Notes: Hello, all! I'm happy I can finally show you the project I've been working on since late last year! If you're my regular crowd, I'm gonna ask you to give this and me a chance; I'd really love for y'all to see the improvement to my styles—yes, present tense, past tense, all sorts of fun, experimental stuff!—as I update this (possibly once a week?). I'm very much proud of this and how far I've managed to take it given how severe my health issues are at the moment.

So a quick explanation for what this is: a series of prompt ficlets that I'm experimenting with before I move on to the main linear fic—should my health ever permit. This is a non-chronological series, so expect pretty much anything, and I'm definitely open to prompts/scenarios. I doubt many will actually be reading this, but it's my heart and soul. I'm so proud of it, I really love it. These boys have been in my head for longer than I'd care to admit, especially Beelzebumon/Bii (fourteen years!).

Please note this is an "original" universe with similarly original characters. None of them have any relation to canon material beyond the reference books/lore.

Thank you to CompYES and boxreppa for all their help in finally getting this off the ground and for giving me the courage to post here. I love you both, more than I can express here.

Originally written in November 2016.

unsaid

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"Gonna rain today," Beelzebumon says offhandedly, sparing a brief glance skywards as his metallic claws shred the sprawling forestry that is determined to block their path in a maelstrom of luminescent violet sparks.

Vines disintegrate, wood splinters and shatters, and the ancient, gnarled trees nearest—so massive in scale that they must appear miniature playthings amongst a world of giants and old gods—sway and groan from the sheer force of the blow.

Tactimon can appreciate the irony (and incidentally, does not ever call Yggdrasil's name ever again).

He eyes them as visible data trembles and dances up and down them as they threaten to collapse into themselves, monoliths that have existed far longer than he has—he who could one day carve the stars from the sky and split the very fabric of reality in two.

(But he will not. He is waiting, searching and waiting.)

And, he thinks with no small amount of disdain, there is Beelzebumon—who he can't deny is an old god in his own right, capable of reducing the Digital World to wispy ashes and empty data should he desire it—happily humming an annoying tune to himself and hopping up and over huge roots with childlike glee and amusement.

"Idiot," Tactimon says under his breath, more to himself than the demon lord.

Beelzebumon pounces and gracefully sails through the air, spinning mid-air to face him as he lands on another root, ugly leather boots soundlessly making contact—and it's another contradiction that infuriates and puzzles Tactimon, and stokes the curiosity inside of him.

What is he? Is he truly a fool granted far too much power or is he merely acting the fool?

(Perhaps he is simply playing with Tactimon. He hates the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth and swallows it back into some deep part of himself that he wishes he didn't know, because he is Tactimon and knows every aspect of himself.

A secret that cuts to his digicore to admit: he doesn't.)

Beelzebumon's heartbroken expression is disgustingly hilarious or hilariously disgusting—either way, Tactimon sneers—and he spreads his arms out in an exaggerated gesture. The passing sunlight filtering through the near limitless treetops casts a strange, golden silhouette across his figure that is somehow fitting.

"Oh, come on, babe"—Beelzebumon snaps his head to the side, narrowly avoiding a Tanegashima blast that leaves the tips of his platinum blonde hair singed black, and if he cares, he certainly doesn't show it—"why you gotta hate?" he replies, utterly crestfallen, gold eyes ridiculously large and glassy, showing more fang than necessary as his pout deepens.

Tactimon is fairly sure if he were any other digimon, this display would look far more terrifying than any manner of endearing.

"Idiot," he repeats scornfully, shaking his head. "Do not call me… babe," Tactimon says with poorly constrained disgust.

Of all the disrespectful nicknames…

"Hmm," Beelzebumon closes his eyes for a moment and taps his chin, the light shining over his pensive face granting an aura of innocence. "Well, I guess I could call you—"

"Tactimon," he interjects, deadpan.

"—honey?" Beelzebumon suggests with naively good cheer, grinning stupidly and giving a double thumbs up before he's forced to duck a more forceful Tanegashima that levels the forest immediately behind him, deafening and burning everything away in a flood of glowing data particles.

The world darkens all at once with the explosion, colour leaching from the rich emerald green of the coiling plants and lush leaves and towering bamboo stalks. All the violet and fuchsias, and even the shy, sparsely dotted white of the voluminous, blooming flowers fade into a dreary monochrome.

Tactimon blinks behind his polished mask, turning his attention away from Beelzebumon to look up into the yawning black void of the sky—rather, what would be the sky if he could see it—hand resting on the hilt of his thrumming sword.

Impossible.

According to his meticulously thought-out plan, there shouldn't have been others nearby, not in a fifty mile radius. All that had dared were dead, data destroyed beyond any form of salvaging and the rest too rightfully terrified to do anything but flee.

No, he has not miscalculated to this degree, of this he is absolutely certain, and feels a rising anger bubbling up in his chest. His calculations are always, always perfect. His hand tightens around Jatetsufuujin-maru, shaking, however imperceptibly, with rage. How—

Tactimon hears it before he sees it.

A drop at first, the unmistakable sound of a fat water droplet hitting a leaf, then another, and another until there is a chorus of heavy rainfall echoing for miles in all directions. Thunder rumbles incredibly soft, so far away and quiet he can barely hear it.

"Gonna rain today."

For a fraction of a second, he almost considers letting his iron control slip. There is a hint of laughter containing no humour caught in his throat that he cannot seem to let go of.

Tactimon knows the Digital World, knows how quickly everything can become something else in the blink of an eye, but he is also one of so few able to predict the outcome of all things.

It is the thing he prides himself most on.

Liar, his own blended with the voices of his past hiss in unison.

Sparse droplets of rain begin to pelt down over his flawlessly maintained armour, darkening the fabric and sliding down the gleaming metal.

…It was the thing he prided himself most on, before Omegamon, before the dishonour and disgrace and failure the Royal Knight had brought him, still brings him every waking minute of every day. Omegamon even haunts him in his dreams, forces him to remember each and every tiny thing he failed to do.

There is no respite from this.

Tactimon allows himself to laugh then, a single harsh bark of a bitter sound. No, he has brought his own failings and his own fall upon himself, and…

…and the great Maou no Beelzebumon is both a terrible reminder of all the things he's failed to do, of all the things he may yet fail to accomplish, of something he fears he will never be, but he is also…

Beelzebumon, no longer pressed flat to the forest floor after dodging the second Tanegashima, grips his shoulder firmly, a solid, reassuring pressure against his armour.

"Tactimon," he says, deep voice soft in an uncharacteristically rare way that reminds him of the ephemeral crimson blossoms that were so coveted in Akasuna. Countless hands had reached and snatched for them in desperate greed like the dear treasure they were regarded as.

Tactimon never saw the point, had slapped away one that had been offered to him and let the molten petals scatter in the wind along with the broken shards and pathetic tears of a fragile, delicate digimon's heart.

The demon lord is neither of those, though, and will never wither nor shy away.

It is as if Beelzebumon can hear his conflicted thoughts. He moves until he's close enough that Tactimon can feel his cape ripple with movement and is torn on whether or not to slam his sword into the brave, stupid digimon. His hand shifts down Tactimon's shoulder, gingerly trailing his arm until his gloved hand is resting over the tense one throttling the growling Jatetsufuujin-maru. He squeezes gently, then tugs, a silent request to stop.

"You good?" his companion asks in his ear, whisper-quiet, so close helmet and mask are nearly touching. At least he's intelligent enough not to cross that boundary.

Beelzebumon's voice is filled with a heavy, barely concealed emotion Tactimon does not wish to hear because he is aware it is reserved for him alone—it's better if he refuses to acknowledge it—but it is grounding all the same, and the swordsman breathes the present back in, though he feels a sharp stab of the fiery (Grey Sword) blade of the past through his gut.

"How long are you gonna keep doing this to yourself?"

Until the end of my existence is the truth, however it is no longer an answer Beelzebumon accepts, and Tactimon detests with an icy hatred the worried pity that drips off the words every time the question is asked.

There are moments when he undeniably despises Beelzebumon and he uses them to his advantage without fail.

"Indeed," Tactimon answers in a tone wrought of hard steel, his only warning the subtle shift of his sword. "I do not recall giving you permission to touch me, do you, Beelzebumon?" he continues with increasing coldness, letting controlled fury ripple through the word. His skin itches furiously though there are many layers separating the two of them.

Beelzebumon pauses only for a moment, seemingly frozen, before the warmth and pressure of his closeness is gone and he skips a few feet ahead, twirling on his muddy heel to face Tactimon.

"Okay, okay, I give! Sorry! My bad," he says, impish smile exposing his fangs as he laughs under his breath, humour glittering in his eyes.

But Tactimon isn't blind or stupid; he thinks he sees regret and longing in those golden eyes until the demon lord blinks and it's replaced by his usual laidback, sunny demeanour.

(How much does he regret himself?)

"But can you really blame me?" Beelzebumon arches an eyebrow beneath his mask, throwing his arms behind his head. "I mean—" He clears his throat and pointedly gives his friend a very slow once-over and mouths "fiiiiine as fu—"

"My armour is very fine, isn't it," Tactimon states flatly, giving the other digimon a clear out. He releases Jatetsufuujin-maru, the sword going silent as the strained atmosphere breaks. He resists firing off another barrage at Beelzebumon—if only to minimize further destruction—and looks to where his blasts have damaged the terrain. Judging by the finely quaking earth and new perilous cliff, it's not quite as viable a path as previously planned.

"Yeah, that ain't gonna work for a bit," Beelzebumon comments, peering down over the cliff's craggy, steep ledge, observing something unseen to Tactimon, who follows his gaze. At best, all he can make out is the vague shimmering of flowing water.

"Why?" he asks, masking his suspicion. Beelzebumon can fly and he's more than capable of using his cannons for aerial maneuvers.

"Storm'll get worse, super high flash-flooding, mudslides—in case you haven't noticed, the land is in pretty bad shape because someone was trigger-happy," Beelzebumon replies, eyes narrowed at Tactimon in amusement, ticking the issues off on his claws as he speaks. "Plus," he adds, holding up his index finger to silence any protests.

Tactimon makes a slow show of crossing his arms. Idiot, he wants to say again, but has already used up his self-allotted number per day.

"I really don't wanna listen to you whine about being wet and save us from the mud and being dirty and sweet Yggdrasil up in the kernel because we absolutely need to be spotless and immaculate, just no," Beelzebumon smears his palm down his damp mask, clearing what moisture has gathered there. He drops his hand to fix Tactimon with raised eyebrows and slightly downturned lips, his expression embodying the tired essence of there is no way in hell we're doing this again, you stubborn bastard.

The swordsman bristles at his words, however… he is far from being able to feasibly argue the demon lord's points without resorting to outright lies, and his pride won't allow such a thing. He chooses to trust Beelzebumon's apparent precognition this time. It will serve as an interesting experiment, at least; he may yet learn the truth behind the Lord of Gluttony.

"Hmph, very well," Tactimon coolly agrees and turns sharply, clothing dramatically flaring to the side with a wet slap. The rain is finally starting to penetrate the thick canopy above them, thus it is no surprise that they're beginning to become soaked.

Beelzebumon snorts at the sight, clearly choking down a laugh. Much to Tactimon's momentary surprise, he sprouts a pair of his massive, black feathery wings, adjusting their size to stretch one over his head. The rainfall is blocked immediately by the dense, data-altered wing.

"See, I have a use after all," he chuckles, grinning a genuinely happy—lov—affectionate smile—and winking, "your own personal umbrella."

Tactimon looks away from him and remains silent, crushing the odd sensation that flits through him. He doesn't need this, he has never needed it. He has never seen the point. He has never wanted to see the point, but Beelzebumon who is simultaneously so simple and so mysterious keeps breaking down the iron gates after tall, unshakeable walls after perfect fortresses that should have been impregnable.

He intrinsically knows himself, but there are admittedly pieces he has not allowed himself to learn, and while he does not know the scope of the full truth behind Beelzebumon, he knows their situation—their entirely bizarre partnership—is an unsustainable one.

Tactimon, for all of his genius and battle prowess, is no longer fighting on a battlefield where he has the advantage. He cannot predict the outcome of this.

"Hey, ba—Tactimon?" Beelzebumon asks nervously, watching him keenly out of the corner of his eye, "what did I say this time? Hey, come on, don't tell me about the helmet, I know that face. What did I do?"

Tactimon gives an imperious huff and drops into a practiced, fluid seiza under a series of immense protruding roots that will provide an adequate amount of shelter, intent on meditating.

"I have no desire to speak about it… idiot," he says in irritation, grudgingly willing to break his rule until he reaches a satisfying conclusion.

Beelzebumon blinks several times and suddenly it's like a lightbulb's gone off inside his dim head, then his tight expression relaxes and he bursts into loud, heaving laughter that echoes throughout the expanse of the forest.

"Sure thing, tsun-tsun," he cackles, perching himself atop the roots, glossy wings folding downwards to curl protectively around Tactimon. "Don't worry, babe, I'll save you from the evil rain."

Tactimon slams the hilt of Jatetsufuujin-maru directly above him without saying a word, the killing intent clear in the very air itself. The trees around them heave and creak and the ground shakes in ominous measured tremours, yet Beelzebumon himself barely moves an inch. He keeps on laughing under his breath.

His occasional chuckles die down until they're alone with the soothing sound of the rain, and then Beelzebumon is alone with himself when Tactimon falls into near stillness and absolute silence.

Data streams running under the ground faintly glow in tandem with various flora, taking an edge off the pervasive darkness, lending an ethereal appearance to all the things his old, perfect eyes can see. He can hardly feel the rain or the sense of cold it should bring.

"Y'know, Tactimon," Beelzebumon says, a ghost of a smile crossing his face, knowing full-well that the first friend he's made in centuries will never hear him. "I didn't think this eye of mine had anything worthwhile left to see… Now, though…" he trails off, subconsciously pulling his wings in tighter, drawing closer to Tactimon. "I'm afraid"—he has to hold in the humourless laugh because Maou no Beelzebumon has never feared anything or anyone—"this is all a nice dream I'll eventually have to wake up from."

He gazes down between the roots, following the black and gold and red of Tactimon's armour, the hard lines and jewels and elegant fabrics, and the similarly regal sword that will lead him to his destiny.

"Can't even see it, for all the good this eye does me," Beelzebumon murmurs, tiredly glancing back out into the darkness that's always been his bedfellow. There are only two futures he wishes to see these days and neither are clear.

"Say, Tactimon, I wonder if you…" the demon lord trails off in a whisper, focusing on something far off in the distance. "Do you know that I…"

Beelzebumon sighs to himself, a silent, easy laugh shaking his form.

"Well, maybe it doesn't need to be said anymore…"

End notes: Quick things I wanna touch on as I'll be leaving my extensive notes to other sites.

– To prevent any confusion since this did confuse a couple people on another platform: Tactimon got all riled up because he genuinely didn't believe in Bii's precognition abilities at the time, thus completely dismissing the rain comment when combined with the way he either under or overthinks. (Am I the only one fascinated by the third eye Beelzebumon have? Am I the only one trying to capitalize on the symbolism of that?)

– Before you come at me with, "Yo, Bii is a Gary-Stu?" I'll say all the Seven Great Demon Lords have eyes that match their Crests and one or two other things that make them visually different, and yes they also are granted a "with great power comes great responsibility and/or suffering" type of ability. Bii is no more special than any of the other Maou.

– "Why tf is he named 'Bii?' Why not 'Bee?'"

Very simple answer. I've explained on tumblr that he has a habit of giving terrible nicknames and when asked what he would name himself, he chose 'B,' just B, not 'bee' or any play on his name, just a letter. I didn't want to write it that way, so it was suggested i use Bī (you'll notice sometimes i use the extra vowel for Japanese, sometimes I use macrons/waapuro style), which got lengthened to two I's when I got lazy.

Okay, so that's that! I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts on it! Which main character are you more interested in learning about? Anything particular you liked about this chapter? Any support for this project would mean the world to me.