[ He watches different emotions flicker across Elio's beautiful face, incapable of deciphering them properly because honestly, human emotions just aren't... well. He'd say that the tiny smile on the other man's face at the touch of Lucifer's fingers in his hair is... a mild sort of happiness. That the way it stiffens and shifts makes him look sadder, somehow. He's fairly certain there are nuances in between those descriptions that he isn't getting, however, and that's how he keeps running afoul of his humans.
He meets Elio's eyes, not knowing what to expect, whether the man's sad for the monster he's becoming - because surely, he is, he's a punisher, he knows punishment like an integral part of himself - or sad for the knowledge he's acquiring, step by step. Heaven. Hell. The stories that aren't simply stories that you can choose to believe in if you wish.
It surprises him, though, when Elio leans up and stretches his arms, slinging them around his shoulders and pulling him down towards him in a hug, a hold, and Lucifer lets him, eyes wide. It doesn't make you the villain he says and for a moment, he can't breathe. He just sits there, slumped over awkwardly, his chin propped against Elio's shoulder, the other man's slender arms holding him tight (secure, how is that possible?). He wets his lips. Blinks, then reaches down, curling one arm around Elio's waist and stretching back up on the bench, lifting the other man with him easily, pulling him into his lap without breaking his hold.
Like this, Lucifer pulls him up against himself a little, pulls him in against his chest, flattening his palm against the small of his back before sliding it upwards, between his shoulder blades. He leans in against him, burying his nose in his soft hair. Lets the other man hold a bit of his weight, in turn, like he's asking, because isn't that all Elio keeps telling him? That he wants to carry, too, whatever he can.
Behind him, his wings manifest in a quiet rush of feathers, curling down around the other man, more or less covering him in white. Other than that, he doesn't say anything.
[ It's an awkward angle, Lucifer is too tall and Elio's not tall enough, but they make do for a few seconds while the other man loses his breath against him, chin resting on his shoulder. Then, Lucifer reaches down with one arm, curls it around Elio's waist and quite simply lifts him up into his lap, twenty times stronger than him, Elio stretching out his legs to sit across his thighs properly, staying close, not letting go. In turn, Lucifer flattens his palm against the small of Elio's back, runs it up between his shoulder blades, pulling them against each other, front to front and it's so much hard muscle, so much strength and so much vulnerability that Elio can't help but turn his head up a bit, the other man's nose in his hair along with the rest of his face, and slide his lips over Lucifer's chin, kissing him repeatedly there, pronounced stubble and so much man and his lips, when Elio catches them, are soft. It's not a deep kiss, he is carrying the other man's weight right now, not trying to get in his pants, it's light and gentle. It's more than one, though. It's two, three, four kisses.
He only stops when Lucifer's wings unfurl, curling around him and covering him in white, feathers everywhere, and there's the slightly dusty smell of them, the warmer tones of skin and he feels cared for, maybe even loved in a way he didn't even do when the other man had buried himself in his throat to the base. They're closer. He's practically inside him, in his arms, in his wings. And Lucifer is in his arms, too, they're both holding and keeping each other afloat.
Making a soft hmm'ing sound, Elio draws back a little to look up at Lucifer, just to see him like this, angelic in nature and hurt in the way that's so inherently human. He's beautiful. It's far from beautiful what's happened to him, it's ugly and twisted and wrong, but nevertheless, he isn't. Slowly, Elio makes to climb off his lap, elbows him gently in one wing, then in his hip to make him move over enough on the bench to make room before he takes a seat next to him, their thighs in parallel.
All that white, the feathers, makes him think of a song Mafalda would hum that summer, her Neapolitan dialect so homely in the wake of Oliver leaving. ]
How's your Italian? [ Elio glances sideways, thinking he might already know the answer. ] I promised you a song.
[ His lips tingle in the wake of Elio's gentle kisses and his wings actually flutter in response, alerting him to the fact that they're... out. He hadn't quite realised. Frowning, he almost tightens his grip around Elio as the other man starts shifting away, holding back a low grumble from the back of his throat because obviously, they can't keep hugging it out for all eternity. He just... rather likes it. This proximity. The way it's simply happening, free of charge, Elio's taste and scent merging within his senses and making his shoulders lose what little tension's left in them.
Elio proceeds to elbow him gently in the wing and he huffs at that, low and slightly irritated, pulling his wings back and slipping them into nothing. Blasted things, always in the way. Shifting a bit, he makes room for Elio on the bench and sips his whisky again, the liquid burning down his throat, warm and slightly spicy.
It doesn't take quite as much effort to ignore the phone that he isn't currently holding between his fingers. There'll be nothing to see on it, anyway. Nothing that he cares about.
This, he thinks, is preferable. ]
My Italian is fluent. [ He says, in Italian. Switches back to English: ] Same with every language.
[ He nods downwards, more at Elio's hands than the keys. ]
[ They're back to their initial starting point, a slight detour and here they are again, whisky and proximity and Lucifer tells him he's fluent in Italian (in a fluent Italian), before informing him that it's the same with all languages, really, because the Devil speaks every tongue known to man, of course, and probably some that aren't, too. Elio just watches him as he tugs his wings away, missing them a little bit already. He remembers touching them, in bed, stroking and rubbing them, caressing them. Touching Lucifer, caressing him.
Go on, Lucifer says to his hands.
A long, hard intake of breath and he settles in front of the keys, placing his hands, fingers curved and wrists comfortably relaxed as he starts playing the intro of Pink Martini's Una Notte a Napoli, the jazzy air to it filling the small distance between them, making it dance and leap, and Elio plays the melody perfectly, even as he turns his head to look directly at the other man while reciting the refrain. At the back of his head, Elio can hear Mafalda grumbling about his bad Neapolitan dialect, though it's really not all that bad and since Lucifer speaks Italian as well, he'll know. ]
"One night in Naples With the moon and the sea I met an angel Who could not fly anymore One night in Naples He forgot about the stars And without wings He took me to Heaven"
[ That Pink Martini album had been relatively new that year and Mafalda had sung this song all summer, humming it as she'd watched over Oliver and him in the garden, at the pool, hanging out laundry to dry, picking apricots. That song had been Elio's whole summer that year and he'd thought it meant something, back then, in regards to Oliver and him, but since Oliver and him hadn't truly meant anything, naturally neither did the song.
It can have its place here, though, he thinks, like it's been waiting - and in his soft, pleasant singing voice, he continues into the first verse: ]
"With him flying high above the ground Forgetting about the sorrows of the evening..."
[ He sits back a little, tipping his head upwards while Elio finds his starting point, playing a cute, little jazzy intro that Lucifer doesn't recognise, it's not any song he knows. Once the other man starts singing, his Neapolitan dialect definitely more authentic-sounding than his own (just because the Devil speaks all languages doesn't mean he sounds as fluent as native speakers), he closes his eyes and simply listens for a moment. Without wings, he took me to Heaven and how come he's never heard of this song, hm, when it's so clearly directed at him?
Because, obviously, people see themselves in him quite readily, when they don't see their sins or their criminal acts or the losses they've suffered. Their pain. Sometimes, yes, it's just his story, at least the way they know it and he tends to forget about that. About how some of them, misguided as it may seem, find beauty in it, in the idea of him and he'd rather they didn't, of course, seeing as he's... nothing at all like that.
But they do, all the same.
And Elio gives it back to him, here, with all the softness in his being, his voice naturally clean, un-presumptuous like the rest of him.
Head tilted slightly to the side, Lucifer finally smiles. Hums along in a low baritone, something very pleased and comfortable (something adoring) hiding within that sound, even when he doesn't quite attempt to hit the notes. It's not about that. It's not singing. He stretches out his legs a little and lets Elio entertain him (distract him, oh, he's doing more than that), and he realises just then that, even hidden away like now, his wings are still here, that maybe...
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He meets Elio's eyes, not knowing what to expect, whether the man's sad for the monster he's becoming - because surely, he is, he's a punisher, he knows punishment like an integral part of himself - or sad for the knowledge he's acquiring, step by step. Heaven. Hell. The stories that aren't simply stories that you can choose to believe in if you wish.
It surprises him, though, when Elio leans up and stretches his arms, slinging them around his shoulders and pulling him down towards him in a hug, a hold, and Lucifer lets him, eyes wide. It doesn't make you the villain he says and for a moment, he can't breathe. He just sits there, slumped over awkwardly, his chin propped against Elio's shoulder, the other man's slender arms holding him tight (secure, how is that possible?). He wets his lips. Blinks, then reaches down, curling one arm around Elio's waist and stretching back up on the bench, lifting the other man with him easily, pulling him into his lap without breaking his hold.
Like this, Lucifer pulls him up against himself a little, pulls him in against his chest, flattening his palm against the small of his back before sliding it upwards, between his shoulder blades. He leans in against him, burying his nose in his soft hair. Lets the other man hold a bit of his weight, in turn, like he's asking, because isn't that all Elio keeps telling him? That he wants to carry, too, whatever he can.
Behind him, his wings manifest in a quiet rush of feathers, curling down around the other man, more or less covering him in white. Other than that, he doesn't say anything.
He thinks thank you. ]
no subject
He only stops when Lucifer's wings unfurl, curling around him and covering him in white, feathers everywhere, and there's the slightly dusty smell of them, the warmer tones of skin and he feels cared for, maybe even loved in a way he didn't even do when the other man had buried himself in his throat to the base. They're closer. He's practically inside him, in his arms, in his wings. And Lucifer is in his arms, too, they're both holding and keeping each other afloat.
Making a soft hmm'ing sound, Elio draws back a little to look up at Lucifer, just to see him like this, angelic in nature and hurt in the way that's so inherently human. He's beautiful. It's far from beautiful what's happened to him, it's ugly and twisted and wrong, but nevertheless, he isn't. Slowly, Elio makes to climb off his lap, elbows him gently in one wing, then in his hip to make him move over enough on the bench to make room before he takes a seat next to him, their thighs in parallel.
All that white, the feathers, makes him think of a song Mafalda would hum that summer, her Neapolitan dialect so homely in the wake of Oliver leaving. ]
How's your Italian? [ Elio glances sideways, thinking he might already know the answer. ] I promised you a song.
no subject
Elio proceeds to elbow him gently in the wing and he huffs at that, low and slightly irritated, pulling his wings back and slipping them into nothing. Blasted things, always in the way. Shifting a bit, he makes room for Elio on the bench and sips his whisky again, the liquid burning down his throat, warm and slightly spicy.
It doesn't take quite as much effort to ignore the phone that he isn't currently holding between his fingers. There'll be nothing to see on it, anyway. Nothing that he cares about.
This, he thinks, is preferable. ]
My Italian is fluent. [ He says, in Italian. Switches back to English: ] Same with every language.
[ He nods downwards, more at Elio's hands than the keys. ]
Go on.
no subject
Go on, Lucifer says to his hands.
A long, hard intake of breath and he settles in front of the keys, placing his hands, fingers curved and wrists comfortably relaxed as he starts playing the intro of Pink Martini's Una Notte a Napoli, the jazzy air to it filling the small distance between them, making it dance and leap, and Elio plays the melody perfectly, even as he turns his head to look directly at the other man while reciting the refrain. At the back of his head, Elio can hear Mafalda grumbling about his bad Neapolitan dialect, though it's really not all that bad and since Lucifer speaks Italian as well, he'll know. ]
"One night in Naples
With the moon and the sea
I met an angel
Who could not fly anymore
One night in Naples
He forgot about the stars
And without wings
He took me to Heaven"
[ That Pink Martini album had been relatively new that year and Mafalda had sung this song all summer, humming it as she'd watched over Oliver and him in the garden, at the pool, hanging out laundry to dry, picking apricots. That song had been Elio's whole summer that year and he'd thought it meant something, back then, in regards to Oliver and him, but since Oliver and him hadn't truly meant anything, naturally neither did the song.
It can have its place here, though, he thinks, like it's been waiting - and in his soft, pleasant singing voice, he continues into the first verse: ]
"With him flying high above the ground
Forgetting about the sorrows of the evening..."
no subject
Because, obviously, people see themselves in him quite readily, when they don't see their sins or their criminal acts or the losses they've suffered. Their pain. Sometimes, yes, it's just his story, at least the way they know it and he tends to forget about that. About how some of them, misguided as it may seem, find beauty in it, in the idea of him and he'd rather they didn't, of course, seeing as he's... nothing at all like that.
But they do, all the same.
And Elio gives it back to him, here, with all the softness in his being, his voice naturally clean, un-presumptuous like the rest of him.
Head tilted slightly to the side, Lucifer finally smiles. Hums along in a low baritone, something very pleased and comfortable (something adoring) hiding within that sound, even when he doesn't quite attempt to hit the notes. It's not about that. It's not singing. He stretches out his legs a little and lets Elio entertain him (distract him, oh, he's doing more than that), and he realises just then that, even hidden away like now, his wings are still here, that maybe...
Maybe Elio just likes... them... exactly enough.
Huh.
Imagine that. ]