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There are times when, more than anything, Azazel wishes he could tell him.
He wonders if Lucifer’s spared it much thought since their reunion–the reason Azazel left his service so abruptly for the fallen angels all those years ago, and why he chose to participate in the uprising. Does he simply assume it was a matter of dissatisfaction with the hierarchy? Does he believe Azazel did what he did out of fear that he really would eventually be scrapped if he didn’t strike at the Astrals first?
It wouldn’t be surprising if those are his conclusions–and admittedly, he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. He doubts he’ll ever know for sure, though, because after making it very clear that he did not begrudge Lucifer his imprisonment, they’ve spoken precious little of what transpired at that time–and that’s fine by Azazel.
It’s better this way, after all. It’s better that Lucifer never truly know the full picture–because Azazel is certain that if Lucifer learned the truth, the guilt would crush him.
That’s just the kind of man Lucifer i–
“… Azazel?”
A soft voice breaks the silence of the night, and Azazel blinks, turning his attention away from the porthole he’d been gazing through and towards its source. Lucifer is sitting up in bed, a hand rubbing absently at his still-bleary eyes.
It’s decidedly undignified and very unlike what most would expect of the once Supreme Primarch. Azazel doesn’t think he’s ever felt a greater fondness for anyone in all his millennia of existence.
“Is something the matter?” A beat–and a slight furrowing of the brow. “… Did you have another nightmare?”
Azazel shakes his head. (It’s embarrassing, being fretted over as though he’s some child suffering night terrors, but he doesn’t hate it. Not if it’s Lucifer.)
“It’s nothing, Lucifer-sama. I was only feeling a little restless.” He turns his face back towards the single small window in his quarters, and adjusts his position against the wall. “Go back to sleep. I’ll rejoin you in a few minutes.”
There’s a faint shuffling, and then the light tap, tap of footfalls on the wood floor as Lucifer approaches.
“Lucifer-sama…–”
“I want to.” He says it like it’s the simplest and most obvious thing in the world, and as he stands beside him, pale and ethereal and radiant in the moonlight, Azazel finds himself hard-pressed to deny him anything.
This is the person he’d given all of himself for–his reason, then and now.
He wants so badly to tell him.
“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Lucifer asks, and smiles gently at him.
Azazel resolves that he never will.