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“Wowwww, you are so much cuter when your face isn’t scrunched up in a scowl!” Asmo whispered to a sleeping Satan…all the way from his bedroom door. Asmo took extra care to quietly and barely crack the door open to make sure Satan was asleep before he attempted what he came to do. Mumbling words of encouragement to himself, Asmo carefully picked up the bottle of yellow nail polish and some cotton swabs from the floor beside him before crouching into the room and silently clicking the door shut behind him.
By the time he had gotten to Satan’s bedside, Asmo was out of breath. He knew it would take him a while to get through Satan’s room if he wanted to remain as quiet as possible, but he didn’t anticipate just how many obstacles he would have to avoid. Asmo knew Satan was a hoarder, seemingly random stacks of books littered across the room’s floor, but what he didn’t realize until it was too late was that his brother had planted some cursed books for Lucifer to step on should he dare to enter his room. Luckily, the curse Asmo had temporarily acquired wasn’t dangerous, but it was a nuisance: it seemed as though the colors of everything had switched. Satan’s purple carpet was now a blinding hot pink, his blonde hair was a deep navy blue, and Asmo’s own skin was a shimmering silver. Having learned his lesson, Asmo took extra care to not so much as brush his foot against any of the books, but he made sure to angrily curse Satan under his breath as he inched closer to his bed.
When he finally reached his brother’s bedside, Asmo kneeled so that he was at Satan’s level. Unexpectedly, seeing his new brother in such a peaceful, relaxed position like this had completely extinguished Asmodeus’ irritation with him. He really only sees him when he’s upset, so frustrated and enraged that you could physically feel the heat radiating off of him. When he was asleep, however, his eyebrows were set in a neutral position, his usually clenched jaw was completely relaxed, and the wrinkles that came with a disapproving expression were nowhere to be seen. If it’s one thing Asmo knew, it was when beauty was present. And right now, looking down at the brother he desperately wanted to welcome, he was certain beauty was laying before him. Against his better judgment, Asmo softly ran his hand through Satan’s hair as he reflected on his current position in the family.
Satan was…different. Everyone knew it, including himself, and that was a huge source of his anger. Now that Asmodeus thought about it, that rage was more akin to…to grief. Mourning. Mourning a lack of something, maybe a lack of belonging, a lack of community. The wounds of the Great Celestial War were still fresh considering the brothers had only recently fallen, so talks of the Celestial Realm were quite common. Usually, when such conversations began, Satan was quick to furrow his brows and stomp to his room with a quick scoff. After such an act, Lucifer would sigh and mutter some criticism of Satan’s behavior under his breath as the rest of the brothers would take turns exchanging looks of concern, annoyance, or guilt. This reaction wouldn’t last long, though, as it only ever took a mere few seconds for one of the demons to suddenly remember what they had wanted to contribute to the nostalgic conversation and speak up about it. Asmodeus felt a pang of guilt at the realization that they really did move on too quickly after Satan’s clear display of loneliness. How could they all neglect their new brother like this? They were all in pain, all mourning their own collective losses, but how had they not thought about what it must’ve been like to suddenly be born into this grieving state, to have your first memories be that of falling, all alone, surrounded by wailing angels you didn’t even really know?
Asmo’s hand stilled in his brother’s hair. He honestly felt incredibly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought about all of this earlier. No wonder Satan was so sensitive; if Asmo found himself in his position, hell, he would’ve done a lot more than break a few doors down! He definitely wouldn’t have fixed them up right afterward either…which is something Satan does every single time but never really gets credit for…
Luckily, Asmodeus had come to his brother’s room in hopes of helping him adjust to his new family anyway. As if he had just remembered his mission, Asmo quickly (but carefully ) removed his hand from Satan’s hair to grab the nail polish bottle he had brought with him. He hadn’t anticipated the bottle to open with a *pop*, and so when Satan’s familiar scowl returned with a quiet hiss through clenched teeth, Asmo felt his blood run cold. Unsure whether to start apologizing profusely, to run, or to hide behind a stack of books somewhere, it seems Asmo’s brain decided it best to remain frozen. To add to the fifth-born’s growing worries, Satan looked like he was about to roll over, facing away from his brother. That would make painting his nails even more impossible! Asmo thought, unknowingly tightening his grip on the open bottle in his hand. He mentally begged Satan to stay put and fall back into a peaceful rest, silently promising to be a better brother, to include him in everything, to pay more attention to him, to take extra care of his nails and to maintain them himself so that everyone would know he was one of the seven new demons of the Devildom, one of the brothers, a part of the family.
As if Satan had heard his younger brother’s emotional promises, his tossing and turning had ceased, his strained facial muscles had relaxed. He was at peace again, and Asmodeus had breathed a sigh of relief for the both of them. Letting out a huff to shake off his sentimentality, Asmo finally grabbed one of Satan’s hands and started painting them the shade of golden yellow he thought would suit his brother’s hair best.
* * *
Satan awoke with a groan, groggily forcing himself out of bed to wash up for the morning. He dragged his feet around his carefully calculated traps, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he made his way to the door. The minute he opened the door, though, he was rudely startled awake by the heavy footsteps of Leviathan and Mammon, running through the second floor’s hallways and screaming as if they had the house to themselves. Honestly, they were lucky Satan had his priorities set: brush his teeth, wash his face, then hurl a vase or two at the idiots who seemed to have no regard for their housemates. He clasped his hands over his ears–good lord, Leviathan can reach such a painfully high pitch sometimes–and stomped his way to the bathroom.
Once he reached his destination, Satan was about to slam the door loud enough for his brothers to get the message but decided against it: Lucifer’s room was right next door, and he’d rather deal with Mammon and Levi’s daily public spats than have to hear the first-born’s condescending voice listing out all his character flaws, as if he wasn’t already painfully aware. He shook the thought of his brothers off with a splash of water on his face, letting out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding through the fingers he let linger over his eyelids. He took another deep breath, this one long and deliberate, hoping it may soothe and prepare him for the start of the day. No one seems to notice, but Satan really tries hard to keep himself calm, to avoid an outburst. He’s always on edge, straining himself to keep his emotions in check. Why couldn’t they see his efforts, the way his mind works? Why couldn’t they see him? He subconsciously presses his fingers harder against his eyes as his thoughts begin to spiral, his sense of loneliness and despair growing into the big, dark monster he’s constantly fighting off. It wasn’t until he started seeing small bursts of light behind his eyelids that he exhaled, slowly, and dragged his hands down his face enough for him to be able to stare at himself in the mirror.
Satan had read somewhere that forcing oneself to focus on surrounding details proved to be an effective method against anxiety, depression, even rage. For the current situation, it would be a 3-in-1 deal, so he started to take mental notes on his appearance. He noticed how unruly his blonde hair had gotten in his sleep; he must’ve tossed around in his sleep quite a bit for it to look like someone had ruffled it themselves. He also made a mental note to smooth it down once he had relaxed. Satan then moved on to his eyes and the brows accompanying them, both features sharp and focused. His eyebrows were slightly darker than his hair, taking on a brownish hue as opposed to the sparkling gold on his scalp. His brows weren’t exactly thin, but they weren’t powerfully thick either. They were naturally arched, pointe–ah, they’re actually sharper than usual. He didn’t even notice how knitted his brows were, how tight his forehead felt. Satan had to force his eyebrows to return to their natural place: arched and sharp, but not to the point they followed the lines that eventually lead down the curve of his nose. He then reached his eyes, turbulent pools of blue and green staring back at him. The intensity of his own eyes had him in a trance, but not due to adoration; he was afraid. Uncomfortable. Somehow, he felt violated by himself. How dare he inspect himself so closely, what’s his goal here? What is he trying to uncover about himself? Before he could stop it, his brain started coming up with answers to his own questions. This caused him to grimace; his mind wasn’t exactly inviting or kind to him, so it’s safe to say the answers he was anticipating were going to cut deep. With a shudder, he moved on to the next thing: the fingers hanging onto the sunken, darkened skin under his eyes. Satan took note of how slender and long his fingers were. They weren’t so skinny that the bones of his knuckles jutted out, but it was still to a noticeable degree. His nails, currently sharp and jagged from his shameful rampages, were…yellow?
The forced neutral expression he wore quickly morphed into one of disbelief. He knows for a fact that he didn’t do this to himself. He remembers his first memory with nail polish, an unpleasant one: the scent had him sneezing repeatedly, distracting him from his mystery novel. He recalls the fight that followed, a fight with Asmodeus. Asmodeus. He’s always fiddling with his own nails and had recently started calling for everyone else’s. Satan’s blood started boiling before he could realize it. His eyebrows were furrowing once again before he could control them. His horns and tail started growing before he could feel them. His voice was forcing itself out of his mouth before he could stop it. “WHO THE FUCK PUT THIS YELLOW BULLSHIT ON MY NAILS?”
Asmodeus, who was trying out a new brand of eyeliner, now had a long shaky line of black starting from the corner of his eye and reaching down to his jawline.
* * *
Satan’s face was unnaturally red, his eyes more intense than usual. He was in his demon form, the tail that was usually deliberately kept out of the way and wrapped around his leg was now held up behind him, as if ready to strike. It’s safe to say Asmodeus was terrified. “How did you even manage to do this without my knowledge? Was I asleep or something? Did you sneak into my room ?!” At that, Asmo’s mouth opened and closed again. That told his brother all he needed to know.
Honestly, Satan’s yelling wasn’t nearly as scary as his silence. A silently enraged Satan was a calculating one, one that was meticulously planning a way to convey his wrath because he had deemed that his voice wouldn’t do it justice. With this in mind, Asmo jumped to explain himself before Satan’s processing progressed any further.
“As you know, I’ve been offering to paint everyone’s nails so that we could feel better about ourselves! So we could feel like a team, a family! We should have something about our appearance that unites us–”
“Stop saying us and we as if you’re including me! As if I’m one of you!” Asmodeus froze at that, but he quickly recovered from his initial shock and remained calm, sensing that Satan had much more to say about the matter. Satan must’ve realized this cue from Asmo, though, because the angry shade of red across his cheeks was now accompanied by a bashful one as he looked down at the floor. He took in the pristine, pink-tiled floor of his brother’s bedroom, catching his reflection in it. Once again, his eyes caught themselves in the reflection. This time, however, Satan didn’t sense any form of mockery from them, but rather empathy. Empathy directed toward himself. An invitation to let at least some of it out, while he had a willing audience. He closed his eyes for a second as he sighed (as understanding as his own gaze was, he still felt it was too much to handle), and then he got started.
“...I just can’t comprehend why you’re trying so hard to lump me in with you all. It’s no secret I’m different. I was never an angel, I have never and probably will never see the Celestial Realm for myself, any memories I have of Lilith are Lucifer’s, and the list goes on. I’m not like the six of you, and it frustrates me that you all are so bad at acting like you don’t know this, like you don’t care about the fact, when I know you all do. I know it! So cut the bullshit act. I’d rather you all ignore me completely than try so hard and fail so miserably at including me. You don’t need to force yourselves to consider me family. It’s exhausting. Just leave me alone, and when my bedroom door is closed? You don’t even dare to think about coming in! ”
Satan had avoided eye contact this entire time, Asmodeus noted. His eyes were staring past him, at the bedframe behind him, sometimes they moved to stare at the vanity off to the side, sometimes to his own feet. Asmo also noticed that whenever Satan made eye contact with his own reflection in his polished floor, he winced and his eyes darted off somewhere else. He’s been thinking about all of this for far too long, hasn’t he, he thought as he gazed at his brother with sympathetic eyes. They were silent for a few seconds, Asmo staring at Satan staring at the curtains of his brother’s bedframe.
Right as Asmo opened his mouth to respond, to try and provide some clarity and reassurance for his brother, Satan started violently scratching at the paint on his nails. That familiar scowl was back, but it was accompanied by something Satan hated more than his anger: he was tearing up. These tears would’ve gone unnoticed if it weren’t for Asmodeus’ already inspecting stare, and Satan realized this, scratching even harder to remove the paint. “Don’t include me in things when you don’t know me. Because you don’t. Know. Me. None of you do. And until you all learn to accept that, to understand that I am not one of you, we won’t be able to share this house peacefully. You’re all scared of me anyway, are you not?! I can practically see Leviathan’s heart jumping out of his chest the second he sees me at the other end of the hallway. I hear you all breathing a sigh of relief the moment I exit a room. I know all too well what Lucifer thinks of me; his irritating, holier-than-thou tone of voice rattles around in my head every hour of every day. And as for you, Asmodeus,” he spat his full name with such venom it made Asmo flinch, “clearly you’re just as afraid of and uncomfortable around me because you decided to pull this nail polish stunt while I was asleep!”
At this point, Satan’s cuticles were bleeding from how vigorously he was scratching at them. When Asmo went in to paint them, he did just that and nothing more; he was too afraid to do a proper manicure, worried Satan would feel the sensations and discover him. He regrets not filing them down now, though, as he painfully noticed how jagged they were and how deep they cut into his brother’s skin. He just wanted to help him, to show him he really does want to know his brother, to regard him as such. That he may not experience the same pain, but he sees it in its entirety and wants to do better. But since he felt the current situation was too delicate for him to speak up, Asmo could only muster up a heartbroken expression as he looked into his bleeding brother’s eyes, hoping the contact could convey that he wanted to speak up, hoping that Satan would grant him permission to speak.
Once again, the eye contact proved too much for Satan, so much to Asmo’s dismay, he squeezed his eyes shut and punched the wall to his right. “Listen and listen carefully, Asmodeus. You cannot handle me; none of you can. I can barely handle myself. It would be best for all of us if you just ignored my presence altogether. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours, and none of you will have to feign understanding or compassion ever again. I’m assuming you understand.” And with that, he stormed off to his room and slammed the door, this time paying no mind to the possibility of Lucifer coming to lecture him. He has plenty of open cursed books with his name on them if he wanted to try.
He stood with his hand clenched around his doorknob for a while, processing what just happened. The sting from the cuts on his fingers finally made themselves known to him, and he hated it. His grip on his door tightened more and more as his monologue to Asmodeus replayed in his head. He went and blew it again, went and embarrassed himself with his rampant emotions. He was so… pathetic. A sorry excuse for an intellectual, an embarrassment to the Devildom, a terrible brother. That last realization threatened to pull more humiliating tears from his eyes. It made him simultaneously thankful that he potentially burned his bridge with Asmo and utterly horrified at the possibility. His knees buckled at that, though, and he felt himself freaking out. The stinging of his fingers was overwhelming him, his sharp tail that was now at its resting position around his leg felt too tight, felt like it was piercing him. His horns felt heavy on his head, it made him dizzy and he couldn’t breathe. His grip on the doorknob was both burning him and serving as a lifeline, as something to keep him grounded. Point out the details of your surroundings and focus on them, he commanded himself. His eyes frantically darted around the room, looking for something to pick apart, but for the first time ever the plethora of books scattered about his room was stressing him out even more.
He was near hyperventilating now, eyes desperately dissecting his bed sheets and pillowcase. The color is a faded purple, and there’s an open book next to my pillow–looks like a copy of “Le Maître chat ou le Chat botté” by Charles Perrault. After all, I was reading it to sleep last night. The candles next to my window are still burning, I forgot to put them out when I woke up. There’s an open book on the floor, a cursed one that distorts your perception of color. Another one that shrinks you down to the size of an ant for an hour. Another that makes you speak in tongues. Another that only lets you talk in song. I’ve always wanted to see what that would do to Luci– And he broke. He broke at the invasive presence of his brother, at the undeniable truth that he was connected to these six ex-angels, that he did belong among them, just not in a way he had figured out yet. “What do you call this feeling, when there’s something you don’t know, and it’s killing you…” His voice broke as he questioned himself. Satan reluctantly let go of the doorknob, slid down against the door, pulled his knees up to his chest, and silently let go.
* * *
Asmo knows Satan had an issue with the fact he sneakily painted his nails and he understands why now, but he still thought it was his only option. This time, however, he’d make his presence known with a letter to his brother. He had also decided yellow wasn’t Satan’s color: it was bright green.
When Asmo reached Satan’s door, his confidence wavered as he contemplated whether to knock or not. He knew he was asleep for sure though, he could hear the soft snoring through the door when he put his ear up to it. He was resting his hand on the doorknob, weighing his options, until he finally decided his brother would prefer his letter over being disturbed from his sleep. With his mind made up regarding his plan, Asmo silently walked into Satan’s room, this time taking extra care to avoid the cursed books.
It took him much less time to reach Satan’s bedside this time. When he got to Satan, though, he was turned away from him, facing his window in a fetal position. Satan usually slept on his back, arms and legs free to do what they pleased. “It’s dangerous to sleep in a restrictive position. It could cause some serious damage to the muscles of your back and neck, you know,” Satan had once lectured Belphie on the topic, citing some human physiotherapy book he had found at the library. Asmo smiled at the memory, slightly relieved to be reminded of a time when Satan was feeling like himself, feeling comfortable talking to his brothers freely about a random topic, comfortable enough to share something he had learned. That doesn’t answer the question of why he was in such an unsavory sleeping position now, though.
After having experimented with Satan’s hair the first night he snuck into his room, Asmo knew his brother wasn’t too sensitive to touch in his sleep, so he felt a little more comfortable reaching for his shoulder. After all, he’d have to have Satan facing him to paint his nails properly. He gently pulled on his brother’s shoulder to at least have him laying on his back; however, the minute he caught a glimpse of Satan’s face, Asmo froze.
Satan’s eyes were puffy, his lip busted with clear bite marks. Every once in a while, his brows would knit together and he’d whine, a sound that was barely audible. He was sobbing in his sleep, and it honestly scared Asmo to death. Instinctively, he ran his hand through his brother’s hair, just like last time, but he was more sure of his movements now. He brushed the sweaty strands off Satan’s forehead and massaged his scalp a little, relieved to notice his brother’s eyelids go from being squeezed shut to being at rest. He wasn’t sure of it, but Asmo could’ve sworn he heard Satan sigh in relief at the comforting touch, too.
Asmodeus was heartbroken. He was officially younger than Satan, but in this situation he felt as though Satan was his baby brother, struggling to find his place in the world. He reminded him of someone arriving late to a party, so late that everyone else had already found a group of people to be with. “It must be so, so exhausting feeling so out of place, Satan,” he was whispering to himself, really, but he liked to think his words were reaching his brother. “I’m just sorry. Sorry we didn’t think about how you must be feeling, what your point of view must look like. That we didn’t notice there’s a lot more to your anger than just anger. I’m sorry we bring our past up so much. I’m sorry we bring up all these names of angels you don’t recognize at all. I know you value your knowledge, I know not knowing something is insanely frustrating for you. I’ll try to make it right, I swear .” Asmo decided that whenever a conversation about the Celestial Realm came up–and he knew it would come up again–he would make sure to tell it from the beginning. He’ll try to bring the beginning of the story up subtly, though, aware of the fact that Satan was just as prideful as Lucifer and probably wouldn’t appreciate the attention drawn to his cluelessness. He decided Satan was his brother, undoubtedly so, and that he wouldn’t let him stray further away from his family.
Asmodeus reluctantly let go of his brother’s head, moving to hold his hand in his palm. With his free hand, he grabbed a nail filer and smoothed the jagged edges out. When that was done, he dipped his fingers into the small container of ointment he brought for the cuts Satan had inflicted onto himself. He then finished everything off with a small portion of hand lotion: vanilla-scented, with a woodsy finish. After feeling satisfied with his impromptu hand-care routine, he untwisted the bottle of green nail polish and got to work.
* * *
This time, Satan woke up with a terribly scratchy throat and burning eyes. His shoulders and jaw felt sore, probably from being tense throughout the night. Memories of his breakdown that seemingly spanned the entire day flooded his brain, and he absolutely despised it. Deciding he didn’t have the strength to make it to the bathroom and try yet another attempt at preparing himself for a guaranteed upsetting day, he flipped over in bed and resumed his fetal position.
When he put his hand under his pillow, however, he felt an envelope. His confusion only grew when he pulled it up with fingers that were now adorned with bright green nail polish. This time, he had anticipated his wrath to rear its ugly head, waiting anxiously for the horns and tail to grow…but they never did. He stared long and hard at the shade of green Asmodeus had picked out. He knew for a fact this was Asmodeus’ doing, but this time the realization didn’t anger him, didn’t violate him. Instead, he was…comforted. Reassured. Glad, even. Just happy to know the fire he set to the bridge between them was contained and extinguished before it could consume everything in its path. The longer he looked at his nails, the more he saw his eyes in that shade of green. It almost felt like he was staring at his reflection again, but for once, he found it relaxing. Asmo really knew his stuff, picking out just the right shade to match Satan. Before he could catch it, a small smile started tugging at his lips.
He then redirected his attention back to the letter that sparked his curiosity from the start. He noted the cursive writing on the envelope, written in a deep purple font: From your most adorable younger brother, Asmo ♡. He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself as he carefully opened the envelope and began scanning the contents of the letter. Unexpectedly and embarrassingly so, the first few lines alone had brought him to tears, but these tears felt refreshing for his stinging eyes.
Asmo had hit the nail on the head with his observations. He had pointed out that he and his other brothers were wrongfully neglecting Satan’s feelings of isolation. He had agreed with what Satan said the day before about how hypocritical their “inclusion” felt, and he had promised to be different. He had reassured Satan that he saw him, really saw him: his anger, his pain, his grief, his pride, his joys, everything. He had apologized for sneaking in the other night, admitting that he was afraid at the time, but not anymore. He had also apologized for sneaking in again, but he hoped Satan liked the new coat and the refreshed hands. He had referred to the fourth-born as family throughout the letter, each subsequent time feeling more sincere to Satan. He had playfully chastised him for leaving that color-altering cursed book open, expressing his irritation at the effects it had on him. He had shared that it may be a rather mild curse, but if Satan wanted to piss Lucifer off in a way that would result in the mildest punishment, then this book would be worth a shot. Asmo had even handmade a bookmark for his brother, one with a cat dressed in fine leather boots. Satan picked the bookmark up, inspecting it tearfully. He didn’t usually use a bookmark, convinced that he’d finish his books in one sitting every time anyway, but he decided this one was his favorite and he’d have to use it any chance he gets.
He gasped out a laugh, a genuine one, sincerely thankful to feel like he truly had a brother for once.
* * *
Asmo stared at the empty chair at the dining table with a mournful expression as his brothers chatted away over breakfast. Sure, he wasn’t afraid of Satan anymore and was very confident in his decisions last night, but a part of him still worried he had offended his brother in some way. He tore his gaze away from the chair with a defeated sigh, picking at his food with his fork.
“Ah, Satan. Nice of you to join us.” Asmo perked up at Lucifer’s greeting. Satan, previously puffy face and messy hair looking completely refreshed, walked into the dining room with a silent nod. He took his spot at the table and pulled his book out to read as everyone resumed their conversations. What Asmo saw nearly brought him to happy tears: his brother’s nails were healthy-looking and well-painted, and he even noticed his gift peeking out from Satan’s book. “Mammon, look! His nails! He kept the polish! Doesn’t it suit him so well? ” Asmo tried really hard to whisper, but his excitement was obvious in his voice. “Huh, he really did keep it. Think he’s changing his mind about us?” Mammon seemed almost as proud as Asmo, excited to see the potential of a brotherly bond strengthening in the family. “Yup, absolutely! He’s finally accepted that he’s one of us! That we’re united! ” Asmo and Mammon were absolutely beaming at Satan at this point, and the scrutiny of their joyous expressions forced a blush out of him. Lord, he was going to have a frustrating future with these brothers of his, wasn’t he…Well, a part of him was looking forward to it. He hid his soft smile behind his book.