Chapter Text
Venti’s boots clinked harshly on the hardwood floor, the same sound the boots had made when they had once been his mother’s and the floor creaked the same as it did when the small house had been hers and his brother’s safeguard from the outside world.
“Most men would have wasted their wishes by now.”
Venti turned around sharply to the source of the voice and huffed bitterly. The demon’s voice reverberated through his whole body as if touched by a presence that only he could see. Perhaps Venti’s solemn soul that had only ever been taken advantage of found comfort in the demon, a company that would be gone if he made all three wishes that had been offered to him almost weeks ago. “You’re still here.” He muttered bitterly.
“I’m not most men.” he remarked, his brows furrowing as he set his purse down with a thump on the kitchen counter. He tiptoed to reach the counter where a glass of wine rested between mountains of others.
The demon moved swiftly across the kitchen. “I could sense that,” the demon scoffed, settling down on the kitchen counter’s single stool and facing Venti’s back. “You should know better than to point out what I already know.”
If Venti was a proper man— he wouldn’t be drinking wine without an occasion— he would have served himself a glass of wine, but instead he downed the whole bottle as if he were deprived of it for years— only the opposite was true. He left only droplets of wine on the bottom of the bottle, the ridges, and his lips.
“Please, I’m not scared of you, demon,” Venti let the bottle clink on the counter, small cracks forming on the end of the glass bottle at the amount of force he had put onto slamming the bottle on the counter in an idiotic display of dominance. “If anything, you’re quite entertaining.” Venti giggled with a smirk, his chain rattling against his hip as the belt adjusted itself.
“I see then,” the demon sighed, it sounded like surrender. “Although, you are aware you have roughly ten years to live to live out your days?”
Venti nodded, his expression turning darker. “I am aware…” he sighed as well, picking the bottle back up by the handle and swinging it around carelessly as if he were gently waving a magic wand. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To claim my soul or… something…”
“Precisely,” the demon smiled, a sly expression as his eyes slimmed to look at Venti’s all but content expression. “If you use even one wish, your soul will belong to me. Forever burning in the depths of hell until it is nothing but ash. Yet, if you resist this temptation, you will be redeemed and become anew in the kingdom of heaven regardless of past sins,” the demon spawned right behind Venti and forcefully snatched the bottle from Venti’s hand, his claws skimming through the mouth of the bottle where Venti’s lips had drank from. “Tell me, mortal, have you not taken my wishes simply because you desire to step foot in heaven’s gate?”
“No,” Venti shrugged, biting his lip as he backed away from the demon. “I don’t belong in a palace of saints,” Venti’s hand jumped forward to the demon’s claw, attempting to steal his wine bottle back. “I just… didn’t want to be alone… especially now with my short time here.” His voice became quieter, almost hesitant— a sudden vulnerability displaying in every syllable he spoke. Yet, it was evident it wasn’t because he wanted the demon specifically to see him, he just wished for someone to see him.
The demon stared at Venti for a while, contemplative as to what to say, almost as if trying to understand that sorrowful whimsy. Venti’s solemn expression and the way he hunched in on himself as if he was the only thing that could hold himself together. Moreover, it was the dark air that surrounded him, the cracks of despair that attempted to seep into his soul that still seemed so bright— too bright for someone that had lost so much and still had more to lose.
“Hm,” the demon had seen mortals suffer through loneliness, struggles, and the depths of a depression running so deep. Yet none of their suffering could ever compare to the sadness he saw in Venti’s eyes.
And though those other mortals’ souls had been long tainted by despair, Venti’s souls still shone bright with the serenity that could clear all darkness— it was still pure despite the scars that tainted Venti’s mortal flesh.
No matter how depressing Venti’s life was, no matter how deep he was in an inescapable pot— something kept his soul pure, his soul still shined as if he had just been born, it was only his body that hadn’t survived the explosion.
“Alright then,” the demon exhaled, dilated pupils staring into Venti’s big, fat eyes. “My name is Morax,” he smiled slyly, as if he were the one who held control. “I am the devil that has come to claim your soul and will remain by your side for however long you see fit.”
Venti raised a questioning brow, his lips twitching as if wishing for laughter or tears— maybe they just wished for the lips of another. “Don’t tell me that was a wish you just spent on my behalf?”
Morax shrugged with no expression.
When Venti awoke, Morax would be right by his side. Not in bed with him huddled under the sheets, but leaning over him, sometimes standing in front of the door to the room or even going through Venti’s things.
Venti would have cared, but given that it was literal Satan in his room and that his approximate doom was in ten years, he didn’t care enough to see a problem— nearly giving up.
“What is with you and the obnoxious amount of stuffed animals?” Morax would ask, his arched horns glowing in the dark as he kneeled down on Venti’s bed. Close, almost too close, as if he were a wolf stalking its vulnerable prey.
“They were mine when I was growing up.” Venti would murmur, either too tired in the night or hazy from the mornings. His body would tremble with the cold air of December, his pale skin glistened in the moonlight, somehow alluring in its ill-fed state. “I never had the heart to rid myself of them.” He would add.
Morax’s expression would shift, almost to one of pity or disgust— maybe both. “You seem to have not had the best upbringing.” Morax then commented, his claws skimming over the soft tufts of fluff covering the stuffed animals, akin to the flesh that bore over muscle and bone.
“My momma did her best for us. Stealing, crafting to the best of her abilities. She tried, even when life was a living hell.” He explained, his tone shifting into something reminiscing as he stared outside his window.
And how could something so simple as a human’s tragic life— a life that wasn’t half as traumatic as half of the mortals that Morax had tortured or the eternity he had seen in angels and demons alike— how could something as tiny as poverty make the devil feel something as pathetic as sympathy?
Sometimes Morax would lean too close, his breath tickling Venti’s neck, seeping into the center of his soul, never affecting it no matter how closely he stood. Venti’s heart would pound with the loneliness of decades, days and nights of never being enough or being too much, years of being undesirable and yearning for a genuine hand by his side.
And perhaps that was the most dangerous thing about the devil, he made Venti feel wanted. He made Venti feel like a forbidden fruit, like something pretty outside of his skeleton body. Because every time Morax looked at him he could swear he saw that hardened expression soften if even it was by just a little bit.
But it was never enough to infect Venti, never enough to taint the purity that God had crafted him into. Morax, Ruler of Hell, should have hated everything God created— the world, the gardens, the dainty people that walked the earth— selfish, cruel, sinful and still believing they were above it— and he did, Morax hated everything God had ever crafted or protected, everything God ever glanced at.
That was what horrified Morax. Had God made a mortal so beautiful, so perfect, and untainted, to the point even the devil couldn’t resist a small little thing like Venti?
Could God even create more perfect beings such as these? And if possible… could they even fall?
The strands of hair became almost embarrassingly tangled as Venti lost track of which strand went where, his hands trembling in what nearly smelt like regret. Yet somehow he hadn’t lost track of that gentle melody he hummed.
“Your hair is surprisingly long.” Venti commented, nails splaying gently over the Devil’s astonishingly soft hair for who was The quite literal ruler of Hell.
“We’ve been sitting here for nearly a day,” Morax commented, suppressing an inexplicable urge to ‘shoo’ Venti away from his hair, but to do so may have repelled the literal man he was trying to drag into flames. “When did I ever tell you that you were allowed to decorate my hair with these… ribbons?”
“Please, you’re the one trying to tempt me with those little wishes of yours.” Venti scoffed fondly, tugging harshly on one the middle strand he was braiding over the second one.
Morax felt his skin prickle, and though Venti’s pull on his hair was meant to hurt, The Devil had long ago lost the ability to feel pain.
Morax gave a dissatisfied huff. “Your little tricks don’t work on me, mortal.” He reiterated, his tone static and dry.
Venti finished tying another ribbon to the braid he had done on Morax’s hair, tying a small, blue one on the center middle of Morax’s hair. “What do you mean?”
“Attempting to harm me. Did you truly expect that to work?” His question was phrased as intimidation, Venti found it sincere, almost endearing.
Venti yawned, uninterested in Morax’s utterly pathetic displays of authority. “Hm, don’t tell me you can’t feel pain or some corny thing like that…” Venti giggled, his ringing laughter was light and clear as day as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “A life without pain… ah, sounds nice…”
Morax’s life had not been painless— far from that. If anything, The Devil was the being that had been through it all, paradise and fall. Still, that never excused the souls he tarnished in his hands, the men he cursed and chained to his throne. He knew right from wrong, and he didn’t act on what was wrong simply from the thrill of it— and wouldn’t that have made him worse? Could the root of all evil ever have a point of redemption? What was the point of judging The Devil’s actions on good or bad? As The Devil, what other point was there to his existence other than bringing pain?
Venti rested his chin on Morax’s bulky shoulder, his other hand massaging Morax’s collarbone.
“I’m pretty tired,” Venti murmured, closing his eyes lightly as his hands dropped the rest of the bows he had been trying to attach on Morax’s clumpy hair.
Warm.
Venti was warmth, and everything Morax was beginning to believe he was unworthy to touch.
Yet, he could not resist himself.
“I quite enjoyed that melody,” Morax said in the cold dead of night, the words echoing further than the little dark corner of the room they sat in. “Keep humming it for me, would you?”
Venti giggled at the request, curious, but did not probe. He simply obliged and continued to hum that gentle melody.
Morax sighed, shutting his eyes as he tried to only focus on the melody and not Venti’s heart that pounded behind him.
The thunder wildly crackled outside.
“Why did you sleep with that man?” Morax’s voice was stern, disappointment evident at the way his dark eyes glared at the mortal. His fingers pressed against his crossed arms, long hair splaying behind his back and collarbones as he adjusted his face to stare directly into Venti’s gentle yet taken body.
Venti glared back, his fingers clenching against his knees as he drew blood from his skin. “What do you care? You have no reason to.” He shot back, braids flying across his cheeks as he avoided Morax’s direct gaze.
The rain pattered outside, like a knock from the outside world, beckoning Venti to let the earth settle in his form. The wind howled like a siren’s song, Venti let it infect him.
“Was that your first time?” Morax questioned abruptly, clearly too much of an intimate question, but not caring for how crass it sounded after millennia of having seen intimacy play out at his will and at mortality’s foolish desires for lust.
Venti stared at his knees, as if being scolded by a parent. “Yeah, and?” He blushed delicately, like a rose first spreading its petals to reveal a bright, yet gentle red.
The thunder continued to crackle, Morax’s eye twitched.
Morax had been there, unseen by all but Venti. He had let the night play out, bound by Venti by his vow of never leaving the mortal’s side.
He had watched in silence as an arrogant man had cruelly taken Venti in his hands, cruelly marked all over him, and never even bat an eye when Venti had shed a tear of the brutality of all.
As sin incarnate, Morax had simply stayed still.
And he knew that if he could go back, he would have let it happen all the same.
Was Morax angry?— Why was Morax even angry?
Was it because Venti had been willed upon— touched by another simply from a night of being intoxicated? With how much the man partied, you would assume he’d be the furthest thing from a virgin.
Or that he had wanted to be the one to claim Venti as his in such a way?
And when Venti finally looked at Morax, Morax could sense it— a small sorrow that simply spelled ‘regret.’
“Why can I no longer see my shadow?” Venti had asked— an accusation more than a question, his body trembling but his tone steady. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Morax swore as he stared at the glistening stars unveiling in the small light the moon brought, the scenery akin to a painting on a wall. He raised his palms as if surrendering.
“Did you steal my shadow?” Venti accused, his tone harsh and eyes untrusting. The anger and impatience in Venti’s eyes was enough to make Morax hesitate.
“Of course not,” Morax tilted his head, horns glistening as stars reflected on their shiny, long surface. “Why come to that conclusion? For what reason would I want your shadow?”
But Morax had.
Because if he could not take Venti with him, he’d at least take Venti’s shadow to keep him company in the Kingdom of Hell when the mortal died. Perhaps it was spite, perhaps jealousy— Morax wasn’t sure, maybe even fondness. That didn’t change the fact he yearned for a small part of Venti.
His soul was somehow pure, even with all the scars on his arms that spoke of not just self-imposed hatred but the hatred of others. How could the soul of a man who drank his memories away and begged for the attention of others like a desperate white remain so pure? It was infuriating.
Venti would stare at the floor for years to come, begging for something— anything to appear.
Yet nothing ever did.
Perhaps that is what The Devil had meant when he said ‘Venti still had much more to lose,’ and perhaps that statement still held fact, perhaps The Devil would only take and take, more and more, until Venti was unrecognizable to even the angels that had named him from above.
For now, Venti would just stare at the floor of his bed, feet dangling off as if leaning towards an edge, waiting as the clock ticked by for just a small flicker of a shadow to appear beneath his feet.
Nothing.
Emptiness.
And when Venti closed his eyes, The Devil remained by his side, watching with those mischievous cat-like eyes and grin, as if Venti was but a simple blossom he could deflower.
Slowly but surely.
First it’d be a shadow, then perhaps a reflection… and after that… then what?
Venti fumbled with keys in his hands, his palms shook as he unlocked his door.
He tumbled forward and nearly fell on the floor as he shut the door with a loud bang with his hand. “Eugh…” he mumbled as he held his other hand to his mouth. “Fuck… I’m gonna pass out.”
Morax’s shadow crept to Venti’s sight— observing and quiet as his eyes flickered between Venti’s undone pants and the bites on his collarbone. “You let that man play you like a fiddle,” Morax commented, his brows furrowing. “You look like a mess.”
Venti chuckled bitterly, his smile a scathing one that revealed all of his stress. “Why were you watching? You’re sick.” He spat.
Morax hummed, shrugging his shoulders as he crouched to Venti’s hunched form. “Honey, I am the devil, if I want your soul I’ll find a way to get it— even if that means watching you in your most depraved moments.” He gently put his hand on Venti’s chin, forcing him to gaze up at him. “You are so needy, so energetic for such a small thing.” Morax whispered in Venti’s ear.
“You are such a jerk!” Venti grunted as he shoved at Morax’s chest to shove him away. Venti fell backward, his back hitting the door as he slumped down to the floor in pain. “Gah— damn it!”
Morax chuckled, now fully crouching on his legs and smiling wickedly. “You are such a sweet, twisted thing.” He murmured. “You act all innocent and fluffy around me like a sheep in wolf’s clothing— I know who you truly are when your lips meet a bottle.”
Tears brewed in Venti’s eyes, biting his lips as they trembled. “Stop it. Please, you’re being mean.” He put his hands over his head, gripping his hair as it tangled over his sweaty, flushed skin. His knees pressed to his chest as his heart began to ache.
“Am I?” Morax inched his face impossibly closer to Venti's, their lips more than a breath away. “Or are you just sensitive? Delicate like a piece of glass, sharp with all the cuts and bruises you leave.”
Venti whispered below his breath as he dug his face into his knees. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up.” He exploded as he unfisted his hands from his hair. “Morax, shut up! I don’t want you— I don’t need you, why are you insistent? Why would you want my soul out of all the other ones in this godforsaken world? You— you are— you’re the devil!”
Morax stilled and snickered as his shoulders shook. That was before he gripped Venti’s wrists and pinned them to the wall. “Have you forgotten? I am The Devil, sometimes you seem to forget that!” He screamed, his face scowling as he tensed his grip on Venti’s wrists. “Being perverted, being mean— it’s all part of who I am, I am the root of sin and intend to make it remain that way, nothing can change that.”
Venti’s voice caught in his throat, he whined as he attempted to push Morax’s hands away, grumbling as he did so. “Stop! Morax, stop!”
He tried to break free from his grasp, how imprudent of a puny little mortal to think he could even compare to the raw strength of The Devil himself.
Still, the cute little struggle was enough to make The Devil hesitate. He pushed his own fists away, his face turning into one of shock— he didn’t know whether to feel regret or anger at the mere audacity.
But the fact Venti’s fragile little soul shone so bright made it so blinding for Morax to impose any cruel punishment. If God had made it possible for Morax to lay a cruel crawl on Venti, he sure made it feel impossible to do so.
“Morax— quit it. Quit. It.” Venti’s voice turned monotone and static, quiet and hushed. Frustrated— angry, tired. “I hate you. That’s all I feel for you— hate. And that’s all anyone could ever feel for you, you aren’t worthy of anything and you certainly aren’t worthy of things such as love. You deserve to burn in the depths of hell because you…” Venti seemed lost in thought for a bit, his mind went blurry, and all he could do was stare at Morax more dumbfounded than ever.
Morax’s fingers twitched, his brows furrowed as he scrambled in his brain for a reply. Before Morax could open his mouth, Venti vomited on his lap.
Where mortals saw tragedy, Venti saw light.
He’d spend his time tending to his garden, humming to himself lightly. Venti’s fingers had bloody blisters from having built birdhouses, they were messy and clunky, but it placed a gentle ache in Morax’s heart as he observed the mortal mingle with crafting that he clearly did not have the skills for.
Where mortals found boredom in gardening, Venti found beauty and sprouting life. Even though Venti had seemingly given up on his life, he didn’t give up on the life of defenseless creatures.
The winter days were grueling, yet Venti still wore that same tattered turtleneck sweater over the same black, tormented tights.
“Fully covered in the hot weather?” Morax sat down next to Venti, seeing as Venti plucked at a dead flower.
“Mhm,” Venti’s tone seemed far from intrigued, he almost seemed angry with Morax— Morax stared at him as if he didn’t know why, he wondered if Venti retained the memories of last night, a part of him hoped he didn’t. Morax could see the sweat trickling down Venti’s neck, the flush on his cheeks— whether it was heat or bashfulness, that Morax could not tell. Contrary to the second idea, Venti didn’t seem like the type of man to be able to sustain this type of heat, especially since he always seemed to stay inside all day and partied all night when the nights got too cold and lonely.
“How come?” Morax continued to inquire, tilting his head as his lips became a thin line as if he almost feared the answer. He continued to talk, it almost made him appear nervous. “Well, what’s up with the weather up here? It was freezing last night. Ah, you mortals are in your winter season yet it’s hotter than the depths of my inferno today—”
“—Will you just…” Venti interrupted sharply, yet he still didn’t turn to him, His tone had turned cruel and he bit his lip in regret. He gathered himself, or at least tried to. “Why so curious?” He murmured, though it was petty by now. “You’ve never seen me ask about your past, have you?” Venti plucked off each wilted petal, crushing it between his light fingers and letting it mix with the grass that shined bright green in the sun’s light.
Morax felt his heart pound with dread as the birds chirped around them.
“I’d like to be left alone,” Venti spoke over the silence, his brows furrowing as he watched the flowers blow in the wind.
Morax could tell from the look in Venti’s eyes that he felt far too vulnerable being looked at like this— that it shattered him to be seen as an honest person, not just the one who drank and put himself in situations he didn’t belong in. Still a part of Morax couldn’t help but push that fragile glass.
“I thought you liked company,” The Devil probed, his face turning into an evil grin as he sneakily slithered his hands closer to Venti’s knee.
“Go.” Venti didn’t beg, he didn’t say please— he demanded. Venti softened out one of the petals from the flowers, refusing to even look at Morax the whole time they conversed. “Morax, leave.” He added, his tone becoming a ticking time bomb of an explosion.
Morax sighed— nearly defeated, if not, disappointed. “Fine.” He got up as he shot Venti one last bitter look before storming back inside.
Venti stared at the flowers, fully withered now. He hated the winter, everything died, everything was gloomy. But what he hated more was that it was hot in winter. It didn’t keep anything alive, served to preserve nothing.
He let a small whine escape his throat as he stared at the withered flower. “I wonder if it feels at peace…” he whispered.
“I’m not ready to die.”
It was the first thing Venti had said in weeks.
Exactly years had passed since Venti first came face to face with The Devil, five years passed since Venti became aware that he’d face death in ten years.
But now? Only two quarters away from the thing mortals feared so much. Death.
Venti would sometimes cry, letting the moon’s light shine on him and make his pale skin glow in the night. He almost looked like a corpse, like a ghost who remained alive through hollow memories.
He no longer sang for the birds, nor did he plant new flowers in his garden, he hadn’t even gone out to party in more than a few weeks.
He hadn’t touched anything in those weeks, he hadn’t touched any other. He yearned for it— for something real. But a sincere love was a privilege men like him would lack for the rest of their lives— something he’d never obtain in the short time he had left— whoever would get with him would probably do it out of pity, to feel like they did the world some great favor.
Venti had let everything around him die, simply because he had long given up on everything around him as he approached death. Morax had thought a man like him would have tried to live it out, escape through the same meaningless coping skills, yet Venti had done the complete opposite. He’d given up.
His soul still remained bright.
It hadn’t dimmed.
And Morax could only watch.
He had the power to lengthen Venti’s life. But Venti had never wished for it outright and Morax had no willpower to defy ‘God’s will’ or ‘plan’.
He had tried to go against God before, and vowed to never do so again.
So Morax would say nothing when Venti curled in on his self-pity and cried, nor did he do anything when Venti shortened his life with cigarettes and beer.
He could only watch— like a distant shadow that could never enter the soul.
Because temptation was exactly what The Devil was about, but when it came to such a bright soul— still bright after years of suffering— Morax was akin to a deer frozen in headlights.
He was stuck, and what was now becoming the true question was— who was tempting who? Who controlled the strings here?
Through the years, Morax had begun to feel… like he was losing his grip.
And what scared him most, was that he didn’t seem to mind so much.
God had created the embodiment of sin— temptation— perhaps only for the devil, and Morax could only swear at himself for having fallen for such an obvious scheme.