[Giving up? Him? What nerve Vergilius has, accusing him when there's some semblance of truth behind his words. That just pisses Lobelia off further, tempts him into knotting his fingers into another fist with every intention of knocking the teeth from Vergilius' skull... but that doesn't happen.
Vergilius doesn't allow it to happen.
Such a spry old thing, springing forward like a bullet propelled from a gun, and the rest eludes him. His vision goes white, black, then red, the moments in between silent until the sound of his breaking ribs shatters that momentary reverie. Suddenly, it's oh so loud, the silence filled with so much noise that Lobelia can barely keep track of it all.
At some point, he called out. Yelled. Screamed. Cried. Beyond that, the splintering of several ribs echoes on Lobelia's head, the heave of blood past his lips from the internal punctures those splintered bones and cartilage have resulted in. Each half-breath taken is a stolen, painful thing, reeking of iron and tasting just as sickeningly sweet.
He's never been hurt like this before, his victims so easily subdued that none could lay so much as a finger on him. Pain this severe makes it impossible to think, to speak, sputtering blood in between their kiss. It's all he can do, coughing and heaving against Vergilius' lips, but he doesn't draw away. Even if Vergilius allowed him to, he wouldn't.
Instead, Lobelia's shaking hands come up to drag along Vergilius' back, promising him yet more scars, more bruises, more spilt blood, while he moans in agony into their kiss. This is it, isn't it? This has to be it. Happiness. Joy. Purpose. And if it isn't... no. Right now, the last thing Lobelia will consider is how empty and joyless his life truly is.]
[It's something he'll never show. But as much as Lobelia is choking on his own spit and blood after cries of pain, Vergilius is choking in his own way, too. He's always been choking. He doesn't know when the guilt started in his life. He doesn't know when he started looking at himself with self-pity as just another cog in the City, and how that fact made the anger sit in his bones like an insidious poison seeping to his core. Violence is his being. And here he perpetuates it, like nothing else, because it is what he is.]
[He is what he always will be.]
[It then comes of no surprise, in the reckless capture of lips again and again, almost threatening to steal oxygen, that he's hard. He isn't one to enjoy inflicting pain - weapons typically don't. But there's something about this, about the sudden shiver and moan of the man in his grip, that makes him feel like he's descending into a sort of madness. He tastes blood on his tongue. He wants it to seep into his soul. It isn't about pain, no, he thinks. Not quite.]
[It's about destruction.]
[He finds his hips jutting upwards in the tangling of their bodies, his own groan singing from the inside of his chest. It wasn't enough. It feels like enough now.]
[What agonizing pain. It burns through Lobelia like a fire resisting containment and leaving no inch of him immune, but in the midst of all that agony, a strange sort of pleasure emerges. It's not unfamiliar, not nearly, but it's so much more intense than he's ever felt it before. It's an awakening, a transcendence, a realization that there's more to happiness than meting out destruction and ending lives.
His own life is finite, painfully finite, and this agony serves as a very potent reminder of that. Some day, death will find him too. Some day, he'll suffer every agony he's ever inflicted on others until he's experienced all their pain in full. And one day, he'll die the same death Vergilius will too.
He's found it, hasn't he? Finally, finally, finally. Death will be his happiness, his salvation. The only people who ever truly made him happy were Papa and Maman, and he'll meet them again too in the great beyond. Surely, surely, surely.
But none of that matters now. The pain is too distracting, the only thing coming close to it being the throb of Vergilius' arousal against his hips. It's mutual, Lobelia's hand coming down not to focus on his own pleasure but to take them both in his palm and messily jerk at their lengths. A shame he can't stop rasping and wheezing long enough to call Vergilius out for his fucked up kinks, having never shied away from hypocrisy.]
[He never will. Of course its a possibility. Of course, he's not some grand immortal, unable to be touched. He's a scarred, aging man whose life can still be cut short even as powerful as he is. But it never weighs on his mind. As long as he is alive. that's all that matters.]
[He will keep moving forward, to the point where his breath runs out.]
[The hand shot down between them down below to grasp both of them makes his breath hitch and grunt. Vergilius tilts his head to press deep kiss after deep kiss to his jawline, over his neck, finally just losing himself a little in the sensation of it all. Another jerk of the hips against Lobelia's hand comes with a hiss as his fingers snake up the other's spine, pressure a little too hard to be comfortable.]
[It's some twisted ouroboros, pleasure begetting pleasure, pain begetting pain, and Lobelia loses track of where his body ends and Vergilius' begins. They really are the same, aren't they? Creatures of habit, they understand the language of destruction like it's been coded into their DNA. The Tower understands Lobelia just as well, but he can't speak to it, not on the same level as another human being, only intuiting its endless desire to destroy the existing world in preparation for the birth of the next.
What else could love be but two people who understand each other so wholly? Maybe Vergilius understands their connection now, unable to disentangle himself now that he's swallowed his own tail in pursuit of that destruction. Lobelia moves into it — every bite, every hard press of calloused fingers — in search of his own demise, exhaling pleasure and agony in equal measure.
Still, he isn't done yet. He has one thing left to live for, and that thing is peppering him with kisses that ooze the same sweetness as dried blood. Lobelia's struggling to hold up his own weight, giving up on the venture in favor of tangling his fingers in Vergilius' hair and tugging his bangs out of the way. What do those crimson eyes look like now, he wonders? Through the haze of exertion and tears, all Lobelia can see is how brightly they glow. Belle, now more than ever.]
[He's known love. Maybe not love in forms like this, but love from family, love from friends, love from children.]
[Is this love...? He hardly thinks so. If it is, though, maybe that's what he deserves. Maybe this is the weight of his karma finally coming home to roost. Maybe in the end, he'll lose himself like sand in the waters of a raging river, never to be put together again.]
[Lobelia moves aside his bangs, and of course, the eponymous red gaze is what greets him, glow almost swallowing the outline of the eyes they come from. A gaze to fray whatever it stares at, and here, it almost stares at nothing and everything. It blazes too hot, and yet there's something cold about it at the same time, a paradoxical lantern at the bottom of the deep dark ocean.]
[The eyes flit to Lobelia's face as he continues to let his body take the reins, his chest pressing against the battered and broken ribs as if to rub it in. More pain. More agony.]
[Welcome to his world, Lobelia.]
Ah...
[A light little noise, contrasting with the reckless movement of hips and abdomen below, throbbing with need.]
[Perhaps a part of it seems desperate, eager for that release, and knowing it won't be enough. And knowing it is what he deserves.]
[What else could it be but love? He's never been so susceptible to touch before, never knew it to be as warming and grounding and fulfilling as regular folk do. Lobelia could hold someone's hand or hug them close to his body and feel nothing at all, having long given up on the notion that he ever would, but he's different now. He's changed.
Love changed him, surely, receptive to every touch Vergilius lays upon his body. Rough hands on his bruised and battered ribs sway him, leave him writhing, hissing through his teeth and clenching them tight in an effort not to let them chatter.
So much pain. So much agony. Vergilius rewards him in spades, letting Lobelia know nothing else so long as his hands are on him. As if to return that favor, he catches that needy sigh and focuses his efforts on the tip of Vergilius' cock. He'll hit his own limit soon enough, he's sure, but he needn't touch himself to get there. This unrelenting pain is more than enough.]
[How funny, how Lobelia seemed like such a nuisance before, like a gnat. Here, he just feels like something to subsume into himself. A piece of clay swept up into the frame of a single-minded lumbering colossus. He would hate the idea of Lobelia actually being a part of him, because even as self-hating as he is, the last thing he wants is to assume he's anywhere close to this beast of a man. But here, in his arms, he almost feels like he could activate that power, new yet familiar, and drain the man's blood to soak entirely within it.]
[In the end, Lobelia is a broken, pathetic thing. And he is here to make sure that stays the case, isn't he?]
[The other's efforts on him get him what he wants - there's a sudden gasp, and then a different sort of sigh when he feels the heat flare and tip over, coating the other's abdomen with a new sort of heat. He finally signs the whole thing with a bite to the other's shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but a way to hum into it in a pale imitation of the other's power to buzz through his body.]
[He could care less if Lobelia follows after him, at this point.]
[There's that wet heat splattering against his abdomen, weighty and unfamiliar, leading Lobelia to wonder if he's managed to bleed clean through his skin... but he glances down and finds himself disappointed that that isn't the case after all. He'd laugh if only he had the oxygen to spare, and his release follows shortly after Vergilius' with little care for where that mess lands, sighs interspersed with hisses of pain, all of it so pleasant.
It was that final bite that sent him over the tipping point, Lobelia dimly realizes, and manages a huff of amusement when he can't manage a laugh. The vibrations snaking their way through Vergilius' flesh gradually dissipate to nothing, the hazy aftermath of release something vaguely pleasurable.
It feels as if he's stolen this moment from Vergilius, and that feels right, denying this man happiness. All the same, he can't deny that they've found their middle ground in destruction and pain. For once, perhaps it's alright in indulge in this pale imitation of mutuality.]
...Quelle pagaille. Even you are not entirely impartial.
[The heat that he feels splashing against him makes him murmur imperceptibly against the other's skin. There he goes. Even through a fog of agony and pain.]
[As he slowly lets himself ease his breath back to stability, he realizes something is missing. The vibrations have eased off. The little aftershocks and tremors moving through his spine and out his limbs. How odd, it feels, that he almost misses the buzzing feeling. Here, he is again reminded of this sinewed, resolute husk of a body.]
[It almost feels empty, but then again, isn't that what he's used to? Isn't that what he deserves?]
[He draws back with glimmering eyes, finally aiming a scowl at the other.]
...Whatever.
[Irritation comes rising up like an old friend clapping a hand on the shoulder. He pulls his hands back to himself, but he isn't fully removing himself just yet.]
[The pale imitation stands at least for now. A dot. A moment.]
[It feels a bit hollow, doesn't it? Lobelia sees the look in Vergilius' eyes and suspects he must feel the same way. Even this pain, settling into a bone-deep throb, fails to satisfy him once Vergilus draws away. How strange. How insufferable, to think he's losing something by putting some modicum of distance between them.
Neither of them have moved far, Lobelia lying back on the mattress, breaths scattered. That scowl can't coax laughter out of Lobelia when laughter is oh so painful, but it does coax him into a thin, genuine smile.]
Are you satisfied?
[There's no mockery in Lobelia's tone, no insincerity. That's odd coming from him, but that endlessly deep, empty feeling cuts deep. Hollowed out, he very much doubts anything can fill him, but that pale imitation of mutuality comes close enough.]
You could kill me now if you wanted to. What's stopping you?
[What would come as an acerbic barb as a statement usually now comes as something dimly stated. A candle, flickering in the dark. He should already know the answer. There is no true satisfaction to hold onto, and even if there was, he would pull away from it himself.]
[That question also echoes with what he has asked Lobelia before. Are you happy?]
[He threads his hand through his own bangs to flip them back, mouth pulled in a tight grimace. He glances towards the blossoming bruises on Lobelia's chest. Flowers for him, in their own way. And yes. He could kill him. It would be so easy. And yet...]
[And he knows it was. There's no happiness to be found outside of the raw, cutting edge of his pain, that sharp throb in his ribcage all that remains of it. As with all things, even this happiness will fade away into nothing.
How very poetic. How very sad.
With a thin sigh, Lobelia's eyes travel down to the mottled mess of bruises on his ribcage, the rapidly drying aftermath of their little tryst. It's almost comical how much he misses that initial impact, the feeling of being wanted when he's never been wanted before, but he don't delude himself into thinking it's him Vergilius wants. Even that is a delusion too far for Lobelia.]
You've figured it out, haven't you? Non... You've been saying so since the start. Nothing in life will make me happy. Not for anything more than a few fleeting moments at a time. The only ones who truly made me happy are long gone.
[Perhaps in an earlier time he would hold sympathy for what he is hearing. But the man he is now is someone who has lost everything, and tried to dry up any shred of goodwill in his chest in an attempt to continue moving. No more good connections with others. People should always be held at a distance. They don't need him, he doesn't need them. That's the way it should be.]
[The well of his karma will claim no more lives than his own.]
[He lets a breath whistle out between his teeth. His hand reaches out, splays against that wounded chest. Does Lobelia have a heart? Or is it a void underneath? He wonders.]
[Two monsters, indeed.]
You're like an addict chasing a high. Pushing a stone up a hill, and you'll never reach the top. [He tilts his head, his earring catching a little light from the movement.] Who even made you happy? A lover? A friend? Family?
[Imagining Lobelia truly caring for anyone seems like a fantasy.]
[Believe it or not, a heart does beat within Lobelia's chest, steadily thumping beneath Vergilius' palm. Warm, but not the least bit welcoming, that hand. Even so, Lobelia can't help the wry twist of his lips when it settles against his skin.
Monsters feel pain, don't they? Does he ache alone, or is Vergilius struggling through private agonies of his own? It isn't his place to ask, but it should frustrate him that he desires to know regardless.
It should, but it doesn't. Odd.]
So you've said. You're a broken record, vieil homme.
[But there's no offense in Lobelia's voice, no anger or sadness besides. Knowing Vergilius will take his secrets to the grave, Lobelia doesn't mind cluing him in.]
Maman and Papa made me happy. "Everyone has the right to be happy— everyone and anyone." For as long as I can remember, they sought to teach me that lesson... but it died along with them, didn't it?
[Had it not been for Vergilius, he may have never acknowledged that fact. Pitiful indeed.]
[Lobelia standing with a beloved father and mother...he tries to see that. Entertains himself with the fact that he can't. It seems alien to him, but at the same time, the more his mind chews on it like a feral dog chewing on a bare bone, the more tragic it feels. What a sad, worthless existence. Lobelia is a monster. But Lobelia is painfully, horrifyingly human.]
[Perhaps that's the same thing.]
[His own eyes cloud over, now - there's a new shade of red in there, like a storm of sorrow and isolation.]
[His voice is quiet.]
It did. [He pauses, fingers curling over the other's chest.] Happiness can be grasped. But it can be so easily taken away by your own hand. Just like that.
[Through the haze of his own misted over eyes, Vergilius' glow a novel shade of red. What compels him to reach out a hand and cup the hollow of Vergilius' cheek? He's like a ship in the midst of a storm, those red eyes the beacon of a lighthouse shining through the sleet and murk.
Ultimately, following their light will lead Lobelia into the rocks, sink him into the depths, but that's fine, isn't it? That's happiness. In death, they'll both find everlasting relief.
Happiness can be grasped, but so easily taken away by oneself... Wryly, Lobelia smiles.]
Vergilius... Do you want to know what became of Maman and Papa?
[The hand grasps at his face - what a tender gesture. What a wonderful gesture. It almost makes a little bit of bile raise up at the back of his throat.]
[He raises his own hand, grasping over the other's with a tight, pressure grip, the rough texture of his scars felt against soft skin. He doesn't remove it. Instead, his eyes glimmer, flickering like a candle in a dark room above a stern frown.]
Do you think I need to know?
[He may assume that its simply a sad affair to be told. But he's from the City. And on top of that, he knows Lobelia already well enough to know it won't be that.]
[He already expects the worse. He'll get the worse.]
[It's been years, so many years, since Lobelia saw any value in such intimate gestures. His parents had spoiled him silly with them, lavishing him with every bit of love they could muster, more proud of him than they had any right to be.
Lobelia hadn't known the value of their affection when he was a boy, only aware of just how much he's lost when Vergilius' hand settles over his own. Warm. So very warm, a harsh contrast with the cold, weighty lump growing in his throat.
He's never felt guilty over what happened with his parents, never felt any shame... but meeting Vergilius' gaze now, Lobelia feels something akin to it. As if this man could possibly judge him more. As if that judgement matters.]
Papa's death was quick. Painless. I doubt he knew I'd taken his life with how quickly it was extinguished. With Maman, I took my time, starting from the ends of her limbs and moving upwards. At that time, I thought I'd finally grasped the happiness they spoke of.
[The eyes flare with a new and heavy light. In his mind, a memory is coming to the forefront, feeling like a blade piercing slowly through his heart. That monster, dying at my feet. A fabric with a jumble of blue and black patterns. I had seen that before. I had seen a child in the orphanage wearing it to hide a large scar on her ankle caused by broken glass.]
[His free hand moves like an arrow to grasp over that lump in his throat, squeeze a little tight. He can't kill him here, he knows. But the pain must go somewhere. Lobelia, laying so pretty on this mattress, and it feels like its an illusion for the swarm of flies his soul holds.]
[He grits his teeth, even as he paradoxically holds the hand on his cheek, still.]
Hell is too good for you. You really thought that was happiness, you brainless worm?
[This is it: a new type of pain, condemnation in a way he's never been condemned before. Lobelia's smile pulls nostalgic, wry, when Vergilius' hand grips his throat.
That warmth just now? That intimacy? Gone, but Vergilius burns all the brighter, hotter than any sun. If hell is too good for him, perhaps his very soul should be tossed into the pyre and wholly eliminated. If anyone can show him such mercy, won't it be his angel?
Beneath that rough, calloused hand, Lobelia's fingers briefly tremble.]
Ah, you think so lowly of me... but even I am aware of that fact, Vergilius. Nothing awaits me in the afterlife: not even l'enfer. I knew happiness once, and I crushed it into nothing.
[All that remains of Lobelia's parents are the sounds of their destruction, but even those are no longer in his possession. On this island, and for the first time in his life, Lobelia is entirely alone.]
I won't find it again. That jewel slipped through my grasp long ago.
[His fingers around the other's neck bring him right against that carotid - and with the thrum of the other's blood underneath, it reminds him of earlier, when he had been asked to bite down on it. There's a reckless urge to do so, one that he easily tamps down under cold, hard irritation, but one that was there, regardless. A bite not for pleasure, but to let the man exsanguinate and be released of any possible ounce of warmth this life has granted him.]
[It makes him release his fingers, and the statements make him still for a moment. This sounds so self-perceptive that it almost shocks him - where was the man who writhed in pleasure on the beach, or had told him he would be a thief to steal away the happiness he once experienced?]
[He stares down, finally letting both of his hands fall to his sides. Still straddling. Unsure where to walk, or fall, or land.]
What do you want me to say? Good for you? Good for your self-awareness? [Would you even think to repent, like me?] Tch. That "jewel"...
[He falls quiet at that, feeling distant.]
Edited (me waking up to typosvahhhh) 2023-05-28 11:01 (UTC)
[What's keeping Vergilius from killing him now? The idea of Lobelia being free from a life void of any genuine happiness? Hell is too good for him, but in a way, he's already living it. Happiness won't find him in this life, and surely Vergilius knows that. Surely his refusal to grant him everlasting pain is more merciful than he deserves.
Regardless, Lobelia's hands come up to seek out Vergilius' hands once more and fit them to his throat. What might it feel like to die? What would it look like? Sound like?]
Mm, your first mistake was thinking there is anything left for me to expect from you.
[There's a cold resignation in Lobelia's voice. One that chills right down to the bones, as oddly serene as it is alarming.]
Finish your thought, Vergilius. My patience is not infinite.
[What about that jewel? Tell him again how he'll never hold it in his hands. Lobelia expects to be told nothing less.]
[His hands grasp around the other's throat, guided there by the man himself. Before, he had wanted to rub it all in to the other man's face. Even in this state of misery, he understood things Lobelia never would. His fingers clench, and there's an odd sensation that comes over him. It's as if his hands belong there. A puzzle piece slotted into another.]
[The prompting makes his muscles tense - he starts to squeeze, leaning over with those characteristic bright eyes. That jewel, those jewels, small hands held in his, now never to return, shattered into oblivion-]
I... [He starts, stops. The voice cracks in his throat, like something fragile being pushed to its limits.] That jewel...
[That serene voice makes his skin crawl. He would prefer the writhing, the moans, the little perverted gasps. Don't be like this. If you've given up, what does that mean...?]
...I was loved. [His thumbs press up against the other's chin, his mouth twisted in a scowl.] I was loved, and I loved in turn. Do you think you'll ever have that? Do you want a thing like that?
Really, he didn't need to force the truth out past Vergilius' lips to know what kept him from spitting it out. In a way, it's almost funny. Not that long ago, Lobelia would've savored his very private pain, but now?
Now, those hands around his throat are the only things keeping that cold, hard lump in place. Such an uncomfortable feeling, one Lobelia doesn't care to put a name to. Loss is never something he wanted to acknowledge the weight of, but he sees himself reflected in those burning red eyes and can feel that loss keenly.
Is this loss his? Is it Vergilius'? The lack of distinction is perhaps the least surprising part of all of it. As an ouroboros is destined to remain entangled forevermore, it seems they won't be able to escape one another now that they've sunk in their teeth.
It's rare for Lobelia to sigh, for there to be a tremble in his voice. He'll blame it on the hands around his neck, squeezing them tighter still. Holding them.]
You were the one to tell me that I'll never know happiness. You were the first.
[And if I have given up, what does that mean for you? One more life snuffed out, nothing more.]
Isn't it often the case that we can't get what we desire? You should be happy, Vergilius, knowing your lesson finally sunk in.
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no subject
Vergilius doesn't allow it to happen.
Such a spry old thing, springing forward like a bullet propelled from a gun, and the rest eludes him. His vision goes white, black, then red, the moments in between silent until the sound of his breaking ribs shatters that momentary reverie. Suddenly, it's oh so loud, the silence filled with so much noise that Lobelia can barely keep track of it all.
At some point, he called out. Yelled. Screamed. Cried. Beyond that, the splintering of several ribs echoes on Lobelia's head, the heave of blood past his lips from the internal punctures those splintered bones and cartilage have resulted in. Each half-breath taken is a stolen, painful thing, reeking of iron and tasting just as sickeningly sweet.
He's never been hurt like this before, his victims so easily subdued that none could lay so much as a finger on him. Pain this severe makes it impossible to think, to speak, sputtering blood in between their kiss. It's all he can do, coughing and heaving against Vergilius' lips, but he doesn't draw away. Even if Vergilius allowed him to, he wouldn't.
Instead, Lobelia's shaking hands come up to drag along Vergilius' back, promising him yet more scars, more bruises, more spilt blood, while he moans in agony into their kiss. This is it, isn't it? This has to be it. Happiness. Joy. Purpose. And if it isn't... no. Right now, the last thing Lobelia will consider is how empty and joyless his life truly is.]
no subject
[It's something he'll never show. But as much as Lobelia is choking on his own spit and blood after cries of pain, Vergilius is choking in his own way, too. He's always been choking. He doesn't know when the guilt started in his life. He doesn't know when he started looking at himself with self-pity as just another cog in the City, and how that fact made the anger sit in his bones like an insidious poison seeping to his core. Violence is his being. And here he perpetuates it, like nothing else, because it is what he is.]
[He is what he always will be.]
[It then comes of no surprise, in the reckless capture of lips again and again, almost threatening to steal oxygen, that he's hard. He isn't one to enjoy inflicting pain - weapons typically don't. But there's something about this, about the sudden shiver and moan of the man in his grip, that makes him feel like he's descending into a sort of madness. He tastes blood on his tongue. He wants it to seep into his soul. It isn't about pain, no, he thinks. Not quite.]
[It's about destruction.]
[He finds his hips jutting upwards in the tangling of their bodies, his own groan singing from the inside of his chest. It wasn't enough. It feels like enough now.]
no subject
His own life is finite, painfully finite, and this agony serves as a very potent reminder of that. Some day, death will find him too. Some day, he'll suffer every agony he's ever inflicted on others until he's experienced all their pain in full. And one day, he'll die the same death Vergilius will too.
He's found it, hasn't he? Finally, finally, finally. Death will be his happiness, his salvation. The only people who ever truly made him happy were Papa and Maman, and he'll meet them again too in the great beyond. Surely, surely, surely.
But none of that matters now. The pain is too distracting, the only thing coming close to it being the throb of Vergilius' arousal against his hips. It's mutual, Lobelia's hand coming down not to focus on his own pleasure but to take them both in his palm and messily jerk at their lengths. A shame he can't stop rasping and wheezing long enough to call Vergilius out for his fucked up kinks, having never shied away from hypocrisy.]
no subject
[He never will. Of course its a possibility. Of course, he's not some grand immortal, unable to be touched. He's a scarred, aging man whose life can still be cut short even as powerful as he is. But it never weighs on his mind. As long as he is alive. that's all that matters.]
[He will keep moving forward, to the point where his breath runs out.]
[The hand shot down between them down below to grasp both of them makes his breath hitch and grunt. Vergilius tilts his head to press deep kiss after deep kiss to his jawline, over his neck, finally just losing himself a little in the sensation of it all. Another jerk of the hips against Lobelia's hand comes with a hiss as his fingers snake up the other's spine, pressure a little too hard to be comfortable.]
no subject
What else could love be but two people who understand each other so wholly? Maybe Vergilius understands their connection now, unable to disentangle himself now that he's swallowed his own tail in pursuit of that destruction. Lobelia moves into it — every bite, every hard press of calloused fingers — in search of his own demise, exhaling pleasure and agony in equal measure.
Still, he isn't done yet. He has one thing left to live for, and that thing is peppering him with kisses that ooze the same sweetness as dried blood. Lobelia's struggling to hold up his own weight, giving up on the venture in favor of tangling his fingers in Vergilius' hair and tugging his bangs out of the way. What do those crimson eyes look like now, he wonders? Through the haze of exertion and tears, all Lobelia can see is how brightly they glow. Belle, now more than ever.]
no subject
[He's known love. Maybe not love in forms like this, but love from family, love from friends, love from children.]
[Is this love...? He hardly thinks so. If it is, though, maybe that's what he deserves. Maybe this is the weight of his karma finally coming home to roost. Maybe in the end, he'll lose himself like sand in the waters of a raging river, never to be put together again.]
[Lobelia moves aside his bangs, and of course, the eponymous red gaze is what greets him, glow almost swallowing the outline of the eyes they come from. A gaze to fray whatever it stares at, and here, it almost stares at nothing and everything. It blazes too hot, and yet there's something cold about it at the same time, a paradoxical lantern at the bottom of the deep dark ocean.]
[The eyes flit to Lobelia's face as he continues to let his body take the reins, his chest pressing against the battered and broken ribs as if to rub it in. More pain. More agony.]
[Welcome to his world, Lobelia.]
Ah...
[A light little noise, contrasting with the reckless movement of hips and abdomen below, throbbing with need.]
[Perhaps a part of it seems desperate, eager for that release, and knowing it won't be enough. And knowing it is what he deserves.]
no subject
Love changed him, surely, receptive to every touch Vergilius lays upon his body. Rough hands on his bruised and battered ribs sway him, leave him writhing, hissing through his teeth and clenching them tight in an effort not to let them chatter.
So much pain. So much agony. Vergilius rewards him in spades, letting Lobelia know nothing else so long as his hands are on him. As if to return that favor, he catches that needy sigh and focuses his efforts on the tip of Vergilius' cock. He'll hit his own limit soon enough, he's sure, but he needn't touch himself to get there. This unrelenting pain is more than enough.]
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[In the end, Lobelia is a broken, pathetic thing. And he is here to make sure that stays the case, isn't he?]
[The other's efforts on him get him what he wants - there's a sudden gasp, and then a different sort of sigh when he feels the heat flare and tip over, coating the other's abdomen with a new sort of heat. He finally signs the whole thing with a bite to the other's shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but a way to hum into it in a pale imitation of the other's power to buzz through his body.]
[He could care less if Lobelia follows after him, at this point.]
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It was that final bite that sent him over the tipping point, Lobelia dimly realizes, and manages a huff of amusement when he can't manage a laugh. The vibrations snaking their way through Vergilius' flesh gradually dissipate to nothing, the hazy aftermath of release something vaguely pleasurable.
It feels as if he's stolen this moment from Vergilius, and that feels right, denying this man happiness. All the same, he can't deny that they've found their middle ground in destruction and pain. For once, perhaps it's alright in indulge in this pale imitation of mutuality.]
...Quelle pagaille. Even you are not entirely impartial.
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[As he slowly lets himself ease his breath back to stability, he realizes something is missing. The vibrations have eased off. The little aftershocks and tremors moving through his spine and out his limbs. How odd, it feels, that he almost misses the buzzing feeling. Here, he is again reminded of this sinewed, resolute husk of a body.]
[It almost feels empty, but then again, isn't that what he's used to? Isn't that what he deserves?]
[He draws back with glimmering eyes, finally aiming a scowl at the other.]
...Whatever.
[Irritation comes rising up like an old friend clapping a hand on the shoulder. He pulls his hands back to himself, but he isn't fully removing himself just yet.]
[The pale imitation stands at least for now. A dot. A moment.]
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Neither of them have moved far, Lobelia lying back on the mattress, breaths scattered. That scowl can't coax laughter out of Lobelia when laughter is oh so painful, but it does coax him into a thin, genuine smile.]
Are you satisfied?
[There's no mockery in Lobelia's tone, no insincerity. That's odd coming from him, but that endlessly deep, empty feeling cuts deep. Hollowed out, he very much doubts anything can fill him, but that pale imitation of mutuality comes close enough.]
You could kill me now if you wanted to. What's stopping you?
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[What would come as an acerbic barb as a statement usually now comes as something dimly stated. A candle, flickering in the dark. He should already know the answer. There is no true satisfaction to hold onto, and even if there was, he would pull away from it himself.]
[That question also echoes with what he has asked Lobelia before. Are you happy?]
[He threads his hand through his own bangs to flip them back, mouth pulled in a tight grimace. He glances towards the blossoming bruises on Lobelia's chest. Flowers for him, in their own way. And yes. He could kill him. It would be so easy. And yet...]
Mm. Call me stubborn.
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[And he knows it was. There's no happiness to be found outside of the raw, cutting edge of his pain, that sharp throb in his ribcage all that remains of it. As with all things, even this happiness will fade away into nothing.
How very poetic. How very sad.
With a thin sigh, Lobelia's eyes travel down to the mottled mess of bruises on his ribcage, the rapidly drying aftermath of their little tryst. It's almost comical how much he misses that initial impact, the feeling of being wanted when he's never been wanted before, but he don't delude himself into thinking it's him Vergilius wants. Even that is a delusion too far for Lobelia.]
You've figured it out, haven't you? Non... You've been saying so since the start. Nothing in life will make me happy. Not for anything more than a few fleeting moments at a time. The only ones who truly made me happy are long gone.
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[Perhaps in an earlier time he would hold sympathy for what he is hearing. But the man he is now is someone who has lost everything, and tried to dry up any shred of goodwill in his chest in an attempt to continue moving. No more good connections with others. People should always be held at a distance. They don't need him, he doesn't need them. That's the way it should be.]
[The well of his karma will claim no more lives than his own.]
[He lets a breath whistle out between his teeth. His hand reaches out, splays against that wounded chest. Does Lobelia have a heart? Or is it a void underneath? He wonders.]
[Two monsters, indeed.]
You're like an addict chasing a high. Pushing a stone up a hill, and you'll never reach the top. [He tilts his head, his earring catching a little light from the movement.] Who even made you happy? A lover? A friend? Family?
[Imagining Lobelia truly caring for anyone seems like a fantasy.]
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Monsters feel pain, don't they? Does he ache alone, or is Vergilius struggling through private agonies of his own? It isn't his place to ask, but it should frustrate him that he desires to know regardless.
It should, but it doesn't. Odd.]
So you've said. You're a broken record, vieil homme.
[But there's no offense in Lobelia's voice, no anger or sadness besides. Knowing Vergilius will take his secrets to the grave, Lobelia doesn't mind cluing him in.]
Maman and Papa made me happy. "Everyone has the right to be happy— everyone and anyone." For as long as I can remember, they sought to teach me that lesson... but it died along with them, didn't it?
[Had it not been for Vergilius, he may have never acknowledged that fact. Pitiful indeed.]
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[Lobelia standing with a beloved father and mother...he tries to see that. Entertains himself with the fact that he can't. It seems alien to him, but at the same time, the more his mind chews on it like a feral dog chewing on a bare bone, the more tragic it feels. What a sad, worthless existence. Lobelia is a monster. But Lobelia is painfully, horrifyingly human.]
[Perhaps that's the same thing.]
[His own eyes cloud over, now - there's a new shade of red in there, like a storm of sorrow and isolation.]
[His voice is quiet.]
It did. [He pauses, fingers curling over the other's chest.] Happiness can be grasped. But it can be so easily taken away by your own hand. Just like that.
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Ultimately, following their light will lead Lobelia into the rocks, sink him into the depths, but that's fine, isn't it? That's happiness. In death, they'll both find everlasting relief.
Happiness can be grasped, but so easily taken away by oneself... Wryly, Lobelia smiles.]
Vergilius... Do you want to know what became of Maman and Papa?
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[He raises his own hand, grasping over the other's with a tight, pressure grip, the rough texture of his scars felt against soft skin. He doesn't remove it. Instead, his eyes glimmer, flickering like a candle in a dark room above a stern frown.]
Do you think I need to know?
[He may assume that its simply a sad affair to be told. But he's from the City. And on top of that, he knows Lobelia already well enough to know it won't be that.]
[He already expects the worse. He'll get the worse.]
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Lobelia hadn't known the value of their affection when he was a boy, only aware of just how much he's lost when Vergilius' hand settles over his own. Warm. So very warm, a harsh contrast with the cold, weighty lump growing in his throat.
He's never felt guilty over what happened with his parents, never felt any shame... but meeting Vergilius' gaze now, Lobelia feels something akin to it. As if this man could possibly judge him more. As if that judgement matters.]
Papa's death was quick. Painless. I doubt he knew I'd taken his life with how quickly it was extinguished. With Maman, I took my time, starting from the ends of her limbs and moving upwards. At that time, I thought I'd finally grasped the happiness they spoke of.
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[Of course.]
[The eyes flare with a new and heavy light. In his mind, a memory is coming to the forefront, feeling like a blade piercing slowly through his heart. That monster, dying at my feet. A fabric with a jumble of blue and black patterns. I had seen that before. I had seen a child in the orphanage wearing it to hide a large scar on her ankle caused by broken glass.]
[His free hand moves like an arrow to grasp over that lump in his throat, squeeze a little tight. He can't kill him here, he knows. But the pain must go somewhere. Lobelia, laying so pretty on this mattress, and it feels like its an illusion for the swarm of flies his soul holds.]
[He grits his teeth, even as he paradoxically holds the hand on his cheek, still.]
Hell is too good for you. You really thought that was happiness, you brainless worm?
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That warmth just now? That intimacy? Gone, but Vergilius burns all the brighter, hotter than any sun. If hell is too good for him, perhaps his very soul should be tossed into the pyre and wholly eliminated. If anyone can show him such mercy, won't it be his angel?
Beneath that rough, calloused hand, Lobelia's fingers briefly tremble.]
Ah, you think so lowly of me... but even I am aware of that fact, Vergilius. Nothing awaits me in the afterlife: not even l'enfer. I knew happiness once, and I crushed it into nothing.
[All that remains of Lobelia's parents are the sounds of their destruction, but even those are no longer in his possession. On this island, and for the first time in his life, Lobelia is entirely alone.]
I won't find it again. That jewel slipped through my grasp long ago.
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[It makes him release his fingers, and the statements make him still for a moment. This sounds so self-perceptive that it almost shocks him - where was the man who writhed in pleasure on the beach, or had told him he would be a thief to steal away the happiness he once experienced?]
[He stares down, finally letting both of his hands fall to his sides. Still straddling. Unsure where to walk, or fall, or land.]
What do you want me to say? Good for you? Good for your self-awareness? [Would you even think to repent, like me?] Tch. That "jewel"...
[He falls quiet at that, feeling distant.]
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Regardless, Lobelia's hands come up to seek out Vergilius' hands once more and fit them to his throat. What might it feel like to die? What would it look like? Sound like?]
Mm, your first mistake was thinking there is anything left for me to expect from you.
[There's a cold resignation in Lobelia's voice. One that chills right down to the bones, as oddly serene as it is alarming.]
Finish your thought, Vergilius. My patience is not infinite.
[What about that jewel? Tell him again how he'll never hold it in his hands. Lobelia expects to be told nothing less.]
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[The prompting makes his muscles tense - he starts to squeeze, leaning over with those characteristic bright eyes. That jewel, those jewels, small hands held in his, now never to return, shattered into oblivion-]
I... [He starts, stops. The voice cracks in his throat, like something fragile being pushed to its limits.] That jewel...
[That serene voice makes his skin crawl. He would prefer the writhing, the moans, the little perverted gasps. Don't be like this. If you've given up, what does that mean...?]
...I was loved. [His thumbs press up against the other's chin, his mouth twisted in a scowl.] I was loved, and I loved in turn. Do you think you'll ever have that? Do you want a thing like that?
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Really, he didn't need to force the truth out past Vergilius' lips to know what kept him from spitting it out. In a way, it's almost funny. Not that long ago, Lobelia would've savored his very private pain, but now?
Now, those hands around his throat are the only things keeping that cold, hard lump in place. Such an uncomfortable feeling, one Lobelia doesn't care to put a name to. Loss is never something he wanted to acknowledge the weight of, but he sees himself reflected in those burning red eyes and can feel that loss keenly.
Is this loss his? Is it Vergilius'? The lack of distinction is perhaps the least surprising part of all of it. As an ouroboros is destined to remain entangled forevermore, it seems they won't be able to escape one another now that they've sunk in their teeth.
It's rare for Lobelia to sigh, for there to be a tremble in his voice. He'll blame it on the hands around his neck, squeezing them tighter still. Holding them.]
You were the one to tell me that I'll never know happiness. You were the first.
[And if I have given up, what does that mean for you? One more life snuffed out, nothing more.]
Isn't it often the case that we can't get what we desire? You should be happy, Vergilius, knowing your lesson finally sunk in.
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