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Lucifer is clearly very drunk as he looks over Diavolo.
They had matching outfits. Lucifer's was blood red, Diavolo's was dark blue. Which, by the way, didn't suit him at all. For him, so hot, fiery, dark-skinned, blue took away his light, darkened and distanced him; while blood red was Lucifer's color as much as his favorite blue. Lucifer, however, would be lying if he said that he didn't get some kind of perverse pleasure from seeing Diavolo wrapped in the color of his sin; Diavolo wore it with such pride tonight. The demonic, vicious, part of Lucifer revelled in it, swallowed Diavolo's feelings, choked on them, and Lucifer, truly, found it very difficult to take his eyes off Diavolo. Diavolo seemed to know this, smiling slyly, always in his field of vision - tipsy, cheerful, with a mischievous smile, so wide that it seemed that even Lucifer's cheekbones ached when he looked at it. Diavolo looked at him with his warm golden eyes, his cheeks were flushed either from the alcohol he had drunk or from something else - Lucifer, pretty drunk, thought then only that he liked this blush, and his heart fluttered, and, it seemed, for the first time in the last few hundred years he felt calm, even there at the party, surrounded by his noisy brothers, the angels, Mephistopheles with his displeased glances directed at him, and Barbatos with his unchanging, all-knowing smile, which Lucifer usually found irritating, because he didn't like it when someone rummaged around in his chest, knew more about him than they should, saw how much he himself actually loves Diavolo. But today, at the party, he didn't care at all.
So much so, anyway, that he let Diavolo drag him into a slow, sloppy dance right in the middle of the castle, in full view of everyone, they tripped over each other's feet, clumsy, and Diavolo laughed loudly, and the whole crowd echoed him, and Lucifer laughed with him, too, and he kissed Diavolo back when he reached for him at the very end of their dance, paying no attention to the surprised cries of his brothers.
He finally allowed himself to do it.
Even now, in Diavolo's bedroom, where they had gone as soon as the party was over, he felt at ease. He felt as if he belonged right here. There was no question of going somewhere to the living rooms of the castle, some of which were certainly occupied by his brothers and other guests; Diavolo's bedroom was his place too, and not just for tonight, and not just on the nights when they chose to share a bed; he walked here by inertia, without thinking, only hearing Diavolo's hurried footsteps behind him when he opened the bedroom door, when he entered first, without waiting for Diavolo, when he plopped down on the sofa as if he was the owner here. He knew this room inside and out.
Diavolo never objected, in principle. On the contrary, he was so happy that it was reflected in the interior of the bedroom: now some of the artifacts from Lucifer's room in the House of Lamentations were stored in his room, not fitting into the overall picture at all, remaining black blots on the walls, but Diavolo frankly didn't care; now in the closet there were at least three spare sets of Lucifer's clothes, mixed with Diavolo's, several bottles of Lucifer's favorite Demonus were hidden under the bed; now the air sometimes smelled of notes of Lucifer's cologne, and not just Diavolo's. Lucifer, to his shame, didn't even immediately notice these small changes.
He sat on the bed at Diavolo's feet, looking at him, sleeping, sprawled out in some unnatural position, disheveled to the point of ugliness. Diavolo had fallen into bed as soon as they entered, and had fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving Lucifer in complete, sudden silence, broken only by his snoring; Lucifer, it seemed, hadn't seen him so drunk and relaxed for a long time. And even though Lucifer himself was drunk, that he stood unsteadily on his feet, that he was staggering, that he could not even form words into sentences normally, he still didn't lie down after Diavolo, but only turned around, sat down behind the sofa and poured himself another glass. Because, perhaps, he needed this moment - completely alone, in the darkness of the room, to be a shadow for a while. Only this time the darkness didn't suffocate, on the contrary, it seemed, it only modestly embraced; he felt strangely comfortable there, on the couch, and his gaze always returned to the peacefully lying body on the bed, and the bitterness of alcohol wasn't so obvious. His head was pleasantly empty, Lucifer breathed deeply, and his heart loved - that's why he found himself next to Diavolo seconds later, jumping up from the couch, almost falling; he looked at his face, covered in darkness, and thought almost nothing, only about the fact that even here and now, without seeing Diavolo's face completely, he could describe and imagine every detail, every unevenness with frightening accuracy, he could even remember that only on the right side of his face the dimple when Diavolo smiled was more visible than on the left.
Surprisingly, it didn't frighten him. Diavolo revealed Lucifer's secrets one by one, slowly broke him, put him back together, loved him to the point of nausea and stale air in his lungs in front of everyone, and Lucifer, without realizing it, loved him back with exactly the same passion; but his sweet words were always hidden within the four walls, far from everyone's ears, they fell in a whisper between the lips, his affection was hidden in hints, in heavy glances, thrown furtively, in light strokes of the hand during a council meeting - Lucifer loved exactly like that, secretly, but with a lust even greater than Diavolo's. Only for one moment in his drunken brain the thought flashed that he actually really wanted to declare to the whole of Devildom with a possessive zeal that Diavolo was only his.
Lucifer loves Diavolo.
And the realization of this does not settle as a bitter taste on the tongue, on the contrary, it seems to sharpen his taste buds, and the sweet honey note of Demonus, which had entered his throat earlier, returns again, blossoms, makes him swallow. Honey reminds him of Diavolo.
Lucifer sighs, raising his clouded gaze to Diavolo again. He gently places his hand on his thigh, moves it a little, feels the warmth of his body, and carefully moves closer - he needs to undress Diavolo. Lucifer's fingers don't obey at all, but he is stubborn; it would be time to use magic, but Lucifer cannot control his body so well right now, and this doesn't even frighten him, doesn't make him angry because of his disgusting helplessness, he only patiently continues to unbutton the buttons. The first, the second, the sixth, the last; and Lucifer opens the shirt, places his hand on the exposed chest, slowly moves it, outlines the contours - he still has poor vision in the dark, the silhouettes are not drawn, but he doesn't need to. He could also imagine Diavolo's body down to the smallest detail.
Lucifer is still noticeably wobbly, and he leans down awkwardly to leave a small, wet kiss in the center of Diavolo's chest - almost an oath, a seal, a promise, witnessed only by himself and Diavolo's dark skin, absorbing his kiss.
He undresses him slowly and carefully, gently lifting his body, unconsciously pressing it to himself, and Diavolo's hot body feels like a burn on his, even covered by the fabric of his shirt, only making him melt even more, and Lucifer lingers there, with one arm thrown over Diavolo's neck, hugging him, inhaling his scent - really, Lucifer is indecently drunk. He's drunk, weakened, sentimental and melancholy, and the weight of Diavolo's body, still snoring under his ear, feels like something precious, like a treasure, and it is very difficult to let go of it.
Something had changed, after all, that drunken New Year's night. Lucifer had been broken again - or had he broken himself, when he was just getting ready for this party, when he had decided to gift Diavolo the password to his, Lucifer's, folder, with all the videos from each of their dates in restaurants, at festivals, on vacation, some of which had been filmed secretly, because Lucifer loved filming, because he really treasured every carefree moment, because he wanted to save it? - and then in a matter of seconds he was reassembled, probably somewhere there, in the middle of the ballroom, with Diavolo's hot lips on his, and Lucifer had surfaced, breathing more freely, and still can't get enough of that desired air.
Lucifer doesn't think he'll regret this in the morning.
He takes off Diavolo's pants, socks, shoes, leaving him like that, in his underwear, and covers him with a blanket. He gets up from the bed himself and almost falls again when his head starts spinning. Lucifer undresses himself, throws his clothes somewhere there, towards the couch, or maybe past, he doesn't know and he doesn't care, especially not when he crawls under the warm blanket on the right side of the bed, not when he turns to face Diavolo and moves closer, throwing his arm across his chest, closing his eyes.
He dreams nothing that night, but the acquired peace remains with him the next day, month, year and century.