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Kravitz had forgotten what living felt like.
It's a morbid thought, one Taako would scoff at and call emo as fuck and maybe a bit too goth, even for you, Krav , but it's true.
Kravitz spent years—decades— centuries —surrounded by death. Death was… comfortable. Simple. Uncomplicated.
Kravitz's body was cold because there was no reason for it to be warm. His heart didn't need to pump, his lungs didn't need to expand, his cells didn't need to break down sugar and oxygen into energy and carbon dioxide.
He had his work, his bounties and his patrols and all the bureaucracy that came with running a functional afterlife. He didn't need anything else.
Wanting and needing, as it turns out, are two very different things.
Because while technically Kravitz's body isn't alive —it's a construct, an extension of Kravitz's soul that's powered by the Raven Queen's magic, not quite an illusion but not quite real —Kravitz…
It’s weird. It’s fucking weird, and Kravitz doesn’t even fucking understand it, but when he looks at Taako—
His heart beats.
Kravitz had forgotten what living felt like , but when Taako smiles at him, when Taako takes his hand or presses a kiss to his lips or makes a flirty joke in his direction, his heart beats .
It takes Kravitz’s breath away.
(He doesn’t know when he started breathing again.)
He talked to his Queen when he first noticed it, rushed to her court in a panic, afraid that—that—that—
Well. Afraid of something .
She’d laughed at him.
“I suppose that’s love, little reaper,” she’d said, and Kravitz had gotten the distinct impression that behind the heavy black veil she always wore, she was rolling her eyes at him.
And, because apparently Kravitz had a working circulatory system now, he'd fucking blushed .
Love, Kravitz figures. It makes sense it'd be the thing to make a dead man's heart beat.
Now, now Kravitz is at a wedding—Kravitz, the grim reaper, Guardian of the Eternal Stockade and the physical manifestation of Death Itself is at a wedding —and Taako's hand is resting atop his own.
Kravitz is surrounded by love and life and his boyfriend, who's wearing a flowy yellow skirt with a bright floral print and is smiling at him like he hung the fucking stars in the sky and he's so fucking beautiful, funny and smart and an asshole but that's fine, that's better, actually, because Kravitz is also an asshole but Taako is just— Taako is perfect and Kravitz—
Kravitz was mortal, once. He had a family, a few friends, hopes and dreams and an upright bass he spent hours playing, but those things—those memories —they couldn't get blood to flow through his veins, couldn't get a pulse to thump against his wrist, couldn't bring warmth to his skin or light to his eyes, not the way Taako can.
Taako, who leans up against Kravitz's side, who, when Magnus so tactfully announces he has to shit , muffles his laughter against Kravitz's shoulder.
Taako, who sleeps beside him and runs his hands through Kravitz's hair. Taako, who makes fun of his argyle socks and comfy sweaters. Taako, who takes his coffee black with just a hint of sugar, who hums songs Kravitz will never recognise under his breath, who wakes up in the middle of the night shaking and scared, who teaches Angus McDonald magic and refuses to admit he loves the kid, who still won't make garlic chicken, who loves him .
Taako, who smiles up at Kravitz now and whispers, "You think if we get Magnus drunk enough later we can convince him ground beef comes from the ground?"
And now Kravitz is the one hiding his laughter, burying his face in Taako's hair and holding him close.
He can't help but smile.
And he feels warm.