[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.
[Or else, he's going to lean back on that singular wish. That honest dream. That beautiful idea of a world destroyed to make another. Its not that he's against it, or he would wholeheartedly prevent himself from doing it. He's on the precipice. But someone back home has given him a light to glance towards, to follow.]
[A singular hope. A jewel on the horizon. But the loss is there, and the failures are numerous, and there's always a chance it will die.]
[He seethes at it, angered - not even at Lobelia now, but something that they've both been sunk into. Monsters, clacking their teeth at being given something far beyond their reach. He squeezes a little more.]
...Shut up.
[I'll keep going. Even if you've given up, my terrible hope will carry me. Don't you have anything to carry you?]
Your damn moaning and groaning. I believed you more before. I didn't even expect you to be this weak. [He's leaning in, nose to nose, veins almost popping around his forehead from the anger.] But I suppose it was foolish of me to expect someone to even have a semblance of humanity left.
[Weak, eh? Maybe he is. Vergilius ought to be happy that he's snuffed out another flame, removed one more annoying stumbling block in the path ahead of him. He could surely ignore Lobelia now and get away with it, but he's choosing not to, choosing to engage him when he'd be better off leaving him behind in the dust.
Why? Isn't this weakness mutual?
It feels as if Vergilius is staring beyond him at something greater, as if Lobelia's only chance at securing such a bright, shining beacon is to cut the man down and seize the opportunity to take it for himself. Is that what he ought to do? Is giving up pointless when Vergilius knows where salvation lies?
Why aren't I fighting for this?
Won't this make me happy?
A laugh, broken and bloody, spills out of Lobelia's lips. There's some semblance of humanity remaining in him and he presses it to Vergilius' lips, suddenly shifting beneath him, latching his thighs around his hips and dragging him down flush against his body. Passionate when his words are anything but.]
You've lost everything, and yet you persist. You still believe happiness exists somewhere in this life. Such conviction... You'll show it to me, won't you?
[If Vergilius can do nothing else for him, won't he show him what it looks like to fight for something just beyond reach?]
[He realizes the answer to his question when the other pulls him down. He realizes it when the other meets his lips, when he says those words for him and him alone.]
[Isn't he, in the end, a guide? A guide must take the hand of another, and lead him out of the dark forest. Or further into it. If a way is not known, the guide will show it.]
[He wants to bring Lobelia to the bitter merciless end he wants him to suffer through. But that is still guiding him. Lobelia cannot falter or trip or simply lay down and wait for the end to come, but must keep moving forward like him, even if it is off a cliff to a cold, lonely end.]
[Is this really about happiness? Is this about satisfaction? Is it actually about the sanctity of their souls, whatever is left of them? He has conviction, yes. He'll show it till the point he bites down on his tongue and lets it bleed. The man's body is warm against him, and he wants to press himself into the meat and sinew and bone, somehow. An entangled ouroboros, indeed, tails of a rat king interlocked to eternity.]
[He clacks his teeth against the others, sighing past the other's lips in a husky, irritated groan.]
[At least one of them has conviction, yes? Real, solid conviction. The sort that will move his feet toward towards a tangible goal, and if Vergilius will neither grant him his death nor his happiness, then it's that conviction Lobelia has to take.
Choke on it, he says, like Lobelia wouldn't do just that. Like he needs provocation, fastening his legs all the tighter around Vergilius' hips not in invitation, but insistence, and rocking up against him. He wants to melt into Vergilius, remove what remains of this unpleasant distance between them. When their bodies are together, Lobelia feels something like relief. Something tangible. Sickening, isn't it?]
Well then, by all means, shove your conviction down my throat.
[A crass answer for a crass man. Seeking out his lips again, Lobelia bites them, teases them, sucks out his tongue and bites that too. If the old man needs a little incentive to give them both what they crave, Lobelia will give it to him in spades. He's not stopping until Vergilius makes good on his promise, and even then, there's no guarantee he'll stop at all.]
[Conviction is, perhaps, what makes him so dangerous, he thinks. The City has broken down plenty of souls, even people Vergilius had thought were strong enough to withstand the endless turmoil, the weight of sin. But time and time again, a weak spot was found, and minds and bodies came tumbling down under their own fragility. He remembers a man with eyes wet behind a dark mask, and the bloodshed that had followed when that man had fallen to the darkest pit a human being could fall to.]
[He had fallen, too. He had been tempted into taking a path to pure and utter monstrosity. But he turned away. His feet, soaked with blood, had started their endless move down a path. He had been broken - no, he was broken, still is - but he had to keep moving forward.]
[The flow cannot be stopped..]
[So let Lobelia follow that path, and be dashed onto the rocks of it for all he cares. And just as he lets the flow overtake him, so he lets the sensation and rising warmth coiling in his belly fog over his own mind. How funny, how he had planned for a singular, boring round. He had half-imagined sitting in the cabana at this point.]
[But here, he's returning the other's effort with low, occasional noises and grunts of physical satisfaction. One of his hands detaches from Lobelia's throat, slapping over the side of the sheets next to them before finding and grasping onto the bottle he had chucked onto them from before. Lobelia moves against him, and he rolls his hips against the man, breaking the kiss to murmur:]
I think I'll shove it somewhere else.
[And he'll make good on his promises. What a good guide he is.]
[He moves - his arms are shifting to tuck them in the crook of his arm, hoist them slightly upwards for a better angle. His hand with the lube is moving to uncap it with a flick of a thumb, other hand now joining it to coat a few fingers. A leaned-in and teeth-filled kiss is a poor distraction, he knows, but perhaps on purpose as he adjusts an arm to press the coated hand below, one finger starting to put pressure inside.]
[Perhaps he should be lenient and patient with the man, first time and all. But then again, he's never been known for being nice.]
[Ah, what a wonderful guide. Lobelia has been alone from the time he was a child, leaving the remnants of his parents behind to go into hiding as he committed atrocities all around the world. He followed his own feet wherever they desired to take him, but he's realized something now: if he'd had someone to light his path, would he have spent so long getting lost?
If he'd only met Vergilius sooner, would he have been happy by now?
Nestled in between his words is Vergilius' promise, one Lobelia picks up on and commits to memory. If he's going to follow after this man, he'd best expect Lobelia won't be forgetting about his promise any time soon. Into and grave or into eternity, Lobelia won't stray from his path now.]
Heheh... How vile you are.
[There's the briefest of smiles on Lobelia's face, but it's oh so very genuine. Pressed into the mattress, Lobelia shudders both in anticipation and in pain, his ribs stinging and crying out for mercy. Regardless, he doesn't ask Vergilius to stop. He wouldn't even if every bone in his body were splintered and broken, exhaling a sigh laced with some discomfort.
What a strange feeling. It's not... unpleasant, but Lobelia can comfortably say he's never had a finger in his ass before. All he can hope is that this somehow ends up feeling good or painful enough to ignore the unusual sensation that leaves his skin prickled up in goosebumps, but regardless, he gladly distracts himself with that kiss. Vergilius has more important things to focus on, so it falls on Lobelia to adjust the angle of their kiss so they aren't grinding enamel the entire time.]
[How vile he is, indeed. Too many times he has been called evil. A monster. A horrid thing in the shape of a man. He had killed over fifty people in a single night and left the carnage to be cleaned up by others. Sure, it was a job, but what wasn't a job these days? The blood was still on his hands.]
[No matter how guilty he feels, no matter how hard he repents, he's still a vile stain on the fabric of the City, isn't he?]
[And now, here is a new soul to destroy. He already cracked his ribs. He brought him to the realization that nothing he does will gain him happiness. His void can never be truly filled. Even with the promise of a display of conviction, isn't that another cruel way of giving him a mote of terrible hope before true destruction comes down upon him and smashes him into pieces for good?]
[(Pieces...pieces....shards of gems.....the gem had been so warm......)]
[Ah, Lobelia, what path will he lead you down?]
[Vergilius grunts, trying to pull his focus between two directions at once. Lobelia helping with the kiss is a boon - he huffs into it before kissing him anew, tongue trailing along his lower lip. The finger below pushes in, swipes back, thrusting lightly a few times. He adjusts himself again as he pulls out, free hand gripping hard over the other's hip as he starts to press in the second finger now. The scars on his hands and extra texture to rub and pull with the movement. Whatever Lobelia feels, being crumpled with hurting chest, he hopes it will be the bare minimum to feel with what is to come.]
[It's a different sort of pain where Vergilius' fingers pierce into him, dull and throbbing but not entirely unpleasant. It's hard to say it feels good being forced open on fingers thrusting their way into a place they don't belong, but every so often, the scarred fingers brush along something that makes him shiver and groan.
His sighs spool into Vergilius' mouth, both pleasured and pained, and he makes efforts to relax his muscles so the strain on them isn't quite as difficult to endure. It's not as if he doesn't deserve the pain, but selfish and hedonistic as he is, Lobelia wants to enjoy debasing this man as much as he can.
Whatever is left to be taken from him, Lobelia will take without hesitation. Begging, borrowing, stealing. If Vergilius doesn't guard it closely, Lobelia will dig it right out of him and keep it all for himself.
Tangling his fingers through Vergilius' hair, Lobelia tugs, coaxes his head back to expose his neck and suck out a bruise just beneath the hollow of his throat. No matter where they go, Lobelia wants to see the impact he's left on Vergilius stained onto his skin forevermore.]
[As he stretches the man down below, he's letting the man lavish pain and pleasure on him above, hissing at the feeling of teeth sinking into the skin on his neck. As much as the other is letting out his own light series of sounds underneath him, Vergilius is almost silent save for a few low gasps and huffs of effort - but that might be changing soon. Something feels like its unwinding, like a string. If had been aware of the tale, perhaps he could equate it to the golden thread that winds through the labyrinth of myth. Another path. But this one might lead to a beastly conclusion.]
[What an arrogant little thing this man is, to try to leave lasting marks on already marred skin. Lobelia may try to grab whatever he can from him, but that conviction is its own source of pride. Many have wanted something from him. And as he's told the man time and time again, the thing he likes the most is to deny them what they want. No one shall own him. No one shall look down on him. If anything, the most Lobelia can hope for is to crawl up to his level, he thinks.]
[As if his own way of punishment for that insolent bite, he lets out a low growl of a noise, pressing his fingers in deep to try to hit that perfect spot, before fully retracting. One more to go. He circles the entrance, before he puts in one, two, three now, taking it slow. His arousal bobs heavy against his abdomen once more.]
[He may be stained by Lobelia. But he wants to leave lasting damage in return.]
[He'll have his way regardless, won't he? No mark he leaves behind on the man's flesh will be as indelible as that litany of scars, but it will be his eyes treated to the sight of mottling bruises in the aftermath. His and his alone. If he can't have what slivers of happiness remain within Vergilius, he'll simply take the man himself and allow no one else to step into his orbit. If anyone is going to injure him now, it's going to be himself.
Still... it isn't just Vergilius' attention that's been split. Lobelia stiffens, unable to commit to a firm but measured bite when Vergilius digs his fingers into... something. No, no, Lobelia knows what it is, but it's that first wave of disbelief and shock that strangles an amused huff out of him. Don't think he won't return the favor some day, Vergilius. There's no need to seek out a proctologist in hell when you've got Lobelia's capable hands.
The stretch is nearly unbearable now, not for the weight of those calloused fingers, but for the arousal sitting heavily against his skin. How much longer will you make me wait?, he wants to ask, but it's a pointless question when Vergilius is no more patient than himself. Instead, by way of cheeky retorts, he squeezes up tight around those intruding fingers and raises a brow. Go ahead, then. Damage him. If Lobelia will allow anyone to invoke permanent harm on this body of his, then let it be Vergilius. He'll simply pray the scars never fade.]
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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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[He has to bring them back.]
[Or else, he's going to lean back on that singular wish. That honest dream. That beautiful idea of a world destroyed to make another. Its not that he's against it, or he would wholeheartedly prevent himself from doing it. He's on the precipice. But someone back home has given him a light to glance towards, to follow.]
[A singular hope. A jewel on the horizon. But the loss is there, and the failures are numerous, and there's always a chance it will die.]
[He seethes at it, angered - not even at Lobelia now, but something that they've both been sunk into. Monsters, clacking their teeth at being given something far beyond their reach. He squeezes a little more.]
...Shut up.
[I'll keep going. Even if you've given up, my terrible hope will carry me. Don't you have anything to carry you?]
Your damn moaning and groaning. I believed you more before. I didn't even expect you to be this weak. [He's leaning in, nose to nose, veins almost popping around his forehead from the anger.] But I suppose it was foolish of me to expect someone to even have a semblance of humanity left.
[Why am I fighting this?]
[Shouldn't I be happy?]
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Why? Isn't this weakness mutual?
It feels as if Vergilius is staring beyond him at something greater, as if Lobelia's only chance at securing such a bright, shining beacon is to cut the man down and seize the opportunity to take it for himself. Is that what he ought to do? Is giving up pointless when Vergilius knows where salvation lies?
Why aren't I fighting for this?
Won't this make me happy?
A laugh, broken and bloody, spills out of Lobelia's lips. There's some semblance of humanity remaining in him and he presses it to Vergilius' lips, suddenly shifting beneath him, latching his thighs around his hips and dragging him down flush against his body. Passionate when his words are anything but.]
You've lost everything, and yet you persist. You still believe happiness exists somewhere in this life. Such conviction... You'll show it to me, won't you?
[If Vergilius can do nothing else for him, won't he show him what it looks like to fight for something just beyond reach?]
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[Isn't he, in the end, a guide? A guide must take the hand of another, and lead him out of the dark forest. Or further into it. If a way is not known, the guide will show it.]
[He wants to bring Lobelia to the bitter merciless end he wants him to suffer through. But that is still guiding him. Lobelia cannot falter or trip or simply lay down and wait for the end to come, but must keep moving forward like him, even if it is off a cliff to a cold, lonely end.]
[Is this really about happiness? Is this about satisfaction? Is it actually about the sanctity of their souls, whatever is left of them? He has conviction, yes. He'll show it till the point he bites down on his tongue and lets it bleed. The man's body is warm against him, and he wants to press himself into the meat and sinew and bone, somehow. An entangled ouroboros, indeed, tails of a rat king interlocked to eternity.]
[He clacks his teeth against the others, sighing past the other's lips in a husky, irritated groan.]
You'll choke on conviction. I guarantee it.
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Choke on it, he says, like Lobelia wouldn't do just that. Like he needs provocation, fastening his legs all the tighter around Vergilius' hips not in invitation, but insistence, and rocking up against him. He wants to melt into Vergilius, remove what remains of this unpleasant distance between them. When their bodies are together, Lobelia feels something like relief. Something tangible. Sickening, isn't it?]
Well then, by all means, shove your conviction down my throat.
[A crass answer for a crass man. Seeking out his lips again, Lobelia bites them, teases them, sucks out his tongue and bites that too. If the old man needs a little incentive to give them both what they crave, Lobelia will give it to him in spades. He's not stopping until Vergilius makes good on his promise, and even then, there's no guarantee he'll stop at all.]
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[He had fallen, too. He had been tempted into taking a path to pure and utter monstrosity. But he turned away. His feet, soaked with blood, had started their endless move down a path. He had been broken - no, he was broken, still is - but he had to keep moving forward.]
[The flow cannot be stopped..]
[So let Lobelia follow that path, and be dashed onto the rocks of it for all he cares. And just as he lets the flow overtake him, so he lets the sensation and rising warmth coiling in his belly fog over his own mind. How funny, how he had planned for a singular, boring round. He had half-imagined sitting in the cabana at this point.]
[But here, he's returning the other's effort with low, occasional noises and grunts of physical satisfaction. One of his hands detaches from Lobelia's throat, slapping over the side of the sheets next to them before finding and grasping onto the bottle he had chucked onto them from before. Lobelia moves against him, and he rolls his hips against the man, breaking the kiss to murmur:]
I think I'll shove it somewhere else.
[And he'll make good on his promises. What a good guide he is.]
[He moves - his arms are shifting to tuck them in the crook of his arm, hoist them slightly upwards for a better angle. His hand with the lube is moving to uncap it with a flick of a thumb, other hand now joining it to coat a few fingers. A leaned-in and teeth-filled kiss is a poor distraction, he knows, but perhaps on purpose as he adjusts an arm to press the coated hand below, one finger starting to put pressure inside.]
[Perhaps he should be lenient and patient with the man, first time and all. But then again, he's never been known for being nice.]
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If he'd only met Vergilius sooner, would he have been happy by now?
Nestled in between his words is Vergilius' promise, one Lobelia picks up on and commits to memory. If he's going to follow after this man, he'd best expect Lobelia won't be forgetting about his promise any time soon. Into and grave or into eternity, Lobelia won't stray from his path now.]
Heheh... How vile you are.
[There's the briefest of smiles on Lobelia's face, but it's oh so very genuine. Pressed into the mattress, Lobelia shudders both in anticipation and in pain, his ribs stinging and crying out for mercy. Regardless, he doesn't ask Vergilius to stop. He wouldn't even if every bone in his body were splintered and broken, exhaling a sigh laced with some discomfort.
What a strange feeling. It's not... unpleasant, but Lobelia can comfortably say he's never had a finger in his ass before. All he can hope is that this somehow ends up feeling good or painful enough to ignore the unusual sensation that leaves his skin prickled up in goosebumps, but regardless, he gladly distracts himself with that kiss. Vergilius has more important things to focus on, so it falls on Lobelia to adjust the angle of their kiss so they aren't grinding enamel the entire time.]
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[No matter how guilty he feels, no matter how hard he repents, he's still a vile stain on the fabric of the City, isn't he?]
[And now, here is a new soul to destroy. He already cracked his ribs. He brought him to the realization that nothing he does will gain him happiness. His void can never be truly filled. Even with the promise of a display of conviction, isn't that another cruel way of giving him a mote of terrible hope before true destruction comes down upon him and smashes him into pieces for good?]
[(Pieces...pieces....shards of gems.....the gem had been so warm......)]
[Ah, Lobelia, what path will he lead you down?]
[Vergilius grunts, trying to pull his focus between two directions at once. Lobelia helping with the kiss is a boon - he huffs into it before kissing him anew, tongue trailing along his lower lip. The finger below pushes in, swipes back, thrusting lightly a few times. He adjusts himself again as he pulls out, free hand gripping hard over the other's hip as he starts to press in the second finger now. The scars on his hands and extra texture to rub and pull with the movement. Whatever Lobelia feels, being crumpled with hurting chest, he hopes it will be the bare minimum to feel with what is to come.]
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His sighs spool into Vergilius' mouth, both pleasured and pained, and he makes efforts to relax his muscles so the strain on them isn't quite as difficult to endure. It's not as if he doesn't deserve the pain, but selfish and hedonistic as he is, Lobelia wants to enjoy debasing this man as much as he can.
Whatever is left to be taken from him, Lobelia will take without hesitation. Begging, borrowing, stealing. If Vergilius doesn't guard it closely, Lobelia will dig it right out of him and keep it all for himself.
Tangling his fingers through Vergilius' hair, Lobelia tugs, coaxes his head back to expose his neck and suck out a bruise just beneath the hollow of his throat. No matter where they go, Lobelia wants to see the impact he's left on Vergilius stained onto his skin forevermore.]
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[What an arrogant little thing this man is, to try to leave lasting marks on already marred skin. Lobelia may try to grab whatever he can from him, but that conviction is its own source of pride. Many have wanted something from him. And as he's told the man time and time again, the thing he likes the most is to deny them what they want. No one shall own him. No one shall look down on him. If anything, the most Lobelia can hope for is to crawl up to his level, he thinks.]
[As if his own way of punishment for that insolent bite, he lets out a low growl of a noise, pressing his fingers in deep to try to hit that perfect spot, before fully retracting. One more to go. He circles the entrance, before he puts in one, two, three now, taking it slow. His arousal bobs heavy against his abdomen once more.]
[He may be stained by Lobelia. But he wants to leave lasting damage in return.]
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Still... it isn't just Vergilius' attention that's been split. Lobelia stiffens, unable to commit to a firm but measured bite when Vergilius digs his fingers into... something. No, no, Lobelia knows what it is, but it's that first wave of disbelief and shock that strangles an amused huff out of him. Don't think he won't return the favor some day, Vergilius. There's no need to seek out a proctologist in hell when you've got Lobelia's capable hands.
The stretch is nearly unbearable now, not for the weight of those calloused fingers, but for the arousal sitting heavily against his skin. How much longer will you make me wait?, he wants to ask, but it's a pointless question when Vergilius is no more patient than himself. Instead, by way of cheeky retorts, he squeezes up tight around those intruding fingers and raises a brow. Go ahead, then. Damage him. If Lobelia will allow anyone to invoke permanent harm on this body of his, then let it be Vergilius. He'll simply pray the scars never fade.]
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