Angels can Play too

Michealanglo

"Who are you,"

the words were simple, easy to say, easy to understand, impossible to forget. They echoed quietly in the blood- drenched, angel's head. The words bounced around his mind, hitting every single sect of of his brain, obscuring his own thoughts and movements momentarily. He stood still, tall with wide eyes as if it could help him process the information. Gulping, he blinked once, twice, three times until he was sure he had processed everything properly, and once he was sure that he had, he leaned away Dante.

"Who am I? Who am I?!"

He raised his voice higher and higher, louder and louder. The angel spun around and kicked the coffee table hard enough to break the leg in half, though the table stayed standing. He stopped before he could do any more damage to the life he always wanted--that he could have had--and shakily brought his bloody hand up to his bloody head and held them there for a moment. He needed to calm down, he had too. Too many times had he killed in blind rage only to not remember it in the morning; he had to remember his death, the life fading out of his eyes, the blood pooling out of his body, watching him fall limp and dead.
He took a deep breath, calming himself vaguely. He turned back around and walked around the now broken coffee table to many of the little knick-knacks on the fireplace's mantle. He picked up one gently, turning it around in his hands. He put it back and grabbed a second one doing the exact same thing.

"Baby Angel,"

he whispered gently to the knick-knack he held, referring to both a nickname the other had for him and the small figurine he held. A miniature Precious Moments blonde angel with big, green- grey eyes that looked a little like himself.

"Angel,"

he rubbed his thumb against the porcelain angel's carefully, as if the slight touch would break the small, white wings. That was the biggest difference from himself and Dante's small figurine. It's wings were small and white and clean, while his were normal and black and drenched in blood.

"Love,"

he brought the Precious Moments figurine up to his face, kissing the top of it and leaving a bloody stain in the shape of lips on it's pristine, blond head.

"Mikey,"

now the fallen angel was getting closer to his name, hopefully the other was starting to understand who he was, because there was no way in God's green Earth that he was going to kill him when he didn't understand. That wouldn't be... appealing, pleasing, or something he would want. He wanted Dante to understand who he was and to be tortured until he begged for dad for death. That's what the angel wanted.
He didn't look over at the other as he gently replaced the small angel back upon the mantle, vaguely curious why he had this figurine, but it must have some sort of coincidence, as it was obvious, at least to him, that Dante did not love him. Lightly, he stroked the head of the angel that so- closely resembled himself. Once he had finished, he slowly turned around to face his love who he was in all senses prepared to kill, and reached up for the halo that gently rested upon his head. Holding it in his hands, he spun it around his fingers and watched it carefully.

"Michangelo,"

he looked up and locked eyes with Dante as he watched realization sink in--it took longer then he would have expected--and quickly he returned close to him, leaning in so his break brushed over the top of his ear and moved his hair just lightly.

"So, do you miss me?"