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Dio’s underlings are not always so subservient that they resist jealousy of their unusual visitor—some are made uncomfortable, to say the least, by the presence of a life form within their territory. Six months, reads the careful and calculating expression on Vanilla’s face. Six months that Dio will no longer be all his own.
Lesser beings are fueled more by fear of the unknown than by the envy that burns in Vanilla’s stilled veins. Some have never seen a human alive. Others have no memory of their once-mortal lives Up There, upon the Earth. They click their claws along the walls, and eyes deep red or gold flitter up and down the corridors in search of their guest’s arrival.
Vanilla and the rest, however, would never dare lay a finger upon the Underworld’s newest appointed prince, no matter the uneasiness that comes with a human within their territory.
Unfortunately, there is more to Dio’s realm than those who would serve him—the remains of a demon race which have never quite submitted to Dio, who keep to themselves and prefer to remain within the caves littered with broken skeletons among the stalagmites. For these creatures—Dio snidely calls them gargoyles because of their exaggerated tattoos and jewelry and their tendency to rest for weeks at a time in stone—hunting is a bore and a nuisance; when they do awake, they are hungry, and their sustenance within the caverns is scarce.
Enrico’s visit is unfortunately timed.
He remembers little from his journey to the Underworld, naught but the darkness that will never be quite familiar, before there is nothingness beneath his feet and a cage of bones entrapping him, the stone moving around him while fingers plunge into his chest and mouths tear at delicate skin beneath his jaw.
A deep snarl that turns his stomach even when adrenaline erases recognition, pale fingers adorned with nails as black as the River Styx, hair like a beacon of light in the Underworld—Enrico finds himself enveloped within their protection, and he’s ashamed.
He is smarter than this. He knows that he can protect himself, because Dio has taught him how.
2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17…
The primes rush through his head like a lullaby that drags him to sleep rather than laying him down in a gentle lull. The type of warmth that comes with dampness spreads across his chest.
Enrico awakes within Dio’s chambers. He recognizes the luxurious sheets dyed in wine red and the intricate carvings that tell stories within the bed’s wooden accents, then halfway expects to see Vanilla kneeling by the door, watching him. Vanilla’s eyes are always on him while Enrico is here, too close and too pointed for comfort.
Thankfully, he finds no such thing, graced instead by the comforting weight of fingers splayed across his chest. It should hurt when he breathes, but it doesn’t. Dio makes sure of that.
“I can’t find it in my heart to scold you—I’ve missed you too much for that.”
The world down here never seems like home to Enrico, not at first, not until Dio speaks. Dio’s voice is like a song, like a hymn of the Overworld slowed down and lowered an octave, transcribed into a minor key. He knows that Dio would find the comparison less than amusing if Enrico were ever to tell him as much, so he keeps the delight to himself.
“Does it hurt?”
Little by little, the dark halos that circumscribe Enrico’s vision enlarge and lighten until they’re gone entirely. “Does what hurt?” he asks. He wants to roll onto his side, closer to his love, but Dio’s strong hand flattens against his chest and holds him still.
Dio clicks his tongue, and his lips twist in the same annoyance as a mother reprimanding her young child for the hundredth time. “You don’t care enough about your injuries for someone who has finger-width holes scooped out of his chest. It’s careless, Enrico.”
The words don’t jar Enrico as much as they should. Dio must be doing something with that hand of his, some type of healing the same as what righted Enrico’s crooked foot. He learned long ago not to question anything—Dio always tells him when he feels that Enrico is ready and equipped to hear it. “All of this coming from a man who once lost his own body due to the same negligence.”
Dio growls and flicks at the skin beneath Enrico’s ear with enough force that the sharp nail makes a shallow cut. “I may be concerned about you, but I will not spoil you enough as to allow such an attitude.”
Enrico doesn’t miss the invisible quirk of Dio’s lips. Already, their half-year of word games and mind games and every type of banter in between has begun.
“Nor will I heal you, as I’m sure you are expecting. A scar will be a good reminder, don’t you think?” Dio removes his hand from Enrico’s chest then, and for the first time, Enrico feels the twang of discomfort that surrounds his heart and worms its way into his lungs. “Perhaps the next time you wander the Underworld with such nonchalance, a scar will remind you that not all beings here respect you as my prince consort. There is little that I do not control, but your soul?”
Dio leans over him now, cool breath slithering over skin that still smells of the greenery above.
“That is mine, and I will not allow you to so willingly give it away to the bastards who see you only as a trite meal.”
Enrico is the one to finally close the gap between his lips and the painted mouth that whispers so sweetly in those hymns of Hell. His hand lifts of its own accord to hang around the back of Dio’s neck, and that’s when he pushes his game a little further.
“To think that you, also, can be hurt.” Enrico’s fingers trace along a scar so faint, but once jagged and sore, when he speaks against Dio’s lips so that he’s both talking and kissing at once. “To think that you also made mistakes, that you were once careless.”
Dio holds his lover’s hand within his own, stopping its trail along a distant memory of weakness, and swipes his tongue across Enrico’s glistening lips. “Once, perhaps. But not anymore.”