When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he's asleep, and it's the next day. He doesn't do it of his own volition. If he could, he would've spent the next week writing non-stop, but his body pleads for him to rest, and stop.
Ever since he heard that wailing in his head, he's been writing for hours on end, the commands and words spouting forth like his hands are the fountain and the words his water, rushing out of him continuously.
He slams the keys out of control, not knowing what he's writing, like he's a robot, just jotting down the orders from above.
When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he's in deep sleep, dreaming.
Raphael clicks his fingers, and Simon falls asleep slowly. The angel sighs, moving Simon's hair out of his face. He stared for long minutes at him, at the poet's soft features. His hair is disheveled, messy, just like it always is. His eyes are hidden behind black glasses, and the slightest hint of a five o'clock shadow frames his face. Raphael watches him sleep, mesmerised. Angels don't sleep, because they don't need to, but he's never been so close to a sleeping human, in all his years of existence. He is the angel of healing, but after curing his patients he leaves. He never watches them sleep.
Raphael picks Simon up like he's a feather, weightless, and carries him to his bed. He lays him down softly. He sits and watches for a while longer, timing his breathing to Simon's. It's incredible to him, how vulnerable he is, like a newborn, like a flower, left to the mercy of those who live around it.
Raphael has been alive since the world was created, and only his six brothers wield the same power he does, have the same strength he does. If he wanted to, he could destroy the world in a blink of an eye, he could cause chaos and destruction and rain havoc upon the earth like nothing humanity's ever seen.
And yet, the task of this human being's life depending on him weighs him down like the weight of the world. He feels like Atlas, balancing the planet upon his shoulders.
He unfolds his wings, and reaches one out to brush Simon's cheek gently, gold catching starlight through the window.
"Sleep, my prophet." he murmurs, low in his throat. He pulls his wing back, and leaves the room, the wind he creates after blowing Simon's hair back in his face.
The next morning, Simon wakes up to find a golden feather on his bedside table. He has never seen anything like it before - it shimmers and shines like gold, but it is as light as a normal feather, and the way it gleams is different, not like the sheer brightness of metal, but more like the dancing vivacity of flames. He holds it out, twirls it in his hand, skims over it with the pad of his finger. It's hot to the touch, which it shouldn't be, because it's winter. Though he sleeps next to the heater, the feather should be cold. Inanimate objects don't have their own source of heat.
He leaves it where he found it, and makes himself a cup of coffee. He realises something as he steps towards the kitchen - his mind is at peace. There is nothing urging him to write, to tell, to translate, to work like he has for the past six days.
"...and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made."
Simon jumps in his skin, terrified at the sudden deep voice that assaults him. He recognises it.
"Don't scare me like that!" Simon chastises, and Raphael frowns.
"You asked a question. I answered." Raphael says simply, as if that explains it.
Simon takes a deep breath. "Fine."
Simon feels odd at being watched so closely. He moves around the kitchen uneasily as a pair of eyes watch him intensely.
"What," Simon teases, turning to look at the angel. "have you never seen someone make a cup of coffee before?"
Raphael leans against the kitchen counter. "No."
Simon arches an eyebrow. "Really? You've been alive for so long, I thought…" he trails off.
"I am an archangel. I do not deal with the mundane. I have not eaten or drank in centuries."
There it is again, Simon thinks. That voice, clear and high with impotence.
"You're really missing out, then. Pizza is amazing."
Simon giggles at a dumbfounded Raphael, and he sits at the table, steaming mug of coffee in one hand, phone in the other.
"Simon." Raphael says, sitting in the chair across from him.
"Mmmhmm?" Simon looks up from his phone to lock gazes with Raphael. It's far too intense, almost distressing, to have him staring like that, so the prophet looks away.
"Why do you live in this place?" Raphael asks, confusing Simon. That wasn't what he expected.
"What do you mean?" Simon replies.
"This - house. It's - it's - well, it's run-down, for starters. Far too old, far too faulty. Have you not a better place to stay?" Raphael asks this like the answer is obvious, like it's an easy problem to fix. Simon doesn't know whether to feel offended, amused or embarrassed.
"Well - uh - you see, poetry has never been a good business unless you're successful. I am not. The books I sell are hardly enough to pay rent, let alone fix this place. The new phone isn't even mine, my friend had his old one lying around and he gave it to me. I told you before, I am a struggling poet. Of course, you wouldn't understand, what with living in Heaven and all…" he whispers the last sentence under his breath, thinking Raphael wouldn't be able to hear it.
"I cannot help that I reside in Heaven, or that I am an archangel." Raphael says, very matter-of-a-fact-ly.
"Well I can't help being poor either, okay?" Simon spits, getting worked up for no reason. He shouldn't be mad, but he is. Raphael looks surprised at the sudden outburst. Simon's eyes soften, and he lowers his tone, trying to make it less harsh. "Look, I could choose to work as something else. I could work at McDonald's, or in an office doing paperwork, but instead, I do what I do because I love writing. The sales are just enough to scrape by, and since I don't really need the money, I'll keep doing this. Sure, the bathroom needs a little fixing, and the paint is flaking off the walls, but for now, it's just enough."
"Wouldn't you prefer something else?" Raphael is curious about his new prophet, undoubtedly.
"No, not really."
Simon downs the coffee in his hands, bitter because he hates adding sugar to it. He stands, and puts it in the sink.
He's about to leave the kitchen, when someone tugs at his arm.
"Wait, Simon - stay."
The younger man turns, surprised, and nods. It's strange, he thinks, how I do whatever he wants. Will I always be at his will?
"I must confess something."
Simon's eyes widen. He sits down on the table, and nods, urging the archangel to continue.
"I've never had a prophet, or been tied to one." Raphael looks away. "You are my first."
Simon doesn't know what to say - he's shocked to say the least. He'd thought that, since Raphael is such an important archangel, he would have had more prophets in the past. Simon doesn't know how to feel - honoured, maybe.
"I'm nervous now," Simon speaks finally.
"Why?" Raphael asks him, glancing up from the floor, morning sun making his dark eyes shine.
"I've never been anyone's 'first' anything. And I've certainly never been a prophet. It's a strange sort of weight on me, like I'm meant to do something, or live up to expectations." Simon explains, leaning his chin on his hand.
"What expectations would I have, when I have nothing to rely upon, or guide me as to what makes a 'good' prophet - though I don't believe there is such a guide.
"Write, Simon Lewis, and you will be a good prophet."
Raphael's voice makes him tremble, unable to meet the angel's gaze. Simon looks askance, huffing under his breath. "You must be fun at parties."
"What was that?" Raphael leans forward.
"Nothing."
Suddenly, maybe because of their link, or his being a prophet, faded memories come to life then die in his head, like a polaroid developing in reverse.
He gets memories of a great battle, in which there is nothing but blinding light and a darkness like the universe itself. He gets memories of flames, glory, of a demon and desert dunes.
Simon grips his temples and closes his eyes, breathing hard. Something is shearing past the mental block in his mind, tearing away at him, like a great blazing spear piercing through his head.
"It's coming back, Raphael - I -" Simon struggles to find the words, instead shooting up and rushing to his laptop, opening it at lightning speed.
"I want to stop," Simon whimpers meekly, looking at the angel with pleading eyes. "Please, make it stop."
His eyes hold something, a dying glint behind the begging irises, seemingly saying, 'You promised I could rest.'
Raphael feels, for the first time in eons, something tugging at the strings of his heart.
"I can't," Raphael whispers, and looks at Simon apologetically, knowing it's pathetic, and not enough, not enough for his prophet, but he can't do anything else. "I'm sorry."
Simon's eyes are blazing in pain, because he knows he's going to spend the next days writing endlessly, unable to give in to sleep or hunger or thirst.
And Raphael needs to leave.
Simon's tear and the golden feather hit the floor in unison.
"And the Angel goeth back,
to the desert where the demon was bound,
but he shall not be alone -
for the prophet there will be found."
"Soon, the time will come." says Magnus, sprawled on the couch with a leg slung over the back, and another on the other dangling over the edge.
"What do you mean?" Raphael asks, sitting in the chair opposite the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
It's a lazy afternoon, one where not even angels want to work.
Simon's teary eyes burn in Raphael's mind. Every time the subject comes up, it's like giving the embers life once more, lighting the spark that gives way to the flame that is his guilt.
"You know what I mean. You have seen the prophet's writing." Magnus explains, with a matter-of-a-fact tone of voice.
Raphael doesn't answer, merely glares at the other angel. Magnus laughs at his expression.
"Calm down brother; I am merely stating the facts. Is it a crime now, to tell the truth?"
Raphael presses his lips into a line. "No; but it is a crime to irritate me further."
"What will you do? Smite me?" Magnus' joyful laughter resonates around the apartment with an echo, and though it normally annoys Raphael to no end, he finds it comforting, something to go home to - though he'd rather cut off his wings than admit it. Not that Magnus doesn't know.
"I could."
"You won't."
Raphael won't, of course, because he loves Magnus, and smiting someone requires a lot of effort and energy, and Raphael has neither.
"Magnus, I didn't come here for chatter." Raphael's expression turns dark, suddenly.
"Oh?" Magnus feigns surprise. "What did you come for?"
"I need your help." Raphael moves closer to the other angel, though he knows no one can hear them.
"What can I do?" Magnus asks.
"I need to prevent the Event from happening." Raphael's tone is dark, and concerning.
"Why?"
"I...I cannot let Simon suffer." The archangel looks away, staring so hard at the floor Magnus fears for his floorboards.
"Simon? The prophet?" Magnus howls in laughter again, until he sees Raphael is not laughing, at all, and he stops. "Oh - you're serious."
"Deadly."
The older of the two stands up, beginning to pace the room. Magnus watches with observant eyes at his brother, forever left to wonder what goes on in his head. He's sure he can hear the cogs and wheels turning in Raphael's brain, if he listens hard enough.
"Have you begun caring for the boy, Raphael?" Magnus inquires, narrowing his eyes at the pacing man. The older stills for a moment, turning his head to look at Magnus, before continuing to pace.
"I cannot answer." comes Raphael's meek, barely there reply, a stale tone of voice making the words seem harsher than usual.
"Yes you bloody can." Magnus presses, standing up too.
Raphael turns to him once more, contained rage shining in the smoky gems of his eyes.
"So what if I care for him? It is my job as archangel, is it not?" Raphael and Magnus are face to face, in a standoff-ish way, in which Magnus is looking up at his brother, a completely different fire dancing inside him.
"It is not! Your job is to protect him - caring was never in the job description." Magnus' voice is exasperated, frustration seeping into the cracks of his tired tone.
"Do you know what you are? You are a hypocrite." Raphael spits, then turns away. Magnus is shocked.
"Excuse me?" The fire contained in the younger of the two spreads, soon to light Raphael's own ire. "Me, a hypocrite?"
"Yes, you! Here you are, yelling at me for caring about my prophet, yet you speak nothing of the Lightwood boy!"
That is the last straw for Magnus. "Do not speak of him!"
Raphael turns around once more. "So here I am, your brother, asking you to help me prevent the very possible death of a human, one I happen to care about, and you are laughing at me and denying me help when you have a human lover! It is honestly pathetic."
"I have never denied you my help - I was just asking about why you needed it. You know how rare it is, for archangels to love prophets." Magnus relaxes, calms his tone of voice.
"I do not love the boy - I care for him. It's different." Raphael counters, relaxing too, taking a deep breath. The image of a crying, desperate Simon comes back, and Raphael feels his heart break in his chest. If the boy cannot withstand the pain now, he will never survive the next week.
"You have barely known him for two weeks, how could you possibly care for him?" says Magnus, softly now, the apologies going unsaid between them.
"It's - I can't explain. There is something that ties us, a bond that runs straight through us and pulls us together, making us one, indivisible. There is no one without the other." Raphael explains as best as he knows.
Magnus sighs, and sits down again. His eyes are sad and apologetic when he glances back up at Raphael through heavy curtains and thick lashes.
"Now is when I must tell the truth - I know of no way to stop the Event. Raphael, I am not an archangel; I don't have and never will have the power you have. If you cannot stop it, nothing can. It is a prophecy written by the chosen mouthpieces of Heaven. The order comes directly from above,"
"I know one thing now." Raphael sits down with a huff.
"Yes?"
"I'm fucked."