Purgatory

Yeah, I’m fine. Just–really, really tired. I think I’m going to need to short circuit the house tonight. Sorry, I’m kinda bein’ a hassle. 

Mike can do it. It’s safer when Michael does it, we’ll go see him.

1. Charles hadn’t said anything when the man came in, blood in his teeth and a purpling bruise painted across his cheekbone. Easily taller than the doorframe, almost too tall to really be considered normal. He’d been dressed too warmly for the mild spring lazing it’s way to summer, a puffy overcoat that hid his arms, his whole enormous entity, all the way down to his knees. But Charles hadn’t said anything, not when the man ducked into the café’s bathroom, coming back with everything washed clear but the grimy dirt and dried dark blood under his nails, not when he wanted the table by the window, and a cup of coffee. Just coffee. Please. (Cream and sugar? Charles had asked, but the question seemed to confuse the man.) Charles hadn’t said a word as the man sat there, coffee untouched for hours, until it was almost closing and the stars had chased the sun away into its home.

The man was still staring fixedly out the dark window, as though the coming and going of patrons at the bookshop next door were some code in need of deciphering.

Charles cleared his throat, making the man startle. “We’re about to close the kitchen, did you want a fresh cup?”

“A fresh–oh. No, I don’t–don’t like the way it tastes.”

“Did you want to order something else?”

“No, no, it’s just–people are always ordering coffee. I thought it must taste…not like this.”

Charles was startled into laughing, soft and not at all mocking, and was gratified to see a tentative smile cross the strange man’s face. “That might just be Lainey’s day-old roast. You probably ought to try a latte or something before handing down the final verdict,” Charles told him, smiling.

The man had kind eyes. Unusual for that deep endless shade of cold blue. “I will.”

Charles looked at him for a second, making up his mind and set the coffee pot down on the table. Sliding into the booth across from the man, he folded his hands together, chewing the inside of his cheek before finally speaking. “Look, it’s none of my business, but–if you’re in some trouble, I got a friend at the police station – a couple actually. I’d be happy to call them for you. Whatever you need.”

There was a flash of panic across the stranger’s face, answering so quickly they nearly upended their coffee with the gesture. “No, I–I don’t have any family,” he said carefully, looking at some point over Charles’s shoulder. The kindness had melted away into a grave sadness.

“Whoever gave you those bruises–”

“I fell.”

Charles’s heart ached. “Look…”

The man frowned, his lighter than light eyes searching Charles’s face as though trying to read the thoughts behind it. “No, I really did fall,” he insisted, the honesty in his irises almost making Charles believe it.

“Okay. Okay, just–I’m putting it out there. You should know there are options, you don’t have to stay.” Charles sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get much farther with the stranger. But god did he want to help him. Offering a kind smile he motioned with his chin over his shoulder, “I’ve got to get the dishwasher running, so…don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll walk out with you.” 

Though the man nodded his consent, when Charles came back to the table, the untouched coffee was still there, being used as a paper weight. Underneath laid a twenty dollar bill with its edges just slightly singed, still so warm to the touch.

2. “You know, I never got your name,” Charles said with his usually bright smile, sliding into the same booth across from the same stranger with the same lighter than light eyes. It had been two weeks and the bruises on the man’s face were healing, though he still wore that enormous coat. Why was he wearing that enormous ratty thing? Charles had brought him hot chocolate this time, with stale marshmallows he’d fished out of the back of the pantry as a small treat.

Hot chocolate was received much more positively than the coffee had been. The stranger had just taken the first sip of their second cup.

“Oh,” Uncertainty flickering across his face, he set down his mug on the linoleum table with a faint clatter. Outside, an 18-wheeler swung away into the night, the headlights blinding Charles through the window. “My name. Uh, Robert?”

“Robert? That’s-- nice.” So incredibly normal, it wasn’t what Charles was expecting at all.

Robert didn’t seem to take offense at his tone–but then, Charles imagined that this man wasn’t exactly one to get offended by anything. Wearing a parka in near 80 degree weather he must have gotten used to people’s reactions. “It is nice, I liked it a lot.”

Charles wondered if suggesting a nickname would offend him. Maybe Rob. Something a little less formal, a little more odd. Odd Rob. “Does it have some special meaning; is it a family name?” God he was struggling a little for conversation, but the man – Rob – he was so intriguing. Charles simply couldn’t keep away.

“No,” Robert said after a long moment of staring down at his mug of hot chocolate, tapping a lone large finger on the rim. “No, it’s just my name.”

Charles could hear Lainey in the kitchen, the clattering of dishes being stacked up beside the washer–he’d promised her it would be just a second. But Robert’s eyes were soft and gentle, and Charles didn’t want to leave, not just yet. “I’m Charles, by the way.”

“Charles!” Lainey called from the kitchen, a warning note in her voice.

Robert frowned, and he met Charles’s gaze for the first time that night. “I thought–do you not go by Wagon?”

Charles’s spine went rod stiff, as if he’d been impaled with it, blood flash freezing in his veins. “Only my best friend calls me that,” he breathed quietly, shock and the smallest thread of suspicion laced in his voice. “How did–how did you–?”

“Charles!”

“I’m coming!” Charles snapped, and Robert recoiled, almost upsetting his mug of chocolate for the second time. The look of wild panic on the man’s face, like a child who didn’t understand thunder, choked Charles off. He swallowed, and forced some gentleness into his voice before speaking, trying to catch sight of those baby blues once more. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just–how did you know? How did you know that was my nickname? Robert–”

“You should go,” Robert had wrapped his enormous arms around himself, as though retreating into the armor of his enormous coat. An enormous form three sizes too big and trying to be five sizes too small. “I don’t–you shouldn’t lose your job. Or fight with her.”

“Robert–” but Charles found he had had nothing to say, or could think of right then. It was too much, too weird. With a small shudder he nodded and turned away.

There was another singed and smoking twenty left on the table and a chickenscratched ‘I’m sorry’ scrawled on the curling receipt dotted with small dew drops. Robert’s signature at the bottom was labored and uneven, as if he’d never had to write it out before.

3. “Are you okay?” Charles asked, setting the small ceramic mug of a latte in front of Robert. It was the first time he’d seen him in the daylight, the first time since–but Charles forced himself to focus on the shock-gold blonde of Robert’s hair, the little beaming strands that caught the light. “I mean, you’re clearly a little strange, but are you okay?” That wasn’t rude wasn’t it? He hoped not.

Robert wrapped his hands around the mug of latte, seeming to take in all its heat before he answered. “I think so,” When he finally looked up at Charles, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Yes. Maybe.” Charles couldn’t think past the way his heart tinged at even the smallest smile offered.

He felt shivery all of a sudden, scrutinized maybe. Swallowing he nodded, trying not to think of how Roberts smile affected him. “Well–good. I--I have to go.”

Robert just nodded quietly.

Charles spent the rest of his shift still feeling shivery and watched, but never uncomfortable, and he never did catch Robert looking. By the time the lunch rush cleared out, the other man was gone.

Sitting in bed that night, Charles stared down at the charred edges of the three twenty-dollar bills, and one smoke-stained shimmering gold-colored feather that Robert had left with the tip. He wondered if it was on purpose. It was left half hazard, and he felt as if he was trespassing on some sort of privacy when he picked it up.

Almost absently, Charles lifted the feather to his mouth and traced his lips with the soft edge. It made him feel hot and sick and weightless, a sudden fever that made him jerk the thing away, bury it under the junk at the back of his closet swearing to never touch it again.

He fell asleep with his mouth humming, and dreamed strange dreams of humans without wings and oceans drying up beneath a blazing solstice.

.

interlude. When Charles was eight, there was a woman in his grandfather’s room. She had kind lighter than light eyes and a shock of golden hair, and she had told Charles not to be afraid. They had helped Charles’s grandfather Pavel into his best dancing shoes, the ones that hadn’t fit for years and Charles had to stand on the bed to fix the collar on the suit with the small cornflowers embroidered on the sleeves.

The woman had offered her arm like a gentleman and a lady at once, and grandpa Pavel bent to kiss Charles on the forehead. Be good, lyubov moya, breath smelling of expensive vodka, the sweetest rolls, and the strange waxy sweetness of the candles they lit in church.

Charles’s brother had come home after school and found Charles asleep on the couch, still waiting for his grandfather to return from the dance hall.

4. Charles banged into the bathroom without much thought. “Robert, did you want an extra shot this time, or–”

Robert froze. His enormous never failing coat was thrown over one of the sinks, and he had a mass of feathers clutched in one hand. But it was the wings–large enough to crowd the little bathroom, feathers bent at odd angles where they met the walls, molten gold dripping down his back. They looked almost like the bills Robert had been leaving on the table–licked by fire along the edges, smoke-stained and curling.

They disappeared behind Robert’s bare shoulders the moment he finally blinked.

“Oh shit,” Charles breathed. 

5. “God, I must have seemed so ridiculous to you,” He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “‘I fell’–and I kept talking about the Police Station–”

“No,” Robert said fiercely, though there was a hint of soft laughter in his tone. It was espresso straight today, in the flimsy Styrofoam cups no one ever bothered to use. Robert had made a face at the sticky crates in the alley behind the cafe, but Charles had promised they wouldn’t be disturbed. After that the angel was right at home. “No,” Robert repeated more insistently. “I could never--I thought you were kind. I thought–you were so good, so so good and kind. You brought me coffee.”

And then, much later, when Charles couldn’t help himself: “Were you scared, falling?”

“Not then. I was in too much pain to be afraid. But after--well, then you were there, and I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Charles didn’t need to finish his hot chocolate, he was sure he wouldn’t ever need anything to feel as warm as he did then.

.

epilogue. They were walking along the graveled edge of the park, passing a large cappuccino between them, the coffee sleeve crackling softly between every exchange. Robert’s mouth left behind a faint aftertaste of metal along the plastic, a pang of that hot sickness Charles remembered well. (The single feather was still buried somewhere at the back of his closet, waiting for Charles to gather the courage to throw it out, or tell Robert–but Charles squirmed away from the thought.) Funny enough though, he didn’t mind it too much.

Tilting his head back and squinting up at the gathering dusk, Charles spoke quietly, “What was it like?”

“What was what like?” Robert returned amicably. His wings made faint rustling noises against the long grass, a soft murmuring of sound that sat in Charles’s chest along with his heartbeat.

“Heaven.”

Robert was quiet so long that Charles straightened and glanced over, trying to read Robert’s blank face, afraid he’d finally asked the wrong question. “I’m sorry—you- you don’t have to answer.”

“It was like this, mostly,” Robert’s answer came after a moment. He was also staring up at the darkening sky, and when a passing car’s headlights bathed them in bright light, Robert seeming to truly glow for just a second, and  Charles saw his pupils contract into slits, like a cat’s. “Like this, but more–everything. Brighter, warmer. More beautiful. There’s more laughter, and more dancing. Even the sadness –it is cleansing, and once it is done, it is done forever. It is wonderful.” But still, there was something in his eyes, an ache Charles feared would never go away.

“Why leave?”

Tucking hands that trembled every few moments into his pockets, the last bit of his sanity on stretched across the thin wires of spindly fingers, Cae's eyes swept over the room. Men he'd seen passing through his house on every occasion. Who'd sat at his dinner table more than once, who kissed his mother on the cheek when they saw her. Who were now circled around what would soon be a corpse strung by his wrists, his brother the ring leader having orchestrated every move and crescendo of their malicious jeering cries.

The leaf had gone shiny from where he’d been absently rubbing it between his index finger and thumb for the better part of the past half hour. With his mind playing leapfrog from here to there, it never settled on a single thought long enough to let it gather the hot air it needed to really capture his full attention, leaving bloodshot eyes dull and unfocused as they stared unseeing through the mouth of the forest. He wouldn't cry. They’d wonder where he was – Sekani would anyway. And Atum. Maybe Charles? Boys with magic dripping from their fingers and tongues, who could charm bewitch and entrance with just the slightest of glances. Something rustled the leaves to his left and the boy just licked his lips slowly, tongue smoothing over the cracked canyons before he exhaled every ounce of restless exhaustion and worry, leaning further into the rough back at his spine. They could wait a little longer.

Crumpled at his feet was a letter from home. Though it was written on the same deliciously creamy stationary as the ones he kept saved under his mattress in the tower, though it was embossed with his fathers initials and gleaming with his mothers elegant handwriting, he never wanted to read this letter again.

Jax,

Miss you already. Sadie says hi and you smell like a toad, dad sends you and Sekani lots of hugs. He finally stopped sniffling around here. We just wanted to tell you how proud we are of you, and how excited. I remember how it was when I went away and started school, that rush of magic as I learned how to really use my wand. I wish I could be there to see your face and watch you thrive as you always do. I know you started school last year, but that never really counts does it? Simple spells you could do in your sleep! Now the real magic starts, babe. Get ready, have fun! Kick everyone's butt. We'll send another letter soon.

Love you more than a million M&M's -Mom  

Swallowing roughly, his eyes watered when the lozenge of bile plastered to the base of his throat wouldn't budge, Jax trying to loosen it with a forced cough that did nothing more than startle a few ravens a couple branches over. He was barely a blimp on the forbidden forest floor, twelve year old body not even large enough to truly disturb a clear path in his impromptu escape, his books still scattered behind him along with him robes. He just -- couldn't stand to be in that transfiguration room. With Shaw and every other Slytherin and Ravenclaws eyes boring into him while he failed yet again to turn his damn matchstick into a shiny new needle.

Think he's a squib and they don't know?

I didn't know they were letting just anyone into Ravenclaw these days.

It wasn't like he couldn't hear them. Whispered with every intention of being quiet as a space shuttle launch and punctuated with sneers and snickers that felt like sticky wet tongues against his ears. It wasn't as if those same words hadn't been repeating in his own head a dozen time in the past year and a half either.

First years could make feathers fly and sparks dance by Christmas. Jaxson had just barely caused a ripple of a breeze through the soft plumes at Easter, the first sparks shooting of his Unicorn and Birch-wood a week before classes ended. He could see the concern etched in his professors faces, the worry in their eyes as they watched him fall further and further behind and loose interest in understanding it all. There was nothing to understand.

There was no book to checkout from the library, no magic incredible tome Madame Pince could offer him with answers as to why his magic ebbed instead of flowed. So he checked out others instead. Gorged himself on the magic of the ancients and foreigners, filled himself with the magic that wasn't Magical Herbs and Fungi or Standard Book of Spells versions One through Seven. But it wasn't enough, and how could it? When his mother could charm the kitchen sink into washing her pots and pans with merely a blink and his best friend hand a wand that seemed to read his thoughts before they could be thought.

Think he's a squib?

Jax slammed his head back against the tree in a sudden fit of white hot anger, the frustrated yell turning into a sharp cry of pain half way through as a firework show of stars blossomed behind clenched lids. Only making it worse by digging his knees into his sockets, his inhale was molasses into his lungs, broken up by the smallest hitches that wouldn't allow themselves to be sobs, that he wouldn't allow to be sobs, just quiets hiccups of breath that tasted like moist dirt and made his chest ache.

The soft tickle a bead of sweat crawling down his skin should have made him get up but he couldn't move just yet, the rhythmic throb in the back of his head syncing up in time with his not-sob hitches in breath. He knew it wasn't sweat. Knew before he reached up and the paleness of his fingers had returned stained scarlet, the same scarlet his sisters had spilled after a wayward elbow had accidentally collided with her nose. But he still didn't move. It could wait.

It could wait until the not-sobs stopped, his cheeks still bone dry though the flesh on his neck had become slick as ice with his own blood, staining the shirt across his shoulders a cape of twisted victory. He was not weak, he did not cry.