[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
[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.]