zauneyete | SYNFLUX INBOX

[ Oh —

He would hold off, if he could; if he had the will to. But the man's lips on his neck, humming and biting, and there's the way his hips and hand finally find something like a matching pace. He doesn't bite back the hisses, gasps — the soft throaty moans are few, but they slip out when his eye slips closed, his other locked onto Vergilius's face, or the lines of scars on him, or his shoulder, wherever he can.

His words are what do it — the way they slip out unbidden, tickling against sweaty, sensitive skin; his fingers grip tight, riding him out —

He swallowed, grit his teeth, but his lean, small body trembled underneath him, and he leaned up to press his forehead against his shoulder, one eye closed. His hips moved, trying to match the pace, try to drag just a little bit more — his fingers still moved against him, messy from him, slick. ]

I'll — [ his breath shuddered, his words rougher than before. ] — Aah — I'll make you —

[ He tried to press more against him, as if he could split and push into his skin. Like he could wind his way in there, and he gasped, the sound devolving into another of those moans — louder this time — lips, teeth, fangs (it didn't matter; it mattered so much) found skin to consume, biting his way along flesh, hooking a single fang in his skin when he — finally —

It was so sudden, only seconds behind, a gasp that was louder than the rest, completely and fully out of that tight control. His hips jerked, his body taut, spilling over his hand and his belly. He could only see dancing stars in his vision, swimming between his vision, half-closed and open, blanking out sight of anything for a moment that seemed to hang in the air.

There was blood everywhere between them, and sweat, and —

He didn't move — he didn't think he could move, still with his forehead on his shoulder, a single fang caught into his skin.

He breathed hard against his skin, still fighting to find a way back to reality while it kept slipping through his fingers. ]

[Would it? Could it? Maybe it's just his selfish wish. His own crucifixion that he deserves, by their hands. The children would realize, and would spit on him, act in revenge. He wouldn't move a muscle. A fitting end for him, at the hands of those lives he ruined.]

...I don't know.

[He doesn't know. A part of him has been too afraid to say otherwise. Selfish, so selfish. He's his own judge, jury, and executioner, but he has yet to give himself a proper sentence.]

[Silco falls silent on the other end. He blinks, waiting for a reply, and-]

[A knock.]

[He stands to answer the door, and there he is. The man himself.]

Hah? [Yeah, this is a bit unexpected.] Silco. What are you doing here?

[ He's just a bit off, in the doorway. Small, without the large coat, and more casual clothes. A little too harried, his eyes look both directions, like he's trying to make sure that he isn't seen in the hallway, or maybe looking for danger. It's hard to say, it's so quick.

He gestured down the hallway. ]

Doesn't it feel stupid having a conversation when you're just a few doors down?

[ In a room where he's sure the demon is still infesting. Trying to find something important. He could do it, he could watch. Silco knew he had the tricks up his sleeve, the little ways he can hear and see everything. He knew where Silco stayed, now, and he knew he wouldn't capitulate. He had his life, but that didn't mean that he was safe.

He knew better. ]

Especially if we're talking about...

[ Their kids. ]

[He is off. This feels wrong from the get-go - Silco always carried himself with a certainty even in the face of larger threats. Here, he's smaller, more aware of himself in a strange way. No, this feels different than a man simply led into bittersweet reminiscence. There's something restless, here, and Vergilius actually moves his head forward to cast his gaze down the hallway, as if expecting some shadow to be tacked onto the wall.]

....Mm.

[And now, he's looking back at the man, eyebrows twisting down with a confused frown.]

It may be stupid, yes. [A beat.] What's wrong, Silco?

[ Another long pause.

Perhaps this was stupid. (It was.) Finally: ]

I don't trust that the shadows are not listening.

[ He does not know fear anymore — he does not fear anything — but he does not dare utter something that could be used against him right now where he thinks there could be a...remnant of the demon left. He'd encompassed his room, he'd swallowed all the light, was it so foolish to think that he would leave something behind, to make sure he held to the letter of a spoken-contract?

He straightened and looked him in the eye. A tip of his head, a twitch of his lips. Fear could only do so much to stifle Silco. ]

Are you going to let me in, or not?

...

[Maybe he didn't see an actual shadow, but looks like he wasn't far off on his guess. Shadows may listen. Whatever happened with Sebastian somehow pierced to his core. He has no idea what the butler is, but...]

[This is a man who was pushed to a corner if he ever saw one.]

[He sighs as if reluctant, but he is moving back at the same time, to give the man space to move.]

....Fine. No shadows here.

[When he does enter, he will find....a rather unimpressive room. Bluntly normal, with disheveled sheets, scattered belongings. Nothing personal here. A room lived in, but it isn't alive.]

You can take a seat.

[He gestures to the bed. He has a chair, but its as plain as it gets. Probably more comfortable for that first choice.]

[He barely feels the fangs biting in his skin. He barely feels anything but the thunderclap electricity that shocks the system, makes him feel alive. But no, that's not quite true. Even in the throes of this horrific euphoria, the searing heat of Silco following right after him holds like a punch above the rest. It makes him shudder so perceptibly that it almost makes him let go, but he doesn't. His chest heaves. The smell of everything - blood, tears, and Silco - threaten to burn in his nose.]

[It was never like this with Malkuth. This feels like he, himself, has been reinvented. As his eyes start to register what's around him, he's more than conscious of his own body now, and the fang still buried in his shoulder.]

[He reaches up with a hand to yank the man off - only to chase him with his mouth to singe a kiss against his lips. He tastes good. His voice is raw, ragged, and yet he whispers for Silco and Silco alone.]

...I meant what I said earlier.

[Him being pretty? That he would break him? Any of that?]

[Why, he'll not even elaborate and let Silco pick up the pieces to give his own guess of an answer.]

[ It's... about as spartan as Silco's is, really. Minus the drama of the medications and drugs, his was no more personable than Silco's is. Though, he's been here longer, hasn't he?

Once the door is closed, he relaxed slightly, that cantankerous old arrogance suffusing back into him, like the spark of paranoia can be buried back underneath. It's more vulnerable than he'd like. He won't admit it, and certainly won't voice how truly powerless he is; the stark reminder doing more to harden it into his soul, when a world before, he'd thought he could do anything. He could. Now... well.

He sat. Though...

His eyes focused on him for a long moment. Maybe because he's thinking about how to start the conversation again; or maybe...

Finally: ]

I killed him, you know. Her father.

[ The opening line to that horrible tale. ]

[ His own brain buzzes with something, like his hearing hasn't quite returned like he can't quite focus on anything yet. It's all so raw and odd and terribly vulnerable. Silco's hand still curled around him, still gently, slowly rubbing against him, as if he could pull just a little bit more out of him, just a touch further. Maybe he still wants more, or maybe he wants to take a little more of him, like he's taking more from him.

It's all a bloody, ripe mess. He should hate it.

He doesn't mind it, shamefully.

Vergilius gets a soft squawk of surprise out of him when he pulled him off, his lips following it so that the sound is swallowed between them, shifting to something like a soft gasp against his lips.

He wants to know what he means by that — would knowing make it better? Or worse? Surely it can't be that he thinks he's pretty. Would he promise to break him? The near-memory of his desperate promise tipping him over — would it be that? The flush on his face — dusted across his shoulders too — They rise and fall with still too-heavy breaths, still coming down from the rush of seeing stars, just like he promised.

He pulled back to look him in the eyes — he refused to be the coward who looked away — unblinking eye staring into his. ]

Good.

[ His voice is hoarser than he wanted, uncontrolled. Does he know which thing? Did it matter? None of it had been... distasteful. ] I'll hold you to it.

[ He won't admit it; but he'll be thinking about it, and worrying over it, trying to put the puzzle together. ]

[He waits, patiently, for Silco to begin. He himself leans against the wall, arms folded, waiting. His gaze holds steady, red as anything.]

[That line brings no reaction. No horror, no shock, no disgust.]

And why would you do something like that?

[His tone is almost bordering on casual - after all, he himself just confessed to killing many before. Fathers, mothers, parents. All have ended by his hand.]

[One father by Silco's hand pales to it, by quantity alone.]

[ Well, he didn't expect that to shock him, frankly. Though he seemed to feel guilt for his own murders, he's suspected that the man understood that this was the way of things. That murders happened. In the undercity, after all, it was just. It was normal. Routine.

Nothing. ]

Why? [ There it was. He looked at him, that unblinking eye still boring into him.]

I planned it. I spent years orchestrating it so I could stab him with the knife I stole from him the day he gave me this. [ He tapped it, two fingers to the scar on his face, below the eye. ]

There's nothing more dangerous than someone who knows you best, after all. It's a lesson I had to learn, and one I was happy to teach in return.

[ As if the thought of Silco being close to anyone was likely. ]

I see. The sordid path of revenge. An eye for an eye.

[So, it seems Silco had a man to blame, and hunted that man to sate sweet vengeance. It makes sense. Silco was that type of man - he can see him tending to his grudges like pets, or plants in a garden. He wouldn't let them simply slide by.]

[He tilts his head, staring into that wide, unblinking eye.

Why did he give you that in the first place?

[What was the sin that catalyzed this whole chain reaction to occur?]

[ That bitter little laugh again. A chuff of it. Why? When he'd been younger, when it was fresh and new, he'd asked that over and over again. Why had it happened? Why had he been the one to bear the stains of their guilt? Why did he also have to die? Why had he finally had to let go of everything he was, to leave it to drift to the bottom of the river? Why had he been discarded like yesterday's refuse?

It had never been fair. Wasn't that what their lots in life were?]

Oh, that's where it gets interesting.

We got her parents killed. [ Were his hands stained with blood? Or was he just drowning in it? ]

My plan, of course. My fault.

[ So he was to blame, clearly. He had never blamed himself in full -- but he'd never had the opportunity to. Guilt couldn't roost where betrayal had dug a bigger hole for hatred and fury to be settle. ] Supposedly.

I don't understand. You said you killed her father. If we are talking about the same girl...

[Confused, he dips his head a little, eyebrows furrowing.]

I guess your plan didn't plan for that. Did it?

Come now, Vergilius. Your kids were in an orphanage, weren't they? Is it a stretch to think that someone would swoop in and take responsibility, if they felt enough guilt to kill someone they'd called brother?

[ Tried to kill, anyway. ]

I knew it had been a possibility. I was foolish, perhaps, thinking that a pack of Trenchers would be little more than an annoyance to swat down. [ A tip of his head. ]

A mistake I intended not to repeat.

So you can feel a spot of regret in that blackened coal heart of yours. Who knew.

[Not even said judgmentally, but almost matter-of-factly. Here is Silco. Even at the end of everything, he's as human as the rest of them. For better and for worse.]

[A little sigh, a shift of his head causing his bangs to fall in front of those unnatural gem-like eyes of his.]

And how did she come to you, after your bloody deed was done? Did you swoop in and take responsibility?

[ His put upon sigh rattles through a smoker's lungs. ]

A shame, isn't it? That I'm not nearly as reprehensible as one may think? Everything I've done has been for either that dream, or Jinx.

[ But what would happen if he had to choose? ]

Did you know, his entire pack of children came to save him? All but her. They had left her behind, because she was... [ Well... ] Her namesake.

They're dead. [ He held up a finger. ] Before you blame me, understand, I had no interest in the children. I took him only.

[ But Zaunites were built different. ]

I found her afterward. Crying by his body. She'd blown them up. All of them except her sister, who tossed her aside for trying to do what she thought would help.

[ There's that bitter little laugh again. Like father, like daughter. In every way possible. ]

[This is...a lot to process.]

[Jinx, he says. Like her namesake, he says. It seems children are named after what they are, what they will be. A gem of a boy becomes a hardened jewel. A girl named after disaster provides as such.]

[He takes it in, doesn't answer for a good long moment.]

Blown them up....how? What was she trying to do, Silco, that ended in such tragedy?

Why, she was trying to save him with one of her inventions, of course. A bomb.

[ He can't help it, there's pride in his voice. Say what you will About Silco's abysmal parenting skills, but he was proud of his daughter. ]

She torched my entire factory with it.

She was always brilliant, even as a child.

A bomb.

[Trying to save them all with the very thing that took away their lives.]

[He can't even begin to imagine what a child like that would feel. And now, that brings him to the question:]

Did you tell her...what you did?

That I put a knife in his back?

[ It was Silco, after all. It would never have been fair. But also... vander is frankly huge. So. Can anyone blame him?]

Yes, of course. She was well aware of who I was and what I had done, but it didn't stop her from reaching out to me.

[ A beat. ]

It's why I'm surprised that you didn't tell your kids what you did.

...

[He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Those vivid eyes cloud over a little as he casts it down at the floor. Why didn't he tell them? It's a good question, and one that he brushed aside, again and again.]

[He grimaces.]

...I suppose...I was too happy with that pretend scenario. Where I was simply a caretaker. I didn't...want to be hated. As much I knew I deserved to be.

Didn't want to be hated? By them? Others?

[ He leaned back slightly, an arm behind him to keep him up. He looked him up and down with that unwavering, eerie gaze of his own.

He's probably the wrong person to admit to being hated to. Silco has accepted being hated, and hating in turn. It's the way of things. It's the only way to live, to survive. Is to not care about what others think. Not worry about who hates you because of a few acts. ]

Why do you think you deserve it? Because you're a killer?

...I sought a sort of redemption in them, perhaps. A hope for the future. My garden to tend in a world that deserved to be razed.

[Again, those same thoughts come forth, unbidden, like a beating heart:]

[Since when did I begin to experience that feeling called guilt?
Since when did I lose the place where I could let my head down? No longer do I have the strength to move. Only now do I realize that this life of playing house may have been my final struggle to protect my soul, to stop the guilt from consuming me.
Because I know that the place I'm bound for will be too much for me.]

[He shakes his head, a hand moving up to brush through some of his bangs, back over his head.]

I hate that City. But in turn my sins keep the blood flowing that keeps it alive. In the end, I have perpetuated...too much to be forgiven.

Hm. [ He watches him brush his bangs back, leaving him under that constant, unwavering gaze. ]

I always thought that raising a child in a place so cruel was an act of defiance. To make something despite the filth that trickles down to consume everything, swallow us in all of its misery.

[ It's funny, how similar their stories are, their cities. Certainly, Vergilius has killed more than him directly, but he does not doubt that shimmer and his quest for full control of the undercity was a path of blood as well. Worthwhile blood, blood spilled for the cause, but blood nonetheless. Was it because there was a reason for what he did, that he did not feel guilt? Had he been a different man — the man he'd been back then — would he feel that same guilt settling like a too-heavy blanket?

Could he find a way to ease it? What good was guilt, if it served no purpose? What good did it serve? What point did it have? ]

Do you need to be? [ He asked, finally, a long moment of consideration, watching him, thinking. Like those gears turning in his head. ] If you had resisted, or been a different person, would the City be different?

Or would it have found a crueler man than you to fill its place?

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