Lovers & Devils [BxB]

Smell of forgiveness

Day eighteen.
       The sun had started peeking through the parchment-coloured curtains, as if essaying to see what I was doing. Frankly, I didn't know what I was doing either. The weathered wardrobe had its side door open, the deep third cubby spitting out my trousers that rose from their jutting folds. They bobbed in front of me like a catalogue of howling cartoon ghosts, and it didn't help that I was rubbing my non-existent beard. I turned the pockets inside-out, watching as orbs of fluff lived their dreams of being plumes. Until I got to the grey sweatpants, and paper crumpled up severely in a ball thudded gently—but the realisation hit me like hailstones. The printed writing was faded and bleeding. I widened my eyes, force-feeding the bunched up pants to the brown cubby as I squatted and picked it up. It peeled like crunchy lettuce and I groaned loud. It was the document that Adona gave me. Did I seriously forget to check my pockets before I put them in the wash? Just great. Adona would kill me if she knew! If she knew. I compressed the ball in my hand. She would snicker in my face if she knew—I knew he wasn't good at his job, but falling for the demon he's supposed to convert? Hah!
      The door practically broke open and I snapped my head towards it. I stood upright so quick my knees cracked, the shrunken page still in my cage of a hand.

      "Sorry. Shoulda' knocked," Mammon said gruffly, avoiding my eyes as if they too could cage. He propped against the hoary door which pinned it to the rubber-tipped stopper, my wintering jackets and the orange towel protesting. I was mildly suprised at how covered he was, in black streetwear cargos with stitched white words that contested white ankle socks and a baggy black jumper.

      "It's...fine." I closed the wardrobe door whose hinges behaved like rickety plastic. "Did you...need something?"

      "I made breakfast...If you want some."

      I couldn't smile from surprise, but I was sure my eyes beamed. That explains the clattering. I was always the one initiating apologies, and since I was caught in a net of doubt and fear, him just showing up was enough. It was a step. I stinted my tone lest I sounded too excited. "Sure."

     The raven-haired nodded, shifting his leg backwards and walking out. I was hot on his patting heels, throwing the kaput paper ball on sage wrinkle-ridden landing panel and leaving the door open as the doors of my nose let in the comforting smell of bananas. I was walking inside the wide corridor, but inside memories as well. Kallista loved baking, anything that involved her blessed hands kneading. Every Sunday, she would bring some over in a wicker basket chaperoned by rich butter and fresh seed-ie strawberry jam. Mikkel and I would always fight over who got the last slice—only for Arlo to eat it in one flick of his whiskered jaw. It wrenched my core how much I missed them. How much I knew I would be hurting them. Would she still bring some over?

       "Wow..." I was in absolute awe when I approached the round dining table, upholstered chairs conversing with each other and the floral-printed tablecloth their willowing circle fire pit. I sat down with a secretive smile, hands gripping the cushy edges as I hopped the chair forward. Mammon followed, taller than me still even when he was seated. It was almost like a...date. Slices of slightly-holed banana bread abutted on top of each other on a white plate like a line of fallen dominos. There were two red bowls of thick oats with blemished blueberries sprinkled closely on top, shaped in a love triangle with the banana bread. I wasn't a huge fan of oats...but I'm a big fan of him. God, too sappy.

       "It ain't much—"

       "Are you kidding? It's perfect. I mean, it smells and looks great."

       Mammon reclined, rubbing his nape in what I christened as shyness. "You think? M'cooking skills are kinda' rusty."

     "That doesn't matter. They're definitely better than mine." I took in the view once more before picking up the dull spoon splattered by milky oats. I put a spoonful of oats in my mouth. It was nutty and had a toasty feel, the burst of ripe blueberries redeeming the insipid taste. Bland or not, I didn't care. I was more than satisfied with the fact that he thought about me when making it. "It tastes good...Dante."