[ Lucifer's apartment in NYC isn't much different than his penthouse in LA, as if built from the same blueprint, though the color schemes don't match up and the details give each space its own mood, orange and golden back home and blue and silver here. Elio wonders, while sitting around the living room idly, where from the blueprint has taken its inspiration, Heaven or Hell - if not neither, if not a mix or both, a different vibe for each place he sets up.
They finished shopping at Northern Heights after a good hour and a half that ended up costing Lucifer more than Elio could've made on his own in a year, the three suits he walked away with the kind of quality he might need to consider insuring, really, he'd half-jokingly thought to himself as they took the ride across Manhattan by cab afterwards. And after settling in at the apartment, they've given each other room, quiet, Elio reading one of the books that the other man's got standing around on his shelves, sitting in one of the Italian leather armchairs with his feet tugged up beneath him and a biography on Beethoven open in his lap. It looks old. He checks, late 19th century, it's a first edition. Original, probably.
It's getting late, before long he should think about hitting the shower, picking an outfit for the night, make ready. Before that, however... Elio looks up, glances over at yet another Steinway piano, looking at the way the afternoon sun reflects in the lid. You have to wonder, how many pianos can a man need? Shaking his head once, he decides it's a stupid question. A man like Lucifer? There're probably not enough pianos in the world for him.
A small smile, Elio leafing back to the page he'd reached. ]
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They finished shopping at Northern Heights after a good hour and a half that ended up costing Lucifer more than Elio could've made on his own in a year, the three suits he walked away with the kind of quality he might need to consider insuring, really, he'd half-jokingly thought to himself as they took the ride across Manhattan by cab afterwards. And after settling in at the apartment, they've given each other room, quiet, Elio reading one of the books that the other man's got standing around on his shelves, sitting in one of the Italian leather armchairs with his feet tugged up beneath him and a biography on Beethoven open in his lap. It looks old. He checks, late 19th century, it's a first edition. Original, probably.
It's getting late, before long he should think about hitting the shower, picking an outfit for the night, make ready. Before that, however... Elio looks up, glances over at yet another Steinway piano, looking at the way the afternoon sun reflects in the lid. You have to wonder, how many pianos can a man need? Shaking his head once, he decides it's a stupid question. A man like Lucifer? There're probably not enough pianos in the world for him.
A small smile, Elio leafing back to the page he'd reached. ]