[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…
[Angel isn't sure he understands why. His first thought is that it's his wings - seeing where they push into his skin, meet his back and blend into the muscles below the dermis. Bone meeting bone, muscle fusing to muscle. But then, Denji has seen much worse than strange anatomy on a devil. Hell, he's seen devils without anything to call anatomy to begin with. When he scoots backwards and gives Angel the space to sit on the couch, he considers arguing because it's not really enough space... But the floor does feel sticky to his hands when he sets one down. The sleeves slide down his arms and the fabric piles beside him. Maybe the couch wouldn't be so bad.]
[So he stands up, drops the tie into the same pile, then seats himself down right between his legs. He has to press his own together to be able to fit and he can feel his thighs meeting Denji's as he tries to find the right spot, scooting back a bit as he feels the edge of the seat. His wings pull in and slide down, acting like a cape split in two to keep from choking him with feathers - and to let him touch his skin. Which still doesn't feel quite right. To let someone be this close to skin like this. Skin like his.]
[But Denji doesn't die. So it's okay. This time, it'll be okay.]
Is this okay?
[He doesn't look over his shoulder this time. Stock still, his hands seated in his lap. Thighs together, tense.]
[The last time he sat this close to someone, between their legs... Briefly he closes his eyes to will that memory back into his subconscious but the blank scene behind his lids only amplifies that moment in his mind. Cold and frigid rain and wind. Warm body. Warm arms. That warm hand.]
[Is Denji warm, too? Maybe not. He's got a chainsaw for a heart, after all, and those are metal. Metal is cold. Devils are cold, too. But that's a lie, since Angel's body is so damn warm.]
[ This was a stupid idea. That's exceedingly clear to Denji the moment Angel doesn't laugh him out of the booth, doesn't question or point out how illogical this demonstration has been at every fast and loose step. But another thought, another voice, a louder one, rings just as clear in reminder: "The only reason he isn't chained up in a cell is because he does those things. Pokes holes in bread and can't pick out a movie."
Angel doesn't know this is stupid. Doesn't know to think it or say it. Has no clue the curve of his ass doesn't need to be sitting directly at the fork between Denji's legs, that Denji changed mind about the position only when he changed out of his clothes, and, most important of all, that they're two guys who are too close.
Is that okay? Shouldn't he have the chance to figure these things out like the rest of them?
Shouldn't Denji?
If an answer exists to that question, it lives nowhere near his throat. Yeah, nope — Denji can wet his lips and try to gulp around the thick dryness in his mouth all he wants, but nothing goes down or out, in or up. He's cross-wired. He doesn't hide it very well.
But small as Angel's bare shoulders are, they're solid as any sailor's anchor under the push of his fingertips. Good enough to cling to, keep his head afloat. That's what Reze told him when she taught him to swim: It's easier to keep yourself above the water when you're holding on to someone, then one way or another, you'll both make it back to steady ground. Granted, she was the same girl who drowned his mouth in blood the very next day, but she probably wouldn't lie to him about something like this.
Man, is it hard, though. He can actually make out the imprint of his thumbs roughing into Angel's skin as he starts kneading again, measured, with the same amount of pressure as before. It isn't long, however, until he starts noticing the splotches of red leak from his pale back — maybe he's pressing too hard. ]
…Does it feel okay?
[ Maybe he should have asked this back from the very start.
His voice sounds weird to his ears, warm and too far away, too much like the uncanny feeling of listening to himself through a scratchy CD player. Without waiting for a reply, his hands start to roam down, squeezing and pressing into him until his palms are cupped right below Angel's underarms. Keeps them there, fingers stroking so deep along that slender dip of his back, it's like he could fold him in half. Each rubbing movement seeming to edge Angel just that farther back into the alignment of Denji's hips. He doesn't even notice, his brain inextricably narrowed on the repetition.
It's crazy how thin this guy is, how the full volume of his body fits so easily into his palms. It's like he could lift him, hook his leg up. Plow him straight on top of his…
He sucks a breath in, veiling his gasp with an unnatural cough as he snatches his hands back. Blinks down at the bulge protruding from his pants zipper. ]
[There are a lot of instances where Angel wishes the difference between human and devil were more clear cut. Aside from the physical differences, the lifespan, the powers, the method of creation... Aside from those things, there are just too many similarities to feel comfortable. It's like seeing yourself in a foggy reflection yet being unable to deny that you're staring into your own eyes, there. Even if the color looks different. That's still you, isn't it?]
[But the warmth - That's a difference he wasn't sure of. If it was real or not, if it was something he made up. In the moment he can remember, when that human snagged his hand and yanked him down against his body and out of the typhoon, his hand should have been cold and clammy and wet, slashed by wind and rain. But the core of it was warm, and maybe Angel supplied the logic that he was feeling his lifespan instead of something distinctly human. But lifespan doesn't even feel like anything. Or maybe it feels like how Denji described death: tastes like nothing.]
[Denji's hands are warm, though.]
[He knew this from before and could have extrapolated from there. The first initial touch, the subsequent ones. Holding his hand and pulling him out of the crowd. When he touched his forehead, it was warm, too. Not something limited to extremities or seeping through his body in defense of touch - against Angel's forehead, he had been warm. His whole body is warm, then? That would make sense - humans are warm-blooded creatures, their blood cycling through their body to keep the temperature even, keep their bodies working. Like motor oil or diesel, churning through a chainsaw to keep the metal cold and prevent it from melting. A human response mixed with a devil response. Devils aren't so simply cold- or warm-blooded creatures. It depends on need. So why is Denji so warm?]
[He doesn't realize his face is so red, that his own body is so warm now. Denji's hands slide down his arms and below his underarms and squeeze into his back and every touch is like a lick of flame. He's trying to put all this away logically, to ignore all of it, to accept it as mere fact and enjoy the simple feeling of having his muscles massaged - it was nice before, right? So direct contact to them should be better. It should be fine, like this. It should feel okay. Better than okay. So why does it keep getting warmer, to the point where it's starting to feel like flame and hot coal? And why the hell does that intensity feel so good?]
[He doesn't fully care about what's rubbing between his ass at first. He doesn't think about it at all, actually, is the better understanding of his thought process, because Denji then removes the very things he was enjoying and he cares much more about that. Angel reaches back, turning his head slightly to see what he's doing, snatches for one of his wrists - two, if he's lucky. Aims to tug them right back to where they were, but opposite this time. Instead of coasting down his back, pressing at the thick muscle right below his wings, he pulls them to the front and guides them over his chest, expectant. He wants to feel it there, now.]
Here.
[An order, not a request. He needs to feel that hot metal as much as he can before whatever is making this happen decides to pull the rug out from beneath him. Before something cools this off. The devil side takes over, runs chilling oil through him instead. He can't have that yet.]
[If it was Aki Hayakawa, his mind supplies for some reason - If it were that one, he could respond to this better, he thinks. He would be all calm and methodical. Know exactly where he wants him to touch. He wouldn't be shy. Angel could sit on his lap, face him, set his hands on his shoulers while he rubs his body and warms him up. Because devils aren't warm-blooded by choice, just by happenstance. And isn't it the greatest happenstance at all that it's the Chainsaw boy that can do this and not Aki Hayakawa, instead? And when will the happenstance timer end and normalcy return? He clenches Denji tight, intent to keep him right where he is. Still touching.]
[ Denji gets hot at night when Power clings too close, and he’s been known to work up a sweat so intense it feels like a fever passing through his body when he’s nervous. However, the heat of another person, that’s something he’s only registered in potent, yet fleeting, doses. Like when Himeno helped him out of his shirt, trailed her hand down the length of his slight torso like a sweet courtesy; when Reze sunk her teeth into his tongue and tore away, playful, mean, a love bite that couldn't be helped; when Makima snugged his hand around her full breast, and he could practically sing along to the steady rhythm of her heart, made him squeeze her the way a holy man clutches at his cross; and Aki —
When Aki stood as an obstacle to his death, to the sacrifice of his heart to a lower devil, for a stupid reason he can't even remember, how that press of their groins, the spread of his legs, had arched into forever, it seemed like, and Denji went off and died anyway, a nearly infinite amount of times, just to bring eternity to an end. When Aki carried him over a shoulder, as if it were normal and easy to hold on to a barely conscious boy, soaking his blood into his clothes, holding on to him until they could retreat into safety. When Aki's arm bumps against his in the kitchen most mornings, and he can't think about anything else.
Every time he touches someone, it always feels like a sensation that's granted to him. He's never thought about what he could be giving away.
This half-devil's hands are warm, but they're shaking.
Denji presses down into Angel's pecs — to anchor his bearings, really. Fondling's maybe the only fourth or fifth thing on his mind, even with the tightness in his pants burrowed close to his rear. But it's this very movement, watching the jiggle of his pecs from over his shoulder, that forwards that notion straight to first place. His tits remind him a little of Power's. Flat, cute. It's fascinating kneading down on Angel with an extra increment of force, thumbs rubbing at his nipples through his shirt, just for his chest to recoil back where it's meant to be, like pressing down into a spring mattress. He wonders what it'd be like to slap his whole hand against his chest, what kind of mark it'd leave, if that would make Angel whole body bounce and lurch.
The last time he was this close to him was during their sleepover, wasn't it?
…No, that's not right. A loose feather caught in Angel's collar tickles at Denji's chin. He's close enough for his shallow breaths to touch his ear with the clearness of an instrument plugged into an amp. Biting Angel's halo that time was more of a quick in-and-out experiment, not the same whatsoever, but this —
His eyes go up.
It's then the same compulsion as what had flooded him that night visits Denji again. Stepping in uninvited, knotting its claws into his spine, makes him grind into Angel, his chest crowding into his wings, tilting upward into him like a marionette tugged by its strings, as his sharp, pearly whites find the curve of his halo. The dig of his teeth happens with less force, still a bite, but he isn't trying to chew through Angel anymore. He knows what his halo's for now, how full it feels held in his mouth. He knows it's not going anywhere.
There's a sick part of him that feels good doing this, locking a hare by its neck. ]
[It's different here, he realizes after just a few presses. It doesn't feel like it did when Denji was pressing his palms into his back and kneading his muscles there. This kneading... It's not relieving, it's not... relaxing. No, it's definitely not relaxing. It's not soothing. If anything, it's making Angel feel warmer, the heat rising inside him. Denji rolls his fingers over his nipples and Angel doesn't speak but he feels the bob in his throat jolt up, then down. He's looking down, watching his hands, his own still grasped on his wrists. Not so much guiding as along for the ride.]
[He doesn't get it. Why this is so different. Why does being touched feel so...]
[Then he bites down and Angel's vision whites out. His eyes go wide and his breath catches hard and fast in his throat. He jolts once before nearly falling limp back into Denji's chest, the hands on his wrists twitching with effort to keep their hold. It's not a full bite, doesn't threaten to crack the light into shards, but it's harsher than when he simply touched it before. When he ran his fingers along the rim and Angel had briefly thought he might hum along to produce a tone. Instinct tells him to simply push him back and get away but he can't move, not when he has Denji's hands pressed into his chest, effectively pinning himself against him. As if he has to find a way to struggle against that, Angel arches his back, pressing both towards his hands while he turns his head in an attempt to dislodge his halo.]
Chain - Ah -
[He can't finish because adjusting his position adjusts something else, too. He can feel heat pressed against his ass now, hard heat that he recognizes the source of but doesn't have the brain power to create any kind of response to. Instead he turns his head again and his halo shivers in Denji's teeth, like it wants to move, too, expects to turn along with its owner. Head leaned back like this, Angel can't quite see what Denji is doing, can't see where he's biting him much like a human can't see the crown of their head.]
What - You're gonna...
[His tongue feels heavy, large in his mouth. His face is getting warm. What the hell is going on? It should hurt, it should burn, just like before. A bite to his most sensitive spot. But instead, the noise he makes is more than the song of a water glass's rim - it's a full on whine.]
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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.
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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.
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[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.]
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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!
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[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.
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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?
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[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?
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[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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[Angel isn't sure he understands why. His first thought is that it's his wings - seeing where they push into his skin, meet his back and blend into the muscles below the dermis. Bone meeting bone, muscle fusing to muscle. But then, Denji has seen much worse than strange anatomy on a devil. Hell, he's seen devils without anything to call anatomy to begin with. When he scoots backwards and gives Angel the space to sit on the couch, he considers arguing because it's not really enough space... But the floor does feel sticky to his hands when he sets one down. The sleeves slide down his arms and the fabric piles beside him. Maybe the couch wouldn't be so bad.]
[So he stands up, drops the tie into the same pile, then seats himself down right between his legs. He has to press his own together to be able to fit and he can feel his thighs meeting Denji's as he tries to find the right spot, scooting back a bit as he feels the edge of the seat. His wings pull in and slide down, acting like a cape split in two to keep from choking him with feathers - and to let him touch his skin. Which still doesn't feel quite right. To let someone be this close to skin like this. Skin like his.]
[But Denji doesn't die. So it's okay. This time, it'll be okay.]
Is this okay?
[He doesn't look over his shoulder this time. Stock still, his hands seated in his lap. Thighs together, tense.]
[The last time he sat this close to someone, between their legs... Briefly he closes his eyes to will that memory back into his subconscious but the blank scene behind his lids only amplifies that moment in his mind. Cold and frigid rain and wind. Warm body. Warm arms. That warm hand.]
[Is Denji warm, too? Maybe not. He's got a chainsaw for a heart, after all, and those are metal. Metal is cold. Devils are cold, too. But that's a lie, since Angel's body is so damn warm.]
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Angel doesn't know this is stupid. Doesn't know to think it or say it. Has no clue the curve of his ass doesn't need to be sitting directly at the fork between Denji's legs, that Denji changed mind about the position only when he changed out of his clothes, and, most important of all, that they're two guys who are too close.
Is that okay? Shouldn't he have the chance to figure these things out like the rest of them?
Shouldn't Denji?
If an answer exists to that question, it lives nowhere near his throat. Yeah, nope — Denji can wet his lips and try to gulp around the thick dryness in his mouth all he wants, but nothing goes down or out, in or up. He's cross-wired. He doesn't hide it very well.
But small as Angel's bare shoulders are, they're solid as any sailor's anchor under the push of his fingertips. Good enough to cling to, keep his head afloat. That's what Reze told him when she taught him to swim: It's easier to keep yourself above the water when you're holding on to someone, then one way or another, you'll both make it back to steady ground. Granted, she was the same girl who drowned his mouth in blood the very next day, but she probably wouldn't lie to him about something like this.
Man, is it hard, though. He can actually make out the imprint of his thumbs roughing into Angel's skin as he starts kneading again, measured, with the same amount of pressure as before. It isn't long, however, until he starts noticing the splotches of red leak from his pale back — maybe he's pressing too hard. ]
…Does it feel okay?
[ Maybe he should have asked this back from the very start.
His voice sounds weird to his ears, warm and too far away, too much like the uncanny feeling of listening to himself through a scratchy CD player. Without waiting for a reply, his hands start to roam down, squeezing and pressing into him until his palms are cupped right below Angel's underarms. Keeps them there, fingers stroking so deep along that slender dip of his back, it's like he could fold him in half. Each rubbing movement seeming to edge Angel just that farther back into the alignment of Denji's hips. He doesn't even notice, his brain inextricably narrowed on the repetition.
It's crazy how thin this guy is, how the full volume of his body fits so easily into his palms. It's like he could lift him, hook his leg up. Plow him straight on top of his…
He sucks a breath in, veiling his gasp with an unnatural cough as he snatches his hands back. Blinks down at the bulge protruding from his pants zipper. ]
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[But the warmth - That's a difference he wasn't sure of. If it was real or not, if it was something he made up. In the moment he can remember, when that human snagged his hand and yanked him down against his body and out of the typhoon, his hand should have been cold and clammy and wet, slashed by wind and rain. But the core of it was warm, and maybe Angel supplied the logic that he was feeling his lifespan instead of something distinctly human. But lifespan doesn't even feel like anything. Or maybe it feels like how Denji described death: tastes like nothing.]
[Denji's hands are warm, though.]
[He knew this from before and could have extrapolated from there. The first initial touch, the subsequent ones. Holding his hand and pulling him out of the crowd. When he touched his forehead, it was warm, too. Not something limited to extremities or seeping through his body in defense of touch - against Angel's forehead, he had been warm. His whole body is warm, then? That would make sense - humans are warm-blooded creatures, their blood cycling through their body to keep the temperature even, keep their bodies working. Like motor oil or diesel, churning through a chainsaw to keep the metal cold and prevent it from melting. A human response mixed with a devil response. Devils aren't so simply cold- or warm-blooded creatures. It depends on need. So why is Denji so warm?]
[He doesn't realize his face is so red, that his own body is so warm now. Denji's hands slide down his arms and below his underarms and squeeze into his back and every touch is like a lick of flame. He's trying to put all this away logically, to ignore all of it, to accept it as mere fact and enjoy the simple feeling of having his muscles massaged - it was nice before, right? So direct contact to them should be better. It should be fine, like this. It should feel okay. Better than okay. So why does it keep getting warmer, to the point where it's starting to feel like flame and hot coal? And why the hell does that intensity feel so good?]
[He doesn't fully care about what's rubbing between his ass at first. He doesn't think about it at all, actually, is the better understanding of his thought process, because Denji then removes the very things he was enjoying and he cares much more about that. Angel reaches back, turning his head slightly to see what he's doing, snatches for one of his wrists - two, if he's lucky. Aims to tug them right back to where they were, but opposite this time. Instead of coasting down his back, pressing at the thick muscle right below his wings, he pulls them to the front and guides them over his chest, expectant. He wants to feel it there, now.]
Here.
[An order, not a request. He needs to feel that hot metal as much as he can before whatever is making this happen decides to pull the rug out from beneath him. Before something cools this off. The devil side takes over, runs chilling oil through him instead. He can't have that yet.]
[If it was Aki Hayakawa, his mind supplies for some reason - If it were that one, he could respond to this better, he thinks. He would be all calm and methodical. Know exactly where he wants him to touch. He wouldn't be shy. Angel could sit on his lap, face him, set his hands on his shoulers while he rubs his body and warms him up. Because devils aren't warm-blooded by choice, just by happenstance. And isn't it the greatest happenstance at all that it's the Chainsaw boy that can do this and not Aki Hayakawa, instead? And when will the happenstance timer end and normalcy return? He clenches Denji tight, intent to keep him right where he is. Still touching.]
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When Aki stood as an obstacle to his death, to the sacrifice of his heart to a lower devil, for a stupid reason he can't even remember, how that press of their groins, the spread of his legs, had arched into forever, it seemed like, and Denji went off and died anyway, a nearly infinite amount of times, just to bring eternity to an end. When Aki carried him over a shoulder, as if it were normal and easy to hold on to a barely conscious boy, soaking his blood into his clothes, holding on to him until they could retreat into safety. When Aki's arm bumps against his in the kitchen most mornings, and he can't think about anything else.
Every time he touches someone, it always feels like a sensation that's granted to him. He's never thought about what he could be giving away.
This half-devil's hands are warm, but they're shaking.
Denji presses down into Angel's pecs — to anchor his bearings, really. Fondling's maybe the only fourth or fifth thing on his mind, even with the tightness in his pants burrowed close to his rear. But it's this very movement, watching the jiggle of his pecs from over his shoulder, that forwards that notion straight to first place. His tits remind him a little of Power's. Flat, cute. It's fascinating kneading down on Angel with an extra increment of force, thumbs rubbing at his nipples through his shirt, just for his chest to recoil back where it's meant to be, like pressing down into a spring mattress. He wonders what it'd be like to slap his whole hand against his chest, what kind of mark it'd leave, if that would make Angel whole body bounce and lurch.
The last time he was this close to him was during their sleepover, wasn't it?
…No, that's not right. A loose feather caught in Angel's collar tickles at Denji's chin. He's close enough for his shallow breaths to touch his ear with the clearness of an instrument plugged into an amp. Biting Angel's halo that time was more of a quick in-and-out experiment, not the same whatsoever, but this —
His eyes go up.
It's then the same compulsion as what had flooded him that night visits Denji again. Stepping in uninvited, knotting its claws into his spine, makes him grind into Angel, his chest crowding into his wings, tilting upward into him like a marionette tugged by its strings, as his sharp, pearly whites find the curve of his halo. The dig of his teeth happens with less force, still a bite, but he isn't trying to chew through Angel anymore. He knows what his halo's for now, how full it feels held in his mouth. He knows it's not going anywhere.
There's a sick part of him that feels good doing this, locking a hare by its neck. ]
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[He doesn't get it. Why this is so different. Why does being touched feel so...]
[Then he bites down and Angel's vision whites out. His eyes go wide and his breath catches hard and fast in his throat. He jolts once before nearly falling limp back into Denji's chest, the hands on his wrists twitching with effort to keep their hold. It's not a full bite, doesn't threaten to crack the light into shards, but it's harsher than when he simply touched it before. When he ran his fingers along the rim and Angel had briefly thought he might hum along to produce a tone. Instinct tells him to simply push him back and get away but he can't move, not when he has Denji's hands pressed into his chest, effectively pinning himself against him. As if he has to find a way to struggle against that, Angel arches his back, pressing both towards his hands while he turns his head in an attempt to dislodge his halo.]
Chain - Ah -
[He can't finish because adjusting his position adjusts something else, too. He can feel heat pressed against his ass now, hard heat that he recognizes the source of but doesn't have the brain power to create any kind of response to. Instead he turns his head again and his halo shivers in Denji's teeth, like it wants to move, too, expects to turn along with its owner. Head leaned back like this, Angel can't quite see what Denji is doing, can't see where he's biting him much like a human can't see the crown of their head.]
What - You're gonna...
[His tongue feels heavy, large in his mouth. His face is getting warm. What the hell is going on? It should hurt, it should burn, just like before. A bite to his most sensitive spot. But instead, the noise he makes is more than the song of a water glass's rim - it's a full on whine.]
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