Counting Sheep
The commonplace sleep is not required among the infernal kind. Every 4-6 weeks does a demon need to rest, and in that minor hibernation do they rest from 5-10 days.
If there were to ever be a handbook to the biological science behind infernal entities, that would be the excerpt to the typical sleep cycle. Compared to humans, who sleep every night, demons are certainly like power banks. However; when brought to angels, they are most nothing alike as an angel doesn't require sleep at all, only the occasional shut eye could do, but sleep is an option and not a need for the divine; that is unless they are injured. Upon the scale, demons lean closer to humans on a functionality scale. They must sleep, eat, and breath. They live despite dying every day; just like humans.
And just like humans, they need one another. Every living entity does, even angels-- despite how strained personal relations can possibly be these days.
The desire that Lucifer holds for his dear companion is to be studied. Requited, and yet not acknowledged between the two, they need it not to be spoken of as they just exist as life has been, and will be. Like cogs, without the other-- the whole machine just does not work, but that does not mean that the two need each other to live. Beelzebub can independently find his way around his favorite joins and enjoy his unusual usual whenever he pleases, the knife fits in his hands-- albeit some ingredients get lost in the kitchen-- it is within his complete control from the very last nerves on his fingertips. The lord rings up meetings, he runs messages over the radio with a barbed tongue, and can cut through the chaotic flow of the office. Simultaneously, Lucifer being able to sort his produces, label and organize the blind demon's files in a way that he is able to read before each little bump, or perhaps a scented mark, makes the stress of working the desk more manageable. Even the days where Beelzebub is booked to the nines, Lucifer clears and reschedules for him where he can. Of course it's a bother as every time it's a surprise that Beelzebub is met with as soon as he enters his private room, however he truly does need it. He likes having someone being his eyes, even if he doesn't need a crutch.
It's nearly impossible to return the favor for someone so-- explosive.
A lifetime of loyalty really leaves a mark, how can you turn it around? Every time Beelzebub tries something, he gets hit back threefold, it's very infuriating in his eyes, but at the same time it is Lucifer, he sees everything as either a competition or a game. Ugh.
And he is so horribly stubborn too! For a satyr, he's more of a mule than any ram Beelzebub's encountered in a lifetime. More tough than a dry-as-bone strip of jerky too. He doesn't know when to give up, but when he does- it really does just end in flames, and not the kind that the four-horned one revels in. In fact, it's just one of those nights where Lucifer is bumming in his (Beelzebub's) apartment, again. It's basically rooming with the bug, but he doesn't mind, honestly he wishes that the little witty bastard would just admit it and stay. Whether he likes it or not, you can't wrangle something as raw as that out of the devil. He plays games and dances around it for as long as he can.
Like now.
The rapping at the door calls for the attention of the lord, it's just a yay-length away, nothing unmanageable. Never has been, Beelzebub doesn't even need to count his steps, just allowing his tail to dust the floor as he carefully worked what floorboards heaved those resoundingly gentle creaks gave him confidence. Uttering a greet after pulling the door open, the downwards cast voice was something that was surely familiar and- unfortunately common. It's a defeated, deflated kind of airy chuckle, the kind you would get from making a silly mistake and not knowing how to take it, and you maybe want to cry but you don't really want to. It's tranquil, and shrunk from its usual velocity, sharpness dulled around the edges, and easily? It is Lucifer. He is tired.
Beelzebub invites him for tea, but he declines politely, even cocoa too. The pause gives hope in consideration, but it was more from the poor sheep dozing.
Lucifer cannot sleep well alone, he tries to, but living in his own home is like a graveyard carved out around him of everything wrong that could have happened happening. His home isn't even his own, he considers it to be a meeting place, despite his bedroom being there, he just cannot sleep under that roof. Beelzebub understands, he would't complain about it, he really couldn't at all- it would be shameful to. Wrong to.
He's already sat on the couch, without the invitation to but the host needs not to ask, he joins the demon on the cushions and carefully allows his weight to shift the balance, careful not to rock the boat. It's just enough to ease his presence into Lucifer's conscious, sleep deprived mind.
"You can have the bed tonight."
It just about shocks Lucifer back to his hooves- it's undetectable (asides from the gentle fanning in the air) but the satyr shakes his head, denying the offer once again. "Good heavens," Lucifer isn't one to use language such as that, not ever, what a delightful surprise, "It is yours, I may rest on the couch instead. I am a guest, not your boss- not right now." There's a humored air behind the last part but there's no way that the taller of the two can take that as an answer, so instead he breathes out a sigh. "Then I'm not giving you an option then," It sound's most demanding- but sometimes you just need to force a horse to the water to get anywhere good, "go to bed." There's a stillness in the air, "I'll be with you in just a second." It eases the tension just like that, a quiet acknowledgement followed by gratitude. He knows his manners but rarely practices using them.
Beelzebub's bed isn't anything special, it can fit enough people in it- if that's anything remarkable at all. He can't remember what color the bedsheets are, or the covers, but it's comfortable and knocks him right out when he needs to be. It should have the same affect on the devil if he is any lucky. Unfortunately, not quite. Lucifer is snug as a bug, but waiting. It isn't an issue, but the sleeping trouble persists with him awfully, the lord of flies has mentally kept note of it already but it truly is a worrisome thing in his mind. Is it night terrors? Likely, but the worst thing is that Lucifer just won't say a word. There's a strong refusal, Beelzebub doesn't blame him. What he does instead is get himself into bed himself. "Comfortable?" He inquires, and the sheep hums in reply. He doesn't exactly move so much in bed, but the warmth is radiating, it's like a pie sat on the windowsill cooking down but the latter half is not happening, Beelzebub is glad. He is content now.
"Aye, then off to bed with you," he reaches over to pat the other preferably on the side of the arm from atop of the sheets," if you need anything just call, or shake me..." Beelzebub doesn't have the heart to share that he was already sleeping but woke up to fix himself a snack, the state of his bed most likely showed that- but Lucifer made no acknowledgement verbally, he's awfully quiet... it must have been bad enough to really not get these many quips in. Good lord. The host needs something, a sign, if not for a sound, but what he receives is very relieving instead, melting actually, it's a clasp of his clawed hand. Two warm hands around his. A natural worrywart and his wreck of a companion. It's not so bad to be in such a position for situations such as this though. There's a gentle tug, and there it is. "Mm, 'kay, c'mere." It doesn't take long to engulf the other into his arms, it's just like hugging the whisps of a campfire, how the sparks singe the atmosphere and the flame whips around just enough not to burn you, but instead traces your features. There's a need in Lucifer's gestures, how he pulls himself into Beelzebub. It can be mistaken as pulling the moth in, but no, he's practically made a home right there. Running those pointed fingers through his hair, careful around the horns and even a little flick to the ear to earn a little wave from the tuft, the urgent squeeze ebbs away to a veil instead. Gently drifting, gently holding on.
Lucifer hates to admit that he feels at home wherever Beelzebub is. But it's true. He makes sleep much easier, much better. There's no need for words, but he holds himself back from saying so much that he would like to say, but Beelzebub understands. To share words of what "they are" is difficult for one or the other to put into words. They are what they are; at home, safe, and loved.