v. things you didn't say at all.
Beloved,
I write to you now for reasons I can not begin to fathom. The late hour brings such heavy thoughts to whatever is left of my soul -- too much to drink, likely -- and for one who is not burdened by conscious nor kindly thoughts I find myself strangely affected by them. What can I say to you, my angel? After all this time. Five years is hardly a moment in our immortal lives but mine without yours makes each year damnation spanning an eternity. (How many times have I said this now? But I'll be damned twice over if it isn't the truth.) That this letter would even reach you is a miracle beyond miracles. I have yet to send my previous efforts, and I doubt very much that I shall start now.
But let us consider the possibility that it shall, yes? Would I have a moment of reckless abandon? Would I sent my inane ramblings off to you, wherever you may be? Pray to whomever might still be inclined to listen that you look kindly upon these poor words, and upon their miserly author? Then in that case, sweet angel, I would write to you in great length about Heaven -- which is a topic of great importance to me while in regard to you. You may recall that I never believed there was a place for me there, that my creation was an afterthought, if you will, when our Father discovered there was yet more space to fill in his grand design. He made many angels before me, and a great number after, but all that truly mattered were His armies, and His princes -- perhaps this is the one thing He and I might agree on as I, too, care only for my prince.
( However should you, for any reason, encounter Gaap, let him not convince you that this prince is him. He is an insufferable hellbeast and I would not swear my loyalty or love to him, though he seems to wish that I would. Hah! )
Not that I remember much of Heaven anymore, save that I loved you there as I do here, and I am better without the weight of my grace -- but this is not a fate I would wish on you. You are no demon, my beloved. You must never know that suffering. This is why I did what I thought I must.
You are my garden, sweet angel, but I am the snake -- and If I remain with you then you will be ruined.
Yours, always, —— 𝒮.
viii. things you said while you were crying.
Shax can not speak -- and what irony is this, for the demon who could snatch away the voice of another. He does not trust his composure. A hand raises to his face in an effort to preserve what dignity he has remaining.
He can say nothing.
xvi. things you said when there was no space between us.
"Kiss me again. Please." And there's no dignity to be found in begging but, for Suriel, he is made a beggar. Fingers clutch and pull and scrape at freckled shoulders, demanding the angel's attention, pressing against him as if determined to meld their bodies. “Or I shall surely die.”
xix. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were.
"I'd always thought angels were meant to shepherd those away from temptation, but you only bring me closer, my love."
He is awed by Suriel's perfection and how he has been permitted to bask in its glorious light. There is a terrible need in his touches, as fingers close around those of his angel, and for a time he can forget himself. He is no longer a demon in that perfect, encompassing light. Shax is an angel, once more, purified of even the sin they now commit, and Heaven is no longer a place -- but a man.
This man, that Shax loves, and who loves him in return.
