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Fingers ran along the spines, hovering over one of the thickest albums. He plucked it from the shelf, gingerly brushing the dust off the cover. Yes, this was the one. A year he never wanted to forget. To hold on to every memory. Flipping a few pages in, his gaze landed on a photo of the brothers, yellowed with age.
Pillows flew as projectiles. Another and another, rearming Lucifer when supply ran low. Voices echoing down the hall, the castle full of light and laughter. Sleeping in until gone noon, not awoken to the same old tedium. One day into two, fun as he hadn't known for millennia.
A smile tugged at his lips, melancholic and small. The retreat. A chance for bonding and relaxing. A chance for the buzz of a fine vintage demonus to get Lucifer to loosen up the tightly wound coil of the reigns. He meant to do it again, but never did get around to it. One of but many regrets. More pages. The faintest of chuckles.
A large, black rat ran across the kitchen floor. Luke, yelling, clung to a pale, frozen Barbatos. Solomon wielded a frying pan, trying to shoo the thing back outside. Simeon seemed to be praying or laughing to himself. Diavolo watched, very entertained, from the hallway.
Invited over to Purgatory hall to sample some sweets Luke made with Barbatos, a rodent joining the party was the last thing anyone expected. Eventually they got it out, much to the butler's relief. It left poor Barbatos quite rattled. The sweets, however, were delicious. Celestial treats a favourite of his for a time after.
Diavolo's smile faded, a realisation dawning. Something. In each of the photos, something was missing. No, someone was missing. The one who made those moments possible. The person behind the camera; you. You were who he wanted to see. Your eyes. Your smile. He turned to the last page, a pang rising in his chest and tightening his throat.
There you stood at his side, holding his arm. Dressed up and draped by a set of wings. A glee in his eyes and a fondness in yours. The last party before you left after your first year. Even then, he knew it. That you were the one who held his heart. Who would have a place no other could fill.
Drip. Drip. Drip. He hadn't realised it at first, not until they obscured his view; tears. How unbecoming of the Demon King, to cry for a soul lost so long ago. To cling to memories that should've been forgotten. Instead branding them into his heart, bittersweet and marred by time.
For there were times he did forget. Centuries passed in an instant, and he'd find himself lying awake in bed unable to recall a feature of yours. What colour were your eyes again? Just how did you smile? What did your voice sound like? On nights as these, he reached for his albums. You were always there, just as he remembered you.
Diavolo wiped his eyes. As much as it pained him. As much as he wished to never open the albums again. Not to be reminded of all that he'd lost… he couldn't do it. He couldn't let them fade, let you be forgotten. For all he had now were his memories.