[He'll come to find that seeking assistance for the tumult of emotion in him from the man putting him through the storm will, in fact, only make it worse. In time, he'll wonder how he was ever blindsided by the true nature of his feelings to begin with.
He thought he loved Vergilius, genuinely, but the truth of the matter has begun to dawn on Lobelia: infatuation is fleeting, and indeed, that obsession with Vergilius prior to their death was nothing but a passing fixation. In its place are the seeds of those confusing, overwhelming feelings, and a need to be with him that goes further than the thought of claiming ownership over his heart in a quite literal way.
Maybe this is what genuine love roots from— an intimate touch, wanting someone and being wanted by them in turn. It's familiar in a way that's almost painful, leaning into Vergilius' every touch like it's only natural, like he never understood how he survived without it.
He jolts when Vergilius' fingers find the underside of his cock, moans spilling into their kiss before he knows what's hit him, and something else occurs to Lobelia. His defenses are down, almost entirely, a revelation that startles him after a lifetime spent carefully watching his own back just in case comeuppance managed to find him. What makes it worse is that smirk, that damned smirk, and catching it glinting him Vergilius' eyes while drawing a breath sets something on fire in Lobelia. Le bâtard.
He can only imagine how much sooner he would have found his death if anyone, anyone in the universe could rile him up as effortlessly as Vergilius. Tipping forward, Lobelia brings them both down against the robes and the flowers and the grass stains they'll have to die to remove from their clothing after the mess they'll make of each other. Straddling him on bent elbows, Lobelia carves his way back into Vergilius' mouth and pants his name into it, over and over, some sick imitation of the spell he's put him under. If this feeling, up until now, had only been infatuation, how much worse is it going to get?]
[It's a fact of the profession. No close bonds. What you have can easily be lost in an instant. You can have your acquaintances, but to keep someone intimately close is a fool's errand in the City. Of course, you had exceptions to the matter, and even love can still bloom on the battlefield, but any Fixer worth their weight in salt knew that in order to keep moving without falling into despair, they had to cut human connection like errant vines of a weed.]
[Vergilius learned that lesson in the worst way possible. Even he, with his attempts, and his pitiful soft heart, had the fact beaten into him. Everyone he loved would be taken from him. He cannot love again. Even the young girl at home, the one whose hope he would run the world for, was still a point of weakness. Best to shut everyone else out and keep moving.]
[So why...so how....so what is happening here? Lobelia is close, so close, and he should be shutting him out like before. Why does he want more? Is he this isolated and lonely as to grasp onto this and desire more? Is that right? Is it merely a physical trick? It hardly seems like that the more this goes on. He feels like he's doing his best not to stare at the sun beating so hotly on his shoulders. An obvious fact he still wants to deny.]
[But even in denial, he's rushed along in the flood of it all. More moans. More pitches of Lobelia's voice. More of this heated body, plaintive movements, more. More. More.]
[He's easily tipped over, strong arms encircling the other's body as he gasps at his own name being repeated like a desperate hymn of worship. And he, as adored relic, returns the favor with a rolling, needy movement of his hips, his own voice trying to crack through the litany of sound Lobelia is pouring onto him.]
[This moment could stretch on for eternity and it still wouldn't be long enough. Lobelia has always been alone, too far removed from anyone to relate to them, much less find anything in his heart stirred by their presence. That's why Vergilius is such an anomaly. That's why Vergilius is different.
Perhaps there truly is something wrong with his head, finding that isolation bothers him only in the absence of someone who he actually desires to be with. The idea of this moment coming to an end frustrates Lobelia, saddens him, already mourning the loss of warmth and intimacy that's oh so novel to him. Be that as it may, he can't imagine himself tiring of it— not as he has of killing, of destruction, of looking for meaning in the rubble left behind.]
Vergilius...
[...He's not going to last a second inside of this man, is he? It's with that and a few other selfish thoughts in mind that Lobelia fumbles for the lube, successfully managing to blindly grope around the grass to find the bottle. Eager as he is to rut against Vergilius, answer friction with friction, he can do him one better. With a lilting, dizzied laugh, Lobelia sits himself up on Vergilius' lap and uncaps the bottle of lubricant.]
I said that I would do anything to please you, non...? So autorise moi.
[Lobelia knows what he wants, fingers settled around the base of Vergilius' shaft while his other hand upends the bottle to drizzle it with lube. He knows what he wants, but he asks for permission regardless, boring holes into those dazzling red eyes and awaiting his confirmation. Greedy as he is, this is a concession Lobelia makes in earnest.]
[It's a moment in slow motion. It's a moment moving too fast to be captured. It conflicts with itself, somehow. He should hate this man. He does, he thinks so, he knows so, but why does the sudden prospect of all of this ending and them going back to the pleasant dreariness of a garden seem so dreadful? So many questions. The warmth of Lobelia's lips lingers on his tongue. No answers, no clear answers at all.]
[The other draws back, and Vergilius's eyes, ever piercing, fixate on the other's face. A quick glance between him, the bottle clumsily grabbed, and the position that connects dots. He lets out a shaky, heated exhale - (how in the world is he already so ready so quick? it's happened twice, both with THIS man of all people) - before hissing between gritted teeth at the wet cool sensation.]
[He's asking permission. Again, an outstretched hand. Vergilius stares into Lobelia's eyes as if he can see past them, fray the man muscle fiber by muscle fiber to see within. He knows what he's asking for. And this time, after everything, he relents to it.]
[He nods, hand reaching up to press his fingertips on the line of the other's thigh. The tip of his wounded thumb burns with the contact.]
[That hand is much too tempting, still red with blood, and Lobelia reaches to skim his fingers along it, drag it up to his lips to kiss the injury that sealed their bond.]
Merci.
[The selfish man in him (read: all of him) wants to hold onto Vergilius' hand, but he'll need both of his own to steady himself. He wasn't nearly so self-aware the first time they had sex, interested less in the intimacy of the act and more on stripping Vergilius of any other choice in the matter.
Now? Now he's painfully aware of the eyes on him as he lifts his hips, positions himself over the tip of Vergilius' cock and slowly lowers himself onto it. Ah. Ahhh. Not preparing himself first was a mistake, but not one he allows himself to linger on, working through the full-body shivers to acclimate to the stretch. He's not one to easily admit when he's erred, however...]
[Well, there he goes. That's what he expects of Lobelia. He had done it from the beginning, after all - jumping first and looking later. Admittedly, he was smart to keep up, reckless enough to cover up any perceived hiccup. Here, however...]
[It's tight, of course - even he's feeling the strain as the man lets him sink deeper and deeper. What a fool. Smart as a whip, but a fool nevertheless.]
[His thumb seems to burn with a different kind of warmth from the kiss.]
You wanted this. Actions have...consequences. [He manages to say after a moment, the gravel of his voice almost hiding the whine of his words.] If anyone, blame yourself.
[But not one to simply elect for complaint, he moves on, hands holding onto the other's hips as he, too, gets used to the core of heat he's now buried into. He had it once before. He didn't care to linger on it...then, at least.]
Doesn't matter when I'll...still make you limp around this damned garden by the time we're- ergh - done.
[He should be smarter than this, shouldn't he? And he is... but around Vergilius, thinking clearly rapidly becomes difficult. Lobelia killed this man in such a way that his own death was assured, leaving little room for error, leaving no relationship standing save for the one he gave his life to pursue. No one will mourn him, no one will miss him, and that's just as it should be. This is the outcome that was destined for him, and yet.
And yet.
At what point did he stop calculating every detail of their relationship? Lobelia chokes out a laugh at his own expense, so eager for this warmth, this mutuality that logic has been thrown entirely to the wayside. Perhaps some part of his brain didn't manage to respawn along with the rest of him, but at least this overbearing tightness is the sort of throbbing pain he can live with, even enjoy. Vergilius, on the other hand...]
Is it désagréable? In your position... I would be protesting a little more loudly.
[If you ask him, they'll both be limping around the garden by the time they're through here.]
[Comes the sharp retort - a little sign that the Vergilius everyone knows and can't stand is most certainly still here. Even in the midst of sex, he can't help being a grumpy curmudgeon.]
[That being said, though, he's using this little pause not only to get adjusted to the feeling (he swallows, feeling the ache and throb of arousal beating within the man, a sensation that makes a thin line of sweat draw a line down his forehead) but also to grasp the man by the thighs as he shoots a challenging look upwards.]
[He digs his heels in, pressing hips upward with a decisive shift- as if by movement he can threaten to break the man in two.]
[Ah, but his grumpy, curmudgeonly ways are a big part of his charm, at least in Lobelia's opinion. He laughs, his sharp retort taking some of the edge off his nerves. This little lull was much needed, at least for Lobelia, to accommodate not only to the stretch but to catch his breath as well. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he won't be able to stop again once he begins. Just like tearing through the streets on a path of destruction, Lobelia can do nothing in half measures.]
Heheh... Is that so? I think you've forgotten... who's in control here.
[He shifts, knees squared on either side of Vergilius' hips, and gradually lifts himself. The sensation feels brand new, foreign all over again, but it won't for long. He's already begun to crave this again, desiring the heat and the contact and the pain in equal measure, that desire made all the more clear to him when he sharply drops back down on Vergilius' hips to pin them back to the ground where they belong.
It smarts, but of course it does. Lobelia is certain the ache is mutual, but he gathers his bearings quickly and palms Vergilius' shoulders to anchor himself. His vision's blurring up again, tight to an almost painful degree, but that doesn't stop Lobelia from dropping himself onto Vergilius' hips over and over again, the clap of skin on skin echoing in his ears.]
["Control" is a funny word. Of course, as much as he would've hated to admit it. Lobelia did have the upper hand in the land of the living. His terrible deals, his ways of putting Vergilius under the metaphorical heel of his boot and making him comply - it was a feeling that the man hated beyond reason. He acquiesced to being a Color because he didn't want anyone to dictate what he had to do. Lobelia worming in and putting a bit on him like taming an animal was more than enough to stoke his anger.]
[But here, even as the man says it, is it really "control"? Lobelia is moving now, finally, impaled on him, making him move deeper and deeper with every downward slap of the hips. Vergilius could easily turn the tides, here. He's strong enough to, and he knows Lobelia knows that. And yet, here they are, with the magician in being more of a vulnerable state than he makes it come off at.]
[And Vergilius, he doesn't want to take advantage of that. It's something that surprises even him, lost in the midst of his own cascade of low uttered moans from the way the other moves. His hands slide up, mapping out muscle, before resting softly on the ridges of his upper spine. It hurts. It's wonderfully pleasant. Again, and again, and again.]
[His request comes out, almost keening, from the depths of his throat.]
[He's never left himself so vulnerable before, every inch of his body and soul stripped bare before this man. It's terrifying, yes, but that fear can't control him— only Vergilius can now, one soul traded out for the other. That leaves the only person capable of hurting him writhing beneath him, someone who he can hurt just as severely, just as deeply, cutting scars into his heart.
The option is there, but Lobelia won't take it. No more harm will befall this man unless he wills it, be it harm wrought by Lobelia's hands or anyone else. That's just as it should be, an adequate price to pay for the happiness he's shown him, the pain he blesses him with every time he drops his hips.]
...Tu es gourmand, Vergilius.
[But it's not just pain he's blessed with. Hearing Vergilius moan, feeling his hands trace along his body for no other reason than to feel him, demanding more of him... all of that quickly eclipses the ache, replacing it with something much more pleasant. Lobelia feels that heat burn deep in his gut and adjusts his posture not to chase that pleasure, but to draw this moment on as long as he can, pitched forward to eclipse Vergilius.
Before, he would've acted more selfishly, tilting his hips forward so every downward thrust would make the head of Vergilius' cock strike his prostate, but not now. Not now. Lobelia bites his bottom lip, every shivering exhale passing through his teeth. More. More. He gives Vergilius what he wants, fucking himself on him with even more verve, and he finds that he can't stop staring at him. Why would he want to look anywhere else?]
[Even if he can't translate the other's little reprimand, the thought already comes to his mind on his own. Greedy. Is he greedy? He's never wanted. He's always given. Even the small blessings of life before seemed like something of an after-thought. He's the type of man to tear himself to pieces instead of desiring something for his own sake. That was the sticking point that voice had found during that one moment - the very idea of self-satisfaction seemed so alien and foreign to him that it seemed more than easy to turn away from.]
[But maybe he just never knew what he wanted. Up until this point, desire was never a thought on his mind. So what's this feeling when he looks up at Lobelia's gasping, pleased face as he thrusts so eagerly against him? His eyes shine their characteristic red, but there's a warmth that infuses them as he feels the tension tighten and twist like a potent knot at their point of union. His back feels a little irritated, even with robe below protecting him from shifting directly against plant and ground. The man might be physically less stronger, but the intensity is nothing to sneeze at.]
[Mutuality requires cooperation. In a move he never would've done before, one hand moves to dive down between them. His fingers fumble, before holding firm over Lobelia's shaft, his mouth alighting with a glimmer of a smile as he pumps in tandem with him, a matched rhythm.]
Lobelia...
[If he'll go over, he wants to have Lobelia go over with him.]
[...So, so greedy, but Lobelia doesn't rebuke him with anything more than a laugh. So much for outpacing the old man, eh? The stroking of his hand elicits an entirely different sort of pleasure, Lobelia finds, than the bone-deep fire that burns in him whenever Vergilius' cock strikes something sensitive within him.
The flames his hand stokes are much more familiar, eliciting a wave of shivers and the low, guttering moans to match. His fingers, once firmly grasping Vergilius' shoulders, have begun to quiver. That smile... It's almost unnerving, so different from what Lobelia is used to from the man. All the same, it's alluring, inviting, and Lobelia gives into the temptation to lean in and kiss him.
It's a mess of heavy breaths and clicking teeth, his attention too thoroughly divided between one source of pleasure and the next, Vergilius' palm stained damp with his precum. With each passing moment, he throws down more and more of his weight onto Vergilius' hips, the cadence of their bodies as pleasing to his ears as it is to every other part of him. He won't last much longer, his kisses devolving to little more than shameless panting into Vergilius' mouth, but he resists the urge to come as long as he can. A little more time to remain like this, a little more time to savor it, and more importantly, if this bliss must end, he wants it to end right where it began— with Vergilius.]
[He's panting the man's name now. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. Like the last time they did this, its something that spills out of his mouth, unbidden, but there's a tone to it now that sets it apart from before. There, it had been tinged with something he had no name for. Now, it feels like its soaked in it. A comfortable rumble, pleasure sitting in his bones like sunlight bathing an area once thought lost forever in darkness.]
[He is no longer conscious of the garden around them. He's not even fully conscious of their state here, as the dead grasping onto something that for a moment makes them feel alive like nothing before. There's only Lobelia. It all seems to begin and end with him, from the way their bodies press into each other, mouths gasping for air.]
[He can't help but writhe a little as he feels himself continue to move into the other man with reckless abandon, trying to focus on keeping the pace as his hand strokes and grips and keeps hold where he can. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. The man had ripped out his heart. For some reason the scene comes to mind with no prompting. The pain in his chest like a macabre blossoming flower, the heat of the other's hand inside of him, glinting white teeth set in a pretty, boyish face...]
Ah...
[A hiccup, a gasp, and a groan is all that warns the man as it all seems to crash together, his climax hitting hard as he thrusts his hips up one last time, feeling little twitches of shockwaves moving through his body. One last kiss, stolen as he feels his hand give one last languid stroke to Lobelia, hoping to feel a stream of heat in return.]
[How foolish he's been, how little he's known of joy, of happiness, of all the warmth mutuality could bring. Dutiful as ever, Lobelia is trailing right behind in Vergilius' shadow, crumbling to his elbows when Vergilius' release prompts his own. He knows he's left behind a greater mess than last time, but he can't focus on something so inconsequential when Vergilius is rasping his name over and over again.
Lobelia is as enlivened as he is spent, overwhelmed, that odd dichotomy raging inside of him while he presses sloppy kisses to Vergilius' mouth, savoring every ragged whisper. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia. He's never cared much for his name, it holds a different significance to him now.
"Love and devotion," his parents told him. "That's what lobelias represent." How ironic that he's found some truth to his name after all.
Lobelia rides that wave as far as it will take them, eventually ceding to the hazy afterglow and resting his head on Vergilius' chest. He can hear the same heart he'd torn from his chest beating away, a symbol of the man's staunch refusal to give up even in death. Despite everything, Lobelia finds its thrumming soothing. Still... is it really alright if he stays here? Lobelia doesn't want to part from Vergilius, not just yet, but he slowly begins to pick himself up in the selfish hope that he'll be dragged back down.]
[There it is. His hand is soaked in release even as his fingers let go, the heat of it stinging the wound of his thumb as it goes along. He can't even focus entirely on that, so occupied he is with Lobelia's mouth that it feels like a background melody he's only grasping partially. Even after the kisses are done, he brushes his nose alongside te other's in a light stroke of his own before the full collapse. The weight of the man's body rests against a heaving chest, ear pressed against it, and he vaguely realizes that he's cooling with a perceptible layer of sweat.]
[The strands of the man's hair are tickling his skin. In the haze of his release, Vergilius realizes the shift of the man to move away - and it's like instinct, a kneejerk reflex. His unsoiled hand moves to wrap around the other's shoulders, pulling him down to its proper place.]
[He took something that he wasn't supposed to. He hurt someone he claimed to love. This isn't the first time Vergilius has bid him to remember this fact, but his point failed to stick when he returned the favor and tore Lobelia's heart out in turn. It failed to stick for the days they were apart, wiling away the time in this floral purgatory.
When Vergilius tells him to listen now, Lobelia hears it. It sinks in, echoes in his head over and over and over again. This is what you took from me.
It never mattered how many people he robbed of their happiness in the past. It didn't matter who they were, what their dreams and aspirations were, what lengths they'd gone to in their brief existences to pursue their own happiness. Everyone has the right to be happy, his parents told him, but Lobelia found one convenient excuse after the next to disregard everyone's happiness but his own.
Happiness should be pursued by oneself. Happiness is only for those who have the means to achieve it. Happiness is a finite resource, and if you don't fight for it, you'll never have the chance to grasp it. Excuse after excuse after excuse, and it's all falling apart now beneath the steady thrum of Vergilius' heart.
Lobelia falls silent and very, very still. He had never felt warmth like he does when he's connected to Vergilius, and by the same token, he's never felt such emptiness, such desolation. If nothing else, he manages to draw in a breath, steady himself, to deliver his response. Turning Vergilius' words over and over in his mind, there's only one answer Lobelia can give him.]
Je suis désolé.
[What a horrid feeling regret is. He'll consider himself fortunate if he never has to feel it again.]
[Sometimes, he really thinks he's one the cruelest people in the City. There are many who are cruel, of course. But he, who knows the weight of such cruelty, and uses it to teach lessons to steel people's hearts, perhaps is more vicious with it than most.]
[But even so...even as he finds that soft spot now opened to him and digs into it with little care for if it bleeds, there's the realization that there's a soft spot in the first place. Lobelia had never felt like this before, had he? Vergilius, with the weight of endless regret weighing down his soul, now plucking a bit of it up between thumb and forefinger to place against the other's tongue. The other will never understand the full depths of it, but if he can give him a taste of it, make him understand, feel it to the core of his being, perhaps that mite of cruelty is worth it.]
[But even as he's imparting this lesson, the soft words come. Some of the coldness abates, like frost on a warming fall morning. After a moment, a sigh moves through him as he closes his eyes. He threads his fingers up, brushing through the man's curls of hair.]
[The air is pleasant. It always is. But the heat of the other man is also pleasant, possibly even more so.]
[The taste of it is bitter on his tongue, so much so that he wonders if that's why the corners of his eyes sting so badly. Awful, dreadful. He'd spent so much time eagerly chasing Vergilius down, but now he's arrested by the urge to run from him, from these feelings that have rapidly taken on a weight he's begun to question if he can even carry.
Can he handle this? If he can't get ahold of himself now, then when? Lobelia's eyes scan the horizon, but he says nothing to Vergilius of his desire to flee. That would draw his suspicion, wouldn't it? Out him as a spineless coward, or so he feels when Vergilius takes to stroking through his hair and he can do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and cede to it. His touch is much too warm, much too inviting, and Lobelia doesn't know how he'll survive without it now.
He has to try, try to affect some sort of calm nonchalance before this miserable feeling overtakes him. It's easy to tell through Lobelia's theatrical sigh that he's forcing himself, but he would rather play a role than let this ugliness inside of himself seep out.]
C'est dommage! I could spend the rest of my life atoning and it would never be enough. Are you quite certain you want to humor me after the harm I've done to you?
[Maybe he'd feel better if Vergilius said no. Maybe this aching in his chest would cease if he admitted to having second thoughts. If only, if only.]
[Now you know how I feel. Now you can see, through one glimpse, what my existence is like, day by day.]
[But none of those words come to mind. Lobelia even reminds him - he is the one who caused him such torment all this time. He deserves the punishment. Even now, the metallic taste of blood splattering on him from his vengeance in the form of a ripped out heart seems potent. Many souls have met their end at the end of this man.]
[But can he judge, himself, when he's made so many orphans out of children? Can he bring retribution, when he himself doesn't feel he's received enough of it himself for his own sins?]
...It's never enough for me. I've accepted that. [After all, he is just a shade in a dark forest, lamenting forever on what has been lost and what will be lost. Nothing will bring his loved ones back. Nothing will completely ease the guilt in his heart. So it goes.] Humor you, though...
[He doesn't know. He does know. His own heart beats fretfully with the weight of emotion he can't even begin to comprehend. Ugly, ugly...they're both ugly creatures. He leans in, his lips trailing against the other's forehead in an almost unconscious little movement.]
[How fitting it is that the man who eases his pains is the one who deals it back to him at full force. Comeuppance has found him in the last place he expected it, but it's deserved, isn't it? Finally, finally, the weight of his sins starts to bear down on his shoulders, but he can't regret harming anyone but this man. He's fortunate, then, that he lacks the heart Vergilius does, because the weight of those sins might just crush him into dust otherwise.
He's not done piling up regrets, either, seeking out comfort from the man he stole everything from. Lobelia leans in like a flower desperate to soak in the sun when his lips brush along his forehead, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding onto him as if he has any right to. If Vergilius desires to, he can brush him off, push him away, and Lobelia won't hold it against him. Until then, his warmth is the only thing keeping that storm raging inside of him from ripping him apart.]
I'm afraid so, but that doesn't mean that you have no choice in the matter. Toss me aside if it suits you, Vergilius. I won't give chase.
[Not anymore, not with all the irrevocable harm he's done. Even an oath made in blood is one Lobelia will agree to rectify if Vergilius truly wishes to be free of him. That would save him some grief, wouldn't it? It won't give him his life back, but it's the only consolation Lobelia can offer him now.]
You're considering my choice now? Not too long ago you trapped me in a world of monsters until I bowed to your whim.
[There's no harshness in his tone as one would expect - he's stating it as fact. That is what happened. This same man now cradled under his arm, both of them naked in a sea of flowers, had been the very one to push him to his limits. He can't forget that. One can't simply wipe away the deeds of yesterday like chalk off a board.]
[And yet, and yet, and yet...]
[I won't give chase.]
[He doesn't know why that statement feels like a needle wedging into his heart. He shouldn't feel this way, damn it-! I deserve it. I don't deserve it. Let me be. I don't want to be alone. You killed me. I killed you. I bound myself to you. I can't stand you. I never want to see you again. I want to keep you close and never let you go. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I l-]
[Vergilius lets out a grunt, his face marred with a grimace. The typical wave of anger, as always. And yet the words that come out may be surprising, something a little melancholy in his tone.]
...You would throw our oath aside, just like that?
[Right, right. It wasn't long ago that he'd take any and every opportunity to hurt Vergilius and derived much satisfaction from it to boot. Shouldn't that alone be enough to damn him to hell, let alone all the pain he's meted out in his life? The only difference is that this man's pain means something to him now, as does protecting him against anything that might seek to cause him agony in the future... but he's a source of that agony, isn't he? Shouldn't he leave? Shouldn't he go? Is it not, at times, compassionate to set the ones you love free?
This was a choice he should've given Vergilius a long, long time ago, back when he wouldn't have deliberated long on his answer. Now that he is, Lobelia's lips curl into a wry smile, finding that sour response to be an answer in and of itself. The words that follow are simply confirmation, one last dagger in his selfish little heart.
He can't let this man go. Not now, not ever. Blessed with reciprocity that he doesn't deserve and has hardly earned, Lobelia sits up on an elbow, frames Vergilius' face in his hand. If he won't leave of his own accord, severing the ties between them, Lobelia stands no chance of accomplishing the same. He won't even try.]
Jamais. I could never do such a thing even if I tried. Surely you realize it too.
[He'd fallen too hard, too fast, too far, after sending himself hurtling into the the darkness in pursuit of him. It's the paradox that has Lobelia measuring his breaths so that the redness in his eyes doesn't give way to anything as shameless as tears, but he very much doubts even this will get past Vergilius. So it goes.]
I would rather cease to be than be without you. At the same time, it's now your happiness I'm responsible for. If you told me to disparaître, I would have to decide between my selfishness and your happiness, non? Rather, I already have.
[Lobelia leans in, presses a kiss to Vergilius' lips and lingers in it. He's so selfish, callous, cruel, and yet he hopes it warms Vergilius just as it warms him. Reciprocation despite it all.]
Je te veux. If you ever wish to sever our oath, you'll have to kill me for good. I lack the strength to do so myself.
[Lobelia definitely hasn't earned any of this. What fool would give an unlovable, selfish, murderous bastard anything such as this for all the sins he has enacted?]
[How funny. Perhaps he should be asking that of himself, too. He's lived in denial so long that its felt he's become less human for it. Destruction is his bread and butter. No one else should be pulled into that. Maybe not even someone like Lobelia, with those strange, reddened eyes that almost feel ready to burst into tears.]
[But the man touches his face, kisses him, and that caged, soft, terrible little black thing he calls a heart skips a little beat, as if he's some schoolboy eager to receive affections from a forbidden crush. He betrays himself, constantly. His own decisions pave the way to hell. He was doomed from the start of meeting the man from Lobelia. Not a fly to a spider, but predators finding they share the same web.]
Kill you for good? You suffered death over and over before this and you're still here. [A kiss, light as a feather.] How laughable. [Another kiss, with a rasp of a sigh.] I would call you a bastard for being invincible just so you can get all you can from this.
[Reciprocation despite it all. His thumb tickles over the nape of the man's neck as he steals yet another kiss for his troubles. his usual deep tone tinged with a sarcastic lightness so uncommon to him.]
So I'll have to figure out my way around this conundrum. Guess you'll have to live a little while longer.
[This really is the happy ending he doesn't deserve. Neither of them are good people, their pasts soaked in blood and their futures certain to be the same, but none of that matters to Lobelia now. He would find himself hopelessly bored with anyone less monstrous than himself, but it's not as if Lobelia ever thought he'd find someone.
To think there could be anyone remotely like himself was too absurd a thought, and yet here he is, trading easy kisses with a man whose body count is as innumerous as his own. Here he is, finding his happiness amongst all that destruction. What part of this is deserved? None of it, but it's yet one more thing Lobelia has eagerly taken without asking, no trace of shame in the way he eagerly moves into every kiss, laughter light on his lips.
The weight of regret is a heavy, burdensome thing, but the lightness in Vergilius' tone does much to keep his discomfort at bay. Everything will be alright so long as he has his guide to follow, right? He'll find his footing in the end, uncertain as each step feels now.]
Mm, but it was only thanks to The Tower that I was brought back again and again to endure more châtiment. Our pact has been severed now.
[...And in its place, he's forged one with Vergilius. Lobelia connects the dots in his head before the words have the chance to leave his mouth, a peal of amusement snaking out of him instead. Pressing their foreheads together, it's his turn to cheekily thieve a kiss.]
That means, should we manage to find our way out of vie après la mort, my fate rests in your hands! Guider or tueur... You'll have to make up your mind eventually.
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He thought he loved Vergilius, genuinely, but the truth of the matter has begun to dawn on Lobelia: infatuation is fleeting, and indeed, that obsession with Vergilius prior to their death was nothing but a passing fixation. In its place are the seeds of those confusing, overwhelming feelings, and a need to be with him that goes further than the thought of claiming ownership over his heart in a quite literal way.
Maybe this is what genuine love roots from— an intimate touch, wanting someone and being wanted by them in turn. It's familiar in a way that's almost painful, leaning into Vergilius' every touch like it's only natural, like he never understood how he survived without it.
He jolts when Vergilius' fingers find the underside of his cock, moans spilling into their kiss before he knows what's hit him, and something else occurs to Lobelia. His defenses are down, almost entirely, a revelation that startles him after a lifetime spent carefully watching his own back just in case comeuppance managed to find him. What makes it worse is that smirk, that damned smirk, and catching it glinting him Vergilius' eyes while drawing a breath sets something on fire in Lobelia. Le bâtard.
He can only imagine how much sooner he would have found his death if anyone, anyone in the universe could rile him up as effortlessly as Vergilius. Tipping forward, Lobelia brings them both down against the robes and the flowers and the grass stains they'll have to die to remove from their clothing after the mess they'll make of each other. Straddling him on bent elbows, Lobelia carves his way back into Vergilius' mouth and pants his name into it, over and over, some sick imitation of the spell he's put him under. If this feeling, up until now, had only been infatuation, how much worse is it going to get?]
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[It's a fact of the profession. No close bonds. What you have can easily be lost in an instant. You can have your acquaintances, but to keep someone intimately close is a fool's errand in the City. Of course, you had exceptions to the matter, and even love can still bloom on the battlefield, but any Fixer worth their weight in salt knew that in order to keep moving without falling into despair, they had to cut human connection like errant vines of a weed.]
[Vergilius learned that lesson in the worst way possible. Even he, with his attempts, and his pitiful soft heart, had the fact beaten into him. Everyone he loved would be taken from him. He cannot love again. Even the young girl at home, the one whose hope he would run the world for, was still a point of weakness. Best to shut everyone else out and keep moving.]
[So why...so how....so what is happening here? Lobelia is close, so close, and he should be shutting him out like before. Why does he want more? Is he this isolated and lonely as to grasp onto this and desire more? Is that right? Is it merely a physical trick? It hardly seems like that the more this goes on. He feels like he's doing his best not to stare at the sun beating so hotly on his shoulders. An obvious fact he still wants to deny.]
[But even in denial, he's rushed along in the flood of it all. More moans. More pitches of Lobelia's voice. More of this heated body, plaintive movements, more. More. More.]
[He's easily tipped over, strong arms encircling the other's body as he gasps at his own name being repeated like a desperate hymn of worship. And he, as adored relic, returns the favor with a rolling, needy movement of his hips, his own voice trying to crack through the litany of sound Lobelia is pouring onto him.]
Lob..elia...
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Perhaps there truly is something wrong with his head, finding that isolation bothers him only in the absence of someone who he actually desires to be with. The idea of this moment coming to an end frustrates Lobelia, saddens him, already mourning the loss of warmth and intimacy that's oh so novel to him. Be that as it may, he can't imagine himself tiring of it— not as he has of killing, of destruction, of looking for meaning in the rubble left behind.]
Vergilius...
[...He's not going to last a second inside of this man, is he? It's with that and a few other selfish thoughts in mind that Lobelia fumbles for the lube, successfully managing to blindly grope around the grass to find the bottle. Eager as he is to rut against Vergilius, answer friction with friction, he can do him one better. With a lilting, dizzied laugh, Lobelia sits himself up on Vergilius' lap and uncaps the bottle of lubricant.]
I said that I would do anything to please you, non...? So autorise moi.
[Lobelia knows what he wants, fingers settled around the base of Vergilius' shaft while his other hand upends the bottle to drizzle it with lube. He knows what he wants, but he asks for permission regardless, boring holes into those dazzling red eyes and awaiting his confirmation. Greedy as he is, this is a concession Lobelia makes in earnest.]
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[The other draws back, and Vergilius's eyes, ever piercing, fixate on the other's face. A quick glance between him, the bottle clumsily grabbed, and the position that connects dots. He lets out a shaky, heated exhale - (how in the world is he already so ready so quick? it's happened twice, both with THIS man of all people) - before hissing between gritted teeth at the wet cool sensation.]
[He's asking permission. Again, an outstretched hand. Vergilius stares into Lobelia's eyes as if he can see past them, fray the man muscle fiber by muscle fiber to see within. He knows what he's asking for. And this time, after everything, he relents to it.]
[He nods, hand reaching up to press his fingertips on the line of the other's thigh. The tip of his wounded thumb burns with the contact.]
Go ahead.
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Merci.
[The selfish man in him (read: all of him) wants to hold onto Vergilius' hand, but he'll need both of his own to steady himself. He wasn't nearly so self-aware the first time they had sex, interested less in the intimacy of the act and more on stripping Vergilius of any other choice in the matter.
Now? Now he's painfully aware of the eyes on him as he lifts his hips, positions himself over the tip of Vergilius' cock and slowly lowers himself onto it. Ah. Ahhh. Not preparing himself first was a mistake, but not one he allows himself to linger on, working through the full-body shivers to acclimate to the stretch. He's not one to easily admit when he's erred, however...]
...Aie. Where was your guidance when I needed it?
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[It's tight, of course - even he's feeling the strain as the man lets him sink deeper and deeper. What a fool. Smart as a whip, but a fool nevertheless.]
[His thumb seems to burn with a different kind of warmth from the kiss.]
You wanted this. Actions have...consequences. [He manages to say after a moment, the gravel of his voice almost hiding the whine of his words.] If anyone, blame yourself.
[But not one to simply elect for complaint, he moves on, hands holding onto the other's hips as he, too, gets used to the core of heat he's now buried into. He had it once before. He didn't care to linger on it...then, at least.]
Doesn't matter when I'll...still make you limp around this damned garden by the time we're- ergh - done.
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And yet.
At what point did he stop calculating every detail of their relationship? Lobelia chokes out a laugh at his own expense, so eager for this warmth, this mutuality that logic has been thrown entirely to the wayside. Perhaps some part of his brain didn't manage to respawn along with the rest of him, but at least this overbearing tightness is the sort of throbbing pain he can live with, even enjoy. Vergilius, on the other hand...]
Is it désagréable? In your position... I would be protesting a little more loudly.
[If you ask him, they'll both be limping around the garden by the time they're through here.]
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[Comes the sharp retort - a little sign that the Vergilius everyone knows and can't stand is most certainly still here. Even in the midst of sex, he can't help being a grumpy curmudgeon.]
[That being said, though, he's using this little pause not only to get adjusted to the feeling (he swallows, feeling the ache and throb of arousal beating within the man, a sensation that makes a thin line of sweat draw a line down his forehead) but also to grasp the man by the thighs as he shoots a challenging look upwards.]
[He digs his heels in, pressing hips upward with a decisive shift- as if by movement he can threaten to break the man in two.]
Get a...move on. I'll ruin you yet.
[And yet, haven't they both already been ruined?]
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Heheh... Is that so? I think you've forgotten... who's in control here.
[He shifts, knees squared on either side of Vergilius' hips, and gradually lifts himself. The sensation feels brand new, foreign all over again, but it won't for long. He's already begun to crave this again, desiring the heat and the contact and the pain in equal measure, that desire made all the more clear to him when he sharply drops back down on Vergilius' hips to pin them back to the ground where they belong.
It smarts, but of course it does. Lobelia is certain the ache is mutual, but he gathers his bearings quickly and palms Vergilius' shoulders to anchor himself. His vision's blurring up again, tight to an almost painful degree, but that doesn't stop Lobelia from dropping himself onto Vergilius' hips over and over again, the clap of skin on skin echoing in his ears.]
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[But here, even as the man says it, is it really "control"? Lobelia is moving now, finally, impaled on him, making him move deeper and deeper with every downward slap of the hips. Vergilius could easily turn the tides, here. He's strong enough to, and he knows Lobelia knows that. And yet, here they are, with the magician in being more of a vulnerable state than he makes it come off at.]
[And Vergilius, he doesn't want to take advantage of that. It's something that surprises even him, lost in the midst of his own cascade of low uttered moans from the way the other moves. His hands slide up, mapping out muscle, before resting softly on the ridges of his upper spine. It hurts. It's wonderfully pleasant. Again, and again, and again.]
[His request comes out, almost keening, from the depths of his throat.]
More. More.
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The option is there, but Lobelia won't take it. No more harm will befall this man unless he wills it, be it harm wrought by Lobelia's hands or anyone else. That's just as it should be, an adequate price to pay for the happiness he's shown him, the pain he blesses him with every time he drops his hips.]
...Tu es gourmand, Vergilius.
[But it's not just pain he's blessed with. Hearing Vergilius moan, feeling his hands trace along his body for no other reason than to feel him, demanding more of him... all of that quickly eclipses the ache, replacing it with something much more pleasant. Lobelia feels that heat burn deep in his gut and adjusts his posture not to chase that pleasure, but to draw this moment on as long as he can, pitched forward to eclipse Vergilius.
Before, he would've acted more selfishly, tilting his hips forward so every downward thrust would make the head of Vergilius' cock strike his prostate, but not now. Not now. Lobelia bites his bottom lip, every shivering exhale passing through his teeth. More. More. He gives Vergilius what he wants, fucking himself on him with even more verve, and he finds that he can't stop staring at him. Why would he want to look anywhere else?]
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[But maybe he just never knew what he wanted. Up until this point, desire was never a thought on his mind. So what's this feeling when he looks up at Lobelia's gasping, pleased face as he thrusts so eagerly against him? His eyes shine their characteristic red, but there's a warmth that infuses them as he feels the tension tighten and twist like a potent knot at their point of union. His back feels a little irritated, even with robe below protecting him from shifting directly against plant and ground. The man might be physically less stronger, but the intensity is nothing to sneeze at.]
[Mutuality requires cooperation. In a move he never would've done before, one hand moves to dive down between them. His fingers fumble, before holding firm over Lobelia's shaft, his mouth alighting with a glimmer of a smile as he pumps in tandem with him, a matched rhythm.]
Lobelia...
[If he'll go over, he wants to have Lobelia go over with him.]
[.....Ah, that's greedy, isn't it?]
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The flames his hand stokes are much more familiar, eliciting a wave of shivers and the low, guttering moans to match. His fingers, once firmly grasping Vergilius' shoulders, have begun to quiver. That smile... It's almost unnerving, so different from what Lobelia is used to from the man. All the same, it's alluring, inviting, and Lobelia gives into the temptation to lean in and kiss him.
It's a mess of heavy breaths and clicking teeth, his attention too thoroughly divided between one source of pleasure and the next, Vergilius' palm stained damp with his precum. With each passing moment, he throws down more and more of his weight onto Vergilius' hips, the cadence of their bodies as pleasing to his ears as it is to every other part of him. He won't last much longer, his kisses devolving to little more than shameless panting into Vergilius' mouth, but he resists the urge to come as long as he can. A little more time to remain like this, a little more time to savor it, and more importantly, if this bliss must end, he wants it to end right where it began— with Vergilius.]
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[He is no longer conscious of the garden around them. He's not even fully conscious of their state here, as the dead grasping onto something that for a moment makes them feel alive like nothing before. There's only Lobelia. It all seems to begin and end with him, from the way their bodies press into each other, mouths gasping for air.]
[He can't help but writhe a little as he feels himself continue to move into the other man with reckless abandon, trying to focus on keeping the pace as his hand strokes and grips and keeps hold where he can. Lobelia. Lobelia. Lobelia. The man had ripped out his heart. For some reason the scene comes to mind with no prompting. The pain in his chest like a macabre blossoming flower, the heat of the other's hand inside of him, glinting white teeth set in a pretty, boyish face...]
Ah...
[A hiccup, a gasp, and a groan is all that warns the man as it all seems to crash together, his climax hitting hard as he thrusts his hips up one last time, feeling little twitches of shockwaves moving through his body. One last kiss, stolen as he feels his hand give one last languid stroke to Lobelia, hoping to feel a stream of heat in return.]
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Lobelia is as enlivened as he is spent, overwhelmed, that odd dichotomy raging inside of him while he presses sloppy kisses to Vergilius' mouth, savoring every ragged whisper. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia. He's never cared much for his name, it holds a different significance to him now.
"Love and devotion," his parents told him. "That's what lobelias represent." How ironic that he's found some truth to his name after all.
Lobelia rides that wave as far as it will take them, eventually ceding to the hazy afterglow and resting his head on Vergilius' chest. He can hear the same heart he'd torn from his chest beating away, a symbol of the man's staunch refusal to give up even in death. Despite everything, Lobelia finds its thrumming soothing. Still... is it really alright if he stays here? Lobelia doesn't want to part from Vergilius, not just yet, but he slowly begins to pick himself up in the selfish hope that he'll be dragged back down.]
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[The strands of the man's hair are tickling his skin. In the haze of his release, Vergilius realizes the shift of the man to move away - and it's like instinct, a kneejerk reflex. His unsoiled hand moves to wrap around the other's shoulders, pulling him down to its proper place.]
[His voice comes quiet, almost a whisper.]
This is what you took from me, then.
[Listen. Listen to it.]
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When Vergilius tells him to listen now, Lobelia hears it. It sinks in, echoes in his head over and over and over again. This is what you took from me.
It never mattered how many people he robbed of their happiness in the past. It didn't matter who they were, what their dreams and aspirations were, what lengths they'd gone to in their brief existences to pursue their own happiness. Everyone has the right to be happy, his parents told him, but Lobelia found one convenient excuse after the next to disregard everyone's happiness but his own.
Happiness should be pursued by oneself. Happiness is only for those who have the means to achieve it. Happiness is a finite resource, and if you don't fight for it, you'll never have the chance to grasp it. Excuse after excuse after excuse, and it's all falling apart now beneath the steady thrum of Vergilius' heart.
Lobelia falls silent and very, very still. He had never felt warmth like he does when he's connected to Vergilius, and by the same token, he's never felt such emptiness, such desolation. If nothing else, he manages to draw in a breath, steady himself, to deliver his response. Turning Vergilius' words over and over in his mind, there's only one answer Lobelia can give him.]
Je suis désolé.
[What a horrid feeling regret is. He'll consider himself fortunate if he never has to feel it again.]
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[But even so...even as he finds that soft spot now opened to him and digs into it with little care for if it bleeds, there's the realization that there's a soft spot in the first place. Lobelia had never felt like this before, had he? Vergilius, with the weight of endless regret weighing down his soul, now plucking a bit of it up between thumb and forefinger to place against the other's tongue. The other will never understand the full depths of it, but if he can give him a taste of it, make him understand, feel it to the core of his being, perhaps that mite of cruelty is worth it.]
[But even as he's imparting this lesson, the soft words come. Some of the coldness abates, like frost on a warming fall morning. After a moment, a sigh moves through him as he closes his eyes. He threads his fingers up, brushing through the man's curls of hair.]
[The air is pleasant. It always is. But the heat of the other man is also pleasant, possibly even more so.]
...I know. I know, Lobelia.
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Can he handle this? If he can't get ahold of himself now, then when? Lobelia's eyes scan the horizon, but he says nothing to Vergilius of his desire to flee. That would draw his suspicion, wouldn't it? Out him as a spineless coward, or so he feels when Vergilius takes to stroking through his hair and he can do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and cede to it. His touch is much too warm, much too inviting, and Lobelia doesn't know how he'll survive without it now.
He has to try, try to affect some sort of calm nonchalance before this miserable feeling overtakes him. It's easy to tell through Lobelia's theatrical sigh that he's forcing himself, but he would rather play a role than let this ugliness inside of himself seep out.]
C'est dommage! I could spend the rest of my life atoning and it would never be enough. Are you quite certain you want to humor me after the harm I've done to you?
[Maybe he'd feel better if Vergilius said no. Maybe this aching in his chest would cease if he admitted to having second thoughts. If only, if only.]
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[Now you know how I feel. Now you can see, through one glimpse, what my existence is like, day by day.]
[But none of those words come to mind. Lobelia even reminds him - he is the one who caused him such torment all this time. He deserves the punishment. Even now, the metallic taste of blood splattering on him from his vengeance in the form of a ripped out heart seems potent. Many souls have met their end at the end of this man.]
[But can he judge, himself, when he's made so many orphans out of children? Can he bring retribution, when he himself doesn't feel he's received enough of it himself for his own sins?]
...It's never enough for me. I've accepted that. [After all, he is just a shade in a dark forest, lamenting forever on what has been lost and what will be lost. Nothing will bring his loved ones back. Nothing will completely ease the guilt in his heart. So it goes.] Humor you, though...
[He doesn't know. He does know. His own heart beats fretfully with the weight of emotion he can't even begin to comprehend. Ugly, ugly...they're both ugly creatures. He leans in, his lips trailing against the other's forehead in an almost unconscious little movement.]
Perhaps I'm the only one who can.
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He's not done piling up regrets, either, seeking out comfort from the man he stole everything from. Lobelia leans in like a flower desperate to soak in the sun when his lips brush along his forehead, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding onto him as if he has any right to. If Vergilius desires to, he can brush him off, push him away, and Lobelia won't hold it against him. Until then, his warmth is the only thing keeping that storm raging inside of him from ripping him apart.]
I'm afraid so, but that doesn't mean that you have no choice in the matter. Toss me aside if it suits you, Vergilius. I won't give chase.
[Not anymore, not with all the irrevocable harm he's done. Even an oath made in blood is one Lobelia will agree to rectify if Vergilius truly wishes to be free of him. That would save him some grief, wouldn't it? It won't give him his life back, but it's the only consolation Lobelia can offer him now.]
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[There's no harshness in his tone as one would expect - he's stating it as fact. That is what happened. This same man now cradled under his arm, both of them naked in a sea of flowers, had been the very one to push him to his limits. He can't forget that. One can't simply wipe away the deeds of yesterday like chalk off a board.]
[And yet, and yet, and yet...]
[I won't give chase.]
[He doesn't know why that statement feels like a needle wedging into his heart. He shouldn't feel this way, damn it-! I deserve it. I don't deserve it. Let me be. I don't want to be alone. You killed me. I killed you. I bound myself to you. I can't stand you. I never want to see you again. I want to keep you close and never let you go. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I l-]
[Vergilius lets out a grunt, his face marred with a grimace. The typical wave of anger, as always. And yet the words that come out may be surprising, something a little melancholy in his tone.]
...You would throw our oath aside, just like that?
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This was a choice he should've given Vergilius a long, long time ago, back when he wouldn't have deliberated long on his answer. Now that he is, Lobelia's lips curl into a wry smile, finding that sour response to be an answer in and of itself. The words that follow are simply confirmation, one last dagger in his selfish little heart.
He can't let this man go. Not now, not ever. Blessed with reciprocity that he doesn't deserve and has hardly earned, Lobelia sits up on an elbow, frames Vergilius' face in his hand. If he won't leave of his own accord, severing the ties between them, Lobelia stands no chance of accomplishing the same. He won't even try.]
Jamais. I could never do such a thing even if I tried. Surely you realize it too.
[He'd fallen too hard, too fast, too far, after sending himself hurtling into the the darkness in pursuit of him. It's the paradox that has Lobelia measuring his breaths so that the redness in his eyes doesn't give way to anything as shameless as tears, but he very much doubts even this will get past Vergilius. So it goes.]
I would rather cease to be than be without you. At the same time, it's now your happiness I'm responsible for. If you told me to disparaître, I would have to decide between my selfishness and your happiness, non? Rather, I already have.
[Lobelia leans in, presses a kiss to Vergilius' lips and lingers in it. He's so selfish, callous, cruel, and yet he hopes it warms Vergilius just as it warms him. Reciprocation despite it all.]
Je te veux. If you ever wish to sever our oath, you'll have to kill me for good. I lack the strength to do so myself.
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[How funny. Perhaps he should be asking that of himself, too. He's lived in denial so long that its felt he's become less human for it. Destruction is his bread and butter. No one else should be pulled into that. Maybe not even someone like Lobelia, with those strange, reddened eyes that almost feel ready to burst into tears.]
[But the man touches his face, kisses him, and that caged, soft, terrible little black thing he calls a heart skips a little beat, as if he's some schoolboy eager to receive affections from a forbidden crush. He betrays himself, constantly. His own decisions pave the way to hell. He was doomed from the start of meeting the man from Lobelia. Not a fly to a spider, but predators finding they share the same web.]
Kill you for good? You suffered death over and over before this and you're still here. [A kiss, light as a feather.] How laughable. [Another kiss, with a rasp of a sigh.] I would call you a bastard for being invincible just so you can get all you can from this.
[Reciprocation despite it all. His thumb tickles over the nape of the man's neck as he steals yet another kiss for his troubles. his usual deep tone tinged with a sarcastic lightness so uncommon to him.]
So I'll have to figure out my way around this conundrum. Guess you'll have to live a little while longer.
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To think there could be anyone remotely like himself was too absurd a thought, and yet here he is, trading easy kisses with a man whose body count is as innumerous as his own. Here he is, finding his happiness amongst all that destruction. What part of this is deserved? None of it, but it's yet one more thing Lobelia has eagerly taken without asking, no trace of shame in the way he eagerly moves into every kiss, laughter light on his lips.
The weight of regret is a heavy, burdensome thing, but the lightness in Vergilius' tone does much to keep his discomfort at bay. Everything will be alright so long as he has his guide to follow, right? He'll find his footing in the end, uncertain as each step feels now.]
Mm, but it was only thanks to The Tower that I was brought back again and again to endure more châtiment. Our pact has been severed now.
[...And in its place, he's forged one with Vergilius. Lobelia connects the dots in his head before the words have the chance to leave his mouth, a peal of amusement snaking out of him instead. Pressing their foreheads together, it's his turn to cheekily thieve a kiss.]
That means, should we manage to find our way out of vie après la mort, my fate rests in your hands! Guider or tueur... You'll have to make up your mind eventually.
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