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The dim golden lighting of overhead chandeliers bathes rich mahogany in a soft glow. Somewhere nearby, a clock ticks in steady succession. Lucifer leafs through the documents in hand with thinly pressed lips, sorting them by date and relevance for the meeting that is all but five minutes away. The Demon Prince, as always, is yet to make an appearance in his own office. Lucifer eyes his empty chair with apprehension, one leg crossed over the other in his own seat just beside. Gloved fingers drum over Diavolo’s desk in impatience, ruby eyes glancing at the golden watch-face tucked into his sleeve.
Lucifer wonders, at times, how the prince managed to run a realm before him. And more importantly, how that had intrigued an angel of the highest faith. But he doesn’t like to dwell on the past.
It washes ashore memories unwanted.
The gentle clink of ceramic pulls him from his thoughts, eyes falling on the intricately crafted mug that steams with fresh coffee. Or so he believes, based on previous experience with the mortal world. Aside from base etiquette, Devildom cuisine largely remains a mystery to him, varied and chaotic as it is. Lucifer lifts his gaze and finds possibly the most ill-suited person to serve him a beverage. To serve him anything at all, really. Perhaps, once upon a time, they were considered of equal station and such a gesture would be simple hospitality. Now?
Well, a lot has changed.
He musters Diavolo with careful neutrality, clipping together the papers for later perusal.
“What is this?” He asks, because he knows to recognise expectancy in Diavolo’s gaze when he sees it. Perhaps it is a courtesy he doesn’t deserve. They are no longer friends.
Diavolo gives him a cordial smile, pushing the mug closer.
“Hell’s Coffee.” He answers, for once simple and uncomplicated. Lucifer wonders if he’d receive the same transparency if he dared to ask questions that’ve been hanging between them like dead weight since the Fall. “I stopped by the kitchens and took the liberty of making some. It’s a hybrid variety exclusive to the Devildom and has its own charm.”
It’s a warm gesture, by all means. Lucifer looks down at the cup and makes no move to accept it. The distinct lack of a second mug rouses suspicion.
“None for yourself?”
Diavolo tilts his head slightly and smiles something softer. The glint in his eyes is all too familiar. It’s a specific emotion he only seems to direct towards Lucifer. Frustratingly enough, he doesn’t know what it means.
“The properties are a bit fragile.” Diavolo says, walking around the desk. “Preparing it for yourself would give you all the flavour profile of filtered water. Preparing it for a stranger is next to the same. It has to be for a demon you–”
Diavolo stills for a moment, seeming to calculate his words.
“…know.” He finishes, gaze directed to their shared work. “In any case, it’s best considered an act of service.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow and doesn’t hold his tongue.
“I wasn’t aware the reigning monarch did acts of service.” He quips, inspecting the mug. “One would think he’s exempt.”
Diavolo considers and settles into his chair.
“Is being King not the greatest act of service of all?” He asks, evidently rhetorical, but it makes Lucifer’s jaw clench. Of course. He’d do anything for his people. The only question is whether the fallen considered among them. “I believe you deserve the appreciation, considering all you have done for me.”
Blood soaked feathers and the smell of brimstone. Lucifer remembers the outstretched hand clearer than the life he had before.
‘There is more to be done yet.’ Is what he wants to say. ‘I struggle to think of how you’d repay me once that comes to pass. You may not be able to.’
“Thank you.” Lucifer says instead. He hasn’t quite placed the intentions behind Diavolo’s praise yet, but until then, the best option is to feign disinterest. Lucifer returns to his work. The clock ticks and the coffee remains untouched.
“It is best had hot.” Diavolo says, a subtle push. Lucifer hums to indicate interest. It will go as it always does — Diavolo will drop the matter after two minutes, he will drink a sip or two and dismiss the rest to the kitchens. “Won’t you humour me by having a taste?”
The undercurrent of Diavolo’s voice, however, gives Lucifer pause. It’s far less impersonal than the cuisine he recommends at banquets, and even the rare occasion he brings Barbatos’s cooking as a gift. Theirs is a fragile state of equilibrium at the moment. For some reason, Diavolo is willing to push the boundaries of it for…coffee.
Perhaps being the one to make it adds interest. Adds pride. Perhaps Diavolo’s is being hurt.
“I’ll wait for it to cool.” Lucifer deflects, knowing full well he has no aversion to burning his tongue. Not much pain fazes him anymore. Not after Falling.
“Very well.” Diavolo says, perfectly polite by all accounts. His pride remains as steady as ever, and Lucifer makes the mistake of looking. Diavolo is the future King of Demons; his is a front that has been honed and perfected over the centuries. There are few who could read past his ever-present smile. Perhaps Lucifer’s curse is to be one of them, because he sees the shadow of disappointment in golden eyes with ease. It doesn’t seem to be at Lucifer, but the circumstances themselves. Perhaps it wasn’t ego that was hurt, but something softer.
Lucifer doesn’t have time to dwell before the administrator arrives.
His is not a great role in this meeting, as always, and his thoughts inevitably wander to the background noise of their voices. He thinks of his brothers; some at home, the others at duty. He thinks of the damaged walls and the muffled cries and the ever-present smell of copper that lingers in the House of Lamentation. He thinks of the anger in his chest where there was once fondness and the contempt in their eyes when they now see him. He thinks of betrayal — from their creator to them, and from Lucifer to his brothers.
The bitterness on his tongue is melancholic.
By the end of the meeting, the mug is in his hands and the edge of it at his lips. He doubts Diavolo would attempt to tamper with his drink so boldly; he already has Lucifer where he wants, there’s nothing more to gain out of it. Lucifer tends to refuse on principle rather then genuine apprehension. He’d prefer to avoid the hassle altogether, but his mortal form aches for attention—something about forgetting to feed it for the last few days. And Lucifer happens to be in need of a distraction.
He takes the barest sip.
His throat clogs up almost instantly, a terrible, terrible bitterness blossoming across his palate. Violent coughs force their path out of his lungs. His ribs ache with the intensity of it. He’s halfway through an incantation when the cup slips from his grasp, crashing to the floor in broken fragments. The heat of it stains his dress pants.
There’s a hand on his shoulder.
“What did you-?” Lucifer rasps, the withering taste clinging to every corner of his mouth. He wants to claw it out and incinerate it. He wants to push out all the sickness in his body until only the empty shell of his corpse remains. “What was that?”
“I give you my word, Lucifer, it was Hell’s coffee.” Diavolo attempts, but Lucifer is painfully aware of the other presence in the room. Perhaps this is all an elaborate set-up. “It might’ve been the ingredients or—no matter, are you alright?”
Lucifer feels frazzled. This is far from how he wanted his day to go, and a measly cup of coffee has somehow ruined it.
“I’m fine.” Pride answers, a bit too sharp. He composes himself in seconds. With a wave of his hand, everything is restored to perfection. Lucifer’s exhaustion shows in the unreasonable drain to his energy reserves for simple magic.
Before he can stop it, Diavolo is sipping from the restored mug.
“Everything seems to be fine.” Diavolo frowns, setting it down carefully. “Could you describe it for me? When you tasted it.”
All of a sudden, the third occupant in the room remembers their mouth, caught between gathering their items and watching the scene unfold.
“Devildom cuisine certainly isn’t to be trifled with.” They say, positively infuriating. There’s a certain pride to their tone. Lucifer’s wrath simmers dark beneath the surface. “I suppose it’s to be expected that fallen angels would struggle to adapt. It’s in your nature, after all.”
Lucifer glares with all his fury, not dignifying that with a response. Diavolo steps in between.
“You may be dismissed.” He says, and the demon seems to remember themselves. They leave with a muttered farewell, door falling closed far too slowly for Lucifer’s liking.
“The bitterness.” Lucifer answers finally, fighting not to cover his mouth. The shock seems to let his words flow where there was once silence. “It was unbearable. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
The following questions are on the tip of his tongue, but before he can ask, Diavolo goes deathly still in his chair. Within the span of seconds, a hundred emotions filter through molten gold and Lucifer barely understands the first.
“…Bitter, you say?” He asks.
“Bitter.” Lucifer confirms, latching onto the implicated significance of it. “Do you know something?”
There’s a moment of pause before Diavolo laughs lightly, mostly to himself. He shakes his head and Lucifer isn’t sure if that is denial or disbelief.
“In theory.” Diavolo evades, and Lucifer doesn’t have the strength to push further. “To put your mind at ease, however, I’d consider it a good thing.”
“A good thing.” Lucifer repeats, sceptical. Diavolo’s definition of good has been blurry at best. Instead of a response, his hand is met with the stem of a demonus glass.
“To wash it down.” Diavolo reasons, and Lucifer doesn’t think twice. “And yes…”
The note of Diavolo’s voice is softer than the slide of red down his throat.
“A good thing.”