#raphael zhang

An engine revs almost angrily up the paved, hilly roads, the uneven ground and dirt kicking up every so often when a particularly aggressive acceleration on the gas pedal has the engine roaring in protest. 

But the driver doesn’t seem to mind. A boy in his early or mid twenties with a thirst for power- the horsepower kind, and an agenda to follow, regardless of what the environment threw at him. No, perhaps that was an inaccurate assumption- Raphael Zhang never truly had an agenda to follow or any focused pre-plan to adhere himself to. 

But he did enjoy the thundering sound of his engine until he made it up the hill. Grassy, lush, and green; fresh with the new rainfall that had just soaked into the soil not too long ago. The strong storm of a week or so ago faded away slowly, unveiling the furled blades of new grass and fresh wildflowers that soon overtook the rolls of hills. 

Raphael steps out of the car as soon as he’s messily parked, taking no mind in the way that he may have now smooshed some of the aforementioned new leaves under the heavy tires of his vehicle.

He does, however, step out gently and closes the door to his vehicle before finding a soft spot in the grass. The wildflowers- some still yet to fully open, sway in the disturbance of the air and for a moment- Raphael almost feels like a disturbance. 

But he knows better. 

Especially when the boy settles down in the only slightly damp grass in front of his low-lying car and leans the rest of his weight there instead. His shoulders come into contact with the chilly metal and it sends the all too familiar shivers down his spine. But he doesn’t mind. 

In fact, Raphael doesn’t think much of it at all when the young man tilts his head up to look up at the twinkling stars; each one so clear and bright when there was no artificial light to intrude on the quiet or outshine the natural beauty of space. 

It’s nice. And quiet. Like this. 

Away from the chaotic lifestyle of racing, away from the other boys for just the moment. Although the Chinese boy wouldn’t admit it, he knows he would miss his boys; if he were ever away for too long. 

It really doesn’t seem like Raphael could get away from said boys for long though- whether he liked it or not. 

Because, despite the boy drifting off slightly in the quiet, another boy was quick to make his arrival known. 

In particular, when a mop of familiar sable brown hair and sparkling eyes invade Raphael’s already hazy vision. 

“I knew I would find you here. This has become your personal quiet spot, hasn’t it?” The lighthearted voice of his best friend is what truly jolts Raphael’s mind awake again. 

“Go away.” He grumbles on instinct.

But Atticus refuses, simply disregarding anything Raphael has to say with a shrug of his shoulders. His lips quick slightly with amusement, but Atticus offers the other young man nothing more as he settles down beside Raphael. 

“Meh.”

Despite the infuriating indifference, Raphael shifts to properly catch the gaze of his best friend. 

They’re bright and amused; twinkling with what seemed to be the reflection of the millions of stars above their heads. Pretty. Enchanting. Mesmerizing.

“Last one to step through the door is cooking tonight!” A holler down the mostly dim, empty halls bounces off the walls. One boy makes a sprint for the door, eager to avoid cooking duties for the night and the other- although he gives some sort of a chase and a yell of disapproval, lags behind. The second boy doesn’t even bother to catch up with the former, perfectly happy to be cooking for the both of them; it wasn’t as if being a chef wasn’t part of his specialty, anyway.

But he watches the way Vivian makes a dash for the door- it’s a rare sight to see the other boy suddenly look so energetic. Raphael finds that he quite likes the enthusiasm tonight. So even though the boy could have pushed his way through that door first, he doesn’t. Instead, Raphael hangs back to watch Vivian’s head disappear behind the door as soon as the latter slips in. 

He waits a couple more seconds before unlocking the door with his own set of keys and pulling the door open. 

Within the cozy apartment, Vivian makes himself at home, despite the place of residence never being his own. It’s Raph’s. And with Vivian’s duties, he’s never around consistently. So maybe that’s why Vivian settles right into the soft cushions of the living room couch and Raphael merely lets him. 

Dropping his belongings onto the floor next to the door and slipping off his shoes, Raphael makes his way towards the kitchen, the only sound between the pair- the gentle pitter-patter of his soft, white socks against the flooring of the home. 

The pair minds their own business wordlessly for the next hour or so. With Vivian settled into the aforementioned couch, the tv droning on like white noise, and Raphael in the kitchen; the clangs of pots and various other utensils ever present in his little cooking endeavor.

But by the end of it, there’s food on the table. 

And two happy boys.

And although Vivian finds himself rarely indulging in food, staying away as far as his human body would allow, the boy finds that he can’t reject Raphael when the other sets food on his plate. 

In any other scenario that runs through Vivian’s mind, he would have pushed back. Denying himself the nutrition that he so desperately needed when his mind felt sick at the thought of stomaching food. 

But he did bet on that race earlier.

Raphael did cook dinner for the both of them tonight.

And the chef was not taking ‘no’ for an answer, adamantly serving Vivian first and then himself, as if it’d keep the boy from protesting. 

It works like a charm.

Much to Vivian’s dismay.

But perhaps the occasion was also too good to pass up. Because the angel finds himself opening up to the food easily, even when he had doubts of his ability to. 

They end up eating together in peace. 

Raphael doesn’t nag.

Vivian doesn’t object.

It’s the most serene; with an angel in the demon’s place of residence.

“I swear, I’m going to run you over, as soon as I get my hands on the wheel-” a shout of anger is made into the dark, night air. A boy with an average physique- no more than 5’7 tall, stomps his way across the parking lot, fists balled and puffs of heated air punching past his lips in an irate staccato. He’s wearing a light jacket, some random tee and a pair of joggers to pair. Along with his already not-at-all impressive physique, Raphael Zhang looks deceivingly harmless. But most people knew better than to get in the Chinese boy’s way whenever his wrath peaked in dangerously high levels. Most of the regulars at the meets knew the boy meant what he put down; that he was more bite than bark, even.

And tonight, Raphael bore wild eyes and even wilder hair; something akin to feral chaos running rampant in his dark orbs as he seeks out the driver who’d skidded a little too close to his friend that night. 

The victim of the threat, some nameless driver who’d decided to sign up as a one time thing at the car meet, hadn’t looked so scared when he’d jumped out of his scratched up car. Now, the look of calmness was long gone; replaced with a sort of surprise. A surprise that so much anger could be held in such a small form, that is. As if Raphael’s wrath had been compressed, always ready to burn with catastrophic intent.

But the culminations that lead to this vindictive feeling blooming in Raphael’s chest was justified. In his opinion. The nameless driver had been reckless in his race, swerving lanes all night long as if to cut his opponent off from the road- even when the pair had hit a particular section of the track that had even onlookers biting their names in anxiety. The unnamed boy- some bitch, had thought it would be funny to bump Atticus’ car. Not only scraping the beauty (something Raphael would have to listen to the lamenting of until Jace polished him up, for sure- much to Raph’s annoyance), but the unnamed boy had very nearly sent Atticus tumbling down the shallow curbside and into the unpaved path, if the latter hadn’t swerved dangerously by reflex. And it went without saying that his best friend’s car was absolutely not made for offroading joy rides.

If Atticus hadn’t the instincts for driving that Raphael had tried so hard to instill into him– 

The Chinese boy didn’t even want to fathom the hypothetical state of his close buddy then; damage to the car aside, of course. 

No, if Atticus had actually been more than a little bruised, Raphael was sure he’d burst a vessel in his temple. Would have definitely done something he’d regret the next morning- if he were lucky enough not to be taken away by authorities, anyway. 

Not that he didn’t already though, with the way Atticus unfortunately lost by the millisecond tonight. 

Because of this bastard.

Raphael promptly swipes off any hands that try to grab him before he could reach his victim. He slips through the crowd, feet stomping heavy and thunderous like a drum, until he’s close enough to grab the other. 

Without thinking, he takes a hold of the boy’s shirt with both hands, grip strong enough to rip fabric, and yanks the taller of the two by only a few inches to his eye level. 

“You think you’re so cool for that little maneuver you did, huh? You wanna try that with me? Someone should ‘pit maneuver’ your ass into the ditch and see where that leads you. CC doesn’t play dirty like that, know your place.” He snarls.

“So what, can’t handle a little bit of rough housing? Didn’t know you guys were a bunch of ba-” 

The unnamed boy doesn’t get to finish when a solid punch lands against his nose, a sickening crunch following not a moment after. He tumbles to the ground with a thud, ass-first onto the dirty pavement. Dirty, just like him. That motherfucking rat. The boy feels his nose run red, while Raphael sees red. 

“Let’s get behind the wheel and find out. If you end up dead in a ditch, don’t blame me.”

The Chinese boy spits dirty in the other’s face. 

Fortunately, Atticus does end up gripping Raphael’s shoulder and yanking him firmly away from the other in the dirt. His grip is firm and tight and although there was something akin to pride blooming in Atticus’ own chest, he chooses to play the ‘bigger man’ this time around. 

“He’s not worth your time, ‘Cheng. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

The boy still is threatened into another race, though. Despite his bloody nose.

Raphael still brings home a win on behalf of his best friend.

Though it’s not as satisfying as the Chinese would have liked. 

Standing before the white sheets of the hospital cot, a boy holds a bouquet of flowers in his grasp, a forlorn smile adorning his face as glazed eyes examine the damage done to the fragile body lying there, deathly still. 

A bruise rests high on the patient’s cheekbone, a pretty purple-blue, but not exactly the kind that Raphael Zhang would admire. His head is wrapped, the bandages already soaking with the bright red blood that continues to seep. Scanning across the patient’s body, various devices and wires tape themselves onto his exposed skin- his chest rises and falls in rhythm though, thankfully; and although the rest of him is as bruised as his face, the doctor hadn’t mentioned anything particularly severe or damaging– other than a potential concussion.

If the patient woke up- he would be perfectly fine, if not for the superficial scratches that laid on his pale skin.

Except, maybe it wasn’t perfectly fine. Not when the other boy hadn’t stirred in the past 72 hours, since being admitted into the ICU. 

And maybe the beeping of the machines and the rhythmic motions of his heart monitor were slowly driving Raphael crazy with each passing hour. Surely, it was a comforting sign to know that the patient’s conditions weren’t worsening as the minutes passed, but the continuous droning– Raphael couldn’t handle any longer.

Even then, he faithfully visited during his permitted hours the past couple days- though the flowers were a new addition, as if that’d speed up his friend’s recovery time even by a few. 

Sitting down in the little chair provided by the hospital nurses who took pity on the poor boy, Raphael sighs and lets his head dip between his shoulders, the bouquet of flowers hanging loosely in his grasp. 

“I hate you for making me worry like this.” The boy mutters bitterly, though the pair both knew (whether consciously or not) that the Chinese boy meant nothing worse than complaint.

“I hate you for being so recklessly stupid, when even Jace told you just how dangeorus this sport would be. Why would you ever feel such a strong need to prove something that you’d fly off the handle with your acceleration? How fast were you going- maybe 120?” The feeling of sickness travels down into Raphael’s stomach and for a moment- the familiar feeling of wanting to throw up makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. “What am I supposed to do if you don’t wake up? God fucking- nevermind, you better wake up or else I’m beating you awake.” The empty threat (predictably) causes no reaction in the room. Much to the already growing feeling of despair rolling off of the racer boy. If his voice broke somewhere in the middle, Raphael pays it no mind. Pride didn’t matter when he was left in the empty darkness where the only company he had was one he couldn’t reach. “I hate you because I can’t even say anything without being a hypocrite- for once, you’d be fuckin’ right.”

Gently, Raphael realizes he’s still holding the bouquet of flowers in his hand and makes a move to set it by the bedside table instead. “I got these for you. So you better open your damn eyes before they wilt.” Again, the bitterness in his voice tastes like bile on the tongue.

But the boy never stirs. Left breathing into a tube and heart signals beeping in the machines. 

It leaves Raphael with his fists tight by his side as if he needed to simply punch someone and let the tension go. 

“So, how much you wanna bet, I can win in the race tonight?” A teasing jeer cuts in through the various conversations, a familiar head held up high, chest puffed up in what Raphael guessed to be excitement to get the engines revving. There’s a moment of silence and the owner of the interruption opens his mouth to say something else, but no sound follows when his eyes meet Raphael’s own.

The deadpan is apparent in his eyes and immediately, Atticus Han knows that his teasing won’t blow over so easily with his best friend. Bummer.

Standing there in all his glory was Raphael. In some plain, simple tee, a neon blue and black bomber and some pair of gray sweats to match. Confidence oozed out of his entire body, hair wild and eyes dark; but all together- the aura he gave was as subtle as ever. Quiet, but just as brazen. The attitude of a winner. 

And sometimes, Atticus hated the way his best friend never seemed fazed by the challenges thrown his way. The way he never batted an eyelash, not even at Atticus. As if the latter could make any comment he wanted, yet in the end, Raphael knew he’d come out on top as the winner. Screw you, you suck sometimes, Raph. Why can’t you just let me win for once.

“What, not gonna comment? You afraid that you’ll actually lose, Raph?” Someone else from the crowd urges, much to both boys’ delights. It’s Killian’s familiar voice, the founder of their little meets group. And oftentimes, the tall man was the instigator to all the little scuffles, always encouraging the boys to roughhouse a little bit and “enjoy their time together on the dirty asphalt”, as he would put it. Whatever that meant. And the comment almost gives the driver in the heat of it all a good excuse to bite back in both directions. 

“Yeah, yeah, you can save it, Kels… and Kit, we both know that I would win in a heartbeat. My Victory streak is far better than both of yours combined, c’mon!” Although the prodigy is quick to stand his ground, almost metaphorically biting back at anyone who dared to challenge his rightful throne in the winner’s circle, the retort pushes past his lips in more of a petulant whine than anything else. Screw all his friends who loved to pick their fights with his poor pride. 

“Yeah, well I’m determined to win this time; even had Jace once over on my car and make sure she was sitting pretty and ready to race you tonight.” This time, the liquid pride oozes like honey, lacing in Atticus Han’s own words as he stands arms crossed in front of his friend.

Rolling his eyes, Raphael merely shakes his head with a sigh. “We all know that the chance of you winning against me is like one in a million, even if you wished it was higher, Atticus. You drive like you’re five years old. It’s the only reason why Jace has ever shaped up your car again… dumbass.”

Despite the scathing reply and the ‘oohs’ that follow shortly after, it doesn’t phase Raphael’s best friend in the slightest. 

In fact, without a hesitation, Atticus shoots back like his pride had never been hit in the first place- “Never tell me the odds, babe, ‘cuz when you lose, then everyone would know just exactly by how much.”

Glaring eyes shoot daggers in the direction of a group of racers gathered around one boy, the rowdy atmosphere around them cheerful, as everyone huddles around the grand winner for the night. In the center, Atticus Han’s smiling eyes and big grin dazzle and woo every one of those who come to congratulate him; like some heartthrob of the 90’s. His hair is wild and his clothes are hanging recklessly askew. But he still looks handsome as ever. Blinding.

And Raphael hated every second of it.

From his little spot a little ways away from the crowd, the boy leaned against the hood of his mustang, arms crossed almost bitterly as he watched his best friend celebrate. And from the distance, one may have assumed Raphael was the sore loser of the night- if he looked so ruffled by the victory Atticus secured. 

Except it was far from.

The boy hadn’t even raced tonight. Hadn’t even started his car or revved his engine even once.

Yet, he looked as if he’d been the one to lose a million dollar bet. 

And Raphael couldn’t quite understand how he could be so bitterly envious of Atticus, himself. Unsurely, the Chinese couldn’t quite pinpoint- was he jealous because of the win? The attention that was on Atticus (and not himself)? Or was he jealous that the crowd had Atticus’ attention that should have been his? All of the options swim around the temple of Raphael’s head and vaguely, he feels a headache coming on. Or maybe it was a kind of stress that accumulates at his temples. 

They weren’t even “together” like that– only best friends that both simultaneously didn’t fit with one another at all, yet complemented each other at every angle. The pair, Raphael and Atticus, were like the push and pull of two different, equally stupid and uncooperative, forces that drove (hah) in the exact opposite directions of what the other wanted. They never seemed to quite agree, one boy was always starting a playful wrestle with the other.

And yet, they were best friends– ride or dies, even when neither of the pair would ever admit it to each other’s respective faces. The type of boys who, with unspoken words, would unhesitatingly drop any task at hand if the other needed immediate assistance. 

So maybe Raphael was just a little bit (very) envious of the fact that everyone was offering his best friend all their attention for the night and Atticus was eating it up, with the way his eyes light up and his grin never falters. 

Maybe Raphael did hate the way Atticus made no moves to join his side as the boy usually did after one of his wins. 

Maybe Raphael was envious of it all, even as he hoped with all his might for Atticus to sense his frustrations and simply walk over.

You’re such a dumbass. 

He scolds internally, though who he’s yelling at- he isn’t so sure. It could be Atticus or it could be himself.

Huffing, Raphael pulls his crossed arms tighter towards himself and subconsciously, a pout forms across his lips. The bitterness sits like bile on his tongue, an irritation growing ever more severe as the seconds ticked by, heartbeat counting each one loudly in his ears. 

Fortunately or unfortunately for the Chinese boy, his friend catches his eye not long after. And even from a distance, Raphael could feel Atticus’ pride and ego grow when the realization dawns. 

He knows what he’s doing. That smug little shit.

Despite the internal berating that stormed internally, now definitively scolding Atticus for being so brazen, when the other boy bids farewell to his admirers and pushes his way towards Raphael, the latter couldn’t help but let the satisfaction ease into his heart. 

Still, he puts on his most steely countenance as Atticus stops in front of the boy practically settled on the hood of his car now. 

Cooly, said boy fits himself between Raph’s legs, hands coming to support himself on either side of Raphael’s hips as Raph himself leans back against his ford mustang. 

“What do you want?” The Chinese snaps at his daring friend, eyes trailing down and then flickering back to Atticus’ face at the compromising position. Annoyance flares again and he exhales deeply through his nose. Dumb boy and his dumb self-satisfied attitude. We need a quick ego-reduction right about now.

“Quit acting so tough, I know you’re upset… but it’s okay, you know you’re always number one on my mind, Cheng-”

“Don’t-” Hastily, Raphael cuts in, weakly interrupting Atticus’ teasing in an attempt to evade any further embarrassment. The young man’s well aware of the nickname his buddy was going to drop; mildly bashful, he finds he both wants and doesn’t want Atticus to continue. Baffling, for certain. “-Bring that nickname up and I’m going to kill you, Kit.”

“Well, now that’s not fair~ You’ve already brought mine up… multiple times in the past.” 

Though Atticus relents easily; especially when Raphael presses firm fingers into his chest and gives the man a delicate shove in warning. It takes a heartbeat longer. Before Atticus fulling pulls away (despite the slight pang of disappointment stabbing Raph’s chest) from the other somehow pinned against his own car. “Anyway- I dunno who you are fooling, but you’re really obvious and I hope you know that. You have the most honest eyes I’ve ever seen… so if you’re jealous and want my attention, then just say so- ow!”

Biting against his tongue, Atticus immediately rubs the back of his sore head just as Raphael hops off the hood of his car with a faux (though, as his friend mentioned- he’s not fooling anyone with it) nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Please, kindly shut up. I was not jealous, and will never be jealous just because you won a race- I’ve won many of my own, thank you very much.”

“You’re so rude, can’t you let me have a win once in a while and just congratulate me like a normal person,” the whine is petulant, “I did win my race tonight, after all!”

“Yeah, yeah, I saw your win… loser.”

(Later, when the crowd has dissipated in the night and the meet participants roll out, Raphael does congratulate his buddy on the victory; patting his shoulder and bidding him a lucky farewell as they also begin to peel away from the emptying lot. The distant sound of obnoxiously loud engines revving into the late night/early morning as the only trace of another successful race.)

“And just like this–” there’s some sort of a garbled grunt of effort and a leg juts from somewhere under the sheets for just a moment- before another body is sent flying off the bed, landing with a solid thunk onto the floor below. “The little birdie is forced to fly free from its nest.”

There’s a wince from another in the room, but the resounding “Ow!” that follows immediately after is to be expected. 

The head of Raphael Zhang pokes from somewhere over the edge of the bed, a shit-eating grin hanging lopsidedly upon his lips. His hair is a dark mess, but mischief sparkles in his eyes at the sight of Atticus Han on the floor. “Tell me I’m wrong.” He taunts teasingly as he watches with glee at the way his buddy on the floor rubs his surely sore ass with mild displeasure.

“One– you are wrong. Two, ow? Three, There was no need for a physical demonstration, and I was just getting comfortable!” Petulance laces Atticus’ tone, but it only causes Raphael to grin harder, his frame shuffling a bit to get comfortable with his new position- an arm dangling over the edge of the bed, almost tauntingly at Atticus.

“Yeah, well I think Saint needed to see a live action reenactment for himself, besides-” the boy cuts himself off to reach for a pillow, “You deserve it half the time, this is just karma biting you in the ass, Kit.” He finishes with a swing of his arm, pillow coming down to whack poor Atticus in the face as if the kick out of bed wasn’t enough as it is. “And comfortable? In my bed? I think you are mistaken, sir. What am I, your cuddle buddy?” he ends with a mock of discontent. A subtle huff of dissatisfaction. 

There's the softest thud upon contact with said pillow, a whine of displeasure, and another faint ‘Hey, I’m just enjoying the show.’ and then Atticus is fully laying down onto the soft carpet-covered floor; as if he’d given up trying to get back in bed before he even tried. The simple, plain white cotton shirt he’d decided to wear for the night riding up his waist to flash just a sliver of his toned abdomen. 

Briefly, Raphael’s more than intrusive thoughts beg for him to reach over and lift it up Atticus’ body further and reveal more of that smooth, flawless skin underneath; for the stupid shirt to stop teasing. But before he could reach over, maybe come up with some excuse to pass his actions off as, and much to his disappointment, the other’s own hand comes down to tug the shirt down further. Just the opposite of what the boy in bed had been hoping to accomplish.

“Ugh, rude. Anyway- you do realize that’s not what it means to ‘leave the nest’, right? You dumbass. It means you’ve matured and it’s time to live on your own from your parents or childhood home!” The boy on the floor rolls his eyes, but his friend still hanging in bed doesn’t seem to pay it much mind. Or more accurately, hadn’t been paying attention to, mind still wandering elsewhere for another brief, lingering moment. Raphael recovers quickly, though.  

“Yeah, yeah, same thing-” 

An objection.

“Quit whining, will you? You’re like a little baby- our little baby kitten who still needs his mama. Haven’t quite left the nest yet, I guess~”

This time, the pillow comes flying for Raphael’s head instead; he just narrowly dodges the flying object, much to the lighthearted contempt resonating from Atticus at the moment. He lifts his head to glare angrily at Raphael, before settling back down once again. A raucous laugh echoes through the shared room, mocking amusement filling the atmosphere- Saint somewhere in the shadows mildly wonders if the hotel would kick them out for the disruption. They were currently away from home- the entire lot of them- for a meet, after all. 

But neither of the other boys seemed to pay any mind, too busy nearly engaging in a wrestling match with one another- if one tempted the other enough. 

(“Shut up, I am not a baby!” “Yeah, well you sure do act like one, are you even the youngest between the three of us?” “Shut up-” “-Aw, the lil kitten is angry with me~ how cute.” “I’m gonna kill you-” “You couldn’t touch me even if you wanted to, sweetheart.” “I swear to fucking god, Raph–”)

“Anyway-” The voice of Raphael pulls away from what was the beginnings of an argument between the pair, “If we must start on the topic of leaving home, I guess we should start with Saint, eh? Mr. I flew quite literally thousands of miles. Tell us, what is it like to be so far away? Why did you decide you wanted to be so far- I mean, obviously for kids like us, I think being away from our parents isn’t that big of a deal but. You’re sheltered.” He suggests, and although his words are laced with subtle curiosity, his tone is light and playful, as if not to prod the softest of the trio too hard. “...And your boyfriend is not the answer, if you tell me you flew all the way across the globe, left your parents in the Americas, and then proceeded to struggle and live here just for a boy, I’m gonna hit you.” 

The seriousness in Raphael’s tone forces a giggle to fall from Saint’s lips, now the spotlight shining on the third boy who’d sat mostly quiet for much of the engagement in the past hour. But Saint merely shrugs his shoulders, expression barely readable through the dimness of his corner of the room. 

“What, I can’t use my boyfriend as the answer to all?” he giggles, shoulders shaking like crisp leaves in the wind. 

But the room falls silent soon enough, still. Raphael, who’d finally sat up from his awkward position in his bed, eyes Saint almost expectantly. Atticus continues to lay splayed out like a starfish on the floor, as if his own bed wasn’t right beside him the entire time.

“... stop looking at me like that and go back to fighting, will you two? It’s not as interesting as you want it to be; there’s nothing to know, because I came for… the academics.” the mellow boy finishes lamely, cheeks heating in mild embarrassment. How lame, to fly all the way across the world to attend some exclusive school run by the rich. Neither Raphael or Atticus would understand.

And they didn’t, if the exchanged look between the two was any indication at all.

“But for the record- it was lonely at first. And leaving quite literally felt like I was leaving this metaphorical “nest” and never to return.” Saint pauses and grabs a pillow from his own bed, as if to distract himself for a brief moment. “And cc is now my family; you guys are helping to fill the gaping hole in my chest from leaving home, you know? I left one nest for another.” 

“Ugh, what a sap.” Almost as if on cue, Raphael couldn’t help but make a quip, mouth missing the filter that he so desperately needed. 

Saint, who had been expecting him to make a comment, however, immediately launches the aforementioned pillow at Raphael’s head. 

He doesn’t miss, unlike Atticus. And the pillow bounces from the top of Raphael’s head, before slumping to the ground. 

A howl of laughter punches through Atticus’ chest and the moment is celebrated greatly by the boy who’d been picked on by his buddy for the better half of the last hour; the conversation is forgotten in an instant, as Raphael is left dramatically rubbing his “injured” head. 

Neither of the three dwell on their “nests” afterwards.

Just beyond the magnificent, golden gates of heaven, Raphael Zhang finds himself awaiting the arrival of a member of the opposing side, still behind enemy lines.

It's quite a sight, Raphael thinks to himself; a demon standing just beyond the heavenly gates, as if awaiting entrance, or perhaps begging the forgiveness of a higher-status celestial being. An idea that Raphael would never entertain, even if offered the chance to atone for all his sins.

The demon had heard tales of paradise and nirvana, of Arcadia and of all things perfectly manicured for the saintly and the pious. Yet, it had sounded all too... boring, too polished and too prim for Raphael's tastes. Too much of a dull forthcoming for the those who enjoyed the unexpected-

I need Brazil, the throb, the thrill I've never been there, but someday I will Adventure and danger, love from a stranger Let me be surprised -- (Let Me Be Surprised, Burt Reynolds and Melba Moore) sure came to mind at the mere idea of it all.

Yet, the sight of a particular angel finally taking a stroll towards the celestial gates was by no means a dismal view at all. In fact, the demon finds himself perking up at the appearance of the young man; seemingly in his early or mid twenties, dressed casually in some gray-ish graphic tee and some pair of half-hazardly ripped jeans.

He purposely dressed down and casual to see me today.

The demon mentally notes, as a lopsided smirk splits across his face without notice. Raphael himself had chosen dark colors, though a long coat practically shadowed his entire frame from view.

Despite the angel's casual 'fit, Raphael finds himself admiring Vivian's handsome features nonetheless. From the smoothness of his complexion to his large, doe-eyes, his slim physique to the casual confidence- even the demon himself had heard good words of praise for the angel. Virtuous, as was expected of these do-gooders, yet never as pure or monotone as the other angels seemed to be. And less eager. Much less eager to gratify someone else's every whim.

Somehow, the demon finds that he quite liked the little factoid about Vivian Yu. He didn't give in like the other people-pleasers did. In fact, the angel seemed to enjoy a subtle defiance; even going as far as to dress down while still in the presence of other immortals. He approached situations and people with a certain level of... spite.

And Raphael would have been lying if he said he didn't find the singular trivial detail attractive as hell. He would have been lying if he said he didn't admire the angel in his entirety, really. The man was perfectly stunning, after all; even a demon could see that much. And Raphael almost wished it was Vivian who would swing by from time to time.

Rather than passively waiting until Raphael himself was far too impatient to wait any longer. Somehow it was always Raphael who gave in first, hoping the angel would deem him worthy of another glimpse.

"Quit undressing me in your mind, will you? You're drooling."

A voice breaks whatever had been bouncing about within Raphael's mind and quickly, the demon brings the back of his hand to his lips as if to wipe away whatever residue supposedly present.

Belatedly, the demon realizes Vivian had been teasing, as the angel simply chuckles and Raphael's hand remains dry.

"I knew it, every time I see you, your mind is in the gutters. No wonder you don't belong up here (with me)."

Vivian's tone is degrading- almost a little too mockingly pitying. But again, Raphael finds that he quite likes that. Coming from someone with a halo sitting above their head.

And despite initially entertaining the idea of taunting Vivian and the rest of these supposed 'do-gooders', Raphael finds himself a little lost for words now. Lips parting to speak, but words never escaping his throat.

"If you have nothing else for me, I'll be taking my leave, then. I have duties to attend, you know. And you don't belong here; but it was nice seeing you again... Chengcheng."

Without allowing Raphael the chance to counter, or even protest the dumb (but vaguely endearing) nickname, the angel dissipates without skipping another beat; leaving the demon to simply stare past the heavenly gates and into the golden clouds of nothingness.