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Anger

He’s wrung out, standing at the precipice of an uncertain future. He clenches the rooftop’s edge and evicts memories of The Dark Fates from his mind, most especially the ones concerning wasted affections for a certain goddess. When he resurfaces from his history, each thought and physical inclination rebounds back to someone else.

Merry.

He remembers everything. The forbidden taste of her. The sweet nectar of her tongue, the soft yield of her lips, and the silken texture of her moans. The infinite effect it had on him.

All of it. The way she had ridden the motorcycle with her skirt crushed in his grip, her soaked panties grinding into the seat, her pussy concealed by a loathsome scrap of fabric that he almost tore clean from her body. Her ass heaving into his cock, his waist pumping her forward, shoving her deeper into the bike.

Her head thrown back, hair in disarray. Her cries while she came, the noise shredding his willpower to pieces.

Fuck him to misery. Anger had long since been at his wit’s end, even before he walked in on Merry in the bathtub, her gorgeous tits dripping, skin flushed and glazed in steam. But whatever happened on the bike had marked his demise. Anger had all but let loose his wings, the better to exercise their strength, to shove his body harder into hers.

He should not have left Merry there, alone and reeling from the aftermath. By Stars, he’d yearned to stay, to revel in Merry’s pleasure, to prolong it for however long she wished. But if Anger had remained, he would have also stripped Merry naked and fucked her with such vitality, they’d have destroyed the bike for a second time. Indeed, he had gotten out of there with seconds to spare before coming in his pants like a fucking juvenile.

While Anger had despised himself for staying away, the action had been crucial.

He’d taken enough liberties with Merry already. However much she had wanted it, the goddess would never consent for Anger to touch her if she knew what he’s been planning.

Anger had kept his distance until he regained his faculties. He returned only for Merry to disarm him once again, outfitting a home just as he’d described. At which point, his traitorous heart had gone rogue.

Hence, the very kiss he’s been imagining, obsessing over since they met, the images slowly depriving him of sanity. Except the real thing had blown his previous fantasies to hell. Tremors had racked Anger’s soul. His wings had shuddered, fighting to launch free. The tension in his cock had turned his body into a damn pressure cooker, a ruthless erection from which there had been no recuperation.

In the past, Anger had kissed others to release tension, to satiate his appetite or the vagaries of his partners. Those had been carnal exchanges, a transactional give-and-take rather than something shared.

No lingering effects. No meaning beyond the immediate.

The kisses have never been mind-consuming, soul-crushing turning points. And he’s never kissed—much less fucked—someone without thinking of Love.

Not until now.

It had taken every ounce of stamina to sever that kiss. Anger loathes to recall Merry’s expression and the rift in her voice when he broke away. She’s a female the likes of whom he has never met. Someone who was conjured by The Stars and then foolishly, unfairly overlooked. Someone who has cast a new light on this universe.

Laughter. Effortlessly, she draws that out of him.

Home. That is what she offers him.

Never before has a deity made Anger feel worthy and worthless at the same time. Worthy from her belief that he actually possesses something to offer her, something that measures up to what she deserves. Worthless because of what he’s doing to Merry, lying and deceiving this brilliant goddess.

In Merry’s eyes, no matter how much one loses—power, magic, purpose—there’s still more left to discover in oneself. And she’s right. Although he had coveted Love as a hot mess, he would not have accepted her that way. Not in the long-term. He would have wanted her to conform, to reach her fullest potential based on Anger’s interpretation rather than her own, refusing to accept that his definition of greatness diverged from hers.

Andrew had wanted Love to change her mission against humans. But he never wanted Love to change her heart’s truest desires. The man had known what she secretly wanted. He had understood her deepest yearnings and saw a power in Love that extended beyond her magic. That’s why he became her best friend.

A conspirator. A partner in crime.

A soulmate.

Shame burns across Anger’s tattoos. Yet despite the accusation, Love isn’t the reason he ended the kiss with Merry. He had pried himself away because pouncing on the goddess had been dishonorable. As this juncture, he has taken this duplicity too far, taken these feelings too far, taken this charade too far.

The snarl of a motorcycle carries from below, seconds before the sound of Merry peeling away reaches Anger. He bolts to the roof’s edge as a pupil of light vanishes down the street.

His rational mind knows what should happen. His emotions have other ideas, as does an unfamiliar part inside him. An irrational organ. A beating mass that lacks boundaries—an extremity that cannot be seen, tasted, or heard. Only felt.

The flesh of Anger’s back sizzles, then splits like a pair of seams. Two panels rip from his back, the iron feathers snapping wide. His wings span the majority of the rooftop, the force throwing a small cyclone across the air. Shooting upward, he charges from the observatory.

The Celestial City shrinks beneath him, belts of wind slipping through the crevices of his plumage. Like cramped muscles stretching at last, the wings unravel and release the long-suffering tension of containment. Anger begs their pardon for doing the one thing he had sworn not to do, taking the plumes for granted.

Not anymore.

Not. Anymore.

Fanning out the wings, he catapults like a bullet over structures both visible and invisible, mortal and immortal. The otherworldly edifices blend like film with solid ones, establishing multiple dimensions, a city of layers. Between the narrow roads and courtyards, a single dot of light races ahead.

Anger surges forward, pursuing the motorcycle’s taillight. The vehicle weaves in and out of sight, then accelerates around a sudden bend camouflaged into one of the ornate facades.

Shit. Anger stalls midair, wings flapping. Twisting one way, then the other, he searches the perimeter and hisses. She knows he’s following her. Familiar with this city’s layout, Merry has led him astray.

The celestials twinkle as if amused by the scenario. Anger scans the ancient metropolis, contemplating every location Merry is partial toward. Concert venues, except she would consider it disrespectful to mortals to bring her sorrows there. The city bridge where they had searched for the sun’s rays, yet that would place her out in the open, where other outcasts would observe Merry’s despair. She does not shy away from her feelings, but amid increasingly prying eyes, the goddess is too smart to make her vulnerabilities known. There’s the Ethereal Arcade, yet Merry prefers to face her anguish rather than avoid it; and although the park is unoccupied at this hour, the arcade’s lively ambience would only distract her.

Merry would not go to any of those places when she’s upset. She would retreat somewhere with access to luminescence and the constellations, but still isolated. Someplace between the earth and sky, between humanity and immortality. A refuge that also serves as a reminder of her resilience.

Don’t worry, Anger. You didn’t break me.

Anger tapers his eyes, his attention landing on the compartments hovering from a wire above the carnival. Embers crackle through his wings as if to say, There .

He launches ahead like a torpedo, iron feathers beating, flinging him toward The Moonlit Carnival. Deep into the eventide hours, the arena is blessedly devoid of roaming humans and outcasts.

To the human eye, every bulb appears inoperative. To the immortal eye, the lights cast this area in a spectral glow, with sparklers flaring along the trails.

Nostalgia threads through Anger’s chest. Already, he has formed a memory of this place. One that he shares with an unlikely goddess.

Anger slows before the line of cable cars. Bobbing in place, he surveys the chambers, each one stagnant although humans would see nothing beyond an empty conveyor belt.

His gaze cuts from one cell to the next. Then Anger halts.

As bright as neon, a pink halo of hair resides in the middle car. Merry has chosen a larger compartment meant for six riders instead of two, however her long legs cover its expanse with room to spare. She reclines with her back to him, her ankles crossed atop an adjacent bench while she stares at the canopy of stars.

On her way to the motorcycle, she must have changed out of the overalls and replaced them with another gauzy dress, this one peacock blue with cap sleeves and a square neckline.

The sight lifts the corner of his mouth. He identifies the sensation sweeping through him. It’s tenderness.

He had expected music to be playing through the carnival speakers. Yet Merry lounges in silence. So much the better, since Anger has something for her to listen to. Glancing upward, he appeals to The Stars.

At first, nothing happens. It’s always uncertain whether they will indulge a deity’s request. Perhaps they have chosen to deny Anger, deeming him unfit for Merry’s company. If so, he cannot fault them.

But then, one celestial flashes. The strings of a guitar drift across the arena.

Merry freezes. The back of her head drops from the sky, her shoulders stiffening like ramps. It’s a melody she has never heard before, Anger is sure of that. It’s possible they’re the only ones who have ever listened to this composition, originating from a time centuries ago, when a human played his instrument in a vacant room, unaware that a god had witnessed the private moment.

Anger has never forgotten. But he also hasn’t tried to remember. Not until this goddess.

With caution, he floats closer. Merry stares ahead, her profile concentrating, creases slicing through her features. Those vivid pink eyes glisten as she hears what Anger hears.

Yearning. Devotion. Remorse.

The sensations braid together, forming a single emotion. Something foreign to their kind, yet palpable enough to perceive. Perhaps enough to identify with.

Without looking his way, Merry says, “You hear it too.”

Yes, he does. Finally, he does.

Yet Anger doesn’t speak, fearful that if he attempts a word, it will come out wrong. He will fail at this, fail her, and ruin what’s left of this connection. And by Stars, that is the last thing he wants to do.

At length, Merry’s head swings toward Anger, who hovers outside the cable car. They stare at one another across the divide. At any other time, he would expect a theatrical rebuff, but tonight her chin stiffens, and she whips her gaze back to the hemisphere.

Anger twists the car’s door handle and hunkers inside, the compact space forcing his wings to retract. Iron plumage crimps and folds into his skin, a charred sensation trailing in the feathers’ wake, cinders flitting into the firmament. He approaches like a subject, kneeling at her side, placing himself before Merry’s judgement, even as she patently ignores him in favor of the music.

He traces her visage, from every star-dusted freckle trickling across her nose, to her dark eyelashes, to the mouth he hasn’t found the strength to stop thinking about.

For ages, he has recalled this song, a tune created by a mortal full of regrets. Often, Anger has wanted to communicate what it meant, how it had struck him. But he assumed no one in his world would understand, other than to scorn him for such preoccupations.

Anger had been wrong. There is someone who understands.

He wants to tell her this, to confirm he’s a fuck-up, to express a thousand uncomfortable things, to bare himself like a wound. But his tongue cannot move. Words are not his strength, and none will live up to this goddess.

Instruments resound across the park. Merry’s eyes shimmer, because only she can appreciate what he’s divulging, because only her reaction matters.

Yet he will not atone so easily, nor does he wish to be forgiven without effort. Anger hunches, subjugating himself. He waits for as long as it takes, be it one second or a lifetime, for Merry to grace him with her attention.

When the song ends, another replaces it. One of Merry’s choosing, filled with piano keys and percussion. That’s when she glances at Anger with a set chin, like a goddess who is out of his league.

And he mouths, I’m sorry .

She breathes in and out, absorbing his entreaty. When she scoots aside in invitation, his soul rejoices. It’s not forgiveness, but the gesture is nonetheless extraordinary, exceeding any measure of praise he has ever received in The Dark Fates. The magnitude of Merry accepting him startles Anger. He’s riveted, honored, destroyed.

Side by side, they rest on the bench. In the next track, a voice croons melodically.

Merry’s sigh is a breeze, a soft presence that stokes him to life. “Do you hear that? It’s rage and yearning, the emotions elevated in a way we can all understand, if we’re willing to try. Do you hear it, Anger?”

Her voice is as tremulous as water, the sound drowning him. “Can you hear the difference? What we feel and do isn’t perfect, what they feel and do isn’t perfect, but that’s what makes it powerful. We’re listening to free will.”

She breaks like glass, her voice slicing him to the bone. “Can you hear it? Because if you can, it means we all feel the same things. Can you hear how alike we are?”

But Merry already knows the answer. She has sampled the music he publicized like an admission. Except he hadn’t played it for her simply to reveal something more about himself. Anger had played it because Merry loves music, and he wants to give her everything that pleases her.

Her, withholding tears. That is all he hears now.

Fuck. Anger cannot take it anymore. He whips around, his hands gripping her face, his forehead pressing to her own.

Only one word makes sense to him. Only one will come out right.

“Merry,” he whispers.

For a second, she hesitates. Then on a helpless gasp, she twists in his arms and swings her legs across his lap, her lips meeting him halfway.