Work Text:
There's barely any light, the only bulb having been strained to its core from being left on for numerous nights.
Leo can't recall the last time he properly slept. It's all been power naps. The pages in his spell-book feel numb to his finger tips.
His eyes taut from reading the same over and over, his stomach unable to tell the difference from being hungry or full, his brain long detached from that of reality.
How long has he been like this? He doesn't remember. Any time his mind grows cognizant, his studies pull him back.
This illness he bares only continues to course through him. It won’t stop until it kills him.
He has to keep searching, it's all he has left if he wishes to find an answer.
It’s fascinating as it is devastating.
“Leo…” A sleepy voice calls, each knock slow and unhurried.
He doesn't reply, looking over his shoulder to eye the door.
Were those knocks real, or another hallucination? He remains doubled over, still, as he waits.
After a moment, there was a disgruntled sigh, “Leo, are you dead?” It’s Ritsu. “You haven’t left your room since yesterday. You're making Arashi worry.”
Worry? When did people worry about him?
If this sickness didn't follow him, everyone would feel indifferent towards him and his absence.
Now? It’s more pity than indifference. People offer him constant charity. The world isn’t fair. They claim. Always rush to rob those with talent.
It's nothing but a bunch of bullshit. Nothing but poppycock.
…Leo can’t help but let out a dry laugh.
Ritsu is long gone, giving up after another knock. Leo finds himself back in the arms of solitude.
He’s grown accustomed to this small sphere. It’s not the first time he’s been here—the lost of hearing, the inability to recall any fleeting memory. He's played this game before his own life gave up on him.
First time around, it shook him to his core. But comfort is always found in the center of agony, it's an inevitable encounter.
A weak smile forms over Leo’s lips to the thought, but it’s not long before those lips are soiled with blood as he coughs into his hand.
Looking down at his shaky, blood-stained palm, Leo swears under his breath. He’s running out of time.
He doesn't want it to be this way. He wants to keep living, continue composing, but life won't let him—it forces him to do curtain call.
Even when everyone around him has the ability to preform without a care, a worry, in the world. Forgive him for growing so bitter, but he can't help it when he feels like he's nothing but that of mockery.
“Stupid.” He whispers under his breath, the blood on his palm squelching as he clamps it tight. “It’s all so stupid.”
Leo ponders death—what purpose it serves, what it plans for him.
When he passes away, what will happen to his creative works? What is art without its maker?
Many knew Leo was gifted, he's had this aptitude since the moment he was born. Composing was his craft, his worth. What is he if he loses his physical body, unable to work his magic?
It's simple. He'll be nothing.
And that is unacceptable.
Leo picks up his spell-book once more. Some blood splattered across the pages, seeping onto the next underneath; spells were becoming illegible but that doesn't stop his search.
There must be something, anything, that could prolong this sickness. It could be for a few hours or a single day, Leo would take it.
But what is there that he hasn’t studied? He's read every book on his shelf and any that showed a glimpse of hope has been mercilessly analyzed for the past twenty-four hours.
He's been reading the same words on repeat, expecting a new spell to appear out of thin air.
The lack of answers make him furious; his body tense as he grinds his teeth, tightening his grip and narrowing his eyes. It's not fair, it never is.
The feeble, human body has—and will always be—utterly useless.
While sitting in his fit of rage, Leo skims through the pages one last time. Only then did he stumble upon an idea.
It was a reckless idea, one many would shamed him for, but it was an idea nonetheless.
But his rationale got to him, quick to lecture him about how stupid the thought was.
Have you lost it? He talks to himself—able to envision as second self right next to him. This will bring nothing but consequences. You're better than this!
Don't act so desperate.
His rationale was right, there were more precautions then benefits. Preforming this spell would be nothing but selfish.
Leo humbled himself, refraining from going any further with his idea.
Yet, he could sense a third person in his mind, in the room. Where there was ration, there was inane.
Are we not desperate? His emotionality spoke. When are we allowed to act out of pleading desires? If not now, then when?
Leo feels conflicted, torn between two decisions that held heavy weights.
In an alternate circumstance, this would be pure idiocy. Who relies on a demon to answer their calls?
But this is life or death. If he doesn't do this, what waits for him? Temporary pity before death?
Leo wanted to have faith in his doctors, believe that they would find the cure for this disease. They were the closest thing he had to a guardian angel.
So what does one do when even their own specter cannot heal their soul?
It leaves him here, trapped inside a body that forever aches. He can't recall the last time his knuckles didn't feel cold, his fingers no longer slender, and his eyes inflamed as they are bloodshot.
There is no cure for him. This is all he has if he wants to survive.
And when do humans grow selfless when it comes to means of survival?
He'll face whatever repercussions await him later. Right now? He can only think of himself if he wishes to see the next upcoming days.
Leo takes in a sharp inhale as he pushes his body up from the ground. He feels heavy, as if his ankles were bound down by chains; his feet dragging themselves across the creaking floor. It's almost as if his room is full of sand, pulling him down with each step.
He can't help but let out a wince, his body trembling. Even something as mundane as walking causes him nothing but pain—like nails have been lodged into the soles of his feet.
Having memorized every word of the spell by heart, Leo wastes no time as he grabs all the needed materials: salt, candles, matches, and a knife.
Yet, by the time he's walking back to where he left, his breathing becomes dry. He's forced to breathe in and out of his mouth, disturbed by how arid his lungs feel in his chest.
It's a miracle he could gather the strength to draw out the sigils provided in his spell-book, setting the candles down in their designated place. By the time he grabs a match and set off a flame, he's lost all nerve endings.
Then there was the final step: a fair drop of blood. It's what all rituals need in order to call forth a demon, symbolizing the bond between those from two different spheres.
But how was he going to do this? The mere thought made his body ache.
If he cuts himself now, it's inevitable he'll faint. Yet, if he sits back, his body will give out and leave him unconscious.
It's ironic. No matter what choice he makes, the end will be the same. Truly, an illusion of free choice.
Yet, in the end, he solidifies his decision by grabbing the knife. If this is how he goes out, he'll let it be known that he tried. He'll show all that watch from above, below, and in-between his futile attempts to resist his imminent end.
And when the Gods follow through with their judgement—whether they condemn Leo to Heaven or Hell—his attempts will burn itself into their memory. They'll remember the battle he put up when fighting death, long after he's passed.
He holds a firm grip on the handle, studying each dry blood stain that has yet to be washed off. One stain tells its own story, reminding Leo of all the spirals he's yield to in the past.
Hovering the sharp edge to his arm, Leo hesitates. The overwhelming sea of emotions is too much for him to bare.
His heart is racing. He can hear each heartbeat in his ears, feel it pulsate inside his hands.
Just when he was react to go forth, something interrupts him as he inhales.
It felt like something was clogged in his lungs. He had to hack it up, it was suffocating him.
It wasn't long before blood spewed across the floor, some of it dripping from his lips. His throat burned, carrying an unreachable itch. He tries to cool off with a swallow, but it's ineffective.
But he had his blood. All it cost him was a sore throat and a throbbing headache.
Leo brings his hand to the spine of his spell-book, turning to the epiclesis.
First time around, his words were nothing but inaudible gurgle due to the blood that laid waste on his tongue. Swallowing it down, Leo tries again.
While preforming the incantation, his headache doesn't let up. He could feel his mind beginning to split.
Since when could dizziness blind your sight? When did it make your head pound so immensely that you can feel the two halves of your brain tear themselves apart?
He failed to register that the incantation was a success, so caught up in his gyrating mind as it distorts his eye sight.
The ringing in his ears come back to him. The ear-piercing, unbearable ringing. It's as if a bullet had been shot through his skull.
Make it stop. He begs, knowing that no one will hear his call.
“Please.” That was all he could say, crying out to everything and nothing. His eyes were swelling up, eyebrows drawn together; the pain was immeasurable, a form a misery that Leo could never articulate in any artwork, no matter how hard he tried.
It's an excruciation that no man could bear. To convert this music and play it out loud would be enough to drive any listener to suicide.
“Please. ” Leo cries out one more time. But to whom? He had no idea.
Was it out to God, asking for a proclaimed savior to put him out of his misery?
Was it out to Satan, begging for that behind all suffering to hook out the brain that was planted inside his mind?
Whoever it was, he gave in to them.
He could feel his lungs wear themselves out as all the weight falls onto his knees, his body hitting the floor with a thud. He couldn't move, all the strength in his body sucked dry.
There's a want to smile, to let out one more dry laugh before he dies. Instead, there is nothing but a single tear that runs down his cheek.
All the pain in his body, the agony in his soul, numbs away. What remains is nothing but a tarnished, worn out carcass.
Until someone stops him, declaring, “You're not dead yet.” Causing Leo to take in a gasp of air.
He rolls over, hunched over as he chokes on the very air he took in. Every time he attempts to regulate his breathing, his body won't let him—dried blood and saliva blending together as it trinkles from his lips.
It's both too much and not enough. As much as Leo knows his body is overwhelm by oxygen, he craves more.
His coughing fit goes on for a while, but he's able to steady his breathing. He can feel the air go in and out of his lungs, soon methodical within his ribcage.
His breathing is different. It's smooth, soothing.
Leo feels as if his head has just come up from the deep sea. His ribs don't feel like a restriction on his lungs—allowing air to be taken in to its full capacity. The feeling is so irregular that Leo brings his hand to his chest, making contact with his skin to assure himself that this wasn't an illusion, this was real.
Only then did Leo notice the shadow looming over him, causing him to look up at the figure in front of him—the figure that saved him.
And, by God, was the sight holy.
The figure that looked down at Leo held a sharp glare, acknowledging this human as the one who summoned it. The thought makes it tighten its fists, ones that wore autumn red gloves that teased the scars hiding underneath. Its jelled stance caused its forearms to firm, becoming more defined when it crossed its arms.
Any display of flesh was carved to fit its attire—one of a red dress shirt and straight, black jeans. It all complimented the black-red blend of its horns.
But the most damned thing? The belt that hugged its waist, along with the silver rings that were snug around its middle, ring, and pinky finger.
Declaring this demon as handsome would do it no justice. This demon was sculpted by the Gods, a carving Leo could admire for hours. It's an oil painting that conveys any and all sinful emotions.
It would be an honor to compose a piece of this sight. Leo marveled, never knowing that sin can be an art in itself.
Leo was so encapsulated by the devil that he failed to take in the words that left its lips. By the time his brain doubled over, he could only process the fact that he was asked a question.
The devil reads Leo's face, aware that it has to repeat himself—something it was not fond of.
“What business as someone thin-boned as you have with me?” The demon's words were thick, grating. There was a sense of resignment in Leo, an acknowledgement of ruling.
“Ah…” How could Leo respond to that? The existence of this demon alone is enough to make Leo dig up his inferiority.
Leo straightens his back as he replies. “I-I summoned you because I needed you!”
The demon raised a brow, unsatisfied. “You needed me?”
“Needed you!” Leo's own voice gave him the jitters, lacking control over his volume. Just moments ago, the only thing that came out of his mouth was fits of blood.
“I was dying. I did die! If I didn’t summon you, I would be rotting on the floor!”
His words were inexcusable, causing the demon to bear a strong, scornful stare—one that carried many feelings, feelings Leo was unable to categorize.
That scared Leo, shook him to the bone.
“Obviously. Who do you think brought you back?” There was a hefty sigh as the demon places its hand on its forehead, fingers combing through its hair; some strands flitter down, conveying its vexation. “What I'm concerned with is what comes next.”
It could be due to Leo's thickheaded skull or the fact that he had just been risen from the grave, but either way, he couldn't catch on to where the demon was going with this.
While blurring out a rephrased, “What comes next?” Leo presses a finger to his bottom lip, blinking in nescience as he tilts his head.
Having to explain any further was agitating. This demon was not for prologuing dialogue.
With a hand resting on its hip, the demon steps forward. A long, silver chain clicks against itself, securing the jacket that rested over the devil's shoulders.
Its voice grows cold as it states, “My repayment.”
“Please,” the devil's voice dragged that word on with playfulness, clearly mocking Leo, “don't tell poor Madara you summoned him with no plan of compensation.”
Repayment? Beads of sweat ran down Leo's face. Repayment had never crossed his mind.
“Madara,” Leo bows his head, ashamed of what he must admit, “I have nothing to give back…”
He'll face whatever repercussions await him later. How big karma was when it came back to bite him in the ass was humiliating.
Leo can't bring himself to look Madara in the eyes, the latter emitted an unsettling aura as it spoke, its voice dead and apathetic. “That’s unacceptable.”
Even when he has no place to, Leo couldn't help but bicker.
“Oh, well, forgive me!” His words oozing with sarcasm, “I'm sorry I was in a frantic state while at death's door. Maybe I'll remember to get you a gift next time I'm there!”
Madara was about to argue back, opening its mouth, but Leo cuts it off before it could say anything. It's clear the latter had more to get off his chest.
“You think Van Gogh was in his right mind when he cut off his ear? No! Why do I have to use critical thinking skills while dying? Even when it comes to death, the expectations are higher for me than they are for others!”
“It’s not fair!” Leo stomps his foot, turning his back towards Madara. “Not fair, not fair!”
Leo turns his back to Madara, letting out a strong huff as he crosses his arms.
Did this human have the nerve to pout over this predicament? Was he stupid? Madara has never met someone so out of line.
And yet, something about Leo's defiance was tantalizing. Usually, summoners feared that in which they brought into the world, so encountering someone so willing to argue was refreshing.
A sharp grin arises on the devil's face as it steps closer. Madara placed a hand down to Leo's bicep, making small and steady movements as it rubs its hand up to the other's shoulders. “Well… This is quite troublesome.”
“Might I offer something that could suffice as payment?”
Although still crabby, the offer was enough to grab Leo's attention. His irritation was written all over his face as he turned his head over his shoulder, looking at Madara while replying, “Like an exchange? What is it that you want from me?”
There was something about Leo's gullible behavior that left Madara hardly able to contain himself.
If he tried hard enough, Madara would feel guilty as he declares, “Your soul.”
Devastation strikes down at Leo as his eyes widen. Nothing could prepare him for that bargain.
“My soul?” His face has gone pale, drained of all color. The sight was utterly adorable to Madara—who was trying to hide its coy smile by pressing his upper lip down against its bottom lip.
“Think about it,” Madara swindles, its words like of honey, “isn't it only fair to repay me with your body? After all, bringing someone back from the dead is no easy task. You really should be thanking me.”
Leo couldn't help but feel trapped. What was he supposed to do?
Madara being in such a close proximity didn't help by any means. It wasn't long before Leo began to feel constrained, noticing the lack of oxygen that wasn't there before.
“Giving you my soul would mean—”
“You'll be bound to me in mind, body, and spirit? Yes, it does.” Madara finished the rest of Leo's sentence, its voice lacking the same weight this situation carried. “Think of it as this: it's as if you and I are getting married. You mortals are all so obsessed with the concept of devotion, this can't be any more different, hm?”
That's not fair. Leo thinks to himself. Madara was able to speak in a tone that was truly seductive, making the topic of submission sound luxurious. Only a demon could make a deal like this so entertaining…
Leo could feel his lips tremble while taking a moment to himself. After that, he turns his body to face Madara, “Can I ask you one thing?”
“Oh,” Madara lets out a light chuckle, unable to stop itself from cupping Leo's cheek with the palm of its hand. It wanted to make sure Leo was looking right at him, “of course.”
Madara could see Leo's freedom slip through his own finger tips. It wouldn't be long Leo would find himself in the pits of subjection.
And with that, the summoner lets out a deep, pitiful sigh. It took everything in him to gather the courage and ask this one question:
“Can I still compose music, even when I'm under your bidding?”
“Well, I suppose—” Madara froze as it let that question sizzle in its head. Did it hear that correctly? Any look of confidence it bared was soon abolished. “Excuse me?”
There was no follow-up laughter, which meant Leo was serious about this.
Madara was perplexed, unable to keep a steady voice, “I-I mean, I guess? I—”
“Oh, then yeah!” Leo cheers, pumping both fists in the air in celebration. He lets out a chirpy laugh, “So, what are we waiting for? Come on! Our encounter has given me so many ideas, I need to write them down before I forget!”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Madara slows the conversation down. So much has happened, it's difficult to process all that's transpired. “So, let me get this straight, you're saying that you're cool with me taking your soul,” A lot of emphasis was added to that last word to remind Leo the urgency here, “as long as I let you compose music?”
Leo hums out an, “Mhm!” While he nods his head. “As long as you let me compose music, I'm cool with anything! I mean… How bad can Hell be?”
That response was enough to make Madara pinch its nose bridge.
“Besides…” Leo goes on, his voice growing more sentimental, “It's not like anything waits for me in this world.”
Madara's eyes widen, taken back by that confession. “You have… nothing?”
“Uh huh!” Leo confirms, keeping his confidence, “Truly nothing!”
This left Madara confused. Shouldn't humans have something? You always seem them go on about family, friends, material possessions. Humans are greedy creatures, it's not possible for them to have nothing. They must always desire something.
No words were needed for Leo to catch on to Madara's perplexation. He couldn't help but hold a tender smile.
“I've faced nothing but alienation ever since I was born.” He tells his story. “When you're young and quick to discovered your talents, many envy you. You're not admired, you're deemed as selfish for finding your purpose before most people learn how to count.”
Leo could feel himself grow grim as he turns back towards nostalgia. “The children know you're special, so they develop their first sense of bitterness towards you. They express their first curses at you, they're the first to wish death upon you…”
Madara is enthralled by Leo's melancholy. Demons only know the logistics of the world, unable to bear witness to the emotional side of it.
It was then that Leo's eyes grew dull, letting his misery swallow him. “Do you know why I always preferred music over human beings?”
“No,” Madara feels shameful for not knowing. This need to know entices it, beginning to consume it.
All the while, Leo can't help but feel repulsed, knowing that someone was becoming invested in his tale. “It’s because humans are imperfect beings.”
“When they're brought into this world, they're pure; they're the closest thing to perfection. Then, they grow old, stale, bitter.” He made sure that last word held conviction. “All humans are the same. They exist, therefore they rot, therefore they die—all while they let their greed consume them.”
“But the same can't be said for a symphony. Centuries could pass, and a harmony will remain in tact. It never disappoints you, abandons you, or betray you. It needs you as much as you need it—craving for your approval in order to nurture and grow.”
There was a moment of silence as Leo bends forward to grab something, his eyes locked onto the item as he straightens himself out.
Madara follows Leo's eyes, shocked to see the very knife that was nearly used earlier. Before it could question Leo, it watches the mortal bring his hand above his head; it stiffens to the sound of a violent jab echoing in the room—a single, disturbing crack of a bone was all that followed.
Leo could feel sweat rush down his face, holding a wide smile as his breathing grows shaky.
He was in excruciating pain, feeling his nerves throb as the knife stick out of the flesh of his palm. But there's a lack of care. When you've already died once, why should there be a need to care?
Collecting himself, Leo takes in a deep inhale before yanking the knife out, carelessly tossing it aside. He couldn't bring himself to notice the fresh line of blood that trailed the floor, not when a gash of blood was leaking down the back of his hand.
As the blood rains down his arm, Leo extends a hand out to Madara. He wears a heartfelt smile.
“Madara,” Leo calls out to, his voice almost pleading. “Take me. Make me yours.”
“Turn me into a melody that someone will yearn to preform. A composition someone will study, a composition someone will adore.”
Tears began to fall from Leo's face. The way Leo conveys his love and pain is angelic to Madara, it leaves it hypnotized.
It is moved by Leo—desiring him in ways that was once deemed unimaginable.
Madara takes Leo's hand—hesitant when it hears Leo instinctively wince in pain.
“Yes,” Madara nods, its words tender and light-weight; it's not long before their fingers interlock, “of course.”
It can feel Leo's blood run down his entire arm, capsulating their bond.
It was unexpected to feel Leo's blood-soaked hand untangle itself, gently clasping Madara's cheek as the two bring their lips together for embrace.
Madara wasn't used to this. These feelings of fondness and attraction.
When you're raised to feed on nothing but carnal desires, what do you do when you find something that provides more?
You indulge. Just like humans, Madara found itself encountering attachment—a feeling he could never get enough of.
But can it handle all of this? This act bares so many emotions, all while giving you such little time to figure it out…
It was only then and there that the truth was realized:
Madara had all the time in the world to figure these feelings out; to figure Leo out and study him for the masterpiece that he is.