3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

04

IT'S A SHOCK WHEN JULIAN LETS DOWN HIS GUARD AT HOME AND MORPHS INTO HIS HUMAN FORM. Clarke watches as his skin dulls a little (although it's equally as pretty), his hair loses its gorgeous luster, and the muted glow surrounding his body fades into an invisible aura. Even like this, Julian Moon is still beautiful, and Clarke imagines that he holds the stars and the comets in each palm.

The demon frowns. "What are you doing? It's just us."

Julian frowns right back. "You're a terrible actor," he tells him, face extraordinarily soft and lips shimmering with a bit of crystallized sugar. Clarke's mouth parts just slightly before closing again; it's like Julian is always so unattainable, so free—like butterflies. His soul mourns, the feeling so sick that he can't concentrate on anything else besides the bass thrumming through his blood.

Maybe Clarke can catch him before he'll fly away.

The feeling starts in his fingertips (warm, mellow, slow) and travels up his arms and across his stomach, electrifying the nerves until it feels like he's dousing himself in gasoline. From there, it disperses all over his body, although most of it centers around his heart and neck, the flames burning all sense of logic and reminding him that it hurts. There are a few rare angels and demons who manage to make it work, who manage to love each other in secret amidst the judgement and the heavenly rules, but there are others—

There are others that can't look at each other without fading into halos or horns. And their respective humans, of course, unknowingly suffer; without the support of their guardians, humans inevitably fall into an explosive period of depression, mind lingering in a land of sorrow without ever knowing why.

Julian won't risk it. Clarke won't risk it.

(Or at least that's what they tell themselves late at night.)

Because June Haleson means everything, even if it causes a little piece of his soul to shatter every time he looks at Julian's smile and realizes that it's not him. He used to think that he didn't have enough love to give, used to think that he'd get tired of it and turn it away before it ruined him, too, but Clarke feels his spirit expand every time he walks him and sees the two of them laughing at each other. The art of loving is a quiet one, and Clarke hopes he'll spend every second painting the canvas in his mind full of memories and pearl-dipped wings before his time finally runs out.

But—now. Now, he trembles as Julian runs a finger down the length of his chest, black hair running in his eyes in messy waves. "M'not acting," Clarke mumbles, his right hand catching Julian's to stop the hurt. He's not sure if it's Julian's skin on his own that clouds his judgement, or if it's something else—something dangerous. "Stop being ridiculous."

"Your eyes are red."

Clarke's head snaps up in shock. Red eyes are a rare occasion, and they only happen when he's so desperately hungry that his body reverts back into his demonic instincts. "Red?"

"Yeah," Julian says, frown lines gently appearing into his skin. "Red. Why didn't you let me know?"

From the second circle, Clarke feeds off of lust and sexual energy—something that humans always seem to have, but he wouldn't really know (he doesn't particularly go outside). Sometimes, he'll pick it off people randomly on the street: men staggering home from strip clubs, teenagers desperate for some fun, women dancing into the late hours of midnight. It's almost never satisfying, and so Clarke stopped his habits in exchange for one large feeding session once a month. He's usually gone for an entire weekend and his location is considered a secret, but he must've forgotten this time. Must've been too caught up in his own self-pity.

His stomach hurts. Twists.

"It's not your problem," the demon says, rejecting the angel's words as he shrugs off his black jacket. The tattoo on his neck almost throbs to remind him that he'll always be full of stained sin. "I know you want to, but you can't do anything."