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There is a small church across the road, old and unassuming with cracked brick and clouded windows. Every few days, an old man shuffles out through the snow and changes the sign out front, tucking the old, worn letter blocks into place to spell out inspirational messages or invitations to the next service, often both. Today, it reads:
HE IS GOD'S CHRISTMAS GIFT TO THE WORLD CHRISTMAS EVE SERVICE 6:30 PM
Michael takes a sip of his coffee and sets the mug on the windowsill. It's a load of nonsense, and he knows it, but the humans' little churches are as close as he can get now. Sometimes the singing is nice.
Lucifer comes home at six. He kicks his boots off at the door and shakes snowflakes from his hair. His cheeks and nose are red in a way that makes him look young and happy, but then Lucifer doesn't seem burdened by the sudden turn of events. Sure as shit beats the Cage, he always says, and Michael always sighs at the incessant swearing. Lucifer laughs him off, the sound boyish and carefree like so many other things about Lucifer. He wears his vessel well. Tall with blue eyes all crowned with gold, Lucifer looks exactly as he should. It's Michael who looks too young and too small beside him. To an outsider, he would look like the little brother beseeching his elder to walk across the street for Christmas worship, but the way Lucifer laughs reveals their dynamic too well.
There's a word for it, something the humans say. It doesn't come to Michael until he's sitting alone in a back pew singing hallellujah. Devil may care. Lucifer has a devil may care smile, his soft lips inching up at one end more than the other white his eyes sparkle mischievously. It's ironic really, but then Michael can't really think of Lucifer as the devil at all anymore. He's too normal, too familiar, too close, and if Michael thinks of his smile any more than he already has, he'll have to leave the church. He pauses at the confessional on his way out the door, and a kindly old clergyman smiles in invitation. But what could Michael say? I am preoccupied with the perfect curve of my little brother's mouth, and also he is Satan? That word is distasteful too. Michael stuffs his hands in his pockets to warm them while he walks home.
Lucifer is sitting on the couch with several Chinese takeout containers strewn across the coffee table in front of him. His feet are propped up on the table's edge, one resting on top of the other with his toes wiggling inside his socks.
"I didn't know you were getting dinner," Michael says.
"Don't worry. I got you that beef and broccoli thing you like with the boring white rice. I even saved you an egg roll." Lucifer points at one of the containers with his chopsticks. He even remembered to lay a fork out. Michael hasn't "gotten the hang" of the other utensils as Lucifer says it.
Michael sits at the opposite end of the couch, his feet firmly planted on the floor. They eat in silence for a while, Lucifer seemingly fixed on the television until he looks over and asks, "So, how was church?" There's that smile again. Lucifer looks just mildly amused. His lips gleam with a hint of oil from his noodles, and it does absolutely nothing to diminish his attractiveness.
"It was fine."
"Did you pray? Did He answer?"
"Quit it," Michael murmurs, stuffing another piece of broccoli into his mouth.
"All right." Lucifer shrugs. "Huh. The broccoli looks green this time."
"Broccoli is always green, Lucifer."
"Well, that's not true. It was kind of shabby last time." Lucifer leans over, reaching with his chopsticks to pluck a piece of broccoli from Michael's dish.
"Lucifer!"
"What?" Lucifer laughs and holds the paper container in his hand towards Michael. "You can have a bite of mine."
"I don't want a bite of yours."
"Why not? It's good. Here, try a little snap pea. Green for green." Lucifer digs the vegetable out and holds his chopsticks out. Michael opens his mouth to protest, but Lucifer takes it as an invitation. The chopsticks tap against Michael's lips just so. The same chopsticks that had just touched Lucifer's lips. "See?" Lucifer says. "It's good."
"It's fine." Michael quickly wipes the sauce from his lips. "But you shouldn't just take other people's food."
"It's not 'other people,'" Lucifer says dismissively. "It's you."
Michael doesn't know what to say to that, so he fills his mouth with food instead. Not five minutes later, Lucifer clicks his chopsticks together and uses Michael's distraction as an opportunity to steal a piece of beef. This time, Michael doesn't scold him and makes sure to keep his mouth full so Lucifer doesn't try to feed him again. If anything, this only makes Lucifer look more amused.
They watch television well into the night. Lucifer even indulges Michael in in a couple of Christmas programs until what was charmingly festive becomes suddenly evangelical. The old man on the screen announces the next program by reminding viewers that God gave his only begotten son to the world, and Lucifer scrunches his up his face and announces he's going to bed. An apology dies in Michael's throat, and he gives the television a dirty look as if it were its fault for not changing the channel on its own. Lying in bed that night, Michael can't help but wonder which of His sons God truly sacrificed.
He dreams of the Cage, of fire and of Lucifer's laughter echoing through the flames even though Michael knows it didn't happen like that. The truth was far more horrific, and Michael feels guilty for the way his sleeping mind shifted things. He can't sleep after that. Michael leaves his bedroom for a glass of water but ends up following the flickering light into the living room. He finds Lucifer sitting on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders staring bleary-eyed at the television.
"What are you doing?" Michael asks. "It's two in the morning."
"You're up."
"I was just getting a drink." Michael stands awkwardly by the couch until Lucifer looks up at him. His eyes are red and wet as if he had been crying. Michael didn't expect that. Lucifer's vessel is taller than his. Lucifer looks taller and broader and older, but he isn't. In this moment, he is Michael's little brother. He looks small and vulnerable and alone, and Michael knows what sort of Hell he's been dreaming about.
Michael doesn't say anything, just sits down beside Lucifer, and when he starts to move, Michael stops him with a soft touch. He lies back, pulling Lucifer along with him until they're sprawled together across the couch. Lucifer is quiet, his body rigid for several moments before he starts to relax. His head rests against Michael's chest, and he turns his face up, the cold tip of his nose brushing against Michael's neck a second before Lucifer's lips press to the same spot. Michael forgets how to breathe, and by the time he remembers, Lucifer's head has grown heavy against his chest. It didn't mean anything, Michael tells himself. Lucifer is just tired.
Come morning, Michael wakes alone. At first, he thinks he must have dreamed the whole thing, but he's on the couch with Lucifer's blanket draped across him. Lucifer is sitting on the windowsill cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, the morning light streaming in around him. He doesn't notice Michael approaching, his attention fixed outside the window.
"What are you looking at?"
"They're having morning service," Lucifer murmurs as he fits his cup. Humans dressed in their Christmas best are streaming into the church in a neat little line. The old man who Michael couldn't confess to is standing by the door smiling and shaking hands. "Are you going?" Lucifer asks.
"No," Michael says. "I'd rather stay here with you."
"Really?" Lucifer looks up, but he doesn't wait for an answer. He lays his head against Michael. Together they sit and watch the snow fall. The doors to the little church across the road close, and Michael feels no sense of loss. He feels something new. Lucifer takes his hand and squeezes it. By breakfast, there is no gap between them on the couch, and the next time Lucifer kisses him, Michael knows what it means.