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When falling from great heights, the most prominent issue to be worried about would be the ever-approaching ground. The fear of what comes next- presumably death. Knowing that there is no possible escape, and your demise was rapidly advancing.
Lucifer had wings though. Logically, he could stop himself from falling. Save himself from what was about to happen.
Yet, he wasn’t focused on that at all. Instead, he was focused on his wings- not using them but rather, focused on ripping them out.
The feathers, tattered and tainted, were easy enough to grab. As the heavy winds whistled around him, he could easily grasp handfuls of the feathers- once a pure white yet now greying rapidly. Dripping with sin, doused with anger and hatred for the worlds. For humans, for demons, for angels and, most importantly, for his father. The pure unfiltered exasperation is what was pumping his blood through his veins. Each wave of wrath that hit, another clump of feathers were tossed away and picked up by the wind.
He was falling, fast.
It was as if he was being torn into two. A searing knife plunging into his chest, ripping out the anger in his heart. It came out in pained screams, cries of agony and pure disdain. His body curled in on itself yet with a ragged breath he manages to reach around far enough, contort his body painfully, and grab the base of one set of his wings.
“Your wings are a gift, Lucifer.” His father had explained to him one afternoon. His wings had sprouted a few days ago, six beautiful pairs. Pristine white, the ends melting into flecks of gold. They were perfect, the epitome of pride. His father continued, “you look after them, you hear me? They’re a part of you, and what makes you an angel. We must look after our wings carefully, they are delicate. A sign of power and most importantly, they are a reminder of where you came from. These wings are my gift to you, and you must look after that gift.”
Lucifer pulls. The curves of his fingers tighten, nails digging into sensitive flesh. He screams again, throat hoarse, yet no one can hear him. His body is still soaring through the air- he has no idea where his brothers were anymore. Perhaps they are all already dead, he thinks darkly. All because of their selfish father- how he treated them-
He yanks again. There’s a wet tear, then he pulls once more, feels the sickening rip of skin as two wings are discarded. He feels weightless, tastes copper, a metallic stench in the air. Blood is spluttering out of his back, the two new stinging wounds emptying his anger- sadness and despair quick to replace it. It feels as if a solid mass is torn out of him, along with his wings. Anger that is made up of mass, holds blood and bones. Letting out a strangled gasp, he falls quicker, feels the cold air whip his injuries. His palms are sticky, stained crimson. His cheeks are streaked with tears, his lips taste salty.
He’s falling.
He’s falling, he realises.
Weakly, he extends his wings. The ones he’s got left. Two sets, four individual wings now sleeked black. Shiny like tar. He moves them out, ignores the way his back screams. Ignores the agonising burn rippling his skin. Then, he’s flapping, struggling against the vicious wind. But eventually he manages, just in time to stop himself from slamming into the ground. He hits trees instead, tumbles through the foliage and branches. Rolls into a grassy bank, the grass dry and cracked, now streaked with his own blood.
He lies there, panting heavily. Feels his blood, slow and sluggish, pouring from his back. Every twitch and stutter makes his body weep, makes him gag on his own breath. Suddenly there’s another figure crashing down near him, a mess of white and red. He notes some feathers get discarded, small white diamonds fluttering to the ground. He recognises those wings.
Despite his body’s protests, he’s up, stumbling across the barren landscape. Gritting his teeth, folding in his wings to stop the wind from tearing more away from the open gashes. Then he sucks in a sharp breath when he sees the figure, crumpled and still.
Lilith. Her skin sickly and grey. Her body a medley of bruises and cuts- an arrow lodged into her left side, her blood pooling around it.
Lucifer falls to his knees and, despite the fact that he knows he’s fallen- knows that he will never be an angel again, he prays.
--
Some days were better than others.
That goes without saying, really. It could be related to anything too. Some days work went smoothly, some days it did not. Sometimes their house was unusually peaceful, other times it felt like a war zone. Occasionally he’d get a bad day where his inner turmoil world weigh him down, headache persistent and dark bags under his eyes. And then sometimes he was untouchable, feeling his pride course through his veins so prominent that he feels so far above anyone else.
The same goes for scars, he had come to realise. Some days they weren’t even noticeable. Then other days they scratched at his skin uncomfortably, loud and annoying.
His body was covered in them, most of them hidden from any prying eyes. Lucifer preferred to dress modest, hide the vulnerabilities when possible. The gloves on his hands, his turtleneck sweater, the fact he would rather die than be caught wearing shorts. He was perfectly happy to keep himself hidden, no questioning looks or nosy glances.
Besides, the largest scars he had were on his back and no one would ever be seeing those.
Well, that’s what he had initially thought, anyway.
There was one demon in his life that he maybe wasn’t so against the idea of showing them his scars. Glancing into his very personal life, seeing the truth that hid behind walls of pride and perfection.
And of course, that demon was none other than Diavolo.
It wasn’t something that happened instantly, of course not. Lucifer was now the true avatar of pride; he wasn’t about to unwind himself and open up to the demon Lord. Even if there was now a pact between them, an unspoken bond that Lucifer would serve him until the end of time. Slowly, Lucifer found himself not entirely hating the sound of that. It was gradual, their relationship expanding over time. From simply two student council members, to Diavolo inviting Lucifer to have tea (so they could talk about school matters, of course.) To Lucifer helping Diavolo pick out a suit for the next royal event. Diavolo sneaking away to listen to Lucifer practicing piano in one of the hidden, far of classrooms. It was all completely new to Lucifer, the longing looks, the way Diavolo’s lips would curl into a smirk, the endless rumours that spread. The slow realisation that he was staring to feel safe in someone else’s presence that did not include one of his brothers.
Then, he was having a bad scar day.
There was a familiar phantom twinge that ran through his back. The aching, long and twisting. When he would move a little too much one way, or a little too quickly the other, it would send electrifying sparks through his skin. All he could focus on was getting home, hiding within the confines of his bedroom, and trying to forget he existed for a while until the pain passed. Yet he was stuck in lessons, had a council meeting scheduled for this afternoon and had then planned to go to the royal castle afterwards.
In the end, he had skipped the council meeting and had just ended up at castle.
He hadn’t planned on going, but Diavolo had kindly insisted he would walk back with him and Lucifer wasn’t one to deny his requests. So that’s why they had ended up in one of the living rooms, Lucifer quietly curled up on the couch and Diavolo bringing in a tray from the kitchen. He could smell the familiar scent of ginger and peppermint. He was surprised Diavolo had remembered what tea to make as a pain reliever of sorts, causing the corner of his lips to quirk up into a small smile. Barbatos was out, Diavolo having sent him off for the night, leaving just the two of them in each others company.
“Ginger and peppermint,” Lucifer notes as the tray is put down.
“Yes, I remember you mentioned it once about being good for relieving pain,” Diavolo responds, taking a cup of tea and passing it to Lucifer, “so I thought I would make some tonight.”
“I never mentioned that I was in pain.”
“You didn’t need to say anything.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Lucifer was glad, that by now, he could unwind in the company of Diavolo. If this were to happen way back when he first got here, he would’ve been guarded. A spikey personality, keeping others as far away from him as possible. Now, he didn’t find embarrassment in the small things. Not when Diavolo showed the same devotion and compassion that Lucifer did towards him. Not when Diavolo is the only one who can chip away at his pride, break it down until Lucifer can laugh without constraint, can take his gloves off, can feel a glimpse of an old, long forgotten version of himself. A version of himself that he thought he had lost when he had fallen from grace.
Time passes, Diavolo had ignited a fire in the fireplace, basking in the glowing warmth. Lucifer knew that naturally Diavolo ran warmer than most, whilst he on the other hand ran colder. He cups the mug in his hands, let each sip melt away the aches. He knows that it won’t take it all away, but the thought alone is nice. It allows his mind to wander, take a break from the hectic day he’s had.
“What seems to be bothering you?” Diavolo’s voice, deep and smooth as always, cuts through the silence.
Lucifer takes another sip, “nothing of concern, don’t worry.”
Diavolo eyes him, raises an eyebrow.
“What’s that look supposed to mean?”
“Oh nothing,” Diavolo laughs lightly, he puts down his own mug of tea. It clinks quietly against the metal. “I just don’t believe that it’s ‘nothing of concern’, is all.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Well if you would like to talk about it, then I am all ears.”
Lucifer considers the offer for a moment. He has never previously spoken to anyone about these scars. Not even Mammon, who he would consider the closest brother he had. They were too personal, told a story of agonising loss and it was a reminder that Lucifer should suffer alone. Would suffer alone for the rest of eternity, as it is what he deserved. Then again, Diavolo had been there that very night. When Lucifer had growled maliciously, bared his teeth, extended his wings- now muddied with a deep darkness. Showed only two sets of wings, the third turned to ash, leaving bloody streaks down the pale of his back. Diavolo had seen him at his lowest yet still offered out a hand. Still gave him options, allowed him to choose the fate he would be left with.
“My back,” he starts slowly, hesitant, “I have scars from the fall, when I ripped out my third set of wings.”
Diavolo takes in his words for a moment, carefully. “I remember you with three sets of wings, from that one visit to the celestial realm I was forced to go on when I was younger. I thought about how gorgeous they looked for quite some time afterwards.”
Lucifer feels a blush spread across his cheeks. He clears his throat. “You’ve never asked what happened to them.”
The demon lord shrugs, “I never saw a need to. If you wanted to tell me about it, then you would. So the scars- they’re hurting you right now?”
“Yes, they are. Would you-” he pauses to take in a breath. Looks at Diavolo, captured in his golden eyes, warm and inviting. “Would you like to see them?”
“Only if you’re comfortable with me seeing them.”
Lucifer nods, then unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs off the fabric and his skin is met with warm air. Heated by amber flames. It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been, a sign of trust. Diavolo walks around him, his weight pushes into the couch cushion as he sits down behind him and helps the rest of the shirt fall off his shoulders.
For a moment neither of them say anything. Lucifer holds his breath, too scared to speak.
Then, “can I touch them?”
Lucifer simply nods.
It’s gentle and intimate. Hidden behind the walls of the royal castle, where no one else can watch the events unfold. Diavolo runs a single finger across the tight skin. It’s a forgiving touch, careful not to irritate and Lucifer can’t help but melt into it. Lean into such a caring hand, as it caresses a part of him that he hates. Caresses him in such a loving way. Runs along each scar, slow and steady.
“I think they’re beautiful,” Diavolo comments. Lucifer doesn’t voice his disagreement, he instead just let’s the demon Lord continue, “a sign of who you are and where you’ve come from. Growing up I always thought battle scars were cool and my father would laugh and tell me that I’ll have some of my own some day.”
“And do you?”
“Yes, I do,” he responds, “I also have something I think can help, if you’ll allow it.”
Lucifer wants to deny the offer, tell Diavolo he’s already done enough. That the pain is bearable when he’s with him and treated with a kindness he doesn’t deserve. However, he instead finds himself saying, “I trust you.”
An incantation is said behind him, then there’s a small spark of light. Lucifer knows the spell well, a weak summoning spell often used for bringing objects to your current location. Diavolo shuffles around a bit and then Lucifer is taken by surprise at a sudden cold cream pressed into his back. Diavolo is quick to rub it in though, yet still taking time to do a thorough job. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he shuffles away, let’s Lucifer turn to face him. His back no longer screams in agony with each move, its numb and quiet. A calmness washing over him.
“Thank you.”
Diavolo caps the cream, “it is my pleasure.”
Then, Diavolo is unbuttoning his own shirt. Lucifer almost looks away, tells himself to give the Lord his privacy. But he doesn’t. He watches as Diavolo pulls out one of his arms from its sleeve, revealing his left shoulder, a motley of angry pink scar tissue. Jagged edges pulling at healed skin.
“This one was from a fight a long time ago,” he explains, eyes glistening under the flicker of the flames, “I can’t even remember what happened, it was so long ago now. But I do remember Barbatos freaking out and looking after me afterwards. He’s such a mother hen sometimes, it’s endearing.”
He watches as Diavolo uncaps the lid of the cream again. Then, without thinking, Lucifer spews out a suggestion. “Do you want me to do that for you?”
Diavolo is slightly surprised but it quickly morphs into a smile, “that would be nice, yes.”
Lucifer takes the cream in his own hands, squeezes out a small amount onto Diavolo’s shoulder, then puts it down so he can rub it in. Diavolo closes his eyes and it tells Lucifer he’s not over stepped a boundary. That this is all okay. He runs his hands across the rigid skin, it feels coarse under his fingertips. Skin that will never truly be smooth and perfect again. Diavolo seems content with that, happy that his skin tells stories. And if he can learn to love even the ugly parts of him, then maybe, one day, Lucifer can learn to love that part of him too.
Once it’s done, the cream now put away, shirts buttoned up again, the tea long forgotten- Lucifer feels the drowsiness hit. Usually sleep was sparse for him, if he was lucky he could get around 4 straight hours. If he wasn’t lucky, it would be a sleepless night of paperwork and distractions.
But here, he doesn’t hate the idea of falling asleep. Curled up on the couch, his scars no longer screaming at him. He leans his weight onto Diavolo, feels a reassuring arm wrap around his upper back, it doesn’t irritate his skin.
Then, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.