(no subject)

[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

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel pressed his cheek against Pestilence's back as the horseman started the engine of the bike. The warmth of the other being seeped through his skin into his body, trying to chase away the almost corpse-like coldness of somebody who has never truly lived as a corporeal being. It was a most pleasant feeling, and Uriel tightened his hold on the horseman's waist a bit to bring himself even closer to that warmth.

They were driving through the peaceful scenery of a place well loved but he didn't notice, his eyes closed, blocking out any sight of his surroundings. Instead he concentrated on what he felt and heard, the wind whirling around them, the heat of Pestilence's body against him, the horseman's heartbeat under his ear. It was very pleasant indeed, in a way he wasn't sure he wholly understood.

So, he stopped thinking and just enjoyed.