It's Good Friday. Gabriel knew the mother of the prophet who died in humiliation and agony (for love of humanity). That man was once a boy, and a boy on the outskirts, like BJ. The Archangel is left raw with the memory of what, to a being billions of years old, took place virtually yesterday. So he takes flight to BJ's side. He cups the child's face in his hands and gently smiles. "You are one of the most beautiful things I have ever known." He kisses his forehead and releases him. - @illusivexemissary
The afternoon quiet is broken only by the lonely tolling of a church bell, calling her Faithful into her doors for a solemn liturgy. There will be no singing today, but BJ watches as men in fine suits and women in their Sunday best drive by, and wonders at their smiling faces, happy on their way to a funeral.
It must be strange for Jesus, BJ thinks, chin in palm as he sits on the dirty step, to have a whole three days dedicated to your death. A whole three days and everyone dresses like they’re out to a party.
He’s never participated. He was never allowed in a church, never listened to the choir but at a distance, never drank the communion wine or ate communion bread. Those weren’t meant for him. But he enjoyed the Easter holiday nonetheless. Come Sunday there would be more than just men and women, but little children, too, all done up in miniature suits and pastel dresses, screaming and laughing with their Easter baskets full of treats. BJ didn’t know the elation of finding colourful eggs in a field, or spending an evening with a mouth full of chocolate and fingers sticky with melting jellybeans, yet watching a band of children experiencing what he could not renewed an old, hopeful warmth in the centre of his chest.
BJ is lost on that thought, sinking somewhere deep inside, dreaming of a place that’s sunnier and brighter than old Yorkshire, when Gabriel falls into his line of sight. He blinks several times before his eyes focus and he finds himself in his body again.
A wan smile as he lifts his head. His angel is glowing—be it holy or the sun setting at his back BJ doesn’t know. He opens his mouth to say “hello”, but Gabriel beats him to it, cradles his cheeks in warm, kind palms, and calls him beautiful. He wants to laugh and joke that he’ll owe him five pounds for that, just to avoid the discomfort in his gut that softness always brings. But BJ doesn’t laugh, doesn’t want to tease, because the fatherly kiss then pressed to his brow is enough to make him want to cry instead.
He catches the angel’s wrist just long enough to ensure that he’ll stay. Thick lashes glint with unshed tears.
“Will you sit with me?” he asks. “Just for a few minutes.”
Churches and their hymnals were not for him, and neither were sweet kisses with nothing to beg, but Gabriel makes BJ think that they could be.
