[ 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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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. ]
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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. ]