Archive of Our Own

There’s a war.

He’s not sure how he knows, or why that fact is deeply set in his bones. The teen just knows that his existence isn’t as simple as it should be. That his life isn’t quite his own.

His too sharp nails tap on the metal railing outside of his new high school, pointed ears twitching as the sounds of his new peers echo and fill the ambiance. His sleek but fluffy tail flicks around as he leans against the railing, watching people go in and out of the building.

Even in the large suburbia of Overland Park, Sam has yet to meet anyone like him.

He must have been born this way.

Born into a human family, with entirely human parents, all he’s ever heard about his kind are the conspiratory whispers from his religious extended family. And no deep dive search on any forums ever brought Sam closer to an answer than some stupid creepypasta.

There’s nothing. Not one thing.

And there’s no one.

It’s…

There were sleepless nights growing up. Times he’d look in the mirror, try and shave his sharp teeth down with a nail file. Countless nights where his eyes burned from his cheap laptop’s light, every link purple.

There’s no one like him.

It’s… lonely.

But, he supposes being a demon must come with that sort of thing, right?

He doesn’t know how or why, he just knows that one summer day he realized he wasn’t like his brother or sister. That he wasn’t like his mom and dad. That there were things about him only he could see, things only he could do. And an anchor that’s deep seated in his chest that pulls him somewhere heavy and dark. Something that tugs. Something that is.

There are things about his body, about his mind, that seem ingrained into him. Like he was born knowing them, even though he’s sure he must have learned it from somewhere, right? Fundamental truths, the weight that’s deep in his chest. He calls them his holy trinity, points for the irony.

Sam Golbach is a demon.

Sam Golbach is a soldier for the war.

Sam Golbach hates angels.

What war? Who fucking knows. It just runs in his mind like a chant. It makes his fingers twitch and his lips curl to reveal sharp canines. Every time he tries to think of his existence, something seems to cloud his mind. A fog obscuring his thoughts, reminding him of what he is.

Of what he isn’t.

When he was younger, he thought there was something wrong with his head. There was no way the puffy little tail that followed him around like an annoying worm was real, even if it did hurt when he pulled it.

But it stuck. And no one mentioned it. So he didn’t either.

What was he supposed to say, anyway? That he thinks his nails are too sharp, sharp enough that they regularly used to cut his own skin? That his teeth are too pointy and he can see it in the mirror but never in pictures?

He never explained to anyone why he could see so well in the dark. Why his reflexes seemed much faster than his peers. Why his balance was much better and why he could climb higher.

Why he could do things humans couldn’t. Why there are things only he could see.

Maybe there’s still a chance there’s something wrong with his head. A small chance.

But that? The pungent smell that hit him in the face the moment he stepped foot in his high school the first day of freshman year? That has to be real.

The blond scrunches his nose, itching it with the back of his hand as the urge to sneeze threatens to make a fool of him on the first day of high school. It’s acidic, and it burns through him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand.

And no one else seems to notice it.

There is a war.

Colby thinks he knows about this war.

It’s simple, something he learned about growing up. The war against temptation and influence of the soul. How the Devil will always try to sink his claws into every person, drag them into gracelessness. He knew that God came first, that his faith was the most important thing.

For by grace, they are saved through faith. Not by themselves, not by the works of themselves, but by gift from God.

They went to church every Sunday, and he had Bible Study every Wednesday. He’s good, he’s faithful.

Which is also why he knew that he shouldn’t compare himself to God, or angels, or anything Holy—because he was meant to be a human. A worshiper.

Except…

The white wings on his back never seemed to go away.

When he was little, he would swat at them, feel how his tiny hand ran through the fluffy down, feel how with each tug something would sting. And he remembers clearly how his father had stared and said.

“What are you grabbing for, kiddo?”

And when Colby said his wings, his father just gave a light chuckle.

"You're not an angel yet Cole, and you won’t be anytime soon.”

It was confusing, because when he went to church or stared at the painting in the hallway—he saw what angels were. They looked just like humans, with big and beautiful wings. Wings that stretched above them, curled just right. Powerful. White, puffy, and wide.

Something holy.

Kind of like his.

And well, if it was in his head—how did he manage to soar onto the roof of his house?

Well, soar is an overstatement. It took him… far too long to figure out that the dead weights on his back even worked. Through the sheer power of will, they turned from fluffy little decorations into ‘big enough to knock all the crap off his bedroom walls’.

He doesn’t know if he was blessed by God. Or if he was meant to be more. He just knew he was a servant of Him, through and through. It burns within him like the holy fire anytime he goes to Church and hears the choir.

Colby Brock is an angel.

Colby Brock is a soldier for the war.

Colby Brock hates demons.

He’s never met anyone like him. And maybe he shouldn’t. He was sent here on a mission by God, right? Why else was he the only one like this? Only He knows his purpose.

Colby learned early on not to question.

The teen blinks as a paper lands on his desk, snapping him out of his thoughts. His wings are neatly tucked into his back, small and useless for now, forced underneath his slightly oversized hoodie. His backpack is on the floor, the less time it spends on his back the less cramped his wings get.

Colby slides the paper towards himself, taking a look at his new schedule. The brunette frowns, resting his head on his palm as he tries not to pout.

Great.

Sage and white vinegar. That’s what it reminds him of.

Sam shakes his head, trying to get the smell to ease, but it just makes his throat feel tighter. So he grips his backpack straps, and forces himself to move into the school.

His tail swishes uncomfortably, and he’s glad no one can see it. Because while he can try and school his face into something neutral, his tail has a mind of its own. It always had.

The teen manages to make it through the front doors.

Kids are walking around, laughing, talking, and it’s loud. The school was already much bigger than his middle school. There are clusters of kids looking at posters on the walls, teachers guiding and yelling and telling people where to go.

Sam finds his name on one of the posters, finding his advisory period room number neatly next to it.

The smell gets better in the west wing. The acidic and heavy notes in the air fizzling to something less suffocating.

The teen's leg bounces up and down, his backpack in his lap. His tail is whipping back and forth in the small gap of the desk chair. There’s something in his gut, some sort of feeling of dread and… something that reminds him of that heavy darkness he’s always felt.

His nose twitches, foot tapping against the floor in an unsteady rhythm when his advisory teacher starts handing out their schedules.

A paper lands on his desk.

First Period — P.E

Getting to the locker room is a nightmare.

The closer Sam gets to the gym, forcing his feet down the hallway closer to the center of the school, the more the air feels like a prison.

What’s happening to him?

It’s not a feeling in his chest, not really. Sam’s had anxiety attacks before, and while the first day of high school might’ve been a little daunting—Sam was actually looking forward to starting over. The blond has to swallow thickly, nearly tasting the air.

So what’s wrong?

His ears twitch, and he finds himself stuck again. He curses underneath his breath.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The minute bell sounds out, and really, he knows he’s not going to be the only freshman that’s late, but he doesn’t want to look bad in front of one of his potential new coaches. He’s not dumb, he can figure out where the gym is before the bell rings. It’s just…

Even his tail stays tucked between his legs, threatening to curl around his calf.

Something in his instincts, primal, is telling him to run. Every small movement in his peripheral is making his hair stand on end. His foot taps against the floor. His mind is telling him that something's wrong. To turn back to the west wing where it’s safe. To hide. To ready his claws. And that cloying smell of dried sage and white vinegar makes his head spin.

His world is brighter and narrower, darker and vast all at the same time.

He can’t run. There’s nothing to run from.

What’s wrong? Sam sucks his teeth, feeling his fangs cut into his skin, and forces himself to move forward.

There’s only one way to find out what’s causing this. That and he kinda has no choice but to go to class, the last thing he needs is a call home on his first day.

The bell rings.

The blond shoves his way into the boy’s locker room, finding the air easier to breath this far deep into the athletics wing.

The room is a chaotic blur of slamming metal doors and older guys rushing to change into their gym shorts as the newer students try and unlock their new lockers. There’s a posted sheet of names and lockers on the wall. Sam doesn’t even move toward one. He just stands near the back, catching his breath.

A few boys his age or a few years older walk by him without giving him a glance, the demon’s tail swishing like a cat’s, narrowly avoiding hitting people’s legs. Not like they’d notice anyway, even if Sam would.

“Alright, let’s go! Out on the gym floor, everyone out!” The coach barks, clapping his hands loudly.

The remaining cluster of boys hurry through the heavy double doors, their voices fading into the vast echo of the gym. The doors swing shut.

And Sam’s left in the silence.

Colby’s dragging his feet.

He really, really, did not want to have gym first period. Or at all really. Crap, his wings are going to be aching all day. The teen’s backpack is only slung over one shoulder, and he pretends to be lost for the majority of passing period.

But he can’t be lost forever, and he’s quickly ushered along to the correct hallway by a teacher he hopes he never sees again.

Colby sighs, and reluctantly makes his way down the hallway. But then there's a sharp smell that slices through the air, making the brunette freeze. Something like sulfur and burnt copper, and it almost coats his tongue. A fire? On the first day?

The brunette looks around, sharp eyes trying to see if anyone else can smell that suffocating scent. But not even the other dawdlers seem to notice or care.

Colby would love for there to be a reason to not go to gym. A fire on the first day? A slightly amused smirk graces his lips for only a second before it drops into a frown. No. That’s a bad thing to think.

He shakes his head, and continues forward.

The teen finds the gym, already hearing chattering and sneakers squeaking. The coach is loudly explaining something or other to the kids on the bleachers, and barely cares to glance at Colby, just gesturing to another door. The locker room.

Thank goodness he didn’t get yelled at for being late on his first day. That would be way too freaking embarrassing.

The smell is worse by the door. Colby’s shadowed in the small hallway that leads to the locker room and houses the water fountains, hand reaching out to turn the door handle. Something cold washes through him, icy and hot at the same time. It rushes from his head to his toes.

Colby forces himself to swallow, finding that his body is tense. And it’s like he can feel a heat emanating from behind the door.

It feels wrong. It feels unholy.

His wings involuntarily twitch in his hoodie, like they’re itching to burst free.

What’s… what’s on the other side of the door?

Colby pushes the heavy door open and steps into the locker room.

Something… explodes.

Run. Run. Run.

That all Sam’s mind screamed before that smell from before caught up to him. Then it snatched the air out of his lungs. Stole his vision, his breath.

The blond gasps out, feeling a weight on his chest, his clawed fingers grasp onto something, tearing through fabric as he tries to push the weight off of him. The air must have been knocked out of his lungs, his mind supplies. He’s felt this before, but not with that burning feeling.

The teen takes in another gasping breath, finally sucking in air that seemed to return his vision slowly.

And above him there is white. Blue and white.

Blazing blue eyes glare down at him through brunette hair. Who’s—what is this? A guy–

Sam involuntarily growls, it’s weak and comes from his chest. He’s never done that before. What the fuck? What’s happening? It makes the other boy’s grip on him tighten, pushing him onto the concrete floor harder.

The blond’s lips peel back to reveal his canines, his eyes flicking around the other boy’s form.

—with big, white wings, curling in an encasing them both.

Wings.

His claws sink in deeper, and it burns where small droplets of blood meet his skin. Fuck, he can’t breathe.

Sam’s legs kick out wildly, and he manages to land something. He hits the guy, apparently somewhere that makes him lose his grip. The demon scrambles back, nails scraping the floor, and the back of his head hits painfully against a metal locker with a thud.

The other boy stands tall before him, wings spanning the whole length of the wood benches next to him, individually. His pupils are dark, large, and all Sam can do is stare into them.

“Wh-what—” Sam croaks out. “What are—”

An angel.

The dark anchor makes something hot run through his veins.

That’s an angel.

There was exactly one time his wings ever did something on their own.

He fell.

His brain hadn't even registered that he was in danger before his body made a choice for him.

And suddenly his tank top was torn, ripped. And instead of hitting the ground, a burst of air kicked up all the leaves. Only his knees getting scraped as he nearly twisted his ankle catching himself on the dirt.

When his mind caught up, he could see his shadow.

Two large wings had appeared behind him—larger than he’s ever seen—a couple of white feathers floating along in the air. One wing aching, its form slightly bent from hitting the tree.

They were grander than they’d ever been before, large and beautiful just like the paintings. But, in all the depictions and readings he’s done of angels, they’ve never talked about the wings being able to expand like his.

When his mind catches up this time, there’s something warm and squirming underneath him. His arm burns, like his skin was on fire.

Colby can feel his chest contract and expand. He’s kneeling, a knee on uneven ground. One hand is flat against someone’s chest, holding them down. His other hand is almost behind back, as if reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have.

Something whips against one of his legs wildly.

What?

Then the air is knocked out of his lungs, making him curl and stumble back. The back of his legs hits one of the locker room benches, and he catches himself with one hand before he falls over.

His wings, large and expanded, puff out again. His hoodie is entirely ridden up in the back. Feathers fall slowly all over the room.

What happened?

Colby follows a feather down, down, down.

It lands in front of a pair of shoes.

The teen blinks. One the floor in front of him is a boy his age—

No, not a boy.

For a moment, there’s a sense of clarity. This was it, wasn’t it? What he was sent for. Why he’s the way he is.

A demon.

A demon?

A sleek, dark tail is whipping wildly against the floor behind the blond. Through the shadows made by his wings, Colby can clearly see a pair of pointed ears twitching in tandem with a low, snarl that the teen can swear he feels in his bones.

The demon says something, its voice nearly drowned out by the blood roaring in his ears. Colby tilts his head.

What are you? The brunette’s fingers twitch as if to curl around something he doesn’t have.

“An angel.” He replies simply. The demon slides its legs closer to its chest, its pupils are in thin slits, making its eyes look incredibly blue.

“And you’re a demon.” Colby can’t help but say. The blond on the floor hugs its legs to its chest, resting its chin on its knees as it keeps its head bowed but gaze locked onto the angel.

“You’re like me.” It says, breathless.

The words punch through Colby, and that fire, a holy fire flares within him. How dare this thing imply he’s anything like it.

“I’m nothing like you,” he spits. The demon flinches back, tail twirling around its leg, but it seems to hold its ground. Something feels wrong. Even though his body is telling him that thing… the person in front of him is a threat, for a second Colby swears he saw a kid his age. Cowering in fear. Because of him.

But… It's a demon. It’s the exact thing that Colby knows is the enemy. The true enemy. Influencing people into temptation to stray from the Lord. Infecting minds, making them go against the Lord, fight for the enemy.

The brunette’s wings slowly fall, drooping to the ground. They sweep against the floor before they’re tucked behind his back, still in their largest form.

What is he supposed to do?

Colby goes to step back, but his wings puff in time with a thought so loud he almost thinks he heard it aloud.

Kill it.

His body steps forward, following the command. The fire is so strong it's icy. His right hand feels heavy, and his mind goes cold. Too cold.

“No.” Colby gasps out, taking a few steps back and falling onto the bench. Kill it? He doesn’t—is that really what He wants?

Why would He want that, why would God—?

Why would He demand death?

The angel boy scrambles away from Sam, nearly falling over. And it’s taking everything in Sam’s will power to not swipe his claws across the angel’s exposed neck.

The blond shakes silently, holding tightly to his legs so he doesn’t get up.

Kill it.

The command rings like a gunshot in his mind.

Sam bites his lip, fang sinking in and causing him to bleed. He grips his own legs, anchoring himself to the floor so he doesn't move. Why the hell would he do that?

His tail thumps angrily against his ankle. He doesn’t want to do that.

The familiar sting of a cut lip grounds him, and his clawed fingers grip tightly to his jeans. It hurts, staying still like this. He shudders, taking a deep breath.

He found someone like him, and well, he’s not entirely the same, but Sam doesn’t think it matters. That boy in front of him? He can see him. Sam knows. He knows because he saw his pupil blown eyes flicker across his form, staring at his ears. At his tail. He just found someone else. Someone who can actually see him.

He’s different. His skin burns to the touch. His smell coats Sam’s lungs and takes his breath away.

And his wings. The wings that make him want to hiss. Want to run. Want to fight back. Want to—

No. That’s just not fucking happening.

That darkness that always seemed to wash up, like the tide on a full moon, engulfs his body. It pulses through his veins. His tongue runs along his sharp canines.

Sam wonders what he looks like. What that boy sees when he looks at him.

Because he sees…

There’s a sharp click that makes both teens startle and turn towards the noise. Heavy footsteps adorned with the classic sound of a teacher’s lanyard jingling as the door to the locker room swings open.

With a short ‘poof’, the angel boy’s wings seem to shrink, and his hoodie flops down as he twists around to face their coach. Not exactly covering the two lumps of feathers on his back, but it's not like their coach can see them. The boy then sidesteps, turning slightly, eyeing Sam from out of the corner of his eye like he can’t keep his back turned to him.

“Boys!” The man’s voice is far too loud for the empty room. “Get out here, or you will be marked absent on your first day.” Then the man pauses, taking in Sam’s curled up form on the ground.

Their coach narrows his eyes. “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing sir.” The angel is quick to say. The man looks at Sam for any sort of disagreement.

“We were both late,” Sam adds. “Nothing uh, nothing’s happening. Sorry Coach.”

The man just sighs, crossing his arms. "Right. Get moving. Don’t make your first day your worst day.”

“Yes sir.”“Got it, Coach.”

It lied for him. Colby can’t keep his eyes off the blond demon in the corner, barely caring that the locker room door has slammed shut with the exit of his P.E teacher. Of course it lied. It's a creature of deception.

It could have told the truth, the truth that Colby’s not even sure of. Just, the moment the smell of the demon hit him full force, his wings exploded outward and then it was on its back on the ground beneath him. Where it should be…

There’s the cold fire again.

Is that really… what He wants?

With slits for pupils, it stared up at him like some kind of animal, baring its teeth. Its claws scratched at his arm, and there’s no doubt there’s some deep and bleeding marks on his skin. The picture of sin.

The angel chooses to ignore the thing for now, even as his eyes never stray. He exhales sharply as he tucks his wings back under his hoodie.

The demon’s more relaxed now, leaning back against a locker, knees no longer tucked to its chest as it watches Colby move around. It’s tail isn’t rapidly moving anymore, instead it’s lazily wiping against the floor.

It’s tail is really… fluffy. Colby frowns. He doesn’t remember anything ever describing their tails as fluffy.

The teen grips his hoodie sleeves, doing everything he can to go against the urge to step forward. Instead, Colby secures his backpack in his new locker, and gives the blond demon one more look. Then he turns his back to it, feeling his wings puff underneath his hoodie as a shock of wrong strikes through him as he leaves the locker room.

Sulfur remains present, like the fog in early fall.

Even as Colby walks towards the complete opposite end of the gym, sitting at the highest point of the bleachers he can, there’s a buzzing in his head that keeps him focused on the dark hallway.

Where the demon is.

And no one knows it’s there. Not even their teacher, who looked right at it. Who stood mere feet away from it.

That same teacher is droning on and on about something, but the only thing Colby can hear is the boys locker room’s door opening. The teen watches as the blond demon makes its way towards the bleachers. It pauses right at the edge, then sits on the spot closest to the door.

Colby lightly brushes his fingers over the stinging wounds covered by his hoodie sleeve. The touch of that thing on him felt wrong. It felt like liquid metal was being poured onto his skin.

The war was meant to be spiritual. That’s why his spiritual relationship with the Lord was so important. The Devil would try and seep into his mind, change the way he thinks. And demons… he’s heard stories of them before. He’s never doubted them, not really.

There’s a story his mother always tells.

Sometime when he was a toddler, before he was introduced to the idea of the Holy Spirit and the enemy—his mother told him he had come to her afraid.

He had seen something scary in his parent’s bedroom closet. Now, Colby doesn’t remember this, but she said he described it having horns, a tail, and glowing red eyes.

That blond demon looked nothing like that cartoonish description. And, well, he’s read the Bible. For the most part. And nothing in there actually ever described demons physically, never really made them real.

But he’s an angel, and he’s real.

Not for the first time, Colby feels a sense of unease. A sense of the need to question Him. No, no, he can pray. Ask for guidance. Maybe He’ll answer this time.

Even though he knows what his body was going to do.

Spiritual warfare is supposed to happen in the quiet spaces of the heart. It’s supposed to be a choice between lying or telling the truth, between skipping youth group or going. It’s not meant to be the feeling of his blood being on fire, not meant to be a violent urge.

Colby stares down at the lower bleachers, watching the back of the blond's head. The demon looks so small from up here. And if Colby didn’t know better, it would almost look human. Just like any of the other kids in his class.

Why him? Colby thinks, a sudden, frantic weight pressing on his chest. Why here?

He silently clasps his hands in his lap, feeling the comforting slide of his palms. The teen slightly bows his head, eyes looking at the people around him before they finally land at the ground far below.

With eyes half lidded, and silent words mouthed by his lips, he reaches out.

But the holy fire in his chest doesn’t simmer down into a peaceful warmth. It stays sharp, heavy, and demanding.

Sam’s lip stings.

Every time his tongue brushes against the small cut on his mouth, the taste of his own blood grounds him. It pulls him out of the suffocating haze that coats the gym. He sits on the lowest tier of the bleachers, with elbows resting on his knees, staring intently at his shoes.

His tail is flopped over the edge. Unmoving except for the occasional uncomfortable twitch.

He can feel eyes on him.

Sam doesn't need to look up to know exactly who it is. High up on the top row, far away from the rest of the freshman class, the brunette boy is staring down at him. Even with the distance between them, Sam can still taste the faint, lingering scent of white vinegar and sage in the back of his throat. It makes his stomach churn.

But beneath the fear and the lingering adrenaline, there is a frantic, dizzying pulse in his veins.

He saw me.

The thought loops in Sam’s mind, replaying with the memory of being slammed onto the concrete floor.

He knew it wasn’t in his head.

For years, Sam had always assumed there was nothing on Earth like him. No ghost stories or personal testimonies ever got all the details right, and not a singular internet post ever claimed to be something like him.

But that boy—that angel—had looked right at his pointed ears. Had pinned him down because of his tail, because of what he is. He hadn't looked past Sam the way their coach did, or the way his own parents did when he was little and trying so hard to understand.

An angel.

Sam suppresses a low, involuntary hiss, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans until his sharp nails threaten to tear the fabric. The dark anchor in his chest thumps against his ribs like a drum, practically begging him to turn around, to bare his fangs, to tear into the pristine white feathers that had encased them both in the locker room.

The pure, instinctual hatred is terrifying. Sam doesn't want to hate him. He doesn't even know him.

He… really wants to get to know him.

Their coach blows his whistle, piercing through the ambient noise of the gym. Sam almost flinches. The sharp sound shatters his focus, and the sudden movement of the students around him forces him to stand with the rest of the class.

He doesn't look back up at the top of bleachers as he files into the locker room to grab his backpack. Sam keeps his head down, trying to ignore the way the dark, heavy pulling in his chest seems to anchor itself directly to the boy walking a few paces behind him.

It makes his skin crawl. Reminding him that he’s not alone.

That feeling stays for the majority of the day.

Sam practically floats through his classes, and thank god they’re barely doing introductions because he’s totally not with it.

He’s on edge, and anytime he sees anything remotely brighter than the tan bricks of the school his eyes snap to it. Every passing period, his tail refuses to fall into its normal bounce, instead it stays snug to his body as his ears twitch and rotate.

It’s like the two of them are tethered.

The demon makes his way to his last class. Something his dad forced him to be in. He’s just glad he got to skip band camp last summer—even though that didn’t get him out of his lessons.

Sam’s chest does that thing again.

Fuck. His eyes sharpen. Dried sage fills his lungs.

It’s okay, that guy must be in his class. That’s all. The teen steps into the band room, the chaotic racket of brass instruments tuning and hitting him like a wall of sound.

He navigates through the maze of metal music stands, looking for a seat in the woodwinds section.

Angel.

Sam’s eyes snap across the tiered rows of chairs. Sitting there in the same section, with a clarinet case in front of him—is the angel.

The brunette doesn't look at him, keeping his focus entirely on twisting a reed onto his mouthpiece, his knuckles white against the black. But the rigid, unnatural posture of his shoulders under his hoodie tells Sam everything he needs to know. He knows Sam is here. He’s pretending he isn’t, but he knows.

Sam swallows the bitter taste in his mouth and drags his feet toward an empty chair a few seats down.

He almost clumsily sets down his saxophone case, clicking the latch open. His too sharp nails scrape against the plastic, adding another dozen scratches to the material.

While the band director stands on his podium, shouting over the chaotic, screeching din of fifty freshmen trying to tune, Sam just stares at the angel boy. His slightly hunched over shoulders, and the obvious bump in the back of his hoodie only he can see.

When they start playing a simple warm up scale, Sam can barely get enough air into his lungs to produce a clean sound. His sax notes are breathy, cracked, and completely off key. A few seats down, the angel’s clarinet keeps squeaking—a sharp, piercing sound that makes the blond’s pointed ears flatten against his skull.

They are entirely out of tune with everyone else.

By the time the final bell of the day rings, Sam is already packing his sax away before the echo of the bell even dies out. He shoves his way out of the double doors of the band room first, he needs air. Real air.

Not the suffocating grace that follows the angel around like a perfume.

The humid afternoon air of Kansas does nothing to clear the heavy cloud of sulfur from Colby’s lungs.

He walks out of the heavy glass exit doors of the high school faster than he normally would’ve. Even if he would have normally been glad the day was over, everything feels much lighter now that he’s outside.

Now that he’s no longer trapped with that thing—even though his mind still tells him to do it.

Kill it.

Around him, hundreds of teenagers are laughing, shouting, and rushing toward the parking lot or the waiting school buses, entirely oblivious. Colby sticks to the walls, an instinct, making sure at least one side of him is covered.

He wants to go home, lock his bedroom door, and pray until the violent icy urge to hurt leaves his limbs.

A shadow cuts off the sunlight on the pavement in front of him.

Demon.

Colby freezes. His head snaps up, his eyes widening.

Standing right in his path, right before the corner to the other buses, is the blond demon. Up close, the acidic smell of copper and sulfur spikes so sharply that Colby has to force himself not to sneeze. The sun hits the demon’s face, catching the unnatural shape of its pupils and the slight, nervous twitch of its pointed ears.

The angel’s shoulders instantly tense under his hoodie, his wings expanding a fraction of an inch against his back, itching to burst through the fabric.

What does it want?

Every instinct he possesses tells him to strike. To get rid of it. To protect from damnation.

But the demon doesn't reach for him. It doesn't bare its fangs. Its hands are buried deep in its own pockets, its shoulders hunched in a defensive posture that looks entirely too human.

“We…” The thing starts, shifting on its feet. “We should talk. Tomorrow, before school? Like, outside or something maybe.”

Colby stares at him, his throat completely dry. The demon’s tail swishes lightly, low to the ground. His mind commands him to reject the creature, to speak words of righteousness, or to simply turn around and walk away from the sin.

Yet, looking at the blond's chewed, bloody lip, Colby can't force a single word past his teeth.

The silence stretches between them. Taut and fragile.

The brunette’s fingers twitch as he deliberately fights the physical urge to move forward. He doesn't say yes. He doesn't say no.

Instead, Colby forces his legs to move, taking a sharp step to the side. He brushes past the blond demon, their hoodie sleeves brushing. It sends a jolt of static electricity through his scratched arm, making him walk faster.

He doesn't look back. He forces himself into the sea of ordinary students, heart hammering against his ribs. Mind completely reeling from the fact that the enemy has a name he doesn’t know and a face that’s too human.

You’re like me.

Sam doesn’t look back when the angel brushes past him. But his tail flicks in frustration. He watches the angel’s shadow disappear around the corner behind him.

That brief touch nearly makes him growl again. He brings a hand out of his pocket, rubbing at his arm where the contact had sparked. The demon sighs, letting his shoulders drop.

Sam digs his nails into his palms, a small, humorless smirk twisting the corner of his bleeding lip.

He still doesn't know what the war is. He doesn't know why his bones are demanding a body count, or what kind of cosmic joke put them both in the exact same freshman gym and band class. But for the first time in his life, Sam isn't digging through dead internet forums for a ghost story.

He doesn't have to look for answers anymore. He knows exactly where to find him.

And the war sings in the both of them.