JEAN-PIERRE

When he woke, it was to the sensation of a blade pressed against his throat, and he could feel the tiny teeth of its serrated edge against his skin. He felt his lips curve into a smile, and he sighed, leaning his head back into the hand fisted in his hair, gripping him tightly.

“Hello, Manoli,” he murmured, feeling the affection swell in his chest. “Are you going to slit my throat?”

“Not this morning,” Manolis purred in his ear, and with his other hand hooked two fingers into him, making Jean-Pierre gasp out a sharp noise. “But I might give you a pretty new smile another day.”

Jean-Pierre opened his eyes, turning to meet his gaze, but it wasn’t Manolis’ face that he saw, and he felt his mouth fall open. Bui was smiling at him, and suddenly, there was no harsh grip on his hair – Bui was gently stroking through the locks, combing his fingers through it, and he had Jean-Pierre held in his lap.

“Bui?” Jean-Pierre asked. “I thought…”

“I dropped a piece of my puzzle, the star. Do you know where it is?”

“It’s by my desk,” Jean-Pierre said, touching Bui’s cheek as he stood to his feet. “I’ll get it, I want to fetch my glass, anyway.” He leaned forward, pulling himself off of the couch where he’d been curled against Bui’s shoulder, and he padded into the other room, but the wooden piece wasn’t on the floor like he’d thought it had been.

Farhad was sitting at the desk, his chin rested on his hand, slumped forward as he looked at the sketches spread out before him – they were for the community garden, Jean-Pierre distantly remembered, for the youth centre. Farhad’s hair was thinning, and Jean-Pierre felt a quiet ache in his chest as he reached out, stroking his fingers down the other man’s back.

“Hi, baby,” Farhad murmured, reaching back and squeezing Jean-Pierre’s waist. “I’ve taken my AZT. You don’t need to nag.”

“Do I nag you?” Jean-Pierre asked, leaning to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“No,” Farhad murmured, and stood to his feet on slightly shaky legs. “You just look so sweetly concerned. I’m going to make tea – ask Benoit if he wants some, will you?”

“Benoit?” Jean-Pierre repeated, and turned his head.

Benoit glanced up from his sewing. Jean-Pierre had finished up his tunic, but he’d forgotten one of the buttons – it had fallen from the dish he’d been working from – and Benoit was finishing it up, although his fingers were slower and clumsier than Jean-Pierre’s, and Jean-Pierre already knew he would resew the button himself, once Benoit was home tonight.

“What’s wrong?” Benoit asked. “Distress doesn’t suit you, bijou.”

“Nothing, nothing,” Jean-Pierre said. “I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”

Jules was already heating it over the fire when he went into other room, and Jean-Pierre fell onto the rug beside the fire, wrapping his arms loosely around his waist and pressing his nose into Jules’ strong shoulders.

“Here I thought you were an angel,” Jules said. “But I see you are a monkey.”

“I missed you,” Jean-Pierre said softly, squeezing Jules tighter. In the other room, Marguerite was singing some silly song under her breath, and Jean-Pierre could hear the scattered sound of Anicroche’s paws upon the floor as she danced with him. “I miss you, Jules.”

There was a knife in his hand.

He could feel the weight of his armour, specially made for him, on his body, on his shoulders, clinging to his waist and thighs, and it felt incredibly comfortable even as the plates clicked against one another. The sunshine was warm on his face, and he gripped the dagger.

The speeches were still going.

So many of them, speech after speech after speech, and Jean-Pierre looked out over the gathered crowd, hundreds upon hundreds of them, thousands, all watching so raptly, paying such keen attention, although Jean-Pierre wondered how they could when his armour was shining like this. Didn’t it hurt their eyes? Didn’t it hurt their eyes looking at the burning flame that was Jean-Pierre – and at the burn of Rupert, too, who needed no armour to shine?

His uncle was lowering the crown onto his head with two hands, and the crowd was cheering so very loudly – the knife was a comfortable weight in his hand.

Cheering for a coronation.

Who could be so mad as to cheer at that?

“I will strive to be worthy of, to truly live up to, the trust you have each placed in me today – with all my soul, I vow to you, I will strive to be a true and honest king, a king worthy of you.”

True. Honest. Good.

How could a king be any of those?

A king was—

“You know my fiancé, Jean-Pierre Delacroix, each and every one of you – we share our ideals as one mind, and likewise, we share a love for you, for all the people of this fine nation, now crowned with a new legitimacy. Jean-Pierre, will you—”

Rupert’s throat opened so smoothly, so easily, under the blade of Jean-Pierre’s knife – it was ceremonial, but it was well-honed, and he was impressed with that. His handsome brown eyes were so very wide, full to the brim with betrayal, and he gurgled, reaching up to clutch for his throat, but Jean-Pierre had cut it so deeply it gaped open, cut back until he could see the bone.

The silence lasted only a moment, and then, such chaos there was – such screaming, so many hands on his body, grabbing at his wings, his arms, his hair.

Too late.

Rupert hit the floor, and Jean-Pierre expected the drop of his body to make a noise, but there was none – the thud was silent, and he heard only the roar of the crowd in his ears, and he laughed faintly as they dragged his armour off of him, because it was his armour. They’d given it to him.

“You gonna watch me die too, sweetheart?” Aimé asked, his breath hot in Jean-Pierre’s ear, as they looked at all the bodies together. It was wrong, somehow, Jean-Pierre knew it was wrong, that there was something deeply incorrect about it all. There was a painful tug in his chest as he looked at each coffin, but the bodies weren’t laid out correctly, weren’t right.

Jules was laid in the pyjamas he had died in, his hair very white and thin on his head, his wrinkles seeming oddly pronounced; Manolis’ chest was open where the shot had wrenched the flesh, and Rupert’s torn throat was still seeping blood; Bui looked so pale and sick, the sweat still on his skin;  Benoit’s face was lopsided from the stroke, but he remembered, he remembered, they’d covered his face—

He looked away from Farhad in his hospital gown, and when he cried, Aimé laughed at him, cupping his cheeks.

“Gonna kill me too, Jean?” Aimé asked.

“No,” Jean-Pierre said. “No, I wouldn’t, I would never—”

“You killed Rupert.”

“No, I mean, I did, yes, but you do not understand, Aimé, it was an execution, it was for the good of the people—”

“Did you wait until after the crown was on his head so you’d score more points with Colm?” Aimé asked softly, a smile on his face, and Jean-Pierre was really crying now, the tears streaming down his face, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself. “Seven points for a ruling monarch, isn’t it? Did it feel good to kill him?”

“Aimé, Aimé, don’t, don’t—”

“Me next, sweetheart,” Aimé said, and tugged the knife up against his own throat, pulled it against the skin until blood beaded to the surface, and Jean-Pierre shook his head, sobbed for him not to—

“Jean,” Aimé said, “Jean, Jean, I have you, I have you, sweetheart, you’re okay, you’re okay, hey—”

Jean-Pierre was gasping as he came awake, so hot he felt like he was burning, the sweat soaking his skin, and he grabbed for Aimé, tried to get closer to him, to hold him. Aimé kept hushing him with nonsense words, holding him tightly, letting Jean-Pierre wrap more firmly around his chest, and he cradled the back of Jean-Pierre’s head.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Aimé whispered against the side of his temple, all but rocking Jean-Pierre in his lap, “I have you, ange, I’ve got you, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

The door opened suddenly, sharply, clattering against the back wall, and Jean-Pierre choked on his next sob as he buried his face more firmly against Aimé’s shoulder.

“He just woke up like this,” Aimé said, sounding panicked, “I don’t know what to do, Colm, I—”

“It’s a nightmare, he’ll be okay. Gimme a sec, I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

“It won’t make him sick?”

“A little is okay,” Colm said. “You’ll want it too.”

Jean-Pierre was shivering, felt freezing cold, and he whimpered a complaint as Aimé lifted him up out of bed, gripping at him tighter.

“No, I’m not putting you down, sweetheart, I promise,” Aimé said, carrying him across the room and leaning on the door of the bathroom, holding Jean-Pierre up with one hand so he could turn the dial for the shower. “You’re soaking, we just need to get you washed up, okay? You don’t want to stay sweaty.”

Jean-Pierre shuddered in a gasp as Aimé pulled him under the hot spray, leaning back against one of the shelves and holding Jean-Pierre awkwardly in his lap, letting the hot water wash over them both. Aimé’s hands were gentle as he kept himself braced against the wall, reaching up to wash his hands through Jean-Pierre’s hair.

Aimé’s sleep shirt and pyjama bottoms were soaked with the water and clinging to him, and Jean-Pierre absently cupped Aimé’s chest.

“Again with my tits,” Aimé said, and Jean-Pierre hiccoughed, but then he laughed, breathlessly. “That’s what I like to hear,” Aimé said softly. “I love that laugh, Jean. You’re okay, see? Nice and warm, and I have you, I’ve got you. Nothing to be scared of.”

Aimé was holding him tightly, one arm wound around his waist as he washed soap over his body with the other hand, and Jean-Pierre breathed in the hot steam from the shower, feeling it wash out his blocked nose.

“I have nightmares too sometimes,” Aimé was babbling, talking in a low voice as though he had no idea what to say next, and was just saying whatever first came to mind, “bet mine are worse than yours. Yours don’t have my mother in them.”

Jean-Pierre giggled softly, and he touched Aimé’s throat, feeling where the skin was healthy and smooth and not cut at all, and Aimé laughed too, rubbing his back.

“You okay?” Aimé asked, cupping his cheek. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Jean-Pierre whispered. “Just a nightmare.”

“Just a nightmare,” Aimé agreed, and kept scrubbing him down. “That’s all, sweetheart, just a nightmare.”

Jean-Pierre remembered the first time Jules had bathed him as Aimé continued to wash him down. The water hadn’t been warm like this, and there hadn’t been so much soap – it had been in the river, freezing cold water as Jean-Pierre had complained and whined the entire time, and afterward, Jules had put his mouth on him for the first time.

Aimé didn’t do that, but for once, Jean-Pierre wasn’t really in the mood.

Jean-Pierre let himself he towelled down, and instead of Jean-Pierre’s silk kimono, Aimé wrapped him in one of the cardigans Asmodeus had left instead, and he carried Jean-Pierre downstairs, held him tightly even though Jean-Pierre would be perfectly capable of walking himself, if he wanted to.

Colm started to pour a mug of hot chocolate, but Aimé put Jean-Pierre down for a moment and told him to stop, and Jean-Pierre watched, chest aching, as Aimé pulled a bowl down from the cupboard and poured it into that instead, bringing it over for he and Jean-Pierre to share.

Colm came and sat on the sofa with them, curled against Jean-Pierre’s other side, and they held him until he stopped shaking.

 *     *     *

JEAN-PIERRE

Jean-Pierre sat quietly, wrapped loosely in a blanket, and watched Bedelia and George work.

He hadn’t had any further nightmares after the other night, although he’d slept uneasily the night previous – it was a Saturday morning, and Aimé had been spending the past few days working at home. He had a lot of reading to get through, on top of some mid-term tests, and he had promised Jean-Pierre to wear whatever Halloween costume Jean wanted so long as Jean-Pierre spent the next week or so encouraging him to study – which this weekend he was doing by being absent.

Aimé had chided him for distracting him from the next room as Jean-Pierre had been cutting apples, and Jean-Pierre had laughed as Aimé hoisted him up onto the counter top, tugging Aimé’s pyjama bottoms, already very loose around Jean’s waist, down his legs.

His mere presence, according to Aimé, was a distraction too enticing to ignore, and the thought made Jean-Pierre smile.

“So we let the dough rest for a while, which helps it dry out,” Bedelia said, rolling dough between her palms, and Jean-Pierre watched the smooth, easy movement of her hands, and then he looked to George’s face, his rapt, focused gaze as he paid attention to her. “We roll it out with the pin – you use oil, not flour, okay? To keep the dough from sticking. We make a disc, and then we cut it in two, and then we have the filling…”

Bedelia carefully held the samosa in the palm of her hand, taking it by the corners to fold it into a little, triangular parcel, and then she set it aside.

“Your turn,” she said softly, and George rushed to take up some of the softly yellow dough himself, beginning to roll it between his palms. He didn’t make such a neat, perfect circle on the chopping board as Bedelia did, its edges uneven and made of different thicknesses, but Bedelia corrected it for him.

He overfilled the samosa.

Pádraic’s hand settled as a heavy weight on Jean-Pierre’s shoulder, and he squeezed hard at the muscle there, making Jean-Pierre let out a pinched sound of pain, followed by a soft sigh, and he leaned into Pádraic’s arm, letting the other man curl his fingers in Jean-Pierre’s hair.

He looked up at Pádraic, and he watched Pádraic’s hand make the sign for Aimé’s name that Bedelia had given him, touching his chest before asking where he was.

“He’s got an exam in class on Monday – he’s studying.”

An exam? Pádraic asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. Isn’t it early?

 “It’s just an MCQ – multiple choice. He’s studying between painting, going back and forth between the canvas and the page.”

Pádraic nodded his head, turning away from Jean-Pierre for a moment to watch George and Bedelia, to watch George carefully copying Bedelia’s movements to fold more samosas and set them onto the plate. Turning back to Jean-Pierre, he signed, Colm says he’s a good painter. That he uses…

Jean-Pierre watched the movement of Pádraic’s hands, shaking his head. “He uses?”

Pádraic moved his hand again, spelling the word, and Jean-Pierre looked to Bedelia and George.

“Oils,” George supplied helpfully. “Oil paints.”

“Oh,” Jean-Pierre said, and gave Pádraic a warm smile. “Yes, he paints with oils – in his painting area, he has very tall shelves with little cube-shaped recesses for all his different paint tubes, and he keeps everything stacked so neatly. He stores all of the colours in the world in that studio, you know.”

Pádraic arched his eyebrows, disbelief showing in his face.

“What?” he asked.

Aimé? Pádraic signed. Neat?

Jean-Pierre laughed, and Colm turned around from the kitchen, looking between the two of them. He was smiling already as he asked, “What? What did he say?”

Pádraic signed rapidly, and Colm laughed.

“He keeps his studio very tidy,” Jean-Pierre murmured. “There are a few paint stains, but everything has its place in his studio – he’s so meticulous. Soaks his brushes, sorts them by size and material, and his paints are sorted by shade, and I have tested him, you know – if you move a few tubes of paint about, swap their positions, he notices immediately, and sets them right again. He doesn’t recall the names of his canvases, but he puts them in order so that they can dry properly, and he sorts them so that he knows much longer they need to cure.

“Aimé says that curing a painting is like letting wine mature. You might have finished its process, but it must be left alone for a time before it is fit to be tasted.” He was aware of the softness, the fondness, in his own voice, and Pádraic looked down at him, a small smile on his face.

“I can read your hands to some extent, Paddy, but it is beyond me to read meaning in your face,” Jean-Pierre said.

Pádraic inhaled through his nose, sighed, and then signed something. It was smooth, easy, and Jean-Pierre read the word “like”, or “good”, maybe, that something was good, but he couldn’t quite follow the rest.

“He says it’s nice,” Bedelia said, “to hear someone talk about a person they love. Daddy!” She protested as Colm started laughing, and Jean-Pierre looked between the two of them, baffled.

What? Pádraic signed innocently.

“He said, even if he’s a prick,” George said.

“You’ve barely met him,” Jean-Pierre chided, and Pádraic shrugged his great shoulders, stepping across the room and touching the top of Bedelia’s hair as he went into the kitchen with Colm, starting to wash the dishes. Jean-Pierre didn’t miss the way the old man’s disapproving gaze lingered on Bedelia’s hands, gently guiding George’s own, touching his fingers.

Bedelia was gentle about it, but George let out a soft, giggled sound, and if skin was lighter, Jean-Pierre expected that the flush would be visible in his cheeks and at the top of his ears as he wriggled in his place.

Jean-Pierre wondered what it would feel like, if he drew back the enchantments he’d painted on his skin a few months ago, dampening his empathy, to feel the emotions between them. George always looked giddy these days, when Bedelia looked at him and they spent time together, Jean-Pierre knew – Bedelia had brought George into one of her lectures, one about anatomy, and George had fainted when the lecturer had showed video of a heart beating.

He’d seen on Facebook the video of her carrying him out, apologising as she lifted him over one of her shoulders and took him into the hallway to bring him around again.

Engineered mechanics were a delight for George – biological mechanics were a different matter entirely, it seemed.

Bedelia was cupping George’s cheek now, and Jean-Pierre watched George’s eyes flit down to the front of Bedelia’s breast, the cleavage she showed with her floral dress, before rapidly, ashamedly, rushing to look at her face again. Bedelia laughed, glancing to make sure her father’s back was turned, and then titled George’s head down.

This made George laugh, slapping her hand away and leaning back, blinking rapidly and squirming as he tried to stifle his laughter.

Some biological mechanics were more suited to George than others.

It was not at all unusual for angels to take up with one another – Jean-Pierre had slept with other angels in his time, and he’d known other angels to get married to one another. It wasn’t tremendously common, but nor was it wholly taboo – a few people within the Embassy were uncomfortable with it, but Jean-Pierre had never heard a convincing argument as to why.

They were more likely to be upset that Bedelia had Fallen as an infant, instead of the way most of them Fell.

Colm’s phone began to vibrate on the table, and Jean-Pierre looked to him as he wiped his hands on a dish towel, pulling it up and holding it to his ear. “Colm anseo.” Jean-Pierre watched his brother’s face as he listened to the person on the other end of the line, his expression turning serious.

Jean-Pierre slowly stood to his feet, neatly folding his blanket and setting it back down.

“We need the rifles this time?” he asked as he passed his brother by, stepping through the ajar pantry door.

“Knives only – pack your pick set and my burglary kit.”

“D’accord,” Jean-Pierre said, and pulled back the hatch.

*     *     *

AIMÉ

It was mercifully not raining as he cycled back to his apartment on Monday evening. It had been raining on and off all day, the rain a constant rhythm on the roof outside as he’d gone to his lectures, taken a few mid-term tests. He’d handed in two of his big essays last night, and he still had work to do, but he didn’t have another test until Thursday, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he spent the night at the angels’ tonight.

He whistled under his breath as he came up to his apartment, ready to drop his bag off and pick up the Carménère he’d left on the counter before cycling out again, but when he stepped into the studio, the lights were already on.

“Jean?” he asked, looking around as he dropped his satchel, but it wasn’t Jean that stepped out of the kitchen, and Aimé felt his chest twist.

His father stood straight, his expression serious, and after they stood together for a moment, staring at one another, he said, with a vague gesture at the room, “It’s very clean. Tidy. Your new girlfriend do this?”

“What are you doing here?” Aimé asked, pulling a few of the books out of his bag and stacking them loosely on one of the counters, leaving his laptop inside as he moved past his father and picked the bottle off of the counter.

“We haven’t heard from you,” his father said lowly. “You know Cliona Deely? She’s in your course. Mentioned to her father you’d been dating, and he mentioned it to me. Thought I’d check in.”

“Wanted to see if I’d be getting married, you mean?” Aimé asked, arching an eyebrow. “See if I’d make myself useful for once and get you some grandchildren?”

The faux-cordial expression on his father’s face faded, and his expression soured. His lips thinned into a line, and then he said, “You’ve been ignoring your mother’s calls. She’s been upset.”

“I’ll call this week,” Aimé said. “That it?”

“You don’t want to tell me about this new girl?” his father said.

“He’s not a girl,” Aimé said.

The expression on his father’s face was interesting. Rage showed on his expression, flared in his eyes, but then it went cool and quiet, and he set his jaw, although his lip curled in disgust.

“I see,” he said. “Is that what this is about?” He gestured to his own mouth, and Aimé stared at him, uncomprehending. “Oh, don’t play coy with me, Aimé – you go from drink to drugs to cutting yourself for attention, and now, you take up with some boy? Let him do some debauched sex charm on your mouth? What is it, a piercing?”

Aimé shouted out vaguely as his father grabbed him by the jaw, forcing his mouth open so that he could look at his tongue, even as Aimé felt the base fall out of his stomach, felt like he was going to be sick, so much rage bubbled up in him all at once.

“It’s none of your— fuck, it’s none of your fucking business, Christ,” Aimé snapped, shoving his father’s hands off.

“What is it?” his father demanded, trying to grab for him again, but he had none of the strength Aimé did, and he couldn’t overpower him no matter how he tried. “An enchantment on the skin, do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Always so cavalier with—”

“It’s to help me stop smoking,” Aimé spat out, trying to convince himself of it, trying to convince himself that it was okay even as he played the last few weeks over and over again in his head, of Jean-Pierre sitting behind him with a frame and scratching him for allergies, of Jean-Pierre pouting out his lips and seeming so fucking concerned—

And he’d known it.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he wasn’t stupid, Aimé knew, had known, had never stopped knowing, but he hadn’t been able to really seriously consider it when he’d not known how Jean-Pierre might have actually done it, and now he touched his fingers to the front of his lip.

When? How?

It was enchantment, yes, sure, but on the inside of his mouth – had Jean-Pierre done it while he was asleep? While he was drunk? Knocked him out?

His skin was crawling.

“Aimé—”

“I need to go,” Aimé said, pulling up his bag again with a shaking hand, feeling pale and drawn and incandescent with rage. “I’ll call Ma in the week.”

“Aimé!”

Aimé didn’t even look back at his father, feeling the burn in his eyes, the desperate ache in his chest, and the whole of the ride to the angels’ house, he cycled too hard, so hard that his thighs hurt, his calves hurt, his knees hurt, his hands hurt from gripping the handlebars too hard, and he couldn’t fucking stand it, couldn’t fucking stand himself.

Boxing, painting, reading, watching Rome or Downton Abbey or whatever the fuck else Jean-Pierre was watching, and the whole time, the whole time—

And the worst part of it, really, was the part of him that said it was all okay. That was the part of him that had ignored it in the first place, had told him not to think about too deeply, not to dwell on it, because it wouldn’t help, and how would it help? Why would he do it if not because he cared about you? He cares, he cares, he loves you, he doesn’t want you to smoke, he doesn’t want you to die—

He grit his teeth so hard he could hear them creak.

He caught his bag as he dropped his bike in the front yard with a clatter on the path, the gravel crunching under his path as he slammed his fist against the door. He had a key – it didn’t matter anyway, because they never fucking locked it – but it felt good, to slam the side of his fist again and again against the wood.

Jean-Pierre answered, and Aimé opened his mouth to start screaming, to call the angel every fucking name under the son, to shout until his throat bled, but as he stared at l’ange, the breath felt like it was pulled out of his lungs.

Blood was spattered, thick and red on Jean-Pierre’s face, and although some blood dripped from his already-healed nose and stained his mouth, the majority of it wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s own.

His white blouse was brown with thick, congealed blood and gore, so that it stuck to his skin, and his trousers were ripped, a cut on his thigh already scabbing over and healing, but blood dripped from him onto his stupid welcome mat printed with the Arc de Triomphe, and hanging loosely from his hand was a rifle, a dagger stuffed through his belt, visibly having been used.

It was remarkable, how swiftly anger could turn to terror.

Taking in a shaky, painful breath, feeling his eyes wide, his hands trembling even more at his sides, Aimé got halfway through leaning back with a move to step away, but Jean-Pierre’s mildly surprised face morphed into one of delight.

“Aimé!” he said joyfully, as though this was normal, as though this was standard, as though it was perfectly natural that he should be covered in the evidence of other people’s murder, and before Aimé could say anything, protest, even breathe, Jean-Pierre kissed him.

Aimé’s eyes closed, and he tasted someone else’s blood as Jean-Pierre pulled him close.