Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    He doesn’t make a habit of drinking in excess, but he does keep a bottle of potent (and delicious) extra-aged whiskey in a hidden compartment in his desk. Mammon’s found it, of course, but he didn’t like the taste and couldn’t sell it since it had already been opened, so he left it alone.
    Lucifer often finds himself sipping from a crystal glass as he unwinds, usually to the sound of one classical piece or another. But this particular day he needs to unwind more than usual. There had been a mess with one of the lower demons that attended RAD getting into some trouble by making a pact with a human back in the human realm that was causing the school some trouble. He’d wanted to expel the student immediately, but Diavolo insisted on seeing where it went. And, naturally, he had to defer.
    So here he is, stewing and staring into his suddenly empty glass. It wasn’t always easy to defer to Diavolo and acquiesce, and when he felt strongly about it and felt that it was in everyone’s best interest, it was even more difficult. So he finds himself still far too tense, flipping to a different record and filling his glass again and going back to staring at some infuriatingly beautiful and tranquil painted human landscape that hung across his study. The colors remind him of your eyes, and that only makes it worse.
    Three record changes later, and the painting is starting to come to life. His glass is empty again, but he can’t remember whether he has refilled it once, twice, or more times. Frustration is still tugging at the edges of his mind, but most clearly, he feels like he is missing something. Something is not quite right. He stands, knocking his chair back and barely catching it before it falls to the floor. He curses under his breath; it is late, right? The clock seems to be doing a weird dance when he looks at it; is the hand pointing to the 1? Or is that 11? Either way, the noise would have been noticeable. Waking up his brothers, or, devil forbid, you, would be inexcusable.
    He turns and almost knocks the fountain pen and its holder off of the desk; since when were his wings out? Heavens, he’s a mess. He holds up the bottle and studies it with a grim expression. Damn, it went down far too easy. And now he is feeling much too warm and somehow still cold, a hollow in the center of his chest and a subtle tug. He knows exactly where that tug wants him to be, where he wants to be. But should he go? He shouldn’t. It would be highly inappropriate.
    But then... what harm could come of it? You’d probably be asleep. And he could just... check on you. Maybe stand in your room for a moment. Just to make sure everything was okay.
    His legs seem weirdly heavy, his head oddly light. He doesn’t quite remember climbing the stairs to your room, but one moment he’s standing in his study and the next he’s in front of your door. It seems oddly impassable, locked by a magical spell of better decisions. He rests for a moment with his hand on the door, hesitating. It’s only the thought of one of his brothers coming out of their rooms and catching him standing flush-faced outside your door that propels him inside.
    The handle turns easily; the door creaks only once as it opens. The light from the hallway spills across your body, turned away from the doorway and curled up on your side. You don’t sleep with as many blankets as Belphegor does, but he recognizes a particular spotted pillow that looks familiar. A certain feeling burns in his throat for a moment. Jealousy?
    There’s a certain part of his brain that tells him to turn back now, to go to his own bed or perhaps even back to his study. To go back to where he wouldn’t be caught in a moment like this. The alcohol and the other parts of his brain tell that part to shut up. So he gently pries the pillow out from where it’s tucked under the one you’re sleeping on, sliding an arm into its place to keep your position steady.
    Your breath quickens for a moment and his own freezes in his chest, but you simply sigh and roll onto your back a little more. There’s a sprinkling of light from outside, and it highlights the peak of your nose, the tips of your eyelashes as they flutter for a moment, the bow of your top lip. Lucifer thinks that it’s very annoying how good you look right now, tangled up in your sheets. He realizes you’ve rolled on top of his arm, the pillow pinning you to the spot. Belphegor’s pillow is now on the floor, and he can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it. You’re more comfortable now, right?
    He doesn’t dare pull away--nor does he want to. After all, it would be irresponsible to wake you up now. He would be jeopardizing your sleep and your grades. That simply would not do.
    Are you cold? You look cold. You’re clutching the sheet tightly in one hand, the thin fabric pulled taut over your shoulder. There’s a blanket across the room on an armchair, but he can’t reach it. If you’re cold, you won’t sleep as well. And that’ll jeopardize your academics, and jeopardize the exchange program. He could just... help warm you up. That would be the responsible thing to do.
    He keeps the arm under you steady as he gently kicks off his shoes, gently eases himself onto your bed. Oh, the mattress was comfortable. You stir for a moment, but he doesn’t stop. It’s almost too perfect, the way your body fits into the hollows of his own. The tugging in his chest has stopped. A soft sigh leaves your lips as you relax a little more, your nose twitching as a hair falls across your face. He brushes it away and leaves his arm there, draped over your side. Two of his wings are folded against his back, but the others curve protectively over you. Keeping you warm, keeping you safe. Doing the responsible thing.

    You wake up as soon as he opens the door but don’t dare let him know for fear he’ll bolt. There’s alcohol on his breath, but it only smells sweet and slightly spicy. You figure he’ll turn and leave, but when his hand snakes under your pillow you can barely believe it. He stays still for a moment, and you desperately want to open your eyes and see his face, but you do your damnedest to feign sleep. It seems to work, because after several long moments you feel and hear movement again. And then the mattress is dipping down with added weight, and you let yourself move slightly with it.
    You can barely keep your breath steady as he’s suddenly beside you, pressed up against your body. He’s very warm and definitely drunk. There’s no other way he’d actually be doing this. He’s always been distant, cordial but cold. And now he’s brushing a hair away that is tickling your nose, threatening to make you sneeze and dispel the illusion. The feather-light touch turns into the comforting weight of an arm resting on the curve of your hip. Keeping you pressed to his chest, enveloped by him. Protected.
    A rustle of feathers causes you to realize that his wings are present--and that is the most tempted you’ve been to open your eyes the entire time. To see the raven black iridescence gleaming in the light from the window. When the wings cover you you resolve to wait until he’s asleep to see. You don’t have to wait long; in a matter of minutes his face presses deeper into the crook of your neck and his breath fans slow and warm across your shoulder. You open your eyes, just a sliver at first, and then wider when you feel it’s safe. You see the arm wrapped firmly around your waist, ungloved hands and well-manicured nails splayed across the sheet covering your body. The wings are spread carefully over you like a blanket, the tips of the feathers trembling with each breath Lucifer or you take.
    It’s an agonizing 100 seconds you count, weighing the pros and cons of a high-risk move. But you go for it and pray he’s drunk enough to sleep through it. You roll over, holding your breath, but by some miracle he doesn’t even stir. So there you settle in, his head tucked into the crook of your neck and wings covering your entire body. You return the gesture of the arm around your waist, covering his with your own. Your other hand you let roam across the expanse of his chest before it comes to rest right over the steady beat of his heart.
    You spend several long moments studying what you can see of his face beneath the disheveled black hair, his cheekbones and a hint of eyelashes peeking out. It’s a precious opportunity, and it’s almost with a sense of loss that you let yourself be lulled back to sleep by the steady rise and fall of Lucifer’s chest. He’ll be gone in the morning, you knew. But, perhaps, you’ll get the courage to return the favor one night. And you won’t run away.

Chapter Text

    He didn’t ring up that tab at The Fall on food, did he? No, between him and the occasional demons he could get to tolerate him in exchange for a few thousand Grimm’s worth in indulgences, he rang up a sizable tab on the nights he got away from the House of Lamentation.
    The avatar of greed was that: greedy. He wasn’t hoarding food and drink, but he was perfectly happy and comfortable buying the most expensive champagne he could get his hands on to share with those around him, or to hoard and drink himself. He fancied eyes on him while he did so.
    See, wealth was not the only thing Mammon would hoard. As you’d come to see from the moments when you weren’t around or weren’t doting on him, or the stories you’d heard from the other brothers, he’d just as soon hoard things like friends or even acquaintances. And in several thousand years he hadn’t learned that you couldn’t just buy friends. So when he went to The Fall and other demons wanted to save a quick buck, all they had to do was be friends with the avatar of greed until they didn’t want any more drinks or got tired of him. And so the cycle went. Mammon would get bored, Mammon would get lonely. Mammon would go down to The Fall, and Mammon would spend money on fair weather friends. It never quite filled up the hollow inside his chest.
    
    When you find him, it’s a surprise. You’d been invited to The Fall by a few demons that you judged didn’t feel like eating you, and so you’d gone. You hadn’t drunk much; it was early in the evening. But out of the corner of your eye, as you’re standing at the table and holding your drink in one hand and laughing at some silly pun the demon had made, you catch a familiar flash of white hair. And a wing?
    “Mammon? Is that you?” you ask, and he groans, wanting to shrink back into the leather seat and disappear. But all he can manage is a frown and to try and hide behind a wing; it knocks a glass over and spills a few drops of golden liquid on the tabletop. One mess of many. You’re unaware of what’s going on as you make your way through the crowd, a smile firmly in place— albeit a slightly confused one. He’s all the way in the back, in a side room. The only other times you’ve been here with him, he’s refused to be anything other than the life of the party— buying rounds, dancing on top of tables, getting yelled at by people whose space he gets up into until he buys them a drink.
    “What are you doing all the way back here?” you ask, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, talking to anyone else. Which is odd, because lately all it’s taken is for you to enter a room to make him perk up and drop whatever he was doing.
    “Uhhh, studying...?” He fumbles around in his jacket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, waving it in your face. You catch it and unfurl it.
    “Mammon, this isn’t an academic document. It’s-“ You struggle to examine the scribbled words, and immediately your eyebrows rocket up into your hairline. “Okay, ‘bring a case of nasty newt’s pressed poisoned apple hard cider to Havoc’s house and Goldie and one of your hotter brothers for a good time-‘ what?” You frown, and the paper immediately vanishes from your hands as Mammon makes a mad swipe at it.
    “Grocery list. Gotta... go grocery shopping today.” He groans, face falling forward towards the table. You catch his head in your hands before his horns can impale the wood. “G-gotta get the... gotta get things. Gotta get what they asked for.”
    “Mammon, are you drunk? It’s barely evening, how have you already drank this mu-“ You remember. “You weren’t in class today. Have you been here the whole day? Ah jeez, Lucifer is gonna be pissed-“
    “I know.” He jerks right upright and slaps your hands away. “I know, alright? I know. He’ll be mad and he’ll probably tie me upside down from the ceiling for skipping class and they’ll all take turns calling me stupid and scummy and tell me I shouldn’t skip any classes or I’ll just be the stupid scummy idiot brother for the rest of my existence.”
    Your hand curls up against your chest, hurt blossoming for a moment before you brush it off. “I’m sorry,” you say, concern wrinkling your brow. You glance at the mess of bottles and glasses on the table. “Did you drink these all yourself?”
    Mammon’s eyes widen as he watches you withdraw after he smacks at your hands. “A-ah shit, sorry, I didn’t mean that. Didn’t mean to do that. Lemme--wait, don’t go--let me buy you a drink. Don’t leave.” He reaches out and grasps clumsily at your arm, and you frown. “Goldie is around here somewhere.”
    “Mammon I don’t need you to buy me a drink,” you say, and his eyes widen and the grip on your arm gets more insistent.
    “W-Wait, please, I am so sorry, please don’t leave. I’ll buy you two drinks. Anything you want. Just don’t go.” The lightbulb goes off in your head as you glance back and forth between his wide and panicked eyes, the flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Please...?”
    “Mammon, you don’t need to buy me a drink to get me to stick around,” you tell him, gently peeling the fingers off your arm and sinking down into a chair next to him. You watch as confusion flickers across his face, his alcohol-sodden brain trying to piece it all together.
    “I don’t?”
    “No. You don’t. And you didn’t answer my question. Did you drink all of this yourself?” you ask, starting to pile up the glasses and debris.
    “No, no, I don’t think so. There were friends here before. But they went away. Guess I should have bought more rounds.” He picks at the tabletop with one manicured finger. “Ugh. I don’t remember. I definitely... maybe... had more than I should have.”
    “I would say so,” you say, reaching out to gently pry his fingers off of their destructive mission. The physical contact has him jumping a little. “You’re... quite drunk still, aren’t you?”
    “Guess so. I don’t know.” He shrugs, leaning back in his chair as the hand in yours curls up a little. “You sure I can’t buy you a drink?” he asks, and you give him a look. “Okay, okay. I guess I just... don’t understand why you’re here. Sticking around. I should buy you a drink.”
    “Mammon, I don’t want you to buy me a drink. I don’t want you to buy me anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Which you pretty clearly aren’t.”
    “You... you don’t?” He actually pulls his shades down to give you a mildly suspicious and confused stare. “You’re sure? And me? I’m fine. I’m the great and powerful Mammon, friend to all, envy of all- ugh, I can’t even remember what the title was. Doesn’t matter. It was a lie anyways. I’m just the second eldest scummy greedy brother. And a disappointment who can’t even hold on to friends.”
    “You’re alarmingly self-deprecating when you’re drunk,” you tell him gently, threading your fingers through his. “Those people aren’t your friends, Mammon.”
    “They’re not..?”
    “Friends don’t abandon someone who stops paying for drinks. Or who gets so drunk he hides in the back of the club and stews in misery.”
    “Hey! I’m not hiding--okay. Maybe I was hiding a bit. But I’m not miserable!”
    “I would hope not.” You just smile at his protest. “But I mean it. Anyone you have to pay to hang around you isn’t a friend of yours. They’re just... a leech. And they don’t deserve any of your time.” The hand in yours gives you a squeeze.
    “But... who is a friend, then? Who are my friends?” You bite back a soft laugh. He’s even more dense when he’s drunk, apparently.
    “Me, for starters. Your brothers. And I am sure there are more. Your brothers may be mean to you, and I do have some qualms about Lucifer’s methods of discipline, but they all care about you a lot.”
    “...You’re my friend?” There’s nothing short of pure childish hope in his eyes, and your heart does a flip.
    “I sure hope so. Especially after I stayed awake through that horrible reality show you made me watch.” You laugh and watch as some of the tension eases out of his shoulders. “Yes, Mammon. I am your friend. No purchase necessary. And I am not mad at you and I don’t need you to buy me a drink, I just want you to be happy. And we’re going to work on that together, okay?”
    “Work on it?”
    “Mhm. You deserve to have friendships that are genuine, and to know and understand that you don’t need to buy affection.”
    “But what if I want to buy your affection?” Okay, drunk Mammon was definitely something else.
    “You don’t need to. You already have it. For free.”
    “For free? Really?” The way his eyes light up is almost comical. You laugh, and he relaxes even further, shoulders relaxing and body posture returning to the more confident nature you’re familiar with.
    “Yes, really. You’re a good person. Well. Demon. You’re a good demon. And you already have my affection and always will.” You bring his hand, still entwined in yours, to your lips, and he melts.

Chapter Text

    You actually hadn’t seen Levi drunk before, nor had it ever crossed your mind that him being drunk was something that would ever or could ever happen. When that relatively incomprehensible text comes through, riddled with random capitals and emoticons and exclamation points, you assume it’s just a usual tweet from the excited otaku. Something must have gotten him riled up.
    You don’t get up and go right away; it’s been a while since you’ve had a moment to yourself, and you really want to finish the assignment you’re working on. But it’s only a few minutes before another text comes through.
    ??WHER R YuO?? CMON< ROOM. NOW!
    You laugh softly and scribble down one more sentence before you close the notebook, getting up from the desk. You could finish it later, probably at the expense of your own sleep schedule. It was always easier to go on and give Levi the attention he wanted before he either got mad, self-depreciative, or came down and broke down your door to show you some new merch or something that had been released.
    You grab a snack from the kitchen and say hello to Beelzebub, asking him if he knows what Levi is excited about. He just shrugs and goes back to eating the entire pan of brownies. You continue on your quest up to the second floor and knock twice on the door.
    “What’s the password?” Levi’s voice sounds weird, muffled through the door. You swear you hear the noise of a bottle falling to the floor and shattering and the sound of excited movements that don’t stop.
    “The password? Uh, Henry the Second? Ruri is the best?” you guess, frowning. Since when was there a password?
    “Good try, but nope!” the demon on the other side of the door replies, just as enthusiastic as ever. “Cmon, search your normie heart. You know it, deep down.”
    “Levi, I have homework that I could be doing,” you remind him patiently, taking a step back from the door. He must have heard it, too, because a moment later you hear another scuffle.
    “Wait! Don’t go away. Come back! I’ll give you a secret pass just this once.” The door swings open and you’re immediately hit with a smell of something fruity and Levi’s flushed face. “C’mon, inside! Inside already! You’ll let the normie germs in!” You laugh as you slip through the door, immediately taking in the familiar oceanic room. He closes the door and whips around, and you raise both eyebrows. “Okay okay, you’re here-- Wait, why did I call you here again?” His excited smile is replaced by a frown before the smile is back.
    You glance around and spot a new addition to the usual clutter on his desk, right between his two monitors. A suspicious-looking bottle, and two more behind it. It’s open and almost empty and looks suspiciously like alcohol--alcohol from the human world at that.
    “Levi. Are you drunk?” you ask, not turning to glance at him as you take a few steps towards the desk. The bottle is pretty, decorated with familiar motifs of swords and armor and seven people--seven lords. It seems to be some sort of limited edition sweet (and alcoholic) drink that was part of a promotion or something.
    “Me? Drunk? I’m not drunk, I don’t get drunk. I hardly drank any of that.”

You hold up the bottle and examine the amount left, and the alcohol content on the label. “Levi, you are drunk. Oh my goodness--this is priceless.” You laugh, holding the bottle close when he goes to take a swipe at it. “Where did you get this stuff? This is from the human realm. And why did you get this much of it?”
    “Because it’s limited edition and I had to try it and I didn’t want Henry_N0_1_Fanx to get any of it! He’s an idiot who doesn’t even properly appreciate Henry and he wanted some and so I bought all that was left of it so he couldn’t. I actually woke up early for this! And if you pay enough money you actually can get Akuzon to get you human world products.” Quicker than you can blink he’s reached for another bottle on the desk and opened it in a smooth twist of his tail--wait. Hang on.
    “Levi, since when were you in demon form?” you ask, watching as he takes a big gulp from the new bottle. Hesitantly you take a sip from the bottle in your own hands; it’s really good, actually. Sweet, but refreshing. And it goes down far too easy.
    “Since always. I think.” He watches your face for a reaction and when you react positively he absolutely beams. “See, told you you wouldn’t regret spending time with this yucky otaku tonight. C’mon, there’s a new level of the Seven Lords minigame out and I want you to see me beat it!” He wobbles a little before he sinks into his chair, and you take another sip. He seems really happy, happier than usual. Apparently Levi was a cheerful drunk. And he is drunk; it seems that although most Devildom drinks don’t affect you, human liquor affects the demons just fine. And, naturally, still works on you.
    You feel the somewhat familiar warmth spread through you gradually as you watch him plonk away on his keyboard, taking a sip every once and a while absent-mindedly. He’s definitely less coordinated than usual and getting worse with every passing minute, and after a few angry final attempts he all but throws the keyboard to you. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s harder than it looks!”
    “I’m not laughing at you because you can’t beat the level, I’m laughing because you being drunk is funny,” you say, thanking your lucky stars you hadn’t drank nearly as much as he had. The level is actually pretty easy, and after a few attempts you let out a satisfied cheer. Levi scowls and grabs the keyboard back, examining it suspiciously before giving the level one more even worse attempt. You see anger flare in his eyes and quickly sit up, placing one hand on his arm in an attempt to stop him from actually throwing the keyboard or something worse against the far wall. “Whoa there. Hey, it’s okay. You’ll beat it after you sober up tomorrow.”
    “I don’t need to sober up! I’m dot nrunk- I mean, I’m not drunk!” He glares at you as he takes another swig.
    “Yeah, you are, and that’s okay. Just... maybe ease up on the alcohol a bit? I don’t want you getting sick,” you offer, setting your own bottle aside.
    “Sick? I won’t get sick. I’m a demon! Demons don’t get sick from puny human drinks.” He pouts, petulantly taking another sip. “Okay, maybe I am a bit tipsy. But I’m not drunk and that level is hard and it’s not fair that a stupid normie human beat it.” He gives you a look that you have come to recognize after all this time. “Stupid level.” He’s not mad at you, not mad at the game. He’s feeling insecure about not being able to beat it.
    “Levi, c’mon. Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong?” You decide to try and coax the information out of him. You feel the arm under your hand tense, flexing subtly.
    He opens his mouth, probably to protest or deflect, but by some miracle and probably in no small part to the alcohol that’s flushing his face he closes his mouth before opening it again to finally speak. “I just... wanted to show you me beating the level, have you be impressed,” he explains, one hand fiddling with the edge of his jacket. You feel something down by your foot and when you glance down you spy the serpentine tail wrapping gently around your ankle, apparently of its own volition. It makes warmth blossom in your own chest. “I guess I wanted to prove that I can do cool things too, although you probably would have thought it was just as lame if I’d won. It’s just some dumb otaku game, after all.” He glances at his monitor and looks utterly morose for a moment.
    You understand why alcohol is also known as liquid courage as you reach up and gently cup his face, turning it away from the monitor and towards your own. His skin is hot under your fingertips, warm but not unpleasant. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not a dumb otaku game, it’s fun. And you’re not just some dumb otaku any more than I’m some lame normie.” His eyes widen as soon as you touch his face, but he doesn't pull away.
    “I- I’m not?” He seems completely surprised, and you let out an affectionate sigh.
    “No, Levi. You’re not. You’re the avatar of envy, yes, and you’re also incredibly passionate and knowledgeable about the things you care about. You can be kind and honest and you care a lot about the things and people that you like. You’re not gross or scummy--although perhaps you could be a bit nicer to Mammon.“ You couldn’t help but squeeze that in there. “You’re more than just jealousy and a loner. You’re a person--demon--that I really like spending time with and it really hurts when I see you shitting on yourself. I know you’re drunk and that makes everything more... more. But maybe this time you’ll actually believe me when I say I enjoy spending time with you and I like you and I want you to be happy?”
    “You do?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    His face lights up. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better? Or to get your hands on my limited edition Ruri-chan golden edition figurine?”
    “Levi!”
    “Okay, okay. Uh... thanks. Thank you.” His face is bright red, but he seems even happier than he was when you first showed up at the door this evening. “I’m sorry that I’m... kinda sloppy drunk right now. I don’t really drink that much. And you’re right, it made everything worse. Even on a normal day I look at you and immediately feel a surge of envy--whether you’re just in class or talking to someone or god forbid hanging out with my brothers--I want to be next to you. Be the one you’re talking to. But I just... don’t know how to say that or do that. I want to spend more time with you, but there’s always that voice that tells me that I’ve got no place, that I’m nothing like whoever you’re talking to.”
    “Oh, Levi.” You lean forward and gently press your forehead to his. You can feel his horns pressing into your hair, feel him shaking with a mixture of excitement and nerves. “You always have a place by my side.”

Chapter Text

    He hadn’t meant to get drunk. Being intoxicated was a terribly uncivilized thing, something some of his less refined, more impulsive brothers enjoyed. But not him. And he really hadn’t meant to get drunk today, sitting alone in his study. The glass of wine had just sort of... made its way into his hands. And the bottle had made its way onto his desk. It was the author’s favorite, he noted when he picked up the book from the bookstore. The author had mentioned it in the dedications section. So, out of curiosity, he had managed to get his hands on a bottle of the aforementioned red wine.
    What better way to enjoy the book properly, after all? He sips as he goes, one hand turning the pages and the other closed around the bell of the elegant crystal goblet. He’d looked for a regular human style glass like he’d seen in illustrations and read in other books, but all he could find were the faceted crystal that they usually used.
    The book is good, and the wine is also pleasing to his palate, and it is all going rather quickly. He barely even registers pouring himself more wine as he turns another page, and it is only once he got to the middle of the book that he looks up and his brain follows his head half a second later.
    “Whoa,” he breathes, glancing back down at the book and then up to the wine bottle. It is... mostly empty? Had Beel snuck in and stolen some? Although by the way he felt when he moved his head, perhaps not. Perhaps he had drank it all himself, then. He sets the goblet down on the desk, wincing when it rattles a bit when he does it with more force than intended. “What time is it--? Oh dear. Past midnight?” It gives him pause; since when does he talk out loud?
    He picks up the mostly empty bottle and examines it, turning it around in his hands. He feels very warm, nicely so. He tries to go back to the book but finds he can’t read like he usually can; instead of skimming over the words and absorbing them rapidly, he has to read each one individually in order to not get lost. Frustration bubbles up in his throat as he barely resists the urge to slam the book against a wall.
    He glances down at his chest, fidgeting with his collar that suddenly feels a little too tight. That frustration, that anger--it is always there. Bubbling away inside, usually pushed deep, deep down. Below a thousand layers of manners, practiced meditations, careful smiles, thorough internal rituals, and a calm mask, Satan’s wrath boils away.
    Or rather, Lucifer’s wrath. Because what is he other than the physical manifestation of his eldest brother’s anger? His grief and rage all rolled into one.
    Satan groans, tipping so far back in the chair that it threatens to topple over. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the blonde strands that had fallen into his face back. It has been years and years since he last revisited this particular internal identity crisis. He is not about to let the wine bring it back.
    Satan stands in a rush, pushing the chair out of the way and taking a second to let his body come to equilibrium. He needs to expend this energy somehow, some way. And preferably not in the building-destroying, world-ending kind of way. He lets out a curse as he smashes his hip into the corner of his desk, smacking it with one hand as he pushes away from it. A noise of cracking wood echoes the pain in his hip, and he knows he just caused some serious structural damage to his poor desk.
    Damnit, Satan. Get it under control. Get it under control, don’t let it get away from you. Gotta keep everyone safe.
    He has half a mind to go to the gym or run outside and into the wastes where he can let loose, so it’s with a certain purposefulness he makes his way through the hallway--weaving and bobbing a bit, frustrated with the chaotic pattern of the rug beneath his feet. It makes him nauseous just to look at it.
    The stairs pose a unique challenge, one that has to be navigated very, very carefully. It’s only with a significant degree of caution, a firm grip on the railing, and a couple of ungainly stumbles that Satan finally makes it to the ground floor. Noise catches his attention, and he turns in the direction it is coming from--familiar laughter. A couple voices. He’s curious, now--and that’s enough to push the wrath down for a moment.
    A moment, that’s all. A moment that passes the moment he sees you and Mammon sitting up at the kitchen counter, your legs kicking back and forth in the empty space as you laugh and wipe frosting off your face. And then it’s worse than ever as Mammon reaches out and brushes a bit you missed off the tip of your nose.
    His face feels so hot--burning. Boiling. Boiling over. There’s a half of a moment that he realizes the error of his ways with the wine, and then he’s pushing his way into the kitchen like a thundercloud.
    “Oh, hello--uh, Satan?” You turn to greet him cheerfully, only to see the expression on his face and pause. You’d never seen him like this, he knows; this side of him has been hidden for many years. He knows he’s in his demon form but can’t bring himself to care as his tail whips back and forth behind him.
    Mammon’s eyes are wide as he reaches out to hold you back, and Satan’s electric gaze flickers to him for a moment. He almost winces, and for the first time Satan notes the protective posture. He’s protecting you. Guarding you, prepared to shield you. Satan’s eyes narrow, one fist clenching behind him as he tries to steel himself. Still, when he first saw you, there was this moment of blissful calm. And he couldn’t help but want to chase that. Purely for selfish reasons, of course. To figure out whatever it was about you that could make his hackles raise like a cat one second and have said cat rolling over belly-up the next. Inquisition only.
    “Come with me,” Satan says, holding out one hand to you. Insistent. Waiting, with waning patience. You can see the expressions flying by on his face, the emotions constantly changing so quickly you can never quite get a lock on it. But you can feel your heart pick up its pace in your chest, responding to it nonetheless. Are you afraid? Yes, a bit. It would be a lie to say you weren’t afraid of the clearly intoxicated avatar of wrath holding out his hand to you. Mammon is freaking out quietly beside you, silently begging you to not go. “...please?” That gets your attention. You look up and you see his anger has ebbed a little, his expression is marginally less intense.
    “Sure,” you say, proud when your voice doesn’t shake at all. You’re afraid, yes, as any human would be after seeing the look in his eyes. But you have been around him enough to know to trust him--and trust the pact that you have. You could get control back, if you wanted to. But when you place your hand in his, an electric current races up your spine. There’s something different about tonight, and it sparks your curiosity. “Sorry,” you mouth to Mammon as you let Satan pull you along behind him and out of the kitchen.
    “Where are we going?” you ask as Satan pulls you along at a pace that almost forces you to jog. The air is charged with electricity; the power that he normally kept hidden away from you is racing just underneath the surface. “And since when did you drink?”
    “To your room,” he responds simply, and sure enough, a moment later he’s pushing open the door to your room and pulling you inside, almost slamming the door behind the pair of you. He lets go of your hand and backs up to the wall, seeming to have a moment of clarity, and for that fraction of a second you see the reserved Satan you’re used to--and then it’s gone. He’s looking at you with green fire in his eyes, and your breath whooshes out of your chest all at once. “How do you do this to me?” he asks, holding out both his hands in front of him and staring at them. You frown, confused. “Why do I feel like this?”
    “...because you’re drunk... ?”
    “No! It’s not--it’s not that.” Wrath flares up once more, before he runs his hands through his hair. He looks almost anguished. “I am--so careful. I am always so careful. I’ve practiced and practiced and maintained this control for thousands of years. And then you show up and I thought it would be fine, you’d be irritating at most. And I have six brothers; I can deal with irritating. But now all it takes is a glance, a smile, a moment of weakness and jealousy. And it all feels... so intense. Strong. How do you do it?” he asks, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
    You’re taken aback; this is the most Satan has ever said to you, and you’re at first unsure how to react. His hair is disheveled, his cheeks pink, his expression beseeching and vulnerable. “I--I’m sorry...?” you say, reaching out. You take both his hands in your own, and he shudders. Oh...
    “Don’t apologize, just... tell me what to do? I don’t want to hurt you but there’s so much energy whenever I look at you, I don’t want to lose control and at the same time... I do. Please. Tell me what to do.” He’s pleading, now; he can be just as prideful as Lucifer and every bit as stubborn and here he is, begging you. Disheveled and open and vulnerable. You squeeze his hands gently but firmly. Plucking up your courage you lean in. His eyes widen before sliding shut as you gently bring your lips to his.
    He’s hesitant at first--absolutely taken aback. But after a moment his hand slides into your hair and he’s pulling you in and pushing back, deepening the kiss. One hand wraps firmly around your waist, pulling you close as you brace one hand on his chest. Teeth--sharp teeth--nip at your bottom lip, and you allow him to deepen the kiss, pressing yourself even closer. You slide one leg between his, and he lets out a growl and immediately pulls back.
    “D-don’t. I don’t know if I will be able to stop myself. I don’t know if I’ll be able to--to hold back.” He’s breathing hard, and his nails are sharp where they dig into your skin. His eyes are nothing but green fire, seeking permission to burn. You smile, tilting your head as you examine him.
    “Then don’t,” you say, taking a step back towards the bed and pulling him with you. “I trust you.”

Chapter Text

    You would think he would have learned after the last time you went drinking together, but this time it was bound to be even worse.
    “Come on, pleaaase,” he wheedles, tugging at your sleeve with a hopeful smile on his face. “Just you and me. And maybe Solomon. And Simeon. And everyone else. But it’s definitely at least you and me!” He is so easily excitable, especially when it comes to going out. His passion for getting dressed up and going out is second only to his enthusiasm for shopping.
    You ponder for a moment, wondering if it would be easier to simply give in and agree now. “...okay, fine. But we need to be back before midnight. I don’t want Lucifer to get mad and think I’m shirking my studies,” you say, smiling despite yourself as his face lights up.
    “Yes, oh my gosh, you’re the best. Okay, okay, we should hurry back to the House of Lamentation after classes. Please let me help you pick out an outfit. I’ll buy you two drinks. No, wait, three!” His eyes are practically glowing with excitement, and you nod.
    “Okay, as long as what you put me in covers all the important bits and isn’t lingerie,” you warn, mostly teasing. Mostly. You never know quite what to expect from the avatar of lust. You wouldn’t entirely put it past him to pull some sort of stunt just to live vicariously through you getting the attention a particularly outlandish outfit on the human exchange student would garner.
    “What about if it showed--okay, okay, I’m kidding!” He pulls back with a laugh. “I would never! I resent the implication.” You just roll your eyes playfully, giving his shoulder a nudge with your own as you walk past him.

    A few hours later you’re opening the door and letting him in, laughing as he makes a beeline right for your closet. He flings open the door and rifles through your possessions, making noises in the back of his throat for disapproval and approval of certain items. He whips back around and fixes you with an accusatory glare. “All that hot bod and you don’t even have the proper clothes for it? You have hardly anything at all! Ugh, we’re roughly the same size. I think I can find something for you in my own closet. C’mon, we’d end up there eventually. I still need to do your hair.”
    And so he pulls you along, excitedly bouncing as he tugs you towards his room. The scent of roses hits you as soon as the door is opened and you’re thrust inside, the scent familiar and comforting at this point. You sink onto the plush bed for a moment before he opens his massive closet (one of several; you know there’s other storage he utilizes throughout the house) and starts throwing various objects of clothing at you. You do your best to catch them all.
    “Asmo, I’m going to be buried underneath these!” you protest, coming up for air. He finally stops, only to whirl into action once more pushing you to start trying things on.
    And that’s how you end up in a sequinned blazer and fitted sheer top, with tight trousers and matching sequinned boots, standing just outside The Fall. Asmodeus has only gotten more and more excited, fawning over you frequently in an attempt to fix your hair, brush off a piece of lint, whatever struck his fancy. You have to give it to him; although you never would have put yourself in this outfit, you look good. He smells like roses and sugar, and if someone can smell glittery, Asmo sure did. There’s an extra undercurrent on his breath, though, and as soon as you catch it you give him a look.
    “Did you already start drinking? Without me?” you accuse, and he gives you a guilty smile. Now it all made sense; when he was getting dressed and dressing you he was even more excited and talkative than usual.
    “Sorry! I wanted to make sure I was going to be as fun as possible for tonight. Especially after I got you to agree to it with hardly any whining!” He bobs up and down on the balls of his feet; it’s impressive considering he’s wearing heels at least four inches tall. “Ah, this is so exciting, you look so good! Come on, let’s go in!” The bouncers don’t even blink; all of the brothers, but particularly Asmodeus, are well known and popular here.
    “I do look good. Thanks for convincing me to let you do this,” you say, making a beeline for the bar with Asmodeus trailing behind you. “Who knows, maybe I’ll find myself a demon to take home tonight. Now that would give Lucifer an ulcer.” You laugh and almost miss the momentary expression of disappointment that flits across his beautiful face. He turns and orders a drink.
    “Yeah. Maybe.” You think you might have imagined it, because immediately after the moment passes he is right back to his usual self, flirting with the bartender and any individual that happened to look his way. After two more drinks he starts pushing you on other demons in the club, most of which you decline as politely as possible. Especially the ones that look like they definitely want to eat you.
    “Ooh, you have to try this. Come here! Ah, meet my brand new best friend, his name is--uh, Rave, what is your name?” The demon whose lap Asmodeus was almost entirely in just laughs, one arm wrapping around Asmo’s waist while he holds his other hand out to you. His name isn’t, in fact, Rave, as he informs you, but he doesn’t bother correcting Asmodeus. He has a massive drink slowly spewing smoke in front of him, and after enough prompting and nagging from Asmodeus you slide into the booth and try it.
    Immediately, warmth spreads throughout your body and your eyes go wide. It doesn’t taste like alcohol at all, and there is barely even a hint of a burn, but you can tell that whatever it is it is strong. One sip is plenty. You lean back in the booth, fingers touching your cheeks as you feel them flush. “Whoa--okay. Yeah. I can feel that.” Normally Devildom liquor either was outright poisonous for you or doesn’t affect you at all, but this is potent and you definitely aren’t dead yet.
    “There’s a reason it costs so much. There’s enough queen bee mead in there for, hm. I daresay ten higher level demons to enjoy,” the demon Asmo is getting progressively touchy-feely with explains, waving one decorated hand in a lazy gesture. As you watch, Asmodeus reaches for the large glass and sips from one of the many straws stuck into the elaborate glassware. His cheeks were already flushed from whatever else he had been drinking that night, and he is getting more and more loose by the minute. Something other than the drink is burning in your chest as he worms his way further onto the lap of the demon between the two of you, and you glance away as your cheeks burn.
    “Oh come now, there’s plenty of room for you both, little human,” the demon rumbles, and Asmo turns shining and hopeful eyes toward you. “I can always share. Asmo doesn’t mind, do you? Of course not.” The look in the demon’s eyes is just hungry enough and his teeth are just sharp enough that even though the warm haze tempts you to comply, you shake your head and stand up. You only wobble a little bit.
    “I’m flattered, but I am afraid I am going to have to pass. I don’t particularly feel like getting eaten today.” You wave off the advance with as much grace as you can muster. Asmodeus frowns, pouting up at you from the demon’s lap. “I’m gonna go dance, I think.” You slip away into the crowd, making a beeline first for the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face. When you come back out, you check the corner where the demon is, and Asmo isn’t there any more. You dance a few songs away, careful not to get too close to any of the demons on the dance floor. You fully expect to turn around and have Asmo right behind you, or to see him draped over someone else, but the minutes slip by and he is nowhere to be seen.
    You finally need a breather so you leave the dance floor, making your way back to the section where the booths are, looking for a place you can sit down and probably not be bothered. That’s when you see the flash of pale pink hair, spilling out across a tabletop and a familiar glittery outfit.
    “Asmo? What are you doing over here all alone?” You weave your way through the tables and club-goers, thankful you had stopped drinking when you did. You still feel oddly floaty, but you are able to maneuver with enough grace. You place one hand on the shoulders that are hunched over, his arms covering his face. You’re surprised when he flinches, and a second later you hear half a strangled hiccup. It almost sounds like a sob. “Asmodeus? What’s wrong?” you ask, sinking down into the booth next to him and wrapping one arm around him. He resists for a moment, and it seems like he might pull away, but then a second later he’s sinking into your side, face still hidden as his shoulders shake.
    “Asmo, please. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong? Did that demon say something wrong?” You rub his back in what you hope is a comforting motion as he finally pries his face out of his arms. You suck in a breath as you see his tear-stained face, tracks in his makeup running down his face. His eyes are red and his lower lip is wobbling. You wrap your other arm around him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.” His face is red, flushed with the tears and the alcohol. He’s… very drunk. And also very sad. It’s a side of him you haven’t seen for more than a fraction of a second before.
    He sobs into your chest for a moment, trying and failing to keep quiet. You can feel tears slowly staining the front of your shirt. “Oh, Asmo. What’s bothering you? You know you can always tell me anything. Goodness knows I’ve gone to you for help enough that I would hope you can trust me. Especially with our pact.”
    He hiccups a couple times, pushing back from your chest to meet your eyes with his own red-rimmed ones. “Do--do you think anyone could ever love me?” he asks, voice wavering and threatening to break down into more hysterical sobs.
    The question completely throws you for a loop and you splutter for a second, trying not to act taken aback. “Love you?” you ask, and he nods, looking absolutely shattered. “Oh, Asmodeus.” You squeeze him tight, and tuck his head under your chin. “I absolutely believe that. In fact, I daresay that all of your brothers love you. Even Mammon.”
    “Y-you think? But also, I mean… in the other way. That kind of love.” Never in a million years would you have expected to have the avatar of lust crying in your arms and asking if he was ever going to be loved. But the words come easily to you.
    “Of course. You’re you. And I don’t mean because you’re the avatar of lust, or whatever,” you counter as he opens his mouth. “You already are loved.” You press a gentle kiss to his forehead as his hands grip your blazer tightly. “And you’re loved for all you are and nothing less.”
    “R-really?” he stammers, and you nod. “B-but, you turned me down all those times. Every time! You don’t really love me, do you?” His eyes are shining with tears--but also hope.
    “Asmo, it’s because I do that I’ve turned you down. I don’t want you to think that I care for you just because you’re beautiful, or you’re always flirting with me. I want to know that you love yourself- really love yourself. And I want to help you get there. You’re not the avatar of lust to me. You’re just Asmo.”
    “You really mean it?”
    “I really do.”

Chapter Text

    You didn’t know what you expected when you climbed the stairs to the attic, but it definitely wasn’t this.

    It had started out as an innocent quest for a nap--and a quest for a nap buddy. You’d stayed up late the night before working hard on a particularly difficult task for Lucifer, a nasty assignment about analyzing the portrayal of demons in human pop culture. You’d protested that the scope of the assignment was far too wide, as there were too many pop culture interpretations to choose from, but he’d just vaguely insisted you keep the length appropriate to the scope of the assignment. So instead of writing a whole multiple novel series, you picked one popular book series, and with the help of Leviathan, you’d stayed up into the wee hours of the morning furiously typing it all out.
    So, running on precious few hours of sleep and even less food (Beelzebub had stolen your breakfast because you were a few minutes late getting up in the morning), you were dead tired and wanted nothing more than to find wherever Belphegor was undoubtedly nested up and napping away. You’d let him talk you into taking a nap with him once, many many weeks ago. After that, you never went back to your old habits.
    He had some sort of cozy-making superpower, you were sure of it. His collection of hundreds of years of carefully curated soft blankets and pillows and sleeping aids were things you dreamed about while in your own bed. It made the bed you had back in the human world look like a slab of rock. The pillow he always carried around--he’d lent it to you once and you’d passed out the moment your head rested upon it. So that’s why, today, you were trying to track him down. The lack of sleep was making you cranky and it was after several unsuccessful searches of rooms that turned up no avatar of sloth that you finally headed up the long spiral staircase to the now-open attic.
    You could hear soft voices, two familiar laughs. Victory was yours as you poked your head into the room.

    “Oh! You’re here!” Belphie looks up from the comic in his hands and his face lights up. “I was just about to message you to come up here!” Beside him is Beelzebub, lying flat on his back and holding a strand of grapes over his mouth and eating them at a surprisingly languished pace. There is a pile of blankets in the middle of the room, lined with snacks and several suspicious empty bottles. “Come on, we’re gonna have a movie night!” He lets out a giggle--one you’ve only heard a few times before--and pats a space next to him.
    You sink into the pile of blankets with a happy sigh, flopping onto your back. “I’m so tired.” You sigh then sniff the air suspiciously. “Hey, I know that smell! Have you two… been drinking?” you ask, rolling onto your stomach to give them both a suspicious look. Beel just shrugs, even as he finishes his grapes and reaches for an unlabeled bottle.
    “Mammon tried to start a wine making business about a hundred years ago. I finally found where that particular failed experiment ended up. It’s all nicely aged by now, which is good because it was horrible back when he gave up on it.” Belphegor hands you a bottle, and you take a sniff. “He tried to get human wine to catch on and corner the market on it. It turned out to be too much work, so he gave up. And now we’ve got dozens and dozens of bottles hidden away forgotten in the basement. Don’t tell Lucifer.” He glances toward the attic door, as if the mention of his name would be enough to summon him.
    “Right, got it.” You try to count the number of empty bottles, but Belphie tosses his pillow at you, and you catch it with a protesting yelp. “Hey! No pillow fighting. I remember what happened after the last one…” You give him a halfhearted glare. “I’m so tired. I came up here looking for a nap. Lucifer had me up till late in the morning.”
    “Lame. You should have some wine, and then nap.” Belphie nods at the bottle in your hands and Beelzebub immediately sits up, eyes alight with excitement.
    “Yes! Yes, have some wine and share some snacks with me!”
    “And then nap.”
    “Yes, and then nap. And then have more snacks.”
    “Okay, okay.” You give in with a smile, not really in the mood to put up a fight anyways. You uncork the bottle and give it a tentative sip then nod. “Ooh, that really isn’t that bad. Oh, if Mammon finds out his project actually worked that would be-“
    “-delightfully torturous?”
    “-delicious?”
    “-funny and sad. He’d probably try to sell whatever was left and be angry that we drank so much of it. Well, that you did.”
    “It was mostly me,” Beel confesses, a statement which matches the flush of his face and the clumsiness of his movements as he reaches for a sleeve of Cerberus Cookies. He fumbles with the packaging as you take another drink from the bottle.
    “Don’t try to open the package with your teeth, Beel. You’ll swallow it whole,” Belphie chides. “Let me.” He almost topples over when he reaches for the sleeve, though, and you laugh.
    “I’ll get it. I’m not drunk. Yet.” You easily remove the packaging and hand it back to Beel, who gives you a cookie in return. Your heart warms, as it does whenever he decides to share food with you. He’s permanently blushing at this point; apparently alcohol affects even Beelzebub in large enough quantities. He’s adorable, scooting closer to the two of you in the pile of blankets. Belphie hands him another vine of grapes before Beel even starts to open up his mouth to ask. You’ve always admired how in sync the two of them were, despite being completely different.
    “Yeah, yet.” Belphegor just laughs as you take a sip from your bottle. “You know, I’ve never even seen you drink before. That time we went to The Fall with everyone you stayed away from it.”
    “For good reason. I do drink, just not when I might need to babysit a bunch of drunk demons. Needed my wits about me for that particular one.” You take another sip; the memory makes you smile. “Believe it or not, I am a bit of a lightweight. So chances are if I can’t stop drinking this very delicious wine it’s a matter of time before you see me tipsy.”
    “Yes!” Beelzebub pumps his fist in the air and you laugh, even as Belphie throws his pillow at him. Belphegor was tipsy, but Beel was flat out drunk. And even more cheerful than usual, surrounded by pillows and blankets and snacks and his twin. And you.
    It doesn’t take long at all for you to start feeling the effects, offset only by partaking in some of the snacks that Beel occasionally offers you with increasing frequency. Soon he is handing you a snack for every bite of his own that he takes, and you can’t stop laughing as he finally looks up and sees your lap covered in snacks that you are physically incapable of eating. You’re full, and it’s with a little prompting that he settles in next to you and starts helping himself. He’s warm, as he always is, but even more so with the wine in his system. And he’s relaxed, too, the way his normally-tight shoulders slump. The fluff of the fur that lines his collar tickles your cheek as he leans in to snag another snack, and it stays there.
    You return the gesture, leaning in to his side a little. The wine makes you feel very warm inside, and the tiredness is sneaking up again now that your stomach is full and you’re a little past buzzed. You almost start to nod off, body relaxing into Beelzebub’s side, until you feel a familiar thing wrap around you. You jolt awake, only to relax as you spy Belphegor’s tail wrapped around your midriff. He mumbles an apology as your heart rate slowly returns to normal.
    “Sorry, I didn’t want you to fall asleep and wake up with a crick in your neck,” he apologizes, pulling his tail back. He looks guilty, and you frown slightly. Beelzebub looks away, giving Belphegor a look full of meaning that you can’t quite understand.
    “Ah, thank you.” You straighten up and stretch, yawning and glancing around for a better place to sleep. Beelzebub is busy cleaning up wrappers, dutifully giving you both space. You spy a particularly comfy pillow and and pick it up, fluffing it up in your hands. A moment later, Belphie takes it. “Hey--“ you start to protest, but he simply fluffs it up more with expert and practiced motions, placing it in his lap. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed exactly what he did, until he glances down. His cheeks color bright pink. He stutters something incomprehensible and hands the pillow back to you. You take it with a small smile on your face, and place it back on his lap. He makes a slightly choked noise as you lean back, resting your head on the pillow in his lap.
    Belphegor stares down at you, and you stare up at him. His eyes are a tumultuous mix of emotions. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but you watch as he reconsiders. He’s very tense, and you frown slightly as you pull a blanket up to cover yourself. “Is this okay? I can move if you’d like,” you offer.
    “N-no, it’s fine.” He murmurs, one hand reaching up automatically to help straighten out the blanket. “You’re fine. I just--I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think you…” he trailed off. Behind him, his tail thrashes back and forth in a display of visible agitation. He seems to be either unaware, or unable to stop it.
    “Okay.” You settle down, feeling a mixture of concern and also the deep alluring pull of sleep. You are so comfortable. And so tired. You watch as Beelzebub gives Belphegor a meaningful look, before he adds another pillow to the pile and lies down next to you. He’s longer than both you and Belphegor, stretched out on his back. One of his hands rests gently on Belphie’s criss-crossed legs, lending quiet strength.
    It’s silent for a long moment, and the tension in the air stops you from falling asleep. Finally, Belphegor speaks. His voice is quiet, deeper than usual, and laden with emotion. “How are you so okay with this?” he asks, and you feel Beel stir beside you. You open one eye, looking up at Belphie and startle fully awake when you see that his eyes are shining. Tears. He’s crying…?
    “What? What’s wrong? What do you mean? What wouldn’t I be okay with?” You ask, rolling over to look at him right-side up.
    “Me. This. Being so close, so relaxed--I mean…” He trails off, biting down on his lower lip with sharp teeth. Your heart lurches. “Ah, fuck, why am I even saying this--?“ He looks away, at Beel, who gives him a gentle nod. “I just… You’re always so calm, so relaxed around me. So trusting. You’re perfectly happy to lie in my lap. I’m not complaining--” The words rush out. “--but, I mean, I just don’t understand. I killed you.”
    Beel sits up and wraps an arm around Belphie’s waist, and you feel your heart stutter. How long had he been agonizing over this? It is only now, after getting drunk, that he’s finally speaking up about it. He looks absolutely wretched, turning to bury his face in Beel’s chest as his shoulders shake. “I still… I still remember how it felt. What you looked like as I--“ He bit back a sob, but didn’t continue. Beelzebub gives you a pleading look.
    “Belphie hasn’t been sleeping well,” he explains softly, and you watch as Belphegor’s fists clench in his shirt in a quiet protest at the spilling of that particular secret. “Shush, you already started. I’m just explaining,” he tells his twin. “He… feels very badly about it. Still. I tell him that it’s okay and that you have forgiven him, and you’re alive. But he still doesn’t believe it.”
    Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. “I see.” You sit up and reach for them both, pulling them into a tight hug. Belphegor tenses under your touch at first, then relaxes again. You don’t speak for a moment, simply holding them both tight. Beel hugs you back, effectively sandwiching Belphegor between you two. You rest your face against his back, which is still shaking with uneasy breaths. “You made a mistake. It was a big mistake, I will grant you that. I won’t undermine the importance of my own death. And I won’t pretend that now, in the aftermath, everything is completely okay. We’ll both have to live with the memories. But I am happy. I am alive, and I am happy. I am comfortable around you. I trust you. And I forgave you, many weeks ago.”
    You take a deep breath. “You and all your brothers were hurting. Are hurting. There’s so much that’s happened to you in your existence. And perhaps it’s the Lilith in me that drives me so strongly to want to ease that pain. So yes, Belphie. I am calm around you. I am relaxed around you. I do not feel afraid because I know you’d rather hurt yourself than hurt me ever again.” Pinned between the two of you, you see him nod. “It’s okay to forgive yourself. And if you can’t do that right now, it’s okay. Beel and I will just keep on loving you until you can.”
    “O-Okay.” His voice shakes a little as he peels his face out of Beelzebub’s chest. “I think... I can live with that.” He lets out a soft sigh, and you reach out and brush a stray tear away. “Ugh, I am never drinking again. I hate feeling like this.”
    “Vulnerable? It’s not a bad thing to feel every once and a while. I find it to be very healing to be vulnerable around people I trust.” You straighten out the blankets and pillows a bit. “As the designated squishy human, I’m used to it. And I trust you both, so I have no problem being vulnerable around you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Pact or no pact. I love you both. And I am dead tired, so I am going to nap and I am going to nap hard. Please join me.”
    Belphegor lets out a long sigh, and mumbles something under his breath. It sounds vaguely like “I love you too.” He helps organize the blankets, wiping away a tear when he thinks you aren’t looking. Beel mouths a ‘thank you’ at you. You give him a sleepy smile as Belphegor settles in, placing the pillow back in his lap. You close your eyes, but feel Beelzebub stretch out next to you.
    The three of you drift off, cradled in the warm embrace of wine, soft blankets, and love.