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While Celestials were rare, they were not unheard of. Most opted to stay within the periphery, seen without being acknowledged, without being observed.
Most, however, does not mean all.
Impulse did not go out of his way to make it known he was a Celestial, but he never exactly hid it either. It only got more obvious after he had met Skizz. Skizz had hid the fact he was a Celestial well, until he met Impulse. When two Celestials were within a certain radius to each other the very foundations of the world bent and curved, worse so when the Celestials were opposing.
If you had told Impulse then what he was like now, he’d have torn you to shreds. If you had told Skizz, he would have called you a blasphemer.
—
Impulse knelt at the feet of his Angel, the astral glow of Skizz’s halo near blinding. His pupils were blown, his entire body heavy. Skizz sat upon his throne, legs crossed as he looked down at his disciple with adoration. A demon, kneeling at the will of an angel. It had been unheard of. Skizz's wings sat flared behind him, his halos circling his temples and floating gently above him. Impulse’s palms sat on his thighs, held outward like sunflowers towards the light of his own personal sun. He bathed in the holy light, a light sting on his demonic flesh. He wasn’t worthy of this, a sinner such as himself, but he could not help but chase the light that had blinded him near centuries ago. Skizz enjoyed it, but not for selfish reasons. When Impulse took in his light, he seemed at peace. All Skizz ever wanted was for Impulse to be at peace.
And at the foot of his Celestial—of his personal sun—Impulse truly felt peace.
—
Skizz had once been asked if he’d forced Impulse to kneel and worship. The simple answer? No. Impulse, a sinner in every sense of the word, had come to Skizz , asking to sit in the warmth like a cat lay in a sunbeam during its afternoon nap. Skizz, of course, was skeptical at first. He and Impulse had been friends for what felt like eras, and while Impulse had never shied away from Skizz’s light, he hadn’t sought it out either.
He’d been accused of trying to convert. Of cleansing. When met with this, Skizz disregarded it. It had taken him years to reveal some of his wings and halos in fear of hurting Impulse. He wouldn’t have cleansed Impulse even if his throne was at stake.
Impulse had been asked similar accusatory questions. People had wondered if he had been trying to corrupt. If he had been trying to coax Skizz into abandoning his throne. The anger that rolled off his body like a sickly ichor had been enough to stop those with similar trains of thought. Impulse, an old Celestial that had been far too cold for far too long, had feared the light of an Angel. He’d been taught it was harmful, that it could kill him. He’d learned that it did hurt, but it was closer to a minor sunburn than that of the threat of excruciating death that once loomed over his horns.
The first time Skizz had let go, had revealed a tiny fraction of his true form, Impulse had become enamored with the warmth. It was different from the stifling heat of Hell. Skizz’s light was similar to that of a warm blanket, making Impulse’s limbs grow heavy.
—
They had negotiated with the father of the Void. Impulse longed to feel the callousness of Skizz’s hands, and Skizz all but yearned for the feeling of Impulse’s scales and skin. They’d tried, of course, only to come back with matching scars and the fear of almost killing each other from a simple graze of their hands.
Keralis had obliged easily, crafting a veil from the threads of the End. It was weightless, formless. If Keralis hadn’t shown it to Skizz before he put it on, Skizz wouldn’t have believed it was there. The same thread was woven into Skizz’s clothes. Impulse, a being of contacts and debt, pledged himself to the Voidfather as a show of thanks, and Skizz offered one of his altars. Keralis had released Impulse immediately and declined Skizz, stating he was doing this as a favor to his friends, not as a means to gain Celestial covenants.
—
The first time Impulse had touched Skizz, Xisuma was worried the code would shatter. It had been built to withstand Celestial ire, not love. This had never been anticipated. Xisuma had worked tirelessly for days to strengthen the code of their world, especially surrounding where Skizz’s throne sat. Impulse’s cheek had come to rest against Skizz’s thigh, and the pair had felt the gentle lurch of the code. Xisuma had assured them it would not break, that they were safe.
Skizz’s hand came to rest against Impulse’s head, gently combing his fingers through soft hair and around the base of short, scaly horns. Impulse had wept, body trembling in the warmth of his Celestial’s light as he rested. He hadn’t rested for an age, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Skizz sat on his throne, slowly and delicately releasing his form. Eyes covered his halo as two more sets of wings rested behind him. Impulse had hummed quietly under the warmth, his body relaxing as if he had been sinking into a warm bath. The dull itch under his skin remained, but he’d come to appreciate it. The itch meant he was at worship, and it was the only place he wanted to be.
—
The Devs had questioned Xisuma on multiple occasions. Xisuma gave them nothing. The same way he’d hidden the very father of the Void, he would hide the Angel and the Demon that had been falling in love behind the walls of his world, behind layers of crafted code. Xisuma had granted them peace as he’d granted Keralis peace, and he would be damned if that peace would ever be disturbed.
While Celestials were rare, they were not unheard of. Xisuma had fought to keep his love, and his friend’s love a secret for eons. And they were all of them, at peace, nestled in the comforts of their world.