Archive of Our Own

The city is cold, night has fallen and Nishinoya’s fingers are warm inside the bright green knitted mitts when he walks around the corner of the fairly crowded sidewalk and runs headlong into a taller figure clad in a ratty aviator jacket and cheap thrift store scarf. Asahi looks exactly as he did, when he was an Archangel forty years ago in Heaven, when he was clad in pure radiant white, and when he turned his back on Nishinoya, shoulders hunched in shame and jaw set with barely restrained rage. His beard has grown in a little now and he uses a headband to hold his straggly bangs back. It makes him look unbearably… human.

“Asahi,” Nishinoya says, because he’s so dumbfounded, so far back in denial because Asahi has been out of his reach for forty fucking years, and suddenly, he’s here, on earth walking down the street with a rucksack slung over his shoulder like some tired university student on their way home. Asahi’s face is so pale he might’ve blended in with the snow if he lay down on the ground. Eons of knowing Asahi’s habits tells Nishinoya’s that he’s going to pick flight over fight, so Nishinoya grabs the taller angel (Man? Mortal?) by the arm and says, “No— no, Asahi, don’t you fucking dare run from me again— just— don’t run— hear me out— Asahi—!”

“Why are you here?” Asahi stammers desperately, trying to walk backwards, but Nishinoya’s death grip doesn’t give so they end up staggering several paces back into other passerbys who cuss and scowl at them as the crowd is forced to part.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Nishinoya demands. “Damn it, Asahi, could you, like, maybe stop running from me? Can’t we talk?”

“I don’t really want to talk,” Asahi blabs, but he’s losing the battle fast, because Nishinoya knows that Asahi hates quarreling more than he hates a confrontation, so if push comes to shove he’d give in and let Nishinoya go his way rather than argue back.

“We haven’t spoken in years, Asahi, and for once, I’d really like to listen to an explanation from you rather than the stupid gossip other angels in Heaven like dispensing so much.”

With those words, Asahi’s face crumbles, and Nishinoya knows it’s a sealed deal. They stand in the middle of the sidewalk, completely unconcerned by the annoyed tutting from various pedestrians as they’re forced to part for the pair, because as far as Nishinoya’s concerned this is the first time he’d laid eyes on Asahi in four decades, and he really, really, really doesn’t want to look away.

After several moments, Asahi breaks eye contact and ducks his head, scratching the back of his head with trembling fingers.

“I have an apartment four blocks away,” he finally says. “Can we talk there?”

+

There are two flat mates in the fourth floor apartment when Asahi manages to fumble the door open, one with messy dark hair and the other with cat-like amber eyes and a self-done blond dye job. They’re sitting on the mismatched sofa together, facing the blaring television, though the cat-eyed male is completely preoccupied by his phone as the other mashes buttons on his video game controller and sucks on a something that definitely smells like weed.

“Yo, Azumane. Who’s that?”

Asahi looks like he’s beyond the ability of forming a coherent sentence, so Nishinoya just sticks up a hand and carelessly greets the pair. “I’m Nishinoya. Just a friend.”

“Hiya, Nishinoya Just A Friend,” the dark-haired guy grins back, showing his canine teeth. “I’m Kuroo. This is Kenma.”

Kenma looks up, face passive. His hair is showing black at the roots.

“Nice mittens.”

“Thanks,” Nishinoya grits out as he takes them off reflexively, stuffing them into his pockets. There’s something unsettling about the both of them, but humans have always been a weird species, and Nishinoya’s got more important matters to worry about. He shoots the flat mates a strained smile and pushes Asahi forwards until they’ve migrated to what appears to be for former Archangel’s bedroom. It’s small, and appears even tinier with a six foot tall guy shuffles his way inside. There’s a desk with some books and paper stacked on it, an Ikea wardrobe that’s got a dent in it, and a bed pushed up against the wall, which has a generic calendar real estate agents hand out tacked above the headboard. Even the bedspread is a dull navy blue, without patterns or designs on it. It looks so normal it almost hurts.

“How long have you been living here?” Nishinoya asks, because the room looks lived in, but Asahi doesn't look like he's aged, even if he has fallen. For the last couple of decades he would’ve had to move various times.

“It’ll be two years soon,” Asahi mumbles, dropping his rucksack under the desk and unzipping his jacket. He has a plain crewneck sweater underneath, and he rolls up the sleeves before turning to face Nishinoya.

“Um. Do you want to, uh, sit down?”

“Sure,” Nishinoya replies, and he plops himself down on the bed, making the folded sheets crease from where his weight dips into the mattress. A shadow passes over Asahi’s face as he sits down on the chair by the desk, and Nishinoya blinks before he looks down and realizes that the creases on the bed have taken the shape of wings behind him.

That’s another thing. Sometimes, no matter how good their human disguise is, an angel’s wings will always show through, whether it’s a flickering shadow on the wall, a flutter of air on a windless day, or sleek, coloured feathers that ends up mysteriously all over the place— unless, of course, the angel doesn’t have wings anymore.

Nishinoya’s gut tightens. He shifts his weight, and the movement messes up the creases.

“So,” he clears his throat. “You’re living in Japan now?”

“Yeah,” Asahi says, lacing his fingers together on his lap. Nishinoya almost asks what are you, a five year old at a parent teacher interview?, but the next words out of his mouth are, “Did you ever think of, y’know, giving me a chance to talk to you? Maybe get the story straight from you, instead of hearing what all those other ingrates felt like making up?”

He’s trying to guilt trip Asahi, and both of them know it, but Asahi just scrunches his shoulders even more and says quietly, “I didn’t want to talk.”

“You never want to talk,” Nishinoya cries, throwing his hands up. “Remember when we first met? I talked to you. Remember when you first met Daichi-san and Suga-san? They talked to you too. If none of us talked to you, you probably would’ve hidden away for the rest of time.”

“This is different,” Asahi argues, his expression pained. “This is— personal.”

“Just because it’s personal doesn’t mean can’t accept help,” Nishinoya groans, waving his hands theatrically. “You— I asked you, I nearly begged you to tell me what happened, why the Council wanted to cast you out of Heaven, but you just— you just turned your fucking back on me and walked out—”

“I didn’t want to tell you I failed, you know,” Asahi interrupts, and he looks beyond distressed but his words are steady. “Do you think failure is something you want to tell a friend? Did you really think I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you exactly what I did wrong, and all the things that have fallen apart because of me?”

“I wouldn’t have looked at you any differently.”

“Then you should,” Asahi growls, and passed a weary hand over his aggravated expression. “I am— was— an Archangel, Nishinoya. I carried duty to protect the lives of those would change the world, and I— I let the man I was tasked with protecting die. Do you think that’s forgivable in the eyes of the Council? Did you think I could forgive myself for allowing that to happen?”

“I still wouldn’t have left you,” Nishinoya replies, but his mouth is dry and his chest is hollow, because forty years later, the truth is laid out before him, bare and unsullied, straight from the mouth of his friend. He’d known that Asahi had failed his mission, or at least, gotten the gist of it from the rumors flying back and forth in Heaven, but to hear the words come out of Asahi’s mouth like the man had physically forced himself to drag each syllable from his throat is something else entirely. Archangels stand higher than Guardian angels in Heaven’s social hierarchy, and whereas Nishinoya’s task is to preserve and guard the happiness of those living everyday lives, Asahi had to protect those with the capabilities to transform the word. The consequences of failure are, unsurprisingly much more severe for Archangels.

“To be honest I really don’t think I deserve to stay by your side, even if you left,” Asahi blurts out, and Nishinoya feels something shatter in his chest (but wasn’t Asahi supposed to be the one with the glass heart, as the others used to tease?)

“Shut up,” he says, and he’s shaking with rage. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m being honest. You wanted me to tell you what I did, what I felt, didn’t you? This is everything I’ve thought of.”

“And avoiding me, hiding from me, for the last forty years was your way of being honest?”

“There was no way I could bring myself to face you then,” Asahi grits out. “I can barely face you now.”

“What? You’re scared of me, scared that I’d be like the other angels and stab you in the back?”

Asahi’s jaw tightens and his hands are nearly unraveling the threat at the hem of his sweater before he took a breath and says, “Yes.”

Nishinoya gets up and punches him.

His hand stings and Asahi jerks backwards with the force of the strike, and his elbow knocks the pile of textbooks off the desk with loud thumps. On his feet, Nishinoya is just a bit taller than Asahi, and he has to look down his nose as he says, “Fuck you, Asahi. After spending hundreds years together, it seems like you never even bothered to know me at all.”

Asahi’s face crumples, but he doesn’t speak as Nishinoya turns on his heels, wrenches the bedroom door open and stalks across the apartment, heart rattling in his ribcage. This is why he doesn’t like being in his mortal form— the human body reacts to emotions too easily.

“Come again soon!” Kuroo calls from where he’s slouched on the sofa, smoking a cigarette now, and Nishinoya yanks open the front door and leaves without another word.

The lift he takes to get downstairs is pathetic and rickety, and the door gets stuck against a pile of snow when Nishinoya shoves against it. White fluff is falling from the sky as he storms out of the building, sneakers sinking into coldness and cheeks stinging from the sudden gust of wind. The people on the sidewalk are gone now, because it’s later than he expected, and he’s walking alone in the middle of a city, the same way he did up in the skies, when Asahi fell.

He trips over the uneven sidewalk and has to stick out his bare hands to break his fall, and ends up scraping his palms. It stings.

“You okay there, laddie?”

Nishinoya looks up, startled, and there’s an elderly man in a puffy brown coat standing several feet away from him, packing up a takoyaki stand for the night. He gestured to Nishinoya’s hands. “That’s quite a fall you took there.”

“I’m okay, gramps,” Nishinoya replies, and his voice sounds nasally, like a child’s. “S’nothing I can’t handle.”

“You sure?” the old man asks. “I think you’ve got something in your eye.”

There are tears running down his face, and no matter how hard Nishinoya sniffs, they won’t go away.

“I think you’re right. M-maybe I did f-fall really h-hard.”

The old man smiles gently, the kind of smile that seems to see right through sloppily put-together façades, and he waves a hand. “I’m sure you did, kiddo. C’mere, I’ll fix you up a snack, on the house.”

Nishinoya wanders forwards, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and he nods.

(They both know it isn’t the scrape that’s making him cry.)

“Okay. Thank you, gramps.”

“No problem, lad.”

+

“Gwuuahhh!”

“Oi, Hinata, watch it, seriously! What are you, five?”

“It was an accident, really!”

“Accident my ass, if you’d actually look to see where you were going on the stairs—”

“But I’m carrying all your books, Bakageyama, how am I supposed to see?”

“Why you little—!”

“Gyahh! No! Not the Knuckle Sandwich of Doom— gyaAHHH!”

“You’re zoning out, Nishinoya.”

“Whoa!” Nishinoya jumps, loses his footing, and nearly falls off the top of the bus shelter he’s standing on before someone grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him upright.

“Watch out, you dork, seriously.”

“Not fair, Daichi-san, Suga-san,” he pouts, straightening his shirt. “You guys scared me.”

“I called out to you several times,” Daichi says, tucking his hands into the pocket of his pants as he arranges his bronze coloured wings comfortably behind his back. “It’s your fault if you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was just thinking about something,” Nishinoya mumbles, his own jet-black wings fluttering in response. Their dark colours contrasts with Suga’s, whose feathers have always been a crystal clear silver.

“The poor orange-haired kid almost tripped twice on his way up the stairs,” Daichi says matter-of-factly, glancing through the window of the high school building that one Hinata Shouyo and Kageyama Tobio attends. “I think your negativity is affecting him.”

“I’m not being negative.”

“Speak for yourself. I can practically see a storm cloud brewing over your head.”

“Now, now, Daichi, don’t tease him like that,” Suga says, elbowing Daichi in the ribs. “What’s the matter, Nishinoya? You don’t look too well.”

He knows he doesn’t look good at all— he hasn’t slept since he stormed out of Asahi’s apartment a week ago. He’s lucky he can’t get sick; even though it’s winter, he, Daichi and Suga are all dressed in casual white clothing that blends in with the snow, and they’re barefooted. The concept of cold doesn’t really affect heavenly deities the way it does mortals, it seems. But even though he’s no longer in his human form, his immortal body can still suffer if he’s not resting well.

He briefly wonders whether or not he should tell Suga and Daichi about Asahi.

“Whoa!”

“Ack! Kageyama! Don’t grab my hood—!”

“Who the hell didn’t wipe their spilled milk on the ground? Jesus Christ, people these days.”

“Pfft. You sound like an old man. Did you slip in that?”

“S-shut up, Hinata!”

“Hey! Earth to Nishinoya!”

A snap of fingers in front of his eyes brings Nishinoya sharply back to the present, where Daichi is staring at him like an exasperated geezer and Suga has his ‘Mama Suga’ face on again.

“Seriously, what are you playing at?” Daichi demands. “The other guy nearly slipped and fell because you were out of it again.”

“What’s on your mind?” Suga asks gently, and Nishinoya very nearly spills everything right there, but he catches himself in time. Instead, he looks to where Hinata is running in circles around the puddle of spilled milk, fleeing from a furious Kageyama.

“Say, hypothetically, if you had a friend whom you thought you were very close with, and it turns out you weren’t close at all, what would you do?”

“Huh?” Daichi asks helpfully, and Suga elbows him again.

“What do you mean, it turns out you weren’t close at all? Do you mean a one-sided friendship?”

“Er, no, not exactly,” Nishinoya mumbles, flicking his wings a little. The little patches of bright yellow at the tips gleam in the afternoon sunlight. “Like, you’ve been friends for a very long time, and you thought you knew this person, and this person knew you, but apparently they… didn’t understand you at all. Or, they thought you’d do something, even when you wouldn’t.”

“What context is this in?” Daichi frowns. “It sounds like a misunderstanding?”

“I think it’s more than that,” Nishinoya moans, yanking on his hair. “Like, I thought that my friend knew how much I respected him, and that I’d believe him, not matter what, but he thought that I would turn my back against him when he got into trouble. Does that mean he’s never trusted me this whole time? Does that mean he never considered us friends?”

He can see Daichi and Suga exchange looks, and then they smile, a little secretly. Suga turns and places a comforting hand on Nishinoya’s shoulder, his expression gentle.

“What I think is happening here is a misunderstanding born out of fear.”

“Fear? Of what?”

“The fear of failure,” Daichi pitches in. “This person is afraid they’ll let you down, given how much you seem to look up and respect them. It’s not easy being admired or looked up to, you know. There’s pressure behind that, and I think, in the event that they’ve made an error, they fear that you, as a friend, would leave him behind. It’s a perfectly valid fear, you know, if he wasn’t confident in knowing that your friendship wasn’t wholly based on admiration.”

“Huh,” Nishinoya says. “That’s… one way to look at it.”

“You should talk with them,” Suga adds. “Get both sides of the story, and convey your feelings so that there won’t be any more confusion in the future.”

“And so you can get back to being a Guardian angel properly, you fool,” Daichi scoffs. “Look at those two. They’re all over the place.”

“Oh, shut up,” Nishinoya grumbles, whacking Daichi’s arm with his wing. “Why are you two over here, anyway?”

“We’re looking after those two,” Suga says brightly, waving his hand towards a tall, glasses-wearing boy and a shorter boy with a smattering of freckles on his cheeks.

“And as you can see, Tsukishima-kun and Yamaguchi-kun got up the stairs and around the puddle with no problem because unlike some people, Koushi and I are focused on our jobs,” Daichi tacks on and Nishinoya makes a face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll stay on my toes!” he yells as he spreads his wings and takes flight. “Gotta go— I think Kageyama’s trying to strangle Hinata because he ate the last pork bun!”

“Watch where you’re flying!” Suga screeches as Nishinoya swerves to avoid a flagpole. “Oh, good grief, he’s a mess today.”

“I wonder if he noticed he switched from his hypothetical friend to himself when he was giving us his ‘example’,” Daichi says, and Suga chuckles.

“Probably not. It might’ve been an unconscious reaction. Something really must be weighting heavily on his mind.”

Daichi hums, and then glances off into the distance. “Do you think it could be Asahi?”

“I was just thinking of him too. Only Asahi would make Nishinoya so flustered.”

“It’s been so long since they last talked. I really hope Nishinoya didn’t punch him or something.”

“Knowing him? I bet you anything he did,” Suga laughs softly, and sweeps a bit of snow off the edge of the roof with his foot. “I hope Asahi will find us soon. He knows there’s ways to catch an angel’s attention. I miss him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Daichi sighs, a fond smile on his face as he slings an arm around Suga’s shoulders. “Let’s hope Nishinoya gets his point across and through that idiot’s thick skull, because if he doesn’t get his game together, I think we can start planning Hinata’s funeral.”

+

It took three tries to find the right apartment because Nishinoya’s human form has a pretty terrible memory, so after getting barked at by three dogs, interrupting an old lady’s dinner, and fending off a leery bald guy, he finally locates the correct door on the fourth floor because just as he’s about to knock, the door swings open and Kenma is staring at him with those large, unnerving cat eyes.

“Um, hi,” Nishinoya says, and Kenma steps back wordlessly to let him in. The flat is in another form of frantic disarray than last time. Two overflowing laundry baskets are waiting to be taken for a wash, a half-finished model airplane is drying on the coffee table and Kuroo is sitting at the tiny plastic kitchen table with a box of pizza, wearing a beat-up grey tank top and dog tags as he drinks something that smells vaguely alcoholic.

“Oh hey, if it isn’t Nishinoya Just A Friend,” Kuroo grins. “What brings you back to our humble abode?”

“I’m looking for Asahi,” Nishinoya says, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. “Is he out?”

“Nah, he’s just taking a shower,” Kuroo says, jerking his thumb towards a closed door at the end of the hall. “You’re here kinda early. Did you take time off work or something? I mostly thought Guardian angels worked around the clock.”

“What?” Nishinoya splutters, because of all the things he’d expected to hear, that was definitely not it.

“It’s not like you were particularly diligent as a Guardian angel yourself, Kuroo,” Kenma says blandly as he takes a seat across on the other side of the table and helps himself to a pepperoni and bacon pizza. “The amount of times I ended up with my head down a toilet is proof of that.”

“Godddd, Kenma, I said was sorry,” Kuroo whines, wiggling in his seat, and all Nishinoya can say again is, “What.”

Kuroo grins. “Ever wondered why Asahi roomed with us, of all people? He and I are kinda alike, y’know, in the sense that we both used to be angels and now we’re not.”

“You were a— a Guardian angel?” Nishinoya repeats, brain trying very hard to process that information quickly. “But— what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Kuroo shrugs, taking a bite of food. “I was assigned to watch Kenma, then I kinda fell for him, so I resigned and handed over my wings and immortality to the Heavenly Council of snooty, no-fun douches to spend time with my boyfriend. So in case you’re wondering, I’m also actually human now. I age and I need to shit. It’s weird.”

“Is Asahi also—?”

“Well, he poops too, so I assume he’s also a sort-of mortal,” Kuroo says. “But you’ll have to ask him for the details. I don’t pry about sensitive stuff.”

“Right,” Nishinoya says, blinking. “Well. I’m just gonna. Wait for him. I guess.”

“Ah, got wait for him in his room,” Kuroo says, waving Nishinoya away. “I’ll let him know you’re hanging around. Here,” he adds, holding out the glass of dark liquid. “Have a swig of this for some liquid courage.”

“Er. Okay.”

He takes a gulp and yup, it’s tequila, with something fruity mixed into it. He shudders a little at the strange taste and hands it back to Kuroo.

“Good luck,” Kenma says monotonously as Nishinoya crosses the living room and lets himself into Asahi’s bedroom again.

The heater is on this time, and it makes a rattling noise as it struggles to pump hot air into the room. The sheets have been changed to an equally unexciting grey set, but the books on Asahi’s desk are open and he looks like he’s in the middle of something. Nishinoya wandered over, feeling a little nosy, and glances at the current page of what appeared to be an English textbook.

Beowulf

Prologue

Listen!

We have heard the glory in bygone days

of the folk-kings of the spear-Ddanes

how those noble lords did lofty deeds.

Often Scyld Scefing seized the mead-benches

from many tribes, troops of enemies,

struck fear into earls. Though he first was

found a waif, he awaited solace for that—

he grew under heaven and prospered in honor

until every one of the encircling nations

over the whale’s-riding had to obey him,

grand him tribute. That was a good king!

The bedroom door opens, and Nishinoya tears his eyes away from the poem as though he’d been caught snooping (not really) and leaps around to face Asahi, words on the tip of his tongue—

But everything he wants to say dies away the moment Asahi walks into the room, towel draped over his head, utterly shirtless and clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs. Their eyes meet, (Asahi’s still sporting an impressive black eye) and Nishinoya’s jaw drops.

The door swings shut behind them, and Asahi shrieks.

Nishinoya jumps, startled, and trips over his own feet, landing hard on his ass.

“Holy shit, Asahi! Why are you screaming?”

“Why are you in my room?!”

“Kuroo told me to wait in here!”

“Kuroo? He didn’t say anything about you coming!”

“He— what?” Nishinoya splutters. “That bastard!”

“I’m not wearing a shirt,” Asahi cries, wringing his hands desperately.

“Oi, it’s not like I’ve never seen a guy’s chest before,” Nishinoya complains, but Asahi’s expression falls as he goes silent, and somehow, Nishinoya knows there’s more to it.

“Asahi?” he ventures.

“Can you close your eyes?” Asahi says quietly, hovering in the doorway. Nishinoya bites his lip, but he nods and scoots around until he faces the wall. There’s some shuffling sounds, a creak of the wardrobe wall, and then a couple of seconds later Asahi says meekly, “Okay, you can look.”

He’s wearing a pair of slacks and a fitting dark t-shirt. Nishinoya stands up.

“Um, how’s your eye?”

“It’s better,” Asahi replies, clasping his hands behind his back. His face is red and he looks helpless. It hurts to see him like that.

“I’m sorry,” Nishinoya blurts out, and Asahi looks up, surprised now. “I’m sorry I hit you, that I lost my temper with you, that I didn’t listen— that I didn’t make it clear enough that even though I admire you, I value our friendship and the time we spent together over my admiration of you.”

“W-what do you mean?” Asahi asks, looking terribly confused.

“Well, you know,” Nishinoya mumbles, feeling embarrassment rising in his face now that the initial rush of confidence has fizzled a little. “Just— maybe I created a misunderstanding between us. I used to follow you around and hang out with you all the time and maybe I’ve created this impression that I only liked you because you were a mighty Archangel, and all that. That wasn’t it, Asahi. You were a cool guy to talk to, and naturally, I just wanted to be friends, regardless of your status.”

Asahi is silent for several moments, but he’s raised his head and is looking Nishinoya in the eye now. He feels like those dark, curious brown eyes are searching his soul.

“I was afraid,” Asahi says after a while. “Of letting you down. You’re right, but you’re also wrong. I know you admired me, so I wanted to do the best in my work. But I also knew you wanted to be my friend, and what I wasn’t certain of was whether or not you’d want to be friends with someone as dull as myself.”

“Dull? Shit, Asahi, you were never dull. Once you got going at the drinking parties you never stopped.”

“Please don’t remind me of those,” Asahi moans, face flushing. “I panicked, Nishinoya. I panicked when I failed my job as an angel. I didn’t want to be seen as a failure, especially when I could hardly believe I became friends with you and Suga and Daichi and so many other people. I ran from my fears, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Can we call it even, then?” Nishinoya asks quietly. “Because, y’know, forty years was a pretty long time, even though I’m immortal.”

“We’re even, then,” Asahi agrees, giving Nishinoya a tiny but genuine smile, and Nishinoya swears he feels his heart swelling to twice its size. He barrels forwards without thinking and throws his arms around Asahi, squeezing tight, and after a moment of hesitation, he feels the other hugging him back, slowly, then just as warmly, and then fiercely, like Asahi’s afraid Nishinoya will vanish in his arms.

He missed this. He really, really, really missed this.

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” Asahi mumbles against the top of his head. “You need to trim it.”

“I don’t wanna hear that coming from mister tiny ponytail over there.”

“Okay, okay, fair point.”

“You know, I said it’s been forty years…” Nishinoya frowns, pulling back. “But you haven’t aged. Aren’t you mortal, like Kuroo?”

“Well… not exactly,” Asahi says, scratching his cheek. His other arm is still curved around Nishinoya’s waist, warm and secure. “The council banished me from Heaven, but they didn’t take away my powers or my immortality. Mostly it’s like everything’s been dialed down, so I think I am aging, but very, very, very slowly.”

“Like a giant turtle, then.”

“Ugh, sure. Like a turtle,” Asahi grumbles, and Nishinoya snickers until he runs his hands up Asahi’s back and he freezes.

“Asahi,” he says slowly. “Where are your wings?”

The taller of the two runs his tongue over his lips and says quietly, “Ah.”

Nishinoya doesn’t like the sound of it.

“Asahi? What’d the Council do to you?”

Asahi takes a step back and frees his arms from around Nishinoya before he tugs his shirt up, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the chair. He turns, and Nishinoya instinctively knows what he’s going to see before he actually does.

Where there was once wings extending from the strong frame, and broad shoulder blades is nothing but two imprints, blackened and almost burnt into the skin stretching over the firm back muscles. Nishinoya sucks in a breath and reaches out hesitantly, stroking over the soot-like images of feathers and wing joints spreading from the centre of Asahi’s back and all the way over to the tops of his arm.

“Did they… burn your wings?”

“Eh? No! No, no, my wings weren’t burned off,” Asahi says, shifting. “This is like a scar, I suppose? Or a stamp, maybe, to compensate for something that’s now lost. The Council put a curse over my wings, and they shattered.”

“Your wings did what?”

“It didn’t hurt!” Asahi adds quickly, obviously sensing Nishinoya’s distress. “But it felt… empty. My bones felt hollow, like I was missing a part of my soul.”

“Does it hurt now?” Nishinoya asks quietly, running his fingers down Asahi’s spine.

“…on rainy days, sometimes, the way elderly people’s joints feel tired when it rains.”

“You’re not exactly elderly, you know.”

“I’m still pretty damn old though, did you forget? I’ve been alive for a couple centuries already.”

“If you insist on being considered old,” Nishinoya grumbles, and Asahi smiles hesitantly at him over his shoulder.

“Actually, your hand feels… it kind of takes that hollow feeling away.”

“Does it?” Nishinoya asks, surprised. Asahi blushes again.

“Yeah. Kinda. How do I put it? It feels like my wings are there again. I don’t know why, but that’s how it feels.”

“Maybe you’re missing home,” Nishinoya says softly, and Asahi’s back tenses slightly.

“Maybe I am,” he slowly agrees. “But does this mean you’re the home I’ve been missing?”

“What?” Nishinoya stammers, and god, he’s going red too, this is disastrous. “That was cheesy, Asahi!”

“I know,” Asahi says, ducking his head and failing to hide a little grin. “It’s just— I’m glad you’re here, Yuu.”

His face is heating up desperately now, and Asahi’s face is close, close enough that Nishinoya can see, amidst the soft brown colour of Asahi’s eyes, there is an underlying golden glow (the same colour his wings used to be). Their lips touch before Nishinoya even realizes it, and then, he finds that he really doesn’t want to let go. His arms to up, around Asahi’s neck, and he’s pulling him closer because Asahi’s so warm, so warm—

Asahi kisses him back.

+

The night is still cold, the stars are peeking out from under the clouds and Nishinoya’s fingers are warm from where they’re twined around Asahi’s under the covers. Asahi is snoring softly, and Nishinoya smiles to himself as he rolls around until they’re facing each other, and he can slide one hand under the covers and stroke the imprints of Asahi’s missing wings along his back. The scruff on his chin, the splay of his wavy hair and the slight scrunch in his nose makes Asahi not only look but feel human as well…

And they’re at peace.

+

End