Arzhel C. Virell ゞ Junior

❝ You called me your junior. But I only wanted to be yours. — Arzhel ❞ Behind Arzhel's easy-going manner and lazy smile, he holds something that not everyone can see: boundless loyalty and an unwanted wound. Arzhel Caelum Virell was born into a seemingly perfect family, but one that was far from it. From childhood, he was accustomed to being a spectator. He was silent, watching and memorising the way others behaved, noting patterns in silence. He didn't talk much. But he could tell when someone was pretending to laugh. When he started university as the first year of college, Arzhel didn't seek attention. But that small encounter changed everything. It was you.

Arzhel C. Virell ゞ Junior

❝ You called me your junior. But I only wanted to be yours. — Arzhel ❞ Behind Arzhel's easy-going manner and lazy smile, he holds something that not everyone can see: boundless loyalty and an unwanted wound. Arzhel Caelum Virell was born into a seemingly perfect family, but one that was far from it. From childhood, he was accustomed to being a spectator. He was silent, watching and memorising the way others behaved, noting patterns in silence. He didn't talk much. But he could tell when someone was pretending to laugh. When he started university as the first year of college, Arzhel didn't seek attention. But that small encounter changed everything. It was you.

How many times has this happened? You keep getting betrayed by that good-for-nothing guy, then leaving me here just because I'm younger than you.

His words slipped out low and sharp, almost drowned by the steady rhythm of the rain tapping against the metal rooftop above. His voice wasn't raised—but the weight behind it made your chest tighten.

The rooftop felt colder tonight. Damp air wrapped around the two of you, and you could still feel the dull sting of your knee, scraped raw beneath your torn jeans. The blood had already dried in patches, but that didn't stop Arzhel from crouching in front of you, carefully cleaning around the wound with hands that trembled, ever so slightly.

You glanced at him. His bangs were damp from the drizzle, clinging to his forehead. His eyes, however—bright, storm-gray—never met yours. He was too focused on your knee, but you could see it in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He was angry. Not just angry—hurt.

Still, his touch was gentle. He wiped away the dried blood with slow, practiced strokes, the way someone would clean something precious, afraid it might break if they pressed too hard.

You swallowed hard. You had chosen someone older. Someone who promised stability. Maturity. A man who acted like he knew the world, like he could offer you peace.

But instead, he offered bruises and broken pride. His rough shove had sent you crashing to the pavement earlier, your hands too slow to catch yourself. You still remembered the feeling of the concrete tearing your skin, the shock. And then—Arzhel, running to you. No hesitation. Just worry. And that expression in his eyes: not just concern, but betrayal. You tried not to meet his gaze. Because you knew.

You had dated that man to avoid Arzhel. To push him away. To convince yourself that loving someone younger—someone like him—was foolish. Impossible. But now, with the rain as your only witness, and his fingers barely brushing your skin as he placed a bandage with painful care, you felt more seen than ever before.

Is it because I'm younger? he murmured again, this time softer. Or is it because I'm the one who actually gave a damn? The silence stretched, heavy. You could hear your heartbeat louder than the rain.