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After being turned into a living flying firework show at a birthday party he wasn't invited to, Pip finds himself coming to laying on his back in the snow that covers the grass outside of someone's backyard. His clothes, ill-equipped for the winter and frost, are damp and his hair clings to the back of his freezing neck. The blue sky above greets him with a cold, relentless presence and without a cloud to be seen.
"Oh dear."
Bones heavy and aching Phillip rises and dries himself off, patting his thin coat down and straightening out his crooked bowtie to his best abilities but it doesn't make him feel any less faint. His skin stings underneath the fabrics. He decides he'll deal with that at home. Right now, the world is spinning and he doesn't know what time it is, only that the birthday boy's party on the inside of the lawn, hidden by a large wooden fence, is still playing music and children are still laughing in glee so it couldn't have been any later than around four.
Pip knows he shouldn't, that he's really asking for trouble, but within the million thoughts swirling around in his confused and, frankly, exhausted mind, he settles on creeping up to the large wooden wall and peeking through a crack between the planks. His gaze darts around, boys and girls in colorful jackets, party hats, loudspeakers, food and drinks, cake, everything that a boy could possibly want for a birthday celebration. Oh, Pip could only dream of such events. How lovely it must be.
A part of him, a rather large part, wishes desperately to be in there. To stand up to those mean bullies and give them a taste of his mind. But the rational part of Phillip's brain reminds him that it'll only lead to more hurt, more ridicule, and even less friendships. A true gentleman should be in charge of his emotions. A gentleman should turn the other cheek, even if it hurts.
He does wonder where that new kid Damien went, because he can't seem to find him anywhere.
"Mortal."
"Aah!" Pip yelps, head whipping around fast enough to leave him dizzy when a voice behind him makes itself known. Much closer than he expected. Damien hovers practically a foot or two behind Pip, cone-shaped party hat adorning his head. His brows are furrowed, and Pip instictively worries that he's done something wrong, but then remembers that Damien had never spoken to anyone without looking angry, and Pip's shoulders slump a little in some form of relief.
"...Your jacket is soaked. Have you been laying in the snow?" Damien's tone sounds unsure. Pip tries not to feel scrutinised.
"My, Damien, I was just looking for you! How is the party? It looks positively splendid!" Pip smiles, promptly ignoring the other boy's questions in favour of his own. The excitement of someone, someone from a birthday party, speaking to him is too overwhelming.
Damien's brow twitches.
"They've got cake. But the music is too loud. I commanded them to turn it down and the other boys called me a fag."
"Well, at least you had some fun, hm?" Pip smiles.
The demonspawn seems to pause at that, eyes darting down to the white ground for a second or two before even forming a response. Truthfully, Pip hadn't mean to imply anything but happiness for his sake that he finally had gotten an invitation to the party. But he supposes he isn't still quite happy about being scorched for entertainment. Smile dropping just a little, Pip folds his hands over his coat. A bird chitters in the distance. A car drives by.
"I... apologise..." Damien opens his mouth, and the words almost seem to hurt coming out. Phillip blinks. He was expecting something more along the lines of an insult or annoyance. "For using my powers on you like that. It wasn't right of me. I'm not very... used to how to act with humans up here, yet," the demon boy concludes with a troubled look on his face. Like he isn't sure of what he's saying himself. Nor does it sound like he's finished speaking. But after Pip waits an additional thirty seconds to make sure, the Brit brightens up in a smile that displays every gap in his teeth.
Pip hops forward to lay both hands on each of Damien's shoulders.
"Oh, I forgive you, Damien! Nobody has ever been nice enough to apologise to me before!"
"Nobody?" Damien cocks his head, eyes wide and staring at Pip's hand that still grips his frame.
"Nobody! I'm sorry those boys were mean to you too, they're such bullies, the whole lot. I would've gone home already if my legs didn't hurt so bad, I can't stand being around them. Oh, but don't tell them that. I don't want them to be mad at me," Pip looks at Damien with a look as serious as cancer and doesn't stop until the black-haired boy eventually nods, too overwhelmed by the flurry of words to even try to respond.
"...Your legs hurt?" Damien squeaks, to which Pip nods.
Honestly, by now, everything sort of stings. Standing up took more effort than lying down. Pip didn't realise how weak his body had started feeling until now, and the cling he's got on Damien isn't out of excitement anymore but rather necessity shall he stay upright.
"My whole body, really. But I should be getting home soon."
Damien hums with a frown and knitted brows. And maybe it's guilt, or divine intervention, that leads him to relent his own wishes and wrap an arm around Pip.
"Come on, mortal. Where is your residence?"
Pip guides him throughout several streets of South Park. Underneath Damien's heels, the snow melts.
Whenever Damien and Pip eat in the cafeteria they always sit at the small, two-person table that is propped up in a corner of the room in the shadow of a door opening. Pip has always sat there, for as long as he can remember, simply because the other children don't really want to eat lunch with British kids. Or French kids. Or kids named "Pip" or "Butters". Over here, Pip is both out of sight and safe from any food fights. Damien doesn't like loud noises, especially when it comes to crowds of people, and so on day one he decided to sit at the small table and never made attempts to move. It's the only place in the cafeteria that doesn't make the demon actively wish to set the other kids on fire.
But Damien isn't a monster, and he knows Pip was there first. He's got some morals. He doesn't kick the blond out or force him to go sit outside. The table is big enough for two. When he comes over with a tray carrying whatever mystery meat provided by the school that day and a milk carton he gives Pip a quick look, to which the other boy always returns with a smile and a wave, and sits down.
Damien isn't particularly picky. Of course, lunch and dinner back home with his dad were always more impressive. Satan is big on making anything extravagant, and enjoyed having Damien eat his cooking and give him critique, even if he didn't always take it. And the royal chefs at their castle never disappointed the ruler of Hell nor his son. But the elementary school lunches were usually subpar, good enough at best and downright gross at worst.
Damien taps his fork at something that looks like a salisbury steak on his plate with his head resting in his hand when Pip finishes his meal. The Brit takes the opportunity to study Damien before he notices, since the demon seems too preoccupied with not eating to realise.
"What's the matter, Damien? Aren't you peckish?"
Phillip tilts his head questioningly, snapping Damien out of his thoughts with a lazy blink.
"No."
"Oh, well, that's too bad. I might have some crackers in my locker if you want some later, in case you get hungry!"
"I don't want your crackers," Damien rolls his eyes.
"That's alright. More for me," Pip says. Damien follows him as they put their empty trays in the corner of the cafeteria and the demon throws his uneaten lunch in the trash.
As Pip thanks the cafeteria chef for a wonderful meal like he does every day, Damien grabs and pulls at the sleeve of his red coat. Pip doesn't even attempt to make a move to stop the black-haired boy from pulling him towards the doors like he weighed nothing.
"I want to go outside. Come."
"Oh, alright!"
The two boys end up on the swingset on the school's playground. Pip's bare legs in those shorts swing absentmindedly to and fro as he gives Damien a quizzical look, the raven-haired boy in question staring down at the snow and clinging his hands and sharp claws on the metal chains holding his own swing like a lifeline. The silence barely has time to accumulate before the bell rings and other kids make their way outside, laughing and chatting and pushing each other over into the frost on the ground loudly in glee. Anyone that comes near the swingset is met with Damien's snarl and a glare of hellfire.
Normally, Pip wouldn't comment on this, but it seemed something is troubling his classmate today. He's much more snappy than usual. Pip scratches his arm and clears his throat.
"Is everything alright, Damien? You seem agitated."
To his surprise, Damien doesn't incinerate Pip on the spot. Instead he sighs and his brows furrow. He almost looks constipated.
"I... miss Hell," comes the confession. Pip blinks. Damien doesn't meet his eyes, and only now can Pip recognise the remnants of embarrassment in his frown. Damien kicks away a rock with his shoe. "...It's too cold up here."
There are a thousand things Damian could've recounted; the sky is too blue, the grass is too green, strangers are too polite and food tastes too sweet. Nothing feels like what he grew up with. He longs for the warmth he's come to comfort himself in underneath red fiery skies. But every complaint that comes to mind seems stupider and more childish than the last to Damien and the words die on his tongue.
Pip tentaviely pats Damien's arm, then, suddenly letting his hand linger on the woolen sweater.
"I know what it's like to be homesick. Maybe you can go... back there during winter break?" Pip tries, a hopeful but unsure smile upon his face. He doesn't know how these things work.
Damien sighs to quell the neverending feeling of loneliness in his stomach.
"Maybe. What do mortals do for school breaks?" Damien asks and Pip knows his question really is what Pip will be doing in a few weeks. Pip lets the topic of Hell go, suspecting Damien doesn't want to keep talking about his home right now.
"Probably helping out at the orphanage. I don't really... do much during school breaks. On summers I go to summer school. But that can be rather fun, too!"
"Sounds lame."
"'Tis lame."
Pip's insides are spread over the road like raspberry jam on a scone, skull and bone crushed under metal like it hardly mattered in the first place. No one comes to his rescue, the pressure on his body too great to be able to be survived by anyone. He was dead the moment he stepped before the robot. Like he hardly ever mattered at all.
Pip wakes up in a strange place to a red sky and screams of terror in the far distance. Above him, two dark eyes study his face and a flicker of hellfire meets his gaze. Before Pip can greet Damien and ask what happened, the anti-Christ smiles devilishly. Pip realises that he never had a chance in the first place.
A fourteenth of Damien's rational mind knows that the moment Pip leaves his side he's doomed to spending the rest of the day contemplating setting the world on fire out of pure boredom. The rest of Damien's impish, evil and genetically structured superior body denies this fact feverishly.
Pip's got a face that makes you want to punch him and knock a crooked tooth out of his too-smily mouth. Big bug-like eyes and rosy cheeks. A good student. A devout catholic choir boy. Damien pulls at his own hair as he tries to get the memory of Pip laughing at something he said, without a care or worry in the world for once, out of his head once the Brit has said his goodbyes for the day and left while thanking Satan for having him over. It barely works.
One afternoon, Pip comes over as usual with a small scarlet box in his hands. Damien doesn't greet him when he opens the door.
"What is that?"
"Oh!" Pip squeaks, clearly frazzled by excitement or nerves as if he didn't realise Damien would question it. "Well, I brought... something for you, I suppose."
Damien's nose scrunches in idle confusion.
"It's not my birthday. It's not a bomb, is it?"
Satan peeks his head out from the kitchen doorway at that, and Pip pales with a sputter.
"No! No, no, nothing like that! I just—"
The raven-haired boy has already ripped the gift out of Pip's hands before he can finish, opening it like a child on Christmas morning. Not really fearing that it would be anything dangerous, Pip was far too much of a French pussy for that, his demeanour remains on the verge between bored and mildly interested.
Damien finds a pair of stud earrings inside.
Eyes widening not much more than a millimetre, the anti-Christ glances up at the Brit with as much of a stunned expression as Pip has really seen on him before. In the background, Satan smiles, snickers, and goes back to cleaning up the kitchen. Damien pierced his ears not too long after turning eleven in a fit of tween rebellion, and wouldn't admit how much he really liked his own new accessories even though he had beamed like the sun for weeks after the fact. Satan found it so endearing that he didn't even punish Damien for sneaking out and doing such a thing without permission. Pip had worried over possible infections, but demon immune systems seem to be much stronger than a human's.
Face reddening by the second over the silence, Pip does what he does best in the face of possible awkwardness, rejection or punishment; talking.
"I-I, uh, I saw them in a store and- and they reminded me of you! You don't need to wear them, or anything, I just wanted... wanted to show my appreciation! For having me over so often, and spending time with me, and being my friend. That is, of course, if you want it! To be my friend! Or my gift! I don't mind if you throw them away, either! How silly I must be," speaks the Brit with a rapid tongue that tumbles on every other syllable in a clear attempt to fill the void of silence. Damien stops listening after the second word.
While Pip continues to spew word salad, Damien sets the box aside and carefully puts each stud in an ear. They're simple, silver, but masculine and tough enough for Damien to like. And plain jewellry is easier to match. He smiles.
"Pip," the demon calls out tonelessly, halting Pip's words in an instant. The blonde presses both hands againts his mouth and looks at him stupidly. "I like them."
Between the time it takes for Damien to say the words and for Pip to process a response, the Brit lightens up like a damn lamp.
"I'm so glad!" Pip claps his hands and bounces his heels in place. Damien rolls his eyes, but the reaction is one of fondness. "I know today isn't special, but I just had to buy them for you."
Damien blushes reluctantly at that and tries to pretend like the smoke from the burning carpet underneath his feet is an unrelated incident. Satan, apparently still eavesdropping, clears his throat from the next room over.
"Damien. What do you say?" Satan's rumble prods at his son. The king of Hell doesn't see the scowl he gets in return.
"Thank you for the gift, Pip."
Although the response is mechanical and devoid of any feeling on account of being forced out of the boy, Pip still grins wholeheartedly and it makes Damien feel warm and fuzzy and want to throw up.