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Arthur notices him first, loud and bright, across the dimly lit interior of the pub. His voice cuts through him and when he turns to look he sees a smile that blinds.
He is instantly, irrevocably, entranced. His jealous eyes watch him from the shadows for the rest of the evening, caught in the web that this little star has cast out, trapped him within so easily without effort nor knowledge of what the attention from one such as himself actually means. This doesn't matter too much though; Arthur would educate him on the matter and he can be patient. He does not plan on waiting very long anyway.
He catches him on the road home, stumbling and drunk, singing some dreadful American song to the tune of God Save the Queen and Arthur just smiles from the dark, all sharp teeth and feral intent. He wraps his hand around a strong arm and forces him against the trunk of a tree that lines this boy's shadowed path home. There is a struggle, he expected one and is not disappointed, but really the child does not stand much of a chance. When he sinks his teeth into flesh that opens up easily his senses are awash in pleasure, in the hot pulsing wave of blood, and he groans, suddenly desperate for more.
The boy makes some sound too, a strangled sort of gasp that stutters off into a lovely sort of keening whimper. Arthur just smiles against his throat, drinks more deeply, and grinds his hips down against those of his victim, beautiful and dying in his arms.
When the boy awakens next Arthur learns that his name is Alfred. He realizes that he couldn't have thought of a better name had he graced it upon him himself. He brushes golden locks of hair from blue eyes and tells Alfred how he belongs to him now.
Alfred just smiles, touches Arthur's cheek, and tells him that he is hungry.
They spend years together, traveling across America until they reach the sea and take ship to England. They move through life like a dream and Arthur wonders at happiness and the fragility of it. They spend days wrapped in each other's arms, curtains drawn and bodies entangled until one wakes the other with gentle kisses that turn harsher with passion and slumber gives way to sex. They spend evenings prowling the streets, hands brushing, mouths curling over suggestive words and smiling pretty, lips bloodstained and hearts full of joy with how they are now, together and happy.
But happiness is a fragile thing, isn't it.
When the hunter catches him Alfred is not with him. Arthur thanks God and fights vicious and terrible against his attacker but the man is clever and it is clear he has been tracking them for awhile and he knows Arthur's tricks before Arthur has time to use them in his favor. He does not know how the human gets the upper hand, nor does he wish to understand it, but he feels the horrible moment that the stake pierces his ribcage, forcing itself past flesh and muscle and bone into his heart and Arthur thinks, oh, this is what breathlessness feels like. I had forgotten.
Before he dies he hears Alfred's voice, a shout of despair and he thinks you are too late. He does not know where the hunter has gone, he wants to warn Alfred, tells him he loves him too, but he no longer can find the words and he wouldn't know how to say them anyway.
The last thing he sees are Alfred's eyes, that particular blue, even though his own are closed already.
Dying this time doesn't feel so very different from the first time. It is strange though, knowing that you will never again wake up. Very strange, and somehow also very sad.
[100 years later; PRESENT DAY]
Arthur woke up with a splitting headache, his mouth feeling drier than it ever had in his entire life, and a distinct hatred of all things French.
Groaning he moved to clutch at his head, pushing himself up from what he had passed out on, which had apparently been his desk. Signing heavily he stood on shaky legs, waiting a moment for feeling to return to them before walking unsteadily across the room.
He spared a moment to glare down at the vagrant currently occupying his couch, before walking on, careful to mind the various wine bottles that littered the floor. He paused a moment to lean on the door jamb before pushing himself down the hall to the washroom.
Arthur braced himself over the sink, looking at his reflection and wincing inwardly. He was a mess, strands of hair sticking damp to his forehead, his eyes looking glassy to his careful inspection. He hadn't been sleeping well and he could admit the alcohol the night before had done little to help matters. It was a difficult thing to sleep though, when ones dreams were plagued with seductive horrors that he worried were enough to have himself committed.
Anxiously Arthur wet his suddenly dry lips, willing the sudden wave of heat that had suffused his spine to go away upon the flimsy memory of rended flesh and blood, gaping wounds that bled freely and fatally, blooming like some sort of macabre flower.
...And the color blue, interwoven throughout a crimson sea of dizzied passion and pleasure, a spiral that climbed higher and higher until-
Arthur cleared his throat, dropping his gaze from the mirror. Clearly something was the matter with him, stress perhaps, working too hard, but even that excuse sounded flimsy to him. An empty justification for his perverse thoughts.
He was spending too much time around Francis...
Turning on the tap he quickly splashed his face, taking comfort in the cold clarity the water provided before turning around and heading back to his sitting room. He walked a little more steadily this time back to his desk, picking up the small bottle of brandy that they hadn't managed to entirely finish off the night before and taking a comforting draught, to take the edge off his headache. A short pause later, during which he cast the Frenchmen on his sofa a disparaging look, he turned round to open the curtains with a flourish.
The sudden cry of distress from behind him was enough to not mind the pain the action caused himself and he smiled.
"Wake up, twat. It's a beautiful morning!" That was, however, a lie. It was raining lightly and too bright though he could see the gathering darkness of approaching storm clouds. It would pour later.
Francis just groaned his reply, burying his head further into the cushions and curling up into himself. Arthur watched him, counting the seconds, before the other stirred again and with a heavy sigh pushed himself up into a sitting position, hand scrubbing his face and eyes pinning him with an annoyed look.
"Pourquoi! Why must you be such a terrible little man?"
Arthur scoffed, looking away and choosing not address the question. Instead he looked out his flat window over the city to which he had only just recently moved.
London was a frightfully large place, much different from what he was used to, but he admitted that he liked it here. There was something familiar despite his visits here as a boy being brief and often school related. There was something that made him nostalgic for a time that he was certain had never existed for him. It was a bittersweet sensation but he found himself more often wishing to drown in it, wishing nothing more than to walk these city streets and remember something.
Arthur sighed, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.
“Get out of my house,” he said quietly and stared out the window, watching the city darken.
He heard the quiet scoff behind him and knew he wouldn't be listened to so easily. This was physically proven when he felt the arms of the other man slip around his waist, resting his chin on his shoulder.
Arthur just sighed, closing his eyes. He had met Francis a month after moving to the city after going to the pub one night. Francis had followed him home around three in the morning, passed out on his couch, and hadn't let him alone since.
If he thought of it overmuch he had to wonder why he tolerated the other man's presence at all, or why the other tolerated his. Francis was aggravating, his voice grated on Arthur's last nerve, his flirtations were always empty and infuriating. By god, the very look of him set Arthur's teeth on edge and he himself was hardly any better for the other man's mood. He couldn't help but think it odd that despite that Francis still kept coming back to him.
He tried not to think about it though, he was a friend, despite all, and the only one Arthur really had, as loathe as he was to admit it. His move had left him lonely, taken him away from mates close enough to jaunt around with had he still lived just down the street but not close enough to bother keeping in contact with after the move.
Sometimes he was even grateful for Francis but he didn't often allow the sentiment to linger. It wouldn't do letting the Frenchman finding out either, he'd gloat about it for weeks and so Arthur instead conveniently claimed that it was purely for the boy's sake, that he even still associated with the likes of him.
As his hand came up to draw circles over the thin skin of Francis' hand he pondered the validity of the excuse. The Frenchman's anxious little tag-along, Matthew, needed a better role model than someone like Francis and though he was slightly unclear as to what they were to one another (upon questioning Francis had claimed Mathieu was like a dear brother to him, an apprentice of sorts) he decided that he could make a much better example than the perverted idiot Matthew was always watching with such embarrassing adoration.
“You should try and be more accommodating, mon cher. This gloomy mien of yours is not healthy.”
Arthur started out of his thoughts, opening his sea foam eyes, watching his expression deepen into an unattractive scowl in the grey reflection of the window.
“Come to dinner with Matthew and I tonight,” Francis said, nuzzling his neck, breath puffing warm against his skin. Arthur shivered. He felt Francis smirk. “Matthew misses you.”
He did not reply, just watched his reflection, his body suddenly going very still. He watched, as something in his eyes flashed red, as his lip pulled back in a horrific parody of a smile, as his teeth gleamed hungrily back at him.
Arthur sucked in a breath, feeling the body against his tense in curiosity. He could see Francis looking at him in the reflection. When he re-focused on his own reflection it was normal again. The other man had not seen the change.
“Yes,” he said, after a beat. “Yes, for Matthew.”
*
This is the way the memories come.
There was a baby once, a beautiful little child with eyes like green magic, born to a man and a woman in the verdant hills of England.
The memories were buried deep then, sleeping quiet and deadly, and it was there they waited for someone to come along and crack that pretty skull open and let them out. They waited there to burst forth later in blues and golds like firecrackers lit heavenly bright behind eyes bruised with exhaustion.
There was a lonely child once, who grew into a lonely man, who looked at the moon when it was full and felt his heart pump the blood faster and felt his head begin to hurt will a dull, dead, ache.
They have invaded and the infestation is deep. They wriggle and burrow their way upwards; these little worms are hungry and it is time for these memories to shake off the fog of sleep. It is time to remember.
They came in dreams.
*
Arthur had a headache through the whole day. To make it worse it passed slowly, eking onward in a crawl that made him uncomfortably anxious and paranoid, causing him to feel watched under some sort of gaze that made him shift in the queue at the bank and tug at his collar while shopping at the market.
Needless to say the entire day increased his cagey feeling, jumping at the slightest sound and looking over his shoulder with an almost comical frequency. It was a relief when dinner finally came and he rode the tube through London, to a restaurant not very far from his flat.
Stepping in Matthew greeted him with a smile and a slight blush, already sitting at a table with Francis. He walked across the floor and considered how the boy reminded him of someone, though he couldn't think of whom. He was certain that he had never known anyone else who looked as Matthew did so it was strange, the pang of familiarity, the nostalgia that shivered through his awareness, whenever he saw him.
Especially as of late.
“Good evening, Matthew, I hope you are well,” he said, taking his seat beside the other, ignoring Francis as he perused the wine list.
Matthew just smiled slightly. “I am,” he said. “And you.”
Arthur shrugged delicately. “As well as can be expected,” he said, knowing full well that Matthew would have known what had gone on the night before and mindful not to draw too much attention to it. While his relationship with Francis was hardly one of a romantic nature he couldn't deny that it may be construed as otherwise and he himself would be a fool to not see the way Matthew looked at Francis. He was fairly certain however that Francis was idiot enough to not have noticed the level of sincere regard he had from the young man.
One day Arthur would have to say something about that. Now however he was far more interested in ordering a nice meal to settle his rattled nerves. Picking up the menu he flipped through it, seemingly completely absorbed in the task of choosing a meal that he really didn't know what made him look up to the expansive window that took up the entire front half of the restaurant.
It was as if he had suddenly been thrown into a bath of ice water.
There was a man there, standing on the sidewalk, and he was watching him openly, shamelessly, with single-minded intensity. Suddenly the entirety of Arthur's reality narrowed, a snap second focus that left him dizzy and unable to figure out why this man was not getting odd looks from the people outside who just brushed by him on the busy evening street, nor the patrons within the restaurant who completely ignored this strange man standing there, looking past all of them to him!
He cannot breath.
Arthur braced his hands on the table top, casting the menu aside as he pushed himself up, leaning heavily. He needed air, that was all, it would bring him back to his senses, halt this spiraling madness that he suddenly felt he was drowning in. With his heartbeat loud in his ears and a mumbled apology to Matthew and Francis he stumbled in the direction of the toilets, veering off to the left at the last minute and slamming himself bodily against the door of the back exit, sucking in a deep lungful of air the moment the evening chill hit his skin.
He felt panicked, hunted, watched, and the man who had looked at him with eyes that knew him made him shiver, made his knees weak. It was suddenly as if he could taste the blood pouring down his throat, a heady wonderful flavor that made him moan aloud, made the nightmare tangible and terrifying in its seductive draw.
Arthur snapped out of it, realizing that he had been salivating. Anxiously he swallowed, blotting out the memory of that flavor and taking another deep breath, and then another.
It was nothing, it had to be nothing. The man...it must have been his imagination; why else would no one else say something to such a peculiar scene? He was not getting enough sleep and the best thing he can do now is go back inside, apologize to Matthew and Francis for being a complete twat, and go home.
He is just about to do that too, has his hand on the handle of the back door, when suddenly there were fingers wrapped around his wrist and he was being pulled back and away, turned around to face a man taller than he, with blue eyes like summer skies behind wire-framed glasses and a smile so bright it hurt to look at him.
“It is you!” the man said almost immediately after his gaze had swept eagerly over Arthur's face, lingering on his mouth, his brows, and then just beneath. “I couldn't be certain, you know, I mean I thought it was, I really did! You-you smell the same, you know? And your eyes, God Arthur, you look the same!” The next moment he was being pulled into a tight hug, too tight, and the man was still talking, jabbering endlessly and incessantly and it was only a second later that he realized he was American.
“The dreams re what tipped me off. At first I thought it was just some trick my mind was playing on me but no-no, something told me to come here--And fuck, wow, Arthur...so glad I did! You're looking great, just-just like before.” The childish glee tapered off and Arthur was pulled away enough so that he could be studied again and he watched as the man's expression softened into a relieved smile and he pushed him gently backwards, caging Arthur's tense body against the dirty wall of the alley.
"I never stopped hoping, you know?" he said and Arthur could hear the excitement in his voice, the desperate joy of someone who had spent long nights thinking of this very meeting, hoping for it, needing it.
He shivered at the thought.
"I...ah-” He drew in a shaking breath, bringing his hands up to press against the other's chest. He couldn't do this, couldn't face this now, and his headache was getting worse, pounding through his skull and making him think it would crack open any instant now.
“I--I’m sorry, but I do not believe we’ve met, you must have me mistaken for someone else," he said. Dropping his gaze as he tried to push back against the other.
"Please excuse me; I must get back to my friends."
The moment the words left his mouth he realized they were the wrong thing to say. He could tell in the way the man's body tensed and when he looked up in alarm he could see the way the stranger’s eyes had darkened, impossibly so.
“Arthur,” he said and Arthur didn't want to think about, didn't want to consider, how he knew his name. “Arthur, you don't have any friends. You have me and I'm gonna take care of you now, it's my turn and I promise I won't anything ever happen to you again, I swear, you can trust me.”
Arthur watched in growing horror as his expression twisted, watching his lip curl back and bare white fangs, his voice lowering with the intensity of his words.
“I won't let anyone touch you!” he snarled. “I'll die before that happens again, I promise, I promise Arthur!” and then he was pulled again suddenly into an embrace, the American burying his face into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He didn't know what to say or do and he tensed when he felt cold lips ghosting over the line of his neck, stopping over his hammering pulse, and Arthur gave a strangled sound of objection when he felt a tongue touch warm and wet to trace over the beat. His struggles ceased to a frozen stillness when he felt the American shift his teeth over the sensitive skin and when they pressed forward, cutting into the flesh of his neck and letting the blood bead eagerly to the surface, it was almost a relief.
His knees weakened, he was going to collapse and--
Alfred.
--just wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled him closer, keeping him from falling.
Dimly he thought he could remember what being in love felt like.
...
Just before everything went to hell.
There was a shout and a sudden ripping tension that made him stiffen in pain, the overwhelming presence of the American suddenly gone and his hand flew up to his neck, palming the wound as his vision wavered.
He noticed that his breathing was too loud against the sudden plunging silence of the situation.
Francis had his hand on his bicep, pushing him behind him and to the side as he leveled gilt cross against the man turned monster, who was watching him with open hatred just a few feet away. Francis was working on increasing that distance.
“I know what you are,” the monster hissed suddenly, snarling as he took a step back, circling.
“I remember the last one like you. Do you know what I did to him? When he tried to kill me too? When the body of my fucking lover was rotting away to nothing right before my eyes?” He smiled, his teeth red with Arthur's blood, eyes dark with deadly amusement.
“I ripped him apart.” He grinned wider and Arthur thought, how horrible, how beautiful!
“I stuck my fingers in his guts and dragged them out like ribbons. I twisted his head from his shoulder and listened to the slithering snap of the spine and sinew. I shredded him, cast his carcass every which way I could think of, I made him sure his death was a message for the rest of you!”
The creature's tone changed to amused resignation.
“It looks like you didn't listen, why don't I make it clearer for you?”
He felt Francis tense just before he knew the monster was going to lunge but there was a sudden hesitation in the air, a lingering pause, and then a voice. It started as a low hum and gathered momentum, growing louder and louder and Arthur remembered suddenly Matthew!
The boy was behind them and when he looked he could see his eyes were locked on the American's. His voice was assured, solid, and speaking a language Arthur did not know, something old and powerful, something that made the creature cringe and Arthur shudder with a sudden wracking sense of pain and fear.
The man turned monster glared hatefully, his eyes glinting furiously behind his glasses, sliding his gaze from Matthew to Francis and then to him where his expression softened almost immediately.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Don't worry about it.” And then he spun on his heel, heading swiftly in the deepening darkness of the alley, and was gone.
*
Arthur threw his keys on the table by the door tiredly, toeing off his shoes carelessly, his hand pressed against the handkerchief at his throat. Francis bustled in shortly behind him, Matthew trailing warily behind, making sure to peer down the hallway carefully before stepping into the flat and locking the door firmly behind him. Immediately after he pulled out a thin stick of white chalk from his jacket pocket and began to write it simple short strokes unfamiliar words along the frame.
Arthur ignored it, walking across the carpet to his couch where he sat down heavily, closing his eyes. He heard the click of the lamp being turned on an instant before he felt the light press against his closed lids. A moment later he felt a hand at his neck, fingers pushing his hand away and he opened his eyes to Francis hovering over him, pulling away the cloth he himself had handed to him shortly after Matthew had grown silent back in that alley.
“Let me see it, mon cher,” the Frenchman said quietly.
“Tell me what that was about,” Arthur replied, watching Matthew acutely as he finished his work at the door and walked to the window, repeating the process around it's frame as well. It was not long before he was moving out of the room, in search of other windows to deface.
Francis focused his attention on his neck, dabbing it gently with the handkerchief.
“Bien, it looks like the bleeding has stopped, he didn't appear to puncture an artery thankfully and all in all it seems to be rather shallow. It looks much worse than it is,” he said, and straightened, pitching his voice louder.
“Mathieu, s'il te plait, mon chou, apporte-moi des rouleaux de gaze.”
Arthur winced before his expression settled in an impatient scowl and he turned too quickly to look at the other man, a pain snaking from his throat, down his shoulder, to emanate through the rest of his body.
“Dammit, Francis!” he hissed. “Answer the question!”
Francis' lips thinned, his eyes flickering up to Arthur's face once before looking up at Matthew, suddenly standing over them in that quiet way of his, holding out a roll of gauze and disinfectant. Francis took the items with a soft thank you and Matthew went to take a seat in Arthur's armchair, watching them.
“I am unsure of what you want me to tell you, mon cher,” he said and Arthur couldn't help but hate that softly accented voice, just a little.
“Bollocks!” he said darkly. “You were prepared for that! And he talked to you, goddammit! What did he mean, what you are!
Francis huffed out a breath, looking annoyed, and he reached up to grasp Arthur firmly under the chin, turning his head away from him and dabbing what Arthur assumed was some sort of cloth wet with the antibacterial solution.
“Fuck!” he cursed, clenching his jaw and tensing. “Francis, dammit, you had better answer me!” he ordered, shuddering when he felt the gauze press against the wound. Carefully Francis started rolling it around his neck.
He didn't want to know what it looked like, he didn't.
“I have hunted those creatures since I was a very young man,” Francis finally said, tone clipped. “I was raised knowing they lurked in the dark, les vampires, ready to kill whomever crossed their path, and I have been tracking this particular beast for longer than I really want to think about! Merde, I think tonight was his first realization that I was even on to him, which puts me at somewhat of a disadvantage, as you can imagine.”
Arthur went still, staring straight ahead, trying to comprehend everything his friend had just said. A vampire. Of course, he thought bitterly. Why hadn't he realized before?
“What is his name?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Perhaps he merely wanted to justify the prophetic nature of his macabre dreams, he didn't know.
“Alfred Jones, relatively young for his kind. He was created by one much older than he, but he was killed not long after.” He looked to Arthur, expression stony. “You understand that is who he thinks you are, correct?”
Arthur's jaw clenched but he said nothing. Francis continued, his voice strained. “You understand, Arthur, that that is not who you are. He will kill you given the chance; tell me you understand that, mon ami!”
Arthur hissed in irritation, scowling and looking away. “Yes! For the love of God, yes. I get it.”
He felt Francis relax slightly beside him, apparently finished his task and drawing his hands away from his neck, resting back heavily against the cushions of his couch.
“Parfait,” he murmured. “I just needed to hear you say it.”
They settled into an awkward silence before Arthur ran a hand through his hair restlessly.
“I am tired,” he said, staring straight ahead. Beside him he heard Francis sigh but make no other sound, certainly not an objection, for which Arthur was grateful.
Instead Matthew stood quietly. “I'll escort you to your room,” he offered, smiling shyly and Arthur didn't have the heart to refuse his help. Instead he just nodded and stood, casting a lingering look down at Francis before he turned and walked with Matthew towards his room.
“Everything will be okay, Arthur,” Matthew said, once they had reached his room, his tone sounding more hopeful than sure. “You just sleep, you've looked tired lately and--and that's probably the best thing for you.” He backed up but stilled when Arthur turned to him, having already caught a glimpse of his window frame.
“Matthew...what is that that about?” he asked, gesturing to the chalk scrawl around the glass. Matthew shifted on the balls of his feet, biting his lip.
“It's protection,” he said. “The creature won't be able to come in while the spell holds around all the possible entrances. Francis taught it to me.” For a moment he looked like he was going to say something else but he shrugged, shaking his head. “Goodnight Arthur,” he said, and left him.
Arthur laid himself carefully back on his bed, resting his head upon the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.
He didn't even realize he had fallen asleep until he began to dream.
Matthew has blue eyes, like two little opals, but they are not his so he can only think of ripping them out of the sockets, digging his fingers deep into those traitorous little pits and let them wriggle around until Matthew forgets how to scream properly.
The best Francis has ever sounded is when he is choking on his own blood, his face uncharacteristically white, his hands clutching to Arthur's lapels. He can feel the pulse slowing, the drum beat begin a steady decline until his mouth slackens, eyes dulling. Francis' mouth has never looked so attractive. He allows himself one kiss and tells himself it is only to lick the blood from those lips.
Alfred is as beautiful now as he was when the night was warm with summer and the music of the June bugs accompanied the crunching of his steps headed home. He is as alluring now as he was when he thrashed against him, threatened and afraid, when Arthur buried his teeth deep and sucked hard. He is as desired now as he was so long ago, when those eyes opened and looked at him as if Arthur was his whole world, his entire purpose.
He remembers the nights they spent together, sharing kisses full of blood. He remembers the lessons they had, when he taught Alfred how to hunt, how to kill, how to lay back and take him inside, how to lose himself to pleasure and pain alike.
He has missed his dear child grow up, he has abandoned his lover and he can feel Alfred's anger with him, just as he can feel the desperation to return to him. He likes this feeling, he feeds it, for he knows now that soon this will all come to a close, soon this will be all over, and soon he will be able to kiss with the same abandon with which he will be able to rip open life, bright and pulsating, and hold it beating in his own two hands.
Against you I will fling myself.
Alfred!
And then Arthur woke up.
*
The living room was dark but it didn't take him very long to discern Matthew and Francis on the couch, Francis with his back to the pillows, his arm wrapped around the waist of his younger companion. He took a moment to stand over them, watching them sleep. With a tender hand he reached down to comb Matthew's hair gently out of his face, a fond smile glancing over his lips, bringing his hand over to hover delicately over Francis' face, drawing a digit lightly along the line of the Frenchman's nose, up over his brow, ghosting lightly over his hairline. Just as silently he drew his hand away again and walked to the door.
He could feel his heartbeat against his ribcage, he could hear it pounding, pumping his blood restlessly through his veins. He wondered if the wound at his neck was bleeding again. He could imagine it was.
Stooping he picked up his shoes, laid neatly by the door and doubtlessly courtesy of Matthew. He took a second to wipe away a single scrawled letter from the frame, such a small change that it would likely go unnoticed, before opening the door and slipping out into the hall, closing it silently behind him.
On the couch neither man stirred.
*
While walking the dark streets of London he wondered how he would find him. He imagined discovering him lurking in one of the alleys nearby, eviscerating a tourist with such cocky carelessness that Arthur would have to sigh. That wasn't how he had taught him how to do it at all but he remembered, faintly, what a carelessly brash young thing Alfred was.
He could imagine Alfred becoming aware of him fairly quickly, dropping the body the moment he was able to smell past the blood, spinning to stare at Arthur with wide eyes. The next moment he could see Alfred striding forward and lifting Arthur up in his arms, swinging him around while Arthur beat at his shoulder, his cheeks burning and a slew of protests falling from his lips.
He could imagine himself really not caring too much, deep down, and clutch those shoulders with the need for support and simple desire to touch.
He could imagine how the body would lay forgotten.
He could envision all of these things but the further and further he walked from his home the less and less sure he became of any of it becoming a reality.
He really didn't want to think of it though, as he walked past the darkened takeaways and charity shops, glancing up every so often as a car drove by, mostly cabs. He stretched the distance to miles, his legs growing tired and his neck beginning to ache with a dull pain that swept occasional waves of dizziness across his vision. He reminded himself that sleep had been brief again tonight, wrought with things that he had finally realized were not dreams at all but memories, their validation thick and beautiful and important.
However, eventually he felt the strangling impatience of failure growing. He didn't even know where he was going. He hardly knew what he was doing and Alfred, that useless boy, was nowhere to be found.
Until, that is, he turned around, resigned to making his long way home, and made it halfway down the block before he felt a hand cold around his wrist and he was suddenly being pulled into the niche of a shop's doorstep.
“I've been tailing you since you left your apartment,” Alfred said, a smile working at the corners of his mouth. Arthur stared at him, his own mouth open in shock before turning downwards into a frustrated scowl, his eyes still wide from the sudden surprise. It just made Alfred laugh, letting go of his wrist and reaching up to knock Arthur gently just beneath his chin with a crooked finger. “Don't sulk,” he said, voice softer, his arm suddenly there around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer.
He did not resist, just swallowed nervously and felt a tingling shiver that arched along the muscles of his neck and down his spine.
“Sunrise will be here soon,” he said quietly, looking up at Alfred. Behind the glasses Alfred's eyes flashed, a smile teasing its way over his lips.
“Is that your way of saying you wanna come back to my place?” he said, tone low and teasing and Arthur did not remember this confidence in his Alfred, this inexorable level of self-possession that carried over in the way he held himself, in the way he grinned with such charming arrogance that made Arthur want to set him straight and let him have his way all at once.
He settled on narrowing his eyes. “It is my way of suggesting we find another place to linger. Since my flat is too far away at this point and furthermore full of people I would rather you not meet again your place seems like the best option under the circumstances.”
Alfred just huffed out a laugh, flicking the edge of his bandaged neck, and took Arthur by the hand.
“Why are we wasting time then?” he asked and before Arthur could make any further objection he was pulled firmly away, to a place he could only hope he wanted to be.
*
Alfred was familiar with the concept of loneliness. He had spent much of his time in its company after Arthur had died. For awhile he had not known how he would stand it, teetering constantly on the edge of a sort of despair that had left his heart empty and aching, painfully cold during the daylight hours when he was trapped indoors with nothing but his thoughts to hold his attention.
However, he had adapted. Alfred was nothing if not determined, willful and resilient, and so he had woken up one night with the decision to move forward with his life; endless for as long as he so chose. From then on he had made the most of his time, going out at night and actually meeting people, blending in with them and even choosing not to eat the ones he liked. He recalled, of course, the lessons Arthur had left with him. Arthur had said never to trust humans, told him that they were food and nothing else, that he was better off taking them for what they were best suited for, a quick meal, a brief game, a momentary entertainment.
But Alfred had always been a little resistant to Arthur's lessons, had always been a bit of a rebel, and truth be told he'd always thought Arthur a bit of an old recluse, even for as much as he loved him. Once Arthur was gone, as much as it had pained him, Alfred had found some sort of relief in the socialization he gained from people. Interesting, beautiful, and exciting people.
He knew them all over the world, making friends in-between his hunts, never letting them know what he was and mindful to the hunters that always lurked around the corner, ready to do away with him just like they had done Arthur.
For them Alfred had always been very diligent in making examples of the ones he caught, painting alleyways, hotel rooms, dark subway stations, and wherever else they finally caught up with him, a viscous crimson, the black and white of organ and bone setting it all off in a rather nice, artistic, way.
After that happened, though, he never stayed in a place for very much longer.
It also never seemed to fail that he always returned to London, usually after just a few years away. There was something about the city though it’s wasn’t even as if he particularly liked it. For all the filth that it contained, the sin and grime that a city of its age had very well earned the right to contain, it also reminded him endlessly, tirelessly, warmly, of Arthur. When he walked the streets he could imagine Arthur beside him, almost, and when some kid called out, the inflection and tone reminding Alfred of Arthur just so, he could pretend he was still there with him.
He often made sure to make those men his meal of the night, finding something intensely satisfying about the fantasy he entertained, of the struggling gasping form in his arms being Arthur although he found the game of pretend never lasting too long. They always thrashed too much, made too big of a simpering fuss, something Arthur would never do. Thrash maybe, recoil in embarrassment from his affections, but never simper or cry like these boys did.
It was a shame actually but despite it he always enjoyed those nights.
But now, now! Now this was something different, something he had never even really dared hope for and really he had only suspected it could be so when he had returned to London, on his usual trip through as he hopped up from Spain back to America. He had felt the difference in the city, had known something was changed and that Arthur was here, somehow alive and whole again. This had been a few months back and he had spent the time tracking him down, a harder task than one may think for one like him. Arthur had not been the same, not entirely, and the age of the city...it had played with his senses.
But it was back to the now that Alfred was more interested in. Now Alfred's hand was pressed against the small of Arthur's back, his human back, as he pushed him up the stairwell to the apartment he had rented out for the duration of the search. Now his arm was wrapping around Arthur's waist as he hauled him up into his arms, having lost patience and ignoring the tired protest that fell from Arthur's lips, embarrassed and indignant. Now he was ignoring Arthur's voice (Arthur's voice!) as he carried him up the staircase, quieting the disgruntled Brit with an arm pressed tighter, holding him closer against his chest, affection and adoration evident in the way he carried him.
Alfred did not bother to hide his smile, grinning like a fool, when he felt Arthur give in against him, nuzzling his nose sleepily and gentle against his chest, breathing in his smell.
Arthur was already asleep by the time he made it to the bedroom, as he set the warm body of his former lover onto the sheets. Almost instantly Arthur curled into himself, finding the spot in the bed where Alfred slept and shifting down into it, slipping further into sleep. Alfred smiled, boyish and happy, and took to the task of removing shoes and socks and then belt, unbuttoning the starched shirt to discard carelessly onto the floor, the trousers which soon followed and Alfred paused, sitting on the edge beside Arthur, his hand at his ankle, thumb smoothing over the rounded bone before sliding up, over his knee and then inwards, to the smooth skin of his inner thigh.
Arthur shifted in his sleep, thick eyebrows knitting as a sound somewhere between a moan and sigh slipped form his lips.
Alfred smiled, laughing shortly in pleasure before rising to discard his own clothing, setting his glasses on the bedside table before climbing in beside the warm body of his maker. As an afterthought he reached for Arthur again to gently remove the bandage from around his neck, fingertips brushing the clotted puncture marks tenderly once before settling back. He was a patient guy, when it counted, and this...he was not terribly anxious to rush this.
*
Arthur slept, did not dream, and woke much, much later, with the sun high behind clouds in a room with dark curtains drawn.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the drowsiness of a heavy sleep and shifted, stretching out languidly and noticed dimly that he was practically naked. He only realized he wasn't alone in the bed when he extended his arms up over his head, his elbows nudging against a solid mass when he tried to crook his arms and bring them back to his sides.
Arthur froze, waiting for movement, but when none came he sat up, looking to the body laid out beside him. Alfred was perfectly still; his eyes closed and mouth open just slightly. No breath passed between his lips and he watched in macabre curiosity as Alfred's naked chest did not lift in the slow rise and fall that would indicate life.
And yet he knew if he reached forward and touched him those eyes would open, bright and lovely.
For a moment he enjoyed the stillness, letting memories he did not know he had return to him in the peace of these recently woken moments.
Arthur smiled, drew in a deep breath, and knew exactly what he wanted.
“Alfred, wake up,” he said, tone gentle but firm, a command that he did not expect to go ignored. He was therefore surprised and distinctly unamused when Alfred just groaned and rolled on his side, placing his back to Arthur.
Arthur blinked.
“Alfred! Wake up I say!” he said, voice a touch louder, a frown marring his features.
“Jus' a few more minutes,” Alfred slurred, curling up into a tighter ball. Arthur resisted the urge to smack him.
“What do you mean, a few more minutes? I don't remember you being this fond of sleep! It was always a rush with you, never a moments rest, what happened to that?!” he demanded, tone surly and annoyed.
Alfred gave a sleepy laugh, yawning and rolling onto his back before stretching out cat-like, all golden hair and teeth. “Things change, baby,” he said, tone affectionate and easy, with such effortless conviction that Arthur didn't know what to say for a moment.
Of course things changed. He certainly had, he had died for heavens sake! Lived the young life of a mortal with no knowledge of who he truly was until now but...but he supposed he would never have considered to think Alfred, who had been living all these years without him, would change too.
“I...I’m sorry, I hadn't thought of it,” he said quietly, feeling suddenly awkward and out of place. He knew how to act around his old Alfred, he had known he was in control but now it seemed that wasn't the case. Fleetingly the memory of the two of them standing in the dark street flit across his consciousness, Alfred seeming so grown up and different, before the memory was spoiled by an arm around him, pulling him down and forward to splay ungracefully across Alfred's chest.
He gave an indignant squawk of objection, his hands coming to press flat against the plane of Alfred's chest to push himself back up but a strong arm was already locked into place around his middle, holding him in place.
“Don't sulk, it's cute and all but I'd rather feel you against me,” Alfred said, eyes closed and a smile on his face. Arthur flushed deeply, his eyes widening at the words as his shoulders hunched in embarrassment. Really, to say such things...
“I'm not sulking!” he objected quietly as he looked at Alfred, his expression lost somewhere between awkwardly uneasy and curiously eager. Alfred's had not opened his eyes yet, withholding their blue. It vexed him, made him impatient and uncomfortable, and it was therefore with little given consideration to the possible consequences that he brought his thumb to his mouth and bit down sharply, finger awkward in his mouth from his position pulled against Alfred. A second later he tasted the iron sting of blood on his tongue and his eyes darted up to settle on Alfred's still face, whose eyes were still closed.
He hadn't smelled it yet.
Arthur slid the digit from his mouth, slick with beading blood and saliva, and brought it up abruptly to Alfred's lips, smearing the blood along his lower lip.
The reaction was instantaneous. Alfred's lids flew open, blue eyes bright and pupils dilated, stung with a pinpoint of red.
Arthur's breath stuttered, an excited shuddering sound in the stillness of the bedroom. Alfred was looking at him with a feral smile stretching across his lips.
“Is that that you want?” Alfred said, angling his mouth abruptly to take Arthur's finger into his mouth, tongue sliding warm and wet over the pad.
Arthur shivered, eyes wide, as Alfred laughed again, sliding the digit from his mouth and rising up to push Arthur back before flipping them, straddling him with thighs tight against his hips.
“Is this what you want?” he repeated, voice low and limned with predatory amusement.
Arthur looked up, breath stuck in his throat, watched as something in Alfred's expression changed and Alfred leant forward, nudging his nose and mouth along Arthur's jaw line and neck and he murmured softly. “Arthur,” he sighed. “Arthur, I've missed you.”
“I would dream of this,” he whispered, a fricative hiss smooth on the air. “I imagined you beneath me, my hands in your hair, my teeth in your neck.” He groaned softly and Arthur nearly gasped audibly, nearly said something, a wordless moan, a meaningless cry.
“I dreamed of your legs around my hips, pressing inside you and listening to you beg for more,” Alfred continued, voice rapturous, lost in memory, and Arthur couldn't remember ever feeling this wanton, this desperate for another only...that wasn't true. He could recall this, he could, because those memories from ages ago were his too, he had just not fully blended that life with this one yet.
But then again, this life was not likely to last very much longer.
Alfred lifted his head, enough to look down at him with opal eyes trained on the tempting flush of Arthur's cheeks, down to his mouth where his breath was coming short and fast, anxious and eager.
He grinned.
“You're warm, Arthur,” he said. “I've never felt you this warm before." He paused, breath cold and sweet.
"I think I want to fuck you alive. Just once, before I kill you." He peppered cool kisses along Arthur's neck, smiling against the curve, and when he spoke his breath fanned cold over his suddenly burning skin. "Is that alright?”
Arthur's body tightened, arching up against Alfred's. He didn't know what to say anymore, hardly knew what to think and so he said nothing, rising up just as Alfred stooped lower to seal his mouth over his, lips wet, tongue sliding against Arthur's teeth. He wanted this. He wanted to feel, wanted to fall forward and lose himself; he wanted Alfred to make him forget his name and bring him back again with the touch of his hands, the roll of his hips, the bite of his teeth.
He wanted pain and oblivion.
He wanted the pleasure and perfection.
He wanted Alfred.
His hands came up, tangling in soft wheat locks, like spun gold, and he resisted caving into what the fairy-tales said about such things, stopped himself from saying something foolish and romantic. Alfred wouldn't allow it anyway, with the way his tongue found more interest in sliding against Arthur's, the way his hands moved over his shoulders and chest, pushing himself back enough to lean on his knees, creating a space between them large enough to slide over the skin of his chest, brushing over his nipples and downwards, fingers tickling at his sides before wrapping large hands around his waist and lift him back up against him, Arthur arching his back to maintain the connection.
He could feel Alfred's erection, pressing hard and insistent at his thigh and it was only when his own hand trailed down from his hair, over the broad shoulders and down his back, to slide warmly against the skin of Alfred's hip, that he realized Alfred was completely naked already. The only thing between them were his own remaining briefs, something Alfred must have left when he was stripping him in his unconscious state.
Rather then shock or offend him the thought of Alfred stripping him made something in his gut clench and a shiver wrack through his body. His hand tightened around his hip and pulled Alfred more firmly down against him, wrenching a ragged groan from his lips, muffled by their kiss. It sent pleasure spiking through him and he suddenly very much wanted to join Alfred in his complete state of undress, pushing him away enough to wriggle from under him, the American catching on soon enough to help him and with a cocky smile drew the underwear off and cast them aside, sliding his body flush against Arthur's, their erections suddenly brought together. The room was filled with the sound of both their groans, Arthur arching up against Alfred, a slim line of heat to the cool passion of Alfred’s body.
“God, yes, please,” Arthur murmured, eyes closing as he hooked his leg around Alfred's and pulled him closer, rutting up against him like some shameful and desperate adolescent, wanting anything, everything, something to just get him off.
But Alfred was halting in his actions, slow in such a way that Arthur was finding infuriating and wonderful all at once, taken up and away by Alfred's cold mouth as it ghosted over his jaw and his neck, to the slightly ticklish curve where his throat slid down to his shoulder.
“Not God,” he heard his lover whisper against his collar bone and Arthur only arched up further into his touch, relishing the sensation of his kissing lower, flicking his tongue over his nipple, drawing a path in kisses down to his navel.
“Alfred,” he remedied, the name slipping past his lips so naturally that he felt it had always belonged there, been meant to fall from his lips, in this fashion and so many others. This name was his, this creature was his, all of this, his, his, his!
Alfred's chin bumped Arthur's cock as he kissed downwards, abruptly dragging Arthur back to the immediate actions at hand and he moaned, pressing his head back into the pillow. He was too taken away on the slow build that he hardly noticed when the kisses stilled, blinking his eyes open to look hazily down the length of his body to see Alfred with his fingers in his mouth, eyes widening just as they were pulled away, slick with saliva, and pressed to his entrance. Any objection or words otherwise were broken off as Alfred ran the body of his tongue up the underside of Arthur's erection, making him jerk and huff out a breath, eyes hooded as he watched Alfred. Blue eyes held his, Alfred's mouth crooking upwards at the corners cheekily as he moved between kissing and licking boldly at the length of Arthur's cock.
It was filthy to watch really, and utterly captivating, as Alfred licked his own pink lips before opening wide enough to slip over the head of his cock, tongue sliding maddeningly over the slit, something Arthur could feel rather than see, and move down, taking him in further as one finger pressed slowly and carefully against his ass, sliding in easily.
For a little while it stayed like this, Alfred sucking him off at a languid pace as his digit worked inside of him, stretching him in preparation for the next.
He knew that Alfred had never taken him thusly, their positions reversed when he had been the same creature as his lover. In fact, he could remember doing this exact thing to Alfred, the lesson having been one that had ended with Alfred on his stomach, being fucked in earnest into the bed. He did not know where Alfred would take this and frankly he didn't much care, too distracted by the cool pleasure of Alfred's mouth and the careful addition of a second finger.
It was when this second digit was inserted fully and crooked up that he suddenly drew in a deep breath, his body tensing abruptly as that bundle of nerves within him was suddenly brushed, choking on Alfred's name. He did not know if it were his imagination but it was as if he could feel Alfred's smile around his cock, as he pushed himself down further and swallowed around him. Arthur's fingers gathered in the bunching fabric of the sheets, gripping them tight as he drowned in the sensation that was washing over him.
When the third finger was added Arthur frowned, flinching slightly but welcoming it nonetheless, trying to relax his body as Alfred brought him higher, mouth working around him and fingers working inside, urging on the flame that began to burn brighter and brighter with approaching climax.
“D-dammit Alfred,” he panted, breaths coming short and tense. “Bloody well-ah, please, get on with it!” He couldn't say anymore than that and he didn't need to, Alfred pulling his mouth away despite the contrary whine of objection from Arthur. He eased his fingers out more slowly with his mouth against Arthur's, tongue thrusting into the heated cavern and sliding along the flat teeth.
Arthur could feel him now, Alfred's body aligned with his, erection nudging against his pelvis as he was kissed, tipping his head back and deepening the connection before he pulled away in order to look at him, catching him in his gaze, watching Arthur with clear blue eyes and he wondered, ridiculously, if Alfred could see him properly without his spectacles, thinking it such a silly thought to worry about right now as Alfred positioned himself, his hand between them, guiding his cock forward.
When Alfred sank into Arthur he did it as slowly and deliberately as he had been doing everything else, watching Arthur's wide and dazed expression, every flinch and indication of pleasure and pain as he slid into him, his cock stretching and filling the body of his lover, until he was to the hilt and Arthur couldn't stop the helpless cry of visceral pleasure that tore itself from his lips.
And that was where Alfred finally lost control, sucking in an unnecessary and shuddering breath over Arthur's shoulder before pulling back and sliding roughly back in, dragging another sound from Arthur, the heat of him making Alfred's teeth clench, a choked sound escaping his throat as he picked up a rhythm that Arthur writhed to and worked with beneath him.
"Oh fuck, Arthur," he hissed, eyes screwed shut as his body relished the sensation, losing himself in it. "You're so fucking hot, feel so fucking good!" he said, tone desperate for more. This wouldn't last much longer, he could sense this already as their bodies worked in tandem, extending the euphoria of the physical union, panting and sweating in an animalistic dance that they both threw themselves into. Alfred could feel it in the way Arthur cried out each time his hips thrust forward, in the way his own actions were slipping into the realm of rhythm and natural instinct, a tightness in his gut gathering until he could no longer hold it back and he moaned Arthur's name, a plea and a prayer on his lips as he came, thrusting in deeply inside the body beneath him and feeling Arthur tense and scream his name, hoarse and beautiful.
They clung to each other for the moments following, coming down from the high, Arthur trying to catch his breath while Alfred only had his senses to worry about. The American laid his head upon Arthur's shoulder, shaking slightly from his orgasm and picking up a moment later with feathered kisses over his skin.
Arthur sighed, relaxing back into the mattress even as Alfred's body lay heavily over his, too satiated to object. He tipped his head to the tip, relishing in the tender touch of lips to his skin. He knew what was coming, was prepared for it, and knew, still, that it was what he wanted. There would be no turning back.
Arthur's neck still hurt, a dull throb that had been present since he had first awoken again in Alfred's bed and when his lover's lips slid along Arthur's neck, his teeth finding the puncture marks, he made a little broken sound, somewhere between a mewl of pain and a sigh of relief. Alfred broke through the clotted wounds easily, fangs sliding into Arthur and prompting a needy breath, the only sound in the suddenly silent bedroom.
Alfred drank slowly, relishing the flavor and the feeling of Arthur's body weakening and gradually stilling beneath him, away from the post-coital exhaustion and into the gentle throes of death. He could feel it gathering, soft and insidious, doubtlessly dimming the edges of Arthur's vision until those lovely green eyes dulled.
The moment before the end, he pulled away.
*
Arthur awoke with a smile on his lips. Bright eyes opened, changed in the hours to carry something else within them, ancient and dangerous, like empire and conquest. He rolled onto his stomach in the bed, embracing the ache in his body, the hunger pangs wracking through the muscles of his stomach.
You are the sun, he thought, looking at Alfred, who sat across from the bed looking at him. Alfred, who smiled, who grinned, who laughed and said such precocious senseless things in that loud, flat accent. Alfred, who flung himself onto the bed and took hold of Arthur, rolling him over in the sheets and ignoring the indignant protests both appalled and thrilled in the Queen's English.
You are the winter's sun, cast cold and brilliant upon my longing eyes; you are radiance in gold and blue.
Alfred nuzzled his face against Arthur's neck, in his hair, sliding against his cheek and jaw, slipping his mouth eager and impatient over his before pulling away inches to look down, eyes excited, worried, anxious.
Utterly lovely.
"Are you hungry?" he demanded.
Arthur smiled up at him, carding his fingers through spun gold.
"Famished," he said.
*
Arthur wondered how he could have ever been such a small human. He had been such a nobody, a soft little thing discontent and unwilling to do anything about it. It was pathetic thinking back on it and he found himself relived that he had gotten a second chance at this.
Francis and Matthew had not been in his home when he had come back to it, Alfred close behind him and a nosy creature at that, commenting on every little thing as he moved through the flat, touching and looking at everything he could, laughingly noting how Arthur's taste hadn't seemed to have changed much.
Now as he stood by the window, looking out upon the lit up world of night, he listened to Alfred moving quietly through his bedroom in his adventurous need to explore everywhere he had not yet been. He heard the door open behind him then, the sound of two sets of footsteps coming in and, the audible intake of breath that made him smile faintly. He turned with a peaceful expression upon his face, seeing Francis look at him with surprise followed by swift relief, noticed Matthew look sharply around at the door frame to make sure every marking was still there. Dear boy, he didn't notice the small change in the lower corner, turned back to Arthur with a relieved look in his eye and shy smile to match. He watched him slip away, down the hall to doubtlessly make tea in the kitchen, such a dear lad.
“Arthur! Thank God, you are alright!”
Arthur didn't object to Francis as he pulled him into a tight hold, his arms secure and warm around his cold body. He took a moment, tilting his head to fit more snugly and Francis', cheek brushing against his soft curled locks. He closed his eyes, smiling, and lifted his arms up around Francis, returning the embrace.
In his hold, Francis stiffened immediately. Arthur could feel the smirk pulling up at the corners of his mouth and when his lips parted his teeth gleamed.
“Were you worried, Francis?” he asked in a dulcet tone. “Did you search for me?” Francis gave a shuddering breath in his arms and he could smell the fear and grief, rising up like a perfume, heady and sweet; honeysuckles after the rain.
“Did you wonder if you would be strong enough to kill me, should it come to this?”
Arthur laughed when Francis hissed out a curse in French, furious and helpless all at once. It was a lovely sound and he was about to say something else, drive the other further, when he heard a crash from the kitchen, a thrilled laugh coupled with a startled cry, and he hummed under his breath.
“It sounds like your dear Matthew has found my Alfred,” he said conversationally, and he didn't bother to turn when he heard them come into the room, listening to the struggling sound of someone being dragged, allowing Francis to watch over his shoulder, still and tense in his embrace. A moment later he heard a heavy slam, a body crashing against the surface of the wall, and Francis struggled then, cursing anew.
“Arrête! Let me go, Arthur, s'il vous plait, stop! Please, stop!”
Arthur sighed, drawing himself away slightly and catching Francis's eyes as his own flashed red, crimson pulsing through the verdant green. He turned to look and see what the other was making such a fuss about, hand snaking up to his throat and holding him there to keep him in place.
Alfred was grinning, holding Matthew up against the wall in a hold that mimicked his own and Arthur imagined he could hear the little bones in the boy's neck beginning to break, crack and snap like little sticks. Like a little bird's neck come apart and rolling back limp and useless.
"Look what I found!" Alfred said, tone bright, careless in its ease and cheer.
“Alfred,” he said, his voice cutting through the vision. Alfred turned to him, blue eyes bright.
“Put him down,” he said, and watched Alfred's expression change, a cocky arch of an eyebrow, a crook to his mouth. Arthur smiled, a tender turn of his lips. Alfred only laughed.
“If that's what you want, darlin'” he drawled and Arthur arched a brow at the pet name, watching as Alfred looked to Matthew with that lovely grin on his lips and brought him forward by the grip around his throat before slamming his head back against the wall, knocking him into abrupt unconsciousness. Alfred kept his eyes on the limp body as he let him go, letting him drop like a string-cut puppet to the floor, humming as he slid his hands easily into his pockets and glancing at the two of them with boredom edging into his expression.
Arthur nodded in approval, looking back to Francis, who appeared to be turning blue, hands clutching at his hand at his throat. Arthur released the pressure over his windpipe, watching with amusement as the man sucked in deep breaths, choking on his own desperation.
“Francis, are you ready?” he asked, feeling Alfred drawing closer until he could feel him just behind, ghosting one hand over his hip.
Francis just sneered, lip curling. “I am sorry I could not save you from this, mon cher,” he said and Arthur laughed, loud and harsh.
“You used me to find Alfred,” he said, his tone cold as his expression stilled with a suddenness that could be amusing were it not for the danger lit in those verdant eyes.
“You should be glad I am not as heartless as you are,” he said, a smirk returning just as easily as it had disappeared. “I am benign, Francis, and I want to show you just how much you mean to me.”
Behind him he could feel Alfred lean forward, his lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, raising the small hairs along the nape of his neck.
He felt warm.
“Francis, this is nothing that you don't deserve and keep in mind that when I am finished with you I am going to watch Alfred wake Matthew up by stripping the flesh off your dear boy's bones.”
He watched in pleasure as Francis' eyes darkened, his mouth twisting and expression contorting into a look of horrified fury. He jerked him forward before the man could utter another word, forcing his head to the side as he sank his teeth deep, cutting through the artery and tasting the blood rush up beneath his tongue.
He drank, smiling against the throat of his friend, feeling the pulse pound frantically, fade to a pretty little flutter, and then finally slow to the moment just before stopping completely.
Behind him Alfred pressed a kiss to his throat, where his pulse should have been.
This is what happiness feels like.
*
Matthew woke up to silence, stretching malignant over his awareness. He focused on breathing, staring up at the ceiling and trying to ignore the way it hurt, knowing there were likely bruises ringing his throat like some grim necklace. After a moment he pushed himself up, biting back a groan. They could still be here, he realized, lurking in the dark, ready to step out and snap his neck, drain him of blood, whatever it was that amused them.
Dammit.
Wincing he pushed himself up, leaning on the wall, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. He looked around warily, listening for any sound, watching for movement.
Nothing.
An uneasiness settled over his consciousness, his heart picking up speed as he frowned. The longer he stood waiting for them to leap out at him the more he suspected they were gone. The flat was too quiet, deathly still.
Where was Francis?
Feeling sick he stepped forward, the overturned lamp casting shadows over the wall, filling the corners with a dimness that unsettled him.
One, two, three more steps and he could see over the couch to the floor, where Francis lay in a heap, limp and so terribly, obviously dead.
The world stopped, grinding to an eerie halt where sound did not exist, where misery dwelled sick and still, wrapping that cold hand around his heart and squeezing.
He did not hear his own yell, hardly felt the tears gather quick and hot and spill forward with desperate despair as he fell to his knees, pulling Francis over to lie on his back while his mind screamed at him no, no, this can't be real, take it back, he would do anything, just take it back!
His hands slid over the wounds on the other man's neck, where clotted blood beaded at the two puncture marks tauntingly. Matthew just cried, his sobs filling the flat as he dropped his head down to rest on the dead man's chest, soaking the cloth of his shirt.
He didn't know how long he laid thusly, until he had no more tears to shed and his body had fallen into an odd stillness, when he felt the touch to his head, light and caressing, stirring him from his place with his head resting on a chest that did not rise with the comforting inhale and exhale. Matthew looked up, moving away to watch Francis push himself up, watching with tired eyed as Francis smiled that slow, seductive, sweet smile that Matthew had first fallen in love with and something behind his eyes flicker that was almost like relief.
He saw the white gleam of fangs, pointed and sharp, winking back at him.
“J'ai faim,” Francis said, his voice soft, low, and Matthew looked back silently, his breath stolen, eyes gleaming wet in the lamp light.
He didn't have anything to say as he pulled his hair back, bit his lip, and bared his neck.
*
Somewhere in the city there is laughter, low and warm, and two creatures dodge in and out of the gaslights, casting their shadows on the walls as they run along side, their hands intertwined.
The taller pulls the other into a kiss, forceful and lit with a hunger that unsettles any late night onlooker. The shorter of the two tangles a hand in firelight hair and pulls him down, closer.
Their intimacy is obvious, their devotion tangible, and their intentions clear. Any spectator would be wise to walk on, away from the two of them.
This world is theirs.