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There’s a mousetrap installed in the alley outside the ramen shop. The rain has cleared and they step out, bellies full, for Aki to drag on a cigarette or two. Angel hates the smell of it, crouches to distance himself from the smoke. The trap is the sticky kind, wedged beside a vending machine brilliantly displaying iced coffee, peach cola, hot green tea. At this height, he can see inside the plastic cover. There’s a tiny figure, half-struggling against the dull yellow paper. There is no panicked squeaking or thrashing, just a lethargic strain as the creature attempts vainly to lift its head. All Angel can see is the face, whiskers twitching pitifully. It stares blankly out at him, eyes round and black and shining. He stares back. Is it nice in the city? What was it that this mouse had given its life for? They’re not far from the restaurant’s trash, he’s sure. Is it noble to trade one's life for scraps? He watches the mouse, listening to the steady pattern of Aki inhaling and exhaling, and doesn’t once feel compelled to free it.
This life requires sacrifice, does it not?
Rarely is it welcomed or expected. It comes for you, stealing you away with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Fate’s grasp is ultimately irresistible, the tendrils of it wrapping searingly cold and taught around lungs, heart, mind, until it all just stops. It’s the feeling he gets whenever he brushes against someone by mistake. When he clenches a hand or grips at a throat. An experienced thief, he always knows exactly what he’s taken. Two months, four days, seven years. It varies, but the end result is always the same: A sacrifice to the great and terrible beast of power. Like the mouse, there isn’t anything that can be done to resist it. There’s a sacredness in the fear of it, a hallowed ground one day all must tread.
He’d been to a cathedral, once. Makima herself had taken him shortly after he’d joined the Public Safety unit. Deep warm browns and earthen beiges of vaulted wooden ceilings had been splashed in vibrant colored light where the sun shone through stained glass. He hadn’t been clear why she’d taken him there, simply followed as she genuflected politely and took a seat in a pew. He did not kneel, himself. They sat together in the quiet for a long time before she’d asked him what it meant to be both angel and devil. There was no answer within him, so he’d simply shrugged. If he turned inward, felt along in the great quiet dark, he merely stumbled upon the shapes of things with no illumination. It was impossible to tell what they were. She’d quietly hummed and pointed to the cross above their heads.
“Humans need to be provided hope. They follow each piece of it like a trail of breadcrumbs.” Her voice had been so steady, whispering in that great space. Flawless alabaster skin wrapped gracefully over the gentle peaks of cheekbones. She perched, impossibly still, as if carved of marble. “Your power is a good one. We can make great use of it, you know.”
“Why would you want that?” He’d blinked, blank-faced. They both knew he was more likely to hurt humans than to save them.
“This life requires sacrifice, does it not?”
He hadn’t known what to say.
Neither of them prayed before they left.
He’s always been more devil than angel. He supposes he must be, being a creature born of fear. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember much. He’d felt like an empty slate when she took him in, wiped so clean that there was hardly anything left of him. He’s not sure where it’s all gone. Not sure what he’d do if he found it. Whatever it is. So he follows and he does as he's told in the barest fashion possible. They can make great use of his power, but he doesn’t like it.
What right does he have to take like this?
The city has opened wide, split and gleaming like an overripe fruit. But it doesn’t escape Angel that that is also the stench of decay, of rotting flesh and bone. The city has opened wide, and the mouse has followed as a lamb to the slaughter. It must be exhausted, as it finally closes its eyes. He’s seen this look before, many times. He’s even worn it himself.
It’s okay! I’ve been ready to die for ages now.
It’s almost embarrassing, recalling those words. Embarrassing, but no less true. He’s been hollowed out, excavated and filled up again with empty air. If he’s the site of a harvest, he’s not certain what’s been sewn. There’s a face now, tan and round and smiling. She’d had such wide dark eyes, kind at the edges whenever she looked at him. But how does Angel know that? There had been a familiar smell to the vision, a sense memory so strong that it almost pierces the veil of the present even here, in this stinking alley. There’s a face now, but no name. The mouse does not open its eyes again. What is death to a devil but another beginning, tabula rasa?
“What’re you looking at?”
“There’s a mouse.”
“Oh,” Aki exhales a thin plume around the sound before dropping the butt and grinding it out with a leather sole.
He blinks and Aki’s face fills his vision. He’s crouched, leaning towards him. One palm presses to his forehead as if checking for fever. As if devils can get sick. (Can devils get sick? Angel’s mind settles sluggishly upon the word “perhaps.”) He almost flinches from it, instinctively, before remembering Aki’s gloves. How silly it is, to try to check a temperature through leather. Still, he only sighs patiently before his partner frowns and retracts his hand.
Who was he just thinking of? Her face had been so clear, a snapshot of time crystallized in his memory only to shatter at the tenderest touch. He knows who she is, and yet he doesn’t. The known and the unknown, previously envisioned as opposites, are both so close to him now that they might as well be two limbs on the same sinister creature. She’s in and out of his mind like a glitch, like broken pixels flashing out of tune on a screen. It’s inexplicable how forbidden she feels when she comes to him. He isn’t sure how to put it to words, so he just rolls his shoulders and shrugs it off as she retreats back into that unknown part of his mind.
“I’d like an ice cream.” He announces and stares up at the sky.
Angel greets each day unsure of who he is. The question is clear as the dawn sky, vibrant streaks of violet and red screaming through him. They run deep and quiet, but the ache never subsides. He must move forward, compel himself to climb from bed and change his shirt. Or they’ll kill him. He is a devil, after all. But perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Can an identity be built one day at a time like this? Is this a life he can continue? The words are worn and soft like tissue. They disintegrate between his clammy fingers. Today’s awakening is particularly brutal, blinking blearily in a room filled with gentle sunlight. He surfaces with a startled breath, grasps for the covers to remind himself of where he is. Dreams always find him, so full of faces, so full of eyes. But her face is never among them. In the night, their bodies had pressed closed to his bedside, blotting out all light. They gazed and they gazed with empty blackened sockets, but he knew they were looking at him. Accusing. None reached out to touch, for he’s touched them all before. He knew who they were, allowed them to hover so close he could feel the putrification roll from them in waves. An experienced thief, he knows exactly what he’s taken from them. Even in the waking hours, he feels their glares at his back like sniper sights. He supposes he’s an emissary of divine retribution, waiting only to be struck down in kind. In moments like these he remembers something inscrutable that Makima had said in that cathedral. She’d knelt and whispered a scripture, though he’d never understood why.
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Bristling his wings, he decides there isn't anything to be done about it.
With the afternoon comes their daily ritual. Aki stands by the bench, on his second smoke while Angel reclines with a vanilla cone from the konbini. It’s true, he’d rather be the country mouse. But the city has opened up to him. And if he must, he supposes he should try to enjoy himself. He’s followed Makima into the land of milk and honey, of great wailing and gnashing of teeth. But at least Aki buys him food.
That face eludes him today, as it sometimes does. He can picture her smile, but it’s incomplete. There are no eyes beneath a smooth brow, no nose or jawline. Just a softly upturned mouth. If there’s a word for how she’s supposed to make him feel, he doesn’t know it. A longing gathers in his gut, tugs upward and outward. It bursts from his fingertips as he taps one hand against his pant leg. He’d watched the mouse close its eyes in the trap behind the restaurant. He’d watched another close hers outside of a cafe. Makima had told him he’d done a good job, had asked why he’d not brought Aki. It was a small defiance, but it was his. It must not have bothered her any, for if it did she would’ve made it clear. He’s confident of that. He’s become a city mouse, after all. He’s grown to recognize a threat when he sees one. The Bomb Devil looked so young and small in Makima’s grasp. The woman waved her hand over the girl’s face and she’d closed her eyes. It smelled of blood and spoilt fruit. The air was choked with pestilence and rot, cracked pavement squirming with Makima’s vermin. Aki had no business there. He can recall Makima’s praise. You didn’t want to make Aki kill a girl. You’re kind. He is an angel, after all.
“We’ll need to patrol the south-westerly end of the district once we’re done.” Aki squints up at the sky, “There’ve been reports of more devil activity there than usual, though nobody’s been able to find the culprit yet.”
“Mmm,” Angel nods, licking at his cone. It’s too cold for a moment, his head shot through with pain. Brain freeze, Aki had once explained to him. He frowns. “Is it a strong devil?”
“Probably,” Aki says, “All that was found of one of the victims was an arm.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll kill me and I won’t have to do any work.”
There’s something tired in Aki’s glance, melancholy. The smooth planes of his face draw Angel in and remind him of someone else. Her face eludes him, but Aki’s doesn’t. It all feels so old and familiar but can’t be placed. There’s a sensation attached to it and he realizes slowly that he knows it because of Aki. It’s the feeling of being seen. Of mattering. This other person was important, but he somehow knows that she’s gone now. Though it had been a blessing, a miracle in a moment of absolute surrender, to find her in the dark. It’s unclear how he should feel about that, so he takes one final bite and hums quietly to himself. He can’t help but wonder if through their partnership, he’ll regain some unknowable something that he’s lost, from one dying man to another.
Both of them have such precious little time, he feels it.
This life requires sacrifice, does it not?
He can’t remember if he’s ever found an answer to that.
“C’mon, let’s go.” Aki’s eyes go soft around the edges, “If we start now, we might be done on time.” A pause, “You’d like that, right?”
Angel nods.
It’s all he can do to follow.
“Do you really want to die?” Aki’s voice is quiet, thumb tapping at the edge of a beer can.
They’re sitting together on his apartment balcony, the air chilling rapidly as night’s curtain falls. Angel tucks his knees to his chest in the patio chair and frowns. Their rituals have expanded from afternoon cigarette breaks to sharing dinners once or twice a week. The first time, Power had been so boisterous that she’d triggered a conflict with Denji over something trivial that Angel can’t even recall anymore. The timbre of their bickering voices rose and fell, and he had been warm despite the storm outside. It was...domestic, Denji pouring Aki’s drink and Power sneaking vegetable scraps to the cat. It was the closest approximation Angel had observed to a family. It still is. And when Denji welcomes them home and tells Aki he’s gone by the store for them already, he feels seen. He matters. If only for a little while.
“Is that something you’d actually like to know?” Angel’s face is set, neutral.
Aki nods.
“I guess.” He shrugs.
“I’ve already told you not to do it near me, then.”
“I know.” He snorts, smirking with only half of his mouth.
“Why?”
Angel blinks, tilting his head. “What?”
“Why do you want to die?”
“I guess…” A pause, “I just do.”
If he dies, he’ll start over in hell. The memories of this life won’t be gone in entirety, but almost. He’ll almost be completely free of it all. Free of this great gnawing emptiness, of this nagging feeling of forgetting. He’s always been so blank, anyways. What difference would it make? Aki casts his gaze low and takes a long slow sip of his beer. They sit like that for a while, the sound of the television muffled inside. Power and Denji had argued about what to watch after dinner, but it seems like the tension has passed. The city’s sounds are muted up here, but even that small measure of peace is imperfect. The moon shows her face between the clouds as they pass overhead, but the stars are nearly imperceptible, slain by the metropolitan glow.
“Why did you save me?”
Aki sighs, patting around in his coat pocket for a lighter. “I’m sick and tired of people dying on me, you know.”
Aki doesn’t want to die, yet still he’d reached for his hand. He’d relinquished months of his lifespan to pull Angel so close that he could feel his heartbeat at his back. It had fluttered like the beating of wings. It was so delicate, precious. So dangerously easy to stop. There had been something fierce in the grip, in the startling heat of being enveloped in Aki’s arms. He feels the ghost of it now, raising goose flesh at his shoulders.
He’d known the words were coming. Of course he had. He’s heard them before, but he’d asked regardless. “Why invite me for dinner?”
Aki raises an eyebrow and tucks a cigarette between his lips. One flick, two flicks, three flicks. A flame sputters and jumps at his fingertips and the familiar trail rises from his mouth. He returns the lighter with routine efficiency and exhales. “I guess...I just want to.”
Enough humans fear angels to spawn a devil. But he’s starting to suspect that this figure does not include Hayakawa Aki.
“I see,” Angel nods.
In profile, Aki’s face appears gentle. The night has relaxed them both, the creases of worry between his brows gone smooth. The moon glows behind him, haloing. Aki shines even in the dusk. The smoke curls and climbs like the burning of incense, an offering to the indifferent evening air. After a particularly long inhale, his smile is beatific. Only now does Angel realize that this life is full of signs and wonders and his hands clench tightly around his knees. Oh, if only to have the freedom to reach out. Though to what, he isn’t yet sure. Looking at Aki now, Angel’s fingertips twitch. He wants, and it tears at his insides. He wants, but he’s helpless to know what it is.
“What are you thinking about?” Aki’s voice is soft.
“The moon.”
“It’s beautiful tonight,” He agrees, “Though it won’t be full until tomorrow.”
“You seem to be getting along better with Denji and Power.”
“We’re getting there.” A half-smile ghosts along his lips.
“I would’ve thought it’s not like you to share a table with devils.”
“I guess it’s not.”
“Then, why?”
Aki merely looks to the sky and takes a long, deep drag.
There is no why. At least, not until later. After hell and back again. After lost limbs and nearly lost resolve. The hospital is a horrible, dull place with pale walls and antiseptic air. Makima had visited him once, pressed a hand to the pillow by his head. Her long petal-pink nails had been rounded, perfectly filed and shaped. She’d smiled, and her gaze cut cleanly through him. When she left, he’d closed his eyes and searched for that girl’s warm, tan face. But it was like it had been stolen away.
Aki arrives not long after, the sight of his one loose coat sleeve making Angel’s chest tighten. This life requires sacrifice. At least, it does on the path he’s chosen. Angel would rather not be saddled with such a burden, but he supposes it’s too late now. Something swells between them as his partner takes a seat. He looks far away for a moment, yet so close that his knees brush the bedspread. With his aid, Angel sits up properly. It feels good to look him nearly level in the eyes. He doesn’t loom as Makima had.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to check in.”
Angel snorts, “You really are a weird human.”
His heart stammers confusedly as Aki’s face beckons forward a piece of the lost girl’s: Rounded cheeks squished upwards in an exuberant grin. Without even knowing it, he guides him towards a great unknowable truth, one that he’s lost long ago. One that was robbed from him. He’s not sure what any of it means. Quietly, Aki rests his hand on the bedspread. The black leather contrasts with sterile, stiff cotton. When he looks, he really looks. Angel swallows.
“Why’re you spending so much time with a devil?”
Gently, gently, Aki’s weight shifts. He tilts his head and leans closer. He presses a gloved thumb to Angel’s lips and it has all the shuddering power, all the impulse of a kiss.
“All humans should die painfully, I suppose.”
Angel’s heard the words before. His breath catches, mouth parting slightly. Aki’s thumb moves to rest on the plush of his lower lip, the end just barely pressing into his mouth. Nearly touching the warm, tender pink of tongue and teeth. The rest of his fingers catch under Angel’s chin and tilt his face until they have to look at each other. The heat of Aki’s gaze nearly sears him. It fills him until he realizes he’s only been an empty vessel. Until he realizes that he can be more than a wan apparition, waxing and waning with his own will to live. Angel’s eyes slide shut and he leans into the touch, humming against him. He doesn’t want Aki to die. He wants to be selfish, a true devil. He doesn’t know where Aki’s path will take him. He can’t possibly see it, that black future.
But Angel follows, like a lamb to the slaughter.