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Six months. Six months of absolute, suffocating silence. Six months of King Dice moving through the shattered remnants of the casino like a phantom, carefully tending to the grotesque, massive body of the Devil. Dice never spoke of the fight, or the destruction, or the single, devastating word the Devil had spat at him: good-for-nothing.
The Devil lay immobile, his healing process agonizingly slow. He watched Dice: watched him meticulously apply cooling cloths, watched him rebuild destroyed sections of the floor with impossible efficiency, watched him bring small plates of food, knowing the mortal needed sustenance, even if the Devil himself didn't. This care was precise, efficient, and devoid of warmth.
The Devil finally recovered, his demonic power surging back. But the hollow emptiness in his chest remained. He was ready to reclaim his throne, yet he felt like a fraud. He looked at Dice, who was cleaning soot from the corner of the room, and the silence finally became too much to bear.
“Dice.” The name was raw, scratchy—unused for too long.
Dice didn't flinch, but the cleaning rag stilled. “Yes, boss?”
“Why are you still here?” The Devil demanded, rising to his full, imposing height. “Why did you stay? You should have run when the cups smashed this place. You should have left when I insulted you.”
Dice slowly turned, meeting the Devil’s crimson gaze, his expression dangerously flat. “I was thinking of leaving,” he admitted, his voice low and edged with six months of pent-up bitterness. “But, I couldn't. I saw you crying. And I stayed.”
Dice took a step forward, his jaw set. “I’m aware of the fact that you will never apologize for the way you insulted me, but I don’t have any right to ask you to do it. I didn’t stop the Cup brothers, and so did you. We both failed.”
The Devil flinched, not from the words, but from the raw, ugly truth of his hidden tears being exposed. Shame, a sensation he hadn't felt since his Fall, washed over him. He lowered his gaze slightly. “Your contract was destroyed by those… cups! You are free, King Dice. Free to leave. Do not mistake my gratitude for obligation.”
“If I’m free to leave,” Dice retaliated, his tone sharp and final, “then I’m free to stay. This is my choice. This is final.”
The Devil’s eyes snapped back up, and for the first time, he truly saw Dice. The six months of selfless labor had taken a cruel toll. Dice’s face was etched with fatigue; a deep, mottled yellow and purple bruise bloomed beneath one eye; his lip was split, and the front tooth was visibly chipped, giving his proud stance a pathetic vulnerability.
“Your wounds…” the Devil whispered, his theatrical demeanor completely gone.
“I’m fine,” Dice insisted, stepping back.
“You are a disaster,” the Devil corrected, stepping forward. He didn't ask again. He reached out and, gently, firmly, took hold of Dice’s hand.
A golden, brilliant light pulsed from the Devil’s palm, washing over Dice. The visible damage vanished: the bruise faded, the split lip sealed, and the chipped tooth was fixed. But as the light faded, the Devil kept his hand clasped around Dice’s. He had healed the skin and bone, but he could not fix the man’s broken pride.
The Devil met his gaze, his voice heavy with genuine contrition. He did not posture.
“From the bottom of my heart, I, the Devil, apologize for insulting the only person I consider my equal,” he stated clearly, his commitment absolute.
Dice didn't fight the emotion anymore. He folded into the Devil’s waiting arms, releasing a soundless sob.
“And I thank you for staying with me, even though you had a choice,” the Devil continued, stroking Dice’s head. “I… I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you in my life. I need you here.” He kissed Dice's forehead. “I deeply apologize for my hurtful words. I deserved every bit of your contempt for them.”
The Devil pulled back, his eyes closed. “I earned your anger. Let it out, Dice. Hit me.”
Dice stared at him, tears streaming down his face, before his exhausted hands finally moved. The Devil received the first glancing slap—a mix of confused tears and fury. It was quickly followed by another, then a tight, weak punch to the chest. The blows weren't powerful enough to leave a mark, but they were delivered by his favorite mortal, and to the Devil, that alone was more painful.
When the storm finally passed, Dice collapsed against him, shaking uncontrollably.
“Why am I like this? So… weak?” Dice choked out, tears wetting the Devil’s fur.
The Devil squeezed him tight. “You aren't weak, you are stronger than any demon down here! Never tell anyone, or yourself, anything less. Do you hear?”
Dice nodded against his chest, finally calming. “You really apologized… I’m so sorry for raising my hand at you. I shouldn’t have—”
“I deserved it,” the Devil interrupted softly.
Dice’s emotional exhaustion was complete. He sobbed himself to sleep, clutching the Devil's fur like a lifeline. The Devil held him until his breathing evened out, then gently teleported them both out of the casino wreckage and into the private refuge of Dice's apartment—the room of fifty shades of comforting purple.
The Devil settled onto the soft, velvet sheets, the sleeping mortal safe in his arms. He would worry about reclaiming his empire tomorrow. Today, he was simply the protector, finally at peace.