Work Text:
The mugs are still there—unused, dry, waiting to be picked up.
No one in the house uses them. Even when all the clean cups run out, they would rather wash some than use those utensils.
They’re sacred, in a solemn way. That they are yours, and that you will someday come back to use them. Complain after climbing the counters, annoyance in your tone as you grab your beloved porcelain mugs. They retain heat better, you would say, and they look so cute!
The handle with a cat's tail, a capybara in another.
Beelzebub wipes the dust from them religiously, once a week, as if for the utensils to be collecting dust means a personal insult. Might as well be. In a fight that had broken out a few weeks before, he came to the kitchen in shambles, Satan and Beelzebub with fangs bared at each other, but that corner of the cupboard untouched.
Desecretion would not be tolerated.
He’s never seen his brothers so guarded.
Lucifer snaps out of his thoughts when his D.D.D. pings with a text from Lord Diavolo. Fifty-five pages of audit reports which need to be reviewed. He puts down his empty coffee mug and gets to work with a sigh.
Over the video call, as numbers and charts are shared, he finds it easy to get lost in them. In the drudgery that work brings, focuses on budget optimizations and new contracts. The Mausoleum needs restoration. Barbatos brings it up—seepage in the lower walls, a threat to the structural integrity over time. That is why they are having this video conference. The contractor on call with him is a renowned one, having restored previous other structures in the realm. A deal is made.
Guaranteed to last at least another one thousand years! He had read it on their website, glasses sliding down. The last time such a renovation was done was when Leviathan decided to give Mammon the silent treatment. Temporary annoyances, renovations and all. Man-made structures in the human world have it done more frequently that demons do. Lucifer wonders how much of a pain in the ass it would be.
He really should take a bath soon, his face and body feel sticky.
He cracks his neck and holds his head in his hands. Then he picks up the pen with his left hand, the right one picking up his D.D.D. to type a text to the contact he never deleted with eagerness and hope associated with that name:
"Will you be free to visit the opera with me tomorrow?"
There's a sharp curse that breaks the silence, and the man puts the device down.
Habits are hard to break.
He wonders whether he will forget this one in the coming millennia.
Belpheghor's the one to alert the others.
He never screams, never has the raucous voice that some of his siblings do. So when he calls, it's urgent.
His inhumane hearing picked up on the tone, his baby brother's voice breaking off at the end, and Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as he set down his quill too harshly, departing for the garden.
The soil is wet under his shoes, clinging to the soles as Belpheghor stands in front of the flowerbeds, jaw clenched. "What is it?" Satan asks on one side, furrowing his brows, and the youngest moves to give a clear view.
There's a gasp heard from someone, and Lucifer crouches down to stare at the plant.
The black Poinsettias planted by you have shrivelled up and died.
The brothers are trying to not think about the implications.
"T-The soil's too damp!" Mammon blurts out from behind him, picking up the earth to inspect it, letting it brown his fingers and stain his rings with mud. Brown clings to gold. "Too wet! S'why its happenin—we outta talk to Barbatos to revive it—"
The flower has folded into itself, petals and leaves now a sickly color, reduced to half its height. He could have sworn it was lively the last time he saw it.
"......I'll see what can be done." Lucifer declares. "Everyone, back with your work."
He departs before the others can see his expression.
The plant survived a decade with you. Thrived and bloomed, its scent reminiscent of you. It isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair.
The demon is still clinging onto whatever parts of you he can still access. Your clothes, with your fading scent, your books with scribbles, your hair clip and your scrunchies.
The death of this flower feels like defeat, loss seeping into his life and colouring it grey.
Asmodeus asks about Barbatos's visit later at dinner. Lucifer lets the taste of deviled zebra steep on his tongue before it turns to disgust. "I've asked him to visit tomorrow, we'll see what can be done about the matter at hand."
Then his gaze falls at the empty spot, and his resolve hardens.
He feels as if he is dining with ghosts sometimes, two beings gone more lively in the silence in the grim life that the ones alive bring. Without you, everything is dull. That's why you should visit more often.
He has to make it mandatory for dinner to be gone through with at the dining table, desired the added conundrum it would bring with the inconveniences. At least for one meal, he has to see them together, in front of him.
"Put the phone down when you're at the table," a chide, and Mammon groans. "Jeez, you're being more uptight than ever. It's not like we talk!"
Mammon's casualness irritates him.
"Then shall we discuss vital matters at this table? Especially your grades." The younger demon winces. "Minus C in Potions and Hexes." Lucifer announces, taking a bite of the food, then his eyes fall on another. "Belpheghor, no sleeping in your soup."
The next day, Barbatos arrives. Saturday, when there are no classes.
He inspects the wilted flower with a clothed finger, cradles it in his hand while Lucifer stands and watches, impassive. The air is heavy with humidity, makes the back of his neck feel sticky. The brown grocery bag is neatly folded on a bench, ah, the port market is open today.
"It cannot be revived. There is rot from within."
He dusts off the dirt and stands gracefully, not a wrinkle on his clothes despite the movement. Maybe he starches his garments, Lucifer thinks. Irons them thoroughly at night so that it is always crisp. "My apologies."
Of course, the words are softer. He's not apologising for the plant.
Lucifer hums quietly. Nods his head as he gawks at the sight with a straight face. Ignores the way his breath stutters halfway through his throat.
At night, he finds himself waiting near the entrance. Coat absent, tie loosened and hair a mess. His eyes dart every once in a while towards his watch. Two in the morning, and is this a time to arrive at home?! Must this occur every weekend?! He should impose a curfew, Lucifer thinks, pacing around. Make it so that repeated offenders are punished. Maybe hang them from the chandelier or prevent them from going out anymore.
Keep them on a tight leash so that no more mistakes can be committed, no lethal ones, no fatal ones, no more no more—
The door swings open, and his head darts towards the sound. The scent of perfume hits him first: Devildom rose and something fruity in its layering. Then he arrives, the reason for this act in the middle of the night, stumbling and giggling, hiding his face in his arms as he haphazardly removes his footwear.
Lucifer watches with narrowed eyes, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue. But Asmodeus does not let him say anything, shushes his mouth before he can open it to speak. "Luciferrrr" He slurs, and the alcohol on his breath hits him. "Were you waiting for me by the door? That's so sweet of you! Hic-were you worried for me?"
The eldest has a thousand reprimands on his tongue tonight. But he assesses the state the fifth-born is in and concludes that he won't even register the admonishment.
"Wash up and go to sleep." He steadies his brother, lets him grab onto his forearms as he sways. His jewellery catches the light. "I will scold you tomorrow."
There's glitter on his clothes now, evident in the light, and the demon dreads washing it. Glitter in the rest of the laundry, washing machine, shoes. Great.
"All you do is scold—" A manicured finger at his chest, nail polish glittering in the light—"and scold. Noooo fun. Loosen up." Asmodeus whines, and the eldest narrowly manages to avoid him from hitting his head on the nearby pillar. Helen would have been pleased. "Maybe I should call MC—they never failed to make you smile."
Yeah, he is drunk.
He straightens his posture. "Go to sleep, Asmodeus." His voice is flat now. Measured. Controlled. He manoeuvres the fifth-born towards the stairs. If he falls he falls. That would be a good lesson learnt. Do not get so wasted as to fall off from the stairs when you arrive sloshed at home despite having a curfew imposed.
His brother frowns and stumbles for his room.
Lucifer adjusts the footwear in the shoe rack, and sits down on the steps. Cradles his head and sighs in anticipation of the headache that will form in the next thirty minutes.
Ignisprofen.
And a glass of water.
It was decided that your belongings would never be tampered with.
Safely tucked away in your room with a spell to prevent the ravages of time from affecting it. The arrangement worked well for a century or two, then the house flooded with water one fine day because of Leviathan's anger, submerging the ground floor.
With the water drained and the wood restored, your room put back in its proper state, Lucifer assumed everything was saved.
But the tree in your room was rotting, the usually firm trunk now soft and soggy, leaves falling off discoloured on your bed. Air damp and bedsheets wet.
It's not like anyone is going to inhabit this room anytime soon.
They won't let anyone else.
You were theirs.
While searching for damage, your digital camera was found in a corner of your closet. Conspicuous, dust clinging to it, with those worn out stickers still on it. Dolphins and Blackjack, now smudged and half-torn. Mammon had stared at it before taking it along with him too; unwilling to part with it. Snatched it up and held it as if it were more precious than Goldie, fingers cradling the body, thumbing over the torn part of a sticker.
Lucifer picked it up from his brother's room when Mammon was away.
He had to see it.
Despite the heartache that would come with it.
So, after a week filled with meetings that seemed to go on for hours and hours, soothed by Barbatos's tea and sleep that came fitfully, he decided that it would be opened.
His memory fails him now. What pictures and videos were there in it? You had always been possessive of it, never letting one of his brothers even take a glance. The camera came with you on trips—aquariums, zoos, Siren beach— Lucifer does not know what he was expecting to see.
You would have wrenched it out of his hands by now, if you were here, that is.
He sees the first photo, has to jog his memory to remember. Oh, the underground maze, with Henry 1.0.—wait—did they sneak in there without informing anyone?! The demon's brows furrow, then a chuckle resounds in the room. At least its funny now. Then another photo, then another, another, another—
His vision blurs, the candlelight morphing into a yellow-orange halo. The man sits back in his chair and chokes on a sob.
A photo of him laughing at Cerberus’s antics, the moonlight catching on his cheekbones. Another with Mammon on his device, headphones in his ears. Leviathan in his bathtub, grin evident on his face. Satan petting a calico in an alleyway. Asmodeus in the club, with glitter on his body shining. Belpheghor cheering for Beelzebub in a Fangol match.
Countless others—all of them were of him and his brothers.
He tears his gloves off, throws them somewhere, just to grab and pull at his hair.
While they all had been holding onto you for centuries, you had been holding onto them when alive.
The soundproofed walls are his saving grace.
Lucifer's in the human world on behalf of Diavolo's business when he sees it.
In the middle of a crowded street, headphones and earphones and chatter that hurts his ears. Too chaotic. Something rushes by past him, and his attention comes to a hault.
That same shade of hair!
Recognition bubbles in his chest, and he's partly horrified by the fact that he didn't remember that color for the previous five decades. Being immortal does that to you.
But it isn't you.
He finds himself laughing at his brothers antics some weeks, watching Mammon peel onion with the hairclip that was yours, complains about Beel's underwear on the chandelier, Asmodeus's headache-inducing perfume and the fact that he can never put wet towels in the laundry. Belpheghor's tardiness and stubbornness, Satan's scheming and Leviathan's karaoke matches that shake the windows.
It doesn't make itself known.
But it shows up when he goes to make himself coffee late at night and finds his hands picking two cups. Or when shopping for groceries and purchases the flavour of ice-cream you loved. Still hasn't throw away the hellfire rose you gave him on a date. Keeps it pressed in his book. Cooks for you in remembrance. Takes care of himself because you would want him to.
And maybe, you will live on through him and his brothers. Because you were theirs and they were yours.
You'd stayed in the Devildom for them, and they would stay for you.