LAURUS

“Hm?” Beel was already snacking on a stray apple. He had the audacity to survey his left forearm, brow creasing in genuine confusion. “Nothing?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Satan pointed the tip of the knife towards his brother, and though you knew he was simply waving the object because it was already in his hand, you really wished he wouldn’t brandish something so sharp so casually. “You’re all bandaged up.”

Before Beel could answer, Belphie was padding into the kitchen, Lucifer trailing behind him. Satan spun on his heel towards the sound, the knife switching targets to the brother that Satan was most likely to stab. The curious spark in Belphie’s sleep-dazed eyes, partnered with his absent itching of his right bicep, was clearly what had corralled Lucifer into checking on the twins. 

“I had the weirdest dream,” Belphie yawned, wandering over to take a seat next to Beel. “I was sleeping–”

“Sleep-ception,” Satan murmured, catching your eye when you snickered. You had caught him pouring through critically acclaimed human world movies of the last decade in the theater room at various times over the week. 

“Let him finish,” Lucifer gestured for Belphie to continue, his dark eyes fixed on Beel’s bandage with an unreadable stare. 

“I was asleep, but there was this loud buzzing noise,” Belphie cradled his cheek in his palm, his lashes fluttering dangerously low. “The longer it went on, the hungrier I felt. Then, I was full and I woke up.”

You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from critiquing Belphie’s story-telling capabilities. Talk about anti-climatic. However, his words did resonate with Beel, comprehension finally dawning in a small, “Oh.”

Though you waited for him to elaborate, Lucifer beat you to the punch, his gaze narrowing as he deduced, “You got a tattoo.” 

Satan dropped the knife. “You did?!” 

Beel blinked, meeting both of their stares before scanning the kitchen island for any other ingredients Satan required less of. “Yeah.”

You felt the rage radiate from Lucifer, felt it smother the room and dampen Beel’s energy instantly. Everything went dark. Lucifer’s eyes, Belphie’s groan, Satan’s brown sugar burning in a pan on the stovetop. It was as if a solar eclipse had occurred just outside the kitchen window.

“Beelzebub,” Lucifer’s voice boomed with authority, “How could you do something so foolish?”

It was strange to see Beel curl in on himself. Big, tall Beel. Gentle giant Beel. He was always looming over everyone, untouchable, and yet there he was, cowering as his shoulders leapt to his ears. 

“Letting a human mark your skin? Allowing a human close enough to touch you, to attempt to pierce your flesh?” Lucifer hissed. You could tell he was holding back his wings from bursting out from under his jacket. It wasn’t until he continued that you then understood what he was getting at. “Did you think they wouldn’t notice? Human needles are no match for demon skin. You know that.”

Oh. It wasn’t a humans are inferior thing (you had been only mildly offended mere seconds earlier), but a we are undercover thing. Belphie and Satan, who had both decided that the marbling in the counter was simply mesmerizing, stiffened, awaiting Beel’s response. 

“I do,” Beel resigned, “I asked Solomon to cast a spell that would soften my skin beforehand. The artist didn’t notice anything different about me.” 

Lucifer’s dominating aura eased ever so slightly. You held your breath as he stood there, in the doorway of the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he finally pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a heavy exhale typically reserved for Mammon and Mammon alone, you sighed in solidarity. Satan and Belphie followed your lead. 

“It was a reckless thing to do,” Lucifer crossed his arms, fixed Beel with a stern glare. “A terrible risk. You could have exposed all of us. You could have posed a threat to Diavolo’s relationship with the human world!”

“I’m sorry, Lucifer.” Beel ducked his head, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he placed his hands palm-up on the counter, a symbol of surrender. “I didn’t mean to put the family in danger of being discovered.” 

When his violet eyes returned from their favorite speck of graham cracker to the right of the food processor, he added, “I’ve been thinking about how our demon markings are similar to a tattoo, right? But we didn’t have any say in them.”

Belphie’s fingers flew to his right collarbone. Lucifer glanced upwards for a moment, eyes crossing slightly to Satan’s amusement, an unconscious nod to the diamond that was currently invisible upon his brow. 

Beel himself rolled his shoulders and explained, “I thought it would be nice to have a mark on my skin that I could choose. A tattoo that could represent something important to me.”

That hit Lucifer directly in the heart, appealed to the sentimentality he liked to hold close to his chest. Satan regarded Beel with searing intrigue, Belphie smiling softly as he relaxed against the counter.

The argument was dropped, and Beel nudged Belphie awake, excitedly explaining that the shopping bag at his feet contained a snack Beel had picked out specially for his twin. They ran off before anyone could question further, leaving a heavy tension in the room that you had come to expect when Lucifer and Satan had to fabricate conversation. 

“Hey Lucifer,” You threw out into the uncomfortable air, “You like apple pie a lot too, don’t you?”

And then you ran. 

The question of Beel’s tattoo was forgotten for the most part. He didn’t often bare his arms in the Devildom, his penchant for sweaters and jackets rendering the memory of the argument irrelevant 90% of the time. Still, you thought about it on occasion. When the bandage came off and the ink was revealed to be a seemingly random arrangement of swoops, you took it upon yourself to discover the meaning behind the body art. 

Was it some warped amalgamation of their sin sigils? Did it represent Lilith? Did the two arching lines have something to do with twins? It kept you up at night. Not often, but sometimes. Enough that you asked him about it more than once. 

He only ever shot you a sunny smile in response. 

It wasn’t until a year later, when Beel had contacted you while on an assignment from Diavolo in the human world, that the truth came out. 

Beel was accompanying you grocery shopping before you would cook dinner at your tiny apartment for the two of you when he paused. “Can we stop here?”

You glanced over your shoulder to see Beel drooling at the sign for a sushi restaurant. Big surprise. Stepping off the main path before a clueless pedestrian ran into your hulking companion, you peered at the notice in the door that had caught his eye. 

“Oh, they’re running the Shooting Dragon Meteor contest again,” Beel commented as your jaw went slack.

Hold on. 

You jabbed your index finger at the top left of the promotional flyer. “That logo looks like your tattoo!”

And despite your shock, he simply nodded, all smiles. “The restaurant partnered with a tattoo parlor nearby. If you get a tattoo of the logo, you get free Shooting Dragon Meteor rolls for life.”

The reality hit you like a freight train, those sleepless nights rearing their ugly heads with a vengeance. Your mouth flapped like a fish out of water, your tongue failing to wrap around vowels. Your mind was moving too fast to properly formulate a sentence. 

Beel was already muttering about what order he was going to place when you exploded, “You told Lucifer it represented something important to you!”

Though, a small, exasperated part of you asked, why are you surprised? 

“It does.” Beel frowned, confusion creasing his brow. “Shooting Dragon Meteor rolls use a very rare, high-quality tuna that can only be fished in this area once a year. I wanted Belphie to try them, since sushi is his favorite.”

Oh, and if the whiplash wasn’t a little hard to process, then neither was Solomon’s cooking. Of course, that was just Beel in a way, wasn’t it? Of course such a shallow gesture had a deeper meaning. Of course the tattoo still led back to family. 

Of course Beel would tattoo a restaurant logo on his skin to give his brother free sushi once a year. 

And Beel’s enthusiasm had you wondering why you doubted him for even a second. As he exited the restaurant, a veritable feast of sushi rolls stuffed into six plastic bags, he beamed, “I’m gonna visit you at this time every year, okay?” 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

Luke had asked him once if The Tale of the Seven Lords was inspired by Lucifer and his brothers. Simeon had responded with an obvious yes, of course. Though, the more he wrote, the less his creations seemed to mirror their counterparts. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia warping his perception of those he had considered his closest friends. Those he still considers his closest friends. Well, other than Solomon. And Luke. But… well, it wasn’t the same. Simeon knew Lucifer and his chosen family as angels. He knows them as demons. And yet, sometimes they still feel like strangers, just out of reach, synonyms on a page that don’t quite convey the intended meaning. 

There were traits that only grew in prominence since the Great Celestial War–like Belphegor’s affinity for naps, and Leviathan’s shut-in tendencies–but as their title sins weighed heavy on their shoulders, Simeon found the actions of those he used to call his family more difficult to predict. Mammon’s greed, born from a genuine desire to succeed, evolved into ulterior motive. Asmodeus’s need for external validation rendered him weak to batted eyes and a gentle touch. 

Then, there was Satan. Naturally, Simeon wants to attribute that missing piece of the Lucifer he once knew to the carefully composed “fourth” born. Though, that would be an insult to Satan, to the Lord of Masks. He is so much more than what he is not, and for a moment, Simeon wonders what it would have been like to share his space in the clouds above. 

Ah, the Celestial Realm. He can still see the brilliant light of the sun when he allows his eyes to flutter shut, pure warmth bathing the virtuous in shades of gold. It was never as warm after the war. Or perhaps he’s reading into things. Current feelings. Memory is awfully fickle, isn’t it? 

Simeon used to write in the greenhouse, by his garden of roses. Roses of a ruby red bright enough to accent Michael’s dinner, a single flower bursting from a tiny vase to the right of his plate. Raphael would sing as he prepared a pot of tea. 

Simeon smiles, though it is devoid of any mirth.

Raphael is still willing to sing Simeon’s favorite hymns–the seraph’s rich tenor a balm on any wounded soul–but Simeon knows better. It will never be the same. Not without the rustle of pages under Lucifer’s index finger, not without the brilliant sets of ivory plumage draped over a garden chair. 

He wonders if Lucifer enjoys reading as much as he used to. Was that trait given to Satan, or do they share a passion for knowledge between them?

Simeon frowns down at the blot of ink, seeping from his pen onto that dreadful lined paper. He’s been frowning a lot more, these days.

“Simeon?” Luke’s interruption is timid, his hands gripping the door frame. Concern dances in the innocent eyes of a child who has yet to experience loss.

“I’m fine,” Simeon reassures, “I suppose I’m a little homesick.”

Though for where, he is no longer certain.