Omael walks down the corridor with even, measured steps. He counts them off silently as he goes: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, stop. He stops and turns to his right, then walks down that corridor as well. It's pitch black, he can't see a thing. Not a thing.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, stop. He stops and turns to his left and keeps going.
He loses track of his steps partway along and stops, holds out his hand. He can't see but his eyes are wide in the darkness. It doesn't help; he has no pupils. The darkness sees for him.
Omael's hand encounters a door.
"You're back."
The voice is soft, smooth, sexless and toneless but Omael imagines something in it, and that's enough. He slides his hand down the door, finds a latch, twists it down. It opens into darkness, lit by the figure who has sat up in his bed, one knee drawn up to his chest.
"I'm home," Omael tells him.
Fingers uncurl thinly in the air, reach towards him. "Welcome back."
Omael drops his bag and lets his writing tools scatter as he rushes over. He tugs at his waistcoat, cursing low-voiced to himself, and there's a soft, amused laugh.
"What's the hurry?"
"I never have any time," Omael babbles, breaking a button to get free. "I never - it's not-"
"Shhh." A long, thin finger presses against Omael's lips. "Listen. Do you hear that?"
Omael is silent, listening, and doesn't hear anything. Not a thing. "Yes."
"Good."
He undresses slowly, folding each piece of clothing before laying it down. No, he cannot lose control like that, he thinks, he cannot just rush in where angels fear to tread. He folds clothing and runs fingers over lace to smooth it and then kneels naked on the bed.
The Morningstar likes to be the one to undo his braids. Omael lowers his head so that it touches the cloth over the Morningstar's leg, forehead pressed there, while his back arched. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he feels a cool hand run down the knobs of his spine and up again before moving to his braids.
The rainbows come undone and they flutter in the Morningstar's fist. He runs his fingers over them, softly, as if they contain memory and power, which they of course do. And then he drops them over the side of the bed where they flutter out of sight. Omael turns his head to watch them go, pupilless eyes wide.
His heart sings with freedom.
The Morningstar presses him face-first into the bedsheets and it's all right. He doesn't have to see. Here is the place that he doesn't have to see. He is allowed to speak, here, is allowed to be, is allowed to do, is allowed to have biases. Heaven doesn't allow him biases.
He presses his face into the pillow and whimpers.
The Morningstar is a stinging burn inside him and he arches, spreads his wings. If he were a normal angel, his halo would be cutting a hole in the pillow like this, but he's not a normal angel and he has no halo. He gave it away years ago. It's not his business what was done with it.
"I'm happy," he whispers into the pillow, muffled and toneless. "I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy."
After, the Morningstar pulls him down and holds him. He's fucked and been fucked by many people, but HE is the only one who holds him after.
He thinks this must mean something.
There's a scream, somewhere off in the distance, and Omael stiffens for a moment.
"Hush," the Morningstar murmurs, and strokes his cheek, strokes his long, loose hair. "It's all right. You're here now."
The scream cuts off and Omael closes his eyes. "Yes," he murmurs. "I'm home."
He can't see the Morningstar's smile, but he can imagine hearing it. "Yes," the Morningstar says. "You are."