See You in Hell [PIP X DAMIEN] [DISCONTINUED]

CHAPTER ELEVEN: PIP'S POV

   It was hours before the two of them arrived at the motel. Pip was placed gently in front of a motel door with the number '666' on it. All the doors had the number 666 on it, actually. But Pip wasn't paying attention to that feature, or any of the other outdoor features of the motel. Although Pip was placed as gently as possible (by Damien standards), he fell flat on his face as soon as he hit solid ground.
   "Pip?" Damien said, mildly concerned.
   Pip whimpered in response. His arms and legs were jelly and sore from hanging on so tightly to Damien. Damien seemed completely undisturbed from their trip. Pip knew he was immortal and all, but to be unbothered by a 5-hour flight while being the one carrying all the weight was insane to him.
   Damien picked Pip up by the armpits and kicked the suite door open. There was no one in there, but the room was definitely not left in pristine condition. The room was themed a basic beige and grey, and the bed sheets and pillows were strewn about the mattress in an unorganized manner. Years, maybe even decades of unclean-able stains speckled the rug that lay across the whole expanse of the floor. The small barred window that stood alongside the door was heavily water stained and the barres rusted (where the water had come from, Pip didn't know.).
   Damien locked the door behind them. Before they entered the room, they never interacted with any landlord or receptionist to check into the suite. Pip assumed that this was because there was never a receptionist at the motel, or Damien couldn't be bothered. It was most likely the latter.
   Damien dumped Pip onto the pile of sheets and comforters. Pip sighed in relief as he curled into the fabric. The first circle was chilly compared to the bridge and gates, so the cool sheets that rapidly warmed to react to Pip's body heat was a blessing.
   He glanced up from the bed and noticed Damien glowering at the small rectangular desk that lay across from the bed. There was a puddle of who-knows-what, the artificial blue color standing out in the muted tan surroundings.
   "Disgusting. This place is filthy." Damien growled.
   "It's quite alright, I never even expected there to be a motel here anyway." Pip said, stretching across the mattress. Pip had wondered what a motel would be doing in Hell in the first place, but he was glad it was here anyway.
   "No. This is unforgivable," Damien spat. "I may have to kill the owner for this treason."
   Sitting up with his elbows dug into the bed, Pip stared concerned at Damien.
   "Isn't that quite extreme?" Pip asked, concerned for the owner's life. According to this place's state, they were probably already struggling without a flaming Prince waltzing in and judging their suites' condition.
   "No," Damien said matter-of-factly, "The owner told us 100 years ago that they were booming in business."
   "But that was 100 years ago?"
   "There aren't consumer trends in Hell. Business should've been booming enough to get affordable room service."
   "Righto." Pip still didn't think that sounded about right, but this was none of his business nor did he have the courage to speak against Damien about how consumer trends were very real no matter what capitalist area you are in.
   Damien, glancing at other flaws all around the room, plunked down next to Pip on the bed. The singular bed. Pip stiffened, realization striking him in the head.
   There was only one bed.
   What a cliché this was.
   "Damien?"
   "Yes?"
   "Are we going to sleep together?"
   "No. I don't need to sleep." Oh, okay. Never mind on that then. So they didn't need to try to awkwardly sleep on the queen size bed. That sounded bearable.
   "Well, what are you going to do all night, then?" Pip stared at the ceiling.
   "Kill the owner of the motel."
   "Can't that wait till the morrow?"
   "There's no sun or moon in Hell. There's no daylight cycle."
   "Right. Yes. But you know what I mean."
   "What else am I supposed to do while you rest?" Damien asked, narrowing his eyes at Pip.
   "Play wickersham?"
   He didn't respond, but his expression spoke his obvious distaste just from the name of it. It was shame; wickersham was quite the fun game that Pip had made up. Damien returned to staring at the imperfections on the wall while Pip contemplated the popcorn ceiling. A thought he'd been having ever since he arrived in Hell popped into his head, clearer than ever before.
   "Do you know if I do really belong in the first circle?" Pip asked, sure that the topic came from out of nowhere. But was he really all that innocent? He just had to make sure.
   The silence that came from Damien wasn't reassuring.
   Pip dropped his gaze from the popcorn ceiling to Damien's face, strikingly solemn. Damien refused to look at Pip, instead taking interest in the off-white baseboards.
   "..... Damie—?"
   "It's not really a fair system." Damien glared at the baseboard, like it had murdered a close friend. The poor dirty board didn't deserve the intense scalding eyes of Damien.
   "What? What is?"
   "The sorting into the circles."
   Pip didn't say anything. Then that would mean Pip didn't belong in the first circle. Then what circle was he in? He never lied. Not constantly, anyway. Every person has lied a few times in their life. Pip never went after money or power. Never lashed out, killed anyone, never fought someone. Heck, Pip never even cursed. But Pip didn't pry for answers. He could tell Damien wasn't in the mood for an annoying British boy to bother him about his place. But Pip didn't need to ask though, for Damien continued anyway.
   "Father hasn't been doing his job recently. I've been the one taking care of all his business. But I have no access to the greater things, like the laws and circles themselves. I'm not the King of Hell, I'm only the Prince." Every word Damien spoke was laced with flames of rage at the thought of his own father. Pip leaned a little farther from Damien, not wanting to get in the way of his wrath.
   "The system of Hell is fucked up now," Pip flinched at the sudden cursing and fortification of rage in Damien's voice, "no one's utilizing space so that Hell can take new sinners, flames on multiple circles aren't working, sinners and demons are doing whatever the hell they want, and no one's DOING THEIR DAMN JOB!! I mean, who THE FUCK gave the sinners out there UNO???" Plumes of flames poured out of Damien's mouth and Pip jumped back from the bed as the heat grazed his face. The fire scorched the wall in front of them, peeling off the wallpaper in burnt black strips. Damien glanced at the bewildered expression on Pip's face and rubbed his nose, sighing and attempting to recollect himself.
   "With father being the only one who can change the sorting process, the flaws he left behind are still there. And one of those flaws...." Damien hesitated, surely not proud of what he is going to say. Pip sat back on the edge of the bed, waiting.
   "... Is where anyone who dies from South Park gets dumped straight into the eighth circle."

END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN