3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

08

THE LETTER COMES ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON, THE INNER COURT'S SEAL ALMOST GLOWING ON THE BACK OF EXPENSIVE PARCHMENT. It brings a tide of muted sadness with it, all blue and bruises as Julian Moon feels his heart begin to freeze, icicles dripping with cold disappointment. He stands in front of the stove in his daisy-printed jeans and lavender sweater, feeling all sorts of emotions slam into him like a tidal wave; breaths come and go in short spurts, chest squeezing so painfully tight, and—

Clarke's hands feel like salvation as they grip his waist and turn him around, the afterglow to moonlight and the essence of history. "Is that—"

"Yes," Julian manages to say, voice tight as he keeps his volume down (June's still sleeping, after all). "I have to go back."

I have to go, I have to go, I have to go, but I wish I could stay.

The demon keeps quiet, looking so beautiful with sunlight streaming in through the bay windows. There's sage hanging from the edges of it: a joke that Clarke played a couple of years ago to confirm that sage does absolutely nothing to spirits from Hell. But right now, it almost feels like a taunting of some sorts, a reminder that they come from different realms and that perhaps one day, Julian will leave and never come back.

"When?" Clarke keeps his hands on his waist, and Julian thinks of the beauty of those hands, of the magnificence he holds within each fingertip that he'd love to kiss each night before bed. Dark curls fall into his eyes, always messy and endearingly so—a time capsule solely reserved for him. "Why can't they just leave you alone—leave us alone? Why can't they just let you breathe?"

Something inside of him snaps. "I have to," Julian tells him, tilting his chin up and pressing his thumb to the tip of Clarke's slender nose. "I leave tomorrow morning, so I'll work up the nerve to tell June later tonight. Just... try not to think about it."

The demon closes his eyes, jaw tense. "If there's a single scratch on your body when you come back, I don't—I don't know what I'll do. I don't know if I can handle seeing you like that again, don't know if I can watch you go through hell and barely live."

That's the punishment Julian receives each time he gets called to Heaven. He's put on trial for loving a demon (Clarke doesn't know about this), and the last question delivers the righteous blow he deserves: are you willing to sacrifice your purity?

Julian says the same thing every time. Yes, he cries. Yes, yes, a thousand times over, yes. The Inner Court, of course, lets this slide with one exception: he has to walk through the fire of Hell and survive, which burns his body and breaks his bones and pours out his blood until he finishes the path and ends up in front of their front door.

It hurts. But he'll take the pain if it means he'll get to see Clarke's beautiful face every time he wakes up and every time he falls asleep.

"I know," Julian whispers, hands coming to rest upon the demon's shoulders. "I know, I know—god, I know. But I don't a fucking choice, and I have a feeling I'll be gone for a while. Longer than the others."

Clarke rests his head on Julian's shoulder, molten heat penetrating through his top. "I wish you didn't have to leave me—us. It's so quiet without you here, without hearing your voice and I just... nevermind. Nevermind. It's fine." His voice sounds too soft for Clarke, for the fucking love of his life, and something inside Julian loses its color. "Forget I said anything."

Anger burns his lips and leaves it dripping with ichor. "Well, I don't have a choice, Clarke. I can't avoid this any longer, or else they'll find me again, and it'll just end up being a shit show. You think I want to feel my bones breaking? You think I want to feel so weak and scared and like I'm getting dragged on a bed of fucking nails—"