A Gentle Touch

The night wrapped around the mansion, a blanket of darkness settling over its cold stone walls. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows, dancing across the ancient room where Elyon quietly entered. His body was weary from a day filled with cleaning and chores, each movement slow and careful. The weight of exhaustion pulled at him, and he collapsed onto the bed with a small sigh.

But as he lay there, staring at the wide gap between his bed and where Zephriel sat chained, a sense of discomfort gnawed at him. The distance felt wrong, too much space between him and his husband. Without hesitation, Elyon pushed himself up, his tired muscles protesting. He gripped the edge of the bed and began dragging it across the floor, the wood scraping softly against the stone.

He moved the bed until it was nestled against the wall, just a few feet from where Zephriel remained bound. The chains clinked softly as Zephriel shifted, his white hair cascading over his face, obscuring his features. Elyon sat on the bed, his small frame curled up beneath a blanket, knees tucked to his chest.

A quiet moment hung between them before Elyon spoke, his voice gentle.

"When I first came here, a man greeted me and brought me to this room. Who is he?"

Zephriel's lips barely moved, his voice a rasp in the silence. "My cousin."

Elyon nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. "And the man who came yesterday?"

"My brother."

Elyon's expression softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I didn't meet your family properly. Should I go to them or not?"

"No."

One word, firm and final. Elyon accepted it without argument, his trust in Zephriel unshaken. He slid off the bed, moving closer to the demon. His bare feet touched the cold floor as he approached, kneeling in front of Zephriel with a tenderness that seemed almost fragile.

Gently, he reached out, his hands brushing aside the long strands of white hair that hid Zephriel's face. His fingers were warm against the cool skin, moving slowly as if not to startle him. When Zephriel did not pull away, Elyon cupped his face, the touch as light as a whisper.

Underneath his fingers, Elyon felt the roughness of old scars, the raised lines of burning marks. His thumbs traced the dried trails of tears, remnants of pain and sorrow etched into Zephriel's skin. The demon's eyes remained hidden beneath the black fabric, but Elyon could feel the weight of his suffering.

Elyon's own eyes filled with tears, his heart aching at the silent grief before him. His lips trembled, but he did not pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against Zephriel's, offering comfort through his closeness.

"You're not alone," Elyon whispered, his breath warm against Zephriel's skin. "I'm here."

Zephriel did not respond. His body remained still, but the chains around his wrists loosened ever so slightly, the metal no longer biting into his skin with such ferocity. The silence stretched between them, but this time it was different—not empty, but filled with a quiet understanding.

Elyon stayed there, his hands cradling Zephriel's face, his thumbs brushing away the invisible tears. His presence was a balm, soothing the wounds that ran deeper than flesh. And in the dim candlelight, surrounded by shadows, the distance between them finally disappeared.