Chapter Text
Emily being rushed to the infirmary, to the bed right next to his was the first and only clue Peter got that told him that something was not wrong, but very wrong.
No one was telling him anything; not even why he was here in the first place. He had been working as usual (understand: reading some poetry book while patiently waiting for newcomers at the Pearly Gates) when suddenly, a flash of light, he felt himself spin like a rotisserie chicken, a huge blow to his head, and he woke up all groggy in the infirmary, with some quick visits of angels way too stressed out to give him just five minutes of their time to tell him what was happening.
Winners like himself don’t go to the infirmary. Archangels -like himself, too, he was a man of many facets- don’t go to the infirmary. No one can really hurt them nor wanted to, accidents don’t happen in Heaven, they were more resistant than the others: ending up injured was more something that would sometimes happen to a Cherub or a lower-ranking Heavenborn. And ending up injured like he was? Where, after hours, his head was still ringing and he was still not certain he was seeing straight? What in God’s gracious Paradise had happened to him?
At least, he had slowly been feeling better those past hours. Right now, to be perfectly honest, the most bruised part of him wasn’t actually his head but his ego, as no one took five minutes of their day to visit him.
Well, Emily was right by him now. Crying while three angels were tending her back, and Sera on her left, holding her hand and holding her tears. Something was really, really wrong. He couldn’t even talk to his friend, a nurse closed the curtains all around Emily’s bed when she noticed he was staring.
“Is she ok?” he asked a Cherub-nurse who was flying towards Emily.
“She’ll be.”
“Can I leave?”
“Are you ok?”
“Perfect, perfect. As good as new,” he lied.
“If you want then, I can’t stop you.”
And off he went. Emily had Sera, she’ll be okay. But that, and with how everyone had been stressed out since he woke up? He knew that Abel needed him, now. He tried to ignore his head pulsating while he was running down the corridors, looking for the nearest open window to fly home quickly.
Down the streets, Winners and Heavenborn alike were singing and celebrating. There was a whole parade on the Promenade, to the point Peter had to fly between fireworks and confetti, leaving him only more confused. Oh, and, he realised, after running his hand through his hair, leaving him still bleeding. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied to the Cherub. How was he supposed to know injuries don’t magically disappear?
He tried to not think about it too much until he softly landed on his balcony and he slid inside, closing the door behind him. The sound of the party outside died down. Leaned against the glass of the French door, he let out a sigh. Just a few seconds of calm. Just to regroup. He was going to puke if he tried to go too fast, that was for sure.
What. Was. Happening.
“Ooof... Andrew, I’m here?” he finally said, as he looked around for tissues to clean the gold stains on his face. “Abel?”
No answer. He was all by himself in the living room, and walking around revealed no one in the kitchen, the bathroom, the study, nor in the bedrooms. Fuck. And he had no idea of where his phone was, of course. Probably still at the infirmary, if it hadn’t flown out of the Realm when he was spinning like a Beyblade. He was just hoping that Abel wasn’t at the farm, because Peter didn’t have the energy to fly all the way there right now.
So, it’s with some nostalgia that his feet guided him towards a forgotten corner of the apartment, where no one had been in how so many years. There was a layer of undisturbed dust on the piece of furniture, and when he opened the drawer, he was relieved to find a small list of names and numbers, penned in messy scribbles. Thankfully, they never got rid of it – so, carefully, he composed one of the numbers.
“Hello? Andrew? It’s me.”
“Bro?” Andrew was shouting in the phone. There was so much sound and music in the background, surely, he was right in the middle of the parade. “The others are here, everyone, say hello, it’s Peter! (Hi Rocky! Pete!! KEPHAAS come!) Whose phone did you steal?”
“It’s our landline.”
“The landline? We still have that? Well, come on, join us – we’re, hum, I’m drunk and there are a lot of people but I think we’re around... Thomas, where are we? Ok, by Matthew’s building, you know, between there and the Thai restaurant-”
Peter could feel the anxiety gripping his throat. The racket of the march, echoing coldly in the receiver, was resonating deep within him, but not as it should be. It made him feel anything but happy and elated.
“Andreas please. I just woke up injured at the infirmary, I don’t know what’s happening, and you’re the first I called.”
“Andrew, the first who’s called, of course it is-” Andrew sounded jaded, but the sound of the parade was getting quieter. He was probably flying away to talk. “What do you mean, the infirmary?”
“I don’t know. I was working, flash of light, pain, and then nothing. Woke up in a bed, alone, and then Emily arrives at the infirmary too, all bloody, I rush home and re-open my head injury on the way, there’s a party in the streets, I can’t find my phone and I don’t know where Abel is.”
“Well, achi, hum, well firstly the flash of light was the laser ray weapon that ruined the Pearly Gates, and the blue TV man from Hell wanted to use it to destroy us all-”
“What?!”
“-but they got rid of him down there so that’s why there’s the party.”
“What happened to my Gates?”
“Ah. They gone-gone bro. Hope your resume is up to date. Gone gone gone,” Andrew stated flatly, not moved by the disastrous news in any way. “But, wait, wait – you were injured? Really injured? I- I didn’t know. No one told me. I’d have come, promise.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt pain. So, no, not dreaming, not asleep, just typical Heaven bullshittery. Of course: why warn people’s friends and family when they have an emergency? You wouldn’t want to make them worry, or, worse, be sad.
“Chill, Andrew. You can still see me after the parade, ok? But what happened to Emily? And do you know where Abel is?”
Andrew didn’t seem to want to chill, if his mutters were any indication, but at least he decided to answer his questions.
“I have no certainty, this part wasn’t broadcasted for us all to see- but if the rumours are true, then Emily, your boy and the crazy Exorcist lady went to Hell to help stop the weapon or something. And saved us all. Hence the party. But Emily must have been hurt there.”
“In Hell? And Abel?!” Peter panicked.
“I heard that Abel said bitch.”
“What? Bitch? What fuckass rumours have you been listening to?” Abel would never. Abel was drinking Respect Women Juice for every breakfast.
“Listen, that’s the rumours I heard,” Andrew said. “But he came back in Heaven, at least, so it shouldn’t be long before he’s home. I can text him that you’re all alone and sad and waiting for him.”
“That... That would be great. Thank you,” Peter said, chocking on the words.
Andrew took a couple seconds, and told:
“I’m coming over too, actually.”
“No, no, don’t worry. Enjoy the parade with everyone.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming, you’re hurt, I don’t want to hear nothing.”
“Andreas. I’m okay. Go party for now, you’ll come here tonight, okay?” Peter insisted, playing with the wire of the phone. He couldn’t walk around with the landline, it was awful. “I’m not opening the door for you before the parade outside is over.”
“Tch. I live there too, Shimon, I have the keys. You piss me off. See ya later,” Andrew finally gave up, hanging up the call.
Of course. Well, Andrew wasn’t really pissed, Peter knew that – he’d have threatened to call Mom if he was. Now he just had to hope his brother wasn’t too drunk to remember texting Abel, as he said he would.
Peter dragged his feet and his whole carcass towards the couch. It was a big L-shaped one, but he tucked himself in a blanket in one of the end corners, trying to take as little place as possible.
At least, he had stopped bleeding for now. A quick hand in his hair only brought back some dried golden specks on his fingers.
It was so weird, he thought, looking at this blood. It wasn’t much at all, but he never bled this much in Heaven. A bit here and there, from time to time. It had taken him decades to realise he had been blessed by golden blood here. It wasn’t much at all, but it reminded him of the sextarii and sextarii of red flowing down his body and filling his mouth, his nose, blocking his eyes. Like a bad wine, acrid and ferrous – red, red, red, until only black remained.
Don’t think about that, Peter.
Don’t think about anything. Everything hurts. You’re fine, you’re going to be fine, Abel is fine, Emily is fine, Andrew is fine, all of Heaven is fine. The Gates are not. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Just a little… Grain of sand in the perfectly oiled gears that make Heaven go round. Everything will be back to normal soon enough.
There is nothing new under the sun.
It took some time for the entrance door to finally being pushed open, and quickly closed again. Peter only turned his head to try to get a glimpse of the newcomer – Abel, of course, taking of his shoes and slowly putting on the floor his helmet.
Peter hated this thing.
His boyfriend was silent, much more than usual, and seemed to second-guess every single one of his moves. So, Peter didn’t say anything. He let him take his time to make his way to the living room, where, without a word, he sat himself on the couch, in the corner opposed to Peter, and grabbed a pillow to squeeze. Peter took off his blanket to slide towards him, but the move only made Abel curl up on himself. Better to not move right away, then.
What happened in Hell?
“How are you feeling?” Abel asked, his eyes on the floor. He noticed that there were a couple golden droplets right by the end table – that somehow made him even more tense. “You’re still bleeding?”
“Better, don’t worry. It’s just a few drops, I didn’t notice, I’m not bleeding anymore, I’ll clean them after. How are you feeling?” Peter rushed, concerned.
“I went to see you at the infirmary with Emily,” Abel continued, ignoring his question. “You were still sleeping. After that, we were on a meeting to plan how to protect Heaven, and so I had to go with the Exorcists, I didn’t have the time to see you, they didn’t let me, and-”
“Abel. I’m okay,” Peter cut him off, smiling softly. “You had something more important to do than hang with a comatose little old me to do. You went and protected all of Heaven. Don’t worry for me.”
Abel looked up at him with his big, teary eyes. Asking him to not worry was almost rude, to be honest. But right now, right now Peter felt like what happened to him was nothing next to what transpired the past day.
“How it went? In Hell?” Peter asked, hoping that changing the subject would stop his boyfriend from breaking in sobs.
“Something happened,” Abel said, squeezing harder the pillow in his arms and turning his eyes away from Peter’s.
“What did?”
“I- I...”
He was trembling and recoiled. The poor pillow was being mangled – Peter wasn’t anxious anymore, but legitimately frightened. Slowly, to not upset Abel more, he got up from his seat to kneel on the floor in front of his boyfriend, being careful to not touch him.
“They were all trying to stop the weapon... And Emily was hurt. The ray got her wing. Sera sent Lute and me to retrieve her, but instead Lute attacked, er- the, the fallen angel from the Hotel, and they were all shouting at me to stop her, and Lute wouldn’t listen and I had a panic attack and I hid below some rubble, and Lute and the angel were fighting, and- and finally I managed to snap back and I ordered Lute to retreat, but...” Abel was losing his train of thought again, but he finally turned his eyes towards Peter, tearing up in the process. “Peter, that was so bad. There were dead sinners, and hurt people, and everyone was yelling, the weapon was about to explode, Lute was mutinying, and then I was hiding like a coward until I dissociated enough to do something. I still don’t know what took over me. For a moment, it was like – I was outside my own body. I wasn’t Abel the sissy and crybaby, the mangly sheep – I was strong and confident, and angry, and I put on the helmet and I got this bitch to listen to me. Peter, I hated that feeling. It was terrifying. I felt like I was someone else, someone brave, like my father, or my brother, and...”
He was full on crying, now. Peter raised his hand on his cheek, delicately wiping away with his thumb both the tears and the streak of dried golden blood that was staining his upper lip.
“Oh, love. You are brave.”
“I am not. Peter. I’m...” Abel said, holding Peter’s hand to his cheek, squeezing so hard, as if Peter had any risk to slip away. “I’m scared of myself.”
“Do you... Did you again have those thoughts? The- You know?” Peter asked softly, not daring to voice the words.
“No, no- No, on the contrary. Peter, that’s what scares me. I’ve never felt so alive. So- strong. In so, so, so many years. As if in the first time in forever, I was going to have to make a decision that matters. And that was... That was harrowing, I was petrified like I’ve never been petrified in death, but at the same time, it was so exhilarating. I wish I could feel that again. Peter, love, what does that make me?”
Peter brought his other hand to Abel’s face, mapping it with his thumbs like he never took the time to do before. The dry skin, with the small cyst on the jaw that grew a rebellious dark strand of hair. The spots all over, the white, the beige, the red, the brown, the freckles and the mysterious, painting the face like a picture with so many layers. The cheekbones you had to guess under the round cheeks. The shadows under the eyes, that no amount of sleep would be able to make disappear – the eyes, whose sclera seemed more yellow than white this up close, with all the veins in there. The scar, from the scalp to over the ear, pulsating at the rhythm of the sobs as if it was fresh and not the oldest scar of all of humanity. The smell – of the blood, the sweat, but mostly of salt – the salt of the tears, and that odour was both the most insignificant, barely noticeable, muted and dull of all of them, and overpowering. A pang of nostalgia, from a time, long before, where crying meant something.
Peter realised he never took the time to look at Abel in his entirety.
He lowered slowly his fingers towards Abel’s nape, letting his calluses and own old wounds follow the road of bumpy moles, careful to not get a hair stuck in his irregularly bitten nails, before pressing their foreheads together.
Abel’s hand was still on one of his, and was clinging hard enough to hurt, grasping at him as if he needed that to no fall apart. As if, for that moment, there was nothing else to hang on to than each other.
Just two little grains of sand.
Peter closed his eyes. And he said, with the most emotion he ever felt in all of his life and after it:
“It makes you imperfect, my beloved.”