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Iruma’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. His hands are scraped up, he’s starving and ravenous and—
The woman tilts her head, smiling at him. “Thank you, young man.” Her hands are clasped together. Behind her, boxes pile in her house.
Iruma had moved them for her. Had broken his back just because she asked. His hands tremble and he stares. Overexerted. Malnourished.
“Is there anything I can get you in return?”
Iruma freezes. A full body, completely immobilizing thing. In his chest, in his bones, he feels satisfaction. A job well done. And, now, a reward.
Slowly, he smiles. A wide, joyous smile. He can feel the cold air on his teeth, in his lungs.
“Can I have some water?” He asks, because dehydration kills faster than hunger, and she nods.
Iruma is well aware that he is odd compared to other humans. He is, constantly, feeling raw. Like his bones are too sharp in his skin to be comfortable. Like he is too stuck in a rut to look at the sky. He’s in a deep grave, and he cannot climb out of it, and he cannot dig out of it, and he cannot pray his way out of it, but he’s left leaving gouges in the rock walls.
And, like a beast, he doesn’t give up.
He will never give up.
And he has never given up before.
His parents are forgetful. They leave locks on the doors to the house and they forget to let him in. They leave locks on the pantry, on the fridge, on the freezer, and they forget to let him eat.
He eats berries and the fleshy, edible inner bark of trees.
He sets traps. He chars squirrel meat in fires.
But when his parents come looking for him, when they come begging, Iruma stares up at them—leaves in his hair—and says, yes, of course I’ll help.
He isn’t sure if locking him out is ever an accident. He isn’t sure if he loves his parents.
But he will never say no, he will never say leave me, he will never curse them out. It isn’t a conscious choice.
He will never refuse please, help, I’m begging you.
He remembers saying it, himself.
On a ship, Iruma struggles, but he is too stubborn.
Stolen from that ship, Iruma stares. Then, like an animal, he thrashes. He bites, he screams, he shrieks. It takes an hour for Sullivan to settle him, and when set in front of a contract that may very well kill him, to please, help, I’m begging you, he yields.
Iruma is frightened, but he’s always—on some level—frightened.
Demons will eat him. This demon wants to be called grandpa. What has ever not wanted to eat him? The grass he slept on could have been where he rotted.
Like an animal, except Iruma acts like a prey species, and he has never known safety or pure, unadulterated love.
Sure, he thinks, staring at a wall like a shark, waiting for blood to reach him, or like a squirrel, waiting for the winter to kill him, this might as well happen.
On the morning of his first day at school, Iruma eats until he can’t. On the noon of his first day at school, Iruma eats until there is no more food to eat. On the evening of his first day at school, Iruma eats until he can’t.
He isn’t cut off. There are no locks on doors or freezers or pantries. He eats because he doesn’t know when his next meal will be.
His grandpa just smiles at him, cooing, “what a good grandson! You make me so proud! You eat so much! A true demon!”
Iruma doesn’t know if he fits in or not.
Compared to humans he is odd. Compared to demons, it seems, he is also odd, but for different reasons.
Demons… they move a bit like human people, and also a bit not. They talk a bit like human people, and also a bit not. They act a bit like human people, but they also don’t.
Asmodeus bows, calls him master, says “you are simply outstanding!”
And Iruma blinks, staring down at him. Slowly, he shrugs. “No,” he says, “I’m really not.”
What makes him is his kindness, not his bravery, not his strength.
He is quick, and fast, and scrappy, and resourceful, and kind, and merciful.
That will never change.
He would give his life for another. He would never give up his life without a fight. His will flay whatever lays a finger on life. Even if he can’t. Even if he does it in his mind.
At first, playing with Clara a chore. One that he gets through because she needs someone to play with. One that he gets through because he has grown used to never, ever being allowed a moment to rest.
A few days later, when he trembles less and he is much better fed, it is so much fun.
A month or so after that, when his skin and bones are as strong as they should be, the extra energy is good to get rid of.
Iruma is odd. Compared to demons, he is odd.
He doesn’t think the way they do, naturally. He doesn’t move that way, he doesn’t yearn to fight that way.
He runs, and forcing himself to stay still in the line of danger, to catch a ball, is against every instinct he has ever gained in his life.
Also, he is absolutely enthralled by the smell of blood.
This isn’t something he’s known about himself long. In the human realm, he’s been around blood, and it hasn’t smelled as— as enticing, good, wonderful— like it has in the demon realm.
One day, he’s drawn to something that smells like candy—warm, iron-laced candy, but candy nonetheless—but is, instead, a student, crying for help, for a nurse, with a pocket knife embedded in their leg, stark red soaked into the fabric of their pants.
From his side, Asmodeus is panicking, Claire is concerned. Iruma’s mouth is full of saliva.
Oh, he thinks. That’s weird.
It isn’t just demons.
As soon as he figures this out, he’s asking his grandpa—sheepish, head down, nervous—for blood. Animal blood, specifically. Any kind, so long as it’s red.
Sullivan looks at him oddly, but Iruma drinks blood with his meals.
It’s good. It’s delicious. Iruma is too feral in the mind to care that much.
Is this what humans taste like to demons?
I need to be more careful.