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Raphael felt hollow.
The young duke of Cania lay awake atop his vast bed, eyes open, one hand resting lightly over his sternum.
Beyond his chamber’s windows, the winds of Cania wailed; a ceaseless howl carried the rising blizzard.
A snowstorm, he noted absently. It was hardly remarkable within the eighth layer of the Hells, and yet… tonight it struck him differently. As if the world outside mirrored the raw and unsettling turmoil inside him.
Beside him slept an incubus; his incubus. A gift, as his father—the Cold Lord himself—had called it. Something meant to belong to him utterly, like the other consorts were for the Archduke. A companion to sate his supposed desires, to understand his needs, or so his father claimed.
Yet, Raphael doubted that the Archdevil of Contradictions understood anything about what he truly needed.
He studied the incubus’ form. Beneath their peacefulness, their chest softly rose and lowered, breath slow and steady. They had once worn long dark hair and skin tinged with blue-grey shimmer. But now, they wore his features, the exact reflection of Raphael’s own.
He had given them his true form in the heat of his vulnerability, the moment when fear pricked at his very heart. The moment when the sight of a creature crafted to never reject even his deepest desires suddenly felt too… much.
In that moment, Raphael couldn’t bear another face witnessing him in such a state. But to have his own? That, at least, soothed something deep within him.
But even after it all, even after the intimacy they both shared, after every whispered words and tender touch; Raphael still felt the same aching void gnawing within him.
Why? Why would such closeness feel so profoundly empty?
Slowly, he rose from the bed, drawing on a robe with careful, quiet movements. He approached the window, its frostbitten edges glowing with the storm beyond, and stared out at the blizzard clawing its way across Cania’s frozen atmosphere.
A delicate snowflake clung to the windowpane.
It lingered long enough for Raphael to trace the fragile geometry with his eyes, to marvel at its fleeting, yet natural, perfection. Long enough before the warmth of his chamber melted it into nothing.
How could something so ephemeral melt away so quickly?
He exhaled, feeling again that strange, aching hollowness in his chest.
It was then when he felt arms slipping softly above his shoulders. His own arms, or so they appeared. The skin was a familiar reddish hue, adorned with all of the scars from the Blood War that only he would’ve recognized. Behind them, he felt the gentle stir of their wings, quietly rousing the air around it.
“…Haarlep,” the young duke muttered in acknowledgement.
He had named them to be his mirror, for them to be his reflection.
Warm lips brushed the side of his neck, tender and soft. Raphael tilted his neck, not pushing back against the gentleness.
“You’re awake,” he said softly.
“Mm-hmm,” the incubus hummed against his skin, teeth grazing his nape with playful affection. “I am now, and so are you.”
“You’re still in my form.”
“I don’t mind it,” Haarlep murmured with a smile. Their voice was, too, an imitation of his. With each kiss, Raphael felt the soft lashes flutter against the skin under his ear.
In truth, he preferred it. It was easier to bear the presence of another when the face beside him was his own. When he didn’t have to reveal himself to eyes that were truly other. When vulnerability felt less like a risk and more like… safety.
Yet, why did the comfort still feel so thin, then? So insubstantial?
“Why?” The question slipped out loud from Raphael’s lips before he could stop it.
“If it is what you prefer,” they replied, slipping their arms tightly around his waist this time, “I see no reason why it would hurt.”
A pang flared beneath his ribs.
So that was it.
They did as he wished because he wished it. They soothed because they were designed to soothe. Every gesture, every kiss; meticulously crafted, not chosen.
“You don’t need to.”
At his words, Haarlep tilted their head, confusion rippling across the borrowed face.
“Forgive me, but… wasn’t it what you wanted?”
Raphael turned toward them then, and in doing so, faced his own features. His own dark honey eyes met theirs. Beneath their golden gaze was something more affectionate than what he would have ever recognized against any mirror. Devoted, even.
It was a reflection offering everything he could ever ask for, yet none of what he longed for.
“Haarlep,” Raphael said, voice lower and quieter, “do you do these things because you wish to… or because you must?”
The incubus paused at the question that they were not made to answer. But still, they tried.
“I do them to please you.”
Another pang struck deep. This time it was sudden and sharp.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Was that all, then?
Would every gesture from here on, every kiss, every whispered reassurance be done merely to fulfill a function? A design?
Raphael opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped slightly out of Haarlep’s hold, needing space for something he couldn’t articulate for centuries.
Until now.
“What I want,” he finally began slowly, “...is something you cannot give.”
Haarlep’s wings fell still. They studied him with an expression that was unreadable, even to the owner of the form himself.
“Love,” Raphael whispered, a part of him screamed from the fear, the dread from admitting the one thing he would never voice gnawed deep inside his stomach. “I want to be loved.”
There was a pause.
Haarlep did not speak. The incubus simply looked at him as if trying to comprehend a language they had never heard of.
“Love,” their voice quiet, gaze softening once more. “...is not a thing we devils are made for.”
Raphael’s chest tightened.
He knew that.
Then why did it still hurt so much to hear it said out loud?
“But,” Haarlep lifted their hand, and reached for his—Raphael’s hand—before gently cupping his palm against his own face.
“If I could love,” the incubus said softly, “I would. I would dare to, for you. I would twist my nature, bend it, shatter it against fate itself, if that is what it takes to give you what you crave.”
Haarlep’s thumb brushed Raphael’s cheek, their gaze was almost sorrowful.
Raphael closed his eyes and pulled his hand away, leaving only the warmth of the incubus’ palm against his face. The hollowness inside him deepened. Every inch of it was quiet and cold, like the cavernous storm beyond his window.
Haarlep leaned in until their brows touched, their breath mingling with his.
“Still… I will try, little flame of mine,” they whispered, “I would brave that ice storm of yours.” Raphael felt their lips brushing against his. “I would walk into it and endure. I would stand in that frozen storm and not fall. I would cherish every snowflake in its fury for your sake… if you would have me do so.”
Raphael felt their noses touch as Haarlep pulled him in a kiss.
After a quiet pause, Haarlep pulled away softly. Raphael saw the familiar look of devotion return in their gaze, along with something that felt… gentle, almost.
“I will give you everything I am capable of giving, even if it is far less than what your heart truly deserves.”
Their wings softly unfurled and wrapped gently around him, forming a cocoon of warm embrace against the coldness outside.
And for a moment, Raphael let himself lean into the incubus’ touch. Their warmth seeped through his skin, wrapping around him like the promise of something gentler than what the Hells could ever offer for him. It was just enough to quiet the hollowness within him, for him to experience how love would feel from that incubus of his.