Archive of Our Own

This will be the fifth night you haven't slept.

Not all in a row, mind -- there have been some fitful interludes -- but the fifth sleepless night out of only nine since Belphegor returned. You expect this to become a pattern and have adjusted accordingly, which is why, as you have every other night, you find yourself at Satan's door.

To be clear, you've never been close with Satan, but that is precisely his virtue. You have found, in this new world where kindness is no longer a reliable indicator, that he is at the end of most equations solved for a safe person.

He opens the door dressed in his pajamas, and without a word directs you to a stack of old paperbacks, the cheap ones he doesn't mind getting damaged in the event you're too careless. You fish through for anything that looks like science fiction and then head to the empty chair on the opposite side of the room.

Satan returns to his mystery novel and still-warm cup of tea, retrieving the bookmark he left in the pages.

"You should ask Belphegor to help with the insomnia," he says, as always. As always, you refuse, your voice tight with something beyond just exhaustion.

The two of you read for the next hour -- or rather, he reads while you stare at the pages, making glacial progress through words that sharpen and blur behind a layer of tears. As always, you do your best to be quiet about this, batting aside the thoughts that intrude, because you'd hate to impose any more than you already do.

But tonight, things are a little different. Something changes, something cracks. The sleep deprivation is finally starting to hit.

It comes out of you as a shuddering gasp, a wretched sound like you've breached the surface of turgid water, desperate for air. It’s an unintentional reaction, surprising even you. Your hands clamp over your mouth in embarrassment, but you already know it’s too late.

Satan shifts in his chair, then pauses, like he's waiting for you to offer some explanation. From this angle, he can't see your face; perhaps you were only reacting to a twist in your novel. You try to summon the words to confirm this excuse, words that can be said without setting off a personal avalanche, but find none.

In a moment, he's on his feet and crossing the room, his hand finding the back of your chair, the weight of his shadow heavy over your hunched form. You don't look at him through the hands still wetly stuck to your face.

"You're crying," he says flatly.

It's unclear whether he actually never noticed on the nights before this one, or if the sound was just loud enough this time that he had to stop pretending. His tone suggests the former. It's one of genuine surprise — and though not unkind, it's also expectant, prompting an explanation even as you are clearly incapable of giving one. And you don’t.

But here is another virtue in him: he's capable of holding silences without letting them sour. When he does at last change tactics, it's out of curiosity more than anything else, like a cat pawing through holes in a box from different angles.

"H.G. Mells," he says in half-question, at the book that's pulled itself shut on your lap. "I wouldn't have taken you for a science-fiction fan. Levi's the same, when he's forced to read books without pictures."

"What does Belphie read?" you ask from behind your wet hands, your voice small.

Satan pauses to consider. "Star charts,” he shrugs. "Or fairy tales, sometimes."

The truth is, you don't really care about science-fiction at all. "I want to know about time travel," you admit.

Your companion hums. "You'll probably want non-fiction for that. Or ask Barbatos." (You should do that, but you won't. You don’t like him.)

When you finally peek through your fingers, you find Satan's got a hand on his chin in contemplation.

“What's got you curious?” he asks. “Still worried you may have created some kind of paradox?" His lips pull into a smirk.

"No," you answer, and it's true. You believed the butler when he said you didn't damage the timeline. The brothers are reunited now, Beel's happier than ever, and Lucifer's finally honest. Life, for everyone else, has puttered along quite nicely.

The problem is the timeline damaged you.

Belphegor reads fairy tales, and in a non-zero number of realities, you are still dead in his attic.

How big is that number? When you first hear about it in Advanced Math, aleph null strikes you as fairly close. It's the smallest infinity -- you learn that day infinities have different sizes. You learn about the Banach-Tarski paradox, the idea that a ball can be disassembled into a finite number of pieces and reassembled into two of itself, or more strikingly, that a sphere the size of a pea could become the size of the sun.

If you choose a small infinity, you've decided, no one will be able to accuse you of being hyperbolic. Surely someone exaggerating would choose a larger one, enough to cover the difference between the misery they feel and the words with which it can be expressed.

"What is the largest infinity?" you type into your D.D.D browser. There isn't one. The difference between how much it hurts and how much you can admit is itself just an infinity of the same size.

On the way to your next class, you raise the question with Satan as well. As the only real scholar in the family, he is the only one of them who is also in Advanced Math, even if neither of you is particularly good at it. Were you to share your thoughts aloud, Satan would be the only brother who'd even know aleph null refers to infinity.

"Forever," he guesses vaguely, a literary nerd's best estimate. "Or one."

When your paths diverge -- he's got violin lessons, you're headed to History -- you each carry the secret with you, like two seagulls treading water on the open sea.

Your next class, History I, is up on the second floor. Mammon waves at you from his spot against the wall, where he always waits during this passing period. There's Belphegor in his shadow, tilting his head a small fraction when you return the wave -- but he dips into the classroom before either of you can say a word.

When Mammon claps you on the shoulder and ushers you to your desk, you hold aleph null in your chest behind a thin smile, the way you've been holding phantom bruises on your ribs.

RAD's curriculum cruises past most of human history in favor of angels' and demons', though it does make the occasional detour. Right now you're covering the civil wars of the Tetrarchy.

Belphegor's already half-asleep across the aisle.

The idea he ever actually loved humans is, you have decided, a romantic fantasy. He loved only their creations. You think he would have loved their world even more if they had not themselves been in it. He likes the lights on and the theatre empty. Here in the Devildom, he's simply grown truer to himself, discarding humans in favor of their creations. All demons do. That's why there are no art classes at RAD, and why you find yourself drawing anyway, because you create where he consumes, you breathe where he cracks your lungs open.

You sketch circuses while your history professor talks: tent poles and banisters, spiegeltents with their royal drapery, each as close to perfection as a mechanical pencil can approximate, each a quiet masterpiece. Perfection makes them more satisfying to tear out, crumple, and throw away.

"I too can kill," you're telling him in your head, even if the things you kill are small.

The notebook pages crackle loudly in protest each time you tear them out. After your third masterpiece, heads start to turn, though the professor only raises a brow. You're far from the worst delinquent in this room, especially with Mammon up in the second row, his feet propped up on the back of someone else's chair.

The next time you finish a drawing, you wait until the instructor's distracted before launching it as hard as you can at Belphegor. It bounces off his hair before landing on the floor, but he doesn't stir. Beel peeks over from the other side of the room, a worried crease emerging on his forehead as he notes the vitriol that went into that throw. He shrugs it off, though, probably assuming you're just passing notes with excessive enthusiasm. In a way, you are.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class and the start of a half-hour lunch break. You're absorbed in a new circus drawing until a hand slams down on your desk in front of you, making you jolt.

"Oi! Human!" Mammon is blissfully unaware of the fact he just shaved a few years off your lifespan. "We're goin' to Ristorante Six. Yer comin' too, right?"

Your only response is a dazed blink and a quick survey of the room as the others file out. "We" means at least Mammon and Beel, who strides over to rouse his twin, but you don't know if Belphegor will also be included. You hesitate, watching their short exchange unfold, while Mammon taps his fingers on your desk and waits for an answer. He's used to you being sort of slow to process things lately, even if he doesn't understand the reason.

Belphegor curls a long-sleeved fist and rubs at the red mark on his face from where it's been pressed against his desk for the past hour. It's an overly cutesy gesture, an attempt to disguise the predator-like intensity with which he is actually studying your reaction. You catch the furtive glances now, because previously you didn't.

You don't know what he wants from you. Maybe he's letting you make the decision -- are you going, or shall I? But there's an aleph-null chance it's a plan to trap you with him, to push past the events of last week like nothing even happened, as everyone else wants to do. If you accept the invitation first, he can cheerfully declare he's also tagging along, knowing Mammon won't let you back down once you commit.

"I'm fine, actually," you tell them, your gaze darting away from Belphegor's as Mammon huffs in disappointment. You consider making an excuse -- no Grimm, not hungry, too much work to catch up on -- but that just lets him see your absence as fixable, when this is not. So you leave the rejection where it stands and gather your things, exiting the classroom before any of them can try to change your mind.

They don't. They don't even follow.

The library is mostly unoccupied even during lunch hour.

Satan was probably right. Perhaps the answers you're looking for are in non-fiction accounts of time travel. You've come up empty handed so far in the sci-fi stories you've read (okay, tearfully skimmed). Nothing you've found explains what you can only describe as the brothers' collective amnesia.

You swipe open your D.D.D. and open the private group chat that's been haunting you for the past week.

You died, but the world moved on. Lucifer has decided schoolwork is the only thing that could be bothering you, and the rest of them seem to agree.

For your own sanity, you're convinced yourself this is just the price of Barbatos letting you live.

The sequence of events that lead to Belphegor's escape can't be explained through linear causality: you were in the common room, you were in the attic, you were on the floor dying, you were whole again. It makes sense, then, that most of them would have memories looping back on themselves, quietly overwriting the significance of your death as though it were just a dream.

Out of the seven, only two have acted as though there is a missing piece: Belphegor -- of course he knows, and neither of you can believe he's getting away with it -- and Satan, fourth-eldest but last-created, existing outside of linear time.

Belphegor you want to tear in half for a dozen reasons already, but you can't begrudge Satan for not pointing out the truth. Unlike the rest, he owes you nothing. He’s the only one who has not made compassion a promise.

The reason perhaps is that he himself was never an angel. For him, love is not a compulsion.

His less fortunate brothers collect their objects of affection like dolls: perfume bottles and figurines and vinyl records, snack bags and soft pillows and shiny coins. They don't realize the way their protective urges have changed since they fell. Now humans and anything else they might be in love with are in contention with their chosen vice.

Even sweet, harmless Beel quietly let his priorities shift. The sequence enters your mind's eye in flashes: he loves you, promises strength, watches you die, chooses Belphegor anyway. You fell off the shelf. You were the easier to clean up and throw away.

For this reason you cherish the virtues of the only brother who remains sinless by the mere fact he's offered nothing -- nothing to be savored, sure, but also nothing to be broken.

With Satan, nearly your entire message history is this brand of meaningless poetry. It's a call and response system. Sometimes he vents about Lucifer the same way, but mostly it's you doing the writing: you despair, and he answers with the minimum amount of concern it's possible to show. Nothing's meant to be taken literally.

Blunt, unhelpful, but confidently so. It's the promptness of his message that speaks rather than the words. Yell into the void. I'm listening.

Before Barbatos opened Schrödinger’s box, you were both alive and dead at once. Now that the system has collapsed, are you still the version of you that died? Is Belphegor the one that killed you? Or are you still both, if by your memories, the discarded versions can still be observed?

The stack of time-travel tomes you've gathered on the table are all but forgotten as you let your mind wander.

Belphegor's voice, you want to tell him, but you can't. For one thing, you're not sure how to fit an hour-long scream into this established meter. Nor can you bring yourself to admit the truth, even to someone who's probably already guessed.

You groan and lean back in your chair. Dying had been painful, yes, and having it glossed over almost doubly so, but it might not have been had you been indifferent before this whole matter. The truth is, though, that before he killed you and began to invade your nightmares, you'd been in love with him.

You'd thought it was Belphegor's voice in your head, calling for help. To say that out loud -- to admit you'd loved Belphegor until the very moment he squeezed the life from your lungs -- would be to die all over again, this time from embarrassment. That voice had been your lifeline, had believed in you, had said you belonged here, that you alone could make their family whole again.

The first time you saw Belphegor, you'd thought something clicked. This is the person who needs me.

But it wasn't his voice. It was Lilith's. In the end, they both used you for the sake of each other.

Satan would never have fallen for such a thing, of course. He's too distrusting, too logical, too angry. If you told him how you'd really felt, he'd say you'd been an idiot, and he'd be right, because why did you love Belphegor, anyway? He had the fewest virtues out of anybody. (You no longer consider "passion" a virtue.)

The only kind thing you did hear in Belphegor's voice was "I'm sorry, Lilith."

He broke down in tears that day; you didn't. You suppose that was your mistake; you didn't think you were competing for prizes. You'd both been betrayed: Belphegor imprisoned, you violently killed, so you thought your grief was going to take turns. It turned out you were ceding territory.

With your unwitting concession, the brothers accepted his apology right away, as though forgiveness had been theirs to give. Perhaps they assumed those meager words -- "sorry, Lilith" -- somehow vaguely extended to you. Once you finally realized your mistake, it became apparent that Lilith was her own vice: sitting among the figurines is the idea of their sister, enclosed in amber, carefully preserved.

Now all you want is to be like Satan, to curl up in a library and hate everyone. You hate Belphegor for killing you, Barbatos for letting you realize it, and Lilith for letting you believe it could have ever gone any other way.

Now they think things are fine because you somehow are Lilith, so what does it matter how Belphie treats humans?

But if you are Lilith, then you are those humans also: the humans she loved, and the humans they loved, the great- and greater-grandchildren she never met, each layer diluting the bloodline with more and more humanity, until your only tether to the the demon world -- the slim technicality by which Belphegor has completely changed his mind and everyone else loves you -- is the size of a glass splinter, that last invisible piece you step on just when you thought you'd thrown the rest away. It leaves trails of blood around the house, stuck in their foot like that.

You wonder whether any of them really loved you before you shattered. You assemble the pieces into two new spheres, hoping they'll see their reflections in the glass.

The quiet death of surprises has always been a curse of your text-spying privileges, but in this case it's a blessing.

Why not surprise you on your birthday? suggests Asmodeus, the only one who even remembers when it is. Mammon and Lucifer agree; Levi complains, but ultimately acquiesces; Beel looks forward to it because there'll be food.

A surprise birthday party for someone who's depressed. That's the moment you know they aren't human.

You text Satan, hinting you know what's coming, but he tells you has little sway in these matters. You can only commiserate and quietly dread.

Mammon takes you shopping the day of, just to get you out of the house while the others get ready. You let him believe you're unaware of things, but the performance takes up the bulk of your energy, leaving you blunted and miserable. You refuse the items he picks out for you, even when he actually offers to pay for them. And he does offer, because it seems somewhere deep down he can sense your actual mood. You wish you had the energy to appreciate it. Instead you stare longingly at the shop windows just to look at the glass.

You walk home the long way and are met at the front door by Levi, who tells you, "Satan and Lucifer are fighting again," as an excuse to get you into the common room, not that you needed one.

(You have never needed much to be manipulated. Your avatar is a sheep, after all. You suppose that makes Belphegor a Judas cow, if he's not also the bolt pistol.)

Mammon and Levi let you approach the doors first. You hold your hands out for a moment over the handles like it's the pin of a grenade you're pulling, and then you do, and suddenly the room is exploding in a burst of sound and color.

"Surprise! Happy birthday!" they all cheer. Mammon claps your back. Balloons fly through the air. Someone's put up a banner with the words in rainbow lettering. Every flat surface is loaded with gifts and sweets — gifts, when there is nothing tangible you could possibly want, nothing that doesn't become useless when you do, nothing that could defend against a friend who kills you.

You spot Belphegor right away, because you do that unconsciously now. He's not smiling, which is good, but he's there nevertheless, which is, at best, a party-planning oversight. Satan's scowling on the couch, his face in his hand and one elbow on the armrest, a wet-cat expression on his face like he had to be dragged here kicking and screaming. Good for him. Maybe he's an empath.

Neither is dressed for the occasion, you notice. The others have been coerced into wearing those goofy triangular party hats with pompoms on them, the kind you weren't sure actually even existed until this very moment. Not only do they exist in this unreal reality — once Mammon puts his on, they are also a marker of which players are still in the wrong timeline.

You manage a few thin smiles and forced words of gratitude before Beel, immune to your awkwardness, lumbers towards you for a hug like a happy battering ram.

The problem is you don't see him until it's too late. The problem is now hugs feel like strangling, so when you do see him, you flinch back so hard you hit your head against the wall, and the others notice.

Everything stops.

"Are you alright?" asks Lucifer. You let it float away like it's a rhetorical question.

Beel takes a cautious step towards you, then hesitates, torn between the fact you need comfort and that you're afraid of him.

"Oi! Coming on too strong, Beel!" says Mammon, who has not left your side. The second-eldest slings a protective arm around your shoulders. This time you don't shrink back, at least, because although he is clueless and loud, Mammon is also shorter than you, shorter than Beel and Belph, which makes it less likely he can crack open your torso.

He's also too stupid for dishonesty. No nonchalance he imparts can undo the simple truth that he held you as you lay dying. He has the subtlety of a shark.

Two weeks ago you could say with absolute certainty that Beel wasn't a liar either, but now you aren't sure. Beel loves Belphegor. Belphegor says things like "I'm using you" and "I'm grateful," with the truth only somewhere in that uncanny space between.

So you don't flinch, but you do try to shake him off, because suddenly all the eyes on you are too bright, and the silence is too loud, and being held by Mammon feels like you're dying.

Mammon relents, but he's clearly unsettled by your rejection, rubbing his arm like you just punched him or he just punched you.

"Um... does anyone else feel like this is super awkward?" Levi interjects, adding a shaky "lmao" before trailing off, because he doesn't actually know what to do right now, seeing the way you're recoiling in horror at them. No one does.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Why couldn't you have just gritted your teeth through one stupid party? You hate that you're like this. You hate being scared. You hate the version of you that survived the attic but didn't live, because you didn't live, and that's what it is. You're dead. How can you be expected to just grit your teeth? You're dead, and you're here, and they're cheering you on wearing hats under a sign that says Happy Fucking Birthday to someone who's still rotting in their upstairs attic. The killer is here for cake.

So there it is. Here it goes:

"Why are you even doing this?" you ask the entire room, your voice fractured in anticipation of tears.

There's a moment of silence.

"See! I knew we messed up!" Levi holds his head in his hands, words flowing out of him like he's drowning. "I told you this was a bad idea!" (He'd said nothing of the sort.)

"Oi!" barks Mammon. "Shut up, Levi!" He turns his attention back to you, voice lowering. "Whaddya mean? Why are we throwin' a party? Come on... it's 'cause we care about ya, stupid."

With your eyes closed like this, you can almost believe that. This should be the part where he ruffles your hair, you both laugh, and everything goes back to normal. This is the part where you close your eyes in Belphegor's arms and you don't die.

Your eyes snap open. "No," you tell him, because Mammon's too earnest, and you want a real answer. This time you send it to someone, anyone else: "Why are you doing this?

"Please, tell me what this is supposed to be— a distraction? A self-congratulatory exercise? Is it for Lilith? It's a 'welcome back' party for Lilith, right?"

Mammon is about to rub your shoulder but remembers himself. "Come on, you know that's not what this is about..." You fix him with a look that's half-impatient, half-apologetic, and he stops.

"Maybe not for you," comes the quiet admission -- because Mammon really doesn't deserve this conversation -- "but for them? I mean... guys, I love you, but... come on. A 'human life' celebration party?"

You flick your glance between Levi and Lucifer. "You two both tried to kill me," -- then point to Beel -- "you went on a rampage that could have killed me and did destroy my room," -- Asmo -- "you thought it was funny the time you almost got us killed by a giant snake," -- finally your gaze finds Belphegor -- "and you..." A sigh. Even just looking at him stings, so you leave the actual words unsaid. You both already know.

The rest of the accused react with some mixture of shock and indignation. To them, these had just been everyday antics, long ago written off as comical or at the least forgiven. In Lucifer's case, he had even apologized. Were these still debts that have been owed? Had you really been holding onto them as grudges all this time?

You've been wondering that for a while, too -- and what Lilith would have been the demon of, had she fallen with the rest of them. What you would be, by extension. For a while your guess was "vengeance," but you know now with dream-like certainty that it can't be her sin. The hurt is all you. Lilith is smooth-water forgiveness over your vengeful human undertow.

Would these remembered slights be your collectible vice, then, if you were your own vengeance demon? Or were they just ordinary memories, made weapons now that Belphegor's sin has spoiled them in hindsight?

"I know for a fact human lives don't matter to you," you tell them in any case, "so why are you doing this? What difference does it make if I'm alive or not? Me, not Lilith. The actual human. The baggage."

You look to Lucifer -- one of the indignant -- who raises his chin in challenge, perhaps just out of habit.

"Is it convenience?" you ask. "I know it's not compassion, so it must be convenience, right? You'd have to find a new exchange student if I died. My family has no idea where I am, so no risk there -- if I die, the human world would never know, right? So it's just... paperwork."

The eldest's eyes narrow and he takes a step forward, gently urging Beel aside as he approaches. "No. That's absolutely not--"

"And even if they did know, if the Human World actually cared enough to retaliate, what then? They fight you? Diavolo seemed to think Belphegor would make good on his word, and he's supposed to be the weakest, right? Imagine if all seven of you teamed up -- think of how many more me's you could kill." You mean to say it like a self-pitying joke, but it comes out sad.

At the mention of Diavolo's name, Lucifer's eyes flash in warning. "That's enough."

"What do you mean, 'that's enough?!'" you snap back. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Even Satan recoils a fraction.

Judging by the facial expression, you're sure Lucifer, whose first impulse towards damage control is to hurt everyone, is doing everything he can right now not to assume his demon form. You wouldn't return the favor if you had one. In fact, you'd give anything to spring some wings and a tail right now -- physical proof of your unhappiness. A demand for attention that can't just be ignored, papered over with a "surprise, happy birthday."

Instead you must be your own reification, which means you must not make yourself small. You know you're not small; you're certain can't be. A small thing would not be able to hold so much pain and so many grudges, aleph null times aleph null. Instead you are a glass sphere reassembled, a pea the size of the sun -- even if your odds are terrible.

Right now your sun stands against at least five black holes. At any moment, the majority may decide they no longer need your permission, or your forgiveness, for anything they've done, and by strength alone rob you of your integrity's only imperative.

Belphegor's hatred makes sense in that context -- a creature granted justice only by the whims of their betters is a truly contemptible thing.

Yet here you are, spitting fire and watching it vanish into gravity.

"Perhaps we may have overstepped," says gravity, "but I will not allow treasonous talk in this house."

You have to scoff. "To protect your family, right?" A rueful grin. "Your family."

His jaw tenses. "Whether you believe it or not, you are part of this family as well."

"No. I'm the substitute. The fixer. The little... puzzle piece for your human-exchange program. I was Lilith, when you needed it, whether I wanted that or not. Whether I wanted any of these things or not." (Your proud smile is faltering.) "But family, the sort of person you don't kill, the person you protect, no matter what they have done... that's him, isn't it?"

Heads turn to follow where you point -- and where else do you point but to the youngest brother, to your killer?

Belphegor shrinks back like he wants to disappear. Beel moves towards him on instinct, placing a hand on his shoulder (and he flinches -- the irony, the audacity), confirming, though without malicious intent, that you are exactly right, that Beel would choose him over you. And so would Lucifer. And Levi, and Asmo...

Mammon starts to interject, but one sharp look from the eldest snuffs him out like a candle. Lucifer exhales out his nose, briefly rolling his eyes upward like the heavens might have a cheatsheet for emotional support.

"Ah. So, that's what this is about."

"'That's what this is about?'" you say incredulously, despair hardening into anger. "You're surprised I'm still hung up on this?!"

"I know what you saw--"

"I died, Lucifer! Not 'almost died, but you calmed Levi down just in time,' not 'almost died, but Solomon happened to be there,' not 'almost died, but Beel wasn't aiming for me,' I mean died, in the worst way imaginable!"

"Well, technically not the worst way," mutters Asmo, before Lucifer shoots him a scalding look.

"You saw some of the aftermath of an alternate timeline," the eldest says, features softening in pity, "and that was very scary. I understand. We all do."

Then he pauses, waiting for your acknowledgment, like he's got a whole speech prepared on Why Actually Belphegor Is Not Guilty. All you can do is stare at him in disbelief. They "understand?" How can they possibly understand, when they've never been fragile? When they are blocks of titanium sympathizing with a wet piece of paper?

Lucifer holds your gaze with confident authority, though, as though any second now, Diavolo will show up to validate him, and the world around you will warp to suit his version of events.

It doesn't. One second passes, then two. You can hear Asmodeus breathing, and Belphegor fidgets with his sleeves in the corner of your vision, probably waiting for you to name the exact wounds, dredge up their full extent, pick the scab open somewhere they won't be able to ignore the discharge. He's bracing himself for being held accountable -- again? finally? -- for being sacrificed as part of the terms of surrender.

He doesn't get it either, does he? Even if that is what you wanted, sacrificing Belphie has never been on the table. The worst they'd do is punish him for a while, like that isn't what started this whole mess. But they'd never make him leave. No matter who went where, or how many ways you tried to slice up their relationships, Belphegor would never fully vanish. At best, you'd have two out of the seven on your side -- and Mammon only on weekends, and Satan only because he hates everybody, until he realizes that he actually doesn't hate everybody and that he's not like you, and goes back to the brothers he ends up missing, because this is a family who fought a war and went to Hell for each other.

And you?

You're one lost lamb.

One temporary fling.

One toy with the lifespan of one of Mammon's feathers.

Quickly replaceable, easily forgotten. Whatever Belphegor did to offend you, he might as well have done to a Ruri-chan figurine.

That's a reality you must live with, if you must live -- but it is reality. They must meet you there. These are your terms of surrender. You're alive. You're still alive. They must let you exist.

Your voice falls to a whisper so quiet the whole room has to lean in to listen.

"Do you want to know how Lilith felt when she died?" you ask, meeting Lucifer's eyes. "Because I can tell you."

It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room.

You look down at your worrying hands, imagining the pieces of that night filling them like rotten apples as you recall each sensation. It's not something you like to revisit -- nor do you particularly relish the idea of hurting Mammon and Beel this way -- but if there's one thing you've learned in the House of Lamentation, it's that being heard means inflicting as much damage as possible.

So you tell them this:

"It feels like you're a little star burning out, realizing at last how large and cold the universe actually is. You get smaller, the picture gets fuzzier, and every so often there's a cracking sound that makes you feel new things -- awful things, wrong things, things and bones going ways they shouldn't. Family pictures drop from the wall and shatter. You can't remember where the light switch is. Everything's got a slight tilt, like the hallway's in the wrong direction, full of blood. You reach inside the fridge and pull out your own trachea -- and that's what you've been tasting, you finally realize. It's your ribs, being pushed out of your throat.

"You have to breathe to walk, but he breaks your legs, too, so it's just a little wheezing sound, like... quiet... quiet... a fireplace going cold, or one of those... things-- bellows, that's the word! -- with a hole in it! A-And you just squeeze and squeeze and get dust, and all throughout the house it's cold and hot flashes and laughing. It's laughing! Someone is laughing as they watch everything fall! Lilith's was sad, so that part might be different, but mine wasn't. I was told my death was funny. Maybe all deaths are, when you're the killer. Maybe they laughed when Lilith fell out of the sky, too. Maybe her killer was something bigger than her, reminding her of her weakness, the way you've all looked down on me. Maybe it was God Himself, and that when Beel saved your life, Belphie, he made it so didn't have to hear what He says when you die, but I'll tell you what it is anyway: that it was a stupid thing to love, when it all just ends in a little house with no pictures."

You settle into a quiet repose by the time the words fall out of their sentences. The rules of language weren't made for the dying. Only humans write poetry.

"I don't know what Barbatos or Lilith did," you add, "and I don't know why it even matters to you whether I lived through it or not, but I am the dead version of me."

A pause, resignation.

"Maybe it still doesn't matter. ...I mean, it doesn't matter, does it? Who cares if I die in a few branching paths?" You throw your arms out in a helpless shrug. "It shouldn't matter to you -- that's fine!" (It's not fine at all.) "You're demons! I'm sure you've all done worse. So I don't blame you for not caring, I guess, but... don't watch my dead body fall down the stairs and then throw me a fucking birthday party like I also think it doesn't matter.

"Compared to you, my world is small, but I still live in it. Okay?"

Okay? No response. You're not sure if it's okay. You have no idea. You look around the room at the aftermath and find mostly ruins. Lucifer's lost any resolve. Belphegor's got his face buried in his hands. Mammon looks like he's been shot. Levi's staring at the ground. Asmo's pouting, Beel's blanched, Satan-- is that pity on his face? Perhaps a tick on the Geiger scale of cosmic significance, you'd like to think. Or maybe just a trick of the light.

But you're done. You turn and exit out the doors.

In the room you leave behind, Satan says, "Give them a minute," to whomever tries to follow -- Mammon, probably. You give him your silent gratitude.

The attic bedroom is covered in a thin layer of dust. You wonder if that's because no one's been up here since it happened, or if it was always that way.

You want to scream, just to get it out of you, but then they'd know where you were -- all of them instead of just Satan and Belphie -- and if they thought you were dying up here without Barbatos around to make things better, not even Satan would be able to stop them from coming.

So instead you curl up on the floor at the foot of your own ghosts -- well, maybe ghosts. Perhaps just the one. Perhaps there were some realities where you fought back, or refused, or ran, at least one where you had enough integrity to reach the attic door and then walk, just to see the look on the traitor's face.

But this particular ghost is the one fate fused you into -- or it was you, before you fused into someone else -- so you curl up at its feet like a child, the way you might have looked when you died, had Belphie just left you here instead of carrying your broken husk over the threshold like some kind of trophy.

There are stains, there, in the wood.

Hopefully the reminder of your death will be enough to buy Lucifer's sympathy for this particular outburst. Hopefully nothing changes. You can't imagine bringing up their dead sister like that will make anything better, and certainly don't want to imagine it making things worse. Most likely Mammon will come in a few minutes, do his best to reassure you while Belphie gets away with everything, or if you're lucky it'll be Satan, the Avatar of Wrath for Its Own Sake. He at least understands what the hell you must have meant by all that poetry.

But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

Your back is facing the doorway as you lie curled up like a child, so you hear Belphegor rather than see him.

He hovers in the doorway like a vampire, calling for you in that soft, chilling voice. Here in the attic's particular quiet, you now realize he doesn't sound very much like Lilith at all. You wonder how you could have ever gotten them mixed up.

"Leave me alone," you answer, though that's not you want. You want a kinder version of him to pull you back in time. You want them all to be angels again. You want to be an angel too, like Lilith. To be enough. You want to be human, the human on earth he falls in love with, to write him poetry and grow old in his arms and die and make him start the Celestial War. You want to stop wanting things.

But instead of getting any of those wishes, you hear the old wooden floors squeak beneath his weight at his approach.

Belphegor crouches down and places his cow-print pillow on the floor in front of you, like some kind of offering. This is performed with his usual languidness, what you might even confuse for apathy if he hadn't taught you the language of his nuances -- or made you start to hallucinate them.

You try not to move, as though he's one of those predators who only sees in motion. No matter how hard you try, though, your chest still rises and falls, the necessity of oxygen betraying your desire to stay dead and lie still.

The silence stretches as he stares at you. You breathe in defiance, and refuse to accept his pillow.

Eventually, slowly, he gets down on the floor beside you, mirroring your position, arms bunched in front of him like he's about to nestle into the blood-stained hardwood and fall asleep.

For a long time you just stare at each other -- his emotions indiscernible behind the soft, neutral mask.

"I messed up," he says quietly.

You wait for him to take it back, to reveal it's another trick, but he doesn't. His eyes search yours for reaction, though without the urgency that would suggest he expects forgiveness. He moves at the speed of someone who has lost all hope, like you.

For a moment you wish you really were a demon, and believed, like him, in ontological evil, because however much you want to hate him right now, your human side knows that some of that hopelessness is not his fault.

Your throat works as you struggle to respond. Despite all the sleepless nights you've spent thinking about him, about this, you still have no idea what it is you've wanted to say. Most of your fantasies have ended with a long, wordless scream.

You breathe in.

"I didn't hate myself until you hated me," you admit.

Belphegor considers that for a moment. A slow blink.

"I don't hate you," he says, and it doesn't sound like he's lying.

"Because I'm Lilith."

"No. Because you're you."

"I'm not, though. You killed me, remember?" You blink away the tears that threaten. "And you told her you were sorry and not me, which must mean that I'm Lilith, and the rest of me is dead, or that it should be." A hard swallow. "I don't want to be Lilith, Belphie."

"You aren't."

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks. That sound must have driven him mad while he was alone up here.

"You don't get it, though. I don't like her. I know you'll hate me for that too, but it's the truth. Lilith made me feel— I mean, she loved you. I loved you."

Admitting that almost brings out a sob, but you do your best to keep it in check. You don't want to seem more pathetic than you already are.

"I thought you understood me, somehow. I was so scared after being kidnapped and brought here and hated by almost everyone just for being a human. Meeting you made me feel less alone. I never believed you were actually human, but I still thought we were the same. Both prisoners."

His eyes widen. Somewhere downstairs, Beel gets a stomachache.

"But it was a lie, wasn't it? The version of yourself you showed me. And Lilith knew. She had to have known. You were her favorite person. She must have thought that if I knew the truth… if I knew I was only talking to the facade of someone who hated me for being human, just like everyone else… that I would have just left you there. Her plan would have been ruined."

Belphie swallows. "Was she right?"

"No." Your answer is immediate. "Beel needed you. They all did. Lucifer was... being an idiot." You avert your gaze. "And I was, too. Would have kept being one. I might not have even believed her if she'd told me what you were planning, but maybe at least I would have had a running start. You didn't deserve to be trapped up here. I would have let you go even if I knew."

His eyes narrow, like there's another truth written on your face, and he might find it with the right squint. "You're lying. You can't really mean that. Why would you free me knowing I was..."

"Because I'm human. Because that's what being a human is. Human is…" Your eyes glitter, filling with tears. "I mean, Beel needed you. Who cares if I died, as long as he gets to be happy?" Clear beads roll down your face, your body's way of saying the real words: I do. I care. But in this world, that doesn't matter.

He at least has the grace to look away in shame.

"Just tell me this. What kind of..." Your words run out of air. You breathe in through your nose and try again. "What kind of demon, or angel, or ghost, or whatever, does this to someone and still says they love humans? What is wrong with Lilith? What is wrong with you— loving us for centuries, blaming us the moment things went wrong, when weren't even the ones who killed her? Was it at least enough? To take and take and take — did killing me at least fill the hole in you?"

No answer.

"Because I know you despise me as a concept, and I wish I could be something different for you. I really do. I wish I were a species for whom it would matter that the demon I risked my life to save was also going to kill me. I didn't even ask to be here. I don't even know if I'd still be allowed to be here, if part of me wasn't her. …But I am. I'm here, and I'm human, and I'm me... and I love you, and I can't do or be anything else... and I'm so unhappy about it, Belphie."

(And love moves into the present tense.)

The sloth demon watches you drown in your own despair, trying to keep himself from meeting you in it. He's failing. Perhaps it's just the thought of Lilith that smarts. Perhaps, deep down, part of him is actually feeling empathy for someone he once saw as so far beneath him.

"You're stupid to love me," he says bitterly, like he's not starting to cry too.

"I know that!" you howl back.

"If you know that, then why are you still doing it?! At least lie to me and make me feel better." He grits his teeth, flexing his fingers, the pointed blue nails, and you mirror each other again, both fighting the compulsion to tear each other's throats out as a form of communication. "Because you're right. It wasn't enough. Killing you felt even worse." Neither of you has claimed the cow-print pillow, so he grabs it, burying his face in it to hide the anger and despair.

"It was a mistake," he sobs into the fabric. "I made a mistake. You're nothing like what I told myself humans were. Why did you have to ruin everything? Why did I have to ruin everything?"

You stop, your anger vanishing from you like vapor, and watch him cry. You don't know if you have permission to hold him, and he doesn't know either, so instead he just clutches the pillow like a lifeline, and your hand, after a moment, gingerly finds a place on his arm.

"I know."

You allow your thumb to rub gentle circles against him. It’s giving in to sloth, you suppose; caring for someone else is easier to slip into, less exhausting than letting yourself be vulnerable.

"What are you doing now?" Belphie asks miserably.

"Being human."

"Well, stop. Wait-- don't stop," he stammers, changing his mind as soon as you retreat.

Belphegor is hard to read most of the time — is he annoyed? flustered? regretful? — but at least for the moment, in his sudden brattiness, he's probably being honest. He's like this around his brothers, whom he ostensibly loves. You think he likes to be cared for. Half his moods are just his begging for attention, and every so often, he leans into your touch. If he was able to mask it, though, when he was locked up here — this part of himself that can be so confusing and aversive — it makes you think it's a coping mechanism. It's him processing without a politeness filter.

He is the youngest sibling, not because he is the youngest (technically that would now be Satan), but because he was once chosen to live in that person's place, and the guilt still eats at him. If he doesn't act like the baby, doesn't it just remind them of what they've lost? Is that reminder not part of what got him locked up here in the first place — his acting like an adult, in defiance of Lucifer?

(And for his crimes he was left alone, starved for attention, wandering through dreams.)

It's a performance and a safety net, then, but not a lie.

"You don't have to hate yourself," you tell him. "It doesn't help."

He lets out a forced, bitter laugh. "Why shouldn't I? After everything?"

"I mean, think about it." There's a rueful smile on your lips he can't see. "You hate yourself, and I hate myself..."

"—and that's my fault--"

"—and it's redundant, is what I'm saying, because we already hate each other, at least a little bit. We don't need to double up, so let's just... hate each other, and love ourselves."

"That doesn't make any sense," he protests, before catching the trap you just tried to slip past him. "And I don't hate you."

"You hate humans. And I'm more human than I am Lilith."

"I don't hate you."

"Belphie."

"I don't." He nestles further into his pillow, letting out a soft whine. "I love you." He insists to the fabric, so quietly you almost don't hear it. "You know that."

You can only sigh in response, stroking his arm. Why is it you're willing to comfort him, when you've spent so long feeling nothing but afraid of and resentful towards him?

Maybe it's because he feels different this time. He transformed when he broke down that day, even if he didn't apologize to you. A spell was broken, or a mask was removed, and underneath the two bitter Belphagors built for survival, and the one in your bad dreams, was this third one who pouts and clings and pulls on sleeves, and— fuck, Lucifer locked him in the attic.

His own brother locked him in the attic for the threat of a notion: that humans deserved to die. And why had he held on to such a belief? Because that solid rock of bitterness, that sworn grudge, that desire for vengeance, was the only floating wreckage for a thousand miles in a helpless sea. You saw for yourself how quickly they'd moved on from your death. Had it been the same for Lilith's? Was Belphie like you, back then, just begging to be heard by a world that claimed it loved both the dead and the mourner but refused to listen?

Of course he chose humans. The angels that had killed her were unreachable, and everyone down here wanted to forget about the past. The human world was his only tool, his refuge, his tether. Despite the desperate dis-logic of the thing, a newfound hatred gnawed at his heart, because who else but his own festering shadow could he have even talked to about his pain? Beel, who already felt terrible about choosing him over their sister? The older brothers, who constantly scorned him? The younger brothers, who were so self-absorbed they didn’t care about anything else?

A vague memory surfaces from high-school psychology, from the life you had before you were brought to the Devildom. Behavior influences perception. People identify with how they act.

How could he not have killed you, when Belphie spent months in this room half of his own will, because he chose to nurse a grudge, his one and only possession? He could have been free at any time, had he given in to Lucifer’s demands and apologized, but surrendering, in his mind, would have meant letting Lilith get pulled away by the sea, when he'd believed that he was the only one still holding on to her. How stupid would he have been to stay in a prison out of hatred for humans and then not kill the first one who wandered into him? What would he have been suffering for, then, for all those months?

He'd never needed you to escape. He'd needed you to escape without giving up his hatred. And there you'd been.

You'd been stupid to try hugging him, even if you couldn't have possibly known. Even if you did nothing wrong. Even if you exist.

You understand, now. Belphegor covers his face when he cries, just like you, because for as much as you admire the virtues of Satan, you are, in many ways, exactly like Belphegor.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I'm sorry you've had to deal with this alone."

Somehow even through his crying he manages to snort in contempt.

"You're being human again. Stop that. It's nauseating."

"If you want me to stop, then kill me." You scoot a little closer, moving your hand up to gently stroke his hair.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he growls. "It's stupid, being nice like this. You're just going to get yourself killed again, and I..."

"So you will kill me?"

"No," he says firmly. Belphegor pokes his head over the top of the pillow and stares at you with red-rimmed eyes and a furrowed-brow look that borders on annoyance. "Not me. I meant other demons. They'll kill you in a second if you let yourself be vulnerable."

"Then don't let them."

He hesitates, expression softening more into confusion. "What does that mean?"

"You can protect me, right? If you really regret killing me, don't let anyone else make that mistake. Let me be nice in the Devildom. Let me be sad when you're sad. Let me be human."

Belphegor seems to consider it, but says nothing, instead retreating into his pillow again.

"Or you could just say you're sorry."

His fingers flex. "Didn't I do that already?"

"Not in those words."

You sigh. Belphegor sighs right back, like two walkie-talkies crackling together. You wonder how Beel would feel about the two of you being in sync, wherever he is — probably downstairs stress-eating while Lucifer paces, Leviathan has a small panic attack, Satan keeps Mammon from mounting the cavalry, and Asmo complains about all those decorations going to waste.

You try striking from a different angle. "What's Beel doing right now, do you think?"

Belphie pauses. "I don't know. Eating."

"I could have told you that."

So instead the two of you sit there in the swirling quiet. The old clock ticks. You try willing your heart rate to slow down and keep pace with it, but dance in double time.

"I don't understand how I haven't ruined you," he finally admits. "It makes it... better? Worse? I don't know. But I am sorry. I am. Every new thing you say just makes me even more sorry. ...But I don't want you to stop saying things. I like hearing them." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Guess that makes me a masochist, huh?"

"You shouldn't hate humans. We're all so different. There are more choices than just me and Solomon, you know."

"I know that," he snorts. "You're still all stupid, though. Just… in general."

"Belphie."

"You should probably know I'm not the demon you fell in love with. I'm worse. A lot worse. I’m not nice." You can hear his subtle pout, the voice he makes when he's trying to be cute.

Sometime soon, you want him to tell you about the stars. Or circuses. You don't care about either, but you want him to find strength in something that isn't his violence. You want to him to have someone who will willingly listen and share in the things he loves.

You inch a little closer. "Maybe we can start over."

"...Mmm... no?" He looks at you over-top the pillow again. "How would that even be possible?"

Your brush a few bangs away from his forehead.

"You can start by talking to me, too. Telling me things."

"That sounds like a lot of work."

"It is, but I want to listen. I want you to have someone who will listen to you when you're in pain. Maybe I'm not powerful enough to do anything about it. Maybe I'm not... smart or interesting, because I've only lived for a fraction of a millisecond, according to you," — that comment comes with some bitterness — "and maybe I'm just a stupid human, but I can listen and let you just... feel things without getting punished, and be heard. Maybe that way you won't... lose her."

He sniffles.

"And if that's good enough for you, then maybe you can keep me safe. Make sure no one kills me this time, so that I can be kind and listen without having to be… afraid anymore."

There's a long silence.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he answers, his voice a little softer. "I can do that."

Somewhere behind you, the hardwood floor squeaks. You turn abruptly, sitting up (wincing as you realize your other arm's fallen asleep) to find Mammon. He freezes mid-step in the doorway like he's been caught in a robbery, throwing his hands up in surrender.

"I, uh... Ya know..." he stammers. "Just wanted to... Belphie's not killin' ya or anythin', right? ...Ya know what? I'll just go..."

You roll your eyes, holding your hand out in invitation before he can slink away in embarrassment.

Mammon hesitates a beat before cautiously approaching, then sitting down to join your sad little attic meeting, taking his place next to you. You have to actually snatch his hand from him in order to hold it, since he's too bashful to accept such a gesture even when it's directly offered. He squeezes your hand, though, once he has it.

The second-eldest casts a nervous glance at Belphie — still curled in a fetal position — as though he might try to attack you again.

"Mammon," you say softly, snapping him back into focus. "I'm okay now. We're okay now."

"Oh. That's... good. Yeah, that's great. I mean— What am I saying? That is great, and I'm sorry, and all that. None of us meant to hurt ya. Really."

"I know." You smile. "I didn't mean for all that to be directed at you, I think. ...I actually meant to thank you."

"Huh?"

"For holding me as I died. I never got to thank you for it. So... thank you."

His eyes widen as he takes in the silent tears spilling down your still-smiling face. Images of that night flash through both your minds — his desperation, your fear as you saw your own corpse, the fact that this is what it took for him to love you without pretense — a reminder that gives him the courage to lean in and plant a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips.

"Yeah. 'Course I did," he murmurs. "I'm your first, right? I'm always gonna look out for you."

You beam at him brightly, laughing in spite of yourself as he becomes even brave enough to brush away your tears.

Belphie grumbles when he realizes he's lost your attention, inching himself towards where you sit cross-legged until he can bump his forehead against your knee.

"Hey! Back off, why don'cha," his older brother snaps, but it's with more exhaustion than venom.

A moment later, Lucifer's hard silhouette is darkening your doorway, his arms folded as the hallway light behind him casts a long shadow.

"So, this is where you went," he says with that slight pout he puts on whenever other emotions threaten to appear. He doesn't seem angry, much to your relief. (Not that he should be. Just that he often is.) You take some pride in the fact your plight has apparently actually made him worried. Another point on the Geiger scale.

He steps in without invitation, all long suit and dress shoes, and moves to sit on the bed, in order to observe the three of you with the proper amount of parental concern. He folds his gloved hands and laces his fingers.

"I wanted to apologize."

"I know," you tell him, as you continue to hold Mammon's hand and stroke Belphie's hair.

Asmo interrupts before Lucifer can get to the point.

"OMG, emotional support cuddles!" the Avatar of Lust shouts, sliding into the tableau like it's home base. He rests his head on your lap and grins at you upside-down.

"Back off," Mammon and Belphie say in unison, but Asmo just sticks his tongue out. You can tell he was just waiting for this part where you all make up so he wouldn't have to perform any emotional labor. Still, you're grateful for the fact he at least knows not to try hugging you.

You look to the door for the others and find Levi and Beel dithering — Beel because now thinks he must be scary, and Levi because he's Levi. You're out of limbs — Belphie's pressing your hand to his face, and Mammon's got an iron grip on your hand like he intends to take you home and store you in a trophy case — so instead you jerk your head towards the rest of the group to show the newcomers they're welcome.

Beel holds a plate with a cupcake on it, adorned with a single red candle. You can see his eyes flit to Belphegor, his shoulders relaxing a fraction when he takes stock of his twin. He steps carefully around Mammon to approach you with the peace offering.

"I... brought you a snack," he rumbles, which is Beel's way of saying, "oh God, I'm so sorry." You smile, but still can't move to accept it, so he just sort of stands there awkwardly before finally leaning down and resting it on Asmo's stomach ("Hon, I'm not a table.") before retreating. Lucifer quietly snorts in amusement.

You turn to Levi, who's staring down at the floor like he's mentally rehearsing a speech. Ambushing him with that grudge of yours earlier probably has him scarred for life, but oh well, you suppose, that just makes two of us.

"I, uh... um..." His head snaps up, sudden fire in his eyes. "I feel bad we tried to throw you a party! Like, I should have known better, right? I'm the weirdo otaku! I KNOW how much normie parties suck, and I let them throw you one anyway!"

"Levi."

"And that time with the trivia competition... I mean... what if I HAD killed you? What if I... I mean, I don't even understand why you would form a pact with me after that. Like, I KNOW it was just for Belphie, but you still had to put up with me, right, and that was probably really gross! I'm just this stupid, ugly otaku, and you've been worried I might kill you this whole time?! Even though we're true friends?! This is just like the episode of..."

Beel plops down on the floor, also cross-legged, shooting you an apologetic glance while his manic brother rambles. You watch as the tallest, but second-youngest, tries to make himself smaller in the room, as small as you've often felt.

"I don't hate you," you tell both of them, interrupting Levi's diatribe. "Either of you. Any of you. And... I'm not mad you threw me a normie party."

Levi's eyes widen. "You're not?"

"No. That's not... That wasn't even remotely the point." Whatever Levi's issue is, you decide that's a problem for another day. For now, you beckon towards the dogpile with a warm smile.

(And then he looks around himself, like you might have been directing this towards someone invisible behind him.)

"Levi," you try again. "Get over here."

He blushes, but diligently trots over to find a space between Asmo and Mammon, annoying them both.

("Oi! This isn't a time share!" / "Don't pull on my sweater!")

"They said I could come over here!" Levi retaliates, before triumphantly staking a claim by placing one hand on your knee. It'll have to do for now.

You turn towards the Avatar of Gluttony, who still looks withered and bruised. "I'm sorry I flinched, Beel."

"No," he answers, "I didn't..."

"It wasn't you. I promise it wasn't you. It's just that he..."

You feel Belphegor tense up on the floor at your side, pressing your hand against his face just a little harder. But you can't dance around it anymore — you deserve to exist, too.

To your surprise, though, Belphegor's the one who actually says it: "It's how I killed them." His voice is dark, almost deadpan, as he talks into his pillow. "They ran into my arms and I... crushed them to death."

A look of despair comes over Beel as he's hit by both brothers' guilt at once. He buries his head in his hands, a strange and sad gesture from someone as tall and normally radiant as him. "I had no idea."

(He'd better not cry. If Beel starts to cry, it's over for everyone.)

Thankfully, Lucifer comes to the rescue. "I see. That is unfortunate," he interrupts with just enough detachment to reset the emotional state. You can tell he means it in a way slightly less clinical than he just phrased it. "We also failed to realize you held the memories from the timeline where you died. That shouldn't have happened. Not that it..." Then he shakes his head slightly. "No, you were right. We don't truly understand the value of human life, due to our power and lifespan.

"But you are family, and I won't hear any arguments on the issue. We failed to make you feel welcome here. That was our mistake. But I assure you, we will do our best to make sure it doesn't happen again. If learning to value human life is what it takes, then we will do this without objections. You have my promise. Unless," he turns to his brothers, "there are any objections?"

No one speaks for a moment.

"Obviously not," mumbles Belphie angrily.

You nod, still a little doubtful. "I appreciate that, I do. But... How can you think of me as family? You've only known me for a few months — that's compared to thousands of years."

Beel looks up and smiles gently. "You're different, though. Just look at you." He gestures in your direction. "Bel's never cuddled up to a human before."

"And Beel's never shared his food with one," chimes Asmo.

"Lucifer doesn't apologize to humans," says Belphie.

"Mmmh mmfph mmf mm mpph." (Levi's eating your cupcake.)

Lucifer smirks. "And somehow, it seems you've gotten more respect from Satan than any of us. Isn't that right?"

You follow his gaze to the doorway, where Satan's leaning casually, arms folded. In the dim light, you see his lips quirk in a half-smile.

"Yeah," he says. Then, to everyone's surprise, he starts to laugh. He beams as though surprised by his own levity, the sudden lightness in the room, something heavy being lifted from his shoulders. "Is that all it took?" he asks.

"What?" You look at him quizzically, but he just shakes his head and smiles, warm and genuine.

"Your wrath is gone."