“Say your last words. I want to hear them.”
You know the old town tales. Darlings kiss their lovers and the spell is broken. The frog becomes a prince, Sleeping Beauty wakes up, Snow White comes back to life, whatever catches your eye. Oh me? Of course Angelica captivates me. Whatever you say. No matter what old men invent. After all, can any fairytale have a soul like Angelica’s? Can any soul find its half like Angelica’s? He lies at the core of every fairytale: Angelica. Every beauty is created from him, every mystery becomes meaningful. He causes life. Angelica is unattainable, Angelica is independent, Angelica is a stranger to love and Angelica is as cold as November. Angelica is a kiss that ends life. Angelica is love itself, Angelica is the curse of autumn, Angelica is a devil, a black star, an angel, a god and a immortal. Angelica is someone you chase after until you die but who becomes death to you. Angelica is the devil who ruthlessly holds his nails into Remus’s neck and has sworn to kill him.
Remus was a werewolf. Yeah, was. Remus doesn't even remember those moments, how he was bitten, the pain, the terror, the screams. No, he doesn't remember any of it. All he knows is this fucking deal his family made, desperately trying to get him out of this hole he fell into, terrified. Yes, they sold Remus' soul to a devil, if only they had sold it to an ordinary devil. Sirius Black is the most stubborn, spoiled, lovable piece of shit Remus has ever seen.
Remus still remembered the first time he saw him—so clearly, as if it had been just yesterday.
He had been fifteen, a reckless, clueless child. And this creature—watching him from behind a tree with those large, storm-gray eyes—was too beautiful to be human. The sight of him had already sent a shiver down Remus’s spine.
Jet black. His hair was jet black—so dark it felt unreal—long and braided, catching the wind like it was dancing a waltz. Thin, veined fingers gripped the tree tightly, nails digging into the bark. His lips were still, unreadable, expressionless—but his eyes betrayed him. They burned, gleaming with the kind of hunger only seen in a boy falling in love for the first time.
Remus had been afraid.
Because this man—whom he had never seen before in his life—was looking at him as if he had known him for centuries.
Remus ran. Yes, that was all he had been doing for the past six years—running. He knew this man would be his undoing. And yet, the irony of it all was that while one part of him was desperately fleeing, another part craved him with a madness he couldn’t suppress. How could he deny the way his eyes lit up with hope every time he stepped outside, half expecting to see him? How could he ignore the way his legs tensed, always ready to run?
One day, he would be caught. He had always known that.
He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
Though… was six years really soon?
Sometimes, on the days when the devil wasn’t around, Remus would come across a dog; pitch black, as dark as the night itself. You know how sometimes a stray dog follows you home after you show it a little kindness? It was just like that. Once, Remus had taken pity on the creature, watching him with eyes so full of longing, so desperate for affection. He had reached out and gently stroked its head. And from that moment on, the dog never left his side. The strange thing was that the dog and the devil never appeared at the same time. Maybe the devil didn’t like dogs. Or maybe—just maybe—he was afraid of them.
Who could have known? Well, Remus couldn't have known, that's obvious.
Sometimes, they would sit together on the curb, and the dog—like a person—would rest its head on Remus’s shoulder and let out a mournful howl. Remus never understood what was wrong with it. Was it sick? Dying? What could cause such suffering? He had no idea. All he knew was that this strange, almost human like creature was devoted to him beyond reason. And, unwillingly, he had grown attached to it too.
There were nights when he would sit on the pavement, a beer can in hand, confiding in the dog; his closest friend. And the dog would look at him as if it understood everything he was saying. No, more than that—as if it understood even the things he couldn’t bring himself to say.
But now, as he looked up at the man towering over him, eyes dark with pleasure, Remus couldn’t stop himself from thinking: That he might just choose this man over the dog.
Yes, the devil was standing over him now.
He can’t even remember how he got caught. It was only a few seconds—yes, just a few—but the devil’s intoxicating scent of cinnamon is so thick in the air that Remus feels like he could forget his own name at any moment. Oh, wait—he already has. His back is pinned to the ground, the devil straddling him, trapping him between his legs. Sirius’s sharp nails trace dizzying circles against his throat. Their faces are so close, their breaths colliding in the space between them.
Remus is about to die. Both poetically and realistically.
But the wicked, exhilarated glint in the devil’s eyes—so utterly, devastatingly beautiful—makes him forget to be afraid. Oh, merciful god. Remus has never felt this much in his entire life. Lucky.
He feels lucky.
“Say your last words. I want to hear them.”
The devil’s midnight hair gleams, his lashes flicker, and Sirius becomes a star in Remus’s eyes. Remus is filthy. He is the kind of man who makes suicide proposals to every girl who winks at him, the kind whose wrist carries the ghost of old scars. Remus is a thief, a wretch. If only he stole worthless scraps—but no, he has slipped Sirius’s heart into his satchel as well. Men like him, fools who never learned how to live, do not fear death. They welcome it as one embraces an old friend. After all, does it really matter if there is life after death when there was none before it?
And when the only person who made life worth living offers him death, what power could make Remus refuse? What force could bring him to his knees? None, I say—none but devils with shadow-dark hair. Only they could break men like him. Not even death can stop them, for they have long since broken every rule, dying a hundred times over before they ever drew their last breath.
''TALK.''
"You're beautiful."
A flush creeps up the devil’s cheeks, setting fire to his heart, and the trees of hope within him begin to bloom. The nails pressed against his throat lose their threat. Remus is sure now—if he cannot live for this man, then let him die for him. Yes, dear, let him die. If the word "Sirius" trembling on his lips will never own him, then what is the point of living?
He lies at the feet of the devil who has cornered him, who is mere seconds away from ending him, who has sworn an oath to his absence. His heart rams against his ribs, eager to escape, ready to surrender itself to the man who holds his mercy. Ignore how he looks—like someone with a death wish—for Remus has nothing left to give but his life. And if death must come, let it not be by sharp claws, but by the gentle lips tracing his own.
Holy.
Merging with a devil’s soul—turning him into an angel. That’s what he wants. This man, who has stolen his soul from Venus, whose eyes each hold a different galaxy, whose body is made of stars, whose heart is carved from the sun—how easily he becomes the meaning behind every poem Remus has ever heard. And that eyes, oh my god. Triangulum and Andromeda.
Remus knows. He knows that as long as the star before him keeps shining, every kind of death will be a gift.
He smiles. Maybe—just maybe—the man who has sworn to be his Grim Reaper would agree to be his Juliet, if only Remus can prove himself. But who is he kidding? Does he care if his throat is slit? Does he care about Juliet? Isn’t his only desire to drown in the astronomy of those gray eyes? If this man, who stitches every tear in his soul with a single glance, is not Angelica—then tell him, could anyone ever be?
"You're beautiful."
He repeats it once more, watching the devil’s trembling hand, hesitation woven into its very fabric. Tonight, something holier than death will take its turn. He knows it. He knows.
Sirius’s love brings empty words to their knees—so tell him, how could this man ever choose to kill Remus?
Once, Remus was fifteen—young, reckless, in the years that should have been the brightest of his live. Sirius greeted Remus with death threats, and they chased each other with fists. Now, he is twenty one—one standing at the edge of death, the other on the brink of killing—and yet, somehow, what they want most is to turn back and live.
I suppose they will never learn. Not just them—their hearts, too, keep growing, and the love they once mistook for hatred blinds them more with each passing moment. What was once just a whisper, a fleeting sentence, a mere crumb of affection has now become a resounding cry, a thick novel spilling over the edges of their hearts. And still, these two believe it to be hate.
Ah, Sirius. Sirius. We all know you never truly wanted to kill him. So where does this need for power, this ridiculous love language of yours, come from? Someone needs to teach this man how to love without fear. But tell me, could anyone play that role better than Remus? What words, other than "You're beautiful," could cut straight through his soul? The victim must have mixed poison into his own blood. He can't cut his neck so Remus cut his soul instead.
A single sentence—when spoken by the right person—can shift the course of fate itself. The right person? Is Remus truly the right person? The nights spent cursing him, threatening him, flood Sirius’s mind. He is so close—so achingly close—to taking his life. Everything is perfect, exactly as it should be. He asks himself: Isn’t this what I’ve wanted all along?
No. Remus is not the right person. Sirius knows that, too. Remus is magic, Remus is cursed, Remus is mortal. Remus is anything but right.
But Sirius doesn’t care.
Does Remus being wrong change the fact that he belongs to him?
Remus’s milk-white throat is bared before Sirius, and the devil swallows hard. He wonders how he never noticed before—how beautiful Remus looks when he is meant to die by his hands. The sharp planes of his face, the half-lidded eyes, the lips curled upward in that reckless smirk—he had never seen them for what they were. He had never before felt this urge—this unbearable pull—to bury his hands in coffee-colored curls, to press his fingers where they belong: onto Remus’s waiting shoulders.
How defenseless he is, how utterly dependent on him!
Sirius doesn’t want to admit it, but he wants to trap this foolish, miserable man—this foolish, love struck face—somewhere in his mind. To lock it away and summon it whenever he misses him: On sleepless nights, in moments of panic, he wants an image to appear at will, a branch to hold onto when everything else crumbles. A pair of eyes that could restart his heart when it fails.
He wants to hang his picture on the finest walls of the chambers in his mind.
He can’t bear it.
He can’t bear it. He should stop himself.
But he can’t.
Remus signaled to him with his eyes. Yes, he seemed to say. You may kiss the bride. Sirius looked as though he stood on the brink of two impossible extremes—sobbing so hard his heart might stop, or laughing so joyfully he could wake the dead. His hands trembled. He didn’t know what to do. Sirius was afraid.
No.
Sirius was in love. Love was strange. Someone, please, pull him out of this nightmare! Remus was terrifyingly beautiful. Sirius was immortal, and yet, the emotions crashing through him were so overwhelming—so all-consuming—that, for the first time, he thought he just might die.
Sirius wanted to cling to the warmth of his victim’s coffee-scented curls, to drown in those deep brown eyes, to tumble down the length of his endless lashes and fall into the arms waiting below. He wanted to remind this man—the one gazing at him with adorance—that he was no god, just a pathetic little devil. But Remus wouldn’t believe him. Sirius knew that.
So instead, Sirius let his hands slide to the waiting shoulders beneath him. Remus smiled—soft, innocent, like something newborn. He reached up, took Sirius’s other hand, and pressed it to his cool cheek. Sirius shivered. Not because he was touching a mortal so brazenly—no, he shivered because that person was Remus. He knew he couldn’t hold back much longer. He leaned in, the space between their lips so small it could barely be called a distance at all. It was driving them both mad. One last time, just once more, Remus spoke.
Sirius’s heart was a ticking bomb, counting down to its own detonation.
Tick. Tock
"You're so beautiful."
Tick. Tock.
Their lips met; desperate, longing, filled with hunger and fear. They did not belong to this world. They were carved from the same stardust, split apart when a falling star shattered upon the earth, one soul torn in two, one half condemned to die, the other cursed to kill. They were what killed the dinasours, their love is god.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Remus’s lips found Sirius’s, and in that moment, the devil's hands, hands that had only just contemplated ruin, clung desperately, fearfully, to the very neck he had meant to break. And Remus, with quiet surrender and tender devotion, wrapped his arms around Sirius’s waist—holding him, grounding him, saving him.
Tick. Tock.
Angelica kisses him. Angelica borns and dies at the same time
That night, Angelica becomes a part of Remus, their souls entwining just as their bodies do. Silk threaded ties bind him to Sirius, the man who came here to kill him but somehow became his salvation instead.
Tick.
Remus’s heart falters. His hands go limp, falling to the ground. His pupils roll back—not just from raw pleasure, but from his body’s allergic reaction to the poison on the devil’s lips. Sirius’s wet tears wash over Remus’s face, now drained of color. He smiles for the last time, that was.... that was magic. But he is not magical after all.
Tock.
But Remus is happy—so, so happy. As he exhales his last breath into the mouth of his immortal love, he feels more blessed than ever before.
Sirius trembled as he pulled his lips away from the ones already beginning to grow cold. He knew he couldn’t bear to look at that lifeless face. So he shut his eyes—so tightly that his lids ached—and buried his face in Remus’s neck. A sob tore through him. His hands clutched desperately at the fabric of Remus’s shirt, as if holding on could somehow bring him back. Sobs tore through him.
Oh, but don't be so sad please. Sirius isn’t living through this for the first time. He is not so surprised. He is just... he just... he just blames god. He wants to blame. He wants to blame it on the black star. He wants to blame it on the falling sky. He wants to blame it on the satellite. He wants the blame someone. That's all.
Sirius is a wretch.
He bought this man’s soul, and in return, god cursed him with love, with eternity, and with the agony of watching his beloved die in his arms over and over again.
Remus appears before him endlessly: different bodies, different faces, different names, different genders. Sirius is forced to see them, to hate them, to love them, to kiss-kill them. Immortality must be a cruel thing.
Sobs tore through him. He has to wait. Again and again and again. Just to kiss him, he has to wait. Again and again and again. Just to kill him.
You know the old town tales. Darlings kiss their lovers and the spell happens. The prince becomes a frog, Sleeping Beauty drops off, Snow White dies, whatever catches your eye. Oh me? Of course Angelica captivates me. Whatever you say. No matter what old men invent. After all, can any fairytale have a soul like Angelica’s? Can any soul find its half like Angelica’s? He lies at the core of every fairytale: Angelica. Every beauty is created from him, every mystery becomes meaningful. He causes death. Angelica is unattainable, Angelica is independent, Angelica is a stranger to love and Angelica is as cold as November. Angelica is a kiss that ends life. Angelica is love itself, Angelica is the curse of autumn, Angelica is a devil, a black star, an angel, a god and a immortal. Angelica is someone you chase after until you die but who becomes death to you. Angelica is the devil who clings desperately to Remus’s neck and has doomed to sob.