DEVIL, DEVIL (Michael Langdon)

iii.

Michael had only been at Hawthorne for a month, but he was already taking his warlock's evaluation. Judas was happy for him. Michael was strong. Stronger than anyone else that Judas had ever met.

The problem with Judas' reading had stopped, but still, he and Michael liked to read together, sometimes in Michael's room and sometimes in Judas'. When spell books became too boring, they chose poetry. Judas particularly enjoyed the poems by Robert Frost. There was always a certain melancholy to those poems. Michael liked Sylvia Plath, whose poems were often too dark for Judas to really enjoy. Some nights, when they were tired to return to their own rooms, they'd sleep in the same bed as they did the first night, head to foot, now, which was more reasonable than being so close that their chests would nearly touch and their hands would graze together every time one of them moved.

Though some nights, when Judas' sleep talking rose to near shouts and his eyes would fill with tears as he pleaded for his mother to answer him, he would find himself curled against Michael, arms tangled around his waist and head resting on Michael's shoulder. Neither would mention it when they woke up with their bodies intertwined, which Judas was more than grateful for. He didn't think he'd know what to do if Michael asked questions.

After Michael's examination, they were reading in Judas' room. Michael had seemed excited, and Judas understood. Michael had to be a level three, he would have been a level four if that were even heard of. 

Judas smiled as he watched Michael flop onto his bed. "How about we read Sylvia Plath today?" he offered. "I know she's your favorite."

Michael nodded, watching as Judas pulled a book of poetry from his bookshelf before dropping to join him on the bed. "We haven't read this one," Judas noted, tapping at the title of the poem.

"'Edge'," Michael said, nodding. "You read. It's your room."

"But your favorite author," Judas pointed out.

"Well, I want you to read."

Judas couldn't help but shove Michael lightly. Nonetheless, he started to read. "The woman is perfected. Her dead body wears the smile of accomplishment, the illusion of a Greek necessity flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, one at each little pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded them back into her body as petals of a rose close when the garden stiffens and odors bleed from the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag."

"You know," Michael said, with no trace of the boyish smile that tended to linger on his face, "she killed herself six days after writing this poem."

"Really?" Judas said. "That's dark."

"Isn't it?" Michael said, strangely calm.

Judas hesitated, flipping through the book until he found another poem. "How about we read this?" he offered, seeing the familiar name of Robert Frost.

Michael leaned to examine the title. "'Fire and Ice'," he said. "All right."

Judas cleared his throat before he began to read again. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."

Michael was quiet for a moment. He reached over Judas' shoulder to close the book before meeting his friend's gaze. "How do you think the world will end?" he asked.

Judas shook his head at that. "How the hell am I supposed to know, Michael?" he said, then realized that sounded harsh. He bit hard at his lip. "I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it. It's not exactly a happy thing, you know?"

Michael's eyes looked far away. "What about nuclear winter?" he offered.

Judas hesitated. He found Michael's hand, squeezing it despite himself. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "Okay?"

Michael nodded faintly. "Okay," he agreed.

"Let's find another poem. Hopefully a happier one," Judas said, and he quickly began to flip through the pages once more.

They read for hours like they did most nights. But this night, when they both had begun to grow tired, Michael didn't navigate to the end of the bed with a pillow like usual. Instead, he lay back into Judas' pillows, watching as Judas lowered to put the book on his bedside table. When Judas laid down they were eye-to-eye, so close that their chests were nearly pressed together and if either had leaned close their noses would have brushed.

"Michael," Judas started to say, but the word caught in his throat. He swallowed and repeated, "Michael, are you gay?"

Michael's eyebrows furrowed. Judas sighed, reaching to take him by the hand. "I like you," he managed to say. "I like you a lot."

"I like you too," Michael said, and Judas laughed weakly.

"I like you in a different way."

Michael understood. "Oh," he said.

Judas released Michael's hand with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's okay," Michael said.

Judas hesitated, a thousand different thoughts racing through his mind.

And then he kissed Michael. And, surprisingly, Michael kissed him back. Judas allowed his fingers to tangle through Michael's golden hair.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless.

Judas smiled. Michael did, too.