MW - Turning Threads

‘You followed me.’
Angus stood straight, locking his spine so that he appeared as tall as he could. His fingers strayed from the door to his apartment as he surveyed the silhouetted man he was addressing.
‘Yes. I did.’ The stranger replied quietly. The streetlight outside the grimy window did little to illuminate him. He shifted on the spot, and grinned widely when Angus flinched at his movement. His mouth was dark, Angus squinted through the gloom, and there was something odd about his teeth.
Unnerved, Angus drove his hands into his pockets, widening his stance.
‘Dublin boy, yeah?’ He said threateningly.  
‘However did you guess?’ the stranger’s lopsided grin didn’t waver.
‘I can hear it. So, you’re in London for work, then? God knows your sad little country is –’
The stranger was on him before he could blink, crossing the hall with inconceivable speed, crushing his fingers into Angus’ lapels, and pinning him against his door.
‘Pommy fuck.’ he laughed into Angus’ ear, his breath cold. ‘You do a good job of that proper, upstanding accent, but I know you’re trash blown over from the slums. Just like me.’
‘Get off,’ Angus pushed at him, but the stranger only held him tighter.
‘My name is Michael.’ He murmured, then he stepped backwards to the iron railing of the stairwell.
‘And what do you want, Michael?’ Angus huffed, having to make a conscious effort to calm his heaving heart.
‘I’m going to suggest you let me in with you –’
Angus opened his mouth indignantly to protest, but Michael held up a hand and he was overcome with the need to lean against his door, his chest uncomfortably tense.
‘Let me in. That way you don’t have to off yourself.’
Angus’ eyes widened, but all he could do was breathe, his head was growing foggy.
‘You’re bright, Angus. What do you wanna kill yourself for? Get me out here in the middle of the night, s’annoying. All I can think is you dying tonight seems an awful waste.’
Angus grit his teeth, aware of the sweat prickling on his skin.
‘Let me in.’ Michael repeated, lowering his voice, making it all the more impossible to deny him.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Angus forced out, and the pressure on his chest eased slightly. He turned to face the door, his hand shaking in his pocket as searched for his key. ‘I wasn’t really going to do it.’ He muttered, fumbling with the lock.
‘Yes, you were, else I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You an angel, then?’ Angus succeeded in opening the door, but stood frozen, unable to turn and look behind him.
‘No.’ Michael’s laugh was just as chilling the second time. ‘I’m not.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Maybe I asked someone.’
Angus didn’t hear Michael move, but he felt no sense of shock when Michael put a hand on his lower back and leant down to him.
‘You didn’t ask someone,’ Angus’ voice was fading in his throat; he shut his eyes, feeling sick at Michael’s touch even through his clothes. Michael wove his arms around Angus’ torso, holding him to him, pressing his lips to his neck – and Angus was too tired to fight, a part of him had expected this.
‘Angus,’ Michael murmured. Angus put his hand over Michael’s on his stomach, a hint of a plea. ‘Tonight can still be your night. I’m not fussed.’
‘No,’ Angus became aware that Michael had been holding him for a long time, waiting for him to stop crying and answer. ‘No, please,’
Michael sighed against Angus’ throat, ‘That’s how it works. You ask for me and when I get here you don’t want me.’
Michael let him go, but slipped an arm around his waist, supporting him as they crossed the threshold of Angus’ apartment. He shut the door behind them.
Angus struggled away from him, reaching weakly for the kitchen bench. His heart ached, but he ignored it –
‘Does God exist?’ he asked as quickly as he could, his breath coming in gasps.
‘Ask me that again and I’ll kill you simply because I can.’ Michael snarled, his body tense as though he were fighting the urge to take hold of Angus once more and cause him further pain.
‘I’ll take that as a “no”,’ Angus muttered as snidely as he could. ‘God wouldn’t let the Devil kill someone who wasn’t selling his soul.’ His lungs were finally beginning to feel clear, his strength filtering back into his limbs.
‘Catholics.’ Michael uttered bitterly. ‘Always assuming they know the ways of the Almighty better than He does – and I’m not the Devil.’
‘Then you’re either Protestant, or a liar.’ Angus could stand without using the bench now.
‘I’m as close to him as you’ll ever get.’ Michael warned.
‘That’s reassuring. I was sure it was the eternal pit for me.’ Angus quipped, still slightly unsteady.
‘What did you want that for, then?’ Michael sounded genuinely curious.
‘Burning’s better than nothing.’ Angus was so relieved he’d regained the ability to leer.
Michael watched him mutely for a moment, eyes twinkling in the dark, then he laughed heartily, ‘You’re perfect,’ he chuckled. He leant forward, flicking the light switch on the wall, and he laughed again when Angus cried out at the sight of his face. He crossed the room and sat down in a chair at Angus’ small, worn table.
Angus drew a calming breath, ‘I’m quite certain you only had two eyes before.’ He said bracingly, but once more he felt strangely accepting, as though he had known Michael would look different in the light.
‘Yeah, well,’ Michael blinked deliberately, eyelids snapping rhythmically over all eight of his eyes. ‘Men only ever see what they want to see.’
‘I guess so,’ Angus said quietly, and Michael smiled, the round, black eyes embedded in his cheeks shifting to accommodate it. While there were four spider-like eyes on his cheeks and two on his forehead, Michael retained a normal pair of eyes – normal past their colour, anyway, which was a hazy purple and reminded Angus of the reddish stain of crushed blackberries –
‘You mentioned your soul before.’ Michael said lightly, wanting to recapture Angus’ focus on things more important than his appearance. ‘Just out of interest, is it for sale?’
‘What are you?’ Angus couldn’t help asking, his nose wrinkling as he continued to observe the wraithlike man sitting at his table.
‘What have I said about stupid questions?’ Michael cocked his head, his teeth revealing themselves as broken and sharp as they caught the dim light from the fixture above.
‘Oh,’ Angus said quietly. ‘I know who are.’
‘There’s no need to remind me, I’m more interested in you.’
‘I have one question,’ Angus didn’t wait to hear if he was allowed to ask it. ‘How do you get around? There must be other people in the world dying this very minute, don’t you have to be with them? Ferry their souls across the Styx?’ Angus added, attempting half-heartedly to soften his mocking tone.
Michael considered before answering, weighing up how much he should divulge. In the end he settled for the truth,
‘I choose who needs my personal attention. Anywhere death is, I can go, and there is death everywhere. That rat poison your landlady left in the hall, her cat ate it and snuffed it quick smart, funnily enough. That’s how I got here. Even if that hadn’t happened I would have found a way; I might have taken your elderly neighbour before his time if I’d had to. Or an insect. It’s all the same to me.’
‘You can tell when someone is supposed to die?’
‘I’d be useless if I couldn’t.’ Michael leant back in his chair, absently running a hand over the wooden grain of the table.
Angus crossed his arms over his chest, finally feeling completely at ease, even though his patience was wearing thin. ‘When will I die?’
‘You die tonight.’
‘Yes, but I’m not going to anymore, so hasn’t the future changed or something?’ he demanded.
Michael’s smile widened into a grin and Angus truly wished it hadn’t. ‘That’s right. The future has changed. Now that I’m here talking to you there is only one path for you to take.’
‘Which is?’
‘We’ve got a job opening. You fit the bill.’ Michael paused, watching, and Angus knew it would be useless to look away, Michael would probably know what he was thinking regardless. ‘Want it?’
‘What’s the job?’
‘It’s difficult to say. You’ll understand once I give it to you.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You’ve made your choice. You chose not to die. This is the only other option.’
Angus had expected that answer, and he had expected to feel a rush of helplessness, but none came. He felt nothing.
‘Give me the job, then.’ He shrugged.
Michael stood, stepping across the ashen coloured linoleum towards Angus, details of his appearance flickering and changing as he moved. His boots, their heels once clicking on the floor, faded away, leaving his feet bare; the material of his jacket changed to something slightly reflective, and the pattern of a web stretched out across it as though Michael had walked right through one, its sticky, glistening strands snaking around him.
‘Take off your shirt.’ He said quietly. It wasn’t the same as when he’d offered death, Angus felt no instinctive repulsion, instead the request confused him, even though he sensed it was necessary.
That didn’t stop him asking curtly, ‘Why?’
‘What do you care?’ Michael snickered nastily. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ he pointed at Angus, his hand staining black from the fingertips, his fingernails turning white. ‘Limey little faggot. You’ve taken your shirt off for men before, even when you don’t want them. As long as they want you. Just can’t stand to be alone, can you?’ Angus couldn’t move in time to stop Michael closing his arms around him again; as with before a feeling of sickness set in, but it wasn’t accompanied by the sense of exhausted ease; this time every fibre of Angus’ being wanted to get away. ‘You’ve always wanted to dye your hair?’ Michael’s hand was on Angus’ face, his mouth on his ear, ‘why is that your awful secret? Why does it hurt you so much to remember those boys calling you ginger? They called you faggot, too,’ Michael pulled away only to set his forehead to Angus’ so hard Angus thought his skull might split; Michael’s hands were crushing into his ribs, his body felt like stone. ‘Ah, I see,’ Michael’s voice continued, no longer emerging from his lips. Angus couldn’t shut his eyes, couldn’t keep himself from seeing the dusky purple of Michael’s human irises bleed out slowly down his cheeks and over his other eyes, a faded, ocean blue taking its place. ‘You like fucking men and you hate having red hair. Simple enough.’ His voice in Angus’ head subsided to cruel laughter, but he eased his grip. Angus took the chance to heave in breath, his head spinning and his body feeling raw, beaten.
‘The pain you feel now,’ Michael whispered, his lips moving again, but too slowly for the words they produced. As though in proof this statement, a blistering wave of agony coursed through Angus from his feet up, burning everywhere it touched, leaving him cold in its wake, sweat blurring his vision. ‘And all the pain you’ve ever felt, in fact – though you’ve hardly suffered – all that together, that’s what you will feel. It’ll pass quickly, but it’ll hurt like I’m taking your soul.’
Angus closed his hands on Michael’s jacket only to have it fade away, leaving Michael bare-chested and Angus’ fingers slipping on his damp, pallid skin.
‘Don’t worry.’ Michael was smiling again. ‘Though it feels that way, I won’t touch your soul. I gave up mine so that you might keep yours,’ he leant in again, pressing his face to Angus’, smoothing his hands over Angus’ arms until, with a second wave of searing pain, his ink black hands met skin; Angus’ jacket and shirt had faded away, their material eaten up by nothingness. ‘Does that make me a little bit like Jesus?’ Michael murmured laughingly, and Angus could feel the hard, round shapes of the eyes on his cheek pressing into his own.
‘Now,’ Michael took a step back without removing his arms, supporting Angus and inspecting his chest. ‘This is what I’m going to do. See the brand on my chest? I’m going to mark you with it.’
Even in the state he was in, Angus felt gripped with terror at the sight of Michael’s chest. He could register no specific brand, there was only a mess of twisted, risen veins beneath Michael’s skin, coiling over his sternum and ribs like thin, purple ropes, and they were shifting, but not with normal, organic movement, it was ethereal. They sunk through his ribs, disappeared inside him, reappeared with rapid jerks –
‘This won’t happen to you.’
Angus looked up, and suddenly everything began to feel different – he felt a sense of control creeping through him. Michael’s expression was wounded, conflicted.
‘This won’t happen to you,’ he repeated. ‘What you see… this is my penance, and you won’t ever commit my crime.’
A long silence ensued as they watched each other; Michael’s arms around Angus almost seemed tender now that he was calm. Eventually Michael smiled, and it was a steady, genuine smile.
‘It appears this won’t hurt you as much as I thought.’ He said simply. ‘I respect you for that, you’ve a keen threshold for pain. You’ll need it.’
He pressed his chest to Angus’, closing his arms around him, embracing him.
Angus felt the energy instantly – there was the briefest snap of pain, then he grinned, fighting back triumphant laughter, digging his hands into Michael’s shoulders.  
The right side of his chest grew white hot, and the sensation was accompanied by the unmistakable acrid smell of burning blood, but it was too easy to ignore. Compared to the pain he’d felt when Michael had entered his head, this was nothing. Angus had always been secretive, matters of his heart were the same to him as his thoughts, he had always been brutally honest with himself – but never with anyone else. Lying was a particular skill of his.
It had been wrong of Michael to pry.
When Michael finally released him he fell to the floor, clutching his chest, aware that the blood seeping from the burn he’d been given was inching back up his stomach, disappearing inside him from whence it had come; this strange occurrence felt natural to Angus. He lay on his back, breathing hard, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, thinking distantly he should punish Michael for stealing his thoughts. So he did. He sat up, fixed his eyes on Michael’s, and smiled at the harrowing images he pulled from his mind – until Michael kicked him squarely in the chest, his boots having reappeared; he dug his foot into Angus’ throat,
‘S’no way to treat your boss. I just gave you that power, don’t you abuse it.’ He muttered, his expression furious. ‘Welcome to the team.’ He added indifferently, keeping his foot in place. ‘While you’re there I’ll explain the rules – well, rule. There’s only one. If you ever you get the feeling something shouldn’t be happening, you have to fix it. In your case that means,’ Michael paused to consider, knowing it was perfectly safe to deprive Angus of oxygen for as long as he wanted, Angus wasn’t in danger of dying for a long time now. ‘It means if it’s raining in New Zealand, and it shouldn’t be, you go there and fix it. If a hurricane is churning up a tsunami next to Japan, and it shouldn’t be, you get your ass there and you fix it, right?’
Michael finally removed his foot, stepping back to allow Angus to roll onto his side and emit hacking coughs as he clapped his hands on his injured his throat.
‘Oh, and here’s a tip,’ Michael slipped his hands into the pockets of his newly reappeared jacket. ‘Try not to bleed. Like you saw just then, your blood won’t want to leave you, because it knows the moment you haven’t got any left, it’s your duty to pass on your job to someone else in the same way I just gave it to you, and then you will die. Yes, keeping your blood’s important, but it gets stale over the years, too. That’s what happened to your predecessor. He ran out of time.’ Michael added with an unpleasant little smirk.
‘So,’ Angus’ hoarse voice felt like it was tearing holes in his throat, he blinked tears of pain out of his eyes as he continued to talk, ‘What exactly have you done to me?’
‘Changed your name, is all. It’s Weather, now. You’re a Member of Fabric, a keeper of the balance, but that’s all wish wash. I like to call it the Midas Weave. You know the story of King Midas?’
‘Vaguely.’ Angus was still intent on massaging his bruised throat.
‘Everything he touched turned to gold, that’s the main plot. Different versions of the story result in him having different problems with his gift. My favourite version is the one here he tries to hold his loving daughter, and he turns her to gold,’ Michael crouched down, smiling darkly at Angus. ‘That’s what the Weave is, it’s a gift and it’s torture, and we’re all part of it. Weave, Fabric, Life; they’re all the same thing. It’s different for you, though, hence the Midas part. Now you have the potential to cause irreversible hurt to whoever you want to.’ Michael fell silent, watching Angus’ reaction closely.
‘I don’t understand.’ Angus said heatedly, carefully.
‘Yes, you do.’ Michael raised an eyebrow, no light in his eyes. ‘It’s exactly what you’ve always wanted, Angus.’
Angus looked away, at least making an attempt to hide his smile. ‘I thought you said I had a new name.’ He mumbled, the mad urge to laugh taking hold of him again. He swallowed it back, savouring the sensation. He hadn’t felt happy like this in years.  
‘You do. Your name is Weather in the same way that mine is Death, but that never stopped me from going by my old name. I find it comforting.’ Michael replied tonelessly.
‘I hate the name Angus.’ he said ruefully. ‘I’d rather go by my last name.’
‘Waffen it is, then.’ Michael extended a hand to help him up, his fingers no longer black but pale, perfectly normal.
‘Thankyou.’ Waffen smiled pleasantly, and it bordered on an ill-concealed sneer as he accepted Michael’s hand.