[ It's been a decade. Time in Hell hurries, where Earth drags behind, he has thought about his mother continuously since his arrival. How she and Miranda will be preparing for his father's funeral now, alone. With his disappearance on top of everything. It's not truly a sense of guilt as much as it's a sense of mourning, like Elio buries his father a little every time he returns to his hell loop and his mother won't ever know.
I've recited the Kaddish for him, Mama. How many times more do I have to say it for him to find peace?
Other than that, existence here has fallen into a kind of routine. Lucifer carries out his duties and Elio attempts to make sense of his own. So far, only his father's hell loop has beckoned for him, so that's where he goes, dependably every day. Fixes his father's books, reads to him, because it's still all the contact they can manage. Elio reading, his father commenting, but never as a dialogue. Solo. They're two soloists playing over each other, still.
It'll get better, he knows. Hopes. He went there this morning, read Heraclitus before adding a few titles to his father's growing book collection and then, Elio returned to his palace.
Where he is now. The kitchen as it manifests is a big country kitchen, open fireplace, a view of sunflower and lavender fields. Elio's baking pancakes, because his father asked about his mother today, expecting no answer, and he's found the food he makes actually tastes like, well, food. He's newly showered, dressed in a red shirt and a pair of black jeans, more comfortable than most clothes on Earth.
Hell cares for him, he's discovered. That's the blessing. ]
[ As Amenadiel leaves Hell, his wings beat up swirls of ash in his wake and Lucifer wipes off his suit jacket irritably, feeling wrung inside-out. He's had very few news from above, aside from the knowledge that souls are not, in fact, running amok on the surface of the Earth any longer. Haven't, it seems, for the last day. Day.
Down here, it's been...
He shakes his head. It doesn't matter. What matters is the conversation they had near the end of his visit, his brother and him. About Elio. About the changes he's been bringing to Hell. Trails of luminescent grass, footprints blossoming along the hallways, greenery beginning to crawl along his father's doorway. And what of you, Brother asked Amenadiel, How are you changing?
I'm not, he'd answered. It all turns to dust when I go near it.
To which his brother had looked at him with that particularly infuriating brand of pity, the one that never fails to make Lucifer want to beat him over his stupid, bald head with whatever passes for a shovel around these parts. Do better, Luci, he'd said. Do better by him.
So, Lucifer enters Elio's palace for the first time in quite a while, aware that he's been trying not to visit too often, trying not to... well. Not to ruin things, as he seems predestined to do at every possible turn. But of course, down here these things are probably connected, meaning when the grass withers in response to him, he's basically ruining Elio's efforts, his traces.
Obviously not acceptable.
He follows the delicious scent of cooking to the kitchen, folding his wings away to avoid another ash-fall and entering, pausing briefly at the sight of Elio in his red shirt and black jeans, his slim built and casual stance making him feel even hungrier than the scent of food. He licks his lips. ]
Hello, darling.
[ Crossing to the counter, he stops there and leans against it. ]
[ Of course he's noticed. How Lucifer's keeping his distance. He could call it something else, sweeten the concept a little - emphasize how Lucifer's doing it, because it gets so evident around Elio who exactly has the greatest impact on the conditions of Hell, but it wouldn't change the reality of it. How Lucifer stays away for days, goes to painstaking lengths to not turn Elio's interior to ash and his grass to death and nothing. Elio loves him for it. Elio wants to take his hands and run them over the books and the bottles of French red lining the walls of his palace, tell him, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you.
Because, as it becomes evident when Lucifer enters the kitchen and crosses over to the counter, leaning against it, when it's Elio's wish, when it's for Elio's enjoyment or pleasure or sake, nothing Lucifer touches gives way to him. There are things they can have together.
This, for example. This they can have. Hello, darling.
Elio looks up from mixing the pancake batter, eggs and water and baking powder. No milk, because although it's not exactly necessary to right his relationship with God anymore, really, you have to suppose that Elio's fine with his blessings and his new status as some kind of son-in-law, Elio still lives semi-kosher. It's the familiarity of it. Hell is still so new, ten years in. Still a little bit daunting. This is what he has. His mother's recipe, almost one hundred years old.
This, and Lucifer. When he's here. It's been days. They slept together three days ago, actually slept, mind, Elio falling asleep with his head on the other man's chest, safe in his arms. He woke up with feathers in his hair, though Lucifer was long gone.
He smiles, starts mixing, smoothing out the fluids with the flour, working blind as he takes in the strong lines of Lucifer's body, his broad shoulders, muscular arms, pleasant expression. His wings are concealed right now, no chance of knocking any of Elio's ingredients over by mistake, then. Or catching a feather. Too bad. Elio would offer him a taste of his first batch of pancakes, left next to the stove where the pan it reheating, but it's still only him for whom it tastes right.
He won't offer Lucifer more disappointment. He's taken enough. ]
Hey, love. [ Oh, the domesticity, Elio thinks. Loving every second. Don't avoid this, don't avoid me, he wants to tell the other man, but instead says: ] I missed you.
[ He looks down, then sideways, gaze tracking over the view outside beyond the window. Sunflowers. Lavender fields. It's beautiful, serene, devoid of conflict. There's something indescribably peaceful about Elio's palace, about the way it has shaped itself to suit him and the calm he seems to carry within his very core. It doesn't just fit him. It belongs to him.
In Hell, meanwhile, the fires have started anew. ]
I've had to deal with fissures out beyond the shallow mountain side.
[ Most of Hell is barren land, really, aside from whatever Elio's touched in his travels around the hallways. But the ground itself is far from even. It rises in cliffs and precipices and falls in chasms, the fire that birthed the realm flowing in streams far underneath. For thousands of years, the land has remained unchanged, as if in stasis.
For the past couple of years, however, the ground has begun to move. ]
You know - [ He flaps his hand at the other man. ] - don't want a new Kakratoa on our hands.
[ He doesn't quite establish eye contact, not because he's lying - obviously - but because... well. It's not quite an answer to Elio's unspoken question, is it, the answer he knows that he owes him. I was hiding from you doesn't begin to cover the dilemma, either. I don't want to ruin you comes closer but then, look around this place. Look at the kind of power he has.
Lucifer has no excuse, basically, for his cowardice. So it's a hard thing to verbalize, whatever apology he owes Elio for leaving him alone in this place, even for a second of his stay. It's not that he can't handle himself, of course, it's that he shouldn't have to. Lucifer shouldn't be making him. ]
[ They stand like that, a counter apart, Lucifer looking everywhere but at Elio and Elio looking directly at him. Elio watches him for a second longer, the trouble edged into his features like that, evident in his eyes and no wonder that Hell is acting up, because Hell will always struggle in all the ways Lucifer doesn't allow himself. It's ironic that he should mention a volcanic island of all things, because it seems so fitting. Symbolism on point.
What happens on the surface. What happens in the depths.
After all, it's difficult shouting at your father through an unending barrier. Easier to turn it all inward. Watch the ground break up and boil. Elio feels for him, though it isn't pity, the other man doesn't need his pity. It's understanding. So, he dries his hands off in a tea towel, materializing right next to him, though little traces of flour cling to his fingers even as he leaves the cloth behind and walks over to Lucifer, stopping right in front of him, looking up and up and up. Shoulders, broad, neck, long, jaw, chiseled.
You're not a natural disaster, Elio wants to say to his beautiful face with its eyes that won't quite meet him. You can't fight the changing landscape, Lucifer. But he doesn't, because the Devil is doing everything in his power, and sometimes what's in their power isn't enough and they have to rely on others for help.
That's why Elio's here. That's the blessing.
It only requires that they're together.
And look at them! ]
I'm not worried. [ Elio pushes his flat palms against Lucifer's midriff and leans into him slightly, just for that added proximity. He doesn't try to lean up and kiss him or turn his touch sexual, no wandering hands or fronts pressed together, although there's warm skin just beneath the shirt fabric, warm and soft and tempting. It's just contact. Don't let yourself be tempted, someone would say, he knows, he's heard it before.
Anyway, the rest would be distractions. There's a time for that, too.
I'm not worried about a second Krakatoa, it means. I'm not worried about you either, you're doing the work. ] Though, I can tell you are. I'm here. Please use me.
[ After a decade, Elio's become completely fluent in harnessing the powers of this place - making things materialize, popping them out of existence. It's a great look on him, the effortlessness. Maybe it goes with the rest of who he is, his calm, his carefulness. Rather than bumbling around in, say, a complete panic, Elio generally knows where his limbs are going.
Like now, as he walks over to Lucifer and leans in, warm palms against his midriff, just looking up at him. Lucifer stares at him, some, stupid, backwards part of him rebelling at the mere idea of all that sweetness, of accepting it along with the rest, like he's somehow deserved even a fraction of it. Do better by him, said Amenadiel. Whatever that means.
Perhaps, it simply means to listen and acquiesce. ]
It's only...
[ He trails off. Folds both hands around Elio's waist slowly, reluctantly, before he lowers his chin and rests it gently on top of the other man's head. He sniffs. The scent of his curls still makes his body tingle, unfailingly so, like the years passing by only serve to emphasise how much Elio's engraved himself beneath his skin. He thinks back on his conversation with Amenadiel again. ]
I spoke to my brother today. Seems that we aren't even close to understanding your role in any of this, aside from how you're obviously meant to cause change. Good - good change.
[ He swallows. This, Elio already knows, even if they haven't explicitly discussed it in a while. Waltzing around the actual issue, aren't we, Dad help him but it just... isn't... Jaw tightening, he forces himself to get to the bloody point. He sighs. ]
[ Elio carries his weight for him happily when Lucifer folds his hands around his waist and leans his chin on top of his head, a gentle pressure of bone structure and flesh, their heights perfectly matched to each other. That's the blessing. The other man sniffs his curls in the way he likes to do, like a pleasant afterthought to all the rumination that's making him finally seek Elio out. That made him stay away, first. Turning his own head to the side a bit, Elio pushes his cheek against Lucifer's chest, feeling the solidity of him, how strong and firm he stands, and still he's fleeing. Like he used to flee to Earth, now it's just to the outermost borders of his realm. Elio can't give him the answers, he has no language for this. He can only tell him what he feels.
He heard his father talk about his mother today, she wanted a daughter so much, you know, his father had told him, making Elio smile a little amused as he's replied, well, she got a queen for son.
There had been no reply, there never is. They'd read Heraclitus for hours.
Elio closes his eyes and breathes Lucifer's scent in, breathes it all the way down into the bottom of his lungs, hoping it'll stay. Hoping he'll stay. ]
Don't be afraid of being with me, Lucifer. [ A small nod, the fabric of Lucifer's shirt soft against his skin, then Elio pushes away, stepping back enough to glance over at the pan. A minute. He turns his face back up towards Lucifer, looks him into his strong, firm features. Elio doesn't smile at him, but his expression's soft, nevertheless. Contemplative. ] You're not ruining anything, you're how I learn. I still can't find my way around alone.
[ The other morning, he'd gotten himself lost in the western hallways, so deep into the maze that Terry had said, he wouldn't have found him, hadn't the marking around his wrist showed him the way. In the shadows, the grass takes more time to grow, his steps hadn't been traced. Terry had been immensely grumpy about the whole incident, the King would flay the rest of me, he'd muttered, dragging Elio with him back. Having Lucifer here to lead the way, show him what it is he's working with would have been nice, Elio thinks. His father's glitchy hell loop, for example. Talking to someone so completely absent. Lucifer knows all these things.
[ The other man pulls away, going to check on the pan. When they re-establish eye-contact, Elio's expression is soft. Undemanding but firm, regardless. I still can't find my way around he says. Lucifer's chest tightens uncomfortably and he runs his hand through his hair, brushing off a few bits of ash still stuck to the strands.
Of course, Elio would notice his absence - how he stays away for days and days, only to return like there's nothing to be said about it, like Elio hasn't been left to his own devices in Hell, of all places. Lucifer has already heard from Maze that he got lost the other morning - that his helper demon had been on the very, very edge of a regular panic attack, trying to trace his steps. What if one day, Hell simply decides to swallow him up within the hallways? What if, one day, the wrong doors start calling to him, the loops Lucifer hopes fervently that he'll never even know of?
The loops he, himself, frequents.
If he's never around to help, then surely he's leaving those questions - those and others - up to chance. Elio's health, his happiness. ]
But what use will I be? Won't I just, I don't know...
[ He reaches for a pitcher of salt on the kitchen table and it promptly crumbles into ash. Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle, all over Elio's pretty floors. He raises his hand towards the other man in a silent completion of the question. He's seen Elio's footsteps here and there, within the immense labyrinth of hallways covering the surface of Hell. After a decade worth of activity, yes, you don't necessarily have to look quite so hard to find them any longer. He likes it, when he stumbles across them. Elio's marks on the land.
Maze, of course, can touch the grass. She chooses not to, claiming it gives her hives but she can.
He brushes the remaining specks of dust off his hand, expression darkening a little in irritation. The demons still haven't fully - or even partially - accepted Elio's presence, his influence on the place. At some point, certainly, they will revolt.
Another reason not to leave the other man unattended. ]
[ What use will I be, Lucifer asks and Elio is quiet for a little while, glancing aside, dripping oil on the pan so it sizzles loudly, before measuring up the first spoonful of batter, spreading it out. It's completely automatic, he's just made a batch of twenty exactly like this one, it's in his body, the movements. Muscle memory. While the batter fries, he looks over at Lucifer, the ashes he's made littering the floor now, the counter. He frowns, reaches out with his free hand and grabs the pitcher of salt that manifests next to him. He puts it on the counter between them. Like a statement.
You're not turning anything to ashes that I need, it means. No, what is happening is Lucifer, of course, being hard on himself, denying himself and in extension, denying Elio. Elio knows the other man wants to be there, he wants to support him, otherwise Hell wouldn't help him as it best can, Hell wouldn't be gentle with him or caring or kind, as it is because Hell extends from the Devil's hands. The Devil wants it to be like that. The pitcher of salt is unimportant, in the grand picture. The grass withering, unimportant, except when Elio can't find his way back.
The thing is, he could be taught. Elio is smart, he remembers very well, he could be taught. ]
You know Hell. [ He flips the pancake quickly with a skillet that, like the pitcher before it, manifests near his hand. No, Lucifer isn't ruining the things he needs. Elio bites his lower lip, considering how to explain it, gently but indisputably. ] I only know the way to my father's door. Once I step inside, I'm on my own.
[ Pause. He moves the pancake off the pan, pours a new spoonful of batter, rinse, repeat. The problem is, Elio can stop the loop, he can pause it, cozy it up, he's tried everything, lighting candles and making coffee, he's read every book he remembers from his father's collection. Yet, it's all still so one-sided. Once he leaves, the hell loop starts again, same as before, no change.
Elio's patient, but he's also waited enough in his life, he thinks. ]
[ The pancakes smell delicious. His mouth is actually watering a bit in response - in Hell, even pleasant scents are typically masked or distorted, like sound, but in Elio's palace, it's all right here on parade. He knows Maze is considering trying to bribe Elio into magicking up some decent booze that actually tastes like booze - but then, of course, she'd have to admit that she likes what he brings to the place, that the changes don't horrify her or make her feel homeless. They do. He's well aware.
But still, she gravitates towards rather than away from Elio's influences and that, to him, is extremely telling. She's not altogether good with change, his Maze, not the kind that calls upon her to alter her own habits, her own wants and needs and desires. They're his demons for a reason, after all. I need guidance, says Elio, not salt, flipping the pancake off the pan and pouring on another round of batter. It looks ritualistic, almost. Lucifer wonders whether he might have brought the recipe with him from upstairs.
He'll ask, he decides. If at some point, he'll be able to taste them.
If. ]
To be fair, I don't really know my way around, either. But I sense it.
[ He leans his hip against the counter and tilts his head sideways a fraction, watching the batter sizzle on the pan for a couple of seconds. ]
Next time you visit your father's loop, we'll go there together. He is in Hell - at this point, things could hardly be worse.
[ Deciding that this, at least, he can grant himself without even a hint of reluctance, he steps around the counter, drawing up behind Elio and slipping his arms around his waist. He links his hands against his flat belly, bending his neck to kiss the side of his throat. Then, he just stands there, thinking that he doesn't have a clue about what he's doing and hoping, hoping, oh, that Elio won't end up paying the price for his ignorance. ]
[ At this point, Elio has noticed how Lucifer navigates Hell with the same intuitive awareness that Elio does his palace. They're equally at home in each their realm, but like Lucifer couldn't have a taste of Elio's mother's pancakes here, because they'd be like ash in his mouth, Elio can't rely on his own traces outside in Hell, they won't stand forever and they might soon enough fade. It's how they're certainly together, in that they can do this, Lucifer coming up behind him, leaning against his back with his arms around his waist, kissing the side of his throat in a way that makes it really difficult to flip over any pancakes simultaneously, oh, but still apart. Even here, even like this. Because things are still standing between them. Things that have everything and nothing to do with Hell.
Elio manages to flip the pancake over, having to right it a bit on the pan, because it was a shaky toss, before putting the skillet down and running one hand along the hard, strong slope of Lucifer's arm, to his hands, where they link, holding him. Holding him so tight, his proximity everything Elio has been missing for three days straight. He breathes out long and slow, basking in the other man's scent, the feeling of his broad chest. We'll go there together, Lucifer tells him and Elio thanks him by slipping his free hand up along his shoulder, over the back of his neck, gripping his nape tightly, turning his head and bumping his nose softly against Lucifer's nose, because it's right there and it beckons.
Some things about Hell, Elio does sense, after all.
Thinking about his father, about how it's as bad as it can be, according to Lucifer, Elio thinks he's wrong. He thinks it could be both worse and better and he's here for the improvements. Eventually. Neither of them have truly figured out their approach yet. Take Elio, he manifests and manifests and manifests, but doesn't know what he's manifesting towards. He doesn't understand the context he's manifesting within. While Lucifer... Lucifer watches fissures in his foundation at a safe distance. ]
We're not aiming for worse.
[ He angles his face enough to slip his lips over Lucifer's lightly, then pulls back to flip the pancake off the pan. Oil, batter, repeat. As soon as they're empty again, his hands return to where Lucifer's linking his over Elio's stomach, spreads his fingers out over his knuckles, the backs of his hands.
How is it the proverb goes. Idle hands do the Devil's work? He smiles a bit. ]
[ He can practically feel Elio's patient nature assimilating itself into his own system as the other man manages to keep his pancake game strong whilst slipping his hand up Lucifer's shoulder to grip his neck and turning his face towards him. He's so lovely. The fine structures of his face feel tiny compared to Lucifer's hawk-like nose and his heavier chin, his body small and light against his front. His hand, however, is steady. His fingers long and strong. ]
Mm.
[ He leans his head lightly against the side of Elio's head and watches the batter baking on the pan, gaze growing a little more distant, a little lost in thought. He feels Elio's hands, warm and safe against his. The brief touch of his lips linger and for some reason, it makes him feel almost absurdly grateful.
It's a difficult balance to walk, having Elio near, knowing he's here and remembering that Hell is supposed to be Lucifer's punishment, his eternal damnation. Apparently, Miss Lopez had discovered a poem about the Devil, capturing one of his angelic sisters (incest, though??) and leading her astray by making her feel for him, by fooling her into closing her eyes to her own misfortune. The fact that it's complete and utter nonsense is one thing; but seeing, still, the underlying similarities...
Though he's been rallying against popular portrayals of him since the dawn of humanity, Lucifer has always known, to some extent, why the mere idea of them could cut him enough to cause a reaction. He knows.
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I've recited the Kaddish for him, Mama. How many times more do I have to say it for him to find peace?
Other than that, existence here has fallen into a kind of routine. Lucifer carries out his duties and Elio attempts to make sense of his own. So far, only his father's hell loop has beckoned for him, so that's where he goes, dependably every day. Fixes his father's books, reads to him, because it's still all the contact they can manage. Elio reading, his father commenting, but never as a dialogue. Solo. They're two soloists playing over each other, still.
It'll get better, he knows. Hopes. He went there this morning, read Heraclitus before adding a few titles to his father's growing book collection and then, Elio returned to his palace.
Where he is now. The kitchen as it manifests is a big country kitchen, open fireplace, a view of sunflower and lavender fields. Elio's baking pancakes, because his father asked about his mother today, expecting no answer, and he's found the food he makes actually tastes like, well, food. He's newly showered, dressed in a red shirt and a pair of black jeans, more comfortable than most clothes on Earth.
Hell cares for him, he's discovered. That's the blessing. ]
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Down here, it's been...
He shakes his head. It doesn't matter. What matters is the conversation they had near the end of his visit, his brother and him. About Elio. About the changes he's been bringing to Hell. Trails of luminescent grass, footprints blossoming along the hallways, greenery beginning to crawl along his father's doorway. And what of you, Brother asked Amenadiel, How are you changing?
I'm not, he'd answered. It all turns to dust when I go near it.
To which his brother had looked at him with that particularly infuriating brand of pity, the one that never fails to make Lucifer want to beat him over his stupid, bald head with whatever passes for a shovel around these parts. Do better, Luci, he'd said. Do better by him.
So, Lucifer enters Elio's palace for the first time in quite a while, aware that he's been trying not to visit too often, trying not to... well. Not to ruin things, as he seems predestined to do at every possible turn. But of course, down here these things are probably connected, meaning when the grass withers in response to him, he's basically ruining Elio's efforts, his traces.
Obviously not acceptable.
He follows the delicious scent of cooking to the kitchen, folding his wings away to avoid another ash-fall and entering, pausing briefly at the sight of Elio in his red shirt and black jeans, his slim built and casual stance making him feel even hungrier than the scent of food. He licks his lips. ]
Hello, darling.
[ Crossing to the counter, he stops there and leans against it. ]
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Because, as it becomes evident when Lucifer enters the kitchen and crosses over to the counter, leaning against it, when it's Elio's wish, when it's for Elio's enjoyment or pleasure or sake, nothing Lucifer touches gives way to him. There are things they can have together.
This, for example. This they can have. Hello, darling.
Elio looks up from mixing the pancake batter, eggs and water and baking powder. No milk, because although it's not exactly necessary to right his relationship with God anymore, really, you have to suppose that Elio's fine with his blessings and his new status as some kind of son-in-law, Elio still lives semi-kosher. It's the familiarity of it. Hell is still so new, ten years in. Still a little bit daunting. This is what he has. His mother's recipe, almost one hundred years old.
This, and Lucifer. When he's here. It's been days. They slept together three days ago, actually slept, mind, Elio falling asleep with his head on the other man's chest, safe in his arms. He woke up with feathers in his hair, though Lucifer was long gone.
He smiles, starts mixing, smoothing out the fluids with the flour, working blind as he takes in the strong lines of Lucifer's body, his broad shoulders, muscular arms, pleasant expression. His wings are concealed right now, no chance of knocking any of Elio's ingredients over by mistake, then. Or catching a feather. Too bad. Elio would offer him a taste of his first batch of pancakes, left next to the stove where the pan it reheating, but it's still only him for whom it tastes right.
He won't offer Lucifer more disappointment. He's taken enough. ]
Hey, love. [ Oh, the domesticity, Elio thinks. Loving every second. Don't avoid this, don't avoid me, he wants to tell the other man, but instead says: ] I missed you.
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In Hell, meanwhile, the fires have started anew. ]
I've had to deal with fissures out beyond the shallow mountain side.
[ Most of Hell is barren land, really, aside from whatever Elio's touched in his travels around the hallways. But the ground itself is far from even. It rises in cliffs and precipices and falls in chasms, the fire that birthed the realm flowing in streams far underneath. For thousands of years, the land has remained unchanged, as if in stasis.
For the past couple of years, however, the ground has begun to move. ]
You know - [ He flaps his hand at the other man. ] - don't want a new Kakratoa on our hands.
[ He doesn't quite establish eye contact, not because he's lying - obviously - but because... well. It's not quite an answer to Elio's unspoken question, is it, the answer he knows that he owes him. I was hiding from you doesn't begin to cover the dilemma, either. I don't want to ruin you comes closer but then, look around this place. Look at the kind of power he has.
Lucifer has no excuse, basically, for his cowardice. So it's a hard thing to verbalize, whatever apology he owes Elio for leaving him alone in this place, even for a second of his stay. It's not that he can't handle himself, of course, it's that he shouldn't have to. Lucifer shouldn't be making him. ]
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What happens on the surface. What happens in the depths.
After all, it's difficult shouting at your father through an unending barrier. Easier to turn it all inward. Watch the ground break up and boil. Elio feels for him, though it isn't pity, the other man doesn't need his pity. It's understanding. So, he dries his hands off in a tea towel, materializing right next to him, though little traces of flour cling to his fingers even as he leaves the cloth behind and walks over to Lucifer, stopping right in front of him, looking up and up and up. Shoulders, broad, neck, long, jaw, chiseled.
You're not a natural disaster, Elio wants to say to his beautiful face with its eyes that won't quite meet him. You can't fight the changing landscape, Lucifer. But he doesn't, because the Devil is doing everything in his power, and sometimes what's in their power isn't enough and they have to rely on others for help.
That's why Elio's here. That's the blessing.
It only requires that they're together.
And look at them! ]
I'm not worried. [ Elio pushes his flat palms against Lucifer's midriff and leans into him slightly, just for that added proximity. He doesn't try to lean up and kiss him or turn his touch sexual, no wandering hands or fronts pressed together, although there's warm skin just beneath the shirt fabric, warm and soft and tempting. It's just contact. Don't let yourself be tempted, someone would say, he knows, he's heard it before.
Anyway, the rest would be distractions. There's a time for that, too.
I'm not worried about a second Krakatoa, it means. I'm not worried about you either, you're doing the work. ] Though, I can tell you are. I'm here. Please use me.
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Like now, as he walks over to Lucifer and leans in, warm palms against his midriff, just looking up at him. Lucifer stares at him, some, stupid, backwards part of him rebelling at the mere idea of all that sweetness, of accepting it along with the rest, like he's somehow deserved even a fraction of it. Do better by him, said Amenadiel. Whatever that means.
Perhaps, it simply means to listen and acquiesce. ]
It's only...
[ He trails off. Folds both hands around Elio's waist slowly, reluctantly, before he lowers his chin and rests it gently on top of the other man's head. He sniffs. The scent of his curls still makes his body tingle, unfailingly so, like the years passing by only serve to emphasise how much Elio's engraved himself beneath his skin. He thinks back on his conversation with Amenadiel again. ]
I spoke to my brother today. Seems that we aren't even close to understanding your role in any of this, aside from how you're obviously meant to cause change. Good - good change.
[ He swallows. This, Elio already knows, even if they haven't explicitly discussed it in a while. Waltzing around the actual issue, aren't we, Dad help him but it just... isn't... Jaw tightening, he forces himself to get to the bloody point. He sighs. ]
I'm unsure about my role in it, I suppose.
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He heard his father talk about his mother today, she wanted a daughter so much, you know, his father had told him, making Elio smile a little amused as he's replied, well, she got a queen for son.
There had been no reply, there never is. They'd read Heraclitus for hours.
Elio closes his eyes and breathes Lucifer's scent in, breathes it all the way down into the bottom of his lungs, hoping it'll stay. Hoping he'll stay. ]
Don't be afraid of being with me, Lucifer. [ A small nod, the fabric of Lucifer's shirt soft against his skin, then Elio pushes away, stepping back enough to glance over at the pan. A minute. He turns his face back up towards Lucifer, looks him into his strong, firm features. Elio doesn't smile at him, but his expression's soft, nevertheless. Contemplative. ] You're not ruining anything, you're how I learn. I still can't find my way around alone.
[ The other morning, he'd gotten himself lost in the western hallways, so deep into the maze that Terry had said, he wouldn't have found him, hadn't the marking around his wrist showed him the way. In the shadows, the grass takes more time to grow, his steps hadn't been traced. Terry had been immensely grumpy about the whole incident, the King would flay the rest of me, he'd muttered, dragging Elio with him back. Having Lucifer here to lead the way, show him what it is he's working with would have been nice, Elio thinks. His father's glitchy hell loop, for example. Talking to someone so completely absent. Lucifer knows all these things.
Elio doesn't. He doesn't know, he feels. ]
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Of course, Elio would notice his absence - how he stays away for days and days, only to return like there's nothing to be said about it, like Elio hasn't been left to his own devices in Hell, of all places. Lucifer has already heard from Maze that he got lost the other morning - that his helper demon had been on the very, very edge of a regular panic attack, trying to trace his steps. What if one day, Hell simply decides to swallow him up within the hallways? What if, one day, the wrong doors start calling to him, the loops Lucifer hopes fervently that he'll never even know of?
The loops he, himself, frequents.
If he's never around to help, then surely he's leaving those questions - those and others - up to chance. Elio's health, his happiness. ]
But what use will I be? Won't I just, I don't know...
[ He reaches for a pitcher of salt on the kitchen table and it promptly crumbles into ash. Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle, all over Elio's pretty floors. He raises his hand towards the other man in a silent completion of the question. He's seen Elio's footsteps here and there, within the immense labyrinth of hallways covering the surface of Hell. After a decade worth of activity, yes, you don't necessarily have to look quite so hard to find them any longer. He likes it, when he stumbles across them. Elio's marks on the land.
Maze, of course, can touch the grass. She chooses not to, claiming it gives her hives but she can.
He brushes the remaining specks of dust off his hand, expression darkening a little in irritation. The demons still haven't fully - or even partially - accepted Elio's presence, his influence on the place. At some point, certainly, they will revolt.
Another reason not to leave the other man unattended. ]
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You're not turning anything to ashes that I need, it means. No, what is happening is Lucifer, of course, being hard on himself, denying himself and in extension, denying Elio. Elio knows the other man wants to be there, he wants to support him, otherwise Hell wouldn't help him as it best can, Hell wouldn't be gentle with him or caring or kind, as it is because Hell extends from the Devil's hands. The Devil wants it to be like that. The pitcher of salt is unimportant, in the grand picture. The grass withering, unimportant, except when Elio can't find his way back.
The thing is, he could be taught. Elio is smart, he remembers very well, he could be taught. ]
You know Hell. [ He flips the pancake quickly with a skillet that, like the pitcher before it, manifests near his hand. No, Lucifer isn't ruining the things he needs. Elio bites his lower lip, considering how to explain it, gently but indisputably. ] I only know the way to my father's door. Once I step inside, I'm on my own.
[ Pause. He moves the pancake off the pan, pours a new spoonful of batter, rinse, repeat. The problem is, Elio can stop the loop, he can pause it, cozy it up, he's tried everything, lighting candles and making coffee, he's read every book he remembers from his father's collection. Yet, it's all still so one-sided. Once he leaves, the hell loop starts again, same as before, no change.
Elio's patient, but he's also waited enough in his life, he thinks. ]
I need guidance, not salt.
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But still, she gravitates towards rather than away from Elio's influences and that, to him, is extremely telling. She's not altogether good with change, his Maze, not the kind that calls upon her to alter her own habits, her own wants and needs and desires. They're his demons for a reason, after all. I need guidance, says Elio, not salt, flipping the pancake off the pan and pouring on another round of batter. It looks ritualistic, almost. Lucifer wonders whether he might have brought the recipe with him from upstairs.
He'll ask, he decides. If at some point, he'll be able to taste them.
If. ]
To be fair, I don't really know my way around, either. But I sense it.
[ He leans his hip against the counter and tilts his head sideways a fraction, watching the batter sizzle on the pan for a couple of seconds. ]
Next time you visit your father's loop, we'll go there together. He is in Hell - at this point, things could hardly be worse.
[ Deciding that this, at least, he can grant himself without even a hint of reluctance, he steps around the counter, drawing up behind Elio and slipping his arms around his waist. He links his hands against his flat belly, bending his neck to kiss the side of his throat. Then, he just stands there, thinking that he doesn't have a clue about what he's doing and hoping, hoping, oh, that Elio won't end up paying the price for his ignorance. ]
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Elio manages to flip the pancake over, having to right it a bit on the pan, because it was a shaky toss, before putting the skillet down and running one hand along the hard, strong slope of Lucifer's arm, to his hands, where they link, holding him. Holding him so tight, his proximity everything Elio has been missing for three days straight. He breathes out long and slow, basking in the other man's scent, the feeling of his broad chest. We'll go there together, Lucifer tells him and Elio thanks him by slipping his free hand up along his shoulder, over the back of his neck, gripping his nape tightly, turning his head and bumping his nose softly against Lucifer's nose, because it's right there and it beckons.
Some things about Hell, Elio does sense, after all.
Thinking about his father, about how it's as bad as it can be, according to Lucifer, Elio thinks he's wrong. He thinks it could be both worse and better and he's here for the improvements. Eventually. Neither of them have truly figured out their approach yet. Take Elio, he manifests and manifests and manifests, but doesn't know what he's manifesting towards. He doesn't understand the context he's manifesting within. While Lucifer... Lucifer watches fissures in his foundation at a safe distance. ]
We're not aiming for worse.
[ He angles his face enough to slip his lips over Lucifer's lightly, then pulls back to flip the pancake off the pan. Oil, batter, repeat. As soon as they're empty again, his hands return to where Lucifer's linking his over Elio's stomach, spreads his fingers out over his knuckles, the backs of his hands.
How is it the proverb goes. Idle hands do the Devil's work? He smiles a bit. ]
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Mm.
[ He leans his head lightly against the side of Elio's head and watches the batter baking on the pan, gaze growing a little more distant, a little lost in thought. He feels Elio's hands, warm and safe against his. The brief touch of his lips linger and for some reason, it makes him feel almost absurdly grateful.
It's a difficult balance to walk, having Elio near, knowing he's here and remembering that Hell is supposed to be Lucifer's punishment, his eternal damnation. Apparently, Miss Lopez had discovered a poem about the Devil, capturing one of his angelic sisters (incest, though??) and leading her astray by making her feel for him, by fooling her into closing her eyes to her own misfortune. The fact that it's complete and utter nonsense is one thing; but seeing, still, the underlying similarities...
Though he's been rallying against popular portrayals of him since the dawn of humanity, Lucifer has always known, to some extent, why the mere idea of them could cut him enough to cause a reaction. He knows.
Holding Elio a bit closer, he tries not to. ]