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The sun never sets in heaven, but it never stung Kohaku’s eyes like this. They hunch their shoulders under Master Ryuki's interrogation, eyes downcast so Ryuki can’t see the turmoil of their lie. Under the light of heaven, they are trapped in their full form, one that can't hide away or fit in someone's hold perfectly. They wish that they could be small and powerless and cradled in Shuichiro's arms.
Escaping to their duty is only a brief reprieve. It brings new guilt.
The tree is crowded with eggs, peeking through the leaves and drooping off the ends of branches. They have truly let everyone down in both realms; maybe even in hell too, now that Koryu can't jab at them anymore and make them cry. Now that the worst thing has happened, Kohaku's eyes have no tears left and Koryu would sulk so much.
As mean as the demon is, they have lost him too. Him, Hisui, and...
They float closer to the tree and place a hand against its warm bark, thrumming with energy. Master Ransho has never made them so nervous before, so gentle and easygoing. In maturing, have they learned about fear?
"Go on, Kohaku. They're all waiting for you."
Right. Do they imagine that hint of impatience in Ransho's voice? They are essential to heaven, for all their faults.
From their first notes, they can tell that the song is strange. Accustomed to following the sounds of their heart, Kohaku lets the keening take them, like flower petals tossed by a storm. Master Ransho startles, reaching out to them, but Kohaku can't feel anything but the growing burn in their throat. Their song casts an unfamiliar spell upon the tree. Only God could possibly silence it, and God doesn't bother listening to Kohaku anymore.
As the final note dissipates on the wind, Kohaku opens their eyes.
-
Their voice is the one thing that all other angels can praise. Kohaku may be dumb, may be flighty, annoying or disappointing or childish, but no one ever scolds them to tears for a song.
It used to make them feel secure. No one could joke that Kohaku would inevitably fall or be discarded, because they have a purpose.
-
Although a motorcycle can't move as quickly as an angel can fly, it feels safer to hold onto his waist with both arms. To be even closer, they could lean their helmeted head against the middle of his back, but there's so much to look at. Kohaku isn't sure where Shuichiro is taking them, other than outside the city, but the route is lovely.
Enamored with the blur of trees and clouds, Kohaku nearly overlooks a bit of brown and white on the side of the road.
It’s too loud to tell Shuichiro, even pressed up against him, so they tug at his motorcycle leathers until he pulls over. Even as he asks them what’s wrong, Kohaku rips off the helmet and begins to rush back to the spot. Their shoes barely skim over the gravel, unconcerned with being seen.
A bird, such a tiny bird, laying in the grass and not moving. Its feathers are a dull brown, and its breast is white, and Kohaku delicately scoops the dead bird into their palms. No feeling of life remains in its body.
Was there a predator? There isn’t any.... any damage left by another animal or a car. Did the bird get sick? They can feel familiar tears begin to well up, wondering what sort of songs this bird had sung and the type of nest it made.
“Looks like a lark,” Shuichiro mutters, as he crouches beside them. “You probably shouldn’t touch it; I don’t know if you’ll pick up some sort of bacteria.”
“Aren’t you sad?” Kohaku says, sniffling helplessly. “This poor bird...”
He hums without answering. “It could be an issue of pesticides; people spray their crops against bugs, but then the birds eat it and get sick. Some people are trying to ban them... Do you want to bury the bird?”
Shuichiro doesn’t have anything in his motorcycle bags that could serve as a shovel, so Kohaku delicately lays the lark in the grass and finds a soft patch of dirt to scoop up with their hands. It hardly needs to be deep, for such a little thing, and they lay a stone on top, the prettiest one they could find on the side of the road. Their prayer is silent and brief.
As they try unsuccessfully to brush off the dirt, Shuichiro touches their shoulder gently. “I have some wet wipes, hold still.” With thin, damp cloths, Shuichiro cleans their hands for them, one finger at a time. He is diligent with the creases of their skin, making sure not to leave any dirt behind.
“Do you want to go home?” Shuichiro asks, when their hands are clean and held in his own. “I don’t mind. You look tired out.”
“I’m sorry for ruining your trip,” Kohaku whispers, now able to wipe at their damp cheeks. “I... I want to go home, if it’s okay.” Hearing the birds who enjoy Shuichiro’s trees will hurt deep in their chest, but it’s a good kind of pain.
“If you’re not in the mood, we’ll visit the shrine a different day. Don’t force yourself.” Shuichiro guides them back to the motorcycle and helps them put the helmet back on.
-
With his work and the complications of angels and demons, Shuichiro doesn’t get the chance to drive them to his favorite shrine.
-
The eggs do not crack. There are no tiny hands pushing free, or smiling curious faces. Kohaku doesn't hear the flutter of wings taking to flight for the first time. They open their eyes to the tree and see a thousand points of glittering light, each egg transformed into crystal.
Ignoring the Master, Kohaku floats up to the closest egg-gem. Infinitely faceted, opaque, glittering with rainbow. They can sense the energy of the baby angel inside, but far more distantly, muffled by sweet waves of sleep.
If these angels never hatch, then the pains of each realm will never touch them. None of these angels will run away, or fall in love, or feel God's disappointment. Rather than embracing countless wiggly, excited cherubs, Kohaku wraps their arms around this gem, their raw soul feeling soothed. Let them dream of simple things, like flower petals and dew.
"Kohaku, what have you done?" Ransho darts from one egg to the next, as if any could have avoided the song of their grief. Even when the elder angel shakes them by the shoulders, Kohaku doesn't answer.
God will be unhappy, but it doesn’t seem so frightening anymore. What else can God truly do to them? And the Tree looks beautiful in a new way. An eternally pure soul has brought them nothing but harm, and they are tired of hurting.