Chapter Text
The forgery was good. Practiced and sure strokes covered the canvas, but not too practiced, not too sure, creating a product seemingly not crafted from copy but divine inspiration. The wings looked soft, hair wispy, glare betrayed. If he didn’t know any better, Aki would have thought this was the original Fallen Angel.
But he did know better. He’d have to be pretty foolish to take anything at face value at The Fairy Market. It was known for its elusivity just as much as for being the hub for dreamers and that which was dreamt- whether that be objects (more commonly) or people (if one could even call them that). Dreamers were buyers or sellers, dreamt objects were sold, and dreamt people were buyers, sellers, or sold depending on the given room’s category of merchandise.
Denji, a dreamer himself who frequented pulling freakish things out of his unconscious mind for the seemingly sole purpose of frazzling Aki, had wandered off to some other room. Just before he left he’d stupidly purchased a painting of a woman which cost him his legal name to a complete stranger, something Aki would definitely berate him for later, but for now he let him wander. He was pissing him off. He had no sense of self preservation, forcing Aki to carry the weight of both their lives at all times if he didn’t want Denji to end up in a trash compactor, which, to his annoyance, he didn’t.
He chose to view this chance to catch his breath as an act of mercy instead of a risk. Ever since he’d been assigned to watch over Denji and Power, the child dreamer and dream, he’d felt as though his work day was never ending. He’d buy a child leash backpack tomorrow, but for now he allowed himself to get lost in the whispering siren song of the magical exhibit he was in.
As much as he’d like to say he was planted in front of the work before him now because of its merit alone, that would be a lie.
The person whom he assumed was the artist sat a little ways away from the painting, visible just out of the corner of Aki’s right eye. All of Aki’s unassuming nature clashed with the features of the painter. He looked elegant in the way a cat did; lazily so, no attempt made in its achievement. His hair was bright and warm, but the color itself eluded Aki. It was somewhere between orange and red- or pink? Or maybe he was blonde and the fluorescent bulbs of the room were projecting a rosy hue. He couldn’t be sure, but he could tell it wasn’t well kept. Its pieces fell in front of the painter’s eyes and face.
The suit the painter wore stood out against the rest of him as well. It wasn’t finely pressed as Aki’s was, instead rumpled as if they doubled as pajamas, but it was a suit all the same. It was strange attire for such a person. Too formal. Too modern. He’d look more at place in a painting himself, Aki thought, likely lounging limply by an abundance of fruit in sticky summer sun.
He had wings too. Big white ones that sprouted from his shoulder blades. They were accompanied with a golden halo that hovered above the crown of his head. It was these characteristics that alerted Aki that the boy in front of him had to have painted the forgery himself instead of having dreamt it, because dreamt people couldn’t be dreamers, and an Angel was most definitely dreamt. As dreamt as Power. As dreamt as the being that killed his family.
Aki knew he shouldn’t be lingering by this painting. He should pick another.
The painter hadn’t glanced up at him once. He had his chin propped up with his hand, eyes blinking slowly as if fighting off sleep. His gaze was leveled on the foot traffic happening behind Aki’s turned back.
He should really pick another painting.
He cleared his throat.
The painter’s eyes slid over to him. He had to readjust his head to make up for Aki’s height, chin pushed higher and head falling slightly back.
“They say ten percent of works in museums are fakes,” Aki offered lamely.
At first he didn’t think the painter would respond. His gaze looked no less bored as it studied him without any attempt at subtly, but then he said, without betraying any emotion, “And, what, another forty percent misattributed?”
“That makes at least half of art appreciation the cultivation of a willing suspension of disbelief,” Aki added.
The painter blinked up at him again, and though he couldn’t be sure he didn’t imagine it, this time Aki thought he saw a well hidden mirth glistening behind his glazed eyes. “Fun for all ages,” the painter replied.
Aki let out a laugh. He was so out of practice it came out as more of a noisy breath, but it managed to force his mouth into a less harsh line.
The painter continued to stare, unwavering. His eyes were dark pools of red, but as Aki considered them, they didn’t remind him so much of blood as much as flowers.
Aki looked away first. “You’re incredibly good,” he said, gesturing back at the forgery.
“Yes,” the painter agreed.
“I can’t draw stick figures. I’ve got no-”
“Don’t be boring,” the painter interrupted, “Just say you never tried. People are always saying talent when they mean practice.”
“I never tried,” he tried again, only vaguely concerned of his willingness to correct himself in order to get a reaction out of the painter. “I practiced other skills.”
He could tell it worked as he caught the dim amusement return in their eyes. “What other skills?”
Aki started, caught off guard by the intrusive question. In an attempt to maintain a level of anonymity for all of its patrons and suppliers, it was an unspoken rule of The Fairy market that you didn’t divulge personal information unless you were looking for trouble. He also didn’t think the painter would care, he sure as hell didn’t seem to care about much, and the bluntness of the words and expectancy in his eyes were familiar. He glanced behind him, looking for a flash of spiky blond hair in the crowd before looking back. “You remind me of someone,” he admitted.
“Congratulations,” the painter responded, and Aki was sure he recognized the glint of humor this time.
“On what?”
“On being reminded of me.”
This time his laugh felt more real, more like he remembered it being before he seemed to forget it was something he could do. He turned his head, a prickle of embarrassment reminding him to remain professional.
When he looked back the painter was looking downwards again, this time at the shoelaces of his sneakers. They were untied.
“Can I ask why you're here tonight?” he mumbled, once again blatantly expectant for an answer, pleasantries presumably offered from practice alone instead of a genuine concern for crossing boundaries.
“No,” Aki responded, feeling a content settling in his stomach when he saw the painter’s stubbornly impassive face form a gentle crease between his eyebrows.
The truth was he didn’t want to delve into the why. The why was beyond even his comprehension at the moment. Why was he entertaining Denji’s inane idea to come here? Why was he bending over backwards to care for Denji and Power, the dreamer and dream that they were? Why did he care about them as much as he did? Why couldn't he stop caring about people when he knew it always brought him pain?
“Aki! AkiAkiAki!”
Denji’s voice carried through the crowd. Aki felt himself become taut, ready.
“Is that you?” the painter asked.
Aki hesitated. “Seems to be,” he admitted, then impulsively slid his hand into his suit pocket to retrieve a business card. He tucked it behind the forged Fallen Angel’s canvas. “If you want to know more you can call me.”
The painter’s lips twitched. “Smooth,” he deadpanned, making Aki unsure if he was being made fun of.
“AAAAkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiii!”
Aki turned. “Coming!” he called, attempting to assess the direction the voice came from as he excused himself around a few shoppers.
“Angel,” the painter said, voice barely carrying over the distance between them and bringing Aki to a stuttering halt.
“Excuse me?” he asked, glancing back through the path between them. Their gazes joined between the spaces of people walking by.
“My name. It’s Angel,” the painter repeated.
Aki nodded slowly. “Pleasure to meet you Angel,” he replied, then he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
…
If you were to ask Aki, he’d tell you that the original paled in comparison to the forgery, but what he would refuse to concede (even while knowing it was the truth) was that he held that opinion because of his relative apathy to Alexandre Cabanel, as well as the fact that Cabanel’s painted angel was currently being compared to the literal one beside him.
His presence was announced with nothing more than a settling of shoes as he joined Aki in looking at The Fallen Angel. They stood shoulder to shoulder, side by side.
Aki allowed himself to take in Angel’s profile as much as his peripheral vision would allow. His wings looked softer than the painting’s, hair wispier too, but his eyes were not betrayed as the painting’s were, instead they carried their typical sheen of indifference.
Angel had called him a few days after their meeting at The Fairy Market, and Aki had been too relieved that he’d been the one to answer the phone to mind Denji and Power’s teasing or that Angel had requested that they come to a museum well out of his way.
“Hello Angel,” Aki said after a few minutes.
Angel made a soft humming noise in the back of his throat as way of greeting.
The hall around them was mostly empty, whether it was because it was eleven in the morning on a Sunday or because others were actively choosing to avoid the space occupied by a Moderator and a winged man, Aki didn’t care.
“I did some reading on you since we last met,” Angel said at last.
“Coincidentally,” Aki responded, gaze still fixed on the painting, “So did I.”
Angel spoke as if Aki hadn’t, prattling off a memorized list of information. “You’ve been a part of The Management of Magic in Society since you were eighteen. You’ve been working there for five years. You’re an assigned guardian to two children. You grew up in the country, although I can’t imagine you ever being a child.”
“I was born grown-up,” Aki joked halfheartedly.
“I found out about your family,” Angel continued, “Tragic.”
“I found out about your status as an orphaned dream. Also tragic.”
“Not as tragic as a murder. I never knew who dreamt me into this world, no reason to be sad about it.”
Aki considered this for a moment; The simplicity of Angel’s acknowledgment of his family’s deaths. It wasn’t pitying as others often were, nor was it cold. It was understanding, but also understanding that he didn’t truly understand. It was comforting more than anything else.
Aki decided it was his turn. “I heard that you were registered under Management as a dream a few years back. Your file says you're indolent. That you exploit your singular hobby of artistry merely to fund your sweet tooth. You’re classified as an ‘angel of death.’ It says that you-”
Angel was looking at him now. He had taken one step back so his body was facing Aki more than the painting. Aki found himself turning as well.
Museum goers continued to politely ignore them as they walked past.
“Go on,” Angel prompted.
Aki did. “It said that you killed several people, although it was marked as manslaughter. The method was restricted to upper division members.”
“Are you going to ask me how I did it then?”
“I don’t want to,” Aki confessed, “But yes, I am.”
Angel lifted his right hand, palm facing his own face before he turned it towards Aki’s for observation.
“If I make direct contact with another person it siphons off years of their life within minutes,” Angel explained. “I didn’t know that when I first came into the world. Outside of Management's orders it hasn’t happened since.”
His hand curled into a loose first before dropping back to his side, eyes dropping down with it. He looked as if he was going to be ill on the linoleum floor.
“Has Management given you anything to counteract it?”
It seemed like a simple question to Aki, a logical progression, but Angel vaguely frowned.
Aki took that as a sign to elaborate. “A dreamer could nullify the ability for you while you’re living day to day life. Since they didn’t initially give you anything, you could file an appeal to one of the dreamer operatives-”
“They don’t want to counteract it,” Angel interrupted, looking up at Aki again. “They don’t spend resources on dreams unless they have to. Besides, they’re always looking for an excuse to eliminate us. Me killing another person would probably be a good enough reason.”
Admittedly, Aki hadn’t considered that. He’d thrown himself into Management as an avenue for getting revenge since his family was killed. He didn’t spend time judging the morals of the corporation beyond them being a vehicle for justice for those victimized by dreamers and dreams. Considering it now made him think of how Power must be viewed by Management; expendable and tolerated only so long as she’s useful. He didn’t like the thought.
“Hypothetically,” Aki tried, “It’s still likely you could have your ability counteracted by a dream object of some sort. If you were to obtain and wear it outside of work, Management would have no jurisdiction over it.”
“Hypothetically,” Angel drawled, “The amount of magic to create an object like that could sell for a fortune if used elsewhere. I don’t know any dreamers that would spend their abilities on me.”
Aki’s phone buzzed. He reached into his pocket to decline the call.
“But it is an interesting thought.” Angel cocked his head and squinted up at Aki. “You're the first member of Management to suggest I could live a life separate from the curse.”
Aki frowned. “I shouldn’t have been. It seems the division has let you down.”
Angel didn’t respond beyond another soft hum.
Aki’s phone buzzed again. He groaned and dug it out of his pocket. It was Denji.
“I…” he said, but he didn’t know how to finish. He lifted the ringing phone in explanation.
“I have to go to work anyway,” Angel supplied, taking a step back from Aki towards painting.
Aki raised his phone to his ear and paused, his fingers hovering just over answering it. “Do you want to see me again?” he asked him without planning to.
They regarded each other. It was impossible not to take notice of his ethereal features now that The Fallen Angel hung directly behind his back. He thought of Management’s disregard of the impact Angel’s curse had on him while using it for their own gain. Maybe his eyes did match The Fallen Angel’s betrayal more than he’d initially assessed, but they didn’t right now. Right now they were different than he’d seen them before.
“Yes,” Angel said.