Pip had been enjoying a lazy Sunday in Hell, sitting stiffly on Satan's couch and watching the Food Network in rapt attention, when Damien made a sudden appearance from the kitchen, his red eyes bright and terrifying.

"We're gonna go be manly, Pip."

Pip's organs churned.

"What exactly do you mean by 'be manly', Damien?" He squirmed deeper into the cushions, hugging the remote to his chest as if Damien were threatening to take it—which he was, in a way.

His maybe-boyfriend-definitely-best-and-only-friend clung to the archway separating the TV room from the kitchen, his face determined but stoic in thought. After a long beat in which Pip had time to scratch the bridge of his nose, he burst loudly, "Football!"

As usual, Pip had to analyze the context and figure if he meant real football, where you use your feet on a ball, or the other football, with all the pain. His face fell slightly when he remembered.

"Oh, um, whatever happened to baking crumpets?"

Damien took a few broad, aggressive strides across the room on his stout legs and slapped the remote out of Pip's hand. "Baking's not manly!" It hit the hardwood floor, its battery cover snapping off and clattering a few feet away.

"Damien, if this is about this morning, you know that's my fault—you don't look like a lesbian, it's just when we're togeth…." He left the statement floating weakly; Damien had turned away, pouting. Pip truly did believe the Christian cat-calls telling them they maybe wouldn't have ended up where they were if they weren't sinning lesbians was at least seventy percent his fault. He was tall, lanky, and hadn't gotten around to getting a haircut in the past…eight years or so, with an inarguably pretty face. Damien happened to be 5'2, solidly built, with an unfortunate 70's cut. And of course, neither had a particularly deep, guttural voice. They may not have been the picture of two all-American (or British and…Hellish? For the first time, Pip wondered what, exactly, Damien's nationality would be called,) young men, but lesbians was a stretch.

"C'mon, get your coat." Damien shuffled past the TV room into the foyer, his sliding socks making him walk a little awkwardly.

"But Emeril's about to kick it up a notch!"

"COAT, Pip."

Pip gave a falsetto sigh before getting to his feet and to the closet. He pulled his pea coat from the hanger and started to put it on, before, once again, Damien interrupted his peace.

"No, forget the coat." There was disgust on his impish face.


"It's not manly. At all."

"Do…do you have a coat I could borrow?"

Damien, comfortably wrapped up in a generic Hot Topic hoodie, opened the door and stepped out. "Endure the cold, Pip. Be the cold. Just don't be a pussy."


Hell had originally been only about half its size, and covered in unfathomable cold, snow, ice, etc. Pip would've found it ironic that the cold side of Hell so reflected his town, if he weren't busy focusing on kittens in silly hats in attempt to block out the chill. Anyway, along came the Middle Ages, and the general opinion that cold was more Hell-esque than hot was dashed after a few hundred spectators watched a few "criminals" thrashing about in the flames they'd just lit. Satan picked up on it, and, having been considering expanding Hell anyway, what with the exponential amount of sin occurring up on Earth, made the hot side of Hell, where most residents lived now. Less traveling, better cell phone reception, civilization, what have you.

Pip stood knee-deep in the snow, which never seemed to fall but instead was just the same flurries whipped around by the cutting wind, like the fake bits in a snow globe. There was no horizon—the deep drifts of ice extended past the point of a logical horizon, and into the sky, surrounding him in a padded room of frozen white, with the only point of reference in distance being the little black smudge of Damien a hundred yards away.

"OKAY, PIP," he screamed over the shrieking wind, cupping his hands around his mouth, "THROW THE BALL."

Pip held the football out in both arms, staring at it scrutinizingly, and lifted his chin back up to shout in return, "HOW?"

Once again, their combined knowledge of all things gruff and manly was not enough to complete their current task. They stared at one another from a distance before Damien grappled for a likely enough guess, "Um, OVERHAND!"

Pip sighed. He swung his hand over his shoulder, the movement lackluster and effortless. It made a half-arc to the snow, less than half-way to Damien.

"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, PIP, DO YOU HAVE A GOD DAMNED DROP OF TESTOSTERONE IN YOUR FRENCHIE GIRL BODY!?" The events of the day had brought Damien to his breaking point. He gesticulated wildly as he ranted, Pip standing shell-shocked and still. "IF YOU WANT TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR FUCKING LIFE FLIPPING CREPES AND SUCKING COCK FOR FRANCS, FINE, JUST GO—"


"Really, I'm awfully sorry, Damien."

The two dyke-esque-possibly-boyfriends-definitely-best-and-only-friends sat lazily on Satan's couch, Pip staring apologetically at the ice pack Damien held to the side of his face and nose, Damien doing his best to not make eye contact while pouting as Rachel Ray tittered over to her broiler.

"I mean, my actions were truly uncalled for. Please forgive me."



"Shut up."

Pip decided to take this as an expression of forgiveness, and turned to comfortably watch the bright screen. A loud ding sounded from the kitchen, He popped to his feet. "Oh, those're the crumpets!" And he rushed back to the kitchen.

Damien watched Pip's butt leave the room, and decided that, lesbians though they may be, he'd done pretty well for himself.


AN: I have somehow lost every ounce of confidence I have ever had in my writing abilities. I so dum. Good thing I have a short attention span. Not to put to fine a point on, say I'm the only bee in your bonnet~ Dip is fun. It's like, the funnest pairing EVER. Why must y'all angst it up? C'mon, it's a gay British kid with a killer arm and the emo-tastic son of Satan. Either one of them on their own is just silly, put them together, they're HILARIOUS. /hypocrite