[He imagined his own end for some time. He practically saw it, when that power had come upon him, and made his eyes bleed with every sin he had made and would make with his own hands. It would be cold. Like sitting at the bottom of an ocean he would never be rescued from. It would be fitting. Karma, in its most excruciating form.]
[This is not cold.]
[This is not cold at all.]
[It feels like the fire of the Inferno.]
[It's a stifling, horrible feeling. Like one's flesh is being licked with flame and torn asunder, remade into something worse. As the pendant oozes, and the man's cackles alight in his ears like a cacophony of crows, Vergilius moves to straighten himself up to his full height, another trickle of blood blinking from his eye.]
...Call your thing off.
[He manages to breath, swallowing down air. Reminding himself that this place wants Lobelia, wants his blood, wants his power. That's something to hate more than the man writhing in rapturous joy below him. His legs are trembling. He still keeps standing. He has been through worse.]
[He really will tear this man apart if he doesn't settle down... and while he wouldn't mind that, killing Vergilius would mean parting with his happiness much too soon. Forcing himself to gulp down deep, steadying breaths, Lobelia tries to implore The Tower to calm down, but it isn't listening. Rather, it has demands of its own that Lobelia must answer to first.
Gazing up at his angel of death, Lobelia smiles. Through filmy breaths, he manages to calm himself long enough to chuckle out a response.]
If I do... What will you give me in exchange?
[Lobelia will meet the demands of The Tower as its pactbearer, but if his happiness must have an expiration date, he wants to squeeze as much juice out of it as he can. Just a little more...]
I'll let you leave, implore it to calm down, but not without incentive.
[Lobelia brings his fingers to his lips, ready to whistle and invite more harm upon Vergilius if he doesn't play nice.]
[Ah. There's something about all of this that sings with a sort of bitter familiarity, like an old string plucked to sing a note that never graced anyone's ears for some time. He stares at Lobelia for a moment, flushed and broken, gasping for more.]
I suppose you want your "dots" too, in a way.
[He murmurs under his breath, red gaze slitted between narrowed eyelids.]
[An infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that incident. This is a painting that immortalizes the carnage.]
[And then his voice had run out on that auction floor, as steady as anything.]
[I have something much more valuable. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. It's something of a counterfeit, produced only from someone's fading mind. However, what if I could complete it?]
[Of course, he really hadn't meant it. It was all just a plan to carry out. But the end of all that, with that man, that Jumsoon...]
[Well, he really did show him carnage, he supposes.]
[He moves to crouch down, even as the movement makes the pain spike all the more.]
[Vergilius reaches out with a hand to slide under the other's neck, pulling him upward. His own head bends in, now almost touching nose to nose, his breath hot over the other's mouth.]
I won't be so crass as to give you your one night stand. [A light huff exhales.] I'll simply give you another moment like this one. Take it or leave it.
[Has he ever known happiness like this? Vergilius wants to deny him the right, but it seems he can't help but indulge Lobelia without even intending to. It's blissful, the pain that sears through his body and throbs in his skull, and it's only a shame the rapid pulse of blood through his veins can't be recorded for posterity.
Lobelia doesn't want to forget the peerless bliss he's been shown by Vergilius, but even if the impact of this moment is doomed to dull over time, that won't dishearten him. There's much bliss Vergilius has left to give him, and whether he likes it or not, he's going to give it to him.
He expects this to be the end — fini — but then that angel descends. Vergilius could've left him like this, denied him anew, and yet he's chosen to descend into the inferno of his own volition. Tugged upward, Lobelia can only blink at him in surprise, but his answer to that question comes with the dissipation of that heavy black fog.
That ominous dread subsides, and while he could breach what little distance remains between them and claim his prize, he leaves the "honor" up to Vergilius. This was his decision, after all. The carrot he's dangled before his eyes. For once, it might not hurt to feel wanted, Lobelia thinks, even if what Vergilius offers him is a far cry from genuine affection.]
[The kiss had been stolen before. Here, it is given. It isn't a gift placed on a silver platter, though. It's like a prized item barely being wrested from the clenched hand of a fearsome statue that had been guarding it for centuries.]
[Not to say that kissing was some foreign affair, of course, but never had it been like this, so full of vitriol that he almost has the hope that somehow it will translate into something physical. As if it will drip out and burn the other's lips, tongue, and face to the point of no recognition. Ah, but this damned man, truly damned, this demon from hell, he'd just laugh the whole time, wouldn't he?]
[He could make it rough. Follow the other's lead, bite down, draw blood. A part of him wants to, like a wolf wanting to rough up a carcass.]
[Instead, the kiss he gives is almost tender. Almost. A restrained sort of thing, but soft all the same, even lingering a little as to leave an imprint of taste on the other's mouth. As Lobelia is thinking, there's no affection in it.]
[It's not the kiss he wants — it's soft, so soft, and yet so dispassionate — but what does it say that Lobelia accepts it anyway? Violence and bloodshed has always warmed him, and he hasn't known or yearned for gentle kindness in all the years since his parents died.
He isn't yearning for it now. He can't be yearning for it now. Any love he's ever known died along with Maman and Papa, cast aside and splintered into a million pieces like that happiness Vergilius taunted him with. Nothing about this kiss is what Lobelia thinks he desires, and yet.
And yet.
His kiss is warm in a way it shouldn't be. It's warm in a way that's bitter and nostalgic and painful, and rather than chase Vergilius' lips and coax him into another fight, Lobelia is the one to slowly draw back. When their eyes meet anew, Lobelia doesn't look happy at all. He's smiling — always is — but it's clear he's forcing this one. What reason does he have to smile now? All Vergilius has done is hurt him in a way Lobelia can't possibly take satisfaction in. At the tail end of their battle, Vergilius has finally eked out his victory.]
...Go on, then. Enjoy what remains of your night. I'll be back for you some other time.
[And in the end, that's what separates him and this man. He has tasted the sweet fruit of genuine love for others. He has cared, and hurt, and grieved. His heart was warmed and held, and then dashed to the pavement into a million pieces, but never erased.]
[He loved too much, even if he never included himself into the equation. Lobelia never loved at all.]
[So when he feels the other draw back, he stares down, as if to burn the image of that faltered smile in the back of his retinas. Like Lobelia has captured his voice as evidence of his failure, so he returns the favor, even if he doesn't have the power for such a thing to make it reality.]
Good night, Lobelia.
[Or bad night, he should say?]
[And then, unceremoniously, he pulls back his hands, lets Lobelia drop into the sand crater he's made with him, and with a noticeable limp, he walks away.]
[Perhaps the other man will seek him out. Regardless, he knows the soft spot of this nasty little worm.]
[And he'll crush him under his foot if he has anything to say about it.]
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no subject
[This is not cold.]
[This is not cold at all.]
[It feels like the fire of the Inferno.]
[It's a stifling, horrible feeling. Like one's flesh is being licked with flame and torn asunder, remade into something worse. As the pendant oozes, and the man's cackles alight in his ears like a cacophony of crows, Vergilius moves to straighten himself up to his full height, another trickle of blood blinking from his eye.]
...Call your thing off.
[He manages to breath, swallowing down air. Reminding himself that this place wants Lobelia, wants his blood, wants his power. That's something to hate more than the man writhing in rapturous joy below him. His legs are trembling. He still keeps standing. He has been through worse.]
Let's call this a day.
[He's done. He's done with all of this.]
no subject
Gazing up at his angel of death, Lobelia smiles. Through filmy breaths, he manages to calm himself long enough to chuckle out a response.]
If I do... What will you give me in exchange?
[Lobelia will meet the demands of The Tower as its pactbearer, but if his happiness must have an expiration date, he wants to squeeze as much juice out of it as he can. Just a little more...]
I'll let you leave, implore it to calm down, but not without incentive.
[Lobelia brings his fingers to his lips, ready to whistle and invite more harm upon Vergilius if he doesn't play nice.]
no subject
I suppose you want your "dots" too, in a way.
[He murmurs under his breath, red gaze slitted between narrowed eyelids.]
[An infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that incident. This is a painting that immortalizes the carnage.]
[And then his voice had run out on that auction floor, as steady as anything.]
[I have something much more valuable. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. It's something of a counterfeit, produced only from someone's fading mind. However, what if I could complete it?]
[Of course, he really hadn't meant it. It was all just a plan to carry out. But the end of all that, with that man, that Jumsoon...]
[Well, he really did show him carnage, he supposes.]
[He moves to crouch down, even as the movement makes the pain spike all the more.]
[Vergilius reaches out with a hand to slide under the other's neck, pulling him upward. His own head bends in, now almost touching nose to nose, his breath hot over the other's mouth.]
I won't be so crass as to give you your one night stand. [A light huff exhales.] I'll simply give you another moment like this one. Take it or leave it.
no subject
Lobelia doesn't want to forget the peerless bliss he's been shown by Vergilius, but even if the impact of this moment is doomed to dull over time, that won't dishearten him. There's much bliss Vergilius has left to give him, and whether he likes it or not, he's going to give it to him.
He expects this to be the end — fini — but then that angel descends. Vergilius could've left him like this, denied him anew, and yet he's chosen to descend into the inferno of his own volition. Tugged upward, Lobelia can only blink at him in surprise, but his answer to that question comes with the dissipation of that heavy black fog.
That ominous dread subsides, and while he could breach what little distance remains between them and claim his prize, he leaves the "honor" up to Vergilius. This was his decision, after all. The carrot he's dangled before his eyes. For once, it might not hurt to feel wanted, Lobelia thinks, even if what Vergilius offers him is a far cry from genuine affection.]
I'll take it, naturellement. Make it count.
no subject
[Not to say that kissing was some foreign affair, of course, but never had it been like this, so full of vitriol that he almost has the hope that somehow it will translate into something physical. As if it will drip out and burn the other's lips, tongue, and face to the point of no recognition. Ah, but this damned man, truly damned, this demon from hell, he'd just laugh the whole time, wouldn't he?]
[He could make it rough. Follow the other's lead, bite down, draw blood. A part of him wants to, like a wolf wanting to rough up a carcass.]
[Instead, the kiss he gives is almost tender. Almost. A restrained sort of thing, but soft all the same, even lingering a little as to leave an imprint of taste on the other's mouth. As Lobelia is thinking, there's no affection in it.]
[The kiss of an angel of death.]
[As if it could be a promise.]
no subject
He isn't yearning for it now. He can't be yearning for it now. Any love he's ever known died along with Maman and Papa, cast aside and splintered into a million pieces like that happiness Vergilius taunted him with. Nothing about this kiss is what Lobelia thinks he desires, and yet.
And yet.
His kiss is warm in a way it shouldn't be. It's warm in a way that's bitter and nostalgic and painful, and rather than chase Vergilius' lips and coax him into another fight, Lobelia is the one to slowly draw back. When their eyes meet anew, Lobelia doesn't look happy at all. He's smiling — always is — but it's clear he's forcing this one. What reason does he have to smile now? All Vergilius has done is hurt him in a way Lobelia can't possibly take satisfaction in. At the tail end of their battle, Vergilius has finally eked out his victory.]
...Go on, then. Enjoy what remains of your night. I'll be back for you some other time.
[Spoken like a promise.]
no subject
[He loved too much, even if he never included himself into the equation. Lobelia never loved at all.]
[So when he feels the other draw back, he stares down, as if to burn the image of that faltered smile in the back of his retinas. Like Lobelia has captured his voice as evidence of his failure, so he returns the favor, even if he doesn't have the power for such a thing to make it reality.]
Good night, Lobelia.
[Or bad night, he should say?]
[And then, unceremoniously, he pulls back his hands, lets Lobelia drop into the sand crater he's made with him, and with a noticeable limp, he walks away.]
[Perhaps the other man will seek him out. Regardless, he knows the soft spot of this nasty little worm.]
[And he'll crush him under his foot if he has anything to say about it.]