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Minseok can’t look at the garden. He can’t even spare a glance at the wilted chrysanthemums, hyacinths, and climbing white roses, their petals turning sickly brown. If he does, he’s scared he won’t be able to walk away from here—spending the rest of the eternity surrounded by what remains of Jongdae sounds lovely.
He’d shared this house with Jongdae for years—close to a century in fact. Now there isn’t a single thing of his left here, only the flowers.
Angels aren't supposed to fall in love, but Minseok never cared about that supposed rule. His love for Jongdae was chaste, free from all sin and temptation. Some would call it incorrupt, like the finger bones and femurs of saints, untainted as if the human bone was actually polished ivory.
That’s why Jongdae’s fall hurt the way it did, like a spear going right through his white-feathered wings during battle. Angels don’t fall, not anymore, nowadays, everyone clings to their grace the way a child hugs their favorite toy when the parent threatens to take it away.
“Why did you let this happen?” Baekhyun asks one day, the tone of his voice accusatory and his light-yellow wings on full display. No one should see them through the kitchen window.
Minseok doesn’t have an answer; he chooses to stay silent.
“Do you want to watch the garden waste away?” Baekhyun asks again.
“It’s all that’s left of him,” Minseok says, looking out the window, his eyes focused on the dried-up leaves.
“Then take care of it!”
In all the millennia Minseok’s been on Earth, he’d never had to tend to a garden. The flowers don’t mind, they flourish under his touch, as if only the presence of an angel can bring them back to life. He spends the rest of his morning caressing every stem, petal, and even thorn—his hands starting to bleed by the end from all the scratches.
Minseok lets himself cry in his little Garden of Eden. Jongdae's roses are his crown-of-thorns, the physical manifestation of his guilt and suffering. He could make a wreath out of them and put it on his head, let the blood drip on his face and mix with his tears.
“Is everything okay?” he hears a familiar voice ask and at first he decides to ignore it—Jongdae can't be here, the gates of Hell are locked. No demon can get out of there without permission.
"Hello? Can you hear me?"
The angel turns around. Before him stands Jongdae, his beloved Jongdae, but it can’t be him. Even if he looks the same, it’s not him.
"Who are you?" Minseok sobs, the tears obscuring his vision and making the world look like an abstract painting.
"My name's Chen," he says firmly. "Can I—ah, fuck it."
Minseok hears the man come into the garden, the small, metal doors creaking. "Can you tell me what happened?" Chen touches Minseok's lacerated hands as he crouches next to the angel. "What have you done to yourself…"
"The flowers—they wilted. I couldn’t even look at them since...” Minseok takes a deep breath, the air filling his lungs and making him feel like he could fly without spreading his wings. “You’re not Jongdae…”
“Not anymore,” he says, cupping Minseok’s face. His hair is slicked back and his makeup matches the bright-red, perfectly fitted suit he’s wearing—demons are excellent at first impressions. “But I’m still the same, I’m still yours, Min.”
Minseok allows himself to be comforted by Chen’s touch, he brings him closer, leaning against his chest. “Please, don’t leave me again.”
Chen hugs him tighter, his hands are cold, they’ve always been, it seems like even the hellfires couldn’t warm them. “I promise."
***
"What does it feel like to… fall?" Minseok asks that evening, Chen's legs draped over him as they sit on the bed.
"It's like you're getting split in half," the demon answers with hesitation. "But it's not painful, even losing my wings didn't hurt."
Minseok instinctively touches Chen's back. He can feel the scars through the material of his suit. "Demons don't have wings?"
"No, that's the price you pay for freedom. You have to reject everything heavenly about you to enter Hell."
"I'd gladly do it for you," Minseok confesses, his throat feeling tight. "I don't want to be an angel if I can't be with you." He knows the reason why Jong—Chen showed up at his doorstep. It's much easier to corrupt a heartbroken angel.
Minseok's a prize to be won, he's a skilled archer and a leader, in short, a valuable asset for the ranks of Hell. It's beneficial for demons to have him on their side, especially if he's ready to sacrifice himself.
"If you want to join me—kiss me." Chen smiles, his sharp, pearly-white teeth on display.
The angel brings him closer, their foreheads touching and fingers intertwined. Minseok would've never guessed that bringing ultimate damnation upon himself would be so pleasant, that it would feel so right. It's like the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, except it's not a messenger of God touching Minseok, but a being that rebelled against Him.
Chen kisses him as Minseok's soul tears in half, rejecting the grace that was given to him during creation. The snow-white feathers from his wings fall out and change their color to black on their way to the ground, only to turn to ash, as if it was the beginning of Lent.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Minseok bares his neck, lets Chen mark him, his sharp teeth scratching the delicate skin on his collarbones and around his throat. Chen unbuttons his shirt, letting the cold air caress Minseok's chest.
"I've loved you for centuries, maybe longer," he tells Chen, his voice rough.
Chen laughs, his breath tickling Minseok, it sounds bitter. "Me too, I know, that's why I wanted you to fall with me."
Minseok's only regret is that now no one will take care of the garden.