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Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sitri’s own heartbeat sounded in his ears weakly, uneven and faint. He blinked away the blurriness of his eyes, being met with the glaring light above him. This was a familiar scene, with the sterile scent of chemicals, and the IV hooked up to his arm. He was in a hospital. Usually, the hospitals he was admitted to were busy, with nurses flitting about to check on vitals, or visitors bringing gifts to their convalescing relatives. Yet today it was empty. Strangely empty.
He hated how little sound there was in the building, even with his superior hearing. Apart from the slow heartbeats of other patients in the ward, it was unnervingly silent. He turned his head to the side, looking at the partition between his bed and another patient’s. The curtain was opaque. Had he been unable to hear their pulse, he would’ve assumed he was entirely alone. He definitely felt like he was. That lingering silence was doing little to alleviate his nerves, stretching on for as long as it did.
Sighing, Sitri made an effort to sit up, despite the heaviness in his body. His arms were like bricks, and he could only raise himself so far before they gave up on him, as he sagged against the headboard of his bed. The hard material dug into the skin on his back. He let out a few laboured breaths from the exertion, but the new angle meant he had a better view of the ward.
Rows of curtains were opposite him, obscuring the rest of the sleeping patients. On the wall was a small window, letting in the breeze from outside. He shivered, dressed in a thin hospital gown, which wasn’t the best at keeping him warm. It was at least 2 sizes too big. He couldn’t be too fussed, since he preferred ill-fitting clothes to dying after an angel attack.
It was a relief, he supposed, that it was peaceful and quiet as opposed to being burned down during a “visit” from Heaven’s unpleasant denizens. Or blasted to smithereens in the crossfire of one. That was the reason he ended up in the ward in the first place, with two punctures in his wrist. Now, that arm was wrapped in bandages, stained with the crimson of his own blood. Sitri had offered up his blood as a medium for his King to defend his country against those self righteous angels. It was his duty to.
A small table was situated above where his waist was, with a tea cup on top of it, wisps of steam curling in the air. He could recognise from the scent alone that it was black tea. His favourite. A slight smile played across his lips as he looked forward to drinking it. Except, in the state he was in now, he couldn’t bring the cup to his lips to gulp down the soothing, warm liquid. As a compromise, he inhaled the distinct smell of the tea, as a memory played in his mind.
The room was dim. He was sitting down at the edge of bed, with his leopard print teacup in hand. Other demons had called it ugly, but he was quite fond of its tawdry appearance. It was a gift from his beloved Solomon, after all, picked out for him when they went shopping in Gehenna on an impromptu outing. Sitri would have never made the decision to participate in such activities, more focused on honing his own abilities, but it was a welcome change of pace. He also certainly would not have chosen that cup, out of the many varieties that existed.
His cup was filled with black tea, and he stirred it with a spoon, letting out clinks in time with his pulse. Solomon sat beside him, holding his own cup, also obnoxiously designed. A different beverage was in it, however, of a blend of wildberry. As a self proclaimed tea connoisseur, he found the taste too fruity for him, but it was nice enough that they could bond over tea in the first place. At that moment, it was just him and Solomon, relaxing in each other’s company. He couldn’t ask for more.
He found himself voicing his thoughts. “Solomon, why are you partial to that type of tea?”
“I just like it, that's all. It’s nice and tart.”
Solomon took a long sip of his tea as if trying to prove his point. He smiled widely, in the manner he often did, after doing so. Although it was dark, he was practically glowing. Though he always glowed, warm and comforting. Sitri had to resist the urge to wipe away the excess that surrounded his mouth.
“What about you?” Solomon asked, keeping his gaze on Sitri.
“Black tea has a soothing effect. It keeps me calm.”
Hearty laughter came out from the human. Sitri stiffened, alarmed, wondering what he’d said wrong, when Solomon waved him off.
“No,” A laugh. “No, it’s just- really? Black tea makes me jumpy.”
“W-well, it happens to soothe me.”
“I'm not saying you're wrong about the tea's effects,” he shook his head, “It just means that we are affected differently by it. Which isn't a bad thing at all.”
Solomon wound an arm around the embarrassed demon, pulling him closer, but that only deepened his flushed cheeks. Sitri buried his head in the other's neck to conceal it.
“You're usually so calm and composed, but when you're with me it's like you're a whole new person.” Solomon laughed, prying Sitri from his neck.
“It is because it's you.”
The earnest admittance made a look of shock cross Solomon's face, which gave way to a soft gaze. The smile on his face now was more subtle, but still held that warmth that was exclusive to just him. Sitri swore his heart stopped momentarily upon seeing it.
“My tea couldn't possibly compare to how sweet you are, Sitri.”
The demon couldn't hold back anymore, and he planted a kiss on Solomon's cheek. Other demons did this to him as a greeting, but at that moment it felt special. As if they were something more. He was uncharacteristically bashful, feeling the thrum of his heart in his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He heard Solomon's too. It encompassed everything about him, sounding alive and intense, yet steady and reliable. Lowering himself, he placed his ear against the human's chest to listen to every beat, every nuance in that lovely sound.
This was perfect.
Another sigh escaped Sitri's lips involuntarily. The recollection was cut short as a surge of pain entered his mind. The headaches. He had probably been given some type of painkiller while asleep, but it was wearing off now that he was conscious. He wanted desperately to return to that memory, but the incessant throbbing in his head prevented that.
In the heat of battle, he never considered the consequences of his willingness to give up his blood. Ppyong tended to try to ask about if he was alright, but he brushed it off, keeping up with the fast pace of battle. It was almost self sacrificial, how much he lost to fuel his King's magic.
The raging headaches were one of the consequences, and they were an annoyance to get rid of. There were no nurses about, so he could not even ask for another dose to keep the aching at bay. He would just have to tolerate it. Lifting his arm to massage his temples was too much strain on his body, so he went limp, frustrated at himself. He felt useless, lying there, until the headache became more of an issue compared to his idleness.
Closing his eyes, Sitri tried to rest. Perhaps next time he awoke there would be staff working, and he could request for more of the drug to stop his pain. However, his mind kept coming back to Solomon, and pangs of sadness wormed their way into his heart. He could not sleep when thoughts of him plagued him.
Those attempts at sleep were quickly put aside once he felt a familiar pulse. It was brisk with anticipation and worry, and accompanied by hurried footfalls becoming louder and louder. Somebody was nearing his location. Gasping breaths interrupted the muttered repetition of “Oh please let him be ok…”.
The door was thrown open.
A figure rushed into the ward, panting. Their eyes scanned across the rows of curtained beds, hand placed over their chest as they caught their breath. In their other hand was a bag that seemed difficult for them to carry, judging from the indent running along their forearm. They scanned the rows of hospital beds blocked off by blue partitions until their gaze landed on him, and their eyes lit up.
“Sitri! Oh, thank goodness!” they said, rushing to his bedside, relief evident in their voice.
He blinked. It was Solomon.
Sitri had seen them in what seemed like moments before, shielding them from the swarms of angels. That particular battle was more brutal than usual, and apart from the bite on his wrist, there also appeared to be other bruises he hadn't yet noticed. They were blotches of a purplish tint, marring his otherwise pure skin. Since when was he this fragile?
“When you suddenly passed out, I got so scared! You looked deathly pale…”
“I am alright now, Solomon,” he spoke, “I'm more concerned about you.”
A flash of dismay crossed their face, before they shook their head. “I'm fine, thanks to you.”
Before he could say any more, Solomon reached into their bag, pulling out a few of its contents. First, a box with the logo of some bakery, which had a sweet aroma. Then, a little plate, and a two pronged fork as well. Finally, a bottle of tea with graphics of berries all over it.
They set the table accordingly, opening up the box to reveal a square of crepe cake, with powdered sugar dusted on and dollops of cream on top. While Sitri didn't tend to have cake often, he appreciated their consideration greatly. Peeling away the plastic film around it, Solomon carefully slid the cake onto the gaudy plate, which had the word cunt in the centre. He bit back a laugh, bewildered by this choice in plate.
“Forgive me for asking, Solomon, but what was the reasoning behind choosing that plate?”
“Oh, er… It looked like it would match the teacup you use.” they stated sheepishly.
“You didn't have to do all of this, you know. Just your presence is enough for me.”
They furrowed their brows. “I wanted to.”
Solomon uncapped their bottle of tea. A fruity fragrance filled the space between them. As Sitri breathed it in, it smelled incredibly nostalgic. A deep longing in his chest was fished out once more. During his studies in Hades, he learned of a human who had said that a taste or smell could evoke a vivid memory, like opening a doorway to that moment involuntarily. That made wildberry tea his madeleine de Proust, he supposed.
“S-sitri?”
A worried expression seized the human's face, which was blurry. They leaned in to wipe the tears running down his face, wetting their perfect fingers with the manifestation of his ugly emotions. He didn't realise he was crying until they pointed it out to him.
Solomon. He missed Solomon so much.
He gasped once he felt arms around him. The hug wasn't tight, since otherwise it would cause him pain, but it only intensified the watering in his eyes. His breath hitched as he clung onto the other with all the strength he had, as if they would disappear if he didn't. The grip around Solomon was weak, even with his desperation. Concerned, the human stroked his back to assuage his visible distress.
“Solomon,” he cried, “Solomon.”
They looked at him dolefully. “Sitri… I'm not Solomon.”
Sitri blinked. It took a moment for him to process this information. This person in front of him was not Solomon, but instead his descendant. This person was as close as he had to his beloved, acting like a replacement for a figure that should have been with him. He should have been with him.
“Ah, of course…His child.”
They nodded, glad that he recognised them. From out of their bag, the human took out a handkerchief and offered it to the demon. Sitri held it gingerly and cleaned his tears off his face. After a few more ragged breaths, he regained his composure.
“I hope you like the cake I got you,” they said, “I think Ppyong came by earlier to deliver your tea, but you were still sleeping.”
Judging from the now almost imperceptible steam, Ppyong's visit was recent. He would have to thank the little demon for his pains once he was able to see him again.
Sitri tried to angle himself upright, pushing with his arms to reach the table and have some of the cake, but it resulted in him sliding down and wincing from his effort. Being in this weakened state was humiliating, as he couldn't rely on his body to carry out the actions he wished it could. Worse, he was doing this in front of the Child of Solomon. If he kept this up, they may just lose all interest in him and leave him behind.
“Oh, geez! I'm so inconsiderate. You can't feed yourself, right?”
“No… I cannot.”
He was slightly taken aback by the human's reaction. Instead of being scolded for not doing something so base as to sit straight, they apologised. That was very Solomon-like. When he opened his mouth to try to insist they had no reason to do so, something soft filled his mouth.
The other was holding the fork, now coated in some cream and crepe crumbs. He chewed on the cake, which was light and had a texture he had never had before. While it did not leave the strongest impression in terms of taste, it did seem like it would pair well with the black tea on his table. After swallowing, he made a sound of approval, earning a grin from the Child of Solomon.
They took a bite out of the crepe cake. “I asked the owner to see what would be good to drink with black tea, so I bought that for you.”
“Your consideration is greatly appreciated, Solo-”
“Ra-on.”
Sitri cleared his throat. “Your consideration is greatly appreciated, Ra-on.”
By saying Ra-on's name, they seemed happier. He'd have to commit that to memory to see them like that, but it was difficult. Not when they were so similar to Solomon.
“It's nothing big, really! I just wanted to show my gratitude.”
They picked up the teacup, which was plain compared to the plate, and leaned forward. Tilting it towards his lips, they let him take timid sips out of the porcelain vessel. It tasted different, mostly since it wasn’t brewed by himself. As he had a fixation on black tea, he had an uncanny sense for the circumstances surrounding how the tea was created. It was a rather chaotic ordeal.
The task wouldn’t be too hard. All Ra-on had to do was pour boiling water into a cup and allow the tea bag to steep, creating a classic black tea. In their own world, they had made instant coffee, which was essentially the same process, in order to crunch work for their university courses’ deadlines. At least living in Hell removed the pressure of all-nighters and the dread associated with submitting their assignments.
They cracked their knuckles, aware that they would have to be quick. According to the nurses, Sitri would wake up sometime soon. Ppyong floated beside them, carrying a kettle he found from god-knows-where, eager to assist. He also wished to show Sitri how much he cared about him. Ra-on smiled brightly at Ppyong when he said he wanted to participate.
On Sitri’s person was a handful of tea bags due to his habit of drinking tea even while in battle. They had requested that the staff not throw them away, so they could use them to make his tea. Since he had the sachets with him, it meant that he enjoyed how they tasted, and it would therefore be the best ones to use. When Ppyong presented them to the human, it appears one minor detail was left out.
The tea bags reeked of blood.
“Um, Ppyong… I don’t think he’d appreciate bloody tea.”
“I can just get rid of the blood, aye!” the little demon chirped, floating over to the sink.
With Ppyong somehow making the tea bags clean, that left Ra-on to start boiling the water. They plugged it into the wall and flicked the switch on. It was filled with water beforehand, which left the human wondering just how much strength was packed into his small body, as he was carrying it for quite some time. Then, there was the unmistakable sound of a tap running.
A tap running? They spun round, faster than necessary. The bottle of dish soap was opened, and Ppyong was busying himself with washing the teabags using it. And it wasn’t the safest thing for anyone to consume. They snatched the dish soap instinctively, as well as the tea bags, which were covered in foamy bubbles and no traces of blood were left, so he was technically right.
“Ppyong, you’re not meant to do that!”
He cocked his head. “What? But isn’t it clean now?”
“Well- yes, but it isn’t safe to drink anymore!” Ra-on cried, shaking the drenched sachets.
“What do we do now then?”
They stood still, racking their brains for how to salvage this disaster. Sitri probably owned a mountain of teabags somewhere, and the most logical place would be his own room.
“Go and search his room for new ones, quickly!”
The demon on bedrest couldn’t help but laugh to himself, as the idea of Ppyong washing teabags entered his mind. Yet from the taste, he could tell the end product was an honest effort from him and the Child of Solomon. The love that went into it made it better than the beverages he prepared himself. As the cup was pulled away, he could witness Ra-on’s bewilderment at his sudden laughter.
“It appears brewing this was quite stressful, correct?”
They groaned. “Yeah, it was… Wait, how could you tell?”
“I have a passion for black tea.” he stated simply, enjoying their evident confusion.
Opting not to find out how Sitri could identify the specifics of tea, they instead picked up another piece of cake with their fork, and held it up against his mouth. He opened it after a few prods against his lips. The process of feeding him some crepe cake and letting him sip on black tea continued. While initially hesitant to make them do the work for him, he became accustomed to it and looked less tired than before, finally having something to fill his empty stomach.
As a forkful of cake approached him, he opened his mouth again. It was pulled back. Confused, he let out a noise of complaint, like a petulant child being denied something they desired. The fork was being waved around him, just out of reach, teasing his inability to move properly.
“If you want this, call me by my name!”
“S…” The word died on his lips as he squinted at the human. “Ra-on.”
“Do it one more time, just for good measure.”
“Ra-on.”
The piece of cake was guided towards him like a reward for his behaviour. Even though what they were doing was childish, he played along. It mirrored Solomon’s occasional playfulness, which rubbed off on all creatures - demon or angel. Along with the cake, a hand reached out towards his head, petting it lightly. He flushed, unused to such affection.
Eventually, both items were finished, and only the bottled wildberry tea remained. The Child of Solomon uncapped it and drank it, letting out audible gulps from the speed at which they did so. They must really enjoy the taste, leading Sitri to think about why they did so. Perhaps he was just unaware of its superiority to black tea, as the two most important people in his life favoured it. He should try more of that variety, even in spite of the memories it brings back.
A blink from Sitri later, and the bottle was emptied. They let out a contented sigh, slamming it against the table. It was less of a slam, and more like a more forceful placing down, since the sound as it made contact with the table was hollow. He was made more aware of how quickly he could have finished his food and drink if his limbs weren’t so heavy.
“Could I inquire as to why you chose that blend for yourself?”
“I just like it, that’s all. It’s nice and tart.”
Those words. It was how Solomon described it, from seemingly forever ago. Each and every parallel between the two humans caused the lines separating them to blur. It took a marginal amount of willpower not to show his longing, schooling his expression into the default placidity. He had already cried once, to do so again would certainly make them turn away.
“I see,” he said, keeping his tone level, “How interesting.”
Unfortunately for him, the Child of Solomon was just as perceptive as their ancestor, and looked worried. “Are you alright? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, you did not.”
They weren't convinced in the slightest, eyeing him strangely. Sitri wasn't lying, because he genuinely couldn't, but Ra-on was getting the impression that he was.
“Is this about Solomon? You always look so emotional whenever he's mentioned.”
As he could not lie, he quietly murmured. “Yes…”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
After a moment of consideration, he shook his head. He wasn't prepared to open the Pandora's box that was his feelings about the missing human.
“That's fine. Do you want me to do anything for you, then?”
“Stay with me,” he breathed, “Please.”
“Of course! As long as you feel better.”
Ra-on knelt beside his bed, resting their head against his chest, like how he would do to them in the rare moments they shared together. He felt their loving warmth from the contact, and it spread throughout his wounded body, temporarily alleviating his aches. For the first time since Solomon had disappeared, he felt at peace.
His breathing slowed down gradually, finally able to relax against the bed. He could rest properly now, without having to bear his anaemia-induced headaches. Sinking into the depths of slumber, he wore a satisfied smile.
He was facing himself.
There was a reflection of him, staring back dispassionately. The black void he was in had only a mirror, revealing nothing he didn't know. The demon in front of him was definitely himself. He was Sitri, loyal to Satan, the King of Gehenna. He was Sitri, one of 72 demons who had formed a pact with Solomon.
Then, the mirrors began to multiply. One became two, and two became four, until he was surrounded by them like a cocoon. In each direction he turned his head, he saw himself.
His reflections began to warp into purple haired figures, who he recognised immediately. It was Solomon, but his face was twisted into an expression of outright disgust. Shame burned in Sitri's gut, despite not knowing why he appeared that way in the first place.
“You could have saved me.”
Each mirror spoke in a chorus of Solomon's voice, yet it was distorted, turning his comforting sound into something ugly.
“You should have saved me.”
“No… You aren't- you aren't him.” Sitri tried to assert, yet he shook.
“I went missing. And you're to blame.”
The demon backed away from the mirror in front, only to be stopped by a mirror behind. Jeers continued, overwhelming him, yet clapping his hands over his ears did not stop the awful chanting. Solomon would never say such hurtful words, he thought, yet his certainty slipped away with each biting remark.
“Stop…”
It only grew louder. Staying there was suffocating, as he tried to look between the gaps of the mirrors for an exit frantically. Pulling at the glass did nothing but have more scathing words directed at him. He couldn't take it anymore.
“Stop it,” he yelled brokenly, “Please!”
He raised his hands, smashing the glass of one of the mirrors. Like a trigger, it initiated the others to break, letting out deafening sounds of destruction and cries of agony from what mimicked Solomon. It was over.
Sitri jolted awake, which in turn startled Ra-on. He let out a groan of pain at the action. Cold sweat clung to his skin, as he realised his breaths were laboured. It took him a few seconds to verify that the events that took place were just part of his nightmare, and that he was safe.
“Did you…” they started.
“I am fine.”
His hand was intertwined with the human's, and he felt them squeeze it reassuringly. He squeezed back a touch too hard. Their head was no longer resting against him, so his head throbbed once more, much to his chagrin. A grimace settled onto his face, as he attempted to withstand the pressure on his brain.
“I'll call over a nurse, you look sickly.”
Unable to conceal his curiosity, he asked “Where are they? I have not seen or felt any of them at all.”
“Ah, about that…”
“Yes?”
“Ever since Satan walked in, they all swarmed him like he was a celebrity. I mean, he is one, but you know what I mean.”
“Ah, yes, residents of Gehenna do tend to do that.”
Ra-on stood up, picking up their bag. Even though their absence would not be long, he still wished they would stay by his side. “I'll be back soon, alright?”
“Alright.”
They planted a kiss on his lips before bolting out of the room, leaving him frozen and flustered. If not from blood loss or angels, they would be the death of him. Sitri sank further into the mattress, face red, listening to his frenzied heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.