he blinks open human eyes and looks at the man sleeping by his side. he’s sore and tired and strangely satisfied, left over from last night—

terror floods him, drowning out the soft buzz of contentedness. it makes him lightheaded—he forces himself to breathe deep, unwilling to make his fear known. the ugly guilt in his stomach burns: you are disgusting to have given into the basest of your desires. of course once human you would sully your angelhood.

but he fell. he fell a year ago. he looks at his hands. brown palms, unadorned by gold. no, you are here, angel; this is real. he is allowed to choose what he wants, and he wants this:

he cares for the body next to him in all its forms. small and bright and confident and laughing. he could stay close forever. (you don’t know what i’ve done, he thinks, would you still love me then? anyone else would be more deserving.) wukong, asleep, is still and warm. gabriel has been taught to endure freezing cold, blazing heat, to swallow and never let it get under his skin. but he can’t deny that sharing body heat is nice. he focuses on this. something small. easy. he doesn’t have to think about everything at once.

he shifts to his side and pulls an arm around wukong’s torso. human bodies are softer than angelic ones. easier to love. better take advantage of it while he can.

wukong laughs when he finds out the only thing in gabriel’s fridge is onions, and kisses him, hands cupping the back of his head. gabriel doesn’t understand shaving, so his curls are starting to fuzz his scalp, even though he doesn’t really like the feeling. the fridge door dings in protest and gabriel closes it before falling into the touch hungrily, already drunk on being cared for.

wukong says, “you really don’t know anything about food, do you,” and his eyes smile. gabriel feels silly. he is terrible at being human. wukong plants another kiss on his cheek anyway, and grace is awful. “i love onions as much as the next guy, but we should go to the farmer’s market.”

gabriel makes a small noise of protest. wukong looks at his partner, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter to stay on his feet, and laughs again. as he carries him to the sofa he promises, “tomorrow.”

wukong goes to the corner store to buy groceries (bread and eggs and carrots and veggie broth (does his angel eat meat? he’s used to making that calculation. some days it still aches)). back home, gabriel holds curry (who sniffs him before curling up in his arms) and gets anxious that he won’t come back.

but he does, and the relief that aches through him instantly is almost embarrassing. gabriel wonders if looking at him will ever get old. he hopes it doesn’t.

he’s less sore the next day, so they head for the market in the morning. gabriel’s too nervous to hold hands (he looks away as he bites the confession through his teeth, afraid of what refusal might be met with, but more afraid of being seen) so instead they bump shoulders as they wander through the crowd.

he is introduced to peaches first. he should have guessed this. pink-white slices offered to him on the last dregs of summer. plums, grapes, pomelos—wukong crows when he sees them, the first of the season, and picks five, crammed into a bag that’s handed to the angel. tomatoes and some unidentifiable leafy greens and sweet potatoes and sausages and cheeses and honey. their arms are full by noon.

over a bowl of beef noodles, gabriel manages to forget his grief for a moment. despite everything he is overjoyed to be so desperately in love: as though the centuries before were a bad dream, and now he is finally awake. he wants the lightness in his heart and he wants the breathless joy of—of—

it’s still too hard to think it, so instead he steals a kiss, shyly, in a side alley where no one’s watching. holds a scrap of sun in his hands, just the two of them standing there, bathed in golden late-afternoon light.