There are some that can be described forever — each strand of hair, every line on a knuckle — and surely, Lucifer could have seen himself doing that, even now. This was his, this is our, first drunkenness. This heat in his face, this rush; he was leaning forward, breaths refusing him. Lucifer uttered it delicately, feeling his lips shape around the name and tasting honey sweetness, “Michael, Michael, Michael.”
