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Adam was sentimental. That much, he knew.
It was a trait he’d gotten from his mother, something that he hadn’t truly appreciated until he’d emerged from the Cage. It wasn’t something he would’ve readily admitted to his friends back in college (though he wouldn’t shy away from it if it was brought up; he wasn’t that concerned over what people thought of him), but, now, it was something that kept the memory of her alive, something he’d wear with equal parts bittersweet nostalgia and fiery pride. Michael had called it “honoring” her, once, and Adam wholly agreed.
Speaking of Michael, he was off checking up on Heaven out of some deep-seated feeling of obligation that had been nagging at him ever since they’d left the Cage. Adam understood well enough; even if the archangel had broken his alliance with God, he’d still ruled over the place for thousands of years—it makes sense that he’d want to at least make sure things aren’t falling apart entirely.
That doesn’t stop Adam from feeling so fucking lonely, though.
He can’t help it—they’ve been connected for over a thousand years. He’s so used to being able to feel the burning buzz of Michael’s grace, nestled just by his soul. He’s used to hearing Michael’s quiet voice murmuring at the back of his mind, near the base of his head, like it was coming from his throat. Adam keeps reaching out to find him on impulse, only to find the space reserved for him entirely devoid of life.
It’s unsettling and uncomfortable—even his past memories of when he was fully human always seem odd to him now because of the sheer lack of Michael in them.
The only upside to everything is that he can try to sort through his feelings without worrying that Michael will pick up on the trail end of them.
Feelings, meaning that Adam is fully aware he might’ve fallen a little (a lot) in love with the Prince of Heaven.
...That’s got to be considered blasphemy, somewhere in the world. He’s pretty sure. And it’s not his fault he fell in love; not when Michael looks at him in such a way that makes his heart flutter a ridiculous amount in his chest. Not when Michael, Heaven’s most terrifying weapon, tries his absolute best to make Adam feel better on bad days by making horrible puns in Enochian (something Adam never should’ve taught him, because that’s Michael’s go-to sense of humor, now, and hey—at least he’s trying?). Not when Michael whispers his name—at night, when they’re having pointless conversation like they always do, passing the time with only each other—like a reverent prayer, something that drips from the tongue of his apparition like sweet honey, fondness and warmth reverberating through his tone, reaching all the way down to his true voice layered under faux human vocal cords.
So, yeah, Adam can’t be blamed for kind of (read: completely and entirely) falling in love with an archangel.
It does leave him wondering if Michael’s a little in love with him, too, though, because Adam has to face it—Michael’s fucking old. He was around when the universe was created, has watched millions and millions of stars live out their lifetimes, from their birth until their death. He probably watched when his father created the first man, the first Adam, for Christ’s sake. It’d be nothing short of presumptuous to just assume that Michael would feel the same as Adam in the feelings department, and Adam can honestly say that he’s just happy having him around. Really. He doesn’t mind things the way they are now. He may not be as old as Michael, but he’s still over a thousand years old—he’d like to think he’s wise enough to pick and choose his battles.
And that’s how he’s found himself here, idly wandering along the beaten trail of a forested park because he has nothing better to do, eyes picking out the occasional plant and trying to remember the name of it. He’s not doing so well, but he can’t actually find it in himself to care. It’s nice out, today—not too hot or too cold, with a breeze blowing through the trees and allowing the sun-dappled leaves to shed themselves of the last vestiges of droplets from the rain last night.
Adam knows he’s just stalling for time until Michael returns. He can’t find it in himself to care about that, either.
Eventually, he happens upon a bench, off to the side of the trail—an old thing, with part of the wood seemingly rotting and the other half barely clinging onto the metal support beams. Adam takes one look at it, thinks what the hell, tests it with his foot to make sure it won’t break under him, and takes a seat.
It’s not a bad view, honestly. The way the sunlight’s streaming through the branches—it seems like the type of thing Michael might appreciate.
...Is he surprised that his thoughts managed to find their way back to Michael? No.
There’s a clump of buttercups growing under the bench, and, without thinking, Adam reaches out to pick one.
And, of course, this is where his sentimental side decides to kick in, the part of him that always pretended to gag at his mother’s cheesy romance movies but, in all actuality, would cry over them the minute something sappy and/or sad happened. Of course.
Adam starts plucking the petals.
“He loves me,” he begins, feeling more than a little silly, “he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not.”
The petals run out quickly enough, and so Adam picks another and makes his way through that, and then another and another until he’s reached the last buttercup of the clump, already counting the petals to see what phrase they would leave him on.
It makes him laugh, just a little.
“He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me,” his fingers reach for the last one, and it’s so strange, how the number of petals on a flower can make something feel so set in stone, so permanent. “He—”
Loves you.
The voice, inside his head, the one so familiar and warm, his comfort for a thousand years, makes him startle. It's only a breath, barely a whisper, and he isn’t even here right now—Adam would feel him if he was. But that is Michael, Adam knows it, deep in his soul, and—he’s not even sure how Michael heard him; maybe he’d accidentally started praying?
“Michael?” Adam says, uncertain and hopeful all at once. He feels like something new has suddenly made itself present in his heart; something hallowed, holy, and it’s so familiar and yet not that it makes both his head and his heart swim, trying desperately to reach a surface, a revelation.
Suddenly, there’s white light cascading around him, and Adam looks up to see something—someone, celestial and divine, descending down onto him, and it’s so reminiscent of that day in that room all those years ago except he’s not scared, not this time.
No, this time, he wants to laugh and maybe cry, a little, because he’s still a big sap and he’s pretty sure that something like this had to be the plot of some movie, somewhere, but he hasn’t got time to do either because Michael’s taken this moment to return to his body, shrouding his grace around Adam’s thrilled soul. It’s like a breath of fresh air, and Adam hadn’t realized just how empty he’d felt with Michael gone until he was back, and he really does laugh, now, at the absurdness of it all.
And also because Michael’s suddenly standing across from him, right on the trail where Adam had been walking, staring at him with nothing short of pure adoration. It makes the breath whoosh right out of his lungs, and neither of them say anything, for a moment.
“Thought you had business in Heaven?” Adam says, forcing words past his barely-working lips, and Michael has the audacity to chuckle.
“I had something more important to address. Here. With you.” His voice is rich and inviting and Adam’s already propelling himself off the bench, making a beeline for the archangel and all but attaching himself to his front as he presses his lips against his, throwing his arms around his neck, and he can feel Michael’s curiosity, his devotion, his love as hands come up to meet his hips.
The kiss itself is far from perfect—the only experience Adam’s ever had was his last couple girlfriends, a thousand years ago, and Michael’s entirely new at this—but both of them are perfect, and it more than makes up for it. He can feel something wrapping around him that his mind distantly recognizes as wings, but he's too focused on the way the nape of Michael's neck feels under his hand, the way he can taste something on Michael's lips that reminds him of wide-open, windy fields and the heat of a wildfire as it consumes forests, houses, everything in its path; a roaring beast that knew no end. They move in tandem, lips locking over and over again, and Adam almost thinks it's the start of a pledge—an oath of fealty, to each other, in some indescribable way.
And when Michael pulls away to rest his forehead against Adam’s, arms encircling his waist, he can feel a single sentence echoing through their mind like a declaration of worship, just as their grace and soul twine together in shared happiness. Michael's staring at him with that look, again, the one that makes Adam feel like he's being taken apart and put back together, with each little puzzle piece being handled with such gentle care that he feels he might break apart all over again. It's overwhelming, breathtaking, and as Adam stares into the blue eyes looking back at him, he can feel himself doing the exact same to the archangel.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Adam reaches up with his lips and kisses the space between Michael's eyebrows, watching with astonished fervor as Michael closes his eyes, takes it in, allows Adam to see him so open, so vulnerable.
They are whole again.