Errant Wings (BL)

The silence between them had grown heavy.

Not the tense silence of before, not the bitter quiet of forced proximity—but something else.

Something neither of them wanted to break.

The prison walls pulsed faintly with golden inscriptions, casting shifting light across their faces. The air was still, untouched by time. And in this place, where no one could hear them, there was no war. No battle lines. No duty.

Only them.

Vael had not taken his eyes off Azarel. Not once.

At first, it had been out of defiance.

Then—something else.

Something deeper. Something instinctive. Something he couldn't control.

Azarel's beauty was unreal.

Vael had always thought angels were cold, untouchable, distant in their perfection. But Azarel—Azarel was something else.

His silver eyes burned with unspoken weight, sharp yet impossibly soft. His white-gold hair caught the light of the prison walls, shifting between celestial glow and something dangerously human. His skin, unmarred except for the single scar on his fingertip, looked almost too pure to exist.

Vael's breath was slow, deliberate, as he watched Azarel's every movement.

He followed the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

The way his fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to do something reckless.

The way his lips parted, only to press together again, hesitating.

Vael did not look away. He couldn't.

And then—Azarel moved.

Azarel had been watching Vael just as intently.

He had always thought demons carried their darkness in everything they did. That their cruelty was in their bones, in their breath, in their very existence.

But now, sitting across from Vael, he couldn't see it.

Not in the way Vael's crimson eyes flickered, sharp but solemn.

Not in the way his runic markings pulsed, restless and uncertain.

Not in the way he sat still for the first time, his body no longer poised for war, but for something else.

Azarel's chest felt tight.

His fingers curled against his knee.

He had told himself he wouldn't move. That he wouldn't cross the space between them.

But now, that seemed impossible.

And so, without thinking—he reached out.

Vael didn't flinch.

Didn't react.

Didn't move at all.

Because Azarel was touching him.

Fingertips, barely grazing the edge of his jaw. A touch so light it shouldn't have meant anything.

But it did.

It meant everything.

Azarel's thumb brushed over his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of him.

Vael's lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He did not pull away.

His body did not reject it.

Because for the first time in his life—he didn't want to.

And Azarel—Azarel didn't seem to want to stop.

His fingers traced along Vael's jawline, barely pressing, barely real.

Vael had never been touched like this.

Never felt something so fragile against his skin.

He had been struck, clawed at, thrown to the ground, marked by battle over and over again.

But this—this was different.

This was gentle.

This was dangerous.

Because it made something inside him unravel.

And worse—it made him want more.

Azarel's breath had gone shallow.

His hand lingered, longer than it should have.

Vael was still staring at him, silent, unwavering, hypnotized.

Then—the pink light returned.

Vael felt it before he saw it.

A pulse in his aura, a shift in his energy. The same flickers of pale pink orbs that had appeared before—only stronger now.

He gritted his teeth, forcing them down, suppressing them, burying them.

Azarel noticed.

His fingers barely trembled where they rested against Vael's skin.

His silver eyes flickered—not in fear. But in recognition.

As if he was seeing something he shouldn't have.

Something Vael didn't even understand himself.

Something they were not ready to name.

And then—

The doors slammed open.

A gust of cold air rushed through the chamber.

And standing at the threshold—Seraphine.

Azarel pulled his hand back.

Vael exhaled sharply, his body snapping back into focus.

Seraphine's expression was unreadable, but her wings were rigid, her posture sharp, her presence overwhelming.

"Step away from him."

Her voice was cold. Absolute. A command, not a request.

Azarel's chest rose and fell—once.

Then—he stood.

But he did not step away.

Vael's crimson eyes flickered, watching him.

Waiting.

Seraphine's gaze darkened. "Azarel."

Azarel tilted his head slightly, his silver gaze steady.

"I am not a prisoner."

"No," Seraphine said. "But you are no longer free."

The weight of her words settled between them.

Vael's jaw tightened.

Azarel exhaled slowly.

Then—his gaze flickered back to Vael.

Vael didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

He just watched.

And for the first time, Azarel realized something.

Vael had been waiting for him.

Not just tonight. Not just in this prison.

But before that.

And he would keep waiting.

Even if neither of them understood why.

"Azarel," Seraphine repeated.

Azarel turned back to her, his face unreadable. But something in his eyes had changed.

Something that Seraphine did not like.

"Come with me."

Azarel hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then—he exhaled, flexing his fingers as if remembering what they had just done.

And finally, he stepped toward her.

Vael watched him go.

Did not speak.

Did not try to stop him.

But something inside him felt like breaking.

Because Azarel was leaving.

And Vael did not know when—if ever—he would see him again.