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“I want to try something,” Aki says, reaching over.
Angel jerks back, wings pressing into the back of his chair. “Don’t,” he warns. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t waste your lifespan on me.”
Still, he can’t help thinking that, if Aki were to kiss him, it would taste just like that coffee he’s been drinking.
Lately, he’s been thinking a lot about touch, noticing how humans interact: a handshake, a hug, a press of skin on skin. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but he knows it started with Aki.
“Wasn’t planning to,” Aki says, sliding the drinks menu over to him from across the table. “I want to order something else.”
Something does a little sideways flip in Angel’s chest. He isn’t even sure if he has a heart, so it can’t be that.
“Is the coffee that bad?” he asks. “You used my money to buy it, you know. And you never pay me back.”
Aki pushes the cup towards him. The patterns in the foam are long gone, and it’s all bitter. He decides that if this is what Aki’s kiss would taste like, he might not want it after all.
“You’re a devil. You don’t need money.”
Later, Aki orders a frappuccino. Angel tries it too; it’s sweet and cold, though he doesn’t know the flavour, and is already starting to melt in the sun.
Today is one of those rare days: no devils, no fighting, no stupid people turning into chainsaws. They’ve spent hours in this little coffee shop, and even though Aki is slowly but surely using up all his money, Angel has spent most of the day staring at him, trying to remember the feeling of touch.
He’d held onto Aki’s hand as if it was some sort of lifeline, then spent the whole night looking up at his open palms, trying to decide whether he liked it or not.
It was new, and strange, but it felt right, as if his hand had been made to fit in someone else’s all along. He memorised the line of Aki’s fingers without trying, the curve of his chest, and how his wings fit into the space there.
Never mind getting pulled into hell. Angel distinctly remembers wanting to stay there forever—Aki’s arm around his shoulders, voice in his ear, warm.
(Never mind two months of Aki’s lifespan, either.)
They haven’t talked about it, and Angel hasn’t mentioned it. He doesn’t know if Aki has forgiven him, and doesn’t want to find out.
“I do, too,” Angel protests, stretching out a wing, hyper-aware of Aki’s eyes on him. “How do you think I look this good all the time?”
Aki laughs, fingers drumming against the table. “Bullshit. You sound just like Makima.”
Angel grins. “I guess that’s a good thing, coming from you.”
Aki looks away, and the sun moves with him. There’s gold in his hair and eyes. “Is it?”
Angel barely catches it, too busy guessing how much of Aki’s lifespan it would cost if he touched his hand now, or his face.
“Why not? I thought you liked her.”
Slowly, Aki’s fingers go still. Angel takes it as an invitation. He hooks their ankles together under the table, and when he feels Aki stiffen just a little, a cold thrill runs through his body.
“Not in that way,” Aki says. “But I admire her, or I’m—jealous of her, I guess. Her confidence.”
He has this determined set to his mouth, like he’s prepared to do anything. It makes Angel think that he could take all of Aki’s lifespan away, and Aki would find a way to live, refuse to die.
“It’s like she’s not scared of anything,” he continues. “She acts like everything’s under her control, even when she’s around you.”
She could die just by touching you, Aki doesn’t say, but Angel still hears. Anyone could.
“That’s because she’s Makima,” Angel tells him. “She’s already died plenty of times.” He pauses. “If she’s not scared of death, she has nothing left to live for.”
Aki stays silent. For the first time in a while, Angel wonders if he’s said something to hurt him.
To tell the truth, Makima had touched him, only once, just a hand pressed over his wrist. It was cold and all wrong, and instead of trying to remember it, Angel had spent the next few days trying to forget the feeling of her skin on his.
“She told me she lived for us,” Aki says finally. His hands look empty, like they’re searching for something to hold onto.
Well, Aki himself reminds Angel of something empty. A lot of people give him that feeling, but Aki is different; a ribcage without a heart, a puzzle missing one piece.
Angel thinks his hand would fit in Aki’s, but how much of Aki’s life would that cost? Hours, days, weeks?
“She was lying.”
“How can you tell?” Aki asks, wistful, a furrow between his eyebrows. Angel wants to press his fingers there.
He shrugs. “We’re all liars. Makima, me.” He nods at Aki. “You, too.”
The sun is starting to set. There’s orange in Aki’s hair now, instead of gold, clinging there like blood.
“I am,” Aki admits, strangely calm. “I lied earlier, actually. About wanting another drink.”
Angel looks up, taken aback, and his chest does that funny spin again. This time, there’s a loud beat in his ears. He wonders if Aki’s pulse is going as fast as his.
His hands are loose, palm up now, like an offering. Angel’s scared to accept, because he’s always wanted things, and never had things. Has always looked, but never touched.
“You can’t touch me,” he says, but it doesn’t come out as firm as he’d hoped. “Aren’t you scared?”
He fumbles for more words, but ends up just nudging Aki’s ankle with his, hoping he gets it. Aki smiles, like two months is nothing, like two years wouldn’t be either.
“I am,” he says. “But I’m tired of dying. Just once, I want to live.”
Sometimes, Angel forgets about the Future devil, the one sleeping in Aki’s right eye. He misses which one of them leans in first, but Aki must know, must have seen it happen already.
As it turns out, Aki’s lips taste nothing like coffee, and more like the frappuccino lying forgotten in the sun.