#ghds

It’s Wednesday, September 29th, 2021, and in one of the most beautiful luxury condos near Central Park, The Archangel Michael is fighting for his life in the trenches of his own birthday dinner.

Well, birthday wasn’t the right word. It was Michaelmas; a date humans invented to praise him in the West (he’d be in Moscow on November 8th for the East) and through their belief it became his birthday. Funny how that works– Angels feed on worship, so the holidays of man often became the holidays of angels.

It’s not the first Michaelmas he’s celebrated on Earth; going undercover at human celebrations was his tradition when it was still a Holy Day of Obligation. But today his Earthly home was packed to the gills with people he did not invite– because those of the Lower Realms couldn’t get past Peter without a pass, and because Michael did not want these people around him, he wouldn’t have issued any. He levels another nasty look at the back of his brother’s head– Raphael had suggested it for the sake of “convenience”, but hadn’t told Michael it was the convenience of setting up a surprise party beyond the simple family dinner he wanted. Michael’s arm snaps out to rescue the books on his coffee table from being swept off by a swinging tail– which gives him a mouthful of blue fur when he bends over to straighten them.

“Oh!” The owner of the tail, his brother’s demonic wife, looks at him and does not move. “My apologies, Michael. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Don’t talk to me.” He crinkles his nose at the perfume she used to drown out the coppery smell of Greed. Her smile tightens, fingers twitching with the urge to push the books right back off– but it’s his birthday.

“So I’m there, eh, you know, with this guy– he is putting his pants back on, right? Putting on his little pants and me, my Leopold has left me voice messages– Michael!” One of the few people he did invite prances over with the clumsy excitement of a puppy that hasn’t grown into its lankiness despite somehow carrying a silver platter above her head with a graceful spin. He had invited Lacramioara for one reason: Nobody knew how to make roast goose like a 15th century peasant with access to a deep fryer, even if said peasant had brain damage and the personality of a manic-depressive methed-out Malinois. 

“Is that…?” The voice comes from the one person feeling more awkward than Michael at this party: Their newest brother, Rubén Erendirani Cuini Dominguez in life, now the Archangel Gabriel. Adopted, offered a transcendent afterlife in return for taking on the duties and name of God’s favorite suicidal musician.

“Real?” Michael rips a leg off and bites into the succulent flesh. “It is. Eating it won’t provide you sustenance, but it doesn’t hurt. It just burns up in our core.” Michael pats his own chest, and the man nods, timidly taking the other leg that is so eagerly offered to him by Lacramioara. Michael takes the seat next to him out of something akin to pity, sinking into the plush white cushion.

“Are you alright?” he asks, despite his nature. He’s responsible for him being here, after all. Not just at the party. Creating these born-again angels was Michael’s responsibility, and if Michael were someone who felt guilt, he might feel guilty about bringing this Gabriel into a world where angels suffer and die like any other animal.

“I didn’t expect this, is all,” he laughs. Michael watches Lucifer try to teach one of his brothers how to ‘throw it back’, bathed in the lights from the city below.

“I didn’t either,” he reaches for a napkin on the table. “I should punt Raph into Hell for this.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen.

“That’s a joke,” Michael clarifies. “But I don’t like people in my house.” Gabriel shifts his weight, gloved hands fiddling with his sleeves. 

“I can leave?”

“If you want,” Michael shrugs. Another moment passes, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t mind if it’s family, though.”

“...Well, before I go, I want to see you open your gift,” he says. Michael’s expression prompts him to gesture to the high-stool bar in front of the windows, where a few gift bags have been placed out of the way.

“Don’t give me offerings,” he says. “It’s idolatry.”

“It’s not an offering,” Gabriel says, painfully human. “It’s your birthday.”

“Well, technically, I wasn’t born on this particular date…” 

“If they’re separate things, then consider: March 25th, December 20th, and July 30th.” Michael tilts his head and Gabriel continues. “That’s the feast of Gabriel, my birthday, and the day I was reborn. So I’d get three.”

“You get one.”

“So this is your birthday, then.” Satisfied, he crosses his ankle over his knee. “It’s not a bad thing to celebrate you being alive, is it?”

“Mitchy, come on!” Raphael calls him from across the room, holding the blackberry-almond upside down cake Michael’s sister-in-law had bought from the boutique bakery he liked, despite her nature. She was carefully placing candles around the rim. “Let’s party like people do!”

Michael sighs, stands, and wipes his hands on his work slacks even though it’ll stain. He can’t help the small smile on his face, nor does he want to.