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Rowan's taken to sitting in front of the mirrors, recently.
Of course, the mirrors are unavoidable no matter where you sit. Julian had done a good job of smashing them sometime before Rowan ever came here, but they are many and they are everywhere - walls, ceilings, no matter where you look, there's your reflection staring back at you; shattered beyond repair, whole pieces missing, but inescapable and undying nevertheless.
They're oddly relatable, Rowan thinks.
In the position he's in now, lying on his side so close to the glass, Rowan doesn't have much difficulty making out his reflection, jagged and scattered as it is. He's not sure what exactly it is he's looking for. He's never been sure, but his body is laid out in front of him for his own inspection regardless.
He looks at his hollow cheeks, his pallid skin, his tired, unfocused eyes, his long and tangled hair, the frenzied claw marks where sharpened fingernails had torn his face open, and wonders, not for the first time and certainly not the last, where it all went wrong. What he could have done, short of doing the world a favour and killing himself before he ever got a chance to ruin it, to fix things.
But even if Rowan could turn back time, it's a useless question to ponder. Rowan doesn't fix things. He destroys them. He burns them into ash.
"My love... why are you on the floor?"
Rowan rolls onto their back, tipping their head towards Julian to look blankly up at him through the hazy fog in their mind that never seems to go away. They don't bother dignifying that question with a response. Why the floor? Why not the floor? What makes the floor any worse than any other place in this fucking shithole they're stuck in-?
Uh-oh. They're getting angry again, and even though they're so sure they didn't speak a word of their thoughts aloud, Julian looks upset. Then again, when doesn't he look upset?
Rowan will never begrudge him that, though. He has every right to be upset. Even if this is all his fault. It's all Rowan's fault, too. Fitting, then, that they should live out the rest of their days in this den of iniquity, this dank and vile prison of their own making.
At least they're together now.
Uncomfortable in the silence, Julian shifts his feet, talons clicking against the floor near Rowan's head. Rowan's not sure why he seems so uneasy. They've always been quiet. They think. Isn't he supposed to love them? He should know that already.
"It's just that," Julian begins again, his voice timid like it never was when he was human. "There's broken glass on the floor, love. From the... from the mirrors. I don't want you to get hurt."
A memory slowly swims through the murk to the forefront of Rowan's mind. Julian erratically pacing around him, feathers puffed up and wings spread out in an ultimately futile intimidation attempt, trying to scare him away. The distinct sound of sharp, painful crunches with every step, jagged shards of glass being crushed into splinters under his feet.
"Oh," Rowan says quietly. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. It almost hurts. Thinking on it, he can't quite remember when was the last time he spoke. He supposes he doesn't have all that much to say anymore.
(Well, there's plenty he could say. But nothing Julian would want to hear.)
Rowan's painfully aware of Julian's gaze, fraught with worry, on their back as they slowly push themself up into a seating position. They mentally curse themself when they hear the telltale tinkle-crunch of broken glass shifting underneath their body as they move. Their magic, influenced by the ever-constant presence of the arcane around them, is far stronger than it's ever been, but it's still not a miracle cure. If there's any glass stuck in them, their skin will just close over it and push it further into their flesh if they use any of their usual healing spells.
Craning their neck to have a proper look, they stare numbly at their thigh and hip for a long moment, where some of the bigger shards of glass have torn through their clothes and pierced what little remains of the soft flesh underneath. They hear Julian's breath catch in his throat behind them, knowing he's staring in transfixed horror as blood slowly blossoms outwards from the worst of them, and for the first time, the wounds begin to sting.
"Fuck." Rowan mutters.
Well, no sense in drawing it out. Sucking in a long breath through their clenched teeth, Rowan grips the worst-looking shard between forefinger and thumb and pulls. They hear Julian gasp, see the bloodstain quickly get larger, certainly feel the pain get worse, but they ignore all of it and just keep pulling until at last, the glass is out. A sharp, thick spliner about the size of their little finger, all but a few centimetres near the base coated in the warm, wet, bright red of Rowan's blood.
He flings it away from himself into a darkened corner of the tavern and gets to work pulling the rest of them out.
Behind him, Julian twitches. His wings flap, his talons tap, his hands clench and unclench. Rowan can hear it, and he knows it must be killing Julian, that he's only able to watch as the person he loves treats their own wounds, that the hands of a doctor were replaced with those of a monster, a demon; incapable of helping, only causing further harm.
Try as he might, Rowan finds he can't muster up any sympathy for Julian's predicament. He'd welcome his help if it was offered to him. Human or demon, he never stopped craving Julian's touch, his physical declarations of his love. Like most of Julian's many troubles, this is purely self-inflicted. He can't help Rowan because he won't allow himself to.
Still, though, Rowan knows all too well that Julian has his many weaknesses, and he knows exactly which ones to exploit in order to get what they both want. Namely that if Rowan directly asks him for something, no matter what it is, Julian is loathe to refuse them it. And so, once they've pulled out the worst of the glass, they turn back to him with the most pleading look in their eyes that they can muster, and extend a hand towards him. "Can you help me up, please?"
Julian freezes. Even his wings seem to stiffen as his eyes, wide with apprehension and painful hope, flit between Rowan's outstretched hand and beseeching expression. He's quiet for a long moment, biting his lip hard enough to break the skin, and Rowan can see in his mismatched eyes that he's fighting with himself, that all he wants to do is sweep them up in his arms, consequences be damned, and never let them go.
They wish he would. Even if it kills them. At least they'd die happy, never to be parted from him again.
But Julian knows his limitations, and his need to keep Rowan safe from harm (ha) will always outweigh any of his desires. Some time later, he swallows, closing his eyes briefly, and gives a tiny, jerky nod. "Of... of course, darling."
His hand is shaking when he reaches for theirs.
He must be sober, or at least as sober as he's capable of being, judging by the way he takes their hand. Or, rather, the way he doesn't take their hand - even as Rowan grips his wrist, he only rests his own hand ever so lightly on their forearm to help them balance, his talons barely brushing Rowan's skin. He's never this careful when he's been drinking, forgetting that it's no longer safe for him to touch them thoughtlessly.
Not that Rowan particularly minds. When it happens, when he touches them casually (forgetting that he thinks he's no longer allowed to) and it doesn't hurt, they're ecstatic. When he does hurt them, they know they deserve worse.
They don't even tell him when he hurts them anymore; thankfully he's wrapped up enough in himself that they have time to heal whatever he's done before he notices. The last time he found out, when Rowan had gone to console him after a nightmare and he'd hugged them so hard he snapped their ribs, he'd been so sick with guilt and shame that he hadn't touched them, hadn't even spoken to them, for what had felt like years. Even though they'd been able to heal themself within seconds, every time Julian caught a glimpse of the ugly scars where the jagged edges of bone had pierced through Rowan's skin, he'd retreat to his booth in the back of their prison and refuse to so much as look up from his tankard of bitters. The deprivation of any sort of contact had almost driven Rowan insane. Julian hadn't come back to them until they quite literally started banging their head against the walls and tearing their hair out. Best not to let such a thing happen again.
Rowan's slowly lifted back to his feet as Julian moves backwards. He stumbles when he tries to stand, the thick fog in his head almost feeling like it's alive, and he can't help but let out a little yelp of fear. Julian reacts without thinking, his free hand shooting out and cupping Rowan's elbow to steady him, helping him find his balance. He freezes up again when he realises and tries to move away, an apology for crossing a boundary that doesn't exist already on his stuttering lips, but Rowan silences him with a hand pressed to his cold, feathered cheek.
"You didn't hurt me, Julian. 's okay." He tries to make his voice sound reassuring, but it just comes out flat, his words slurring together. He supposes it can't be helped. Julian doesn't seem to mind, anyway. He relaxes, his eyes sliding shut, rubbing his cheek against Rowan's palm. Feeling almost warm, Rowan returns the caress, running his thumb along the jut of Julian's cheekbone, tenderly stroking the tiny, downy feathers under his eye.This is alright, he thinks. This can be nice. "Can we sit down, please? I'm tired."
They have to stretch up to do it, he's so tall now, but Rowan slings an arm across Julian's broad shoulders, and he wraps his own arm tentatively round their waist, supporting their weight as he leads them away from the mirrors. It's funny; they have their pick of all the booths in the tavern, but they somehow always end up in the back corner, as far away from the door as they can get. Julian seats himself against the wall, where the window would be if there were any. Rowan slides in beside him, their hip flush against his. Julian tenses, blushing at this chaste touch as if he's not already fucked them before, and Rowan wonders, dimly, if he might suggest they sit opposite him instead (he'd never move them by force); but after a moment or two, he relaxes, lifting his arm up before wrapping it gently around them. Rowan closes their eyes, letting out a sigh of contentment. Their wounds throb, but they ignore the pain for the time being. They won't heal themself until they're sure all the glass is gone, and they're not bothered digging around in their own skin right now. It'll be fine. It'll have to be.
"Are you alright, my dearest?" Julian eventually asks. "Does it... do the cuts hurt?"
"No," Rowan replies, the lie sliding off their tongue as easily as a knife through softened butter. They can vaguely remember that they used to be a bad liar. Perhaps they still are; Julian may just be reluctant to call them out on it. They suppose they'll never know. "Don't worry about it."
It's not completely a lie, anyway. They didn't start to hurt until Julian pointed them out.
Whether he's bought it or not, the lie seems to relax Julian. He falls silent, and Rowan does too, resting their head in the crook of his shoulder. Soon, they feel Julian start to play with their hair, and they almost smile at the feeling, at the normalcy of the gesture. They know that Julian marvels over the fact that Rowan still has hair to be played with. After they'd decided to stay here with him, they know he'd fretted that the same fate that befell him might be waiting for Rowan; that they would become a twisted monster, a demon, just like him.
But despite his fears, Rowan remained human, their body only changing in ways that any human's would when living this way of life. Because unlike Julian, Rowan did not make any deals to be here. They did not trade their soul for something that could never in a thousand lifetimes be worth the price.
Knowing what they know now, knowing what they are, they have their doubts as to whether or not they even have a soul to sell.
Julian's thumb smooths across Rowan's bangs, and they relax, letting their thoughts go and allowing themself to enjoy the affection. He used to love their hair, they remember; always playing with it, always burying his hands in it when he kissed them fervently, always winding the curls around his fingers or affectionately rubbing them between his fingertips. Rowan used to take such pride in their hair, too. Julian always had a compliment about it - how soft it was, how nice the scent of it was.
Was. Of course, there is no space for trivial matters such as hair care in the Hanged Raven. Even though Julian doesn't seem to mind, Rowan knows it's tangled beyond repair and disgustingly greasy, and that the old them would weep if they saw it. They just can't bring themself to give a shit. In fact, thinking about it, Rowan's not sure if they've even seen water ever since they set foot in here, let alone anything else they might use to clean their hair.
They crack an eye open, glancing down at the tankard that's somehow appeared in their hand. It's full of straight whiskey, as it always is. He can vaguely remember a time when it would be filled with cider, fruity and sweet, once his favourite thing to drink before it was no longer enough to numb him. But there was never water.
Rowan misses water.
"Julian?"
"Yes, my angel?"
"D'you remember what water tastes like?"
Julian's hand stills in their hair. Rowan can almost hear him frowning as he ponders their question. "No," he replies eventually, after a pause that could have lasted a minute or a month. "I don't."
Rowan lets out a breath he forgot he was holding in a long sigh. "Me neither." He punctuates the statement with a shrug that shifts Julian's arm on his shoulders, prompting him to hold him just that little bit tighter. Rowan's tempted to move again, deliberately this time; just a little, just enough to make Julian increase his grip on them until they're satisfied, but they know they ought not to push their luck lest he release them entirely. "Nothing to be done about it now, I s'pose."
Well. Not quite nothing. He could get up from his seat, walk across the floor, ignore the crunch of glass under his feet. He could step out the door, out into the mangrove swamp, under the sky and the sun or the stars or the moon or whatever it is they've got now. He could walk until he finds water, clean the blood and filth from his body, drink deeply and experience the refreshing joy of having something that's not alcohol in his system. He could find other people. He could listen to birdsong. He could breathe fresh air. He could be free. He could live.
But he won't. Because he knows he no longer deserves these things, if he ever did in the first place.
And because he knows Julian's devotion only goes so far. He's not stupid. He knows Julian doesn't love him more than he hates himself. If he decides to leave the Hanged Raven, he knows Julian will not follow him. He will stay here, drinking himself into a death that will never come, and eventually forget that he was ever loved, that he was ever a human at all.
So Rowan stays.
It's better this way, he knows that. He almost killed himself time and time again trying to find Julian in the first damned place, and he's not going to have all of that be for naught.
Perhaps he really did kill himself back then, he muses as he lifts his drink and takes a sip, and the thing he's been reduced to now is nothing more than a ghost that just doesn't know when to quit. That seems fitting, considering what he is. What he's always been since the day Asra performed that god-forsaken ritual that only lead to ruin in the end. As if it could've ended any other way.
Asra. Now there's a name Rowan hasn't thought of in quite some time. But now, for the time being, they remember; fluffy white hair that always smelled of smoky tea and hibiscus, kind purple eyes with an underlying glint of mischief, lie after lie after lie falling from softly smiling lips. God, how they hope he'll never show his face around here. Rowan might just have to strangle him if he does, and there's still a long-buried part of him that would be upset about that.
No matter how hard Rowan's tried to drown it.
To distract himself, he takes another drink, enjoying the stinging burn as it washes down his throat and into his stomach. It almost makes him feel like himself again. Whoever that is.
With every sip, the smog in his mind becomes wonderfully thicker, and heavier, until it's blocked out... whatever it was he had been thinking about. It's funny to think about how much he used to yearn for a past to call his own, how he craved to remember. Now he sighs dreamily, content to have forgotten the things that once caused him such despair, leaning closer to Julian and cuddling into his side.
"I love you so much," Rowan tells him. And really, how could they not? He's the only thing that matters. The only thing that will ever matter.
Julian turns his head to look at them, and Rowan doesn't care that he's a demon (not that they ever did, not really); they only care about how he's looking at them with such fondness, such adoration, such need, like he's a man drowning and they're his first glimpse of the shore. They wish they could forever hold this feeling of being wanted and loved and craved, and lock it up tight in their heart, where nothing and nobody can take it away ever again.
"I love you too, my darling." Julian speaks slowly, so that Rowan can hear the sincerity in every word. "More than anything. More than life itself."
They know.
Rowan presses even closer to him, head lolling back on his shoulder, hooking one of their legs over his thigh. This is nice. What were they even upset about earlier? This is so nice. This is almost normal.
They take another drink.
And another.
And another.
But no matter how much he drinks, no matter how many times his tankard refills with whiskey and not water, there's something that won't stop nagging at Rowan from underneath the brain-fog he's trying to bury it in. He fidgets in his seat, tapping his fingers against his and Julian's thighs, face creasing in a frown as he tries in vain to smother the voice, or perhaps to uncover it. He's not quite sure.
Eventually, Julian notices that something's not quite right. "What's wrong, my love?"
His voice is gentle. Tender. And it cuts through the thick, muddled haze in Rowan's mind as if it were the sharpest knife.
Dearest. Angel. Darling. Love. Rowan has always adored these pet-names, these reminders of how much Julian still loves them despite everything. They especially love hearing a "my" in front of them, that little note of casual possessiveness that makes them feel positively treasured.
But come to think of it... when was the last time that Julian addressed Rowan by simply their name?
And so, the penny drops.
"You don't remember what my name is, do you?"
Julian doesn't need to answer for them to know it's the truth. If they didn't already know on some strange, fundamental level that they can't quite explain, his body language would be more than enough to give him away; out of the corner of their eye, they see his face fall, his eyes widening with sudden realisation and downright horror. His whole body tenses, arm tightening around their shoulders, and they hear the telltale tapping of his talons against the wooden floor, his legs shaking uncontrollably as he starts to panic, desperately clawing through what remains of his mind in an attempt to grasp the memory of their name. His mouth opens and closes like some kind of fish, choking on... what, exactly? A lie? An attempt at a guess? A stammered, pathetic apology?
They could alleviate this so easily. A simple "It's Rowan" would be more than enough to, not exactly fix things, but it would be enough to cut through Julian's mounting panic, calm him down enough for him to remember, to wonder how he even forgot, of course their name's Rowan, how could he not remember? He'd beg for their forgiveness, they'd readily hand it over, silencing his inevitable self-flagellation with a hug and a kiss and endless, endless coddling. Eventually, once Julian had gotten bored with metaphorically flogging himself, they'd both pretend it had never happened in the first place, and end up forgetting about it entirely until it happened all over again.
They feel drained all of a sudden, exhausted down to their bones, and far, far too tired to deal with this whole bullshit song and dance anymore. They find that they are in no mood to even attempt to lift Julian's spirits. Why should they? No matter how hard they try, it hardly ever works, and even when it does, it certainly never lasts.
He brought this on himself, anyway. He should be the one who has to deal with the consequences.
"I-I'm... I... n-no. No, I, I don't." Julian eventually forces his words out, every octave of his voice steeped in guilt and shame, eyes glistening with tears. Ah, so it's the apology, then. "I'm trying, my love, I promise I'm t-t-trying, I'm sorry, I c-can't believe I for-forgot, my darling, I'm so, so sorry, I-"
"It's fine." They cut him off mid-sentence.
Julian gapes at them, tears running freely down his cheeks, mouth hanging open like a baby bird looking for its next meal.
For their part, they're tired of being the meal.
"It's... fine?" Julian repeats hoarsely, voice hesitant with disbelief. "You... are you sure?"
They nod once, sharply. "It's fine." They repeat. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore."
Julian's staring at them like he's not sure if they're real. "You're not..." His voice is so small, so timid. At times like this it's hard to remember that he's almost a decade older than them. "You're not mad at me?"
"No." It's not even a lie.
I'm not mad at you. I just wish I'd never met you. We both would've been better off that way.
"Besides," they continue, reaching once more for their tankard, looking down into its depths to avoid Julian's gaze. It's refilled itself again. "It was never really my name, was it? Maybe you're better off forgetting it. Maybe we both are."
They know they're right, much as it hurts to admit. They aren't really Rowan. They never were. Rowan is just the name of the dead person whose face was forced onto them. Let it die with him. Perhaps it's the only way he'll be able to finally rest in peace.
He deserves at least that much.
They hear Julian swallow nervously, feel as he tentatively wraps his arm back around them, holding them tighter, pulling them closer. "If... if you're sure, my darling." He shakes his head slowly, casting off his thoughts as best he can, before picking up his own tankard and taking a swig of bitters. He doesn't even flinch when drinking them anymore. When he's done, he turns his head, pressing a soft and chaste kiss to their brow. They lean into it, closing their eyes.
"I love you," Julian says quietly against their skin. "So much."
Their throat hurts. The cuts on their leg and hip throb. There's tears in their eyes. Their mouth is dry. More than anything, they'd like a drink of water.
"I love you, too."
They tilt their head back, and drain their tankard once again.