A low rumbling caused darkness to return.

A darkness that turned into a bright flash of white, then baubles of shifting brown and brass. 

His eyelids slowly opened. Only a third at first, then halfway to the second.

He did not know how long his eyes had been closed, but considering how much they weighed, he must’ve been unconscious for a long time.

His chest rose, and he exhaled slowly, tilting his head to press it against the cloud underneath his head.

As he gazed up towards the ceiling, he deep set blues mixed with yellow and oranges, swirling upwards towards the sky. The light was low and warm and his fingers dug against the sea of velvet warmth.

Was this…heaven?

He shifted and hissed slightly, glancing from the ceiling downwards. The Red, blacks, and golds weaving into silken luxury over him could not hide the distinctive lack of a lump past his left thigh.

Even if heaven didn’t care for missing limbs, that he still FELT his knee, chin, and even his fucking toes proved to him that this place was not heaven.

Was this…Hell?

The rumbling returned. Except it was definitely not low or soft.

It bellowed like a lion’s roar, causing the soothing and expansive cocoon surrounding him to vibrate like a massager.

He sat up, his head turning towards that sound. The shock reminded him of his heartbeat and while he most likely was not in Hell, there was no way he was in Heaven.

The Devil sat beside him, her upper body bent over. Her head rested on her forearms, her hair cascading down her back like rivers of flame. Though she was sitting in a high-back and winged chair covered in gold-embroidered leather cushions, she slept as close as possible towards him. There were circles under her eyes and her skin did not glow. Rather, it was dulled and her lips were chapped. Her cheeks were tear-stained and though her lips were parted, there was no saliva.

If it wasn’t for locking him up in a dark cell after hacking off a leg, he would pity her.

His fingers reached over, brushing one wild coil behind her ear.

He did not pity her.

Not at all.

The slight touch caused the Devil to stir, her forehead pressing against the sheets. She yawned again, this time her roar muffled by the bed and 10000 thread count sheets. Her lashes, clumped and sealed by dried salt crystals, broke free and her bloodshot crimson eyes shifted upwards towards him.

“Did you sleep well, Ira?”

She blinked and then sat up quickly, her eyes wide. Her hands reached for his face, fingers pressing against his cheeks. “You’re awake.” Her lips curled upwards towards a smile. “You’re awake!”

He closed his eyes, turning his head to kiss her palm before she snatched them back. His brow furrowed and the dim golden light flickered, “Ira—”

She stood up with a gasp, looking at her hands, accusing them of harm. “I’ll go get my doctor. She has to make sure that you’re okay.”

Now Tristan’s eyes widened, the room going dark, then bright, “Ira, don’t—”

She didn’t notice, her eyes getting hazy as she rambled, “Have to make sure that you have enough blood. That it didn’t get you sick.” She nodded to herself, turning away from him. “I’ll bring the doctor here—”

“Ira!” He grabbed her prosthetic arm, his fingers intertwining tightly with them. He pulled her forward, onto the bed and on top of him. Before she could say another word, he abandoned her hand, pressing his palms against her cheeks and then pressed his lips against hers.

Her eyes widened, and she pulled back slightly, parting her lips, “Tristan—”

He dove in again, taking advantage of her open mouth to slide his tongue inside, tasting her saliva. Smoke and merlot coated his tastebuds and when she relaxed against him, when her head tilted just to the side, his hands moved down to her hips, gripping them.

Their breaths mingled together, and it was unclear when she ended, and he began. The intensity of the kiss did not change and his lips swelled and bruised, but that didn’t matter to him.

What mattered was that she was here, that she was going to stay here.

Where ever here was.

He pulled back, slowly, watching the long, sparkling strands of spit trail between them. A web connecting their mouths. She panted, the steam from her mouth humid. Her face was flushed and her lashes fluttered.

Beautiful. 

“Ira, stay.” One stayed on the small of her back, the other caressing her cheek, his thumb running against her bottom lip. “Stay here.”

“I still need to get the doctor…” Her bottom lip trembled before her lips puckered and pressed against his thumb.

“Later.” He gazed down at her and moving his other hand upwards, again keeping his palm against her cheeks, running his long fingers down through her hair, brushing against the back of her neck, “I just want you here.”

She blinked, her eyes shifting to the side, before that tiny smile graced her lips. “I’ll stay here. The doctor can wait.” With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed her panic. However, her shame returned as she took in his wrists, her smile vanishing. Her lips tightened into a thin line and her eyes bored into his flesh.

Deep burgundy valleys cut through the sea of pinks and whites. Angry scars slithered across his wrists. Her head turned from one to another and all emotion left her face. “I did this. I made you do this.”

He leaned forward, his forehead against hers. He breathed out softly, a hiss against her lips. “Yes. You did.”

Her shoulders were hunched with a sharp intake of air. However, her fingers only stroked along the back of his hands, her eyes closed and her head nodded just barely. “Yet, You want me to stay.”

It was a question hidden beneath a statement.

“I do.”

A question flashed across her eyes, her jaw lowering to stress the word.

Why?

Yet instead, her mouth closed, as if the answer would be too painful. As if it would start another fight.

The last thing either of them wanted was a fight. Not after he tried to murder her brother. Not after she locked him away in suffocating darkness.

Not after he sliced his wrists and she, for the first time in her life, apologized.

Not after he finally saw the depths of her fear and panic.

Her desperation.

Her love.

He finally found her, and he did not have the strength to handle another battle.

From the looks of it, neither did she.

He slowly lowered his head down towards her neck, resting between her collarbone and shoulder. His hands trailed down her cheek, one resting on the bed and the other landing pointedly on her cotton clad thigh, “You know…talking about leaving me just after you locked me up…that’s just cruel.” He nuzzled against her neck as her metal and silicon fingers ran through his hair. It must’ve been freshly washed and brush because no longer did his locks feel stringy and matted, with the roots of his locks cemented with a sweaty paste to his skull. An airy laugh eased out from his lips as he felt the vibrating growl from her throat.  

She glared at him, her voice coming out with a scoff. “I said I’m not leaving.” She kissed the top of his head. “It’s my bedroom. Of course I’ll stay.”

He lifted his head slightly, half-lidded eyes taking in the room—

Calling this a room was an insult. It was like looking at the Taj Mahal and calling it ‘quaint’.

The sheer size of the bed already showed that the ‘room’ was at least twice as large as his hotel-like cell (which was already larger than his bedroom at the rickety shanty row home). The vaulted, cathedral high ceilings, with sconces lining every other tier, showed that this was the ‘penthouse suite’ of the absurdly massive Dante Mansion of the Dante Island.

Perhaps if this was the room he woke up in when she first kidnapped him, he would be slack jawed speechless. Now? “Cozy.”

Her nostrils flared as she snorted, metal knuckles digging into the back of his head. “Oh yes. Very cozy.” She glanced over one fireplace, then to a double archway flanked by golden-veined wooden columns. She stared at that space; part of it was used as a simple dressing room, but her closet, the size of the average boutique downtown, was plenty large, “Much too small for two people.”

“Ira, I was kidding.” Tristan paused, letting her words settle into his words, “…Is this…our room?”

Our room.

That small smile flittered across her lips, orange clumped lashes fluttering over heavily lidded ruby eyes. “That’s what I said.” She pressed her right knuckles against the side of his jaw, lifting his head just slightly, “Do you…want that?”

“What I want…right now…” He leaned his head down against her neck, lips and then teeth brushing against that heated flesh, “Is you.” 

Ira’s shirt suddenly felt very rough against her chest, especially as he pressed himself tighter against her, pushing her down against the bed until her back sunk into the quilt, “Tristan, I-I missed you too.” A moan left her mouth as his fingers drifted under her shirt, caressing her sides. Suddenly her shirt felt so sensitive against her skin, her nipples hardening as his hands crept closer towards her breasts. “But you lost a lot of blood.” She released a slow exhale, her prosthetic arm resting over her forehead. “So did I.”

Tristan pulled back, his eyes lidded. “You…gave me your blood too?”

“I’ll give you everything…”

She nodded, closing her eyes. “I did.”

This enormous room. This bed. All of this…plus herself.

All of hers were his.

His heart was pounding, banging against his ribcage. He gulped, closing his eyes tightly before burying his head against her chest, “O-okay. I…we’ll rest.” His shoulders shook and he could feel tears bubbling against his eyes lashes, “You…you still have a lot to make up for.”

Her human hand ran through his locks, her lips pressed against the top of his head.

She said nothing.

There was nothing more to stay.

He was home. That’s all that mattered.