Raphael was at Michael's rooms the first thing in the morning, true to his word that he would take responsibility for his superior. As soon as the commander of Valhalla was awake and had eaten breakfast, he'd called a medical team to the apartments. They had fussed over the angel for quite a while before Michael finally lost his patience and ordered them out. Coolly, Cailen, the head medic, gave Raphael the diagnosis and the needed medication.
"I wish you luck with him, sir," she told him as she left, her face straight but her eyes twinkling.
"I think I just might need it," he chuckled. "Thanks a lot, Cailen."
"For the luck or that I did my job?"
She was gone before he could give an answer. Shaking his head, he gave a brief smile as he set the medicine on the desk.
'Let's hope you don't have to come again anytime soon.'
"Let me guess," Michael muttered as he entered the bedroom. "I'm going to be bedridden for a week."
He arched an eyebrow at the other angel. "And whose fault would that be, Michael-sama?"
His companion made a face and buried himself deeper into the blankets with a quiet, "It's too cold."
Raphael made a small sound in his throat and felt Michael's forehead with the back of his hand. "I think you're fever's higher than it was last night." Unconsciously, he brushed the golden bangs away from pale blue eyes. "You need your rest, Michael. I'll be outside if you need me."
Briefly, he thought of taking that statement back. Maybe he should stay in the room to watch over the other archangel. The fever was too high for his comfort. At least Michael didn't have the strength to pull another walk in the rain; the man barely had enough energy to stay awake. He should be there in case the sickness got worse.
However, he felt a bit uncomfortable, even now. Michael's words from the past two days kept circling around his mind, leaving him dizzy with confusion.
"Some rules have to be broken..."
"I meant it, you know. Every word I said..."
'Michael... Why are you doing this to me? What are you doing to me?'
"...I was crying with the gods..."
'It hurts. Kami... What is this? Why is does it hurt? Is this what you feel...?'
It had always been there, the painful feeling in his soul. He couldn't remember when it had started, only that he became aware of it that day Michael more or less voiced what he felt. But the questions... They'd plagued him ever since those last few words they'd exchanged last night.
And the answers. Maybe -- no, most likely -- he already had them. But he shut himself to them, fearing they would only confirm his ideas of what they were. He didn't know what was worse: having questions that had no answers or having questions that he could answer quite easily but refused to acknowledge.
The fair-haired angel favored him with a faint smile, breaking him away from the dangerous roads his thoughts were traveling. "I suppose a bedtime story would be out of the question."
Dusk-dark eyes glimmering, he returned the smile and, in all seriousness, replied, "That all depends on if I know the story."
"Where is he? I can see him, right?"
"Yes, if he's awake, you could, but--"
"Oh, that's good!"
"Don't wake him if he's asleep."
"Honestly, Raphael! You don't think I know that?"
'Hm?'
Michael looked up from the papers he was looking over at the muffled sound of a female voice in the outer office. With a shake of his head, he braced himself for another round of giving the same answers to the same questions on his well-being. Really, those who visited were nearly, if not as cloying as the mixed scents of the flowers that filled his room. Even Raphael was irritated with the number of visitors he was getting. The day before, he'd even had a guard posted at the door with orders not to let anyone through unless it was for important business.
'The downside of being well-known,' he thought idly.
Sighing, he looked out the window at the dreary, gray skies. It had been raining nonstop for four days, since the night he had gone out to the balcony to stand under the pouring sheets of water. He almost wished he had the nerve to go out there again. Unfortunately, to go for another trip out in the rain meant he'd get worse. Getting sicker meant more days confined to his bed. And at the moment, if he had to stay put even an hour more than he already had to, he would throw a fit that would make a three-year-old proud.
Laughing softly at that thought, he shifted to a more comfortable position and prepared to greet his visitor.
"Well, you're in quite a mood today, Michael-sama," a musical voice came in the direction of the doorway.
He blinked and looked up. Bright, sapphire blue eyes half-hidden by a curtain of pale blonde bangs met his gaze from the partly open doorway.
"Gabrielle!"
He grinned and beckoned the woman in and chuckled at the simple bouquet she presented to him. Surely Raphael had a hand in the chosen blooms. Unlike the other bouquets he'd received, this one conveyed a message. He remembered flowers had been a way of communication between himself and Raphael a few years before, since there were few people who understood their silent language. When they had been elevated to their positions in Valhalla, there'd been no need to use their 'secret' language anymore.
He wasn't surprised he still remembered what the flowers meant. Scarlet geraniums with white saxifrage blooms, wishing him comfort and conveying affection. Amid them were coreopsis flowers, their brick-colored centers surrounded by golden yellow edges, a message for him to be always cheerful. The flowers were in the middle of the bouquet, edged by fragrant cedar bark and balm leaves; they served a double purpose, not only giving a message of strength and sympathy, but having a strong enough scent to block out that of the rest of the flowers in his room, if he was close enough to the boquet.¹
"Working, Michael?" she asked as she sat at the chair beside the bed, eyeing the papers in his lap with amusement. "I would've thought Raphael wouldn't let you do anything until you were better."
"Oh, believe me, convincing him was no small feat," he replied with a small smirk.
He had spent almost an hour that morning arguing with his second-in-command -- or rather, he argued, the other angel calmly refused him. He needed something to do before he went crazy. However, he did feel guilty about threatening to go out in the rain again. He remembered how Raphael's face had paled then, the stricken expression that had crossed his face for a mere second before he finally gave in to his superior. Michael had said it as soon as the idea surfaced in his mind, not meaning anything by it. It had been just something to say, an argument to make, or so his mind had reasoned at the time. It came out before he was able to stop himself from speaking.
After that little episode, he'd briefly wondered about his dark-eyed partner. Raphael had softened, somewhat, his voice gentle, a smile -- however faint it was -- gracing his lips more often than before. But the look in his eyes... Michael wasn't sure if he realized it was there, the confusion, the faraway gleam, constantly being replaced by a defiant, vehement denial, then stubbornly returning.
"Sooo... Did she come and visit you yet?" Gabrielle's tone was low, secretive.
"W-what?" He blinked at her, confused.
"You're cute," she laughed. "Don't you deny it either, Michael. You have that same love struck look I've seen Raphael sporting lately." She propped her arms on the bed and gave a conspiratorial smile. "So, who is she? Did you see her yet? I'll bet all of these flowers are from her, hm?"
He stared at her, saying nothing. Was she joking or was she serious? He couldn't quite tell which. And if she was serious, could he really be that obvious? ...What was he doing on this train of thought, anyway?
"Love struck?"
"Oh, you have it bad," she said, her voice faintly sympathetic. "Maybe not as bad as some"--at this, she threw a glance at the door to the office--"but it's definitely hit hard."
'Love struck?' he repeated, only to himself this time. 'Raphael?'
He tried to picture it, the stoic, quiet archangel fopping over some female; quite frankly, it didn't happen. Michael really couldn't see him with anyone else but Gabrielle. Then, startled, he realized that she hadn't been referring to herself as his object of affection.
"But--" he began to protest, but stopped, more confused than ever. Then, after a while, "How could you say things like that? You say it as if he was nothing more than a good friend. You're married to him, Gabrielle!"
A startled expression flashed across her face before she shook her head and looked at her wedding band. "So... He didn't tell even you..."
"I don't understand..."
"I-- Hm." She let her gaze rove around the room for a moment, before looking back at him. "Let me put it this way, Michael: the marriage is nothing but a legal agreement. Our parents arranged it and when we finally understood what was happening, we had no choice but to go along with it." A light giggle. "In the way you say it, even I'd say he's more married to you than he is to me."
Michael fidgeted for a moment. He didn't know what to make of all this. Though it did explain how Gabrielle could talk of things so easily, he still couldn't believe what she had said.
"Now, tell me, Michael, and don't change the subject this time," the bright-eyed archangel's voice cut into his thoughts. "Who's the lucky girl?"
He tilted his head a little, a hand unconsciously traveling up to bury itself in his golden curls. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"Ugh, honestly, the two of you..." She made a face at him. "I don't know which of you is worse. He's in denial and you are absolutely clueless."
He was about to reply when there was a polite knock. The two archangels looked up to find Raphael in the doorway, storm-dark eyes fixed on the two of them. His expression was unreadable; briefly, Michael wondered if he'd overheard what they had been talking about.
'Love struck...'
He saw no change in his partner. Nor had he noticed anything different for the past few days, for that matter. If Raphael was not tending to the daily business of Valhalla, he was either with Gabrielle or fussing over Michael. It was what he had always done. Perhaps a lot less on the fussing part, but this time was an exception, Michael usually able to take care of himself. Raphael, aware of his contemplative gaze, met his blue eyes for a moment before turning to Gabrielle. In that brief flash of connection, Michael still saw nothing, hard though he tried to.
'Maybe,' he told himself at last, 'it's that female intuition.'
"Gabrielle, there's a woman named -- ah -- Marivel looking for you."
"Okay, love, tell her I'll be right there."
Raphael nodded and went back outside.
"Well, I guess I have to go then." Gabrielle got up and planted a light kiss on Michael's cheek. "Get well soon, Michael. I'll see you some other time." She hesitated for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip, then looked him straight in the eye. "And for God's sake, figure out who she is and tell her you love her."
He watched her go, unable to say anything. Not because he was still confused -- though that was a large part of it -- but because he just had nothing to say. He picked up the bouquet she had given him and, closing his eyes, inhaled the mixed scents of the cedar and balm.
'Figure out who she is...?'
When he opened his eyes again, they fastened on something pink amid the white, yellow, and red of the blooms. He'd never noticed it to be there before. Curious, he parted the flowers to get a better look. Blue eyes widening in surprise, he gasped and the bouquet dropped to his lap.
It was a single dog rose, petals open in full bloom.²
At first he wondered why she would put the flower in. Gabrielle had limited knowledge on the language of flowers, but he didn't think she knew enough to send a message with them herself. Besides, she wouldn't send something like this. The only person he knew who could do so, who could put the blooms like this, who would add in a hidden blossom...
'Raphael?!'
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1: Language of flowers. Spur-of-the-moment thing. ^^
2: The dog rose means "pleasure and pain." It was the closest I could find to convey a sort of confused feeling. Pink roses (dog roses are pink) mean perfect happiness, gentility, grace, and "Please believe me." I was going for that last one. While writing this chapter, I inadvertently added another meaning to the rose, which I truly didn't mean, but am not taking out for the sole reason that it fits in with the rest of the meanings. It is this: a rose in full bloom means "I love you."