Chapter Text
Belial is already twenty minutes late.
Every tick of the second hand on his watch reminds him that he dallied far too long. He has to shrug it off; time or no time, he needs to look his best. That means combed hair, manicured nails, shined leather shoes. He was going to go with his black double-breasted mohair suit at first, but then someone had to go and bleed all over it. Above all things, there is no bringing work into ceremony, especially not today’s ceremony.
Five minutes to shower, five minutes to change, ten minutes to the town clerk. He leaps out of the car when it parks by the curb. The wool suit he had to change into is a little warm for the weather, and the slim cut hugs his best angles when he runs, but he is running to something and not away from it. There’s no better reason to go even faster.
He dashes up to the second floor, and there by the teller window is the light in the dark, his love, his messiah. He is as pale and radiant as a star under the halogen lights, in suit as black as shadow. The red scarf he always wears tumbles across his shoulders and flows as elegantly as a trickle of blood, twists like a serpent when Lucilius turns towards him.
The little clerk looks like she’s about to pass out. She recognizes Lucilius as trouble, and if she didn’t recognize it from his look, then she definitely does from the pistol at his shoulder. The other employees are staring at Lucilius and the clerk scared out of her mind. They’re on edge, but it doesn’t seem like anyone has tried to call the police. If they had, there would be blood on the floor.
“You,” every word from Lucilius’ throat is a crackle of fire, turning everything to ash, “are late.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I got caught up in things—”
“Enough of your excuses.” Lucilius slaps a pen into Belial’s hand. “Sign.”
“You’re working me to the bone here,” he sighs, but fills out the marriage form otherwise. It’s a strange feeling, putting down his actual personal information. When was the last time he told the truth to the state?
The clerk checks over their IDs, real for once, and scribbles some approvals down. Her penmanship is surprisingly steady for such a shaky hand. She does not ask for the license fee.
“You have to wait 24 hours to be married after you fill out your marriage license…”
Lucilius gives her a look that could clot blood.
“...Or I could process this right now. Could you wait a moment, please?” She could not scurry away to the back room any faster.
Belial lets out a dramatic sigh and slings his arm across Lucilius’ shoulders. “Now darling, be nice to the young lady. Without her, none of this would get done.”
Lucilius clips him with a stare, one that says both that he knows exactly how to expedite bureaucratic nonsense and that he still despises any pet names. Belial knows this, but that Lucilius doesn’t point the gun at him is proof that he’s the exception.
Their lady comes back with another clerk, who checks the paperwork over before handing it back. She sits back down, still shivering, still waiting until she’s doomed. “Change of name?”
“No,” Lucilius answers for him. Belial’s a nobody, and Lucilius is looking to end his bloodline with him.
“Are you having a civil ceremony?”
Belial looks to Lucilius then; he never thought he would ever get married, so he’s willing to go with the flow.
“If you must.”
No church, then. As much as Belial would have loved to have Lucio officiate their wedding, see if that perfect face crumbles when he sees just who is marrying his darling little brother, Lucilius would willingly go to church when he’s dead.
“Then do you have a witness?” The clerk blinks wildly when she sees Lucilius staring bored and expectantly at her. “Me? I couldn’t possibly…” She is then reminded of the bulk by Lucilius’ shoulder. “I will very happily be your witness, sir.”
They will not have their ceremony outdoors, where everyone can ogle them. Theirs is a private affair, one that they will only permit one outsider to see. The room the clerk leads them to is very bare; empty tables set on the sides for cakes and plates, a high ceiling for streamers and banners to hand but not too high that it can’t be reached, wide enough for a few small groups to stand comfortably. At the front of the room, the clerk’s speech comes out rushed, fear speeding up the first half and memorization speeding up the latter.
Belial turns to Lucilius, takes Lucilius’ long fingers in his palm and squeezes. Lucilius glances at him, but allows it.
She offers that they say their vows, and Belial sneers in her face. Whatever vows Lucilius and him have, they’re not ones crafted by tradition or the state. They’ve said their own, on their own time, in ways nobody else would understand.
The gray velvet of the box has a splash of blood on the corner, and it doesn’t come off no matter how much Belial rubs at it. Their rings are plain; no jewels, just a simple gold band a quarter of a millimeter thick, one that’s only visible either by looking close or standing in the sun. He is careful slipping his onto Lucilius’ finger, smooth and undisturbed, having memorized every nock of bone from fingertip to knuckle. Lucilius slams his ring on Belial’s finger, already annoyed and impatient. It makes Belial laugh from the bottom of his stomach.
“Then um, I pronounce you both husbands. You may, er, kiss the groom.”
The moment. Belial’s life is hanging by a thread. He may have ground a man down into chuck and bone an hour earlier, but now he’s as fragile as he’d ever be. He waits for Lucilius’ judgment, as he always has.
Lucilius, the terror of the state, the intolerable genius, the bane to peace and mercy. Lucilius, whose thoughts lie deeper than the blackness of the sea, whose wrath could bring down the stars, whose silence hollows more than death. Lucilius, who grabs his collar and pulls him down to kiss him.
Lucilius, who he will belong to, and who belongs to him, eternally.
As long as that eternity shall last, by Lucilius decreed. The look his newlywed husband gives him now promises a very slow and agonising death for what’s he done.
Rather, what he hasn’t done.
Belial hasn’t even had time to take off his shoes, much less unload the rifle at his back. “Nice to see you too,” he purrs, unable to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. He leans in. “Where’s my welcome home kiss?”
Lucilius clicks the safety on his gun.
“News travels fast,” Belial jokes, as though Lucilius doesn’t have a finger on the vein of the city. His hit would have been confirmed seconds after the fall, had it been carried out. And then, he could have always radioed Lucilius himself— but he didn’t. No news is bad news, ain’t it. “There were complications, my darling. My trumpet. My little honey bun—”
He must have a death wish because the pet names are only wearing down the short wick of Lucilius’ patience. “You had one job. You had the tools. You had the opportunity. The one and only thing I expect of you is to rise to the occasion, and now you’ve failed me on every single front.” The words are just little needles that jab; what hurts the most, what hurts at all, is that Lucilius won’t even look at him.
Belial heaves a sigh and removes his gun, throws it by the strap onto the couch. Lucilius is fast-retreating into their home. “Like I said, there were problems—”
“Enough.”
Lucilius seats himself in his chair. It’s comfortable, made of real leather dyed stark red. There’s ash marks where Belial extinguished his cigarettes into the material and it had to be re-fitted, but there’s also stains of sweat that belong to more than just him, and they’ve silently agreed not to talk about it.
This, though. Lucilius crosses his legs and docks his elbow against the arm of the chair, resting his chin against his knuckles. Belial takes a willing place by his feet, testing his luck when he presses the side of his cheek against his husband’s thigh. Still, no cutting stare. He doesn’t even get a kick. That’s how serious it is.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“I have an idea,” Belial murmurs. He shuts his eyes to the sunset cutting through the blinds and brings himself back to the moment. Camped out in the highest window of the chapel, he’d had a straight shot for the man himself. There was no wind; his target had been thoroughly distracted by coffee and company.
He could have put a bullet through brown hair, but he didn’t. His shot had cast low and grazed a sinewy neck. It would’ve bled like a bitch but it wouldn’t have killed. He didn’t stick around to check. And all of this because—
“You could’ve told me your twin was dating the target.”
“Cousin,” Lucilius corrects snippily, “Who now knows that there is a hit out on that boy, because you missed.”
“A bullet through the head would have clued him in, I think,” Belial muses.
“You could have pushed him. Cut him. You could have fucked him and strangled him in bed,” Lucilius scoffs, knee shifting and upsetting Belial’s position. “But you chose the dangerous route and now they are aware they’re being hunted.”
“Are we going to kill your cousin?”
“No, you clod. He is more likely to kill me.”
“I won’t let him.”
“You can’t even aim a gun. What do your promises mean?”
Everything. Nothing. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of what looks like the love of your life through the scope and your guts twist. As vile a lifestyle they lead, as demonic as they are, Belial is still human. And no one had bothered to tell him there were three!
“I could have him gutted and filled in a bathtub of his own blood 60 hours from now,” Belial offers.
Lucilius finally looks at him. His eyes pierce straight through him, but they stop at the spine. They’re not like Lucio’s, whose gaze just keeps on traveling on and outward.
Belial could offer a prayer here and now, and it would be the most genuine thing he had ever done.
“The boy and Lucifer know he’s being hunted,” he repeats, slow, as if speaking to a child. In truth, the cogs behind his eyes are turning, and Belial is getting to see that marvelous brain at work. “And we will be at the top of their list. A vengeful death will only confirm it. In two weeks, you will go outside, and you will kill him in the style of another family. Micenos or Bestia.”
“No Excellent Cadavers.”
Lucilius clicks his tongue. “Cadavere senza valore."[1]
Belial laughs. It’s a thick sound. He kisses the toe of Lucilius’ shiny shoes and presses a hand to his heart.
Two weeks more of eternity. After that, a falling star dies.
Sandalphon had never run faster in his life. Only once he stops does he feel the sharp pain in his side where a car clipped him when he dashed across a freeway, the dull throb in his left foot where he jammed his foot into a sidewalk crack but kept going, and all the aches. He reaches up to his neck and his fingers come back bloody, wound having opened up in the mad dash. Each breath can’t come fast enough, and he props himself up on the side of a wall. Here’s far enough that the only people looking down the street are the drunks coming home from the bars.
He parks himself behind the shadows of two dumpsters and collapses onto the concrete. Adrenaline still pumping, he reaches towards the dumpster legs, caked with dust and hardened grime, and his hands come up shaky.
Nothing tonight went right. There’s three hours until dawn and he wishes it would come sooner.
A night at the fast food joint by the highway turned sour when a couple of street boys from White Dragons had sat down uninvited at their booth, starting with some sharp words and ending in a brawl. Fighting isn’t like movies; the faster the better. Sandalphon is quick on his feet and quicker with a hand razor. Even if they managed to get the three street boys down, the sirens told a different story. Scattering’s normal, a promise to regroup later. Scattering means that the cops can’t get all of them, and whoever they do get never has the whole story.
Sandalphon had taken a different route than usual; weaved past the traffic jam off the main strip, down a few unswept alleyways. There aren’t many patrol cars down by the riverside docks, the cops not wanting to risk their government-car bumpers on the cobblestones.
He wasn’t in Society territory, but Sandalphon ducked behind a line of cars when he saw Don Alandus exiting one of the apartments, chatting with a young woman. A few men were loitering around the stoop, looking like they had parked there for the night, but far too many to be just any congregation.
A drunk woman stumbling on spike heels fumbled her way through the streets, drinking the remains of her night out in a brown paper bag. She’d tripped on the cobblestones, drink smashing into the Don’s car as he was about to get in, spilling all across the windshield. He’d stopped to yell at her, and Sandalphon heard her slurred voice bouncing between the empty buildings, reaching into her purse for an insurance card and coming up with a gun. The Don’s face exploded in a spray of blood.
Sandalphon took off before anyone had time to scream. He hadn’t been spotted, and he wasn’t about to be. He didn’t care where he was going— anywhere that wasn’t there. That wasn’t an accident, a random drive-by spraying gunfire to hit whatever they can. That was a killer’s hit; that was planned.
The thoughts still shiver across his head. Society was going to be in a panic in the morning, with one of their heads dead. If they don’t manage to get a grip on their territories, it’s going to be a mad scramble to see who eats them first. More blood is going to be spilled in this town, and Sandalphon’s group doesn’t want anything to do with it. But no amount of wishing means that hell’s not going to get raised soon.
A chill is in the nighttime air, and Sandalphon finds the notches along the brick wall. Sinking his fingers into one, one nail still split from where it bashed into the booth table and a pocketknife. A small trickle of blood dribbles down towards his palm, oxygen stinging.
Nobody’s coming for him. Nobody saw him. He’ll just loop around the pier and head right back uptown to sleep off this nightmare. He wants to collapse into his soft mattress, pull the sheets over his head, and forget this whole thing.
Or Lucifer. The idea sticks in his head for the briefest moment: text Lucifer, and when he responds at least that would be a lifeline to normal life, a reminder that someone on the other end is a place where he’s safe. What Sandalphon wouldn’t give to be with Lucifer right now, to have Lucifer assure him that everything would be alright.
Now’s not the time for daydreams. He pushes the idea out of his head. What’s important is getting back uptown, and getting safe.
“Well, he’s dead. His face is strawberry pie. Good riddance.” Feower clicks his tongue at the body, no compassion lost. The police have to do their jobs, even when the victim is scum. “Did you get all the statements?”
Lucifer nods, hands Feower the hastily scribbled down notes from the witnesses, at least from the ones that hadn’t fled. One might wonder why not all of them turned tail the moment the murder occurred, but it was more a matter of documenting who was present and off the hook rather than asking the police for aid.
Feower snatches the pad with his usual brashness, grumbling as he flips through its contents. He’d downed a whole triple shot of espresso before he came here, and his usual sour temperament wasn’t helped by having to wake up in the middle of the night on his off day. Forensics are still taking photos of the body, but Lucifer’s allowed to come close, just as long as he doesn’t disturb the crime scene. No sign of the perpetrator, likely either hauled away by the ones that ran, or escaped themselves. Another body would pop up soon, he knew it.
There have been a lot of bodies lately. Corpses have become more normal than Lucifer has ever wanted; two weeks ago, it was Alethan from Levin, brained on the sidewalk. Connor of Irestill, suffocated when his home caught fire. None of them were brazen, and all of them were cautious, not the types to be caught off guard by someone trying to make a name for themselves. Lucifer knew them all. Once.
Threo scares him from the front. She’s learned that she shouldn’t startle him from behind, but usually he sees her coming. The blood soaked cobblestones and the white tape encircling a corpse who was once a person had drawn him in like a bog. What she’s saying fizzles in and out, and she still talks too fast. He gestures her closer, and her mouth pops open in realization, stepping into his space. “Coffee!” she yells, holding up the set of three.
Feower reaches over, plucks his out of the bunch, and starts chugging. Lucifer carefully takes his and thanks her, and she grins before skipping away to give instructions to the paramedics arriving on the scene.
His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He doesn’t have many people who know his number, not while he’s on duty. He slides back to the patrol car and checks when nobody's looking, sucks in a deep breath when he sees who it is.
Are you awake? Sandalphon.
Sandalphon knows his work shifts, he knows that Lucifer is on duty tonight. He sends back a quick message, asking if something is wrong.
He’s finished half his coffee by the time he gets a response. No, I just wanted to know if you had time. Ten seconds, then, Are you free tomorrow? I want to see you.
Sadly, he is not. With a murder of this profile, he’s going to be stuck at his desk doing paperwork, and silently collapse when he gets home. Sandalphon knows he’s part of the murder investigation, but he doesn’t know why the bodies and caution tape and snapping shutters freeze Lucifer’s spine. He can’t know, and it’s better if he doesn’t.
If only Sandalphon were here right now. If only Lucifer could steal a few hours away from his desk, or have the time to snag an extra few minutes at lunch to see the sunlight curve in Sandalphon’s smile. Sandalphon would talk about his day, some small things, some silly, and the weariness would fall away. He reminds Lucifer to breathe when he’d forget to otherwise.
I’m sorry, not tomorrow. He is just as disappointed writing it as he imagines Sandalphon would be reading it. Next week, perhaps?
A long minute. Then, Next week, a promise that pushes the bog just a bit further away.
Lucifer is the light in the dark. Lucifer is a goodness that simply shouldn't exist in their world of guns and Families. When Lucifer smiles at him, Sandalphon can forget the swift beating delivered to him by a cop when he was ten, sticky fingers just trying to grab enough food for him and his own.
The man had burned a cigar through the entire encounter. When he was satisfied with the amount of times he had stomped Sandalphon's head and hands, he'd laughed, and dusted the excess ash right into Sandalphon's face. He still has the little pink scars dusting his nose.
Beautiful Lucifer, so kind and curious, had thought them freckles. Sandalphon didn't have the heart to correct him.
But now is not a day for reminiscing about the love of his life. Sandalphon buries his head further beneath the blankets, popping open his phone. The thin tug of dread that pulls at him every time— because surely, this is the day Lucifer finds out about his record— disappears with the new flood of texts. Some are from buzzing group chats he never asked to be a part of. A few are for him alone.
A smile tugs at his face while he clutches a pillow to his cheek. Sariel's completed his ant farm and sent a triumphant picture of the glass stand. It's finished, says the otherwise bland text, but Sandalphon can feel his distant happiness radiating from here. It's no small feat to recruit ants from between the cracks in the sidewalk and make them all get along.
Grats, he sends back, but his group understands him; that he responds at all is a feat in itself. Sariel will not send him a new message until a new vital ant-related development has occurred, and that's okay.
Next: a somewhat bombastic capture of the recent news, and death, of a certain don that Sandalphon was present for. Sandalphon winces; he knows Karteira means well, but there's gold in her eyes and an ear pressed to the wall of every Family house.
This is our chance! she rattles from the other side of town.
With every family about to fight over new territory? Pass.
You'll never become a don this way, Sandy, comes the chipper reply.
He grunts aloud. When did that become his new moniker? It's spreading like a disease. I'm not interested in being part of Society, he taps.
Again, quick as lightning: Because of Lucifer?
And here he scowls. He hasn't told anyone in their group about his whirlwind… relationship? romance? The very thought makes him red at the ears. He is furious in reply: This has nothing to do with him.
So you DO know him! Aha! The boss has finally caught the love bug!
Physically trembling from rage, and definitely not embarrassment, Sandalphon snaps: I have nothing to do with him and he has nothing to do with me. Keep me out of your rumour mills.
Roger, Karteira answers. He only trusts her for all the years they've been together. She would gladly sell out anyone else—
There's a knock at his door and Sandalphon tumbles out of the sheets. He is a haphazard mess when Gabriel enters. "Morning," she greets, warm as a hot spring, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. "How's your neck?"
Sandalphon has half a mind to refuse her, but it's almost midday and he hasn't eaten since the Don's untimely demise. "Fine," he answers neutrally, receiving the tray in his lap. A bit guilty, he rebukes, "I never asked you to—"
"Oh, I know. You just have to accept that some people love you, Sandalphon," she giggles. Grace incarnate, she settles with her silvery dress and layers at the stool across from his bed. She takes his phone from him and hands him a napkin. "Everyone has been worried about you."
"...I've just been tired," he lies, biting the back of his tongue. He lies about Lucifer; he lies to Lucifer; he lies about almost getting shot in the neck and seeing a man's face explode like a cherry bomb. He's so tired of lying. "I'll be back with Noa and the boys today."
Gabriel brings her hands together softly. She manages to make plugging a phone into the wall look graceful. "They'll be excited. They've been practising without you."
At Sandalphon's considerate silence, she adds with a sigh, "Gran gave himself a concussion."
Sandalphon baulks. "Again?"
"He's quite determined to be as acrobatic as you."
"He has the finesse of a paper bag," Sandalphon curses around a biscuit.
Gabriel laughs. "All the more reason to guide him, no? You took in a group of thieving little boys and made them more passionate about parkour than picking pockets. You're their hero."
Sandalphon snorts.
"...Papa."
"I am NOT—" he begins, but Gabriel is giggling her way out the door.
Left to stew in his own annoyance, Sandalphon ignores the fond beating of his heart and sips at his coffee.
It's sweet, not at all bitter like the blends Lucifer makes.
There is a healthy distinction between a Family and a family. What they have is a family. What makes a Family is greed, corruption, and people tied together under the false premise of protecting each other. Families kill each other to get ahead. A family, on the other hand—
—begins and ends with Sandalphon tucking Gran into bed, an icepack pressed to the side of his head. "You absolute fool," he swears, frowning even harder when Gran grins at him.
"I'm getting better," the young boy promises. "And one day, I'm going to be even better than you."
Sandalphon laughs. "I'd like to see you try." When Gran moves to get up, he firmly pushes him back into bed. "But not while your head is cracked open like an egg."
Gran complains; Noa moves in delicately, almost like a ghost, to provide damage control.
Families burn away their members' pasts and make soldiers out of them. A family knows that Gran was abandoned by his father and lives with it; a family knows Noa ran away from home in a ship and got cast away in a volatile storm, washing up on the beaches without a lick of memory besides his escape and his name.
Families are a curse. A family is a home. Sandalphon trudges to the library, offering a half-hearted wave to Arusha while the day's exercises burn through him.
He sits down at a desk with a pile of ring binders. Arusha comes over to him with coffee. He gives her a look that must paint her as a lifeline because she laughs. (A family laughs. Together.) "This is about all I could find on the Astrale. You'd have more luck if you asked your boyfriend," she says, with all the subtlety of a thrown brick.
"He's not my boyfriend," Sandalphon says, hiding his doubt in his coffee.
"Anyway. The police records are a lot more detailed. If you want the real story, get your hands on them. And then share them with me so I can get them archived," Arusha answers, her eyes aglitter as she moves on to the next shelf to re-organise. She is fated to get lost in a new book moments later, and Sandalphon hears her get trapped by her tiny gasp of delight.
The first ring binder is the basics, all the info anyone on the street would know. The Astrale Family was founded earlier than Society itself and built up the traditions they know today. They funded the politicians; they funded the police; they funded the arts and sciences and made their city flourish.
And now that's all come to an end. Sandalphon studies the incomplete family tree in his hands. The current leader is unnamed but his father had two sons with a bright-haired woman who was gunned down by a regular citizen in the middle of the day. There's news clippings to the effect, but it doesn't matter. Sandalphon remembers.
What followed was a bloody war so loud it rang through to the normal world. Corruption, or anger, or rebellion— he's never been sure why, but the people were mad. They unmade the Astrale who had made their city and home, not satisfied until the remaining members were forced into hiding. They should have been extinguished.
But the heirs remained.
"I heard they got a lot of foreign money after the war," Arusha says chattily, nearly startling Sandalphon out of his chair. She can never resist her curiosity for long. "Why are you so interested in them all of a sudden?"
Sandalphon can't rightly deny the truth to the woman who painstakingly gathered all the files for him. It took her days; he averts his eyes guiltily and touches the bandaged side of his neck. "I was just curious."
He tastes the you're never curious hovering in the air, but after a moment, Arusha nods and lets him return to his devices.
That's what a family does: they trust each other. And he is completely undeserving of that trust.
—The Astrale Family is rumoured to have received an injection of foreign money after all was said and done. The two sons can't be more than his age, not with how they were hidden. The man to rise from the ashes was a cross-wearing, hooded freak with a gold braid and a creepy smile. He was the public face of the family while Sandalphon was growing up, but even he's gone away.
The shaky foundations of the Family remain in the architecture, the culture, the few surviving members. But…
Sandalphon twirls his pen and leans back in his chair. Arusha kindly refills his cup. The sunset outside turns to evening.
He shuts his eyes to think…
And he's right back in it, the moment the shot grazed his shoulder. Stupidly, he had whipped around to look at where the bullet had come from, right before Lucifer had pulled him under the table.
His ears still ringing from the shot, he had started blabbering: "What? What's going on? Lucifer, what was that? I—"
Then Lucifer had hushed him with a finger to his lips. No second shot came, but they stayed under that table for a long time. He had deliriously stared at Lucifer and thought about how much he wanted to kiss him right then and there.
Sandalphon cringes at the memory.
Lucifer had been signing to him but most of it went in one ear and out the other. Frustrated, Lucifer had lifted his voice, scratchy from disuse and yet,
Yet, it had been the most beautiful thing Sandalphon had ever heard.
"Astrale," Lucifer said like a curse.
"Astrale?" he'd repeated back dumbly.
"The…" And then Lucifer had teetered off, consumed by thought or realising he had said too much or something. Sandalphon had never been able to get in his head.
Careful that he had Sandalphon's attention, he signed: I will protect you.
Sandalphon had swallowed, and Lucifer had mopped at the blood spilling from his neck and gathered him close.
"No, I'm—"
"Sandalphon," Lucifer said, the stress all wrong, the phon coming out like phone. Sandalphon's heart had stopped right there. "I will protect you."
He nodded furiously against Lucifer's shoulder, and they remained beneath the table until the back-up Lucifer had radioed for made their way over.
And now, in another moment, Sandalphon opens his eyes.
He'd squeaked out an excuse to get away from the police as soon as his neck was tended to, hating the furtive look on Lucifer's face as he made his escape. And now he's here, buried deep in files about the Society's oldest family, because of two words that had been said.
For revenge? For curiosity? To figure out why Lucifer muttered those words in the first place?
He can't place his motivations, but something dark rails through him.
"Arusha," he calls.
"Yes, Sandy?"
The nickname is ignored while his eyes travel over his papers. The Astrale are still out there, and they're trying to kill Lucifer. He has a name and a reason.
That's enough, right?
"Could you get me a fountain pen and an envelope?"
Arusha smiles. "I'm glad someone still remembers the joy of paper these days."
Sandalphon smiles, too. "I have some things only a letter could say."
With a healthy dose of assistance from Karteira— assistance he will be paying for, later— the word gets out.
Belial has put out the good teacups today. He knows this set is Lucilius’ favorite: a gold-rimmed handle with bright blue asters around the rim, an old gift from one of the few people Lucilius had let into his life. Belial’s either in a good mood, or is trying to butter Lucilius up for something.
“What is it today?”
“Peach and plum.”
Lucilius takes a tentative sip, lets the flavor seep in and settle. Belial hasn’t added any honey or milk, just the way Lucilius likes it. Belial doesn’t like tea, doesn’t care for a single thing about what goes with what, but he’s learned for Lucilius’ sake. It’s good. He likes this blend.
“Guess what?” Belial’s grin shows his canines, sharp and gleaming white. He places a small white box on the table, undoes the thin ribbons keeping the sides pressed together. Two scones, an ispahan, a pistachio tart with raspberries. No matter how many times he’s told Belial that no, he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, Belial goes out and buys some anyway. Lucilius sighs and puts the tart on his plate.
“What is this for?”
“What is what for?” Belial has always liked playing dumb. The stupider that people think he is, the more shocked they are when he sinks the knife in.
Lucilius has always seen through his skin. “This fancy teatime. You could have just picked some cookies from the cabinet.”
Belial pours a cup of his own, swirls the liquid that he doesn’t care for, and takes a sip himself. “It’s been going well, just like you wanted. You should be happy.”
“Albion is still breathing.”
“Because she’s been cautious. But you know, people have to live, go outside, see the sun. She’ll make a mistake eventually.”
“And the grit.”
“Yes, and little Sandy. Why do you want him dead so much, anyway? You don’t honestly think that gun punk is a threat to you, do you?”
Lucilius will not dignify that with an answer. Belial knows that if Lucilius puts out a request, he gets a body. He will get his bodies. Lucilius bites into the tart, tasting nothing. “There’s nothing to celebrate unless it’s all done.”
Belial sighs, a conversation they’ve had multiple times already, with neither of them budging in their stance until they got tired of the stalemate. “But you’re almost done. You’ll get there. You’ll get them all. And in the meantime?” Belial hooks a raspberry off the top of the ispahan, dropping it onto his tongue. “You can laugh at them going down.” Belial says a lot of things. For the serpent that he is, he’s also quite sentimental. Lucilius has never understood that about him.
It took him a long time to plan this. Even longer to lay out the tripwires. He was careful and slow about it, and now he’s just about ready. But anxiety worms into his fingers, wriggles beneath his muscles. He doesn’t like games he can’t win. Until he’s certain the board will be his, there’s no fun in it.
Lucilius holds out his drained teacup, and Belial pours him a fresh cup. “They deserve it. All of them.” They thought they could dance on his skeleton and that he wouldn’t notice. They thought that a young boy didn’t mean a thing. They thought wrong, all of them, and he will make them pay.
But first. “Where’s the jam?”
Belial doesn’t ask him which kind, he’s already gotten up to get the strawberry and has returned with cream too. Lucilius scoops up a heavy serving of both onto his scone and chews in silence. Belial watches him, grinning, like he finds the idea of Lucilius doing dumb boring things to be amusing.
“I’m with you until the end,” Belial tells him. “And beyond that, too.”
Stupid words for stupid lies. Promises that belong on love letters. Rubbish. When Belial first told him that, Lucilius was sure that he was lying. Now, he’s not so sure.
Hands aren’t holding. Lips aren’t touching. Thoughts aren’t running.
For all his intents, for all his purposes, there is simply no reason to get out of bed today.
Then Lucilius recalls his eruptive purpose in the world, and he stirs with a deep groan. Belial’s hand is on his hip before he can even move; when he moves, the fingers wrap tight.
“Stay,” Belial says, his voice a low rumble in the back of his throat.
There is no staying. To remain would be to stay the execution of all those who need to perish. Chaotic trains of thought a-jumble, Lucilius sits up and stretches, curving his spine and thrusting his hands above his head. He makes a quick noise,
And Belial licks his lips, drinking it all up. “Well, if you’re going to make cute noises, I guess I can allow it.”
“Do not begin to fathom,” Lucilius threatens through a yawn, “That you could tell me what to do.”
“No, no. My love.” Belial clicks his tongue in mock pity when Lucilius falls back onto the mattress, welcoming him with a strong embrace. “You're so tired."
”Stop."
Belial chuckles into his neck.
Some men were made to be greater than the rest; Lucilius does not count himself among them. But he is an outlier, just the same as his spousal ghoul. His whole body feels of dried sweat and fluids leaking down the side of his thigh. He is deep, bone-tired, and an instinct not unlike the voice of his brother tells him to consider a day of rest. It is the Lord’s day, after all.
Lucilius kicks his way out of bed. Belial remains, digging out a cigarette from his pants, slung over the nightstand.
“Thanks,” Belial hums when Lucilius leans down with a lighter. His eyes are lidded and he looks like he’s thinking about last night. Lucilius, by contrast, has the muddled insults of ‘morning people’ in his head. Belial pricks up when Lucilius drags out a stick for himself, lights it on the end of the first cigarette. The occasion is rare for them to indulge. Lucilius has his eyes trained on their lips for a full moment before he pulls away.
He stumbles and starts around the room, half-heartedly putting himself together. The black shirt that slips over his head is too big to be his own. He fumbles with the buttons, not used to the flaps on the right side, not when all of his shirts are tailor-made for a man who uses his left hand. Ash drips from his mouth and onto the rug. After several minutes of his lazy fussing, Belial extinguishes his cigarette and stands up.
“This is cute. You’re cute,” he swears, pushing his lips into Lucilius’ hair while he reaches out and finishes up the buttons. “You haven’t worn any of my shirts since Rome.”
“That was out of necessity,” Lucilius bites. Rain, splashing water from cars that didn’t know their names. Belial had laughed and surrendered the upper half of his clothing. Lucilius ordered a hit on three plate numbers when they got back to their hotel room.
“And now?”
Lucilius glares at his shirt, thrown all the way across the room. Belial moves away like he’s going to retrieve it, but he just dives into their armoire instead. He pulls out a fresh tie, a fresh red stola, a pinstripe suit that came as a wedding gift from the esteemed Donna Djeeta. Others knew, of course; she was the only one who cared to flaunt her knowledge.
He’s musing through his thoughts on lineage and how much he hates the other families while Belial gets him dressed. He does up all the buttons on Lucilius’ suit, just how he likes. He places the stola across his shoulders with the greatest of care, and the tie, knotting it high on Lucilius’ neck.
His husband gives it a tug and a smile. “I’m not going to let you collar me in bed,” Lucilius warns, and to that, Belial chuckles.
“I was just thinking that you looked good. You look right.”
“Not yet.”
“Sure we can’t just stay in today?”
“Are you sure you can keep your hands off the thief Catherine for a week?”
“No promises,” Belial answers, methodically tossing Lucilius his holsters. These, at least, he fits on himself with swiftness. Karambits disappear under his jacket and the pistol settles at his shoulder. “The Violet Smoke entices me.”
Belial only nearly misses having Lucilius put out his cigarette on his arm. He clothes fast, ‘ready-to-bolt-after-a-one-night-stand’ fast, but only because Lucilius doesn’t appreciate him idling.
Claudia raps at the door. Dorothy calls out sweetly, “Don, we humbly bring you the morning’s messages!”
“Breakfast, as well,” Claudia adds. After a pause, “Are you decent, Belial?”
“Just stunning, sweetheart.”
“Dorothy, slip his letters under the door.”
“The second deserves the same respect as our patron!” Dorothy argues.
Lucilius grunts.
The maids sweep the door open a crack and shuffle through, all without a wrinkle to their clothes. They offer a customary bow, though Dorothy’s breaks while she shuffles through the first letter atop the silver platter. “Direct from… Mr. Sandalphon!”
Lucilius grunts louder.
Belial whistles.
Well then.