#leviathan angst

“MC...?” he scrambled out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own pants in his rush to get to you.

His heart nearly shattered in two when your lower lip began to tremble, tears falling freely down your cheeks as he halted his approach immediately, standing in front of you awkwardly. His hands ghosted over your skin, brain screaming at him to do something, anything. He didn’t know if you were injured or socially drained or what but he was helpless because he could never do anything right.

“I’m just tired.” they mumbled, voice choked up and pitchy, “Can...Can I just rest in your bed? Please? This room is the only place I can relax so- I mean, you don’t have to.”

“That’s fine!” he squawked, waving his arms around frantically, “Um-! Go ahead! And, uh, if you need anything, tell me okay?! I don’t want you to feel upset!”

“Uh huh.” you nodded, looking dazed. It’s like you didn’t even listen to him when you flopped into his bathtub, bundling yourself in the blankets and letting out soft, quiet sobs.

Fuck fuck fuck, what was he supposed to do? You sounded so miserable! What happened? Especially for you to come to him, Asmo and Beel would be way better at comforting you than he would! Now he was just messing everything up again because he was useless.

Leviathan couldn’t help but stare at your shaking form, his brow furrowed.

Messages from his guildmates start rolling in, too, filling the chat with, "YOOO CONGRATS" and "omg sooo jealous" and "looks AMAZING, man!!"

Ah, satisfaction.

And then, killing his elation just as quickly -- "alright, I think that's it for me tonight."

"Wait, some of you still need another drop from this dungeon though, right? Let's not stop yet," Levi types frantically. For the first time all night, he notices his eyes stinging from the strain of playing for so many hours straight, but he's desperate not to log off. If anything, his chest is starting to constrict at the thought, full of panic at the idea of ending already.

The others, however, are done. They collectively decide this is a good place to stop for the night, and one by one, he watches his teammates' avatars disappear from the screen, leaving his character alone in the field, still dancing away.

And, just like that, the night's distraction is over. Groaning with frustration, he scrolls idly through his quest list, checking for something, anything to still do. A dungeon, a raid, maybe some limited-time seasonal event? Of course, he's already completed all the most fun quests though, and the only things still available for him to handle alone are mindless, repetitive tasks. Boring.

He closes out the game too, dropping his head into his hands in defeat. He should get some sleep anyway, admittedly. Lucifer will be mad if he oversleeps come morning, after all.

It's just, the moment he turns around, he'll have to see that same damn room again -- his new one, with its jellyfish lamps and porcelain white tub for a bed. He'd been excited about it at first, since he'd gotten to decorate it with all his otaku paraphernalia, and the fish tank walls really did cast a lovely blue glow over everything. His figurines look great in their displays, and his entire manga collection is neatly organized on the shelves, just how he likes it.

It's a good room. It's got all of his favorite things. It's very distinctly his -- no more of the dusty old guest rooms of the Demon Lord's Castle, each one indistinguishable from all the others.

He should like it.

But that doesn't change what the room is: new. This is his new room, in a new house, in this new realm, with a new body, having to make a new home, and it's all because he's not welcome in his old one anymore. The Celestial Realm cast them out, and he'll never see his old room in the Celestial Palace again. He'll never get to stay in that nice, comfortable, familiar place anymore, and the thought makes him deeply envious of his past self who got to enjoy his time there so obliviously, never even realizing that those days would come to an end!

Then again, if he's honest with himself -- wasn't he the same way back then, too?

It's just a sickness for a home that's never been. Truthfully, he didn't feel any more comfortable in his skin as an angel than he does as a demon. Having his brothers with him is what makes a place home more than anything else, but even they don't really understand him.

No one does.

But there's always escaping into his games, his anime, his manga. In those, he can imagine himself as the hero. He doesn't have to think about what a sad, pathetic demon he is now. He doesn't have to think about being a demon at all. He can be whatever he wants to be, wherever he wants to be.

And where he wants to be right now, is not here. Anything would be better than thinking about all this again. Late night be damned, he's not ready to face this yet.

Lucifer's eyes gravitate to Barbatos' then, seeking confirmation or comfort, he doesn’t know. What he does know is he shouldn't, he really shouldn’t, but as the butler displays a breath of hesitation before firmly shaking his head, he can’t help but latch onto that brief moment of uncertainty.

The next day, having freshened up to the best of his abilities, he reaches out to Barbatos. A couple of hours of rephrasing his questions enough times irritates the butler into submission, and he receives the wretched answer he’d been so craving. The one and only timeline in which you’ll still be alive and breathing was the one where you never discovered Devildom, where he didn’t sign his approval on your application, where he didn’t live out all those blissful years with you at all. 

Lucifer feels his teetering balance tip. Did he possess enough strength to grant you life but watch you thrive from afar, blissfully unaware of his existence? Was he resilient enough to watch you fall in love with a stranger and hold himself back to allow you that simple shred of happiness? The answer is simple and yet the most impractical course to exist, so Lucifer accepts the soft hug he receives from Barbatos.

Later that night, back against his cool headboard, lower half cocooned in his blankets, he clasps in his fingers a polaroid of you. With the human realm’s sun shining directly in your face, your eyes were scrunched in this frozen piece of bliss, lips tilted in an amused grimace. Against the bright green backdrop of the vibrant grass and shadows spread at your feet—both his and yours—you were ethereal, the most candid he’ll ever experience you as. 

He cradles his shattering heart in the embrace of your warm memory then, forfeiting his being to the anguish knocking at the door of his soul. It bursts in, rushing through his veins with a frenzy, consuming his senses like liquid fire, and tumbling out of his lips in a bloody stream of misery.

How long he fists the sheets on his bed, Lucifer doesn’t know. Grief comes alive in his eyes, fades into anger, and then, sometime after, revisits again. Only this time, when pain sears his body apart, he doesn’t resist, doesn’t scream or sob or cry or even think. 

Muffled steps stop before his door at some point. The person doesn't knock though so Lucifer burrows deeper into his cave of exhaustion. As his body succumbs to slumber, he manages to catch sight of a crow settling on his windowsill. He doesn’t send it away.

The next morning, Lucifer pulls his cape over his shoulder with hollow movements, missing the hands that used to run over the lapels and loop around his nape. The breakfast table lacks its eighth set of cutlery, the sight of the vacant chair adjacent to him plucking ruthlessly at the strings of his heart. The first sip of his coffee is starkly normal on his tongue, no bitterness, no edge of cinnamon, no one to thank and appreciate.

Once upon a time, ‘normal’ had been an actuality that he had yearned for. Now, the same word is an incredibly sour thought to him, a harbinger of torment and darkness. You, who he had once considered ruthlessly far from normal, had captured his heart in a vice grip of adoration by that exact unpredictability of yours. You were the most strange, vivid, and beautiful thing to happen to him. The absence of you is, consequently, the most desolating occurence in his life.

The bottle of Demonus Lucifer touches to his lips is freezing, sweet poison popping across his tongue in bubbles of inebriation. Classical notes fade in and out of his hearing, the music a bit too loud to be considered appropriate for nighttime. He begs then, mind hazy with inconsolable longing, desperation solidifying in his eyes once again. His hands reach out, yearning, and graze over the seat you used to once occupy, the covered glass he kept for you to peruse is a bit askew atop his table, the dark skull in his office that you used to admire raking cold claws of uneasiness down his spine. 

What would you do if you saw him now? Would you chide him for the liquor that lingers on his lips or would you join in and raise a somber toast? Will your glass as it clinks with his bottle make any sound? Or will it, instead, be a faded ring of your laugh that loses its intensity every passing second? 

Lucifer raises the alcohol to his lips again. All that was warm is now cold. But the cold must wait before its descent, for he is not ready for battle yet.

LEVIATHAN, AVATAR OF ENVY

Levi is in disbelief.  An incessant buzz rings in his ears, denial bubbling out of his throat in a hurry. Nonsense! How could you be dead when he had talked with you just this morning? Diavolo assures him that they have double-checked—you were dead. Levi shoots out of his seat then. He’ll call you; you’ll pick up, laugh at how ridiculous Diavolo was being, and reassure him of your sentience by gently calling his name through the speakers. 

His heart thuds shakily in his chest when the line doesn’t connect. He persists through the agitating rings when finally, finally you pick up. The voice that greets him though, is vastly different than yours. Stumped, Levi tells them how he was hoping to contact you. The voice is slow as it informs him: you had a heart attack this afternoon. There was going to be a funeral soon, if he wished to attend, he was welcome. He thanks them softly, disconnecting the call and turning to avoid the concerned eyes trained on his skin.

You were dead...but how? How could you—fierce and strong, and so, so brave—die? Death didn’t seem to be a concept that rhymed with you, and yet, the grief streaked through the faces around in sharp waves. 

“How do you feel?” Mammon asks during a weekly gaming session. For once, Levi doesn’t shush him and tell him to focus; instead, he tries to come up with an answer.

How did he feel? Like his world had darkened at its edges, peace blurring out of existence. The clock in his room has become nothing but a showpiece; his days have started to replicate the journey of the needles, starting and ending the same way. He felt trivial in his existence, unimportant, insignificant; an ink smudge in a sea of pages bound together, nothing more than a drop in comparison. He feels too much. And yet, words fall short, drying on their journey to his lips. There’s so much to say, so Levi stays quiet.

He’s uncertain about the exact moment when he fully braced the full weight of your death. Maybe it was when he had blearily opened his closet one morning and the cosplay costume he had helped you stitch had spilled into his arms. Perhaps it happened when he had been searching for one of his noise-cancelling headphones and had instead found a bunch of pictures of you and him together from when you had dragged him to a carnival photo booth.

Levi has never experienced drowning; water is his main source of power after all. But now, it feels as if his lungs are on fire, ears throbbing in the sea of grief he can’t seem to reach the surface of. The breath he so desperately tries to hold onto soon bubbles into sour water that turns his skin translucent. The glass tank around him has shattered into a billion pieces, all reflecting his numb and broken face and they digdigdig into his heart, deeper and deeper until they pass through and he is left motionless with blood colouring his surroundings and seeping in through his clothes and his exhausted body and back into his heart. Levi thinks he’s screaming, or maybe there are screams in his ears, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.

Where did you go? Levi wonders at night, the blink of his gaming console shading his face blue. Why did you go? Could you not have stayed with him for a day longer? He wanted to tell you how much he enjoyed the song you had sent him. The music video of it was so beautiful and ethereal. And he still hadn’t gotten around to watching that trilogy you had recommended. He wanted to watch it with you. He wanted you to tell him every little trivia you knew about it. He wanted to see you excitedly explain theories and try to swallow any spoilers for his benefit. He wanted to see you again, touch you again, and feel you trace his tail again. Where had you gone?

He’s crashing through walls of memories, screaming and aching and yearning for anything of you. There’s an unfurling seed of desperation in his chest that spreadsspreadsspreads through his veins, and sets his blood alight with the need to be close to you. You can no longer reserve your most wholesome smile for him, the twinkle in your eye as you call his name just before you pull a prank on him having gone missing. He can longer be close to you physically, but he still can feel you emotionally. 

And so Levi reaches out to you in his memories. He holds you in his arms and spins you around merrily. He remembers every tidbit of yourself you ever gifted him: phrases of songs you used to hum in the shower, show recommendations given to him over the breakfast table, brand names you had claimed to be your favourite and used. Everything that had brought a smile to your face starts to bring one on his as well. This is a part of you that he has found—many of which are parts you had endowed onto him and him alone.

There are so many things you had loved that he had been unable to, so many memories that he was supposed to have with you, but no more. He’ll live your share of the happiness too, for when he finally meets you again—in this lifetime or the one after—he will tell you all that you have missed. He will tell you how you are and will always be his Henry.

SATAN, AVATAR OF WRATH

Satan doesn’t know how to handle the emotions that rain down on him with Diavolo’s words. His mind feels stuffed with cotton, the tips of his fingers cold with disbelief, and the stark taste of blood on his tongue is fresh and raw. He thinks he says something to Diavolo then, but two days later he has no memory of the words. He has no remembrance of anything besides you.

Satan finds himself tracing the bookshelves in his room. His heart is subdued in his chest, quivering feelings caged inside. He fingers free a familiar book, flipping through the pages yearningly. The book is a most colorful sight, marked with an assortment of highlighters and the familiar imprints of your scent. There are tiny sentences nestled in between paragraphs, so much like words of love and reassurance you used to whisper in his hairline during the truly dark hours, and Satan wonders for the umpteenth time if this was your way of crawling inside his soul and immortalizing yourself. He traces a winky face etched at one of the corners, the full weight of your love cradled between his arms crashing through his being. His knees give way under him, body collapsing onto the ground as heaving sobs rip through his throat.

Forever; such a lie it was. All the soft flutters of it from your lips had fooled him; fooled him into grand delusions; fooled him into saying it back. He had believed that delusion to be reality, taken for granted the touch of your lips on his, and now forever had slipped from between his fingers. His hands had been emptied just like the other side of his bed.

Satan screams then, at the memories throbbing in him like spikes of hot emotion. He rages at the moon that had dulled without your warmth at his side, at the pulsing silence of the library that had become devoid of your breath, at death that had snatched your life away. The white hot pain is unfamiliar but it’s full of meaning, composed of nothing but you, so Satan reaches out to it. He savors the smoke that curls from his burning flesh, the needles that prick his body and draw out his life force. So what if you had lost yours? He’ll gladly share his own life with you. He’ll gladly surrender every second of his existence to you.

Satan knows it’s stupid, cradling the pain like it was you instead. But emotion had never been his forte, and by default, neither had been you. So for once Satan lets himself be stupid, lets his wrath and his pain accompany him as he ventures with you in memories.

The air of House of Lamentation has become charged with cautiousness ever since your demise. Everyone has started treading on eggshells, carefully phrasing their words when trying to initiate communication with the fifth born. Satan shouldn’t, but he feels a twisted satisfaction at their discomfort. The sight of their stuttering tongues and fidgety eyes brings him a pleasure compared to none. He had let loose of the frayed strings of control, had let them fall far, far beyond his reach. He had stopped pretending and everyone hated it. In moments when he feels other’s despair at his behavior, his thoughts of you renew with fervor. You, who had never looked at him differently for his wrath, who had always gripped his arm silently and offered comfort in trying times; you who had loved him and who he had loved in return. You, who had made even his wrath, fall in love with you.

Satan knows the right word for it: defense mechanism. He knows this is nothing but a way to cope with the loss he has endured and yet he can’t bring himself to care. Each passing day, the anchor to his emotions weakens in its hold as his actions blur into a façade and reshape themselves into another hastily conjured illusion. The clock ticking in his mind is consistent: someday he’ll run out of anger and all of his aching and bleeding flesh would tumble out of him. But fortunately for him, that is a long time to come. When that day does come, Satan will be ready. Ready to embrace the chaos inside of him the way you always had.

ASMODEUS, AVATAR OF LUST

Asmo’s immediate reaction is numbness. His mind stills, so does his physical body. Distantly he observes Levi shoot out of his seat but Asmo can’t conjure up any energy to mimic his brother. All of his energy seems to have seeped out of his body with the news of your demise. Upon returning to the House of Lamentation he immediately retreats into his room. Nobody catches sight of him for the next couple days. Mammon tries to get him to open the door after Asmo fails to show up for meals for a full day, but he gives up when it’s clear that his brother has no intention of picking the food he had left outside.

When Asmo does appear, a full five days later, everybody does a double check at the sight. When before Asmo had been soft pinks and tangy greens, he now had switched those colors with treacherous black and ruminating silver. His face had hardened into smooth marble with spikes circling his neck in beautiful constrictions, heels getting deadlier by the day. Your death had both awakened and subdued something in him.

One morning, when Satan casually brings up the change in aesthetics, Asmo pauses, twirls his fork around his fingers, and replies without glancing up, “I am mourning, of course.”

He is mourning, that much is true. However, as he sits in the dark of his room, Asmo wonders if his ways are healthy. There are so many feelings in his chest that he had never expressed to you. Everything around him: his room, his closet, the dining table, the garden, all of it so familiar was now painted with memories of you. A part of him yearns to run. Escape from the ghost of your hand that lingers on his cheek, the color of your eyes that haunts his mind, the taste of your lips, and the cozy fit of his face against your shoulder that never leaves him be.

Everything hurts. And some days, Asmo gives in to that yearning. Let the succubus’ clinging to him run their hands over his hips because did it really matter if those hands weren’t yours? At least this way he could pretend. Pretend that the voice moaning his name is yours, that the fingers that scrape against his scalp are familiar. At least this way he can pretend that you hadn’t scooped his soul hollow with your death, that he hadn’t lost all sense of direction when you had taken your last breath.

There’s another part of him too. A part that doesn’t want to let you go, that wants to cling to the shadow of your memory and carve your name on the insides of his soul. On days he succumbs to this part of his being, Asmo welcomes the phantom touch of your gaze on his. He goes to The Fall, a club you both had frequented and orders the drinks you had. He twirls in the spot you had liked, breathlessly sings along to the music like you had, and dances and dances.

Dances till his vision swims with vivid memories and pain becomes his enemy; it’s a constant company, a relentless reminder that he is alive and breathing while you aren’t. You weren’t dancing with him or holding hands or laughing or doing anything but lying dead somewhere so, so far away. He was so dumb for letting you return to that wretched human realm by yourself. He should have been there with you but he wasn’t.

Instead, he is here, wrecked and inebriated, trying to pretend that his world hasn’t slipped off his axis; trying to pretend that he isn’t completely and utterly shattered with you gone.

BEELZEBUB, AVATAR OF GLUTTONY

Beel is heartbroken. Two days ago when you had called him, you had sounded like you always did: excited, radiant and full of life. You had found a delicious velvet cake, you’d told him and had proceeded to describe the taste in such exquisite detail, Beel had to run to Madam Screams to satisfy his sudden craving. The news that you had succumbed to death barely forty-eight hours after he had talked with you was agonizing to hear.

The weight in his chest seems lighter when Belphie is beside him. His twin is calming, can voicelessly feel his turmoil, and always offers an unassuming reprieve to his raw and aching heart. In the familiar attic with the warmth of his brother beside him it’s easy to pretend of your inexistence. When Belphie’s eyes fall shut, however, is when the true weight of your demise dawns upon Beel. No longer sheltered within a façade, he finds himself stranded at the center of a storm, icy memories of your infectious laughter and the glide of your fingers along his flesh whipping his skin raw.

Beel is caught in a tornado of heartache, tumbling out of the past and into a future devoid of your light. The ache of the fall is eternal, thawing through his insides in strikes of relentless agony and sorrow. He tries to adhere to his routine to distract himself then, aiming to not miss any of his Fangol practices. It provides another reprieve: the adrenaline thrumming through his blood, the brief but welcome shot of happiness that accompanies their win.

When the match ends Beel changes out of his sweaty clothes and starts towards the bleachers, lips parted with a breathy grin and body flushed with excitement, but stills halfway, freezing realization creeping through his heart: You weren’t going to be there. Yet his feet pull him over to the benches, to the vacant seat you once occupied. Beel doesn’t know why he sits there, or how long. He just sits, hands resting on the metal arms and tries to see the Devildom moon the way you must have seen it. Maybe if he touches this seat long enough, he’ll be able to identify all the places your fingers had grazed it. Maybe if he thinks about you enough then he’ll have something more than just a past with you.

You were gone and had left your inevitable mark on Beel. His hunger which used to be a means to extinguish the ravenous fire in his stomach has now become a way to fill the chasm that has hollowed his soul neatly through the middle. It is the only healthy way for him to cope with the excruciating pain that throbs through his being every time a whisper of name stumbles upon him.

Guilt plagues his heart then, just like you haunt his soul. Isn’t this emptiness all he has left of you? Isn’t the hollow carving in his heart a sentient reminder of how much you had meant to him? He shouldn’t try to subdue this pain that makes him feel so alive; a pain that feels like his soul has merged with yours.

everything had changed within a few weeks.

during breakfast, you were less talkative and cheerful than usual, but that was overshadowed by levi’s incessant rambling about — you guessed it — the upcoming galaxea concert. asmodeus surprisingly took interest and kept him entertained enough to the point where your quiet demeanor was barely noticeable, easily being written off as tiredness.

throughout the school day, you paid no mind to your professors despite your upcoming exams and final projects as you zoned out, worrying about what you’d have to sacrifice and how you’d possibly make the devildom concerts work without risking your friendship with levi :(

and at dinner, despite beel’s best efforts, you barely touched any food at all and were the first to leave the table, usually saying something along the lines of “need to study.”

your hang-outs with levi slowly stopped as you began to spend every weekday isolated, either practicing in your studio or pulling all-nighters to make up for what you missed in class. levi was sad, of course, but he knew how seriously you took your grades, so he left you be… but he was starting to have his doubts.

it wasn’t so bad at first, but one day, when you didn’t show up to eat at all, the boys just about had it.

“okay, what‘s happening? where the hell are they? this is ridiculous,” mammon said, his eyebrows raising slightly in disbelief.

satan brought his hand to rest on his chin as he thought for a moment. “did anything happen recently to make them withdraw? mammon’s right, for once—“

“hey!”

“—this is unprecedented.”

mammon leaned his chair back, crossing his arms. “i’ll have ya know, i’m a certified y/n behavior expert. usually—”

“no, you’re not. that’s me. who do you think you are?” levi grumbled from across the table.

“oh, then why don’t you—“

“i don’t know! i’m just as surprised as you are!”

“okay, okay, let’s calm down a bit everyone,” asmo exclaimed. “i’m sure it’s just stress from the upcoming exams, and we all know y/n takes their grades very seriously. plus, with the semester break coming up, they may be thinking about going back home for a few weeks, and i can imagine that’d take awhile to plan out, as well.”

levi paled. you? leaving?

i mean, it made perfect sense… earth was definitely more pleasant than the devildom, and it was your home. but…

levi had started to hope that you now considered the devildom your home, too :(

however, if that was the case, levi had just the thing, and he cleared his throat as he excused himself from the table. “i’m gonna go talk to them,” he called as he went to go find you.

as levi’s footsteps echoed throughout the halls of the house of lamentation, he allowed his thoughts to wander, feeling slightly giddy.

while he missed your presence, maybe it was for the better that you had distanced yourself… since he knew he would’ve spoiled his surprise otherwise.

a month had passed since he found out about the surprise galaxea tour, and putting his otaku powers to use, all his sleepless nights had paid off when he managed to get two VIP tickets to the final day of their tour — D2 of their devildom concerts. these tickets included sound check, front row barricade, and backstage… no, he wasn’t going to think about how much they cost. this was the opportunity of a lifetime, and if these weren’t reason enough to make you stay or come back early for break, he didn’t know what was.

that, and it was going to be the perfect moment to tell you about his feelings for you. as one of the first things you bonded over, he was sure of it— he was going to make sure it all was perfect, the whole thing.

quickly reaching your bedroom door, he knocked on it gently, his voice soft as he called your name. “y/n? i know you haven’t been feeling the best lately, so i have a little something for you…”

he waited a few moments, but received no response. he tried again.

“y/n? you okay in there?”

silence.

his eyebrows furrowed as he sighed, turning away. if you weren’t in your room, where were you?

he trudged back to his room, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to figure out any possible explanation for your behavior. what if you didn’t like the tickets? he knew it was silly, but now that the idea was in his head he was starting to feel anxious…

his head started to pound, but it was then levi realized that it wasn’t from a headache, but rather from the room to his left… your studio. even with the door shut, he could immediately recognize the song that was playing, and the floor shook every so slightly from the bass.

usually you didn’t let anyone in while you were practicing, but he was your best friend (and had given him exceptions on multiple occasions) and he had a good reason to interrupt. you’d understand, he knew you would.

levi quickly input the four-digit code and felt the tension in the door disappear, quickly swinging it open and entering the room to see you dancing to vega’s solo from galaxea’s latest album… which didn’t have an official choreography yet. were you creating your own? perfect. it was like the stars were aligning.

“y/n, you’re never gonna believe this, but…”

upon realizing his entry, you froze in place and stared at his reflection in the mirror in front of you.

the lyrics of your song echoed throughout the room, a stark contrast to the sweet melody: baby, life is painful sometimes, but your love doesn’t even come close

your breath hitched as you quickly turned to face him, cheeks flushed from the physical activity and from the fact that he caught you.

he grinned, eyes shining as he pulled out his phone to show you the tickets, walking closer… until he noticed the tablet on the ground, recording you.

or… was it a call?

sure enough, the face of a smiling young man, your choreographer, appeared on screen, but he stopped when he noticed the intruder.

“ummm… y/n, who’s that?”

it wasn’t a secret who galaxea’s choreographer was, and you didn’t want to give levi enough time to recognize him. you had to come up with an excuse to make him leave, quick!

“levi… this is my boyfriend.”

that was literally the worst excuse you could’ve made.

you wanted to throw yourself off a cliff for that one

you’d apologize to your choreographer later, as you could hear him snickering in the background, but the important part was that levi actually believed it…

and he did.

in the background, your voice sang: baby, your words are like a knife, why do the best things hurt the most?

levi’s world felt as if it had shattered, raining around him and cutting his skin as it pooled by his feet.

he had to come up with a reply so he could get out of there.

“oh… cool. i’mgonnaleaveyoubenowi’msorrygoodbye,” was what slipped past his lips as he bolted for the door, gone as quickly as he had came.

the minute the door shut you were sinking to the floor, your head in your hands as you let out a groan.

your choreographer erupted into laughter, the audio occasionally breaking here and there.

“i’m sorry, boyfriend? that was the best you could think of?”

“don’t.”

“okay, okay, fine. but you should know i already texted the others about this so come saturday, you will not be living this down.”

there was a brief moment of silence, then:

“you need to be more careful. look, i’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but i’ve worked with a lot of people, and unfortunately, i’ve seen some of them get hurt by who they trusted the most, especially regarding…” he gestured vaguely, “… this.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

“i’ll cut practice short since he’s your friend and i know you wanna go after him, so… from the top. one last time.”

your song restarted, and as you twirled to the rhythm, levi was doing a dance of his own.

“boyfriend ???” he screeched as he mashed the buttons on his controller, mouth open in shock.

“henry, can you believe this? i bet that’s what they were doing every saturday…”

he blanked.

“wait, no, not doing that guy— well, maybe— no, i meant, hanging out with— whatever! what difference does it make?”

he huffed as his body tensed, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

“no, i’m not upset. i’m reacting reasonably, don’t you think?”

henry stared at him, deadpan, and levi rolled his eyes.

“shut up.”

his character on screen got knocked over by a series of blows, and he growled in frustration.

“i just don’t know why they never told me.”

his fingers flurried across the buttons, eyes locked on to the screen as his character resumed the fight, and after a few minutes of quiet, he muttered, “i’m so stupid.”

louder, “of course they’d choose that guy over me.”

louder still, “why would i be worthy of them? have you seen me?”

and when his character emerged victorious, the level complete, he shouted, “okay, fine, i’m upset, are you happy?”

and when he turned to face henry, his friend only looked at him sadly as hot tears rolled down his cheeks, splashing onto his thumb and the plastic of his controller. he didn’t even realize he’d been crying.

“i’m so pathetic, aren’t i? i’m a coward. i never had the guts to actually ask them out and look what happened,” he laughed dryly.

“yeah, maybe i overreacted a little, but i was just… hoping…” his voice broke.

“fuck,” he sobbed before trying to turn it into a laugh. “maybe it’s better this way. they’re human. of course they’d have a human boyfriend. since when has the whole human-demon thing ever…”

and then he thought of your pact, his mark resting on the back of your neck…

and as his eyes flared up in envy, his body trembling, he knew one thing: