Chapter Text
He’s fallen into a mood.
A sort of funk, if you will. He supposes it’s only natural—y’know, with Hell and all—but it sucks. And Adam almost wants to hate himself for it, because Michael’s in more pain than he’ll ever know and here he is—biting the inner skin of his lip because reality’s decided to slip through his fingers like sand. Again.
Adam wishes it wouldn’t. He’s got enough on his mind without his brain deciding that nothing and everything might be real all at once and the world could still go out like a light at any moment, that it’d get him nowhere to let his guard down because then he’d just end up tripping over his own two feet and vanishing down into some hole that he’d never, ever be able to come out of, and—
Hm.
Michael notices, because they’ve taken to noticing nearly everything about each other now. Even when they aren’t prying. Adam can always tell when Michael’s thinking about his brothers—can even tell which brother he’s thinking about, since he knows what to look for—but if Michael doesn’t want to open up about it, then Adam never pushes him. It goes both ways; Adam knows that Michael knows that he’s been acting off, but other than a bit of hovering Michael had never pried.
Adam appreciates it, as he always does.
But his mind feels like it’s twisting and turning until he's nearly choking on the current of thoughts swirling in his head, and he doesn’t realize that he’s suddenly standing up until he catches sight of blue eyes quizzically locked on him; just shy of concerned, really, but who's detailing?
Adam stares back for a few moments, feeling a little of the tension in his body bleed out at the familiar gaze, but it's not enough.
"I'm gonna, uh, go out for a sec," he blurts out, and he has just enough time to see Michael's expression shift to that mild sort of surprise he usually outwardly displays before he's surging upwards, towards the place he knows to be the center point of his body.
He could, if he wanted, assume control of it. There's no one piloting it right now—he could just hop in. Move his arms and his legs, twist his head, wiggle his toes and fingers. He wonders what it'd be like, what that would feel like, after so many centuries of being woefully discarnate.
He doesn't do it.
Instead, he hangs back just the slightest bit, just out of reach from everything that would let him make his body move and function once more, and peers out of his already-open eyes at the Cage. It's the same as ever; reinforced metal surrounding him on all sides, remnants of destroyed sigils scattered across the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
No sign of Lucifer.
He isn't sure what he expected, but the sight of the Cage—it's a relief, almost. A sign that this is real, that he is in Hell, that the life he'd had on Earth wasn't just some assortment of fictional ideas made up by his patched-up little mind to give him a sense of self.
There's a wave, an oncoming storm, and then Michael is at the forefront with him, his grace abuzz with tangible concern as he settles lightly around Adam's soul.
Are you okay?
He pauses, sighing—well, he makes the sound of a sigh, at least—and keeps his view focused on the opposite wall.
I just… he struggles for words, considering the idea of just opening his entire sense of being up for Michael to look through and understand before he remembers the crinkled eyes of the archangel’s smile and crosses it off the list. It doesn’t feel real, sometimes. Being here. Sometimes it feels like this is the only place I’ve ever been, y’know? I mean, I was what—eighteen, nineteen, when we first fell down here? And it's been...centuries.
Michael is quiet as Adam lets words tumble from his side of the link, the concern ebbing away into a feeling of comfort that begins to trickle through his soul like a soothing balm.
I don’t—I just wanted to see. This. All of it. I wanted to make sure.
Did you? Michael asks, and Adam’s mind flits, once more, to the space that Lucifer would have taken up. There’s nothing but empty; nothing but metal and symbols.
Regardless of how much his mind would ever be able to fuck itself up, Adam knows that there used to be another archangel here. Has felt the agony of his blows, the energy that dug into his flesh that had added to the initial torment of Hell until he’d pleaded with everything he could think of for death.
If only he’d known how much worse it could get.
But there’s only two where there used to be three, and there were voices that had come to take that third person away, and—
I think so.
Lucifer’s absence, the voices that had come to cause that absence—even the Cage, with its roughed-up edges from the release of the Darkness—they were all real.
Thinking of the Darkness makes him think of Michael’s scream, though, and he’d shudder if he could. Instead, he feels Michael’s energy slowly begin to sweep him back down into his mind, and he watches the sight of the Cage until it compresses into black and the image of the bedroom—his bedroom, he remembers, his bedroom—manifests around them once more.
Funnily enough, he finds himself standing directly on top of his bed. He doesn’t think that the ceiling had been this tall before. He’s pretty sure that his head would be halfway embedded in the ceiling, otherwise.
Huffing out a small laugh, he glances down at his feet and then up at Michael, who’s standing on the ground next to the bed. “I think your landing was a little off.”
Michael raises his eyebrows, and silent conviviality sparkles lightly across his cheeks, his eyes, his lips as he mirrors Adam’s glances; down at his own feet and then up to meet his eyes once more. “Actually, my landing was fine. It’s yours that’s a little off.”
Adam, following the ancient instincts of the child he’s pretty sure he once was, sticks his tongue out at him and lets himself spring upwards, kicking his feet out so he lands on the bed with his ass instead. The mattress bounces under him, the memory of his mom telling him cut it out, you’re gonna break it! igniting like a warm candle in his chest, and the long-lost sound of her voice brings the smallest of smiles to his face.
The rough edges of his mind are still buzzing with static, crackling like aluminum foil with the intensity that his thoughts hit him with, and Adam feels the question humming in tandem with everything else in the back of his brain, somewhere close to his throat—the question of Will it always be like this? Am I going to be like this forever?
He sees no reason why he wouldn’t be. It makes him swallow, like he’s trying to choke down the static with it, and pulls the corners of his mouth back down—old curtains coming to block out the faint light streaming through a dirty window.
There’s a hand, suddenly, laying lightly on his shoulder.
Adam looks up, his own hand instinctively coming up to grasp it before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, and he feels it prickling through every inch of skin on his body when Michael’s palm turns, coming away from his shoulder to fold his warm fingers around his; their linked appendages rest gently on his collarbone and it makes him wonder where it’s been a second or a decade that’s passed them by as he gazes blankly upwards.
When had Michael even walked over to stand at his side? Maybe he’d just teleported or something.
There’s a distinct sensation of empathy radiating from the core of the archangel’s grace—understanding, in its purest form—and it makes Adam sigh, eyes falling back down to his lap as he shifts his weight to lean his head against the proffered arm. Michael remains a steadfast, mellow warmth.
“Do you miss your dad?” he lets out without thinking, suddenly feeling more like an insignificant child than he had back in the days of eternal war and poisonous isolation. “Or just—Heaven? You had lots of brothers and sisters, right?”
“I do,” Michael sighs in return, and he sounds tired again. “The angels—they were more soldiers, than anything. My army—my Father’s army,” he quickly amends, and Adam shushes the sardonic chuckle that threatens to come bursting from his throat.
It isn’t His army if He isn’t around, old man, he wants to say. He doesn’t. Michael loves God too much for that.
“But my brothers—Raphael and Gabriel,” the archangel huffs, bitterness staining his tone. “Lucifer. I loved them.”
The mention of Lucifer is like a tender wound, even after all the years down here; soundless anguish that reverberates through the threads of his grace like footsteps down an empty hallway. Adam isn’t sure which dimly-lit corner of his dusty mind it comes from, but he gets the abrupt notion that people—including archangels—are easier to love from a distance. He certainly hadn’t felt this when Lucifer had been down here, when he and Michael were going to town in an effort to tear the other apart.
He wonders what makes love worse—distance, or closeness?
“So you love him, but you don’t care about him.”
“No. No, I suppose I don’t. Not anymore.”
Michael’s love for Raphael and Gabriel is something long-lost, something distant and nostalgic. It’s still tinged with bitterness, of course, but Adam thinks that it’s almost entirely swallowed up in the love that burns dark—a savage, unyielding mixture of biting hurt and acidic fury—for Lucifer.
Adam doesn’t understand it. He doubts he ever will; how someone could wish for nothing but to see the other ripped to shreds and call it love is beyond him. How someone could want to do the ripping with their own hands, even more so.
He isn’t sure if it’s an archangel thing or a human thing, and he isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.
Maybe it’s both, in all the wrong ways.
“And my Father…” Michael continues, voice returning to its solemn state, “Of course I miss Him. He’s my Father,” he explains, like that says it all.
It doesn’t, but Adam is tired, and he squeezes Michael’s hand to show that he’s heard.
“My mom and I,” he offers, in lieu of a proper response. “We used to go out in the backyard to catch fireflies when I was little. It was only for...a month or two during the summer, I think? ‘Cause Minnesota’s cold and all. But we’d make a competition out of it. See who could catch the most, y’know?”
Michael hums in agreement. Adam can’t remember whether he’s told this before or not—he probably has, if he thinks about it—but even if he hadn’t, Michael had probably already seen it when he’d filtered through his old memories to fix them. Even still, he doesn’t say a word about it.
“I remember—she’d always get more than me, but she’d pretend like she wouldn’t. So I’d feel better, right? ‘Cause I was five or six. And I remember that I read somewhere about trapping them in a jar, so they’d light up someone’s room at night. And—” he chuckles. The smile hasn’t returned, not really, but his face isn’t exactly frowning, either. “I woke my mom up crying in the middle of the night on one of her days off because I had a nightmare about it. That I’d, uh, trapped all the fireflies. And they’d all died.”
Then, he shakes his head, trying to clear it of the rapidly-spiraling thoughts. What he doesn’t anticipate is becoming hyper-aware of the fact that Michael’s thumb has started sweeping softly against his skin; a familiar gesture, if he’s ever felt one.
When had Michael even started doing that? Adam hadn’t even registered it. It had just been there —something normal, something natural.
Except now that he was aware of it, it was anything but.
“Sorry, that got...dark.”
“We’re in Hell.”
Adam snorts, caught suddenly off-guard by the minimal trace of deadpan amusement in the archangel’s voice, and turns his head back up to look at him.
“Fair enough. I take it back,” he manages a microscopic grin. “D’you think that demons ever walk into walls ‘cause everything’s so dark?”
He hopes he stops trying to be funny in the future. It isn’t working out for him.
Then again, what did it matter?
But Michael glances down, straight at their intertwined hands, and it’s all Adam can do to kick his mental processes back into gear. Distantly, he notices the soothing pulse that the archangel keeps sending out—over and over again, until it almost reminds Adam of a flowing river—and he finally perceives the way that the sound of crumpling aluminum foil has grown quieter in his brain. It hasn’t disappeared, but it’s...softer. Less overwhelming.
“Well,” he says. “Not everything.”
Adam thinks he can be forgiven for the sudden aversion of his own eyes, the lowering of his chin, the way he rests his head against Michael’s arm once more and tries pointedly—with all of his might—not to think too much into it.
After all, there was a lightbulb right above them.
Even if Michael was looking down.
“Kid—”
“No, no, wait, listen, I’m right, aren’t I?”
Michael is giving him the most disbelieving stare he’s ever seen, something equal parts wholly amused and weirded out that makes Adam’s face split into a wide, cheeky grin. “I don’t…”
“If Hell exists everywhere, and we fell into Hell through a portal in Kansas, then that means we may or may not still be in America, right? And since I’m still...uh, alive, that means that I’m still a citizen. Right? So, so, theoretically, I’m committing tax evasion. Well,” he pauses, letting his expression turn into a mock frown, “I mean, I guess since I don’t have a job, I don’t have to pay—?”
He cuts himself off laughing when Michael’s face begins to screw up in confusion, like he genuinely can’t believe what he’s hearing is real.
They’re sitting on the couch again, Adam leaning with his back against the right armrest and his knees drawn up to his chest, wrapping his arms lazily around them as his body shakes with its little fit. Michael’s leaning on the left armrest—feet on the floor, of course—peering at him like he’s not sure whether to join him or check him for hallucinations again. But Adam’s mind is clear, surprisingly, and even with the weariness that comes with the constant static plaguing his brain he’d somehow managed to work himself up into a lighthearted mood.
Which meant, of course, that he had to do his absolute best to mess with the resident archangel.
It definitely wasn’t just because Michael was easy to mess with. To be fair, Adam was sort of pulling words out of his ass—even he hadn’t been able to figure out what he was talking about a few times, throwing words around like he was—but it was still worth it to spout gibberish if it made Michael start shaking his head in even more bemusement than he already was.
His laughter eventually tapers down, but the smile remains firmly plastered on his face, matching the crooked one that’s made its way onto Michael’s. Another thought comes to his mind, one that threatens to send him into another round of hysterics, and Adam can tell that Michael’s caught on to the second burst of amusement that he knows must be radiating from his soul when a single eyebrow of his raises in question.
“Okay, so—hear me out, here—is Jesus your half-brother? Because I gotta say, that seems like it’d be one hell of a family dinner. You sit down to eat and all your water turns into wine!”
Both of Michael’s eyebrows shoot up, both unbelieving and indicative of the humor still flitting like a hummingbird across his features, and he doesn’t get a chance to even try and respond before Adam’s laughing again.
There are fiery bubbles that are beginning to soar within him at the sight of the archangel’s face; he almost wants to internally plead with them for the briefest of moments— don’t ruin this for me, I’m just trying to enjoy what I can in Hell, come on, leave me alone —but instead, they almost seem to add to his hilarity, rising from his chest to his throat and out of his mouth in the form of jocund peals. It’s almost enough to let himself sink down into the feeling, because—to his surprise—he wants to.
The idea is...inviting.
It isn’t like they’re doing any harm, right? They’re just there. And as long as he doesn’t pay them too much mind, as long as he manages to wrangle his own mind into some sort of working order, it should stay that way.
“You...” Michael says, and Adam feels his grin widen as the archangel shakes his head again, seeming completely and utterly at a loss for words. He seems to draw a blank, though, and simply settles for a look akin to one of overfond gaiety that Adam can practically feel etching itself permanently into the back of his eyelids.
It’s just about control, he realizes. Control.
And, well—he’d held out long enough when it came to his hallucinations, didn’t he? This should be a piece of cake in comparison.
He, with his shoulders still shaking with fits of giggles, settles into the sensation and lets the bubbles spread through his skin, following the pathways of his bloodstream in ways that send gentle flashes of warmth alight in his veins. It doesn’t feel irrepressible, like he would’ve expected; instead, it’s just...there, rushing into each nook and cranny of his body like water filling up a once-dried river. Like it’s supposed to be there.
Intrinsic.
Michael’s grace flutters with something equally warm, though; something a little mystified, a little mirthful, a little fond. It dances on Adam’s soul like the beating of a hawk’s wings instead of bubbles.
It’s almost enough to make him wonder what kind of grave he’s just dug for himself; if the flowers at his funeral will be colorful or rotted.
“Close your eyes.”
“Hm?” Adam looks up from their board game, which he’s losing at. Michael’s figure isn’t giving anything away, and neither is his grace.
“Close your eyes,” Michael repeats, and Adam holds up the game piece in his hands.
“Now? Aren’t we in the middle of something?”
A twinkle of Michael’s eyes and the game is gone, game piece included. Adam’s pointer finger and thumb hit each other as they try to grab on to something that isn’t there. “I don’t think so.”
Adam sends him a wry grin, finally closing his eyes and dropping his arm back down to rest next to his other one on the table. “Alright, alright. What’s this about, anyway?”
“You’ll see.”
He feels the familiar shift of his mind around him, blocked out by the backs of his eyelids. It’s always a little different when Michael does it—more precise, instead of the vague shapes and images that Adam somehow manages to piece together when he alternates between his house and the park. He doesn’t open his eyes.
“Oh, are we going somewhere new? Can I open my eyes, or are we gonna play twenty questions?” Curiosity is beginning to build in his chest, and he gets the feeling that he might have to cover his eyes with his palms if he wants to stop himself from cracking his eyes open to get a sneak peek.
He also doesn’t really like the feeling of staring at darkness, a swirling void painted on a black canvas, but—Michael wouldn’t do something like that to him. Make him uncomfortable for no reason, he means.
Adam trusts that he wouldn’t.
So he puts his hands together and waits, stroking the back of one of his thumbs with the other as he feels images continue to shape and warp around him.
“Not yet,” Michael replies, so Adam—naturally—takes that as an opportunity to play twenty questions. He could use the noise.
“‘Kay. Is whatever you’re making, uh...blue?”
“What?”
“Does it have the color blue in it?”
The archangel pauses for a moment, like he’s considering something, and then— “No.”
“Is it a place on Earth?”
“No.”
Interesting. “Is it in the solar system?”
“No,” Michael says, but this time his voice sounds closer, like he’s walking over. Then, Adam feels fingers against the crown of his head, running through his hair almost idly, and he latches on to the sensation like a lifeline as he automatically leans back into it, like a reflex. Which is stupid, since Michael’s only done this once before. It directs his attention away from his lack of vision, though, which he’s almost embarrassingly grateful for.
“Another—” he clears his throat, the little flashes of light cavorting in his head, down his spine, through his fingers preventing him from gathering his thoughts. “Is it in another galaxy, or—or ours?”
“Another one,” he hears, and then there’s a quieter, “You can open them now,” as his mind finally comes to a standstill.
Adam’s eyelids peel themselves open, immediately widening as they take in the sight.
It’s...a massive cloud. But not just any cloud—they’re...in space. Or Michael’s construction of space, anyway. Adam can tell it’s space, somehow, but there’s something off about it, and it isn’t until he looks around from all angles can he tell that it’s the lack of stars surrounding them. It's dark, all around them.
Empty.
He looks back at the dust cloud, dimly aware of Michael’s hand coming to rest softly at the base of his neck, and he gets the distinct feeling of something new, in a way he doesn't think he'll ever be able to explain. It ripples across the surface of the memory like the dripping of a faucet in a faraway pool, and Adam cocks his head as he considers the scene before him, the combination of what he’s seeing and the feelings he’s receiving.
Cognizance slams into him like a freight train.
“This is—” he turns to stare at Michael, hardly daring to believe it. “The first star?”
Michael nods. “I modified the memory so that it’d be easier to see from your perspective. It's nothing compared to the real thing, but..." he shrugs, words trailing into nothing.
Adam feels an incredulous laugh startled out of him as he turns back, watching as the cloud moves and circles and collapses in on itself at a speed that he knows has to be modified—he can feel the millions and millions of years compressed into minutes, and he's almost entirely sure that the only thing keeping him grounded is the easy swipe of Michael's fingers on his skin.
It's mesmerizing.
It isn't long before the tightly swirling ball of gas and dust is blown away by the sheer amount of pressure being emitted by the growing celestial body, and Adam can hear himself make a quiet "oh!" sound when brilliant light finally begins to protrude from behind the coverage of the dust, bright and radiant and a thousand times more spectacular than he'd ever thought possible.
The star begins to swell and grow until Adam doesn't think it'll ever stop, watching with his bottom lip clamped tight between his teeth. It's got nothing on Michael, of course, but it's a lot regardless.
"Michael, this is…" his own voice sounds breathy, hushed, almost like he hasn't used it in years. "I…"
Words fail him, language suddenly seeming like the most ludicrous thing in Hell as he struggles to wrap his head around what he'd just seen. What written word, spoken word, could ever capture the true essence of creation itself? What human or angel or whatever else there was out there could possibly describe the magnitude of...this, without falling flat on their knees in defeat?
So, instead of trying to fumble for words, he hones in once more on Michael's touch, his grace, his being, and allows his own self to fall open; to showcase his amazement, his wonder, his effusiveness, his veneration for what he'd just witnessed on full display, with nothing to hide.
Adam turns to meet his eyes, to take in the way that the dazzling starlight glitters iridescently across the lines of his face, catching and holding his eyes like the bright blue of the sky at dawn. He feels some inadvertent want build up in him then; to reach out and trace the lines with his fingers, to lean in until he could see nothing but the billions of years reflected back at him through the warmth depths of the archangel's gaze, to share a quiet laugh, to hold on and never let go.
Control. Stop it.
Instead, he takes Michael in and smiles. He's not sure if his expression reflects his sincerity—he hopes it does—but he doesn't care. His soul will do that for him.
"Thank you."
The zephyr of grace that encases him is a perfect match to the hand that runs back through his hair—calm and serene and kind.
This time, there is no underlying fear when Adam closes his eyes.