1964-12-07 - Angel Snowball Fight
Summary: You thought there wouldn't be a battle? WRONG!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
michael lucian 

Little brother is on the upper terrace. It's snowing….and it's snowing on Michael. He's staring up at it, unblinking, as it comes down out of the darkness above. His wings are spread, even cupped a little, and the flakes land on them and build. His body's warm enough that they melt, but not the wings, apparently, that strange glory of ash and ember, continuing to glow softly in the dimness. A perfect stillness, not even blinking. Like he's part of the Nativity scene that they forgot to build the creche around.

Big brother knows what snow is, despite the old adage of snowball fights in his particular principality. He knows the way Greenwich Villagers flee into the light-strung temples for a reprieve from the chilly weather, and the first flakes dusting their dirty streets and empty benches inevitably draw them in droves to Lux. Mazikeen is back guarding downstairs, any sign of disagreement ended without a grumble from her midnight black eyes flashing full of violent promises. Anahita is off, curled up asleep in some bower, likely in the arms of a lover or a poet wondering at his luck to find that muse as a companion to warm the sheets. Likely the same one, reverent and mindful.

Lux hums. The music soars. He is not in there, the golden-haired louche wearing an open coat decidedly piratical or Regency in design what with those great, turned back cuffs and opulent embroidery. Whyever not? 'Tis the season for extremes, and he pours bourbon from a bottle recovered from a cellar. He takes a sip of the golden-amber liquid before peering up, and there some inner sense of hte divine tugs to attention. The behaved brother, worshipping the sky. As long as there is no call to God for the majesty of His creation, all is well. Lucifer smirks. He could go further, but his heart wouldn't be in it immediately.

The detail in creation stuns him, sends him into studies that leave him still and motionless for days on end. He perched in a tree in the Park to watch a maple turn colors and shed its leaves, a patience that'd be idiotic in anything mortal, but is mere whim in a principality. Not worship, merely wonder, though he moves to cup snowflakes. The first dissolve into droplets, but then they cease to - he's as cold as they. They pile in the hollows of the orbits, as they do only for the dead, his head tipped up, feeling the weight of each as it adds to the next. "They're marvellous, aren't they?" he says, without opening his eyes. Lucian's presence is felt, it seems.

Time means nothing to the truly immortal from before days when time was measured in anything but divine whimsy. How odd would that be to perch on a mountaintop and question the retreat and flow of glaciers? Some angels probably yet do, hidden away in northern Greenland to contemplate the cracks and faults of a million year old ice tongue seeping into the briny sea. Lucifer gave up that sort of role long, long ago. He drinks that product of the whiskey trail and dumps back the contents in a long swallow that would be unbecoming to anyone but him. His mouth glistens and he does not seek to blot it, headed out through the glass doors. True, he might be able to melt through it possibly, but not that he tries. Revelations await those exploring the sky and staring into the flakes illuminated by the dim copper flood highlighting the somewhat art deco reliefs on this side of Lux. He arches an eyebrow at this sight of the man reaching forth with wings and hands to capture the snowflakes, and by doing so, destroying their essence in abundance. Melt away into water, damp nothing. They pile in clods. No longer separate.

"Annoying when trying to see at distance," he replies, cupping his hand around another of the glasses. That offered to his brother responds to another kind of need, and never mind the contents look like melted down topazes washed over by a bit of gin. It smells far cleaner than that.

Not as he chills down, the warmth of flesh leaving him for a little, until he's covered with a light skin of them, glittering. A sculpture, until he breaks the stillness to shake them off, flicking primaries and turning to smile that little smile at Lucian, the one reserved for big brother alone, conspiratorial and affectionate and pleased. Whatever their battles, not a whit of the love has faded. He accepts the glass with pleasure, lifts it a fraction in mute thanks, and tries a sip. "Of course," he agrees. He's in an East German greatcoat, the insiginia picked off - shooting sweater, jeans, boots; the wings manifesting through, somehow.

The drink is strong; it's schnapps, the sort full of fruit and fire. Because something less than solid for Michael could well be unsatisfying. He makes no mention of his own predilections of alcohol, allowing the companionable silence to stand in their stead. Snow angels: one is upright, and doing it wrong. Birb, this is other birb, learn to birb properly already. His own wings absent, at least lost to the infinity thinness of an atom, Lucifer isn't summoning them up other than to billow a little of the snow away from him and further onto Michael. Let that be a fabulous berg in the burg. Or burg in the berg. "You could be completely stone blind flapping about without an idea of your direction, and you would still be smiling because you could inhale snowflakes and they tickle in their chill." It's hard not to overcome.

He makes a funny, savoring face, enjoying the schnapps. "This is good," he says, looking down into it. "Thank you." That assessment of Lucian makes him nod, eyes still crescented with pleasure. "That's true. I would be. I like them," he says, simply. His own wings are tucked neatly back, shadows and suggestion, save for the glimmer of snow on the leading edges.

"It is, isn't it? Produced from the most rotten corner of Europe, nothing there to commend it except a coal seam and a river that runs orange half the time, and they produce that miracle." Lucifer waves his hand slightly, and he crosses his arms as he leans upon the railing that overlooks all of East Village into Greenwich. The throbbing microcosm of youth and rebellion, where he himself fits right in. "Of course you would." Confirmation to the elder of the younger, and he no doubt bestirs the same headshaking in the Creator Above All. No way to escape that. "I am fairly surprised you are not splashing in the slush down below."

"I've already done that," he says. "Well, clean snow. It was bracing." Picture that - Michael in a snowdrift, dipping and flipping like a sparrow in a puddle. He lets warmth come back, lets the schnapps chase it through his veins. "You look so good in mortal clothes," he adds, with a nod.

Dirty snow. Imagine that notion. Lucifer snorts ever so quietly as the thought comes and goes, something arresting if he were not prone to flights of fancy now and then. He can imagine the wings flying, the chirping in ecstatic rapture. More than that, he refuses to vocalize. "Already? Goodness, have you shaken a tree covered in snow yet? Let see, frozen the windshield of any passing car, and licked cold metal to see the taste different from stone." That implies he has licked a pole, but that remains very much a matter of speculation. "Sitting in a hot tub while the wind blows cold is always delightful. Having soup with a lump of snow is also invigorating." He tugs on the coat collar, tall and embroidered. "So is not wearing a shirt." Because not wearing a shirt is magnificent, and damn you, he will /preen/.

Lucian can see him adding to his mental checklist. "Yes. Yes. Yes," he says. "To the first three. No, not a hot tub, yes. Soup and snow….sure." He cants his head. "Well, cold doesn't bother us, so….you could. Or I could. I haven't felt it on bare skin yet, other than hands and face. It makes mortals so uncomfortable." But he's suiting action to word, setting aside his coat, first.

"Not a hot tub? Then try that. Eating snow is overrated, I imagine, but then the point never was eating it." Lucifer has work to do considering the risks and dangers of bad weather and winter. "Do tell me whether you have tried grilled cheese yet? If not, we have an adventure to make whether you like it or not." He will absolutely not be put off from a proper grilled cheese sandwich. "You have not felt what on bare skin? Snow?" Good himself, there will be all sorts of danger to this. "Wonderful."

"Where do I find one?" he asks, as he yanks off his sweater, the t-shirt layered underneath. Absurdly pale, of course - when has this body ever seen the sun? "No, I haven't had a grilled cheese." There's a shiver, as the first snowflakes come down on bare shoulders, but more for surprise than for chill.

"It is a sandwich with toasted bread and melted cheese atop. Rather…" Lucifer stares a moment, watching the shucked off layers drop to wherever his more creation-ready half opts to throw them, dump them, discard them. There was a time when going about starkers wielding a sword was the norm, but that may have been roughly nine billion years ago before someone figured out the cotton plant. He sighs and reaches down to ball up a handful of snow, compressed and pinched, formed into a sphere. That he hurls without a word at Michael's back. "Careful. It's cold."

The look of utter outrage Lucian is presented with, as his little brother turns on him…..it's like watching a pedigreed Persian get summarily dumped in a bathtub. Then Lucian's treated to him trying to look over his shoulder to see the splotch of snow left. "Why did you do that?" he asks, as an all over shake dislodges most of it. "You made a lump of it, and then you threw it at me.

The arch of a gilt eyebrow is entirely akin to a cat licking its paw after pinning a mouse by the tail with the other paw. Oh meow. Yes, yes, I meant to do that. Curled tail, wide black pupils widening, just imagine the effect. Lucifer is still what he is, First of the Firstborn, Devil, Esquire, retired Great Antagonist. "Not a check, proper fight with the snow? That is what they all do down here. They create a ball and they throw it." He stoops, already producing another one, and yes, he totally will throw it because he can. "It is, I think, a means of establishing non-aggression."

The wings flare into glowing life, and for a moment, he mantles at Lucian, unthinking. Sir, how dare you. But then understanding comes, and he hastily scoops up snow and makes his own, hurling it at Lucian.

Lucifer's reaction amounts to a nonreaction. Blame the alcohol, really. Maybe he should go have another sip and smirk to himself, but the bottle is over there, he is overhere, and there is all this light cookie dusting of snow. He's even prone to allowing the snowball to defame his presence, smacking his coat and erupting to pieces as the embroidery is soon encrusted with white. "See? Better than the mortals throwing rocks at one another." He is not going to complain all and all about that.

He pauses, considers, as if an artist pondering just how that changes his work in progress. "I agree," he says, stooping to make another one. This one he lobs underhand, gently.

See, this is where Lucifer has to decide. Toss at Michael or intercept the ball. Intercept the ball, it's more fun, hurling sidearm to smack it down. Look at that fun snow halo blowing up around them, shards thrown in every direction, walls to terrace floor. That's successful artillery, a barrage for fun.

Michael has started to laugh to himself, that low chortle of sheer pleasure. When was the last time Lucian heard him laugh like that? When platypuses were created? Quite possibly. Then he scoops up more, packing two handfuls together for a larger snowball.

Possibly the revelation of echnidas right before they stung someone, like the proto-wallaby. Then someone got in trouble and Dad found out about cassowaries and there was much running away. Probably a lot of running away, and a chorus of angels shrieking in terror after horrible things happened. Let's try not to remember that incident.

Lucifer probably hasn't heard laughter in a few million years. He runs out of the way, dodging aside from someone who might actually hit him. Of course it would matter if he intended to do harm, but he doesn't, shielding himself briefly behind a stone maiden peering into a jug that decorates the terrace. Truth told, he has a lot of art about.

It might be that long since Mike laughed like that. The maiden's face is obscured by a blot of snow. Then there's another handful and Michael is stalking him like a cat, coming around for an angle that'll let him strike Lucian himself.

Hello, birb. Another blot of snow, another risk? Well then, fear the lord. He snaps open his unseen wings and knocks a swirl of dust into the air. Then another, and the snow drift forming from the three ready flaps of his wings is… well, excessive, because Lucifer does nothing by half-measures. Add that he can kick in a little telekinesis to throw around the annoying bits of snow sticking to the ground and that's just plain unfair about seeing.

Which is when Michael cheats, by the expedient of trying to tackle Lucian. Coming out of the whorl of snow frosted over like a cookie overloaded with confectioner's sugar.

Fast, yes, strong, sure. Not exactly immune to flailing angels, unfortunately. Lucifer's wrapped up in the telekinetic barrier that throws the finer particles into the air, useful for making it hard to see, not so entirely useful for stopping cheaty mcangelface from trying to knock him out at the waist or something terrible. He practically snarls at the sudden unleashing, and there's a wing slapping out when he goes down.

Michael sacks him at the waist, squeezes him once, hard enough to drive the breath from mere mortals….and then sits up, grinning. Entirely too cheerful. EVen a buffet from an elder's wing is only enough to make him chuckle, again. "You win," he concedes, easily.

Winner! Right, there is probably some kind of joke in there. The golden-haired angel hits the stones somewhat harmlessly and his coat might take a few wet marks, pulled on the embroidery, revealed as dense but not impervious to harm. He himself is fine, but checking over his attire, Lucifer snarls until certain that the elaborate filigree stitched in wandering curlicues and coils is satisfactorily not ruined. Close, no banana. But in truth he withdraws a threat just long enough to not grin so much as stare. All that snow hovering in the air dumps on the both of them.

He's greeted with Michael flatly bemused again, the fine hair catching snow and spiking absurdly. "Now the hot tub, I think," he suggests, grave as a hanging judge, before he rises to his full height and shakes like a dog. Snow everywhere.

"Now the hot tub." The statement hangs in the air with a certain degree of absurdity. "No," Lucifer replies, "now we run through the streets as it's almost Krampusnacht. A night after. No one will know the difference and their horrified joy will be music to our ears."

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