[When all the fun and festivities have run their course and everyone goes back to their usual post-mortem activities, Lobelia seeks out Vergilius as he usually does, but it's with one particular question in mind. It's been circulating in his brain for hours now, that simple "thanks."]
[Ah. So the most straightforward explanation is the correct one after all. Lobelia can't entirely believe it, silent just long enough to let his answer sink in until he nods, smile thin but genuine.]
It was my pleasure, Vergilius. You caught me by surprise, certainly, but I would never begrudge a kiss from you.
[Still... they've kissed many times. This is the first time Vergilius has ever thanked him for it. Is someone feeling emotionally constipated?]
[Hm. Lobelia reaches out to take Vergilius' hand, gently folding both of his own around it.]
Merci, mon amour. I'll have you know that I'm thankful for every kiss you've given me. A kiss from your lips makes me feel as if I'm still very much aliveβ more than ever before.
[That dusty pink is as effortlessly charming as always. If he were not already deeply in love with this man, Lobelia would think he were falling for him all over again.]
Oh, but it is. Your kiss makes me happy, Vergilius. [Squeezing his hand tighter.] Your kiss makes me whole.
[He's destroyed so many lives. Even the children who were so happy with him eventually perished. What happiness? This is hardly new territory, but he always falls back into the same pits, over and over.]
[Lobelia's tone is playfully chiding, but even that doesn't last long, laughter rumbling low in Lobelia's throat. Rubbing his thumbs along the back of Vergilius' scarred hand, Lobelia looks at him a little plaintively.]
May I have another?
[Vergilius was kind enough to thank him, so it's only natural he repay his kindness by beseeching him for another kiss in earnest.]
[Not Lobelia. Never Lobelia. That's the face he loves, after all, drawn towards his piercing gaze and right into his kiss like a moth to a flame.]
Merci. I love your kisses just as much as I love you.
[Lobelia feels that telltale ache in his chest saying those three little words, but fuck it. He can't resist telling Vergilius how he truly feels even when he knows those feelings may never be returned. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.]
It aches, but of course it does. Nothing for it, really. Lobelia's smile falters just the slightest bit, but then he's lightly tugging on Vergilius' hands before it can come to his attention.]
Will you hold me?
[This feeling will pass, as will the flecks of sorrow in his eyes, but that's easier done when Vergilius doesn't have the means to study the way those tiny bits of emotion work their way through Lobelia.]
[There's no answer here. He simply moves to wrap his arms around the man, firm and strong as anything. A warm, loving body. Of course he misses the sadness in Lobelia's eyes. He's always been too wrapped up in his own self-made hell.]
[It hurts more.]
[What kind of pathetic, hypocritical monster is he?]
[It hurts. It hurts. It really hurts.]
[A whisper creaks out of his chest, unable to be contained.]
[There's no need to keep up pretenses now, Lobelia's expression falling entirely flat once he's looped his arms around Vergilius and embraced him tightly. What the man says next, however? That makes his frown deepen.]
...
[What does he say to that? Has Vergilius been worried all this time?
Lobelia's fingers dig into the back of his blazer.]
I would not worry if I were you. I'm stubborn, rappeler? You won't be rid of me that easily.
[Foolish, stubborn old man. Lobelia's fingers seize into Vergilius' blazer until the fabric groans beneath the press of his nails.]
That isn't the problem, Vergilius. You're so afraid of losing what you treasure that you consider the loss of it to be an inevitability. You would sooner give something up than have it taken from your hands, wouldn't you?
[Fear is a funny, funny thing. As contradictory as that may sound, Lobelia has observed it happen enough times in his life that he understands Vergilius to be no less human than anyone else.]
But let me assure you of one thing: you may never come to love me, I will never stop loving you. That much is an immutable fact, something that can never be taken away unless you cast it aside with your own two hands.
[Of course its inevitable. Life has taught him that. Over and over again, beaten into his heart and his head. And still, he cares. And still, he fights. He's always been a hypocrite. He can't help it. The City couldn't fully turn him into a beast. It would be easy if it did.]
[He feels the hands digging in, and a foolish part of him almost imagines if he was able to combine with Lobelia. Like that horrific monster that destroyed the orphanage, a smashed mess of flesh and bone with two heads crying endlessly. It would be easy to live like that.]
[But they're only human.]
[The last part makes him pause, though. Something feels off, a twinge of an offkey note. What is it...?]
But of course he can. He has to. Lobelia won't settle for allowing Vergilius to give in, but hearing those words now hits differently. His resignation carves into Lobelia and spreads salt into the wound, and for once, he can't simply brush off Vergilius' casual dismissal of himself. It's for that reason that there's something rare in Lobelia's answer β a note of anger, genuine anger β when he lobs a question at him in return.
Be happy. I want you to be happy no matter what. If only it were so easy. Lobelia, of all people, knows why it isn't.]
Hm? What part of my answer are you struggling to understand?
[The needle in his heart burns as if its made of lava. Its a pain that throbs through his chest, as if the man is putting his hand in it to be bloodied once more.]
[He grits his teeth, his own spark of annoyance coming out between his words.]
I...you think... [The words. He has to find the words.] I'm just...tolerating you?
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FINAL WEEK: friday post-party, deadlandia.
Mon amour! You owe me an explanation!
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For what?
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[Lobelia slips the glasses off Vergilius' nose so nothing impedes his view of those eyes.]
You thanked me. What for?
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[A little shrug of the shoulders.]
It was for a dare. By Kanon.
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[One or both of them are being obtuse on purpose here. ]
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[He will be blunt.]
....I don't know. I thanked you for...allowing me, I suppose.
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It was my pleasure, Vergilius. You caught me by surprise, certainly, but I would never begrudge a kiss from you.
[Still... they've kissed many times. This is the first time Vergilius has ever thanked him for it. Is someone feeling emotionally constipated?]
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No, I know that. I do.
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Merci, mon amour. I'll have you know that I'm thankful for every kiss you've given me. A kiss from your lips makes me feel as if I'm still very much aliveβ more than ever before.
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[He really wishes his ears weren't visible. They're dusting pink, again.]
[He doesn't know why things like this make something seize in his chest. Something so good, and yet...as if he's fearful.]
It surely isn't that powerful.
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Oh, but it is. Your kiss makes me happy, Vergilius. [Squeezing his hand tighter.] Your kiss makes me whole.
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[It doesn't feel right.]
[He's destroyed so many lives. Even the children who were so happy with him eventually perished. What happiness? This is hardly new territory, but he always falls back into the same pits, over and over.]
[...He gives a nod, heart fluttering a little.]
...I see.
[He really doesn't know what else to say.]
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[Lobelia's tone is playfully chiding, but even that doesn't last long, laughter rumbling low in Lobelia's throat. Rubbing his thumbs along the back of Vergilius' scarred hand, Lobelia looks at him a little plaintively.]
May I have another?
[Vergilius was kind enough to thank him, so it's only natural he repay his kindness by beseeching him for another kiss in earnest.]
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[He looks down at him, red eyes as piercing as ever. Its a face that would intimidate most. Not Lobelia.]
...You may.
[He leans down, and gives what is asked for. Merlin take notes!!!]
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Merci. I love your kisses just as much as I love you.
[Lobelia feels that telltale ache in his chest saying those three little words, but fuck it. He can't resist telling Vergilius how he truly feels even when he knows those feelings may never be returned. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.]
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[He glances down to their hands, fingers gently brushing against the other's palm.]
...I'm. I'm glad you do.
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It aches, but of course it does. Nothing for it, really. Lobelia's smile falters just the slightest bit, but then he's lightly tugging on Vergilius' hands before it can come to his attention.]
Will you hold me?
[This feeling will pass, as will the flecks of sorrow in his eyes, but that's easier done when Vergilius doesn't have the means to study the way those tiny bits of emotion work their way through Lobelia.]
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[There's no answer here. He simply moves to wrap his arms around the man, firm and strong as anything. A warm, loving body. Of course he misses the sadness in Lobelia's eyes. He's always been too wrapped up in his own self-made hell.]
[It hurts more.]
[What kind of pathetic, hypocritical monster is he?]
[It hurts. It hurts. It really hurts.]
[A whisper creaks out of his chest, unable to be contained.]
...I'll lose you too.
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...
[What does he say to that? Has Vergilius been worried all this time?
Lobelia's fingers dig into the back of his blazer.]
I would not worry if I were you. I'm stubborn, rappeler? You won't be rid of me that easily.
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[That's so, so easy. But no amount of saying it has ever mattered.]
[The City exacts its cost, in the end. It always does.]
Everything good will be taken from me. I've accepted that.
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That isn't the problem, Vergilius. You're so afraid of losing what you treasure that you consider the loss of it to be an inevitability. You would sooner give something up than have it taken from your hands, wouldn't you?
[Fear is a funny, funny thing. As contradictory as that may sound, Lobelia has observed it happen enough times in his life that he understands Vergilius to be no less human than anyone else.]
But let me assure you of one thing: you may never come to love me, I will never stop loving you. That much is an immutable fact, something that can never be taken away unless you cast it aside with your own two hands.
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[Of course its inevitable. Life has taught him that. Over and over again, beaten into his heart and his head. And still, he cares. And still, he fights. He's always been a hypocrite. He can't help it. The City couldn't fully turn him into a beast. It would be easy if it did.]
[He feels the hands digging in, and a foolish part of him almost imagines if he was able to combine with Lobelia. Like that horrific monster that destroyed the orphanage, a smashed mess of flesh and bone with two heads crying endlessly. It would be easy to live like that.]
[But they're only human.]
[The last part makes him pause, though. Something feels off, a twinge of an offkey note. What is it...?]
[His brow furrows.]
.....What?
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But of course he can. He has to. Lobelia won't settle for allowing Vergilius to give in, but hearing those words now hits differently. His resignation carves into Lobelia and spreads salt into the wound, and for once, he can't simply brush off Vergilius' casual dismissal of himself. It's for that reason that there's something rare in Lobelia's answer β a note of anger, genuine anger β when he lobs a question at him in return.
Be happy. I want you to be happy no matter what. If only it were so easy. Lobelia, of all people, knows why it isn't.]
Hm? What part of my answer are you struggling to understand?
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[The needle in his heart burns as if its made of lava. Its a pain that throbs through his chest, as if the man is putting his hand in it to be bloodied once more.]
[He grits his teeth, his own spark of annoyance coming out between his words.]
I...you think... [The words. He has to find the words.] I'm just...tolerating you?
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Is that not the case, Vergilius?
[As far as Lobelia knows, he's simply a pain in the ass Vergilius tolerates for one reason or another. It's not like he ever brings those reasons up.]
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