Heads or Tails [Renard]

[Beckett]

ONE WEEK PRIOR

Hannah Sutton stared at her son with wide, turbulent eyes as she attempted to form a coherent response to his disclosure. The struggle was evident in the way multiple emotions seemed to flit across her expression in a matter of seconds, ranging from shock and anger to disappointment and vague comprehension. With thirty-three years of experience, Beckett knew his mother fairly well. Knew that she wanted nothing more than to tell him exactly what she thought of his plan, but her very nature demanded that she listen and try to understand. To see his point of view. Even when it made no sense to her. "...are you sure about this? Dr. Grenich was great with your father...and he's relatively close to home. Honey, you don't have to leave..." Hannah reached out a hand, placing it over Beck's with a small frown. There was no attempts to hide the desperation, the pleading tone of her voice. He knew how hard it had to be for her hear. Leaving Seattle wasn't ideal, but there was a specialist in Canada seeking participants for a new clinical trial and Beck wasn't content to just sit there and let his life slip away from him. He had to do something. "What does Renard have to say about this plan? Is that why you two broke things off?"

The silence received in response to the question was deafening.

"Beckett Anthony. Tell me you told him..."

His lips pursed together as he stared at the woman opposite him. The probing stare was unnerving, like she could see straight into his very soul. She had always been good at that; making him feel as though to lying to her was a futile endeavor. "No, I haven't told him. Not a damn thing. Not about the test, the results, or the symptoms." Before Hannah could interrupt him, he held up a finger. "And, I ask that you keep it that way. "


NOVEMBER 25, 2017

For the sixth time that night, Beckett's ringtone filled the silence of the hotel room. It was late into the night, far later than most bothered to stay awake, but he was stationed against the wall and wide awake. He didn't need to free the cell phone from his pocket to know that it was his mother. When he hadn't called that night regarding the appointment with Dr. Medina to update her, she had likely moved into panicked frenzy mode, convinced something had happened to him. If that was the case, it was no wonder that she was still up, trying her best to reach him, if only to put her own mind at ease that he was okay. Except that she wasn't entirely wrong to believe he wasn’t. Something had happened, but the last thing he was prepared to do was tell her just what that was. He wasn't even sure he understood it all himself, and the one person who could have explained it all to him had vanished as quickly as they appeared. The details of the event were fuzzy, at best, with only vague hints of recollection breaking through. The man’s face was burned into his memory like a brand, but the rest of it was all blur, which Beck was fairly certain was for the best. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember it. More than that, he wasn't sure how he was even standing, right now.

All that he knew for sure was that he felt sick, in the worst sense of the word. His throat burned in a way reminiscent of that first shot of whiskey on its way down that made someone want to cringe, which was only exacerbated by the throbbing in his gums that seemed to radiate into his jaw, as if he had been clenching his teeth for far too long. Every street lamp, every passing car with headlights were like staring into the sun, far too bright to the point that his eyes watered in their sensitivity. The sounds of the streets below were amplified in his ears, creating a near constant buzz of noise that threatened to bring on a pounding headache sooner, rather than later. And god dammit, if he his hand wouldn’t stop trembling. For the sake of ignoring the latter, it was pressed flat against the tacky wallpaper, trapped between it and his back to prevent any movement. Eventually, it would stop and that would be one less thing he would have to worry about. Not that it made his mountain of problems seem any less manageable.

And the hunger...the thirst for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on (mostly because he didn’t want to).

Part of the problem came from the fact that Beck was most certainly wanted to be in denial as to the events that transpired earlier that night. All that really meant was that he found himself lacking in the ability to accept that he was dead. More than once, his free hand and pressed against his chest, or the pads of his fingers against his neck, seeking out even a hint of a pulse beneath his skin. He’d yet to find one, but what he did find was the pain of canines dragging over his lip as he had bitten into it. Only once had he attempted to check the mirror after that, hoping to get a view of what the hell was happening in his mouth. Needless to say, the lack of reflection had freaked him out more than the lack of a pulse did. So, rather than seeing the physical evidence with his own eyes, he could only rely on the feel of the elongated canines against his tongue, which had roamed over them too many times to count. And yet, he still wasn’t convinced they were actually there.

All in all, it only added up to one conclusion. One that he had known all along, but hadn’t wanted to accept, because...that would just be the perfect ending to his shitty day.

Vampire, vampire, vampire.

The word repeated in his head, bouncing around like a ping pong ball. If he was going to throw a label on it, then he needed to accept what came with it. That meant...blood. And as soon as the thought hit, the throbbing in his mouth intensified, as if to make him increasingly uncomfortable to the point that he could no longer deny the one thing he needed.

Hands immediately went into his hair, gripping at the sides of his head as his eyes widened fractionally. ”Oh...what am I gonna do?” He had no doubt that his self-induced isolation was the only thing keeping him relatively sane, for the moment. That the second he left the room, immersed himself in the sights and sounds of the streets below...the first pounding heart to pass him by...and all bets were off.

[Renard]

DAY 1

He woke up late due to the numbing effects of alcohol forcing him to sleep through the ring of an alarm, and nearly didn’t make it to the airport on time.

He went to LA because Hewitt, his assistant, who normally handled business there had quit on him. Gone to another Effects Studio. Said that Ren had checked out. That his head wasn’t in the game anymore. That call had come with a lot of ‘**** you very much for the time you put into training me’ vibes. But that was life. That was the industry. People were always going to scrape their way through the mud and muck to try and get to the top of the hill. And that part of the country was extremely competitive.

So he had to show up.

He told himself it was a good thing because that meant he could just focus on work and not think about the previous day. And the previous night.

DAY 2

He got fired.

“You’ll never work in this town again, kid.” Like some sort of cheap line from an equally cheap movie.

The director had deserved to feel Ren’s forehead smash into his nose. He had deserved the way blood flowed out of him like twin copper rivers.

Oh well. Operation ‘Drown-Yourself-In-Work’ backfired.

Back home.

DAY 3

He threatened to release the recordings of the director ‘Pulling a Weinstein’ with one of the temporary artists Ren had brought on to work with him. She wasn’t a starlet, but he wasn’t the sort of man who was going to let the people under his supervision become targets from some sexist piece of **** with a libido and imagination worlds bigger than his ****.

Yay for scandals.

Yay for America finally giving a **** about victimization in Hollywood.

Yay for enough vodka to blow out an elephant’s liver after those loose ends were tied.
‘Creative differences’ was better than a broken nose any day of the week.

DAYS 4-7

Ren didn’t have many memories of these honestly. Hence their being all clumped together.

He maybe changed his underwear like. Once. Gross. Right?

Mostly they were spent passed out after making a trip to one of the local bars.

He wasn’t an alcoholic. He just wasn’t the sort of person to **** his pain away. Well.

Not this pain anyway.

It probably would have continued like that for another month if not for the call from Hannah. Sainted woman. Only maternal figure he had any patience for.

DAY 8

She told him everything in person. She told him all about the things that Beck had sworn her to secrecy about.

Renard was sober, of course. Not even hungover. He could be a real fuckup, but Hannma was different. He cared about what she saw in him, because she was one of the few people in the world who saw beneath the surface. Who had always been good to him.

He had held her for a while because she had seen her husband consumed by the very same illness which was beginning to impact her son. Even if she didn’t say it, he knew that she needed one of her sons there for a few moments. She needed to know that they would find each other, and that Renard would be able to take care of Beck. He didn’t make those promises, because he wasn’t the sort of person to make promises. And he knew that he was going to probably do more damage than good before everything was said and done.

He got a ticket.

He got stopped by the TSA, a wand held over his junk, beeping away.

His expression was a smug one.

His expression became less smug when he had to show them exactly what was causing the issue. ******* over-sensitive metal detectors. With titanium piercings, he didn’t normally have that problem, because they were alloys with very little ferrous material in them.

It was night when he arrived in Harper Rock, and he was tired as **** from jet lag, so he grabbed a cup of coffee and a danish. It didn’t even occur to him that he might need to get his own hotel room. Instead, he went to the address Hannah had given him.

The door opened right as he was taking a bite of his danish. ****. He should have thought of this.

He stuffed the thing into his face all at once, and then held up a finger as if to say ‘wait one sec’. Then he downed all of the lukewarm coffee in one go. He swallowed thickly and crushed the thing before dropping it onto the ground outside of Beck’s door.

He cleared his throat, his gaze having narrowed on the other man.

And then he punched him right in the chest. Or attempted to. He wasn’t about to aim for that face.

“SO DO YOU THINK MAYBE YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO ME? HUH?!” He asked, shoving his entire body right into Beck’s personal bubble. They were nearly chest against chest. He didn’t even notice the fangs. His overnight bag was slung over a shoulder.

DAY 0

”We’re done”

“No we aren’t. **** you.”

”I’m not arguing with you. We’re done. I’m leaving.”

“I thought we were ready for forever.”

”So did I.”

[Beckett]

He couldn't have said how long had he paced the floor in front of the bed, trying desperately to will away the increasingly powerful hunger pains shooting from his newly acquired fangs to deep within his core. It felt a bit like what he assumed suffocating might feel like. Except that it wasn't his lungs screaming for much needed air, rather than his entire being calling out that life sustaining force that pumped through human veins. Like a Siren's song, luring him deeper into that dark abyss. In this case, that abyss was more likely a feeding frenzy, or something along those lines. Was that even a real thing? Or was it something made up to increase their 'scare factor?' From the way he was feeling now, Beckett felt it was fairly safe to say that they probably had frenzies. Not that he had anyone to ask, or anything. The fact of the matter was, he couldn't sit up here all night, or someone...possibly himself...were going to get hurt.

Resolved in his decision to leave the hotel room, Beckett marched straight for the door. Were it not for the pounding in his skull from the overload of noise, he might have noticed the sound of someone on the other side of it, but he didn't. As the door flew open to the sight Renard standing there, he froze like a deer in headlights. Eyes big as saucers, he took one step back into the hotel room as the finger came up and the man finished the food and drink in hand. Too surprised at the sight of the man to say anything at all, he was utterly silent in the time it took for the danish to go down and the cup to land on the ground. And then came the fist, aimed right at his chest. As if in a fog, his reaction time was slowed to the point that he only just barely managed to grab at Ren's wrist just as he made contact. And that's when he felt it; the rhythmic pulse beneath his fingers, the proof of the vitality running through those veins. Much like he had been burned by touch, alone, he released his hold and recoiled as if to distance himself.

That didn't solve much, though, as Ren wasted no time at all in getting in his face. The volume of the words alone was enough to make Beckett wince, only just leaning his head away with furrowed eyebrows. "First of all, get the **** out of my face..." he said, his own voice coming out at a surprisingly low growl. Without knowing the full extent of his strength, he pushed back against Renard and swiftly circled around him so that he could push the door shut before it turned into a scene for any and all to hear down the hallway. Turning on his heel so that he was facing his long term friend and partner, he wrinkled his nose. "What is it that I'm suppose to say to you, Renard? Tell me, what is it that you would like to hear?" He was snapping. He knew he was snapping, and yet he didn't stop it by shutting his god damn mouth. No, he just kept going. Because, he knew exactly what it was that he was supposed to say, what words should be leaving his mouth. But, he wasn't going to say them. Not this time.

"I'm going to assume my mother told you I was here, and if that's the case, she told you why." There was a brief pause, as if to assess the likelihood of that being the case by the expression on the other man's face. That was the thing about knowing each other for so long. Where so many others seemed to struggle in reading between the lines when it came to Ren, Beckett had become a pro at it a long time ago. But, the same could be said in the vice versa. They could read each other like books, and for the first time in fifteen years, that scared him. "So, are you expecting an apology? A reason for why I never told you? You won't get one..." Not today, anyway. In his own (albeit, twisted) way, he was still convinced keeping it from Ren had been for the best. Because, for those years that it hung over Beckett's head...his partner was none the wiser, content in the knowledge that...for the time being, he was healthy. That he wouldn't follow in his father's footsteps.

Of course, now, he never would. At least, he did think so, anyway.

The sound of that heartbeat was like a kick drum in his ears, reminding him constantly of that deep seeded need to sate the thirst. It brought Beck in closer, his attention falling from those amber eyes to the slope of the man's neck where he had felt that beat against his lips in the past too many times to count. "It's not like I lied to you. I can't lie about something if I never mention it." It was no excuse, and he knew it. Right then, he couldn't have cared less. He had other, far more bloody things on his mind.

"Listen to me. I need you to leave. Now." It wasn't a suggestion.

[Renard]

WHAT?!

Get out of his face?! Beckett, it seemed, was oblivious to the man he had chosen to love for years, because if there was one thing that did not work on Renard; it was telling him what to do. He was the sort of person who, when given unsolicited advice meant to make his life easier, would do the exact opposite and therefor compound his problems. Without thinking. Direct orders? That was essentially the same as asking for a fight. His eyes widened a fraction, his pupils dilating as adrenaline poured into his bloodstream. With Renard, it wasn’t a matter of fight or flight. It was always fight. Lips peeled slowly to reveal canines that were a little bit too big for his features - chisel sharp. However, before he could tell the other man exactly how he felt, Beck was sliding past him to push the door shut. Ren had honestly forgotten about it. Normally, he was pretty good at remembering that the whole world did not need to be included in their more heated ‘discussions’, but he had been growing slowly more irrational for over a week, and then there had been the bomb Hannah had dropped on him.

Ren himself had some difficulty processing emotion, which was a long-running problem. He whipped around when he realized Beck was shutting the door. And he smiled. Because Beck had literally just backed himself against a corner. Renard pressed closer, his gaze locked right on his lover’s. “First of all, don’t tell me what to ******* do.” He hissed. He had been hoping that Beck would throw a punch at him. That he would be given an excuse to tackle the man to the floor and leave them rolling across the carpet growling and clawing at each other like animals. Because he was angry. Because he was hurt. With deeper emotions, he knew that he could express those through art. However, his rage burned hot - not cold. And it was that fire which demanded immediate action. “How could you not tell me? YEARS, Beck. YEARS. How could you keep this from me?” He knew that he wasn’t making sense. He knew that the words he was saying were coming out clipped and his sentences were barely formed. That much, at least, was his feelings doing the talking.

His teeth were chattering until he clenched his jaw. He was trembling.

“I don’t want a ******* apology. Apologies are for chumps who think the world is going to magically change because of a few words. What I want is for you to go back in time and TELL ME something was wrong. But. As it turns out. THAT ISN’T A THING.” His hands came up, his knuckles cracking as he uncurled them. There were little red crescents in his palms which slowly oozed redness. He looked like he wanted to reach out and wrap his digits around the other man’s neck. He sort of did. Dig his thumb into an adam’s apple and press. “So instead, I will accept you admitting you were wrong not to tell me, to HIDE this from me, and…” There was a pause.

He leaned in closer. His nostrils twitched.

His features twisted into an unattractive snarl.

That was not Beckett’s cologne he was smelling.

He reached to curl his fingers into the other man’s shirt and he shoved him back against the door. He didn’t even hear the demand to leave, but that probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He looked like he was a step away from being rabid. “Who. The. ****. Is. He?” He asked as he jerked back. He pulled out his cell phone so he could begin searching for the nearest gas station. He was muttering something about how he was going to light some son of a ***** on fire as he tapped away at his screen, glancing from it to Beck and then back. He knew the other man well enough to pick up that something was wrong. Had he been a little more calm, he probably would have asked about it, but he knew himself well enough to know that if he paused mid-tirade, he was going to end up even angrier in the long run.

[Beckett]

As soon as those hissed words and the accusation that accompanied them fell from Renard's lips, there was the briefest moments of clarity. For a few short lived seconds, the approaching fog of animistic instinct halted for the sake of a crashing wave of guilt to take its place. For the longest time, Beckett had insisted that he didn't want to know. That, despite the fact he could have been prepared for the inevitable, he had no desire to be told that he may or may not carry the mutated huntingtin gene that would ultimately determine if he developed Huntington's. After more than one argument with not only Renard, but Hannah, they had finally let the subject drop. It had been several years later that, without either of their knowledge, he had resolved himself to finding out because he couldn't live with the uncertainty, anymore. And knowing full well that he had a 50/50 shot and mentally preparing himself for the worst, receiving those dreaded results had been devastating. Giving his mother the news had been even worse than hearing it.

At the time, Renard hadn't been around. He had been off starting his career. That made it easy not to tell him. It was only when he came back that it got hard.

For the time being, Ren had been happy. And Beck couldn't bring himself to ruin it. To allow that dark cloud over his head to expand to the man he loved.

"I didn't know how to tell you, Ren..." The admission was soft, barely audible between the two of them. "How could I have told you that our forever would only last for, maybe, another decade? I didn't want to worry you..." It wasn't an apology. He didn't even consider it an excuse. It was simply the truth, and that was all he had to offer. There was more he could have said right then, but Ren's hands came up, bringing with them the metallic scent that permeated the air from his palms. Beckett's gaze dropped to the red crescents marring the skin that grew steady darker, pupils immediately dilating until there was little more than a thin ring of pale green surrounding them. As if someone had wrapped a hand around his lungs and squeezed, Beck released a breath in a single rush of air. It might have felt like having the wind knocked out of him, had he the need to breathe (which he had also found out soon after the realization that he lacked a pulse, but he continued to out of habit). Like a moth to a flame, he moved in close, taking one hand in his own.

His head tipped to the side, then as he slowly traced over the marks that served as proof of his lover's fury with a single finger, effectively smearing it across a palm. That digit rose to his lips where his tongue snaked out, gliding over that trace of vitality. It might as well have been an explosion on his tongue, breaking down a dam as his mouth began to water. The vague hints of copper lingering long after he had swallowed the sudden rush of saliva served as a trigger for a deeper craving, one so intense that it made him tremble. More. He needed more. Everything around him seemed to blur as his focus shifted once more to that vulnerable space along Ren's neck, where he could practically see the steady pulse of that precious blood circulating through him. And it was right there, and he could reach it so easily...Renard wouldn't stop him...

The way his lover sniffed at him like a bloodhound, somehow picking up on whatever traces of that vampire had been left behind was unexpected, but the sudden shift in the conversation due to it was not. There was so little distance between them at that point that Beck only needed to take a single step to press up against the other man, but he never sought out those amber eyes as they circulated between him and the illuminated screen. Instead, his attention was immediately given to that pulse point, his lips pressing against it solely for the sake of feeling that beat. "I don't know his name...but it isn't what you think..." he answered, voice hoarse with need as the fangs throbbed painfully in his mouth. But this was nothing like he had ever experienced before. It was different, darker. A hand rose, pressing against the opposite side to prevent Ren moving away from him.

Lips parted, fangs just barely grazing over that expanse of skin at the base of his neck. He was so close that he could practically already taste it.

[Renard]

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to shove Beck down and hammer his fists on the man’s chest until all of the rage consumed every ounce of his energy. And then he wanted to cry. He wanted to feel the hot tears streak down his cheeks until they stung. He wanted to feel every single bit of what he was feeling get funneled out of him through that liquid misery. He wanted it gone so that he could sleep. So that he could exhaust himself. So that he could be empty and enjoy the numbness that came with emotional alienation when the meltdown was over and done with. He wanted to be so tired that he could just sleep for days and not have to deal with the thoughts gathering like dark storm clouds inside of his head. He was breathing heavily.

Breath that hitched when he felt a tongue drag over his digit. “Don’t you ******* dare.” He hissed. “I am trying to be mad at you.” He insisted. Old habits died hard though, and even as he stepped back to use his phone, he could feel the spreading warmth, that came from that place where Beckett’s mouth had touched him. It was like a seed planted early, only to bloom later. His heart was already racing. It had been since the moment he had seen his lover. The matter had only gotten worse at the realization there was another component to this supposed betrayal. And then the lingering evidence of need. It had been a week since they had touched and there were parts of Ren so familiar with those lips that he wanted to melt into an embrace and let his partner, former partner really, distract him. He craved it as one might a drug of choice, or preferred coping mechanism.

But could he forgive the man for not telling him?

Normally, the idea of another man being in the picture would have made him livid. Would have seen him rush into a flurry of action. But there were so many other thoughts, so many other things going on. He needed to get some of it out. He needed to relieve a little of the tension. And Beckett was right there. So close to him. What did you do when your source of comfort became your source of pain?

He was still trembling, hands lifted to push the other man away. “**** you **** you **** you **** you.” He hissed, the words repeated, spilling out of him like black tar. “I was there too, Beck!” He said, as he got as he leaned away from the man. He had gone from hunter to hunted without even realizing it. He had been the one cornered. “I saw what happened with dad too. I was there for him too. Do you think I can’t handle it? Do you think I wouldn’t want to be with you?” Everything was rushing out of him. It probably made more sense than some of the things he had been saying previously, but it was still just a jumble in his head spilling out into the rest of the world.

“Did you not think that maybe I should have a choice too? That maybe instead of doing what YOU think is best for me, that maybe I should have some say in my life? This road you are on, it’s going to be scary enough. I don’t want you to face it alone. Hannah doesn’t want you to face it alone. I don’t ******* care if you don’t want to take me back, I’m here now and you’re going to stop being an asshole. And you’re going to take my hand, and we’re going to face this together. Do you ******* understand me, you obnoxious ****?”

His jaw clenched. He stared into the other man’s eyes. His hands were at his sides again. Hadn’t they just been on his partner’s chest? He wanted to be touched, and he didn’t want to be touched. He felt a little sick at his core. And then finally, when he’d said what he needed to say, he finally leaned closer. He told himself that he just wanted a moment to feel Beckett’s body against his own. A simple embrace. Something to tell him that no matter what was happening, this still remained the same. Until it didn’t. He knew what lay in wait ahead. Earlier, he had compared what was happening to a road. If that was the case, then he knew all of the bandits, all of the pitfalls. He knew the dangerous turns. He had seen all of it with Dom. He had said something similar when Beckett’s father had died.

“Are you even listening?” Really listening. Can’t you tell this scares me too? But I’m strong, I can be strong for you too.

[Beckett]

Torture.

Literal torture.

That was what it felt like the second Renard pushed away, hands on his chest to keep him at a distance. Beckett's lips parted as he released several erratic gasps, leaning forward as if he were a starving man trying to follow the plate of food that had just been placed in front of him and then taken away. There had never been a day where Beck had been left wanting, a time where he went without the things he needed. The deep ache from before intensified into this truly intolerable thing, a physical pain from within that he simply couldn't escape from. It demanded immediate gratification. And there seemed to be instinctive knowledge of the situation; that as soon as the blood hit his lips, that pain would start to ease. The more of it he consumed, the better he would feel. The stronger he would feel. He just needed to take it. There was no need to go and seek it on the city streets. It was sitting right in front of him. A little bit force, and it was his.

No, Beckett wasn't listening. Not really.

He was listening to something, but that was the animalistic voice in his head. The one slowly consuming his thoughts. To stop thinking. To just act.

During the rant that Renard had gone off on, Beck had managed to pick up bits and pieces, and it was enough to form a general idea of what he was getting at. That, in so many words, he had made a decision for both of them when it wasn't his place to make it. Had he thought the man he loved wouldn't want to be with him? No. In fact, it had been the exact opposite. Beck had known that Ren would stay. That the man would do all the things he had seen his mother do for his father, to be that strong shoulder to lean on when standing on his own became too hard. Literally. He had known, from the day he got those results, that Renard wouldn't leave his side until it was all said and done. The decision to end things when the symptoms appeared might not have been well thought out, but the pain would have been temporary, rather than the long term fear and pain of the future. At least, that had been what Beckett told himself, if it meant making it through the nights alone.

But all of that was completely irrelevant to him as Renard leaned in closer. And Beckett wanted to have this conversation, knew they needed to. But the darker, primal, bloodthirsty part of his brain no longer cared for the drama. The sob story that was his ridiculous life, and the even more ridiculous illness that he may or may not still have despite no longer being alive. The very thing that ruined everything he had worked for and had landed him in this position in the first place. Ironic, how it wasn't even the true cause of his death. There was no longer any patience for working out the details of their tragic love life, and where they were going to go from there. It wouldn't be taking his hand, or taking him back.

"You shouldn't be here. You should have left when I told you to..." the words left his mouth in a growl similar to the first ones he had spoken when his ex had arrived, a surge of anger arising from deep within his core, like an eruption of lava and ash. A lip curled, revealing the glistening fangs behind it as one hand found its way to a hip and the other pressed painfully against a shoulder. In one swift movement, Renard's entire body slammed into the opposite wall, head cracking against it with enough force that it was wonder he hadn't lost consciousness. It took but a moment for the vaguely sweet, but metallic scent to settle in his nose so that the vague flavor of a copper penny became more prominent in his mouth as it began to water profusely. This time, there was no hesitation as a hand slipped from that shoulder so that fingers came to rest against Renard's jaw, forcing it to the side to reveal to the vulnerable space where those vessels pumped frantically as a heart pounded in the other man's chest.

He had never done this before, so he relied solely on those darker instincts as his fangs descended upon the flesh. Unfortunately, he missed the mark with the first attempt, the canines practically ripping free with snarl as he went in for a second try. The fangs pierced the skin and it was like the popping of a water balloon as blood immediately pour into his mouth, over his lips and down his chin. It was a messy process, but there was nothing stopping him, now. That first drop to settle on his tongue was like a shot of heroin in his veins, and like an addict, he wanted more. So, he took it as he moved in closer, pressing Ren further against the wall as if worried that he might try and pull away, again.

[Renard]

Lights flashed in front of his face. His lips parted and air slipped free to leave his lungs empty. The contents of his stomach shifted with such force that he thought he was going to lose them, as bile rose in his throat. He had been angry. He had been screaming at Beckett, telling the man he had no right to give him orders. That he could **** himself if he honestly thought Ren was going to be intimidated or pushed away. Then he was literally pushed away with a great deal of force, only to be abruptly stopped by a wall. Like someone falling from a great height and being suddenly stopped by the ground. Or at least that was how it felt. The pain of it registered less than the surprise. The two of them had gotten rough with each other in the past. Horseplay was, after all, one way to express affection. But they had never been this rough. Really fucked up this time, didn’t you? It was only after that thought passed sluggishly (like a stunned animal getting its bearings back) though his mind that he realized he had bit his tongue - bad. In fact, when his mouth opened to try and replace his empty lungs, blood poured out, mingled with saliva so that rivers of it flowed over his chin, only to splatter onto the ground in droplets, smears of it disappearing into the blackness of his shirt.

But it wasn’t just his mouth that oozed his life away. Had he seen fangs? He could have sworn...that meant. The first bite had stung, but the second one really hurt. And the fangs were still there. This is what Beckett had meant when he said for Ren to leave. **** **** ****, Ren, you ******* asshole, why didn’t you listen? Beck had been trying to warn him and he had been so pissed and oblivious that he hadn’t even noticed the difference. And what did that say about him? Probably that he was a **** person. Except he didn’t really have the time to think about his poor choices, because he really didn’t want to die. And he had already lost precious time in those brief moments where he’d been too shocked by developments to act. His hands moved up again so that he could curl them into Beck’s shirt. He was intending to shove the man away, but that was when things changed a little bit. The pain began to dissipate slowly as endorphins hit his system like an 18 wheeler crashing right into him. His pupils suddenly got huge, and a groan actually escaped him.

He had been worried, when he came to Canada, that he would never get to be close to Beck again. That the man would reject him. Shove his *** out into the snow. He’d been certain that would happen actually, and that he’d have to set up camp right outside of his long-term boyfriend’s place. Live like a hobo until the other man took him back. His instincts acted in lieu of common sense. It seemed he really had hit his head hard, because he ended up yanking the monster who was killing him closer. Maybe it was a metaphor for Renard’s own self-destructive tendencies. Like saying. ‘Alright, universe, you want to be a **** and take everything away from me? Fine. I’ll still have the last laugh, you shitbag’. His head tipped back as Beck pressed closer. He could feel that familiar chest puzzled against his own, could feel the weight of their bodies meshing together in ways they normally only did when the two were about to have a very good time. Or when they were fighting. The two were the same a lot of the time.

He swallowed and got a mouth full of his own blood. The taste made his stomach turn, but he was operating purely on instinct.

He had come to Harper Rock to help Beck live out the rest of his life. And now Beck was taking his away. What a life. What a ******* joke. What complete and total irony. Of course Ren had said in the past that he would die for Beckett. So now he got to show that he wasn’t full of ****.

He began to laugh. What else could he do? The sound started out brassy in his chest and bubbled in his throat, past the injury of his tongue, only to come out as a dry wheeze past his lips. He was laughing because life always threw him curveballs, but now death had decided to pitch for the opposing team as well. And in the face of such immovable and great powers, what option was there other than to bellow out one last big **** YOU to Fate and everything under her cruel and watchful eye?

[Beckett]

It could have been only a couple of minutes, or it might have been fifteen, but Beckett honestly had no idea how long he stood there and took the blood of the man in his arms. His only thought was that he wanted more, more, more. Plenty made it into his mouth, but most of it lay wasted on the floor at their feet or staining the clothes between their bodies. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of Beck's mind, he knew that he was killing him. That, eventually, the blood loss would be more than his body could handle, and that death would be inevitable. He couldn't bring himself to care, not right then. The darker essence was in total control of his body and mind, clinging to the human as if he might disappear, even as he was pulled closer rather than face the struggle of Renard attempting to push him away. In that moment, there wasn't even a cognitive awareness of the fact that it was Ren that he was doing this to. He was just prey. A means to an end.

That laugh, though...

The second the laughter filled his ears, his eyes snapped open. The terror that filled them was almost instantaneous as the realization of what he was doing hit him with the force of a speeding train on the railroad tracks, leaving behind the splattered mess of a man in its wake. His thoughts, which had been so quiet before, blew up into chaos until all that he could hear was white noise ringing in his ears. The fangs ripped free and Beckett stumbled backwards, his hands rising to cover his mouth as if to hide them, like that might somehow absolve him of his actions. Except that left his eyes wide open, forced to view the evidence of what he had just done. Starting with Ren and the way he began a slow descent down the wall, unable to support his own weight anymore without Beckett holding him in place. That's when the terror shifted into abject panic, because he knew why. And even if he hadn't, all he needed to do was look at the mangled flesh of the man's neck and the pool of blood he was slipping into to get a pretty clear picture.

As soon as Renard hit the floor, Beck was back in motion and dropping to his knees at the man's side. A shaky, blood covered hand reached out as if to touch the profusely bleeding wound, only to come up short as he softly moaned in anguish. "No..." he whispered, voice cracking to suggest that he was on the verge of tears. And he might have fallen apart right then, were it not for the downward spiral his thoughts were on, twisting and turning every which way in hopes that he might think of a solution. Some way to fix this before it was too late. One hand came to rest against Ren's face while the other finally pressed against the ripped flesh in an effort to slow further blood loss, trying to take the man's focus to ensure that he stayed awake. He just needed to stay awake long enough for Beck to figure this out. And he would. He would figure this out. He could fix this. "I tried to tell you...and you didn't listen. Why don't you ever listen? Dammit, Ren..." And even though the words were sparked anger, the only one he was angry at was himself. That was the worst part.

Shifting his weight so that he was seated against the wall, he straightened one leg out and bent the other at the knee so that he could prop Renard up in his lap, only for one of his bloodied hands to ran through his hair in frustration as more and more of his concentration was lost to oncoming hysteria. The man he loved lay dying his lap, and all he wanted to do was scream until he physically couldn't anymore, to have his throat go raw with all the emotion sitting knotted in his chest. But, he had to think. His gaze dropped to Renard's face, which had done ghostly pale in the span of several minutes, and Beck tried to focus on the sound of that weak heartbeat, the shallow breathing. "Baby, I don't know what to do..." he forced out through a barely restrained sob as a sense of helpless crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning out all rational thought. As his eyes shifted to the hand keeping pressure on Ren's neck, it hit him.

A vague memory with so little detail that he might have made it up came forward, then. Blood that wasn't his pressed against his lips, and the voice of the man seared in his mind's eye encouraging him to swallow it. It faded, then, and Beck could only guess that it had been the man's own blood that had been on his lips. It seemed a little too cliche, a little too Hollywood to really be how this whole thing worked, but a little voice in the back of mind urged him to do the same. It may not be as simple as that, but it was the only information he had at his disposal. Biting into the flesh of his wrist (in that totally commonplace, cheesy method) until the blood began to flow freely. "Think of it like wine..." he muttered as he placed it against Renard's lips, the blood quickly staining them a deep red. "You need to swallow it...you know how much you love to do that..." It was an awful time to be joking around, and the laugh that erupted from him was hysterical in nature, far from amused.

It felt pointless. Like possible effort wasted when he could be doing something, anything else to get Ren out of this. To keep him from dying at Beck's own hand.

But, this was was his best bet. And he was placing all he had on it.

[Renard]

His vision was going. It started as fuzzy darkness around the edges, and slowly flexed inwards like spreading fog, until the only thing he could make out were little pinpoints of light. He saw nothing but small dots of color which erratically changed and then eventually became little more than white specks which grew more and more distant, as if Ren was falling backwards inside of himself. He just barely registered the ground under his *** when he slumped onto it. Strangely, he could hear his lover’s voice with startling clarity. But then, he always had been tuned into Beckett’s voice. He could have picked his partner out from a crowd of dozens of screaming people. He had in the past, hadn’t he? Back when they had been on the same highschool basketball team. Whenever they needed to find each other, really. He could hear the emotion in the other man’s voice. Could hear the pain there, and he wanted to reach out and pull his mate close, press kisses under his eyes and squeeze him tight. He wanted to fix the problem, but his arms didn’t seem to be working. In fact, he felt as if he was trapped inside of some sort of shell. Like the awareness that he was had been bound inside of a tomb.

**** you, man. I’m good. I’m real good. Just give me like. Ten minutes and I’ll be right as rain. Don’t you worry at all. He wanted to say, when he heard those chiding words. He was literally bleeding out from an enormous gash on his neck. He did not need to be lectured. He also wanted to say that, but less so. He couldn’t seem to get his lips to move. Couldn’t make his vocal cords work at all. In fact, that laughter had died away some time before. It felt like it might have been an hour, but it couldn’t have been more than a moment or two. Right? He could feel his strength leaving him. His thoughts were becoming more and more scattered. Then fewer and fewer. It was difficult for him to hold on to any train of thought at all. And every part of him felt heavy, like someone had attached cinder blocks to his arms and legs with chains.

He felt movement, but it was out of his control; not in his power. Something pressed to his lips. Fluid spilling into him. Weird. He couldn’t actually taste it, but he thought it felt suspiciously cool. By this point, he wasn’t picking up as many of Beck’s words. That fluid seemed to have a mind of its own, a life that begged to settle in his core. It crept into his mouth and down his throat. Then he heard the joke. He wanted to punch his partner. You’re such a ******* ***. I love you so much. I’m going to miss you, wherever it is I’m going. Hell. Probably hell. He thought to himself. And then that creeping darkness, the fluid of life and death latched onto something inside of him. The world became consumed with darkness.

He slumped back. Still. Unbreathing. Lifeless.

SOME TIME LATER

His eyes snapped open and there was an explosion of senses which assaulted him all at once. He could make out details on the far wall he never would have been able to before, like the slight movement of some bug across the textured plane. Every single sound fell into his head as a clamor. And he was up on his feet, launching out of Beck’s lap. His shirt stuck to his flesh. Nausea was so intense that it felt like his guts were being stabbed repeatedly by a thin dagger. He bent over to one side, and upended what looked like coffee and pastry. He kept retching until everything had been expelled right out of him. Strangely there was no blood in the mix. Not even his own.

When his stomach was empty, he was up again, wiping at his lips. “****. I forgot something.” He said. Already the wound on his neck had repaired itself, though it was pink and tender. His phone came out a second later, and he hit the screen a couple of times before lifting it to his ear.

“Hey, mom.” He said.

There was something said on the other end of the line.

“Yeah. I found him. He is doing okay. Better than okay.”

Something else was said.

Ren chuckled. "You know me well. I couldn't resist cheering him up as soon as I got in. Put him right to sleep."

More static words erupted from the phone.

“I’m fine too. You know I’m good at taking care of myself.”

Ren pulled the phone away from his ear, as if he found it uncomfortable.

“Love you too.” He said. “I’ll give you a call later to let you know if anything comes up.” The call ended right after that and he replaced his cell, his gaze dropping to Beck.

“****. I’m starving. You look like **** though. Let's shower up and get changed.”