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By the time Peter realizes that he's spent too long fussing over his hair, makeup, and outfit, and decides to actually go visit Abel, it's late morning. As he approaches the cottage from the air, he's easily able to see Abel's golden wings as they catch the bright sunshine. The angel in question seems to be constructing a fence; Peter, from his overhead vantage point, estimates that about half of a new enclosure has been built already. As he lands a respectful distance away, the grass crunches softly under his feet, and Abel looks in his direction.
"Peter!" he calls, with a smile, "Good morning!" He's dressed in what might be his work clothes, just a t-shirt and jeans, with gloves to protect his hands. On anyone else, Peter thinks, this attire would look plain, but on Abel, it's adorable. Its simplicity accentuates Abel's unassuming beauty, drawing the eye to his wavy bangs and gorgeous eyes and quirky smile.
"Good morning!" Peter responds chipperly, with genuine enthusiasm that feels like a breath of fresh air. As much as he enjoys his job and is legitimately glad to welcome souls to heaven, it's nice to be happy simply because he is, not because he has to be. He walks closer to get a better look at the in-progress construction. "It looks like you've been busy! What's going on?"
"I'm building a new pen for my sheep," he answers, "although it's nothing fancy. It's basically the same as the others." He gestures vaguely towards his flock, and Peter takes a moment to more carefully examine the pastures. The fences are simple and practical, cut a bit roughly and assembled endearingly crookedly, marking them as a product of Abel's own effort. The grass grows impossibly thick and lush in spite of the sheep's steady grazing.
Peter returns his gaze to Abel, slightly confused. "I don't really know anything about animal husbandry, but... the existing pens look totally fine to me. What am I missing?"
Abel puts his tools aside. "Oh, um, I don't really know how to explain it. I'm just being silly about it, really! I don't have to do it, because they'll always have enough to eat. I don't have to check up on them, either, because they never get sick. It just feels like the right thing to do, somehow? It's part of taking care of them. And, if nothing else, I like to think they appreciate a little change of scenery every once in a while." He stands abruptly and brushes off his pants. Peter can't help but notice that his gloves are dirtier than his pants, which makes this counterproductive, but there is no way he's going to point that out when Abel is being so ridiculously cute. "So, Peter, did you have something in mind for us to do today? New activities or new places to visit?"
"I'd be happy to help you build your fence, if you'd allow me to," he replies honestly. "It's been a while since I've done something like this, and it'd be nice to work on something together."
"Oh. What?" Abel seems briefly stunned. "It's a waste of your time, though. Like I said, it's totally unnecessary—"
"Not at all! You're caring for your sheep. That's much less a waste of time than basically everything in Heaven." Peter looks at the slow smile spreading across Abel's face like rays of sunlight streaming over the horizon, and continues before he can think better of it. "Not that there's anything wrong with frivolous fun, and enjoying the eternal rewards that a soul deserves! But most winners don't actually change anything from one day to another. What you're doing isn't silly. I get it. Heaven makes things too easy sometimes, and it's..." Weird? Unnerving? "It's not like the real thing."
The smile is gone in an instant. Peter wonders, fleetingly, what Abel sees in his expression. "Oh, Peter, it sounds like... well, if you want to talk about it, I'm listening."
He hesitates, but only briefly. Truth be told, it's been a while since he last confronted these emotions. And when was the last time he talked to someone about them? He had tried to express himself to Emily, but the Heavenborn seraph had just been confused. "I was a fisherman, for most of my life. And, yeah, I tried fishing in Heaven, but we don't really have oceans? The beaches are all pristine white sand, nothing like any beach I'd ever seen. The air smells wrong, like someone added sugar to the salt. And... I always felt closer to God on the stormy nights when where I was at the mercy of the wind and waves. They were wild and powerful and pure, and I knew I was putting myself into His hands." He flexes his wings briefly, resettling them on his back. "I'm a saint. I'm an angel in Heaven. I am closer to Him than ever. But as soon as you put me on a boat, I remember there was joy in pain and fighting just to stay alive." He shakes his head. "I stopped trying a while ago. It felt too hollow. Watching the door, or working on music, felt a lot more interesting and meaningful."
"I think I understand," admits Abel. "I love each and every one of my sheep, and I'm happy they're doing well. Sometimes I think maybe I would be happier if their well-being actually meant something instead of being the only option." After a brief pause, he continues, "But I only think that sometimes! Usually I'm glad that nothing is going wrong, and nothing is going to go wrong. Being alive was really stressful and it's nice I don't have to do that any more." He laughs nervously. "What does that say about me?"
"You're being perfectly reasonable. That's literally what heaven is about! I think you should ask what this says about me, and the answer is that I'm a masochist." Peter's tone is light, but he can see Abel blink rapidly, trying to process the unexpected contents of a casually-delivered sentence.
He hums. "That makes sense, actually."
Of all the ways he could have reacted, this was not in the top ten most likely options. Peter can feel himself start to blush furiously. "Wh—what—," he splutters.
"Well, I mean, last time, you mentioned..." Abel seems to suddenly pick up on Peter's flustered state, and he, too begins blushing. "Never mind!"
Oh, yes. Peter had told him about the whole "asking to be crucified upside down" thing. It's not that his crush has somehow figured out his kink preferences, although he belatedly realizes he's an idiot for not putting two and two together for thousands of years in his afterlife. It's been at least a millenium since he's let anyone tie his wrists or ankles, because dying had not been fun and he always kept lots of other play options on the table, but... if Abel wanted to? He would definitely say yes.
Peter, stop. "So, uh," he begins, doing an excellent job of pretending to be a normal friend having normal friend thoughts, "How can I help with the fence?"
While they work, Peter talks about the most interesting things that happened to him that week. In the past, when Emily had asked him for the funniest stories since the last time they caught up, he would struggle. He knows he remembers each winner he greets at the gates—he can recall names and encounters when he bumps into folks on his off days—but recalling them without any sort of prompting had been a challenge.
Now, though, he has a mental list of anecdotes that he plans to share. Some are hilarious, others are stressful, many are heart-warming, and they're all tagged with a mental note of for Abel. Peter doesn't want to think too hard about what it means that his brain is classifying notable events this way. He just wants to talk about these moments, because this is an important part of his life, and he knows Abel will appreciate them; it's not about Abel specifically, right?
By the time they decide to take a break for lunch, Peter is pleasantly surprised by their progress. They order from Abel's favorite sandwich place, collect the to-go bag delivered by one of Heaven's many smiling cherubs, and sit down inside the cottage to eat. Peter admires their work through the window.
"I guess it goes a lot faster with two people, huh?" he asks.
Abel follows his gaze, considering. "It's certainly faster, and more enjoyable! I don't know if I'd say it's a lot faster, though."
"Weren't you working on it this whole week?" questions Peter. "If you compare our couple hours of progress to what you had previously done..."
"I didn't do much of anything last week." He grimaces, and the disappointment in his voice is clearly audible. "You helped me through that migraine, but I kept getting more. Usually, I get them one at a time, but sometimes I'll have them several days in a row. I spent most of the week in bed and started going outside again just yesterday."
"I had no idea they were so bad. I guess the medications don't help much?"
"What medications?" There's an uncomfortable pause, in which they stare at each other blankly, before Abel resumes, "I know that humans have developed medicinal technology. I'm not that out of the loop. I've visited apothecaries, pharmacies, whatever you call them, but I've never found anything useful. They usually have mild recreational drugs. There are some prescription medications, usually for winners who had ADHD or something while they were alive, so they have the option of taking the medication or not. And there's a lot of—" He blushes hard and swallows. "—you know." Pause. "Sex stuff." He coughs. "Uh, why did I say that? I started talking, and then tried to chicken out, and then I realized you might not know what I meant, and then that would be really awkward. I wasn't trying to say that I think you know a lot about—" He cuts himself abruptly with a squeak, seeming to realize that his attempts to salvage his dignity are only making things worse, and then begins quickly stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth with intense focus and determination.
Peter decides to try to act like that did not just happen, although he knows he will probably replay this conversation in his head this evening. "Maybe I could talk to Emily for you? I think she can figure out a way to help you with your migraines. I'm so sorry. I just assumed that, well, if there's supposed to be no pain in Heaven, we must have really good pain medicine, right?" He tsks lightly to himself under his breath. "More like we don't have any reason to have pain medication, so there is none."
"Yeah." Abel's cheeks are slowly returning to their normal coloration, making his freckles visible again. "Do you really think Emily can help?"
"I'm sure she'll find a way." Peter's lips form a soft smile as he thinks fondly of his friend and how enthusiastically she'll tackle this new challenge. Abel smiles back, which only makes Peter smile even more, until they're both positively beaming and Peter wonders if this makes him look deranged. (Of course Abel doesn't, could never, because he's gorgeous.) He shakes himself a bit, to try to snap out of it. "Until she does, though, is there anything I could do to help?"
"I think I'm okay. I mean, I usually just curl up in bed. Sometimes I put on some quiet music to give myself something to think about."
"I can give you music to listen to!" Peter declares triumphantly. "Ooh, I bet I could recommend some really good stuff. What do you like? What were you listening to?"
"I think I like everything," Abel responds honestly. "At least, I haven't found a music genre I don't like. Sometimes I dislike individual songs, although I don't think I could describe why I don't like them. This week, I was listening to... I don't remember the name of the album, but it was by Handel?"
"Oh! Handel! I love his music. The classics, or some of his newer work?"
Abel shrugs and shakes his head. "I don't know. Sorry."
Peter considers. "Could you describe it for me?"
"Uh, mostly instrumental, orchestral. With maybe a little bit of rock? And EDM?"
Peter can't help but grin, but he quickly attempts to get his expression under control.
Abel's lips quirk upward as well. "Ah. I guess the answer was supposed to be obvious."
Not too long ago, Peter thinks, Abel wouldn't have reacted this way. He might have chuckled nervously, half-expecting to be mocked or insulted. Now, he's able to derive genuine amusement from himself and this mistake, and share a grin with Peter, without a heaping dose of self-deprecation. Maybe Abel simply knows Peter better, and trusts that there is nothing to fear from him, or maybe his general self-esteem has improved. Either way, this new quiet confidence looks good on him.
But you think everything looks good on him, right? No, Peter, STOP—
"Uh, maybe a little bit? No, actually, you shouldn't feel bad about it at all, I promise. I just take an interest in these kinds of things! Learning about different artists, the different styles they've experimented with, the eras they've gone through during their lives and afterlives, how certain artists influence each other, or how certain genres wax and wane in popularity. It's a lot to keep track of, but I think that's part of the fun."
"I've always listened to music for its own sake. All of that sounds really interesting, too. I just hadn't thought of it before."
Peter takes Abel's hand across the table. "You absolutely can listen to music for its own sake! That is totally valid. You don't have to learn about my weird hobbies if you don't want to."
"I think I'd like to." Abel's eyes flick downwards, glancing at their interlocked fingers, then back up to Peter's. He doesn't pull away. Neither does Peter.
"I could give you a CD with some of my commentary," offers Peter, "some snippets of work from different time periods, so you can see how they're related, what their inspirations were, that sort of thing?"
"You're always so nice. That's really kind of you."
Peter's heart is melting, and he swears for the umpteenth time that he would do anything and everything for this boy, and it is going to be the death of him. After a few seconds of silence, he realizes he's been staring a little bit too long and desperately reaches for something new to say. "Speaking of music, have you put any more thought into joining the Heavenly Choir? I think you'd enjoy it, and, I mean, you're amazing, so I think I'd be an awful choir director if I didn't try harder to recruit you."
"I'm not sure. I've never sung in a choir before. Actually, never sung in a group before. I don't know what that's like, or if I'd be good enough, or anything. And I probably don't know the songs you're learning..."
"It's a good time of year to join, then! We're focusing on Christmas carols right now. All traditional arrangements, so it should be familiar!" He's given this pitch so many times in the recent centuries that he's not thinking as carefully as he should. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realizes he has miscalculated once again. "Oh, uh, right—" He smacks his forehead with his free hand. "Sorry, don't know what I was thinking there. That's a stupid thing for me to say. Actually, I had already been dead for, like, a thousand years before any of this stuff was written. Ummm... Why don't we start with some vocal exercises? So you can build up some confidence! And I think I need to figure out what voice part you are. I mean, I have some idea from listening to your album, but that's not the same as a real range check. Probably bari? Maybe tenor? Do you know?"
Abel shakes his head, so Peter proceeds. "Let's start at D3. Sing a simple major triad for me, like this, up and down." He demonstrates, and yes, he is flexing his perfect pitch to his crush. Sue him.
Of course, Abel immediately picks up on it, and his eyes widen. "Oh, wow, you have perfect pitch?"
"Um, yes, I do." Peter tries to act cool and casual about it, not like he had planned this at all, but is certain he is failing.
"That must be really useful! I wish I did!" Abel's hands wring anxiously in his lap. "Now I'm even more nervous about this whole singing thing. Because I might be off, but I can't hear that I'm off, but you can!"
"Don't be nervous. I've heard you sing, remember?" At this, Abel nods shyly. "And you're amazing." And now he's blushing. Even cuter.
"Okay, Peter. If you say so." He grabs his crooked halo, firmly tugging it until it's centered over his head. He takes a breath. And then he sings.
This is the second time Peter has heard Abel sing, and it's the first time if recordings don't count. He wonders if he'll have to look under the floorboards this time to find his jawbone, because...
What the FUCK. Abel's singing a fucking vocal warm-up. It's just basic scales and shit! And Peter is a wreck. He is starstruck, dumbstruck, awestruck, definitely also lovestruck, and nearly in tears. Hey Peter, I know you've got the biggest crush ever, but get yourself together? A little bit? Please?
But Abel's voice goes up and up and up, and then down and down and down. And when he finally stops, Peter has kept his eyes so wide for so long they hurt. They could even be in danger of falling out of his head.
Those beautiful golden wings re-fold, tucking at Abel's sides. His expression is hopeful, and also bashful, in a way Peter cannot comprehend, because how the hell does he not know how good he is?!
"You look... pleasantly surprised?" tries Abel. "So, um, I guess I wasn't terrible?"
"Y—Your vocal range," stammers Peter, "Holy fuck. It's so large."
And oh, good Lord. At this point, Peter isn't going to bother filtering blasphemy out of his mental narration. After all, he's already Heaven's gatekeeper, damnit! And right now he really wishes he could melt into the floor, or disappear with a flurry of ethereal sparkles, or something. His face and ears have heated up so much that they might spontaneously combust at any second.
Abel, bless his soul, either does not notice or chooses not to comment on Peter's mortification. "Thanks? I think? But I still don't know if I should sing in the choir, because I'm basically screaming, just, on certain pitches? And that doesn't really have... choir-y, choral-y vibes. So..."
"You're so incredible, though. The choral timbre is actually really easy! It's just vowel color. Like, it's all about how you shape your mouth, and where you put your tongue—"
Dear Lord, I don't know if you're listening, but it's me, Saint Peter. I would REALLY like to burst into holy flames now, please, to be saved from horrible embarrassment (caused by yours truly, but that's besides the point). Amen.
At next week's rehearsal, Abel does his utmost best to unobtrusively sneak into the tenor section's risers. He looks slightly lost, clutching tightly to somewhat crumpled sheet music, and he gives a small, self-conscious wave as Peter finds him in the crowd. Peter waves back enthusiastically, trying to express how excited he is that Abel decided to come, and he hopes he manages to avoid looking like a maniac.
An angel turns to address Abel. "Hey, I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you new?" At Abel's nod, the angel claps in delight. "Wonderful! Welcome to Heaven, and to the Heavenly Choir! I'm looking forward to singing with you."
An expression flickers briefly over Abel's face as he wonders whether to correct them. Then he breathes a sigh of relief, glad that no one seems likely to recognize him. He settles down, readjusting his wings, and pulls a pencil out from behind his ear—Peter has to tamp down a squee at how cute he is, because that would be too unprofessional—then murmurs quietly to himself as he scrutinizes and annotates his papers.
After a few minutes' grace period for latecomers, Peter claps out a rhythm to get everyone's attention. "Let's begin at the start of the songbook, with Adeste Fideles!" He gives everyone their starting pitches and counts them off with his baton, and the room blossoms with sound. Peter keeps the rhythm, and tries to take mental notes, to make sure he can give constructive feedback and help the choir nail all the performance details he's usually so proud of. But his eyes and his mind get stuck on Abel. Is he having a good time? The other angel's initially panic-stricken manner is slowly drifting towards mild unease, which seems like a positive sign.
When the song ends, Peter dispenses some cookie-cutter recommendations about Latin pronunciation and breath support, because quite frankly his brain cells are mostly mutinying and busying themselves with staring at a cute boy instead of coming up with anything more substantive. "And remember to really listen to everyone! I know it's tempting to focus just on your part, but we will sound better if we all hear each other's harmonies and blend as a group. On to the next song!"
Abel seems to take the advice to heart. Whether anyone else does, Peter can't say, because yeah, he's not doing the best job of paying attention to other stuff right now. He watches Abel's golden eyes flutter closed in concentration, sees him turn his head slowly left, then right.
Then there's a moment where something clicks. Abel's eyes snap open, and his gaze is directed vaguely upward at nothing in particular. He smiles, in a wobbly way that seems on the brink of tears. The music soars, and Peter can tell, just by looking, that Abel is one droplet in the tide, being swept along in each swell as the phrases crest and fall. The knot of concern in his chest ebbs away, and the choir's voices rush into his awareness like a wave. He dives in headfirst, picking apart the swirls and currents of each melody and descant, building his vision of how the piece ought to flow as a cohesive whole.
The last note fades. Peter pauses for the collective intake of breath and a beat of respectful silence. Then he begins outlining his observations, highlighting certain voice parts and certain sections, drilling snippets starting with only the bass line, building the layers and tuning chords. At some point, Abel abruptly transitions from gawking in mute astonishment and fascination to frantically taking notes, and Peter feels more than a bit smug about it.
The end of their scheduled practice time comes in a blink of an eye. Peter fields some questions and doles out some tips on technique, all while keeping tabs on Abel out of the corner of his eye. A small cluster of angels has congregated around him to give him high-fives. Although he might not enjoy being the center of attention, he seems to enjoy their praise, in his modest way. There's self-assuredness and a bit of pride in his smile, which feels rare and delicate and precious coming from Abel. Peter wants to see that on his face more often, and wants to look at his face more often, and wants. him. so bad.
When his mini "office hours" are over, Peter turns toward the tiny crowd still clumped together in the tenor section. Abel catches his eye and immediately rushes toward him, leaping from the risers with a snap of his wings and gliding down at an alarming speed, until he knocks the wind out of Peter with a flying hug that carries them both several feet.
"Peter, I am mind-blown. That was phenomenal! I could never have imagined! The harmonies! Everything sounded so pretty—we sounded so pretty. I mean, wow!"
Being Emily's friend for centuries has given Peter plenty of experience with tackle-hugs, but all he can think about is the mere centimeters between his face and Abel's, how he could stare into those stunning eyes forever, how he is this close to brushing those fluffy blonde waves back and holding the back of Abel's head and kissing him until they're both gasping for air.
Abel, still overflowing with joy, keeps rambling. "And you! How can you always tell what to change to make things sound better? That's such a superpower and it is totally awesome and cool. You're definitely the best choir director. To be fair, I have no idea what you were doing waving your staff around, but it seemed like you were really into it!"
"It's a conducting baton, actually!" Peter shouts, probably too quickly and too loudly, taking a few rapid steps back and gracelessly landing on his ass.
Maybe you'd like to show him how extendable it is?
Peter really, really wishes he could stop having these thoughts and be normal friends with Abel. Or maybe he really, really wishes he could keep the thoughts, and be more than friends with Abel.
Maybe he'll just die of embarrassment.