Chapter Text
Ilir Luciano Morgenstern—nicknamed Lucifer, by you—was your absolute worst enemy.
Lucifer was pretentious, ostentatious, and just downright annoying.
He was also your roommate for your summer semester abroad to Tours, France.
The first time you met, you were both in your second year at the University of Diavolo.
Lucifer was studying English Literature and Philosophy in preparation for—you guessed it—law school, and you were still trying to figure out what to major in; opting to take French as one of your electives.
And Lucifer had been assigned he was your partner for your midterm.
You had taken notice of Lucifer during your first day of class. It wasn't his black turtle-neck or his perfectly coiffed hair that made you notice him. No. It was the fact that he fought with you to answer every question the professor asked.
No one likes a know-it-all. Especially not you.
Coming from a high school of just under five-hundred people, there were forty people in your graduating class.
And you were at the very top.
You were used to being the one the teacher relied on to keep the class going through participation. Now you had competition.
Fine. That was fine.
Or at least it would have been if you hadn't arrived late on the first day and had been forced to sit at the back of the auditorium.
Now—in a class of forty-four with a participation grade weighing 40% of your final grade—your hand was lost. While it was just you and Lucifer raising your hands, he was the one getting called on because he was the one in the front row.
Good seat, you thought to yourself. Lucifer was sitting in the left-middle of the front row; six seats away from the door. It was far enough from the front entrance that he wouldn't be disturbed by the door opening and closing during class, but it was just close enough that he could quickly pack up his things and be the first to leave once class ended; maximizing his time.
You wanted that seat.
That should have been your seat.
Fucking Lucifer.
If that wasn't bad enough, the class also had weekly discussion posts which counted towards a separate, writing-based portion of your final grade.
You liked these forums.
You had fun in these forums.
Because if there was one thing you knew, it was grammar.
You knew how to conjugate verbs and when to make accords. You knew indirect subjects from past participles like the back of your hand.
You had this in the bag.
...
It was two minutes after you submitted your discussion post that Lucifer replied with a list of corrections for you to make to your post.
He would beat his record each time you posted; once even responding a whopping thirty seconds after you did, correcting all of your mistakes.
God, you hated his guts.
Fucking Lucifer.
Six weeks into the semester, the class was separated into assigned partners for the midterm. Of course, you would get stuck with the annoyance himself.
You tried to make friends with him.
Really you did.
Lucifer just didn't care about anything other than school.
He was cold and mechanical. He was sub-human.
Like the devil.
He earned his nickname.
You tried being nice; inviting him to a café to brainstorm and buying him a cup of coffee because you were two minutes late.
You wanted to befriend him. Maybe it was ego; you wanted to be seen as an equal to the clearly gifted man.
Maybe it was curiosity. Lucifer didn't care to make friends with anyone. You wanted to know the reason behind his mystery.
But, unfortunately, there was no such friend-making. Lucifer barely even treated you as human. He didn't look at you when you spoke, and he only talked to you to correct something miniscule or the interject his own opinion.
in the end, the project was completed swiftly and smoothly; you were both volunteer-notetakers, after all—the only two in the class.
It was a straightforward research paper. You wrote the introduction, Lucifer wrote the conclusion. You wrote the first five paragraphs, Lucifer wrote the last five. Easy.
You got a great mark.
On the last day, you bidded Lucifer a curt good-bye after you submitted it together. He did the same to you.
Good-bye and good-riddance.
You prayed that you'd never have another class with him ever again.
It was your night off.
You had given yourself the night to do whatever you wanted.
You didn't have to make small-talk—which you were already so burnt-out on. You didn't have to worry about your three assignments due over the weekend.
If relaxing meant going to an art gallery and then to a play afterwards, so be it.
That was what you would do.
It was your night.
And nothing was going to ruin it for you.
“Excuse me,” you heard.
Nothing except for that.
You looked up to see none other than... Lucifer. Asking you if the seat next to you was taken.
You considered for a second to say that it was. That you were saving it for a friend you didn't have.
But...
The theater was getting pretty full. And you did like Lucifer’s cologne—notes of cedarwood and rose spice.
But, you absolutely did not have the energy to talk to him right now.
In the end, you shook your head.
And Lucifer sat down.
And of course he started talking:
“You might not remember me. We had FRE210 together.”
“I remember you.”
“Cool.”
Ignoring your internal pleas to end the conversation there, you so were curious as to why Lucifer of all people would be seeing a play during midterm week.
You forced yourself to continue: “So, what brings you here?”
“My brother’s performing. He’s the lead, actually. He's playing the God of Lust, Asmodeus. What about you?”
“I just love Gods... and lust.”
“Ah. Noble interests.”
You smiled.
Maybe Lucifer wasn't too bad...
The play was excellent. Of course it was. The University was internationally renowned in every area of speciality, drama included.
You and Lucifer didn’t talk much after the play.
You bidded him goodnight.
He did the same. Curt nods all around.
Well, at least now you knew he had a brother. That was something,
The next year, the two of you had a third-year ethics course together.
The course was debate-based. You were taking it for interest, Lucifer was taking it as a law school pre-requisite.
You almost dropped the course on the spot when you saw him walk in.
And—of course—he had to take the seat right next to you.
Lucifer startled you out of your daze by greeting you—simply by saying your first and last name—and sticking out his hand for you to shake.
You—obviously—were taken aback. You didn't think Lucifer would remember you. You didn't even think he saw other people when he walked down the street; his nose either stuck in a book or up his own ass.
You shook his hand and smiled.
He settled into his seat and snuck a few glances your way; clearly wanting to say something.
You looked around, hoping to see some other acquaintance with which you could make small-talk.
Anyone else.
Unfortunately, the two of you were the only ones in the classroom; you were both half-an-hour early to class.
Lucifer cleared his throat before he continued: “Sorry for being such a... monster last year. I was under a lot of pressure and... stress. I’ve learned to deal with it though. So, hopefully you’ll give me another chance.”
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. You did notice the dark circles tattooed under his eyes last year. And Lucifer was in third year now. He’d be studying for the LSAT if he hadn't started already. On top of a full-course load, that had to be absolute hell.
You took pity on him.
“Alright, but you should be fore-warned. Debate is kind of my thing.”
He smiled. “Mine too. Good seat choice, by the way. I usually come early to get the best seat in class, but you swooped it up before I was able to.”
“I hadn't noticed.”
Because the course was so interaction-based, you would often need to pair up with your elbow-mates for simple mind-map drawing and brainstorming activities. It was easy to work with Lucifer—who had decided that if he couldn't get the best seat, he would sit in the one right next to it during each class instead.
It was fun. The two of you were basically the same person, after all. Intense. School-focused. Both working part-time and both incredibly sleep-deprived.
During the second week of classes, Lucifer had made a habit of bringing you your coffee order from the single time you two had been to a café for your French midterm, glazed donut included. He made the excuse that he was going to get something from the shop anyways, so he thought he’d pick you up something as well. He needed his brainstorming partner at full power, after all. Lucifer made that case that he only sat next to you because you actually did work in class, but you doubted it. You knew he just wanted the seat. But, you did work really well on the French midterm together...
You should have known that Lucifer was just buttering you up with buttered croissants.
As soon as it was said that the class could choose their own partners for the final exam—a debate in front of the entire class—Lucifer elbowed you and nodded; asking you the question silently as not to speak and interrupt the professor. You nodded back.
Lucifer was a hard-worker, you would give him that.
The two of you together were unstoppable.
The two of you worked tirelessly the days leading up to it—it was worth 25% of your final mark. That could make or break your GPA.
The day of, he brought you your coffee and snack and he wished you good luck.
And it was a complete disaster.
Halfway through the seven-minute ordeal, you made a statement. The law in question was accepted in 1449. You needed to state this fact clearly and pointedly. The entire second and third quarters of your debate were supported by it.
You thought the delivery was going smoothly. You stated the fact without stumbling once—hard to do when talking about ethics laws in the middle-ages—and the crowd was on your side. The entire class was engaged. It was going wonderfully.
Until, of course:
“You got the year wrong.”
“... Sorry, what?”
“The year,” Lucifer said. “It was accepted in 1649. Not 1449. Your argument’s invalid. We aren't talking about that time-period.”
The blood ran cold in your veins.
Shit.
Lucifer was right.
You realized as soon as he said it.
It was the wrong year.
The professor looked at you. Waiting to evaluate how you’d respond.
Lucifer noticed just a beat too late that he had screwed up.
Lucifer tried to save it. Saying, “but, maybe you should tell me what it would have meant if the law was accepted in 1449. What would that mean in the context of the debate?” He was trying to get you back on track, you knew. You knew that it didn't really matter that you had gotten the year wrong. What mattered was how you adapted and conducted yourself. That was what you were getting evaluated.
But you just couldn't get over the embarrassment.
Maybe it was the stress of the situation. Four hundred students looking at you. Waiting for you to say something.
Maybe it was the stress of the semester. It was finals week, and you were so tired and so close to being done. This was just one more thing that you didn't need.
Maybe it was the pitying look from Lucifer. Fucking Lucifer of all people. The man with no emotions. The Devil himself.
You started to cry.
It was only a few tears, really. And no one saw it except for Lucifer and the professor, but still.
Lucifer—still trying to do damage control—skipped ahead to his next point. He knew that it would take him at least two to three minutes for him to make his case, hopefully that would be enough time for you to catch your breath.
You did.
And you salvaged what you could of your argument.
Luckily, you never did anything half-way, so you were able to make-up a new argument on the spot excluding the fact about the law whose year you had gotten wrong.
You answered questions once the debate had concluded, eyes slightly red and cuffs stained with tears.
Your classmates politely clapped when the two of you were finished.
As soon as you made it back to your desk, you packed your bag and made your way to the exit; you didn't care if you were only half-way throug the class, you needed to get out. To breathe. To calm down.
And you needed to wash your face.
Someone called your name.
You kept walking.
“Wait!” Lucifer said, catching up to you.
“What?” You spun around to face him. He was also carrying his stuff; papers crumpled and sticking out the top of his own bag. He was the most disheveled and flustered you had ever seen him.
“I am so sorry—” he started.
“It’s fine.”
“No, I shouldn't have.”
“Really, Ilir. It’s fine.”
“... It doesn't look fine.”
You rolled your eyes. Lucifer offered you a few clean tissues from a packet. You took them with a huff.
“You didn't have to point it out in front of everyone,” you continued.
“I know. I really am sorry. I got caught up in—”
“Winning?”
“No. Just... being right. I got caught up in trying to be right. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll make a fine lawyer, at least.” The comment came across harsher than you had wanted, but you were still riding the adrenaline of the scene inside.
Before Lucifer could respond, you turned on your heels and made your way to the washroom.
Once in a stall, you tucked your head between your legs to try and stave off the panic attack that threatened to consume you.
I never should have worked with him, you thought. Fucking Lucifer.
Luckily, you'd be doing just that by the end of next year’s trip to France.