Work Text:
You are standing in the middle of the room, watching Faustus rush around his library that is only limited in size by the current finitude of human knowledge. He picks up ancient volumes and crisp science journals and puts some in a pile, while others, abandoned, fly to the ground.
"There can't be any redemption for me, any forgiveness," you remind him.
"It's not what I'm looking for!" he shouts from among the aisles. "I would burn the world to bring some heat to you."
It's a typical misconception — that Hell is only hot, with its fabled everlasting flame and ash and sulphur, but this is far from the truth. Much of it is permafrost. This is where you are to reside, along with the legion of fellow apostates, never forgiven but never forgotten either.
This cold is a part of your eternal penance. You will never know warmth, not a sliver of heat however faint. No matter what you do or feel, you were, are and forever will be freezing.
Lust is fire, and you've known lust.
Wrath is fire, and you've known wrath.
Hate is fire, and you've known hate.
Yet, you are still cold.
You sway there, pinned to the spot, while more and more books are being torn open and shut closed. You could've hardly imagined that telling Faustus this simple and long-accepted fact would cause such a reaction, yet now you are amazed by how deeply he is able to care. And it's ten years into his soul-condemning deal.
One of Faustus's very first questions was about the nature of dark matter, and you dutifully provided the answer that made him huff in disbelief — yes, it's all God and the residuals of His Holy workings, like Heaven and Hell, sacrality and magicks. It was silly of Faustus, of course, to be sceptical of it considering you stood before him. Mortals take a long time to come to terms with things, especially with the results of their own actions.
A hundred questions later, you've heard, "So, a quarter of the Universe hates you personally?"
"I've never thought of it like this," you said. "Or felt."
"Is a quarter the wrong number?" Faustus suggested. "Too small? Too big?"
"You don't understand," you shook your head, irritated. "He's not a number. Not a fraction."
"Maybe, I don't want to understand," your master said insolently. "I've rejected Him long ago, haven't I?"
You laughed, "My sweet Faustus, is there something you don't want to understand, after all? Did I finally find the limit of your hunger?"
He frowned and turned away, back to his books.
And now the books are being shoved off the shelves and fall on the floor with a sharp sound of their spines cracking.
"Why haven't you told me sooner?" he asks from the depths of the library; his voice is still a bubbling creek of rage.
"What would be the point?"
"I would— I could do something!"
"Faustus," you roll your eyes, "what the hell could you do? You do understand, don't you, that your omnipotence isn't as omni as it sounds?"
A barely audible growl is the only answer.
He won't be able to find anything in all these tomes, because mankind simply doesn't know enough yet, and some secrets are unknowable anyway.
You are still there, on the same spot, for the entire week Faustus pores over his findings, each frustrating and useless. You don't really see a point in moving.
Faustus is looking into the possibilities of combining curses, plasma, animal sacrifices and nuclear bombs into a drop of warmth strong enough to affect you. It's all in vain.
Finally, he throws away the last piece of his notes and covers his face with his ink-stained hands.
"Forget it," you say. "There's so many other things to think about apart from my sorry figure."
"I don't want to," he says, like a stubborn teenager. "I can't think about anything but you, Mephistophilis."
"I'm flattered," you say in the mechanical voice of a servant which you are.
He puts his hands down and slowly turns to you, his eyes full of indignation.
"Don't you dare," he croaks.
He gets up and walks right up to you. You look at him without a single emotion.
"You are crying," he gasps.
You didn't realise it.
"Are your tears so cold that you don't feel them?" he asks, touching your cheek with the tips of his fingers.
You shrug.
"Can you feel my touch, at least?" he whispers.
You shrug again. He closes his eyes.
"As I've said," you speak. "Forget it. There's no use in wallowing in things you can't change."
"No," he says strongly.
So now both of you are motionless, on your feet. Your shoulders are slumped, his back is straight with defiance. Funny how pride, the same old sin, can demonstrate itself in different ways.
A moment passes. A couple. A billion of moments, possibly. Then—
Rules can be broken — after all, the whole concept of sin is a play on it. And you, an embodiment of sin, are also a rule that can be broken.
He kisses you.
And again.
And again, and you grasp his wrists and kiss him back, revel in the sensation you've forgotten over all this time.
Maybe, even the all-knowing quarter of the Universe didn't think of a loophole of a devil being loved.