Archive of Our Own

They will all respond,
    they will say to you,
“You also have become weak, as we are;
    you have become like us.”

 All your pomp has been brought down to the grave,
    along with the noise of your harps;
maggots are spread out beneath you
    and worms cover you.

How you have fallen from heaven,
    morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
    you who once laid low the nations!

Isaiah 14:10-12

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

For as long as he can remember, Jiho has been plagued by strange, almost prophetic dreams.

Sometimes he wakes, sweaty and panting, to an inate sense of wrongness tugging at his bones, and Jiho has long since learned not to ignore the sensation.

The first time he felt the painful twisting in his gut, a nauseating sensation impossible to ignore from the moment he had opened his eyes, it had been less than two weeks after he had first awoken from the coma that had nearly taken his life. He had been quiet and unsure of his place, and hadn't wanted to make waves, so he ignored the feeling, had pushed it down until it was almost bearable, and spoke of it to no one.

6 hours later, one of the nuns of the parish had fallen from a ladder while dusting the statue of the Virgin Mary and shattered her ankle.

At first, Jiho thought it was nothing but a tragic coincidence.

The second time he awoke on his narrow cot in the church's annex with his brow coated in sweat, the faint breaths of the other acolytes and male parish members a quiet susurrus around him, Jiho also pushed away his uneasiness, playing it off as bad food the night before.

Later that morning, while the head priest led communion rites, one of the acolytes, a small, skinny rake of a boy several years Jiho's junior, went suddenly pale just seconds before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the ground in an undignified heap of white robes before Jiho could catch him.

Ever since that day, Jiho had learned to trust the unsettled feeling in his gut, had trained himself to be watchful on days he woke from dreams he could hardly remember, the sheets tangled violently around his legs. He taught himself to watch and listen, taking great care to ensure that the bad omens that seemed to linger within his subconscious never came to pass.

Over the years, after careful observation of the people around him combined with his fast reflexes, Jiho managed to prevent more accidents than not.

Once, he noticed a visiting Bishop's stroke symptoms before the man even started to slur his words. Another time, he grabbed hold of a small child's arm before she could walk into oncoming traffic after an evening service, and he even managed to stop a vandal who was determined to throw rocks through their stained glass windows during midnight mass on Christmas, Jiho's hyper-vigilance stopping the delinquent before he could cause a scene.

So, had been Jiho's life for the past two and a half years, ever since the day he had been found, feverish and in a coma on the steps of the Myeongdong Cathedral^[1]with no money, no memories, and no one looking for him.

The Archdiocese of Seoul^[2] had welcomed him with open arms, the nuns feeding and caring for him in those early days when he was too weak to so much as stand without assistance, and the clergy members often coming to check on him during breaks in their schedule or to pray over him as he slept. The acolytes, young men that seemed similar to Jiho's own age as best he could tell, often kept him company, telling him stories about their lives, and Jiho hung onto their every word, no matter how mundane the details.

During his weeks confined to a narrow cot in a drafty, isolated room, Jiho had found himself drawn to the one source of entertainment he had been allowed, a small, leather-bound bible with gold leaf pages stamped on the inner cover with Property of Myeongdong Cathedral.

Thankfully, his ability to read and write hadn't disappeared along with his memories, and soon Jiho found himself enthralled with the words written within.

Stories of anguish and betrayal and all the horrors of the human race, but also, tales of love, of hope, and happiness, and promises of better ways. A Father's love so strong that he gave up his most precious son to protect humans from their own sins.

He couldn't pinpoint how, but the words written on those fragile pages echoed deep within him, yanking at his heartstrings and igniting a fire within him that Jiho hadn't even known existed. The words resonated with him in a way nothing else had in those early, tumultuous weeks, a steadiness rooting deep within him that he hadn't realized he had been lacking.

Jiho knew then and there that he would do anything to keep this feeling alive inside of him, no matter what it took.

By the time Jiho was healthy enough to leave the parish, he found he no longer wanted to. There was no life for him outside of these hallowed halls, no family, no friends, no passion or drive to take him away from his place, so, with nothing at all holding him back, he dropped to his knees in the archbishop's office, pressing his forehead to the hem of the priest's white robes, and begged to be allowed to stay, swearing he would follow the word of God until his dying breath.

That was over two years ago now.

Since then, he had been welcomed into the church, baptized anew, underwent communion, partook in the Eucharist^[3], and after over a year of studying the word of God and attending classes with other prospective members wishing to join the Catholic church, Jiho finally achieved the first step on the road to his dream: He had been accepted as an acolyte of the Myeongdong Cathedral.

He had a home, and a family, and most importantly, he had God. All was right with the world.

Except, for the past 6 days, Jiho had awoken panicked, heart-racing, a tightness in his chest that took minutes to fade, and even after, a needling sense of wrongness that lingered for the rest of the day.

Jiho had been vigilant, watching to see if anything was amiss, working himself to exhaustion making sure that no one was sick or injured, but never once finding anything awry.

Never had Jiho's strange sense of foreboding gone on so long, and it seemed like each night, his dreams grew worse than the night before, almost like they were trying to tell him something, warn him of something soon to pass, but once Jiho stirred from his nightmares, whatever messages laid in his dreams slipped through his fingers like fine silt, impossible to grasp.

Dreams of white-feathers spattered with crimson, of familiar faces scrunched up in agony, flashes of sharp eyes, and dainty lips, and a small beauty mark on tanned skin.

Jiho dreamed of running, sprinting, racing, the heated press of bodies beside him, but it wasn't fear that ran through his veins, no, Jiho only felt joy, excitement, a smile curling at his lips as one of the bodies beside him let out a raucous whoop.

In his dreams, Jiho remembered stumbling, falling, tumbling, the harsh grit of stone scraping against his cheek as he lifted his head, heavy as a box of stones, and saw a warped reflection in a puddle, a familiar face staring out at him from beneath black fringe.

His own face.

Jiho always awoke then, the second he met those eyes that were his but also not his, gasping and panting, his heart racing in his chest, and every time, he would stumble from the bed, careful not to wake the other acolytes and race towards the shared bathroom at the end of the hall, nausea clawing at his stomach as he barreled towards the sink, the last traces of his dinner making a reappearance.

Every time, when he finally managed to drag his eyes up and meet his own gaze in the mirror, he was surprised to see that his hair hadn't shifted to black overnight. But in the mirror, his reflection always told the same picture.

Bloodshot eyes and sallow skin, exhaustion clear in the purple bruises darkening his under eyes, and most telltale of all: white-blond hair as pale as a dove's wing, shot through with thick streaks of black. He had never once dyed his hair to obtain this unnatural hue, and no one, not doctors, or priests could explain its strange color.

Wholly unnatural, unexplainable, but also, whenever Jiho looked in the mirror after another day of stressful, anxiety-inducing dreams and saw his white-and-black streaked hair instead of a head of mundane brownish-black, some of the tension inside him eased.

To Jiho, his strange hair, prophetic dreams, and unknowable backstory were just something that made him Jiho.

Today, just like every other day since the strange dreams had started, Jiho stared at himself for a long while in the mirror's reflection, dreading having to suffer through another day on full alert, searching for whatever ominous event was undoubtedly sure to come, waiting for the moment when his anxiety-inducing premonitions finally held true.

Thankfully, or maybe unthankfully, Jiho did not have to wait long.

Jiho noticed a prickling sensation on the back of his neck at the beginning of morning mass as he walked up the aisle between the pews towards the altar, the candle lighter warm and steady between his palms.

Even without turning, Jiho could sense the unwelcome pressure of a pair of eyes boring into his back, but he refused to refused to balk beneath their weight, walking forward with perfect posture, the white acolyte robes flowing around him gracefully as he ascended the dais and carefully lit the candles on the altar in tandem with the quiet, dark-haired acolyte beside him.

It was only when he turned, preparing to descend back down the aisle, that Jiho faltered, his attention drawn towards a man sitting in the last pew, dressed in a white blazer with a white silk shirt underneath, his face perfectly symmetrical and almost too beautiful to look upon, dainty and well proportioned, with a sharp nose and small lips, his eyes dark, and staring directly at Jiho.

But the man's ethereal beauty wasn't the thing that pulled the air from his lungs and caused Jiho to stumble slightly on the hem of his robes.

The thing that drew him up short was the utter sense of rightness that flooded through him the moment they locked eyes, the constant turmoil sizzling in his gut for the past week fading away to nothing as he found himself getting lost in the other man's eyes, even from so far away. A strange familiarity settled over him the longer he looked at the stranger, the ghost of some long forgotten memory fluttering just beyond Jiho's reach.

And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had met this man before. He may not remember it now, but there was no possible way that they hadn't known each other in the time before he had lost his memories.

In the two and a half years since he had woken up in the church, Jiho had never once longed for his memories. He assumed that if no one had come looking for him, then maybe whatever had happened in his life from before wasn't worth remembering. But now, staring at the other man's heated gaze, his eyes filled with an emotion Jiho could only describe as an intense sadness, Jiho desperately longed for the ability to remember who exactly this stranger was.

Jiho wasn't sure how he managed to school his expression and walk back down the aisle as the heat of the stranger's gaze weighed heavily on his shoulders, a pressure both oddly familiar and utterly foreign all at once. But, miraculously, Jiho managed to survive the rest of the agonizingly slow service without any other mishaps, far too hyper-aware of the beautiful stranger over the next hour, his presence impossible to ignore, even as Jiho attempted to lose himself in the words of the head priest as he read from the scripture and called upon the congregation to respond.

By the end of the service, Jiho was sweating bullets beneath his robes, the starched fabric itchy against his skin, and still the stranger would not… stop… staring. It took everything in him to not race out the doors of the cathedral the second the service concluded, desperate to get away from the far too seeing eyes of the enigmatic man at the back of the church. It was only through sheer force of will that Jiho managed to calmly carry the flame back along the aisle, studiously avoiding the dark-haired man's gaze, and exit through the intricately carved double doors at the rear of the church and into the narthex in perfect time with the acolyte beside him, not a hint of the anxiety roiling within him visible on his face.

If Jiho stayed in the changing room for a suspiciously long time after the service concluded, that was no one's business but his own. Thanks to is dawdling, by the time he finally exited back into the church's main lobby, all the parishioners long since gone back to their homes and apartments, leaving only a couple of acolytes and nuns idly tiding up after the service, nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Jiho breathed out a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding when a quiet voice spoke up from a small nook in front of one of the many stained glass windows that decorated the church.

"Jiho-ssi, I've been waiting for you."

Although Jiho didn't recognize the voice in question, the smooth, honeyed tone slid along his spine and settled deep within his bones, making itself unable to be forgotten, and when he turned, instinctively knowing the owner of the voice without even having to look, Jiho's breath hitched the instant his eyes alighted on the very same beautiful stranger from the service.

Somehow, up close, he was even more inhumanly beautiful, a stripe of golden, purple, and green light from the stained glass windows spilling across his face and hair in a way that almost seemed intentional, highlighting the delicate pink of his cheeks and the glossy sheen of his hair. His stark white blazer paired with a frilled shirt, hints of black lace spilling from the depths of the sleeves, made him seem even more pure and untouchable, like he wasn't from this world, and Jiho couldn't help but stare.

Upon first glance, Jiho almost considered the stranger angelic in appearance, and then immediately quashed the thought because nothing is comparable to God or the angels, and to think oneself as such is the mark of the Antichrist. because "He will oppose and will exalt himself over everything that is called God or is worshiped, so that he sets himself up in God's temple, proclaiming himself to be God."^[4]

Shaking himself, Jiho attempted to be cordial, plastering on a smile he didn't feel, all while his stomach squirmed with a strange mixture of nerves and relief, almost like his body recognized the person in front of him, even if his mind did not.

"How do you know my name?"

Well, that hadn't been what Jiho had meant to say at all, but something about the stranger's charming face made all other thoughts spill from his head.

The stranger smiled, the expression only making his handsome features even more breathtaking as he raised up the bulletin from today's service. "You're listed as one of today's acolytes. I already spoke to the other one who came by earlier, so I figured by process of elimination, that makes you Jiho."

Technically, what the stranger was saying made perfectly logical sense, his name was printed in the bulletin, but for some reason, Jiho couldn't help but think that this person wasn't telling the whole truth.

This man knew Jiho somehow, more than just from across the sanctuary at a church service. The way that he looked at him, even now, with a smile on his pink lips, was almost viscerally sad, like there was a history between them that only the stranger knew of.

Some long-buried, desperate part of Jiho yearned to know what secrets this stranger carried, longed to know why this man seemed so impossibly heartbroken when he looked at Jiho.

After two and a half years with no return of his memories of his life before the church, Jiho had come to terms with the fact that he would probably never know what his life had been like before, but now, with this stranger standing before him with pained, clouded eyes, Jiho knew that this was likely his best chance of finding out who he had been before, a past he had long since given up on.

Jiho swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the rabbit-fast beating of his heart, and looked the stranger head on, "Yep, that's me, Acolyte Choi Jiho at your service. What can I help you with today?"

The stranger seemed surprised by Jiho's unexpected boldness, his eyes widening with shock and his lips twitching, almost like he was genuinely amused by Jiho's behavior, before his face settled once again back into that polite, placid mask.

"Well, I thought you'd never ask." The stranger pocketed the church bulletin and extended a hand towards Jiho in greeting, "My name is Kim Seungmo, and I need your help."

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Okay, maybe Jiho was a bit of a gullible idiot, because only someone not in their right mind would follow a near stranger to a secondary location without telling a single soul where he was going, especially a stranger who undoubtedly knew him from before he lost his memories but was still pretending this was their first meeting, which was eight kinds of suspicious in it of itself.

But when Jiho's palm had brushed against Seungmo's when they had clasped hands, Jiho had felt an unexpected rush almost akin to a static shock flowing through him, a sense of utter rightness filling him the moment their hands touched, like this was where he was meant to be and Seungmo was who he was supposed to be with.

So, with barely any explanation, his body still buzzing with the remnants of that strange electricity that had coursed through him at Seungmo's touch, Jiho found himself agreeing easily. Silently trailing after Seungmo as the dark-haired man lead him out of the church and across the street to the subway stop across from the cathedral.

For some reason he had expected Seungmo to travel in better style, maybe in a sleek black SUV or a souped-up sports car, but there was something comforting about taking the subway, a situation thoroughly familiar to him even if he was now embroiled in a completely unprecedented scenario he never could've imagined in his wildest dreams.

Seungmo was surprisingly stalwart on their journey, his expression growing more and more grim with each subway stop they passed, and even when Jiho needled him for more information, the best Seungmo could tell him was that his friend was in danger, and that Jiho was the only one who could help him.

So, figuring he wasn't going to get anything else out of his beautiful yet incredibly strange traveling companion, Jiho settled in to wait. Passing the time on the train by reciting as many Psalms as he could remember off the top of his head.

Midway through Psalm 62:1 "Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from him." Seungmo stood from his seat without a word and made towards the exit doors, Jiho quickly jumping up from his perch to join him, barely sparing a glance to the sign for their current stop, surprised to see that they had stopped in a residential neighborhood just on the outskirts of Seoul, slender multi-family homes beginning their lazy sprawl just meters away from the edge of the train platform.

Still, Seungmo remained silent, his beautiful face looking like it was carved from marble, that oppressive melancholy threatening to overflow from behind his dark eyes. "Follow me. He's not far."

As they exited the station and wove through narrow side streets, the houses growing smaller and older, but no less clean, Jiho could feel the weight of what he had gotten himself into finally settling down upon his shoulders.

He didn't have a clue where he was, didn't know a single thing about Seungmo besides his name, and didn't know what in the world he had agreed to, but still, Jiho didn't find himself nervous or afraid in the slightest. He could tell by the anxiety radiating off Seungmo's frame, the urgency in his quickening steps, that whatever he needed help with was important, more important than explaining to Jiho what in the world is going on.

And if it was important, who was Jiho to deny him his assistance?

So, he followed along silently, still in the dark about what was happening, and why Jiho was the only one who could help him, but as he stared at Seungmo's rigid spine beneath the pristine white fabric of his blazer, Jiho was hit with a wash of comfort and surety.

Almost like God was telling him that this was what he should be doing. This is what he needed to be doing. Jiho, as a devout Christian, was called to "Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ."^[5] Seungmo needed help, and even if he didn't understand why or how, it was his calling to provide any help this other man might need.

When they finally arrived, Jiho was surprised at the sheer mundanity of the location, just a plain brownstone house, nearly identical to all the houses beside it, but Seungmo moved to open the door - already unlocked - and stepped inside without a word, not even bothering to hold the door for Jiho as he slipped inside.

Jiho hadn't realized how much Seungmo had been hanging by a thread on this whole journey because the second Jiho stepped inside, Seungmo was already racing off down the hall, not even bothering to take off his shoes at the entrance, all thoughts of Jiho already forgotten, not that Jiho could truly blame him, if anything he was shocked Seungmo had managed to hold it all together this long.

"Jagiya! Jagiya, I'm coming!"

Much more slowly, Jiho followed behind, drinking in the sights around him, desperate for even a tidbit of information about what was really happening here.

It was abundantly clear that Seungmo did not live in this house alone, the clutter of shoes at the entrance, in a multitude of different sizes, along with the sound of various voices growing louder the farther he trailed into the house, were evidence of that much.

Hanging from one peg on the coat rack, like it was regularly worn outside the house, sat a fancy looking gat, dark beads hanging from the brim, something Jiho didn't think he'd even seen outside historical reenactments or Joseon dramas, which was only the first of many strange affects scattered throughout the house: A black jacket with parallel slits cut into the back panel, a large jar filled nearly to the brim with feathers ranging in color from the purest white, to speckled grays, with a couple inky blacks mixed in, but most surprising of all was the sheer number of massive skylights retrofitted into the ceiling, each one open to the sky beyond, filling the space with a pleasantly cool spring breeze.

Jiho didn't even want to imagine how long it would take to get up on a ladder to open and close those skylights, and figured it must be some eccentricity of the people who lived here with Seungmo. But Jiho wasn't here to judge the house's occupants, he was here because Seungmo needed help. He had wasted enough time already, so brushing aside the unexplainable oddities of the house, Jiho raced off in the direction he had last seen Seungmo, eager to finally discover what had left the beautiful man who had sought him out specifically so off-kilter.

In a small room tucked in the back of the house, Jiho finally managed to track down Seungmo, along with what seemed to be the rest of the house's occupants, all dressed in black, like they were in mourning, their voices petering out the second they noticed Jiho's presence.

"Jiho-hyung." Someone whispered, but Jiho couldn't tell who.

"It's him." A tall, brunet with kind eyes whispered to the solidly built man beside him, before a lean, dark-haired male leaned over and shushed him, his large eyes never once leaving Jiho's face, his complexion ashen.

In the center of the room, crouched on the floor, sat Seungmo, his head bowed, holding the hand of a person who lay prone on the floor, lying so still Jiho couldn't tell if they were dead or just sleeping.

Hesitantly, Jiho stepped closer, trying not to look too hard at the four guys standing off to the side, all staring at him intently, discordant expressions of either immense sadness or excitement painted across their faces.

Laying on the floor, pale as death itself, lay a gorgeous man who's beauty rivaled even Seungmo himself, his eyes sharply defined, even when closed, chin tapering to a defined point, and standing out starkly against the pallor of his skin, a vibrant beauty mark on one cheek.

Unprompted, Jiho dropped to his knees beside Seungmo, anxiety and fear gnashing painfully in his gut as his hands instinctively reached out to stroke against one still cheek, surprised at the warmth of the skin beneath his fingertips.

It was only then that Jiho noticed the jet black feathers fanning out behind the prone body, at first he thought it was just decoration, or maybe some sort of strange blanket, but upon closer inspection, Jiho realized those feathers formed a shape, a very distinctive shape that trailed down towards the body's back, disappearing into a couple of slits in his shirt, and Jiho was certain if he moved the fabric out of the way, the feathers would connect seamlessly with the skin.

Because they weren't simple feathers at all, they were wings.

"He's an angel." Jiho breathed, awed, not quite believing what his eyes were seeing, despite the indisputable evidence spread out before him.

Beside him, Seungmo hummed distractedly, his eyes refusing to stray from the angel's sleeping face, his grip tightening on the limp hand clutched in his grasp.

"What happened?"

Instead of Seungmo, one of the men who had been watching from off to the side spoke up, his hair a blinding, pure white that rivaled even Jiho's own blond locks, "He was injured, one of his wings was torn off in a fight and he hasn't woken up since. We don't know why."

Jiho was still attempting to wrap his head around the whole 'angel' idea, because while yes, he knew that angels did exist, evidence of their presence written in the words of the Bible, he also knew that angels were not the type to just appear before mortals, and that angels hadn't been seen on Earth in thousands of years.

So why here? Why now?

Jiho turned back to the unconscious angel, studying his body, and immediately noted upon something that wasn't adding up between the blond's story and what he was currently seeing in front of him with his own eyes.

"What do you mean one was torn off? He already has two wings."

Behind the blond, the lean man with the wide eyes and soft lips snorted, "Aren't you supposed to be some sort of religious scholar, most angels don't just have two wings."

"Siyun-ah isn't a fully-fledged angel," the large, muscular man with the sharp cheekbones butted in, "but he's got two pairs of wings."

Eyes wide, Jiho turned to look again, and he could see, now that he was looking closer that indeed, there was more than two wings tangled up in that pile of feathers, their color so dark it was almost impossible to tell where one wing ended and the other began, but now that he was looking, he noticed the delicate curve of fragile wing bones, and could easily count the number of wing joints.

Two wings - a pair - nestled against each other like twins, utterly perfect as only God's creations were, but there, extending slightly lower on the prone man's spine, sat one forlorn wing that seemed almost wilted without its companion, the feathers in disarray, the dark surface shiny with what Jiho belatedly realized was thick rivulets of midnight black blood.

Jiho longed to reach out and touch that lonely wing, his own back aching with a phantom pain, like he could feel the physical ripping, tearing sensation this angel must've felt when his wing was severed, and shuddered at feeling. He forced his gaze away from that sad, broken wing, and looked back towards the group of silent bystanders, a question posed on the edge of his lips.

"So, what exactly do you want me to do? I'd love to help, but this sounds a bit out of my depth. I'm not a healer, I don't know anything about angels. I'm just a church acolyte, and not even a very good one at that. What exactly do you need me for?"

Seungmo looked up then, and the utter hopelessness on his face was enough to make Jiho's eyes burn with sympathy. He yearned to wipe that expression of his face, his heart lurching at seeing Seungmo so distraught. He barely knew this man, but an unexplainable urge tugged at his gut until he was lunging forward and wrapping Seungmo in his arms, which seemed to finally be the straw that broke the camel's back, the tide of emotions Seungmo had been striving to hold back finally escaping as the other man slumped into his arms with a broken sob.

"Jiho-hyung, please, you're the only one who can save him. Siyunnie needs you. You may not remember, but I know your body still knows what to do."

It wasn't even technically noon yet, but Jiho had witnessed so many strange things today, he didn't even really bat an eye at Seungmo's tear-wrought explanation, because if he really thought about it, it did kinda make some amount of sense.

Jiho didn't remember anything about his life before two and a half years ago, he had just awoken on the steps of the cathedral, exhausted and injured and covered in blood, without a single trace of who he used to be besides his name.

From the moment he had first seen Seungmo, the other man had stared at him like he knew him, really knew him. His eyes peering deep down into his soul and dredging up thoughts and hopes of finally learning about his past that Jiho had long since thought quashed.

Even though he didn't fully understand it, Jiho decided to trust Seungmo, trust this near stranger who seemed to know Jiho better than he knew himself, and without a word, while using one arm to hold Seungmo tightly to his chest, refusing to let the sobbing man go, Jiho reached over and laid a hand on the shoulder of the injured angel - Siyun.

For a long moment nothing happened, and Jiho felt a bit ridiculous, what kind of idiot was he to believe the word of some stranger, trust that he could do something impossible just because this random guy that played his heart strings like a violin told him he could.

"Talk to him." Seungmo breathed against his collarbone, his tears calming just long enough for him to speak. "He'll come back if he can here you."

Jiho didn't really see how talking to an injured, comatose angel could possibly do any good, but at this point, he really had nothing else to lose.

Somewhat awkwardly, Jiho began to speak, "Hi, Siyun-ssi. It's me, Jiho. I don't know if we've ever met before, I don't have my memories from the past, but Seungmo-ssi seems to remember me from before, and thinks if I'll talk to you, it'll help heal you somehow."

Against his chest, Seungmo sniffled and nodded in response, "Yeobo, I finally brought our hyung home, you've got to wake up, so we can all be together again."

Beneath his fingertips, utterly immune to Seungmo's words, Siyun remained still.

Helplessly, Jiho glanced over his shoulder towards group of quiet onlookers, a plea for help shining his his eyes, which thankfully, the others chose to answer.

Without even a word, the other four men crossed the room on silent feet and placed their hands on Jiho's shoulders. Technically, their presence didn't amount to much more than a trivial comfort, but something about being surrounded by six bodies felt achingly familiar, every single one of them bound together by a singular purpose that made Jiho's heart twang, and soon, something unexpected started to happen.

At first Jiho barely even noticed the tingling that started in the base of his spine, too wrapped up in the weight of four pairs of hands on his shoulders, and the pressure of Seungmo still clinging to his front, and the utter stillness of Siyun beneath his fingertips, but soon, the pinpricks licking up his back became impossible to ignore.

Like the incessant droning of a swarm of bees beneath his skin, the sensation started to build, stretching up from the small of his back all the way up to his shoulder blades, annoyingly persistent yet oddly soothing, like he had done this very thing before long ago.

Behind him, someone started to hum, a quiet, barely audible noise that seemed to vibrate in perfect pitch to the tingling in his back, and soon the song was picked up by another voice, then another, until the entire room was thrumming with the sound, until Jiho himself was alight with the buzzing in the air and under his skin.

His hand, still pressed to Siyun's shoulder, started to heat, his palms slick with sweat as the tingling spread from his back up into his skull, his teeth knocking together beneath the force, and it was only then that Jiho realized that he was trembling, his whole body quaking, but still he did not pull away, some instinctive urge he didn't understand telling him to keep going, to not let go of Siyun's shoulder, that this was was he was supposed to be doing, this was his higher purpose.

All those years spent in the church, learning the scripture, forcing himself into a neat, little box was not where he truly belonged.

No, Jiho belonged here, among these strangers who felt more like a true home than the church ever did. In this house he didn't recognize, foreign but filled with a familiarity that he longed for desperately. A true family.

Jiho belonged here, making a real difference, helping people who needed helping.

Inside him, something clicked in his chest at the revelation, and searing heat raced through him, radiating outward from where four pairs of hands rested on his shoulders and directed downward through his bones, into his arms, before finally channeling down into his hand.

The very hand that rested on Siyun's unmoving shoulder.

For a moment, the white-hot pain was almost unbearable, a sharp cry wrenching its way from Jiho's lips before a blinding flash of light exploded out from between Jiho's fingers, so quick Jiho almost thought he had hallucinated it, before the room once again fell back into semi-darkness.

Blinking the stars from his vision, Jiho wrested his hand away from Siyun and shook himself from the grip of the men still clutching at his shoulders as he stared down at his palm in shock.

Despite the pain that still lingered in his flesh and the unexplainable light that had radiated from his hand, his palm looked completely unscathed, like he truly had just imagined the past several minutes.

"What the hell was that?" Jiho exclaimed, not even caring that he had cursed, releasing his hold on the still sniveling Seungmo, desperate to get away from these weirdos, their comforting familiarity now feeling insidious, their sad eyes and pitiful expressions seeming like nothing more than a tactic of entrapment to ensnare a hopelessly naive Jiho.

He should've known the second Seungmo had sought him out that something was amiss. He had heard of tactics such as these before. Individuals and groups determined to find and exploit other people's weaknesses and make them stray from the path of God, preaching false idols and preying on insecurities to drag potential victims further into their clutches.

He knew what this was. They wanted to make Jiho feel important, special, chosen, because at the church he was just a lowly acolyte, one among many, easily replaceable even after years of dedication and personal study.

They wanted Jiho to feel useful, like he could do the impossible, they wanted to give him a family, because he had none.

These people weren't kind and caring and needing help.

No, they were manipulators and snakes.

Because Jiho had stumbled into a cult.

He wouldn't be surprised if Siyun's injured wing was really just some insane special effects, and the glow from his palm could've easily been some sort of light hidden beneath Siyun's clothes. And Jiho had fallen for every single one of their tricks hook, line, and sinker.

Before he could get to his feet, quivering now with rage instead of whatever weird trick he had been experiencing before, a small, pained sound broke through the tense silence smothering the room.

"Jiho-yah." A painful, cracked voice spoke up from the floor, and Jiho, despite his anger, couldn't help but look, surprised to see a pair of beautiful, dark eyes blinking up at him, the limp wings curled against Siyun's back now whole and glowing with an unholy blackness. "Jiho-yah, you came back."

With a speed that bordered on inhuman, Siyun lurched forward, his hands curling around Jiho's neck and finding a home within his hair, and before Jiho even had a chance to protest, a pair of scorchingly hot, wet lips were pressed against his own.

Jiho gasped, not at all prepared for a gorgeous maybe-angel who had literally been unresponsive just seconds before to suddenly throw himself at him, but it seemed Siyun only took Jiho's shock as a sign to keep going, the angel deepening the kiss, his tongue licking into the heat of Jiho's mouth.

Much to Jiho's utter shame, he had to admit that for a few brief seconds, he didn't push Siyun away, actually enjoying the warmth of Siyun's lips molded against his, reveling in the weight of Siyun in his arms, and the complete sense of rightness that filled him as he kissed Siyun back just as desperately as Siyun kissed him.

Since he couldn't remember his previous life from before he had wound up unconscious on the steps of the cathedral, for all he knew, Jiho was a twenty-something year old virgin, and having a beautiful man writhing around on his lap, whimpering into his lips and kissing him like he thought they might be tugged apart at any second was enough to tempt even the most saintly of men. So of course, Jiho couldn't resist the temptation laid out before him.

He kissed Siyun to within an inch of his life, nibbling on his lips, sucking on his tongue, drinking down the quiet noises Siyun made against his mouth, each and every second he remained pressed against Siyun filling up some long forgotten void he hadn't even known was empty, revitalizing him in ways he hadn't even known were possible.

A quiet cough somewhere behind him drew Jiho back to the present, and he remembered exactly where he was, remembered exactly how he was coerced into being here, remembered that all of this was an elaborate trick to entrap him.

Siyun was just another piece in this elaborate puzzle meant to make Jiho look like a fool.

So, with an impossible strength he hadn't known he possessed, Jiho shoved Siyun off of him, trying not to let himself feel remorse as Siyun's smaller body tumbled to the floor, his lips red and swollen and shiny with spit, his eyes wide with alarm and confusion.

"Stay the fuck away from me." Jiho snarled, getting to his feet and pushing his way past the dumbstruck bodies stuck between staring at Siyun, now alive and awake on the floor, and Jiho. "I don't know you."

"Jiho-yah!" Siyun cried out again, anguish present in his voice, but Seungmo was quick to silence him, the dark-haired man all but flinging himself at Siyun, Jiho's presence long since forgotten as he patted the angel's body, checking for any sign of damage.

"Jagiya, jagiya, you came back to me." Seungmo wailed, tears spilling down his perfect cheeks as he pressed kisses to Siyun's face and hair, his arms wrapping around Siyun's shoulders like an octopus, taking special care not to brush against his wings.

Siyun allowed Seungmo's mother henning for several long seconds before he started to get fussy, pushing away Seungmo's clinging arms and using a palm to stop Seungmo's incessant barrage of kissing, a look of indescribable fondness on his face.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. You're smothering me." Siyun groaned amicably before leaning forward and capturing Seungmo's small lips in a kiss, his hand gentle against the other boy's cheek.

"Siyun-ah, you're home." One of the other men called out, breaking the pair's tender embrace, and soon the other four men were descending on Siyun, joy and relief painted on each of their faces, Jiho's presence in the room all but forgotten.

A dark, twisting jealousy twined behind his breastbone, hating the easy affection that flowed between the group, the kind of camaraderie that Jiho could only ever long for, looking at from the outside.

Jiho stormed out of the room, feeling miserable, his feet walking back through the unfamiliar hallway like they had a mind of their own, taking him not towards like the front door, like any sensible person, but further into the surprisingly spacious house, leading him down a darkened corridor until he finally came across a room at the end of the hall with the door slightly cracked open.

Now normally, Jiho would never snoop, wouldn't even entertain the notion, but ever since he had stepped foot outside the room filled with so much joy and happiness and love that Jiho had felt physically ill, an incessant tugging sensation had started up beneath his navel, the tension in his stomach driving him deeper into the house, the pull only growing stronger the further he went, until it finally culminated in him standing here, in front of this innocuous door that every single fiber in Jiho's being screamed at him to open.

Figuring he was already due for a whole heap of repentance once he returned back to the church anyways, Jiho decided to let his instincts guide him and slowly pushed open the door, curious as to what could possibly be laying on the other side that was setting his nerves so on edge.

Upon first glance, the room was relatively plain, a neatly made twin bed, a single dresser, and a matching nightstand, the lack of decoration and bland furniture very similar to Jiho's current living arrangements back at the cathedral. But Jiho hardly paid the room any mind, his entire focus immediately drawn to the impossibly large angel wings displayed on the back wall.

Instead of just two wings like most modern depictions on angels, this pair boasted six total wings, all connected together at a single jagged point stained with glistening golden-red blood. Half of the wings were a brilliant shade of white that hurt his eyes to stare at too long, while the other half was jaggedly streaked through with black, the difference in color jarring to look at, but mesmerizing all the same.

 Jiho couldn't help but be reminded of a Bible verse in that moment, his thoughts trailing back to images of Biblical angels sent from the heavens, as terrifying as they were awe-inspiring.

"Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were for flying." ^[6]

"Angels. They're all angels." Jiho breathed, realization finally dawning on him. The feathers in the jar, the strange slits in the backs of their clothes, the open skylights, all of it slotting into place like pieces of a majestic puzzle Jiho was only just beginning to understand.

Pulled by a force larger than Jiho himself, Jiho staggered into the room, his whole body thrumming with energy, a pulse entirely separate from his heartbeat singing beneath his skin.

He took a step forward, and then another, until he was standing directly in front of those six massive wings, his ears ringing so loudly it drowned out any other sound. He stood staring unblinkingly at those holy wings for long enough that his eyes stared to water, their power almost palpable, even when severed from the angel who had once bore them. Jiho's thoughts soon turned to mush, and he could think of nothing else other than the wings, when an impulse he thought he was just beginning to understand drove him forward until at long last, his fingers brushed curiously against downy feathers.

Jiho's entire body erupted with light, a magnificent, blinding spectacle that sent him tumbling to his knees, his vision whiting out as a stabbing lance pierced deep into his brain, digging painfully into his soft flesh, uncaring of the damage it left in its wake.

For a terrifying moment, Jiho thought he was being consumed by heavenly fire. All because he, a dirty, sinful human had done something so heinous as touch an angel's pure, perfect wings, and was now being smited for his indiscretion.

But then the blinding pain started to subside enough that Jiho could remember how to breathe… and then the memories started to flood back in.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Jiho remembered everything, feathered wings as soft as a cloud stroking against his bare skin, smiles and laughter and sunlight, and a family, seven souls united as one. He remembered tender kisses against tanned skin, secrets whispered into dark hair, and a heart full of love.

He remembered Kamden, their fearless leader who led them into battle, he remembered Brian, their kind mediator, Kyrell, their swift messenger, Mackiah, their fierce protector, and most notably of all, he remembered the two angels who meant more to him than any other. The two angels who over the centuries he had grown to see as more than just his fearless comrades, but his closest friends, and then later, as the two people who held equal parts of his heart.

Jiho remembered the failed rebellion, the fight against heaven for for turning their backs on their flock: the mortals who prayed to heaven to heal their loved ones, to stop wars, to prevent disasters, but heaven's ears were deaf to them all.

It was a foolish ideal that he and the six angels close to him, the six he trusted most with his life, would be capable of taking on the might of heaven, but Jiho had always been an optimistic fool, hoping that if they believed hard enough and fought with all their might, maybe they would have a chance.

Of course, Jiho's ideals only ended in disaster.

He remembered the fall. Jiho had shouldered the blame for their transgressions, had admitted that he had planned the rebellion, had coerced his friends into joining with him. Had begged for forgiveness so that the rest of his family would not be punished as he undoubtedly would be.

This was his fault, his hubris. Kamden, Brian, Kyrell, and Mackiah did not deserve to face the consequences of Jiho's actions, and Jiho couldn't bear the thought of Seungmo or Siyun being punished along side him, of seeing the two halves of his own heart stripped of their wings.

He knew his lovely Seungmo, still so full of joy and hope, would not survive the pain of losing his wings, his fragile heart would be crushed if he lost the freedom to soar the skies, his soul broken if he was forever confined to the ground, always looking up at the birds, longing to fly and no longer able to.

His wonderful, strong Siyun might not be as shattered as Seungmo if he lost his wings, but he knew that his love would hate being unable to protect, would hate that he could not defend the people he loved, he would despise being vulnerable and helpless even if he knew his loved ones would protect him gladly.

Jiho was the only one who could bear this burden without being crushed beneath the weight. So, Jiho decided to shoulder this weight alone.

Somehow, his pleading worked, because God is truly merciful, and only Jiho had to bear the shame of his punishment, only Jiho's wings were forcibly ripped from his back, his nerves screaming as those very wings that had always carried him swift and strong were stripped away from him, agony licking up and down his spine as red-gold ichor spilled down his back, sullying his white robes, evidence of his sins.

While Siyun and Seungmo, Kamden, Brian, Kyrell, and Mackiah all watched on, Jiho was expelled from heaven, and without his wings, he fell to Earth like a shining, bloody star, unable to slow his fall.

And as the ground approached, at a speed so fast even an angel would surely die upon impact, Jiho couldn't help but smile, happy that his sacrifice would mean that all those who shared his heart would not have to weather this same pain.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Somehow, miraculously, Jiho managed to survive his fall, albeit without his memories, maybe as one last act of kindness by God, or purely sheer luck, Jiho doubted he'd ever know. But now, over two and a half years after he had been cast from heaven, his memories had returned, and judging by the heft now weighing down his shoulder blades, it seemed his wings had also been returned to him as well, the rustle of feathers in his ears like the sweetest of birdsong.

With careful fingers, Jiho reached back to stroke along the vane of his feathers, tears pricking at his eyes. Even in his wildest dreams, He never thought he'd get his wings back, never thought he'd get to reunite with his lost family, never thought he'd get to see his loves again.

Remembering the angels he had left callously in the other room, Jiho knew he couldn't waste even a single second longer not seeing his family, couldn't deny himself a hug from Brian or a smack on the back of the head from Mackiah, he couldn't go a minute longer without bundling Siyun into his arms, even if he complained the whole while, or peppering Seungmo's beautiful face full of kisses.

He needed his family.

Streaking back down the hallway he had walked through just minutes before as an entirely different person, Jiho burst back into the room he had vacated, chest heaving, taking in the occupants of the room in an entirely new light.

The bags beneath Kamden's eyes betrayed just how much his leader had struggled carrying their family without his second-in-command by his side, he drank in Brian's stooped shoulders, noted the lack of a spark in Kyrell's eyes, and caught sight of faint frown lines now visible at the corners of Mackiah's lips.

Lastly, his eyes landed on Seungmo and Siyun, the pair still curled around each other, clutching just a bit too tight, desperate to hang onto each other because they couldn't possibly survive losing another piece of their heart.

Jiho had thought he had protected his family by shouldering his burden alone, but despite his best efforts, his family had struggled in his absence, barely hanging on, and ultimately that guilt would have to lie on him.

But the time for guilt was later, because now was the time for reunions.

"Jiho."

He wasn't sure who spoke, maybe it was one of them, or maybe it was all of them at once, but Jiho's lips instinctively curled into a smile in response, his arms already spread wide, eager to rejoin his family that he had long since been missing, even if he hadn't had the memories to remember the loss, his soul had missed them, and this reunion had been a long, long time coming.

"I'm home."

And the six members of his family, the six missing pieces of his soul, raced forward with beaming grins and teary eyes to greet him gladly, words spilling over each other in their haste to fill Jiho in on what he had missed these past few years.

Mackiah slapped him gleefully on the shoulder, Kyrell sent him a knowing wink, and Brian tussled his blond-and-black locks. Kamden stood a bit further away from the others, not wanting to overwhelm Jiho with too many bodies, but his leader looked overjoyed to see him, a lopsided smile twisting his lips into a grin.

And bodily shoving his way through the throng of bodies, Siyun's compact form came barreling into Jiho's side with all the force of a freight train, "You asshole. I can't believe you'd sacrifice yourself for us. You should've known we wouldn't let you fall on your own. You big, dumb, stupid angel." Siyun trailed off before burying his face in Jiho's shoulder, muttering curses under his breath, but Jiho could tell from the dampness of his shirt that the other angel was undoubtedly crying, not that he could blame him, considering Jiho was perilously close to tears himself, his heart aching with the joy of their reunion.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of Siyun's head, enjoying the way the shorter angel's wings twitched in response, so expressive even when Siyun's words said differently. "I missed you Siyun-ah. I wasn't whole without you."

Snaking in on Jiho's other side, Seungmo weaseled his way in between Kyrell and Mackiah's much broader forms, his whole body shaking as he threw himself into Jiho's arms, barely managing to not squish Siyun in the process.

Jiho hugged him tightly, the tears that had been threatening to overflow finally spilling down his cheeks, his heart finally whole once again. 

"I'm sorry I forgot you, jagi." Jiho whispered into Seungmo's skin, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of his lover's rosebud mouth, "Thank you for finding me and bringing me home."

"I'm never letting you go ever again." Seungmo breathed against his lips, and Jiho couldn't help but agree as he finally captured the angel's mouth with his own, the tension in his chest finally easing, because Jiho was exactly where he was supposed to be, surrounded by the people he was supposed to be with.

After everything they had been through, together and apart, Jiho was finally home. His family was safe and whole and Jiho would never, ever let them go ever again.