Awareness seeps in in the form of a dream.

In this sweet, most wonderful dream, he is floating, loose and weightless, suspended in a pool of sunshine. There's a hand on his back, rubbing care and tenderness into his skin with a barely there touch, and if he tries just a little harder, he can almost feel the embrace of downy white, keeping him safe from the rest of the world, promising warmth and rest.

For a moment, Sandalphon is content to simply keep sinking into it, unsure of why the impression seems wrong — it's hardly the first time he's had this dream, has indulged in this patchwork quilt of comfort, stitched together from everything he knows of the only good thing in his life, to quiet the screaming of his body from the endless experiments that never seem to have a goal or a reason, just like him.

Lucifer-sama was always the balm on all that pointless suffering, whether in person or in this distillate of happiness, where his every word and gesture became something far more lasting and intimate than anything the real world would ever offer. Longing for Lucifer-sama's kindness and protection is one of his more forgivable sins, and it's as easy as breathing to embrace the dream, to indulge in the time he'll be able to hang onto it, except… except…

He frowns, uncertain, the thought digging into the comfortable haze like a pebble caught underfoot — the feeling that he shouldn't pressing harder and harder on that sense of peace. Not for reasons of propriety, no, he has shame in spades to balance out these liberties he takes, but because— because he's always done this, greedily taking what was offered, safe in the knowledge that he has nothing to give in return. And that's— that isn't true anymore. He's past this, he knows he is, that time is gone for both worse and better, and Lucifer-sama is— Lucifer-sama is—

"Would you… perhaps, if it pleases you… would you not… call me by my name?"

He jolts, the memory lancing through him hot and cold — he knows where he is, he knows what he should be doing, he has to wake, he has to see, to confirm that the response to his own boldness wasn't just the fevered illusion of his own desperate heart —

He shoves, and the warmth falters just a fraction before rushing back in, so insistent on mending, healing, so tempting in its gentleness, but he doesn't have time, doesn't need the fantasies when the reality is—

—tired and wounded and so very, very fragile —

"No, stop!"

Another push, and he's let go, the dream's embrace falling away to a world of gold, a whole scene he can't be bothered to try and pay attention to because he is looking at the only thing in the universe worth looking at—

—blue, blue, alight with mind and heart, forever the truest color in all the world—

He's staring into Lucifer's wide, stunned eyes.

*.*.*.*.*

For a long moment, one perfect, uncomprehending moment, all he can do is keep staring. Caught, helplessly pinned by that answering gaze, a whole reflection of the Skies looking back at him, summer and winter, dawn and dusk, an endless blue holding all shades of itself — and if he ever was capable of forming a coherent thought, that ability is surely gone forever —

But the moment snaps, breaks free of its own accord, understanding flooding into the gap it leaves behind. He knows this feeling, this healing cradle, has spent the better part of a year in its fold, held and protected while his shattered body and mind were piecing themselves back together, and gods— gods— who is this man, this fragile echo of a man, to attempt the same thing again in such a state—

—drained and weary, the last light of a fading star—

—no, no, why must you always, why must you *always*— why can't you stop and think for once — would you have let me wake up to find you *gone*, *again*, robbed of the chance to see you ever again—

It takes a while to realize that he's shouting, panic loosening his tongue to finally, finally give voice to everything locked up inside, and it's such a relief, such a relief to at last say these things, to make them real, anything to keep Lucifer from doing this again, anything, anything—

"—you can't— you— do you think I'm that weak? That you— that you need to scoop me up like I'm some kind of fallen nestling—?! Do you have any idea, any idea what you do to me — you can't just — I won't let you, I won't—"

And for a moment, it seems like the way forward to just let everything out and wait for comprehension to dawn on Lucifer's face, to have him understand this terror, this worry that Sandalphon can't keep contained any longer, to feel something like contrition for being so foolishly reckless with himself—

"—I didn't come all this way just to have you disappear on me! Why would you just— you never— you— you— don't you dare take this away from me, you don't know anything, you don't even know how much I— you're so—!"

He's gasping for air and not taking anything in, tears tracking unrelenting lines down his face, hot and cold all over but determined to keep surging ahead, no matter how unrefined, how audacious, he'd rather bear this and a thousand other humiliations than continue as he always did before— silent, worshipful, so sure that Lucifer knew and understood everything, every little piece of his stupid, overfull heart—

And he can see the moment where it happens, when sheer surprise gives way to realization, can clearly see that bolt of awareness and knows something at last got through — except then those eyelashes lower, and that outstretched hand falls away, and that voice, soft and quiet as eternal snowfall, murmurs the words to an entirely different conclusion—

"…Forgive me."

*.*.*.*.*

Forgive me.

It should be impossible for something so gentle to pierce him like a javelin, to freeze the torrential flood of his emotions and leave the words dying on his tongue.

It should likewise be impossible for him to have learned so much and yet still failed to understand, so consumed with the selfish need to bare his heart that he couldn't spare a thought to its recipient — and why is it, really, that he never seems to learn? Revelations drop into his lap by the handful, and he stares at them in awe but never does anything with them, always stopping just short of discovering what they truly mean—

A shock of bitter liquid, tasting like nothing so much as a mouthful of mud, and he chokes it down, summons a bright smile and prays the lie will fall believably from his scalded tongue—

"Thank you, it's— it's delicious."

"I see…" A smile like sunlight on honey, and stars above, he'll swallow any poison and call it nectar if this is how he'll be rewarded— "So it's delicious? I could not be more pleased that we feel the same."

It twists the knife, that memory, because it holds the answer, so plain in the light of hindsight, so easy to see now that he finally tries. How content he was to assume that Lucifer was kind enough to let him get away with this transparent lie or simply didn't care to pry, the two of them dancing a pas de deux of pretend, when in fact—

—when in fact, I was the only one dancing, you were taking every single word to mean exactly what it said and assigning it the weight of mountains simply because it was coming from *me*—

And damn him for being shocked, again, at his own capacity to hurt, for staring dumbly as those eyes cloud with acceptance, a veil of serenity for his sake, one he would have taken as all there is if he didn't know, if he hadn't touched all those pieces of Lucifer's soul and seen that endless, snowy plain hidden in its depths.

"…I know that my presence must be difficult for you," Lucifer murmurs, each word spoken so carefully, so full of understanding, as if stating the most natural thing in the world, "but… would you bear with it for a little while longer?"

Curse his leaden mouth, which can only gape as Lucifer shakes his head, the motion clear as glass and so very lonely.

"You… once said that you found this kind of touch pleasant. I… I suppose I hoped it might still provide you with a measure of comfort, in spite of everything…"

Always so focused on the needs of others, and oh, to think it once frustrated him that Lucifer would never voice his own desires, would never respond to Sandalphon's silent, voracious prayers with a demonstration of equal fervor — when the answer was always right before his eyes in the form of that tentative, halting gentleness.

"I realize that no amount of reparation can undo how I've wronged you, but… will you not allow me to tend to your injuries, in place of all the times I failed to tend to your heart?"

Words, by the skies, he needs words, needs them soft and careful so they can be a balm on this horrific wound, for this man who exists only in absences, always denying himself without even noticing, without being noticed, only expressing himself in quiet pleas to be permitted, to be tolerated, as if his love and care were burdens he inflicts on others, cheap trinkets nobody could want—

"No–"

—but unfortunately, he's only Sandalphon, brash and selfish and full of sharp edges, wielding words like hammer blows and hoping they will glance instead of damage further—

"Stop it! Stop it, just— no more. It's not true, you hear? It's not."

If he were a little more delicate, a little less self-absorbed, perhaps he'd know how to wipe away that horrible look of confusion, that open, genuine lack of comprehension, but he's not, so he can't — can't think of a better way than to grab hold of that retreating hand, too tightly, too suddenly, and bring it close, as close as he can without pushing it straight into his chest, all the way past his sternum and down to his core.

"You didn't fail, okay? You never—" How to explain, all that he thought and fantasized and worried about, all he refused to understand and turned back on himself because it was easier, easier than trying to believe that there could be anyone, let alone someone so radiant, who would care except in pity?

"It's not like I ever told you… you asked me so many times, and I always said that everything's fine — like an idiot, I just… didn't want to spoil our time together, and your smile was worth everything to me, I didn't want—"

—to lose it, to drive it away, to appear weak and become undeserving of its grace—

"I see." And heavens, if he didn't look, perhaps he'd still think that Lucifer does see, if he didn't finally have the guts to meet those eyes and watch them dim even further, an autumn shroud settling over lonesome twilight skies.

"If I made you feel that you could not seek me out… if, all this time…" A sigh, barely more than a breath, but heavy with the weight of two thousand years. "I always wondered, after I lost you… if I burdened your heart to such an extent, then—"

"No. Don't. Don't you take this on yourself, this isn't—"

And gods, how can it be a revelation, still be a revelation, that Lucifer thought of him so much during those endless years, just as abandoned and without answers as Sandalphon himself? All this time spent dreaming up ways to ensure Lucifer would never again forget him, would feel remorse for casting him aside, when all along, they were suffering side by side—

"You didn't… fail to make me comfortable or whatever, I just decided all that on my own. I got so, so hung up on pleasing this image of you I had in my head… because that was easy, and everything else was hard and scary and—" He bites back a curse and bows his head, tears rendering his death grip embarrassingly feeble. "Gods, I never asked you anything important, I never asked about you, how— how was that not hurting you, whether you knew it or not?!"

The hand in his grasp uncurls, just slightly, fingertips brushing against his palm — an echo of a gesture from forever ago, when it was Sandalphon who would withdraw whenever their hands brushed. Back then, he thought it a game, Lucifer teasing him for his shyness, instead of the touch of someone equally hesitant, but hopeful, ever so hopeful, asking to try again.

He glances up, catching vestiges of confusion, clouds pulling back to reveal a sliver of morning light, something like astonishment playing over slightly parted lips.

"If… if that is so, then," a ghost of a smile, shy with hope, "won't you allow me, please? There is very little I can still do, but healing your wounds—"

"No. No more of that."

Shaking his head, Sandalphon manages a smile of his own, damp and awkward, pressed against those precious fingertips. And perhaps it's because he feels them stretch towards that touch — a helpless impulse, to lean so close, to touch his foul mouth to something so pure, and he'll have all the time in the world to burn in shame later — feels them graze, like butterfly wings, against the outline of his cracked and salty lips, that everything finally, truly falls into place.

We want the same, don't we, for each other.

"You don't want to see me hurt," he says, finds himself saying, voice having to push its way past the feeling welling up inside him, this overwhelming sense of connection. "If… if it pains you to see me hurt, how much do you think it pains me to see you hurt? To have you hurting yourself for my sake?"

"…oh."

He glances up, unable to stop the wet laugh that escapes him at the expression of sheer surprise, that wide, open look as if hearing a foreign language spoken for the first time.

"Yes, oh."

"It isn't my intention to cause you pain. What… what should I…?"

"It's enough. You don't have to do anything. Just… stay. Stay with me. That's all I want."

*.*.*.*.*

One day, someday soon, Sandalphon will have to scrape together his meager poetic talents and make a study of that face — the way everything about Lucifer seems primed to smile, and does so almost instinctively, like a flower opening to the first rays of morning. How very little it takes to coax out that expression, just a few artless words that can't possibly convey how much he is wanted, how much he is needed — that there's a gaping hole left in the fabric of the world by his absence that can't ever be closed, just stitched together hastily to keep everything from unraveling, a hole that tears open anew almost every day, not just for Sandalphon, but for so many others — anyone who knew him, knew of him, anyone who ever looked up and wondered about the day the sky inexplicably lost some of its luster.

"If that is your wish," and oh, he'd drag himself back into Pandemonium if he could for the crime of putting that look in Lucifer's eyes, that questioning sense of wonder, that lingering uncertainty, as if expecting to be told he has guessed wrong—

And it was always there, *always*, just hidden slightly better, but still plain to see for anyone who cared to look—

"It's… it's not just my wish. There are so many who— and, and what about you? Didn't you… don't you want to stay?"

The answering pause is familiar from countless conversations, each as trivial as asking Lucifer which blend of coffee he prefers — the faint knitting of his brow, the inward-turning gaze, as if weighing a host of unfathomable parameters against each other, and usually defaulting on the choice. What is new is the flash of realization, bolt-bright against the blue, before Lucifer presses his lips together and lowers his head, as if hoping to conceal an audacious desire from the world.

"I saw it, you know." It's a strange feeling having to be the honest one, even though the most Lucifer can do is retreat into silence, having to be the one who stops that gaze from averting any further, though the most he can think to do is clutch Lucifer's hand harder and crowd into his space, forcing their eyes to meet again.

"I felt it. Every day. Even when I didn't want to. How much you love this world. It's not… it's not a sin, don't you know? It's not a sin to want to stay with what you love. Especially not with a heart like yours."

"A heart like mine…?"

Sandalphon shakes his head, not quite able to rein in the helpless smile, wholly inappropriate — that such a man should look at him with such incomprehension, utterly unaware of himself, that even a shred of his cautious, sweet regard is a blessing, an affirmation to anyone who should receive it. They will have time to talk about this later, someday, when he can muster together enough boldness and patience and words to explain, but for now…

"You can want things. If you need permission, please take it from the most selfish person in all the Skies."

"Who…?"

The burst of laughter startles them both, but for once, it's wonder instead of bitter self-awareness, that Lucifer could look at him and all he's done and still fail to make the connection. How terrifying, to have the chance to explain himself, to show Lucifer exactly who he is, how wonderful — and so he takes it, pushes Lucifer's hand to splay over his chest, folds both his own over it and waits for understanding to dawn, and then something almost approaching consternation—

"Sandalphon," he says, and how can it be this that finally pushes him towards an approximation of reproach when Sandalphon used to go around dropping islands in hopes of spurring a reaction—

"It's true," he says, or tries to past another peal of incredulous laughter, "you have no idea, not in the slightest—"

The words are out before he can stop them, and just as immediate is the reaction, that awful shroud drawing close again, soft with guilt and grief—

"It's okay, okay? It's okay," Sandalphon says, hastily fitting their palms together in that ancient gesture that says try again, let me try again, let's try again, please, and just like before, he gets Lucifer's fingers curling against his own with a readiness that makes something inside him tremble and ache. "It's okay. We'll have time to get into that later. Together. Alright?"

A smile, warm with something so much more than relief, before Lucifer shakes his head, and Sandalphon has but a moment to feel cold, the old, selfish fear of rejection seizing upon the gesture, before he catches the awful, soft look in Lucifer's eyes.

"Time grows short. I would, if it pleases you… I would rather understand now."

"…time grows short?" Sandalphon echoes, the foolish, lingering chill of his own making swallowed by an arctic dread. "What… what do you mean, time grows short? I found you, didn't I? It's alright now. It's gonna be alright. Right?"

"It will be," Lucifer says, calm and certain as the seasons. "Please don't fret. This is only a resumption of the proper course of things."

"What? What does that mean?"

Would that he'd stop smiling, at least, that same patient little smile as if he were simply explaining the ways of the world to a confused young angel balking at its complexities.

"There is no such thing as a primal beast without a core."

"What…? But—"

"We are concepts, solidified. My time like this… I have pondered it, but the best I can assume is an aberration. A deviation of whose cause I am uncertain. I am so very grateful for this reprieve, for it has given me the chance to see you once more. To aid you in some way in your time of need, however small. To understand more of your heart, though I realize this too is a transgression for which I must ask your forgiveness. Please forgive me."

"I— you— gods, will you just— will you stop talking about forgiveness all the time?! Like— like you've done anything I need to forgive?! Just… I don't understand. What's going on? Please tell me, I'll— Is this—"

We could never have Him in life, but we can have Him in *death*.

The words pierce through the mounting fog like an expert blade, a terrifying truth voiced so easily by the part of himself that would surface in the loneliest, most lightless hours, when he would look at his own sword and wonder if it might become a gateway, a means of reunion — and wouldn't it be just like him, to manage to take even this shame and turn it into something unfathomably cruel, a cage for the source of his longing, simply because he couldn't bear the thought of facing a future without—

"Did I— gods, did I do this? Did I… Are you here because I—? This— all of this— is it my fault?!"

And what a hypocrite he is, to give free reign to tears just like this, to reach for Lucifer as if his filthy hands could soothe the countless wounds he has inflicted, a warden asking for absolution from his prisoner — only to have those same hands grasped once more, enveloped in a hold as gentle as it is steady, solid in a way even its translucence can't diminish.

"Be at ease, Sandalphon. My presence here is not due to the impetus of anything so concrete as 'will'. But…" A smile, sweet and firm as a spring bud. "Had it been so, please know that I would have come gladly."

"I— you— don't just say things like that—" Gritting his teeth, Sandalphon wills his stupid shaking body to be still, though he can do nothing about the trembling in his chest. "But… if that's true, then how…?"

"Hmm. I cannot be sure, so this is merely a hypothesis, but… your core and mine, at their core, they are alike."

"Because… because you cut me from yours, you mean."

It feels like blasphemy to say it, to speak aloud the truth of that dreamlike gift of memory, and it still comes as a shock when Lucifer nods.

"Yes."

There are so many questions he could ask, the least of which being why Lucifer never told him, never gave an inkling of the extent of their kinship — did you regret it? the demons whisper, immediately and unbidden, did you regret seeing your gift turn into *this*?, but it's getting easier to shove them aside, ignore their fearful slander of such an act of giving.

"It is not inconceivable that… hm," Lucifer pauses, lips pursing in a show of concentration familiar from the countless times he would sift through his vast knowledge for the most accessible answer he could give, which, half the time, was not accessible at all. "I imagine they may be capable of resonating with that which is similar, even across space and time. Even if all that remains is an illogical echo."

Sandalphon chokes. "Don't— for gods' sake, for fuck's sake, don't call yourself an illogical echo, that's—!"

"It's only the truth."

"The hell it is!" bursts out of him, unfiltered and incensed, and he just barely remembers to lace their fingers together again, the gesture a fragile vessel for all getting lost in between — not angry at you, but so angry at you, how can you look at yourself and just dismiss everything you are like a cosmic *malfunction*—

A thousand reasons, even without the machinations of a capricious universe, why such a soul might survive, why someone so tenderly, unwaveringly strong might defy the odds and keep existing past the limits of the known or the possible — and Sandalphon has neither words nor time to lay out any of them because far more important is the straw Lucifer has just unwittingly handed to him.

"But— but then, if we're— if our cores are so similar, then it all works out, doesn't it? You can stay. You can stay here with me, and we'll figure something out. If we can't get back your core, we could— we could make you a new one, right? You know how, don't you. You could teach me. I'll do it, I'll do whatever it takes, I swear I won't mess this up—"

"Sandalphon."

"I… I don't understand. You… you made me, you made me from you, if— if I'm like you, if I'm your— why can't I— I. Damn it, I say you can stay! Why— why won't you stay?! I know my core is a godforsaken mess, but—"

"Your core is beautiful. And it is beautiful because it's yours." A hand cups his cheek, wiping at the fresh spill of tears, solemn blue eyes regarding him with such an unfair level of serenity, silently asking him to understand.

And he does, almost against his will, understands the meaning behind that undeserved praise — that each core is a reflection of the soul it houses, inextricably linked to a primal beast's being and unique down to the last particle of ether.

That it must have taken ages to do what Lucifer has done for him, that even without a deeper understanding of the process, he knows how carefully Lucifer must have selected the part he wished to use, and how he must have urged his own consciousness to vacate it, to hollow out a place inside himself until it could be used to serve as the basis for an entirely new being. Ages, and a glacial sort of patience. Patience, and an enduring kind of love like no other soul could give before or after.

Lucifer as he is now can't hold out that long, will fade into nothing before there is any chance of such a miracle occurring twice, and even if he'd never say it, would never even think it, forever holding fast to a faith Sandalphon doesn't deserve, Sandalphon knows himself. Knows he would never be able to act with such care, no matter how much he wants to — precisely because he wants, wants hotly and tempestuously, too forcefully and too much to be suited for the act of creation.

Gods and stars, but it hurts in a way he never knew anything could hurt — worse than any perceived inadequacy he used to torture himself with — to have everything at his disposal, all this knowledge, all this awareness, and more power than he could have ever imagined, to have come this far and still fall short, forever lacking, forever losing, forever failing to make things right, only capable of destruction—

"Even destruction can beget something new, Sandalphon."

He freezes at the voice, so clear that for a second, he wonders if his careless mouth has started moving again without his permission — but the tone is too different, soft but with a vibrant edge he remembers from many a conversation-turned-lesson, like sharing a delightful secret.

It takes him a moment to place the words, to match them to a memory — of crouching in the dirt before a waxy-leafed shrub with a pungent aroma and watching as Lucifer lifts a hand towards it, allowing a lightning spark to leap from his fingertips. Of staring, with a fascinated sort of horror, as the shrub bursts into flames at the slightest contact, bright orange racing up and down its branches within seconds, leaving behind nothing but a blackened skeleton.

Of turning to Lucifer in unbridled shock, watching him watch the demise of one of his beloved plants in complete serenity.

"Lucifer-sama, but why…?"

"Because that is what it has evolved to do. Observe."

Of Lucifer, gently guiding him away as the hot ashes begin to crackle and pop, seeds bursting free of their charred husks and leaping about like tiny creatures, burrowing happily into the cinders of their erstwhile parent.

"Imagine a land where rains are scarce and nourishment is scarcer. Imagine a forest weathering these adversarial conditions, growing strong, but with no nutrients left to go towards new seedlings. It could stay safe until the end of its lifespan, if only it accepts complete stagnation. But stagnation is not in its nature, and so it instead chooses renewal — by embracing destruction."

It's enough to knock the breath out of him, to have that memory position itself so brightly against all those hours, all those days he spent trying to become worthy of Lucifer's legacy, struggling and failing miserably to direct the power of those six white wings to nurture, to protect, to mend, and wondering why the only thing that seemed to respond readily to his command was that incandescent rain of holy light—

And gods, how often he would curse himself, staring in frustration at his own hands and thinking bitterly that it must be his only gift to the world, the only thing he knows intimately how to do — to destroy, and be destroyed, and rebuild himself, rise from the ashes over and over on nothing but sheer bullheaded tenacity, pointlessly and without reason, reforming under the scalpels that would cut him to pieces, the fangs of Pandemonium that would try to tear him apart, under grief and loss and an endless bleak future of his own foolish making—

All wrong, I was looking at it all wrong—

Why should he shy away from it now, in this moment when it has the chance to finally matter— now that he finally has a reason to burn and rise again from the ashes, the best reason, the reason that was always there, waiting for him to dare and embrace it as his own—

You, my reason is you, your heart your smile your everything—

"Sandalphon?"

He probably looks somewhat terrifying with the smile forming on his blood- and tear-stained face, as wild and wide open as his thundering heart, but he can't find it in himself to try and be reassuring when there's nothing reassuring about the idea taking shape.

"You know, there's something I promised myself I would do if I ever saw you again," he says, a rustle going through six white wings in anticipation of his command. "I promised myself… I would return these to you."

It sounds far nobler than the furious oaths he used to sob into their embrace after a nightmare, but there's no way to convey that kind of anger and longing and grief without hurting Lucifer further, when even this simple statement makes him rear back as if struck, a breathless sort of anguish in his voice as he protests, "…Sandalphon, no. They are yours now."

"No, they're not." Sandalphon shakes his head, placing a hand over the transparent palm against his cheek that has begun to tremble almost imperceptibly, anything to try and ease the terrible uncertainty in Lucifer's eyes. "They've never been. Because I'll never think of them as anything but yours."

"Sandalphon…"

"And before you say anything, they're not a burden. Don't— don't even think that. They've — you've — protected me so many times, but… I want to see them where they belong."

I want to see them shine on you. I want to see *you* shine.

A frown. "…Sandalphon, what are you trying to do?"

"For once… something for you. Please. Let me. I've always—"

—wanted to be useful to you, he doesn't say, because it's no longer the truth, a childish desire to make himself matter in an act that requires no self-determination, no sacrifice, no giving—

"Let me do this for you. Let me try and make things right."

The words don't manage to wipe away the frown, but Lucifer at least stops withdrawing, looking at him for an explanation.

And would that he has one, or at least one better than the faint rumble going through the golden space, his core responding to the idea germinating in his mind. And perhaps it's this space, the proximity of two souls with no barriers left between them, or simply the fact that Lucifer has always been able to follow Sandalphon's tongue-tied thoughts in their discussions, but there's no alarm on his face now, only a trusting kind of intensity that Sandalphon is sure would send him to his knees if so much weren't riding on his staying upright.

"Do… do you remember when you showed me the fire tree?" he says, trying to push the tremble out of his voice that is part nervousness, part pride, and part the breathless moment of freefall before his wings can catch the wind.

A nod, so serious and immediate it does nothing to still the quaking in his chest, that these scattered memories are as present for Lucifer as they are for him.

"Do you remember what you told me?"

Another nod. "That in places where there is no abundance… it must choose between stagnation or complete renewal."

"Right," he says, watching comprehension spark in Lucifer's gaze the same way determination is sparking in his own. "We don't have time for anything else. And I… I want to stop stagnating. I want you to see the Sky you fought so hard for. And I want… I will find my own place. Right next to you, if you'll have me."

Curse his stupid selfish heart for faltering on the last bit, turning his voice into a breathy whisper — he doesn't want this to be a condition, no matter how much he wants even though he doesn't deserve to, even though this is only the beginning, only the start of trying to be worthy—

No answer, at least not in words, just Lucifer leaning down, eyes shimmering like the sky washed by summer rains, to touch their foreheads together — and this time Sandalphon does stumble, in mid-air like an idiot, and it's only a small comfort that the closeness is a secondary cause, distant after the overwhelming sense of welcome—

Thank you, he thinks, as much in response to that sweet rush of acceptance as in goodbye to the gift that has spent so long guiding and guarding him, feeling six of white shiver and break apart into light to return to their true owner. He closes his eyes, refusing to feel something as stupid as bereft at their departure, instead concentrating on calling up another set of wings.

Another undeserved gift, but at least not bestowed at the cost of unimaginable sacrifice, and one he's sure the original owners would agree should be used for such a purpose, even if he can all to easily imagine their disapproving scowls at his method.

It's surprisingly easy to bid them take their leave, too, to order them to coalesce into a shape so similar to the cradles he used to command — and how strange, how wonderful, to shape something with wishes instead of curses, to tell them to protect, to guard, to warm and keep safe that which he will entrust to them, come hell or high water—

—and perhaps he imagines the faint ruffle of offense at the plainness of his blessing, the sense that they would have done so even without him asking, but right now, he'll take it as a sign.

"Lucifer-sa… Lucifer," he murmurs, and feels the other startle against him, a surprised rustle going through repatriated wings. "I realize this place is far from ideal, but… would you trust me enough to rest here a while? I will… have to step out again for a bit, but—"

—I swear I won't leave your side, I swear I won't be long, I won't ever take your enduring heart for granted again—

A sigh, soft and long, belying the exhaustion underneath. "Such recklessness… How can I bear to sleep when this trembling of your core worries me so?"

As if in response, the golden world gives another rumble, its filaments of light starting to move with intent, like river currents seeking to converge.

"Please bear it. Just this once. For my sake, if not your own." From anyone else, it would seem like a token resistance, but from this man, this soul, Sandalphon has no doubt he'd find a way to try and hang on. "I need to keep you safe."

"And who will keep you safe?"

"You," he laughs, can't help it, the answer as obvious as it is liberating to say aloud. "The thought of you. The thought of bringing you home."

"Home?"

"Yes. So please… for a little while, even though it's a mess… won't you take solace in my core?"

"If that is your wish…" Another sigh, sleepy but so, so fond. "Please do not be too reckless, my reckless dearest light."

*.*.*.*.*

Wings part.

Wings close.

In between, just enough time to wonder how he ever managed to say goodbye the first time, when he can hardly bear to let go now, with so much riding on him doing so. Even though back then, he had to screw his eyes shut and take off running before he could change his mind, and that was before he knew the feeling of Lucifer's forehead resting against his own, the flutter of eyelashes against his brow, their hands, palm to palm, fingers twining together, it still seems like a testament to the strength of his delusions that he could part with him at all.

He thinks he can be forgiven for faltering now, for having to catch himself to keep from following, for having his fingers fail to extricate themselves on the first try, or the second, or even the third, until Lucifer's own slacken with impending sleep, slipping softly from his grasp.

Goodnight, he whispers, because that's what mortals say when they bid each other farewell at dusk, with the certainty that they will see each other again come morning.

Sweet dreams, even though he hardly knows what those might be and hasn't had time to prepare anything, certainly nothing like the vision of peace and rest that Lucifer conjured for him in what seems so long ago. All he can do is pack the cocoon with his wishes, telling it to hold fast and strong — safe from harm, safe from nightmares, safe into the coming dawn.

All around him, all around them, the golden world is trembling, light streaming towards places and directions unknown in preparation for the command he is about to give.

After millennia without, Sandalphon knows intimately that a purpose — a true purpose —can't be taken or inherited, can't be snatched or declared for oneself the way mortals declare life goals or Astrals declare their will. But in this moment, this singular moment, he feels something far greater and far more holy — an understanding of himself and his place in the world, a wave of joy so powerful it sets his core alight and singing—

I live… to create a world where *you* can live…!

Multicolored pinions wrap securely closed as cracks begin appearing in the gold above and below, like fissures opening in bedrock, signaling that all is in place. Taking a deep breath, Sandalphon places a kiss onto this most precious cradle, and allows himself to dissipate as the new world bursts forth in a baptism of fire.

*.*.*.*.*

TBC

Author's Notes:

- Music for this chapter: Once again, Ain Soph Aur Piano Version by Ein. Also Nightglow by Tanya Chua and Starfall by Tia Ray.
- For a quick serotonin boost, go look at the merchandise art for a glimpse at what Lucifer looks like when he is happy and content. Yeah, can't blame Sandalphon for self-immolating to make that happen. XD
- Yes, I could have hurt myself trying to make sense of Cyge's ever shifting non-explanations for primal beast creation, powers, rules, buuuuut... nope shut up don't care writing my own.
- Fun fact: the burning plant in the flashback is based on irl eucalyptus trees which have evolved around fire to spread their seeds. Unlike this self-sacrificing little plant, though, eucalyptus trees are assholes who only burn down their neighbors.
- Only the epilogue left to go! Will I manage to put it together before 2023? Hmmm. .