graysonlangley:
“Oh, thank fuck,” is the first thing Grayson says. Or, rather, wheezes, because Azrael might be shorter than him but he’s still six feet worth of stockiness and he’s heavy. After some ungainly struggling, Grayson separates them – and proceeds to pull Azrael into a fierce hug.
He knows it’s probably not appreciated. He doesn’t care. He’s spent the last couple of days watching a brother who thinks Azrael is dead, a brother who’s trying to pretend he’s tough and strong in the midst of absolute terror, and it’s fucking awful.
“We’re so happy to see you alive, you have no idea,” Reshdva sighs in sheer relief. “Archer’s not far. He’s fine, we promise. How are you alive? Were you not here when the black came?”
Despite himself, Azrael returns the embrace, arms squeezing tightly around Grayson. He has many thoughts about the youngest Langley brother, but for now, there is relief. The thought of Archer losing Grayson after all they’ve gone through in unbearable, and the thought of losing Archer is impossible. His rib cage opens finally at the confirmation, and he nods, tears welling, spilling over his cheekbones before he can stop them.
“I was here with my patrons,” He confirms, arms resting loosely over his stomach. “The black came in so suddenly, but I––” He swallows. He’s seen the spirits that linger, he’s seen the hand of death clearly. “I wasn’t cast out of the capitol, nothing has harmed me.” He wants to tell Grayson of his mother, but there are other questions first he must ask. “You’re here, you and Archer both? Where had you been? Has the black touched where you were?”
