fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.

— Luciano de Crescenzo

. . .

Large, golden doors appear at the end of the hallway, decorated with ornate flourishes inlaid in gold. Two white doors, and perhaps if Natsume stepped through them, he'd reach a hypothetical Heaven located right inside Yumenosaki.

Ha, like I didn't belong to Hell Already.

His fingers lie themselves on the door now, and briefly — oh so briefly — a memory flashes before his eyes, one of blood and white ribbons, stained. One full of the sharp glint of violet eyes, deep and obsure.

"I'll take this from here. Thank you, but today's a grand show where I, Wataru Hibiki—"

A crack resonates, and Natsume pulls his battered fist away. His tongue is cool on the bruised skin, contrasting the flames in the pit of his stomach. He needs to let his anger out at someone before it consumes him, but then again, a little anger does no one wrong. Treat it like adrenaline or an energy source, and it'll work under your favor, splendidly.

Natsume casts his attention back at the double doors. Why was he here again, honestly. There is no rational reason why he should find himself back at a place that had caused him agony, a place that would only remind him what couldn't be done. An abyss of broken dreams, fragile bodies and minds like stepping stones, the stench of copper.

But Natsume was not a rational being, and nothing about his inner workings ran under the laws of reality, anyhow.

He pushes the doors open. He's met with some resistance at first, and Natsume thinks it might've been all the purifying spells that had been absorbed by the white wood through years and years of its existence. Though fine was never the first unit to exist, this hallway was considered to be one of the oldest of Yumenosaki's history, constructed way back when the first wielders enrolled. He's surprised though, at how flawless the door's condition was, and this surprise only gives into a burning animosity halfway through. Nothing about fine is clean, and this, he would know, certainly.

The first sight he's met with is the light, blinding white. It dapples off all four walls, creating plays of light and shadow on the checkered floor. A mosaic, creating areas of pink-blue-yellow, decorates one wall. Natsume huffs, breathing suddenly heavy as he walks into the room.

The Aviary is magnificent, and looks nothing like the state at which he'd last seen it.

Something brushes against his nose, and he sneezes abruptly. The sound echoes off in all directions, and Natsume is struck with annoyance, at how white it is, how perfect this place is. Someone must have maintained this place, kept it pristine and presentable, erasing every sign of bloodshed and cursed words away. Where is the blood of my brothers, spilled onto the dais? Where are the hoarse cries of voices on their dying breath?

Ah right. I hate this Place, Natsume thinks, fingernails digging into his palm. Although showing signs of maintenance, it seems like that person hasn't come here in a while. The floor has since lost its shine and become dull. Dust and grime cling to the windows, like ivy to a tree. I hope that person dies, whoever it is.

(Though he knows it, deep in his heart, Natsume keeps the lock shut.)

His eyes trained towards the door, Natsume takes his leave, but something catches his eye before he takes his first step, an obstruction beside his feet. He bends down and picks it up, twisting it in between his thumb and index finger. So this was why I Sneezed? A simple Feather. Just the sight of this makes me want to Vomit. But it couldn't have appeared out of nowhere, unless this was another one of Wataru-niisan's magicks. It must have —

fallen; he was falling, and it was a long way down;

— from above.

They were the same color as the filigrees on the white doors, a harsh gold. Hanging by thin golden wires, as if hanging stars in the sky, were cages the size of human beings, floor bedded by molten feathers. A chandelier finds itself in the middle of a painting that graced the ceiling, its crystals scattering light. Another feather falls, and Natsume catches it — it's a soft sky-like blue, the color of evening. The cage above Natsume's head was like all of the other cages, except one differentiating detail, and that was the green vines curled on the bars, bluebells twinkling on the stems.

**What a complete Waste. There's no way an ordinary person could reach those cages without the ability of flight. Natsume guesses that the roosts aren't just for fantastical decor, despite fine's reputation as a unit — they hum of a dormant power, a tingling feeling that passes through his arms and into his bloodstream. How Wonderful. So enticing, and he's shaking on the spot; he conjures a ribbon of magic and —

What am I Doing?

"Idiot," Natsume bites his lip, drawing blood. The feather he's clutching becomes blurred under his vision, and he clutches it harder, as if it were a lifeline, to bring his sense of calm back into his lungs. It comes back in shaky bursts. "If you Lose," he whispers, "then you're no better than those Fools." He snaps his gaze away from the cage, and understanding reaches him, of why that guy had collapsed on that day, underneath the speckles of stars, on the day of Switch's birth.

He knows where, all of a sudden, where he must be.

[...]

.

The doors of the music room are unlocked today, and the room empty, save for a coffin on the ground in the corner, beside the grand piano. "I won't be Long," he announces to the silent room, just in case Rei-niisan hears him, though Rei has a habit of sleeping like a log during the morning, so the chances were slim. In any case, Natsume has made frequent visits here, anyhow, so it would not be a surprise to anyone for him to appear, for whatever reason may exist in the world.

The piano has gathered some dust on its black surface.

"...I suppose you aren't Playing," Natsume frowns at the coffin. Rei doesn't return an answer.

Sighing, he brushes his hands together, then snaps his fingers. The shelf facing the piano shfits, throwing papers — sheetmusic — in the air. A bare wall, cracking with age, reveals itself. Its surface crackles with remnant magic.

Natsume waves his right hand in the air, and whispers words into his thumb. He reaches forward, and touches the wall. A kiss, if you May.

Natsume steps forward, past the sheetmusic suspended in midair, and through the wall to the other side.

It is dark, an utter dark that pleased Natsume greatly. Something like this should have been implemented in the Aviary; it would be a nice change of atmosphere. Up ahead, crystals of purple and blue varieties stuck themselves like bamboo shoots up from the sparkling ground, glowing a lucent light. 

(The pentagram he'd drawn with his blood still stains the wall next to the exit.) 

Another wave of his hand, and the caverns melt away, like liquid fabric, oil bubbles trailing behind until all but disappeared, swallowed by yet another darkness. The serum he'd worked on for the past few months sat in a flask on the highest shelf. He grabs it off its place and shakes it. Satisfied with the bubbling noise, he carefully puts it back. He's here for something else, unfortunately.

Up the stairs, and through the blue door; Natsume feels like he's done this a few times too many, so many that the turning of the knob had engraved itself into his muscle memory. He's greeted by a musty smell — the scent of a library, and the dim light of candles.

Laying there, in the middle of a stack of books almost in a flower arrangement, lies the very thing he was looking for.

"Stop blocking my Way," Natsume says, launching a kick right into the soft sides of Tsumugi's torso. The archivist only whimpers in response, causing Natsume to nudge at the sleeping form again with the tip of his shoe. "You damn weakling of a wielder."

"...give it back..." Tsumugi mumbles under the shroud of sleep.

"Don't be haughty just because you're a Senior."

"It was... it was my pride..."

He's Shivering. What is he, Sick? The candlelight flickers, casting an unhealthy pallor on Tsumugi's face for a moment, and Natsume scrunches his nose in disgust.  He looks absolutely Disgusting. How does he expect to be presentable with that sort of sallow, ugly Face?

"You're going to catch a cold like this, Senpai. Go back home."

"Eichi-kun..."

At the mention of Tenshouin's name, Natsume barely manages to resist the urge to throw a grimoire right at the senior's head. A low growl builds up and as soon as it came, dissipates in his throat. He should just leave him behind and let him tremble in the cold. Especially after all this.

But he finds himself draping a curtain across the shivering form, like covering up a dead body. Natsume summons a book from the shelf with a flick of his wrist. Might as well read something and learn something, seeing how he'd probably be here for the remainder of the night, anyways.

[. insert rest of chapter here hhh .]