(no subject)
Lucifer/Michael, PG - for liriaen, who asked for champagne.
This is mostly my own version of them, but there are hints of Milton and Gaiman and Carey, here. It turned into a bit more of a debate than a seduction, but there is a lot of romance underpinning it. It's all about love, so... Happy Valentine's Day!
Two men meet in the corner of a dim, private bistro. By accident or design, it is impossible to guess. As one passes, the other calls out softly and gestures with a pale wave of his hand.
There is a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin in a bucket on the table, next to a battered notebook and a worn set of keys with a circular snake as its fob. The man who waved pours into the single glass, then twists his wrist around in the light, producing another in a gesture like a magic trick. He pours and proffers it to the new man.
"I like your new look," he says. A hint of sardonicism lingers in the deep purity of his baritone voice. "You always were a bit flashy. The Koran describes you as a peacock."
"I don't know if I should be amused or appalled at this blend of flippancy and twisted words," says the other. "All the popular literature down here wants to describe your Change, but really, you never change at all."
"We are that which we are, Michael. Only they can change. That's the Balance you bear. That's the Wheel of Heaven."
"You're in love with the sound of your own voice, Lucifer."
The two men are like diametric opposites. The first one is deep into shadows. He has almost colorless blond hair clipped short at his collar. The color of his eyes is impossible to guess, as every time he moves it seems to change to something else. Pinpricks in his pupils hold tiny dots of fire, as if reflecting lights that do not exist. He wears a black suit jacket and silk shirt, open collared, no tie. He's pale enough to be an albino.
The second has a deep bronze complexion, baked clay, not white. His eyes are large and golden. His hair is streaked with electric blue and green, and he wears it long. It curls in tight spirals, creating great volume. He's muscular and lean, especially his arms and shoulders. He wears a loose Navajo blanket poncho over a dark yellow tank top. He sips the champagne and raises his eyebrows.
"Don't you have better things to do, brother?"
"Don't you?"
They stare at each other in silence. Lucifer lowers his gaze, flips open his notebook and begins to write in it. It's all written in red ink.
"Do you really think that it accomplishes anything, what you're doing? You stood before us once with such idealistic words, such passionate beauty..." Michael falls silent for a moment. "Now you're fallen into the perversion of love. Pride is the perversion of love."
"Really?" Lucifer quirks a brow. "Do you really think that without something that opposes them, they could ever be happy? They were created to be the greatest of His creations, with possibilities so great even you and I were to bow to them. Do you really think they would ever conceive of those possibilities, much less attempt to reach them, coddled and spoiled and provided for always? You're too soft, Michael. You always have been."
"I wasn't talking about them," Michael says quietly. "I was talking about Him. Do you think you were cast down because you teased a few children? We are seraphim. We take the purity of His Light and transform it into love. We rain love down upon everything. We are made of love."
Lucifer reaches forward and trails his fingers down Michael's cheek. Suddenly, he spins his hand back and strikes, openhanded. The sound echoes in the empty building.
Michael reels back. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, relax." Lucifer smiles. "It felt good, didn't it? To feel something at all. Hold your hand up like this." Lucifer raises his hand so that his palm is horizontal, pointing at Michael.
Michael slowly obliges.
Lucifer presses his hand firmly against Michael's. Despite his pallor, it is he who radiates heat into their skin. "Resist me," he says. Michael presses. He begins to push Lucifer's hand back across the table. Suddenly, Lucifer slides his hand away, and Michael's hand shoots forward. He pulls it back.
"Again," Lucifer says. This time, when their palms touch, he interlaces their fingers.
"Is there pain in Heaven?" Lucifer asks suddenly.
"No, of course not."
"Is there a concept of pleasure?"
Michael shakes his head. "But love and knowledge do not need these things."
"You're wrong," says Lucifer. "You're making the mistake all you fools up there always make. You're thinking like an angel. Why did God put pain into the world? It was here before Hell."
Michael frowns. "Because they disobeyed Him."
"Precisely. It was a lesson. Pain is a lesson, and so is pleasure. They are guideposts to an understanding we were born with. To make them ready to stand at His side. One day their hands will force me back."
"I don't understand you at all."
Lucifer releases his grip. "What do you think of when you drink this champagne?"
"I think of nothing."
"I am going to hit you again if you don't think before you speak to me. I bore easily, Michael."
"I think of... light. Not Light, but the small lights radiating from the singing voices."
"You're reacting only to the taste. We do not become drunk. So it is pointless to sit with you and drink champagne, isn't it?"
Michael shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps..."
Lucifer smiles and leans across the table. His heated lips brush over Michael's, and then close with sudden hunger. "I missed you, Protector," he murmurs. "These little bursts of goodness are not very much to oppose."
"No," says Michael, kissing him back rather gently. "No, my love, they're everything."
This is mostly my own version of them, but there are hints of Milton and Gaiman and Carey, here. It turned into a bit more of a debate than a seduction, but there is a lot of romance underpinning it. It's all about love, so... Happy Valentine's Day!
Two men meet in the corner of a dim, private bistro. By accident or design, it is impossible to guess. As one passes, the other calls out softly and gestures with a pale wave of his hand.
There is a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin in a bucket on the table, next to a battered notebook and a worn set of keys with a circular snake as its fob. The man who waved pours into the single glass, then twists his wrist around in the light, producing another in a gesture like a magic trick. He pours and proffers it to the new man.
"I like your new look," he says. A hint of sardonicism lingers in the deep purity of his baritone voice. "You always were a bit flashy. The Koran describes you as a peacock."
"I don't know if I should be amused or appalled at this blend of flippancy and twisted words," says the other. "All the popular literature down here wants to describe your Change, but really, you never change at all."
"We are that which we are, Michael. Only they can change. That's the Balance you bear. That's the Wheel of Heaven."
"You're in love with the sound of your own voice, Lucifer."
The two men are like diametric opposites. The first one is deep into shadows. He has almost colorless blond hair clipped short at his collar. The color of his eyes is impossible to guess, as every time he moves it seems to change to something else. Pinpricks in his pupils hold tiny dots of fire, as if reflecting lights that do not exist. He wears a black suit jacket and silk shirt, open collared, no tie. He's pale enough to be an albino.
The second has a deep bronze complexion, baked clay, not white. His eyes are large and golden. His hair is streaked with electric blue and green, and he wears it long. It curls in tight spirals, creating great volume. He's muscular and lean, especially his arms and shoulders. He wears a loose Navajo blanket poncho over a dark yellow tank top. He sips the champagne and raises his eyebrows.
"Don't you have better things to do, brother?"
"Don't you?"
They stare at each other in silence. Lucifer lowers his gaze, flips open his notebook and begins to write in it. It's all written in red ink.
"Do you really think that it accomplishes anything, what you're doing? You stood before us once with such idealistic words, such passionate beauty..." Michael falls silent for a moment. "Now you're fallen into the perversion of love. Pride is the perversion of love."
"Really?" Lucifer quirks a brow. "Do you really think that without something that opposes them, they could ever be happy? They were created to be the greatest of His creations, with possibilities so great even you and I were to bow to them. Do you really think they would ever conceive of those possibilities, much less attempt to reach them, coddled and spoiled and provided for always? You're too soft, Michael. You always have been."
"I wasn't talking about them," Michael says quietly. "I was talking about Him. Do you think you were cast down because you teased a few children? We are seraphim. We take the purity of His Light and transform it into love. We rain love down upon everything. We are made of love."
Lucifer reaches forward and trails his fingers down Michael's cheek. Suddenly, he spins his hand back and strikes, openhanded. The sound echoes in the empty building.
Michael reels back. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, relax." Lucifer smiles. "It felt good, didn't it? To feel something at all. Hold your hand up like this." Lucifer raises his hand so that his palm is horizontal, pointing at Michael.
Michael slowly obliges.
Lucifer presses his hand firmly against Michael's. Despite his pallor, it is he who radiates heat into their skin. "Resist me," he says. Michael presses. He begins to push Lucifer's hand back across the table. Suddenly, Lucifer slides his hand away, and Michael's hand shoots forward. He pulls it back.
"Again," Lucifer says. This time, when their palms touch, he interlaces their fingers.
"Is there pain in Heaven?" Lucifer asks suddenly.
"No, of course not."
"Is there a concept of pleasure?"
Michael shakes his head. "But love and knowledge do not need these things."
"You're wrong," says Lucifer. "You're making the mistake all you fools up there always make. You're thinking like an angel. Why did God put pain into the world? It was here before Hell."
Michael frowns. "Because they disobeyed Him."
"Precisely. It was a lesson. Pain is a lesson, and so is pleasure. They are guideposts to an understanding we were born with. To make them ready to stand at His side. One day their hands will force me back."
"I don't understand you at all."
Lucifer releases his grip. "What do you think of when you drink this champagne?"
"I think of nothing."
"I am going to hit you again if you don't think before you speak to me. I bore easily, Michael."
"I think of... light. Not Light, but the small lights radiating from the singing voices."
"You're reacting only to the taste. We do not become drunk. So it is pointless to sit with you and drink champagne, isn't it?"
Michael shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps..."
Lucifer smiles and leans across the table. His heated lips brush over Michael's, and then close with sudden hunger. "I missed you, Protector," he murmurs. "These little bursts of goodness are not very much to oppose."
"No," says Michael, kissing him back rather gently. "No, my love, they're everything."