Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky is blue, the grass is green, and the liquid that’s currently seeping into the body of Mother Nature is red.

Death is beckoned to collect a soul—a young man, no older than twenty-one, who hasn’t yet experienced the world in its truest form. It’s no unfamiliar situation, except that standing before her is Agatha. The same redness stains her dress, and something wild and free flickers behind those blue eyes touched with gray.

She has taken his life.

Death keeps her silence and does her duty.

“It’s been a while,” Agatha says, smiling as if Death is an old friend.

“People usually aren’t happy to see me,” Death replies with conviction, carrying the statement like a badge of honor. Death lowers her hood, and Rio steps forward, coming to life.

“Because they’re afraid of you.”

Rio tilts her head slightly. That’s true, but it leaves implications when it comes to Agatha.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Agatha steps closer, the dappled light filtering through autumn leaves striking her face gently. Death drinks in the sight with open arms.

“Why did you kill that man?” Rio’s eyes shift to the corpse. His eyes are wide open, his face streaked with blood that seems to create the illusion that his own blood has condemned him to death.

“He was bothering me.”

Rio nods. She has no right to decide what kind of death someone deserves, but this time, it feels justified. (Her fondness for Agatha has momentarily blindfolded the sight of her fair judgement.) They meet halfway, and Agatha’s expression shifts, something brewing behind her sharp eyes.

“Seeing me with empty hands?” Agatha sighs dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “What am I to you? Just a breathtaking view?”

Rio feels flustered, and before she can respond, a flower conjures itself in her palm—a soft lavender bloom, delicate and alive. She offers it to Agatha, who takes it with a knowing smirk, her fingers brushing against Rio’s in a way that lingers. (She’s leaving her imprint on her.)

“Do you think I’m evil?” Agatha asks, twirling the flower between her fingers—perhaps out of nervousness. It’s a rare sight, something Rio is not often graced with.

“You know what you did.” The words come with a detached patience, echoing down the alley. Death is calm, distant and blissfully outworldly. 

“She would have agreed.”

Rio shakes her head sharply, as though someone has just offered her poison. She knows exactly who Agatha is referring to.

“She doesn’t know you.” The words come with the closeness of one breath following another. Rio is fiery, unwavering, and painfully human.

“And you think you do?”

“I’ve been here since the creation of the stars.”

“You’re old.”

The comment earns her a sharp look from Rio, her gaze narrowing, eyebrows furrowing. Then, Rio decides her weapon of choice will be kindness. (Death has learned the bitter reality of humanity falling on the sword of unfamiliarity.)

“You’re not your mother.”

Rio takes hold of Agatha’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse, the drum of her blood flowing through her veins—music to Rio’s ears. Agatha’s other hand clenches, her lips pressed tightly shut.

“I’ll never treat my child like that.”

“I know you won’t.”

With that, there’s a shift in Agatha. She seems lost in thought as her attention drifts back to the corpse.

“What’s the youngest soul you’ve had to take?”

“One whose lungs haven’t taken breath,” Death replies, her voice soft and lingering.

Images of Rio with a baby nestled against her surface in Agatha’s mind. Her heart blooms at the thought. It’s intriguing, she’s seen how Rio carries out her duty, how gentle she can be. Agatha’s eyes return to Rio’s face, the silence between them stretching, morbid yet oddly comforting. It lingers until Rio breaks it.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, sensing her pulse quicken.

“You with a baby.”

Rio’s lips part, but no words come. Instead, she averts her gaze, chewing on her inner cheek.

“Look at me, Rio.”

The words hit her like a death sentence, and her head lifts to face the executor. The blow lands as Agatha’s hands reach out, fingers mapping her features as if committing them to memory.

“Agatha?”

“Hm. It would be nice.”

The words come soft, like the calm before a storm.

“A child with your brows, nose, and lips—wouldn’t that be nice to have?”

Rio blinks, the connection between her mind, heart, and lips severed. Yet, somehow, her mouth moves, words slipping out unbidden.

“You’re going to be a good mother.”

(There it is, their unintentional curse, an impending doom spoken into existence.)

Without missing a beat, the lavender is tucked behind the monarch's ear, and the executor's smile blinds everything else.

"Purple does look good with green."

An observation that reaches Rio like a declaration.

Chapter Text

Death has no name and certainly never has red man-made flowers blooming all over her skin. Death has never experienced rebirth, for Death is constant and exists from the dawn of time. But in this bed, with her hands intertwined with the girl whose love is violently soft, it hurts her beating chambers—a sensation unknown to Death before, despite Death should have always known it all.

“Look at me, Rio.” Strange. What’s even stranger is that Death obeys—or rather, Rio does. How could she not? Not when they’re doing this intimate binding ritual of the physical self, one that Death is aware of but has never participated in before.

Her lungs—well, this girl’s lungs—suck in air and breathe out Death’s name as if blowing life into it. There’s goodness in her, despite her creator’s blindness. The girl lives up to her name’s meaning.

('Agatha' means good and Agatha is good.)

Rio knows it like the back of her hands, the same hands Agatha frequently holds. The sensation of skin against skin, something alive. Death feels alive, and by that, she knows she has been damned. Like the half-bitten apple rolling down near Eve’s feet. The deed has been done, proven by the flush of her own cheeks, the way her chest rises and falls, the wetness between her plump thighs.

“Agatha.” She calls for her as she reaches out to press her lips against her lover’s, an act of nourishment for her heart. The owner of the name responds, hands over Rio’s cheeks, thumbs brushing. Death has never felt so small under someone. Death has never looked up, and now, here she is.

“What a sight you are.” Her sweet voice reaches Rio’s ears, and the muscles of her lips twitch up automatically. Death has no right to choose, but she has done it. She has chosen this form for Agatha—a form born through Death’s careful observation. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes, paired with high cheekbones, give her a sculpted look, while her slightly upturned nose adds a playful charm. Her lips are full and shapely. She is beautiful, and she knows it because Agatha says so.

“I worked hard on it.”

“You know me so well.”

The weight settles on her lap, making it feel so real, really real to Rio. Agatha pulls Rio toward her, and Rio’s hands find their way to her waist.

“I watched you, Agatha.”

Usually, those words would evoke laughter or a witty reply, but this time, they don’t. Rio melts at the sight of Agatha’s eyes softening, her lips parting.

“What does Death want from me?” Agatha’s fingers drag down the side of Rio’s face before she leans in and places a soft kiss on her pulse point, eliciting a noise that Death has never imagined she could make.

That’s the thing, Death has never imagined. But now she does. She imagines what it’s like to have a home meant just for the two of them. She imagines what it’s like to live a life she wants to live. (And Agatha is her dreambreaker; her realitymaker.)

“Whatever you want.”

Rio’s hands find their way to Agatha’s soft hair. It frames her face perfectly, so full, so alive, it seems to possess a soul of its own.

“I want us, Rio.”

Her ribcage feels as though it’s closing in, simultaneously protecting and hurting her heart—the device that pumps blood, the same color now blooming on her cheeks. Then her lover presses on it even more.

“I love you.”

Rio’s lips go dry, her tongue pressing into her cheek—a telltale habit she’s picked up in this mortal form. Too human. So human. A curse and a blessing. Worse still, she wants to say it back. Her lips flex, her tongue slips. (Why is this body suddenly refusing to follow her mind?)

Agatha chuckles, and Rio decides to consider it a happy accident.

She resolves not to rush; she’ll learn. After all, they’re going to be together for a very long time. So instead of returning the three words, Rio wraps her arms around her, and feels Agatha holding her back.

Death has never been held, and Agatha has never held someone. And there’s always the first time for everything.

Chapter Text

"I don't want to see your face."

It echoes in Rio's mind as each step carries her away from Agatha. As if out of muscle memory (or out of spite), she keeps looking back.

(Perhaps she now truly understands Orpheus.)

But each time, Agatha is still there, looking at her. (Didn’t she say she didn’t want to see her face? Didn’t she decide to give them up?) Rio can’t decide whether this is a small mercy given or a mocking gift.

And she still doesn’t know, even when Agatha’s voice reaches her once more and stops her dead in her tracks.

"That’s it? Just an ‘okay’? That’s all I deserve?"

Rio nearly sees red once more (a color that has painted her now threatens to suffocate her.) She turns around, and despite only a few feet between them, it feels as if an ocean lies in between.

"You let me go first." 

(Agatha's words hangs over them once more through Rio's sorrow.)

Agatha smiles, but it’s not the one that blossoms flowers in her stomach. It’s the one that cracks her ribcage. Painful, but real.

"You keep turning around."

She nudges Rio with a finger, and Rio decides that life has played a cruel joke on her. Agatha is mirroring her duty, and worse—Rio realizes that, other than a heart, perhaps she has also constructed a soul of her own. A soul that calls for Agatha, even as she walks toward her own death.

"Then why are you still here?"

(Rio actually wants to ask, Then why do you keep looking at me?)

Agatha presses her lips shut before her hand finds its way to the side of Rio’s face. Rio’s eyes follow the movement—smooth like water flowing, natural despite the weight of the moment.

"This is going to be the last time." Her executor’s voice is harsh. (From this, Rio realizes that the cold brutality of love has kissed its gentle sweetness a painful goodbye.)

She leans into the touch, holding her breath. But then the warmth fades away as Agatha pulls back, replacing it with a thousand cuts from her gaze alone.

"Retire that form."

"But this is the me that you fell in love with."

Everything goes silent, save for their breaths and the synchronized beating of their hearts. Agatha presses her lips shut, unable to argue. Because it’s true—this is the Rio she has loved throughout the centuries, and even more so now, with their son's face in hers.

(A haunted, unliving creature.)

Sensing the stillness, Rio reaches out. If Agatha has accused her of taking, then let her live up to it, if only for this moment. Her hands cage the sides of Agatha’s face, and her eyes trace every familiar feature before the blade lands on her.

"Look at me, Rio."

(Her lover has stabbed her with this.)

Rio blinks, focusing on Agatha fully. Every flicker of emotion, every thought, is laid bare in her eyes.

"Your horrible truth is living an eternity without me, and your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing."

(Her lover has twisted the knife.)

There’s a war inside Rio, a battle over her own identities (Rio is who she is, but Death is what she is and what you are will always define who you are.) The crown on her head weighs heavy, its existence bound to the moment souls need a guide. And the crown must always win.

So, Rio yields.

Once more, she shuts her eyes, savoring the unsavable, and nods. For the one who holds the knife has drowned in living waters and no longer believes. (Cursed by the love that she has received from the fruit of her womb.)

Rio then kisses the tragedy of their love on the lips.