Angels Before Man

by Rafael Nicolás

Michael spoke, just as the level of the water had reached Lucifer’s hips: “Can I say something to you, Lucifer?” Lucifer, of course, stopped. ‘I am weak, so weak, I am the angel of weakness.’ “Of course.” He turned halfway, hugging his own body as if he could blanket it entirely with just his arms. Michael’s eyes were soft again. “When I asked of you, angels said to me that your beauty was so great, one could take a glance, but never stare. That your face alone was as dangerous as too much wine, that you made their heads hurt and their visions blur.” He laughed, shakily, as he moved closer; with a tug on his heart, Lucifer realized the other was horrifically nervous. “I learned that their words were true. When we wrestle, when we spend time together — the pain you give me is indescribable. But I also thought, ‘How terribly lonely that must be, to be so beautiful that others think of you a thorn.’” His arm extended out, fingers brushing against one of Lucifer’s wrists, before taking it. Michael pulled downward, making the other expose himself, then simply held him, rubbing his thumb over the veins. “And how worse it must be to think that of yourself.”