[ After the abduction, the queen-napping, Elio's health has taken a turn for the worse. He's never been sickly, not aside from the occasional nosebleed or foot cramp, so it's a new way of experiencing his body. This uncooperative. The first couple of weeks, he continued to visit his father's hell loop, walking over lava pits and scorched ground to get there, his flowers and grass failing to sprout forth and like that, he quickly realized he couldn't do anything for him anymore, all his powers in that regard seemed dormant, slumbering far below the surface, out of reach. He knows they're there, the palace still responds, even if more faintly now, they're just not... readily available. Meanwhile, he got gradually more tired, more exhausted, stayed in bed longer, slept more. Paler. Ghostly.
Lucifer had insisted on flying him back to Earth and although Elio had protested, there's only so much you can do when the King of Hell has decided something's the right course of action, the only right course, even. But as they'd taken to the sky, the barrier hadn't opened and Lucifer had almost flown him headfirst into it in his frustration.
Which means, he's trapped here. He's trapped in Hell, more and more surely declining.
They're whispering words like death and end among themselves, he knows, the demons, though very quietly, because they don't want Lucifer to hear currently, not with Grigori stirring in a pit of tar outside. And Elio knows he should probably be afraid, but he isn't. Worried, sure, but not truly afraid.
He doesn't think this is endgame, it's a step on the way. He wasn't blessed for nothing.
It's been how long now? Time in Hell doesn't count itself, so Elio doesn't know. Years. He's sitting in bed, the sky outside dark and starlit, untouched by fire pillars and the like. Lucifer, still in his Devil form, he can't get out of it any longer, is sitting near the headboard of his bed, on the floor, guarding him. Always guarding him. Elio is reading Catullus, though he's less reading as blinking stupidly at the small text, even these short poems an insurmountable hill to climb at this point. Eventually, he sighs, letting the book slip into his lap, covered in a duvet. ]
However much I'd like to read about Catullus' lust for Juventius, I think it's a lost cause.
[ Leaning his head back, he plays with the edge of a page idly. After a long minute of quiet, a slow turn of his head. He looks over Lucifer's face, his strong shoulders, firm chest. His expression softens. ]
[ He can't quite remember when he last left the palace - at this point, he feels as if his body's growing its own roots into the very foundation of Elio's home, of this place that used to shimmer into whichever shape or purpose the other man desired. It doesn't listen quite as readily anymore, just as the Hell loops have ceased changing or sprouting luminescent greens in the wake of his presence. Instead, there's Elio, here, on his bed, growing weaker and weaker with each passing day and Lucifer doesn't want to leave, so he stays, locked inside his Devil form and trying not to feel his own, damnable hopelessness.
He can't even fly him back to Earth. In retrospect, the idea seems absurd - he brought Elio down here, didn't he, allowed him to stay for decades and decades, allowed himself to be loved by him, to...
Anyway, of course he can't get all that for free. There was always going to be a price and as is true in Lucifer's life, in everything his Father has touched to punish him or to show him humility, someone else is going to suffer as a consequence. There's anger associated with the thought, obviously, but these days it's something not unlike the molten rivers of lava seeping through the chasms miles below the surface outside. It's slow, grinding, unyielding. And Hell, once more, burns in its wake.
At Elio's comment - his voice too soft these days - Lucifer shrugs with one shoulder and leans back against the bed. Holds out one, clawed hand in his direction and turns his head to meet Elio's eyes further up. He looks so tired, like the exhaustion's bone-deep. ]
Let me see.
[ His voice is growly, still, though it's gaining nuances the more he uses it in Elio's company where anger or commands are useless. Instead, there's softness. Gentleness.
[ Elio wasn’t fishing for a favor, he wasn’t implying that he wanted Lucifer to read to him, but if Lucifer is offering, neither is he going to refuse. He likes the other man’s voice like this, he likes how he can hear the change around them in it, the fire and brimstone simmering away into implications, the same way that Elio’s powers are mere traces now. Smiling gratefully regardlessly, he reaches for the book, a side-by-side Latin and English reader, and hands it over to Lucifer, to his claws and to his charred palms, burned fingers, their fingertips brushing as Lucifer accepts the book like it was his own, although the King of Hell has always struck Elio as happier snorting coke off super models than buried in the textual evidence of bisexuality, first century BC. What use does the Devil have of that anyway, he was no doubt around Earth first century BC, feeling the proof as a physical reality. Orgies and such, Elio thinks. Smiling.
Still, this is Elio’s comfort pastime, the milk he grew up on as the professor’s son, always reading, inevitably learning, listening to the academical discussions his father had with the friends and the colleagues that were always visiting, dropping by, calling on the phone. Elio loves literature almost as much as he loves music. And he loves Antiquity the way you love your stepbrother, because your father loved him first, right?
So he looks Lucifer over, Lucifer with the book, the columns of text, English and Latin, thinking it is one of the most tender sights he’s ever encountered. Maybe because it’s his alone. ]
You decide what language to read it. [ He doesn’t sound like he’s showing off as much as he’s encouraging him. Besides, the meter sounds better in the original. No translations do it justice.
Not to mention, he’s too tired for any such shows of pride. ] I’m almost equally fluent in both.
[ The book, at least, he can hold - they've progressed so far that Lucifer touching most things in his palace doesn't necessarily turn them to dust. Same for the loops, before. When things didn't merely degrade on their own. He pushes the thought aside forcibly because wide shoulders or not, he can't quite bear it and looks the poem over for a second before replying, half a smile on his face even if it doesn't quite translate into his voice: ]
I had a drink with him once. Several others, after that.
[ He glances over the text columns, English, Latin. Something is always lost in translation, isn't it. Ancient languages can be hard to understand in a modern tongue, even when the words themselves and the grammar has been perfectly decoded. They had a language between angels, too, before humans were ever there to create their own. It's the only language Lucifer's fairly certain he can't remember anymore, though that might just be a case of selective amnesia.
There's something so incredibly lovely about Elio, who looks too young and too modern himself, giving him free reigns to choose whichever version he prefers. It's not a challenge, of course, but an offer. Choose freely.
So Lucifer chooses the Latin column, reading each word with a fluent, classical pronunciation. The roots of the Italian language is very obvious underneath it, the rhythm and the flow singing in similar fashion and then, you have his Devil voice rumbling past each syllable, making Catullus' longing sound like a small chorus of demons, voices rusty with ash. ]
[ I had a drink with him once, Lucifer comments before beginning to read, in Latin, because trust an angel and the Devil simultaneously to master the classical languages, dead to most people who were born after the sixth day of Creation, right? Elio doesn’t watch him as he reads aloud, instead leaning his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes, having to listen carefully to follow along. Not only does the meter make the words a little difficult to recognize when you’re used to school Latin and not the Latin of someone who had drinks with Catullus himself, back in the day, but Lucifer’s voice is so hoarse and so deep that the endings are swallowed up a bit, like chasms in the mountains eating a lonesome mountaineer and leaving no trace behind. Elio’s smile widens, though, because it’s comfortable and kind of romantic, having an old love poem recited to you by someone you love. Lucifer’s voice is so unlike anything of the world Elio once belonged to, anything human, but he thinks it belongs here and so does Elio, really. He wants to, at least.
They’ll see.
A frown. As Lucifer ends the poem, Elio turns his face towards him again, meets his red eyes. It was nice, being served the words rather than having to put effort into it. Lucifer has always protected him against any demands he deemed unfair. The notion of justice is a thing, in his world, isn’t it? That’s how he knows whom to punish. Besides himself. Lucifer punishing himself was never deserved, never fair. ]
I’m not going to assume that he taught you that beautiful lilt to your pronunciation?
[ It’s halfway a compliment, halfway a tease. Elio knows Lucifer, he can vividly imagine what a drink and several others led to. In Roman times. Mostly, however, he’s saying that it sounded beautiful and authentic and not once has his father read Catullus to him, sounding so wonderfully true to the material. It was beautiful, it means, because you are. ]
[ He finishes the poem and turns his head to re-establish eye-contact, seeing the remnants of a smile on Elio's face, very evident in the tone of his voice, too. It's contagious and Lucifer's Devil face contorts into a smile as well, veins and burned skin stretching to accommodate the expression. He huffs out a laugh, rough around the edges. For just a moment, here and now, the heaviness in his chest seems to lessen a fraction. ]
Oh, the good Gaius didn't teach me much.
[ He raises what would've been an eyebrow on his regular face, though in this case, it mostly amounts to certain contours of his face changing, bone rising up, the nearly-black skin around his eyes drawing in. Seeing as he's already gone there, he might as well waggle his non-existent eyebrow, too. Waggle, waggle: ]
But he came away a wiser man.
[ He visited ancient Rome more than once, true, mostly owing to the longevity of the empire rather than any specific preferences on his part. He's always liked people, though, and Romans were certainly people. Partying, drinking, dancing, horny people. Leaning back against the bed more fully, his wings curved on either side of his body and the sharp bones sticking out of his spine propped against the bedframe, Lucifer leafs through the book aimlessly, staring upwards at the ceiling.
Beyond the window, Elio's night sky is brimming with stars.
He wonders how long they can stay locked away here, then immediately decides that he doesn't actually want to know. ]
[ The atmosphere lightens and Elio laughs, too, his chest feeling heavy and his breathing not obstructed as such, but simply slower, working harder. It takes its time, like Hell does, as if he's soaked up too much of it at this point, more than his, in comparison to Lucifer's, always, small human body can hold. ]
We all come away wiser from you, Lucifer.
[ When you're dating the Devil, you learn these things. That there's someone who wants to help you express yourself truthfully, dream big, desire bigger and all you need to do, is learn to be a little bit selfish in return. It's been a long journey this far, hasn't it? Both in the literal and in the figurative and Elio's still traveling, but they're getting somewhere. Well, they were, at least, now he doesn't know where they're going. Where they might be stopping.
His laugh dies out, his eyes trekking over the curves and contours of Lucifer's face, the eyebrow waggling, the smile, his features almost unrecognizable like this. It's not the same Devil that melted the demon away who'd helped abducting Elio not too long ago, although time has passed and come and gone and sometimes, you can hear Grigori scream, still. Although it is, of course, exactly the same. Lucifer's all of these things and Elio wants to embrace all of him, although the other man stays out of his bed for now, stays on the floor, touching by necessity more than anything else.
Elio swallows, hard. Eases back down into a reclining position. ]
I'm glad I'm here.
[ With you, implicit, but they've had the discussion already, about where Lucifer thinks he ought to be instead. Like Elio could ever get better by being apart from him. Like it wouldn't just be his body breathing, whatever remains longing. Elio's longed for the majority of his life already, it was supposed to be different with Lucifer.
Glancing at the other man sideways, Elio buries his fingers into the covers, stretching his arms out all the way, rolling his shoulders. Uncomfortably. ]
[ Elio's laughter dies out in a way that makes Lucifer's chest tighten. Slowly, he puts the book back on the small table next to the bed, leaving it within the other man's reach. Even though he'd had to stretch only minimally to get it, though, it still seems as if he isn't caring well enough for him. Just reaching out his hand - just stretching the muscle there, making it cooperate - requires energy that he doesn't... that they can't take for granted. Lucifer looks at him over his shoulder, at the tense lines of his body, the way he's burying his fingers in the covers.
This tension is uncharacteristic of him but then again, so is the way he's seemingly losing all natural colour now, day by day. Dying, someone whispered last time Lucifer was out between the loops and maybe they thought he wouldn't hear, maybe they underestimate how well attuned to this realm that he is. He's not just the ruler. Any angel, really, could rule down here.
Hell, as it is, is tied to him. Every particle of ash, every smoldering flame rising from the lava lakes. Since Elio came down here with him, he's felt it gradually, how he's merged with this place more and more, more than ever. How he hasn't truly minded because, well, because... Exhaling harshly, he gets to his feet and stands, naked, turning sideways towards Elio on the bed, Elio who looks tiny and see-through.
Dying, someone had said.
Then, they'd burned. ]
How can you be? I --
[ He breaks off. Tempers the underlying frustration in his voice, in his heart, because that is his to carry, especially now. He continues, voice softer, reaching down and flattening one, big palm over Elio's midriff on top of the covers. He doesn't press down, merely keeps it there, a small weight to keep him anchored. ]
I'm glad for you, too. Everywhere, including here.
[ Rarely, Elio doesn't know what to say. But as Lucifer turns towards him, having placed the book on the bedside table, within reach, yet ultimately light years away, because every motion takes strength these days, and tells him that he's glad for him, too, everywhere, including here, he finds himself at a loss for words. Lucifer's palm is big and heavy against his midriff, the covers suddenly feeling in the way, but Elio doesn't press for it, doesn't ask for more. Apparently, he's already asked for too much, that he couldn't even have this for longer than he got. Gets. He isn't dead yet. He won't die. He blinks. Again and again.
He loves this about the other man, how they can always be open with each other in regards to their feelings. They don't let anything remain unsaid, except the obvious, of course, but even that, Lucifer says in action, in flames and fire and brimstone. Touches. Thrusts. No, they don't imply, they show, they say what they need to. Elio loves that, loves the weight of Lucifer's hand, his claws, talon-like, dark against the cream-colored linen. Usually, it'll be darker colors, maroons, navy blues, but since he's fallen ill, the palace has started taking on the air of a hospital, more and more. He's tried asking it for the reds again, but it doesn't listen.
Licking his lips once more, still dry, always dry, Elio reaches for Lucifer's big hand with both his own, folding them on top of his, pressing down, feeling the weight of them both now. Their combined strengths, Lucifer's greater, naturally. As it must be. Suddenly he recalls what Grigori said to him. Little, disgusting human. Elio's never thought of himself as little with Lucifer. Smaller, yes, built, height, but not little, Lucifer simply doesn't make him feel that way, even when he towers above him.
Voice careful, though he doesn't try to hide the tremor, he says: ]
I won't promise you things that are outside my control, but love. [ Repeating that pet name a couple of times, softly, love, love, he finally continues: ] I'm not gone.
[ There both is and isn't a yet to that sentence. ]
[ Love says Elio, both hands folded on top of Lucifer's and isn't it unfair in a way, that Elio's the one who can't walk from his own bed and all the same, here he is, grounding Lucifer, giving him strength that he can't even spare. Unfair, yes. Unfair doesn't even begin to cover this. It's a loss, yes, and those are rarely kind - in the cosmic sense, kindness isn't even truly a concept. Face twisting for a second, two, he controls himself with effort and keeps his hand where it is, on top of Elio's midriff, feeling the small, slightly uneven tremors of his body breathing, trying to keep itself going.
Fighting.
Love, he says. Lucifer blinks, wetly but the tears don't spill. ]
I'm...
[ Glad, he wants to say. Happy. A liar, one might also proclaim but Lucifer isn't and thus, Lucifer doesn't. Instead, he looks at Elio, his scarred thumb brushing over the covers, feeling the shape of him underneath, his naked body. On impulse, because he can't stop himself (because he can't bear to, it already takes too much), Lucifer pulls his hand out from underneath Elio's two and slips it beneath the covers instead, until he can touch him, his stomach and midriff, the too-prominent outlines of his ribs. He feels him like that, spreading out his fingers over his belly before running his hand upwards, all the way to the middle of his chest.
Pause.
He keeps his hand there, above his heart. Still beating. Not gone.
Love, he says.
Lips trembling, he just stands there and bends his head, his wings drooping sadly behind him, the tips dragging over the floor. On a heavy, shaky inhalation, he finally meets Elio's gaze and hates that he can't show him properly, not like this, not with these ugly, empty, soulless eyes. Around them, the stillness remains, unchanged. ]
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no subject
Lucifer had insisted on flying him back to Earth and although Elio had protested, there's only so much you can do when the King of Hell has decided something's the right course of action, the only right course, even. But as they'd taken to the sky, the barrier hadn't opened and Lucifer had almost flown him headfirst into it in his frustration.
Which means, he's trapped here. He's trapped in Hell, more and more surely declining.
They're whispering words like death and end among themselves, he knows, the demons, though very quietly, because they don't want Lucifer to hear currently, not with Grigori stirring in a pit of tar outside. And Elio knows he should probably be afraid, but he isn't. Worried, sure, but not truly afraid.
He doesn't think this is endgame, it's a step on the way. He wasn't blessed for nothing.
It's been how long now? Time in Hell doesn't count itself, so Elio doesn't know. Years. He's sitting in bed, the sky outside dark and starlit, untouched by fire pillars and the like. Lucifer, still in his Devil form, he can't get out of it any longer, is sitting near the headboard of his bed, on the floor, guarding him. Always guarding him. Elio is reading Catullus, though he's less reading as blinking stupidly at the small text, even these short poems an insurmountable hill to climb at this point. Eventually, he sighs, letting the book slip into his lap, covered in a duvet. ]
However much I'd like to read about Catullus' lust for Juventius, I think it's a lost cause.
[ Leaning his head back, he plays with the edge of a page idly. After a long minute of quiet, a slow turn of his head. He looks over Lucifer's face, his strong shoulders, firm chest. His expression softens. ]
no subject
He can't even fly him back to Earth. In retrospect, the idea seems absurd - he brought Elio down here, didn't he, allowed him to stay for decades and decades, allowed himself to be loved by him, to...
Anyway, of course he can't get all that for free. There was always going to be a price and as is true in Lucifer's life, in everything his Father has touched to punish him or to show him humility, someone else is going to suffer as a consequence. There's anger associated with the thought, obviously, but these days it's something not unlike the molten rivers of lava seeping through the chasms miles below the surface outside. It's slow, grinding, unyielding. And Hell, once more, burns in its wake.
At Elio's comment - his voice too soft these days - Lucifer shrugs with one shoulder and leans back against the bed. Holds out one, clawed hand in his direction and turns his head to meet Elio's eyes further up. He looks so tired, like the exhaustion's bone-deep. ]
Let me see.
[ His voice is growly, still, though it's gaining nuances the more he uses it in Elio's company where anger or commands are useless. Instead, there's softness. Gentleness.
Quiet. ]
no subject
Still, this is Elio’s comfort pastime, the milk he grew up on as the professor’s son, always reading, inevitably learning, listening to the academical discussions his father had with the friends and the colleagues that were always visiting, dropping by, calling on the phone. Elio loves literature almost as much as he loves music. And he loves Antiquity the way you love your stepbrother, because your father loved him first, right?
So he looks Lucifer over, Lucifer with the book, the columns of text, English and Latin, thinking it is one of the most tender sights he’s ever encountered. Maybe because it’s his alone. ]
You decide what language to read it. [ He doesn’t sound like he’s showing off as much as he’s encouraging him. Besides, the meter sounds better in the original. No translations do it justice.
Not to mention, he’s too tired for any such shows of pride. ] I’m almost equally fluent in both.
no subject
I had a drink with him once. Several others, after that.
[ He glances over the text columns, English, Latin. Something is always lost in translation, isn't it. Ancient languages can be hard to understand in a modern tongue, even when the words themselves and the grammar has been perfectly decoded. They had a language between angels, too, before humans were ever there to create their own. It's the only language Lucifer's fairly certain he can't remember anymore, though that might just be a case of selective amnesia.
There's something so incredibly lovely about Elio, who looks too young and too modern himself, giving him free reigns to choose whichever version he prefers. It's not a challenge, of course, but an offer. Choose freely.
So Lucifer chooses the Latin column, reading each word with a fluent, classical pronunciation. The roots of the Italian language is very obvious underneath it, the rhythm and the flow singing in similar fashion and then, you have his Devil voice rumbling past each syllable, making Catullus' longing sound like a small chorus of demons, voices rusty with ash. ]
no subject
They’ll see.
A frown. As Lucifer ends the poem, Elio turns his face towards him again, meets his red eyes. It was nice, being served the words rather than having to put effort into it. Lucifer has always protected him against any demands he deemed unfair. The notion of justice is a thing, in his world, isn’t it? That’s how he knows whom to punish. Besides himself. Lucifer punishing himself was never deserved, never fair. ]
I’m not going to assume that he taught you that beautiful lilt to your pronunciation?
[ It’s halfway a compliment, halfway a tease. Elio knows Lucifer, he can vividly imagine what a drink and several others led to. In Roman times. Mostly, however, he’s saying that it sounded beautiful and authentic and not once has his father read Catullus to him, sounding so wonderfully true to the material. It was beautiful, it means, because you are. ]
no subject
Oh, the good Gaius didn't teach me much.
[ He raises what would've been an eyebrow on his regular face, though in this case, it mostly amounts to certain contours of his face changing, bone rising up, the nearly-black skin around his eyes drawing in. Seeing as he's already gone there, he might as well waggle his non-existent eyebrow, too. Waggle, waggle: ]
But he came away a wiser man.
[ He visited ancient Rome more than once, true, mostly owing to the longevity of the empire rather than any specific preferences on his part. He's always liked people, though, and Romans were certainly people. Partying, drinking, dancing, horny people. Leaning back against the bed more fully, his wings curved on either side of his body and the sharp bones sticking out of his spine propped against the bedframe, Lucifer leafs through the book aimlessly, staring upwards at the ceiling.
Beyond the window, Elio's night sky is brimming with stars.
He wonders how long they can stay locked away here, then immediately decides that he doesn't actually want to know. ]
no subject
We all come away wiser from you, Lucifer.
[ When you're dating the Devil, you learn these things. That there's someone who wants to help you express yourself truthfully, dream big, desire bigger and all you need to do, is learn to be a little bit selfish in return. It's been a long journey this far, hasn't it? Both in the literal and in the figurative and Elio's still traveling, but they're getting somewhere. Well, they were, at least, now he doesn't know where they're going. Where they might be stopping.
His laugh dies out, his eyes trekking over the curves and contours of Lucifer's face, the eyebrow waggling, the smile, his features almost unrecognizable like this. It's not the same Devil that melted the demon away who'd helped abducting Elio not too long ago, although time has passed and come and gone and sometimes, you can hear Grigori scream, still. Although it is, of course, exactly the same. Lucifer's all of these things and Elio wants to embrace all of him, although the other man stays out of his bed for now, stays on the floor, touching by necessity more than anything else.
Elio swallows, hard. Eases back down into a reclining position. ]
I'm glad I'm here.
[ With you, implicit, but they've had the discussion already, about where Lucifer thinks he ought to be instead. Like Elio could ever get better by being apart from him. Like it wouldn't just be his body breathing, whatever remains longing. Elio's longed for the majority of his life already, it was supposed to be different with Lucifer.
Glancing at the other man sideways, Elio buries his fingers into the covers, stretching his arms out all the way, rolling his shoulders. Uncomfortably. ]
no subject
This tension is uncharacteristic of him but then again, so is the way he's seemingly losing all natural colour now, day by day. Dying, someone whispered last time Lucifer was out between the loops and maybe they thought he wouldn't hear, maybe they underestimate how well attuned to this realm that he is. He's not just the ruler. Any angel, really, could rule down here.
Hell, as it is, is tied to him. Every particle of ash, every smoldering flame rising from the lava lakes. Since Elio came down here with him, he's felt it gradually, how he's merged with this place more and more, more than ever. How he hasn't truly minded because, well, because... Exhaling harshly, he gets to his feet and stands, naked, turning sideways towards Elio on the bed, Elio who looks tiny and see-through.
Dying, someone had said.
Then, they'd burned. ]
How can you be? I --
[ He breaks off. Tempers the underlying frustration in his voice, in his heart, because that is his to carry, especially now. He continues, voice softer, reaching down and flattening one, big palm over Elio's midriff on top of the covers. He doesn't press down, merely keeps it there, a small weight to keep him anchored. ]
I'm glad for you, too. Everywhere, including here.
no subject
He loves this about the other man, how they can always be open with each other in regards to their feelings. They don't let anything remain unsaid, except the obvious, of course, but even that, Lucifer says in action, in flames and fire and brimstone. Touches. Thrusts. No, they don't imply, they show, they say what they need to. Elio loves that, loves the weight of Lucifer's hand, his claws, talon-like, dark against the cream-colored linen. Usually, it'll be darker colors, maroons, navy blues, but since he's fallen ill, the palace has started taking on the air of a hospital, more and more. He's tried asking it for the reds again, but it doesn't listen.
Licking his lips once more, still dry, always dry, Elio reaches for Lucifer's big hand with both his own, folding them on top of his, pressing down, feeling the weight of them both now. Their combined strengths, Lucifer's greater, naturally. As it must be. Suddenly he recalls what Grigori said to him. Little, disgusting human. Elio's never thought of himself as little with Lucifer. Smaller, yes, built, height, but not little, Lucifer simply doesn't make him feel that way, even when he towers above him.
Voice careful, though he doesn't try to hide the tremor, he says: ]
I won't promise you things that are outside my control, but love. [ Repeating that pet name a couple of times, softly, love, love, he finally continues: ] I'm not gone.
[ There both is and isn't a yet to that sentence. ]
no subject
Fighting.
Love, he says. Lucifer blinks, wetly but the tears don't spill. ]
I'm...
[ Glad, he wants to say. Happy. A liar, one might also proclaim but Lucifer isn't and thus, Lucifer doesn't. Instead, he looks at Elio, his scarred thumb brushing over the covers, feeling the shape of him underneath, his naked body. On impulse, because he can't stop himself (because he can't bear to, it already takes too much), Lucifer pulls his hand out from underneath Elio's two and slips it beneath the covers instead, until he can touch him, his stomach and midriff, the too-prominent outlines of his ribs. He feels him like that, spreading out his fingers over his belly before running his hand upwards, all the way to the middle of his chest.
Pause.
He keeps his hand there, above his heart. Still beating. Not gone.
Love, he says.
Lips trembling, he just stands there and bends his head, his wings drooping sadly behind him, the tips dragging over the floor. On a heavy, shaky inhalation, he finally meets Elio's gaze and hates that he can't show him properly, not like this, not with these ugly, empty, soulless eyes. Around them, the stillness remains, unchanged. ]