[ Lucifer passes the melody over, looping it while he nudges Elio with his shoulder, telling him it's lovely and to let it soar and the touch makes all of Elio's reservations slide, crumble, old Babylonian walls falling after year's of occupation. He laughs, looks up in time to catch sight of a redhead who's crawled onto the piano (isn't that an all-out sin? can it be anything else in these surroundings?) and is looking him over, winking and he raises both eyebrows at her, smile growing wide and happy. Leaning forward a little bit, he claims his space and waits for the right beat to move them onwards, flowing directly into the intro of Killer Queen, because the redhead is beautiful and before her, Sylvie was beautiful, too.
The whole room is alive and breathing, people have moved up around the stage and are watching them, cheering and clapping and kissing and living and Elio has been so blind to these things for so long. Waiting and waiting and waiting. I'm waiting for someone, he'd told Sylvie when she asked whether he was going to come with her to Houston for the weekend. And that someone's not me, she'd asked without doubting the answer. Elio had shaken his head and she'd shrugged, slid up to him and caught him between her arms in a tight embrace. Let's wait together for a just little while longer, then.
He hasn't been able to define the difference yet, for his therapist. Between waiting on Oliver and waiting on Lucifer. He can't put it into words how waiting for Oliver left him dying if not dead inside and waiting for Lucifer makes him taste life in all its splendor while he hopes for the chance to have a sip of ambrosia. It's the end goal, not the waiting itself, he thinks. The end goal has to be worth all that time not being there yet.
Looking away from the girl who's started drinking Lucifer's Scotch, he focuses on Lucifer instead, letting his fingers work blindly which they fortunately do quite well, remembering the right chords. He leans in against him, shoulder against upper arm, because height differences, and says: ]
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The whole room is alive and breathing, people have moved up around the stage and are watching them, cheering and clapping and kissing and living and Elio has been so blind to these things for so long. Waiting and waiting and waiting. I'm waiting for someone, he'd told Sylvie when she asked whether he was going to come with her to Houston for the weekend. And that someone's not me, she'd asked without doubting the answer. Elio had shaken his head and she'd shrugged, slid up to him and caught him between her arms in a tight embrace. Let's wait together for a just little while longer, then.
He hasn't been able to define the difference yet, for his therapist. Between waiting on Oliver and waiting on Lucifer. He can't put it into words how waiting for Oliver left him dying if not dead inside and waiting for Lucifer makes him taste life in all its splendor while he hopes for the chance to have a sip of ambrosia. It's the end goal, not the waiting itself, he thinks. The end goal has to be worth all that time not being there yet.
Looking away from the girl who's started drinking Lucifer's Scotch, he focuses on Lucifer instead, letting his fingers work blindly which they fortunately do quite well, remembering the right chords. He leans in against him, shoulder against upper arm, because height differences, and says: ]
Only ever with you, Lucifer.