[ Unlike Angel, his appetite staunchly forges ahead. He picks up where he left off in his dessert, chews at the scoop of delicately whipped custard browned to perfection — as if it were no different from grass pulled from dirt. A simpleton farm animal that hasn't ever considered what it's being fed, for whom does it live, or what slaughterhouse it'll be delivered to the next morning. Assured and comfortable in its own complacence. Fodder doesn't need to think about its own death, not when life's this good.
So why does this winged devil keep worrying about it with that weird expression, when they both serve the same purpose? The same utility? ]
Dying's dying. It's… [ It's hard to explain, if you haven't experienced it yourself. But that's such a cop-out answer, he can't bring himself to complete the thought. Denji huffs. ] It tastes like nothing, dude. [ As he voices his thoughts, his mouth is all bloodied in pink syrup, red crumbs dotting his teeth. He doesn't bother wiping any of it away. ] Smells like nothing, sounds like nothing, feels like nothing. Haven't you ever been hurt real bad?
[ He's talking insides liquidized, throat ripped into a second smile. Happens to Power when she isn't careful, but squeeze a sack of blood into her fast enough and she's just fine. ]
It stinks at first, 'cause you're like, 'Ah, balls, where did my hand go? And my legs?! Ouch!' The good thing is, after awhile, ya don't feel the ouch the way you should. You know when you've standing outside in the cold for too long and your nuts get numb? It's like that. Then, you realize you don't feel anything at all, and stuff is going blurry, or dark, or white, I dunno, it depends — honestly, if you're not insta-killed, your head just gets really slow. Things are hard to remember.
[ But mostly… ]
When you're dying, it feels a lot like you're just waiting for it to happen.
["Waiting for it to happen," huh... Does that mean Angel has been dying this whole time?]
[Maybe. Every breath is one step closer to death, after all, but it's not really what Denji means, he knows. His description doesn't sound pleasing, but it's also soothing to hear, that there's something final in it. Slowing down until eventually you completely stop. The slow, slow descent into nothingness. But one part keeps making him pause, enough to frown softly.]
I haven't.
[Been hurt real bad, that is. He's a defensive build, staying out of combat, but when he does have to he usually gets in close and kills in a single swipe. It doesn't take much, so it's not common for him to get more than a few scratches, maybe a few feathers missing. Makima didn't place him right below Kishibe in the power scale for nothing.]
[Does that mean Denji is more prepared than him? He's always though of himself as ready to die at any moment, no matter what happens. But lately it's harder. Lately he has to actually work more, put in more effort. Try to survive. It's not for himself, though. He's always been ready, always prepared to kick the bucket at any moment. Come what may. He doesn't care. But now that he's hearing how it really feels, how death comes slow and steady... Would that mean he would have to spend that whole time watching him, watching the despair on his face and the regret and the desperation to stop it again? Would he feel every second like it's an eternity, being shaken, dragged to safety, blood dumped down his throat? The issue is, he doesn't know. He's never been hurt bad enough to see how he would react.]
He told me he's sick of the people around him dying. That I should go somewhere far away if I'm going to.
[He's never discussed that with anyone, but it sits in the back of his mind at all times. Annoyingly, like a constant debate. Back and forth. Unending. Pushing the boulder up the hill, watching it roll back down.]
I wonder if it's because of you, too. Watching you die, even though you come back...
[A huff. Not a grunt, not a sigh - but not quite a laugh or a chuckle, either.]
[ There isn't anything on his plate anymore, Denji notices with a jolt, a mild widening of his eyes accompanying the stab of the metal edge of his spoon into empty, pale ceramic. This happens to coincides with Angel telling him that, maybe, he's played a part in Aki's so-called clinginess. Clinginess he's not sure he's ever been on the receiving end of, but has to take the other devil's word for it. He's banking on Angel not caring enough to bring up the correlation.
After a moment, he sets aside his utensils, along with the baffled stare he'd leveled at Angel, shifting to dip his head in a kind of shrug. The placement of his shoulders landing at a slant, his cheek coming to rest on one of his palms. ]
…Yeah. That sounds like him.
[ Lukewarm agreement, like he doesn't care, despite the impatient twist in his gut that's dying to prod at what else Angel knows. What else Aki's told him, but not Denji — except for that one time that first day, a warning to get lost, and after that, never again. He's not sure that counts, though. It feels different, and there's a sorry part of his pride that would rather feign understanding, than admit to not knowing this side of Aki for some reason. ]
So you're gonna stop trying in front of him, then?
[ To die. To leave. To slough off life and go to that final sleeping place. Whatever euphemism or not, Angel wants to use for it.
Their server stops by to check on them, but Denji just waves them off, doesn't even ask for the check. They'll be back. ]
[Denji is done with his meal, but Angel doesn't process that he still has food on his plate until the server comes over and Denji waves them off. He looks down at his dishes and drags a finger through the syrup, licking it off his finger as he thinks over that question. Has he stopped trying in front of him? Probably. He puts a lot more effort into living nowadays.]
I don't think I want him to cling to me any harder. I'd just end up killing him, myself.
[Passively, not purposefully. He drags another finger through the syrup and sucks it clean with a silent sound, still thinking.]
It's strange to be cared for, as a devil, isn't it. We aren't creatures that care for one another. So it was strange when he told me that.
[Ahh, he's not going to eat this. In a rare act of caring, himself, he raises his eyes and pulls the finger free from his mouth to ask Denji,] You want the rest?
[ "It's strange to be cared for, as a devil, isn't it."
Inexplicably, it's this sentence that triggers a special switch in his head, one that shoots a memory through him too fast, too clear, it blinds him to everything else, like a gun flashing, a bullet hitting its mark. Denji, shoved to the ground as Aki partitions himself between him and that scaredy-cat girl's knife. The pained cringe rippling out the other man's body as steel dug into his rib cage, but still there was a sharpness to his gaze, sharper than any bladed point — stupid commitment. Dumbass conviction, in only the way heroes in action anime are ever able to get away with.
And yes, he'd thought it'd been strange. That another human could hate him so much and still want him to live. Maybe not for the same reasons Aki had wanted Angel to live, but it'd still… cracked a door in him the slightest bit open. He's not sure how else to describe it. ]
Yeah.
[ He says, finally, as he rakes a spread hand across Angel's plate, strings of sugar dangling from his wrist as he lifts it to his face to lick up. Copying the way Angel had delicately caught the syrup with his mouth without drizzling it all over the tablecloth. Obviously, Denji's less successful at this. ]
That guy's a strange one. Cares too much. Should be careful about who it is he's being nice to. But I think when he dies, that means a whole lotta people will show up during that, uh, sad people thing and cry, the way he always does about dead people. It's called a funeral, I heard…
[Yeah, he does cry a lot. Isn't how this all started? From his tears? What was it even for, at the end? Angel watches dully as Denji laps at his sticky wrist.]
A funeral, yeah. [How much longer? Two years? Two years, and then maybe he'll get to die, too.]
[What a depressing thought. He sighs and leans back against his seat, staring morosely up at the ceiling through his halo. Waiting for one person to die so that no one will be left who cares about you. Humans truly do deserve to die slowly and painfully, for all the trouble they're worth.]
Well... Maybe at his funeral, you can be the one to kill me. Since you're apparently the only one who won't get hurt doing that. [So there's something to look forward to. Dying here the same way he remembers dying there. Or at least, in a similar vein.] Just go vuun-vuun and make it quick.
[ This time, when their server drops by with the check, Denji pauses in mopping up the last of the syrup with his tongue to flip out his wallet and drop a few gummed up bills into the tray. Overhearing the last snippet of what Angel says, the person looks somewhat disturbed as they rush away from their table.
Denji, on the other hand, considers the prospect of killing him with only vague distaste, not because he's opposed to it — he thinks he could do it, can't think of any reason why he wouldn't be able to — but because, well, isn't that kinda too lovey-dovey of an idea? ]
Eh? I don't wanna.
[ Not looking at Angel, he wipes his moist palm against the tablecloth. ]
So as soon as the dude you're living for drops dead, suddenly you can't go on or something…? Why do I gotta play the part of reuniting you guys in the afterlife? [ A soft snort. ] Plus, that'd definitely piss off that guy and make 'em come back as a ghost to haunt me! I'd have no privacy to jerk it anymore! Talk about the worst case scenario…
[ The server returns shortly, placing his change on the table, then departs again to tend to another guest. Stuffing his money into a pocket, he starts to get up. Lead them out. ]
If you want me to do that, you'd have to gimme somethin' real good to pay me back.
[What, he really thinks he'd be a ghost because Denji killed his buddy at his funeral...?]
[Actually, that sounds just like him. Angel frowns, closing his eyes loosely. Pay him back... What could he even offer that he'd want? His frown deepens.]
It's not like I'm living for him, but...
[But he can't explain it. He's keenly, uncomfortably aware of the fact that his death might actually matter to someone now and that feeling is disturbing. He's a devil. No devil nor human should care if he lives or dies. But that human might cry if he gets torn to shreds. And that's...]
[He sighs, looking down again as Denji gets up. Great, they have to walk again...]
The only thing you're interested in is sex, anyway... I can't think of anything else you'd consider "real good."
[ Angel's so pitiful walking alongside him, as if he's being towed forward by an invisible rope, that it almost makes Denji want give him a break and casually agree to murdering him.
…But really? Angel can't think to even draw inspiration from all the places Denji's taken him to so far? Each location was technically related to his interests… Movies, games, food. Although, yeah, if there were a boob store he were old enough to get into, he probably would have taken Angel there first. He's a pretty simple guy. Still, he's not going to spell it out for him.
If Angel's serious about dying after Aki's gone, he'll find a way — either to convince someone else, if not Denji, or end things on his own. ]
It's gotta be something super impressive, [ he tells him, glancing from one side of the street to the next before crossing. ] Not you're regular ol' jam you can get from the market! I'll tell ya that.
[ Denji pauses, for a moment, as they reach the other end, looking around. They haven't been walking long, but it looks as if he's inadvertently led them into a residential area. Hmm, he pulls his phone out. ]
Uh, hold on, lemme check how far the karaoke place is.
[He stops when Denji mentions that, surprised. They're going to karaoke? Did he forget that was part of the plan?]
[Probably, somewhere in the fog of today. After everything else that happened - first the movies, which was exhausting in its own way, then...]
[...Hold on. Can he still touch him? Or did that wear off? Without any sort of preamble or permission asked, he reaches out to touch Denji's arm again, pressing his palm over his skin and waiting for a moment. But yet again, just like the ten other times he's touched him, nothing happens.]
...Something like that would be possible, with you.
[The realization comes slow. Never before has he seriously thought about his inability to have sexual relations with anyone, but being in proximity with the guy who seems to have that running as a background track in his mind makes it too easy to think about. He says it has to be super impressive, and wouldn't that be pretty impressive?]
How far is it? [He leans over to look at the phone, but the glint from his halo makes it hard to see the screen.]
[ Indeed, the hardly-there sensation of Angel's hand curved around his forearm doesn't atrophy his systems, doesn't bring him to his knees as death binds him down to the earth. No. Feels more harmless than that. But weird, as if the dainty feet of a curious sparrow are perched on his arm. Like he's being trusted not to move too suddenly. Though Denji doesn't outwardly react as Angel sews himself into his space, it's that touch he pays close attention to as he stares hard at his screen, missing whatever it is the shorter devil mumbles.
This is so awkward.
Coughing, Denji tilts his phone screen for him to see (and to adjust the glare from his halo). There's a dotted path leading them to some karaoke joint rated 2.1 stars. Well, it's close by. ]
Seven minutes. C'mon, that's back the way we came — [ He tugs his arm away, rushing to take them back down the street they'd just crossed — but a long honk screams his way, his instincts kicking him back far away enough to avoid a collision with a delivery motorcyclist. ] Watch it, prick!
[ His eyes flash up to the crossing signal and, ugh, it's red. So, technically, his fault. After a moment, the signal changes to green. ]
…Alrighty, now let's go.
[ He feels kinda dumb for taking them in the wrong direction in the first place, but, luckily, seven minutes isn't a far walk. Remembering what happened last time he walked ahead of him, Denji matches his strides to Angel's all the way to the karaoke place. He looks a little disgruntled while doing so, but miraculously keeps his complaints about the slower pace to himself.
When they arrive, the reason for the location's low rating makes itself obvious. The six-story building itself is a bit rundown, and the front counter is vacant; it takes Denji hollering through the opening to get anyone to greet them, record the number of hours they'll be there for, and grubbily take his payment. He only has enough cash for one hour. The rest of the money Aki shared with him will have to be saved for getting them home.
The elevator chimes as they reach the floor where their karaoke booth's located. ]
Here we are! Karaoke paradise.
[ The 'paradise' in question is a small ass, dark room with blinking lights moving in a circle around the seating area. It has all the usual hallmarks of a karaoke booth. There's a menu sitting atop the table for food and drinks, a large monitor displaying the song-picking interface. Denji kneels beside the cabinet full of sound equipment that's there, pulling a mic and flipping its switch before slapping the head of it against his palm to test the sound. An echo-y thump bursts from the speakers. Okay, so it works.
He holds the mic out to Angel. ]
So, like, just pick a song and try to sing along with the lyrics. And you really have to sing for it to be fun! Don't hold back!
[He's heard of these places. Humans go here on the weekends, get drunk with friends and sing all night. Angel has never been, has never experienced anything he could call "friendship," much less inebriation. Strolling at his own pace to the building, he stares up at its height before coming inside with him, his neck still tilted to look up even as he moves inside. It's a strange sort of place. The sort of place he'd expect to be sent to kill his own kind than come here on the weekend for fun. Fun?]
[As he stands in the dark room with blinking lights, he realizes this is Denji's idea of fun. A human's idea of fun. He stares at the proffered microphone, the echo of their voices when it occasionally picks them up. The little sofa, the table, the large binder. A human's idea of fun.]
[Of course he can't understand that. Angel doesn't move from where he stands, arched in the doorway with the closed door behind him.]
I don't know any music, Chainsaw-kun.
[How can he possibly pick anything, anyway? He doesn't want to. And, as is well known in their bureau, whatever he doesn't want to do simply won't be done.]
[Crossing behind Denji, he moves to sit down in the seating area, his wings pulling back a little as he adjusts himself. The lights make it a little hard to focus his eyes.]
Why do you want to sing here?
[A human's idea of fun, attempted with a half-human and a half-angel. It doesn't make sense to him. What did Denji hope to get out of this experience?]
[ His arm lowers as he ignores the mic. That's fine, he'll just set it on the mic on the table for later, then.
Denji takes the other mic along with him as he sits on the opposite end of the seat, back facing toward Angel. Balancing the binder between his knees, he flips through the pages of the vast catalog of songs; it may not come as a surprise, but a lot of these he doesn't recognize right off the bat. There are codes assigned to each song, so that's probably what they have to enter into the tablet-thing. Adding the tablet to his already full lap, Denji selects a code at random to type into the text field.
It's as he's doing this that he says to Angel, ] Isn't this "something different from usual"? [ It's different from Denji's usual, anyway. Maybe Angel's been to one of these before, and that's why he's not impressed… ] That's what you asked me to show you.
[ A music video plays across the screen, the lyrics flashing out against an instrumental of synthetic percussion, but Denji doesn't bother lifting the mic to his mouth. If Angel's not going to sing, they may as well put something on in the background. ]
I've always wanted to play around inside these places. You know about high school students, right? I hear that loads of 'em come here with their buds and girls from their class. It's supposed to be so fun that they even lose track of time and stay out past the last train time!
[That's right. He'd wanted to see something different. But this kind of place... It's different from what he usually experiences, sure, but it's also similar. An empty, run-down place that's only missing a devil crawling through a bloody puddle to feel normal. As the television screen lights up and plays synth music to a popular song he doesn't recognize, he allows himself to try and imagine a Chainsaw Boy who comes here with friends and whiles away the night signing and arguing over who gets to go next, laughing when someone's voice cracks, watching crushes swoon love songs written by people twice their age.]
[No image comes to him.]
Do you wish you'd had a life like that, instead?
[Aki Hayakawa would tell him to can it right around now. Tell him he doesn't want to discuss depressing things. Say something about how he chose his path and he's still walking on it. Nothing Angel says will change it. He knows that.]
It would be more fun than coming here with a devil.
[ Denji's never shied away from hypothesis, from dreaming of both the impossible and pointless as if either stood right in front of him on equal footing with his own reality. Potentially because what he considers depressing is so mangled and confused, it's not a boundary he can recognize. Instead of slamming the brakes down on Angel's question, he hums deeply, brokenly following the tune of the song playing. ]
Eh, if I had a life like that, I'd have to worry about studying and pop quizzes. [ Reze showed him as much what a day at school could look like. It'd been its own kind of fun, but it's not something he's craving to go back to get more free samples of. ] Makin' sure my pencils are sharpened. I can't care about that kinda stuff when Miss Makima needs me to kill that Gun guy. And besides, I know how to spell balls, boobs, and butts — the big three! I know all I needa know in that department.
[ Just which department is he referring to… ]
So, nah, hanging out with you is fun 'nuff for me. [ He starts to lean over to get the second mic again. ] You sure you don't wanna sing, dude? I'll pick another song for you.
[Balls, boobs, and butts - Those are the most important words for him to spell? Given who he's talking to, he supposes that makes sense. It's true he'd just have another set of worries... But isn't that better than being killed? He gave such a depressing summary of what death is like that Angel can't imagne he enjoys it that much. Maybe it's that Sisyphean thing again.]
[He eyes the second microphone, still looking unsure, but... Like Denji said, he was the one who requested something new. Seeing how the lyrics float across the screen, at least it doesn't seem like it matters if he knows the song or not. He knows rhythm, for some reason. Maybe because angels are usually depicted in song? Has he ever sang before? He doesn't remember. Would that feel normal? Not that he's an angel, though. Not wholly.]
Let me see... [He reaches over to pick up the remote, trying to read the buttons on it in the semi-dim room. The book doesn't provide him any use since he doesn't know any music, but on the remote is a tempting button that he wishes existed more in real life: random. As the song Denji picked has faded and waits for the next input, Angel presses that and after a spinning disc icon pops up, a piano begins to play.]
[It's in English, but he can sing that, for some reason. He doesn't know all the words but some of them are known to him, translatable not into Japanese but into simple understanding, which he isn't sure why. Of course, he isn't sure why he knows Japanese in the first place, but still. Holding the microphone, a couple lines go by without him singing, just reading, before he actually starts.]
[Given how he speaks in near monotone all the time, maybe it's surprising that he can use pitch and tempo to actually sing. His voice isn't particularly feminine or masculine but hitting higher notes isn't a problem. Not that he knows where they are - he doesn't know this song, but it's pretty. The frustration in the words is comforting. The way the piano gets faster and harsher before fading back is nice. Like a chaotic ensemble that was drenched into quiet. It's nice. Singing feels nice. He doesn't really get why.]
[When the song ends and a little applause sounds from the speakers along with a score (he was being graded on this...?) Angel sets the microphone down, seeming content with the experiment. The trying of something outside his wheelhouse maybe, or simply something different from his every day.]
[ He's got a wingspan that stretches long beyond any bird that Denji knows, a halo that rivals the shine of the party lights. Yet there's a way about Angel in this moment: how he tonelessly speaks along to the lyrics, then hikes his voice up an octave, hopping into the melody as if it were simply a train skirting by and he needed a ride, how it's easy for him, even when the strings push the dynamic of the song. Something about it makes it easy to picture him in a different life with parents and friends and a community; him, in a chorale group, wearing a uniform different from the one he's wearing. Him, pushing the boulder over the hill.
However, maybe he can only think like that because he can't understand a single lick of the lyrics.
The song finishes. Denji slaps a hand against the leather of his seat, both as a way of applauding in tandem with the sound effects and to get Angel to come scooch closer so that he can hear him better above the noise he's making when he tells him: ]
Wouldja look at that! You got a 95.524, whatever that means!
[ According to the manual thing, the score is calculated by factoring the rhythm, timing, and pitch accuracy of the singer. Though how the machine is possibly able to accurately clock that stuff is fully outside his understanding. ]
[Usually Angel would prefer to lean away, but he sits still as Denji smacks the seat in a semblance of applause. He studies the number again like it will give him some insight into how he can improve next time, but he doesn't know enough about how you're even supposed to sing to know what improvement would even sound like. So that sounds like a drag. No use trying to improve something he probably won't ever do again, anyway.]
[He's thinking about that, but Denji asks how it felt, and Angel considers that he didn't think about that at all. How it felt...]
I guess it was new. I don't think I've ever sang anything before.
[But that's not a feeling, of course. That's just a fact. How did it feel to sing...? He looks down at the microphone in his hand, thinking about it while sitting back in the seat.]
I remember this human I worked with once. She probably wasn't cut out for this kind of job... When she got too upset, she would scream into a pillow at the bureau. She said she didn't want to worry anyone, but she also wanted to let out some of the emotion she had. ...Though when she died, she was completely silent.
[He pauses.]
I guess it probably felt how she must have felt, to let out some emotion like that. Maybe a little calming? [It's possible he misunderstood her reasoning for screaming into pillows, but she always perked up after, so he assumed it was a stress relief.] Is that how it's supposed to feel?
[ He wasn't expecting him to compare the experience with a buddy (?) from his past. There's something so papery about Angel, thin and weightless, that it feels to Denji like the memory of a day always passes over him without sticking or leaving indents in him. Like his body wouldn't be able take it. That, and secretly, he'd always thought Makima just kept him vaulted away and out of sight up until that very first mission the devil, plus the other weirdos in their squad, were assigned to take down that Katana dirtbag.
Still, Denji listens to the analogy with a thoughtful look on his face. In the same movement that he throws an arm over the the back of his seat, he half-lifts a shoulder, shrugging. ]
Beats me.
[ Of course. He said it himself that he's never done this before. What they're doing here is like using a reference photo that only Denji can see in his head of real bodies, real people laughing and living, to trace an indistinct sketch of a similar idea. And to top it off, it's not even a photo Denji's seen for himself, it's something that's only been described to him in stories. ]
Well, you're probably not on the wrong track. The only thing that sorta sounds the same to that for me would be — [ For some reason, what comes to mind is every time he's ever fallen headlong into the open arms of a devil, waiting to tear him apart. His threshold for pain scattering with the clothes off his skin, the skin off his bones. The good, the bad, and the free. He tries to come up with something else. ] Er, uhh, well, I dunno. Maybe a really good neck rub?
[ That doesn't sound right. Ah, who cares? Surely, not Angel. ]
You know, I didn't think you actually had anyone before getting dumped on that Hayakawa jerk. Did Makima experiment with the whole human-devil partner thing before us?
[A neck rub? Does that feel relieving like that, too? ...Come to think of it, no one has ever given any part of his body a rub. Too dangerous, but - But now he's remembering that Denji did a great job at brushing out his wings. Is he good with his hands, maybe? Is that a skill related to massages? He's thinking about that so seriously and so deeply that he nearly misses the question posed.]
[Not that it's an easy question to answer. Angel wouldn't consider the relationship he had with those humans to be at all similar to the one he had with Aki Hayakawa, but then, how would he define either side of those relationships? And what was so different, anyway? He thinks on that, studying him through the curtain of his hair.]
No... Not partners.
[It wasn't so formal, for one thing.]
I worked with her before. Makima, I mean... Sometimes she'd bring other humans along, too, but I hate working, so I usually didn't do a lot. I guess she realized I wasn't going to be much help, so she asked me to make weapons instead. But I don't like making those, either.
[What even does he like. Certainly not putting effort into things he doesn't care about.]
I met some humans like that. Usually they just ignored me, though. I don't care about killing humans, and they knew that, so most of them didn't mind me being around. Some of them would forget I was there, too. I think that's why that one felt okay screaming into a pillow in front of me.
[But then she went and died, and he just sat back and watched. What was he going to do, interfere? Help out? Hell no.]
If it wasn't for Makima, I wouldn't have done this, either. Being a partner with that human. She always makes me do stuff I don't want to do. It's so exhausting.
[Yeah, he's talking to the guy who has the biggest crush on her of all the people in the universe, but Angel doesn't shy away from his honesty. Not like he cares how that impacts their relationship.]
[But then, ignoring that he might have just offended him in his free thoughts about said crush, Angel turns to look at Denji, jumping straight back to the earlier topic.]
You can rub my neck, right? [Since he can touch him.] Will you do that? I want to know what that feels like.
[ It probably should tick him off that Angel so breezily talks crap about the woman Denji's constantly singing praises for, day in and day out. But, oddly, he doesn't feel one way or another about it. In fact, listening along, this non-feeling disguised as ambivalence strikes him as similar to those moments whenever he and Power are standing in Makima's office, when he accidentally glances at his buddy, sees her sweating and trembling, and especially when he pushes aside any wonder that kicks to the surface in favor of staring straight ahead. Straddling that unsettled prickle at the edge of his awareness, just shy of making contact with the realization of something he doesn't want to know. A realization, or the remembrance that there was a flicker of a moment, once, when he didn't want to do what Makima said either?
In a way, he does this same dog trick by letting a more interesting thought occupy his mind: Angel and Makima, together — that's an unusual duo to think about. So weird. Ha ha…
It seems ill-matched at first, and yet they have a lot of superficial things in common, like how stupidly ethereal they look. Just standing there or peering out a window, the light they always seem to carry with them — Angel's golden halo, Makima's sun-lit eyes — glancing off the glass. Maybe not siblings, but they could pass as cousins, at least, with the way their hair is permanently tinted nearly the same shade as… man, he doesn't even know. Something poetic and pretty. Lobsters? Red peppers? …No, not that —
You can rub my neck, right?
What? The song binder avalanches off his knees, clattering to the ground as his focus jerks back to the present. Tightening in on Angel, mouth hanging open in genuine surprise. ]
You want me to?
[ Dumb question. If this entire day has proven anything to Denji, it's that if there's an opportunity for someone who won't immediately drop dead to touch him, of course Angel's going to go for it. And since a neck rub isn't something he's experienced before, it kind of applies to the whole reason they're out gallivanting around the city together. He taps his phone screen to check the time. Well, he already paid, so it's not as if they can get kicked out for doing something other than sing, right? ]
…Geez, you hate working but don't mind putting other folks to work? What kinda mindset is that? [ he grumbles, standing up from his seat and nudges the table slightly away to make room for them to reposition. ] Just don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as how a girl would do it. Sit on the ground in front of me — ah, ah, ah! Wait for me to get outta the way first! Don't whack me with your wings!
[ A simpler ask would have been for Angel to turn around, but his arms always feel sore keeping them raised for too long. He found that out the last time Power nuked his sure win in Mario Kart with an untimely blue shell launch, and she ordered him to give her a three-hour long shoulder massage as a penalty for losing.
Once they're all settled in with Denji awkwardly sitting back down behind Angel, he sinks the tips of his fingers through the tangles in Angel's hair a few times. He isn't out to hurt him, but he's not nice about it, either, brushing down and down, ignoring the glimpses of smooth paleness that brushes against his hands. Only really pausing when he comes across a sliver of white that isn't skin, but a piece of popcorn twisted up in his hair. Obviously, he throws into the back of his mouth without much thought. Eventually, Angel's hair gets sectioned into an asymmetrical curtain that falls over his shoulders — and that's when it suddenly hits Denji. The right word. ]
[When Denji starts to move, Angel does as well, sitting upright as his wings flex out just before he starts getting yelled at not to hit him with them. Jeez, it's not like he's trying to smack him, what's with him? Wait, he has to sit on the floor...?]
[It's not like it's sticky like the floor of the movie theater, but it still feels yucky. As Angel settles in between Denji's legs, his knees pulled up as he leans forward, he isn't really sure what to expect. Don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as when a girl would do it. How would he know that? What woman would do this for him? Makima? She would probably snap his neck. Has there ever been a woman who might do something like this for him?]
[No, his mind supplies, and he accepts that.]
[He's silent as Denji moves his hair aside, reaching up to pull a few strands from where they snag behind his ears. Angel stares forward at the television screen, the little jingle of music playing as the same animation plays over and over, waiting for a song number to be selected. He's silent, waiting - and then Denji speaks up, and Angel turns his head.]
Cherries?
[He stares up at him through the curtain of hair, sleek and straight until it gets to the ends where it frays and curls ever so slightly. Why is he thinking about cherries?]
...Is it really better with me on the floor? [Because even though he's making Denji do work, he can still complain about anything.]
The cant of his head uncannily brings to recall every time Meowy's given him the side-eye when she registers that he's stopped scratching a specific spot behind her ears. Come to think of it, Angel's ears are cute, too, pink and soft-shelled, peeking out from the tapering coils of his hair, curled like the cherry stems Aki's always discarding and Denji's always digging back out from the trash to eat. Sweeping just over his knuckles. Ahhh, if Denji's knees spread, just a little more, wouldn't he fall right back against his…
Without warning, his expression reels and contorts, like he'd casted the hook of his fishing rod into strange waters and when he pulled back, something unexpected had smacked him dead center in the face. ]
Dude, you're the one who asked me to show you how it's done, [ he points out, hands warming the vertical slope of his neck, only touching his skin for a brief moment before coasting along his wrinkled collar and past the peeling flap of his blazer to come to a heavy rest on his shoulders. A highly unnecessary motion; he doesn't realize it. ] It's just easier for me. If you still hate sitting like this in five minutes, we can move, but just pipe down 'til then, alright?
[ Denji tries to think about how he did it for Power back then as his fingertips tighten, his thumbs meeting in the middle of his shirt collar, feeling out the lean muscles of Angel's nape in dense, dragging strokes through the fabric. Trying to force out the resistance that pushes back against his kneading. Angel's more petite than his fiend partner, that's for sure. Probably as bony as he used to be at twelve or thirteen, but he knows that the stature of someone's body isn't always the best signature of flimsiness. When Denji was his size as a full human, he'd already gone under the knife a few times to sell off what organs he could. Not to mention, fended off some of his worst beatings. So perhaps Angel's never been terribly hurt, but he should be able to live through a little bit of pressure tamping down on his back. ]
You wanna take your jacket off? 'm not sure if it's getting in the way or not.
[Denji makes such a big stink about him staying on the ground and Angel, in turn, gives up on the complaint - but maybe it's more to say he forgets. Because suddenly the pressure and rubbing of his muscles feels...]
[It's strange. It feels odd. He's not sure he likes it at first, his body tensing as if to ward off the touch and rougher presses. But over time, as he begins to realize it's not painful and not harmful, he eases into things, relaxes a little more naturally. Denji presses between his shoulderblades and he feels his hair stand on end, a knot he didn't know existed being forced apart. ...Is this just something he's dealt with for so long without realizing it can be fixed?]
[He speaks up and Angel blinks, realizing he's curled back like a cat, exposing more of his back to Denji, wings flat and bent to open up his shoulders. His jacket? That's right. Denji can touch him directly.]
[So he doesn't ask or answer. His hands move up to his collar first, undoing the tie and pulling it off from around his neck to drop into his lap, and then there's the shift of his hands as he undoes buttons. When he reaches up to pull the jacket off, the shirt comes with it. Both pieces of clothing slide down his arms, bunching at his shoulders with his wings pulled down awkwardly around the fabric. He turns his head to look up at Denji, the hair he'd parted so neatly now tumbling over his back again.]
You can touch, right?
[Of course he can. That's why they're doing this. But when has he ever shown anyone his back like this? Let anyone see this much skin? The space where his wings sink into his skin is visible, bony, awkward. Inhuman. Yet the color is nearly uniform, the white on his wings only a few shades ligter than his unblemished skin. Who else has really gotten to see those colors side by side before?]
[Yet it feels nice. To have his skin exposed. The air in the room is cool and compared to the humid heat outside, it's nice.]
[ A friendly suggestion, that's all it was. So what if it was casually coaxed by the roll of Angel's neck? Every faint rustle and flex of his wings pulsing out through his back, the sensation dangerously close to tickling Denji's fingertips, struggling to do more damage, but not quite there yet? He'd never considered playing an instrument before, but a flit of a thought came to him, then, that this was how it must be like. To pluck a string and watch it quiver under his touch, top to bottom. Play a song and not only sit in a crowded row of seats, waiting to be moved by someone else's performance.
But when Angel said nothing in return, he figured that was that. End of conversation. Sometimes what isn't spoken is the best answ…
The hem of the devil's shirt untucks from his belted waist, dropping with his jacket in a slumped mound beside him. Angel's chin tilts up. Doesn't even need to summon a weapon from whatever depths his halo hides to saw right through Denji's inner platitudes, immolating every sensible notion in his mind. Not that there were very many to begin with. His jaw drops, tongue blistered dry before the air in the compact room can even have its shot at it. ]
B-B-B —
[ Poleaxed, Denji can't even find the words to repeat after Angel. He doesn't have any boobs, after all.
…He did say just his jacket, didn't he? He didn't let anything else slip, right? Didn't tell him to strip or… or do that suspiciously flirtatious thing with his head! No, nope, nothing that would get him into trouble came anywhere near his mouth! So why?!
Cheeks alighting in a full-fledged flush, he shoves his face into the crook of his arm, trying to stay the burning, but can't seem to look away. Can't keep his eyes from tightly trailing the longitude of his spine, the curving crook separating his wings into their respective hemispheres, land uncharted. Smooth and unfelt. He can't turn away now. How could he? He's always wondered how it actually looked, seeing his wings connected to his skin like that, not human, but — ]
…It's better. Uh, you can… [ His knees spread wide, leaving an open space for Angel to sit into. If he wants. Though his arm lowers, as do his defenses, Denji can't look him straight in the eye. ] The floor's no good. This place is so slummy a rat might crawl on you…
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no subject
So why does this winged devil keep worrying about it with that weird expression, when they both serve the same purpose? The same utility? ]
Dying's dying. It's… [ It's hard to explain, if you haven't experienced it yourself. But that's such a cop-out answer, he can't bring himself to complete the thought. Denji huffs. ] It tastes like nothing, dude. [ As he voices his thoughts, his mouth is all bloodied in pink syrup, red crumbs dotting his teeth. He doesn't bother wiping any of it away. ] Smells like nothing, sounds like nothing, feels like nothing. Haven't you ever been hurt real bad?
[ He's talking insides liquidized, throat ripped into a second smile. Happens to Power when she isn't careful, but squeeze a sack of blood into her fast enough and she's just fine. ]
It stinks at first, 'cause you're like, 'Ah, balls, where did my hand go? And my legs?! Ouch!' The good thing is, after awhile, ya don't feel the ouch the way you should. You know when you've standing outside in the cold for too long and your nuts get numb? It's like that. Then, you realize you don't feel anything at all, and stuff is going blurry, or dark, or white, I dunno, it depends — honestly, if you're not insta-killed, your head just gets really slow. Things are hard to remember.
[ But mostly… ]
When you're dying, it feels a lot like you're just waiting for it to happen.
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[Maybe. Every breath is one step closer to death, after all, but it's not really what Denji means, he knows. His description doesn't sound pleasing, but it's also soothing to hear, that there's something final in it. Slowing down until eventually you completely stop. The slow, slow descent into nothingness. But one part keeps making him pause, enough to frown softly.]
I haven't.
[Been hurt real bad, that is. He's a defensive build, staying out of combat, but when he does have to he usually gets in close and kills in a single swipe. It doesn't take much, so it's not common for him to get more than a few scratches, maybe a few feathers missing. Makima didn't place him right below Kishibe in the power scale for nothing.]
[Does that mean Denji is more prepared than him? He's always though of himself as ready to die at any moment, no matter what happens. But lately it's harder. Lately he has to actually work more, put in more effort. Try to survive. It's not for himself, though. He's always been ready, always prepared to kick the bucket at any moment. Come what may. He doesn't care. But now that he's hearing how it really feels, how death comes slow and steady... Would that mean he would have to spend that whole time watching him, watching the despair on his face and the regret and the desperation to stop it again? Would he feel every second like it's an eternity, being shaken, dragged to safety, blood dumped down his throat? The issue is, he doesn't know. He's never been hurt bad enough to see how he would react.]
He told me he's sick of the people around him dying. That I should go somewhere far away if I'm going to.
[He's never discussed that with anyone, but it sits in the back of his mind at all times. Annoyingly, like a constant debate. Back and forth. Unending. Pushing the boulder up the hill, watching it roll back down.]
I wonder if it's because of you, too. Watching you die, even though you come back...
[A huff. Not a grunt, not a sigh - but not quite a laugh or a chuckle, either.]
He's so clingy.
no subject
After a moment, he sets aside his utensils, along with the baffled stare he'd leveled at Angel, shifting to dip his head in a kind of shrug. The placement of his shoulders landing at a slant, his cheek coming to rest on one of his palms. ]
…Yeah. That sounds like him.
[ Lukewarm agreement, like he doesn't care, despite the impatient twist in his gut that's dying to prod at what else Angel knows. What else Aki's told him, but not Denji — except for that one time that first day, a warning to get lost, and after that, never again. He's not sure that counts, though. It feels different, and there's a sorry part of his pride that would rather feign understanding, than admit to not knowing this side of Aki for some reason. ]
So you're gonna stop trying in front of him, then?
[ To die. To leave. To slough off life and go to that final sleeping place. Whatever euphemism or not, Angel wants to use for it.
Their server stops by to check on them, but Denji just waves them off, doesn't even ask for the check. They'll be back. ]
'less you want him to cling harder to you.
no subject
I don't think I want him to cling to me any harder. I'd just end up killing him, myself.
[Passively, not purposefully. He drags another finger through the syrup and sucks it clean with a silent sound, still thinking.]
It's strange to be cared for, as a devil, isn't it. We aren't creatures that care for one another. So it was strange when he told me that.
[Ahh, he's not going to eat this. In a rare act of caring, himself, he raises his eyes and pulls the finger free from his mouth to ask Denji,] You want the rest?
no subject
Inexplicably, it's this sentence that triggers a special switch in his head, one that shoots a memory through him too fast, too clear, it blinds him to everything else, like a gun flashing, a bullet hitting its mark. Denji, shoved to the ground as Aki partitions himself between him and that scaredy-cat girl's knife. The pained cringe rippling out the other man's body as steel dug into his rib cage, but still there was a sharpness to his gaze, sharper than any bladed point — stupid commitment. Dumbass conviction, in only the way heroes in action anime are ever able to get away with.
And yes, he'd thought it'd been strange. That another human could hate him so much and still want him to live. Maybe not for the same reasons Aki had wanted Angel to live, but it'd still… cracked a door in him the slightest bit open. He's not sure how else to describe it. ]
Yeah.
[ He says, finally, as he rakes a spread hand across Angel's plate, strings of sugar dangling from his wrist as he lifts it to his face to lick up. Copying the way Angel had delicately caught the syrup with his mouth without drizzling it all over the tablecloth. Obviously, Denji's less successful at this. ]
That guy's a strange one. Cares too much. Should be careful about who it is he's being nice to. But I think when he dies, that means a whole lotta people will show up during that, uh, sad people thing and cry, the way he always does about dead people. It's called a funeral, I heard…
no subject
A funeral, yeah. [How much longer? Two years? Two years, and then maybe he'll get to die, too.]
[What a depressing thought. He sighs and leans back against his seat, staring morosely up at the ceiling through his halo. Waiting for one person to die so that no one will be left who cares about you. Humans truly do deserve to die slowly and painfully, for all the trouble they're worth.]
Well... Maybe at his funeral, you can be the one to kill me. Since you're apparently the only one who won't get hurt doing that. [So there's something to look forward to. Dying here the same way he remembers dying there. Or at least, in a similar vein.] Just go vuun-vuun and make it quick.
no subject
Denji, on the other hand, considers the prospect of killing him with only vague distaste, not because he's opposed to it — he thinks he could do it, can't think of any reason why he wouldn't be able to — but because, well, isn't that kinda too lovey-dovey of an idea? ]
Eh? I don't wanna.
[ Not looking at Angel, he wipes his moist palm against the tablecloth. ]
So as soon as the dude you're living for drops dead, suddenly you can't go on or something…? Why do I gotta play the part of reuniting you guys in the afterlife? [ A soft snort. ] Plus, that'd definitely piss off that guy and make 'em come back as a ghost to haunt me! I'd have no privacy to jerk it anymore! Talk about the worst case scenario…
[ The server returns shortly, placing his change on the table, then departs again to tend to another guest. Stuffing his money into a pocket, he starts to get up. Lead them out. ]
If you want me to do that, you'd have to gimme somethin' real good to pay me back.
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[Actually, that sounds just like him. Angel frowns, closing his eyes loosely. Pay him back... What could he even offer that he'd want? His frown deepens.]
It's not like I'm living for him, but...
[But he can't explain it. He's keenly, uncomfortably aware of the fact that his death might actually matter to someone now and that feeling is disturbing. He's a devil. No devil nor human should care if he lives or dies. But that human might cry if he gets torn to shreds. And that's...]
[He sighs, looking down again as Denji gets up. Great, they have to walk again...]
The only thing you're interested in is sex, anyway... I can't think of anything else you'd consider "real good."
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…But really? Angel can't think to even draw inspiration from all the places Denji's taken him to so far? Each location was technically related to his interests… Movies, games, food. Although, yeah, if there were a boob store he were old enough to get into, he probably would have taken Angel there first. He's a pretty simple guy. Still, he's not going to spell it out for him.
If Angel's serious about dying after Aki's gone, he'll find a way — either to convince someone else, if not Denji, or end things on his own. ]
It's gotta be something super impressive, [ he tells him, glancing from one side of the street to the next before crossing. ] Not you're regular ol' jam you can get from the market! I'll tell ya that.
[ Denji pauses, for a moment, as they reach the other end, looking around. They haven't been walking long, but it looks as if he's inadvertently led them into a residential area. Hmm, he pulls his phone out. ]
Uh, hold on, lemme check how far the karaoke place is.
no subject
[He stops when Denji mentions that, surprised. They're going to karaoke? Did he forget that was part of the plan?]
[Probably, somewhere in the fog of today. After everything else that happened - first the movies, which was exhausting in its own way, then...]
[...Hold on. Can he still touch him? Or did that wear off? Without any sort of preamble or permission asked, he reaches out to touch Denji's arm again, pressing his palm over his skin and waiting for a moment. But yet again, just like the ten other times he's touched him, nothing happens.]
...Something like that would be possible, with you.
[The realization comes slow. Never before has he seriously thought about his inability to have sexual relations with anyone, but being in proximity with the guy who seems to have that running as a background track in his mind makes it too easy to think about. He says it has to be super impressive, and wouldn't that be pretty impressive?]
How far is it? [He leans over to look at the phone, but the glint from his halo makes it hard to see the screen.]
no subject
This is so awkward.
Coughing, Denji tilts his phone screen for him to see (and to adjust the glare from his halo). There's a dotted path leading them to some karaoke joint rated 2.1 stars. Well, it's close by. ]
Seven minutes. C'mon, that's back the way we came — [ He tugs his arm away, rushing to take them back down the street they'd just crossed — but a long honk screams his way, his instincts kicking him back far away enough to avoid a collision with a delivery motorcyclist. ] Watch it, prick!
[ His eyes flash up to the crossing signal and, ugh, it's red. So, technically, his fault. After a moment, the signal changes to green. ]
…Alrighty, now let's go.
[ He feels kinda dumb for taking them in the wrong direction in the first place, but, luckily, seven minutes isn't a far walk. Remembering what happened last time he walked ahead of him, Denji matches his strides to Angel's all the way to the karaoke place. He looks a little disgruntled while doing so, but miraculously keeps his complaints about the slower pace to himself.
When they arrive, the reason for the location's low rating makes itself obvious. The six-story building itself is a bit rundown, and the front counter is vacant; it takes Denji hollering through the opening to get anyone to greet them, record the number of hours they'll be there for, and grubbily take his payment. He only has enough cash for one hour. The rest of the money Aki shared with him will have to be saved for getting them home.
The elevator chimes as they reach the floor where their karaoke booth's located. ]
Here we are! Karaoke paradise.
[ The 'paradise' in question is a small ass, dark room with blinking lights moving in a circle around the seating area. It has all the usual hallmarks of a karaoke booth. There's a menu sitting atop the table for food and drinks, a large monitor displaying the song-picking interface. Denji kneels beside the cabinet full of sound equipment that's there, pulling a mic and flipping its switch before slapping the head of it against his palm to test the sound. An echo-y thump bursts from the speakers. Okay, so it works.
He holds the mic out to Angel. ]
So, like, just pick a song and try to sing along with the lyrics. And you really have to sing for it to be fun! Don't hold back!
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[As he stands in the dark room with blinking lights, he realizes this is Denji's idea of fun. A human's idea of fun. He stares at the proffered microphone, the echo of their voices when it occasionally picks them up. The little sofa, the table, the large binder. A human's idea of fun.]
[Of course he can't understand that. Angel doesn't move from where he stands, arched in the doorway with the closed door behind him.]
I don't know any music, Chainsaw-kun.
[How can he possibly pick anything, anyway? He doesn't want to. And, as is well known in their bureau, whatever he doesn't want to do simply won't be done.]
[Crossing behind Denji, he moves to sit down in the seating area, his wings pulling back a little as he adjusts himself. The lights make it a little hard to focus his eyes.]
Why do you want to sing here?
[A human's idea of fun, attempted with a half-human and a half-angel. It doesn't make sense to him. What did Denji hope to get out of this experience?]
no subject
Denji takes the other mic along with him as he sits on the opposite end of the seat, back facing toward Angel. Balancing the binder between his knees, he flips through the pages of the vast catalog of songs; it may not come as a surprise, but a lot of these he doesn't recognize right off the bat. There are codes assigned to each song, so that's probably what they have to enter into the tablet-thing. Adding the tablet to his already full lap, Denji selects a code at random to type into the text field.
It's as he's doing this that he says to Angel, ] Isn't this "something different from usual"? [ It's different from Denji's usual, anyway. Maybe Angel's been to one of these before, and that's why he's not impressed… ] That's what you asked me to show you.
[ A music video plays across the screen, the lyrics flashing out against an instrumental of synthetic percussion, but Denji doesn't bother lifting the mic to his mouth. If Angel's not going to sing, they may as well put something on in the background. ]
I've always wanted to play around inside these places. You know about high school students, right? I hear that loads of 'em come here with their buds and girls from their class. It's supposed to be so fun that they even lose track of time and stay out past the last train time!
no subject
[No image comes to him.]
Do you wish you'd had a life like that, instead?
[Aki Hayakawa would tell him to can it right around now. Tell him he doesn't want to discuss depressing things. Say something about how he chose his path and he's still walking on it. Nothing Angel says will change it. He knows that.]
It would be more fun than coming here with a devil.
no subject
Eh, if I had a life like that, I'd have to worry about studying and pop quizzes. [ Reze showed him as much what a day at school could look like. It'd been its own kind of fun, but it's not something he's craving to go back to get more free samples of. ] Makin' sure my pencils are sharpened. I can't care about that kinda stuff when Miss Makima needs me to kill that Gun guy. And besides, I know how to spell balls, boobs, and butts — the big three! I know all I needa know in that department.
[ Just which department is he referring to… ]
So, nah, hanging out with you is fun 'nuff for me. [ He starts to lean over to get the second mic again. ] You sure you don't wanna sing, dude? I'll pick another song for you.
no subject
[He eyes the second microphone, still looking unsure, but... Like Denji said, he was the one who requested something new. Seeing how the lyrics float across the screen, at least it doesn't seem like it matters if he knows the song or not. He knows rhythm, for some reason. Maybe because angels are usually depicted in song? Has he ever sang before? He doesn't remember. Would that feel normal? Not that he's an angel, though. Not wholly.]
Let me see... [He reaches over to pick up the remote, trying to read the buttons on it in the semi-dim room. The book doesn't provide him any use since he doesn't know any music, but on the remote is a tempting button that he wishes existed more in real life: random. As the song Denji picked has faded and waits for the next input, Angel presses that and after a spinning disc icon pops up, a piano begins to play.]
[It's in English, but he can sing that, for some reason. He doesn't know all the words but some of them are known to him, translatable not into Japanese but into simple understanding, which he isn't sure why. Of course, he isn't sure why he knows Japanese in the first place, but still. Holding the microphone, a couple lines go by without him singing, just reading, before he actually starts.]
[Given how he speaks in near monotone all the time, maybe it's surprising that he can use pitch and tempo to actually sing. His voice isn't particularly feminine or masculine but hitting higher notes isn't a problem. Not that he knows where they are - he doesn't know this song, but it's pretty. The frustration in the words is comforting. The way the piano gets faster and harsher before fading back is nice. Like a chaotic ensemble that was drenched into quiet. It's nice. Singing feels nice. He doesn't really get why.]
[When the song ends and a little applause sounds from the speakers along with a score (he was being graded on this...?) Angel sets the microphone down, seeming content with the experiment. The trying of something outside his wheelhouse maybe, or simply something different from his every day.]
no subject
However, maybe he can only think like that because he can't understand a single lick of the lyrics.
The song finishes. Denji slaps a hand against the leather of his seat, both as a way of applauding in tandem with the sound effects and to get Angel to come scooch closer so that he can hear him better above the noise he's making when he tells him: ]
Wouldja look at that! You got a 95.524, whatever that means!
[ According to the manual thing, the score is calculated by factoring the rhythm, timing, and pitch accuracy of the singer. Though how the machine is possibly able to accurately clock that stuff is fully outside his understanding. ]
That's, like, good, I think.
[ Anyway. ]
And? How'd it feel?
no subject
[He's thinking about that, but Denji asks how it felt, and Angel considers that he didn't think about that at all. How it felt...]
I guess it was new. I don't think I've ever sang anything before.
[But that's not a feeling, of course. That's just a fact. How did it feel to sing...? He looks down at the microphone in his hand, thinking about it while sitting back in the seat.]
I remember this human I worked with once. She probably wasn't cut out for this kind of job... When she got too upset, she would scream into a pillow at the bureau. She said she didn't want to worry anyone, but she also wanted to let out some of the emotion she had. ...Though when she died, she was completely silent.
[He pauses.]
I guess it probably felt how she must have felt, to let out some emotion like that. Maybe a little calming? [It's possible he misunderstood her reasoning for screaming into pillows, but she always perked up after, so he assumed it was a stress relief.] Is that how it's supposed to feel?
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Still, Denji listens to the analogy with a thoughtful look on his face. In the same movement that he throws an arm over the the back of his seat, he half-lifts a shoulder, shrugging. ]
Beats me.
[ Of course. He said it himself that he's never done this before. What they're doing here is like using a reference photo that only Denji can see in his head of real bodies, real people laughing and living, to trace an indistinct sketch of a similar idea. And to top it off, it's not even a photo Denji's seen for himself, it's something that's only been described to him in stories. ]
Well, you're probably not on the wrong track. The only thing that sorta sounds the same to that for me would be — [ For some reason, what comes to mind is every time he's ever fallen headlong into the open arms of a devil, waiting to tear him apart. His threshold for pain scattering with the clothes off his skin, the skin off his bones. The good, the bad, and the free. He tries to come up with something else. ] Er, uhh, well, I dunno. Maybe a really good neck rub?
[ That doesn't sound right. Ah, who cares? Surely, not Angel. ]
You know, I didn't think you actually had anyone before getting dumped on that Hayakawa jerk. Did Makima experiment with the whole human-devil partner thing before us?
no subject
[Not that it's an easy question to answer. Angel wouldn't consider the relationship he had with those humans to be at all similar to the one he had with Aki Hayakawa, but then, how would he define either side of those relationships? And what was so different, anyway? He thinks on that, studying him through the curtain of his hair.]
No... Not partners.
[It wasn't so formal, for one thing.]
I worked with her before. Makima, I mean... Sometimes she'd bring other humans along, too, but I hate working, so I usually didn't do a lot. I guess she realized I wasn't going to be much help, so she asked me to make weapons instead. But I don't like making those, either.
[What even does he like. Certainly not putting effort into things he doesn't care about.]
I met some humans like that. Usually they just ignored me, though. I don't care about killing humans, and they knew that, so most of them didn't mind me being around. Some of them would forget I was there, too. I think that's why that one felt okay screaming into a pillow in front of me.
[But then she went and died, and he just sat back and watched. What was he going to do, interfere? Help out? Hell no.]
If it wasn't for Makima, I wouldn't have done this, either. Being a partner with that human. She always makes me do stuff I don't want to do. It's so exhausting.
[Yeah, he's talking to the guy who has the biggest crush on her of all the people in the universe, but Angel doesn't shy away from his honesty. Not like he cares how that impacts their relationship.]
[But then, ignoring that he might have just offended him in his free thoughts about said crush, Angel turns to look at Denji, jumping straight back to the earlier topic.]
You can rub my neck, right? [Since he can touch him.] Will you do that? I want to know what that feels like.
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In a way, he does this same dog trick by letting a more interesting thought occupy his mind: Angel and Makima, together — that's an unusual duo to think about. So weird. Ha ha…
It seems ill-matched at first, and yet they have a lot of superficial things in common, like how stupidly ethereal they look. Just standing there or peering out a window, the light they always seem to carry with them — Angel's golden halo, Makima's sun-lit eyes — glancing off the glass. Maybe not siblings, but they could pass as cousins, at least, with the way their hair is permanently tinted nearly the same shade as… man, he doesn't even know. Something poetic and pretty. Lobsters? Red peppers? …No, not that —
You can rub my neck, right?
What? The song binder avalanches off his knees, clattering to the ground as his focus jerks back to the present. Tightening in on Angel, mouth hanging open in genuine surprise. ]
You want me to?
[ Dumb question. If this entire day has proven anything to Denji, it's that if there's an opportunity for someone who won't immediately drop dead to touch him, of course Angel's going to go for it. And since a neck rub isn't something he's experienced before, it kind of applies to the whole reason they're out gallivanting around the city together. He taps his phone screen to check the time. Well, he already paid, so it's not as if they can get kicked out for doing something other than sing, right? ]
…Geez, you hate working but don't mind putting other folks to work? What kinda mindset is that? [ he grumbles, standing up from his seat and nudges the table slightly away to make room for them to reposition. ] Just don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as how a girl would do it. Sit on the ground in front of me — ah, ah, ah! Wait for me to get outta the way first! Don't whack me with your wings!
[ A simpler ask would have been for Angel to turn around, but his arms always feel sore keeping them raised for too long. He found that out the last time Power nuked his sure win in Mario Kart with an untimely blue shell launch, and she ordered him to give her a three-hour long shoulder massage as a penalty for losing.
Once they're all settled in with Denji awkwardly sitting back down behind Angel, he sinks the tips of his fingers through the tangles in Angel's hair a few times. He isn't out to hurt him, but he's not nice about it, either, brushing down and down, ignoring the glimpses of smooth paleness that brushes against his hands. Only really pausing when he comes across a sliver of white that isn't skin, but a piece of popcorn twisted up in his hair. Obviously, he throws into the back of his mouth without much thought. Eventually, Angel's hair gets sectioned into an asymmetrical curtain that falls over his shoulders — and that's when it suddenly hits Denji. The right word. ]
Cherries…
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[It's not like it's sticky like the floor of the movie theater, but it still feels yucky. As Angel settles in between Denji's legs, his knees pulled up as he leans forward, he isn't really sure what to expect. Don't complain if it doesn't feel as nice as when a girl would do it. How would he know that? What woman would do this for him? Makima? She would probably snap his neck. Has there ever been a woman who might do something like this for him?]
[No, his mind supplies, and he accepts that.]
[He's silent as Denji moves his hair aside, reaching up to pull a few strands from where they snag behind his ears. Angel stares forward at the television screen, the little jingle of music playing as the same animation plays over and over, waiting for a song number to be selected. He's silent, waiting - and then Denji speaks up, and Angel turns his head.]
Cherries?
[He stares up at him through the curtain of hair, sleek and straight until it gets to the ends where it frays and curls ever so slightly. Why is he thinking about cherries?]
...Is it really better with me on the floor? [Because even though he's making Denji do work, he can still complain about anything.]
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The cant of his head uncannily brings to recall every time Meowy's given him the side-eye when she registers that he's stopped scratching a specific spot behind her ears. Come to think of it, Angel's ears are cute, too, pink and soft-shelled, peeking out from the tapering coils of his hair, curled like the cherry stems Aki's always discarding and Denji's always digging back out from the trash to eat. Sweeping just over his knuckles. Ahhh, if Denji's knees spread, just a little more, wouldn't he fall right back against his…
Without warning, his expression reels and contorts, like he'd casted the hook of his fishing rod into strange waters and when he pulled back, something unexpected had smacked him dead center in the face. ]
Dude, you're the one who asked me to show you how it's done, [ he points out, hands warming the vertical slope of his neck, only touching his skin for a brief moment before coasting along his wrinkled collar and past the peeling flap of his blazer to come to a heavy rest on his shoulders. A highly unnecessary motion; he doesn't realize it. ] It's just easier for me. If you still hate sitting like this in five minutes, we can move, but just pipe down 'til then, alright?
[ Denji tries to think about how he did it for Power back then as his fingertips tighten, his thumbs meeting in the middle of his shirt collar, feeling out the lean muscles of Angel's nape in dense, dragging strokes through the fabric. Trying to force out the resistance that pushes back against his kneading. Angel's more petite than his fiend partner, that's for sure. Probably as bony as he used to be at twelve or thirteen, but he knows that the stature of someone's body isn't always the best signature of flimsiness. When Denji was his size as a full human, he'd already gone under the knife a few times to sell off what organs he could. Not to mention, fended off some of his worst beatings. So perhaps Angel's never been terribly hurt, but he should be able to live through a little bit of pressure tamping down on his back. ]
You wanna take your jacket off? 'm not sure if it's getting in the way or not.
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[It's strange. It feels odd. He's not sure he likes it at first, his body tensing as if to ward off the touch and rougher presses. But over time, as he begins to realize it's not painful and not harmful, he eases into things, relaxes a little more naturally. Denji presses between his shoulderblades and he feels his hair stand on end, a knot he didn't know existed being forced apart. ...Is this just something he's dealt with for so long without realizing it can be fixed?]
[He speaks up and Angel blinks, realizing he's curled back like a cat, exposing more of his back to Denji, wings flat and bent to open up his shoulders. His jacket? That's right. Denji can touch him directly.]
[So he doesn't ask or answer. His hands move up to his collar first, undoing the tie and pulling it off from around his neck to drop into his lap, and then there's the shift of his hands as he undoes buttons. When he reaches up to pull the jacket off, the shirt comes with it. Both pieces of clothing slide down his arms, bunching at his shoulders with his wings pulled down awkwardly around the fabric. He turns his head to look up at Denji, the hair he'd parted so neatly now tumbling over his back again.]
You can touch, right?
[Of course he can. That's why they're doing this. But when has he ever shown anyone his back like this? Let anyone see this much skin? The space where his wings sink into his skin is visible, bony, awkward. Inhuman. Yet the color is nearly uniform, the white on his wings only a few shades ligter than his unblemished skin. Who else has really gotten to see those colors side by side before?]
[Yet it feels nice. To have his skin exposed. The air in the room is cool and compared to the humid heat outside, it's nice.]
Is it better bare?
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But when Angel said nothing in return, he figured that was that. End of conversation. Sometimes what isn't spoken is the best answ…
The hem of the devil's shirt untucks from his belted waist, dropping with his jacket in a slumped mound beside him. Angel's chin tilts up. Doesn't even need to summon a weapon from whatever depths his halo hides to saw right through Denji's inner platitudes, immolating every sensible notion in his mind. Not that there were very many to begin with. His jaw drops, tongue blistered dry before the air in the compact room can even have its shot at it. ]
B-B-B —
[ Poleaxed, Denji can't even find the words to repeat after Angel. He doesn't have any boobs, after all.
…He did say just his jacket, didn't he? He didn't let anything else slip, right? Didn't tell him to strip or… or do that suspiciously flirtatious thing with his head! No, nope, nothing that would get him into trouble came anywhere near his mouth! So why?!
Cheeks alighting in a full-fledged flush, he shoves his face into the crook of his arm, trying to stay the burning, but can't seem to look away. Can't keep his eyes from tightly trailing the longitude of his spine, the curving crook separating his wings into their respective hemispheres, land uncharted. Smooth and unfelt. He can't turn away now. How could he? He's always wondered how it actually looked, seeing his wings connected to his skin like that, not human, but — ]
…It's better. Uh, you can… [ His knees spread wide, leaving an open space for Angel to sit into. If he wants. Though his arm lowers, as do his defenses, Denji can't look him straight in the eye. ] The floor's no good. This place is so slummy a rat might crawl on you…
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