Angel - Yukimura Seiichi

Also known as "Angels Knocking on my Door" and/or "Hospital Walls Cannot Confine an Angel."
Because I'm a horrible upperclassman, Cindy-chan requested this... who knows how long ago and I'm just getting it out now. U_U I deserve to have things thrown at me. Hey, everyone, let's throw miscellaneous objects at Fumi, yeah?!

I highly doubt hospitals have gardens, but let's pretend this one does, 'kay? I know that retirement homes sometimes do—or, at least, the one my grandmother used to be in did... I think? @_@ Whatever. Let's pretend! *shot for adding stuff that's not in the original manga*

I purposefully made there be no quotation marks at the very beginning, just so you guys know. ^^ I'm experimenting with styles. Just to make it easier, though, I will put the things that are supposed to be in quotation mark in bolded italics. (I've had to read excerpts from many books that use the style I am using and have been thoroughly confused at least 85% of the time. It's frustrating. >< ) The last block of the story goes back to quotation marks. Reason being is because I see the first part as a memory... in the present. It's weird. Disregard what I'm saying. D: I'm crazy.
DISCLAIMER: No own.
Also. I've never been in a hospital (nor do I particularly want to be in one) for a prolonged amount of time. I really don't know anything about hospitals. All of this is based off what I've heard with family and whatnot. Anyway, if any of you have been in a situation like this (or know someone who has), please forgive me if I offend anyone. U_U It's kinda like Takeshi Konomi apologizing for using Gullian-Barre Syndrome...

He is an angel.

You have seen him around the hospital many times, and every time, you are fascinated by how beatific and frail he seems. You have never seen such a more beautiful face in your life. His silky, blue-tinted locks constantly seem to shine, his deep eyes always so soulful. You purposely stare at him, though not to catch his attention or just look like a stalker. You watch him because you think he is beautiful and believe people like him should be recognized.

You know that he knows that you look at him when you see him. He has caught you many times—and, when he does, you don't bother trying to hide it. Instead of shifting your head to the side, pretending like you are just casually looking his way instead of intentionally looking at him, you often blink and then smile at him with a big grin on your face. Why bother trying to hide something that was blatantly obvious you are doing? Usually, the angel-like person smiles and gives a soft wave back, something that makes you giddy at the fact that such a beautiful boy exists and is kind and sweet and waving at you and sweet and pretty and sweet—

You meet him once, a few months after you are placed in the hospital. He is outside in the small garden, sitting on one of the cool stone benches under the tree. You notice him immediately; you have a routine of walking around the garden daily ever since you figured out that the hospital had a garden, so you have the place ingrained in your head and can easily describe it to someone in minute detail. Anything out of order is noticed by you, whether it be new flowers or new plant holders.

You slide onto the bench with him, your forward and optimistic attitude getting the best of you as you lean forward to look at his face. The beautiful boy blinks, raises his eyebrows, and blinks again; then, probably realizing that it is only you, the strange girl who looks at him every time, his eyes soften and he smiles, shadows from his wavy bangs giving his face a very sharp, solemn look. It is you, he says softly, and you can't help but think that his voice matches his looks—angelic, soft, and almost a tad lonely. You automatically can tell that is a lonely person, and this makes you sad in return. Such a beautiful person does not deserve to have loneliness in his life.

You grin and give him your name, and he gives you his in response. You speak his name a few times, liking how it flows easily and gracefully off your tongue. It is strange how easily you can say his name; it's like you've said it before somewhere. You know that you have never seen him before—you'd have remembered his face if you did, seeing as how beautiful he is—so pieces do not click in your brain, and you eventually decide that there's no point in dwelling over it.

He chuckles at your relatively strange behavior, watching with amused eyes as you grin animatedly and begin to say his name in a sing-song voice, efforts failing. Names are not to be made into songs, he says, to which you reply with Yes, I know, but your pretty name seems like it could be one.

He smiles again, light dancing into his eyes, slowly making the harsh edge of solitariness disappear; you beam right back, your whole entire purpose of doing those strange actions being to make that loneliness disappear. You do not care if you are a fool in his eyes, or anyone else's, for that matter—all that matters is that this angel has no negative emotion in his being.

What are you in here for? is your next question, and he answers with Guillian-Barre Syndrome. You cringe; though you don't know entirely what, exactly, it is, it sounds like something you don't particularly want to happen. You tell him this, and the boy smiles, a strange mix of bitterness and warmth. I suppose you don't, he muses aloud. Of course, no one wants to have a disease.

This is quite true, you murmur, agreeing wholeheartedly.

He repeats your question, and you laugh a tinkling chuckle. When he looks at you in confusion, your eyes squeeze shut and you give him a big grin. What I have is of no importance. You shake your head, looking through the foliage to stare at the sky. All that matters is that I am not dwelling on it and I'm living my life like I don't have it. Sure, you continue a tad morosely, the last can't be completely accomplished, for I've been stuck in this hospital for a while. But I won't be in here forever; and I know that if I have optimism and faith, I'll eventually be cured.

Those are powerful words, he says. You flit your gaze to him. He is watching you with a placid expression, though there are underlying tones of surprise and respect. You give him another lopsided smile.

But they are words I believe is what you reply with.

The angel next to you is silent for a while, and for a moment, you actually fear that maybe he finds you to be speaking loaded words. You don't want him to think of you like that, so you open your mouth; he interrupts kindly, however, by giving you a smile that clearly states that you are in no trouble. You place your lips together again, a light pink color dusted on your cheeks.

You are very... different, he says, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he fishes around for the word. You are not surprised—you are fully aware of the fact that you are outlandish. People have been telling you that you are so for all your life, and sometimes you cannot tell if they mean it in a good or bad way. But with this dark-haired beauty, you know that he is saying it in an encouraging way, that he finds it to be intriguing.

You decide that he deserves such a nice compliment, too, so you say, You are too.

I am? He questions you with surprise tangled in amusement.

Nodding with much enthusiasm, you stand up, your clumsy feet making you slower than normal as you walk to the other side of your friend. There is a patch of tulips, their colors bright and cheerful reds and yellows. Your fingertips lightly caress the edges and you lean closer to bury your nose in them, the extravagant scent flooding your senses. You don't dare uproot one of the beautiful flowers as you crouch on the ground. Of course you are, you answer the soft-faced boy without looking at him. With all honesty and no embarrassment, you say, You are an angel.

There is another bout of silence from Angel, but you don't worry about if you bothered him. You know you didn't. He is probably just shocked at your honest confession, and you don't blame him. You decide to comfortably look up at the sky as you wait for his voice to sound once again.

It does, but instead of a normal, comfortable-yet-at-the-same-time-slightly-awkward chortle, you hear a caustic, slightly bitter laugh. This causes you to blink rapidly; you crane your head around to look at the wavy-haired beauty, only to see him staring the other way thoughtfully. His eyes are hard, void of any warmth that they held previously. You want to ask him what the matter is, why he's like that—but your voice fails you during this moment and you just look at him with confusion and unbridled sympathy.

His lips move, and you strain your neck to hear him. You only catch the last part of his sentence (...work like that...), so you swallow and softly ask, Sorry?

His head turns to you, and his eyes regard you softly and intelligently. It is nothing, he murmurs, a small smile twittering up to his lips, that you need to be worried about. I was merely talking to myself, is all.

You allow yourself to stand up again, legs shaky from squatting, and you drag yourself up to the stone bench. Your newfound friend moves to give you more space; you thank him with a broad smile to which, in turn, he smile back. You are silent for a moment, thinking of what do say, but when you do speak, your voice is calm and steady, if not a little spritely. Something the matter, Yukimura-kun?

You see, out of the corner of your eye, the beautiful boy shake his head. No, he responds. Seeing the look you send him (one that says 'Although nothing's wrong, I'd like to know what is on your mind'), he sighs softly and shakes his head, cracking and deciding to tell the persistent you what you want to know. I was just thinking about how ironic it is that everything seems to relate with God, no matter what it is.

It's because I'm not the only one who has that opinion, you respond quickly, kicking off your sandals and digging your toes into the soft earth. Yesterday's rain is present in the brown soil, and you giggle, the feeling pleasant. Many people probably think you're an angel, too. But why wouldn't they? You are, after all, exactly what they call you.

Is that so is all he says.

That is so is all you say.

Angel smiles—a genuine, true-hearted smile—and you feel your heart flutter. It is a happy flutter, one that you normally get when you see something truly good, so you smile back and laugh, glad that you can make his spirits lift. He joins in your tittering, and the two of you enjoy a minute of just laughing—something, not surprisingly, that is usually not present at hospitals.

Your friend stops laughing before you do, and he just takes a moment to look at your happy face. You do not mind; in fact, the attention makes you feel flattered. You blink at him innocently, grin wider than ever.

Yes, indeed, he says after a minute. You are very different.

You wink at him playfully. Who said I didn't like being different?

Thus began your friendship with Yukimura Seiichi.

_____

It was a bright, clear day, you recall, when you get the wonderful news about your operation; it is quite fitting, this weather, for your face is shining with just as much brightness as the world outside.

The first words out of your mouth are in a questioning manner, almost like you can't believe that such reports are true. It's... really going to happen? is what you ask; when you see your parents' beaming and relieved faces (your mother even has tears in her bright eyes), your heart skips a beat and you have to repress a loud scream of unbridled joy. Beads of liquid pool at the corners of your eyes, and your weaken form twitches with youthful excitement. It was really going to happen. This is actually going to happen. The dream you had forever reached for is finally coming true and it's a reality and it's not part of a dream anymore and—

Your head slowly raises up, your line of vision going from the plain, white sheets of your bed to the small crowd of three surrounding your bed. Your parents smile fondly at you, and you right back at them, but your attention is quickly focused on your doctor. You wait patiently as she scribbles something down with a quick flourish on her strange clipboard of some types, and when she looks at you, you nod your head in the direction of the door. Her head tilts to the side, as if contemplating your silent request; your eyes continue to wordlessly beg her. He is, after all, your best friend; your support in these bleak walls; your optimistic angel (though you must remind yourself with sourness—though that can't dispel your blissful mood—that he isn't yours) who keeps you smiling throughout these painful times. He needs to be the first to know.

As if she can read your thoughts, the woman who's in charge of your health sighs with an inaudible sound and closes her eyes, a barely visible smile curling at the corners of her mouth. You have come to realize that she communicates with subtle gestures; instead of using big, flourishing gestures to relay her messages, your doctor prefers to do the opposite. So when you see her yank at a stray bang, her head nodding in the direction of the door, you grin and expose your bare legs to the cool hospital air. With blankets thrown aside, you begin to take careful steps while leaning heavily against anything stable, your mind already knowing where he is.

It takes longer than you'd like to say it did—being bedridden for a while really did take a toll out of your body's health—but you finally finish your exhausting trip up to the roof garden with triumph. Just like you expect, he is there, in the exact same spot where the two of you first met. He is looking down, his long, wavy bangs obscuring you from his line of vision. In his hands there is a flower; his fingertips are gently caressing the petals like they are glass. His eyes are dull, lacking the luminescence they usually have. A pang runs through your body, an emotional pain that you haven't felt in a while.

You call out his name, but the words are dry and cracked, barely sounding; realizing that he did not hear you, you clear your throat and begin to shuffle towards him, your footfalls noisy and dragging. Yukimura-kun. The words now slow out of your mouth like honey.

Such boy looks up after hearing his name called by a soft voice, and his eyes are wide with recognition. Your voice is so familiar to him, despite the fact that he has not heard it in for what seems forever. With his normal amount of grace, he stands up quickly and rushes towards you. You immediately latch onto his arms when he puts them out for you to use as support, your body heavy with fatigue from your trek. He holds on to you tightly, and you briefly allow yourself to indulge in the pleasure of the feeling of his arms around you. He says your name quietly, softly, and you smile brightly, looking up to meet his magnificent gaze.

As he carries the two of you towards the stone bench (Our bench, you once told him with utter seriousness), a tirade of questions laced with worry flows from his mouth like a river. You chuckle, answer his questions in a half-hearted attempt. What's more on your mind is the news—the wonderful, amazing news that your (no, no, not your—the) angel will get to hear. You can imagine his surprise and the smile he will give you as he tells you how wonderful it is. And you will tell him your feelings for him, and how they have developed into having much deeper meanings than from before, and how he is your angel, not the angel, but your angel—

But now you're just fantasizing things.

There is no denying the fact that you are completely and irrevocably smitten with the Angel next to you, and you also know that there isn't anything wrong with it. Certainly, many must believe that falling in Love with an Angel is a sin, something that one shouldn't do—but you aren't like those people. After many months confined in such a sad place, where either people smile or cry depending on what the doctors declare is their Fate, the beauty next to you is one your major source of good, elated feelings. It is only natural that a person like you would fall for him. After all, he is, in your eyes, the epitome of perfection: flawless is he, with that kind smile, soft face, considerate and gentle personality...

You want to tell him so much. Restraining it is like metaphorically placing something in under your skin and leaving it there—irritating.

But right now is not the time, you remind yourself. You can tell him... after.

I have good news, you say, voice soft and ponderous. There is a smile on your face (but then again, after you got the news, when hadn't there been one?); seeing Angel tilt his head for a brief second, as if confused, then blink and quietly open his mouth made the beam on your face widen tenfold. The purple-haired boy had a knack of picking up on things easily, you quickly realized after spending a week with him. There was—and is—virtually nothing you can keep from him.

You feel no need to explain further, for the light glowing in his eyes tells you that he fully understands. He is not speechless—he was always one to have a quicksilver response at hand—but, just like your need to explain further, he opts for silence, reaching over and embracing you with a gentleness that he is only able to achieve. His words hang in the air, like a thin mist, but his emotions are flowing from his heart towards yours. It is easy to realize that he is just as excited (as well as relieved, thankful, happy, and so on) as you are. With thin arms, you reach up and return the hug; the tears pop back up again but, unlike in the hospital room, you let them drip off your cheeks onto the Angel's clothing.

He is the one to break the silent, happy mood, though his tone is lilted when he speaks. How long? he asks, still holding onto you.

Till? you question back; when you feel Yukimura's nod, you say, Two weeks. And then a week recovery time.

You pull away from him, though your hands grope for his. The intensity of emotions hits you when you finally speak the words that you had, for so long, wished you could say.

Can you imagine, Yukimura-kun? In three weeks time—only three weeks—I'll finally be able to walk outside these hospital walls. I'll finally be free.

Your words shake and tremble, and you let them do as they please. There is no use hiding how you feel—throughout your whole time here, in this terror, you have purposefully put up a strong, unbending façade. Why bother people with how you really feel? It's natural to feel scared and loose hope, you realize—in fact, some sometimes feel it is inevitable that one will, eventually, feel that way. They know that you really feel like that. It may not be written on your face, but you're human.

You know that it worried them greatly, that it caused them to hurt inside. You didn't want them to feel that way—you didn't want anyone to feel any pain—so that is why you molded an amorphous mask of never-ending optimism and faith. To you, it didn't matter if you really felt like that; all that mattered was that people stop hurting.

But now, in this crucial time, you have no problem really allowing the Angel to see how you truly felt. You know that he understands, that he can sense, how terrified and hopeless you had been—after all, he was (if not is now) there, too, at some point. Even when people tell you that you're getting better, there is natural human pessimism that runs questions like But what if they're reading the charts wrong? or Am I really getting better, or are they making it up? through your mind. And it always, as it should, terrified you.

Angel holds you tightly, his grip on you never changing, as you sob and pour out your feelings in babbled sentences that not even you can understand. There is an oxymoronic soft hardness in his eyes—he understands what you're going through. He knows that it is best just to let you pour your heart out, to get it all out.

It takes only moments for you to stop crying, but the amount of frustration and confusion that left you is vast. You, once again, pull your head away from your friend's shoulder, your arms still grasped onto his like an iron support. You blink the rest of the tears away, effectively dispelling the obscure, thin layer of foggy wetness from your eyes; when you're finished, you offer no explanation. There is no need for an explanation.

His voice is soft, and you know that he's talking in such a way as to not start the waterworks up again. It is true, he says, you will finally be free.

You sigh, closing your eyes and shaking your head. A strangely bitter smile is on your face. It's kind of hard to imagine, isn't it, Yukimura-kun?

I'll have to not agree with you there, he murmurs, eyes crinkling as he smiles. I always knew that it would happen sooner or later.

I... I know, you say, twisting your body so that your forearms rested on your thighs. It's just... wow. It's finally going to happen. Finally. You lean back to look at the leaves above you, taking in a deep breath of air. Free is the only word you say, and you know you only need that statement to express so much.

With closed eyes, your hand trails away from you to find your companion's. You quickly find it—he most likely held it out for you—and you grasp the soft hand tightly, your fingers interlacing with his. As a response, Angel squeezes your hand back when you do so, and you find it particularly difficult not to blatantly tell him what you've always wanted to tell him now.

But it must be after.

Swallowing the words back, you smile and raise your eyelids up, facing your dark-haired friend with an iridescent beam. As routine, he smiles back, though with not as much vigor as you did originally. In the depths of his eyes you can see something flicking around—impatience. He knows you have something to say. Your grin slides from a beam to a secretive smile. He will know, you tell yourself, but not right now.

I have a request, you murmur to him in a melodic voice, and he is immediately reminded of the first time you met him. It is hard not to allow an amused smirk flit up to his face.

And what would that be?

The words you say next are smooth and languid, but it is hard to keep them like that. Your heart rate is increased, you can tell, and you have to silently ask yourself that if you're like this now (when you're only setting up the stage for when you will tell him), how will it be when the time comes? You cough and try to mask up the childish joy of your smooth scheming; Angel doesn't know anything different, so you smile again and say:

I'd like you to be there when I wake up.

It is a simple request, one that should not bother anyone severely, and it is to your relief that the dark-eyed boy next to you thinks of it as such. He nods, telling you silently that he wouldn't miss it for the world, and you respond by squeezing his hand and looking up. You can see shreds of blue sky from beneath the green expanse of leaves, and as you watch the unmoving sky, you can't help but think that this moment in your life is one of the perfect times.

_____

He isn't there.

The cold, hard truth hits you and effectively dispels your excitement and joy the moment you look around to find that, indeed, Yukimura Seiichi is not there. You have to count a few times to make sure that you aren't missing him, despite the fact that there are only six people in the room and loads of balloons and flowers; when you count the first time and miss him, you count again, and again, and again, and again.

He isn't there.

You are shocked—so shocked, in fact, that there is no room for another feeling in your being. With wide eyes, you can only feel the numbness that comes along with astonishment. You cannot feel the hugs your best friends give you; you cannot feel the smothering kisses your mother places on you; you cannot feel the awkward feeling as the doctor tampers with the tubes connected to you.

You cannot hear, either. The blood rushing in your head washes over your eardrums with a steady beat—He isn't here, he isn't here, he isn't here...

Your mind swirls with questions.

Why is he not here?

He said that he was going to be here...

Maybe he forgot?

No, certainly, he wouldn't do that...

Would he?

Maybe he's late...

You cannot feel, you cannot hear, you cannot think.

The only thing you can do is see. You can see Hoshiko and Maiko jumping up and down in circles. You can see the doctor writing on her board with quick flourishes. You can see your mother sobbing with happiness and your father trying to calm her down. You can Kaoru smiling shyly as he tries to hand you a bouquet of flowers.

But you can't see your Angel.

The person who matters most.

You can't see him.

_____

You are told much, much later that Angel has left, never to come back.

The hurt that you feel is indescribable. It holds traces of bitterness and betrayal, sadness and loneliness. The core of it is still filled with the emptiness and shock at the revelation that your—the—Angel, your closest friend, your support, has left you here, alone.

Alone. It's such a strange word, you realize, one that you haven't felt in a while. You, honestly, haven't had the time to feel alone. The dark-haired beauty has—no, had—always pushed it aside for you. It was always easy for him, you remember, like he was merely nudging away the softest of things. He had no trouble with anything. He had no trouble making you feel as though you were the most important person.

But he is gone now, out in the world in which you will soon be joining again.

You do not blame him—strange, considering you feel as though you have every right to. Instead, you understand him. You understand that he is human, despite your initial, fantasy-induced idea that he most certainly wasn't from the earth. You understand that, like all humans, he has emotions; you understand that, when being in a hospital for a prolonged amount of time, such feelings rear up in protest and force one to leave as soon as possible. After all, that was what you were doing. As soon as you were healthy enough, you were bolting out of this godforsaken place to live with freedom once again.

You understand.

That still does not stop you from feeling sad, of course, or alone.

The latter feeling does not stay for long, surprisingly—for, much to your surprise, you start to find a flower by your bedside everyday when you wake up. At first, you merely blink and think that it is merely part of another bouquet that you have lying around your room. But upon further inspection, you realize that it is that flower—the flower that Angel had in his hand when you told him the good news.

The flower wouldn't have any significance to you if it were not the fact that it is that flower—your flower, the flower you had deemed to be your and Angel's flower. You remember telling him that it was your favorite flower and that it grew in your school's garden; he said the same thing too, strangely.

The lone flower is in a small glass vase void of any decorations adorning the exterior except for a single, blue string strung loosely around the bottle. You notice that there is a small note attached to it; with a pounding and curious heart, you roll over and reach for the piece of lined parchment. Your arm is shaking with effort (being asleep for the majority of your week of recovery certainly weakened you) as you carefully yank the folded paper from the vase and, after successfully pulling it off without any mess, roll over to place your head back on the soft pillows. With anticipated hands, you quickly open up the note to read it. Much to your surprise, there is only the date and one simple, quick sentence.

A few days later, when you are released from the hospital, in your hands are the bouquet of the special flowers and a pile of letters, all saying the same thing.

I'm sorry for not being there for you.

_____

The bell rings in its loud, obnoxious voice, signifying the end of the school day.

All of your classmates shuffle out of the door quickly, chatting with another excitedly, glad to be out after another grueling day of school. Still at your seat, you look out of the window, the sun in the sky hitting you with its warm rays as you watch your fellow classmates scurry out of Rikkai Dai's gates, some running, others walking slowly with no real destination.

It has been more than a week since your release, and you can't be any happier to be at school. While your friends think of you to be rather strange ("Who smiles like that while at school?"), you can't care any less. The fact that you are out of that dull and dreary place—the fact that you are free—is still fresh on your mind, and there is nothing in the world that can exterminated the jubilant feeling that comes with it.

I am free.

The thought seems to foreign to you now, almost as if you cannot believe it is actually true. You are scared that, at any moment, you are going to wake up from a dream and find yourself back where you were—in the hospital, with nothing but bleak, white walls to keep you company while you're bedridden. More than often have you found yourself trying to stay awake, as if falling asleep will, indeed, put you back in your cage, confining you.

You shake your head, pushing the disturbing thoughts out of your brain, and get up from your seat. Your feet shuffle over to the door; with no effort at all, you slide open the door and peer out. There is barely anyone there anymore, and you chuckle with amusement at the thought of people running down the halls in an attempt to get out of the school as soon as possible. As you walk down the steps towards the entrance, you think at how many people call school a "prison" and smile ruefully. School is, without a doubt, not prison.

You meet up with Hoshiko and Maiko at the shoe lockers and, like before you were hospitalized, start making your way to the entrance to head home. While your best friends chat endlessly about some topic that you aren't interested about (answering their questions, when asked, with a "Uh-huh, yeah"), you glance to the side where, not surprisingly, there are flowers blooming near the trees. Your eyes soften considerably as you allow yourself to have brief flashbacks from the garden on the roof—the only place from the hospital you'll allow yourself to think about. Pictures of the flowers, the trees, the stone bench, the dark-haired Angel... they all pop into your head, swirling around and making a collective mess of your memory.

The dark-haired Angel...

You like thinking about him, even though you haven't seen him in what feels forever. Just like at the hospital, his being provides you strange, twisted stability; if you didn't have his picture in your mind, you are sure that any remembrance of the hospital, even the garden, would send you into a spiral of unhappy, depressing, and hard memories. Angel was the only good thing that happened to you there, at that place; you do not want to even think at how different it would be if he had not been there.

You wonder where he is now, and if he's thinking of you like you're thinking of him. Does he still regret the fact that he could not be there? The letters conveyed his sorrow then, but what about now? And what about your unspoken message? Was he curious about that, too? Did he also miss the garden, your flower, and your bench? Did he miss you?

The pang in your heart is great, and you slowly shake your head. As much as you wish to give answers for your questions, you cannot. Although you want him to, you cannot know if he regrets not being there. You do not know if he's inquisitive about what you were going to tell him, even if you say that he is. And you most certainly cannot know if he misses you and all of those memories, as much as you wish it to be true.

Your eyes flit from the graveled path towards the school's garden. You catch yourself doing that everyday, almost as if you think that it will be just like the one in the hospital. It's like you expect the worn-out, stone bench to be under the tree (which it's not), the tulips to be sitting right next to the daffodils (which they aren't), the wired fence to be surrounding the area (nope—it's brick instead). It's like you expect the dark-haired beauty you'd fallen in love with to be there, crouching down, looking at your special while his fingertips caresses the tops (which he is).

Which... he is...?

Your heart immediately skips and your legs suddenly stop working. It's as if Time has stopped for you and you're frozen. You barely register the fact that you friends have also stopped and are questioning you with curiosity and worry in their voices. The only thing on your mind right now is him, the boy in the garden. Can it really be...? Is it really Angel...? He has the same dark, wavy, silky locks; the same lean, lanky build; the same mannerisms. It... has to be him.

"Yukimura-kun...?" Your voice is very weak and is more in the style of questioning yourself rather than anyone around you. Your two friends, however, see it differently; after glancing to where you are looking, they nod. You are still in a stupor, but hear what they have to say.

"Duh, (Your Name)," says Hoshiko, eyebrows furrowing. "Who else would it be?"

"Are you kidding me?" asks Maiko, looking at you incredulously. "She doesn't know Yukimura-kun is? He's like... one of the most popular kids in our grade! Yukimura Seiichi-kun, the Child of God? Captain of our beloved tennis team?"

It all then clicks.

You are flung into the past as the rest of Hoshiko and Maiko's explanation goes past deaf ears, their profiles being replaced by yours and Angel's. You watch with amazement as broken and shattered parts of the memories fly by.

"You speak his name... liking how it flows... strange how... you've said it before somewhere... you'd have remembered his face if you did, seeing as how... eventually decide that there's no point in dwelling...

I... thinking about how... seems to relate with God...."

It all makes sense now to you.

Your feet begin to move slowly but steadily towards the garden in an unconscious manner, much as if they're acting on their own rather than by your accord. You do not mind, though, nor do you really seem to notice; your unblinking eyes are focused only on the boy and nothing else.

He does not notice your arrival once your feet hit the soil. It's like he's in a strange reverie, you notice, much like yourself. You can see his eyes now—cloudy, like he's remembering the past. Is it possible that the two of you are thinking about the same thing?

Your world goes back into focus, though you stand there a few minutes, just staring. You cannot believe that it is actually him, that he is actually here, that you are seeing him again. The feeling that you're in a dream comes back again, making you dizzy, but it is scattered when the boy in front of you sighs and stands up, his back still facing you.

Please let this be reality.

You gather up your courage and cough, effectively catching his attention. Without any surprise, he turns around gracefully; the lack of shock does not lack shock for long, however, for his eyes widen as he sees your figure standing there. He does not gape like a fish, nor does he stutter out any words; he merely stands there in silence with you, everything soaking in.

He then speaks.

"It is you."

The familiar words trigger a reaction in you, and the next thing you know, you're flinging yourself at him with a cry of joy. The Angel smiles as you crash into him, his arms coming around to hold you at the waist. Your arms are thrown around his neck and you hug him tightly, blubbering incoherent nonsense all while crying, hiccupping, and laughing. You feel him laugh as well, and it is a merry, cheerful sound—something you haven't heard since your first time meeting him. Your teary eyes close as and you refuse to let go; he doesn't seem apt to, either, and merely speaks in your ear.

"It feels like forever," he murmurs, his grip tightening on you.

"It does," you agree.

There is a silence and you feel him tense. He wants to say something, you can tell; you gently nudge him and he looks at you. He is not smiling, nor do his eyes convey anything close to a smile. Your heart falters for a moment and your grin slips off your face, but he gives you a remorseful attempt at a smile and looks away from you, speaking.

He says your name quietly (so softly, in fact, that you have to crane your head more to hear him) and then whispers, "Please forgive me. I am so so—"

You quickly cut him off with a finger to his lips. He looks at you in surprise; when you look at him sympathetically, he merely smiles that remorseful smile again and gently pulls your hand from his mouth, keeping it in his hand.

You take the opportunity to speak. "Yukimura-kun," you say, your voice soft but mixed with a strange combination of cheer and sadness, "please do not say you're sorry. That is not what I want to hear." Your smile, though his time not as bright and positive, comes back again. "Do you know what I want?"

He smiles, and you're pretty sure that he has an idea of what is coming. "Does it have to do with an answer?" he asks, and you catch traces of teasing laced in the words.

Your grin back playfully and reach up to entangle your fingers lightly in his locks. "It does, in fact," you answer. "Could you please answer my question?"

"Only if you give it to me, first," he replies, eyes twinkling.

It's then that you decide it's now or never.

Hesitantly (though you know that you're going to go through with this), you stand on your tiptoes and press your mouth lightly against his. It is a sweet, innocent, and very short kiss, but it sends you careening into a spiral of dizziness. All your emotions for him are condensed and conveyed in something so simple, and it seems hard that such a large amount of feeling can actually fit into something as small as a kiss. But when you pull back and look into his eyes with nervousness, you can tell that he understands.

Because he is an Angel.

"Yukimura-kun," you state softly, looking down. You don't want to meet his eyes. "You are an Angel. Is it possible that, perhaps..."

He smiles and pulls you closer to him.

"Silly girl," he says, chuckling. "You know that answer. You've known it all along."

Of course he understands.

He is, after all, an—

No.

He is, after all, your Angel.