I should have introduced myself months ago, but I guess I forgot, so I'll do it now. I'm Luchi. I write stories. You probably landed on my profile because I often ask silly questions in writers' communities. There isn't much to say about me, except that the vast majority of the content you'll see here is based on Gabriel and Lázaro, the characters from my book.
Gabriel is a grumpy angel who does nothing but smoke and complain about humans; Lázaro is a charming and theatrical vampire (yes, because on this blog vampires are more than welcome and loved!) whose vocation is to annoy Gabriel.
If you like the subversion of archetypes, irony, theology, ridiculous situations, something with a Good Omens vibe and a chaotic duo, here's the prologue along with the first chapter, so you can get to know them:
Yes, here
Thanks for stopping by. You can stay. Or not. Gabriel would say it doesn't matter. Lázaro would say you're not going anywhere.
Writing this took me an embarrassing number of days, but hey, at least it's finished.
I must thank everyone for their opinions on pineapple pizza, especially @cinderellabutabitch, whose comments I adapted and included (yes, the pseudo-fruit idea was hers).
Gabriel hated everything.
He hated the excessive number of pillows piled on the bed, he hated the enormous windows that took up almost an entire wall and let in the Parisian night lights as if the city were desperate to be admired, and, above all, he hated having indulged Lázaro's desire to stop at every shop he pointed out. Because first he had wanted to buy chocolates, and then postcards, and some gloves he didn't need, and stop to look at an exhibit on the history of the Eiffel Tower, and listen to the songs of the street musicians, and…
…and as they wandered through the city with their luggage still in tow, Gabriel considered abandoning him and returning alone to the airport, where he would catch a plane back to his beloved, quiet apartment.
What a pity that affection was such a difficult disease to cure.
“I don't want to be here,” he declared for the fifth time in less than twenty minutes, dropping his bag with enough force to express bitterness without seeming dramatic. “I don't even understand why we came to France.”
“Because it's romantic.”
“We're not romantic.”
“Speak for yourself.”
The angel let out a weary sigh that Lázaro didn't hear because he was already sitting on the bed leafing through the last pages of the directory, where the services available twenty-four hours a day were listed. His attention was drawn to a glossy photograph of food. He quickly picked up the phone lying on the nightstand.
“Good evening,” he said when someone answered. “Yes, room 814. I’d like a large Hawaiian pizza, please.”
“A what?”
Lázaro raised a finger without taking the receiver from his ear. The gesture said wait. “Extra pineapple, yes. Oh, and if you have maraschino cherries, add them too. Perfect, thank you.” And he hung up.
The angel ignored the fact that they had barely set foot in the room and his traveling companion had already ordered food, and instead asked:
“Did you order a pineapple pizza?”
“Correct.”
“That's an abomination.”
“And what is your argument against it, oh wise fallen angel?”
“Well, it tastes like it's about to go bad, and that's not even considering that fruits are sweet; they don't belong in a savory dish like pizza.”
Lázaro rested his elbows on his knees. “The tomato is a fruit too, and I don't see people getting all worked up about caprese pizza.”
“That's because it's a pseudo-fruit.”
“You just made that up.”
“No! It exists!”
“What on earth is a pseudo-fruit?”
Gabriel made a vague gesture with his hand.
“A… culinarily ambiguous fruit.” Lázaro looked skeptical, prompting the other to add, “There are biological differences.”
“Uh-huh. Explain them to me.”
The angel's mouth opened to say something, for the explanation was there, buried in some corner of his memory alongside several millennia of useless information, but at that moment he couldn't find it.
“You can't explain it.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then explain to me why a red fruit on dough with cheese is delicious, but a yellow fruit on dough with cheese is a dreadful combination.” He smiled insufferably when he saw that Gabriel couldn't answer.
After a few seconds of astonishment, he said:
“Even if I explained it to you, you wouldn't understand; you have bad taste.”
“Regarding pizza?”
“Regarding everything.”
Lázaro's smile widened. “How specific.”
In reality, it was an unfair accusation. Lázaro had barely lived one hundred and fifty years, which, from Gabriel's perspective, was little more than an introduction, a prologue. Because things changed with the centuries; because tastes and priorities changed, and one learned to distinguish what was worth preserving from what was better left behind.
He might order ridiculous food combinations now and buy useless souvenirs at every airport, but what would happen when he was a millennium old? Two?
He'd develop decent taste.
The idea made him uneasy. Because decent standards usually implied a certain selectivity, the ability to choose better people, better company.
Gabriel watched the lights of Paris reflected in the windows.
Lázaro could sit anywhere in the world and, before the afternoon was over, he'd have someone laughing next to him. He was charming. Ridiculously charming. He possessed a disarming facility for listening, as well as the skill to turn any conversation into a story and any story into something worth listening to.
He, on the other hand, achieved the opposite effect. He found flaws before virtues, and instead of attracting people, he drove them away.
Perhaps it was convenient that the vampire had bad taste.
“I think you're afraid to enjoy it.” Lázaro's voice interrupted his train of thought. “I can already picture what will happen: you try a slice, you like it, and then you have a crisis because you've spent decades defending a position that turned out to be incorrect.”
The angel ignored him; otherwise, the argument would have dragged on endlessly. Instead, he decided to retreat to the armchair by the window. He remained there, in a state of silent hostility, until, twenty minutes later, three polite knocks sounded at the door. Lázaro opened it, and the hotel employee entered pushing a silver trolley on which rested a bottle of wine, perfectly folded napkins, silverware that no one was going to use because even monsters have their limits… and, in the center, the pizza.
The dough was thin, toasted at the edges; the cheese glistened in the room's warm light; the ham had small grill marks, and the caramelized pineapple slices shone with a sticky, sweet sheen that made them look like tropical jewels. Maraschino cherries were there too: tiny red dots scattered across the surface.
Once the employee left, Lázaro took a slice. Fangs appeared around the edge of the hot dough, not monstrously—Lázaro never allowed himself to appear monstrous—but subtly, and pierced the caramelized pineapple.
“Oh, this is excellent,” he murmured, his mouth still busy chewing. “Listen, listen to this.”
“Listen to what?”
Lázaro raised a finger and bit down again. The bark cracked under the pressure of his teeth, a sound that pleased the immortal creature that survived on human blood.
“It's sweet, salty, and slightly sour all at the same time,” he remarked appreciatively. “You have to try it.”
“No.”
“Just one bite.”
“No.”
“Not even a big bite!”
Gabriel shook his head. What would Italians think if they saw that? Lázaro, despite having spent years in Italy, despite having lived and argued with Italians, despite still retaining an Italian accent that appeared from time to time, rounding some vowels, softening certain consonants when he spoke too fast or when something excited him enough, defended pizza with pineapple.
Some people were simply incorrigible.
“I think you need to be fed.”
Gabriel was so engrossed in his thoughts that he assumed he'd misheard. But no, because Lázaro had a portion of the food in his hand and was approaching him with a mischievous (or was it flirtatious?) smile. He didn't have time to identify it, because suddenly the vampire was sitting on the armrest, one leg dangling carelessly and the other brushing against him, and he was close, too close, and Gabriel could make out the amused glint in his eyes, how his fangs were showing.
“Open your mouth, amore mio,” he ordered with utter shamelessness. The bastard was enjoying the moment.
“I'm not going to do it.”
“Not even for myself?”
“Even less so.”
Lázaro let out a low laugh. Then he leaned forward a little more, just enough so their faces were level. Just enough so Gabriel couldn't do anything but look at him. He glanced at the freckle beneath his left eye, although the detail was overshadowed by the sight of his lips.
It was difficult not to, not to look at those lips that always seemed halfway between a smile; that curved before uttering some stupid thing; that disappeared behind a cup of tea the few times he decided to drink it (Gabriel knew perfectly well that he preferred juices and smoothies); that formed an exaggerated pout every time he rejected one of his absurd invitations; that pronounced his name in a strange, intimate way when he wanted to annoy him.
Gabriel knew too much about Lázaro. And perhaps that's why he didn't react immediately when the vampire raised his free hand and brushed a curl of hair from his forehead. The gesture was simple, so why had he completely forgotten what he was thinking?
“Your hair is a mess,” Lázaro murmured, the blond lock caught between his pale fingers. He gently tucked it behind his ear.
Gabriel felt an uncomfortable heat rise up his neck. Vampires couldn't blush. Angels, unfortunately, could.
It didn't help that Lázaro was still so close. Or that he looked at him as if he were something important, sublime, worthy of reverence. Or that—
“Leviticus forbids mixing incompatible things!”
The phrase came out in a gabble, and when the vampire blinked in confusion, the angel took the opportunity to place a hand on his chest and push him slightly backward. The gesture wasn't particularly effective, but it put a few centimeters between them, which was exactly what he needed to remember how breathing worked.
“Leviticus ten, verse ten,” he continued, hoping this abrupt change in conversation would be enough to make him not notice the blush coloring his ears, or how much his heart was pounding. “You shall not mix the profane with the holy.” He had paraphrased the quote so much it lost its true meaning, but Lázaro didn’t know that. “So you and your disgusting pizza had better stay away from me.”
For a second there was silence. The vampire looked at the dough and the cherries, then at Gabriel, and then let out a laugh so abrupt he almost lost his balance on the arm of the chair. It was a shame he didn't fall; perhaps banging his head against the floor would have sorted out some of his thoughts.
“You can't be serious,” he gasped between laughs. “You've spent all eternity disavowing God, and now you're quoting the Bible to argue against Hawaiian pizza?!”
The other one clenched his jaw. He had just become the kind of angel he had sworn he would never be.
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” Lázaro sat bolt upright. His gentle expression had vanished completely; now he was back to his old self: theatrical, delighted with himself, and dangerously entertained. “This is good. Too good. The atheist angel has returned to his roots!”
“Lázaro.”
“I'm going to remind you of this moment every time you open your mouth for the next two hundred years.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes with all the apathy he could muster.
Though he would never admit it, the idea of putting up with that idiot for the next two centuries was strangely comforting.
🩸Rural vampires. Instead of mansions, they live in shacks in the middle of the swamp; and instead of being surrounded by swarms of bats, there are mosquitoes.
🩸A mermaid and a vampire have a child, and that child is a leech.
🩸Since vampires cannot stand sunlight, they live in subway stations.
🩸Vampires who always close the lid of their coffins because they are afraid that the tooth fairy will steal their fangs.
🩸Vampires who sleep in their coffins wrapped in many sheets because they are cold. (They are still cold, but they like the softness of the blankets.)
🩸Broke vampires as indicators of recession.
🩸Vampire history teachers who lived through all those events firsthand. (Or vampires who spent an entire century sleeping and didn't know about those wars and revolutions.)
🩸Vampires who enjoy eating dishes like blood sausage, carpaccio, steak tartare, and mett. Depending on the country they visit, they might try the national raw meat dishes.
🩸Pirates as vampire hunters. If vampires are the leeches, then like the colonizers, pirates are the resistance that hunts them down.
🩸Some bats purr like cats when they're happy, relaxed, or have eaten. Now imagine a vampire purring after feeding on their victim.
This text is based on the character written by the talented @mog-evil. While it is not necessary to read the original material, I do recommended doing so to have the complete experience, in addition to being an enriching read due to its distinctive and experimental nature.
As you will notice, this text differs from my other works in its more "academic" or "formal" narrative, but I hope that it will still be an enjoyable experience for you, as it was for me to have written it <3
Metals have many characteristics, such as their high electrical and thermal conductivity, as well as more visible peculiarities, like their luster (angels shine too) and their malleability: the ability to deform under pressure without breaking, to adopt new shapes without losing their structural continuity. This trait has allowed humanity to mold tools and complex systems. (He wasn't molded with hammers or heat, but he learned, nonetheless, to yield. He learned not to move a muscle unless asked; he learned to endure the putrid smell emanating from that which, once, was warm; he learned to stop counting the days, to soften his voice when he speaks to himself—no, he doesn't speak to himself; it's just that his companion has stopped answering him, but is still there, still there, just as he himself is still there, on Earth—; he learned to scream, because no one in Heaven had taught him how.)
Metals are also notable for their strength, a quality that makes them essential components in structures that require long-term stability and durability, where failure is not an option. (He hasn't returned, though he could; he hasn't disobeyed, though no one reminds him exactly what he's supposed to obey. He stays because he believes someone will eventually call his name with something akin to affection and summon him back home. In the meantime, he endures.)
In terms of composition, metals can occur in various combinations, forming alloys that modify their original properties and give them specific characteristics. These variations allow for optimizing their performance depending on the contexts in which they will be used, thus considerably expanding their versatility. (He's made of something that isn't listed on any chart. Barium disodium, if anyone insists on naming it, although the nomenclature is insufficient to explain why his skin has taken on a sallow hue that wasn't there before. He sometimes smells of isopentyl acetate: a fruity trace that's more noticeable when it rains. He doesn't understand why it happens, just as he doesn't understand why the body he's clinging to keeps changing: softening in some places, hardening in others. The flesh peels away from the bones no matter how much he kisses the top of their head in an attempt to wake them up.)
Toughness is another important property of metals: their ability to resist fracture even when subjected to prolonged stress. This attribute allows certain materials to maintain their internal cohesion beyond what might be expected, extending their lifespan. (I'm still here. That counts as resistance, doesn't it? That should count. I haven't left. I haven't done anything I shouldn't have. I've waited. I've waited because I trust that silence is not absence but a test, however—) (is it a test?) (I can be better) (if there's something about me that isn't right, I can fix it) (I can change) (I can polish myself, reduce what's superfluous, eliminate what doesn't fit) (is that why?) (is it because I'm not… pure?) (I'm not made of just one thing, I know it, I feel it, there's something mixed in me, something that isn't quite perfect, something that maybe was never meant to be there) (but I can fix it) (if you tell me, I can fix it) (you just have to say it) (you just have to say my name.)
Nevertheless, metals, despite their apparent stability, are not immune to deterioration. Oxidation, for example, is a slow process, almost imperceptible in its early stages, but constant in its progression (no one explained to him that waiting also has cumulative effects), which ends up transforming both its appearance and its functionality. (At first, it wasn't noticeable; he remained upright and fulfilled his assigned duty. But the decades—for there are decades on Earth, though not in the same way Above—began to settle on everything they touched. Half a century is enough for the world to forget. Half a century is enough for even waiting to change shape. His limbs are now as thin as sheets of aluminum, and his left wing has finally split open in a fissure that can no longer be ignored. It doesn't matter. He wasn't going to fly. Not without His permission.)
(Sometimes he tilts his head and brings his face close to the other's, with a caution he learned not on Earth but elsewhere, and his lips brush again and again against skin that no longer responds, that doesn't return warmth. He waits. He waits a little longer. (It should work.) He tries again, for one of his greatest virtues is patience, and he trusts that everything will eventually fall into place. (Why isn't it working?) (Why aren't them moving?) (I'm here) (I haven't left) (I'm not going anywhere) (wake up) (please) (please).)
Oxidation occurs when the material comes into contact with agents such as oxygen and moisture (and moisture is what's seeping into his cheeks). Contrary to popular belief, moisture doesn't always come from the environment; sometimes it's generated within the material itself, accumulating without an identifiable external cause, as if the system were creating its own deteriorating conditions.
(It shouldn't happen.)
(Not in something like me.)
(Not in something that was made to last.)
(The drops fall and collect at the edges of a face that still retains the shape of what it once was.)
This is a short story about what happens when the duo gets drunk (as well as a glimpse into how they live their lives when they're not on a mission to restore order to the universe lol).
The bar is nothing special. Dim lighting, the smell of stale alcohol, and a bartender who clearly hates his job. Gabriel leans against the bar, holding a glass with a frown, wondering at what point in his life he made such a stupid decision as letting himself be dragged to this place by Lázaro.
Lázaro, on the other hand, is in his prime. His arm hangs casually over Gabriel's shoulders as he smiles at him with that stupidly enchanted expression that only alcohol can justify.
“I love you so much, îngeraș,” he mumbles, tapping him lightly on the cheek.
Gabriel pushes him away with a grimace of disgust. “Don't touch me.”
Lázaro laughs. He tries again. Gabriel pushes him away again. And so it goes, several times, until Lázaro, with his vampiric persistence, manages to grab hold of Gabriel's neck in a precarious embrace.
“Leave me alone,” Gabriel growls, trying to shake off the drunken vampire.
“Noooo, don't be like that. You know what? You're my best friend.” Lázaro squeezes him tighter, as if Gabriel were a teddy bear.
The angel rubs his face with his hands. He's losing patience. And that's dangerous. Because every time he loses patience, he starts drinking faster. And when Gabriel drinks faster, he starts talking.
“Nothing makes sense,” he suddenly murmurs, staring at his half-empty glass.
The bartender, who until now had made a remarkable effort to ignore the scene, raises an eyebrow with visible discomfort.
“Here we go...” he whispers.
“The universe is an endless absurdity,” Gabriel continues, paying no attention. “Everything we do, everything we are, is a chain of irrelevant events. We may be here drinking, pretending there’s something beyond this, but there isn’t. Nothing matters.”
Lázaro, who just a second ago was trying to stuff ice into his shirt, stares at him with narrowed eyes.
“Hey, are you even listening to me? I just told you I love you very much.” He pouts ridiculously. “You can't come out with your existential crisis now. Priorities, Gabi.”
Gabriel completely ignores his comment and continues talking, gesticulating more and more. “You know what the worst part is? Before, at least, there was a purpose. There was a reason. But now I'm here, in this mediocre bar, with a drunk on top of me and a bartender who probably hates me, wondering when my existence lost its direction.”
The bartender blinks. He opens his mouth to say something. He closes it. He turns away and starts cleaning a glass, pretending Gabriel isn't there.
“I don't hate you,” he murmurs finally, trying not to lose the tip.
Lázaro wobbles on his stool and cups Gabriel's face in his cold hands.
“You…” he says with drunken solemnity, “need another drink.”
“I need to get hit by a truck,” Gabriel corrects him.
“Hey, no, not that.” Lázaro slaps him clumsily across the face a couple of times. “I told you I love you, you can't die now. It would be super depressing.”
“My existence is already depressing.”
“Yeah, but more so. And I don't like it when you get like this. You're not funny.” The vampire places both hands on Gabriel's shoulders, looking at him as if he's about to give a motivational speech.
“Lázaro, let go of me,” Gabriel says through gritted teeth.
“Don't ignore me in my moment of vulnerability!”
Suddenly, a new idea flashes through Lázaro's drunken mind. With unexpected agility, he tries to climb onto the bar, probably intending to deliver a dramatic speech about the meaning of existence to cheer up the angel.
He fails spectacularly.
He slips mid-climb and falls backward, hitting a chair with a thud. Gabriel doesn't even flinch. The bartender barely glances over, without moving from his spot.
“Is he dead?”
“No.” Gabriel raises the glass to his lips.
Lázaro gets back up, his dignity shattered but his spirit undiminished. He dusts himself off and, in an attempt to regain his authority, points at a random man in the bar.
“You!” he exclaims, staggering. “I challenge you to a duel.”
The man looks at him in bewilderment before returning to his conversation.
Lázaro frowns.
“A duel of dramatic poses!” he tries again.
Nothing.
“Or dancing!” The vampire is already doing ridiculous spins, convinced he's putting on a masterful show. No one is paying him any attention. Hurt in his pride, he returns to Gabriel with a noticeable pout.
“Life is just noise,” the angel explains to the bartender, who already looks traumatized. “We're always looking for something to give us purpose, something that makes sense. But the truth is... the truth is there's nothing, just noise and more noise. What we call ‘meaning’ is just a distraction from facing reality: that we're empty. Always emp—”
“GABIII!” Lázaro interrupts abruptly, with a ridiculous shout. It seems he's recovered his spirits for the umpteenth time.
Gabriel closes his eyes and exhales with a patience he doesn't possess (because counting to ten doesn't work on the vampire). Slowly, he turns his head to look at him, as if he's hoping this is all a nightmare he can wake up from at any moment.
“What?”
Lázaro grabs his hands with overflowing excitement, swaying his hips to a rhythm that makes no sense.
“Let's dance!”
“No.”
“Yes! You need to get moving!” The vampire is already spinning around (again), trying to drag Gabriel along with him.
“I'll pretend you didn't say that.” The angel pulls his hand away from Lázaro and goes back to his drink. “As I was saying...”
“Come on, Gabi!” Lázaro shakes him insistently. “It's for your own good!”
Gabriel is exasperated, and the cigarette he had lit is no longer between his fingers, but in the ashtray on the bar, half-extinguished from carelessness. The vampire persists, tugging at his arm, swinging back and forth with enthusiasm (and appalling coordination. He looks like a cross between a scarecrow and someone having a seizure). In a final, desperate effort to free himself, Gabriel rises from his stool, intending to throw him out of the bar once and for all.
But Lázaro, now completely out of commission, trips over a table leg and falls straight onto Gabriel, clinging to him like a drunken koala. They both end up back in their seats, with Lázaro practically hanging off his shoulder. The angel, defeated, lets him be. He knows that if he pushes him away, Lázaro will only find an even more irritating way to stick to him. So he sits there, motionless.
“Well…” Gabriel rubs his temples. “Looks like we're not getting anywhere.”
“You know what, Gabi?” the vampire stammers, his voice thick, burying his face in Gabriel’s coat. “I don’t understand how you don’t have more friends; you're very nice with me.”
The bartender chokes on his own laughter but hides it well by pretending to cough. Gabriel glares at him, but seeing the man’s discomfort, decides to ignore him. Then he sighs, finishes his drink, and covers his face with his hand.
That was the first thing Azazel had noticed, and even after all this time, it remained one of the most disappointing discoveries about the place; though not the only one. He shuffled along the dimly lit corridors without pausing to observe the unnaturally red walls—as if someone had grown tired of painting halfway through and decided that, well, it was already hellish enough—and headed to his cubicle, which was in Zone 3. There were several zones, because Hell was divided into departments and categories, just like any branch office in the human world, and he'd been assigned to one of the worst. If those in Zone 1 were the high-ranking demons, the spectacular-looking ones who tortured souls, those in Zone 3 were…
He walked past an endless row of booths where demons hunched over their computers whispered to each other as they typed with overly long fingernails.
Mediocre.
That was the word.
The demons in Zone 3 were a motley crew of mediocre ones.
And Azazel was no exception.
“Six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred sixty-six souls,” he murmured, as if repeating the number made it more palatable.
That was his quota. To obtain six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred sixty-six souls to cease being Lucifer's employee.
He slumped into the chair in front of his desk—which protested with a long, plaintive creak—and rested his hands on either side of the keyboard. He was ready to continue investigating the human whose soul he was to acquire that day. Because yes: before entering the human world, before the carefully crafted temptations and the contracts impossible to refuse, there was the paperwork.
No one mentioned that part in the stories, but it was no less true: demons didn't improvise; they searched for information on their victims in the infernal database, from desires to small, shameful longings that humans would never admit aloud, and from there they crafted tailor-made offers. That was how Azazel collected souls, and he could confirm that the strategy worked because he was getting closer and closer to reaching his quota.
And that meant…
That all of this would end.
He exhaled in relief and pressed the power button. A second passed, then two. Azazel knew his computer was slow—desperately slow, even by infernal standards—but it always ended up booting up.
Five seconds passed. The screen remained black.
Azazel's brow furrowed instinctively as he noticed crumbs scattered across the desk, clustered around the keyboard as if someone had been eating there. Before he could fully process it, he sensed a presence behind him.
A presence he knew all too well.
“Zel!”
Azazel closed his eyes. He didn't want to turn around.
But he did anyway.
Malthus, his screeching-voiced, unnerving colleague, was leaning against the cubicle wall with a smile that, in itself, was a confession. He was holding a crumpled bag in his hands, and the crumbs on the desk now seemed much less mysterious.
“Before you say anything,” he said, taking a conciliatory step toward him, “I want you to know it was an accident.” Azazel remained silent because, although it was a bit of a nuisance, the crumbs weren’t a real problem. Except Malthus wasn’t referring to crumbs. “You see, I was using your compu—”
“Using my what?”
“Your computer,” he repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “And a message popped up saying I had to accept cookies to read a news article. So, obviously, I accepted. But… the cookies didn’t appear.”
The other demon waited for the punchline, but there wasn’t one.
“So?” he pressed.
“Well,” Malthus gestured vaguely with his hand, “I got a little angry... and I might have hit the computer. Nothing serious.”
Azazel's gaze fell to the device's casing, where a prominent dent marred the metal. Instinctively, he began to twist the ring adorning his finger. The ring, despite being too simple for infernal tastes, and too human for this place, still held the power to soothe him. He thought of her; of the fact that she was alive. Yes, he couldn't ask for more. A dent wasn't the end of the world; he could survive that. He just needed to breathe.
“But don’t worry,” his teammate added, interrupting his attempt at self-calm; “I fixed it.”
“What do you mean you fixed it?”
“I reflected and realized I’d been really rude. So, to make amends, I shared my own cookies with the computer.”
A shiver ran through Azazel. No. No, no, no. The tip of his tail twitched, whipping the air. There was no need for him to say more; he already knew exactly what he had done.
Slowly, with an awful feeling of dread, Azazel crouched in front of the cabinet, his horns brushing the edge of the desk as he lowered his head. Opening the DVD drive, he found a broken and crumbled lemon cookie. The fragments were scattered all over the compartment; it would take ages to clean it up.
“Did you... put a cookie... in the disc drive?”
Malthus nodded, still smiling, and Azazel wanted to strangle him with his bare hands. He was about to, in fact, until he remembered the clause against attacking coworkers. Reluctantly, he had to keep his hands away from the idiot's neck.
“I wanted the computer to know I was sorry,” he explained, leaning in slightly to look inside the machine. “But I don’t think it likes lemon cookies. Maybe if I try chocolate ones…”
This shouldn't have surprised him. After all, he was facing the same demon who, upon receiving a “Your Internet connection is limited” message, had concluded that something physical was blocking the connection. His solution had been to repeatedly bang on the modem, convinced he was “freeing” it from a spiritual barrier or curse; however, the result was that a large part of Hell was left without internet for hours.
He took one last look at the computer, whose keyboard had been faulty since the “Press any key to continue” incident—an event in which Malthus, unable to find any key called “any,” had pounded on them all in growing frustration—and concluded that there was nothing he could do.
He sat up stiffly, his tail dragging lightly along the ground before rising again, fractious.
“Shall we go to the service workshop?” Malthus was peering over his shoulder and watching as, once all the cables were disconnected, he carried the cabinet in his arms.
Azazel left the cubicle without answering. The constant murmur of Zone 3 seemed to transmute as he advanced; the lights flickered, never quite steady. But none of it was as irritating as Malthus, who kept skipping ahead, talking to no one, pointing in obvious directions, pacing back—as if Azazel needed directions to the repair shop after…! How long? Years? Decades? Time in Hell was another thing that no one had bothered to explain to him properly.
A delicious thud echoed throughout the place, and Azazel gloated maliciously when he discovered the source of the sound: Malthus's face smashing against a closed glass door. Oh, God forgive him!, but at that moment Azazel believed that he truly deserved to have been turned into a demon.
* * *
After leaving the computer at the repair shop—a place overflowing with piles of broken junk that looked like they had survived several wars; and that smelled of reheated coffee that could revive a dead man, only to kill him again—and swearing time and again to the employee, a creature with multiple eyes and nonexistent patience, that he had not been the idiot who had the brilliant idea of putting a cookie in the disc drive, Azazel had no choice but to ascend to the human world knowing practically nothing about his victim's desires or fears.
The computer would be ready in a few hours, they'd told him, in a tone so apathetic that in Hell it would have been a variable eternity; and he couldn't afford to wait. He'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.
Before leaving, however, he prepared himself. It wasn't a complex process, but it was meticulous. Standing before a narrow, slightly distorted mirror, Azazel noticed that his small horns were sticking out from his dark hair, enough to give him away if one knew what to look for; so he concealed them by arranging a few strands. His tail was still as restless as ever, and he had no choice but to wrap it around his leg in an attempt to calm it.
The suit was a deliberate choice; it was gray and forgettable.
When he finished, he looked up at his reflection and saw someone decent. It was true that he had a slightly suspicious air about him, but he looked quite similar to who he had once been. An ordinary man.
(A man he no longer was.)
Upon leaving Hell, Azazel found himself beneath a blue sky, crowned by a sun that caressed his skin. It was a beautiful afternoon, and since he didn't have the opportunity to escape that organized cesspool that was Hell every day, he decided to allow himself a few minutes before going in search of his victim. He walked aimlessly, letting his steps lead him through quiet streets, lined with trees that seemed oblivious to the existence of places where time stood still and despair was systematic; and, in the meantime, he began to think about when had been the last time he had wandered through plazas for sheer pleasure. The answer was obvious: when his beloved had not yet been diagnosed with her illness. When he had not yet begged Lucifer, on his knees and in despair, to do something to cure her; when Lucifer, the Great Leader, the Light-Bearer, the Morning Star, the Prince of Darkness, had not yet offered him a deal: to give up his own humanity, to become his servant, in exchange for her life. He hadn't hesitated; he had never regretted it; not even now. Because she was alive, and that was all that mattered to him.
Yes, it had been a long time since he'd gone out for a stroll; but today, at least, he had the chance to see a landscape free of blood, to hear the breeze and not heart-rending screams, to—
Splash!
The stagnant water, hidden beneath a loose tile, splashed out violently, splattering his pants and seeping into his shoes. All the calm he had tried to cultivate over the last few minutes crumbled in an instant.
Screw walking.
The parking lot wasn't far.
With an irritation he no longer bothered to hide, Azazel reached his car and started the engine; then he activated the navigation app, whose screen indicated the location of the soul he was to reap. As the GPS began to deliver directions, he turned on the radio. The first station was a hit in the infernal circles: agonized screams mixed with heavy metal. He changed it. The next was a motivational talk about entrepreneurship and self-improvement. He changed it even faster. Then, laughter. Endless, manic laughter, devoid of context, repeating on a loop. Next. And then, finally, something decent: a soft melody, with ukulele chords and a sweet voice speaking of flowers and sunsets; of days that get better with patience.
He let the song play.
Once he spotted the designated house—one of those suburban buildings that seemed designed to blend in, with an unkempt garden that suggested a lack of time or effort—he turned off the engine and, after adjusting his jacket (which still smelled of damp), got out of the car.
He rang the front doorbell once. Nothing.
He rang again. People always made him wait, even when he was trying to do what they asked: grant wishes!
The door opened, and out emerged a girl whose expression was that of someone who had had enough of the world for today; she was neither curious nor surprised.
When Azazel's mouth opened, ready to utter what he thought would be an irresistible offer to a soul like hers, she simply slammed the door shut. Just like that. Right in his face.
How audacious.
He pressed the doorbell again, this time without the initial politeness, and kept his finger on it a little longer than necessary.
“Hey!” he called. “Don't you want to hear what I have to say?”
The door opened again, not all the way, just enough for the young woman to peek her head in, annoyed.
“Look, I've had enough of door-to-door salesmen peddling junk. I don't want vacuum cleaners, or Bibles, or subscriptions, or whatever it is you're bringing.” And, just as quickly, she tried to slam the door shut again. Azazel placed his foot between the door and the frame, stopping her attempt.
“I’m not selling anything,” he objected, more seriously. “And I’m not a salesman. I’m… a demon.”
He knew perfectly well—because it had been repeated to him ad nauseam in training—that he shouldn’t reveal his nature immediately, that the process required subtlety and gradual manipulation, that first came the desire, then the crack, and finally the offer; but Azazel was wet and wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
The young woman looked him up and down, paused at his rigid posture, and then burst out laughing.
“A demon? Sure, and I'm the Queen of Hell!” she mocked, rolling her eyes.
Perfect. Another human with a sense of humor, just what he needed. There was no contract without credibility, and in that state, he didn't project the image of a “fearsome infernal entity.”
It was time for Plan B.
“Listen to me, Clara.” He considered that saying her name was a rather ominous start, since she hadn't told him. “I'm going to show you something that will change your life.”
There was a long silence, then:
“My name isn't Clara.”
Ah.
“I mean… Celeste,” he corrected himself quickly, though his voice had already lost some of its initial confidence. He’d read it in the report just a few days ago; how could he have forgotten? It must have been nerves, or the exhaustion of carrying the cabinet…
“Yes, Celeste. What a coincidence that two seconds ago you thought it was Clara.”
Azazel needed to pull himself together. If that human wouldn't believe him with words, she'd believe his demonic nature with actions. After all, he had skills and could improvise. He would summon a hellish creature, something small but no less impactful. A… dragon, perhaps. Yes. A dragon was a good idea.
He straightened up slightly and, with renewed vigor, recited a series of arcane words that, under normal circumstances, would have opened a direct channel to the lower levels of Hell. However, a few seconds passed, and when there was no flash or the slightest whiff of sulfur, he tried to convince himself that the creature was busy. Very busy.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to appear as though he had everything under control.
“Look, buddy,” the young woman blurted out, no longer bothering to hide her impatience, “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m occupied.” She made a move to close the door.
“Wait!” He was desperate; he couldn’t just leave like that. Because if he did, he’d have to go back to Hell, to Zone 3, to the cubicles, to Lucifer.
He thought quickly. What was the most classic thing? Ah, right! The lights. A surefire classic. Making the lights explode, like in a horror movie.
“I warned you,” he said, focusing his energy on the house, visualizing each bulb shattering into a thousand pieces. He could feel it, his will coursing through the wires and the filaments tensing until they crackled. He braced himself for the shower of glass.
A meager porch light barely flickered.
“That was me.” Azazel pointed at the lightbulb with a certainty that was completely unfounded. He even allowed himself a small smile.
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Or maybe it's about time I changed the lightbulb.”
Just then, when Azazel didn't know what else to do to get the girl to believe him and move on to the part where she would give him her soul, his cell phone rang. He signaled to her, as if to say, “Wait a second, this is important,” and answered.
“Zel, it's Malthus. They finished repairing your computer and I went to pick it up, but I think it's still having some issues. Is it normal that it just shut down out of nowhere and smells like…” Malthus's sniffing could be heard on the other end of the line… “burnt?”
“What did you do?” Azazel growled.
“I got a notification that the storage space was insufficient, so I had to help it free up some space.”
“Did you delete any files?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Azazel’s relief was immediate. Fatally premature, because his coworker added, “I started removing things from the case: fans, the processor… you know, to make it feel lighter. If it weighs less, it has more space, right?”
The other remained silent for a moment, processing what he had just heard, and when he understood, all he could manage to say was:
“WHAT?”
Meanwhile, the girl was looking at him the way one looks at a complete lunatic.
He was definitely looking like a damn lunatic. And, frankly, Azazel was beginning to doubt that he wasn't.
“Malthus,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “when I get back, I assure you I’ll lock you in a dark corner and get rid of the key.” He hung up and turned to Celeste, who was still there, the door ajar. “Now, where were we?”
It was clear this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. But Celeste's soul would be his. Even if he had to tear it out with his bare hands.
One last idea occurred to him. It wasn't brilliant, nor particularly original, but it had one thing in its favor: it was simple. He would make an object float.
He just needed something small and light, an object that wouldn't drain what little energy he had left, but visible enough so that its effect wouldn't go unnoticed. His eyes scanned the house and landed on the small vase on the entryway table.
Perfect.
No one could ignore a floating vase.
He concentrated and tried to do what he had been taught, what had worked so many times when he was not soaked, or irritated, or being watched by a clearly unimpressive human: empty his mind, allow the magic to flow through his veins like caffeine.
However, no matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn't banish the anxieties that plagued his mind. The computer ripped open, disassembled piece by piece; Malthus ripping out the processor, the smell of burning, the infernal workshop, the employee looking at him as if he were personally responsible for the technological decay of all of Hell, Lucifer treating him like a piece of garbage, the quota, the figures, the six hundred and sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six souls, Zone 3, the cubicles, the crumbs, the laughter, Malthus laughing, always laughing, and there he was, trapped, hating almost everyone, hating the system, hating the bureaucracy of punishment, hating—
No.
No.
Not that.
His tail tensed as if trying to shake the thoughts from his body, and Azazel forced himself to push his noisy worries aside and enforce inner silence. Then, only when nothing remained but a blank space held by sheer willpower, did he feel it. The vase vibrated, and if at first it was barely a tremor, then it slid an inch, then another, separating from the tabletop, defying the gravity he was, at last, managing to bend to his advantage. A little more. Just a little more and—
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The buzzing of his cell phone broke his concentration like a kick in the stomach, and the vase fell with a thud onto the table, wobbling before coming to rest as if nothing had happened.
Azazel was ready to throw his phone against the wall. He pulled it out furiously, prepared to yell at whoever it was... But it wasn't a call. It was an alarm. “Time for yoga. Take a deep breath,” the screen said.
Azazel stared at the message for a long second, then let out a short laugh. Take a deep breath. Ha! If only he could take a deep breath without wanting to set something on fire. His finger pressed down on the screen harder than necessary, and the glass cracked under the pressure, becoming a useless mosaic of fragments.
“You should...” Celeste began.
“Don't even think about telling me to have some linden tea.”
“No,” she replied, pointing behind him. “You should turn around.”
Azazel did it, and he saw his car. Or, rather, his car driving away, because someone was stealing it.
The vehicle, which was the only thing he had left to control that day, turned the corner and disappeared from sight. The demon didn't run; he stayed there, standing with his unusable cell phone in his pocket and a human who didn't believe a word he said. He exhaled. He could persist, he could try again, and again, and again, improvise, force, push the situation until something gave way… But the accumulation of things not going as they should—that never went as they should—made the idea seem exhausting.
“Another day,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, in a voice that had lost all intention of asserting itself. Today he was in no position to close any deals. And so, with his pants still wet and his pride shattered, under the calm light of a day that had nothing diabolical about it, he returned to Hell.
🩸Vampire hematologists. Instead of using a microscope, they can tell if a human has deficiencies just by tasting their blood.
🩸Vampire dentists. They ensure vampires have good oral health, which includes making sure their fangs look good/are sharp enough to maximize efficiency when biting.
🩸Pharmaceutical vampire trying to create synthetic blood because there is a human blood shortage.
🩸A vampire whose vocabulary consists of centuries-old slang combined with modern terms.
🩸Vampire who makes coffins (both single and double, in case there's a vampire marriage).
🩸A vampire, now that mirrors are no longer made of silver, sees their reflection after many centuries and discovers that they hate their appearance.
🩸Vampire who opens their own chain of restaurants and sells human food mixed with blood: red velvets, bloody mary, pomegranate juice. No mortal knows why the restaurant is only open at night and all the dishes are red.
🩸Vampires who must take vitamins because blood does not have all the necessary nutrients to survive.
🩸A vampire hunter who becomes a vampire themselves but doesn't abandon their profession. Now they teach human hunters firsthand about the weaknesses and powers of vampires.
🩸Vampires who have to pee every other minute. (Because bats are so small that they have to urinate to remove all the water out of the blood, otherwise they would be too heavy to fly afterwards.)
🩸Vampires who get fake tans/apply a lot of makeup to look less pale.
After I joined in on a tag game without being tagged, the amazing @winterandwords tagged me in an acrostic WIP tag game! Yay! I'm so grateful she didn't give me another long word like what she ended up getting, because oh boy, these are harder than I thought.
But, without further ado...I'll use my upcoming release, 𝔸𝕕𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖.
Note: Current draft is in second person. This may not reflect the final state of the piece--we will see what the wonderful people beta reading the piece think of it.
C. Cybele loomed over you, her long curly hair so like yours spilling from its gilded braids, her grey eyes lined with kohl. She scooped Attis’s slumbering body with one strong arm and knelt to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
“You nearly made it to Thrace this time,” she said in her lightly-accented voice, watching you with a small smirk as my consciousness faded, “I’m almost impressed.”
R. Remember that, Theseus. Promise me that you’ll do as you said, and talk to him. Call him by his true name.”
You nodded. “I will.”
She cocked her head, studying you. “Phaedra thinks you’re a fool, but I see what you are, Theseus. We are the same, in many ways.”
E. Even if you knew his body was special, different from yours. “I don’t want to. I’m not like other boys.”
Phaedra scoffed. “Yeah, that’s because you’re not one. I’ve been saying that for years.”
A. Adgistis had just smiled, as if hearing your thoughts. You want a trade? They’d said. I’ll give you a trade. I don’t love them as much, but I do love them. Is that enough? And it had to be. The goddess Cybele, their sister of sorts, now rested in Elysium, entombed in a tree as she’d done to Attis. You’d offered Tartarus. Adgistis refused. You’d understood. Things were more complicated with family.
T. The day before they left, a boat full of refugees blew onto Sarpedon’s shores. They begged to gods you already knew were dead, their voices barely audible over the crashing of the waves. The snakes heard them through your feet, the rumbling of the boat crashing into the rocks travelling up the rocky cliffside to their senses. Your sisters laughed as they descended upon them, shredding terrified, quivering flesh in their talons. You caught the eyes of the youngest passenger and petrified him before they could tear him apart. It seemed kinder.
E. Even the beasts of the wastes had avoided you on your way back to the cabin, sensing the trepidation, sadness and frustration coming off of you in waves. You could not sleep. In your mind, you ran through the Godless Wastes and swam through the rivers. You tried to visualize hidden paths in and out of the wastes using a lifetime of knowledge. You couldn’t think of a way out, not via land, nor water. You and Ats would have to die to escape.
I'll tag @writingwithoutconfidence @jaylex05 @missnaomijean-writes @purple-on-black& @destinycraftswords since I think(?) you folks are okay with tag games. And @blades-of-calmoran, because I will keep doing this until you build up your confidence to post <3 Your word is STARK.
I'll use my short stories of Ayla and Veyru because I haven't mentioned them in a while...
Note: The POV changes from 3rd person and 1st person depending on which short story I choose, but it's usually focusing on Ayla to clear any doubts
S. Spines relaxed, shoulders unknotted, the terrible tension that had lived in its spine since the first night it dragged me here finally—mercifully—slipped out through the tip of its tail. It bowed until our foreheads touched. “I never had a name before,” it whispered. “Not one anyone wanted to keep.”
T. "The crabs were gone. I thought—I thought you would be sleeping, or sorting moss, or doing any of the small things you do when you think yourself alone." His ears twitched, lifted. "I did not think you would be fighting a war."
"It wasn't a war."
"No?" His head tilted, that questioning gesture she loved. "You stood against your mother's voice. You stood against every warning ever sung to keep children in their places. You stood—" His voice cracked, that river-ice sound, "—and you won."
A. Ayla spoke before she could register what she was about to say. "I'm not Sera. I'm borrowing her. I'm dead, Marta. I died in a cave with a monster who loved me, and the magic sent me here to drink what I missed, but I don't want to drink it. I want to find him. I want to tell him he was enough. That I would choose him again, always, forever, even when the magic offers me this—" she gestured at the house, the porch, the life that should have been hers, "—even when it's warm and good and easy, I would choose the hard thing we built together."
Marta stared. The peas scattered, rolling into the dust. Then: "The Rite of Return."
R. "Remember where I am. Come back in a year, in five, when you are grown and have your own weight to carry. Ask me again. If I say yes then, you'll know I was lying now. If I say no—" She closed his fingers around the metal. "—you'll know I had something worth keeping."
Elias looked at the key, at her, at the monster in the cave-mouth who had not moved, who had let her speak, who had let her offer.
K. Knowing the shape of what I had to say, I finally looked at him. "Anything a human does can be cruel or kind. The same hands. The same mind. Curiosity builds shelters and invents weapons. Creativity paints caves and designs—" I stopped. Swallowed. "Designs massacres. Nothing about us is proof."
"Then there is no such thing as human goodness," Veyru said.
"There is," I replied. "But it isn't a trait. It's a decision. One you have to keep making, even when no one is watching."
I don't really know the proper rules of this game, so I'm going to assume you have to either do a sentence for each letter or a small scene.
Tagging: @alexazucchie @justluchii @ponderingpen @penningbookwurm and @orcaraminga. And @temisjanaina because I really want to read your writing and I 110% believe it isn't as bad as you say it is. C'mon give this a go!
I used various scenes that don't appear in the book, so you can consider this a sneak peek at bonus content!
Note: Since the scenes are from different texts, there is one metanarrative with the presence of the writer, another narrated from the perspective of Lázaro, and another in the third person, which is the narration I have used in the book.
T. The writer, in their boundless laziness, has decided that Notre Dame isn't worth it. I mean, sure, it's a majestic cathedral, steeped in history, Gothic art, Victor Hugo himself wrote a novel about it… But that would require writing a scene there. And that, honestly, is a lot of work.
Besides, Gabriel flatly refused to go inside.
“I won’t set foot in that damned church,” he had said, with the conviction of someone who definitely had unresolved issues with his celestial past.
R. Rat. That little shadow on the nightstand was a rat.
“We’re leaving this hotel right now,” Gabriel declared, standing up.
“Oh, don’t exagge—” The rat jumped to the floor and began moving toward Lázaro.
The vampire let out an inhuman shriek and leaped onto the bed with a ridiculous bound, grabbing Gabriel’s arm. “DO SOMETHING!”
“Why me? You’re an immortal vampire, not a damsel in distress!”
U. “Unless you want me to, I won't bite you.” My reassurance comes with another smile; this time one where my fangs are visible, just enough to provoke him. Something tells me he likes them. That they bother him, yes, but that he likes them. “I promise.”
T. To make him believe me, I slip inside and settle in naturally. Although I lost the need to breathe the day death decided to take an interest in me, that doesn't stop me from letting out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh. What can I say? There's nothing more comfortable than a coffin.
H. His pulse, so strange at first, becomes a steady presence under my senses. I wonder if what runs through his veins is truly blood or light or ichor or whatever substance such a beautiful creature is composed of. I could analyze it, I could dissect it into theories; but I don't want to. Not tonight. I'm content to brush my lips against his skin. A chaste, almost academic touch… if one were to lie to oneself.
Someday I'll find someone to tag, just give me time lol
Whumpee grows new wings. It hurts like hell. New bones and flesh and nerves form from their back, and their balance is thrown off, and they’re dizzy from the blood being pumped into their new limbs.
None of their old clothes fit anymore, and even after cutting holes in it they struggle to put any of it on. They can’t sleep comfortably for awhile until they find a good position to accommodate their wings, and they need to readjust to sitting in chairs, not to mention that a seat with a higher back will be hard to put their wings over. They are very clumsy as they adjust, and keep getting the fragile things injured, which may lead to them developing abnormally. Everyone who knows Whumpee gawks at such a big change, as if they got their entire face tattooed.
Learning to fly isn’t easy. Really, even learning to move the wings is a challenge, but to actually take to the air? That’s a whole new matter. It’ll probably be exhausting even if they do figure it out. Whumpee looks back on their younger self who once wished they could fly and sighs. If only it were that simple…
It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts
Gabriel awkwardly reaches behind him and finds nothing, only heat, only something that used to be a nuisance but is now pain; a pain that learns to grow and knows how far it can go before breaking him. It burns. It stings. He feels like nerves are being stitched from the inside, like his flesh is opening without actually opening.
So he stops leaning against the alabaster columns, stops breathing deeply; because that hurts too.
And one day the skin gives way.
There is no blood as one might expect; what happens is worse. A warm, wet sensation, and then the moment when Gabriel bends forward with a sound that isn't a scream, not exactly, because screaming would imply understanding what is happening, and he understands nothing, nothing at all, only this: that something has come out of him, and that that thing that has come out is still him.
He tries to touch it but doesn't know how. He twists his torso; he feels dizzy. The world tilts in a way that makes no sense—where has the balance gone? Who kidnap it?—and he clings to the first thing he finds. He gasps and trembles, and yet that something keeps extending behind him.
The first feathers are not beautiful.
They are short, as crooked as they are irregular. And fragile.
Too fragile.
Each strand is an exposed nerve, which makes the air his enemy: it slips between the budding feathers, brushing against what shouldn't exist (what didn't exist before)... and Gabriel shudders and clenches his teeth until his jaw hurts more than his back.
He wants to rip them out. Rip them out by the root, one by one if necessary. But the slightest touch unleashes such violent pain that it feels as if someone is pulling at all his nerves at once. However, what hurts him most is not that, but knowing that they are not something he can remove. Knowing that they are now a part of him.
Day after day, centimeter by centimeter, without rhythm and without rest, much less with compassion, they grow.
His skin tightens again, and again, and again, and Gabriel stops recognizing the body that contains him. And he begins to hate it.
He begins to hate himself.
He hates not being able to dress himself without help.
Because he tries—he tries so many times he loses count—he puts one arm in, then the other, the fabric gives way, no, it doesn't give way, it catches, he pulls (damn it, Gabriel, look what you've done; you've ripped the clothes, you fucking idiot), and the feathers bristle as if they're saying no, as if they're saying this isn't for us (us?), and then he has to stop, breathe, he can't breathe, that hurts too—
And someone comes in.
An archangel with soft hands and an even softer voice (too soft) tells him that he is ready, that this is normal, that he shouldn't worry because they have brought him something better: a new robe. Designed for him.
Designed for this.
The openings at the height where those… protrusions erupt confirm his suspicions: they already knew. They always knew. And yet they let him get this far without explaining a thing.
Gabriel puts it on. Or tries to. Because now it's not just about getting dressed, it's about calculating, about bending down without knowing how far, about passing one thing through, then another, about not knowing where he ends and the other begins.
The feathers strain as they pass through the openings, as if resisting confinement, and for a moment he thinks they won't fit, but they do. Everything in Heaven fits. Gabriel lowers his arms and the robe falls into place. Even so, he still hates them.
He hates their weight.
That constant weight isn't enough to knock him down, but it's enough to make his muscles burn as if they weren't made to carry such a burden.
He hates how his gait has become unnatural.
There's something about the way he moves now, a slight imbalance that no one points out but that he feels like a scream, and it bothers him, because if there's one thing Gabriel isn't willing to lose, it's the straight line, the illusion of absolute control over every inch of himself.
He hates sitting down.
Chairs have backs that are too high; there's no right way to sit, no posture that doesn't involve giving something up, bending too much, tensing too little, existing awkwardly in a space that once belonged to him effortlessly. He would end up slumped, or stiff, or uncomfortable, always uncomfortable, because his wings—his wings, that word he still can't say without a bitter taste in his mouth—don't know how to fold (how do you fold something that doesn't understand it should fold?), they don't know how to disappear—because they should disappear, right?
He hates the stares.
That extra second where faces change and then an unjustified gentleness appears, that oscillation between tenderness and pity, as if his pain were something worthy of contemplation, as if there were beauty in his discomfort.
There isn't.
There's nothing beautiful about losing control.
He doesn't want to get used to it. He won't get used to it. He repeats it to himself with an insistence that was once conviction but now sounds like fear: I won't get used to them, I won't give in, I don't want this, I don't want this, please someone take them off, someone rip them off, someone do something because I can't, I don't know how, I don't—
The wind interrupts him.
A cold gust, heavy with solar dust, cuts through the air and pierces his clothes. Gabriel inhales sharply, and the cold bites him from within. He doesn't have time to think; his body reacts first, and his wings unfurl. Not clumsily as before, but this time they open swiftly, as if they had always known how and had only been waiting for the moment to show him. The wings envelop him, and both the wind and the cold are left outside.
Gabriel remains motionless, rigid at first, because he doesn't recognize the sensation that surrounds him, that contains him without invading him. He feels the soft touch—soft; since when are they soft?—of the feathers against his arms, against the skin that a second before was exposed and now isn't, and that touch doesn't hurt.
It doesn't hurt.
He lowers his gaze, just enough to see that what surrounds him is white. It's the first time he notices the whiteness of his plumage. Not the dead white of marble, nor the blinding white of excessive light; his feathers are a pristine color. He runs his fingers over one of them, and this time he feels the direction in which they grow, their coherence, but above all, he feels that he belongs. But not to Heaven: to this. To this refuge that his own body has formed around him.
His breathing slows without him noticing. The weight is no longer weight, or at least not in the same way; it has redistributed itself and no longer pulls him back. He closes his eyes and lets himself be enveloped by the feeling of being sheltered. Perhaps his wings aren't so horrible after all.
May I also add: two vampires, old and tired of being vampires, who are lucky enough to find the means to turn back humans and grow old together, even if they know sooner or later there will be a moment when one of them will eventually die and the other will have to live their last years as a widow/widower?
Ohh, that's what I call a fresh and original idea! I've been mulling over the comment, and I don't recall reading anything quite like it. Perhaps it could be a story about how, even though they were vampires and had all the time in the world ahead of them, it was only when they became human again that they felt true passion. Because being human, having an expiration date, is what makes one feel, love, and truly live with greater intensity.
Yes, yes, I can see it now. Someone should write down the idea
“Now it all makes sense!” the vampire declares, tears welling in his eyes. “Of course you get angry when I use your mirror, Narcissus! Although it could also be because I scratched it, but that's another story.”
Gabriel doesn't answer, but something in his brow twitches, like a marble statue someone has dared to insult; and the vampire, as if seeing a divine opportunity to make history (or at least create viral content), pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He unlocks it with his thumb and is already setting up the front camera before Gabriel can protest.
“Come here, Gabi,” he says, waving his hand as if he were calling some particularly arrogant animal. “Put on a ‘I love life’ face.”
Gabriel doesn’t move. Not an inch.
The vampire, unfazed, extends his arm to frame them. After examining the result, he grimaces, then resorts to his natural talent: ignoring consent and reducing other people's personal space to zero. He glides past Gabriel and, after brazenly resting his chin on his shoulder, flashes the most radiant smile in his immortal arsenal.
“Come on, celestial seducer. A quick photo for my followers. With any luck, I'll get a couple of extra hearts.”
“I'm not going to smile,” the angel warns.
“No need; you're so beautiful that even your disdain enhances the image.”
Gabriel exudes scorn, but he doesn't back down. Not this time.
Because even marble, if you persist enough, can be sculpted.
The click sounds, and Lázaro stares at the photo. He turns the screen toward the angel. What he sees is... peculiar. Lázaro appears as a blur of shadows, barely a silhouette indistinct due to his vampiric nature. It looks like a camera error or a glitch with a gothic flair. But Gabriel... Gabriel is perfectly defined. His blond hair falls in that wave that seems natural but clearly requires effort, his skin is flawless, and his features are elegant, harsh, almost tragic. And the eyes. Those eyes. Glacial green, like an insult to warmth; as if they were designed to look down on all of humanity.
“You look like a model with a migraine,” Lázaro says appreciatively, quickly putting the photo away, lest Gabriel decide to destroy the device.
