[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
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.]