❛ … what happened to your hand? ❜
ask anyone who believes in the words of the good book and they’ll tell you quickly: satan and his servants all lie. to know someone who believes this is to know a hypocrite — is to know someone who has never spoken a word to the one that he loves. lucifer morningstar does not lie, nor does he appreciate them being spoken in his presence. blue knows this; he’s known it for such a long time and he’s made it habit to tread even the line of omission when questions come. loyal, to a fault. he is no use to lucifer if he is untrustworthy. lucifer asks because they know they will get an answer, because blue has answered every single one of his questions head on through all of this time. truthful, even at the expense of being blunt. sometimes it’s easiest — to blurt things, to not risk messing up the steps of dancing around certain subjects. fingers stay on keys, bandaged hand very obvious against them. it’s not like blue to hide an injury; usually they are worn with such pride because — yes, he got into a fight and he damn well won. this is different. he plays, solemn and in defeat. the subject matter is a clue, a look inside. something is off, something he won’t name as he chooses instead to let music do most of the emotional talking for him. it’s easier, a dirty little trick — making the devil wait until he’s finished playing. he’s with him on the bench, cigarette trying to smoke itself in the ashtray on top of the piano as the one who lit it waits for an answer. blue reaches for it, draws from it and flicks ash into the glass. an indirect kiss, but one nonetheless. intimate, this thing they have. his exhale is to the side but the smell and taste of smoke is soothing. he sits for a moment, obviously trying to choose the right words for the occasion. no lies. not even a slight one. not with lucifer. anyone else made at any point in the world — god, himself. but not lucifer.
“i held a holy symbol until i couldn’t, anymore. it was very johnny cash, very self-serving.” complicated. “i thought it would make me feel better.” there’s a pause, another inhale of smoke. before he’s moving to stamp out what’s left. his voice is calm. a little less energetic than normal, like the fire inside of him is burning too low. “it didn’t.”