The sun had well gone down by the time he had cleaned the majority of the apartment, minus the laundry. He did it more as a distraction than as a necessity, even taking down the cobwebs in the corners of the rooms and the dust between the books. Though the place was tidier than it had been in months, he felt no accomplishment. 

Moments like this are when he'd wish for Ciar to pick his lock as an overdramatic entrance or for Arezo to climb through his window as she was banned from the apartment complex. As annoying as those idiots were, they were his idiots. He'd never tell them that though; they'd never shut up if he did. 

But even if he didn't portray it through verbal words, they knew. And if they knew then that was enough. But neither of them could stem the mental bleeding from his past. 

So with moments like this, especially at times like this, he was just so fucking alone. But wasn't it him that condemned himself to this? It had to be, no one else alive cared that much to purposefully his life pain. Or maybe it was the dead as the silence— the lonesomeness— pained every atom of him more than any knife ever would.

They said that his punishment would be to fall; to have the skies set his sins aflame, burning his wings in the process, and to turn the feathers to grey and to ashes— to have his body be turned to a map of destruction and pain as he lost all that he knew and cared about.  His undoing was their destruction. Their justice was his unmaker. 

Yet the pain from them was merely a prologue of a game that he would despise and loathe as it became a part of him. Yet the pain and anguish that they burdened him with became so entwined with what made him that he feared— really feared— removing it.

The only thing worse than being burdened was being abandoned. 

The emptiness was a more terrible faith than being stuffed full of regret. 

So he'd carry this bag of boulders and act as Atlas to an insignificant world— his world— and hold it up until his fingers cracked, till his arms turned to splinters, till his back snapped in half, till his legs melted onto the floor. He just had to continue, all he could do is continue.

He rode his mind of positive thoughts akin to how he chased spiders out of the homes they built just because it was within the room that he possessed. They worked so hard yet with something this minor as a broom, tore it down. Yet knowing of their labour, he tore down every web again and again.

While doing something between rearranging the book and subconsciously trying to drive them through the wall, a knock rapped against the door. It came in as an offbeat rhythm of one, two . . . three knocks. As if the third was forced through hesitancy yet strong enough to be mistaken for strength.

His radio silence only brought more knocking, the sound reverberating throughout his skull like a bat's echo in a cave. But even then he remained frozen. 

But the door did not. The doorknob started to shake as the would of scraping accompanied it. The sound was annoying but it did not stop for the next thirty seconds. Until it did. The person knocked once more before opening the newly unlocked door.

"Did no one ever teach you how to open a door-?" Their eyes met immediately.

Speak of the devil and he will come. Ciar. 

He looked around the room while contemplating his words. 

"So–" he stepped inside, "–I see you're doing some late-night cleaning at, you know, nearly 2 in the morning."

Hiding his surprise about the time, he reflected, "Then what are you doing in my house at nearly two in the morning?" Ciar laughed a little before closing the door.

"I was just checking up on you!"

"You thought I was sleeping," He deadpanned, Ciar snorted before waving his hands in surrender.

"Fine, fine," He said at least. "Do you want to know the truth?" Abraxas only glared at him as the answer was obvious.

"Well you see–" He started looking around the room, making a few steps. "–I kinda left something here the last time, so I'm here to take it back." 

Abraxas only scoffed as he turned around, returning to the bookshelf. "If you're looking for your sock, it's in the bin."

"Dude! Not even Arezo throws away my stuff," He grumbled, walking over to one of the trash bins. "Which one is it in?"

"Why are you asking me? This isn't my problem," Abraxas smiled before continuing to reorder the books. Ciar threw a few profanities to him before kneeling and opening the lid.

The room was quiet other than the rustling of papers and the soft noises of the hard copy books hitting the wood, it was. . . nice. It was better than before, having a distraction that didn't require him to take off his clothing. Maybe. But it was definitely better. And that gave him only more of a reason to be irritating.

"I know you've probably been told this before, but you look good on your knees," Abraxas idly noted, putting down the last book before turning to see his reaction.

Ciar was on his feet in an instant, moving over to Abraxas like a storm through a field. The steps were fast yet rhythmic, like a song whose tempo was quickly increasing. Ciar rose his hand to strike him only to be caught by his wrist, merely inches away from the other's face. 

"Is the brat mad?" Abraxas teased, pulling him closer till Ciar's chest were touching his torso, making him have to raise his entire head. Ciar's facial features scrunched up as his eyes were filled with mischief despite the disgust that shore plainly on his face. Instead of spitting out some curse or insult, he spat.

Literally. 

Directly onto Abraxas' cheek.

"Isn't that a bit much?" He teased, using Ciar's hand to wipe his face, gaining a growl from the latter. 

"Oh fuck off," Ciar tried to tug his hand away.

"Are you trying to run away?" The implications of him being a coward only added fuel to the flame within his eyes. This time Ciar pulled with more strength, getting one hand free. Having the following actions thought out, he pushed on Abraxas' chest while wrapping a leg behind his knee, causing him to fall with a thud.

Ciar pinned down his hands to his side before speaking.

"And you look good under someone." He smiled at the snare on the other's face. Abraxas' curly hair had spread out under him like a crown, a halo— ironically. "Really good." 

"Stop talking like that unless if you plan to do something," He growled again, threateningly yet not enough to making Ciar stop.

He leaned closer, his dirty white hair falling in front of his face in the process. A shit-eating grin smeared itself across as he leaned lower and lower until his mouth was positioned next to his ear. Only to whisper you wish. His dull grey eyes shined with mirth as Abraxas finally pushed him off.

"Took you long enough," Ciar said before losing his smile. "Did something happen or are you really planning to kill me this time?" Abraxas didn't seem angry or irritated— the root of Ciar's concern. He didn't act like it because he wasn't. He wasn't much of anything, to be honest. 

"Nah, just thinking." He waved off.

"Don't hurt yourself, I know how hard that is for you," Ciar joked before folding his legs on the floor, with no intention of getting up.

He only gave a tch as he looked around the room once more, looking for anything else to do. There wasn't. Every corner of every room was clean. From the space between the cupboards to the area behind his toilet where spiders liked to roam. Everything was clean and he hated it. 

By cleaning it made it seem as if there were no residents. It took away the reminiscent of his existence. A reminder to himself for him to remember the short past spent here. The openness of the room made him feel every so much smaller. Making him feel smaller and smaller.

"Hey." A snap broke him out of his mental spiral. "Food. I'm hungry and you're the host." Classic Ciar.

"It's not like I invited you here." Abraxas groaned.

"C'mon, it's not like you hate cooking. Am I right or am I right, Tielo?" Ah, Ciar always loved to mock each and every one of his names— every single one of them. Ciar never bothered with those kinds of things, not caring if people realized that he looked too young for his supposed age. And even if it did become a problem, he'd just go to hell for a few years. 

Reasons like that are why he depended on him and Arezo like the raccoon he truly is. 

"I'm a bartender, not a chef," He corrected, complaining despite making his way over to the kitchen. "And a drunk Ciar is the last thing I'd ever want to witness." Ciar snorted a little as he made his way over to the kitchen as well in a weird, mildly creepy, half-spider yet half-crawling sort of way. 

"So what are you making today, madam?" Ciar smiled a little, seemingly comfortable with his spot on the floor.

"Just remember that you're at the perfect punting height." He answered, waving around a pan that he just pulled out.

"My statement still stands."

"Keep up that attitude and you won't." His eyes widened a little before he spoke again.

"Yes, ma'am!" The words were immediately followed with laughter and groans.

Moments like this really did seem to make things feel a little better. It made his being hurt a little less. And even if it was a little, it was still something.