Work Text:
In the morning, Lucifer wakes to the fresh smell of newly brewed coffee. There’s a cup waiting for him on the night stand. In his favourite cup, steaming, alone. He picks it up, and tastes the faint touch of cinnamon and milk. Just the way he likes it. No sugar, of course. Perfect.
His clothes are neatly set up on the edge of the bed. The other side is already made, and for the faintest second he questions himself how it is even possible. But he knows, his spouse does it every morning, rendering the question useless, as always.
Showered and clothed, he moves to the kitchen with his empty cup. There, on the small breakfast table, awaits a croissant with orange jam. So it’s Tuesday.
And there, on his side of the table, awaits his husband. Smiling, as usual.
…
He leaves for work soon precisely on time, so he can catch the early train. Lucifer knows how Michael likes being on time. Michael approaches him, sitting on the table still sipping his coffee, and kisses him on the cheek, bidding his adieu.
And once again, Lucifer is sitting alone in the kitchen.
…
He has always loved the way Lilith rolls her hips on his crotch. She knows how he likes it, and she knows how she herself likes it. They are same, yet so different. Alike, but craved from different trees.
He and Michael, are different, but they are carved from the exact same tree. Sometimes Lucifer wishes they weren’t. He could leave him if they weren’t.
That would never happen. Because Lucifer will not allow it.
…
He comes home in the evening, tired and worn but still smiling, the way he always does at Lucifer. He walks across the room to sit beside him on the couch, kissing him, on the cheek, always the cheek, nothing else, not now, nor ever, and asks him what he would like for dinner.
You pick, Michael. You know you do it every night.
One has always got to ask, right?
…
When he fucks Lilith, he doesn’t know what he thinks of. Her, maybe. Michael, perhaps.
How lowly he is, always.
…
When he joins Michael in their bed, he likes to cling to him. Michael allows that, knowing that it calms him down. He’d press his face into his hair, and breathe in the smell of his dark hair.
It’s the little piece of intimacy Michael can grant him.
He is allowed to hold him through the night.
Although he always wakes up alone.
It could be worse, Lucifer thinks to himself sometimes.
Then he would snort, and light a cigarette.
…
Life can be so cruel sometimes.
Lucifer doesn’t believe anything is crueller than the reality he lives in. How he loves someone to death. How that someone can’t stand his loving touch. How that someone can ask him how his fuck-buddy is doing, fully aware of what goes behind his back. Maybe it’s wrong to say that.
It happens right in front of Michael’s face.
…He still smiling, though.
As always.
…
Love is the greatest illusion, trapping two in a mindless dance, without a destination, but together.
-anonymous