Work Text:
It was a day just like any other, where a man at the end of what others considered to be “the prime age” sat inside his cramped, one-room apartment, contemplating the grime of his surroundings that he had befriended during his years of living here, instead of cleaning it and finding some real friends in the outside world. It would’ve been easier had he attempted to straighten out his life before the first few months that took for it to turn into a shithole, but now that he was living with the filth, it stuck to the soles of his feet like mud, and before he knew it, the mud had turned into quicksand and he was sinking in it. He has had his fill of asking himself how it had come to this when he had graduated from college with decent grades and a few close friends, but no one can endure a life of odd part-time idleness forever, and when it finally caught up to him, he set aside his pride and let it.
Yaguchi Yatora. Thirty years old. No friends, no lover, no ambitions, no prospects, no motivations. He’s not happy with life, but he has come to terms with the whole “life is suffering” philosophy as a way to cope. He doesn’t really believe in it but it gets him through the day, most days. He doesn’t even feel human, but like a hollow shell of a person, or an animal, or a robot; the analogies are endless. Anything but human.
It’s about time for him to get to work. Yatora is nocturnal. He works the night shift at a local grocery store, though it’s so small he almost doesn’t want to call it that. He digs through a mountain of clothes on the floor to change into and drags his feet to the only constant in his life. He sleeps most of the day but his eyes remain perpetually under deep shadow.
When he gets there, his co-worker, a recently-graduated oil painter named Hashida, is waiting for him at the counter, with his regular clothes. Hashida always seems to be waiting for him, as if he has won the night-race time and time again, just cooling his heels for grandpa to catch up so he can give him another creepy-but-youthful successful-graduate smile. Yatora begrudgingly smiles back whenever he can bring himself to do it. He doesn’t remember Hashida’s first name, except that the guy has told him before.
“Yaguchi-san, it’s good to see you. Today is my last day working here, so I wanted to say farewell before I left.”
It takes a few seconds for Hashida’s words to register in Yatora’s foggy conscience. He repeats them twice in his head and his lips move but nothing comes out. Hashida is leaving? The first thing that comes to his mind is, So I’m going to be alone again?
“You were waiting for me?”
He doesn’t know what he is saying. Hashida always waits for him for some reason. Does he not have anything better to do? Why would someone as pristine and elegant as Hashida pay him any mind? He wants to be angry, but all he feels is numb.
“Well, I wanted to say goodbye.”
How should he react? His immediate response is “thank you” but he is thirty years old and Hashida is probably around five years younger. Is that… should he even… He has lost his train of thought.
“Yaguchi-san?”
“Oh, well then… Goodbye.”
Hashida ignores his half-hearted attempt to end their working relationship.
“You’ve been a pleasure to work with–”
“Really? I don’t remember doing anything.”
Somehow, there are tears in his eyes, but he still feels nothing. Hashida reaches for something inside his pocket.
“I hope it’s not too improper of me, but I’ve grown to like you. Let’s exchange numbers.”
“Huh?”
Yatora stares at Hashida’s long curly hair instead of his face. It’s just what he expects from an artist. His hair is also growing quite long. He wonders if he’d be able to pull off that hairstyle. Wait, what?
Hashida is holding his phone in front of his face. Yatora feels a dizziness overcome him and his entire body runs cold.
“Okay.”
He… isn’t necessarily happy, but this turn of events has become the highlight of his month. Hashida is a man that goes after what he wants. He can smell the dried paint from his everyday clothes. Yatora wishes he knew what he even wanted. He wishes that he had permanent paint scars sewn into his skin instead of dried blood.
They are so few and far between that small moments of warmth scare him– just like the unknown. He never knows what he should do, or if it aligns with his own desires.
Just as his night starts to lift off the fog, some familiar faces show up to ruin Yatora’s short-lived stable mood. Well, it was a given. He can’t remember the last time he was able to retain stability inside of himself for more than a few hours.
It’s not one, but three familiar, shit-faced motherfuckers. Their “leader” is just as grimy as Yatora is, if not more, considering the shade of yellow that shimmers from his teeth when he grins at Yatora directly, like he’s sizing him up. Actually, he’s pretty sure that’s gold. Yatora remembers; not specific memories, but the feelings that these three gave him in the past, when he had gotten involved in business he should never have gotten involved in.
“What do you want?”
Murai Yakumo starts saying some shit that goes right over Yatora’s head. He hopes he’s not quizzed on it.
Yatora takes a few steps back, eyes darting whatever way they can to find the nearest exit. If he makes a run for it, will they chase him? He thinks they will. They like to terrorize him like that. Still, he doesn’t think he has a choice, and what does he have to lose anyway? Life is shit, so go to hell with it.
Yatora sprints to the exit so fast he thinks not even Hashida would be able to win this time. For a few seconds, it feels like time doesn’t exist– the adrenaline in his veins is pumping like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
“Hey!”
Yakumo chases after him while Momo tugs at Hacchan’s stiff, drugged body to go after them. Yatora is impressed he's even still alive.
“I’m not done!”
The air going in and out of Yatora’s lungs hurt; his ragged breathing reminds him of his age and his dwindling health. If Yakumo doesn’t kill him, maybe his body will deteriorate all on its own.
He doesn’t know if Yakumo ends up catching up to him or not, but the last thing he remembers is a pair of white feathers reflecting behind his eyelids and the smell of dark chocolate and roses. An angel? His end has surely come.
In the end, Yatora ends up in the hospital.
When Yatora wakes up, he can’t feel his limbs. He should be freaking out, but he feels like he is outside of his body, looking in as an observer, and thinks, “I’m dead and that’s my lifeless body lying there.” It takes a few moments for him to become grounded enough to realize he is actually inside of his body and can in fact move his fingers. His left eye twitches as he surveys the area around him and finds someone sleeping in the chair on the other corner of the bland, white room.
“Uh.” His own voice sounds alien to his ears. He feels mildly drugged and woozy.
Whoever is sitting there jerks awake and practically throws herself at the foot of his bed and looms over him too close for comfort.
“Yatora, you’re awake! Are you okay? How do you feel? I was wondering if you’d ever wake up.”
He doesn’t recognize the person in front of him, and he is about to be mortified if he should, but they beat him to it. She's stylish, and has long golden hair.
His bewildered silence must say enough.
“You… don’t recognize me?”
He’s impressed she catches on so fast.
Yatora takes a good look at her face. Her neck is covered in a turtle-neck, and her shoulders are a bit broad. She's very tall. Wait . She does seem familiar, not in an intimidating Yakumo-way, but in a warm and cozy way; not quite like family, but more… complicated, like a light stirring of a pot filled with intimate emotions. He feels some sort of tension. Hm… Don’t tell me…
“Are you my girlfriend?”
There is a faint blush on her cheeks. Are you serious? Yatora thinks she’s more striking than pretty, but even so, he doesn’t think he deserves someone as well-put together as her. She has a very unique sort of beauty, especially her long softly-tinted hair. It's not everyday he sees hair like hers.
“Not, erm, I'm a friend.” She says, a little suspiciously. Yatora can’t tell if she is disappointed in him or disappointed in the fact that she is not his girlfriend. Either way, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up at all because he is definitely disappointed. If she's not, then what is this strange roiling pressure in his chest that he feels for her?
She awkwardly introduces herself as Ayukawa Ryuji, saying he used to call her Yuka.
He is a deer in the headlights. His eyes are saucers plastered to his face, like a child.
“Ryuji?”
Yuka groans loudly like she doesn’t want to explain this again. Yatora blinks for a few seconds to think about what Ryuji- uh, Yuka, just said. He thinks he understands so he doesn’t press the topic.
“Yes.” Is all she says. Yatora doesn’t question it.
“Some delinquent-looking guy with big earrings took you in here last night. He looked like he took some hanafuda cards and stuck them to his ears. I was just coming in when I saw him leaving. Apparently you fainted–”
Yatora’s head spins with how many words come out of Yuka’s mouth about the guy that probably got him in the hospital in the first place and he tunes the rest of what she says out until his head finally catches up to her words.
Huh? Yakumo took him to the hospital after he fainted? What the fuck? He saves that thought for idle speculation later. The first thing that comes to his mind after that is, how does he remember Yakumo but not Yuka? Is Yuka the only one in his life he forgot about?
“His face looked like it was mixed with tears. I should look into earring designs like that when I get back home–”
He hears the word cute in the middle of her words. Cute? Yakumo looks very fucked up. Yatora is surprised if that’s the effect he has on Yuka, who is at least one hundred times more attractive than that junkie, speed-freak, viper. He's not one to judge, but for some reason, he feels very defensive about it. Yatora wants to be confused, but he doesn’t have the energy and just goes with whatever Yuka is saying.
“Who are you, really?” He doesn’t know where that comes from because he doesn’t remember any specific memory of him and Yuka, but somehow he's sure they have history. Is there something going on between them? He doesn’t have the courage to ask.
She bites her lips and looks around the room nervously as if she's trying to buy time or distract herself from something she is not ready to admit.
“You’re important to me, Yatora.”
Important. Whatever that means, it makes him feel like less of a complete loser. He thinks of how pathetic he is-- ever the cruel judge of his own self. He thinks of how he doesn't deserve to be important to someone like her, even if he doesn't remember who she is. He knows she's special. There's a deep sense of admiration in his heart. It almost feels like a longing for something.
Yuka sighs.
"I wanted to help you…"
Yatora thinks about the soft pink in her cheeks and decides that Yuka is brave. He did not mean it in the way she probably thought he did, but after she says that, he can't help but blush too. They're like two high schoolers accidentally flustering each other in the pink-hazed school premises, except this is a hospital, and he can't remember anything about her, as if some malady struck him and ripped him off of his most precious memories. Without them, he feels like nothing more than a puppet in the claws of a grim Matrix.
He has a vague urge to do something but he doesn’t know what, so he pushes it to the back of his mind. He wants to bring the conversation back to why he got himself into this situation because the air is too heavy for him to be able to breathe properly.
"I think I'm starting to remember. It's like when something pops into your head you weren't aware you knew. I suddenly have this feeling that I've been here before.”
"You have." Yuka starts.
"You were here six months ago."
She doesn't elaborate. Yatora understands without either of them having to say anything. It's instantaneous. He can taste the chemicals going down his throat.
Yatora thinks he should change the subject again, so he asks if she’s interested in Yakumo, a bit-forced, since that’s the first thing that came to mind.
“Who?”
“Hanafuda earrings guy.”
“Oh, you know him? I assumed he was a stranger caught up in an accident that involved you.” She shakes her head and laughs.
“He looks like a drug dealer.” She half-whispers unconsciously, as if she isn’t bringing the full picture to light.
Sharp intuition. Yatora thinks. She wasn’t too far off from the mark.
“I have you.”
That catches Yatora by surprise and exacerbates the itching in his dry throat, which then makes him start coughing a fit. Yuka hands him a cup of water as naturally as breathing, even though her face shows that she’s very embarrassed after saying that. He quickly notices she’s good at taking care of others, or at least being there for them, as if it were the resurfacing of a previous memory. He wouldn’t be surprised if a Yuka-induced heartbreak was what resulted in Yatora’s early-onset mid-life crisis.
He hopes she didn’t get the wrong idea.
“Sorry.” He takes a sip of water and wonders whether he’s dreaming. His mind wants to toy with the idea, but he buries it in the deepest parts of his subconscious. In his state, he would just feel ashamed.
“No, that was out of nowhere, I’m sorry,” Yuka starts, “You don’t even know me anymore.” She says that as if she knows what it’s like to forget someone important to you.
He doesn’t say anything, but maybe Yuka notices the look on his face because she smiles.
“You remind me of myself.”
She brushes her hand over Yatora’s bangs, slowly, meticulously, like she really means it. As soon as he feels her touch, his eyes draw close and his spirit soothes. She is like a witch with a magic touch. He is grateful for her, and his respect and admiration grows to a point where it is almost painful. He doesn’t understand how too much of a positive thing can cause pain, and yet his heart aches.
“I think that’s why I...” She stops mid-sentence, as if realizing something, and starts to cry. No warning, no bullshit, no hesitation. She just does it, so easily, with all the strength of a thousand men. That takes the breath out of Yatora’s lungs, and not because she leans over his shoulder with a heavy hand, but because she hides her face with the other.
It hurts.
He wishes he could accept the affection she clearly feels for him; wishes he could fill her heart with endless affirming promises and sweep her off her feet, but he can’t even take care of himself.
So he just hugs her and prays she finds someone that is able to treat her better than any woman in the world.
Yuka offers to help Yatora settle back into his apartment after his unexpected hospital-visit, but Yatora is too embarrassed to let her in so he declines. She drops him off in a sleek, but modest car and tells Yatora to call if he needs anything before she leaves.
Right as he comes up he hears his phone vibrate in his pocket and finds a message from Yuka saying she will drop off some food later. He’s about to reply back when he pushes open his front door and nearly drops his phone at the sight in front of him.
There is something, someone, sitting in his futon. Honestly, he’s not even fazed at this point. What is life? Are angels going to start dropping from the sky tomorrow? Who knows?
“Um. Hello?” He almost says “how can I help you?” but stops himself at the last minute. He should be the one helping me.
The cosplayer with giant wings sprouting from his back only then decides to give him any clue as to what the fuck is going on.
“I’m hungry.”
Actually, that doesn’t answer anything.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“You call this a house?”
Yatora slams the door behind him and walks right up to the strange teenaged-cosplayer.
“Hey, kid!! Get out of my house!!”
The boy’s wings flutter in annoyance and begin to shed as if they were affected by his sudden change in tone. The feathers fall from his wings one by one like leaves falling during the season of fallen leaves. They’re really pretty, and so white, they sparkle when hit by sunspots coming from the window. Yatora is momentarily transfixed by how realistic they look, as if the boy had somehow found a giant white bird and ripped the wings off of it to make them his own. He’s got some talent to make such wings, he’ll give him that.
“You’re making my wings shed. I’m sensitive to strong emotions so get a hold of yourself.”
… Is this kid serious? Yatora has never felt so disrespected in his life.
Yatora crouches down and presses his palm to the top of his left wing where it’s hard to the touch and the feathers begin to emerge from. It feels like real feathers, and real bone underneath. He’s impressed.
“Hey, kid, are you a professional cosplayer? This is quality work.” I gotta show this to Yuka.
He holds a few of the topmost feathers in his hands, observing them with more care than he expected to give, as if hypnotized. They are holographic, soft, and very delicate.
“They remind me of flower petals.”
“Don’t touch me.”
Suddenly, with Yatora’s hand still resting on the boy’s wing, he can’t feel it under his palm anymore. He can’t feel anything, as if he’s touching nothing but thin air. At first, he thinks nothing of it, because he’s hallucinated in broad daylight before, like holding something and then it not being in his hand anymore without any movement, but then, he takes a better look at his hand and feels his heartbeat in his ears. He tries to grab onto the boy again and again, only to feel no tactile presence where his figure should be.
He feels grounded enough to know he’s not hallucinating, so he slowly retrieves his hand and swallows thickly, hoping the boy will give him a solid explanation as to what the hell just happened.
“My name is Ya– Yota– Yota… I’m not sure. I’m an angel.”
“Y-yeah, clearly– phew.” Yatora feels his anxiety building into a panic attack and refuses to look at the “angel” anymore.
“I need your help.”
This is kind of a bit too much. He can’t kick him out because frankly, he won’t leave no matter how much he yells at him to do so, and he can’t exactly force him to either. He’s already tried to pull him out, but every time he reaches for him in a threatening way, the boy manages to become intangible. It’s like he’s haunting him but in a less frightening way. Yatora was never good with horror.
“You’re terrifying. Please, before my heart gives out, take yourself out and leave my life.”
“You want me to take myself out as in become unconscious, right here in this shitty apartment?”
“I clearly meant for you to take yourself out of my apartment. I’ve told you to leave multiple times already. If you want to play games, find someone else.”
“You think I’m playing games? You’re the one whose life is a game. You’re throwing yourself away. Look around you.”
He’s not angry at the angel for insulting him, because he’s used to insulting himself, and he can’t really deny it either. It’s true. If criticizing himself isn’t getting him to change, maybe hearing it from someone else will.
“I’m immune to shit at this point. What am I even doing talking to an apparition? I’m finally going insane. Why don’t YOU try taking me out, actually? I’ve had enough of near-death experiences. You should just take me to the afterlife.”
“If you say so.”
“Wait–”
The angel lunges at him without a second thought and smacks his fist right at Yatora’s nose. He’s stronger than he looks; sends Yatora stumbling back against the wall, crouching over himself and holding his face in his hands in pain. He’s got a really bad nosebleed now.
“What the fuck! I thought you were impalpable. Holy shit. I’m not crazy.”
“No, I think you are.”
“You’re real! You’re not some angelic being. You’re a human.”
“No.”
“Course you are–”
Yatora reaches for him only to have his hand go right through him again. He’s only trying to convince himself he’s not crazy, but maybe what he should really be doing right now is… Yatora’s mind twists and turns in panic, going over a million options that will never make any sense to anyone but himself, until finally, he takes a deep breath, exhausted from using his brain so much for the first time since he can remember, and gives up.
“Hey,”
Yatora decides to ignore the boy, whatever he is, and go to sleep. Hopefully, when he wakes up, everything will be back to normal, and maybe he will even have his job back. Maybe this was all just a bad dream and he would wake up in college once again, studying fine art, getting himself covered in a rainbow of colored paints, actually having friends–
“Hey!”
“Shut up. You don’t exist. Consider yourself inexistant to me. Goodnight.”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
Yatora says nothing more. He will keep his silence from now on until the angel leaves, or he no longer has any more patience. He does not count on the latter. The chances of him having to face his reality are ten to one.
The angel stares holes into the back of his skull. That’s the last peaceful sleep I will allow him to have. He thinks he hears him say, but maybe his mind is playing tricks on him as usual. He has long gone past the point of caring; the last time he cared enough about anything in his life was at least a few years ago. He can’t remember the exact number.
He can still feel the angel’s eyes on him as he drifts off into a much more peaceful dimension.
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When Yatora opens his eyes again, it’s still bright outside. He usually sleeps for at least 12 hours at a time, so the thought that he didn’t sleep for more than 2 hours at most, considering the time he saw on Yuka’s car clock before she dropped him off, is out of the ordinary. But then, the things that have happened to him ever since that event that landed him in the hospital, no, even before then, when Haruka gave him his number is also… Huh. Part of his memory is missing, groggy as he is, still half-asleep, but he remembers some of his dream so vividly, if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he had an encounter with an angel before he fell asleep.
Maybe it’s a good sign. He doesn’t believe anyone can save him from the hole he has put himself in, but he thinks they can at least try, and they have; Yuka, his sister Maki, even Yakumo at one point. He can’t say they didn’t help, but with an angel, he’s tempted to put more of his hopes up that he might find the light at the end of the tunnel.
He turns to the other side of his futon, his eyes half-lidded, and screams. His adrenaline spikes so high he can’t think at all except for doing one thing; jumping to the other side of the wall in his tiny, cramped, one-room apartment, and getting as far away from where he was as possible until his brain finally catches up with his body.
The angel now stands beside his futon, looking at him with the same deadpan expression he had seen from him in his dream– not dream, apparently–
“I was waiting for 12 hours for you to wake up.”
The bridge of his nose still aches from having had it punched in before he fell asleep. He remembers asking the angel to kill him, assuming he had the power to do so painlessly, like some kind of grim reaper.
“Why did you not kill me?”
“I don’t have that power.”
Yatora stares at his hands silently. They sit in silence for a long time before the angel, who calls himself Yota, gets fed up with the moping.
“The afterlife isn’t what you think it is. I’m in it, but I’m still here.”
Yatora sniffs; rubs his nose with his forearm.
“Please stop.”
The angel sits himself down, his bare feet touching Yatora’s legs, because there is no space.
“Help me.”
He doesn’t ask this time, he demands. Yatora looks up at him when he says it this time, not in anger, but in a softer kind of helplessness.
“I can’t even help myself.”
The angel has the audacity to roll his eyes.
“I can’t remember anything before I woke up here. Before you came in, I tried to ask people outside only to realize no one else could see or hear me. I need to remember why I’m here.”
Ah. Yatora thinks. So it’s my responsibility to take care of this boy now.
“I have no money.”
“I don’t need anything. I have no need for food.”
Yatora sighs.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Denying the reality isn’t going to make it any better.”
Yatora needs to sleep at least 12 more hours before he is ready to even hear one more word from this angel . Just trying to wrap his head around it gives him a headache, so he doesn’t think about what he is anymore.
He thought that angels brought good luck, but this one clearly has some issues of his own to make Yatora confident in that anymore. Perhaps… he can give him another chance to prove him wrong. His life can’t get any worse anyway.
“Okay, I don’t care what you are, just, if helping you is going to make my life go back to how uneventful it was before I saw you, then fine, I’ll help you, but first–”
Yatora notices there are white feathers all over the floor, big piles of them, as if the angel himself had been a sheep farmed for wool.
“W-why are you shedding so much?”
“I told you I’m sensitive to strong emotions. You’re basically wetting yourself.”
He’s trying to shame me for having emotions? I do a better job at shaming myself, but nice try.
“You’re a real shit, you know that?”
“Yeah, and so are you.”
At least he’s not denying it. Yatora can’t deny it either. Maybe they can get along after all through their shared shitty self-image.
“I’m going to need to sleep a little more after this.”
“You slept for 12 hours. At midday.”
“Yeah, and I’m depressed. Do you want me to help you or not?”
The angel tsks at him and starts to gather his feathers from the floor. It’s the least he can do for the helping hand of a man that seems to be in worse condition than he was when he… died.
Well, would you look at that? He’s starting to remember.