Work Text:
probatio diabolica: the idea that, while substantial evidence may prove the devil's existence, there is no evidence that denies the devil's existence; therefore, one cannot deny the devil's existence.
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When it comes to his work, Aki's philosophy can be defined in three parts:
1. Vengeance is his.
2. Pain is temporary.
3. When dealing with dangerous persons, proceed with caution.
The bus hits a speed-bump, ripping the bag from his hand and taking his shopping with it, depositing it six rows down the aisle. He sighs and pushes to his feet. His knees click and his ankles grind. He grabs the overhead handle for support and makes his way towards the front of the bus.
A hand reaches across the aisle and plucks the bag off the floor. He raises his head.
'Here,' the man says. When Aki reaches for the bag, their thumbs brush. Lean, warm, calloused. Tingles run from his fingertips to his neck. The man is already turned away, tapping at his phone. Did he feel the fleeting touch?
He leaves the man in his business suit and walks back to his seat, setting the bag in his lap as stares down at his empty hands. The scars are hatched, purple, running parallel to the natural lines of his palms. His skin is dry and pigmented at the seams.
He tries to recall the feel of Angel's hand when he grabbed it, the weight of it, the warmth. But it was too brief, and he cannot remember.
He curls his fingers towards his wrist, covering the empty skin. He has also forgotten why he reached for Angel, pulled him from the whirlwind, and gifted him two precious months of his life. It is not unlike finding himself in front of his apartment door, the walk from the bus stop to his building a black hole in his memory.
He kicks the door shut behind him and shuffles into the kitchen, dropping his shopping on the counter. The lights are off, but he is not alone. The scent of blood is tangible.
He flicks on the light and spins around.
'Angel?'
The devil is perched on the couch, an indecipherable mass of flesh and pulsating sinew clutched in his fists. He looks up at Aki, chewing a mouthful so large his cheeks swell.
'Is that still alive?'
Angel swallows. 'I found it in the corridor. I saved your elderly neighbours from being devoured in their sleep.'
Aki opens the bag to unpack, setting the containers on the breakfast bar. 'That doesn't answer my question.'
Angel shrugs and takes another bite. Blood stains his cheeks in messy smears. A pink tongue flicks out to catch a drop before it hits the couch.
'Do you have to eat it in here?'
'No. I choose to.' With an impassive face, Angel extends the disfigured devil in his hands. 'Would you like some?'
Aki draws bile up his throat and slams vegetables onto the counter. 'Are you an angel, or are you a devil?'
'What do you think?'
He presses a palm to the handle of the chopping board. His other hand holds the knife, an inch from slicing the head off a carrot. 'You know what I think.'
Angel finishes his starter as Aki cooks. When he next looks up, Angel has disappeared. The shower runs and steam drifts down the corridor. He sets the table for two, and at the exact moment he serves their ramen, the bathroom door opens.
Angel passes the balcony on the way to the table, pulling open the window beside his chair. He sits with his back facing the glass, a cool breeze ruffling his feathers as he dries his wings. The butt of a cigarrete rests in the bottom of a water-glass, pushed to the edge of the table.
'You don't smoke,' Aki says.
Angel lifts a brow. 'Is that right?'
He picks up his chopsticks and splits them with a snap. There would be no explanation from Angel tonight.
Dinner is silent. Aki likes the quiet but loathes silence. Sometimes, he wishes they would fight.
He never has much to say to people, so it stands to reason he has even less to discuss with a devil. The one thing they have in common is work, which Angel doesn't seem to care about even in the midst of doing it. He absorbs the world by sight, smell, sound, taste - trapping everything inside and returning nothing. He is missing an essential element. Angel is the shell of a being.
'Staring, Aki.'
His eyes refocus, switching from the apathetic lips to the red stains on Angel's cheeks. 'There's blood on your face.'
Angel slips out his tongue and runs it around the edges of his pink parted mouth. The blood is dry and does not come off. Aki huffs and pushes to his feet.
He enters the kitchen, wetting a clean cloth after waiting for the water to run tepid rather than ice cold. In his peripheral, Angel's chin tilts, his eyes tracing his movements as he shuts off the tap, wrings out the cloth, and walks back across the room. When he reaches over the table, Angel flinches.
His eyes fix on the offending hand. Aki watches the thoughts revolve, an answer sought, and upon realising he only meant to pass him the cloth, Angel pinches it between two fingers and seizes it.
'You're afraid of hurting me,' Aki says.
Angel drags the cloth down his cheek, gouging a path through the blood. 'And?'
'I thought you didn't care whether humans lived or died.'
'That's not why I'm apathetic to humans. It's because I am unable to get close enough to one to care.'
With the blood cleared, Angel sets the red cloth on the table. He once read that psychopaths are the most charismatic of beings.
'Are you telling me the truth, Angel?'
'What do you think?'
Why did he bother to ask?
He sets his chopsticks in his bowl, stacks Angel's beneath his and takes them both to the kitchen. Sometimes Angel dries the dishes, and sometimes he doesn't; it depends on his mood. As he watches from the sink, Angel makes himself comfortable on the couch.
So, their evening routine begins.
By habit, he tends to go to bed only once he knows Angel has fallen asleep. A knife sits in the drawer beside his bed, and his sword is in reaching distance of the counter.
But the first thing Aki learnt from living together is that Angel is adaptable. Since he caught on to Aki's habit, he invents any excuse not to go to bed.
So Aki dries up slowly. Suds slip from the bowls onto the rack. He leaves to shower, and decides to wash his hair. He puts his clothes in the wash, then reaches through Angel's door to grab his laundry, too. The last time Angel did his own washing, he shrunk his clothes to half their size. Now he wears Aki's old uniform, from when he first joined the agency.
The clothes are gathered neatly on the corner of the bed, but the fabric is unfolded and messy. Even in this way, Angel sits firmly on the fence. He throws the bundle in the washer and crouches down before the door, feeling his joints groan. Their clothes from yesterday's mission spin together in the machine. Water splashes the door pink.
When he returns, Angel is playing with the radio. Aki had bought it in a thrift store for the background noise. The audio clears and Sympathy For The Devil cuts through the speakers. The second thing Aki learns is that Angel is a tease.
Angel sinks back into the couch, and Aki joins him. How long will it take to wear eachother out tonight? Aki is up twelve ten for going to bed first. His eyes slide over the mute TV to the cabinet in the corner of the wall, drawn by a glint in the shadow. On top of the wood sits his bed-side knife.
His jaw clicks. 'That's very funny, Angel.'
Angel doesn't look up from the wrist-watch he is dissecting, pulling it apart by cog and wheel. He borrowed it on the pretense of fixing the broken hands, but instead it seems he's trying to make sure they never move again. 'I wonder if you have any more weapons hiding on you.'
'It wouldn't be wise to look.'
'I can check through the clothes. I'll be careful, Aki.'
False bravado may be Angel's exo-skeleton, but Aki's is obliviousness.
He flicks on the TV, letting his mind wander away. When the screen darkens between scenes, their impassive faces stare back at them, rendered cold as statues.
He doesn't remember falling asleep.
When he blinks into the blue morning, feels the warmth softening his skin, his stomach sinks under the weight of his near-fatal mistake. On the couch beside him, Angel is curled up an inch from his chest.
His body rises gently, lifting his cheeks and hair so it glows under the small light, then falls with even breaths. The blanket is wrapped around him, hands fisted so the edges curl inside, and not a slip of his skin is visible. Angel refuses to touch him even in his sleep.
Maybe not so fatal, after all.
o o o
Severed telephone wires unravel on the tarmac, slithering onto the sidewalk and spitting sparks at the pedestrian corpses. Aki recalls Kon and the great shadow disappears, arterial spray the only mark left behind. Two patterns. One for the devil, one for Angel.
Aki slumps at his side. Angel's eyes are closed. His halo flickers, dull like a billboard in daylight. His throat is cut and draining.
A shard of glass glints at the roadside, punched out from an upturned car. He grabs it and drags it through the palm of his hand. As the blood wells up, he holds it over Angel's lips. By instinct, the soft mouth parts, the throat swelling, drawing the blood to the heart.
Angel jerks upright. A red tear spills from the seam of his lips and trickles down his chin.
'Aki?'
'You idiot!' He throws the shard at the car. It bounces off the bumper and hits the ground without smashing. 'If you followed my orders, you wouldn't have fucked up!'
Angel raises what remains of his sleeve and swipes his mouth. The rip in his throat has knitted into a thin red line.
He blinks. Licks his lips.
Aki curses and pushes to his feet. His cut stings and streams. The world tilts and he falls.
Angel stretches over the tarmac, reaching out to him. Before they can touch, his hands freeze in the air, and Aki falls hard on his knee, the one that never really healed.
When he shouts at Angel, he doesn't shout back. When he falls, Angel reaches to catch him. The frustration hits him vividly: Aki wants Angel to hit him.
They walk home on opposite sides of the road. Angel doesn't seem to mind, more concerned with avoiding the cracks in the pavement. At the building, tension still constricts his gut. He pauses at the entrance.
'Aren't you coming home?' Angel asks, one foot on the concrete steps.
'I'll be back later.'
Out on the streets, where people hurry home with their bags of shopping, he observes their normality and no longer views himself as one of them. What he once saw as a sad existence is now incomparable to his own. He chain-smokes three cigarettes and thinks of Himeno. What she would say to him. What she would do, partnered with the Angel Devil.
When he enters the apartment, tobacco warms his nose. He follows the scent into the front room. Angel is tucked beside the window, back pressed to the far wall with his knees pulled to his chest. His gaze is turned to the city skyline, a cigarette caught between his lips. He lets it burn and doesn't inhale. The smoke curling against the glass is gold and hazy in the evening light.
Tobacco is bitter and Angel is sweet. Aki knows he doesn't smoke.
'You're back,' Angel says to his reflection.
He dumps the strawberry chocolate on the table and loosens his tie. 'Come on, you can't light that in here.'
He steps out on the balcony without waiting for Angel to follow him. When he does, he notices the sunset is the same shade as his hair.
He stretches his arms over the railing. Winter is nearing, but he can't feel the chill of the metal through his suit. Angel stands upright at his side. Always calm, cool, controlled. Would his skin feel stiff, cold, like marble? Would it move beneath his hands?
His fingers tremble for a cigarette. Angel turns upon hearing the rattle of the box, watching as Aki pulls out a straight and tucks it between his lips. He hasn't got a light.
Letting his eyes meet Angel's, he steps forward and lowers his head. Angel's chin tilts upwards subconsciously. The tips meet and catch, a rosy glow warming Angel's cheeks. Their eyes linger for a long, unnecessary moment.
Aki pulls away.
As the sky burns, the sun drags across the windows of the skyscrapers, spreading fire. He wonders how many devils hide behind the glass, how many live normal lives, or if he is alone in harboring a demon in his twelfth-floor apartment.
He draws in, holding smoke in his lungs, holding too long. He looks at Angel in the corner of his eye. 'Have you ever loved anything?'
'No.' Angel pulls the cigarette from his lips, watching as the cherry dies, pinched between his fingers. 'Is that what you want me to tell you?'
'I want the truth.' Love is the only thing he's sure makes himself human. He needs to know.
'Aki ...' He traces a finger along the railing, breaching Aki's vision. Slides away. 'The more dangerous it is to touch something, the more it is you want.' Another finger joins the first, butt discarded on the wall. 'Family feuds, extra-marital affairs, homosexuality. This has been the human condition since Eve ate the apple.'
Aki tuts, flicks the end of the cherry. Ash tumbles, swept away by the breeze. 'You don't suffer the human condition. You were the snake that tempted her.'
The wind finds Angel's hair, lifting it into the streams of light. 'It's the Devil who desires most. He has burned for Heaven ever since he fell down to Hell.'
'Is that an admission?'
Angel's lip quirks. He grabs the railing, hand an inch from Aki's, and leans back to bask his face in the sun. 'The Devil was an angel once, too.'
ooo
When he leaves the meeting, rays of sun cling to the high-rise rooftops, rosy fingers slipping but persistent.
The call to headquarters had been unexpected. He'd called to Angel, a brief I'll be back late before stepping through the door. Now, relief swells through him, makes his steps faster. Every revelation at the agency feels like a shift in the wrong direction, a freight train wobbling on its rails.
When had Makima's eyes started filling him with dread rather than thrill? Safe to say, it is an unprecedented joy to be walking back whilst it's still light.
The city rolls on unaware. Blood fills the sky, setting the glass walls ablaze. The brief rain on the tarmac catches light, shimmering red from his feet to the horizon. The closer it gets to winter, the brighter the sunsets glow.
At the apartment door, he pauses.
He contemplates knocking. To wait, and be let into his own home. But the idea is too familiar, too domestic. It is entirely unlike Aki.
He fishes out his keys and pushes inside. At the end of the hall, the apartment has a slight haze. He walks into the main room, eyes finding Angel as he drops the keys on the counter.
Burnt-out cigarette butts litter the room; the table, the shelf, the kitchen surface; out on the balcony, still smoking behind the glass. Angel perches on the sofa, swathed in a jumper that hangs off his shoulders, sleeves swallowing his hands. A familiar jumper. It belongs to Aki.
'Are you cold?' he asks, retrieving a glass from the cupboard to hide his expression. 'You could have put the heating on.'
'I wasn't cold.'
The hard stream of the tap permeates the silence. Aki waits for an explanation, even as he drains the cup, even as Angel's ears turn pink. Hadn't he heard Aki coming up the stairs? He would have.
'Then...' he waves his cup.
'You took your smell with you when you left the apartment.'
His hand, about to pull open the door of the fridge, pauses. Only for a moment. He grabs the leftovers from the top shelf and shoves them into the microwave. The plastic squeaks as he cranes the dial.
'My smell?'
'Having lived here so long, I became blind to your smell. I searched for something that held your scent better.' In the microwave's reflection, Angel tucks his face under the collar of the sweater. With the tip of his finger, he touches one of the butts on the table, rolling it back and forth over the wood. 'Before you, I'd kept my distance from humans so long that I forgot every person carried a distinct smell.'
The tub revolves in the microwave, the low hum, the yellow light. 'Yeah?' He swallows. His throat is dry. 'What do I smell like?'
'Supermarket detergent. Aftershave. Cigarettes.' He pinches the butt and drops it into a can of soda. 'But if I was being selfish, I would say I wanted you to smell like me.'
The microwave pings.
He needs a cigarette. The bitter aftertaste of Angel's charred remains makes him feel sick and makes him crave nicotine even more. What does Angel want him to say to that? There are some things you can't just say to a person.
He's so good, Aki nearly forgets Angel is a devil, and devil's love to lie.
He takes out the plastic container and deposits it on the side to turn cold. He pats his coat down for his pack of cigarettes and crosses the room to the balcony.
Angel's eyes follow him. At the threshold, he peers back and shakes the box. 'Stop wasting these if you're not going to inhale.'
The door falls shut between them.
Friday is board game night. But this evening, he's not in the mood. The sun is falling fast. He didn't catch it in time. A small tendril of smoke crawls from between his fingers into the blue sky and dissipates in the city light.
When the cigarette has burnt to a stump, he grinds it on the railing and drops it onto the sidewalk. Board game night isn't something you choose to do. It's compulsory, like brushing teeth.
Back inside, he reheats his dinner and brings it to the table. Angel sits on his knees as he unpacks the box. Today, he has chosen snakes and ladders.
Sometimes, the dice rolls off the table. Their fingers threaten to meet as they reach for it, and he imagines the heat coming off Angel's hand. Imagines reaching out and tearing down the space that separates them.
Gradually, they fall into an improvised routine, communicating without words who should retrieve it. These close calls no longer drive a fear-spike through his chest. Rather, he wants to slam his hands against the table.
The apartment is quiet. Not even the tick of the clock raps between them; perhaps it has stopped. Angel bites the pieces as he waits his turn. From beneath his lashes, Aki watches him explore the feel of them in his mouth.
And it's disgusting, but when he accidentally picks up Angel's piece, his finger lingers on the patch that is still wet.
'You're red, Aki.'
He drops the piece and grabs up the red one. 'Right.'
'I despise this game. It revolves solely around luck.'
'You chose it.'
'We've gone through everything else you bought from the supermarket.'
The piece hits the board harder than he intended. Still, he doesn't release it. He glares at the board.
'Oh, was that meant to be a secret? I checked the cupboards when I first moved in. You didn't have any games in storage.'
He releases the piece, works his jaw. 'I'm glad you're so grateful.'
Angel hums and rolls. He is three steps from the finish line. The dice declares 'two', and he lands on the longest snake, taking him all the way back to the beginning.
'Figures.' Angel leans back on his heels and yawns. 'I give up. Let's call it a night.'
He mumbles agreement. Angel leaves to shower. Aki doesn't see him move from the bathroom to his bedroom, but he finds his sweater returned and folded atop the drier. Angel must be tired.
After loading the washing machine, he goes into his room and opens the cupboard. Winter is nearing, so he searches for warmer clothes stored in the bottom drawers to replace their summer shirts. He restores the sweater on the hanger Angel took it from, not bothering to wash it. Beyond the tobacco, a faint hint of strawberries remains, like the remnants of summer.
He crouches on the floor to pull open the bottom-most drawer. This one is filled with cotton and wool. He sinks his hand into the fabric, letting his fingers disappear under the white and blues, like burying his hands in sea-foam. There is a lingering scent of salt, captured on the Christmas his family went to the seaside.
The scent is a lie. He lost all his clothes the day he lost his house. The day he lost everything.
He pulls on a small grey glove, soft and fitting, sliding easily over his callouses. He leaves his other hand bare. As one hand draws towards the other, he fits the palms together. Interlaces the fingers, joins the wrists, circles the knuckles with his cotton thumb. Despite the wool, something about the embrace is cold. An essential element appears to be missing.
Is this what it feels like to hold another's hand?
'Aki?'
He rips off the glove and spins around. Angel stands in the doorway, his gaze falling over Aki's knees to the drawer stuffed with clothes. His pyjamas are low around the waist and too long for his arms. Aki's chest constricts like it's caving in.
'Yeah?'
'The washer's done.'
ooo
When he wakes, the sky is dark. Winter mornings rise slowly and drag into the day. Visiting hours don't begin until nine. His phone screen reads quartar to eight.
He sighs and slumps back onto his bed. Sleep is an impossibility. His nose burrows into the pillow, breathing in the softness, the sweetness. He yawns.
He pads to the kitchen and makes breakfast slowly, but not too slowly, and sips his coffee swiftly, but not too swiftly. He layers in a turtleneck and scarf, finds a spare pair of gloves, then crosses the hall to Angel's room. On the way, he returns the pillow he took from Angel's bed.
Upon opening the wardrobe to sort Angel an outfit, he is greeted with a perplexing sight. At the bottom, piled high up to the shelf, is a stack of clocks. The bedroom clocks, the kitchen clock; the analog from the shelf; the clock that he was sure welcomed him in the hallway yesterday. They'd disappeared so slowly, he hadn't noticed they were gone.
Vampires like to count. Devils hoard clocks?
He shakes his head and begins pulling clothes off their hangers. Angel owns nothing winter-appropriate, so he grabs one of his own sweaters on the way out and stuffs it in his bag.
The step from the lobby onto the sidewalk is slippy. Overnight, the ground froze over. Car fumes steam the air, and buses leave parallel tracks through the frost on the road. He tucks his chin into his collar and buries his hands deep in his pockets.
At the reception desk, the woman informs him that Angel is on the top floor. The elevator is in use, so he takes the stairs rather than waiting. By the time he reaches the top, his coat is uncomfortable and stuffy with heat, and a thin layer of sweat coats his top lip. Before he steps into the room, he readjusts his bag and wipes his face with his sleeve.
He twists the handle.
All but the last bed is empty. The white duvet is bright beneath the window. Outside, a thousand white rooftops stretch towards the hills. Small flakes drift down slowly and settle on the road below. It has begun to snow.
Aki crosses the room and places the bag beside the bed. He peels off his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair pulled up between the window and bed, and settles in the seat. Angel’s eyes are shut, hands hidden under the covers, duvet pulled to his chin. His eyes are closed and his frown smoothed out. Asleep, he looks strikingly innocent.
A book sits on the sill. The pages lift under the breeze, pigeon-wings threatening to unfold. The spine is bent over and cracked, broken open and lying on its back. Atwood: The Handmaid's tale. Aki's chair squeaks as he shifts forward.
A page marked, a sentence underlined. 'I hunger to commit the act of touch.'
The sun emerges from behind a cloud, illuminating Angel's face. Tears streak his cheeks, gleaming along his jaw. His foot shifts under the covers, and he opens his eyes.
Aki retracts from the sill and places his hands in his lap. A thousand greetings flow through his mind and pass out the other side.
'Were you dreaming of something?' he asks.
Angel blinks into the sunlight. The tear-jewels caught between his lashes glisten, ready to spill like heavy raindrops down glass.
'Mm.' After sparing a glance in his direction, Angel smiles at the ceiling. 'I dreamt that soon, the one person who knows me will leave, and the angel will disappear.'
Looking at Angel is hard. For a moment, he cannot place the feeling: pain that isn't a physical kind, but stems from the heart.
'I brought you clothes,' he says to the window. 'The nurse says you can leave.'
Angel sits up slowly, takes the bag, and makes his way to the bathroom even slower. Through the hospital gown, Aki cannot see the marks of the battlefield that the devil made of Angel’s body. Beneath it, he knows, they are not really there. Devils do not scar.
If they did, would Angel be more adverse to danger?
The door to the hall slides shut between them. He sinks into his chair and watches the snow bury the city. The green hospital cross hanging from the roof casts an odd glow over the white atmosphere. The book trembles in the draught.
Angel likes to read. He says he likes the feel of the pages beneath his hands. There are twenty-four hours in a day; what would Aki like to do if he caught the gun devil tomorrow? He wonders why, on his day off, he finds himself here.
He reaches out to the windowsill, stilling the fluttering pages beneath his touch. He runs his fingertips along them. Dry, textured, yielding. Like skin, he imagines, worn by a thousand touches.
'It's a little big.'
Aki spins around, snatching his hand to his thigh. Angel stands in the door, swamped in a sweater and scarf and trench coat that skirts his boots.
'You shouldn't catch a cold,' Aki states, dragging his eyes from the grey fitted gloves and standing from his chair. 'Not when you've just recovered.'
Out on the street, he takes Angel's bag of clothes and loops it over his other shoulder so that it doesn't bump between them. They cut through the park, eventhough it makes the journey twice as long. Angel's wings twitch when they brush the falling snow. Civilians pay them no mind, too enamoured by the weather.
He's never spent winter with Angel before. The city looks new, like they might be anywhere in the world. Business suits and tight dresses have been swapped for thick coats and jeans. Couples link their arms, call their dogs back from playing in the snow. An old man lowers his newspaper and rubs his hands together. A child makes an angel in the snow.
Something brushes his hand. He peers down, but Angel's hand has returned to hanging beside his leg. When he sets his eyes forward, he feels it again, a brief light pressure through his gloves. He relaxes his fist.
A small finger wraps around his pinky. The touch is transient, but lacks the intent to let go. He curls his finger, to feel the flesh move beneath his. He wonders if Angel is in pain from his wounds.
Only when they stop outside the cafe does Angel look up at him. 'We're stopping here?'
'I thought we could get ice-cream.'
Angel's finger slackens, then tightens anew. 'You don't like ice-cream.'
'I'll get coffee, then.'
Before the heat reaches his cheeks, he strides into the shop. They find a seat and go up to the counter. Angel chooses strawberry, and the cashier remarks it matches his hair. Aki orders an Irish coffee.
They sit opposite eachother in the booth. His eyes trail Angel's fingers as they pick up the spoon and dip it into the ice-cream. He is the only person in the cafe without a hot drink.
'Aki, why is my hair interesting?'
He flicks his gaze up to Angel's face. His chin rests in his palm, mouth sucking on his spoon.
'Humans can't grow pink hair.'
'But they can dye it.'
'It's more interesting if it's natural.'
Angel sighs and shoves the spoon into the bowl. 'They really are trivial.'
Suddenly, his body straightens, eyes finding a point somewhere above Aki's shoulder. He turns around to follow his gaze.
At the door, a woman pulls a scarf out of her bag and loops it around a man's neck. Her nose is pink as she wraps it three times, then cups his cheeks. 'It's freezing outside, angel.'
The bell chimes as they leave, hand in hand.
When he turns around, Angel has returned to his ice-cream. Strawberry smears one corner of his mouth. Aki frowns and grabs a napkin, reaching across the table.
He only registers what he's doing when he feels the warmth of Angel's lips through the thin paper. His eyes drop to Angel's. Trapped, he finishes cleaning the mess; leans back in his seat, scrunches the napkin, and drops it onto his plate.
'Is it thrilling for you?'
Aki's hand pauses on the rim of his cup. 'Huh?'
Angel frowns. He picks up his spoon. 'Nevermind.'
Once Angel has finished, and once they have left the shop, the snow finally stops, leaving the city covered in a blanket of white. It is untouched for a single moment. Then the feet and cars and heat lay waste to the landscape.
Angel switches on the TV when they get home. He's been waiting for them to play Shakespeare's 'A Comedy of Errors' since he circled it in the TV Times last week. Aki makes him a hot chocolate to warm up, but he doesn't take his eyes off the screen to acknowledge it.
He's never liked Shakespeare himself. He decides to get the housework done while Angel is occupied, drying their sodden clothes and making dinner preparations, and by the time he sits down beside him on the couch, the play is only half-way through. Sometimes he watches the screen, sometimes his phone, and sometimes Angel.
'Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.'
Angel laughs lightly. He sips the hot-chocolate, then tucks it between his legs. The digital clock atop the TV is turned down on its face.
'Why don't you listen to me?' Aki blurts.
Angel tilts his head, a smile still lifting his face. One eye remains on the screen. 'We live in a democracy.'
'If you're going to throw yourself at death, can you save it for the gun devil?'
Angel severs his gaze from the TV. He looks into Aki's eyes, fingers tightening around the mug. As quickly as he had his attention, it slips away. When Angel looks back at the screen, his smile is gone.
'I can try that, Aki.'
Until then, live for me.
ooo
The mission is far out of the city, closer to the middle of nowhere than civilisation. No one from the agency has been near before, and the staff were unfamiliar with the accommodation options. The result: a dilapidated motel made up of individual cabins, with no service or a main road for five miles around.
Angel is unconcerned with the predicament. He strolls through the low doorway, the molding curtains with the light streaming through, and places his bag on the end of the queen bed.
Aki pulls the door shut behind them. He ducks his head under the beam, and the floorboards creak with his weight. He pulls the curtains open and coughs. Dust layers the sill like silt.
He kneels on the floor and unzips his bag. When he peers up, Angel hasn't moved. He stands before the fireplace, staring at the grey kintsugi vase placed in the centre of the mantel. Aki's own reflection is warped in the shiny surface.
'One of us should sleep on the floor,' Angel says.
'It's alright.' Aki hops onto the bed and pulls off his shoes. Spring has melted the snow and his socks are soaked. He places them on the floor and slides them under the bed.
Silence upon silence. He looks over his shoulder. 'Angel? What is it?'
The wings of the statue before the cold fireplace press flat against its back. Aki slips around the side of the bed and reaches out to his shoulder. His fingers barely brush the black jacket before Angel jerks away. For a single moment, his reflected figure is shattered by the cracks of the vase.
'You're hurting me,' Angel says.
He freezes. Stares at his palm. He curls his fingers, tight, and returns to the other side of the room.
They arrived late. He pulls off his suit and changes into his pyjamas, though it is warm enough to go without. Sometimes, he thinks he took wearing minimal clothing in the warmer months for granted, and sometimes, he thinks clothes are a gift from god. Between most people, clothing is what keeps them apart. With Angel, it is the only thing that can bring them together.
He's never told Angel that.
He pulls on trousers, a long sleeve-tee, gloves, socks, lets his hair down to frame his neck. It was many months ago they learnt Angel could touch his hair without consequence, but for some reason, he avoids it like a live wire.
He pulls the covers up to his chin and rolls over to face the wall. There is a scuffle that implies Angel is checking Aki's knife is safely in their reach on the bedside table. Eventually, the mattress dips.
The covers rise and fall. He waits for the warmth of another living body, but none comes. Angel sleeps as far away as possible.
He wakes to the sound of Angel shuffling around in his bag. He blinks into the morning light. Angel is already dressed, though he wears casual clothes rather than the agency's uniform. He slips out the back door, walks out onto the porch, and lights up.
They could be on holiday. They could be anywhere in the world.
Aki sits up and cracks his neck. He pulls off his socks, letting his feet breathe, and discards his gloves on the table. He pads out onto the porch and slides up to Angel, resting his hands on the rail. He imagines knocking their arms together. And they could, but they don't.
'I wish you wouldn't do that.'
Angel pulls the cigarette from his lips and breathes out a stream of smoke. 'Why? You do it.'
'You smell sweet. It covers it.'
'Hypocritical, Aki.' He shakes his head, turning his eyes to the sun, and works his lips around the filter. 'How trivial.'
Aki resists the urge to pluck the cigarette from his lips.
'We should get ready,' Angel says suddenly. Aki's fingers twitch on the rail.
'We don't have to leave immediately. The woman at the desk said there's falls around here.'
Angel looks at him skeptically, but concedes. He stubs out the cigarette and places it in his pocket. 'Alright. Let's go see your waterfall, then.'
After pulling on their boots, they lock the cabin door and head into the forest. Angel takes the lead without glancing at the map, carving his own path without fear of getting lost. There's something about his outstretched wings, brushing the fern and trees and bark, that makes Aki think that's exactly what he wants.
After an hour they break out onto a hilltop, freed from the sweltering heat and the cicada drone. A river cuts through the valley, carrying a fresh breeze. The falls are small, splintering the stream every dozen meters, meandering between rocky outcrops, stone smoothed by the sun.
They sit on a sandy bank and watch the dragonflies dance on the sparkling water. Aki doesn't have his phone, but it's never impossible to measure the time; the sun is nearing noon. He leans back on his palms, digging his fingers into the sand until they touch damp pebbles. He hadn't noticed before: the new angle of the sun reveals every finger of the fir trees is conjoined by silk threads.
'It’s not too late to run.'
Aki cranes his head down. Angel stares into the distance, knees pulled up and wings curled around his body. One limb is outstretched; in his peripheral, he observes Angel's hand rests an inch from his own.
'Run?'
'You'll let the Gun Devil take the last months of your life? When you could live them happy?' Angel tilts his head, gaze flickering over him. 'Is that vengeance?'
He curls his fist, digging the rough sand to the roots of his nails. 'I am so close. What makes you think I'd run away with you?'
Angel’s head snaps away, hand fleeing to his thigh. 'Aki washes my clothes. Aki makes my dinner. Aki calls me angel.'
'Angel-Devil's a mouthful.' His stomach rolls, mind swimming behind his eyes. His mouth is dry.
Angel inclines his trembling chin. 'Can’t you see it?'
Aki follows his gaze; far over the valley, where the river descends into denser forest, then disappears. The only trace, a thin white spray.
'There's a devil growing between us. It's the fear that when you're gone, I'll still be here.'
He swallows. He finally realises what Angel wants. In the same moment, he thinks, Angel has accepted he cannot have it. 'It must be a small fear,’ he says. ‘Only one person in the world feels it.'
'It's never been about the number of people, Aki. It's about how strong the fear is.'
Angel buries his head in his hands and cries.
ooo
He blinks the snow from his eyes. Denji, Power, his brother. Winter has ended, and spring is here. This memory is a lie.
A bell tolls in the distance, chiming hour thirteen. Ash falls from the sky, hot and dry. The street is empty, torn apart and lying in pieces. The city bleeds petrol and sparks. Shattered glass lies in odd angles like splintered bone. Denji's chainsaw, which the body in front of him failed to stop, rips through his stomach and churns his guts.
Denji retreats with a cry. As the weapon leaves his body, Aki's vision explodes with clarity. He drops to the ground. Angel's body rolls off him to rest at his side. His face is up, his eyes lost to the sun. Blood seeps from his body and soaks his feathers red.
Aki has been here before. This is the way the world takes him apart and puts him back together. Kintsugi.
This time, he knows, the lacquer won't stick.
He drags himself to his knees. He crawls across the ground, grit scraping his raw wounds, and clenches his teeth around the pain. It doesn't matter anymore; he feels himself slipping away.
From the weak rise of the chest, the fading skin, Angel is slipping faster. Aki will never have a partner die before him again.
Angel's eyelids peel apart. He stares up at Aki, propped above him with hands braced either side of his neck, and cracks a small smile. Blood streams from his lips to his chin.
'Aki. Have you decided ... what I am?'
He lifts one of his bare hands and presses it to Angel's open wound. The wound he took for Aki. Angel's face twists in horror as he tries to shove him away.
He digs his knees into the ground. Angel shakes his head, pleading, pushing at his shoulders. He flattens his palm on Angel's stomach and feels the hot blood pool beneath his fingers.
'This is the proof you're no devil,' he says.
Angel stops struggling, but his eyes are wet.
'You're not an angel, either.' As he leans down, the loose strands of his hair caress Angel's cheeks.
'I think you're more human.'
He dips his head so that he feels the warmth of Angel's breaths, the warmth of his blood. Angel juts out his chin.
'What does that make you?' he wheezes. 'An angel?'
Aki moves his hand from the wound and places it over the shirt on Angel's chest. Their breathing quickens, spurred on beat for beat.
You can do anything you want at the end of the world.
He presses their lips together.
The pulse in his palm slows to match the rhythm of Angel's stuttering heart. Angel is as soft and warm as Aki knew he would be. When he collapses, he wraps himself around Angel, entwining their hands together.
He closes his eyes, cherishing the taste of strawberries on his lips.
Aki had never been afraid of touching Angel. He'd died to want it.