[New in a bad way? Vergilius really is perceptive. Lobelia isn't one to easily admit when he doesn't understand something, but he considers Vergilius' question with an arched brow and attempts to puzzle through the issue and come up with an answer. Think, think, think...
In the end, he opts for honesty. He'll accept the blow to his ego in the vain hope that discussing the matter might produce the answers he's looking for.]
Would you believe me if I told you that the answer eludes me? Something isn't quite right, but what that something might be... Well! I'm sure the answer will dawn on me eventually. I am a genius, after all.
[One can practically hear the eye roll in his words with that one.]
Genius or not, this is new to you. Hm. [What could be bothering him? He's trying to understand, himself, brow furrowing. He does lean on a light statement for now, masking his own slight confusion.] You're not missing your conches, are you?
[Vergilius suggestion manages to urge a lighthearted laugh out of Lobelia, at least. His precious conches... Please don't remind him of the real execution that took place after trial.]
Heheh! Perhaps that's it?
[No. I know that isn't right.]
Conches are the perfect medium for controlling sound, and while it's true that my heart aches terribly without my archive, this is a different sort of feeling. Somehow, this is much more uncomfortable!
[Ah. Uncomfortable. That's one way to put it, right? He's making progress.]
[He moves - a shift of the hands on his back, dipping his head to place his ear against the other's chest.]
[The heart beats, like it always has. Sometimes something like this would comfort a child with tears streaking down their face, unsure whether the pain they were feeling was physical or entirely emotional. It was always the latter.]
[Eh? Ehh?? He blamed the loss of his archive on his bruised and battered heart, but maybe Vergilius is right...? Lobelia doesn't have long to consider before there's an ear to his heart and his pulse immediately spikes. It's the feeling of being caught doing something wrong, but why?]
...Suppose that it does. What is the cure for a broken heart?
[Love, love, love. It all comes down to love in the end, doesn't it?
Lobelia doesn't meet Vergilius' answer with one of his own— not a verbal one, his pulse gradually slowing, arms coming up to keep the other man tucked close to his chest.
Love, perhaps? Turning Vergilius' words over in his head, Lobelia laughs an almost self-deprecating laugh, having realized something.]
Happiness is what my parents insisted I pursue at all costs, and yet love is a measure more valuable, isn't it? Heheh! What a fool I am.
[That statement could use some elaboration, but in lieu of that, Lobelia rolls onto his back so it's easier for Vergilius to remain lying with his head against his chest, protecting the heart steadily beating beneath him.]
Should it not be enough to express my love for those I care for? Is it not enough to simply love you, Vergilius? I don't suppose you have the answer either.
[He doesn't even resist as Lobelia pulls him over him, ear still pressed to his chest. If he listens closely, he can almost hear the flow.]
[This flow cannot be stopped. He can't stop Lobelia's love. He can't stop himself from getting caught up in the torrents, either. But should it be one way, like this?]
[Lobelia is throwing endless amounts of ropes for him into the well. Should he reach out and grab it?]
...Perhaps it isn't enough. You need something in return.
[Something in return. Vergilius dug around until he struck something tender, and when he does, it's evident in the way Lobelia's pulse quickens anew. Something in return. Instinctively, the first sounds out of his mouth are laughter.]
I've made it this far without demanding anything in return, haven't I?
[But there's a difference between surviving and living an empty existence and thriving with all of one's needs met. Honing in on the truth, Lobelia is less and less comfortable with it.]
I've survived this long on my own without demanding that others love and care for me. I don't need them to. Surely I can continue on as I have without issue.
[Now he's the one feeling like the man has pushed his hand into his chest again, something aggravating about the last few statements. Of course he recognizes them.]
[His mouth pulls into a grimace, his own heart quickening like he's been accused of some crime, but what crime, he doesn't know.]
...Sometimes it best to prevent you from being hurt, Lobelia. That's all.
[It's not hard to pick up on Vergilius' frustration, potent as it is, but why would he be angry? Why would he be upset? Lobelia glances down at him, but naturally, there are no answers to be found. Rather, the answers come to him through Vergilius' words.]
Hm...? Where is this coming from, Vergilius?
[As if he needs to ask when he has his hunches. Ones he wouldn't have settled on had Vergilius simply said nothing at all, but now he's clued Lobelia in. Now they're talking about this.]
What pain do you fear might come my way? More importantly, who is the assailant?
[He wants to elaborate. He doesn't want to elaborate. He's looking at a bleeding wound and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's reminded of it constantly. That forest made it sting and sputter and pulled at it like a cruel thing.]
...You saw it. [He says, finally, his voice gruff.] It takes things away.
[This is the biggest difference between them, isn't it? Lobelia has lived his life knowing nothing will last forever, the memory of those things contained within his mind, within the confines of a conch shell, only to be relived through recollection. Lobelia has never taken an issue with that. Never will, so he'd like to think, glancing down at the man on his chest.]
Can you live your life in fear of everything you'll lose? Life is finite, Vergilius. Eternity only awaits the damned. It's as they say: it's better to lose something you've loved than to have never loved at all.
[But none of that is news to Vergilius. Even so, Lobelia has a question for him.]
[Can you live your life in fear of everything you'll lose?]
[Yes.]
[Because he has.]
[Because even as he expected it, even as he was aware of it, it still happened. Knowing it would've happened didn't change a thing. He expected the other shoe to fall, and it did.]
[He doesn't meet the other's eyes, a bitter taste at the back of his throat.]
....I don't deserve to truly "live", Lobelia.
[In the end, the karma was just payment. He obtained happiness. But it was never meant to be.]
[Everything would be taken away from him in time.]
[What a sad answer. No verbal admonishments come Vergilius' way, but the aching of his heart is only worsened by Vergilius' insistence on denying himself all of life's pleasures. Even so, Lobelia understands his man well enough to drag his contradictions out into the light and beat them mercilessly before him.]
It is easier to believe you deserve every bit of pain, isn't it? Somehow, you think that makes it easier to endure. After all, there is no purging the humanité from yourself.
[Carding his fingers through Vergilius' hair, Lobelia lightly tugs it, as if chiding the man.]
When someone you've come to love dies, you'll find your heart mourning for them regardless of whether you "deserved" to love them or not. I thought myself foolish, but even I know better than to deny myself the simple pleasure of loving another.
[I do. I do deserve every bit of pain. I made so many suffer. I made children into orphans. Its all because of me.]
[What a wretched, pathetic, despicable soul he is.]
[The fingertips move to tug through his hair, and he lets out a noise as if in protest. He's a beaten animal not even moving to lick at his own wounds. Let him be, let him be-]
Its not so simple. [He wishes it was. His voice cracks on his lips, like the sound from an old set of stairs.] I would be a hypocrite. The last person who could hold anyone close is me.
[Never, never, never. If there is one thing Lobelia won't do, it's leave Vergilius alone. Happiness at any cost. If the only thing standing between Vergilius and happiness is himself, then Vergilius is just as much his adversary as his reason for being.
What a predicament. Regardless, Lobelia remains undaunted, fingers slipping from his hair to brush along his cheek.]
Humans are hypocritical creatures by virtue of their very being. Moreover, you are a hypocrite. You may not want to hold others close to your heart, but refusing to acknowledge that you have does not make those feelings simply disappear.
Humans can't help but love one another. If it were not for love, there would be no loss.
[And the fact that Vergilius has lost so much speaks to how very human he is— how he can't help but love and be loved in turn. He's right, isn't he? Lobelia won't hear any arguments to the contrary.]
[Funny, how its coming from a man who made him so miserable for his own selfish ends before. Funny, how it comes from someone who ripped out his heart, killed him, and then died for...what, his sake?]
[His fingers curl momentarily. He's a stubborn old bull, he knows he is. You can lead him to water, can't make him drink.]
After everything I've done, its only right for me to cut myself off from that.
[Another argument. He's pitiful, he is. He's been in this cold darkness of penance for too long. Even with the children, he was there.]
[He would've been relieved if one of the children stabbed him in the back. That dream he had seen before with Lapis doing just that had been expected.]
[It was love that drove him to this point, love that saw him commit so many sins, make so many mistakes, and it's that same love that he extends only to Vergilius now. Love is something to live for, Lobelia has come to found, but he is far from unfamiliar with the meaningless existence Vergilius has been putting himself through for all these years.
Lobelia knew nothing but emptiness while Vergilius knows better, and yet he refuses to see his boon for what it is. Yet he insists on punishing himself, toiling beneath the weight of his own sins. To call himself envious of having that option simply wouldn't be enough, a bit of that frustration spilling out in the way he sharply tugs on Vergilius' ear.]
Homme stupide. I've never met someone as brilliant and yet so foolish as you. Perhaps that is the source of my heartache? You're quite infuriating, you know!
[It takes a lot to dig under Lobelia's skin and prompt very real anger from him, but Vergilius manages so effortlessly. Love, hate, anger, grief... He should be thanking Vergilius for showing him these things, but right now, Lobelia can only seethe beneath the surface.]
You promised to try, non? To reach for happiness for the sake of those who draw their happiness from you. If this is your attempt at a trial run, you've failed miserably.
[OW? He's making a face, that is his EAR. YOU BINCH.]
When did I promise that? [Now he's looking up at Lobelia, eyes flaring.] That's the point. Happiness for others. Not for myself.
[And something defeated sort of sits in his body, the tension abating as soon as it came. He listens to Lobelia's heart, warm and steady and strong. He had held it in his hands not too long ago. Even that, he didn't deserve, even if it felt so right at the time, in the heat of anger.]
[Incorrect? This is Lobelia's ear now. Blood pacts are legally binding! Still, Lobelia knows he'll only infuriate Vergilius more if he keeps yanking on him, so he releases his ear without much fuss. It's not like tearing his ear off will make him see the error of his ways.]
Non, non, non! We've discussed this! Insisting on being miserable all the time will only bring unhappiness to those who rely on you! If the gods can forgive insurmountable sins, then why can't man?
[Because man doesn't want to. When Lobelia considers the reasons why, the answers easily come to him.]
You're addicted to the pain, Vergilius. You claim not to be self-serving or hypocritical, but the only one served by your self-flagellation is you. Have you not realized this?
[And sins cannot be washed away just by walking away from them, in his opinion. Why is his EGO a mantle of blood, a laurel of thorns? They're made to be worn to eternity, painful as they are.]
[The next part makes him actually lift his head up, incredulous.]
What? Addicted? [He's never been called this - sure, he's considered himself selfish, but for something like this?] Oh, pray tell, who else is going to bear the burden, then? You don't understand anything.
[Tsk, tsk. Lobelia has never been intimidated by that ugly glare and today won't be the day he backs down from it. Exhaling his frustrations in a long, thin sigh, he brushes the backs of his fingers along Vergilius' scarred cheek and pulls on a practiced smile.]
I am, garçon bête. Did I not promise to bear your burdens with you and bring you happiness? [Cheekily:] Until death do we part. You are a stubborn man, but I will break you down eventually. That, too, is a promise.
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In the end, he opts for honesty. He'll accept the blow to his ego in the vain hope that discussing the matter might produce the answers he's looking for.]
Would you believe me if I told you that the answer eludes me? Something isn't quite right, but what that something might be... Well! I'm sure the answer will dawn on me eventually. I am a genius, after all.
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[One can practically hear the eye roll in his words with that one.]
Genius or not, this is new to you. Hm. [What could be bothering him? He's trying to understand, himself, brow furrowing. He does lean on a light statement for now, masking his own slight confusion.] You're not missing your conches, are you?
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Heheh! Perhaps that's it?
[No. I know that isn't right.]
Conches are the perfect medium for controlling sound, and while it's true that my heart aches terribly without my archive, this is a different sort of feeling. Somehow, this is much more uncomfortable!
[Ah. Uncomfortable. That's one way to put it, right? He's making progress.]
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[He moves - a shift of the hands on his back, dipping his head to place his ear against the other's chest.]
[The heart beats, like it always has. Sometimes something like this would comfort a child with tears streaking down their face, unsure whether the pain they were feeling was physical or entirely emotional. It was always the latter.]
So you're saying your heart aches?
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...Suppose that it does. What is the cure for a broken heart?
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.....
[What IS the cure for a broken heart?]
[Why would...his heart be broken?]
I don't know.
[Another pause, something feeling like its staring him in the face, but he still can't see it.]
Love, perhaps...?
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Lobelia doesn't meet Vergilius' answer with one of his own— not a verbal one, his pulse gradually slowing, arms coming up to keep the other man tucked close to his chest.
Love, perhaps? Turning Vergilius' words over in his head, Lobelia laughs an almost self-deprecating laugh, having realized something.]
Happiness is what my parents insisted I pursue at all costs, and yet love is a measure more valuable, isn't it? Heheh! What a fool I am.
[That statement could use some elaboration, but in lieu of that, Lobelia rolls onto his back so it's easier for Vergilius to remain lying with his head against his chest, protecting the heart steadily beating beneath him.]
Should it not be enough to express my love for those I care for? Is it not enough to simply love you, Vergilius? I don't suppose you have the answer either.
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[They're both fools.]
[He doesn't even resist as Lobelia pulls him over him, ear still pressed to his chest. If he listens closely, he can almost hear the flow.]
[This flow cannot be stopped. He can't stop Lobelia's love. He can't stop himself from getting caught up in the torrents, either. But should it be one way, like this?]
[Lobelia is throwing endless amounts of ropes for him into the well. Should he reach out and grab it?]
...Perhaps it isn't enough. You need something in return.
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I've made it this far without demanding anything in return, haven't I?
[But there's a difference between surviving and living an empty existence and thriving with all of one's needs met. Honing in on the truth, Lobelia is less and less comfortable with it.]
I've survived this long on my own without demanding that others love and care for me. I don't need them to. Surely I can continue on as I have without issue.
[Sounds familiar, doesn't it?]
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[Now he's the one feeling like the man has pushed his hand into his chest again, something aggravating about the last few statements. Of course he recognizes them.]
[His mouth pulls into a grimace, his own heart quickening like he's been accused of some crime, but what crime, he doesn't know.]
...Sometimes it best to prevent you from being hurt, Lobelia. That's all.
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Hm...? Where is this coming from, Vergilius?
[As if he needs to ask when he has his hunches. Ones he wouldn't have settled on had Vergilius simply said nothing at all, but now he's clued Lobelia in. Now they're talking about this.]
What pain do you fear might come my way? More importantly, who is the assailant?
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[He wants to elaborate. He doesn't want to elaborate. He's looking at a bleeding wound and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's reminded of it constantly. That forest made it sting and sputter and pulled at it like a cruel thing.]
...You saw it. [He says, finally, his voice gruff.] It takes things away.
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Can you live your life in fear of everything you'll lose? Life is finite, Vergilius. Eternity only awaits the damned. It's as they say: it's better to lose something you've loved than to have never loved at all.
[But none of that is news to Vergilius. Even so, Lobelia has a question for him.]
How long have you existed without truly living?
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[Yes.]
[Because he has.]
[Because even as he expected it, even as he was aware of it, it still happened. Knowing it would've happened didn't change a thing. He expected the other shoe to fall, and it did.]
[He doesn't meet the other's eyes, a bitter taste at the back of his throat.]
....I don't deserve to truly "live", Lobelia.
[In the end, the karma was just payment. He obtained happiness. But it was never meant to be.]
[Everything would be taken away from him in time.]
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It is easier to believe you deserve every bit of pain, isn't it? Somehow, you think that makes it easier to endure. After all, there is no purging the humanité from yourself.
[Carding his fingers through Vergilius' hair, Lobelia lightly tugs it, as if chiding the man.]
When someone you've come to love dies, you'll find your heart mourning for them regardless of whether you "deserved" to love them or not. I thought myself foolish, but even I know better than to deny myself the simple pleasure of loving another.
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[What a wretched, pathetic, despicable soul he is.]
[The fingertips move to tug through his hair, and he lets out a noise as if in protest. He's a beaten animal not even moving to lick at his own wounds. Let him be, let him be-]
Its not so simple. [He wishes it was. His voice cracks on his lips, like the sound from an old set of stairs.] I would be a hypocrite. The last person who could hold anyone close is me.
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What a predicament. Regardless, Lobelia remains undaunted, fingers slipping from his hair to brush along his cheek.]
Humans are hypocritical creatures by virtue of their very being. Moreover, you are a hypocrite. You may not want to hold others close to your heart, but refusing to acknowledge that you have does not make those feelings simply disappear.
Humans can't help but love one another. If it were not for love, there would be no loss.
[And the fact that Vergilius has lost so much speaks to how very human he is— how he can't help but love and be loved in turn. He's right, isn't he? Lobelia won't hear any arguments to the contrary.]
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["Humans can't help but love one another."]
[Funny, how its coming from a man who made him so miserable for his own selfish ends before. Funny, how it comes from someone who ripped out his heart, killed him, and then died for...what, his sake?]
[His fingers curl momentarily. He's a stubborn old bull, he knows he is. You can lead him to water, can't make him drink.]
After everything I've done, its only right for me to cut myself off from that.
[Another argument. He's pitiful, he is. He's been in this cold darkness of penance for too long. Even with the children, he was there.]
[He would've been relieved if one of the children stabbed him in the back. That dream he had seen before with Lapis doing just that had been expected.]
It's only right. That's the price I have to pay.
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Lobelia knew nothing but emptiness while Vergilius knows better, and yet he refuses to see his boon for what it is. Yet he insists on punishing himself, toiling beneath the weight of his own sins. To call himself envious of having that option simply wouldn't be enough, a bit of that frustration spilling out in the way he sharply tugs on Vergilius' ear.]
Homme stupide. I've never met someone as brilliant and yet so foolish as you. Perhaps that is the source of my heartache? You're quite infuriating, you know!
[It takes a lot to dig under Lobelia's skin and prompt very real anger from him, but Vergilius manages so effortlessly. Love, hate, anger, grief... He should be thanking Vergilius for showing him these things, but right now, Lobelia can only seethe beneath the surface.]
You promised to try, non? To reach for happiness for the sake of those who draw their happiness from you. If this is your attempt at a trial run, you've failed miserably.
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[OW? He's making a face, that is his EAR. YOU BINCH.]
When did I promise that? [Now he's looking up at Lobelia, eyes flaring.] That's the point. Happiness for others. Not for myself.
[And something defeated sort of sits in his body, the tension abating as soon as it came. He listens to Lobelia's heart, warm and steady and strong. He had held it in his hands not too long ago. Even that, he didn't deserve, even if it felt so right at the time, in the heat of anger.]
...I've caused too much blood to flow.
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Non, non, non! We've discussed this! Insisting on being miserable all the time will only bring unhappiness to those who rely on you! If the gods can forgive insurmountable sins, then why can't man?
[Because man doesn't want to. When Lobelia considers the reasons why, the answers easily come to him.]
You're addicted to the pain, Vergilius. You claim not to be self-serving or hypocritical, but the only one served by your self-flagellation is you. Have you not realized this?
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[And sins cannot be washed away just by walking away from them, in his opinion. Why is his EGO a mantle of blood, a laurel of thorns? They're made to be worn to eternity, painful as they are.]
[The next part makes him actually lift his head up, incredulous.]
What? Addicted? [He's never been called this - sure, he's considered himself selfish, but for something like this?] Oh, pray tell, who else is going to bear the burden, then? You don't understand anything.
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[Tsk, tsk. Lobelia has never been intimidated by that ugly glare and today won't be the day he backs down from it. Exhaling his frustrations in a long, thin sigh, he brushes the backs of his fingers along Vergilius' scarred cheek and pulls on a practiced smile.]
I am, garçon bête. Did I not promise to bear your burdens with you and bring you happiness? [Cheekily:] Until death do we part. You are a stubborn man, but I will break you down eventually. That, too, is a promise.
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...
[He's looking as stern as always, but the way he pushes his lips out almost seems like a pout, even in that tight, scarred face.]
You make it sound like we're really married or something.
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[Lobelia lifts his left hand and wiggles his fingers. Look at this nice legally binding wound on his ring finger! Unless...]
You're not going back on your word already, are you, Vergilius?
[Is Vergilius blushing again...? Such a rare treat. Lobelia doubts he'll ever tire of it.]
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