Life was never that simple

There has always been that notion that Angels were born to be good, and Demons bad. For thousands of years, through the rising and falling of many religions and cities and homes made of rubble; the bad was a suffocating cloud just out of reach, thought to be missing because prayers were thick whispers around ignorant ears. All was truly thought to be so simple, divided down a line and if one ever dared cross it, they automatically belonged to the other side.

Or, in rare cases, were shunned entirely.

Left to spend their lives alone, praying for death, for that end that would bring them peace and if they were immortal, they were sentenced to a life of never belonging. Believing you could change was a fools dream. Believing you could have both was pure ignorance on your part.

Because, well, because beliefs were wrong, and have always been wrong.

Freewill was a child's fantasy, no more real than the idea of god and Jesus that the humans had created as a comfort; a blanket that blinded the ugliness of the real world. Being allowed to think you had control of your own thoughts and actions was more comforting than grasping the strings tied like cobras around your wrist, grip relenting, proving you were no more than a puppet on your masters strings.

Meant to do as he asked.

To please him, always him- no one else but him.

Harry has learned his role long before he'd learned who he really was. His wings were white, automatically proving he was innocent, made of light, bound to spend his life in heaven amongst his siblings, all baring similar wings but his were always destined to be different. Unique. His feathers soft and fuzzy, displaying his lack of title and purpose.

He was made as a fluke, entirely too powerful yet too ditzy to accept the extent of his true powers. His father made it his mission to train Harry, and when that failed, he had his best men make attempts at cracking the young angels ever advancing walls; but like a tale as old as time, never changing and never having room for improvement, Harry remained blissfully unaware and soft.

Never allowing the darkness inside of all the other angels minds, inside his own. Choosing to rather hide in the garden, where the flowers were a comfort and the clouds softer than any other place in heaven.

Until there, too, he became shunned. He wasn't welcomed in heaven because he was too different, too soft, long curls with lilac flowers entwined in them too girly even for a male angels standards. He was meant to be strong, be fierce, but it seemed as if all that seeped out of his bones and he was left with nothing more than an unfiltered admiration for the very thing his family had attempted to make him despise.

Humans.

The creatures made simple but were actually complex beings wrapped up in too many emotions to truly understand and grasp.

In a world not made of black and white, light and dark, gold and murky, he liked to believe that earth adapted to that simplicity and that's why they were able to live in such harmony. Casualties limited to hundreds rather than thousands; souls lights flickering in the sky rather than a blanket of flashing colors as they descended to hell, or rose to heaven. He remembered when he'd watched more souls enter in a day than leave, watched as the numbers dwindled on earth rather than growing and the moment his father found out his fascination, found his secret window hiding in the flower garden, he forbid Harry from ever allowing himself to become entrapped in his father's projects again.

A young angels promise that had been broken only a century later.

He knew he could never keep it, as did his father -a secret the old man would never admit but would always hold close to his heart- but it was the fact of respect that he even made the promise and attempted to fulfill it for as long as he did.

He had watched from afar for so long, that the feeling of being an outsider slowly melted away and he got the overwhelming feeling of belonging without ever truly entering. His presence has never graced earth. He'd never felt the rushing water falling in dangerous waves off of a high cliff edge. Never experienced love that was an actual feeling rather than just a simple statement said, meant to bound to souls into one in a way of laying claim, of stating a certain authority one had simply because they shared the same creator. But the unfiltered, raw version of love he's watched humans kill each other over. So strong, so passionate. So alive.

He'd never smelt the thick air trapped in a ball of gravity and despair, reeking of heartache and happiness and overall joy for being alive. He never experienced a humans life until he finally took that jump and left heaven.

Hell a revolving door always beckoning him in with welcoming screams and echoless promises.

But he instead chose earth. Where light and dark corresponded in a way even the most advanced creatures never could. They had what angels and demons lacked; the compassion to accept something that was different.

And Harry was that very definition.

He spent centuries just watching, never approaching or breaching that line of remaining anonymous and disconnected. They fascinated him in ways his own kind never could. Held his attention with the fragile bones that seemed to carry so much, but truthfully carried nothing more than their own destiny. They created problems that were never there, loved those who had burned them, and refused to grow until they were forced to. A task that always ended in heartache and he wondered why the humans allowed so much sorrow in their hearts. Filling the cracks with that thick, black sludge he'd too felt slithering in his own blood stream at all the disgusted glances from those meant to love and accept him.

Was he not worthy of love? Or was his heart meant to drown in the darkest of pits, staining his twitching feathers with the darkness claiming him in ways no one ever has. In a way hell was disgusted by, and angels were terrified of.

The first human he'd ever spoken to, showed him an entire world dancing along his fingertips that was only now within reach. A world thought to be unimaginable. Where wars weren't so catastrophic, and idle emotions weren't frowned upon. The simplest spark was bowed upon.

In a world of failed creatures, Harry learned it was not them who had failed his father, but rather reversed. He left them in the brink of extinction, claiming they weren't worthy of his time or effort, yet proved him wrong when they raised out of the ashes and created civilization.

Yet, the silly things still worshipped him.

Built monuments in his honor, dedicated days out of their week to worship him and they remained unaware that their father abandoned them.

That he abandoned all who he didn't deem worthy, and somewhere in that long list sat Harry. A lost angel only looking for a little guidance, not harsh hands shoving him towards the direction thought to be right.

He still loved his father, though. It wasn't as simple as a switch being flicked on or off, turning off such emotions even if his father was capable of doing so.

He was loyal to him; even if he didn't agree with his ways.

And he never understood why, until he stumbled down that dirt path, a cloud of dust trailing behind the horses departing from the saloon, and seen that one frustrating human.

The human who taught him everything there was to learn.

—-

But life was never that simple, was it?

—-

Harry sees a human, and he swears he's an angel. Or a form of an angel. Cast from heaven, stripped of his wings but not his beauty. Not his light. His smile is wide and genuine, full of love and life and the blue eyes remind him of the oceans waves. Crashing. Pulling him in. Drowning him in the current while also keeping him float, in some odd way. But he couldn't be; that shouldn't be possible.

His aura is gold, screaming innocence, pureness. And Harry knew all the angels. Had sought refuge in all their arms at one time or another and found nothing but stone walls and generic words of wisdom telling him to accept his power and his role. None of them were filled to the brim with joy like this boy, soft chestnut hair sat in wavy tufts on his head, curls not formed but forced from the dust and bouncing into half formed heaps of sand. Decaying from the water, there, but not.

He's watched humans for centuries, admitted his fascination with them, but he'd never felt as compelled to finally speak with one until that day. To pass from that comfort of invisibility and breach the actual world that breathed with the living. Thrived with all their excitement and life.

His unset job was to be an unseen protector, remain anonymous and unattached, hidden yet felt. Offering comfort without the fear.

But those eyes drew him in and before he realized the slight crawl across his skin was from more than just the chill of the air, he was spotted. Or rather, he was picked out for being a creeper and seen before having a chance to hide once more. The sun was warm on his skin, chasing away that breeze that brushed over his body and pulled at his chiton, white as the winters snow, and his sandal claud feet, crossed delicately at the ankle from his spot leant against the stone wall, wasn't enough to pull him back and away from that edge.

A small look was a rope around his body and he stood without meaning, reason, and admired from afar with the alluring call dragging him in.

He had seconds to decide, to finally leave his comfort zone and talk to the humans when he's spent his entire life shying away from any and all contact to... pretty much anyone. He accepted his fate, accepted he would forever wander the galaxy alone but now, with those blue eyes boring into his mossy green ones, hopeless yet wanting to fly, all didn't seem lost. Nothing seemed impossible.

His decision was made for him even before he came to one, because the small creature was standing in front of his with a brilliant smile. "You were staring," he stated, no judgement evident in his soft voice, just curiousness detected in the depths. "So I thought I would come and say hi." No call for hesitation, just straight forward as he thrust a hand outwards. "My name is Lance, son of William the third and heir to his kingdom."

And despite the sudden flapping of his heart, the rapid thudding that definitely called for panic because before, he'd never even been aware he had a heart. Or lungs, but suddenly, he felt as if he couldn't breath. "You're beautiful," Harry says honestly.

"Oh," he pauses in his efforts to remain calm, blushes, then smiles and for a moment, Harry is taken back to a time when he was younger and the world was a beautifully magnificent place. Simple. His breath, the one he didn't need before but now craved, scratched up his throat. "I guess that's alright, then."

Harry finds out the boy lives in the kingdom just south of the river, where the land is reigned by his mad father king William who is more set on breeding with whores then saving his quickly crumbling kingdom, or so Lance tells him. He holds a level of resentment for his father that Harry understands and can relate to, something he's never been allowed to experience in his life before. He's as misunderstood as him, as misguided, seeking comfort in all the mundane things while trying to maintain a level of respect and socialism.

He's afraid of being alone but craved the solitude.

Lance, in the weeks following their initial meeting, shows all he can to the strange boy he knew not to be an angel. He showed him the temple of where they worshipped Harry's father, offering him all that he can if only to appease his father's wishes. Maybe the golden coin will bring comfort to his depressed mother, give her courage to finally leave the mad king and find her place amongst the peasants she once claimed to love. Or maybe the lump of sugary candy hidden inside his pocket will keep his father from straying, making him faithful, erasing all his illegitimate children and leaving only enough room for Lance.

One thing Harry noticed as the pile of offerings grew, was not once did the selfless boy ask for anything to fill his own life. Just those he loved. And it was that awe that pushed Harry to question his actions.

"I have all I could ever need," Lance whispered in admittance as they casually strolled down the road lined with dirt and closed shops, the light from the bakery a warm, welcoming yellow glow inviting them in to crack open that freshly baked bread. "He has given me a mother, and a father, and a kingdom I am meant to rule one day. I have riches beyond belief, and have a life filled with more than all these people could ever dream of. What else could I possibly need?"

"Something for yourself," Harry said," not something given to you or expected of you. But something you want." And the confused glance he got in answer was enough to curl the side of his lip in amusement. "What is it you want, Lance? Have to ever thought about just yourself? Or is every thought of yours stained with all these peoples happiness?"

Harry gestured at the few souls still wandering the street, and grinned at the few who waved at him in greeting.

Lance' eyebrows furrowed as he thought over his answer, acting as if it was such a complex, loaded question when it was really just a question about being selfish. Could he steal away moments of his mind to care for himself? Think for himself? Or was he too giving, too loving, to think of everyone else but himself?

Harry never got the answer to that question, though he was sure he already knew it.

Lance loved himself. He did. But he loved the people of his kingdom more.

And maybe, he told Harry, the green eyed lad could be part of said kingdom one day.

—-

The first time Harry is invited into the palace harboring his young human, he immediately panics at the thought of being surrounded by so many humans without a quick escape route. He could escape if needed, but not if he didn't want his identity to remain hidden. His book a story with scarce pages about an orphaned peasant who did odd jobs just to get by. Yet Lance never looked down at him, never treated him differently, and for that Harry was grateful.

He wondered what his dear old dad would say if he could see him, sitting at the table with a king ruling over part of his failed world, talking to his son as if he was too a human who belonged amongst them just as much as Lance did himself.

His father -Harry's- was, while kind and generous in certain aspects of his life, a jealous man who would cause wars at just the thought of his rogue, escapy son living with the very things he despised.

He would roll off his throne if he knew one of his worshippers dragged his fallen angel into his home and accepted him into his heart just as quickly as he'd discarded them all from his own. If he was in a particularly bad mood, usually on those days when his boys in white failed one of his newest missions, he would, to the best of his ability, destroy earth yet again. This time, however, Harry was sure he wouldn't leave enough ashes for anything to rise from. He'd failed once.

And that once was a mistake. A rare occurrence.

He wouldn't fail again.

But then, in the midst of his adopted panic attack, Lance asks, "Please?" And something in that plea works. Harry inclines his head in a nodded acceptance, reluctant to be agreeing to something so trapping, and Lance grins once more. Wide eyed and all teeth, showing off the smile Harry has found himself entrapped in one too many times.

Which is where they stood, outside a gate sky high with men stationed outside at their posts, long swords sheathed at their sides with metal armor heavy weight on their shoulders. The chain linked under armor wrapping around their skull where it was then tucked beneath their helmet with blue feathers sticking up, fanned out in rays of a darkened sky. The gate, made of stone with the drawbridge sat right in the middle, was intimidating before him and he wondered why he never got the same feeling standing outside the gates of Heaven.

He remembers the judging angels who were responsible for accepting incoming souls, and how cruel they would be to the ones denied. They would laugh with their legs kicked up on a table behind the golden gate, acting holier than the crying souls being rejected and he ached for them.

For those unwanted; unwelcomed.

Even here, before this gate, knowing who hid behind it, he wasn't intimidated nor aching for the other people titled as peasants. They knew their place, were always welcomed within the walls of their kings palace and Harry decided then that's why he will forever respect king William far more than he ever will his own father. Because, despite his authority and how much land he truly reigns over, he never acts better than them nor treats them as any less than him.

He hosts annual balls, welcoming all to come, with feasts beyond imaginable and entertainment for all to enjoy. He was admirable.

If one looked past his cruel and inhuman torturous ways. He enjoyed killing humans, wrong or not, and he did it in ways that would make even a demon blush.

Harry hated him for that, but refused to hold that kind of feeling for a man who had done so much good; besides, he held no right to judge anyone.

Children were chasing each other outside the stone walls, playing tag as their mothers hung out the laundry and their fathers either marched in the kings army, completely absent from their life, or worked mundane jobs to provide for their families. The castle sat high on a hill, monuments for Harry's father and siblings scattered around like hills of protection; seeming so small in comparison but actually acting as a much larger foundation than even the king himself was. They were no less powerful in his eyes, size or not.

Without their religion, their beliefs, what did they have?

An end with no light? A switch that just turned everything off?

Harry allows himself to fall a step behind Lance as he's lead through the gates and up the stairs Lance has admitted he'd spent most of his free time sitting on, through the foyer and down the corridor to a large dining room, with a table large enough to sit half the kingdom. He's unsure of how to act when he first sees the king, sat at the head of the table with the entire kingdom on display behind him through the open walled wall, leading to a drop off of over two hundred feet with sharp, jagged rocks and heavy currents greeting you at the bottom.

He shifts from foot to foot, offers a dimpled smile, and musters up enough courage to not dunk this social interaction in the toilet. He may lack in all departments, most to be blamed for his lack of friends, but that didn't mean he wouldn't make the effort. "Hello, sire," he said, confidence a poorly masked shield he wore that hid the quiver in his voice quite well. He responded well to authority, always has, but a human who thought he held more power over Harry than he truly did was what had the angel choking up.

Because, in the truth of the very statement, the king held a lot of power of him. And it was all wrapped up in a neat bundle that was a strange kid who went by the name of Lance.

He held the key to his happiness.

"Please, call me William." The man spoke with a wisdom Harry had never recalled ever hearing, brimming with respect even if he knew nothing of the -peasant- his son had become infatuated by. "You are Harry, I presume. Lance thinks very highly of you, and I've yet to determine if that is to call for my worth or not,"

He was a short man, with a nicely trimmed beard and hard blue eyes that somehow remained soft when he maintained eye contact with Lance. "Yes, sire- er, master William," Harry bowed, fully aware his hidden wings curled around around his body in a protective gesture to hide how absolutely foolish he was.

Whether or not Lance' fatuation was call for worry was never answered.

Yet;

To say the king was smitten after that, would truly be the biggest understatement Harry has ever made, or so Lance claims. His father took him beneath his wing, showed him the ropes and how to be a proper man despite the fact that Harry was, in his own terms, eons older than the man claiming he knew the world better because he was older and wiser.

Wiser, perhaps. But Harry proudly outshined him in age, even if his twenty year old body lied and said otherwise.

Harry wondered if Lance knew he was older than he claimed? He often said Harry was an old soul, but did he know the truth in that statement?

Would he run if he did?

Harry couldn't run. He had nowhere to run to. Heaven wasn't his home no more. It was a closed off area once the safe haven he stored his dreams.

—

Harry was sitting at the pond Lance showed him, claiming it was a secret, that no other human had ever stepped foot on the tan sand and had the privilege to watch as the tiny fish twisted and twirled beneath the mirrored water, hiding in the algae for protection from the predators that constantly lurked about- Lance perched on a rock with his tiny feet kicking back and forth in the water, not scaring the fish like it should have even with water ripples gliding across the top of the water, when he heard it. The call from his sister, Gemma, a tugging in his bones that he shouldn't have been able to ignore so easily.

She wasn't asking for his presence. She was demanding it. And as his elder, as his father's right hand angel, Harry was obligated to listen.

And that should have been the end to their story. Where everything closed into a void of memories and cherished places Harry vowed to always visit even centuries later, where the meaning would stay between the two of them. He should have listened to her call.

But he wasn't in step with his siblings any longer, was he? Their calls no longer as urgent as they once were.

He now answered to someone lower than them, but no less powerful. Someone who just smiled shyly over his shoulder at the angel with a quirked brow, almost daring him to advance on him, to take that step forward and stop hiding so much of himself. But, his voice said otherwise; told a story his eyes refused to keep quiet of.

"How long do you plan on staying here?" He asked. "In my kingdom?" His foot swirled in the water, movement developing a note that Harry immediately registered as sadness, which he wasn't sure how a movement could project such an emotion.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Harry admitted with a lift of his shoulder, the slight shrug dismissing any questions, acting as a cloth that wiped any and all questions away. "Why, Lance? Have I overstayed my welcome? Have you tired of my presence already?"

It was said in a teasing manner, but held more truth than Harry cared to admit himself. People always grew bored of him. He overstayed his welcome more often than not, and has never had a place to truly settle down and take a moment to breath without being reminded he wasn't welcome.

And, damn it, he wanted to be wanted.

He wanted Lance to want him.

In what way, was still uncertain.

"No," the boy was quick to say, rushed word a surprise gasp as he jerked forward, Harry's fast reflexes the only thing keeping Lance from toppling head first into the water as the angel curled his fingers around the slim wrist with a tilted smirk. "Sor-Sorry. For both. I didn't mean to imply that. I was asking because—" and he hesitated. Why? Did he care enough he didn't want to hurt Harry's feelings, or care too little and was upset because he wanted to feel something for the angel? "Because I'm afraid you'll leave without saying goodbye. I realize you have a family you need to return to, and that I can not continue being selfish and keeping you all to myself, but I enjoy your presence. I enjoy you, Haz."

The nickname came so easily, sounded so natural, and the boyish grin that stretched Harry's lips was an automatic reaction he couldn't fight off— even if he wanted to.

"Haz?" He repeated in a testing manner, loving the way his tongue curled around the foreign word. Nobody had cared enough to give him a nickname. Ever. "I'll take it."

"I didn't give you a choice." Lance quipped, winking.

Harry sighed before replying, realizing delaying this was only going to hurt them both in the long run. "I can't stay forever," Harry said, voice low; soft. "My family isn't the reason, but I do have responsibilities. People I need to take care of, and you have a life you need to return to, yeah? Future king of Khomore."

Lance frowned at the last sentence, appearing almost unhappy with the title before he shook it off and hid once more behind the facade Harry still manages to see behind. Eyes of an angel and heart of a…

Well, human?

"Will you stay for awhile longer?" He asked, doing poorly at masking the hopefulness that seeped into his very being and made blue sizzle through his golden aura like blazing bolts of lightning. "At least until the end of summer? I have so much to show you."

He should say no. He realizes that. He should leave from his place leant against the white pillar, his permanent place of residence where he greets Lance every morning, assuring nobody else will take his place by staying in the same position all night; hiding from all eyes but watching. He should remove the baggage the boy has delivered to him, clean his hands of the humans, and return home. But something in Lance' eyes compels him to say yes. To squish that look of resignation, like he's resigned to the answer of no, but the hazy edge of hope was still bleeding at the edges. And Harry wants that too, to stay here in the bliss of humans and simple life filled with meaningless conversations, but no.

He's played house long enough. He has duties to his father, must return home and fill them despite knowing he wasn't wanted nor welcomed. He's needed to help create places like earth, altered if only by a little, to play the game and see who would kill their planet fastest. He needs to accept a role, too. Either as an angel of death, so mistakenly misunderstood, or another role in heaven.

The souls needed guidance, and who better to guide them than the very angel who has tried for years to understand them?

He can hear the crying of dying souls, of people withering away into nothing and leaving behind their dynasty, their life's story. A man in what has yet to be marked and claimed as New York City, was dying from an illness he attracted after spending so many nights sleeping in the rain, the chill enough to damage his organs and cause them to shut down.

In this very village, there is a woman bleeding to death with her newborn baby placed so carefully on her chest, the medical procedures imperfect and not quite as mastered as they will be in a few hundred years, a simple hemorrhage that could be fixed so easily. Harry aches to help them, but with his title as a forbidden angel; fallen with no destination, he had no right to claim and guide the souls so lost.

Yet, despite knowing his duties, he still found himself listening to the compelling thump of his heart.

"Yes," Harry says, smiling as his cloudy orbs cleared. "I'll stay. Only until the end of summer,"

And possibly after that. Who knows what powers his human holds over him? How long can he make this angel stay, knowing he has other places to be?

Silence followed, the smile on Lance' face, the one that spoke more volume than any words ever could, was worth any and all repercussions Harry may receive from his father.

Minutes must have passed before Lance spoke again, and Harry wasn't expecting anything else to be said until;

"You asked me one day what I asked for from god," Lance said, soft, voice cautious. "For myself."

It wasn't a question, more as a statement, but Harry still said, "Yes," in agreement, nodding.

"Do you want to know what I asked for?" He paused and Looked at Harry, face guarded, calculating as he looked over the Angels features.

A simple nod.

"I asked for you, Harry."