Errant Wings (BL)

The prison of Heaven was not made of iron or stone.

It was made of silence.

Of stillness so absolute it felt unnatural—a place untouched by time, untouched by sound, untouched by anything but light.

The walls glowed faintly with celestial inscriptions, their golden runes pulsing in rhythmic intervals, like a slow heartbeat. The floor was smooth and cold beneath them, reflecting the dim shimmer of their auras. There were no guards. No chains.

Because there was no need for them.

Heaven's Prison did not need walls to keep its captives inside.

The very air did that.

And so, Azarel and Vael were alone.

Completely.

Azarel sat against the farthest wall, his wings partially folded, exhaustion pressing against his body like an unseen weight.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move.

He was watching.

Vael could feel his gaze, steady and unreadable. It unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

He had paced at first, restless, his muscles tight, his runes flickering beneath his skin. The stillness of this place felt unnatural—wrong.

And yet, he hadn't tried to leave.

He didn't know why.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Neither of them broke it.

Until Azarel did.

"You were not supposed to be here."

His voice was quiet.

But in the silence, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Vael stopped pacing.

He turned—slowly. His red eyes flickered, taking in the angel's expression, the way he sat so calmly against the wall, as if he had not just thrown away everything to be here.

His jaw clenched. "You're the one who put yourself here, angel."

Azarel held his gaze.

"And you're the one who won't explain how you got here."

A muscle twitched in Vael's jaw.

Because he was right.

Vael exhaled sharply, looking away. He wanted to scoff, to mock him, to turn this into something easier.

But the words refused to come.

Because Azarel had followed him.

Because something about that made his chest feel tight.

Azarel tilted his head slightly, studying him.

"You don't know, do you?"

Vael stiffened.

He didn't answer.

Azarel inhaled deeply, as if piecing together something only he could see.

"I didn't cross by choice," Vael muttered finally, voice lower than before.

Azarel's breath caught.

Not a reaction of shock, but something quieter.

He had assumed this was some demon plot—a coordinated attack, a deliberate strategy.

But if Vael was telling the truth…

"Then… what happened?" Azarel asked, his voice softer now.

Vael clenched his fists, his runes flaring dimly.

"I don't know."

It was the truth.

And he hated it.

Azarel didn't press.

He just watched him.

And for some reason, Vael hated that even more.

A long moment passed between them.

Then—Azarel spoke again.

"Someone wanted you here."

Vael exhaled sharply, scoffing.

"And you followed me. Why?"

Azarel didn't answer right away.

Didn't shift.

Didn't break eye contact.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

"I wanted to see you again."

Silence.

Vael stopped breathing.

The words settled between them, heavy and undeniable.

Azarel didn't look away.

Didn't take them back.

Vael let out a slow, sharp breath, shaking his head.

Then, quietly—"You're an idiot."

Azarel smirked, just barely.

"I've been told."

Vael let out a sound that might have been a laugh. But it wasn't mocking.

It wasn't cold.

It was just disbelieving.

"I killed three of yours."

Azarel tilted his head slightly.

"You didn't kill me."

The Softest Moment

For the first time since they had been thrown into this prison together, Vael sat down.

Not close.

But not far, either.

The exhaustion was catching up to them.

Vael wasn't used to being still.

Azarel wasn't used to not having answers.

But for now, they just… breathed.

The glow of the prison walls cast shifting shadows across their faces, illuminating the way they watched each other.

It wasn't hostility.

It wasn't war.

It was just—them.

Azarel exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I should hate you."

Vael tilted his head back against the wall, eyes flickering toward him.

"I should hate you more."

A pause.

Then—Azarel let out a slow breath.

"Then why don't we?"

Vael didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

The prison was quiet.

The space between them felt different.

Vael shifted slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. His shoulder brushed against Azarel's wing.

He expected the angel to move away.

He didn't.

Azarel's silver eyes were half-lidded now, his body heavy with exhaustion.

"Sleep." he murmured.

Vael scoffed. "You think I trust you enough for that?"

Azarel's lips curved—not quite a smirk, but close.

"You should."

Vael didn't answer.

Didn't mock him.

Didn't laugh.

Because for some reason… he almost believed him.

The last thing he saw before his mind slipped into uneasy sleep was Azarel's face, barely illuminated in the golden glow of the prison walls.

And for the first time in centuries—

Vael didn't dream of war.