It was way past midnight when Gabriel found himself standing—well, leaning against Antony's door to his apartment. With the remaining of his strength he banged on the door, trembling hand curled into a fist, smearing grime and blood on the paint. The noise ought to have woken the neighbours, if not the intended man himself. Waiting for whatever fate had for him, the disgraced archangel slumped to his side and closed his eyes.
It had been weeks since Gabriel had left him. Weeks since the beautiful tanned skin was beneath his fingertips, the bright blue eyes wide and open and staring at him. Weeks that seemed like years and had left Antony in fitful nights of sleep. His fingers ached from how he wrote of heartache and loss, of what a simple night had done to the soul. His soul.Oh, how he ached for that same muse to come back into his life again, with the deep voice and perfect lips.The night was rather old, making the morning young, and if Antony would glance up past the flickering candle to the clock on his wall, it would read something past two in the morning. Nearly three, truth be told. A wives tale of the witching hour.Antony was up late, he always was when the moods were to strike like this, and he was deep in his writing when the knock came. A knock that he almost ignored. But it came again and that is when Antony had enough. He stood with a sigh and padded to the door, belting the robe around his hips.At least look a bit decent,will you?It took him a moment to shove the shock away from his heart, the poor thing seizing with dread.“Hello, Gabriel.”