Chapter Text
You struggle to eat for that first week back at the House of Lamentation. Belphegor avoids you for the most part, for which you are grateful. The dinner table is the only place you and Belphegor cannot escape each other's presence. Each time you see the Avatar of Sloth, a fresh wave of fear washes over you. But each meal becomes a little easier to stomach. The House of Lamentation still holds an unspeakable quiet tension, but you can feel it shifting, cautiously relaxing along with you and your lovers. You're finding a new normal together. It isn't perfect, but each day, you're a little less terrified of running into Belphegor as the fact that he cannot harm you with a pact in place sinks in.
"What're ya doin', treasure?" Mammon checks when he finds you in the kitchen during the afternoon.
Your stomach growls. Despite your best efforts, you are behind on classwork. Satan and Lucifer have been amazing, working together to help you catch up—you're proud of the way they pull together for you, no matter how at odds they are with one another. Solomon keeps checking in with you via messages on your D.D.D., too, in case you need his assistance. The week at Purgatory Hall has made you appreciate the sorcerer on a new level . . . and appreciate the lengths Simeon and Luke go to make sure he doesn't get a chance to cook.
Regardless of how much help and support you've had, focusing has been difficult since the incident. You're catching up on RAD classwork, slowly but surely.
But you aren't going to get any work done with your stomach growling. Which is why you are in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator.
Mammon leans against a cupboard, unsettled by your slowness to respond. He touches your arm to draw your attention back to the present and you blink out of a stupor you hadn't realised you'd slipped into.
"I was going to make a study snack . . ." you say, eyeing the groceries in the fridge.
Mammon rubs the back of his neck.
"I guess the Great Mammon could make ya a cup of spicy instant noodles if ya really want. But it'll cost ya!"
A quiet hum escapes you as stare into the fridge. Your eyes land on a certain set of ingredients and a smile tugs at your lips, but your lack of response has made Mammon nervous.
"Ya know I was only kiddin' about it costin' ya, right, treasure? I really will make ya some noodles if yer hungry . . ."
You reach into the fridge and when you straighten up, you're hold up a bag of jalapenos. You turn back to Mammon and crack a grin.
"I never made it up to you for giving Beel the jalapeno poppers I was supposed to share with you. Are you hungry?"
He looks shocked for a moment. A blush races across his face. He attempts to seem aloof, but you see the way his eyes light up.
"Y'know, with all the shit that's been goin' on lately, I forgot that ya did that to me." He stretches his arms up to cross them behind his head. "It's about time ya paid tribute to the Great Mammon for upsettin' me like that."
His smirk makes your heart melt. You kiss the corner of his mouth. His posture softens and he drops his arms from where he crossed them behind his head in favour of placing his hands on your waist.
"Oi, give me a proper one," he pouts.
You giggle and grab his face with both hands. You tease him with a rapid-fire peppering of kisses against his pouty lips.
"Oi! Whaddaya doin'?" he starts laughing with you. "I'm gonna getchya!"
You shriek with glee when he pulls you flush against him and captures your mouth in a deep, searing kiss. It makes you melt all over again. Your giggling falls quiet, and the cheeky smile on his mouth when he began the kiss became something more serious. You keep your hands on his cheeks, with the tips of your fingers in his hair. His kiss says so much—I'm worried about you. I'm here for you. I love you.
Mammon pulls back from you slowly and gives you a meaningful look. You offer a gentle smile.
"How about you go pick out a movie for us to watch in your room while I cook?"
Mammon's mouth twists at the suggestion.
"So long as ya promise not to go givin' these poppers to one of my brothers again!"
Sheepishly, you hold out your little finger.
"I pinky swear."
--
He sure is taking a while, you notice after Mammon has been gone for some time.
You've already gone through the process of making the filling, deseeding the chilis, and stuffing them. You're halfway through coating them with breadcrumbs when the kitchen door opens behind you.
"There you are. Did you decide to spring clean your room for our movie date?" you tease.
"Oh . . . Uh . . ."
Your blood freezes at the sound of Belphegor's voice. Your heart drops into your stomach as you turn to see him standing in the doorway. He's scowling at the floor, arms crossed over the pillow clutched to his chest.
Shit, he caught me off-guard . . .
"S-sorry, I was expecting Mammon," you say quickly.
"Yeah . . . I was grabbing some snacks to replenish Beel's stash in our bedroom."
You spy the handful of scrunched of candy wrappers and nod knowingly.
"Gotta keep the man fed," you manage, but it sounds flat on your tongue.
For a long moment, you stand in front of your jalapeno poppers without turning back to them. You don't want it to show that he has you scared, but you don't want to turn away from him . . . just in case. With a tired scowl, the Avatar of Sloth drags himself over to the rubbish bin to deposit the empty candy wrappers, then to the pantry where he fishes out an assortment of chip packets, biscuits and chocolate bars to take back to Beelzebub. You force yourself to return your attention to your jalapeno poppers, but you keep an eye on him in your periphery. You hate the sick feeling in your stomach. Despite knowing he cannot hurt you, knowing he has a pact with you and that means you're safe, you can't shake the icy grip on your nerves that tells you to run.
You count down from ten in your head, taking a deep breath as you force your hands back to work on your study snacks. Before you get to zero, Belphegor's movements draw your attention back to him as he approaches you. He stops just out of arm's reach and leans against the counter where you're working, slouched with his handful of snacks for Beel and his cow-print pillow. Your throat is dry, but you turn your face to him.
"Need something?" you ask.
There's an edge to your words. You can see him trying to work out if it's bitterness or fear, or both. You're not entirely sure yourself, but it tastes bad. You wish he'd hurry up and leave, but this is the first time he's made an effort to approach you since—
"Not really. I guess I . . ." He frowns as he tests the words in his mind. "I wanted to say . . . I don't get why you commanded me to talk to my brothers about all that stuff, but I did. And maybe it's helped us start to clear the air. And I suppose it made me feel like I shouldn't have attacked you."
The tension in your shoulders softens some. You had only discussed two commands with Lucifer and Beelzebub before forging the pact with Belphegor that day—a command that Belphegor would not attempt to bring you harm again, and a command to ensure he would not act upon his grudge against humanity—both which were part of the conditions for Belphegor not to be imprisoned by Lord Diavolo for his crimes. But the third command felt right.
"My third command to you is this: over the coming weeks, talk out your grudge against humanity and your feelings over the fall and Lilith's death with your brothers."
Between the fall and Lilith's death, you can understand where his misguided grudge against humanity stems from. And no doubt, talking about it with his brothers would help. You hadn't done it for him, though. You'd done it for the others. For Lucifer, so desperate to keep his family together, adamant that he would not lose another. And for Beel, who just wanted his twin back.
"Don't get the wrong idea," Belphegor adds, and you see the sleepy scowl across his face that makes you shrink back into yourself. "As far as I'm concerned, no human can be trusted. And I sure don't trust you."
You scowl back at him. "Rich, coming from the demon who murdered me."
You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from saying more. But the barb strikes. Belphegor flinches, looking away from you though his demeanour remains dark and begrudging.
"Whatever, human. My point is, my brothers like you and they want to keep you around. I don't get it, but that's how it is. So as long as we have to live under the same roof, it's too much effort for me to want to make you leave. Anyway, it upsets Beel."
His voice softens with that last note, and he looks down at the handful of snacks he has procured for his twin's stash in their shared bedroom.
For Beel, you repeat to yourself. That's our common ground. We might not like each other, but we both love Beel.
"So . . . I guess, I'm sorry, or something like that."
He doesn't look at you as he mutters it and if his hands weren't full of snacks for Beel and his pillow, you think his arms would be crossed over his chest. He settles for slouching into hunched shoulders. One side of his mouth remains dragged down with displeasure. Although he doesn't meet your gaze, you can still decipher the conflict in his eyes. It makes his irises ripple with a wet amethyst glow.
You force a deep breath and turn back to your jalapeno poppers.
"I'm glad it helped some," you say.
Your voice sounds almost cold, but you give yourself grace for that. You finish dipping and crumbing the last few chilis while Belphegor lingers in place.
What is he waiting for? He doesn't expect me to say that I forgive him, does he? Because there is no way I can do that. Not now. And probably not for a very long time, if ever . . .
"What are you making?" he asks.
You raise an eyebrow. "Jalapeno poppers."
Belphegor chuffs a small dry bark of laughter. "Beel mentioned that you made them for him once. Said they were really good."
You can't help it. You smile. Beel, you beautiful mountain.
"They were meant to be for Mammon last time, but Beelzebub distracted me."
You look at Belphegor again. You're not sure what to make of his expression. His mouth is twisted in a combination of amusement and disgust and you can only assume that his twin has shared what else eventuated that day. Red rises in your cheeks.
"Best not to tell Beel about these ones, though. They really are for Mammon this time. I owe him."
Before Belphegor can respond, the kitchen door bursts open, admitting Mammon.
"Alright, ore-sama is ready for some—" He stops short upon spotting Belphegor and his eyes narrow. "What're ya doin' in 'ere?" he bites out.
Belphegor bristles next to you.
"It's okay, Mammon," you say. "We were just talking."
You look over to him in the doorway and offer him a reassuring smile. You don't like being alone with Belphegor, but you can't deny that an olive branch has been extended just now. It isn't perfect, but it's progress, and you won't ruin that.
Mammon pops his lips and approaches you, only stopping when he's pressed right up against you. His hand is warm on the small of your back. His cheek presses to your hair, and even though you can't see his face now, you know that he is giving Belphegor a dangerous look from over the top of your head.
"D'ya need a hand with anything, treasure?" he asks.
There's warning in his voice. His tone is too low and flat to be friendly. He's on guard. You lean into his touch, dropping a kiss to his neck.
"I've got this, Mams. I need to cook the poppers, but they won't take long. Why don't you go and relax in your room? I'll bring them over when they're ready."
He doesn't answer straight away and you know that he's staring down his younger brother. After a long moment, he steps back from you just enough to shift your hair over your shoulder, exposing the scar of the lover's bite he left on the back of your neck. You shiver when his lips press to it. His hands squeeze at your waist before he pulls away.
"Don't keep the Great Mammon waitin', treasure," he says.
With a final pointed look at Belphegor, he leaves the kitchen. He doesn't close the kitchen door and that makes being alone with the Avatar of Sloth feel a little less terrifying, like there is an escape route, like someone will be able to hear if you call out for help.
You prepare what you need to cook the jalapeno poppers, keen to escape to the sanctuary of Mammon's room and spend the rest of the afternoon with him. But Belphegor lingers in the kitchen as you start to cook. Once the jalapeno poppers are frying, you turn back to him, fighting the urge to cross your arms over your chest in a defensive manner. He's still leaning against the counter, squeezing his pillow to his side with a faraway expression.
"Grimm for your thoughts?" you offer.
Belphegor blinks out of his daze and finally meets your eyes. There's something different about the way he looks at you now. You tilt your head, unable to place why.
"I didn't realise Mammon had marked you," Belphegor says, his voice quiet.
His shoulders slump away from his ears, giving him a heavy look, as if the weight of this realisation could drag him to his knees.
Your fingertips find the outline of the scar on the back of your neck and trace it with reverence. There's a deep comfort in your soul, knowing that Mammon loves you this much. He was not your first lover, despite his fixation on referring to himself as your first. But he was your first demon. First pact. He was the first friend you had here in the Devildom. A small smile curves your mouth. You watch Belphegor's face as you drag your fingers down to your shoulder, letting the edge of the mark Satan left on you peek out from behind your collar. His eyes go wide.
"How many?" he asks.
"All of them," you answer. Your voice feels thick in your throat, but you swallow around the sensation until the words come out. "This one is Satan's." You move your hand across to your chest, though you don't pull your clothes out of the way to show him. "Lucifer's is here." Your hand drops to your stomach—"Beel's"—then over your pubic mound—"Asmo's"—and finally, you press your fingers over your thigh. "And Levi's is here."
He looks distraught. You watch him swallow hard before he speaks.
"All of them," he repeats. "No wonder they hate me."