Drabble || Manipulative Jealousy.
( The character ‘Cain’ belongs to Kerri / @theabandonedones. )
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A disgusting kind of jealousy coils into his chest at the sight of them, demonic aura flaring up in a rare slip of unruly, raw power. Surely it's assumed as lingering annoyance from something else, or perhaps they mistook it for the duller flare from his teleportation. Either way, there's hardly a reaction apart from the vaguely startled noise in a childhood friend's throat, and their King's fingertips pausing in said-friend's hair.
They're an odd enough pair, wrapped up in each other's arms like this, but it's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before. All affectionate expression and suggestive touch, newfound bruises decorating the younger's throat; he's fairly certain there's freshly-dried blood beneath Lucifer's fingernails too, but that may be unrelated.
In all fairness, he wants to be happy for them. Has actively tried to stay that way, and generally tries to show as much. However...
His jaw briefly sets, fangs nicking into his own gums for several seconds before a sharp sigh fills the echoed space of the throne room. Uncaring of the sweet metallic hanging in the air, settling warmly on his own tongue — that certainly gets their attention.
The spell's broken, and both sets of red eyes flicker to where Varil had appeared against the far wall. Lips part in what he can only guess is the beginnings of concern at the tip of his adoptive father's tongue - but that won't do, and so he's quick to cut the chance off.
❝ Cain. ❞
Skipping over addressing their ruler is rare enough as is, but he knows all too well that the other demon's name came out too sharply. With any luck, ignorance will stay bliss, but he offers no explanation; in these cases, it's typically better to let one assume something, than to craft an over-complicated lie about your tone.
A lighter sigh, rolling his shoulders as though to ease tension, it's all done for the 'benefit of the doubt' factor here. There's something inherently wrong about this picture, and he's not certain exactly when he got to this point in life, but...
❝ Alistair would like to speak with you. ❞
The cards are on the metaphorical table, and he can feel the surprise, confusion, a few other things mingled among them, that twists throughout the room. Emotions bouncing off the stone walls and rattling back, sparking against his skin as real as static electricity. It's a known fact that the pair don't talk often, of course, and Varil remains aware of that, but that doesn't make it any less of a proper excuse to 'shoo' his childhood friend off for a couple hours.
❝ I'm certain you recall how impatient he can be. I wouldn't suggest keeping him waiting. ❞
Words planned far before entering the room, falling like poison from an empath's tongue. The irony is that he actually sounds like the Prince of Hell, and perhaps that's why Lucifer's surprise seems to spark up more at Alistair's name than it does the implied threat that follows. No matter, it isn't as though he's ever claimed that they don't talk.
"Yeah, of course. Do you know why —"
Waving a hand and pushing from the wall to stroll towards the throne, the rest of it is simple enough.
❝ He didn't say, Cain. Go, humor him for a few. ❞
There's an understandable hesitance about it all, and Varil can't blame anyone for that. He wonders momentarily if the elder's going to argue, against better judgement, but then Lucifer seems to make that decision for everyone:
❝ Go see what he wants, dear. I can't imagine this should take long anyhow. ❞
It's only another moment, and a few sickeningly sweet kisses from the unofficial couple in the room, before Cain's gone and the throne room's quiet again. His own request from not too many hours ago rattles in his head.
❝ Keep Cain busy for a while. ❞
He almost wants to feel sorry about it, but he really doesn't.
Besides, it's hardly as though there wasn't a lot more bribery than that simple order involved in this. Pay your dues, get results.
❝ Is all well, Varil? ❞
Brilliant blue eyes flicker back to his King, and a half-smile tugs itself onto previously tense lips. Another few steps, and then he's draped contently across the elder's lap, fingers curling lightly into expensive silk.
Mine.
Blackened nails shift to comb through his hair, and immediately there's a purr trying to bubble up from his throat.
❝ Of course, sir. ❞
He knows Alistair isn't ignorant enough to actually hurt one of father's favorites, and so there's nothing to feel that badly about.
Play with the cat, get scratched.
