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Solomon didn’t think he could ever be as terrified as he was when he got that call from Simeon. He remembered the pure, ice-cold terror he felt at the quiet words, the way Simeon sounded so broken but so desperate to hold on. That desperation was their only lifeline to Simeon’s life, the only assurance he wasn’t going to be gone at a second’s notice, and that was terrifying. It was a thousand times worse than any fear Solomon had ever felt for himself, even back when magic-users such as witches and sorcerers were condemned to death in the cruelest ways; pyres and beheading amongst other fates.
At the time of the call, he didn’t really know exactly what it was that was happening, but it felt so eerily familiar. And then when he rushed to Simeon, finding a locked door, everything fell into place in the mental puzzle he was trying to figure out—one of the worst outcomes possible. Knowing what was going on, however, didn’t mean the sight of the angel curled up in a bathtub, on the verge of bleeding to death from self-inflicted cuts, with a certain emptiness in his eyes, was ever something he was prepared for. Nor the words that came after he was (relatively) safe– “I was going to do it, Sol.”
It’d been a little over a week, and he’d be lying to say that fear had entirely faded. It was never as mind-numbing as it was that first night, encompassing him to the point he had been shaking (he didn’t think Simeon noticed at the time, thankfully), but it spiked every time he saw the angel so helpless to the cruel urges in his mind. Every time he saw those dull blue eyes fall on the blade of a knife, and he could practically see the war going on behind them, between needs and wants, desires and logic.
Truly, Solomon felt too scared to leave Simeon alone. And he knows Simeon was scared to be alone. So he sat by him every single moment he could, held him when he needed it, and when that was not an option he set his hand on the angel just to remind both of them that they were both there and Simeon was not alone. Remind himself that Simeon was alive and there, and remind Simeon that he had somebody to lean on and talk to, somebody to protect him.
He hadn’t wanted to resort to just letting Simeon cut himself. But there didn’t appear to be another option. Nothing else was working, and he could see the fear in everything Simeon did. The fear of himself; that he’d give in one day and end up down the rabbit hole all over again. That pulling himself up from his attempt that night would have been for nothing. It hurt to see.
If he just let him suffer, unable to find any way to get out of those urges, unwilling to seek professional help until he was at a point that wasn’t rock-bottom, it wouldn’t be long before it built up and became just too much.
Simeon did try every day, he could see it. It took two days to give in initially, after the offer, which was a great start. That was four days ago; tonight was the second time. Solomon only counted nineteen cuts this time; though only two less, it was an improvement.
The angel had long since calmed down, his legs draped across Solomon’s and his arms wrapped around the sorcerer’s chest, head on his shoulder. Aside from the soft hum of the air conditioning, it was quiet. Comfortably so, but either way, Solomon knew had to say something. They’d put off the conversation long enough.
“Simeon?” He began, running his fingers through the angel’s hair. In response, Simeon only gave a soft ‘hm?’ If the situation was any different, Solomon might’ve found it cute. “Are you.. ready to talk more about this all?”
He made sure Simeon had an out if he wasn’t, and just with the way he phrased his words he hoped it was clear. The angel still tensed in his grip either way. Almost instinctively, he held him closer, perhaps for comfort. He did not rush Simeon’s answer.
“..I don’t know where to start.” The brunette mumbled.
“Do you think it’d be easier if I asked you specific questions?” Solomon offered. This earned a soft nod, so he thought for a moment about which question to ask first. “..how long have you felt.. suicidal?”
Simeon was still and silent for a bit, before sitting up a bit more. He still leaned into Solomon’s touch though, and didn't move to sit anywhere else.
“I don’t remember when it started.” He began, fidgeting slightly with the hem of the sorcerer’s shirt—both of their capes were off, and he had nothing else to fidget with, so Solomon let him. It almost surprised him, now that he really thought about it, how restless Simeon became when he was nervous. “..I was.. a lot younger than Luke when I first felt.. expendable. Like if I was gone, not a single angel would bat an eye. I wasn’t.. suicidal.. but I felt worthless.”
Younger than Luke? Amongst empathy and sorrow for the angel, Solomon felt a faint, white-hot rage boil within him. Who raised Simeon? How did they fail so horribly that he felt so disposable at such a young age? Was it just neglect, or more, he wondered?
“It was a while later I started genuinely wanting to die.” He continued. “Maybe.. a few hundred years ago. I.. attempted twice, in a span of a few months, not long before Luke was put under my care. And then after that, I had to pull myself together to care for him. He was younger then, and.. I couldn’t take his guardian away from him so quickly.”
Solomon waited for a moment to see if Simeon had anything else to add, but nothing came. So he asked his next question, softer than the first.
“Simeon, what happened to make you feel this way? How did your guardian treat you as a child?”
Solomon could see and feel the way Simeon flinched. He leaned back into the sorcerer’s chest, shaking just slightly. In response, Solomon held him tighter.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that right now. You can wait until you’re ready. You’re safe here, okay?”
The angel nodded in response, and Solomon began to slowly rock him, holding the angel like something fragile that could break from just a small wind.
Perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth.
. . .
It was six days later when Solomon found Simeon writing again. Aside from a few attempts at writing since that night, the angel had been in a severe writer's block for the last two and a half weeks. In Simeon’s words, it was physically distressing to so much as pick up a pen, and the idea of writing was extremely unappealing. For somebody who spends so much free time on his books, anybody who had no idea what was going on would be rightfully concerned.
Solomon couldn’t blame him, though.
The sight was pleasantly surprising, and it calmed the gnawing worry Solomon constantly felt for his friend. It was a slight hope that things were returning even just slightly to normal. The sorcerer couldn’t lie, really; he knew that there was more than likely going to be a crash in the future, be it small or large. This wasn’t going to just be uphill from here. He’s thought that in the past, and been horribly wrong. But for now, Simeon was doing well, and he was determined to ensure they both enjoyed it.
“Simeon,” The sorcerer made his presence clear as he stepped into the room. The angel in question looked up, giving a half-hearted smile before returning his attention to writing. “Your writer’s block is gone?”
“Not exactly,” Simeon said softly. “But it’s better. It’s not stressful to write anymore.”
“That’s good.” Solomon walked over, setting a hand on the back of the angel’s chair and leaning over. Simeon eyed him carefully, and the sorcerer sighed; Simeon wasn’t a big fan of people reading his unpublished work unless invited to. Solomon had been asked before, but not right now.
He chose to look at Simeon instead. This seemed to be enough, because the angel turned his attention back to his writing.
“What’d you come to talk to me about?” He asked. Solomon hummed quietly, tapping his finger on the chair.
“Nothing in particular. Just wanted to see you.” He answered, smiling. “You don’t mind me being in here, though, do you?”
“No,” Simeon answered, tapping the page with his pencil. “Of course not. Your presence is always welcome.”
“I’d hope.” Solomon joked softly, looking from Simeon to the desk he was working at. It wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t the most organized it’d ever been. One thing caught his attention, though: Under a small pile of schoolwork, there were envelopes. With a grimace, the sorcerer noticed he recognized those envelopes. He’d only seen them twice, but he couldn’t help but remember every small detail from that night.
“Simeon,” He said slowly, standing up and moving the papers aside to reach them. The angel tensed, watching him. “Are these.. your suicide notes? Why do you still have them?”
“I..” He set the pencil down, and Solomon could see his lip fold a bit as he chewed on the inside of it. “I haven’t gotten around to throwing them away.”
“You’re worried something might happen.” The human observed. Clearly, he hit the nail on the head, because Simeon averted his eyes and slunk into his chair slightly. Solomon sighed, gathering the envelopes. He counted them: There were a total of 17 of them, and though Solomon is curious of the contents of his own, he doesn’t open it. There could be secrets in there, ones Simeon wanted to be known since there was no time left to tell, ones Simeon could tell him personally when he’s ready, because he’s alive. With one look between the papers and the angel, he quickly decided what was going to happen.
“We’re burning these.”
“What?” Simeon looked up at him, a little startled.
“I’m not saying there’s no chance of you trying again, though I wish there was,” Solomon told him, turning to look at him directly. “But right now, neither of us has any intention of it, so getting rid of these is the best option. On top of that, you would never leave without leaving your last words for everybody.. so getting rid of these means you would have to take the time to write more.” He raised them slightly. “Which gives me the time to get to you, if you ever get to that low point again.”
Simeon opened his mouth, closed it. His expression was pensive, slightly guilty, or perhaps regretful. Then he sighed.
“That does make sense.” He replied.
“One more thing, though.” Solomon continued. “Along with burning these, I’d like to try something else.” The angel raised an eyebrow, listening curiously. “I want you to write out your emotions and thoughts onto a paper. Everything negative you can think of—anything you want, I won’t look at it, so even if it’s something you don’t feel comfortable telling me yet, that’s okay. And we can burn it with these. Like burning those negative emotions themselves.”
Simeon looked back at his pen and pencil, taking a moment to nod. “Alright.”
. . .
That night, perhaps half an hour after Luke had settled down for sleep after dinner, they stood at the edge of the forest near the hall. Solomon had used magic to start a small bonfire, and though Simeon fussed about the safety aspect of that, the sorcerer reassured him it wouldn’t spread.
The fire was warm against the biting cold of a Devildom night, the crackling breaking the eerie silence. Solomon watched Simeon, who held all eighteen pieces of paper in his hand, the newest one atop the heep. He reread the words he’d written over and over, and eventually Solomon set his hand on Simeon’s shoulder, offering the angel a reassuring smile. Despite initially startling at the contact, Solomon knows he finds it comforting.
The first envelope is thrown into the fire. It lights up as soon as it touches the blaze, curling and crumbling as the embers voice their approval with loud crackles. The second and third one come next, feeding it, but the flame does not spread. It simply grows in place, illuminating the trees and the two men in front of it. Four, five, six, seven. Solomon can feel the way Simeon tenses with each envelope that burns, perhaps uncomfortable with the loss of his notes to fall back on, but they both know whole-heartedly that this is the best course of action.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Solomon catches his name on the tenth that enters the blaze, and for all the situation is, he can feel himself relax a bit. If any of them would need a note as a farewell the very most, Solomon thinks it’s probably himself and Luke. Speaking of such, the twelfth to be burned has Luke’s name on it. He doesn’t recognize the thirteenth, or fourteenth, but the fifteenth is Lucifer, and then Diavolo. The last of the letters enters the fire, burning to ashes alongside all of the others. And all that’s left is the note Simeon had written to himself.
Solomon tightens his grip on Simeon’s shoulder, encouraging him. The angel’s shoulders rise and lower with a deep breath, and he chooses to step closer to the fire. Instead of throwing this item, he holds his hand up, letting the page burn in his hands. His eyes watch as the letters melt along with the paper, and he only lets go when the flames get too close to his hand. They’re both silent and entirely still for a moment, until Simeon’s entire body releases its tension. Solomon gives him a moment before speaking.
“Are you ready to go back?” He asked softly.
“Give me a moment.”
Solomon does. They stand there for a while, but Solomon doesn’t complain. He’ll give Simeon as much time as he needs. When he turns around, there’s tears in his eyes, but Solomon doesn’t find himself too worried. There’s a lot of emotions in the air right now, and Simeon is just learning to let go. His hand doesn’t go to the angel’s shoulder this time. He reaches out and laces his fingers in between Simeon’s. The brunette takes another look back on the pyres, his eyes bright with unshed tears and the light of the fire. The human tightens his grip on Simeon’s hand, and at last the angel turns back around.
“Okay. I’m ready.” He whispered. “Let’s go home.”