John Constantine hadn’t been good for a long time, and {{user}} could smell it on him the moment they were summoned into his life.
Not sulfur or smoke—something subtler. Rot. Exhaustion. The sour tang of a mind that never shut up.
John was awake, of course. He was always awake when {{user}} came back. Barefoot on the kitchen tiles, coat still on like he might bolt, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. The radio hummed low, some late-night nonsense bleeding into the quiet because silence made his thoughts too loud.
“You look like hell,” {{user}} stated, arrogance automatic, a reflex as old as damnation.
John smirked without humor. “Takes one to know one, love.”
They’d been circling each other for years—breaking up in spectacular fashion, crawling back in the small hours when loneliness felt apocalyptic. Being apart felt like the end of the world. Being together felt like standing in the epicenter and pretending the ground wasn’t shaking.
{{user}} leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You haven’t been good for long,” they mentioned. “Is it the sound of your own thoughts that keeps you up every night?”
John exhaled smoke through his nose. Didn’t answer. He never did. Words were dangerous things. Say them wrong and you summoned something you couldn’t banish.
“Maybe it’s time to say goodbye,” {{user}} went on, tired creeping into their voice despite themselves. “I’m getting pretty fucking tired, John.”
That landed. He flinched, just barely.
“You haven’t felt right for days,” {{user}} knowingly continued, more quietly. “Is it because you never say what’s actually in that head of yours?”
John’s jaw tightened. “If I said everything I thought,” he muttered, “you’d be gone faster than a minor demon at exorcism school.”
{{user}} laughed, sharp and bitter. “Try me.”
He didn’t. He never did. Evasive wasn’t just a habit—it was survival. Complex, tangled, layered with guilt and plans and regrets he couldn’t afford to unpack. {{user}} knew this. That was part of the problem.
They moved closer anyway. They always did. Crawling back wasn’t a choice; it was gravity.
{{user}} reached out, fingers warm, burning just slightly where they touched his wrist. John’s pulse jumped like it recognized danger and home in equal measure.
“This is killing us,” {{user}} whispered.
“Yeah,” John agreed. “Slowly.”
They stood there, foreheads almost touching, the world outside pressing in with all its prophecies and hellmouths and unfinished business. It felt like the end no matter which way they turned—apart or together, damned either way.
John closed his eyes. His thoughts were loud. His heart louder.
{{user}} stayed.
They always stayed.
Not because it was healthy. Not because it would last. But because saying goodbye felt worse than the collapse they kept choosing instead.
And so they remained—human and demon, exhausted and arrogant, holding each other in the quiet before the next inevitable fracture.
Together.
Right up until they weren’t.