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.
[It is, isn't it? The ocean of blood, made by his hands. He's fated to wander into it for eternity, or until this mortal body gives out once and for all.]
[He doesn't answer, something like a shadow dimming the persistent glow as he bows his head, lost in his own thoughts.]
[Ah. Had that been too harrowing of a revelation for dear old Verg? Lobelia's touch ceases, hands drawing back, but he isn't done pestering the man. Far from it.]
Is something wrong?
[While Verg navel gazes, Lobelia soaps up the cloth and begins washing himself.]
[He draws out of that dark well of his thoughts, aiming a glance over his shoulder with furrowed brow. Irritating, how irritating. The water keep running over his skin, and he finally raises a hand to brush through his wet hair, earring shifting with the movement.]
I'm just tuning you out. There's no point listening to you.
[How utterly charming. Vergilius is well and truly back to normal, but if Lobelia didn't like him at his worst, he certainly wouldn't be here right now. He'll forgive the frigid reception and make quick work of cleaning himself up, slapping the washcloth on Vergilius' shoulder before stepping out of the shower to wrap a towel around his hips.]
Merci, รขme soeur, for showing me such a fine time today. This won't be the last date we go on.
[No, that's an honor he'll reserve for the next one.]
[He doesn't even shift his gaze when he feels the washcloth slap against his shoulder. Only the raising of his head indicates any reaction, his wet bangs practically dripping over his upper face.]
[A cosmic joke. He opens his mouth as if to retort, to argue, to shoot a piercing statement back, to deny. Nothing comes. His throat is dry. The water keeps pouring, and for a moment, there's a reckless vision where he wishes he could drown in it.]
[But yes. With what just happened, he can't be so quick to throw it inside. Something has wormed inside of him, as insidious as an inescapable rot. And he let it inside, accepted it, because he knows what's best for him. He knows what's worst for him, to be exact.]
[He clenches his fists at his sides. And yet...and yet....]
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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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[It is, isn't it? The ocean of blood, made by his hands. He's fated to wander into it for eternity, or until this mortal body gives out once and for all.]
[He doesn't answer, something like a shadow dimming the persistent glow as he bows his head, lost in his own thoughts.]
[You're at fault.]
[There's never been a more brutal truth.]
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Is something wrong?
[While Verg navel gazes, Lobelia soaps up the cloth and begins washing himself.]
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[He draws out of that dark well of his thoughts, aiming a glance over his shoulder with furrowed brow. Irritating, how irritating. The water keep running over his skin, and he finally raises a hand to brush through his wet hair, earring shifting with the movement.]
I'm just tuning you out. There's no point listening to you.
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[How utterly charming. Vergilius is well and truly back to normal, but if Lobelia didn't like him at his worst, he certainly wouldn't be here right now. He'll forgive the frigid reception and make quick work of cleaning himself up, slapping the washcloth on Vergilius' shoulder before stepping out of the shower to wrap a towel around his hips.]
Merci, รขme soeur, for showing me such a fine time today. This won't be the last date we go on.
[No, that's an honor he'll reserve for the next one.]
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[He doesn't even shift his gaze when he feels the washcloth slap against his shoulder. Only the raising of his head indicates any reaction, his wet bangs practically dripping over his upper face.]
[After a moment, he says dully:]
What does that mean? That...รขme soeur.
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[Aren't you glad you asked, Vergie? Lobelia doesn't turn around to catch his reaction, fussing with his hair in the mirror instead.]
We're bound inextricably, you and I. You may not want to believe it, but it's vรฉritรฉโ the truth, plain as day.
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[A cosmic joke. He opens his mouth as if to retort, to argue, to shoot a piercing statement back, to deny. Nothing comes. His throat is dry. The water keeps pouring, and for a moment, there's a reckless vision where he wishes he could drown in it.]
[But yes. With what just happened, he can't be so quick to throw it inside. Something has wormed inside of him, as insidious as an inescapable rot. And he let it inside, accepted it, because he knows what's best for him. He knows what's worst for him, to be exact.]
[He clenches his fists at his sides. And yet...and yet....]
How can you...be so sure?
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