[As the feathers continue to grow in, Gabriel shivers. He used to molt every so often when he was alive, once every hundred years or so, and that was itchy and horrible. It had been the reason for some of his rare visits to a beach, because rolling in the sand had helped no end. The fact he was still finding sand in his wings a decade later had not discouraged him.
Thinking about the feel of sand scratching at his wings actually helps, a little, but it doesn't offer complete relief. Which is good, because he misses the way Greg looks at that moment, the sadness there, the desire to push on through because the grass would be brighter on the otherside, right? If he's stuck here, he's stuck here. What is it humans say? Worse things happen at sea?
He takes a breath, which is actually far shakier than he realised it would be, but there are those fingers still combing through his wings. Not combing now, caressing. It feels nice, it really does and it's very difficult to keep his eyes open- they want to slide closed like a contented cat's. Of course, the longer Greg does this, the more content Gabriel will get. Although perhaps content is the wrong word.]
I'm pretty sure it's you. Don't stop.
[The wing Greg is focused on at the moment looks so much better, not perfect but certainly less threadbare. They might even look... well, half-way decent, until you get up close. They feel so much better. It's as if they had been weighing him down but that has slowly started to lift and maybe...
You know, maybe Greg is right to hope. Things can change, right? Who knows what might happen. Maybe you get let off eternity in Hell after a few thousand years good behaviour. Maybe even less, if you know people who know people.
He shuffles closer. It's not easy, sat like this on the bed, but it doesn't matter. He can lean in and rest his head on Greg's shoulder, letting a little happy noise escape him. It's one of those moments where everything is okay, and existence seems easy. Which is why Gabriel has to interrupt it with more talking. ]
Can I ask you something? You don't have to ask, I just... want to know. What did you used to do, when you had days off? Back in the world?
no subject
Thinking about the feel of sand scratching at his wings actually helps, a little, but it doesn't offer complete relief. Which is good, because he misses the way Greg looks at that moment, the sadness there, the desire to push on through because the grass would be brighter on the otherside, right? If he's stuck here, he's stuck here. What is it humans say? Worse things happen at sea?
He takes a breath, which is actually far shakier than he realised it would be, but there are those fingers still combing through his wings. Not combing now, caressing. It feels nice, it really does and it's very difficult to keep his eyes open- they want to slide closed like a contented cat's. Of course, the longer Greg does this, the more content Gabriel will get. Although perhaps content is the wrong word.]
I'm pretty sure it's you. Don't stop.
[The wing Greg is focused on at the moment looks so much better, not perfect but certainly less threadbare. They might even look... well, half-way decent, until you get up close. They feel so much better. It's as if they had been weighing him down but that has slowly started to lift and maybe...
You know, maybe Greg is right to hope. Things can change, right? Who knows what might happen. Maybe you get let off eternity in Hell after a few thousand years good behaviour. Maybe even less, if you know people who know people.
He shuffles closer. It's not easy, sat like this on the bed, but it doesn't matter. He can lean in and rest his head on Greg's shoulder, letting a little happy noise escape him. It's one of those moments where everything is okay, and existence seems easy. Which is why Gabriel has to interrupt it with more talking. ]
Can I ask you something? You don't have to ask, I just... want to know. What did you used to do, when you had days off? Back in the world?