Chapter Text
Being a werewolf in a world which was owned by vampires was pretty tough. Growing up all Ashton ever heard was how he should hate vampires, how they were a stuck up, self entitled race and were all that was wrong with the world. Nothing good could come from associating with vampires.
In school it had only gotten worse, those arrogant pig headed boys who liked to shout about why vampires were more respected by the humans, when they are the ones who actively kill them. Ashton thought they were stupid, to him it was obvious, the humans feared vampires because of what they were, what they could do to them. He couldn't even remember the last time a werewolf killed a human, it was only logical that they protect themselves as much as they could by giving the vampires what they want. He also thought that it was funny how werewolves spent so much time talking about the creatures they supposedly hated so much.
Not that he said any of this of course, he didn't need a harder life than the one he already had, thanks. One of the most prized traits of a werewolf was their loyalty to their own, however as Ashton grew up he quickly learned that this only counted if you were just how they expected a werewolf to be. To be accepted, you had to be like everyone else, think like everyone else.
So when Ashton had been caught in his room when he was eleven, splayed out on his bed with a paintbrush in his hands and his face splattered with bits of colour, his family were not best pleased. “We're wolves, Ashton. Wolves don't do art.” his dad had shouted, snapping each and every one of the paintbrushes in front of his son's face.
Years later, Ashton would realise that his father was looking for some kind of reaction that wasn't tears, some fight, some anger, anything that a werewolf was known for. But Ashton didn't want to fight, didn't want to yell at people all the time...he just wanted to paint. What was so wrong with that?
Over the years, his dad tried to get him to develop some more 'wolf-like' traits, tried to take him to work at the factory to show how “real wolves work”. But Ashton wasn't interested and no matter how hard his dad tried he still did his art, in secret now of course, whenever he could, he just wasn't interested in factory work. Soon, his dad seemed to realise this and Ashton heard his parents talking late at night with hushed voices in the kitchen.
“You shouldn't worry too much, once he's had his first change he'll be normal.” he heard his mum say one night, when he was fifteen. He heard his mum say that a lot, until a year later when Ashton had his first change under the autumn moon.
His family had been happy, everyone saying how his wolf was the most beautiful they'd seen in years. Sandy, gold coat with bright green eyes and strong paws, Ashton liked his wolf, liked how everyone was pleased with him, like he had finally got something right.
But his dad still scowled at him when he saw his son so much as draw in the dirt with a stick.
Ashton knew that his parents had hoped for some kind of change, he didn't know what they expected to happen, so kind of epiphany perhaps. Maybe they thought once he had taken his full wolf form, he would be 'fixed' that it would connect the 'true wolf' part of him in his head. That didn't happen and even though he had gotten bolder over the years, it wasn't enough in his dad's eyes.
The final straw came when Ashton was seventeen and the time came for him to start to apply for colleges, specifically, in Ashton's case art colleges. He knew the moment the letters of acceptance hit the door mat, knew the moment he heard his father's furious shouts echo around the house, the heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs and the door to his room blast open. His dad stood in the door way, letters crumpled in his hand and eye's burning the brightest red Ashton had ever seen.
“What is this!” he growled, shoving the papers forward, and Ashton could see where his claws had ripped some of the sheets. “You were meant to apply for the colleges your mother and I picked out, good hard working colleges, not this trash.” he finished, throwing the letters to the ground.
“I don't want to go to a mechanical college, dad. I want to paint!” Ashton insisted, he wasn't scared of his father any more, not now he knew he had a place to go, a place to escape to. “I want to be an artist, I'm good enough, I can do it. Why isn't that good enough for you, you're supposed to be my dad, you're supposed to support me!” he cries, taking his headphone out and standing up off the bed, so that he is nose to nose with the older man, his own eyes with a brighter hint of green in them.
His dad lets out a low growl, “Don't you call me that.” he snarls, “You're not my son, not any more.” he says, poking Ashton in the chest and the boy retreats back a few steps, eyes wide and hearing his mum gasp by the door. “You're an embarrassment, is what you are. If you go to that school, you leave today and you're not welcome back in this house, you hear me.”
Ashton swallows down the lump in his throat, glancing over his father's shoulder at his mum, who still stands by the door but says nothing. “Fine.” he mumbles, “Fine, if that's what you want.” he goes to his wardrobe, pulling down a suitcase from on top of it.
His dad snorts, “What I want is a wolf for a son, not some pathetic mut like you.” he snarls, watching as Ashton throws his clothes into the case.
“Well, you don't have to worry about that any more, like you said...I'm not your son.” Ashton laughs, it's low and humourless but if he doesn't brush off his father's comments he'll break down, and he promised himself he wouldn't do that again.
“Oh, Ashton don't be like that.” his mum pleads from the door, as he zips up the case and grabs his ipod of the bed.
“Let him go.” his dad says, the smirk on his face showing in his voice. “Let him see how tough the real world is, how they'd treat a wolf who doesn't know his place, even one who doesn't even deserve to be called a werewolf.”
There's a heavy silence that falls over the room at his words, as Ashton and his dad stare each other down, Ashton's bag in his hand and both their chests heaving. “Alright, I'll see shall I, and the you can see when I make it, when I prove you wrong.” he promises, pulling his bag towards the door and his mother, still wide eyed and unmoving, even as he brushes past her on his way out without a second glance back.
As he walks away from his childhood house, heading a step closer to his dream, Ashton can't help but think his eleven year old self would have been proud of him.
~oOo~
It had been five years since Ashton had last seen his family, since he started art college, started his life. If their was one thing he had learned in those five years, it was that being a werewolf in a vampire centric world was tough, but being a werewolf who didn't behave like everyone expected a werewolf to was much tougher than he had thought it would have been.
Sure, college had been more of a challenge then he thought it would be. Not because of the work, in fact Ashton was one of the stop student in his year, but of the other students, the staff. They treated him just like his father said they would, like he was wrong, a freak and it was even worse when he started to do the work better than them. But then he had Calum, the only other wolf who didn't seem to think that the fact Ashton liked to draw made him any less of a wolf than the others, and he is gratefully every day for the other boy.
Life after graduation wasn't much different, he tried studio after studio looking for some work, having them laugh in his face or throw him out, thinking he was joking. After months of searching, he found a tiny studio tucked away in the corner of the city it was there where Ashton met Isla.
Isla was a nymph, an old one at that and happened to be one of the cities most famous artists. Naturally when she took in Ashton as her new apprentice, there was a little bit of a stir. A year later when she got him a space at an art exhibition, for a chance at a high end internship, well there was a bit more than a stir.
It was a small place, enough for two pieces of work, and Ashton knew that it was only because of Isla's name that he had a space at all and was determined to do her proud, working for months on the selected pieces. The thing was that, not only was Ashton standing out quite spectacularly in the room filled with mostly high end vampires, just by being a werewolf, but his art style wasn't exactly fitting with the others in the room.
The vampires had a preference to sleek and sophisticated art, smooth sculptures of curly shaped and blocks of black and white. Ashton's art didn't look like that at all, it was all colours and a bit messy, but it was warm, that was the most important thing to him. Naturally this went down well with the crowds of icy-skinned vampires, most of them walking past his place with mocking looks and belittling comments, very few actually considering his work at all.
Over the years, Ashton had gotten pretty damn good at brushing off all the negativity but the intensity of it all, the constant dismissive looks and condescending laughter from what felt like every single creature in the room, was starting to get to him.
As subtly as he can, Ashton takes his phone from his pocket thanking all those college years for making him master the art of covert texting. Not being exactly sure it would be seen as a professional move for an artist to be caught texting in the middle of an exhibition, it wasn't like he was getting enough bad vibes as it was.
Ash: cal i cant do this, its even worse than i thought
Cal: cmon man, you got half an hour left, just suck it up ;)
Ash: ….this is really not the time for vampire puns
Cal: bet it made you smile tho
Ashton freezes, realising that he must now look like a total idiot who's grinning stupidly at the ground. damnit cal
Ash: ...no
Cal: you do know I can tell when youre lying even through text right ;)
Cal: sorry man gotta go, theres a duck with its beak stuck together with gum thats just come in, you got this tho hang in there
Ashton sighs heavily, locking his phone and his last lifeline in this world he found himself in. It was as if the constant stares were weighing on him, pushing the air from the room and suffocating him.
He wanted to leave, his head was screaming at him to leave, to run, far away from the sea of bright, glowing eyes and pearly smooth skin. He'll explain to Isla, she'd understand, they both knew that coming here was a long shot any way, it wouldn't make much difference. They'd be other shows, other smaller exhibitions to try.
Ashton turns to leave, stopping when he sees a family of three vampires that have actually stopped and are looking at his pieces. Their expressions are borderline judgemental and when the mother (he guesses) opens her mouth with a brief, “How quaint.” her tone is clipped and almost teasing, “These don't quite hold the same emotion as the other pieces, do they?” she adds, and Ashton's had it, had it with fucking vampires and their love for all things cold and empty and -
“What black and white with hints of cold and emptiness, you mean? I think these are lovely.” comes another voice, a younger one at that and Ashton spins around so fast he catches the vampire family's eye, all three of them looking at him.
The parents eyes narrow slightly once they match the sent of wolf to him, but the son looks almost amused. And Ashton is quite taken back at the sight of him, it's the hair at first with it not been often you see a vampire with blonde hair, even his mother has it but nowhere near the shade of her son's. Even without the hair, he thinks this boy would have no problem turning heads, he's stupidly tall with ridiculously broad shoulders to match and fuck does he make quite a sight. But it's the eyes, the most intense blue eyes that Ashton had ever seen...and they're looking right into his own.
“Are you the artist?” the mother asks him, drawing Ashton's attention away from the younger vampire.
Before he can answer her husband laughs, and there's a pin on his lapel which Ashton knows to mean he belongs to a high order of vampire family. “What, the wolf? Come now, dear don't be ridiculous.” and Ashton finds himself shuffling on his feet at their words, without even thinking, he hears his father's voice in his head telling him to stop, and lecturing him on how, 'wolves are fierce.'
Looking straight at the couple, he says in a slightly raised, clear voice, “Actually I am.”
The vampire's eyes flicker between the werewolf and the art with growing disappointment, as he scoffs taking his wife's arm and guiding them both away. Much to Ashton's surprise, their son stays, looking at the pieces with the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
“They really are lovely. Much better than anything else here.” he says, smiling at the werewolf boy, it's not a patronising one either, or a sympathetic one, it's a genuine smile.
One that Ashton finds himself returning, “Thank you, you're the first person to think that today.” he replies, trying to laugh of the sorry truth of the fact, but the vampire boy's expression only turns sour instead.
“Ignore them.” He tells him, bluntly, waving his arm at the surrounding crowd. “You're art is happy and warm, it makes you feel good just by looking at it, they don't get that. They can only appreciate the boring ass depressing stuff.”
Ashton knows his mouth is gaping open, he can feel it and knows he should probably be closing it some time soon or he's going to look like a right idiot, but it takes a while for his brain to catch up. He had never expected this, what ever this was, what ever this vampire boy was saying. He reminded Ashton of himself, how he thought was just how he did and that was something that had never really happened before, and he was intrigued.
“Don't you?” he asks, unable to keep all of the shock from his voice.
The boy smiles at him with a knowing twinkle in his eye, “Never had much of a taste for it to be honest, that or anything else that's considered normal...which no one seems to have grasped onto yet.” he adds under his breath, looking away from the werewolf and down at his feet, pushing the edges of his shoes together, before laughing somewhat bitterly. “But I'd guess you'd know a bit about that, being a werewolf in art school and all?” he asks.
Ashton snorts, “Yeah, tell me about it.” and he can't actually stop smiling, because someone finally gets it. Sure, he's had Calum around since he was sixteen and they both went through the first change together, the other boy being one of the only ones who stuck with him after he had left home. But this was different, this boy, this vampire boy, seemed to understand and Ashton wanted to grab him and run, to a cafe or a park just somewhere that wasn't here so they could talk.
Something told him that the blonde boy needed it just as much as he did.
But then his parents were back, obviously trying not to make a scene, with their expressions sever and tones clipped as they practically hissed at their son to hurry up, his father taking hold of his upper arm and guiding him off.
Before he's out of sight he's turning back to the werewolf and calling out, “It was really nice to meet you, um...?”
“Ashton, Ashton Irwin.” he replies, head craning over a few other vampires and a troll couple who pass between them, and he sees the vampire boy grin, white teeth flashing in the light of the gallery.
“I'll remember that.” he says, “I'm Luke by the way.” he manages, waving quickly before he is lost completely in the crowd.
For some reason, Ashton isn't quite as bothered by all the glances and whispered comments for the rest of the show, in fact he barely notices them.
~
A few days after the show and Ashton arrives at the studio with his hand full of Isla's favourite cupcakes, if he has to tell her that not one offer was made on his pieces, then he's going to need the cupcakes to make up for it. But before he's even closed the door, there's a high pitched squeal from the back room and then there's a grey haired, tiny plump lady hurdling towards him.
Isla throws her short arms around his middle, jumping up and down with the kind of energy her appearance doesn't suggest she has. “Why didn't you tell me, young man!” she scolds, trying to look firm but her blue/violet eyes are sparkling up at him when she pulls away.
Ashton blinks down at her, the box of cupcakes help precariously in one hand. “Tell you what?” he asks, completely confused at her reaction.
She tuts at him, mouth parting when her eyes find the box in his hand. “Are those cupcakes?” she asks, making grabby hands like a child and Ashton only holds the box up further.
“Isla, what happened?” he asks and the nymph sighs, eyeing the box of cupcakes longingly.
“Your painting.” she says, “You didn't tell me someone bought it!” and now Ashton really was confused.
“What? No they didn't, I didn't even get an offer.” he explains and Isla tuts again, waving her fingers and a bit of paper floats in from the back room, which she promptly shoves in his face.
“What do you call that then?”
Ashton blinks down at the order sheet, the piece purchased, how much for, the delivery address and the name of the buyer: Luke Hemmings. And Ashton's heart jumps in his chest, images of blonde hair and bright blue eyes flashing through his mind, and he finds himself asking. “Do you mind if I deliver it to them myself?”
~oOo~
Calum hates early mornings. Those mornings where you have to be up and out the house even though the street lights are still lit, and there's a thin layer of mist hanging in the air around them, which makes everything around it caught in a hazy glow. There's a fresh coating of frost covering the grass of the park he passes, and Calum is very glad for his natural werewolf warmth on these types of mornings.
They're not all bad, once he's fought past the wall of sleep induced groggyness and can actually pay some form of attention to the world around him, he can appreciate the soft quietness of the streets. It's a different kind of quiet to the one at night, less creepy, more slow and magical almost... and he really needs to stop hanging out with Ashton so much, what the fuck, 'magical'?
He sighs, shaking his head at himself as he turns down the ally which leads to the back door of the animal shelter he works at. Yawning widely, he searches his pockets of his coat for the key which he discovers is very much not in his pocket. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” he mutters, hands diving to his jeans as if there was any possibility he could have gotten anything else in them apart from himself, with the tightness of them.
Calum groans when the image of the keys in question flash in his mind, right where he left them on the kitchen counter top.
nice move, cal, nice move
His eyes fall on the lock, its an old one, like the kind on your parents shed for the wide chunky brass keys, and he is struck with a brilliant idea. (actually it was pretty stupid, but to a sleepy brain it was practically the equivalent to the answer for world peace.) Kneeling, so he is eye level with the lock in question, Calum extents a single claw, looking around for possible onlookers even though he would be able to hear them coming from the end of the street, before moving to pick the lock.
As it turns out, it's trickier than he thought it would be and after a few minutes Calum's cursing ever movie in existence that made this look easy. There's a shuffling from the dumpster to his right, stood against the wall to the shelter and he quickly removes his hand, standing up as a pale hand reaches up and clings hold of the side.
great, like this morning could get any worse
He knows the hand, just like he knows the mop of bright red hair and bright white skin of its owner, who's pushing himself up from the depths of the glorified trash can. Calum couldn't remember exactly when he started to find this odd vampire boy in the shelters dumpster, but he turned up at least once a week, passed out, hungover and stinking of cheap booze. He wouldn't mind and would probably care more, if the guy was just a little nicer.... Maybe.
“Do you mind stopping with the clicking, some people are trying to sleep here.” he grumbles, flashing a glare in the werewolf's direction who returns it with one of his own.
“Well if you didn't sleep in the middle of an ally, that wouldn't be a problem would it.” Calum snaps, returning his attention to the lock, he didn't have time for vampires today, especially rude, drop out ones. The scent of alcohol was already starting to sting his head and he was surprised he hadn't smelt him before he turned the corner like he usually does.
The lock clicks open and Calum's victory smile is quickly killed by a slow drawl behind him. “I'll leave you to your law breaking ways, later dog.” he smirks at the wolf's reply growl, zipping up his hoody and slouching off down the ally.
The smell of alcohol still lingers in his nose though.
Calum hates him. Hates his hair, his voice, his stupid fucking smirk like he has won all the damn time, hates how he still worries in the back of his head if the vampire boy gets home okay. (If he has one at all.) But most of all Calum hates how he knows he wont be able to shake his face from his thoughts for the rest of the morning.
The door of the shelter swings open and he steps inside, greeted by a chorus of mewling and barks, throwing his coat over the hanger by the front desk, muttering “Fucking vampires."