Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angel woke to the weight of himself.

Both wings were sprawled wide, eating the bed, trailing to the floor where the tips brushed the wall. The air beneath them was stale and hot; even breathing felt heavy. When he tried to roll over, one wing caught on the headboard, the other knocked a cup from the nightstand. Water splashed down his arm and feathers.

“Perfect,” he muttered, voice still rough.

He sat up slowly. The muscles at the base of his wings ached in that deep, steady way that never quite went away anymore—half strain, half something worse. The left joint had been throbbing since yesterday’s patrol. He rubbed it absently and grimaced when his fingers came away slick with oil from the feathers. They shed it constantly now, another thing to clean later.

The halo hummed faintly above him, throwing a gold ring onto the wall. It wasn’t bright enough to light the room, just bright enough to remind him it existed. He hated that too. It floated exactly where a ceiling fan would hit it if he ever had one, which he didn’t—he couldn’t; it would catch fire.

Down the hall came Power’s voice, shrill and delighted with itself. “DENJI! I WON!”

Followed by Denji’s muffled “YOU CHEATED!” and something metallic crashing.

Angel rubbed his eyes. Morning, then.

He reached for his shirt, the one Aki had altered again last week, with longer slits down the back. Even so, the fabric fought him. He had to bend his wings in first, slide one through, then the other, feathers snagging and bending until one snapped clean. He hissed under his breath. By the time he got the shirt tied, he was sweating; the wings trapped heat like heavy blankets. There was no room in this body for cool air.

He glanced at the mirror on the dresser. The wings behind him looked absurd—bright, white, enormous. The halo’s glow ringed his reflection like something holy. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought he looked beautiful.

He did know better. “Ridiculous,” he said to himself, and the reflection mouthed it back.

The truth was, he never used them. Flying drained him faster than walking, and the last time he’d tried, he’d crashed into a lamppost and nearly burned through his coat with the halo’s heat. He couldn’t even glide without people staring, pointing, crossing the street. Now they were just there: two vast, heavy ornaments grafted to his back, impossible to hide and impossible to cut off.

He tugged on his pants, ducked his head under the halo to keep from singeing his hair, and tried not to notice how shaky his hands were. That came and went—some days fine, some days not. The glass of water on the table was lukewarm; he drank it anyway and nearly gagged. His stomach had been wrong lately, turning on him without warning. Probably nothing. Probably the same nothing that made his joints ache and his head spin if he stood too fast.

He knew what it was, of course. He just wasn’t doing anything about it.

The pill bottle still sat in the drawer beside the bed, unopened since the clinic visit. He hadn’t thrown it away, but he hadn’t taken any either. He told himself it was because the side effects would make fighting harder. In truth, he couldn’t stand the idea of being tethered to another reminder that his body was failing. One chain at a time was enough.

The halo dimmed for a second, a soft flicker that pulsed behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and waited for the dizziness to settle. His wings twitched irritably, knocking the chair sideways. They filled the whole damn room, his entire line of sight—too big to be ignored, too heavy to belong to him.

“Should’ve been born wingless,” he whispered.

The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Aki would be up, hair tied, already in uniform. Angel could picture him standing at the stove, calm amid Power and Denji’s chaos, waiting for the rest of them to fall in line. Which meant Angel had maybe three minutes before the inevitable knock.

He forced himself to stand. His balance wobbled; the wings swayed to counter it, knocking into the wall with a dull thud. He cursed softly and steadied himself on the dresser. The halo brightened as he straightened, that quiet hum turning sharp, like a wire pulled too tight.

There—footsteps outside.

“Angel? You awake?”

Aki’s voice, low, controlled. Always polite even when he was annoyed.

“Yeah,” Angel said. His throat was dry. “Be there in a sec.”

The footsteps moved away. He exhaled, then reached for his coat. The sleeves hung open; he couldn’t get them past the wings, so he wore it like a cape. When he lifted it, a few loose feathers drifted down to the floorboards. He left them. There were always more.

In the hallway, Power and Denji were mid-argument about breakfast. Denji had a fork in his mouth; Power was holding the entire pan out of his reach. Aki, immaculate as ever, poured coffee into a mug without looking up.

Angel blinked in the brightness of the kitchen. The halo caught the light and doubled it, filling the space with a faint gold glare. Power squinted at him.

“You look gross, Bird-man,” she said cheerfully. “Are you dying?”

Angel’s mouth twitched. “Eventually.”

Denji snorted. Aki handed him a mug without comment.

Angel wrapped his fingers around it, careful not to touch anyone, careful not to shake. The warmth felt good, even if it made the nausea worse. He took a sip and managed not to grimace.

“Mission briefing in twenty,” Aki said. “Eat something.”

Angel looked at the plate of toast Power had half-demolished and said, “Maybe later.”

He’d go. He always did. He’d work until he couldn’t. The wings would ache, the halo would hum, and no one would notice how often he had to stop to breathe. He’d keep his distance; no one would touch him anyway.

The halo’s glow skimmed the edge of the table, spilling light over his coffee. Angel stared at his reflection in it—a ring of gold trembling on dark liquid—and thought, not for the first time, that if he ever found a way to cut the thing off, he’d do it without hesitation.

But for now he just said, “Let’s go,” and followed Aki out, wings scraping the doorframe on the way.

—

The morning city always smelled faintly of wet concrete and cigarettes. Aki lit one the second they stepped outside the apartment, even though the air was already heavy enough to choke on. Angel trailed behind him, feathers dragging low. When they brushed the street, they left faint white lines through the puddles, like the city was being erased under his wings.

“Don’t lag,” Aki said without turning around.

“I’m not lagging,” Angel replied. “I’m strolling.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really. Lagging’s unintentional. I’m doing this on purpose.”

Aki exhaled smoke, long and slow. He’d learned that the best way to deal with Angel’s answers was usually to not answer at all. They’d been partners long enough for the silence to settle into something functional—something that let both of them pretend they didn’t hate being stuck together.

Angel adjusted the strap of his weapon bag. It sat awkwardly across his chest, bumping against the base of one wing. The feathers there itched. Everything itched lately. His skin felt like it didn’t fit right.

“Your wings are molting again,” Aki muttered.

“Great,” Angel said. “Can’t wait to shed all over your nice clean carpet.”

“Try not to.”

“I’ll try to exist less, then.”

“Wouldn’t that be a first.”

Angel smirked faintly. Aki’s barbs were easy enough to take; they were sharp, but not cruel. Still, he could hear the irritation under the words. Aki hated when Angel didn’t pull his weight. And Angel hated that Aki noticed.

They turned onto a narrow street lined with vending machines and shuttered shops. Patrol duty meant walking until their feet hurt and maybe—maybe—spotting something weird enough to report.

Most days, it was just walking. Aki didn’t mind. Angel minded everything.

The wind pushed against his wings, making them flare wider than he meant to. The edge of one clipped a signpost. A tinny clang rang through the air.

“Careful,” Aki said.

“Tell the wind to be careful,” Angel said, rubbing the wing joint. “I should just cut them off.”

Aki flicked his cigarette into a puddle. “You say that every day.”

“And every day it gets truer.”

“You’d bleed out.”

“Wouldn’t that solve your partner problem?”

Aki gave him a look over his shoulder—flat, unimpressed. Angel sighed dramatically. It was easier to pretend he was being difficult than to admit he was tired already, only fifteen minutes into patrol. His body felt like it had lead in the joints, the kind of heaviness that sleep didn’t fix. He tried to roll his shoulders, but the wings resisted, stiff and sore.

They reached the edge of a park. A few pigeons scattered from the path. Angel envied them—the simplicity of having wings that actually worked. He slumped against a railing, feathers shifting with a soft rustle. Aki stopped a few paces ahead and crossed his arms.

“Break already?” Aki asked.

“Yup.”

“We’ve been walking ten minutes.”

“Ten very difficult minutes.”

Aki pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” Angel tilted his head back, looking at the washed-out sky. His halo caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly. “Hey, maybe I’m solar-powered. Let me just… recharge.”

“You’re useless when you’re like this.”

“Good thing I’m like this all the time, then.”

Aki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Angel suspected that somewhere, buried under all that frustration, Aki felt a flicker of pity. That made it worse. Pity felt like charity. He didn’t want it.

He watched a leaf float down and catch in the edge of his feathers. He flicked it away. “You know what’s funny?” he said after a while. “Everyone’s scared to touch me because I’ll drain their life. Joke’s on them. My life’s draining itself just fine.”

Aki looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Just saying stuff.”

“Then stop saying stuff.”

Angel smiled faintly. “Make me.”

They stood there in the lazy quiet of late morning. Cars hissed by on the wet street. Somewhere, Power was probably yelling at Denji over breakfast leftovers. Normal noise. Normal life. The kind Angel pretended he didn’t want.

“You really should fold them tighter,” Aki said finally. “Your wings.”

“They’re as tight as they go. If I fold them more, they’ll start eating the coat.”

“Then get a bigger coat.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe I’ll just special-order one from the Devil Tailor. Comes with holes for your tragic deformities.”

Aki shook his head and started walking again. “Let’s finish the round.”

Angel pushed off the railing and followed. Every few steps, his breath caught like he’d swallowed something sharp. He hid it behind a yawn.

They walked for another half-hour in relative silence. Aki stayed a few paces ahead, posture straight, every movement precise. Angel trailed, wings brushing walls and lampposts, muttering curses each time. Once, he tripped over his own feathers and pretended he’d meant to stop for a rest.

At one point, Aki turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Are you hungover or something?”

“Something like that.”

“You look pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“Paler.”

Angel shrugged. “Maybe I’m dying.”

Aki stared at him for a second, then looked away. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Who’s joking?”

“You are.”

“Am I?”

They both let it drop. It was easier that way. Angel’s pulse thudded heavy in his ears. His skin felt feverish under the jacket. The ground seemed to tilt a little every time he blinked. He focused on Aki’s back, using it like a fixed point to walk toward.

When they finally looped back toward the apartment district, Aki stopped in front of a vending machine. “Drink?” he asked.

Angel waved him off. “Too much effort.”

“You have to hydrate.”

“Hydrate these wings for me then. They probably need more water than I do.”

Aki rolled his eyes, bought a bottle of tea, and tossed it at him anyway. Angel caught it with one hand, the other brushing against his feathers. Even through gloves, he could feel the faint hum of energy—the reminder that his skin wasn’t safe for anyone else. He hated that more than the wings, more than the halo, more than the fatigue gnawing at his bones.

He opened the bottle, took one sip, and set it on the curb. “There. I hydrated.”

Aki gave him a long, unreadable look. “You really don’t care, do you?”

Angel smiled without warmth. “Not even a little.”

It was easier to lie when his whole body hurt.

—

By noon, the city had warmed up enough to smell like exhaust and grilled meat. Patrol hours bled into lunch hours, and Aki eventually gave up pretending they were still doing work. When Denji texted that he and Power had found a place “with chairs and meat and chairs,” Aki turned on his heel and said, “Fine. Lunch.”

Angel followed, dragging his wings behind him. “My hero,” he said dryly.

“Don’t push it,” Aki replied. “You’ve done nothing all morning.”

“Wrong. I’ve complained productively.”

“You’ve existed unproductively.”

“Semantics.”

They reached the restaurant—a small yakiniku place Power had picked purely because the sign had a cartoon cow on it. Inside, it was loud and cramped, the air thick with smoke and chatter. The smell made Angel’s stomach turn. He didn’t feel hungry, but he also didn’t want to look weaker than he already did.

Power and Denji were arguing over who got to grill first, their voices rising over the sound of sizzling fat.

“I’m the master of flame!” Power shouted, brandishing tongs like a weapon.

“You burned the last one!” Denji snapped back. “You made it crunchy!”

“Crunchy is the texture of power!”

Aki sat down heavily. “I’m regretting this already.”

Angel folded his wings as tightly as he could manage and sat at the far end of the table, trying not to touch anyone or anything. Even so, his right wing brushed the edge of a menu stand and knocked it over. He muttered a curse under his breath.

“You could try taking up less space,” Aki said.

“You could try building bigger restaurants.”

Denji snorted. “Dude, your wings are like—massive. How do you even fit through doors?”

“Badly,” Angel said. “Sometimes I think I should just check into a barn.”

Power was already shoving half-cooked meat onto her plate. “Angel is right! His wings are a menace! If he lived in a barn, he could finally fulfill his true destiny—being my pillow.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Touch me and I’ll drain you.”

“Ha! Empty threats!” she declared, waving her chopsticks. “I would still triumph!”

Denji laughed so hard he choked on rice. Aki sighed through his nose, the kind of sigh that said he’d accepted this was his life now and hated it.

Angel poked at his food, not really eating. The noise blurred together into a dull hum. His chest felt heavy again—like the ribs had filled with sand. He focused on the texture of his feathers brushing the booth seat, on the faint heat from the grill, on anything except the ache creeping up the back of his neck.

“Eat,” Aki said without looking at him. “You didn’t have breakfast.”

“Maybe I’m not hungry.”

“You never eat properly.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m so charming.”

Aki gave him a flat look. “You’re not charming. You’re a liability with feathers.”

Angel smiled thinly. “And yet here we are. You, voluntarily eating with your liability.”

“That’s because my other option was babysitting them alone.”

“An excellent point.”

Power interrupted with a triumphant shout. “I have created the perfect piece of meat!” She held up a slice that was visibly on fire.

Denji lunged for the tongs. “Give me that before you burn the whole—hey!”

The slice of meat hit the floor with a hiss. Power gasped like someone had killed her pet. “My masterpiece!”

Angel leaned his chin on his hand. “You two should get married.”

Denji froze mid-scream. “Gross!”

“Never!” Power barked. “He is a fool of the lowest order!”

Aki rubbed his temples. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Technically,” Angel said, “you’re sitting with them. Surrounding would imply I’m also participating.”

Aki gave him a look that was almost fond, in the same way a migraine is almost restful.

When the waiter came by with dessert menus, Angel perked up slightly. “Do they have ice cream?”

Aki exhaled a tired laugh. “You’ve already had three this week.”

Angel blinked innocently. “So? I’m still alive.”

“Barely.”

“Exactly. Which means I should enjoy myself while it lasts.”

Before Aki could reply, Power slammed her hands on the table. “What!? Angel gets ice cream? I demand equality! I, too, wish for the cold sweetness of mortal indulgence!”

Denji immediately turned it into a contest. “If she gets ice cream, I get two.”

Aki looked like he wanted to die. “No one’s getting ice cream.”

Angel raised a hand lazily. “I’ll have one.”

“You’re not listening,” Aki said.

“I never do.”

Power whined loudly enough that other customers stared. “This is injustice! You favor the winged one!”

Angel smirked faintly. “He does. He needs me.”

“I don’t need you,” Aki muttered, voice too quiet to convince anyone.

Angel’s smile grew a fraction. “Then don’t buy me ice cream.”

Aki stared at him for a long moment—at the pale skin under his eyes, at the faint tremor in his fingers as he brushed away a falling feather. Then he signaled to the waiter. “One ice cream.”

Power shrieked in betrayal. Denji howled that life wasn’t fair. Aki ignored both of them.

Angel just sat back, wings shifting slightly. The feathers brushed the booth again, and Aki didn’t move away this time.

When the ice cream arrived, Angel took one spoonful and let the cold settle on his tongue. For a second, everything was quiet—no arguing, no headache, no ache in his chest. Just sweetness melting into nothing.

“You don’t even like sweet stuff,” Aki said, watching him.

“I like this,” Angel said.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t last long.”

Aki didn’t answer. Denji and Power were still bickering, their noise bouncing off the walls. Angel kept eating, slow and deliberate. The cold made his teeth ache, but he didn’t stop until the bowl was empty.

When he pushed it away, Aki was still looking at him. The same look he gave before missions—half suspicion, half concern he didn’t want to feel.

Angel smiled again, this time almost soft. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You’re paying next time,” Aki said.

“I’ll add it to my list of debts.”

“You don’t have a list.”

“Exactly.”

—

It started the way most disasters did—with Power saying something stupid.

“Angel!” she declared suddenly, eyes wide as she leaned across the table. “Your wings look extremely pettable!”

Angel didn’t even look up from his half-melted ice cream. “Don’t.”

“But they’re so fluffy! Are they warm? They look warm.”

“Don’t,” he repeated, a little louder.

Power’s grin only widened, that particular manic sparkle in her eyes that meant logic had left the building. “I bet they’re like cats! Soft and temperamental!”

“More like knives,” Angel said. “That kill you on contact.”

“Exaggeration!” she cried, already reaching over the table.

Angel was out of his chair before her hand got within a foot of him. The booth rattled. The halo caught the overhead light as he backed away, wings flaring instinctively.

“Do not touch me,” he warned.

Denji, predictably, burst out laughing. “Holy crap, you’re like a bird guarding its nest!”

“Shut up,” Angel snapped, taking another step back. His wings brushed a hanging sign. It swayed dangerously.

Power stood, pointing accusingly. “He moved! That means he’s hiding something fluffy!”

“I’m hiding lethality!”

“Then I, Power, shall uncover it!”

Aki set his chopsticks down. “Don’t,” he said, but his voice was already the resigned kind of tired that meant he knew this wasn’t stopping.

Power lunged. Angel sidestepped, barely missing a waitress carrying plates. The woman let out a shriek as Angel’s wing whooshed past her hair.

“Watch it!” Aki barked.

Angel ducked behind a booth, feathers puffing out like stressed fur. “Control your gremlin!”

“She’s not my gremlin!” Aki snapped.

“I heard that!” Power shouted, clambering over a chair after him.

Denji was wheezing with laughter now, doubled over the table. “She’s gonna catch you!”

“She’s not,” Angel said flatly, already backing toward the door. “Because I’m leaving.”

Power leapt. “Get back here, feather fiend!”

The restaurant descended into chaos. Diners stared. Chairs tipped. Angel darted sideways, wings knocking over a menu board, and burst through the front door with Power right behind him.

“Stop!” Aki called after them, voice swallowed by the noise. Denji stumbled out too, laughing so hard he nearly fell.

Outside, the sunlight hit like a slap. Angel squinted, feathers flaring wide. Power lunged again. He sidestepped, just fast enough that she grabbed empty air.

“Missed,” he said.

“Coward!”

“Correct.”

She lunged again. He dodged again. They looked ridiculous—her flailing with feral determination, him slipping just out of reach each time, wings spreading like sails to keep distance.

“Stop running!” Power yelled.

“Stop chasing!”

Denji was leaning against a lamppost, crying from laughter. “You guys look like pigeons fighting over bread!”

“You’re bread!” Power yelled without missing a beat.

Angel glanced at Denji, deadpan. “See why I fly away from her?”

“You can fly?” Denji grinned. “Do it! That’d show her!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Aki said, appearing in the doorway, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Power ignored everyone. “Yes! Fly! Flee, winged coward, and prove me right!”

Angel exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

The wings opened to their full span, catching the light like blades of white fire. They were massive—impossibly so, stretching wider than the street. Power froze for half a second, awe mixing with excitement.

Then Angel moved.

One heavy beat of air. Another. The ground shuddered, scattering dust and leaves. A swirl of feathers spun where he’d been standing, and Power’s outstretched hand closed on nothing.

He rose unevenly, shoulders trembling from the strain, but higher all the same—up past the storefronts, past the hanging signs, until he landed awkwardly on the roof above the restaurant. His boots scraped the gravel. The wings folded in slowly, shaking faintly.

Down below, Denji whooped. “He actually did it!”

Power cupped her hands around her mouth. “Come down, coward! Face me!”

“No,” Angel called back.

“Afraid I’ll touch your wings?”

“Yes.”

“Admit it—they’re fluffy!”

“They’re not!”

“Then why flee?”

“Because you’re annoying!”

Denji was laughing so hard he nearly collapsed. “Man, this is the best lunch ever!”

Aki sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You idiots are going to get us banned again.”

On the roof, Angel sat down heavily near the edge. The city stretched below in fractured light—car roofs glinting, Power’s voice echoing up faintly, Denji’s laughter a steady pulse.

The wind tugged at his feathers, turning them cold. He hadn’t flown in years. Not really. Not since he decided the sky wasn’t worth pretending for. It was too open, too bright, too much like the word angel he didn’t deserve.

But right now, it was quiet.

He could see everything: Aki herding the other two away from the street, Power stomping in protest, Denji trying to imitate wing flaps.

He almost smiled. Almost.

Then he noticed the tremor in his hands—the small, shaking ache that came after too much effort. His muscles were screaming, his head light. He ignored it. He always did.

The wings rustled once more, settling like tired lungs.

Below, Aki looked up, caught his eye, and gave the smallest shake of his head. The unspoken message: Come down when you’re done being dramatic.

Angel raised a hand lazily in acknowledgment. He’d come down soon. Maybe.

For now, he just wanted to sit where no one could touch him.

Where laughter rose like sunlight he didn’t have to share.

—

The streets after lunch smelled of rain and fried oil. Power and Denji’s laughter had long since dissolved into the background hum of the city, leaving only Aki’s boots, Angel’s softer steps, and the dull whisper of feathers dragging air.

They patrolled in silence. The usual—trash drifting down the curb, old posters half-peeled from brick. Angel’s wings scraped the edges of the buildings whenever he turned; each narrow street felt built to remind him he didn’t fit.

Aki stopped beside a flickering streetlamp. “Sector E should be clear.” He was talking to the radio more than to Angel.

Angel shrugged. “Then why are we still walking?”

“Because every time I think that, something shows up.”

He had a point. Aki always did.

They cut down an alley lined with leaking pipes. The air there was thick, sweet with rot. Angel’s head buzzed faintly—the early warning that came with devil scent.

“Front,” Aki murmured. His hand rested lightly on his sword hilt.

Angel followed his gaze. At the far end of the alley, a heap of trash shifted. The thing inside it crawled into the open: a devil shaped like a bundle of wires and torn-off faces, its body humming with static. Small, but angry.

Aki drew his blade an inch. “We’ll need a weapon out of this one. Think you can—”

“I can,” Angel interrupted.

He stepped forward without hurry, expression unreadable. The devil hissed, limbs twisting toward him.

“Don’t get close,” Aki warned out of reflex.

Angel didn’t answer. The air around him bent slightly, as if the world held its breath. His wings unfolded, enormous—feathers catching the gray light, each edge too sharp to look holy.

The devil leapt.

A single movement—nothing dramatic, just a flick of his wrist, a slow beat of wings—and the alley erupted in white. The sound died instantly. Where the devil had been, only motes of ash drifted downward.

When the light cleared, Angel stood holding a blade that hadn’t existed a second ago. Sleek, translucent, humming faintly. He turned it once in his hand, unimpressed.

Aki exhaled. “That’s—fast.”

“Routine,” Angel said. He offered the weapon hilt-first. “Here.”

Aki took it carefully, feeling the faint vibration still running through the steel. It wasn’t just a weapon; it felt alive.

He looked back at Angel, wanting to say something—praise, maybe—but Angel’s face stopped him. The devil’s color was draining from it. His wings trembled, halo flickering slightly like a dying bulb.

“Side effect?” Aki asked, keeping his tone level.

Angel looked down at his hands. “Just tired.”

It was more than tired; his breathing was shallow, shoulders tight. But Aki didn’t press. The quiet between them thickened, full of things neither would admit.

“You make that look easy,” Aki said finally.

“It is easy.” A faint smirk, brittle around the edges. “Hard part’s pretending I enjoy it.”

Aki sheathed the new sword. “Then don’t pretend.”

Angel didn’t answer. He was watching the dust settle, eyes following the tiny drifting pieces of what used to be something alive. His wings sagged lower, the feathers quivering.

Aki turned away, pretending not to notice the tremor. Professional, detached. That was safer.

“Patrol complete,” he said into his radio. “Devil neutralized.”

Static replied.

Angel started walking first, slower now. The sun was sliding down the buildings, gilding the halo above his head until it looked molten. He hated the reflection—it made him look like something sacred, and that was the cruelest joke of all.

Aki followed a few paces behind, silent.

When they reached the main street again, Angel finally spoke. “You always look at me different after that.”

“After what?”

“After I turn something into a weapon.”

Aki kept his eyes forward. “You’re efficient. That’s all.”

“Efficient,” Angel repeated softly, almost amused. “Is that what we call it?”

He smiled then—a small, joyless curve—and stretched his wings once more before tucking them tight again. The gesture stirred a gust of wind down the street, scattering wrappers and dust.

Aki adjusted his grip on the new sword, feeling its weight settle against his palm. “You saved me the trouble,” he said, aiming for casual.

“Don’t mention it.”

He wouldn’t, Aki thought. Angel preferred it that way.

They walked the rest of the route in silence. The quiet wasn’t hostile anymore—just heavy, shared.

By the time they reached the end of their patrol, the sky had turned the color of bruised fruit. The last light caught on Angel’s halo, casting a thin ringed shadow across the pavement.

He noticed it and scowled, stepping aside so it wouldn’t fall at his feet.

Aki saw the motion and said nothing.

When they stopped for a break near a vending machine, Angel leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. His wings drooped, feathers losing their sheen.

“You should rest,” Aki said.

Angel cracked one eye open. “That’s all I ever do.”

“Then maybe do it somewhere that doesn’t look like a crime scene.”

A faint chuckle. “You’re hilarious, Aki.”

“Not trying to be.”

“Exactly.”

They stayed there a while, the hum of the machine filling the space where words didn’t fit. Eventually Aki turned to leave.

“Coming?”

Angel pushed himself off the wall slowly. “Yeah.” He looked at his hands once more—the faint tremor, the ache crawling up his arm—and flexed his fingers as if to shake it off. “Just needed a second.”

When he caught up to Aki, the halo caught the last of the sun again. It made him look, for one impossible instant, like something divine.

He hated that. But he kept walking anyway.

Chapter Text

The sun was already starting to dip by the time they called it a day.
The city looked washed out, pale concrete and long shadows stretching like ghosts between the buildings. It was quiet — too quiet for the end of a Public Safety patrol, when blood and yelling usually filled the edges of the day. Angel wasn’t complaining. The fewer devils they had to deal with, the better. His wings dragged a little behind him, brushing the air in slow, heavy arcs.

Aki walked a few paces ahead, posture clean and steady as always, like the world’s exhaustion never quite touched him. His hands were buried in his coat pockets. His hair, still damp from earlier rain, stuck to the back of his neck. Angel watched the way his shadow fell across the street — long, crisp, too disciplined for how tired they both were.

“You’re lagging again,” Aki said without looking back.

Angel adjusted the strap of his weapon harness, wings rustling irritably. “I’m not lagging,” he replied. “I’m just slower.”

“That’s literally what lagging is.”

“I’m conserving energy,” Angel corrected, tone dry as the cracked pavement. “You should try it sometime.”

Aki exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “If you conserved any more energy, you’d be dead.”

Angel didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have a retort — but because his legs already felt like they’d been walking through tar for miles. His breath came shorter now, something tight and scratchy in his chest. He hated it. Hated the way fatigue crept up on him faster these days. He’d always been lazy, sure — that was part of the joke — but now it wasn’t a choice. His body just refused him sometimes.

They passed an alley where the smell of cheap food and oil spilled out. His stomach turned, not with hunger but nausea. He swallowed hard, pretending not to notice.

Aki slowed his pace when he realized Angel had fallen farther behind. “You need me to carry your gear?”

Angel’s feathers bristled. “I’m not dying,” he said.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking you’re annoying.”

Angel smirked weakly. “At least you’re honest.”

They fell into silence again. The kind that wasn’t awkward — just heavy. Aki wasn’t the type to fill silence with noise, and Angel didn’t have the strength to. Every so often, Aki would glance back to check if Angel was keeping up, and Angel would pretend not to notice. The streetlamps flickered on one by one, painting Aki’s face in thin bands of gold and gray.

Angel hated the way his wings caught the light — huge, useless, ridiculous. They twitched with every step, brushing against walls and mailboxes and occasionally people’s umbrellas, earning startled looks. The feathers weren’t soft like people imagined; they were coarse, strong, but too wide to tuck neatly away. Each movement reminded him of how conspicuous he was. An angel with a bad attitude, dragging his damn wings through puddles.

“You ever think of cutting them off?” Angel asked suddenly.

Aki blinked. “What?”

“My wings,” Angel said. “They’re too big. Can’t wear jackets right, can’t sit on buses, can’t even roll over in bed without them getting caught in the sheets. Useless things.”

Aki shot him a sidelong glance. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. They don’t even do anything. I could fly if I wanted to, but it’s a pain. I look like a goose that lost its way midair.”

Aki huffed a small laugh, surprised by it. “You’d probably bleed out.”

“Worth it.”

“Sure.”

Angel smiled faintly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Would save me paperwork.”

Angel made a noise that was half amusement, half bitterness. His steps were smaller now, slower. The buildings blurred a little at the edges of his vision, not in a pretty way but in that dizzy way that warned him he’d overdone it. He didn’t tell Aki. He didn’t need another lecture. Aki already thought he was lazy enough.

He let his wings droop a little lower. They brushed the asphalt and picked up bits of dust and trash. The movement pulled at his shoulders, muscles throbbing where bone met feather. His back felt like it was carrying a second skeleton. When they passed under a streetlight, the halo above his head caught the glow, throwing a sharp gold ring against the nearby shopfront. A few pedestrians stared. Angel ignored them. The halo was another thing he couldn’t get rid of — a mocking, perfect circle that followed him everywhere. It didn’t feel holy. It just felt heavy.

By the time they reached the crosswalk that led to their apartment block, Angel was a few full strides behind. Aki stopped and waited, looking patient in the way that meant he was actually irritated.

“You sure you’re fine?” Aki asked.

“Define fine.”

Aki’s jaw flexed. “You’ve been off all day. You barely lifted your weapon.”

Angel shrugged. “Didn’t need to. No devils worth killing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

The light turned green, and they crossed. Angel’s steps scuffed the pavement. Aki didn’t push the issue further, which Angel was grateful for. The quiet let him breathe without having to explain himself. The truth sat behind his ribs, cold and humming — the virus, the reason he couldn’t catch his breath, the reason food sometimes made him sick. He’d known for months now. Knew exactly what it was doing to him. And he’d rather die than tell them.

Aki would look at him differently. Not with disgust, maybe — Aki wasn’t that cruel — but with distance. Pity. The kind of sympathy that felt like a barrier. Angel already had enough of those.

They turned onto the narrow street that led to the building. The sign for the corner convenience store buzzed faintly, half-lit. Angel liked that sound. It was stupid, but it meant home. Aki walked ahead to unlock the gate, and Angel followed, dragging his feathers through the narrow opening. They brushed the iron and sparked faintly, static catching on the tips. The sound made Aki flinch.

“You’re shedding again,” Aki muttered.

“Good,” Angel said. “Maybe I’ll finally be bald.”

“Don’t tempt me to pluck them myself.”

Angel laughed under his breath, wings rustling as he stepped inside. The apartment windows glowed weakly above them — Power probably yelling, Denji probably doing something stupid. For a moment, Angel almost smiled at the thought. Home wasn’t much, but it was loud and warm and full of idiots. And maybe that was enough.

He trailed behind Aki up the stairs, his halo brushing the ceiling, wings scraping the walls. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and every step made his body ache — but he didn’t complain this time. Not out loud.

Inside, the smell of curry already lingered. Power’s voice carried through the hall, shrill and unapologetic. Denji laughed. Angel exhaled, slow, weary.

Another day survived.

---
By the time they got inside, Power had already declared the kitchen a “war zone.”
Her voice carried through the small apartment like a siren: “HUMAN! YOUR CURRY IS TAKING TOO LONG! POWER WILL PERISH AT THIS RATE!”

Angel closed the door behind him, wings folding in tight as he tried not to hit the shoe rack. He leaned against the wall, feathers twitching with the motion. “How long have you been starving to death this time?” he asked flatly.

“Three hours!” Power cried.

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Aki said from the kitchen, not looking up from the pot on the stove.

Power slammed her hands on the table. “TIME MOVES DIFFERENTLY FOR THOSE IN PERIL!”

Angel snorted. “Tragic.”

Denji was sprawled on the couch, legs dangling over the side, flipping through a dog-eared manga. “You could cook somethin’ yourself if you’re that hungry.”

Power looked deeply offended. “I am a BLOOD FIEND, not a cook! I consume, I do not create!”

“Convenient excuse,” Aki muttered.

Angel drifted toward the living area, wings grazing the ceiling fan. He wanted to collapse, to let gravity do the work and never get up again, but instead he perched on the armrest of the couch and watched the three of them. It was easier to feel like part of things when he didn’t have to participate. Easier to laugh at the noise than to think about why his chest felt tight again.

Denji suddenly sniffed the air. “Yo, that smells kinda good, Aki. You actually used meat this time?”

“I always use meat,” Aki said.

“No, you don’t. Last week you made that veggie thing that looked like cat food.”

“That was curry.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Aki’s sigh could have powered the whole building. “You don’t have to eat if you don’t like it.”

“I’ll eat,” Denji said quickly. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Same!” Power said, leaping to her feet. “Power will consume ALL!”

Angel smiled faintly. “Careful. That might include the table.”

Power pointed dramatically at him. “Angel devil mocks me, yet he eats like a spoiled child!”

Angel tilted his head. “That’s because I am spoiled.”

Aki shot him a look from the kitchen doorway. “You’ve already had three ice creams today.”

Angel shrugged, unbothered. “So? I’m still hungry.”

Power gasped. “He has ICE CREAM?!”

Denji perked up instantly. “Where?!”

Aki pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s no ice cream left. He ate all of it.”

“Unjust!” Power roared, slamming her fist into the table. “A devil of sloth and gluttony! You hoard the sweet treasure for yourself!”

Angel blinked slowly. “You were asleep. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“POWER ALWAYS NOTICES!”

Denji started laughing, loud and stupid. “You should’ve hidden the wrappers better, Angel!”

Angel ignored him and unfolded his wings slightly, adjusting their position so the tips wouldn’t knock over the hanging lamp. He was too tired to properly tease Power back, but her indignation was almost entertaining enough on its own.

Dinner was loud and mostly edible. Power inhaled her food with the enthusiasm of a starving hyena; Denji barely chewed. Aki ate in quiet frustration, the only adult in a room full of children. Angel picked at his bowl, finishing less than half. The taste didn’t bother him — it was the smell, the texture, the way his stomach seemed to reject everything lately. He ate just enough to avoid comment.

When the plates were empty and Aki was rinsing them off, Angel excused himself to his room. His wings brushed the doorway as he slipped inside, feathers rustling like dry leaves. The room was dim, quiet, and blessedly empty. He sat on the bed, staring at the faint halo light flickering above him. His body ached in that dull, invisible way — joints too heavy, skin too cold. He pressed a hand to his forehead and exhaled, the sound long and tired.

He didn’t get long to rest.

The door burst open with the force of a small explosion.
“ANGEL!” Power declared, storming in like a conquering army. Denji trailed behind her, equally loud and equally stupid-looking.

Angel blinked, unimpressed. “I locked that.”

“Denji kicked it,” Power said proudly.

Denji grinned. “You got anything to eat? Me ‘n Power are still starving.”

Angel stared at them. “You just ate.”

Power sniffed. “That was but a snack! Power’s appetite is endless!”

Denji held up a half-empty bag of chips. “We already finished this.”

“Then go buy something.”

“Don’t got money.”

“Not my problem.”

Power folded her arms. “You are selfish, feathered one! Surely you hoard snacks as you do ice cream!”

Angel sighed. “I don’t.”

They didn’t believe him. Power began rummaging through his drawers while Denji poked around near the desk. Angel didn’t stop them. He was too tired to. He just watched, mildly entertained, as they dug through his things like feral animals.

After a moment, Power froze. “Aha!” She held up a pink bottle triumphantly. “Look, Denji! Fruit flavor!”

Angel blinked. “That’s shampoo.”

Denji squinted at the label. “Nah, it says… ‘ripe… berries’? That’s food, right?”

Power nodded sagely. “Indeed! A feast for the hair and the stomach!”

Angel leaned back against the wall, deadpan. “Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”

Denji grinned, uncapping it. “Smells good!”

“Smells delicious!” Power said.

Angel watched silently as Denji hesitated for exactly two seconds before taking a mouthful.

There was a pause.

Then Denji made a strangled sound, eyes wide, coughing and spluttering foam. “WHAT THE HELL, THAT’S SOAP!”

Power shrieked. “YOU LIED TO ME, ANGEL DEVIL!”

Angel, expression perfectly blank, said, “No. I agreed with you. That’s different.”

Denji was hacking into the trash can now, and Power was yelling about betrayal and divine trickery. Aki stormed into the room, towel in hand, looking one exasperated breath away from quitting Public Safety entirely.

“What,” Aki said flatly, “is happening.”

Denji pointed at Angel between coughs. “HE SAID IT WAS FOOD—!”

Power jumped in, finger stabbing toward Angel. “HE MOCKED US!”

Aki turned to Angel. “Did you?”

Angel’s halo cast a faint glow across his tired face. “Define ‘did.’”

Aki closed his eyes. “You know what? I don’t even care anymore. Just clean up before I start swinging.”

Power shrieked something about “ABUSE OF POWER BY THE DEVIL-HUNTER,” Denji was still rinsing his mouth in the sink, and Angel just sat there on the bed, laughing quietly — the kind of laugh that didn’t reach the eyes but felt good anyway.

For a moment, the noise filled the room so completely that it drowned out the tightness in his chest. The dull ache in his limbs. The endless quiet hum of his own body failing him.

It was chaos. Stupid, pointless chaos — but it was theirs.

And for now, that was enough.

---

The apartment settled into a lull after the shampoo debacle — or at least as close to peace as the four of them ever got.
Power and Denji had retreated to the living room, alternating between yelling at each other and watching TV. Aki was washing the dishes again, sleeves rolled up, the tap running hot enough to fog the windows. Angel lingered by the doorway, watching the water run over Aki’s hands.

“You could help,” Aki said without looking up.

Angel tilted his head. “I could.”

“And?”

“I won’t.”

Aki sighed. “Shocking.”

Angel smirked faintly and leaned against the wall. The lamp above the sink threw an amber light over Aki’s hair, catching on the thin line of his jaw. He looked exhausted in that quiet, stubborn way — the kind of exhaustion that didn’t show until he stopped moving. Angel knew that look too well. He wore it himself most days.

“Denji still alive?” Aki asked.

“Unfortunately,” Angel said. “He said the shampoo tastes like ‘if a fruit punch died.’ Power said she’s going to sue me for poisoning her.”

Aki snorted, shoulders shaking once. “You didn’t tell them it was food, did you?”

“I didn’t tell them it wasn’t.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Semantics,” Angel said, stretching his wings. The motion brushed the cabinet behind him, and he winced. “Why are these things always in the way?”

“You’re the one who won’t fold them properly.”

“They don’t fold properly,” Angel shot back. “They’re too big.”

Aki glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Then learn how to use them.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just fly to work from now on. Bet Makima would love that. A halo in the sky — might even use me for advertising.”

“‘Public Safety: now with free air delivery.’”

Angel’s smile was tired, but it was there. “Exactly.”

The kitchen quieted again, just the sound of water and the faint hum of the fridge. Angel’s back ached where his wings met his shoulders. His whole body pulsed with that low, heavy ache — not pain, exactly, but the kind of fatigue that made his bones feel liquid. He let his eyes close for a moment, listening to the murmur of Power and Denji’s voices from the other room. It was almost comforting.

“You’re quieter today,” Aki said softly.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

Angel opened his eyes again, staring at the halo light that cast a ring against the ceiling. “Maybe I’m just tired of talking.”

Aki hummed, noncommittal. “Or tired in general.”

Angel didn’t answer. His wings sagged slightly, brushing the floor. He thought about saying something sarcastic, something to break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat. Aki was watching him again — not with suspicion, but with something gentler that Angel didn’t quite know how to handle.

“Go sit down,” Aki said finally. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Angel scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

Aki dried his hands and turned off the tap. “If you pass out, I’m not catching you. You’ll take me down with you.”

Angel smirked faintly. “I’d make a nice pillow.”

“You’d crush me.”

“I’m lighter than I look.”

“Doubt it.”

Angel pushed off the wall, the motion slower than he intended. His legs wobbled for a second — just a flicker — but Aki noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. Angel hated that.

He walked to the couch and dropped down next to Denji, wings spilling over the backrest in a messy heap. Power was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a towel around her shoulders, hair still dripping. The TV flickered between static and an old rerun of some cartoon that involved a lot of screaming.

“Angel!” Power barked without turning around. “You will buy Power a new snack tomorrow to make up for your deception!”

“Sure,” Angel said, too tired to argue.

“Power demands fruit snacks!”

“Fine.”

“Two bags!”

“Fine.”

“Three!”

“Go to hell,” Angel muttered.

Power beamed like she’d won. “Accepted!”

Denji laughed, throwing popcorn at her. It hit her square in the face. She shrieked, lunging at him. They started wrestling immediately, knocking over the coffee table and sending a half-empty soda can spilling onto the carpet. Aki appeared in the doorway with the expression of a man watching his own sanity evaporate.

“Stop fighting,” he said, voice dangerously even.

“She started it!” Denji yelled.

“He provoked me!” Power countered.

Angel, wings half-covering his face, said, “Can’t you two kill each other somewhere else?”

Aki pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to bed before one of you ends up dead.”

“Night, Mom,” Denji said.

Aki threw a dish towel at him. Denji ducked. The towel hit Power instead, and she immediately began screaming about mortal insults and “violence against fiends.”

Aki didn’t respond. He just walked down the hall, muttering something about needing earplugs.

When the noise died down again, Angel stretched across the couch, wings spilling everywhere, and stared up at the ceiling. The halo’s glow reflected faintly in the dark TV screen. His stomach churned from the earlier food, but he ignored it. His eyelids felt heavy, his limbs heavier. The sound of Denji and Power arguing in the background blurred into static.

He thought about the look Aki had given him earlier — that flicker of worry behind all the irritation. It lingered longer than it should have. Angel hated that kind of attention. It felt like being seen through.

He didn’t want to be seen.

“Hey, Angel,” Denji said suddenly, leaning over the back of the couch.

Angel cracked one eye open. “What.”

“You ever get bored of not doin’ anything?”

Angel smirked weakly. “You ever get bored of breathing?”

Denji blinked. “No?”

“Exactly.”

Denji frowned, clearly trying to process that. Power yelled at him for something and dragged him back into their fight. Angel closed his eyes again.

The room smelled faintly of curry and spilled soda. The couch was too small for his wings; they hung off the sides, dragging against the floor. Every shift of his shoulders made them ache. His feathers were ruffled, unkempt, the edges uneven from where they scraped against walls and furniture. He could feel the static building in them again, faint little zaps where the air met his skin.

He hated them — the wings, the halo, the body that wasn’t really his. They made him stand out when he wanted nothing more than to fade into the background. A devil with angel parts, sick and tired and pretending it was just laziness. Maybe that was all anyone ever saw: the lazy angel who didn’t care. Maybe that was fine.

His breathing evened out. The halo light dimmed slightly, its glow flickering like a candle. The laughter in the other room blurred into nothing, and for a while, Angel let himself drift — half-asleep, half-awake, floating somewhere between the noise and the quiet.

Another night survived.
That was enough for now.

---

Bath time in the apartment was always chaos, but there was a rhythm to it — a strange, messy rhythm that somehow worked.

Power and Denji went first, as usual. Not because they wanted to, but because Aki made them. Power hated bathing with the same passion she hated vegetables, cleaning, and taxes — so Denji got shoved in with her as a bribe, babysitter, and fellow idiot. Every few minutes, a crash echoed down the hall followed by Power’s shrieking:

“DENJI, CEASE YOUR SPLASHING! YOU’RE DILUTING MY BLOOD!”
“YOU’RE THE ONE THROWIN’ SOAP AT ME!”
“LIAR! POWER IS INNOCENT!”

Aki didn’t even flinch anymore. He sat at the kitchen table with a cigarette, waiting out the noise like a man caught in a monsoon. Angel sat across from him, wings drooping low enough to brush the floor.

Aki exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “You’d think they’d tire themselves out eventually.”

“They’re like toddlers,” Angel said. “If toddlers could commit war crimes.”

Aki made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You next after them?”

Angel grimaced. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“I hate baths.”

“I know.”

Angel leaned back, folding his arms — or trying to. The base of his wings got in the way, the thick joints pressing awkwardly against the chair. “They take forever. My feathers soak up half the water in Tokyo.”

“Maybe wash less of them.”

“That’s not how wings work, Aki.”

Aki smirked faintly. “Then work faster.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “You offering to help?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll take my time.”

He said it like a threat, but his tone lacked real bite. Truth was, bathing really was a pain. His wings were enormous — easily double his height when fully spread — and they trapped water like sponges. He couldn’t fold them small enough to fit in the tub properly, couldn’t move without knocking something over, and by the end he always felt like a wet rug with feathers. The halo didn’t help either. Its constant glow reflected in the bathroom mirror, blinding him whenever he tried to lean in to wash his face.

He could never get used to seeing it there — that thin, perfect ring of light floating just above his head, like a cruel joke. He was a devil, after all. The irony of wearing holiness burned every time he looked.

When the bathroom finally fell quiet — punctuated by the sound of Denji and Power arguing over who stole the towel — Angel sighed and pushed himself up. “Guess it’s my turn.”

Aki gave him a long look. “Try not to flood the floor this time.”

“No promises.”

By the time Angel emerged again, steam still curling from the open door, his hair stuck in damp tufts and his wings hung limp and soaked, heavy enough to drag. Water dripped steadily from the feathers, pooling along the hallway tiles. He looked miserable — a drenched, glowing ghost with two dead crows stapled to his back.

Power wrinkled her nose. “You look ridiculous.”

“I feel ridiculous,” Angel said flatly.

Denji snorted. “How’d you even fit in there?”

“I didn’t.”

Power tilted her head, squinting. “Your wings look like wet carpets.”

“Thank you for the insight.”

Aki stepped out of his room, towel slung over his shoulder, and immediately froze. “Angel, you’re leaking all over the floor.”

Angel glanced down. “So I am.”

“Dry off.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Angel extended one soaked wing toward him in mock threat. “You wanna help, then?”

Aki took a careful step back. “Absolutely not.”

Denji grinned. “I’ll do it!”

“No you won’t,” Aki and Angel said in unison.

But even Aki’s resolve faltered when he saw how heavy the wings looked, the way the feathers clumped together in dripping layers. It would take hours for them to dry on their own. He exhaled through his nose, resigned. “Fine. Power, Denji, grab the blow dryers.”

Power blinked. “We own blow dryers?”

“You melted one last month,” Aki said. “I bought three more.”

“Ah, yes! Then Power shall command the wind!”

Ten minutes later, the living room looked like a hair salon for birds. Extension cords snaked across the floor. Three blow dryers roared at once, their hot air ruffling feathers and hair alike. Power took her role far too seriously, shouting things like “DRY, FOUL BEAST, DRY!” while Denji laughed every time Angel’s feathers puffed up from the heat.

“Stop laughing,” Angel muttered.

“You look like a chicken!” Denji howled.

“Keep laughing and I’ll pluck you.”

Aki crouched by the far wing, holding one of the dryers steady. He was the only one taking it seriously — of course he was. His face was set in that focused, slightly irritated expression he wore when he cooked or cleaned or pretended he wasn’t taking care of everyone.

Angel watched him through half-lidded eyes. “You don’t have to,” he murmured.

“I know,” Aki said. “Just hold still.”

The warm air lifted through the feathers, carrying a faint, clean scent of soap and ozone. It felt… nice, actually. Comforting in a way Angel didn’t want to admit. The sound of the dryers drowned out the world for a while — a low, steady hum.

His muscles began to loosen. The ache in his shoulders dulled. For once, the room didn’t feel too loud or too bright.

Power was still yelling, Denji was pretending to duel her with his dryer, and Aki was muttering under his breath about idiots and electricity bills. It was chaos again, but gentler this time — a warm, ridiculous kind of chaos that filled the cracks in the evening.

After almost an hour, the wings finally began to fluff back into shape, gleaming faintly in the light. The halo reflected off them in ripples of gold and white. Angel stretched carefully, feathers rustling like paper.

“There,” Aki said, turning off his dryer. “Done.”

Angel flexed the nearest wing. “Huh. Not bad.”

Power crossed her arms. “You should thank Power for her great service.”

“Thank you, Power, for wasting all of Japan’s electricity.”

“HA! You are welcome!”

Denji flopped onto the couch. “Man, I’m beat. You should just chop those things off, Angel. Wouldn’t have to dry ‘em then.”

Angel looked at him, eyes half-lidded. “Tempting.”

Aki gave him a look that was somewhere between a warning and concern. “Don’t even joke.”

Angel didn’t answer. He just folded his wings back, careful not to touch anyone, and sat down slowly. The fatigue had caught up to him again, slipping through the cracks of warmth and noise. His skin felt cold despite the heat. His pulse was slow and heavy.

Power yawned, stretching dramatically. “Power retires for the night! Minions, do not disturb!”

“Fine by me,” Aki said.

Denji followed her down the hall, still dripping. That left just Aki and Angel in the quiet aftermath. The dryers were cooling on the floor, humming faintly.

“Thanks,” Angel said after a moment.

Aki shrugged. “Just don’t flood the place next time.”

Angel smiled, faintly. “No promises.”

---

The apartment was finally still.

The last door clicked shut down the hall — Power’s, probably — and the muffled arguing dissolved into distant breathing. Aki was rinsing dishes in the kitchen, the low rhythm of running water fading with each passing second. Then even that stopped.

Angel was alone.

He sat on the edge of his bed, wings trailing behind him like two heavy curtains. The faint glow of his halo painted the room in weak, shifting light, barely enough to outline the walls. Shadows of his feathers fluttered along the plaster, too large for the small space.

He’d left the window cracked. The night air slid in, damp and cool. Somewhere outside, a car passed, then another. The sound was soft and distant — a world moving without him.

On his nightstand sat a single object: a small orange bottle.
The label caught the light, sterile and ordinary. His name printed on it in neat block letters. A reminder. A threat. A lifeline he never took.

He looked at it for a long time.

Angel didn’t move much anymore. His wings rose and fell with each slow breath, the feathers whispering faintly. He could feel the weight in his chest, dull and constant — not pain exactly, just heaviness. The kind that lingered under everything.

The others thought he was just lazy. It was easier that way. “Lazy” was simple, forgivable. People could roll their eyes at laziness, sigh, complain about it. But illness? Illness made them pity him. And pity was unbearable.

He reached up, rubbing a hand over his face. His fingers caught on the ends of his hair — still damp from the earlier chaos, though he’d half dried it by now. He smelled faintly of soap and static.

The bed creaked when he leaned back, wings spreading across the sheets. They always took up too much room, forcing him to lie carefully so the feathers wouldn’t bend wrong. Aki had once joked that his bed looked like it was made for two, and Angel had told him it was — him and his damned wings.

He stared at the ceiling. The halo’s faint light wavered above him, a golden ring reflected on the white plaster. He hated that light. It was too clean, too pure. It didn’t belong to him, never had. It just followed him like some cosmic joke.

His eyes drifted back to the pill bottle.

He could almost hear the doctor’s voice again — flat, professional, rehearsed. “Daily adherence is important, Angel. If you stop, your viral load will increase. The side effects are manageable. You’ll feel better.”

You’ll feel better.

He almost laughed. He’d tried once, a few months ago. The pills made his stomach twist and his head pound. They made the world blur around the edges. He’d woken up drenched in sweat, shaking, his feathers sticking to his skin. “Manageable,” the doctor had said. Sure. Maybe for someone else.

He’d stopped after three days. Told no one. Hid the bottle.

And every time he thought about starting again, the thought just… dissolved. There was always tomorrow. He could start tomorrow. Just not tonight.

He reached for it now, fingers brushing the smooth plastic. It was warm from sitting under the halo’s light. The cap resisted when he twisted it, that faint click-click-click of the childproof seal. A small sound, far too loud in the quiet.

He hesitated.

A single pill rattled against the others inside.

He could take it. He could. Right now. Water was within reach — a half-finished glass beside the bed. He could swallow one, close his eyes, and maybe things would start to feel… less like this.

But his hand lowered.

He stared at the bottle for another long moment before setting it back down.

His wings shifted against the sheets, feathers sighing.

The truth was, it wasn’t just the pills. It was what they meant — the quiet admission that something inside him was broken, and that he was the one who had to keep fixing it, forever. The effort of survival felt endless. The idea of maintenance, constant.

It wasn’t that he wanted to die. He didn’t. He just wanted to stop feeling like living required a full-time job.

He turned onto his side, facing the window. The moonlight caught the edge of his halo, scattering pale gold over the pillow. His feathers rustled faintly with each breath.

From the kitchen, he heard soft footsteps — Aki, moving quietly, probably checking that the lights were off. The man’s routine precision was something Angel found both irritating and comforting. There was always order with Aki, always structure. Angel existed somewhere outside of that, in the edges where things frayed.

He closed his eyes.

The world hummed faintly, a low, constant pulse beneath everything — the hum of electricity, the city’s heartbeat. Angel let it fade in and out.

He thought of earlier that evening: the laughter, the blow dryers, Power’s triumphant screech when she managed to fluff a feather correctly. He remembered Aki’s face, tired but patient, the careful way he’d aimed the dryer so the heat wouldn’t scorch.

He’d felt safe then, almost.

Almost.

Now, with the apartment still and the night pressing in, that safety felt far away — like a warmth he’d borrowed for a moment but couldn’t keep.

His eyes wandered back one last time to the bottle on the nightstand. The light from his halo glinted faintly off the label. He could make out the first few letters of his name before the glare swallowed the rest.

“Not tonight,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a promise. It was a habit.

He turned away from it, burying half his face in the pillow. The sheets were cool. His feathers stretched, then relaxed, covering most of his back. The faint scent of detergent and feathers filled the air — oddly clean, oddly human.

He felt the ache in his chest again, the slow pulse of something deeper than fatigue. But he didn’t fight it. He just breathed.

The halo above him dimmed slightly as his breathing slowed. Outside, the city moved on — lights flickering, traffic rumbling, voices fading into distance.

Angel fell asleep with his wings open, the pill bottle sitting untouched within reach.

The night pressed close around him, silent, indifferent, and mercifully still.

Chapter Text

from the ceiling.

When he finally got the shirt over his head, he was panting like he’d run a mile.

He sat on the edge of the bed again, staring at the floorboards. His hands were pale, knuckles faintly blue. He flexed his fingers, trying to will some life into them.

In the kitchen, Denji laughed. A moment later came the sound of something breaking.

“Not my fault!” Power shouted.

Aki’s voice cut through, stern but tired: “You’re cleaning that up.”

Angel smirked faintly. That was the rhythm of mornings here—chaos, reprimand, repeat. It was almost comforting, in the way a bad habit could be comforting.

He finally stood, adjusting his shirt. The collar was crooked, but he didn’t care. His reflection in the hallway mirror looked worse than he felt—pale skin, dull eyes, halo glowing just enough to make him look haunted.

When he reached the kitchen, the others were mid-argument over who’d used the last of the cereal. Power stood on a chair, finger pointed dramatically at Denji, who had milk dribbling down his chin.

“You drank the milk, fiend!” she shouted.

Denji swallowed and shrugged. “You left it open overnight! That’s a crime!”

Angel leaned against the doorframe, wings dragging faintly behind him. “You’re both crimes,” he said, voice dry.

Power whipped around. “Angel! Tell him he’s wrong!”

“Always,” Angel replied. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

Denji laughed. “Man, you look dead today.”

Angel gave him a flat stare. “Thanks.”

Aki turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, hair tied back. “You’re late,” he said simply.

Angel shrugged. “Had to wrestle my wings into the shirt. They win sometimes.”

Aki’s eyes flicked briefly toward the wings—still damp at the tips from last night’s shower, a few feathers bent wrong. His expression softened, but only a fraction. “Eat something before we go,” he said.

Angel dropped into a chair, wings fanning out awkwardly behind him. Sitting was always uncomfortable. The feathers brushed against the floor, spreading like spilled ink.

Denji offered him the cereal box. “There’s no milk, but it’s edible.”

Angel peered inside. Half crumbs, half crushed flakes. He took it anyway. “Fine.”

He poured a handful into his mouth and chewed slowly, each crunch echoing in his skull. The taste was cardboard, but it was something.

Power leaned over the table, eyes narrowing. “You look even lazier than usual today, Angel-devil.”

He swallowed. “Thanks, I’ve been practicing.”

She grinned. “Excellent! Your sloth is powerful!”

Aki exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Finish eating. We’re leaving in ten.”

Angel didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy to.

When Aki turned back to the stove, Angel glanced down at his trembling hands. He curled them into fists beneath the table until the shaking stopped, then reached for another handful of cereal as if nothing had happened.

“Even Power’s awake by now,” Aki had said.

Yeah. And even Power didn’t feel like her body was made of lead.

He didn’t let that thought linger. Instead, he stared at the faint steam rising from Aki’s coffee, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, the halo’s shadow rippling faintly across the table.

Morning, he thought, was too bright for devils.

---

The smell of burnt eggs hit him first.

Aki was at the stove again, determined as ever, cooking like someone who didn’t actually like food but respected the idea of it. Power and Denji hovered nearby like vultures waiting for something to fall off the pan.

Angel leaned against the doorframe, wings half-folded, half-dragging. The room was bright—too bright—and the sunlight made the dust in the air look alive. He squinted at it, unamused.

“Smells like death,” he muttered.

Denji spun around, grin wide. “Oh hey, sleeping beauty’s up!”

Power barked a laugh. “Angel-devil rises! Truly the apocalypse draws near!”

Angel rubbed his temples. “You two talk too much for people with so few thoughts.”

Aki, without looking up, said, “Sit down and eat before they finish everything.”

“That’s a threat,” Angel said.

“It’s advice.”

The chair creaked when he sat. His wings took up too much space, as usual; he had to angle them sideways to fit. The edge of one brushed the fridge. He felt the cool metal graze his feathers—a strange, tingling pressure that made him tense.

He hated contact. Even through layers of cloth, even harmless things. The reminder of what would happen if his bare skin touched someone was always there.

Denji dropped into the chair across from him, hair sticking out in wild clumps, a smear of something on his cheek. “So, Angel,” he said with his mouth half full, “how come you never do the cooking? You got, like, holy powers, right? Shouldn’t that make food better?”

Angel gave him a flat stare. “My holy powers make corpses, not breakfast.”

Power slammed her hands on the table. “Then you are useless!”

“Correct,” Angel said, leaning back. “And proud.”

Aki placed a pan in front of them with the finality of a man who had already given up. “Eat before it gets cold,” he said.

Power immediately grabbed half the eggs with her bare hands. Denji yelled in protest. They fought over the last piece of toast, both shouting things that didn’t make grammatical sense.

Angel watched with mild interest. “It’s too early for this.”

“You say that every morning,” Aki replied, sitting across from him.

“And I’m always right.”

Aki sipped his coffee, unamused. Angel thought he looked tired—his usual kind of tired, which was different from Angel’s. Aki’s came from living too long. Angel’s came from dying slowly.

Denji finally managed to wrestle a piece of toast from Power and shoved it in his mouth triumphantly. Power crossed her arms, sulking.

“I require dessert!” she declared. “Something sweet, to heal my broken pride.”

Denji rolled his eyes. “We don’t got dessert, moron.”

Power turned dramatically toward Angel. “Angel-devil! You will join me in rebellion! Let us demand ice cream!”

Angel tilted his head. “Ice cream for breakfast?”

“Yes!”

He thought about it. Honestly, it didn’t sound bad. “Aki,” he said, turning slightly, “can we have ice cream?”

Aki blinked. “You’ve already had three this week.”

Power gasped. “Three?!”

Angel gave a small shrug. “It was a long week.”

Denji laughed so hard he nearly choked. “Man, you got problems.”

Aki muttered, “Tell me about it,” and turned back to the dishes.

Power slammed her fist on the table. “Unfair! I too demand three ice creams!”

“You’ll get a stomachache,” Aki said.

“I am beyond stomachaches!”

The argument spiraled. Angel leaned his chin on one hand, watching it unfold. It was absurd, but absurdity had its charm. He found himself smiling—tired, faint, but real.

Denji grabbed Power’s horns to shut her up, and she retaliated by biting his hand. Aki scolded both of them like a weary parent.

Angel sat back, feeling his pulse in his temples. The sound of laughter dulled, fading behind the buzz in his head. His vision swam for a moment, then cleared. He blinked a few times, trying not to let it show.

“Angel?”

Aki’s voice cut through. He was standing beside him, towel slung over one shoulder. “You okay?”

Angel blinked again. “Yeah. Just—morning light. Headache.”

Aki studied him for a moment but said nothing.

Denji snorted. “He’s just hungover on laziness.”

Angel looked at him, deadpan. “If laziness could kill, I’d be immortal.”

Power pointed dramatically. “Then prove it! Come with us to the market later!”

“No thanks. I’m allergic to sunlight.”

“Liar!”

Angel didn’t bother arguing. The words came easily now, automatic—a defense made of dry humor and half-truths. They laughed, and that was enough to keep questions away.

When breakfast was over, Denji and Power left to do errands—if one could call aimlessly wandering errands. Aki stayed behind, cleaning the dishes, humming faintly under his breath. Angel lingered in his chair.

“You’re slow today,” Aki said without turning around.

Angel blinked at the comment. “I’m always slow.”

“Slower than usual, then.”

Angel smirked weakly. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Into what?”

He thought for a moment. “Furniture.”

Aki didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. “If you’re furniture, you’re the expensive kind that breaks easily.”

Angel chuckled softly, though it came out more like a sigh.

Aki rinsed another plate. “You sure you’re fine? You’ve been pale lately.”

Angel looked down at his hands—thin, almost translucent in the morning light. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Guess I need more ice cream.”

That earned the faintest huff from Aki.

Angel stood slowly, wings dragging behind him, feathers whispering across the floor. “I’ll get ready,” he said, voice low.

“For what?”

“Our very important patrol. You know—the one where nothing ever happens, and I heroically do nothing.”

Aki didn’t respond, though Angel caught the faint roll of his eyes.

Angel walked down the hall, wings brushing the walls as he passed. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked worse than before. Sweat gathered at his temple. He splashed cold water on his face, breathing slowly.

The truth was catching up to him—his body, already tired, turning fragile at the edges. But he couldn’t say that. Not to them. Not when they already avoided his touch.

He stared at himself for a long moment. Then he straightened, forcing the same blank expression he always wore.

By the time he stepped back into the hallway, he looked the part again—apathetic, lazy, fine.

“Let’s go,” Aki said.

Angel nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go save the world or whatever.”

The words felt light, like something he could almost believe.

---

The air was thick with the smell of concrete and exhaust, faintly metallic from the drizzle earlier that morning. Aki walked ahead with his hands in his pockets, steps brisk, eyes cutting between alleyways and rooftops. Angel trailed a few paces behind, half-watching the street, half-looking bored to death.

They’d been out for hours. It felt like nothing ever happened until something did.

Aki exhaled smoke from his cigarette and said, “You could at least look alive.”

Angel didn’t bother raising his head. “That’s a weird thing to say to a devil.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Angel muttered, brushing a stray feather out of his face. “You mean ‘stop being lazy.’ Heard it before.”

Aki frowned but didn’t bite. He’d said those words so many times that now they just came out reflexively. Angel knew that. He always knew how to turn it into a joke before it landed.

They passed a vending machine that buzzed weakly, half its lights out. Angel slowed to peer inside it. “Do you think anyone’s ever fought a Soda Devil?”

Aki’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Keep walking.”

Angel sighed and obeyed, wings dragging slightly along the ground as if even lifting them took too much effort. The feathers brushed the pavement, leaving faint white streaks of dust.

Aki caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. “You’re going to ruin those.”

“Good.”

“That’s not funny.”

Angel smiled faintly, the lazy kind of smile that meant he wasn’t listening anymore. “Didn’t say it was.”

They turned a corner, entering a narrow street lined with shuttered storefronts. Nothing but silence and the faint hum of distant traffic. Angel could feel the exhaustion seeping into him again — a slow, hollow ache that started behind his eyes and sank into his chest. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was everything.

Aki stopped to check a map on his phone. “There’s been devil sightings near here. Keep your eyes open.”

Angel yawned. “They say that every week.”

“This time they mean it.”

Angel hummed noncommittally, gaze drifting skyward. The clouds were thick, hiding the sun, but his halo still glowed faintly — a permanent, mocking reminder hanging over him.

Aki pocketed his phone. “You’re supposed to be my partner. Not my shadow.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re ten steps behind.”

Angel’s wings rustled as he deliberately slowed his pace even more. “Five now.”

Aki turned around fully this time, patience thinning. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

Angel blinked at him. “A little.”

“You don’t do anything unless I push you to.”

“That’s not true,” Angel said quietly, gaze unfocused. “Sometimes I don’t do things even when you push me.”

The look on Aki’s face was somewhere between disbelief and irritation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

They resumed walking, the air between them heavier than before. Angel felt the dizziness creep in — his heart working too fast, blood feeling slow. The sound of Aki’s boots scraping concrete became strangely rhythmic, too loud in his ears.

He could feel sweat at his temples. His hands were trembling faintly, though he hid them in his sleeves. The worst part was that Aki noticed none of it. Or maybe he did — maybe that was what annoyed him most.

When they finally did encounter something — a small wormlike devil wriggling out of a storm drain — Aki reacted instantly, sword in hand, stance steady. Angel stood still, blinking at it.

“Well?” Aki snapped. “You’re up.”

Angel sighed and brushed his hair out of his face. “You really want me to waste my lifespan on that?”

“It’s not about wasting it.”

“It’s literally about that.”

Aki’s jaw tightened.

Angel stepped forward, touched the creature with the back of his hand, and in a brief shimmer of light, it dissolved into a small, dull blade. Barely a weapon — more like an afterthought.

He tossed it aside. “There. Done.”

“That took you ten seconds.”

“I’m improving.”

Aki’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not even trying.”

Angel’s wings twitched, the feathers shivering faintly in the breeze. “Trying’s overrated.”

“Tell that to the people dying because you can’t be bothered to show up.”

Angel looked at him for a long moment, unreadable. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

Aki turned away. “Whatever. Let’s finish the patrol.”

Angel followed in silence. He didn’t smile this time.

The rest of the route was uneventful — just the echo of their footsteps and the faint hum of traffic. Aki didn’t say another word, though his shoulders were tense enough that Angel could see the outline through his coat.

By the time they reached the main road again, Angel’s vision was starting to blur at the edges. His wings felt too heavy to keep upright, dragging faintly with each step. But when Aki looked back, he straightened instantly, forcing his posture into something casual.

He smiled — that same lazy smile that fooled everyone, every time.

Aki looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was the kind that sat between them like fog — quiet, cold, impossible to see through.

Angel didn’t mind. It was easier this way. Let Aki think he was lazy. Let him be annoyed. It was better than pity.

He walked with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to notice the way his breath hitched every few seconds.

They kept walking until the city lights came on. Neither of them spoke again.

---

By the time they made it home, the air outside had turned damp and heavy, the kind that pressed against your skin. Angel hated how the humidity made his feathers cling together. Every step up the apartment stairs felt like dragging a blanket soaked through with water.

Inside, the familiar chaos of Power and Denji greeted them like a bad sitcom rerun.

“WELCOME HOME, LOSERS!” Power yelled from the couch, one arm buried in a family-sized bag of chips. Denji was next to her, half-slouched and munching like his life depended on it. Crumbs littered the floor.

Aki pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been gone four hours. How did you make this big of a mess in four hours?”

“Easy,” Denji said with his mouth full. “Talent.”

Power smirked, licking her fingers. “We were hungry! And the fridge was EMPTY!”

Angel drifted past them toward the table, dropping into a chair like gravity had suddenly doubled. “You two could starve for five minutes and still act like it’s the end of the world.”

“Five minutes is forever!” Power snapped.

Denji jabbed a finger toward Angel. “You sound just like Aki. Boring.”

Angel gave him a lazy half-smile. “You sound like someone who eats soap.”

Denji blinked. “I only did that once.”

Aki was already at the stove, ignoring them all, sleeves rolled up as he inspected the fridge with growing irritation. He muttered something about animals under his breath.

Angel slouched in his chair, wings drooping like tired curtains behind him. The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away since the patrol; it had only thickened, spreading like wet cement through his body. Even his halo felt heavier, as though mocking him with its perfect golden light.

Power clambered onto the seat beside him, nearly knocking his feathers. “ANGEL! Tell Aki to hurry up! I’m dying!”

“You die every day,” Angel said dully.

“I’m dying for real! My stomach hurts from hunger!”

“That’s called being alive.”

“Then I hate it!”

Denji grinned. “You hear that, Aki? Power’s quitting life.”

“Good,” Aki said flatly from the kitchen. “Maybe the apartment will be quieter.”

Power gasped dramatically, throwing her head back. “HE’S SO CRUEL!”

Angel smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “You’ll live. Unfortunately.”

“Shut up, wing boy!”

Angel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He was tired—so tired he could barely keep his posture from slumping completely. But watching Power’s ridiculous tantrum and Denji’s laughter made something in his chest unclench just a little.

They were loud, impulsive, childish… and they weren’t afraid of him. They didn’t shrink away when his feathers brushed their arms or when his halo threw light across their faces. Even if they couldn’t touch his skin, they didn’t fear him like others did.

Power kicked her legs impatiently. “What’s taking Aki so long?”

“He’s cooking,” Angel said. “That’s what taking long means.”

Denji leaned across the table. “Hey, Angel. You think Aki’s making meat?”

“I think Aki’s making something edible, which is more than either of you can say.”

Denji pouted. “I can cook!”

“You can’t even read the back of the noodle packet,” Angel deadpanned.

Power laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair. “He’s right! DENJI CAN’T READ!”

“SHUT UP, POWER!”

Angel actually chuckled at that one, low and genuine. The sound felt strange leaving his throat. It almost hurt to laugh, his ribs still tender, but he didn’t stop.

Denji glared. “Man, why’re you laughin’? You act like you’re any better.”

“I am better.”

“You’re just lazy!”

“That’s called efficiency.”

Aki turned from the stove. “It’s called useless.”

Angel’s grin faded, but he didn’t respond. He sank deeper into his chair, feathers rustling softly.

Power leaned toward him, squinting at his wings. “Angel, why do your feathers look funny? They’re all flat and ugly.”

“They’re wet.”

“Ew!”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re one to talk.”

Denji snorted. “She does stink kinda weird today.”

“I DO NOT STINK!” Power yelled, smacking him across the back of the head.

Aki didn’t even flinch at the noise behind him. “If you break something again, you’re both paying for it.”

Power gasped. “Aki, you insult me! I am too BEAUTIFUL to pay for anything!”

“Exactly,” Aki muttered. “That’s the problem.”

Angel smiled faintly again, leaning his temple against his hand. The kitchen smelled like something savory—soy sauce and onions. Normally, it’d make his stomach grumble, but right now, the smell just turned his stomach. His body was heavy, sluggish, the dull ache spreading deeper.

He closed his eyes briefly, pretending to rest them, but really just steadying himself.

“Yo, Angel!” Denji’s voice broke through his fog. “You’re not gonna pass out again, are you?”

Angel cracked one eye open. “Again?”

“You did that once last week. You were all droopy and went thud. We thought you were dead!”

“I was sleeping,” Angel said flatly. “You’re just dramatic.”

“You didn’t move for an hour.”

“That’s what sleeping is.”

Power slapped the table. “Boring! Boring conversation!”

“Then stop listening,” Angel mumbled.

She scowled. “You’re mean today.”

“I’m always mean.”

Denji tilted his head. “Nah, he’s just tired.”

The words hung there for a second. Angel looked up at him, but Denji was already reaching for another chip, not realizing what he’d said.

Aki glanced over from the stove, eyes flicking briefly toward Angel before turning back to the pot. “You don’t look great,” he said. “Didn’t sleep?”

Angel shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Aki repeated, voice dry.

“Define fine,” Power said, raising her hand like a student.

“Shut up, Power,” Aki and Angel said in unison.

That made Denji wheeze so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

Angel sighed and reached for a cup of water. His hand trembled slightly as he brought it to his lips. He hoped no one noticed. The water tasted off—metallic, maybe just his mouth—but it was enough to cool his throat.

For a moment, he let himself just sit there, listening to the sound of Aki’s cooking and Power and Denji bickering about who could eat more. It was domestic, loud, and alive in a way Angel rarely felt part of.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His silence fit in with their noise like punctuation.

He caught himself smiling faintly again before he even realized it.

Then a sudden clang from the kitchen broke it.

The sound of the simmering pot filled the kitchen, a low bubbling that should’ve been comforting. But Aki’s patience was gone, stretched thin like an overused thread.

He was leaning into the open cabinet, eyes narrowing. “There’s no sesame oil,” he muttered.

Power glanced up from the couch, face half-covered in crumbs. “What’s sesame oil?”

Aki ignored him. “We had some last week.”

“Denji probably drank it,” Angel said without looking up from his chair.

“I DID NOT DRINK IT!” Denji shouted immediately.

“You drink shampoo,” Angel pointed out.

“That was different! It smelled edible!”

Aki closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. We need sesame oil. I’ll finish chopping the vegetables—” he turned slightly toward Angel—“go grab some from the corner store.”

Angel blinked, feathers shifting with a faint rustle. “Me?”

“Yeah. It’s a five-minute walk.”

Angel stared at him, expression unreadable. “Can’t Denji go?”

Denji pointed to himself, looking thrilled. “Ooh, can I?”

“No,” Aki said flatly. “Last time you bought soy sauce instead of vinegar.”

“They both start with S!”

Power snorted. “Illiterate fool!”

“Shut up, you can’t read either!”

Aki rubbed his temples, voice taut. “Angel. Just go, okay?”

Angel leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’ll pass.”

Aki looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“Too much effort,” Angel said, tone carefully flat, practiced. “I’ll mess it up anyway.”

“Mess it up? You can walk, can’t you?”

“Technically.”

Aki turned fully, brow furrowed. “Then go.”

Angel sighed, resting his chin on one hand. “I’d rather not.”

Something in Aki’s jaw tightened. “You’d rather not,” he repeated.

Angel gave a slow shrug. “It’s sesame oil. We’ll live.”

Denji tried to cut in. “Hey, I’ll—”

“Sit down,” Aki snapped, sharper than intended. Denji shut up instantly. Power watched the scene unfold with wide eyes, munching slower now.

Angel didn’t move. His halo caught the overhead light in a steady, gentle glow, mocking the tension building beneath it. His wings drooped, feathers limp and unkempt. He looked the same as always—bored, detached—but Aki could see the faint tremor in his hands when he reached for his cup of water.

“Angel,” Aki said, quieter now. “You’ve been sitting around all day.”

Angel’s lips twitched into a thin half-smile. “I call it existing.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“You didn’t help this morning, you barely said a word on patrol, you didn’t lift a hand when Power nearly broke the couch—”

“I did,” Angel said mildly. “I told her to stop.”

Aki’s tone dropped colder. “That’s not helping.”

“Depends on how you define it.”

Aki exhaled through his teeth. “I don’t get it. You’re not useless, you just act like it.”

“Maybe that’s my talent,” Angel muttered.

Aki’s voice rose despite himself. “This isn’t a joke!”

Power flinched. Denji stopped chewing. The sound of the bubbling pot filled the gap.

Angel’s eyes flicked up, faintly glassy, but his tone stayed level. “I’m aware.”

“Then act like it,” Aki said. “Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s busy. You don’t get to just sit out because you feel like it.”

Angel’s feathers shifted—nervous, agitated—but he didn’t rise. His hands were clasped together on the table, knuckles white.

“Not feeling great today,” he murmured.

“Yeah? None of us do. But we still work.”

Angel’s laugh was short, quiet, and joyless. “You always make it sound so noble.”

“Because it is.”

Angel tilted his head, finally meeting Aki’s eyes. There was no real anger there, just exhaustion layered over something darker. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Angel said, almost too fast.

Aki stepped closer, frustration spilling into his tone. “You’re my partner. That means you work with me. That means I can rely on you, and you can rely on me. That’s the deal.”

Angel’s voice came out dry. “Yeah, I know the terms.”

“Do you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.”

Angel looked away. His feathers trembled faintly as he forced a breath through his nose. “You done?”

“No,” Aki said, his voice sharp. “You’ve been doing nothing for weeks. And you think hiding behind your ‘lazy devil’ routine is enough to get you out of it.”

Angel’s mouth tightened. “Maybe it’s not a routine.”

“Then what is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters,” Aki snapped. “Because I’m your partner. I’m the one who’s out there with you while you stand around like—like you don’t even care if you live or die.”

Angel’s eyes flicked up again, slow, distant. “I don’t.”

The words landed with the softness of snow but the weight of stone.

For a second, nobody spoke. Even Power went still, crumbs caught in her fingers.

Aki’s face shifted—anger faltering into something uncertain—but then the frustration returned, a reflex. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll get the damn oil myself.”

He turned back toward the stove. The smell of overcooked vegetables hit the air.

Angel stayed seated. The faint hum of his halo filled the silence left behind.

Power looked at him cautiously. “You made Aki mad.”

“I noticed,” Angel murmured.

Denji scratched his head. “You could’ve just gone, dude.”

Angel didn’t answer. He rested his chin against his knuckles, staring at the light glinting off his halo’s edge. The sound of the simmering pot filled the apartment again, masking the tremor in his breath.

Aki’s knife hit the cutting board too hard, the rhythm uneven.

The whole apartment seemed to have gone tense—tight as a wire.

Angel finally rose from his seat, wings dragging slightly, feathers whispering against the floor. He paused near the door but didn’t move farther.

He didn’t feel guilty, exactly. It was something heavier than that, something that sat under his ribs and refused to leave.

Aki hadn’t been wrong. Angel hadn’t done much. He hadn’t helped. He hadn’t worked. But the reason—God, the reason—wasn’t something he could explain. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind Aki, the sound sharper than it should’ve been. The air in the apartment felt heavier after he left, like it was holding its breath.

The pot on the stove still bubbled, overcooked vegetables soft and losing color. Angel sat exactly where Aki had left him, elbow on the table, chin in his hand. His wings had gone still—usually twitching faintly with each breath, but now just lying there, limp and tired.

Power and Denji exchanged looks over the table.

Denji broke the silence first. “Dude, you really pissed him off.”

Angel didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“You never piss him off,” Denji said, half-impressed, half-worried. “You’re like, the chill one.”

Power squinted at him. “Not chill! Lazy!”

Denji shrugged. “Same thing.”

“It is not!” Power slapped the table hard enough to make the dishes jump. “The Blood Fiend knows laziness! The Blood Fiend is expert! But this angel—he is something else!”

Angel blinked slowly. “You’re not wrong.”

Power crossed her arms, leaning over the table. “What’s wrong with you lately? Even I worked more than you today, and I took a nap during patrol!”

Denji snorted. “You take a nap every patrol.”

“I must conserve my energy for killing!”

“You didn’t kill anything.”

“I would have, if Angel wasn’t hogging all the sitting around!”

Denji laughed at that, but it was awkward, strained. The joke didn’t land. Power frowned, picking at a crumb.

Angel didn’t respond at all.

Usually he’d fire something back—some dry, almost mean remark that still made them laugh—but he just sat there, staring at nothing. His fingers rubbed faintly at the side of his temple, the faint hum of his halo catching in the quiet.

Denji leaned forward a little. “You good?”

Angel looked at him, eyes faintly red around the rims. “Define good.”

“You look like you’re dying or something.”

Power gasped theatrically. “IS HE DYING?”

“Probably not,” Denji said. “He just looks like it.”

Angel huffed a tiny breath through his nose. “Thanks.”

Denji frowned. “For real though, you been sleeping okay? You’re, like, quieter than usual. Which is saying something.”

Angel’s hand dropped to the table. “I’m fine.”

Power peered at him. “You look not fine. Your feathers look sad.”

“Feathers can’t look sad.”

“They do!” She reached out toward his wing—just an inch—and he immediately tensed, the feathers twitching back like a reflex. She froze, arm halfway out.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

Power’s mouth snapped shut. Denji glanced between them, brow furrowed. “You’re really not fine, huh?”

“I said I’m fine.”

They didn’t buy it. Even Power, whose sense of empathy usually started and ended with her cat, was quiet now.

Denji scratched the back of his neck, uneasy. “You mad at Aki or something?”

Angel stared down at the table for a long moment before answering. “No. He’s right.”

Power tilted her head. “Then why not just go get the oil?”

Angel smiled faintly, but it was the wrong kind of smile. “Guess I didn’t feel like it.”

“Liar!” Power pointed dramatically. “You are too lazy to even make a proper excuse!”

Denji frowned at her. “He just said Aki’s right. That’s, like, admitting it.”

“That’s worse!”

Angel leaned his cheek into his palm again, wings shifting restlessly behind him. The tension in his shoulders didn’t leave.

He was used to silence. He’d built an entire existence out of it. But the quiet here felt different—too full, too aware. Even Power’s usual yelling didn’t fill it.

“You should say sorry when he comes back,” Denji said after a while, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah,” Angel said, staring at the floor. “Maybe.”

The clock ticked. The stew bubbled and spat.

Power tapped her fingers impatiently. “When is the hunter coming back? I’m starving!”

“You’re always starving,” Denji muttered.

“I expend more energy than mortals!”

“You sat on the couch for three hours.”

“That was training my mind!”

Angel almost smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He could still feel the echo of Aki’s voice—sharp, disappointed. It clung to him like static. Aki rarely raised his voice. Angel couldn’t even remember the last time he’d done it. The memory of that tone was new and foreign, and it made something heavy settle in Angel’s chest.

He wanted to tell himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care. But the truth was he did—too much.

Denji got up to stir the pot. “Smells burnt.”

“It is burnt,” Angel murmured.

“Oh. Should we, like… take it off the stove?”

“Probably.”

Power stood on her chair dramatically. “The Blood Fiend shall save dinner!” She grabbed the handle, promptly burned her hand, and screamed.

Angel’s head sank into his hands. “You two are impossible.”

Denji laughed, and for a moment, the tension cracked—just slightly. Power shook her hand in the air, cursing dramatically.

“Is this edible still?” Denji asked.

“Not even close,” Angel said.

“So we wait for Aki?”

Angel didn’t answer, just nodded faintly.

They cleaned up halfheartedly, the burnt smell still clinging to the air. Power grumbled the whole time about how Aki was taking too long, and Denji snuck a spoonful of the ruined stew, gagged, then offered it to Power, who promptly gagged louder.

Angel sat back in the chair again, watching them. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile that didn’t last.

They were loud. Idiotic. Reckless. And yet, they made the silence feel almost bearable. Almost.

When they finally settled on the couch—Power sprawled over half of it, Denji flipping through some old magazine—Angel stayed where he was. The window light had gone pale gold, touching his feathers. They looked duller than usual, edges frayed.

Power dozed off mid-complaint. Denji leaned back, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.

Angel just watched the halo’s reflection in the glass, faint and flickering. It looked smaller somehow.

He didn’t notice when the front door opened again.

---

Aki came back with the sesame oil. He set it on the counter, stared at it for a long second, then muttered something under his breath, too quiet to catch. He didn’t even reach for it again. Instead, he started chopping vegetables, a new pan already heating on the stove.

The sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the kitchen—steady, rhythmic, like he was trying to cut through more than just onions.

Power and Denji sat at the table whispering, which in their case meant “loud enough that everyone in a two-room radius could hear them.”

“Do you think they’re still mad?” Denji asked, hunched over with his voice barely lowered.

Power whispered back, “Of course! You saw how the hunter glared! His eyes were full of murder!”

“That’s just his regular face.”

“Well, it looked extra murderous!”

Angel, sitting across from them, could hear every word, but he didn’t say anything. He watched Aki’s back, the careful precision in every motion. The way his shoulders didn’t relax even when he turned off the tap or stirred the pot.

He wasn’t angry anymore. Not exactly. But the tension was still there, humming between them like an invisible thread.

Power leaned toward Denji again. “Do you think Angel will apologize?”

Denji scratched the back of his head. “He should. Aki’s the one who cooks.”

“Food is sacred! One must never anger the cook!”

“Yeah, yeah, you just don’t wanna starve.”

“Silence, mortal!”

Angel sighed softly. “I can hear you both, you know.”

They froze.

Power, completely unbothered, said, “Then perhaps you should apologize faster.”

Denji snorted, trying not to laugh.

Aki’s knife hit the cutting board harder than before. No one said anything after that.

The smell of frying garlic and soy sauce filled the room. Aki didn’t speak, didn’t even look back. His focus stayed locked on the stove, movements crisp and exact.

Angel’s wings were folded close to him, but the tips brushed the floor anyway. He absently tried to adjust them, hating how they caught on the chair legs. The feathers twitched as he shifted, catching the light in dull gray.

They were supposed to be beautiful, people said. Holy, even. He thought they looked ridiculous—too big, too fragile, too loud. And right now, too heavy.

He leaned his head into his hand.

Power had resumed whispering—this time even quieter, as if that would make her subtle. “Why’s he always so tired? He’s not that old, is he?”

Denji shrugged. “He’s a devil, remember? They don’t get tired.”

“Then why’s he always tired?”

“Maybe it’s his personality.”

Angel wanted to laugh. If only it were that simple.

He’d spent so long letting people believe it was laziness that he didn’t even know how to tell the truth anymore. It had started as convenience. Nobody wanted to touch him anyway, so why explain it? Why tell anyone he was sick—especially this sick—when no one ever got close enough for it to matter?

But then there was Aki. And Denji. And Power.

They got close.

They were reckless, stubborn, touch-starved, and absurdly human—and they never hesitated. Power would try to touch him with her bare hands before remembering she wasn’t supposed to, and Denji would slap his shoulder through his jacket like it was nothing.

They treated him like he was normal. Like the distance wasn’t there.

It terrified him.

He could handle the lifespan thing. That was just physics, a rule of his body. He’d learned to work around it. Gloves, layers, a little space. That kind of barrier he could live with.

But if they knew about this—this—it would be different. People didn’t see HIV as an illness. They saw it as a warning sign. A reason to flinch. Another barrier.

And he didn't know if his little friends could handle more than one of those.

He could already hear how quiet the apartment would get. How carefully they’d move around him, as if proximity alone could hurt them. How Power’s curiosity would warp into something awkward, how Denji’s jokes would stop short halfway through, how Aki’s calm would twist into something careful and pitying.

No one meant to be cruel. But fear had a way of filling the gaps between people faster than kindness ever could.

Aki set something on the counter with a sharp thunk. Angel startled slightly, blinking.

“Dinner’ll be done soon,” Aki said, voice flat. He didn’t look at anyone.

Power immediately leapt up. “I shall forgive you for your earlier insolence if the meal is delicious!”

Aki’s hand paused mid-stir. “…Sure.”

Denji grinned at Angel, trying to lighten the mood. “Guess that means you’re forgiven too, huh?”

Angel met his eyes, unsure what to say. “Guess so.”

He wanted to tell them. The thought came and went like a shadow flickering under the door. He wanted to say I’m sick. Wanted to say I’m not lazy. Wanted to say please don’t treat me any differently.

But his throat didn’t move.

The last time he’d told someone, back before Public Safety, the woman had gone stiff mid-sentence. She’d nodded too quickly, then quietly switched shifts to avoid touching anything he’d touched.

He’d never blamed her. It was easier that way—for both of them.

Power started pacing, sniffing the air like a cat. “It smells amazing! Is that meat?!”

Aki muttered, “It’s tofu.”

“Tofu?!”

“It’s cheaper,” Aki said.

Denji laughed, low and easy. “You sound like my old man.”

Angel half-smiled, watching them. The conversation rolled on, loud and ridiculous, filling the room with something warm and chaotic.

And yet, he still felt apart from it, like there was a sheet of glass between him and everything else.

He could join in. He could say something snarky, tease Power, complain about tofu, whatever. But the words just… didn’t come.

Aki turned off the stove, wiping his hands. “It’s ready.”

Power cheered. Denji clapped sarcastically.

Angel stood slowly, wings brushing the wall as he moved toward the table. The feathers caught the light of the hanging bulb—pale, dull, like dying sunlight.

For a moment, he almost said it. The truth sat on the edge of his tongue, small and trembling.

But then Denji laughed at something Power said, and Aki turned toward him with that tired patience, and the sound of normalcy filled the space again.

And Angel swallowed the words whole.

---

Dinner looked normal enough. The table was crowded with mismatched plates and half-chipped bowls, the air heavy with the smell of miso and soy. Power was already sitting with her knees on the chair, Denji was stealing bites before everyone was seated, and Aki moved between stove and counter in his usual quiet rhythm.

Angel sat at the far end, wings pulled tight against the wall so no one brushed against them. The steam from the food fogged faintly in front of his face. Everything felt too warm, too close.

“Sit down already,” Aki said, glancing at Denji.

“I am sitting,” Denji said around a mouthful of rice.

“You’re sitting wrong.”

Power jabbed a finger at him. “He’s sitting like a goblin!”

“Shut up, you sit like a gargoyle.”

Aki didn’t even look at them. “Both of you, enough.”

They quieted—not for long, but enough for the sound of chopsticks and soft breathing to fill the room.

It should have felt familiar. Comfortable, even. But Angel could feel the tension under the air like a current, a low vibration that didn’t go away no matter how many bites of tofu Power complained about.

Aki finally spoke again, voice measured, calm in a way that wasn’t really calm. “I shouldn’t have yelled earlier.”

Angel looked up. “Oh.”

Aki didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not how I want to handle things here.”

Power blinked. “Aki is saying sorry?!”

“Quiet,” Aki said.

Angel shifted a little, uncomfortable. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured.

“I do,” Aki said evenly. “You’re part of this team, and I shouldn’t talk to you like you aren’t.”

It sounded right, but the air didn’t feel any lighter. There was no warmth behind it, no real softening. Just the sense that Aki wanted the tension gone and was forcing it out by the most efficient means.

Angel poked at his rice. “Right.”

Denji looked between them, awkwardly chewing. “So, uh, we all good now?”

Power scowled. “I am never good if tofu is dinner.”

“You had three bowls,” Denji said.

“Because I am starving!”

Angel half-smiled, half-winced. It should have been funny, but Aki’s silence pressed down on everything.

The clatter of chopsticks, Power’s dramatics, Denji’s snorting laughter—all of it floated over Aki’s stillness. He was eating quietly, movements sharp and precise. No wasted gestures. No glances up.

Angel could tell the apology was done, boxed neatly and put away. The frustration, though—that was still there. It lingered in the way Aki’s jaw flexed whenever Denji or Power got too loud. It hummed in the pauses between words, in the way he breathed through his nose before speaking again.

Aki finally said, “Tomorrow, we’ll reorganize chores. Things have been uneven.”

Angel didn’t need to ask what that meant.

Power groaned. “Uneven means Aki is about to make me clean the bathroom again!”

Denji pointed at her. “You’re the one who keeps leaving blood in the sink!”

“I was creating art!”

“Yeah? Then hang it on the wall next time!”

Their voices rose again. Aki didn’t stop them.

Angel kept his eyes on his bowl. His stomach was tight, though he’d barely eaten.

When Aki spoke again, it was softer, not kind, but quieter—like he’d lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “You don’t have to do much, Angel. But you have to do something.”

The words were matter-of-fact, almost gentle. They still landed like a blow.

Angel swallowed. “I know.”

Aki nodded once, as if that settled it.

Power suddenly pointed at him. “Angel’s the only one who never does dishes!”

Angel forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just too divine for housework.”

“Blasphemy!” Power shouted, slamming her hands on the table. “Then the Blood Fiend shall smite you with dish soap!”

Denji laughed, and Aki sighed through his nose again, the faintest hint of a smile breaking the surface.

For a few moments, it almost felt normal again.

But Angel could still feel Aki’s gaze flick toward him every now and then—quick, assessing glances that said he was watching, judging, waiting for Angel to prove he’d take this seriously.

Angel looked away every time.

When dinner was over, Aki stood, collected the dishes, and said a quiet, “Thanks for eating.”

Power didn’t hear him. Denji muttered something about seconds.

Angel pushed his chair back and stood too. “I’ll clean tomorrow.”

Aki didn’t look at him. “Good.”

He meant it like an instruction, not forgiveness.

Angel could feel it in the air as he retreated toward his room: the kind of unresolved calm that always came before another storm.

He wished Aki had yelled instead. Yelling he could handle.

This—this quiet disappointment—stayed with him long after the lights went off.

---

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after a fight disguised as civility.

Angel lay on his side, wings half-fanned across the mattress, one of them drooping over the edge. His feathers glowed faintly in the streetlight that leaked through the blinds. The halo above his head hummed, a low, constant pulse like a mosquito that never slept.

He’d barely eaten dinner. He’d laughed where he was supposed to, answered when spoken to. He’d made sure his smile reached his eyes, even though his stomach twisted each time Aki’s voice crossed the table.

Now, it was just him and the noise of his heartbeat.

The clock ticked past midnight.

He sat up eventually, rubbing his face, the motion dragging through exhaustion. His wings rustled like heavy curtains. They were sore—always sore. They didn’t fold neatly anymore; they felt too big for his frame, too useless for their weight.

He looked toward the door. Aki’s room was across the narrow hall. He could hear the faint creak of floorboards every so often, meaning Aki wasn’t asleep either.

Angel sighed. “Fine,” he muttered. “Might as well.”

He swung his legs over the bed and stood, nearly tripping on the feathers scattered near the foot of it. Every few days he lost a few more. He pretended not to notice.

The hallway light was dim. The only real illumination came from the living room window—faint city light spilling across the floor. He crossed quietly, bare feet silent against the wood, and knocked on Aki’s door.

It opened almost immediately. Aki stood there in a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair down, cigarette in hand. He looked tired more than angry.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Angel said.

Aki just gestured for him to come in.

The room smelled faintly of smoke and clean laundry. The window was cracked open, and the cold air slipped through, tugging at the curtains.

Angel stood awkwardly near the doorway. His wings brushed the frame, shedding a faint line of feathers.

Aki sat on the edge of the bed. “What is it?”

Angel tried to start easy. “You still mad?”

“I told you I’m not.”

“You are,” Angel said softly.

Aki gave a small sigh, exhaling smoke. “You’re right. I’m still frustrated.”

The honesty should’ve been comforting. Instead, it made Angel’s throat close.

Aki leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re capable, Angel. I know that. You’ve shown it. So when you don’t try, it—” He stopped himself, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s hard to work with.”

Angel stared at the halo-light reflecting faintly off the floorboards. “You think I don’t try.”

“I think you don’t care.”

That one hit clean. Angel winced. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me,” Aki said, tone level. “Because right now, that’s all I’ve got to go on.”

Angel’s breath caught. For a moment he almost walked away—would’ve, if Aki’s voice hadn’t been so damn steady. Not harsh, not cruel. Just tired.

He laughed once, but it came out wrong. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Angel looked down at his hands. “I’m sick.”

Aki frowned. “You’ve said that before.”

“Not like that,” Angel murmured. “Not tired-sick. Real sick.”

Something in Aki’s posture shifted. The air thinned.

Angel swallowed, forcing it out before he lost the nerve. “I have HIV.”

The words fell like stones.

Aki didn’t react right away. He just blinked once, twice, the cigarette burning low between his fingers.

Angel kept going, the words tumbling now that they’d started. “It’s been months. I got it before I joined your little human army. Before the wings, even. It’s not… contagious, not like that, but—” He gestured vaguely to himself, to his halo, his feathers. “People already don’t want to touch me. If they knew, they’d stay away completely.”

The silence stretched.

Aki finally stubbed out the cigarette. “You’re serious.”

Angel gave a small, bitter laugh. “Wouldn’t joke about this one.”

“Does Makima know?”

“I’m sure she does,” Angel said. “She knows everything.”

Aki looked down, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable. “And you’re not on medication?”

Angel hesitated. “…No.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Because I’m not a fan of pretending it’ll fix anything. Because it’s a pain. Because I’m tired. Take your pick.”

Aki stared at him for a long moment. “You think this is better?”

Angel smiled faintly. “No. Just quieter.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The city hum filled the gap between them—the faint rush of cars, a dog barking somewhere far away.

Then Aki said, “You could’ve told me.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“Yes,” Aki said simply. “I wouldn’t have yelled.”

Angel huffed a laugh that almost broke halfway through. “You’d have felt sorry for me instead. I didn’t want that either.”

Aki looked at him then—really looked. “I don’t feel sorry for you, Angel. But I don’t like being lied to.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“You were hiding.”

Angel rubbed at his eyes, the motion sluggish. “Fine. Hiding, then.”

He sank down onto the floor, wings folding around him. The motion filled half the room. He looked like he was drowning in his own feathers. “You think I like this?” he whispered. “You think I like pretending I don’t care just because I can’t do what I used to?”

Aki’s voice softened. “No. But you’re not doing yourself any favors.”

Angel didn’t answer. The halo above his head pulsed faintly brighter. He wanted to say something cruel, something to make Aki leave—but all that came out was, “I just didn’t want anyone else to stop treating me like a person.”

That stopped Aki completely.

“You, Power, Denji… you’re the only ones who don’t act like I’m a bomb about to go off.” Angel laughed weakly. “And you already can’t touch me. If you knew—if you really knew—you’d stop trying altogether.”

Aki was quiet for a long time. Then, quietly: “You’re an idiot.”

Angel blinked. “What?”

Aki stood, went to the window, and flicked the last of his cigarette out into the night. “You think I’d care about something like that? You think Denji and Power would?”

Angel didn’t answer.

Aki turned, leaning against the window frame. “They’d make some dumb joke about it, ask if it’s contagious through ice cream, and go right back to annoying you. You know that.”

The image hit too close to what Angel had been scared to hope for. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Aki sighed. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Angel said, voice barely audible.

He turned to go, but Aki added, softer now, “And Angel—don’t make yourself smaller for the wrong reasons.”

Angel didn’t look back. “That’s kind of my specialty.”

When he closed the door behind him, the air felt different—not lighter, not fixed, but open.

For the first time in weeks, he felt like he’d stopped pretending.

Even if the truth had made the night heavier.

---

Angel didn’t really sleep. He’d closed his eyes and let hours pass, drifting in and out of shallow, restless half-dreams where the hum of the halo and the ache in his joints blurred into one long, pulsing noise.

By the time the sun pushed through the blinds, his head hurt from too much thinking and not enough rest. The apartment was quiet except for the sound of someone banging pans in the kitchen — Aki, probably.

Angel sat up slowly. His wings dragged across the sheets, leaving scattered feathers in their wake. His throat felt raw. He didn’t know what to do with himself — it wasn’t like there was a script for what came after telling someone you’d been hiding a death sentence.

When he stepped into the hallway, the smell of fried eggs hit him.

Aki was at the stove, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, cigarette clamped between his teeth even as he flipped an omelet. He didn’t look up when Angel entered, but there was no tension in his shoulders, either. Just that usual, quiet focus.

“Morning,” Angel said.

“Morning,” Aki replied. He didn’t ask if Angel had slept. He already knew the answer.

Power and Denji were sitting cross-legged on the floor, arguing over who got the bigger plate. Power had already stolen a piece of bacon from Denji’s dish and was clutching it like a prize.

“Give that back!” Denji snapped, reaching for it.

“Never! The Blood Fiend claims this offering!”

Angel leaned against the wall, half amused, half tired. The domestic noise filled the kitchen, making the silence between him and Aki easier to bear.

Aki finished cooking, sliding plates onto the table. “Eat before it gets cold,” he said, and Power and Denji dove in like feral animals.

Angel sat last, moving slowly, folding his wings behind him as best he could.

For a while, it was almost normal. The sound of clinking chopsticks, Power slurping her drink too loudly, Denji talking with his mouth full. It felt so normal that Angel almost convinced himself to keep the truth between him and Aki.

But Aki gave him a look — just a flick of the eyes across the table. It said you know we have to tell them.

Angel sighed quietly. He stabbed at a piece of egg and didn’t taste it.

“Hey,” he said.

Power was mid-bite. “What?”

“Put the chopsticks down for a second.”

Denji groaned. “What, you gonna say grace or something?”

“Just listen,” Angel muttered.

They both froze — not because he sounded serious, but because Angel never sounded serious.

Aki set his own plate aside. “He has something he needs to say.”

The way Aki said it made Denji instantly wary. “What, he quitting or something?”

Power gasped. “Are you dying?”

Angel winced. “Not yet.”

That got their attention. Power leaned forward, eyes wide, bacon forgotten. “Then why are you talking like that?!”

Angel’s voice came out quieter than he meant. “Because I’ve been sick.”

They blinked at him, waiting for the punchline. None came.

Denji frowned. “Like a cold?”

“Worse.”

Power squinted suspiciously. “Like… a curse?”

“No,” Angel said, looking at his hands. “Like HIV.”

The silence that followed was thick and strange — not quite heavy, but cautious. They didn’t know what to do with it.

Denji was the first to break it. “What’s that again?”

Aki sighed. “It’s a human disease. It attacks your immune system. You get it through blood.”

“Oh,” Denji said. “So you’re… sick sick?”

Angel nodded. “Yeah.”

Power tilted her head, thinking very hard. “So you can’t drink blood anymore?”

Angel blinked. “I never did.”

“Then what’s the problem?” she said, as if that solved everything.

Denji frowned, trying to piece it together. “Wait, so you’ve had it this whole time and didn’t tell us?”

Angel braced himself. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because people freak out when they hear it,” Angel said flatly. “They stop touching you. Stop sitting next to you. Stop treating you like you’re normal.”

Power pointed a dramatic finger at him. “I already never touch you!”

“That’s not the point.”

Aki was watching all three of them, silent, waiting for the shape of it to settle.

Denji looked down at his plate, then back up. “So it’s not like, contagious from breathing or something?”

“No.”

“Or like if you sneeze on me?”

Angel looked at him, deadpan. “Do I look like I sneeze on people?”

Denji considered this. “Fair point.”

Power huffed. “Then what’s everyone so scared of?”

Angel smiled faintly, bitterly. “People don’t like being reminded that someone’s dying slower than they are.”

That quieted them all for a moment.

Denji scratched his neck. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Angel said softly. “It does.”

Power nodded sagely, as if delivering some profound truth. “Then we simply won’t be scared.”

Angel blinked. “…What?”

“You said people get scared,” she said, pointing her chopsticks at him like a sword. “So we shall not! We shall continue to bother you as we always have!”

Denji grinned. “Yeah, man. You’re still our weird angel roommate who doesn’t do dishes.”

Angel stared at them, caught between laughter and disbelief. “That’s your takeaway?”

“Yup,” Denji said through a mouthful of rice. “You’re still you. You just, like, got an extra thing now.”

Aki leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath that sounded almost like relief. “Told you they’d take it well.”

Power pounded her fist on the table. “We shall protect the Angel Devil from germs and despair!”

“Don’t,” Angel muttered, hiding a small smile.

But something inside him eased, quietly, like a muscle unclenching. The fear didn’t disappear, but it softened — the kind of soft that came from being seen and not pushed away.

Aki got up to make tea. Denji and Power went right back to arguing about whose turn it was to buy groceries, as if the conversation hadn’t just cracked something open in the air.

Angel watched them all, his wings shifting slightly with each breath. For once, the weight didn’t feel as unbearable.

Aki placed a mug in front of him. “You did the right thing,” he said, low enough that the others couldn’t hear.

Angel looked down at the steam curling up from the cup. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Outside, the day was just beginning — grey and ordinary. The kind of morning that demanded nothing, promised nothing.

And for the first time in a long while, Angel didn’t feel like hiding.

Chapter Text

Breakfast had started again. Plates clattered. Power stole Denji’s sausage. Aki poured tea like nothing world-shifting had just happened.

Angel sat there, absently swirling his mug, trying to hold on to that fragile peace.
Then Denji spoke.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, halfway through another bite. “Isn’t there, like… medicine for that? The thing you got?”

Angel blinked. “What?”

Denji frowned in concentration, as if dragging the thought from deep memory. “Yeah. I think I saw a thing once—like, some people take pills and it keeps them alive and stuff. Is that not real?”

Aki looked up from his tea, quiet.
Angel hesitated. “…It’s real.”

Power’s eyes widened. “Then why have you not consumed the life-saving potion?!”

Angel sighed. “Because it’s not that simple.”

Denji leaned in. “Sounds pretty simple. There’s a pill, right? You take it?”

Angel rubbed his temple. “There was a pill. I stopped refilling it.”

The words dropped heavy.
Even Power paused mid-dramatic gesture.

Aki set down his cup. “You stopped?”

Angel’s voice was soft, defensive. “The side effects were awful. Nausea, headaches, fatigue—half the time it felt like the cure was killing me faster than the disease. And… I just got tired.”

He looked at the wall instead of their faces. “Didn’t seem worth it if I was just gonna die anyway.”

Denji frowned. “But… you said it slows it down, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So without it, it gets worse?”

“Eventually.” Angel’s hands tightened around the mug. “It turns into something called AIDS. That’s when your immune system collapses. You catch something small, and it kills you.”

Power’s chopsticks dropped onto the table with a loud clack.
“So, if you don’t take it… you die faster?”

Angel met her eyes. “Basically.”

The room went dead quiet again, but this time the silence was sharper.
Then Denji pushed his plate aside. “Okay, that’s stupid.”

Angel blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, man,” Denji said, pointing his chopsticks at him. “You got medicine that works, and you’re just, like, not taking it? That’s dumb.”

Power nodded vigorously. “The fool rejects the antidote! Truly, Angel is an idiot!”

“Thanks,” Angel muttered dryly.

But Denji wasn’t joking anymore. His tone was almost serious. “Look, you said the side effects suck, right? So what? Food tastes bad sometimes, but we still eat.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Maybe not,” Denji said, “but we kinda like having you around, dude. You’re quiet, and you make Aki less boring.”

Aki shot him a look, but didn’t argue.

Power thumped her hand on the table. “Yes! Who else shall I mock for their heavenly feathers? Nay, you shall live, winged one!”

Angel couldn’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped him. “You two are unbelievable.”

Aki leaned forward, elbows on the table. “They’re right, though. The medication works. It’s not perfect, but it works. If you start again, it’ll suppress the virus, maybe even make it undetectable.”

Angel’s brows drew together. “You sound like a doctor.”

“I did my research,” Aki said simply. “After I found out last night.”

Angel stared at him, searching for irritation or pity. There was neither — just quiet conviction.

Denji stood, already heading for the door. “C’mon, we’re going to the pharmacy.”

“What—no, you can’t just—”

Power leapt up too, grabbing her jacket like a warrior preparing for battle. “A quest for medicine! I shall lead us to victory!”

Aki sighed, standing as well. “She’s not leading anything. But Denji’s right.”

Angel blinked at them all. “You’re serious?”

Aki looked him dead in the eye. “Dead serious.”

Denji grinned. “Pun intended?”

“Denji,” Aki warned.

“Right, right.” He turned back to Angel. “Come on. You don’t gotta do it alone.”

Angel slumped. “You can’t just drag me there.”

“Watch us,” Power said, already halfway to the door.

The walk to the clinic was surreal. Angel wore his usual long coat and scarf, wings tucked tight. Power skipped ahead, swinging her arms dramatically, while Denji carried the empty prescription bottle like a trophy.

Aki walked beside Angel, quietly matching his pace.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Aki said when Angel opened his mouth.

“I wasn’t going to,” Angel replied dryly.

Aki smirked. “Good.”

But then Angel added, quieter, “Still… thanks.”

Aki nodded, eyes soft. “You’re welcome.”

Inside the small pharmacy, the lighting buzzed overhead. A few people turned when they entered — mostly because of Power’s loud whispering (“Is this the potion shop?!”) — but no one paid them much mind.

Denji marched right up to the counter. “Yo! We need HIV medicine!”

“Denji—” Aki started, mortified.

The pharmacist blinked, startled. “Um. Do you have a prescription?”

Angel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I do. Sorry about them.”

He handed over his old bottle. The pharmacist checked the label, nodded, and typed something into the computer.

“You’re a bit overdue for a refill,” she said gently. “But we can restart your regimen today.”

Angel hesitated — and Aki, standing close, caught the way his hands trembled slightly.

Denji leaned toward the counter. “These pills are the good kind, right? Like, the ‘makes you live longer’ kind?”

The pharmacist gave a polite smile. “Yes. The medication suppresses the virus so it doesn’t damage the immune system. Most people live long, healthy lives with it.”

Power clapped loudly. “Huzzah! The angel shall live to be annoying another day!”

Angel muttered, “Wonderful.”

But despite his sarcasm, he felt something unfamiliar stir under his ribs. Relief.

When they stepped back outside, Denji held the paper bag like treasure. “Here. Don’t drop it.”

Angel took it, staring down at the label — his name printed neatly on the side, a fresh date underneath. The bottle was small, ordinary. Almost insultingly normal for something that could decide how long he lived.

Aki glanced over. “You should take one now. It’s best to start again as soon as possible.”

Angel hesitated. “You’re all really not letting me skip this, huh?”

“Nope,” Denji said cheerfully. “You’re stuck with us.”

Power crossed her arms, grinning. “We are your caretakers now! Denji shall remind you daily!”

Denji groaned. “Wait, what—?”

Aki ignored them both. “Come on, let’s head home.”

Back at the apartment, Angel sat on the couch, the bottle in his hand. The others loitered nearby, blatantly watching him. Power perched on the armrest like a hawk. Denji leaned forward with the intensity of someone watching a bomb get defused.

Angel sighed. “You’re all insane.”

Aki raised an eyebrow. “Pill.”

Angel rolled his eyes, popped the cap, and swallowed one with a sip of water.

Denji cheered. Power threw her arms up in triumph. “He hath taken the cure!”

Angel groaned. “You’re making it weird.”

Aki leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’ll get used to it again. Side effects will pass.”

Angel glanced at him. “…You really think so?”

Aki’s voice softened. “I know so.”

For a long moment, Angel just sat there, the taste of the pill still bitter on his tongue — but the weight of it somehow lighter than it had ever been.

Denji and Power went back to arguing about snacks, already onto the next thing, while Aki gathered the dishes from breakfast.

Angel looked at them — his ridiculous, loud, stubborn little family — and felt something fragile but steady settle in his chest.

Hope, maybe.

He didn’t want to die so much.
Not yet.
Not when they still cared enough to make him live.

---

The pill sat on Angel’s tongue like a pebble made of rust and chemicals. He grimaced before he even swallowed, his expression scrunching up so sharply that Power, sitting cross-legged on the armrest beside him, burst into laughter.

He swallowed it anyway. Barely. The bitterness spread instantly, powdery and metallic, clinging to his tongue like a curse.

“Ugh,” he groaned, pressing a hand to his mouth. “I forgot how disgusting these things are.”

Power leaned forward, eyes wide with mock concern. “Well? Has the medicine worked yet? Are you healed?!”

Angel gave her a flat look. “Do I look healed?”

She gasped dramatically, as if betrayed. “You mean— it failed?! Blasphemy! Give me one, I shall test it myself!”

“You wouldn’t last a day,” he muttered, voice rough.

Denji nearly spit out his drink from laughing. “You sound like an old man choking on vitamins.”

Angel glared sideways. “You’re one to talk. I’ve seen you eat noodles that were older than you.”

Aki, standing by the counter where the dishes soaked in warm water, spoke without turning. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging him,” Angel said. “I’m insulting him. There’s a difference.”

Power gasped again, this time louder. “The angel admits to cruelty!”

Angel sighed and picked up his glass of water, swishing the last of it in his mouth to chase away the lingering bitterness. It didn’t help much. If anything, it made the taste sharper. He set the glass down, staring at the thin rim of bubbles around the edge.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

The apartment hummed with its usual late-night sounds — the kettle cooling, the faint drip from the sink, Power chewing too loudly on a stolen cracker. Angel’s wings shifted behind him with a tired rustle, feathers brushing the couch.

He’d done this before — swallowed pills, smiled at people pretending not to look worried, played the part of “fine.” But he’d stopped so long ago that the taste now brought everything back — the clinic’s sterile light, the lectures from doctors, the reminder that he had to live to keep on living.

He’d grown careless. Maybe even willing to fade. And now here he was, sitting on a couch surrounded by two idiots and one exasperated man, being told to stay alive again.

“Ugh,” he said again, this time quieter. “Tastes like death.”

Denji perked up. “Ain’t that your whole thing?”

Angel didn’t even bother replying.

Power leaned closer with a conspiratorial grin. “If the taste is so foul, then I, Power the Great, shall make it better!”

“Please don’t,” Aki said immediately.

But she was already rummaging through the paper bag of medication like a wild animal. “Aha!” she cried, holding up the bottle. “I shall feed it to him wrapped in glory and protection!”

Angel blinked. “You’re not feeding me anything.”

“Silence!” Power barked, tearing the cap off with her teeth. “This is medicine, yes? Then I shall serve it to thee like a royal offering!”

Denji’s grin widened. “Oh man, this is gonna be good.”

Angel sat up straight, feathers twitching in irritation. “Power. No.”

“Power. Yes.”

“Power, no.”

“Power. YES!”

Aki sighed so deeply it sounded like it hurt. “Don’t—”

Too late. Power had grabbed a towel, wrapped a pill inside it like a sacred relic, and advanced on Angel with all the grace of a bull charging a grocery display.

Angel leaned back instinctively, halo tilting slightly with the motion. “You’re not serious.”

“I am always serious!” Power declared, already reaching for him. “Take your medicine, foul angel!”

“If you touch me,” Angel warned, voice low, “you’ll lose a few years off your lifespan.”

Power froze just long enough for her eyes to go wide—then immediately shrugged. “I have plenty to spare!”

“That’s not— that’s not how it works!” Angel snapped, scooting backward.

Denji was practically doubled over in laughter, pointing and wheezing. “She’s actually doing it— oh my god— Aki, she’s actually—”

Aki rubbed his temple, muttering, “I should’ve taken a transfer.”

Power lunged. Angel yelped, dodging behind the couch in a blur of feathers. “Stop chasing me, you lunatic!”

“Never!” she cried. “You must live long enough for me to defeat you in glorious combat!”

“I don’t even fight you!”

“Then I shall fight your will to die!”

Denji collapsed onto the carpet, tears streaming down his face. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen—!”

Angel darted left, wings brushing the wall, careful not to touch anyone. His breathing was rough, uneven. Not from fear — from fatigue. His legs trembled slightly each time he moved, but pride wouldn’t let him stop.

“Power, stop it!” Aki barked finally, stepping in. His voice was sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Power froze mid-lunge. Angel nearly stumbled into the couch.

Aki grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back before she could protest further. “You’re going to destroy the apartment.”

Power pouted but reluctantly held out the towel-wrapped pill like a child caught mid-crime. “I was helping.”

“Yeah?” Denji wheezed from the floor. “You almost helped him into the afterlife!”

“Silence, human swine!” Power snapped.

Aki ignored them both, took the towel, and unwrapped it. He dropped the pill back into the bottle with a click and set it on the table. “No more theatrics. Angel’s already taken one.”

Angel leaned on the back of the couch, feathers trembling faintly from exertion. “You’re all insane.”

Denji wiped his eyes. “You love us though.”

Angel gave him a withering look. “Define ‘love.’”

Power gasped again, clutching her chest. “He admits affection!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!”

“I didn’t!”

Aki’s voice came sharp again. “Enough!”

The apartment went still. Then, inevitably, Power muttered, “Tyrant.”

Denji snickered.

Aki exhaled through his nose, then glanced at Angel. “You okay?”

Angel took a long, slow breath, pushing his hair back. “Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “Just forgot how annoying being cared for is.”

Aki’s mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s what happens when people actually give a damn.”

Angel didn’t look at him, but his expression softened. “Guess I’ll have to get used to that again.”

Power and Denji had resumed arguing over who had to dry the dishes first. Their voices filled the space — clumsy, loud, alive.

Angel sat down again, finally still. His wings hung heavy and damp with leftover steam from his earlier shower, feathers half-fluffed. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the faint pulse of warmth that lingered in the room.

The taste of the pill was still awful, sharp on his tongue and metallic in his throat. But beneath it, there was something almost sweet — the reminder that he wasn’t alone in this ugly, ridiculous effort to stay alive.

Maybe, he thought, if they were going to keep dragging him toward life, the least he could do was walk.

He reached for his glass again, finishing the last of the water. “Still gross,” he muttered.

Aki glanced over. “Then you’re doing it right.”

Angel huffed a laugh. “Guess I am.”

---

Angel lay on his side, facing the window, wings spread across most of the mattress like a fallen tent. They still felt too heavy — drying them after showering took forever — and even now they twitched restlessly with leftover irritation. His stomach was twisting itself into knots, whether from the medication or his own dramatics, he refused to specify.

The pill bottle sat on his bedside table in accusing silence.

He glared at it.

The aftertaste still clung stubbornly to the back of his throat, chalky and bitter, like something that was never meant to touch the tongue of a living creature. His lips curled.

“Disgusting,” he muttered into his pillow. “Absolutely vile. Deadly.”

He kicked one leg halfheartedly under the blankets in protest. It didn’t change anything.

The apartment had gone mostly quiet after the chaos. Power had screamed for ten minutes about how “THE ANGEL SHALL STILL PERISH FROM THE POISONOUS HUMAN REMEDIES,” while Denji argued that medicine was probably not poisonous because it came in a “medicine bottle and not a skull bottle.” Aki had shut them both up with a single exhausted glare.

Now only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant city noise seeped through the walls.

Angel closed his eyes, breathing slowly. The nausea would fade. Probably. Maybe. He was still uncertain whether human medication expired or simply waited patiently to betray him.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Angel’s eyes opened, his wing feathers rustling. “What.”

Aki cracked the door open, just enough to peek in. The hallway light outlined his silhouette, muted and calm.

“You awake?” he asked.

“No,” Angel said flatly.

Aki ignored him and stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind him. He carried a small cup of water. Angel eyed it suspiciously, as if Aki intended to force-feed him another pill.

“You look miserable,” Aki said bluntly, setting the cup on the nightstand.

“I am miserable. I’ve been poisoned.”

“That’s the medication,” Aki reminded. “It’ll settle.”

Angel rolled onto his back, wings sprawling dramatically over the bed, tips draping onto the floor. “It tastes like death,” he complained.

“You said that already.”

“And I’ll continue saying it.”

Aki’s expression softened by a millimeter — barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. Angel was. He watched the tiny shift with quiet surprise.

Aki sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep space between them. Angel appreciated that. He hated pity, but he hated fear worse. Aki kept a respectful distance that felt intentional rather than cautious.

“How are you feeling now?” Aki asked.

“Sick.”

“Besides that.”

Angel sighed, staring at the ceiling. “Tired. Heavy.”

Aki nodded. “Side effects.”

“I know.”

For a moment they sat in silence. Angel twisted a loose feather between his fingers, avoiding Aki’s gaze. He half expected another lecture, another reminder about responsibility or health or honesty—things he wasn’t good at, things he could barely bring himself to care about when everything felt like it was slowly rotting from the inside out.

But Aki didn’t lecture.

Instead, he said quietly, “I’m glad you took it.”

Angel froze.

The words weren’t gentle. They weren’t warm. Just honest. Simple. Like a truth spoken without embellishment.

Angel finally glanced toward him. “Why?”

Aki’s arms crossed loosely. “Because I want you to get better. And because now that I know what’s actually going on, it’s… easier to understand you.”

Angel blinked at him, slow. “You’re still annoyed.”

“Yes.”

Angel huffed a small laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”

Aki didn’t deny it.

“But,” Aki continued, “I’m not annoyed about the medication. Or about helping you. I just—” He paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t like feeling helpless. Watching you struggle and not knowing why felt like… being blind.”

Angel’s jaw tightened. The guilt pressed into his ribs.

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he said quietly.

“I’m not going to,” Aki replied, just as quiet. “I’m still frustrated. But I’m also still your partner. And your friend.”

Angel’s wings twitched sharply at that word — friend — but he didn’t argue it.

Aki glanced at the pill bottle. “You’re going to keep taking them, right?”

Angel hesitated, staring at the bottle like it was a tiny demon. He chewed the inside of his cheek. The nausea, the bitterness, the heavy crash of exhaustion — none of it made the next dose feel appealing. His instinct was to avoid it. To pretend he didn’t need it. To treat the whole thing like an inconvenience that would magically resolve itself if he complained loudly enough.

But he remembered Power’s horror, Denji’s frantic questions, Aki’s anger breaking into worry. He remembered their faces when they realized he wasn’t just being lazy.

He sighed dramatically.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I’ll take them.”

Aki’s shoulders loosened — relief hidden under restraint. “Good.”

Angel added, “But I reserve the right to complain every step of the way.”

“I expected that.”

“And if I die, it’s your fault.”

“You’re not dying.”

Angel buried half his face in the pillow. “…Feels like it.”

“You’ll live,” Aki said simply. “Especially now.”

Angel peeked at him again, noting the quiet determination in his expression. Aki wasn’t happy. But he was resolute. And that meant more than Angel wanted to admit.

Aki stood, heading for the door. “If you need anything, wake me.”

Angel snorted. “I don’t need—”

“Angel.” Aki’s voice cut him off gently. “Wake me.”

Angel went quiet.

Aki left the room with the same steady silence he arrived in, closing the door halfway — an invitation, not an intrusion.

Angel stared at the pill bottle again. It didn’t look as threatening this time.

He reached out and slid it closer to the lamp, where he’d see it in the morning.

“Fine,” he whispered to no one. “I’ll live.”

His wings relaxed across the blankets, and for the first time in days, his heartbeat settled into something almost steady.

---

Aki returned from the market first, shaking rain from his hair as he stepped into the apartment. The place was unusually quiet. No bickering. No Power howling about food. No Denji rummaging through cabinets. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft ruffle of feathers.

Angel was in the kitchen.

Aki paused in the hallway, instinctively bracing for disaster—Angel rarely entered the kitchen unless he was stealing ice cream or making tea he wouldn’t finish. But then he heard the soft, even clatter of chopping. A careful sizzle. A pan being tilted with precise, practiced hands.

Angel was cooking.

Aki leaned against the doorframe, watching silently.

Angel stood by the stove, wings tucked as close as he could get them in the cramped space, hair tied with a spare elastic he must’ve stolen from the bathroom cabinet. He moved slowly—tired, Aki could tell—but with a sort of delicate certainty. Not lazy. Not “I’ll faint if I exert myself.” But intentional. Controlled. Like he knew exactly what his body could do today, and had carved out a window of strength for this and only this.

It was the first time in weeks Aki had seen Angel stand this long.

Aki’s chest tightened—not with worry, but with something like quiet relief.

Angel didn’t notice him at first. Or maybe he did, and pretended not to. Either was possible with him.

It was the smell that finally drew Denji and Power out of their room—a smell so real, so good, so unlike anything that had ever come out of Aki’s pan on a Tuesday night, that Power burst into the hallway as if summoned by divine prophecy.

“WHAT IS THAT?” she yelled, eyes wide. “WHO IS COOKING GOD’S FOOD?”

“Smells expensive,” Denji said, sniffing violently. “Smells like… like something rich people eat when they aren’t even hungry.”

Aki didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

Angel, very calmly and with zero desire to acknowledge them, flipped something golden in the pan.

Power gasped. “The angel devil has transcended! He is making FOOD OF THE HEAVENS!”

Angel sighed. “It’s just dinner.”

“JUST dinner?” Power stomped into the kitchen, peering over the counter without crossing the towel barrier they always observed around Angel. “This is a miracle! Denji! Take notes! So you may someday serve food worthy of ME!”

Denji doubled over the counter, staring reverently. “Dude… dude… is that butter? Real butter? The fancy kind Aki doesn’t let us buy?”

Aki cleared his throat, crossing his arms. “Angel’s the one who picked it out. I assumed he’d hidden it to eat alone.”

Angel didn’t look away from the pan. “I considered it.”

Power shrieked. “BLASPHEMY! The holy meal must be shared!”

Angel rolled his eyes but the corner of his mouth flickered—so small most people wouldn’t notice, but Aki did. He’d learned to read these things.

Denji leaned in further. “Wait. If Angel can cook like this… then why didn’t he do it before? Were you holding out on us? Is this—”

His eyes widened.

“IS THIS WHY YOU’RE SO PICKY?!”

Angel didn’t answer right away. He plated something delicate, aromatic, and definitely too elegant for their apartment.

Then, without turning, he said flatly:

“I have standards.”

Denji slapped the counter. “AHA! I knew it! You weren’t picky—your standards were too high for our human trash cooking!”

Power jabbed a finger toward Angel. “Confess, winged fiend! The truth is upon thee! Thy tongue hath rejected our slop for thou art a culinary god!”

Angel sighed through his nose, wings puffing despite himself. “Your cooking is… edible.”

Power collapsed dramatically on the floor. “I HAVE BEEN MORTALLY WOUNDED.”

Aki let out a breath—half amusement, half something softer—and stepped inside the kitchen. “Angel… this looks good.”

Angel finally turned to him, expression guarded as always. But something in his eyes warmed at Aki’s tone.

“It’s nothing special.”

“It smells better than anything I’ve made,” Aki admitted, a small smile tugging honestly at his mouth.

Angel blinked, startled—like he hadn’t expected that. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with praise that wasn’t sarcastic or coaxed out of him.

Denji, of course, ruined the moment instantly.

“AKI. IMPORTANT QUESTION.”

Aki didn’t even look at him. “No.”

“LISTEN. If Angel can cook this good—”

“No.”

“—then shouldn’t he, like, cook EVERY dinner?”

Power shot upright. “YES! I declare it! Angel shall be our eternal chef!”

Angel deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

But Denji was already nodding vigorously. “Think about it, dude. You don’t gotta do chores. Not dishes. Not sweeping. Not cleaning up after Power. Nothin’. Just cooking! One trade!”

Power clapped loudly. “A fair bargain! A glorious bargain! An exchange of cosmic value!”

Angel looked at them, genuinely baffled. “You’re… bribing me with not doing chores?”

“YES,” Denji said proudly.

“Of course,” Power added.

“…That’s it?” Angel asked.

Aki raised one eyebrow. “You’re acting like you don’t already ignore your chores.”

Angel stalled. “…I do some of them.”

Power burst out laughing. “HE DOESN’T!”

Denji cackled. “He really doesn’t!”

Aki couldn’t help it—he laughed too. Quiet, but real.

Angel looked horrified at the conspiracy forming around him. “No. I’m not cooking every night. This is—this was—just because I felt like it.”

“Then feel like it every day,” Denji said.

“Yeah!” Power barked. “Let thine passion lead thee!”

Angel looked at Aki like, Help me.

Aki rubbed his forehead. “They’re not going to drop this, you know.”

Angel groaned. “I know.”

The food finished cooking, and Angel carried the plates carefully to the table—Aki instinctively stepping in to help, but Angel shook his head.

“I can do it,” he murmured, surprisingly firm.

Aki stepped back.

They all sat—Power already drooling dramatically, Denji vibrating with anticipation, Aki composed but unable to hide the warmth in his chest.

Angel sat last, wings folded neatly, posture tired but proud.

Power stuffed a bite into her mouth—and froze.

Denji did the same—and froze.

Aki watched their expressions shift from shock to awe to devastation.

“Oh my god,” Denji whispered. “We’ve been eating garbage.”

“Garbage, indeed,” Power groaned. “Angel, cursed be thy talent. I shall now know no peace until you cook again!”

Angel looked down, cheeks faintly coloring. “It’s nothing special.”

“It is,” Aki said gently, and Angel’s eyes flicked up, startled again.

Aki offered a small, soft smile—the kind he didn’t give easily.

“Thank you, Angel.”

Angel’s wings shivered, just faintly.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t look exhausted.
He looked… present.

Better.

Healing.

Denji shoved another bite in his mouth. “Dude, seriously, we’re never letting you stop.”

Power slammed her hand on the table. “ANGEL IS OUR CHEF NOW! ALL OTHER CHORES SHALL BE FORSAKEN!”

Angel sighed, but his smile—barely-there, tiny, but real—lingered.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

Power shrieked in victory.

Aki watched Angel tuck into his own food, eating small bites, savoring them, eyes half-lidded with something like peace.

Yeah.

He was getting better.

---

Angel was the last one into the bathroom, as always. Not because he was slow—though, yes, he was slow—but mostly because the apartment’s routine demanded a specific order. Denji first, to get it over with. Power too because if she wasn't dragged in with Denji she would never go in at all. Aki third, because he insisted on being “efficient,” which was his personal synonym for “I need five minutes of peace before the rest of you ruin it.”

And then Angel, who stepped into the bathroom like a condemned man walking toward execution.

He didn’t hate bathing. He hated bathing with wings. Every time he washed them, he came out feeling like he’d been carrying a soaked mattress on his back. And tonight the wings absorbed even more water than usual, because of course they did. They always did.

The warm water hit his feathers, and the weight was instant—an enormous, dragging heaviness that made his shoulders sag. Angel sighed, the sound echoing against the tiled walls. His halo flickered faintly as steam curled around it.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least I didn’t die today. So that’s something.”

The shower shut off. He gave himself a moment to breathe—really breathe—because the warmth did feel good, sinking into his muscles, loosening the tiredness that still lingered under his skin even after starting the meds.

Then he opened the door a crack.

And immediately, three towels were shoved in his face.

“FINALLY!” Denji shouted. “Angel’s done! He’s done! Go, go, go!”

“You are SLOW!” Power complained. “Why must you take so long? I could have conquered two entire kingdoms waiting for you!”

Aki, behind them, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Power, you don’t even know what a kingdom—never mind. Move. We need space.”

Angel stared at the towels. “This is excessive.”

“It’s necessary,” Aki said, somehow sounding both patient and exhausted. “Unless you want mildew wings.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Angel muttered.

“Yes you would,” Aki shot back instantly.

Angel didn’t have the energy to argue.

He stepped out all the way and spread out his wings, water streaming off the massive span of them and onto the floor in a wave that made Power screech and jump back like a startled cat.

“YOU ARE A FLOOD HAZARD!” she shrieked.

“You stood directly in front of me,” Angel said flatly. “Whose fault is that?”

“YOURS!”

Aki sighed into his soul. “Alright, everyone just—towels. Come on.”

Then the drying began.

Multiple blow dryers roared to life. Towels swarmed him like overcaffeinated birds. Denji attempted to take the left wing and was nearly knocked backward by trying to avoid them in their full size.

“Holy—how do you even walk around with these?” Denji yelled over the sound of the dryers.

“I don’t,” Angel deadpanned. “I suffer.”

Power climbed onto the side of the bathtub to reach a higher part of his right wing. “Your wings are dumb! They are too big! Too heavy! Too… feathery! They mock me with their volume!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Angel said.

“It makes perfect sense!” she insisted, then promptly slipped off the bathtub edge and flopped onto the floor like a wet fish.

Angel blinked down at her. “You’re doing this voluntarily.”

Power pointed dramatically at him from the floor, hair sticking to her face. “This is loyalty! You should be grateful!”

“I am questioning your loyalty,” Angel replied.

Aki, meanwhile, quietly worked on the upper section of feathers where no one else could reach without climbing him like a jungle gym. He worked methodically, carefully, hands wrapped in towels so Angel stayed safe from contact.

None of them hesitated around him.

And for the first time since telling them… that sank in.

It wrapped around him like warmth. Familiar. Solid. Safe.

“You know…” Denji said as he wrung out a towel from the wing’s underside, “you’re kinda stupid.”

Angel blinked. “Thank you?”

“No, like—stupid-stupid.” Denji gestured broadly, nearly smacking Aki with a blow dryer. “Did you really think we’d, y’know… get weird about the whole HIV thing?”

Power sprang upright. “RIDICULOUS! I fear no disease! I bath in glory! And sometimes mud!”

“That is not helping,” Aki muttered.

Angel felt something tighten in his chest, then ease. Slowly. Carefully.

“I didn’t want to give you all another reason to avoid touching me,” he said quietly.

That got their attention.

Aki paused, dryer still in hand. Denji stopped flapping a towel. Power tilted her head like a confused bird.

“Angel,” Aki said finally, voice softer than dish soap bubbles, "HIV doesn't even spread by that kind of touch.”

Denji nodded hard. “Yeah! And I'm pretty sure your medication stops it from being spread at all.”

Power added, “Yes! And even if you were contagious, you are still MY roommate and therefore MY responsibility. I cannot let you fall ill, for who else will cook delicious meals?!”

Angel stared.

“What.”

Aki sighed, but he was smiling. Actually smiling. “You’re part of this household, Angel. And we already deal with plenty of questionable things. Denji eats expired food. Power refuses to wash her towels.”

“That happened ONE TIME!” Power yelled.

“It was seven times,” Aki corrected.

Angel suddenly felt very, very warm under all the feathers.

“Look,” Denji said, flicking a feather playfully (and safely, with a towel), “you’re stuck with us. Okay? Disease or not.”

Power nodded with conviction. “You are OUR Angel Devil! OUR feathery burden!”

Angel let out a laugh—quiet, startled, genuine.

Aki’s smile softened even further.

“There,” Aki said. “Now hold still. You’re still dripping on the floor.”

Angel didn’t argue.

He let them dry him, even when Denji accidentally blew hot air directly into his face, even when Power declared that his feathers were “improperly arranged” and began fussing with them, even when Aki had to reorder a whole section because Power made it worse.

He let them help.

He let himself be helped.

By the time they were done, his wings were fluffed, dry, and twice their original volume—Power declared him a “giant pigeon,” which was rude—but Angel didn’t even mind.

Because they were all still here.

Still touching him—through towels, yes—but without fear.

Still teasing him.

Still acting like everything was normal.

And maybe it was.

Maybe it could be.

Angel exhaled, feeling the warm flutter of relief settle in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Aki gave his shoulder a gentle pat—wrapped in a towel, of course. “Anytime.”

Denji slung an arm (toweled) around him. “We’d help dry your dumb wings every night if we had to. And we kinda do have to.”

Power jumped in front of them with a dramatic flourish. “YES! For we are invincible! And nothing shall defeat this unit of four!”

Angel smiled.

Actually smiled.

And for once, the weight on his back felt just a little lighter.