The sky was still dark when Lucifer stirred. Venus hung like a jewel in the northern sky, and across the Tiber, the city on seven hills loomed quiet under dawn's breath. Its sharp silhouettes waited for sunlight.
Lucifer leaned against the thick trunk of a stone pine, cloaked in the shadows of its wide branches. He wasn't asleep—only resting, eyes shut to the world, but ears open.
So when the side house creaked open, he opened one eye. From under the tree, he watched Yahweh emerge, calm as ever, carrying a wooden bowl and spoon.
Lucifer clicked his tongue and turned away.
Last night had been a mess. Yahweh's main room had been off-limits. The estate was small, only a main house and a side one. That left Lucifer with little choice—either share a room with Yahweh or sleep outside.
He had tried. But there'd only been one narrow bed. One bed. For two men.
He'd glanced at it once, snorted, and walked right back out, vaulting into the pine. He wasn't sharing a bed with that overly gentle freak.
—
Now, from the old wooden table in the courtyard, Yahweh returned with a snow-white ferret in his arms. He looked up. Lucifer was still perched in the tree, unmoving, all in black, his long hair swaying like water in the pale morning light.
"Lucifer," Yahweh called.
Lucifer cracked one eye open, narrowing it at the man below. Maybe Yahweh couldn't see him well through the leaves, but Lucifer didn't like how directly those amber eyes looked at him. It felt like being seen—truly seen.
He shivered.
"Calling me down for what?" he grumbled, then jumped gracefully from the branch, landing with barely a sound.
Then—thud. Yahweh dumped a soft white bundle into his arms.
The ferret wriggled, sniffing around for food. It latched onto Lucifer's finger.
Lucifer scowled. "Hey—Yahweh—"
He turned, but Yahweh was already at his side, fingers stroking the creature's tiny head.
"Don't bite. That hurts your brother."
The ferret let go, curling into Lucifer's arms like a fluffy dumpling. He stared at it, dazed.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught the faintest smile curl on Yahweh's lips.
It was like spring had brushed his face.
Lucifer blinked. That tone. That smile. That voice.
It triggered something deep inside—a distant memory.
—
Eons ago, at the dawn of Creation, Lucifer had been a small cherub, barely able to walk. His hair had been a tousled mess of pale gold. Mischievous and wild, he'd terrorize Eden's birds and fish daily.
Yahweh, overwhelmed, had assigned Michael to babysit him.
Little Lucifer, barely able to form words, had wailed at the idea. He had toddled straight to Yahweh, clinging to his robes, blubbering, "S-saint God! You don't love me anymore! Michael's not my brother! I was born first! I don't wanna play with him!"
Then he'd chomped down on Michael's hand.
Yahweh had only sighed, smiling gently, and said, "Lucifer, don't bite. It hurts your brother."
Same voice. Same words.
—
Now, staring at Yahweh and the ferret, Lucifer's scowl eased slightly. He muttered, "Brother? We're not even the same species."
Yahweh didn't respond. He knelt beside the black-faced goat and attempted to milk it. Emphasis on attempted.
Sweat trickled down his brow as the goat let out distressed bleats. Not a single drop made it into the bowl.
Lucifer watched from the tree stump, arms crossed. He was grinning.
Yahweh turned around. "Would you—?"
"I'll do it," Lucifer offered, already stepping in.
He knelt, cradling the bowl with one hand, coaxing the goat with the other. Smooth, practiced movements.
Yahweh blinked. "You've done this before?"
Lucifer smirked. "As a kid. Squeezed it once just for fun. Didn't expect it to explode in my face."
Yahweh paled slightly.
He suddenly imagined all the chaos Lucifer must've caused in Eden—things he'd blissfully blocked from memory.
—
Once they fed the ferret and shared a quiet breakfast of berries, Moses finally emerged from the main house with the Book of Creation.
They ate in silence. Lucifer, still guilty from yesterday's tantrum, took over the firewood and milk pot duties. He crouched beside the flame, feeding it carefully.
The sun rose higher. Birds flitted through the trees, pigeons cooed, and the estate slowly warmed.
At the wooden table, Yahweh began to write with a reed pen on papyrus. Moses sat beside him, posture straight, gaze reverent.
Lucifer, nearby, peeked curiously.
Yahweh's movements were slow and deliberate. One hand held the paper, the other moved with care. He was focused—so much so that his breathing slowed, his eyes barely blinked.
Lucifer tilted his head. What was he writing with such seriousness?
He tossed more sticks into the fire… then crept silently toward the table.
He was nearly there when Yahweh's amber gaze shot up. Caught.
Lucifer froze.
"Ahem… What are you writing? I want to see."
Yahweh didn't scold him. He simply removed the finished papyrus, folded it neatly, and handed it to Moses. Then, from his sleeve, he pulled a few coins and pressed them into Moses' hand.
"Go ahead."
Moses nodded and stood. He didn't even glance at Lucifer. Only at the doorway did he pause to mutter, "Don't follow me."
Yahweh watched as Lucifer trailed behind, stopping just short of the door. Moses shut it with finality. Lucifer stood there a moment, staring at the closed door, shoulders slumping.
Then he turned back, dragging his feet.
Like a wolf told to stay indoors.
Yahweh suppressed a smile.
Lucifer always had listened to him.
"Do you think he'll stop being mad at me?" Lucifer muttered under his breath.
Yahweh looked at him, then spoke gently, "Moses is gathering wood. I asked him to make you a bed. For the side house. You don't have to sleep in the tree anymore."