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i.
Lucifer always forgets his birthday.
He is created first among his siblings, bringing light into a universe that is born with the opening of his eyes. He is created; and then they are, and although he does not recognize the importance of celebrating his own birth he recognizes the value of theirs. He finds time to spend with them on their birthdays—time he insists he doesn’t have to waste on his own when they try to do the same for him. He is a seraph; he cannot shirk his responsibilities for a day that means nothing to him.
“Go home,” Lucifer orders when his siblings sneak into the upper levels of the celestial palace to interrupt him with promises of cake and presents. He uses his most commanding voice, one that once struck fear into the hearts of demons and brought humans to their knees in supplication without even glimpsing its owner.
It does not strike fear into the hearts of his siblings. It does not bring them to their knees. They simply ignore him, pull at his sleeves, push at his back, until they are practically dragging him down the halls of the palace, their quick footsteps echoing off marble floors and vaulted ceilings.
Lucifer could resist. He could wrench himself free, return to his work, inform them that under no circumstances were they to bother him again. His role as seraph outweighs any sentimentality they may feel for a day he cares so little for that he has forgotten about it entirely.
But he doesn’t. He allows himself to be swept up in their motion, to be taken away from the blinding, golden rooms of the celestial palace and the suffocating pressure of the responsibilities contained within. Away to freedom.
(So that—if only for a moment—the light-bringer can simply be Lucifer.)
And then—
They fall.
And Lucifer will never be the light-bringer again.
He abandons his monikers in the Celestial Realm alongside his amputated wings. He trades the shackles of his father’s rules for a demon prince’s leash. He changes—halo to horns, heaven to hell. He gains a new title: the Avatar of Pride. He wears it like a badge. Like armor.
He uses it to protect himself from regret.
Lucifer’s siblings—no, not siblings, brothers, they’re all you have left now—change too. They morph with the sins that manifest in them. They are still so young, Lucifer tries to remind himself when his anger at their rashness and immaturity flares hot as hellfire. Child soldiers returned hollow-eyed from a war they never stood a chance of winning—a war they followed him into. Lucifer does not blame them when he sees hatred in their eyes. It is nothing more than another change. One he has to accept.
But still—still they care for him, even though their sins have altered the anatomy of their hearts, even though Lucifer’s commanding voice is now able to inspire fear in them too. Still, they remember his birthday, even when he does not. They pull at his sleeves. They push at his back.
And still, Lucifer does not resist.
ii.
Lucifer always forgets his birthday.
This you learn your first year in the Devildom, when your offhanded question about what Lucifer is doing for the big day is met with a derisive snort from one of his brothers.
“He’s got no idea it’s coming up.” Mammon waves his hand dismissively as he speaks. “He never remembers.”
“But—” You stumble over your words, unsure of how to voice your thoughts without sounding rude. “It’s Lucifer. He’s literally pride incarnate. Shouldn’t he look forward to a day that’s all about him?”
Mammon shrugs, reclining in his chair with his hands behind his head. “You’d have to ask him. He’s always been like this, even when we were livin’ in the Celestial Realm. The bastard can remember every damn thing I’ve ever borrowed—Levi, quit lookin’ at me like you wanna say stolen!—but he can’t remember his own birthday.”
Something about the conversation saddens you, leaves you mulling over it for the next few days. You aren’t truly surprised Lucifer never notices when it’s his birthday. Even with his sense of pride, he is uncomfortable with excessive amounts of attention. You’ve seen him fidget when Diavolo lavishes him with too much praise, have watched him throw away party invitations without so much as a glance. Lucifer doesn’t have time to think about something as trivial his birthday anyway. He is busy—so busy he barely even sleeps. You have slipped into his study in the small hours of the night many times to find him dozing in his chair, his head slumped against his shoulder at a crooked angle and a smudge of ink on his temple from his feeble attempts to massage away a headache, piles of documents pertaining to finances and executive contracts and student council paperwork scattered over his desk. He works until he can work no longer. His thoughts are a jumble of concerns for the health and safety of his brothers and his lord. He has no space in his head to hold a date he finds unimportant.
And yet: it still saddens you, to learn Lucifer never remembers his own birthday. It is as if he doesn’t understand that the purpose of such occasions is to celebrate a person’s life—or worse yet, he simply doesn’t care. The possibility makes your heart twinge painfully in your chest. You want him to be happy, on that day if no other.
And so, you help his brothers.
You follow their suggestions; you take Lucifer on a date. You take him to the movies. You take him back home. You laugh at the confusion on his face when he steps into the House of Lamentation to find it a colorful mess of streamers and balloons and smile when Lucifer does, the unexpected gentleness of the expression shaving years from him. You follow him to his room when he retires for the evening, slip a necklace around his neck that matches the one that now hangs from your own, and when he seems almost embarrassed at his own happiness, you ask him what is different this year. What has made the day worth celebrating?
“You,” Lucifer says simply, and then he kisses you.
At the end of the night, as you lie cradled in Lucifer’s arms, his heartbeat slow and steady against your skin, you know, with as much certainty as you have ever known anything: you are going to spend every one of his birthdays with him. You are going to make sure each is as special and joyous as today. You will be there for him, always.
You will never let him forget about his birthday again.
iii.
Lucifer always used to forget his birthday.
He doesn’t anymore. His brothers no longer have to remind him. Even though many years have passed since that first night, he has not spent a birthday apart from you even once. It gives him a reason to remember it, just as you had hoped.
These days, Lucifer celebrates his birthday in neither the Celestial Realm nor the Devildom. He visits a specific spot in the human world instead, a grassy hill where wildflowers sprout each spring. He’s careful not to step on any that still bloom in stubborn defiance of the June heat, their small purple and white heads peering up at him curiously. After all, you loved these flowers; the first time you came across this hill while on a trip to the human world with him, you sat to fashion small crowns out of the flowers, grinning at his confusion when you placed it on his head and assuring him that the colorful wreath suited him just fine. You taught him how to weave together the delicate stems, how to loop them without pulling so tightly they would break. He adorned you with his own creations, smirking when you complained that he was far too quick a learner. He continued to bring you here for years after, letting you enjoy the sunlight the Devildom was unable to provide. Even when your hair went gray with age and your fingers were no longer dexterous enough to twine stems, he made crowns for you with hands unaffected by the passage of time on each trip.
“As beautiful as ever,” he told you, and when you laughed and asked if he meant you or the flowers, he simply smiled.
Lucifer can no longer decorate your hair with flowers, but he still brings a bouquet whenever he visits. He holds it before him now as he comes to a stop at the top of the hill; the bright shades of red on the petals match the pink and orange gradient of the sky. The glow of the sunset silhouettes the grave before him, paints the gray brighter as it sinks into the etched lines of the name on the stone. The letters have not eroded; they never will. Lucifer’s magic protects it so that anyone who comes across it will know the name of the human who loved the Morningstar—the Avatar of Pride—Lucifer.
Lucifer closes his eyes. He takes a breath. The swell of his chest presses the shape of metal against the fabric of his shirt—a pair of matching necklaces, nestled over his heart. He exhales slowly, steadying himself. Shortly before you died, he promised you he would let himself mourn, let himself feel the grief he had buried for all his other losses. But today, he will not allow himself sadness. Today is a day you always wanted him to remember. To look forward to. To be happy on.
Lucifer opens his eyes. Softly, he speaks.
"Hello, dear. Today is my birthday."
