Archive of Our Own

It's Abel's second time attending the Heavenly Choir's practices, and Peter is feeling great. Abel is killing it (obviously) and also having a great time. Peter's proud of him, and proud of himself for being able to (mostly) function instead of spending the entire rehearsal swooning over Abel (he only does it sometimes!). The choir is getting performance-ready at a good pace, already off-book and focusing on honing their artistry and musicianship rather than basic note production.

As usual, he wraps up by recapping his most important feedback and thanking everyone for coming, then loiters at the front of the room to wait for questions. One of the altos, a plant-like angel, explains that she hadn't been able to attend last week, and asks for a recap. Peter flips through the music and grabs a pencil from the bin he keeps nearby to make the relevant annotations: remember to cut off sharply at this rest here, emphasize the appoggiatura there, shape this phrase like so, stagger breathe through that section, rhythmically synchronize with the tenors here and sopranos there. Once he's done, she thanks him with an enthusiastic rustle of her petals and heads out.

"Peter," comes a familiar voice from behind him. Peter turns, not surprised to find George Byron, aka Lord Byron, aka Notorious Fuckboy. It's still unclear whether he's in the choir to legitimately improve his singing or just to increase his body count. If the former, he's still a passable baritone. If the latter, Peter grudgingly admits it's a good strategy. The man has dark curls paired with lustrous black plumage, a fine brow, and a handsome chin, not to mention a melodious speaking voice tinged with a Scottish accent, and a way with words that cuts through all but the hardest of hearts. Peter himself has tapped that, and can confirm it was a good time.

"Byron," he reciprocates, keeping things professional until he has proof that the former baron's intentions are otherwise, "what can I help you with?"

"I was wondering about that new boy." The words roll smoothly off his tongue, colored by that delicious accent of his. "The blonde tenor. I mean..." He whistles softly. "Super cute, and he can sing. I tried flirting with him last week, but he didn't pick up what I was putting down." Okay, yep. Byron is being his usual self. "Perhaps he's a bit clueless. Or... is he taken?" One of his brows lifts in a perfect arch.

Panic and startlingly ardent jealousy wrap themselves tightly around Peter's chest and throat. He can feel his fists clench and his jaw tighten, but he concentrates on not throwing a fit or making a fool of himself. Breathe. In and out. When he finally answers "No", he sounds embarrassingly pained, nearly hissing and spitting through gritted teeth.

The other brow raises to join the first. "Maybe he's just waiting for a certain someone to ask him out, hmm?"

Peter gawps, honestly dumbfounded. Huh? Is Byron not going to pursue Abel after all? Is he just making fun of me for having a crush? Is he giving me a chance and being nice? Also, most importantly, does he think Abel LIKES me?

"You, Peter, have always been so easy to read. It's obvious you're head over heels for that guy." Peter has been trying to avoid glancing at Abel, fearing he might incriminate himself, but now he can't help it. His eyes dart towards the other winner, who is adorable as always; he's cozily seated on the risers, reviewing his notes from today, with his head comfortably tilted to rest on one hand, seemingly unaware that he's the current topic of discussion. Byron chuckles. "All I can say is you have great taste. And if you're not going to shoot your shot, I will."

Anxiety grips Peter's heart, which flutters weakly. But what can he possibly say? Abel's not taken, not his, although Peter desperately wants him to be. He probably doesn't even know jack shit about how deeply Peter has fallen for him. Peter hasn't had the guts to tell him anything, worrying he'll fuck up whatever friendship and camaraderie they already have. "W—wait—" he stutters, not even knowing what he wants to ask for, but compelled to say something, "—please, I—"

"I'll give you two more weeks." Byron claps him on the shoulder. "That should be more than enough to confess a few pesky feelings, shouldn't it, my good fellow?"

Two WEEKS? Peter has had feelings for Abel for years and has made no moves whatsoever. "Can I get a month? Please?"

As expected, he gets a snort and an eyeroll. "Very well. You have my word." Then, with no goodbye save a flurry of raven wings, Peter is alone.

He sighs, turning away and attempting to collect his rapidly churning thoughts. Abel meets his eye, and offers an endearing gap-toothed grin. Despite the elevated pulse still pounding in Peter's chest and hammering in his ears, he can't possibly look at that smile and still be upset about anything.

Peter is determined to confess to Abel the next time they meet. It's not the first time he's had this thought (or even the second, or the third... he's definitely lost count by now...), but this time is different! He has a deadline! And a rival! And a massive possessive streak that he didn't even know he had! The stakes are high and he is super serious now.

In his nervous state, he paces in front of his vanity mirror, frets about whether his hair is curling correctly, and plays a mental game of ping-pong about whether he should be wearing makeup.

No, Peter, you shouldn't. You've seen him hundreds of times and haven't worn makeup even once. What if he doesn't like how it looks?

Um, how could he NOT like how it looks? I look fabulous with makeup, you know.

Yeah, you have a point, but you don't really have much in the way of "natural" makeup. All this stuff is for being on stage or for going out to the clubs with Emily. You'll look like a slut.

And... what's wrong with that? It's time to embrace my slutty energy.

If you really thought that, you would have chosen something else to wear. Come on, you don't want to be overwhelming. Also, oh shit! Look at the time! Just go already!

With that, he rushes to a florist's shop, takes the bouquet closest to the transaction counter, and hustles out again before he completely loses his nerve. He touches down on the trodden-grass pathway that winds its way to Abel's front door, apprehensively fiddling with a button on the cuff of his sleeve, desperately wracking his brain for any sort of plan about what he should say, and coming up empty. He's so preoccupied trying to write a script that he doesn't notice what's coming at him until it's too late.

A puffball with hooves, approaching from his side at high speed, hits him and sends them both sprawling. Peter yelps. His assailant lets out an unapologetic bleat and plops itself onto Peter's chest. Peter, unsure whether he can or should try to stand, settles for woozily propping himself up on his elbows.

A door bangs open, and a familiar voice calls out. "Peter?"

Well. There go his plans to win Abel over with smooth-talking, sexy charisma. That was a fantasy that wasn't going to last long, anyway. Sheep: 1, Peter: 0. Yup, things are going great. He cranes his neck around the sheep and waves self-consciously toward Abel, who has already jogged more than half the distance between them.

"Zippy, no," admonishes Abel, "Off. Also, we talked about this, baby. I thought you were going to be a good girl from now on." Peter can do nothing but stare in blank confusion until he belatedly realizes that Abel is talking to the sheep, not to him.

His breaths come more easily as Abel forcibly removes the fuzzy weight from his ribcage, and he starts making more of an effort to get up.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" Abel anchors his wooden shepherd's crook for leverage, then offers his other hand to Peter, who allows himself to be gently guided to a normal seated position. "She's a sweetie, but she's not the best at following instructions. And she's pretty heavy."

"Oh, I'm fine. Just wasn't expecting to get tackled like that!" He glowers in the direction of the offending sheep, who pays him no attention whatsoever. She has already folded her creamy brown wings neatly, without a feather out of place—wait, wings?—and is intently munching on... oh.

Abel's eyes flick over as well. "You brought... flowers? That's really nice of you. I guess that's why Zippy flew over the fence and rushed you!" He scoops up his pet, who emits a plaintive vocalization now that her food is being confiscated, and pats her between the ears. "No more, Birdie. You've had more than your fair share. Let Peter give out the rest."

Peter's mouth drops open slightly before he decides against revealing his true intentions. I guess Abel has a... unique perspective? It's super cute, though, and Peter can roll with it. What is he going to do, anyway? Get down on one knee and proclaim eternal love while flourishing half-eaten flora?

He picks up the remains of his bouquet and falls behind Abel. His forced smile is quickly supplanted by a more genuine one as he listens to his crush's enthusiastic rambling. "Oh, Peter, I haven't actually introduced you to everybody yet! I guess you're always so interesting, I got distracted and never got around to it!" Peter blushes at the compliment, but of course Abel blows right past it, like it's nothing more than an acknowledgement of obvious fact. "Naturally, you've already met Zippy. Zippy, you naughty little lady, this is Peter."

"It's a cute name," remarks Peter. "Is it because she has wings?" He peers over at the rest of the herd, confirming his suspicion that she's the only one.

"Her full name is Tzippo'a, but I started calling her Zippy when she had a multi-day streak of getting the zoomies and ending up all the way in town." He scratches her idly behind an ear. "Speaking of which, missy, I thought you were getting better about not leaving the enclosure. I guess I'll forgive you this time, because you were just excited to see Peter, weren't you?"

She gnaws at the edge of Abel's sleeve, which he interprets as an affirmative. Meanwhile, Peter considers what he's recently learned. Abel seems to have given names (and possibly multiple nicknames) to all of his sheep. This is thoroughly in keeping with his character, and not at all surprising. Peter isn't fully sure what to expect from the other names in the flock, but he really hopes for more punny names that manage to be cheesy and silly, but also charmingly old-timey. The combination is just so quintessentially Abel.

The gate opens, and Abel reaches out with one hand to greet the throng of livestock. "Hi, friends! This is Peter. You've all seen him, although you've never officially met." He makes an upward shoving motion with his other, sheep-laden arm; Zippy seems to get the hint and launches herself out of his grasp to entertain herself elsewhere. He re-latches the entrance and kneels, bringing himself nearly to sheep eye level, and instantly buries both his hands in fluffy wool, lavishing affectionate pets and scritches everywhere. Peter follows suit, letting his knees sink into the lush grass.

Abel smiles in his direction. "You can just hold one flower out at a time. Yes, like that. Aw, they already like you."

One of the sheep approaches and pulls a stalk gently from Peter's fingers. He feels its warm breath close to his hand, and hears the light tinkle of the bell tied to its collar.

"You can pet him!" Abel encourages. "This is Naftaleh, our bellwether. He is the goodest boy, and takes his job very seriously. Don't you, Jingles?"

Peter obediently lays a palm on his... snout? Muzzle? Nose? It's not a beak, right? The animal tilts his head forward, pressing lightly back on Peter's hand. "He has a job?"

"He's a leader, of sorts. It's why he wears the bell." A quick look around confirms that no other sheep has one, although Peter hadn't noticed before.

Another sheep noses its way forward to receive a treat. Abel strokes her ears carefully. "Hiya, Softie." For Peter's benefit, he explains, "This is Mirakhel." His pronunciation strikes even Peter as old-fashioned, and fuck, is there anything about Abel that's not golden and precious and adorable?

Still a bit hesitant, Peter reaches out. Rather than lean into the touch, though, she tips her head back until she's able to nuzzle downward into his hand. "Oh," he realizes, with a small gasp of delight, "Guess you like chin scratches, huh? You got it, Mirakhel." He says her name as folks would have said "Rachel" in his hometown during his lifetime; thankfully, neither the sheep nor Abel takes offense.

All the sheep are sufficiently different in appearance that it should be possible for a non-expert like Peter to tell them apart. One is even an obnoxious neon pink, because the Heavenly color palette has some crazy hues in it. In any case, he resolves to try to commit the characteristics of each individual to memory as Abel presents Avigail ("Cotton Candy" or "Cream Puff"), Yochanan ("Joe" or "Pineapple Latte"), and Baatshebaa ("Li'l Miz Baa-dass").

Last is a sheep with elegant brown horns, and a mostly-white coat with some black patches, whom Abel calls Cinderellamb, Cindy, Ella, and Princess in quick succession, before formally identifying her as Kivsarah.

Peter tilts his head uncertainly. "She has horns?"

"She has a crown! Isn't she such a cutie-pie?" squeals Abel, pulling her into a hug on his lap. In response to Peter's continued puzzlement, he reevaluates. "Oh, oops. I think I see what you mean. In some breeds of sheep, everybody has horns. And this is Heaven, which means sheep can look like anything. Good question, though!" He's overflowing with enthusiasm, and the eyes he fixes on Peter are almost expectant, as if he's hoping for more opportunities to share his knowledge.

There's no arguing with that face, so Peter has no choice but to indulge him. Of course, with Abel chattering about sheep, it doesn't seem like the right time for Peter to spill his guts about his long-standing romantic and sexual interests.

More than slightly relieved to have an excuse (tenuous as it may be), he lets go of any thoughts of bringing up that topic today. For now, all he wants to do is watch Abel's face light up with unguarded eagerness. And learn about sheep.

After a long day at the gates, full of bookkeeping, being cried on, and getting yelled at but keeping a smile on no matter what (even though his entire face hurts), Peter stumbles into his apartment and flops onto the couch with an audible groan. Going to bed when he hasn't taken a shower is something he'll only permit himself under exceptional circumstances; given the realities of his job, "couch quarantine" while he summons the motivation to attend to his hygiene is more common than not.

He lies there, limbs and feathers askew, eyes only partially open, staring numbly at the ceiling and taking deep, slow breaths. He continues doing this until he realizes the noises he's hearing through the walls are his neighbors having sex. Again. Not that he blames them, because that entire polycule is hot. Sighing, he pulls himself off the cushions. Time to wash up; then he can smother his head with his pillows and blankets.

Why are you so riled up, Peter? They're having fun. You could be happy for them, you know. They're nice people, too, although like most folks they're not quite comfortable with his role as the gatekeeper. They're civil, borderline neighborly. They don't mind his odd hours or the way he sings obnoxiously loudly whenever he is at home. They've never even commented on the way he shrieks along to the soprano lines in musical theater soundtracks.

Of course, the reason for his inner turmoil is obvious. It's all because of Abel. Peter is frustrated at himself because words shouldn't be this hard. And he's frustrated in other ways too. Fuck, he's jealous and horny and lonely, and yet he spends the majority of his waking hours sales-pitching Heaven as a place full of happiness, sunshine, and rainbows. Why'd he have to find out the hard way that only two of those are factual?

He crawls under the covers and grabs his charging cable to plug in his phone. He had been tempted to start scrolling mindlessly—maybe cute animal videos would help take his mind off things—but with the device in his hands, he's suddenly struck by an idea. He opens the search box.

how to tell your crush you like them. Enter.

Quickly scanning the results page, he sees a lot of articles that look like clickbait, some encouragement and motivational posters, some heartfelt crap like if you really like someone, you'll find the courage to tell them how you feel when the time is right, and some derision evidently designed to kick sorry asses like his into motion. He does see a suggestion pop up more than once: sometimes, writing out your feelings can help. Yes, okay, he can do that.

He swipes away from the tab and opens up his messages. Abel's profile picture is there waiting for him, with the shy, surprised smile that appeared when Peter unexpectedly snapped the picture. Not for the first time, Peter dreamily ponders whether Abel's lips are as soft as they look, and how that gap in his teeth would feel on Peter's tongue. He idles in the fantasy, imagining the softness of Abel's body pressed against his, the strength of Abel's hands on his hips or waist or back and actually everywhere, please.

Reluctantly, impressing even himself, he snaps out of his reverie and sets his mind to actually accomplishing his goal. Unfortunately, progress is slow. He pecks out a few words, looks at them in disgust, and then backspaces until each E4 of the delete sound effect sounds like a mocking jab. But he will not be deterred—he mutes his phone (Ha, take THAT, you clicky bastard!) and sets his jaw.

Then a typing bubble appears, quickly followed by a new message:

Hey, Peter! Hope you had a good day.

Well, that's awkward. But it's fine. He can handle this. He selects what he's written and cuts it into the clipboard before formulating a response.

It was all right but I'm pretty tired

He's about to paste his draft back into the text box when some new lines materialize.

Understandable :) Hope you're getting some good rest at home now! I just wanted to check in because you've been typing for a while. Is everything ok?

Peter briefly puts his face in his hands, pressing his palms solidly over his eyesockets. He's definitely being called out for taking forever and still having nothing to show for it.

He's further mortified by the first possible answer that his raunchy brain comes up with. Just trying to figure out which dick pic to send. I've just got too many good ones. Which one do you like best, handsome? A deep flush saturates his skin, from his neck to his ears, even though he's alone.

Ugh, maybe he should just send it. Maybe Abel will be into it. And Peter would certainly not be opposed if Abel got sufficiently turned on to show up on his balcony and take him right there, making love to him in what would undoubtedly be mind-blowing sex.

Peter, you're hopeless. That would never happen and this is a thoroughly terrible idea. He huffs and rolls his eyes in exasperation at himself.

Yeah I'm fine! I just was thinking of you I wanted to send you something But I keep being unhappy with what I write :/

There's a long pause. What is Abel thinking? A fervent hope blossoms in Peter's heart. Maybe Abel does reciprocate his feelings. Maybe he knows what Peter is trying to say, what they've been dancing around all this time. When a typing indicator pops up, he watches it with bated breath.

It's so nice of you to think of me! :D I'm not sure what you mean, though. You said you're trying to write something to send to me? Are you trying to come up with a joke or something?

The words feel like a slap to the face. Logically, Peter knows Abel isn't being dismissive. He isn't calling Peter's confession a joke. Of course he isn't going to guess that Peter is working on some sappy profession of his attraction. Yeah, duh! This is ABEL we're talking about! The very person who has a hard time believing compliments that Peter pays him directly, and has never demonstrated awareness of anything unusual in Peter's behavior, even though Peter believes he's made his infatuation painfully obvious many times over.

Argh. He loves the guy so much it hurts, but sometimes he's convinced there must be nothing going on inside that fluffy blonde head.

Not really It's nothing important I'll tell you later when I'm more awake Is that ok?

 

Take your time. I'll be here! Good night and sleep well!

 

Thanks! You too

He sets his phone down with a sigh. Maybe this plan wasn't such a great idea after all, and that's what he gets for trying to follow advice from randos on the Internet. Or maybe it was a good recommendation, and it was his execution that was pathetic.

His droopy eyelids start to close fully. He'll try again in the future. His mind keeps returning to that message Abel had sent, Take your time. I'll be here!, and it provides all the comfort he needs to fall asleep.

When Abel knocks, requesting entry to the apartment, Peter has just finished cleaning the last of his kitchen counters. He rushes over to open the door with a sprightly "Good morning! Perfect timing."

Abel beams back as he steps over the threshold. "I brought my own apron, since we were planning to bake something."

"It suits you," compliments Peter, taking in the garment folded over his arm, printed with a simple repeated pattern of different cookies and cupcakes, all in pastel tones. "I really only bake bread, but I love bread, so we can make any kind you'd like. And I know how to make baklava, though it's been a while. If you want something else, I'm happy to try to assist." He never bothered to develop his skills in making desserts, since there are more than enough bakeries that supply (quite literally!) heavenly confections, far superior to any he could produce. Bread, though, is one thing he'll prepare himself, because there's no replacement for the way it instantly makes his otherwise dreary living quarters smell like home.

"Whatever you'd usually do sounds good to me," Abel responds encouragingly. Peter knows him well enough by now to pay attention to his demeanor for subtle hints about any preferences he may actually harbor, but he seems genuinely excited. Definitely a bit more excited at the prospect of sweets, though.

Peter is already committed to creating a loaf of sourdough as part of maintaining his starter, intending as usual to shape it into one of the flat, eight-sectioned circles he's familiar with from his years in Rome. He also, for Abel's sake, decides to add on the sweet things he's most comfortable making: a tray of baklava, and honey raisin bread, which he likes to form into a circular braid but could also bake in a loaf pan.

They fetch bowls and ingredients from the cabinets, taking to the air as needed. Once everything is gathered, Abel comments, "I really like your kitchen. I hadn't put much thought into it the last time I was here, but it looks nice, and you've organized it well."

The kitchen is where Peter generally spends his waking hours when he is at home, and as a result is the room he's put the most effort into. He's not too surprised that Abel has noticed, but he nonetheless blushes slightly at the remark. "It's the best part of this apartment," he agrees, with a bit of wry humor that insinuates that the competition is not impressive.

As they set to work, mixing and kneading, Abel hums quietly to himself. It fills Peter's heart with joy to see Abel contentedly immersed in the activity, and of course Peter is also glad that the irresistible urge to make music while occupied with domestic tasks is evidently something they have in common. The tune, dreamy and wistful, isn't one he recognizes, but he's able to join in after a few bars. He starts by sketching the chord structure's bass notes, then adds complexity: emphasizing a leading tone right before a resolution to the tonic, adding some off-the-cuff embellishments and neighboring tones, and weaving his own voice flexibly around Abel's, letting his improvised line cross past the melody to hit harmonies both and above and below it.

At the start of the next verse, Abel starts singing the words. Peter glances over, and their gazes meet. Abel's eyes shine with unguarded wonder, and Peter can't help but lift his eyebrows and wink mischievously. He opens his mouth, too, using simple ooh and ah vowels and mixing in ba, da, and la syllables when the music calls for something more percussive. The corners of Abel's mouth curve in an involuntary grin, so naturally Peter escalates the silliness of his syllables, briefly passing through reasonably sane things like doo wop and ja, ja, ja-na nah before heading for ting-a-ling, ring ding and woop boop, loop-de-loop, hula hoop.

Abel bursts out laughing, as though opening the floodgates of a dam. He doubles over, grabbing the edge of the counter, and eventually sinks down to sit with his butt on the floor. He wipes away tears with floury hands, leaving streaks on his face and in his bangs, until he's wheezing from lack of air and exhaustion. Peter, having lost the melody, tends to the dough and sets it aside to rest, affecting as unrepentant an air as he can manage.

"Pe-ter," Abel whines, aiming for plaintive although still too mirthful to pull it off, "that was SO good and then you just ruined it. Why?!"

"I wanted to see if I could make you laugh," he answers, and the earnestness seems to strike a chord in Abel's heart. Peter offers Abel a hand as he gets to his feet, still shaking.

As the pair head for the kitchen table, installing themselves in the wooden seats to wait for the next hour, Abel takes a deep inhale and lets it out in several counts, a long audible whoosh. Collected enough to speak again, he offers his praise with endearing sincerity. "You're really talented." He smiles at Peter, vulnerability and insecurity in his expression. "Can we... do that again sometime? Sing a duet, I mean. A real one, where you know the lyrics."

"Yes, please." His face is completely lovestruck; he just knows it.

"I've only ever sung duets to my radio," Abel confesses, "I couldn't imagine that a real person would actually want to do it with me, that anyone would think I was good enough."

"Honestly," scoffs Peter, offended on his behalf, "I need to give a serious tongue-lashing to whoever told you that you weren't good at singing. They totally need to get their ears checked. And probably also need to get in touch with reality."

Abel giggles, although uncertainly. "Peter, you, uh..." After trailing off, he resumes in a high-pitched, tremulous tone. "You know that was my dad, right?"

"Uh-huh. Like I told you. He sucks." In response, Abel laughs louder, and Peter truly can't imagine why anyone would ever put him down. His joy is so genuinely radiant and beautiful that depriving Heaven of any ounce of it would be a crime. Emboldened, Peter continues, "Come on, someone needs to give that guy a piece of their mind."

"And you'd do that for me?" The lilt of Abel's voice, and the way he looks up through his lashes, might look flirtatious on anyone else. As things stand, Peter is not sure Abel knows how to flirt. The poor soul might not even know what flirting is, if he couldn't figure it out when Byron took a pass.

"For you, I'd do anything." The words are out of his mouth before he can think too hard about them, but they ring true. "Admittedly, I doubt he'd listen to me at all. 'Hey, Adam, your son's actually really fucking amazing at music. Go apologize for insulting him, you dick.' He'd just cuss me into oblivion."

Abel snorts and nods. "Definitely. He'd probably go, 'I'LL TELL YOU WHO NEEDS TO GET IN TOUCH WITH REALITY.'"

Peter involuntarily scoots back a foot and blinks in consternation. Abel has drawn himself up to full height and is standing on his chair with a scowl. The similarities in physique and carriage of their wings, plus some skillful voice mimicry, create a harrowingly accurate impression of Adam.

Giving no time for any reaction, Abel steps up onto the table and slowly paces out a circle in an aggressive, predatory stalk. "'GUESS WHAT? IT'S YOU, SHITHEAD. IN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW, I'M THE GODDAMN BEST AIR GUITARIST IN ALL OF FUCKING CREATION.'" He shrieks a high note, emulating an over-amped electric guitar, and proceeds to imitate a solo that would be outstanding on a real instrument and is mind-blowingly spectacular with just his voice. All in a somewhat cartoonish twang, he rapid-fires through a series of riffs, then transitions into a smooth scoop as if sliding fingers along a string without losing pressure over the frets. He introduces a pitch deviation to simulate a string as it bends and unbends, then finishes by holding out a single note with strong vibrato. "'DID YOU HEAR THAT, ASSHOLE? YOU SHOULD BE WEEPING, BITCH.'"

With his wings at full extension, he leans forward to leer down at Peter, who can only stare mutely back in petrified silence. Cobbling together any sort of coherent thought from the utter turmoil inside of his brain is akin to piecing together a book from scraps of shredded paper. With much effort, he manages to squeak out, "What the fuck?", which is about as eloquent as he could hope.

Abel snaps back to himself in an instant: transferring his weight backwards, widening his eyes in alarm, and tucking his wings back at his sides with a loud gust of air, thereby assuming a pose that makes him resemble a startled chicken. "Oh, shit." He hastily seats himself by dangling his legs off the edge of the table. "Oops. Guess I got carried away. Please, please, never tell anyone about this. Promise?"

The sudden rebound from Abel-as-Adam (which was terrifying, but also weirdly hot, and Peter's going to think about that later) to Abel, as his usual self, is funny enough. Combined with a come-down from being genuinely frightened, it's hilarious. Peter gasps for air and cackles uncontrollably until his body hurts.

Abel joins in, too, perhaps incredulous at his own audacity, or perhaps simply because laughter is contagious.

After Peter has had time to take a few steadying breaths, his mind recalls Abel's "air guitar solo", replaying and turning it over to bask in its perfection. He can't believe those runs—how those smooth cascades sounded so effortless, and maybe actually were, given that Abel pulled them out of thin air as a joke.

Peter huffs. "Fuck Adam. He's a turd. And Abel, YOU are the goddamn best air guitarist in all of fucking creation."

This sets Abel off in another fit of hysterics, and Peter feels blessed to have gotten him to laugh so freely, not once but twice. He admires the moment as if appreciating each detail will preserve the scene forever in his memory: how Abel's eyes crinkle upwards and shine with merriment; how the light from the window streams in to highlight his wings and hair and eyes and freckles with its golden kiss; how he's still perched on the edge of the table, leaving Peter to look up at him at a steeper angle than usual; how his fingers lightly grip the rim for balance, and it would be so easy to close the gap, to take his hands and be his anchor.

Peter nearly speaks, but all his words die in his mouth. They're inadequate and clumsy, especially when juxtaposed with the pure, sweet ringing of Abel's voice. So he holds his breath, and holds his tongue. Soon, Peter tells himself, but not now.

The plaza is truly a sight to behold: vibrant tents, canopies, awnings, and banners in every direction; stalls of varied shapes and sizes, each stocked with its own assortment of wares; Heavenborn and winners, bustling or strolling, vending or shopping. The air is filled with unique scents, each one fighting for prominence as the breeze swirls. The peculiar amalgam of bazaar, open-air market, and outdoor mall reflects the many cultures of Heaven's inhabitants, which Peter notes and respectfully acknowledges each time he's here.

Today, he takes a back seat and lets Abel take the lead on exploring. Together, they wend their way up and down each row and marvel at nearly everything. It gives Peter a whole new perspective on many stands he's always glossed over. Each one is worthy of praise, and sharing observations with a companion greatly heightens his appreciation.

Even though they've already picked up countless samples and small bites, Abel takes an interest in every new food he encounters. He drags Peter by the elbow into a line for bungeoppang, where he watches the assembly of the adzuki-filled fish waffles with open fascination.

"Would you share one with me?" he requests, "We've barely covered a quarter of what there is to see, and I want to have enough room to try everything. I just want a taste."

Peter consents, but realizes a second later that eating half of everything Abel wants to try is likely to be an impossible mission. He takes the treat in a to-go box, borrows a knife to divide the fish in two, and finds a bench with Abel so they can sit for a while.

"It's so cute," enthuses Abel, turning the container to inspect it from slightly different angles. "Hmm, but should I split it this way or this way?" He first mimes cutting the fish to separate its head and tail, then turns the knife so it would sever the top half from the bottom.

"What about this way?" suggests Peter, picking up the fish and pointing the knife at its thin side, aiming down the axis of symmetry.

Abel protests. "That's the hardest option! I didn't even think of it! Why would you do that?"

Peter snickers. "Just wanted to see what you'd say. Do it however you'd like. I don't think it matters too much."

With a grave manner and intense concentration that is certainly unnecessary but all the more adorable for it, Abel proceeds with his first idea, making the shortest cut. Despite the steam rising from the center of the treat, he picks up a piece and takes a bite.

"It's so good," he sighs, his eyelids fluttering down blissfully. "You have to try it! While it's warm! Don't just take it home."

Peter obliges, sectioning off a small portion and cupping it in his hand to blow away some heat before popping it in his mouth. It is an exercise in contrast: the light crunch of the exterior, the pliability of the doughy interior, a slight bitterness from the beans, and a moderate dose of sugar. "It's delicious," he agrees, but he closes the carton before he makes any decisions he'll regret.

For the next few minutes, he gazes over at the man beside him, taking vicarious pleasure in his unmistakable enjoyment, until Abel's eyes slowly open again. Peter loves the dreamy haziness still lingering within. "So, where to next?" he asks.

Abel turns his head a bit, examining the pathway ahead of them. His expression quickly morphs from interest to confusion, then to consternation, but Peter sees nothing out of the ordinary in that direction. Abel puts his hand in front of his face and squints at it, which only serves to heighten Peter's concern.

"Crap," Abel mutters. He starts fishing random objects out of his pockets, mostly producing the small trinkets he had just acquired while shopping.

"Abel? What's going on?"

"I get auras sometimes, before my migraines, kind of like a warning that things are about to get bad. They're technically hallucinations—er, that sounds very alarming, but it's not that scary, I promise. Sometimes I can't see a certain part of my field of view at all, like there's a hole in reality. Sometimes they're sparkly. It's weird. And also weirdly hard to notice? It creeps up on me sometimes." He succeeds in dredging up an orange pill bottle with a white cap. "But I have the stuff Emily made for me, so... here goes?" He holds her handwritten label up to eye level and blinks at it a few times.

"Let me get you some water," offers Peter, excusing himself to dash away for a brief moment and return with a paper cup.

When he returns, Abel accepts it with a grateful smile and downs a small handful of tablets in one swallow. "Thank you, Peter."

"Are you going to be okay? Do you need to lie down? Maybe you should head home? I can come along, just in case—" He can't help the worry in his voice, as he recalls the one migraine attack he had witnessed, and images of Abel (curled into himself, eyes screwed shut tightly) flash through his mind.

"Give me five minutes," he answers. He rests his head in his hands, covering his eyes, and starts taking slow, even breaths.

"Are you sure?" Peter receives a small nod in reply, so he simply waits quietly as the hubbub of the markets continue around them. Slowly, he lays a hand on Abel's shoulder, offering what comfort he can, and the other angel relaxes into his touch.

Time ticks by. Abel looks up and blinks at the horizon. Then he frowns and puts his head down again. Peter continues to study him, not sure what he should be looking for but doing his best to be vigilant nonetheless.

The second time Abel opens his eyes, after a few moments of assessment, followed by disbelief, an astonished grin splits his mouth. "Woah. My aura's gone, but my head doesn't hurt? It does feel kind of fuzzy though." His fingers reach up to touch the side of his head, right above the ear, perhaps using the pressure to help him verify a lack of pain. "Is it because of my hair? Wait, that wasn't what I meant."

Peter is relieved that the medication worked, but before he can express himself, Abel stands, pulling Peter to his feet as well, and envelops him in a crushing hug.

"Peter, this is amazing. You're amazing!" The sudden high spirits catch Peter off guard, but he supposes it's understandable. Abel long ago resigned himself to dealing with chronic pain and is only now realizing that freedom is possible. So he grins, glad to see Abel so happy and to have contributed to his joy in some small way. (The hug is a huge bonus.)

Abel brings his face down to rest atop Peter's head. "And extremely pretty. I've never told you, but you have such nice hair." He idly lifts one of Peter's locks, twirling it around one finger and then tugging lightly.

Okay, yeah, this is weird and something might have gone very wrong.

Peter squirms out of the embrace and retreats to a normal speaking distance. "Abel," he begins, then swallows, hoping his gulp isn't too audible, "how many fingers am I holding up?" He lifts a hand for inspection.

Abel seems confused at the question, then even more confused when several seconds pass and he hasn't been able to answer. He steps closer, touching each of the raised fingers in turn. After reaching the end, he shrugs hopelessly. "Uh, more than three." A nervous giggle bubbles out of his throat. "I have no idea why I can't count and I also don't know why it's funny but it really is."

So, for the second time in their acquaintance, Peter ushers Abel through a portal to his apartment out of concern for his well-being. This time, though, he rather firmly pushes Abel into a seat at the kitchen table, depositing his takeout container at the same time to free his hands. He's calling Emily before the gateway even closes.

Come on, Em. Pick up.

"Oh, hey! Peter! It's good to hear from you! Thought you were busy today, though." Her voice is slightly grainy through the phone but her exuberance shines through, as always. There's a pause before she continues in a less overtly bubbly tone. "Is everything okay?"

Words tumble out of his mouth as quickly as physically possible. "So, you know that friend, the one I wanted medicine for? He tried it and I don't know what's wrong but for some reason he's drunk? Or high? Or both. I don't know. What do I do?"

"Oh, uhh..." She hesitates, taken aback by the flood of information. "That shouldn't have happened. I mean, I guess I should check—he only took one pill, right?"

Peter winces and takes a few aimless steps, pacing in agitation. "Shit. No. I don't think so." He turns around to see that Abel is amusing himself by humming and tapping out a complex rhythm on the tabletop. "How many pills did you take?" he demands, trying to avoid raising his voice, nearly certain he's not going to like the answer.

"I don't remember. Whatever it said on the bottle?" Thankfully, he's able to quickly produce the container for inspection, and Peter wrenches it from his fingers with a sinking feeling that he knows exactly where this is going.

Fuck. The instructions, as he suspected, dictate that one tablet should be taken at a time. Was Abel looking at the expiration date? Given how much he was struggling to read the label, could he have been interpreting letters as 1s, 0s, or 5s? Why hadn't Peter realized the issue and intervened?

"Em," he chokes out, "he can't read when he's about to have a migraine attack. He says he followed the directions, but—" He bites his lip, looking up again. "Today was your first time trying to read this?" It's a bad question, an unproductive one, but he can't take it back.

"Yep!" Abel sing-songs, now twiddling his fingers and bouncing one of his legs, "Fuck me, I guess! I'm a total dumbass!" He goes on, still incongruously loopy and carefree, "My dad was right and I'm going to get myself killed someday because I have no self-preservation instincts whatsoever! And I can't even do the easiest things and I'm a loser—"

"No!" Peter is beside him in an instant, taking one of his hands, nearly reaching for the other, and barely stopping himself before he drops his phone. "No, no, I didn't mean— and those things aren't true! I'm sorry. Anyone could have made the mistake you made. I shouldn't have said— I'm just so worried about you." He files away his brief flash of anger at Adam—Peter really is going to let him have it one of these days—and turns back to the problem at hand.

Emily chimes in again, on the line. "I'm so sorry! I didn't know! About the reading problems! Peter, do you think you know how much he took?"

He desperately tries to recall the picture in his mind. "Three? Five? Probably not more than seven? I wasn't looking closely."

"Shouldn't be a problem, then! Phew!" she chirps, back to being her chipper self. "I think I'd only start getting really worried if he took ten or more. He seems physically well, right?"

Peter collapses into the nearest chair as adrenaline whooshes out of his limbs. "Y—yeah. I think so." Abel's definitely out of it, but there's no indication that his symptoms include anything other than his state of mind.

His hands shake, but he keeps his phone to his ear as Emily offers, "Would it help for me to come over? Make sure he's all right?"

While this is not what Peter would have chosen for Abel and Emily's first meeting, Abel's health comes first. That said, it's not clear how Abel would react to the presence of a stranger, especially one as effervescent as the seraph. "I appreciate it, Em, but I don't think that's a good idea right now. I've got this."

"It might be best for him to sleep it off," she suggests. "Anyway, sorry again, and call me if anything changes! Bye-bye!" With that, her virtual presence is gone. It's just us now, Peter thinks, although it's debatable whether Abel truly counts as being present.

He links fingers with Abel, putting his other hand on his shoulder, and steers him with soft pressure. "Let's get you to bed."

Abel crawls under a blanket and flops down on his side, all while clutching tightly to Peter's hand. With knees tucked slightly towards his chest, wings folded around his pillowy form, yellow waves of hair splayed around his head, and tilted halo barely floating above the mattress, he is coziness and comfort embodied.

Peter's reverie is broken when he belatedly notices that he's seated himself on the covers, and even worse, that Abel is still wearing shoes, in flagrant violation of Peter's self-imposed bed cleanliness rules. In the next instant, he admits to himself that he's probably not even going to wash his sheets after this, if it means he can surround himself with traces of Abel's vanilla scent.

Abel tucks his chin more deeply into the linen, inhaling slowly. "You smell nice," he sighs. Wait, PETER smells nice? "Earthy," he elaborates, "like almonds or walnuts or pistachios or something. I don't actually know the difference between all of those. Also cashews and pecans. Am I missing any?"

He gazes guilelessly up at Peter, who has not had sufficient time to recover from Abel's first statement. "I have no idea," he responds honestly. Interacting with Abel while he's in this state is fascinating, since it seems every other thing that comes out of his mouth provides new insight into thoughts that he would never otherwise speak.

The blankets rustle slightly as Abel brings his free hand to meet his other, sandwiching Peter's between them. Color unfurls across Peter's cheeks and his heart rate quickens at the sensation of Abel's calluses on his fingers and grazing the back of his hand. The touch is electrifying, and Peter is too distracted to notice when Abel starts plucking at the button on the hem near the base of Peter's palm.

Then Abel fluidly pushes the sleeve all the way up past the elbow, and takes Peter's forearm in a grip that's firm without being painful. Peter flushes harder, from shame and discomfort this time, overly aware that this leaves his wrist exposed to the air. To make things worse, it seems this was Abel's intent. He turns Peter's arm to inspect it front and back; his eyes are trained on the puckered circles, dark as bruises, that mark the entry and exit points of each long-gone metal spike, and the extensive ridges of raised skin tracing out a path once cut by abrasive rope.

A thumb ghosts, feather-light, over Peter's pulse point. "Does this hurt?"

"N—no. I just— I cover up because I don't want people to see. I don't like looking at them, myself." Pain does sear him sometimes, but it's caused more by Peter's state of mind than by any external physical sensation, which is all the more reason for him to take preventative measures.

Abel's expression is unreadable, disconcertingly vacant. "I never had a choice. For a long time, I couldn't look at myself without remembering the sight of blood and fragments of my own skull. I guess it was the same for my dad, too—my halo made sure he never forgot I was the weak one."

One of his fingers draws a contemplative circle on Peter's skin. "I'm still a mess. Migraines, nightmares, cowardice. Wondering if I should have done something differently, or done something earlier, so he—Cain—wouldn't have been so angry. Wondering why I still panic about so many things, so often that my dad gave up on me centuries ago. But—" He lets go of Peter, reaching instead for the first kink in his halo, indicating it without needing to search, intimately familiar with its positioning relative to his temple. "It's nice, in a way. It brings me back to myself when Heaven is too strange and overwhelming. It reminds me of who I am. It makes me feel like a real person."

The words stab Peter deeply, piercing him to the bone. In life, he had believed that the mortal plane was merely a stepping-stone to earning salvation and eternal reward. Upon his arrival in Heaven, he had viewed the role of Gatekeeper as a blessing, a gift for his faith and his service, and used it as the platform upon which to build his afterlife. Only after Andrew sought him out to pay a visit, but saw only a stranger wearing the face of the brother he had once known, did Peter come to a sudden realization: in constructing a monument commemorating his holy work, he'd neglected to leave enough space on the platform for himself to stand, thereby forcing himself to cling to the unstable structure as a lifeline.

Laden with guilt, regret, and loss, he had tried to reflect on his earthly life. By then, it was nothing more than a blur—a bit of scenery inhabited once and for too short a time, rapidly receding into the distance. He hasn't spoken to Andrew since that day, and probably couldn't find him again even if he tried. Like everything else, his recollections of his brother's face have turned to mere ashes and dust, taking the memories of his grief-stricken, horrified expression along with them.

Abel's voice breaks the silence, bringing Peter back to the conversation he had almost lost track of. "I think these prove that you're brave. I know you're proud of your door job, and these are part of how you got there, so why not be proud of them, too?"

"They're ugly," Peter croaks, his voice breaking before he spills all of it, how he hates what they stand for: a permanent reminder that, though he may try to be nothing more than a perfect guard of Heaven's doors, he is shaped by his history and his flaws, and there is no running from the truth.

"Not at all." Unbelievably, Abel plants a quick kiss in the center of the mass of scars. "They're just as beautiful as the rest of you. Although I'm mostly guessing. I haven't seen all of your body, because you're always wearing clothes."

Peter chokes on nothing. His brain is breaking. Admittedly, he has it better than Abel, whose brain is already fully broken, but Peter fears it won't take much longer for him to get there as well.

"Anyway," says Abel, completely unperturbed, "thanks for taking care of me. For being here with me right now. I'm so grateful that I met you, because you make my life so much better. I spent so long thinking I didn't need to or want to interact with people, and that I was happier with my sheep to keep me company, but... I was lonely, and somehow I didn't realize that. Now I have you, and everything's different. Even when you're busy, I think about you all the time, and I know I'm not alone anymore."

Moisture wells in Peter's eyes. Every new turn in their dialogue has been a profound shock to his system. "Abel, I..."

Abel closes his eyes fully and readjusts his head on the pillow before expressing one last sentiment. "You're the best friend I could have ever asked for."

This statement yanks the rug out from under Peter's feet, and contributes even further to the emotional whiplash he's already experiencing. He's had enough. It's time to give up, to admit defeat, to stop wishing for more.

In despondent resignation, he looks on as Abel's breathing slows and his grip on Peter's hand gradually loosens. Anything for you, he promises. I'll always be here. I'll be your friend forever, if that's what you need. Even if it's hard, I'll do it, because I love you.

His tears fall. The sound they make as they patter onto his lap is one of unsaid words, broken hearts, and shattered hopes.

Peter withdraws from Abel's sleeping form to go clean his face. He leans forward with his palms on the cool countertop, staring himself down in the mirror, taking in the red puffiness of his eyes and the disheveled state of his hair. He scrabbles for something positive to say, to give himself a pep talk with, but the only thing that comes to mind is You look like shit, Peter.

He's tempted to curl up on the sofa for some good self-pity time—put headphones on and blast a playlist of sad music and/or watch a drama self-indulgent enough to cry to—but he's worried he'll start outright bawling, which would not be good while Abel is still here and needs to rest. Leaving the apartment to get some air is also not an option, when Abel might need something; even if nothing goes wrong, he shouldn't wake alone.

So he goes over to his desk, picking up his pencil from where he left it, opening the topmost of many spiral-bound notebooks, and praying he won't wet the pages too badly with more tears. The music is there to greet him, the eight-part harmonies of his latest project unfurling in his mind as an incomplete tapestry. He sketches out one note even though it feels like pulling a tooth. He adds another into the chord, not sure yet what this might become, but forcing himself to begin somewhere, anywhere. More arbitrary scribbling follows, but this is akin to tossing paint at a canvas until his mind formulates an image from the chaos, a vision of what could be.

The fount of inspiration pours forth, and it's the most productive composing he's done in a while. His hand flows across one staff, then another, spilling his soul onto the paper—it's an ode to beauty, supported by an aching counterpoint whose every measure laments the unattainable. He writes past the fading of the natural light, clicking on his desk lamp without taking his eyes from the page, occasionally sharpening his pencil with a vehement impatience that he has never known.

When he feels that the music has said all it needs to, he barely manages to toss the still-open notebook back on the stack before collapsing face-down.

Peter wakes to his alarm in the morning. The first thing he does is look towards the bed, noticing that Abel is gone. The second thing he does is blink blearily at his desk and realize there's a note placed near where his head has been. The paper is crumpled, the top half containing an idea he had disliked and torn out, but it has since been unrolled from its ball.

Peter,

I think I'm doing okay now. I didn't want to continue imposing on you, so I'll just head home. Thank you so much and I'm very sorry about all this!! Tell Emily thanks too? And text me if you have time? But it can wait until after you're done with work for the day!

—Abel

Groaning, Peter summons the willpower to change into his work uniform and apply what makeup he can to look presentable instead of dead tired. His hair has lost any resemblance to the neat style he favors, but he supposes it's tousled in a manner that still manages to be aesthetically pleasing. Between that and the eyeliner, he looks like he's entered an edgy phase. Which might very well be true. He'll have to see how he fares over the next few days.

He meets his reflection's glare. Time for pep talk, take two. Admittedly, you look like you're barely keeping it together. But, hey, great progress. Then he plasters on a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, mentally kicks all of his simmering heartbreak into his box of Depressing shit that I don't want to think about at work, and actually maybe don't want to think about EVER, and does his utmost best to pretend to be functional.

As soon as he gets the chance, though, he sends Abel a message.

Hey, I'm really glad to hear you're doing better.

 

Thanks! I'm sorry for leaving! I just didn't think I could look you in the face after that. I'm actually really worried. I don't remember much of what I said or did yesterday. Or, well, I think I do remember stuff. But everything feels kind of like a dream, and I had really weird dreams that were definitely dreams. It's hard for me to tell what really happened. So I'm really hoping I didn't say or do anything bad and I'm really worried I scared you or pushed you away.

The idea that Abel—who is sweetness itself—could possibly do anything offensive is preposterous.

I was scared but just because I was worried about you The things you said were a little unexpected but really touching honestly

There's a pause, as if Abel is waiting for him to say more. On the other end, he types something out and either hesitates or deletes. A long moment passes before he resumes his writing and the new message arrives.

I have to ask Did I kiss you?

 

On the wrist, yes

 

I don't think I asked for permission and that was very not OK. I'm so sorry

 

I'm not mad

Perhaps this is not fully true. Hah, you're mad he's not kissing you MORE, right? Stop that right now, no, nope, he is not going there because those feelings are staying in the Bad Vibes Box.

At all? So it was weird but you're fine with it?

 

Don't worry about it

Saying that he is fine about anything right now would be a brazen lie.

Thank you. And thanks for taking care of me. Can I do anything to pay you back?

A response sashays into Peter's mind, all sultry silk. Oh, you owe me one, that's for sure. But I know JUST how you can make it up to me, baby. ;)

I was just trying to be helpful I'm not expecting anything from you

 

Let me invite you over for a movie, then?

Peter reacts with a thumbs-up before he can fully think through whether this is a good idea. Well, he's not about to take it back, so he'll have to figure it out later.

This is how he finds himself in Abel's living room, putting on a sappy rom-com, while his host preps snacks in the kitchen. Together, they fluff up all the blankets and pillows that never found their way back into storage after all, and settle in. The comfortable closeness, both physical and emotional, hits Peter like a drug.

Only a few minutes in, Abel's eyelids get droopy. He snaps himself back into full alertness, but it's only a matter of time before he succumbs again. Given Abel's chronic tiredness, Peter expects his head will fall back against the cushions before too long.

Instead, though, Abel's hair tickles his cheek, and the weight of Abel's chin drops onto his left shoulder. Peter glances over, startled, but the other angel has already dozed off. The trust inherent in this gesture is so precious that Peter can scarcely breathe.

He doesn't want to wake Abel, but the heavier man is leaning against him in a way that shoves Peter's elbow into his ribs. Cautiously, Peter extracts his arm from between the two of them, although what he's going to do with it now, he's not sure. Before he can decide, Abel scoots even closer, pivoting his body inwards and leaving Peter with little option but to gingerly rest his hand on Abel's back.

Positioned like this, Peter can't think of anything but Abel, Abel, Abel.

Just before the last of the credits roll offscreen, Abel blearily blinks his eyes open. "That was nice," he murmurs. He otherwise does not move, and he demonstrates no reaction to his proximity to Peter or the points of contact between their bodies.

"Sleeping through it was nice?" Peter teases lightly, although he has no high ground to stand on, given that he dedicated the entire latter portion of the film solely to drinking in the sight of the gorgeous winner using him as a pillow.

"I was awake," he protests weakly, with a yawn.

"If you say so." Peter caves instantaneously, his entire interior giving way under the pressure of his affection for the sweet boy whose cheek still rests along his collarbone.

Abel glances up with a sleepy softness in his eyes. As their gazes lock, the acuteness of their intimacy hits Peter hard. A frisson of desire shivers down his spine, tenderness covering a deep well of raw hunger and passion. He wonders what, if anything, Abel sees in his gaze. Though his voice goes unused, the rest of his body still speaks.

I love you, murmur his fingers and his feathers, touching Abel's body ever-so-gently, and tingling at the barest contact.

I love you, gasps his heart, fluttering like a caged butterfly and yearning with a palpable ache.

I love you, whisper his eyes, tracing the lines of Abel's face and caressing each inch of freckled skin.

Why can't he just say it out loud?

They walk into the rehearsal space hand-in-hand. They've held hands before many times in public, back when both Abel and Peter had assumed it was all friendly touch and refused to read into it more. It's different now, both exhilarating and comforting at once, and the uncertain tension that had always thrummed in Peter's veins is a thing of the past.

Just as Abel is letting go, allowing them to head their separate ways, Peter notices the ebony curls, iridescent feathers, and distinctive gait of a certain angel entering through a different door.

"Hold on a second," he teases, sweeping his lover out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and leaning forward and up until their lips meet. At the cheers and whistles that erupt from their unexpecting audience, Peter deepens the kiss, letting his wings unfurl and his heel kick up behind him because yes, he loves being undeniably, flamboyantly gay.

Abel glances sheepishly at the spectators as they pull away. His lips pout, as though to chastise Peter for calling so much attention to themselves, but he can't look genuinely upset when his eyes shimmer with mirth and adoration. "What was that for?"

Peter shrugs with feigned nonchalance. "Oh, everything. You're hot, kissing you is great, and I'll never get enough." His voice drops in both pitch and volume, drawing Abel towards himself again, close enough to feel his heartbeat, stopping just before their faces touch. "You're mine, and I never want to let you go."

Abel's cheeks flush, but it's not from embarrassment or shyness or flustered incomprehension of his own feelings anymore. The golden hue seeps across his skin as his pulse picks up in tandem. It is a declaration, an affirmation, and an invitation, all in one. "I'm yours, Peter, as long as you'll have me."