So, Abel thought with a smile of self-satisfaction, mischievous in nature, he still reacts.
It was true, much to his surprised delight.
Eckhart, the warrior enochian he’d once betrayed on a dime - without hesitation, determined to emerge the victor in his brother’s game, indifferent to the idea of Eckhart suffering in his place; or at least he’d tried to be, but sometimes, the strangest feeling would well … guilt, an uncomfortable feeling that he would immediately shake off before it had time to fester like some unlanced boil - still reacted to his touch, strongly affected by his nearness even though he tried to hide it. But the mephistos sensed his physical susceptibility in the way his body gave a visible start, shuddering in response to the way his index finger danced lightly across the hard ridges of his knuckles; a teasing caress. He was just as he remembered him, a creature who walked the fine line between darkness and light, with a sturdy build - more lean than burly but broad enough to present a physical threat to one’s well-being, standing a few inches taller than him. But perhaps it had been the power he wielded with such precision that had made him a true threat, power that had been restricted, bound by the atrocities his precious humans had inflicted upon him.
Served him right for trusting in mankind, maintaining his faith in them - believing they’d never turn on him.
Giving an inward shake of his head at that ridiculous train of thought - if he recalled correctly, Eckhart had been considered the last resort, called in to do what he did best when all else failed - Abel flashed a skillfully feigned frown of confusion at the enochian’s proclamation. Innocent? No. He’d never been that, perhaps not even in life - before his brother had murdered him. And Eckhart … He was right to say as much. But admitting it was an entirely different story, one Abel refused to take part in. “You wound me, Eckhart,” he responded, his tone hushed - with just a hint of dispiritedness to fool the senses. “I’ve done nothing to warrant your …” His silly denial faltered, however, when Eckhart’s attention shifted, turning to that of the human he’d cajoled into surrendering to the rampaging monster within him, one who was just dying to get out - and the expression in the mephistos’s eyes hardened at the thought of someone else gaining his attention; an unnoticeable reaction to the untrained eye. But just as quickly as it had appeared, the feeling subsided, and Abel used that brief moment of distraction to slink back into the shadows, observing the enochian as he worked to subdue the situation before it could get any more out of hand. All it took was one, deliberate punch from that man’s experienced fist to knock the rampaging human out; a clean hit, with little damage - but strong enough to leave an impression.
“Well done,” he congratulated under his breath, appreciation for the strength of this male that had incited his fascination from the moment he’d first laid eyes on him showing in the tendrils of darkness spreading outward from his own shadow, a physical manifestation of the immense power he’d once held in the palm of his hand, easily conjured, its taint an incurable disease that had once infected thousands, driving them to insanity. And Eckhart … He’d presented a challenge; it had been difficult to hide his power signature from him, having come close to discovery too many times to count, but he’d managed to pull it off beautifully - because he was the first, regardless of what Cain said.
But unfortunately, his diluted power simply wasn’t strong enough to completely conceal his presence from the male-in-question, and he soon found Abel skulking near the fountain, watching his handiwork from the shadows.
Why bother getting his hands dirty when he could just as well talk others into doing the dirty work for him?
“Owe you?” Abel raised an eyebrow at that, not quite acting but not quite himself either. He was somewhere in between, a state only Eckhart had ever managed to wrest from him. “I’m not quite sure I follow. He’s human.” Uttered with barely banked disgust, his voice heavy with mockery; a deliberate ploy to distract him. “Nasty things, humans are - so greedy, so weak to suggestion.” That was about as far as he would get with any sort of confession. “How is it my fault that he gave in so easily? It was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the rage eating away at him.”
Only a matter of time before he lost it.
“I can’t believe you, Icky,” the mephistos added, poking his bottom lip out in a sullen pout. “We haven’t seen each other in years, and you want to talk about these pitiful things called humans? Is that how much I mean to you? … How disheartening.”
Wound him?
Wound him!?
He had some nerve!
Did the mephistos really lack the wit to see the leniency he had? Or was this just pure, blatant denial? How many times — over how many years — had he turned a blind eye to Abel’s shit? Not just the tall tales, but all sorts of shameful shenanigans. How many more benefits of the doubt could he possibly give when that gyros had already been whittled away to the spit and served on a sparkling platter?
He’d bent rules for him— on multiple occasions.
He’d played cover-up on how many lies?
They’d kissed.
And he had the audacity to claim he’d done wrong?
Eckhart growled, shoulders stiffening as his icepick eyes bore through all the petty surface layers and cut right to the soul. A terrifying look — one that used to scare the baddest of the bad back home to their hellholes, but even then Abel had always seemed to harbour an annoying immunity. Enoch knows, he should wound him, punish him for years of crime that flew under the arm of justice. But he couldn’t raise his hand, couldn’t even ball palms into fists. It was just like every other time only intensified — now he had the ire of his capture fueling fury.
Yet once again the Enochian found himself rendered into a wet blanket in the presence of this particular mephistos. And worse, allowed himself to be used as a doormat.
Great Enoch. What is wrong with me?
If this was love no wonder it drove people mad.
It wasn’t though. Couldn’t be.
He felt like a bull, full of hot air, and though it only completed the image, he snorted anyway. It relieved some of the pressure in his head yet his heart still raged. Quaked and raged, thundering eardrums with every breath drawn slowly in and out. This staying calm thing had never been so difficult. Maybe it was the irritating buzz of another bouncer in his ear, questioning if everything was alright. Hah. Hardly. He’d just lost his famous cool and gone and punched a customer. Knocked him flat out— bloody Enoch, he’d be getting an earful later but for now? He tugged the damn earpiece out and turned it off.
“Yes. You owe me.” Did he really have to reiterate the whole it’s your fault I got caught thing? Eckhart didn’t see why Abel was complaining. Owing him was getting off easy. That wasn’t real justice. That was doormat justice. If you could even call it that. Lashes fluttered heavy against his cheek — breaking the intense visual contact — “So stop playing your games with them,” Eckhart demanded — loyal to humanity even in the crux of bitterness. He leaned in, head dipped, and whispered: “You’re better than that.” Was it wrong to still want to believe that, even with all the evidence slanting otherwise?
Was the issue more internalized?
The fault really his burden to bare?
Was he just not good enough at being good?
Did he fail as an Enochian?
The uncertainty made a patter and a pitter of his heart. What he’d said felt dumb now, in the heat of the Mephistos stare. “It doesn’t make you look powerful, messing with the meek,” Eckhart pointed out, doing his best to maintain the glare. He took a step closer, breaching his personal bubble. Eckhart didn’t blink, couldn’t, couldn’t breathe either. This was dangerous territory, one his instincts said to hightail it away from. Instead he growled out an alternative: “Play them with me instead.”
