You recognize him immediately. Instantly. “…Elijah? Elijah!”

And you throw yourself at him, and he catches you and holds you almost painfully tightly, spinning with momentum and you’re laughing in spite of the tears in your eyes, clinging to him equally tightly, until he stops, sets you down those scant inches on your feet and you just stare at each other, drinking in the sight—you’re lost in eyes the color of the night until he says, “You look strange, dressed as a man.”

And you laugh, laugh again, your heart swelling almost to bursting with twenty years’ worth of love overwhelming a hundred of separation.

Leaning forward, fingers gently on his chest, lean up and kiss him.

Just softly. Just gently. Because this is—

And then pull away, and he raises an eyebrow. Grey-silver. “You’re not the first student to do that.”

Breathlessly, pink and yet almost joking, serious and playful at the same time. “I don’t care.”

Roll eyes, smile a bit, wrap an arm around your waist, pull you close into a kiss again.

[Just affection, really. Not romantic. But you don’t care.]

You turn around and put the torc and brooch on the glass-top table with a clack and he’s crouched down beneath this massive glassware cabinet, peering around inside with it. “Recognize anything?”

It squints and shakes its head; he shrugs and motions you over. Bottles of whiskey, scotch, cognac and various others you don’t recognize in different languages sit there, faintly dusty and gleaming. After a moment, his long fingers pull out a pair of tall slender ones and passes one to Bel.

“That’s a mild one, if you want to try.”

It nods, a grin spreading over its face that makes you snort. Silly.

You watch him as he pours the drinks and ice with cut-crystal glasses from the cabinet; he’s so... ethereal, almost, so... amazing and beautiful, like a different creature altogether... the little contented smile on his face, like he’s taking joy in just doing mundane tasks...

[‘Maybe he still has it, after all, that joie de vivre... he just doesn’t notice it or something...’]

Then he turns and puts one in your hand with a smile and tells you, “Try it.”

You do, and it’s... different, different from what you’re used to but still creating a pleasant warmth somewhere in your stomach like the feeling of fire—

Fire. Oh-so-carefully, just nudging it, just nudging it gently, ever closer to that fringe of hair... and then it lights, and it’s so difficult to keep a straight face; and and he (Jay) and he (Emory) don’t look any wiser and he (Levi) has this tiny little flicker in his eyes and he (Chesh) has this knowing, amused smile on his face that hasn’t left and it (Bel) just bites its lip—

The leather is cool at first in this... lounge, you guess, but very swiftly it warms up as you sit there and gently swill your drink, Chesh sitting adjacent on a couch with it beside him with a tall glass of something faintly fizzy and sipping it slowly...

He sighs softly and leans his head back, groaning faintly and closing his eyes. “Never again... no, that’s not strictly true, you made it quite memorable, Loki, and I’m always glad to help out a friend, but... that atmosphere is something I haven’t tasted for a while now.”

“Drink,” you say. “That tastes better.”

He laughs, laughs and doesn’t move, though a smile tugs at his lips. “That it does... and you? What’s your impression of modern formality, if not exactly high-class society?”

“Don’t care for it at all. ...I must say the clothes are nice, though.”

He chuckles and you grin into your drink. “True... perhaps next time I’ll take you to a gentleman's club or something, those involve nice clothes and drinks... like we’re doing now...”

“Are we? You’re not.”

He opens his eyes and sits up properly and winks. “I’m a touch slow tonight.”

“We all are.”

His tail twitches slightly as he drinks, your eyes catching the slow, back and forth movement. Bel has a sleepy smile on its face, half-sleepy and almost half-drunken, holding the glass with both hands. He pets its head and it leans up into the touch, crooning, “Kitty... Cheshy kitty...” His smile widens.

‘That’s the first time it’s called him something other than his full name.’

‘I know.’

‘Huh. Must be drunk.’

“...you haven’t known it all that long, have you?” you ask, taking another sip.

“Mmm... no, not quite a year... why?”

“Mm-mmm, just wondering...” Doesn’t take that long to fall in love, huh...? ...what am I thinking anyway, ha...

The drink is cool and slightly bitter on your tongue, and it’s dark, the only light coming from a low lamp somewhere off to the side, catching off his fingernails (painted) and your glasses and the liquid and its eyes...

“...You’re weird, you know,” you say, almost not quite sure why you’re saying it.

“Mm?” he raises an eyebrow over the rim of the glass. “So are you.”

You can’t help but grin. “Aren’t we all? But really, you are, kind of.”

“How so?”

“Something... about you. Like a star or something, or a sun, or a planet... you radiate this... feeling... ...obviously the alcohol is inhibiting my words.”

All he does is wink. “Aura, my dear.”

Surprisingly it doesn’t bristle at the joke, the pet name; just leans back and drinks before setting the glass down with a light clack on the table and snuggles up against his side, closing its eyes as he wraps an arm around it, holding it close.

Close. So... close... Memories of cuddled up close to someone in the dark come to mind, first one somewhere else, followed by one of her...

Close. Being... close. Warm. Safe. Loved...

“...Loki?”

“Mm?”

“Are you all right?”

You snap out of your trance and he’s looking at you with gentle concern, his hand running slowly up and down its back, protecting and soothing. You grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. ...cute.”

He blinks, nonplussed by the remark; you merely shake your head. Better not to meddle. I’m all right like this. Not wanting anything.

“You’re sure I don’t owe you anything for the clothes?”

“Mhm, of course~ Think of it as a gift if you like, or just a helping favor...”

“I could afford it, though.”

His eyes glimmer. “So can I.”

You snort faintly. “What are we even talking about, again?”

“Such a short memory~”

“Nah, it depends. Like fire, depending on the fuel.”

“Fire... it suits you, you know.”

“Don’t I know it.”

His smile becomes rather lopsided. “Wish I’d thought of that, before... fire on people’s hair...”

“Never be afraid,” you whisper (why whisper?). “No regrets, no second thoughts. Trickster’s creed. Plan it thoroughly, cover it up, don’t get caught. Look after yourself first. But no regrets. Pointless.”

“Not a bad way to live,” he says, eyes closing as the ice in his glass clinks. You find yourself grinning wider.

“Not at all...”

It’s fallen asleep against the sofa, and he smiles, gently running his fingers through its heavy bangs.

“You really love it, don’t you,” you say, not really as a question, eyes not really focused on anything in the space between him and the liquor you’re swirling slowly.

“Mhm, I do.”

You raise your eyes from gold and ice and meet his gaze. “What’s that like?” And just like that, all those familiar questions, the ones that have gone through her head so many times come trickling to the surface: ‘What’s it like, to love? To be that devoted to someone, to feel that strongly about them, to care about them so much? To feel that swelling in your soul and that pounding in your heart, is it really as amazing as they say?’

“It’s... a really big feeling,” he says, still combing through its hair. “It varies from person to person, of course, but it’s... sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it’s bold... sometimes it doesn’t really show on the surface but it’s still there...”

“Hmmm... hm.”

“Hm?”

You lean back in the leather with an elbow on the armrest. “...odd, that.”

“Rather, I suppose...” As it nuzzles him in its sleep his smile becomes tender, almost amazingly so, remarkably so, the love and care almost overflowing from his eyes... What IS that feeling? I don’t... really... get it... Isn’t it enough to just live...? Live for yourself... like I have...

“...you’re happy?” His eyes dart back to yours and even though you’re sure he knows what you mean you find yourself explaining anyway. “Loving it. Being that vulnerable and close... having to look after someone else as well...”

His expression changes to sympathy, understanding; he can tell how you’re struggling and while your pride stings just slightly at that you’re more grateful that he just gets what you’re grappling with.

“Mhm, I am. It’s... caring for someone and looking after them and being close... all of that is being returned and while in theory, to someone looking in, it might seem like a burden or something close to it, while you’re experiencing it, it’s... not. Things like worry and anxiety... it’s just care and ultimately... I suppose what true love is is absolute selflessness: being able to do anything for someone and putting them before you because their happiness matters more than yours, and if they’re happy, you are by extension...”

For a moment you’re silent, digesting this information. A line floats to mind, from her: ‘If you truly love someone, you have to be able to let them go, forever. Otherwise you don’t love them enough.’

That’s out of context. Plus the girl in the story didn’t have to.

That was ambiguous. She did, for a certain amount of time, sure.

“...well. Given that I’m pretty much the epitome of selfishness, that’s not going to happen to me anytime soon.” Almost apologetically you grin; he nods but raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not nearly as selfish as you might think.”

“Maybe I just want to think I’m selfish, then?” You eye him over the rim of the glass.

“That’s certainly a viable explanation.”

You make a noncommittal noise and take another sip. Getting attached to someone like that, boxing myself in, cutting off potential routes... well, I guess if I loved them, that wouldn’t matter, or I’d love someone with the same attitude. ...or maybe not, what am I thinking.

You look back up at them, at the tender smile on his lips and the content in its sleeping expression. But they look so happy...

“...say, Chesh.”

“Mm?” He looks back up and you’re almost not sure why you said that.

“...is it okay if I call you that?”

He smiles. “Everyone does. It’s fine.”

“...’Kay... ...you... do you think... I don’t know. I’ll ever find a... purpose for being here or something...”

“I would’ve thought you’d say, ‘Do you think I’ll ever find love,’” he smiles, putting his chin on his hand. “Ultimately, it is you alone who determine your purpose. Ultimately, everything boils down to you yourself. This you can understand, yes?”

“Yes...”

“So. While I cannot answer the question for you, strictly speaking, I also trust you and believe in you and have faith in you; if you wish to accomplish something, or simply even wish for it, I do think you will.” He finishes with a wide, closed-eye smile, so much that it makes your face flush. Why does HE have faith in me of all people...?

“...th-thanks.”

“You’re welcome~”

You cover up the blush with a hasty swig. The alcohol’s going to my head.

He carefully creeps out of bed and to the bathroom. He washes his face not in cold water, but warm, for once, trying to preserve that feeling from the dream. He looks up at the face looking back at him in the mirror and tilts his head; the face mimics and almost unconsciously he smiles. His reflection smiles back, and it’s a nice smile, he decides; a nice expression.

He goes back to washing his face.

Music singing in his soul...

~

When you wake some time later, no, a little while later, you’re alone in the bed and you blink in surprise. But then you look up and sit up you see the door open, the door behind the door, leading into a long corridor through which morning sunlight is beginning to stream and—

The sound makes you freeze and tilt your head, trying to catch it—the sound of music.

High and light and chords rippling gently through the air, quietly, so you can barely catch it; you slip out of bed and blink the sleep from your eyes and head closer for a better hear.

It’s music, alright. He’s playing music.

Almost feeling like you’re intruding on a dream, invading the perfect peace, the harmony of the moment, you slowly tiptoe down the soft carpet, the music getting gradually louder with every step. It’s not piano, not the odd plinking, ringing notes from before—it’s rising and falling, vibrating strings, causing waves of green and blue and soft, peachy orange to go through your mind, making you gasp. Sound has color? Or is it merely the emotions that you’re reading—emotions—color?

You shake your head, trying to clear the sudden confused muddle. It doesn’t matter right now.

The door is open, the other side from which these beautiful sounds are coming; hesitantly you peer around it to see—

He’s standing there in a pillar of light, with this serene expression on his face—eyes closed, an oh-so-soft smile on his lips, his fingers moving so smoothly on the strings, pressing and releasing and he holds the bow (is that what it’s called? You’re not sure) so precisely, like it’s become second nature, like it’s supposed to be held... And one moment when his eyes flare open he looks exhilarated, enthralled, enraptured...

And still the beautiful music, high and light and singing and it’s not perfect, not exactly; he misses a note here and there and you can catch the minuscule shifting of his mood as he notices and corrects it, pausing and going back, over the little bits until they are perfect, and then back again to the start, with a tiny shuddering breath and half-opening his eyes, and the song’s beautiful, slow and careful and delicate, simple while still being pretty, and—

And then just like that it’s over, with one final low note rippling through the air and you slowly break out of your trance, from drinking in it all in. He stands there, still and holding the violin and his eyes are almost closed; but they’re unseeing, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking, now—all the gentle waves of emotion have gone flat, but slowly building up to something you can’t tell—

He swallows, and slowly puts the instrument down. And then he stands there, looking at it and steps back, and slowly sinks to his knees on the plush carpet, and carefully puts his hands in his lap. Excessively he blinks, rapidly and quickly and you hear him sniff, slightly; and even though he smiles a few tears tumble down his cheeks and splash onto his bare knees.

“...Cheshire?”

Your voice breaks the silence and he looks up, and he smiles, with eyes closed and widely, as though there isn’t salty water dripping off his chin. “Good morning, Bel. I’m alright, d-don’t worry about me—” He cuts himself off to gasp slightly and you don’t miss the stutter, just dash across the room to throw your arms around his neck; he hugs you back, at first slowly and then tighter, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m alright,” he gasps, nuzzling you. “Just... just a little overwhelmed...”

And the feeling’s not sad, from him, exactly, just... replaying, riding on those beautiful waves of music being made by his own fingers—

“I can play, Bel,” he whispers, “I can play.”

“I know,” you say, hugging him. “I heard.”

“I can still play...”

“You always could.”

He draws back and he smiles again, brushing away the wet from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks and you kiss him gently, a kiss that he returns before pulling away with another gasp to press another to your lips, and another, and then that fervent energy overtakes him and he stands, heads to the bookshelves and pulls out more thin, dusty volumes, adding them to the several already spread out on the table. He moves with quick, almost excited movements, and you watch, drinking in the sudden spikes in his emotional state.

“...Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” you ask eventually, sitting there and watching him flip through pages and books and blow dust off of everything.

“Later,” he says, and there is definite excitement in his voice. “Breakfast can wait.”

You frown. “No, it can’t. You need to eat.”

He looks up from a page full of bars and notes and his face does something almost akin to a pout. It makes you giggle. “Be-el, ple-ease? Can’t I put it off for an hour or so?”

“It’ll turn into five hours. You need food and sugar.” Though you smile your voice is stern. “If you take twenty minutes to eat, then you can spend all of the time before lunch here doing what you want. Now come on. Food and sugar.”

“Re~e~ach for the sta~rs,” he sings as his fingers dance over the ivory, “No matter how fa~ar~” tilting his head back as though he can see them. “Someday they’ll fa~ll, end withal…” An almost wistful smile on his face, a sparkling in his eyes as he hits the last reverberating note with his pinkie.

Then he takes his hands away from the piano, smiling towards your gentle clapping. “Odd song, isn’t it? A touch morbid~” The smile is beautiful, absolutely happy, eyes closed and tail tip waving gently…

Light-bulbs are totally awesome and everybody should have them in their house. Light-bulbs equal ideas and if you have tons of light-bulbs around then you’ll get tons of ideas. What’s that, you say? People already HAVE light-bulbs all over the place in their houses? Well, they need to get more! Of course. I mean, duh.

…yes. Light-bulbs. People need light-bulbs We ALL need light-bulbs. Light-bulbs are brilliant, don’cha know. And in more ways than one. Do you know all the THINGS you can do with a light-bulb? …well, maybe you don’t wanna go there. But some people have a burn fetish.

What? How’d we go from light-bulbs to fetishes? I have no idea, isn’t it awesome?

Fetishes are awesome too~ Wanna hear some of the latest ones I’ve heard, huh huh?

…no?

Aw, you people are so boring… who doesn’t want to hear about fetishes? I mean, aren’t we all subconsciously focused on sexytimes anyway and Fru—Fre—Freud was right? Huh?

…no?

Argh, you’re all so BORING… I should go talk to the Idea Beast or Jervin or Loki… they’ll at least listen… even Bel is more interested in this stuff than the rest of them… Heh. Bel’s so cute and sweet and yet it’s so dirty at the same time~ Like two sides of the same coin.

…no wait, is that flip side? Flip—fluh—flew—bleh. Can’t say it. What, it’s hard to say these things! …hard. Heh. Annette’s not gonna be happy about this~ But I don’t care~

Because I have light-bulbs! Yay!

It comes up to you one day, not long after coming back here to this space with the bubbles and purple, and tugs your sleeve gently. You turn to see strikingly green, amazingly beautiful eyes staring up at you earnestly.

“You’re pretty,” it says. “Can I take pictures of you?”

You’re mildly surprised at the request, but you have an admitted weakness for cute things. Cute people. And this one is by far the cutest you’ve ever seen and you can’t refuse.

You smile. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“...Sit over there. Like that. Clasp your hands around your knee—mhm. That’s good. Chin—mhm.”

You can get the basic feel of what it’s aiming for, so you project your gaze off into the distance and keep the faintly amused smile there on your face as it shuffles around and the shutter clicks. It’s somewhat entertaining, watching it crouch down with this expression of complete focus, the tip of its tongue sticking out just slightly... the intent focus, the complete concentration...

“Have you been doing this long?” you ask, out of curiosity.

It nods slightly. “Not that long, but... kinda long. I like taking pictures. ...The... idea.”

The smile grows slightly wider. “Capturing a single moment in time, forever preserved...”

At that it blinks, then nods again, a little firmer, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about its lips.

“...with all the connotations and emotions, yes?”

“Yes!”

You chuckle gently as it nods enthusiastically. Adorable. So adorable, so cute and yet so serious, so innocent and yet not...

“...um. Wanna see...?” A little shyly it offers the camera—how did it get so close without you noticing? That’s... odd... Were you that spaced out? Lost in thought? ...Hm.

“If you don’t mind,” you smile, and get a shy one in return as it sits beside you, and the moment the first picture on the tiny preview window meets your eyes you inhale sharply, startled. Not that your own shape, own form is unknown, you’ve seen it countless times, but—this. This... almost doesn’t look like you, it looks... like somebody else, something else... The dark shadows, the strange angle and the glimmering eyes and light playing off the (mostly) innocent smile...

“...Beautiful...”

It fidgets. “Not really... you’re the beautiful one. Really,” it adds, looking up at you with that earnest green gaze again, “you’re beautiful.”

“...aha, not as much as you~” You wink and it blushes, bright red, and looks back down at the camera, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the heat from its face.

It’s cute. Very cute. And for some reason you feel at ease around it, even though you only met a few days ago. It’s... not asking you questions or probing or prodding, not that you mind those overmuch, and its presence is... comforting. Quiet and sweet when you listen to it and something... more, but you don’t look completely because oh no I’m not touching THAT so soon again, but still.

You think you like it, this strange, adorable green-eyed androgyne.

[And how long did it take? So soon, so quickly—amongst the many little activities: playing games, putting together puzzles, hesitant, experimental leaning against each other, walks here and there, sharing food; a few winks, blushes, pounding hearts and a few kisses and the realization comes—I think I’m in love.

And pictures, ever more pictures, photographs—of you, gradually more requests; pose like this, wear this, stand here—all of it. And photographs of it, too, when you manage to convince it to let you take some. Photographs of it and you and together—all beautiful, all pointing towards— I think I’m in love. And you hadn’t meant to, didn’t intend to fall in love so soon... but then, it’s not something you exactly intend to do, is it?

And that strange feeling, of I think I’m in love, so strange... warm and fluttery and nervous even though you didn’t show it outwardly; didn’t really let it know. In love with this odd, cute, shy demon, with the enormous, beautiful green eyes, the incredible smile and the comforting presence, the sweet, quiet nature... Perfect. Simply perfect.

I think I’m in love~]

There is a wall in your room that is covered in photographs. Perfect, flawless photographs.

All photographs of him, of course.

(I never denied I was a stalker.)

Beautiful, amazing snapshots of moments in time, moments preserved forever—a coy smile, a playful wink, a lazy pose; a hand reaching out, an eye. A sultry gaze from behind burnished red strands, fingers on lips... elaborate outfits, blazing skies, silhouettes and shadows, unblemished skin and long white tail: throughout it all, him.

Your fingers brush over the smooth, glossy surface of the latest one, pinned up with the rest and with the date written in tiny letters on the back; he’s reaching up for the sun in this one, his slim fingers almost cupping the white-hot orb while rays of dazzling light shine between them, falling upon the small, contented smile on his face.

(Sun. He’s so warm... and I’m so dark.)

He doesn’t really see that side of you, not exactly; you don’t see that side of you, most of the time. Most of the time, when you’re doing something together—he’s smiling, that amused smile you love so much, and you’re smiling back, like you always are, just a little, soft smile because he’s happy and being with him makes you happy too and somehow you just have to stop what you’re doing (already forgotten it) and just hug him, bury your face in his neck even as he says your name in that faintly musical voice and then raise your head to kiss him—it’s not like that. It’s only... only at times like this, when you’re alone with these massive feelings, at a loss with them, that you wonder how dark you truly are.

(Am I doing something bad? Thinking about him so much, wanting to know so much, feeling like this—or am I just in love?)

It’s not that you’re overly pushy, it’s not that you’re overly demanding, no, never that—beneath it all he’s so quiet, so fragile, so easily broken despite all his strength—and that thought makes your heart clench in your chest, because he doesn’t realize he needs protecting too—and so you’re gentle with him, always; you don’t know how effective you are but you’re always there to support him, there by his side and gentle, accepting, loyal...

And yet...

Your gaze drifts down to another photo, one taken in near-darkness, his pale skin almost glowing as shadows play about him and he looks over his shoulder with wide, staring eyes, some not-quite-startled emotion there—he doesn’t know a lot about me... but... he loves me, so does it even matter...?

He’s said it more than once—all the time, almost (even though you confessed first)—and you don’t doubt that he does, having read it in his mood, his emotions that you pick up on; there’s no doubt in your mind how much he cares and how much it matters to him that you’re there; does that make it alright, then? You’re quite sure he doesn’t care—it doesn’t change anything—to him, that you’re—

Demon, inhuman, black and monstrous and sadistic and stalker and possessive and hurtful—except you don’t even know if you’re those things, you try not to be, but...

(Stalker? When—don’t leave me please don’t leave me I just love you—no wait, that’s not right, the evidence is contradictory? But I did, I stalked—hurt—her—someone before... but I don’t want to do that to you, but—)

You sigh, sit on the stool you were standing on and look at another photo, one of a lantern, hanging from his hand and the smile seeming just a touch sinister in the greenish light, tattered strips of red fabric in the background behind him like streaks of blood. ...He’s beautiful. You’ve always thought so from the moment you first saw him. Amazingly beautiful, inside and out. Always so strong, and selfless to a fault, caring, loving—do I even deserve all that...?

But he loves me... and I love him... Does that make it alright? I can’t tell, with these feelings... this is the first time I’ve felt this way, even though I’ve been with people before...

You’re young, for a demon, and there’s so much you don’t know; that worries you sometimes, like now—what if I’m doing something wrong? What if I’m doing something bad? I don’t want to hurt him...

You curl up, folding your arms over your knees and your eyes rove across the wall, searching for something lighter, something to distract you—your gaze stops on the one of broken glass in his hands, taken under the rain, and you remember the enigmatic remark he made, with that odd, distant look on his face after the shoot was over: “Like a heart, almost...” And now of course you know what he meant, now, and the images flash through your mind, images and emotions:

Snap and lash out and a golden bracelet falls soundlessly to the floor—and then enormous overwhelming hurt and tears, raw sobbing, and then crack and horrifying, sickening numb(ing) waves of empty pain and then slow recovery—

You bite your lip and close your eyes against the sudden stinging. He’s broken. He’s so, so broken and yet not and not anymore and—

You snap your eyes open and look for anything to change train of thought from, anything—that picture. The one—the one... where he’s sitting with his knees up and arms across them and this sunny, closed-eye smile and tastefully nude—and that brings with it another memory, one of—he kisses you with his tongue in your mouth and your wet body is plastered to his and you moan as—

Hastily you shake your head to clear the memory, face feeling rather hot. No. That’s a pleasant memory to be sure, but not what you were looking for. Nuh-uh.

This time a different picture leaps out at you, one of a mirror and a heavily made-up face and feathers and more costumes and a strange stare. Like a mask, acting as someone else—he’s always so natural, always in-tune with what you want him to do when it comes to this, being your model of sorts; always perfect harmony, even without words, without needing to say anything, just being natural around each other and communicating with mere looks... you’re still not quite sure how it works (something to do with your empathetic abilities and his odd sixth sense) but you’re not about to question it.

Is that how much we love each other? Or is it just something else... it was like that from the start, before we... we...

A small smile curves your lips. That was nice. The fluffy, fluttery, nervous feelings that he somehow still manages to evoke in you; get your heart pounding and your cheeks warm and make you shy... you love that about him. All of it. The gentle teasing and the flirting, the surprise kisses and how much he trusts you, that you can do that for him too, give those feelings back and make him happy in return.

Is that what love is? ‘m not sure...

The door swings open and he pokes his head in. “Bel~?” There’s a playful smile on his face and you can just see his tail waving. Without even thinking, without even consciously registering it at first there’s already a responding smile on your face.

“Mm?”

“Let’s go somewhere today? You and me?” He winks and your smile grows wider—always the flirt, always—and you slide off the stool to join him.

“Mhm!”

Your hand takes his without thinking, and his larger fingers wrap around yours and just like that, the dark thoughts plaguing you fade away, go back to some shadowed depth they came from, replaced by warm, fluffy feelings of love and happiness, especially as you look up at him, and he’s smiling, and he looks down at you at the same time and your faces are inches away—and he leans in to press a kiss to your lips and nuzzle your cheek, and as you return the action you think, I love you.

Where would we be,

Without eyes to see,

Lost in the dark,

When we just might be in a park,

The garden of the sky,

Unable to fly.

Muse

A muse, hence her name. Pronounced in a way that rhymes with ‘Zeus.’ A cheerful and slightly manic girl. Seems to be between fourteen and sixteen years old, though is probably much older. Her main occupation, outside of being a muse and doing things that muses do, is having fun and acting like a child on a sugar high. Frequently seen scribbling something on the sheaf of papers she carries around. Loves cake and hates work; easy to get along with because of her childish nature, and can be very sweet. At times can be quite serious, though, and that’s when she acts almost like a different person. Thoughtful, deep, and to the point. Thankfully, this doesn’t happen very often. Has something of a rivalry with Annette; this goes back to when they first began working together and they absolutely loathed each other. Otherwise, Muse gets along well with everybody.

Muse has purple eyes and shoulder-length, clumpy black hair that she occasionally attempts to put in a bun, but it always falls out. Typically dresses in a brown skirt and shirt combination, or pajama-like clothes. Her most distinguishing characteristic, however, is probably her excited, goofy grin. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Annette Strickley

Works as a proof-reader, though may be seeking alternate forms of employment where her skills will be put to better use than merely removing typos. As her name implies, she is rather strict and every inch that proper employee; speaks with polite formality and views the others mostly with annoyance and exasperation. However, she is very protective and even motherly, on the rare occasion. Most definitely not heartless. Somewhat famous for her incredibly sour lemonade—she adds no sugar whatsoever. A stickler for proper grammar and manners, yet has a definite weakness for cute things (e. g. Belial). Enjoys nothing more than simple peace and quiet.

Somewhat on the tall side, Annette has light brown hair she keeps in a bun at the back of her head with side-swept bangs to the left. Light brown eyes to match, and she dresses in stark gray suits, jacket and a skirt, combined with black pumps. A pair of rectangular spectacles on a chain completes her ensemble. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Cheshire Carroll

Cheshire is... difficult to describe. His name is a good indicator of his personality; slightly mischievous with a fondness for knowledge and imparting that knowledge upon people in confusing and infuriating ways (read: Mind Screw). He has been described as, “A fascinating mess of charismatic contradictions,” which... also works. More often than not he can be seen wearing an amused smile on his face and is a bit of a flirt. And yet, while that is a very real part of his personality, the placid amusement and cheer, underneath it he is... quiet. Quiet and somewhat reclusive and perhaps even a little shy. He rarely talks about himself (though as of late he has been opening up more) and is more than a little depressed. His true name and age are unknown, as are his species/race and home world. Exceptionally skilled in magic and possesses strange eyes that allow him to see its raw nature. Models for Belial’s photographs and is in a relationship with it.

Blue-gray eyes, not steely. Tall and slender, rather willowy. Rather androgynous-looking. (Comes in handy when he cross-dresses.) Dark red hair, straight and split down the middle, cupping his face and forming a mass of curls at the tops of his shoulders. A slightly long, white cat’s tail, but no cat ears. Usually wearing some variation of blouse or turtleneck sweater in cold weather, and dark pants together with tall, lace-up boots. The one thing that never changes amongst his outfits is his relaxed, confident elegance. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Belial Zèsilfrangür

A demon and an excellent photographer. Has no gender (though can change at will; is a shape-shifter), hence the pronoun ‘it’. Not the demon of Christian scripture, but shares the same name and happens to be from one of the high-ranking demon families. Its true form has been seen from time to time but mostly it stays in the shape of what seems to be a twelve-year-old child. Personality-wise it’s very quiet and sweet, often speaking in a near-murmur. It possesses empathetic abilities and its presence is known to be very comforting, despite having a dark, stalker-like streak; it can be devious and possessive while still being absolutely adorable. Has a wonderful, heart-melting smile. Often seen carrying around a big black camera. Cheshire’s soul mate.

Somewhat on the short side, Belial has large, striking green eyes and a mop of dirty-blond hair with long bangs that half-hide its eyes and goes down to the bottom of its shoulder blades in spiky ends. Often wears an off-white hoodie adorned has rainbow geometric, interlocking designs on the top that gradually fade towards the bottom, and beneath that long-sleeved shirts and jeans. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Jervin Aldesworth

A third-class angel (spiritual reanimant) and ex-street fighter. He’s an upbeat, easy-going guy who is very accepting; he doesn’t bat an eye at anything. Has an fondness for piercings and nicknames, and is employed part-time at the mall, where he plays the synthesizer. Very fun to be around and almost always grinning. Cheerful and supportive. A bit of an experimental cook. Looks to be eighteen years old, and has a pair of silvery wings he can materialize at will. Due to his death he lost his memory and only regained it recently; even now he forgets things easily and often describes his recollections as “fuzzy.” Dating Tracey Danz (Cobalt) and Aaron Harchez (Rails) from The Other House; they’ve known each other from before Jervin’s death and while the beginning was rocky it is believed that at the moment the three of them are figuring out what it’s like to fall in love.

Fond of jewelry, Jervin has five piercings in each ear and one that’s healed up on his lower lip, off-center to the left—rather than putting the ring through his lip, he puts it on it. In his lobes he has a special earring from each of his boyfriends. Aside from that, he wears several bracelets, rings, and necklaces. Has fluffy black hair and golden-brown eyes, dressing usually in some combination of black and red shirts and jeans. Having lost his halo once, he now keeps it around his neck as a choker. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Loki Laufeyjarson

Loki can be summed up in a single word: annoying. He makes it his main pastime to annoy people by pushing their buttons and getting into their faces. Not entirely surprising, given his identity; he is indeed the trickster of viking myth. Generally he is annoying, sarcastic, and more than a little devious with a strange sense of humor. Almost always at work at some thing or another, be it holed up in his basement lab experimenting with chemicals and runic magic, or designing blueprints for who knows what. Although he enjoys playing pranks on people, he mostly refrains from doing so inside the house; this is in part because everyone else would deal him terrible retribution if he did, and because it’s home and since his arrival he has been a little quieter than one would expect; grappling with personal issues. Flirts often with Cheshire, something which has earned him Belial’s bad graces, although they do seem to be grudgingly patching things up. Fond of playing with fire due to his pyrokinetic abilities; may or may not have some pyromaniac tendencies to go along with it.

A rather pointed face, with thin, faint criss-crossing scars across his lips; makes his smile rather crooked. Pale, shifty, fiery green eyes and orange-red locks that he keeps smoothed back from his forehead that form half-curly tendrils at the nape of his neck. Tall and thin, around Cheshire’s height, dressing in sweater-like long-sleeved shirts and pants. [IMAGE COMING SOON]