Chapter Text
“You have so many of these.”
The soft and full bed-sheets are comfortably embracing your knees, smelling of lavender detergent and burnt plastic. Your companion is searching through the colorful shiny tubes skittered among the pillows. He tosses a few aside, the others – shoves in the pockets of his coat with a delighted hum. Plastic rattles and clanks where the sharp claws grab at it. Try to paint his nails something other than black or red and get to enjoy a full scale tutorial on body dissection and organ removal. He doesn’t turn to face you, instead waving away dismissively.
“I do! They’re not as snacky as the pink ones, synthetic dyes do make a difference. Ya know, it has real led in it! I think. Probably. Bet.”
He brushes back through a green mess of thick spiky hair and the strands turn soft teal under his fingertips, content on sticking in every direction. A peachy highlight springs up on his right temple and he quickly banishes it into the void. There’s a poorly shaved spot on his temple now, but unfazed, he only strikes a coy pose and bats his eyelashes at you.
Fishing out a single lipstick of his preference out of the pocket, he shoves it in your palm. You pop the lid open but don’t hold it firmly enough, so it almost rolls under the bed. In a glimpse it’s back in your hand, with your friend grinning with a full row of the sharpest teeth imaginable, leaning in close. And you are about to give this demon the Marilyn Monroe look of the century. Or millennia, in your shared situation. He snakes a twitchy hand through his hair again. You frown.
“Beej, c'mon.”
He is sneering. Cold brown eyes peer through through your very essence. You can’t hold eye contact for long, especially if your opponent hasn’t blinked more than ten times in the span of three years you’ve known him. At least without consciously choosing to do so. A fly crawled across his eyeball once and he ate it with no hesitation, lizard of a man.
“I personally prefer something harder, radium for once, makes my pretty face really shine it’s true colors, but I promised to go lightly on you today.”
To demonstrate, his whole attire flashes emerald, and for a second you are worried he is trying to hide something again, some worry, crawling nasty concept stuck in the rotten brain, drilling him for hours and hours. He used to fixate on those a lot, only from Lydia’s most quiet words and BJ’s stressed, forced by himself confessions you knew the full capacity of his actions when the fears did finally reach and uncurl in action. Soon the notion evaporates off your mind, and you promise yourself to trust. A little, at least today. You both have it weary enough. Fun work keeps the chaos friendly and playful. True nature of human labor.
Betelgeuse kicks back on the bed, sinking in the layers of duvet and covers. The smell of chemical burn intensifies, but you shift your attention and admire the silky smooth texture of the lipstick. The color is raven dark, matte and barely reflects any light. A silver line of text runs on the bottom, no way to decipher the logo with half of the carving being scratched and sanded down. You bring the piece up, comparing it’s shade to the stripes on your friend’s jacket. It matches almost perfectly, Betelgeuse stays still for a mere second for you to take a better look. Impatiently then, he scoots over and turns to lay on his back, with his back comfortably resting against your knees. You take a chance to give him a light jab in the ribs. The fiend sounds mildly insulted, berating you to the Netherworld. With the flare of conflict settled as fast as it started, your hands land on the rough fabric of his tie and moved by a reflex, you carefully readjust it and smooth down any wrinkles.
“I regret every single one of my life’s decisions right now. Regretting- fuck. Move, please!”
At the concerning creak of your knee, you hiss and thrash away. The demon is suddenly all over you, flailing his arms dramatically, apologizing.
“Satan, pardon me-eh! Maybe you should have thrown a pillow down there like a normal person, instead of throwing your pretentious shit at me. You asked for this!”
Gently, with invisible static of touch your body drifts up, swaying in the sea of air. Betelgeuse extends an inviting hand and you gladly take it, with the weightless power slowly lowering you down on his hips.
You try and fail to toss your legs over his cross cross style instead of just using him as an armchair, and still clutching your pained knee.
“You mentioned it and I agreed. Harmless fun. Can I? Bloody-”
Betelgeuse gets the memo faster then it reaches your mouth.
He reappears with a puff of pale smoke, by your side, with your legs already over top his, changing positions before your brain can even catch up.
“Like I would say no. And I would even more appreciate if you- Hey!”
Holding his face in place is not for the weakest of hands, with so much care and caution you might be just handling the ashes of his own star in a jar with a tag saying ‘Nuclear hazard’. You ignore the muscles straining on your face. You pretend not to notice him smiling back at you. It’s so unusual. It’s so strange. Your minds are at peace for now.
Steadying him by the shoulders, the grip barely firm enough to actually hold him down, you trace the first few lines of lipstick, following again with an extra layer to really set the color in place. Betelgeuse taunts back with a shiny smile, while you fill in the little creases and cracks on his lips.
A professional, or a more sensible adult would sneak a bit of Vaseline or a chopstick right before the initial coloring part, but it’s easier to convince the Minotaur to quit labyrinth stalking and join working at a public school on a low budget system, than to continue to remind your roommate to do any kind of skincare. In a short moment of clearance, you quietly bite down on your lower lip and find out that your own skincare has been lacking too, probably for months now. You taste a familiar dull twinge of iron over a rough strike of dried blood.
Lately BJ and you have been playing a game of back and forth attempted care taking, where each opponent constantly reminds the other to do better for themselves and drink that damned glass of water already. You remind him not to downplay his impact on the world and he breaks apart your blissful repetitive breakfasts and dinners with “Didja take your meds? How’s that flimsy breather spine doing? The impending doom is not real! ”
Now his smile looks even more magnetic then usual, haunting to the point where you can’t contain your own and break out into laughter. He bursts into deep snorts and giggles shortly after.
“Well if you wanted this kind of proximity-”
“Stop it, please, stop. Stop squirming around, you are not the snake demon, it’s another franchise!’’
Now both of you can’t focus on any make up, your hands are already shaking violently and every single attempt to continue is interrupted by one of you loosing your minds and laughing, and laughing and laughing...
You place a hand on BJ’s knee, feeling how the bed subtly shakes in beat with every happy sound. Though gritted teeth, you try and fail to put any sense in your situation until no effort from any side has power and capability to think straight, with loud wheezing and breathless occasional curses filling the space of the dim apartment.
“I am sure you know how. Oh no. Is that insensitive to ask? Oh no... I will get it all over your teeth otherwise, it’s not really my fault. You leave your antsy nature only to yourself.”
“Oh no-no-no-no, you would be such a backstabber for saying this. How dare you?! But sure, go off, Lids has it way more fun than we do together. Obviously.”
At the though of his sworn little sister a restless yellow flame sets ablaze in the iconic green. Fabric of his suit rustles, as he tugs on a loose button. One tug, two, three-
“Did she text you by the way, did she get home? With a full set of limbs?”
“She’s staying with Skye and her grandma for the weekend. I am sure- Open up a bit, I want the lines to meet in one place. I am sure she will be okay... She is not a child anymore, put some trust in her. Usually we worry about you much more anyway.”
“I am built differently.”
“Incorrectly, I would say. Your third arm now has two thumbs, ew. Ew.”
“So you do worry about lil’ old me, huh?”
“Don- nooo. Don’t phrase it like that. And of course I worry. Like, why wouldn’t I? Would be a very shitty roommate situation in my opinion.”
Nothing follows. Unsaid, never spoken in serious tones by his memory, the topic weights heavy and slowly covers the previous joy with a thick blanket of… Relief? Familiarity? Betelgeuse hopes it’s one of these things that surely will crush another wall between a distant idea of being seen and a true extent of remembrance for his real Self.
He strives towards it every waking hour of his death and you fall in with his steps, never quiet a shadow, never quiet a solid presence, but an act of perception nonetheless. You see and seek him still, after all this time, no matter where you are physically. Sometimes metaphors make do for Betelgeuse, and they mean more then a lyric construction technique when you stare down at him, mesmerized, as if he is the next piece of art you will spend your very soul on for every brush stroke.
A hesitant cough from the demon startles you, yet he doesn’t plan on backing down. Closer and closer, with a snap sharp black claws pierce though your shirt, barely contorting the fabric but still pulling you closer, before you swat his hands away.
“Really? Not in an anxious over literally any bullshit kinda way?”
“I think you are very capable, so no. I really worry. For real. You can cut my head off and it still will be true.’
“Not how the saying goes!”
“Shut up... I just want you to feel alright. To be happy.”
“Kill joy! Aaaaand, I am not sure if I should read that statement as a compliment. How’s that look on me? Am I The Hot Goth Girl of your dreams yet?!”