[ They're standing very close, their shoulders rubbing up against each other as the other man leans down on his elbows on the railing, turning more the height of an actual human person. Not that Elio is going to complain. He likes heights, he grew up in the Italian Alps, right? He likes tall men as well. He's never minded feeling smaller, weaker, maybe it's a glitch somewhere in his masculinity, who can really say. Generally it works. It's working now, too. He feels a heat somewhere in his chest, as he listens to Lucifer talking about his fall, the outcome that followed which must mean...
Well, Elio doesn't really believe in Hell either, but he believes in consequences. For Lucifer that's no doubt the same thing. No need to question the nature of what they've suffered to the people who've suffered it. So he doesn't. Elio just catches the other man's gaze as it flickers sideways to look at him, as if he is questioning what he heard. Elio is going to guess that most people don't buy it when they're told he's the Devil. The actual Devil. ]
I was referring to the fall.
[ It's said with a slight purse of his lips, his voice pleasant and naturally interested. They're talking about Hell, of course, which Elio knows nothing about. But he knows about Lucifer, about him being the Devil, and he believes that, too. ]
[ He straightens up to his full height, both eyebrows raised this time. ]
Oh, really?
[ Downing the last of his Scotch, he looks the other man over curiously. Jewish or not, it does take a special sort of mindset to simply... slide right into this. Humans generally don't truly, fully believe until they have some sort of proof and whilst Elio's seen his mojo at work, it usually doesn't do it. He thinks about what he knows, concerning the other man's life - on the surface level, at least, his existence is all-around pretty ordinary and undramatic. Teaching, playing concerts, not dating his attractive younger student with the dubious mob connections. Uneventfully normal, you might say.
But of course, sometimes a normal-looking life's merely a cover for whatever's going on underneath.
And Elio is, so far, immune to his mojo which makes him the literal opposite of ordinary. He adds, voice thoughtful: ]
Most people wouldn't.
[ It follows, then, that Elio - despite his calm temper and unassuming appearance - might actually be earth-shatteringly different and Lucifer likes that idea though he can't quite determine why, he likes the thought of following it through all the way to its natural conclusion, whatever it might be. It makes something in his chest tingle.
And something lower, too, but that's probably a given. ]
[ Once more back to his full height, Elio left to looking up and up and up, Lucifer raises both eyebrows and says, most people wouldn't which is obvious, like most people would tell him what they desire when he asks them, too, right? Yet, Elio doesn't. Instead Elio looks into the other man's eyes and feels uncomfortable when he wants to know. He wonders why, really, what's so dangerous about divulging what he truly wants? Does he even know?
A slight shrug and he leans out over the railing again, tumbler in hand. He drinks from it slowly, every time he lowers his hand, he thinks about dropping it. See where it lands, what might be created upon impact. No ambulances have been by below on the street yet, though, so maybe he should keep his crystal, Lucifer's, really, and not kill an innocent person out of mere curiosity. ]
I'm a professor's son. I've grown up with more theory than reality. In theory, you make perfect sense, Lucifer.
[ His voice comes out sounding contemplative, a bit deeper than his usual pitch and the pace slower, too. Usually he talks faster than a horse could run, not now. Finally pushing off the railing, he turns towards Lucifer again and puts the half-emptied Scotch down, looks him up and down. It isn't a sexual gesture as much as a curious one, as if he's looking for details that'll reveal the reality hidden within the theoretic contemplations of it all. He used to think this way a lot as a teenager.
In this case, though, the two seem to be the same thing. Reality and theory. He likes that, it feels like home, even here in Lucifer's expensive penthouse, talking about the fall and Hell. He likes it, he likes him. ]
[ In theory, you make perfect sense he says, leaning over the railing, his gaze just a little bit distant. Then again, it's a difficult approach, living your life in theory - one might imagine that it would make you quite receptive, seeing as theory is merely human construction, flimsy concepts, some closely associated with actual existence, others not so much. In theory, anything goes.
But in reality, Elio's just another human who's lost someone today, someone who was in his life and then, suddenly, wasn't. No theoretical approach is going to ground someone in the face of loss; Lucifer's been alive since the dawn of humanity (and before, thanks), he's seen everything they've come up with to counteract this particular fact of existence, from drowning themselves in alcohol and drugs (his personal favourite!) to re-imagining Heaven or circling back and forth within their own grief for all eternity. Doesn't matter what you do, though, does it.
Theory's never going to cut it.
He tilts his head thoughtfully, leaning back a little against the railing again, his stance approaching a slouch. ]
Such a dangerous habit, my dear. Running with it.
[ He reaches out and tugs lightly on the bottom hem of Elio's borrowed shirt. ]
Tends to land you in terrible situations - or, like now, in terrible clothes.
[ Since they arrived here, he hasn't thought much about Marcella. It's something he's very good at, Elio, only thinking of what's lost fleetingly, pending between now and then with an ease that comes of years' and years' of practice. In reality, Oliver taught him more than the full spectrum of his sexuality, didn't he? He keeps teaching him, too. The same lesson, over and over. A shake of Elio's head and he looks down at where Lucifer reaches out, tugging at the bottom hem of his shirt. He has big hands, well-maintained, nice nails, strong fingers, smooth skin. There's something incredibly intimate about the gesture. We're familiar, it means. You know and I know.
He calls it a dangerous habit and Elio won't disagree. He hasn't lived a safe life, just a very single-minded one. ]
How bad is it?
[ While he's also talking about his clothes, though, objectively he's aware they're quite hideous and he doesn't look his best which makes him feel kind of self-conscious again, now, Elio is looking over at Lucifer, meeting his gaze directly and saying it in a tone of voice that means, you. The terrible situation I'm running into, how bad is it? How bad are you?
You don't feel bad, it means as Elio slowly reaches down with both hands, wrapping his fingers around Lucifer's hand and just lifts it slightly, turning it over in his grip, looking at it. The lines. The physicality. He's heavy between Elio's fingers, warm. A presence. ]
[ How bad is it asks Elio and takes his hand, wrapping his fingers around it in a gentle grip, unpresumptuous. Lucifer looks at him for a long moment. There's a very slight dampness to his skin, still, from the shower and his palm feels warm, comfortably so. How bad is it? He thinks about his mother again, caught in her human form. Locked up in Hell for eons, first, while he did nothing but watch. About trading himself for Chloe to save her life, about the way she keeps looking at him without seeing even a glimmer of the full story. The thought makes something ache inside him, something he can't even attempt to define or understand. It's been thousands and thousands of years and while he changes all the time, the story overall doesn't.
At his second question, Lucifer huffs out a laugh, running his fingers up the inside of Elio's wrist, stroking him softly, feeling the very subtle rise of blue veins beneath his skin. ]
Please, be my guest.
[ He slips his hand out of Elio's grip and walks around him, their shoulders brushing as he heads inside, eying the piano. He glances at his phone quickly - the Detective's updated him a couple of times, no real breakthroughs yet, but he shoots off a text telling her to call when she needs him, seeing as there might be a serial killer on the loose and he'd like to be there when she confronts him, he'd like to have her back.
He thinks about Elio and pauses, fingers sliding over the lid of the piano. Raises his voice, words ringing through the open spaces around him: ]
I'd be happy to supply you with something more appropriate. [ He glances over his shoulder. ] You know the way to the walk-in closet, yes?
[ I already walked right past it, he thinks as Lucifer withdraws his hand after a long moment of contact and touch and the heat of fingertips against Elio's wrist, moving around him and back inside. Elio turns after him, watches as he checks his phone and then, stops by the piano. Naturally, as a pianist, he noticed the Steinway baby grand that the man had on display as soon as he entered, but you don't just touch other people's instruments, the same way you don't touch their privates. Without permission. The way you don't ask people what their greatest desire is without them having the choice to remain silent. But then again, Elio gets the feeling that protocol is only unimportant when it doesn't pertain to Lucifer himself.
He's met men like him before, he thinks. Never anyone like him, of course, the Devil's a singular, you'd think, but his type. Elio has met most types, really. Lost most types as a consequence. He has experience. He isn't afraid.
Heading back inside, he traces his own steps back to the bathroom where he quite simply drops his LAPD issues, the walk-in-closet through a glass door. It's a dark room, a lot of mahogany surfaces. It's also hexagonal, is he surprised? Not really. Looking around, he finds a closet full of dresses that he doesn't think Lucifer would wear, some of them, at least, he couldn't fit into even if he tried. Remains, it seems, from past lovers? Elio smiles, running his hand over the collection. There's something sentimental about it that he really likes. Is he waiting for them to come and collect? Does the Devil wait at all?
A frown. Elio rummages around until he finds a pair of pants with accompanying belt he should be able to fit and a nice shirt, red. Burgundy. He starts putting it on. ]
[ Elio heads off in the right direction so Lucifer leaves him to it, pouring himself another glass of Scotch before settling down on the piano bench. He looks the keys over for a moment without really seeing them, trying to feel out whatever emotion's currently trying to escape through his fingers. He's been a musician all throughout his existence -another God-given talent, great, right? - and he's capable of playing most instruments to some degree. The piano - or variants thereof - has followed him since the 1700s, though, and somehow it's just stuck.
Another reason to leave Hell behind for good. Sure, he can find pianos in various hell loops but it's always a bit of a downer, releasing your innermost emotions within someone else's eternal guilt trip. Besides, he's a skilled musician. Not exactly torture, having to listen to him, is it. Though come to think of it, it might actually be a more disturbing experience, having some tender soul music running in the background of your gradual dismemberment. Hm. Guess the jury's still out.
Exhaling slowly, he touches the keys. Puts his fingers on them, starting from A-minor and then, quite naturally, it develops into something that doesn't have a name, it's dark and maybe a little soft around the edges, relatively uncomplicated. But it's his. For some reason, that makes it suitable to this particular audience, to Elio who isn't affected by his mojo, who believes in him in theory, who takes up too little space.
[ While shrugging into the shirt, quickly buttoning the buttons up his chest, Elio hears Lucifer beginning to play the piano. It's not a piece of music he recognizes, but somehow it feels familiar anyway, though he can't pinpoint the feeling exactly. A bit like looking into a mirror someone's holding up in front of you. Like being seen rather than being asked. He licks his lips and looks at himself in the actual mirror in the walk-in closet, just checks that he's looking presentable before turning around and venturing back into the living room, leaving his first set of borrowed clothes on the floor of the bathroom for whoever cleans Lucifer's apartment. Maybe Lucifer himself. There's something intimate about imagining him touching fabric that's rubbed against Elio's skin. It prickles down his arms, down the back of his neck.
Watching the other man as he plays, Elio walks over to the piano and halts a few meters away, respectful distance. Lucifer's a natural musician, he can't really describe him better than that, but it's immediately obvious, music just looks good on him. The piano does, really, Elio can't imagine an instrument that wouldn't fit him. Then again, music has always been a way to the divine, people have always used it to reach for the stars. Mozart's Requiem, Händel's Messiah...
It just means something else these days, of course. Concerts and billboards and such. Fame. Though, Elio's pretty sure his father would say, fame's just a synonym for glory and glory's divine, too. It's all connected. He cocks his head a bit, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and listens until the end of the piece before commenting, softly, the effect of the music in some way visceral. His stomach is in knots, he doesn't quite know why, but it isn't bad, just... felt. ]
[ He doesn't look up when the other man joins him, though he's aware of a burgundy-flash in his visual periphery. He remembers that shirt, actually, and the man who wore it. Another artist - a painter. Slim, sensitive, but he'd had some beautifully raunchy desires involving edible paints as well as rather creative uses of fan brushes. With a half-smile, he finishes the song, pausing at Elio's question. After a brief moment of thought, he looks up at him, grabbing his glass for a quick sip before replying. ]
Mm.
[ He sets the glass back on the piano lid with a clink. ]
Yes, yes, it just happened. Not sure I'd call it mine, per se, it feels a little bit too recent for that.
[ He winks at Elio quickly, then returns his attention to the instrument, taking a moment to think back in time. After all, the other man's interests go back a while, don't they, to a time when classical music was a king's wish and its creators were rock artists in their own rights. Some of them more than others. He closes his eyes, then sets off on Mozart's Piano Sonata no. 12 in F major, breaking the mood of the A-minor as efficiently as possible without throwing the entire atmosphere to the winds.
The other man looks excellent in those clothes, doesn't he? He thinks about the way he'd held his hand on the balcony, all gentle and searching, no pushing, no directing. Lucifer's had far too much meddling in his life to tolerate it from humans which is one of the reasons why he doesn't tolerate liars at all. That, and Michael. Michael lies like a champ and no one wants to share any unnecessary traits with that idiot.
Fingers moving nimbly across the keyboard, he lets the instrument take the music where it goes, paying perhaps a little less attention to the dynamics than he ought. He doesn't care overly much about presenting Mozart's music the way the man would've wanted - mostly because he knew the man and well, he didn't care for conformity. He cared about shining, about burning as brightly as possible.
[ The change of atmosphere doesn't begin with the music itself, though the shift from A-minor to F-major is palpable, it begins with the way Lucifer winks at him as he talks about things being too recent to be his. Like they're not just talking about his song, but something else, something between them specifically. An inside joke. Elio hasn't had one of those with anyone in a long, long time. It requires that you know people, which he rarely gets to. Case in point, he's known Lucifer half a day. Does that count? Is time something else around the Devil?
Still, his smile just widens and he looks down, not coyly but amused. When Lucifer instead starts playing Mozart's no. 12, he actually raises his head, though, to watch him, his hands, the way he carries the music. It's not even difficult, turning off his conservatory ear, not only because the other man plays Mozart with great technical adeptness, but because it doesn't matter. Elio isn't here to hear the Devil be Mozart, he's here to hear the Devil be himself. ]
Mozart, if the Devil jimmied with it.
[ He says it in a voice lowered just enough not to override the music completely, but loud enough that he's sure Lucifer hears it. They're halfway through the allegro and Elio stretches lazily now, while listening, feeling strangely comfortable. Welcome now in this home that isn't his. Letting his arms fall back to his sides, he purses his lips, looking over the other man's hands, beautiful hands, big and strong, powerful. Not the most Mozartian look, but that's fine, Elio will do Mozartian hands for the both of them. He flexes his fingers, skin tingling slightly. There are definitely parts of him now that are aching to touch.
It's because it feels like flirting, this. Like they're doing that dance in chords rather than words. Blinking once, twice, Elio steps closer and runs his fingers slowly over the lid of the piano. Slow brush of fingertips. Play it again, please, he recalls Oliver saying, but it's faint echo at this point. It's been so long. ]
It sounds to me like you make everything you touch yours. Including the Mozart.
[ A slight smile at Elio's comments, particularly the latter - after all, Lucifer's not exactly renowned for leaving things in their original state, unchanged or... undamaged. Sometimes, the two are pretty much indistinguishable. He moves through the allegro at a medium pace because rushing it simply isn't the kind of mood he's in. He's decided not to continue with the adagio-movement once he's through this one - because he's not in the mood for that, either. There's a restlessness spreading in his system and he wonders again whether Chloe's got need of him but she isn't calling or texting and no doubt, she's expecting him to be in the middle of... something else.
He sighs.
Elio's stepped closer yet, fingers brushing the lid of the piano. Slender fingers, elegant - perfect, he's sure, for this kind of music. The adagio part would probably sound exquisite beneath his hands. It has a tender, slightly melancholic mood to it. Elio's followed him the past hours, accepting, believing (resigned, perhaps, to the idea of inevitability?) and taking everything in stride but whether or not any of it actually resonates? Frowning, he comes to an abrupt realisation and looks up at him, speaking without pausing in his play: ]
You've closed yourself off somehow. [ He grins, nodding to himself. ] Don't know why, don't know how - but you have, haven't you? All of this - [ He waves a hand at their surroundings, at nothing in particular and everything all at once. The music. The murder. The weather. ] - it's just happening, with or without your active participation. Grey areas and nothing besides.
[ He strikes the last few passages quickly. Then, he comes to a halt. Frowns again, gaze slipping sideways. ]
Though, it hardly explains how you're dodging my mojo. People do that, after all. I've seen it a million times.
[ The other man ends it with the allegro at a medium pace, no adagio. Instead, he abruptly shifts the focus from himself (Elio's comment hanging unanswered in the air between them) to Elio himself who just looks at him for a long moment, fingers still trailing the lid, though only for a few seconds longer, then he withdraws his hand, lets it fall to his side, like a symbolic gesture. I won't probe any further, it means, you don't like it, obviously, I don't want to make you uncomfortable. He remembers Lucifer apologizing earlier and feels like he should do the same now, but ends up simply accepting the man's change of topic, accepting the ball, so to speak. The music ceases, final bars of the allegro resonating in the living room briefly before fading from existence. Elio straightens up, looks the other man up and down slowly, thinking his conclusion over.
You've closed yourself off somehow.
Very few people look through him so quickly or so blatantly. Few people care. He doesn't know whether it's Lucifer's manner or the implicit investment that gets to him, but something does. He steps up to the piano bench and waits to be allowed to sit, to have their shoulders brushing, to feel their sides pressing together, because two grown men is a lot to ask of even the broadest piano bench, really. He doesn't outrightly ask, but he waits, patiently. His waiting is his request. ]
Someone told me once to feel the pain, it's better than withdrawal. [ Looking away slowly from Lucifer, his statuesque features that would make even Elio's father happy, he licks his lips. He doesn't know why he's saying these things, perhaps it's got to do with Lucifer's "mojo" after all. Perhaps it's got to do with Lucifer, period. Outside the afternoon sun's bright and hot. It plays in the whiskey tumblers left out there, the crystal catching the light.
Elio doesn't return his attention to him, doesn't look him in the face, but remains very honest, very - open. Gaze just slightly off to the side, eyes fixed on the sky outside. ] I think we're a million people waiting for them to be proven right. How long do you think we'll have to wait?
[ Elio drifts closer until he's standing right by the bench, though he doesn't sit down, simply hovers, clearly waiting for explicit permission. Speaks in his favour, doesn't it. Lucifer really dislikes bossy men, he's just about had enough of them throughout his existence by far, thanks Dad. He looks up at Elio, expression neutral now, the initial satisfaction at having possibly figured him out a little giving way to thoughtfulness at his elaboration. Pain. Better than withdrawal. Yes, that sounds like absolute gibberish if you actually know what true pain is - he's fairly certain that everyone who's been there would prefer numbness, to drift away, to know nothing whilst they're going through it.
So, Elio's doing what everybody with half a brain would do in the face of... hurt, isn't it? Pain. Another similar word, except it goes further by definition. Hard not to wonder as to what sort of hurt we're talking about. Caused by people? By love, loss, heartbreak? How long do you think we'll have to wait he asks and Lucifer shifts sideways, nodding at him to take a seat next to him on the bench, thinking that he wouldn't mind having him a bit closer. He exudes honesty, this man. It's like he doesn't know any other way to be and Lucifer hasn't met anyone like him before, not ever.
Biting his lower lip, he looks away, one hand still fingering the keys on the upper register of the keyboard. He presses them randomly. ]
For a lie to be proven true?
[ His voice gains a harsher edge as he grabs his glass and empties it once more. Holds it between his fingers, gaze growing distant. He doesn't give the answer because it'll be obvious to the both of them, as it were even as Elio posed the question and allowed it to settle between them. Forever he thinks, feeling hollow all of a sudden, hollow and restless and exhausted. We'll be waiting forever.
[ For a lie to be proven true, says Lucifer, inching aside to leave him room on the bench and Elio seats himself carefully, not wanting to elbow anyone anywhere in the process, especially not as Lucifer reaches for his glass and empties it. Does angel metabolism work differently, can you not drink yourself into a stupor, won't you get to stumble pissed through Rome at dawn, singing Neapolitan drinking songs?
What the man's actually saying without saying it explicitly is, forever, you'll be waiting forever. Or is it we in this case? Doesn't the Devil know lies better than most, you'd think? Not as the subject, he did say he never lied, but as the object, are they actually talking one sufferer to the other? Elio glances sideways up at him, the way he's holding his tumbler between his fingers and looking at it, gaze seeing things far away. Things that aren't in this room and unrelated to Elio at all. He'll have more memories than him to dig through, too, he's existed since the dawn of time. And even so, they're sitting side by side now, so close he can feel the heat exuding from the other man's body, can feel the hardness of him, muscles and flesh and other things that harden you. Lies. The kind you live.
Keeping his elbows as close to his body as possible, he slowly reaches up and runs his fingers lightly over the keys of Lucifer's baby grand, without pressing any of them. It's an exquisite, expensive instrument and he handles it carefully, with quite a lot of admiration, just feeling the smoothness of the keys beneath his fingertips first. There's nothing to say in response to Lucifer's rhetorical question, is there? More lies, maybe, but aren't they both tired of that? Elio is, anyway. Lucifer looks tired, too, and it isn't even three in the afternoon yet.
Still, the sun has passed its zenith. Outside. ]
Is it my turn? [ Elio shakes himself out of it forcibly, it's a well-rehearsed exercise at this point, going to work, playing the piano, sleeping with people. Life! The rest dormant underneath the surface. Still, he waits for Lucifer's permission in this, too, hands coming to a rest in his lap until he has it. His contemplative expression has given way to a small smile again and he raises an eyebrow slightly up at Lucifer. ] To play?
[ His eyes follow the bridge of Lucifer's nose to his lips, linger there, wait. He wonders what he's going to taste like. Besides Scotch. ]
[ The silence between them stretches on for a while as Elio sits down next to him, their shoulders and arms brushing. They've hit a point of zero contention, it seems, the other man accepting his non-question for what it is. It's an acknowledgment, mostly. They both know what it feels like, he thinks, the disappointment of being oh-so-kindly advised on how to perceive the world and your own emotional response to it. If it hurts, at least you're feeling something. Such an easy fix, to keep people compliant, to keep them locked in loops that lead to nothing, nowhere.
Lucifer knows about those as well, doesn't he.
Is it my turn asks Elio carefully, touching the keys the same way he was touching Lucifer before, carefully, without truly asking for anything. If you want to give it, it means, I'd like to have it and it feels lovely, in a way, to be given that choice, even by a human who could never force anything from him. Perhaps except...
He frowns.
Glances sideways at Elio, then nods. ]
Be my guest.
[ Said with an upwards-twist of his lips as he leans back a little, stretching out his legs before getting to his feet and leaving Elio with enough room to move, to span whatever length he'd like of the keyboard. Standing by the piano, sipping his Scotch and watching the other man quietly, he wonders again as to why he's unaffected by his mojo - why is he here, in his penthouse, his desires still a complete mystery to him and his gentle attitude leaving him with no further clues? Humans, typically, aren't that complicated. Not the ones he meets, anyhow.
But maybe, he thinks, that has to do with his choices, too, and where they take him. To whom.
Ugh, this is seriously messing with his head, isn't it. Good thing he's got a therapy session booked for tomorrow. ]
[ Be my guest he's told and true, Elio is his guest, for too many different reasons, most of them unknown, he thinks as Lucifer first stretches out his tall-man legs, then gets off the bench to leave him room to span the keyboard as he wishes. Why do you think I brought you along, the man had half-jokingly wanted to know earlier and Elio can't help him with that, he's afraid, he doesn't know why his powers don't work on him, why he won't tell him his desires. Because part of him does, to be honest, he simply isn't - can't - they aren't there yet. Elio places his hands on the keys again and goes through his catalogue, classical pieces, jazz standards, he could play a ragtime interpretation of Mozart, but he still won't tell the Devil what he most wants in the world, like one is more sacrilegious than the other. Staying close to the piano, Lucifer watches him while drinking his Scotch, like that's a river that will never run dry in this house. Elio remembers being drunk and in love, he remembers being in Rome, long ago. He can't quite match Lucifer's implied forever yet, but fifteen years feels like a lifetime and is, if nothing else, half one such. For him. He's only 33.
That should bring him hope, shouldn't it?
Taking a deep breath, he begins playing the first few chords of the Moonlight Sonata, because it's meditative and Elio thinks best to music that fits his mindset, but a minute in, he makes a jarring mistake that makes the line of his lips tighten, then ten seconds later, he makes another. He stops again, abruptly. Lets his hands sink to his lap, frowning slightly, then gets to his feet and moves around the instrument, stopping next to Lucifer and his drink, in the middle of his living room full of lights. They aren't quite touching. They aren't quite there yet. ]
Please ask me again later. [ The music, he means, ask me to play again, I can do better, later. But he also means his desires. Maybe all they need is more time, to wait. ] Few people have ever cared about what I wanted before.
[ Elio turns his head slowly, looking up at the other man, towering over him, broad and dark and beautiful. Wanting to touch him again, Elio instead flexes his fingers by his sides and breathes deeply through his nose, looking around the room. Only the Devil could live here, really. It couldn't be anyone else.
[ The Moonlight Sonata starts out beautifully until the other man's fingers seem to slip, first once, then twice. Lucifer raises an eyebrow at him - hoping his concerts go better than this, oh dear - when Elio gets off the bench again, looking ever so slightly frustrated as he pauses next to him. Supposedly, sometimes your heart and mind just aren't perfectly aligned for this sort of thing and at those times, this particular piece of music goes nowhere.
Few people have ever cared Elio tells him and Lucifer looks at him for a long moment, very much aware of his proximity. The tingling in his chest is back and sure, it has to do with his desires. Elio's pleasing to the eye. He's sweet, easy to tolerate. But aside from that, he's carrying something within himself, something unusually opaque and it speaks to Lucifer, like there's something in him that can't help but respond in kind.
That's new.
His mind flashes back to someone else, once upon a time, thousands of years ago. Sweet Eve, made to be whatever her partner wanted her to be, to mold herself according to their desires. He'd told her to be free, to choose for herself and naturally, she had. Whether or not it made her truly free, he can't say - she's in Heaven now, stuck with her spouse, within the confines of divine eternity. But Elio is here. He's not asking to be what Lucifer wants, either, or waiting for him to say so.
He's waiting to be told what he wants for himself.
Reaching out because he can't not, Lucifer runs his hand up Elio's upper arm, just a light brush of his fingertips over the soft fabric of his borrowed shirt. With a slight smile, he sits back down by the piano and gives him the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, picking it up for him, letting him think of the gesture what he wishes. ]
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Well, Elio doesn't really believe in Hell either, but he believes in consequences. For Lucifer that's no doubt the same thing. No need to question the nature of what they've suffered to the people who've suffered it. So he doesn't. Elio just catches the other man's gaze as it flickers sideways to look at him, as if he is questioning what he heard. Elio is going to guess that most people don't buy it when they're told he's the Devil. The actual Devil. ]
I was referring to the fall.
[ It's said with a slight purse of his lips, his voice pleasant and naturally interested. They're talking about Hell, of course, which Elio knows nothing about. But he knows about Lucifer, about him being the Devil, and he believes that, too. ]
I'll take your word for it.
no subject
Oh, really?
[ Downing the last of his Scotch, he looks the other man over curiously. Jewish or not, it does take a special sort of mindset to simply... slide right into this. Humans generally don't truly, fully believe until they have some sort of proof and whilst Elio's seen his mojo at work, it usually doesn't do it. He thinks about what he knows, concerning the other man's life - on the surface level, at least, his existence is all-around pretty ordinary and undramatic. Teaching, playing concerts, not dating his attractive younger student with the dubious mob connections. Uneventfully normal, you might say.
But of course, sometimes a normal-looking life's merely a cover for whatever's going on underneath.
And Elio is, so far, immune to his mojo which makes him the literal opposite of ordinary. He adds, voice thoughtful: ]
Most people wouldn't.
[ It follows, then, that Elio - despite his calm temper and unassuming appearance - might actually be earth-shatteringly different and Lucifer likes that idea though he can't quite determine why, he likes the thought of following it through all the way to its natural conclusion, whatever it might be. It makes something in his chest tingle.
And something lower, too, but that's probably a given. ]
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A slight shrug and he leans out over the railing again, tumbler in hand. He drinks from it slowly, every time he lowers his hand, he thinks about dropping it. See where it lands, what might be created upon impact. No ambulances have been by below on the street yet, though, so maybe he should keep his crystal, Lucifer's, really, and not kill an innocent person out of mere curiosity. ]
I'm a professor's son. I've grown up with more theory than reality. In theory, you make perfect sense, Lucifer.
[ His voice comes out sounding contemplative, a bit deeper than his usual pitch and the pace slower, too. Usually he talks faster than a horse could run, not now. Finally pushing off the railing, he turns towards Lucifer again and puts the half-emptied Scotch down, looks him up and down. It isn't a sexual gesture as much as a curious one, as if he's looking for details that'll reveal the reality hidden within the theoretic contemplations of it all. He used to think this way a lot as a teenager.
In this case, though, the two seem to be the same thing. Reality and theory. He likes that, it feels like home, even here in Lucifer's expensive penthouse, talking about the fall and Hell. He likes it, he likes him. ]
I'm just running with it.
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But in reality, Elio's just another human who's lost someone today, someone who was in his life and then, suddenly, wasn't. No theoretical approach is going to ground someone in the face of loss; Lucifer's been alive since the dawn of humanity (and before, thanks), he's seen everything they've come up with to counteract this particular fact of existence, from drowning themselves in alcohol and drugs (his personal favourite!) to re-imagining Heaven or circling back and forth within their own grief for all eternity. Doesn't matter what you do, though, does it.
Theory's never going to cut it.
He tilts his head thoughtfully, leaning back a little against the railing again, his stance approaching a slouch. ]
Such a dangerous habit, my dear. Running with it.
[ He reaches out and tugs lightly on the bottom hem of Elio's borrowed shirt. ]
Tends to land you in terrible situations - or, like now, in terrible clothes.
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He calls it a dangerous habit and Elio won't disagree. He hasn't lived a safe life, just a very single-minded one. ]
How bad is it?
[ While he's also talking about his clothes, though, objectively he's aware they're quite hideous and he doesn't look his best which makes him feel kind of self-conscious again, now, Elio is looking over at Lucifer, meeting his gaze directly and saying it in a tone of voice that means, you. The terrible situation I'm running into, how bad is it? How bad are you?
You don't feel bad, it means as Elio slowly reaches down with both hands, wrapping his fingers around Lucifer's hand and just lifts it slightly, turning it over in his grip, looking at it. The lines. The physicality. He's heavy between Elio's fingers, warm. A presence. ]
Should I take them off?
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At his second question, Lucifer huffs out a laugh, running his fingers up the inside of Elio's wrist, stroking him softly, feeling the very subtle rise of blue veins beneath his skin. ]
Please, be my guest.
[ He slips his hand out of Elio's grip and walks around him, their shoulders brushing as he heads inside, eying the piano. He glances at his phone quickly - the Detective's updated him a couple of times, no real breakthroughs yet, but he shoots off a text telling her to call when she needs him, seeing as there might be a serial killer on the loose and he'd like to be there when she confronts him, he'd like to have her back.
He thinks about Elio and pauses, fingers sliding over the lid of the piano. Raises his voice, words ringing through the open spaces around him: ]
I'd be happy to supply you with something more appropriate. [ He glances over his shoulder. ] You know the way to the walk-in closet, yes?
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[ I already walked right past it, he thinks as Lucifer withdraws his hand after a long moment of contact and touch and the heat of fingertips against Elio's wrist, moving around him and back inside. Elio turns after him, watches as he checks his phone and then, stops by the piano. Naturally, as a pianist, he noticed the Steinway baby grand that the man had on display as soon as he entered, but you don't just touch other people's instruments, the same way you don't touch their privates. Without permission. The way you don't ask people what their greatest desire is without them having the choice to remain silent. But then again, Elio gets the feeling that protocol is only unimportant when it doesn't pertain to Lucifer himself.
He's met men like him before, he thinks. Never anyone like him, of course, the Devil's a singular, you'd think, but his type. Elio has met most types, really. Lost most types as a consequence. He has experience. He isn't afraid.
Heading back inside, he traces his own steps back to the bathroom where he quite simply drops his LAPD issues, the walk-in-closet through a glass door. It's a dark room, a lot of mahogany surfaces. It's also hexagonal, is he surprised? Not really. Looking around, he finds a closet full of dresses that he doesn't think Lucifer would wear, some of them, at least, he couldn't fit into even if he tried. Remains, it seems, from past lovers? Elio smiles, running his hand over the collection. There's something sentimental about it that he really likes. Is he waiting for them to come and collect? Does the Devil wait at all?
A frown. Elio rummages around until he finds a pair of pants with accompanying belt he should be able to fit and a nice shirt, red. Burgundy. He starts putting it on. ]
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Another reason to leave Hell behind for good. Sure, he can find pianos in various hell loops but it's always a bit of a downer, releasing your innermost emotions within someone else's eternal guilt trip. Besides, he's a skilled musician. Not exactly torture, having to listen to him, is it. Though come to think of it, it might actually be a more disturbing experience, having some tender soul music running in the background of your gradual dismemberment. Hm. Guess the jury's still out.
Exhaling slowly, he touches the keys. Puts his fingers on them, starting from A-minor and then, quite naturally, it develops into something that doesn't have a name, it's dark and maybe a little soft around the edges, relatively uncomplicated. But it's his. For some reason, that makes it suitable to this particular audience, to Elio who isn't affected by his mojo, who believes in him in theory, who takes up too little space.
The song feels a bit like him, really. ]
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Watching the other man as he plays, Elio walks over to the piano and halts a few meters away, respectful distance. Lucifer's a natural musician, he can't really describe him better than that, but it's immediately obvious, music just looks good on him. The piano does, really, Elio can't imagine an instrument that wouldn't fit him. Then again, music has always been a way to the divine, people have always used it to reach for the stars. Mozart's Requiem, Händel's Messiah...
It just means something else these days, of course. Concerts and billboards and such. Fame. Though, Elio's pretty sure his father would say, fame's just a synonym for glory and glory's divine, too. It's all connected. He cocks his head a bit, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and listens until the end of the piece before commenting, softly, the effect of the music in some way visceral. His stomach is in knots, he doesn't quite know why, but it isn't bad, just... felt. ]
It's your own? The melody, I mean.
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Mm.
[ He sets the glass back on the piano lid with a clink. ]
Yes, yes, it just happened. Not sure I'd call it mine, per se, it feels a little bit too recent for that.
[ He winks at Elio quickly, then returns his attention to the instrument, taking a moment to think back in time. After all, the other man's interests go back a while, don't they, to a time when classical music was a king's wish and its creators were rock artists in their own rights. Some of them more than others. He closes his eyes, then sets off on Mozart's Piano Sonata no. 12 in F major, breaking the mood of the A-minor as efficiently as possible without throwing the entire atmosphere to the winds.
The other man looks excellent in those clothes, doesn't he? He thinks about the way he'd held his hand on the balcony, all gentle and searching, no pushing, no directing. Lucifer's had far too much meddling in his life to tolerate it from humans which is one of the reasons why he doesn't tolerate liars at all. That, and Michael. Michael lies like a champ and no one wants to share any unnecessary traits with that idiot.
Fingers moving nimbly across the keyboard, he lets the instrument take the music where it goes, paying perhaps a little less attention to the dynamics than he ought. He doesn't care overly much about presenting Mozart's music the way the man would've wanted - mostly because he knew the man and well, he didn't care for conformity. He cared about shining, about burning as brightly as possible.
A perfectly valid approach to life, obviously. ]
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Still, his smile just widens and he looks down, not coyly but amused. When Lucifer instead starts playing Mozart's no. 12, he actually raises his head, though, to watch him, his hands, the way he carries the music. It's not even difficult, turning off his conservatory ear, not only because the other man plays Mozart with great technical adeptness, but because it doesn't matter. Elio isn't here to hear the Devil be Mozart, he's here to hear the Devil be himself. ]
Mozart, if the Devil jimmied with it.
[ He says it in a voice lowered just enough not to override the music completely, but loud enough that he's sure Lucifer hears it. They're halfway through the allegro and Elio stretches lazily now, while listening, feeling strangely comfortable. Welcome now in this home that isn't his. Letting his arms fall back to his sides, he purses his lips, looking over the other man's hands, beautiful hands, big and strong, powerful. Not the most Mozartian look, but that's fine, Elio will do Mozartian hands for the both of them. He flexes his fingers, skin tingling slightly. There are definitely parts of him now that are aching to touch.
It's because it feels like flirting, this. Like they're doing that dance in chords rather than words. Blinking once, twice, Elio steps closer and runs his fingers slowly over the lid of the piano. Slow brush of fingertips. Play it again, please, he recalls Oliver saying, but it's faint echo at this point. It's been so long. ]
It sounds to me like you make everything you touch yours. Including the Mozart.
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He sighs.
Elio's stepped closer yet, fingers brushing the lid of the piano. Slender fingers, elegant - perfect, he's sure, for this kind of music. The adagio part would probably sound exquisite beneath his hands. It has a tender, slightly melancholic mood to it. Elio's followed him the past hours, accepting, believing (resigned, perhaps, to the idea of inevitability?) and taking everything in stride but whether or not any of it actually resonates? Frowning, he comes to an abrupt realisation and looks up at him, speaking without pausing in his play: ]
You've closed yourself off somehow. [ He grins, nodding to himself. ] Don't know why, don't know how - but you have, haven't you? All of this - [ He waves a hand at their surroundings, at nothing in particular and everything all at once. The music. The murder. The weather. ] - it's just happening, with or without your active participation. Grey areas and nothing besides.
[ He strikes the last few passages quickly. Then, he comes to a halt. Frowns again, gaze slipping sideways. ]
Though, it hardly explains how you're dodging my mojo. People do that, after all. I've seen it a million times.
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You've closed yourself off somehow.
Very few people look through him so quickly or so blatantly. Few people care. He doesn't know whether it's Lucifer's manner or the implicit investment that gets to him, but something does. He steps up to the piano bench and waits to be allowed to sit, to have their shoulders brushing, to feel their sides pressing together, because two grown men is a lot to ask of even the broadest piano bench, really. He doesn't outrightly ask, but he waits, patiently. His waiting is his request. ]
Someone told me once to feel the pain, it's better than withdrawal. [ Looking away slowly from Lucifer, his statuesque features that would make even Elio's father happy, he licks his lips. He doesn't know why he's saying these things, perhaps it's got to do with Lucifer's "mojo" after all. Perhaps it's got to do with Lucifer, period. Outside the afternoon sun's bright and hot. It plays in the whiskey tumblers left out there, the crystal catching the light.
Elio doesn't return his attention to him, doesn't look him in the face, but remains very honest, very - open. Gaze just slightly off to the side, eyes fixed on the sky outside. ] I think we're a million people waiting for them to be proven right. How long do you think we'll have to wait?
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So, Elio's doing what everybody with half a brain would do in the face of... hurt, isn't it? Pain. Another similar word, except it goes further by definition. Hard not to wonder as to what sort of hurt we're talking about. Caused by people? By love, loss, heartbreak? How long do you think we'll have to wait he asks and Lucifer shifts sideways, nodding at him to take a seat next to him on the bench, thinking that he wouldn't mind having him a bit closer. He exudes honesty, this man. It's like he doesn't know any other way to be and Lucifer hasn't met anyone like him before, not ever.
Biting his lower lip, he looks away, one hand still fingering the keys on the upper register of the keyboard. He presses them randomly. ]
For a lie to be proven true?
[ His voice gains a harsher edge as he grabs his glass and empties it once more. Holds it between his fingers, gaze growing distant. He doesn't give the answer because it'll be obvious to the both of them, as it were even as Elio posed the question and allowed it to settle between them. Forever he thinks, feeling hollow all of a sudden, hollow and restless and exhausted. We'll be waiting forever.
That's a bloody long time, to be sure. ]
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What the man's actually saying without saying it explicitly is, forever, you'll be waiting forever. Or is it we in this case? Doesn't the Devil know lies better than most, you'd think? Not as the subject, he did say he never lied, but as the object, are they actually talking one sufferer to the other? Elio glances sideways up at him, the way he's holding his tumbler between his fingers and looking at it, gaze seeing things far away. Things that aren't in this room and unrelated to Elio at all. He'll have more memories than him to dig through, too, he's existed since the dawn of time. And even so, they're sitting side by side now, so close he can feel the heat exuding from the other man's body, can feel the hardness of him, muscles and flesh and other things that harden you. Lies. The kind you live.
Keeping his elbows as close to his body as possible, he slowly reaches up and runs his fingers lightly over the keys of Lucifer's baby grand, without pressing any of them. It's an exquisite, expensive instrument and he handles it carefully, with quite a lot of admiration, just feeling the smoothness of the keys beneath his fingertips first. There's nothing to say in response to Lucifer's rhetorical question, is there? More lies, maybe, but aren't they both tired of that? Elio is, anyway. Lucifer looks tired, too, and it isn't even three in the afternoon yet.
Still, the sun has passed its zenith. Outside. ]
Is it my turn? [ Elio shakes himself out of it forcibly, it's a well-rehearsed exercise at this point, going to work, playing the piano, sleeping with people. Life! The rest dormant underneath the surface. Still, he waits for Lucifer's permission in this, too, hands coming to a rest in his lap until he has it. His contemplative expression has given way to a small smile again and he raises an eyebrow slightly up at Lucifer. ] To play?
[ His eyes follow the bridge of Lucifer's nose to his lips, linger there, wait. He wonders what he's going to taste like. Besides Scotch. ]
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Lucifer knows about those as well, doesn't he.
Is it my turn asks Elio carefully, touching the keys the same way he was touching Lucifer before, carefully, without truly asking for anything. If you want to give it, it means, I'd like to have it and it feels lovely, in a way, to be given that choice, even by a human who could never force anything from him. Perhaps except...
He frowns.
Glances sideways at Elio, then nods. ]
Be my guest.
[ Said with an upwards-twist of his lips as he leans back a little, stretching out his legs before getting to his feet and leaving Elio with enough room to move, to span whatever length he'd like of the keyboard. Standing by the piano, sipping his Scotch and watching the other man quietly, he wonders again as to why he's unaffected by his mojo - why is he here, in his penthouse, his desires still a complete mystery to him and his gentle attitude leaving him with no further clues? Humans, typically, aren't that complicated. Not the ones he meets, anyhow.
But maybe, he thinks, that has to do with his choices, too, and where they take him. To whom.
Ugh, this is seriously messing with his head, isn't it. Good thing he's got a therapy session booked for tomorrow. ]
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That should bring him hope, shouldn't it?
Taking a deep breath, he begins playing the first few chords of the Moonlight Sonata, because it's meditative and Elio thinks best to music that fits his mindset, but a minute in, he makes a jarring mistake that makes the line of his lips tighten, then ten seconds later, he makes another. He stops again, abruptly. Lets his hands sink to his lap, frowning slightly, then gets to his feet and moves around the instrument, stopping next to Lucifer and his drink, in the middle of his living room full of lights. They aren't quite touching. They aren't quite there yet. ]
Please ask me again later. [ The music, he means, ask me to play again, I can do better, later. But he also means his desires. Maybe all they need is more time, to wait. ] Few people have ever cared about what I wanted before.
[ Elio turns his head slowly, looking up at the other man, towering over him, broad and dark and beautiful. Wanting to touch him again, Elio instead flexes his fingers by his sides and breathes deeply through his nose, looking around the room. Only the Devil could live here, really. It couldn't be anyone else.
It's not theory, it's truth. ]
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Few people have ever cared Elio tells him and Lucifer looks at him for a long moment, very much aware of his proximity. The tingling in his chest is back and sure, it has to do with his desires. Elio's pleasing to the eye. He's sweet, easy to tolerate. But aside from that, he's carrying something within himself, something unusually opaque and it speaks to Lucifer, like there's something in him that can't help but respond in kind.
That's new.
His mind flashes back to someone else, once upon a time, thousands of years ago. Sweet Eve, made to be whatever her partner wanted her to be, to mold herself according to their desires. He'd told her to be free, to choose for herself and naturally, she had. Whether or not it made her truly free, he can't say - she's in Heaven now, stuck with her spouse, within the confines of divine eternity. But Elio is here. He's not asking to be what Lucifer wants, either, or waiting for him to say so.
He's waiting to be told what he wants for himself.
Reaching out because he can't not, Lucifer runs his hand up Elio's upper arm, just a light brush of his fingertips over the soft fabric of his borrowed shirt. With a slight smile, he sits back down by the piano and gives him the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, picking it up for him, letting him think of the gesture what he wishes. ]