The Lost Angel [BxB]

uriel

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

'Macbeth'
[William Shakespeare]

♡ ♡ ♡

6: URIEL

Rory had been in Spain for a few weeks now, adjusting to his new life of quiet solitude, shared only with a gardener from Chicago. He'd tried to make himself useful by tackling the mammoth task of cleaning the house. He attempted a room a day, though some took longer. He started with the kitchen, by emptying the cupboards, sweeping the floors and polishing the surfaces before restocking the shelves with fresh food from the village.

What Rory had claimed as his bedroom was next. He kept the antique oakwood dresser that traced back decades, thoroughly scrubbing it down before polishing it until it shone. He unpacked all of his clothes into it, and then got to work on the rest of the room. It took almost two days to get rid of every morsel of dust, clean the windows of grit and grime, and make sure the curtains were clean and fresh. It wasn't the biggest, or even the nicest room in the house, but the view was by far the best. He'd gotten into the habit of ignoring the graves that sat directly beneath the window, and enjoying the beautiful scenery around him, of the cloudy mountaintops in the distance, and acres of rolling fields. He often saw Lalo working in meadows below, a black cat between his feet, and dirt between his fingers. That might've just been his favourite thing about the view.

Apparently, he was staying in the bedroom that used to belong to the Hernandez baby, Salvador, all those years ago. Rory wasn't sure whether he believed Lalo, or whether he was just making things up at this point. He liked teasing Rory by telling him stupid stories to try to scare him. It hadn't worked yet, but perhaps the longer he stayed in the house, the more scared he would get. He would never admit it to Lalo, but the sculptures freaked him out, with their cold eyes, still lips, and motionless poses. And one morning, when Lalo had cycled into town alone, Rory had gotten up early to search every inch of the property for the missing angel.

Uriel was nowhere to be found.

Rory had once suggested to Lalo that perhaps he never existed at all. Maybe the Hernandezs never owned the full set. It was by far a more logical answer to the alternative; that Uriel had come to life in the middle of the night to take a child.

Lalo didn't entertain that idea for even a moment. "They had the full set." He insisted.

"How are you so sure?"

"This place is crawling with Catholic imagery." He explained simply, "Look at the artwork, or the murals on the walls, or the religious ornaments. And that's only what's been left behind, just imagine what this place used to look like in the nineteenth century. And they were rich, they had the money. If they wanted a Uriel statue, they would have had one. They did have one. But now its missing."

"Well, maybe one of the later owners took it with then when they moved." He guessed.

"They took just one sculpture? Out of dozens? It doesn't make sense."

"Or they sold it. They must be worth a lot."

"They'd be worth a shit ton more if they were sold together. No one would sell one, and then turn their back on the rest, knowing that they were sitting on a gold mine."

They theorised for hours, for days, for weeks. The mystery of the lost angel lingered stubbornly in their minds, desperately waiting to be solved. Lalo silently agreed with Rory; there was logical reasoning behind everything. But he enjoyed pretending to believe in supernatural explanations — watching Rory frustratedly try to counter the most ridiculous of stories was always the highlight of his day.

He was grateful for Rory's presence, and was sure that if he decided to go back to England, Lalo would find himself missing the boy's company; he might even be lonely, which certainly wasn't an emotion he was familiar with. He'd spent his life trying to run away from other people, seeking his own presence, and the comfort of solitude. But being with Rory didn't make him itch and burn and seek an exit route. He didn't want to escape.

They existed happily in their blissful little bubble of bird songs, honey, fresh fruit, and Lalo's delicious raspberry jam. Their lives didn't intermingle, they existed independently, running parallel to one another. Rory spent his days working in the house, while Lalo spent his working in the garden. Rory familiarised himself with the hard faces of the stone statues, while Lalo familiarised himself with the soil and the green earth. They had turns cooking dinner every night; flicking between meals in Lalo's humble little hut, and the grand kitchen of the manor. They both knew that Lalo was the better cook of the pair.

Lalo taught Rory how to make lemonade with infused lavender. Rory taught Lalo how do a British accent. They shared stories of their schools, their families, their childhoods. Only one of them was telling the truth.

Rory had even bought a bike for when they trekked into town. He and Lalo would race, and of course, Lalo would always win. Their respective bikes were almost the perfect representation of the boys' own personality. Lalo's was pastel blue with chipping paint, and a brown wicker basket attached to the handlebars. He'd fill it with bright, colourful flowers from the garden, and distribute them to all his favourite vendors in the village, and in return, he would often receive free produce and kisses on the cheek. Rory's bike was simple; it was black and shiny, with thin handlebars and a squeaky seat that was frayed and ripped from the bike's previous owner.

On a foggy Friday afternoon, Rory changed into a pair of jeans and a thin grey sweater, before leaving the house and dragging his bike behind him. He found Lalo sitting cross legged on the grass, holding a trowel, surrounded by watering cans and ceramic pots full of soil. He looked at home, potting plants, his fingers covered in dirt, seeds buried beneath the earth. Rory smiled and admired the view for a minute, before calling over, "I'm heading into town. Do you want anything?"

Lalo thought for a moment, and then shook his head, "I'm good, thanks. Would you mind giving Josefina the bag of lemons I promised her?" He asked pleadingly, "I was planning on dropping them off later, but I've got too much work to do here."

"Do you need any help?"

"Do you know a thing about gardening?" Lalo joked.

Rory shook his head, "I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm good."

"I'll tell Josefina you send your love." He said, "I'm going to the post office too. I...uh, redirected my mail here."

Lalo rose his brows in surprise, "So, that...that means you're planning to stay a little while, huh?"

He shrugged, "I like it here."

"Me too." Lalo agreed softly.

"While I'm there, do you want me check your PO Box for any mail?"

"There won't be anything in there." Lalo replied. If there was anything for him, then someone knew where he was. He'd be beyond fucked.

"I can check for you anyway."

Lalo sighed, "Sure. The key's on the kitchen counter, next to the bag of lemons. Thanks, Rory."

"Alright, I'll see you later." Rory smiled and left him alone to continue working. He grabbed the sack of lemons from Lalo's hut as well his PO Box key, and then begun the five mile cycle into town. He gave Josefina the lemons, received a grateful kiss in return, along with a murmured ramble in Spanish that Rory could only assume was about Lalo. He then started ticking items off his usual shopping list; eggs, butter, bread, fruit, apple pies and cookies from the bakery.

His last stop was the post office. He signed a few things and had a quick chat with the girl working behind the counter, which was difficult considering the language barrier. Once he was all set up, he unlocked the door of Lalo's locker, and pulled out a thin white envelope. He was surprised that there was even something in there after Lalo had appeared so certain that he wouldn't be receiving anything. He was even more surprised when he actually looked at it.

Glancing down at the return address, Rory frowned in confusion.

New Mexico.