Notes: For Raya, the Uriel/Omael.
Heartbeat. Heartbeat.
Omael pulled out the ribbons, backwards, violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red. They fluttered around him for a moment, traces of colour, perhaps traces of a heartbeat. He laid them over the end of his bed, carefully, in order.
When let down his hair came to the small of his back, wavy with the memory of ribbons.
He took up a hairbrush. It was made of bone, inlaid ivory. It was the only one of its kind. His fingers traced over patterns, caressing like a lover's body, and then he ducked his head, dragged the brush through his hair.
It smoothed as the brush passed it, then as the brush released it again, the gold locks sprang back into their crimped waves. Again. And again.
One hundred strokes for beauty, he'd heard. He stopped at ninety-nine, shrugged out of waistcoat and vest and pants and slipped on a nightshirt that came to mid-thigh.
At first he lay in the darkened room, the blue of his sea-irises watching a darkened ceiling. But the moon was strong tonight, as every night, illuminating the ground outside and after a moment, only sound the shifting of cloth on cloth, he rose and headed out of his house.
Lilies in his garden. They clothed him for a moment in dying sweet scent and he passed out, bare feet silent on cobbles.
He could feel the wind catch in the heavy masses of his hair, billow it out around him, even as it caught and ruffled his feathers. Unpleasant, his hair loose. When his hair was loose he would wander, his thoughts would wander downward or upward, never resting where they were. There was no tight control when ribbons lay carefully over the end of his bed, in order.
I am beautiful, he thought as his hair billowed around him, and the thought made him sick.
He did not stop walking, however. Could not stop. Stopping allowed thoughts to catch up to him.
A star fell. He watched it for a moment and continued on, head lowered so that all he could see were the cobbles beneath his feet, were his bare legs catching the pale light as he stepped, the short night-shirt swirling around them. His hair, drifting around him.
He heard the clash of metal on metal and stopped again, realizing he was at the edge of a practice arena for the soldiers, and some were out at night, playing at war.
He watched the flash of the moon on their swords, like flames. Watched feathered bodies shift and dive and pull up short.
"Well, look who's here."
Omael turned his head slowly, saw a couple of soldiers there who had been observing the fight. Omael observed them.
Both tall, both muscular. Wings and halos. Sneers. They dirtied heaven. Omael turned his head away slowly, turning his flat blue gaze on the war-game.
"We were talking to you, bitch."
A sword cut a little too close, blood sprang up. A muffled curse. The game wasn't finished, though, and the soldiers tangled together again in a parody of lust.
"Don't you fucking DARE ignore us, Unfaithful."
Unconcerned, Omael slowly turned away from the game of swords and took a step away.
"Fucking whore."
Omael's arm was caught and he turned his face back, to get spattered with spittle.
He watched the soldier who held him for a moment, then slowly raised his free arm and wiped his face with the sleeve.
"Talk to us, you Unfaithful fucker--"
"What's going on here?"
Uriel. The Angel of Wrath had emerged from the barracks. As he stepped close, Omael could smell the scent of musk on him. He turned his face away.
"Nothing, Lord Uriel. Go about your business." A command. This soldier was not high up in the hierarchy, but he was attempting to command. Laughable. A breeze stirred Omael's hair and he tilted his face up to the moon again.
"If it's nothing, you'll let him go."
Omael's arm was flung away, sending Omael into a slight stagger. He caught himself and turned away, walking off slowly without waiting to see how things worked out between Uriel and the soldier.
It didn't matter. His face was cold where he'd been spat on. He let the wind dry it, his hair becoming tangles for a moment, and combed his fingers through his locks.
"Hey, wait up."
Omael dragged his fingers through his hair again. One hundred strokes for beauty.
"Jeez, what's the hurry?" Uriel again. Smiling. "I thought I'd walk you back. Just in case. A bit late to be out, dressed like that."
Unconcerned, Omael lowered his gaze to his nightshirt, then raised it again to Uriel. "Oh."
"Yes, 'Oh.' Come on, you'll catch a cold."
Omael shrugged a little and continued walking. The cobbles were smooth under his feet. He wandered often and had never been cut by a cobble. Not in Heaven.
"Where are you going? This isn't the way to your house."
"I'm walking," Omael murmured, wishing to return to silence.
A disgruntled sigh. "Okay, I'll walk with you."
"Whether I want you or not."
Silence, finally. Then Uriel said, voice lowered, "That's not fair. I'm just worried about you."
Omael considered this as the wind slowly blew the scent of spent sex away from Uriel. "Oh."
He kept walking, taking a shortcut that would take him back to his house. He was no longer alone; there was no point in continuing. And he was beginning to take a chill. He folded his wings more tightly around himself.
"That's better," Uriel said, of course he knew where Omael lived. Always know where someone who might be Unfaithful lives, they said. Just in case.
The lily garden, with its death-sweet scent. Omael paused, knelt in the dirt for a moment, and picked a blossom that was starting to fade.
He could feel Uriel stop behind him, and turned, and gave the dying flower to Uriel. "It suits you."
Uriel smiled, and Omael sighed as his point was missed.
"Do you want to come in?" he asked mechanically, hoping for Uriel to decline the invitation.
"Yes," Uriel murmured.
Omael opened the door with a touch, he never locked it, there was no point. Nobody would dare get that close. Uriel followed him in, out of place in the delicate workmanship of the hall.
Uriel put the dead flower on a hall table and said, "You're lonely, aren't you?"
He suddenly wished he could be outside again, near the moon. But why lie? Everyone knew. "Yes."
"Let me help."
Omael didn't protest as Uriel stepped close, slid his hands through Omael's unbound hair. Ducked his head.
Lips on lips, moisture, a touch of teeth. Omael's gaze drifted past Uriel to the mirror on the wall, blank.
When Uriel let him go he turned and headed for the bedroom. Uriel followed.
His bed sank as he lay on it, sliding his nightshirt over his head to drop it beside the bed. Uriel came close, shedding clothing, rolling over, kissing Omael's face. "You are so beautiful. Poor sweet Omael, so maligned. So beautiful."
Omael gasped, closed his eyes tight as Uriel ducked his head to listen to his heart beat, heartbeat.
I must let it happen, Omael thought, I must not get involved. I must.
So perhaps they weren't Omael's moans, when their limbs tangled, wasn't Omael's breath catching or limbs reaching out to cling to the tentative, risky hold of Uriel's body. Perhaps those weren't Omael's tears.
It was easier to believe that, later.
Or to believe that it had been another body there.
Or...
He cried. Uriel kissed Omael's full lips and licked tears away. Omael could feel Uriel spread his blond hair out on the pillow to frame his face. Uriel leaned back and smiled at his handiwork, and leaned down to kiss Omael again.
Bliss, hopeful bliss. Omael floated there, hands on Uriel's hips, curled against Uriel's body.
"Nobody must know of this," Uriel said, and Omael opened his eyes.
"Why?" he asked, with no inflection whatsoever.
"Because..." Uriel hesitated. "Just because, darling, close your eyes now. I'm here with you tonight."
Omael closed his eyes. And tomorrow, silence. Suspicion. Hatred, hatred, hatred. Lies through silence, never having to be spoken, silent lies.
Sometime later, Uriel left and Omael lay there curled against fake warmth until that too faded with the scent of sex.
He could feel wetness on his face, like spittle.
He sat up in bed with the sound of cloth shifting. The ribbons had fallen from the end of the bed with their movement, his and Uriel's. He rose, crouched naked and small on the floor and slowly tied them into his hair.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo. Violet. Traces of a heartbeat. He rose. He was messy, eyes red, face distraught, he could feel it, but his hair at least was in place again.
The bed sheets were disturbed and he stepped out into the hall where the lily had been abandoned on the hall table. He picked it up, gently pulled the petals off one by one.
Took matches out of the table drawer and returned to the bedroom. Lit one, dropped it in the bed. Back out the hall, dropping lit matches as he went. The table. Outside, he used his last one on the ivy growing up around the house.
He stood naked as it burned. His braids moved sluggishly on his skin.
Nobody came.
He raised his arms to the heat, tossing his head back. It smelled like burning. Ash. Charcoal. There was a crash as part of the roof fell in. A shingle fell and left a burn and a cut on Omael's shoulder.
Nobody came, they couldn't help hearing the noise, but nobody came.
Another crash as the second floor gave out. A huge house, all for Omael, alone.
Finally people showed up. Raphael, the angels of death, even Gabriel, uptight and wearing his pajamas.
They stood and watched as Omael, hands up, naked, orchestrated the fall of his house.
Part fell near Omael and Raphael cursed, pulled at Omael's arm where Omael was already starting to bruise from earlier. "Omael! You're in danger! Come on, move away!"
"This is what I am," Omael said, and pointed. "This is what I am."
Silence, silence. "Come away."
"Just let me go," Omael said, and shame, he was crying. "Let me go."
"Come away."
"Please, just let me go."
Raphael pulled him away from the house, took him back to the school, cleaned him up.
Omael was silent and watched the moon through the window, obscured by rising smoke. They were drawing a bit of an audience. Omael ignored them.
"Why?" Raphael asked.
"Has Uriel ever fucked you?"
Raphael glanced at the crowd, and said, "Uh..."
There were murmurs, already. That would have to be enough, this petty vengeance, being asked not to tell and telling. "And after, when you roll over, who's there with you?"
Raphael lowered his gaze and returned to bandaging his shoulder.
"Answer me, Medicus. When you reach out, who is there?"
Silence, oh, blessed silence.
"Yes," said Omael.
"That's not enough reason," said Raphael.
"How would you know?" Omael asked. "It's what I am. How would /you/ know?"
Silence.