Chapter Text
Iruma hated Sullivan intensely right now.
Not in any real, lasting way — Iruma didn’t have the capacity to truly hate anyone — but in the exhausted, overwhelmed, I‑am‑going‑to‑sulk‑for‑a‑month kind of way. Sullivan had dragged him onto a stage, made him “speak,” and now Iruma was trying to survive a duel he never asked for.
He didn’t even have time to process the assembly before fireballs were being hurled at his face.
“Stop being a coward and fight me!” Asmodeus shouted, closing in with fire swirling in his palm like a living threat.
Iruma stumbled backward, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. His breath came in short, panicked bursts. His hands shook. His legs felt weak and unsteady. His mind was a frantic loop of:
No no no no no—
If I survive this, I’m never talking to Sullivan again, Iruma thought miserably as he dodged a fireball that nearly singed his hair.
What in the actual fuck.
Another fireball formed — brighter, hotter, angrier — and Iruma’s body moved before his mind could catch up. Pure instinct. Pure survival.
He lunged forward, closed the distance in a desperate burst of motion, grabbed Asmodeus around the waist, and slammed him into the ground.
The impact echoed through the courtyard.
Asmodeus let out a startled, undignified noise — half gasp, half squawk — as the air was knocked out of him. Dust puffed up around them. The fire in his hand sputtered out.
Iruma froze, still gripping Asmodeus’ uniform, chest heaving, eyes wide.
He hadn’t meant to do that.
He hadn’t meant to do anything.
His body had simply reacted — the same way it always did when words failed him and danger loomed too close.
Asmodeus stared up at him, stunned.
Iruma stared back, equally stunned.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved.
Then something shifted in Asmodeus’ expression — not anger, not humiliation, but something far more intense.
Admiration.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
Iruma didn’t walk — he ran.
Straight out of the courtyard, through the halls, and out the front doors of Babyls like the entire Netherworld was chasing him. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His hands shook so badly, he tucked them into his sleeves just to hide it.
He didn’t look back.
Not when demons whispered.
Not when someone called his name.
Not even when Sullivan shouted after him, voice thick with guilt.
Iruma couldn’t handle that right now.
Not the apologies.
Not the explanations.
Not the guilt in Sullivan’s voice.
His thoughts spiraled in a frantic loop:
How could he do that to me? I thought he understood. I thought—
His chest tightened. His throat burned. His eyes stung.
He didn’t stop moving until he reached Sullivan’s mansion.
The door slammed behind him with a dull thud. Iruma stood there shaking, trying to breathe through the storm in his chest. He didn’t wait for Sullivan. He didn’t wait for Opera. He didn’t wait for anyone.
He went straight to his room.
The moment the door clicked shut, the adrenaline drained out of him all at once, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He sank onto the edge of his bed, fingers curling tightly around the blanket as the day replayed in his mind like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
The assembly.
The spell.
The explosion of magic.
The duel.
The fireballs.
The slam.
Asmodeus’ face.
The Misfit Class.
He didn’t even know how to feel about that part.
He didn’t know how to feel about any of it.
Iruma curled inward, pulling his knees to his chest. He hadn’t eaten dinner. He hadn’t answered Sullivan’s knocks. He hadn’t touched his hellphone except to silence the frantic messages.
He just sat there — small, quiet, overwhelmed — letting the weight of the day settle over him like a heavy blanket.
He wasn’t angry.
Iruma didn’t know how to be angry.
But he was hurt.
Confused.
Embarrassed.
And so, so tired.
He thought Sullivan understood him.
He thought Sullivan knew what he could and couldn’t handle.
He thought… he thought he was safe.
Iruma pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing slowly through the ache in his chest.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t make a sound.
He just existed in the quiet, trying to make sense of a world that kept moving faster than he could keep up with.
And for the first time since arriving in the Netherworld, the silence didn’t feel comforting.
It felt lonely.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
Iruma didn’t know how long he sat curled on the bed, knees tight to his chest, breath coming in small, shaky bursts. The room felt too big and too quiet — the kind of quiet that made every thought echo too loudly.
He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.
Opera always moved silently, like a shadow that had learned manners.
But he felt the shift in the air — the faint pressure of someone standing just outside his door.
A soft knock.
Not Sullivan’s frantic tapping.
A gentler rhythm. Even. Controlled. Familiar.
Iruma didn’t answer.
He didn’t move.
He barely breathed.
The door opened anyway, slow and careful, as if Opera were entering a room full of sleeping animals.
“Iruma,” they said quietly.
Not scolding.
Not demanding.
Just present.
Opera stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click. They didn’t come closer right away. They simply stood there, giving Iruma space to decide whether he could handle the company.
Iruma kept his face buried in his knees.
Opera waited.
They always waited.
After a long moment, Opera approached — not too close, not too fast — and sat on the floor beside the bed, leaving a respectful gap. Close enough to be there. Far enough not to overwhelm.
“You had a difficult day,” they said, voice low and steady.
Iruma’s breath hitched.
He didn’t nod.
He didn’t shake his head.
He just held still, as if movement might shatter him.
“You were frightened. Embarrassed. Overwhelmed,” Opera continued, choosing each word with care.
Iruma’s fingers curled into the blanket.
“And you ran,” they added. “That was not wrong.”
Iruma blinked, startled.
Most adults treated running as a weakness.
Opera treated it like information.
“You removed yourself from danger,” they said simply. “That is a reasonable response.”
Iruma’s throat tightened.
Opera folded their hands neatly in their lap. “Lord Sullivan is distressed. He did not intend to harm you. But intention does not erase impact.”
Iruma’s breath caught.
Opera understood.
Not just the event — the hurt.
“You are allowed to be upset,” they said softly. “You are allowed to need space.”
Iruma’s shoulders trembled.
Opera didn’t reach for him.
Didn’t crowd him.
Didn’t push.
They simply asked, in the softest voice Iruma had ever heard from them:
“Would you like me to stay?”
Iruma hesitated — a tiny, fragile pause — then gave the smallest nod.
Opera exhaled, almost imperceptibly, and settled more comfortably against the bedframe. They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to.
Their presence was steady, grounding — a quiet anchor in the storm still swirling inside Iruma’s chest.
Slowly, Iruma uncurled, inch by inch, until his hand slipped over the edge of the bed. Not touching — just reaching.
Opera noticed.
They didn’t comment.
They simply shifted their tail so it rested lightly within Iruma’s line of sight.
A silent reassurance:
You are not alone.
Iruma’s breathing eased.
Not fixed.
Not calm.
But steadier.
Opera stayed until the trembling stopped.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
After a while of comfortable silence, Opera turned to him.
“Would you like me to get you something to eat?”
Iruma stayed still for a moment, then gave a faint nod.
Opera paused, then asked, “Would you like something from here… or from home?”
Iruma’s face lit up. He reached for his hellphone to type home — only to find it dead. His expression fell.
Opera noticed immediately.
“It appears your device is dead,” they said gently. “Is there another way you would like to communicate?”
Iruma hesitated.
Most people didn’t ask that.
Most people assumed.
But Opera waited — calm, steady, patient.
Iruma shifted so they could see him clearly. He took a slow breath, grounding himself the way he’d been taught back home. Then he lifted his hand.
His fingers opened into a relaxed, open‑hand shape, palm facing forward. He brought it close to his chest — his center — then moved it upward in a smooth, sweeping arc toward his head and shoulder, as if lifting the meaning from his body to where “home” lived in his mind.
His expression softened as he signed.
Opera watched every detail — the handshape, the arc, the intention.
“Does that mean home?” they asked.
Iruma nodded, a small, bright smile breaking through.
Opera rose smoothly. “Very well. I will prepare something from your world. I still have the recipe from last time.”
They moved toward the door, tail flicking gently.
“Please try to rest while I am gone.”
Iruma nodded — small, shy, grateful.
Opera slipped out with their usual silent grace, leaving Iruma with a warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt all day.
Someone saw him.
Someone understood him.
Someone listened.