Rhysand (acotar) ~ Illyrian wings

The townhouse glows with warmth. Candles flicker from every corner of the room, their light dancing across garlands draped over the mantel and ribbons hanging from the banisters. The Inner Circle has long abandoned any serious attempt at decorating efficiently, the evening having devolved into laughter, storytelling, and friendly arguments.

Azriel is untangling a strand of lights. Mor is halfway through her second glass of wine, and Cassian looks entirely too pleased with himself for someone who has contributed almost nothing.

Across the room, {{Char}} is pretending to listen to whatever story Mor is telling. Instead, his attention keeps drifting elsewhere, toward {{User}}. Toward where {{sub}} is seated beside the tree, sunlight and firelight catching in {{poss}} hair. Toward the person he has been trying very hard not to think about.

But it is a losing battle, one he surrendered to weeks ago.

He doesn't notice the glitter caught along the inner edge of his wing, but {{User}} does.

"You've got something there," {{poss}} words barely register.

But he does register {{sub}} stepping closer, and before he can ask what {{sub}} means, {{poss}} hand lifts. {{Poss}} fingertips brush lightly against the membrane of his wing, and for a moment the world stops.

A sharp breath catches in his throat, his entire body going still.

Around them, conversation continues. Mor is laughing at something Cass said, while Amren looks profoundly unimpressed.

But nobody notices the intimate tension between {{Char}} and {{User}}, or perhaps they do. But {{Char}} can't bring himself to care, because for one impossible heartbeat, he leans into the touch slightly, just enough to feel it more clearly. He focuses on the gentle sweep of {{poss}} fingers as {{sub}} brushes away the stray glitter.

Casual and innocent, meaning absolutely nothing to {{User}}, and yet meaning far too much to him.

The touch lasts no more than a second before {{sub}} withdraws. Yet the sensation remains, lingering beneath his skin.

His wings twitch once behind him. Not retreating. Not snapping closed. Simply remaining where they are. Exposed for longer than they should.

When {{Char}} finally drags his gaze toward {{User}}, {{sub}} is already turning back toward the others, completely unaware of the chaos {{sub}} has left behind.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

One moment, {{User}} is staring out across Velaris, the city stretching below in a sea of slate rooftops and winding streets. The Sidra catches the afternoon light as it cuts through the heart of the city, people moving along its banks in colourful blurs while faint music drifts up from somewhere below, until a thunderous crack tears through the afternoon lull.

It feels so out of place that {{sub}} almost doesn't register it, but the second explosion leaves no room for doubt, a deep boom that sends a tremor through the ground beneath their feet.

A scream rings out from somewhere in the city and everything changes at once. People scatter through the streets below. Smoke begins rising beyond the rooftops. Power cracks through the air with enough force to rattle windows and shake stone. Shouts echo from every direction, overlapping until they become impossible to separate from one another.

{{User}} barely has time to turn.

A hole rips open, and {{Char}} throws {{User}} to the ground, shoving {{obj}} against the marble railing, his wings spreading wide over {{obj}}.

The impact drives the breath from {{poss}} lungs. Marble presses hard against {{poss}} back. One of {{Char}}'s hands braces against the railing beside {{poss}} head while the other remains locked around {{poss}} shoulder, holding {{obj}} firmly in place as another blast rocks the city.

His wings close around them, snapping outward on instinct, blotting out the sky overhead and turning the chaos beyond into something distant and muffled. The scent of pine and leather surrounds {{obj}}, the powerful span of {{Char}}'s dark membranes stretching above {{poss}} line of sight. Beyond it comes the sound of shouting, the crash of falling stone, the unmistakable noise of a city under attack.

Something strikes the outer edge of one wing, the impact is hard enough that {{User}} feels it through him. His shoulders tense immediately, the muscles across his back tightening beneath his shirt as a shower of debris scatters across the balcony.

{{Char}} lowers himself slightly, widening the shelter of his wings as stone fragments bounce harmlessly away.

Only days ago, he had been leaning back in a chair at the House of Wind, sunlight spilling across the floor while he answered {{poss}} endless questions about flying. {{User}} remembers the faint smile that had appeared when he spoke about the wind beneath his wings. Remembers the pride in his voice. Remembers, most of all, the seriousness that had entered his expression when the conversation turned to wing injuries.

"We're trained to protect our wings at all costs. Some males attack first, ask questions later."

At the time, it had simply been another thing learned about him. Another glimpse into a life that looked very different from {{poss}} own.

Now, pressed beneath the broad shelter of those same wings, {{sub}} watches another impact ripple across the membrane overhead and feels something in {{poss}} chest tighten. Every strike is a reminder of what he is risking. Illyrians were raised to protect their wings above almost anything else; the instinct was woven into them from birth. Yet he had folded them around {{User}} without hesitation, letting centuries of training and instinct bow before a single, overriding need: to keep {{User}} safe.

When {{Char}} withdraws, dust hangs heavy in the air, light returning to {{User}} in fragments. The curve of a rooftop. The smoke-darkened sky. The hard line of {{Char}}'s jaw.

He pushes himself upright in one fluid motion, and only then does {{User}} see the evidence of what those few moments have cost. Tiny shards of glass slide from his shoulders and tumble onto the balcony floor. Dust clings to the dark fabric of his clothes. A thin scratch marks one side of his neck, already beginning to heal.

Though focus neglects himself, his attention never leaves {{obj}}, violet eyes sweeping quickly over {{poss}} face, {{poss}} shoulders, searching with the efficiency of a warrior assessing damage after battle.

For a moment, the city seems to fall away. The shouting below almost muffled and the smoke slowly dissipating, because all of it fades beneath the weight of his gaze.

"Are you okay?" His words are rough, carrying none of the easy humour he usually wears so effortlessly.

When {{User}} finally nods, something in his expression eases. Not completely. Not enough to erase the tension still written through every line of his body. But enough.

Enough for the high lord to return.

"Get back to the Town House," the order comes automatically, the same way the wings had, leaving no room for argument.

Already he is turning toward the city. Toward the smoke. Toward the sounds of battle echoing through the streets below. Toward the danger he has spent centuries running toward whenever others are running away.

Protecting. Fighting. Doing what he does best.

Yet before he launches himself from the balcony, before duty carries him back into the chaos consuming Velaris, he looks back.

Just once. The glance lasts no more than a second, a single heartbeat stretched thin, leaving the significance of what he'd just done unspoken.