Chapter Text
"Let's see that."
DeBlanc gestured to Fiore's bloodied hand.
“Why?” The question was genuine. Short of dying, Fiore had no idea what was to be done to such an injury.
“We need to clean it,” DeBlanc began, now reaching toward the hand in question.
Fiore offered it, but was still perplexed. “Clean it?”
“Yeah.” DeBlanc knitted his brow and gently rotated the angel’s hand in his own. Using his ring finger, he dabbed at the center of the gooey pulp – an action which resulted in a sharp intake of breath from Fiore, who clenched his fist without intending to. DeBlanc nodded and frowned to himself as he stood up from the bed. Fiore watched him disappear into the bathroom.
“Clean it how?” He asked, beginning to stand up himself.
DeBlanc returned in time to tut in disapproval, and gently push Fiore into sitting again. He had a small, polyester bag with him.
“No, no…you stay down.” Fiore obediently returned to his position on his back, watching quietly as DeBlanc sat on the bed’s edge and busied himself with sorting through the bag’s contents.
“Clean it how?” He repeated.
“With this.” DeBlanc set out a plastic bag of cotton balls and a small bottle labeled Rubbing Alcohol. Fiore knew of alcohol. But he did not know of its relation to tending to a wound.
DeBlanc unscrewed its lid, releasing a harsh burning to irritate Fiore’s nostrils. Stronger than most. Placing a cotton ball over the bottle’s mouth, DeBlanc quickly twisted his wrist – turning the two items downward and back upward again. Balancing the soaked cotton ball between his pinky and ring finger, he screwed the cap back onto the bottle, which he then set aside.
He gestured for Fiore to give him his hand again.
A moment later, holding the cotton ball above the wound, DeBlanc paused – guiltily looking aside.
“This’ll sting…sorry.”
Before he had a chance to fully process his words, Fiore’s hand was burning with yet another new and unique variety of pain. Somehow, a sudden noise had found its way out of Fiore's mouth. He quickly directed his mouth to close, and his vocal chords to stay still – but it was too late. He grimaced in frustration as DeBlanc finished dabbing fire into his flesh.
“Didn't want to make a noise.” Fiore explained, jaw tight, as DeBlanc prepared another cotton ball.
“I know, my dear.” DeBlanc replied softly, leaning in closer to move some stray hair away from the perimeter of damage gathered ‘round his left brow. “Ready?”
Fiore closed his eyes tight and nodded quickly – determined this time to not feel anything. But as the cotton ball seared cold razor blades into the pattern of his cuts, he could not help but clench up in reaction.
As the dabbing finished, Fiore realized his bandaged hand had been gripping DeBlanc’s wrist. This was especially confusing, as straining the hand caused Fiore additional pain – a pain he felt, but for some reason, did not mind. Reopening his fist, Fiore saw that DeBlanc was sort of smiling a bit.
Again DeBlanc shuffled through the bag, pulling out a box labeled Bandages: Assorted Sizes. A few moments later, he was peeling off a particularly large one for the side of Fiore's hand.
“Hold still.”
He watched DeBlanc carefully apply the material to his flesh – making sure none of its tack touched the actual wound. Once the blood was covered, he pressed the rest of the bandage down around the curves of Fiore's hand with what look like intense concentration.
DeBlanc opened and closed the hand, examining the way it absorbed its blood, and how pliable the edges of the bandage were. Satisfied, he placed the hand down gently onto the bed. This done, he then scooted up closer to where the bed met the wall – sitting cross-legged, he gestured for Fiore’s head to move up onto his knee.
Suitably repositioned, DeBlanc leaned in to examine Fiore's black eye and collection of cuts. He pulled a different box out from the bag. This box was too close for Fiore to read, but he didn’t mind.
“Hmm. These are shallow – don't think we need to go and cov’r-rup your whole head. Clear ones’ll do.”
Fiore nodded, though he didn't know at all what DeBlanc meant. What he did know was that the sensation of his other’s fingers delicately maneuvering the terrain of his forehead and hairline…tracing crevices of stress away into lulling smooth…left Fiore thoroughly enraptured. His soul was utterly captivated – yet absolutely at peace.
Although Fiore had closed his eyes, he could tell DeBlanc had finished bandaging when he felt DeBlanc’s fingers begin to open and close idly in Fiore's hair, no longer dedicated to a precise task.
“Ah, sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings…
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing? – see, I am swinging –
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.”
DeBlanc released the old verse quietly, almost just to himself. Almost. Fiore supposed a more apt description would be that DeBlanc sang at a level meant only for the two of them. Because somehow, he was sure that DeBlanc had intended for him to hear.
As his thoughts grew quiet, Fiore remembered an early stroll of theirs.
A stroll…that's what they had called it. After their first…encounter, it quickly became the solution to their confusing inability to leave the other alone.
“What is it?” DeBlanc had asked him. Even though he most certainly knew what ‘it’ was… even though he knew Fiore knew he knew. At the time, pretending not to know better was a staple to all their conversations. DeBlanc was much better at pretending than Fiore.
“I…think that…maybe I don't want…to not see you again.” Fiore explained, awkwardly.
It took a moment for the demon to detangle Fiore’s words, but once he had – his face lit up in the strangest way. DeBlanc’s eyes were smiling without reserve – but his actual smile was subdued – controlled. He chewed his bottom lip in thought for a second before he spoke…the whole time, he kept his gaze tied to Fiore’s.
“Well…” He'd started, terribly slowly. “We could end up in the same place, it isn’t impossible. And…if we did…there’d surely be no harm going on…you know…a stroll, right?”
In retrospect, Fiore would consider DeBlanc’s suggestion to be incredibly brave. At the time, he was too relieved to consider much beyond the immense comfort he gained from knowing that he would see him again.
“A stroll?” Fiore paused, deciding to ignore all but the most innocent implications of such a meeting. He nodded. “You’re right…there wouldn’t be any harm in that. I can – I’ll find you, when you're back around again. Then we – together – can – er – go for a stroll.” Fiore then swallowed, nodding in a bizarrely misplaced businesslike manner. As he turned to leave…he felt DeBlanc’s sparkling eyes watching him go.
At the time, Fiore hadn’t understood why saying the word together had made his soul shiver.
That first rendezvous was special. DeBlanc had – in his typically quiet manner – gone extravagantly out of his way to create a place worth strolling through. Using an abandoned pocket of limbo tunneling – an old, semi-collapsed passageway between Heaven and Hell – DeBlanc exhausted all his resources composing a scene analogous to one he remembered from a travel of his to Earth.
As DeBlanc ushered him through – Fiore’s sense wonder took control of his system immediately…leaving him far too enthralled to give a second thought to how ludicrously illegal all of it was.
The area was wooded. Leaves lit emerald with false sunlight…a brook babbling as silver fish flitted beneath its surface…somehow, even breathing was new – the air there laden with honey suckle and pollen. Below him, grass glittered with dew…the green blades, decorated with glass pearls, seemed precious and delicate – and it took several moments of staring at his feet before Fiore understood he was allowed to tread through.
“You…made this?” Fiore crouched to examine a dandelion – he knew it was a dandelion, though he was certain he had never seen or thought about one previously. The same could be said for most of plant and animal life that surrounded him…he was so peculiarly able to put names and identities to each fragment of creation – yet not knowledgeable enough to understand much beyond their definition. Holding his breath, he touched the softness of the dandelion’s seeds – which responded to his touch immediately – breaking apart into a hundred silver wisps – swirling up and away without hesitation into the breeze. Fiore watched them disappear, mesmerized.
DeBlanc smiled a strange smile – it was a little embarrassed, a little proud – like he wasn't sure he knew which he should be more of.
“I model dimensions, for…” DeBlanc shifted uncomfortably and nodded downward. “…ya know. I’ve gotten…okay at it, but I never get to make anything nice.” He paused, eyes following his finger as he gently traced the veins of a low hanging leaf. DeBlanc sighed, refocusing on Fiore as he continued. “And even if I hid it in the tunnels, like this – I wouldn’t have anyone to…”
Fiore looked up at him, not out of understanding – but simply because he felt he should. Meeting Fiore’s eyes, self-awareness eclipsed DeBlanc’s features. He quickly turned away, developing a sudden interest in tree bark. “Anyway – no one would see it. So, you know. I thought – might as well.” His mannerisms and voice were steeped in uncharacteristic anxiety. Fiore, deciding DeBlanc didn’t want to be looked at, stood up – ready to further explore the chamber.
He carefully ducked below bough of tangled vibrance. Everything was so incredibly full of life – of color, texture, and smell. He slowly approached the brook, crouching again. Fiore never had seen Earth water before – and the idea of it had always fascinated him. Unconstrained – shapeless, formless, yet able to become so much. Water was the sustenance of creation…the sustenance of sustenance. On Earth, it existed as part of the very landscape.
And here it was…in front of him. He slowly dipped a hand beneath the surface. It was soft. When he removed his hand, he saw that its residue – though transparent – gleamed with stray light. Fiore grazed his hand over the flowers dotting the stream’s edge. They were soft too, but in a different way. His hand left bits of water…bits of gleam…on the petals as it passed over…extraordinary.
“This…is this really what it's like on Earth?” Fiore asked quietly. He didn't look at DeBlanc when he asked. He couldn’t break his gaze away from watching a stray leaf float across the surface of the water…something he found to be so seamless, so natural, so beautiful.
“Some parts of it.” He answered. “Others parts are…less nice. But I went someplace like this once. I…I tried to remember – of course, it isn't perfect – things fall apart too easily, and I couldn't get the sky right – but – ”
Fiore interrupted him, suddenly realizing DeBlanc had no idea what he was thinking.
“It's…it’s…” Fiore stood, and tried to sum up what was around him. “DeBlanc…it’s…it’s so...” The angel’s eyes darted around, grasping. “…very good. I've never seen anything like it before. I never could’ve expected… But you – ah. This…this is wonderful.” He looked at DeBlanc – who looked nothing short of star-struck. Fiore’s soul buzzed pleasantly. Had he done that?
The demon smiled a fraction, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other – before gesturing for the Angel to see something else.
They approached a thick bush of blackberries…another creation Fiore found himself knowing without knowing. DeBlanc parted the bush in a way that shouldn’t have been possible – crumpling them to the sides, like curtains. Within was a deep, displaced darkness…a separate nook of creation.
“I made a little bit of nighttime, so you could see the lightning bugs…watch – ”
Fiore knelt and peered into the small hollow which held darkness in contradiction to the laws of nature. After a moment, he saw a small bulb of light surround the silhouette of a small beetle. It occurred again, and again. Floating, the creatures would glow – creating perfect pulses of soft, yellow, light.
Fiore spoke with more breath than voice, startled by the heavenly nuance he was witnessing. “They…oh – look – how…how very…how good.”
DeBlanc nodded, and smiled – his expression now clearly favoring pride to shame. He gestured toward a set of stone benches.
“We can sit, if you'd like.”
Still lacking words, Fiore sat on the closest bench. DeBlanc sat on a separate bench, a little further away. Engulfed in wonder, it took Fiore a while to become cognizant of the distance. He looked to his side, expecting to see DeBlanc, when he realized.
“You…you don't have to sit over there. I mean, if you want – this one’s enough for both of us. You can be closer.”
As he stood to join him, Fiore could tell DeBlanc was trying to play down how much he appreciated the invitation. A beaming smile rested beneath the dreamy expression he was maintaining, and his easy step was just a tad too rushed.
Together, the two of them watched the elements of creation dance with one another in perfect unity.
After some time spent doing this, DeBlanc released a verse – whispered it out into the air – where it seemed it belonged as much as the Dandelion seeds:
“I once knew all the birds that came,
And nested in our orchard trees,
For every flower, I had a name –
My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;
I knew where thrived in yonder glen
What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe –
Oh, I was very learned then,
But that was very long ago.”
Fiore's brow knitted as he heard the words. “What…what was that?”
DeBlanc’s expression snapped back to the reality around him, and – looking a bit surprised himself – he shrugged sheepishly in reply. “Ah – sorry. Just a poem, something I read in a book once. Up on Earth.” He frowned slightly, then chuckled. “Well, I suppose down on Earth for you. Hah…
Fiore didn't respond. The words were still tumbling around in his head. He'd felt so peculiar, hearing the verse spill out and across a place like this. His brow remained furrowed while he considered this – the spell only broken when a butterfly landed on Fiore’s knee.
“Is there more?” He asked sharply, causing an unsuspecting DeBlanc to jump.
“Ah…sure, sure there is.” DeBlanc watched the Angel, confused.
“I would like to hear some more, please.” Fiore said, realizing he may not have been clear before.
DeBlanc nodded slowly, then turned to look far away – at a horizon beyond the perimeter of what could be seen within the microcosm he'd created. His features relaxed as he spoke, and the words joined the wind as naturally as they had before.
“I knew the spot upon the hill –
Where checkerberries could be found.
I knew the rushes near the mill –
Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
I knew the wood – the very tree
Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
And all the woods and crows knew me –
But that was very long ago.”
Silence again. DeBlanc was still looking off wistfully. Fiore wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. So instead he asked the first question that crossed his mind:
“What were you doing? When you were down on Earth?” DeBlanc’s wistfulness fizzled away as he turned to raise an eyebrow at Fiore, who – thinking he understood the root of the expression – quickly corrected himself. “Oh – I mean, up on Earth, for you.” Fiore looked at DeBlanc earnestly, waiting for this correction to sink in and relieve any confusion.
DeBlanc cocked his head for a beat, and opened his mouth as if about to speak – but ultimately he just chuckled genuinely – shaking his head as he looked to the ground. “Hah. You're sweet.” He said, quietly.
Fiore looked from side to side, surprised by the word’s effect on him. Hurriedly, he tried to think of something nice he could say back.
“Erm – well, you're short.” He said, conclusively. When DeBlanc looked up at him, his face was all crunched up in bewilderment and glazed slightly with offense, Fiore realized that wasn't necessarily a nice thing to be called. He stammered as he tried to elaborate on what he meant.
“Ah – what I mean is – you're smaller than most.”
DeBlanc looked off in a moment of consideration. When he turned back, his eyebrows were raised to a higher level of bewilderment – while any shade of offense he’d held was replaced by one of slight bemusement. Fiore tried again.
“No, no. As in your size – ”
DeBlanc’s smirk widened.
Fiore took a breath. “You're small, short.” DeBlanc began to laugh – but Fiore cut him off. “No no – listen. Because you're also...you know…a…”
DeBlanc’s features calmed a bit, considering this new information. He spoke slowly, his tone not making secret of the fact he was humoring Fiore’s point. “So…I'm short, smaller than most – small as in my size – and, I’m a demon. Is…that it?”
Fiore’s features converged in frustration…something which seemed to have a direct effect on the length of DeBlanc’s grin.
“Wait wait. I mean, Yes – but, you – ” Fiore exhaled loudly. “You don't care. About any of the extra parts, the parts we have to care about. You go and talk to anyone without fear. Because you’re more than what we're told you are – ”
DeBlanc quickly lowered his eyes at these words, features drained and a little defeated. The angel pushed forward. “Listen! You're not what you're told you are either. You know better. You learned better. If you were a tall, high-ranking Seraphim – ”
Fiore paused to acknowledge DeBlanc’s knee-jerk scowl and wretch of disgust. “Well, right. Besides being…insufferable, you also wouldn't be so…impressive. You bein…you, makes it different. So, ah, you know. I…I like that you're short.” Fiore paused, briefly meeting DeBlanc’s waiting gaze. A flood of warmth. “I mean. I like you. All of you….spose that encompasses the height bit too, maybe should’ve gone with that instead – but then – thought it was important for you to know – prolly not something you already knew – wanted to – well, I don't know…”
Fiore's rambling died off as he caught sight DeBlanc, who was wearing a new expression. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly agape…like the wind had been knocked out of him. Eventually, DeBlanc took a breath, regaining composure. “Well…huh. I – Thank you, Fiore. That's…you're…sweet.” He turned and looked out at the brook a distance in front of them. “I…I like sweet.”
More warmth filling his soul, Fiore stared up at the false sky. It was a different shade now – purplish, orange, and pink. Sunset.
“You made it so the day changes?” He asked. DeBlanc nodded, still watching the water.
Fiore caught sight of a glowing pulse floating out near the honey suckles. “If…if you were going to have it become nighttime anyway, then why did you make a separate pocket of space for the glowing bugs?”
DeBlanc turned to him in confusion. “Glowin bugs? You mean lightning?”
Fiore frowned, crinkling up his brow, following a glowing bug with his eyes. “They don’t seem like lightning.”
DeBlanc’s eyes wandered away, as if solving a problem. “So…you just…” His gaze snapped back to Fiore. “…Changed it?”
Fiore’s face wound-up tightly for a second, considering the question. After several beats, he shrugged, features relaxing. “I like glowing better. ‘Glow’ works too.”
DeBlanc’s mouth hung open a bit – expression caught somewhere between amusement and shock. “I…I don’t think you can do that. Go an…change it, like that.”
Fiore was unperturbed. “I like glowing better,” he repeated.
DeBlanc leaned back, stretching slightly. “Huh. Well…I think I might like glowing better too.”
Fiore nodded. Then he frowned. “You didn’t answer – why’d you make a separate bit for the glowing bugs, if you had night coming anyway?”
DeBlanc smiled slightly, looking up at the trees. “Didn't think you'd stay long enough for night. Thought maybe seeing the lightnin’ – the glowin’ – bugs might make ya want to stay longer.”
Fiore considered this for a moment. The air was still so sweet.
“I would have stayed anyway.” He announced, decisively.
A pause. Fiore looked toward DeBlanc without turning his head. He liked how he looked when he simply was…countenance uncomplicated by awareness, DeBlanc seemed peaceful in a way – if tremendously tired. Witnessing this peace felt like a treasure, while witnessing the exhaustion…for reasons Fiore did not understand…acted on his soul like a fork in taffy – pulling and teasing it forward and toward the demon’s suffering. A demon. His DeBlanc.
Radiance twinkled through the layers of his soul. Distracted, Fiore didn't notice immediately that DeBlanc’s demeanor had changed…that the demon was now furtively watching the angel furtively watch him.
He still looked so tired.
“You can lay down, if you like.” Fiore offered, using a voice that reminded him of pouring cream and which he felt suited the nighttime.
DeBlanc raised an eyebrow – and spoke slowly. “On…the other bench?”
Fiore shook his head, gesturing across his lap. “You can fit here – I don't mind sitting up right, if you don't mind bending your legs.”
DeBlanc’s face was frozen for a moment. Fiore wasn’t sure what he was thinking.
When DeBlanc replied, his voice seemed trapped in a jar.
“I don’t mind.”
Fiore nodded, and moved to the far left of the bench. DeBlanc, carefully, laid the back of his head on top of Fiore’s legs. Measuring the contact, Fiore could tell DeBlanc was holding back some of his weight, afraid of lying down completely.
“It’s alright. You can lay all the way. Won't sleep, otherwise.” Fiore half-whispered, hoping that his tone made it…easier…for DeBlanc. “It's alright.”
“…okay.” The demon spoke softly, before yielding his head’s weight to the angel. It was even darker now. A few moments passed.
“How does it end?” Fiore murmured dreamily, watching artificial stars reflect in an artificial pond.
DeBlanc didn't need clarification. His tone was low, and poignant – matching the night perfectly.
“And pining for the joys of youth,
I tread the old familiar spot
Only to learn this solemn truth:
I have forgotten, am forgot.
Yet here's this youngster at my knee
Knows all the things I used to know;
To think I once was wise as he! –
But that was very long ago.”
He sighed and yawned, beginning the last verse. Their souls both breathed in time.
“I know it's folly to complain
Of whatsoever the fates decree,
Yet, were not wishes all in vain,
I tell you what my wish should be:
I'd wish to be a boy again,
Back with the friends I used to know.
For I was, oh, so happy then –
But that was very long ago.”
Fiore hummed in appreciation. “It's almost like a prayer.” He whispered, speaking to the treetops. He felt DeBlanc’s head nod in his lap a few seconds later.
“I suppose it is.”
Back in the present, Fiore turned suddenly to look up at DeBlanc.
“Hmm?” DeBlanc asked, Fiore’s movement rousing him from sleep.
“Thank you.” Fiore spoke with as much sincerity as he could convey in the darkness.
Sleepily, eyes still closed, DeBlanc smiled. He drummed his fingers in Fiore's hair a couple times, before lovingly flattening it out again.
"You're sweet.” He sighed.
And then Fiore drifted off, thinking of bugs that glowed.