrated my 19th Birthday? I will spend the whole day there tomorrow. Would you and Ron join me? I have a lot to say.  

Love,

Harry

A heavy silence fell over Ron and Hermione when they both finished reading Harry’s letter. Hermione slowly folded the parchment and laid it down on her nightstand before looking up at Ron with wide eyes.

Ron didn’t know what to say, let alone what to think of this. Harry did not outright say it, but the indication was clear enough. Whether he’ll write an official statement or give a press conference, Harry planned to come out today.

Wasn’t this what Ron wanted? For Harry to not give a flying fuck what the rest of the world would think about him? For finally being able to live a life out in the open?

But instead of feeling relieved and happy, he felt an old terror creeping up his neck. Like in a trance, he sat down on the bed again and stared at Harry’s letter. Ron ran his hands over his face and groaned from the overwhelming sensation of guilt and anxiety washing over him. Did he force Harry to do this? Did he force Harry to expose himself to the nasty side of the public?

Soft hands tugged on Ron’s arms until he was forced to look up. Hermione knelt in front of him, a determined look in her warm, brown eyes. “What do you want to do now?” She asked, lightly caressing Ron’s cheek.

“Well, the letter was for you…” Ron joked, his attempt to lighten the mood earned him one of Hermione’s trademark eye-rolls. “Fuck, Hermione, I have no idea. What if Harry is just doing this because he’s hurt?”

“Harry always acts impulsively,” Hermione answered in a thoughtful tone, “but his words sound sincere to me. And as he said in his letter, he really needs to sort out his life.”

“He shouldn’t have to come out though for that.”

“No, he doesn’t have to do this. But for his own sake, I really think it’s the right way to go.”

“I can try to get a hold of him and check how he’s doing if you want me to,” Hermione added when Ron didn’t respond.

“You would do that?” Ron looked down at her once more, feeling grateful to have Hermione by his side.

“Of course,” Hermione stood up from her kneeling position to sit beside Ron and took his hand into hers, “But Ron, just because Harry is doing this doesn’t mean you have to go back to him. I’ll support you, no matter how you decide, but please promise me you won’t let yourself get treated like that again. I don’t want to see you getting hurt like that anymore.”

He smiled at her and softly squeezed her hand. “I promise, Hermione. But I think I can’t just continue as if nothing happened. Not so soon, anyway.”

“Good,” Hermione stood up and went over to Ron’s suitcase where Athena still sat, looking expectantly at them, “Come on, Athena. I bring you back to Harry.” The owl hooted at her as if in protest but still flew up to Hermione’s right shoulder.

“Hermione?” Ron said before she could disapparate.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

*******

The press room of his manager’s company resembled a cozy living room rather than the place he held all his important meetings. Aside from the chairs for the reporters and photographers and the speaker’s stand at the front, it was decorated like a room he would suspect to find in some Lord’s castle. It had an impressive fireplace, a golden chandelier and was decorated with several large paintings and fancy looking rugs.

As Harry took a quick look into the press room from the door that led to Liam’s office, he saw that some news outlets had sent their reporters early. They clearly expected big news from him, considering the last and only press conference he gave had been the one right after the war. Harry was sure they thought he would announce an engagement. It was the obvious conclusion, and if he wouldn’t have been in such a grave mood, he maybe could’ve found it amusing to imagine their faces after he gave his statement.

You’ll see their reactions soon enough, Harry thought.

Despite what he was going to do in less than ten minutes, he felt strangely calm. It could’ve been the years of experience handling the press, but Harry knew this wasn’t the case. Talking about the Quidditch Cup final or the latest decision of the Wizengamot was one thing. Telling the world he was gay was something else entirely.

No, Harry’s calmness didn’t come from years of navigating the press, but rather Hermione’s visit an hour ago. She didn’t say much, just that Ron wanted him to know he didn’t have to do this. And she made it very clear this outing wasn’t a safe ticket to get Ron back. He told her that all he had said to her in the letter was true and that he needed to do this for himself more than anything else.

Hermione had simply nodded and turned around to floo home, but she had stopped in her tracks.

“Be safe,” She said softly, without turning around. Not waiting for an answer, she stepped inside the fireplace, leaving behind the orange flames dancing inside it.

Hope sparked inside his heart because, obviously, Ron and Hermione still cared and tried to look out for him. Even if he ruined every chance of a relationship with Ron, not all seemed lost considering Harry’s friendship with his two best friends.

“Are you ready?” Liam’s voice came from behind him. The short, grey-haired wizard stepped up beside Harry, looking up at him with his ever-professional mask of indifference.

“Ready,” Harry answered, testing his voice, glad it sounded strong and unwavering.

Without missing a beat, Harry’s manager opened the dark, wooden door, and the two of them walked to the podium. Several cameras flashed already when Harry cast  Sonorous  at himself. The room was filled with at least one journalist and a photographer from every news outlet in Magical Britain.

The news of Harry Potter being gay was going to spread like wildfire.

“Good evening,” Harry started to speak, his amplified voice quieting down the low chatter of the audience. He planned to make this short, wishing to be back at his flat already.

“I’m here to inform you that I won’t be attending any official events for the rest of the year.” The voices grew louder again, but Liam stopped the chatter by simply raising his hand. The way this short man managed crowds never ceased to amaze Harry.

“This is simply a way for me to get my life back on track, and I know I need this time for myself in the upcoming months. I-”

“Mr Potter,” Rita Skeeter interrupted, her acid green Quick-Quotes Quill and a parchment hovering in the air beside her, “Does your-”

“Mrs Skeeter, I don’t remember my manager giving you permission to ask questions,” Harry cut her off, trying very hard to not let her admire his middle finger. “And if you wish to attend this press conference until the end, I advise you to not interrupt me again.”

Raising an eyebrow at him but otherwise remaining silent, Rita sat down again, her quill still scribbling wildly. Harry knew he would pay for this. He was just about to give her the perfect ammunition, after all.

“I could just leave it at that. It would definitely prevent my manager from being forced to read through a lot of hate-mail, and it would spare me from having to hide from the public for a while. But these past months, my relationship with the press and official events destroyed everything I really hold dear. And no, I don’t blame you for this. You intruded on my life more than once, but what I have let my life become is entirely my fault. That’s why I have to make the reason for my retreat public. Before I reconcile with the people I hurt, I have to make it right with myself, first and foremost.”

Complete silence settled over the room. Not a single whisper could be heard, and even Rita Skeeter’s quill stopped scribbling, simply hovering beside the witch.

Harry closed his eyes for a brief second as his heartbeat threatened to beat out of his chest. It was now or never, so Harry took one last deep breath, and then, he finally told the world the truth.

“I’m gay.”

*******

A gentle breeze greeted Ron and Hermione when they apparated to the beach Harry mentioned in his letter. The slight wind felt like a relief compared to the stuffy heat in the city. Hermione could only shake her head at Ron for complaining about the hot days, given how rare they were in London.

They could already see the small cottage from their apparation point, the security charms still allowing them to notice it and enter its wards. It was a short walk to the small wooden cabin, but it was enough time for Ron to break out in a sweat.

Yesterday night they had heard about Harry’s press conference on the radio. The news station recited his speech word by word before analyzing it, also word by word, and taking wild guesses on which wizards were most likely to be a past or present love interest of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry’s words kept repeating in Ron’s mind, making him feel guilty, relieved and sad, all at the same time. More than anything else, he wanted to know how Harry felt about all of this, but at the same time, he feared what Harry might expect from Ron now.

With a gentle wave of his wand, Ron alerted Harry of their presence, and a second later, he walked out of the cottage. His black hair looked even wilder than usual, fitting his red-rimmed eyes and the wrinkled shirt he was wearing.

Despite Harry's ruffled appearance, Ron immediately felt a pang of deep longing inside his chest. All he wanted to do right now was to run his hands over Harry's five o’clock shadow and kiss away the dark bags under these brilliantly green eyes.

Instead, he just stood in front of Harry, willing his heart and mind to slow down.

After what felt like an awfully long time of awkward silence, Harry cleared his throat. “Would- would you like to come in?”

“I won't come in with you,” Hermione answered, and before Harry could protest, she turned to Ron, “We'll meet at Neville’s at 7?”

“But Hermione, I want to talk to you too.”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione looked back at him, her lips tightly pressed together, “But I think you should talk to Ron first. Alone.”

Ron could see Harry didn't expect this. He probably prepared a whole speech for Hermione and was now at a loss for words after her announcement.

“We will talk, just the two of us. And I will try to rebuild our friendship, regardless of what Ron might decide for himself.” Hermione paused for a brief moment and took a step closer towards Harry. “But should Ron decide to give your relationship another chance, remember that our friendship will stand and fall on how you treat him. I won't watch one of my best friends hurt the other again.”

And as if to make a point, she took her wand out of its holster, gripping it tightly. Without waiting for Harry's response, though, Hermione quickly squeezed Ron's hand before turning around and disapparating with a quiet plop.

“I really wanted to talk to her,” Harry sighed, weaving a hand through his unruly hair.

“How are you?” Ron asked instead of saying something about Hermione's decision to keep out of this conversation.

Apparently surprised about Ron's sudden change of topic, Harry looked at him with a puzzled expression. A second later, though, his gaze softened, and Ron squirmed under the longing Harry's eyes held.

“Better than I thought I would be” Harry took a small step closer.

“You didn’t have to-”

“I know,” Harry quickly interrupted him rather loudly, and with a much quieter voice, he said, “I know. But I wanted to. I needed to do this.”

Ron nodded and stared at his feet, not knowing what else he could say right now.

“Would you like to sit in the backyard? I have some beer and coke in the fridge.”

“Sure. I'll take the coke.” Ron didn't trust himself to not throw all resolve into the wind if he drank something stronger than Butterbeer. Booze combined with Harry's toned legs on full display on this hot summer day? Ron wouldn't take any chances.

Five minutes later, the two of them found themselves sitting on the small porch, overlooking the ocean. The sea was calm today, and the sound of the waves lulled them into a companionable silence.

Ron couldn't tell how much time had passed when Harry finally started to speak. He told Ron about his past two weeks—all the feelings he went through, from fiery anger over crippling guilt to unbelievable longing. He talked about how much he had hated himself and how this feeling shrank to a tiny flame after yesterday's coming out. And when Harry looked at Ron, telling him he was sorry and he was well aware Ron most likely couldn't see a meaning anymore behind his apologies, a single tear escaped Harry’s eye.

Ron wanted nothing more than to brush it away, but he didn't. Instead, he braced himself for what he needed to tell Harry.

“Harry, I-,” Ron sat up a little straighter, making sure to look Harry in the eyes, “I need time. I need time for myself, at least, for a while. I realised that I stopped being my own person in the last months of our relationship, and like you, I have to find my way back to myself.”

“I obviously want you back, Ron,” Harry's shoulders slumped down a little from the disappointment, but at the same time, Ron thought he saw something like resolve shining behind his green eyes, “But I'll be happy as long as you let me be a part of your life. Maybe- maybe we could just hang out for a while. Just as friends. Go to the pub, watch a Quidditch match, stuff like that.”

Ron gave him a small smile. “That sounds good.”

They didn't say anything else after that. The sun wasn't ready to set yet, but its late afternoon glow gave the sea a beautiful reflection.

At some point, Harry's hand that lay between them on the wooden bench accidentally bumped against Ron's. Harry jolted and wanted to pull his hand away, but Ron stopped him. He softly grazed over Harry's wrist with his fingertips, eliciting a small sigh from him. Ron watched as his hand interlaced their fingers; Harry's olive scarred skin against his pale, freckled and equally scarred skin. It was a beautiful sight.

They kept sitting this way until it was time for Ron to go, just staring out into the sea and holding hands.

*******

Resisting Harry Potter had never been easy for him, but nowadays, everything his best mate did seemed to drive Ron crazy.

Christmas was a week away, and a month ago, Ron and Harry started dating again.

One day, after attending one of Ginny's Quidditch games, they had gone to a small, cozy Muggle Café, trying to warm themselves up from the cold November weather. The Polyjuice Potion they used to disguise themselves from the watching crowd in the Quidditch stands had long worn off, but a rather persistent strand of blonde hair on Harry’s head refused to turn back into its usual raven black state.

Ron had reached over their tiny round table to point it out to Harry but instead almost knocked his glasses off in the process. They burst into laughter, and Ron didn't know if it had been the rush of cheering for his sister today or something else entirely, but for some reason, he had chosen this moment to ask Harry out on a proper date.

And it could have been all in Ron's head, but he failed to remember if he had ever seen Harry smile as he had at that moment.

Without further discussing it, they had kept it slow. Their dates had involved a lot of kissing again, but they always had gone home alone in the end; Harry to his flat and Ron to the tiny apartment he currently shared with Hermione since early September.

Now though, they stood just outside of The Leaky Cauldron, which Hannah and Neville reopened today. After taking over the pub from Tom, they had renovated the large terrace, surprising most of Tom's old guests that it even existed.

For the reopening, they had decorated it with fairy lights and some plants that didn't mind the season’s cold weather. High, round tables stood everywhere where the guests could have some drinks and snacks.

Together with Hermione and her new boyfriend Martin, they stood around one of these tables, drinking the most delicious hot chocolate Ron ever had. While Hermione was busy introducing Martin to their friends, Harry was busy running his hand over Ron's arse.

From their place right in front of the wall of the Leaky Cauldron, they were able to observe everything, but no one was able to see how Harry’s hand seemed to have found a new home in one of Ron's back pockets.

After about an hour, Ron finally had enough. Before Harry could sneak his hand there again, Ron grabbed his wrist and pulled him behind one of Neville's monster plants which happened to be the perfect hiding place.

“You noticed all the bloody journalists out there, right?” Ron asked but clearly didn't expect an answer from Harry as he kissed him as he had wanted to all night. Harry didn't miss a beat and pulled Ron tightly against him, returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm.

Harry moaned into Ron's mouth when Ron sucked at his lower lip, making him want to apparate home with Harry right away.

As Harry set to kiss Ron's neck, it was now the redhead’s turn to bite back a groan. “Let's- let's- Oh Merlin, Harry.”

“Let's what?” Harry whispered as his hands slowly wandered down Ron's body.

“Let's go home,” Ron said in a breathy voice, lips swollen from kissing, “Let's say goodbye to Hannah and Neville and then go home.”

Harry shook his head as he stepped away from Ron, but tugging at his hand as he went into the direction of the party guests.

“Before we go home, let's show them,” Harry stepped up to Ron again, this time just kissing him softly on the lips, “Only if you're okay with it, of course.”

“But you already had your moment of truth. Everyone knows you're gay.”

“They don't know about us, though,” Harry said, softly stroking Ron's cheek, “And besides, my real moment of truth had been when I apologized to you and our friends. The public outing was nothing compared to admitting I had been a shit friend and partner.”

“You know, I don't care about the press knowing about us, but you don't have to prove anything to me, Harry.”

“I think I do. Let's show everyone the wizard that won over The-Boy-Who-Lived,” Harry said, and without another word, he led them into the crowd again.

Nobody was paying attention to them, despite the great Harry Potter standing in the middle of the expansive terrace, holding hands with his best mate. Mistletoe hung from above them, and Harry grinned at the coincidence.

“Doesn't seem like we have much of an audience,” Ron stated as he observed all the party guests who were too busy chatting and drinking, “But I think one of the fucking paparazzi has spotted us.”

“Do you think that's enough, Weasley? Simply holding hands in front of a paparazzi?”

Ron was well aware Harry was daring him, but Ron had been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, after all. Never breaking eye contact with Harry, Ron put his thumb and middle finger inside his mouth and whistled so loudly, everyone startled out of their conversation and turning their heads towards them.

And without missing a beat, Harry put his arms around Ron's neck and kissed him. Ron heard surprised gasps and camera flashes and cheering, but all he could focus on were Harry's lips and his heart beating so fast he was sure everyone could hear it.

As they broke the kiss, Ron put his forehead against Harry's and grinned like the bloody, lovesick fool he knew he looked like right now.

“Take us home, Potter,” Ron whispered, feeling freer than ever before in his life.

They never made it back to the party.

[ailec-12]

Prompt: AU, bored and exploring Malfoy Manor at a social function, young Sirius Black finds an old diary belonging to T.M. Riddle.

Thanks so much for this prompt, Anon! To be honest, at first I had no idea what to do with it, but it would seem Tom’s diary possessed me as well, because once I started, I couldn’t stop. I’ve enjoyed writing teen Sirius a lot, so I hope you’ll also like it.

Shout-out to @mariagvogel for making this one shot better with her comments. It can also be read on AO3.

I.

Sirius hated them all —every fucking member of his family. Nothing could really top his hatred for his mother, who insisted on dragging him to those pure-blood parties no matter how much her eldest son embarrassed her. He was wandering around, sneering at the portraits that lined up the walls of the Malfoy mansion.

Those events were always supremely boring, but Sirius had never felt so utterly alone. Regulus was socialising with their cousins like the good Black son he was. Yet, the only cousin that really mattered, Andromeda, was not present and no one talked about her. Her face still decorated the Black family tapestry, but Sirius did not think it would last long. It was a very odd feeling. When Andromeda talked about cutting ties with her family, they used to laugh about going out in style. He had not seen his cousin in months, though, and, if she had concocted any plans with her Muggle-born boyfriend, she had not breathed a single word about it to Sirius.

The dark corridor he was crossing at the moment threatened to be as dull as the guests downstairs. At least he had managed to slip unnoticed from the party. He could not have shown his distaste as freely there. A somewhat distant crack startled him out of his thoughts. He froze on the spot. That must be Dobby. Although Sirius could not say he liked the house-elf —who was always too overexcited—, he pitied anyone who had to live under the thumb of a prat like Lucius Malfoy. Dobby was also far nicer than Kreacher. Even so, if he saw Sirius snooping around, he would be forced to tell his masters. Sirius would rather avoid angering his mother so soon when there was still a long evening ahead of them.

Thinking on his feet, he walked quickly to the end of the corridor, where a door hid the stairs to the attic. Andromeda and Cissy had discovered that one dragging a very young Sirius with them. He could no longer remember the exact reason, but they had been hiding. It felt like a very far memory.

Sirius closed the door carefully behind him and waited until he heard the second crack that meant Dobby had left. The party seemed not to exist in the absolute stillness of the stairs and Sirius let out a long-suffering sigh. Glancing up, he decided to head for the attic. It was a good hiding place if nothing else.

The room looked dirtier and more abandoned than Sirius remembered. It actually reminded him of their attic at home, full of useless and forgotten pure-blood memorabilia. He stepped around the worn-out furniture, dodging the odd-shaped items scattered in some parts. He could not help thinking that, if the rest of his friends were with him, poking around Malfoy’s stuff would have sounded much more exciting. Alone, however, Sirius did not truly feel like exploring.

Looking round in order to find at least something to distract him from the fact that there was no one to share his findings with, his eyes fell on a small bookcase. The dust made his eyes itch when he got closer and most books did not even have a title on the spine. He gazed at them blankly for a moment longer, trying to decide whether picking them up was worth the effort. His interest was suddenly piqued when he saw a small rectangular item wrapped in fading brown fabric. That time, he took it with no hesitation, revealing a black leather book. It was rather thin and the year on the cover —1942— let him know it was not a recently purchased item. As he opened it, he was disappointed to find there was nothing on the blank pages except for a name on top of the first one: T. M. Riddle.

Sirius let it fall, huffing. An empty diary whose owner did not even have the right surname for the house. He did not really care if it had been someone who had married into the family or if some Malfoy had stolen it. Somehow, Sirius was not able to picture someone staying for a sleepover and leaving their diary behind.

Bored, he sat down on the floor, near the diary. He could already see the others’ faces when he returned downstairs having ruined his new, shiny robes. The mere thought brought a smirk to his face and lifted his spirits lightly. He picked the diary back up. Perhaps no one would ever see it, but Sirius wanted to leave his mark in case someone else found the old thing.

He searched through the drawers and found a couple of broken quills, but no ink. He cursed out loud, remembering the Muggle drawing kit that Moony had gifted him last Christmas. He would carry a pen everywhere if he was not certain his mother would enjoy burning it while Sirius was still carrying it.

Nevertheless, he found a small piece of charcoal and did not hesitate to open the diary at the first page. In big capital letters, just under the name, he wrote, FUCK PURE-BLOODS —SB. He had to admit it looked lamer than it had sounded in his head, so he was trying to come up with another epithet when the words faded away. Blinking, he stared down at the yellowish pages. If it was a means of communication like the two-way mirror he used with Prongs, he might be screwed.

The diary answered right away.

Interesting choice of words to write on someone else’s diary. And who might you be?

Sirius looked at the words for a few seconds. It had been quite a prompt answer for an object that had seemed abandoned just a moment ago.

I’m not telling you my name, he decided to write at last. He was not that much of an idiot.

As you wish. Mine is Tom.

Again, the reply was quick. Sirius bit his lip, rolling the charcoal between his fingers.

Are you friends with the Malfoys?

I might be, came Tom’s enigmatic answer. They must not have taken great care of my diary if you have got your hands on it, though.

The calligraphy was elegant, although not as flowery as Sirius’s. For all his faults, the Malfoys were not as exclusive as the Blacks. Tom’s elusive comments sparked the boy’s imagination and he was already picturing Riddle as the offspring of a marriage between a Malfoy and someone of not such a high standing.

Focusing back on the pages, which had returned to their original state, he decided to try his luck.

Do you write to them often?

I can’t say I do.

Sirius could almost hear the playful tone behind those words.

What would you do if I took you with me?

Write to you, what else?

Sirius’s smirk grew bigger as he closed the diary and threw away the charcoal.

 II.

In the end, getting away from the gathering had indeed been worth it. His parents had not been able to do much in public, since they knew sending him home would actually have been a reward. By the time they had got back, both of them had been too inebriated to punish him properly. Sirius had got away with just his hurt pride at having had to apologise to the Malfoys plus a quick stinging hex before being sent to bed. Still, his leg hurt like hell from the surprisingly well-aimed spell.

He was lying on his bed, groaning into his pillow and with absolutely no intention of sleeping. He would like to contact James through the mirror —he did not think anyone would hear him despite the absolute silence—, but he did not want to come across as needy. He could wait until tomorrow to whine and tell his friends all his woes.

Turning around, he sat up and examined his leg. He concluded it would be better not to risk asking Kreacher for a pain potion, since it would lead to his mother hearing about it. In a couple of hours, it would no longer sting. Making what felt like an enormous effort, he stood up and started disrobing. It was only then that he remembered Tom. Still half dressed, he hurried to get ink and quill and got comfortable in his bed. It was pretty late, so he told himself he might have to wait until the morning for an answer.

Are you there?

Of course.

Sirius smiled at the immediate reply.

I —don’t— regret to inform you that you are no longer with the Malfoys.

His grin grew bigger as he felt clever. He would keep talking to Tom if it was going to help him forget about his misery for a while.

You sound like more interesting company anyway. I take it that you had fun and the event is over?

Sirius scoffed loudly.

I don’t think a single one in that bloody bunch of old snobs know what having fun is like.

You may be right, but why would you want fun when you already have power?

Reading those words gave him chills and sobered him up. Perhaps it was because Tom’s phrasing urged him to agree at first. He frowned and put down the diary to physically distance himself from that feeling. Almost right away, though, he picked it up again.

Do you believe that blood supremacy crap?

He felt something akin to disappointment and had to rein in the impulse to throw a cruder accusation.

What I believe does not matter. It is a fact they have power, is it not?

Sirius liked that answer even less and he felt his frown deepen. He stared as the ink faded, considering what he should retort. Apparently, Tom found his words sooner.

You benefit from that power, don’t you, S?

An inexplicable, overwhelming anger rose in the boy’s throat and he was scribbling furiously before he was aware of it.

Fuck you. My name is Sirius.

He slammed the diary shut and threw it in his trunk.

 III.

I’m a fucking tosser.

It was the first thing he wrote in two weeks and the black letters were blurry.

Do tell.

Tom’s response came at once as usual, but it felt oddly impersonal. It was just what Sirius needed, because the last thing he wanted was a friendly ear. He was determined to avoid thinking about the next letter he would have to write to Prongs.

I was going to spend half the summer at a friend’s, but I crossed my mother and ruined everything. I’m not going anywhere now.

A little splash smeared the ink before it disappeared completely. He wiped his eyes furiously while he waited for Tom to say something.

Oh, boo-hoo. Why would you act out if you needed her permission?

Didn’t plan on it, you twat. Just happened. You’d also scream at her if you’d met her, he added before a reply could come.

I think not. I’ve been told I’m a great actor.

Pretentious prick, Sirius shot back. He was feeling calmer, though, and not truly annoyed.

Tom offered no reaction to that, but Sirius did not want to finish their conversation so soon. It was a very welcome distraction from the pain and humiliation that usually followed an argument with his mother.

I don’t know how I’m to survive an entire summer locked up in this house.

Have you tried to escape?

I’m only 14. The Ministry will find me as soon as I try to do magic.

Of course, living as a Muggle is out of question.

Sirius frowned, not liking one bit the mockery he could feel behind the words.

It is when I have neither Muggle clothes nor Muggle money, he retorted.

And your friend? Wouldn’t he take you in?

James would, he was certain of it. However, that would require detailing exactly how bad things were at home. It was not worth it, Sirius told himself as he had a thousand times before. It was only three more years until he could do magic and then no one, not even his mother, could stop him —after all, his fourteenth birthday was just a few months away.

My family would not allow it, he wrote instead.

Are you important or something?

Again that derisive feeling. Sirius could not explain why he felt the other’s intentions so distinctly.

Or something, he agreed noncommittally. He was about to add something else when a knock on his door startled him.

Swallowing with difficulty, he reminded himself that only one person in their household would knock before entering. Not that his dear brother waited for an answer. Sirius had barely had time to close the diary when the door opened. At least, Regulus was not in the habit of barging in.

“What do you want?” Sirius snapped right away, feeling anger consuming everything within him once again.

Any tentativeness disappeared from his brother’s demeanour and his young face hardened. He closed the door after coming in, but did not step closer.

“Don’t take it out on me. I did nothing.”

“Yeah, I think that might be the problem. You never do anything. The perfect son,” snarled Sirius, in a well-rehearsed course of action.

“What d’you expect to get when you insult the whole family? Couldn’t you just go along with it for once and say what she wants to hear?”

Regulus was frustrated, but his controlled manner paled in comparison to the ire running through his older brother, who jumped off the chair, not caring about the noise.

“I’ll never stand by while she badmouths my friends,” he said, barely restraining from shouting. “But of course you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. You’d need to have some friends for that.”

The jab hit Regulus as hard as Sirius had intended and his pain was plainly visible on his face. He refused to regret having caused it.

“I just came to see if you were all right, you imbecile.”

Regulus practically spat the words before turning around and taking hold of the doorknob.

“Hurry up and move along, then. I’m fine.”

Regulus opened the door and stared back one last time. His mouth was a hard line and his eyes glistened. He looked too old for his age.

“You’re a liar.”

 IV.

Have you ever been trapped with no option to escape?

It was the middle of the night of a perfectly ordinary day, but Sirius could not sleep. Luckily, it seemed that neither could Tom.

Most people have at one point or another, came the answer, swift and vague as ever.

His friends were taking too long to reply to his letters and Prongs had forgotten the two-way mirror at home when he had packed for his holidays. Talking to Tom felt just as good, though.

More letters appeared in the centre of the page while he was lost in thought.

What matters is your ability to break free when the time is right.

 V.

What is ailing you this time? I can tell you didn’t steal an enchanted diary to complain about your house-elf’s cooking.

Their correspondence was getting more familiar and Tom did not hesitate to cut his ramblings short. Sirius decided not to beat around the bush, either.

Do you come from a pure-blood family?

I have old blood running through my veins, yes.

Sirius had never felt so grateful for Tom’s pretentious nature. He had a feeling the other would understand.

They burnt my cousin Andromeda’s face off the family tapestry. She has married a Muggle-born, so they say she’s tarnished our blood.

And you fear to suffer the same fate?

I’d fear to stay in this house forever, but

He hesitated. Sometimes, he felt as if he were offering up too much information, although nothing he had said so far was truly a secret.

she is my favourite cousin.

The words faded away slowly, as if the diary were absorbing Sirius’s strong feelings behind them, too.

I think she’s forgotten me, he wrote in a rush, feeling extremely self-conscious.

That time, Tom seemed to take an eternity to answer.

Pure-bloods are good at holding power, but their short-sightedness will be the death of them.

The words took Sirius aback and he did not think about his next response.

I thought you fancied that blood crap.

I told you. What I may believe or feel is not important. Ignoring the talent of those who do not fit the ideal perfectly will hardly do us any favours.

Sirius blinked, uneasy at how reasonable Tom sounded. He needed to think, so he wrote goodbye and returned the diary to its safe place. After a while, he realised he could contact Andromeda once he was back at school.

 VI.

Sirius skimmed through Prongs’s last letter. He still needed to get back to Moony and Wormtail as well. However, no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake off the feeling that his friends were far too predictable. James told him all about his brilliant family holidays, whereas Remus was as bored and lonely as Sirius. And he really could not bring himself to care about Peter’s latest crush.

On top of his apathy, he was worn out all the time. The bright side of it was that he was usually too tired to pick a fight with his parents. He spent most of his time locked in his bedroom, listening to Muggle music or just staring up at the dark ceiling —or writing to Tom. Sirius could not consider him a friend since the bloke had not revealed much information about himself. Yet, during their exchanges, Sirius did not feel quite so sad or angry, just sort of entertained.

There was only a week and a half until the beginning of the new school year. The rest of the Marauders would not be surprised if Sirius told them he had been too lazy to reply to their last batch of letters. Thus, he picked up the diary, willing to forget about the world for a while.

 VII.

You didn’t write yesterday.

Sirius felt a pang of culpability upon seeing the message. In fact, he had felt guilty ever since school had started. Normally, he waited until his friends had gone to sleep to take out the diary and write on it, sheltered by his drawn drapes. At first, he had looked forward to that nightly encounter, even if it made him feel like he was lying to his friends. During the day, Moony and Prongs were set on finding out what was wrong with him. Nothing Sirius told them stopped their nagging. He could admit he was bloody irritable around everyone those days, but it did not truly warrant their insistence. At least with Tom he had not needed to worry about reining in his temper so as to avoid worried looks.

Nevertheless, eventually, even Moony had let the matter of his bad mood drop. It had led to a more relaxed atmosphere in their friend group and, for the first time since their return, the previous night Sirius had gone to bed knackered and happy and, especially not feeling like he needed to seek out someone else’s company. Frankly, he had not thought Tom would care, but now the guilt rose back up and it was not because he was hiding something from his friends.

I was busy.

It was a lame excuse, but Sirius told himself he did not need to explain his reasons to a perfect stranger.

Hanging out with Hagrid again?

Distaste dripped from the ink of every one of those words.

No, planning a prank for a greasy git. He won’t know what hit him. Sirius’s smirk vanished before it fully formed. He frowned, still thinking about Tom’s comment. What have you got against Hagrid, anyway? He is all right.

That is because you do not know what he is capable of.

Sirius rolled his eyes at the condescending reply. He had known Hagrid for over three years and, while the man had his quirks, he was one of the nicest people Sirius had ever met.

Another sentence appeared as the first one was absorbed by the page.

Want me to show you?

He read the question a few times, trying to understand what it could possibly mean. Tom had never implied they could send anything other than messages through the diary.

“Can’t you– What are you doing?”

It was barely a whisper, but he had already jumped when Moony drew the curtains back and so, he ended up spilling ink all over himself and the diary. His wand was knocked off as well, falling to the floor with its tip still lit up. Sirius barely spared a glance at his friend as he attempted to get away from the mess.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“I’m so sorry,” Remus apologised right away. Turning around for a moment, he retrieved his own wand from his bedside table. “I’ll clean it up.”

With a circular movement, he managed to summon the ink and get it back into the bottle. The diary was intact, not a black trace on it, although Sirius suspected not all the ink had been collected by Moony’s magic.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, because his friend was looking at him with soft eyes full of uncertainty.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just couldn’t sleep and saw the light from your wand.”

“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Sirius huffed, unable to stand the awkwardness any longer. “Sit down, for Merlin’s sake. Unlike others, I don’t bite.”

He received a brief, albeit quite powerful glare as expected, which in return brought a grin to his face as he closed the diary and put it in a drawer for the time being.

“Was that… a diary?”

Moony’s incredulity was obvious, so Sirius forced himself to let out a dismissive snort.

“Just brainstorming our next pranks. Prongs and I still have to take revenge on that Seventh Year Ravenclaw prick for laughing at us when Snivellus and Evans dumped us in the lake.”

“To be fair—”

“I don’t want to be fair, Moony. I want to laugh at Mr Brainy.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but a long yawn interrupted whatever he was going to add. Right on cue, Sirius also yawned.

“I think I’ll go back to bed now. You should try to get some sleep, too.”

“I will,” promised Sirius, smiling fondly at his always responsible friend.

He drew the drapes and snuggled up under the blankets, having forgotten all about Tom and Hagrid.

 VIII.

Guess who is not going home for Christmas?

Sirius was feeling light as a feather and needed to share his enthusiasm.

Did you get your face burnt off the family tree as well?

Not yet, he replied, beaming in the semi-darkness. His penmanship was messier than usual, because his brain was going too fast for his hand to keep up. I’m going to spend the break with Prongs. His parents have invited me to go with them to ski. The entire hols! he added, trying to convey his utter delight, for he felt like exploding every time he thought about the letter he had just received.

My mother will be furious, he kept on, not waiting for an answer. She will have to explain her disgraceful heir has once again chosen blood traitors over the family.

You do realise that, by cutting ties with them, you are only making things harder for yourself, don’t you?

As if I cared. I’m not going to put up with their pompous arses one minute longer than I need to.

Well, perhaps there is something better that you can do at school if you stay.

“What?” Sirius almost yelled, turning it into a whisper at the last moment.

I’m not staying, he wrote quickly.

Why did Tom feel the need to sour his mood like that? He had said he was not upset by the lack of daily updates on Sirius’s part, but he may have lied.

You never let me show you that memory about Hagrid. I could show you things about Hogwarts, places no other person knows about but me.

Sirius felt his hair stand on end. No one should sound so alluring through a written message. Without another thought, he slammed the diary shut and pushed it off his lap. He was suddenly afraid of how much he had longed to accept Tom’s offer.

As if a veil had just been lifted, he realised the diary was an object taken from a family with close links to dark magic and even darker social circles. He had been tired all summer and his bad temper had persisted after getting away from his family. He had only started to feel better once he had stopped writing to Tom every day.

He nearly tossed the diary out of the window, but he stopped when he took it in his hands. Surely, he was overreacting. He had been talking to Tom for months and, even though the other gave him the creeps from time to time, he had felt no dark influences trying to control him. Prongs always said he was paranoid about everything that had to do with dark magic and he reluctantly had to admit his friend may be right.

Tom must be even lonelier than he was to keep him company after all that time, for Sirius would not describe his life as fascinating. He was happier than he had ever been at Hogwarts, certainly, but Tom had put up with his continuous complaints about his family the entire summer. Perhaps it was only fair that he felt ignored since school had begun, because Sirius had indeed been writing less and less frequently as days passed. He felt like a terrible friend —even if they were not such—, so he picked up the quill again, dipped it in the ink and wrote,

Why do you like talking with me?

I thought you were braver. I thought you’d dare uncover Hogwarts’ deepest secrets.

The ink faded away slowly as Sirius found himself unable to tear his gaze away. New words appeared before he could think of an answer.

Let me show you, insisted Tom. It all started when

Sirius slammed the diary shut for the second time that day, although on that occasion his decision was fuelled by blind rage. The urge to know was still there, whispering in his ear that he should continue reading, continue writing. However, another feeling flooded him and he distinguished the sting of something else besides his hurt pride. He was under no delusions that they were friends, but he had hoped —believed— that the other’s interest meant he shared his feeling of comfortable attachment. Sirius had enjoyed being able to say anything without fear of being judged or pitied, but right then, he only felt manipulated.

Truthfully, he had very much longed to know the answer when he had asked why. Instead, Tom had insisted on talking about his own damn secrets and mysteries. In fact, Tom had elegantly sidestepped every personal question and had always sounded more invested in reading about Sirius’s troubles than any good news he brought up.

The hurt cleared his thoughts in the most painful way possible. At that very moment, he could not care less whether he was indeed paranoid or losing his mind. He had itched to know whatever Tom had been about to tell, but curiosity had played no role in it. The pull had been far less innocent than that and, once he could recognise it, he realised it had been there for a while. However, he had never expected that darkness would feel so sweet and intoxicating —so inoffensive.

Damn, he truly was a bloody idiot.

 IX.

Sirius had bravely fought the temptation to write on the diary again to curse its very existence and, so far, he had won. Still, he had buried the blasted thing at the bottom of his trunk and only taken it out on their last day before the holidays. He was currently waiting for his brother outside the Great Hall, while the students who had already finished their dinner passed by while animatedly chatting about their upcoming plans.

At last, he saw the familiar pale face and hurried towards the small group of Slytherins.

“Hey, Regulus!”

His brother glared at him, but murmured something to his companions and they promptly left towards the dungeons. Sirius could not help frowning at their backs —if the tables had been turned and it was him asking to be alone with a Slytherin, he would have expected a little resistance from his friends. Focusing his attention back on the younger boy, he saw the scowl was still very much present.

“What do you want?”

Sirius swallowed the urge to snap back, irked by Regulus’s defensiveness.

“I’m not going back home these hols, so I need you to make sure this gets back to the Malfoys.”

He handed out the diary, wrapped in the brown fabric, but his brother made no move to take it. Instead, he asked,

“You aren’t coming home?”

All of a sudden, Sirius felt his mouth dry at the vulnerability clearly present in the question.

“Um, I’m… I’m not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that bad, though, is it? Mother will be in a foul mood when she finds out, sure, but I won’t be there to aggravate you all every day.”

His light tone was weak and did not get a reaction from Regulus beyond a renewed glower.

“So what, you want me to deliver one of your funny pranks to Malfoy now that he no longer attends Hogwarts?”

“Don’t be daft, I’d never let you take the blame and steal my spotlight.” Regulus refused to say anything and so, a tense silence ensued. Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius noticed they had drawn the attention of some students. He pushed the diary against his brother’s crossed arms. “It’s something I took from them at the beginning of the summer. I’m not interested in it anymore.”

Finally, Regulus took it and started to unwrap it. Sirius hurried to still his hands. Physical contact between the brothers had become rare nowadays, but neither seemed to realise.

“Nuh-uh. Everyone’s always going on and on about how you’re so much smarter than I am, so show a bit of brains. It’s one of those diaries you can’t stop writing on. Took me a bit to figure it out.”

It was not all the truth, but he did not know what the diary was exactly and hoped it was enough to deter Regulus from giving in to his own curiosity.

His brother was still looking back at him with plenty of mistrust in his clear eyes, but he would not keep an item like that —Sirius was sure of it.

“You can give it to Cousin Cissy,” he joked, breaking the silence once more. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to have a reason to call on the Malfoys and insult the white sheep of the family at the same time.”

He wanted to add something else, either wish Regulus good luck or happy Christmas. In the end, the right words never came to him and his brother walked away after uttering a curt, ‘Goodbye, Sirius.’

 X.

It turned out that getting rid of that diary was the best decision he had made in a while. James’s parents had also invited Remus and Peter to their winter house for a week —carefully chosen by the boys so that Moony would not have to deal with any furry problems.

Not even Walburga’s Howler managed to shatter his happiness. It had arrived one morning, while they were all having breakfast. Sirius had prayed for the ground to open up and swallow him whole when he had seen Euphemia’s and Fleamont’s faces as they heard the usual string of slurs and threats —fortunately, Prongs was used to those Howlers by then. For a very long moment, Sirius had also feared what they would think of him after learning he was a thief.

In fact, he had barely dared look up when an ominous silence had returned to their table. However, it had soon been broken by a new string of voices, only that time there was a mix of indignation and reassurance and it was all in his favour. Sirius’s eyes had been suspiciously wet when his friend had clapped him on the back and he had had to talk the adults out of seeing Walburga Black before they went back to school.

Even if he did not manage to find an excuse to stay at Hogwarts during the next break, he would not have to face her in months. It was a very freeing, hopeful thought. He knew that his little stunt would bring other, more serious consequences eventually, but he was not very worried about whatever hell his mother had promised. Hell could not scare him when he already knew what it was like to live in it.

[ineffable--soulmates]

ineffable bureaucracy + making up after fight kiss pls?

prompts | ao3 | ko-fi

—

It’s Called Kissing

For the first time in millennia, Gabriel felt like he was the worst being that ever graced God’s Earth.

The feeling was unfamiliar to him, yet it made him horribly, terribly awful. He didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know how to process it, so he did what was most logical to him—he went running. 

Running was good. Running felt good. It made the body he inhabited healthier, better, stronger, fitter. And when he ran, he did not have to think about a certain Prince of Hell, the Lord of Flies. Certainly not.

Except then he crashed face first into that damned demon, the one known as Crowley, like some kind of a cosmic joke. 

Maybe it was indeed a cosmic joke. Maybe somewhere up above, the Almighty was laughing at his misery. He didn’t know. He didn’t dare to question it. But as he rubbed his face to ease the pain he felt, he tried, he really tried , to understand what was so funny with this situation.

“Oh no. Oh no, no”, the demon known as Crowley shook his head. “Away, you fiend! You are not dragging Aziraphale back into— into wherever did you come from!”

“I am an Archangel, you are a demon. You are the fiendish one, you fiend”, Gabriel said through his gritted teeth, as he patted some invisible demonic dust off of his precious tracksuit. “And I am not here to drag your precious boyfriend away.”

The demon tilted his head in disbelief.

Gabriel sighed. “I do not have time for this”, he said, before turning to continue with his run.

“Wait!” the demon called. “You’re having a tiff with Lord Beelzebub.”

Gabriel froze on his track. He turned on his heels and faced the demon again, who had a wide, wide smirk upon his face.

“How did you know”, Gabriel said not as much as asked.

“Just a lucky guess”, the demon returned. “Lord Beelzebub’s been in a mood all day, and here you are, literally running away from your problems instead of talking it out like some kind of reasonable beings. Or fucking it out, whichever you’re into.”

“How dare you! We are not—” Gabriel flushed, before turning his face away, mumbling, “We are not on that stage yet.”

Instead of laughing, the demon gave him a confused-yet-firm nod. “Huh. Okay.”

That… surprised Gabriel. He swore the demon would’ve laughed at his—his incompetency . Not this… apparent understanding. It was confusing.

“So”, the demon flopped himself on the nearest bench and patted the empty spot next to him. Gabriel sat down, still befuddled. “What appears to be the problem? Did you insult zir accidentally?”

“I wasn’t—” Gabriel paused. “How did you know it was me?”

The demon was quiet for a moment, before answering with a shake of his head, “Just a lucky guess.”

Somewhat, Gabriel could tell that it wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t know if he wanted to know the truth. This feeling was also unfamiliar to him; the feeling of not knowing what to do.

“Alright”, Gabriel said, finally, before repeating it again, “Alright. Yes, I did say something that made zir upset, although I don’t know why. Ze is a demon.”

“Ouch. Let me guess, then you followed with ‘you cannot feel love’ or whatever it is?” the demon guessed, and Gabriel blinked, confused as to why the demon could have guessed it correctly. “Yeah, no. You don’t say that to your demonic partner. Not ever . You hear me?”

“Why? It’s the truth!” Gabriel said, still flabbergasted.

“Because we can feel love, you numbskull!” the demon known as Crowley cried out, as if desperate to get his point across. “We can feel love the way humans can feel love, the way animals can feel love. It’s not all-encompassing or whatever the way you feel it, but we still can feel it.”

Oh. Oh, huh. Gabriel had never thought of it that way.

“So what should I do now?” Gabriel asked. He had offended his love, the Prince of Hell, the Lord of Flies, and now, he was at a loss about what to do.

“Duh”, the demon deadpanned, and Gabriel wondered how did he do that with his dark glasses on. “Apologize to zir.”

“I—” Gabriel hesitated. “I never apologized to anyone before.”

“Well. First time for everything”, the demon said with a flourish, before rising from the bench and walked away, leaving Gabriel with his own thoughts.

And suddenly, like a revelation, an idea popped into his mind.

—

By some miracle (not his own doing, but perhaps another cosmic joke), he bumped into the Prince of Hell zirself in Aziraphale’s silly little bookshop.

Aziraphale gave a glancing look between him and his love, before smiling stiffly and said, “I’ll leave you two to it” (when what he really meant probably was, “Please do not burn my bookshop”) before leaving the two of them alone.

And alone they were. Gabriel turned to Beelzebub, who was doing zir hardest not to glance to his direction. That… hurt, but Gabriel sufficiently believed that it all would be over soon.

With confidence in his heart, Gabriel strode to where Beelzebub was standing by a bookshelf, before bending over and placed his lips upon zirs. It didn’t last long, and the next second he was thrown against the wall. 

Sometimes he forgot that Beelzebub was a demon, who possessed strength that could rival even an archangel like himself. Well, not now. Now he did not forget about that one little fact.

“What in Satan’s name were you doing?! ” Beelzebub shouted, anger swirling like searing heat around the two of them.

“I am apologizing to you!” Gabriel raised his voice to match zirs, his own aura trying hard to tamp down zirs so they did not accidentally start fire. Not that he cared about Aziraphale’s little bookshop or anything.

“By smashing your gross lips onto mine?!” Beelzebub returned with the same tone.

Gabriel was taken aback by that and self-consciously touched his own lips. “My lips isn’t gross”, was all he said.

Beelzebub buzzed, still furious, before turning away at zir heels. However Gabriel was quick enough to snatch zir hand and stopped zir on zir tracks.

“Wait”, he said. “I— I have never done this before, so I am at a loss. But I…” A pause and a sigh. “I wanted to apologize to you. About what I said. About calling you… well… a demon, a being incapable of love. That was— that was very foolish of mine, so I was told.”

Beelzebub gave him a Look, one that absolutely contained all of zir disdain and disbelief. But zir shoulders sagged, if only slightly, and ze turned to look up at him.

“And the lips-smashing?” Beelzebub asked, zir voice still too sharp, too angry, but it was contained.

“It’s called kissing”, Gabriel answered. “Humans do it all the time. And so’s…” he didn’t have to continue with his sentence. Instead, he tilted his head to the door where Aziraphale had retreated into earlier.

“And it’s for apologizing?” Beelzebub asked again. Now ze sounded honestly curious.

“Among— among other things.” Gabriel swallowed. He realized that their face were really close now, with Beelzebub standing on zir toes.

“I see”, ze said, before pressing zir lips on Gabriel’s own—and in that moment, Gabriel finally understood why humans enjoyed such particular activity. It was… decidedly enjoyable, and it sent sparks of pleasure down his spine.

Gabriel bent forward slightly to accommodate their height difference, and pressed his lips back.

It was over way too soon, in Gabriel’s honest opinion, but Beelzebub gave him a warm look. This one sent flutters inside his stomach, which he recognized as love. Yes, alright, he did love the Prince of Hell, and it made him… happy, to say that said Prince of Hell loved him in return.

“I forgive you”, ze said, zir tongue licking zir lips, and Gabriel eyed it hungrily.

Oh who was he kidding.

He bent forward and pressed another kiss onto the Prince of Hell’s lips.

[fromtheburn-withlove]

Prompt #27: Palaver

Tearful personal catharsis and moments of enlightenment didn’t quite have the same tang as the anger in the midst of dirty bar brawls. It lacked the particular deep notes of bereavement at well-attended funerals, fell utterly short by comparison to the potent, complex cocktail you could sip on slowly at any local gentleman’s club where shame, disgust, and arousal kicked up like a fine dust in the wake of any dancer’s saunter. This group focused on couples talking about their issues, and thereby made the embedded sentiments far less palatable so far removed from the source. It would have been far better to sit in on a romantic relationship souring from the comfort of their kitchen table where one woman said she never missed an opportunity to emasculate her husband over dinner, who in turn withheld all forms of affection until she felt unlovable. Delicious, but not filling.

“...And what about you, Katarina?”

Her eyes snapped up as though she’d only just remembered she was a real, present person and not a fly on the wall of their misery, a mere spectator in this bloodsport.

"Me? Oh...no. No, no. I’m not married," she retorts with a grin, kicking back in her chair. Her fingers lace together over her stomach as her boots rest on the table next to a blotchy man's uneaten pastry. "I've never even had a real relationship. I don't know what that's like. I know what it's like to undress for a stranger—a lot of them, actually—but actually dealing with them in the long-term? Absolutely not. It's so much work that I'm not sure why anyone bothers or what they really get out of it except misery in the end. It's hard enough being in charge of your own issues without getting your hands full of someone else's particular variety.”

Her feet swing off the table and she leans forward to pluck the uneaten food off the plate, speaking with a bite in one cheek. “Oh, don't look at me like that. I just sat here and listened to all of you complain about each other, lament past loves, pine after better days, and argue in front of a group of strangers. Were any of you listening to yourselves?" She gives an incredulous laugh. "Do you feel anything but a thousand flavors of rote contempt? Where is the artfulness? When you go at each other’s throats, you don’t even care enough about them to do it creatively. I mean..." She takes a moment to swallow. “Withholding sex is just an invitation for them to get it elsewhere. What you’ve got to do is figure out how to weaponize it.”

Perhaps a few glances were exchanged, but she remained undaunted. "Look, I thought I loved a few people, but I'm not so sure anymore. I think it was something less, but don't ask me what to call it. I never wanted their problems, I only wanted them to give me their attention. I offered the same in return, and it seems like a pretty good deal compared to the rest of you, if you think about it. You make my way of doing things look downright ingenious. Every man for himself, except in the overlap of sharing a bed and having someone who will weather your jokes when you're not. And even the latter is usually in service to the former, so maybe you can really just boil it down to this: The only thing you're worth is how much shit someone has to put up with in order to fuck you."

"It's not as crazy as it sounds. And you know what? It's even fun to test the limits. How much is someone willing to go through to keep bedding you? Maybe it's not much. There's an advantage if you're beautiful, of course, which ups the tolerance considerably. Take it from me, it matters quite a lot. But then, the amount decreases depending on just how absolutely fucked you are beneath it. Beauty helps, but crazy hurts." Kat rests her chin on her fist thoughtfully, her bright eyes gazing off at the ceiling, away from the gathering. "Bet there's some sort of ratio on that, but I can't be arsed to discover it. I've read the books on psychodynamics and I remain skeptical."

"Anyway, you know, I don’t even think I know how to love anyone the right way to begin with. Does that sound stupid?” She pauses, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Her dark brows swoop lower. “It kind of does, doesn’t it? It’s one of those self-evidently stupid statements you say when you’re trying to dip your toe into being vulnerable and you’re looking for that one emotional high that will encapsulate the more complex miasma just below the surface. Just one single concept that hits the nail square on the head and distills your own personal disasters into a single, crystalline, beautiful, coherent gem that you can possess." She holds her fingers up as though examining a diamond in the light and smiles sadly before she crushes the imaginary stone by closing thumb and index together.

"The climax never comes, though. I've been everywhere looking for it. I've seen people buried that I couldn't pick out of a criminal lineup. I've attended weddings, right on the periphery, just to get a hit of joy. I'm getting edged to death by these sad little attempts at feeling just the right thing. That's what it's like for me. Getting emotionally blueballed until I die. No, what I said? That's not how I feel at all. No climax for me, not in front of this group." She turns her eyes back to the ring of perplexed, surprised, shocked, and even vaguely humored faces around her and offers a gentle smile. "Wouldn't be the first time if I did." She starts to laugh, a ringing sound in the silence of the room. "Come on, nobody? Ahh, what a pity. This persona isn't for everyone, I'm finding out. This wasn’t helpful, was it? Not for me, not for you...well, then, I wish you all the very best of luck in fixing your absolutely horrid-sounding relationships."