How it had it had come to this, Mammon had no idea.

The illusionist shuts his eyes, resting his head against the heavy trunk of a tree he's leaned against, muttering curses to himself. He can feel the uneven bark jutting uncomfortably into his back, feel the soft dirt and hard roots he's sat upon, feel Belphegor's sleeping hands clinging almost desperately to the cloth of his dark robes. The air is humid and causes his hair to stick to his soot-covered skin, and he's tempted with the urge to pull down his hood and expose his face to the quiet forest – the very god-forsaken place where animals shit. All of the money in the world couldn't calm the rage slowly building inside the mist-user.

Sucking in a breath through his mouth, Mammon licks his lips and glances down to his lap, only to see a dim outline of Belphegor's face pressed into his stomach, searching for warmth and comfort. His sleep doesn't appear as peaceful as it does strained, and for good reason. Mammon would hate for him to be having sweet dreams anyways; if he had any inkling that Bel was enjoying his little nap, he would certainly plague him with nightmares for the night, and possibly for the rest of his life.

"Stupid boy." The arcobaleno hisses to the resting blonde, tone hushed as to not wake him, and he digs his nails into the palms of his own hands. "I should have let you die. Look what you caused." Biting the inside of his cheek in impatience, Mammon exhales sharply through his nostrils and turns his gaze elsewhere.

Through all of the trees and brush, he can still see smoke rising to the clouds in the distance, illuminating the blackened sky with a twinge of furious red. He could go back. He could go back to the Varia – whatever remains of it, anyways – and give them back Belphegor. Mammon could let them 'deal' with Bel, and he could make a quick escape. Maybe return to being Viper… but he shed that skin long ago, didn't he? No, he would need a new name. An entirely new self.

And then both Mammon and Belphegor would be dead. It would be a suiting end for them, he thinks.

Raising a hand, Mammon wipes some sweat off his brow, and risks a peek at Bel once again. He could even kill him now. It would be easy, and the idiot prince trusts him well enough to be deceived. Slipping his hand down to the ripper's thin neck, he gently presses his thumb over his windpipe, carefully listening and watching for any signs of discomfort from Bel.

The blonde tenses slightly, but doesn't wake.

Mammon removes his hand with a sharp frown.

"What a trusting fool."