[ It means that we've been played, Lucifer tells him, walking over to the table and perching against it, his eyes fixed on the sky, because his issue isn't with Elio at all, Elio sees that now, it's an old grudge and it's against the one who makes blessings out of people, the one who makes people gifts and other people recipients and thus, takes away at least some of their own agency. Which Lucifer hates. Don't let yourself be tempted.
Elio has landed himself right in the middle of the age-old battle about free will. He's landed himself here by being predestined for Lucifer. The same path he'd have chosen himself, had he been given the choice, don't get him wrong. He'd gladly have been in this exact spot, over and over and over, if he had any say in it.
And maybe he did, after all. Are they bound to each other, can't he leave? And if he can, would he? Elio looks over at Lucifer, just takes in the tiredness of his features, the man who's been at war for eons. No, Elio would never. You'd have to make him.
Walking over to him, he leans against the table next to Lucifer, their shoulders bumping - well, shoulder against upper arm, because, and he looks up at the sky, too, though he knows they're not seeing the same thing, they couldn't possibly. What Elio sees is a faint echo of the Northern Lights in Yukon, Lucifer tight around him, making stars explode behind his closed eyelids, taking away his breath. Here, the Italian late-summer night is pleasantly temperate around them. ]
You're making it sound like what we have is a bad thing.
[ His voice is also pleasant and, still, with no sense of accusation. Elio turns his head and looks up at Lucifer, at his strong profile, prominent nose. Maybe we've been led, it means, and that's different. ]
[ When the other man takes a half-seat next to him, their shoulders brush and Lucifer shivers at the sensation, reminded suddenly about the ground beneath his feet, the very physical, very real heat of Elio's body next to his own. He glances away, first, without seeing much of anything. There's no accusation in Elio's voice - if there had been, he would've definitely responded with something altogether different than what actually comes to him, now, in the quiet of this garden that Elio's made his own. Made it his own, yes, and then he made it theirs.
He clears his throat and hangs his head. ]
It's not, is it?
[ He blinks. Wipes his face with the back of his hand. His eyes have actually gone teary with anger. Right now, the last vestiges of aggression have burned away altogether, leaving just this raw sense of defeat in their wake. It's not because he doesn't want or appreciate with they have.
It's that he does. ]
I don't understand what He'd --
[ He trails off. Turns his face abruptly upwards, red fire flashing in his eyes again, though it still isn't anger; it isn't potent enough to win him any fights, not that it ever were. When he speaks, he isn't talking to Elio, his voice a little bit too wet around the edges, a little bit too young. ]
Was I supposed to love him? What kind of a punishment is that?
[ He shifts. Presses up against Elio's arm almost without thinking. Says, voice softer: ]
[ He doesn't interfere with Lucifer's chain of reactions, he doesn't try to wipe away his tears, kiss them away or anything like that, he doesn't place himself at the center of a process that's got very little to do with him, except that he caused it, unwittingly. Instead, he watches as Lucifer gives his father a talking-to, asks him if he was supposed to love Elio, if that's some kind of punishment. Then, sinking back down next to Elio, he says, defeated: It's not a punishment at all.
All Elio can really think about is that Lucifer just used the L-word. Not to him, but about him. Openly. Out loud. It makes him want to cling to him, climb him, sit in his lap and hide his face at his neck, taking in his scent and his warmth and his strength. Claim him.
Claiming someone is a choice you make. He gets that.
Clearing his throat, Elio leans to the side a little bit, lets the other man feel the weight of him, his presence, physical against his arm and says, voice low, soft, but steady, because what he's passing on it ancient wisdom to the Jewish people and although Lucifer may know it, considering his nature, it isn't his, so Elio gives it to him now. ]
In Hebrew, there's a saying - [ A slight pause. ] - you probably know it, la'dor v'dor - [ His Hebrew sounds very different from his Italian or his French or his English, it isn't a first language, it's his religious one. ] - which Jews say to mean that something's been passed from one generation to another. It's not just any gift, it's a gift that's supposed to help the younger person grow or prosper, because the older person's already grown or prospered from it, like a living experience that they share.
[ Pursing his lips for a moment, Elio looks up at the sky again. ]
My father gave me the piano that way. Who knows, I could be your piano, Lucifer. If you choose to let me.
[ Elio's quiet for a moment, simply leaning in against him a little in turn and his weight is so comforting, his scent equally so, that Lucifer can actually, physically feel his body lose its tension, bit by bit. The tears in his eyes won't spill, but they won't go away either. Instead, he's just stuck with them, with this useless feeling of loss and humiliation. This was mine, he thinks and looks at his feet. You let me believe it was mine and then, you took it away. There's no real fight left behind the sentiments; it is what it is.
Then, Elio tells him...
Oh.
Yes, he knows about la'dor v'dor, knows the literal meaning of it and the implied, cultural significance though obviously, it's never belonged to him. Passing things from generation to generation is quite a human thing, after all; in angelic terms, there's no such thing as a generation, someone coming before you or after you. They're immortal, incapable of having offspring. It's static.
But Elio, of course, has no such limitations and no need of them, either. If you choose to let me he says and Lucifer thinks that it's a beautifully naive thought, that his Father would ever intentionally bestow anything upon him that could make him happy or sated or loved. Impossible. But then, on the other hand... what is this, if not exactly that? Elio is a gift. It's precisely what he is!
With a deep, guttural sigh, Lucifer gets to his feet. He brushes his hand over Elio's thigh, a long, lingering touch, before he starts off a couple of steps. Stops. Looks over his shoulder. ]
[ Lucifer gets to his feet, brushing his hand over Elio's thigh as he does so, which makes Elio feel tremendously loved, and walks a few steps into the lingering dark around them. Maybe Elio would once have feared he'd leave completely, a few years or months or minutes ago, now he just waits for him to return - yes, their gazes meet over Lucifer's shoulder. Elio smiles.
Do you want me to, Lucifer asks him. Always with the desires. They both have a purpose now, of course.
Elio's smile widens. ]
Yes. [ That's a lot of weight to such a seemingly small, unassuming word. Elio pushes off the table as well and walks over to Lucifer, running his hand up the other man's arm, all the way from wrist to broad, broad shoulder, resting it there across the outline of bone, hard and unyielding beneath fabric and skin and flesh. Elio knows they don't have the same father. They don't even share a nature or a fate, but they share each other now, that's the blessing. They've been inside each other's bodies, they've eaten and drunk and breathed each other in. That's the blessing.
He leans up on his toes to reach, pressing his lips to Lucifer's cheek, just a soft, tender kiss, feeling the unshed tears at the corner of his eye against his nose, cheekbone. ] I want us to create something beautiful together.
[ Slowly, he eases down on flat feet, once more on eye-level with Lucifer's jawline, his chin, stubble. Even without a father who wishes him well, wishes him growth and prosperity, Elio thinks he deserves all of those things and if he's here to assist in giving them to him, he'll die fulfilled and happy. Which, really, when you think about it, sounds like a wedding vow, so he keeps it to himself. ]
[ He stays still as Elio comes up to him, running his hand up his arm, shoulder, and it's such a warm touch, it's warm and sweet and all the other, more complex things he's come to associate with the other man. There's a quiet but immensely prominent strength to him, to how he keeps following, keeps trailing right back into Lucifer's orbit despite all the hurt he's endured throughout the years. Despite how Lucifer could hurt him worse than all of them.
When he leans up and kisses Lucifer's cheek, Lucifer looks down, his eyelids fluttering shut. He thinks about L.A., about the home he'd created for himself and then left behind, trying to escape what he's facing now, what he can't seem to run from: that by his very nature, he'll never truly be at peace. To be at peace, for him, would be true, inevitable defeat.
He straightens up a little. Looks up towards Heaven again, his gaze harder now, no longer wet. He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him up against his side, running his palm down his side, over his hip and back up. His wings slip out from behind his shoulders, stretching out protectively, damaged as they may be. Strong, still. He's nowhere near finished. He can choose not to be. ]
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no subject
Elio has landed himself right in the middle of the age-old battle about free will. He's landed himself here by being predestined for Lucifer. The same path he'd have chosen himself, had he been given the choice, don't get him wrong. He'd gladly have been in this exact spot, over and over and over, if he had any say in it.
And maybe he did, after all. Are they bound to each other, can't he leave? And if he can, would he? Elio looks over at Lucifer, just takes in the tiredness of his features, the man who's been at war for eons. No, Elio would never. You'd have to make him.
Walking over to him, he leans against the table next to Lucifer, their shoulders bumping - well, shoulder against upper arm, because, and he looks up at the sky, too, though he knows they're not seeing the same thing, they couldn't possibly. What Elio sees is a faint echo of the Northern Lights in Yukon, Lucifer tight around him, making stars explode behind his closed eyelids, taking away his breath. Here, the Italian late-summer night is pleasantly temperate around them. ]
You're making it sound like what we have is a bad thing.
[ His voice is also pleasant and, still, with no sense of accusation. Elio turns his head and looks up at Lucifer, at his strong profile, prominent nose. Maybe we've been led, it means, and that's different. ]
no subject
He clears his throat and hangs his head. ]
It's not, is it?
[ He blinks. Wipes his face with the back of his hand. His eyes have actually gone teary with anger. Right now, the last vestiges of aggression have burned away altogether, leaving just this raw sense of defeat in their wake. It's not because he doesn't want or appreciate with they have.
It's that he does. ]
I don't understand what He'd --
[ He trails off. Turns his face abruptly upwards, red fire flashing in his eyes again, though it still isn't anger; it isn't potent enough to win him any fights, not that it ever were. When he speaks, he isn't talking to Elio, his voice a little bit too wet around the edges, a little bit too young. ]
Was I supposed to love him? What kind of a punishment is that?
[ He shifts. Presses up against Elio's arm almost without thinking. Says, voice softer: ]
It's not a punishment at all.
no subject
All Elio can really think about is that Lucifer just used the L-word. Not to him, but about him. Openly. Out loud. It makes him want to cling to him, climb him, sit in his lap and hide his face at his neck, taking in his scent and his warmth and his strength. Claim him.
Claiming someone is a choice you make. He gets that.
Clearing his throat, Elio leans to the side a little bit, lets the other man feel the weight of him, his presence, physical against his arm and says, voice low, soft, but steady, because what he's passing on it ancient wisdom to the Jewish people and although Lucifer may know it, considering his nature, it isn't his, so Elio gives it to him now. ]
In Hebrew, there's a saying - [ A slight pause. ] - you probably know it, la'dor v'dor - [ His Hebrew sounds very different from his Italian or his French or his English, it isn't a first language, it's his religious one. ] - which Jews say to mean that something's been passed from one generation to another. It's not just any gift, it's a gift that's supposed to help the younger person grow or prosper, because the older person's already grown or prospered from it, like a living experience that they share.
[ Pursing his lips for a moment, Elio looks up at the sky again. ]
My father gave me the piano that way. Who knows, I could be your piano, Lucifer. If you choose to let me.
no subject
Then, Elio tells him...
Oh.
Yes, he knows about la'dor v'dor, knows the literal meaning of it and the implied, cultural significance though obviously, it's never belonged to him. Passing things from generation to generation is quite a human thing, after all; in angelic terms, there's no such thing as a generation, someone coming before you or after you. They're immortal, incapable of having offspring. It's static.
But Elio, of course, has no such limitations and no need of them, either. If you choose to let me he says and Lucifer thinks that it's a beautifully naive thought, that his Father would ever intentionally bestow anything upon him that could make him happy or sated or loved. Impossible. But then, on the other hand... what is this, if not exactly that? Elio is a gift. It's precisely what he is!
With a deep, guttural sigh, Lucifer gets to his feet. He brushes his hand over Elio's thigh, a long, lingering touch, before he starts off a couple of steps. Stops. Looks over his shoulder. ]
Do you want me to?
no subject
Do you want me to, Lucifer asks him. Always with the desires. They both have a purpose now, of course.
Elio's smile widens. ]
Yes. [ That's a lot of weight to such a seemingly small, unassuming word. Elio pushes off the table as well and walks over to Lucifer, running his hand up the other man's arm, all the way from wrist to broad, broad shoulder, resting it there across the outline of bone, hard and unyielding beneath fabric and skin and flesh. Elio knows they don't have the same father. They don't even share a nature or a fate, but they share each other now, that's the blessing. They've been inside each other's bodies, they've eaten and drunk and breathed each other in. That's the blessing.
He leans up on his toes to reach, pressing his lips to Lucifer's cheek, just a soft, tender kiss, feeling the unshed tears at the corner of his eye against his nose, cheekbone. ] I want us to create something beautiful together.
[ Slowly, he eases down on flat feet, once more on eye-level with Lucifer's jawline, his chin, stubble. Even without a father who wishes him well, wishes him growth and prosperity, Elio thinks he deserves all of those things and if he's here to assist in giving them to him, he'll die fulfilled and happy. Which, really, when you think about it, sounds like a wedding vow, so he keeps it to himself. ]
no subject
When he leans up and kisses Lucifer's cheek, Lucifer looks down, his eyelids fluttering shut. He thinks about L.A., about the home he'd created for himself and then left behind, trying to escape what he's facing now, what he can't seem to run from: that by his very nature, he'll never truly be at peace. To be at peace, for him, would be true, inevitable defeat.
He straightens up a little. Looks up towards Heaven again, his gaze harder now, no longer wet. He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him up against his side, running his palm down his side, over his hip and back up. His wings slip out from behind his shoulders, stretching out protectively, damaged as they may be. Strong, still. He's nowhere near finished. He can choose not to be. ]
Then that's what we'll do.