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“You know,” the fallen angel tells his courtier, “sometimes I wonder about you.”
A reserved smile. “I’m not that interesting.”
“Most people don’t wind up here because they’re boring.”
They hold each other’s stare. Neither of them have reflections, but they can see themselves in the other’s eyes. The air is heavy with rose-musk and steam. A hitch of breath. Not from him, not from Lauren?iu, but the room itself.
Leaning closer, eyelids drooped contemplatively, Lauren?iu, his vampire, settles both hands on Paimon’s cheekbones, thumbs grazing hair. Paimon’s attention lingers on those pink, parted lips.
It can happen now. He imagines pulling Lauren?iu into a sweeping kiss as they both fall into the water, consumed by one another.
A tug on Paimon’s cold, dead, black heart. At least, where his heart would’ve been if God had invented them yet.
Deep down, Lauren?iu doesn’t want this. Not now.
It’s not for lack of desire—the storm in his usually steely eyes—but for one reason or another, he’s holding back, and that’s enough for Paimon to reject him, as much as he wants to accept this rare display of affection; he may be a monster, as all of God’s fallen are, but he won’t force an unwilling courtier into his bed.
Or maybe his vampire does want this, but it’s not right. Maybe Lauren?iu feels like hehasto do this for one reason or another; it takes a lot for Paimon to feel dirty or wrong—hell, he’s scrubbed the melted faces of his old heavenly friends and lovers from his hands—but that does the trick.
Yet, since when does anyone in Hell care about whether they’re using or being used?
He can never say these thoughts to anyone, including Lauren?iu. He must smile. Mustn’t look weak. Even in Hell, no one likes the dour and melancholic; except perhaps Lucifer, who took in Judas Iscariot without another thought.
A tension in Lauren?iu’s jaw. Paimon really does wish that his pretty little vampire wouldrelax, though admittedly a large part of that is self-serving. Though, not entirely.
Hell, the absence of Paradise, of God’s perfect love and the wholeness it brings, can be miserable enough without these hundreds of self-inflicted wounds and reservations.
Paimon doesn’t do well with stressors, overall. Hell is a circle. You always return and retread over the same spots. The dents. You always find the Darkness again. You think about your failures again, and again, and again.
They are fortunate to have wine and sex to distract them. He has some patience for contemplation, but he prefers if things simply go as planned. Despite being able to eat regular food. Lauren?iu’s only indulgence is blood from rivers and fountains, but it’s not truly an indulgence if he always hungers for it and must drink it to keep his soul from fading; Hell is nothing if not a reservoir of unsated and restless hunger.
If Lauren?iu isn’t careful, he might find himself in a limbo, if not in a state of outright misery.
Maybe he needs release. But not from sex, exactly.
Revenge.
Every soul has something. Unfinished business. And bloodletting, when you do it right, can be as good as sex.
Despite his stoicism, Lauren?iu wants a hundred things. Paimon wants to know. They have time, but he wants to know every little secret.
But not now.
With uncharacteristic quietness, Paimon tells the vampire, “You may go. Sleep well.”
Even with his stoicism, Lauren?iu cannot hide his shock, that slight widening of his ice-blue eyes. Cute. He stiffens and then, seemingly remembering himself, withdraws his hand too quickly, as if burned.
For a moment, Paimon experiences an emotion he nearly forgets the name of: guilt. Maybe his acceptance would’ve meant something to Lauren?iu, but this is one line he won’t cross.
Of his courtiers, Paimon’s only slept with others near his rank, those a part of the nobility, scions with a few centuries already under their belts.
He never really indulged in humans, and never a vampire; he found distaste in the other fallen angels who cavorted with those who served them.
Lauren?iu’s expression, that uneasy mix of softness and severity, fluctuates. Uncertain. Paimon regards him steadily, with a hint of curiosity.
Paimon has never asked why Lauren?iu is in Hell; he’s always been curious.
“Don’t worry,” Paimon says lightly. “I can dry myself.”
