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When Peter was young he had a small obsession with bugs, his older sister -the one family member who actually listened from time to time- would watch him in the yard and he would run up with a worm or spider or other critter cupped in his hands. When he first learned to paint he would occasionally study the dead bugs he’d find in his small home for reference, or if he saw a butterfly he would try and remember it as best as he could so he could spend hours matching the perfect color of its wings later that night.
Before it happened, Peter's opinion on bugs was pretty neutral, he would feed Lizard whatever crickets or worms he could come across, he had a tendency to set spiders free rather than kill them. Bugs were strange, sure but he didn’t mind, he was strange as
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When the sudden overwhelming feeling of dread surrounded by burning golden light shot through Peter he did not think of much. Flashes of blood and torment, ruined battlefields and broken people plagued his mind all in a couple of seconds, but something itched at the back of it all, beneath his muscles. After fighting a creature he was sure he would die to, Peter realized that the itch hadn’t gone away, in fact it was less of an itch and more of a crawling, writhing feeling deep in his body wrapped around his heart and lungs. It was slow and torturous and nearly drove him mad when he was alone, the feeling of the hundreds of bugs infesting a living puppet.
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On a night as dark as the rest of them since it happened, Peter told Rumi he wasn’t a fan of bugs, an off-handed comment, after a fight in which what seemed like millions of them had crawled out of the cavity that formed due to Peter’s- no, Exandroth’s cruelty. In all honesty they made Peter sick to his stomach these days, the feeling never went away, but a bitter curiosity in him often wondered if their enemies felt it too before they died, the slithering of something inhabiting them that shouldn’t be there.
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It had been nearly a year, a calm rest after Charisma was felled, one final god to go. Peter sat with Rumi, exhausted but excited for this to be over, Thanatos was already resting but the two sat awake, quietly in their own warm bubble of comfort.
“Rumi?” Peter was hesitant to break the silence, but his thoughts ran rampant and he hoped Rumi wouldn’t mind.
“Yes Peter?” Soft, melodic almost, and damn near perfect if you asked Peter, their voice soothed his mind slightly.
“You know how it- it hurts whenever Exandroth comes out?”
“I remember yes”
“He did something else I think, when he first possessed me” Peter whispered, slightly worried the angel would force his way out since he undoubtedly could hear him.
“It feels like there’s bugs under my skin Rumi, all the time it feels so wrong. It feels like my muscles are being shoved through, and my organs are surrounded by cobwebs. I wake up and feel like I can’t breathe because there’s ants crawling down my throat.
I don’t know what to do Rumi, what if it never goes away, what if we kill Zuen and the bugs stay and burrow further into my body-” He’s shaking, on the verge of tears but holding them back, he doesn’t know why talking about this feels so relieving and so terrible but he feels like he can’t stop the truth from slipping through his lips.
“Oh Peter…I will never let that happen darling, never. I promise you”
Curled into Rumi’s arms Peter sniffles, he believes them, which only surprises him slightly, he trusts them to at least try for him.
“By the end of all this Peter, you will never have to experience any of these horrible things again, you will get to just be you Peter, I swear to you, you’ll be happy”
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They win, of course they do, they’re heroes. Zuen dies after Thanatos, who went out protecting his fellow godslayers, and in the end it’s just the two of them, sitting in an expanse of space and time that hardly feels real. There’s a glint in Rumi’s eyes, they’re holding their sword still, and it glows brighter than anything Peter has ever laid his eyes on. He worries only slightly as Rumi looks up at him, soft smile present as always.
“Do you trust me Peter?” It’s their voice still, soft, melodic, damn near perfect, but there’s a tiredness behind the word trust, an edge to Peter’s name he’s never heard in their cadence before, and so Peter hesitates.
“I- Yes I do Rumi, I trust you” Maybe he didn’t hesitate long enough.
The last thing Peter Sqloint saw in the twisted realm of the celestial, was a pair of swirling eyes and a soft pitiful smile, a hand on his cheek, words whispered against his lips.
“I’ll see you soon love, I promised”
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Rumi woke up in a small house, a soft mattress, a bed for two, warm to the touch but missing their partner. They sat up and stretched, if this was their life now they could at least take the time to get used to it.
“Peter! Darling, I’m awake” They walked into a cozy though slightly cramped living room, Lizard’s enclosure empty in the corner. In fact, the entire room seemed to be empty.
“Peter?” It already felt lived in, despite the lack of said living, but that’s the power of a dream Rumi supposes, as they pad into the kitchen.
It ends up being five minutes of Rumi calling into the corners of the house before they begin to worry, sun shines through curtains, pulled perfectly asymmetrically apart. They run towards the back door pulling it open, a garden, beautiful and sprawling, an easel on the patio, no Peter. A writhing desperation, near obsession consumes them as they search, leaving the house, running down a dirt road into familiar, unfamiliar woods. Love lost in the wind. If anyone were there to look, they would see a broken figure searching wildly, in between shouts of a rather odd name they might also hear crazed mumbling.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen”
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Before Peter met Rumi and Thanatos, after it happened, to say he was plagued by nightmares would be an understatement. He was alone, wandering, trying to help where he could, but constantly feeling like his skin was being separated from his soul. He would toss and turn at night, never comfortable, always burning with holy malice.
Because of this as soon as Peter opened his eyes he knew he was dreaming, he knew what a nightmare felt like, he knew what the torturous blight of his existence felt like.
The ever present glowing eye hovered before him, the thunderous beating of jagged wings, no words spoken but a fear and doubt struck through Peter. What was happening? Why was he here?
He noticed the feeling as soon as it started, a buzzing ring in his ears, the pounding of wings and his heart beating in tandem, and the feeling of millions of bugs crawling through him. He looked down and watched his skin wripple and warp, he felt piercing pain in his back as his scars, the branding of wings he never wanted, were bitten and torn through, as floods of blood and insects poured from the wounds.
Why was he here?
Where was Rumi?
What happened?
Why is he hurting?
Rumi promised.
His throat stung from screams, as locusts and flies and wasps spewed from his lungs. It was hell, it was agony, and it was a broken promise.
The world of Peter Sqloint’s eternal torture was not a lovely one, there is no small home, just an expanse of flesh and bone and crawling creatures looking for a place to nest. And in it all sat Peter, surrounded by feathers and eyes, golden tears streaming down roiling skin.
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Peter will never know why he was sent there, I’m sure he could make some educated guesses if his mind wasn’t being blinded by agony. He will sit there forever, wishing to be released, at the bidding of an angel with all the time in the world.
Rumi will have plenty of time to think, to hypothesize, to search for their love, to never find him. They will have time to finally regret, to suffer alone, to remember every selfish decision and steep in it, and to wonder, where their darling Peter has gone. Maybe he has found happiness without them, they will never know.