You know I cannot do that." He couldn't do anything that Michael didn't want him to, so went the terms of their curse. Walking around so that he was behind Michael, Metatron rested his hands on the back of the chair. He could sense Michael tense up and laughed. "It won't work if I don't touch you."
"Fine! Just get it over with."
Cautiously, Metatron placed his hands on Michael's shoulders, letting his thumbs rest against the bare skin of his neck. The angel's skin was prickling, but it was still cool and smooth to the touch. Slowly he began to work his fingers into the tension he felt there. His shoulders were so small! This wasn't the first time Metatron had thought such a thing, but feeling it on the other hand…
"See, this isn't so bad," he said in a sing song voice as he slid his hands across those shoulders.
"Hmmm, I don't get what Raphael is thinking," the tone of voice was sulky, but he could feel Michael's shoulders slowly loosening up. Much like a shy cat who avoided your pets, but melted if you managed to lay a hand on it. They continued like that in silence as Metatron worked on him.
This close he noticed little things, the faint scent of wilted lilies, the soft way Michael's hair tickled against his hands, the serene bend of his neck. So different from the bitter old man that lashed out at the slightest provocation. There was an almost feminine beauty to him, like most of the Angels of Origin, perhaps even more so. Not Gabriel's rigid, pristine features though. Nor Raphael's rich sunlight presence. Or the cold, yet compelling force of personality that was Uriel. But something almost fragile. That he was being allowed to touch for once in his long life.