Archive of Our Own

i.

Erik is not a knowledgeable creature. He doesn't know of wisdom or understanding, not like some of the others, but he knows things. Angels believe themselves perfect, holy, untouchable by the human world they despise so much, and yet when Erik reaches out, expecting to find a nebula of feelings and spirit, something else calls out to him. Metal. It seems to curl around their very core, an armor of sorts or perhaps even a skeleton, and it's true that the metal is pure like only celestial beings are, but it's still metal and it's a human thing.

Erik has seen humans plenty of times; his caste isn't high enough for it to be forbidden, or even badly regarded. He had no interest in them, and yet, when he dragged himself down to the ground to soak in the constant melody of the humans' inventions (God, do they love metal), their blood sang to him. Later, when he's learnt enough, he realizes its tinkle is a gentler sound than the one of the angels', more modest. Humans have metal in their blood, angels have it in their bones; Erik sometimes wonders what that means.

The other angels don't like him, never have. Erik guesses they despise anyone telling them what they'd rather not hear: that they're tainted by sin, just like humans. They can pretend all they want, but young as he is, he can still see. It makes his stomach churn, to think he first learnt about kindness and love down there, in the Earth, by the hand of a human woman who had lived only pain but still prayed herself hoarse so sweetly it almost gave Erik hope.

It's because of her that he dares to be brave.

Magda's soul presence is a kind one, already familiar by now. Erik mainly feels her physical presence by his gift's grace, a strong taste in the back of his mouth and a tingle in his being, but he can also feel her vaguely in his mind and all around him, just like happens with the others.

There's still a huge difference, though, as in her case, it doesn't irritate him nearly as much. In the end, that's what gives him the final push to hold Magda's small hand in his, trick his uncharacteristic nervousness into calmness by resolutely not thinking it over, and say it, just say it, explain how he's aware they aren't as spiritual as they want to think and that he could make her curl into herself until her soul was caged in an asphyxiating physical trap, not unlike humans themselves with their ridiculously fleshy bodies, only that she'd be retained in a far stronger and more beautiful prision.

He doesn't expect an awed smile or anything of the sort. Angels have gifts, indeed, but most of what humans would name that way are shared by all; there are angels who have real gifts, individual ones, but those are a token of His affection and mean He has given them an especial mission, further than the one that corresponds to their caste. Erik's gift doesn't speak of any different path; he's utterly lost regarding what He intends him to do with it, and now Magda knows, and for that she'll pity him.

However, he is not expecting what he actually gets.

She stares at him, sweet eyes wide and presence in disturbed spikes, unbalanced as he's never seen her before. Her hand trembles in his hold, the illusion of a solid body almost slipping away, as if she wants to get away from him really badly but she wants to do it with discretion.

She's terrified.

"Magda," Erik thinks, says. It's all rather the same thing, here.

It doesn't slip her notice how he's avoided saying her true name, the one she was born with and which is so intimately tangled with her soul that it'd be like having an unfair advantage, using something so sacred to hold power over her when she's so upset. Erik wanted it to be reassuring, but Magda's presence feels even more restless.

Before he can read out of her what has unsettled her so, she pulls her hand away and, in a moment, she is gone. Erik is left with a screaming mess of feeling whose message he's certain he should be able to identify loud and clear, but its meaning slips away, and Erik doesn't bother chasing it.

ii.

Magda didn't tell, she couldn't have (Erik tells himself).

But here they are, looking down at him with sneers twisting their faces, and Erik suddenly realizes they fear him, they all fear him, because he's different and he could hurt them, but especially, and this Erik knows without a doubt is true, because he's the proof they're not invincible, and that scares them a lot more than having human sins does.

Had they been sinful but eternal, it would've meant He still thought them superior to humans, good enough to be timeless and undying while His other creations faded away, but Erik has taken this hope from them and crushed it without even meaning to, and they can't forgive him for that. Not even the caste of compassion, so terrible his wrongdoing is.

Erik stares at their wings, the part of their physical representation that makes them closer to Him and so gives them more pride, and wonders how is it they haven't fallen yet. He only discovers he's thought it clearer than intended when one of them snarls:

"How haven't you fallen yet?"

"What you have is not a gift," other says, quietly. "It's a sin."

Erik wants to scream, wants to show them what he can do and how it's so beautiful, it really is, it's definitely a gift from Him even if he hasn't discovered his path yet, but they are too many and tainted as they are, they're still purer than him, and now Erik knows what Magda was thinking while she slipped away after he told her what he could do. Maybe they are right in this, maybe he's always been meant to fall. Maybe the reason no one really likes him is they can feel he's not a sacred creation but a faulty one, designed to remind the others of how lucky they are for having been chosen to exist as sinful and yet undefiled beings, unlike him.

The angel who pierces him with a holy blade is from his own caste.

Erik lets her, and then he starts tugging at his feathers with clenched fists, watches as they fall and fade into nothing. They're sullied with blood, blood that calls to him, and it takes him a while to understand the reason.

By when he finishes, his back howls with pain, and it's nothing like anything he's ever felt before. He can't feel the other angels anymore, but he doesn't need to. He's not one of them, now, and relief is radiating from them so strongly it makes Erik dizzy. So dizzy... it hurts to think... Everything hurts.

He wakes up in an unfamiliar place.

There's lots of metal around him, but none of it belongs to an angel. His cheeks are wet, but what stains them is neither rain nor blood.

iii.

There are runes on his hands where he held his feathers. He says they're tattoos when humans ask him, but always refuses to explain their meaning.

A woman took him in, the one of the sweet prayers, and they're still exquisite, but now he feels dirty and angry whenever he hears them. She didn't ask where he'd come from, and in return, Erik tries not to hate her. It is easier than he'd expected, but not as much as it should be.

She tells him about Him, and doesn't press him when he tells her he believes but never joins her in her singing. It feels too much like what he did back home... back there, and anyway, his voice doesn't sound like it used to; these days, it's laced with shame, and he doesn't feel like offering his weakness to those who created in the first place. He still listens when she talks about angels, though, because it hurts too, but it's a pain that he carries everyday, a pain that pulses with rage and despair and helps him to keep breathing.

Besides, Edie agrees with him in many things. She just doesn't know how right she is, and Erik is grateful enough for everything she's done for him not to tell her. Neither that, nor other things he's learnt by himself and that would make her weep.

It's hard to live with such a knowledge. His back still aches all the time, a dull kind of soreness he tends to tune off instinctively, and he sleeps on his stomach every night, face smothered against the mattress as if hoping to choke himself on it. He dreams of birds, their small, dark eyes following him, mocking him, and the heavy weight of loathing in his stomach is pushing him further into the ground, and further away from the sky, as he bawls in agony.

Erik doesn't think they're deserving of the gifts they've been granted; their bones are empty, after all, not made of blessed metal, and in his heart he believes they aren't nearly cruel enough to be angels. He eyes their wings with envy when he passes by them, but doesn't dare to touch them. They are still something holy, holier than him.

But he's fine, truly, he's fine.

Or so he tells himself until the day, months later, when he comes back from the weekly shopping and finds an angel sitting on his bed.

iv.

He's so, so beautiful.

He's a divine apparition in every sense of the word, wings spread wide open and taking up most of the space in the small room; his feathers are magnificient, translucent things, tinted in light blue and veined with silver. There are freckles all over his pale skin, and when Edie told him freckled people had been kissed by Him, Erik had scoffed, but now, even aware of the way most angels change their physical representation at will, he's tempted to believe it.

The metal in his bones is surprisingly pleasant to Erik's curse. The gold jewelry he's wearing, though, bracelets and pendants and even some in his hair, strikes him as something over the top, indulgent, and Erik should be irritated, but it's hard to be when it's all warm by the angel's body and very definitely human, physical illusions never being good enough to trick Erik into feeling them.

Considering most angels would rather clip their wings than be caught wearing anything that came from humans, Erik can't help being fascinated.

So he stares, and finds the whole sky staring back. And suddenly, his chest hurts so much every breath is a desperate struggle. He finds himself thinking home, home, home, like a litany, and he's not entirely sure if he's referring to the sky or the angel's eyes, but both possibilities make his stomach churn.

For a long moment, he considers tugging him out of the room by his stupid human jewelry, but quickly dismisses the idea. It definitely has nothing to do with how the angel is smiling at him: soft, fond, barely a curve in his cherry red mouth to indicate he's glad to see him. Even if Erik doesn't remember the last time an angel was glad to see him, if there was ever one.

"Erik," the angel says, and oh, he misses many things from where he comes from, but the tentative brush of another presence against his is so not one of them.

He keeps quiet, though, because he's just remembered how the imprint of the others' presences left him right after his last feather fell. And it's true that some angels, the ones who are closer to Earth, can read human minds, their kindest wishes and darkest thoughts all laid out for them to see, to judge, but this... This is something else. The angel's intent is firmer than it should, carefully controlled instead of vaguely directed, and Erik can feel him everywhere, skimming over his mind like one would with a long book in hopes of getting a feel of how the plot goes before starting to read.

It's a gift, like yours, a thought comes.

"Get out of my mind," Erik blurts out, because gift or not, he's so incredibly sick of angels meddling with his head. And then, as an after-thought, "Which gift?"

The angel smiles ever so slightly and stretches out his arms, and it's only then when Erik sees that every piece of metal of the room, including the angel's jewelry, is trembling, a call away from being used as weapons against what has angered Erik so, even without him noticing. It takes him a little longer to realize it's been some time since he stopped thinking about his metal control as a gift and started thinking about it as a curse.

At that, there's a shaken kind of sadness clogging his throat, and Erik's certain it doesn't come from him.

"Did they tell you that?" the angel whispers, troubled gaze fixing on him.

"Who are you?" Erik replies, even when his main concern is what the hell he's doing in his room. Having someone so utterly focused on him makes him uncomfortable, so he distracts himself trying and failing to describe the blue of the angel's eyes.

There's a short deliberation before the angels answers.

"Charles." Another brief pause. "I felt you... I could feel you from miles. Even from home, in fact."

Erik still doesn't see why he should care, or how that explains what the angel is doing in his room.

"So you decided to come laugh at the poor sad fallen angel," he offers sourly, because that's the most likely explanation, no matter how much he resents it, but Charles' eyes widen considerably and he starts shaking his head in an almost frantic motion.

"No. No, Erik," he breathes, and Erik refuses to feel relieved. "I just... Your mind was calling to me. I've never felt anything like it; it pulled me down, guided me here, but I didn't think... I couldn't imagine it'd be you."

"Me?"

"The one I'd heard about. The one without wings." Erik clenches his teeth at that, forces himself to keep the metal in the room steady. "I should have thought... well, your mind is one of an angel."

"That's not a compliment, Charles. It isn't even true, actually; in case you've missed it, I'm not an angel anymore."

For how his brows furrow, as if pained, Erik suspects Charles has finally picked up his anger. More than that: he's read between the lines, heard what Erik refrained from saying (Never was quite like them; too imperfect, broken, sulliedfaultyruined).

"Erik," he says, quietly, those eyes of his burning with terrifying intensity, "you're a thing of beauty. So much more than the others."

There had been a time when Erik would've been turned inside out in the best ways, had he been told such a thing, and another period, further away in the past, in which he'd have preened at that, once he'd been reassured the words had been uttered with sincerity. Even now, he's on the verge on tearing up, but he can't forget everything he's built himself upon, everything he's endured and which has taught him what angels are really capable of, and none of those lessons include kindness.

So he steps forward, just enough to clear a path to the door, and ignores the warming sensation that insists on slowly spreading through his chest like a bindweed, roots stubbornly hooking in soft, vulnerable places he didn't remember having, leaves caressing him tentatively and igniting bursts of feeling that somehow weaken his resolve. But not enough; Erik might not be untouchable, but he's not mad either.

"Get out."

He's unbearably proud of the steadiness of his voice. Not so much of Charles' widening eyes, or the hurt in them.

The angel stares, chewing on his lip for a moment. It's still early, and the light coming in reflects on his jewels, on his wings; he looks otherworldly, and in a different way than the one which is true, as if nothing in Earth were worthy enough to even share the same air he breathes. His caste must be really high, one of the closers to Him, judging by the awe he awakens even in Erik, who knows the illusion intimately.

"Yes, of course, terribly sorry," Charles finally sighs.

Erik wills his gaze away from that heartful representation of disappointment, and although he's not expecting it, he doesn't flinch when he hears the window opening. When he looks back, the light is still pouring on his bed, but without Charles there to embellish himself with it, it seems dull and... soulless.

He lies down and closes his eyes, and does not think of the sky.

v.

A week goes by, as utterly unremarkable as usual, but there's a feeling underneath, something like restlessness, expectation.

So when his eyelids flutter open in the middle of the night and immediately find Charles, as if he were so attuned to him from a single meeting that he could feel him even in his dreams, Erik does not startle. Although maybe he should; it is, after all, rather rude to break into a room uninvited, especially if the host is sleeping. But angels never cared about such petty matters, did they?

And Charles is still gorgeous, glowing softly in the dark like a firefly. He's sitting on the floor, right in front of Erik's bed, but he's keeping his eyes down, the light he emits not enough to make out the expression in his face. Erik gets distracted by a biggest show of pale skin than expected, and his eyes trail down the angel's chest, following constellation after constellation of freckles; he can't remember if Charles'd been bare too last time he's seen him, but he doubts he'd have forgotten if that had been the case.

"What are you doing here?" Erik murmurs, voice strangely hoarse. The question is getting old fast, but that's not his fault.

Charles jumps a bit on his place and looks up, grimacing. Erik can't tell if he's expecting an argument or if he's just weary of something else, but if it's the former... he's not even half awake yet, so he doesn't plan to start yelling anytime soon. He makes sure to think it very loudly, and Charles smiles.

"Good to see you, too," he huffs. His wings, folded behind him, stretch out ever so slightly.

"You were watching me sleep," Erik offers.

It's an easy way of implying everything he can't be bothered to utter out loud. Namely, that he has no idea of which kind of welcome Charles had been expecting, considering Erik kicked him out last week and he's decided to come back anyway, and with horrible timing, at that.

He sighs and half incorporates on the bed, supporting the upper half of his body by resting his forearms on the mattress. A burst of cold air hits the exposed skin of his chest, but it doesn't bother him nearly as much as his ever-frozen back, still unused to not having a warm, gentle weight draped over it.

And then it hits him: his back is exposed, with the most terrible implications; Charles can see, he can see the scars where his wings used to be, and Erik almost chokes on the bitter shame that comes up his throat like bilis at the thought that Charles, beautiful whole Charles, could stare and judge him lacking.

"Go!" he hisses, forcing himself to breathe steadily. Every single component of his weak human body is screaming, begging him to roll onto his side and prevent the angel from seeing, but the movement would only drag more attention to himself. Besides, Charles is already busy staring directly into his eyes, confused about the sudden violence in Erik's voice; he stretches out a hand, hesitant, and Erik screams. "Don't touch me!"

Charles grimaces, but he keeps his hand where it is, trembling slightly a few inches from Erik's arm.

"Erik," he whispers, gentle, "please, calm down. We're not the only occupants of this house."

At the reminder of Edie, Erik forces another scream back down his throat, steers himself in what he's certain is a visible shudder that shakes his whole body. He keeps watching Charles' hand, vigilant, expecting it to attack like one would with a big, venomous spider. Except that Charles' hand is... well, a hand, and a soft-looking at that, and apart from the looming doom that it'd bring should the angel decide to touch him, it doesn't look threatening at all.

"Don't look at me," Erik says roughly, and hates how it still sounds like he's pleading, even though he is.

Charles makes a face that would be funny in any other situation, sort of a mix between a smile, a grimace, and utter sadness. Maybe there's some anger there, too. In any case, it's something complicated, and Erik isn't in the mental state to try and distangle it.

"I know this is most likely a useless thing to say," Charles starts, cautious, "but for what it's worth, you can trust me."

"Can I?" Erik snorts, and thinks of Magda and the gaping wound she left in the space where his fondness for her used to be. Now it's filled with shame and wrath, the coldness of it forever seeping into his bones, and Erik can't tell if it's because his new body still recognizes sin or because of the something that has been irreparably ripped from him. He thinks of the other angels staring, unblinking, at his crouched form, as he renounced to the last fragile thread that linked him to them, to Him, to the sky. He thinks of all this and looks back into Charles' soft, compassive eyes, the ones that remind him of home, and everything in him burns as he repeats, voice a honed blade, "Can I?"

"Oh, Erik," Charles sighs, as his hand closes the last few inches of space separating them and touches Erik's arm, his fingertips merely ghosting over the skin, making Erik's hair stand on end like an affronted wild beast's.

A thick, unidentified feeling is clogging Erik's throat, and he closes his eyes tightly and swallows hard as if to make it disappear. But before he can pull away, Charles leans even closer, lips gracing the shell of his ear, and offers him his true name in a puff of hot breath, wrapped in ribbons of tenderness and an intimacy Erik didn't know until this very moment. Light explodes under his eyelids, and it feels like absolution.

Erik's human body was not made to hold onto a word as raw and unsullied as an angel's true name. His tongue is too meaty to pronounce it, to curl itself around the sounds, them being lighter than spirit, and his mind is now not powerful enough to retain it without hurling him right into madness. And yet, Erik understands. An angel's name is a piece of their inmortal soul, it tingles with their purpose, and Charles' name has such wonderful sounds. Charles is His beauty, His kindness, His compassion, His faith, but he's also the guardian of secrets, the one who sees Him.

Some of the sounds are related to Charles' mind-reading gift, but the others suggest his nature belongs to the caste of the bright ones, and hell, isn't it ironic? If the merciful ones are one side of a coin, then the righteous ones, Erik's old caste, are the other. They are meant to balance each other, to complement each other, and had things been different, Charles would take his clemency and Erik would take his strength and together they'd make something rounded, magnificent, utterly worthy of His praise.

But instead, here they are, Charles lending his true name to a graceless creature and Erik barely surviving with both of his feet firmly stuck on the ground, his own true name and its meanings (His strength, His fire, His justice, His serpent, the one who-) forgotten forever.

Erik doesn't notice he's begun weeping until Charles strokes his cheek with gentle fingers, spreads the wetness before wiping it.

His other hand is still on Erik's arm, but no longer in the whisper of a touch; it's resting there, a warm and solid pressure against the skin, grounding him. And heavens, Erik hadn't realized just how much he's missed someone touching him, and maybe he hasn't until this moment, but now he's desperately hungry for it, starving for it, and he pushes back against Charles' hands like an insistent, affectionate kitten, drowning every ounce of shame and self-loathing that threatens to stop him.

For a single, terrifying second, Erik is certain Charles will misunderstand his silent request and pull away, not that he'd need any excuse to do so, because lord, why would he deign to even graze his glowing skin with Erik's tainted one? But Charles does, he indulges him after only the briefest instant of hesitation, and Erik's eyelids flutter open by their own accord to bask in the sheer devotion reflected in Charles' beautiful face.

He's undeserving of it, and yet... any tenous intention of rejecting it he might've had crumbles like wet paper before those blue eyes.

"Charles," he tries to say, but not really, not that name, but he's been left with no more than the impression of the meanings of the other one and this one burns itself in his tongue before he can let it out. In the end, he makes a high, pained noise that sounds like a sob, and hopes Charles understands.

"It's alright, darling," Charles mumbles, brushing Erik's hair away from his eyes with such tenderness that he can't bear the thought of calling him on his lie, blatant as it is. "It's alright."

His other hand starts moving up and down Erik's arm, and Erik melts against the matress, pressing his chest back into it and forgetting about the vulnerability of his bare back, too trapped in the spell of Charles' eyes to do anything else than bask in the feelings his touch awakens in him. Or at least during the time it takes for Charles' wings to curl ever so slightly around him in a protective stance, until the tips of their longest feathers brush Erik's side.

Erik snaps back into himself with a brutality that leaves him dizzy and sick to the stomach, although that might also be due to the horrifying mistake he's just committed. He's let his guard down, and Charles... Charles has taken advantage of it, for which purposes, he has no idea, but he knows his old kin well enough to affirm without doubt that it's been nothing short of selfish, because that's how angels are, all of them, no matter how kindly they look at you or how gentle their touch is, no matter how sweet their true names sound.

I don't want you here, he intends to say, but for some reason it gets tangled somewhere and never takes form out of his thoughts, and even there Erik doubts it's been loud enough for Charles to hear if he hasn't been listening closely, although he doesn't discard the possibility either.

"I want to sleep," is what comes out of his mouth, distressingly rusty, like the words are centuries of years old. It's only a half truth, since Erik does want to sleep, but in the sense of closing his eyes and not waking up.

He's had enough. He's so weary he can barely stand it, and Charles must sense that, for he withdraws his hands while Erik watches him like a hawk, waiting for a wrong move.

"Good night," Charles says, softly. Erik refuses to wonder about the slight hurt bleeding over, but tries not to flinch when Charles presses his fingers against his shoulder, as if kissing his skin goodbye. "Have pleasant dreams, Erik," the angel adds, before climbing on the window and taking his leave.

Erik doesn't get to discover if Charles had infused his petition with a mental nudge to his subconscious, because he doesn't fall asleep until well into the next morning. By then, he's exhausted, and what awaits him is the pleasant kind of oblivion.

vi.

Erik's bed is lonely and cold. So is he.

And it's been only three days since Charles' last visit. He hates how dependent he's become of him, and he hates even more how he spends hours laying on his bed, caressing his own skin with his eyes tightly closed and imagining the hands touching him belong to someone else. He loathes it with all his soul, and yet he doesn't seem capable of making himself stop.

Charles has poisoned him. He might have glowing wings and a true name that resonates with His presence, but he's no angel, no, he's a wicked creature with cruelty running thick through his being, and heavens, at least angels didn't trick him into thinking that he matters or that there's still mercy for the damned, for he does not and there's not, but oh, how he wanted to believe. He wanted it so much that he shoved the sour truth in the darkest corner of his mind and let himself be enthralled by that vicious trickster of ragged souls, and now he's paying for it.

It's a rainy day, and just as well; Erik needs to scrub Charles out of his skin.

Except that he had forgotten there was a reason he was never outside when it rained, and the first hour, while he runs across the city with his head tilted upwards so the rain can cleanse his thoughts too, he's far too gone to notice. But then he falls on his knees in the middle of an abandoned park, drained, his chest full of tangled threads that keep moving vibrantly, pulsing like a heart and pumping something at times murky and at times painfully vivid through his veins.

There's some kind of white noise buzzing in his ears, and he thinks: yes, this is my blood, but he immediately realizes it is not, it can't be, not when the song of metal is a separate thing humming in the background, and it's then when he remembers.

Angels.

They used to sing for Him the melody of the world, of humanity, of being the brightest beings He'd ever conceived and how that made them feel unique and proud. They used to sing for Him day and night, until their voices were so raw and soulful that they reached through invisible barriers and pierced humans' hearts, stirred something often dormant deep within them, leaving them shaken and vulnerable like newborns.

The angels, they used to sing so that they awakened the clouds and their chants rained onto Earth like a blessing. Well, he used to sing. They still do, the others.

He tilts his head upwards and howls.

Rain gets into his open mouth and into his nose, but it's not the reason he feels like he's drowning. He coughs, curls further into himself, and goes back to mourning, loud and belligerent, a wounded beast desperately clawing at his tormentor without really seeing it, without really caring.

Erik bawls and curses at the sky for a long time. The sky does not answer.

And then a large, winged shadow cuts through the clouds, and Erik finds himself pleading: please, please, please, not quite knowing what he's waiting for. Forgiveness, perhaps, or clemency, although the latter is long overdue. It still scares him, the yearning, the sheer want of the sounds he's making.

He lets his head hang down, covers his face with his hands in a quiet prayer (if this is my end, let it be quick) as the shadow gets closer. For a few seconds, he's no less than forsaken, frozen to his human bones, but the moment is over in the time it takes two warm wings to wrap shallowly around him and a cooler body to press against his. There are also strong arms around his shoulders, and a wet cheek against his left hand, and a cold nose rubbing the spot under his ear, the angel curled around him as their wings shield them both from the rain.

They're holding him, Erik realizes, the angel is cradling him like a child, neatly tucking him into their cocoon of feathers and affection. And the worst part is, Erik basks in it. He's dripping wet, as is his companion, and he still feels as if he's been turned inside out, but now he's also warm, cozy, safe.

"I've got you," the angel exhales, hot breath against his ear, before pulling away to press their forehead against Erik's hands. "I've got you, Erik, let it go."

At this point, Erik doesn't have enough willpower to resist the temptation, not even close, and he has forgotten all about why it was a good idea to do so anyway. He simply lets his hands fall away from his face, allows them to cling onto the soaked clothes covering the pair of hips pressed against his, and stares directly into Charles' lovely face.

All of a sudden, a sob ripples through him without permission, shaking his whole body in the process, and Charles' expression grows even more concerned. It should be difficult to tell, with their foreheads pressed so tightly together and them so close, but Erik can almost feel the way he frowns.

"Take me home," someone begs in a wet, throaty voice, and it takes Erik a second to realize it's his.

He can't tell for sure what he meant to say, since he didn't even mean to say anything in the first place, but he can guess. Charles apparently can, too, for he whimpers as if in pain and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

"I'll take you to Edie, yes?" he says quietly.

He doesn't bother to wait for Erik's answer before he pulls them both up. A part of Erik's mind suspects he should be more annoyed by it, but the place where Charles kissed him is tingling, almost burning, and every muscle in his body is screaming, and those two feelings override any possible others.

He barely even registers the walk back. All he knows is that he hurts everywhere, inside and out, and that Charles has an arm and a wing around him the whole time, keeping him steady. But he does have the distant hunch that Charles has tricked everyone who might've crossed their path into not seeing them; any other way, them walking undisturbed through the busiest streets wouldn't make any sense. Then again, nothing does, lately.

Erik somehow returns to the conscious world when they're back in his room at Edie's home, door closed behind him. It might have something to do with how there are nifty fingers unbuttoning and tugging his clothes off, and a halo of light coming in from the window is illuminating Charles' upper body, making him look like one of the Christian representations of angels Erik saw in a cathedral once.

There are none of those at Edie's synagogue, and Erik deems it wise, for they would be unable to capture Charles' fairness and the way it utterly overwhelms the senses, leaving oneself trembling like a leaf before the sight. Erik has never seen an angel who wears his light so well.

"What are you doing?" he asks, tongue like sandpaper.

Charles smiles and raises a brow, not unkindly.

"You're completely drenched, Erik."

"So are you."

Charles looks down at himself, taking in the state of his clothes. Erik wasn't certain they were anything but a projection, but they must be, because he steps away to let Erik finish undressing himself and starts pulling his own clothes off. He's not wearing much jewelry today, Erik notes as he strips down to his underpants, only a gold pendant that the rain has made icy to Erik's powers.

They stand there, almost completely bare, facing each other.

Erik finds he cannot hold Charles' penetrating gaze, not after everything he's been through during the last few months, which seems to have fallen upon him right now all at once. He steps forward, intending to drag himself around Charles to reach the bed, but it ends up being unnecessary.

Charles rests a hand on his shoulder, without making any kind of pressure, and it's all it takes for Erik to lean against him, plastering their chests together. He follows Charles' movements until they're both laying on the bed, the angel on top of him with his wings spread over them, once again creating a protective cocoon. His pendant is trapped between their bodies, vaguely uncomfortable but starting to warm up thanks to their combined heat, its metal a constant thrum in the edge of Erik's awareness.

Erik had briefly thought about pulling the covers over them, but he doesn't have the energy to move anymore; they'd be likely to overheat soon anyway, with Charles' feathers shielding them from the chilly air of the room. Besides, there's a hand on his chest and another one on his side, and they burn, as if they recognized he is impure and they were trying to wipe his sins.

It reminds him that, for the first time since he can remember, he's laying on his back.

His scars suddenly give a twinge of sharp pain, before it dissolves back into the faint, constant soreness of usual. Erik breathes in and out very slowly, and shifts one of his arms to loosely encircle Charles' hips, right below where his wings end. He does not dare to touch even the tip of a feather, but heavens, how he longs to... and Charles must know, although if thanks to his gift or some physical cue he's read, Erik can't be sure.

But he must know, because the hand on his chest slids ever so slightly until it's right over Erik's heart, and he whispers, "How were your wings like?"

And Erik wants to say shut up, and don't do this, and you're every bit as cruel as the others, but he doesn't, because he wants even more for Charles to understand that he used to be like him, once upon a time, or maybe not as sacred, but still divine, His creature. He wants Charles to form a goodly picture in his mind and see it every time he looks at him, instead of seeing him like he is now.

"Look into my mind," he asks, craving small mercies.

"No," Charles replies, "tell me."

Erik's hands are already clenching into fists and that heavy, suffocating feeling he gets in his chest and throat is back, but Charles is a solid weight against him, one with a heart beating steady and gentle hands trazing runes on Erik's skin, and it all grounds him enough to grant him what he's asked. So Erik tells him; he tells him about how they were huge and powerful, tells him about the translucent feathers tinted with blazing red and the delicate details in pale yellow and dusty brown, tells him about how they made him feel so close to Him that he could almost taste his presence in the back of his mouth.

He sobs through it, for once unrepentant of the emotion, and some kind of darkness he wasn't aware he had dwelling in him leaves, like a venom being sucked out.

Charles says nothing, but one of his wings stirs and flexes until a feather strokes Erik's cheek. Erik closes his eyes almost as in reflex, sighing, and as he drifts off to sleep, he feels Charles' head turning slightly.

There's a gentle press of soft lips against his collarbone, and then, sweet nothingness.

vii.

Morning comes, and there's something warm and heavy draped over him.

Erik wearily opens his eyes, and is thunderstruck by the sight of a very close, very familiar face. Asleep, Charles looks particularly vulnerable, the unexpected length of his eyelashes doing a funny thing inside Erik's chest. His wings are languidly outstretched, taking over the bed and spilling everywhere, and it'd be so easy to slip a hand under one of them and claim he's awaken already trapped under it, but Erik still doesn't dare.

It's so fragile, what they have. Erik can't shake off the feeling he's stealing what isn't meant for him, and it's only a matter of time before someone notices and comes to take it back. He'd rather not think about what that would mean for him.

"Morning," Charles suddenly hums in raspy voice, eyes only half open.

Erik swallows and lets a hand trail over his side, smiles when the light touch makes Charles squirm, tiny noises of protest falling from his lips. He wishes he could wrap him tightly in his wings and keep him forever, but of course, that's not how the tale goes, especially now that Erik doesn't have wings anymore. It stings, but he ignores it, preferring to focus in the bright, happy face Charles is making.

"Hello," he finally says, gingerly.

"You," Charles breathes, with a touch of wonder, "you're here. And, and, you were smiling."

Erik hesitates, fixes his gaze on one of the angel's chesnut curls.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, no, no! It's more than alright, really, I just missed it so much. Not that I'd ever seen it before, mind me, but... I missed it."

"I see," Erik claims, even though he's not certain he does.

Charles' smile grows softer, but fonder. He digs his elbows in the mattress, on either of Erik's sides, and pushes his upper body up. There's a wave of chilly air that raises goosebumps in Erik's chest; he doesn't complain, though, because Charles' legs are still tangled with his, and there's still this point of blazing heat between their hips. Charles' lips also look incredibly red and inviting in this light, and once again it comes to Erik's mind just how far from being an angel Charles actually is; he's much better suited for the role of the tempter, and in fact, he could already be, he could even be the original one, for all Erik knows.

And he can't help thinking, staring at those lips, that he cannot blame humanity for succumbing to sin, if the forbidden apple was anything like what he has in front of him. He too yearns to have a bite, after all... and what is stopping him, truly. He was never good enough, and if something is irreparably sullied, it matters not if it gets marginally worse.

His hands rise to tangle in the curls of Charles' nape, pulling him towards Erik ever so slightly, and Charles goes willingly. And then he tilts his head down, offers Erik another of his gentle smiles, and presses their lips together without any more encouragement needed, as if he'd been thinking about it as well, as if he'd been thinking about it a lot.

Their lips are parted, and Charles' blistering breath is in Erik's lungs, purifying him from the inside. Everything burns. It wouldn't have surprised Erik if he'd been able to taste Him in the roof of the angel's mouth, but no matter which spot he decides to devour, there's only Charles, and Erik rejoices, for now even His presence would've been unwelcome. He feels like he's praying in an unknown language devoid of words, but not to Him, not even to Charles, no, he's worshipping Charles, so earnest and wholeheartedly that He must be steaming with jealousy, but he's praying to a void, a void made of darkness and light and something beyond, a void that will eat him up alive as he begs for it all the while, desperate to be part of such a poignant power.

A vital part of Erik's very core breaks. Charles rebuilds it with a slow sweep of his tongue.

"Don't shut me out," the angel pleads, low and throaty, after they manage to rip themselves away from each other long enough. "Let me help you, Erik, please. I can't stand seeing how you do this to yourself."

"What do you want?" Erik hisses, ignoring the voice inside of him that keeps screaming (anything, anything you want, I'll give you anything). "What do you want from me?"

For all response, Charles draws back to sit on the bed, tugging at Erik's arms until he mimics the movement. Charles' wings are still magnificent things, even after the angel half folds them, and Erik has to clutch the covers to prevent himself from reaching out. Charles must catch him looking, interpret the longing in his face or the bitter jealousy in his mind, for he wriggles as close as possible without them fusing in one being and rests his forehead against his, blue eyes teary.

"You can," he fervently whispers. "You can touch. I want you to."

And as he says that, he spreads his wings again, and it's too much, and Erik needs to, and he hopes Charles meant it, because he's already stretching out a trembling hand, his fingers are almost touching the tip of a long feather, and... his breath hitches. Charles' feathers are soft and smooth, of course, but also sturdier than they look, and Erik should have expected it, but it still startles him.

He stills, just for an instant, before following the silver lines among the blue, delineating them with a gentleness he did not know himself capable of. Charles sighs sweetly and shifts so his forehead is on Erik's shoulder instead, taking the distraction of his alluring eyes with him, so Erik imbibes the sight with greed and moves on to the smaller feathers, and then to the barely born, fluffy ones that tickle as they brush the spaces between his fingers. And finally, he gives in to the urge to stroke both wings at once with the palms of his hands, making his touch firmer every time they pass over bones, until Charles shivers.

"Have I hurt you?" Erik asks, and almost doesn't recognize his own voice. There's too much devotion in it to handle.

"No," Charles replies, choking on the words, "goodness, no."

He raises his head and stares back into Erik's eyes, intently. His face is flushed red, freckles standing out even more than usual, and he keeps chewing on his lip. Erik can't grasp why he's so surprised when he kisses him; it'd be a sin, for sure, not to do it when he's so enciting, to reject what can only be His gift to the world.

"Charles," he starts against his mouth, but he's ran out of things to say. Or more accurately, he has so many that they're all trapped inside, lest they fall our of his mouth all at once and he ends up empty again. He's beginning to really miss Charles' presence brushing his, picking up everything he can't bring himself to utter just yet.

"Erik," Charles answers anyway, and smiles, emanating reassurance. "Close your eyes."

It passes his mind, the idea of asking why, but analyzing Charles' expression, Erik is sure he doesn't really want to know. Besides, there's a gentle, unspoken current of trust me, and this is Erik's way of saying yes, always. So he closes his eyes, and doesn't move, not even when he feels Charles pulling away and shifting around the bed, not even when he feels him settling behind him. He does get so tense that his muscles hurt, but there's only so much he can do.

Charles kisses his nape, and leaves his hands on the small of his back. Erik isn't fooled, though; they're only temporal comfort. And sure enough, they soon begin inching upwards, slowly, as if giving him time to reject their advances. And there's nothing Erik wants more, in this moment, but he digs his nails in his thighs and doesn't.

Erik has never looked at his back in a mirror, the mere thought of it too painful, as if seeing with his own eyes what had been done to him would make it even more real, definite. But he's felt the scars throbbing for months, and he could draw a map of them. It's simple, truly: there are two parallel gashes running from below his shoulder blades, not very long and not particularly deep, but then again, they didn't need to be. If he concentrates, he can still point out the spots where the bones that supported his wings used to be, as there's a small quantity of angelic metal left there, perhaps as a reminder.

"It's ugly, isn't it?" It slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, but he might have not done so anyway.

A part of him craves it like a punishment, is leaning forward with avidity and waiting for Charles to say what Erik has been fearing all this time: that in the end, there's not enough good in him to warrant staying, dealing with all that repulsiveness that Charles is directly staring into.

The angel makes a sound that Erik confuses with hysterical laughter, at first, but quickly realizes it's not, not even close; Charles is weeping. He trails his fingertips through the length of Erik's scars, and Erik thought they'd either be numb or aching, mourning the loss or rebelling against it, but Charles' light touch draws sparks out of them, the nearby skin tingling as if hoping it'll be next to experiment the angel's gentleness.

"You, my darling," Charles sniffs, voice trembling, "are the furthest from ugly I've ever seen."

As a proof, his touch gets less tentative, firmer. He slides his thumbs up and down Erik's scars, rubs them gently, and a kind of fire awakens in Erik, spreads through his whole body and declares him reborn. When Charles fingers are replaced by his lips, it feels like a blessing. Erik would be crying, too, if he had any tears left, but he doesn't, so he tries not to lose himself in the overwhelming waves of emotion that keep pushing against him.

"Charles," he says, surprisingly steady, and opens his eyes, "come back here."

There's a pause. Charles kisses both of his scars once more, lingering, before crawling back to his previous spot, facing him.

Erik breathes in and pulls him closer, cradles him against his chest. He's the most fragile he's ever been, but also the strongest. He's never been this hopeful about the goodness of angels, or this shaken by the fear they might disappoint him.

"Tell me," Charles mouths against his throat, "if you take an angel and pluck him out of the sky, what is left of him?"

Where else are you broken? Erik hears. Where else are you bleeding? I'll lick the blood away and kiss it better, I'll make the most gorgeous prayer out of you. He isn't sure of how he feels about it, but Charles' hair smells fresh and sweet, and he fits into his arms like he was meant to be held by him, so Erik humors him.

"There's nothing left."

"Lies," Charles replies. "There's an angel left."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"And in the sky?" Charles insists, ignoring him. "What's left where he used to be? What did he leave behind?"

"I don't know."

"Well, he left a scar. It's not supposed to be there, but it is. And the sky is hurting, because it realizes something is missing, but it doesn't know what or how to have it back. Or why it isn't there anymore."

Erik digs his nails into the angel's bare skin, imagines them sinking further and further, until they reach trembling essence and tear it out, pull it to his mouth for him to swallow. It would be like stars down his throat, and it would make him sacred as his sin made him damned, and the dichotomy would end him. But he would go out with a bang, and with Charles' taste in his tongue, and it would hurt so much less than this.

"Is that why you kept coming?" he asks, instead.

"In a way," Charles admits, as he nuzzles the spot where Erik's pulse is strongest. "I recognized you. Your soul, your mind. He must've made us together, from the same piece of his spirit. I felt you missing, and it hurt. You were hurting, too. And that, I could not allow."

Erik pulls away slightly, tilts Charles' face up. His eyes are already familiar, calming, but he's yet to see every single emotion reflected in them. He knows how his chest feels against his and just how soft his hands are, but there's still so much unmapped land; he's yet to discover how the inside of his wrist, the space between his collarbones, taste like. And he... he's all tender places and spots Charles hasn't kissed yet. But he has to do this.

"Look into my mind," Erik pleads, and it sounds like regret, and defeat. "I want you there," he adds, because he does, at least for the few moments before it all crumbles.

Charles beams, and kisses him. His presence floods Erik's mind, warmer and gentler than he remembered, tendrils of trembling happiness spreading in every direction. They don't shy away from the darkest memories, Erik is certain, but it might have been minutes or hours when he's offered a thank you wrapped in fondness, and Charles' presence does not retreat.

"You feel like home," Charles says out loud, voice wavering.

Nothing else is said for a long while. Nothing else needs to be said.

The silence doesn't break but much later, after they've uncurled from around each other and their lips are raw from kissing, and their skins are raw from touching, and Erik's heart is also raw and certainly too full. Charles puts on his clothes slowly, dips in for another kiss every time he finishes with a button. Before he flies away, he smiles at Erik, and all the mysteries of the world are contained in that smile.

"Paths are no less true because they're inscrutable," he points out. "And gifts are no less precious because they're frightening."

I love you, resonates in Erik's mind, right before the conexion is severed.

And the metal in the room starts singing.

viii.

There's a single feather growing in his back.

Erik finds it one afternoon by sheer luck. Something in his back is itching, and he's just passing by the bathroom, and he thinks of Charles' eyes glowing with pride when he comes later and finds out that he finally looked at himself in a mirror. So he does. And there it is, sprouting out of one of his scars like a particularly stubborn flower in barren soil, just as bright and beautiful as he remembers they all were.

He stares at it for a long time. Then, he plucks it out.

When Charles arrives, presence soothing Erik's churning mind, he kisses the aching spot until his lips stop coming back bloody, and doesn't ask.

But the next day, there's another feather, and then another, and another, and another, and Erik keeps plucking them out, but it hurts more every time and he is so sick of it, he's boiling with rage, he's shaking with the urge of pulling out the metal left in his wings' bones to remind them they're not allowed to come back.

Charles must pick on that thought, because that night, he does ask.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" is the question, although pronounced as if he already knew the answer.

"I am not," Erik snaps, shifting his gaze from Charles' big, sad eyes to the runes on his palms, the ones that had been written on blood while he tugged off his feathers that first time, and every twist and angle speaks of pain. How cruel, he thinks, to have him relive that moment day after day. "He is mocking me. He punished me, but that wasn't enough, so now He's mocking me."

"He didn't punish you, Erik," Charles replies, intertwining their fingers, and Erik wants to scream. Immediately, a foreign wave of love and calm washes over him, smoothing over his sharp edges. "He didn't punish you," Charles repeats, softly, because he never knows when to quit, "you did."

"I fell!" Erik howls. "I fell because I was unworthy of Him, because he didn't want me! They knew, they'd always known, and they took my wings! How does any of this sound like I did it to myself?! How, Charles?!"

Charles shakes his head, blue eyes brimming with tears, and rests his forehead against Erik's temple with absolutely no regard of how furious Erik is right now. "You didn't fall, Erik," he whispers, "you jumped. You were the one who believed you weren't good enough, the one who plucked out his own feathers and keeps doing so, because you don't want to forgive yourself. They had no right to tell you you'd done anything wrong, because you hadn't, but they aren't the ones keeping you down here."

"If I have done nothing wrong," Erik says, swallowing shards of glass and something wild that tries to claw its way up, "why do I have to forgive myself?"

"You're hurting yourself," comes the gentle answer, accompanied by a press of lips against his cheekbone, "you're hurting yourself so badly, Erik."

And Erik lets it be. He cannot find the words for what he wants to say, and Charles keeps kissing him so sweetly, leaving invisible imprints of affection everywhere, as if designing some kind of path only they can follow. Rage burns itself out like a flame and love takes over, seeping into his bones, a terrifying beast which has sharp blades as teeth but holds him in its mouth so gently. Erik has no words for this, either.

Later, he wakes up with Charles snuggled into his chest. The angel's wings are folded, but when Erik touches them, they stretch ever so slightly in welcome. He wonders if his would react to Charles' touch with such trust, or if they'd be skittish and wary like a mistreated creature.

He looks over his shoulder, and sure enough, there's a reddish feather blooming there.

He hesitates, an instant of fear and shame threatening to come back. Then he closes his eyes, buries his face in Charles' hair, and goes back to sleep.

It's a slow process, but not always unpleasant. Erik learns that there's little as thrilling as making Charles smile wider and brighter than the time before, feeling the pride and joy of his presence in his mind. He also learns that his feathers are more sensitive than they've ever been, and that they apparently like Charles very much. Besides, the rumble of metal in his bones only grows stronger as days go by, while the hum in his blood grows fainter.

And then, one day, he can't feel his blood at all, and his wings are twin flames alight on his back.

"They are gorgeous," Charles claims, as always, wide-eyed with wonder, even though he's seen them exactly like this everyday for weeks.

"But could they hold me?" Erik finally asks, because Charles has held and kissed every feather, so he must know.

"Let's find out."

It's cold outside, but Charles' hands are warm in his. So is his presence, and his laughter, and his voice. Everything in Charles is warm, and Erik doesn't know how he survived those first months without him. He still can't quite believe he deserves what he's been given, but he doesn't intend to lose it anytime soon.

"I love you," he says, or thinks, or perhaps both.

"Let's go home," Charles smiles.

Home, Erik knows without doubt, home is the blue of Charles' eyes. So when Charles spreads his wings, he follows, the space where fear used to be now filled with love and hope.

They soar into the sky.