( the rise and fall of lucio in the devil's realm isn't even the stuff of legends. it's a sad, pathetic story. and the thing about that, too, is that it's the same story as nearly everyone else there. they're all sad, pathetic stories. because they're sad, pathetic people who dared to bite off more than they could chew and bet more than they had to their name, all for a prayer of a chance at salvation. lucio tried to save himself, or so julian presumes; he tried to save everyone else, himself. and they both failed. and it's not special. because everyone there is a failure. sad, but true.
still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.
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still. a lot of the masquerade is a blur to him now, swallowed up in the dismal memory of how colossally he failed to protect the most precious people in his life, where he ruminated on it for what feels like tens of thousands of years. but at her mention, he remembers morga coming to the party. her rough-hewn mask and no gown. her practically palpable frustration with the festivities. and how badly he'd wanted to coax her onto the floor at least one dance, just one, but never got the chance before... well. in spite of himself, julian manages a rough, gravelly laugh too. )
Oh, he would have been furious. I can't tell you how many of his advances I had to shrug off the entire time we knew each other. Once or twice I had to quite literally fight him off, he was so goddamn persistent. And just repulsive. He didn't inherit any of your charm. None whatsoever.
( ok, that's not true and he knows it's not true. and he knows this because there were times... plenty of times... lots of times, when he came just a little too damn close to falling into those repugnant arms of lucio's just by virtue of him saying the right thing at the right time (ie when his self-respect was already at its lowest and he didn't think he could do any better). charm? yeah, he had that. and looks, too. but it's a lot easier to talk shit than to admit anything like that to morga, so fuck it. )
It would've been worth it to rub it in his face. On his birthday. When he couldn't do a thing about it.