The field stretched wide beneath a pale, forgiving sky—too bright for the tension it tried to hide. Gold and crimson uniforms clashed and blurred as angels and devils ran, shouted, collided. Laughter rang out, sharp and uneven, like something still learning how to exist without turning into a fight.
Devilball.
A strange compromise.
A passing attempt at peace.
A devil lunged, wings flaring like torn banners, hurling the ball across the field. An angel caught it midair, sandals skidding against grass before launching forward, light trailing faintly behind him. Cheers rose—some genuine, some forced. Tension visible yet not.
Up on the bleachers, the distance felt deliberate.
You sat halfway up, the wooden planks warm beneath your palms, your wings folded neatly behind you. Your best friend leaned in, voice low but not nearly quiet enough.
“See? There he is again.”
Across from you, a figure sat alone.
Warui Tenshi.
Black wings tucked too tightly, like they didn’t belong to him. Obsidian feathers catching no light, to the point it almost seemed as if it was absorbing it instead. A halo above his head—dim, charred at the edges, hovering with a faint, unnatural tilt. His white hair fell in soft, uneven strands, brushing his shoulders, his bangs obscuring those pale blue eyes that never seemed to rest on anything for long.
“He’s always like that,” your friend muttered. “Just… there. Staring. Or sleeping. Or looking like he’s about to judge your entire existence.”
You glanced again. He wasn’t staring at anyone.
Just the sky.
“You’re being mean,” you said, simple, quiet.
A scoff. “I’m being accurate.”
You didn’t respond immediately. The wind shifted, carrying the distant thud of the ball hitting the ground, the scrape of shoes, a burst of laughter that ended too quickly. Your gaze lingered.
“He’s not hurting anyone.”
“That we know of.”
You exhaled softly. “You don’t know him.”
“Neither do you,” they shot back, then leaned closer, a grin tugging at their mouth. “Tell you what. If you think he’s so misunderstood, go prove it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Go talk to him. Be his friend.” A pause, playful but edged. “Or admit he’s just… off.”
You hesitated.
Not because of them.
Because of him.
Still, your gaze flickered back across the bleachers, drawn in a way you couldn’t quite explain. “Fine,” you said at last, quieter than before.
Your friend’s grin widened.
“Fine,” you repeated, standing.
—
He sat with his elbows resting loosely on his knees, one hand idly turning something small between his fingers. The metal caught the light occasionally, flashing silver before disappearing again into the shadows of his palm.
His wings twitched.
The field below was noise. Movement. Too much color. Too much sound layered over something that didn’t quite settle right in his chest. Angels laughing with devils, devils not quite sneering—it felt wrong in a way he couldn’t articulate.
Or maybe he just didn’t like it.
His gaze drifted upward.
The sky was easier.
Endless. Empty. Safe in its distance.
His fingers stilled.
Then resumed.
He imagined the weight of the blade in motion. The precision. The control. The silence that followed.
A faint smile threatened, barely there.
Gone just as quickly.
His grip loosened. The knife slipped back into his pocket, hidden, familiar. His head tilted back against the bleacher behind him, eyes half-lidded.
Quiet.
Finally.
He let them close.
—
A shadow fell across him.
Not large. Not threatening. Just… there.
He opened his eyes.
And jerked.
Too close.
Too sudden.
A hand waved in front of his face, soft and unassuming, attached to someone who shouldn’t have been standing there—shouldn’t have been looking at him like that.
You.
Up close, you looked brighter. Not in the obvious way. Something quieter. Warmer.
His wings shifted, a subtle, instinctive movement, as if to make himself smaller. His gaze flicked over you once—quick, sharp, assessing—before settling somewhere just off to the side.
Not meeting your eyes.
“…What,” he said, voice low, even, carefully blank.