AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is more of an erotic mood piece than an explicit story, so don't expect endless balls-out screwing. All characters are 18 years of age or older.
*****
He stood out from the first day. Of course, there were some obvious reasons, like being the only new student in our last year of high school. He also had a slight, slim build, with a mop of blonde hair on top of his head, which gave the impression that he was always trying to slide away, to slink into some shadowy out-of-sight corner. The clothes he wore also stood out from the selections from Old Navy or Hollister that the other students displayed, like he'd stepped out from a few decades in the past, or a country in another hemisphere. Then there was his name.
Our English teacher asked him about it. I shared two classes with him, a math course and English. "Azazel? That's Jewish, is it?"
He shook his head, slight curls waving, then when the class continued to stay quiet, he spoke up. "No. Or, I mean, I'm not Jewish. The name might be. I think my Mom just liked it."
"Right, then," the teacher shrugged, and moved on. Few things will set a young person farther apart from their peers than a name that few can understand or relate to. A few weeks into the school year he was already slipping into the role of the outcast, with little effort from himself, teachers, or other students to have it be any different. Sitting with my usual compatriots in the cafeteria, I would see him sit alone, finishing his meal quickly, then gather up his books to go to the library. After the first week, I would later learn, he took to eating his lunch entirely in stairwells or on seldom-travelled steps at the side of the school.
It was an unexpected event that put me on the path to friendship with Azazel. I missed one day of school with a slight cold; faking it mostly, to be honest. When I came into math class the next day, I learned that the teacher had announced a new project we would do in pairs. She told me, in a tone that didn't leave any room for questioning, that Azazel was the only student that didn't yet have a partner. A friend or two in my class gave me a look and a shrug as I went over and introduced myself. "Hey, I'm Joe," I said and extended my hand.
We had some free time in class that day to work on our project. Azazel's personality was somewhat unexpected, once we got to talking. Though he was the quiet kid who stood apart, he quickly became friendly, even cracking a few small jokes, and anytime we decided how to split up a piece of work, he would always volunteer to take the more difficult portion. He was quiet and evasive when I delved into more personal subjects, as I'd heard from others.
"So, where did you go to school last year?" I asked him casually.
"Oh," he shrugged, "Just...out west."
"Your whole family moved, then? What does your dad do?"
He looked down at his feet, "Um, actually it's just my Mom and me. Well, and a sister. She doesn't go to this school though."
"That's cool," I quickly blurted out. "Sorry, I've actually got a lot of friends with one parent, it's cool. Uh, what does your Mom do?"
"She...just kind of stays home right now."
"Oh...okay. So, when do you want to work on this project some more?"
The assignment was quite light at first, and didn't require us to do too much. But I would sometimes see Azazel around school and give a friendly nod. One day in English someone had taken his usual seat, so he politely, and somewhat nervously, asked if he could take one seat on my side. After that he would usually take a seat nearby, and I would exchange the occasional remark with him, while still talking with my other friends in the class, but somehow Azazel lacked the will or ability to join the larger group.
The math class project entered a second stage, requiring more work, and we decided to meet up when school ended. I stood there in sneakers, dark blue jeans, and a t-shirt, backpack slung over one shoulder weighing me down, as I waited for Azazel until I finally spotted him, book bag thrown over one shoulder.
I said, "So, uh, we need to decide where to do this. There's a public library a ten minute walk away...also, uh, I guess we could go to my house..." I offered the last option unenthusiastically.
Azazel had a hand in one pocket, I heard him tinkle some keys, "Do you have a car?"
"Um, no."
He smiled, "Well, I do, come on and follow me, Joe." As we walked to the parking lot he turned his head to me, "We could even work on the project at my home, if you want? It should be fairly quiet."
My curiosity got the better of me. It was usually something of a pain to go to the homes of a lot of my friends, places that were clearly ruled by their parents, still imposing lists of rules I couldn't relate to, often looking around corners to monitor their almost-adult children for signs of misbehaviour. Give me the mall or the anonymity of a library any day. But as I looked at Azazel, walking in his casual leather shoes, brown slacks, and dark-green button-up shirt with a collar wider than any present fashion, the ageless leather book bag slung over his shoulder, I wanted to know if there was anything more to this odd figure that had arrived at our school, someone that could have been a poster boy All-American reflected in a slightly distorted funhouse mirror. "Okay," I said. "Just let me know if I'm staying too long or being a pain in the ass or anything."
He led me over to an old Mercedes in the student parking lot, and gave me a smile when I complimented the ride. As we pulled out and he turned in the other direction from which I would usually go, I volunteered a bit about where I lived, an unremarkable subdivision of houses only ten or twenty years old.
He steered us into a neighbourhood that wasn't too far from the school, but which I'd only passed on major thoroughfares. Driving along the twisting roads of the neighbourhood, Dead End and No Exit signs abounded, and it was full of large green trees that towered over the roadway and felt like driving through a park.
"It's pretty nice," he said. "Our new house. We've been in it since the spring, so my Mom's had a chance to get it how she likes, mostly."
I looked out the window as the evening sun bathed me in a comfortable warmth. "Why'd you have to move?" I asked without thinking about it too much.
"Oh," Azazel answered, and I could sense hesitation and some nervousness in his voice. "Just the usual stuff. You know. Wasn't my decision, really."
We spent the rest of the ride in silence. When he pulled into the driveway I couldn't see the house at all, at first. Then we drove up to the garage, and beside it there was a lovely two-storey house, with flower beds and green bushes in front that looked natural and casual without being overgrown. 'Lovely' is not a word I use often, but that's really what it was. A sort of relaxed peace came over me just as I looked at the home, though it was joined by a sort of strangeness, being aware of the strong effect I was feeling.
There was a board over the door, what looked like a family crest, and writing that seemed to be in another language. I couldn't make it out, anyway. Azazel led me into the home, muttering an apology, "Sorry if things are a bit scattered, we weren't expecting any guests..."
The feeling was even stronger indoors. All the rooms I could see on the first floor were bathed in a diffused light, and the subtle smell combined flowers with a hint of something baking in the kitchen.
Azazel led me into the living room. Plush couches covered in blankets of various earthy colours surrounded a large carved wooden coffee table in the centre, sitting on a deep woven rug. Large plush pillows were scattered both on the couches and the floor.
