The night was no different than any other. The routine, though with minor differences, had been the same as any other evening that week. The Kings of Hell had each taken their turns tucking in their dear daughter, and stayed up watching the last third of a movie on cable television. Damien had headed right to the bedroom as the credits started to roll, while his husband, Phillip, spent another 20 minutes setting the coffee and tea for morning, tidying the house, and making everything just as perfect as it was when they'd woken up sixteen hours ago. Then he joined his husband in their bedroom.
Nothing was particularly different here, either. Damien spent the twenty minutes ever-daydreaming, and they flew by in the snap of his fingers. So there he was, lost in thought about all things and nothings, nestled comfortably under the silky crimson comforter, when in danced Pip.
"Danced" was definitely the most accurate term to use. Even now, in his early thirties, Pip was ever graceful. Each step in his stride was particular and calculated, leading his body confidently and humbly all at the same time. His form seemed to bounce when he walked; perhaps "float" described it better. It was as if the white feathery wings he'd been stripped of, so young, over two decades ago, still haunted his shoulders, elevating his body ever so slightly in every movement he made.
And yet in this grace there was carelessness. Damien saw this. Every day he saw that grace, and every day he took notice of how little care the grace was paid. He knew Pip spent not a moment calculating those particular steps he took; they were just a sophisticated second nature of his. Damien knew that his husband paid not an ounce of attention to his own movements; for why would he? He was a selfless being. His attention was ever paid to those around him. Those he loved, always those he loved. Sometimes Damien worried if the little attention Pip paid himself, had something to do with his attention always being paid to those he loved.
So yet again Phillip floated into the bedroom, just like any other night, and started speaking gentle nonsense as he prepared himself for bed. Every movement was filled to the brim with grace. His fingers were as smooth as the silk from which the ribbon tied in his hair was made of, and they untied the ribbon without so much as a stutter or split pause. As he used one arm to drop the ribbon neatly in his accessory drawer, the other arm had already obtained a hairbrush and was running said tool through his soft golden hair, movements clean and memorized, like he'd done every other night, for longer than he cared to remember. When it was orderly enough to his liking, gently back in the drawer went the brush, and his hands began working ever-so-diligently at first undoing his bow tie, then his suit vest, then the buttons holding together his pristine dress shirt. Every move the man made was graceful; he'd found a way to make even the simple, mundane task of undressing graceful. The way he slowly, softly pulled his arms from his sleeves, being so sure not to pull or break a seam - something he was not even aware that he did. The way he extended his torso and outreached his arms in a pleased, tired stretch, and allowed a smile to creep to the corner of every yawn. His dress pants had fallen to his ankles, and immediately he picked them up, folded them and away they went into his dresser drawer, neat and tidy again. He briefly glanced himself over in the tall mirror, studying his figure; then hitched up his boxers just a tad, allowed another yawn to escape his lips, and nestled into bed with his husband. And somehow - though Damien had no clue how - these simple, informal actions still radiated grace. They radiated goodness.
How could a human be so perfect?
Pip was not without flaw; nobody was. But the most remarkable part of him was that even his flaws carried grace. The way he apologized too much was tender and genuine. His over-politeness won him ever a compliment, and of course he responded only with humbleness and not a thing more. His kindness was unparalleled, at times to a fault.
He was already falling asleep.
In all the grace he radiated day in and day out, all the kindness he gave without anything in return, all the 'please's, and 'thank you terribly's, all the footsteps light as a feather, he exerted himself. And now, enveloped in warmth, next to his one and only, he felt safe enough to doze away.
Damien stared for a long while at the man he had married. He remembered the vows he wrote, and then read aloud. He remembered the rings on the bedside tables, indicating their promise never to leave the other's side.
So he leaned in and planted a kiss on Pip's sleepy lips. It wasn't graceful like Pip's would have been. But he must have been doing something right, because the corners of Pip's mouth began to curl upwards.
Damien exhaled sharply, but happily, through his nose, and let his head fall into his pillow once more. And a moment later, he shifted closer to his husband in their bed, and wrapped his arms lovingly and tiredly around. Only half gracefully, the two fell asleep, cuddled with one another.