Archive of Our Own

You can only sit in a dark room eating sacrificed humans for so long before it gets boring. And Jyu Viole Grace is bored . Cultists are awful company, really—once you tell them to stop groveling, please they don’t even know how to carry a conversation. It’s always “my god” and “O great one” and “here is this baby to eat, my lord” and general awed shrieking. Irritating. Boring. The baby wasn’t even that good.

And sure, his true form is unfathomable to mortals and would melt the mind of the average person within moments, and according to his cultists killing and eating people is “illegal” in the modern world (how times have changed!), but Viole does not like being cooped up in here. Most of his essence is slumbering now, the fragments of his consciousness enough to assume a mere shadowy humanoid shape, built for consumption but little else. Maw and gullet and shadows to surround it. But if he draws out just a little more power—not too much, mind you, gods forbid he split reality into pieces again —then he can have his own special little human meatsack and go outside! It’s perfect! He’s always wanted a meatsack of his own deep down, really. There’s something so entrancing about humanity, about survival and struggle and their imperfect, messy beauty. 

Viole does not struggle. He merely eats; insatiable, endless void. And when he manages to find just the right balance, he is perfect in a way humans cannot be. Flawless skin, shining golden eyes, long dark hair. He can’t bleed, of course. He’s a bit sad about that. The juicy red insides of humans are his favorite thing about them. So tasty, so lively, so vibrant.

It’s enough. It’s enough to leave this revolting cave and feel sunlight and warmth and experience the smells and tastes of human life for himself. When he finally makes his way to civilization (he is no good with time, it means nothing to him, it never has and never will), he has to stop and breathe, drinking in the scent of all of the people around him. He can hear their heartbeats, smell their blood, practically taste their flesh in his mouth… oh, but he knows better. He knows there are human laws and human rules, so he will make do. Maybe one will just drop dead for him. Humans are very fragile things.

He walks, patient and aimless. He has no need for destination—all he needs is to feel and sense this bright, colorful world around him. In his black clothing he is a void amongst color, a black splash in green and brown and red and blue and white and yellow, swirling around him like paint. His cultists brought him paintings sometimes. If they weren’t accurate he ate them and the painting. He misses toxic paints. They had a good spice to them.

The more he walks, the more Viole realizes that everything he sees ties back to his cult. He has no way to express or understand anything without that lens. He has never heard a child laugh, or seen a cat curled on a balcony, or been in a store. He Knows things, but all of his otherworldly knowledge seems to pale in comparison to the rich fabrics of human existence laid out for him.

Oh , Viole realizes after passing a group of children smiling and playing, and feeling an intense, deep gnawing in his stomach, unrecognizable at first. I’ve been lonely.

The thing about having a cult is that they will never love you. They will love the idea of you. They will love your unholiness and your might and your blessings but they will never see you as anything but an idol they can revere. They are unworthy of touching you. The only words on their lips are praises and chants. They prostrate themselves and say they would do anything but tremble at Viole’s touch no matter how gentle he tries to be. They would do anything to die, perhaps, because it is better to die than to crave and to want what you can’t understand, let alone have.

Viole craves companionship as much as he wishes he could finally feel sated.

As he walks, he feels as though his essence is being driven towards a vanishing point on the horizon. The smells of coffee, cocoa, and warm food entice his senses. The aromas swirl into a leash that tugs him forward, step by step, into a queue of seven people, eagerly awaiting satisfaction as dogs await masters. The cafe is cozy—deep brown wooden walls softly lit by yellow lighting from the old lamps, swaying above checkered tablecloths with old stains.

He has no money to order with, he thinks; surely they won’t accept Sangpyeong Tongbo cash coins from the Joseon dynasty, left over from the last time he masqueraded as human. Viole is caught in this eternal song and dance and he hates this tune now, drifting constantly between cult and society and emptiness. Sure, the verses are all a little different—the world changes around him every time he blinks. New clothes, new language, new inventions. Still, he always ends up driven back into that darkness, unable to exist as anything other than a horror.

He’s hungry. He still has no money. So he sits at one of the tables near the back, away from the windows; the sun is great and all, but he’s really not used to it.

“Hello?” a human says, and Viole vaguely registers that there is someone else sitting at this table. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Viole says, serene. The human looks completely baffled, coffee raised halfway to their lips. 

“... Okay.” The human eyes him suspiciously, then shrugs and returns to their coffee and their device (laptop, Viole recalls, he remembers seeing a laptop before). The human is quite pretty; they have soft blue hair and a delicate, androgynous face, vivid blue eyes framed by long lashes. Their lips are full and soft, a gentle red-pink. 

Viole thinks about biting them. He’s hungry.

The human looks up again after a while, looking a little creeped out by how long Viole has sat motionless at his table. “Are you going to order…?”

“I have no money,” Viole says wistfully.

“Is this your way of begging? Sit and stare at someone? You’re fucking weird.”

Viole tilts his head. This human is fun. Fresh. It’s been so long since someone hasn’t bowed at his feet and babbled nonsense and praise. “Thank you. I do not beg, however. I have begged for nothing in my life.”

“Great job. Want a medal?”

“No.”

The human snorts, then sighs. “If I buy you something will you leave me alone?”

“I will be in debt to you,” Viole murmurs. “You must permit me to repay you.”

“... With what?” the human asks, suspicious. 

Viole is quiet for a moment, looking over this human, drinking in every little detail. There are dark circles under their eyes, covered by powdery foundation. Scars stripe their thin, long fingers. Despite their easy responses and casual demeanor there is a fear and a hurt and an ache in this human. Humans, Viole knows, are creatures that long.

“Who causes you pain?” Viole says, leaning in. The human’s eyes are round with surprise, locked onto his almost intimately. 

“My father,” the human whispers, that painful answer drawn reluctantly out of their soul. 

“I will rid you of him in return for your kindness,” Viole promises, teeth glinting under the lights. “Allow me to know who you are.”

xx

“Hey man, you’ve been looking better recently,” Isu says warmly, lounging on Aguero’s armchair. “It’s great.”

Aguero smiles at his best friend. “Bam’s been helping me a lot.”

“It was so lucky you met him then, huh? Your dad died in such a fucked up way… I know you hated him but it must have been scary.”

“Oh, so lucky.” Aguero laughs. Bam had come that night, like he promised, and he had torn his father to shreds. Aguero asked for nothing more beyond that—it would be cruel, he felt, and wrong. There is something about Bam that pulls him in so deeply but he has no desire to take advantage of those feelings or to keep requesting these things of him. All Aguero had wanted from Bam at that moment was to thank him, and he had planned to end it there.

“You’re so interesting,” Viole murmurs. “You thank me so simply.”

“How else am I meant to?”

“No other way. I feel… as though I have done a friend a favor. What a novel feeling.”

“A friend?”

“Yes. Someone equal.” Viole smiles, gentle and lonely. “I don’t wish to intrude on you if you do not want me to. But if I could request something…” He lowers his head. “I would like to see you again.”

“Yeah.” Aguero smiles back. “I’d like that too, Viole.”

“Please, call me Bam. You are my friend, after all.”

Friendship swiftly became courtship in Bam’s strange way—wriggling bouquets of flowers amongst intestines and blood chocolates, among other odd but heartfelt gifts—something Aguero never thought could happen to him. “He really loves me.”

Aguero had never believed that he could be loved before. Respected, perhaps, or admired if he was lucky. Hated, usually. Loved, cherished? Love is for someone who is good and gentle, not Aguero’s twisted, neglected heart that aches in his chest when he is lonely, crying out for something he has always pushed away. He was lucky to meet Isu, but Isu doesn’t love him to the depths of his soul like Bam does.

“I’m happy for you, dude. I need to get some tips from him on how to keep you from spiraling or hurting yourself.”

“He usually says he’ll eat me. Or rearrange my insides.”

Isu gapes. “Khun, look, I’m glad your father’s horrific death helped you be comfortable with your sexuality, but I do not need to know details.”

“What the fuck are you ta—oh.” Khun’s ears burn. “Not like that, dumbass!”

“How else am I meant to take that?”

“Literally??”

“It’s not good for you to sit like that, Aguero,” Bam murmurs, brushing his finger along the slouched curve of Aguero’s spine as he works. “You keep doing that and I’ll have to open you up and put you all back in place, hm? Rearrange every individual vertebrae before you bleed out… you wouldn’t like that very much, Aguero. So sit up properly, okay?”

“What the hell, man,” Isu says bluntly.

“What? It works . My posture is great now.” Aguero fiddles with his hair, braiding it absently. “Pain is a good motivator, and he only does it to make me take care of myself. Bam knows that I’ll do what causes me less pain and struggle.”

“Don’t do that, Aguero,” Bam says gently, taking his hand away from his arm where he’s scratching it red and raw. “If you keep hurting yourself like that I’ll have to bite your fingers off. You’ll miss all the good you can do with them.”

“I don’t know how to respond to gentle care. I’ve never had it . If I could just make myself stop, don’t you think I would? I don’t want to hurt myself or not take care of myself, Shibisu.”

“Sleep now, or I’ll have you sleep for a while, my love.”

“I know I’m fucked up,” Aguero sighs. “But it really does work for me. I promise it’s okay. If I told him no he would stop, he loves it when I say no to him. The last thing Bam wants is for me to just go along with whatever he says.”

xx

Viole has been doing research.

He is not a human. He will never be a human. The Internet, therefore, will tell him everything he needs to know about being a human if he can get the cursed thing to work in his presence.

Viole knows that both he and Aguero know too much about violence. It’s all they have lived in, they met through violence, swearing friendship with blood on their hands. Aguero dreams of being hit and bruised and sleeps in a way that protects his head, burying himself in layers of blankets like a shield. Viole thinks of a sea of blood surrounding him, a lone, monstrous island no one would risk sailing to. The Internet says that this is not normal for humans.

He wants Aguero to be happy. He really does. He wants Aguero to be free from that pain he saw in him on their first meeting, but it continues to linger no matter what he does. So Viole keeps searching and searching.

“How to make a human happy”

“How to make my boyfriend happy”

“How to make nightmares go away”

“Legal ways to remove someone from existence”

“Help with anxiety attack”

None of the answers are ever helpful. Aguero only responds to threats. Viole only knows threats. He doesn’t want to hurt Aguero. He doesn’t want Aguero to hurt himself. Viole’s tried , he’s tried copying things to say online and they don’t do anything . Aguero just laughs like it’s ridiculous and nothing changes.

Aguero pokes his head into Viole’s room with a smile. “Hey, Bam. What do you want for dinner tonight?”

“... Aguero. Are you happy?”

“What’s this about? Of course I’m happy. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“I want you to be as happy as you can be. So I’ve been doing a lot of research on how to help you. But I don’t understand it, and what I try doesn’t work… I feel nervous. It’s a strange feeling. I suppose… I am worried that I will never be able to understand you enough to make you truly happy. I don’t want to be just more violence in your life…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Aguero says fiercely, and Viole melts a little. “Bam, you’re not the same as them. They would never give enough of a shit about me to worry or try to do something different.” He softens and hugs Viole, tucking him against his shoulder. “You’re really helping. I promise. I’m so lucky to have you. Yeah, maybe our arrangement right now isn’t the best or most normal, but it works . I’m trying to get better, and when I’m in a healthier state we can talk about it again, okay? I don’t want you to feel like a problem or a barrier when you aren’t.”

“Alright, my love…” Viole kisses Aguero. He’s always gentle. Aguero can be threatened but he needs to be touched gently.

“See?” Aguero murmurs. “You love me so much.”