He knows because it makes something along his spine spark, a quiet sense of aggravation that he can't ignore. Though he's in the middle of whipping the skin off a man who's thanking him for every single, bloodying stroke, Lucifer turns his head upwards, frowning, the air down here in the deeper pits heavy with ash fall. Ignoring the crumbled soul on the floor, he turns and walks away.
Burning embers flying around him, he takes off, ascending with heavy strokes of his wings. They've taken damage over the past thousand years - here and there, the skin is torn and burned, a few of the spikes broken off, leaving jagged, black growths in their steads. It doesn't hinder him in flight, which probably means that the wounds are mental rather than physical - it's an objective observation, uninteresting.
But it's there, regardless, isn't it.
That's new.
The barrier is open, yes, and the sky of Hell - orange, burned, shimmering from heat - parts before him upon his arrival. He pauses for a couple of seconds. Tries to close it again and fails. So, what is this, then? Another taunt? He can't keep his father's influences out any longer, he can't even be allowed that much? With a growl of irritation, Lucifer takes himself past the barrier and rises up, through the Earth, through the ground - and materializes in a wholly stereotypical inferno of flames and fire and brimstone, right in the middle of an orchard that he'd remember even after a million years.
Every tree in his immediate vicinity catches on fire.
Lucifer, meanwhile, stops, his wings outstretched and hellfire burning in his eyes. And stares.
[ It’s harvest season. Mafalda and Manfredi are plucking fruit down from the trees for hours on end, dawn till dusk. Anchise is helping, though the old man is getting... well, old. Since Elio’s last student has gone back to Rome with her family, he is lending them a hand, plucking down peaches from the trees farthest back, most in shadow, least ripe still. He’s filled maybe the third basket today and is standing with his back to the small clearing, balancing the last two peaches on top of the rest when there’s the heat of Hell, suddenly bursting to life behind him, the roar of flames and the heavy smell of lava and brimstone in the air. The two peaches, precariously positioned, tumble to the ground first, then he quite simply just drops the whole basket, peaches rolling everywhere around his naked feet. Elio turns around. His mother’s trees, about four of them, have caught fire and are crackling happily, it’s been a dry August. In front of them, Lucifer stands, in his Devil form (still? all that grief and self-loathing on full display), batwings spread wide. There’s fire in his eyes. Everything is in shades of red and orange and yellow like the sun.
After all, Lucifer lit the sun once. It’s his.
Staring at him, Elio feels his breathing catch in his throat, his chest heaving shallowly. It isn’t fear, it’s never fear with Lucifer, not that kind, not like this either. It’s just - he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting and he didn’t know. He didn’t know. There’s a moment when he has to bite his lip hard, releasing it with a dent in the middle before relaxing his shoulders and straightening up, looking from the still burning trees to Lucifer again. The equivalent of pinching yourself to check you’re not dreaming. Because he has dreamt, oh. At night, alone. ]
Can you put out the trees before I throw myself at you? My mother is going to get furious otherwise.
[ His voice is low and pleasant, gentle. Most of all, he wants to cry, but he cried when they parted last, didn’t he? He owes Lucifer better than that now. He’s so extremely happy to see him, though. His arms hang by his sides, fingers flexing, again and again. Cyclic.
He’s turned golden over summer, sun-kissed. Like he said, the sun belongs to Lucifer. Elio, from the Greek, means sun. ]
Slowly, oh so slowly, Lucifer raises one, scarred hand and flicks his fingers. The fire dies instantly, leaving the trees partially scorched but living, still, the smell of burned peaches hanging in the air around them. He stares at Elio, his throat feeling so dry that it's a fight, remembering how to speak - because he can feelit, feel Hell calling out for them both. Not just him. Elio. Elio, whose palace still stands, boarded up and inaccessible to all. Lucifer's tried the door, once, in a moment of weakness but naturally, it wouldn't budge.
He'd thought... well. He'd thought.
But here is Elio, right as rain, right in front of him and Hell is calling him back. ]
I don't understand.
[ His voice sounds deeper than ever and hoarse from lack of use. Not much to talk about down there when all you have for company is demons. Demons who stay out of your way, yes, though they were meant to service him, they aren't inherently self-destructive and he's had little need of them, even less desire for their presence. They've seen Grigori. Though the fire doesn't necessarily burn them, Lucifer's anger certainly does. ]
You escaped. I made certain.
[ Stepping closer, his claws long enough to drag ridges through the dirt, he pauses in front of Elio, towering over him. It doesn't even occur to him that he's standing here, naked and possibly covered in gore and grime. It's been like that for so many centuries that he's stopped noticing. He does notice how Elio's curls look so achingly familiar, how the expression on his face seems balanced between amusement and something else, something so complex and so beautiful that he wouldn't ever know how to name it.
[ As Lucifer steps closer, Elio follows him intently with his gaze, taking him in, every little detail, how grimy he is, the vain Devil. The trees stand scorched and sooty behind him, like pillars, remnant of his anger in the same way his very appearance is an attest to his loneliness the past thousand years, unkept and wild. Elio’s heart aches for him. When he cut off contact, which Elio eventually heard about from Amanediel, and sealed off Hell, it wasn’t just to Elio, was it, his brother couldn’t get through to him either.
Lucifer never got the news. He never got to see the end of it.
While the Devil had nothing, Elio had the myth of them.
Finally, Elio raises one hand and moves forward, too, reaching out slowly and running his palm, flat and soft, up Lucifer’s scarred chest. Feels the immense realness of him, how surely he is right there. Right there. He looks up, and up and up, because Lucifer was always tall but in this form, he’s a whole entity. You’re here, he wants to say, but it’s dumb and unnecessary, because obviously. Elio is touching him, after all.
It’s the pinching again. He isn’t dreaming, he’s awake and Lucifer came, it wasn’t a half-drunk tumbler of whiskey or an apricot tree, it is the full package of batwings and radiant red skin and four trees, peach, encircling them. ]
It’s cyclic, Lucifer. I’m like Persephone.
[ A small laugh, almost apologetic, because it still feels strange categorizing himself in divine terms. Wrong, somehow, like he could never be enough to measure up. Lucifer is divine, Elio is... not Lucifer. His other hand comes up as well, flat against Lucifer’s chest and he is all but leaning on him now, pushing himself up against him, he can’t get close enough, he wants closer, closer.
He wants oneness and maybe then, you can make him believe there’s divinity in him. ]
They’re harvesting, so they don’t need me anymore. But I think you do.
[ Elio looks up at him, his features cast in shadow by Lucifer's body and for some reason, it makes his face seem even more real, like the darkness affords it a special, undeniable depth. He swallows harshly as the other man reaches for him, running his warm, soft palm up his chest. He hasn't been touched in a thousand years. It feels like another kind of homecoming.
Then Elio, tells him... tells him...
For a moment, Lucifer can only stare at him some more whilst he slips closer, touches him with his other hand as well, putting his prints on his skin where they'll stay for a long time yet. Persephone he says. Like the Greek myth, the story of seasons, death and re-birth. He'd protest somehow, tell Elio that it can't possibly be like that, his father would never - but then, it occurs to him that yes, his father would certainly. He'd even neglect letting Lucifer and Elio know beforehand, just to cause maximum emotional suffering, wouldn't he. He'd thought...
He'd been so certain.
Elio's pushing up against him and everything inside him says go, the pull of Hell so strong that it feels like he can't breathe for it. He shudders. Slips his arm around Elio's waist almost without thinking, drawing him up against his naked front. Suddenly, they're pressed together, front to front, and Elio's so real, such a physical thing. A fact. Oh. Oh. He doesn't cry because he hasn't, not in what seems like forever, but he does grit his teeth rather harshly, his grip around Elio's waist tightening a fraction.
Slowly, he looks up. Glares.
How dare you!
Then, trembling, he finally puts his chin on Elio's head and takes a long, deep breath, his scent drowning out all other impressions. His wings stay arched behind him, out of practice with this whole hugging business but oh, it's good to have him and is it true, is it really true? The question, when he asks, is quiet, like a mutter: ]
[ The lack of familiarity in Lucifer’s body, the strangeness, translates like a common language, the way his system is tensing and fighting, muscles tightening and the other man’s Adam’s apple working as he tries not to cry. Not because Lucifer believes crying is wrong, of course, he is quite the crier himself, but because everything between them right now is so foreign and too long-forgotten. Which is just unfair! Elio feels it, too, how his body struggles to recognize the contours and slopes of Lucifer’s body, the weight of his chin as he finally gives in and rests it on top of his head. He’s so warm. Furnace-hot. He’s tall and huge and they’re pressed together like this, front to front, Lucifer naked and Elio in just his shorts and t-shirt, dirty, sweaty, Lucifer smells dark and heated and like lava boiling underneath the surface of it all.
After a moment, Elio slides his arms around the other man’s waist, pulls him as close as possible, feels the whole front of his body, the structure of his skin. As an undertone, the scent of burned peaches waft through the air.
Elio made him come on peach juice once, he suddenly remembers vividly and smiles, soft and careful. His voice, too, takes care. He knows, after all, how Lucifer is going to take this. As such, he doesn’t lie, he would never, but he tells the mildest version of the truth that he can find, because like the Persephone myth, there are many variants. Personally, he likes this one the best. ]
I don’t know if it’ll continue being as draining as it was this time around, but I’ll probably lose some of my strength every spring.
[ Reluctantly, he pulls back from Lucifer a little to look up at him, at his face, his features so stark in red, the curve of his bald head. He won’t deny him his reaction, like he would never deny Lucifer anything, but he wants the other man to remember him as he reacts, he wants him to feel Elio in his arms, against his front, anchor-like, before he sets the world on fire again in spite.
He’s not alone with his feelings anymore.
Neither of them is. Elio has been through this stage already, right, he’s a couple steps ahead. He mourned (and raged in his own quiet way) a little for each day that passed of nothing, quiet, until only acceptance was left.
[ He leans into Elio's touch because now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. It's been so long. Fuck, it's been so, so long. His eyes fall shut as he feels the other man's chest moving against his, up and down, up and down, better and infinitely stronger than the last time they were together, Lucifer on the forest floor with Elio clutched in his arms, feeling him struggle for every single intake of air.
And apparently, that's how it'll have to be.
For eternity, even.
Gosh, his father is a sadist, isn't he? How's that for irony? With a sigh, Lucifer looks at Elio who's pulled away slightly, looking up at him with his warm, brown eyes, the look on his face open, completely earnest. He carries something within him now, something that used to be there, yes, but subdued. It isn't, anymore. Even if Lucifer had never met him before, today he'd take one look at the other man and know that he'd been touched by divinity. It's not a glow or something particularly radiant but it's obvious, like one, clear voice calling out to another. ]
So that's how it is.
[ He could fight it, sure, and leave Elio here to wither and die like humans do, make him take that bracelet off and embrace humanity, the years it would leave him with. But he knows. He knows. Elio's been left before, he's waited for nothing and received exactly that as a consequence. He remembers how he looked on his balcony, ages and ages past, looking out over L.A. at night, free-falling still, resigned to his fate.
So, rather than arguing, Lucifer folds his other arm around Elio and pulls him off the ground, carrying him bridal style because if the man's supposed to be bloody Persephone, they can go big or go home.
Home.
Feeling the fire surging inside, he cradles Elio to his chest. ]
Off we go, then.
[ And down they plunge, hard and fast, hurtling towards the barrier in a rush of roaring wind, the ground closing up behind them. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He knows because it makes something along his spine spark, a quiet sense of aggravation that he can't ignore. Though he's in the middle of whipping the skin off a man who's thanking him for every single, bloodying stroke, Lucifer turns his head upwards, frowning, the air down here in the deeper pits heavy with ash fall. Ignoring the crumbled soul on the floor, he turns and walks away.
Burning embers flying around him, he takes off, ascending with heavy strokes of his wings. They've taken damage over the past thousand years - here and there, the skin is torn and burned, a few of the spikes broken off, leaving jagged, black growths in their steads. It doesn't hinder him in flight, which probably means that the wounds are mental rather than physical - it's an objective observation, uninteresting.
But it's there, regardless, isn't it.
That's new.
The barrier is open, yes, and the sky of Hell - orange, burned, shimmering from heat - parts before him upon his arrival. He pauses for a couple of seconds. Tries to close it again and fails. So, what is this, then? Another taunt? He can't keep his father's influences out any longer, he can't even be allowed that much? With a growl of irritation, Lucifer takes himself past the barrier and rises up, through the Earth, through the ground - and materializes in a wholly stereotypical inferno of flames and fire and brimstone, right in the middle of an orchard that he'd remember even after a million years.
Every tree in his immediate vicinity catches on fire.
Lucifer, meanwhile, stops, his wings outstretched and hellfire burning in his eyes. And stares.
Oh. ]
no subject
After all, Lucifer lit the sun once. It’s his.
Staring at him, Elio feels his breathing catch in his throat, his chest heaving shallowly. It isn’t fear, it’s never fear with Lucifer, not that kind, not like this either. It’s just - he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting and he didn’t know. He didn’t know. There’s a moment when he has to bite his lip hard, releasing it with a dent in the middle before relaxing his shoulders and straightening up, looking from the still burning trees to Lucifer again. The equivalent of pinching yourself to check you’re not dreaming. Because he has dreamt, oh. At night, alone. ]
Can you put out the trees before I throw myself at you? My mother is going to get furious otherwise.
[ His voice is low and pleasant, gentle. Most of all, he wants to cry, but he cried when they parted last, didn’t he? He owes Lucifer better than that now. He’s so extremely happy to see him, though. His arms hang by his sides, fingers flexing, again and again. Cyclic.
He’s turned golden over summer, sun-kissed. Like he said, the sun belongs to Lucifer. Elio, from the Greek, means sun. ]
no subject
Slowly, oh so slowly, Lucifer raises one, scarred hand and flicks his fingers. The fire dies instantly, leaving the trees partially scorched but living, still, the smell of burned peaches hanging in the air around them. He stares at Elio, his throat feeling so dry that it's a fight, remembering how to speak - because he can feelit, feel Hell calling out for them both. Not just him. Elio. Elio, whose palace still stands, boarded up and inaccessible to all. Lucifer's tried the door, once, in a moment of weakness but naturally, it wouldn't budge.
He'd thought... well. He'd thought.
But here is Elio, right as rain, right in front of him and Hell is calling him back. ]
I don't understand.
[ His voice sounds deeper than ever and hoarse from lack of use. Not much to talk about down there when all you have for company is demons. Demons who stay out of your way, yes, though they were meant to service him, they aren't inherently self-destructive and he's had little need of them, even less desire for their presence. They've seen Grigori. Though the fire doesn't necessarily burn them, Lucifer's anger certainly does. ]
You escaped. I made certain.
[ Stepping closer, his claws long enough to drag ridges through the dirt, he pauses in front of Elio, towering over him. It doesn't even occur to him that he's standing here, naked and possibly covered in gore and grime. It's been like that for so many centuries that he's stopped noticing. He does notice how Elio's curls look so achingly familiar, how the expression on his face seems balanced between amusement and something else, something so complex and so beautiful that he wouldn't ever know how to name it.
Beautiful Elio.
Whole again and well. ]
no subject
[ As Lucifer steps closer, Elio follows him intently with his gaze, taking him in, every little detail, how grimy he is, the vain Devil. The trees stand scorched and sooty behind him, like pillars, remnant of his anger in the same way his very appearance is an attest to his loneliness the past thousand years, unkept and wild. Elio’s heart aches for him. When he cut off contact, which Elio eventually heard about from Amanediel, and sealed off Hell, it wasn’t just to Elio, was it, his brother couldn’t get through to him either.
Lucifer never got the news. He never got to see the end of it.
While the Devil had nothing, Elio had the myth of them.
Finally, Elio raises one hand and moves forward, too, reaching out slowly and running his palm, flat and soft, up Lucifer’s scarred chest. Feels the immense realness of him, how surely he is right there. Right there. He looks up, and up and up, because Lucifer was always tall but in this form, he’s a whole entity. You’re here, he wants to say, but it’s dumb and unnecessary, because obviously. Elio is touching him, after all.
It’s the pinching again. He isn’t dreaming, he’s awake and Lucifer came, it wasn’t a half-drunk tumbler of whiskey or an apricot tree, it is the full package of batwings and radiant red skin and four trees, peach, encircling them. ]
It’s cyclic, Lucifer. I’m like Persephone.
[ A small laugh, almost apologetic, because it still feels strange categorizing himself in divine terms. Wrong, somehow, like he could never be enough to measure up. Lucifer is divine, Elio is... not Lucifer. His other hand comes up as well, flat against Lucifer’s chest and he is all but leaning on him now, pushing himself up against him, he can’t get close enough, he wants closer, closer.
He wants oneness and maybe then, you can make him believe there’s divinity in him. ]
They’re harvesting, so they don’t need me anymore. But I think you do.
no subject
Then Elio, tells him... tells him...
For a moment, Lucifer can only stare at him some more whilst he slips closer, touches him with his other hand as well, putting his prints on his skin where they'll stay for a long time yet. Persephone he says. Like the Greek myth, the story of seasons, death and re-birth. He'd protest somehow, tell Elio that it can't possibly be like that, his father would never - but then, it occurs to him that yes, his father would certainly. He'd even neglect letting Lucifer and Elio know beforehand, just to cause maximum emotional suffering, wouldn't he. He'd thought...
He'd been so certain.
Elio's pushing up against him and everything inside him says go, the pull of Hell so strong that it feels like he can't breathe for it. He shudders. Slips his arm around Elio's waist almost without thinking, drawing him up against his naked front. Suddenly, they're pressed together, front to front, and Elio's so real, such a physical thing. A fact. Oh. Oh. He doesn't cry because he hasn't, not in what seems like forever, but he does grit his teeth rather harshly, his grip around Elio's waist tightening a fraction.
Slowly, he looks up. Glares.
How dare you!
Then, trembling, he finally puts his chin on Elio's head and takes a long, deep breath, his scent drowning out all other impressions. His wings stay arched behind him, out of practice with this whole hugging business but oh, it's good to have him and is it true, is it really true? The question, when he asks, is quiet, like a mutter: ]
Will it harm you again?
no subject
After a moment, Elio slides his arms around the other man’s waist, pulls him as close as possible, feels the whole front of his body, the structure of his skin. As an undertone, the scent of burned peaches waft through the air.
Elio made him come on peach juice once, he suddenly remembers vividly and smiles, soft and careful. His voice, too, takes care. He knows, after all, how Lucifer is going to take this. As such, he doesn’t lie, he would never, but he tells the mildest version of the truth that he can find, because like the Persephone myth, there are many variants. Personally, he likes this one the best. ]
I don’t know if it’ll continue being as draining as it was this time around, but I’ll probably lose some of my strength every spring.
[ Reluctantly, he pulls back from Lucifer a little to look up at him, at his face, his features so stark in red, the curve of his bald head. He won’t deny him his reaction, like he would never deny Lucifer anything, but he wants the other man to remember him as he reacts, he wants him to feel Elio in his arms, against his front, anchor-like, before he sets the world on fire again in spite.
He’s not alone with his feelings anymore.
Neither of them is. Elio has been through this stage already, right, he’s a couple steps ahead. He mourned (and raged in his own quiet way) a little for each day that passed of nothing, quiet, until only acceptance was left.
August has been dry, but golden and beautiful. ]
no subject
And apparently, that's how it'll have to be.
For eternity, even.
Gosh, his father is a sadist, isn't he? How's that for irony? With a sigh, Lucifer looks at Elio who's pulled away slightly, looking up at him with his warm, brown eyes, the look on his face open, completely earnest. He carries something within him now, something that used to be there, yes, but subdued. It isn't, anymore. Even if Lucifer had never met him before, today he'd take one look at the other man and know that he'd been touched by divinity. It's not a glow or something particularly radiant but it's obvious, like one, clear voice calling out to another. ]
So that's how it is.
[ He could fight it, sure, and leave Elio here to wither and die like humans do, make him take that bracelet off and embrace humanity, the years it would leave him with. But he knows. He knows. Elio's been left before, he's waited for nothing and received exactly that as a consequence. He remembers how he looked on his balcony, ages and ages past, looking out over L.A. at night, free-falling still, resigned to his fate.
So, rather than arguing, Lucifer folds his other arm around Elio and pulls him off the ground, carrying him bridal style because if the man's supposed to be bloody Persephone, they can go big or go home.
Home.
Feeling the fire surging inside, he cradles Elio to his chest. ]
Off we go, then.
[ And down they plunge, hard and fast, hurtling towards the barrier in a rush of roaring wind, the ground closing up behind them. ]