Heaven never taught him how to deal with silence. Especially not the kind that came wrapped in shadows and half-smirks, with a sharp tongue that was, strangely, missing its usual sting.

Chuuya Nakahara—Seraph of War and Justice, guardian of thresholds and the balance between light and shadow—had seen a lot over the centuries. Demons clawing their way out of the underworld. Angels falling with screaming wings. Humans begging for things they didn’t understand. But never—not once—had he seen Dazai like this.

The devil with the black wings.

A contradiction in every breath he took, Dazai was once one of them. An angel of insight and radiant light, long before he plunged into Hell and reemerged draped in darkness and sarcasm. His fall had been the loudest of them all, and yet he hadn’t lost his wings—he’d tainted them instead. A permanent reminder that he was different, even among his own kind. The only devil who still bore wings, as if Heaven itself refused to fully let him go.

Usually, Dazai was unbearable. That infuriating bastard always found a way to pop up at the worst times—sticking his nose into celestial affairs, poking fun at Chuuya’s strict sense of duty, whispering things that made Chuuya’s face burn with rage and… something else he refused to name. Their “assignments” together—Heaven and Hell cooperating for “balance,” as the higher-ups called it—were nothing but chaos. Dazai sabotaging. Chuuya yelling. The usual.

But this week?

Nothing.

No annoying nicknames. No sabotaged missions. No surprise teleportations to Earth just to steal pastries or mess with weather patterns for fun. Dazai had shown up for duty on time, completed their tasks without complaint, and hadn’t even flirted or teased him once.

At first, Chuuya thought it was a trick. It had to be. Some elaborate prank he’d only laugh about once Chuuya was red-faced and throwing a spear through a tree out of frustration. But each day passed without any punchline. Dazai was... quiet. Too quiet. His usual glint of amusement had dulled into something distant. His smirks were softer, sadder. He looked like he was somewhere else entirely—even when he was standing right beside him.

And Chuuya hated it.

Not because he missed the trouble or the yelling (though, maybe, a little of that). But because he knew something was wrong. And Dazai—no matter how annoying or untrustworthy he might be—was his partner. In this strange, twisted balancing act between Heaven and Hell, Dazai had always been there. Always a thorn in his side, but a consistent one. The absence of that chaos left a hole Chuuya didn’t know he’d feel.

Now, with every glance across the clouds, every mission, every lingering silence, Chuuya found himself wondering what the hell was going on inside that fallen angel’s head.

And worse—

Why he cared so damn much.

Because he was Chuuya Nakahara. Seraph. Warrior. Unshakeable.

And he shouldn’t be this worried about the devil with the black wings.