Eye of the Storm [Lyonel]

[Blaize]

Blaize didn’t live on the edge. Lately his life had been tumultuous only because everything seemed to happen at once—Aleksandra was back, Darcy was sired. It was busy. Before that, life had mostly been routine. After the tour, Blaize went back to normal—as normal as a person could be with a black dog on their heels. He woke, he danced, he saw no one, he slept. The way it had been before he’d gone on tour. The way he might have assumed would continue if it weren’t for Aleksandra. Somehow, he doubted she’d allow him to stick to that routine. Regardless, he couldn’t judge Lyonel if nothing was going on. Not all activity was good activity and maybe it was better for there to be nothing than something.

”Yes, please. I’d like to walk,” he said, easily falling into step beside Lyonel. He tried to keep the pace slow and meandering, tried to force himself to relax. But it was hard, for several reasons. One—he was jumpy, undiagnosed ADD creeping in. Two—if he kept himself moving, the thirst was less irksome. And three—Lyonel just did that to him. It was Lyonel. Something about the man crept under Blaize’s skin, inspiring a nervousness he was unaccustomed to.

When the question was asked, it was as if Blaize was expecting it. He nodded—no hesitation, but not hastily fast, either. His expression was a mask, his smile reassuring. Who’d have thought Blaize would become an expert at lying?

”Sustaining myself just fine,” he said. He didn’t even know why he said it. If he talked to Lyonel about it, if he revealed Darcy’s existence was entirely due to the fact that Blaize wasn’t sustaining himself like he should, maybe Lyonel would have a solution. The man had always been upfront about being there, a guardian should Blaize ever require help or advice. But it tied straight back in to that uncommon nervousness. It was the need not to displease Lyonel, to remain to him a beacon of good behaviour and common sense. Blaize didn’t want to disappoint him like he had disappointed himself on many occasions.

”You can tell Jolie she doesn’t have to worry,” he said with a sly wink—as if he had it all completely under control, and repeats of that first night were a thing of the distant past.

[Lyonel]

“Of course she doesn’t.”

Lyonel knew she didn’t. That was his responsibility and all part of his role in her life. She would be safe from harm. He would see to it just as she was there to save him from wearing the wrong color with the right belt. The scales were balanced. Or something like that. Obviously she was credited with far more than that for all she did do but point was the same. The woman who did hair, nails skin and donated blood on random occasions would be just fine.

“But you do.” It was short and true. The towering killer’s steps continued. Neither failed to extend and maintain the distance between each taken as if anything he was currently discussing was no more serious than talking about the near perfect weather for the night ahead. “You are gambling with odds you aren’t entirely aware of.”

Blaize had yet to learn that there were far more significant risks to not sustaining himself than the hit to his ego when he made the attempt with a set of sharpies that gave him more than the typical challenge. There was a saying about suck starting a Harley. Point being it was all about technique and making it work for him with what he had. Anything was possible. It came down to one important factor. Time and effort invested. Something about practice making perfect? It wasn’t going to happen if he candy coated it and tried to gloss it over with his heart stopping charm. Charm that certainly was more than effective on those he had turned. As for the swan's sire? Not quite as much. Not in this case. His survival and those he brought over was on Lyon's shoulders and that he took seriously.

“I have an idea that can make things easier.” Well, he actually had more than one. Lyon was prepared to offer up five or a hundred if that is what it would take. If he didn’t there was a high probability that Blaize was going to have his own pasty, blood thirsty troupe stalking the streets if he didn’t get it together. “Because ignoring this is not an option.”

[Blaize]

When was the last time Blaize had felt like this? Had to have been near on twenty years, right? He felt like a child who’d been discovered doing something he shouldn’t; something he was guilty about, hoping that no one would notice, no one would realise. And yet here he was. He’d been found out. His gut dropped and twisted, that odd ghostly sensation of blood he didn’t have flushing from his cheeks.

The possible reactions were numerous.

First, there was denial. There was nothing wrong. Nothing was being ignored. Blaize had nothing to worry about, nor did Lyonel on Blaize’s behalf. Quick on the heels of denial was anger, that Lyonel couldn’t trust Blaize to take care of himself. It was anger borne from shame, because deep down Blaize knew his sire was right. He already knew what odds he was gambling with. He’d already lost to them.

”I am,” he snapped. It came out just as harshly as he had intended, resisting the urge to stop and turn around, to walk in any other direction rather than have to dwell on this topic. This was not why he had come to see Lyonel. He was being stubborn—denying not only Lyonel’s insinuations but the things that he knew that he needed, at his very core.

”I’m fully aware of the odds and I’m handling it,” he added. Denial of basic sustenance led to frenzy, which led to the death of those who did not deserve it. It led to sirings—to Darcy—as a means of making up for the mistakes he had made. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, and now they were curled into tight fists; the dancer was trying to maintain an air of cool calm, but was mostly failing. ”I’m not ignoring anything,” he added. It almost sounded petulant, but he’d got a grip on his anger and, with a deep intake of breath and the following release of dead air from his lungs, he regained something of his composure.

Of course he didn’t look at Lyonel, no. That would be a mistake. Instead, he kept his eyes forward, putting one foot in front of the other.

[Lyonel]

“Really? Because to be honest you look like ****. Ever hear of the saying ‘like death eating a cracker’?” Maybe Blaize was keeping his eyes elsewhere but the killer was not known to rely on distractions when he had a valid point to make at hand.

Lyonel was not exactly sure how his mother got that phrase let alone why she applied it to him when he had the flu his freshman year in highschool. He wasn’t close to death but she was acting like it when she took him to the family doctor for refusing to eat the soup she made or drink the sour concoction his aunt had her mix up. The aunt was from the eastern Appalachian mountains. Not that her preferred location in the world said everything about her but it explained some of the things his Dad swore made her unconventional cures and tonics a bit more interesting.

“You look like you could use a trip to the local vitamin infusion clinic if nothing else. It isn’t great to wear the face of death if you can avoid it.”

Lyonel glanced ahead but soon found his gaze back on the one beside him appearing far more worse for wear than he was comfortable with. Now that the docks were in sight he relaxed his long stride. Soon they would be on VEGAS and could get down to what options he had in mind to deal with the problem. And given Blaize’s requirements to sustain himself, which was like every other vampire, not partaking in the blood sources available to him routinely was a setback with potential and very real consequences. Lyon had a relic that perhaps was due to be handed over if things didn’t appear to work any other way.

“Unless, of course, you don’t want to continue on. Not all it was cracked up to be?” Perhaps the asshole approach would shake him up and get a reaction. Being Mr. Understanding and the Nice guy sure wasn’t having any promising results if he was letting himself go.

[Blaize]

It went from bad to worse. The terrible truths that Lyonel delivered were not what Blaize wanted to hear. It did him good to hear it, however much he hated it. Unaware of how he truly looked, now he knew he had to remedy it.

There was no time to figure out whether he was insulted or not, before Lyonel delivered the final blow. The accusation unsettled Blaize to the point he stopped, feet scuffing the pavement, jaw and shoulders squared, eyes gleaming bright in the dim lights that reached them across the expanse.

“Why would you even say that?” he asked, inflection cold. There was fear in it, too. Fear that Lyonel had figured it out, that he’d known all along what Blaize had gone through. He could deny, now, that he wanted to die, when not too long ago he’s struggled to cling to life. The words stuck in his throat like too much syrup, thick and sticky and reluctant to be coughed up. He stared at Lyonel, waiting for the taller man to turn, to face him. All Blaize had wanted was to spend the night with his sire, to have a good time. Now he was pained.

“No. I have no desire to give it up,” he said. Never would he ever have wanted to give Lyonel any indication that he regretted the gift that he had been given. He wouldn’t want to insult his sire that way, despite the insults that said sire had already tried to cut him with. “Not…anymore,” he added with a mumble. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he began to walk, eyes not leaving Lyonel until he’d passed him—continuing toward the boats, still wanting to spend his night with his sire. Now, however, there was a weight to his shoulders rather than a buoyancy to his steps. His gut had curled in on itself.

This was bound to happen sooner or later. He’d have preferred later, rather than sooner. But maybe it was better to rip the band aid off and get all the shame out in the open, for better or for worse.

[Lyonel]

There was no height that Lyonel could reach to escape the eyes of the one he had been trying to figure out. Despite the six feet and eight inches extra to spare beneath the West killer’s dark head of hair he felt the heat of the focus fixed on him courtesy of a rather bold Blaize reached him with a full effect that had him paying close attention. The chiseled line of his lower jaw tightened up to match that of the one staring back at him. The air was charged instantly. The multi path influenced businessman raised a brow like there was a sudden point of stand off or stand down depending on how intent the swan was to take insult to what had been said. Celadon orbs could not be distracted by the distant sounds of an alarming, pleasureless scream. Whatever the source there was little hope left when it suddenly stopped. In the brief silence he stood as still as Blaize did, shoulders relaxed feeling no taller than the devastating ethereal beauty in front of him. His mind wandered only as far as he allowed and once he hit that proverbial wall he reeled it all back into place.

“To get an answer.”

The knots of muscle created a subtle ripple effect beneath the skin stretching over each hinged ball like joint of his jaw. The dead serious expression left no question that is exactly why Lyon said what he did. There was no interest in creating fear if there was any to be found in the one looking back at him. He had given the dancer what he considered to be a gift. One that was full of all the promise that Wolfgang had once handed to him. Never once in his own experience did he ever question it or see it as a curse. He didn’t even entertain where life would have taken him if the baddest shadow to envelope him had not plucked him off the streets.

Lyonel watched the pale hands disappear into pockets while the one thing that could be what he wanted to hear found air time. The man didn’t have any desire to give up. The chaser of truth earned a lift to the left side of Lyon’s mouth. Now they were starting to get somewhere. His eyes tracked Blaize as his steps carried him past the point where he was standing and towards the docks. The power in the stare they shared worked on him and he enjoyed it until it was sacrificed for the distance gained between them. It was then that Lyon followed behind in the path that Blaize took ahead of him.

“Things are looking up.” Lyonel commented to no one in particular as he found his way onto the upper deck of VEGAS.

The vessel was untied on his way up so it was free to move with the water around it. A couple flips of switches had miscellaneous lights and sounds starting up. He moved around finally winding up at the wheel and gave a last look to the starboard bow and starboard quarter. Smoothly the dock was left behind without incident as VEGAS gained access to the open water. As soon as it was safe to do so the speed of travel increased considerably.

[Blaize]

The boat was found and clambered upon, the dock claimed and the stairs up taken. Blaize barely looked at his sire, though was aware of the way his sire looked at him, watched him, followed along behind him. Knowing Lyonel, he probably didn’t feel the tension. If tension was not felt by both parties, did it actually exist? For Blaize, it did. There was a conversation on the horizon that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have, and the boat was leaving the shore. There’d be nowhere to go unless he wanted to dive into the river to get away. It would be an adventure, for sure! But not one Blaize saw himself undertaking.

While Lyonel busied himself at the wheel, Blaize wandered out onto the deck and found the railing, as far forward as he could go. The metal was cold against his already cold skin, and the wind was a welcome reprieve as it pushed through the dancer’s hair. The water reflected the city that it divided; it was quiet out here, if one ignored the sound of the wind and of the boat. The normal sounds of the city were absent, the buildings lit up like Christmas trees only visions of art in the distance. They were to be admired from afar, somehow distant, like they were crystal toward under which Blaize had never sauntered.

There was the urge to go below deck, to find the furthest darkest recess and to hide. There was something of the child in Blaize as he stood there, frown etched deep between his eyes which themselves were sharp as glass. He felt like he’d done something wrong, something against the rules and he’d been trying to hide it beneath a well-fashioned lie, but he’d been discovered. He didn’t want to face the consequences. And if he was a child he might have hidden for as long as he could. But he wasn’t a child, not anymore. He was an adult, and he had to swallow the fear and face his uncertainties.

He didn’t know where they were going, though he assumed Lyonel would cut the engine, eventually. They’d sit in the middle of the river, somewhere, to admire the view, to enjoy the serenity. Blaize was more than happy to linger on the deck; to prolong the inevitable.

[Lyonel]

Lyonel was quiet. His eyes had watch of the distance that the boat was heading but he was focused on Blaize. Much of what was going on had been given too much time. Lyonel didn’t have the time to pretend everything was alright. He suspected that Blaize didn’t either. Yet there they were at an impasse over something that was crucial to both of their survival. Lyon was ultimately responsible for where Blaize was at, what could be the outcome if he didn’t make the first steps in finding a solution that both could count on. The tension was there and nearly impossible to ignore. Perhaps it always had been. Maybe Blaize thought he wouldn’t notice or care, but he did.

Celadon orbs finally released their search of the waterline ahead. It was a clear night, nothing posing a threat to their nighttime travel should he get momentarily distracted.With that in mind the engines were set to a smooth slow cruise and he stepped away from the controls. The beauty of the vessel was that it was designed to coast while other things were taken care of. Which is exactly what the West killer had on his current agenda.

“Instead of dancing around the topic let’s just talk about it.”

Lyonel found it a bit odd that he could take a seat and settle in while the massive boat he was an occupant on was pretty much without a captain at the wheel. It was a minor observation that was quickly dismissed as he looked at Blaize with expectation. At the most he hoped the man would finally feel comfortable with discussing how he was doing. Which really, from outward appearances, was not looking as promising as it should.

Not that it was so simple for the New York transplant starting out. He was brought up on the learn as you go method. It was easy to say but much harder to do. Catching a bear was a lot more difficult than he gave credit to. Trial and error earned him a tenderized back and in need of some extra healing. Forget the pints he had set out to replenish before the showdown in the hunting grounds went terribly wrong. He was lucky he left with all his limbs intact.

“I am here to help if you let me.” He said it matter of fact. Without Blaize opening up it was going to only get more difficult to reach out and come up with some sort of resolution. “So, what’s it going to be?”

[Blaize]

It, Lyonel said. Did he know what the topic was? Did he really know, beyond the surface? He must have noticed that Blaize wasn’t feeding as often as he should, but did he know why? Of course not. Which was why he was now opening up the channel of communication. The boat was still cruising at a low speed without its pilot. Blaize was a little surprised; he assumed Lyonel would stop the boat somewhere, that they’d bob and float in the silence and sanctity of the middle of the river, anchor the boat where the eddies and flow was least likely to wreak any havoc.

Blaize knew nothing about driving boats, however, and said nothing. He trusted Lyonel. He trusted Lyonel, which was something he had to remind himself of. Why did he have to constantly remind himself? Right. Because it wasn’t trust or any lack of it that he had any issue with.

He knew that his sire was seated nearby, comfortable in that easy way that he had, that he always seemed to exhibit. Once, Blaize might have assumed that he had the same kind of grace, that he could inspire a sense of comfort and safety in others. But he knew, now, that he was far too serious for any of that. A tension always thrummed in the lines of his jaw, in the sinews of every muscle that made up his physiognomy. He sighed, and didn’t turn to look at Lyonel. But nor did he continue to look wistfully out at the city. His gaze was steadfast upon some metal part of the boat that he wouldn’t have been able to name if he’d tried.

”I can’t,” he said. He knew he had to clarify. He had to keep going, if he wanted Lyonel to understand. If he didn’t want Lyonel to think that he meant he couldn’t talk about it.

”The… feeding. It’s not just the lack of canines—they don’t get all sharp and lethal like everyone else’s. I have to carry a knife,” he said and sighed again, this one heavier and more ragged than the last. ”Every time I try, every time I consume the blood of a living person I’m filled with shame. It’s a guilt so… so heavy, and dark, and I can’t…” he stopped. He stopped before he said he was afraid of it. He stopped before he admitted that he was scared that it would push him to that edge again, the one he’d come so close to. Siring Darcy seemed to flick a switch and the darkness abated like a storm cloud pushed away by the wind.

But the wind could always die down. And Blaize didn’t want to give it the opportunity.

[Lyonel]

Lyonel listened. Shame was not something he expected but part of him could appreciate where Blaize was coming from. He had been there in the beginning. Maybe not to such an extent as the swan was feeling it but it was present. The killer never forgot.

Lyonel tried the hunting grounds, the bar or back alley pickups for a random pint. Animals for sources left him feeling guilty because they had enough to contend with trying to survive in the wild. Humans were a little different. He figured the biggest inconvenience he delivered with his interference in their lives was the waking up dazed and confused in place they otherwise never planned on being. It was easy enough to write off when he rationalized those he fed from were better off with a change of scenery and redirection. He could walk away feeling he did them a bit of a favor. For whatever reason it appeared Blaize’s condition was deeper than a blade needing to be used to sever a donor’s skin. Something more was involved. Shame was powerful enough to break if given a chance.

“Does this happen with the packets as well? Is it at first drop and the initial taste?” Lyonel leaned forward allowing his body to respond physically to the focus he was placing on the topic. “The sight of blood...is that an issue too?”

He wanted to work this through and find a core to the problem and bring it to light. Blaize was not meant to be grounded or held back by the darkness Lyonel delivered him into. The transformation was to be a means to soar beyond the limitations of mortality. This was not acceptable. Not to Lyonel, not for what he expected of himself as a sire. Now that he knew what was the problem he would do whatever it would take to find the solution. If he couldn’t he would certainly find someone who could.

“How about with those you have turned. Was it present then? Does the shame increase or is it present and the same?”

The first feeding with Jolie went well. The lack of fangs had been discovered but he readily received the blood. His questions were searching for a timeline. Was this something that came with him in the turning process and given time manifested it’s presence deep enough to finally be an issue? Or something more recent than that fateful night they crossed paths. Lyon knew of certain curses. Some could come up at anytime like a Jack-in-the-Box. If life was like a crap shoot and anything could happen from one minute to the next then it was fair to say immortality could be closer to Russian Roulette with all the chambers loaded. Something was going to happen. It was a fact that needed to be accepted right away. There was far too much behind being immortal for things to stay unchanged. That is the beauty and consequence of having the shackles of humanity removed.