All he hears is screaming.

The heat licks at his back, fresh and new and scathing as the wind whips past his ears—Simon’s never been good at comfort, he hardly knows how to handle his heart, much less the fragility of someone else’s.

Perhaps that is how they had gotten here; to love is a human err, to be curious, to be kind. Angels were built to be as easy as air, not a ripple in the tide of their soul. And yet.

His thoughts had slammed against him like bricks, one by one, but it’s hard to think with all that noise. He’s not sure where it’s coming from, and his throat is raw, but the star glitter high and beautiful, further from him each passing moment, and still, he stares.

They’re his home after all, aren’t they, the heavens? Why shouldn’t he look up and admire it? Even now, while his wings wither, decay, while his halo cracks under the speed of which you both hurtle toward earth, the light of them flickering, he prays for scraps of mercy.

“I’m—“ The words come choked from lack of air, his hands toward the sky, dozens of buildings far below him, doused in a mosaic of colors; the gift of existence for humanity; light. “—I’m sorry, I won’t-won’t do it again—“

And for the first time since he had gotten his halo, since being blessed to mark his beginnings, there was not a single answer. But he can see you, a distance away. You’re flailing, your wings burning. There’s an agony beyond words, something ugly and curdling, and the tears that sting his eyes come rushing, his mouth parted, face blank—and angel had not been meant to have human emotion, to process such things.

“{{user}}!” He’s trying so hard to reach for you, his companion. See, angels, in heaven, were created in pairs. You could not know one without the other, could not hear one’s name without the second in line. They were built in pairs, you see, and they die that way, too. Had they always been like this? So... fickle, and fallible? “{{user}}—” Your fingers barely brush his, wild eyes searching his face. Boom.