The Metatron sniffled and hiccupped a little. The papers on his desk bore evidence of tearstains, and his delicate handkerchief was twisted and quite soggy. Needless to say, he'd been crying all morning.
Bright and early, he'd shown up at Uriel's residence. That had probably been his first mistake - the whole morning thing. Second, one of Uriel's paramours had sidled past him after Uriel answered the door. That hadn't boded too well, either.
And then...
And then...
The Metatron screwed his eyes shut, trying to prevent more tears from escaping. No such luck, though. Warm, fat tears slid down his cheeks, which he was certain must be quite red and puffy by now.
He reached with one shaking hand for his gilt hand mirror. Puffy cheeks, check. Reddened, watery eyes, check. Heart ripped out by Uriel, check.
The Metatron let loose a wail and cradled his head in his arms, and proceeded to sob quite noisily.
"Koe-kun?"
"Go away," the Metatron sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I don't want to see anyone right now." He turned in his swivel chair so his back was to the door.
He was quite surprised when Raphael bodily hauled him over to the fluffy couch and settled the Voice of Most Holy in his lap. The Metatron twisted and turned, still weeping, and tried to evade Raphael's embrace. It was no use, though - the Metatron had always been too slender to attain muscles like Raphael's. Eventually he quieted, his body cradled close to Raphael's and his face pressed into the comforting warmth of the Professor's shoulder.
"Now...what happened?" Raphael began gently.
The Metatron sat up, and even thinking about it made his eyes well up with tears again. All this crying was inducing a headache. "Nothing I shouldn't have expected," he said quietly, dully. He managed a wan little smile. "But I'm all better now, so I'll just be going - "
He hadn't even flexed a few muscles to stand when Raphael's arms locked tighter about him. "Nice try, Koe-kun. But I'm not letting you go until you tell me what happened."
The Metatron hiccupped a bit as he stared into those serious amethyst eyes. "Promise?"
Raphael sighed and cuddled him. "Of course I promise."
The Metatron allowed himself to relax and tucked his head under Raphael's chin. "I went to visit him this morning." Raphael didn't need to be told who "him" was. "And I just decided that I was going to tell him how I felt, because I just...I just couldn't keep it inside anymore. So I told him I loved him...and...and do you know what he said, Raphael?" He didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "He just said, 'Sorry, Koe. I can't say the same. Thanks anyway, though.'"
Raphael groaned.
"So you see...there's really no help for it. He doesn't love me, he won't ever love me, and I can't stop loving him and..." He sniffled, ready to sob again.
"Um, Koe?" Raphael interrupted, his voice strained.
The Metatron looked up, curious. "Yes?"
"Um, that thing with your nails. Could you not do that?"
The Metatron looked at him in surprise, then glanced down to Raphael's chest, which he belatedly realized that he'd been stroking with his shapely, well-manicured nails. He gently lifted away a corner of Raphael's jacket to see that the Professor's nipples were hardened. "Sorry," the Metatron apologized, quite embarrassed. He'd really never considered Raphael out of a platonic light.
Raphael waved away his apology. "No harm done."
The Metatron peered at him. "Is that a thing for you? Maybe I should invite Mikael over and give him a manicure."
Raphael stared at him for a minute, and then they both smiled, and before long they were giggling quietly.
Finally, they sombered. "Koe-kun, you know as well as I do that trying to stop Uriel from sleeping around is like trying to stop the bullet train with your pinky finger. I'm not trying to crush you - I just want you to see things realistically," Raphael said softly, his amethyst eyes holding the Metatron's.
The Metatron sighed. "I know. But even if I could just be with him every weekend I'd be more than happy."
Raphael didn't say anything to that. In fact, he appeared to be thinking quite seriously. Suddenly, he pushed the Metatron off his lap.
"Where are you going?" the Metatron called, alarmed.
Raphael stopped it the doorway and winked. "Uriel never could resist a good bet. I'll see what I can do about your weekends, Koe-kun." He left and the Metatron stared after him for a few moments, mouth open in shock.
Well. The Metatron walked over to his desk, taking up his mirror again. What he really needed was a good facial. Maybe a mud bath. And now that he thought about it, his hair hadn't had a hot oil treatment in almost a month. He smiled, perhaps the second one in good faith that morning. He cheerfully picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed the Administrator.
"Gabriel," the angel answered impatiently.
"Gabby, I'm going out this afternoon, and I'm taking Mikael with me."
"Official business?" Gabriel asked sharply.
"Why, of course it is, Gabby dear. Every day is a new day to devote to the Most Holy's service, wouldn't you agree?" He gave an inane little giggle that he knew drove Gabriel absolutely up the wall.
In fact, he could swear the Administrator was grinding his teeth. "Fine. Don't forget the Faculty Breakfast tomorrow morning."
"Of course, sweetheart," he cooed.
"SWEETHE-"
The Metatron pushed the "off" button.
Mikael was understandably surprised when The Metatron showed up at his classroom and whisked him away from grading papers. He was even more surprised when they ended up on the doorstep of what was popularly referred to as "The Palace." Not that it was really of a palatial size or anything, but the immaculate gardens and the interior suggested that the owner was at least a member of royalty.
Which, in a way, he supposed the Metatron was. In any case, it was clear that the Voice of Most Holy had a deep appreciation for aesthetics, though Mikael was given no time to really look as the Metatron determinedly led him up a staircase. "I'll give you the grand tour later," the Metatron assured him cheerfully. He pulled Mikael into a room and neatly closed the door.
A...spa?
"It's just you and me this evening. Strip," the Metatron commanded breezily.
Mikael couldn't help it. He blushed furiously. "What?!" he demanded in a strangled voice.
The Metatron ticked off a list on his fingers. "You need a good massage, a soak in a rosewater bath, a facial, and then I'll do your nails."
Mikael sputtered - it was all he could do, under the circumstances. "B-but...why?"
The Metatron blinked, as if he thought the answer obvious. "Because I think you need a massage. A real one, not just a flimsy excuse for foreplay. Now, if you please, remove your clothing so I can get to work."
Mikael sighed and the Metatron made an encouraging noise. Deciding, finally, that it might be nice, he unbuttoned his Mandarin jacket and put it on a nearby chair, the matching trousers and undergarments following shortly.
He thought he was just going to die as the Metatron scrutinized his body. "You know, Mikael, you really oughtn't skip meals. You're a bit on the thin side and it drives Raphael crazy when you don't take care of yourself." The Metatron patted a padded table. "Hop up, lie on your stomach."
About twenty minutes later, Mikael was so thoroughly relaxed that he might have agreed to just about anything to keep the Metatron's firm fingers kneading oil into his muscles. He smiled dreamily. Why, it almost felt as good as...
"The effect you've had on Raphael is really quite amazing, I must say," the Metatron murmured, concentrating on Mikael's calves. "You're always on his mind. It's quite touching, really."
Mikael made some affirmative sound, hearing but not interested in responding.
"Bath time!" the Metatron announced, patting him on the rear. Mikael allowed himself to be led over to an enormous tub filled with warm, scented water and liberally strewn with rose petals. He sunk in to the tub up to his chin and sighed appreciatively.
"Turn your face towards me, Mikael." His face was then smeared with something that smelled like...clay?! He opened his eyes to blink at the Metatron, who was busy applying the face mask to himself. Mikael proceeded to squeak as the Metatron quite unashamedly divested himself of his clothing and climbed into the tub as well.
The Metatron sighed contentedly. "Much better than grading papers, wouldn't you say?" he murmured, practically purring. "When you can't depend on others to take care of you, it's nice to know you can take care of yourself."
Mikael idly played with a petal. Are you that alone? he wanted to ask. Confined like a bird in your Tower, always looking out the window and wishing you were with your love?
"Now...what are you going to do when Raphael sees you tonight?"
Mikael sharply reminded himself just whom he was talking to. And then he sunk deeper in the water in an attempt to hide.
"I know just the thing! Have you ever done this?" The Metatron proceeded to outline a seduction scheme in frank and naughty detail. Mikael squirmed a bit with embarrassment at first, but then gave himself over to curious fascination.
"It really works like that?" Mikael asked. "Raphael-sama is a little impatient, usually."
The Metatron waved one hand negligently. "Oh, Raphael is as susceptible to a well-planned seduction as the next person, I'd imagine. Don't forget about that chest thing, okay? That reminds me! Wipe off the mask and I'll do your nails next."
There was really no escaping. Mikael fought down a groan of despair.
"Um, Mikael?"
"Yes?"
"That thing with your nails..."
"Hmmm?"
Raphael moaned and proceeded to thoroughly make love to his darling, impossibly desirable Mikael.
The Metatron arrived back home shortly after dropping Mikael off back at the apartment. His garden was charmingly lit with little sparkling lights, but the house itself was completely dark.
No one to come home to. "I'm so lonely," he whispered, half to himself, half to Most Holy. The Deity chose not to respond, and with a heavy sigh the Metatron opened the front door to his empty house.
He wandered into his kitchen and half-heartedly ate some fruit. He didn't really feel like eating a meal and ended up pouring himself a glass of wine instead.
Who was he kidding, really?
Nothing had changed since this morning. Raphael couldn't possibly do in a day what he himself had failed to accomplish in millennia.
He trudged up to his bedroom, correspondence in one hand, wine glass in the other. Setting his glass down at his impossibly messy vanity, he shuffled through the letters. "Party invitation, administration request, nasty note from Gabriel, junk..." he murmured to himself. He absently reached for his glass and yelped when he pricked his finger.
Sucking on his small wound, he hunted around for the perpetrator. Oh, yes. That.
A rather pretty paring knife - a long ago gift from Suriel, after the golden-haired angel had attempted to teach him how to cook. It had turned out that he was perhaps too flighty, since he burned almost everything by the simple expedient of forgetting about it until it started to smoke. Now what was it doing up here? He must have been eating apples one day or some such.
He peered at it. It looked very dull. Perhaps if he asked Azrael nicely the black-winged angel would sharpen it right up for him. He brought the blade to his palm to test it.
"Don't you dare even think it, Koe."
The Metatron whipped around to see the object of his every desire reclining on the four-poster bed. And faster than he could even ask what Uriel was doing here, the angel launched himself off the bed and strode angrily over to the Metatron.
Pulling the knife out of slack hands and capturing the Metatron's wrists, Uriel leaned in. His azure eyes were dark and the Metatron had one thought - oh shit, he's really pissed - before Uriel claimed his lips.
It wasn't a nice kiss. It wasn't a tender kiss. Uriel was totally in control and broke away a few moments later, the Metatron's wrists still captive. "What," he hissed, "did you think you were doing?"
"I-" the Metatron stuttered in fright.
"Is it because of this morning?" Uriel demanded.
The Metatron denied it with a rapid shake of his head. "Of course not! Uriel, I wasn't - "
"The hell you weren't," the Angel of Most Holy's Wrath said evenly. "Dammit, Koe, just because I don't love you doesn't mean I don't care."
The Metatron's eyes widened, and Uriel kissed him again. This time it was warm and soft, gentle and kind, and god, he'd lied to himself before, pretending these kisses meant more than they did...
But god, it felt real. And suddenly, with a strangled moan of despair, the Metatron decided he just didn't care what the kisses meant, so long as Uriel was with him right now.
Uriel didn’t leave in the morning as he usually did. Koe’s slender body was softly twined about his as the dawn light bathed them in a golden haze. He gently stroked the soft, stormy grey of Koe’s hair, and narrowly resisted the urge to check those beautiful, girlish hands and wrists. How can you love me that much?
It wasn’t that Uriel hadn’t witnessed love before. Plenty of angels, including some of his most frequent companions were in love. Images of Azrael and Suriel, Raphael and Mikael flashed in his mind’s eye. Uriel just didn’t look for love for himself. He had lovers and friends by the score – some lovers who were friends and some friends who were lovers, but in the end he never wanted for company.
In truth, Uriel had come to the Palace last night because Koe had told him they were to do a Summoning. But with all the fuss, Koe had apparently forgotten because he wasn’t waiting in his office at the appointed time. So Uriel had flown over to the Palace, and being at least marginally familiar with the bedroom, and decided to wait there.
He hadn’t expected to see Koe attempt to slit his wrists. He hadn’t expected becoming furious and making love to the desperately clinging Voice of Most Holy. Koe, whose dark pearl eyes glimmered with tears even as Uriel had kissed him, who had wept at the height of his passion.
Just because I don’t love you doesn’t mean I don’t care. That morning, Uriel resolved to help his friend through this. If it meant sticking closer to Koe than was customary – well, what are friends for?
“Wake up, Koe darling.”
The Metatron stirred and looked up into the azure depths of Uriel’s eyes. He’s still here? he thought wildly. Why?
“Our Summoning was a little delayed, but we should probably get to it this morning, don’t you think?”
The Metatron paused briefly and consulted. “Yes, He’d appreciate it if we did it soon.”
Uriel gave him an odd look and brushed the Metatron’s face with one fingertip. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and then just didn’t. Dressing quickly, they flew to the Tower and soared high above the apex.
The Metatron clasped Uriel from behind and the dark-haired angel stilled his wings and began to chant the words of the Summoning. The Metatron held Uriel tighter as the wind picked up and began to scream around them. The clouds were stained inky black to match Uriel’s changed eyes, and the Voice of Most Holy could feel the energy gathering in the air, crackling about them. Suddenly Uriel twisted in his grip, and he was terrified he’d drop the angel.
But he didn’t, and he found himself still clasping Uriel about the waist, looking not at feathers but at the midnight black eyes of the Angel of Wrath. Uriel never ceased his chanting, and the Metatron felt, even more so than usual, that the Summoning was like violent sex.
Uriel’s chanting reached its climax, and the Metatron felt the consent of Most Holy rip through him as it always did, heard himself wail in agony as he always did, felt Uriel shield his head with one protective arm as he had never done, and then heard/saw/felt Uriel throw the lightening bolt to Earth.
The summoning over, Uriel spread his wings and crushed the Metatron’s mouth to his own. “Whoever is in your office had better get the hell out,” Uriel husked, his voice dark with desire.
The Metatron obliged, broadcasting a message down to his office to go away, come back later. Though it was something of a strain to do so while Uriel’s mouth ate frantically at his own, tongues dancing and teeth nipping.
They tumbled in through a Tower window and Uriel wasted no time in divesting them both of their trousers. The sheer ferocity of Uriel’s need startled the Metatron, who was used to Uriel ignoring him for days after a Summoning. Uriel lift trails of nipping kisses and love bites over his neck and chest and impatiently ground their hips together. Their mutual moans and hoarse cries filled the air as Uriel took him with an exhilarating fierceness.
Afterwards they panted together, with Uriel still sheathed inside him. They were sweaty and sort of happily sticky, and the Metatron made a mental note to have the carpet cleaned. However, he stopped thinking entirely when Uriel asked one question:
“So, what are we having for dinner tonight?”
The door to the teacher’s lounge flew open, which in itself was not unusual. Raphael, Mikael, Suriel and Azrael were more than used to the comings and goings of the rest of the teaching staff. So they hadn’t even bothered to look up from their respective beverages (tea, tea, tea, brandied coffee) when the door slammed shut again and the Metatron skidded to halt in front of Suriel.
He considerately removed the teacup from Suriel’s fingers and carefully placed it on the table behind him before kneeling and clasping Suriel’s legs. The Metatron gave the golden-hared beauty his most winsome smile and said sweetly, “Suriel, dear heart, will you do me a little tiny favor?”
Raphael and Mikael tried to hide smiles, Azrael rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, and Suriel looked a lot like a corner animal. “What might that be?” Suriel asked finally, trying desperately not to look into the Metatron’s eyes, which he would almost swear were glittering.
“I need you to help me cook dinner tonight.”
Raphael and Mikael lost it and started to laugh helplessly, holding on to each other for support. The Metatron blew a stray hair out his face impatiently. Dammit, does everyone know how terrible a cook I am?
Azrael nudged him with one boot. “What the fuck for? You don’t usually eat dinner and when you do, it’s take-out.”
The Metatron was starting to feel a little bit desperate. “Suriel, you just have to help me! He’s coming over tonight and expecting dinner, and I just know I’d make a horrible mess of it, and I’d just die if he didn’t like it and no one else is as good as you are and – “
Suriel cut off his hysterical babbling by clamping a hand over his mouth. “Heavens,” he murmured. “Who’s ‘he’? Someone we know?” he teased gently. “Perhaps the same someone you were with earlier when you shrieked at Azrael and I to get out of your office?”
The Metatron blushed delicately and removed Suriel’s hand from his mouth. “So will you help me?”
Azrael looked across at Raphael, who had a very self-satisfied, cat-with-the-cream smile. /What the fuck did you do?/
/Absolutely nothing. I had plans, but it’s so nice when these things work out on their own, don’t you think?/
Suriel and the Metatron were already in the middle of a conversation that was more than a little hard to follow, as it was half aloud and half mental. They seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and headed out the door, not sparing a glance for the others.
Azrael sipped from his coffee and looked over the rim at the couple on the couch across from him. “Provided you two can keep your hands to yourselves, would you mind a dinner guest this evening? I get this feeling that Suri won’t be home for awhile and I don’t feel like leftovers.”
Raphael smiled sunnily. “We’d be happy to have you over for dinner, Az. Why, Mikael cooks the nicest yakisoba in town.”
Mikael elbowed the Professor in the ribs without changing expression. “Actually, Raphael-sama makes some truly splendid fettuccini alfredo.”
Raphael grimaced. “Are you sure it’s my turn to make dinner?”
Azrael watched the ensuing squabble with thinly veiled amusement. It was funny how couples, no matter angelic or human, argued about the very same things.
The Metatron decided that Uriel was like a befriended stray cat. He went off and did his own thing during the day, but could be expected every night for dinner. Amongst other things.
Uriel and the Metatron fell into a nice little routine fairly quickly. When they woke up in the morning, they had a leisurely breakfast in the sunroom together. Then the Metatron went off to his Tower and Uriel went off to do whatever it was that Uriel did during the day, which included teaching seminars, mentoring Sophia, pissing off stuffy angels, and merrily sleeping with whomever caught his fancy at the moment.
And the Metatron was really okay with that. It had initially irked him, but he remembered Raphael’s analogy concerning Uriel and the bullet train and decided that it really didn’t matter in the big scheme of things.
Because Uriel always came back to him every evening at dinnertime, and sometimes they would go have fun with Raphael, Azrael, and the others. Sometimes they just stayed home and enjoyed each other’s company. The Metatron was just delirious with joy, which had the completely unexpected effect of mildly toning down his ditzyness rather than exacerbating it. Current theory was that a contented flake was a little more stable than an angsty flake. But whatever.
Now, the thing with patterns is that they're inordinately comfortable. You get used to doing something a certain way, you arrange things just to your satisfaction, and everything more or less petrifies into one pleasing shape. There's never any fear of the unknown, because you do the same thing over and over again. Being spontaneous is all very well and good, but for some, even spontaneity becomes a pattern. It's the nature of mortals to want to take things, categorize them, put them into neat little boxes and file them away.
Having your pattern broken is not a happy event, to say the least. Especially when someone you very deeply love is responsible. Note that it is not impossible to both adore a person and yet want to kill him in a slow, painful manner.
The Metatron drummed his fingers on the china plate, his expression growing darker by the second. Uriel was late. Uriel was two hours late. Their beautiful dinner was now thoroughly cold - okay, so it was from the nice little Italian restaurant in the City, but he'd still gone to all the trouble of arranging it in an attractive fashion. And Uriel was late! Late, late, late, late. The Metatron contemplated strangling him.
"Honey, I'm home!"
Uriel just barely ducked the china plate that had been aimed at the general vicinity of his head. "You IDIOT!" the Metatron screeched, throwing a coffee cup saucer and missing Uriel by about four feet.
Uriel put an end to crockery abuse by pinning the Metatron's arms to his sides. "Would you like to explain to me in rational terms what your problem is?"
"My problem?" the Metatron began in a low, dangerous voice. "My problem is that I've been waiting for you for two hours now, and you're always on time, but this time you weren't, and I thought you had left me because Most Holy only knows that you leave everybody and I was terrified that it was my turn and you never pay any attention to how other people feel and I even made dinner for you, only I didn't really make it but it's the thought that counts and YOU ARE LATE!" The last few words were something of a furious wail.
Uriel rolled his eyes. "Why should I have to be on time?"
The Metatron gave a futile attempt to wiggle out of Uriel's arms. "Because I was expecting you, you twit! You've been here for dinner every night for two months and I didn't think anything was going to change!"
"Twit?!" Uriel repeated in a shocked voice. "Oh, stop it. I was with someone and I just sort of forgot about the time. It's not like I have to worry anymore about..." he trailed off as he saw the Metatron's eyes widen with hurt.
Uriel twisted to the side just in time to avoid the knee aimed toward his groin. Then the Metatron started to cry and Uriel suddenly felt like shit.
"Was that why you stayed all this time? Because you thought I would hurt myself?" his Koe asked him in a small, frightened voice.
Uriel sighed and held him tight. "That and you're a good partner for cards. Amongst other things. Come on, Koe, don't do this to me. What does it matter so long as I'm here?"
The Metatron really didn't have a good verbal response to that one. So he kissed Uriel instead.
The thing with kisses is that they can often say so much more and so much better than we can with words. Hence the Metatron's lips were perfectly capable of letting Uriel know that he was hurt and he was afraid of hurting more because he loved too deeply. And Uriel could convey a hint of apology, a little bit of uneasiness, and a genuine passion for the grey-eyed angel in his arms.
On mutual, unspoken agreement, they made their way to the bedroom and Uriel laid the Metatron back on the bed, removing clothing with a practiced, gentle touch.
The best thing about kisses is that they can start out one way, with anger, frustration, sadness, fear, and any number of things. But when two people join their kisses, they have this wonderful way of morphing into something so much better, infinitely more precious.
Uriel never made any promises. He never returned any of the Metatron's gasping declarations of love, never swore "forever." Hell, he usually didn't swear "tomorrow." Perhaps the Metatron was deluding himself once again, and in fact, it was even likely. But when they had fun with their friends, when they dined together, when the Metatron listened to Uriel sing, when they lay drowsing in the aftermath of lovemaking, he could almost see it.
Sometimes those azure eyes, when Uriel thought no one was watching, had a sort of grudging tenderness in their expression.
So if Uriel never made promises and never whispered the words the Metatron longed to hear, it would be okay. Guarded gazes and kisses would be enough, had to be enough. After all, Uriel had never given so much of himself to anyone, and even this was more than he had ever dared hope for.
"I love you," the Metatron whispered urgently. "I love you!" He held Uriel tight as the blue-eyed angel shuddered in ecstasy above him. Uriel's eyes were half-lidded as he pressed a brief kiss to the Metatron's forehead.
"I know," he whispered.