Fleetingly, their eyes met in the mirror, and Michael said, “No, don’t look at me.” Lucifer whispered his name, hadn’t meant to. “Look at yourself.” He did. “You’re beautiful. Lord — the most beautiful angel. The favorite angel.” Lucifer was trying to catch his breath, as if with both hands, but it slipped between his fingers. Michael’s kisses were sweet, soft and full, as if Lucifer were himself a gift, as if he were an adornment — or, as if he were meant to be adorned. As if he deserved songs too. “Can you see it now?”
