#lzd.drabbles

[eulalized]

“bitte, stay still,” könig whispers. he scratches the pencil against the paper on his sketchpad. he’s drawing you, occasionally looking up at you to study your features, just barely furrowing his brows.

you listen to what he says, and in silence you watch him. there is no sound as könig sketches apart from the pencil scratches; you try not to fidget, just keep yourself busy with your thoughts. you are uncertain of how everything had fallen into place like this, but you know you would have stayed anyway. you wonder if everything had happened differently, in the past, maybe his eyes would see a different life, better days… you understand his eyes are a different kind; he lives a different life.

looking at you makes me forget what the stars look like, you think. when you think of könig, your thoughts speak to you like the memories you’ve shed. it plagues you, thoughts like this—of könig, you mean.

the resonance of the pencil had faded, his hand stays in place, leaving it a loose grip. he does not say anything yet—with a gaze this uneasy, he couldn’t. he can’t look at you yet, as if unsure of what to say, what to do. he doesn’t know what to think about, that’s how nervous he is—he has to constantly remind himself to refrain from fidgeting around you. he can’t focus on anything, except that he feels like he’s missing something whenever he’s around you. (he dares not describe it as “half a heart,” he couldn’t.)

“you must—bitte… do not look at me like that.”

“why? is something different?”

in a hushed tone, he answers, “your eyes.” he pauses to look at you, lifting his head from the sketchpad. he takes a few glances away before finally settling on you. “engel, they are different today.”

your eyebrows raise at the description. your mind feels frozen, you have to say something. “they are?” that will have to do, you believe, in a sense that clarity isn’t required now (or rather, achievable).

“you… you look at me in a certain way…” he whispers so softly he hopes you don’t hear him (you do, nonetheless). now he has a different look in his eyes, you wonder what you could call it. “like we are… not comrades,” he says, then pausing, “but something else entirely.”

(he does not wish to assume—he could never—but, oh, how he hopes he’s right.)

that you don’t want us to be just comrades: is that what he is trying to say, interpret? is that what you hope to happen?

perhaps you do.

[eulalized]

lucifer is thinking again, could he try to text you again? would you mind it? he should stop asking if he already knows the answer, but he can’t help but wonder and wonder: how are you? (he doesn’t know if the answer that he wants is one that tells him if you were okay without him. does it matter, though? should it?)

he types in the first words, his thumbs fumble over the keyboard on his d.d.d. he’s done it before, why does he feel the stress still? is it from the work he’s finished earlier? or perhaps is it the unexpected trouble one of his brothers had caused? he can’t question why now, he just knows he has to message you—or at least type something.

it’s me. the new year is about to start

why is he saying that it’s him? should he assume that you already have him blocked, wiped away from memory? why is he greeting you? wasn’t he the one who said that you didn’t deserve him? he doesn’t feel the need to tell you that. no, he shouldn’t let his mind wander there again—delete it, he thinks.

it’s been over a year… since we last talked.

he doesn’t send it—at least not yet—he deletes the words from existence, or the text box (not from his mind). he knows you know how long it’s been. (maybe you haven’t been counting at all. hopefully he could do that too; he wonders if he could do that.) why is it now that he decides to try to talk to you? he strains himself for the mere action of sending you a message. hell, this isn’t even in the real world where he would be speaking to you.

my heart hurts when i think back

delete, delete, delete. why now is he letting himself become vulnerable? (he hasn’t even sent anything yet, so why does he blame himself for everything? it's because he should, right?)

i miss you so, so much

he’s not himself, it seems (and he knows). what happened to the lucifer that spoke with elegance, with a distinctive intelligence? an undeniable sophistication that remains at the top, that you know it to be him, to expect from him? i shouldn’t send that, he thinks, what has become of me?

please tell me you’re all right

he’s thought of that for a long time. in fact, he doesn’t rewrite it to make a different meaning. he wants to know how you are, he wants everything the way it was. he wants you to ramble your heart out to him, so that he could smile as you speak and think that he must be so lucky to have you. he wants you to tell him that everything really was okay—that you’re okay. even if you weren’t, he wants you to tell him anything and everything.

today and the days before, he has (or at least, tried to) write the messages he wants to send to you. he finds himself a fool lost in a path; he thinks the way out is so obvious from above, but he’s blind. does he want to leave you? forget you completely? unlove you entirely? no, he couldn’t do that—not to you.

the thoughts swarm around in his mind, and it does not end. today he deletes everything he wrote, again. tomorrow he will do the same, the days after as well. lucifer asks himself as often as he could, how long must he do this to himself?

(when he finds the courage to finally press send.)

[eulalized]

“would you watch ghibli films with me?”

a simple question, maybe a bit silly, but you’d like it if kazuha can answer it. you like that he answers your questions (or at least tries to), you know he has the patience. you think that with a scarred heart, kazuha couldn’t answer this burden of a question—yet he’s always proved that thought wrong.

“i would love to watch ghibli films with you.”

and you think now, time and time again: kazuha always knows what to say. you, aghast—or is it more of an awe?—are left with the replaying of memories for what you have done to deserve him: still, you see none. he is not just flowery words; he’s given you the reality you always wanted, because he knows that you are something more (and you deserve that much).

“you would?”

“always.” 

if it was not prominent before, i should hope it is now, kazuha thinks. he wants to stay, with you and all that you are. he wants you to know that, through and through, he would never grow tired of you or the things he’d do for you. he would sing the melodies of deities, he would recite the words endlessly in his mind and out, he would paint for you all gems of the world—and of course, it would start with you.

“and if we finish them all, we can watch them again and again, as long you like.”

you ask, “are you sure?”

(you aren’t sure of the question. is it more of the intention of are you sure? are you sure you love me this way, that you would forever? because maybe forever isn’t a long time, maybe kazuha couldn’t keep up with forever.)

“of course. i would watch anything with you,” he reassures—he always does.

kazuha says, “if you want to watch another movie, we can watch it. if you want to watch the stars instead, then we can gaze upon them.”

if his love was not yet prominent enough, what could he do? kazuha would love you better, he’d write it in the skies—he’d align all clouds to reflect the meaning of you. he’d chant of your soul and beauty, in poems and in songs, to adorn all thorns of withered petals so that you may know how much he loves you.

(he’ll keep up with you. he’ll do it for you.)

[eulalized]

the blades of the helicopter bellow steadily, echoing. the deck of the aircraft fails to make you shift uncomfortably in your seat—you try to keep yourself still, lest you unsettle ghost. the pilots announce that the drop zone is twenty klicks away, telling your team to sit tight. you know this mission will be different, you say that about every mission, but this time it really is different. how would everything take place? you’d know the answer usually, your predictions always with certainty in them: you’d make it out alive, just as you always do. but this time’s different, this underlying feeling that makes you doubtful to trust in your abilities now enthralls you.

even ghost has his predictions, with all his expertise and skills, but with solidarity that you may not survive… you become more and more unsure.

ghost looks up at you, his eyes just peeking up from his slouched position across you. you can’t see his face through the mask, but you can tell his eyes have a softness to them. “hey,” he says, breaking you out of the string of skyrocketing thoughts. you almost don’t catch it as the wings of the ‘whirlybird’, as soap would call it, just barely drowns out all other sounds.

you blink at him, waiting—you wonder if he can tell if your eyes seem to glisten with a tint of unease (yet you know he always can tell). for heaven’s sake, this is ghost. the ghost who won’t play merry hell about any mission, so that much tells you that you ought to have faith in yourself and in the team.

“i got your back… you got mine, yeah?”

the weight of his words carry a heavy weight, it buries itself into your mind, resting there peacefully. you let it stay. trust me, you think is what he says. you delay your response no further, answering with a light nod and a smile so imperceptible that only ghost notices.

you acknowledge with a voice as soft as his, “yeah.” even if just as soldiers, it feels good to know you can count on ghost. the earlier feeling dissipates, it replaces itself with a more unfamiliar emotion: a reticently silent, gentle warmth you can’t quite describe. but the way you look at ghost now and he you leads you to believe that perhaps it is him, you want it to be him.

[eulalized]

it’s windy today, and malleus decides that it’s the best time to eat ice cream.

you can’t blame him, though. his arguments were pretty convincing, plus it’s ice cream! how could you be so cruel to decline the malleus draconia who invited you for ice cream?

“what flavor did you get?”

“it appears to be,” he discontinues his speaking to check the label of the wrapper, and he resumes, “mint chocolate chip… from your homeland, a rather long name.”

periodically, he’s taking a bite out of the snack—a bite. you have to remind yourself not to flinch or shiver at his actions. why are you looking at him? is it becoming too long? oh, he’s struggling now? you don’t presume that you can call it struggling when he is one of the strongest mages in the world.

but his hair is in his face. (and his ice cream no less.)

“can you conjure up a hair tie?” you ask. for lack of a better word, you believe it’ll do.

and a hair tie appears in your hand, magic! still, even now you can’t get used to it—you try, but malleus never ceases to astonish you.

“okay, turn around.”

he could use magic to do it himself, or he could use magic to prevent from his hair to stop flapping nearly everywhere. he could, but he doesn’t.

“you are aware that i can do it myself?”

you hum in agreement. “i know that, but just enjoy your mint chocolate chip. it seems like you like it.”

“you are not troubled by it? i could strike you with lightning at any moment, yet you remain fearless.” he looks like he’s curious about it. he wonders that maybe it’s fine that he did invite you. like he isn’t sure if he should act this way, or if he thinks it’s okay not to separate himself from others—from you.

you acknowledge, “i don’t mind.”

[eulalized]

time passes.

kazuha finds himself writing in his notebook. he scribbles the words: i don’t deserve you. how are you real? he’s smiling as he writes it down. is it because he’s thinking of you? maybe he’ll even sketch a rough draft for a poem for you later. he wonders how you’d react if he’d show it to you. and he discovers the vocable for you are my fate to be clouding his mind, enough to even memorize it—just as he’d possibly write an envoi for it at the end.

time passes.

when kazuha says “i love you,” the words were his own. no, words are not enough. they couldn’t describe what he was feeling. instead—if he were a book and met you, the words would come out of the pages, for you had rendered him speechless. his feelings to describe you still lingers, even from when he met you. he has a lot to say, although no way of saying it. perhaps there is a better way; is it okay if he can believe in eternity? because what else should he do better? kazuha can only love you better.

time passes.

it’s hard seeing you like this, kazuha believes. seeing you become a stranger where he once saw his future in. your arms. the warm and comfortable hugs. the home he once had. it all flew away. he is left with no words. he can say nothing. but he could wait an eternity, if it meant he could be with you. he could, and he does. there is doubt that lies within, but still everyone has a place to return to.

now there is no more time left.

[eulalized]

mammon feels as though there’s something wrong with him lately, though he can’t tell what it is.

he wanted to do a lot of things with you today. he planned it days ago; maybe even weeks, but he’d never admit it. he thought of going shopping for the things you’d like or for the things you wanted to buy, maybe introduce you to the new casino he had recently heard of. visit that carnival you already went to with everyone but just the two of you. maybe you two would start movie marathons! (you could choose the films, even if they’re horror ones! he might watch them, or he could focus entirely on you when a scary scene comes up.)

but his concentration keeps going everywhere, more so than usual. he can’t seem to do anything properly—and god, it makes him want to pull his hair out that he can’t stick to the ideas he made. he doesn’t know why.

maybe it’s because you’re smiling that way that he’s feeling this way. maybe it’s because of the way you’re holding his hand right now that he’s thinking like this. he doesn’t know but—

he just… freezes up when it comes to you.

[eulalized]

dumbfounded, you didn’t expect to see ruggie in the queue for your assigned group’s bus to attend an excursion which was ‘academic training’ for the students. “ruggie, what are you doing here?”

“being sneaky. i want to sit with you.”

“leona will look for you.”

“wanna bet on it? i’ll say it’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

he is so persistent that it’s endearing. (why is he being like this now? cute?) “he’ll make more of a mess if you’re not there.”

“i still wanna sit with you.”

you wonder what goes on in his mind. everything that he’d like, everything he’d want to try, nothing ever boring. it really isn’t ever boring with him.

“then let’s make it quick. coach vargas is in charge of roll call.”

“coach? he’ll let me in.”

you lift a brow, because really?

“just need to compliment him on his muscles and he’ll let me in even if i’m not on the list. no big deal.”

ruggie walks up to the coach—actually it’s more of a strut—he gasps at vargas, emphasizing his eyeing to the teacher’s muscles. you think you hear him say: “coach, is it me or have your muscles gotten even bigger? i wanna be you when i grow up!”

and just like that—ruggie’s dragging you inside the bus. he takes you to the two-seater bus seat. best seats available, he says.

“so, what did i tell you?”

you admit it, he is accurate about this one thing. “guess you’re right, ruggie.”

he leans onto you, getting comfortable. “finally, i can get some rest from leona for a few hours today,” he reveals, though it doesn’t surprise you since he does let out a couple complaints about you-know-who.

“try not to drool or snore. i’m right next to you.”

“no promises.”

[eulalized]

“don’t you dare put salt in the batter again, mammon.” there is only so little stopping you from banning him from the kitchen—this is the third batch you’re working on now.

“just ‘cause i mixed up sugar with salt doesn’t mean i’ll do it again!” he says, while reading the label of the container twice. “and they both look the same.”

little doubt is painted through your face, to which mammon pays attention. veering off the subject, or delving into it, he asks, “why’re we even doing this anyway?”

“lucifer told us that diavolo’s birthday is coming up, and he wants us to contribute something,” you pause for a bit to take the bowl from mammon’s hands, doing your part of the work by mixing. (whenever he does it, there’s always some ingredients unmixed.) “and since we don’t have money, thanks to someone, we can’t buy any presents. so what we’re left with is baking a cake.”

it seems the words makes his face go sour. he props his chin in the palm of his hand on the counter, he replies: “so that stupid face wasn’t gonna let me see the light of day if i hadn’t done anything’.”

“that’s all you take from that?” your eyebrows furrow as you hand him the mixing bowl, satisfied after looking at the decent mixture.

“i was only tryin’ to get more money!” he cracks three eggs after you pour in the vanilla, and you scour for shards of the shells you hope not to find.

he gives you the bowl with a yawn this time. “by betting,” you respond. you think you’ll have to keep mixing this one. “besides, what were you even going to buy with it if you did get money?”

“i was gonna buy something for…” he mumbles. you think his muttering has something to do with his drowsiness, since it is getting late. the container’s swishing doesn’t help with hearing it.

“what did you say? i didn’t hear the last part.”

“never mind, it’s not important anymore.”

mammon mischievously dips a finger into the batter, content with how much there is, and swipes it on your nose—he’s laughing. he stops, stares for a while. you would think he would have dozed off now. “ya know who it is, anyway.”

[eulalized]

thud. thud. thud.

that’s what you hear when deuce started banging his head on the table across from you. you would laugh if it weren’t for the ominous grimace he has on his face you can barely see.

and ace—being the greatest friend anyone could ask for—takes the unshelled hard-boiled egg from his cafeteria tray, lays it right where deuce’s forehead was about to hit, and does it with ease.

and bam. deuce finally lifts his head up, with a shard of the eggshell attached to a brow. you would have thought that it would have fazed him, but surely he must’ve headbutt opponents several times in some of his long-ago fights.

“thanks, loosey deucey.”

“come on, ace,” you say.

“i just thought he was in the process of losing brain cells! i didn’t think he’d need them.”

don’t laugh.

the scowl on deuce’s face only gets more menacing. he remarks, “how am i going to be a powerful mage if my grades are plummeting like the cauldrons i summon on ace?”

“you know we could study for the upcoming exam, deuce.” trein really was fast in grading test papers. there’s luck hidden in the next exam held by crewel.

determination strikes deuce’s face; you almost forget it was the same person who had just received the bomb of a mark that said ‘my life is over.’ (it was, but you don’t think you should mention it to him.) “you’re right. it’s out of my hands now.”

a certain someone giggles, and you think that deuce’s face would have indicated that he would summon yet another cauldron upon that someone’s head.

“oh, by the way, can we remove ace from the study session? it feels like he has better stuff to do than get good grades.”

“it’s not like you’ve gotten any good grades yet, so don’t act all high and mighty when really, cater laughed at your mark when he saw it.”

you’re right about it.

[eulalized]

of all the rides in the carnival, kalim chose the carousel. it’s cute, actually. you don’t mind riding on the carousel.

and he’s smiling so much that if he didn’t stop, it would’ve been stuck there for eternity.

just like the line you were stuck in, waiting.

but that doesn’t matter. you have more time to spend with kalim.

“do you want to go on the horse? or we both can go on the carriage!” he plans eagerly, as though you two couldn’t visit a carnival for another time; like it’s all or nothing, it’s endearing and sweet. it’s cute.

he’s cute, you think.

you should answer before jamil finds out that you two snuck out from the dorm to the nearby fair. and that the children around you could call dibs on the carriages. (you doubt that, since the horses could elevate, but it’s a matter you couldn’t care less about right now. and they’ve been curiously eyeing the carpet kalim controlled to get you two where you are now. it is interesting, really.)

“we can go on the carriage one if you like, kalim.”

“it’s going to be fun! it’s so much more exciting when you’re with me, so much that i can’t wait!”

[eulalized]

“happy new year...” you whispered, only for yourself to hear, checking your phone for the time, realizing that it was a touch too late to say the sentiment. a faint sigh following right after—was it fatigue or misery, you didn’t know. the ‘happy’ celebration didn’t seem like it was supposed to for you, so why?

because xiao wasn’t there to celebrate it with you.

you would admit that this new year didn’t feel like it used to before but not to missing him at this time of wistfulness. perhaps it had been nostalgia instead—maybe regret too, though you didn’t want to admit that your heart ached when every waking moment started with him.

the house still looked the same as before. the furniture in the same place as where it was. the only difference there was that he wasn’t there, and no one else knew that better than you.

you were reluctant to admit that you regret the absence of any part of him. you missed every little thing he did, purposely or accidentally. even the most discreet and subtle actions, you missed it all.

his smiles: like the meteors of the night with the gentlest eyes. the reposeful hugs he gave from behind showed affection; the fragile beginnings of love. his soft and delicate kisses, which were sweeter than honey. his voice of melodious music, synchronizing the polarity of your soul—and you, without knowing, had been attracted to the intricate sound of heaven.

you miss him.

[eulalized]

“psst,” floyd mumbles.

for the sake of magic, you ignore him. why? because getting involved with him was risky — yet all the more fun. you know that. he nudges you this time, how relentless. “stop ignorin’ me, shrimpy.”

begrudgingly, you ask, “what?”

“here,” he places a piece of paper — which you think was meant for notes — between the two of you. with the usual lazy grin, he recommences: “let’s doodle somethin’ together.”

“why?” you mumble; you wish you could say the same for his manner of speaking.

“what’s with all the questions, hm? prof’s drivelin’ on about whatever, and he’s facin’ the blackboard. i’m gettin’ bored.”

trein might catch us, and we’re learning magic analysis, you think.

as though he had everything planned out, as if he could read your mind, he replies in a voice loud enough for adjacent classmates to hear you, “he won’t catch us. and even if he does, then you and i can end up in detention together! how fun does that sound, little shrimpy?”

“okay, fine! just lower your voice, floyd.”

diving right into his plan of merely scribbling, he appears amused and hushed. he grazes you on the shoulder, urging you to join in on the fun.

[eulalized]

you think if stares could set your homework aflame, it’d turn into ashes by now.

“stop copying my answers, ace.”

he’s eyeing your homework—and he isn’t even being covert or surreptitious about it. you wonder why you agreed to doing your homework together, or is it that he sat beside you unsolicited?

raised eyebrows, his jaw dropping down. “what’re you talking about? i’m not.”

“you’re pretending that you aren’t.”

his focus is on you, and he gasps, ridiculous. he proclaims: “how could you falsely accuse me of such a thing? in a world of magic, in the holy name of the sevens, i thought i could live freely w—”

“you’re being dramatic now,” you protest. his eyes are progressively trailing back to where your assignment is located. so, you shield the paper from him with your arm.

“hey! wait, no, quit covering them!”

it’s your fault for sleeping through class, you think. maybe your expression is obvious enough that he knows what kind of thing is going through your head (perhaps narrowed eyes give it away). it’s well deserved—whether or not he can tell.

“all right, all right!” he gives in, then bargains, “i promise this is the last time!”

“you’re impossible. if this keeps happening, a golden plaque with your name on it will be displayed in the hall of fame.”

there’s annoyance in his tone when he says: “i heard you.” you know he’s only joking about it. “just move your arm so we can play cards sooner.”

[eulalized]

satan’s reading again. (not the usual kind of book he’d read, you believe. though, he’s always trying something new — whether it’s for knowledge or interest alone.)

“what are you reading?”

he looks up at you from the book. he answers, “it’s a book i bought,” he pauses, then adds as though it was a reminder to him, “oh, you better rest.” his eyes fall down to read, skimming the text. “you’d recover in about a week if you avoid stress. huh, that long?”

you glance at it — and you’re certain that it isn’t the usual kind of book he’d read — Caring for Sick Humans: A How-To for Demons.

and he isn’t scared that it might be contagious, he wasn’t being cautious and keeping his distance from you, as if his priority was to take care of you.

or maybe humans can’t spread the flu to demons. maybe demons aren’t susceptible to those things. whatever it was, it didn’t matter right now.

for satan, the best thing he can do is take care of you. (of course, the next best thing is opposing lucifer whenever he can, but that didn’t matter right now. he thinks he can scheme later.)

[eulalized]

luck is not something rosaria can believe in. it’s not something you can see nor hold, she does not think it is real. you can’t rely on luck alone, she believes.

she had nothing to eat and nothing to drink, she’d been taught to thieve and to fight. when she was called a traitor.

she does not normally think of these things, she couldn’t bother to. instead: she would rather focus on either disappearing from the cathedral without a trace, or refine her skills in fighting.

“rosaria, there you are… barbara’s asking for you again, something about you missing mass. did you vanish from sight again?” you laugh.

she says, “hm, you’ve found me again.” she turns her head to hide a slight smile, and she returns to look at you again.

“i learn only from the best,” you remark with a beam, and all rosaria can do is observe you.

again: luck was not something rosaria could believe in—not when she hadn’t realized yet how lucky she was to have you by her side.