OOC Note: Backdated to the week of May 12th.
<Grey Weston>
The car was a ragged shape against the vaguely chemical spill of light from the street lamps. The night was still; silent, except for the hushed sound of the engine as it cooled, and the liquid pops in his breaths, as steady as a needle skipping over the grooves of an old vinyl. The once-cream of the leather seats was saturated in his blood; smears of it that quickly turned the color muddy, a soft shade of pink. In the dim light, the slow-spreading stains across his shirt were ink-dark. The fabric had grown thin in most places; adhering to the wounds. For once, the skin of his fingers was stiff with something other than paint; vibrant streaks in various shades of rust. The interior of the car was thick with the scent of salt and metal.
The right shoulder of his shirt had torn, exposing the sharp curve of his shoulder. The skin there was all wrong; blanched to the point that it had turned a jaundiced shade, paling to a sickly shade of dust gray; veins of red and a mottled purple radiating outward from the ragged center. The faint, horseshoe imprint of teeth was uneven; torn at the edges. The blood had already begun to clot; thicker than usual, a dull sort of gunmetal in the weak light. Heat radiated from the wound; evidence of his body’s defiance; its last-ditch effort to combat the infection that sought a toehold, even as he threatened to shake apart, turn inside out.
His right hand curled loosely against his side; the palm pressed just underneath his ribs; his fingers had gone numb fifteen minutes before. He drew in a breath - wincing at the sound he made - the gasping way it hissed in through his lungs, high and thin - teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek, causing the skin to split and flood his mouth with the coppery taste of his blood. His lungs struggled to inflate, and fell short of the goal, sending a spasm of agony through him, as if every inch of skin had been peeled from him in slow strips and then pinned to a heated metal frame with the precise, slow tap of a railroad spike.
His pulse slowed; growing faint. Every so often a tremor would rock through him, forcing what little oxygen he had from his lungs. He started at the sound of the passenger door as it opened; body tensing, pulse suddenly racing. A sharp, bitter taste coated his tongue, the hair along the nape of his neck suddenly prickling. It was a purely primal response; one that went nowhere. His reserves were exhausted. Fight or flight would do him no favors. A broken sound hissed passed his lips the second the scent registered. Familiar. Comforting.
He wanted to go to him. To bury his face against his neck and inhale him, as if his oxygen starved lungs could sustain themselves on his scent, his presence alone. He wanted to shower him in kisses; leave him stamped with the wet, red smear of his lips; let them show how humbled he was. How grateful. He wanted to say something; anything. I didn’t think I’d see you again and I’m sorry and I’m selfish, please forgive me.
I love you.
Instead, his lips parted, a steady, anemic stream of blood sliding between them to spill over the swell of his lower lip, a cracked, ragged noising tearing free of his throat. “H…” He sighed, the word spent.
<Kaspar>
When Kaspar was younger he’d had a brief, flirtatious affair with the feeling of falling, of the twisting fear in your stomach before you jumped. They’d make it a challenge to find the highest places overlooking water, the kind that had you feeling like you were plummeting before the surface of the water cracked beneath you, engulfing you in it’s depths. Theme parks and rides gave a hint of the thrill, of that gut wrenching gnawing feeling that foretold the tightening of muscles and gasping of breath. Lungs would fill, unable to help it, only forcing out an exhale upon impact or the way the support gear caught at you. The sharper the plummet, the better and it all stemmed from the desire to control a particularly unpleasant recurring dream.
In real life he could manage, he could claim and make it his choice but when he was falling in his dreams he could never catch himself.
Receiving that call, it shocking him awake from the lazy dozing in bed with his Wife had a similar feeling. Like he was falling, breathless, but there was no impact to be had. This was no dream, and he was left reeling. No time was wasted, he’d merely waited to hear the location before hanging up, grabbing keys and running out in nothing but his black track pants and the closest t-shirt he could throw over his slender frame. At the destination he stumbled blindly from the car, merely putting it in park and throwing on the handbrake, letting it rumble impatiently for his return. Bare feet slapped the pavement, Kaspar striding with purpose to stand in front of a man who looked like he was literally knocking on death’s door.
His hands shook with the effort not to reach out to him, not to grab the man and shake. It felt as if something in him had come unstuck, and he just stood there, wide eyed and dishevelled as he fought the anxiety that tugged at his insides. Grey was hurt, badly, in ways that had Kaspar’s mouth hanging open and gaping stupidly trying to form words. “Car… Get in the car.” Was all he managed, ushering the man with hurried care into the vehicle.
There had been a brief argument about where to go, the hospital had been ruled out firmly by Grey and Kaspar had relented, agreeing to take the man to his apartment just to get somewhere he could fully assess the situation. It was mostly tense silence from there on out, Kaspar staring stoically ahead out the front windshield, white knuckle grip on the wheel and the familiar twitch of muscles at his jaw the evidence of teeth ground together violently in effort to stem the flow of angry, frightened words. It wouldn’t help anyone. Grey’s constant attempts of reassurance that he was fine, and jokes about how he could use the morphine only proved he’d been up to acts of turpitude that evening and had given Kaspar much cause to flinch. Grey acted as if he were impervious to greater harm, even as his lung made that hideous hissing and blood occasionally welled threatening to dribble down his chin.
It was beyond infuriating, but more to the point it left the encroaching anxiety fraying at the edges of his quickly fading calm.
Externally he was solid, strong and a grounding support for Grey as he manoeuvred the man out of the car and up through the apartment building, but inside he was falling. He could see the ground coming up to meet him, but the suspension felt endless and he was just waiting to crash down and break apart. Once inside he ushered the man into the bedroom, assisting him to sit before rushing off to grab towels, to find a large bowl to fill with hot soapy water and frankly just give himself a second to breathe in a scent that wasn’t his boyfriend’s blood. No easy task, considering it stained the t-shirt he’d tugged on. The item was discarded, ripped from his body as the horror of it hit him.
There was a thought, hovering just out of reach, somewhere in the back of his mind that taunted about the possibilities. Would vampire blood help him heal or would it take him over the edge? Would it be the catalyst his body needed to shed the mortal coil? He could almost see it, malevolent and rich in pigment, seeking out Grey’s dying cells and wrapping around to choke them like creeping ivy. Grey didn’t want it, he knew that, but could he watch him die instead if it came to that? Kaspar brought in the last of the items, his expression carefully rearranged into something focused and calm. “We need to get you cleaned up, and check the damage.” What else could he say? I’m furious at you. How else could he feel? I adore you, and you would do this. Do you choose death over love? Love, funny that the word should come to him at a time like this, standing in the bedroom watching Grey bloodied and beaten before him.
Love, huh?
<Grey Weston>
Grey hadn’t resented the silence that dominated the drive to the apartment. The tension between the pair was palpable; taut and coiled. There was no comfort in the absence of conversation. It was a cancerous thing; insidious in the way it crafted a fissure between them. His voice was fragile, the dry hiss of static lacing every word, periodically terminating in sharp, spasming coughs that left him gasping, the corners of his vision darkened unpleasantly. He’d welcomed the distraction their discussion had provided, if only because it offered a reprieve from the sensation of how his body felt like the slow, inward collapse of an inexpertly erected tower of cards. A slow slide towards the inevitable. He almost favored the silence over Kaspar’s clipped response.
He sank onto the bed at Kaspar’s urging. The walk from the hallway to the bedroom had been a deliberate one; the white-knuckled guidance of Kaspar’s hands a necessary presence. That had become apparent when he’d listed sharply to the left, shoulder grazing the plaster, both his skin and the wall coming away wet with garish color. The imprint would leave a stain, in the coming days; an echo. A whisper; something gangrenous to the memory in the way it embedded itself. He hadn’t protested the steadying touch after that; allowing himself to be lead, even as his knees threatened to buckle.
He was still as Kaspar set to the task of removing his shirt. There was no patience to his touch; the movements were precise. Abrupt. He struggled to trap the sound that rose in his throat as his skin pulled taut, dried blood shedding from the stiffened fabric to sift over the bedsheets with a muted sigh; the noise carrying an unexpected violence; thin and hissing. The cracked noise that welled from his throat was involuntary; jagged and half-choked as the hem of his shirt caught against the entry wounds that littered his frame. There were four in total. One beneath the curve of his ribcage, following the faint definition of their imprint.
There was another, much higher than its twin, that grazed just beneath his collarbone. The remainder were lodged elsewhere, the fabric of his jeans saturated with the evidence trail left in their wake. He felt strangely bereft as Kaspar made his way out of the room; the collapsed feeling in the center of his chest slowly radiating outwards. By the time he’d returned, the light tremors had grown violent, progressing into hard, rolling shudders; firm enough to jar his teeth together, just slightly. He eyed him for a moment, before giving a short, weary nod of consent. His gaze drifted over him, taking in his disheveled appearance with a twinge of guilt. “Did…” he began, the word weak, cracking - thick with the sound of the same pinkish foam that flecked his lips - “Did I wake you?” The question, while mildly absurd, was genuine; the strained concern evident.
<Kaspar>
One, two, three… Just breathe. Kaspar counted in his head, his lips parted, eyes wide as he stared at Grey incredulously. He was seriously asking if he’d woken him? That was his question? What he worked his damaged lungs to speak? He didn’t answer, the counting was barely working to help him hold in the flurry of questions and groans of frustration that felt like a weight in his chest. Damn it, Grey. He’d crossed the room, tugging open one of the dresser drawers and plucking through idly in search of a shirt that looked like his. A red flannel shirt came into view, on his favourites and he felt an immediate comfort as it settled over his flesh, hiding it from view once more. He knew without fail that same pink tinge that marred Grey’s skin stained his own, just a hint of the disasterpiece that was his lover.
“Not exactly, no.” Back turned he could school his expression, taking his time in pushing the drawer shot before facing the inevitable. His tone was clipped, but casual when he bothered to elaborate, to once more face Grey. “I was in bed, though. With Sig.” His son had been asleep on his chest, the small boy had made a noise of complaint as he had been shifted over to lay against his mother instead, a noise that tugged at his father’s heart strings. The broken sound in Grey’s voice that he’d tried hard to cover, the defeat, brought about the same reaction. A fierce defensiveness, a desire to protect and nurture. Kaspar tried to reason it was a normal reaction, not willing to contemplate it further. “We were just resting. Family time.”
The cloth was a ragged thing, growing tattered around the edges and likely too many times used for an incorrect purpose like trying to lift paint from skin. “You are an idiot...” He murmured, ringing the thing out before gently sweeping it over Grey’s face, starting at the cleanest spot. “If you are worried over disturbing my sleep, don't be. I'll lose more over you that way. That is to say, I'm glad you called me.”
Eventually, is what he chose not to say, biting the word back by way of teeth locking tongue behind them with an audible snap. He moved the cloth in cautious sweeps, cleaning his way down the man’s back and chest, avoiding the edges of wounds for now. “Blood. Will you require it?” In truth he hoped Grey would better know what to do, because he had a steady hand but stitches wasn't on his list of skills, nor was removing bullets or similar. Blood and comfort was all he could offer, though he was struggling with the latter.
<Grey Weston>
His gaze rose to meet Kaspar’s, and for a moment, he wished he hadn’t. There was something brittle in the man’s gaze; a tension that threatened to swallow him whole. He flinched at his words; his shoulders going rigid with guilt. “I shouldn’t have,” he replied, tone soft and even. Kaspar had a son. A family that would mourn his passing. Compromising that had been intolerably selfish. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, tone faltering, uncertain. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for. All of it, perhaps. “Are...we trying something new?” If he’d had the oxygen to spare, the question would have fallen from his lips in a wry deadpan; decidedly off color in its humor.
Instead, there a curious lack; an absence of tone, inflection stolen by the faint crackle in his words; the sound thin and flat, like the deadened air that escaped worn speakers; a hissing white noise; interference just low and subtle enough to distort the sound. He spoke barely above a whisper, lending a false sense of intimacy. The reality was that the softer volume was less taxing, demanding less of his lungs. “I didn’t think you’d be…” Into humiliation. The attempt at levitity terminated in a flinch. He recoiled from the touch of the wet cloth against his cheek. For a split second, his expression took on the quality of a hunted, cornered thing; wild-eyed and flinching. He jerked away from Kaspar’s touch, seeking a reprieve from the stimuli. It hurt. Everything hurt.
His skin had darkened in the minutes since they’d arrived. It was a gradual process; easily overlooked, mistaken for the natural play of light, the settling of shadows across his features. The blue tint began in his lips, steadily radiating outward, lending his skin a marbled look. “Have you heard from Vi?” he asked abruptly, lifting a hand from the mattress, gently gripping Kaspar’s wrist. Not to stop the man’s work, but to impart something. There was a hushed urgency in his tone; a spike of anxiety. “I can’t…” He began thickly as Kaspar’s question registered. The thought of the soft yield of his skin as his fangs sank home; the wine-dark rush of clot-thick blood filling his mouth would have appealed, ordinarily. Instead it repulsed him; left him swallowing back the battery-acid tang of bile that rose at the back of his throat.
It was an offer of aid. Of mercy. It felt wrong to refuse it. Kaspar wasn’t wrong; it would have helped, under normal circumstances. It would have coaxed skin to knit, provided a pleasant high that smoothed away pain and his trembling exhaustion alike. But he couldn’t force that burden on his shoulders; couldn’t risk the inevitable hunger that would write itself across every cell, every line of DNA; rampant with the desire to claim, to warp. Under ordinary circumstances there’d be no threat of it; enough life left to stem the tide of corruption. He paused then. “Kaspar. On the top righthand side of the closet is a box,” he said abruptly. “Bring it to me?” He was intentionally vague; unwilling to elaborate. He reached for him a split second later, hands curling around his hips in a desperate attempt to provide an anchor. For himself, or Kaspar, he wasn’t sure. “If this goes south,” he began carefully, doing his best to keep his voice steady, “it’s okay.”
