[ He almost surprises himself with the answer, he wouldn't have considered it even months ago, when they'd still been dancing their dance back and forth pretending that those trysts in the dark, shared between them with every excuse imaginable, was something that wouldn't happen again...until it did. Again, and again, and again. Until they're finding excuses to simply exist next to each other β soft whispered conversations in private where anyone could find them, insults with double meanings, negotiations and secrets shared in one breath.
He leans down, their lips touch. His fingers curl around his, still holding onto that flask. It's all push, and pull. He tries to pull Vergilius down with him into the muck, but maybe he too is trying to tug him back upwards, and maybe they'll still be mired in it β he is a bad man, and Vergilius is a killer himself β but maybe they'll find air down here in the mire, a way to tread water somewhere in the middle.
So maybe it is a little deal, shared between them. Something he can give, that for once isn't meant to cut, or harm. He may be all sharp edges and daggers in the dark, but they are both wrought iron, jagged edges that find places to fit, where maybe it doesn't cut so deep toward one another. As if there are ways to make that fit. The edges not quite blunted, still cutting, but it isn't to kill. Just to flake the pieces off, in the same way Vergilius does to him. Cutting them into shape. Maybe they still don't understand, maybe they do, and maybe it's all just an excuse to let him in to do this again.
He breathes out, breathes against him, his lips taken β he doesn't pull away. His stray fingers reach up, to brush his bangs back, and his thumb runs a line against the scar on his face. To commit it all to memory, maybe. It feels wrong to take even this, and yet, he selfishly wants more of him. Every time, he wants more. ]
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He leans down, their lips touch. His fingers curl around his, still holding onto that flask. It's all push, and pull. He tries to pull Vergilius down with him into the muck, but maybe he too is trying to tug him back upwards, and maybe they'll still be mired in it β he is a bad man, and Vergilius is a killer himself β but maybe they'll find air down here in the mire, a way to tread water somewhere in the middle.
So maybe it is a little deal, shared between them. Something he can give, that for once isn't meant to cut, or harm. He may be all sharp edges and daggers in the dark, but they are both wrought iron, jagged edges that find places to fit, where maybe it doesn't cut so deep toward one another. As if there are ways to make that fit. The edges not quite blunted, still cutting, but it isn't to kill. Just to flake the pieces off, in the same way Vergilius does to him. Cutting them into shape. Maybe they still don't understand, maybe they do, and maybe it's all just an excuse to let him in to do this again.
He breathes out, breathes against him, his lips taken β he doesn't pull away. His stray fingers reach up, to brush his bangs back, and his thumb runs a line against the scar on his face. To commit it all to memory, maybe. It feels wrong to take even this, and yet, he selfishly wants more of him. Every time, he wants more. ]