♕ a devil's return;
Each day, each and every day, Satan would return to his side to look up at the stars and speak to him, tell him about everything that happened that day, question him with things he could not respond to.
Because he was dead.
The rotting form of Akira Fudou had been their only form of friendship, company. Demons were only good for so much conversation, they were more focused on their bloodlust rather than intellectual conversations, and they treated Satan with fear. Respect, yet fear.
And fear they should feel.
Toes barely brush across the ground as they make their way up the hill, ready to be greeted with the sight of a rotting carcass of their once dear friend. They would kiss those peeling lips and say hello, before lying down next to him.
What they were greeted with, however, was something else. Clean, tan skin, free of maggots and wounds. A full head of hair. Open brown eyes--those beautiful brown eyes. And legs. There were legs. Akira Fudou had been torn in half before.
But here he was, lying on the ground where he always had been for the past few years in eternal slumber, looking good as new.
Satan almost cried, this time racing across the ground, ignoring the cuts that rocks dug into the soft skin of the bottom of their feet, and with a leap, they were hovering over Akira and touching him everywhere. Stroking his cheeks, prodding his sides, running their hands down his legs.
"You're awake," they whispered, looking awestruck. "Awake. Awake." Satan floated down to sit on the other's waist, hands squeezing his broad shoulders. "You..."