A/N: This part has several more Heaven scenes. Hope you like. \o/
Luminous
PART TWO
The Outer Realms were coated in a fire so hot, they were cool to the touch. The flames curled upward and lapped at wisps of wings, but the embrace was not aching or deadly. Here, the oceans were made of crystal light, undulating back and forth, clinking together to form sounds and syllables of praise. All of creation sang glory to God on high; it was only natural.
A back was bent, curved and outlined in gold, and when it straightened, two glorious wings unfurled from the crystalline seas and slung drops of liquid light into the open sky.
"Brother!" someone called from the distance, and Lucifer arched his neck to look behind him without fully turning around. His eyes sought out the shining presence of his brother's form, followed the trail of luminescence that sifted through the air when two magnificent appendages thrust outward and carried his sibling through the sky. His gaze broke off and he once again turned his attention to the sea of light he was standing waist-deep in.
Lucifer worked his lips, formed silent sounds with his mouth and let soft melodies sit on his tongue. He was writing a new hymn, and he was teaching the ocean a stanza of his work.
God has smiled on this day
Bright and fulfilling like golden silk.
He loves me, he loves me.
The words were whispered in Enochian, strong and soft, and just as the seas were rising to a crescendo, a violent crash and a disarrayed splash of light brought discordance to the song and heralded his brother's descent.
"Michael," Lucifer said dryly, absently shaking loose the droplets of crystal from his wings.
"Well don't jump for joy there, Luc. You might hurt yourself."
Michael's voice was loud and brash and deep; a blatant contrast to Lucifer's smooth, even tones. The brothers, despite their differences, were practically bonded by blood. Though every angelic being was crafted by God's hand and every angel, therefore, was bound in an intrinsic tie that reached beyond race, Michael and Lucifer were somewhat... different.
Michael, it was told, was destined for something great; for something truly miraculous in the grand scheme of things. He had a will like thunder and a determination as set and unwavering as the golden slabs that paved Heaven's streets. He certainly wasn't the most violent angel created, but he was strong, and hearty, and full of unfaltering vibrance.
Lucifer, as was obvious by all others, was clearly favored by God. Their Father, in all His just, magnanimous glory, had, for some untold reason, crafted Lucifer with exorbitant care. Every line, every delicate curve, each glistening feather was hand-crafted, glory-touched; the breath of God filled his lungs, sang through his bones and muscles. Just like all of creation was an instrument of praise, Lucifer's every form and fashion was but a vessel for music and a conduit of love. He was the most God-like of the angels; he was the first of his kind - well-loved, but peculiar.
His bond with Michael, though seemingly reluctant, was unshakable.
"You've ruined my oratorio," Lucifer said without much heat, staring down at the scattered melody that sank to the bottom of the ocean. Already the seas were realigning themselves, shifting to the beat of a new song and forgetting every line the angel had tried to persuade it into singing.
"Ah, well. At least it wasn't a sonata."
"No. You ruined that last time with that unnecessarily brash trumpet blast of yours."
"It needed something to spice it up!"
"It was an affettuoso arietta. Tenderly, con amore. With love!"
"It was boring."
"You're insufferable," Lucifer sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.
"That's why you love me," Michael countered, stepping up beside his brother and draping his wing across the other's back. The gesture was familiar and comfortable, and Lucifer couldn't help but lean into the touch.
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" Lucifer asked rakishly, bending one of his wings to slide beneath his brother's feathers and settle around the eldest's waist.
Michael jolted at the contact - he wasn't as obviously physical as his brother seemed to be - but calmed when his sibling's even tone smoothed out his ruffled feathers. Angels, as a rule, did not need physical contact to comfort them. The gestures seemed kind, yes, but were ultimately hollow. Michael himself never bothered to run the edge of a wing across the outline of another angel. Lucifer, however, had always been the exception. The Lightbringer craved touch, sometimes seemed bound by the want for it, and since God Himself was the only one who bothered to give it to him - a hand to a cheek, or a palm settled in thick blond hair - Michael felt almost obligated to reciprocate in kind.
His wing veritably engulfed the younger (by mere seconds) angel, but did nothing to contain the constant thrum of light that perpetually inundated Lucifer's presence.
They did not call him the Lightbringer for nothing.
Each flourishing gap between Michael's feathers was penetrated by something bright, and shining, and so pure it was practically liquid. Light filtered through his wing as though through a sieve.
Lucifer was peering up at him, and it took the warrior angel a moment to remember what his brother had asked. When the memory settled, a stark embarrassment set in as well.
Michael cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and nearly retracted his wing but figured that would be far more obvious than the already obvious signs of nervousness he was thus far exhibiting.
"Well, you see," he began, then lifted his arm to scratch the back of his head. "You're a choir director, right?"
Lucifer blinked and didn't deign to respond to a question his brother already knew the answer to.
The silence was awkward, but only on Michael's end, and Michael was a trooper, so he could tough it out.
"Affecting Duma's verbose nature, I see," the warrior angel commented wryly, lowering his hand and letting it hang limply by his side.
"I am hardly as tight-lipped as the Angel of Silence," Lucifer reputed softly, but the edge of his mouth curled upward in what could easily be recognized as a smile. Still, he gave his brother no easy way out, and waited for the main point of this conversation to come around with long-suffering patience.
It didn't take long for Michael to catch the hint, but still he seemed almost reluctant to let the words slip from his mouth.
"I, uh."
"Yes?" Lucifer prompted.
"I need singing lessons."
The declaration was unexpected, and left the younger angel blinking in confusion.
To each his own, as was often said in the heavenly realms, and the words were usually taken to heart. Some angels preferred to sing, others were taken by the ways of archery; more spent their hours in flight, and more yet practiced the fluid dance of the swordsman.
Michael was a warrior. Not a messenger, not a peace bringer, not a gardener, and most certainly not a meek little choir boy.
"Why?"
Not that he would refuse his brother, but Lucifer was quite curious as to this shift in demeanor. Michael had never shown any interest in the aural arts before.
"Well, you see..." he began, and then paused, staring down at his feet.
Lucifer sighed.
"One day, I will stop prompting you to continue with your incessant stories."
Michael grinned.
"Heaven will fall before then."
They both laughed at that, then brushed the comment aside. Silly speculations such as those were not to be bothered with.
Michael retracted his wing and Lucifer took a step back, wading through the melodic ocean back towards the shoreline. The other angel followed, and soon both were standing on a beach of flecked golden dust looking out at the painting God was crafting from Heaven's sky.
Lucifer was awed by the beauty. Michael... well. Michael was used to it.
"Your voice is fine enough as is," Lucifer said swiftly, still staring distractedly at the sky.
"I want to sing a song to our Father," Michael blurted out abruptly, turning near-pleading eyes onto the Morningstar.
Another shock for the day.
Lucifer furrowed his brows and tilted his head in silent question.
"He told me He's working on a new project, and I want to sing Him a song when He's done."
It took a shocking several moments for the younger angel to register the fact that their Father had told Michael something without even bothering to mention it to him. Something tugged at his chest, and he reached up to scratch at it, baffled by this odd, unpleasant sensation.
"A project?" he questioned softly, then shook his head and turned a smiling face towards Michael. "And you want me to teach you a song to sing to Him?"
"He's always liked your songs."
The praise made warmth curl over the previously unpleasant sensation, masking it, muting it for another time.
"Mm."
Lucifer turned his eyes back towards the sea.
"Anything for you, brother," he said, and he meant it. "Anything for you."
Sam is losing it.
He's been out of control for a while now, but for the most part he's ignored the signs. Speeding? Not a problem. Picking up the occasional diner whore? A little racy but nothing Dean himself wouldn't do. Flipping out at some kids in a carnival and chasing them through a house of mirrors? That's where he had to draw the line.
Okay, okay. So he'd thought they were demons, and that wasn't really any fault of his because they'd sure as hell acted like little hellions, but scaring small children isn't exactly what he would call 'professional'. Plus, the cops had gotten involved, and that had given cause for a quick ride out of town.
He's been on the road for two days now without sleep or food or rest, and he is really fucking losing it.
Just over two months ago, he'd had a pretty pointless fight with Dean - again - and some stupid misconception had come between them - he's over his addiction, he swears! - so ever since then he's been toughing it out on his own.
Until about two months ago, when a certain body-snatching fallen angel had come knocking on his door and had left him completely and utterly stupefied.
It isn't every day that you're visited by your friendly neighborhood Satan.
It isn't every day that your friendly neighborhood Satan is smiling at you behind the face of your brother's best angel buddy.
Sam's first instinct had been to slam the door shut in the Devil's face, and upon turning around to find that Lucifer had teleported his ass into the motel room anyway, the cheeky little bastard had asked him how he fared. How he fared, as if they were good buddies, and Sam wasn't his vessel, and he wasn't positively aching to get his greedy hands all over Sam's - his - Sam's body.
Lucifer had asked his question, and Sam had frozen in place, and then something had snapped and he hadn't been right ever since.
The moment Castiel had showed up at his doorstep, before Sam had even opened the door, he had been able to sense that something was not quite right. He was linked with Lucifer, and so the unwarranted ache that accompanied the angel's presence had been completely unfounded and utterly confounding. He had wanted to slip into Cas' skin, to bask in the acceptance there, and it had taken him a matter of mere seconds for it to click in his mind that, no, Castiel wasn't his angel. Lucifer was.
A thought slipped into his mind by Satan himself, no doubt, and even now it makes Sam shudder. Sam has been content to keep his company with demons - has been preoccupied with using his acquired abilities to send the little buggers back down where they belonged. So far, they've been the safer lot. Yes, the cruel creatures of Hell may have it out for him, but at least they don't want his body, and, really, nothing was ever quite as creepy as hearing that particular string of words ring over and over inside your own head.
He had launched himself at Lucifer, all wicked fists and flailing limbs, and in the wake of this mad fury came an addling realization, a terrifying conundrum that prompted Sam to realize that he really didn't stand a chance in a fist fight against the embodiment of evil.
Not when Lucifer fought with soft words and gentle detainment.
Sam had landed a good left hook on the other's jawbone, but the only thing that had accomplished was to snap Castiel's - Lucifer's - head to the side and bring a contortion of muddled regret and frustration to the angel's features.
"Sam," he had said in that condescending tone of his. "I'm not here to fight you."
Of course he wasn't.
Of course he wasn't, goddammit!
"Then why?"
Sam had been out of breath, had barely been able to get the words out.
Lucifer had taken a step forward, had clasped his fingers together behind his back, and had tilted his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel.
"I'm here to detain you."
That had been two months ago.
And now Sam is terrified because he has a gap of lucidity in his memory that is two months long, and he has no idea what could have happened to him during that time.
The possibilities aren't just endless; they're horrifying.
He had woken up in the middle of what he now knew to be Wisconsin - damn you, Wisconsin! - and had hijacked a rusted yellow Volkswagen out of sheer desperation.
His first phone call had been to Dean.
Bobby had answered.
"Bobby? Bobby! It's Sam! Where's Dean?"
There had been some grumbling on the other line and a mumbled 'idjit' before the older hunter had answered, "He must've left it. He's on a hunt with that angel friend of yours."
At that point, Sam had freaked the hell out.
After several attempts to get him to calm down, Sam had finally found the breath to speak.
"Listen to me, Bobby. That isn't Cas. It just looks like him. Lucifer took over his body - that isn't Cas!"
Silence had greeted him, and then the cursing had begun.
"You'd best get over here quick."
That had been two days ago.
Sam has skirmished with Bobby since then, has driven down to the site of his brother's latest hunt, and has followed every path and every trail that would lead him to Dean until those paths and those trails had suddenly... disappeared.
God help them now, Sam thinks, gripping the steering wheel tight. The only thing that can track an angel is another angel.
This isn't the Bahamas.
It's the first thing that Dean thinks upon arriving in the barren wasteland that Cas has transported them to. He turns to his angelic companion questioningly, brow raised, and can only stare silently when Castiel's entire countenance suddenly grows cold.
"Where are we?" Dean asks, licking his suddenly dry lips.
"That is not of import."
If angels had one constant, it was their insufferability.
"... Riiight." He draws the word out to stave off the awkward silence that is bound to set in.
He is wrong on that aspect, though, because there is no time for an awkward silence before Castiel steps forward and grabs Dean's arm.
"Woah, hey man! We've had this-"
"I'm sorry," Castiel interrupts before Dean can even get the words out, and before he can question why Cas is apologizing, the angel draws his right hand back, curls his fingers into a fist, and belts Dean in the side.
Jimmy had once said that being possessed by an angel was sort of like being tethered to a comet. Well, being punched in the side by an angel was sort of like being hit by a comet; only about ten time worse, give or take an acute, alarming inability to breathe.
One rib cracks, another breaks, and Dean can't even fall to the ground in agony because Castiel is now forcibly holding him up.
"What the hell, man!" Dean splutters once he has sucked air into his lungs, and when he coughs, he coughs up blood.
"This is the only way," Castiel says, his eyes devoid of emotion. "I have no choice."
Dean is hit again, this time a blow to the stomach, and when all air leaves him, he succumbs to blissful quiet; mute and unheard, save for the silent gasps of desperation. Castiel is unaffected, cold, almost righteous in his single-minded determination. Dean would pay for whatever injustice he had unwittingly infracted, and no force of nature would stop the angel from inflicting the punishment.
Dean feels betrayed, and he thinks that perhaps that hurts the most, but another left hook to his opposite side makes him second-guess the romanticized notion.
Hell hath no fury like an angel scorned.
Problem is, Dean doesn't have a clue why Castiel is in such a violent, pissy mood.
Another blow to his ribs, and then thin, surprisingly powerful fingers curl in his short hair and drag him closer, closer, ever closer, until his bleeding face is but a scant few inches from Castiel's hardened features.
Cas stares at him for a long while, and Dean's vision has gotten so hazy he sees two nerdy bastard angels holding him upright instead of just one. His head is swimming and slick trails of crimson are gurgling out of his mouth and slipping down his chin. He thinks he must've looked quite the pretty sight, because the angel assaulting him stops his brutal beating and instead stares at Dean's split lips.
Dean gathers up the blood in his mouth, gives a little smile, then happily spits it out onto Castiel's face.
He's disappointed when that garners no reaction.
Castiel jerks Dean forward and holds him up by the collar of his shirt, then spreads the palm of his free hand through the rough locks of Dean's brunette hair and leans forward until there is nothing but mere centimeters between their lips.
"You shouldn't have done that," Cas says softly, his tone almost regretful, and before Dean can even think, Whatcha gonna do about it, huggybear? he is thrown, quite violently, to the rough, sand-strewn ground. His head hits a rock, and he almost laughs because that's the lightest blow he's had in the past minute and a half his angel friend has been beating the shit out of him.
"Cas, stop," he coughs up, lashing out with his feet once the angel is in range, but Castiel simply dodges the weak-willed move and flutters into thin air only to reappear behind Dean. A sharp dress shoe kisses the top of the hunter's head - viciously - and when Dean has stopped rolling from the force of the blow, Castiel is suddenly there again, behind him, gripping him tight and raising him from this angel-inflicted perdition.
"Cas."
Dean doesn't understand. He is in pain and he is angry, and all he wants to do is punch Castiel in the face and make him hurt, but most of all Dean doesn't understand.
There is no reply, but Cas lifts him up off the ground until his toes are trailing in the dust and the sand, and then, without much warning, the angel draws a fist back and slams it into the side of Dean's skull.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again and again and again and again and a-fucking-gain.
What hurts the most, Dean thinks as he falls into unconsciousness, is that Castiel was all he had left.
He can't really say he hasn't woken up in handcuffs before, but he can say this is the first time he's woken up in handcuffs to the image of an angel in a trench coat staring haughtily down his nose at him.
He can hear the blood rushing through his head, and see the way his heart is pushing it out through his open wounds. Red chokes down his throat and into his stomach, and it tastes pretty fucking awful, but right now his delicate palette is the least of his worries.
Castiel comes closer and hovers over him and doesn't say a word until Dean, lips dry and esophagus slick with blood, gives a little sneer.
"What the fuck have you done with Cas?" he asks, green eyes flitting upward to lock with electric blue.
The angel furrows his brow, tips his head, and rests his hands in the pockets of Jimmy's trench coat.
"What?"
"The fuck did you do to Cas!" he growls out, coughing at the weight of his own emotions as they press further into his chest. Castiel wouldn't do this. Castiel was his friend, his ally, and so the only other explanation was that the being standing before him now was some creature simply possessing Jimmy Novak's body.
Castiel steps forward, looms (he is so very good at that), and bends down at the waist to peer into Dean's eyes from a distance of oh my god is he going to kiss me? inches away.
"You think I'm not Castiel?" Castiel asks.
"I fuckin' know you're not Cas," Dean answers.
The angel straightens up at that, reaches down instead, and lays a hand over Dean's bound wrists.
"You sound so sure of yourself," he muses, stroking the chafed skin and watching with mute awareness as the hunter struggles in his bonds to move away. "Perhaps that is best," and the way his voice hardens and loses all sense of emotion is so uncannily resemblant of Cas' 'I'm a good angel-scout' days that it makes Dean's blood run cold.
He lays his head back against the wooden post he has been bound to, and stares up at the body of Jimmy Novak.
Jimmy Novak, previously possessed by an angel, now nothing more than fodder for an unknown body snatcher.
"He'll find me," Dean says when the man before him turns away. "Sam, Cas, Bobby. They're gonna find me, and you're gonna be one sorry son of a bitch."
The ominous shiiinkt of something sharp and something metal makes a million restless butterflies flutter inside Dean's stomach. His kidnapper turns around, head tilted in that quintessentially Castiel posture, and balances a box cutter in his right hand, blade extended.
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that."
Castiel shudders and doubles over. He is hidden in the confines of a potential vessel's mind, disguised as a conscious and doubling as a prisoner. There are dogs looking for him, with bright teeth and vicious nails, and they are capable of rending his presence in half. He is not an angel right now, and he does not have the potential to be a human, so he is trapped in the space between; the marks of a ghost, or something terribly ethereal. He knows where he is, but he does not yet know when, only that Creation is still fairly new and humanity is slowly losing itself to the sins of his fallen brethren.
The woman whose mind he has taken up residence in has just fetched a vase of water from her father's well and is making the slow trek back home. Up the rubble and through the mortar, past dust and sand and more dust. Blotted edges of trees give her shade and cool her temple, and after several miles of walking through the harsh land, she sets down her vase and leans her back up against a tree. A moment of indulgence, a modicum of rest. Castiel knows if she were to be spotted, she would be punished for her laziness.
She is only twelve.
To the east stretches the well-worn path back to her village. To the south is an expanse of desert so vast, it would take an entire caravan three days to cross it.
Castiel must get to the other side.
He presses to the forefront of her thoughts, and lets his wings glide just beneath her eyelids, disrupting her impromptu afternoon nap.
"Hello?" she asks, jarring herself awake and peering around the area. It is barren.
She shrugs and leans back against the tree, and the angel brushes a wing more insistently inside of her thoughts. He cannot communicate with her in any other way because she isn't one of those special people. He cannot whisper because she might start bleeding from the ears.
This time when she startles awake, she doesn't speak, but instead furrows her brows and stares at the sky.
Castiel runs his ghostly fingers across each of her vertebrae, incites a shiver down her spine, and guides her with will alone to look out across the desert. She is compelled to leave all of her possessions behind and step out into the wilderness on a suicidal trip. She shakes her head and ignores the feeling.
It doesn't help.
The angel is insistent, beating his wings more forcefully against the back of her skull, giving her a rising headache that is only relieved when she looks towards the southern path.
"No," she mumbles when she stands. "I'll die."
He hates this, and he hates himself even more, but he can't leave Dean alone with Lucifer, he just can't.
He soothes her spirit, then, with fingers etching Enochian symbols into her mind. It will be okay, they say, and she moves forward unwillingly.
The girl will survive the trip there - Castiel has enough grace to sustain her body - but she will be dead the moment he leaves her.
And he must find Dean.
There were no secrets in Heaven. What Michael knew, all the angels soon knew. God was working on a new project, and it was gonna be big.
Most everyone seemed excited by the concept, and really, it was difficult not to be swept up in the swell of praise and jubilation that rang from the heavens. God is working! God is working! The last time He had settled down to 'work on something', He had created, well, existence.
So yes, Lucifer understood why there was much ado about this ambiguous 'project', but that still did not explain away the fact that he had been feeling rather odd as of late. He was curious, as everyone was curious, about what God had in store, but on the same token he was... something else entirely.
The emotion hadn't been created yet. There was no way to name what coiled inside his chest and threatened to sweep over him like a sickly tremble.
He ignored it. He had been doing that more and more often lately.
Instead, he turned his attention to his brother, letting the sweep and glide of the other's grace calm and soothe tired nerves. The Lightbringer spent veritably every waking moment with Michael, and though that wasn't a very common thing amongst the Heavenly Host, Lucifer could see it written plain as day on Michael's face that the Archangel hardly minded.
Their bond was deeper than blood. It was spirit.
There was a courtyard in Heaven that served as a sort of training ground for the warriors of God, and set in the middle of this courtyard was an arena where swordsmen fought for sport, sometimes with an audience of bright beings, sometimes just for practice. The ring was worn dirt, red flecks glimmering in shades of brown, and was surrounded by a circular stadium of stone bleachers. Pillars were scattered about the area, perfectly symmetrical, acting as a sort of barrier between the audience and the fight below.
Lucifer leaned against one of these such pillars, arms crossed, robe hanging limply across his thin body, and watched from the sidelines as his brother sliced and swayed to the rhythm of the song he had just taught him. Michael's sparring partner was fierce, certainly no lightweight, but really didn't stand much of a chance against the Archangel.
Michael wasn't called the Swordsman for nothing, after all.
They danced, wove around each other, both trailing beautiful designs in the dust with the tread of their feet. Lucifer focused on these designs, fascinated by the art created from a battle, but his attention was suddenly jerked back towards the fight when a clang of fire rang like thunder through the air.
Metal beating against metal had a distinctive, bright sound, and most of the angels used traditional steel or iron swords to have their fun.
But not his brother.
Lucifer couldn't help but quirk his lips up in a half-smile at the sight of his older sibling spinning around a sword made of nothing but a great raging flame. The handle was light itself, shining like the sun; the blade was honed silver, polished red, bursts of orange and flares of gold. He swung the dazzling weapon to and fro, reaching out as if it were an extension of his own arm. His motions were fluid, alluring, as he danced the most dangerous dance known to their kind.
The other angel held a sword similar, though the flame was not as large, and that mostly had to do with the willpower within him. Michael was a rock, solid and firm and confident, if not a little cocky. His sword answered in kind to his attitude - it was powerful, a force to be reckoned with.
When two metal swords clashed, it rung like the pitch of a bell.
When two flaming swords clashed, the sound was nothing short of a roar.
Back and forth, here and there, they swung and chopped and sliced and diced. Michael jabbed forward and his sparring partner side-stepped the blow. The other angel swept his arm in a sideways arch and Michael jumped back just out of reach. Wings spread like frightening emblems, testaments to their power.
The stranger's were grey, and they shook and rattled something fierce. Michael's were blinding white, but the shadow they cast seemed tinged in gold. His wingspan was a splash of morning colors, bright and grand and unbearably beautiful.
It took Lucifer's breath away to watch him fight, to see his fury behind smiling lips, the concentration that furrowed his brow.
A flap of wings, and soon Michael was up in the air. His initial ascent was quick and unexpected, leaving the other angel staring up at him in confusion. He did not stay in flight for long, jerking his wings to the side, then tilting his body and folding them to his ribcage to give him the kind of momentum he needed for a free-fall. The move was enacted swiftly, and the other angel had barely just enough time to raise his sword above his head in defense before spurts of flame clambered with his own blade and spit and hissed just above his head.
Michael fell directly in front of him, his feet making an indention in the ground, his arms raised in vengeance and his lips parted in a snarl.
The sight was magnificent, and just the thought of being on the receiving end of such glorious judgment brought a shiver to Lucifer's spine.
The fight ended then. The other angel lost his footing and crumpled to the ground. He nearly lost his balance and toppled backwards, but Michael jerked his sword out of the way and caught his hand just in time, hoisting him upwards with a friendly smile on his face.
Lucifer decided now was a good time to trot over.
"Good match, Uriel," he heard upon arriving at his brother's shoulder, then peered over at Michael before letting his iridescently blue eyes fall on the other angel.
"Uriel," he said as well, giving a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.
Uriel smiled at Lucifer before shaking the hand that still held onto his own and whispering soft words of Enochian to make his sword lose its flame.
"Lucifer," he said, sheathing his weapon in the scabbard at his side. "Always a pleasure. You came just in time to watch me let your brother win."
"Let me win?" Michael barked out, clapping a hand on Lucifer's shoulder before letting out a raucous laugh. Uriel's eyes strayed towards the hand briefly, at the spot where both angels conjoined, before flickering back towards Michael's unreasonably blue eyes. "I have to fight you like a fledgling just to keep your precious grace intact!"
"I suppose you picked up your technique from a fledgling as well," Uriel shot back, a half-smile on his lips.
"I still won," Michael said in sing-song, then wrapped his left arm fully around Lucifer's shoulders and lazily twirled his sword in his right.
Uriel bowed his head in acknowledgment, then side-stepped the two brothers and threw Michael an amused look. "I won't go so easy on you next time."
Michael gave another laugh, then watched Uriel exit the sparring grounds and turned his full attention to his little brother.
"So, what brings you to this side of Heaven today, Luc?"
"The same thing that brings me to this side of Heaven every day."
Lucifer looked pointedly at his brother, tilted his head, and Michael chuckled.
"The choir boys are that bad again, huh? I thought your drink gave them perfect pitch, or something."
The Lightbringer's eyes were smiling, but he couldn't help but sigh.
"It soothes their voices; it doesn't manipulate them."
"Huh." Michael gripped his brother's shoulder lightly and walked them over towards the bleachers. "Shame."
"You're insufferable," Lucifer said while sitting down.
"You say that every time I see you," Michael remarked while settling down beside him.
"I'm fond of the truth."
"You're fond of making me feel bad, is what you're fond of."
Lucifer couldn't help the hint of a smile that marred his otherwise stoic features. His brother took notice, but only nudged him on the shoulder and laughed again. Michael did that a lot - he was a rather merry angel to be so terribly vehement.
"I want to learn the sword," the younger brother said suddenly, without pretense, and looked over at the other.
Michael, at first, seemed confused. He thought perhaps he hadn't heard that right, because Lucifer, though glorious in his own right, was far from a warrior. He was more peace seeking than the dogs of Heaven, too genteel to dirty his hands with conflict, but the bright, hopeful look in his eyes caught and held the Archangel's attention.
"Why?"
Lucifer turned away, let his eyes drift across the somehow glistening dirt that was scarred by the recent spar waged on it.
"You look beautiful when you fight," he offered by way of explanation, and Michael, flattered, choked on a quick intake of air.
"If you looked any more dazzling, Luc, I'd call you vain."
Something clenched in Lucifer's stomach when he glanced over and saw Michael's profile. The other angel leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees, threaded his fingers together, and laid his chin atop them.
"Fine," he sighed, then glanced over at his younger brother and added almost reluctantly, "You will make a fine warrior."
Lucifer would prove as much, soon enough.