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“What is it you want, Demon ?”
Ziraphon woke up, relatively useless heart trying desperately to beat from his chest. Now, demons don’t cry. There was no joke to follow, because it was physically impossible for a demon to cry. He could feel the tightening in his throat and the shaky hands that soon followed, and the merciless collapsing of the world around him (had it gotten bad enough), but never the hot, satisfying tears that would trail down his face just to collapse into the bed sheets.
Unlike Corviel, who took short and regular naps to keep invigorated, Ziraphon liked to take decade long depression naps (where he would sleep for maybe a few days at a time before lying in place, brooding as he stared motionless at the wall until he’d fall asleep once more)... but he didn’t have a decade. The apocalypse was supposed to happen in two years.
If they never said it sober, it was almost as if it never happened. Sometimes they’d go drinking just to return to the bookshop, exchanging hot exhalations as desperate hands began to tangle hair and bunch up fabric. They’d never committed, for obvious reasons, and once they were sober, the sparks seemed to go away just as fast as they’d arrived. They would never talk about it again, either… so it never even happened.
It was outrageous of him to believe that an angel could possibly stoop so low to fall in love with a demon.
As he reached the ‘stare at the ceiling’ portion of his regular scheduled brooding, he wrapped his arms around a spare pillow. Maybe he’d visit the music store later. That always seemed to brighten his day.
“We are hereditary enemies.”
The demon released an unsteady breath, sharp nails clutching to the fabric on the pillowcase as he pulled it closer. On his hands, he could smell the scent of cigarette smoke, dusty sheet music, and freshly lacquered wood. It was the smell of Corviel.
It had become sickeningly sweet for him to think of his virgin obsession. He thought about their long, soft, curly, red hair, a brief smile flashing across his face at the idea of their hair down, frizzing to his every touch. It was quite a look, after all, to see his angel before him just mere inches away as the perpetually broken emergency lights of the store illuminated their every feature.
He brought his hands just a bit closer, closing his eyes as he quietly relished in the scent of Corviel. It smelled like the very little good that had been left on Earth. Without the cigarette smoke, and dusty, old sheet music, and beautifully lacquered wood, what would have been the point of living? Not that he could necessarily wind up killing himself before the apocalypse, anyway (unless he stormed a church and yoted himself into the holy water).
Very rarely had he seen the angel cry, up until their more recent, drunken interactions.
“You don’t want to.” He remembered saying the first time it had happened, because why would an angel want to sleep with a lowly demon?
“What if I fall?” Because of you, Ziraphon had mentally finished the thought, his chest tightening as he noticed the tears begin to brim. The deadliest weapon of the angels, summoned by his own reckless behavior… And to relieve them would be worth dying for.
It’s not like he chose to fall, he just saw a flaw in the whole grand scheme. What was the point in creating the human race and banning knowledge? It was absurd!
--
“For someone so brilliant, you really are stupid.”
Corviel took his time in opening his eyes, the soft patter of rain echoing around him. He didn’t cry in the mornings anymore, already numb from the experience. It was one year until the apocalypse, and he didn’t really have much worth living for.
It used to be that the demon would come by to visit five or six times a week. And now? There was absolute silence from his opposition, not even a voicemail. Maybe they were dead? Or worse, maybe they didn’t like him anymore.
Cruel demon , he thought to himself, miracling the crumpled clothes back to their original, freshly ironed crispness (normally, he would take the time to fix it traditionally… but a lot can change in three-quarters of a year).
The shop opened in an hour, and would be so until late in the afternoon. After that, it was back to sleep. He didn’t even eat anymore as he begrudgingly awaited the apocalypse. There was nothing left to live for, and he couldn’t exactly throw himself into a vat of Hellfire.
“I’d be there to catch you.” So why did you leave?! He wiped his eyes, realizing maybe he hadn’t been as numb as he thought.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t spent decades apart before. Corviel would’ve easily been able to handle the loneliness, had it not been for the impending War to End Wars. And the previous nine years, no matter how impaired they’d both been, were the most intimate they’d ever been. For Ziraphon to just fade away… he thought it unlikely.
He regretted denying them every time that it happened. It not like he was inexperienced! So why?
It’s because he was afraid. For 6,000 years he held faith in the almighty and the ineffable plan. He didn’t want to lose it all for one night of passion with the wrong person… at least that’s what he told himself. Not that’d he’d risk it all now, after everything he’d sacrificed, but he began to doubt the whole thing. What if Heaven wins, and he has to spend eternity in the emptiness of heaven? Without the beautiful music he surrounded himself in? Without-
He shook his head quickly to push the thought out. They were gone. There was nothing he could do now.
Corviel released a shaky sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto, preparing himself for yet another day.
--
“Too gaudy.” Ziraphon muttered to himself, tossing a shirt aside. As he slept, he knew he’d been gone longer than anticipated, but he hadn’t realized that he’d been gone for long as he actually had (a three-quarter year was not that long, when you’re a demon that enjoys mop- brooding for decades at a time). He tried to find the perfect shirt for the occasion.
He settled on a black shirt that said ‘Thotty, Thotty, Acting Naughty’ in bold, neon letters (On the back it says ‘Don’t Be Scared to Touch My Body’). He was going to wear a blazer over it anyway (and he took the time to remove the wheelies from his knee-high heelies. He was that serious about this meeting).
Step one, make it happen. He got into his car (a sleek black Ford Model A. He’d gotten it shipped directly from America after realizing he needed to commit to a stupid joke. The steering wheel had still been on the left side, initially confusing all passengers), following a mental program. First he was going to grab some coffee, so the angel wouldn’t suspect a thing. Next was some Indian food (Corviel especially enjoyed vindaloo. Ziraphon mostly just munched on the extra naan that’d end up stuffed into the bag).
He had no backup plan, there was no fail-safe. He only had the one chance to make things right before the End of All Things.
He looked to his nails as he drove, frowning as the black acrylics had mostly fallen out. There wasn’t time to worry about it now, so he ended up pulling the remaining few off.
Once he had all the necessary supplies (with an extra cup of tea for his angel), he approached the open shop. The lights indoors were bright, the music playing happily over the speakers. Had they not missed him at all?
Looking around, he performed a minor miracle on the door (his hands were full and he wasn’t going to take the time to ‘figure it out the normal way’). There were customers all throughout the store, children pointing every which way at the posters that covered the walls.
He approached the empty register, setting everything onto the counter. Now where was that angel?
--
Corviel was helping a customer in the Classics section, caught in the middle of a rant of how underappreciated the Baroque era was. The young man listened intently, not in a sense of interest but rather in a sense of ‘I think you’re pretty hot, so I’m going to pay attention.’
“-but as I was saying, Bach’s Fugues? Marvelous!” He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like being flirted with, not that the angel would end up pursuing it. He liked to feel important, “Oh I’m truly sorry, I let myself go a bit. If you’ve found everything, I can help you che-” Corviel turned his head, seeing a familiar face through a display case. Without a moment’s hesitation, he walked away from the customer for a closer look. Surely, his eyes were deceiving him, right?
But as he stepped out from behind the case, they made eye contact (or rather, the closest to eye contact you could hope to achieve when one party is wearing sunglasses). He told himself he wouldn’t cry, not because it’d probably kill the demon but because it made him look weak. He wanted Ziraphon to think he was cool. He wanted them to think the less-than-a-year apart hadn’t affected him, but instead the dam broke.
Once they made contact, the demon smiled, walking with feigned swagger in hopes to meet them halfway… then the angel began to cry. Oh Hell no . He wasn’t standing for that. So instead of walking, he began to run.
“I- Sh- Aziraphon, no!” The angel exclaimed, quickly moving an arm under his chin to catch the cascade of holy water. He looked upward as the demon wrapped their arms around him. His lip quivered slightly as they radiated a wonderful, familiar warmth, the almost forgotten smell of stale coffee and sulfur enveloping him, “Okay, okay. Please, Dear.” He gave them a pat on the back with his free hand before taking a step back, quickly wiping the remaining tears and drying his hands on his slacks to deholy the holy water’s… holiness.
Ziraphon took a step back as well, watching the tired eyes that met his, “I’m just excited to see you.” He choked out, regretting everything. Obviously, the past nine months have been harder on Corviel… and it was his fault. Why? Just to mope? “Bae, I- stop crying. I brought us some food.” He forced his merry facade, smiling widely as he motioned to the register.
Corviel returned the smile, beyond happy that everything seemed normal once more. He quickly gave the last call, locking the door behind the last customer.
“Aziraphon, your nails.” The angel spoke disappointingly, holding the other’s hand to his eyes as he looked over the scratched, uncolored nails that replaced long, beautiful stilettos.
The demon shrugged, reaching forward to run a gentle finger against Corviel’s palm, “I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”
If you thought Corviel’s smile couldn’t get happier, imagine the look a child would get as Kris Kringle himself gave them the most amazing toy ever. Now translate that to this man-shaped being as he pulled out a still warm to go bowl of curry, tongue flicking against his lips in eager anticipation. This is the look that Ziraphon was hoping for as he watched with eyes half-lidded.
“Oh dear lord, this is good.” Corviel moaned like someone who’d stuck to a diet for too long and was finally eating the most wonderful batch of chocolate cookies, reveling in the savory flavor as the spice crawled past his mouth and warmed his throat.
Ziraphon was covering his mouth now, holding his head up with one hand as he readjusted his glasses, “That good, huh?”
The angel noticed the movement with the glasses, arching a single brow. Why were they even wearing the glasses when all the customers were gone? He savored another morsel, offering his demon some of the all too massive tower of naan.
He uncovered his mouth to reach for the food, red blush more prominent. Of course, being the cool demon he was, he tried to play it off as if it totally wasn’t at all happening. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Angel, your foodgasm’s really got me turned on right now. I think we should do it. Of course while we’re sober, since being drunk has failed so many times! Maybe exactly those words would’ve been fine, had he not fucked off for an almost-year to brood.
Now, Corviel wasn’t stupid. Oblivious maybe (heck yeah, he was very oblivious most of the time), but never stupid. He had one year left before he would return as a soldier for heaven and forced through an eternity of nothingness. So he reached out to his lifelong companion, running a thumb against their cheek.
Ziraphon closed his eyes, leaning into the touch as their fingers cooled his warm face. This was nice. Serene and peaceful… He had nearly forgotten what forgiveness feels like, especially being received so suddenly after royally fucking up.
Then he could feel the familiar breath drawing closer, the smell of spices mingling in harmony with the smell of Corviel as noses gently caressed each other. He built up the confidence to close the gap, just as Corviel did years ago, maintaining a genuine form of tenderness.
It felt like kissing a live wire, the spices immediately burning his lips. And as it got heated, the pain began to creep into his mouth and cling to his tongue. Savory and spicy, intermingled with cigarette smoke, and dusty paper, and acetone that cleaned lacquer from stained fingernails. It was better than nice, and better than wonderful. It was… well fuck it, it was ineffable!
And, just as slowly as it had started, the angel took his time to pull away, noses still touching.
Ziraphon’s eyes flutter open, maintaining contact over his sunglasses. He opened his mouth to speak, losing his words in the process.
“Promise you’ll be there to catch me?” Corviel spoke softly, placing his other hand onto the demon’s face.
Had Ziraphon not had his eyes open, he would’ve thought the indirect invitation had been made from a far distance. But it wasn’t. They were right in front of him, touching him, sharing the same breath as him. He leaned further into the touch as he took pleasure in the electricity that seemed to course through his entire body.
“Of course, Angel.” He spoke breathlessly, holding one of the hands against his cheek. Had he not been a demon, he probably would’ve cried that day.