Writer's Club 2k16

The Devil and the Boy

By Deer

Once there was a boy. With hair like spun gold and eyes that held all the depth and the sadness of the deep blue sea, who wore sweaters that hung off his too thin frame and sneakers whose heels were peeling off on one side.
And he was lonely. He was engulfed in a loneliness bigger than all the planets in the universe, a loneliness that spanned across the cosmos and back, the loneliness you feel when the sea holds you in its cold embrace and fills your lungs with water.
But the boy did not want to be lonely anymore. So he pleaded with all the gods in the world. He lit incense, left dishes of honey by windowsills for errant faeries, and memorized every holy text there was. He did all this, but the gods still did not answer his pleas. Perhaps they were in a deep slumber, or too busy, or perhaps they did not care after all.
And so the boy drew up a pentagram, and lit black candles that dripped with tar, and chanted in the dead languages that filled the room with dust and the smell of forgotten secrets and broken promises.
He did all that, and his call was answered.
In a swirl of black smoke that smelled of marigolds, sulphur and cypress, the Devil himself appeared, clad in a black waistcoat and a pressed grey shirt and pants, fiddle in hand. His hair was as dark and silken as midnight, and his eyes held all the depth and the secrets of the earth.
"What is it you desire in exchange for your eternal soul?" He asked in a voice as smooth and sweet as molasses.
The boy gaped at the sight of the Devil before him in all his finery. Then he gathered his wits about him and said in a small voice, "a friend." 
And the Devils eyes widened, and perhaps even something in his cold dead heart stirred at the small broken backed figure kneeling at his feet. And so they cut their palms and shook hands and made a pact tempered in blood. And he stepped out of the pentagram and the Devil himself became the boy's friend.
And so they ate breakfast together and got coffee together and went to parties and festivals together, and in the evenings the Devil played his fiddle as the boy painted him. And it was good.
And maybe when they walked through museums about deep sea fish, the boy laced his fingers through the Devil's. And maybe when they picnicked on the shore of the lake they sat just a little too close together, so that their shoulders brushed while they talked and laughed. And maybe when they sat on their couch and watched a children's cartoon, the Devil leaned over and kissed the boy with all the gentleness of a summer breeze. And maybe they fell in love.
But after months of beautiful, wonderful love, the boy fell suddenly sick. Perhaps the gods were angered by the happiness of the Devil. Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate. Perhaps it was a sign that nothing that good can last forever. Or perhaps it was just an unfortunate sickness. Whatever the case, the boy worsened by the day, falling into a pale shadow of the hearty smiling boy he had become in their romance. His skin turned grey and his cheeks became sunken hollows. The Devil attended to him day and night, soothing his fevered brow with cool cloths and feeding him arcane remedies alongside the prescribed medications. He played his fiddle when the boy became sad, and talked about the future and what they would do when the boy got better when the boy became afraid.
And it seemed to work. The boy gained weight, and his skin lost its deathly pallor. He was able to get up again. And then they laughed and sang and danced around the kitchen. And it was good.
But then the boy went out in a storm to bring inside clothing he had left to dry in the sun, too soon after his sickness. He fell ill again, and this time there seemed no recovery in sight. The Devil nursed him, never once leaving his side, not even to eat or to sleep. He cried and he begged and he pleaded with the gods, but of course they did not listen, for he was the Devil. And as the boy grew ever worse, sinking into a delirium until he no longer even recognized the Devil himself, and his heart that he had let grow the seeds of happiness in shattered into tiny razor sharp fragments.
And one day the boy's eyes cleared, and his chapped lips turned into a smile as the Devil rushed to his side and held him in his arms. "I don't regret it, you know." He croaked.
"Hush. Drink." The Devil brought a cup to his lips but the boy weakly swatted it away.
"I don't regret selling my soul. I think-" the boy coughed violently, blood splattering the sheets and the Devils grief wracked face. "I think it was the best decision I ever made. I love you. I don't know if you love me, but I love you."
The Devil's eyes filled with tears that burned gold and he sobbed, "of course I loved you, you fool! I didn't even think I could love anymore, but I love you with every piece of my being."
And the boy smiled at this, and closed his eyes. "Don't cry. I don't want to see you so sad. I'm just a little tired...."
And the boy spoke no longer, and no longer did his heart beat, and the Devil felt his heart, already shattered, get crushed into a fine powder. He let out a scream of indescribable anguish, overturning bookshelves and cabinets filled with medication that could not help the boy in the end, and he lay on the ground and clawed at his own skin for the Devil had forgotten the immense crushing weight of was it was to be human.
And he may have torn himself apart in that very moment if not for the soul that stepped out of the boy's body, sparkling and golden and filled with the vitality that he had not had in those last weeks. And the Devil's eyes filled with wonder for he had forgotten that the boy had sold him his soul.
And so the Devil took his hand, and they fell together, down through the floor and the earth and a thousand layers of rock, the Devil once more falling from grace. But this time it did not hurt quite so much, for the boy was with him. And he took him into his cold castle made of white marble and gold, with its gardens of night blooming flowers and pools filled with black ink.
And they ate breakfast together and attended parties together and the boy explored the palace as the Devil ruled his kingdom, and in the evenings the Devil played his fiddle and the boy painted him. And everything was different, but they were together. And it was good.
And maybe they held hands at parties filled with simpering demons and flutes of champagne. And maybe when night came they fell into bed together, intertwined. And maybe new seeds were sown in the powder of the Devil's heart. And maybe they fell in love all over again. And maybe it was good.