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He can hear the crying even when shoves on his headphones. Hear calls to the prison, hear the people coming and going coming and going. I'm so sorry for what's happened to your son, they'd all say, fabricated, like the robots on Shiro's favorite show. What they don't mention is the lack of car in the driveway, the lack of father in the other room, the lack of softness the lack of arm-
Shiro shoves his face into his mattress and screams. Screams until his throat is burning, until he can feel something other than the haze of drugs because fuck it, what's the point of pretending he doesn't need it?
When he pushes up, gasps for breath, his pulse is jumping out of his skin, his heart begging to be let loose and his arm his nub his nothing at all screams its presence- I am here I am here I am here, it chants. The nub is there his arm is gone his arm is gone his arm is-
“Are you okay?” asks a voice from under his bed.
Shiro stiffens. He holds his breath. Maybe it's the drugs-
“Hey,” says the voice. Then, a flicker in the peripherals of his vision is a- tail? Long and skinny, like it's out of an honest to god comic book, of all things. Like a devil's.“Are you okay?”
Shiro closes his eyes tight tight tight like that'll make it all go away. At the hospital TV a woman's voice would rattle on and on about God and Jesus and his mother would nod along with every word, like it all made sense in the long run. God's plan, God's will, words drip dripping down his IV and burning him from the inside out.
Maybe this was his punishment for hating God's plan. This voice, this tiny, tiny voice-
There's a dip in the bed. Small, but there. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck-
I'm sorry God, I'm sorry God-
“Hey!” Shiro flinches away. “My mom said it was mean to ignore people when they're speakin' to you, human.”
Shiro cracks an eye open. Squinting, all he sees is a block of blue, a glacier sitting on his bed. An impatient groan is what finally gets him to open his eyes fully.
This- this isn't what a devil should look like. He knows that. There was a clear algorithm- hooves, fangs, giant.
This is a kid. Small, still with baby fat sitting on his angular face. He's blue on blue; ocean as skin and ice as eyes that stare through him, into him, as though he knows Shiro's entire being just from a glance. He stares and cocks his head and Shiro notices the nubs of horns, there, poking out from white curls. Like a baby goat.
“You're a kid.” He says it as an accusation.
The devil squints at him. “You're a kid, too.”
“Uh, no. I just had my twelfth birthday, like, two months ago, so I'm not a kid.” In his mother's words he was a preteen, which is not the same as a kid. A kid is what's sitting next to him. Minus the blue skin, horns, and tail, of course, but minus all that what's sitting in front of him is a kid. “God sent you to punish me?”
“I will have you know, human, that I've been here for months!” he puffs out his chest. “I'm your personal misery consumer. Here, eating your big, fat, globs of sadness.”
Shiro can feel his eyebrows go past his forehead and hit the ceiling. “You,” he says slowly, “are here to feed on my misery like...”
“A big, bad, professional demon!”
“A leech,” he finishes. “A parasite.” Before the kid- devil- can open his mouth again Shiro asks, “If it's your job to profit off my sadness, why are you here asking me if I'm okay?”
The devil's cheeks drop to a deeper shade of blue. In- what, a blush? Can devils blush? Still, Shiro's not letting him off the hook, kid or not. Finally, he huffs and drops his- clawed- hands on Shiro's bed. “I just- I wanted to know if you're okay or not! You sounded so...sad.”
“And isn't that good for you? Me being sad?”
The kid shrugs, stares resolutely at Shiro's comforter, mapping out the constellations etched in the fabric. “Maybe to my boss. But not to me. You're...” he hums. “Nice? I don't want you to be sad.”
And it's so simple, so pure, Shiro can't help but laugh. He knows he doesn't look good, he's got snot and tears littered across his face but he just can't help it. “You,” he tries to breathe, “are a devil sent from literal Hell who cares about me?”
The devil looks concerned, touches his shoulders, smooths a hand down his hair until Shiro stops laughing just to stare. So close he can see white freckles, glowing in the darkness of the room like his own personal stars. Up close, he doesn't look so scary at all. “You're weird.” There's no animosity behind it, just a statement of fact.
“Because of the lack of arm?” He holds his breath for the inevitable nod, the hesitant laugh.
Instead the kid looks confused. “Why would I care about that?” he screws up his face. “My grandmas got twelve arms and my nephew got no arms, just feet. You're weird 'cause you laugh and cry and laugh and cry. Also? Your eyes are kinda funky.” He grins and Shiro can see the fangs, small and benign. “I like you.”
Shiro laughs again. “I like you too.” He sticks out his only hand. “My names Takashi, but most people just call me Shiro.”
Lance stares at Shiro's hand. Instead of shaking it he laces their fingers together, blue and white. “My names Lance,” he says.
“Lance,” Shiro repeats. And Lance glows like a star.
**
Lance hit his growth spurt early and Shiro's still kinda pissed about it.
Maybe it's a demon, devil thing, that made Lance's stubby legs pop and expand into trees he can't control. Supernatural star dust that settled on Lance's skin and made him glow from the inside out, made the baby flesh melt away to show an angular face.
Or maybe it's just a Lance thing, to become gorgeous overnight.
“What're you thinking about?” asks a voice from under the bed.
You. “How I really need to get dust bunnies out from my bed.” He stands up and hops on it just to hear Lance squeal. “Oh, sorry. Is my spring cleaning bothering you?” He hops again.
A long leg sticks out from under his bed. “You,” Lance grunts, “are the worst human I've ever met.”
Shiro grins as he watches Lance yank himself out of the thin space between bed and floor. “I'm the only human you've ever met.”
“I've watched movies! Thousands of them!” Lance settles himself in a Lance shaped spot on Shiro's bed. Another thing made especially for him. “And, I personally guarantee, none of them would treat me like this.”
Shiro settles next to him and hums, holds Lance's wiry tail just for the need to feel it under his palm, and looks up at the ceiling. “Yup,” he concludes. “Just me. Evil, evil Takashi.”
Somewhere down in the deep, primal part of him, vibrates with the knowledge that yes, he's the only human Lance has known. Vibrates with the tune of mine and forever and he swears if he opened his heart it'd wash over everyone and everything. The whole world would know, and he wouldn't be bothered to care.
Lance rolls over to his side, pretty white eyelashes pressed against Shiro's pillow. “Did you visit your dad?” he asks.
Shiro grunts and rolls over to face him. “I will later.”
“You said that when we were kids, you know. Still haven’t' changed your tune, human.”
Shiro grips Lance's tail a little bit tighter. “He's in prison for a while,” he hears himself say. “He can wait.” When he tells his mother this she cries. Every single time there's water works, mascara leaking from her eyes like paint from a canvas. Please, she begs, and his stub aches aches aches just from imagining his father's face.
With Lance it's different. No tears, no frown, just a nod and a mumbled, “Humans are weird.”
Lance leans over and touches Shiro's hand, threading their fingers together like it's the most natural thing in the world. Gravity, death, life, his hand against mine, blue and white.
He rubs his thumb on the back of Lance's hand, feels the smooth skin, the veins, the- scars?
He stops. “Lance?” Lance hums. “Where did you get these scars?”
Even with his eyes closed Lance's body screams emotion; happiness is unadulterated, sadness unfiltered, anger unbridled. In this, his body stiffens, his breath stops. Fear. He waits, silence sitting heavy, because he's not letting this go and Lance knows it. After what could be an eternity Lance breathes again. “Things are getting crazy down home.” He squeezes Shiro's hand just a bit tighter. Shiro squeezes back. “Protests. Rebellions. There's- nothing I can't handle.” He opens his eyes and smiles, wide and white. “I'm a big, bad, professional demon, remember?”
He does remember. “I trust you,” he forces himself to say. “But if you need help-”
“You'll come down and beat up my boss?” Lance laughs and Shiro wants to tell him yes, he would. Go to the ends of the earth for Lance, find whoever hurt him, wronged him, and- Lance squeezes his hand again. “I'll tell you if I need someone beaten to a pulp, okay, big guy?”
Shiro exhales a shuddering breath. “Okay.”
**
“Don't you have your own clothes?” he whines.
A laugh trickles from Shiro's closet. “Nope. No clothes. We prance around naked at all times.” He sticks a hoodie out; old and fraying and still smelling sharply of sweat. “Can I have this one?”
Shiro ignores how hot his face is at the thought of prancing and naked. “Uh,” he says, rather intelligently. “My workout hoodie?”
Lance pops his head out and nods. “I like it.”
“I got you clothes, you know. Like always.” Ever since they met he'd get an extra sweatshirt for Lance, and every time Lance would pluck Shiro's hoodie off his back and leave with it, wrapped up in Shiro's residual warmth. “It smells awful-”
“It smells like you. I like how you smell.”
“It's yours,” he says, too quickly, too earnestly, too everything. But he'd give Lance anything if he'd ask. Point and it's yours, he wants to say. His heart stammers against his chest, pick me pick me pick me.
Lance walks out of the closet with his shirt off. And for a second, just a split second, Shiro sees a skip of black on blue skin, pumice festering on waters.
And in the next second it's gone, replaced by Shiro's hoodie. Like it was never there.
Later, when they're laying on Shiro's bed, Shiro asks what color Lance's blood is. And he smiles, soft and sleepy, and murmurs, “Black” before drifting into sleep.
*
It's funny how bad at lying Lance is.
When they were little he tried to tell Shiro all demons eat is cotton candy and star dust. Puffed out his chest and swore up and down that the trees were bright yellow, that you could eat the bark and never go hungry again. Maybe to someone else Lance would have come off genuine, but Shiro can pretend Lance is innocent, pretend that those blue eyes of him hold nothing but virtue.
But he'd be lying to himself, wouldn't he.
He wakes up to the bed dipping harshly, like someone dropped an entire boulder without any regard for him. Something inside of him screams Lance and he doesn't give himself a moment to be scared, just leans over and turns on the bedside lamp.
And there's those icicle eyes again, melting hot tears that freeze before they hit the bed. “Lance?” he asks. Lance doesn't look at him, those eyes somewhere else, so Shiro sits up and holds his face and wishes he had two hands to hold him with. “Lance.”
He blinks as if seeing him for the first time. “Hey!” his voice is shattered, sticking to the insides of his mouth. When he smiles Shiro can see black speckled across his fangs, dripping out from the corner of his mouth. “Come here often?” he asks.
Shiro sucks in a breath, wills his body to be calm. “What happened?”
Lance doesn't blink. Just keeps staring at him with those eyes. “Nothing much. Just, you know. Big bad demon stuff.”
Normally, he'd let it slide. He knows he's a human, knows he's insignificant in a demon's world. There's things he doesn't understand, will never understand about Lance's life underneath the floorboards. But here's Lance, bleeding black and blue on his sheets, smiling like he could fool Shiro. He shakes his head, resolute. “Tell me.”
“I'm fine-”
“You're not.” Shiro traces the tear tracks, still freezing to the touch. “Please,” he says, quieter. “Lance.”
And for a moment it looks like Lance will break. A crack down the facade, eyes glossing over with tears before- he smiles again and steps off the bed. “I just was in a hurry to uh, tell you-” he takes a step back. “I can't come here anymore.”
Shiro stops breathing. “What?”
Lance's mouth quivers. “I- you know. Family stuff. Gotta take care of it.” And he's lying lying lying.
Shiro stands up off the bed and closes the distance. Lance's eyes flit to the bed and back to him, a deer caught cornered. “Stop lying to me.”
“I'm not-”
“You're bleeding, you're crying, you're hurt and you- you want me to believe this is just about family business?” He shakes his head. “No. I don't believe that. I know you too well, Lance.”
“I know!” Lance drags in a shuttering breath. “I know that. But if I keep coming they'll hurt you, Shiro. I can't- I won't- you need to be safe.” Lance nods, deciding already. “And if safe means being without me, then that's how it has to be, okay?”
His body is vibrating with questions; who's they? Who hurt him? Why are you leaving me all alone? And he wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to bar the entrance to the underworld so no one can touch his demon again.
But he doesn't ask. He doesn't bar.
Shiro steps aside and gestures to the bed.
“Take care of yourself, Shiro.” Lance is crying again, pretending he's not. “And- see your dad. I've lost people I love and just...see your dad, okay?”
Shiro screws his eyes shut and doesn't answer.
He doesn't open them again until warmth floods the room, replacing Lance's natural aura with humanity, with safety. And yet he falls to his knees, shaking, freezing in the absence of Lance.
“I don't want you to go,” he croaks.
There's no voice under the bed to answer.
**
The last time he saw his father he was drunk, stumbling through the front door and pushing Shiro into the passenger seat. Telling him he's grown now, doesn't have to sit in the back, and Shiro was so happy he didn't question where they were going.
It's strange, the things that made him happy seven years ago. Sitting in the front seat, playing video games, holding a blue boy's hand tight tight ti-
A buzzer jolts him out of his thoughts, throws him back into his body. The plastic chair digs into his spine and the electric hum overhead is almost enough to keep him from thinking. It's just enough to remind him where he is; prison. His fingers clack clack clack on the cheap wooden table. Maybe if he doesn’t look at the prisoners shuffling into the visiting room it'll be easier, spare him one less moment he has to stare at his father. It's childish, it's stupid, but he doesn't want to look at him; his eyes flit around the artificial room and rest on a peeling piece of paint.
The creak of plastic is the only warning he gets before a body blocks the piece of paint and forces his eyes on it- on him.
When they left that night his father didn't look shit faced; he looked normal, like his dad, strong jaw and proud nose.
And now, the man sitting across from him, is anything but proud. His body has lost the weight and muscle Shiro was familiar with, sagging with the responsibility, with the knowledge he's the reason his son is disabled, the reason why a life was erased from existence.
Sometimes Shiro wonders if 15 years was enough.
His father clears his throat. He's never been good at words. “Takashi.”
Shiro stares at the table. “Dad.”
The silence sits, a blanket around father and son, holding them tight and hot. Shiro pulls at the collar of his shirt. “You've- you've gotten big,” his father says. “Probably taller than me now.”
Shiro says nothing, just stares at the callouses on his hands. “I'm happy you visited.” It's soft, almost lost in the sea of other visitors' mumbling.
“Why?” he hears himself ask. “So you can see what you did?” he can't help the bitterness sneaking through his teeth. “Well, here.” He waves his stump.
His father flinches back, not in repulsion, but fear. “I know what I did.” His voice is gravel and regret and Shiro doesn’t give a shit.
“You chose to drive drunk. You chose to put me in the car. You killed someone, the crash ripped off my arm I was- I was-” Just little. He swallows. “You chose it all.”
There's a moment he thinks his father will leave. Get up and never return, and his body is thrumming for it, begging for it- leave, go, leave leave leave. But instead he smooths his face with his palm, breathes in, and looks in Shiro's eyes. “I was having a problem with alcohol for a long while, son. I didn't intend to drive, I had never driven drunk before. But your mother and I an argument-” his voice breaks. He breathes in and out in and out in the way Shiro's therapist taught him. “She was right. It was about my drinking, how it wasn't a good influence on you. I don't...remember much. But I remember getting you and bringing you in the car.”
“Why?” his stub burns just hearing his voice, just remembering the fight, the drinking, the car starting up. “There was no reason-”
“I didn't want to lose you.” Shiro's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “You have to understand I wasn't thinking straight- I was so afraid she'd take you with her and leave.” When he reaches over and touches Shiro's hand he doesn't move away. “I changed my mind halfway down the high way. I knew she was right. I turned around as fast as I could to get to her.”
“Did you love her?” he doesn't mean to ask it, but the question stumbles from his mouth anyway.
His father laughs, loud and happy. “Did?” he shakes his head. “I do. I'd do anything for her.” He shrugs a shoulder and for a moment he looks like his father, not a prisoner. “You do stupid things for love, Takashi.”
And something with that clicks. He breathes in, sharp, and nods, like he understands everything because he does. You do stupid things for love.
It's a relief when the buzzer shakes the room. He breathes out and sags into the chair, watches his father turn his back and leave.
He looks over his shoulder and Shiro decides, maybe for once, it's okay to look back.
And then he's gone.
**
He's torn his room apart.
There's no piece of furniture intact, all scattered on the floor, a murder scene without the blood. Lance when they were little told him about the portal, how he's not afraid of it, before being called out on his bluff. He knows it exists, he just has to find it.
The bed throbs. It's too heavy for Shiro to lift and he's too big to fit under it but it doesn't stop him from wrapping a rope around the foot and yanking. His hand gripping it tight, the rope snug in between his teeth, he tugs until he feels his palm ripping, until his teeth ache. And finally, finally, the bed topples over on its side, exhausted from its fighting.
Shiro doesn't give himself reprieve. Instead, he unties the rope and shoves it back in his dufflebag. It's full of water and food, things demons probably don't eat and things he needs. In his hand is an iron poker from their fireplace. He thought only fairies were scared of iron, but according to Lance's scar, it hurts demons, too. He holds it tight despite his bloodied hand.
The portal is swirling shades of grey and black, a tornado leading down underneath the soil. When he drops a book he doesn't hear it drop. He breathes in, breathes out, and nods. You do stupid things for love.
He closes his eyes and jumps in.
**
He lands on his shoulder, hard, before tumbling down down down. He crashes into something hard and cold, winces at the feeling, before opening his eyes.
If Vincent van Gogh saw these skies, he'd weep. Heavy plum paint strokes curl around the hemisphere, bobbing lazily in the horizon. Black pulsed around it, hugging it close, burning itself grey and lilac. When he jumped in it was just after noon; is time different down here, or is this sunlight to them? Purple and grey, washing the world.
Shiro stumbles to his feet and throws his head back to see the imposing black building clawing its wy to the heavens. He places a hand back on it, feels the cold, the perfect smoothness that comes only from fairy tales. They're all around him, all thin and wiry, black gnarled tree branches fighting for the ground.
The completely and utterly vacant ground. Fuck. Did he get out on the wrong spot? His head throbs, slow and steady, but Shiro ignores that, ignores everything. How is he going to find Lance?
It's hard to walk, hard to breathe, like his body knows it's not supposed to be here, a human lost out at sea, gill-less with too many legs. His body also knows what's supposed to be with him; a blue boy with mirror eyes and sharp smile, a boy who makes his heart feel at home for the first time in- ever.
He takes a gulping breath and nods. Holds his hand, pretends he's holding Lance's; I can do this.
The deeper he gets into the city the more his body screams danger. There's not one living soul, not any evidence life ever flourished here. A neglected dollhouse. Only Lance lived here, and if he's not living here, then where is he? White stars erupt in front of his eyes but still he walks, walks until his feet burn, until he has to lean into the Gothic-like monoliths for support. This place is dragging him down, biting at his ankles, gripping his wrists, but he'd be damned if he went down without seeing Lance.
He decides to sit down just for one second, and then that one second turned into a minute turned into thirty turned into an hour because his legs won't cooperate. I'm not supposed to be here. The world itself is turned against Shiro. He feels bile and blood creeping up his throat, knows if he looks down at his finger tips he'd see black instead of white, a wife's tale told by Lance.
He closes his eyes and imagines Lance, Lance, Lance. And it's perfect, it's all he needs, and yet-
“Human.”
Shiro doesn't have to see to know this isn't Lance. The voice is gruff and deep, the English language coming out garbled and thick. He tries to open his eyes, tries to see who he's facing with but he can't, stars are burning his eyelids to ash. “Do you know Lance?” Straight to the point.
There's a pause so long Shiro wonders if the voice left. But then he's picked up bridal style and lifted a few feet. Up close he can smell the blood on him, feel the leather rubbing against his skin. “You are dying.” No holding back, no sweet talk.
Shiro nods. “Do you know Lance?” he repeats.
Shiro's suddenly in motion. The entire walk is making him dizzy and nauseous, and every part of him screams to lay down and sleep. But there's that blue again, those horns, that smile, and suddenly his body is jello. “You are not supposed to be here,” the voice says. “But I am not surprised Lance's human turned out to be just as stubborn as him.”
“So you can bring me to him?”
“I am.” The air gets colder, biting into Shiro's skin, straight through his sweatshirt and into his heart. They're going down, Shiro realizes. “He won't stop talking about you. This Takashi Shirogane.” The walking stops. “He is quite fond of you.”
Shiro hums, soft and barely there. The darkness is moving around him and the only thing keeping him from sleep is Lance. Like he's thirteen again, waiting in the gloom of his room at midnight for his monster, his Lance.
He's placed gently on a bed. This place is significantly warmer than the others, heat settling onto him like a blanket, like water. He hums again just to feel the vibrations in the air, feel it shiver. How far gone is he, exactly? This can't be healthy.
And then there's a dip on the couch next to his head and Shiro's insides scream Lance. So he forces his eyes open despite the pain.
It's worth it to see Lance's face. He's beautiful even with worry devouring his face, gorgeous with stress, agonizingly ethereal with his messy hair and stolen hoodie. He smiles up at Lance. “Found you.”
Lance laughs and cries and laughs again. “You found me,” he echoes. “Master of hide and go seek.”
Shiro reaches out and threads their fingers together. Shiro's hand is speckled with black, veins bulging and sickly purple. He's becoming the sky. “I wanted to-” Lance is shaking, trembling like a leaf. “I've been here, fighting for my- my entire world. The only good thing in my life was you and they threatened to take you away, so I just-” He breaks down again. “You stupid, idiotic human. I did this to protect you and now you- you’re dying.”
Shiro squeezes Lance's hand. “I did this to see you. That's all.”
“But why would you do something so- so stupid-”
“Because I love you.” Lance stops completely. “And you do stupid things for love.” He smiles, hopes his lips don't look as bad as they feel, and stares back into frozen water eyes, the ones in his dreams, carved into his heart. Shiro bets if Lance peeled back the skin he would see Lance's profile carved into his heart, hear his name singing through his veins. And honestly, it's not a bad thing. “I love you,” he repeats.
“I love you too,” is Lance's answer, and Shiro knows coming down here was worth it. Even as he feels his heart slowing, as Lance's hand is no longer felt, no longer in his plane of existence. Just Lance's eyes, Lance's face. “I'm going to save you.”
Shiro smiles at him. “You can't.”
Lance shakes his head violently. “I can. Remember- remember when we were little you said you wanted to die as a joke and I said if I kissed you, you would?” Shiro nods. “You'd die because you wouldn't be human anymore. You'd be-”
“A big bad professional demon,” Shiro finishes. He laughs at the absurdity of it all, at just how simple it is. “Kiss me then.”
“It won't be easy, Shiro.” But Lance is moving closer anyway, and those eyes of his are drooping. “The underworld is in a sad state, you'd have to fight against the king.”
Shiro tilts his head. “As long as you're here, I don't care what I have to do.” When Lance still hesitates he moves closer, brushes his nose against Lance's. White on blue, blue on white, a snowstorm in the space between them. “Just kiss me.”
Lance glances at Shiro's lips and back at his eyes, confirming that yes, this is what he wants; to be with him, to fight with him, to love him.
Just when Shiro thinks Lance will back out there's lips against his. They're not cold like he expected them to be; salt water brushing his ankles during the summer, teasing and light and Jesus Christ so beautiful.
He feels his heart stop before he knows he's dead. Feels it stutter, struggle, and stop.
There's no pain. There's never pain with Lance, only blue, only beauty. Lance pulls away only slightly and Shiro breathes his first breath, shoves it in his iron lungs and exhales stardust and ichor and too much fondness for one boy. “Are you okay?” a voice asks.
Shiro opens his eyes and the world pulses gold. He moves his hand, cups Lance's face, and sighs. “I am.” If he died each time Lance kissed him he'd take that risk, take every death, every funeral procession jut to feel velvety lips against his own.
He tests the theory out by kissing Lance again and again and again as the world beats gold, settling with blue, painting a sky no one else can replicate.