#mitski my beloved must you hurt me so

[loverofallthingssmart]

HANG ON D HAVE YOU LISTENED TO HAPPY BY MITSKI

OMG YEA OFC I HAVE MITSKI'S MY BELOVED MY EVERYTHING SJNHDBGVFDGSH WHY?

[i90soot]

Oh, my beloved girl only mine.

Manipulation, crying, hitting, screaming, kidnapping, mild nsfw

I didn't want to hurt you, I just wanted your happiness, but it was so hard with all those people getting closer to you every second, she hates it! He just wants to spend a minute with you without having to see how they take you from his side, it's always the same! His heart was breaking every time you failed your act and stuff, he just wanted to see you in public!

I'm so sorry, honey ━ you gently touched her hair ━ I wish I could keep all my promises but you know that most of the time I'm studying or I have to help the School Committee... ━ sigh

yes yes I've already heard it many times ━ snort walking away ━ why do you always promise things and don't keep them? You're always with Heizou or Aether doing who knows what! Why are you never with me? ━ annoyed shout leaving the bench.

Honey, I would love to be with you all the time, but it's almost impossible! You know? I have many obligations to fulfill I love you very much but even if I love you I can't stop fulfilling everything that is necessary ━ you also said getting up from the bench trying to explain everything.

Archons! I'm sick of hearing the same thing every day "I have obligations honey" "I love you so much but I have to do this and this" ━ he snorted clenching his fists as hard as he could ━ but when do you have to go with the damn Heizou or Aether? If you have time!? I hate that I can't have even a little time with you! ━ angry shout

I hate not spending time with you too! When I have days off you have to make presentations and among other things... I would like to free us from these obligations but it can't! As much as I love you, you can't tell me to stop what I'm doing at any time you want! ! ━ you tried to approach him but he just brushed his hands away and changed places ━ just wait till we go on vacation! Yes? we will have free time ━ you smiled nervously

Yes, of course! On vacation you will still be busy! ━ he complained crossing his arms ━ Why do you always have to make up those stupid excuses?! Hey!? Archons, I hate you and your fucking inattention so much! ━ I take a deep breath before feeling the tears take over him.

And if you hate me so much, what are you doing with me? ━ you exploded ━ I never complained when you had those introductions and left me alone in the apartment! I didn't complain either when you made excuses not to get out of your fucking bed! And less when you rub my face every day the little lack of attention I give you! I always tried to do things fast to have time with you and what did you say? "I'm busy"! ━ tears ran down your cheeks just like those from emerald eyes

you know? I don't know why I'm with someone as insensitive as you either! ━ felt his heart sink deeper into the deep dark sea of ​​sadness, loneliness and pain

Correct! I guess we finally agreed to end this here! ━ took a deep breath to grab his backpack and walk away from the boy.

oh, ¿did you hear that? No? it was his heart breaking.

Now he was completely alone, he felt so stupid, he didn't want to yell at you, much less insult you and tell you that you were insensitive, you did a lot for him, you took care of him when he was sick, you didn't sleep to take care of him, you helped him pass exams and encouraged him to show him to many more people his musical talents you were the only person to help him archons he felt so fucking stupid you must be hating him now he was so sorry he felt really bad and without realizing it he was crying like a fucking little boy again.

he was in a corner of his bed crying with his breath coming in shortened and scratching his neck so hard leaving little red marks and scratches that started to bleed he couldn't stand this it's been 8 days since he broke up with you and he feels so bad he started to choke on that dark hole of regret and crying before I could at least have a few minutes with you on the call and not feel so alone but now I didn't have any of that I just wanted to cry and get your forgiveness

the drops of water hit the cold ground it rained so hard but that didn't matter now he needed to apologize he needed you so with all his strength he got out of bed put on his shoes and ran to your home.

He ran as fast as he could, he wanted to get to your house, he stumbled and hit his face on the ground where there was a puddle of mud and his ankle also suffered, it hurt so much, but he had to keep going, he just got up with a lot of pain and followed the path until he reached you. home was able to observe Heizou who seemed to have just left your house he simply hurried more until he was at your door and you were out there seeing him in the state he was in

Venti...━ she said while her heart pressed against her chest she felt so bad to see him like that, he was very wet under his eyes there were black bags from not sleeping and you could tell he had been crying a lot and you could still see the marks red spots on her neck and small drops of blood.

___ I...━ the tears came out again ━ I really am so sorry ━ her happy voice was now replaced with a trembling scared voice ━ I didn't mean to yell at you I was just angry and didn't control the things that came out of my mouth I know you You did a lot for me and I just thanked you with shouts and insults ━ before he finished speaking your arms wrapped around his wet body.

okay, go inside I don't want you to get sick ━ venti quickly obeyed and entered your home that sweet aroma was identical to yours not everything was warmer

when you entered you put him in the bathroom and began to bathe him you lent him your brother's clothes that he left behind and you took care of your scratches so that he could give him a cup of hot coffee with milk and sit him on the sofa they haven't said a word yet

I thought you would stop hurting your neck ━ you said looking away you couldn't think of anything else to say

I couldn't help it...━ he answered lowering his head ━ ___ ━ he called in a low tone

what's going on? ━ you responded by tilting your head and then you felt the boy's hands on top of yours

I'm really sorry for insulting you and yelling at you, I never wanted to hurt you...━ she said as tears accumulated in her eyes ━ you've always been with me supporting me and then you started spending less time with me and I thought you stopped loving me and the idea that stop doing it it hurts so much I was so stupid I thought ━ he was interrupted when he felt warm arms wrap around his cold body

I know, don't worry, okay? I always loved you as if it were the first time and I know you did too, and although I don't completely personify those insults and shouts, I can forgive the rest, I really love you, but you should stop overthinking that kind of thing ━ you said, feeling the boy's trembling body

I guess we're good now...right? ━ I ask softly ━ can we try again? ━ felt your body tense

I guess so...━ answered in a low voice

oh ___ I love you so much ━ I hug you tighter while smiling happily and repeating over and over again how much I loved you and promising not to do the same again

you really wanted to believe what he said you tried to believe his words but you knew it wasn't true but a part of you just told you to believe the other just yelled at you not to

...

You wish you never believed that he would really change.

Every part of your body hurt, you couldn't move, you were just lying on that bed while you looked out the window watching the birds and other animals go by.

My dear ━ you heard his playful voice enter the room and your skin tensed up, was he acting so normal after threatening a boy at school and hitting you 'accidentally'? ━ I'm so sorry about it last night but! I will reward you my love ━ he smiled placing your breakfast on the night table to later return his arms around your body ━ oh my love every day I love you more and more do not go away from me again, okay? you don't know what I'm capable of doing just for you ━ you really didn't know and you didn't want to know ━ I love you so much.

[thequibblah]

hi so i'm looking for some new music to listen to and i thought you could help because you have great taste!

if this helps, i'll tell you what i normally listen to, which is very basic & basically the same few artists over and over lol

- mostly just taylor swift, she makes up 70+% of my listening probably haha and if i had to pick a favorite genre of hers it would be the folkmore style

- some other pop, like olivia rodrigo and conan gray and lorde & some doja cat but i'm not a huge fan of doja's lyrics

- lyrics are really big for me, so is having a pretty voice and nice melodies

- i love your playlists but the old songs are usually not my style (there's been some though that i really like, ty for that !! <3)

- ceremonials is my favorite florence album

- liability is my favorite lorde song

no problem if u don't want to!

OH i basically recommend things for a living so why not music, eh?

so. what i'm getting from this is that you have three big listening buckets: soft acoustic and indie pop and just plain old pop. so i will divide my recs by those broad genres! i too prefer singable music so i will try to lay off on especially dissonant artists, or mark them as such so you can be prepared (LOL)

acoustic/folksy (i'll admit i am a big indie pop girl so this stuff will be a bit sparser)

phoebe bridgers — admittedly she is more alt-rocky, but see garden song, savior complex, moon song, graceland too, prayer in open D

waxahatchee — can't do much (GOD THIS SONG), lilacs, st. cloud

lucy dacus — also more alt-rocky, but here r some softer jams: hot & heavy, christine, green eyes, red face (a jily song)

anything by first aid kit! start with stay gold and the lion's roar

hozier — i feel like most people on the internet have listened to SOME hozier but check out wasteland, baby! (i tried to pick individual songs and ended up listing most of the album LOL)

kacey musgraves — another artist you've probably listened to already, but try golden hour

brittany howard — stay high must be the sweetest song in existence, and basically all of her album jaime

arlo parks — the whole album but especially caroline, hurt, and black dog

lake street dive — i can change, good kisser (a mary song if i've ever heard one), and i adore their hall & oates cover!

anya marina — this whole album has had me by the throat since like 2013

lucius — just the whole album wildewoman, h/t @figg-anon for putting me onto this!

idk what tf genre fiona apple is but try her out as well!

artists i listen to less of but are in this vein: the lumineers, bon iver, vance joy

u know i had to rec some old people shit (LOLLLL), so in this vein, joni mitchell, heart, judee sills, emmylou harris, joan baez, vashti bunyan

one-off songs you might like: hold you now by vampire weekend, big wheel by samia, i eat boys by chloe moriondo, strawberry blond by mitski (i worship at the altar of mitski but she might not be your speed haha), like i used to (acoustic) by sharon van etten & angel olsen, body by julia jacklin, jackie onassis by sammy rae and the friends, cowgirl bebop by HANA

indie pop BELOVED

maggie rogers — ok i cannot recommend this higher like if u like lorde and conan gray drop everything now and mainline maggie's brilliant debut album

HAIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! — they've got poppier songs like want you back and more mellow songs like summer girl, but honestly i would just recommend a deep dive because they have a pretty surprising breadth within their own alt-rock/pop niche

caroline polachek — can sometimes get way out n weird in the pop sense but so hot you're hurting my feelings is a very listenable pop standard (also it's so funny she's such a clever lyricist also this is irrelevant here but she sounds amazing live), also love look at me now and her cover of breathless

charli xcx is more experimental pop but would rec trying out warm (FT HAIM!!!), blame it on your love (FT LIZZO!!), and official

rina sawayama — technically her album is all sorts of genres but especially XS, comme des garcons, paradisin', bad friend, and tokyo love hotel

orla gartland is a lil softer and i love more like you, oh GOD, and did it to myself

king princess — especially cheap queen, 1950, holy, but basically all of cheap queen

more one-offs: kansas by ashe, comeback by CRJ (full paean in her honour to come in the pop section), i am a big fan of other people covering the bleachers (LOL) especially rollercoaster by charli xcx and i wanna get better by tinashe (full tinashe praise to come too), saturdays by twin shadow (FT HAIM!!!), the kiss of venus and 3 nights by dominic fike (also his interlude on halsey's album), aute cuture and milionària by rosalía, young lover by st. vincent (i love her but again might not be for u haha), good days by sza, backyard boy by claire rosinkranz, slow dancing by aly & aj, hot sugar by glass animals

if ur down to try out something weird witchy and cool, kate bush is like the originator of 9 billion pop and rock genres and hounds of love is a masterpiece

pure pop (we can split hairs on what makes pure pop LOL but basically everything here is based on ur enjoyment of doja)

carly rae jepsen — ok if u haven't listened to her non-radio-hits u may be like "what?? call me maybe lady???" to which i say YES, especially window, stay away, no drug like me, and too much

victoria monet — this may or may not be a selling point to you, but victoria is a frequent ariana grande collaborator and you can absolutely hear it in her music (see also: the mattress spring background noises in dive JUST like they are in positions...), and i love experience, go there with you, and we might even be falling in love, and why not throw in her ariana grande collab monopoly

magdalena bay — how to get physical which i am destined, nay, contractually bound, to put in a jily modern AU someday, killshot, stop & go

tinashe — basically ALL of her new album!!! SO good. i also love rascal (superstar), esther, and old jams like company (and i JUST found out she has a chaka khan cover!)

chloe x halle have the most angelic vocals in the world

this might sound actually demented because WHO hasn't heard love on the brain but rly... go give ANTI a re-listen...

tove lo — especially are u gonna tell her, mateo, and jacques

WAIT I FORGOT TO SAY ROBYN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EVERY ROBYN SONG!!!!!!!

for that throwback poppy sound u may as well go real throwback KJAHKJA and check out donna summer!

one-offs: right to it by louis the child n ashe, serial lover by kehlani (also more by her but im getting lazy now kdjfhgk), missed calls by max n hayley kiyoko, peppers and onions by tierra whack, idk who hasnt heard this song but circles by meg, todo de ti by rauw alejandro (the way i wanted this to be song of the summer so bad ;___;)

hope you enjoy and pls come back and tell me if you really liked any of these!!!! xoxo

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

[damienthepious]

this time, on Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday: things get worse

No More Changes (I’ll Still Love You The Same) [Chapter 2]

[chapter 1] [ao3] [chapter 3] [chapter 4] [chapter 5]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, (tho not THIS chapter certainly), Curses, human!arum, (but not… because he WANTS to be), (it ain’t good y'all), Panic Attacks, Overstimulation, Rilla Is Queen Of Comfort, Damien Does Not Consider The Consequences Of His Words, The Keep Is Best Mom

Summary: Lord Arum and his Keep have fought off curses before, but they have never dealt with one quite like this. They have never dealt with a curse while having a couple of humans around to help them, either… though it remains to be seen exactly how helpful Arum’s lovers will be, in the effort of restoring him.

Chapter Summary: Damien knows that he needs to comfort his lily, but finding the right words to do so proves to be far more difficult than the poet expects.

Chapter Notes: We promised there would be a happy ending. We stand by that. But we did not say that it wouldn't get worse before it got better. Chapter title from the song Washing Machine Heart, by Mitski.

Chapter 2 - Who You Pretend I Am

~

When Rilla sends Damien through the portal to the Keep - practically shoves him through, honestly, so that she can run off to cancel a week’s worth of appointments - he isn’t really sure what to expect.

(Rilla dashes his expectations of a quiet, tender day spent together the moment he steps into the hut, his heart sinking at the sight of her frantic and darting from tome to tome even before she notices him and leaps to snag his wrist.

“Arum’s been cursed,” she says without preamble, a desperate sort of wildfire in her eyes, “probably by the Senate. He’s not hurt, not exactly,” she says, squeezing his hands when she sees the way the blood drains from his face. “But he’s scared and overwhelmed and I think that the transformation is screwing with the Keep- with his connection to the Keep, too.”

“T-transformation?” Damien says, sounding strangled, and Rilla winces and sighs.

“I don’t know how they did it. And we’re going to fix it.” She pauses. “Somehow. But they made him human.”)

Damien furrows his brow, and contemplates the word curse.

Damien was wrong, before, about the nature of monsters. Or- about the idea that all monsters have the same nature, at the very least. He knows, of course, that it is good that he knows this now, even if it makes his life more complicated. There are monsters who are capable of so much more than he could have ever dreamed, ever expected. Evil is not inherent to monsterkind, just as all humans are not intrinsically good. Arum, in all his complex beauty, holds the majority of the responsibility for teaching Damien this lesson.

… However.

Damien has thought, not infrequently, of how much less painful it would have been, to transition with Rilla into this wider, more complicated relationship that they now share with Arum, if only Arum had been human.

There is just… something very human about him. Not just in his eyes, not just the attraction Damien now recognizes from their first encounter. Damien can imagine it so easily, Arum as the son of some aristocrat, prideful and easily flustered, an architect but without the overlay of dangerous magic. Damien can imagine meeting him any number of ways- at some festival, perhaps. Or- perhaps Damien would be assigned to guard a traveling party including this Arum, and they might speak - as men speak, without knives and bows - and get to know each other in the ordinary way.

It would still not have been painless, of course. He certainly would have still been plagued by guilt over the idea of betraying his dearest Rilla when Arum spurred the heat of his affection, and certainly when this human Arum and Rilla met, Damien would have been filled with feelings of betrayal on the other side. He knows himself well enough to admit that.

But… if there had not been the conflict- the friction- the entirety of a war between them-

Damien cannot sleep, some nights, for the guilt that writhes like a poison inside of him. Guilt, and shame, and when Arum sleeps soundly in the same bed, Damien feels as if he could die from his mistakes. He nearly killed- he nearly murdered a creature so loving and wonderful, so clever and rare and beautiful-

Damien cannot imagine that he would have ever threatened Arum’s life, had he been human.

And so Damien wonders, at times, what it would have been like, to love Arum without knowing how it felt to nearly kill him first.

Rilla said she left Arum in the bedroom. Damien declines to ask the Keep for a portal from the greenhouse- it seems rude to strain the poor creature if it is disoriented, as Rilla suspects. If this also allows Damien to collect himself as he walks, to think a bit before he sees Arum in his new human skin, perhaps that is a benefit as well.

He knocks on the bedroom door. It has been… quite some time, since Damien felt any call to do this.

“Arum?” he says softly, nerves jumping in his stomach. “May I… may I come in?”

There is a brief moment, some quiet rustling, and then a voice calls, “You need not knock, you know. I’m hardly going to lock you out.”

The voice- Arum’s voice-

It is such a stark difference, the way that the rattle, the rasp has been sheared away, leaving a voice that sounds so similar but so entirely strange, so new. Damien is distracted enough that he almost doesn’t comprehend the actual words Arum says for a long moment. He blinks back to himself, and opens the door.

Arum is standing, leaning against the bed, one unclawed hand supporting him against the blankets as he looks at Damien with his head ducked defensively, and Damien feels as if he would know that this human were Arum even if he met him on the street, without context, and he cannot help but stare.

Oh. Oh, but his eyes-

They are still sharp, still bright with cleverness, but there are no violets here. In fact, there is no color to speak of. His eyes are gray, and light, and cool like a pair of silver coins. His robes are overlarge on this new smaller frame, hanging at his shoulders and making Damien keenly aware of his bare neck, his collarbone. Arum’s unscaled skin is dark and smooth, his nose handsomely curved, his lips soft and frowning, and his hair is long and wavy and tangled in a way that sends a sharp sting of temptation through Damien, a hungry desire to run his hands through the softness and help to tame those tangles-

Damien presses a hand over his heart. He takes a breath, and steps forward.

“Forgive me, my lily,” he says gently. “Rilla warned me, of course, but- still it was hard to believe until I saw with my own eyes.”

“Yes, well,” Arum’s lip pulls into an even deeper frown, and Damien finds himself fascinated by the curve of it, by the expressive elasticity of this new face his lover wears. “It is unbelievable, but rather unfortunately true.”

Damien does not need to look nearly as far upward as he usually does, to meet Arum’s desaturated eyes. He steps closer to the bed, and Arum continues to glare, irritation and discomfort obvious on his face.

“Oh, my dearest creature,” Damien says gently. He lifts his hand to caress Arum’s cheek, and Arum twitches, baring his teeth just slightly. “This must be terribly trying for you.”

Arum huffs. “I don’t have the first clue how the lot of you manage to move without a tail, how you manage to exist at all in such a fragile state-”

“We make do,” Damien says with a wry smile. “As will you.” He pauses. “For- for however long this lasts, of course.”

“With my luck,” Arum sneers, clenching his fists so his claws- no, his nails dig into his palms. After a moment, the tension in his frame softens, and then he sighs. “No, no. Amaryllis- between myself and Amaryllis- the three of us together- I must believe that it will not be long.”

“Of course not,” Damien says automatically, and Arum’s jaw clenches before he sighs again.

Arum lifts his hand from the bed and wobbles slightly, and Damien steadies him, curling a hand around his back. Arum stiffens, again, but after a breath he leans into Damien.

“I’m sick of this room,” he mutters, not looking at the knight. “Let’s go- the kitchen, the scroll room, the snail garden, I don’t care but I won’t sit helpless in that bed another moment.”

“Rilla was quite insistent that you rest,” Damien says, mild. Arum scowls in response, and Damien probably shouldn’t find it as cute as he does, the way his nose wrinkles with the force of his irritation.

“And I will surely acquiesce to her expertise,” he drawls, “but I need not rest confined here. A balcony. Some air,” he decides. “Keep, a portal to-”

He stops himself, his expression going entirely still, and there is a strange brightness in his grey eyes that Damien does not know what to do with.

“Perhaps it would be best not to bother the poor thing,” Damien suggests. “Certainly there is a balcony close enough that we may walk there without much strain, yes?”

“Of course,” Arum agrees, voice low. “Come, then, honeysuckle.”

Arum leans more fully on Damien, slinging his arm around his shoulder with an odd little wince, and the poet leads them out into the halls, guiding Arum’s steps. Their progress is heartbreakingly slow- Damien has to bite his tongue to keep from spouting words of sympathy whenever Arum stumbles, when his ankles wobble, when he huffs out bitter, frustrated breaths. Damien knows that Arum abhors sympathy; he finds it performative. Demeaning. Damien feels himself lucky enough that his beloved is willing to allow him to help even this much while he acclimates to this new form.

Arum’s gait improves a bit even by the time they reach the balcony Arum has in mind, an enormous ensconced bulb of soft thick leaves opening high over the swamp, high enough that they won’t possibly be visible from below and circled with dense mossy seating.

Arum releases his grip on Damien and awkwardly sinks to sitting on one of the mounds of softness, wincing and resettling his legs underneath him twice before he seems to find a comfortable position, and after a moment Damien sits beside him, staring out over the swamp with a deep sigh.

“Rest,” Arum mutters bitterly. “As if I could possibly rest in this state.”

Damien glances to the side, watching as Arum curls his hands into impotent claws, his entire face contorting in a scowl.

“I find it is best to take our darling Rilla’s advice, even when it seems difficult,” Damien says, and Arum scowls even harder.

“Am I not doing so? Am I not, despite my deepest instincts, sitting idly while this affliction settles into my malformed new bones, merely because she advised I do so?” he says in a bark, his eyes flashing furiously towards Damien. He winces quickly after, though, his shoulders sinking. “I am… trying. I am trusting. I know that I will not be able to do anything to mitigate this damage without my-” he breaks off. “On my own,” he finishes. “So all I may do until Amaryllis returns is… nothing.”

“Oh, my lily,” Damien breathes, pressing a hand over his heart again as if that could stop it from skipping. “I am so terribly sorry. How- is there anything-” Damien’s hands flutter in his own lap, unsure. “I know I am not- skilled in such a way as Amaryllis, and I cannot help as she can, but- is there nothing I can do, to help you in this moment?”

Arum scoffs, but there is no heat in it, and after a long moment of hesitation he closes his eyes and exhales.

“I cannot even… I should be able to hear the swamp, from here. The song of the frogs. The cries of bugs. It is all- it is too quiet, honeysuckle,” he says softly.

Damien stares, and Arum’s face is soft and still and enthralling and strange. “I am sorry,” he says again, because he finds he does not know what else to say.

Arum frowns, and his eyes slit back open. “Damien,” he says, a strange note of leading in his voice. “Are you not made for filling silences?” he asks.

“O-oh.”

“You are a prattler, honeysuckle,” Arum says, closing his eyes again and leaning more fully into the bed of foliage beneath him. “Prattle.”

“What-” Damien flounders, squirming where he sits for a moment. “What would you have me say?”

“Anything.” Arum shakes his head. “Distract me,” he says in a voice so quiet that Damien might miss it if he were not so close. “Please.”

“O-of course, love,” Damien says, though he still has no idea whatsoever what to say. “Of course.”

Poetry- does not feel right. Not even his own. What, should he give Arum words he composed in reverence of his scales and teeth and violet eyes? Should he remind Arum of that which he no longer possesses? A cruelty, certainly. And any other poems he knows- if they mention monsterkind it is only ever in one light, and Arum needs not hear that just now, either.

Comfort. What Arum needs just now is comfort. What must he be fearing most? He seems reluctant towards touch- perhaps he is afraid that Damien will not wish to touch him in this state, that Damien will not understand that beneath this new form it is still his Arum, his lily. He can allay those fears, at least.

“I love you,” he starts, soft and earnest, and his heart flutters when Arum startles, blinking his eyes open to give Damien the same surprised-pleased look that he always does when Damien offers his affection with such ease. Such a familiar look, at home in a new face. “I am sorry you have been so maligned, darling, but no curse could ever tear my heart from you. None.”

He lifts his hand, giving in to the temptation and brushing his fingers along Arum’s cheek (he flinches still- oh dear creature, why flinch from affection?) and softly stroking his hair.

“I-” Arum makes a noise, a choking laugh or a scoff that lost its way. “I- I know that, honeysuckle. And- and it is not permanent, so it matters not regardless. Certainly we will not even have the time to contemplate it. This- this skin is a temporary falsehood, soon to be cast aside.”

“Still, my lily,” Damien tries again, even more gently. “I would love you in any form. In any skin.”

Arum does not answer that. He clenches his jaw, neither leaning into Damien’s hand nor pulling away.

“Rilla and I will love you no matter the circumstances,” he says. “And- and if any curse were to befall you, I am terribly grateful that it should be one like this.”

Arum’s face goes blank, then, and still as a marble statue. “Grateful,” he murmurs, in his clear new voice.

“A curse that can reach out and take you even within the walls of your clever and powerful home? Arum, I am grateful that if such should occur, that you are still alive to fight back against it! That Rilla did not find you bleeding and broken-”

Arum laughs, strangely.

“My lily- it terrifies me that they could place such magic upon you. To my core. But- but don’t you see that it could have been anything! It could have been- you could have been struck by anything. Any pain, any destruction wrought upon the Keep itself- it is, of course, terrible that any such attack be mustered against you, but among all possibilities-” Damien pauses for breath, and his next words come soft, and calm. “Perhaps, my lily, it is not so terrible a fate. It could have been so much worse! You of all people know what the Senate is capable of- without any magic whatsoever, they nearly killed you once already!”

Arum’s eyes flash and he huffs out a bitter laugh. “They might as well have.”

“But, my love, surely this is far better than the alternative! There are far worse things in this world to be than human.”

Arum narrows his eyes. “And just what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

Damien senses Arum’s discomfort, so he pulls his hand back from Arum’s hair, stroking his knuckles down his new smooth cheek instead. “I only mean, my love, that perhaps there are some benefits to this… unfortunate turn of events. Maybe this will turn out to be a blessing in the end! After all, I can finally kiss you properly," Damien says with a laugh, and he feels as if he is a paper lantern, full of light and air and ready to rise, but when he leans towards Arum, he flinches.

"Properly," Arum says, and the old rough edges of his voice are gone. This roughness in his voice now is new. "And what, precisely, did you consider the affection between us when I was myself?"

"I..." Damien blinks. "Arum, I only meant-"

"No. You said precisely what you meant." Arum leans away, and then he musters himself and scrabbles awkwardly to standing, wobbling on his toes, and he does not seem to know how to keep the expression on his face from going raw and furious. "I am glad for you, then, that this curse has made it so I am no longer such an inconvenience to you."

"I did not say-” Damien scrambles to his feet as well, his heart racing in panic at the look on Arum’s face. “But- but don't you see that this solves- I am not saying that we should not attempt to reverse this transformation, if we are somehow able, but if this is not something we have the power to overcome you must know that I will stand with you-”

“For this- for this obstacle, your tenacity fails you? For this and this alone, your fervor, your fire and determination cannot match the task for even an hour before you contemplate accepting failure with a laugh?”

“No,” Damien says, shaking his head, and he is not sure how this conversation has escaped him so fully already. “No, of course I am not giving up on your monstrous form-”

“My only form. Me.”

“I am not saying we should lay down and accept! Certainly not,” he says, and Arum scoffs. “But, I think it is worth acknowledging the possibility. Worth acknowledging that even if we fail, it will be something that we can survive. That it would not be the worst of fates that you could be subject to.”

“Survive,” Arum echoes, the disdain dripping from his new smooth tone. “An interesting choice of words. We can survive.”

“Arum,” Damien says, stepping closer again, and Arum-

Arum tries to hiss. It doesn’t work, exactly; his mouth goes wide though he does not know how to use his new tongue to simulate his old sounds, but Damien is stunned enough that he stops.

“I do not believe that my survival or the survival of my Keep are on your mind just now, honeysuckle,” Arum says darkly. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

“Of course your survival- Arum, Arum you do not know how persistently I fear for your safety. How it weighs on me to know that any of my comrades could happen to destroy you and never know what a unique, wonderful, special creature the would be robbing from this world! With this- with this form-”

Arum sneers, but Damien rushes on ahead, his voice going sharp.

“If you remain human I need not fear that fate for you. Can you not understand that? As you are now- you can walk amongst my friends and people in safety, without fear of judgment or harm!”

“Just because I do not look like a monster does not mean that is not what I am. Do you think your Citadel would hesitate to slay me where I stood were they even to suspect my origins? I have no interest in walking among those who would sooner see me dead. Just because I could pass for a human in this blighted state does not change the fact that I am not one. I never will be.”

“My lily, oh, but we no longer need hide!" Damien steps closer, reaching out. Arum stumbles away another step, and Damien leaves his hand hanging in the air as Arum grits his teeth. "I have dreamed so many times of kissing you beneath Saint Damien's bells, of dancing there with you and Rilla at the Festival of the Three, dancing in truth and not simply in the metaphor of the duel, of loving you without needing to fear losing you to the blade of my own comrades-"

"For all your talk of knightly virtues you are hideously selfish," Arum growls, growls despite the unfamiliar mouth he must use, and Damien stops short.

"Selfish? Arum, I know this is unexpected and challenging, but if by some chance it is permanent, it is not completely bad. This change could only improve our-"

"Get out."

"Wh-what?"

"I said leave." Arum slashes an arm through the air, then pulls the limb back towards his body with an uncomfortable wince. "I don't care what Amaryllis said. I do not require looking after. I do not want you here, I do not need you here. Get out."

"But... Arum, I assure you I did not mean to imply... Arum, you know how I adore you-"

"Keep. Keep, a portal to the hut now." Arum pauses, his jaw clenched uncomfortably tight. "Keep." He pauses again, and then his lip twists down in misery, his hands curling into not-quite-claws as his shoulders hunch even further. "Keep, please."

The portal raises, sluggish and uncertain, and Arum, if anything, looks even more miserable.

"I do not wish to leave you like this," Damien says softly. "My words were poorly chosen, and I regret that. I should know to be more precise with my language-"

"Precision is not the issue." Arum lifts his eyes, and Damien feels a little bittersweet pang to see the ordinary pale gray, the ordinary round irises. "When I have- when I say, Damien, that I love you, I do not say so and then wish that you were different. I would not prefer you some other way. I love you as you are. Human." He turns his nose up, just slightly. "Flawed."

It's a little like being kicked. "Arum-"

"I ask that you leave, Sir Damien. Amaryllis demanded that I rest, and I will not rest while you are here."

"But you must understand how much of a boon-"

"You are not listening to me. Get out," Arum snarls. "Do not make me ask you again."

Arum’s eyes have gone bright, this miserable twist of his mouth overtly tearful. “Oh, Arum-”

“Oh,” Arum says with a vicious, false laugh as he swipes his hands clumsily over his face, disrupting the tracks of tears as quickly as they come. “Oh, so fury as well spurs this incessant weeping? Fear, yes, and sorrow, enough sense is made there, but even in anger I am forced into this ridiculous hiccuping folly?”

“Arum,” Damien says, his heart pulling as he steps forward, but Arum stumbles awkwardly back until he is pressed against the bark wall of the balcony, baring his teeth in a way that manages to look inhuman even on his human face.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare touch me. I told you to leave and I meant it. Would you ignore my wishes now, Sir Damien, when I am inarguably too weak,” he spits the word, voice cracking in the middle, “to do anything to stop you? There seems nothing honorable in that.”

“No,” Damien says, wide-eyed and shaking his head. “No, of course I don’t wish to- I merely- I cannot stand the thought of leaving you like this when you are clearly in such a state of-”

“And I cannot stand to be near you in such a state,” Arum says, his voice more waver than tone. “Leave,” he roars, and Damien-

Damien doesn’t have the opportunity to argue again, because the Keep drops a trio of vines, and gently but firmly shoves Damien back through the portal, and then Damien is gone.

~

Damien is gone. The portal closes, and Arum is alone. He stands, keenly aware of too much ill-fitting fabric still overwhelming his skin. His breaths come in shuddering gasps, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t trust himself to walk anywhere successfully, and he isn’t keen on falling again, so instead he just sits down where he is. Collapses, really, into a heap on the ground.

The Keep warbles at him, and he can hear a vague question and the concern that bleeds through its tone but-

“Keep, I-” He breaks off and chokes back the lump in his throat, feeling the tears filling his eyes again and hating this all the more for that, because he can’t control that either. “I can’t understand you. I can't-”

He hunches in on himself, suddenly and keenly aware of just how alone he is. He feels more isolated, even, then when he pushed Amaryllis through the portal after they soothed the Keep to sleep. Even then, he had thought it for the best. He didn’t want her to go, but she had done her job and she had to go home, to leave before he became too weak to let her slip through his greedy grasp, and he’d known the Keep would soon awaken well-rested and healthy again.

Now, he wants so desperately for Amaryllis to return and insist that they can fix this. For the Keep’s soft influence in his mind, letting him know that they will both be alright. That they will make it through this. But he is, for the first time, completely and utterly alone. "Keep, please, I-"

He can't finish the sentence. He's not sure what he would have said anyway. And it doesn't even matter, does it? He cannot communicate with the Keep anyway. He has no words for the sharpness of his isolation. Instead, a sob wracks through his body and he wraps his arms around his waist and curls in on himself even further, and he is utterly unable to stop the tears as they come.

The Keep sings something around him, uncertain and distant, and every unconveyed message makes Arum feel even more broken. Even more alone. He can’t stop the way his breaths go ragged and violent, either, or the way his heart is thudding, or the way that no matter how fast he scrubs the wetness from his cheeks he simply can’t outpace his own tears, and he burns with hatred for this body he is trapped in.

The song comes again, merely music now. Arum fists his hands over his ears, dulling the already dull sense even further. He can’t understand, so why listen?

The third time the Keep sings to him, the melody is followed by touch. Arum jerks in surprise, but even with skin this sensitive the Keep’s vines are too familiar and a shuddering sigh leaves him as the Keep wraps him up in the closest it can get to a cocoon of comfort. Ordinarily he would push the vines off, would snap that he is not a hatchling to be coddled, but the cool leaves are soft and gentle and familiar, and he leans as much as he can into the embrace.

Cocooned in the moss and vines and leaves, Arum almost believes he could leave this body behind and become one with the Keep again, could sink into the green and lose himself entirely. He can’t understand the gentle coos vibrating through the space all around him, but he feels them nonetheless, and even without words its message is clear.

I’m here. I’m here. I love you. I’m still here.

Not alone. It’s not the same, without their link, without the easy language that should pass between them, but Arum isn’t alone. Even with this barrier between them, he still has his Keep. It will still protect him, just as he will always, always protect it.

At least he can be grateful for that. The Keep will be here for him, even if Damien-

Even if Damien-

Amaryllis promised to help him fix this. To help him restore himself.

Did she really mean that? Or was she merely trying to help him stay steady and coherent in the moment?

Does she think as Sir Damien does?

… and if the both of them prefer him this way… if both of them wish he were human…

"What do I do?" he asks, and he hates this weakness, hates not even knowing if his Keep understands him, hates that even if it does he cannot hear any advice it might offer, cannot even feel the comfort it would try to send through their link- “Keep, I-”

Will they make him choose? Will Sir Damien and Amaryllis make him weigh that scale, between keeping them, keeping their love, and restoring himself?

“Keep…”

The Keep sings an airy triplet, gentle acknowledgment he can understand even without feeling it in his mind.

“Perhaps…” he whispers. “Perhaps this bond was doomed from the start, Keep.” He curls tighter, tighter, and the Keep’s vines and leaves caress and soothe as best they are able. “Perhaps this is merely revealing what was always true. I should never have expected humans to love a monster. Not truly. Not without conditions, not without an underlying desire for something better.”

The Keep squeezes him softly, and he knows that it has understood him as it warbles… something. He cannot know what it means to impart with this wordless, unparseable song.

The Keep knows many songs, though. Some, even a human can understand.

So the Keep sways him, swaddled and safe in its hanging bramble, and it sings him something he might sing along with. It sings him a song that he carries in his heart already. It sings to him a song he shares, a song that has passed hands from monster to human or human to monster, and it does not matter which.

I’ll float down with her-

Arum breaks. It shudders through him like poison, like a blade, the breathless hopeless sorrow of this curse, but his Keep holds him all the same. It holds him, and it sings, and it sings, and it sings.

If he cannot be whole, Arum thinks, at least in this moment he may still be held.

[loverofallthingssmart]

i came here listening to the song to talk about how legend of the condor heroes (2008) so far is a banger and now i am crying about the future again !

OMG!!! i saw ur posts about it its on my increasingly long to watch list!! and SAME beloved!!! its okay ink we'll get THROUGH this mwah!