Fallen Angel, Fallen God

a/n: Greetings everyone! This is a new short story of mine, approximately 32 pages. It's my attempt at something new and unusual, with a slightly different style. It's a very dark, unhappy piece, yet, something about it touches me which is why I like it so much.

08/05/08 -- Added a new part that I realized made the story lacking something without it. Also, I edited the piece for some grammar and misspellings. Altogether makes for a better read!

This is also self-betaed so all mistakes are mine alone. I do hope you enjoy and wish that I could receive some nice feedback.

Warnings for slashy goodness, bloody violence, attempted suicide, mentions of drug use, strange jumps in time line and some dubious comments on religion that might offend the really religious so watch out for that.

By the way, I'm basing my fast food experience on real-life experience so if you think it's unrealistic, or a generalization, or even stereotyping, it is exactly like my own experiences.

With that said, please enjoy!

Fallen Angel, Fallen God

He was sure he was crying.

Or at least, that was what the wet warmth trickling down his cheeks was called. But Seiji was not entirely positive because he had never had emotion like this before. It was supposed to be human alone, something for the mortals.

Not for deities, not for the omnipotent. The omniscient.

Somehow, he had not known about this.

He stared at the gates in front of him, wrought platinum and gleaming in the ever-present sunlight. The metal glimmered in shifting colors, like the play of sunbeams over minerals in rock. They were locked, without visible chains and bars, but locked all the same. If he dared touch the metal, it would burn his hands. It would sear his body. It would bring pain, another concept he was slowly beginning to understand.

The place within the gates was no longer his home. He had been cast aside for something better, something more pure. He was tainted now, a fallen being. A fallen deity.

He could hear the music, a lovely litany of voices and flutes, curling up into the sky to join the hum of nature. It used to throb in his bones, used to thrum through his veins and cause his heart to pound to a new rhythm. Now it brought to him such a sorrow that his throat closed up again, threatening to cut off his breath. His very necessary, human breath.

There was a pressing at his feet, at his chest, an invisible force that bore him backwards. He took one step, than another, tiny retreats. Turn back, the pressure told him. You are no longer welcome here. As if the barred gates and the sense of being abandoned weren't enough of an indication.

There was no true footing beneath him. Not clouds, not dirt, nothing solid or present. He looked down and could see the earth beneath him. Speckles of brown and blue and green of all shades. Of pristine waters and polluted waters. Of agriculture and the miles and miles of concrete, suffocating the life of the world.

His body was once light and easy to manage. Perfect in every way. Beautiful. Unmarred and unbroken. Now it felt heavy, his shoulders dragging, his feet taking each step as though weighted down with boulders. His chest was thick, fingers tingling and swollen, sweaty. He felt heat and cold, whispering across his flesh, and shivered.

They wanted him to descend of his own choice, to hold what little pride he had left. He wasn't sure which he would rather for himself. To fall or to be pushed, to jump or to be thrown. Protests were useless and gained him nothing. She had already made her decision.

Seiji was to fall.

And then he was floating, staring up at the cerulean sky without a speck of cloud to mar the endless blue. Somewhere to his right, the sun shone, a brilliant yellow orb blazing across the expanse. It was warm on his skin, too warm, burning and hot.

He winced, the ground rushing up to meet him. Air slapped against his back, rustling his hair, his clothing, which felt itchy and rough against his flesh. He would have to get used to that sensation, of wearing fabric and covering himself.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply of the last remnants of crystal clear air, and...

...found himself staring at the cracked ceiling of his apartment, a droplet of rainwater seeping through the hole above and landing on his forehead. It was the cold wetness which had woken him from his slumber.

Seiji groaned and rolled over, avoiding the next drip of rust-tainted water. It plopped onto his pillow with a splash, even as he swiped at his temple, removing the remnants of the first drop. The bed creaked loudly beneath him, springs protesting his every moment. A wash of cold air from the broken glass on his window attacked his half-uncovered form, causing a shiver to wrack his body. A shiver that his thin blanket didn't quite chase away.

He thought of the warmth, of the shining, and held onto the lingering remnants of his memory turned dream. That was all he had now of his true home, memories and dreams in the dead of night when he huddled to warm himself. And yet, every morning he awoke to stagnant reality, to the sound of rodents skittering on the floor above him and the lights passing on the walls from the cars outside.

The rough thud and boom of stereos belonging to the local thugs. The heavy rumble of vehicles in desperate need of a tune-up. The raised voices of the couple across the street, always arguing, always fighting, yet still clinging tenaciously to a decaying relationship. The soft pitter of rain striking the sidewalk, and the louder dissonance of it falling across the thin roofs. A sour smell, of rot and decay, of crumbling homes and rotting trash, joined the rush of cold air through his window.

Seiji threw an arm over his face, trying to calm the rapid-fire beat of his heart and the lingering pulls of homesickness. Behind his eyes, gold glimmered and a flute-song whistled on the wind. Beyond his sight, the beauty of forever mocked him.

The moment of self-pity was abandoned when an alarm went off, shrieking near his head. He flopped out a blind arm, succeeding in knocking the cell phone from the stand next to his twin bed. It fell to the floor, though the alarm continued to scream at high pitch.

Throwing off his blanket, Seiji thrust his legs over the side of the bed and reached down, plucking up the wailing device. A few blind key presses later and his alarm was off. A quick glance informed him of the time. Just after eleven in the morning. He had to be to work in three-quarters of an hour.

Taking a moment to rub a sleep that just wasn't long enough from his eyes, Seiji rose to his feet and padded bare feet across the wooden floor. Each step creaked, though he nimbly managed to avoid each crack and hole. Even half-blind in the semi-darkness he could miss them, since he had long memorized their location. In the apartment to his left, someone's child woke up right on the dot and began screaming. Just like it did every morning.

There was a creak and a groan above him, the pipes rattling as someone tried to encourage their water to start running, likely to take a shower. Seiji cursed under his breath. Now he wouldn't have any time to do so himself. The entire building ran on the same system. When one showered, everyone else had to wait twenty minutes for their turn. He didn't have that long.

He stumbled into his bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth. He avoided looking into the mirror above the sink, not wanting to see what the half-cracked and half-dirtied glass would reveal to him. He stepped gingerly around remnants of a scarlet stain, brown at the edges.

Wandering back into the bedroom, he retrieved his work clothes from where he had left them slung over the back of an old wooden chair. It teetered on three and a half legs and was useless for sitting, but it worked for other purposes. Seiji pulled on the black slacks, and then the green polo shirt, yellow stripes around the cuffs. This he tucked into the pants before buttoning and sliding his belt through the loops.

The silence of the apartment surrounded him as he gathered his belongings, the handful of change and crumpled bills, and shoved them into his pocket to join his doorkey and pack of cigarettes. He slid into his boots, black as regulation required, and swiped his hat off the back spoke of the chair. It was promptly tucked inside his jacket. Running a hand through his dark red hair, he considered himself dressed and ready for work.

Next he wandered into the kitchen/living area, little more than a sink, a half-fridge, and a small cooking stove. Not that he did much cooking. He already knew that the cupboard was empty and a quick glance into the fridge showed little to serve for breakfast. Seiji settled for a cup of milk, nearing its expiration date, and a granola bar grabbed from the nearly full box on top of the fridge. He hated them because they were dry and tasted nothing like real fruit, but it was better than nothing.

He left his apartment, locking the door behind him with care because it was a ten dollar fine by the landlord if he didn't, even if he had nothing of note to steal, and walked out into a gray morning. The rain had fizzled out into a dismal drizzle, trickling down his exposed neck where his jacket didn't quite cover. Hunching his shoulders, Seiji shoved his hands into his pocket and began his short walk to the bus stop.

This was his life now, his existence, far from what he enjoyed above the mortal world, above the fast pace and the drive of a temporary state. These were his circumstances, scurrying around with the rest of the rat race. Concerned about bills and the next meal and housing and any number of useless things. Yet, he somehow managed a high head, a sense of pride that very few in his position managed to convey.

He was determined not to lower himself to their level, to become the humans that he still despised. Crude and destructive, without an ounce of respect for their own world, their own lives. Nothing could convince him of the benefit of mortality. Not even seeing through their eyes. She had been wrong.

The bus was late, as usual, and Seiji wound up being scrunched between the window and a large man who carried a box of jelly doughnuts in one hand and a suitcase in the other, already bulging at the edges with paperwork. Chatter was non-existent on the bus as everyone kept to themselves, all trudging to their meaningless and hated jobs. Or hunting for one if their haggard appearance was any indication. No one looked happy.

Seiji reached his stop in twenty minutes and stepped off the bus, the rain falling a little harder in this portion of town. The smell of rot was replaced with exhaust and the heavy scent of a thunderstorm. He could feel it prickling at his skin. The weather was going to take a turn for the worst, not that it was often sunny in this city. He couldn't remember the last time he had truly seen the sun, setting above an open plain or rising over the wide and blue ocean.

A short walk through two blocks took him to his workplace, a building scrunched between another building and a busy street in a more residential portion of the city. Cheery lettering in neon greeted him. McDonald's – the only place that would hire him. He didn't even look up as he pushed open the door, a wash of warm air scented with grease and french fries smacking him in the face.

The door chimed at his entrance, causing his boss to look up from the register briefly before returning to his customer. “Your hat, Seiji,” he reminded him in a dull tone. “Would you like to upgrade your meal, ma'am?”

The lady, looking as if she should downgrade rather than upgrade, shook her head. “Duh! If I settled for a medium, I wouldn't get anything to eat. You always skimp me on the fries!”

Seiji ignored the both of them, as his manager tried to placate the customer by explaining their methods of measuring. He passed the bathrooms and reached for the door handle, stepping back behind the counter. Pausing at the first computer, he tapped himself into the system, five minutes early, and dug his hat from his coat, sliding it over his head. He hated the damn thing, but rules were rules and he needed his job. No matter how much he despised it.

Before he had a chance to so much as remove his jacket, he was accosted by one of his co-workers, a girl barely out of her teens. She latched onto him, looking up hopefully and batting big, brown eyes.

“Sei,” she whined, fingers grasping onto his coat. “Will you please take the 'Hole? You know how much I can't stand small places!”

She was of course referring to the small cubicle in the back of the store used for taking orders and payment in the drive-thru. It was the smallest room in the restaurant, nestled in the corner of the store. Two wide windows, one to see the approaching line of cars, the other with the sliding window for accepting payments, brought light into the room. But it didn't help the feeling of being trapped. The employees had taken to calling it the Hole, a fitting cognomen.

Seiji shrugged off her touch and she wisely backed off, knowing that in his irritation, he would be less likely to accept her request. He pulled off his jacket. “Did Neung agree to it already?” he asked, moving past her to the small coat rack they kept just behind the door, shoved into the tiny space between the wall and the ice cream machine.

“Yes,” she said, and he had to glance at her name tag to remind himself of her name -- Jaimie. “Oh, please say yes. If I have to spend another minute in there I'll go crazy.”

'More than you already are?' he thought to himself, rolling his eyes at her exaggeration.

He inclined his head, turning back towards her and holding out a hand. “Give me the head set,” he ordered, she already in the midst of unbuckling the straps. He preferred the Hole to the rest of the restaurant anyways.

It was the furthest from his co-workers and there was a nice wall between he and his customers. He could simply close the window on any unwanted comments, after taking their money. No one expected kindness in this city, or politeness. And despite the calling of “fast food,” they didn't expect their food in the allotted, promised thirty seconds either.

The grin on Jaimie's face couldn't have been any wider as she eagerly handed over the headset. “Thanks a bunch!” she said with a giggle. “I promise to do something for you some day.”

Seiji shrugged, pulling the headset over his head and buckling the other bit around his waist. It sagged down until it rested just below his belt. Silence greeted his ears and he quickly checked the compact. The light was green, signifying that it was on. He simply didn't have a customer at the moment.

Ready for work, he slid past Jaimie without so much as another word, and edged past Neung, the overweight and balding man who managed the joint. He deftly avoided one of the front-end workers as she bustled back and forth between the drink machine and the window, and another as he stood waiting at the food drop-off, impatiently arguing with one of the cooks. Another order was wrong, no surprise there.

“Seiji.”

He paused, turning back towards Neung. The old Asian man tapped his forehead, dark eyes a clear warning. “Keep that hat on.”

Irritation welled within Seiji, but he pushed it down, nodding mutely in answer. Everyday the old bastard reminded him, just because he had forgotten once last month. Neung was satisfied with his response and turned back towards the next sullen-faced customer. It left Seiji free to skirt around the fry-girl and walk carefully through spatters of grease that dotted the floor between the oil vats and the meat warmers.

One of the cooks waved a spatula in greeting, face already dotted with bits of grease, and received a half-hearted flip of the wrist in return. A low dong in Seiji's ear kept him from making conversation, not that he would have, informing him of his impending customer. One hand dropped to the console at his waist, thumbing the switch.

“Thank you for choosing McDonald's today,” he welcomed in his usual monotone. “What can I get for you?”

The customer's voice, along with a good deal of ear-aching static, poured through the headset. Seiji winced and automatically lowered the volume as he continued towards the Hole, trying to decipher the order, peppered with umms and worsened by a thick accent.

He could already tell it was going to be a long day and he glanced at the clock. Just around noon with eight hours left to go. He was already counting down...

...the minutes standing before him. He still held himself proud and strong, watching her as she gazed at him, ageless eyes filled with reproach. He had done nothing wrong, after all.

“Radwan,” Malaika spoke, circling around him with even, noiseless steps. Even in the foyer of his own home, she held herself with authority and he knew, if she demanded, he would be on his knees with no choice in the matter. “Do you deny your crime?”

“I deny knowledge of what I could have done which would be conceived as a crime,” he answered truthfully, squaring his shoulders. A lock of garnet hair fell into face; he didn't dare lift a hand to push it back behind his ears. “If Her Holiness would enlighten me as to my deeds, I will tell Her Holiness whether or not I committed the deed.”

Her lips crooked into an amused smile. “As elegant with your words as always, Radwan.”

“I do live to please,” he replied with an inclination of his head, presenting the perfect picture of servility.

Her smile deepened, as though she were merely humoring him. “Indeed, the Lord of Pleasure, as you are named.” She paused and took several steps, as though preparing to circle around him. “And yet, have you done so? Have you even spent a moment in humility?”

Confusion flooded the lord and he twitched unconsciously, flushing when he failed to conceal the notion from her ever-watchful gaze. “I am not certain that I understand what Her Holiness is questioning,” he returned slowly, an aura of uncertainty filling the thick of the room.

“No, I do not suppose you would,” she mused aloud, crossing her arms under her small bosom and somehow managing not to wrinkle the soft white of her robes. “I should not blame you either. Most have fallen to these ways. You are simply the example, my dear Radwan.”

Comprehension refused to dawn upon him. The uncertainty deepened to a clear worry, though it was an all too human emotion to shoot through him. He did not like it one bit and rose up even taller, grabbing his pride and donning it like one would a mantle.

“Her Holiness speaks riddles to confuse me,” he declared, though he still kept his voice even, not daring to raise it. “Is or is there not a reason for the unannounced visit?”

Her ageless eyes shifted in color, from the swaying gold of wheat fields to the tremulous and tossing white-capped blue of the furious ocean. “Your arrogance knows no bounds,” she spoke, and this time her voice was the low hiss of a snake, sharp and shiver-inducing.

Somehow, he immediately knew that he had erred in speaking.

“The Lord of Pleasure, they call you,” she repeated, circling around him slowly, her tone becoming mocking and derogatory. “Yet, you please no one but yourself. Even now, you seek to abandon my presence to return to your revelry, to your debauchery. What have you for the pleasure you owe to the world beneath?”

A certain doubt dared settle in Radwan's bones and he worried he might know of which crime she spoke of. “It is a gray world, a dying world,” he responded, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I give them their Pleasure. It turns corrupt in their hands.”

“You give it to those who satisfy your vanity,” Her Holiness countered, eyes flashing the cerise flame of a bursting volcano, spewing molten stone and ash into the air. “You have lost your candor, Radwan, and have become less the Lord of Pleasure, more the Lord of Felony.”

His face paled, draining of its glorious shade. “Her Holiness is accusing me of shirking my duties?” he questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

“Nay,” she responded, drawing to a halt directly in front of him and straightening, if only to prove her superior height. “I accuse you of playing favorites with your duties, of using them to suit your own needs. For showing little care towards those you are meant to serve. It is a worse crime than simple neglect.”

He was silent, unable to come up with a single, capable denial. He knew, deep inside, that she was right. But the words to explain himself, to explain how he truly felt about the humans, he did not dare speak. It would only deepen his crimes.

She looked at him and her persona grew colder, words chilled and clipped. “You do not even need to speak for me to hear them. I know what you think of the mortals. And it is for that reason you are being judged.”

“But surely I am not the only one!” Radwan declared before he could stop himself, feeling every last bit of his pride crumple to dust.

Her very stance, her determination, it spoke of an ill future for him, one that he did not want to face. He would do what was necessary to avoid it. Even fall to his knees, pressing his head lower than hers in a gesture of submission.

“In truth,” he continued, with an almost desperate hope. “I know that I am of many who think the same thoughts. I can be no more biased than the Lord of Luck or even the Lord of Wisdom.”

She did not waver, did not even blink. “This may be true,” Malaika admitted, her entire manner as stiff and formal as a pressed handkerchief. “And so an example must be made. It is your terrible fortune to have been the one caught. I would blame the partial Lord of Luck, if I were you.”

“We are not governed by the same laws as the mortals,” he argued, growing more and more despairing with each passing moment.

“And if you think it is because we are better than them, than that is your folly. None of mine,” Malaika declared, cutting off his diatribe with such finality that he felt the words catch in his throat, dying a painful death.

Radwan choked on his argument and fell back several paces, feeling a weakness in his knees that hadn't been there before. She must have placed it there, along with the weight on his shoulders, the sudden pain in his wrists and ankles.

He dropped to the marble floor beneath him, none too gently, knees striking harshly. Pain shot through the joints, surprising him with its harshness, its cruelty.

He looked up with despairing emerald eyes. “...Pain,” he whispered at her. “What has Her Holiness done to me?”

He was Lord of Pleasure. Such things as pain, as hunger, as chill and fear, were unknown to him. Yet, now they were creeping in, stealing away everything that made him lord and god.

“Please,” he murmured, watching the light fade around him, the brilliant colors turning dull and lifeless. “Do not do this to me. Do not punish me so...” It was as close to begging as he could force himself to attempt.

Her eyes were cold and empty as they gazed down at him, flat and lifeless. “You are becoming that which you hate the most,” Malaika declared, a bare hint of pity in her voice. “And just like them, you shall live upon the earth and you shall feel their pain. Only then will you understand what it means to be mortal.”

Radwan barely heard her words through the pain wracking his limbs, through the heat seeping out of his limbs. He felt a weakness, felt the terrible rending of each feather as it fell from his wings and fluttered to the ground. He watched them fade away to ash and sift into nothingness in an invisible wind.

And then her voice...

... broke him out of his near reverie, lulled into drowsiness by the heat of the sun streaming the windows and the lack of immediate customers. Seiji peeled open his eyes and started, sensing a presence right beside him.

“Sei!”

He turned, finding another one of his co-workers poking him in the elbow. He blinked slowly, belatedly remembering her name to be Madeline. She was mildly more acceptable than the other flitting annoyances that he worked alongside.

“There's a man here to see you,” she added the moment she felt she had his attention.

Seiji furrowed his brow, clearing away the lingering remnants of the daze. “What?”

She smiled, displaying white and even teeth. “Boss said I can take over while you talk to him. It seems important since he said he would wait for you.”

He frowned, knowing he had no friends, family, or acquaintances. No one would be coming to visit him. “I don't know anyone.”

Madeline giggled, obviously not believing him. “He's cute. Go see him silly.” She added the last with a shove.

Rolling his eyes, realizing he would have no peace unless he did as she asked, he unbuckled the headset and handed it over. She giggled again, and then was luckily distracted by the arrival of a customer. Sighing, Seiji ran a hand through his hair and ventured to the front of the store.

As he rounded the corner and approached the counter, he caught sight of the man waiting for him on the other side. He drew to a complete stop, yielding steps away from the counter, his face twisting into an unhappy scowl.

“What are you doing here?” Seiji demanded crossly, glaring at the man who had been visiting him without end lately.

Once or twice a week the man had come into the restaurant, far too wealthy to eat at such a place yet never really visiting for the food. He had introduced himself once, but Seiji had purposefully pretended he'd forgotten the man's name.

And in every visit, he always asked for the same thing. For Seiji to quit his job and work for him. Every time, Seiji said no, especially since the man was so vague about what the job actually entailed. All he knew was that there was a glint in the man's dark eyes that hinted it would be something unpleasant, something Seiji would never stoop to committing.

Seiji is simply too beautiful to work in a place like this. Those were Mr. Kingston's words, what he claimed every time.

It would be said with a lingering glance and appraising stare that seemed to glance right through Seiji's uniform to his bare skin beneath. As if he had been stripped naked then and there in the store.

Every time, Seiji couldn't help but wonder if Jayar actually could see him for what he used to be. If it was simple coveting, that Jayar craved to own something unique, something that no man had every laid true eyes on. He wondered if Jayar simply craved the exotic, the unusual. If he believed that there was nothing his money couldn't buy him.

Lips curled into a smirk. “I came to see my favorite laymen,” the man – obviously somewhat older than Seiji's current appearance – responded, leaning on the counter. He lifted dark eyes to Seiji. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes,” Seiji answered curtly.

The smirk widened, seeming almost smarmy. “And your answer?”

“The same as always. No.” Annoyed, Seiji turned to head back to work, fully intending to never speak to this man again.

“Seiji?”

He whirled on his heels, giving the man the full force of his glare. He had no right to speak so familiarly, to even use his given name whether or not it was on his tag.

The man merely lifted a brow, standing straight and proud in his expensive suit and tie which belonged nowhere near McDonald's. “Apologies, Mr. Taylor. But you know, the answer doesn't have to come so quickly.”

“It does when it concerns you.” Seiji sneered and whirled back around, heavy steps carrying him back towards the Hole where he would gladly take up the headset once again.

Yet, he could practically feel the man's smile against his back, the hungry glint in his eyes. “I'll be back, Seiji. And I have the feeling you'll accept my offer.”

“Not likely,” Seiji muttered under his breath, ignoring the twittering gossip around him as he shoved his way back to the Hole.

He had no intention of ever finding himself within the clutches of such a man, under his control, doing whatever it was that man desired. Fallen he might be, but Seiji still had his pride, still had his self-respect. He still had...

... the gasp that broke from his lips, fingers encircling his penis and warm lips pressed to the back of his neck. He was already hot, a sheen of sweat painting his body as he broke free from another dream, a string of them he never seemed capable of waking from. Always trapped in one memory or another.

The fingers left his arousal and pulled on his leg, situating on top of another which did not belong to him. That leg slid forward, up towards his balls until Seiji's own leg was nearly in the air. The fingers dipped between his legs and tickled at his entrance, pressing dryly against his puckered ring.

Seiji pushed his head into the pillow, a groan escaping him before he could stop it. “Jayar,” he moaned, hands grasping at the covers.

His lover pressed against him and he could feel the hard cock against his lower back. Jayar shifted on the bed and his other hand tangled in Seiji's hair, pulling it backwards.

The pad of Jayar's finger pressed against his opening. The thumb, at the widest part, pushing and massaging, encircling. The tip dipped inside and then it returned to the teasing rubbing.

“Took you long enough,” Jayar breathed in his ear, warm and moist. “You certainly sleep deeply, Sei.”

“Only when I dream,” he muttered, pushing back into Jayar's touch. “Only when I dream.” Hunger slid into his body, waking every sleepy synapse.

“And what do you see?” he asked, taking his thumb away to Seiji's disappointment. “In your dreams?”

The thumb, once circling his entrance, moved up his body to his lips. Seiji's tongue flicked out against it and encouraged, Jayar pressed the digit inside Seiji's mouth. He rubbed the flat of the thumb against Seiji's tongue before adding another finger, the two of them soon painted in Seiji's saliva.

The leg slid up more, opening him further. Jayar shifted again and then his cock, hard and heavy hot, nudged against Seiji's balls. He could practically feel him pulsing. Jayar's hips were tortuous, rocking, sliding against him but not entering. Seiji couldn't answer the question with the fingers in his mouth and he went to move his hands, only to realize that they had been bound, tied to the headboard.

Jayar's fingers slid in deeper, pressing against his tongue and Seiji wondered if he was drooling over his pillow. He nearly choked on them, but that didn't seem to bother Jayar. He knew Seiji's limits better than anyone and he enjoyed pushing them as far as he could, and then further still. He loved pressing back the fault line. Taking it to the edge. And Seiji allowed him every time. Without knowing why.

“You're beautiful like this,” Jayar murmured in his ear, his hips rocking against Seiji in a maddening rhythm.

A taunting slide of flesh against flesh, warm and slick and smooth. He could feel the drips of precum against his anus, smearing and rubbing, but no penetration. Jayar was all golden skin and sharp lines and angles, hard muscle and lean form. Golden hair, dark eyes, very nearly like the immortal ones Seiji had left above. So beautiful, dangerous in their beauty.

Encompassing. Consuming. Fatal.

“Fallen,” Jayar added in a near hiss, combined with a hot and heavy breath. “Mine to do with however I please.” His finger stroked over Seiji's tongue, knocking against the sharp edges of his teeth.

It reminded him of the sneers, somehow, of the gentle apologetic eyes. It reminded him of a booming voice decreeing his punishment. Of the soft whisper of abandonment. The first feeling of pain and rejection.

The sense of loss crept over Seiji again, locking on his heart, stealing his breath. Threatening to consume him whole as he thought of home, thought of his prior existence.

He moaned around Jayar's fingers and his lover chuckled behind him – somehow derisive – tongue slithering out to slide against Seiji's ear. It was warm and wet, sparking more desire through Seiji. His body tightened and warmed, that low coil starting to churn in his belly. He felt the rough edge of teeth, the tug on his hair.

Seiji's fingers tightened around his bonds, his hips moving backwards in an attempt to coax Jayar's taunting touch. A desperate sound reverberated in his throat, a wordless begging that he knew Jayar could understand. Even without the syllables.

“As you wish,” Jayar murmured and then lowered his mouth, locking his lips and tongue on the side of Seiji's bare neck. He could feel the brush of Jayar's hair over the side of his head, his moistened ear and tickling on his neck.

Seiji shivered, even as Jayar thrust into him slowly, working his way inside. And it hurt, it burned, as he slipped within. Without any sort of prior stretching but the teasing rub of his thumbs.

He knew he should be used to the pain by now. But his body still healed, it still retained that ability to regenerate. It was one of the few things that wasn't taken from him and he had yet to decide if it was a bane or a blessing. If She had forced him to keep that trait if only to prolong his pain, to force him to experience every mortal ill again and again.

He could not die. Seiji knew this. It was a fact that had already been proven to him once before. In fact, the marks were still there, the scars the only mars that remained on his otherwise perfect body. No other injury formed a cicatrix, but this one, performed by his own hand. A hand which seemed to...

...reflect everything and yet nothing, a solid blackness like the call of oblivion. Seiji looked into the mirror and saw his own haunted and desperate eyes, all too mortal. Green darkened to nearly black in his fury over the situation, in his despair.

He looked, in the reflection, at the cracked walls and the rusted, brown stains of his bathtub. Even if he had scrubbed, they wouldn't have come free. He saw the trail of clothing he left behind him, the bare glimpse of bare feet of the human still sleeping on his unmade bed, sprawled and snoring. He could see the marks on his shoulders and neck from an overenthusiastic lover which desperation had borne him to seek out.

Desperation and a bit of apathy.

He could still smell the faint scent of fried foods, of thick glubose oil and frying cow meat. All this combined with the sickly sweet lure of cookies and apple pies. He heard the giggles of his co-workers, felt the taint of his customers. The ringing of the cash register, the counting of change and the dark residue of grime still clinging to his fingers.

Outside, beyond his apartment, he could hear sirens, always sirens going off at all times of the night. There was a boom or a bang. Maybe fireworks. Maybe a crap car. Maybe it was a gunshot. He couldn't tell anymore. He had ceased being alarmed by the sounds weeks ago. Now they were just part of the jarring musical threnody that ran his life.

Hands planted on the side of the sink – once white but now stained grayish brown with grime – he could see his hunched shoulders. Could still feel the weight of wings, the wonderful and lovely heaviness of thousands of gleaming feathers.

“I can't do this anymore,” he muttered, his voice echoing solitary in the bathroom, passing barely beyond the doorway. “Take me back.”

No one answered. He didn't expect anyone to.

Live as a human. Know their eyes. And then, Radwan, maybe then you will understand.

That was the creed given to him. But Seiji didn't want to understand. He simply wanted to return. To find his way back home where everything made sense and nothing was tainted, or impure. Where words meant something and honor still existed and beauty had a name.

He lowered his gaze to the blade sitting on the sink, right in the soap dish. A pocketknife borrowed from one of his co-workers. Sharp edge. Good grip. Guaranteed to keep him safe since he lived in a dangerous burrough.

Seiji picked it up. The metal clacked against the porcelain as he did so, the blade dragging against the not-white. It was heavy in his fingers, in his grasp. But not too heavy to wield.

Falling from a high building would feel too much like his fall from grace, like the day he was stripped of his wings. He no longer wanted to remember that. Or relive it for that matter.

Suffocation didn't appeal. Not hands wrapped around his neck, not a rope. It would be too painful, or it wouldn't work at all. He didn't want anyone to see an attempt, he wanted an assurance. This wasn't a cry for help; it was a cry to return home.

“I can't do this anymore,” whispered through the bathroom again.

Down the highway, not across the tracks.

Her words to him, said with a half-smile and a showing of scars performed the wrong way. I was glad someone found me, she had said. It wasn't until I was dying that I realized I wanted to live.

Meaningless words from a human who didn't know the glory of the hereafter, of immortality and of the life Seiji had lived when he was Radwan. He cast them from his mind and took the knife in a good grip.

With a deep breath, he set the tip to his wrist and pressed, hissing as it broke skin. Scarlet blood welled up immediately and he quickly drew it back, cutting through skin nearly to his elbow. It hurt, by the gods, it hurt like nothing he had ever experienced in his life. There was the warmth of blood, splashing down into the grimy sink, and his grip on the knife faltered.

He watched the spilling of his life's fluid with a sense of mad wonder, felt the tingling in his other fingers. And then realized he would soon lose his grip in that hand. He needed to complete the job. Fumbling and dizzy, he exchanged the knife into the other hand and quickly made the second slash. This one was more jagged, less even, and much shallower than the other.

Seiji lost his grip almost immediately and the knife clattered into the sink, stained porcelain quickly spattered with sprays of blood. He gasped, hunched over and wobbled forwards, only to drop to his knees. His forehead struck the edge of the sink, sending him sprawling backwards, splayed on the grimy floor, the tiles a disgusting mint green. Meant to be calming, he supposed.

He felt every pulse of his heart, suddenly a rapid and frightened thing. Heard the drip-drip of every drop of sanguine fluid. Felt a cold seeping into his bones, which may have had something to do with bare skin pressed to chilly tile. His head fell to the side where he looked at the ragged remains of his arm and wondered when death would claim him.

How long would it take to die like this? What was it like to die? Thoughts ran rampant in his head. He was immortal, always living, always existing. He knew nothing of that endless darkness, of letting it consume him and replace it all with emptiness. He wondered if that lack of knowledge was what made humans so afraid.

It was so quiet. He noticed this belatedly. All the sounds that had been buzzing around his ears, the voices screeching in his head, were gone. All that was left was silence.

He turned his head, emerald gaze falling on one of his arms. The wound lay open and gory, blood pulsing in even bursts from the wounds. Seiji suddenly stilled, his eyes widening.

No. No. No. No. No!

It couldn't be.

His entire body stiffened and he focused every effort on what his eyes could see. There, at the furthest edge of his wound, right below his wrist the skin was beginning to pull back together. To seal itself. Even the seeping blood was gradually slowing and stopping.

Healing. All on its own. Without his consent.

“No,” the word was a twisted moan, falling from his lips. “No, goddammit, no.” Silly human custom, cursing their deity even in the same moment they ask for help. And he had picked up on that ridiculous habit, crawling around in the dung heap like the rest of the mortals.

One hand smacked out dully, not responding to his demands as quickly as he would have liked. Fingers curled into mad claws and he found himself ripping, tearing at the newly healing cuts. Pulling them back apart, demanding the blood.

It wasn't fair.

He had never sounded more mortal in that moment.

Then he heard the sound. The squeak mattress springs, the low groan of a body stirring. His unfortunate bed partner was waking. Would his foul luck never cease?

Feet fell to the floor, one than another. There were seconds of sleepy stumbling, and then, a gasp of surprise and horror.

“Seiji!”

Hands fell on his shoulders, roughly shaking him. Seiji groaned in the face of the frantic shouting, felt the agony of his wounds knitting back together slowly. He was not going to die. They wouldn't let him die. They wouldn't let him...

...press deeper and deeper into his skin, likely bruising him if the strength used was any indication. Jayar thrust inside of him, forcing his way through, claiming and manhandling. It felt so damn good but it also hurt, and Seiji liked it that way.

It was punishment and enjoyment at the same time. Exactly what he needed.

He would rather feel the pain than the emptiness which was consuming him, the utter madness of being thrust from his home with no chance of returning. He didn't dare think of the new one who had taken his place, the new Lord or Lady who now ruled over Pleasure. Even if Seiji managed to return, he knew he would never have that place again, that pedestal.

For while the mortals were given chance after chance, the immortals were not granted the same.

Jayar's hand slid around his body, wrapping talented fingers around Seiji's aching arousal, precum dripping from the tip and onto the sheets. He moaned without restraint, puckered muscles clenching around the invading pressure. Jayar purred in his ear.

“You grip me so fine,” he murmured with a forceful thrust, each one more rough than the last. And each one specifically aimed for Seiji's prostate. “Hungrily, almost.”

His voice rumbled through Seiji, igniting that fire in his belly and he jerked his hips into Jayar's hold, seeking that one perfect moment when everything faded away. That one instance he couldn't grasp with his fingers, but flooded through him all the same.

Teeth scraped along the back of his neck and fingernails dug into his skin, little half-crescents of pain. Jayar pushed and pressed, invading and claiming. Shocks of pleasure skittered across Seiji's skin. And even if he had wanted to hold back, it was no longer possible. He bit down on the scream threatening to emerge from his lips, let it whine and die in his throat.

Seiji shuddered and spilled himself into Jayar's grip, some leaking from those elegant fingers and onto the equally elegant sheets. His anus clamped down on Jayar's cock, squeezing and gripping. Yet, rather than finding his completion within Seiji, Jayar withdrew.

He thrust his arousal between Seiji's legs, in the hollow beneath his scrotum and pressed up against Seiji's anus. He jabbed himself mercilessly, pressing down on Seiji's upper leg to increase the pressure. His mouth clenched on the back of Seiji's neck, biting and gripping like a predator would prey... or a mother cat an escaped youngling.

Seiji cried out, his entire body seizing and growing still from the unexpected bite. His hands clenched together, he felt blood dribbling and then Jayar thrust once more, pulling Seiji's hips against his. He heard his lover grunt, felt the warm splash spilling between his thighs. The musky scent of sex and sweat grew stronger, as if marking territory, as if staking claim.

Jayar clutched him close, riding out the last of his tremors before pushing away from Seiji and sprawling onto the covers behind him. He panted, swiping at his sweaty brow. Seiji groaned, his body cramped and losing feeling in his fingers. He still thrummed from the release however, and tried to linger in that sensation, the absolute pleasure that was offered.

He shifted his legs, making a face at the stickiness between his thighs. He would have to bathe otherwise it would dry into an uncomfortable mess. A hand settled on his back, palm pressing against the sweaty skin and tracing the path of his spine up to the base of his neck. There it stopped and was replaced by somewhat chapped lips in a kiss that was too soft to be anything but tender.

It stirred something that Seiji refused to accept. He wasn't going to fall down to that level, no matter how many years he was forced to spend on the mortal plane.

A sound escaped his lips, half-protest and half-acceptance.

It was enough to cause the lips to remove themselves. And then the bed dipped as Jayar slid from it. Seiji imagined that he was raking his hands through his hair, an infinitely pleased smirk on his face. Jayar stretched, muscles straining and bones cracking, before moving around the side of the bed.

He came into view, blocking Seiji's sight of the rest of the room. The obviously expensive furniture and décor, the plush comforters and elegant bed. The painting on the wall above the bed, not a copy but a true Monet. The drapings over the window and the champagne on the dresser, still in its bucket though the ice had long since melted. It was all in shades of royalty, midnight blue and deep purples. As if Jayar wanted to surround himself with the proof of his earnings, of his status.

Seiji's lover stood before him, covered in a light sheen of sweat that made him look all the more attractive. Even the sight of his sated arousal, normally an unarousing scene when limp, caused something in Seiji to jump. To beat out of the usual pace.

“I've half a mind to leave you bound like this,” Jayar remarked, reaching for the ties that were making Seiji's hands feel bloodless and cold. The satin of the tie was cutting into his skin, a smooth irritation that he hated to know he had grown accustomed to.

Seiji licked parched lips. “It would certainly amuse you, wouldn't it?” he replied, voice raspy and rough.

Mischief and sadism glinted in dark eyes as manicured fingernails plucked at deft knots. “More than you know, my Sei.”

The tie slithered free and Seiji's wrists thumped to the bed. He groaned, rubbing gently at them to restore the feeling.

Jayar merely chuckled and drew back, raking fingers through his hair once more as was a habit of his. He looked newly tousled, the aftermath of release making him practically glow. And somehow, just watching him, Seiji knew that he had truly fallen, that he had become what he said he would never.

He looked at Jayar, with his gentle smile and eyes that would be kind if not for their intensity. He held the same beauty as the other immortals. Fair hair, fine features, a true Adonis made real. He was handsome, successful, commanding. The epitome of what humans sought, what mortals strove to become.

He was a man that Seiji had crawled on his hands and knees for. Had used his body in many deprave manners, had subjected himself to all manner of humiliations just to sate his lust. Whom he had allowed all manner of atrocities. For a man with an angelic face but the cruelty of a fiend.

He was Seiji's lover and Seiji could not stand him, some part of him still loathing this man. Yet, he also knew that he couldn't seem to survive without him and his touch. Without that smile and those fingers, without the strange beat inside of him at the billionaire's voice. Like a drug that he had become addicted to, a craving that couldn't be satisfied by anything else.

And it was driving him mad, filling him with an anger unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life. Seiji lay there, semen drying on his body, and felt a burning in his belly, a twisting, churning mass of feeling that wanted to boil over.

Jayar looked at him and smiled. He reached down, running a finger across Seiji's spent organ. It twitched beneath his touch and Seiji couldn't help the shiver of want that spread through him.

“So eager,” Jayar murmured. “That has always intrigued me about you.”

He turned, giving Seiji a full view of his tight buttocks, and bent to pull on a pair of sleep pants from the night before. A second pair he tossed to Seiji.

“I'll go see about breakfast,” he said, muscles shifting in his back as he dressed. “Try and drag yourself from your bed if you can,” he teased, something in his expression warming Seiji on the inside.

A feeling that seemed a lot like contentment as it had been described. As joy. As want and happiness and need and all those human emotions that he was loathe to find himself experiencing. Those things that she had thrust upon him. And it had come entirely without his permission, without his request. It had invaded when he least suspected it.

Seiji looked up at his lover, and felt it burn brighter. That inevitable, unnameable burning inside of him. His fingers clenched into fists...

... as he sucked deep of his cigarette and felt the nicotine hit his system. He breathed out the smoke slowly, letting the drug linger in his system. Leaning against the wall, he allowed his head to tip back. The brick was cold and rough against his back, but he welcomed the change.

His gaze fell on the street in front of him, busy this time of the year. Christmas, they called out. A holiday to worship only one of the many religions the humans devoted themselves to. It was cold, the breath coming from his lips in puffs of white mist to match the smoke from his cigarette. Gay music filled the air, the same noxious tunes he had heard over and over in the restaurant. Chirpy and childish songs.

Seiji sneered, sucking deeply and enjoying the short burst of nicotine to his system. It helped, if only a little, to chase away everything. He watched the passing people, the families and the singles. The couples holding hands and smiling, noses red and cheeks flushed. The children happily skipping to and fro, begging their mothers for this and that, whatever happened to light up the nearest window. He watched a man try to balance several colorfully wrapped packages. He winced at the obnoxious bell of the Santa across the street, determined to beg coins off of strangers to support the Salvation Army.

It was all so pathetic, so ridiculous. More attempts of the mortals to affirm their evanescent existence here on Earth. They scrabbled with each other, whiling their lives away at jobs they despised. All for objects that wouldn't carry with them into the afterlife, all to prove something to themselves that they didn't even understand. It made him sick that he was now considered one of them.

The door to Seiji's left suddenly swung open with the chiming of the bells hanging from the handle. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Jayar emerging from the store, saying something to the associate before letting the glass close behind him.

He was leaving a store that Seiji hadn't wanted to enter because it didn't suit his tastes. He couldn't afford what was inside anyways and he hated the stares the sales clerks always gave him. He didn't need their disdain to know he looked the part of the miscreant. They wouldn't have thought the same if he wore his immortal garb, that was for damn sure.

“Finished your shopping?” Seiji asked, sucking one last puff from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. He immediately ground the small flame beneath his heel, even as it sizzled in the fallen snow.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers stiff from the cold, and hunched his shoulders against the sudden icy wind. Seiji buried his neck in his warm scarf and cursed the mortal plane's weather. It was never so bitter in his home, never so hungry and silent.

Jayar smiled at him and held up a box, wiggling it demonstratively. “It is a present,” he explained, something glinting in his eye that didn't bode well for Seiji. “For my one and only Sei.”

Seiji rolled his eyes and stared to walk, boots crunching on the ice and snow and salt, all mixed together to make a treacherous slurry. “Consumerism,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jayar. “This holiday has long lost its worship.”

Falling into step beside him, Jayar patted him on the shoulder with the box. “That is the beauty of it, since I've never bothered with religion anyways.” He moved in front of Seiji, a strange expression on his face. Half-wistful and half-mischievous.

“You've never needed reason to give me gifts before,” Seiji answered suspiciously, eyeing his billionaire lover. “Why wait for some foolish and meaningless holiday?”

Jayar smiled and then slipped in, gripping his chin and kissing him in front of the entire crowd. He ignored the looks and stares, as everything had always been his way. He had the money, the prestige. He had never needed anything like propriety and decency, only caring for his own wants.

He nipped at Seiji's lips and then pulled back. “Nicotine,” Jayar murmured on the edge of a hum, Seiji knowing better than to protest the public display of affection. “Somehow I must have you cease that disgusting habit.”

“Not likely.” Seiji slid a hand into his pocket, and just to make a point, tapped out a cigarette, lighting it in front of his lover. “What's in the box?” he added, despite claiming no curiosity.

Jayar was amused, and it showed on his face. “And that, my dear Sei, is what makes us human.” He turned on his heel, tapping the wrapped package against his thigh.

With a sniff, Seiji sucked on his cigarette. “It wasn't that I particularly cared,” he responded, following behind Jayar at a much slower pace.

“On the contrary,” the voice floated back to him. “It was that you cared a little too much. And that was your stumble.”

His lips paused around the cigarette, the smoke catching in his lungs and causing him to cough. He paused, mid-street, to catch his breath, surrounded by the gaiety of Christmas.

Jayar's words echoed in his head, reminding him that sometimes he could have sworn his lover knew exactly what he had taken in. As if something in Seiji's demeanor had given him away. He looked up to see Jayar watching him, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. His heart beat a stronger rhythm and suddenly he knew, just knew that...

...he had done as he had promised himself he would not. He had succumbed, he had given himself, and he had let Jayar do it. Let Jayar show him that humanity he so loathed. Had let himself become everything he despised, he reviled. And it made him sick, made his stomach lurch.

Seiji looked up, saw Jayar smiling down at him, the same as always. And no longer saw his lover. He saw his downfall, he saw malice, and he saw deceit. He saw the root of his anger, and Seiji's vision bled crimson. His hands grew nerveless, his head dizzy and he found himself on his feet within moments.

He swayed like a drunken man, a manipulated puppet on strings. The words tumbled from his lips in a rush, falling like pearls from a broken necklace to tap-tap on the stained pavement. And he just knew that it was Jayar's fault. That if that man had never found him, had never spoken to him, everything would have been fine. He wouldn't have wanted or hungered or needed or dammit, accepted this humanity.

Reality slipped through his fingers, joining the pieces of his words on the floor, and then there was a blur of motion and color. Of a dispassionate voice and disintegrating feathers. There was anger, burning bright, consuming him.

There was Jayar.

He lurched forward. “How dare you!” Seiji screeched in a voice unfitting his human form, more suited for cawing ravens or howling wolves. Like the screams of the damned in the Underworld. “How dare you?”

And his arms were reaching, his hands outstretched. A furious fist slammed into Jayar's face, bearing him down to the ground. He stood over his lover like a madman, bare feet planted on either side, taking some strange delight in the blood spraying from Jayar's nose. It suited him, that paint of cerise, that shade of deep and dark insanity.

“What are you doing?”

It might have been Jayar's voice, but the words were garbled, their meaning unclear. They were in another language beyond Seiji's scope for all that he heeded them. He simply stared down, eyes wide like a madman, lips pulled back.

It wasn't enough, not to sate his fury. Not to sate what had been done to him. Someone had to pay for his pain, for the injuries and the sadness. For the longing. For the eyes that should have been kind if not for their cruelty.

A flash out of the corner of his vision. Silver against an dark azure wall. Ancient. Priceless. Wielded by warriors, by samurai, already soaked in the blood of many. Seiji did not hesitate in grabbing one.

Jayar tried to get up. Seiji kicked him down, felt the snap of bone beneath the arch of his foot as it slammed into the softness of his chest. A rib was broken, maybe two, shifting wetly beneath his foot. Jayar coughed and gasped, blood painting his lips and confusion, more than anything, darkening his gaze.

“Sei...”

It was all that Jayar managed to gasp before the blade was swinging through the air, Seiji's fingers wrapped around the hilt as though it were something as inferior as a baseball bat. He didn't feel the force of the first strike, didn't register it biting into skin and flesh. Didn't hear the sound it made or Jayar's hurt, betrayed moan. His senses were absolutely lost to the memories, to the reality, to the future that he would never have.

Swimming in the lunacy, he never noticed that he was still swinging. That his clothes were covered in blood, his sword bathed in gore. Jayar was long dead and yet, he was still shouting, something in his native tongue that no human would ever understand. Still arguing and claiming and demanding and accusing. Still hoping, desperately, that mortal and human part of him he wished to deny.

His chest heaved like a lunatic, eyes wide and glazed. The sword slipped from his blood-soaked hands, falling with a clatter to the polished, wood floor. He fell to his knees, sat back on his heels. Warmth dripped down his face, stinging his eyes. He lifted one hand, smearing blood into the wet heat. Tears, or something like them. So familiar, and yet unknown all the same.

The apartment was deathly still around him. Suddenly so quiet. Like the bitter, stale odor of a long-buried crypt. The warmth had all but abandoned the home, the sense of life and Seiji screamed, long and loud. His throat tore from the extent of it, and he broke off on a gurgle. The traces of it echoed on the empty walls, mocking him shrilly.

He blinked away the moisture staining his eyes, dazed and confused. Not quite present. It was all a blur, an endless nightmare he couldn't wake from.

What had he done?

Seiji's body trembled and he looked down, saw Jayar out beneath him. Eyes carefully averted from the mangled mess but locked on the untouched beauty of his face, honey-brown gaze locked in despair. He couldn't bear the sight of them. Shaking fingers reached out, gently lowering the lids and Seiji rose to his feet, on numb limbs.

Without his consent, Seiji wandered through the apartment that had been his home. Fingerprints were left in his wake where he reached out with a child's wonder to touch familiar objects, to trail his fingers across the carefully painted walls. Where he brushed a trace over pictures and their frames, the smiling faces behind the dusted glass.

The memories washed over him. The feelings and the emotions and the sensations. The warmth and the cold. The soft brush of satin and the sweet taste of home-baked goodies. The sound of a piano, playing at all hours by deft hands. The tilt of lips, curled in a smirk that sometimes softened, just when he least expected it.

His feet moved without Seiji knowing where they were taking him. Out of the apartment, down the hall. Leaving little droplets in his wake. Like a trail of bread crumbs for him to follow, in case he forgot the way home. Back to his former life.

There was screaming. Eyes burning into his body. People were staring. He didn't know why. A rush of cars speeding past him, the feel of concrete beneath his bare feet. His toes curled against the pavement, scraping and digging. Cold, but hot against the heat of the summer sun, baking the stone stronger and stronger each day.

All Seiji could see was Jayar's smile. And those eyes, kind and yet cruel, cruel and yet kind. The beauty of the angels. The mischief of the fiends.

Hands grabbed him, a voice shouted in his face. He blinked, stared straight into an unfamiliar expression. Words were garbled nonsense.

Seiji found himself facing the concrete, staring straight into gray, blurred by dots of pink and pale blue where chewing gum had been spat and then ground into the concrete by thousands of feet. He heard the rattle of cuffs and more shouting.

And then there was darkness, blessed darkness. He was floating in it, swinging in an invisible breeze, surrounded by nothing. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way than...

... glaring at Neung with fury etched into his features. “You're what...?” Seiji growled, barely keeping a hold on suddenly raging emotions. Those all too human and overly frivolous things he still could barely understand.

With a sense of bored abandon, the old man plucked off his glasses and tossed them onto the cluttered desk of his tiny office cubicle. “Firing you,” he repeated in his thick accent, swiveling on his stool to regard Seiji again. “I'm not losing my job because of you.”

Shoulders straight with tension, Seiji felt himself twitch. “Why?”

Gnarled fingers, wrinkled with either age or the rigors of a labor-filled life, reached for a stack of papers and withdrew one crisp, clean sheet from a pile of wrinkled and grease-spattered documents. This he waved in Seiji's direction, not that Seiji could read the sharp black lines as they wriggled in front of him.

“Fake?” Nyueng posed aloud. “Does that ring a bell?”

Something in Seiji ran cold. They found out? Well, of course they would find out. It was the season for that sort of thing, filing taxes and such. Or so someone had explained to him. And apparently the back-alley man who had given him the false documentation had not provided for that kind of scrutiny. He should have known.

He jerked his gaze away, pinning a frustrated look on the years-old calendar pinned to the wall. “It sounds somewhat familiar,” he admitted grudgingly. “I wasn't capable of--”

“I don't care,” the old man interrupted without a single care for politeness. “Seiji, I really don't. Whatever your problems are, whyever you've brought me fake--” and he hissed this word “--papers... I don't want to know. But I do want you out of here. And now.” The documents slammed down to the desk, scattering paper clips and pay stubs and pens in all directions.

His hands slowly found themselves in fists, but he refrained from striking anything, acutely aware of the constant movement at his back. Of the rest of his former co-workers scurrying about to their duties. The girl working the Hole – Cherie – was watching him where she stood leaning in the door frame, no customers to occupy her attention.

“I need this job,” Seiji said thinly, forcing himself to breathe deeply and not lose control. He would have never had that problem in his immortal life.

The manager turned his back on Seiji. “I fail to see how that's my problem,” he responded with a uninterested wave, one hand reaching for his glasses to perch them on his nose once more.

It was a dismissal if Seiji ever saw one. He worked his jaw for several long moments, felt his teeth grind in his mouth, and then ripped his hat from his head. Without thinking, he chucked it at Nyeung, feeling immense satisfaction as it struck the old Asian in the back. He didn't wait for the manager to turn and make his angered comments.

Seiji spun on his heel and stalked out of the back, throwing off his name tag and sending it flying. With any luck, someone would slip on it and fall, breaking their damn necks. He viciously untucked his shirt, clocked out with angry jabs of his finger on the computer, and yanked his coat from the rack. It toppled over, clattering to the floor. He ignored the noise, slamming the door behind him as he stormed out.

Someone called his name. One of his female co-workers. He ignored her. He didn't want to hear questions or pity or... anything really. Fury was battling with worry. His rent was due. He had no job.

He wished he knew where he could find that man again, the one who had provided the documents for him. He would wring that scrawny neck, watch the knowing smirk sliding into one of terror. Never had Seiji wanted to become a demon than he did in that moment. The price he had paid and yet, the falsity had still been discovered? It burned his blood.

Seiji shrugged into his coat, stepping out into the dismally grey afternoon. A chill wind rose up, tugging at his hair and sending it into disarray. Which was better than the flat, shapeless mass it had made of itself under the hat. He sucked in a breath, could still smell the stench of McDonald's.

He dug a hand into his pocket, relieved to find that he had enough change for the bus. It was about all he had left to him until payday tomorrow. He hadn't been looking forward to the walk to work but now, well, he didn't have that problem anymore, did he?

Seething for the rest of the trip, he waited with the rest of the rat race for the bus, and then climbed onto it sullenly when it arrived twenty minutes later. The temperature in the area was rapidly dropping, the threat of inclement weather fast approaching. He suffered the ride in silence, perched on the very edge of the seat because the gabby teenager next to him kept pressing closer and closer no matter how much he ignored her presence.

When the bus finally reached his stop, he tumbled out of it, not caring how graceless he appeared. The teenager waved at him excitedly. He turned his back and didn't give her a second look. Instead, he trod down the sidewalk towards his apartment complex, deftly avoiding steaming manholes. The rank odor that accompanied their white vapor was never worth the short cut.

Seiji's apartment didn't look any more inviting now than it did after coming home from a hard day's work. He stepped up crumbling stone stairs and entered the corridor, walking down a creaking hall to his apartment where the number hung crooked on the door. Questing fingers found his key ring, with all of two rings on it, and stuck the appropriate one into the lock.

It didn't budge. Frowning, Seiji wriggled it and gave it a bit of a shove. Sometimes it stuck. It groaned and rattled, but didn't open. He twisted, he grunted, he cursed, and finally, he gave up. It wasn't going to open. At least, not without help.

Resisting the urge to punch the wall, a decidedly human action, he whirled on his heels and strode back to the first apartment. The number here was hanging straight and polished, looking fresher than a sprig of grass in the spring. Seiji ignored it, banging a fist on the door loud enough to be heard by his half-deaf landlord.

“Mrs. Choar?” he called out through the thin door. Her husband had died some odd years ago apparently. Probably because she was such a bitch, he thought sourly.

He heard the sound of the floor creaking and stepped back from the door, ceasing his knocking. There were several rattles as she undid all eight of the locks she had placed on her door. Chain bolts, deadbolts, and padlocks lined the edges. He wasn't sure what the old bag was paranoid about. She had nothing of note to steal and no one wanted her saggy body.

Several annoying seconds alter, the door swung open, but only enough to grant him a sliver of her face and her eyes peering out at him. Brown orbs sunken within a heavily wrinkled brow. “What?”

Yes, ever so charming.

He held up his key. “It doesn't work,” Seiji explained gruffly.

She guffawed at him, actually guffawed, a raspy chuckle due to age and years spent chain-smoking. “That's because the locks were changed,” Mrs. Chaor – he never learned her first name – informed him. “Especially yours.”

Seiji's eyes narrowed. “Then give me the new key.”

That pert nose, probably the only thing she had ever been proud of in her life, rose into the air. “No,” she responded curtly. “You haven't paid the rent. No second chances.”

And then the door was being slammed in his face without so much as a farewell or a further explanation. Seiji worked his jaw for several long moments, feeling the migraine beginning to develop behind his eye. He shoved his key into his pocket, taking long breaths to calm the rage. She had a damn point but that didn't mean she could keep his belongings either, what little he actually owned.

His fist pounded on the weak metal again. He knew better than to try and argue with her for staying in the apartment. She wasn't going to back down, the stubborn old goat.

“Mrs. Choar!” he called out, on the verge of yelling. Down the hall, someone opened their door and peered out. The tenant was treated to one of Seiji's famous glares. He promptly scurried back inside, slamming the door shut again.

“Mrs. Chaor!”

She didn't bother to speak to him this time. The door squeaked open, a bag was thrown out the small gap, smacking him squarely in the chest, and then it was slammed shut once more. His hand reached to automatically catch the pack, recognizing the childish colors as the bookbag he had picked up on clearance from a department store several weeks earlier. It was heavy and he realized, in that moment, that it must have contained everything he owned.

Sure enough, sliding open the zipper and peering inside revealed his phone charger, two changes of cloths, and assorted toiletries. A few wrinkled books, never actually read, topped off the pile. Lovely. The perfect end to an already perfect day.

Growling under his breath, Seiji slung the bag over his shoulder and turned away from the door. But not before throwing his keys at it and watching them fall to the floor with a loud clatter. He didn't bother with thanks. Stupid bitch didn't deserve one. It took every effort to keep from stomping like a child, not wanting to break through the flimsy floor. The main door was swaying on its hinges in the rising breeze and he stepped out into the grey afternoon, at a loss for what to do next.

He had no money, no job, and no home. Clearly, the odds were stacked against him.

Shuffling down the cracked, grey steps, Seiji grumbled as he hit the concrete of the sidewalk. A noise, different than the usual back alley clamor, drew him from his inner thoughts and he lifted his eyes. Only to immediately sneer.

There, parked in front of the building, was a sleek, black car. It looked expensive, and somehow managed to shine in the streaks of pale sunlight that slipped through the aging buildings. But it wasn't the car that was the problem, it was the individual leaning against the back doors, arms crossed over his chest. He was obviously waiting.

Jayar straightened as soon as he noticed that he had Seiji's attention, taking off his sunglasses and folding them into his breast pocket. “Seiji,” he greeted with a warm smile, too warm for Seiji's liking. “What auspicious circumstances bring us to meet on this fine day.”

He paused in the middle of the sidewalk, eyeing the billionaire critically. “Have you been stalking me?” Seiji demanded, fully convinced that the other man had finally lost what little sense he might have initially held.

“Not in so many words.” Jayar ceased his leaning, standing straight and tall with hands casually shoved into his pockets. It outlined the breadth of his shoulders, expensive fabric tugging rather nicely. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Emerald eyes returned with a fierce glare. “My answer is the same,” he said icily, though the anger was beginning a slow and steady burn. Fired and evicted, the last thing he had wanted to deal with was Jayar.

The billionaire looked past him, towards the apartment building and lifted two elegantly shaped brows. “Even though you no longer have a home or a job, you would still deny me?”

Seiji lost his control. He stalked up to Jayar, growling under his breath. “What the fuck to you want from me?” he demanded, the bag containing his belongings bouncing against his back none-too-pleasantly.

Jayar's smile remained the same, yet somehow, it gained the ability to sparkle blindingly. “Just the pleasure of your company.”

He looked at the blond man, a cold wind rising to ruffle at his hair. The air, above the stench of rot and mold, smelled like rain. A true downpour. A storm was brewing and Seiji really didn't want to tromp through it looking for a cheap enough hotel to crash for the night, one that didn't require payment up front. Or, Malaika forbid, a sheltered stoop next to all the other homeless.

“Why me?” Seiji asked, actually considering the offer. It was manipulative of Jayar, to repeat his request when he knew that Seiji had very little options. He had always known the billionaire was a little snake.

Jayar canted his head to the side. “Why not?” he returned as he reached behind him, opening the door and gesturing towards the dimly lit interior of the vehicle. “What have you to lose?”

“My dignity for one,” Seiji spat, fingers tightening around the strap to his bulging bag. “I'm not a whore.” Though he was sorely tempted to become one at the moment.

“And I wouldn't want one.” He lifted his free hand, reaching for Seiji's face, but was thwarted when Seiji smoothly stepped out of the path of the unmarked palm. Jayar dropped it back down, a brief glimmer of disappointment in his dark eyes. “As I said, it would be a pity for one so beautiful to be wasted in this... hell.”

Jayar was only mortal. He had no idea what hell truly meant. But Seiji wasn't about to inform him of the truth. Not here and now.

He didn't want to submit to Jayar, to put himself in that man's debt. But it chose that moment to begin sprinkling, cold droplets trickling down Seiji's neck. A brief whiff informed him that he still smelled like McDonald's. The lack of jingling in his pockets reminded him that he was absolutely broke and that wasn't about to change any time soon.

He spent a few cold and miserable moments in indecision before crumbling. He ducked his head and crawled into the backseat of the elegant car, settling instantly into plush leather seats. Seiji couldn't help but wonder how much lower he would end up before the end.

Inside, it was pleasantly warm and dry, the leather appropriately cool to the touch. There was a driver in the front seat, he noticed that immediately, patiently awaiting his master.

Seiji scooted all the way to the opposite door, leaving plenty of room for Jayar to enter in after him. He didn't want them to be unnecessarily close. Jayar slid in next to him, one hand swiping rain droplets from his hair as the other pulled the door shut.

“Home, Gerard,” Jayar ordered crisply, and just the sound of command in his tone sent something stirring Seiji. Something he had been stridently ignoring.

The driver tilted his head and the car rumbled to life. A few moments of adjusting and then it was carefully pulling away from the curb and smoothly merging with traffic. Inside, Seiji couldn't hear the noise of the ghetto, of the trashy streets he had left behind. It was rather peaceful. Like another world.

He sat as far from Jayar as he could manage in the spacious quarters, the bag with his meager belongings tucked between his feet. Music was playing softly somewhere, and it wasn't classical like he expected. But some kind of punk rock that didn't seem to match Jayar's personality in the slightest. At least it was better than the crap Seiji had been forced to listen to at McDonald's.

The expensive vehicle rumbled along the road, seamlessly slipping through traffic. Yet, the silence between the two men was stifling. Seiji's curiosity – his human curiosity – was burning at him.

“What are you going to demand from me?” he finally asked, unable to keep the queries locked inside of himself any longer.

Jayar looked at him, amusement writ into his expression. “Only what you will graciously give me,” he answered, lips tugging at the corners. “Though, I suspect I won't even need to ask.”

“Full of yourself,” Seiji muttered, turning away from Jayar with a churlish set of his shoulders and staring out the window, watching the scenery fly by.

Jayar didn't respond, and honestly, Seiji hadn't expected him to. The billionaire was fully assured of himself, that Seiji would eventually come around and do his bidding. That he would submit to Jayar's wants of his own accord. It was nothing...

... to be sitting here in front of this person. The room was not white like the movies, but a calm sepia, though it did nothing to ease his spirit. There were drawings on the walls, landscapes and portraits in muted colors. A plant sat in a corner, tall and green, swaying lightly in the rumble of the air conditioner. It was cold, pricking his skin beneath the thin fabric of his clean clothing.

Seiji was perched in a chair, hands bound behind him. Dressed all in white. Like pajamas, soft and warm and comfortable. His wrists, though restricted, did not ache. And he was staring at the person across the table from him, a psychiatrist.

The man had a deep brow, dark eyes, black like obsidian. A frown down-turned his lips like a fat grouper, and glasses perched unsteadily on his nose, gleaming if he turned a certain direction. His hair was black, but speckled with grey. And neatly trimmed, fitted perfectly in every way. Like Jayar's had been.

The man, the doctor, was holding a clipboard and the sound of the pen scratching the paper was the only noise in the room. They were not speaking to each other but Seiji was staring, his once-piercing green eyes now dull and lifeless. He could only see blood behind them. Could only feel the pain of his wings being taken.

“It is an interesting tale, Mr. Taylor,” the man said to himself with a heavy sigh, his tone slightly derisive. He looked up as he finished the last word, his glasses gleaming and shielding the dark of his eyes.

“It is not a tale,” Seiji repeated for what had to be the thousandth time. He was growing quite weary of it all. “It is the truth.”

One thick, hairy finger rose and pushed up his glasses, revealing the disbelieving and penetrating stare. The silence only grew thicker, heavier with skepticism. The man didn't believe Seiji anymore than Seiji believed himself.

“You want me to accept that your lack of identity, of any legal documentation in the system, is because you are an angel or deity from heaven,” the doctor, whose name Seiji had purposefully forgotten, demanded sarcastically. His pen tapped against the clipboard. “An angel who just happens to kill billionaires in his spare time.”

He flinched, and in his eyes, flashed blood and the bitter odor of it. The sound of his name on the last breath. “One,” Seiji corrected quietly, his fingers curling into fists behind his back. “Just one billionaire.”

The pen stopped its infernal tapping, the tip returning to the clipboard. The man scribbled something else. “And why did you kill Mr. Kingston? Can you tell me this much?”

The same questions, over and over, as though his answer would change just by repetition.

“I don't know.”

“That is not a suitable answer.”

Silence reigned supreme. Seiji was being watched again, studied. Examined for falsehoods. They wouldn't find any. He wouldn't bother to lie.

The psychiatrist uncrossed and then recrossed his legs, bouncing one foot by the ankle. “Very well, Mr. Taylor,” he acquiesced with a slow nod. “Tell me again. If you are a deity or an angel as you claim, then why are you here on Earth. In that form?”

Seiji looked away, to the window above the doctor, letting in streams of light that were just beyond his reach. It looked like freedom and yet, a bigger prison all the same. It held nothing for him anymore.

“I fell,” Seiji answered simply, tone heavy and thick. He couldn't explain it any better, not for a mortal who lived a mortal life to understand. “I fell, never to rise again.”

Stubby fingers rubbed against the doctor's pale face. “I see.” Seiji was being eyed once more. He could feel the stares burning into his face. “Am I correct to assume that you were in a homosexual relationship with Mr. Kingston?”

A new question, but not a surprising one. Before they had simply skirted around the issue. But this new psychiatrist must have thought he had a plan to force Seiji to speak.

He didn't hesitate in his answer. “Yes.”

The man smirked, just a tiny curl of lip accompanied by a small huff, as if he had struck true gold. “Then, were you aware that Mr. Kingston has a substantial life insurance policy? I'm sure it didn't slip your notice.”

Seiji stiffened, something inside of him turning cold. He wasn't so much a whore that money was his entire existence. “It wasn't like that,” he responded, forcing his gaze back to the mocking doctor.

“Come now, Mr. Taylor,” came the inevitable response, nearly taunting.

“It wasn't about the money,” he found himself repeating, through clenched teeth. It had never been about money, or wealth, not for Seiji who was immortal and could care little for the transient things.

If it had been that, he would left after the first week of being treated by Jayar. He would have stolen the man's wallet – always known to carry at least a thousand dollars in cash for reasons unbeknownst to Seiji – and ran. He would have demanded more from Jayar, because he would have known that Jayar would have given it to him. He would have allowed Jayar to put his name on the life insurance.

A snort of doubt. “Then what was it? Love?” The physician sneered, disbelief cascading from him in waves. The pen returned to tapping on the paper, louder and harder than before.

Seiji could only answer with silence because he knew that wasn't it either. He had woven himself into Jayar's world, his existence, somehow and had been ensnared before he could escape. Jayar had something he needed and that was all Seiji had ever understood. He still realized little about this human state, this mortal universe. He was no more closer to that knowledge than when Malaika had first abandoned him.

The psychiatrist rose to his feet with an audible sigh, shaking his head in disappointment. He tucked his clipboard under his arm, the illegible scrawl across it dark and damning. One finger raised to push on his glasses again, shielding his eyes.

“It is unfortunate that you can be declared legally insane and therefore incompetent,” he commented with utter contempt, lip curled into disgust as he swept his gaze over Seiji. “Mr. Kingston deserves justice. Though one could say he earned it for daring to take on a miscreant such as yourself. A pity.”

He turned and headed towards the door, making some silent signal to the two men in matching uniforms who had been present for the entire meeting and standing behind their prisoner. Seiji startled at the doctor's callous words, something in him twisting unnaturally and promising blood lust once again.

How dare he?

“You bastard,” Seiji snarls and jerks upwards, the chair rattling beneath him. “You don't know anything about Jayar!” His words echoed in the tiny room and he felt two hands, one settled on each of his shoulders, pushing him back into his seat. “Don't you dare insult him.”

The psychiatrist merely blinked. He lifted his clipboard once again and the pen scratched over the paper. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “Good evening, Mr. Taylor.” And then he was gone again.

Seiji could only collapse back in his chair. He didn't speak, feeling drained and empty. Lost. He didn't even flinch as the door slammed behind the doctor and his two guards picked him up bodily. He was herded back towards his one-man cell.

A cot. A toilet. White walls. Much like a prison, only a bit more comfortable and a lot less dangerous for a pretty boy like himself. He was on suicide watch, Seiji knew. They just didn't know it wouldn't work, even if he tried.

He sat on his bunk, hands bound before him, elbows on his knees and fingers draping towards the ground. Green eyes, once sharp now dull, stared at the wall. At numbers etched into crumbling stone by some resident before him, harsh and angry lines. They'd been painted over, but he could still see the impressions. Counting down the end of his existence.

He wondered when he would die, when she would cease her fun and finally allow him to experience his mortal death.

He could get no lower than his current predicament, Seiji knew this. He could still feel the warmth, the stickiness of Jayar's blood on his hands. He could see the bright red of it, splashed on his clothes and the walls. The rise and the fall of the blade, the glint of the metal in the chandelier above them. The screams of strangers when he stumbled into the street, half-naked and covered in Jayar's blood.

Human life was so fragile, so evanescent. Easily created, and just as easily stolen away. Tenacious yet weak, unyielding and yet so relenting. A certifiable bevy of contradictions.

Seiji looked down at his hands, at the impressions in his palm. Lines, each and every one of them, with some meaning or another. In his head, echoed the remnants of faint...

...laughter. Seiji scowled and jerked his hands away from the woman, glaring at his lover for this foolishness.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbled, scooting back in his seat and shoving his hands into his pockets where they were safe and free from the woman's sight. He didn't like the feel of her touch either, skin dry and papery-thin, as though he would injure her with just a touch.

Jayar tilted his head, his own fingers still in the self-proclaimed seer's grasp. “She has you down to a science,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the edge. “It's as if she can see right through you.”

Seiji remained unamused. Just because his lifeline seemed to indicate an immortal life. He glared suspiciously at the woman across from him, draped in multiple colors and shades, her eyes bright in a face lined with wrinkles. The smile on her face was kind, but something behind her gaze spoke too much like her. Too knowledgeable. Too knowing.

She chuckled herself, a raspy sound. “Mr. Kingston here has an unexpectedly short lifeline,” she went on to explain. “But with a life as full of success as this, there is hardly disappointment.”

Jayar winked at Seiji as he spoke. “See? I have everything I need. Perhaps you're just still searching?”

Huffing, Seiji dug for a cigarette and ignored the look that Jayar was sending his way. “For a means to escape from you, maybe,” he grumped.

Laughing again, Jayar prompted the woman to continue. “What did you glimpse of his love life, my dear?”

Her eyes twinkling, the seer dragged the pad of her finger across Jayar's palm, though her gaze never left Seiji. “I think he has already found his answer, don't you, Mr. Kingston?”

Jayar turned to Seiji, those cruel dark eyes remarkably light and just a shade angelic. “I think so, too, madame. More than he knows.”

Something stirred in his gut, letting his cigarette dangle from his lips with barely a single pull. Seiji felt nearly frozen by that look. He ducked his head, letting hair that was getting a touch too long fall into his eyes, and concentrated on the taste of the tobacco. The scent of gray smoke circling around his head.

His lover was an absolutely fool. But Seiji was even more of one for the warmth combating the ice in his gut, spreading through him and making his face burn. Seiji sucked deeply on his cigarette, needing the distraction, and...

... lowered his head onto his palms. Shoulders hunched against the cold. In the silence and the quiet of his cell. Something snaked down his face, warm and wet. It dripped past him, to the floor, a wet spot against endless grey stone.

*****

And yes, that is the end. There is nothing more. It is meant to just suddenly... come to a stop.

I would love to hear any feedback you have to offer me and thanks for reading! I do hope you enjoyed.

I would like to add a special thanks to my one reviewer, Req, whose kind words helped bolster my opinion of this fic. Thank you!