Irreversible changes
The headache only got worse the further he walked into town, a perpetual scowl on his face. It didn’t make him any friends along the way. He fully expected to get jumped, but it took physically running into a group of three humans for anything to happen. They’d rounded the corner just as Nathaniel had approached it; the lack of foresight made them collide. Nathaniel ran into one of them, causing him to accidentally shove his friend. The first guy then stumbled against the third guy, while the second guy shoved Nathaniel back. Both of his hands fisted the second guy’s shirtfront and tossed him out onto the street, where a horse almost ran him over. That put the other two on edge, matching the adrenaline that coursed through Nathaniel’s veins. One of them lunged at him so unexpectedly that he barely dodged a punch to the face.
It quickly became evident that none of these people had any real combat training and were just trying their best to hurt him. There was no communication between them, which made it incredibly easy for Nathaniel to pin them against each other. A quick dodge and a smart shove usually did the trick. It was almost fun puppeteering those idiots around. His fist was knuckles-deep into one of their ribs when he caught a glimpse of metal off to his right, where the third guy was. Very quickly, he used one of them as a shield, making the third guy stab his own friend. It scared the other one, who started to scream just as loudly as the victim. Every passerby scrambled right then, disinterested in being part of this.
Nathaniel thought the knife-wielder would back off after stabbing one of his own, but the man only became more enraged, pushing the victim out of the way for a duel. He was fast and lunged at Nathaniel before he could reach for the letter opener, but a quick sidestep avoided any harm. A hand grabbed the man’s forearm, twisting his wrist for disarmament. Holding onto that arm, Nathaniel brought it behind the man’s back and shoved him against the wall, arm secured tightly in both of his hands. The loud huffing and the angry groans let him know he’d just made this man even more livid. As the thought occurred, he managed to dodge a headbutt. Off to the right, he could see the uninjured man approach. Holding the stare, pulled on the third guy’s arm until it popped, making him scream. That dissuaded the uninjured man from going for the knife, and instead, ran off. With a deep breath in his lungs, Nathaniel took the knife for himself, much sharper than the letter opener.
There was a certain point along his walk when the headache became so insufferable that he was pretty much obligated to do something about it, or he’d stab himself in the skull. His forehead pounded as if two wooden stakes were being hammered into his temples, making it so difficult to concentrate that he could barely even keep his eyes open. It was the kind of migraine he hadn’t had in a very, very long time. In the middle of a medieval village, he found it hard to believe he’d find any drug stores, so when a tavern came up, he walked right in.
The stares he got promptly fell to the back of his mind as he crossed the room for the wooden bar, where a couple of rugged humans sat and drank. To the left were a few round tables, grossly populated by the majority of the patrons of this tavern, a set of stairs and a couple of doors. To the right was an upright piano where an old-looking demon played some upbeat songs. The music faltered when he walked in, but quickly picked up before any of the patrons noticed, too distracted by his presence.
He took a seat away from everyone and ordered some whiskey. The barman was a quiet demon very much like all the others; light skin, black eyes and white irises. In the heat of battle, he didn’t think he’d ever really noticed the white of their irises; his most prevalent memories of war were dipped in thick black blood like syrup slipping through his fingers.
The bar slowly resumed normalcy; humans chatted as music played. He knew they still watched him, though, as if he’d be insane enough to try anything here. Unperturbed in his corner, he downed his drink and ordered another.
The headache didn’t get any better. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes for a moment, as close to peace as he would probably get. Conversation and music flowed all around him, peppered with bursts of laughter. None of his immediate surroundings made any sound; no one was trying to sneak up on him.
Suddenly, a different sound caught his attention, rusty and sharp, coming from the front door. When he turned around, his eyes met Zea’s as naturally as they used to. Thunder struck him dead, traveling along every one of his limbs, shaking his soul loose from his body. His heart hammered, eyes big on his own face. A wide smirk sharpened Zea’s lips and they were right back on the green fields of Paradise, sitting in the shade of the fig trees, legs outstretched on the grass, hands touching in the space between them.
Zea leisurely walked over, a pompous air about him that was new, acquired during their time apart. His hair was darker and he had tattoos on his arm now, fingerless gloves over his hands, knee-high boots clacking across the floorboards. With dark wings at his sides and horns growing out of his head, he looked just like any other demon around here, except his eyes had remained angelic. His face was still unmistakable, though; the same pouty lips, the same round eyes. Nathaniel would’ve known him blind.
The closer Zea got to him, the better he could see a sharpness that hadn’t been there before, wicked, replacing the characteristic playfulness of his youthful years. The glint in his eyes was hostile now; the smirk on his face was vile. It put an uneasy feeling in Nathaniel’s stomach, eyebrows drawing together. The daze he was in slowly began to fade.
“There you are. God, you’re hard to get,” Zea joked. His voice sounded exactly as it used to, a smooth, boyish tone. It sent shivers down Nathaniel’s body.
Zea took a seat on the stool next to him, bringing the ocean floor with him, a fresh scent. The saltiness of the sand was almost palpable on Nathaniel’s tongue.
“And you look like shit too,” Zea continued. “What happened to your face?”
Nathaniel turned away, unable to hold the stare with how closely Zea watched him. A simple motion with his hand prompted the barman to top him off. Zea’s self-insertion added a second glass to his tab. So they were doing this, then.
“Blaz got the best of me and I’m not exactly in the right condition to patch myself up. Don’t act surprised.”
Zea scoffed, but Nathaniel still refused to look. The barman filled both of their glasses up to the brim.
“Where are the others?” Nathaniel asked, watching the dullness of the liquid that swirled into his glass.
Zea moved in his peripherals. “We disbanded.” The tone of his voice was strange, disingenuous. It almost made Nathaniel turn to read his face, but he ultimately decided to pick up his drink and sip it instead. “There were too many disagreements between us, too many fights; it was better that way. This place can really change a person.”
“I bet.”
Zea clicked his tongue. “You haven’t changed a bit, huh.” That comment was so genuine, so nostalgic that it felt like a stab. Without looking, he noticed the way Zea leaned forward, far into his personal space, staring straight at him. “I’ve missed you.”
The knife in his chest twisted. “Is that why you sent Blaz after me? Striker? Your whole conspiracy group?” Nathaniel snapped, loud and angry. He turned to show the scowl on his forehead, eyes squinting. Zea barely flinched. “Is that why you tried so hard to pull me down here, so you’d have some fucking company?”
Zea’s impassiveness was new, eyes half-lidded, almost bored. “What you did to us was messed up; I just wanted to give you a chance to redeem yourself. A chance you clearly decided not to take.”
“You can’t pin the results of a rigged game on me, like I even knew it was a test in the first place.” He clicked his tongue, head shaking. “That trial was a damn farce; Adila didn’t have all the facts.”
“Right, because everything that goes wrong in your perfect little world is always somebody else’s fault. How could you ever be held accountable for fucking a human and enjoying every single second of it?”
The fire that engulfed his heart burned. If he were just a little bit drunker, he would’ve grabbed Zea by the throat. “Are you jealous?” he asked, cool and detached. Zea’s black eyes squinted. They used to be brown. Honey-brown.
“Aiden signed with me, you know. He told me he’d do whatever I wanted if it’d make him a millionaire. That’s all he ever cared about.”
“In life,” Nathaniel corrected, turning to down his glass. It burned like sin. “We both know money is worthless in the afterlife, and he’s been dead for a minute.”
“He must be going crazy in a place that doesn’t value anything he did, or anything he knows. He must feel like a worthless piece of shit.”
“There’s more to him than that,” he spat out. Zea moved in his peripherals. His eyes fell on Zea’s hand over the counter, fingers touching the glass. “He’s not soulless.”
“Sounds like you know him a bit.”
“More than you think.” A quick motion and the barman topped him off again. His head pounded.
“Did you know he was only doing you because I told him to?”
Their eyes met, but he said nothing, hands closed into tight fists. Zea smirked.
“Don’t tell me you actually fell for his bullshit.”
The knife in his chest made his heart bleed. In silence, he drank. Zea laughed, joyless and full of spite.
“Oh my god, you’re such a hopeless romantic; it’s pathetic. He was with Blaz the whole time.”
“No, he wasn’t.” The counter was out of self-respect, because he particularly believed it. Zea had just confirmed his worst nightmare.
“Sure, believe whatever you want, but I followed every step of that operation; I know everything that happened. I’m just telling you about it.”
The knot around his throat tightened and his eyes stung, but he wasn’t going to do that here. Not in a million years. “Yeah, the hit you put on me, like the petty little bitch you are.” He scoffed through the pain, eyes down at the half-empty glass in his hand. “God forbid anyone disagrees with your ludicrous ideas and shows you some fucking discipline. Must’ve been impossible for you to wrap your head around it, if you even have.” Here, he threw Zea a quick sidelong glance. “Considering the lengths you’ve gone to hunt me, I take it you haven’t learned shit.”
“You ruined my life!” Zea shouted, startling everyone in the bar. Nathaniel saw the glances; causing a scene here was the stupidest thing they could do. “You deserved to fall! I came after you because I couldn’t pull you down when you pushed me off. It’s retribution. It’s justice.”
“You doomed yourself the moment you planned an attack on Blaz.”
“No, you betrayed me when you chose bootlicking over freedom. I lay with you and ran the entire plan by you just before we did it.” Zea’s voice trembled, strained. “I held your hand and kissed you and you went straight to him with every word I’d just told you. You’re disgusting.” The last sentence came out through gritted teeth, almost accompanied by a scornful spit.
“I’m loyal.”
“To yourself!” Zea rebutted, slamming a fist onto the counter. His agitation had really started to upset the patrons now. “You never gave a shit about anyone. You looked at Blaz and saw your own fucking future.”
“As if you were any different,” Nathaniel scoffed, keeping his voice low. “As if the revolution was about anything other than power. We both wanted to be him; you just never owned up to that. You couldn’t let the others know you’re a selfish piece of shit, or they’d never agree to help you, so you made it a big, noble cause and painted yourself as a fucking messiah. You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re a snake. You deserve to rot down here.”
“Maybe, and if I had to, I would’ve done it without pulling you down with me,” he confessed, drinking from his glass. Zea hadn’t even touched his yet.
“Bullshit. You fucking despise me.”
“This isn’t about you. I don’t need you to hold my hand like you need me to do for you. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because you can’t live without me. I mean, look at you. I fall, and the first thing you do is come see me. You’re obsessed.”
He caught a quick movement off the corner of his eye just before Zea was on him, hands fisting his shirtfront, pulling him off the stool. A deep, ugly scowl twisted Zea’s forehead. The crowd, startled, jumped from their seats, staring.
“You made me! You carved a hole into my life that only you could fill, and you did it on purpose, so don’t come to me and tell me straight to my fucking face that I’m weak for needing you. You turned yourself into a vital part of me so I would need you!” Zea’s words were strained, black eyes glassed over. It made Nathaniel’s heart quiver. A hard shove pushed Nathaniel back a few feet.
Some of the patrons had begun to leave.
“And you need me too!” Zea continued, kicking a stool aside as he came closer.
In a surprising turn of events, the crowd that had remained started chanting fight! fight! fight!, encouraging Zea to no end.
“Look at me and tell me you didn’t fucking miss me,” Zea hissed. “Tell me you didn’t think about me at all, that there wasn’t even a single day when you wouldn’t give everything to see me again.”
“I’m not going to fight you.”
“Then I’ll just have to kill you.”
Zea quickly lunged at him, almost catching him off guard; he was barely able to dodge in time. His spine straightened, attention honed squarely on Zea. That was probably what he wanted. The room slipped into the background, chants growing faint. The failed punch opened Zea up for an attack, so Nathaniel connected a fist to his stomach. Zea doubled over, winded and surprised. Their closeness, however, made it possible for him to turn that failed punch into a headlock, pull Nathaniel closer, and make everything worse.
Zea played dirty, like he always had, with incredibly fast moves and very quick wit, but no real force to hurt like Nathaniel could. He didn’t hurt Zea either, finding himself sparring with him just how they used to. They punched, ducked, grabbed and shoved, but no one ever aimed for the face, and no blood was drawn. It brought him back to the training grounds, when they would go up against each other and wrestle for hours, rolling on the grass, pushing each other down. It was a great show.
Zea used his wings to slip a leg in front of him and trip him, but Nathaniel grabbed him just as he was about to fall. They both crash-landed on the hardwood flooring with Zea below him, taking the brunt of it. His hands closed around Zea’s throat, but he never squeezed, lying flat on top of him, less than an inch away. He couldn’t.
The fact he could’ve killed Zea meant the match was over. Breath came in short, hot on each other’s faces. Black eyes watched him half-lidded, lips parted, full, so close to him that his chest burned. Zea moved underneath him, fixing the angle of their hips. A knee came up to touch Nathaniel on the waist, and he almost ground down on him out of instinct; the fire in his veins quickly traveled down his body. The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corners of Zea’s mouth, but it was only when a hand ran through Nathaniel’s hair that he landed a kiss on Zea’s face, eyes slipping shut, a breath halfway up his throat.
The hand in his hair grabbed it, pulling as their tongues met and their teeth tugged, Zea’s body warm under him. He’d missed this so badly that his blood sang and a shiver ran down his back, hands grabbing Zea by the face, fingers touching his neck.
For a moment, this was all that there was; the room around them was gone, the crowd didn’t exist. A hand fisted the back of his shirt, the knee by his waist pushed against it, and he broke the kiss, holding Zea’s jaw with a hand. Their eyes met, their lungs breathed each other in, and he knew he could’ve stayed here forever, crushing Zea against the floor, indulging in the warmth of his body. With his heart stuck halfway up his throat, Nathaniel got up.
The crowd no longer chanted, watching wide-eyed and shocked as he crossed for the bar, head pounding. Zea moved behind him; he listened to the shuffling of his wings and the footfalls of his boots, but decided not to look, ordering an entire bottle of whiskey instead. In a very smart move, the bartender simply gave him what he wanted and didn’t say a single word.
“Are we celebrating?” Zea asked, breathless, making his heart skip. The skin on his hands burned, but he just took the bottle, much colder than Zea’s body.
“You’re not invited.” He glanced at the barman. “Do you have any rooms upstairs?”
Quietly, the man handed him a key from under the counter, engraved with the room number.
“You’re only here because of my efforts; I should be the one throwing this party.”
“Then do it,” he spoke louder than Zea, turning to pass him a glance, “but stay the fuck away from me.”
Zea scowled, jerking his shoulder in a way that showed offense. Nathaniel failed to care.
The crowd had slowly dissipated as the two talked, no longer interested in their reunion. Nathaniel was able to cross for the stairs without shouldering anyone out of the way, bottle in hand. Zea didn’t follow.
“You’ll come crawling back; we’re inseparable,” Zea called, loud enough to make some heads turn, although most people’s interest had completely moved on by now.
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. Halfway up the stairs, Zea called out again.
“Traitor!”
Now, that elicited a response from him, albeit non-verbal: a single middle finger pointed in Zea’s direction without as much as a glance to go with it.
Technically, it was still day out, even if the clouds in the sky made it seem later than it really was, but this migraine was far too intense to put up with any longer; the very least he could do was knock himself out for a few hours. It was bound to go away at some point. So, he found the room that matched the key and locked himself in, fully expecting to only come out when he didn’t feel like shooting himself anymore.
The room was very simple; a bed and a nightstand in one corner and a door in the other, leading to what was probably a bathroom. The bed frame was made of wood and the mattress was very thin, a material he didn’t recognize, wrapped in white linen. He took a seat, opened the bottle and chugged the whole thing, slowly lying down. Once the bottle was gone, the world only existed for a brief moment before going black.
Muffled footsteps and distant conversations slowly drifted to the forefront of his mind, eyes opening up just a bit. The world felt confusing and unstable. Wooden beams interlaced up above, the inside of a roof with no ceiling. His forehead ached, although not nearly as badly as before, and his body felt kind of numb, still drunk.
Moving into a sitting position, he caught sight of one of the wings at his side. It wasn’t white anymore. A quick inspection showed some transformation taking place. His once fluffy and white feathers seemed to have melded into a crisscross of flesh that was much darker than his skin, but still see-through in this early stage. It was clear that his body was still adjusting and he’d turn into a demon much like Zea had. The realization was horrifying. He wasn’t one of them.
The bathroom mirror confirmed what he’d suspected: that splitting migraine was actually a side effect of the horns that grew out of his forehead. They sprouted from his temples and curled upwards, sharp at the end and bumpy throughout, with what seemed like a pattern of rings on the surface, a deep crimson that almost looked black. Since his wings weren’t yet done forming, he took it that the horns weren’t done, either. The gold of his hair had now turned into a rich, earthy brown, and his skin had become a redder, darker shade, but the patched up wounds on his face still shone gold, and his eyes were still baby blue. The thought they might remain unchanged quelled his heart a bit—he wasn’t all gone. A hand came up, trembling, cold, to touch one of the horns and feel the ring-like bumps. While he felt its smoothness on his fingers, he didn’t have any feeling on the horn itself.
It was clear that he’d woken up right in the middle of the transformation, which he didn’t want to watch happen. He didn’t even want it in the first place, so the less he experienced it, the better.
If he planned to black out through the entirety of this process, he’d need something much stronger than a bottle of whiskey. Even though he was fairly sure that a bathroom in a medieval tavern wouldn’t have any painkillers, he still checked the drawers under the sink. Much to his surprise, they were filled with random trash, some of which happened to be exactly what he needed. A handful of these could easily kill a human, so hopefully, it’d knock him out for a good twelve hours. If his calculations were correct, all the mutations should have completed by then.
Taking them with a handful of tap water, he lay back down. The last thought that crossed his mind was how medieval houses didn’t have any plumbing, let alone a personal bathroom, but this one did.
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