Dead Moon Chapel

thirty-nine

JERICHO WAS NOT USED TO dead things being this still. The dead things he knew tempted priests by day and danced in underground clubs by night.

Abel was too still.

He kept waiting for something to happen. For a twitch of a finger, for a slight mumble, for a furrow of Abel's brow, anything if it meant he would come back.

It was hard to fit Abel's body in the bathtub with wings this large. They were limp enough to be malleable and pushed out of the way, but they were bizarrely heavy. Jericho did what he could to be gentle as he tucked them behind one side of the claw foot tub, though the sheer weight of them proved to be quite challenging.

Using one of his claws, Jericho carefully cut Abel out of his bloodied clothes. The blood soaked down to the bandages binding his chest flat, but Jericho left those alone. He felt he would be no different than those bastards if he removed them, if he saw Abel's chest without consent, violating him even in death. He could cover the bloody bandages up with fresh clothes once Abel was clean.

Jericho's tears joined the water from the faucet in filling the bath. His sobs echoed through the small room as his hands so carefully scrubbed the blood away from Abel's golden skin.

He was so cold.

He was so, so cold.

It was hard to see through the ocean of tears welling in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks. The tears came too fast for him to blink away.

Washing Abel's legs and stomach was easy enough. He'd wash his hair later, too afraid it would stain red if he dipped the fine white strands in the bloody water. Even after draining and refilling the tub twice, there was too much red.

At last, Jericho came to the part he dreaded. Abel's throat was cut down to the bone, frayed muscle and flesh sticking out from the brutal wound. Jericho couldn't stand to look at it, but that was where most of the blood was.

His hands trembled, but he pushed through. This time, he was grateful for the blurry vision as he ran a rag gently over the marred skin of Abel's neck.

It felt like an eternity since he'd marked that beautiful neck with his mouth.

Jericho couldn't take it anymore. A heavy, violent sob wracked his body, and he collapsed against the side of the tub. He didn't know it was possible for him to cry anymore after he'd cried in the arena. And yet, there he was, sobbing into his own arm until his chest hurt.

Abel was too still.

He'd never kiss him again.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into an eternity of Jericho's sobs tearing him apart from the inside. Soon, though, he managed to get them to settle into whimpers. Only then could he finish cleaning the blood from Abel's neck.

After the task was complete, Jericho unplugged the drain and washed Abel's hair under the running water of the faucet. Red stuck stubbornly to the white, turning it a faint pinkish hue that wouldn't leave no matter how hard he tried. He had to force himself to stop before he ruined Abel's hair.

The frustration of his failure only made him break down again.

By the time Jericho calmed back down, Abel was already air-dried, giving Jericho no need to pat him down with a towel. He scooped his body up into his arms, cradling him to his chest. For a moment, he paused and wept into Abel's hair. All he wanted to do until the end of time was hold him, but it felt so wrong to hold something so still and cold.

It didn't feel like Abel.

Jericho took him to the room. Instead of laying Abel down on the bed, he sat down himself, curling up as he held him. He clutched Abel to him like his body would vanish into nothing if he didn't, weeping into his soft, white hair.