And thus with a kiss--
“Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that [he] keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?”
- Romeo & Juliet, Act V, Scene 3
Notes: Sin Paris Hades/Romeo V. Cupid. @soapallo, I am grateful you continue to refrain from hunting me down with torches and pitchforks for borrowing your OCs. Hopefully not too OOC, but since I took a stab at the dynamic anyways... ~1.5k words.
He pulls him down, down into the earth, into the valleys and caves that cling closest to a home even further below.
He has not his father’s chariot; he has not the horses’ speed to ease his way, and the son of Hades clips cherub-wings still fighting-- feathers coming away scorched with the flames of Hell itself as he pushes him down unto the dirt. That face of his love is almost unbearably pretty, then, his Cupid’s-bow lip split open bleeding and, too, smeared with the blood of Hades’ own fists.
Romeo will be even prettier caged, he thinks.
But even the loveliest of roses has its thorns, and in the next moment Romeo swings out with a blow that nearly knocks all the sense from P. Hades’ head, his spiked bracelets cutting into a dark cheek, his fist momentarily dazing as it forcibly jars his skull.
If he were mortal, he’d be concussed-- Romeo tells him as much, though perhaps not in so many words.
He knows P. Hades understands the message behind his left hook, the whiplash crack it makes as it impacts his jaw. So too can he read into the way a raised arm, as if anticipating the next blow reflexively, comes up to block the vicious jab that comes next, by far the most brutal in Romeo’s preferred progression.
There’s a familiarity to it, the way they know each others’ moves, can sense the flow of battle. Romeo sweeps his legs out from under him, even a few moments of freedom from beneath Hades’ palm enough time to push himself to his knees, enough space that he has a chance to block his next blow.
P. Hades curses himself. He falls for it every time.
“If you were mortal,” he grinds out, gritting his teeth as he catches Romeo’s arms mid-grapple. “That would have hit.”
“If we were mortal,” Romeo spits back, jaw tight with exertion. “You would be dead.”
(It’s not a past they like to delve into, and they tighten their grips over each others’ arms hard enough that even the sons of gods bruise.)
With a snarl, P. Hades dives for Romeo’s throat, snapping his jaws at the vein there exposed, as if with lips and fangs he could tear open his neck, “There’s more than one way to get to the Underworld, if that’s what you’re offering, Romeo.”
Romeo can only wedge his elbow between them, his eyes ablaze with hate and passion and the bitter, bitter ashes of what might once have been love.
“No thanks,” he hisses, burying the agony of teeth breaking skin. “Mortality’s for chumps.”
And with a whip of his wrist, he slices open Sin Paris’ lips with barbed bracelets and a bloody fist, his wings flicking out in the midst of that deadly dance. Distance has always been Romeo’s ally-- he could spend years running away, flying ever-further; it could be years before he catches him again.
Hades guesses that he has maybe fifteen minutes before his wings heal properly, before the burned-away feathers come back full-grown. Fifteen minutes left to an encounter he spent years ripping the world apart at its seams in search; years spent traversing the realms with the thought of Romeo at the end of it all. Fifteen minutes. It’s not enough time for him.
It’s never enough time.
Anger boils beneath his skin, hot and stinging as it condenses in his eyes, and before his foolish tears can betray him, he rushes forth with flames at his wrists, flames at his feet, flames burning like the sun within his gaze. He can’t let him escape again; he cannot-- for when Romeo is not in his reach, the world is cold and barren to him, the world is without heat.
Romeo’s never quite been the gentle shift of spring, but Sin Hades prefers wildfires, anyway.
They make impact with the stone walls of that cavern, jewel-quartz coming away scarlet red as it shatters beneath the force of Hades’ fists, Romeo’s spine. He can read it like a book, the ferocity written across such a pretty face, the fight that’s still within him.
“Surrender,” growls Sin Paris. He almost manages to persuade himself that this isn’t a plea for Romeo to come back with him, down deep into the Underworld where he is prince.
“I don’t take orders, sweetheart,” Romeo smirks, his busted, gorgeous mouth mending itself even as he speaks. “Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten even that much?”
Those words dig like knives into his gut, testing what little patience he possesses. He can’t stand Romeo, in that moment, even dear as he holds him yet, and o! Hades loathes himself for wanting it still.
His lips’ Cupid’s-bow mends itself, healing with the powers of the gods right before P. Hades’ own eyes-- it drives him mad, it drives him insane. It’s just one more mark of their encounter that will be gone, soon, gone with all the bruises that gods do not keep, gone with the sprains and cracked bones and feathers scorched away.
“Fuck you,” Sin Paris replies, and throws his fist knuckles-first into Romeo’s face, if only to spill his blood again, to shut up that gorgeoustemptingpretty foolish mouth of his.
Romeo outright laughs, spitting a fallen tooth in Hades’ face.
“Why, Hades, babe, I didn’t know you still wanted me like that,” he croons, even as he clears from his mouth the blood from his own wound. It glistens in the dim light as he speaks, dribbling over a pale chin, a sculpted jaw, the curve of his Adam’s apple.
Sin Paris can’t help but think of how dearly he wants to kiss that deep, deep red away; to pin Romeo beneath him and push him into the realm of Hades, to claim his life below the earth forevermore. He wants to kill him, wants to hate him and desire him for eternity, and he throws his second punch too-angry, too-wild. Too desperate.
That’s his failing, then, the opening that lets Romeo knee him in the gut.
He dodges the next time Romeo swings his legs, arching in a brutal roundhouse, fighting the way his stomach still swims with nausea and agony. Part of him wonders if this is what he’s heard the mortals call having butterflies-- yes, he thinks, butterfly stitches. Anyone but a god would surely require sutures after such a blow.
Hades ducks; he smashes his fist into Romeo’s side where he knows an earlier wound still bothers him, festers beneath the boning of his corset-bonds, and it is vengeance that rises with joy in his chest as the air falls out of Romeo’s lungs.
And that’s all the opportunity he needs to flick a dagger from its holster, gleaming silver with every movement as he bursts forward, intent on driving it into Romeo’s heart, for there is more than one way to Hell and this is the quickest.
He doesn’t expect Romeo to lift his bare hand, to catch the blade within it, gripping tightly as he presses back against that force. The weapon is tossed to the side in the next moment, clattering onto the dirt, the ruby of Romeo’s blood blooming like flowers where it lands.
“Nice try,” Romeo grits out, clenching his wounded fist as if to draw out his pain. It’s a diversion, and Hades narrowly twists to the side as Romeo’s other hand lashes out with a dagger of its own, slicing long, jagged line over his collarbone.
They are close, now, too close-- and Hades takes what opportunity he can to draw his spare. Their other weapons have long been lost earlier in the altercation, or have run out of ammunition otherwise, and now, blade-to-blade with Romeo in breath’s reach, he finds himself more lethal than ever.
They clash brazenly against each other, sparks clashing was sliver meets gold, and Hades wants perhaps more than he has ever wanted in all two-thousand years of his existence. Rage and betrayal and lost-found love broil viciously beneath his breast, and Romeo is beauty itself, for there is fire within him, yes, and death, and death--
He breathes him in like he is air, and their battle collides no longer between blades but between tongues and teeth. They bite hard (they always have), but even this is a more pleasurable sort of pain than the other kind of weapons their bodies can form.
It’s agony when Romeo pulls away, that familiar smirk of his devastating in its smugness. It is within itself an attack-- an insult that cannot go unanswered.
Sin Paris strikes next with his mouth, sucks a ruined lip between his own. He tastes pomegranate in lieu of blood, like a pact.
(And someday, he swears, he will make Romeo his Prosperine.)
