Prometheus Bound [Whit]

[Peter Parkman]

Cloudy. Of course it was cloudy. It always seemed to be cloudy, and the weather was perpetually cold. This didn’t bother Peter as much as it used to; Peter, who used to love his dawn walk through the wilderness with his five dogs. When he’d exit his humble little cabin the night would still be lingering, and the air would be frigid. But as he walked, the sun was rise, and the cold would be chased away by the beams of hot light. At least in the warmer months, anyway. In the dead of Winter the sun didn’t do much to chase away the cold; the temperature only seemed to marginally change, but this didn’t bother Peter, either. The light was what he liked best, the way it shifted and changed, the way the whole forest seemed to shimmer around him, coming to life.

No more of that. No more sunrises. Just the night, cold and quiet, without all the hustle and bustle of the day time. No more shimmering changes in the forest. No more forest, really, because the last time he had lingered he’d got himself a rather nasty head injury that had him bed-ridden for a week. No way was he going to risk that again.

These were the sacrifices that Peter had had to make. These were the things that tore a hole in his heart, that made him want to cry, sometimes, because he wasn’t given the chance to see them, one last time. These were the things that he had taken for granted – the small happinesses, the broader angle of the world that had helped him to forget all of his personal tragedy. At least, now, he still had his dogs. And he still had his night-times by the crackling fire, curled up with a pile of books, a pen, and a journal.

The OCD had gotten worse since the turning. No medication worked anymore, and so there were strict guidelines to how Peter lived his life. He had blood delivered to him just after sunset; he didn’t like to keep bags in the fridge. He was paranoid that they might be found by someone who shouldn’t see them. Besides which, he had a morbid and completely ludicrous fear of blood; a dislike for the sight of it, for the smell of it. He wouldn’t be able to prepare it for himself without wanting to faint, and so he had it delivered in a nice, thick Styrofoam cup, with a nice thick lid, and a nice thick straw. This was the worst part of the night, consuming that blood, even if there was a small part of him that thoroughly enjoyed it. He did it quickly, with haste. And then it was over, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it for another twenty-four hours.

Before the delivery of the blood he’d have showered and dressed, having woken up as soon as that sun had sunk below the horizon. Woken fully, without any tiredness, the cobwebs of sleep immediately falling away.

Jersey was there, most of the time. All of the time, really. She indulged him, let him go on with his silly little routines. He wasn’t too bad, but he could get stressed out if things didn’t go to plan.

There was never any direct need to leave the cabin, though Peter often did in order to check in at the Asylum, or to go the library to return books, and hire some more. A lot of the time he’d stay at the library, too, for hours on end. It was why, when he got the email from Whit, that he decided to tell the student to meet him at the library. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the night he’d met Jersey – sitting in a café where he could not eat or drink anything.

Honeymead library. It was a regular haunt. It was small, ish, but it was comfortable. It was warm. It was welcoming. Peter had showered and dressed and drank his blood, and had almost immediately kissed Jersey goodnight to make his way to Honeymead. He’d agreed to meet Whit earlier than he should have – only because he hadn’t wanted to appear strange, arranging to meet late at night.

He sat at the end of one of the long tables, an old copy of Aeschylus’s Prometheus Bound open in front of him. It was one of his favourites. His hair was brushed just so, and his clothing was conservative, as it always had been; black slacks and a black jacket, both with a subtle sheen, and underneath, a plain light-blue, button up shirt. The buttons were undone a little at the collar, and he at least did without a tie. He sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, hand resting on the book as he read it from afar.

Peter was, of course, dubious about meeting with a human acquaintance. As much as he had come to enjoy his new life – yes, there were some thing he pined for, definitely, but overall he enjoyed the new perks – he wasn’t yet willing to give up everything from his past. Besides which, Whit had been the only student who Peter had really taken a shine to. The only one he spent extra time with, before scurrying home to continue his hermitude. The very least he could do was continue to give Whit a little more time, now. Surely, sooner or later, the kid would move on to bigger and better things. He’d forget about the professor he’d only had for six months. There’d be nothing that would need to be explained. So why the hell not?

[Whit]

Life was, as ever, a funny little thing. When someone was in the midst of creating a happy memory, it was easy to forget the trials one had faced over months and years. It was like those little sparks of hope and pleasure could topple a man’s good sense, make him forget that sticking his hand into a wasp’s nest was a good way of getting stung. All the same, in the grip of pain, or during an arduous task; it was nearly impossible for someone to remember the good days and moments filled with glee. It took a great deal of courage and strength of mind to overcome either of those obstacles, because it was easy to live in the moment, and enjoy the freedom of spirit that provided.

But some people do not have the luxury of putting off life lessons.

Sometimes they come crashing in when you least want it. Lest expect it.

There had been something enticing about the prospect of dying that night, the rush of light and the adrenaline that came from an active fight or flight. Whitaker was a young man by the world’s standards, not even a senior in college. His entire world had been painfully normal up until that point. As a child, he had come from a fairly stable home with a mother and father. No siblings, so he had been able to hoard all of the presents under the tree to himself at Christmas (or so he had thought back then). His grades had been good – not superb, but decent enough that he sometimes made honor roll. In high school, he’d been into a couple of sports like competitive swimming and soccer. He had been average at either of those, good enough to be on the team most of the time, but he had never and probably would never have been the star.

He’d enjoyed books, comic books, movies, any form of media and entertainment he could have gotten his hands on. He went on to college seamlessly after high school ended. Which was to say that he lived a very standard life. But in just the same way that life could be funny, it could also be fickle. He had been walking home from his on campus part time job only about a week before when he’d caught sight of an attack in progress. He had been carrying some recording equipment with him (he liked to film or take pictures on a lark pretty often) when he’d taken note of what looked like two men about to make out. Well, he wasn’t precisely a sleaze, but he wasn’t about to pass up on the opportunity to catch that kind of thing on film. He could be a bit of a troll at times, and liked the idea of taunting the pair with it.

He’d needed a bit of a ‘pick-me-up’ for various reasons.

The only problem was that the moment he’d gotten closer, one of the men had jumped back, gun in hand. Shots rang out, and caught the other male in the chest. Really that should have been the end, and it took everything in Whit to not draw attention to himself in the form of a scream. His head had already been cocked to one side and he ended up burying his lips against his own lifted shoulder as if to make sure that he didn’t open his mouth. Nostrils flared and he had this irrational fear he was going to breathe so loudly the killer might hear him. He immediately ducked into an alley, and was certain he had just witnessed a murder…except the guy that had been shot not only lived, but moved like a blur, throwing the attacker back.

The gun was thrown, and the man that had displayed super-human speed and strength ended up crouched over a body. It took Whit a few moments to figure out what the guy was doing with a wrist and why it was shoved against a mouth. The trickle of blood gave it away. He had not been at all sure what he’d stumbled upon, but he retreated just in time to hear the sickening snap of a neck. It was the kind of thing that he would end up never forgetting.

Of course, all of that had happened nearly a week before, and Whitaker’s first inclination had been to go to the police, but he knew how ridiculous he would have sounded. They would have taken one look at the grainy, dark footage and would have told him that he had faked the whole thing. He might even have been fined for wasting their time. So instead, he decided to share his ‘finding’ with someone he both trusted and respected, Professor Parkman. Whit had taken a class with him some months before, and even though it hadn’t been all that long. Well, it had been enough a duration to have cemented something of a bond between them.

Whitaker let himself into the library quietly, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder with his video camera tucked safely inside. He had a 35mm Nikon around his neck, and wore a tweed jacket that set the tone of the meeting as ‘formal’ despite the relative informality of the bond he shared with Mr. Parkman. His slacks were plain with clean lines, and when he sat down – the hem of them lifted just enough to reveal damask socks beneath, which matched his bowtie in pattern but not color, the former being a darker shade of gray and steel blue than the latter. He wore suspenders and had on a white button down that was obscured by the slimming lines of a tartan vest which clasped at the front. ”Mr. Parkman.” He murmured as he found the man already seated and came to find his own just across the table.

”How have you been? It’s been ages.” Feeble attempt at small talk.

[Peter Parkman]

The common side-effect of Peter’s OCD was anxiety. When on his medication, when human, when Whit had known him, the anxiety had been numbed. When he’d walked home, when he’d moved around the campus or the classroom, he’d done so with slow deliberation. Although he might have been a bundle of knots inside, he lived with a mask secured over his features and his emotions. He forced himself to forget about the past and live only in the moment, and thus had appeared to be a man who was very sure of himself. A calming influence. He’d had a few students come to him for advice; he’d had a few who’d wanted to be his friend. But the only one who’d really got past the outer bubble had been Whit.

Why? It was probably their mutual interest in all things nerdy. Peter couldn’t remember how it had happened; how they had discovered this mutual interest. But it was there. Where all the rest of the students would try to impress Peter with their knowledge, their philosophies, the friendship with Whit came more naturally. Maybe Peter was craving some kind of human interaction, at this point. It didn’t matter.

He hoped now to try to act the same. To be the same Professor Peter Parkman that Whit had known, and had grown accustomed to. He hoped that his anxiety wouldn’t get the better of him. And why should it? The library was hushed, near-silent. It was a calming atmosphere. Surely nothing could happen in here. Nothing untoward. Nothing that would give Peter away for what he was. Aeschylus was a calming influence, too – so that when Whit did walk through the door, and as he took his seat across from Peter, Peter was able to smile graciously, close his book, and push it aside. He was able to retain the calm exterior that Whit would be used to.

”You’re not my student anymore. Just call me Peter,” he said, voice a deep rumble.

”It’s been a while, yes. I’ve been fine. I’ve moved on to academia. Became more of a hermit than I was before,” he said with a broader, more indulgent smile.

”And you? What have you been up to?” Peter asked. Sure, yes, Whit had said in the email that he had something cool he wanted to show Peter – but otherwise, Peter assumed this was just an ordinary catch-up. Small talk was the fish of the day, at least to begin with. It wouldn’t be your regular social meeting if there weren’t some form of small talk involved. A jumping off point, as it were – a diving board from which they could delve into meatier subjects.

[Whit]

Mr. Parkman looked the same as ever, though a few months made it difficult to define ‘as ever’. It would have been more accurate to say that, to Whit, Parkman did not appear to have changed. An opinion that was pleasant if only because of the troubling things on the young man’s mind. When he took his seat, he let one leg cross over the other at the knee. His tweed jacket was already unbuttoned, and there was the faint glimmer of a brass pocket watch chain. Whit, as much as he loved games, and super heroes, things of that nature, also had an affinity for the classics. Not only did he enjoy good literature, but he appreciated period clothing and antiques. He actually collected old mirrors, watches, and stained glass, and often wore either clothing or costuming from different eras.

While not strictly period garb, his sense of fashion was traditional and yet paradoxically adventurous, taking classical designs and shapes to pair with vibrant colours. He liked to mesh the old and the new. He briefly scanned over the cover of the book that Peter had been reading, a bit of a smile formed, because it was further confirmation that the man was exactly the same as before. The same calming figure that he had been. There were two types of friendships, those where one person was always trying to keep the other entertained, where the ones involved were constantly trying to do things to keep things fresh and alive. But once the spark of excitement died, those same people fell out of touch. And then there were friends a man could just sit with, and never have to say much of anything, and that was perfectly alright. For some, the latter manifested as two guys hanging out at a bar, just drinking beers and enjoying mutual silence. For men like Whit and Peter, it was far more subtle. Like reading the same book quietly in the same room, smiling at the same phrases, loving the same characters.

That was the type of friends that they were. The sort that thought enough alike that they did not need to fill the void of space or time with idle conversation or an endless parade of activities that neither of them really found all that interesting.

But then, this was not exactly a normal circumstance, and allowances could be made.

“If you insist.” He replied in a soft tone, his hands coming together over a topmost knee while he slumped comfortably. He had opted not to push his chair closer to the table, and was angled such that he could easily watch the other man, gauge his facial features. It was almost by accident that he remembered he had his bag slung over a shoulder, and hastily pulled it off to place on the table beside him. His fingers meshed back into place, which revealed carefully manicured – but not effeminate nails, and a few silver rings strew amongst his slender digits. His hands were not delicate, but they were not hard or calloused either, save for at the thumb and crook of the index finger. He had the visible signs of both a photographer and writer.

A muscle moved over his lips to wet them, as if cautious in the way to proceed with the seemingly tame question offered. “I have been buried in my studies. I deeply apologize for having not gotten in touch with you before, but I opted to take an extra course this last semester, and my hours at work picked up when a girl quit.” He happened to work in one of the offices, had since he had started in at the university, because he had been offered not only a reduction in his tuition costs, but money as well. He wasn’t precisely an over-achiever, but the scholarship that had found him at the uni had not covered every expense he needed.

“Anyway, I have been busy. I am happy to hear, at the very least, that you have been well. As you know though, I did not ask to meet you just so that we could catch up, as nice a diversion from the point of our meeting as it is to hear about your becoming a shut in.” Deadpan. His humor tended to be on the dry side at times, and ranged from darkly morbid to absolutely silly depending on the situation. His hand subconsciously slid so that fingers could stroke over the side of his messenger bag, as if contemplating whether or not he should really share his big reveal. Whatever the case, his words cut off, and he ironically (and perhaps comically) did not immediately get to the point at all.

[Peter Parkman]

Yes, Peter had become more of a shut in than usual – amongst other things, of course. He assumed if this were a meeting just to catch up, it would be very one-sided. Maybe. Though he supposed that there were some things that he could talk about. He could mention Jersey. He could talk about Jersey as much as he liked, without it arousing any suspicion. That was about it, however; he couldn’t exactly talk about how he sometimes stayed in an Asylum, now, because he’d been ‘adopted’ by a new family, all of whom looked around the same age as he did.

He could talk about his work, too. There was nothing suspicious about that, even though the historical subject he now studied more often than any other concerned vampirism, and the age-old tradition of humans being obsessed with blood. There was nothing wrong with that kind of interest, was there? It was a completely innocent route; even a cliché. Given the mass popularity of vampires, these days, research into that area was robust. It wasn’t exactly unique. But given his current condition, Peter had inside knowledge. He knew which paths to take; he knew which information would lead him further toward the truth.

He nodded as Whit explained where he’d been, and why he had not been in touch. Peter schooled his features; truth was, he hadn’t noticed. He’d been so caught up in the changes in his own life, the inevitable darkness, the blood, the fear and anxiety. Adjusting, because he could no longer take his medication. He hadn’t really been fit for company – not company that he knew, anyway. The lack of emails from his former student hadn’t registered, and now Peter realised that it should have.

Whit didn’t seem to notice, however; Whit assumed all the fault was on his end. Although Peter disagreed, he let the topic drop.

Small talk, catching up, was not why Whit wanted to meet. He repeated the statement, and Peter arched a brow. So soon to the point. Hasty, even. Peter leaned forward, elbows resting against the hard wood of the table. His long fingers steepled in front of him as he watched Whit carefully, the way he stroked his bag as if there were something inside of great value and importance. The cool thing that he had said he had wanted to show.

Whit did not continue – as if he was asking Peter permission. As if, perhaps, Peter wanted only to catch up. They did have all the time in the world, really. There was no rush. But Peter was, of course, savvy to the needs of others. Whit wanted to move on, and so Peter nodded.

”You did mention wanting to show me something. I hope everything is okay?” Peter asked, his brow furrowing, his lips turning down at the edges.

[Whit]

“Of course.” The answer was immediate, having fled his mouth the moment the other man asked if everything was okay, and it was not precisely a lie. Everything was most certainly not okay. There were things going on in Whitaker’s life that made him feel like his chest was this deep place, a chasm really that was built to contain all of his fear. That was the strongest emotion he felt in recent months, and it would fill him until he was shaking, until he could barely stand straight, look or think clearly. He would try to put a cap on it as much as possible, but no matter how hard he tried to feel hollow; it always seemed to have this way of creeping to the surface. Left him feeling sick to his stomach, like someone was putting pressure on his face, his chest. He would usually be doing the most mundane things, and then his mortality and its inevitability would sneak through his muscles and leave him trembling.

He had never been so terrified of anything in all of his life.

But that wasn’t something he wanted Peter to see. So he had emptied out all of his feelings in front of a camera earlier in the evening in preparation for coming. Part of it had just been him rehearsing what he wanted to say to the other man so that he didn’t come across as half crazy. Part of it had been him spewing everything he had felt and tried to contain, until he felt like there was nothing left to say and nothing left to feel on the matter. That was, of course, an errant thought. Cognitively he understood that, because what had happened to him was the type of thing that had the power to permanently change not only his life, but the lives of everyone he cared about. So there he sat right in front of Peter, a man who knew him probably a lot better than Whit would have liked to admit in that moment and he was trying to seem like everything was normal.

His mile did not falter, but instead deepened just a pinch before he finally tugged at the back of his bag to drag it flat on the table, twisting in his chair. His legs uncrossed so that he could carefully pull the video recording device out. He made sure that the thing was muted, and the playback screen was tipped just right. He ensured that the footage was at exactly the right place and then he got up so that he could round the table and place the thing own in front of Peter. He was careful not to touch the other man, but that was more out of habit than anything else. Whitaker was very meticulous about his appearance, and did not like to leave the house unless every hair was in place, and not a fiber of fabric was in the wrong position. As such, he tended to dislike when people he did not know casually touched him.

While he and Peter knew each other well enough for that sort of thing to be acceptable, Whit naturally refrained, less out of conscious choice, and more because the practice was engrained into his behavior. Most people would not have even noticed really, because his fingers lined against the back of a chair and he tipped his head down to lean. His cheek hovered less than the span of a hand away from the side of Peter’s as he pushed the play button so that he could let the vampire attack he had seen play out on the screen. The whole thing was rather short, from beginning to completion. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”

[Peter Parkman]

Peter didn’t notice the lack of touch. If anything, on a subconscious level, he appreciated it. It wasn’t so much because he was pedantic about his appearance. That wasn’t it at all. Over the past year, Peter had just become a very private person. He had his own personal bubble and he rarely allowed anyone past it. If anything, Peter only became aware of the lack of physical contact as Whit leaned down to press play on the camera; the warmth billowed from him like a wave, a blast of hot air. As soon as it touched Peter’s frigid skin, it reminded the vampire of what he was. It reminded him that Whit was so very human; that the blood that ran through his veins was hot, and life-sustaining. Blood, the very essence that kept humans alive, and which aroused them, too. Without blood, pleasure would be incomplete.

Peter cleared his throat. He should not be thinking about blood. Not here, not now. His relationship with blood was a complicated one; the sight and smell of the stuff could not be withstood, but the taste of it? That could not be surpassed, not by any meal that anyone might have ever made him, especially, as a human. Melting Moments, for example, had been a weak spot of Peter’s. The way his wife had made them, especially. The buttery, sweet taste – the way they actually melted on his tongue. Utter perfection. But nothing, nothing at all, now, in comparison to the taste of blood. Peter did not breathe, for fear that he might, somehow, catch a whiff of Whit’s blood. He held still, and watched the camera with a little bemusement.

There was no way Peter could have been prepared for what played out on the little screen in front of him. He couldn’t turn away, as much as he wanted to; the scene, grainy as it was, was perfectly clear to Peter. Perfectly understandable. Whit had seen a vampire accosting its prey. Maybe its prey had turned out to be a hunter, what with the gun – but still. A vampire, who had survived a bullet wound, and who had then taken the blood of its attacker.

To Peter, it wasn’t as if he was watching something play out on a camera screen. No, instead, he felt as if he himself were that vampire. That he had been caught. If he had a beating heart, it would surely be struggling in throat. What was this? Whit, coming here, so eager to show Peter something. So disinclined to commit to small talk – admitting that he hadn’t wanted to ‘catch-up’. Had his former student somehow figured out what Peter was? Had he asked to meet in a public place so that he could accuse Peter, without fear of recourse? Is that what this was? Whit, saying: “I know what you are. This is what you are.”

The video finished, and Peter’s Adam’s Apple bobbed precariously in his throat. He sat absolutely still, even as the world tilted around him. He was rigid with the anxiety he’d worked so hard to suppress. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. Blood—was it blood?—roared in his ears, and only after he’d actually counted to twenty did the noise die down enough for Peter to focus.

No, it hadn’t been Whit who’d asked to meet in a public place. That had been Peter’s choice. It wouldn’t do to jump to unnecessary conclusions. If Whit had an accusation to make, surely it would follow: until then, Peter needed to try to keep his cool. Needed to pretend, to act like he knew nothing. Finally, he turned a steady eye to Whit.

”You… where did this happen? When?” he asked. Only afterwards did he realise he ought to have shown some kind of surprise, or shock. He might have paled, were his skin not already the colour of off-white paper. His hazel-green eyed widened.

”What the hell was that?!” he asked, maybe a beat too late – trying, maybe too hard, for a tone of incredulity.

[Whit]

Had his mind been totally in the moment, he probably would have noticed the way that Peter’s reply was not quite what it should have been, how he did not respond with astonishment at the potential existence of monsters. Unfortunately, Whit’s brain was a little less sharp than it should have been, and if you’d asked him, he likely would have blamed some of the medications he’d been taking. Mostly just things to help keep him stable. Perhaps it was less something physical, and entirely the realm of trust. Because he had no reason to think that Peter was trying to keep something from him. Nothing in the man’s past behavior had indicated a need for suspicion. Whatever the case, the answer was simply met with the lazy draw of a wet muscle over slightly chapped lips.

“It happened just a week back, when I was on my way home from campus.” Whit’s apartment was not the most glamorous place to live by a long shot. The plumbing made strange booming sounds occasionally, the floor creaked, and it seemed like everything needed to be replaced by the maintenance worker constantly. However, it was cheap, which was good for his budgetary needs, and better by a long shot than living in one of the crowded dorm rooms. In his home, there was plenty of room for his books, and his comics, for his games, his photography equipment. He had even converted a little area into a black room for when he needed to develop film.

His head had turned when he’d answered, an involuntary need to have some kind of visual contact with the person he was addressing. His breath was warm, and soft in the way that it traveled a short distance before dancing across the other man’s jawline, spreading from a lone point to struggle briefly over Peter’s cheek and down towards his neck before ultimately dissipating – collapsing in upon itself. He pulled away, because the angle for actually looking at his mentor was a poor one, his body withdrawing, back straightening before he stumbled back to his seat. When he dropped across from Mr. Parkman, it was not the same tightly controlled sitting arrangement as before, with the crossed legs and hands placed right where they needed to be. He was sprawled, legs stretched in front of him, heels of his shoes digging into the carpet while arms folded over his chest. He was slumped there, the image of a petulant child.

But that wasn’t the case at all.

“I do not really…I do not know. I mean what does it look like to you? If I had to guess, I would say that it appears to be…” His gaze grew more intent for a moment before he continued, his body righting itself in his seat, pulling upright, back arching itself forward so that he could lean. His voice was low, words somewhat conspiratorial. “I believe it to be a vampire attack. But when I thought to go to the press, well who is going to believe me? You saw the poor quality of the film. At best, I will be laughed at. At worst I will be discredited as a fraud.” He frowned faintly, the expression barely having changed, with just the gentlest of dragging at either corner of his mouth. His eyes, up until that moment, had been pointedly directed at Peter. He liked for people to know when he was serious, during a conversation. But they shifted, glancing down to the table before hurriedly settling on a clock. As if he had something else scheduled for the day and did not want to run over.

“I showed you because you know me. You, of all the people here will believe me. I am a little scared.” He finally settled on. It was the first time he’d said it out loud and it felt…good. It felt good to not have that in his chest anymore. Like he’d let some caged bird fly free. Reminded him of a quote. Hearts are wild creatures, that’s why our ribs are cages. He finally peered back to his former professor, his expression a little pleading, a little lost. Like he expected the other man to have all the answers.

[Peter Parkman]

If peter were privy to bodily reactions, such as fleeting goosebumps and the loss of blood from the face, he might have looked like he’d just seen a ghost. His forearms rest on the table as his body remains tense. If it weren’t for the fact that he was having a miniature panic attack about what Whit had shown him, he might not have been able to easily ignore the proximity of the human. Because that is what he was, in the end. Regardless of how well they knew each other in the past, Peter knew that at some point in the future he’d stop counting himself as one of the living; as a human, as a person who could know and associate with humans. He knew that sooner or later he would adhere to the dividing line. We are vampires. They are human. He does realise, in the back of his mind, that Whit is the first human in a very long time who he had conversed with. There aren’t many old friends or acquaintances that would call on Peter, anyway, and every other hour he spent with Jersey, or with Keara, or with the other vampires of his ‘family’ that he knew. He had to remember that humans felt different. They were warm, with warm skin and warm breath, and they smelled like food.

He cleared his throat again. On the table in front of him, his hands were in constant movement, even as the rest of his body remained absolutely rigid. Thumb tips rubbed in circular motions against fingertips, as if he were rolling something between them. There was nothing there, though. Nothing but an invisible anxiety, pressed in the air, a tic to help vent the rising panic.

Peter’s gaze had remained steadfast on the device. He itched to touch it, to immediately and hastily delete that one video. Especially when Whit mentioned the media; it was only then that Peter’s wide eyes snapped up to lock onto the young man sprawled across from him. He had to bite his tongue to keep from bellowing; NO. Not that. It hadn’t happened. Whit had not shown this to anyone, and he was still talking. It would not do to interrupt.

Peter was trapped between a rock and a hard place. He had to convince Whit to not show this to anyone else; to not go to the authorities, to not even hint to them that there might have been a murder. Not even anonymously. It was all to do with the Masquerade. And, again, he wanted to protect Whit from those who would see him dead just for what he had witnessed. But here was a student, a friend, a confidant, admitting fear. Peter could see it now, written in Whit’s features. How on earth was he supposed to continue? He couldn’t tell Whit to delete the evidence and not tell him why. He’d gone down that path before.

Of course Peter assumed Whit’s fear was due to what he had seen; that a true-to-life vampire was on the loose near his campus. And what if he was next? It was a legitimate fear, and it infected Peter, too. Whit was in legitimate danger of being food for some vampire or other.

Finally, Peter leaned forward.

”Yes, I can see… I mean, no. You can’t take this to anyone. They won’t believe you,” Peter confirmed, his gaze dropping again to the device, brow twitching. He really wanted to delete that video, for Whit’s sake.

”Maybe you should… stick to travelling by day until… maybe someone else will come forward,” Peter offered, and then grimaced. He wasn’t helping. Not one bit. And he wasn’t showing enough incredulity. God, he knew it, but he also knew he had a tendency to overthink things. He’d been told as much on several occasions.

”You’re probably right to be afaid,” he finally said, surprised that he could keep his own voice steady. Again, he bit his tongue. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. And so he just sat there, very still, thumbs still circling his fingertips.

[Whit]

He sat back for a moment, away from Peter, pulling out of that conspirator’s intimacy so that his arms could fold loosely over his chest only to slip lower like the melting of snow to slip down and slump against his lap. The position afforded him the best view of Peter while the man spoke, and hands laid curled inward at the wrist with slender digits near brushing against the inside of his own forearms where they hung between knees. He didn’t quite look defeated, maybe a bit nervous with his lower lip drawn between his teeth the way that it was so that normally pinkish flesh could grow a little rosier with the pressure. A big part of the issue was that he felt vulnerable, and his hope was that Peter could help to give him strength.

Selfish and childish as that sounded.

The words were a confirmation of what he knew already. Part of him had wished that Peter would have been supportive of him going to at least the police. But the truth of the matter was that he wasn’t entirely certain there was anything the authorities could do anyway. How could any man fight…whatever it was he had seen? So he told himself that Mr. Parkman was just looking out for him, because the last thing he wanted was to be considered bat **** on top of all of his other issues. Maybe that was just a fond eye remembering a man he had cared about – still cared about. Because if he had been in his right mind, he probably would have called that logic into question. The way that his evidence was fundamentally dismissed.

Instead, he nodded, his head hanging afterwards as if he had something that weighed on his conscience, or like he had done something wrong and been caught by his father. His throat worked slowly, and he felt this pressure like someone was shoving behind his face. Fluid filled his vision and he suddenly had a lot of trouble breathing. Because he was trying desperately to keep something inside, and it demanded to get free. “Can we go somewhere else? Somewhere more private?” His voice shook with the effort by which he tried to force it into place. The whole thing was a struggle, and that was evident on his features when he finally looked up once more. His eyes were blood shot, and the blood that had once animated his face had completely washed away. Those blue eyes of his looked so bright like that, like he suffered from some kind of madness.

“You see, I am afraid. I am very frightened, but it has nothing to do with the attack.” His voice was low, and it trembled. His hands had, at some point, slid from where they lay dormant so that they could push against either knee. His fingers were curled into the fabric of his slacks as if he were contemplating trying to tear them off. Fists were clenched so tight that knuckles had turned white. And even though he had asked for them to slip off somewhere else private, it all came rushing out. Everything. All of the words that he hadn’t shared with Peter, the things he’d wanted to say but hadn’t been able to since the beginning of their meeting. Even though those same words had been burning on his tongue and under his skin.

“I ha-I have cancer. I am dying, Peter.” His eyes were solidly connected with his mentor’s in that moment, unable to look away, unable to do anything other than just stare and hope that the man had more strength than he did to cope with the whole thing. Because Whit felt weak. He had locked himself in his room for nearly a week after he’d gotten the prognosis. Less than six months left to live. He hadn’t even asked about the chemo because he’d been way too far gone by the time they found it. The vampire attack had come on the first day he had been able to get out of the apartment, go back to work. His idea had been to just act like everything was normal. His last days weren’t going to be spent with people looking at him, feeling pity.

But he hadn’t been able to do that. He wasn’t strong enough. “I did not come to you because I found something. I came to you because I need to say goodbye.” His words were whispered then. His heart thudded with so much force that he was afraid it was going to jump right into the other man’s hands.