He was short-tempered for hours after Hamilton’s departure. Tristan wouldn’t say it, but I was certain the state of his home was unpleasant, its disarray clinging to him like a second skin.  

The sour stench of rotting food and the sticky drag of grime underfoot were constant reminders of neglect. Seeing the mess remain, I decided it was time to contribute something to the person who had otherwise saved me.  

I waited until Tristan went to bed, which was early in the day. By the time he laid his head down, the sun still hadn’t set. Shadows stretched long across the clutter while he drifted into a dream. 

It took hours of scrubbing, washing, sweeping, and mopping to clear enough counter and floor space to resemble a home rather than a waste depository. I had severely underestimated how unkempt my demon's domain was. 

Mop water turned black within minutes, a slurry of ash and rot. Each sweep of the broom revealed fragments of his life I had yet to be intriduced to. Crumpled notes, broken glass, a feather I couldn’t place. The worst of it were the obscene sex stains. How was it possible to have so many used condoms and crusty wet spots. After a while my flesh grew to ignore the sticky clinging sensations I found upon turning over cushions and dusting out rugs, but I will never forget that feeling. 

There was also a large sum of underwear, many of which couldn’t have been Tristan’s.

It was reasonable to assume he had a gluttonous sex life, but I hadn’t seen him with a partner since my arrival. Was he limiting his lust for me, or because of me? No mates, no flings, not even a casual fuck since my arrival. I had to question whether he genuinely saw me as his partner. Despite all of his declarations, it continued to feel like the most unlikely answer.

I worked myself into the night. However, I was glad to do it. I assumed my demon would feel better once he saw the finished work, but to my surprise, I was met with the opposite reaction.

“Why?” Tristan asked.

In the middle of the night, I must have woken him. He had slept for more than twelve hours, but his eyes were red, rimmed with irritation and drowsiness. Smoke clawed at his lungs, and suddenly I understood. Angels were accustomed to extreme heat, but demons were native to the Underlands, a cold and dark place. My method of trash disposal must have been toxic to him.

“I told you, you were never going to do it yourself,” I said, continuing to sort his collection of dirty laundry.  

“I might have… eventually,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “Where did you put everything?”  

“I burned most of it,” I answered, opening the oven door to reveal all that I had stuffed inside.  

He chuckled, but the sound was hollow. The oven was my only option. There were too many bags of garbage, pizza boxes, and sex toys to carry out of the apartment, down several flights of steps, and around the corner to the nearest dumpster. Smoke was a small inconvenience to me compared to the hours of back and forth I would have faced. 

“That’s what I'm smelling? I thought someone found me,” Tristan said with a cough.  

It made sense why his eyes were red. Angels were accustomed to extreme heat. Smoke was nothing special to my kind. Demons, however, were native to the Underlands, a cold and often dark place. Though he wouldn’t die from the fumes, my choice of trash disposal must have been toxic. 

He pulled a marble from his pocket. I thought he meant to do away with the smoke, but in a flash, all the work I had done was undone. Sticky spots reappeared on the floor, torn bags of moldy food returned, and the suffocating clutter reclaimed the room. It wasn’t just resistance. It was erasure.  

“Why?” I asked, bewildered.  

“I told you, I’ll do it.”  

“How long will that take?”  

He shook his head and turned his back. “I get it now. Angels have no patience.”

“If you were going to fix this place, you would have done it before I came,” I reasoned.  

“I needed—I still need—time. You were tossed out of the Overlands, out of your homeland. Can’t you understand how hard it is?”  

“Difficult or not, we shouldn’t wallow.”  

He looked over his shoulder with softer eyes. “Don’t clean my place again. You’re a guest here, Arron.”  

Tired as he was, Tristan began sorting through his mess. I could only stand speechless, watching him go about the task as though I had forced him to do it. Perhaps I had.  

“He thinks he needs us, but he’ll figure something out. People can save themselves if you give them a chance,” Tristan said, breaking the silence.  

Grabbing a broom, he turned his eyes on me. “Hamilton can save himself with time. Who even knows if his sister needs to be rescued? His fight isn't ours.”  

“And what if these things are too big for any one person? When is it right to help someone if not when they ask for it, or when they’re fighting the impossible?”  

“If you save them before they have an honest chance to save themselves, you’ll only hurt them in the long run.”  

“Do you mean Hamilton or yourself?” I asked.  

He shouted, sharp, sending me stumbling backward into a pile of half-empty water bottles, “I would have cleaned this place eventually!”  

The moment he saw my fall, his anger broke. He rushed to help me stand up, but his grip was firm and cold. I could see his shoulders trembling with suppressed rage. Was it turning into shame? His eyes searched mine for something I couldn’t give him yet.

“I’m helping you, Arron. I’m saving you. Can you acknowledge that for once? Instead of worrying about everyone else, don’t you see I've betrayed the demon way? We can’t abandon the way we were raised, not overnight. So please, give me time.”  

I wanted to say yes, but angels were taught the soul was carved in stone, unchanging. Demons believed hearts were made of clay, ever changing under time and pressure. Between us, the room became stiff. Each pile of trash a monument to his belief, each scrubbed floorboard a testament to mine.

“Let me help Hamilton.”  

“Arron,” he spoke my name, exhausted and annoyed.

“You don’t want Hamilton to suffer in the future, but I don’t want his sister to suffer now.”  

“How don't you get it yet? I don’t care if Hamilton suffers. He’s not my friend. You are.”

“Tristan,” I pleaded.

He hadn’t let me go yet. His arms held mine, and neither of us could look away. His lips parted, only to bite back his first thought, then his second and third. Finally, he released me and said, “If you want to help Hamilton, go ahead. But you won’t get far without a conduit, without me.”