There are a list of rules — small, but short — that Lucifer expects Michael to adhere to.
First, a hotel must be secured by sundown. If not, open-road slumber was fine as long as they were still in Arizona or New Mexico. The second they hit Oklahoma, all bets were off; if they had to stop driving at 2 PM because the next hotel wasn’t until 10, so be it. Day burned. Except, addendum 2.5A by Lucifer states that ANY town with some variant of the words “Negro, don’t let the sun set on you around here” were to be driven though without stop. If urgent, it must be day. If urgent but it was night, no, it did not matter, it wasn’t urgent enough and they were going to keep driving no matter what. Then where will we sleep if we can’t do it on the road? Michael went on to ask. Pray this list of folk I know is up to date, Lucifer counters, stalwart in expression as he begins to curl along the first comforting turn of his favorite road in the world.
Second. . .second was the hard one. What, thought the second was bad enough? Certainly, but the safety protocol went both ways. Lucifer was quite clear in telling Michael to take a cue from the townsfolk around him — if he didn’t see other girlboys or boygirls or anything that would even so much as whisper ‘it’s alright,’ don’t wear the cute clothes. Hearing those words make the blonde chafe, why’d he bother bringing some of them then? But deep in the pits of his heart, he knew just as well — he’s been knowing as much, and so, he packed a healthy ratio of boy to girl clothes that would appease his sensibilities.
As for the final rule —
“Nice weather.”
The blonde begins, idly skimming the newspaper in front of him. After a first relaxing day staying in California, the second in Arizona kicked off with a gear switch; Michael had gone for a more relaxed, all navy suit with the cream-toned floral tie as a way to pop without “standing out.” Lucifer mirrored him with a muted red suit and a violet, ivy-like tie that matched his eyes. “Stocks?”
Snort. Steam is wafting up from their respective orders of coffee — the devious duo find themselves in a small diner fresh off of Flagstaff, surrounded by a mix of suited up business men who smoke and travelling families like them munching on their meals. Take a picture, this would make a good ‘Wish You Were Here’ photo.
“Up right now.”
Lucifer finally counters, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray. He’d already caught all the headlines at the gas station earlier while Michael used the bathroom; instead, he lingers on the section about best books of the year, pleased to see George Orwell compete with the likes of Yukio Mishima. Two so unlike viewpoints, yet their brutal takedown of the hegemonistic system competed for his little black heart. “Those sports, though.”
An attempt not to smirk. Michael takes his turn to drag on his cigarette, sparing brief, sidelong glances at the competition. Compared to them, the people seemed straight laced against the influx of waitresses who serve brushing by with long, beige dresses and the goofy little maid caps that adorn their heads like paper tiaras. “Indeed. Gotta love those Yankees.”
Such immaculate form, Lucifer tuts, like he’s ever bothered to read about or watch a game in his life. “Amazing ball throwing technique.”
“Oh, yes. Pitches hard. Very hard. Say, do you love cars?”
“Haha, I love cars! Cars are so good. Shiny. The latest model dropped.”
And on it goes. Coffee sip here, attempt not to laugh there. . .what goes unsaid is the fleeting glances they can share in between. Sometimes, Lucifer meets Michael’s gaze for one second too long because he can’t help it. That makes the blonde look down and rub his cup to act like he’s just going over the latest math in regards the economy even though what he really fucking wants is to grab his boyfriend by the jacket and shove his tongue down his throat. What must Michael do instead? Make content with Lucifer’s foot rubbing against his ankle while a white child who’s being served pancakes stares as if he’s been in on their secret the entire time.
“It’s gorgeous.”
Michael says under his breath as the pair stand over the precipice that was the Grand Canyon, an almost 300 mile-long and one mile deep beast of nature eked out over two billion years. Fathom that. Two billion. That’s the timespan between the couple’s ability to enjoy the gust of hot, arid air against their skin from the yawning drafts to singular celled organisms learning they could have sex for the first time.
“Can’t imagine livin’ a whole ass eon just to watch a new layer form.”
Lucifer goes on, studying all the layers exposed over time. A striata of living history exposed since this landmass could articulate itself. Somewhere along the way was a layer called the “Great Nonconformity,” a massive break — most likely, a sudden rupture of the Earth aching to jut upward against its natural formation — before it carried on like business as usual. “It’s gotta be madness watin’ for all them seconds to melt away.”
Silence. The canyon was quiet for one, long yawning second, the chasm of a mile-long drop from where they stood staring in mimickried abyss. Michael tries to make some quippy comeback or even a solid one-liner of insight; none comes. Just the mouth opening, closing. Opening? Staying open, not a sound. Time, how to quantify time. Four seasons. Twelve months. Was it only twelve? Twelve divided neatly into four. So three, three months per season. In a single month, about thirty days. Then, in a single day — just one — it was twenty-four hours, or 1,440 minutes, or 86,400 seconds. Comprehending all of this took away sixty of those seconds already.
“I was thinking about it before we had our talk in front of the television.”
The blonde manages after another thirty seconds melt away, gaze cast down. The kiss of reds and oranges climbing up each layer reminded him of a melting sun while the actual sun beat down on them, exposed to nothing but what nature can offer them. “How you lived a whole life before I was even born.”
Several of them, the detective hums. Lucifer then makes a step forward to Michael. And then, another. Soon, the blonde has no choice but to step back to accommodate, inching closer towards the edge. Edge of the cliff. Edge of the world, yet still not close enough. Not close enough.
“Lucifer!”
Michael half-laughs, half-gasps the second Lucifer wraps an arm around his waist and holds him over what is no doubt a life-ending scenario, his back arched against the chasm while heated drafts burst up from the bottom and make his hair fly about. He imagined he wouldn’t just go kersplat like his ex did — no. His head would rupture to let out all the kinetic energy he accumulated from falling for so long. His neck, most likely snapping. Limbs askew. Blood everywhere. It would be so glorious, he thinks, that the initial shock of Lucifer holding Michael’s literal life in his arms just made him giggle, borderline delirious. “Don’t — don’t drop me. . .”
Wasn’t gonna, he murmured, taking one step closer. He felt for the last pull where his feet could remain firmly planted on the ground as opposed to slipping and sending them both flying, which unto itself would be poetic justice. Two stars slung from out of the sky, burning bright — with talents like theirs, they could change the world. Instead, they are cast away, discarded as imperfect models not fitting what should very clearly be a perfect world. “I just think you look real stunnin’ like this is all.”
A pause. Another draft of wind makes their hair go flying up. If Lucifer closed his eyes, he could pretend the gusts were explosive blows rupturing in his eardrums. The world, getting ripped up bedrock by bedrock until it crumbled to ash and could be started again.
“Lu. . .”
Now comes the trembling sigh from Michael’s lips when a devastating thrust is delivered to him. One kiss wasn’t enough — his slacks were pulled down just enough for his knees to have protection from the rough rock beneath. His hands, firmly palming the earth. He did not know what to worry about more: being fucked so hard that Lucifer sent him tumbling over, or if his slacks were going to have gravel stains on his knees. It ends up being the latter since any coherent thought is robbed from him, lashes fluttering open and shut, the wind howling, and his hole split open by an immaculate rod. “Fuck, Louis. . .”
Don’t call me that, Lucifer hisses, enduring the pain of his rocking, five-decade-old knees into the ground, a pathetic sidenote as he holds Michael’s hair like a leash. Thrust. “The man’s dead. I liked it when you called me Lucifer for a reason.”
Another thrust. Felt like steel wrapped in velvet — the intention a sign of affection. The action, unmoored. Feral. When Michael turns his head to brush his lips against Lucifer’s cheek, he asks what’s gotten into him.
“You reminded me that I’m alive.”
The detective whispers. Nips at Michael’s pouty bottom lip, thrust. Then, happens to look down with admiration at how close he could taste death that he might as well lick the rocks beneath them. “An’ this, baby, is how I behave when I ain’t pretendin’ none.”
(The earth of the Grand Canyon, Arizona is anointed with Michael’s seed as he comes with a violent cry, one that bounces around the maw of the southwest. Lucifer swallows whatever sound is left as seconds, moaning into it, hips pressing so hard that for one, single beat of the heart, it felt like they were about to careen down for good).