Fall Back Down
Flavors: peppermint 18. scar. pomelo 3. There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same
Characters: Cassiel (+ Michael and Jehoel)
Rating: PG13
Story: Abbadon
Arc: For Thine Is The Kingdom.
Title: Fall Back Down
Words: 1,444
Notes: This is Cassiel's pocky chain AND my first attempt at any form of pocky chain, seeing as I tend to ramble. Um, its really spoilerrific, so I separated the not-so-spoilery part from the super-spoilery part. Cassiel - I'm sorry. =(
The earth was lush and fresh when the angels first met it. Bodies and voices emerged from light as they adjusted to their new surroundings. This world was unlike anything they’d ever imagined. Bodies, senses, identities. They ate the earth, took everything they could into themselves.
Cassiel knew the name of the man before him.
“Michael,” he spoke. Spoke - voice. He wanted nothing but to use that voice. The world was his first love.
----
“It’s indistinguishable,” Jehoel informed him grimly. For centuries - maybe millennia - Cassiel had heard rumours of the land humans had named Jannat, his home. He’d never returned. “It could just as well be a place on Earth,” Jehoel sighed. “Houses, trees, streets and merchants.”
Cassiel frowned in confusion. “Bodies?”
Jehoel nodded. “Indistinguishable.”
The eldest of the two brothers carefully detached himself from his younger brother’s side, letting him sniff and wipe away the last of his own tears.
“I can’t watch anyone else die, Jehoel,” Cassiel admitted. “And... I miss you.”
“I know,” Jehoel said quietly. “So let’s go home.”
----
Rehearsals didn’t start until several hours after Michael had left for work, but Cassiel rose with the sun. The sun slanted through thin gaps in the curtains, pooling in Michael’s golden blond hair, and Cassiel sat in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and watching him saunter around the house, preparing for the day. He smiled gratefully at Cassiel, and Cassiel forgot the proper mechanism for breathing.
Even though the eggs came out unrecognisably mangled, Michael ate them happily, and was on his way.
The moment the door shut, Cassiel sank miserably into the table.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
----
When Michael kissed him, yes, everything stopped.
But he held back his heart as best he could, he tried to keep it from skipping so many beats. Because it had been long enough and he knew better than to wish for anything. He knew better than to assume that bright smile meant he was happy and he knew better than to assume that just because this was happening now meant it would ever happen again.
Then he kissed him back, because - oh god - this might never happen again.
“Don’t go,” whispered Michael. As if Cassiel ever had a choice.
----
The sun gleamed in Michael’s hair, it shone and bounced and danced with some euphoric abandon. And maybe it was selfish, because Michael would definitely be late for work, but Cassiel didn’t want to wake him up. The man honestly looked like an angel when he slept.
You know, more like an angel. Cassiel pressed his forehead back into Michael’s chest and breathed the fresh spring air meandering through the window, clean sheets, Michael, himself, everything. And as long as those arms stayed wrapped firmly around his shoulders, he would always be safe, life would always be breathtaking. Always.
----
When they talked politics, Cassiel made himself scarce. He could claim ignorance, it would go away - he’d never have to leave.
But the death toll kept rising, the world kept changing - the war kept raging. Michael stood, in the blazing gold light of it all, the saint, the hero, the murderer. The archangel.
“Why?” Cassiel asked. And asked. And asked. He asked it so many times that it didn’t even seem like a real world anymore. Just more meaningless sound.
One day, Michael came home to find his things neatly piled on the front porch. Cassiel sat inside, and wept.
----
Cassiel no longer sang. He didn’t sing in spring or summer. Or fall. In winter someone came to his door and he buried his face in the bed he hadn’t left. But they came, they found him, and they told him his brother was missing.
And only one fucking person could find him.
He hated the estate and he hated Michael and he hated, hated, hated. He hated that he wasn’t someone who felt hate, he hated that all he could do when he saw the light dancing in gold hair, felt the sharp steel against his throat - was love.
----
The first time the audience beamed and his brother smiled again - it made sense. Some things fit, and it wouldn’t be easy, and they weren’t done - this wasn’t a happy ending. But they would be okay. Maybe the air wouldn’t ever be so pure and clean as it was those mornings in Michael’s bed, but Cassiel had done something right, he’d seen his brother smile, he’d seen someone heal. And he would heal, and one day, maybe, Michael would disappear and the world would heal too.
----
Michael was held together by scraps of thin twine when he appeared, one night, on Cassiel’s front porch. His bones were broken, his face was bruised. There was blood on everything. It ached. Oh, dear Lord, wherever the hell you’ve been, it hurt Cassiel in ways he couldn’t understand.
He was going to close the door right then - he was.
“Don’t go.”
Cassiel brought him inside and cleaned his wounds and held him, warm against his body, until he stopped shaking. He didn’t sleep that night. And he hated himself more than he had ever hated Michael.
----
Spring found Cassiel once again awake in Michael’s sleeping arms. He’d heard Michael speak of “sin” a thousand times before, but he’d never understood what the hell it meant.
But the gnawing in his mind, the sickness in his stomach. The stench of blood on Michael’s hands where they so gently brushed away Cassiel’s dark hair. The dense patterns of scars that covered the length of Michael’s body, that weren’t even a fraction of what he deserved. The nightmares, the mothers, children, humans and angels - all dead to the same hands that curled protectively around Cassiel’s own.
He knew sin.
----
The night was cold, and Michael slept soundly. Cassiel left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a bottle of whiskey for courage. That night, and many after, he slept in the streets of the holy city, and often he remembered nothing.
He curled up in the alleys, bottle clutched like an infant to his chest, and drank to drive away the scent of clean sheets and old blood. And he did not look for grey eyes in the faces of strangers, and his heart never caught in his chest at the sight of sunlight in gold hair.
----
SPOILER PARTY SPOILER PARTY
The Eastern Province had better drugs. And being an addict, honestly, was better than being Cassiel. He learned to stay out of the way of the gods and their war, he learned to keep moving, to run and never stop.
Yuki-Onna found him, delirious in the winter. She thought he was fantastically disturbed, and he thought that if Michael ever heard of this it would drive him insane. Nine months later a blue-eyed baby was born. He held the tiny child in his arms and for once, there was something in this world he loved more than Michael.
----
The West was a dangerous place, but at least the gods didn’t fight in the streets. At least Miriam and Ephraim Scott weren’t addicts or immortals or, heaven forbid, homosexuals. They loved the child, they didn’t care where he came from, they didn’t mind keeping him out of the church, and if everyone turned against them, Cassiel knew they would continue to love his son. That was all that mattered.
There were no more tears left when he said goodbye to the child. They took away his son and honestly, there was nothing left.
----
Rumours flew. Returning to the Western Province was the last mistake he’d ever make, they whispered. But how could he see it as a mistake?
They Chayot wanted him dead. And why wouldn’t they. He’d fucked men, and he’d fucked a demon. He was an addict, a drunk, and he most definitely did not believe in God. For an average citizen, this was not considered model behaviour. For an angel, it was reprehensible.
It would have been easy to leave. They would never have found him.
He could never bring himself to step outside the holy city.
----
The face was not the one he’d expected. The hate, the heartbreak, the rage, the tears. They were not what he had expected. There were lines there that he didn’t remember, there was an emptiness, a savage glint in the angel’s grey eyes.
But it was a beautiful day, and the sun still danced in those damn gold curls.
“I love you,” said Cassiel, as the great golden sword met its mark.
Spring found him once again in Michael’s arms.
And finally, finally - he slept.
Characters: Cassiel (+ Michael and Jehoel)
Rating: PG13
Story: Abbadon
Arc: For Thine Is The Kingdom.
Title: Fall Back Down
Words: 1,444
Notes: This is Cassiel's pocky chain AND my first attempt at any form of pocky chain, seeing as I tend to ramble. Um, its really spoilerrific, so I separated the not-so-spoilery part from the super-spoilery part. Cassiel - I'm sorry. =(
The earth was lush and fresh when the angels first met it. Bodies and voices emerged from light as they adjusted to their new surroundings. This world was unlike anything they’d ever imagined. Bodies, senses, identities. They ate the earth, took everything they could into themselves.
Cassiel knew the name of the man before him.
“Michael,” he spoke. Spoke - voice. He wanted nothing but to use that voice. The world was his first love.
----
“It’s indistinguishable,” Jehoel informed him grimly. For centuries - maybe millennia - Cassiel had heard rumours of the land humans had named Jannat, his home. He’d never returned. “It could just as well be a place on Earth,” Jehoel sighed. “Houses, trees, streets and merchants.”
Cassiel frowned in confusion. “Bodies?”
Jehoel nodded. “Indistinguishable.”
The eldest of the two brothers carefully detached himself from his younger brother’s side, letting him sniff and wipe away the last of his own tears.
“I can’t watch anyone else die, Jehoel,” Cassiel admitted. “And... I miss you.”
“I know,” Jehoel said quietly. “So let’s go home.”
----
Rehearsals didn’t start until several hours after Michael had left for work, but Cassiel rose with the sun. The sun slanted through thin gaps in the curtains, pooling in Michael’s golden blond hair, and Cassiel sat in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and watching him saunter around the house, preparing for the day. He smiled gratefully at Cassiel, and Cassiel forgot the proper mechanism for breathing.
Even though the eggs came out unrecognisably mangled, Michael ate them happily, and was on his way.
The moment the door shut, Cassiel sank miserably into the table.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
----
When Michael kissed him, yes, everything stopped.
But he held back his heart as best he could, he tried to keep it from skipping so many beats. Because it had been long enough and he knew better than to wish for anything. He knew better than to assume that bright smile meant he was happy and he knew better than to assume that just because this was happening now meant it would ever happen again.
Then he kissed him back, because - oh god - this might never happen again.
“Don’t go,” whispered Michael. As if Cassiel ever had a choice.
----
The sun gleamed in Michael’s hair, it shone and bounced and danced with some euphoric abandon. And maybe it was selfish, because Michael would definitely be late for work, but Cassiel didn’t want to wake him up. The man honestly looked like an angel when he slept.
You know, more like an angel. Cassiel pressed his forehead back into Michael’s chest and breathed the fresh spring air meandering through the window, clean sheets, Michael, himself, everything. And as long as those arms stayed wrapped firmly around his shoulders, he would always be safe, life would always be breathtaking. Always.
----
When they talked politics, Cassiel made himself scarce. He could claim ignorance, it would go away - he’d never have to leave.
But the death toll kept rising, the world kept changing - the war kept raging. Michael stood, in the blazing gold light of it all, the saint, the hero, the murderer. The archangel.
“Why?” Cassiel asked. And asked. And asked. He asked it so many times that it didn’t even seem like a real world anymore. Just more meaningless sound.
One day, Michael came home to find his things neatly piled on the front porch. Cassiel sat inside, and wept.
----
Cassiel no longer sang. He didn’t sing in spring or summer. Or fall. In winter someone came to his door and he buried his face in the bed he hadn’t left. But they came, they found him, and they told him his brother was missing.
And only one fucking person could find him.
He hated the estate and he hated Michael and he hated, hated, hated. He hated that he wasn’t someone who felt hate, he hated that all he could do when he saw the light dancing in gold hair, felt the sharp steel against his throat - was love.
----
The first time the audience beamed and his brother smiled again - it made sense. Some things fit, and it wouldn’t be easy, and they weren’t done - this wasn’t a happy ending. But they would be okay. Maybe the air wouldn’t ever be so pure and clean as it was those mornings in Michael’s bed, but Cassiel had done something right, he’d seen his brother smile, he’d seen someone heal. And he would heal, and one day, maybe, Michael would disappear and the world would heal too.
----
Michael was held together by scraps of thin twine when he appeared, one night, on Cassiel’s front porch. His bones were broken, his face was bruised. There was blood on everything. It ached. Oh, dear Lord, wherever the hell you’ve been, it hurt Cassiel in ways he couldn’t understand.
He was going to close the door right then - he was.
“Don’t go.”
Cassiel brought him inside and cleaned his wounds and held him, warm against his body, until he stopped shaking. He didn’t sleep that night. And he hated himself more than he had ever hated Michael.
----
Spring found Cassiel once again awake in Michael’s sleeping arms. He’d heard Michael speak of “sin” a thousand times before, but he’d never understood what the hell it meant.
But the gnawing in his mind, the sickness in his stomach. The stench of blood on Michael’s hands where they so gently brushed away Cassiel’s dark hair. The dense patterns of scars that covered the length of Michael’s body, that weren’t even a fraction of what he deserved. The nightmares, the mothers, children, humans and angels - all dead to the same hands that curled protectively around Cassiel’s own.
He knew sin.
----
The night was cold, and Michael slept soundly. Cassiel left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a bottle of whiskey for courage. That night, and many after, he slept in the streets of the holy city, and often he remembered nothing.
He curled up in the alleys, bottle clutched like an infant to his chest, and drank to drive away the scent of clean sheets and old blood. And he did not look for grey eyes in the faces of strangers, and his heart never caught in his chest at the sight of sunlight in gold hair.
----
SPOILER PARTY SPOILER PARTY
The Eastern Province had better drugs. And being an addict, honestly, was better than being Cassiel. He learned to stay out of the way of the gods and their war, he learned to keep moving, to run and never stop.
Yuki-Onna found him, delirious in the winter. She thought he was fantastically disturbed, and he thought that if Michael ever heard of this it would drive him insane. Nine months later a blue-eyed baby was born. He held the tiny child in his arms and for once, there was something in this world he loved more than Michael.
----
The West was a dangerous place, but at least the gods didn’t fight in the streets. At least Miriam and Ephraim Scott weren’t addicts or immortals or, heaven forbid, homosexuals. They loved the child, they didn’t care where he came from, they didn’t mind keeping him out of the church, and if everyone turned against them, Cassiel knew they would continue to love his son. That was all that mattered.
There were no more tears left when he said goodbye to the child. They took away his son and honestly, there was nothing left.
----
Rumours flew. Returning to the Western Province was the last mistake he’d ever make, they whispered. But how could he see it as a mistake?
They Chayot wanted him dead. And why wouldn’t they. He’d fucked men, and he’d fucked a demon. He was an addict, a drunk, and he most definitely did not believe in God. For an average citizen, this was not considered model behaviour. For an angel, it was reprehensible.
It would have been easy to leave. They would never have found him.
He could never bring himself to step outside the holy city.
----
The face was not the one he’d expected. The hate, the heartbreak, the rage, the tears. They were not what he had expected. There were lines there that he didn’t remember, there was an emptiness, a savage glint in the angel’s grey eyes.
But it was a beautiful day, and the sun still danced in those damn gold curls.
“I love you,” said Cassiel, as the great golden sword met its mark.
Spring found him once again in Michael’s arms.
And finally, finally - he slept.