(Record of Ragnarok)[HaBeel] - Pyrith's HadeBubu

Oneshot 1

Sometimes Hades couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was in it for Beelzebub, helping him. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t anything else to do after all, especially with the level of intellect he possessed; he could easily be changing the world if he wasn’t burying himself in—— well, in trying to help him. He had come up with the initial idea and had gone through with it, so adamant about the potential of the concept that Hades was convinced, which, in itself, was quite something. Beelzebub had since been determined in perfecting the project, burying himself in the dimly lit laboratory days and nights, and had he been any mortal, he could have withered and died inside that lab within the first few months. As it was, though, Beelzebub was nowhere near one, so Hades allowed him his space.

He, sometimes, paid the god a visit. A progress inspection it was, certainly, though it was also an excuse to accompany Beelzebub for a while. Hades, above all else, valued his privacy, but one could only be with oneself for so long before losing one’s mind, however mighty the god was. Besides, he figured, Beelzebub paid no heed to the compliments he brought along ever since the first time the god made some offhanded comments about ignoring hunger when he was working, and always looked rather pleased. 

It was on one such occasion that Hades found him sleeping in the lab.

He had almost panicked when the door of Beelzebub’s lab didn’t open upon several rasps, for the god had always answered the door after exactly three knocks. It wasn’t a common occurrence for him to do otherwise, and it certainly wasn’t common for him to not be in the lab at all times. Out of anxiety, Hades had decided on coming in, and, upon turning on the faint light in the lab, was greeted with it drawing on the table a faint shadow of curly hair and broad shoulders, a hand pillowing his head, snoring lightly, too deep in the state to be aware of anything. 

It wasn’t often that he saw Beelzebub sleeping; in fact, as far as he could remember, Hades might have never seen him sleep at all. He had even been concerned that the latter hadn’t known the taste of sleep, from time to time. He did not wish to wake him up, therefore, fully aware of the burden on his shoulders and how hard he had been working. There was no reason to, anyway. Instead, he walked over to him — not too close, just enough to smooth some of Beelzebub’s wild locks out of his face; for the god’s comfort, certainly, but also for his own indulgence. He watched his eyelashes fluttering, his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and watched as sleep wrapped Beelzebub in its embrace, peaceful and kind, a stark contrast to the eccentricity he radiated in his wake. There was in him, Hades thought, a sense of etherealism, and he snorted at his own musing, for they were gods and all gods were such. It felt different, though, in Beelzebub, even when he couldn’t put a finger on what. 

Distantly, he realised he was making quite a picture, smiling, pushing hair out of the sleeping god’s eyes and thinking of him so fondly, but he didn’t have it in him to care. It did not matter much at that moment. Beelzebub deserved rest, much as he deserved many things else. And as it was, there was hardly anything that Hades wasn’t willing to give to him. The thought surprised him a bit — that he should be willing to offer such to a god that wasn’t his family, or that he should offer such to anyone at all.

A stray thought, he decided it was; an out-of-place musing that leapt out at an inconvenient time. So he ignored it, though it yanked at the back of his mind as if urging for a revelation, took a glance at the blueprint splaying across the sleeping figure, and made to leave the dim-lit laboratory. 

His lab had always been a mess of papers and blueprints and jittering scrabbles, packed beyond imagination with vials of all sorts of shapes, some of them empty and some filled with strange liquids that he was sure would murder any mortal foolish enough to try, shaping a labyrinth within the large room that just a while ago was clean and empty. Fleetingly, he had mentioned his disapproval of such an unkempt state of the place to Beelzebub, though he had made no action to deal with the mess himself. All for the best, in truth. He did not have it in him to rearrange the lab, for it was that mess that spoke volumes about Beelzebub himself, dishevelled in a way that seemed beyond comprehension. 

He turned and found a piece of paper sitting neatly on one side, in an uncharacteristically clean corner of the table, and setting the cake he had brought for him on it, Hades began to write. He did, after all, mean to come for a progress inspection. 

The letter was not long, for Hades had never thought of himself much as a writer, nor was he interested in the sophisticated labyrinth of words. It wasn’t too formal — he knew Beelzebub had always had a distaste for that sort of thing — but it wasn’t exactly casual, either. He gave him a few inputs, inspecting the papers and smiled at the messy handwriting scribbled next to carefully detailed drawings, and added some compliments as a default. The god was almost eager for them, the praises, if Hades still had any understanding of him since that age of old; and rightfully so. Beelzebub was one-of-a-kind, a talent that rarely could any ever reach, yet not enough people recognised it. 

Perhaps it was why Hades wanted to give to him so badly that recognition, to let him be known among the gods; because it was unlawful for such greatness to remain unseen.

Thus the letter was finished, and he left it next to the cake he brought. Yet it did not feel like enough; so after several rereads, he wrote one last line, reminding him to take care of himself reasonably, and putting on Beelzebub a layer of cloth — on the offchance that he should wake up breezy and cold — he finally left the room. 

And it was only after the door had shut and the sound of steady footsteps had disappeared beyond the corridor that the scientist god blinked open his eyes.

And, immediately, a blush crept up the hollow of his cheeks, even before he could push himself to sit up rightly.

It was all rather — unexpected, he reasoned, as he felt his cheeks heating and reddening, the shade beginning to spread to his neck. Yet he knew that no preparation could be enough to brace him against such tenderness, such care, and had he been known to be awake, Beelzebub would make a mess of himself, embarrassing his godly blood by allowing panic to woven his throat and restlessness to lace through his fingers. He was thankful, though, that he had woken up in time to count every of his touch, to lose his breath as their skins brushed and to carve them all into his mind. 

Had he ever been touched with such gentleness? 

Perhaps not yet; perhaps never again. 

But those touches alone, the way warm skin brushed over his forehead, tucking a lock neatly on top of his ear, almost caressing, or the way slender fingers ghosted over his shoulders and the cloth draped gently over his back, almost careful, as though he was a delicacy that would break with a slight force; perhaps they were enough for the rest of his time. Perhaps he should be satisfied just by being touched that way once, and by Hades, out of them all. 

He reached for the cake; it was his favourite, of course, though he could not recall ever telling the god about it. He could not recall ever telling him anything personal, yet Hades seemed to know them anyway. Perhaps he had been too predictable. But being predictable to him did not feel uneasy, rather it made him feel content, which was, indeed, a rare thing in this endless life of his. As the sweetness settled into his mouth, the question bounced back; had he ever known of such gentleness?

Perhaps never again.

And perhaps there would never be one such as Hades, but he did not worry himself over it. They were not mortals; they would not die. He had still had a long time yet. 

Beelzebub traced his fingers after the handwriting on the letter. It was firm, much unlike his own, and lined up cleanly as if typed from a typewriter. There were some minor suggestions in small details that he did not notice himself, but the rest was met with satisfaction. There were praises — not the empty sort of assurances, but the honest impression Hades had always shown him. And there was one final line, where it hit home to Beelzebub that, truly, honestly, there was affection in those eyes and those hands.

Though, simply, it was,

‘And it would please me, if not any else, lest you cease to deny your hunger and weariness upon working. If not, leastways, please allow me to care for them.’