One of those Eliana plot moments I was dying to reach, deliberately sprinkled with some family angst 💗
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There are days where Emma thinks the world must be out to make things as difficult as possible for her.
This should not be one of those days, and yet, predictably, here they are. In a way it was almost easier at the beginning of this ordeal - Gold showed up with some new cronies, sure, but that's on par with the course. It's arguably part of their town's routine, by this point.
Then those cronies took August. That, Emma suspects, was where everything started picking up speed as it went to hell.
She spares a glance at Eliana, who is pacing around like a caged tiger, her movements jerky and impatient. Emma can't exactly blame her - even if her brother hadn't been the one who got taken, she must be still riding the high of his rescue, full of adrenaline and pent up energy - but it is an unnerving sight, muddy footprints tracking across the hospital floor notwithstanding.
Emma sighs, forcibly returning her attention to the book pages that have given them all so much trouble lately. In the brief bout of lucidity he had at her house, August casually informed her that that is where their mysterious Author is, so now she's on her own trying to puzzle out how to get him out - her friend lost consciousness shortly afterwards, which made him of little help, with the addition of having to figure out where to go to get him checked out.
In Emma's defense, she did propose the convent right off the bat, and she still wagers it would have been the better choice; magically sturdy and magically knowledgeable, it’d have been the perfect place for their needs, so they could continue worrying about pretty much everything else. Eliana, however, fought against that option so strongly that it was impossible to make her change her mind, and, as Emma has learned the hard way in the past few hours, most people will capitulate rather than arguing with someone whose face is deliberately spattered with Cruella De Vil's drying blood.
The sound of approaching footsteps invades her train of thought. The sheriff looks up, expecting Whale or one of the members of his staff, but is instead met with Regina's flat expression.
The mayor is still playing double agent, technically, but the only other supposed ally of Gold is on the opposite wing of the hospital, bound to her bed and with enough gauze wrapped around her neck to satisfy a mummy. Even if she were to spot Regina, which is unlikely, it would simply look like another attempt to swipe the illustration of the door from Emma’s hands, albeit in a more crowded environment than usual.
“Still no word from Gold,” Regina announces, her gaze moving between the other two women. “He’s probably huddling somewhere with Maleficent until he gets another bright idea, since this one worked so well.”
Emma sighs, stashing away the pages again. The less people see them, the better, even at this point. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse, honestly,” she says, her voice terse and unamused. “Did you come all the way up here just to tell me there was no news?”
“I wish. No, Gold’s off the radar, but you’ve got another visitor.”
“Really? Who?”
“The Mother Superior. She’s come to check up on August, since they used some…unusual magic on him.”
For a brief, surprisingly lucid second, Emma feels a stab of regret about not having asked Regina to speak in private. She doesn’t get much more time than that, anyway; a second seems to be enough for Eliana to register what she’s just heard, freezing on the spot halfway through her brooding - her head swivels around, looking at the mayor with her purple-ish eyes as wide as saucers, but her face is completely expression-less, a waxen mask stained with red from the chin down.
Then, what feels like just another second later, she rushes past them both, stomping out of the door without looking back.
“Crap.” Emma stands up so abruptly the rickety hospital chair almost falls backwards, cursing more under her breath as she grabs Regina and sets out on Eliana’s trail. “Did you really have to say it where she could hear? Where is the Mother Superior, anyway?”
Her friend all but glares at her, though mercifully she falls in line with Emma pretty easily, as if picking up on the urgency of the matter. “At the entrance. I told her to wait until I asked if August could have visitors. But what-”
“That girl went for Cruella’s jugular only a few hours ago, do you think it’s safe for Blue of all people to be around her?”
“Well, if Blue couldn’t guess that her kid would be here, that’s on her, not me,” Regina scoffs moodily. “Personally I’m on Eliana’s side- that dog lady wanted Henry, Emma. If she’d gotten to him like she planned, I wouldn’t have stopped at the jugular, and neither would you.”
The problem is, she’s right. Emma has nothing against Eliana. Eliana is, by and large, a nice enough person - she grew up with Ruby, and Henry likes her, and August, who despite everything is still one of Emma’s closest friends, thinks the world of her, like the besotted younger brother he is. She might have a penchant for butting heads with her mother and Emma’s, sure, but she doesn’t look the type to go for unwarranted violence, and besides, what Regina said is true: without her, Cruella De Vil would have tried to take Henry instead, in the hope of luring his family out for good.
But Emma’s personal opinion matters little and less, right now. She is still the sheriff, and she is still the Savior: while babysitting a young woman who’s barely gotten off the adrenaline rush of biting a chunk off a villain is not her top priority, she’d rather avoid having a matricide in her hands anyway, in the midst of all that chaos.
Thankfully, the Mother Superior is still relatively in one piece when they stumble into the hospital's hall, though she looks far from pleased. She and her daughter are both small women, nearly of an height, but where the fairy's wearing sensible shoes and exuding her customary air of authority, Eliana has turned into a looming, haunting presence, as though her wild hair and the way she's standing up ramrod straight were making her appear larger than life.
"Nobody asked you to come," Emma catches her hissing as they draw closer to the pair. "You're not welcome here."
Blue scoffs, with the same look of annoyance one might have after stepping on a chewed gum. "This is not the time for your childish games, Eliana. I need to make sure your brother is in good shape, and- oh, God, what happened to you?"
"You did." Eliana leans forward so that she's almost nose to nose with her mother, her voice lowering so much it's almost inaudible over the din around them.
"You're what happened to me, and to August. So many of the things Gold did to him, they were because of what you did to him first - look at yourself, Mother. You're a fucking disease. I'm not letting you get close enough to poison my baby brother again."
"I'd thank you to avoid that kind of language when you speak to me-"
"Or what?" The question is delivered with a sort of hysterical giddiness, but none of that shows up on the young woman's face, save perhaps for a brief glint in her eyes, a sharp, pestering flash.
"What will you do to punish me? Will you make me stand in the corner? Will you let August get hurt again? I am tired of having to chase away his monsters myself just because you can't be arsed to do your duty. And you didn't pass anything useful down to me, otherwise I'd have needed less time to burn that cursed island to the ground, back then."
Eliana points at the crusted blood with surprising ferocity, all but livid with anger. "But this? This is yours alright, Mother. This is how you would have solved things, too, if you weren't too proud to get your own hands dirty, so don't tell me you're here to help, now. You already did more than enough when you gave us both life."
She spits the word out so venomously that it catches even Emma off guard, though the sheriff still takes the split second the Mother Superior spends faltering to cut between them, wary of possible escalations. "Okay, ladies, that's enough. Blue, thanks for checking in, but I think we're managing just fine for now. We’ll call if we need anything. Eliana- you need to get some sleep. August will be fine. He's in good hands."
"He is," the younger woman agrees readily - except she doesn't look that much younger, at present. She is still fresh-faced and minute, at a first glance, but when her eyes raise to meet Emma's there's a fury in them that feels ancient, burning blue and purple like gas fire.
"I trust you with him, Emma Swan, and I trust the mayor, but I do not trust her. She already let him die once; she might do it again if you don't keep an eye on her."
There's a sharp intake of breath from Blue, and suddenly the nun is struggling against Emma's flimsy separation, face contorted in anger. "You're going too far, child," she says, her proverbial calm straining. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Call me child one more time, I'll choose some new names for you as well. What do you say about liar, uh? Murderer and liar, maybe?"
"You dare-"
"Yes, I dare, Mother!" Eliana explodes, clutching at the sides of her head as though her skull were splitting in two, fingers twisting in her tangled curls in a way that must be at least a bit painful and yet shows no sign of stopping.
"You have no idea of what you've passed down to me, of what- what I've heard in that forest, and you still judge me for how I've acted all these years, but this is on you, Mother. Gold hates you. That's why he tricked me and why he hurt August. None of us would be here right now, if you'd just done your job with him. You should be ashamed. You-"
"What's going on here?"
There’s a beat where Emma almost thanks whatever divine intervention might have just saved her arm from being torn apart by the mother and daughter barking on either side of it. It only lasts a beat, however, as when she raises her eyes she finds out the new voice belongs only to Marco, standing in the hospital hall with his hat in his hands and a concerned look on his face.
“Great, it’s a family reunion,” Regina mutters, acidly, as Blue takes the chance to compose herself and turns around to address the man directly, as though she hadn’t just come out of an hysterical catfight in a public place.
“Geppetto, please, control your daughter better- she’s in a state, right now. She’s not fit to look after anyone.”
She probably expects Marco to side with her, just as Emma’s own father has gone along with some of her mother’s worst ideas; judging by the way her expression freezes, however, she must not be expecting him to stiffen and say, evenly: “She is your daughter, too. Not just when it suits you.”
He walks past them to reach Eliana, then, and only hesitates a moment before stepping to her side and wrapping an arm around her chest, at once protection and holding. He is not an extraordinarily tall man, Marco, but the girl looks pretty much dwarfed by his grip, even if anger is still dripping from her every pore - Emma feels safe enough to step away, then, though she keeps her guard up, just in case.
“My girl,” the carpenter says frettingly, scanning his daughter’s features up and down. “What happened? I thought it was your brother that- Is that blood? Are you hurt?”
Eliana doesn’t respond immediately, eyes still staring vacantly in her mother’s direction, so it’s Regina who steps in once again, her tone dry but not devoid of any admiration. “She is what happened to some old friends of mine. Your girl got August out- without her we’d still be running in circles.”
“And that was very brave of her,” Blue interjects, somewhat irritated, “but no one knows for sure what Rumpelstiltskin did to August yet. Emma, you know it better than I do- if it’s dark magic, then the sooner we get rid of it, the better. We’re only wasting time with this farce.”
“You’re the only one wasting any time here, Mother.” Eliana speaks softly and haltingly, but her gaze is still hard as steel, despite everything.
“My brother is fine where he is. Touch him again and I will eat you alive. This will be your only warning.”
Marco hums pensively under his breath, his eyes flitting from the girl in his arms to Regina and Emma. “If Eliana says there is no danger, then I trust her. Emma? Have you seen my boy yet?”
“Whale thinks he’ll be okay,” the sheriff replies, picking her words cautiously. “Sort of. He’s going to need some time to rest and recover, but that’s about it.”
“Then we don’t need your help right now, Mother Superior. You can leave my children alone, if you please.”
It’s a low blow, lower than many would expect from a man as mild-mannered as him. It’s easy to guess Blue might be of the same opinion, too - she looks absolutely floored by the remark, enough not to be able to get even the proverbial last word in, and it’s a miracle the whole hospital doesn’t fall onto their heads as she leaves, so enraged she appears to be.
Still, she does leave, and Emma turns back to Eliana, dread pooling in her gut. The girl hasn’t torn her eyes from her departing mother yet, either, but something has changed in her all the same; it’s as if she were being taken by a full body tremor, one that picks up pace when Blue finally walks out of the door and threatens to make her buckle at the knees, with only her father’s presence keeping her upright.
It occurs to the sheriff that she has never seen them so close to each other, before. There is some strain in that relationship, to hear August and Granny tell it, and though they must have exchanged a few words in Emma’s presence at some point, it was nothing like this - Eliana shakes and shakes, run through by shivers as though she’d gotten stuck in a blizzard, and Marco seems at loss of words over her reaction, cradling her cheek with his free hand like an additional point of support.
“Marco,” Emma ventures, ever so carefully, “August’s still sleeping. You can go see him if you want, but she really needs to get some rest too. Everything else can wait.”
“No.” Eliana squirms in her father’s hold, an uncharacteristic pleading note in her words. “I don’t want to. I can’t.”
The man shushes her gently, pulling her even closer. “Of course you can. We’ll go see your brother, and then I’ll take you home. It’s alright.”
She shakes her head brusquely, sagging further on herself. “Papa,” she says, and it’s barely more than a hoarse croak, tears pooling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Gone is the ageless air she was sporting before; now she looks like a child, and she sounds like one, too, a little kid tired out at the end of a sugar rush. “Papa, I think I did something awful. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Oh, my girl.” Marco presses a kiss to the top of her head, in such a tender gesture that Emma feels prompted to look away and give them their privacy.
“I know that’s not true. You’re alright- Eliana, my sun, I’m so proud of you. It’s alright. You’re safe, and so is your brother. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
In the corner of her eye, Emma catches Regina turning around as well, gaze stubbornly fixed on the ceiling. The sheriff imitates her, and then thinks, idly, that she shouldn’t be feeling so gloomy about everything, about this heartwarming scene that’s unfolding behind them even as she tries to pretend she can’t hear anyone sobbing over the buzzing of the neon lights overhead.
She shouldn’t be, and yet she is, because that persistent worry that something’s bound to go wrong still clings to her, and has not left the room with Blue, as they, Eliana included, must all have hoped it would.
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the green emotion
someone requested jealous!azriel and i... made up a whole plot. i hope it's decent and fulfills the craving ! i'm a firm believer than he's so silly when he gets jealous <3 friends to lovers, about 4k
Azriel was not a jealous Male.
That was what he told himself. Jealousy was something that possessed the likes of Cassian or Rhys, driven to territorial acts that likened them to wild beasts. Fueled by their protectiveness, their senses dulled beyond reason.
Jealousy was a sharp whip with a taunting bite and Azriel was one of few who did not bend beneath it.
He had adopted a strength over millennia, an iron will, that prevented him from harboring such unsavory feelings. He was a stronger male than that, not so easily willed by strong ugly emotions such as jealousy.
That was what he told himself — as he tailed behind you, hanging back far enough you could not detect his presence, his shadows shrouding him.
It was reaching evening in Velaris, the last remnants of the sun's dappled light scattered across the cobblestones. You were clothed in a velvet cloak that reached down to your ankles. Its hood was drawn up, to cover your face.
If Azriel didn’t know you so well, not the weight of your steps and the lithe you carried yourself with, you may have slipped by unnoticed.
But Azriel was the Spymaster for a reason — and you were keeping secrets.
Truly, it itched and picked at him as he turned reason over and over again in his mind as he followed you. What possible reason could you have for skirting around in the dark? To slip from your friends and cloak yourself, wishing to remain unseen on the streets of your home?
It didn’t make sense to him. No thoughts of treason ever breached his mind. You wouldn’t dare, he knew that. You treasured your family as deeply as Azriel did himself, having bled and fought for your space beside them many years ago.
But as Azriel traced the path you walked, knowing you were fully in your right to go about your business however you pleased, it couldn’t be ignored. Logic kept pointing fingers in the same direction.
If he did not suspect you of withholding vital information from your court, then his quiet tailing must be fueled by something else. Something as trivial as an emotion such as…. jealousy.
Azriel bristled at the thought and his wings shook silently behind him, as if shaking off some imaginary snow.
He did not get jealous.
He was simply… ensuring the safety of his court. Which included your own safety. Even the thought made him grimace in the shadows, knowing the smack he would receive from Cassian if his brother ever heard the implication you couldn’t fend for yourself.
You most certainly could. Azriel and Cassian had both spent their fair share of hours battling against you in the fighting ring, training you up.
And it’s hardly likely that the image of you — donned in your fighting leathers, forehead beaded with sweat, chest heaving as you gripped your sword tight and grinned across the ring — was something Azriel would forget anytime soon.
Cauldron boil him if he ever had to admit aloud just how often he thought of that image.
Still, something within him kept his feet moving, footsteps as quiet as the night.
Faelight illuminated across the cobbles, the light of the rising moon, brighter in this court than any other, cast across the doorsteps of the townhouses. You had wound through the streets and ended up two streets stray from the Palace of Threads and Jewels. On a doorstep that Azriel had never seen before.
Your hood fell to your shoulders as you pushed it back gently, revealing the column of your throat and the curve of your shoulders. The faint moonlight glided across your skin, a luminous glow curling up against your collarbones. Azriel swallowed from his place in the shadows.
It was never a surprise to find you beautiful. To revere your enchanting otherworldly beauty — that Azriel was used to. And yet still, even after all these years, he had not managed to master the way it stole the breath from his lungs every time.
A familiar hunger yawned within him. He averted his eyes from you to the door.
He forced himself to take in the details, listening as his shadows whispered things his eyes could not attest. An artist's home. Damaged and rebuilt in the last battle of Velaris. The inhabitant was a Male, living alone.
Something blistered awfully inside Azriel.
Why would you visit a home such as this? Azriel could think of a few reasons that could warrant a visit so late in the evening, with your face concealed and your footsteps light. He felt his stomach turn over. Something foul burned in his gut.
The door before you opened and Azriel turned his face fast, slicing his gaze to the ground before he could see the Fae who greeted you.
Suddenly, this felt too close to an invasion of privacy. If you wished to keep your lovers a secret, as he himself did, this was a direct violation of your wishes.
That was... if this man was, indeed, your lover.
Something vulgar, something ugly reared up in his veins. Azriel clenched his fists at his sides, siphons gleaming, and willed it down.
Jealousy would not become him. Jealousy was not— did not control him.
And yet he could feel it, coursing through his blood, choking up his throat. Azriel tried to push it down, to fight against it with reason, with logic. You were promised to no Male, least of all to him. But...
But he could've sworn.
As quickly as the words appeared in his mind, Azriel stamped them down with an icy fury.
A silent curse followed them, directed at himself for his own foolishness. How many times would he walk this road before he eventually learned?
There had been no heated moments between you, no wandering eyes, no lingering hands; none that he had not imagined. None that his mind had no conjured up in its own twisted hope.
When you sought him out in the night, tormented by your own mind and how it kept you from sleep, you were seeking... a friend, Azriel realised bitterly.
There was nothing deeper to your decision to show up at his door but no one else's. Nothing was hidden in the way you chose a seat next to him at every dinner, nor the way you found a way to be beside him at the tables at Rita's.
Sitting close enough so that he could smell the alluring scent of your perfume. Could see the gleam of your bright eyes as you glanced at him after every joke, almost as if to see what might make him smile.
No. He steeled himself, shutting down every sweet moment of you he had been subconsciously collecting, holding to a greater magnitude than you clearly did.
You were not like Mor or Cassian. You did not warm the sheets of many Fae beds, slipping in and out of them without a care.
You were... alike to himself, Azriel had thought. Dedicated yourself to one.
He scowled at himself in the dark. This— this rendezvous in the dark did not dispel what he knew about you. It did not make it untrue.
It simply meant his feeble hope, that the one, the Fae you might dedicate yourself entirely was him... was just that—a hope.
It did not sway the reality of the world, the matter of truth that you crept out in the night to meet on shadowed doorsteps. Azriel felt his shadows smoking around him, spun into a frenzy at his unwelcome revelation. He snapped in his wings a little tighter.
Coming here tonight, following you, had been a mistake.
—
It seemed perfectly logical after that night for Azriel to take a step back, to rein himself in.
Not that there was not much to rein back — but the small actions reserved just for you, the unrestrained smiles, the inside jokes ribbed back at one another.
The things he had perceived as meaning more. He knew, that if he wanted to protect his heart from further ache, he should stop doing them.
But... maybe the only thing he did better than fighting, he thought grievously, was being utterly lovesick for someone who would never feel the same.
At the very least, he would hold his feelings to secrecy. It began with the smallest retractions, like weaning an addict off their favourite drug.
Azriel knew if he pulled away too quick, it would send him into a sort of withdrawal — and after all these years spent together, he wasn't sure he knew how to live with a deficit of you. Of your brazen smile and sparkling eyes.
Slow and sure. Over the next week, he willed himself to quit bothering you, to empty a space in your life so you could invite in others, those that meant more to you. So, there could be space for your new... lover.
Even the word sounded bitter in his mind.
Azriel opted for longer training in the morning. Let his sparring sessions with Cassian bleed longer and longer, not leaving the blazing hot rooftop even when Cass winds up limping inside.
He had received a halfhearted scowl from the warrior, undoubtedly for how unrelenting he had been in his fighting this week.
The time he usually sets aside for you, to read side by side in the library, to bake, to enjoy each other's company — Azriel swept it aside for you, to free up your schedule.
Noticed how you spend your free time down in Velaris. He doesn't dare tail you again.
The week crawls by slowly, stretching out thick, black tar.
Come Sunday, a day you normally reserved for spending with him, Azriel knows his extra insistence on training isn't enough of an excuse to keep you away. He trains late anyway.
True to his suspicions, it takes less than an hour for you to appear— having come to find him.
Azriel can sense you, even before his shadows murmur sweet things in his ears about the most beautiful Fae watching him through the window.
You're lingering at the door, unusually reserved. He can feel your hesitancy, even as he works his aching muscles through yet another set of exercises. His shadows stay in close, the edge of his body whispering in and out of darkness, his siphons gleaming.
You wait, watching quietly, until the sword he's wielding, a strong, broad Illyrian blade, is placed down to rest. Then, there's the soft pad of your feet as you step out into the training area. He hears you coming but he does not turn to face you.
“I've missed you this week.”
Even with his back turned, Azriel fights to keep his expression neutral, even as his eyes flutter at your admission. There's a tug on his shadows, their desire to wisp across to you proving a challenge to resist. He holds himself still, stern, and doesn't even a ruffle of his wings to indicate he's heard you.
"I—" Azriel begins. He still can't bear to turn to face you. "I'm sorry to hear that."
He can hear the noise of confusion that slips from your throat — evidently, it isn't the response you're expecting.
Azriel focuses on the sword before him, his bicep bulging as he lifts its weight and wanders to the stand of weapons. He pretends to be immersed in the decision of which to train with next, even though he's been out here for hours.
Even with his silent cold shoulder, he can still hear you behind him, your feet dragging softly across the ground in what is surely a hesitant nervous action. But still, you haven't left.
"Well, maybeee…" You continue on, voice still aiming for light and breezy, as if he hasn't been avoiding you. You're still trying.
Azriel's chest tightens up with a familiar ache, one that always lingers around you. Since seeing you that night, on another Male's doorstep, its sting has become particularly cruel. Jealousy has a cold bite.
"If you’re nearly done... I mean, if your somewhat obsessive workout regime is finally complete..."
You're winding on, taking jabs that would normally make him smile. You'd take a gentle rolling of his eyes at this point. Azriel turns to you, his face remaining passive.
"I was wondering if you wanted to come sit with me in the library," You say, voice suddenly softer now that he's facing you. "If you’re not too busy, that is.”
Azriel steels himself, eyes cutting to the ground as he forces himself to not wilt beneath your hopeful gaze. He knew it would be hard to pull himself away from you but this? This is nearing torture.
He clears his throat. “I am.”
He turns and begins to peel off the layers of Illyrian leathers from his torso, remaining diligent at keeping himself from caving to you. He can feel the ugly emotion rolling just beneath the surface, a gruesome green monster that threatens his usual composure.
Behind him, he hears your soft, saddened oh. His wings give a tiny shiver at it, even as he continues the methodical process of unwinding after training.
Piece by piece, his armor comes off, until even his shirt has been shed. His skin glistens under the shine of the afternoon sun, the muscles beneath rippling and sore from exertion.
There's a moment of silence and Azriel keeps his head bowed as he gathers himself, prepared to bathe the sweat and grime off himself. It wasn't a complete lie he had told.
Perhaps, he thinks wistfully, he could wash some of his unjust jealousy away with it. Being so unwound by his feelings is taking its toll on him, considering how unused to it he is. He waits, ears keenly listening for the sign of your departure.
After a minute of quietness, he can only assume you've slipped away silently. He sighs, half in relief and half in his sorrow.
"What are you busy doing?"
Your voice pipes up and Azriel glances behind him, surprised that you haven't left after all. His wings tuck in a little tighter.
"y/n." He murmurs your name and it comes out almost as a plea. Now, faced with you pulling apart his loose lie, Azriel finds he doesn't have it within him to lie to your face. "Please."
You don't say anything.
Azriel's shadows dance around him, agitated and frenzied, and he wills them to calm— though, that had always been an impossible request in your presence. He takes a sharp inhale and walks towards the door, leaving you behind on the rooftop.
He gets halfway down the hallway, heading for his room before your voice calls out again.
"Busy avoiding me?"
You've followed him from the training ring and now you stand at the end of the hallway, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. Your face is contorted into a hard expression, a furrow between your brows.
Azriel sighs and turns back to you. He hadn't been able to keep his secret from Mor — why, oh why did he think that he would have any more luck when it came to you?
You— enigmatic, wonderful you. Maybe, all Azriel hopes to do today is to delay the inevitable rejection for a different day. An easier day.
A day where he isn't feeling so easily undone by his the enormity of his envy. Envious of what he can't have but so desperately desires.
As he turns to face you, it's impossible to miss the way your eyes dart down to his bare chest. You stare for a moment too long and it looks like it takes an effort to drag your eyes up. You swallow heavily, the bob of your throat unmissable. Even from afar, Azriel swears there's a glow to your cheeks.
No. No, he wasn't doing that to himself anymore! He wouldn't— he couldn't be having those thoughts about you anymore. You had a lover for Mother's sake.
"I'm not—"
"Oh my Gods, don't even try to say you're not avoiding me." You interrupt him sharply. You begin to stamp your way down the hallway, eyes narrowed, your annoyance clear to see.
A door in the hallway opens. Distracted by something over his shoulder, Cassian takes a blundering loud step out into the hallway before he freezes.
He spots you first, eyes widening and wings bunching up at your obvious fury. His head turns, finding Azriel down the other end of the hallway.
"Oh... Mother, this is happening now, huh? I'm just gonna— uh, get food later." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, quickly turning and disappearing back into his room. His door closes with a quiet snip.
In the moment of distraction, you don't notice how Azriel has moved away stealthily— his shadows aiding his quiet getaway. He's not entirely sure what his plan is; he doubts he can avoid this argument by simply shutting himself in his room. Turns out, he's selfish enough to be willing to try.
Sure enough, it takes another moment before his wings twitch, his shadows reporting on your incoming footsteps moments before he hears them himself.
He busies himself with digging through his drawers and sends a silent request to the House, praying it might keep the door locked against you.
He can do this— he can swallow down his burning heart and keep your friendship he values so dearly, he swears he can. Just not today.
He hears the door open.
Glancing up, he narrows his eyes at the House and calls it a foul word in his mind. The Faelights of his room seem to twinkle mischievously in response.
"Az," You breathe softly.
His name sounds unbearably tender coming from your lips. His wings give a little rustle, curling closer around himself.
Despite his lack of reply, you aren't deterred. He can hear your footsteps, gentle and not at all like your prior furious stomps down the hallway, as they wind around his bed.
Chest stirring with an old ache, he keeps himself facing away. He slips a shirt on and prays you give him one more day to rein in his treacherous heart. One more day. He just can't do it today.
"Did I... Did I do something?"
Your voice is suddenly a lot smaller.
Azriel softens instantly at the sound of it, feeling his resolve begin to crumble. He crushes his eyes closed and thinks of what he had seen down in Velaris — forces himself to imagine you with another Male, in his arms, in his bed.
But even if his jealousy is so terribly unwarranted, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.
"No," The word grates out his throat roughly.
Because it's the truth. You hadn't done anything wrong and— and Azriel refused to hurt you just because he couldn't contain a few rampant feelings.
"Really?" The tinge of annoyance is back in your words and Azriel can't even blame you.
"Because then why it is that you have been avoiding me since— since the day I was-"
You cut your own words off and Azriel fills in the blank on his own. Since the day down in the city—where I saw you entering another Male's home, hidden in your cloak, like you were meeting a lover— and even though you're completely allowed to do that, I am like every other gods forsaken jealous Male in Prythian, getting upset over this, even if you are not truly mine.
He turns to you finally, his hands clenched at his side and he wills the next sentence out.
"What or who you choose to spend your free time with—" He inhales a long breath, forcing his face to remain neutral even as he feels his teeth grit together. "—is none of my concern."
Your face scrunches up, confused. Then the furrow between your eyebrows is back and Azriel feels a tad nervous. You aren't often angry, least of all with him.
"Cauldron boil me," You bury your face into your hands for a second. Then you drag them down languidly with a groan, peeking up at him over your hands.
"Did you follow me?"
Azriel feels a bit off-guard. His voice isn't as sure when he says, "It is my duty to survey my court."
You bristle a little at that and the nervousness within him grows a little bigger.
"'Who I choose to spend my time with?'" You repeat his words back to him with a tone of incredulity, your hands motioning wildly before you. Faintly, Azriel begins to sense the feeling of foolishness rising within him.
"For Mother's sake, Az, I was buying you a birthday gift, not sleeping with him!"
The moment the words burst from your lips, two things happen. Azriel stiffens, the true nature of your stealthy endeavor through Velaris making a fool of him indeed.
You were... cloaked and hidden because you had been planning a surprise. For him. For his birthday. Something he hadn't even considered was around the corner as it held no high merit with him. His eyes widen and his lips part an inch.
And you — you straighten up, eyes wide, looking as though you've been struck by lightning.
"You were jealous." You gasp.
Not a question, a statement.
"No," Azriel denies, without thinking. His heart rabbits in his chest. The irony of acting out the way he did, because jealousy had blinded him in the first place, is not lost on him.
Suddenly, all his envy is washed away, replaced quickly by a bumbling foolish embarrassment. He wishes he could winnow out of the House. He considers the window behind him for a moment, if only to spare himself from revealing his true feelings to you.
One glance back at your face, your expression edging towards crestfallen, and any thoughts of running away vanishes.
"Yes." He quickly amends, voice meek.
His wings give a little shudder, twisting in closer as he realises what he's admitted aloud. How there was no coming back from this.
No one had ever made him as loose-tongued as you do. Azriel is embarrassed to be caught stumbling over his words.
"I realise..." He croaks out, suddenly finding the slats of the floorboards immensely more interesting. His shadows have slowed from their nervous frenzy, making lazy motions instead, as if to soothe him. "That may not be ideal. My feelings, that is."
A beat of silence. Azriel studies a spot on the floor intently. His heart flounders wildly behind his ribs. His embarrassment seeps something closer to mortification.
Your shoes peek into the edge of his vision and Azriel's head shifts up slowly, his hazel eyes finding yours and burning into them.
His shadows whisper a thousand things to him — but all of them are dulled, quietened, as he simply stares at you. Feels something between the pair of you hang in the balance, just a breeze from unraveling.
Your eyes are bright. Acutely, he realises he can smell relief rolling off you in heavy waves. Amongst it, too, is a hint of... happiness. Happiness.
“Oh, you big Illyrian baby,” You coo, a teasing lilt to your tone.
His cheeks grow warm. Something white-hot tips down his spine as you step in closer, swaying into his space. He can smell the alluring scent of you and his heart thrums in his chest at your nearness, aching to be closer.
"Some spymaster you are, huh?" You say, voice barely above a whisper.
Azriel stays silent but his head tilts to the side just an inch in his puzzlement, his eyebrows knitting together. Hazel eyes peer at you with such an intensity that it sends goosebumps crawling across your skin— his eyes searching your face for answers to his thousand questions.
"Knowing everything except for this." You continue, words feather-soft.
You don’t say what this is but Azriel thinks he knows. Hopes he knows. His hands at his sides clench tighter, his fingers curled up into fists, and the motion catches your attention.
Moving so slowly, you reach out and gingerly take his wrist between your delicate fingers. Azriel lets you. A whine crawls up in the back of his throat and his swallows it back down.
He watches closely as you pull his hand up, forward, cradling it with your own two. His fingers twitch, so unfamiliar with such tender touches.
The shadows scouring around his shoulders burst into a frenzy, circling down his arms and twirling around your intertwined hands. It's as though they're... dancing, Azriel thinks.
"I... hoped." He admits quietly, his voice full of longing.
You shift his mottled hand, turning it gently so his palm is facing yours. Then you hold your own up against it, like you're comparing hand sizes.
Azriel can barely tear his eyes off where your hand presses into his to look up at you. Something molten hot begins to scorch through his veins. A realisation. A dream that may be finally answered. It feels like pure starlight.
Your hand is dwarfed against his own scarred one — and when Azriel curls his fingers, they hug the top of yours gently. You press back against his hand, like the smallest hug back.
You murmur back. "You don't need hope."
Your gaze skirts up from your joined hands, your lips twitching into a nervous smile.
Your eyebrows have drawn together in the middle, just a bit, as though what's happening is something you find devastatingly beautiful. As though you think that way about him. About the two of you, together.
Azriel finds himself thinking of all he would give in the world —all the mountains he'd move and dragons he'd slay— for you to keep looking at him that way.
"You already have me."
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