[His thumb is going to be smarting for a while yet, but you know that? That's fine. That's wonderful. A promise ring could never ache with such intensity, so the scar that will no doubt be left behind will make for a much more fitting symbol of their 'union'. It's only a shame he hadn't shoved his ring finger in Vergilius' maw instead to make this official.
Brought to new, dizzying heights with the scent of blood hanging acrid in the air, Lobelia squeezes up tight around Vergilius, tighter still when he's bent back at an almost unnatural angle. Ah... but how could making love to his รขme soeur be anything but natural? Surely there is nothing more natural than this, a thought he knows Vergilius would spit at if only he knew. Lobelia says nothing, laughing and rasping around a freshly bloodied mouth instead.
Vergilius can deny it all he wants, but this is the path forged for them, the path that will lead them into the depths of hell together. The call of his name, the way it breaks off the end of Vergilius' tongue, reminds Lobelia of the very first time he'd injured himself. The cacophonous crunch of a conch underfoot, the fixation that rooted within him and rapidly grew, the agonized cries of his parents as they lie in pools of blood at his feet.
His name rings in a similar fashion when Vergilius rasps it aloud, and transfixed by it, he's starving to hear it again. Clenched up tight around Vergilius and gasping for shallow breath after shallow breath, Lobelia's hands find his cheeks, beseeching him to speak his name aloud again, again, again.]
...What was that?
[As if he didn't hear him. Of course he did. He's beginning to tremble beneath Vergilius' weight, beginning to rasp all the more loudly, perched on the edge of something terrible.]
[He doesn't lose stamina easily. His body is too much of a beast of burden for that - even the punches and sharp intakes of breath he's making with each thrust doesn't really seem to tire him all that much. The only thing that's making him stagger is the sudden warmth in his cheeks, cradled by adoring hands. It feels so stark compared to viciousness of the whole act that his eyes widen, filled with that piercing, crimson light.]
[The taste of blood swallowed from the other's skin is one thing. The way the other tightens around him to the point of aching pain, feeling like he's made for him and him, alone is another. But those hands, those damnable hands, make something split and crack.]
[He knew for a long time that his hell would be cold. But here, it's like someone has wandered into the frigid wasteland, bent down to his frozen husk, and offered a lit match to hold. It can't warm him.]
[But there it is, regardless. That mote of craving, bittersweet and horrible as hunger often is.]
...Lobelia. [A hoarse whisper, against the man's lips.] Lobelia. [A gasp, a groan, an answer.] Lo...Lobe...Lobelia-ah....
[He's buried himself in completely - and there comes a full body tremble, shaking to the core, before he feels himself fall over the precipice. The heat intensifies, the union sealed, and he moans pasts the other's lips as he rides it out to its end.]
[...How very bittersweet. The way Vergilius calls his name is almost reverent, snaking through his skin and vibrating against bone like those tremors he'd wracked the man with not that long ago. It soaks into him, that near-plea, and warms him. If Vergilius has found himself frigid, that's only because Lobelia is selfish enough to soak up every bit of heat he can offer him.
Even the pain is no longer enough to distract from the pleasure, the intense pleasure wracking him from head to toe. Surely only Vergilius can make him feel this way. Only his รขme soeur, the feeling of coming undone so intense that Lobelia's ears ring with his own choked out moans.
Still, he can hear his name ring like an incantation on Vergilius' lips. No matter how loudly the blood pounds in his hears, he can commit the sound of his own name to memory.
...Somehow, even that isn't quite enough. Lobelia can no longer tell if he's reached his limit or already exceeded it โ and what does it matter to him now โ but he feels Vergilius vault past the point of no return and seeks out his lips for one final deep, probing kiss. The taste of blood is still so strong, and that's a good thing, isn't it? Lobelia never wants to forget this taste, not even when they've both left this place for the hell that lies beyond.]
[The moans crack into his ears, and he finds a small part of himself reveling in it. But it's like that thought that went through his head, when they first began this sordid affair. This isn't enough. It's frustrating, irritating. It again gives him a taste of that terrible dream, when he hit rock bottom and for a splendid moment, he thought to destroy everything and tear it all down to make anew. He shouldn't be surprised, perhaps. The man he's currently buried into is destruction in his own way, with roiling pleasure and despair and glee. No wonder he would accept all he has to give, with open arms.]
[The eternal misery to feast on. Vergilius has so much of it to give. But as he whets his own appetite through the kiss now offered, he now ponders whether he should return the favor. He already found some delight in denial - but that's very different from wanting to steal back something of his own. What can he take? He wonders.]
[He sucks on the other's tongue for a moment, before letting out a low sigh as he starts to feel his body come down from its high. But something has shifted. He doesn't pull out yet, only adjusting to a more comfortable position with body still flush against the trembling, sweaty skin of the man underneath him.]
[He swallows the taste of metal. It's something he knows will be permanently etched into him for the rest of his life.]
[The aftermath is delightfully hazy, brief moments spent flitting in and out of full consciousness until Vergilius settles atop him, the rigidity of his muscles lost. Lobelia's hands have slipped free of his face, finding places to settle and loosely drape along his lower back instead, coaxed further into that ethereal afterglow by the steady rise and fall of his breaths.
...It's warm, relaxing, like the gentle tide ebbing and flowing at high noon. His body follows suit, tension in his limbs ebbing away to nothing, straightening out his legs to better accommodate Vergilius.]
...Heh. Now the pain is really beginning to set in.
[Will he even manage to get out of bed after this? Now his ribs hurt but also his ass. Thanks Vergie.]
[Now that his brain feels like its detaching from the unnatural physical (and psychological) thrill of it all, settling into something a little closer to earth, his expression shifts. The man who had just been kissing Lobelia so deeply now has his characteristically stern expression, upper lip rolling back at the observation in a scowl. He huffs against the other's lips, eyes flickering.]
...Deal with it.
[As if he didn't cause the pain in the first place. Or maybe its because he caused the pain in the first place. Lobelia had asked for it, didn't he? Vergilius feels those hands settling on his back and tries to divert his attention away from them, gaze flitting to the other's eyes...but that soft, almost dreamy look makes irritation settle further into his stare, though its coupled with something else he doesn't know how to put into words.]
[Lobelia had wanted the little death, after all. And so, death has come to roost, but not in the way either of them may have expected.]
[...And just like that, the moment is over, eh? Lobelia laughsโ he can't exactly claim to be disappointed when that unrelenting scowl was what first caught his eye and drew him to this man. Besides, who is Vergilius to deny him a round two? Three? Four? This won't be the last time he coaxes some passion out of this dead horse even if he has to beat it out of him.
Meeting his huff with a characteristically broad grin, Lobelia settles back against the pillows, one arm tucked up overhead while the other spiders along Vergilius' lower back. The more pleased he looks, the angrier Vergilius gets... which means they've returned to 'normal' with everything as it should be. If Lobelia wants to disrupt that flow once more, he knows just how he'll set about doing it.]
Now now, choose your words carefully! You might encourage me to return the favor.
You think you're oh so smart with your boasting. Wipe that smug grin off your face.
[It does feel like "normalcy". Again, every ounce of this man brings its own level of annoyance, just like before. Vergilius reaches forward to press a veiny hand over the other's face, as if to cover that offending grin. A sigh, before he adjusts his knees to press back and slowly pull himself out. What once was heat and intensity feels like disappointing wetness trickling on the sheets. Pity on Lobelia's roommates, honestly.]
[But even with "normalcy" here, something has changed. A flick of the switch of some psychological mainframe. He draws back, settling onto his knees even with the man's hands on his back.]
[He still hasn't pulled his hand back from the other's face. As if to cover it can hide his own folly.]
[Smug? Who's smug? Lobelia starts to ask before Vergilius' palm comes down to eclipse his face instead, urging another cough-laugh out of him. Blessedly, he doesn't end up heaving blood all over Vergilius' palm...
...But he could do without the mess spilling out of him and onto the bedspread. Hm. No part of sex was unpleasant until the aftermath, but this isn't going to discourage Lobelia from shaking Vergilius down for dick again in the future. Far from it.]
Hm? But I can't help smiling! You know me well enough to know it's rare to see anything less from me.
[But he also knows something most people don't: what it looks like when Lobelia is anything other than nauseatingly effusive. Lucky him, right? While they're on the subject... Lobelia withdraws his hands to gently guide Vergilius' palm off his face, holding loosely onto it.]
Beneath that cold, detached faรงade, you're something of a bleeding heart, aren't you?
["Know him well enough", he says. Can they really know each other that well in such a short period of time? Perhaps that's a foolish question to ask. Can people who have dug their dirty fingers into each other's wounds and vulnerable little spots know each other that well? He's seen Lobelia at his worst, his best, the creature with beady little eyes under a generally handsome, cheerful face. And he laid in bed with it, and allowed it to return his gaze. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps....]
[He balks at it, as instinctively as a kneejerk reflex, but he's choosing to deflect it instead of thinking on it longer. It's what he always does. But what the man says next...]
Oh? [He's raising an eyebrow, eye glow a little brighter from the offense of the question as he looks down at the other. The fingers of the hand the man is holding curl, as if threatening to form a fist.] What makes you say that?
[What is there to scoff at, he wonders? He said nothing incorrectโ to see a side of himself that few people have witnessed would suggest he knows more than most, so Lobelia fails to see where he's misspoken here. He'd more easily believe the old man is simply in denial, and out of the kindness of his heart, he'll even drop the topic to answer that question with a flippant wave of his hand. The other hand remains holding onto Vergilius', of course.]
You refused to let me give in. It almost felt as if you couldn't stand the thought of it. I wonder why that is?
[Surely not because Vergilius cares for him, but something in that little black heart must've taken umbrage with the idea that Lobelia might simply give in, relent to curl up and die like the nasty little bug he is. He would've thought Vergilius would allow him that much, and yet he staunchly refused. Why?]
[Too bad Lobelia doesn't know what a tsundere is. His version of reality is clearly the correct one, so spare your breath and don't try to convince him otherwise, Vergilius.
Lobelia lets Vergilius' hand go with some minor reluctance, attempting to sit himself up with... effort. Effort and a whole lot of wincing, but just look how happy he is. See this grimace? Pure ecstasy. Never been better.]
Mm? Where are we going?
[Is he really in any position to be going anywhere when he can barely move?]
[His hand released, he's finally making a move to finally get off the bed. He's standing without much aplomb, shooting a glance over his shoulder. Lobelia pushing himself up so slowly, in pain...his mouth ticks up in a light smirk. He almost looks like a baby deer with shaking legs.]
Where are we going? Ah. You misunderstood. I meant "come on" as a "get real" sort of thing. How rude I must be, to insinuate it may be an invitation.
[A shake of his head.]
I'm taking a shower. I could care less what you do.
[Simply put, he's never been this injured before. It's unfamiliar territory, exciting and enlivening as it is to see his lifeblood smeared over his body and onto the sheets. Lobelia can't help wondering if he'll manage to remain upright once he gets to his feet, but you know what? That's not his problem. It's Vergilius'.]
Un, deux, trois...!
[With concerted effort (and more clear expressions of pain), Lobelia forces himself upright and totters... in the direction of the bathroom. Hm. What was that about showering, Verg?]
Very well, then! I'll wash your back. It's the work of the young to support their aรฎnรฉs. I would hate to see you throw out your back while you attempt to wash yourself!
[There he goes. Of course, Lobelia wouldn't take that sitting down. Or laying down, in this case. Vergilius watches him as he toddles over, dreadfully unamused, and heaves a looooong sigh.]
[They both are stubborn as bulls, aren't they? A horrific combination.]
I can wash myself just fine, thanks. [He's moving to easily overtake the other. Wow.] You, on the other hand, look like a disaster waiting to happen.
[He'll know why Lobelia is so eager to get to the bathroom first when he slooowly lowers himself to his knees and begins scooping his conches out of the water. It's okay, little babies, daddy has returned.............]
Oh? Does that mean you'll do the honors and clean me up?
[But does he actually want that? Imagining that Vergilius might put extra emphasis into scrubbing his poor, battered ribs, Lobelia can't decide if he wants to suffer more or give himself enough of a break to. You know. Function properly again. Decisions, decisions...]
Heh! I'm afraid you may have no other choice. If you leave me like this, our amis will press me for an explanation. Do you trust me enough to spin a convincing lie?
[He says, as he's pushing past Lobelia to turn the dial on for the water. Yes. Hi. This is the man you decided to soulbond your life to. He's just like this.]
[The conches! Don't step on them, you animal!! Anyway, Verg can take his time showering while Lobelia carefully takes stock of his inventory and ensures that every single conch in his arsenal is accounted for. It's only then that he wobbles upright and steps into the space remaining in the tub, gazing at the constellation of scars on Vergilius' back with muted curiosity.]
If these cicatrices could tell a story, I wonder what sort of tale they'd weave? It really is a wonder you haven't succumbed to fate by now.
[Maybe he WOULD step on them, except he's a little tired and he doesn't want to deal with French exclamations and sacre bleuing about destroyed shells. You do you for once, Lobelia.]
[The shower water is cool - he doesn't even really begin to scrub at himself yet, just letting the water pelt at him. A true depression shower if you ever saw one. Before he moves to collect himself and go for whatever they have to use for cleaning, he hears the other's voice behind him. Of course. Vergilus spares a glance behind.]
[It is true. His scars are something to behold, in how numerous they are.]
...I'm a high grade Fixer. Damage was done over the years. [His hand, just as scarred, moves to rub at his neck.] I keep going. I follow the flow. That's all it is.
[Before Vergilius can even think about scrubbing himself down, Lobelia's secured a washcloth and lathered it up to do the honors. He didn't have the brainpower to devote to mapping out these scars while they were mid-bone, so he's going to do exactly that now, feeling each of them over through the gauzy layers of the cloth.]
How old were you when you set out on your path of destruction? Can you even remember a time where your hands weren't perpetually soaked in blood?
[There's an irritated litle noise at the feeling of the waistcloth sliding over his back, but...well, perhaps just letting it happen is the only real option here, since Lobelia is seemingly so insistent. His shoulders hunch up slightly, the fabric catching slightly on the raised cuts and lines marring the expanse of skin.]
...No. I don't remember a time like that.
[The far past is not something he thinks about. It almost feels like he was fully formed, in Fixer condition, from his beginning.]
[Lobelia is not particularly gentle, but he isn't going out of his way to treat Vergilius roughly either. Thorough is a better way of putting it, the meticulous sweeps of his palms proof that he intends to leave no inch of his man untouched.]
I see! I suppose that must mean you have little by way of happy childhood memories to speak of.
[Dreadfully depressing, but not unexpected. When Vergilius' back is done, Lobelia moves onto his arms, invasive and unrelenting as ever.]
Should I pity you? Envy you? It's ta faute that I have to wonder such questions, you know.
[He doesn't give answer to that first part. His childhood means nothing to him anymore. What he is now is the fixed conclusion.]
[He is letting out more displeased noises at the further invasion into his space, not unlike a feral cat. He still isn't pulling away completely, but the look on his face, which Lobelia may not be able to see, is simply "get on with it, already".]
Do neither. I am what I am. What do you even mean, "ta faute"?
[Crowding Vergilius is half the fun! Lobelia hears that displeasure and slows down in direct response to it, humming as he slooowly and meticulously scrubs him down.]
You're at fault, naturellement. What else could I possibly mean? All if this is a consequence of your actions.
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Brought to new, dizzying heights with the scent of blood hanging acrid in the air, Lobelia squeezes up tight around Vergilius, tighter still when he's bent back at an almost unnatural angle. Ah... but how could making love to his รขme soeur be anything but natural? Surely there is nothing more natural than this, a thought he knows Vergilius would spit at if only he knew. Lobelia says nothing, laughing and rasping around a freshly bloodied mouth instead.
Vergilius can deny it all he wants, but this is the path forged for them, the path that will lead them into the depths of hell together. The call of his name, the way it breaks off the end of Vergilius' tongue, reminds Lobelia of the very first time he'd injured himself. The cacophonous crunch of a conch underfoot, the fixation that rooted within him and rapidly grew, the agonized cries of his parents as they lie in pools of blood at his feet.
His name rings in a similar fashion when Vergilius rasps it aloud, and transfixed by it, he's starving to hear it again. Clenched up tight around Vergilius and gasping for shallow breath after shallow breath, Lobelia's hands find his cheeks, beseeching him to speak his name aloud again, again, again.]
...What was that?
[As if he didn't hear him. Of course he did. He's beginning to tremble beneath Vergilius' weight, beginning to rasp all the more loudly, perched on the edge of something terrible.]
Say it again. You'reโ so calme, Vergilius...
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[The taste of blood swallowed from the other's skin is one thing. The way the other tightens around him to the point of aching pain, feeling like he's made for him and him, alone is another. But those hands, those damnable hands, make something split and crack.]
[He knew for a long time that his hell would be cold. But here, it's like someone has wandered into the frigid wasteland, bent down to his frozen husk, and offered a lit match to hold. It can't warm him.]
[But there it is, regardless. That mote of craving, bittersweet and horrible as hunger often is.]
...Lobelia. [A hoarse whisper, against the man's lips.] Lobelia. [A gasp, a groan, an answer.] Lo...Lobe...Lobelia-ah....
[He's buried himself in completely - and there comes a full body tremble, shaking to the core, before he feels himself fall over the precipice. The heat intensifies, the union sealed, and he moans pasts the other's lips as he rides it out to its end.]
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Even the pain is no longer enough to distract from the pleasure, the intense pleasure wracking him from head to toe. Surely only Vergilius can make him feel this way. Only his รขme soeur, the feeling of coming undone so intense that Lobelia's ears ring with his own choked out moans.
Still, he can hear his name ring like an incantation on Vergilius' lips. No matter how loudly the blood pounds in his hears, he can commit the sound of his own name to memory.
...Somehow, even that isn't quite enough. Lobelia can no longer tell if he's reached his limit or already exceeded it โ and what does it matter to him now โ but he feels Vergilius vault past the point of no return and seeks out his lips for one final deep, probing kiss. The taste of blood is still so strong, and that's a good thing, isn't it? Lobelia never wants to forget this taste, not even when they've both left this place for the hell that lies beyond.]
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[The eternal misery to feast on. Vergilius has so much of it to give. But as he whets his own appetite through the kiss now offered, he now ponders whether he should return the favor. He already found some delight in denial - but that's very different from wanting to steal back something of his own. What can he take? He wonders.]
[He sucks on the other's tongue for a moment, before letting out a low sigh as he starts to feel his body come down from its high. But something has shifted. He doesn't pull out yet, only adjusting to a more comfortable position with body still flush against the trembling, sweaty skin of the man underneath him.]
[He swallows the taste of metal. It's something he knows will be permanently etched into him for the rest of his life.]
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...It's warm, relaxing, like the gentle tide ebbing and flowing at high noon. His body follows suit, tension in his limbs ebbing away to nothing, straightening out his legs to better accommodate Vergilius.]
...Heh. Now the pain is really beginning to set in.
[Will he even manage to get out of bed after this? Now his ribs hurt but also his ass. Thanks Vergie.]
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...Deal with it.
[As if he didn't cause the pain in the first place. Or maybe its because he caused the pain in the first place. Lobelia had asked for it, didn't he? Vergilius feels those hands settling on his back and tries to divert his attention away from them, gaze flitting to the other's eyes...but that soft, almost dreamy look makes irritation settle further into his stare, though its coupled with something else he doesn't know how to put into words.]
[Lobelia had wanted the little death, after all. And so, death has come to roost, but not in the way either of them may have expected.]
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Meeting his huff with a characteristically broad grin, Lobelia settles back against the pillows, one arm tucked up overhead while the other spiders along Vergilius' lower back. The more pleased he looks, the angrier Vergilius gets... which means they've returned to 'normal' with everything as it should be. If Lobelia wants to disrupt that flow once more, he knows just how he'll set about doing it.]
Now now, choose your words carefully! You might encourage me to return the favor.
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[It does feel like "normalcy". Again, every ounce of this man brings its own level of annoyance, just like before. Vergilius reaches forward to press a veiny hand over the other's face, as if to cover that offending grin. A sigh, before he adjusts his knees to press back and slowly pull himself out. What once was heat and intensity feels like disappointing wetness trickling on the sheets. Pity on Lobelia's roommates, honestly.]
[But even with "normalcy" here, something has changed. A flick of the switch of some psychological mainframe. He draws back, settling onto his knees even with the man's hands on his back.]
[He still hasn't pulled his hand back from the other's face. As if to cover it can hide his own folly.]
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...But he could do without the mess spilling out of him and onto the bedspread. Hm. No part of sex was unpleasant until the aftermath, but this isn't going to discourage Lobelia from shaking Vergilius down for dick again in the future. Far from it.]
Hm? But I can't help smiling! You know me well enough to know it's rare to see anything less from me.
[But he also knows something most people don't: what it looks like when Lobelia is anything other than nauseatingly effusive. Lucky him, right? While they're on the subject... Lobelia withdraws his hands to gently guide Vergilius' palm off his face, holding loosely onto it.]
Beneath that cold, detached faรงade, you're something of a bleeding heart, aren't you?
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["Know him well enough", he says. Can they really know each other that well in such a short period of time? Perhaps that's a foolish question to ask. Can people who have dug their dirty fingers into each other's wounds and vulnerable little spots know each other that well? He's seen Lobelia at his worst, his best, the creature with beady little eyes under a generally handsome, cheerful face. And he laid in bed with it, and allowed it to return his gaze. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps....]
[He balks at it, as instinctively as a kneejerk reflex, but he's choosing to deflect it instead of thinking on it longer. It's what he always does. But what the man says next...]
Oh? [He's raising an eyebrow, eye glow a little brighter from the offense of the question as he looks down at the other. The fingers of the hand the man is holding curl, as if threatening to form a fist.] What makes you say that?
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You refused to let me give in. It almost felt as if you couldn't stand the thought of it. I wonder why that is?
[Surely not because Vergilius cares for him, but something in that little black heart must've taken umbrage with the idea that Lobelia might simply give in, relent to curl up and die like the nasty little bug he is. He would've thought Vergilius would allow him that much, and yet he staunchly refused. Why?]
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[Laughable. He even curls his lips back in the semblance of a smile without feeling, all teeth with no joy attached to it.]
The pathetic sight of you giving up so readily was irritating. I tired of it. What else do you think?
[What is there to examine, here? Nothing at all. His heart is still locked away. It's bled for a very long time. What else is there to bleed?]
[It ran out the day they died, of course.]
If you truly know me so well, you should know my patience is not something long-lasting. [He's starting to pull his hand away, now.] Come on.
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[Too bad Lobelia doesn't know what a tsundere is. His version of reality is clearly the correct one, so spare your breath and don't try to convince him otherwise, Vergilius.
Lobelia lets Vergilius' hand go with some minor reluctance, attempting to sit himself up with... effort. Effort and a whole lot of wincing, but just look how happy he is. See this grimace? Pure ecstasy. Never been better.]
Mm? Where are we going?
[Is he really in any position to be going anywhere when he can barely move?]
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Where are we going? Ah. You misunderstood. I meant "come on" as a "get real" sort of thing. How rude I must be, to insinuate it may be an invitation.
[A shake of his head.]
I'm taking a shower. I could care less what you do.
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Un, deux, trois...!
[With concerted effort (and more clear expressions of pain), Lobelia forces himself upright and totters... in the direction of the bathroom. Hm. What was that about showering, Verg?]
Very well, then! I'll wash your back. It's the work of the young to support their aรฎnรฉs. I would hate to see you throw out your back while you attempt to wash yourself!
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[There he goes. Of course, Lobelia wouldn't take that sitting down. Or laying down, in this case. Vergilius watches him as he toddles over, dreadfully unamused, and heaves a looooong sigh.]
[They both are stubborn as bulls, aren't they? A horrific combination.]
I can wash myself just fine, thanks. [He's moving to easily overtake the other. Wow.] You, on the other hand, look like a disaster waiting to happen.
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Oh? Does that mean you'll do the honors and clean me up?
[But does he actually want that? Imagining that Vergilius might put extra emphasis into scrubbing his poor, battered ribs, Lobelia can't decide if he wants to suffer more or give himself enough of a break to. You know. Function properly again. Decisions, decisions...]
Heh! I'm afraid you may have no other choice. If you leave me like this, our amis will press me for an explanation. Do you trust me enough to spin a convincing lie?
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[Right.]
[The. Fucking. Conches.]
[He's staring at him for a moment.]
......No one would believe you, anyways.
[He says, as he's pushing past Lobelia to turn the dial on for the water. Yes. Hi. This is the man you decided to soulbond your life to. He's just like this.]
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[The conches! Don't step on them, you animal!! Anyway, Verg can take his time showering while Lobelia carefully takes stock of his inventory and ensures that every single conch in his arsenal is accounted for. It's only then that he wobbles upright and steps into the space remaining in the tub, gazing at the constellation of scars on Vergilius' back with muted curiosity.]
If these cicatrices could tell a story, I wonder what sort of tale they'd weave? It really is a wonder you haven't succumbed to fate by now.
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[The shower water is cool - he doesn't even really begin to scrub at himself yet, just letting the water pelt at him. A true depression shower if you ever saw one. Before he moves to collect himself and go for whatever they have to use for cleaning, he hears the other's voice behind him. Of course. Vergilus spares a glance behind.]
[It is true. His scars are something to behold, in how numerous they are.]
...I'm a high grade Fixer. Damage was done over the years. [His hand, just as scarred, moves to rub at his neck.] I keep going. I follow the flow. That's all it is.
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[Before Vergilius can even think about scrubbing himself down, Lobelia's secured a washcloth and lathered it up to do the honors. He didn't have the brainpower to devote to mapping out these scars while they were mid-bone, so he's going to do exactly that now, feeling each of them over through the gauzy layers of the cloth.]
How old were you when you set out on your path of destruction? Can you even remember a time where your hands weren't perpetually soaked in blood?
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...No. I don't remember a time like that.
[The far past is not something he thinks about. It almost feels like he was fully formed, in Fixer condition, from his beginning.]
[Inescapable.]
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I see! I suppose that must mean you have little by way of happy childhood memories to speak of.
[Dreadfully depressing, but not unexpected. When Vergilius' back is done, Lobelia moves onto his arms, invasive and unrelenting as ever.]
Should I pity you? Envy you? It's ta faute that I have to wonder such questions, you know.
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[He doesn't give answer to that first part. His childhood means nothing to him anymore. What he is now is the fixed conclusion.]
[He is letting out more displeased noises at the further invasion into his space, not unlike a feral cat. He still isn't pulling away completely, but the look on his face, which Lobelia may not be able to see, is simply "get on with it, already".]
Do neither. I am what I am. What do you even mean, "ta faute"?
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You're at fault, naturellement. What else could I possibly mean? All if this is a consequence of your actions.
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