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numb3rsflashficTitle: Family
Pairing/Characters: Charlie/Colby, Charlie/Don, hints of Don/Colby, and Charlie/Larry if you're inclined to see it.
Rating/Category: M/Slash
Word Count: 6430
Spoilers: None
Summary: A vampire love story of sorts.
Notes/Warnings: First time poster here, very scared. Some crazy nonsense, unbetaed.
Minor slash, bondage, blood, death, none of it heavy or realistic.
Prologue
The old man sat stiffly in his chair, back straight, face stern, eyes dancing. His rickety knees shook and clicked with his every move, his worn shoes scuffed the carpeting, liver-spotted hands tamping the tobacco into a pipe. The children were fascinated by this operation. Pipes were something seen only in a museum. Relics of another age as was he. If he was honest, and he was rarely anything other, he had taken it up for that purpose. They were awed by his hooded heavy brows and the lines on his face that had long been present. They watched the shaking of his hands, the skin hanging from the fingers in loose folds, fascinated, never dreaming this could happen to them one day. He surveyed the small faces and bright eyes. Equally impossible that he had been one of them at any time. He had lived so long that youth and ignorance would be long forgotten before he passed.
Many of the children had the same dark eyes and ringlets. Some were unusually big for their age, others tiny. Their mothers, whoever they had been, were in there somewhere but aways the vampire blood would out in the end, and it was often the Eppes blood that spoke most strongly, the distinctive familial features coming to the fore. The sounds of running feet padded by outside, but only the very youngest turned their heads. There were whispers and rumours about the house and its occupants, but any who were alive when the strange events occurred are long dead, he being the only one lingering. Children told stories about the house, dared each other to run past it, laughing and panting with fear and triumph. Adults, who knew such things for nonsense, passed by on the other side of the street. Those who needed a rational explanation to allow themselves to sleep at night had decided they were a cult. In reality they were a family.
The children were waiting for the story again, legs crossed on the carpet, the dust from which made even the most hardy wrinkle their noses, tickling deep in their throats. It was a story they already knew. Everyone knew a story like that, but they waited for him to begin just the same. He pointed at the picture on the wall and hawked deep in his throat, noting their winces of disgust with satisfaction.
"Your ancestor, Charles Eppes, was one of the finest minds of his generation."
They nodded, chorused a yes, impatient with his digressions, they already knew that. Of course they did. Charles Eppes was local folklore. Known for the things he had learnt during his lifetime, but mostly for the strange way he had lived and the rumours surrounding him. He pointed again to the picture on the wall, the eyes of the children obediently following him. The face was young, as it would always remain, unmarred by a single blemish. The curls were perfect and had been created that way for a reason. Those curls were one of the main reasons he had been created as he had. Why he had lived, and why he had died. He seemed deliberately perfect, created by God or the Devil or whoever was responsible for such foolishness to be a bane to those who loved him.
The eyes in the picture burnt into him, followed wherever he moved as they always had done. He knew the children, from their place on the floor, were being treated to the same sensation. How his eyes could be everywhere at once he did not know, nor was he ever likely to discover. It was one of the many mysteries that surrounded the house. The lids in the picture blinked steadily, closing over large eyes, lashes touching delicate carved cheeks, in a movement that was as slow as it was deliberate. The kids gasped even though they had been expecting that. The old mans eyes moved to the photo beside it. In contrast the features were more regular, more ... expected was the only word he could think of. A handsome face in its own way sat on a thick neck and broad shoulders, bright eyes looked out at them. Unlike Charlie he didn't care to frighten them with his gaze. Unlike Charlie he smiled at them and winked, the kids laughing as always.
Everyone knew a story like this. He scarcely knew why he bothered to tell it or why the children were so enthralled. Still, there was something about those dark eyes that held you in thrall. That made you want to do whatever he asked of you, and he seemed to be asking his story to be told once again. He had always wanted glory, and if he couldn't find it in his world, hadn't cared to when he was alive, he would have it now.
It begins, as such stories often do, with a boy. A boy who moves to a new town, where everything is strange and unfamiliar, knowing nobody, eager to make friends and settle in. Such is his desperation and the strangeness that he embraces the first friend he ever makes. Usually in such stories boy meets girl. In this case, boy meets boy. It hardly matters which anymore. Boy holds boy to him with all the ample strength in his muscular arms, and boy of course seems so sweet, so fragile. He makes it so easy to be held by being so small. Boy sinks his fingers in, covertly at first without the other realising he is doing it. Boy holds on through blood and death. Boy never leaves. Boy is different.
There's something about Charlie.
Colby didn't know why life couldn't be easy. Why he just couldn't fit, despite the best intentions. He had come from a town where everybody knows somebody, where he could not walk down the street but smile at someone. Sure, maybe that someone didn't like him, chances are they didn't, he had been widely branded as a weirdo from an early age, but at least they knew him for the weirdo he was. Here he never merited a smile, and, were it not for his superior size, he would not have earned a second glance. Charlie was the first person he could remember really meeting in this new city. He was bold and beautiful and bubbling with energy. He strode the corridors of his brothers' building like he owned the place. Exuded a radiance that demanded people look at him. Colby was amazed at how few people did. Colby could barely take his eyes off Charlie but others were happy to take him or leave him, to use him and his knowledge and extraordinary abilities then dismiss him as the occasion saw fit. Colby, who could barely stand to drag his eyes from Charlie, was stupefied by their indifference. He worshiped Charlie the way he knew Charlie deserved, arrogant and demanding shit that he could sometimes be, and would do so until the day he died, and beyond, although he wasn't to know that yet.
There was something knowing about Charlie. A secret smile he shared only with Colby that said he knew what Colby was thinking, knew all the things Colby would like to do to him. He seized his first opportunity to twist his hand in Colbys' collar, kissing him breathless, smiling as though he had every right to, licking his lips and stretching his face up to Colbys' like a cat.
From the beginning there was something about Charlie. Something that both drew Colby in and repelled him, made him want to hug the boy to him and push him far far away, that made him want to kiss Charlies' temples and pull the hair from his head in great clumps. It wasn't until he was completely hooked, addicted to Charlie, unable to get away, that he realised there was something more. You may have thought he was stupid not to have seen it before. Everyone who has ever heard one of these stories are certain they would have known better, as though such things are simple, when in reality nothing is ever simple. Charlies' face was flawless, his smile golden, the glimmer of white teeth against red red lips wet with saliva and plump with kisses no warning of things to come.
They lay in bed naked together wasting the morning away as they had many mornings before it the first time he noticed anything amiss. Charlie slept on his back, limbs thrown carelessly aside, a single curl clinging to his sweaty forehead, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Colby carefully removed the sheet from his lovers sleeping form, wandering Charlies' body with his eyes, stroking Charlies' arm and downy chest with his hand. Charlie slept on, his lips turned up in a smile as though dreaming of something wonderful. Colbys' head was propped on his elbow, his back to the door. Soft mocking laughter startled him. He turned to the door, still firmly shut.
"Who's there?" he called out.
No answer.
It must have been the wind, he told himself as he turned back to Charlie. Charlies' lips were curved up even more, a dog chasing a rabbit, a cat that had caught a mouse in his dreams. Colby lay his head down on the pillow and watched dumbfounded as Charlies' body rose into the air. Charlies' hair trailed behind him, the ends just touching the pillow. Colby looked beneath his lover, peered through the cold air between Charlie and the bed. He rubbed his eyes hard until his vision blurred but there Charlie remained. He touched Charlies' skin, palm flat against Charlies' chest, pushing down as Charlies' body vibrated with a low hum, making Colbys' hand sing and goosebumps rise on his naked flesh. Charlies' body was ice to the touch.
When he awoke with Charlies' head on his shoulder, his right arm long since numb from the pressure of Charlies' spine, he convinced himself he had dreamed it all. In the harsh light of day he could convince himself it was all nonsense and lies. It was the evenings it was hardest to ignore. There was definitely something about Charlie.
His perfect white teeth seemed to change their size at will. Sometimes Colby adored their evenness and how tiny they were. Other times they leered at him with a demonic glow as Charlie licked his lips and sealed his mouth over Colbys'. When his blood was up, Charlies' pulse throbbed with a nearly audible beat, the veins clearly visible beneath his white skin. The strength in his fingers as they busied themselves with Colbys' buttons, the way numbers would fly across his chalkboard with a frenetic pace that left him sweaty and panting. Charlies' skin was so pale, so cold when he slept motionless like the dead. He seemed often to know what Colby was thinking, smiling secret smiles to himself as though he alone held the key to all mysteries. He was capable of such flights of passion, but he could be so cold and controlled when he wished it. He had an inordinate fascination with blood, his own and other peoples.
Those of you who believe that Colby should have known, that surely Charlies' lust for blood, his tendency to bite his lower lip until it bled then take the blood onto his tongue, should have been a dead giveaway (dead give-away, ha-ha) were not there and have no right to judge. Colby was not with Charlie when he hunted. Charlie very seldom licked at Colbys' blood, and then never through wounds he inflicted. Besides, Charlie had a reflection, and he had no problem with garlic or crucifixes.
Colby first thought the word vampire only in the dead of night, when Charlies' stillness was at its height. Awake, Charlie had such energy and life that no one could possibly see in him the living dead. When Charlie would curl up beside him, smile into Colbys' skin, Colby felt the need like a physical ache to defend this boy with his life if need be. When he was far from Charlie he wondered, and was unable to let it rest.
Colby being the hero of our tale, and this tale being well known, he set out to investigate this strange phenomenon. In a break from tradition, because he's an unconventional guy, our intrepid hero did not go a dingy cobweb-strewn library or sit at a computer in a darkened room with a conveniently placed open window behind him to investigate the mystery of the undead. No, he went to his lovers house to look for clues, being a member of the federal bureau of investigation, although that does not come in to this story much.
He knocked on the door, but no answer was forthcoming. He broke the insufficient lock and the door creaked open.
"Hello?" he called into the house, the door swinging to behind him with a dull thud.
No answer.
The sunlight flowed through the interior of the house, upstairs, where he had never been, beckoning darkly. The steps creaked and groaned beneath his weight, splinters catching in the soles of his shoes, cobwebs and dust thickening as he ascended, the odour of decay becoming more pungent as though the carpet were damp and never allowed to dry. The curtains were all firmly closed up here, the air thicker somehow, his boots sticking to the carpet, each footstep heavier than the last. At the very top Charlies' mother smiled down at him from a large photograph hanging right over Colbys' head. Her eyes followed his in that creepy way all pictures have. Colby jumped as a spider crawled across his hand, shaking it away in disgust. He had looked away from her for only a moment, but he could almost swear that Margaret's head had changed position on her neck. Her hair was cut short to just above her shoulders, curling like her sons, her white neck long and flawless. Surely her face had angled straight ahead, head high on her neck. Now she glanced a little to the left, in Colbys' direction, chin at an angle to her shoulders. Of course that was impossible, still Colby was loathe to turn his back on her. Feeling foolish he backed down the hallway, certain that somewhere in her frozen smile she was mocking him.
The upstairs of Charlies' house was nothing like the downstairs, which was sensible and house-like. The upstairs consisted solely of a long hall stretching darkly ahead of him (or behind him since Colby was backing). As in all such stories every door was locked. Each handle he tried rattled impotently, increasing his dismay, until he finally found one that turned. It was the final door, as these things often are, and it opened with a groan reminiscent of Charlies' groan last night when Colby was fucking him. Colby backed gratefully into the room, certain that the picture of the Eppes matriarch could read his thoughts at that moment and he did not want her to know what he had been doing to her son last night.
The air in the room was pungent and sticky with flowers. They surrounded the only piece of furniture in the room, and although whoever had put them there had probably meant them to be beautiful they sang of death. They surrounded a bed of black clothes on which a woman lay clad in white, petals fallen onto her pale cheek. It was nice that the Eppes men had kept Margaret close. She looked remarkably well-preserved considering how long she had been dead.
Colby was not unfamiliar with these sorts of stories, you know. He did not wait for the woman on the bed to open her eyes and fly at him with a banshee-shriek, teeth bared for his throat. He ran from the house and the dead woman with as much dignity as he could muster.
It had not escaped Colby that, as she lay in her dark arbour, Margaret Eppes' dress was covered in the equations and formulae that had become so familiar to Colby. Something about the spectacle of Charlie sitting in that close room for hours on end, submerged in the pungent aroma of flowers, writing what he couldn't get out of his head onto his mothers' clothing tugged at Colby and he felt the pull of Charlie once more, his steps changing direction, taking him towards Charlie.
He knew Charlies' mother had died years earlier. Don had returned home to nurse her through her illness and Charlie, unable to bear the thought of losing her, had hidden himself away in the garage. Alan Eppes was at work when she died. Everyone who had known him then said that he blamed himself for not being with her at the end and was never the same again. He needed both his sons close, wandering the halls of Dons' office like a phantom, eyes only for his sons' distinctive dark hair. Colby would have loved to have met him before. Occasionally a spark of such wry humour and dry wit lit Alan that Colby could easily imagine the man he had once been.
Blood brothers
CalSci was deserted at that time of night. Colby passed a mousy-haired girl clutching books to her chest and hurrying across the grass, shoulders hunched against the cold. A sharp slap rang through the night. The girl glanced over her shoulder fearfully, breaking into a trot. Colby hoped she reached her destination intact. As he strode closer he heard muffled shouts and a thud. Walking the halls of Charlies' building, Dons' voice raised in anger, Charlies' soft, cajoling, pleading, ending on a gasp and a low keen of pain and then silence.
Anyone with any sense knows that Colby should have walked away then. Should not have pushed the door to Charlies' office open, but Colby had to know.
No light shone in the room, but Don and Charlie were clearly visible to him, their skin seeming to glow, Dons' eyes shining with a feral iridescence. Don either did not see him or pretended he did not, allowing Colby a leisurely view of the scene before him.
Charlie lay on his back, spread-eagled across the desk. His wrists and ankles were bound with leather straps, the buttons of his shirt hung open, head lolling to one side, eyes firmly closed. Blood dripped in a thin stream from the corner of Charlies' mouth, blood seeping from two puncture wounds on his white throat. Don licked his lips, bending his head gracefully to lick the blood from his brothers skin, before turning to Colby with a smile that showed his white teeth in all their glory.
Colby felt the pull of Don just like he felt the pull of Charlie. Don beckoned with his eyes and Colby went. Don placed his face close to Colbys' neck, Dons' breath ghosting Colbys' skin, his scent like that of his brother. Colby felt Dons' ice fingers stroke his neck, Dons' mouth pressed to his throbbing pulse, teeth working Colbys' skin. Colbys' eyes were drawn to Charlie lying helpless across his own desk, he thought of a boy mourning a mother taken from him before her time, scribbling numbers on her dress, and he pushed Don away with all his considerable strength. Don followed his gaze to Charlie, a slight smile flickering across his face as he took in Charlies' bonds. He tugged gently on a lock of Charlies' hair, then bent down and pressed his lips to his brothers unresponsive ones.
"He wants you," Don said softly, eyes only for Charlie.
"He used to want only me, but now he wants you."
He looked Colby up and down contemptuously, anger mixed with genuine mystification on his handsome features.
"I don't know why he wants you but he does. And Charlie always gets what he wants."
"Then why-," Colby said, pointing at Charlies' bound form, his voice thick, stuck in his throat.
Don turned back to Charlie, stroking a hand over his forehead tenderly.
"This was my attempt to convince him," Don said wistfully. "It was a long shot. He's too stubborn for anyones good."
Colby thought that was a bit rich coming from Don, who could be the stubbornest ass Colby had ever known, but thought it wise not to say so. Don, who seemed to read his mind, grinned at him.
"Maybe I do see why he wants you after all," he said lightly.
Despite the lightness of Dons' words he hadn't taken his hand from Charlies' hair, and Colby got the feeling he had wandered into the middle of something he should have stayed well clear of.
Colby took a single step towards the door, walking backwards for the second time that day. He managed only one step before Don, with a speed unimaginable, flew at him, seizing Colby by the throat, thumb digging into the soft skin beneath Colbys' jaw.
"I could kill you," Don said lightly, eyes shining with fever and threat, "but then he'd hate me. Charlie wants what he wants when he wants it."
Don released Colby with a little push that told him he was through here. Colby did not need to be told twice and continued his backing. He had the door ajar when Charlies' eyes flew open in the darkness. Colby heard Charlie chastising his brother.
"Don, stop being a pain in the butt. Let me go."
Charlies' hands twisted in his bonds as Don took his sweet time releasing him, Charlie rolling his eyes but smiling indulgently as Don kissed the flesh beneath the straps.
To each his own
Charlie lay nestled in Colbys' arms, his head propped on Colbys' shoulder, legs tangled with Colbys' longer ones. Charlie wisely kept his face away from Colbys' neck. The smell of Charlie, the feel of his hair tickling Colbys' skin, the comfortable weight of him, the way Charlie fit himself snugly to Colbys' side, not allowing any space between them, was so familiar that Colby was able to relax.
"Mirrors?" Colby asked.
"No problem at all."
"Garlic?"
"Don't really like the smell but I can handle it."
"Crucifixes?"
"I kind of think they're pretty. Except the ones with a dead guy hanging off them."
"Wooden stakes?"
"Well, if I plunged one into you wouldn't it hurt?"
Colby had to admit Charlie had a point there.
"Sunlight?"
Charlie pushed the curtains back a little, letting a sliver of light fall on his outstretched arm, answer enough.
"Ever turn into a bat?"
Charlie laughed. "What would be the point of that?"
"How did it happen?" Colby asked softly.
Charlie pressed his face into Colbys' neck. Colby sat carefully still, waiting. When Charlie pulled away he looked so lost that Colby tightened his arms around Charlie fiercely, hugging him hard.
"Good thing I don't need to breathe," Charlie forced out a joke, smiling weakly.
Colby waited him out.
"It was when Mum died," Charlie said, voice carefully neutral, eyes blank and distant.
"Did you know she was murdered?" he asked, looking at Colby.
Colby nodded. None of the Eppes men ever mentioned it but there was enough talk, what had happened to her was no secret. Whoever had done it was never caught. They had not believed that someone who lived in such a fancy house didn't have a safe or a secret stash of cash lurking somewhere. They had killed her for eighteen dollars. Don had thrown himself into his work with a vengeance, and Charlie had reportedly been so traumatised that he had not left his bed for weeks.
"Don was out when it happened. He was getting her pills, she took so many pills," Charlie continued forlornly.
Charlie sat up, pulling himself from Colbys' arms, Colby letting go reluctantly. Charlie bent his head, lifting the curls from the back of his neck, exposing the slender column to reveal a deep scar Colby had never seen before. The flesh around it was puckered and bruised as though the damage were more recent than it actually was, the wound itself an angry shade of red.
"They cut me and left me to die," Charlie said matter-of-factly, a shudder in his voice at the last word.
Charlie laid his head upon Colbys' chest, fingers twitching on Colbys' skin. Colby laid his hand on Charlies' cheek.
"He found me and he saved me," Charlie whispered. "If he hadn't I'd be dead."
"Don?" Colby asked softly.
Charlie shook his head.
"He's the leader. The oldest. He made us all. He has the power."
Charlies' face clouded. "He made Don ... later."
Colby nodded as though he understood when he didn't, not really. Colby had more questions, a thousand more, but Charlie turned his face to Colbys' chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth, hand traveling south, and Colby forgot everything he was going to say.
Family
Colby lay on his back looking up at the sky with no real awareness of how he had gotten there. A bird flew by overhead and a shadow blocked out the sun as a face filled his field of vision. Colbys' legs twitched of their own accord, moisture seeped through his shirt onto his back, sticky and sweet. Colby thought he must have fallen into a puddle although it hadn't been raining. This was the last thing he needed. The guys at the office would give him shit about his wet shirt and apparent clumsiness. Only when the spreading pool beneath him had flown too far did he see it from the corner of his eye and realise what it was. Who would have thought he had so much blood in him? Charlie would have a field day. Colby tried to laugh but it came out as something far different and only then did he realise it was serious this time. A feeling akin to the time he'd skidded his car in the rain, careening out of control across the slick bitumen. Like he had lost control of his own body, was waiting only for the slide to end knowing there was nothing he could do. He eyes felt heavier, tired and older, like he had aged years in a moment. A myriad of faces bent over him during the next few hours, none staying long enough for him to keep them in focus. He wanted to shout at them to stop looking at him with pity clear in their eyes but found he couldn't form words. The things he had always done, these things he could no longer do. The worst part was he didn't even know what had happened to him. He was on his feet then he wasn't and that was all.
Charlies' eyes were veiled in red, the tender skin beneath them puffy and bruised. His tears were tinged with a faint sheen of blood, leaving crimson trails down his face. Colby wanted to wipe them off but he couldn't seem to lift his arms. Charlie left then returned with Larry by his side. Or maybe Charlie had stayed and Larry had come to him. Larry was studying Colby with disinterest, his face a blank mask, shaking his head ever so slightly. With their same pale skin and near identical size they could have been twins. Colby wanted to laugh at this, his Charlie twins with dorky Fleinhart, but couldn't manage any sound at all. It was only now that he began to be really afraid, although all the rest of us have worked out long before what was happening to him. He felt like the only reason he could still open his eyes was to look at Charlies' face. He couldn't feel Charlies' hand on his, he only knew it was there through his blurring vision. Charlie was begging, gesturing frantically at Larry. Larry shook his head and turned away, Charlie seizing his shoulder, gesturing at Colby, mouth trembling, composure beginning to slip. Don stood at a distance watching the scene unfold, arms folded, blocking the doorway. He had eyes only for his brothers distress. Dons' lips were parted, one incisor working his lower lip the way Charlie liked to do. Colby could feel his need to help Charlie like a physical force, nearly as strong as his own. Larry shook his head, scissoring his arms, gesture as emphatic a no as Colby had ever seen. Still he leant forward, eyes glittering, teeth sharp, and bit into Colbys' neck. Colby did not even feel it. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the sensation of Charlies' hand on his brow, Charlies' voice whispering in his ear that it was going to be alright. He focused on Charlies' words until Charlies' voice became sharper, like coming home.
After death
Larry Fleinhart turned out to be the all powerful king of the vampires, a fact that never ceased to amuse Colby.
Larry had been drawn to the smell of blood and to the beauty of the house. He had seen a boy, barely more than a child, although it would turn out he was years older than he appeared, handcuffed to a table leg sobbing his heart out as a woman lay dead not two feet from him. The boy was swooning, barely holding on to consciousness, eyes fixed on the woman as though will alone could keep them both here. Charlie had always believed Larry had taken pity on him, saved him out of some kind of goodness. The reality was far simpler. He had seen a beautiful boy and had wanted to keep him that way forever. Larry had never been even passingly beautiful, he was immortal far past his prime, past his youth, and there was something in the pure waste of that youth and beauty that enraged him, made him save the boy.
Normally he used more care, made another only after he had watched them long, made sure they were strong. The consequences of this impulse of a moment were fast approaching disastrous. After the change, the boy had collapsed, hadn't the strength for what he needed to do to survive. He was a whirlwind of emotions and sadness, too many ties to his earthly family, unable and perhaps unwilling to detach for even a moment. Because the boy was beautiful and passionate Larry had let him live, but some action was necessary, and Larry had changed the boys brother. Beautiful in his own way, but stronger, harder, angrier. They had a strange bond that had only grown more so with blood. He had watched them hunt together more than once, the elder of the two always finding the victims. He lived with evil every day, he could sniff them out, could even when he was alive, a skill now honed and vampiric. He would guide his brother to them, Don always being the one to extinguish life himself, always taking on that burden. Sometimes he would drink from them and kiss his brother, blood passing between them. It was natural. They were all brothers now. Still, there came a time as there always does when Charlie no longer needed to be protected and led by the hand. When he was ready to strike out on his own, to leave his brother behind. Don knew that he had been made for Charlie and was not prepared to let go so easily, but Charlie had found another with unseemly haste. And that other someone Larry did not care for at all. Nothing special, a hunk of mediocrity as far as Larry could see.
Charlie could have had his world, the world of academia, grovelling at his feet. Feted for his genius, famed for his discoveries, made notorious through the murder of his mother and his fathers disintegration, Larry had tried to keep Charlies' interest in his own world. But the impatience of youth and mans true nature would out, and Charlie became more infamous than famous in the end. The boy tried but he lost focus, distracted not with the blood but with the man. There were flashes of brilliance, times when he desired recognition above all else, but they were short-lived and easily extinguished. Colby recognised Charlie and that was all he ever seemed to need. It was madness, and Larry tried to tell him that, but he had ceased listening long ago.
Colby had been indifferent to his own reflection before but he rather enjoyed looking in the mirror now. He could stare at his own reflection for hours, Charlie loving to tease him about it. He could hear the inflections in Charlies' voice now as though they were his own. Hear the things people left unsaid. Colours were brighter, the world was cleaner but narrower, sunlight burning his eyes with a glorious fire. The whole world was changed, Colby like an over-sized newborn. Colby smiled at his reflection, prodding his teeth with his tongue. They were there only if you knew where to look. Charlies' face had a thousand new planes, his smile a hundred nuances. Charlie bit into Colbys' chest, Colby smiling with the sting, as Charlie straddled him and happily licked off the blood. Kissing Colby so Colby could taste it too. Charlie lay in Colbys' arms, just as he always had, the sheets now flecked with red
They all managed to co-exist relatively harmoniously together. Charlie was happy and indulging him was what they had all learnt to do. Charlie and Colby were in thrall to each other, and Don was happy to leave them to it for a while. Alans' brief flashes of life became more frequent with a new person in the house, although Colby would avoid the upstairs as though his very life depended on it. They walked the streets hand in hand like regular lovers, they danced in Charlies' lounge room, hips swaying to music only they could hear, they tasted each other late into the night. Larry kept his distance, not interfering, his disapproval implicit, his distaste in their domesticity obvious. They were drunk with each other, and happiness in life which is so rare, after life rarer still. Don was indulgent and they were grateful. His flashes of anger and jealousy were as brief as they were ferocious but in the end he had been there first and was certain he would be there last.
They lived in this house for many years, generations passing them by, the cobwebs hanging thicker than ever, the air so close as they'd no need to breathe it. Charlie withdrew from the world of men, content to lie all day in his lovers' arms. No one much questioned the disappearance of an unknown FBI agent, but a genius, a prodigy, could not simply disappear without people wondering why. Sometimes he would still be seen, through an open window downstairs, face more pale than ever. There were whispers surrounding him. He had been brainwashed, held prisoner by the larger man. Whispers gave them something to laugh at during their many long days and longer nights.
Epilogue
"Did they live happily ever after I hear you say?"
The old man tapped his feet on the floor, enjoying the hold he had on his young audience now. They did not know the end, no one did, because no two stories end the same, and none are truly alike, not for those who've lived them. Happily ever after was an anomaly as Charlie would say. Children being children and with no idea how the world really works they wouldn't know that happily ever after just doesn't happen. There's happy for a time, and then perhaps contentment, followed by indifference, annoyance, outright hatred if you're careless. They lived happy for longer than they had a right to. Maybe that was enough because how many people get even that? Don had been the first to leave the house, and strangely enough, it was Colby who remained the longest. Colby sat with Alan for years after Charlie had left, Colby who loved the children far more than the others ever did, particularly the tiny ones with the big eyes and wild hair.
Women entered their lives for brief moments in time, often bearing them children. The children were always welcome here, it had been the children that had brought Alan back to life near completely. Children always unusually beautiful and inquisitive, their bloodlines tainted and strange. They needed to learn the reason regular people avoided them instinctively, and he had been the storyteller for many generations. He had lived far longer than he had any right to because his son had not been able to let him go and he had not wanted to leave them. Who knew what became of you after you died? If he'd join his beloved Margaret or simply cease to be, wander in a void alone for eternity. He had been afraid to take that risk so he had remained for as long as he could. One of the many children would tell the story when he was gone, and they would all know who they really were, where they had come from.
Don had waited patiently on the sidelines far longer than he thought he should before drifting away. No recriminations, but a mournful disbelief left behind him. Dons' absence hung over them like a spectre, shadows clouding their sun. Don would drift in and out of their lives intermittently, never really able to leave, but unable to remain. He who would have done anything for his brother had been cast aside and that Charlie of his own free will had done it was impossible for Don to bear. The guilt was always with his youngest after that and Colby wisely remained away for longer and longer, gradually growing tired of being the one Charlie needed to blame. Still, Colby never left for good, not until Charlie did. Alan missed them like limbs, but he was sure they would all return at least once before he was done.
The children sat in bewildered awe, their silence speaking words they did not yet have. In truth they were expecting a happily ever after and Alan was sorry he could never give them that. The questions began soon after the shock had dispersed. There was so much about the later years that Alan couldn't say. So many more answers, and maybe somewhere in the depths of what was left of his memories he could find them, but that was for another day and that was another story.
End
Pairing/Characters: Charlie/Colby, Charlie/Don, hints of Don/Colby, and Charlie/Larry if you're inclined to see it.
Rating/Category: M/Slash
Word Count: 6430
Spoilers: None
Summary: A vampire love story of sorts.
Notes/Warnings: First time poster here, very scared. Some crazy nonsense, unbetaed.
Minor slash, bondage, blood, death, none of it heavy or realistic.
Prologue
The old man sat stiffly in his chair, back straight, face stern, eyes dancing. His rickety knees shook and clicked with his every move, his worn shoes scuffed the carpeting, liver-spotted hands tamping the tobacco into a pipe. The children were fascinated by this operation. Pipes were something seen only in a museum. Relics of another age as was he. If he was honest, and he was rarely anything other, he had taken it up for that purpose. They were awed by his hooded heavy brows and the lines on his face that had long been present. They watched the shaking of his hands, the skin hanging from the fingers in loose folds, fascinated, never dreaming this could happen to them one day. He surveyed the small faces and bright eyes. Equally impossible that he had been one of them at any time. He had lived so long that youth and ignorance would be long forgotten before he passed.
Many of the children had the same dark eyes and ringlets. Some were unusually big for their age, others tiny. Their mothers, whoever they had been, were in there somewhere but aways the vampire blood would out in the end, and it was often the Eppes blood that spoke most strongly, the distinctive familial features coming to the fore. The sounds of running feet padded by outside, but only the very youngest turned their heads. There were whispers and rumours about the house and its occupants, but any who were alive when the strange events occurred are long dead, he being the only one lingering. Children told stories about the house, dared each other to run past it, laughing and panting with fear and triumph. Adults, who knew such things for nonsense, passed by on the other side of the street. Those who needed a rational explanation to allow themselves to sleep at night had decided they were a cult. In reality they were a family.
The children were waiting for the story again, legs crossed on the carpet, the dust from which made even the most hardy wrinkle their noses, tickling deep in their throats. It was a story they already knew. Everyone knew a story like that, but they waited for him to begin just the same. He pointed at the picture on the wall and hawked deep in his throat, noting their winces of disgust with satisfaction.
"Your ancestor, Charles Eppes, was one of the finest minds of his generation."
They nodded, chorused a yes, impatient with his digressions, they already knew that. Of course they did. Charles Eppes was local folklore. Known for the things he had learnt during his lifetime, but mostly for the strange way he had lived and the rumours surrounding him. He pointed again to the picture on the wall, the eyes of the children obediently following him. The face was young, as it would always remain, unmarred by a single blemish. The curls were perfect and had been created that way for a reason. Those curls were one of the main reasons he had been created as he had. Why he had lived, and why he had died. He seemed deliberately perfect, created by God or the Devil or whoever was responsible for such foolishness to be a bane to those who loved him.
The eyes in the picture burnt into him, followed wherever he moved as they always had done. He knew the children, from their place on the floor, were being treated to the same sensation. How his eyes could be everywhere at once he did not know, nor was he ever likely to discover. It was one of the many mysteries that surrounded the house. The lids in the picture blinked steadily, closing over large eyes, lashes touching delicate carved cheeks, in a movement that was as slow as it was deliberate. The kids gasped even though they had been expecting that. The old mans eyes moved to the photo beside it. In contrast the features were more regular, more ... expected was the only word he could think of. A handsome face in its own way sat on a thick neck and broad shoulders, bright eyes looked out at them. Unlike Charlie he didn't care to frighten them with his gaze. Unlike Charlie he smiled at them and winked, the kids laughing as always.
Everyone knew a story like this. He scarcely knew why he bothered to tell it or why the children were so enthralled. Still, there was something about those dark eyes that held you in thrall. That made you want to do whatever he asked of you, and he seemed to be asking his story to be told once again. He had always wanted glory, and if he couldn't find it in his world, hadn't cared to when he was alive, he would have it now.
It begins, as such stories often do, with a boy. A boy who moves to a new town, where everything is strange and unfamiliar, knowing nobody, eager to make friends and settle in. Such is his desperation and the strangeness that he embraces the first friend he ever makes. Usually in such stories boy meets girl. In this case, boy meets boy. It hardly matters which anymore. Boy holds boy to him with all the ample strength in his muscular arms, and boy of course seems so sweet, so fragile. He makes it so easy to be held by being so small. Boy sinks his fingers in, covertly at first without the other realising he is doing it. Boy holds on through blood and death. Boy never leaves. Boy is different.
There's something about Charlie.
Colby didn't know why life couldn't be easy. Why he just couldn't fit, despite the best intentions. He had come from a town where everybody knows somebody, where he could not walk down the street but smile at someone. Sure, maybe that someone didn't like him, chances are they didn't, he had been widely branded as a weirdo from an early age, but at least they knew him for the weirdo he was. Here he never merited a smile, and, were it not for his superior size, he would not have earned a second glance. Charlie was the first person he could remember really meeting in this new city. He was bold and beautiful and bubbling with energy. He strode the corridors of his brothers' building like he owned the place. Exuded a radiance that demanded people look at him. Colby was amazed at how few people did. Colby could barely take his eyes off Charlie but others were happy to take him or leave him, to use him and his knowledge and extraordinary abilities then dismiss him as the occasion saw fit. Colby, who could barely stand to drag his eyes from Charlie, was stupefied by their indifference. He worshiped Charlie the way he knew Charlie deserved, arrogant and demanding shit that he could sometimes be, and would do so until the day he died, and beyond, although he wasn't to know that yet.
There was something knowing about Charlie. A secret smile he shared only with Colby that said he knew what Colby was thinking, knew all the things Colby would like to do to him. He seized his first opportunity to twist his hand in Colbys' collar, kissing him breathless, smiling as though he had every right to, licking his lips and stretching his face up to Colbys' like a cat.
From the beginning there was something about Charlie. Something that both drew Colby in and repelled him, made him want to hug the boy to him and push him far far away, that made him want to kiss Charlies' temples and pull the hair from his head in great clumps. It wasn't until he was completely hooked, addicted to Charlie, unable to get away, that he realised there was something more. You may have thought he was stupid not to have seen it before. Everyone who has ever heard one of these stories are certain they would have known better, as though such things are simple, when in reality nothing is ever simple. Charlies' face was flawless, his smile golden, the glimmer of white teeth against red red lips wet with saliva and plump with kisses no warning of things to come.
They lay in bed naked together wasting the morning away as they had many mornings before it the first time he noticed anything amiss. Charlie slept on his back, limbs thrown carelessly aside, a single curl clinging to his sweaty forehead, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Colby carefully removed the sheet from his lovers sleeping form, wandering Charlies' body with his eyes, stroking Charlies' arm and downy chest with his hand. Charlie slept on, his lips turned up in a smile as though dreaming of something wonderful. Colbys' head was propped on his elbow, his back to the door. Soft mocking laughter startled him. He turned to the door, still firmly shut.
"Who's there?" he called out.
No answer.
It must have been the wind, he told himself as he turned back to Charlie. Charlies' lips were curved up even more, a dog chasing a rabbit, a cat that had caught a mouse in his dreams. Colby lay his head down on the pillow and watched dumbfounded as Charlies' body rose into the air. Charlies' hair trailed behind him, the ends just touching the pillow. Colby looked beneath his lover, peered through the cold air between Charlie and the bed. He rubbed his eyes hard until his vision blurred but there Charlie remained. He touched Charlies' skin, palm flat against Charlies' chest, pushing down as Charlies' body vibrated with a low hum, making Colbys' hand sing and goosebumps rise on his naked flesh. Charlies' body was ice to the touch.
When he awoke with Charlies' head on his shoulder, his right arm long since numb from the pressure of Charlies' spine, he convinced himself he had dreamed it all. In the harsh light of day he could convince himself it was all nonsense and lies. It was the evenings it was hardest to ignore. There was definitely something about Charlie.
His perfect white teeth seemed to change their size at will. Sometimes Colby adored their evenness and how tiny they were. Other times they leered at him with a demonic glow as Charlie licked his lips and sealed his mouth over Colbys'. When his blood was up, Charlies' pulse throbbed with a nearly audible beat, the veins clearly visible beneath his white skin. The strength in his fingers as they busied themselves with Colbys' buttons, the way numbers would fly across his chalkboard with a frenetic pace that left him sweaty and panting. Charlies' skin was so pale, so cold when he slept motionless like the dead. He seemed often to know what Colby was thinking, smiling secret smiles to himself as though he alone held the key to all mysteries. He was capable of such flights of passion, but he could be so cold and controlled when he wished it. He had an inordinate fascination with blood, his own and other peoples.
Those of you who believe that Colby should have known, that surely Charlies' lust for blood, his tendency to bite his lower lip until it bled then take the blood onto his tongue, should have been a dead giveaway (dead give-away, ha-ha) were not there and have no right to judge. Colby was not with Charlie when he hunted. Charlie very seldom licked at Colbys' blood, and then never through wounds he inflicted. Besides, Charlie had a reflection, and he had no problem with garlic or crucifixes.
Colby first thought the word vampire only in the dead of night, when Charlies' stillness was at its height. Awake, Charlie had such energy and life that no one could possibly see in him the living dead. When Charlie would curl up beside him, smile into Colbys' skin, Colby felt the need like a physical ache to defend this boy with his life if need be. When he was far from Charlie he wondered, and was unable to let it rest.
Colby being the hero of our tale, and this tale being well known, he set out to investigate this strange phenomenon. In a break from tradition, because he's an unconventional guy, our intrepid hero did not go a dingy cobweb-strewn library or sit at a computer in a darkened room with a conveniently placed open window behind him to investigate the mystery of the undead. No, he went to his lovers house to look for clues, being a member of the federal bureau of investigation, although that does not come in to this story much.
He knocked on the door, but no answer was forthcoming. He broke the insufficient lock and the door creaked open.
"Hello?" he called into the house, the door swinging to behind him with a dull thud.
No answer.
The sunlight flowed through the interior of the house, upstairs, where he had never been, beckoning darkly. The steps creaked and groaned beneath his weight, splinters catching in the soles of his shoes, cobwebs and dust thickening as he ascended, the odour of decay becoming more pungent as though the carpet were damp and never allowed to dry. The curtains were all firmly closed up here, the air thicker somehow, his boots sticking to the carpet, each footstep heavier than the last. At the very top Charlies' mother smiled down at him from a large photograph hanging right over Colbys' head. Her eyes followed his in that creepy way all pictures have. Colby jumped as a spider crawled across his hand, shaking it away in disgust. He had looked away from her for only a moment, but he could almost swear that Margaret's head had changed position on her neck. Her hair was cut short to just above her shoulders, curling like her sons, her white neck long and flawless. Surely her face had angled straight ahead, head high on her neck. Now she glanced a little to the left, in Colbys' direction, chin at an angle to her shoulders. Of course that was impossible, still Colby was loathe to turn his back on her. Feeling foolish he backed down the hallway, certain that somewhere in her frozen smile she was mocking him.
The upstairs of Charlies' house was nothing like the downstairs, which was sensible and house-like. The upstairs consisted solely of a long hall stretching darkly ahead of him (or behind him since Colby was backing). As in all such stories every door was locked. Each handle he tried rattled impotently, increasing his dismay, until he finally found one that turned. It was the final door, as these things often are, and it opened with a groan reminiscent of Charlies' groan last night when Colby was fucking him. Colby backed gratefully into the room, certain that the picture of the Eppes matriarch could read his thoughts at that moment and he did not want her to know what he had been doing to her son last night.
The air in the room was pungent and sticky with flowers. They surrounded the only piece of furniture in the room, and although whoever had put them there had probably meant them to be beautiful they sang of death. They surrounded a bed of black clothes on which a woman lay clad in white, petals fallen onto her pale cheek. It was nice that the Eppes men had kept Margaret close. She looked remarkably well-preserved considering how long she had been dead.
Colby was not unfamiliar with these sorts of stories, you know. He did not wait for the woman on the bed to open her eyes and fly at him with a banshee-shriek, teeth bared for his throat. He ran from the house and the dead woman with as much dignity as he could muster.
It had not escaped Colby that, as she lay in her dark arbour, Margaret Eppes' dress was covered in the equations and formulae that had become so familiar to Colby. Something about the spectacle of Charlie sitting in that close room for hours on end, submerged in the pungent aroma of flowers, writing what he couldn't get out of his head onto his mothers' clothing tugged at Colby and he felt the pull of Charlie once more, his steps changing direction, taking him towards Charlie.
He knew Charlies' mother had died years earlier. Don had returned home to nurse her through her illness and Charlie, unable to bear the thought of losing her, had hidden himself away in the garage. Alan Eppes was at work when she died. Everyone who had known him then said that he blamed himself for not being with her at the end and was never the same again. He needed both his sons close, wandering the halls of Dons' office like a phantom, eyes only for his sons' distinctive dark hair. Colby would have loved to have met him before. Occasionally a spark of such wry humour and dry wit lit Alan that Colby could easily imagine the man he had once been.
Blood brothers
CalSci was deserted at that time of night. Colby passed a mousy-haired girl clutching books to her chest and hurrying across the grass, shoulders hunched against the cold. A sharp slap rang through the night. The girl glanced over her shoulder fearfully, breaking into a trot. Colby hoped she reached her destination intact. As he strode closer he heard muffled shouts and a thud. Walking the halls of Charlies' building, Dons' voice raised in anger, Charlies' soft, cajoling, pleading, ending on a gasp and a low keen of pain and then silence.
Anyone with any sense knows that Colby should have walked away then. Should not have pushed the door to Charlies' office open, but Colby had to know.
No light shone in the room, but Don and Charlie were clearly visible to him, their skin seeming to glow, Dons' eyes shining with a feral iridescence. Don either did not see him or pretended he did not, allowing Colby a leisurely view of the scene before him.
Charlie lay on his back, spread-eagled across the desk. His wrists and ankles were bound with leather straps, the buttons of his shirt hung open, head lolling to one side, eyes firmly closed. Blood dripped in a thin stream from the corner of Charlies' mouth, blood seeping from two puncture wounds on his white throat. Don licked his lips, bending his head gracefully to lick the blood from his brothers skin, before turning to Colby with a smile that showed his white teeth in all their glory.
Colby felt the pull of Don just like he felt the pull of Charlie. Don beckoned with his eyes and Colby went. Don placed his face close to Colbys' neck, Dons' breath ghosting Colbys' skin, his scent like that of his brother. Colby felt Dons' ice fingers stroke his neck, Dons' mouth pressed to his throbbing pulse, teeth working Colbys' skin. Colbys' eyes were drawn to Charlie lying helpless across his own desk, he thought of a boy mourning a mother taken from him before her time, scribbling numbers on her dress, and he pushed Don away with all his considerable strength. Don followed his gaze to Charlie, a slight smile flickering across his face as he took in Charlies' bonds. He tugged gently on a lock of Charlies' hair, then bent down and pressed his lips to his brothers unresponsive ones.
"He wants you," Don said softly, eyes only for Charlie.
"He used to want only me, but now he wants you."
He looked Colby up and down contemptuously, anger mixed with genuine mystification on his handsome features.
"I don't know why he wants you but he does. And Charlie always gets what he wants."
"Then why-," Colby said, pointing at Charlies' bound form, his voice thick, stuck in his throat.
Don turned back to Charlie, stroking a hand over his forehead tenderly.
"This was my attempt to convince him," Don said wistfully. "It was a long shot. He's too stubborn for anyones good."
Colby thought that was a bit rich coming from Don, who could be the stubbornest ass Colby had ever known, but thought it wise not to say so. Don, who seemed to read his mind, grinned at him.
"Maybe I do see why he wants you after all," he said lightly.
Despite the lightness of Dons' words he hadn't taken his hand from Charlies' hair, and Colby got the feeling he had wandered into the middle of something he should have stayed well clear of.
Colby took a single step towards the door, walking backwards for the second time that day. He managed only one step before Don, with a speed unimaginable, flew at him, seizing Colby by the throat, thumb digging into the soft skin beneath Colbys' jaw.
"I could kill you," Don said lightly, eyes shining with fever and threat, "but then he'd hate me. Charlie wants what he wants when he wants it."
Don released Colby with a little push that told him he was through here. Colby did not need to be told twice and continued his backing. He had the door ajar when Charlies' eyes flew open in the darkness. Colby heard Charlie chastising his brother.
"Don, stop being a pain in the butt. Let me go."
Charlies' hands twisted in his bonds as Don took his sweet time releasing him, Charlie rolling his eyes but smiling indulgently as Don kissed the flesh beneath the straps.
To each his own
Charlie lay nestled in Colbys' arms, his head propped on Colbys' shoulder, legs tangled with Colbys' longer ones. Charlie wisely kept his face away from Colbys' neck. The smell of Charlie, the feel of his hair tickling Colbys' skin, the comfortable weight of him, the way Charlie fit himself snugly to Colbys' side, not allowing any space between them, was so familiar that Colby was able to relax.
"Mirrors?" Colby asked.
"No problem at all."
"Garlic?"
"Don't really like the smell but I can handle it."
"Crucifixes?"
"I kind of think they're pretty. Except the ones with a dead guy hanging off them."
"Wooden stakes?"
"Well, if I plunged one into you wouldn't it hurt?"
Colby had to admit Charlie had a point there.
"Sunlight?"
Charlie pushed the curtains back a little, letting a sliver of light fall on his outstretched arm, answer enough.
"Ever turn into a bat?"
Charlie laughed. "What would be the point of that?"
"How did it happen?" Colby asked softly.
Charlie pressed his face into Colbys' neck. Colby sat carefully still, waiting. When Charlie pulled away he looked so lost that Colby tightened his arms around Charlie fiercely, hugging him hard.
"Good thing I don't need to breathe," Charlie forced out a joke, smiling weakly.
Colby waited him out.
"It was when Mum died," Charlie said, voice carefully neutral, eyes blank and distant.
"Did you know she was murdered?" he asked, looking at Colby.
Colby nodded. None of the Eppes men ever mentioned it but there was enough talk, what had happened to her was no secret. Whoever had done it was never caught. They had not believed that someone who lived in such a fancy house didn't have a safe or a secret stash of cash lurking somewhere. They had killed her for eighteen dollars. Don had thrown himself into his work with a vengeance, and Charlie had reportedly been so traumatised that he had not left his bed for weeks.
"Don was out when it happened. He was getting her pills, she took so many pills," Charlie continued forlornly.
Charlie sat up, pulling himself from Colbys' arms, Colby letting go reluctantly. Charlie bent his head, lifting the curls from the back of his neck, exposing the slender column to reveal a deep scar Colby had never seen before. The flesh around it was puckered and bruised as though the damage were more recent than it actually was, the wound itself an angry shade of red.
"They cut me and left me to die," Charlie said matter-of-factly, a shudder in his voice at the last word.
Charlie laid his head upon Colbys' chest, fingers twitching on Colbys' skin. Colby laid his hand on Charlies' cheek.
"He found me and he saved me," Charlie whispered. "If he hadn't I'd be dead."
"Don?" Colby asked softly.
Charlie shook his head.
"He's the leader. The oldest. He made us all. He has the power."
Charlies' face clouded. "He made Don ... later."
Colby nodded as though he understood when he didn't, not really. Colby had more questions, a thousand more, but Charlie turned his face to Colbys' chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth, hand traveling south, and Colby forgot everything he was going to say.
Family
Colby lay on his back looking up at the sky with no real awareness of how he had gotten there. A bird flew by overhead and a shadow blocked out the sun as a face filled his field of vision. Colbys' legs twitched of their own accord, moisture seeped through his shirt onto his back, sticky and sweet. Colby thought he must have fallen into a puddle although it hadn't been raining. This was the last thing he needed. The guys at the office would give him shit about his wet shirt and apparent clumsiness. Only when the spreading pool beneath him had flown too far did he see it from the corner of his eye and realise what it was. Who would have thought he had so much blood in him? Charlie would have a field day. Colby tried to laugh but it came out as something far different and only then did he realise it was serious this time. A feeling akin to the time he'd skidded his car in the rain, careening out of control across the slick bitumen. Like he had lost control of his own body, was waiting only for the slide to end knowing there was nothing he could do. He eyes felt heavier, tired and older, like he had aged years in a moment. A myriad of faces bent over him during the next few hours, none staying long enough for him to keep them in focus. He wanted to shout at them to stop looking at him with pity clear in their eyes but found he couldn't form words. The things he had always done, these things he could no longer do. The worst part was he didn't even know what had happened to him. He was on his feet then he wasn't and that was all.
Charlies' eyes were veiled in red, the tender skin beneath them puffy and bruised. His tears were tinged with a faint sheen of blood, leaving crimson trails down his face. Colby wanted to wipe them off but he couldn't seem to lift his arms. Charlie left then returned with Larry by his side. Or maybe Charlie had stayed and Larry had come to him. Larry was studying Colby with disinterest, his face a blank mask, shaking his head ever so slightly. With their same pale skin and near identical size they could have been twins. Colby wanted to laugh at this, his Charlie twins with dorky Fleinhart, but couldn't manage any sound at all. It was only now that he began to be really afraid, although all the rest of us have worked out long before what was happening to him. He felt like the only reason he could still open his eyes was to look at Charlies' face. He couldn't feel Charlies' hand on his, he only knew it was there through his blurring vision. Charlie was begging, gesturing frantically at Larry. Larry shook his head and turned away, Charlie seizing his shoulder, gesturing at Colby, mouth trembling, composure beginning to slip. Don stood at a distance watching the scene unfold, arms folded, blocking the doorway. He had eyes only for his brothers distress. Dons' lips were parted, one incisor working his lower lip the way Charlie liked to do. Colby could feel his need to help Charlie like a physical force, nearly as strong as his own. Larry shook his head, scissoring his arms, gesture as emphatic a no as Colby had ever seen. Still he leant forward, eyes glittering, teeth sharp, and bit into Colbys' neck. Colby did not even feel it. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the sensation of Charlies' hand on his brow, Charlies' voice whispering in his ear that it was going to be alright. He focused on Charlies' words until Charlies' voice became sharper, like coming home.
After death
Larry Fleinhart turned out to be the all powerful king of the vampires, a fact that never ceased to amuse Colby.
Larry had been drawn to the smell of blood and to the beauty of the house. He had seen a boy, barely more than a child, although it would turn out he was years older than he appeared, handcuffed to a table leg sobbing his heart out as a woman lay dead not two feet from him. The boy was swooning, barely holding on to consciousness, eyes fixed on the woman as though will alone could keep them both here. Charlie had always believed Larry had taken pity on him, saved him out of some kind of goodness. The reality was far simpler. He had seen a beautiful boy and had wanted to keep him that way forever. Larry had never been even passingly beautiful, he was immortal far past his prime, past his youth, and there was something in the pure waste of that youth and beauty that enraged him, made him save the boy.
Normally he used more care, made another only after he had watched them long, made sure they were strong. The consequences of this impulse of a moment were fast approaching disastrous. After the change, the boy had collapsed, hadn't the strength for what he needed to do to survive. He was a whirlwind of emotions and sadness, too many ties to his earthly family, unable and perhaps unwilling to detach for even a moment. Because the boy was beautiful and passionate Larry had let him live, but some action was necessary, and Larry had changed the boys brother. Beautiful in his own way, but stronger, harder, angrier. They had a strange bond that had only grown more so with blood. He had watched them hunt together more than once, the elder of the two always finding the victims. He lived with evil every day, he could sniff them out, could even when he was alive, a skill now honed and vampiric. He would guide his brother to them, Don always being the one to extinguish life himself, always taking on that burden. Sometimes he would drink from them and kiss his brother, blood passing between them. It was natural. They were all brothers now. Still, there came a time as there always does when Charlie no longer needed to be protected and led by the hand. When he was ready to strike out on his own, to leave his brother behind. Don knew that he had been made for Charlie and was not prepared to let go so easily, but Charlie had found another with unseemly haste. And that other someone Larry did not care for at all. Nothing special, a hunk of mediocrity as far as Larry could see.
Charlie could have had his world, the world of academia, grovelling at his feet. Feted for his genius, famed for his discoveries, made notorious through the murder of his mother and his fathers disintegration, Larry had tried to keep Charlies' interest in his own world. But the impatience of youth and mans true nature would out, and Charlie became more infamous than famous in the end. The boy tried but he lost focus, distracted not with the blood but with the man. There were flashes of brilliance, times when he desired recognition above all else, but they were short-lived and easily extinguished. Colby recognised Charlie and that was all he ever seemed to need. It was madness, and Larry tried to tell him that, but he had ceased listening long ago.
Colby had been indifferent to his own reflection before but he rather enjoyed looking in the mirror now. He could stare at his own reflection for hours, Charlie loving to tease him about it. He could hear the inflections in Charlies' voice now as though they were his own. Hear the things people left unsaid. Colours were brighter, the world was cleaner but narrower, sunlight burning his eyes with a glorious fire. The whole world was changed, Colby like an over-sized newborn. Colby smiled at his reflection, prodding his teeth with his tongue. They were there only if you knew where to look. Charlies' face had a thousand new planes, his smile a hundred nuances. Charlie bit into Colbys' chest, Colby smiling with the sting, as Charlie straddled him and happily licked off the blood. Kissing Colby so Colby could taste it too. Charlie lay in Colbys' arms, just as he always had, the sheets now flecked with red
They all managed to co-exist relatively harmoniously together. Charlie was happy and indulging him was what they had all learnt to do. Charlie and Colby were in thrall to each other, and Don was happy to leave them to it for a while. Alans' brief flashes of life became more frequent with a new person in the house, although Colby would avoid the upstairs as though his very life depended on it. They walked the streets hand in hand like regular lovers, they danced in Charlies' lounge room, hips swaying to music only they could hear, they tasted each other late into the night. Larry kept his distance, not interfering, his disapproval implicit, his distaste in their domesticity obvious. They were drunk with each other, and happiness in life which is so rare, after life rarer still. Don was indulgent and they were grateful. His flashes of anger and jealousy were as brief as they were ferocious but in the end he had been there first and was certain he would be there last.
They lived in this house for many years, generations passing them by, the cobwebs hanging thicker than ever, the air so close as they'd no need to breathe it. Charlie withdrew from the world of men, content to lie all day in his lovers' arms. No one much questioned the disappearance of an unknown FBI agent, but a genius, a prodigy, could not simply disappear without people wondering why. Sometimes he would still be seen, through an open window downstairs, face more pale than ever. There were whispers surrounding him. He had been brainwashed, held prisoner by the larger man. Whispers gave them something to laugh at during their many long days and longer nights.
Epilogue
"Did they live happily ever after I hear you say?"
The old man tapped his feet on the floor, enjoying the hold he had on his young audience now. They did not know the end, no one did, because no two stories end the same, and none are truly alike, not for those who've lived them. Happily ever after was an anomaly as Charlie would say. Children being children and with no idea how the world really works they wouldn't know that happily ever after just doesn't happen. There's happy for a time, and then perhaps contentment, followed by indifference, annoyance, outright hatred if you're careless. They lived happy for longer than they had a right to. Maybe that was enough because how many people get even that? Don had been the first to leave the house, and strangely enough, it was Colby who remained the longest. Colby sat with Alan for years after Charlie had left, Colby who loved the children far more than the others ever did, particularly the tiny ones with the big eyes and wild hair.
Women entered their lives for brief moments in time, often bearing them children. The children were always welcome here, it had been the children that had brought Alan back to life near completely. Children always unusually beautiful and inquisitive, their bloodlines tainted and strange. They needed to learn the reason regular people avoided them instinctively, and he had been the storyteller for many generations. He had lived far longer than he had any right to because his son had not been able to let him go and he had not wanted to leave them. Who knew what became of you after you died? If he'd join his beloved Margaret or simply cease to be, wander in a void alone for eternity. He had been afraid to take that risk so he had remained for as long as he could. One of the many children would tell the story when he was gone, and they would all know who they really were, where they had come from.
Don had waited patiently on the sidelines far longer than he thought he should before drifting away. No recriminations, but a mournful disbelief left behind him. Dons' absence hung over them like a spectre, shadows clouding their sun. Don would drift in and out of their lives intermittently, never really able to leave, but unable to remain. He who would have done anything for his brother had been cast aside and that Charlie of his own free will had done it was impossible for Don to bear. The guilt was always with his youngest after that and Colby wisely remained away for longer and longer, gradually growing tired of being the one Charlie needed to blame. Still, Colby never left for good, not until Charlie did. Alan missed them like limbs, but he was sure they would all return at least once before he was done.
The children sat in bewildered awe, their silence speaking words they did not yet have. In truth they were expecting a happily ever after and Alan was sorry he could never give them that. The questions began soon after the shock had dispersed. There was so much about the later years that Alan couldn't say. So many more answers, and maybe somewhere in the depths of what was left of his memories he could find them, but that was for another day and that was another story.
End
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Date: 2007-02-11 06:20 am (UTC)You've never written here before? Really? Then you have to - have to - write another one.
Please?
::memories::
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Date: 2007-02-11 06:47 am (UTC)I don't quite know what to say in response, that was so unexpected.
This is the first time I've ever really wanted someone to read a story of mine before I posted it, I was so unsure about this one.
I haven't written here before, haven't even visited much, but I'd like to write more.
This was a lot of fun to write and I'm so glad you liked it.