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“It is a restless moment. He has kept his head lowered, to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. He turns and walks away.”
- In The Mood For Love (2000) Wong Kar Wai
“I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me,” admits Angel that night, eyes glued to his feet. He catches his own distorted reflection in the damp asphalt of the street. He can not seem to bring himself to look at Aki. Not right now. He understands.
Nonetheless, Aki recognizes a carefully practiced indifference in his voice. A learned resignation.
Angel sounds like he’s lying.
(And Aki knows that he is, because he must have known that he would fall in love with him. Because Aki had known. He’d known from the moment he’d felt the warm press of his palm against the back of Angel’s hand, from the moment he’d squeezed him against his chest, from the moment Angel felt the dull thudding of his heartbeat against his quivering wings. He’d known.
I won’t be like that, he’d told himself time and time again. He wouldn't fall in love with Angel. He wouldn’t fall in love with a devil. Devils are born from fear and raised by hatred and Aki would not fall in love with one of them because Aki is right and Aki has morals and Aki—
Over time, he finds, Aki has grown soft.
He’s learned to no longer hate himself for it.)
The street is silent. The rain patters relentlessly around them. It shows no signs of stopping anytime soon, but every minute of rain is an extra minute spent with Angel, so Aki won’t complain. Angel presses himself against a wall, eyeing Aki’s umbrella. No doubt wondering why he isn’t using it. He shifts.
Aki blinks. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, careful to avoid blowing smoke into Angel’s face. “I didn’t either,” he admits with a slight smile, “I was only curious to know how it started.”
He stares at Angel, takes in the gentle glow of his halo, the slightly red, slightly orange hue of his skin in the dimness of the street lamp, absently lets himself think that he’s beautiful, and hums. “Now I know. Feelings can just creep up like that, I guess.”
A painful, heavy silence. Angel finally looks at him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Waiting. He stares.
Aki stares back at him through his cigarette smoke. And then, in an uncharacteristically quiet, uncharacteristically small voice, he murmurs, “I thought I was in control.”
Aki wonders what would have happened if he was in control. He thinks back to the feeling of his hand in his and wonders what would have happened if Angel had slipped away. If Aki had let go when he’d been asked to, when he’d been supposed to. He doesn’t regret it, though. He knows that he should—because regret could have prevented this feeling, regret could have paved the way for redemption, for salvation—but he doesn’t.
Aki feels a disgusting sense of satisfaction at the thought of having saved him. He doesn’t have to wonder why.
He sees Angel’s fingernails dig into the tender flesh of his arm.
A mouse scurries at their feet, listening. Its dark, beady eyes stare at them intently. Aki shooes it away with an abrupt movement of his foot.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Angel, for lack of anything better to say. Aki smiles at him, scoffing.
“I am too.”
—
Aki gently opens the door to his bedroom. Down the hall, Denji and Power bicker loudly with each other, uniforms both donning equally disgustingly ambiguous stains and chunky bits of nondescript devil-pus after a recent mission.
From inside the bedroom, Angel is quiet. He sits on the bed, as stiff as someone as lax as him can be.
Denji and Power don’t know that he’s here.
“Sorry about that,” says Aki, nervously scratching the back of his neck. The door clicks shut. Angel shakes his head.
“It’s fine. Neither of us knew that they’d be back so early. I don’t blame you.”
And besides, it’s not like we’d been doing anything, he doesn’t add.
It’s not like they could.
Nonetheless, Angel feels a weird, sinking sense of shame. For staying, if anything. For allowing himself to entertain…this. Aki looks at him curiously, head tilting to the side. Angel’s heart thumps loudly in his chest. He rests his elbows on his knees and spreads his wings out ever so slightly and listens as the sheets rustle beneath him, deafeningly loud in the silence of Aki’s bedroom.
Aki seems to study him for a moment before finally deciding on something. “I’ll be back,” he promises. The door shuts behind him once more. His footsteps pad down the hallway.
Angel looks around the room.
It’s fairly empty, as expected. No framed family photos, no useless memorabilia lying around, no personalization souvenirs or small, trivial decorations. It reminds Angel of a hospital room.
The final residence of a dying man, he thinks, ever the pessimist. He scoffs to himself.
He recognizes one of Power’s jackets folded neatly next to one of Denji’s t-shirts. A photo album sits on top of it. Angel stares at it but doesn’t let himself touch it—it feels too alive for that, like a part of Aki himself that would shrivel up and die at the slightest brush of Angel’s hand.
The warm light of the setting sun seeps through drawn curtains. Angel watches his own shadow with interest.
Aki comes back with a small bowl of ramen and hands it to him, careful not to brush against his fingers in the process. Angel thanks him with a small nod. The bowl is warm in his hands. Aki watches him eat in comfortable silence.
Angel swallows a mouthful of noodles. “What did you tell Denji and Power?” he asks. Aki snorts.
“That I was sick,” he replies, “and that I would be staying in my room for a bit.”
A pause. Angel slurps his noodles and watches Aki through his eyelashes. He blinks at him.
“Maybe we’re being too cautious,” he suggests, “it’s not like we were doing anything.”
Aki shrugs, eyeing the window behind him. “Still. It’s better to avoid rumors.”
He huffs. “And you think Denji and Power are smart enough to spread a rumor like that around?” he asks, sarcastic. Aki looks at him apologetically.
“It’s not them that I’m worried about. I get this weird feeling that…”
He doesn’t finish. Angel doesn’t push it.
Outside, Denji lets out a muffled shout, followed by a cackle on Power’s part. Angel is silent. Aki seems to move a bit closer.
Aki tentatively lifts his hand and reaches out to touch him, extending his index finger like Adam in the Creation of Man. Angel recognizes his silent plea and does not pull away like he’s supposed to, like he’d promised himself he would. Aki draws gentle circles on the curve of his knees. His hands travel upwards, towards his thighs. He stops. Slowly, he lifts them. He softly takes hold of one of Angel’s wrists. He handles him like he’s made of glass—like he’s as fragile as he is cutting, as beautiful as he is sharp. Like he can see right through him. Aki is tender as he brings Angel’s clothed wrist towards his lips, narrowly avoiding the unchecked, naked danger of his hand.
Somehow, Aki does not touch him. Not like Angel wants him to. He knows that he never will. He nibbles his lip nervously.
Aki’s cool look feels like a secret, somehow. Abruptly, Angel pulls away.
Angel sneaks out of his room the next morning. Denji and Power are sprawled out on the living room floor, snoring soundly under the kotatsu. He spends the night in Aki’s bed, the latter sitting on the floor, legs pulled up against his chest. Angel drifts to sleep, comforted by the smell of familiar smoke. Aki watches him quietly.
—
Patrols are spent in silence. Not the comforting kind, but not the heavy kind either. A silence that leaves room for distracting stray thoughts and unspoken words. He looks at the back of Angel’s head and wants.
When he reports back to Makima, he feels her knowing gaze and lowers his head in shame. She doesn’t say anything—she doesn’t have to. Somehow, Makima’s eyes are as critical as they are inquisitive. Aki knows that she must know. He doesn’t care enough anymore to wonder how.
She dismisses him. The empty hallway is as peaceful as the Public Safety building can be. Aki contemplates lighting a cigarette if only to play into its solemn atmosphere. His footsteps echo against wooden floorboards.
He leaves the stuffy building to find Denji waiting for him, leaning against a streetlamp. He waves, ever cheerful. Aki waves back.
He decides to take Denji out to lunch. He tells him as he fumbles for his lighter, which he never finds. Denji throws his fist in the air and lets out a loud cheer, throwing Aki a sharp, toothy grin. Aki snorts. He’d gotten too used to Angel’s nonchalant huffs and shrugs. Denji almost feels like a breath of fresh air.
They settle for a family owned Chinese restaurant. The place is fairly empty, save for a tired looking brown haired boy at the table opposite to theirs and a married couple enjoying a quiet meal.
“How’s Angel?” asks Denji once they settle down, “I feel like I haven’t heard you talk about him in forever. You used to complain every other day.”
Aki shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about him. “He’s alright, I guess,” he says dryly.
Denji assesses him skeptically, eyes narrowed. Then, he sighs. “Man, if I was you…” he starts, before trailing off. He lets out a low whistle instead.
Aki raises a judgmental eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A pause. Denji gives him a disbelieving look.
“Angel’s an asshole, but he looks enough like a chick for me to have, you know, considered him once or twice.”
He says it like it’s common sense and punctuates ‘considered’ with a waggle of his eyebrows. He looks at Aki conspiratorily, like he’s supposed to know what he’s talking about.
(Which he does. But he’ll be damned if he admits it out loud.)
He sputters, feeling himself blush. Denji stares wistfully into the distance, a dumb, dopey smile on his face.
Aki buries his head in his hands. Then, he quickly collects himself, clearing his throat with a grave look.
“I’m not like you.” he asserts.
(But you are, jeers a voice at the back of his head. You’re worse.
Denji houses naive, fleeting lust. He’ll never act on it, he’ll never even consider acting on it. But you, Hayakawa. You let your feelings get the best of you. There’s a deep morbidity, a vulgarity, a selfishness to your love that Denji will never possess.
Aki ignores it.)
He lets out a shaky breath.
He wonders if Denji can tell that he’s lying. If he can, he doesn’t tell him. Instead, he shrugs and toys with his chopsticks, rhythmically drumming them on the table until Aki chastises him with a quick ‘stop that’. He pouts. Aki thinks that he looks stupid.
He’s not like him.
He decides to let a few minutes pass before changing the subject. By then, Denji’s stuffing his face with caramelised chicken, occasionally letting out small, satisfied hums.
Aki toys with his own food. “In the olden days, if someone had a secret they didn’t want to share,” a pause. He lets him swallow, waits for his short nod, before asking, “do you know what they did?”
“‘Have no idea.”
“They went up a mountain, found a tree, carved a hole in it, and whispered the secret into the hole. Then they covered it with mud,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, “and left the secret there forever.”
Denji scoffs. “What a pain! I’d just go to get laid.”
Aki rolls his eyes. “Not everyone’s like you.”
“Well, whatever. Not everyone’s as weird as you either. Why are you telling me all this anyway? You sound like you’re trying to be some wise old man.”
He wonders if the trees would be willing to hear his secret. If he could even bring himself to say it.
“I don’t know. Just thought of it, I guess.”
—
Angel loses his arms, and Aki never says anything about it. He never acknowledges the fact that he knows he could get them back if he wanted to, never acknowledges the fact that Angel doesn’t want to. He isn’t assigned a new buddy, not yet, but Angel knows that it’s only a matter of time. He doesn’t make the most out of his last days with Aki. Neither of them do. They act like nothing’s wrong, just like they always have.
“Am I hopeless?” asks Aki one night, eyes trained on something in the distance. The fluorescent lights of the convenience store behind them bathe him in a faint greenish glow. Aki never seems to look at him anymore. Angel hates his attempts at restraint.
He doesn’t tell him that, though. Instead, he says, “Not really,” because if Aki is hopeless then so is he, and Angel doesn’t like to think about it that way, doesn’t want to think about it that way.
(He is hopeless. Aki is going to die soon, very soon, and Angel knows that he is because he’s had a countdown at the back of his mind ever since the Typhoon Devil incident that ticks and ticks and ticks and despite the fact that he wishes everyday that it would tick forever, endlessly, that he would never have to hear that final three, two, one, would never have to stop telling himself that so far, so good, so far, so good, so far, so good, because it ticks and ticks with an assured finality, an impending sense of doom, and it tells Angel everyday that Aki is going to die, that Aki is going to leave him, that Aki—)
A gust of wind whips Angel’s sleeves around like he’s a gas station tube man perpetually flailing around with a wide grin and a welcoming wink. Aki snorts.
“I sometimes wonder what I’d be if I’d never gone to Public Safety. Have you ever thought of that?”
They wouldn’t have known each other, then. Angel wonders what that would have meant for him. He wouldn’t have been filled with this weird sense of dread—not for himself, but for some guy he’d met a few months ago in a makeshift zombie apocalypse—maybe.
So he says, “Maybe happier,” and hates himself for admitting it.
Aki smiles sadly. “Maybe so.”
Angel eyes Aki’s cigarette and wonders when he started smoking again. He chooses not to comment on it. Aki mistakes his disgust for something else and silently offers it to him with a gesture of his hand. Angel scoffs and pushes it away. Aki shrugs. “Your loss,” he hears him mumble. Angel rolls his eyes.
He sees Aki check his watch. He begins to grow slightly restless. They’ll have to report back to Makima soon. They haven’t killed a single devil today. Angel knows that it’s his fault. He wonders, though, when Aki became so compliant.
That must be his fault, too.
—
Aki dies the day after that. They both do.
Before then, however.
Before then, he visits Angel in the hospital, limbs heavy, heart racing, and brings him his letter with a resigned smile. Aki decides to walk away without telling him things he already knows. He turns his back. Angel calls after him. “Wait,” he says, and Aki recognizes a familiar emotion in his voice—something between love and longing, something just before regret—and Aki contemplates running over there and kissing him, just because. He doesn’t, though. He might as well have.
Angel offers—or insists—to accompany him to see Makima. Aki complies. He dresses him, ignoring his annoyed grumbles and stubborn remarks. Aki carefully buttons the area around his wings. He doesn’t comment on the fact that he catches the slight shudder of his feathers whenever he brushes against his back.
The walk to the beach is tense. Aki complies to Angel’s many requests for short, five minute breaks—to prolong the moment, to live a little longer. Occasionally, Angel will speak.
“You know that story,” he would start, “of that man who fell from a 50 floor building? Each floor he would tell himself; ‘So far, so good. So far, so good. So far, so good,’ to reassure himself, comfort himself, you know,”
Aki hums. He’s looking elsewhere, but he’s listening, Angel knows.
“But how you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how you land.”
Aki doesn’t think about it too hard.
So far, so good, he tells himself instead, when he sees Makima waving in the distance.
So far, so good, he tells himself instead, when her warm, golden eyes meet his.
So far, so good, he tells himself.
As he gives himself to Makima, Angel’s words echo through his mind—a distant, final warning;
How you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how you land.