[ The only response he gets is Lucifer turning around towards him and picking him up, easily, because Elio will always be feathers between his arms and he's going to venture the guess that the feathers he caries on his back weigh more, even. He carries him, like a bride over the threshold of a newly purchased house, to the bed, Elio watching the tall walls of his castle or whatever word he'll end up using about this place, home, presumably, at some point, shake a little for each step the other man takes, the movements jostling Elio a bit in his arms. He leans his forehead against Lucifer's upper arm, strong and steady, thinking that it really is the myth of Persephone in an Abrahamic and little less heteronormative packaging, the two of them. The Lord of the Underworld and his bride. His queen. Yet, Elio wasn't abducted, he wasn't forced, no matter how much Lucifer might worry himself with these thoughts. Elio chose to come here by himself. Lucifer only gave him that choice.
And what a choice.
Looking up at the high ceilings above his head, basking in a light that's slightly warmer now than when they arrived, as if hours have passed, although Elio's reasonably convinced they haven't been at it for that long, he thinks about his father's loop of regret, he thinks about the books he threw out, already wondering what to put there instead. It feels extremely significant, not only because Elio is getting the feeling this will be an integral part of his function down here, but because. It's his father. It's his father. And this is Lucifer, tugging him in, pulling the covers up to his waist, Elio burying into them the rest of the way. He's exhausted. If he's going to help Lucifer or his father or anyone else, he needs rest. He isn't more celestial than that.
Eyes falling slowly shut, he feels Lucifer's lips against his temple, a hint of stubble where his chin is pressing against his skin and Elio smiles when the other man nuzzles into his hair. He feels so immensely loved, even as Lucifer straightens up and turns away, about to leave.
Michel was wrong, about Lucifer, about Lucifer's feelings for him. As he'll discover when he gets here. For some reason, it isn't a frightening thought, how Elio just senses vividly that it's what's going to happen. He won't be there to close the other man's eyes on Earth, but maybe he'll be here to close his eyes in Hell.
Maybe that's going to be a good thing for everyone involved. ]
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And what a choice.
Looking up at the high ceilings above his head, basking in a light that's slightly warmer now than when they arrived, as if hours have passed, although Elio's reasonably convinced they haven't been at it for that long, he thinks about his father's loop of regret, he thinks about the books he threw out, already wondering what to put there instead. It feels extremely significant, not only because Elio is getting the feeling this will be an integral part of his function down here, but because. It's his father. It's his father. And this is Lucifer, tugging him in, pulling the covers up to his waist, Elio burying into them the rest of the way. He's exhausted. If he's going to help Lucifer or his father or anyone else, he needs rest. He isn't more celestial than that.
Eyes falling slowly shut, he feels Lucifer's lips against his temple, a hint of stubble where his chin is pressing against his skin and Elio smiles when the other man nuzzles into his hair. He feels so immensely loved, even as Lucifer straightens up and turns away, about to leave.
Michel was wrong, about Lucifer, about Lucifer's feelings for him. As he'll discover when he gets here. For some reason, it isn't a frightening thought, how Elio just senses vividly that it's what's going to happen. He won't be there to close the other man's eyes on Earth, but maybe he'll be here to close his eyes in Hell.
Maybe that's going to be a good thing for everyone involved. ]