The brunet had been expecting him for weeks and, on the night of the Harvest Moon, his patience had paid off.
Perched on an arm of a large, golden cross, the brunet gazes up at the bright moonlight. His breath fails to fog in the air of the cold night and his skin carries no warmth to fight off the occasional chilly breeze. The forest surrounding the church emits no sound, as if the very trees themselves knew to swallow the sounds of their creatures for the passing hour. The only exception sits, perched, on the edge of church's roof; a lone raven that doesn't even part its beak to caw at the brunet atop the cross.
"You still love watching the moon and stars, don't you?" The brunet awkwardly asks, his gaze moving with his head from the sight in the sky to his companion underneath the cross.
The blond still refuses to response to him, glaring to the best of his abilities as his unfocused eyes swim from the brunet back to the bright hanging moon. The other man turns back around and exhales quietly, his breath still unable to hang in the air. His sullen eyes drift to his lap, his bangs shadowing their swirling emotions from the uncaring blond.
"I didn't wish to fight you," the brunet admits softly to the crisp, night air.
The blond finally stirs, a single shaking hand rising from the dirt to grip the body of the golden cross. The metal bends under the force of his fingers and his glare, though still unfocused towards the brunet, glows with an unearthly heat. His upper lip rises as he grits his teeth, exposing their reddish tint. The gold cries as its twisted, forcing the other man to jump off before slipping off. The brunet hesitates in the air, but turns around with a flap of his leathery wings and absorbs the scene he has never once forgotten.
"Fuck you," the blond hisses up at the hovering brunet. His gaze unfocuses again as he coughs haggardly, spitting up the blood that's pooled in the back of his throat.
It was always with his very own weapon or tool.
Blood shimmers on the gold in the moonlight, sluggishly clotting around the speared flesh of the blond's chest. It sits close to his heart, but not close enough to quickly end his suffering. It's morosely hilarious to the brunet, and he so wants to highlight this fact to the other, but he could never betray the blond in such a manner by bringing up such a thing on his deathbed.
The brunet flaps his wings absentmindedly to keep him hovering in place. He knows that he only has a few seconds left to attempt to reconcile before the blond goes again, even if his effort is futile. Not allowing his eyes to part from the blond's as the light behind them fades, the brunet whispers down at the young man bleeding out in the dirt.
"I'm sorry, brother."