The front gates are enough to put me on edge.

They're built to look like the entrance to a grand palace, all towers that jut into the sky, trying to punch holes through the clouds with their teeth. The stone is streaked with dark trails of water damage like ink. Scattered over their face, decorative and once lovely windows are now shattered and cracked, caked with muck. Pretty iron gates block the way to turnstiles and twist and wind in on themselves, mottled with rust, sealed with thick chains that hang like dull threats. When the winds plow through, they clank and rattle loud enough to wake the dead.

It's like standing in front of a boneyard.

But that's why I'm here, the lifelessness of the place, because sometimes humanity is too much. It's a reliable escape sheerly by virtue of its chill.

The only way in is up and over, tennis shoes thudding against cement on the other side, and the interior is no more welcoming than the entrance.

In its prime, Olympus was a wonder of lights and people and sound. It whirred with activity and lit up bright enough to paint the night in swirls of color so vibrant they drowned out the stars.

It all came crashing down in the early days of October in 1932, when The Great Depression had hit its peak, throwing the park's employees and thirteen million other people out of work. And it shows for it; the whole place reeks of something shattered: a dream come true turned into a ruin.

There's not an inch of space that's not been mutilated by time. Cracks cut through the pavement underfoot and greenery thrusts itself out from them, food stands and game booths are hideously abandoned, faces of plastic clowns, dirtied and cackling, rise up like things of nightmares, and roller coasters, ancient skeletons of wood and steel, chip and cave and split.

The only sound is leaves skittering across the pavement, swept along by a dull autumn breeze. And now, my sneakers scuffing over the earth, drawing me out from under the cover of the archway.

My breath shudders quietly, too loud in the silence of this place, and my gaze catches unexpectedly on a dark shape in my periphery. I freeze and lock my eyes onto it, feel my whole chest seize up because there's a person poised on top of one of the stores, tall and regal against the watery greyness of the sky and still enough to be a statue, but there's never been an effigy there. (My mind protests, thrashes because logic says that people do not have wings.)

After several long beats of silence and my breaths coming in short bursts, I take another small step forward, lick my lips nervously. "Hello?"

My voice was barely raised, I don't expect them to hear it, much less whip around in a blur of blacks and greys and dark, wings flying open to fill up the entire world. He is all I see in the seconds that follow and the image is so clear it defies all logic, just as the feathers sprouting from his back do. At this distance, I should barely be able to make out his face, but I see every fleck of color hidden in his irises, the raging fire, I see his piceous hair whip around his head and across his brows, I watch his lips part in slow motion and his eyelashes flutter and strain with shock.

He disappears so quietly I don't even register it as it's happening, but when he's gone, I'm left reeling. Stumbling, choking on my own voice, heart tripping over itself in its rush.

In the air is a premonition.

I stand, heaving, for seconds or minutes, trying to make sense of what just happened. I can't. He is not there, there is no signs that he ever was. My best explanation is that he never was.

I collect myself. Push out a breath. Shake my head. Continue forward.

Every background thought in my skull is still trying to convince me that it was just a strange lapse of imagination. I do not really believe it. Every flutter of leaves becomes the flap of wings, every shifting shadow is a pursuer.

I'm still trudging on because I refuse to accept it. My mind is becoming more hazy and panicked until I have to slump against a pillar.

There's a soft rush of wind or wings and then he's there and suddenly the world focuses again. (He is the world, the only real thing in the vicinity.)

I gasp and clutch at the chill-ridden stone, a shiver finding its way up my spine. Tentative, like a newly blinded man.

He's like looking at the stars; a collection of raw and ancient energy. And he's sculpted like a Greek statue asserted on the steps of a mausoleum.  Fair skin, small lips, sharp cheekbones dusted with rose. And eyes that smolder like the last coals left after a fire. He's fascinating.

His lips purse and I think distantly that his face is made up of all careful pastels. (Everything but his eyes. They're a sea of confusion and old power.)

"You're not meant to see me."

That makes my mouth flit into a smile, and he looks so bewildered that the smile slowly morphs into laughter. "Then maybe you shouldn't be standing right here in front of me."

He shakes his head, the barest beginnings of amusement present on his features. It's quickly swept away by an air of seriousness and worry, "No. You shouldn't be able to see me... You need to leave. Being around here so often is having an effect on you."

My eyes narrow, "How bad of an effect can it really be?"

He takes a threatening step forward, flashing his teeth, wings twitching and opening slowly. "Leave."

I feel the word rush over me in a gust of power so strong it makes me stumble. I have to catch at the pillar just to stay upright. "Fine," I growl, but I'm coming back.

He slips away again, but I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck with every step I take. The farther away I get, the harder it is to believe that any of it was real, but an hour later I'm climbing the fence again and throwing my backpack down before I jump after it.

I stoop down to pick it up and when I straighten, he's standing there, looking absolutely livid. "I told you to stay away."

I just smirk, "You said to leave, never that I couldn't return."

Now he stares, seeming to be taken aback by my boldness, and then his expression darkens. "I could transport you out of here in the blink of an eye."

"Then why don't you?"

He sighs softly, seems to deflate, the fire in his eyes diminishes, "Because you are entitled to your own agency."

I set my jaw stubbornly and meet his gaze with exact purpose, "And I'm using my agency to stay here."

He shakes his head and his wings sag and drag across the ground as he turns, "Very well." The words are so soft they almost get lost in the wind.

I trail after him, eyes falling over the sweeping planes of his feathers, black like oil. "Tell me your name. Mine is Will."

"Will," he breathes, and pauses so suddenly that I almost crash into him.  He looks over his shoulder at me, like he's considering, weighing the odds. After a few strange moments, he looks down and away, tells the broken concrete, "My name is Nico."

I nod, but he's already moving again.

I lengthen my stride to catch up and turn my head to look at him. Nico just stares forward, his eyes distant and lost. I wonder how much he's seen, how many years he's haunted this friendless place. I wonder just what he is. I drink in the frosted air, "Usually. . . when I come here, I like to sit in one of the old rides and just. . . think."

His laugh is like the sound of metal clinking together, "That's all I ever do."

I grin, "Well, this time we'll have company."

Later, we sit huddled under the cover of Turn of the Century. It's an ornate affair, painted in soft pastels and lovely designs. At one time, it was probably beautiful, the light-bulbs along its roof lit, the swings hanging daintily, looking like a blur of charm in its whirring dance. Now, everything about it is bleak and failing.

"So, what. . . what exactly. . ." I choke, and scrub my fingers over the fabric of my jeans.

Nico sighs, "What am I?"

I look up nervously, nod. Watch his Adam's apple bob as he gulps, watch his eyes flick back and forth over the desolate landscape. "I'm an angel of death, Will. I. . . I was assigned to watch over this place, keep track of souls and take them at their time. It's lonely work."

"This place?" I flutter my hand to indicate our surroundings.

"No. . .this town. It was my home once too, you know. But people do not. . . they usually stay far away. It's a sort of sixth sense. You, though. . . I don't understand you."

I let myself offer him a small smile. "I like the solitude."

His teeth are straight and white like a movie star's when he flashes them at me, "Sorry to have spoiled that for you."

I huff in amusement and look away, "You haven't spoiled anything."

I get up and jog up the steps, laughing at Nico's confused expression as I grab onto the chain of one of the swings. "Come here. The swings still work just fine, even if they're part of a ride."

He's skeptical, but sits down (I watch in amazement as he carefully tucks his wings around him, the way a king would his cape) and laughs when I start pushing him.  It's strange and lovely, watching him tilt his head back and let his eyes flutter closed. I notice his wings curling open just slightly, catching at the wind, looking like he's ready to soar away.

We spend the rest of the night like that, taking turns pushing each other, and before I leave, Nico kicks at the toe of one of my sneakers and whispers, "Thank you. I'd forgotten what it was to live."

-

I'm there more often than not. Some days, Nico doesn't even show, but usually, I sit and quietly in one of the more trustworthy contraptions until he finds me fades into existence at my side. Once he's there, it's like he always was.

He whispers to me about his past life, tells me all about a gentle sister who was his entire world, a strong-spirited mother who struggled her way stubbornly through life and a distant father who had worlds of secrets buried underneath his skin.

I tell him all about my current existence, about my vast family. How our house is always bursting with noise and activity. I laugh, recounting tales of my siblings' antics and scowl, assuring him that school is just as horrible now as it was in the forties.

Some nights, we lie down and stare at the stars and point heavenward. These nights are somber and Nico's voice is something like a melody, it makes me feel like we're up there, dancing. On these nights, it's impossible to forget that he's seen things no one else has.

Other nights, he hides behind his wings and shakes with mirth, his cheeks flushed and his shining when he finally lowers them. It leaves me breathless and staring, feeling like he's somehow more human than any other person I've ever met.

On one occasion, I reach out tentatively and run my fingers over his feathers, learn that it makes his eyelids fall closed and his chin lift with pleasure. It's beautiful, really, but just I snicker and tell him that he's basically just a kitten, and he tackles me and tickles my sides until I take it back.

Today, Nico is holding a dauntingly large leather journal in his lap and carefully printing words into it in a language that I don't recognize. It's something that he does often. There's a moment when his facial expression falters and he flicks back several pages, runs his thumb over one of the lines like it's something precious, and then he carefully scrubs it away, muttering softly; words that sound like silk.

"What are they?" I ask, and touch my fingertips to the ink.

He rests his gaze on me heavily, it's an ancient stare,"Names. It's my job to record them. And erase them."

"Oh," I breathe. Suddenly, the book seems like so much more. I can't believe that I touched it, want to take it back.

"It's the language of the angels. These are heavenly titles, not earthly ones."

I flick my gaze back up to him, my throat feels like it's been condensed. "Can I see mine?"

When he turns to the page, it's not necessary to point it out. It calls to me, tugs on my very subconscious. Staring at it, I feel like the mysteries of our world are hidden in it's translation, like if I know what it means then I'll know why my heart beats, why the world turns, how flowers bloom and ideas strike.

I'm so entranced by it that when a drop of water splashes over the page, soaking through and smudging the letters closest to it, warping them into unrecognizable blurs, I startle and look up, expecting rain, and then next to me, Nico drags in a ragged breath and I realize that he's crying.

His eyelashes are soaked with it, and the tears streak his face tragically, making his eyes glisten and his mouth tremble and break into awful shapes. 

"Nico," I gasp, and he shuts the book. It disappears in the moment after. The air smells thickly like something sweet, "Hey, hey. What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, "Will. Will, you're the first person I've talked to in so long."

I slip my hand into his without thinking and stares at our entwined fingers like he's witnessed a miracle. His wings tremble along with the small, strangled noises that break away from him. It makes my heart hurt, watching a person so lovely and good break down.

"Ssshhh. . ." I tell him, and press close to him, reach up with my free hand to brush his tears gently from his cheeks.

"I can't lose you. I can't watch--"

I'm shaking my head, feeling dizzy and sick. "Don't think about it." Don't make me think about it.

Pressing our foreheads together makes me feel more steady. Up close, his irises are even more breathtaking, layers and layers of browns and golds so vibrant and lovely it's hardly believable. Nico just keeps shaking and crying, whispering that he needs me here and his voice is so desperate that it makes me gasp. 

I want to steady him, to reassure him. I want him to laugh and bury his face in my shoulder. I want to distract us both. I just want and so I tilt my head and press forward until our breaths stir each other and I can slip my hands into his hair, twist my fingers through it and take the worry off his lips.

His wings come around us both gradually, closing us off from the world, and his hands tremble wherever they land; across my rips, against my hips, over my thighs. He kisses me long enough that I forget I belong anywhere else.

"I'm here," I tell him, "Nico, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you."

He just kisses my cheek, barely there at all, and whispers, "You will. You can't help it."

When I open my eyes, he's gone.