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It comes out in fragments, rare and broken. A mere flicker of the flame, the barest spasm of the flesh. Gone sooner than it can ever be noticed, lost to the sea of eternity without promise of ever returning.
And yet it is undoubtedly there, brief as it is unmistakable—the telltale flash of grief.
When Diavolo was younger, it appeared so much more often.
Barbatos recalls the nights spent at his lord’s bedside, green eyes turned soft with a special sympathy reserved for the prince who would call so fervently for his father as he slept. The young prince's voice was always so desperate during his nightmares, so broken in the single moment after when his eyes would shine with misplaced hope, wondering if it were nothing more than a dream. If his father were still there. If the Demon King had not left, leaving him with nothing but a butler for company.
Those nights were the only times Barbatos would ever hear the word “Father” fall from Diavolo’s lips.
And then those nights were replaced with new terrors, ones where the prince would fight his own mind in his rest. Barbatos remembers, always remembers, how he could do nothing but watch during those awful years as his new lord tossed and turned, lips forming the shape to his father’s name but his voice refusing to obey, the prince’s heart conflicting with mind in a relentless battle that could only be calmed by the butler’s unheard whispers into the night, gentle consolations meant for no ears but the prince’s.
Diavolo was weaker, then. He had to rely on Barbatos to be strong, had to bow his head meekly as he clung to the butler who could only serve as a poor imitation of the man he truly desired.
But strength would come natural to the prince of the Devildom.
It was hardly long before the demon had developed a mask, wearing it at all times. Decades passed, and Diavolo stopped tossing and turning at night, stopped whispering for his beloved father to just come home, stopped frowning every time he saw a happy family walk by.
Now, the prince almost looks as if he's healed from the wound his father left on his heart. The facade he developed—the facade he maintains—is convincing. It's fooled the noble lords of Purgatory, the seven Avatars of Hell, even the soul-seeing sorcerers that pass through the Devildom.
But nothing escapes Barbatos.
The demon of time holds his face perfectly still as a bowing commoner asks for Diavolo’s family blessing, holding her newborn son out with a hopeful expression.
Barbatos is almost impressed with the genuinity of Diavolo’s smile, the warmth of his laughter, the sincerity behind his hushed promise to make a place in his royal academy for the demonchild should anything happen to compromise its future.
The prince’s blessing is so moving that one might almost think he’s forgone the bitterness behind his own father’s abandonment, so heartfelt that it looks like there’s no pain behind the amber eyes that shine as they follow the demonchild and mother out the door.
But Barbatos knows better.
And Diavolo knows Barbatos knows.
Perhaps that is why the prince is so candid when he requests bottles of Demonus from his study, specifying bottles and not bottle because the prince intends to thoroughly distract himself for these few hours where he can live as a man and not be judged for it, indulging in what little mercies he can have.
A pang of sympathy strikes Barbatos at that. He dreads how his master will inevitably have to face the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and up until the moment his father will return: a moment that will only arrive after an eternity of waiting, an eternity that will never end.
“I’ll need more than this, Barbatos.”
The edges of Diavolo’s lips quirk upward into a mischievous grin, but it is false. Fake as the amusement that perpetually coats his voice.
Barbatos would know. He specializes in lies. After all, it was he who told the prince that his father might one day return.
“Two bottles is more than enough, my lord.” There is no happiness in the smile Barbatos wears. Only sympathy. And a disguised hatred for the man who could ever be so heartless as to make his son feel this way. “Should you require more after you finish these, I would be happy to fetch some.”
Another lie.
Barbatos will not give Diavolo a drop to drink beyond the Demonus already laid out in front of him.
The prince laughs, but he doesn’t bother disguising the bitterness in the sound as he loosens his tie and leans back in his chair.
Diavolo takes his time opening the first bottle and pouring the dark red liquid into a glass, then. He waits until the last moment to tip it backward, and afterward, the prince seems to spend hours staring at his distorted reflection in the liquid. Barbatos wonders who he sees—whether the prince's face, darkened red by the liquor, looks like his own...or if it resembles the bloody Demon King more. (Barbatos thinks he knows which it is, though. Diavolo has never cared especially for his own appearance. Now, as he stares into the liquid, he is thoroughly entranced, and his eyes grow heavy with a longing he's harbored since childhood.)
Next time, Barbatos will select a Demonus bottle that reflects no light. He files the information away for next time.
Eventually, the prince breaks eye contact with the demon that watches him in his red reflection, and he lifts the glass to his lips for a second sip. A third. A fourth. A certain tension eases from the room when the glass is set back on the table, empty, and then it is refilled.
The process continues.
And so the fragments of grief which had been so carefully hidden come rushing to the surface.
Barbatos does not have the luxury to frown, but the smile he had once maintained so meticulously has vanished.
He cannot bring himself to curve his lips upward, even in falsehood, as Diavolo’s grief reemerges.
There’s never more than a second of darkness where Diavolo’s eyes flash with memory, the alcohol bringing his mind to a time better than the present, a time that Barbatos, for all his powers, can never give to Diavolo. His anguish unveils itself like a flame, skittish and deceptive, never manifesting itself for long before Diavolo drowns the emotion in another swallow of liquor. There's a second, then, where his muscles twitch, flesh spasming in remembrance of some touch—perhaps a handshake, a pat, maybe even en embrace— but then, it's masked. The glass is refilled once more. The void is filled. The fleeting misery dies before it is meant to be noticed, lost without promise of ever returning.
Barbatos sees it all the same.
It wounds him.
There is little else that the butler hates as much as seeing his prince in these moments of weakness. Moments where he stops looking like a prince about to merge three realms for the first time in history and more like the scared little boy who would cling to Barbatos after every nightmare, holding on to each and every one of the butler’s gentle whispers, quiet reassurances, soft lies.
Silence wraps itself around the room, only interrupted by the brief thuds of the empty glass as it hits the table and the sound of pouring liquid that always follows.
The sound of a faraway knock ruins the moment.
Barbatos doesn’t think twice as he moves to exit the room, already prepared to enter the hallway that will lead to the front door and to whoever lurks on the other side. It’s clockwork: a habit ingrained so deeply in him that he almost doesn’t hear the faint whisper that escapes Diavolo’s lips.
Almost.
“Stay,” Diavolo whispers again, repeating the command.
Barbatos can practically hear the prince’s instinctive regret that follows. Diavolo is already muttering a quiet curse for allowing that moment of weakness to flaunt itself so shamelessly.
But the butler obeys.
“I will never leave you, my lord.”
Words Diavolo already knows, but they are words Barbatos has not repeated in all too long.
“You are not the first person I have thought that about.”
And with that, the fleeting grief completely passes and is replaced with the heavy weight of Diavolo’s true emotions. Ruin sits in his eyes, and ruin looks into Barbatos, betraying an ache that goes deeper than time itself.
Barbatos does not move, paralyzed by the expression on his master’s face.
He has not seen this much emotion in millennia.
It reminds him of those nights where Diavolo was younger, where he would cry in his sleep and there would be nothing holding him back as he wept into Barbatos’s side, old enough to understand his situation but too young to hide his emotions. It reminds him of those times where Diavolo would sob in the bath, never realizing Barbatos could hear his anguish on the other side, so unused to this pain.
It reminds Diavolo of a time where the pain did not come out in fragments. Where it lasted longer than the flicker of a candle, the spasm of flesh. Where it seemed endless, to last unto the infinity.
And indeed, it will.
Barbatos sighs softly as he realizes that Diavolo’s grief is just as heavy as it was all those years ago. As real. As painful.
The only difference is that the full weight of it now lurks eternal in those amber eyes, not a single drop of emotion shed through tears as Diavolo bears his burden without outlet.
“I will be here for as long as you wish, my lord,” Barbatos says, bowing his head.
“That would be forever.” Diavolo swirls what little liquid remains in his cup, frowning at it. “I would have you by my side until the end of time, Barbatos. Longer than you can possibly fathom. I doubt it is in your best interest to make promises you cannot keep.”
“You act as if I want to leave, my lord.” Barbatos watches his master carefully, studying the bitterness that crosses Diavolo’s face.
A flame flickers.
Another crack of grief slips through Diavolo’s mask—dark eyes dancing with fire—but this time, when the flames have returned their usual shape, the expression Diavolo wears is not hidden.
And time freezes.
Barbatos holds the moment impossibly still, his powers stretching across all three realms to give his prince this singular instance of peace. The gesture is long overdue, and it still isn't enough, but Barbatos will do what he can to give this demon a moment of reprieve.
“I don't believe I ordered you to use your powers.” An amused brow quirks at Barbatos, and the prince rests his head on his palm. Still, the mask has not been reworn just yet; sadness lingers in those eyes.
“I do not believe you needed to, my lord.”
Diavolo smiles at that, but the look is wistful. Tinged with bitterness like the Demonus in front of him. He glances at the window behind him, at the gentle dusting of snow that was falling right up to the moment Barbatos froze time. Now, the specks of white are frozen in the air like they’ve been painted onto the sky, unmoving and unchanging.
“Your original vow to me was that you would remain with me until my father returned.” Diavolo turns away from the snow, casting his eyes upon a drawer beneath his desk.
“It was, my lord.” Barbatos lifts his head to glance at the master, but even with Diavolo showcasing the full brunt of his emotions in his eyes, the green-eyed demon cannot read his mind. “I meant it.”
“So you will be with me forever,” The demon responds drily, a dark chuckle leaving his lips.
Barbatos remains silent as his master pulls open a drawer and draws an ornamental chalice from within. The sight is familiar. Crystal and gold, the bottom is elegantly carved into the shape of Diavolo’s family sigil.
If the butler had not spent eons learning how to hide his emotions, he would raise an eyebrow. The chalice is gift from the demon king, something he gave Diavolo the day the prince turned of age.
Barbatos did not realize the demon still had it.
“I will, my lord.” Barbatos watches as his master pours the final remnants of the second bottle into the chalice. “For as long as you wish for me to remain by your side.”
“Good,” Diavolo hums, pushing the chalice toward Barbatos. “Promise me.”
And it's such an informal thing—to promise over a toast. It’s a custom partaken in by the commoners of the Devildom, the lowlife who seal oaths with alcohol because they have no magic to offer. And yet, Barbatos is touched by the gesture. It is the kindest thing Diavolo can do: to bind Barbatos to him not by magic but by honor, solely by the promise of this toast unto the eternity.
For the first time in eons, Barbatos feels honored.
And for the first time in eons, Barbatos feels nervous.
He swears his fingers tremble as they reach for the glass, the butler noting that the crystal is even heavier than he had imagined, heavier than when he picked it out for his old master. But he forces himself to bring it to his lips with a steady palm, refusing to let even a drop of the Demonus spill as he takes a sip, long and deep, leaving half of it still in the chalice before setting it on the table.
“I swear to you, my lord.” Barbatos licks his lips, savoring the bitterness of the Demonus. An old reflection watches him in the liquid, but Barbatos pays it no attention. He serves one man and one man alone, now, and he means his next words: “I will never leave your side.”
Diavolo watches him for a moment, amber eyes searching for even the barest hint of regret, of hesitation, of concern. When he finds none, he seems to relax.
“Perfect,” the prince mumbles, clutching the chalice in his own hand and raising it to his lips. “For I swear that I will never let you go.”
He downs the remaining Demonus easily, but the weight of the moment is not lost on him. His eyes never turn dazed, remaining bright in their intensity even as he swallows the final drops.
When Diavolo rests the glass on the desk, Barbatos releases his hold on time. The snow begins to fall once more, the entire world unaware of what took place. And when the knocking at the front door continues, the two men know they have been returned to reality, to life, to truth.
The only sign that anything is amiss is the empty chalice that now sits on Diavolo’s desk, an eternal memory of the promise they made.
That, and the fact that Diavolo, for the first time in millennia, has a genuine smile on his face.