A/N: Again, I have to wonder: why haven't I seen any fics on this topic? 0_0' I know I'm not the only one around here with a sadistic mind. That said, I didn't make all that much of it, since I think I've been dawdling too long anyway: I want to get to the plot, and I rudely assume you want the same…? ^_^'

2018-04-11:
HANS, IF THAT SWEDE READING IS YOU, EMBARRASSMENT IS FORBIDDING ME FROM EVER SETTING FOOT IN MATERIALS LAB AGAIN DO YOU HEAR ME?! Och om du inte är Hans... så är det bara att fortsätta läsa. x'D

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

A button with too sharp edges. The kind that eats away at the thread it's sewn with, slowly. One by one, fibres wear thin and snap.

And Shiro was very close to snapping.

He had always had a temper, though nowadays he rarely exploded the way he had done a few times in the past. That was, in all aspects, a good thing: but right now, he wanted nothing more than a reason to explode.

The gash in his leg hurt, and it kept him on crutches: still, that was okay.

He had locked his cigarettes away in a drawer 36 hours ago, and he could hear them sing sweet love songs for his fingers. It was a bitch, but it was still okay.

Mephisto had admitted, of sorts, that he had staged the attack on the ryokan. For a human, that was not okay: for a demon… well, you can take the demon out of hell, but you can't take hell out of the demon. Demons have a different way of thinking. A different way of doing things. Mephisto served the Order's interests, in his own way; and, considering the alternative, it was… dubiously okay.

Shiro had had an inexplicable, stiff soreness in his finger joints ever since the meeting. The school nurse had no guesses except growing pains or soreness from muscle exhaustion, and had prescribed resting his hands as much as he could. No target practice. That… was not okay.

Withdrawal had started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against his skull, and no matter what he ate he never seemed to get rid of the hunger.

And so, threads had begun wearing thin.

Tch, even if someone did cause him to explode, what was he going to do? Hop after them on his crutches and beat them up with hands he could barely curl into fists? He had no idea, only knew that he felt like a steam engine with all vents blocked. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard.

Shiro made his way through the school corridors like a bomb with the countdown in bright red digits on his forehead, and many who normally might have offered a guy on crutches help with opening doors kept a nervous distance. When, despite that, a sophomore guy asked if he wanted him to carry his satchel up the staircase, the "no" he snarled at him was more of an animal growl than human speech.

The battle at Kiridani Ryokan may be in the past, but there is no rest for the wicked. Shiro still had to protect the people around him; from himself. Demons swarmed to his boiling temper, clustered the air around him and waited patiently for his cold detachment to slip and leave him open for the taking. One slip, and he would hurt someone seriously before he regained control. Whoever caused the last thread to snap would be a sorry bastard indeed.

The sorry bastard was writing reports at its desk in the dorm room. Futotsuki-sensei had come back to the Academy when the tension had settled, which also meant that the substitute teacher was alleviated of his duties. And full of questions.

"I was told you did well at the meeting." Saburota struck up conversation in the mechanical manner of a phrase book when the tapping of the crutches passed the threshold.

"I suppose", Shiro replied in a voice that wasn't the least interested in discussing the matter further: if his roommate caught that, he ignored it adamantly.

"Being able to take swift action in a dire situation is a valuable asset in an exorcist: you should pride yourself on it."

At any other time… But Shiro was not in the mood for this kind of dance.

"Just say what you wanna say and stop beating around the bush." Shiro deposited his sore, grumpy body in the desk chair with a grunt. "You're not any good at talking round anyway."

Saburota closed his notepad, laid down his pencil, and turned his chair so that Shiro had the full, straight-backed frame to look at. The glasses caught the lamplight and obliterated his eyes, but Shiro knew what look they wore. Flat. Grim. Effective. Dead. A look that Shiro mirrored perfectly opposite his interrogator.

"There seems to be a correlation between you and demon attacks", Saburota observed sombrely.

"Demons seem to like me", he returned in stony tones.

"I was told not to sully the family name by speaking of Deep Keep. I was told my cousin died honourably, on duty, killed by demons: in Deep Keep, the most fortified stronghold in Japan." His voice was steady when he spoke. Monotonous. It trailed the dubious tracks Shiro himself had spent almost a year dogging; tracks that did, indeed, lead to Deep Keep. "You went down there. Why?"

Sharp and deceptively polite, like the light reflecting off his glasses: like the retort that slipped Shiro's lips before he could think:

"Taking swift action in a dire situation: that's a good thing, ain't it?"

Saburota's jaw clenched imperceptibly tighter.

"I will not play games with you, Fujimoto-kun. You knew where to go when the attack struck. There is something down there that had to do with it, and I want to know what that is."

Shiro felt the words form out of the burning coals in his chest. It was not fair, or just, or defendable in any way: but Shiro was irritable, sore, hogtied by circumstance, and in a damn foul mood. That can bring out the sadist in anyone.

"Well, you know the rules of Deep Keep better than anyone: no one's allowed to say what's down there."

He wouldn't have done it if it hadn't felt so good. Bad. Good: it felt good in a bad way. It felt like steam pushing its way out an open vent.

"What d-does it take for you t-to take things serious-l-ly?"

Saburota was a good exorcist. Intelligent, efficient, responsible, good-looking: perfect. Too perfect. He was a sheet of spotless ice atop a dark lake; the kind of ice that cracks with a thin, crisp sound that reminds you of glass, and that makes you itch to break it. He possessed outstanding composure, sure: but once he started to stutter… you could hear threads snapping. You could hear ice creaking. And it felt good.

"A lot", Shiro replied. Hints of a cruel smile touched his lips for reasons he couldn't determine; primal reasons beyond the scrutiny of the conscious mind.

"My cousin died", he said gravely, clenching his hands into fists in his lap as he fought to keep his stutter in check. "With a clean cut-t in his chest: the kind left b-by sword, not talons. You went down in D-deep Keep, without permis-s-sion. With a sword."

"Are you saying you think I'd kill people, senpai…?"

It was revolting, how steady the words were, how smoothly they rolled off his tongue: and at the same time prickling, pulling, compelling – not unlike the thrill of danger.

"I'm not- I'm s-saying you know what happen-n-ned." He clung to his composure, winding himself stiffer in it and hating it; hating the stutter, hating his failure to control it, hating his failure to- "And as your elder, I ord-order you to tell me."

…the thrill… of controlling a person's emotion with words…

"I have to stop." Snaring prey: he was snaring prey, as a demon would. Taunting and prodding and exploiting human emotion and getting off on it – mother of god, since when had he…? "It's not my place to say." Shiro's voice was entirely different as he tried to force nastier instincts in line. "If you have questions, you should take them to higher authority. I'm sorry – about your cousin, and my behaviour." He was. Now that he'd snapped out of it, and realised what he had done, he was truly, genuinely sorry. "I'm trying to quit smoking, it's…" He made a vague gesture with his hand towards the drawer where the cigarettes lay waiting. "It wears on your nerves."

On his nerves…? When he lowered his head in an apologetic bow, it was evident whose nerves had been worse for wear.

It sounds so nice to say the eyes are the windows of the soul. When Saburota's glasses didn't reflect the light, when composure no longer held the façade together, Shiro was reminded why windows often come with blinds.

"I forgive you." Oh, but he was good: the curtains were drawn so fast you'd doubt you actually saw anything. "For this", he added. "I can not forgive your actions during the attack: not until I have-"

A sound as sweet as silver bells and singing choirs: a knock on the door. Shiro wasted no time to grab his crutches, but hopped over on one leg to get it. The timing was perfect, although…

"Good day, Fujimoto-kun. May I enter?"

…it was the last person in the world he would have expected.

"…sure", he said when he found his tongue, and limped aside to let the unexpected visitor in.

"And good day, Fujimoto-kun's roommate. Now, my errand is most urgent…" Shiro couldn't believe his eyes when the demon sank down on his knees, and folded himself forward into a dogeza, forehead resting against the floor. "Please, talk sense into Master Pheles. A servant's word is nothing to him; please, Fujimoto-kun. If it's you, he might listen."

"Uh…" A demon kowtowing before a human for help? He needed a couple of moments to get his footing, now that the world had turned upside down. "What's the matter with him…?"

"My Master is bored."

Belial uttered the word at the floor as though it were the name of an ancient calamity that had slept beneath the world for ages and now awakened to engulf it in destruction.

"I see", Shiro said, stroking the stubble on his chin as an excuse to hide his smile. "Pestering his household staff for entertainment, is he?"

"Today, Master decided to cook for his staff." Belial's grave tone indicated that was something Very Bad, though in Shiro's ears it just sounded Very Funny. He would think many things of Mephisto, but that he could cook…?

"Well, seeing as battling demons will be my job one day…" he chuckled. "I'll help ya – just have to buy some… ammunition first."

He was so winning this bet. Almost a pity, though. The prize wasn't very exciting, but seeing Mephisto climb the walls was something he-

"Ow!"

Shiro cursed and shook his hand, having received quite the shock from the electrically wired doorbell.

"I suppose a bored Mephisto is a danger to everyone…"

"With all due respect to your condition, Fujimoto-kun, that took you quite a while", said the demon that ope-

"Belial-san? I didn't recognise you without moustache."

"His highness' main course burnt it off", Belial explained in a voice that cracked tiny veins in his polite, composed façade. Some part of Shiro pitied him: the very tiny part that didn't find all this hilarious. "Please, come in: I believe his highness is preparing dessert. On behalf of the staff as a whole, I would appreciate if you could prevent his highness from completing it."

The kitchen seemed to have followed the staff's example and gone into hiding when Mephisto's withdrawal symptoms hade made themselves known. All the rooms they passed through had suffered his boredom one way or the other: one had to admire his zest, really, seeing how he had turned the cupola in the parlour into a gravity-defying swimming pool, and managed an almost perfect silverware-replica of the Eiffel Tower in the ballroom.

"Ah." Belial stopped when they reached a smaller version of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. "Pardon me, Fujimoto-kun."

And with that, he swept him up bridal-style and stepped onto the hall floor, where all the checkerboard marble tiles seemed to be in disarr-

*di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do, di-da-do-do-di-da-do-do*

"What the hell is this…?" to say shiro's eyes were wide was an understatement, as Belial danced back and forth on floor tiles that gave off sound.

"A piano", he replied, completely unfazed as he skipped this-way-and-that, slowly making his way across the hall. "His highness is quite fond of the opening theme of Shinbatto no bouken. If played incorrectly, the floor will fall away: we lost two maids and one manservant before we could establish which melody was the right one."

Shiro kept his mouth shut rather than accidentally making Belial miss a step. Yep, a bored Mephisto was a danger to everyone.

"Say, Belial-san…" Past the piano-hall, Shiro decided to ask something that had slipped his mind before, but that had him rather curious when he remembered it. "Have you ever called Samael by name?"

Good thing he hadn't asked in the hall of mirrors: just like the snake demon at Hyakki Yagyou, Belial winced ever so slightly.

"No, Fujimoto-kun, I have not."

"Why?" he inquired as casually as he could, and shifted his satchel of ammunition to appear even more relaxed and not-curious-as-hell.

"I do not see what concern that matter should be for you."

"Then good luck with your master: I'm out."

"Pardon?" Belial turned around to see Shiro stop by a door carved in silver oak, rest his crutches against the wall, and take out his cram school key.

"What, you think demons are the only ones to demand services in return?" His white eyebrows rose over expressionless eyes. "It's just one question: why don't you say his name?"

Belial wasn't exactly happy… but he was also desperate. Desperate, fatigued, and anxious: the schooled, professional face didn't show it, and no restless fingers betrayed it, but Shiro knew. If asked, he would chance a guess it had to do with the imprint: because he actually knew.

"No demon would take his highness' name in his mouth", Belial said in curt, unwilling syllables. "It's cursed."

"Cursed? How does a demon have a cursed name?"

At this, the butler's thin lips drew a scornful line on his face.

"Names are powerful things, young man", he replied in a soft, polite voice. "One name may be spoken carelessly by a human, but in a demon's mouth it turns into ash and lye."

"Last question, then." Shiro put his key back in his pocket, signalling that he wasn't going to try Belial's patience much longer. "Why was he given a cursed name?"

The demon's narrow eyes grew wider, as did his smirk.

"The only one to know that would be Lord Satan: why don't you ask his majesty yourself, when his majesty comes for you?" Shiro tried his best… but couldn't keep the cruel statement from hardening his eyes. "For now, I think we will reach the kitchen just in time to try the dessert the Lord's son has made."

Shiro had taken it for miasma at first, but the black smoke trickling over the arced ceiling was precisely that: black smoke. It smelled of something that could have been roasted almonds, or coal.

The kitchen looked deceptively undisturbed; like a crocodile pretending to be a log. There was a profound lack of drawers and cutlery, though. And people. There wasn't a single person there, save for a tied-up Ukobach chattering protests from among the pots and pans that hung on hooks around the stove. Maybe he had tried to protect his kitchen: maybe he followed the same code of honour as captains that go down with their ships when the rest of the crew flees.

"You're not seriously thinking of serving that to anyone, are you?" Shiro stated to get the attention of the invading chef.

Mephisto's Hello Kitty-clips then came into view from behind one of the stoves. It was followed by a flour-speckled countenance and a sheet pan of… uh… never mind what those were supposed to be.

"And why not?" he asked irritably. One look at his face told Shiro that he probably hadn't slept since the Futotsuki meeting, and that his patience was worn rice paper-thin. Good.

"For one, they seem to be burning holes through the sheet pan." Shiro produced the ammunition from his satchel and held it up for Mephisto to see. "And I figured you'd be more interested in this: latest issue of Shoujo Comic, so fresh from the printing press you can smell the ink." He assumed Mephisto could, even if all he felt was the crusty tang of burnt carbohydrates. Shiro flipped the pages with the smooth elegance of one showcasing products on tv-shop, and watched the sheet pan creak and crinkle like tin foil in Mephisto's polka-dotted oven gloves. "But seeing as you're busy, I'll just take a seat and wait till you're done."

Shiro limped over to fetch a stool from the corner, feeling Mephisto's gaze locked on like laser sight to the magazine in his hand but acting like nothing. He placed himself strategically right next to the oven the demon was abusing, tilted to lean his back against the wall, and flipped open Shoujo Comic. This wouldn't take long: he could already hear a faint, pained whine trying to hide under the hum of the stove fan's death rattles. It's true that shared agony is half agony, simply because the other half is comprised of glee.

Two things can generally be said of demons: they indulge unabashedly in every pleasure they desire, and they are masters at temptation.

Two things can generally be said of humans: they fight demons, and shield themselves from their temptations with restraint.

If there is anything unnatural for a demon to do, it is to abstain from pleasure; if there is anything unnatural for a human to do, it is to befriend a demon. And at the peak of the bizarre anomaly that was their friendship, Shiro brought it to a whole new level still: how often do you hear of a human tempting a demon?

"That has to be cheating", Mephisto ground out between clenched teeth as he struggled to keep his hands steady when pouring batter into paper cups. It would appear he was trying to make cupcakes. It would also appear he favoured aprons with lace trimming.

"Oh, I don't think so~ I'm not exactly shoving it under your nose and forcing you to read, am I? You're free to puff on a cigarette in front of me, if you feel this is unfair", he grinned, and threw a glance at Mephisto's unusually twitchy movements as he turned another page.

*poof*

"Have one." At a snap of Mephisto's fingers, a shiny black packet of Peace brand cigarettes plopped down in Shiro's lap. "As long as you do it under the fan, I will even let you smoke indoors."

Shiro could not hide his expression: he was that desperate? O-hoho, bad move, Mephisto.

"The true virtue of mankind is restraint, wasn't that what you said once?" he smiled graciously as he tucked the packet into his chest pocket for future use: for when he would celebrate his crushing victory in their bet. "It's only been two days: I can go without for a week at least. That's, oh, five more days like this…?"

Mephisto sagged over the workbench with an agonized groan, and the curl on his head wilted like a sad flower: with that sweet sight on his retina, Shiro might actually have been able to go five more days.

"Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the demon…"

"Your own fault for imprinting me", Shiro smiled into the pages. "That's right: gotta ask him about that later, when he's cooled down. He won't be in any talkative mood after he's lost."

Meanwhile, Belial was having the time of his life. His jaw was clenched as tightly as Mephisto's, but the convulsive contractions of his throat muscles suggested it wasn't because he was irritated. No, he was laughing: laughing, because neither he nor any other demon would dream of doing anything like this. Demon society, demon rules: takes a reckless human idiot to break them.

"Hm, I think I'll skip this one", Shiro mused aloud and leafed ahead. "Kaze to Ki no Uta looks more like your kind of thing. Are they even allowed to publish stuff like this in girls' magazines…?"

Mephisto's hair curl reared up, like an antenna homing in on good news. Shiro knew perfectly well that Kaze to Ki no Uta was Mephisto's thing, of course: the manga had been refused publishing for nine years because of its… content.

"That, is a tragic and captivating story of masterful proportions; not something an uncultivated plebeian like you can appreciate!"

"Watch where you're waving that spatula, you might get batter on the mag."

Any more now, and there would be steam coming out of his pointy ears: Shiro was enjoying himself – how to say? – royally.

"You sadistic little creep…!" he whined, hands clenching in frustration and curl twitching like an eyebrow would.

"At your service", Shiro said, spreading his hands with a pleasant smile: Mephisto's starved eyes followed the colourful magazine like… "Like a dog with a scrap of dried liver." Shiro moved the magazine up… down…right… left… Mephisto followed its every move with transfixed eyes. "You're dripping batter on the floor, your highness", he enlightened sweetly.

Mephisto snapped out of his trance with a mortified look: his ears pulled down, and his mouth turned into the kind of squiggly line you would see on his stick figures. And in his eyes… the last threads snapped. He snatched the magazine out of Shiro's hand and poofed away with a growl that sounded like "you win".

"Well, that's that." Shiro took his glasses off and used the apron Mephisto had left behind to wipe cupcake batter off the glass. "He might sulk for a few days, but he should leave the mansion alone."

"We are deeply grateful, Fujimoto-kun." Belial made quick work of untying Ukobach, who immediately set to salvage what could be salvaged of his beloved kitchen. After listening a moment to the little demon's chatter, Belial resumed: "Would you like to stay for dinner? Ukobach says he will cook whatever you-"

"Thanks", he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "but what I really want right now is a smoke; and whatever he says, I don't trust he'd let me smoke indoors. I have to catch up on studies 'cause of the withdrawal headaches, too. So, uh, good luck with everything, and… hope you can piece the place back together."

"Very well: goodbye, and good luck with your studies." Belial bowed and, with the faintest hint of humour to his voice, added: "I pity any demon that crosses your path when you have graduated."

Shiro took his time, walking down from the mansion on the summit to the student dorms. With any luck, Saburota would be occupied with work when he got back. Cigarettes taste better when you smoke them outdoors, anyway.

"Cursed name, huh?" Tch, it was really slow going, downhill on crutches: Saburota would be sleeping rather than working. "Like outpacing thought…" Still didn't know what that meant, but… "Sounds like you'd have personal reasons to help the Order against your dad."