Work Text:
In one world, an angel falls. Held in the embrace of his dearest friend, his wings wither into dust and his soul scatters into the dark.
No amount of love will circumvent this tragedy. They’ll never see each other again.
“What do you think,” you ask Tsuzuru a few days before opening night, “is the point of a tragedy?”
Tsuzuru frowns. “Is something wrong, Tsumugi?”
You sigh. “Not necessarily. I just… this story’s very good. Feels almost too real, for a story about angels.”
You don’t mention the bizarre dreams you’ve been having, where you’re no longer running lines or getting your costume fitted but living Michael’s entire life in flashes that you’ve never seen in the script. You’ve never been an imaginative person or much of a writer, and you rarely have dreams at all, but after making your way through a time loop, anything seems possible.
At that, you earn a beaming smile from Tsuzuru. “I’m glad you thought so, Tsumugi!” he says. “As for a tragedy… it’s for emotional catharsis. Terrible things happen, yes… but I think it makes us realize how important the people within tragedies are. We empathize with them, and we care for them.”
“I see…” you say. “Thank you, Tsuzuru.”
“I’m curious, though.” Tsuzuru muses. “What did you think was the point of this tragedy?”
When you’re not dreaming, sometimes you’ll stare at Tasuku and wonder, hope beating its wings in your chest: What happens next?
“For me…” You choose your next words carefully. “It felt like a warning,”
A haze falls over the stage as the curtains draw back, velvet smooth and silent in their presence. You’re not looking at them. You’ll never see them.
“What’s the point of all of this?” you ask, dramatically exhaling as you flop down on a cloud.
Raphael’s eyes crinkle in barely suppressed laughter. It’s only years of experience that lets you know his laughter is a soft one that is overwhelmingly fonder than it is teasing.
“The point of what?”
“Angels,” you say. “I understand we’re important… but sometimes it feels like all we do is watch instead of doing anything.”
“Angels guide,” Raphael says. “They oversee, but they don’t interfere. Isn’t the doing what’s special about humans? Without this kind of division, nothing would be special.”
“I guess,” you say, “but it’s kind of boring, don’t you think so?”
Raphael shakes his head almost immediately, which surprises you, because Raphael is rarely quick with any of his actions—he’s always measured and thoughtful when he speaks to you. “Not to me,” he says. “There are things here that humans can’t do, after all.”
“Like what?”
“Well, just look at you,” Raphael says.
You give yourself a once-over, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Me? What’s so special about… oh, were you talking about my wings? I didn’t know you liked flying so much, Raphael.”
“Michael,” he says instead of responding. There’s a funny smile on his face that you can’t recognize, and as if he’s reading your mind, he adds, “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
His voice inspires so much terror in your heart that you wake up, find yourself perched at the edge of your seat in some small restaurant you haven’t been to years ago. You’re watching yourself, only it can’t be you, but it has to be you, even though you know that you’re already well past the point of death—
“I’m really glad to have met you, Tasuku,” you say.
He pauses in the midst of eating dinner. At first, he looks confused, but his lips slowly curl into a smile. “What brought this on?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shifting in your seat. “It’s just… you’re pretty cool, Tasuku.”
Tasuku stares at you. “Are you drunk?”
“What? No!”
“You’re being weirdly sentimental, that’s all,” Tasuku says. “Well, you’re not hearing this from my mouth again, but… I think you’re pretty cool too, Tsumugi.”
The vague mumbling of the audience on the other side of the curtain—you can’t hear any of it. None of it is real; but you’re as real as life, and so is he, even if the world seems fuzzy at its edges.
“You’ve always been different from the rest,” Raphael says. He’s got that smile you haven’t quite figured out yet, the polite smile he often uses when talking to others, but it’s got a softer, sweeter edge to it that feels tailor-made to pull at your heartstrings.
You laugh instead of asking. “I’m not that special,” you say.
“You are,” Raphael says. “I like you the most, after all.”
At that, a steady hum builds in your chest. “Me too,” you say. “You’ll always be by my side, won’t you?”
“Always,” Raphael says.
The scene shifts and repeats. You’re half-awake and drifting back to memories from the beginning of high school. This time you’re watching Tasuku, biting his lips at fifteen, in the awkward stage of puberty where he hasn’t gotten used to his height just yet. “You’ll always be by my side, won’t you?”
“Always,” you say. “You’re my best friend.” At the time it’s the strongest thing you know. You haven’t yet realized that a feeling is not the same as an action; an identity—best friend, and loved, though you don’t know it yet—is not a promise.
Again, the lines blur. You know this is too real to be just a dream, but you don’t quite feel awake, either.
“What’s your opinion on humans?” you ask.
Raphael stares at him. “Humans are… humans,” he says. “What else is there?”
“It’s just…” Michael sighs. “Look at that person,” he says. “Aren’t they… something else?”
Raphael frowns. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like… sometimes they’re made of light,” Michael sighs. “Isn’t that beautiful.”
“You’re made out of light,” Raphael says.
“Literally, maybe. But not… not like they are.”
At that, Raphael doesn’t say a thing. You wonder if he really understands you.
A memory blooms into your brain with a starting clarity, now—it’s one that’s cradled close to your chest, built into your mind in the way all instinctive things come, like how you’ll know every shape and curve of his smile even if he left the next day and never looked back.
“You really love theatre, don’t you, Tasuku?” you say.
Tasuku pokes your cheek. “Of course, I do,” he says. “We're both theater-obsessed, you're not getting rid of me that easily.”
You laugh. “I’d never dream of it.”
You don't say, I don't know if we can love this the same way anymore. But you still want to stay by him for as long as he'll allow it. And when it’s time for him to leave, you’ll remember him.
Lights burn bright on the two of you. Raphael suffers under the heat of it, but to you the sting of it is comfortingly warm. It’s an ache he can’t bear, but one you haven’t yet learned to let go of.
“And you love—” Raphael’s mouth fumbles on the word— “you love her?”
“I do,” you say. Humans are... fascinating. This one is especially so. Her words are always printed carefully, kindly, and sincerely. Despite never meeting her, she'd always been kind to him. Sometimes it was like she could see right through him even when she hadn't seen him.
“I... see,” Raphael says. “I don't think I can understand it, but... If your feelings are that strong.”
Feelings are not enough, you don’t tell him. I have to do something. That’s the way it is.
You wake up again. This time you’re not in a memory but making one. While the two of you have worked out most of your issues since joining Mankai, there’s a lingering hesitation in your actions that remains, like the both of you are afraid one wrong word will ruin everything between the two of you again. But one thing leads to another, and then it leads to Tasuku bragging about how much he can lift, and it’s like instinct, the way you tease him about it. That hesitation cracks a little at his answering grin.
“Of course I can pick you up,” Tasuku says. “Is that even a question?”
Without much warning, he hooks one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you up in the air. His grip is steady and warm. A pleasant feeling bubbles up in your chest. “Wow,” you say. “It's so high up!”
Tasuku adjusts his grip slightly before he settles down. “This is lower than eye level for you.”
“Yeah, but it’s—different, somehow,” you say. “Like I can touch the sky.”
Tasuku snorts. “To do that, you’d have to grow wings.” He pokes your cheek. “Yuki is good, but not that good.”
No, you almost say, you could just carry me there. But the words fall short on your tongue.
“It’s still—it feels really high up,” you say.
“Sorry, is this uncomfortable?” Tasuku says, worry clear on his face. “I can put you down now—”
“No,” you say with a vehemence that surprises yourself. “No, it’s fine. I—just stay like this for a little longer.”
“Testing my arm strength?” Tasuku teases, but when you don’t respond, he doesn’t ask again, either.
It’s strange. You can’t possibly think this has happened before, but it’s like you’ve never belonged anywhere more. Being with Tasuku has always been like that.
What’s a scene, anyways? What makes it different from a dream—what makes a dream different from what’s true? Where does truth diverge from what’s real? At the end of it all, isn’t this you?
“You’re not leaving,” Raphael says.
“Leaving?” you ask. “What do you mean?”
“To the human world,” Raphael says. “You keep going down there to meet with that human. You want to leave, don’t you?”
You shake your head. “I know my place.”
“Right,” Raphael says. “It's here.”
“I just… want to see them happy, you know?” you say. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not… I just want them to be happy.” You stare at Raphael. “Do you know what it feels like? It’s an… overwhelming love. I can’t get enough of it.”
Raphael does not meet your eyes. “Michael… be careful. Don’t get hurt.”
“I told you,” you say. “I’m fine.” You turn to go before Raphael can get another word in. Despite that, despite everything, you’re sure that Raphael is tracking you with each step he takes, with that careful, cautious look he always holds, so grand in personality but hopelessly fond.
You know how he looks without having to see it—you’ll know how he looks even if he leaves the next day and never comes back.
But in the end, it’s you who’s leaving first. You wonder if he’ll remember you in the same way.
“You know what,” Tsuzuru says, a thoughtful expression on his face, “it’s not really my place to say this, but…”
“What is it?”
“A warning is definitely… an interesting way to interpret something so fantastical,” Tsuzuru says. “Not that it’s a wrong interpretation or anything!” He quickly amends. “But wow… I was just thinking that you and Tasuku are really close.”
“Ah… we are, I guess,” you say, tamping down the joy that threatens to overflow. “Why?” You have a feeling you already know the answer, but you still want to hear it.
“It’s just… he said the same thing to me,” Tsuzuru says. “It was so real to him that he was seeing it in his dreams.”
And that—that answer, you didn’t know.
For one moment the scene inverts in its focus. Now that the main character has fallen dead in your arms, the light casts its all-seeing eye upon the angel that’s left. And that’s you, holding Michael’s body as it fades from your grasp. I love him, you think, and the words roll out of your mouth like tears.
You wake with a thundering heart. Tsumugi feels so light in your arms. Light like a wisp of air, the kind that slips between the fabric of your shirt and skin and chills you to the bone. Light like heaven, like love, like a fast-disappearing soul shattering under your grip.
“Michael—” you call, the name ripped out of your skin. There’s no answer, and there will never be an answer because he’s gone, soul and all—
“Tasuku.” Tsumugi’s voice is soft in the dark. “Tasuku, are you awake?”
And yet. Here, so close you can touch, is his soul. You can’t explain why or how, but you know. You’ll always know. It must be a dream, if Michael’s here, but you’re wide awake and the person in front of you isn’t him, it’s—
“Tsumugi,” you whisper, reorienting yourself. “Where are you?”
A hand over your chest. Breath steady over your ear. “Right by your side,” Tsumugi murmurs. “Always am.”
Your heart contracts under his weight, a pressure that builds like a satisfying burn. Daringly, you think that if anything’s a dream, it can’t be the person in front of you. If anything’s real, it will have to be the two of you, right here.
There’s a flesh and blood human, and no one else, within the grasp of your arms. Of course it takes this much to hold him up.
The stage lights dim. The curtain closes. The applause fades from your ears.
Night fades to dawn and the wings are stripped away from your skin. You’re leaning over Tasuku, flushed pale pink under the glow of a rising sun. The air is crisp; the sky, clear.
“Welcome back,” you murmur.
His hand rests easy around your waist, another reaching to tug at the short ends of your hair. “I never left,” he says.
You watch as the sun casts a halo on his face, the small curve of his mouth, the glitter in his eyes. You stare at him until you realize he’s looking at you, too.
You’re my best friend, and I love you, you think, but somehow just the feeling isn’t enough, anymore.
So you do what you should have done in every dream and scene before this one: you ask if you can kiss him, and then you do.
You’re not a memory, not an angel, not a dream or a scene played out to its inevitable conclusion. You’re here, and he is, too.
In one world, an angel falls.
In another world, you wake up. That was a story; you are not a tragedy.