[A fool... Yes, he supposes he is. Lobelia has been made to confront that truth many times over in the last few days, accepting that fact with a wry, crooked smile. Beelzebub is a good person, a loving soul, and someone who will no doubt succeed in protecting the people most important to him. So long as he fortifies that bleeding heart against people like Lobelia, he'll accomplish all he sets out to in life. If nothing else, Lobelia hopes that scar he carved into his heart will toughen him.]
...Merci.
[Lobelia's lips curve awkwardly, wanting to say more, so much more, but denying himself the opportunity. He's said enough, sinned enough, and now he has a reason to care about the words he speaks. Never had it mattered what anyone else thought, speaking freely without consideration for how his words would be received, but that's no longer the case. He is no longer the only one who matters.
Once more, he's woefully without the means to record his name as it passes through Vergilius' lips as a sigh. He's never cared much for his name, vain though he is, but it holds a special weight when Vergilius speaks it. Just as it had when his parents spoke to him so sweetly, their hearts full of genuine love, he feels a similar tightness in his chest when Vergilius addresses him by name.
That aching in his heart is the last thing Lobelia feels before his eyes slip closed, blackness replacing the vivid pinks and yellows of the flowers blooming beneath him, his death swift and painless. When Lobelia awakes once more, he's revived on the opposite side of the garden, and it's there he'll remain.
no subject
...Merci.
[Lobelia's lips curve awkwardly, wanting to say more, so much more, but denying himself the opportunity. He's said enough, sinned enough, and now he has a reason to care about the words he speaks. Never had it mattered what anyone else thought, speaking freely without consideration for how his words would be received, but that's no longer the case. He is no longer the only one who matters.
Once more, he's woefully without the means to record his name as it passes through Vergilius' lips as a sigh. He's never cared much for his name, vain though he is, but it holds a special weight when Vergilius speaks it. Just as it had when his parents spoke to him so sweetly, their hearts full of genuine love, he feels a similar tightness in his chest when Vergilius addresses him by name.
That aching in his heart is the last thing Lobelia feels before his eyes slip closed, blackness replacing the vivid pinks and yellows of the flowers blooming beneath him, his death swift and painless. When Lobelia awakes once more, he's revived on the opposite side of the garden, and it's there he'll remain.
...If you really love me, leave me alone.
So he will. For Vergilius, he will.]