Elric had never been fond of places that tried too hard to pretend they weren't something else.
And Lux?
It was exactly that—a polished illusion wrapped in warm, golden light, pretending it was nothing more than a nightclub, when in truth, it had been crafted with the precision of a stage set.
A sanctuary built by someone who had left the throne but not the weight of it.
Elric stepped inside.
The music thrummed, but it wasn't overpowering—not the kind that demanded attention, only the kind that settled into the bones, weaving through conversation.
Lucifer was where he always was—center stage without needing to be on one, leaning back against the piano, fingers resting lightly over the keys, not playing, just... waiting.
Even in the dim glow of Lux, where golden hues softened the edges of reality, Lucifer Morningstar stood as if the universe itself had designed him to be the centerpiece—an immortal paradox wrapped in effortless charm.
His presence was not loud, nor demanding—but undeniable.
Like light itself, it did not beg for attention.
It simply was.
Golden hair caught the ambient glow, strands shifting between fire and silk, a whisper of divinity lingering in the mundane.
His features held the perfection of celestial craftsmanship—not sculpted by time, but by intent.
The sharp cut of his jaw, the faintest curve of amusement at his lips—everything about him spoke of a history long before humanity had words for gods.
And yet—he wore humanity well, as though it was just another garment draped across his eternal form.
A tailored vest, midnight black, fitted like a second skin.
Fingers resting against the piano, unmoving, but carrying the weight of entire symphonies unplayed.
His eyes—golden, unwavering, knowing.
They held no regret.
No pleading nostalgia for lost grace.
Only certainty.
He had Fallen, but he had not been broken.
He had abdicated, but he had never been lesser.
He was still, and forever, The Lightbringer.
Elric took his time crossing the room. The energy here was different—not celestial, not divine, but something undeniably shaped by choice.
Lucifer glanced up—a slow, deliberate movement, lips curling into something too knowing, too amused.
"Elric."
Not Elior. Not the weight of that name.
Just the one he had chosen for himself.
Elric met his gaze without hesitation.
"Lucifer."
A smirk. A flicker of amusement in golden eyes that had seen the rise and fall of entire empires.
"You don't visit often." Lucifer's voice carried warmth without invitation, danger without threat.
"What brings you?"
Elric never needed a reason to visit an old friend.
The thought amused Lucifer, though he didn't say it aloud—he merely exhaled, leaning slightly into the piano, fingers pressing against the polished keys, but not playing. Just feeling the weight of them.
"So?" Lucifer tilted his head. "Shall we indulge in the usual pleasantries, or do you wish to skip ahead?"
Elric took his time settling into the chair across from him, watching the golden glow flicker in the soft overhead light.
"If I must suffer through pleasantries, then so shall you."
A smirk.
Lucifer appreciated that—the steady, unshaken presence of someone who did not waver.
"Very well, then." He exhaled, almost theatrical, though there was no one here to perform for but Elric himself.
"My days in the mortal world? Predictably entertaining. They always are. Mortals… they create their own chaos, even without intervention. Though I must admit—"
He traced the rim of his glass, watching the liquid ripple softly.
"There's something remarkable about watching them fight for purpose. Even knowing it eludes them."
Elric nodded, swirling his own drink, though he barely glanced at it.
"Some would say that's the best part."
Lucifer chuckled. "That sounds suspiciously like the words of someone who has spent far too long among them."
A pause.
Then Lucifer leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharper—not accusatory, but understanding.
"You left your post, didn't you?"
Elric lifted his glass, took a slow sip.
"A long time ago."
Lucifer studied him for a moment, then leaned back, satisfied with the answer.
"Mortals are oddly compelling, aren't they?"
Elric let the silence settle before answering.
"Some of them."
And for a moment, there was nothing celestial between them.
Just two beings who had stepped away from their cosmic roles—one by rebellion, one by choice.
Elric swirled his drink absently, watching the way the liquid caught the dim golden light.
"Would it be alright in Hell if you're up here?"
Lucifer smirked, leaning back against the piano, fingers lazily tracing the polished keys—not playing, just existing.
"Hell?" He exhaled, like someone barely recalling an old inconvenience. "Oh, that thing? I emptied it out."
Elric lifted a brow, waiting.
Lucifer rolled his wrist in a dismissive gesture.
"The demons, the damned souls… I sent them all packing. Flipped the 'Closed' sign, locked up, handed the key to Dream."
Elric stared, expression unreadable.
Lucifer sighed, as though he were explaining why he'd gotten rid of an outdated wardrobe.
"Honestly? Hell was always so… needy. It demanded attention constantly, always wailing for its grand purpose. I got tired of it."
A pause.
"So I left."
Elric let the silence settle, absorbing the sheer finality of it.
Hell was closed.
The damned had been cast out.
And Lucifer Morningstar, the once-ruler of that forsaken kingdom, sat here—unburdened, unshaken, entirely uninterested in discussing it further.
"And do you regret it?"
Lucifer lifted his glass, took a slow sip.
"Not for a second."
And with that, he changed the subject entirely.
"Anyway—tell me, how do you mortals tolerate coffee from a diner? It's practically a punishment."
Elric chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back, letting the weight of old memories settle between them.
"You haven't changed," he mused, watching Lucifer swirl his drink lazily.
Lucifer smirked.
"Why would I?"
Elric exhaled. So many centuries, so many choices that had shaped the universe, and yet—here they were, seated across from each other, as though nothing had ever shifted.
"Do you ever think back on it?" Elric asked, not expecting a sentimental answer.
Lucifer sighed, tilting his glass in thought.
"Once or twice. But I don't linger. The past was loud enough the first time around."
Elric chuckled again—typical Lucifer.
A brief silence settled between them, comfortable, unhurried, the kind only two beings who had walked eternity could share.
Then, Elric's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Wouldn't the angels be giving you hell for closing Hell?"
Lucifer laughed—a smooth, rich sound, effortlessly amused.
"Oh, they tried. Stormed in, wings bright, voices raised, all grand righteousness and fury."
He waved a hand dismissively, as though recalling an overly dramatic play.
"Gabriel thought it was a test. Zadkiel tried to be understanding—" he scoffed, "as if I needed their approval."
Elric smirked. Of course they had tried.
"And what did you tell them?"
Lucifer leaned back, taking a slow sip before answering.
"I told them—if they wanted Hell, they could take it."
Elric raised a brow.
Lucifer grinned.
"Funny thing, though—none of them actually wanted it."
A pause.
"They just didn't want me to leave."
Elric exhaled, nodding slowly. That made sense. Hell wasn't just suffering. It was structure. And for Heaven, structure was everything.
"And then?"
Lucifer smirked, settling back, as relaxed as ever.
"And then I walked out. And none of them followed."
Elric exhaled, letting his glass settle against the table.
"You handed the key to Dream?"
Lucifer smirked, swirling his drink.
"I did."
Elric tilted his head, waiting.
Lucifer had never been one for unnecessary generosity.
"And why, exactly, did Dream deserve such an 'honor'?"
Lucifer chuckled, low and amused.
"Oh, he didn't. But that wasn't the point."
Elric raised a brow.
Lucifer leaned back, watching the golden liquid swirl in his glass, his expression utterly indifferent.
"I wanted nothing to do with Hell. I wanted out, entirely. No lingering responsibility, no unfinished business, no 'what ifs.'"
A sip. Unhurried.
"Dream, however—he plays by rules. He cannot simply refuse what is given to him, not when it follows some cosmic logic. And giving him the key? That forced him into the game."
Elric stared for a moment, then chuckled—deep, knowing amusement.
"You didn't hand him the key. You handed him the mess."
Lucifer grinned.
"Exactly."
Another pause.
Elric exhaled, shaking his head slightly.
"Cruel."
Lucifer raised his glass.
"Efficient."
Elric leaned back, eyes sharp, studying him.
"And Dream?"
Lucifer smirked.
"Oh, he spent quite a bit of time untangling that mess."
A flicker of amusement passed between them.
"You know," Elric mused, swirling his drink, "I almost pity him."
Lucifer laughed—smooth, rich, utterly unrepentant.
"I don't."
The world paused.
Not subtly. Not imperceptibly.
Time itself halted, freezing the pulse of music mid-beat, locking conversations mid-syllable, suspending the rhythm of mortal existence in an unnatural stillness.
Lux became a silent tableau, where glasses hovered inches from tables, where laughter was caught in throats but never released.
Elric exhaled, shaking his head slightly, recognizing the familiar sensation.
"You really have a flair for dramatics, don't you?"
Lucifer sighed, picking up his drink—utterly unimpressed.
"Honestly, it's getting predictable."
The doors swung open—not forcefully, not with urgency, but with absolute purpose.
Amenadiel stepped inside, his presence carrying the weight of conviction, duty, and expectation.
His gaze swept across the frozen room, ignoring the mortals suspended in time, landing directly on Lucifer with something between exasperation and familiarity.
"You've been avoiding me."
Lucifer smirked, swirling his drink lazily.
"I prefer the term selective engagement."
Elric chuckled softly, watching the exchange unfold.
Amenadiel exhaled, stepping forward, his posture unwavering, steady.
With a flick of his fingers—time resumed.
The music thrummed back into existence.
Laughter continued as if it had never been paused.
No one noticed the fracture in reality.
Except Elric and Lucifer.
Amenadiel's expression didn't shift.
"You closed Hell."
Lucifer tilted his head slightly, as though the statement was barely worth acknowledging.
"I did."
A pause.
Amenadiel studied him, searching for something—regret, hesitation, anything.
He found none.
"You abandoned your responsibility."
Lucifer laughed—smooth, rich, utterly unrepentant.
"I abandoned a job, Amenadiel. Not a purpose."
Elric watched, intrigued.
Amenadiel exhaled, shaking his head slightly.
"And what do you expect will happen now?"
Lucifer leaned back, utterly relaxed.
"Oh, I expect quite a bit of chaos. But that's not my problem anymore, is it?"
Amenadiel's gaze sharpened.
"You think you can just walk away?"
Lucifer smirked.
"I already did."
Amenadiel turned his gaze to Elric—not with hostility, nor even disappointment, but with the weight of expectation.
"Elior."
Not Elric. Not the name of choice, but the name that carried meaning.
"You see the truth of this. You understand what he's abandoned. There are few who can carry that burden—and fewer still who will ever face it."
Lucifer smirked, tilting his glass, eyes shimmering with quiet amusement.
"Ah, here we go, the part where you try to convince me that I'm somehow irreplaceable."
Amenadiel ignored him, gaze steady on Elric.
"You have seen all that passes, all that is spoken. And yet you remain silent?"
Elric exhaled, setting his glass down with deliberate calm.
"Elior the Observer, saith the Lord." His voice was measured, unwavering. Not defiant. Not yielding. Simply absolute.
"And the Observer shall only observe."
A silence settled—not tense, but definitive, as though the words themselves carried a weight neither celestial being could counter.
Amenadiel frowned slightly, studying him.
"You could interfere."
Elric nodded slowly.
"One soul at a time."
Amenadiel's jaw tightened at that—not in frustration, but in understanding.
Elric leaned back, quiet but firm.
"And now is not your turn."
Lucifer chuckled, eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"Well, that settles that, doesn't it?"
Amenadiel exhaled.
There was no victory.
No defeat.
Just acceptance.
Because as much as he wished Elric could tip the balance—he knew the rules.
He could still come to a solution.
Lucifer exhaled—not irritated, not impatient, just done.
He rose slowly, stretching his arms out with effortless grace before gesturing toward the entrance with a sweeping motion.
"Well, if you're finished with the whole celestial intervention routine, there's the door. Feel free to see yourself out."
Amenadiel didn't move.
"Father hasn't spoken on this," he said evenly. "Which is why I haven't been hard-handed about it."
Lucifer smirked, tilting his head.
"Ah, yes. Father's eternal silence."
A pause, a slow sip of his drink, deliberate amusement gleaming in his golden eyes.
"Tell me, Amenadiel—does He ever actually speak? Or do you all just interpret whatever wind blows through the heavens as divine wisdom?"
Amenadiel exhaled but didn't rise to the bait.
Elric leaned back, watching. The dance between them—push and pull, faith and defiance—was timeless.
Lucifer set his glass down, tapping his fingers against the polished surface as if casually recalling a missing detail.
"By the way—where is Michael?"
Amenadiel's posture stiffened just slightly.
"I don't have to tell you that."
Lucifer's smirk widened.
"No, of course you don't. But it's curious, isn't it?"
He leaned back, golden eyes sharp with thought rather than concern.
"All this ruckus, all this divine displeasure—Hell emptied, the gates closed, angels fussing—and yet, Michael didn't show up."
A pause.
Amenadiel's gaze remained firm.
"I don't know."
Lucifer tilted his head, studying him, weighing the answer.
Then he laughed—smooth, rich, utterly unbothered.
"Oh, now that is interesting."
~~~~~~~~~~
Omake: Sometime Later – Elric's Restaurant
Lux was gone.
The golden glow. The celestial weight. The smirking Lightbringer.
Gone.
Replaced by the quiet hum of a restaurant, warm lighting, and the scent of slow-cooked perfection.
Elric barely blinked at the shift—adjusting effortlessly to the mundane.
And then—
John Wick walked in.
Not dramatically. Not with guns blazing.
Just… exhausted.
Elric raised a brow.
"Rough night?"
John exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
"You have no idea."
Elric gestured toward the bar.
"Whiskey?"
John nodded, sliding into the seat with the kind of weariness only a man who had fought an entire city could carry.
The bartender poured the drink, sliding it over.
John took a slow sip.
Silence.
Then—
"So, how's business?"
Elric smirked.
"Well, unlike you, I don't have to dodge bullets before serving a meal."
John sighed, shaking his head.
"You'd think people would just let me retire."
Elric chuckled.
"You? Retire? That's the funniest thing I've heard all week."
John stared at him for a moment, then took another sip.
"Yeah."