Work Text:
The Devil’s voice normally carried the weight of a collapsing mountain, but when he was angry, it became sharp enough to slice through bone.
"An accounting error, Dice? A simple shift in the decimal point and we lose thousands in a single night!" The Devil slammed a clawed hand onto the desk, making the inkwells rattle. "I expect incompetence from the imps, but from you?"
King Dice stood perfectly straight, his posture rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't defend himself. But as the scolding continued, something inside the manager’s ironclad composure fractured.
A single tear slipped from his green eyes, cutting a silent, glittering path down his purple cheek. Then another.
The Devil stopped mid-sentence. His yellow eyes narrowed, his posture shifting from righteous fury to absolute bewilderment. He had seen mortals beg, scream, and bargain, but he had never seen King Dice silently break.
The dam finally burst when the Devil’s voice dropped its edge, replaced by a rare, gruff curiosity. "Dice... what is wrong?"
A choked sob tore itself from Dice's throat, and suddenly, the floodgates collapsed. The words spilled out of him in a desperate, frantic rush, a lifetime of swallowed agony finally bursting into the open.
"When I was young—thirteen, maybe fourteen—I cried over everything," Dice confessed, his voice trembling violently, losing its smooth cadence. "I couldn't help it. Once, my best friend ignored me for an entire week. I went to my mother. I sobbed into her lap, and she held me. She encouraged me to let it out, told me it was okay."
Dice wiped his face aggressively with his purple sleeve, his chest heaving. "But that night at dinner... she turned it into a joke. She laughed and told the whole family exactly how I had cried. My father and my two older sisters roared with laughter. One sister told me I needed thicker skin. The other told me there were worse things to cry about, to grow up."
The Devil watched him, completely motionless, his long tail twitching silently behind him.
"So I stopped," Dice choked out, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him. "I stopped sharing a single damn thing. Broken hearts, lost pets... I swallowed it all. Until one day, after another moment where they mocked me, I lost my mind. I got into a massive fight with my mother. I told her 'I hate you for not understanding me,' and I slammed the door. I went for a walk into the woods just to calm my nerves... and that's when you found me."
Dice looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "You kidnapped a bitter, angry teenager. You promised me everything I asked for in exchange for staying with you. And I agreed almost instantly, because any hell was better than that house."
Dice was breathing heavily, his head spinning so fast he didn't even notice the shift in reality around them. He didn't notice when the Devil's massive, shadowy arms wrapped completely around his lanky frame, nor the sudden, striking realization of how soft the Devil’s dark fur actually was—like a heavy, velvet blanket shielding him from the wind.
The Devil, however, was acutely aware of every sound in the hallway outside. He heard the faint, heavy approach of boots on the hardwood—likely an imp or a client about to barge into the office. The Devil wasn't about to let anyone see his formidable manager in such a vulnerable state, threatening the fierce reputation they had built together.
With a silent, protective flash of hellfire, he instantly transported them away from the vulnerable office doors and into the deep crimson and plush satin of his own private bedroom.
When Dice’s eyes finally focused on his surroundings, a sudden bolt of panic shot through his veins. He stiffened, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The Devil felt the frantic, rhythmic pounding against his own chest. He didn't pull away, but his voice was incredibly soft, rumbling low in his throat. "Calm down, Dice. I brought you in here so nobody would walk in on us. I won't touch you like you think. You're safe."
Hearing the genuine assurance, the frantic rhythm in Dice’s chest slowly began to ease. He took a shaky breath and gently pulled himself out of the embrace, immediately smoothing down his wrinkled vest out of pure habit.
"I... I apologize, Boss," Dice muttered, fixing his eyes firmly on the floor, his professional mask trying desperately to slide back into place. "That was entirely unprofessional. I should not have done that. It won't happen again."
The Devil didn't scold him. Instead, he reached over to his nightstand and picked up a beautifully bound, blank leather notebook. He held it out to his manager.
"I'm giving you this," the Devil spoke softly. "Write down everything that upsets you. Every little thing that gets under your skin. At the end of every week, you and I will sit down, and we'll talk about it. Sounds good?"
Dice stared at the notebook, completely stunned. His hands trembled slightly as he took the leather book. In all his years of service, he had never known his Boss could be this gentle, this attentive. A sudden, quiet thought crossed his mind: Was he this kind to everyone in the casino, or was it just him?
As if reading his thoughts, the Devil spoke again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Don't worry. I won't tell a soul about this."
The Devil paused, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "And... I didn't exactly keep you away from your family by force. You could have returned at any time. Do you... do you want me to take you back there?"
A faint, genuine smile touched Dice's lips for the first time all night. "There's no need. Stickler actually told me the truth two days after I arrived here. I just... I never wanted to go back to them. I chose you, Boss. Always."
The Devil’s eyes softened, a proud grin breaking through his sharp features. "That's my man!"
With a sudden snap of the Devil's fingers, the scenery shifted again. The heavy crimson bedroom vanished, and Dice found himself standing right in the center of his own luxurious apartment above the casino floor.
Dice looked around the quiet room, then looked down at the notebook in his hands. "Boss... I am almost forty years old," he mentioned to the empty air, a wry, amused huff escaping him.
The Devil’s disembodied voice chuckled warmly through the shadows before fading completely. "Time flies, right?"
Down in the deepest, darkest depths of the Underworld, the Devil materialized back in his throne room. He sighed heavily, sinking into his seat, looking exhausted.
Henchman, who had been quietly sweeping up some stray ash nearby, waddled over with a look of pure concern on his face. "Everything alright, Boss? How did it go with Mr. Dice?"
The Devil leaned his head back against the throne, staring up at the ceiling. "Did I do the right thing, Henchman?"
"Well, is he happy with the gift?" Henchman asked, leaning on his broom.
"I saw him smile," the Devil murmured softly.
"Then you did the right thing, Boss!" Henchman beamed, his wings fluttering happily. "He loves you, you know that!"
The Devil looked down, a rare flicker of doubt crossing his face as he stared at his own clawed hands. "Does he? I don't think so, Henchman..."
Henchman gave a shrug, turning back to his sweeping with a smile. "Time will tell you, Boss. Time will tell."
The End