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"Sir! I'm so sorry. It will absolutely nev— "
"It will not happen again, do you hear me?!" Sanae Hanekoma winces at the ferocity in the Composer's voice.
"No sir! On my life, sir!" A tin voice squeaks from Joshua's cell phone. Joshua stands with his back to Wildkat's counter, every muscle rigid, one hand balled into a fist while the other, white knuckled, holds his phone. Hanekoma's known him since he was a kid and this is way more stressed than is normal for him.
Joshua was usually a study in nonchalance: laid back and adaptable and a master of the illusion that he was in control of everything. (And, to be fair, he was in control of a great many things). Hanekoma doesn't think he's ever seen Joshua this tense, in all their years. That is, of course, before this week.
"Yes, it is on your life, Yashiro. I will personally see to it if you fail me again." Joshua snaps the phone shut so loudly it echoes in the empty room. Then he slowly leans back with his elbows resting on the counter, his breathing rough in the silence.
Hanekoma reaches over the counter and plucks the phone from Joshua's hand, slipping it into his pocket. Joshua looks over his shoulder to scowl at him. He knows he's been caught. There’s no avoiding the approaching questions.
Hanekoma calmly goes to work pouring a cup of tea, putting it on a plate with a spoon and sliding it next to Joshua, then he walks around to the front of the counter to lean beside him.
"Talk to me, J. You've been trying to bite her head off all week. Let's have it. What's botherin' you?"
Joshua's eyes drop from Hanekoma's and he turns to gaze blankly out the window, into the late afternoon shadows over Cat Street. Hanekoma expected that. He can wait. Patience is something he's had to acquire in abundance when dealing with this particular charge of his. He expects Joshua to be brooding, as he has been so often lately; putting together his thoughts on the new renaissance of Shibuya, or the contradictory nature of people and their potential, or the purpose and ethics of the Game, or the complexities of organizing the Reapers and managing his district, or everything that happened with Neku, or—
But instead, Joshua replies flatly with only a minute's hesitation.
"My wings hurt."
Hanekoma blinks while his brain tries to shift gears to something less cosmically profound.
His... wings? Not brooding?
"Oh... uh... huh." He glances around. The cafe is in its natural state: empty. "You... want me to take a look?"
Joshua shrugs and straightens, making the same unnecessary check Hanekoma did. But the motion seems stiff, almost painful, and Hanekoma realizes just how tired he looks. Then light blooms at Joshua's shoulder blades, air rushes around them, and his wings unfurl. He stretches them, reaching them out to their full, impressive spread, then relaxes them to a half-fold.
Hanekoma hadn't realized he was holding his breath, but now he whistles, long and low. He hadn't dared to believe it, not after all these years. He wasn't sure it would happen ever with Joshua, with the way things had been falling apart. And yet... there it was.
"Your feathers are coming in."
"Mmmhmm."
Something warm and unexpected rises up, right in Hanekoma's chest, and he feels his face stretching into a grin. Joshua's Reaper wings were large— thick with black ribs and sharp points. But now, like flowers climbing an iron gate, white feathers were beginning to sprout from their surface. The top edge of each wing was now patchy with fluffy down and clumps of small white featherlets, and several pinions were coming in along the outer edge, already nearly five inches long. Before Hanekoma is fully aware of himself, he's chuckling, then full out laughing.
"Hah hah! Well, what do you know! I never thought I'd see the day!"
Joshua sighs impatiently, turning around to face him. "So, I take it I'm turning into one of you then. I don't recall sending in my resignation as Compose— "
Joshua isn't much shorter than Hanekoma when they're on this plane, but he's still built like a matchstick. Sanae crushes him to his chest in the fiercest bear-hug he's ever given, still unable to contain his laughter. Joshua jolts in shock, nearly pulling away, and Sanae feels a sudden stab of guilt in the wound that hasn't healed for either of them. Yet that pain can't contend with the fierce joy running through him at this moment, and Joshua doesn't protest nearly as much as he might expect. After a moment Joshua drops his head against Hanekoma's shoulder in resignation, and Sanae lifts him and spins once before finally releasing him—and his dignity.
Joshua meets his eyes briefly, looking rumpled and tired. But a corner of his mouth twitches into a sheepish smile, and it melts something in Sanae's heart.
A few months ago, this young man was at his end. Joshua was the beating heart, the core of Shibuya. He held it together, literally, and whatever happened to it, happened to him. Joshua had been disheartened, then depressed, then cynical and bitter and finally apathetic; unrecognizable as the bright, tenacious teenager who fought his way to the Composer's seat all those years ago. There had always been something dark in the kid, some streak of sullenness, even vindictiveness. But in those hollow days, that was all that was left of him.
Hanekoma had known for a long time what choice he would have to make if it came to it. The wager, the sudden acceleration towards the end, was unexpected, but the removal of a broken element, even one so crucial, would have been inevitable if the whole system was about to collapse. He had known that. Had known there would be no choice. And yet, when he slipped that little package to Minamimoto (a paper envelope with a booklet of unholy sigils and an old photo of someone he used to know) it still broke his heart into a thousand pieces.
But here he was, Yoshiya Kiryu, safe and sound. And he had done the hardest thing any person can do: he had changed. Really changed. And what hurts Hanekoma the most is that he believed Joshua couldn't do it. He'd given up on Joshua. Failed to trust his own partner, the one who watched over this city with him. Hanekoma failed to save him because he thought he couldn't be saved.
And yet he had been saved. And now he'd come into his wings.
Hanekoma realizes he's still got his hands on Joshua's shoulders and has probably been staring at him for more than thirty seconds. Joshua's trying to look impassive but all Sanae can see is 'embarrassed teenager,' his actual age notwithstanding. Sanae recalls the conversation at hand.
"Don't worry, J, you don't have to resign as Composer. It just... It opens up other options for you, yenno?"
Joshua snorts, unconvinced. "My, you sure are enthusiastic about my potential employment opportunities."
Hanekoma lets go and shoves his hands in his pockets, but he still can't stop from beaming at him.
"So," Joshua sighs, "What does it mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
Joshua frowns, like he expected that answer. Stretching his wings out again, he beats them twice experimentally, then tries to fold them. He winces and gives up, again settling for the half-fold. "Ugh, how long is this going to take?"
"Fledging? Well, it depends..."
With his feathers already that size, he must have been at least a month into the process, probably more, and Sanae had never known. One rarely knew things about Joshua that Joshua did not want one to know, even though Hanekoma was far better at reading him than anyone else. It was not a pleasant process, though. It wasn't supposed to be. While not quite meant to be a trial, it was meant to instill a strong memory of what it took to gain the wings, and how care should be taken to respect them and what they meant. In case you had forgotten, Sanae.
And Joshua had never let on, never seemed anything but himself until this last week or so. And... he had never come to Sanae for help.
Had it even started before the end of the Game with Megumi?
It was not in Hanekoma's nature to brood, but if he ever felt like it, he certainly had no shortage of material.
Joshua is making a face. "Depends on what?"
"The individual, mostly." Hanekoma shrugs.
"Great. "
"Sit down, I'll see what I can do."
Joshua heaves a dramatic sigh and sits himself at a tall stool. Hanekoma takes his tea from the counter and sets it on the table next to him, then pulls another stool up behind Joshua's. Very gently he just lays his hand on the shoulder of Joshua's wing.
"This might hurt."
"Already hurts. Hurting all day."
"...Sorry, boss."
When he looks at the surface of Joshua's wing, he can see that the black ribs are no longer smooth but have acquired swollen bumps, like large hives, or galls in a tree branch. Hanekoma takes hold of a wing with one hand and with the other pushes his thumb along one of the largest swells. Joshua shudders beneath his fingers and Hanekoma sees his fist clench out of the corner of his eye.
Hanekoma can feel the new feathers inside the knot on the black rib, quills bulging underneath a thin layer of rubbery black skin, ready to break through. He moves his thumb again, pushing the skin in the other direction this time, and the sharp tips of the new white feathers pierce through the flesh. Joshua hisses through clenched teeth as Hanekoma peels the skin away.
"Yep... you're going to be kind of a tough case with these. It’s easier when they all come in at once, rather than a few at a time." Hanekoma shakes his head. Joshua's shoulders slump as the pain recedes. "Hold still. There's a few more I can get on their way."
Hanekoma goes onto the business of breaking the skin over the feathers most ready to come free. By the time he's done, Joshua's buried his face in his arms, nails digging red marks into his elbows and very quietly muttering obscenities Hanekoma doesn't usually hear from him.
"We'll have to do that every few days for a while...hopefully it'll stop bothering you as much once all the feathers come through the skin. But... "
He gently takes one of the arrow-tipped ribs in his thumb and forefinger, one in the middle of the wing, and moves it. It wobbles disturbingly in its joint. Joshua fails to completely stifle a grunt of pain.
"...These are going to fall out."
Joshua lifts his head to look at him, violet eyes wide in horror. "...You're kidding."
"Just like losin' your baby teeth."
Joshua searches Hanekoma's face pleadingly for a long moment, growing pale, then he groans and drops his head back onto his arms. "What did I do to deserve this?"
Hanekoma feels his smile returning. But, instead of answering, he says, "Stay there," and walks back into the kitchen. After a minute's rummaging, he comes up with a bottle of aspirin, pours Joshua fresh tea and sets the bottle down beside it, then finally returns to his seat. Joshua flinches and nearly recoils when he feels Hanekoma's hands on him again, but this time they stay at Joshua's shoulders, gently kneading at the groups of muscle and Soul that bind the Composer's wings to him. In moments Joshua is breathing deeply, relief washing over him. Hanekoma's strong fingers work the Code as he works the flesh, untangling the knots in both. Once he's made his way down Joshua's back he moves carefully onto his wings. There he gently tries massaging the joints along the main arch of the wing; the parts that will shift and change to become the structure of his new wings while the other pieces wither and fall away.
"Does this hurt?"
"Yes. Don't stop."
Sanae does as he is bidden for each wing, then helps them to fold properly. With that done he returns to rubbing Joshua's shoulders and neck. The afternoon has turned into evening, their shadows stretching away, and eventually the last of the tension goes out of him.
Sitting back, Hanekoma rubs at his own wrists a little while he just looks at Joshua. The Composer is slumped bonelessly over the table, his face buried in his arms. His wings droop behind him: a mess of black spikes and irregular patches of fluffy white.
Hanekoma knows Joshua is definitely not a child (no matter how he occasionally acts), and yet it still feels like watching someone grow up.
"Angel puberty?" Joshua mumbles.
"You got it, boss."