Dominic scowled at the pile after pile of papers on his desk. It seemed like every Warrior around was being uppity. It was that time again, clearly, time when EVERY triad in America checking up on War was met with a "Not now, hyena, it's the Superbowl."
It had to be stopped. He headed for the Groves - Michael might be Prideful, but surely HE could see how heretical this was! Angels in the Media's thrall. AND on the Sabbath Day!
He ignored the resentful stares, but was unable to find Michael. Eventually, he tracked down the Angel of Battlefields.
"Oh yeah," the Malakite said, vaguely - Dominic suspected too vaguely - "He's out somewhere."
"Are you aware of where?"
A shrug. "Have a beer, Archangel? It's the Superbowl today!"
Dominic GLARED. He did not understand this strange obsession of War's.
"Commercial's over," Michael called, sprawled on the couch.
Baal emerged from the kitchen, holding two sweating beers. He paused, and eyed Michael. "War."
"Yes?"
"Your boots. My couch. Remove them."
Michael rolled his eyes and toed his boots off, letting them clatter to the floor. "Better?"
"Moderately." Baal eyed his socks, then lifted Michael's feet with a hand, took a seat, and let them drop into his lap, passing one of the beer over.
The Archangel grinned over at him, taking a swig. "Gettin' a little friendly there."
"Oh please," Baal snorted.
Michael wiggled his toes purposefully. Baal gave him a stony gaze, then turned his attention back to the screen.
They watched for a while, muttering encouragements at their chosen teams, occassionally raising their bets.
Commercial breaks seemed to last about ten minutes each, and Michael, wiggling his toes idly again, said, "Nybbas' in fine form today."
"Fairy lights and dazzling tricks," Baal said dismissively. "Interrupting the action. He's an irritating ass."
Michael grinned. He flexed his feet.
Baal looked at Michael with steel in his gaze. "Though you seem more in Andrealphus' influence today. STOP that."
A shrug and lazy grin. "Naw, I've not interest in Lust. Besides, I'm bloody sick of axe jokes."
They watched and the next time Michael wiggled his feet, Baal threw them from his lap. "Are you being deliberately irritating?"
"I fear so." Michael shrugged. "Perhaps because of the beer?"
Baal noted that the second comment was NOT a true or false comment. "Mm. Do not challenge me."
"A challenge?" Michael took another swig of beer. "We swore not to test our strength 'til the end."
"No," Baal said. "So do not try my patience."
"We are here to relax," Michael pointed out - then winced as Baal's hand came to his groin and squeezed.
Baal said, "Do not tempt me, Michael. I have no interest in temptation."
Michael's hand came to Baal's wrist and twisted; Baal's fist swung around at Michael's head, but Michael blocked. Baal turned it into a grab and twisted, the two of them tumbling to the floor.
Beer spilled. Halftime music played.
"No interest?" Michael murmured, eyes half-closed and glittering as Baal trailed a fingernail over a nipple.
"This doesn't change anything," Baal hissed, unzipping him.
Michael's hands slid under Baal's shirt, strong, fingers pressing. "You always say that."
"It's true," Baal insisted, handling Michael roughly.
Baal knows nothing of Truth, Michael reminded himself, thumbing at Baal's nipples.
They had unspoken rules for this as well: No kissing. No biting. No dominance. No test of who could best whom. Just hands and skin and the sharpness of touch. Nearly silent as they rub together, teeth gritted, breathing hidden under the sound of the TV. The smell of sweat. It's not gentle. If they were anyone else, they'd hurt tomorrow. Michael's head thunking back against the floor as Baal yanks on a handful of hair, Michael's hands leaving red lines on Baal's skin, Michael letting Baal's mouth linger over his throat because if he bites, if he kisses, Michael's won.
Baal exhaled and came, teeth gritted, inches from Michael's skin, and Michael closed his eyes, sighed, came himself.
After a moment of relaxation, Baal was up and gone, in the bathroom. Michael rose and headed into the kitchen, scratched his stomach, cleaned himself off at the sink there.
When Michael got back to the living room, Baal was dressed again, drinking a beer and watching the TV. Michael didn't bother with clothes, took a spare beer. He sprawled on the couch, and they didn't really talk again.
Dominic had waited, making mental notes of what people were saying and who to send a triad after.
He looked up as Michael strode in, and rose himself. "Michael," he started. "I need to discuss with you the rampant corporeality of this day."
"It's just a game," Michael said. He sounded weary. "You of all people should know the love of games."
Dominic went silent. When his voice finally emerged, it was dangerously quiet. "What are you implying?"
Michael waved a hand dismissively before slipping back into full Seraphic form. "I am doing very important work, Dominic," he sang clearly. "You could do the same, if you cared so about games. There is valor in there, somewhere."
A pause.
"If you will excuse me," Michael said, and headed to his own tent.
Dominic watched him go, expression thoughtful.