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For an ex-angel, RoxY was really bad at being human.
He didn’t get cold. Didn’t get tired. Didn’t get hungry, though he’d stolen Moxxie’s fries enough times to fake it. For 18 years on Earth after the Fall, his body had been perfectly fine.
So when he woke up shivering, it didn’t register.
Moxxie noticed first. Obviously. He notices everything about RoxY. Like how RoxY’s wings usually bright enough to hurt your eyes were dull and trembling against the blankets.
“You look like shit,” Moxxie said, because he’s cocky and has the bedside manner of a brick. He pushed his tinted glasses up and pressed the back of his hand to RoxY’s forehead anyway.
RoxY slapped it away. Weakly. “Angels don’t get sick, idiot.” His voice was raspy. His red eyes were glassy. He looked seconds from passing out, but his arms were still crossed like a pissed-off cat. “M’fine.”
“Babe. You’re literally shaking and you’re pale. Paler. Like, ghost-pale. And you’re already a ghost.” Moxxie grinned, but his brow was furrowed. A part of him was panicking. “Come on, let me—”
“No.” RoxY curled in on himself, wings wrapping tight around his shoulders. “I survived the Fall. I survived you for 18 years. I’m not gonna be taken out by a human cold.”
That was the problem. RoxY had refused to need anyone. Hated Moxxie first. Then tolerated him. Then, somewhere between shared cigarettes and Moxxie learning how to braid his hair without snagging, he’d let himself be loved. But this? Being weak? Letting Moxxie see it?
Absolutely not.
Moxxie sighed, that dramatic, put-upon sigh he saved just for RoxY. “Right. My bad. Forgot you’re Mr. Independent Ex-Angel.” He left the room.
RoxY exhaled. Good. He could be miserable alone. Like he deserved.
Ten minutes later, Moxxie was back. Kicking the door open with his boot because his hands were full. One had a chipped mug of something steaming. The other had a box of tissues, cold medicine, and the stupid plush Moxxie won him at a carnival last month.
“I said—” RoxY started.
“Yeah, yeah, ‘angels don’t get sick,’ I heard you the first time, your holiness,” Moxxie cut him off, kneeling by the bed. His cocky smirk was gone. “But my boyfriend does. And my boyfriend looks like death, so my boyfriend is gonna drink this before I dump it on his head.”
RoxY glared. Or tried to. The room was spinning. His pride was the only thing keeping him upright, and it was losing.
Moxxie’s voice went soft. The tone he only used at 3AM when RoxY had nightmares about falling. “Hey. You don’t gotta be tough right now. Not with me.” He set the stuff down and just… waited. Hand out, pinky extended like they were kids. “Just for tonight, let me be annoying for you? Please?”
Stupid. That was stupid. RoxY was a soldier of Heaven once. He’d taken on demons with a broken wing. And here he was, about to cry because Moxxie remembered he hated cherry medicine so he got the blue kind instead.
“…It’s dumb,” RoxY mumbled, but he uncurled one hand and hooked his pinky around Moxxie’s. His skin was burning up. “I’m not supposed to… break.”
“Yeah, well,” Moxxie whispered, crawling onto the bed and pulling RoxY — wings, sweat, and all — against his chest. "Humans break all the time. That’s how we know we’re alive.”
RoxY didn’t answer. Just buried his face in Moxxie’s jacket and let himself shake for a reason that wasn’t anger, for once. The mug of tea stayed on the nightstand until he fell asleep.