[ 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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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. ]