[ Elio drops his bike - because that tiny creature is, indeed, a bike, yes, completely ridiculous - and throws himself at Lucifer, arms around his neck, front to front. Lucifer smiles and curves one arm beneath his buttocks, supporting him. He's free to take his personal space, Elio, because that's how things have become. After all, for most of his existence, the other man lives and breathes it.
He still feels weirdly achy in a good way whenever Elio pockets his feathers or keeps them, saves them, puts them away in his drawer or in boxes. He'll never get used to any of it, he thinks, not even after another eon of Elio, treating his remaining signs of divinity like they're somehow precious, like they're worth protecting.
With a sigh, he looks up over Elio's head, the empty building rising behind them like a huge, prehistoric skeleton. ]
Of course I do.
[ He nuzzles Elio's forehead with his lips, planting a quick kiss between his eyebrows before he hoists him up more fully, bridal style. He casts a quick look around but no, nope, even like this, people couldn't give a flying fuck. It's humanity as he's always loved them, self-absorbed and short-lived but full of life and joy and pleasure.
And the Devil has outgrown them all, in his own time. ]
Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee or should we just, you know.
[ A quick nod towards his own feet, the ground beneath them. Some streets away, cars - or whatever passes for cars these days - are honking in a strange concerto and the trees have lost the golden edge of summer, their leaves brown and crisp and stiff-looking.
Down in Hell, the rocks have started blossoming in anticipation. ]
[ The man who doesn't hug lets Elio hang off of him like a teenager, pressing against him and claiming his space there, because that's what Lucifer has taught him to do and the Devil will bear the consequences or be damned, again. Elio loves him for it, for the ease with which he gives himself over. So, when the other man bends down to pick him up bridal-style, Elio lets himself be handled like only Lucifer can, because Lucifer is stronger and steadier and not human, though the differences between them have been polished down to relatively smooth surfaces at this point. They stub a toe sometimes, then they move on. Together.
Elio doesn't want coffee, he wants to see the rocks in Hell blooming for him and other loops than Oliver's, emptied thousand of years ago, calling to him and the familiarity of the hallways, the creaking of his bed when Lucifer fucks him hard. Tightening his grip around the other man's shoulder, he shakes his head in half an answer, forehead pushed against the jut of his jawline, curls bouncing everywhere now, around his head, probably tickling Lucifer's temple, his ear. Lucifer face. Lucifer wings, huge behind them, no one looking, because New Los Angeles is an old story. Lucifer mine. Elio never thought he'd find somewhere to settle or someone to settle with, but this is nice. This is good. This is right.
He'll have to remember to thank God, next time he's visited by the bee. ]
Let's just. [ Elio says, meaning: Take us there. ] I want to go home.
[ Remembering, faintly, many centuries ago, how he'd cried these words into Lucifer's chest, half-dead and growing weaker by the minute, Elio raises his face finally from the side of Lucifer's neck, looking around, then down, having to contort a little in the other man's arms, really feeling the strength of them. How they give. How they don't. Oh. Maybe Elio's going to fuck him when they get back.
Things are better now. He doesn't get quite so sick when he has to return, he has seen so many funerals at this point, people dying before him, that mourning feels like second nature, nothing strange or unnatural. When he says, I want to go home, it simply means, with you, with you, with you.
[ Elio tightens his grip on his shoulder and shakes his head, getting curls everywhere in the process and for a few, precious seconds, Lucifer's a little bit blinded by them. Then, Elio says --
Yes.
Home, he says, and Lucifer knows what he means which is wondrous and altogether insane, that they'll both set foot on the cliffs in Hell in view of the throne and understand the same thing about it. Imagine knowing someone like that, imagine being known by them in turn! He doesn't know what home is, not as such, but he's aware of what they've made of it and maybe that's better. Can't be taken from either of them like that, can it, when it belongs in their systems, in words and breath and the touch between bodies? He cradles Elio close to his chest and spreads his wings out, someone pausing on the sidewalk to snap a picture (going on about awesome vintage hydraulics, whatever that's supposed to mean) but it hardly matters, it all passes in time.
When they get back to Hell, work will resume once again - the loops that have been going relatively undisturbed for the past thousand years will be re-calibrated to Elio's presence in the realm and some of them, maybe a handful, maybe a hundred, will start calling for release. That's summer now, true summer and they'll belong to it again and again, him and Elio, but to each other, first. ]
Then, let's be off.
[ He gives Elio's hand against his shoulder a quick squeeze. ]
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no subject
He still feels weirdly achy in a good way whenever Elio pockets his feathers or keeps them, saves them, puts them away in his drawer or in boxes. He'll never get used to any of it, he thinks, not even after another eon of Elio, treating his remaining signs of divinity like they're somehow precious, like they're worth protecting.
With a sigh, he looks up over Elio's head, the empty building rising behind them like a huge, prehistoric skeleton. ]
Of course I do.
[ He nuzzles Elio's forehead with his lips, planting a quick kiss between his eyebrows before he hoists him up more fully, bridal style. He casts a quick look around but no, nope, even like this, people couldn't give a flying fuck. It's humanity as he's always loved them, self-absorbed and short-lived but full of life and joy and pleasure.
And the Devil has outgrown them all, in his own time. ]
Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee or should we just, you know.
[ A quick nod towards his own feet, the ground beneath them. Some streets away, cars - or whatever passes for cars these days - are honking in a strange concerto and the trees have lost the golden edge of summer, their leaves brown and crisp and stiff-looking.
Down in Hell, the rocks have started blossoming in anticipation. ]
no subject
Elio doesn't want coffee, he wants to see the rocks in Hell blooming for him and other loops than Oliver's, emptied thousand of years ago, calling to him and the familiarity of the hallways, the creaking of his bed when Lucifer fucks him hard. Tightening his grip around the other man's shoulder, he shakes his head in half an answer, forehead pushed against the jut of his jawline, curls bouncing everywhere now, around his head, probably tickling Lucifer's temple, his ear. Lucifer face. Lucifer wings, huge behind them, no one looking, because New Los Angeles is an old story. Lucifer mine. Elio never thought he'd find somewhere to settle or someone to settle with, but this is nice. This is good. This is right.
He'll have to remember to thank God, next time he's visited by the bee. ]
Let's just. [ Elio says, meaning: Take us there. ] I want to go home.
[ Remembering, faintly, many centuries ago, how he'd cried these words into Lucifer's chest, half-dead and growing weaker by the minute, Elio raises his face finally from the side of Lucifer's neck, looking around, then down, having to contort a little in the other man's arms, really feeling the strength of them. How they give. How they don't. Oh. Maybe Elio's going to fuck him when they get back.
Things are better now. He doesn't get quite so sick when he has to return, he has seen so many funerals at this point, people dying before him, that mourning feels like second nature, nothing strange or unnatural. When he says, I want to go home, it simply means, with you, with you, with you.
Always that, with Lucifer. ]
no subject
Yes.
Home, he says, and Lucifer knows what he means which is wondrous and altogether insane, that they'll both set foot on the cliffs in Hell in view of the throne and understand the same thing about it. Imagine knowing someone like that, imagine being known by them in turn! He doesn't know what home is, not as such, but he's aware of what they've made of it and maybe that's better. Can't be taken from either of them like that, can it, when it belongs in their systems, in words and breath and the touch between bodies? He cradles Elio close to his chest and spreads his wings out, someone pausing on the sidewalk to snap a picture (going on about awesome vintage hydraulics, whatever that's supposed to mean) but it hardly matters, it all passes in time.
When they get back to Hell, work will resume once again - the loops that have been going relatively undisturbed for the past thousand years will be re-calibrated to Elio's presence in the realm and some of them, maybe a handful, maybe a hundred, will start calling for release. That's summer now, true summer and they'll belong to it again and again, him and Elio, but to each other, first. ]
Then, let's be off.
[ He gives Elio's hand against his shoulder a quick squeeze. ]
Hold on tight, darling.
[ They go through the Earth. ]