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They will never dig that time capsule up.
…That's what his brothers had said to him, when he said he wanted to. They will never dig it up, because you're dead. (Gone.) You'd put something in that time capsule, and now you're
You won't be there to see them read your letter. You'd written it on the sort of enchanted paper that could last decades beneath the earth, unspoiled, untouched; how ironic that it outlived you and it's ironic, so very ironic that
no,
irony suggests humor: dry wit and a quirk of an eyebrow. Your eyebrow; you were always just a little snarky. Just a little bit.
Belphie's shovel hits the cold, hard ground with a clang. (He hates this.) He lowers himself onto the ground by the shovel, shivering. He should have brought a sweater. He didn't. (He hates this.)
…His eyelids droop. He can't; no, he can't do that. He needs to dig. He pushes himself to his feet.
Clang, goes the shovel. Belphie curses under his breath. (When did the ground get so hard? It had only been a century.)
"Belphie?" A voice—Beel's.
(He's concerned; Belphie can read that without even looking at him, because he knows Beel.)
Startled, Belphie drops the shovel
and whirls around.
He can't believe he couldn't tell Beel was nearby. Belphie can usually tell where he is, and what he's doing—but these days it's like he's losing his touch.
…Beel drapes a sweater over Belphie's shoulders, and reaches wordlessly for the shovel.
It had been your birthday when they put the box in the ground. You should have been the one to dig it up. It should have been you. (It shouldn't have been you. Why did it have to be you? He loved you.)
They dig you up together.
...Sorry, not you. The capsule. The time capsule; just a time capsule… Why, then, does it feel like they're uncovering something that should have stayed buried? Why? It's just a container, a box full of trinkets and mementos and a letter, or two, or seven. No, eight. Yes. Eight letters—
Belphie's here for that letter. Beel is here to help. He doesn't ask why Belphie's digging. He doesn't need to. (He already knows.)
.
.
.
Fingers trembling, Belphie carefully tears the envelope open.
Hey, you start. Gosh, how much time's passed since we buried this thing together? I hope you're all doing well. Recently, I
His vision swims.
Your handwriting alone is tearing him apart, like a crowbar to the chest
in search of his heart.
In the letter, there's a paragraph addressed to him directly.
In it, you ask him how he's been. I hope you're doing well, you say.
(It's cruel.)
In the letter, you recount a night you'd spent together, once—counting the Devildom stars till the two of you passed out from exhaustion. …Lucifer found you outside the next morning, fast asleep, arms wrapped tightly around each other for warmth.
(When you napped together, you'd often rest your head on his chest. His heartbeat was calming, you said. It made it easy to fall asleep. You'd shifted to that position in your sleep that time, too—instinctively seeking out his heartbeat.)
…You'd caught a cold from being out so late, in that sort of weather. (Belphie hadn't.)
You joke about it in the letter,
but it isn't so funny
anymore.
.
.
.
Tears well up in Belphie's eyes at the memory. He sniffles as Beel puts his arms around him, leaning against him like he's his sole support now because in a sense, he is now, but also he isn't but it wasn't always this way but it was never ever the way it is now andneverwillbe? and
Beel doesn't say something stupid, like It'll be okay, or They'd have wanted you to be happy.
The latter goes without saying, so it isn't worth repeating (and it's honestly the only reason Belphie's bothered to dig the damn thing up. The only reason he wakes up at all, even, is because he knows that you would hate to see him beat himself up a second time, just like he did after she died). And,
and
and there is nothing more to say.
He's reached the end of the letter.