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[stds-r-4-lovers.livejournal.com]

Date: February 28, 2000
Setting: Outside Uriel's door
Status: Semi-private: Pestilence and Uriel
Summary: The first meeting between Pestilence and Uriel after the Fall 

It had taken Pestilence a few days to get the rats settled in before he had a chance to dwell on Uriel's rejection again. Mr. Sniffles knew somethng was wrong, and tried to encourage the horseman to talk about it.
***
"I don't know, Mr. S. I just thought it... I don't know, I thought it meant something."
Squeak.
"Oh, those. Oh, they're nothing."
Squeak.
"What can I say, I was depressed."
Squeak.
"Don't worry, I won't do it again, especially not when the baby rats come."
Squeak.
"No need to take that tone with me, I stick to my word."
Squeak
"Oh, they're not that good. I couldn't give them to him. I don't think it would help anything. It would probably make things worse, actually."
***
But Mr. S. wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, and before he knew it, Pestilence was wandering down the halls of the manor, searching for Uriel's door.

When he found it, the residual of the angel's presence was thin, as though he hadn't been there for days. For a minute, Pestilence's heart stopped. Surely his actions hadn't pushed the angel to do anything rash? He prayed that Uriel was alright.

Turning over the piece of paper that the poem* was written, he wrote a note on the back. Please, Uriel, just let me know that you're OK. I'll be in the library this afternoon. I hope to see you. Pestilence

Feeling even more dejected and alone that he had before, Pestilence walked towards the library, hoping against hope that Uriel would show.

* Pesti's poem:
Green,
______like the leaves on a jasmine bush,
Your memory haunts me, and I have always been afraid
__________________________________________of ghosts.
How lonely must a horseman be,
before he ceases to be?
My room still echoes your voice,
the air clings to the jasmine of your hair,
how is it that all of my belongings now seem like yours?
_____________________How my body remembers your touch, like a phantom limb after the amputation of a particularily nasty infection.
My mind is black,
the color of your hair,
And I am lost.

Comments

[stds-r-4-lovers.livejournal.com]

Pestilence smiled at the angel, even if it was a little wibbly around the edges.

"Believe me, angel, for my own part, I would rather suffer from ebola than cause you to do anything you regreted. You probably think me a fool, angel. Or worse. But I care about you. I care about your well-being." He smiled just a little bit more brightly, a little mischevious glint in his eye. "And coming from a horseman of the apocalypse bent on the ill-being of all creatures, that's saying something."

He couldn't help but notice that Uriel hadn't yanked his hand back away from his grap, so he increased the pressure of his hand against Uriel's beautifully slender hand drawing it again to his lips. After kissing it gently, he spoke.

"Angel, I don't want you to think I have ulterior motives, but there is more to existance than simply carrying out orders. Even if this is the last time I'll ever have the pleasure to see you, don't limit yourself. There are so many things to enjoy. Not just sex," (though that was the horseman's favorite), "Just as other angels are lacking because of their inability to truly suffer, so can they not exist because they don't partake in pleasures. There are days when the scents on the air are enough to make me forget any pain. The way the wind feels on my skin, causing me to shiver. Those are all things I couldn't live without. You don't need to live without them either. Allow yourself to experience the good aspects of life, don't get caught in a pit of suffering."

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel watched as Pestilence drew his hand into a gentle kiss. He felt... something... as he watched the connection of the horseman's lips and his own hand, at the same time feeling that connection on his skin. He could only barely suppress the shiver that threatened to run through him at that feeling. He didn't understand, though. Why would he be feeling such a thing? And what was it, exactly?

"But I know nothing but obeying orders," he replied quietly. "Well, that and my art, of course -- and flying. I have felt the wind, too. There are few things I love as much as flying; it's just that with so many humans around I do it very rarely. It's much easier to keep my wings folded than to make sure people don't notice them --"

-- His wings, spread wide, Pestilence's hands sunk in the feathers --

He blinked, then tried to regain his control. "So -- anyway. It's not like I don't have any pleasure in my existence; I just find in different places. Perhaps I don't know tastes other than water -- and marshmallow, as it appears --, perhaps I cannot tell flowers apart by their scent. But I can recognize any somewhat succesful artist's style, and create works that would pass any specialist's examination as the works of those masters. I could fly right into Heaven and back." With a tiny smile he continued, "I probably could see to Heaven from here if I tried hard enough. Perhaps I'm not 'The sharpest sighted Spirit of all in Heav'n' but close enough. I'm always been rather sight-oriented."

As if trying to prove this he now turned his gaze back to his hand. He still didn't try to take it away from Pestilence's; he simply enjoyed too much having it right where it was.

[stds-r-4-lovers.livejournal.com]

Pestilence remembered Uriel's wings very well; they smelled of sunlight and jasmine and all things Good. He gritted his teeth and tried to erase the mental images that had sprung up in his mind. Those type of thoughts would not help him to keep control over his body or mind.

"I'm glad you have those pleasures. Especially your ability to fly. I wish I could fly." (as with most earth-bound creatures, Pestilence had often had dreams of being able to soar among the clouds. The closest he ever got was airborn germs from a forceful cough.)

Pestilence felt his knees weaken and give way, and he gently leaned against the angel's chair, trying not to tremble as he came in contact with the angel's robe-clad legs. He placed Uriel's hand on his own shoulder, covering the angel's hand with his; sensitive to any motions on the angel's part. He leaned his head against the angel's thigh, nervous and anticipatory. These sorts of contact would either make or break the situation.

"I don't suppose you would tell me what it is like to fly." Pestilence vaguely thought about his request. Just as he had sort of initiated Uriel into a world of earthly pleasures (even if the angel didn't exactly remember it) he was now asking for a.. crash-course.. in being an angel.

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel blinked a bit at the request. to him it sounded about the same as though he'd asked Pestilence to tell him what it was like to walk. He decided to do his best, though. for some reason Pestilence's position didn't seem strange to him; rather it felt just... natural... that the horseman would be that way, so close to him.

"it's hard to describe," he said, a bit hesitant -- not because he didn't want to let Pestilence know, but because it was really, really hard to tell about flying to somebody who had never experienced it. "At first you must spread your wings, of course. If they have been folded until then, it is a great relief, at least to me -- I usually keep them out all the time, so it's been rather hard to be here where I have to keep them hidden because of all the humans. It's like -- well, I suppose it could be like having worn too small shoes for ages and then finally taking them off." Not that he'd ever experienced such a thing, of course, but he was trying to find some comparisons Pestilence might be familiar with or at least understand. "The freedom you feel at being able to spread them wide and feel the air on them -- it's incredible."

He paused for a moment, then continued, "Next comes naturally the take-off. It's the hardest thing, having to separate yourself from the ground -- not because it's that difficult or really hard, mind you, but because you have to kind of throw yourself into it. It's not like jumping up into the air, more like leaping down from a cliff, the direction's just different. Abandoning the security of the ground and gravity... it's sometimes rather hard.

"So, after a few beats of the wings -- and perhaps a kick to the ground for aid on the take-off -- you are finally in the air. And let me tell you, the feeling is incredible." He closed his eyes, smiling dreamily as he thought of all the times he had flown. Even his trip to the St. James' Park felt almost pleasant when he only concentrated on the memories of the flight. "You don't have to do much to keep yourself in the air -- angels and demons are very light by nature exactly for this reason. Once you get higher you can feel the wind, feel every shift of the air on the surface of your wing, between the feathers, everywhere. Wings are very sensitive."

At some point -- he couldn't recall exactly when -- his hand had wandered from Pestilence's shoulder into the horseman's hair, caressing the fluffy white strands gently. Soft and white -- just like wings. Opening his eyes again, he looked down at the other being, the dreamy smile still on his lips.

"In the air you are really, completely free. Nothing can tie you anywhere. Imagine wind going through your hair, messing it up, caressing your skin at the same time -- that feels about the same as it touching your wings. At least it's the closest I can compare it with.

"The act of flying itself, well, it is hard to describe. It requires several muscles in both your chest and back that wingless creatures simply don't have. If you can, imagine another pair of arms you have to move around -- that's about the closest you can get to it, although it's not exactly like that, either."

[stds-r-4-lovers.livejournal.com]

Pestilence listened enraptured as Uriel's voice echoed through the room. He tried to imagine what it was like to soar through the air, to feel the wind caress his skin. Slowly Uriel's voice drifted through his mind, some words catching, some just floating through.

He was shaken slightly by the sudden removal of Uriel's hand, but his heart itself soared when he felt the delicate fingers running through his hair. Pestilence rested his head against the angel's hand.

As Uriel coninued to speak, Pestilence found his mind traveling to their previous time together, the way he had run his hands through the wonderful white wings. The way Uriel had covered them both in the downy canopy. He finally realized that Uriel had stopped speaking, shaking himself out of his very pleasant reverie.

"It sounds divine." But he was thinking as much about their previous experience as Uriel's description of flight. He continued to enjoy Uriel's touch, and felt relaxed, hoping his own relaxation would spread to the angel.

"It must be a wonderful experience." He turned his head slightly to look into Uriel's eyes. "I would love to watch you fly some time Uriel. I bet you're even more beautiful when you fly." He bit his lip a little at his candor, but he couldn't help it, not when Uriel's hand was fluffing his hair.

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel felt oddly relaxed as he looked down at Pestilence's upturned face. Although he was rather unused to touch, it didn't feel uncomfortable at all to have the horseman resting against him. Rather, it was almost... reassuring. A reminder that, once again, he wasn't alone.

He flsuhed a little at the other's words, though -- not because there'd truly been blood rushing to his face; that was pretty much impossible with no heartbeat keeping up a circulation. His blood was still in his veins. However, if Pestilence could blush grey, he definitely could blush without blood.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," he said softly, feeling oddly disappointed at the thought of not being able to fly in Pestilence's sight. "There are people around here who have no idea about angels; it wouldn't do to have them see me flying around. It's a pity, though; I'd love to stretch my wings every once in a while."

He continued stroking the other's hair, marveling its softness. Finally he couldn't help but say, "Your hair is incredibly soft. And beautiful, too."