[ Rather than a hand, Elio is offered a whole chest, two muscular, strong arms as Lucifer bends down to pick him up, cradling him against his upper body the same way Elio’s been carried by him many times already, because they’ve flown together, on Earth, to Hell, Elio knows this feeling. Yet, it’s very different when Lucifer is showing himself in this form, not because of how he looks, he looks like the King of Hell, which Elio has always known him to be, but because of how he feels, the slight distance like a fence between them, as if Lucifer doesn’t dare press him too close. Or he doesn’t want to. Breathing shallowly, fear catching up to him, Elio keeps his bad wrist tugged to his chest, his other hand coming up to feel the slope of Lucifer’s naked shoulder, the charred flesh there, broken skin, hardness and heat. Something in him stirs, but he ignores it, seeing as everything else would be inappropriate, really. This close, Lucifer smells like smoke, a lot of it, and Elio sees why, when they step outside.
Hell is on fire.
Oh, he hears himself exclaim, halfway in response to Lucifer’s voice, the quality of it, halfway in response to seeing what Lucifer’s anger has done to his kingdom. He’s burning it all down, that’s the strength, the pure intensity of his emotions and for some reason, that speaks to Elio on so many more levels than anything else about him, and it isn’t like Lucifer doesn’t speak to him plenty on a regular day. It’s the same stir again, deep in the pit of his stomach. You’ve got me, he wants to reply, but his lips feel dry and he finally feels the heat again, because it’s everywhere. The air is heat. The air is embers.
That’s how much he cares, Elio thinks. That’s how much he loves him, he’d burn down the world.
As Lucifer spreads his batwings, Elio looks up at him for a long moment, then leans in and presses his forehead, good side, against the other man’s, Devil’s throat, feeling the contour of Adam’s apple and hard muscle, rough skin. His arm slips a bit further around his shoulder, meeting the motions of takeoff with expectancy, muscles flexing, tighening. He stares into the redness of him as they head for the flashing, flaming sky. The rawness he’s putting on display.
[ He feels the way Elio presses closer, his forehead warm and just a bit damp against the side of his throat. They fly, then, up and up, above and away, Lucifer's heavy wings beating through the air. He keeps thinking that Grigori couldn't possibly know how any of this works - he could've started experimenting into any which direction, could've attempted to remove Elio's bracelet or his head or done irreversible damage to him, the way demons have taught themselves to damage others throughout the history of Hell.
It's what they do in Lucifer's kingdom. And Elio is right here, in the midst of it, of torturers and murderers and souls that punish themselves without end.
He keeps Elio close all the way back to the palace. Near the entrance, Maze is waiting and he ignores her, letting her wait, before stepping inside. His batwings scrape against the sides of the doorway loudly and his footfalls - feet naked, clawed - sound heavy as he lets the door fall shut behind him, silently, silently. The palace has opened up to the bedroom and the bathroom, first, so he sets the other man down gently, not knowing what he'd like, how he'd prefer it.
Lucifer clears his throat. He doesn't really want to speak, doesn't want to hear his own voice like this with his ruined vocal chords and charred lungs running the show but it's not about him, is it, he can pack his vanity away for a little while yet.
I feel that Elio told him before and that means something, obviously. It means more than anything. ]
I'll stay here. [ Pause. A half-step backwards, away. ] If you'd like.
[ He glances down at Elio's wrist and pauses. Stretches out his batwings uselessly, ignoring the way they look in the field of his vision, dark, ugly, skin-like. ]
Did you save a feather last time?
[ He preened them only a few mornings ago, with his gentle, loving fingers. Beautiful Elio. Something inside his chest tightens painfully and Lucifer looks down at his feet, frowning. ]
[ It’s not a long flight, batwings apparently travel just as fast as Lucifer’s ordinary ones, and all the way, Elio remains curled up in his arms, pushing in against his chest, seeking out his heat and his closeness. Maze is waiting for them back at the palace, Lucifer ignoring her in favor of getting Elio inside, the structure giving them bedroom and bathroom for convenience’s sake. Hell still cares. Even while burning, Hell still cares, maybe more than ever now. In the bright light from the illusionary sun outside the windows, Lucifer looks dark and looming. He also looks like one big excuse for himself, like he knows how bad a fit he seems to be in this form. Like the pale walls are rejecting him. Elio frowns when Lucifer does. ]
I have a whole box full, it’s under the bed. [ His voice is tired, a bit sluggish, and he doesn’t move to get it himself. He wants Lucifer to stay, he wants Lucifer to take care of him. Now that he’s here, Elio couldn’t imagine anything worse than watching him leave. To go melt down demons or burn bare the very earth. Things like that. Devil things.
He’s never told Lucifer that he saves his feathers, well, the best of them, he does shed a ton when he preens them, after all, but Elio does and for the sheer purpose of being able to open the lid of the box whenever Lucifer’s away and get a little glimpse of his shine. His glow. His inner fire, external now. Lucifer isn’t the only one who externalizes his feelings, is he? Elio will gladly admit to that. ] You left me a feather in Rome, too. What can they do?
[ While he talks, Elio keeps his eyes locked on Lucifer, backing up against the bed slowly until he’s half-seated on the edge of it, bad wrist throbbing harshly against his chest. It feels swollen and burning hot. Elio is breathing a bit too fast and he feels faint from it, but even when he tries slowing down his chest, it only gets worse. His whole body feels like a holster. He blinks up at Lucifer rapidly, taking in his hands, claws, like talons on a bird. Same with his naked feet. He’s wearing nothing and just looks immense in every way.
Blink, blink goes Elio. Rather than looking away, he looks up, meeting the other man’s eyes. ]
[ He feels awkward, his wings drooping a bit behind him in response because it doesn't really matter whether they're the feathery ones or these, they go where his mood goes and right now, it's mostly just a downwards spiral. Steeling himself at Elio's words - a box under the bed, really?, like... like keepsakes? - he watches for a moment as Elio sinks down onto the bed, looking tired and worn, like his skin's grown too thin for him now. He's looking back, is Elio, taking him in but there's no disgust in his gaze, no fear, nothing but that tiredness, that aching sense of misuse.
Lucifer's reminded of the way he looked, being pulled about and manhandled by Michel back in L.A. The event that made the city lose its notion of home, if he thinks about it. He left it with Elio in his arms without looking back even once.
Yes, he'd lay waste to realms if necessary for this man. Hell will keep burning for a long time yet. ]
One moment.
[ He draws over to the bed and shifts onto his knees, using one, clawed alula to lean against the bed for balance as he pulls out the box. It's not particularly large but as he touches it, he can sense his feathers beneath the lid. He sits the box on the floor by Elio's feet and opens it, picking out one, glittering feather, holding it very gently between his claws. He looks it over for a moment, head tilted slightly. It doesn't feel like it belongs to him at all. ]
Okay, hold out your wrist.
[ He remains crouched down, looking up at Elio, still balanced against the bed by one wing-tip, the other wing arched out slightly to the side. Around them, the palace remains quiet, docile though there's an orange tint to the sky outside, a semblance of red. This place, then, will not burn like the rest.
[ Lucifer moves over to him, crouching down by his feet and supporting himself against the side of the bed with his wing, the whole arrangement making him look even more bat-like than before. Elio watches him, fascinated, while the other man gets out the box and opens it, picking up one single feather, its whiteness looking foreign in comparison to how dark, red and black and shadows and soot, he’s turned in his Devil form. When Lucifer asks for his wrist, Elio winces but complies, reaching up with his free hand to support the weight of his injured one as he lowers his arm. The same way he feels when he’s blushing, he can now feel all blood leaving his face, a pale sheen to his forehead, to his cheeks.
If there was ever a time for a nosebleed, this is it, he thinks.
But he doesn’t get a nosebleed. Instead he gets an eyeful of Lucifer, holding the feather and looking up at him with a gaze that says, the world, any one of them, can burn for all he cares, for Elio, yes? Elio remembers Michel, he remembers Michel promising him that Lucifer would never be able to say the words and Elio thinks he might be right, although forever is a very long time, but what Michel could say in words, if not in action? Lucifer says in action alone. Elio thinks that’s more impressive than three syllables of the English language. Or the Italian one. Two in French. Maybe just as impressive as the seven syllables it takes for a man to tell another man, I love you, in Hebrew, God’s own language for a reason.
He shifts, lifting his knee up to present his wrist to Lucifer in front of him. ]
Of all the ways someone has told me they care about me, Lucifer, I like this the best.
[ Yours. Angel feathers and batwings and brimstone. Wearing it all on your skin, your heart included. It’s beautiful. ]
[ He looks Elio's wrist over - it seems swollen, definitely, and the shackles have left marks on him, red and raw and angry-looking. Lips thinning, Lucifer hesitates for half a second before he reaches out, folding his hand beneath Elio's gently, palm against palm. In comparison to his demonic limbs, the other man's hand and fingers look tiny, minuscule. Beautiful, too. Elegant. He stares for a couple of heartbeats. He takes care not to jostle Elio's wrist, simply keeping both their hands still.
Meeting the other man's eyes and hating what he sees reflected in them - red, orange, fire - he manages a small smile. He can do as much for him, even if he can't quite pretend that he understands. ]
It baffles the mind, darling.
[ No discussion, no questioning of the underlying meaning beneath the words; he'd never question Elio's affection for him, never. Imagine how ungrateful that would be. How hurtful.
He presses the feather down onto Elio's damaged wrist. It lights up, more and more, until the whole room is glowing around them, Elio's skin warming a little as the tendons and bone heal underneath. It doesn't take more than thirty seconds at the most but throughout, Lucifer sees both Elio and himself surrounded by it, by white and gold and everything the other man deserves from him and it's good enough for that tiny, insignificant span of time.
Then, it dies and the feather crumbles into dust, mirroring the shackles. He looks up at Elio, waiting to catch his gaze, hoping to see the lines of tension on his features easing in response. He doesn't touch the hurt wrist, though. If it isn't fully healed, he'd rather avoid accidentally making anything worse. ]
[ It baffles the mind, Lucifer tells him in response and darling, a word that sounds new and untried in that gruff voice of his and Elio looks up at his face while he aligns their palms and places the feather across Elio's wrist, the light of it as it seeps into his system burning his eyes, making him blink rapidly, tears escaping the corners of them and slipping down his cheeks, just one or two. Big ones. It's incredibly beautiful, the contrast between Lucifer's angelic side and his demonic one, like one only manages to emphasize the other. Elio knows that the other man hates himself this way, that he hates having to touch Elio at all, but he does so anyway, because Elio needs him to and wants him to and because Elio loves him exactly like this which apparently baffles the mind, when you're Lucifer and this is everything you detest in yourself.
He feels the bone fracture heal, feels it crack into place and gloss over, tendons healing as well and once the feather crumbles into ash, in a repeat of the shackles, there's only the swollenness left, a little bit of scratching, surface injuries, everything more deep-seated seemingly taken care of. Elio's features relax a fraction, his frown smoothening out. Letting his fingertips slip over Lucifer's red, charred wrist briefly, he moves his hand around a few times, just twists the wrist to get a sense of whether there's anything that isn't as it should be. Of course there's nothing, there's just relief. This, too, Lucifer has given him. Along with his throaty darling and his contrasting gentleness, the interlude in the midst of a dramatic display of anger and vengeance.
Suddenly, Elio feels bone-tired, like everything that kept his composure for him has crumbled with the feather and unceremoniously, he closes his fingers around the other man's lower arm before just tumbling onto his side on the bed, his legs sticking out at an awkward angle. He thinks for a moment, wills his shoes away, and they disappear in accordance, because this realm is his and it's all just illusions anyway. Beneath it, he's as naked as Lucifer is right now. The pants go up in smoke as well. His shirt. Suddenly he's lying on perfect eye-level with a crouching Devil, naked as the day he was born. And he doesn't feel the least nervous about it, just exhausted.
Looking down at Lucifer, he tightens his grip. Sighs. His head still hurts, his hair feeling sticky and clumping on the right side of his head. ]
You'll stay, right? I want you to stay. Until I sleep.
[ It takes willpower not to draw away from Elio's brief, fleeting touch of fingertips against his wrist - he really isn't very used to being touched when he's like this and it feels odd, like the nerve endings aren't as they should be. Less sensitive. The form was created for Hell, after all, and tougher, less penetrable skin is definitely an advantage down here, a necessity.
His demons were made for him and look what happens, all the same.
Indeed, in this place, anyone can be an enemy.
His gaze slip up to Elio's head and face, bruised and bloodied from Grigori's fists. As the other man lies down, he grabs Lucifer's arm fully and clings on like a limpet, basically, and he would've had to exert at least a little force to get free. If he'd wanted to, which...
Well. Just because he doesn't want any part of Elio to touch him when he's like this, doesn't mean he'll deny him the feeling of safety if this is how he gets it. He'll deny him nothing. So he keeps still for a second or two, then reaches for another feather, brushing it through Elio's hair lightly before laying it over his head injury. His own features soften into something that he can't be sure about, this particular face is a stranger to anything but various shades of anger. But soften, it does. He folds his legs beneath him and sits on the floor because in this palace, Elio is Queen and Lucifer simply belongs, letting Elio hold his arm as he watches the light seep into his skin once again.
[ His words come out a whisper while he lies still beneath the weight of the feather against his head injury, the light hurting his eyes again, so he closes them, blindly feeling the scarred, rough tissue of Lucifer’s arm beneath his fingertips. Elio digs them in, his fingers, feels for him, the heaviness and strength of his muscles, thick skin, like armor. He imagines down here, you’d do well as a crustacean, really. With your shells and your claws. He remembers catching crabs by the beach as a kid.
His fingers tighten their hold. Got you, Lucifer had said when he came for him before, to his rescue, Elio a right damsel, but the question is who’s got who here. Now.
They’ve got each other, Elio likes to think, yes.
The second feather, like the first, crumbles to ash, the little flakes sitting in Elio’s curls for a second before magicking away, the same way his castle takes care of him always. And the Lord of Hell, too, sitting here, having shifted into a more comfortable position in order to stay. Guard. With his softening features that Elio only faintly glimpses through the glow, features that swing both ways, anger, care, anger, care. Anger because he cares, of course. Elio understands.
He’s lit the world aflame, after all. There’ll be consequences for everyone involved.
Licking his lips, still dry, Elio cracks an eye open, the other man’s face more easily discernible in the fake afternoon sunlight from the equally fake outside. He’s bold in that shade of red, completely unmistakeable. This is the Devil. Glancing up at Lucifer one-eyed, he smiles faintly, tiredly. ]
You’re warm. [ And Lucifer is, burning hot against his skin. Like his core is radiating all that heat into his whole system. ] It’s nice. I feel cold.
[ Lucifer frowns. There's something almost translucent about Elio like this, something a little too fragile, vulnerable. Logically, it has to do with being abducted and abused, bones broken, the fear he must have felt - regardless, this place is supposed to cater to his every whim, isn't it? Why isn't he warm? Shifting on his knees, Lucifer glares at the bed, wishing he could will forward something to warm Elio's naked body with but then again, you're warm he said and that's true. His Devil form is hotter than his regular form, even, like there's embers smoldering beneath the skin.
Maybe there is.
Lips thinning, he gets to his feet slowly, pulling his arm from Elio's grip as gently as he can. Then, he steps around the bed, the claws on his feet clacking against the floor, before he slides onto the bed awkwardly, his limbs feeling cumbersome and wrong. He lies down behind Elio and folds one arm around his waist, pulling him up against his own nakedness before folding one, huge wing over him, covering his body from ankles to shoulder. The other, he keeps curled up along his back. Compared to his regular wings, these are somewhat simpler to manage on a bed - except for the way the spikes keep trying to catch on pretty much everything.
It'll do for now.
He doesn't shut his eyes or try to fall asleep. Instead, he stays awake and aware, eyes unblinking, curled around Elio's precious body and forcing himself not to ask any further questions.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Hell is on fire.
Oh, he hears himself exclaim, halfway in response to Lucifer’s voice, the quality of it, halfway in response to seeing what Lucifer’s anger has done to his kingdom. He’s burning it all down, that’s the strength, the pure intensity of his emotions and for some reason, that speaks to Elio on so many more levels than anything else about him, and it isn’t like Lucifer doesn’t speak to him plenty on a regular day. It’s the same stir again, deep in the pit of his stomach. You’ve got me, he wants to reply, but his lips feel dry and he finally feels the heat again, because it’s everywhere. The air is heat. The air is embers.
That’s how much he cares, Elio thinks. That’s how much he loves him, he’d burn down the world.
As Lucifer spreads his batwings, Elio looks up at him for a long moment, then leans in and presses his forehead, good side, against the other man’s, Devil’s throat, feeling the contour of Adam’s apple and hard muscle, rough skin. His arm slips a bit further around his shoulder, meeting the motions of takeoff with expectancy, muscles flexing, tighening. He stares into the redness of him as they head for the flashing, flaming sky. The rawness he’s putting on display.
Elio loves it. ]
I feel that.
no subject
It's what they do in Lucifer's kingdom. And Elio is right here, in the midst of it, of torturers and murderers and souls that punish themselves without end.
He keeps Elio close all the way back to the palace. Near the entrance, Maze is waiting and he ignores her, letting her wait, before stepping inside. His batwings scrape against the sides of the doorway loudly and his footfalls - feet naked, clawed - sound heavy as he lets the door fall shut behind him, silently, silently. The palace has opened up to the bedroom and the bathroom, first, so he sets the other man down gently, not knowing what he'd like, how he'd prefer it.
Lucifer clears his throat. He doesn't really want to speak, doesn't want to hear his own voice like this with his ruined vocal chords and charred lungs running the show but it's not about him, is it, he can pack his vanity away for a little while yet.
I feel that Elio told him before and that means something, obviously. It means more than anything. ]
I'll stay here. [ Pause. A half-step backwards, away. ] If you'd like.
[ He glances down at Elio's wrist and pauses. Stretches out his batwings uselessly, ignoring the way they look in the field of his vision, dark, ugly, skin-like. ]
Did you save a feather last time?
[ He preened them only a few mornings ago, with his gentle, loving fingers. Beautiful Elio. Something inside his chest tightens painfully and Lucifer looks down at his feet, frowning. ]
no subject
I have a whole box full, it’s under the bed. [ His voice is tired, a bit sluggish, and he doesn’t move to get it himself. He wants Lucifer to stay, he wants Lucifer to take care of him. Now that he’s here, Elio couldn’t imagine anything worse than watching him leave. To go melt down demons or burn bare the very earth. Things like that. Devil things.
He’s never told Lucifer that he saves his feathers, well, the best of them, he does shed a ton when he preens them, after all, but Elio does and for the sheer purpose of being able to open the lid of the box whenever Lucifer’s away and get a little glimpse of his shine. His glow. His inner fire, external now. Lucifer isn’t the only one who externalizes his feelings, is he? Elio will gladly admit to that. ] You left me a feather in Rome, too. What can they do?
[ While he talks, Elio keeps his eyes locked on Lucifer, backing up against the bed slowly until he’s half-seated on the edge of it, bad wrist throbbing harshly against his chest. It feels swollen and burning hot. Elio is breathing a bit too fast and he feels faint from it, but even when he tries slowing down his chest, it only gets worse. His whole body feels like a holster. He blinks up at Lucifer rapidly, taking in his hands, claws, like talons on a bird. Same with his naked feet. He’s wearing nothing and just looks immense in every way.
Blink, blink goes Elio. Rather than looking away, he looks up, meeting the other man’s eyes. ]
no subject
Lucifer's reminded of the way he looked, being pulled about and manhandled by Michel back in L.A. The event that made the city lose its notion of home, if he thinks about it. He left it with Elio in his arms without looking back even once.
Yes, he'd lay waste to realms if necessary for this man. Hell will keep burning for a long time yet. ]
One moment.
[ He draws over to the bed and shifts onto his knees, using one, clawed alula to lean against the bed for balance as he pulls out the box. It's not particularly large but as he touches it, he can sense his feathers beneath the lid. He sits the box on the floor by Elio's feet and opens it, picking out one, glittering feather, holding it very gently between his claws. He looks it over for a moment, head tilted slightly. It doesn't feel like it belongs to him at all. ]
Okay, hold out your wrist.
[ He remains crouched down, looking up at Elio, still balanced against the bed by one wing-tip, the other wing arched out slightly to the side. Around them, the palace remains quiet, docile though there's an orange tint to the sky outside, a semblance of red. This place, then, will not burn like the rest.
Good. ]
no subject
If there was ever a time for a nosebleed, this is it, he thinks.
But he doesn’t get a nosebleed. Instead he gets an eyeful of Lucifer, holding the feather and looking up at him with a gaze that says, the world, any one of them, can burn for all he cares, for Elio, yes? Elio remembers Michel, he remembers Michel promising him that Lucifer would never be able to say the words and Elio thinks he might be right, although forever is a very long time, but what Michel could say in words, if not in action? Lucifer says in action alone. Elio thinks that’s more impressive than three syllables of the English language. Or the Italian one. Two in French. Maybe just as impressive as the seven syllables it takes for a man to tell another man, I love you, in Hebrew, God’s own language for a reason.
He shifts, lifting his knee up to present his wrist to Lucifer in front of him. ]
Of all the ways someone has told me they care about me, Lucifer, I like this the best.
[ Yours. Angel feathers and batwings and brimstone. Wearing it all on your skin, your heart included. It’s beautiful. ]
no subject
Meeting the other man's eyes and hating what he sees reflected in them - red, orange, fire - he manages a small smile. He can do as much for him, even if he can't quite pretend that he understands. ]
It baffles the mind, darling.
[ No discussion, no questioning of the underlying meaning beneath the words; he'd never question Elio's affection for him, never. Imagine how ungrateful that would be. How hurtful.
He presses the feather down onto Elio's damaged wrist. It lights up, more and more, until the whole room is glowing around them, Elio's skin warming a little as the tendons and bone heal underneath. It doesn't take more than thirty seconds at the most but throughout, Lucifer sees both Elio and himself surrounded by it, by white and gold and everything the other man deserves from him and it's good enough for that tiny, insignificant span of time.
Then, it dies and the feather crumbles into dust, mirroring the shackles. He looks up at Elio, waiting to catch his gaze, hoping to see the lines of tension on his features easing in response. He doesn't touch the hurt wrist, though. If it isn't fully healed, he'd rather avoid accidentally making anything worse. ]
no subject
He feels the bone fracture heal, feels it crack into place and gloss over, tendons healing as well and once the feather crumbles into ash, in a repeat of the shackles, there's only the swollenness left, a little bit of scratching, surface injuries, everything more deep-seated seemingly taken care of. Elio's features relax a fraction, his frown smoothening out. Letting his fingertips slip over Lucifer's red, charred wrist briefly, he moves his hand around a few times, just twists the wrist to get a sense of whether there's anything that isn't as it should be. Of course there's nothing, there's just relief. This, too, Lucifer has given him. Along with his throaty darling and his contrasting gentleness, the interlude in the midst of a dramatic display of anger and vengeance.
Suddenly, Elio feels bone-tired, like everything that kept his composure for him has crumbled with the feather and unceremoniously, he closes his fingers around the other man's lower arm before just tumbling onto his side on the bed, his legs sticking out at an awkward angle. He thinks for a moment, wills his shoes away, and they disappear in accordance, because this realm is his and it's all just illusions anyway. Beneath it, he's as naked as Lucifer is right now. The pants go up in smoke as well. His shirt. Suddenly he's lying on perfect eye-level with a crouching Devil, naked as the day he was born. And he doesn't feel the least nervous about it, just exhausted.
Looking down at Lucifer, he tightens his grip. Sighs. His head still hurts, his hair feeling sticky and clumping on the right side of his head. ]
You'll stay, right? I want you to stay. Until I sleep.
no subject
His demons were made for him and look what happens, all the same.
Indeed, in this place, anyone can be an enemy.
His gaze slip up to Elio's head and face, bruised and bloodied from Grigori's fists. As the other man lies down, he grabs Lucifer's arm fully and clings on like a limpet, basically, and he would've had to exert at least a little force to get free. If he'd wanted to, which...
Well. Just because he doesn't want any part of Elio to touch him when he's like this, doesn't mean he'll deny him the feeling of safety if this is how he gets it. He'll deny him nothing. So he keeps still for a second or two, then reaches for another feather, brushing it through Elio's hair lightly before laying it over his head injury. His own features soften into something that he can't be sure about, this particular face is a stranger to anything but various shades of anger. But soften, it does. He folds his legs beneath him and sits on the floor because in this palace, Elio is Queen and Lucifer simply belongs, letting Elio hold his arm as he watches the light seep into his skin once again.
As the glow fades, he replies, throat dry: ]
Of course, I'll stay.
no subject
[ His words come out a whisper while he lies still beneath the weight of the feather against his head injury, the light hurting his eyes again, so he closes them, blindly feeling the scarred, rough tissue of Lucifer’s arm beneath his fingertips. Elio digs them in, his fingers, feels for him, the heaviness and strength of his muscles, thick skin, like armor. He imagines down here, you’d do well as a crustacean, really. With your shells and your claws. He remembers catching crabs by the beach as a kid.
His fingers tighten their hold. Got you, Lucifer had said when he came for him before, to his rescue, Elio a right damsel, but the question is who’s got who here. Now.
They’ve got each other, Elio likes to think, yes.
The second feather, like the first, crumbles to ash, the little flakes sitting in Elio’s curls for a second before magicking away, the same way his castle takes care of him always. And the Lord of Hell, too, sitting here, having shifted into a more comfortable position in order to stay. Guard. With his softening features that Elio only faintly glimpses through the glow, features that swing both ways, anger, care, anger, care. Anger because he cares, of course. Elio understands.
He’s lit the world aflame, after all. There’ll be consequences for everyone involved.
Licking his lips, still dry, Elio cracks an eye open, the other man’s face more easily discernible in the fake afternoon sunlight from the equally fake outside. He’s bold in that shade of red, completely unmistakeable. This is the Devil. Glancing up at Lucifer one-eyed, he smiles faintly, tiredly. ]
You’re warm. [ And Lucifer is, burning hot against his skin. Like his core is radiating all that heat into his whole system. ] It’s nice. I feel cold.
[ He is cold, even trembling a little. ]
no subject
Maybe there is.
Lips thinning, he gets to his feet slowly, pulling his arm from Elio's grip as gently as he can. Then, he steps around the bed, the claws on his feet clacking against the floor, before he slides onto the bed awkwardly, his limbs feeling cumbersome and wrong. He lies down behind Elio and folds one arm around his waist, pulling him up against his own nakedness before folding one, huge wing over him, covering his body from ankles to shoulder. The other, he keeps curled up along his back. Compared to his regular wings, these are somewhat simpler to manage on a bed - except for the way the spikes keep trying to catch on pretty much everything.
It'll do for now.
He doesn't shut his eyes or try to fall asleep. Instead, he stays awake and aware, eyes unblinking, curled around Elio's precious body and forcing himself not to ask any further questions.
Later, if ever.
If ever. ]