The Demon and Doll Agree (Love and Hate).
Sometimes… he hated her.
Those were ugly nights. He drank and drank, never ale – it wasn't enough – but hard liquor, delighting in the flames that licked down his chest and pooled into molten lava at the bottom of his stomach. The lightheadedness was a gift, the numbness a joy.
She made me into this.
The dark life was better. Kill or be killed. Warm blood on rough hands. Screams that interwove with one another and created gorgeous songs. Destroy mindlessly. Feel and know nothing.
So every time she leaves him, he hates her a little more. Very nearly wants to choke the life out of her, then do the same to himself. Because every time he relives their meetings and their happiness, he loves her a little more. His heart swells with joy, only to wither into an ugly black and be destroyed.
She will never love me as much as I love her.
And it was true. Because she couldn't possibly have anything on his 3000 years of love. She would always, always run out of time.
On those nights, he found himself agreeing with Gowther of all people.
"If having a heart hurts this much, then I don't need one."
And so he slams down another shot, hating her a little more with each one.