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plush-rabbit · 2 years

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Reacting To Your Mortality - Brothers’ Ed.

A/N: This is really late- like wow, I am a slow writer

Lucifer:

It's a simple day spent with him out in the market, a simple explanation that he just needs to get out of the house for a moment, and with a frown pulling at the corner of his lips, and ears hot as he mentions that he doesn’t want to be alone. Of course, you couldn’t deny him, so here you are with him, arm in arm, as you walk through the dense sea of demons and others alike. Lucifer has you pulled close to him, taking each step in a slow pace to extend the time he has with you. You don’t seem to mind, clinging close to him, your head turning and peering at all the stores that you pass by, and of course, he could offer to go into one, make a mental note of what had caught your eye, but he rather have you ask for it, looking up at him with a sheepish grin and nervous lilt in your voice. But you never do, choosing to walk arm in arm with him, exchanging small talk. Passing by a bakery, you stop in your tracks, and he comes to a slow halt, turning to you and with a sheepish grin, and you tilt your head over to the shop. Without you uttering a single thing, he nods, holding the door open for you.

Still in Devildom, it’s common to find things that you’ll find less than appetizing. You’ve expressed it before- cringed and paled when something that looked so odd came before you. He’s managed to find food that you’d like- an imitation of flavors back from the Human Realm. At least, the pastries are something that you find that you can stomach even if you have the habit of taking a quick picture of it first. He’d never understand the need for it, but you take a picture of him and you together afterwards, and he quite likes that part. You ask him about a menu item, and he hums, his attention to you as you question the baked good that contains a “soul” and he waves it off- an imitation or perhaps a part of a soul from a being long dead. And then you question something that has him giving you a raised look. Would you- or rather your soul ever show up on a menu? He doesn’t know why you would ask something like that- it’s not as if you’d- and midway through his sentence does the realization of you being human hit him. It’s a cold feeling that washes over him, one that makes his skin crawl and twist at his stomach. Suddenly, he’s lost his appetite.

You’re beside him, sleeping peacefully, and unbothered by the fact that he’s still awake. He won’t cry. It’s inevitable that you will die. He knows that. He’s threatened you more times than he would care to admit. He knows you can die, and that you will. And yet, it doesn’t stop the horrific loss of breath, something stuck in his throat and vision being blurred. Lucifer can’t lose you. Not you. He’s been perfect. He should be allowed to have you, to keep you with him. His hand covers his mouth, tears slipping between his fingers, and eyes closing shut as he lets out a muffled cry. His chest shudders, and he wants to cry. You’re lying beside him, asleep and unknowing as Pride collapses into feeble crying, whimpering and trying to make himself smaller. You won’t be here one day. He shakes himself. There’s no use crying over it. Not now. Not when you’re still here. Not when he can wake you and cause you worry. He wants whatever time that you have with him to be nice- to be something worth remembering and he knows that if you were to find him crying, you’d never go back to sleep- you’d never stop looking at him with such sad eyes. He can’t be the cause of that. Not anymore.

With a whisper, a candle lights beside his nightstand, and then the room glows in a faint orange hue, as he rises from the bed. He is entranced by the still flame, and he remembers the Reaper’s Cave. He remembers your candle. He hadn’t expected to see it- he wasn’t even searching for it, or perhaps he was, but he hadn’t yet realized it. He didn’t want to see the horrific truth that perhaps it was already nearing the end, but there it was. He stared at it for a second and now it haunts him. Going back would prove to be a pain, but he’d do it for you. He’d lift his candle and pour his wax onto yours. He’d stain his hands if it meant that you’d get just a little bit more time. There would be consequences, but it’s nothing he couldn’t handle. He could handle whatever it is as long as you’re there by his side.

He can’t fall asleep and he goes to his study papers in a neat order, and his pen uncapped. The chair creaks under his weight, and he grabs at a sticky note, scrawling the pen over it, and it remains untouched, pure from the ink and indented from the tip of the pen. The pen goes into the trash and Lucifer takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and his hand curves over his mouth. His vision is focused on the opposite end of the room, fixated on the door, waiting for the handle to turn and for you to appear with sleep caressing and making you appear so much softer. He waits for you to wrap your arms around him and lull him back to bed, your lips nothing more than a phantom against his neck. But you never appear. The door remains closed and he remains alone in his office with his vision growing bleary and eyes beginning to burn with tears. His tears curve down his face and drip onto the desk, sullying the pristine wood. His shoulders shake, and he’s crying alone in his office. And he hopes, so selfishly, that you would sense him and come rushing to his aid, and yet, he’s alone. He grieves for a future love lost, and his chest hurts, hollow and ruined. And he wonders how it was you, a human, that could have stirred such emotions in him, enough to make the vision of Pride glossy.

Mammon:

It isn't uncommon to find you with Mammon. Either one of you sprawled over the other, seemingly inseparable as your words knit into each other's, laughs and giggles intertwined with your hands. He's listening intently to a story that you read aloud, trying- and failing- to hide his smile as you just can't get the words right and the voice sounds too odd to be real. You hold the book over him and both you and he are clouded from each other's view, only the tips of your fingers peeking past the edge of the book and his snowy hair in your peripherals. You’re reading the words to him, and he’s interrupting, his hands drumming along your thigh, or trying to pull the book down to get your attention back on him, and he’s asking about the book, questioning about the character’s choices, and scoffing when a line reads out too awkwardly and he comments how no one actually talks like that but you click your tongue, arguing that it fits the style. He tells you that you’re a nerd and finally the book is pulled from your hands and before he can close it, he reads out the page number and places the book down on the floor. He can feel your annoyed stare at him- a furrow of your brows and pursed lips. He gives you a cheeky grin, and for a moment, he thinks you are upset, but then the corners of your lips twitch upwards and he knows that that look is more playful than anything else.

He isn't sure what brought up the conversation on mortality, but it’s one that he dislikes. He knows you- better than he could ever know himself. It’s always just a blur- a passing thought that never really takes full form, but always a lingering thought on the back of his head. He wishes that he had forgotten that you could die. That you have died. That he held you in his arms, blood staining him and tears distorting his vision, and the horrible feeling of a sob stuck in his throat as he held your body. He’s forgotten that feeling, but in just a moment, it’s returned to him. You’re human and he knows humans well enough- maybe you do have a long life ahead of you, but he’ll never know. It’ll always be short to him. Sick and twisted as his chest tightens into an unforgivable knot, until he can’t breathe, and he’s grown silent. He can’t be here- not with you, at least. You’re calling his name as he leaves, and he waves a hand, not trusting his own voice, and hoping that somehow, you’d understand that he's just needed elsewhere.

You’re going to leave one day. It won’t be the first time, but it’ll be the last. No matter what he does, how much he begs, how he promises to be better, you’ll leave him. He’ll live until his own candle snuffs out, and he knows that it’ll never happen. He’d keep any promise if it meant that you’d stay with him- that you would never leave him. He’s not strong enough to manipulate your death, to manipulate time and he knows that Barbatos would never agree to it. He’d never understand the pain- the one that feels like he’s being ripped apart, torn from seam to seam, kicked and beaten. He doesn’t even understand the pain. It’s far too much- far too maudlin for a past that he wishes had never happened. He wishes that he had stayed with you- cried in your arms and held you close to him. Knowing you, you would have made any false promises to him, and he would have taken them in greedily, accepted them as truths and would have cried when you broke them.

The lock in his room clicks into place and he gives it a tug, making sure that it is locked. The descent down to his bed makes his stomach churn. A silencing spell is cast over the room, and the silence rings in his ears- he’s aware of his own ragged breathing- deep and painful and he wonders if you had heard it too, if maybe that’s the reason why you didn’t follow him. He makes it to the couch, the bed a far too long journey, and he collapses, trying to control his breathing, and of course, he fails to do that. He wraps his arms around himself, so desperate for touch, for reassurance, and yet, you never come in through the door, you never place your hand on his arm and let him cry into the crook of your neck where your heart always beats just a little bit quicker when you’re with him. Maybe that’s his own blessing, to know that you’ll never see him in this pitiful state- sobbing and twisting upon himself, his wails muffled by the cushion. You’ll pass on to the other side, and he remembers it, the souls who were content, who found past loved ones and reunited. He knows that will never be him. It might be you, in the Afterlife, waiting for someone to greet you, but he would never be there. He'd never get to see you again. He’d never be able to touch you and sit on your lap as he made remarks while you patiently read to him. He cries until he can’t. Until he’s whimpering and hiccups ruins his breathing, his hands shaking and vision still blurry.

An ache makes his body feel tense- bones taut and eyes puffy. There's a headache that’s far too much for him, and when he reaches outward with his arm, hoping and stuck on old habits, he doesn’t find you. Defeat makes his body sink into the couch, and he remembers where he is. The light of his phone makes him squint and it’s late- and his notification bar has your messages- asking if he's okay, if he’s busy, if he’s going to join you in bed, and finally a goodnight with a star emoji. He could find your room if he was blindfolded and turned and turned until he was sick. He’d always find you. Your door is unlocked, and when he enters, he sees you sleeping under the covers, a stuffed animal on the floor and he reaches for it, holding the ever smiling animal in his hands. You don't stir when he places the animal back under your arms. There’s not a yawn or a shuffle even when he pulls you close to him, and kisses the back of your neck. You always were a deep sleeper. Mammon has kissed you before, held you in his arms and smiled as you peppered kisses all over him, and it'll never be enough. Not for him. One day, he’s going to miss this. He’s going to miss slipping into your bed and waking up with you wrapped in his arms. He’s going to miss breakfast with you. He’s going to look at his matching keychain and cry, and he’d want to tear it, to get rid of it, but he’d never bring himself to. He’d surround himself with your belongings, buy the same perfumes and creams, and never move a single item. He’d mourn in your room, and stay there till he found you again. He kisses the back of your neck, and wets your pillow with his tears.

Leviathan:

The blue light of his room cast cool shadows and light across the spread of his bed. The monitor of his laptop dims as Leviathan scribbles onto his notebook, adding and erasing ideas. You hand him a highlighter, and try to read the writing upside down and it’s proving futile with every line added until the page flips to a blank one. He’s always dreamed about writing a manga- a full fledged one that has everything that he could ever want. A festival chapter. Character death. A beach chapter. Confessions and bad timing. It’ll have it all. It’s convoluted and a mess- thoughts flowing and spilled onto pages in ink, even so, it’s his mess. It’s all purely for him. And you- if you want it to be. You’ll love it. You’re helping him after all. He has the plot- or a hundred or so. It’ll fix itself as time goes on. He still has to design the characters- understand them and give them perfections and flaws. However, with all this planning and ideas, it’ll take time for the dialogue to even come in. It’ll take years to see his vision come to life. Perhaps a century or more to finalize everything, and another one to rework everything, to make it all flow together. It;ll take a while, but you'll be there by his side, and with his hand holding tightly onto yours and his smile so genuine and eager, it hurts to see you turn away from him.

He isn’t sure how to take the news that one day, you just won’t be there to see his vision- the one you helped create- come to life. The blue in his room seems too bright now, the items and figurines in pristine condition seem to mock him with their own eternal life as you give him a shrug and try to push the conversation forward, trying to work on the story. Your fingerprints over his notebook, leaving your trace.You’re going to be someone with aching bones and wrinkles at the corners of their eyes and soft hands.You won’t be a forever young protagonist. It’s silly that he’s forgotten just what a normal life expectancy of your species is. He’s consumed enough media to know that, but, when the heroes of the book have blood on the corner of their lips, and walk it off, it’s easy to forget that, that isn’t normal. Why did he forget that you’re human as well; and that someday, you'll have lived your long life. You’ll still be beside him, with trembling hands and a graying hair as he tells you his ever growing plot, accidentally spoiling it for you. But then again, it’s a mercy. It’s letting you know the ending that you’ll never see.

With his ideas written on the notebook, and typed onto the computer, he has you lying by his side. Your head is on his chest, and hands wrapped tightly around him as if he were the one that was going to leave you. He can feel your heartbeat against him. It’s a soft, slow thumping that pulses against him and it’s soothing. A tempo that he has fallen asleep to and now, it’s the thing that keeps him awake. He listens to every beat, and in his mind, when he misses one, when his mind is too jostled by every other thing that’s racing, he jolts. His eyes are wide and there’s a thin layer of sweat that sticks to his shirt. You sleep peacefully, your brows furrowed by the movement, but you don’t wake up. You don’t awaken, and he’s left in solitude as he always has been before.

He should be used to this feeling, he’s fallen in love with countless characters, grieved over them and held them in his heart for years. And, somehow, this is different. You never liked sleeping in his bathtub; always complaining that it made your back ache and neck hurt, and it took a while for him to find the perfect futon, but he did. You complained less and slept with your body curled over his. That was the only thing that ever made the futon worth all the trouble. You fit perfectly against him. You slept by his side even if you did have your own bed. Tonight, however, he returns to the tub, slipping inside and curling himself into a ball, the confines of the porcelain closing in around him, and he’s trying not to cry. He shouldn’t cry. It’s dumb. You’re human, you’re going to pass. He knows that. He’s consumed enough of your culture that he knows that that will be the end of your chapter. You won’t come back. There won’t be a revival, there won’t be a change in the story. He knows that it’s already written and set.

Have you always known this? The fact that you would die before he would ever get a chance to get close to death? Was this all just a mean joke on him? The porcelain is warm under him now, and he feels awful for thinking so little of you. Of course you knew. You meant no malice, but you knew, and he isn’t sure if he’s upset at himself for not realizing it, or upset at everything else for doing this. Tears slip into his hairline, and he has to force himself to not cry, to not wail in his room because then you’ll wake up. It’s what he so desperately craves, but not tonight. Not when he’s crying like a child, body shaking and arms curled tight over his frame. You’re his Henry. And he’s lost Henrys before. Goldfish and snakes and things alike that just didn’t last. But Leviathan was so sure that this time you would. That in years time, you’d be by his side like always- sitting by him and watching him play some game or reading by his side. He was so sure he knew what grief was- he cried over characters, loved and lost, and yet, even if you still are on his bed, he can already feel his heart shatter. He can feel it tear and shred upon itself, and he cries. It isn’t fair that you’re going to be taken from him. Isn’t he allowed to have one thing, to be happy and just have you with him? His whole life has been unfair and even now, just when he had you all to himself, it still proves to be unfair, to be targeted towards him and tear away any source of happiness that he could ever have.

Satan:

You’re leaning against the bed frame, his head on your lap and an arm underneath your thigh, as the other one wraps around and holds you close. Your hand is knitted between his hair, scratching at his scalp, as Satan listens to your phone drone on. It’s nothing more than background noise for him, and he can already sense your impatience beginning to grow- videos being skipped, the little shifts in your leg as you try to not disturb him, and the constant clicking of your tongue. His mind is between consciousness, drifting off to sleep, and catching little sounds from your phone, the words starting to mesh together into a slur. He’s closer to sleep until he hears something on your phone, and he lets out an amused hum. It isn’t long before he’s talking, sleep still present in his voice as he tells you about an old memory to a place deep into Devildom to witness untouched nature. He speaks of it so dreamily, rubbing his cheek against your thigh, telling you about how the moon looked brilliant on that night and he sighs, that he’ll take you when it’s supposed to shine once more like that. When you ask when, he tells you in another three centuries, and you fall silent.

If you rather not do that, he won’t force you. You can see the brilliance of the moon from anywhere, he just liked that place because it held so much flora that he had never seen before. But then you call him, and he can hear the unsureness in your voice. Looking up, you have a nervous smile, ask how you’ll be able to see it. And reality and truth rushes to him. You’re human. He nods and apologizes for his mistake, turning his head back down and placing a gentle kiss to your thigh. Of course, you’re human, how could he have forgotten you and your lifespan. You’re only human, and he loves that about you, loes who you’ve become and who you’ll be, but that’s all you’ll ever be. A human. And no matter his education and extensive knowledge, he can never change that; he can never prolong your lifespan. He can help you in your sickness and in your health, but never protect you from death. His nails dig into your soft skin, and you pet over the crown of his head.

In his silence, he tries to remember old spells, things he’s read in books before, things he might have heard in passing, and whether it’s due to a lack of knowledge from others, or his growing anxiety, he can’t recall anything. His mind draws a blank. You’re going to pass. And if he’s lucky, he’ll get years with you. He’ll see you with gray in your hair and wrinkles around your eyes and he’ll know that he’s the one who caused you to smile so much. And yet, even if he does get that with you, with your hands so frail, with the slight tremble as you hold his in yours, it will never be enough. Your hand slowly falls into a stillness, and your phone is no longer making noise, and there’s a tightness in his chest, something wrenching around his chest, making it harder to think clearly, and he’s calling your name in a hoarse whisper. Looking up, he finds that you’ve fallen asleep, your neck bent and a furrow in your brows. He lifts himself up, smoothing the wrinkles between his thumb, and he lays you down on the bed. His hands shake as he grabs a blanket, placing it above you and pressing his lips to your temple.

The feeling that grows in him is all too familiar. It’s tearing at him, opening wounds and seeping poison into him. He’s done so much to keep his anger under control, to make sure it doesn’t boil over- at least not in front of you- and while you are asleep, he can’t risk waking you up. He wouldn’t be able to handle your questioning as to why he’s so unruly at that moment. Canines pierce into his bottom lip, something bitter on his tongue, and with a foggy mind, he leaves the room, closing the door shut without another thought. Once in his room, he casts a silencing spell. His head is pounding erratically, pounding and beating against his skull. He takes a step forward and slips on a book and that is his breaking point. It’s a cheap excuse, an easy way to take out the damage on something that isn’t you and something out of control, something that is your very nature. Magic crackles in the air, horns erupting and a tail swinging rapidly as his hands push at the back of a bookcase. Any other day, he would have panicked over such destruction over his objects. Any other minute, any other second, he wouldn’t have done such a thing because your presence is enough to calm him.

Dust and pages are in the air, broken spines and bent covers and his mind finally clears. Satan sits on his knees, crying in his room and screaming until his throat lingers with blood. It can all be fixed with a simple spell, and yet, he’s on his knees crying like a child. His body shakes with every sob, taking loud, wheezing breaths as he doubles over and bangs his fists onto the old floorboard. You’re still here, and here he is, acting irrational, emotional, over something that cannot be controlled and he hates how small it makes him feel. Tears stain his cheeks, dripping off his chin and landing on his clothes, and with a whisper, everything goes back to how it was, pristine and orderly- as much as it was before. He lifts himself, and with thorns scratching at his throat, he walks to your room, and gently lifts the covers to join you in your sleep. He moves carefully, his hand slipping underneath the cover to hold yours. There’s a stillness in the air, one that is interrupted by his sniffling, and the ruffle of sheets as he holds you close to him, burying his head into the soft curve of your neck, your heartbeat pressed against the tip of his nose. You can’t leave him, not when you care so deeply for him. He’s Wrath, he’s tried with such great self-control to be proper and not his emotions consume him, and when he’s with you, he can breathe. You understand his frustrations, you understand his love and insecurities. You understand him, and he won’t get that back once you’ve passed. He doesn’t want to get it from someone else; he wants it from you. But you’ll leave one day, and he’ll cry alone in your bed.

Asmodeus:

Your hands are on his jaw, holding him lightly, and he can feel the soft bristles of the brush curve over his cheek. It might be a mess it might not, but he doesn’t mind. He likes spending time with you, being so close he can feel your breath on him. He wonders if you’re actually trying to make him look nice, or if you’ve gotten bored and now you’re just decorating him. There’s a hit of annoyance in him- the makeup that you’re using is rather quite expensive, and he’s opening his eyes, his mouth parted to tell you just that, and then you smile widely at him, pride warming your cheeks, and he lets out a soft scoff. You’re having fun, and who is he to ruin that with the warning of price. The brush is pulled away, and Asmodeus pulls away, and he asks for a mirror. You grab one for him, and in the little exchange, the tips of his fingers brush over your first knuckles, and it leaves him feeling warm. Such a simple touch, and even if he should be used to it, if he should have grown out of that puppy love by now, he can’t. He loves getting to touch you, every simple way- every press of his lips to the back of your hand, how you hug him in your sleep, or how he sits beside you at breakfast to talk about some mundane thing that doesn’t really matter, but he just likes hearing your voice. Staring at his reflection, he smiles. You’ve done a good job at trying to replicate his look, and he tells you so. Your arms are thrown around him, and the mirror falls onto the bed, and he takes you in his arms, laughing into your ear, and pulling you down.

A cotton pad presses gently against his skin, wiping away the product, and he thinks to himself that perhaps he should have given you a cheaper one to start out with. He immediately pushes that thought aside- he wants you to try with the best, nothing less for you, and if that means having his products used for only an hour or less, so be it. With his eyes closed, and the feeling of his lid being dabbed upon, he tells you that he wants to take you to an event sometime. It’s exclusive- only the elite of the elite are invited, and to have such a gem like you accompany him would truly be an unforgettable night. You’ll get to wear whatever you want- a gown or suit, or a mix of both tailored to fit just you- no one else. It’ll be your own, no one else would ever get to wear such a thing. He opens his eyes just as you finish cleaning his face, and tells you that even the two of you would be able to match. Of course, the event takes time, and he isn’t even sure of the date, but there’s usually a fifty year warning to make sure that outfits can be planned accordingly.

The sound of your awkward laugh fills the room- it's short and has no humor to it, and he knows it well by now by his advances towards you during the beginning of meeting you. He gives you a frown, his shoulders slumping and with a roll of his eyes, he tells you that the outfits won't be those sickening couple matching ones, but something subtle- color matching at best, and accessory matching at worst. Your hands cup over his, and he raises a brow, and he knows that you want to say something- something witty, perhaps? But then you release a sigh, and your face goes pale, and he can sense the sihof in you- how tense you become, how you look down at your lap and scrunch your nose. With a hand scratching at the back of your head, you tell him that in fifty years, you might not even be able to go to a dance, and even then, you might not make it to the party. He’s not forcing you to go to the party with him- he would have liked it, but if you prefer the silent night in, then he can miss the party- at least the first hour. His hand curves over your wrist gently, the soft press of his fingertips are over your heartbeat and like a blanket covering him, realization is slow and suffocating over him.

It’s night, and his skin is soft and he can feel the moisturizer and every other thing he’s added to himself seep into his skin. You’ve long fallen asleep, only patting sebum onto your nose, and while he’d be happy to share, you only ever kiss his nose and tell him that you’re fine. You sleep soundly on the bed, the comforter soft over your body, the room a lovely scent to help you lull you to sleep, and all he needs to do now is slip into bed with you. An easy task that proves difficult. He can’t move himself away from the mirror- away from his reflection with red rimmed eyes and a quivering lip that parts every other breath to relax himself. His hands curve into fists and he’s going to cry. He’s going to cry and ruin his hard work and in the morning he’s going to wake with puffy eyes and bad skin and- a sob wrecks his body, doubling him over and his vision is blurry. You’re going to pass. He won’t have you with him anymore.

In his bathroom, his sobs echo, loud and desperate wails that make him cringe into himself. He's sobbing. The ugly type where you're heaving and tears and snot are wetting his face. Desperately, he wipes the tears away with his hand, spreading the tears over his face, ruining all his hard work, and he only cries more. Broken, ragged breaths shake his chest and make everything hurt, he’s on his knees, tears staining the floor and his hand covering his mouth in a pitiful attempt to quiet himself, to not make himself known when you’re on the other side of the door. He’s never realized that you are going to pass. You’ve come uncomfortably close a few times, but- but you’re still here. You’re still with him- alive and not gone, and he’s not ready for that. You’re one of the few people that understand him, that see him more than just his need for perfection, and his beauty- as cliché as it all is, you know him, you know Asmodeus, and he doesn’t want to lose you, because it’ll be losing a part of himself that he’s already given to you. With shaking hands, he wipes his eyes, skin tugging along skin, and he already knows he’ll wake up horrid tomorrow, and that you’ll be sweet and won’t question it, and he’ll be thankful because he can’t handle crying in front of you. He lays his head beside yours, and grabs your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips and his kisses each with a trembling kiss.

Beelzebub:

Eventually, the house will be remodeled. Rooms will be added, expanded and built to accommodate the every growing needs of Beelzebub and his family. It’s a surprise that it hasn’t happened yet. He still shares a room with his brother, something that you’ve questioned before, and his answer remains the same- it’s always been familiar, it’s always been safe like that. Of course, one twin will always outgrow the other, and while he’s not fond of loneliness, he encourages his growth. But that’s neither here nor there, at this very moment, Gluttony is asking if there’s anything you’d want in your room. You could ask for it, and it’ll be added, a bigger room, a fountain that flows with your favorite drink- you could have it all. You ask the brother when construction will take place, not wanting to make any rash decisions too soon, and he gives you a smile, genuine and unknowing, as he tells you in another century or so, give or take a few years. At least, that’s when the planning will be taken more seriously, it’ll be another century to find the proper demons to begin their work. When you snort into a laugh, he gives you a questioning look, head tilting and brows raised. Your smile falls, and he sees that you’ve grown uncomfortable, shifting in your seat as you tell him that in another century or so, you won’t be here. He asks what you mean, fearing that you’ll have grown tired of him. An awkward grimace is enough to remind him that you are human, and he breathes out a silent “oh”.

You’re human. Of course, you wouldn’t make it another century, and even if you did, he doubts you’d still be able to understand or want changes that you made so many years ago. You’ll pass. It’s the way of life. You’ve spent so long with him, that he had forgotten that you’d grow old. If you’re even that lucky. He can remember just how feeble humans are. He remembers that every time he holds your hand in his, holding it so it doesn't crack under his pressure, and so he can still kiss at your knuckles and keep you beside him. He knows how much he has to hold back when he’s with you- that he can’t hug you as tight as he wants because you’ll crack under him. He has to be gentle, and he tries so hard to do so, and still, you’ll pass. Even if he so desperately wishes for it, he can’t protect you from everything, and maybe he’ll be granted mercy and know that if you pass, it’ll be surrounded by the people you love, late into the night, and with him in your hands.

He can’t be around you right now. He should be- time is continuously ticking forward- but he can’t. At least, not now. He presses a kiss to your temple, this one lasting much longer than any of the others ones he has given you before. His hand holds tightly to yours and he pulls away, telling you that he has to go and train for an upcoming match against- against, a sport that he can’t quite remember the name of, and with the same kindness that you’ve shown him countless times, you smile and let him go ahead without further questioning. There’s no space for him beside you. He goes into a random room, and there’s a twisting in his stomach that is making him sick. He can feel it- the rising anxiety, the shakiness of his body, how he wants to purge himself of the feeling, and the acid that burns on his tongue and yet, he keeps his mouth shut, biting on the inside of his cheeks in a desperate, and horrid attempt to keep himself quiet. The blood makes a cocktail with the acid, and it burns in his throat. Tears burn in his eyes, and pain courses through his body; a deep ache that makes where his wings would be, burn and scream in agony, and you’re already a ghost in his mind. You cloud over him, your voice fading, and arms wrapped around his frame, and he can smell the body wash that you use, and suddenly, you seem so far away, and he’s alone, locked in a room of his own doing.

Walking back to the room, he wonders what he must look like. Awful, he guesses. He holed himself up, alone for hours with just thoughts until he let sleep consume him and he fell asleep, crumpled on the floor. The house is dark- night has fallen, a deep night where the moon is covered by dark clouds that are heavy with rain, and he’s making himself as small and quiet as he can, trying not to make a noise, trying not to alert anyone else to him. When he returns to you, he isn’t sure if you were waiting for him, or if you were woken up by him, but you’re fumbling for the lamp, whining and calling his name in a slow, slurred voice. His hand cups over yours and he joins you under the covers. You latch onto him, throwing your arms over him, your face nuzzling into his chest, and you press your lips against him, mumbling something incohesive as you fall back to sleep. He can feel your breaths slow, how your body falls limp and he knows that you’re asleep.

Grief holds him in a vice grip, unrelenting and cruel as it digs itself into him, latching onto a prey. Tears trace down the side of his face, falling into his hairline, and dripping onto the pillow, and he’s going to cry. He has you in his arms, and he’s going to cry, because one day you won’t be here. Beelzebub has told you that he’d protect you time and time again, that no matter what, as long as you’re with him, he’d protect you. Yet, he’s crying like a child, wanting to sob and wake you as if he had just woken up from a nightmare. You’ve seen him cry- seen his eyes get misty as he talks about what happened in the past, about the guilt he holds over it, and you held him through it, you kissed his cheeks and your lips were stained with his tears, and you stayed with him. Now, he’s going to lose you too, and you won’t be able to hold him. You won’t be able to comfort him when dates get near, and he’s cracking under pressure, you’ll be gone. He’s going to be alone, and he knows that when that day comes by, it’ll be a surprise and he'll never have expected it, it’ll wretch you from his arms without a goodbye. His arms wrap around you and he can faintly feel your breath on him.

Belphegor:

Belphegor is many things, and his vice describes him all too perfectly, but even so, for Sloth, he always manages to make time to visit the garden even if his body aches for slumber. He prefers you to be with him, to have the flora and its scent in the air, the noise subtle, yet not too quiet, as you rest with him on a worn blanket. His eyes are closed and he lays on the blanket beside you, the stars already memorized in his mind as you lay with your eyes wide open. Your voice sings out in the night, things and wishes that you want to do when you visit the Human Realm next time, your hand moving over to give his a tight squeeze. Of course, he likes the Human Realm- perhaps not enough to live there- but he enjoys the time there, however, he’d hate to lose you. The thought of you still reaching out to hold him hand, to comfort him as you talk about your wishes, makes him smile, his eyes opening to watch the same stars that you do.

Your hand lifts away from his to point out a constellation, and you mispronounce the name, and he has to correct you. His tongue traces over the syllables, your own voice trailing after his, and he lets the silence linger after. It isn’t long before he starts to talk about his own wishes, and wants- the things he wants to do in the Human Realm, in Devildom, anywhere, really. There’s so many sights to see, things to try, and places to view the stars, and he wants to do those things with his family, but he wants you there most of all. It’s far too much, and he realizes it, but he’s got all the time in the world, there's no need to rush such things that require planning. That is until you break into his thoughts with a laugh, and a question about how you could possibly fit all of those things in such a short period. He turns to you, tapping the tip of your nose and giving you a funny smile- he won’t die anytime soon, and he’s not breaking up with you either, so unless you’re planning that out now, it’s rather cruel. And then you frown at him. His mouth opens until you remind him that you’ll age and grow frail, and you trail off, because he knows the rest.

The topic shifts so suddenly and he’s glad that you don’t press him for a further discussion about you and your comment. He doesn’t want to think of it. He wants to go and hide in his room, but you still want to watch the stars, and you hold his hand excitedly when shooting stars streak across the sky. Your eyes close and he watches the stars and as dumb as it may be, he wishes on a star. It’s silly, and he feels silly, but he wishes in a jumbled mess of thoughts for you- for you and him to still be together in years time- and in his mind, he’s making the time specific, he’s wishing for countless years, years that he knows you don’t have. He doesn’t want to lose you. Not in any type of way. He’s watched humans for a long time, admired them from afar, and he knows that being frail is the lucky thing. He can’t handle the other thoughts, the gruesome image of your room being empty and filled with your things untouched and covered in dust. That thought makes him sick.

It isn’t long until you two tredge back to the attic, the blanket forgotten, a promise that one of you will take care of it in the morning. You hold onto the back of his shirt, and with heavy steps, you trail the old attic staircase. You aren’t subtle about wanting to pick up the conversation, but he doesn’t want to. Not now, and not ever. There’s no reason for you two to talk about it again. You’ll do nothing but give him a false sense of hope, giving him a false promise that you’ll never leave him. What will he do once you’re gone? Will he have to pass by your room and resist the urge to lay his weary head there, waiting for you to come back? Will every creaking door and light footsteps over the house be a reminder to him that you aren’t there anymore? There has to be some way to keep you with him, some way that he won’t have to lose you. It isn’t fair that it’s you that is doing this to him. He didn’t want to think about you leaving him, so why would you bring it up; why couldn’t you let him live in blissful ignorance?

With you sleeping beside him and his hands scratching at your scalp, Belphegor has decided that he hates humans. He hates whatever it is that gives them the right to die. To take away something so close to him. You'll die. And that will be all. There won't be anything more of you to give to him. You won't kiss his nose and wish him a good night. You won't argue with him about the dumb, little things. You'll be gone and he'll have nothing more to remember you by other than photographs. In time, he'll forget your voice. In time, he'll forget your touch and the way that you pinch his cheeks until he's reciprocating the manner. His eyes burn and tears hit at your forehead and with shaky hands, he wipes you clean of him. What would you think of him if you would see him now? The same demon who put his hands on you, who maimed you and stole your last breath. This has to be some sick joke- there’s no other reason for it. His eyes burn, and his throat is closing around him, a weight sleeping on his chest as you sleep so peacefully beside him. His face hides in his pillow, and his hand claws against the cotton, ripping the pillowcase with a loud tear, and he’s drowning, submerged in his own self-pity, whining and biting at his tongue to keep himself quiet, because you can’t see him like this. The same hand that clawed the pillow, reaches over and holds onto your hand, giving you a squeeze.

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