Omnia Mundis Mundis

Omnia mundis mundis:

Latin, meaning, everything is clean.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Michael was not expecting to find him so soon. He could see the lines of energy traveling the boys skin, oh so similar to his own, yet so different. He knows what he must do, but God, he had hoped it would take more to find the boy, hoped it would be longer before he extinguished the boys fragile light.

Michael groans, huddling down on the garage roof, pulling his homework out of his sinum, and filling out the blanks on the packet. The boy's head whips up, and he groans inwardly. Azazel, that meddling fool.

It doesn’t take long for Azazel to see him lurking on the roof, and he materializes next to him. Azazel's voice is hushed, as if the boy can hear them. “Michael, what is the meaning of this?” 

“Orders from upstairs.” Azazel looks angry. Michael doesn’t understand why.

“What’s wrong with him? Ash is not hurting anybody.” Azazel looks him over. “And what’s with this stupid disguise?”

Michael's eyes narrow, and he tucks his homework back into his sinum. Azazel barks out a laugh, and Michael glances at the window nervously. The boy is looking at it from the corner of his eye, gaze obstructed by that ridiculous hair of his. Michael wrinkles his nose. If he was going to grow out his hair, he could at least go all the way like he did.

"Adam picked it out," he replies after the boy looks away. Michael looks up at Azazel, trying to ignore how Azazel towers over him, even after he stands. "He thought the boy might find it more… appealing."

Azazel sneers, “Well you look stupid.” Michael sighs, and closes his eyes. He slowly grows taller, broader. His hair changes from a short mousy brown, to a long jet black, horns curling through the silky strands. His wings unfurl from his back, ripping through the black shirt Adam had provided him. When he opens his eyes, they are no longer a soft hazel, but a piercing silver.

“That’s better,” Azazel says, nodding his head. “Now back to the point. You can’t kill this kid.” 

Michael frowns. “You have no authority over me.”

Azazel leans forward. “There’s something different about him, I know you can see it too. He’s not mortal.” 

“That’s all the more reason to kill him!”He hisses, wrapping his arms around his chest, as if he is cold.

Azazel's brows furrow. “He wouldn’t have to be killed if he wasn’t very important.” Azazel leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, as if Adam can hear them. "You know he only gets rid of what he cant control."

Michael sighs, running a hand over his face “What will you have me do then? Look the other way as you kidnap him? Tell him, ‘no, I had no idea Azazel was planning to steal away the boy you explicitly told me to murder!’” 

“Exactly,” Azazel says, staring into his eyes. “Just give me some time. This reeks of upper god bull s**t.” 

“That’s exactly what this is.” He glances at Azazel. “I will give you two weeks to make a plan. Anything longer in this hellhole and the boy is dead.” 

Azazel grabs his hand, clutching it to his chest, a smile on his face. “Thank you,” he says, before disappearing with a flutter of wings and the scent of sandalwood. Michael turns back to the boy, and can’t help but feel like the boy is watching him back. 

-

Ash is being watched. He does not know how he knows, but he knows it it so. The prickle on the back of his neck hasn't gone away; it is an ever there presence, much like the oppressive weight of Michael's gaze on his back.

Ash does not know how Michael watches him, even when he's back in his empty home.

After that first time, Michael didn't try talking to Ash again, choosing to stare at him in the hallways of their small school, to watch him as he changed in the locker room for PE. Ash wonders if this is grounds for a restraining order. Ash wonders if this is some childish crush.

Strangely enough, with Michael's looming presence always surrounding Ash, Old-Michael and Brandon haven't found the guts to use Ash as a punching bag. Ash also wonders why that is.

Ash figures the lack of bullying has something to do with New-Michael, but he tries not to think about it too much as he burrows deeper into his bed, wrapping his duvet around himself and bringing his book closer to his face. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, headphones pressing the ear pieces of the wire frames against his head uncomfortably.

Ash puts the book down with a shudder, placing his glasses on it gently. He slides his headphones down to his neck, and walks around aimlessly. Ash moves to the window behind his desk, looking out of it restlessly.

When Ash turns, he finds a man on his bed. It is not unusual for Ash to hallucinate, what with all the late nights and caffeine overdoses, but Ash knows that this man is real, that he is really there with Ash's book in hand, fragile glasses forgotten on the bed.

 He opens it to a random page, and smiles at Ash, all sharp teeth and bright yellow eyes. He mouths the title of the book, grinning up at Ash in a warm and friendly way. Nothing has ever scared Ash more. “‘The Picture of Dorian Gray,’” he reads out, glancing at where Ash is frozen in front of his desk. “Interesting choice.” He leafs through the book, looking up at Ash from the corner of his eye.

“Who are you-“ Ash starts, but Ash stops when the man raises his hand, mouth still gaping open, as if some unseen force is keeping him stuck in time like this. He gets up, walking towards Ash with a confident strut. The man reaches out, and closes Ash's gaping mouth with a finger to his chin. Ash swallows heavily, and moves back when the man pushes him lightly on his shoulder.

"Good boy," the man rasps when Ash is pushed against his desk, and Ash's nose curls in disgust. “I am Azazel of the Books.” His head tilts, hand pushing harder into Ash's shoulder. “And you are Ash, of the Nothing.” He smiles, and Ash stares at his fang-like teeth. He continues to smile, a cruel, fearful smile, as he picks at a lock of Ash's hair, before cutting it off with a knife. Ash would be offended, but he's too busy being terrified to do so. “A very fitting name,” he murmurs, and his grin drops for a second. 

He backs away, grin back on his wicked face. Ash smooths over his face, pretending he's not scared, that he doesn't feel the need to run run run. “Who are you?” Ash asks again, moving away from his desk, and trying to cover up the way his hands shake.

Ash sits on his bed, picking up his book from where he -Azazel- left it. He rummages through Ash's bookshelf, nodding his head when he sees certain books, and rearranging them to some unknown order. “I just told you,” he says, not looking at Ash. “I am Azazel of the Books.” Ash's eyebrows furrow in annoyance, anger of his items being rearranged overcoming his deep-set fear.

"Why are you here, 'Azazel of the Books,'" Ask mocks, putting air quotes around the title. He feels the need to swat Azazel's hand away from his shelf, but withholds, choosing to back himself up to where the wall meets his bed.

“I am here…” He trails off as he continues reorganizing, muttering to himself as he does so. Ash waits patiently, tapping his foot and anticipating reorganizing his shelf. “I’m here," Azazel exclaims, spinning around to face Ash, "Because in two days you’re going to die.”

Ash lets his mask slip, mouth gaping and eyes wide. Azazel grins that evil, predatory grin, and struts to Ash's desk. He runs his hand over the wooden top, marred with years of use and bored scratching stars into the gloss. “You’re going to die in two days, and I’m going to bring you back to life.”

Ash frowns. “Impossible.” He stays still for a moment, but begins to inch towards his shelf nonetheless. Ash freezes in place, Azazel scoffing at his attempt. he laughs for a moment, a cruel bark, hardly a laugh at all.

“Not impossible, because I’m going to do it.” His grin falls away, and Ash almost wants to sob in relief at the sight of his real face. Something about this man is dangerous, inhuman, and Ash knows it is so just as he knows when Michael�"when anyone really, looks at him�"just as he knows that he does not belong.

“Why me?” Ash asks quietly, finally letting himself betray his fear, his vulnerability. It is a strange thing to show such a fearful side to such a powerful creature.

In that moment, Azazel feels a waver, a sympathy for the pathetic mortal before him. “That’s what we’re going to find out," he says softly, before plastering on a cold expression.

“In exactly two days at midnight, one of my kind will come to kill you. I bought you two extra weeks of life, nearly two weeks ago.” His voice is serious, both the playful and sympathetic light that was previously in his eyes now gone. “In exactly two days at midnight, you will be dead to this world. Your killer, will return to his bosses and tell them you were missing.” 

He leans forward, breath fanning over Ash's face. Ash wants to wince, expecting it to be acrid, but is surprised when the scent of sandalwood envelopes him. “In exactly two days at midnight, you and I, will be running from literal gods�"lower case g�"all the while trying to figure out why they want you dead.” 

He grins again, rolling forward until he's facing Ash. He bends forward, and traces Ash's jaw line with his pointer-finger. “Understand?” He asks, and Ash slowly nods, Azazel's finger still resting on his jaw. He smiles, pulls his hand away from Ash's face, patting his knee instead, before drawing away. “Good.”

Ash inhales, weighing his next words. “Why are you helping me?” he tentatively asks, back remaining stiff and hands curled up in his lap. Azazel leans towards him, golden eyes staring into deep black.

“Because you’re interesting, and I have a bone to pick with your executioners.” He stands up, adjusting his suit. Ash saves that odd choice of clothing to his memory to think about later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going now. Got preparations to make,” he says with a wink and a smile.

Ash's hand is stretched out, one more question on the tip of his tongue.“Wait-“ he gasps out, reaching out to hold onto Azazel's suit jacket, but he moves away before the boy can grasp onto him. Ash ignores this, and drops his hand before whispering, “Why me?” Ash turns his eyes up to meet Azazel's, resisting the urge to flinch away from glowing irises.

 Azazel's smile disappears, as if it was never there. He looks at Ash with that same kind of sadness in his eyes and whispers back, "Memento mori, multum est." Ash swallows, and bows his head.

When Ask looks up, there is a smirk on Azazel's pretty lips. Ash blinks at that thought, and when his eyes open, Azazel is gone. Ash swallows thickly, and grips his bedsheets with a pale hand.

Ash knew that this would happen, that he would finally be killed, whether it would be by the kids at school, or by some unseen force. Ash could pretend that this painfully beautiful, this inhuman creature, hadn’t appeared in his room and told him so. He could pretend dying didn't interest him; after all, pretending is what he's best at, is it not?

Ash shakes his head vigorously. He's tired of pretending, of pretending his lifeless home doesn't hurt him, that his parent's cold behavior doesn't stab him through the chest at every Sunday dinner.

Ash could pretend once more, but for once, he chooses not to. How can he, when he knows he's a part of something so much bigger, just as he knows everything else?

Ash sets his jaw and lifts himself off his bed, going into his parent's empty room to take his father's duffel bag.

-

Azazel smiles to himself. He holds up the book he stole from Ash’s shelf, and sets it on his desk, Ash's lock of hair tucked inside it.

He sits in his chair, going over his plan one more time. He talks out loud, for only his books and desk to hear. “It’s nice to finally have met you, Ash Murray.” He smiles again, he just can't stop now he’s finally started. “Ashy brown hair and ashy brown eyes and pale pale skin-“ Azazel laughs, “truly a fitting name.” 

Azazel taps the map held open by trinkets on his desk, and rolls Ash's name around on his tongue until it no longer sounds like a word. He glances at the mirror on his desk, watches Michael watching Ash. He hums to himself as he packs his bags, and unfurls his wings, disappearing with a flutter and a whispered prayer to unhearing Gods long departed.