#/ anyway. saramus missing how often luc said his name before the fight :)c

[fatewoven]

Language spoken from the heart is a gesture toward home, and it proves an almost irresistible urge to repeat the name over and over again if only to see that gradual unbinding of Valrys' seemingly endless politeness. It's indeed a veneer, polished to a perfect mirror-shine. One Lucanis wants to peel at, one delicate strip of flesh at a time. Rather than continue that line of thought, he eases further against the cushions; relaxes by degrees instead of simply perching, ready for flight. "You don't want to prove me otherwise? I didn't take you for a man that gave up so easily, Valrys." A grin returned before the topic shifts once more, seemingly fickle as the winds.

It's a dangerous thing to realize he enjoys it more than expected, this back and forth — one choreographed like any well-practiced spar.

"Spite?" The demon preens as Lucanis swallows the surprise, eyeing his veritably odd companion, and his paintbrush smile that feels more and more real across a pale mien. WE COULD PULL AT IT. MAKE IT WIDER. SQUEEZE THE TONGUE. I WANT. HIM TO LISTEN. It's an unruly urge, scattered amidst logic and reason that demands him to stay at a distance. (And for a handful of heartbeats, the half-lidded gaze turns mauve and hungry, flashing like lightning before the thunder.) In response, Lucanis curls his fingers over his mouth, hiding his expression further beneath a layer of detachment. "Spite finds you less worrisome than you imagine. And you must be quite confident to feel at ease around a mage-killer." It's near a joke at this point, his lighter tone unmistakable with all its rumbling, melodious syllables. "Are you asking out of scholarly concern? Or do you really..." How to end such a loaded question?

Do you really enjoy my company? Do you find me more than tolerable in such circumstance? Do you, do you, do you...?

In the end, there's always a ulterior motive.

"You've already seen me at my worst. An advantage I do not possess in return, admittedly." He holds his gaze steady, meeting unflinching blue without trepidation. A DRAGON-TOOTH SMILE. HUNGRY. And—

And Spite rushes through his nerves, pulling at the bones to move him closer, closer, closer—

So close that he's nose to nose, now, staring at their figures from a rooftop's distance away, out of his body. "You reek of rotten blood. We want to. Carve you open. We want," and Lucanis interrupts the flow of thought with a snarled curse, gritting his teeth as the demon claws and bludgeons against a mental fortitude built from a lifetime of pain. He winces, reflexively, thoughtlessly, steadying himself with a hand against the other's chest as blood trickles from his nose. "Mierda. See? You shouldn't encourage him."

He should've left the room a long time ago. Rookie mistake.

He's fortunate that Lucanis looks away, or else he might have had to, the too-close remembrance of the recklessly yanked threads. "So was yours," he breathes out, but the exhaled memory is not of drowning, but of earth and heat. Perhaps he shall never get to that story now, how such sentiment scrapes away at the professional paint that has already been scratched away too much in just a single conversation. It is better this way, he thinks. Is it not the grander story, to meet under such burning stars and destinies? It is sweet torture to hear Lucanis say his name. "Likewise," he answers with warmth, and a curt nod and the barest slow, savouring blink. He wants, oh, he wants for the other to say his true name: to see how the other's tongue would form those cursed words into something almost beautiful. But liars don't get such luxuries. He tilts his head, as if trying to change the angle the other sees, as if that might blur the reading. He purses his lips, but it's not displeasure, only an instinctive caution at being seen. He almost learns little from Lucanis, a scolding almost coiled on his tongue if it were not for the fact that his answer was no better. However, he does learn one thing, which surprises him: wyverns. He thinks of dragons, because of course he does, and it causes a fond, if nostalgic smile. Fortunately, he gets his chance at a much needed parry, the turn of the conversation feeling like it has slipped from his usual steady control. "Oh, I would not subject you to such a dull opponent." A wicked smile for a wicked game. Though the tempting look in his eyes ponders: what would be my prize for victory? It lasts only a moment, the cards reshuffled. "Is there anything Spite would like to ask me?" He inquires, unconsciously having his gaze move closer to that flicker before he pulls it back to the assassin. "I can only imagine that I put him at unease, given what I am," he acknowledges, a sympathetic smile to the demon's origin. A kind gaze, now meant only for Lucanis himself: "And I only wanted to say, you do not need to worry about speaking about him with me." A whole conversation has passed by without a mention, as if another person hasn't resided in the room with them this whole time. "There is nothing about you that could possibly frighten me away." He looks at him, as only a monster can, with recognition.