Title: Agnello brasato
Characters: Lucifer, Michael, Jeshua
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Word Count: ~ 2.345
Chapter Summary: In which warnings are issued and food is shared.
~*~
Chapter Five
Agnello brasato
~*~
And he lies matted
Half in time and half in space
Through the rising incense smoke
I see him in a crowded room
I see him crossing the mountain range
If we see man at his most bloody
If we see man at his most base
Shall we point then and there
This is reality, this is his nature
Oh, what makes the pain more real than the joy?
Both are so mingled now and muddied together
To pull them apart
We butcher the essence and cripple its meaning
[:C93:]
-
The past days haven't been good. All of Rome has felt Lucifer's ire, the low throb of his anger. He can't help it; it's like a fatal frequency - a subsonic scream that threatens to rip through cells and membranes. Every time he's clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, men, women, and children have been yelling at each other, cats and dogs have wetted their owners' carpets, and some of the finer ruins - structures that survived the Goths, Renaissance popes, and World War II - have unexpectedly collapsed, leaving but rubble for the tourists to stare at. The river flooded, cheese was found to contain mouse shit, and the garbage collectors went on strike, so...
No, the past few days haven't been good. He's not proud of it, but fuck it: it's who he is.
After throwing Jeshua out, Lucifer has spent most of his time sitting on the balcony or lying in bed with one arm dangling near the cognac or soaking in the bath tub with his clothes on. His eyes have been closing and opening, closing and opening with the regularity of a drunk lizard's.
And the very last person - angel - thing... he wants to see right now is Michael. Michael in his bedroom in full Fiery Sword mode, no pun intended.
"Greetings," Michael says, while Lucifer sluggishly pushes himself up against the headboard.
"Hi there," he drawls and pats himself for cigarettes. Why look at you. What happened to your Armani that you've got to don regalia? "Can you not hover, man? It's making me nervous."
"As you should be." Inexplicably, Michael seems to be enjoying himself. He smirks and looks down his nose at Lucifer (who can't be arsed to get up) and his feet don't touch the ground (again).
What, my carpet not good enough for you? Your Lord walked upon it. Gave him a pretty rug burn, too-
"You have met the Anointed," Michael says.
"Yes," Lucifer grunts. "And if you want details, I've known him, too." It's small and piddling, spiteful and cheap, but Michael's toothache-face is worth it. Ah, there, his cigarettes. Now where's the cognac? "Chill, angel. I won't mention that we didn't practise Safe Sex. As for the consequences of the act - repeated acts - for the fides Nicaena," he waves, "I wouldn't bust my head over it."
Michael looks queasy. He blinks and twitches, then resumes his stance. "Curb thy tongue, serpent," he growls and renews his grip on the hilt and seems to grow taller. "I am not here for sordid talk. I bear a message from the Name."
---
Lucifer comes to in a pool of bile.
As messages go, this one went too far, he thinks, both in form and content; as the sovereign Lord of a Realm he's not appreciative of being treated to the Angelic equivalent of a grand mal.
Gingerly, he prods himself. Checks if everything's in place. "You miserable cunt," he rasps, clawing through the haze.
The ignominy. The nerve of it. As he closes his eyes, something somewhere rumbles - a chunk of Aurelian Wall, by the sound of it. Too bad; he really can't help it. But he'll make the Son pay for this, he decides, crawling to the bathroom. He'll fuck him into tomorrow. He wants to see tears for this one.
So he cleans himself up and sleeps for twenty-four hours straight before letting Jeshua know that,
perhaps, a discussion might be had, a re-evaluation of terms and objectives if one felt so inclined, to be held at La Pergola two nights hence.
---
The view from Monte Mario is spectacular. Doesn't matter how often he comes here, how often he watches the lights wink on, Rome from up here is stunning. Its rich tones of ochre set against the evening remind him of Yerushalaim. Not that Yerushalaim is one of his favourite places, but he likes to think of a time when it had... potential. For those giddy few months, the city was pivotal - angels danced on the heads of pins and the world held its breath for the Messiah.
And then the Messiah came, and went, and the angels stopped dancing.
Lucifer's gaze wanders across the terrace. La Pergola is always so... tasteful. Furnishings, flower arrangements, nuances of light; not a single thing left to chance. He crosses his legs and sniffs his wine and tells himself to enjoy the evening.
Here's what's funny: how Jeshua's followers expected the end. Soon. Any moment. If not today, then surely tomorrow. The trumpets would sound and Judgment would come, and the Just would rise.
By daybreak and nightfall they gazed toward the Kidron valley. They longingly stared at the graves that encircled the Mount of Olives, and waited, the poor things. Then the last few who had known the Nazarene began to die. To their children, babes were born, and they, too, died without having seen the second coming.
So sad. To realise that their God-bothering was getting them nowhere... instead the yoke became heavier, and life more onerous, and then there were the Romans, and Titus, and the Circus Maximus...
Lucifer raises his glass in that direction. Bring back the Circus Maximus, for starters. It used to benefit the faith. The wine is exceptional. Chilled to perfection. A composition of musical notes that unfurl and sing in his mouth. After all, everybody loves a martyr.
"Your thoughts are very loud, Morning Star," Jeshua comments as he lowers himself into the seat opposite.
"Your hearing is very fine, rabbi," Lucifer laughs, then wrinkles his nose at Jeshua's grimy shirt and wrinkled pants. "Which cannot be said of your choice of attire. I am surprised they let you in." He can smell him from here - the dusty, faintly rank smell of someone who has walked all day.
Jeshua shrugs and pours himself some wine before the waiter has a chance to. The man softly clears his throat and Jeshua looks up at him and smiles. "Do you think I could have some water, please?"
"Right away, signore. I'll bring the list of waters."
"No, no, just some tap water. That'll be fine."
Watching the exchange, Lucifer remains undecided whether he should cringe or snicker. In the end he does neither because Jeshua has already turned on him and sits very straight and doesn't smile anymore.
"I am disappointed, Samael," Jeshua says. "I didn't think you were a coward."
Lucifer gently swirls his wine. "And I didn't think you'd stoop to duplicity," he says acridly.
The notion of a miffed Lucifer seems to intrigue Jeshua enough to open his menu and study it. "I see where you could take offense," he remarks over the hand-milled paper. "But what is duplicity when dealing with the devil? Seing as you entered negotiations with intent to deceive?"
"Are you blaming the crocodile for its teeth?" Lucifer stuffs a flaky piece of bread into his mouth.
"Not at all." Ready to order, Jeshua nods at the waiter. "Reptiles will be reptiles; thus you are who you are. And I Am that I Am."
Jerking forward in his chair, Lucifer tries to dislodge a chunk of bread that suddenly wants to choke him. "I'll thank you not to mention the Tetragrammaton at table," he wheezes.
"Sorry." Jeshua doesn't look at him. Instead he serenely gazes at the service guy. "I assume none of this is kosher?"
"Scusi?"
"Nevermind. I'll be happy to let the gentleman here choose for me."
Oh fuck you and the crucifix you got dragged in on. This is what I get for sharing my favourite place with you, Lucifer groans. Strangely, the remark does wonders: dinner is pleasant after that. He picks the scampi tartare and tortelli with braised lamb and the black cod with a crust of San Daniele ham for them, and it's only over cheese that he carefully embarks upon the subject. "So I've been thinking," he says, waving a fork, "it may not be Hell where you are going... but you should have a guide. Like Dante had Vergil."
"Oh really."
"Really." He makes it sound so simple when, in fact, it isn't.
"It was my understanding that you were going to find Juda, not I."
"Well. Not going to happen-" Lucifer dabs at his mouth, "-unless I've got help." To gain time, he finishes off the cheese and the second bottle and looks out past the terrace. It's true: there are topics he doesn't like to dwell on. Places he doesn't like to set foot. There is a darkness deeper than Hell, Jeshua. Old things. Hungry things. There are places where life has no dominion. Would he be there, your precious Juda? I do not know. I've never had reason to care. His thoughts peter out while he scans the horizon. It's the colour of rotten eggplant now, smog clouding the lights. Their haloes speak of rain.
Jeshua doesn't reply. He only cradles his glass and cranes his neck to get a better view of San Pietro, so Lucifer gets up and pays. He is already half across the foyer, signalling the maître d' to bring up the elevator when Jeshua catches up with him.
"I'm sorry," Jeshua says, laying a hand on Lucifer's arm. "I had no idea you were in a hurry. Was I mistaken in reserving a room?" Fifty percent gauntlet, fifty percent offer, and it's just as well that none of the peons understand Aramaic (although with Jeshua's thumb brushing over Lucifer's cuff link, the meaning is plain). "I've heard their suites are to die for."
---
Fuck it, but the thread count is obscene. Cotton softer than silk should be made illegal, Lucifer thinks, arranging the sheets to re-tie Jeshua's ankle.
"So I asked you to stop the nonsense and come down. 'Proved your point,' I said. 'Proved your point in flesh and blood, and now kindly knock it off and do what you're supposed to. Saving the world, or whatever.' Your head lolled a bit, this way and that, but that was it. No reaction."
Idly, he combs through Jeshua's sweat-soaked strands of hair. Too dark now to see those flashes of auburn. He likes them, has always liked them, especially under the sun when they flicker with copper.
The night breeze stirs the curtains, and Jeshua flops over, making lipsmacky sounds until Lucifer shifts to accommodate him. "So I watched the rain clouds gather and the crowds depart and I patted your feet and I said, 'They're leaving, rabbi. Those who have mocked you, those who have spoken against you in their great iniquity, they hurry home for Pessach. They have grown haughty and forgetful and will not mark their doors tonight; will you not show them the justice of the Lord?'" He rakes a fingernail down Jeshua's arm, enjoying the feel of muscle, the downy goosebumps brought on by the draught. "I know, I know," he sighs, "that was... blunt. You can tell I was losing patience. I mean, the flies, Jeshua. I don't think I've ever seen that many flies on a body. They must have liked you."
He feels Jeshua's eyes on him. Something in that deep well is stirring and he tries to chase it by pressing a kiss. "'Look,' I said, 'I might not agree with what you're trying to do, but I respect your courage. Your dedication. Really, I do. But what do you think you're accomplishing here?'"
"And what did I say to that?" Jeshua's voice is growing hoarse.
"Why, nothing. You were already... sort of gone, y'know? With the sun and the flies and the cramps and not being able to breathe... lack of oxygen in the brain, I suppose."
"What pretty lies you tell," Jeshua rumbles, too close to Lucifer's ear. "Be careful; one of these days you'll believe them. But I heard you, Lightbringer. You jabbered on and on... It was almost comedic."
"While you prayed and forgave them." Lucifer props himself on an elbow and snorts. "Right. How could I forget. 'For they know not what they do.' Trust me, they knew what they were doing, and they would do it again. They would throw you in prison or pump you full of drugs or turn you into a spectacle - hey, watch the peace freak jumping through the hoops! But you wouldn't get your full fifteen minutes," he spits, "because they'd need your slot to air more commercials." The barked laughter is joyless. He's bringing himself down now, millennia of cynicism clutching like a bog.
He hears the soft in and out of Jeshua's breath, feels him pause. Yet he flinches when Jeshua cups his face in his hands. "Suppose the world would have changed," Jeshua whispers intently, "changed so radically, so quickly that even you had to have seen it. Would you have bent your knee then? Would you have begged for forgiveness?"
"No," Lucifer flares. "No, and fuck what you're talking about." He struggles free and sits up. "Listen to me, Jeshua. Listen to me this once: you were a choice piece of mutton on His altar. Nothing more." He doesn't know where this conversation veered off the road. He can't even gloat now.
It's as if the sheer sadness of things takes the fight out of him.
He digs out a cigarette and lights up and drags hard enough to illuminate the scene, if only for a second. Jeshua lies supine with his hair splayed out, relaxed, boneless. He could be dead like this, just taken off the cross. You're so damn fucking beautiful. Everything about you. Beautiful. Shaking his head, Lucifer turns away. He smokes in silence while a rustle of sheets suggests that Jeshua twists to steal one of his cigarettes.
Lucifer exhales. "It was recently brought to my attention," he says quietly, "that the Name does not wish your current endeavour to succeed. But you probably already know that, too."
It starts to rain outside, and the drops sound fat and pregnant.
---