He Loves You

Quentin

Death isn’t what I thought it would be.

I follow a winding path, and iron lamplights keep me company. It’s cold, but my coat keeps me warm. Fat snowflakes tumble downwards, and the sun comes out from behind the clouds every now and then. There’s no people around, and I don’t recognize the land, but I swear I’ve been here before. There’s a frozen lake on one side of the path, stretching as far as the meadows on the other side do. After a while, I start to wonder where I’m going.

“That depends. Where do you want to go?”

I glance over at the person beside me, unsurprised by his sudden arrival. I find myself unable to stop walking, so I give him a smile instead of a hug. I say, “Hey, Arlo.”

He smiles back, but it’s sad. “Hey, Q.”

I turn my smile to Bosko riding on his shoulder, the bird surrounded by a vague black cloud. Hesitantly, I ask, “Is home an option?”

“It is.”

“But?”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting to stroke Bosko’s feathers instead of answering me. Eventually, he says, “You won’t be human anymore, but you won’t be a golem either. You—your soul was damaged, Quentin. We don’t know how, but it was. The only way to bring you back is to tether you to your soulmate. You will share a spirit.”

“Oh. Does … what does Elochian say about that?”

“Elochian isn’t awake right now, and he probably won’t be for … well, for some time.”

“What? Why? Is he okay?” I try to stop walking, and I can’t. It freaks me out this time, and Arlo rests a hand on my shoulder, shaking his head.

“He’s okay, just recovering. He came and got you, you know.”

“He did?”

“Of course he did, Q. He loves you.”

I nod, wiping at my eyes, which is when I notice I’m not wearing my glasses. “How much longer can you wait to … do whatever it is you need to? I can’t do something like that without asking him.”

Arlo hesitates, and he squeezes my shoulder once before letting go. “You don’t have much time.” He nods to the path. “You’re almost there. It has to be now, if you’re going to stay. Gaia’s here with me, and we can do it.”

“Oh.” I steal a glance towards what lays ahead, and there is something on the horizon. A glimmering outline of … buildings? No, trees. Maybe. We walk in silence for a little while longer, and I wrestle with my conscience the entire time.

Arlo says, “If I were in Loch’s place, and Thatch was you … well, there’d be no question. I’d want him to. And I think if Elochian finds out that I let you go when there was a way to bring you back, well. He might kill me.”

I laugh wetly. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Arlo lifts a shoulder and says nothing.

Bosko takes flight, going on ahead of us. We watch him disappear into the vague horizon, and my heart settles on a decision.

My muscles jerk with recognition, and my eyelids part with great reluctance. I’m confused by how normal my surroundings are. I lay on my back, scanning the room with great difficulty.

There’s the scuff in the paint where I once laid on my bed with Lindsey, we had our feet up on the wall.

There’s the scrollwork baseboards which haven’t been dusted since I moved in, and it shows.

And there, laying right beside me, is Elochian. Eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling.

I want to scream.

I try to reach for him, but the movement won’t come. My breathing quickens, and a soft voice says, “Your body is becoming reacquainted with your mind, and you are under the influence of many pain medications. In addition to your lacerations, your hand was broken, and your trachea was damaged. You’re stable, thanks to your witches, but healing.”

I shift my gaze, straining to see the source of the voice. His aunt sits in one of my kitchen chairs, dressed in loose, fluffy clothing. She runs a comb carved from bone through Elochian’s hair, returning to the humming my panic had interrupted. Heart numb, I close my eyes, falling back into the warm ruminating from Elochian’s side. We’re both tucked beneath the blankets, and he’s close against the wall, which is normally my spot in bed.

Tisha says, “I never wanted children, or a partner.”

I open my eyes, staring at her.

She doesn’t look at me, simply continues to brush Elochian’s hair. “I don’t have a motherly bone in my body, and bonds are … they’re dangerous for celestials. But as a descendant of a dying royal house, I wasn’t given much choice. The bond between his parents was extraordinary, the type of love you find once in a lifetime. Do you know what it was his mother died of?”

I blink at her.

“Heartbreak.”

Tisha falls quiet for a little while after that.

I open my mouth, and my tongue rasps against my lips like sandpaper. Tisha sets the comb down upon my nightstand beside my glasses with a quiet clack, then picks up a cup with something sticking out of it. She says, “You can’t speak, or drink. But I can give you this. Open.”

She brings the cup close to my face, taking out what looks like a sponge on a stick. I do as she says, and my jaw cracks. She gently swabs the inside of my mouth, and whatever the sponge has been soaking in is cool and fresh, not really tasting like anything but clean.

After Tisha finishes, she sits back down. She doesn’t pick up the comb again, instead she stares at Elochian’s face. He looks so peaceful like this, to the point of being eerie. She whispers, “Well, if someone has to break his heart, I’m glad that it’s you.” She glances over at me, and a wry smile plays at her lips. “Get some sleep, chick. He has a way to go.”

The next time I wake up, we’re alone.

I’m able to move a little this time, but it’s slow going. Everything hurts and my bones are tired, like the day after having the worst flu of my life. Elochian has been turned onto his other side, facing the wall. A pillow is wedged between his knees. I have no sense of time, only that it’s currently nighttime, evident by my open curtains.

I rest a hand on his back, between his upper and lower wings, over his spine. I ache to whisper his name, call him from the depths of wherever he is. What happened to him?

The door creaks open, and I look over my shoulder to see Michael sneaking into the room. When they see that I’m awake, a cascade of emotions crosses their face. Relief. Hesitation. Sadness. Michael sits down in the chair at our bedside, the same one Tisha was in before. They stare at me, and I stare at them. I try to smile, and it ends up being a small, wobbly thing.

Michael bows their head, and cries. They say, “Don’t. Don’t smile at me.”

I want to ask what’s wrong, why are they so sad. Michael pinches the bridge of their nose, shaking their head. Their tears are quiet, but their shoulders heave with the force of sobbing nonetheless.

Michael says, “I am so, so sorry, Quentin.”

I scrape energy from the dregs of my being, and reach out to Michael. He takes my hand, his grip firm. He presses his forehead to my knuckles, exhaling a shaky breath. Michael begins to transform, and the change is less horrifying than the type of shifting I witnessed … before. Gods, what even happened? Where is—

My spiraling thoughts are brought to a halt as I realize what’s happening.

The form that Michael takes is one I’ve never seen before, but I know it for what it is immediately. Their head is still shaved, but the short hairs are black. Black crystalline-like horns protrude from their head in a circular fashion, like a crown, and some grow beneath my hand, gently pressing against my skin. Upward curving lines crease the corners of their eyes, which are big and full of color. Literally, his irises are kaleidoscopes of colors that never settle. Their wings are similar to Elochian’s in the sense that they’re covered in scales, but the shape is different, and Michael’s scales are black and red. Finally, a tail not dissimilar to a scorpion’s extends behind him, curving forward to hug his back.

I bump Michael’s forehead with my hand, and he looks up. I pull my hand back, then point to my eye. I point to my heart, and finally, I point at him.

Michael’s thick brows furrow for a moment, then he smiles.

“Me too, Quentin. Me too.”

Three days later, and I’m able to get out of bed with help. I should be happy about it, but Elochian’s still asleep. Not to mention my best friend washes my ass crack like her life depends on it. From my shower chair I swat at her, face burning with embarrassment. Lindsey rolls her eyes, straightening up from her squat. She’s fully in the tub with me, on the opposite end from the shower head, dressed in shorts and a ratty t-shirt. She wipes loose hair away from her eyes with her upper arm, hands occupied with a soapy washcloth.

“This is true fucking love right here,” she huffs. “Not sure why you’re complaining.”

I laugh, and it hurts, but it hurts so fucking good.

She laughs too, and that feels even better (worse).

My laughter shifts to sobbing, and I bury my face in my hands. The steam surrounds us, providing a false sense of security and soundproofing. Lindsey presses her forehead to mine, unbothered by the water pouring down on our heads. She hums an old elvish lullaby, a rock in my storm. It hurts to cry, like my throat is being sliced apart all over again. Instead of reminding me of dying, the pain reminds me that I’m alive.

A knock sounds on the door. “Is everything okay in there? Do you need help?”

Lindsey rolls her eyes, giving me a teasing smile before calling, “We’re fine, Mom!”

A moment passes before Michael answers, the exasperation clear in their voice. “Yes, dear.”

Lindsey rubs her nose against mine, and I manage a smile. “There he is,” she says. “Alright, come on. You can do this.”

I nod, telling myself over and over that she’s right. I can do this.

Lindsey helps me out of the shower, settling me onto the closed toilet covered in towels. She towel dries my hair, then brushes it away from my face. Despite my protests, she covers my face, upper body, and calves, in lotion. She doesn’t apply it to my throat, reserving that tender area for the healing balm from Arlo. She applies it carefully, and it numbs the pain from crying.

When it’s all said and done, I’m dressed in my favorite pajama suit and smell better than I have in Gods knows how long. I lean on Lindsey, looping my arm around hers, and glance at myself in the mirror. I look better, and worse, than before.

Lindsey had shaved me in the shower, and I almost wish she didn’t. My hood is pulled up, and it casts shadows on my hollow cheeks. The stubble had hidden the weight I’ve lost, which is now highlighted. My eyes are bloodshot and bruised, all I do is stay up and stare at Elochian, waiting for him to wake up. If I do sleep, my world is full of nightmares.

And then there’s that angry incision across my throat, the scarring rough and pink. The balm is supposed to help smooth the skin too, but I don’t think it will ever fully fade. I reach up and touch the thick beginning of the scar, the first place that the blade sunk in. In a way, I’m glad that it won’t fade. My story has been painful, but I’m still here. And without River, without my mother, without every bad thing that has ever happened to me, I would never have met Elochian.

“Quentin?”

My hand falls to my chest, fingers spread wide. I tap my thumb against my sternum, letting Lindsey know I’m okay. She glares at me in disbelief. I gesture for her to open the door, and she sighs.

She peeks down the hallway. “Michael’s with him, sure you don’t want to come hang out in the living room for a bit?”

I stare at her.

“Men. Impossible.” 

The moment we step inside, I look at Elochian. He’s on my former side of the bed, facing the room instead of the wall. Still asleep. Michael sits by his side, reading one of my books despite my protests. He claims to actually like them, but I’m not convinced he’s not doing it just to tease me. I can’t be too mad, Michael has been nothing but dutiful to Elochian, and me.

They change Elochian’s position every two hours, making sure all pressure points are cushioned. They make sure I eat, my diet won’t be normal for another week but thanks to him, liquidized food tastes somewhat good. He changes Elochian’s clothes everyday, and washes him in bed. I nearly offered, but it felt wrong. We’ve been intimate, but Elochian hasn’t exposed himself to me entirely.

The only thing Michael will let me do anyway is keep Elochian company, keep him warm. Michael hardly leaves the apartment, the living room has temporarily become his, but he doesn’t stay in my room all the time, thankfully. I know he means well, but I’m starting to go stir crazy. My students have been taken care of for the rest of the semester, and I’m oddly sad about the fact I never got to read their final papers. There has been nothing to do, but wait.

Lindsey says, “One grumpy Quentin, ready for momma bird.”

Michael sets his book aside. “Too grumpy for visitors?”

I sigh, glancing at Lindsey. She smiles, somewhat bashfully, which isn’t a very Lindsey look. She says, “He’s been wanting to see you, and it might do you some good to get out of the room.”

Channeling frustration I point to the bed, and Lindsey helps me into it without another word. I curl up close to Elochian, linking my fingers with his, and Michael covers me with layers of blankets. I listen to him and Linds leave the room, and only once the door shuts am I able to breathe normally. I lay there for a long time, trying to sleep. I’m so fucking tired, but it won’t come.

What if he wakes up, and I miss it?

What if he never wakes up?

What if he never wakes up, and it’s my fault?

I’ve only been given the bare bones of that day, something else that pisses me off. I know that an old prison was discovered beneath Primo’s, which is where Elochian broke into his true form, and found me. Arlo and Michael were delayed by assailants, but aid arrived in the form of Tobias, our witches, and a fuck ton of demons and angels. But according to Michael, by the time everyone caught up with Elochian, there was nothing to do but deal with a subdued River, a dead me, and the aftermath.

No one will elaborate on that last part.

How did a small army become unneeded? How many people did Elochian … kill? I still can’t wrap my head around that part. Elochian killing anyone, even bad guys, just seems … impossible. But he must have, I’m not as naive as my friends like to think. Not only did he change into his true form, something most Arches never do, but he transformed and survived. There’s a reason that they don’t, it’s a last resort. There has only been a handful of recordings of Arches surviving the change, and they’re never the same after. Researching everything there is to know about celestials, specifically archdemons, is another thing that keeps me up at night.

Idina tried to warn me, and I didn’t listen.

A familiar pattern raps on the door, and before I can say anything, Arlo steps into my room. Once upon a time I dreamed of this moment, but now all I want is for him to leave. I roll over in bed, reluctantly letting go of Elochian, and glare at Arlo as he takes a seat.

He takes off his hat and rests it on his knee. He says, “I wanted to talk to you before I left, it’ll only take a minute, okay?”

I gesture for him to go on, by all means.

Arlo takes a deep breath. Quietly, he says, “I know you’re angry with me. I know you’re frustrated. I know you’re sad, and tired. I know what it’s like to want to stay in bed and not see anyone, and wish everyone would leave you the fuck alone. With that being said, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to be here for you, by your side, until Elochian wakes and beyond, because I love you. You are my brother, my best friend, and I fucking love you. I don’t regret what I did, and I would do it again.”

And just like that, I’m crying again.

I open my arms to him, scowling the entire time so he knows this isn’t over. He crawls into bed beside me, and I hold him close. His head rests against my chest, and his boots hang off the mattress. I wonder if Arlo’s ever been the little spoon in his life, but I can imagine Thatch making it happen a time or two. Then again, did they ever spend the night together more than once?