Chapter 61: 9.1.1
gabriel is nervous as he walks into the restaurant with koen in tow, before long he spots his brothers already seated. they’re about to meet koen for the first time, they didn’t know koen was infernal. but no matter what his brothers say gabriel doesn’t truly defend koen. the insults start getting under koen’s skin, worsening his already low self worth but koen remains polite and answers questions the best he can for gabriel’s sake.
The air in the Silver City always carried a faint scent of ozone and lilies, a combination Koen still found dizzying. Today, it felt suffocating. Gabriel’s hand was a firm, almost rigid presence on the small of their back as he guided them through the gleaming, opalescent streets of Elysium’s highest district. Koen had chosen a masculine presentation today, the simple, dark leathers of his hunter’s gear feeling impossibly crude against the flowing silks and radiant light around them.
“Just be yourself,” Gabriel had said, his voice uncharacteristically tight. His wings, usually a hidden weight, were a subtle pressure Koen could feel through the glamour, held tense and close.
“Myself is the problem, Gabe,” Koen had mumbled, but he’d followed anyway.
The restaurant was called The Gilded Lyre. It wasn’t a building so much as a growth of living crystal and molten gold, music woven into the very architecture so it hummed a soft, celestial harmony. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
Gabriel paused at the entrance, his cold blue eyes scanning the interior. His fingers tensed against Koen’s back. “There they are.”
Across the room, at a table that seemed carved from a single beam of sunlight, three figures sat. Even in their relaxed, human-seeming forms, they radiated an aura of immense, calm power. Michael, broad-shouldered and severe, with a gaze that had judged nations. Raphael, kinder-faced but with eyes that held the patience of deep, still waters. Uriel, whose stillness felt like the moment before a lightning strike.
Gabriel steered them over, his smile polished and brittle. “Brothers. You’re early.”
“Punctuality is a virtue,” Michael said, his voice a low rumble. His eyes, the grey of storm clouds, moved past Gabriel and settled on Koen. The assessment was instant, total, and utterly devoid of warmth. “This is the companion you mentioned.”
“Yes. This is Koen.” Gabriel’s introduction was flawless, empty. He pulled out a chair for Koen, the gesture oddly formal.
Koen sat, offering a small, careful nod. “It’s an honor to meet you all. Gabriel talks about you often.” He willed his voice not to shake.
Raphael smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Does he? We’ve heard remarkably little about you, Koen. Gabriel has been… cryptic. What is it you do, in the mortal realms?”
“I’m a bounty hunter. Monster retrieval, mostly.” Koen kept his hands flat on his thighs, resisting the urge to fidget.
“A violent profession,” Uriel observed quietly, tracing the rim of his crystal glass. “But necessary, I suppose, for cleaning up certain… messes.”
The first tendril of cold wrapped around Koen’s spine. He just nodded again.
A server, ethereal and silent, brought wine that shimmered with trapped starlight. The conversation remained in shallow, careful channels. The weather in the Silver City. The alignment of the celestial spheres. Gabriel held court, deft and articulate, but Koen saw the fine strain at the corners of his eyes. He was performing.
Then Michael took a slow drink and set his glass down with a deliberate click. “Your heritage, Koen. It’s unusual. There’s a… resonance. Forgive my directness, but we are beings of perception. What is the source?”
The air at the table thickened. Gabriel shifted in his seat. “Michael, that’s hardly–”
“It’s alright,” Koen interrupted softly, for Gabriel’s sake. He met Michael’s gaze. The storm in those eyes threatened to swallow him whole. “My mother was human. My father… was from the Infernal Plains. A Duke of the Seventh Ring.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the restaurant seemed to recede into a distant buzz.
Raphael’s kindly mask slipped into something closer to clinical pity. “Infernal. I see. That explains the unique energy. It must be a difficult path, straddling two such opposed natures.” His tone was the one he might use on a child struggling with simple sums.
“I manage,” Koen said, the words ash in his mouth.
“Do you?” Uriel asked. “The corruption of that plane is insidious. It sinks into the soul, twists the will. Your work in violence… it doesn’t stir those baser impulses? The hunger for chaos?”
Each word was a precisely placed needle. Koen felt them prick the deep, hidden bruise of his own self-doubt. Unclean. Lesser. He kept his face neutral, his voice even. “I have control. I use my skills to protect people.”
Michael made a sound, not quite a scoff. “Noble sentiment. But can a vessel holding such dark water ever truly be clean? Or does it merely dilute the filth?”
Koen flinched. A tiny, involuntary tremor in his hand. He saw Gabriel see it. His archangel, his lover, took a sip of his wine and looked out across the restaurant.
He didn’t say a word.
The absence of his defense was a physical blow, heavier than any insult. Koen’s chest tightened. He had known, abstractly, that Gabriel’s family might not approve. He hadn’t known the sheer, glacial contempt they could wield, or how Gabriel would just let it lie, letting the chill seep into Koen’s bones.
“The mortal mind is fragile,” Raphael continued, as if discussing a mildly interesting specimen. “And your dual nature must create significant cognitive dissonance. Do you find abstract concepts difficult? Long-term planning? Gabriel always had such a towering intellect. It must be a challenge to keep up.”
Talk to him like he’s slow. The instruction from the synopsis crystalized in the air between them. Koen’s nails bit into his palms under the table. The polite, answering smile on his face felt like a cracked glaze. “I get by. Gabriel helps me with the… bigger words.”
He meant it as a weak joke, a piece of self-deprecation to break the tension. It landed in the silence like a stone.
Michael’s gaze flickered to Gabriel, a clear question hanging in the air: This? You chose this?
Gabriel cleared his throat, finally speaking, but not to the point. “The braised ambrosia root here is exquisite. We should order.”
The conversation, such as it was, turned to the menu. Koen answered questions about what he might like to eat in short, polite syllables. Yes, the roasted pheasant sounded fine. No, he didn’t have any allergies. Yes, water was fine, he didn’t need more wine.
Inside, a low, cold ache was spreading. Each condescending remark, each subtly vicious query wrapped around that aching core of worthlessness he tried so hard to ignore. They saw it. They could smell it on him, this fundamental lack, and they were poking it with clinical, disdainful fingers. And Gabriel, who had fought alongside him against necromancers and hellbeasts, who kissed his freckles and called him brilliant in the dark of their bedroom, just let it happen. He offered no stories of Koen’s courage, no defense of his heart. He just sat there, a beautiful, nervous statue, letting his brothers dismantle the person he loved piece by polite piece.
Koen kept his orange eyes lowered to the dazzling table setting, focusing on the perfect, terrible shine of it all, and held himself together with sheer, stubborn will. For Gabriel’s sake. Because he’d promised to be good. Because maybe, some small, hurt part of him whispered, they were right.
The food came, exquisite and flavorless in Koen’s mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. He answered direct questions with monosyllables when he could. Gabriel filled the silences with effortless, glittering anecdotes about celestial bureaucracy, the conversation a ship he tirelessly steadied against a tide of unspoken judgment. Koen watched his lover’s elegant hands gesture, heard the confident cadence of his voice, and felt the gulf between them widen with every passing minute in that radiant room.
When the final plates of spun-sugar dessert were cleared, Raphael leaned forward with that infuriating, pitying smile. “It was… enlightening to meet you, Koen. Do take care of yourself.” The dismissal was gentle, absolute, and final.
“Thanks,” Koen muttered, already pushing his chair back. The marble floor felt unsteady under his boots.
the meal ends and gabriel and koen head home. gabriel wants to talk and spend time with koen but koen says he’s tired and goes to bed early. this pattern continues every time koen sees gabriel’s brothers, koen going to bed earlier once they home. gabriel thinks it’s ok and it’s just koen’s way of unwinding after those meals
The marble floor felt unsteady under his boots. Koen didn’t wait for Gabriel, just turned and made for the towering crystal archway, the glorious light of the Silver City now a glaring, hostile thing. He heard the smooth cadence of Gabriel’s farewells behind him, a diplomat securing his exit, and every polite word was a small cut.
“Hey, hold up.”
Gabriel’s hand caught his elbow just outside, the touch familiar but now it burned. Koen stopped, didn’t shake him off, but didn’t turn around either. He stared at the paved street, his voice flat. “Can we just go? Please.”
The flight back was silent. Koen held onto Gabriel, face buried against the stark white linen of his shirt, and didn’t look down at the receding spires. The wind was cold. Gabriel’s wings beat a powerful, rhythmic sound against the sky, but his grip was tight, almost anxious. He landed them softly in the overgrown garden behind their stone house, the mundane smell of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine a shock after Elysium’s perfume.
Inside, Gabriel finally let the glamour drop. Six brilliant wings of light and feather settled, then vanished from sight, leaving just the man in his simple trousers and untucked shirt. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, the smug archangel mask gone, replaced by a strained relief. “Well. That was… they’re always like that, you know. Centuries of ingrained tradition. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Koen just walked to the kitchen pump, filled a clay cup with water, and drank it slowly. The water was cool. It didn’t wash the taste of the meal away. “Yeah. I got that.”
“You were amazing,” Gabriel said, following him, leaning against the doorframe. His blue eyes searched Koen’s face. “So polite. You didn’t rise to any of it. Michael was practically trying to bait you into a theological debate about sin and you just… shrugged.”
“I’m tired, Gabe.” Koen set the cup down too carefully. The ache in his chest was a solid, heavy thing. He could feel Gabriel wanting to dissect the evening, to parse every look and comment, to prove he was still right about bringing him there.
“Of course you are.” Gabriel pushed off the frame, closing the distance. He reached out, fingertips brushing a stray lock of Koen’s ashen hair. “It’s a lot. We can just sit. I’ll light the fire. We don’t have to talk about them.”
That was worse. The kindness, the softness, after the quiet surrender at the table. It made the bruise throb. Koen took a half-step back, the movement slight but deliberate. “Nah. I’m really wiped. Think I’m just gonna crash.”
Gabriel’s hand hovered in the air for a second before dropping. A faint line appeared between his eyebrows. “Okay. Sure. Long day.” He offered a small, understanding smile. “Sleep well, darling.”
Koen just nodded, already moving down the hall to their bedroom. He closed the door and leaned against it, listening. He heard Gabriel sigh, then the soft scratch of a match, the rustle of him settling into his armchair by the newly kindled hearth. The distance of a few dozen feet felt continental.
It happened again the next time.
A different terrace in the Silver City, a different brother hosting—Raphael this time, in a garden of singing flowers. The script was the same. The politely veiled questions about corruption. The subtle, dehumanizing curiosity about how his mind worked. Gabriel, charming and deflectory, never confrontational, never definitive. A master of navigating celestial politics who left his partner stranded in the emotional shallows.
The flight home. The quiet.
“Uriel’s actually coming around, I think,” Gabriel mused as they walked through their own front door, shedding the divine aura like a coat. “Did you notice he asked you about your firearm maintenance? That’s interest.”
“I’m beat,” Koen said, toeing off his boots. They hit the floor with twin thuds. “Gonna turn in.”
A pause. “Again? You barely touched your wine.” Gabriel’s voice was light, observational.
“Just how I unwind after those things.” Koen didn’t meet his eyes. He headed down the hall.
“Right.” Gabriel’s answer was soft, accepting. Koen heard him move to his study, the sound of parchment being unrolled. He thought it was okay.
The third time, after Michael summoned them for a frankly brutal ‘informal review’ of border incursions that felt entirely like a metaphor, Koen was already heading for the bedroom before Gabriel had fully shut the front door.
“Koen.”
“Tired.” It was almost a mantra now.
“You always are.” Gabriel’s tone wasn’t angry. It was perplexed. A minor puzzle in his otherwise perfectly ordered world. “It’s just a few hours with them. You sleep for ten after.”
Koen stopped, his hand on the cool wood of the bedroom door. He didn’t turn. “Yeah. I need it.”
He slipped inside, closed the door, and stood in the dark. He listened to the empty house. Down the hall, Gabriel moved about, brewing tea, the comforting, mundane sounds of a life they shared. Koen slid down the door to sit on the floor, knees drawn up. He replayed the dinners in his head, each a perfect jewel of humiliation. He saw Gabriel’s brilliant, diplomatic smiles. Heard his own stupid, short answers.
The pattern was set. Gabriel, for all his millennia of wisdom, took the words at face value. He saw the early retreats as simple fatigue, a peculiar but harmless ritual. He’d kiss Koen’s forehead in the morning, make coffee, and the subject would be buried until the next invitation arrived.
In the dark, Koen pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The hurt was no longer a sharp sting. It was a dull, constant pressure, a weight he carried to bed each night, alone.
all of gabriel’s family meets up for the winter solstice and koen joins. there’s presents and each one given to koen is a veiled insult in someway. gabriel doesn’t catch that; believeing that the fact koen got gifts meant his family was warming up to koen. koen the entire time remains polite if a bit quiet. for the majority of the time koen is bothered by the younger family members, gabriel’s nieces and nephews, and it’s exhausting
The invitation for the Winter Solstice in the Silver City arrived on parchment that smelled of snowfall and myrrh. Gabriel held it aloft, his face lit with a hope so fragile it made Koen’s stomach twist. “The whole family,” Gabriel said. “They’ve never included a partner before. Not for the Solstice. This is it. A real turning point.”
Koen just stared at the perfect script. “Great.”
The day arrived, cold and brilliant. Elysium was draped in a silent, deep frost that glittered like shattered diamonds under a sun that held no warmth. The family compound was a sprawl of crystalline structures and evergreen halls, alive with the chaotic, shimmering energy of dozens of celestial beings. The air hummed with polite conversation and the shrieks of children.
Gabriel’s hand was on Koen’s back, a proprietary anchor. “Just stay close to me,” he murmured, though his eyes were already scanning the room, cataloguing relatives.
“Right behind you,” Koen whispered, the lie tasting metallic.
The assault began almost immediately. A small, glowing child with wings like a dragonfly collided with Koen’s legs. “You’re the demon!” the child chirped, not with malice, but a breathtaking candor. “Can you set things on fire with your mind?”
“Zeph, manners!” a distant parent called, without looking over.
“No,” Koen said, gently disentangling himself. “I can’t.”
Two more appeared, tugging at his leather sleeve. “Our uncle Michael says you eat souls for breakfast. Did you have one today? What did it taste like?”
Koen felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. He swallowed it. “I’m more of a toast person.”
Gabriel chuckled, ruffling the hair of the nearest niece. “They’re curious, darling. It’s a good sign.” He was then swept into a vortex of sibling back-slaps and ceremonial small talk, leaving Koen stranded on an island of milling, luminous children.
For what felt like hours, Koen was a curiosity, a puzzle, a jungle gym. They asked endless, blunt questions about hell, about blood, about his teeth. They begged to see a magic trick. They demanded he lift something heavy. He answered with patient, one-word replies, dodged tiny hands that grabbed for the guns he’d wisely left at home, and felt a deep, soul-sapping fatigue leach into his bones. It was a different exhaustion than a hunt; this was the fatigue of being perpetually, politely on, of being examined under a microscope by endless, bright eyes.
The gift exchange was called. The great hall fell into a semblance of order. Koen sat on a low bench beside Gabriel, his shoulders aching from tension. One by one, the celestial family members presented their gifts with solemn, ceremonial grace.
Michael approached first. He held out a small, plain box. Koen opened it to find a lump of rough, grey stone nestled in velvet. “Salt from the mines of Gehenna,” Michael intoned. “To purify any space you occupy. A necessary tool, I’d imagine.”
Koen picked up the cold, gritty lump. “Thank you.”
Gabriel beamed, leaning in. “Practical. See? He’s thinking of your wellbeing.”
Raphael’s gift was a book. Its title, etched in gold, read ‘On the Cleansing of Tainted Vessels: A Primer for the Irredeemably Stained.’ The archangel of healing smiled his gentle, awful smile. “I thought you might find the chapter on cognitive exercises particularly enlightening. To help with focus.”
“Thanks,” Koen said, placing the heavy tome on his lap. It felt like a lead weight.
“He’s sharing his scholarly interests,” Gabriel whispered, thrilled.
Uriel’s offering was a set of kitchen knives. The blades were a blinding, holy silver. “For your… culinary pursuits,” Uriel said, his gaze steady. “To ensure what you prepare is properly cut. And sanitized.”
Koen ran a thumb over the flawless, sterilized edge. A tool for something unclean. “They’re beautiful.”
Gabriel squeezed his knee. “High-quality steel! He must have noticed you like working with your hands.”
A younger cousin presented a beautifully wrapped bar of soap, the scent punishingly strong of lemon and bleach. An aunt gifted a set of pure white, ceremonial robes. “For if you ever wish to attempt a semblance of purity,” she’d said, her voice sweet. A nephew, maybe twelve, handed Koen a tightly sealed lantern. “So you can always have a holy light with you,” the boy recited, clearly coached. “To keep the darkness at bay.”
Each gift was wrapped in beautiful paper, offered with impeccable, empty courtesy. Each one said, You are dirty. You are broken. You are wrong, and you need fixing. Koen stacked them neatly beside the bench, his movements mechanical, his thanks a soft, repetitive murmur.
Gabriel watched the growing pile, his expression one of profound, moved satisfaction. He leaned close, his breath warm against Koen’s ear. “Look at all this. They’re trying, Koen. I told you they’d come around.”
Koen looked at Gabriel’s face, at the genuine, relieved joy there. The archangel saw the gifts, not the insults. He saw the packaging, not the message carved into every item. The understanding was a cold nail driven straight into Koen’s heart. The person who knew him best in all the worlds was blind to this. He would always be blind to it.
The weight of the evening, the children’s relentless energy, the careful cruelty of the gifts—it all condensed into a single, focused point of silence within him. He felt himself shutting down, compartment by compartment, to survive.
The feast began. Koen ate little. A flock of young nephews descended again, this time with a barrage of questions about his scars, poking at the visible one on his neck. He answered in monotone, nodding, smiling a thin, tight smile that made his face hurt.
Gabriel was engrossed in a debate about stellar cartography with Raphael, throwing a glowing, triumphant glance Koen’s way every so often. See? We’re fitting in.
Finally, as the third course was served, Koen reached his limit. The noise, the light, the constant, smiling judgement—it was a physical wall. He stood up, the motion sudden enough that the child clinging to his arm stumbled back.
“I need some air,” he said, his voice barely audible over the din.
Gabriel glanced up, nodded absently. “Don’t wander far, the grounds can be tricky.”
Koen walked out of the great hall, past the towering ice sculptures, and into a secluded, frozen garden. The silence was immediate and vast. He sank onto a frost-rimmed bench, his head in his hands, and finally let the polite mask crack. A single, rough sound escaped him, swallowed by the immense, holy quiet. He stared at his own breath, misting in the cold, and wondered how much longer he could stand being Gabriel’s beloved, grateful problem.