Belphegor was good at a lot of things: Running, swimming, killing, etc. Best of all, Belphegor was good at putting people down. But Fran was good at ignoring it, and good at making his own put-downs.

"You're a replacement, you realize," he reminded. Fran nodded.

"I know. But it's not like I'm doing this on purpose anyway."

Bel would scowl and think up something worse.

"I don't love you." Fran nodded.

"I know. You probably never will."

Bel couldn't argue with that.

He tried to think of ways that would work. Maybe even a little.

"I don't even like you. You're just an easy fuck."

"I know. So are you."

Fran would always tell his sempai he loved him. Maybe it must have seemed hollow, since there wasn't anything Fran could say with a smile. He would say it out loud several times a day, and Belphegor would turn away with a scowl every time.

"Marmon was much better," he would say. "He was fun to play with."

"Well I'm not Marmon," he would answer.

"Marmon was so cool," he would say, "He was the best."

"Well I'm not the best," he would answer.

If Fran said that it didn't bother him, he would be lying. It would bother anyone. He was just too good at hiding. And he hated being weak in front of sempai.

Some days were worse than others. Some days, Belphegor would refuse to talk to Fran at all, even when they had sex. Some days, Belphegor would cut him up until every piece of his pale skin was thinly veiled in red. All the while, there was only one thing going through his head, and out his mouth to Fran:

"You will never be Marmon. You will never be him."

Of course Fran would shrug it off. He knew he could never replace an Arcobalenco. He also couldn't fix the prince's dark heart, which he had known to be broken hundreds of times. There were some things that were impossible, and that was one of them.

"Alright. Then I will be Fran, and he can stay Marmon."

He knew it just made the blonde angrier, but it was a way for him to fight back, and show to his sempai that he couldn't bring him down so easily.

But some days, Belphegor was lenient. He would let Fran touch him as he pleased, let him kiss and embrace and hold him, but he would never touch back, never kiss back. Fran felt as if he were in love with a statue: a crazy, cruel, bloodthirsty statue.

One day, Belphegor gave up. Fran watched him lay on the fainting couch, legs spread haphazardly and his head hitting the arm harder than it needed to.

"Fuck this," he grinned. "Do you feel anything, you shitty brat?"

"Always," he answered. Because he felt hurt all the time.

"Do you even fucking care that I'll never love you?"

"It's the only thing I think about," he answered. Because it was true.

Belphegor's face-splitting smile trickled into a frown, and he didn't continue with his verbal abuse. Fran stood at the door and watched him, unmoving and unemotional.

"Are you going to say anything else?" Fran asked quietly. He expected more out of the prince. Belphegor turned away, shaking his head.


Fran took quiet steps forward until he met the back of the sofa, leaning over it until he had his hands cupping Bel's face. But as soon as the touch was confirmed, the blonde grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him forward, over the couch and onto the hardwood floor under it. The crack that resounded was loud and sickening as Fran landed on his back painfully. He gasped, the jolts of pain making his head dizzy.

"What are you trying to do, huh? Stupid frog, you think playing with me is going to get you anywhere?"

"Yes," he breathed out, looking up at the man pinning him down.

He could see his eyes. Belphegor usually wouldn't let him see them, and if he had enough guts to push his hair to the side, he would be met with a few hundred stabbings and a rough night ahead of him. But Bel didn't move to hide them behind curled blonde hair. He let Fran see. They were a deep ocean blue, angry, and dark from years of underexposure. And they stared at Fran as if he were the only thing on his mind. It struck a chord.

"Fine," he said, eyes twitching in a moment of unhindered insanity, "You fucking asked for it."

Fran almost let a smile slip.

Bel's fingers reached into his pockets and pulled out his favorite daggers, flipping them in his palms and suddenly running them down the front of Fran's uniform. Not only did it rip open his coat to show his small white chest, it had caught his skin all the way down, leaving long red lines blossoming with blood. He did not cry out, he did not struggle. He remained unmoving, with two trails of tears slipping down his cheeks. Bel stopped to smile, twisting his bloodied knives about on his knuckles.

"You'll only cry when you're like this, right? You would never cry if I told you I hated you."

Fran didn't answer. He lifted his hips just slightly against Bel, and nothing else needed to be said.

Bel went to work yanking the ruined clothes off the boy, ripping his pants off as well. In a moment of compassion, which was definitely not common for the prince, he pulled the frog hat off Fran's head and tossed it into a wall. Fran didn't comment, but he would've given anything to be able to.

Belphegor was not one for foreplay. Just the smell of blood was enough to get him excited, and the state of readiness for his partner was never a concern. He got what he wanted, and that's all that mattered, since he was a prince, after all.

He unzipped his pants, took hold of his erection, and pressed forward. Fran grabbed onto Bel's arms pressed on either side of him, hitching his legs higher and spreading them wider.

"Shi shi shi. What a slut," he whispered, pushing more and more of himself inside the dry bloody hole. Fran merely blinked out more tears.

Bel grunted as he shifted his hips against Fran's snapping them every once in a while for the sole purpose of causing pain. His pelvis was ground down angrily as Bel forced himself all the way in, and as he started thrusting, blood escaped him and splashed onto his thighs. Fran was pushed back and forth on the hardwood, chafing his back, but he clung to Bel tightly, unwavering and calm.

"Fucking do something," Bel growled, pumping in and out harshly. "Show me how much it hurts!"

"No," he answered, his silent crying still unconstrained.

And Belphegor had to admit, he liked that determination.

Thrusting grew even faster, until Fran accidentally let out a cry of pleasure. Belphegor laughed loudly, and almost as if it were a reward, squeezed Fran's weeping erection tightly.

It wasn't long until Belphegor groaned and came inside Fran's wounded and bloody entrance, pumping angrily until Fran himself came with a whimper. Bel took a deep breath before immediately pulling out and tidying himself. Fran watched through bleary eyes as Belphegor zipped his pants back up.

"...You definitely aren't Marmon," he said suddenly. Fran sat up, wiping at his unending tears in vain. Before he knew it, Belphegor was there to dab them away as well.

"...Is that a good or bad thing now?" he whispered. Belphegor grinned and pressed his palms flat against his cheeks for just a moment before standing and leaving. Fran lay there and waited, thinking he'd say it over his shoulder like a cool guy, but he didn't.

He never got the answer.