[ 23 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury that has been inflicted upon them as punishment.
Lemuel spent the night alone. Ever loyal like a dog, his eyes darting toward the door with every footstep outside. He knew better, but he continued to hope for the familiar shadow of platform shoes under the door. An Angel's mind is alight with a symphony of frequencies but Andy's pulse is different. It's constant, unwavering; Humming louder when he's near, lower when he's away. It's pleasant for Lemuel, like hovering his palms over a heater— a sensation that tells you warmth is near.
Come morning, his cheek grows numb on the motel carpet. He had been watching the undercut and hoping for the knob to turn and for Andy to catch him moping around.
Millennia passed in minutes.
The air grew quieter.
The sun not yet up, Lemuel pulls the fleece collar of his bomber jacket to his nose. It smells of Mancera. His breath billows into a cloud, breaking apart under the streetlamp. Lemuel's legs move on autopilot, taking him to Andy's usual spots. His pulse still quiet.
An open palm toward the sky.
Burning pink under the moonlight.
Film reel stutters and skips.
Lemuel's breath catches.
A drunk man— Lips split, blood crusting over his forehead, dirt and gravel where smile lines should be. His blond hair is caked in sweat and worse. Mangled and abandoned like roadkill. "Andrés!"
They hurry home, Anderson barely breathing on the Angel's back, painfully wingless now as he counts the steps back to the motel.
The bathroom smells of Red Tobacco, blood and whisky. Lemuel had cleaned Andy's hair to the best of his ability now smoothed back and blood free. Andy's head rolls to the side on the cool porcelain tub no doubt finding relief on his swollen cheek. The slow rise and fall of his chest keeps Lemuel company as he gingerly sponges at bloody knuckles.
There's an undeniable lightning fizzing under his fingertips with every touch. Shame curdles in Lemuel's chest. He wonders if God has decided to punish him a second time; Forced now to be near him, to feel his skin and take in his muted warmth and cursed to know Andy only at arms length again as soon as he heals. Each second more agonizing than the last, Lemuel aches just to hold him. To cry and scold him for hurting himself this way.
Please have mercy on me, God. I don't know how much more I can take of this. It's a silent prayer mouthed under tiled walls closing over him like a confessional. I don't want to know this pain... but I wouldn't know what to do without it.
The Angel curls his fingers around Anderson's wrist. His pulse is weak, slow. He'd tell Andy he was just checking, even if he failed to let go. There wouldn't have to be a word at all about the fact that he could hear Andy's pulse just fine before. Lemuel made peace with the dishonesty; he could deal with the guilt and the shame. But he was far too selfish not to hold Andy now.
