Paradise Made

Fourteen: Xavier Micheals

Getting to my feet, I lifted Pen slowly up next to me, hoping he would begin to take his own weight. He was saying something, his lips barely moving.

I leaned in closer. “What is it?”

“Thank you,” he whispered, and with that his body went totally limp.

Penemue was asleep.

I carried him out of the back door of the library. He wasn't that heavy, that wasn't the problem. The problem came from the fact that I saw an agents in every shadow I passed, that every student, walking out of view, had the potential to be possessed. There were two sides to this war, and I knew that both of them would happily rip Pen to shreds, now that he couldn't defend himself.

I'd debated leaving him hidden in the library, but had decided against it. It was too public. I needed to hide him until he could get his strength back. I couldn't take him to my dorm, and Clay. I had no idea how the Templar's would feel about a fallen angel, but from the way Pen had talked about them earlier, I guessed not positively.

After hiding back in the library, until the crowd of civilians and firefighters had disbursed, I came up with a solution. I was taking him to Sara and Jessie's room. Both of the girls were elsewhere, and that—I hoped—was the last place people would look. It was a struggle getting him up there without being seen. We definitely would have arisen suspicion with me carrying what looked like a dead body. I did manage it, though I had to wait until the halls were completely empty. As a consequence, I was up almost as late as I had been the night before.

By the time I reached Sara's floor I was panting. Letting Pen down, from where I'd been holding him bridal style, I leaned heavily against the wall. His head hung limp, his limbs as well. He had not stirred once since passing out in the library. Completely and utterly exhausted, I began to drag him down the hall, holding him under the armpits. God must not have hated Pen as much as he thought, for it was a miracle that no one opened their doors.

I left him on Jessie's bed, as Sara's was still flipped over. Then I was at a loss for what to do. He was breathing. He looked fairly peaceful. I felt useless. As not to worry Clay, who has called me several times, I decided to head back to rez. Before leaving I debated whether or not to leave a note, but decided against it. Pen's predicament, when he woke up, would be pretty self explanatory.

Standing at the door, I stopped to look at him. And that stupid, irrational part of me couldn't help but remind me how attractive he looked. If he wasn't alright, if saving those stupid books had been too much for him, I didn't know what I'd do. How had I gotten so attached, so quickly?

As bad as Sara and Pen made me look, it was possible for me to have close friends I didn't want to bang. Clay, for example. He was my best friend, and someone with which I slept and lived in very close quarters with. But I thought of him in no way other than platonically. He knew that. We'd talked about it. With Clay, there was no confusions or complications. Penemue, Sara, I was starting to see a pattern. I was giving a whole new meaning to loving God. Realizing my exhaustion had began to corrode my thoughts, I resisted the overwhelming urge to hit myself in the face with a door.

When I pushed into my dorm room, a little bit after three, Clay was still awake, watching a movie. On hearing me enter he jumped to his feet.

“What the fuck?”

I quickly closed the door.

“Where the hell did you go?” he grabbed me by the front of the shirt but quickly let go. “I'd thought you'd caught on fire and died or something, or gotten kidnapped by the agents, or killed by a demon.”

“Alright,” I soothed, “Calm down. I'm fine. Seriously.”

“You know the shit that's going on. You can't just go running off like that and not answer my texts.”

“I'm sorry,” I apologized, genuinely. “I'm sorry I kept you up.”

Clay, who was obviously exhausted, said, “fuck you, Xavier,” then started getting ready for bed almost instantly.

And that was all there was. There were no questions, no passive aggressive silent treatment. For that, I would be eternally grateful to Clay.

In the morning he took off to pick his uncle up from the airport, and I went back to check on Pen. When I stepped into the room I hoped, more than anything, to see the bed empty, but the blond haired boy still lay there, in the same place that I'd left him.

I smoked a joint out the window of Sara's dorm room then went to class high. I hated myself for acting like this, for throwing away the chance I'd been given, but with the end of the world looming I found myself not caring.

Clay invited me, over text, to have lunch with him and his family, and I accepted. Leaving class, I noticed an unfamiliar man standing at the bottom of the building steps. That wouldn't have been notable except for the fact that he was starting directly at me, intensely, without blinking. He wasn't white, but I couldn't identify from looking at him what his background was. His eyes were coal black, and his hair a very dark shade of brown. It was shaggy, covering most of his face, like something worn by a middleschooler going through their emo faze. His posture did not inspire confidence, shoulders hunched, neck tilted forwards. He wore a leather jacket, his hands shoved deep in the pockets.

Before I could decide whether or not to confront him, he stepped out into my path. “Xavier Micheals?”

“Yes?”

He was standing a bit too close to me, so I took a step back. The way he presented himself hid it, but he was actually a bit taller than me.

“My name is Azazel and I need your help.”