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The wind sliced his body as he realized that he.. Was falling. His melting wings lay uselessly limb besides his arms in the thrashing air as he fell down to his utter demise. What use did he have these feathered sets for if not to fly? It felt ironic. Roman always knew this day would come, he’d just barely got around, and was never too good at his job – this was obviously a recipe for inevitably facing the darkness. None of the angels really liked him that much anyways – well, except for one:
The certified worrier of Heaven, always careful to not misstep and be wary of everything. Roman was the opposite and loved adventure and risk taking, but somehow they’d hit it off and would become an item, like they balanced each other out in a few ways.
He wondered how Virgil would react to seeing him now. Certainly would go ballistic over Roman’s for flying too close toward the sun on a hot morning, and would no doubt lecture him – after retreating him to safety. “Flight or fight am I right?” he would always say.
He peered at the morning light as it glared down at him from the clouds, like the day was laughing at Roman, “worst angel to have ever been created, would finally fulfill the inevitable prophecy.” it would taunt. He supposed he was supposed to feel regret, fear, agony, loss or some other kind of sorrowful emotion as his body was thrown farther toward the ground; but in these moments that gravity pushed her whole weight onto him he realized he felt so much lighter than he has in a long time, like he was weightless and he was going so fast that he gotten used to the feeling of falling, and it felt more like floating.
The angels would certainly mutter disapprovingly. They would laugh and bicker about how stone headed he was, that he couldn’t follow a single instruction without slipping up. That he was likely weeping in Hell with regret.
But he isn’t falling with any regrets. With every glare and extremely monotone business conversation exchanges from time to time he felt that his existence was boring, but squeezed within that time he got to know him.
Virgil who always listened thoughtfully to his complaints about the system, Virgil who bantered with him, Virgil who has stuck with him since the First Light was created.
Virgil, who he would imagine seeing him fall with horror, and maybe shame.
But how could he fall when every moment spent with him he felt lifted farther? The sun was always set to blast everything away anyways, nothing quite ever went as expected. He was satisfied with being able to live, like he’s held an entire life before the last light of the sun.
The ground was much closer now, Roman closed his eyes to prepare impact for his fall, his arms lamely outstretched as if to embrace the cold hard earth in lazy acceptance. He wondered if he would feel pain for the very first time.
Finally, he hit something, but it wasn’t ground at all – it was much softer, like he was caught on fabric or the merciful arms of a flower bush. He flickered his eyes open against the golden glare obscuring his vision partly; a gentle grin curved his face as his lover held him close to his chest, the familiar worry bouncing in his eyes as his angelic wings flapped them into the air.
“Love, allow the brutal ground to find its way to me – my wings have melted and I’m a lost soul. I have fallen.” Roman spoke in a tight voice.
“No,” Virgil demanded, “you promised you wouldn’t fall away from me.”