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I had not known , before us, that every vein in my body was capable of carrying light
When they first really touched, it was barely a touch at all. Fingers clumsily brushed across an open palm, a spark under Sandalphon’s skin that travelled to his chest and lodged there, forcing his heart to skip a beat.
“Sorry.”
His voice sounded awkward, too guttural, and it wasn’t what he had meant to say anyway. He snatched his hand back and placed it firmly on his own leg where it couldn’t do any more harm.
“What are you apologising for?”
Of course, Lucifer asked a question, peaceful smile still in place, his hands still spread on the table between them. He had been gesturing in explanation, one of their long conversations where Lucifer would talk and Sandalphon would listen and nothing would seem impossible, and he remained radiant even as Sandalphon lowered his eyes.
(He can no longer remember just what Lucifer had been teaching him with such gentle enthusiasm but he can’t forget the way the light shimmered through his hair, caressed all the places he can no longer touch.)
“Sandalphon?”
“Sorry.”
It wasn’t enough; nothing about him ever was. He was sure that Lucifer knew why he was apologising and that he was asking out of something more than curiosity. The supreme primarch could easily explain the shapes of clouds, the flight of birds, the wheeling stars in the infinite cosmos, compared to which Sandalphon’s apology was nothing.
Regardless, Lucifer rose to his feet and made his way to Sandalphon’s side of the table, reaching down to move his long emptied coffee cup away.
“I don’t need another,” Sandalphon said swiftly, voice strained. “You don’t-“
“You don’t need permission.”
(Sometimes, on long dark nights, he wonders if everything would be different if Lucifer had never said those words. He didn’t ask permission to be a traitor. He didn’t ask permission to cause a calamity. He didn’t ask permission to regret it all.)
Lucifer placed his hand upturned on the table, heedless or uncaring of the ring the cup had left behind. Sandalphon struggled with the urge to pull him away from that ugly blemish on the pristine white cloth, eyes wide, fingers digging into his own thigh to keep himself from repeating the mistake that had started this in the first place.
“Sandalphon. Listen to me.”
It was impossible to do anything but obey. Lucifer never sounded anything but truthful, his every word and cadence more beguiling than any melody Sandalphon would ever hear. He forced himself to nod, eyes still lowered.
“You don’t need permission to touch me. It is not something you should apologise for.”
The gesture was more of a challenge than a comfort. Lucifer was always like that, always pushing situations to a natural conclusion, as inexorable as evolution itself, and Sandalphon was unable to do anything other than adapt.
“I see.”
When he placed his fingers against Lucifer’s palm he was sure he had made a terrible mistake. Why else was his breath stuttering in his lungs as if he was drowning? Why else were his nerves igniting with something like pain, a sensation burning out from the very whorls of his fingerprints and through his hand, his wrist, his arm, rushing to light his heart which beat a frantic rhythm against the brilliance? Why else did he feel distorted, as if the core of his being was shifting to the point of contact between them, as if he no longer belonged to himself but to the touch alone? Why-
(Why else? He knows, he’s always known, and the knowing of it cuts deeper than any blade. He knows too that it had still been a mistake.)
Lucifer closed his own fingers around Sandalphon’s, held them gently against his palm, and said nothing. Overwhelmed, Sandalphon closed his eyes only to see a kaleidoscope of lustrous colour there, spectrums fading into one another with each beat of his heart, back and forth, the way the light caught Lucifer’s iridescent feathers in the sun.
A beautiful display. A beautiful feeling. He was lost for a time until a lance of shadow found its way through the light pulsing into his veins and he pulled his hand away, stricken with the fear that he was somehow draining Lucifer of his beauty.
As his eyes slammed open he realised this was impossible. Lucifer was still wearing an inscrutable smile, as perfect as ever. Of course he was. No force in the world could ever make that change.
(Could, would, had, and he wonders if he really had tainted and weakened that perfection after all.)
“What are you afraid of?”
“I…”
There was something wrong with his voice. The words caught in his throat and he was too slow, someone was calling for Lucifer and the moment was shattered. He tidied away as Lucifer went to attend his tasks, stopped to inspect his hand time and time again, found nothing different there that he could see. Something had changed, though. He could feel it. A warmth in his chest as if light shone where no one could see.
When they had first really touched, it had barely been a touch at all. His treacherous hands had been unable to leave it at that. There had been more, many more, too many soft memories that he can no longer bring himself to recall. The wings on his back don’t belong to him, never will, and they can’t stop darkness from running through his veins like oil from a blackened heart.
(His heart’s still beating, despite it all.)