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The Underworld did not experience nightmares the way mortals did. For the Devil, dreams were usually playground domains where he bent reality to his whim. But tonight, the dark subconscious of the Prince of Darkness turned inside out.
In the dream, he and Dice were screaming at each other, their faces twisted in a bitter fury that made no sense. The words were drowned out, but the raw hatred was loud and clear. Suddenly, the golden pitchfork appeared, propped against the wall behind Dice.
Dice didn't hesitate. His eyes, usually so calculating and cool, flared with a blinding rage. He snatched the weapon, leveling it directly at the Devil's chest. The Devil didn't move—he couldn't. The blast didn't strike the Devil; it struck the cracked stone beneath his feet. The floor vanished into a gaping abyss of bubbling, blinding lava. As the Devil fell backwards into the searing heat, the last thing he saw before the fire claimed him was King Dice. Smiling.
The Devil violently jerked awake, a choked gasp tearing from his throat.
The bedroom was dead silent. The plush curtains were drawn, and the comforting, mundane scent of lavender filled the room. Right beside him, the mortal who had just dropped him into a lake of fire was sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, peaceful lull.
The Devil’s heart hammered against his ribs. He needed to get away. He needed to breathe. He threw the sheets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, intent on reaching the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
But his body refused the command. The lingering terror of the dream had paralyzed his nervous system; his knees buckled instantly under his own weight, and he crashed heavily onto the hard floor.
The humiliation of the fall, combined with the crushing weight of the residual panic, broke the last of his defenses. He curled into a tight ball, pulling his knees to his chest, and began to sob. Bloody tears leaked from his yellow eyes, staining his dark fur as he hiccuped like a frightened child.
The sudden crash and the sound of muffled weeping instantly broke Dice’s sleep. The manager bolted upright, his eyes darting across the dark room until they landed on the pathetic, trembling form of his boss on the floor. Dice’s heart leaped into his throat. He threw his legs out of bed, rushing to the Devil's side.
"Stay... Away!" the Devil choked out, his voice cracking, a hand blindly throwing itself up to ward Dice off.
Dice froze mid-step. The raw fear in the Devil's voice shot a spike of pure adrenaline through his veins, but he forced his own panic down. He didn't want to alarm him further. He took a slow, deliberate half-step back, lowering his hands, but remained close enough to protect him from the dark.
"Alright. Alright, Dear, I’m staying right here," Dice pleaded softly, his voice a low, soothing baritone in the quiet room. "Just breathe. Just look at me. Calm down."
After what felt like a lifetime of Dice’s steady, soft pleading, the tight coil in the Devil's chest finally began to loosen. The bloody tears slowed, leaving dark tracks down his face, and his shoulders dropped.
With broken, shaky sobs and agonizing hiccups, the words finally spilled out. "We... We were arguing... You took my... my pitchfork... and you... you killed me. I'm scared, Dice."
Dice felt a cold shock wave hit him. The Devil—the literal king of damnation—was terrified of him. The realization felt like a physical blow to his chest. He’s never going to trust me now, Dice thought with a wave of desperate panic. Not unless I fix this right now.
"Darling, take deep breaths," Dice ordered gently, keeping his voice as steady as an anchor. "Inhale... Exhale. That's it."
The Devil followed the cadence, his chest expanding and deflating against his knees. Inhale... Exhale.
"It's alright. You're safe," Dice murmured, stepping forward an inch. "Can I come over and hug you?"
The Devil hesitated, then gave a small, pathetic nod.
Dice closed the distance instantly, sinking to the floor and wrapping his long arms around the Devil's frame. He held him with perfect precision—not loose enough to feel distant, but not hard enough to feel trapped. Just a solid, warm barrier against the rest of the world.
"Easy, Dear, easy," Dice whispered into the dark fur of his shoulder. "I'll never harm you. I could never."
The Devil melted into the embrace. The terrifying image of the smiling Dice in the lava began to dissolve, replaced by the real, tangible warmth of the man holding him, smelling faintly of expensive cologne. He felt safe.
"I'm sorry I scared you," the Devil mumbled into Dice’s neck, his voice small and self-conscious. "You must think I'm weak now."
Dice let out a soft, breathy laugh against his temple. "Nonsense. You're the strongest creature I know. Stubborn. Clever. Smart. Handsome."
A tiny, amused smile finally tugged at the Devil's lips, his ego responding to the praise even through the shock. "Smart ass," he mumbled, tightening his grip on his manager.
Dice leaned back slightly, clutching his chest with a hand and adopting his most melodramatic, theatrical stage voice. "You wound me, Boss! Ouch! My pride! Right through the heart!"
The Devil let out a genuine, wet chuckle and tried to use Dice's shoulder to push himself back up to the bed, but his legs once again turned to jelly. Dice caught him expertly mid-fall, bracing his arm around the Devil's waist to lock him against his chest.
"I'm serious, Dear," Dice said, his voice dropping the theatricality, returning to that deep, unshakeable sincerity. "You are everything I mentioned, and more. I don't see you as 'weak' for a single second. To be completely honest with you... I've been having bad dreams lately, too. But you built up the courage to actually tell me about yours."
With a grunt of effort, Dice carefully lifted the Devil off the floor, carrying him the short distance and placing him gently right in the middle of the soft mattress. Dice climbed in right after him, pulling the sheets up over both of them.
"If you want, we can talk," Dice offered, propping himself up on an elbow. "No need to go right back to sleep."
The Devil didn't hesitate. He shifted, curling his body tightly against Dice's side, burying his face back into the crook of his manager's neck.
"You talk," the Devil murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion of the panic attack finally caught up to him. "I'll listen."
So, Dice talked. He talked about the casino's ridiculous inventory errors, about a funny interaction with a client on the floor, about nothing and everything all at once. He kept his voice low, melodic, and smooth, letting the steady vibration of his chest soothe the remaining tremors out of the creature beside him.
He talked and talked, until the Devil’s breathing went deep and even, safely asleep once more, entirely anchored by the beautiful voice of his handsome manager.
The end
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