Gabriel looked so pitiful, sounded so distraught. Something dark and monstrous deep within Paul's chest purred in satisfaction as he looked down at his angel. The boy was so demure in his shame that a thousand artists could never capture such an expression, not if they had a thousand years to study and stare and yearn.<br/><br/>Paul's other hand brushed under Gabriel's chin, the touch kind even as the other hand continue to stab and squeeze into Gabriel's hide.<br/><br/>"Look me in the eyes when you speak," Paul instructed, his voice flat as it usually was, as if returning to form and that other him had merely been a fluke. A mirage.<br/><br/>It seemed Paul was back to his real self when Gabriel opened his eyes. He smiled his knife smile, as flinty and cold as a scalpel as he admired the wet sheen of those beautiful green eyes. Such sweet despair, far more miserable than the woeful faces of the Final Judgement within the Sistine Chapel. Paul had spent days staring at its majesty but not one of those sinners were as repentant as Gabriel, pleading for forgiveness not to god, but to him.<br/><br/>Paul made a soft pleased sound, and his hand eased its cruel hold, leaving white marks in Gabriel's skin before quickly flushing to an angry and abused red, dotted with droplets of crimson blood.<br/><br/>Paul was not going to leave Gabriel. He may hint or threaten or walk out the door, but he had always come back, would always come back. Gabriel was his and he cherished the things that belonged to him, just as deeply as he abused them.<br/><br/>Then Paul's smile turned kind again, his flinty eyes going dull and plastic as his touch became soft and sweet. He smoothed his palms over Gabriel's back, soothing and calm and loving in all the wrong ways.<br/><br/>Gabriel said he was sorry and Paul believed him, but he was not ready to end the boy's suffering. He had to properly atone first.<br/><br/>"Not yet, you're not," Paul responded almost gleefully. "Lay yourself on the bed, on your back,<i>sweetheart.</i>"