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“leave, demon.”
“ah, so it’s demon now?”
yes. it’s demon now, because atsumu can’t bring himself to learn his demon name, can’t bring himself to call him anything other than the name he was first given, but once an angel falls, they lose that privilege. they lose that golden ichor and the white feathers; their blood turns black and tongues turn silver.
“leave, or i’ll be forced to remove you, demon.”
“don’t be so arrogant. i was once a Power.”
in heaven there are three spheres. where the first sphere is composed of heaven’s most powerful soldiers and souls, within the second sphere lies Powers, the warriors who guarded and guided the celestial bodies ensuring cosmic balance. they were the soldiers who opposed evil in their world. atsumu falls into the third sphere as not a Principality, not an Archangel, but a mere layman among their legions.
it’s true he has no room to be so arrogant toward a demon who fell from literal cosmic grace, but atsumu stands his ground. he would not let this demon overpower him. even if he was once a Power, he’s now fallen. he has no rank among the angels anymore and, therefore, no power against him--or so atsumu is taught, as all angels are taught. they’re taught demons are fallen, tainted, the defected that lucifer’s pride had infected. demons are not angels, yet atsumu’s heart settles when the demon steps into his space.
his touch is warmer than those of heaven. the heat of hell is starting to settle under his skin after these few centuries since he fell, but there’s a familiar vibration between his black veins. there’s gold still trapped in his bone, and it makes atsumu yearn for home. his resolve breaks.
“heaven doesn’t feel the same without you.”
“what does it feel like?”
cold. colder than usual. cold like someone had sliced open atsumu’s bones and replaced the marrow with ice. cold like these lavender palace clouds realize the death of heaven’s most valuable star shaker and has turned itself into its own funeral home. the sun rises and everyone goes about their day collecting prayers and sending messengers, but all the gold that lines their city feels lackluster and muted.
“feels fake.”
the demon holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his face upwards. atsumu can feel the warmth of hell on his skin. “what did it feel like before?”
they used to race down to earth together without the knowledge of the seraphim. they were the blazing comets that humans would pray their deepest wishes to; they were the crash landings human reporters would talk about on the midnight news. seraphim should’ve punished them for their recklessness from the beginning.
maybe if heaven had kept a closer eye on them, they wouldn’t have learned the feeling of dipping their toes into a cool lake in the middle of a forest with only a distant waterfall to shelter their laughter; they wouldn’t have learned the taste of pure sugar floss melting on their tongues like stardust and fleeting memories; they wouldn’t have learned the way the hips of their human forms fit between each other’s hands, between each other’s legs.
maybe if the heavens had kept a closer eye on them, they wouldn’t have learned about humanity.
angelic creatures were not warm blooded, but in their embrace, their heat rivaled that of stars and supernovas. atsumu hasn’t known the feeling of home since.
“i don’t know.”
the demon hums. “they chained you,” he says, fingering the golden chains on atsumu’s ear. subtle, secretive, a small reprimand compared to the punishment the demon had suffered.
atsumu remembers when the seraphim found out about them, their misadventures, their escapades. little reprimand came to him, a scolding, penance for a few hundred years, and the clasped chain on his ear, the scar that it would leave afterwards to let others know that he had served his punishment with respect and compliance. for a layman angel, his punishment is next to nothing, no public announcement. his shame will come from his shackles and the reduced responsibilities.
a Power’s punishment is not the same. there is no place in heaven to hide a punishment so grand. it had to take place on the stars he once manipulated and protected. the seraphim broke his wings, sickening hollow cracks that reverberated throughout heaven’s clouds. humans would mistake it for thunder.
“your wings,” atsumu mutters, eyes flicking back and forth between the new horns and fresh ink feathers.
he flexes his black wings and brings them forward for atsumu to see better. they’re cracked, burnt. atsumu’s heard stories that when an angel falls, his induction into hell involves legions of demon getting their turn to pluck each and every feather out one by one, forcing the angel to watch each one burn from grey to black. even if that wasn’t true, the heat of hell would’ve singed the feathers down to the skin anyways. “do you want to touch them?” he asks.
they stretch like leathery blankets in front of atsumu, glossy in their sheen, well oiled and clean. he’s heard touching a demon makes an angel’s skin burn up. their essence gets under your frail skin, scorches your thin veins, burns you up from the inside out. it’s nothing like that when atsumu brushes his fingers against the black curtain of his wings. it’s warm and living, an extension of the demon, just as feathered wings are for angels. they are but the limbs they were created with.
“atsumu…”
he looks at the demon’s eyes. there’s gold flares bursting in streaks in the signature black of demon eyes, the remnants of his angelic origins. his eyes used to be the color of ambrosia, golden orange and piercing. atsumu used to watch dying supernovas implode and flash in his irises before being swallowed whole.
on one of their earthly escapades, they ended up on a ratty couch in a motel that they had barely scavanaged enough money to afford (humans were odd in their arbitrary exchange of minerals). in their travels, atsumu had come to love the films humans created, depictions of concepts that humans found important and scenarios they enjoyed to see over and over again.
“it’s called a rom com,” he said. “it stands for romantic comedy.”
“is there something romantic about the comedy? or is it comedy that is romantic?”
they decide it’s human romance that is comedic. someone falls in love or tries to fall in love with someone else, happenstances occur that usually involve the embarrassment of one or more parties, there is an emotional scene that then reveals more about the main characters’ feelings or personalities, and in the end, they still end up together.
something to that end.
“i don’t like it.”
atsumu nudged him in protest. “i think it’s sweet. humans have a nice way of viewing love.”
“you would call that love?” he snorted.
it was carnal for the most part, but there was true emotion behind the actions for the most part. atsumu didn’t want to generalize from one movie, but as far as he could tell, human love was only body deep. they could only open up their skin so much to each other, and how far could they really go when their primary function for love was to create progeny. they could only give their partner but a guaranteed fraction of themselves, but they knew more about love than any angel atsumu knew.
“what would we know of love like that?” he quipped.
at the time, his partner only scowled, perhaps annoyed by atsumu’s fascination with creatures beneath them. atsumu understands his anger now. he’s heard the tales of romeo and juliet, a boy and a girl of different families who had deep-seated hatred of each other. despite their families’ animosity, they fall in love and defy their previous notions of each other. in the end, they choose death over separation. the story comes to mind now as he stares at the former angel before him.
“did they tell you what my crime was?” the demon asks, stepping away from atsumu.
he almost chases after his footsteps, wants the intoxicating hellfire dancing across his skin while they talk and reminisce and pretend like they don’t have demons and angels nipping at their heels to return home.
“no. what was your crime?” he asks.
sakusa grabs atsumu’s shirt and slams their chests together so hard that their rib cages would’ve shattered if they were human. when sakusa’s lips press against atsumu’s, he realizes this is what the angels meant when a demon’s touch would burn you up from the inside out. it’s like sakusa is pouring molten hellfire into his belly, letting it spread warmth from his toes to the tips of his ears. he steals what little breath atsumu has in his lungs, steals every beat of his heart with pecks to his lips that keep in time with the erratic rhythm.
“my crime was falling in love.”