The Fallacy of Forever

I lit the moon with a bitten tongue,
Worshiped the hurt where I came from.
I starved myself for the shape of sin,
Then drank down fire to let it in.

Strip the name from my old skin,
Carve your gospel into my grin.
I was made of mirrors once—
Now I just want to bleed and win.

Tell them I burned with grace,
That I made the dark my face.
And if they ask what I became,
Say: something sharp enough to claim.

— [UNRELEASED] CLAIM ME, Abaddon’s Vassals

SCENE: Rooftop Ritual Circle, Paris — Night Before the Interview

Eddie didn't know what he expected when Steve said he needed to Cleanse—maybe something poetic. Sacred. A quiet bath under moonlight, maybe a soft incantation, a little humming. Something vampire-lite.

What he got was a circle of black candles, blood-soaked runes, and Steve barefoot on the rooftop, shirtless, eyes pitch-dark and not all the way Steve.

The Cleansing basin wasn't water this time. It was something thicker. Blood, maybe. Moon-charged and iron-rich, swirling with ash and flecks of gold. The scent of it hit Eddie in the gut—feral, electric, wrong in a way that made his spine light up.

The rooftop was warded now. Sigils lit along the stone perimeter in red flame. Something about it felt ancient. Violent.

Steve stood in the center, chest rising and falling like he couldn't quite catch his breath, every muscle in his body pulled taut. His fangs were already out. His hands trembled.

He didn't look like the same man Eddie kissed in a cathedral.

He looked like something that had crawled out of a grave and remembered it liked the dark.

"I don't usually let people watch," Steve said, voice lower than usual, raw. "Robin's the only one who's ever seen the full Cleansing."

Eddie didn't move. He could barely breathe.

"Then why me?" he asked.

Steve met his eyes.

"Because the bond won't shut the fuck up unless you're near me."

Then he stepped into the circle.

It began with a breath—and then Steve bit his own wrist.

The blood hit the bowl with a hiss, steam rising like it had a life of its own. Eddie's mouth went dry. The bond screamed between them. Not pain. Not lust. Something older.

Steve chanted something in a language Eddie didn't understand—low and fast and hungry.

The flames of the candles flared. The air turned thick, heavy, pulsing with power. Steve threw back his head and moaned—deep, guttural, wrong.

His spine arched. His back cracked. His shadow twisted behind him like it wanted out of his body.

Blood dripped from his hands, his mouth, from between his teeth. But he never looked weak. He looked dangerous. Beautiful.

The sigils around the rooftop glowed brighter—one by one, like a heartbeat.

Steve dropped to his knees.

Eddie took a step forward before catching himself.

"I'm fine," Steve growled. His voice was distorted. Not double—but deeper. Like something inside him was speaking too.

And still—his eyes found Eddie's. Even through the magic, the blood, the bond shaking between them.

"I feel everything," Steve hissed. "Your pulse. Your blood. Your soul."

The final candle flared white-hot—then blew out all at once.

The wind died.

Silence.

Steve collapsed forward, catching himself on one hand, panting. Blood streaked across his chest and arms. His hair stuck to his face. His veins shimmered faintly with gold.

The hunger was gone. The bond quiet.

Cleansed.

Eddie stepped forward. Finally. Slowly.

He dropped to one knee beside him.

"You look like hell," Eddie whispered.

Steve cracked a grin—tired and sharp. "Feel like heaven."

Eddie reached out. Brushed a thumb across his cheekbone, smearing a streak of blood.

"Next time," he murmured, "I'm not just watching."

Steve's smile turned feral. "You'd burn."

Eddie didn't look away. "Then set me on fire."

Steve had barely finished wiping the blood off his face when the door slammed open again.

"I swear to the moon, if one more person sees me covered in my own blood—"

"OUTFIT CHANGE, NOW," Sapphire yelled, sweeping into the room like a thunderstorm made of glitter and eyeliner. Chrissy followed behind her, flanked by two assistants and a garment rack that looked like it had come straight from a demon-owned Balenciaga warehouse.

Eddie, still shirtless from watching the Cleansing (and very clearly into it), blinked. "Can I at least kiss him before you dress him like a cursed Dior ad?"

"Absolutely not," Chrissy snapped. "We have twelve hours before the broadcast and we need to salvage whatever remains of your curated media image, Edward."

"Don't full-name me."

"Then don't soulbond with a media-shy vampire in front of three separate enchanted drone cams," she countered, already flipping through a stack of printed stills. "Do you know what we were going for before this? Bisexual wet dream. You, Sapphire. All stage-sex and sin, mysterious vibes, unattached. And now?" She held up a freeze-frame of Steve's fangs sinking in slow-mo. "Now you're someone's wife."

"I liked that angle," Eddie said cheerfully.

Sapphire, now lounging on the couch like a very hot death omen, added, "Same. Honestly? I think the 'emotional vampire boyfriend' aesthetic is about to pop off."

Steve groaned from where he was still buttoning up the third shirt they'd tried on him. "I can't believe I bit you on camera."

"You think that's bad?" Eddie said, flopping beside him. "I've written like six songs about you and didn't even know your name at the time."

Chrissy clapped her hands. "Alright. Let's rehearse. Steve, you're going to be asked about the moment you Felt him. Start with something dramatic but not creepy. Eddie, don't say 'he ruined me.' We talked about this."

"But he did."

"Nope. PR ruined. You are tender now, Eddie."

Sapphire handed Steve a cue card. "Here. Try this: 'I didn't know it was him at first, but when I heard the music—'"

Steve gave her a look. "You know I was having a full-blown existential breakdown backstage."

"And now you own that breakdown. Sexy. Vulnerable. Ratings."

Steve leaned back, exhausted. "How did I go from brooding undead in a smoky Paris dive bar to being someone's tragic love arc in 24 hours?"

Eddie bumped his knee against Steve's under the table. "Kinda hot, though, right?"

"Shut up."

"Practice with me," Eddie said, scooting closer. He took a mock-serious pose and held out his hands like a talk show host. "So, Steve. You Bonded your soulmate on live magical television. Tell us—how did it Feel?"

Steve buried his face in his hands. "Like dying. But, like... sexy."

Sapphire threw a glitter pen at his head. "Perfect. Say that on camera."

SCENE: Broadcast Studio, Paris — Morning After the Bond, Dressing room

The dressing room was too warm. Or maybe it was just Steve.

He stood barefoot on a rune-marked platform surrounded by mirrors, half-buttoned in some tailored thing that looked like it belonged in a vampire high fashion fever dream—deep burgundy, black silk lapels, runes embroidered so subtly they only glowed under moonlight.

He tugged at the collar, uncomfortable, still not used to the way the Cleansing left his body buzzing. His skin prickled like it wasn't sure it still belonged to him. Like he'd been scraped raw and wrapped in silk and expectations.

"I'm going to set this place on fire," he muttered. "I'm going to light myself on fire."

"You can't," Sapphire said, perched like royalty on the velvet arm of a chaise, her wolf cut fluffed and chaos-streaked in reds and blues. "Not until the cameras are rolling. Then you can combust—tastefully."

She studied him with those sharp, hooded green eyes, then flicked her fingers at an assistant who came running with another accessory.

Steve turned toward the mirror and grimaced.

"I looked awful in the livestream," he said suddenly, low and hot with shame. "I looked—feral. Like a crypt keeper who didn't moisturize."

Sapphire didn't even blink. "You looked divine. And terrifying. Honestly? You made most of the audience question their sexuality."

"Yeah well," Steve mumbled, tugging at the cuffs. "I don't feel divine. I feel like a sweaty vampire who bled in public."

Eddie, still shirtless across the room and clearly enjoying this, lifted his head off the back of the chaise with a crooked grin. "I'm sorry—have you seen what you looked like in that Bonding scene? You were smoking. You had a glow."

"I had blood in my teeth."

"And people loved it." Sapphire spun him slightly, inspecting the way the fabric draped along his shoulders. "Stop spiraling. You're the tragic romantic lead now. The audience is salivating."

"Gross."

"True."

Chrissy appeared just then, clipboard in hand, headset perched like a crown of stress. "Steve, you have six minutes to finish looking emotionally unstable and unnaturally hot. Then we're doing lighting tests."

"I'm not emotionally unstable."

"You Bonded with a man you hadn't even formally met," Chrissy said calmly. "On camera. With sparkles."

Steve groaned.

"Also," she added, tapping her clipboard, "your soulmate trending tag hit twenty-four million views this morning."

Eddie whistled. "God, we're famous."

"You were already famous," Steve muttered. "Now I'm just... visible." He looked back at his reflection, at the open shirt, at the mark glowing on his chest. "I hate being seen."

Eddie stepped behind him again. Not touching—just there. Close.

"You weren't just seen," he said, quieter now. "You were claimed."

Steve met his eyes in the mirror. That same bond hummed in the space between them, soft now. Waiting.

He exhaled. Shoulders loosening, just barely. "I still look like I lost a fight with a wild Robin."

"You look like mine," Eddie said. "And that's gonna drive them crazy."

Steve huffed out a tired laugh. "Ugh. Fine. Let's go make me a national disaster."

"Try an international disaster."

"WHAT?"

SCENE: Broadcast Studio, Paris — Morning After the Bond, Live Interview

The studio lights were cold and clinical, all perfect lines and sorcery-bound soundproofing. Steve sat like a portrait—shoulders straight, collar slightly open, soulmate mark visible but not flaunted. The camera caught the soft glow of it, faint and undeniable.

To his left, Eddie. Still too smug, still too undone. Soul-branded and wired from the storm of the past twenty-four hours.

To his right, Sapphire. A living altar to desire—black corset, red and blue streaked wolf cut, glittered cheekbones and eyes that could gut a man in silence. She crossed one leg over the other, calm and calculated.

Their host, Veyron, looked like a man who thought himself clever for wearing velvet indoors. "So. Last night." He smiled, slow and oily. "One kiss on stage. A soulmate mark. A bite. A breakdown. And Sapphire, a kiss with an unnamed woman mid-performance. Fans are calling it 'the emotional bisexual implosion of the decade.'"

Sapphire's lips curled into a subtle smile. "They're welcome."

Veyron turned to Steve, laser-focused now. "Steve. You entered into a long-standing dynamic—Eddie and Sapphire, the it-duo. There's been flirtation. History. Speculation. How does it feel to step into what many fans saw as an already... established bond?"

Steve didn't flinch.

He looked at Veyron evenly, voice soft and perfectly modulated—like silk pressed against steel.

"I think that assumes I was competing with something," he said. "Which I wasn't."

He folded his hands, fingertips touching. He didn't fidget. He didn't squirm.

"Sapphire and Eddie have a relationship that's theirs. I didn't step into it—I just stood next to it. And the moment you're referring to? That wasn't staged. That wasn't PR. That was fate."

The word fate hit like glass.

Veyron shifted. "But surely—"

Sapphire cut in, still smiling. "It's not new to us. Playing into people's fantasies. You've seen the stage banter. The touches. The teasing. It's theater."

She turned her gaze to the camera. Cool. Intimate.

"Fanservice is currency. Parasociality is the economy. And we've always known the value of a little well-timed ambiguity. Last night? That kiss with the girl onstage? That was for them. Because I knew the real story was unfolding off-center."

Eddie let out a low breath, then tilted his head toward her. "You're such a menace."

She smirked. "I learned from the best."

Veyron tried again. "But don't you worry the audience feels betrayed? That this pairing—this soulmate reveal—disrupts the fantasy?"

Eddie leaned forward, grin sharp now. "Buddy, the fantasy was never real. You just thought it was because we played it so well. Sapphire and I? We flirted with fire. But Steve?" He turned to Steve. "He is the fire."

That stunned the room. For a moment, even the cameras seemed to pause.

Steve didn't break eye contact with Eddie. His voice was still elegant, but a little softer now. "I'm not trying to replace anything. I'm just... here. Fully. Honestly. With him."

Veyron cleared his throat. "Right. Well. That was... eloquent."

Sapphire leaned into the mic. "You're welcome."

The rest of the interview floated on their rhythm—Steve calm and precise, Sapphire cool and untouchable, Eddie grounded by the bond that still hummed between them like a shared secret.

When the stream cut, Sapphire immediately stood and peeled off her mic. "God, I need a drink and someone to ask me a real question. Like why we keep letting straight men run interview chairs."

Chrissy appeared from the shadows, smiling too brightly. "You survived. Barely. Great job."

Steve let out a slow breath and turned to Eddie. "Was I okay?"

Eddie stared at him, stunned. "You were terrifying. I'm in awe. I want to make out and cry simultaneously."

Sapphire flopped into a chair, kicking off her heels. "If we don't win a soulbond media award for this arc, I'm lighting the academy on fire."

The second interview was smaller. More intimate. Velvet chairs. Candlelight glamour. Low lighting meant to look "artfully shadowed" but really just made everything feel hotter, tighter, closer.

Steve sat pressed beside Eddie, legs brushing under the table. Sapphire lounged across from them in a plum silk blazer with nothing underneath and boots taller than God. Her eyes were already glinting with controlled mischief.

This time the host was more refined. Older. Quietly predatory. She smiled with sharp teeth and no warning.

"So," she said, "Steve. Eddie. Soulmark branding. Public bite. A viral moment that left most of us breathless. Have you two... had a moment to catch up yet? Off-camera?"

Eddie grinned, cocky. "If you're asking if we've made out again—"

"Eddie," Steve said gently, nudging him.

Eddie's laugh caught. Just a little.

The interviewer tilted her head. "I only ask because the bond seems... very fresh. Intense. And while some soulmates say it settles quickly, others report side effects. Emotional swings. Physical collapse. Hallucinations."

That did it.

Eddie's smirk faltered. His fingers twitched where they rested on his knee. He didn't look at Steve—he looked through him.

Steve recognized the feeling instantly. The way pressure built behind your ribs. How the attention curled too tight. How the bond made it feel like everyone in the room could see you—blood, bone, fear and all.

So Steve leaned in. Took Eddie's hand.

"Side effects are real," he said, voice steady and softer than anyone expected. "But they're not something to fear. They're a reflection of how strong the tether is. The deeper the connection, the louder the soul has to scream to be heard."

The host blinked. "That's... poetic."

Steve smiled just enough. "It's also true."

Eddie exhaled, finally turning his head. His eyes met Steve's—and some of the panic drained from them.

Sapphire grinned. "And now you see why Steve's the media favorite."

"Yeah," Eddie said hoarsely. "Remind me to propose again."

The audience laughed gently. The tension cracked.

Steve squeezed Eddie's hand once before letting go.

They made it through the rest of the segment without incident—questions about music, magic, how they were navigating privacy in a post-confession world. Eddie recovered by leaning into honesty. Steve met every question with poise and crisp elegance.

And then, just as the host thanked them and the closing credits began to roll, Sapphire leaned forward, eyes glittering with wicked delight.

"Oh, before we go?" she said, off-script. "We got the call today."

Steve turned. "What call?"

Sapphire beamed. "We're hosting and performing on Saturday Night Live next month."

The crowd exploded.

Steve stared. "What—wait. I'm not—"

Chrissy, from behind the camera, was already mouthing "say yes."

Steve blinked. "...I guess I'm doing sketch comedy now?"

Eddie leaned over. "You're gonna wear a suit and kiss me on live television again, aren't you?"

Steve smirked, barely holding it in. "Yeah. But only after you do a sketch in drag."

Sapphire raised her glass. "To soulmates and scandal."

SCENE: Hotel Suite, Paris — Post-Interview, Late Night

The hotel suite was too quiet.

They'd been escorted up the back entrance by Chrissy and two security glamours, past the press, the fans, the enchanted drones still buzzing with afterglow. Eddie had made some joke about "needing a night off from being soulbonded performance art," but it had fallen a little flat.

Now, the only sound was the soft buzz of the minibar and Steve brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom.

Eddie stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, looking out over Paris like it might bite him back. His fingers absently touched the collarbone where the words glowed, low and permanent:

you felt like ruin.

He could still feel Steve's hand in his—anchoring him during the interview, grounding him in that strange, intimate way that felt more like a promise than any press release could ever be.

The bathroom door opened. Steve stepped out barefoot, shirtless, sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. His hair was slightly damp from where he'd run water through it. He looked tired. Still a little blood-ritual feral. Still gorgeous.

"You good?" Steve asked softly.

Eddie nodded. "Yeah. Just... overwhelmed. Not in a bad way."

Steve walked to the bed, tugged back the comforter, and slipped in without fanfare.

"C'mere," he said, voice quieter now. "You can spiral next to me."

Eddie snorted—but he went.

He climbed into bed beside him, too aware of every movement, every inch of air between their bodies. He expected Steve to roll away, or to face the ceiling, or to try for sleep like nothing mattered.

Instead, Steve turned toward him.

And held out an arm.

"Seriously?" Eddie asked, blinking.

"You're shaking," Steve said simply.

Eddie hadn't noticed. Not until he let himself fall into that space—into Steve's chest, his heartbeat steady even if it didn't need to be. His hand settled between Steve's ribs. The bond purred in response.

They didn't speak for a long time.

The city outside hummed softly. Somewhere down the street, a violin played, and a werewolf howled back in key.

"I used to think soulmate marks were cruel," Steve murmured finally. "Like the universe giving you something and daring you not to fuck it up."

Eddie didn't answer right away. His fingers were tracing lazy, aimless patterns along the small scar near Steve's sternum. Something old. Something earned.

"I think they still are," Eddie said eventually. "But I'd rather burn with the right person than fade quiet without them."

Steve exhaled. Closed his eyes.

They fell asleep like that—curled together under too-soft sheets, the bond humming low and warm between them.

No cameras. No audience. No glamours.

Just skin, and quiet, and the slow, steady miracle of being known.

SCENE: Private Jet, En Route to New York — Somewhere Over the Atlantic, Night

The jet was too quiet, too fast, too far above everything for Steve to pretend he wasn't spiraling a little. Again.

He sat curled into one of the plush seats, wrapped in a blanket far too soft for how edgy he felt, watching Paris fade into dark clouds behind them through the tinted window. Across from him, Sapphire lounged like a goddess bored with divinity—barefoot, silk robe loose at the collar, lips stained from something that looked like wine but definitely wasn't.

Eddie was stretched out beside her, shirtless as usual, legs draped over her lap. His boots were on the floor. His eyes were heavy-lidded, breath slow and measured in that post-something kind of way. His magic buzzed low and charged, visible in the way the veins under his skin shimmered faintly violet.

Steve knew the look. He'd just never seen it on Eddie before.

"Okay," Steve said slowly, suspiciously. "What did I miss while I was asleep?"

Sapphire licked her bottom lip and gave him a very sharp, very unapologetic smile. "Feeding."

Steve blinked. "On a plane?"

"This isn't a plane, darling," she purred. "It's a flying chapel to sin."

"We've fed on this jet before," Eddie said, voice still low and warm with afterglow. "Once midair over Berlin. Once on the tarmac in New York. That one got us banned from American Airlines' elite lounge, though, so—worth it."

Steve sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "You fed off him?"

"Technically," Sapphire said, brushing hair from Eddie's eyes, "I let him Feed me. And I gave a little back. Symbiosis."

Steve's brain stumbled a little. "But—he's not a vampire."

Eddie opened his eyes then, gaze glowing faintly gold from residual magic. "Nope. Just a satanic immortal with an unlocked soul circuit and a body that doesn't break easy. Feeding's different for me. Not about survival. More about... communion."

"And fun," Sapphire added. "Very fun."

Steve felt his face flush, even as his bond settled deeper into his ribs—warm, tethered, watching. "Was that—did I miss something important?"

"No," Eddie said gently. "You didn't miss anything that wasn't already yours."

Sapphire tilted her head. "You've already Fed from both of us, even if you didn't call it that."

"The cellar," Steve murmured.

"Exactly."

"But I didn't... take anything."

"You took all of me," Eddie said simply. "I'm not complaining."

Sapphire sighed like she was witnessing something too tender for her dark little heart. "You'll figure it out. You're a little sheltered darling. But you're getting good. Last night you channeled a Cleansing and a Bond flare in under twenty-four hours without collapsing. That's unheard of."

Steve blinked. "So... you're saying I'm hot and scary now?"

"I'm saying," she replied, already pouring more of whatever rich, shimmering thing she was drinking, "that when you decide to Feed for real, you'll make the sky bleed."

Steve exhaled, the window fogging a little beneath his fingers. "Great. No pressure."

Eddie reached over, threading their fingers together without asking. "We've got you."

And for a second—above the Atlantic, wrapped in glamours and silk and the scent of blood-wine and fire—Steve believed it.