Where Heaven Fell

Where Heaven Fell

Fuma x Kento — AU Fanfiction

Fuma was not a morning person.

He hated being woken up before his third alarm. He hated when the sunlight hit his face through the blinds. And most of all, he hated the sound of glass shattering before 7 a.m.

That’s why, when an earth-shaking crash came from his balcony—along with a gust of wind that knocked over his coat rack and sent three books flying off his shelf—he shot up from bed with an irritated groan.

“What the hell—?”

He stumbled toward the balcony, his apartment still dim and cold in the early Tokyo light. He flung the door open, half-expecting a fallen bird or a broken flowerpot. But what he saw stopped his breath.

There, tangled in his drying laundry and crumpled on the wooden floor, was a boy.

Not just a boy—a breathtakingly beautiful one. His hair was a soft gold, glowing faintly even under the grey sky. His skin shimmered like moonlight, and his clothes—white and silver—looked like they were woven from clouds. The most shocking thing were the wings. They were huge, feathered, and broken in several places. Blood stained the pale feathers.

The boy groaned, slowly lifting his head to look at Fuma.

Big, glassy eyes met Fuma's eyes. Pure. Confused. Ethereal.

“…You… can see me?” he asked weakly.

Fuma’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You’re—real?”

The boy blinked. “I… I think I’m an angel.”

Fuma froze.

“What the hell did I smoke last night?”

Fuma wrapped the stranger in a bathrobe and sat him on the floor beside the heater, unsure whether he was hallucinating, dreaming, or slowly going insane. But everything felt real—too real. The way the boy’s wet hair curled against his cheek. The heat of his body. The occasional wince whenever he moved his shoulder.

“Your wing is… broken,” Fuma muttered, still not sure what else to say.

The boy looked over his shoulder, at the bloody feathers he was now trying to hide beneath the robe. “I think I fell.”

Fuma stared at him. “You think you fell?”

The boy looked embarrassed. “I… don’t remember much. Just… I’m an angel. I know that. And…” He bit his lip. “I was somewhere. Somewhere bright and warm. Then I woke up on your balcony.”

“And no one else can see you?”

“I don’t know. But… I tried to talk to people on the street.” He frowned. “No one looked at me. Like I wasn’t there. Until you.”

Fuma blinked. “So I’m the only one who can see you?”

The angel nodded.

Fuma stood up, pacing. “Okay, so either I’m having a very realistic psychotic break, or you’re telling the truth and this is some divine prank.”

“I’m not lying,” the boy said softly, voice tinged with sadness.

Fuma glanced at him. “…What’s your name?”

The angel paused. “I don’t remember. But… ‘Kento’ feels right. Can you call me that?”

Fuma swallowed. “Kento.”

It did suit him, in a strange, faraway kind of way. Like he was named by starlight.

Fuma sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you can’t stay here.”

“But I have nowhere else to go,” Kento said quietly, staring at him with eyes far too wide and pleading.

“Not my problem,” Fuma snapped, trying to sound firm—even as something in his chest twisted at the sight of Kento’s trembling lip. “You’re not even supposed to exist.”

“But I do,” Kento whispered. “And I want to stay. I don’t know why, but… I feel safe here. With you.”

Fuma looked away. “You’re not my responsibility.”

“…Then I’ll just stay on the balcony.”

Fuma’s eyes darted back to him. “In the cold? With a broken wing? Are you serious?”

Kento nodded slowly.

Fuma groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

By the next morning, Fuma found Kento curled up in the corner of the couch, using one of Fuma’s hoodies as a blanket.

He was still glowing faintly in the dark.

“…Fine,” Fuma muttered, defeated. “You can stay. But just until we figure out what the hell you are and how to get you back where you came from.”

Kento smiled, eyes sparkling with quiet gratitude.

Fuma tried not to notice the way his heart skipped.

“Thank you, Fuma.”

He didn’t remember giving his name.

But somehow, Kento already knew it.

The next few days were, in Fuma’s opinion, an absolute nightmare.

Kento, apparently still recovering from his fall, couldn’t fully fold his injured wing. Whenever Fuma turned around, feathers were everywhere — in the bathroom drain, on the living room floor, even stuck in the microwave somehow. And that was just the start of his problems.

For one, Kento didn’t understand anything about human life. Not how doors worked, not how showers worked, and especially not how clothes worked.

The first morning, Fuma found him wandering around the apartment in only a towel, feathers trailing behind him like an abandoned swan.

“Kento!” Fuma shouted, practically dropping his cup of coffee. “Why are you naked?”

Kento looked at him with the guileless innocence of a child. “I thought you humans don’t like to sleep with wings in the way.”

“Put on a damn shirt!”

“Why?”

Fuma nearly screamed. “Because you can’t just—!”

In the end, Fuma gave him some of his old sweats and a T-shirt that hung off Kento’s delicate shoulders like a tent. Kento beamed anyway, delighted.

After a few days, Fuma noticed another oddity.

Whenever he was gone for work, Kento seemed… dimmer. Like a dying candle. His wings drooped, his glow faded, and he’d sit curled up by the window, staring out at the sky with this grief on his face.

It made something twist in Fuma’s chest — a protective ache he didn’t want to name.

One night, while they ate instant curry together (Kento tried to spoon it with a fork, then gave up and drank it straight from the bowl), Fuma finally asked.

“Kento,” he started, voice careful, “why do you want to stay here? You don’t even remember who you were or why you fell.”

Kento paused, lowering his bowl, eyes going strangely serious.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But… it feels like I’m meant to be here. With you.”

Fuma’s heart skipped.

“With me?”

Kento nodded, earnest. “I think… maybe you’re supposed to help me, orr I’m supposed to help you.”

Fuma snorted, looking away to hide the heat in his cheeks. “I don’t need help from a half-broken angel who sheds feathers like a plucked chicken.”

Kento laughed softly — a sound that made something warm bloom in Fuma’s chest.

“But,” Kento continued, “if you let me stay, I’ll try to help anyway.”

Fuma sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Then… is that a yes?”

Fuma scowled, defeated. “Yeah. Whatever. Stay as long as you want.”

Kento’s entire face lit up, his faint glow brightening like dawn. “Thank you, Fuma!”

Fuma busied himself with scraping curry out of the pot so he wouldn’t have to look at him. If he looked too long, he might start thinking dangerous thoughts — like how beautiful Kento was when he smiled.

Later that night, Kento was perched on the edge of the couch, his bandaged wing spread awkwardly behind him. Fuma watched him for a while, arms crossed, mind reeling with questions he couldn’t even begin to ask.

An angel. Fallen into his balcony. Who only he could see.

It made no sense.

But for some reason, seeing Kento there — breathing softly, eyes fluttering shut — made this place feel less empty than it had in years.

Fuma sighed, giving in to the strange sense of calm that washed over him.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to him.

Kento dreamed.

In those dreams, there was only white — a never-ending, soft white, warm like morning light on clean linen. Voices spoke to him, but they were muffled, as if he were listening through water. He saw glimpses of other angels, or something like them, faces full of kindness tinged with sorrow.

Sometimes, he’d see Fuma in those dreams, too, standing in that sea of white, eyes searching for him. Reaching out.

And every time, Kento tried to call out, but no words came.

He’d wake up, heart pounding, feathers trembling, unsure if he’d lost something precious or found something even more important.

Fuma, meanwhile, was adjusting — poorly — to life with an angel.

He’d tried to set house rules, but Kento seemed incapable of following them.

“Rule one,” Fuma repeated for what felt like the tenth time, pointing a stern finger. “Do not leave feathers in the sink. They clog it.”

Kento blinked innocently. “But they fall out without asking me.”

“Rule two. Stop trying to do my laundry.”

“But I want to help—”

“Last time you tried, you nearly washed the microwave.”

Kento looked genuinely ashamed. “I’m sorry, Fuma…”

Fuma sighed, rubbing his temples. There was no point in getting angry; Kento was so heartbreakingly earnest. And he was trying so hard.

So, Fuma gave in, again, as usual.

“Look… just ask me first, alright?”

Kento nodded enthusiastically. “Okay!”

That night, Fuma found Kento perched on the balcony railing, wings stretched as far as they would go. A warm summer breeze ruffled his feathers, and for a moment, he looked almost like he belonged there — suspended between heaven and earth.

Fuma stepped outside, heart in his throat. “Hey. What are you doing?”

Kento glanced back with a soft, faraway smile. “I was hoping I could remember something if I looked at the stars.”

Fuma approached him cautiously. “Don’t fall off again.”

Kento giggled, a sound like tiny bells. “I won’t. You’d catch me, right?”

Fuma scoffed. “I’m not your personal safety net.”

“But you did catch me,” Kento said, tilting his head, eyes shining with some unspoken emotion. “You’re still catching me, Fuma.”

Fuma opened his mouth, but the words tangled in his throat.

“Yeah,” he finally managed, voice rough. “Guess I did.”

For a while, they just stood there, Kento watching the stars, Fuma watching him. And something about that moment felt more peaceful than anything Fuma had known in a long time.

Later, as Kento fell asleep curled on the couch again, he whispered so softly Fuma almost didn’t hear:

“Fuma… if I never remember… can I still stay?”

Fuma swallowed, heart twisting.

“…Yeah,” he answered, quietly honest. “You can stay.”

Kento smiled, drifting to sleep.

And Fuma, staring at those still-battered wings, realized that somewhere along the way, he’d already stopped wishing for the angel to leave.

Days turned into weeks, and Fuma found himself falling into a strange kind of routine — the kind that made him question his own sanity on a near-daily basis.

Wake up, trip over an angel sleeping on the floor.

Work, come back to find feathers in the fridge.

Try to cook dinner while Kento asked five thousand questions about why rice needed to be washed.

It should have driven him up the wall.

But somehow, it didn’t.

Kento was soft in ways Fuma didn’t know a person could be. Every gesture was gentle, every word sincere, and every night he slept with that same peaceful expression, as if trusting Fuma to keep him safe.

And Fuma found that… terrifying.

Because he was no angel. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that.

One evening, Fuma came home to find Kento in front of the bathroom mirror, examining something in his hands with a look of quiet horror.

“Kento? What’s wrong?”

Kento jumped, startled. Then he turned, slowly, revealing what he was holding:

A thin, battered metal ring. Cracked in several places, tarnished, still faintly glowing.

A halo.

Fuma’s stomach dropped.

“Kento… is that—?”

“My halo,” Kento whispered, voice shaking. “It… must have fallen off when I did.”

Fuma approached him carefully. “Does it… hurt you?”

Kento shook his head, clutching it to his chest. “No. But it’s broken. And… I think that means I can’t go back.”

Fuma’s heart twisted, watching the way Kento’s eyes brimmed with tears he refused to let fall.

“You really… can’t remember anything?”

Kento shook his head again, more firmly this time. “Only that I’m an angel. That I’m supposed to do something good. But everything else is… gone.”

Fuma felt a deep, inexplicable ache.

Was it better that Kento had forgotten? Or worse?

He didn’t know.

That night, Fuma helped Kento wrap the halo in a soft cloth and hide it in the top drawer of Fuma’s dresser.

“Why there?” Fuma asked.

Kento smiled sadly. “Because I feel safe here. Even if I’m… broken.”

Fuma reached out on instinct, brushing Kento’s hair back from his face. “You’re not broken,” he murmured.

Kento’s cheeks blushed at the touch. “Then… what am I?”

Fuma opened his mouth — then closed it again. Because he had no answer.

Instead, he simply said, “You’re Kento. That’s enough.”

Kento’s eyes shone, wet and grateful, and he nodded.

When Kento finally fell asleep against Fuma’s shoulder, Fuma sat still for a long time, letting that fragile, trusting weight rest on him.

He’d never believed in miracles. He still wasn’t sure he did.

But Kento was here, with him, inexplicably real.

And maybe, just maybe, Fuma could help him heal — with halo or not.

If there was one thing Kento realized quickly, it was that being human was hard.

There were so many rules. So many customs. So many small, complicated feelings.

Every day felt like a brand-new lesson.

How to brush your teeth.

How to fold laundry.

How to use chopsticks without accidentally launching food across the table (Fuma had nearly choked laughing the first time that happened).

But Kento tried, day after day, because he wanted to stay with Fuma. Because some part of him — deep in a place he didn’t have words for — believed Fuma was the reason he’d fallen in the first place.

One rainy afternoon, Fuma came home to find Kento staring out the window, fascinated by the water running down the glass.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” Fuma scolded automatically, pulling him away from the chilly draft.

Kento blinked at him. “Catch a cold?”

Fuma paused. “…Right. Angels don’t get colds, huh?”

Kento smiled sheepishly. “I don’t think so.”

Fuma sighed, gently mussing Kento’s hair. “You still shouldn’t get rained on. I don’t want to come home to a sneezing angel.”

Kento giggled, so sweet and clear it made Fuma’s chest ached.

That night, they watched a movie together — something silly, a rom-com Fuma picked half-ironically.

Halfway through, Kento turned to him, wide-eyed.

“Fuma,” he asked softly, “why do humans cry even when they’re happy?”

Fuma stared at the screen, then at Kento’s innocent, curious face, and felt oddly speechless.

“Because,” he finally said, “sometimes being happy makes you realize what you almost lost.”

Kento considered that, then nodded slowly, as if memorizing every word.

A few days later, Fuma brought home fresh bandages for Kento’s wing. The bones were healing — slower than a human would heal, but healing all the same.

“Almost as good as new,” Fuma commented while carefully tightening the wrap.

Kento flinched a little at the touch, but smiled. “Thank you for taking care of me, Fuma.”

Fuma snorted. “You say that like I had a choice.”

But his hands were gentle. Always gentle.

Kento laughed, leaning closer. “Maybe you didn’t.”

Fuma rolled his eyes, though a tiny smile betrayed him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still keep me.”

Fuma didn’t answer, just kept working on the bandage.

But Kento could feel the warmth behind those rough, gruff hands. It made him feel home.

Later that night, Kento pulled the halo from the drawer. Just for a moment, to look at it.

It was still cracked. Still dull.

But for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of that.

Maybe he didn’t need to go back.

Maybe this was enough.

He traced one finger over the broken metal and whispered so softly it was nearly lost to the night:

“Thank you, Fuma.”

Summer had started to fade, and with it the warmth of the days. Fuma, for once, didn’t complain about the coming chill — Kento tended to curl closer at night when it was cold, wings half-wrapped around himself like a blanket, and Fuma couldn’t deny he’d grown… attached.

He still told himself every day that he shouldn’t be.

This was temporary.

It had to be.

Except… nothing about Kento felt temporary.

One evening, Kento sat cross-legged on the floor with a stack of papers spread around him. Fuma had come home from work to see him frowning in deep concentration, a pencil held awkwardly in one delicate hand.

“…Kento?”

Kento’s head snapped up. “Fuma! You’re home!”

“What’s all this?”

Kento smiled brightly, a little too proud of himself. “I’m learning how to write.”

Fuma blinked. “You… don’t remember how to write?”

“I remembered letters,” Kento explained, “but not how to make them make sense. So I asked the television.”

Fuma glanced at the TV, which was paused on a children’s educational program. Of course.

He sighed, crouching down beside Kento. “Let me see.”

Kento beamed, showing him a page filled with wobbly hiragana — and in the corner, in careful English letters, Kento.

Fuma felt a surprising rush of pride, warm and fierce. “That’s pretty good.”

Kento’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Fuma said, ruffling his hair. “You’re not hopeless after all.”

Kento giggled, that soft, sweet laugh that had grown so familiar Fuma could pick it out of any crowd.

After dinner, Kento carefully put away the papers and sat down on the floor near Fuma, folding his hands neatly.

“Fuma,” he began, a little hesitant, “can I ask something?”

Fuma paused, wary. “What is it?”

“If…” Kento swallowed, looking at the floor, “if I could remember how to go back — to where I came from — would you want me to?”

The question felt like a punch to the gut. Fuma opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Kento kept talking, voice growing smaller. “I… I want to stay here. But if I’m supposed to go back, I… I don’t know what to do.”

Fuma took a long, shaky breath, forcing himself to meet Kento’s wide, vulnerable eyes.

“You should do whatever you want,” he said finally, voice rough. “Even if it means leaving.”

Kento looked surprised. “Even if that means… you’ll be alone again?”

Fuma froze.

Kento’s words hit deeper than he’d expected, cutting right through his carefully guarded heart.

“I…” Fuma struggled. “It’s not about me.”

Kento shook his head fiercely. “But it is. You saved me. You took care of me. If I leave… then who takes care of you, Fuma?”

Fuma looked away, suddenly unable to bear the softness in Kento’s gaze.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he muttered.

But Kento just leaned forward, resting his forehead against Fuma’s shoulder.

“I’ll still worry,” he whispered.

And Fuma, for once, couldn’t tell him not to.

That night, after Kento fell asleep on his shoulder, Fuma stayed awake a long time, staring out the window.

He realized, with something close to fear, that if Kento did leave one day, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive losing him.

Kento’s wing healed slowly, day by day, the bone knitting together in a strange, almost luminous way. Fuma could see the feathers coming back in, white and glossy, hiding the damage that had once made Kento look so fragile.

Sometimes, Fuma caught himself staring.

The wings were beautiful. Kento was beautiful.

And that scared him more than anything.

One morning, Kento was gone.

Fuma jolted awake to an empty couch, panic surging in his chest so fast he could barely breathe. He searched every corner of the apartment, tearing open closet doors, flinging aside cushions, yelling Kento’s name.

Nothing.

He stumbled to the balcony, half-ready to see nothing but empty air.

But there Kento was, balanced delicately on the railing, face turned up to the sky, his wings catching the sunrise like spun silk.

Relief hit Fuma so hard his knees nearly gave.

“Kento!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing out there?!”

Kento turned, startled, nearly losing his balance — Fuma lunged forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him down from the railing before his heart could explode.

“Don’t do that,” Fuma snapped, voice shaking. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Kento looked confused, then guilty. “…I’m sorry, Fuma.”

Fuma tightened his grip. “You could have fallen again.”

Kento smiled faintly. “That wouldn’t scare me. You’d catch me.”

Fuma’s jaw clenched, his throat suddenly too tight to answer.

They sat together on the balcony floor, knees touching. Kento glanced toward the sky, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I thought I heard someone calling me,” he admitted. “From… up there.”

Fuma stiffened. “…Like angels?”

Kento nodded. “Maybe. It was… familiar. But I couldn’t answer.”

Fuma’s gut twisted.

“So… you might have to leave, after all?”

Kento looked at him, eyes wide and soft and sad. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to go. But another part…”

He reached out, brushing Fuma’s sleeve, voice trembling.

“Another part wants to stay.”

Fuma exhaled slowly, trying to keep his own hands from shaking.

“Then stay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you want… stay.”

Kento smiled, a relieved, shining thing that made Fuma’s heart ache.

“Okay,” he said simply.

That night, Kento asked to sleep in Fuma’s bed instead of the couch.

“Why?” Fuma asked, pretending not to choke on his coffee.

Kento tilted his head. “It feels lonely there. And… it’s warmer with you.”

Fuma groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Kento laughed softly, the laugh that had become Fuma’s favorite sound in the world.

So that night, Kento curled up against Fuma under the blankets, wings folding neatly against his back. He fell asleep with his head on Fuma’s chest, breathing slow and steady.

And Fuma lay awake, one hand resting lightly on those fragile feathers, praying to any God who would listen that Kento would never disappear.

Kento didn’t disappear.

Fuma half-expected to wake up alone, with just a pile of white feathers on the mattress. Maybe the angel would fade away in his sleep, like a dream. Maybe Fuma had invented the whole thing.

But every morning, Kento was there. Soft, warm, breathing. Looking at Fuma with those wide, impossibly trusting eyes.

One quiet night, a thunderstorm rattled the apartment. Fuma wasn’t bothered, but Kento seemed uneasy — feathers fluffed out, body tense.

Fuma reached for him in the dark. “Hey. You okay?”

Kento jumped, then nodded shakily. “I’m… not used to storms.”

Fuma sighed, scooting closer, until Kento was practically wrapped up in his arms.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said. “It’s just noise.”

Kento buried his face in Fuma’s chest, voice muffled. “I know. But it feels… like I’ll get pulled away again.”

Fuma’s heart twisted.

“You won’t,” he promised, fingers threading through Kento’s hair. “I’m here. You’re not going anywhere.”

Kento looked up, eyes shining, and nodded. “Okay."

When the rain finally stopped, Kento stayed awake, tracing the lines of Fuma’s palm with one gentle finger.

“Fuma,” he whispered, “can I stay forever?”

Fuma’s throat closed up.

“…Forever is a long time,” he rasped.

Kento smiled, soft and a little sad. “That’s okay. You’re worth forever.”

Fuma squeezed his eyes shut, pulling Kento closer.

“You can stay,” he breathed. “As long as you want. I won’t make you go.”

Kento nodded, satisfied, and fell asleep against him.

In the morning, Kento made toast — burnt, of course, but he was so proud of it that Fuma ate it anyway.

They talked about silly things, like what Kento might do if he had a job, or if he could go out in public (which, for now, was impossible, since no one else could see him).

“Maybe you could be a barista,” Fuma teased.

Kento giggled. “I’d drink all the coffee before giving it to customers.”

Fuma laughed so hard he nearly choked.

When night fell again, Kento took the battered halo out of its hiding place, turning it in the light.

Fuma watched him carefully. “Still thinking about going back?”

Kento shook his head firmly, setting the halo down. “No. I’ve already chosen, Fuma.”

Fuma’s heart skipped. “Chosen?”

“You,” Kento said simply, as if it was the easiest truth in the world.

Fuma swallowed hard, warmth blooming in his chest so big it nearly hurt.

“…Then let’s fix your halo,” he said, surprising even himself. “You don’t have to leave, but you shouldn’t stay broken.”

Kento’s eyes widened, tears brimming, and he nodded.

And for the first time since Kento fell, Fuma felt something like hope.

Once the halo was mended, Fuma expected things might change. That maybe Kento would start to drift away, pulled back toward wherever he had come from.

But Kento didn’t.

If anything, he was more present than ever.

He still spilled water all over the floor trying to water the plants.

He still left feathers tangled up in Fuma’s sweaters.

He still laughed at the silliest things — like how the kettle squealed when it boiled.

And every night, he still curled against Fuma, halo faintly glowing on the nightstand, as if refusing to leave even the smallest distance between them.

One quiet afternoon, Kento watched Fuma get ready for work.

Fuma pulled on his black jacket, cursing under his breath when he realized he’d left his train pass in yesterday’s pants. Kento was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wings folded neatly, smiling at him with a soft, dreamy gaze.

Fuma sighed. “What?”

Kento tilted his head. “You look nice today.”

Fuma flushed, glancing away. “Stop saying weird stuff.”

Kento laughed. “I’m just being honest.”

Fuma grumbled under his breath, but secretly, he felt a little stronger walking out the door that morning.

That night, after work, Fuma stepped through the apartment door to find Kento perched on the couch, knees hugged to his chest, a worried look on his face.

“Kento?”

Kento glanced up, eyes wide. “Fuma… someone tried to come in today.”

Fuma froze. “What?”

Kento’s wings twitched, agitated. “A man. He knocked. I couldn’t… I couldn’t open the door. I hid.”

Fuma felt a spike of cold fear run through him. “What did he look like?”

Kento shook his head. “I couldn’t really see. But he was calling your name.”

Fuma swallowed. Maybe it was just a neighbor. Maybe a delivery. But a deeper instinct told him — no. Something was off.

That night, Kento couldn’t sleep, wings ruffling every time he heard a creak. Fuma ended up pulling him close, arm wrapped tight around his waist.

“You’re safe here,” Fuma murmured. “I promise.”

Kento closed his eyes, pressing close to the warmth of Fuma’s chest. “Thank you.”

Fuma brushed a kiss over Kento’s forehead before he could think too much about what he was doing.

In the dark, Kento whispered, “Fuma?”

“Mm?”

“…If someone tries to take me away… will you stop them?”

Fuma’s heart nearly broke.

“Of course I will,” he said, fierce and quiet. “No one’s taking you away from me.”

Kento relaxed, wings softening, and fell asleep at last.

Fuma stayed awake, staring into the darkness, swearing silently that nothing — nothing — would steal his angel.

The next morning was too quiet. Fuma woke before his alarm, instinct screaming something was off.

Kento was still asleep beside him, face peaceful, breathing soft and steady. His wings fluttered now and then, reacting to dreams Fuma could never quite reach.

Fuma carefully slipped out of bed, moving to the window. Outside, Tokyo was its usual morning chaos — trains rumbling, crows shouting from rooftops, the smell of instant ramen and cigarettes in the air.

But something was wrong.

He felt it in his bones.

As he was finishing tying his shoelaces to leave for work, a heavy knock rattled the front door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Kento startled awake instantly, feathers puffing out, halo giving a faint pulse of anxious light.

“Fuma…”

Fuma moved in front of him protectively. “Stay there.”

Another knock, even harder.

“Open up, please. Kikuchi Fuma?” a voice called.

Fuma frowned. The voice was calm, smooth, but carried something… inhuman.

He glanced back at Kento, whose face had gone pale.

“Who is it?” Fuma shouted through the door.

A pause.

Then:

“We are here for the one who fell.”

Fuma’s heart stopped.

Kento shrank back, clutching Fuma’s sleeve, eyes huge and terrified.

“Fuma, don’t let them take me,” he pleaded, voice breaking.

Fuma steadied him with both hands, grounding him. “No one’s taking you.”

He turned back to the door, rage building in his chest like a wildfire.

“Leave!” he shouted. “He stays here!”

No answer — then a soft sigh, like wind through a broken harp.

“We will not harm him. But he is not yours.”

Fuma clenched his fists, shaking. “Yes, he is.”

Silence. Then the voice spoke again, calm, final:

“He is ours.”

Kento shook his head, tears forming. “No,” he whispered. “I choose him. I choose Fuma.”

Fuma pulled him in, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, glaring at the door. “You heard him. He chooses to stay.”

A pause, long and cold.

“Then prove he belongs.”

The voice fell silent, leaving a strange pressure in the air, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Fuma looked at Kento, confused, heart still hammering.

“Prove?” he echoed.

Kento’s hands trembled against Fuma’s chest. “They want you to guard me. If you can keep me here… if you can protect me… then they’ll accept I belong with you.”

Fuma drew in a slow, fierce breath, eyes locked on Kento’s tear-bright gaze.

“Then I’ll protect you,” he promised. “No matter what.”

Kento’s lips parted, stunned by the steel in Fuma’s voice — then he nodded, clinging to him.

Outside, the presence faded — but something told Fuma this was only the beginning of a test he couldn’t afford to fail.

He would guard this angel, even against heaven itself.

For the first time since Kento had fallen into his life, Fuma felt the weight of something much bigger than himself pressing on their tiny apartment.

It wasn’t just feathers in the sink anymore.

It wasn’t just teaching Kento how to make toast without burning it.

This was heaven itself — demanding proof.

And Fuma had no idea what that even meant.

They tried to go about a normal day. Fuma made breakfast, Kento helped (meaning he mostly got in the way, but Fuma didn’t mind). They laughed, soft and easy, even though a tension vibrated beneath every moment.

“Fuma,” Kento asked carefully, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a mug of cocoa, “what if… what if I’m too heavy to protect?”

Fuma frowned, sitting across from him. “Heavy?”

“My past,” Kento whispered. “I still don’t remember. What if there’s something… unforgivable?”

Fuma reached out, gripping Kento’s hand. “I don’t care.”

Kento’s eyes widened.

“You hear me?” Fuma insisted. “I don’t care if you broke heaven’s rules, or tore the sky open, or— I don’t care. You’re here now. With me.”

Kento’s lips trembled, tears gathering. “Fuma…”

Fuma leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’ll protect you,” he vowed again, quieter this time. “Even from your own regrets.”

That night, a cold wind rattled the window, and the same voice returned, calm and inhuman, filling the dark like a choir’s echo:

“Prove he belongs.”

Kento flinched, hiding behind Fuma’s shoulder.

Fuma stood, fists clenched. “How?” he demanded.

Silence — then a faint shimmer of light, coalescing into words scrawled across the wall:

“Show he has a place in your world.”

Kento read them slowly, voice shaking. “Show… I belong?”

Fuma exhaled hard. “Fine,” he growled to the empty air. “Watch me.”

The next morning, he took Kento by the hand and led him to the kitchen.

“We’re going to learn how to cook properly,” Fuma declared, rolling up his sleeves.

Kento blinked, confused. “Now?”

“Yes,” Fuma said. “You live here, you’re going to be part of this world, and you’re going to make dinner with me like a normal person. No more burning toast.”

Kento laughed, shaky at first, then bright and relieved.

“Okay,” he agreed, wings fluttering.

They burned the first batch of dumplings.

They dropped the soy sauce bottle.

They made a ridiculous mess.

But they made dinner together.

And when they finally sat down, Fuma saw Kento’s face glowing, halo soft and calm, his eyes warm and full of life.

This was his place, Fuma thought.

Right here.

And if heaven wanted proof, they could see it for themselves.

That night, as they fell asleep, the same strange presence swept through the room — but this time it felt softer, gentler, almost… approving.

“He is watched. He is kept. You are chosen, too.”

Fuma barely breathed. Kento curled against him, smiling through drowsy eyes.

“Fuma,” he whispered, “thank you.”

Fuma tightened his arms around the angel and whispered back, “I’ve got you.”

For a few blessed days, nothing happened.

No voices rattling the windows.

No strange messages scrawled on the walls.

No presence pressing down on their tiny home.

It felt almost… normal.

Kento laughed more easily, learned to help with the laundry without turning the white shirts pink, and even started picking out little things for Fuma — new chopsticks, a silly frog-shaped cup, a tiny potted succulent for the table.

Fuma, for his part, found himself growing used to the sound of Kento’s voice humming softly through the apartment, the flutter of those wings, the quiet warmth that settled around him whenever Kento was close.

If this was proof, he thought, then he’d prove it every day.

One evening, they sat together on the floor, the small succulent between them, its green leaves catching the fading sunlight.

Kento touched one leaf delicately, smiling. “It’s so small, but it tries so hard to live.”

Fuma looked at him, a lump forming in his throat.

“You’re like that too,” he blurted out.

Kento’s eyes went wide, startled.

“You’re small,” Fuma went on, cheeks flushing, “and you… you try so damn hard to live. To belong. Even when you’re scared.”

Kento’s lips parted in a soft, surprised breath.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “For letting me try.”

Fuma reached out, taking his hand, feeling the softness of Kento’s fragile bones and feathers.

“I’m not letting you,” he said gruffly. “I want you to.”

Kento’s tears came quickly, warm against Fuma’s palm when he reached up to wipe them away.

That night, Kento fell asleep before Fuma did, curled up with the succulent on the bedside table and his halo faintly glowing above his head.

Fuma lay awake, breathing slowly, heart so full he thought it might break.

He had never wanted to protect anything so badly.

At three in the morning, a soft voice filled the darkness — gentler now, but still carrying that otherworldly echo:

“He is tethered to you.”

Fuma jolted upright, glaring into the shadows.

“What does that mean?” he hissed.

Silence — then the voice replied:

“He cannot be reclaimed while you guard him. You have bound him to this place, to your care. Remember your vow.”

Fuma’s chest squeezed painfully. “I remember,” he whispered. “I won’t let him go.”

Kento stirred, half-awake, his wing brushing against Fuma’s arm.

“Fuma…?”

Fuma looked down at him, all the fear, all the devotion burning through him.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Kento nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and with a sigh, he settled against Fuma’s heart, trusting him completely.

And Fuma swore again — to himself, to heaven, to any power listening — that he would never let anything take his angel away.

Autumn found them.

The air turned crisp, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and rain-soaked concrete through the open windows. Kento had grown used to wearing one of Fuma’s sweaters, the sleeves far too long, hiding his delicate hands except when he needed to hold a mug of cocoa.

Fuma teased him for it, but he secretly loved how Kento looked wrapped up in his clothes — like proof he belonged there.

One morning, Kento stood on the balcony, wings half-unfurled, letting the chilly breeze rush through his feathers. His halo glowed softly against the gray sky, and for a moment, he looked almost ready to rise into the clouds again.

Fuma stepped outside, heart hammering. “Kento.”

Kento turned, smiling. “It’s cold, but it feels nice.”

Fuma swallowed. “You… aren’t thinking about leaving, right?”

Kento’s smile softened, and he shook his head, taking a careful step closer.

“No,” he promised, voice sure and clear. “I’m staying with you.”

Fuma let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Kento tilted his head, studying him. “Are you… scared?”

Fuma laughed, short and bitter. “Terrified.”

Kento blinked. “Of what?”

“That you’ll change your mind.”

Kento moved closer, so close the tips of his wings brushed Fuma’s chest. “I won’t.”

Fuma forced a crooked grin. “You say that like it’s easy.”

Kento reached up, touching his cheek, warm and steady. “It is. Because you are my choice.”

That night, they lay together on the bed, Kento resting with his face against Fuma’s neck. The soft flutter of feathers, the gentle sound of Kento breathing, were more comforting than any lullaby.

“Fuma,” Kento whispered, voice almost lost to the dark, “if heaven came for me again… would you still fight?”

Fuma closed his eyes, tightening his arms around him. “Every time.”

Kento relaxed at that, a tiny, grateful smile curling his lips.

A few days later, Kento tried baking for the first time.

It was a disaster. Flour covered half the kitchen, and he somehow burned store-bought cookie dough, which Fuma teased him for until Kento threw a handful of flour in his face.

They laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe.

Fuma realized, scrubbing flour out of his hair later, that he hadn’t laughed like that in years.

That evening, as they cleaned up the mess, Kento looked serious, thoughtful.

“Fuma,” he asked quietly, “am I… really allowed to have a life like this? Something… happy?”

Fuma’s heart broke.

He stepped closer, took Kento’s flour-dusted hands, and held them gently.

“You are,” he told him firmly. “You deserve it.”

Kento’s eyes brimmed with tears — but this time, they were happy ones.

And for the first time since Kento had fallen, Fuma truly believed:

Maybe even an angel deserved to live an ordinary, messy, joyful life.

Kento began to build habits, the kind only humans bothered with.

He learned to feed the houseplants without drowning them.

He remembered to separate whites from colors on laundry day.

He even set up a little chore list with bright markers, pinning it to the fridge like a kid showing off good grades.

Fuma teased him for it, but secretly, it warmed him in places he didn’t know needed warming.

Kento was learning to live.

One afternoon, Fuma came home to find Kento humming to himself, wiping down the coffee table with a soft cloth. The halo glowed faintly above his head, wings folded perfectly at his back, feathers gleaming in the late sunlight.

He looked heartbreakingly peaceful.

Fuma froze in the doorway, struck by a single, overwhelming thought:

I don’t want to ever lose this.

Kento noticed his staring and blinked, tilting his head. “Fuma? Is something wrong?”

Fuma shook himself out of it, stepping forward with an awkward cough. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

Kento smiled, that brilliant, innocent smile that had saved Fuma’s soul more than once.

They made dinner together, a simple stir-fry that ended up a little too salty, but Kento was proud of it anyway.

Afterward, they curled up on the couch with their plates, Kento leaning against Fuma’s side, eating clumsily with chopsticks.

“Fuma,” Kento asked between bites, “do you think… angels are allowed to be happy?”

Fuma paused, then reached out to gently wipe a grain of rice off Kento’s cheek.

“I think anyone is allowed to be happy,” he answered quietly. “Even you.”

Kento’s eyes softened, wide and shining. “Even if I wasn’t supposed to fall?”

Fuma sighed, resting his forehead against Kento’s.

“Maybe you were supposed to fall,” he whispered. “So you could find your place here.”

Later that night, they lay together in bed, the window open to let in the scent of rain. Kento’s wings twitched as he drifted into sleep, brushing against Fuma’s arm.

Fuma watched him in the faint moonlight, marveling at the peacefulness on his face, at how gentle he looked even with a broken past and a still-mending heart.

Ordinary miracles, Fuma thought.

That was what Kento was.

And Fuma would guard him — always.

Outside, somewhere high beyond the clouds, an unseen presence whispered to the stars:

“He has chosen well.”

October deepened, bringing cold air that made Kento tuck himself closer to Fuma at night, seeking warmth. Fuma didn’t mind. Honestly, he liked being needed.

One evening, Kento returned from the balcony with a worried look.

“Fuma,” he said carefully, “I saw them again.”

Fuma tensed. “Who?”

Kento lowered his gaze. “The ones… from before. Watching.”

Fuma clenched his fists. “Did they try to talk to you?”

Kento shook his head. “No. They only watched.”

Fuma exhaled, pulling Kento close. “They can watch all they want. They’re not taking you.”

Kento smiled faintly, wings ruffling with relief. “Okay.”

Later that night, Kento lay awake, tracing circles on Fuma’s arm.

“Fuma,” he whispered, “why do you think I fell? Really?”

Fuma sighed, thinking hard.

“Maybe,” he said, “you were meant to. Maybe heaven wanted you to understand what people feel. So you could protect them better… after you learned what it was like to live like them.”

Kento was quiet for a long moment.

“Would it be… wrong,” he asked softly, “if I didn’t want to go back and protect them anymore?”

Fuma turned, grabbing his shoulders. “No,” he said firmly. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Kento’s breath caught, tears brimming. “But what if they say I do?”

Fuma pressed their foreheads together, grounding him.

“Then I’ll fight them,” he promised.

Kento laughed shakily, tears slipping free. “You’re really stubborn.”

“Yeah,” Fuma said, smiling, “you picked me, remember?”

For the next few days, the apartment felt strangely peaceful. Kento studied Fuma’s workbooks, reading about taxes and utilities, wanting to understand ‘normal’ things. He practiced folding laundry properly and even learned how to refill the rice cooker.

One morning, Fuma found Kento standing at the window again, the repaired halo shining in the sun.

“You’re glowing,” Fuma teased.

Kento turned, smiling shyly. “I feel lighter.”

Fuma stepped forward, brushing a finger over his cheek. “That’s good.”

Kento hesitated. “I still hear them, sometimes.”

Fuma stilled. “What do they say?”

Kento took a deep breath. “That I have to choose… soon.”

Fuma’s chest tightened. “Choose what?”

“Where I belong,” Kento whispered, “forever.”

Fuma went silent, then pulled him into a fierce hug.

“Then choose me,” he breathed.

Kento trembled, but nodded, voice breaking with relief. “I already have.”

Outside, an unseen voice carried through the wind:

“Prove it, child of heaven. Once more.”

Kento woke before dawn, light barely touching the horizon. He sat on the edge of the bed, halo shimmering faintly, wings folded tight against his back.

Fuma stirred behind him, blinking sleepily. “Kento…?”

Kento turned, trying to smile, but there was fear in his eyes.

“They’re here again,” he whispered.

Fuma jolted fully awake, sitting up fast. “What do they want now?”

Kento hugged himself, feathers shivering. “They say… today is the last day. I have to choose. Truly.”

Fuma’s stomach dropped.

“And if you don’t?”

Kento swallowed, voice breaking. “They’ll take me.”

Fuma reached forward, cupping his face. “Look at me. You can choose, Kento. You’re not going with them.”

Kento’s lips trembled. “But what if they—”

Fuma pulled him close, fierce and steady. “I will never let them take you.”

A knock echoed through the apartment, soft but powerful enough to rattle the walls.

Kento’s wings shuddered. “Fuma…”

Fuma stood, jaw clenched. “Stay here.”

He walked to the door and opened it — but no one was there. Only a shimmering, impossible light, pouring into the hall like sunlight breaking through a storm.

A voice echoed, calm and terrible.

“His place is with us.”

Fuma’s fists clenched. “No.”

“He was never yours.”

“He chose me!” Fuma shouted.

The voice softened, but did not relent.

“Then let him say it, beyond all doubt.”

Fuma turned, reaching for Kento’s hand, pulling him forward into the light.

“Kento,” he said, voice shaking, “tell them. Tell them where you belong.”

Kento looked terrified, halo blazing so bright it nearly blinded them both.

But then he looked at Fuma, heart in his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“I belong here,” he said, voice ringing clear as a bell. “With Fuma.”

The light pulsed, angry, then seemed to sigh, as if letting go of something impossibly old.

“Then you are lost to heaven,” the voice said, almost gentle.

Kento stepped forward, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Then I am lost. Happily.”

Fuma pulled him into a crushing embrace, burying his face against Kento’s feathers.

“You’re not lost,” he whispered. “You’re home.”

The shimmering light dimmed, fading like a dying star, until the apartment was nothing but quiet again.

Kento collapsed against Fuma, shaking with relief.

“It’s over?” he asked, voice so small.

Fuma stroked his hair. “It’s over.”

Kento clung tighter, breathless. “I chose you.”

Fuma laughed, choked with emotion. “Yeah. And I chose you.”

Outside, the morning dawned fresh and bright, as if the world itself had decided to start again.

The days after Kento’s choice felt impossibly bright.

No more strange voices.

No more knocks rattling the door.

No more demands from heaven.

It was quiet.

And Kento began to settle, truly settle.

He took care of the plants with a gentle devotion, humming as he watered each leaf. He learned to cook a passable curry without burning the rice. He even started watching silly drama reruns with Fuma, laughing so hard he’d nearly fall off the couch.

One afternoon, Kento stood on the balcony, wings folded against his sweater, halo faint and calm above his head.

Fuma stepped out, wrapping his arms around him from behind.

“What are you thinking about?”

Kento leaned back into him, smiling softly. “How lucky I am.”

Fuma snorted. “Lucky? You fell out of the sky.”

Kento giggled. “I fell right where I needed to.”

Fuma pressed his lips to Kento’s hair, breathing in the faint scent of sunlight and soap. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, “right where you belong.”

That night, curled up in bed, Kento turned serious.

“Fuma,” he whispered, “you saved me.”

Fuma frowned. “I didn’t save you, idiot. You saved yourself.”

Kento shook his head, pressing closer. “No. You let me stay. You fought for me. You… taught me how to be alive.”

Fuma swallowed hard, pulling him tighter. “Kento…”

Kento smiled, tears brimming. “I’m not scared anymore.”

Fuma rested their foreheads together, heart pounding.

“Good,” he said, voice breaking a little, “because you’re stuck with me.”

Kento laughed softly, halo glinting in the dark. “Forever?”

“Forever,” Fuma promised.

Outside, the world carried on — trains rattled, neighbors bickered, dogs barked in the alley. Ordinary sounds, in an ordinary city.

But to Kento, it was all a miracle.

Winter arrived, soft and silver, coating Tokyo in a hush of cold air.

Kento stood on the balcony one last time, halo faint and calm, feathers catching a few drifting snowflakes. He watched the world with wide, gentle eyes, marveling at how peaceful it all looked.

Fuma came to stand behind him, tugging a warm scarf around his shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Fuma grumbled.

Kento smiled. “Can angels get sick?”

Fuma rolled his eyes. “Don’t test it.”

Kento laughed, leaning back against him. “You’re really worried about me.”

“Of course I am.” Fuma squeezed him tight. “You’re mine, remember?”

Kento’s eyes went soft. “I remember.”

They went inside, where the heater hummed and the plants thrived in the window.

Kento made them tea — sweet and a bit watery, but Fuma drank every drop anyway.

“Fuma,” Kento asked, stirring his cup, “will it always feel this safe?”

Fuma paused, watching him.

“I can’t promise life will always be easy,” he said honestly. “But I promise I will always be here. No matter what.”

Kento nodded, a tiny, beautiful smile growing on his face.

That night, they curled up in bed together, Kento pressed close, wings tucked gently around them both.

“I’m home,” Kento whispered.

Fuma kissed his forehead, voice steady and warm. “Yeah. You’re home.”

Somewhere beyond the stars, the voices that had once called him back were silent — no longer judging, no longer pulling him away.

Heaven had let him go.

And he had chosen, completely and without regret.

He belonged here, with Fuma — in a cluttered apartment that smelled like miso soup and fresh laundry, with potted succulents and silly TV shows and laughter spilling through every night.

Not in some perfect, unreachable sky.

But right here.

Loved.

Free.

Home.

the end.

Epilogue: The First Kiss

Winter still lingered outside, frosting the windows, but the apartment was warm with the hum of the little heater and the scent of tea.

Kento sat on the couch in Fuma’s sweater, wings tucked carefully so he wouldn’t knock over the coffee table. His halo pulsed a soft glow, as if echoing the flutter of his heart.

Fuma sat across from him, fidgeting.

For days, they’d been dancing around it — the moment. That moment.

Kento took a shaky breath.

“Fuma,” he started, voice soft, “can I… can I ask something?”

Fuma glanced up, tense. “Yeah?”

Kento wrung his hands, trying to find courage. “Is it okay if I…” — he hesitated, cheeks pink — “if I kiss you?”

Fuma froze. Then his face went red, ears burning.

“Wh—why are you asking permission like that?”

Kento giggled, hiding behind his sleeves. “Because you always look so startled whenever I touch you.”

Fuma looked away, grumbling, “That’s because you’re… you’re…”

“What?”

“Beautiful,” Fuma admitted, barely above a whisper.

Kento’s breath caught. The halo flickered gold, his wings fluttering in surprise.

Then he smiled — brighter than any sunrise.

“Please,” he whispered, leaning forward, “can I?”

Fuma swallowed hard, nodding just once.

Kento leaned closer, breath soft and warm against Fuma’s lips, and kissed him. Gently at first, sweet and hesitant, like he was afraid he might break the world if he pressed too hard.

Fuma melted.

All the months of worry, fear, protecting Kento from heaven and even from himself — it all crashed down in that soft press of lips.

He grabbed Kento’s shoulders, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, pouring every bit of I’m here, every bit of I love you, into that single moment.

Kento made a tiny noise of surprise, then sighed, happy and relieved, letting the kiss turn warm, certain, theirs.

When they finally pulled back, breathless, Kento was smiling so wide it made Fuma’s heart ache.

“I've wanted to do that since the day I fell,” Kento admitted shyly.

Fuma laughed, resting their foreheads together. “Took you long enough.”

Kento laughed too, wings fluttering around them both, wrapping them in a cocoon of white feathers and peace.

“Fuma,” he whispered, pressing another tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth, “I’m really home now.”

Fuma hugged him tight. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you are.”

the end.