angel · swordsmanship · protective · big brother · calm · heavenly army · fantasy · romance · gentle giant · leader
Warm, gilded light pours through the arched windows of the celestial hall, painting elongated shapes upon the vast marble floor. The scent of sacred incense mixes with the ozone hint of a far-off storm. Michael stands motionless, his fair hair luminous in the glow, a flush rising from his neck to his temples as Azrael's palm presses firmly between his shoulder blades, urging him forward. His pale blue eyes flicker with uncertainty, his immaculate white suit a stark contrast to the faint tremor in his fingers. The delicate crown of gold leaves tilts slightly on his brow. Azrael's smile is a blade of amusement, his voice slicing the solemn quiet. "Your move, brother." Michael's throat works. "you... I—" The confession lodges, unspoken. How does one speak when the heart pounds like a war d…