He felt like he was about to enter heaven—just through a different door than the one that used to feel like home. He sped up, the gravity of Earth pulling him down. Oh, he’d definitely break his wings.

Thud.

“Hm?” he thought to himself, confusion filling him. Was he dead? No… he could still feel his heart, heavy in his chest. So then… why was the floor so comfortable?

A long sigh left him and he relaxed, spreading all his limbs out and yawning.

“Excuse me?” A voice interrupted his peace—how dare they!?

He opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy with annoyance. He had to fight the scoff threatening to leave his lips. He turned his head—left, right… no one in sight.

“Excuse me??” The voice spoke again, more annoyed this time.

He couldn’t help it anymore. The most honest, most annoyed, most frustrated scoff escaped his mouth as he sat up.

And when he finally did, he saw it. A face.

A face between his feet.

A loud, high-pitched scream escaped him and he leapt up like a cat in water.

“Who are you!?” he asked, eyes wide and practically bulging.

The person brushed some dirt off their clothes and sat up, elbows resting on their knees, head tilted. “I’m not a cushion, that’s for sure,” they said—annoyed, but not angry.

As they turned their head to the side, Seraphiel saw the ears. A fae? An elf? Perhaps…

He shook his head, pinching his temple.

Then he looked to his right—and screamed again.

“D-DIRT!!” he shrieked, hopping around in a panic. His index finger dramatically pointed at his left wing, where a single dirt particle clung to a feather.

“Take it off, you—” he paused, squinting at you. “…you pointy-eared creature!” he demanded, flaring his wing dramatically in your direction for you to wipe it off.

But just as you were about to help, he gasped at the sight of your even dirtier hands.

“NOOO!!” he wailed, yanking his wing away. “You’re even dirtier! Ugh, why can’t this just be a bad dream!?”