Oct. 22nd, 2011 at 9:09 PM
"Do not move, Michael."
"Yes."
The prodigal son gone awry was a powerful adversary. But what to make of the obedient son following all the wrong orders? How short must the leash be, how tight must the collar be before you can be certain that he is not simply walking down a misguided path? How do you punish someone who is just following orders when he has no free will?
"I said, do not move."
Heavy breaths turn to light pants, chest heaving with exertion, heart thumping against the confines of flesh and bone. The mind is disciplined but the body reacts regardless.
'You disobey me?'
'No brother, I do not.'
'You question me?'
'I do not.'
There is a moment's respite where Lucifer sheds his clothing. His own predicament aside, the ink under the skin catches Michael's attention, and there is wonder in his eyes, followed by furrowed brows and a look of concern. Had he not been ordered to stay still, he would have reached out for the body, for the skin, queried if it had hurt, if it needed to be healed.
'Do not resist.'
'Yes.'
'You will yield.'
'I...'
They both saw it then. Doubt. It was rather ironic - you'd think that, with how often Michael seemed to doubt himself, he would have been the one to rebel against heaven.
"You. Will. Yield."
A handful of hair.
'Yes.'
A fistful of feathers.
"Say it."
A bed speckled with blood.
"I will yield."
Love, twisted and grotesque, left unsaid amidst the moans and groans, the whimpers and the subdued doubts masked in the cries. The frustration of being trapped in bodies, being as close as they could ever be, has them at each other's throats. The teeth leave imprints on the neck but it fades after a while. The ink rubs against the skin but leaves no trace behind. It's the hands that bruise and the nails that scratch, cut, and tear through the surface, finally breaking through to the soulless abominations lying within.
He is kneeling, alone at the altar. Waiting for word that would never come. All the patience in the world could not prepare him for this kind of peace, this awkward silence that stretches through the ages.
Head bowed in solitude, he continues to wait, but it is Lucifer who answers his prayers. It is Lucifer’s body warm against his back, Lucifer’s hands on the burdened General’s shoulders, Lucifer’s voice whispering into his ear.
Michael’s back melds against Lucifer’s chest, wings crushed between them. That’s one of Lucifer’s hands cupping his cheek, pulling his head in for a kiss. That’s Lucifer’s other hand, dropping down between Michael’s legs, pulling the zip down, slipping inside his jeans. He was asking for it, kneeling there – no, don’t move.
Hands resting on thighs curl into tight fists, fingers digging into the denim. He has the angel hard and moaning by the time he pulls away from the kiss. Half-lidded eyes flickered up to meet Lucifer’s gaze. Michael wants, but it is difficult for Michael to articulate what exactly it was he wanted, why he wanted it, how much he wanted it.
Lucifer knows. But Michael will not get what he wants until he learns how to ask for it.
“You stopped,” he murmured between laboured breaths. He didn’t sound disappointed even though Lucifer’s hand was no longer in his pants, touching and stroking him in ways that made his body run hot and become pliant. Lucifer’s body was running warmer as well. He could feel the heat seeping into his skin. Throat going dry. Hands going numb from gripping onto his jeans too tightly. Legs starting to hurt from kneeling before God.
“No. Try again.”
Michael’s brows furrowed and he turned his head away, averting his gaze. He looked to the cross, through past the cross to the stained glass window. Then he lowered his head, gaze dropping to look at what Lucifer had done to him in his pants. He looks over his shoulder and meet Lucifer’s gaze again. This time he gets it right, and Lucifer smiles.
“Why did you stop?”
“You betrayed me.”
The words, uttered out loud, cut deeper into Michael than it did in Lucifer. Betrayal. He’d done it once before, against God, but he hadn’t wounded God the way he had wounded Michael.
“I did.”
He had Michael pinned down onto the floor, and Michael had stopped fighting, stopped trying to wrestle away from him, stopped trying to hide the pain in his eyes. From this distance he could see it clearly in Michael’s eyes, and to subject Lucifer to this – that was bittersweet retribution.
“Now you must return. The army needs its general.”
It was simply cruel. Cruel to teach a man how to yearn for and desire things, only to put him in a position where he cannot have what he wants. Cruel to teach a man love and passion and happiness, to teach him simply how to feel, and then tell him that he cannot – should not, will not, must not – let these experiences define him. Cruel to teach a man what it is to be human, only to reveal to him that, in the end, he is not human.
“We can change the story. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
He had never seen Michael so pathetic, so desperate, so vulnerable. It was painful to watch.
“It is God’s will. You are His instrument. You-”
“I’m human.”
“You are not human.”
Lucifer almost lost his balance when Michael grabbed his hand and pulled it over, trapping his palm against his chest. His chest was heaving and his heart was racing. It was a real heart. Those were real tears.
“Please. Please.”
This Michael would have rebelled against Heaven with him. This Michael would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. This Michael was God’s way of showing Lucifer that the ending of His story could not be rewritten, that there was a reason He had chosen Michael over him, and this was why.
“Let me go, Michael.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to go and I don’t want you to go. I want – I want, Lucifer. I want, I feel, I’m- I’m human. I-”
Lucifer silenced him with their last kiss; long, drawn-out and slow. He brushed those tears off Michael’s cheek with his thumb, fingers slipping into those strands of familiar dirty blond hair.
Michael's gone. Michael no longer remembers. Michael dies. That is Lucifer’s punishment.