Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Punz wakes up, as always, after dark. 

He rolls over, lifts his head briefly from his pillow, then drops it again. They take a deep breath and rouse their brain from the crushing nausea of experiencing the waking world, shake off the lingering dreams of home. 

Punz reaches off the side of their mattress, fingers blindly seeking their phone from where they dropped it on the carpet late last night when they returned home. He turns the screen on and white light shines in his eyes. It’s 5:57 PM. 

The sun has already set; but then again he rarely wakes up in time to see it. Punz lived for seven years without the sun. He’s not planning on starting now.

Punz summoned his first demon when he was seven years old. He was a scared child on an altar with a knife to his throat and a cult chanting for his blood, his sacrifice. He screamed for help. Someone came.

After the devil finished he picked Punz up and carried them outside of the room full of bodies. His name was Bad, he said, and he was the kindest person Punz had ever met.

“I just wish I could take you home,” he said gently before he took Punz back to the orphanage. “But you’re a human child, even if you’re one with a rare ability. Let’s hope you live long enough to make use of it.”

Punz is eighteen now. They have certainly made use of it.

Captain is contacting him about a deal taking place in a few days. Some seller is claiming he has a crown carved from devil’s horn; she’s right to be skeptical. Punz opens the message to type a reply, then buries their head in the covers. Confirming the job means they’re committing to going outside into the dark and the cold and the streets full of people who look exactly like them. Instead he clicks out of the conversation to view his single other notification. It’s from his brother.

Punz summoned their second demon when they were eight years old. He was trapped in the upper floors of the burning orphanage, heat rising and choking out his air. He called for help. Someone came. That was the first time Punz met the demon called Sapnap: at the time a small dark-haired child even shorter than Punz himself. He took Punz by the hand and led them straight through the fire. It didn’t burn when Sapnap was there.

No one believed him when he said what happened.

He opens the text and types back a simple: hi . Sapnap doesn’t reach out often over text, too awkward and unused to human technology. Punz got him a phone primarily so the demon could communicate with his boyfriends over text and stop pestering Punz about transportation to the human world. Sapnap is by no means comfortable texting, though, so it means something that he’s making an effort to try now. Sweet guy, for a demon. Punz misses him.

The third and fourth and far-too-many-to-count times were when Punz spent years living in the streets and Sapnap was his only friend, a warmth they slept beside in alleys on cold nights. The demon always said it was at least better than hell. Punz taught him to steal and hide and lie. Sapnap tried to teach them how to control fire.

It didn’t work, of course. Punz is and always has been fully human.

They slide their phone away from themself and huddle down into the quilt, tucking it around their neck to seal in their body warmth. He and Sapnap haven’t shared a bed since they were kids, but at this point he think he’d give anything not to be sleeping alone in the cold. The apartment he manages to rent on whatever cash he makes from odd jobs doesn’t have good enough insulation to keep his room warm, even with the radiator in the corner working overtime. He needs the heat. It reminds him of home.

The second time Punz summoned Bad himself was when he was eleven, after a pair of hunters tracked them down and demanded that they call for the child demon that was their only friend. Instead he screamed for the towering black devil he’d purposefully kept from summoning for years.

This time Punz didn’t close his eyes when Bad started killing. After everything was over the devil decided that, this time, he was going to take Punz home.

They spent eight years in the mansion of a demon prince, a human growing up inside Hell’s borders. Bad taught him magic and how to fight and how to summon without tearing himself apart. They would create portals to sneak into the human world with Sapnap and steal junk food and wear human clothes and get matching piercings. Bad always said he wasn’t a good influence on the demon. Punz would argue that if a human could corrupt a demon, they weren’t that great of a demon in the first place.

Life was good, then. Punz knew what they were doing. They grew used to crimson skies, sweltering heat, and the rich reds and blacks of Bad’s home. They were used to speaking to monsters and practicing magic and being the only human in a world of the infernal.

And then he turned eighteen. And out he went.

They’re hungry, but it’s freezing out and whatever energy a cup of instant noodles provides is probably neutralized by the amount he would use just to get out of bed.

Instead he ignores the dull growl of his stomach and curls up into his quilt. They stare at their wall in the dark and breathe. Think about the runes Bad taught him years ago, think about the coat he saw in a store window, think about the white streak in Captain’s hair. Don’t think about home. Don’t think about wherever he’s supposed to go from here. They have no idea what the future holds for them.

His phone vibrates. A text lights up on the screen.

Come smoke with me.

It’s Ant. Punz met Ant his first weeks in the human world, a tired cashier at the gas station that provided most of Punz’s diet. Punz killed someone who tried to rob the cash register. Ant was too high to care that his new friend could summon demons. He offered Punz that first blunt as a thank you, but now they just smoke together because they enjoy it. Punz is too lazy to go out and buy his own supply, Ant doesn’t mind sharing.

Where are you, Punz texts back, and Ant replies within seconds: behind the gas station. all clear.

They wrap the largest quilt from their bed around themself and reach out, inhaling and channelling the power they learned from a fallen angel. Their fingertip glows and they trace a symbol into thin air. A simple one, of course, they aren’t teleporting far. It only takes a few seconds and the power is thrumming through him and heat flashes across his body and he turns to ash.

Reforming is instantaneous, and now he’s sitting on the dirty curb behind a gas station and his friend is beside him. Ant sits with his hair disheveled in a dark green hoodie. He lifts a hand, half in greeting, half to hand Punz the blunt in his hand.

“Light,” Ant nods at it. It’s their little ritual, partially for convenience and partially because Antfrost loves to see the way heat flares and warps under Punz’s touch and blooms fire into the dark leaves.

Think you could teach me that one? he’s asked Punz before. Punz had to shake their head. Fire doesn’t like being controlled, they explained. I learned it from a demon who was born from it.

Fuck, and all I have is you. Ant had said disapprovingly, voice too apathetic to be truly cruel.

Punz lights the blunt for them and takes a long, long drag. He holds the smoke in his lungs before he breathes out and watches it haze the air in front of him. It tastes sweet.

Ant takes a hit, leans back on the heels of his hands. Smoke leaks from between his lips when he speaks.

“Show me a tattoo,” he says. He’s already seen most of the inks on Punz’s arms and torso, but he enjoys looking at them. He says they look like they’re trying to talk to him, he says that he can see them on the backs of his eyelids after he stares for long enough. Punz doesn’t know if that’s real or just Ant being high off his ass. Every one of their tattoos is an infernal rune that gives him some power, but he’s used to that energy by now. Maybe it’s different for most mortals.

“Fire,” he says after some thought, sliding his right arm out from under the blanket. They’re wearing a t-shirt under it, leaving the spindly black rune on their forearm exposed.

“Fire,” Ant agrees, and he stares at the symbol while Punz takes another hit.

“Smoke,” Punz says after they breathe out, and they slide their hand into the cloud and wind it around their fingertips and weave it into a rune.

“Smoke,” Ant agrees, and they sit together on the curb passing the blunt back and forth until the heat builds up in their throats and it starts to burn. Ant coughs less than Punz, pats them on the back in amusement while he hacks his lungs out.

“All that time in hell and you can’t breathe smoke,” he says.

Punz wipes saliva from the corners of his mouth and swears at him. Ant laughs.

They sit in the chill and the heavy smell, and for a few hours Punz is at peace. He enjoys being able to feel calm. It’s the calm of burning lungs and lightheadedness and lazy apathy, but it’s a respite from lying in bed thinking about the future.

“Four twenty,” Antfrost says thoughtfully, sliding the remainder of the blunt into his hoodie pocket.

“It’s one thirteen AM,” Punz corrects, “in the morning.”

“Well, that’s a given.” Ant complains, and then the door in the gas station wall swings open and a red-haired man pokes his head out.

Ant’s boyfriend is called Red and it might be for the brown hair that he dyes bright crimson or for the hemorrhoids he likes to loudly announce he has. Punz doesn’t really care.

“Hey, cutie,” Red comes over to them and hops down onto the curb, leaning over to kiss Ant on the cheek.

“Hey,” Ant says. He slips a hand up and grabs Red by the chin, planting a kiss on the side of his neck. Punz watches Red’s arm slide around Ant’s waist, slender pale fingers gently caressing the man’s hip.

“I’m here to take you home,” Red says tenderly, to which Ant responds by nipping at his neck. “And hi, Punz.”

Punz nods in greeting. Red doesn’t know about his infernal background or his demon summoning, but he seems like he’s noticed something isn’t fully normal about them. Red notices a lot. Punz didn’t initially realize, but Red is very smart despite how loud his filthy mouth is.

“Have a good night,” Punz says to the two. He watches them help each other up and wind their hands around each others and walk away. They’re probably going to fuck on the ride home.

Punz is afraid to die alone. He probably will.

They sit in the cold and stare at the sky. The air around them is heavy with the scent of smoke and weed. They can’t smell it anymore.

He stays alone on the curb until he sobers up and then takes the block-long walk to the nearest Denny’s. A group of college students in the parking lot swerve to avoid him. They probably think he’s either homeless or a crackhead.

He eats at the counter and walks home. They’re too tired to shower, so they watch welding videos on their laptop until five AM and then fall asleep again at some point, because there’s nothing else to do. They dream about coffee and sand and the color of the sky.

The microwave is running.

Punz snaps awake, tensing. The sound is unmistakable, his old microwave humming in his grimy kitchen. He wraps the quilt around his shoulders and sits up slowly, suspiciously. It’s warm in his room. That’s not normal.

Footsteps. The microwave beeps.

Punz lifts one hand, their fingertips glowing orange-red, and stands up. They draw a rune in the air in front of them as they prowl forward. Fire, one of the easiest things to summon, and the most destructive. He takes a deep breath through his nose and charges around the corner. His hand flares with power.

They come face to face with a dark haired man holding a cup of instant noodles.

“Hi-“ the intruder starts, and Punz calls fire’s name. 

Heat erupts from his palm and roars forward, enveloping the man. They can catch a flash of confusion on his face before his entire upper body vanishes into flames. Punz lowers his hand and takes a step back, re-enveloping himself in his blanket. He waits for the smoke to clear.

It does.

“Hi,” the intruder repeats brightly. His shirt is scorched off his body and he’s holding the lower half of a charred cup of instant noodles. “I’m your guardian angel.”

Punz stares at him. Blinks. 

There’s no way in hell , pardon their accidental pun, that this can be happening. This man doesn’t look like an angel. He has dark hair and eyes and an angular face with slight scruff on his chin. He looks like a marble statue. Punz would give anything to never have to see him again.

“What the—“ he starts, but his voice fades out into hoarseness. He clears his throat and tries again. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The man spreads his arms. Noodles slop out of the cup onto the counter. “I’m your guardian angel. Is this, like, a hugging moment? Should we hug now?”

He has perfectly chiseled abs. A few shreds of burnt shirt waft gently to the floor.

“You have got to be kidding.” Punz lowers himself to the floor, grey quilt puddling on the tile around him, and puts his head in his hands.

“Nope, no joke.” The angel confirms. He takes a slurp of noodles.

Punz knows that angels exist. They aren’t as involved in human activities as their infernal counterparts, but Bad always said they could be relied upon to fuck things up right at the worst moment. Of course, Bad wouldn’t say fuck, but Punz is good at filling in the blanks. 

“Fuck,” they say with fervor.

“You know, I get that a lot.” Through the cover of his fingers he can see the angel sit down on the floor across from him.

“Stop talking for a minute, please.”

“Okay, okay!” The angel raises his hands in the air. Punz exhales deeply and closes his eyes.

He understands why whatever powers that be have assigned him a guardian angel. He’s been out of hell for a few months now, and people already know his name. He’s an appraiser of the infernal, a man who can teleport and walk through fire and who calls upon strange creatures. He knows why they sent him an angel to watch his every move. He asks anyway.

“Why ? ” Punz demands, dropping their hands and looking up at the angel. 

“You know, the big guys up there,” the angel nods at the ceiling, “Were concerned with your progress.”

“What progress? I don’t do anything.”

“Yeah, exactly!” The angel snaps his fingers. “You came from hell, you’re supposed to either be wildly evil so we can put a crusade on your ass, or repent and turn your life around.”

Punz hesitates. “If I say I’m sorry will you leave me alone?”

The angel tilts his head, thinking. “Ummm…I dunno if that’s gonna cut it, bucko.”

“Then why are you here? What the hell are you trying to accomplish?” How does Punz make him leave?

“I’m your guardian angel! I said that, right?” The angel taps his chin thoughtfully. “Hello, Punz, my name is Foolish and I will be your guardian for the next incongruous length of time. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Punz stares at Foolish for a long, quiet moment. Then they get up and go back to bed. 

He curls up with his head under the blankets and listens to his own heartbeat. Punz never prays, because he thought the divine powers wouldn’t be paying attention to him. Now they know differently, so they put their hands together awkwardly and keep their voice low. All they want to do is ask for a second chance to live their life without a fucking angel watching over them.

Hello, whoever’s listening-- he starts in his head, and then a cheery voice from the other room says: “Hello!”

And it turns out that his prayers are heard. To be more specific, his prayers are heard directly by the angel in his kitchen. Punz grits his teeth and keeps praying.

I don’t know what I did wrong, but please leave me alone. I don’t need a guardian angel. Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll fix it.

“You haven’t left your apartment in three days except to smoke,” Foolish says from the doorway of Punz’s bedroom.

Punz opens his eyes and lowers his hands, but doesn’t roll over. “And?”

“And you need me to turn your life around and cause a wellspring of joy within your heart.” The angel grins. He sounds completely serious.

“Foolish.” Punz says in agreement. 

“Yeah?”

“No. I meant you. God fucking dammit.” 

“It’s okay, progress is always gradual. Like a pickle in a jar, you know?”

Punz stares into the angel’s coffee-dark eyes and wishes they were back in hell.

They sleep.

It’s 6 PM when they wake up with an angel in their room. Foolish is sitting on the mattress next to his head, watching tiktoks on Punz’s phone with the volume turned way up. Punz watches him through bleary eyes, his head still glued to the pillow by the heaviness of sleep.

“Did Captain message?” they ask, once the mental fog recedes enough to let them remember their plans for the evening.

“Dunno,” Foolish says. His eyes are focused on the screen.

“You are the most useless fucking guardian angel on the face of the Earth.” Punz buries their face into the pillow and groans.

“That’s hurtful ,” Foolish protests. “Have you considered that I don’t have a supremely powerful and hot guardian angel to keep me from getting my feelings hurt?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Foolish huffs. “Puffy—Captain said the usual place. I know where that is, because I’m your guardian angel.”

“I know.” Fuck, he just wants to get rid of this stupid angel. Instead he climbs out of bed in the same grimy t-shirt he’s been wearing for the past three days, swathed in the same quilt he probably hasn’t washed in months. 

“Please, like, hide yourself or something.” Punz drags a hand down his face and tries to gather his thoughts. He needs to get his shit together. 

“Nuh-uh, this is exactly the kinda thing you need my help with.” Foolish puts down Punz’s phone and looks up at them. “Now go brush your teeth, young man.”

“Go to hell.” Punz spits on his way to the bathroom.

They step into the bathroom and flick the light on. The tile is cold on his feet and he winces as he walks to the sink and stares into the mirror. A familiar face looks back. Disheveled blonde hair that reaches to his shoulders, clear blue eyes that were a rarity in hell. The scruff of an unshaved beard and dark circles under his eyes. This man is definitely the person who Punz is now, but they aren’t someone they want to be. 

“I hate you,” Punz whispers at the mirror, and his reflection says it back. 

I hate you. He stares at the man and wonders what that face would look like if it was dead. You’re ruining my life.

He puts a hand on the glass and taps it gently, his own reflection’s hand moving to meet his. Stupid little face staring back at him, dumb fucker who can’t wake up in time to see the sun. Maybe he should go back to bed, sleep the day away, and just keep his fingers crossed that Captain’s sale goes well without their involvement. 

They don’t want to go outside. Not like this, not as this tired wreck who doesn’t even know how to be a proper human. He doesn’t belong in this world and the place he called home is his no longer. He mouths the words, I want to go home .

“You aren’t going home,” says the voice of the angel in his ear. The mirror shatters under Punz’s fingertips as he turns. 

Foolish has no reflection, but there he stands in the bathroom, dark eyes staring into Punz’s own. Punz stares in those eyes, deep brown like a normal human’s, and sees nothing mortal within them. 

“I fucking know I can’t go home.” Punz says bitterly. 

“It’s okay, I’m going to make you a new one.” Foolish’s voice is probably supposed to be comforting. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Punz turns around again and glances back at the fragmented mirror, the little shards of his reflection. There is no similar image of Foolish reflected there. 

“Leave me alone,” they say, and their reflections mouth the words in unison with them.

Foolish laughs. “There’s no shot that’s happening, bucko. You and I are going to build you a perfect life.”

Punz hates him. 

Spite is a motivator, and they brush their teeth and pull on a soft blue hoodie that’s way too large for them. Foolish watches. Punz doesn’t recognize the shirt that the angel has found to replace his scorched one, but they don’t really care.

The usual spot. Captain is a woman of habit. Punz doesn’t know why she likes to have them meet in a parking garage of all places, but she pays too well for them to complain about the cold up there. 

They take one last glance over their shoulder at Foolish. The angel smiles at them. 

Like a fucking ball and chain, Punz thinks as he teleports.

Captain is all business today. She wears a suit, has her white-streaked hair back in a ponytail, and holds a folder of papers carefully. She always dresses up to be formal on big trades, clothed in crisp lines and the calm determination on her face. 

She smells like weed. Punz can see the gun at her hip.

“Hello, Punz,” she says with a smile as she turns to face him. She doesn’t cast a glance to the angel that’s standing behind their shoulder.

“Hi,” Punz says. He opts to not use her moniker because it’s odd to call her Captain to her face when he can see her real name clear as day.

“You look…tired,” she says in concern.

Of course they’re tired. They don’t eat enough and they sleep too much and they spent the past day with a divine presence in their house, when he belongs to the infernal. He only got out of bed because without the money from this job he won’t even be able to pay his heating bill or buy. 

“I woke up like, an hour ago.”

Captain laughs. “Okay. You’re still going to be able to appraise this properly, right?”

He nods.

“Good.” Captain taps the folder and turns it towards them. “This is supposed to be a crown carved out of a devil’s horn. The seller says he found it in a shipwreck while diving. With what he’s trying to charge it had better be real.”

Punz looks at the picture paperclipped to the files. It might well be a devil’s horn; that specific shine of dark bone is unmistakably infernal. He’ll need to be in the same room with it to truly tell, though. There are countless ways to scam someone into believing an artifact has far more power or significance than it actually does. That’s why Captain hired them in the first place: he handles appraising any demonic artifacts people try to sell her. She pays well and she doesn’t ask why a random teenager knows this much about the infernal, or even why he has the abilities he does.

“I know her,” Foolish says softly. Punz glances at the angel standing beside him.

“You what?” It’s hard to imagine Foolish as having…a past. As being something other than a presence that coalesced from the divine purely to hang over Punz’s shoulder and watch his every move.

“I’d rather you didn’t mention me to her,” the angel adds, eyes locking on to Punz’s. 

Punz complies.

The seller’s name is Oliver Greaves and he arrives in a sleek black Jaguar that purrs silently into a nearby parking lot. He’s tall and lanky, huddled in a massive trench coat with a carved wooden box held between shaking hands. He and Puffy greet each other tersely, both eager to get to the core of the transaction.

“And your...associate?” Greaves asks, glancing at Punz.

“They’re an appraiser for me. He’ll be making sure you’re not lying about what you’ve got in that box.” Puffy beams at Greaves. The man is wise enough not to press her further.

The box is dark wood and the fluorescent lights of the parking garage cast harsh shadows over everything, but the object inside is even darker. 

It’s a crown. Dark, twisting, like natural grown obsidian. It’s most definitely infernal; Punz can feel that familiar presence like warmth in their stomach. The question is what , because there are thousands of infernal beings down below, but only a select few are devils. Anything carved from devilshorn is worth far, far more than Greaves is trying to charge.

Foolish growls from behind Punz. It’s guttural and it sends chills down Punz’s spine, setting their teeth on edge. For a moment he’s aware that the angel behind him is ancient and powerful, a being whose true form he’s never even seen. If they turn around right now, what will they find standing there?

“Punz?” Puffy asks, waiting for his verdict.

Punz steps forward and holds out their hands for the box. Greaves hesitates, then turns the box towards him. Light gleams off the crown’s inky surface.

“Not devils’ horn.” Punz says emphatically. Greaves’ eyes widen in surprise, but they continue. “If it was, you wouldn’t be able to speak to us right now. Too much power for a normal human to hold. My guess is it’s carved from an imp skull.”

“What is it worth?” Puffy asks.

“Probably around three thousand,” Punz decides. “It’s just raw infernal energy right now, no curse or runes or powers attached. Useless.”

Puffy studies his gaze for a moment and he hopes she can read their expression. It’s not useless, not in their hands, but Greaves doesn’t have to know that.

 The gaunt man looks crestfallen, but he accepts the money that Puffy counts out for him and hands over the box. Puffy closes it, rests it on her hip, and waits until he drives away.

“It’s not useless, is it,” she says.

“Not with someone who knows what to do with it.” Punz agrees. 

“And do you know what to do with it?” There’s a grin on her face now.

Punz shrugs. “Yeah, or at least I know someone who does. Depends on what you want done, but I can--” 

A hand rests heavily on their shoulder. 

“Let’s not get too involved in making infernal artifacts, shall we?” Foolish’s smile is strained.

“Punz?” Puffy says curiously, tilting her head. Punz grits his teeth. Foolish’s fingers are digging into his collarbone, applying almost enough pressure to cause pain. 

“It just needs to be carved by-- ow ,” because now it hurts and he thinks Foolish might be channeling divine energy, because just the touch of his hand burns even through Punz’s hoodie. Punz doesn’t have claustrophobia, but there’s something panicking about being trapped under that grip.

“I’ll text you. It’s not useless. I have to go.” And he scrawls a rune in the air as fast as he can. 

There’s the familiar warmth of teleportation, and now they’re standing in their own kitchen. He hisses in relief, grabbing his aching shoulder. Fuck, that hurt. 

“Good job turning down that temptation.” Foolish is beaming proudly when Punz turns to look at him, leaning against the counter.

“Turn it down? You were going to break my fucking arm .”

“Small price to pay for a saved soul.” Foolish says. He has perfect, white teeth. 

Punz punches him.

Punching Foolish is like punching a statue. It’s about as painful and about as satisfying. The only thing worse than hitting someone and injuring your own hand is hitting someone and having them tsk sympathetically while you keel over on the tile of your own kitchen floor. They sit on the tile for a few minutes, until Foolish vanishes and reappears twenty minutes later with cinnamon rolls. If those are an apology they’re a pretty shit one, but Punz eats two anyway. 

“So what are we going to do with our day that isn’t enchanting a piece of a demon’s dead body?” Foolish asks cheerfully.

“Imp.” Punz corrects him. 

“Irrelevant. They’re all worthless rats.”

Punz stops chewing. “What?”

Foolish shrugs. “Rats. They’re reprehensible little bastards that do nothing but cause problems.”

“If that was true I’d be dead right now.” Punz tosses their cinnamon roll on the ground. “Way back when I was a little kid and a bunch of humans tried to fucking sacrifice me. Or when the orphanage caught on fire. Or a million times when someone’s tried to kill me just for trying to survive.”

See, people believe summoners are all powerful. They believe summoners can control demons. What most people don’t know is that it’s impossible to control a demon unless you’ve called them forth with a ritual and a rune they’re constrained to. They obey contracts, and Punz doesn’t use contracts. Every time he asks an infernal for help, they have the choice to say no.

“You think they’re good people, just because they saved you a few times?” The angel folds his arms. “Oh, Punz...and yet here you are, alone in the human world. Why aren’t they helping you?”

“Because I’m eighteen.” Punz spits. “And adult humans can’t stay in hell unless they’ve got a contract with an infernal.”

“Look at that!” Foolish opens his hands at Punz. “Now they have a living adult summoner who just wants to go home so badly that he’s considering selling his soul. You don’t think that’s worth a lot more to them than a dead kid on the streets?”

“I--” Punz stops. 

He misses home. Hell was home to him, it’s where their brother and their friends live, that’s where he has a room with old drawings on the wall and a tattoo kit in a drawer and clothes that he’s torn rips in from racing friends across sulfur fields. Home is where the devil named Bad took them because he cared about them, cared enough to save them.

Yet it feels like Foolish could be right. Because they all watched Punz leave with stopping them. He’s fucking alone up here, a human surrounded by humans in a huge, cold, grey city. His hands are cold all the time and he hasn’t had a real cooked meal in months and he’s too exhausted to get out of bed half of the time. And he knows they love him, but why aren’t they here ?

Isn’t that worth more?

He’s not worth anything right now.

“I’m not,” Punz starts, and then he stops because his eyes are burning with tears. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” They say finally. 

Their guardian angel sits on the cold tile across from them and he watches them cry in silence.

Chapter Text

The mirror in Punz’s bathroom stays broken. He doesn’t care enough to fix it.

Foolish starts waking him up in the late afternoons, when there’s still pale November sunlight slanting through his curtains. He still doesn’t get out of bed till it’s dark out. Puffy texts about the uncarved crown and Punz sends her the number of an enchanter they know, because that’s the most Foolish will let them do to get involved. She sends him his payment and he restocks his cupboard with microwavable meals and instant noodles. 

“You need to go outside.” Foolish tells them one day. 

“And do what?” Punz demands. 

“Human stuff. Humans walk, don’t they? What am I kidding, of course you do.” Foolish falls silent for a moment, then adds, “no wings, you know?”

“Go on a walk?” Punz hesitates, then drops his head into his hands. He tends to argue with most of what his guardian angel tells him to do, simply out of principle, but a walk actually sounds like a good idea. There are places in this city that he hasn’t visited since his little exploring trips with Sapnap. Maybe seeing them again would be nice.

Punz is ashamed to walk alongside Foolish in public. The angel is dressed like one of those freaks who wear short sleeves and flip-flops in 40 degree weather. Punz is securely tucked away into an overcoat and boots, but they still feel gross by association.

“I don’t feel cold,” Foolish insists as they trudge down the sidewalk.

“But you look like a douchebag,” Punz says over his shoulder. 

“And you look like a homeless man,” Foolish retorts. 

“I fucking feel homeless.” Punz shoves both their hands in their pockets.

“Really? So what’s home, then? Hell?”

“Yeah.”

Foolish lengthens his stride, falling in step with Punz easily. “How is that home to you? It’s…all sulfur and demons and shit. You like demons?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, I forgot you were fucked in the head. Right.” Foolish pats Punz on the shoulder. “We can fix that.”

“Can you actually fix anything?” Punz shrugs the angel off him. “You just sit in my house and eat my food and be a bitch to me.”

“I mean, you’re outside on a walk right now ‘cause of me,” Foolish points out. 

“So you can make me go on walks? I used to go on walks with my brother. My brother’s a demon, Foolish.”

“Are you implying that some demon can do my job as good as me?” Foolish frowns. 

“I’m saying I don’t know what the hell your job is. All you do is fuck with me. You’re the worst guardian angel I’ve ever seen.”

Foolish doesn’t even respond to him after that. They just walk in silence until Punz gets sick of the cold and turns to go home.

Me n Velvet are going to a party tonight, Ant’s text glows up at Punz. Nine PM. Our friend's house. You up for it?

I wouldn’t really know anyone there, they text back. It’s a lousy half-excuse because they really wouldn’t, but the idea of going to a party...actually sounds nice. People, alcohol, and weed. A familiar type of chaos that he hasn’t been a part of in a while.

You could invite a friend. Ant replies within moments.

….I don’t have any human friends.

And? Just don’t, like, invite someone who’ll fuck up their furniture and we’re good. You have good taste in people, I think it’ll be fine.

Punz casts a glance at the angel in their kitchen, hunched over a laptop and painstakingly scrolling through some meme page. Foolish isn’t exactly indicative of their taste in people, since he’s literally stuck with the angel no matter what he does, but nor is he someone Punz thinks would be great fun at a party. 

Can I bring two?

2??? You have 2 friends, Punzo?? I gotta see this. 

That’s a yes, then. No take backs. Punz turns off his phone and puts it down. They now have free license to invite one of their friends from home. Sapnap is the first person to come to mind, but Ant specifically asked Punz not to bring someone who’d fuck up his house. The demon is...notably bad at behaving in inside spaces. So Punz needs to contact someone else instead.

Gumi doesn’t have a phone. She doesn’t lead the kind of lifestyle that allows her to keep a phone safe. To be more specific, Gumi doesn’t have pockets. Or hands.

Punz draws a small rune in the air, one side of a wormhole. One only large enough to transmit sound; and one that won’t even go all the way through unless she completes the gateway. It’s the infernal version of a phone call, basically. The rune glows in front of Punz’s face, lighting their skin up in orange, for a brief moment before it brightens.

“What’s up, Punzo!” Gumi’s familiar high voice reaches his ears. It’s been a while since he’s heard her, and he can’t help smiling. It’s nice to speak to her again.

“Do you wanna come to a party tonight?”

“A human party?” Gumi asks curiously.

“Well, I can’t enter Hell and I don’t think I’m welcome in Heaven, so yeah.”

“That sounds epic-sauce. When?”

“Tonight. In a few hours, I can summon you before we leave.” There’s no clocks in hell, no nine-PMs either, so there isn’t really a point in telling her the exact time.

“Sounds fun.” He can hear her grin. “It’s been a while, you know.”

“I know, sorry.” Punz hesitates. “And...I’m telling you now before you freak out. There’s going to be someone else with us too.”

“A girlfriend?? ” Gumi sounds absolutely ecstatic.

“No. Much, much worse than that.” Punz drops his head in his hands. “You’ll see.”

“Okay. I’ll see ya, Punzo. Bye!” The rune dims to nothingness.

In the kitchen he can see Foolish turn around slowly. They sigh in tired anticipation. 

“I’m worse than a girlfriend?” The angel sounds hurt. “What, because I’m a man? Is that it?”

“You’re not technically a man, don’t pull that shit.” Punz waves a hand. “And you’re worse because it’s going to be much harder to tell my hellhound friend that I have a guardian angel than that I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“A hellhound?” Foolish’s nose crinkles up.

“Don’t you dare be a jerk to her.” Punz points at the angel. “I’m going to go to a party and interact with people and actually get out of the house for once.”

“That’s good.” Foolish nods.

“But I’ll only do it if Gumi’s with me, and if you’re not being an asshole about it the whole time. Deal?” Punz holds out their hand.

Foolish sucks in air, hissing thoughtfully, then holds out his hand and clasps Punz’s. “Deal,” he says. He sounds pained.

“Fantastic.” Punz sits up and heads to the bathroom. It’s just a house party, yes, but they need to shower and actually make an effort. They don’t want Gumi to think they’ve spent all their months in the overworld hunkered down eating instant noodles in the dark and forgetting to shower.

That’s exactly what he’s been doing, which is why he’s so determined not to let her know.

Foolish, Punz discovers, is bad at being nice. Gumi hasn’t even showed up yet and the angel is already a roiling cloud of angry divine energy. Punz isn’t a full infernal, and he still feels tense. The angel’s energy puts them on edge, makes them feel like they’re being hunted. 

“Aren’t guardian angels supposed to be comforting?” Punz demands finally, yanking one of their shirts down over their head. He leans back out of the closet to get a proper angle to glare at Foolish. 

“I’m being comforting right now!” Foolish snaps. His teeth look too sharp. 

“That’s not even true.” Punz checks their phone to see if there are any texts from Gumi, irrationally because she doesn’t have a phone. He’s annoyed at himself for doing it, so he jams his phone back in his pocket and flips off the angel. 

“Don’t do that,” Foolish reprimands him, but Punz has already turned away, choosing from one of the countless hoodies hanging in his closet. He quietly hopes that tonight won’t be too cold. It already feels like it’s going to be too cold. 

Of course, it’s hard to feel cold when Gumi’s around. 

He decides to summon her in the kitchen, because then he’ll have at least a moment to explain Foolish’s presence before she sees the angel brooding on Punz’s mattress. Summoning Gumi is always easy, because they’ve known her for years. 

Punz sits cross legged on the tile floor and holds out their hands and calls to her.

“Gumi,” he says loudly, eyes closed. “Are you ready?”

He feels the searing heat of two hands grasping his, and there’s a soft thud as Gumi thumps to the tile in front of him. Punz opens his eyes to see her staring at him, her face split in a massive grin. 

“PUNZO!” she shouts as she tackles them into a hug. She’s strong, even in her human form, and they fall back on their elbows. “It’s been fucking ages, why didn’t–”

She goes silent. Punz cranes his head to the side to try to get a look at her face, but since she’s currently hanging over his shoulder it’s impossible. It’s not until the growl ripples from her throat, vibrating in her chest, that he realizes her mood.

“I can explain,” Punz tries to pull back. Her arms tighten around him and she lifts her head. Her body heats up, skin flaring to a level of warmth that would probably be unbearable to any normal human. 

“Why the fuck is that in your house ?” Gumi spits, pulling Punz closer to her. 

“Hello,” Foolish says darkly from the doorway, “My name is Foolish. I am here to be civil.”

He sounds like a fucking robot. Punz sighs, wrapping his arms around Gumi and standing up slowly. They don’t know where all her mass goes when she’s in human form, but she’s light enough for them to lift up as they stand. 

“This is my guardian angel,” Punz sighs. “And I don’t like him but he’s promised to not be an asshole tonight, so can we just go to this fucking party?”

Gumi releases her hold on Punz and slides back to the floor, planting her hands on her hips. “Your guardian angel?” 

“Yeah.” Punz drags a hand down his face.

“Yes. I’m his guardian angel,” Foolish grinds out.

Gumi and Foolish glare at each other for a long moment. 

“Fine, okay, let’s go to the party,” Gumi finally concedes, turning away and grabbing Punz’s arm again. She looks him up and down. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

Punz looks at the belted-leather-net ensemble she’s wearing and compares it to his hoodie and jeans. Either he’s underdressed or she’s overdressed. Probably the former.

“I personally like what he’s wearing,” Foolish announces pointedly.

“We had a deal,” Punz reminds him, grabbing their keys from the counter. They’re going to need to walk, because he can’t teleport into a crowded area, but the address isn’t far. 

Gumi and Foolish follow him out the door, glaring at each other, and Punz has already decided that he needs to get fucked up tonight. There’s no other way he’s going to be able to handle both of them if he’s sober. And Gumi always mellows out when she’s drunk.

Even if Punz wasn’t checking their phone every thirty seconds in case they’d randomly gotten lost, he would have been able to tell which house was their destination as soon as they reached the street. It’s full of noise and smoke, cars parked all down the street and loud music thumping from the windows. Punz walks up the steps, his entourage trailing behind him, and takes a deep breath. He isn’t shy, not by a long shot, and no matter how unaccustomed he is to the human world, right now he would fistfight an angel for a few shots.

When he steps inside the smoke hits him like a wall, filling his nose with the cloying damp-sweetness of weed. There are people everywhere, laughing and talking and dancing. It’s an assault on his senses: sound, smell, sight, and he welcomes it. Makes it more difficult to think that way. No matter how cold it is outside, with this many bodies crowded into a space the air is warm enough that even he is comfortable.

Gumi slips up next to him as he dodges past a couple making out in the hallway, grabbing his hand to keep from being separated.

“We lost your angel in the living room,” she tells him in amusement, standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

Punz cranes their head back. Sure enough, Foolish is nowhere in sight. Probably lost in the crush of people. Punz has no inclination to go back and grab him.

“Good,” Punz tells her, turning sideways to force themself past a group of people and into the kitchen. Gumi follows behind him, letting him break the crowd for her.

There’s drinks in here, and space to breathe. Metaphorically space to breathe; the air is heavy with smoke to the point where Punz keeps automatically trying to blink it away, as if it’s a mere blur in his irises. Gumi claims a spot at the counter and grabs a bottle of Ciroc, pouring them both a shot. 

“You live with that bastard?” she shouts over the noise, tone sympathetic.

Punz responds by giving her a dead-eyed stare and then tipping the entire thing down his throat. It burns on the way down, heats them up like they’ve swallowed a small flame. He’s no lightweight, it’s going to take more than that to get to his head, but just that one drink has calmed him down because he knows that, with time, he’s going to be drunk off his ass and he won’t have to fucking think anymore. 

Gumi pours them another shot. They drink it down.

“PUNZO!” a voice calls, amusingly similar to the way Gumi greeted him earlier that night. Punz turns. Ant has found his way to the kitchen, boyfriend in tow.

“Ant!” Punz hugs his friend in greeting, then nods to the transformed hellhound sitting on the kitchen counter and kicking her legs as she drinks straight from a bottle of vodka. “This is my friend Gumi.”

“Hi, Gumi!” Ant goes over to hug her. Red remains standing in the entrance of the kitchen, holding a joint in his hand. It smolders as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a long drag, eyes focused on Gumi.

Punz watches him while the other two make their greetings. Red holds the smoke in his lungs, breathes it out to join the cloud that already fills the whole room, and finally turns to Punz.

“Either I’m really, really fucking high, or your friend isn’t human,” he says, holding out the joint. 

Punz hesitates for a moment. He’s never told Red specifically what he is, and he doesn’t know if Ant has. But they’ve noticed the way Red looks at them and their tattoos and they’ve had their suspicions that Red might have a little bit more sight than most humans. 

“She’s not,” Punz says, taking the joint and putting it to his lips. Red relaxes as he does, as if just getting confirmation is enough. 

“Well, I’ll assume she’s at least civilized. Is the other one with you, too?”

Punz holds the smoke in until his chest feels like it’s filled with fire and then breathes it out. “Other one?”

“Not human either. Buff as hell, though.” Red takes the joint from Punz and leans across the counter, hands it to Ant, then turns back to Punz.

“Yeah, he’s with me. Don’t tell him where I am, though.”

“Is he dangerous?” Red frowns. 

“No, just annoying as hell and kind of a bitch.” Mentioning Foolish has soured Punz’s mood, soothed as it was by the liquor and the weed, so he shakes himself and walks over to Gumi and Ant. They seem to be getting along. Gumi bats his hand away when he tries to reach out for the blunt, so he laughs and moves away. He’ll find someone else willing to share. 

He does, indeed, find someone willing to share–some guy in a beanie with bright blue eyes and, more interestingly, a pen that he’s got no qualms handing over to Punz. They sit on the couch and pass it back and forth and talk a little bit but mostly just breathe in, and out, and feel the smoke fill their lungs. 

Eventually Punz is floating. 

And, fucking finally , he doesn’t have to think anymore. 

Gumi is only drunk because she chooses to be.

And she’s chosen to be very, very drunk. Why not? She’s in the human world without a contract and there’s free liquor and Punz’s friends are hilarious. Well, maybe they’re hilarious. She’s drunk, she’s not exactly a paragon of critical thinking right now. 

“Are those your real ears?” Ant whispers, reaching up to pat her head. She’s let herself go a little bit, and probably no one here is sober enough to give a shit that some short lady has dog ears when she previously didn’t.

“They are,” she whispers back, “but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“I promise,” Ant says solemnly, knocking his forehead against hers.

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.” the human loops his pinky around hers. Gumi laughs and curls against his side on the couch.

“Well, I’m glad you two are making good friends,” Red says wryly from where he’s leaning against the coffee table, watching them both talk. He’s probably got second sight, as the humans call it–it’s the only explanation for why he looks at her like that. 

“So, tell me.” Gumi yawns. “How has Punz been?”

“Fine, I think.” Ant shrugs. “We don’t hang out a lot, just you know. We’ll meet up to smoke. Sometimes I give them free snacks from the gas station.”

“Do you know how long he’s had Foolish around?” Gumi tries to cut back on the instinctive growl that rises in her throat when she says his name.

That damn fucking angel.

She can taste him in the air, even now, and it’s frankly ruining her night the slightest bit. She’s here to have fun and yet no matter how much she drinks there’s still that burning scent of holiness that screams DANGER into her brain over and over. Because Foolish, or whatever his real name is, is a threat. 

“Dunno, probably a couple of weeks?” Ant says thoughtfully. “Recently he won’t come hang out with me ‘cuz he always says there’s someone with him. A real hardass.”

“He can go hard in my ass,” Red laughs, tipping part of his drink down his throat. The joke wouldn’t be funny, except it makes sense because the form that angel has chosen for himself is undeniably attractive. 

She can smell the angel somewhere in the house. Is he drinking? Who knows. Her senses keep focusing on him, when what she wants to do is figure out where Punz went off to. She saw him maybe half an hour ago, doing shots with a woman who had roses tattooed all down her arm. Now Foolish’s smell is overpowering everything else.

“I’m gonna go find Punz,” Gumi says, standing. Red drops into her seat as soon as she’s moved, and Ant doesn’t seem amiss at the replacement. 

She works her way from the backyard to the front room, searching for Punz by both sight and smell, and only then does she realize. 

He’s gone. 

Fuck.

See, if she and Punz had come here alone losing track of him would have been her fault. But it only confirms what she’s already suspected: the angel who’s appeared in her friend’s life is absolutely fucking useless.

She finds him drinking in the living room, talking lightly with some guy in a beanie who seems to be flirting with him.

“Put your fucking drink down,” Gumi snarls at him, shoving past the guy and jabbing her finger at Foolish’s chest. 

“Don’t touch me,” he says. His voice is too calm, eyes too dark, teeth too sharp.

“Or what?” She’s a hellhound and he’s an angel and the power difference between them is far too huge, especially if he’s what she thinks he is, but she’s too drunk and angry to care.

“Or I’ll– fuck .” Foolish grits his teeth. “Or I’ll do literally nothing because I made a damn promise.”

“To who? Punz?”

“Who do you think –”

“Well, where the fuck is he?” Gumi hates that Foolish is that much taller than her.

“I don’t know–” he actually looks like he’s panicking, and she should be panicking too but she’s too busy being angry, “–I track him by the filth your kind left on his soul, but your whole presence here is fucking that up.”

“Then sit here and get drunk with this human and I’ll go find him, you useless whore.” Gumi spits.

“I’d think twice about calling me that,” Foolish grates out.

“I’m not going to think twice about anything! Don’t talk to me like you didn’t just lose your fucking responsibility when he’s high off his ass in a city full of people who want to kidnap him and sell him off, like they did when he was a kid before we stepped in to protect him.” 

Foolish stares down at her. He’s angry enough that his guise is slipping just a little bit; there’s holy energy rippling off him and it’s making her skin crawl. “You’re all–can we discuss this after we find him?”

“Fine.” Gumi grabs Foolish’s wrist and spins around, dragging him through the crowd. His skin is cold and unnaturally smooth. “Apparently my energy blocks your senses, and your smell blocks my nose, so we’d better split up.”

The second they’re outside Foolish shakes her grip off of him and tips his head up. “Do you have a way to contact me if you find them?”

“Just send up a flare and I’ll teleport back to his apartment and meet you there.” A burst of infernal or divine energy would be obvious to either one of them, but most normal humans won’t even notice it.

“Hey,” a voice calls from inside the house. Both Gumi and Foolish turn at the same time, growling.

Red stands in the doorway, holding his drink. “You’re looking for Punz?”

“Yes,” Foolish hisses.

“I asked around. Boomer says he went to the gas station for snacks.” Red shrugs and takes another sip. 

Gumi makes reluctant eye contact with Foolish. 

“Turn left and just go straight until you see the sign,” Red says in amusement. “Were you really about to break out the supernatural shit for that?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Gumi grabs Foolish’s arm and starts down the street. “Thank you!”

“Let go of me,” Foolish tells her as soon as Red has gone back inside. 

She releases him. 

They don’t really talk as they walk. Gumi is still drunk and fuming and slightly embarrassed that she blew up at Foolish for a fucking snack trip . But her point still stands: the bastard claims to be a guardian angel but Punz could have been kidnapped and killed while Foolish blamed Gumi for not being able to sense him.

“I see him,” Foolish says finally, squinting. Gumi lengthens her stride and soon enough she catches sight of him as well; a blond figure in a white hoodie, sitting on the curb with his head resting on his knees.

Punz doesn’t look up when they approach. He doesn’t have any food either.

“Did you even make it to the gas station?” Gumi asks, crouching next to him.

“No.” Punz shrugs. His eyes are half-shut. “I just wanted to sit and look at the stars.”

Gumi settles down next to him and tilts her head up at the sky. 

“They’re nice,” she agrees. “Are you used to seeing them yet?”

Punz shakes his head. “They’re…far. And it’s cold.”

Foolish stands on the sidewalk behind them, arms folded, and says nothing. 

Gumi and Punz sit on the curb for a few moments longer and she takes the time to just talk to her friend, until his eyes start drifting closed and he says he wants to go home. 

Foolish offers to carry him. Punz hesitates, but agrees to climb up on the angel’s back. And they make their way home, creatures from different planes on these streets at night, liquor on their breath and smoke in their lungs. 

Punz is asleep by the time they arrive. Foolish sets him down and pulls the blankets over him with almost awkward care. Gumi watches him.

“You’re not a guardian angel at all, are you?” she says finally, sitting on the carpet in the dark apartment. She has her suspicions: because he seems too angry and too powerful and too careless to be a divine caretaker. But she can’t know unless she asks, and the alcohol prompts honesty.

He turns to look at her, eyes like pits in the night.

“No,” Foolish says tiredly. “I’m not.”

He stands up and, like it had before, his human form seems to ripple and warp like heat over pavement. Gumi growls, shrinking back from that shine. She is a hellhound and she was meant to fight creatures like him, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys seeing him. She refuses to look away until she can catch just a glimpse of the divine being beneath. 

She was right. This man is no guardian.

Foolish relaxes and the pale flesh of his human form settles, locking away the divinity like a blindfold. Gumi frowns, still blinking away afterimages.

“Why did they put an archangel on Earth?” she demands. Then she thinks back to that sight of his true form and asks the real question. 

“Where are your wings?”

Chapter Text

Punz wakes up high.

It’s a lovely thing, that cloud of pleasant apathy. He stays in bed for a while, drowsily running over the events of the previous evening, and eventually concludes that he has no idea what happened last night. Sure, they have recollections, but the vague haze of memories is indistinguishable from the dreams that followed. 

There are voices in his kitchen. One familiar, the voice of a friend he’s known for years. The other he’s known for far less time, but he still recognizes. 

They’re arguing. 

“Those eggs are fucking spoiled,” Gumi shouts. “Don’t you dare–what the fuck .”

“Stop being a drama queen, that’s just your smell getting in the way.”

“You think I smell like rotten eggs?” Gumi’s voice is shrill.

“Oh, sure, and you don’t? Why does the apartment smell like rotten eggs, then?”

“Because you just tried to fucking cook some.”

Punz sighs and rolls off their mattress with a soft thud. The two in the kitchen go quiet for long enough for Punz to get his legs under him and stand up, still comfortably folded in blankets.

Gumi is sitting on the kitchen counter while Foolish stands in front of the stove, spatula in hand. There’s a pan full of crackling fried eggs on the burner. It smells terrible.

“Why are you cooking the rotten eggs?” Punz asks slowly.

Gumi and Foolish look at each other.

“I told you!” she announces triumphantly, while Foolish scowls and tosses the spatula in the sink. He grabs the pan with his bare hands and tips the entire sizzling mess into the trash can.

Punz hops up onto the counter next to Gumi and sits there, yawning. She knocks her shoulder against theirs, then peers into their face.

“Are you still high?” she asks.

Punz nods.

Gumi shakes her head. “You’ll sober up eventually.”

“I don’t want to,” Punz says calmly. “This is just…better.”

She stares into his eyes for a moment longer, then her ears droop and she looks away.

“I need to go back down, I just wanted to say goodbye before I left.” 

“Good riddance!” Foolish shouts from the sink. Punz doesn’t even have the energy to tell him to shut up.

“Bye, Gumi,” he says instead, wrapping his arm around her. She’s warmer than any normal human, the contained heat of a hellhound’s body in her mortal form. 

“I had fun,” she tells them, hugging them back. “Stay safe, okay?”

“I will,” Punz agrees.

She glances at them with ruby-red eyes. “No, I mean it. Stay. Safe. Promise?”

There’s some urgency in her tone, like she’s talking about something specific rather than just the ordinary dangers of the big city. Maybe he should be worried. Maybe he should wonder if there’s something he’s not remembering from last night. 

But instead he just hugs her goodbye again and feels her warmth disappear from his arms. 

Their head stays hazy for the rest of the day. It’s the best he’s felt in a while. Foolish watches him drift around the apartment, and says nothing. Punz doesn’t feel particularly inclined to address him either; talking to the angel is stressful. And he’s at peace for once. 

Foolish brings him a grilled cheese sandwich at some point in the afternoon. It surprises them how kind the gesture is. 

“How much do you actually hate me?” Punz asks, sitting up on the mattress and reaching out. Foolish lets them take the paper plate from his hands

“Hate you? I wouldn’t hate you,” Foolish smiles a little too big. “Come on, man. I’m an angel.”

“Liar,” Punz says, and usually he’d be mad about it but right now he doesn’t care. Foolish brought him a sandwich, and he’s hungry, so there’s not much more he could ask for. 

“You probably let me wander off on purpose,” Punz says thoughtfully through a mouth of crumbs. “Maybe some convenient cult would try to sacrifice me. Get me off your hands, you know?”

Foolish’s hand settles on Punz’s shoulder, fingers closing tight. The angel hisses—not like a cat or a snake, more like the sizzling of white-hot metal hitting cold water. 

Punz should be scared. Their heart is racing and Foolish’s grip on their shoulder is starting to hurt. But there’s a disconnect there, in his head. He can’t be afraid right now, so he looks straight into Foolish’s too-dark eyes and smiles. 

“I do not,” Foolish says slowly, every word edged in iron, “want you sacrificed. If you ever die it will be at my hand, and it will be what’s best for you.”

“Can you let go of my shoulder?” Punz requests. He can feel his bones creaking. Foolish releases him immediately, turning away with a mumbled swear in a language Punz can’t understand. 

“So, how much do you actually hate me?” Punz repeats. 

“I don’t hate you,” Foolish spits. His shoulders are tense. Punz still thinks he’s lying. 

“I hate the abilities you have,” Foolish says slowly. “And I hate that you’re so enamoured with the Infernal, and I hate the fucking stink of them on your soul, and I hate that you never do a single thing to make yourself better or distance yourself from the shame of your past.”

“So you’re just racist,” Punz nods, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

“I’m fucking what ?” Foolish turns around slowly. 

“You hate infernals, and me by association.” Punz shrugs. 

“It’s not racism.” Foolish stares him down. “No. No. I’ve fought too many wars against these creatures to have anything but loathing for them.”

“Do you think the divine powers are better?”

“Well, obviously.” Foolish folds his arms. 

Punz sets down the empty plate and falls on his back, nearly knocking his head against the wall. He glances over at Foolish, still sitting with shoulders hunched and one of Punz’s t-shirts stretched across the muscles of his back. There’s really no reason for him to be that buff. 

“None of you came to save me,” Punz says, remembering. Time after time, he was a scared child in a world that wanted him for the powers he couldn’t yet control. He still remembers the first time he summoned Bad. He was screaming and sobbing, bound to an altar, and the devil came to set him free. 

“None of you came,” Punz repeats, and even his drug-induced good mood can’t hold up under the memories. “I screamed for help and they came to get me. Why do you think you get to hate me for that?”

“I don’t—“ 

“Cut the bullshit, Foolish.” Punz laughs. “It’s fine, you know. I hate me too.”

“Not for the right reasons.”

“Maybe you just have the wrong ones.” 

Punz sobers up eventually, enough that when the text from Captain comes they feel able to pick it up and respond. 

We’re doing a raid. Could use some muscle. 

It’s surprising, coming from her. I thought you were all about trades? 

I am. Sometimes someone backs out of a deal one too many times. Meet me at the usual spot, 3 PM tomorrow. 

Punz thinks for a minute, then types, what kind of muscle?

They’ve spent a long time in hell, a long time befriending devils and hellhounds and imps and demons of all kinds. They are well aware of the varied talents of the infernal, and after a few minor fuck-ups they’ve also learned the necessity of summoning someone who’s actually suited to the task at hand.

The destructive kind, Captain responds.

They grin at that. The destructive kind? 

I’ll handle it , he texts her. 

He will handle it. He may not be the best at hand to hand combat, but he certainly knows someone who is. And it’s high time he saw his brother again. 

“Why don’t you fucking listen?” Foolish screams from the other side of the door.

“Listen to what? You bitch at me again?” Punz doesn’t raise his voice–the angel can hear him anyway, even under the pounding of the water. 

“Oh, so that’s what you want to call it? It’s me warning you!” The more Foolish rants the more likely it gets that Punz is about to receive a concerned call from a worried neighbor. What would he even say to them? Oh, don’t worry, the guy who just started living with me someday is just angry that I’m going to summon my demon brother today.

“It’s for work,” Punz says exhaustedly, even though he knows he’s lying and Foolish does too. 

“Your work as a demon summoner?” Foolish spits. “The work that keeps your soul tainted?”

Punz reaches out for the tap, hand slipping for a second on the slick metal before they get a good grip and turn off the shower water. The din of water on their head and shoulders subsides and with it Foolish gets easier to hear.

“Every time you use those runes and tap into the infernal it makes me sad,” Foolish says, gentler than he’s been at any point in the conversation. “Because it makes me think eventually, you know, I’ll have to kill you.”

Punz steps out of the shower and yanks his towel off the rack, wrapping it around his shoulders. He glances up, where the shattered bathroom mirror sits. Their wet-haired reflection looks back from a dozen different fragments.

“I don’t really care,” they admit, watching the exhaustion in their own face. “I’m not having such a great time staying alive either.”

Foolish is silent, and by the time Punz has dressed himself and left the bathroom he is content to let the quiet remain.

Captain is there waiting at the usual spot when Punz teleports there. She’s leaned against a black Benz, tapping her fingernails against the metal absent-mindedly. She smiles when she sees him, and he can tell she still can’t see the angel standing at his shoulder.

“You know, I still haven’t figured out what exactly you can do,” Puffy says, pushing off the car and setting her hands on her hips, “But I think this will be a good chance to figure out.”

Punz wraps the blanket tighter around their shoulders and smiles back. A real one, because he’s actually excited for the first time in a while. “Tell me what to do and I’ll make it happen.”

She shakes her head and opens the car door, leaning over and grabbing a folder off the car seat. Always with the folders. Punz can glimpse two other people inside the car—associates of Puffy who they think they’ve met before. He’s not worried about using his abilities in front of them, Puffy’s people know how to keep secrets.

“Old warehouse near the docks,” Puffy says, opening up the folder and handing Punz a photo. “Eret and Elaina tracked down a collector who uses this as a base to store their artifacts.”

“Generally you try to buy from people like this,” Punz notes, looking at the picture. The building is large, made of brick and probably around three stories. It’s surrounded by empty space: a parking lot in front and unused traintracks behind it. Probably why they chose it, easier to scan the distance around.

“Let me see,” Foolish butts in, and Punz tilts it up so Foolish can get a look as well. The angel seems to be resigned to let Punz do what he needs to do without interfering, but apparently he’s still interested.

“Not people who’ve stolen everything they got.” Puffy says wryly in response to Punz’s observation. “So, do you think you can handle it?”

Punz grins and hands the picture back. “Yeah. Is there room in the car for one more?”

“I think we can squeeze another in,” Puffy says. She seems curious, but doesn’t push him.

“Good, because I’ll need a little time to discuss with my brother.” Punz takes a step back from her, further into the open space of the parking lot. Puffy watches him move away and kneel.

Punz is a natural-born summoner. He doesn’t need contracts or sacrifices to summon. All he has to do is ask.

“Sapnap,” they call down to their brother, setting their hand palm-down on the cool concrete, “I have a job for you.”

The space beneath him flares with heat, enough of it that their vision starts to ripple, warped by warmth. There’s a brief second where he feels his palm sink into the concrete, into another space beneath. Then clawed fingers and rough calluses meet his skin, and grip tight.

Punz leans back on his heels and stands up, bringing Sapnap up with him. Red horns and black hair, slate-blue eyes with feathery lashes. Sapnap pulls himself out of the ground, forked tail lashing, and grins at Punz.

“Hi,” Punz says, and he wraps his arms around his brother. He hasn’t seen Sapnap in months.

“Hi, Punz,” Sapnap mumbles back. He pulls away after only a few seconds—he always has too much energy when he’s summoned, jumping around like a nine year old.

“What’s the job? What are we doing?” Sapnap’s hands flex and he looks around, turning I a slow circle. Puffy is watching them both with a surprisingly controlled expression, and Foolish…

Foolish has disappeared. Thank Hell for that, Punz doesn’t want to have to explain the angel’s presence to another friend.

“First off,” Punz says, grabbing the back of Sapnap’s black hoodie and tugging the demon’s attention back towards him, “You are going to listen to everything I tell you to do.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, plus you’re adopted.” Sapnap sticks his tongue out.

“We’re both adopted, dumbass.” Punz cuffs Sapnap across the back of his head. It’s true; devils like Bad can’t have children and he picked them both off the street at the same time. “But I’ll make a deal with you.”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “I thought you didn’t use contracts, bro.”

“Do it and I’ll teleport you to the mall.” It’s true, Punz doesn’t use contracts, but a deal is a different thing, and Sapnap will behave much better if he has the promise of a free visit to his boyfriends’ workplace.

“Done.” Sapnap says immediately, eyes widening. “Hand out your orders, Punzie-boy.”

“Well for starters, control your heat when we get in the car,” Punz says, releasing Sapnap’s hoodie as the demon wiggles away from him. He himself is comforted by the warmth the fire infernal gives off, but he has no clue what temperature level cars and normal humans can stand.

“Ready to go?” Puffy asks, glancing at Sapnap as he charges past her into the car.

“Ready,” Punz agrees, wrapping their blanket tighter and sliding into the backseat.

He elects to sit in the middle. The driver meets his eyes in the mirror above the dash and nods. At least they think she’s meeting their eyes; she has on a pair of dark sunglasses.

“You’ll have to deal with the security personnel, the wards around the building, and the curses on the safe.”

“No one on the outside of the building is armed with any artifacts,” the blonde in the front seat adds, “But we’re not sure if people inside have some that they can weaponize. Eret said they sensed a whole lot of both holy and infernal energy inside.”

The driver in sunglasses nods, and Punz realizes that he probably has second sight. Like Red does, although theirs must be much stronger than his.

“I can handle it. I’ll beat their asses,” Sapnap brags. His boasting would be a little bit more impressive if he didn’t have his face pressed up against the car window, staring at everything they drive past like a little kid.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Punz warns.

“Do it then, bitch. I’ll fucking murk the place,” Sapnap jabs his own chest with a clawed thumb, “I’m one-of-a-kind, baby.”

“You’re a fire demon,” the deep-voiced driver—Eret, the blonde said her name was—says calmly.

“Yeah? What about it?” Sapnap leans over Punz, trying to glance into the front seat.

“You’re squishing me,” Punz tells him. They’re already trying to squeeze closer to Sapnap so they don’t sit uncomfortably close to Puffy.

“I wanna know what’s wrong with me being a fire demon,” Sapnap protests.

“Fire is hard to control,” Puffy tells them both, looking up from her folder. “Generally fire demons are very difficult to summon.”

“Oh. Well, Punz is my brother, so it’s easy for them.” Sapnap shrugs, but seems mollified enough by the answer to sit still.

Puffy is right. Fire is hard to control; it was one of the hardest things for Punz to master. He started tattooing the runes in order to connect to it more; to mark the names on his skin and link himself to the world. Punz glances down at the ink sleeve that covers both their arms, turning them over slowly.

They know the ink on their skin well. He put most of the tattoos there himself, and the ones he didn’t he at least designed. Frequent smoke sessions with Ant have him pointing out the most visible ones. Fire, with its bold curving lines that wrap around his entire forearm. The sound rune on the back of their left hand and the matching silence on their right. Barrier is inked in a wide band on his upper arm.

That last one will be useful today, Punz decides.

They pull up near the warehouse in a few minutes. Eret and Elaina exit the car with them, but split off in a different direction. Punz doesn’t concern himself with whatever they’re up to. He follows Puffy down the street towards the warehouse and Sapnap paces behind him, tail flicking.

“There,” Puffy says, pointing to the open lot and the brick warehouse behind it.

Punz nods, pulling their blanket tight against the chill air.

“Stay here,” he warns her mildly. “Sapnap’s bad at controlling his fire when he gets excited.”

“Hey!” Sapnap complains but doesn’t dispute.

“I’ll put up a barrier, you shouldn’t be able to see anything going on inside. I’ll let it down when we’re done.” Punz shakes hair out of his eyes. He should really get a hair tie for jobs like this, he thinks.

Sapnap falls in beside him as they walk forward and leave Puffy behind.

“Can I kill them?” The demon asks, fanged grin wide.

“Sure. I don’t care.” Punz stops at the edge of the lot, facing the front of the building. The sky is the type of clouded where there’s just enough light for it to diffuse across the entire grey canvas and make it hard to look up without squinting. There’s a silhouette on top of the warehouse, though, and when they cup their hand over their face to shade their eyes it becomes clearer.

“Is that the angel?” Sapnap asks, following Punz’s gaze.

“Did Gumi tell you?” Punz shakes his head, looking away from Foolish. The angel probably won’t interfere, and there are more important things to take care of.

“Yeah, she said he was an asshole.”

“He is.” Punz shakes off their blanket, draping it over one shoulder, and stretches their hands in front of them. Barrier is a big rune, and he needs both hands to draw it. As soon as the light flares under his hands whoever is guarding this place will know they’re here to attack it.

“Cover me,” Punz says over their shoulder as they begin to draw. Fizzing orange light flares under their fingers, painting the word into the air. The tattoo on his arm glows in response, and he channels its warmth into the commandment he’s engraving in the air. Barrier is complicated, if he didn’t have it engraved in his very skin he probably would mess it up when the first guards filter out of the doors and open fire.

Sapnap leaps into motion, fire rippling across his hands and back. Punz is too focused on completing their rune to pay attention to what he does. He finishes the last stroke and watches the light flash and spread to cover the entire area in a blue-tinted dome.

Sapnap is still standing hunched over the bodies when Punz approaches him.

“Oh, it was barrier?” Sapnap asks, glancing at the still-glowing rune on Punz’s arm.

“I mixed silence in there as well,” Punz says, nudging one of the charred corpses with their foot. “No one outside will hear anything, no one inside can get out.”

“There are wards all around the building,” Sapnap whines, pressing his hand to the wall and flinching away immediately. “I can’t get in.”

“I’ll break them down, just don’t let me get shot.”  Punz tells the demon. He presses his own hands to the brick, but he’s no demon and they can’t repel him. He can sink his fingers into the very magic that the wards are made out of and unwind them, piece by piece. They’re lucky these people are protecting themselves with wards rather than holy objects; if this was a church Punz would have no way of getting Sapnap in.

The rattle of gunfire sounds while Punz scrutinizes the runes that protect this building and picks them apart. Punz ignores it, slowly disentangling the threads of the magic. There’s the woosh of something burning.  Behind him Sapnap screams: an exhilarated, half-cackle of a howl that breaks off into breathless laughter. Punz finds himself laughing too.

He’s missed his brother.

They pull the last thread apart and the wards protecting the entire building unravel, falling apart.

“Done.” Punz steps back. “Get in there.”

“So what now, captain?” Sapnap jumps from foot to foot, hands flexing and sparking.

“Kill everyone, dumbass,” Punz grins.

“Fuck, yes,” Sapnap breathes out, and then he charges directly through the wall. The mortar shatters under his shoulder, bricks scorching black with the heat of his passing.

Punz stays outside, pacing a good dozen steps back. He needs open space for this last rune, and a bit of time. Sapnap is a guaranteed flawless distraction, however—it’s very difficult to ignore a hyperactive fire demon rampaging through your supposedly-warded base and killing your guards.

Punz stretches out his hands and begins to paint Destruction.

He’s only a few lines in when he feels the presence behind him, and it’s the closest thing that’s ever come to messing him up on a rune this important. That much holy energy is always uncomfortable, but they recognize it as Foolish before they can react and continue to draw without so much a wobble in their line.

“I used to go to war,” Foolish says softly, stepping up next to Punz and watching him work.

“This isn’t war,” Punz says, shrugging up one shoulder to keep their blanket from slipping off. “It’s business.”

“It’s a massacre, Punz,” Foolish reaches out and takes the blanket, balling it up and settling it under one arm.

“Thanks,” Punz says reluctantly. The destruction rune on their sternum is flaring to match the one they’re drawing, and its heat is enough to make even their shirt uncomfortable, let alone the grey quilt they drag everywhere.

“I’m not condemning massacres, of course,” Foolish says without acknowledging the thanks. “I’ve committed a few of my own. At least you would think them such. I’d call them exterminations. No one complains about killing rats, you know.”

“Are guardian angels supposed to kill?” Punz grits his teeth, reaching and sketching a wide arch in the air. The heat is building up, to the point where even they are sweating.

Foolish goes silent for a minute.

“These people are all tainted,” he says finally. “So I don’t really mind you killing them. But you’re just as bad as they, so maybe I should kill you already.”

“Aren’t you supposed to save me?” Punz asks bitterly. “Isn’t your whole job protection and hope? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? I’m no expert on guardian angels, but you’re a pretty shit one.”

“Punz…” Foolish hesitates again, long enough that Punz almost is finished with the rune by the time he speaks again.

“Did you think angels can’t lie?”

Punz hisses and slashes one last line across the rune that glows in the air. It hangs there for a brief moment, bright enough to match the heat flaring against their sternum. Then it flashes and all the warmth bursts from Punz into it and for a moment he’s dizzy with it, the hot-to-cold, the glow on his shoulder and chest, the power he’s harnessed in one massive rune.

Destruction , it says.

Punz looks up and watches the entire building crumble into dust.

He can spot the three most important things almost instantly, because they’re the only things to survive the rune. One of them is a massive metal safe that hits the ground heavily enough to half-bury it in ash. The other two is Sapnap, wreathed in fire, and a young woman with a sword.

She swings it one last time as she falls, and black blood sprays as Sapnap’s arm separates from his body. He screams and the flames around his body flare up, burn brighter than the sun.

Punz blinks away from the glow. By the time it fades Sapnap is standing on top of the safe, cradling the stump of his arm, and the woman’s body is charred at his feet.

“Oh, fuck,” Punz mutters, snapping his fingers to dispel the barrier spell as he hurries towards Sapnap. He has to wade through waist-deep ash to reach the safe and the demon standing on it.

“Ow,” Sapnap says slowly, sitting down on the edge of the metal. “This really hurts.”

“I hope it keeps hurting, demon!” Foolish crows from behind Punz.

“Shut up,” Punz snaps at him, clambering up onto the safe. The demon turns so his shoulder-stump is facing Punz.

Once a body part is cut from a still-living infernal, it turns to dust and they’ll regrow it later. There are ways to cut things apart and make sure they don’t grow back, but that’s magic even Punz has never learned. It requires severing the very connection between an infernal’s own body, and he’s never wanted to have that ability. What he can do, however, is speed up the regeneration of a body part.

They set their hands on Sapnap’s wound, black blood spurting out to cover their fingers, and channel their power. They don’t need a rune for this; healing a demon they’ve know for years is as easy as making a joke he knows Sapnap will laugh at.

“Ow,” Sapnap says again, but there is already new bone and skin weaving itself under Punz’s touch and within seconds he has his arm back.

When Punz looks up Foolish is watching them both, eyes wide.

“What?” Punz asks.

Foolish looks away, that strange darkness still in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he says bitterly. “Now go crack your safe and steal your shit.”

Sapnap smacks his palms against the safe they both sit on. One of his hands is pure black with smoke stains, while his regrown one is the same color as the rest of his skin.

“Can I go now?” he asks hopefully.

Punz laughs, looking up. “You just got your arm cut off, bro.”

“It’s back now and I want to go see Karl and Quackity,” the demon whines.

Punz hesitates, then shrugs. Sapnap’s hoodie sleeve is missing, but it’s not that obviously suspicious. Sapnap still has the amulet Punz enchanted for him years ago that lets him disguise himself in the human world, so his horns and tail won’t cause much of a commotion.

“Fine, fine,” Punz relents, setting a hand on Sapnap’s bare shoulder and teleporting him.

“You just let a demon loose in the human world,” Foolish notes.

“He’s just going to the mall where his boyfriends work,” Punz shrugs, settling cross-legged on top of the safe and pressing his palms to it. “He’s only got 24 hours up here, too. I know enough not to let Sapnap fuck off into the city without a time limit.”

Foolish grunts and leans against the safe, watching Punz work.

The wards on this one are more complicated than the ones outside the building. They not only prevent any infernals from entering it, they also lock it against physical attacks and keep Punz from even sensing what’s inside. Punz sighs and closes his eyes to focus.

Puffy, Eret, and Elaina arrive when he’s nearly finished, picking their way carefully across the ash.

“Hi,” Punz says distractedly, not opening his eyes. “It went well. Opening the safe now.”

“Nice job,” Puffy says appreciatively, knocking her knuckles against the safe.

“Where did your brother go?” Eret asks.

“Mall,” Punz says, picking apart one last thread and watching the rest of the magic unravel beneath him. There’s a solid clank and the door Foolish is leaning against unlatches.

“Get off,” Eret says to him, and it’s only then that Punz realizes she can see the angel as well. Foolish shakes his head and pulls away from the safe, letting the door fall open.

Punz grips the edge of the metal and hangs his head upside-down, looking inside.

It’s full of artifacts. Both infernal and holy, all strewn throughout the metal interior. Punz sees an entire skull crowned with massive horns that must have belonged to a devil, a goblet of wine that ripples strangely in the light, and an amulet that seems to have a smaller version of the same destruction rune they cast on the building.

“Look at the back,” Eret says softly. Puffy reaches in and moves aside a painting to see what he points out.

It’s a wing, or at least part of one. It’s missing most of the plumage, more of a joint covered in soft white feathers.

Foolish gasps faintly behind him, and Punz lifts his head.

“Is that an angel wing?” they ask him. Foolish is too busy staring to answer.

“It is,” Puffy says in awe.

“We found another piece!” Elaina cheers.

“Piece of what?” Punz sits down cross-legged on the safe, looking down at the four. Puffy and Elaina are celebrating, while Foolish stands frozen staring at the severed appendage. Eret watches him, but offers no comment.

“Eret, can you call our contact about it when we get this stuff back?” Puffy asks, still going through the safe.

“I will,” Eret affirms, and she finally turns away from Foolish.

Punz hesitates, watching Foolish hunch his shoulders. He doesn’t really want to feel sorry for Foolish, but it’s odd to see the normally aggressive or obtuse angel seem so uncomfortable. It makes sense, though. Punz has never seen even a sold feather in all their time appraising artifacts for Puffy. It must be equally jarring for Foolish to see an entire body part belonging to one of his kind.

He helps the three pile artifacts into a bag that fits far more than it should, although he refuses to touch the wing. Eret instead picks it up and carries it back to the car with them, rather than shoving it into the bag.

Punz stands on the street, Foolish silent beside him, and watches them drive away.

“I’m sorry,” he says hesitantly to the angel. “That must have been really weird to see.”

“Weird?” Foolish’s teeth are sharper than they should be, but he sounds too exhausted to be angry. He finally turns to look at Punz.

“I spend so much time watching you wallow in self pity,” the angel whispers, “that I forget you’re dangerous.”

“Me?” Punz frowns. “What did I have to do with that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Foolish tosses the blanket back to Punz and their hands snap up to catch it automatically.

“Nothing,” Foolish repeats again, “and you never will.”

Chapter Text

Punz loves using his powers. There’s a thrill that comes with being connected to the world around him, manipulating it at his fingertips through the runes he inscribes on the air and in his skin. One of the downsides is that after he snips off that connection he feels drained, like without the power of the universe harnessed through him he can’t really stand right.

So, despite how high the sun is in the sky or how late in the day it is, Punz goes to bed as soon as he and Foolish teleport home. The angel is oddly quiet, and without Foolish to distract him, Punz falls asleep quickly.

Sapnap comes to him in the half-dreamlike hours before midnight, when Punz has just woken up and his mind is still fuzzy with sleep. He lies in bed and wonders what time it is, tries to work his muddy brain through where he even is. When he reaches out and senses Sapnap’s infernal energy it adds another layer of unreality to the situation. Sapnap should be back at home, in Hell, and Punz is in the human world. 

They open their eyes and turn their head sideways, to where a dark silhouette crouches beside their mattress. Sapnap’s eyes smolder blue in the dark, just barely lighting up the planes of his face and the curves of his horns. 

“Aren’t you with your boyfriends right now?” Punz works out, having finally put together the events that proceeded this moment.

“They’re asleep.” Sapnap shifts from foot to foot for a moment, then finally drops down beside the mattress, folding his head on his elbows. “And your angel left, so I wanted to get the chance to talk to you.”

“Right, my angel.” Punz says in distaste. Sapnap is correct, one quick touch of his senses to their surroundings affords Punz the knowledge that Foolish is nowhere to be found. 

“How are you holding up?” Sapnap asks, blinking. His eyes still glow behind the thin skin of his lids, and it leads to a rather curious effect of blue irises shining dully every time Sapnap’s eyelids flicker shut. 

Generally Punz wouldn’t answer the question honestly, but his mind is still filmed by sleep and nothing feels real in the dark, under the milky blue glow of Sapnap’s eyes.

“Half the time I want to fucking kill myself, dude,” he says exhaustedly, “I’m just too goddamn lazy. And I’m fucking cold all the time. I just…miss home.”

“I miss you too. So do Gumi and Bad.” Sapnap doesn’t meet Punz’s eyes, picking at a few threads on the blanket with his claws. 

Punz sighs and stares at the ceiling. Maybe there’s something about Sapnap’s presence that’s warping the atmosphere around them a little bit, because there generally would be streetlights filtering in through the window and the occasional noise of traffic. Instead it’s him in the silent dark and the blue glow, the hum of his heater the only background noise.

“You know you could come home, right?” Sapnap finally says in a rush. “You just need a contract and it could be me. I’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant you could come home.”

Punz wants to say yes. It would be so easy. Contracting a demon normally takes blood sacrifices and years of studying to figure out a demon’s truename. It takes time to promise yourself to the infernal. 

But Punz has had nothing but time.

“Why aren’t they helping you?” Foolish had demanded all those weeks ago, and Punz hadn’t wanted to listen. 

Now they have a summoner who wants to go home so badly he’s considering selling his soul.

Punz knows the value of a soul better than most humans probably do. They know that it’s part of what animates the human body; the spark of life that persists after death. Without it, whenever Punz finally dies, he just…goes out. Gone forever. 

Angels have souls. Almost a surplus of soul; to the point where their physical bodies are more of a manifestation of it. That’s part of why Punz was so shocked to see angel wings in that safe they opened. Angels’ whole bodies are composed of the power of their soul made tangible; the only way to remove a part from them is to sever the soul itself. 

Demons don’t have souls. It’s what makes them infernal; that lack of a spark within them. If Punz contracted himself to Sapnap his brother would be fed his own soul, made stronger by the very power of Punz’s life force. In return Punz would receive some physical attributes of his brother and a greater connection to infernal power at the expense of having his very actions chosen by the infernal powers he’s put himself at the mercy of.

And he would get to go home.

Isn’t that worth more?

“I…” Punz starts, staring into Sapnap’s blue eyes. He doesn’t think Sapnap is part of some huge plot to make Punz into the perfect infernal weapon. They don’t even think there is one, no matter what Foolish says. 

But the doubt lingers anyway, and he hates himself for it. He wishes he could just trust, he wishes he could lie here and make that promise to his brother without hesitation. He wishes he could go home. 

“I can’t. Not yet, anyway,” Punz says finally. “I wish…”

He doesn’t know what he means to finish it with, so instead he leaves his sentence to trail off, unsealed. It bleeds like a dead thing in the silence.

The quiet weighs heavy on him and on Sapnap’s bowed shoulders. Punz almost jumps when the demon finally speaks again.

“I understand,” he says roughly, and Punz knows that he doesn’t understand, not fully, but that he’ll try to anyway because he’s fucking Sapnap and Punz loves his brother more than anyone else in the world. 

“Love you, Sap,” Punz tells him.

Sapnap puts his head down again. A clawed hand gathers up a fistful of the blanket, squeezing unconsciously until Sapnap exhales and his fingers relax.

“I love you too, Punz,” he says softly.

Sapnap disappears in a burst of sparks. A few flakes of ash drift down to the blanket, accompanied by the faint smell of smoke, as if Punz has just blown out a candle.

The lights from the street and the sound of cars passing begins to filter in once more, the ordinary ambience of a human city at midnight. Punz rolls over and stares at the wall, lets their eyes drift shut once more. 

They can feel Foolish’s presence fill up the apartment again. The holy energy is more familiar to him than it was a few weeks ago. Sometimes Punz wonders if he really could connect to the divine as easily as he could to the infernal; if, with enough practice, he could call upon seraphs and cherubim as easily as he does upon imps and hellhounds.

“Welcome back,” Punz says into the dark apartment.

The bathroom door opens and Foolish enters it. He closes the door behind him so that when he finally responds to Punz the barrier muffles his voice slightly. 

“The apartment tastes like rotten eggs,” he says, less accusing and more of a tired observation.

“Sapnap.” Punz answers. It seems they both agree that it’s enough of an explanation, because Foolish doesn’t bother to respond. The water in the bathroom turns on. The lights stay off.

Punz stares up at the ceiling and listens to the water run.

The bathroom door opens and he glances up to see Foolish reenter the room, cross the carpet to pull a shirt out of the closet. He’s always wearing Punz’s clothes, although some of them Punz never really wore in the first place. The closet has a vague divide down the middle now, the clothes that Foolish tends to wear on a different side than the ones Punz prefers.

“You’re covered in ashes from what you did to the building,” Foolish says, stopping at the door of the bathroom to glance back over his shoulder. “You should shower.”

Punz sits up and watches the angel disappear into the bathroom again. Foolish doesn’t close the door; Punz can just see his silhouette moving in the dark. Foolish strips his shirt off, tosses his clothing on the floor. He moves out of Punz’s view and Punz just catches the sight of his sweatpants hitting the bathroom tile. The water noise gutters for a minute as Foolish moves under it, interrupting the flow of drops.

Punz gets up. Foolish isn’t wrong; they still have sweat and ash on their clothes from their trip today. They can’t see perfectly in the dark, but their eyes are adjusted enough for them to pull a shirt and shorts out of the closet.

“I didn’t know angels needed to shower,” Punz says as he enters the bathroom. Foolish is standing under the water, face turned towards the showerhead. Water streams down his face and his hair and over his back and shoulders. In the dark his skin looks a little less human than usual, like he’s made of shining metal instead of flesh. Punz wonders, if they touched him, would they find warm skin under their hands or something smoother and less human?

They can just barely see their fractured reflection in the mirror. A dozen shattered copies of his own face stare back at him as he stands in front of the mirror, warped to different pieces by the cracks that slice across it. 

“I don’t get dirty. Not physically,” Foolish speaks finally over the sound of the shower. “But sometimes a day weighs on you, you know? You need the heat to make you feel clean.”

“I know what you mean,” Punz agrees. He sits down on the shag carpet, clean clothes tucked in a ball under his arm, and stares at the wall. There are little flickers of light reflected onto the plaster, cast from the curves of Foolish’s metallic skin.

“What did your brother come to do?” Foolish asks.

Punz knocks his head back against the counter. 

“Ask if I wanted a contract,” he says softly, loathe to admit it to Foolish, who already hates their whole family with more malice than any holy creature seems like it should hold.

“I’m not surprised,” Foolish replies. 

Steam billows from the shower, clouding Punz’s vision. He leans over to shut the bathroom door, not wanting to let the warmth escape. 

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take it,” Punz says, remembering that wretched uncertainty that snatched at his stomach when Sapnap made the offer. 

Foolish doesn’t answer. 

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go home,” Punz repeats. “I fucking…I can’t do anything up here and I can’t even make the choice to go back down. Why would I doubt him? He’s my fucking brother .”

Steam fills the room, chokes Punz in humid heat. 

“The problem with you,” Foolish says finally, “is that the way anyone wants to treat you as a person is secondary to the way they have to treat your powers.”

Punz raises their arms, trying to make out the tattoos that cover his skin in the dark. Those beautiful tattoos, the very way he harnesses the power of the world at his fingertips, visible reminders of the abilities he carries that so few do. 

“How would you treat me if I didn’t have them?” Punz looks over at Foolish. The angel still stands in the shower, naked in the dark, skin gleaming metallic behind clouds of steam.

Foolish steps out of the shower and picks up a towel, wrapping it around his waist. He leaves the water running as he reaches a hand down to Punz. Punz takes it. Foolish’s skin is absent the roughness of his usual calluses and creased skin, this time the fingers that close around Punz’s are unnaturally smooth, like the angel’s skin is just living metal.

“We’d probably be friends,” Foolish admits, pulling Punz to their feet. He doesn’t let go immediately, and Punz catches a glimpse of the two of them standing there together, reflected in the broken mirror. Normally Foolish doesn’t appear in the mirror at all, like the glass refuses to display the person who fractured it in the first place. Tonight, though, he can see both of them captured in its surface. Punz, still smeared with ash and fully clothed, while Foolish stands naked with his human form slipping loose, divinity making itself known in skin that has the sheen of burnished metal.

“Friends,” Punz considers, releasing Foolish’s hand. He steps past the angel and undresses slowly, shucking off his dirty sweatpants and t-shirt. 

Being friends with Foolish would be...interesting. Sometimes Punz does think they could like the angel, if he wasn’t assigned to be their babysitter. 

The water is at maximum heat when Punz steps into it. He’s heat resistant, of course, but that doesn’t prevent the thrill that jumps across his skin when he steps under the searing warmth. He relaxes, lets it wash away the sweat and the dust of that afternoon. 

Foolish really was right, the heat makes them feel clean.

“What if we could just pretend?” Punz asks, dipping his head under the stream and feeling the water permeate to the roots of his hair. He has to close his eyes against the force of it. “What if…I don’t know. What if we could be friends anyway?”

Foolish is turned away from the mirror when Punz opens his eyes. The angel spreads his arms slowly, turns around to crane his head over his shoulder and glance at the expanse of his back in the reflection.

Punz watches Foolish stand there, till the angel sighs and looks away from the mirror. 

“There is no ‘anyway’,” he says, wiping wet hands on the towel around his waist. “There is no pretending. I wish we could, Punz, I really do.”

Punz almost says something in protest, but Foolish continues without waiting. “But you can’t expect me to lie to myself, can you? Not when I’m reminded every fucking second of the day.”

He doesn’t sound angry this time. Just exhausted.

“I don’t want it to keep going like this.” Punz closes his eyes again, turns his face up under the stream of water. 

“I just wish I wasn’t so fucking cold all the time,” he whispers. 

“I wish I could help you,” Foolish replies. “But I wasn’t sent here for that.”

Punz doesn’t look at him again. 

“I’m sorry,” Foolish says into the darkness of the steam-filled bathroom. “I really am. But I’m an angel, Punz. I wasn’t made to grow and change. Once I lose something, it’s gone forever.”

“What did you lose?” Punz asks, feeling water drip down his face and lips and lashes.

Foolish hesitates.

“Maybe it was compassion,” he says finally. “But I don’t really know.”

“If you were really compassionate you would have just killed me by now.” Punz isn’t sure if they’re even being fair, but nor do they care.

“I will,” Foolish says gently. It sounds like a promise, and it’s more soothing than it ever really should be. 

“I’ll kill you when you fall too far,” the angel promises. It’s the kindest Foolish has ever really sounded.

Punz turns off the water, and opens his eyes in the suddenness of the quiet. 

“I don’t think you’re any happier than I am,” he tells Foolish. “And I don’t think killing me will make you happier.”

“Of course it won’t,” Foolish sets his palms on the mirror, looking at his myriad reflection rather than at Punz. “But I gave up at making myself happier long ago. I lost that when I lost them , and I’ll never fucking get them back.”

“Them? Who did you lose?”

Foolish laughs: spiteful and bitter. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you know, Punz? I’m immortal, but I can’t change. I’m just like you, in that way. We’re both just fucking…floating.”

Punz thinks of a hundred nights spent awake, of sleeping all day and fire in his lungs and anxiety that only waned under the thrall of smoke and liquor. 

“Why did they send you to help me?” It sounds bitter. It sounds like he’s blaming Foolish. Maybe he is. “You’re just as much of a mess as I am.”

“I’m sorry for lying to you,” Foolish says. He hands Punz their towel as they leave the shower. 

“I didn’t think you’d still believe that, to be honest,” Foolish adds. “You haven’t picked up on it? I’m not really here to help you. I’m just here to watch you until you’re far gone enough for the higher powers to justify killing you. All I’m supposed to do is wait till I can declare you weren’t worth saving.”

Punz isn’t even surprised.

“You want my powers gone that badly?” he asks, pulling his towel around his shoulders.

“It needs to happen,” Foolish says, almost more to his reflection than to Punz. “They said I should know that better than anyone.”

“Why? Why you?” Punz demands.

Foolish won’t–or can’t–answer.

Chapter Text

Foolish stops pretending after that. 

Punz understands why. It doesn’t make sense for Foolish to keep puttering around, telling Punz to go on walks and making them food. The angel is there to keep Punz alive, until he decides that Punz doesn’t deserve to be alive anymore. Then… it’s over. 

Punz has contemplated his own death before, mostly in moments that come with sweating hands and racing heart and adrenaline in his veins. This is a death that stretches over hours, days, weeks. Months, perhaps. They know now that their fate was sealed the moment Foolish appeared in their kitchen, faux smile wide on a false face. Punz thought they’d been chained to a babysitter then. Now he knows Heaven sent him an executioner. He’s not even sure why a guardian angel like Foolish has the responsibility to kill him; the closest he can gather is that there’s simply something wrong with him. It’s almost ironic. Foolish, an angel somehow unfit for his holy duty, and Punz, a human so intertwined with the profane that they don’t know if they can live with out it.

Punz’s whole life has been infernal, from the moment he first screamed for help when he was seven years old. It’s where he got his talents, his family, even the tattoos on his skin. Without them he has nothing. He’s not sure if that’s worse than dying or not. 

“How do I get you to leave?” Punz asks once, late at night when he’s curled up in bed watching videos on his laptop.

Foolish looks up and frowns.

“Why would I leave?” he asks, entirely genuine in his confusion. “I’m your angel. The decision was already made; if anyone was to take care of you, it’s going to be me.”

“Does anyone actually have to ‘take care of me’?” Punz spits the last words. They know what Foolish really means.

“I feel like you don’t really listen to what I’m saying.” Foolish runs his hands through his hair, exasperated. “You’re going to die, Punz. It’ll happen one way or another.”

“Why? Why do you think everyone wants me dead so badly?”

“Because–” Foolish bites off the end of his sentence, huffing on his words for a minute. Punz can always tell when he’s being honest, or when he’s bothered. His teeth grow sharper; eyes darkening as the trappings of his human form waver.

“Because of what you are ,” Foolish snaps. “You’re more useful alive than dead, but look at you. You’re aligned with infernal powers, not mortal or heavenly ones. You’ve escaped capture or manipulation way too many times for anyone to believe those are helpful ways of controlling you. You’re dangerous, as pathetic as you are right now. And every minorly intellectual individual knows to minimize threats to them.”

They know what Foolish is talking about. They had gone through enough shit by the time they were eleven that even Bad thought it would be safer for them to grow up in Hell than in the human world. Even the trips to the mortal realm in his adolescence were fraught with danger that Punz just grew used to. 

He should have noticed his life was far too harmless lately. Punz buries their face in their pillow, muffling their voice. “Have you been protecting me since you got here?”

“Yes.” Foolish says. He doesn’t sound exasperated. Just resigned.

Punz folds his arms over his head and closes his eyes. Of course. He wants Foolish gone, but for all he knows without Foolish there he’d be dead already. 

Getting worse will kill him. He doesn’t know who he would be if he got better. So he does nothing at all. Punz starts sleeping more, eating less. Foolish doesn’t try to stop him.

It’s difficult to want to do anything when you’re doomed either way. Sometimes Punz imagines the lethargy as some creature who’s crawled down their throat and made a home in their stomach. It saps his energy, makes his body too heavy to carry. Sometimes Punz stops imagining and just accepts that the only thing ruining him is himself.

The bathroom mirror stays broken.

“Can you just kill me now?” Punz asks, sitting on the floor of their kitchen and watching a cup of noodles spin in the calm glow of the microwave. He means his tone to be bitter, sort of joking. It sounds more desperate than he wants it to.

“I’m not looking forward to it,” Foolish replies. He sits beside Punz, arms folded over his knees and head tilted back. He isn’t watching the microwave, just staring off into space and listening to the low hum of it in the dark.

“Why not? Don’t you want to get out of here?” Punz rubs their fingers across the tattoos on their arms, feeling the subtle rise of ink under skin. “Is Heaven all pearly gates and golden apples like they say?”

He’s just joking, but he listens anyway when Foolish answers.

“It’s gardens,” the angel says softly. “Not like ones you have down here. Wild ones, where the plants grow how they want, but they want to be beautiful. There’s fruit everywhere. When we were younger my brother and I used to fly up and see if we could find fruit from in the highest branch possible. He claimed it always tasted better.”

“You have a brother?” Punz ventures. He doesn’t know if angels even have family, or children, or parents or siblings. Apparently Foolish does.

“There were eight of us,” Foolish says, eyes still focused on nothing. “Nine in all. That was before–”

The microwave beeps: a harsh, discordant sound that makes Punz jump. Foolish doesn’t flinch, but he goes completely silent while Punz stands and hits the button to open the microwave.

“Before what?” Punz asks, picking up the cup of instant noodles and stirring it idly.

Foolish shifts, standing up. He seems a little taller than usual in the dark; features more angular. He’s wearing one of Punz’s black hoodies, face lit only by the glow of the open microwave. He should look disheveled and unimpressive, standing there in Punz’s apartment kitchen.

Instead Punz is struck again with the impression of a marble statue–or whatever marble statues used to strive to imitate. Something glorified, beautifully human shapes carved so intricately out of something inhuman. Foolish looks…old. 

“Before the wars,” Foolish finally replies. “And before we lost.”

Punz knows what he’s talking about. He’s heard the stories before, shouted triumphantly by a drunken Gumi or taught sternly by Bad, even explained by Sapnap with more gusto than facts. All of them told it in different ways. 

There were always wars between the infernal and the holy, Bad had said. We don’t mix together well, and we both want the other’s influence gone from the mortal realm. It was just constant conflict, never a single victory. 

That’s what hellhounds like me were for, Punz, Gumi had boasted, sweeping her pink hair over her shoulder. We’re angel hunters. We used to hunt them down in packs and tear them limb from limb. We couldn’t kill them, you know. But once one loses a piece of itself, it disappears. We’d rip ‘em apart and sometimes they’d limp away. But they’d always come back healed, and they used to kill us in turn. The last of my old pack died before the war even ended. Survival of the fittest, I guess.

We won the last one! Sapnap exulted to Punz once, telling a story gleaned from bar rumors and embellishments. Someone found a weapon that would let us kill the motherfuckers. They weren’t ready to handle it; the bitches couldn’t die like we could. So there’s a sorta truce now. No direct conflict and shit, but they’re still out there. They’d have attacked already if we hadn’t scared them away. 

Punz has never heard the story from an angel’s point of view before. 

“What happened?” they wrap both hands around the cup of noodles, letting the heat warm their skin.

Foolish finally looks at Punz, and for a moment they can’t tell if his eyes are deep brown or reflective green.

“People like you happened,” the angel says. “And everyone we lost is a reminder of what I have to do.”

“So why wait?”

Foolish hesitates, looks away. He slowly sits down by Punz again, folding muscular arms over his knees. 

“Because we’re supposed to be the good ones,” he mumbles. “And you’re supposed to have a chance.”

“So you think I can change and somehow reject every infernal thing I’ve ever known?” Punz laughs at that. 

“I don’t, Punz.” Foolish rests his cheek on his arms, staring down at the floor. “I’m just doing what I’m told. I can’t change either; I wasn’t made to.”

It’s almost hilarious how similar they are. 

Punz puts down his cup of noodles and presses his palms to his face. Foolish is a dick and a constant axe hanging over his neck, and his holy energy makes Punz’s skin crawl. He hates Punz and everything Punz came from. But it’s difficult for Punz to fully hate Foolish; not when the angel has sat beside them on so many sleepless nights and watched them wake and smoke and drink in their misery. Foolish is just as trapped as Punz is.

“Is there a way out?” Punz ventures. 

“No, Punz,” Foolish replies, tired. “Not for both of us.”

Not for both of us.

They’re an angel and a human. If one of them dies, Punz already knows who it’s going to be.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” Punz bursts out, glancing down at Foolish and rubbing one hand across his face. “I fucking can’t .”

“So go back to sleep, Punz,” Foolish stares up at him. “It’s the only thing you ever fucking do.”

Punz wants to argue. Maybe a few months ago he would have. But he’s tired and he already knows Foolish is right. 

He sleeps.  

Punz doesn’t do anything. It still feels like his time is running out.

Ant texts him a few days later, the same simple text as always. 

“You have a message from Ant,” Foolish calls from across the room. He tosses Punz’s phone before they can even lift their head from their pillow. It bounces off their shoulder and hits the mattress. Punz already knows what it says before they look at their phone.

Come smoke with me .

He doesn’t feel like saying no. Punz sits up and shakes disheveled hair out of his face, glancing around the bedroom. Foolish sits against the wall near the door, staring at the ceiling now that Punz has repossessed his phone. 

“Why do you always steal my phone?” Punz complains, leaning out of the bed and picking through a pile of only semi-dirty clothes that lie on the floor near his mattress.

“‘Cuz I only have a flip phone, and you can’t watch Tiktok on a flip phone.” Foolish says, exasperated. 

“What do you even watch on there? You’re a fucking angel,” Punz grumbles. He finds one of his favorite sweatshirts and yanks it on over his head. His hair is an absolute fucking mess. Does he own any hair ties?

“Slime,” Foolish states. 

“Sli–okay.” Punz pulls the blankets off their lap and stands up, sliding their phone into their pocket. “I’m going to go smoke with Ant. Are you gonna follow me?”

“Of course I am,” Foolish laughs. 

“Fine. Just at least let me pretend you’re not there.”

“Sure thing, you won’t catch a peep from me.” Foolish smiles reassuringly. 

Punz turns away and teleports. 

He’s been behind this gas station so many times, but has no idea what this place looks like in daylight. In all of their memories it’s dirty concrete under streetlights and fluorescent shadows on old graffiti and his friend sitting on the curb with a joint in his hand, smiling at them.

“It’s been awhile,” Ant says, and he knocks his shoulder against Punz’s when they sit down. 

“It’s been…a lot.” Punz brushes their hair out of their eyes. “Like, a lot, dude.”

“I’m listening,” Ant says, holding the joint out to Punz. 

Punz traces a quick shape in the air around the tip and fire warps up into the paper, curls and blackens it as it flickers into the leaves. He lets the fire catch and then passes the joint back to Ant. He’ll be polite, take his turn second.

“It’s…well I’m stuck with the goddamn angel,” Punz resists the urge to look around and see if he can spot Foolish. Maybe Foolish is being polite, though, and only watching from a distance. Yeah, right. Like his invasive, bitchy guardian angel will grow a sense of decorum just so Punz can smoke in peace.

“Angel?” Ant raises his eyebrows. Smoke wisps on his breath as he speaks. “Like, a guardian angel?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Punz closes their eyes and hold the joint to their mouth. They breathe in, hold it, breathe again. 

Foolish’s involvement in Punz’s life seems like a long story, but it’s shortened by apathy and resignation and the eventual fit of coughing both he and Ant get themselves into. Ant’s a good listener, and maybe he’s just high enough to not give a shit that he’s talking to a demon summoner with a false guardian. 

Punz leaves out the part where Foolish is supposed to kill him. He talks about how much the angel hates him and he talks about the fact that he isn’t a real guardian at all and he talks about the broken wings they found in a locked safe. But he can’t bring himself to look his friend in the eyes and admit that he’s going to die soon.

“That’s fucking crazy, dude,” Ant muses. He spits on the ground and takes the joint back from Punz.

“It is,” Punz agrees. 

“So where’s he right now?” Ant takes a long drag.

“Probably somewhere nearby, dunno. A lot of people want me dead for some reason.” And Foolish is one of them, Punz almost says, but he holds his tongue. 

Ant pats him on the shoulder and hands him the joint. 

“Show me a tattoo,” he says, half demand and half request. 

Punz smiles. There’s a sense of normalcy about the routine. It’s the way things always go with Ant. It’s probably one of the reasons he doesn’t really want to die. Not when he has these nights with chill air and warm lungs and a friend at his side. 

“Hold on, this is a big one,” Punz takes a drag and Ant waits patiently until he’s done, then takes the last stub of the joint from Punz’s hand.

Punz reaches down and grabs the hem of their sweatshirt, pulling it all the way up to his collarbone. He has tattoos all over his shoulders and arms and ribs, but the centerpiece is the jagged rune inked right across his sternum. One of the most dangerous ones he has. 

“Destruction,” he says, smoke rising from his lips.

Ant squints, as if he’s trying to read the rune. He taps a few ashes from the joint. 

“It looks cool,” he eventually decides. 

Punz grins and releases their grip on their shirt, letting it fall to cover them again. “I had to get a friend to do this one for me.”

“Was it Gumi?” Ant guesses. Funny, to remember that Ant has actually met the centuries-old hellhound that Punz calls friend.

Punz nods. “I had to draw it in the air for her, and then she traced it onto my skin. Infernals are kinda connected to runes in their own way, so she was able to give it power just like I am.”

“So if I got a normal human to copy it on me, it wouldn’t do anything?”

Punz shakes their head. “It has to be from someone with a connection to the power.”

“Damn. Think you’ll give me a cool tattoo?” Ant grins at Punz, “I’ll trade you for a haircut.”

“I know I need a fucking haircut.” Punz grimaces, running a hand through the almost-shoulder length hair that falls over their face. “But no, dude. You can’t even attune to runes anyway, not without spending years practicing.”

“We only get to be born with one superpower, and mine was gay,” Ant muses. “Too bad.”

“Too bad,” Punz agrees. And he thinks about his friend: kind-hearted, easy-going Antfrost, living whatever life Punz is now. Sleeping late and waking late, eating almost nothing and sitting around in a dark room knowing he’s only getting closer to dying. Ant doesn’t deserve that. Does Punz?

Maybe he shouldn’t say anything, pretend he never thought of it. But instead he wraps one arm around Ant and hugs him. Ant hugs back without a second thought and he doesn’t let go, even when Punz starts shaking in his grip and the tears start falling. They sit on the curb and Ant pats Punz gently on the back, hugs him wholeheartedly while Punz cries on his shoulder. 

When Punz pulls back Ant is quiet for a little while.

“You could come stay with me and Red for a bit,” he ventures finally. “If you need help, man.”

Punz rubs wetness from their eyes and coughs, folding their arms over their knees. 

Maybe he could. But really, what would it change? No matter whose couch he sleeps on, he’s still him . And he still has the angel at his shoulder and the fate he can’t escape.

“Thank you,” Punz whispers. “But I don’t know if that would help.”

“Okay,” Ant agrees. He leans back on the heels of his hands and stares up at the sky. There’s too much light pollution from the city to see a single star, but an airplane crosses overhead that Punz can almost delude themself into thinking is one until they see red flash on its underside.

“There’s a party this weekend, if you want to come to that,” Ant says like he’s only just remembered it.

Punz blinks. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Fuck, dude. I don’t know why not.” Punz absentmindedly runs their fingertips across the tattoos on their arms. “Can I bring–”

“The angel? Yeah.” Ant shrugs. “He might be an asshole, but at least he’s hot. Maybe we can, like, distract him with hot women.”

Punz laughs. “I don’t know how Foolish feels about hot women,” he admits, “Or men.” 

“Do angels fuck?” Ant says, suddenly serious.

“Bro, this is definitely blasphemous in some way,” Punz says, trying to keep from chuckling too hard.

“You summon demons, Punz. Do angels fuck?” Ant punctuates each word with a jab of his fingertip insto his palm.

“We could probably ask if I yelled it loud enough.” Punz shakes back their sleeves and cups their hands around their mouth, glancing sideways at Ant. Ant rests his elbows on his knees and watches wide-eyed. He doesn’t seem inclined to stop Punz.

“DO ANGELS FUCK?” Punz screams across the parking lot. Or he tries to scream, but his throat is still raw from smoking and he breaks down coughing before the first word.

“Divine intervention,” Ant says solemnly, patting Punz on the back. Punz swears at him but he can’t stop laughing.

It feels good to pretend he’s not doomed. 

Foolish agrees to go to the party with Punz and refuses to answer the question.

“Read a fucking Bible,” the angel grumbles when Punz asks him the question, and he relays the answer to Ant. 

Red says there r angels fucking in the bible, Ant texts back. And they have monster kids who r massive giants and stuff and also they got yeeted to hell for fucking humans. 

Imagine being a fallen angel cuz u got too many bitches, Punz replies, and then he’s laughing so hard that Foolish inquires what’s so funny and promptly throws a hissy fit when he finds out. 

Things don’t get more bearable, they just get…smaller. Punz still doesn’t want to wake up at all, but it’s not like he’s planning on doing this forever. Just until Friday, just until the weekend hits and he can drink away his thoughts in a room full of suicidal young adults. Suicidal adults, and a single angel. 

“Can you get drunk?” Punz asks Foolish as they stand in the street outside their apartment, waiting for Ant and Red to pick them up.

“I can,” Foolish says, sweeping one hand across his hair. He folds his arms, looking over at Punz. “I’m in a human body, you know? All I have to do is let myself be human.”

“Are angels supposed to drink?” Punz imitates Foolish’s gesture, swiping messy strands of long blonde hair out of his face.

Foolish frowns at him. “Mind your own business. Does it matter? ”

“Not really,” Punz admits. “I’ll probably be too wasted to care.”

“Of course you will,” Foolish says. There’s strange resentment in his tone, and Punz wants to snap at him. Instead they stand there in silence until Red’s car pulls up.

Ant is blasting Doja Cat when Punz and Foolish climb in the backseat, and the car is already full of smoke. It’s an assault of noise and smell and it comforts Punz because it’s already reassuring him that he’s going to do a whole lot of not-thinking tonight.

“Hi, Foolish!” Ant shouts, leaning into the backseat. He holds out the half smoked joint, and when Punz takes it he disappears into the front seat again, rummaging through his pockets.

“Hello,” Foolish says. He’s being irritatingly hostile, so Punz takes as long of a drag as they can before they hand the joint over. If they both get high maybe Foolish will get nicer, or Punz will care less. Either way, it’s a win-win.

“Here!” Ant reaches back again, dangling a hairband in front of Punz’s face. Punz blinks, and takes it.

“I stole it from my older sister,” Red confides over the sound of Juicy blasting from the speakers. “But she won’t give a shit, and your hair’s a mess.”

“I know,” Punz says begrudgingly. He threads his hands through his hair and pulls it back, trying to gather it all into a ponytail.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Foolish interrupts. The angel passes the joint up to Ant and holds his hand for the hairband. Punz hands it over and turns around so Foolish can try to do something with it.

“Do angels have really long hair?” Ant asks, still hanging over the seat and holding the joint to his lips.

“Sometimes,” Foolish says, too focused to be a dick about it. He’s pulling on Punz’s scalp, but they’re too stubborn to flinch away. He’d better be doing a damn good job, though. 

Red holds out his hand for the joint and drives one-handed while he takes a drag. 

“If you do anything celestial or weird I’m pretending I’ve never seen you before in my fucking life,” he announces.

“I’ll pretend with you,” Punz says, as Foolish lowers his hands from their hair. It’s nice to have out of their face, and he leans over into the middle seat to try to get a glimpse of what he looks like in the rearview mirror.

“It looks good,” Ant confirms, even though he hasn’t even glanced back since Foolish finished. 

It’s not awful. It’s just a tight ponytail that clears all the stray hairs out of Punz’s face, which is good enough. He doesn’t say thank you.

“Don’t either of you wander off, either,” Red warns.

“I can teleport.” Punz points out.

“I can also teleport,” Foolish adds.

“Fine, fuck me in the ass then. Wander wherever the fuck you want.” Red rolls his eyes.

Ant laughs and leans across the dashboard, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek. Red swats him away to keep an eye on the road, but doesn’t bother hiding his grin.

“Hand me the fucking weed,” Punz demands. Foolish hands it over.

Foolish is a warrior older than the ground they stand on, and he learned a long time ago to block out the input that didn’t matter. Divine eyes see too much, divine ears hear too much, and he’s merely an angel in the body of a mortal. So he ignores the dozens of conversations happening in the crowded hous, ignores the couples fucking upstairs and the group of people cheering over their drinking game in the back yard. He ignores the smell of smoke and sweat and perfume and cologne and alcohol. He ignores the faces of the people that pass and crowd around him. And he ignores the feeling of hands on his feathers.

Someone is touching his wings. 

Someone is always touching his wings. 

Foolish lost them years ago. Maybe decades, maybe centuries. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t like to think about it. His wings have been severed and torn apart and scattered for a long, long time, but he still feels everything they do. Every touch, every breath of air on his feathers. He’s gotten used to blocking it out by now.

“Oi, Foolish,” the red-haired human calls to Foolish. He’s holding out a drink. 

Foolish takes it and tips it up without a second thought. It burns his throat in a detached sort of way, and he finishes the whole thing without taking a breath.

Red whistles. “Where’d you learn to drink like that?”

Foolish laughs, even though he doesn’t mean to. “Special angel powers.”

Puffy.

He learned a lot about mortal things from Puffy. Puffy, Eret, and Elaina were the first mortals he met after he lost his wings. They taught him how to drink and joke and act human, and they took the deal he made with them. He extended their lifespans, they hunted down his missing pieces. It’s thanks to them that most of the sense in his wings detects nothing but calm darkness. They’ve probably collected majority of his cut-up limbs and feathers. He can still feel whatever’s happening to the rest, but he’s grateful for what they’ve done. 

His wings will never be whole again, but at least they’re in a safe place rather than being hawked around the human world and constantly handled. It could be worse. It could always be worse. 

He’s a wingless archangel standing in a house full of drunk humans, charged with the execution of a demon summoner. It could always be worse. He’s taking the rest of the bottle from Red’s hand and tipping it down his throat and it could always be worse. Punz is in the other room smoking and laughing and infernal taint roils off his skin like noxious smoke and it could always be worse. Foolish is getting more and more drunk and his balance is too good to bely the haze in his head and it could always be worse. 

Some mortal in a beanie finds him, someone he recognizes from that last party, and Foolish lets the man drag him into the backyard. They’re playing a drinking game, something about asking questions and taking a shot when you can’t answer. Foolish doesn’t answer a single fucking one. 

He leaves the backyard very, very drunk. There’s a giant bowl of Chex Mix on the counter and Foolish doesn’t need to eat but he does enjoy it. His head is spinning in a calming sort of way, and he parks himself on the counter with the bowl in his lap. Someone is using one of his feathers as a quill. Ink drips along the shaft. Foolish shifts his shoulders and wishes he could flick the liquid off.

“Hey!” someone hisses, except the party is loud as hell and if Foolish didnt have superhuman hearing he wouldn’t even notice Ant swaying in the doorway of the kitchen, drink in hand, face flushed.

“What do you want?” Foolish groans, watching the human approach.

“I wanna talk to you,” Ant says. He looks so serious, so concerned. Compassionate, worried. Emotions that Foolish probably should be feeling. 

One of his feathers is hanging from a silver chain around someone’s neck and his girlfriend is kissing him, trapping it between both of their collarbones, and Foolish feels it even despite the alcohol in his head. 

“About what?” Foolish snaps, turning his gaze back to the bowl of snacks in his lap.

“About Punz.” Ant stops opposite Foolish. He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses and takes a drink instead. 

Addiction. Drunkenness. Foolish should hate seeing these things. He’s not sure if he lost that purity the second he was cut apart, or if he stopped caring because he already realized he couldn’t be what he should. 

“Fine. What about Punz?” Foolish puts the bowl aside. “Is this about him sleeping too much? Or their depression or their past or their powers? What do you want?”

“Is he going to be okay?” 

Foolish pauses.

Ant looks so worried, his brow furrowed. He knows how much Punz hates Foolish, he definitely does. So why does he ask as if Foolish is able to do something about that? Why does he ask as if Foolish is there to help?

There’s a piece of Foolish’s flesh at the bottom of the ocean and the fish have stopped trying to sink their teeth into impenetrable golden flesh long ago, but he can feel every grain of sand wash across his skin. 

“He’s not.” Foolish stares into Ant’s eyes. 

“Can you…do something? Anything?”

As if Foolish isn’t doing something already. All he can give Punz is time, and so he just keeps waiting and probably lying to himself. Saying that the summoner isn’t too far gone, saying that there’s still a chance. 

Just one more day. Just one more chance. And I’ll watch him sleep it away again.

“Your friend,” Foolish says softly, but loud enough that Ant can hear him, “should be dead by now.”

Ant doesn’t look as shocked as Foolish thought he would, just confused.

“I don’t want him to die,” Ant’s brows knot together. 

Foolish growls under his breath, dragging his hands through his hair. He wants to bash someone’s skull against the wall. He wants to scream. He wants to not be in this human body and he wants to just get this over with and be gone, out of this realm.

“I wish I did,” he hisses.

Something flares in the other room, and Foolish’s stomach flips with nausea. Infernal energy.

Punz.

He’s off the counter in an instant, charging through the hall and pushing past drunk mortals. They scatter before him and he’s in the living room before Punz can even finish whatever he was doing, before they can bring that sickening power to a peak.

Punz is facing away from Foolish, sitting in the corner of the room with one hand pressed to the ground. No one’s looking at him; no one sees the way his palm glows bright red against the carpet.

“Stop it!” Foolish screams. The music is too loud and the room is full of humans and smoke and there’s hands on his wings and his feathers are too hot and too cold all at once but Punz looks up and sees him and panics. The power flickers out and disappears.

Foolish grits his teeth and drops to Punz’s level, parks himself on the probably filthy carpet.

“What were you doing ?” he demands.

“I wanted to talk to Sapnap.” Punz is drunk and he looks confused but he also looks nervous. “I just–I need a friend right now.”

“So you immediately reach into the tainted fucking powers that got you here in the first place?” Foolish hisses. 

“Yes.” Punz’s eyes sharpen. “What else do I do? Stop everything, leave it all behind?”

“ Yes .”

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” Punz laughs. “Do you even want to? Why are you waiting for so long.”

Foolish might be yelling at this point. “Because I can’t–”

“Because we’re friends!” Punz screams. 

His voice is almost louder than the music, but he stops and looks around and then lowers it again. “Stop trying to fucking tell me we aren’t friends, Foolish.”

Foolish stares down at him. 

He’s pitied Punz so, so much, and he still knows the human isn’t going to go anywhere. He’s not going to get better. 

“Does it matter?” Foolish asks bitterly. “We are friends. And we’re both just waiting for you to die.”

“It’ll happen sooner or later.” Punz looks away.

“It will happen soon ,” and when Foolish says it he’s making a promise both to Punz and too himself. He’s sitting on the floor of a house and he’s drunk and he’s waited here far too long. He needs to get out of here because Punz won’t get better and Foolish won’t get anything but worse.

“The next time you use your powers, I’ll kill you. I swear to God I’ll do it.”

Punz stares at Foolish, says nothing.

Foolish stands. He turns away and shoulders through the crowd again, searching for a quiet place. It’s loud and there’s too much going on and there’s still someone touching his wings.

Punz is going to die soon. 

And when that happens, at least Foolish will be free.

Chapter Text

Punz doesn’t remember how they get home.

Maybe Red drove him, maybe Foolish teleported him, but all he knows when he wakes up is that he somehow ended up in his own bed and his head hurts like a motherfucker.

It’s late afternoon, he guesses, blinking blearily at the sunlight slanting through his curtains. His head throbs like it wants to crawl out of his skull, and his throat is dry.

Punz rolls over and presses the palms of their hands into their eyes, curling up over their pillow and trying to parse through their mental fog. Why the fuck did he drink so much?

That familiar sick nausea prickles at the back of their neck and Punz’s brain slowly makes sense of it. Foolish’s holy energy. Same as usual, but worse somehow.

“Hi,” he whispers through a dry throat. When he rolls onto his side and pulls his hands from his eyes Foolish is standing beside him. He’s wearing Punz’s clothes, as usual, and he has his arms folded as he stares down at Punz. He doesn’t look hungover at all.

“What do you remember, Punz?” Foolish asks tersely. No good morning, no I hope your head feels better. Just the question.

Punz frowns, concerned. What were they supposed to remember? They went to the party, they talked to people and drank and danced and…what was it?

“Why did I drink so much?” Punz rasps. 

Foolish sighs, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside the mattress. He folds one arm over his knee. 

“I can’t have this conversation again,” he says dully. “I’m fucking sick of this already.”

Punz doesn’t know what to say. Ask Foolish what happened? Apologize for not remembering?

Foolish reaches out with two fingers. Punz shies back instinctively, but not far enough, and the angel’s skin brushes theirs. Cool fingertips against Punz’s forehead, and in that split second he remembers. It’s like Foolish has reached inside Punz’s skull and picked a scab off his brain, and all of the memories of last night come flooding back.

Sitting on the floor and trying to call forth his brother. That wave of hostility, divine anger, and Foolish’s green eyes staring down at him.

“The next time you use your powers, I’ll kill you.”

Oh. The final ultimatum that Punz has dreaded for weeks. He knew this was coming. That doesn’t decrease that sickening wave of fear that hits him. Foolish wasn’t lying. Punz is out of options.

No wonder they drank so much. 

“Oh,” is all he says.

Foolish withdraws his hand. “Get the picture?”

“I get the picture,” Punz replies dully.

Foolish pushes himself upright and turns away. “Good.”

Punz watches him leave the room and they wonder, vaguely, who will move into this apartment when they die.

When he dies.

It’s going to be far too soon. Punz doesn’t do much with their life now, they know that. They don’t have much, they don’t accomplish much. The idea of dying still terrifies them, but so does the alternative. He’s grown up with the power of the world at his fingertips, and the idea of living with it so close yet so out of his reach is almost claustrophobic. 

He wonders what the last rune he casts will be. He wonders if he should just do it now, get it over with. He wonders how Foolish will kill him and if he can leave a note for his family to say goodbye. He wonders if he should kill himself before the angel has the chance.

 Eventually he gets out of bed and drinks some water. Despite all his desperation, he’s only human. Life goes on. 

Until it doesn’t.

It’s been a while since Punz paid attention to days, but he does now. They seem more important, considering he probably has so few of them left. Friday night Foolish gave the ultimatum. Saturday afternoon Punz remembered it. 

Monday he doesn’t get out of bed until his stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten in over a day and he finally drags himself into the kitchen and finds leftovers from three days ago.

Tuesday he stands in the shower until the hot water runs out and then sits on the bathroom floor, too lethargic to pick up a towel, until the water has dried from his skin and he can pull on some clothes that he doesn’t even know are clean or dirty.

Wednesday Ant texts them asking to hang out and they turn off their phone as soon as they get the message because they don’t think they could stand looking their friend in the eyes and telling him they die soon.

“He asked me about you,” Foolish says when he sees Punz ignore the text. 

Punz doesn’t want to know, but Foolish continues anyway. “He told me he didn’t want you to die.”

“Too bad you do,” Punz grits out.

“I do?” Foolish whispers softly, almost more to himself than to Punz.

Punz leaves Ant unanswered.

Thursday night Punz takes the elevator up to the top floor of their apartment complex. He’s too exhausted to stay standing, so as soon as the doors close behind him he sinks to the tile floor and leans his head against the wall.

Foolish stands against the wall across from Punz, arms folded and head down. He doesn’t speak. According to the mirrors that line the elevator walls, Punz is alone. He wishes that he was. 

The doors open on the eighth floor, the roof, and Punz gets up and stumbles out into the cool night air. He shivers against the chill; maybe he should have brought a blanket.

The light cast from the elevator stretches his own shadow across the concrete. He stares at it until Foolish’s shadow descends across his, enveloping it in darkness. Behind him the elevator doors slide shut, and the light disappears.

Punz takes a deep breath of the cold air, laden with January’s harsh chill. It makes their lungs ache, as if the cold is freezing him from the inside. 

He reaches the edge of the roof and rests his elbows on the wall, slouching over the rough stone. Below him the pavement spins at dizzying heights–or maybe he’s just dizzy from lack of food and muscle deterioration. Their vision wheels.

Foolish sets a solid hand on Punz’s shoulder, gripping them tightly. He used to use too much force all the time, either too ignorant or too uncaring of human fragility. Now his grip is firm but painless as his fingers tighten around Punz’s shoulder.

Punz doesn’t shake him off. Instead he sets his chin on his folded arms and stares out across the city. Angular buildings jut dark silhouettes against the skyline, and orange lights span the distance, giving shape to every street and window and streetlamp. The sky is polluted with light, and Punz can’t see a single star through his blurring eyes.

He’s crying.

Foolish releases him and steps up beside him instead, resting his arms on the wall in a mirror of Punz’s position. He doesn’t remark on their tears.

It’s cold. Punz hates the cold. He grew up in a land of sulfur and lava; why wouldn’t he? His nose is running, partially from the chill and partially from their silent crying.

The city is full of people who have something he doesn’t. A life, a future, a way of surviving without the abilities that will earn him his death. There are thousands of people out there living and thriving in a way Punz has never been able to. He’s been running his entire fucking life.

“Please don’t jump,” Foolish whispers. His tone is almost pleading. “I can’t catch you when you fall.”

“I don’t want to die,” Punz says hoarsely, burying his face in his arms and wiping his eyes on his hoodie sleeves. “I just don’t want to fucking be here anymore.”

Foolish is quiet for a moment.

“At first I thought I could make your life better,” he admits. “Way back in the beginning. I thought I could show up, pull a little stick-and-carrot, and you’d shape up and someone else would have to keep you from dying.”

“Some guardian angel you turned out to be,” Punz presses his palms against the rough concrete surface.

“Oh,” Foolish says, hesitating. “I guess I should tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Foolish turns around, hoisting himself up on the wall.  He hunches over his knees, twisting his hands around each other. Punz can just see his face in the periphery of their vision.

“I’m not a guardian angel at all,” Foolish admits. “I’m an archangel. We’re the only ones who can take human lives, so…they sent me here to kill you. I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

Punz finally turns to look Foolish in the eyes. The angel doesn’t look at him, instead keeping his gaze focused on his hands on his knees.

Oh. He’s been doomed for a long time, hasn’t he?

“I’m tired of waiting,” Foolish continues. His eyes flicker up to meet Punz’s, then back down almost immediately. “There’s no fucking point in any of this. I don’t know why I waited so long, that just makes it more difficult.”

Now Punz is almost amused by the sick irony of it. “What, did you get attached?”

Foolish looks up again, and this time he holds Punz’s gaze. 

“I did, Punz,” he says solidly. “Is that what you want to hear? That I felt so fucking sorry for your pathetic ass that I let you go farther and farther even when I knew you were already doomed? That even now I’m still waiting for you to force me to keep my promise because that’s the only way I’m going to be able to keep from hating myself for this?”

“Will this really make you hate yourself?” Punz asks the archangel.

Foolish nods once, almost as if it’s against his will.

“Good.” Punz works his jaw, fighting internally at what to do. He wants to push Foolish, he wants to spit in his stupid fucking face, he wants to cast destruction and see if that last rune is enough to even hurt the angel before he dies for it. Instead he stands dizzy on the roof and stares at the wretched angel in front of him.

“You deserve to,” Punz says finally. “Are you really an archangel? You’re fucking–you’re fucking broken. Is this what your divinity means? Playing executioner against me–against your friend?”

“It doesn’t matter that we’re friends!” Foolish cries, spreading his arms. “It doesn’t matter–you shouldn’t exist. How do you expect me to spare you?”

“Why? What’s so wrong with me that makes me deserve death more than you do?”

“You are anathema.”

“What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean?” Punz demands.

Foolish opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“You expect me to trust you with that knowledge?” he answers after too much deliberation. His tone is flat, and he’s holding too still, still enough that Punz can see the tension in his shoulders.

“I expect to know what I’m being killed for, yeah!”

“Do you really want to keep yelling at me?” Foolish asks, tone measuredly flat. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Punz?”

Punz opens his mouth, searching the angel’s face. Foolish stares down at him, eyes sharp. 

The problem with Foolish is that he’s all too human. Punz doesn’t know if all angels are like that, or if there’s just something wrong with the archangel assigned as his murderer. Foolish isn’t calm and obedient to the divine cause, he’s not focused and heartless. If he was, maybe Punz wouldn’t be mad at him–it would be like raging at a thunderstorm. But instead Foolish is bitter and angry and Punz fully believes that right now he might kill them just because he feels fucking guilty.

So they stay silent and they turn and leave Foolish on the roof in the dark. And they go back to their room to sleep away what remains of their life.

Friday morning Punz is half-asleep, staring at sunlight slant through his window, when a phone rings.

It’s not his; he silenced it days ago. It is, they realize when Foolish begins to dig into his pocket, the little flip phone that Foolish carries with him. It rings tinnily into the room until Foolish finally snaps it open and puts it to his ear.

“Hello?” the angel asks. It’s so odd to watch an archangel sit barefoot on Punz’s floor, taking a call on an old phone in an unlit apartment, that they nearly laugh.

“You found–how many did you find?” Foolish’s eyes widen. He pauses as whoever’s on the other end answers.

“That many?” the angel whispers–almost reverently, if there’s anything someone like him should truly revere.

“That many what?” Punz asks.

Foolish ignores him and responds to the caller–tells them to meet him at the usual place. He nods to something they say, then flicks the phone shut.

Punz repeats his question.

“Pieces,” Foolish replies, and whatever he means he must be happy about it because he’s almost talking to Punz like a normal person. He grins, then the look on his face falters as he finally looks over at Punz.

“I–” Foolish hesitates, gritting his teeth. “Don’t be fucking stupid, while I’m gone.”

“While you’re–” Punz starts to ask, and the angel cuts him off.

“Just go back to sleep or forget to eat again or do any of the thousand ways you waste your time,” Foolish says, sliding his phone into his pocket. He folds his hands to his chest and then, with a flash of light, he vanishes.

The divine energy Foolish used to teleport lingers so thick in Punz’s apartment that he feels nearly nauseous. They sit upright, blankets falling off them. 

Punz stares into the darkness of his empty apartment, savoring the feeling of finally being alone despite the way his stomach roils. And in any other situation, any other day, he really would have done what Foolish told him to. But now that he has a chance to do something else, to be alone? He feels like he has to take it, almost stir-crazy with the joy of finally not being under constant watch.

He goes back to the roof.

It’s not as cold as it was the other night, the chill of the dark replaced with residual heat from the sun. He hasn’t been in the sun in days, and he takes off his jacket and tosses it on the wall and turns up his face to the sky. Warm light soaks into his skin. For a moment he almost believes there’s a reason to be alive. 

He stays up there for a bit and watches the clouds pass. It’s almost with annoyance that he finds himself wondering where Foolish has gone. What in the world would convince the stubborn, bitter archangel to finally, finally, leave Punz alone? Even if it’s for the shortest amount of time, Punz is surprised this has actually happened. Maybe they’re just dreaming. Maybe Foolish is just getting lazy.

They come for him when he has his eyes closed. He doesn’t know how they sneak up on him, just that he hears the crunch of gravel under someone’s tread and when he opens his eyes he finds himself surrounded.

As weak as he is, he knows he could fight them off. They are normal humans despite the crucifixes and weapons they carry, while he has the power of his runes and his summons at his fingertips. He doesn’t panic until he reaches for the air and remembers Foolish’s promise to him.

Foolish may be a liar, but he was dead honest about that. Punz has no way out this time. His death will be either certain or uncertain, all he can do is choose.

He hasn’t been truly terrified in a long, long time. When they close in he nearly lets go, nearly casts a rune with frantic fingers. But the memory of Foolish makes him hesitate for long enough that someone gets behind him, strikes him hard enough to bring him to his knees.

Everything goes black.

Chapter Text

When Punz comes to, he’s on his knees.

He hears a footstep in front of him and opens his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is or what they want from him, but he’s a trapped animal in an unfamiliar place and the first instinct he has is to face the threat in the room.

The threat is a tall, broad-shouldered man with pink hair. Punz’s gaze fixes on him for the briefest second before he realizes where they are and his eyes widen as he takes in the scene.

The room is not a room. It is a church and as Punz kneels at its altar they finally realizes why they have that crushed, sinking feeling of helplessness in their stomach. 

A cross is a deterrent. Holy water is a threat. But to be trapped in a church, holy ground?

It’s a death sentence. Not that he’s unfamiliar with those.

“What do you want?” Punz demands, twisting his hands in their bindings. They’re tied in front of him, palms together in a way that gives his panicked mind the fleeting resemblance of prayer. 

The man watches him for a moment. He’s wearing a white button-down, and he begins to roll up his sleeves before he replies. When he moves Punz glimpses, inside the collar of his shirt, a single golden chain and the flash of a few white feathers.

“Do you know what you are?” 

It’s not the optimal place for a conversation, but if Punz is talking, they’re not dying.

“I’m a summoner,” he says slowly.

The man laughs, shaking his head. “Is that what they taught you? Everyone’s a summoner. I’m a summoner. You, on the other hand, are something else. Attuned.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It means…well, let me set the stage.” 

The man holds out a hand and a black-cloaked figure enters the side of Punz’s vision, head bowed. They’re carrying a sword.

The pink-haired man takes it, hefts it in one hand. Light shafts in through stained glass windows: golden and blue and purple. It casts highlights on his hair and jaw, reflects off the blade of the sword. Behind him the pews begin to fill with men and women in black robes, their footsteps echoing quietly off the marble floor.

“It’s because of a sword like this that they called us the Blades,” the man explains casually. He talks like they’re having coffee in a comfortable little diner. He talks like Punz isn’t bound hand and foot to an altar in a holy place.

“My ancestors,” the Blade says calmly, “killed angels.” 

“What?” now he has Punz’s attention, because they’ve only ever heard of angels dying once, from the mouth of their blustering younger brother, and they didn’t think it was possible. 

“We pulled them from the sky and tore them to pieces. We found out how to kill angels. And do you know how?”

Punz feels like he knows the answer. There always had to be a reason for Foolish to hate him so much, to fear his powers so much. 

“Was it with people like me?” he asks.

The Blade laughs. “Sure, sort of. But more complicated than that. See, you’re not a summoner. You’re just attuned to the higher and the lower places in a way most mortals can’t be.”

He gestures at the tattoos that wind up Punz’s arms. “Looks like you chose to affiliate yourself with the lower places. Can’t imagine the angels were too pumped about that, but don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not going to help you kill them,” Punz grits his teeth, watching the sword shine in filtered light. 

“Help?” the man chuckles deeply. “We don’t need your help.” 

The Blade swings his sword up over his head. 

For a moment Punz is seized with the conviction that he’s about to be stabbed through, then and there, and left to bleed in front of every watching eye on this goddamn holy altar.

Instead the pink-haired man drives it into the stone beneath them with a single swing. The blade rings once, a pure tone that sounds nothing like steel through metal, and lies still just below Punz’s bound hands.

“We need your blood,” the Blade tells him. 

You shouldn’t exist, Foolish told Punz once. You are anathema.

Angels aren’t supposed to die. Punz isn’t supposed to have the powers he does. They were right the first time: they’re meant to bleed and die here.

Punz stares at the hilt of the sword, quivering in the stone just beneath his hands. A single red gem glints in its pommel.

“How do you make a weapon that can kill devils and sever angels’ wings?” the Blade asks. “You baptize it in the blood of a man who deals with both.”

He draws a wide-bladed dagger from his belt and reaches for Punz’s hand.

Punz summoned his first demon when he was seven years old. He was a scared child on an altar with a knife to his throat, and when he screamed for help someone came.

The blade touches his skin and he screams. He’s not a brave man, not a heroic one. He’s just someone who doesn’t want to die here, he doesn’t want to die with his lifeblood spilled on some strange sword. He’d prefer even Foolish’s hands and teeth to this, the knife in the hands of someone he doesn’t even know.

He cries for help.

No one is there.

The knife cuts from his forearm to his wrist in one long slice, laying his arm open. It feels like he’s been split with a blade of ice. He can’t turn his eyes away when the blood spills forth, covering up that first glimpse of muscle and tendon in a flood of far, far too much blood. 

It flows across the contours of the tattoos on his arms. It rolls down his wrists and covers his hands and drips from his clenched fingertips to the sword underneath him.

Shining metal disappears beneath the red deluge.

The man with the knife smiles. He reaches for Punz’s other hand, sets the tip to his skin. Punz squeezes his eyes shut. 

For the first time in months, he prays. 

When he was a child he called for help and the power rose from him that he’d never before used. It was a devil that came to his aid, who answered his call in his panic. Punz kneels in a church with his blood on his hands and this time, he calls for an angel. 

“Stulti aurum,” he prays, and he can feel the power in his words even as he breathes them out, “angel with scattered wings, seventh of the nine, I call for your aid.”

The knife stops before it breaks skin. 

Punz has never seen Foolish’s true form. They have seen glimpses, in the dark of a shared bathroom under the flash of the water. He has seen flashes of dark eyes and sharp teeth. 

He has never seen anything like what appears on the altar beside him.

Foolish is light. He is golden and the mere knowledge of him standing beside Punz feels like it will sear their eyes from their sockets. They look anyway.

The man with the knife stumbles back and lets a swear fall from his lips.

Foolish is an archangel next to Punz, and when he steps from the altar the entire church shakes with the quiver of his step. His eyes blaze green and his mouth stretches wide: maw of fang-layered judgement. 

When Punz was a child to be sacrificed he kept his eyes closed, too terrified to know what was happening. This time he keeps them open. 

Foolish does not kill with grace or gentleness or any sort of divinity. He is brutal, savage, and he is an angel in a churchful of men. He is destruction and he glories in it. 

Punz watches the blood spray and he can’t help but laugh, even as blood pours from his own wound and covers his hands. He kneels on the altar and his eyes burn and he glories in every one of Foolish’s movements, every snap of his seraphic jaws and touch of his blistering hands. His murders are empyrean and he is the most dangerous thing Punz has ever seen, ever dared to call forth.

Foolish promised that Punz would die for using their powers again.

Punz watches the devastation and, in his pain-addled mind, he thinks it might be worth it.

We’re the only ones who can take human lives, Foolish said once.

He hadn’t said how good they were at it.

Punz watches, left arm worryingly numb despite the blood pouring from it, until his eyes fall to the sword still sitting in the stone in front of him.

It was covered in his blood a few moments ago. Now its blade shines clean and almost pure white, the brightest thing in the gore Foolish currently wreaks on the church.

Punz reaches out and presses the bindings at his hands to the edge. They slice through almost instantly and he nearly falls from the lack of resistance, only the ropes at his legs keeping him from falling off the altar.

The Blade’s fallen dagger lies on the ground and Punz stretches down with their unwounded arm, pressing the other to their chest in an attempt to stem the bleeding. His fingertips scrabble against the blood-slick marble floor until he finally gets a grip on the dagger and sits back up, sawing feverishly at the ropes around his legs.

Punz’s would-be executioner kept his knives sharp. Punz frees himself and swings his legs off the altar, stumbling to his feet and wrapping his hands around the hilt of the sword. He pulls.

It’s buried so far in the stone that it should be impossible for Punz to pull it out, but it slides smoothly and Punz stumbles back, lifting the shimmering blade. It might be glowing. He’s almost certain it’s glowing, but perhaps the shine of Foolish’s divine flesh is so bright it overshadows Punz’s perception.

The church goes silent. Punz realizes that the screams have stopped. They look up.

Foolish stands in the middle of the church, caught in a beam of warm sunlight. Blood drips from his shoulders and his hands and his jaws, but does nothing to mar the light that follows him. 

Punz tightens his grip on the sword and stares the angel down.

Foolish’s eyes are focused on the sword first, but he flicks up to look at Punz’s face. His hands flex.

“What are you going to do with that, Punz?” he asks, voice so strained and so calm.

Punz doesn’t move for a split second, staring at the angel in front of him. His friend, his executioner. He looks nothing like the dark-haired man that lives in their apartment and steals their clothes. He looks everything like the angel who promised Punz their death. He is golden and holy and yet there’s something missing from him, even in the fullness of his true form.

“Is this why you wanted to kill me so bad?” Punz demands, taking a step down from the sanctuary. Foolish flinches back, but bares his fangs at Punz.

Punz raises the blade. One hand is slippery with blood, but he tightens his fingers around the hilt as he approaches the angel.

“Why? Because you found out you could die?” 

“We’re not supposed to die!” Foolish spits. 

“Does that mean I am? So you’re mortal, big fucking deal!” Punz points the blade at Foolish, firming his grip.  “What are you going to do?”

“You summoned me.” Foolish twitches but doesn’t back up as Punz walks towards him.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Punz is almost within reach of the angel.

Foolish stares at Punz.

He looks terrified.

That, more than anything, makes them hesitate.

He could kill Foolish. If the man with the pink hair was telling the truth–and why would he lie?–this sword would be a way to permanently get rid of his executioner. Punz is half-starved and still bleeding but Foolish is still afraid.

It’s a funny thing, having his life in their hands. He hates Foolish. He’s spent a hundred nights asleep in the same room as him. He wishes, more than anything, that they could be friends. They want to never see him again. And they should kill him, right now, because otherwise the angel will do the same to him.

One time, and it seems so long ago, Punz couldn’t tie his hair back properly and Foolish did it for him. Once Punz sat in the dark and watched the shine of Foolish’s skin under the water. One time–far, far more than one–Punz lay in bed too exhausted to eat and Foolish brought him food anyway. Once Punz was too drunk to walk home and Foolish hoisted them onto his back and carried them home.

Punz has almost nothing . Except for Foolish.

He drops the sword.

Foolish jumps back when it hits the ground, hissing. He doesn’t move, standing for a moment in the silence of Punz’s surrender.

“Give me your hand,” he says finally. Punz reaches out with their injured arm and Foolish bends down, touching his golden fingertips to the gash in their skin. The cut closes up and grows over without a pause, leaving behind unmarred skin spattered in blood. Even the tattoos are reformed. This is holy magic, the kind that Punz supposedly has a knack for but never mastered.

Punz looks at the angel with his bowed head before them.

Foolish has no wings.

It’s less obvious in his guise as a human, but now that Punz sees his true form he marvels at the way they’re so obviously missing. Foolish is an angel, he moves with the grace of something accustomed to flight. His balance is flawless, but oddly accounted for. There are no scars on his back, no signs to betray what should be there. Punz can tell nonetheless.

“Where are your wings?” Punz asks, staring down.

Foolish twitches back, shaking himself.

“They’re gone because of a sword like the one you were going to help make,” the angel says in exhaustion.

“Help them? You were supposed to protect me.” Punz can’t help how oddly betrayed he sounds.

“ ‘Supposed to’ ,” Foolish snaps in mockery. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things, Punz. And you’re supposed to be fucking dead.”

Punz looks down at his hands. The blood on them has not yet dried.

“Tell me the truth, Foolish,” he says dully. “You owe me that much.”

Foolish turns away, rubbing his hands down his face. He almost..dims as he does it, almost–his human guise wavers and then snaps back into place. He is a dark-haired, strong-jawed man he has blood on his face and blood on his hands.

“I guess there’s no harm in it,” Foolish finally replies, looking back up at Punz, “Since you’ll be dead soon.”

He walks past Punz and they follow him up the red-stained carpet to the sanctuary. He stops over the body of the pink-haired man who called himself the Blade.

“I lost them to a blade like that,” Foolish nods behind them, “at the hands of someone like this.”

He crouches and reaches into the dead man’s shirt, pulling out a fine gold chain. Punz noticed it before, but now it’s what’s on the end that makes him pay attention. A pair of pure white feathers. Angel feathers.

Foolish yanks on the chain and it snaps. He stands up, the feathers dangling from his grip, and turns to Punz.

“These are mine,” he says finally. “So are the ones we found with Puffy.”

Punz holds out their hand and Foolish drops the pair of feathers into their palm, grimacing as he does so. 

“When you said pieces, this morning–”

“More feathers,” Foolish confirms. “Mine. Eret, Puffy and Elaina have been helping me gather them for…a long time. There’s a lot missing.”

Punz touches the shaft of one feather, wincing when he gets a clot of blood on a plume. Foolish screws up his face in reaction, and Punz looks back up.

“You can feel them?” he asks, trying to judge the angel’s expression.

Foolish laughs bitterly. “All of them. All the time. They’re everywhere. I was…when Eret found some, I was relieved. Thought I’d finally get some peace.”

Punz tries to imagine having a part of himself cut off and still being able to feel it as it was passed between human hands for decades on decades. He shudders.

“A blade like that severs the soul as well as the flesh,” Foolish says. He sounds forcefully dispassionate, as if he’s trying very hard to sound like he doesn’t care anymore. “That’s how they could kill some of us. That’s how they killed my brother. And that’s how they cut off my wings before we finally surrendered.”

Punz closes his eyes and, tentatively, reach out into the energy of the feathers. It’s almost like reading runes, but a living thing. A holy thing, and if it was any other angel he probably would have thrown up, but he knows Foolish well and the nausea doesn’t hit him like it once would have.

Foolish’s wings are disconnected. They’re like a shattered mirror: mere shards that still remember what they once were. The two feathers in Punz’s hand know they were once part of a whole and they grieve for it–or maybe it’s Foolish himself that’s grieving.

Punz spies the disconnected threads of Foolish’s energy and reaches out, running his mind across the frayed edges. And he’s unpracticed, unaccustomed to working with the divine, but he almost can see how to weave them back together. It’s like fighting for a word forgotten on the tip of his tongue: that same desperate sense of almost-knowing.

“I think I can fix your wings,” Punz says, and before he opens his eyes he can still hear the hitch in Foolish’s breathing.

“I’m–” Foolish stops, expression strained as he stares at the bloodstained feathers in Punz’s hand.

“I’m supposed to kill you,” he says finally. He sounds like he’s pleading. “You’re supposed to be gone .”

“I can heal you,” Punz repeats and he watches the hunger in Foolish’s face. 

No angel should look that desperate. Maybe Foolish did lose something when he lost his wings. He’s an addict in need of a fix and Punz is the man with the needle. No matter how much Foolish wishes he would, he won’t say no.

Punz stares the angel. Foolish called Punz blasphemy, once. Perhaps he was right.

“And in exchange,” they continue, holding out a hand, “you leave. And I live.”

Foolish hesitates. Punz is almost proud of him for doing so. But it’s only a split second before he reaches out his hand and clasps Punz’s.

The angel’s skin is just as bloody as Punz’s own.

“I’ll leave,” Foolish says hoarsely. 

“Promise me,” Punz whispers, staring into Foolish’s dark eyes. Desperation still fills them. 

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Punz is no friend to the divine.

Holy energy is hostile to him, it makes his skin crawl and his spine itch. He has gotten marginally used to Foolish’s, to the point where it only provokes uneasiness rather than outright nausea. This church where he was meant to die, however, is not a comfortable place for him to be.

So, as soon as the adrenaline leaves their body, they lean over and throw up behind a bloodstained pew.

“You’re defiling a holy place,” Foolish says distractedly as he picks his way down the center aisle, past the dismembered corpses he left on the ground. 

“You killed people in here,” Punz points out, spitting bile on the ground. He looks up in time to see Foolish shakily reach down and pick up the discarded sword. 

Its blade is pure white despite the blood Foolish lifted it from. It shines in the afternoon light. 

Punz could have killed Foolish with it. He almost did. 

“I didn’t destroy the first sword,” Foolish tells Punz without looking back at them. He holds the sword like he has a venomous snake by the tail. “My brother did.”

Foolish gestures towards his own chest with the hilt of the blade. “Stabbed him in the chest right before he could reach them. And he…fell, sorta, on the blade and snapped it off.”

Punz remembers Foolish mentioning a brother before. He remembers that brother being dead. 

“I wasn’t there, of course,” Foolish turns back to Punz. “That’s just what they told me later, after he died.”

“I’m sorry,” Punz says softly. And they really are, because they have a brother of their own and they can’t imagine losing him.

Foolish doesn’t respond. He slowly turns the sword sideways before him. There’s a flash of layered fangs and the blade shatters. Its pieces fall to the floor: ordinary silvery metal. Whatever Punz’s blood imbued in it before has vanished under the snap of Foolish’s jaws. 

“When?” Foolish asks, dropping the broken hilt. He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t say what he’s waiting on Punz to do. He looks human, but there’s blood drying on his face and his arms and under his nails and between his teeth. 

“I need time to prepare,” Punz says, stepping back from the sink as Foolish enters the bathroom.

Foolish laughs, rubbing one hand down his face. “I’ve given you nothing but time so far, but I’ll wait longer. I don’t really have a choice. What else do you need?”

Punz grips the counter’s edge, running through things in his head. 

“I can’t heal you, exactly,” he admits. “Not like you healed me. But I can put your pieces back together.”

“That’s all I need.” 

The bathroom mirror is still broken, and Punz’s shattered reflection has hands drenched in blood. 

He gets caught for a minute, staring into his own eyes. They have blood on their hands. Blood on their face. The golden chain with its pair of fallen feathers is hooked hastily around his throat. 

Then he snaps himself back to reality, out of exhaustion, and strips off his clothes. They’re splattered with blood as well, and he kicks them into the corner before he gets in the shower. He leaves the feathers on the chain around his throat. He needs to wash them off; he left bloody fingerprints smeared on the white plumes.

The water runs cold at first, and Punz flinches back from the spray.

“Ow,” Foolish says from the other room, without actual pain in his voice. Punz looks down at the feathers hanging over his sternum. Some of the cold water splashed on them.

Right, Foolish can feel them. Punz reaches a hand under the shower’s stream, checking to see if it’s warm yet. It is, so they step under and feel it drum over their hair and run over their lashes and their chest and their arms. 

Bloody water spatters on the porcelain beneath him. He lifts the feathers, turns them under the spray and rubs the pad of his thumb across them. The clots wash out slowly, leaving them pristine white.

“I’m not used to this,” Foolish says from the doorway. His eyes are focused on the feathers in Punz’s hand. Punz looks up. 

The angel looks…tense. Nervous. Like a smaller echo of the fear in his eyes when Punz stood over him, sword in hand.

Maybe Foolish was always a little afraid of him and, until now, he never noticed.

“Here,” Punz says, reaching up to take the chain off.

“Keep them,” Foolish says, shaking his head. “I don’t keep any of my wings with me. All the pieces are with Eret. I’m just not used to you touching me.”

Punz laughs and drops the chain. 

“You don’t have to get used to it,” they say. “You’ll be gone soon.”

Punz knows Foolish very well. That doesn’t mean he understands him.

He’s too unfamiliar with holy energy to work what he needs to; the grasp of his mind slips off the broken threads of Foolish’s body every time he attempts to reweave them together. They tried with the feathers on their chain, over and over, until they finally gave in and turned to the tattoos.

He’s had to tattoo himself before. Some runes are easy to capture, while some have to be etched into his flesh and his soul before they bend to his will. Their arms and torso are already covered with tattooed runes. All he has to do is figure out what rune will let him weave these broken wings back together. 

They send Foolish to retrieve the wing pieces before they undertake the search for that knowledge. Punz only knows one person with any knowledge of holy runes. 

It’s difficult to summon and even more difficult to deal with, but it’s Punz’s only source of information. When they asked Foolish he snorted and said “why would I know? I’m a warrior, not a scholar” . So he has no choice but to turn to the fallen angel.

Punz hauls his table aside and kneels in the middle of the dining room. He’s a summoner—attuned, the Blade says. Whatever it means, Punz is able to call on the infernal without candles or sacrifice. 

He places his hands on the ground, palms down, and closes his eyes. 

There are some names the human tongue cannot pronounce, even someone as practiced as Punz. So, instead of using the fallen angel’s real name, he calls for XD.

One white hand pierces the barrier, reaching up and twining its fingers between Punz’s. XD’s skin is unnaturally smooth and cold. Punz was always offput by it, by how uncanny he seemed compared to the other demons. But now he knows Foolish, recognizes the metallic smoothness of angel skin, and recognizes what XD would have been before he was corrupted. 

XD tightens its grip, clawtips pricking Punz’s skin, and another hand emerges from below and splays out onto the tile. A white elbow follows it, then dark green robes and broken halos and XD is halfway out of hell and grinning at Punz with a mouth full of darkness.

Punz doesn’t bring him into the mortal realm all of the way. He stops pulling, and XD’s grip relaxes around his fingers. The fallen angel doesn’t let go, though. 

“Hello, my dearest little mortal,” XD hums, halos spinning slightly around his head. They’re studded with gem-green eyes, except for where the gold is shattered from XD’s fall, and Punz finds it in him to wonder where Foolish’s eyes are. 

“I need to know a rune,” Punz says. He doesn’t like getting into long conversation with XD.

“You’re so rude,” XD says, mouth curving downwards. He finally releases Punz’s hand, instead folding two white hands under his chin and resting his elbows on the tile floor. “Fine, but only because I like you. What do you need it for?”

“I’m–” Punz hesitates. He doesn’t think any infernal will especially support his decision to heal an angel, and he knows XD himself has a particular disdain for the divine. So he taps the feathers around his throat. “I need to fix these. Put them back together.”

XD tilts its head to the side. His halos whirr.

“I can smell the stink of him all over this place,” it says with a sniff. “So you got yourself mixed up with an archangel, did you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Punz says, stung by how easily XD saw through them.

“Clearly you do, that’s why you summoned me.” XD yawns, the dark maw of his mouth widening. “So you want to heal an angel?”

“I’m not good enough with holy stuff to do it without a rune,” Punz admits. “But I need to know which one.”

“I’ll tattoo it for you,” XD says with a glee. “I’m not holy anymore, but I still remember. I’ll etch it into your skin and give you a drop of the power I once had with every prick of the needle.”

“I’m not letting you do that.” Punz deadpans.

“Fine.” XD sighs. “Fuck you.”

It surges upwards, then, catching Punz offguard. He slams his palms to the ground again and the barrier tightens around XD, trapping him at the waist. He’s still taller than Punz, kneeling on the floor as he is. 

The fallen angel laughs and reaches one bone-white hand to the chain around Punz’s throat, the other one digging into the tile to keep him from being drawn back down. His fingers close around the feathers, lift them up, turn them to the light.

“Severed at the soul,” it muses, stroking one claw down the edge of one. Punz thinks, guiltily, of Foolish and wonders if he can feel what XD is doing right now. 

“You need unity,” XD concludes, still leaning down over Punz. He releases the chain and, grinning, slides back down until Punz can only see him from chest up. Punz relaxes, letting out a tense breath. He’s already got a death sentence on his head, he doesn’t need to release a fallen angel into the mortal realm on top of that. 

“Can you draw it for me?” Punz asks.

“I’ll draw it on your back,” XD wagers. 

Punz snorts. “At that rate, I might as well just let you fucking tattoo it.”

“Oh, no. You can have your angel drive it into your skin and soul later.” XD grins. “As much as I’d love to mark you, I may have been exaggerating earlier. I’m fallen.”

He spreads his two white hands, bone-pale fingers and smooth skin. “These hands can’t call forth holiness. But they can do other things, if you want.”

“I don’t.” Punz cuts him off. “But I’ll let you draw it for Foolish to trace over.”

“Foolish?” XD half-coughs, half-hisses a laugh. “The broken angel? He’s like our ancestor in the garden, a snake who writhes on his belly and longs for the sky.”

“Not for long,” Punz says, needled by the insult on Foolish’s behalf. “I’m healing him. And in exchange he won’t fucking murder me.”

“Do you think that’s going to save you?” XD giggles. “Give him his wings, watch him fly away, and wait for the next to come. They won’t let you go.”

Punz doesn’t answer.

He knows. He hasn’t wanted to accept it, but he knows. If his blood can kill angels, they aren’t going to let him off that easily. But he wants…he wants freedom. He wants to believe he can make it, believe that once Foolish’s cloying presence is gone from his apartment he will find a way to survive. 

Maybe he’ll have the guts to kill the next angel that comes after him. Maybe he’ll be able to gather the strength to fight.

But they don’t have time for maybes. He doesn’t have time to fear the future. He’ll do what he can now , and pretend everything will be okay.

Punz turns around and grabs the back of their shirt, yanking it up and exposing their back. He reaches back with his other hand and taps between his shoulderblades.

“Right in the middle,” he tells the fallen angel.

“As you wish,” XD says.

One hand splays across Punz’s back, as if it’s testing its canvas. XD shoos Punz’s hands away, pulling their shirt away from their body with one hand. His other lifts up, then something cold touches Punz’s skin.

They flinch.

“Hold still,” XD reprimands. His touch travels across Punz’s back in broad, sweeping lines and angles and curves. The ink that drips from his finger is just a few degrees below room temperature, like his touch.

There’s no power imbued in the rune–XD can’t put real power into a holy rune, not with who he is now. That will come later, when Punz digs into his closet and finds his tattoo gun and lets Foolish retrace the lines XD is drawing now.

One of XD’s hands splays across the back of Punz’s neck, holding his shirt up out of the way.

“You don’t have to get so grabby,” Punz wrinkles up their face, fighting the urge to hunch their shoulders.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” XD tells him. 

It works fast. Unity is a large rune, Punz can tell from the feel of it on his skin, but XD completes it within a quarter of an hour. 

“Take your shirt off, don’t smudge my work,” the fallen angel says finally, dropping the hand he was using to draw with.

Punz reaches back and yanks his shirt up over his head, tossing it on the floor in front of him. He turns around to face XD again.

“You’re welcome,” XD says without giving them a chance to say thank you. He wouldn’t have anyway.

“Are you going to leave on your own, or do I need to exorcize you?” Punz asks with a raised eyebrow.

XD rests its chin in an ink-stained hand, leaving trails of black on its pale face. “Have you tried asking nicely?”

“Please get out of my apartment.”

“Fine, fine,” XD says lightly. He releases the tile floor, arching back.

Punz waits. The fallen angel doesn’t leave just yet.

  “I could save you,” it tells him. “Make a contract with me. I could keep you safe.”  

And there it is, the offer again. Sapnap wanted Punz to come home. XD wants Punz to stay alive. 

He doesn’t want to bind himself to them. He doesn’t think he can. 

“Just leave,” Punz says in exhaustion.

“Goodbye,” XD says remorsefully. It sounds final.

The fallen angel turns and, with a ripple in the boundary of realms, vanishes beneath the surface.

Punz leans back on the heels of their hands and waits for the ink to dry.

This isn’t going to save you, XD told him.

Oh, he knows. He knows. But he’s a desperate man clinging to the hopes he thinks might work. 

When Foolish returns he’s carrying a coffin.

It’s made of dark wood, unornamented aside from a single cross carved on the front. It looks aged, in the way of old things made to last, sanded smooth by hands and time. 

He doesn’t say anything to Punz when he first enters, instead kneeling in the center of the floor to put the coffin down as gently as possible. He holds it like he’s holding a baby.

Or holding pieces of himself.

Foolish rests his hands on the top of the coffin, exhaling deeply before he turns his head towards Punz.

“It smells like sulfur,” he says. He knows Punz summoned while he was gone.

The broken vow Foolish made rests in the silence between them. They both remember it. They both know they’re ignoring it in favor of getting what they want.

“I needed a rune drawn,” Punz says by way of explanation. He’s still shirtless. His tattoo equipment lies on the floor beside the coffin. The tools he’ll need to put his angel back together.

“You couldn’t have your summon do it?” Foolish asks, a little bit of his usual bitterness creeping in.

“It’s holy. He wasn’t.” 

Foolish groans and leans over, pressing his forehead to the coffin. The wood creaks under his fingertips.

“Just tell me what you need me to do,” he says defeatedly.

Punz grits their teeth, burying their face in folded arms. Foolish leans over him, holding him still with one hand splayed across Punz’s shoulder blades. It’s like being trapped under a vise; Foolish isn’t pressing down but iron would be more forgiving than the force on his back. Punz tries not to feel trapped.

“Is it even?” he asks, turning his head to the side. He can just see Foolish behind him, similarly stripped to the waist.

Foolish nods, tracing one finger across the glow on Punz’s back. Punz shivers at his touch: feather-light but more clinical than curious. Punz is no expert with holy runes; if he didn’t have Foolish to tattoo this one he wouldn’t trust it to not backfire on him at all. He only hopes the angel can imbue power into the rune drawn by his fallen counterpart.

“And you’re sure this will work?” Foolish asks, picking up the tattoo gun.

“Positive,” Punz exhales. He’s taking shallower breaths than usual, pinned under Foolish’s hand.

“Well, it’s your back,” Foolish concedes. The tattoo gun rattles to life and Punz steadies themself against the first pricks of it at their skin.

Tattooing runes is more than just adding words to his skin. It writes them on his soul as well; he can see the rune take shape in his mind’s eye as Foolish follows the lines carefully. Unity , this one decrees. Fitting, for what Punz plans to do with it.

Foolish remains motionless other than the movement of his one hand, tracking black ink across Punz’s skin. He adjusts his free hand once, moving it to Punz’s lower back to allow himself even access to both of Punz’s shoulders.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Punz closes their eyes, lowering their head. It does, especially considering the location of the massive thing, but he’s been tattooed many times before and he’s accustomed to that whirr of the needle into his skin. They’re more focused on what this means. Wings for Foolish, and freedom for Punz.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Punz answers.

Foolish laughs in response. “I guess you’re right.”

Punz tries to breathe shallowly. Foolish doesn’t breathe at all.

He doesn’t have much to do and he doesn’t want to talk, so instead they let their mind drift. They compare the eerie chill of XD’s skin to Foolish’s smooth hands on his back. He stares at the coffin lying beside him, at the barest hint of his reflection in the smooth wood.

“Finished,” Foolish says suddenly, lifting both his hands and flicking off the tattoo gun.

Punz raises his head, gingerly feeling the newly pierced skin of his back stretch and flex with his movements. He can still feel the ghost of Foolish’s touch on his lower back.

He reaches out with his mind and opens up the rune. It shines in the dark of his vision; emblazoned in his soul like it is in his skin. He can feel the power welling up in it. 

Unity . 

“Wipe it off,” he says, glancing back at the angel. Foolish nods and picks up a towel, leaning over Punz and carefully wiping the fabric across their skin. Tattoos always weep ink when they’re first finished. If Punz was being methodical he would wrap it up, keep it free of infection. He’s not being methodical. He got the thing for one purpose and that purpose is not yet complete.

Punz sits up and stretches his arms out, glances over himself. Both arms are still covered in sleeves of infernal runes; as is his bare chest and ribs. Now there’s the holy one on their back, stretching across both shoulder blades in a reflection of the wings it’s meant to restore.

Punz claps his hands together, suddenly, glancing up at Foolish. “Ready?”

Foolish’s face splits into a grin. He tosses aside the ink-stained towel and stands up, turning away. Punz stays sitting on the floor, waiting on him.

The coffin is massive enough that no normal human could lift it, not even Punz, but Foolish picks it up carefully and then drops to his knees, setting it down between him and Punz. He hesitates for a moment when his hands reach the latches, staring down at the dark wood, then he shakes himself and flicks the coffin open.

It’s full of white feathers. The inside is lined with dark velvet, but even that is mostly covered up by the sheer amount of fallen plumage. Foolish stares down at the box anxiously.

There’s so much of it. Punz looks from the coffin of feathers to the wingless angel holding it open. He can spy a joint here and there, the shape of a longer limb underneath the massive piles, but it’s mostly the unattached feathers.

All of those were part of Foolish, once, Punz realizes. They were his until that sword cut them from his body and his feathers fell off and were stolen and sold and spread across the entire world.

“How long has it been?” Punz asks, hesitant to reach out and touch the shattered wings even though they know they’re going to have to.

“A few hundred years.” Foolish’s knuckles on the lid of the coffin are white. He forces himself to release his grip and reaches a hand down into the coffin, setting it on wide white feathers. “I’m still not used to them being gone.”


“I’ll fix them,” Punz promises. For the first time he says it as a promise to Foolish, not himself.

Punz reaches out and puts his hand beside Foolish’s, reaches out into the feathers to try to understand how he can fix them.

The rune on his back glows. It facilitates him, somehow, in his endeavors to read into the composition of this holy thing. Its power flows through him, declares unity to the broken wings, and they respond in kind. For a moment Punz can see the ghost of what they once were. It spreads through his mind, a declaration of past glory. Foolish, skin golden, eyes blazing green, massive white wings flaring from his back. He was war; he was judgement.

“You had—have—six?” Punz realizes, turning to Foolish.

Foolish shrugs. “I’m an archangel.”

Punz shakes his head. “Your turn, then. Sit down.”

Foolish sits cross legged on the ground with his back to the coffin. He’s already shirtless; he took his off when Punz did. The muscles of his back flex, smooth unbroken skin. It’s funny, there should be a scar or something to show what he lost. Instead it’s as if he never had his wings in the first place.

It’s a monumental task, so Punz starts small. 

They untangle the first two feathers from the chain at their throat, press them together, and seek out the threads of Foolish’s holiness. 

And now, the rune’s heat on his back guides him. He can see how to weave them back together in a recreation of what they once were. 

As Punz starts he hears Foolish hiss in front of him, the muscles of his back tensing. They ignore it for a moment, until the two feathers are joined together and he lowers them to join their fellows in the coffin.

“Are you okay?” Punz asks.

“It hurts,” Foolish says, head lowered. “Like it did when I lost them.”

Punz can’t help him with that, so instead he hands Foolish the discarded towel. It’s covered in the ink that bled from Punz’s tattoo, but the angel takes it without arguing and bites down on it.

Punz returns to work.

He starts from the bare bones: the joints that he can rescue from the pile and reattach to Foolish’s back. There are only five of them, but Punz can’t do anything about the missing pieces. He can only salvage what remains.

When Punz begin reweaving Foolish’s body, it hurts. They know because he screams; muffled by the towel into a low whine in the back of his throat. It vibrates in his chest and back against Punz’s hands as they begin to put him back together. 

“I’m sorry,” Punz says softly as he works. He doesn’t stop, and he thinks that despite the pain Foolish doesn’t want him to either.

By the time he’s finished setting the first three joints into the muscle that opens up for them on Foolish’s back, the angel is sobbing. Softly, trying to hold still enough for Punz to keep working, but there are tears in his eyes and his head is buried in his hands. The cloth in his jaws muffles him slightly. It’s not enough.

Punz has spent a long time hating Foolish, almost too much to feel sorry for him. But he pities the angel anyway.

He’s never seen Foolish cry before. He himself has sobbed alone in his bed under the archangel’s gaze, but never seen the other weep. Now they can understand, at least a little bit, why Foolish thought them so pathetic.

It’s a long task, and painful one for the angel under his hands. Punz is too desperate to care. He weaves together feathers and bone and flesh, putting everything where it fits and leaving pieces which have no place.

He can’t use every feather in the coffin. Some of them don’t have a place, some wings are missing chunks of flesh and plumage. Punz can’t change that, and deep down they’re almost glad. Perhaps he’s jealous of Foolish; of the angel gaining flight to leave Punz to wither away on the ground. 

Then Foolish chokes on a sob beneath him and the envy leaves him, replaced once more with resignation.

This is their goodbye. Every plume and shaft beneath Punz’s hands decrees it, the whine in Foolish’s throat decrees it, the discarded pieces in a dark velvet coffin decree it.

Punz weaves the last thread together and lowers their hands.

The rune on his back dims. Foolish, slowly, goes quiet.

His wings flare open. Five of them: three on the left, two on the right. They are tattered, but they surround Punz in a blaze of white feathers.

“Oh,” Foolish says, awed.

His eyes open.

There are thousands of them: set between the feathers, some magic of joining the soul that Punz can’t understand. They blaze green and they stare into Punz and Foolish arches his back and laughs with a throat hoarse from screaming. The wings surround Punz, dizzying him with every blink of the layered eyes.

Foolish spins around, grabbing Punz’s hands and pulling him upright. His wings spread to their full length and flare forwards and surround them in a whirlpool of white feathers and green eyes and Foolish in front of Punz: dark-haired and wide-eyed.

“I can fly again,” he whispers. Then he yanks Punz’s hand and pulls them up , somehow, and they’re both standing on the rooftop where, not long ago, Punz was kidnapped from.

The wind blows cold around them, but Foolish’s wings provide a barrier. The sun is setting orange in the distance, behind the city skyline.

“I did my part,” Punz says numbly. He steps back, once, twice, out of the cover of Foolish’s wings.

“So I’ll do mine.” 

Foolish stands before him: angel with uneven wings and ink-stained teeth. 

“I don’t–” he starts, and then he goes quiet.

“You won’t be okay,” he finally says. There are still tear tracks on his face. “This won’t fix you.”

“I don’t think I can live,” Punz finally admits. “I don’t…I can’t survive. And you can’t save me.”

The wind ruffles Foolish’s feathers, and the eyes in them blink shut against its chill.

“I don’t know why I ever thought I could,” he admits.

“So it’s easier if we don’t try.” 

Foolish pauses. He half-nods, raising one hand to his forehead in an odd salute.

“Goodbye,” he says, and its finality rings like a door slamming shut between them.

The archangel turns and his wings flare open, ragged and disarrayed. Punz is no healer. He couldn’t truly help Foolish, and Foolish couldn’t truly help him.

They’re just crippled men dancing on the edge, waiting out what wretched time they have left.

Punz doesn’t know how long he has.

Chapter Text

Punz stands numbly on the rooftop until the cold strikes through his skin and he flees down, back to his empty apartment.

The coffin yawns beside his bed, white feathers like flecks of foam in its red mouth. It seems larger than life, the most solid thing in that room, that last reminder of Foolish. Part of him is still here; the pieces Punz couldn’t fix, the pieces Foolish left behind.

The coffin lid sounds like a closing door when Punz swings it shut. He puts his shoulder against it and pushes with all his weight, trying to move it aside. 

It’s so heavy that he has to strain against it, spurred on by a twisted ball of frustration in the pit of his throat. He digs his fingers in and heaves once more and gives in to their pressure, and slides a few feet until it bumps into the wall.

He can’t move it further. He doesn’t have the energy to try.

The coffin sits against the wall, motionless, as Punz turns away and tries not to notice it in the corners of his eyes.

He cries again before he goes to sleep, and he’s not sure if it’s grief or relief or the mere ache of the tattoo on his back. But they sleep alone and wake alone and the heavy feeling of Foolish’s presence begins to lift from their apartment, bit by bit. 

Ironically, maybe he’s given up now. Sometimes he wonders why he should keep fighting. They railed against Foolish first because he was holy, and later simply out of habit. But all his energy has gone towards getting rid of the angel, and now that he’s  accomplished what he wanted to, he doesn’t know what else there is to strive for.

Maybe he’s fine with dying, as long as Foolish isn’t the reason. 

He’s not sure if it’s to spite the archangel or to comfort himself.

Punz rouses his energy and stumbles out of bed, firmly ignoring the coffin in the corner. 

His phone is lies facedown in the corner, next to a charger that he forgot to plug it into. He plugs it in and the no battery screen pops up.

They don’t even want to think about how many missed messages they have. They sit crosslegged on the floor and rest their head against the wall and watch the little lightning bolt blink on their phone screen. 

Their house is so empty. He spent months alone before Foolish’s arrival; it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Now it feels haunting, far too quiet. 

He leaves his phone on the charger and drags himself to the bathroom, flicking the light on.

The mirror is fixed.

When did the mirror get fixed?

And, the question that Punz doesn’t want to ask, why did Foolish care to take the time to fix it before he left?

Punz stares at its unbroken surface and his gaunt, exhausted reflection.

He was so used to the cracks that simply repairing them makes him feel like something is missing. They were accustomed to brokenness, accustomed to looking in a mirror and seeing a man in fractured pieces. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be whole.

His hair is disheveled around his shoulders. Dark circles sag under his eyes. He presses two tattooed hands to his face and watches his own tortured expression between his fingers.

The gold chain still lies empty around their throat. 

He doesn’t want to take it off.

Punz brushes their teeth and spits in the sink. The foam that hits the bowl is pink, and when he looks up and opens his mouth he can see why. His gums are bleeding, protesting the toothbrush that they’ve seen so little of in the past few days. Punz swishes water around in his mouth and spits again. Blood-tinted water spirals down the drain.

He leaves the bathroom with the taste of bitter iron on his tongue.

Their clothes are rumpled and disheveled. When he changes he chooses clothes from the left side of the closet in a little act of defiance against himself. The left side, Foolish’s side. It’s a reminder to himself that Foolish is gone . He shouldn’t regret making that deal.

And against his will, his attention is drawn once more to the coffin in his room. 

It opens without a creak when he undoes the latches. Dark velvet coats the inside. White feathers are scattered across the bottom, fallen plumes that his angel left behind. 

He presses his hands to the soft feathers and rests his forehead against the wood and kneels there in the deep velvet silence. 

The mouth of the coffin yawns wide. 

It feels like he’s dooming himself when he finally gives in and climbs inside to curl up on the strewn feathers. 

What does he have left?

An empty apartment and a bed he never leaves, a fridge of rotting food and a mouth full of blood. 

Punz twists their fingers into the delicate links of the chain at their throat. 

When is he going to stop trying? 

What are they even striving for?

He thinks of Foolish. The way they first saw him, a man of marble with dark hair and eyes. The way they crouched before him, executioner with blood on his golden hands and green eyes that glowed with fear. The way he last saw him, angel with wings in disarray and ink on his teeth.

The coffin they lie in doesn’t feel like a reminder. It feels like a promise.

Punz listens to their heart beat against their own ribs and clutches the feathers they lie on as if holding on tight enough will keep him from falling apart.

Punz’s phone finally lights up from where it sits charging. And he rouses himself, shakes off the stupor of grief. He does have a friend to turn to, against all odds.

Ant is far kinder a person than Punz really deserves. 

He picks it up and types in his passcode, hunching over the outlet to let it stay plugged in. 

His phone opens up. He was right; there are far too many notifications. He just ignores them and opens up his messages with Ant.

The most recent one was sent a day ago. It’s just one word.

Punz?

Punz calls him. It’s almost one A.M, but he knows his friend, and he knows Ant’s sleep schedule is nearly as shit as his is.

Ant picks up on the third ring.

“Oh my god, Punz,” he exhales, voice laden with relief and concern. “Fuck, dude. Are you okay?”

It’s an awful fucking question that pierces straight through Punz’s tender scab. No, they’re not. They don’t belong here and their closest friend is a broken-winged angel who they had to bribe into leaving them alive. There’s no real future for him, nowhere he can run. He’s seen Foolish fight, he knows the strength of the archangels that will follow after. His summons can’t protect him.

“Can you come pick me up?” he asks plaintively. “Please. I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I’m coming,” Ant says firmly. There’s motion on the other end of the line, the sound of keys jingling and. In the background Red’s voice sounds, asking where Ant is going.

“I’m getting Punz,” Ant shouts, far away from the phone.

No questions. No irritation. Ant really does care. 

It makes Punz want to cry.

“Do you want me to stay on call until I get there?” Ant asks, now closer to the microphone.

“I’ll be fine,” Punz tells him. They will. They’re too apathetic to be anything else.

“Okay. Stay safe. I’ll be there soon.” Ant pauses. “Love you, Punzo.”

“I love you too.”

The call ends.

Punz stands up and, for a hilarious minute, worries about how Ant will see him. They drag the gray quilt off their bed before he heads downstairs. He’s cold and tired and his white shirt is no protection against the wind. He’s weak, partially from lack of food and partially the recovering from the adrenaline that once flooded his system.

He feels like a ghost in a white sheet, drifting out of the elevator and through the lobby. Maybe he’s just lightheaded. 

The wind whips at his quilt and his hair and he ducks down, wiping wisps out of his eyes and mouth. It’s dark and his shadow stretches from his feet, cast by the light from inside the apartment lobby.

Ant’s car pulls up a few moments later. It’s Red’s car, technically, but Ant is in the driver’s seat and he’s the one who leans over and swings the door open for Punz.

“I’m glad you called me,” is all he says as Punz climbs inside and shuts the door behind him.

“I’m sorry I ignored your messages,” Punz says softly, resting their head on the dashboard.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Ant reassures him, pulling into the road. “The last time I saw you was that party a couple weeks back. You…do you remember?”

“No,” Punz laughs wryly, rubbing a hand down their face. “I blacked out.” Foolish restored his memories of their conversation. He didn’t bother with the rest of the evening.

“I don’t exactly know what happened,” Ant admits. “But I think you and Foolish got in a fight or something. Boomer says you joined their drinking game after that and kicked all their asses. You were incoherent at that point.”

Punz winces, but it’s not as bad as it could be. He’s lived under threat of death for weeks, the reminder of a mildly embarrassing blackout is almost welcome in its simple discomfort. “Oops. Thanks for getting me home, I guess?”

Ant glances at him sideways.

“I didn’t,” he says carefully. “Foolish did.”

“Oh,” is all Punz says. 

To be honest, it’s all he can say.

“I didn’t want to let you leave with him,” Ant says all of a sudden. “He’s hot and he’s sort of nice but I don’t trust him and I knew you guys had gotten in an argument earlier and I thought you wouldn’t be safe with him but…I don’t know. You were already half asleep on his shoulder at that point and he’s the only one of us strong enough to carry you and I thought there’s no way he would be touching your hair like that if he really wanted to hurt you.”

Punz covers their face with their hands.

“Fuck,” he says softly, and then he’s crying again. “ Fuck. I don’t know…”

Ant hesitates.

“Punz?” he asks cautiously. “Are you…did something happen?”

“Give me a minute,” Punz mumbles, wiping tears away with the backs of his hands.

“Okay,” Ant says gently.

To be honest, it shouldn’t matter what Foolish did when Punz was blacked out. He would have killed them either way. But Punz…he doesn’t have much. And a lot of what he did have was Foolish. 

Foolish needed to kill him. That’s been made very clear.

He wouldn’t have been touching your hair like that if he really wanted to hurt you.

It makes it worse to know that Foolish wanted to be gentle. That, when Punz was too drunk to remember, Foolish wrapped his arms around them and carried them home fresh off the heels of the death promise he made.

They really didn’t have a chance, did they?

Punz has never been to Ant’s apartment before. It is warm. It smells like food and when Ant opens the door to let them both inside a striped cat almost immediately insinuates itself between Punz’s legs.

“We’re back!” Ant calls into the kitchen.

Punz sits down on the couch, wrapped in his blanket, and exhales. His stomach grumbles and, detachedly, reminds him it’s been a long time since his last real meal.

“Can I have some food?”

“Oh!” Ant crouches down, picking up the cat in his arms. “Yeah, dude.”

“I’m not finished cooking yet,” Red gripes at him.

“Take your time, my love,” Ant calls back, petting the cat in his arms.

They’re so adorably domestic. They’re so in love. Their apartment is small but it’s warm and Red’s hoodie is tossed over the back of the couch Punz sits on. They have plants and a cat and there’s a fishtank near the door.

Is that what it’s like to be happy?

Punz’s treacherous mind betrays him the idea of living like them someday. Of being warm homes and a partner to eat with and meals they cook together.

His apartment is cold. He recalls night spent sitting on the tile next to Foolish, watching the rotation of the microwave in the dark. They did not laugh. They did not have a pet. They weren’t happy, not like these two are.

Well, of course not. Red and Ant are in love.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Red finally asks, striding into the living room with a plate of stir fry in either hand. He gives one to Punz, then kisses Ant on the cheek before he hands him his own plate.

“Red thought you died,” Ant sits down on the couch, folding his knees up under him. “And I was really freaked out.”

Punz would bury his head in his hands, but there’s stirfry on his plate and, for once, he’s hungrier than he is depressed.

He tells them what happened in between bites. Not everything, of course. Some things they don’t know how to say–how do they describe the fear in Foolish’s eyes? How do they talk about the way he sobbed when his wings were put back together? And, despite the fact that he doesn’t owe the heavens anything, he doesn’t say what his blood is capable of. He doesn’t talk about why angels die.

Their life seems different from the well-lit, warm apartment. Surreal. Ant and Red are so normal, and they’re happy . 

“So he’s gone now,” Punz finishes. “And I’m on my own.”

“That’s fucking wild, dude,” Ant says finally. 

Punz laughs and puts his empty plate on the coffee table, where the cat immediately jumps up to sniff at it.

“It is,” they admit. “But that’s just life.”

“That’s just your life,” Red points out. “Most people don’t deal with that shit.”

“You’re one to talk, you can see demons,” Ant argues.

“They’re not even around that often.” Red wrinkles his nose. 

“ Anyway , you’re not on your own.” Ant smiles. Punz’s best friend, his only real human friend. “You can stay with us! Do you want to watch Stranger Things?”

And a little bit of something like hope blossoms in Punz’s chest.

“Yeah,” they say. “I do.”

Red falls asleep first, head drooping onto Ant’s shoulder from where he’s half-draped across Red. 

“I’m glad you called me,” Ant whispers to Punz over the sound of the tv. “We were worried about you.”

Punz exhales deeply, still curled up in the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry,” they say again.

And I’m still not safe.

He doesn’t say that part.

Chapter Text

Late morning is sunshine peeking through blinds and a cat meowing loudly for food and Red stumbling around the kitchen swearing as it winds between his legs. It’s Ant lying on the floor and complaining about a crick in his neck while he fumbles around for his glasses.

And it’s the nausea that hits Punz so suddenly all he can do is run for the nearest trash can before he throws up.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ant asks, sitting up.

Punz spits bile into the can before he stands up. 

He thought Foolish’s presence was bad. But it turns out, nothing compares to the holy energy of an angel who is coming to kill him.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Ant, although he knows he’s said it before. 

She comes unmasked, her holiness grating like broken glass on Punz’s senses. He can sense her outside the door.

She knocks.

“Don’t you fucking dare open that,” Red screams from the kitchen. 

The door explodes into a shower of splinters around one white boot. Punz is seized with the irrational desire to burst out laughing.

“I didn’t open it,” the angel says pleasantly, ducking inside. She’s veiled her presence the slightest bit, to the point where Punz can look at her without feeling like his eyes are bleeding. She looks like a woman with brown hair and eyes that blaze green like Foolish’s did, back in the glory of the church. She wears white, and there are roses twined through her hair and across her arms. And, ruffled on her back as she steps into the hallway, are two white-feathered wings.

She looks like a painting, like she was created to stand with red roses in her white robes, wings spread on her back as she declares justice. She seems so much realer than everything else, realer than the apartment and the smell of bacon crackling and the splinters that fall from her wings. Michelangelo would kill to be where Punz is right now.

Punz stands in the middle of his friend’s apartment, acid bitter on his tongue and senses cringing back from her energy. They’ve been here before, standing opposite an angel with his death on their mind. But Foolish’s hands were covered in blood, and back was bare, and when Punz stood before him they had a sword in their hands.

“Punz Anluan, attuned demon summoner,” she says, hands folded calmly in front of her, “My name is Hannah. You have been found an enemy to the higher powers and I am tasked with bringing you for execution.”

“What the fuck ,” Ant says ferverently. 

Punz steps forward slowly, moving between the angel and his friend. Behind their back they open their hand, trying to think of a rune to summon.

The cat hisses in the corner, back ruffled up, and he turns his head to look at it. Punz’s heart sinks. 

Right, he’s in Ant’s house with all of Ant’s stuff and Ant’s boyfriend and Ant’s life . He can’t fight here, and he’s not exactly certain that this angel will be polite enough to let him take things outside.

And, to be honest, why would he fight? He doesn’t even know what he’s fighting for .

Punz stands numb as the angel marches up to him. 

“Punz?” Ant asks. Then his tone goes frantic and he reaches out, trying to grab Punz’s hand.

The angel lifts one hand and presses her forefinger to Punz’s forehead.

And, as Ant’s hand is about to close around Punz’s fingers, he vanishes.

They are at the gate. 

Marble steps stretch down in front of them, into a crowd of angels. They are eyes and wings and they are staring at Punz, every last one of them. Punz almost reels with the strain, shoulders hunching at the blaze of holiness around him.

And it’s a funny thing, because he can feel how much they want him dead. But he can’t feel their hatred. Not like Foolish’s, nothing like his. 

“They were going to call Samuel for this,” the angel beside him says matter-of-factly. “But we thought it would be better for archangels to finish what they start.”

There’s a familiar presence behind him. It hurts them to touch, like every angel here hurts, but there’s a recognition in that steady ache. His heart sinks even before he turns around.

Foolish stands behind him.

It’s funny that here, in the heights of heaven, Punz is best able to see Foolish for what he is. He’s the only archangel in the gathering, yet there’s something off about him compared to the masses that stretch down the stairs, waiting for Punz’s death. Green eyes flicker in his ragged wings. Three on the left, two on the right, the only non symmetrical thing in this realm of gold and marble.

They’ve been dancing in circles for far too long. Despite all Punz’s efforts, all his deals, maybe he always knew it would end like this.

Foolish shouldn’t be surprised they called him for this. No one wants to get their hands dirty, while Foolish is already covered in filth. He’s spent too long down there, too long wingless, too long a shadow of the holiness he once was.

He used to be glorious. He used to believe. He used to be the kind of person who could have saved Punz.

But no, now he’s just Foolish. Seventh of nine, angel of scattered wings. Executioner.

He reaches out and takes Punz by the hand, lifts him up. The human is weakened and swaying, too much to even resist. Stripped of his powers, a mortal in the heavens. They’re meant to die here.

Punz has never been a friend to the holy. He threw his lot in with the powers below. Doesn’t that mean he deserves this?

Foolish should know the answer is yes.

He and Punz take the steps one at a time, hand in hand. Bare feet on gleaming white marble, the loudest sound in the silence. The hushed masses watch them with wings and halos full of eyes.

He’s taking Punz to the river.

They call it a river. The water runs still, surface as smooth as glass. It’s only waist deep and the bank is smooth white pebbles. Foolish hasn’t been here in centuries, not since he walked into battle and left it crawling, his wings on the ground.

There are angels gathered on the banks. They watch silently, obediently. They know this has to happen, and so does Foolish. They know the blood in Punz’s veins is an abomination, and so does Foolish.

They will watch Punz drown here and not feel a shadow of guilt.

But Foolish will. Of course he will. He’ll be the hands on Punz’s throat, the scapegoat for them all. Fucking sacrificial lamb.

Angels aren’t supposed to die. So Punz has to instead.

They reach the bank of the crystal-smooth water and it ripples the slightest bit at their passing, but remains pristine. Everything here is pristine, perfect symmetry. Except Foolish and his uneven wings, and Punz with their varied tattoos.

Foolish releases Punz’s hand and turns to face him. They’re waist deep in the river now, nearly at the center of the banks that spread wide on either side.

Punz looks him in the eyes.

“I thought you were supposed to be holy,” he says, too bitter to be silent and too exhausted to be hateful.

Foolish hesitates. The angels are watching and waiting. They have an audience and what he should do is hold Punz under the water until they stop struggling and leave his body in the river and leave forever and pretend that none of these months happen.

But instead he answers.

“When you picked up the sword,” Foolish says softly, “I thought ‘maybe this is how I convince myself to do it. Maybe I’ll finally get rid of him’. ”

He releases Punz’s hand. “And then…you made me that offer. And I don’t think i’ve been really holy ever since.”

Foolish’s wings rustle in the quiet. He lifts his hands, slowly, and touches them to Punz’s shoulders. He closes his grip, holding the half-starved man so carefully.

He used to be less careful. He used to leave bruises. He used to not give a fuck if he hurt Punz or not.

Punz stares at him, blue eyes unreadable.

“I hate you,” he says. And it’s funny, because it hurts. Foolish is going to kill them and he knows they deserve to say it to him, deserve to say all that and more. But Punz says it like he doesn’t believe it, like he doesn’t want to. And that hurts, that slightest belief in Foolish to be something better than the wretched thing he is now.

“I hate me too.” Foolish admits. 

Punz must see something in Foolish’s face, because a split second before Foolish moves, Punz tenses and tries to run. He gets nowhere. 

Foolish’s hands tighten before Punz can really pull away, and he hasn’t fought in years but he was a warlord once and the old, old reflexes kick in. He tries to yank Punz down and they buck against his grip, trying to thrash away from him. They twist their head to the side and sink their teeth into his hand. Foolish yelps and yanks his hand away, trying to wrestle his other arm around their neck. 

This execution was supposed to be measured. Careful. Honorable, a necessary sacrifice. 

There’s nothing honorable about this. They’re two desperate men grappling in the water and Punz is snapping at Foolish again, fueled by primal panic, hair and water whipping around his face. 

Punz brings up his knee and slams it into Foolish’s stomach. There’s no pain, but the force of it sends him stumbling back. He slips on the marble and starts to fall. 

He manages to grab the back of Punz’s neck and yanks him close. When he goes down, Punz goes with him and they slip under the surface of the river.

It’s deeper than it should be; the instant they’re submerged the riverbed vanishes from under their feet, leaving them spinning above yawning blue depths in a spray of bubbles. Foolish flares his wings, flipping them both in the blue deep and forcing Punz beneath him. The human writhes, closing his mouth too late. Bubbles rise before their lungs and their foot nearly catches Foolish in one shoulder before he grabs them by the throat and shoves them lower.

Punz stops fighting, then. His arms and legs go limp and now they’re floating in the water together.

Sunlight shafts in warped ripples across Punz’s face. Their hair billows around their head in the faint current.  Their chain has slipped from their shirt and gold links ripple around their neck, casting a gold reflection across their face. Their eyes are wide open and clear, crystal blue. He looks terrified.

Foolish’s hands are closed around his neck.

Those hands have been drenched in blood so many times. Foolish has killed so many times, and every time he called it justice. Never once did he balk, even after the loss of his wings. If anything he was more focused then, because that’s when he learned to hate.

Foolish should hate Punz. He should pull him close and sink them both into the deep until the air runs from Punz’s lungs and he drowns in Foolish’s arms in the holy river. He shouldn’t care about nights spent together and the fit of Punz’s clothes on his shoulders and the softness of their skin in dark bathrooms.

He shouldn’t want to give in. He shouldn’t let years of roiling resentment drown away and he shouldn’t pull Punz close as they start to sink. 

But when he really thinks about it, there’s no reason he shouldn’t give up. 

So he does.

The last bubble of air leaves Punz’s lungs and he gasps, tortured lungs straining for breath where there can be none. There’s nothing but pure, animal fear in his brain, snapping at his thoughts as the water fills his lungs. 

Foolish pulls him close and his wings fold around the both of them, and he’s there to drown Punz in the treacherous depths of this holy water, but they tighten their arms around him back and grip the fabric of his robes and cling to him like he’s their oxygen instead of their death. Foolish’s fingers dig into their skin, into the soreness of the tattoo on their back.

Punz’s lungs scream as black spots blossom behind their vision. Foolish’s skin is smooth gold under his arms, body so cool it’s almost the same temperature as the water they float in. Punz buries his face into Foolish’s neck and lets the darkness creep over him.

They’re still sinking, faster now. One of Foolish’s arms shifts up, in the shadow of his wings, and his hand rests in Punz’s hair, pulls them closer to his body. He says something, Punz can tell. It’s muffled by the water and he’s barely conscious and he can’t understand it, but he knows from the way Foolish chest vibrates with it.

And then they’re sinking faster. And they’re not sinking, they’re falling, and the force that whips at Punz’s hair as they plummet isn’t water, but air.

Punz takes a gasping breath and his vision snaps back.

Foolish repeats what he said before.

“Hold on tight,” he tells Punz as they fall. “It’s a long way down.”

Punz turns his head and looks into the feathers that surround him. There are green eyes in them, narrowed against the wind lashing at Punz’s back. He almost wants to see what they’re falling through, but Foolish’s wings are tight around them and the only thing he can truly see is the eyes that blink back.

They’re falling.

Foolish is falling. 

Punz’s heart still pumps with adrenaline and his thoughts are fractured, only half-understanding. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or confused, he barely even understands what’s going on.s

Punz might be the only person to have ever held an angel as he fell.

The feathers are burning, now. Red-orange fire flickers along their edges and flares bright in the wind, searing through every shaft and leaving them charred black. White wings scorch to dark ash and in their final vestiges of glory they blaze bright with it, lashing tongues of orange fire to the sky as he and Foolish plummet.

Foolish once stood in a church and wore his tattered glory like a broken crown, and his presence was like broken glass in Punz’s senses. Nauseating, holy. Now all of it flares up, burns bright and for the first time Punz feels no nausea to his presence. Only heat and brightness as they plummet, a supernova of Foolish’s own divinity burning itself into nothing.

Punz shuts his eyes against the glory and the glow.

And then Foolish lets out a short, sharp scream, and Punz hears a crunch of bones before he hits the ground.

Slowly, things begin to come back.

There is water on his face and when he gasps in a breath, lungs straining in a memory of his near-death, it leaks in the corners of his mouth. It tastes like dull acid. 

Miraculously, nothing hurts. There’s concrete under their back and they are unprotected from the rain, but it seems like nothing in light of the depths they only just left. 

Punz’s heart still thunders in their chest. Or maybe it’s the rain torrenting down, or the sky rumbling in the distance. For a moment they can do nothing but lie there and remember what it is to breath.

Then it finally sinks in that he is alone.

Punz folds an arm to cover his face and opens his eyes.

Rain thunders to the ground around him, in great sheets and torrents, pouring down on his chest and his shoulders and everything around him. His white shirt is plastered to his body, turned transparent by the water enough that it shows the lines of his tattoos where it clings to his skin.

He lies in a shattered circle of concrete, cracks extending from beneath him outwards. He should be dead from the fall, but he landed impossibly softly.

And, they think grimly, they heard the reason why.

Foolish has vanished.

Punz sits up with a groan and presses a palm to their forehead, glancing around. The sky has a grey-orange feel to it, the result of fading daylight drowned through the sheets of rain that fade out everything in the near distance.

He struggles to his feet, now thoroughly soaked.

He’s in a parking lot. Great puddles have formed across the pitted concrete, and water now begins to fill up the cracks of the impact hole. He’s all alone in this empty parking lot. There is only him and the storm.

Punz stands alone in the rain and lets it drum down on his shoulders, chilling him to the bone. 

Once, when he was a child, someone told him that the rain was the tears of angels.

The angels are keening now.

Punz lowers their head against the downpour and starts their walk home.

Chapter Text

The coffin is empty.

It was the first thing Punz went to when he entered his apartment: the dark wooden box lying open in his apartment. When he last saw it the velvet lining was covered with cast-off white feathers, pieces of Foolish he was unable to cobble together. The last time the isolation grabbed him by the throat and dragged him down to curl inside the coffin, the feathers Foolish left behind lay beneath him as he cried.

This time there’s nothing. Just Punz and an empty apartment and a coffin with the ashes of angels’ feathers.

He stares at it for far too long before he turns and enters the bathroom.

Water drips to the tile floor. 

The noise is the loudest thing in that empty bathroom: each drop of water seeming so much greater than the thunder of the downpour outside. 

Punz stands barefoot on cold tile and stares at their reflection. 

The mirror is unbroken. Wet strands of hair trail down his shoulders. His soaked shirt stretches transparent across his chest and arms, exposing their tattoos and the gold chain around their neck. 

His neck. Punz lifts one hand and tilts his head, gingerly pressing their fingertips to their throat. Light bruises purple across his pale skin, the shadows that Foolish’s grip left behind. 

Foolish. 

Foolish, Punz’s stubborn, lying, sacrificial executioner. The angel who carried him home and saved his life. The man who pulled them into the depths and wrapped his wings around them as they fell. Punz’s guardian angel. Punz’s archangel. 

Punz’s fallen angel. 

Punz lowers his hand from the bruises and looks at his own reflection. 

He used to hate himself more, he thinks. Maybe all the time Foolish spent prolonging the inevitable, all the time Ant has spent worrying about them, has gotten to their head. No, he doesn’t loathe the man who stands opposite him, unshattered. He just spends too much time doing nothing . 

It’s time to do something. 

He’s called them forth so many times. Imp. Hellhound. Demon. Devil. And now he kneels and places his hands on the floor once more.

“Foolish,” he whispers. It’s a name he knows well, a name he’s called on before. But never when his friend was unholy. The sound of bones snapping on the ground echoes in his ears. Maybe Foolish won’t come.

Maybe Foolish can’t come. 

“Foolish!” Punz says again, more forcefully. 

Water drips from his hands and puddles in the gaps between his fingers. 

And oh, fool that he is, he almost gives up. But no, he’s run too many times before. He’s been to the heavens and fallen from them in the arms of a man he doesn’t know if he can live without. 

Punz sinks his hands into the fabric between worlds and yanks. 

He almost falls back, but the barrier tears with him as his weight shifts. A blast of warm air rises from it, hissing the familiar scent of sulfur into his face.

They reach down, with both their hands and their mind, and search. He calls no names this time, only for help.

A familiar presence meets him. Not the fallen angel they’re searching for, but helpful nonetheless. Smooth white fingers wind around his wrist and pull him down.

Punz hits the ground on their hands and knees. 

It’s so sudden that he has to take a moment to breathe and process it. He hasn’t been back here in months, hasn’t seen obsidian ground and hot springs or felt that familiar swelter of sulfur around him. He’s been cold for so long.

“You’re not supposed to be here, unsworn summoner,” the creature above him says.

Punz’s clothes steam as he rises to his feet and looks up at XD. It’s smiling at him, like always, the broken halos around its face spinning slowly. Its dark wings flare behind it. Maybe they were white once, like Foolish’s.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Punz says, brushing their hair out of their face. “I’m just here to find him.”

“You were cast out. You’re not a child anymore, Punz. There are sacrifices to be made for you to even walk these grounds.”

“I know!” Punz snaps. “I’m not here to stay.”

“You could be. I’m always unsworn, and you still have a soul.” XD spreads its white hands, bending down to him. “But why should I get my hopes up? Come now, tell me what little friend you’re here to search for.”

“He’s fallen,” Punz glances at the wide plains around them, as if he’ll see a convenient Foolish-shaped impact crater somewhere near there. 

“Of course. Here for the broken archangel.” XD grabs the edge of its robe as it turns, flaring the green cloth out dramatically. “And never a word to spare for your dear old friend. Come now, I’ll show you where your angel’s fallen.”

Punz ducks around one of XD’s wings, trying to keep stride with them. “Where?”

“Where do you think?” XD laughs. “He’s with Bad.”

Punz almost stops.

“That’s right,” XD glances down at him, green eyes shining in his halos. “You’re going home.”

Home.

Home is the devil’s mansion where Punz grew up. Home is red carpets and obsidian walls and Bad’s throne room and the scorched room where Sapnap taught Punz to control fire, home is Punz’s room and their bed and the sketches of experimental runes and the hidden stash of alcohol from the human world. Home was once so far away.

It’s been a year now. He’s almost afraid to go back.

XD tents one coal-dark wing around them, pulling them closer against its flowing robes.

“You don’t have to walk. I can fly you,” he offers. “I have my wings, unlike some you choose to spend your time with.”

“Foolish has wings,” Punz disagrees, half-distractedly. He knows very well that Foolish has wings. He put them there himself, cobbling Foolish’s soul back together with uneven wings and feathers and a blaze of pain that had the angel sobbing beneath his hands. And while those wings burned as they fell, the fire left them blackened, but not destroyed.

“You talk about him too much,” XD sniffs, and it tugs him closer and sweeps him up into its arms and takes to the sky. 

His clothes are still damp, although it’s hot enough in Hell that he is more humid than chilled. XD’s black wings edge against the crimson sky, carrying him closer home.

“Sometimes even I weary of this,” the fallen angel muses as they fly.

“Of what?”

“Waiting for someone like you with a soul to spare. Oh, the things we could have done with you if we found the effort. But your father , bless his little devil self, wanted to let you be human. Told us all that you would find your way, that you deserved to make your way in the mortal realm and not be bound to one of us for eternity.”

Punz works the thought into his head.

“Why aren’t they helping you?” Foolish asked once. 

They hadn’t had an answer for him. And they didn’t think that, now they’ve received it, it would be this painful.

Bad just thought…Punz could handle it. He thought the little human orphan he’d rescued al those years ago had learned enough and grown enough that he could be something in the human world.

And now Punz is back here again, searching for the angel that fell with him to save his life.

“So?” XD prods. “Did you make your way?”

Did he? He has an apartment and a job and friends who care about him. He had an angel who stayed up late and ate shitty instant noodles with them and carried them home from parties and helped them tie up their hair. Was that enough?

“I don’t know if it matters,” Punz says finally. “I had enough to keep me going. Maybe that’s all I needed. I can figure everything else out eventually.”

“I see,” XD’s grin thins a little bit. He banks, and Punz can see the spires of Bad’s mansion as they circle down towards it. 

“And does this ‘everything else’ include your little angel?”

“I don’t know,” Punz says honestly. “I think I hope it does.”

XD leaves him at the gates, standing at the entrance of the mansion where he grew up. This used to be home. 

The first time he came here he was a child with Sapnap beside him, fresh off the streets and still not yet realizing that Bad was promising him safety. 

They felt so small standing before the gates, not knowing what came next. Punz feels small now, gazing up at the iron bars and steeling himself against whatever he faces when he steps through.

They open when he sets one hand on them and starts up the black stone of the path. The mansion looms. If he didn’t know this place so well he would fear it for its size and its angles. He knows this place very, very well, so he fears it for the memories it holds.

Punz reaches the door and seizes the handle, dragging it open. 

A familiar, delighted voice reaches them.

“Punz!” Bad calls, lifting a clawed hand to wave. “I was wondering if you’d show up.”

The devil sits at the bottom of one set of curving stairs, white eyes half-shut and tail lying loose over his lap. He smiles when he sees Punz, the same smile as every time.

At the bottom of the matching stairwell sits Foolish, folded over his knees with his eyes closed.

Punz almost feels guilty for how quickly his attention slides away from Bad. He almost feels embarrassed by the fact that he runs when he sees Foolish, scrambles across the carpet to reach his fallen angel at the bottom of the stairs.

Foolish looks up and his eyes widen.

They’re red; crystalline, ruby-red. Punz doesn’t even have the time to remark the difference because he’s too busy hurling himself at Foolish and Foolish is too busy yelping and opening his arms to catch them. Punz hits Foolish with his full weight and the fallen angel sprawls back onto the steps. 

Foolish’s energy has been broken glass on Punz’s senses for so long, fingernails on chalkboard in the back of their mind. It’s as if the fire of the fall has smoothed him out, and he feels welcoming, almost. 

Punz closes his eyes and wraps his arms tighter around Foolish and for a long, long moment revels in the ability to not fear him.

Foolish lets out a breathless laugh and finally his wings close around Punz again; uneven limbs of dark feathers and flickering red eyes. 

“Hello, Punz,” Bad says again, patiently.

“Hi, Bad,” Punz mumbles into Foolish’s neck.

Punz finally pulls off Foolish enough to let him sit back up. They lean back, trying to get a full look at him.

His skin, once bronze-gold, has darkened to steely gray. His eyes have changed from green to red and his five wings are coal black. He doesn’t reek of holiness anymore, just sulfur and heat. He feels like home.

“I’m glad to see you again,” Bad offers. “I was talking with your friend here. He says he fell from heaven because he didn’t want to kill you! Imagine that.”

“Imagine that,” Foolish says wryly, mouth quirking up to expose the layers of fangs set in his gums. He tilts his head to the side, raising one hand and brushing feather-light fingers across the bruises on Punz’s throat.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

That’s all. Sorry about that. The drowning and the bruises and the panic and the last breath leaving Punz’s lungs. Just an apology. And Punz is willing to let that be enough.

Are there really words for it? For everything they are, for the resigned hate he and Foolish let writhe between them, and for the fall where it burned away. Maybe there aren’t.

Foolish can probably read it in Punz’s eyes that he 

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Punz says finally, pulling back off Foolish and turning to Bad. “But I needed to get him.”

Bad squints up one eye quizzically. “You’re really that close with an angel? What have you been up to up there?”

Punz hesitates. 

“A lot,” they say finally.

A lot of nothing, and getting way too attached to someone who knew he was going to kill me.

Bad sighs, unfolding his long legs and standing. “So are you here to make a contract? I can understand why you’d want to come back. I know it’s been…hard for you up there.”

Punz hesitates.

It’s warm here, and he’s so tired of being cold. He spent so many years here, the friends of his childhood grew up here alongside him. He has a room upstairs that he knows so well and this is the only place where he’s never been afraid.

Foolish stands, moving to Punz’s shoulder with a rustle of dark wings.

And there’s Foolish, of course. His fallen angel, the person who was there through every dark night, even if he could do nothing but make them worse.

Punz reaches out and takes his hand. Foolish’s palms are smooth and metallic against Punz’s. His grip is strong, fingers closing tight around Punz’s. These are hands that have hurt them and held them and drowned them and fed them.

“I want to go home,” Punz says, honestly. “Back to my apartment.”

Bad’s expression barely changes. “Do you want to take him with you?”

Punz half turns, glancing over his shoulder. The eyes in Foolish’s wings flicker to look at him.

“Do you want to come with me?” Punz asks.

He feels like he already knows, but he needs to hear Foolish say it. There’s been so much of I hate you and I wish we could and you know I can’t . There’s been so much of them struggling against the current, two leaves in a stream they couldn’t hope to escape. He’s made his choice, he made it when he first pried tore the barrier and followed Foolish down.

Foolish is quiet for a long, long time.

“I do,” he says finally. “I…want to go home.”

Home. Home has Punz’s friends waiting for him and an empty coffin and a mirror that Foolish fixed days ago. It’s cold there and Punz sleeps too much and eats too little. 

But it feels like, in the simple act of going back, Punz is already deciding he won’t give up again.

“Let’s go home, then,” Punz says, squeezing Foolish’s hand in theirs.

So they do.