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[His face is entirely flat.]

That is why I asked.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

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i need to stop replying to people at 3am

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He doesn't think of it as a drag so much as a jump.

Azazel takes the stitches out of the fabric of space and opens a hole momentarily, then draws things through it and back.  As easy as that.

(He'll concede the sulfur, though.  Wonders if she sees the fire and the lava or if he just looks at the red so often that it gathers into shapes for his eyes.)

The fourth-floor corridor looks almost identical to the one they were just in.  His brows furrow slightly.  "Everything in this house is the same."  Neatly pared corners, cookie cutter windows, evenly spaced doors, evenly spaced paintings.  "How do you stand it?"

It's an honest question--he realises it's an odd one, most likely, because he's always found it odd when people have asked how he stands Russia in winter.

But honest.  Too--uniform for him.

i can show you the world | azazel&raven

She snorts, soft, at the comment. Truth be told, she’s not entirely fond of the painting — or any of the paintings and too-opulent linings of the house, but it’s hardly her choice. It’s the casual Xavier wealth and its manifestation, the easy richness they’ve grown up with that Charles probably isn’t even aware he exudes.

(Raven is too aware of it, but she also knows better than to feel like she’s indebted to Charles. Mostly because she understands him taking her in wasn’t entirely altruistic and that she’s done enough, been enough for the relationship to be equal in benefits and pains.)

If anyone bothers to ask her, she would easily admit that she likes Azazel. Not in the way some people would suggest (not yet, maybe, though she’s not aware of that) but she likes the way his tail is the best way to get a read on him, likes the way he seems stiff and awkward with his interactions, like he’s trying to imitate what he’s seen but unsure of what situation calls for what reaction.

(She can understand that; the difficulties about fitting in and being like everyone else, better than he thinks she might, despite being a shapeshifter. A liquidity and malleability to her that she sometimes accredits to her abilities that sets her apart from the others. People, she finds, are resistant to change.)

Half expecting him to zap out in the middle of conversation, expecting his sentence to end with ‘horse’, Raven’s eyes widen at the hand he extends. She remembers the very last thing he offered her, the last time they’d seen each other, and bites down on her bottom lip before sliding her hand through his, sapphire on ruby, before she’s dragged through, red swimming in front of her eyes and the scent of sulfur strong.

“Whoa.”

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Simple observations to what end?

       I’m sure it is. Not that there’s a problem with it. Simple observations.

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[His eyes flick down to follow hers for a moment, but he knows what his tail looks like; there's no point in looking at it again.]

That is--

[He pauses.  He's never quite sure what to do with his face, but his confusion probably shows in his eyes.]

--unintentional.

( She would have rolled her eyes, but refrained for whatever reason, eyes settling on his stiff tail. )

I feel like I get more expression from your appendage there than from your face.

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He dips an almost-unnoticeable half-bow on reflex, closer to a swordsman's bow to his opponent than a gentleman's bow to a lady.  He never learned how to be a gentleman; he never wanted to.  Swordsman is good enough for him.  As for the black, if hell doesn't bother him, neither will summer.  And it's easier this way--simpler--he doesn't have to own more than one set of clothing, doesn't have to pick or choose.  As much as he approves of Mystique's bare-bodied pride, it is not for him.  He suspects that it would not be taken well, and while he does not much care about modesty, he does care perhaps rather more than he should about what they think about him.  These important ones.

Fear hardly crosses his mind, but messes are only fun when the blood splatters on his face as he disappears.  Disappearing is crucial, and there are so many cameras around, now--he doesn't fear Magneto's rage, either, but he does want what Magneto offers.  Or what Azazel thinks he someday will.

To Mystique he says, "Privyet," and smiles not-easily, but the smile he sees on other people when they greet.  His smile has yet to become automatic. "It is my pleasure."

And it is, or so he thinks it must be.  He hasn't seen skin like hers before on anyone, and it fascinates him the same way Emma's diamonds had fascinated him at first: he had not made the mistake of reaching out and touching, had hardly wanted to, but he confesses to himself that these little hallmarks of difference are his favourite things about being in with others.  Never mind that he can't hide and they can--Emma and Mystique can--he barely notices.  He has no conception of what he's been robbed of, for the most part, only the knowledge that he has met people whose entire bodies bear the mark of what is becoming known as 'mutation'--

(He has been this way forever.  The concept of others evolving this way escapes him.  In his life, how could humanity have changed so much and yet remained so very the-same?  There is a difference between him and Charles Xavier that is not present with Charles' sister.  

Appearances matter.  He likes his.  But never pretend that it has not affected him.)

And then there is humanity.

He has met decent humans, but they have been few and far between.  He does not mourn their deaths, nor celebrate their lives. They are not unimportant, but they are parts of a problem, cogs in a vast cesspit of a gearless clock.  Nothing to fear, but to be avoided nonetheless, as one avoids lepers and wild animals.

Azazel looks back up at the painting for a moment, ending his absorption with the visible brushstrokes in the last glance.  "Christianity."  The art features a sort of portal to heaven, complete with an angel.  Not a hard identification.  "The only painting in this hallway with no horse."

He stops himself from whisking away to the fourth floor without further ado by only a moment, looks over, and raises an eyebrow like a pointer finger, extending a hand that she need only touch to tag along with him.

i can show you the world | azazel&raven

She’s on the way back from the kitchen — unsurprisingly — when she stumbles into him. Not literally (thank God) but he’s there in the room and she hadn’t even known he was back. Here. Immediately, she feels a little ashamed of herself; she doesn’t own him and he’s not obligated to tell her every time he goes anywhere.

Though, Raven can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here.

“The ones on the fourth floor are nicer.” It slips out without her really meaning to say it; she’d actually just been aiming for a nod of acknowledgement and to carry on walking. He’s dressed, as always, in pitch black. It’s a warm day; how he can stand the heat is beyond her.

Raven, herself, is partial to heat than to the cold and even she’s feeling the clammy heat stifling. 

It only takes a few steps forward for her to be by his shoulder and she turns to him, her eyes almost luminous in the sunlight, her skin dark and light all at once.

Questions sit on the end of her tongue, are you afraid to go outside, i didn’t think i’d see you again so soon, why are you walking around the house alone, where is your most favorite place in the world but she swallows them down, licks at her bottom lip instead.

Offers, “it’s nice to see you.”

And she can almost hit herself for how redundant and idiotic she sounds but the words are hovering in the air now; she allows them to seep into his brilliant red skin, her own face a careful mask of blankness.

Eyes flicker down, to where her bare blue skin clashes with his blood red and Emma’s words come to mind, you two are cute; but the thought is dismissed. Aesthetically speaking, maybe. Maybe. But she still can’t help thinking about Platt, who had been so kind and so interested and approached mutants with a kind of child-like innocence and curiosity that had disarmed her. Can’t help thinking of his screams, how terrified he must’ve been when Azazel dropped him.

A shiver runs along her back, but Raven’s face remains impassive.

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[She seems remarkably set in her ways, to him.

But he's been wrong before.  His tail is motionless.]

Da.

Not necessarily. I’m a woman of many spectrums of thought.

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i may or may not be totally gone for the next week, it depends on if they have wifi where my family is staying

this next week is gonna be hell guys if i don’t come back i’ll miss u

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Because it is something you would think.

I like the way you think.

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i can show you the world | azazel&raven

Russia in winter smells like a storm in a silver bell.

In summer, it smells like hail on a tin roof, and he prefers the winter because silver tastes more like snow than tin and he likes the way the colours clash.

In summer he travels to other places where no one goes outside.  Hot places, where for fear of sweat people keep out of the forests.  Or to places where no one cares, with sprawling lawns and boys who look like beasts and girls with wings and women who are b l u e--

--to whom he promises the world when Magneto is done with her and then realises that Magneto is never going to be done, so he might as well hang around until she wants to escape.

(Escape.  It's becoming a hobby.)

So he can be seen appearing and disappearing at random intervals from random places around the mansion, hovering near nothing in particular, although he is fond of the roof, which is less tin than asphalt.

Asphalt is all right with him, except when it gets hot.

It's hot the day he decides the roof isn't worth the sunlight's distorted fingers and slips inside, instead, finding his way into locked rooms although he has been taught all about the concept of 'privacy'--most people are outside or downstairs anyway, not many around to object.

(He takes his knocks in the unfamiliar area now so that he won't need them later--a banged knee when he comes too close to a dresser and a slim bruise on his tail that turns very light purple after a few hours from a closet door.)

He's simply examining the art in the frames down one of the hallways when he hears footsteps behind him.

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Shashka dances.