Backdated to October 2017
[ALEKSANDRA]
“Come on, King, get off the counter. You know you can’t be up here when I’m cooking,” she chastised as she dipped her slender fingers beneath his hefty form to hoist him from the surface. When a low growl rattled his chest, she pressed her lips to the silken fur of his ear before dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. “Go bother Blaize. You know how he just loves you crawling on his clothes.” With a soft hum, she peeled off a small piece of steak and dropped it to the floor, just in time for the rather rotund cat to snatch it from the tile and dash off down the hall, large eyes locked in on his target – the bed. “Your funeral, love,” she laughed as she dusted off her hands, sending a few puffs of flour into the air. She couldn’t remember how long she had been at this – but she felt the exhaustion seeping into her bones. By the time her boyfriend had made it home, she had wanted to do nothing more than crawl onto the couch and forget the entire experiment, but she couldn’t. Finals were closing in, and she felt the fear of failure creeping along the back of her neck, threatening to choke her; she had to get this right. Leaning across the counter, she pressed the ‘off’ button on the radio, dropping the kitchen into immediate silence. The counter was filled from edge to edge with various colorful entrees, and none of them appealed to her. They were all so bland, so typical, that it sickened her. With a quiet sound of frustration, she snatched the plastic-wrap from the drawer and began to wrap up the plates, her movements quick and sure.
Unlike her companions, she didn’t trash the food when she was finished. It didn’t matter how wrong the taste might be, or that she used too much salt in the potatoes – there were others within the city that would eat it, regardless. Once she was finished with the last plate, she moved to put it in the fridge, only to pause when the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door. She had already placed the plate on the counter when the knock sounded throughout the apartment, and dusting her hands on her nightgown, she headed for the entryway, King dancing between her legs. “I don’t need your help,” she chuckled as she swung the door open – and immediately moved to slam it closed. However, the heavy boot stopped the trajectory. “Now, baby, that’s no way to greet me, is it?” Lance’s voice was like molten honey, but she knew the poison that lurked within every word. Narrowing her eyes, she kept her fingers curled around the frame, even as the man reached for her, fingers dipping beneath the strap of her camisole to give it a tug. “It’s like you knew I was coming. Going to let me in, love?” Each word he spoke had her shuddering, but she managed to keep her features schooled as her gaze swept over him. “I’d rather burn. How did you find me, Lance?”
[BLAIZE]
Showering was a habit that Blaize couldn't quite curtail. It didn't matter that he was a vampire and thus suffered no body odour; he didn't sweat, and so it didn't matter how many hours he spent dancing, he was as cool and as clean as when he started. Still, when he came home from the studio and he and Aleksa had decided on settling for the evening in front of the television, the first thing he thought to do was meander through the apartment and to the shower. Eventually he'd conclude that it had something to do with the water, the broiling heat of it soothing some of the dead cold from his skin. It was a comfort, like coming in from the rain or washing away the salt after a day at the beach. The door to the bedrrom was down the hallway and it wasn't completely closed. He'd used the ensuite, and came out of the shower sheathed in steam, collecting the moisture from his hair with a fluffy white towel. What he witnessed when he looked up at the bed was King, the oversized cat, chowing down on something that left a red stain on the duvet cover. "Aleksa...!" he called, dropping the towel so he could clap his hands, the sharp sound causing the cat to skitter. At least he took the meat with him. Blaize couldn't exactly blame the cat. It was a cat. It should have been taught better.
He soon realised, however, that Aleksa wouldn't have heard him call out to her. Blaize paused, the dresser drawer part way open. Had she turned the television on already...? No. That was her voice, and it was accompanied by a man's voice. Someone else was in the apartment -- or at least at the door. Frowning, Blaize reached into the recess of the drawer and, one after the other, tugged on first his boxers (which is all he'd have been wearing were it not for company) and then a pair of dark trackpants. He walked down the hallway and glanced first to the empty kitchen, and then to the front door. It was just in time to see another man tugging at the strap of her camisole -- the one Blaize himself had enjoyed assessing earlier, and which fit her body like a glove -- and calling her love. That endearment, which Aleksandra was so fond of using on Blaize. And now he wondered if she'd picked it up from somewhere else. His feet scuffed to a stop somewhere behind Aleksandra, hazel eyes sharp as he took in the white of Aleksa's knuckles as she gripped the frame of the door, and then the boot keeping her from shutting it. Clearly, this man was not wanted. "Excuse me, but who are you...?" Blaize asked, sliding in behind Aleksa, his chest a mere hair's breadth from her back, his own fingers closing around the door's frame a few hand spans above Aleksa's. "Y'know what? It doesn't matter. It appears you're not welcome..."
[ALEKSANDRA]
She didn’t have to hear him speak to know that he was behind her, nor did she need the feel of his body just scant inches from her own. She felt him. The tension kicked up the second he stepped into the entry-way, and she swore she could taste the anger and distrust on the air. Pressing her hand through her hair, she allowed her fingers to loosen from the door, her arm dropping to her side as she took that single step back. When she did, she felt her back press to his chest, and she knew he was shirtless. The entire time, though, she didn’t remove her glare from the man in front of her. She knew that look, that anger that darkened his eyes, the way his fingers clenched at his sides. “Lance, don’t. Just go.” She felt his anger. She felt the rage that shadowed his soul, the jealousy that threatened to rip him apart. It washed over her, and she had to swallow past the poison filling her throat. A soft, strained sound escaped her chest, but she tapped it down as his dull gaze jumped from Blaize and back to her. “Who the **** is he, Sandra? You’re whoring it out pretty quick,” his voice was heavy with venom, and she ran her tongue over her lower lip before tightening her jaw. She could just step aside, she could move into the kitchen, and allow Blaize to fight this battle. She should, with the way her head was suddenly pounding, the steady hum of electricity starting to crackle within her skull, but she didn’t. Instead, she allowed her full lips to tug into a saccharine smile, the blue of her eyes brightening. “This is Blaize. My boyfriend,” she allowed the last word to fall from her tongue with a sweetness that made the man in front of her twitch.
“You know we’re meant to be together, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re with me. He looks like trash,” Lance spat, his hand moving to curl around her bicep to pull her into him. As a human, she would have fallen right into him, her strength no match for his – but she was different now. Despite the way his grasp made her skin turn white around the edges of his fingers, she didn’t sway, nor did she speak. It was all happening far too quickly, the train wreck unfolding before her eyes in a way she knew she couldn’t control.
[BLAIZE]
Blaize's first instinct was to laugh. Sandra? One of his mother's best friends was called Sandra. She still thought she was living in the fifties, but her make up was always smudged and her smile was always as fake as the blonde of her hair. The nickname didn't suit his Aleksandra. Not one bit. The strained sound that Aleksa uttered, however, stalled the smile on Blaize's lips. She stepped back and his hand found her shoulder. His squeeze was to provide reassurance. The smile was wiped completely when Lance insinuated Aleksa was a whore. It didn't matter what the pretty-boy called Blaize's. The dancer had ego enough to withstand a few misplaced insults. To call Aleksa a whore, however, was stepping over a very clear line. A line that should not be crossed. Fury curled in Blaize's gut, eyes narrowed like twin shards of glass. Rather than rip out Lance's tongue right there on the threshold to their home, Blaize was instead preparing a heavily worded threat. The planned words never tasted the air, however. As soon as the human's dirty fingers wrapped around Aleksa's arm, Blaize reacted. He let go of the door frame and gripped Lance's wrist. Brittle human bones were no match for vampiric strength, and Blaize did not hold back. He gripped and twisted until he could feel bones ready to shatter. "If you want to keep your hand," he growled. "I suggest you let her go and never touch her again."
[ALEKSANDRA]
She should have warned him, but the thought came too late. By the time she had collected herself enough and found her voice, Blaize already had his fingers secured around his wrist. At first, she remained completely still, her eyes locked on the bone-crushing grip her boyfriend had on her ex. “He doesn’t like it when people touch me,” she heard herself say, her voice barely rising above a whisper. She knew how that had to make the blonde sound, but she couldn’t be fussed with fixing her wording. It wouldn’t matter in the end, anyway. Blaize could have been a saint and Lance wouldn’t have reacted any differently. As it was, his eyes darkened, and despite the pain he was clearly in – the rage kicked up a notch – until she swore she could taste it. There was a difference within her, a subtle shift that had she not been taking note of everything, she would have missed. Tilting her head, she watched as Lance blinked back the tears and clenched his jaw, before he finally tore his gaze from her to glare up into Blaize’s eyes. “I’ve touched her plenty before, and I’ll do it again. She knows where she belongs,” he chuckled, and the thickening in the air intensified. She could feel each emotion roll over her like a tidal wave, but she still couldn’t decipher who was who, nor did she truly have time to try and pick apart the splintering of her mind. As the pain began to pulse behind her eyes, she found herself lifting her hand, fingers quickly curling around her boyfriend’s wrist. Instead of trying to pry his fingers free, she merely rested her own against his skin when she felt the sudden wave of jealousy slam into her chest. “This is just ridiculous. Go home, Lance. Go find Rebecca, or Charlene. I’m sure they’ll satisfy your palette.” Ignoring the way her vision blurred, she turned and brushed her lips across Blaize’s jaw before slipping beneath his arm to head for the living room. If he wouldn’t listen to her – hopefully he would listen to Blaize.
[BLAIZE]
Although Aleksandra wasn't wrong, Blaize still inwardly cringed. It hadn't been too long ago that he'd been telling her she'd have to teach him how to properly be in a relationship, and now it sounded as if he were violently over-possessive. What Blaize felt now wasn't jealousy. There was zero green in his soul for this foul-mouthed fool on their doorstep. What he felt was a protective rage. But, she wasn't wrong. He did not like it if people touched Aleksandra with a view to harm her, or claim her as Lance was doing now. Even if they weren't in a relationship he'd have taken issue with the way Lance spoke to Aleksa, as if she were just a possession to be tossed away and reclaimed on a whim. Aleksa's touch did nothing to persuade Blaize to let go of Lance; her kiss was accepted with no dramatic flare. The dancer knew what her choice was long before this had even begun and he had no qualms. If he weren't there with her, he was certain Aleskandra would have been able to defend herself if Lance had tried anything untoward -- even if she didn't realise it, the instinct would have kicked in before he'd got too far. As it was, she was saved the effort.
"I don't give two shits what you used to do. Maybe you shouldn't have taken it for granted. Maybe if you weren't such a possessive misogynist you'd still be with her. But you're not. She clearly wants nothing to do with you so just say goodbye to any notions you have of 'possessing' her. Should I break your wrist or are you going to leave?" he asked. His voice was cool and calm but, if Aleksandra were still nearby, she'd feel the thirst. It tied into his rage and, as his fingers gripped Lance's wrist he could feel the blood pulsing beneath. Oh, how he wanted to snap that wrist at such an angle that the bone broke through skin; he wanted blood. He wanted to drain it from Lance's body until there was nothing left and his black heart had stopped beating.
[ALEKSANDRA]
She couldn’t get to the couch fast enough. By the time, she brushed her hand against the arm, her nails digging into the cloth, the room tipped. It felt as though she was on a ride that would never end. As her vision dimmed, the dull throb revved up to a sharp pain, and she sank into the cushions with a groan. “He needs to go,” she whispered, though she hadn’t needed to. Hadn’t that been the goal from the moment she opened the door to reveal his serpent’s smile? Running her tongue along the edge of her teeth, she practically hissed when she felt the tension in the air, the rage – no, not rage. Hunger. It pulsed against her, crawled over her skin like a thousand insects. By the time she heard the threat roll from her boyfriend’s tongue, she felt as if she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe. All she could taste – all she could feel – was the desperate starvation. Without realizing she was standing, she moved unsteadily back towards his side, her fingers digging into his shirt. “He’s going to leave,” she said, her voice holding a strength that she wasn’t aware she possessed. Her eyes – unfocused and dull – turned towards the bane of her existence, and she watched as his features shifted.
Gone was the confidence, and in its place was fear. She could taste it on her tongue, bitter and thick. It rose just beneath the hunger, and barely surpassed the anger. “Let him go, baby. He’s not worth it. Not this time.” Her voice was a charming whisper as she brushed her lips over a bare shoulder, her palm resting on his spine. She didn’t know if he would listen – or if he even heard her. Dismissing Lance completely, she kept her attention on her partner, and somehow, pushed past the chaos that spun wildly within her to focus on him – and only him. No matter what he chose, she was there.
[BLAIZE]
The whisper did not go unheard; Blaize's hearing was that of a vampire, and he was fully aware of Aleksandra's need for the interloper to leave. And yet, he had given no answer. The asshole just stood there shaking like a leaf and Blaize could think of nothing but the hot blood that was now pounding through a heavily beating heart. Blaize thought of Darcy and the way she'd died; he thought of how he'd lost control, and how he'd promised he never would again. He'd made a vow to himself that he would do better; that he could deny himself blood just as much as he had, but he would resist when the opportunity presented itself. Even with Aleksa's hand against his spine, even though he could feel her focus only on him, he couldn't let Lance go. Rather than let Lance go, Blaize instead pulled him inside, out of the hallway, away from prying eyes. The apartment building was a good one, a rich one, its apartments spread out and its walls thick. It was a better apartment than the one where Aleksa had been staying, where there were plenty of prying eyes. Though Blaize wasn't currently thinking about who or how many might hear Lance scream. One arm pulled back, fingers closed into a fist that was driven into Lance's abdomen. And, when the man doubled over, that was when his wrist snapped. Blaize did it on purpose. Without the teeth to break the skin, he needed some other means. The wrist snapped and Blaize couldn't decipher his own shouts from Lance's. Where Lance had trembled with fear, Blaize trembled with rage. The wrist snapped and then kept going, driven back until the knuckles touched the top of the forearm. Bones splintered and finally broke through skin. Blood flicked and splattered over Blaize's face, into his hair. It hit the roof. It would have continued to pulse and fountain, but Blaize's mouth closed over the gruesome wound.
The blood was hot and fresh and the guilt took a back seat. Blaize told himself that Lance deserved it though, truth be told, he was thinking now of nothing but his thirst, his insatiable hunger, and satisfying it. If Lance tried to pull away, Blaize only held on tighter. He no doubt was making a bigger mess, but again, he wasn't thinking. He wasn't thinking anything at all.
[ALEKSANDRA]
The air around them began to feel like a cage, and she had to close her eyes as the emotions continued to build, each one harboring its own unique taste – and each one as dangerous as the last. Anger, fear, despair, need, and hunger. She tried to catch her breath, to push through the thickening air, to stop the scene from unfolding – but she was too late. She had told herself that she would support him through it all. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t falter, even if he chose the path of violence – but she hadn’t been prepared for this. When he had lost control before, it had been with a fist. It hadn’t been… Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from his back to press it to her mouth, fingers shaking as she pressed them against her lips, as if she could keep the repulsion within. It wasn’t him that sickened her. It was the sound. The cracking of bone, splintering of skin, and the rush of blood through the vein echoed within her skull, bounced around until she heard nothing but that violent melody. Turning her head away, she swallowed the scream that built within her throat, and as tears stained her cheeks – she finally reacted. Battling against the need to turn and run, she reached a hand out, fingers curling into his hair. She had to stop him. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a monster – he wasn’t violent.
“Blaize!” Her voice was sharp, though it lost its commanding tone when she choked, the sound entering on a desperate plea as she dropped her remaining hand to his shoulder. Pulling on him, she tried to disengage his mouth from her ex-boyfriend’s wrist, but she couldn’t. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she remembered being warned against something like this. When a dog when on the attack, you shouldn’t intervene, unless you wanted to be harmed yourself, but she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She had to trust in that, if she trusted in nothing else. If he did end up turning on her, it wouldn’t be him. “Let him go. Come on, love, come back to me,” she pleaded, glassy gaze turning towards Lance. He was fading fast. She could see it in the way his skin paled, and in the way his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He tried to fight against him, he tried to free himself from the vampire’s grasp, but he couldn’t. It was then, she realized, she might not be able to save him. Through all of this, the scent of blood filled the air and painted the walls crimson, but it didn’t affect her. The scent didn’t drive her mad. Her only focus was on saving her boyfriend, on pulling him back from the abyss. Drowning beneath the blood lust, she tried to place herself in between the two.
[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra's attempt to keep Blaize from his meal was only construed by the vampire as further attempt for his prey to get away from him. He didn't lash out at Aleksandra, only resisted her attempts to peel him from his meal, body growing tenser beneath her touch. How long since he had fed? How many meals was he making up for? And yet, his hunger was not insatiable. There was no reason to keep taking beyond what he needed; like when one's eyes are too big for their guts and they order too much food for dinner, and in the end only eat three quarters. It was only when he started to feel 'full' that Aleksandra's pleas broke the surface. His lips pulled back from the wound his actions had created, his eyes glazed as they settled upon the woman trying to wedge herself between him and his prey. Not just a woman, but his childe. And not just his childe, but the woman he...
He leaned back, offering the slowly pulsing wound to Aleksandra. Lance had stopped struggling, having lost the energy to do so, and Blaize was able to release him, to slide an arm around Aleksandra's waist. Yes, he thought. She was right! She should have some, too. It was selfish of him to take all the blood for himself. And then he blinked. It was a slow realisation the crawled from his gut to his heart and outward. The blood churned and he felt sick with it, over-full. When he blinked for the second time his gaze became clearer, understanding flooding the cool green depths. He turned from Aleksandra to Lance, whose face was pallid and his lips slack. Was he dead? If he wasn't, he had to be close to it. The moan that gurgled in Blaize's throat was unrecognisable. What had he done?! He tried to summon the fury; he tried to tell himself that Lance had deserved it, and a large part of him still believed that. Lance was scum. But was scum not redeemable? Surely Lance could have become a better person, if given the chance. The blood tasted bitter on Blaize's tongue and he let go of Lance. He let go of Aleksandra as he took a step back, and then another. Guilt. Oh, the guilt! It slammed into him like a wrecking ball until he was doubled over and on his knees. He couldn't have made it to the bathroom if he'd tried. The bile that spewed past Blaize's lips was thick and red -- a waste of the blood that he had just consumed. But, just as he had been unable to control his fury, now he was unable to control his guilt.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It felt as if she were trapped with a maelstrom, her mind slowly becoming shattered beneath the strain of emotions. The anger, the blood lust, the envy, the fear, the… nightmare that the evening had turned into had all but splintered the woman’s brain in two, and she couldn’t think. Her own actions, her own thoughts and feelings were lost beneath the men, and she found herself having to swallow down the acidic taste of fury as she curled her fingers tighter around her boyfriend’s wrist. When she felt him begin to tense beneath her touch, she started to pull away, her own eyes widening for the slightest moment as – finally – one of her own emotions rose to the surface, daring to be felt. Fear. It only lasted for a second, before she shook the pitiful notion away. He wouldn’t harm her. Hadn’t she already convinced herself of that? He had never once given her any inclination to believe otherwise. When they fought, it was his words that lashed against her skin, or the coldness in his eyes. His hands – unless to wrap around her body, to bring her in – never touched her. Even now, as his mind was lost beneath his need for blood, his hunger taking the reins, he knew who she was. Clearing her throat, she continued to try and shift herself between the two, one hand finally moving to press to his chest. “Sweetheart,” she tried again, her voice quiet, as though he were a fearful animal. If not for the thickening of her accent, she might have been able to play off her own fear, her own worry.
Even with her gaze locked on her sire, she felt the man behind her, heard his choked, wet pleas for release. He was trying to scream, trying to demand to be let go – but there were no words. It was all in the sounds he made, the way he struggled, even as he began to weaken, his body unable to keep up the fight for survival. It never crossed her mind to let him die, nor did it cross her mind that he might deserve it. Maybe, for a second, there had been a brief whisper – but that was before she witnessed the blood – had felt the terror – and now, the guilt. In the blink of an eye, the fury was gone, and the guilt was overwhelming. It pressed against her mind, a black, dense cloud that she couldn’t fight. Her hand fell from him, and she knew it was the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t let him go – he needed her – but how could she focus when the guilt was taking her to her knees? It wasn’t her burden to carry, yet she didn’t fight it off, she didn’t try to run from it. She let it wash over her, allowed the darkened tendrils to curl into the deepest recesses of her heart and mind. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” she heard herself whisper, but her voice wasn’t her own – or was it? She couldn’t tell. When he collapsed, she moved with him, Lance completely forgotten as her arms found the blonde’s shoulders.
Even as he vomited, the blood coating the floor, her knees, and any surface it could reach – she held him. Her tears fell freely as she pressed a kiss to his throat, his jaw, her words of comfort, of devotion, whispered gently into his ear. Behind her, she felt Lance twitch, heard his sharp intake of breath as he came to – and she turned. She didn’t think twice. Pulling her hand back, she curled her fingers into a fist – and slammed it into his jaw. His head snapped back, skull cracking against the door, and then he was quiet once more.
[BLAIZE]
The blood created a lake on the apartment floor, red and frothy as if it had been through a blender. It looked like something out of a horror movie, like it had come bubbling up through the floorboards. The guilt had a hold of Blaize and even Aleksa's tender touch couldn't console him. He didn't lean into it. He couldn't accept her condolences; he didn't look up. Green eyes were steadfast upon the mess he had made, his limbs still tense as he realised how he must look, as the full consequence of his actions found its way home. Aleksandra released him and he swayed, finally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Although he'd ousted a lot of blood from his body, he'd still got enough. He was stronger, now, his skin had gained a healthier glow. The dark circles beneath his eyes had disappeared, and his cheeks had filled out. There was a lustre to his hair that had previously been lacking; and he gained all this at Lance's detriment. Although on any other night Blaize might have admired Aleksandra's successful attempt to keep Lance quiet, for now he could only think about what he had done. Not only was there a chance Lance could die, but Blaize had complicated Aleksandra in the murder. She was a part of it, she was here with him when it happened. She was witness to it. God, she was witness to his utter failure.
Shame compounded Blaize's guilt, grew from it like a weed on a steroids. Before she had a chance to turn around, Blaize had stood and made his way to the kitchen. He found the nearest tea-towel and returned to the scene, brushing past Aleksa so he could tie the fabric tight around the torn wrist. Blood immediately soaked through the cloth, and Blaize was heaving Lance from his fallen position. He was blacked out, now, and there would be no screaming. But he was still alive -- just. If he was going to survive, he needed a hospital. He would not be another Darcy. Blaize would not condemn another to this life. Though he also would not admit to himself that he'd prefer if Lance died, even if Blaize was locked away for the murder. "I'll take care of it," Blaize muttered. He'd wait until he was out on the street before he called the ambulance. He would claim he had found Lance that way -- and would hope that Lance wouldn't remember. That he would tell no one. He refused to look at Aleksandra, refused to acknowledge her pity. He was supposed to be strong for her, and he had failed.
[ALEKSANDRA]
With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she slowly allowed her arms to fall to her sides, fingers twisting in the thin fabric of her top. The lace was too smooth against her skin, and soon, she realized she was tugging on it, trying to pull it from her torso, as if she couldn’t breathe. It was suffocating her. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes as the warmth of the blood pooled around her kneeled form, the crimson staining her pale skin as it trickled beneath her knees and built between her toes. It didn’t cross her mind, as she watched the lights sparkle within the dark pool, that it wasn’t just blood. The froth that had spewed so venomously from her boyfriend’s lips danced among the thick substance, causing the ruby to lighten in places, almost as if it were trying to turn it pink – a color far more soothing. Shaking her head, she barely registered when he moved. Her fingers were still twisting around her top, pulling at the offending material, listening to it rip as it strained against her body. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she breathe? Why did it feel as though she were drowning, a thousand miles away, and all she could see was darkness? She could taste the guilt on her tongue, the overwhelming shame choking her. It wasn’t hers, was it? What did she have to be guilty of? Lance was her ex-boyfriend, she had made that clear. She hadn’t hidden anything from him, she hadn’t played a dangerous game, she hadn’t asked him to come over. She had demanded that he left – and yet, he had remained, he had done this to himself. So, it wasn’t her guilt. How was it possible, then, that she was feeling his? Had she finally, truly, lost her mind? If it was his guilt beating at her, tearing into her heart, ripping apart the long-dead organ, then she had to snap out of it.
With a slow, almost defeated, release of air through her teeth, the brunette slowly placed her hands to the ground. Her palms threatened to slide on the blood, and when she found her balance, she began to lift herself to her feet unsteadily. “No, I’ll take care of it,” she heard herself speak, though her voice sounded as though she was underwater. Running her tongue along her lip, she tried to ignore the drops of blood on her skin as her gaze finally found his, blue eyes wide. It didn’t matter. The buzz of electricity didn’t bother her, the hum of the television, the swish of her cat’s tail. The smell of freshly cooked food that was buried beneath the scent of blood, the way his guilt slammed into her – none of it mattered. Only he did. Forcing a breath into her lungs, she found herself taking a step back, and then another, until she had found herself in the same place he had been at earlier. Grabbing a handful of rags, she made her way back towards the pair and once again lowered herself to her knees. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Did she reach for him again? Did she demand he talk to her, did she throw Lance out the door? She couldn’t get her thoughts to work with her, and so, she settled for wiping the rag along the floor, beginning to soak up the blood – as much of it as she could. She would talk to him. She had to – but first, she had to protect him. She had to clean up the mess. “Go change your clothes. I’ve got it.”
[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra was suggesting that Blaize put Lance back down again, that he leave the body there and go change his clothes and allow her to clean up the mess that he had made. She'd returned to the scene with rags and was intent on cleaning up the vomit that had spewed from Blaize's gut. To see her on her hands and knees like that only made him feel worse; his chest hurt, his gut, his whole mind reeling from the thing he'd told himself he would never do again. The dancer took pride in his control. But he kept losing it, like it were a key without a ring condemned always to be found at the back of the washing machine or between the couch cushions. "Just LEAVE it, Aleksa. I'll clean it when I get back!" he shouted. The anger was misplaced. He was angry with himself. He was furious with himself, but this is what it had come down to. He'd grabbed the door's handle with his free hand and when it swung open, he dragged the prone Lance out onto the landing. No one was there. It was quiet. There was the gentle hum of a building at peace, so at odds with the scene that had just taken place over their threshold. "Close the door. Please just leave it," he said. He didn't have his phone with him, but he assumed that Lance would have his. What self-respecting person didn't have a mobile phone these days? Blaize got to the elevator and waited; he considered dragging Lance back through the apartment and throwing him over the balcony, but that would only inspire questions. They'd be able to figure out where the body had come from. They'd make the connection to the woman who lived in the building -- people would know she was Lance's ex. No, he needed to take Lance for a little walk.
The elevator soon arrived and Blaize held his breath as the doors opened. He dragged Lance inside and immediately looked for security cameras. Were there any? What the **** had he gotten himself into? Should he just come clean? He'd killed someone, once. He hadn't known his own strength and he'd been strangled by the guilt of it. He'd been less than a week old as a vampire -- Lyonel had helped him. They'd covered it up. But he couldn't ask for that kind of help again. He wouldn't. Down on the ground floor Blaize stopped out the front of the building. He let Lance go, letting him slide down and rest against the wall. They wouldn't be going for a walk. Blaize rifled through Lance's pockets until he found the phone; he made the call, gave the address, described the injuries. In one brief elevator ride, he'd decided to do the right thing.
[ALEKSANDRA]
Her hands shook as she knelt within the destruction, the cloth soaked within moments of touching the floor. In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a better way to do this – that she would need something more. Bleach, another handful of rags, a couple of trash bags. Wasn’t there a scene in one of the movies that they recently watched that told her all that she needed to know? Should she risk an internet search on the best methods in covering up… this? With each second that passed, her mind continued to race, and she found herself struggling to breathe. It was more than the panic that gripped her heart, it was the scent. Finally, the sweet tang of copper was catching up to her, beckoning her. Moving to her knees, she tossed the first rag to the side and stared at her hands, the pale skin stained with blood. She had caused this. There were a thousand different scenes playing within her mind on how she could have handled this, on how she could have saved him. With his guilt twisting in her gut, her pain screaming within her mind, she barely noticed that he had moved. It wasn’t until his shout echoed off the walls and ricocheted inside of her skull that she realized he had even spoken. Her features shifted before she could control herself, the flinch reactionary. “And I said I would handle it,” she whispered, though the words were broken. She never lifted her head, her eyes locked on his feet. If she moved from her submission, if she allowed him to see her eyes, she knew he’d hate himself.
Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the tears that his sudden anger had caused. As quietly as she could, she sniffed once and grabbed the second rag, her movements’ jerky as she swiped it across the floor. She said nothing more as she listened to him hoist her ex-boyfriend and she didn’t blink when the door slammed shut behind him, leaving her within the deafening silence of their apartment. It wasn’t until she heard his steps fade that she allowed her shoulders to shake, her sob silent as she finished cleaning up the mess. It wasn’t grand, but for the moment, it would have to do. Quickly gathering the rags, she tossed them in the bin and moved to the sink, the water nearly scalding as she tried to clean the blood from her skin. With every swipe of the soap against her flesh, she counted the minutes he’d been gone. “Where the hell is he?” Pulling her hands from beneath the spray, she didn’t think twice as she snatched the nearest rag to dry her hands and deftly skipped over what blood remained on her way out. Something told her that whatever was keeping him wasn’t something that she wanted. There had been too much chaos within him, too much anger and guilt. It had eaten away at her senses, and as she slammed her palm against the call button, she could still feel it swirling within him – and within her. When the elevator arrived, she stepped in it and frantically pressed the ground floor as she bounced on the heels of her feet, dull, red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the numbers as she descended.
[BLAIZE]
As per usual in this city, the authorities were having a busy night. They said they'd be there as soon as possible, but they definitely weren't just around the corner. Blaize had only given the injuries, and not how they had been given -- a snapped wrist could be the result of a fall. Loss of blood definitely had to do with how close the bone had come to severing the major artery. There was no need for cops. The artery hadn't been torn at the neck. There were no teeth marks; no proof whatsoever that a vampire was involved. If anything happened to Blaize, if anyone came knocking on his door to question him, it wouldn't be tonight. It would be the next night. It would be whenever Lance woke up; whenever he decided to tell the story of his girlfriend who was now shacked up with a vampire. Blaize considered all the ways he'd twist the story; he'd probably make Blaize out to be some monster who had Aleksandra held captive. Compelled. He snorted. If only this were a TV show and Blaize could compel others to do his bidding. At least, then, he could force Lance to forget. There was very little hope that Lance would have mercy, that he would go lenient on Blaize because he was given the opportunity to live. No, if Blaize were lucky enough to avoid the authorities, it would be because Lance might just be the kind of vengeful, over-confidence douchebag who'd want to come back and deal with Blaize himself. But perhaps he'd be too much of a coward for that kind of plan?
Every now and again someone would walk past; Blaize was pacing in front of the unconscious Lance. They'd stop, horrified or worried. Curious. And he'd always tell them it was fine. They could move on. The ambulance had already been called, and the guy was beyond civilian help. Eventually, Blaize could hear the sirens. They had to be at least a few blocks away and it would be extremely coincidental if this wasn't the call they were attending to. Blaize crossed his arms over his chest -- not in a defensive way, but in a way that made him look strangely vulnerable -- and stared into space. What would he tell them when they got there? He could lie. He would lie. It was his word against Lance's, but he'd have to try to keep that mask steadfast. He'd have to keep his debilitating guilt and shame under wraps. There were stairs inside, right? No one was going to go and look. That's what happened. Lance was being a dickhead on the stairs and he fell. They're cement stairs, unforgiving. They're narrow. Gravity, and the force of the guy's own weight -- his wrist wouldn't stand a chance. If he'd thought about this early, Blaize might have actually thrown Lance down the stairs just to make the injuries more consistent. But then he realised he wouldn't have. Not in his current state. He hated Lance. He would never like Lance. But that didn't make his actions any less monstrous, and less horrific. If he couldn't take blood from Lance in a civil manner, how could be possibly throw the guy down the stairs? Probably the same way he could break that other guy's nose. Violence caused no guilt. Curious, that. Whatever the case, it was too late now. The ambulance was peeling around the corner, its blue and red flashing lights bouncing off the building's outer walls. He would never know if he'd have been able to do it or not.
[ALEKSANDRA]
Running her fingers through her hair, she tried to ignore the tension that had coiled tight in the pit of her stomach as the elevator descended. It wasn’t an easy feat by any means, and by the time she had reached the ground floor, she had given up the battle. There was no use in fighting it, no use in driving herself mad when the end result was going to be the same. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew. Without a doubt, the moment she stepped from the warmth of the elevator, she knew it was pointless. The fury, the guilt and the confusion stole her breath as the metal doors squealed closed behind her, just as she had known it would. She didn’t need to see him to know where he was, and instead, she followed that chaotic thread until she was stepping out into the night, her wary eyes finding his. “Blaize, come inside,” she pleaded, even as the glowing lights of the ambulance illuminated her pale and harrowed features. “It’s not going to do you any good to stay out here.” The words came tumbling out, her voice shaking as she stepped towards him, slender hand reaching out as if to grab for him. Before she made contact, however, she jerked back, the fear of rejection dancing in the blue of her gaze. “One look at us and they’ll know… they’ll know, won’t they?” Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she closed her eyes, if only for a second. A split second, as if that one moment of darkness would allow her to undo all of the wrong that had transpired in the past forty-five minutes. As the sirens grew closer, she forced her eyes open again, the blue locked on her boyfriend as she crossed her arms over her chest.
It was clear in that moment, if he went down, she was going with him. It didn’t matter that she was damn near falling apart with the mere thought of being hurt, or that she was digging her nails with such strength into her palms that they had begun to bleed over the single flash of the future. Him, in cuffs. Him, beaten, bruised… or worse, dead. Turning her head away, she pulled her hair over her shoulder as the taste of her blood coated her tongue, the bitterness causing her stomach to roll. “Baby, please…”
[BLAIZE]
Come inside, she said, and Blaize gave the vaguest shake of the head. He agreed -- it wouldn't do him any good to stay out here, but that was the point. He didn't deserve good. She reached for him and his fingers flexed, stretching, wanting to welcome her touch and the strength and support that it might provide. He'd glanced down at the expectation, wanting to watcch their fingers twine, but his hand remained empty, and he missed that look in her eye. Why? Because he couldn't look her in the eye. No, he didn't deserve anything good, which meant he didn't deserve Aleksandra, who'd been on her hands and knees to clean up his mess, who'd offered to take care of it. Was she doing it out of some kind of weird obligation? And now she didn't want to touch him. Why should she? He was a monster. He crossed his arms over his chest in much the same way Aleksandra did, that vague shake of the head now more confident. "No, because they won't look at us, Aleksa, they'll look at me. They'll know because I'm covered in blood, and you're going to go back inside," he said. He didn't look at her until he could smell it; he'd only been able to smell Lance's blood up until that moment, but the wind changed. It danced along the street and swirled around Aleksndra, through her clothes, clutching at the scent of her own blood as it spilled from her palm, as it crawled from her breath. Why was she bleeding?! Blaize's arms dropped and he took that step toward her, taking her by the shoulders and physically turning her around, forcing her back toward the building, back toward safety. The sirens were slowing, their destination reached; they were on the wrong side of the road and had to keep going so that they could make a u-turn and come back.
"Please, Aleksa. Please just go back inside? Don't stay out here with me. You didn't do this, I did. And if Lance comes around and tells them what happened, it's only a matter of time, isn't it? He won't let it go, and I don't want to kill him. So I'm going to have to take the fall for this one way or another. I will. They'll buy it. An altercation between the jealous ex and the boyfriend. Of course they'll buy it, it's the truth," he said. If Aleksandra had been pleading, so too was Blaize. He didn't want her embroiled in the trouble he had caused. He did not want his own carelessness to affect her. He wouldn't allow it.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It was almost tragic. The ache in her chest was insurmountable. It was the only emotion that she could feel, that she could name, and it was the only emotion that was wholly hers. It filled her chest, swelled inside of her heart, and pressed against her rib cage. It tried to suffocate her, to fill her mind with dark thoughts, and all because he let her pull away. He didn’t reach for her when she refused to reach for him, he hadn’t met her half-way. With that one misunderstood action, that missed moment, they had failed. She had dropped away and he had let her go. In the movies, it might have meant the end. It might have faded to black, and left them circling each other in the void if the unknown, but this wasn’t a fantasy. This was reality - her reality - and she couldn’t stand there and allow him to be ripped away from her. Even if his rejection spread through her and choked off her airways, she would take him to safety. She would see him home. As the lights grew closer, bathing the once quiet night in their frantic colors, she grit her teeth. “Blaize.” His name came from between her teeth in an unfamiliar tone, one that begged for him to listen, one that was harsh.
He still hadn’t looked at her. He still didn’t see the way her eyes glistened with unshed tears, or the pale pallor of her skin. He didn’t see the small cut in her lip, or the worry - the care - in her gaze. He saw none of it, because he couldn’t bare the sight of her. His guilt chipped away at her, broke her apart piece by piece as his shame surrounded her and tore through her defences. She could feel it, she could name it, but she couldn’t explain it. Was the guilt because of her? Was he ashamed that he had let himself care for her? Or, was it something more? When he finally broke, his gaze finding hers, his hands urging her away, she shook her head. “No. No, it is us. It isn’t you. It ceased to be just you the moment you kissed me. You can regret that, you can regret me, but if you refuse to go inside with me, then you are not going down alone.” Her voice shook, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. It has escaped, the pain too much for her. Each word had been forced past a lump in her throat that felt too much like a fist full of razor blades, but still she remained adamant.
[BLAIZE]
Blaize didn't understand. He'd inadvertently caught the look in Aleksandra's eyes, the tears that glistened and tumbled. Why was she crying?! Was it because of Lance? She hadn't seemed too fond of him, but she had dated him. If she'd dated him, there had to have been some care, there. Had it lingered? Was she upset that he had been so injured? It couldn't just be that, could it? She'd knocked him out to come to Blaize's side. Did she...? Regrets. She was the one who first uttered the word and Blaize's dropped jaw snapped shut. His eyes -- previously distant and dejected, wide and fearful -- were now sharp. Frustrated, even angry. Of course he knew that Aleksandra could have low self esteem, that she could doubt herself and Blaize's affection for her. But for that self-loathing to rear its head now, of all times? It only made him feel worse. What, in all that had happened, could have made her think that his opinion of her had changed, or that he regretted anything about her? He couldn't fathom. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he continued to push and guide Aleksandra. This time, he went with her. He had his arm around her torso, his stride strong and sure as he caved. There was no choice. If she wasn't going to do as he asked, then he wasn't going to let her come to any harm.
"Don't be... I can't... what the ****, Aleksa? Why would you even think that I regret you? Where the **** did that even come from?!" he said, his voice low but harsh as they crossed the lobby. The white walls and tiles were all lit up in blue and red as the ambulances finally found their mark. Blaize smashed at the elevator button numerous times, though there was no need. It was still waiting at the bottom floor from where Aleksa had exited it. The metal doors slid open with a welcoming sigh, and Blaize led Aleksa inside. He turned on his heel and jabbed the button that would close the doors before they times themselves out. It was only when he was standing still that he realised he was trembling; he didn't want Aleksandra to feel it, and his arm fell away from Aleksandra's waist. He could feel dried blood still clinging to his cheek and his chin and he hastily rubbed at it. "...it should be the other way around," he muttered as he sank into the corner of the elevator, closing his eyes as he tried to regain control of his own senses, his own emotions.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It changed in the span of a single breath. The pain that had gathered in her chest expanded until it cracked, the words she had dared to utter spilled between them. She couldn’t take them back. There was no magical button, no rewind. It wasn’t like her, to lose control of her own voice. It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to cave and give in to the weakness that haunted her. She had always been someone that prides themselves on her strength, that inner will that kept her sane when her world crashed at her feet. Of course, that had been before. It didn’t matter how often she tried to remind herself of who she used to be, the threads of her humanity continued to slip through her fingers like sand. The woman she was now gave in. The woman she was now weakened beneath the weight of the emotions that pressed down on her, and she caved. When the words had left her tongue, when that first tear had fallen, she kept her head high, and she had kept herself at his side. She didn’t matter. He did. Of course, the moment that growl vibrated from his chest and through her skin, she knew that she had misstepped. She didn’t need to feel the first inklings of anger as it seeped inside. It was easily read in the way he embraced her, the tension coiled in his muscles. He was a livewire, and she was a second from igniting him. It didn’t matter, however. As long as he was inside, his face hidden from view, she would take whatever came her way - but not quietly. “What do you expect me to think, Blaize? I can fe— I caused this! If you had never met me, if you hadn’t decided to be with me, this wouldn’t be happening!” Shaking her head, she freed her hands to brush them through her tangled hair, eyes closing for only a moment. She didn’t open them until she heard the doors shut, and then she turned to him, jaw tight.
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, even as he sunk into the wall, his hand pressing to his skin. “Why would I regret you? I brought this onto your doorstep, it’s my ex-boyfriend that forced your hand. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Her words trailed off as she fought to keep herself in place, when all she wanted was to cross the distance and erase the chaos that was building between them. How did she tell him that she could feel it? How did she dare try to explain that his guilt, his shame and anger, his hunger - were no longer his own to burden? There just wasn’t an easy way to reveal to him that she could feel him fading from her, but that wasn’t the worse part. No, the painful part was not understanding why.
[BLAIZE]
The logic was all wrong. Blaize was shaking his head before she had even finished, this 'discussion' the only thing keeping him standing. Without it, he'd probably have sunk into that corner, unable to move, unable even to make it back to the apartment where the mess of his mistake still waited for them. He stared at Aleksa in disbelief. They were trying to reassure each other that neither had regrets, that neither blamed the other and yet they still stood apart. Again, Blaize's arms crossed over his chest, his hands clamped beneath his arms just so that he might get them to stop shaking. "I'm not being absurd," he snapped. "You didn't cause this. If it wasn't Lance it would have been someone else at some other time, some other poor ****** at the mercy of my hunger. Because I won't feed. I can't. I don't want to. Whether you were here or not it would be the same. Lance was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, testing the wrong man. I had these issues before I met you. How... how can you say I did nothing wrong?!" he said, voice failing him at the end. He cleared his throat, ready to continue but he couldn't. Didn't. The elevator doors had opened; they had reached their floor. Although his legs didn't want to, they carried him past Aleksandra and out the door. Had they locked their apartment door, or was it still open? He didn't have his keys. When he reached the door and pushed on the handle, it thankfully opened.
He cringed at the sight of blood still pooled at the door, sinking into the tile grouting. He wanted to go to the bathroom and drown himself in the bathtub, but what was the point in getting clean when he'd just get dirty again cleaning up? His willpower was failing him, but he went through the motions anyway. "I snapped his wrist to get to his blood. I was a savage. You told me to let him go but I didn't. If I fed on a regular basis, if I got what I needed every night then it wouldn't have been a problem. I'd have let him go and slammed the door in his face. This isn't on you. At all. It's on me. I am to blame. This is my fault," he said as he got down on his hands and knees to continue what Aleksandra had started. The rag sloshed through the blood but it barely picked any of it up; just moved it around a bit. He'd need numerous buckets of water and some bleach to get this cleaned up properly. He took the rag back to the kitchen and hesitated at the sink. Did he want to wash Lance's blood down the kitchen sink? The sink that Aleksandra used so often for her work? No. He didn't. But, then, what could he do with it? He was lost. Everything crumbled. All his common sense couldn't find solid ground and his hands.... ****, they wouldn't stop trembling! He turned and went down, back sliding down the kitchen cabinet before he was sitting on the floor, rag tossed aside, arms on his knees and his hands splayed in front of him. The tremble was visible, and he couldn't stop staring, as if the blood was something he'd never be able to wash clean.
“Come on, King, get off the counter. You know you can’t be up here when I’m cooking,” she chastised as she dipped her slender fingers beneath his hefty form to hoist him from the surface. When a low growl rattled his chest, she pressed her lips to the silken fur of his ear before dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. “Go bother Blaize. You know how he just loves you crawling on his clothes.” With a soft hum, she peeled off a small piece of steak and dropped it to the floor, just in time for the rather rotund cat to snatch it from the tile and dash off down the hall, large eyes locked in on his target – the bed. “Your funeral, love,” she laughed as she dusted off her hands, sending a few puffs of flour into the air. She couldn’t remember how long she had been at this – but she felt the exhaustion seeping into her bones. By the time her boyfriend had made it home, she had wanted to do nothing more than crawl onto the couch and forget the entire experiment, but she couldn’t. Finals were closing in, and she felt the fear of failure creeping along the back of her neck, threatening to choke her; she had to get this right. Leaning across the counter, she pressed the ‘off’ button on the radio, dropping the kitchen into immediate silence. The counter was filled from edge to edge with various colorful entrees, and none of them appealed to her. They were all so bland, so typical, that it sickened her. With a quiet sound of frustration, she snatched the plastic-wrap from the drawer and began to wrap up the plates, her movements quick and sure.
Unlike her companions, she didn’t trash the food when she was finished. It didn’t matter how wrong the taste might be, or that she used too much salt in the potatoes – there were others within the city that would eat it, regardless. Once she was finished with the last plate, she moved to put it in the fridge, only to pause when the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door. She had already placed the plate on the counter when the knock sounded throughout the apartment, and dusting her hands on her nightgown, she headed for the entryway, King dancing between her legs. “I don’t need your help,” she chuckled as she swung the door open – and immediately moved to slam it closed. However, the heavy boot stopped the trajectory. “Now, baby, that’s no way to greet me, is it?” Lance’s voice was like molten honey, but she knew the poison that lurked within every word. Narrowing her eyes, she kept her fingers curled around the frame, even as the man reached for her, fingers dipping beneath the strap of her camisole to give it a tug. “It’s like you knew I was coming. Going to let me in, love?” Each word he spoke had her shuddering, but she managed to keep her features schooled as her gaze swept over him. “I’d rather burn. How did you find me, Lance?”
[BLAIZE]
Showering was a habit that Blaize couldn't quite curtail. It didn't matter that he was a vampire and thus suffered no body odour; he didn't sweat, and so it didn't matter how many hours he spent dancing, he was as cool and as clean as when he started. Still, when he came home from the studio and he and Aleksa had decided on settling for the evening in front of the television, the first thing he thought to do was meander through the apartment and to the shower. Eventually he'd conclude that it had something to do with the water, the broiling heat of it soothing some of the dead cold from his skin. It was a comfort, like coming in from the rain or washing away the salt after a day at the beach. The door to the bedrrom was down the hallway and it wasn't completely closed. He'd used the ensuite, and came out of the shower sheathed in steam, collecting the moisture from his hair with a fluffy white towel. What he witnessed when he looked up at the bed was King, the oversized cat, chowing down on something that left a red stain on the duvet cover. "Aleksa...!" he called, dropping the towel so he could clap his hands, the sharp sound causing the cat to skitter. At least he took the meat with him. Blaize couldn't exactly blame the cat. It was a cat. It should have been taught better.
He soon realised, however, that Aleksa wouldn't have heard him call out to her. Blaize paused, the dresser drawer part way open. Had she turned the television on already...? No. That was her voice, and it was accompanied by a man's voice. Someone else was in the apartment -- or at least at the door. Frowning, Blaize reached into the recess of the drawer and, one after the other, tugged on first his boxers (which is all he'd have been wearing were it not for company) and then a pair of dark trackpants. He walked down the hallway and glanced first to the empty kitchen, and then to the front door. It was just in time to see another man tugging at the strap of her camisole -- the one Blaize himself had enjoyed assessing earlier, and which fit her body like a glove -- and calling her love. That endearment, which Aleksandra was so fond of using on Blaize. And now he wondered if she'd picked it up from somewhere else. His feet scuffed to a stop somewhere behind Aleksandra, hazel eyes sharp as he took in the white of Aleksa's knuckles as she gripped the frame of the door, and then the boot keeping her from shutting it. Clearly, this man was not wanted. "Excuse me, but who are you...?" Blaize asked, sliding in behind Aleksa, his chest a mere hair's breadth from her back, his own fingers closing around the door's frame a few hand spans above Aleksa's. "Y'know what? It doesn't matter. It appears you're not welcome..."
[ALEKSANDRA]
She didn’t have to hear him speak to know that he was behind her, nor did she need the feel of his body just scant inches from her own. She felt him. The tension kicked up the second he stepped into the entry-way, and she swore she could taste the anger and distrust on the air. Pressing her hand through her hair, she allowed her fingers to loosen from the door, her arm dropping to her side as she took that single step back. When she did, she felt her back press to his chest, and she knew he was shirtless. The entire time, though, she didn’t remove her glare from the man in front of her. She knew that look, that anger that darkened his eyes, the way his fingers clenched at his sides. “Lance, don’t. Just go.” She felt his anger. She felt the rage that shadowed his soul, the jealousy that threatened to rip him apart. It washed over her, and she had to swallow past the poison filling her throat. A soft, strained sound escaped her chest, but she tapped it down as his dull gaze jumped from Blaize and back to her. “Who the **** is he, Sandra? You’re whoring it out pretty quick,” his voice was heavy with venom, and she ran her tongue over her lower lip before tightening her jaw. She could just step aside, she could move into the kitchen, and allow Blaize to fight this battle. She should, with the way her head was suddenly pounding, the steady hum of electricity starting to crackle within her skull, but she didn’t. Instead, she allowed her full lips to tug into a saccharine smile, the blue of her eyes brightening. “This is Blaize. My boyfriend,” she allowed the last word to fall from her tongue with a sweetness that made the man in front of her twitch.
“You know we’re meant to be together, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re with me. He looks like trash,” Lance spat, his hand moving to curl around her bicep to pull her into him. As a human, she would have fallen right into him, her strength no match for his – but she was different now. Despite the way his grasp made her skin turn white around the edges of his fingers, she didn’t sway, nor did she speak. It was all happening far too quickly, the train wreck unfolding before her eyes in a way she knew she couldn’t control.
[BLAIZE]
Blaize's first instinct was to laugh. Sandra? One of his mother's best friends was called Sandra. She still thought she was living in the fifties, but her make up was always smudged and her smile was always as fake as the blonde of her hair. The nickname didn't suit his Aleksandra. Not one bit. The strained sound that Aleksa uttered, however, stalled the smile on Blaize's lips. She stepped back and his hand found her shoulder. His squeeze was to provide reassurance. The smile was wiped completely when Lance insinuated Aleksa was a whore. It didn't matter what the pretty-boy called Blaize's. The dancer had ego enough to withstand a few misplaced insults. To call Aleksa a whore, however, was stepping over a very clear line. A line that should not be crossed. Fury curled in Blaize's gut, eyes narrowed like twin shards of glass. Rather than rip out Lance's tongue right there on the threshold to their home, Blaize was instead preparing a heavily worded threat. The planned words never tasted the air, however. As soon as the human's dirty fingers wrapped around Aleksa's arm, Blaize reacted. He let go of the door frame and gripped Lance's wrist. Brittle human bones were no match for vampiric strength, and Blaize did not hold back. He gripped and twisted until he could feel bones ready to shatter. "If you want to keep your hand," he growled. "I suggest you let her go and never touch her again."
[ALEKSANDRA]
She should have warned him, but the thought came too late. By the time she had collected herself enough and found her voice, Blaize already had his fingers secured around his wrist. At first, she remained completely still, her eyes locked on the bone-crushing grip her boyfriend had on her ex. “He doesn’t like it when people touch me,” she heard herself say, her voice barely rising above a whisper. She knew how that had to make the blonde sound, but she couldn’t be fussed with fixing her wording. It wouldn’t matter in the end, anyway. Blaize could have been a saint and Lance wouldn’t have reacted any differently. As it was, his eyes darkened, and despite the pain he was clearly in – the rage kicked up a notch – until she swore she could taste it. There was a difference within her, a subtle shift that had she not been taking note of everything, she would have missed. Tilting her head, she watched as Lance blinked back the tears and clenched his jaw, before he finally tore his gaze from her to glare up into Blaize’s eyes. “I’ve touched her plenty before, and I’ll do it again. She knows where she belongs,” he chuckled, and the thickening in the air intensified. She could feel each emotion roll over her like a tidal wave, but she still couldn’t decipher who was who, nor did she truly have time to try and pick apart the splintering of her mind. As the pain began to pulse behind her eyes, she found herself lifting her hand, fingers quickly curling around her boyfriend’s wrist. Instead of trying to pry his fingers free, she merely rested her own against his skin when she felt the sudden wave of jealousy slam into her chest. “This is just ridiculous. Go home, Lance. Go find Rebecca, or Charlene. I’m sure they’ll satisfy your palette.” Ignoring the way her vision blurred, she turned and brushed her lips across Blaize’s jaw before slipping beneath his arm to head for the living room. If he wouldn’t listen to her – hopefully he would listen to Blaize.
[BLAIZE]
Although Aleksandra wasn't wrong, Blaize still inwardly cringed. It hadn't been too long ago that he'd been telling her she'd have to teach him how to properly be in a relationship, and now it sounded as if he were violently over-possessive. What Blaize felt now wasn't jealousy. There was zero green in his soul for this foul-mouthed fool on their doorstep. What he felt was a protective rage. But, she wasn't wrong. He did not like it if people touched Aleksandra with a view to harm her, or claim her as Lance was doing now. Even if they weren't in a relationship he'd have taken issue with the way Lance spoke to Aleksa, as if she were just a possession to be tossed away and reclaimed on a whim. Aleksa's touch did nothing to persuade Blaize to let go of Lance; her kiss was accepted with no dramatic flare. The dancer knew what her choice was long before this had even begun and he had no qualms. If he weren't there with her, he was certain Aleskandra would have been able to defend herself if Lance had tried anything untoward -- even if she didn't realise it, the instinct would have kicked in before he'd got too far. As it was, she was saved the effort.
"I don't give two shits what you used to do. Maybe you shouldn't have taken it for granted. Maybe if you weren't such a possessive misogynist you'd still be with her. But you're not. She clearly wants nothing to do with you so just say goodbye to any notions you have of 'possessing' her. Should I break your wrist or are you going to leave?" he asked. His voice was cool and calm but, if Aleksandra were still nearby, she'd feel the thirst. It tied into his rage and, as his fingers gripped Lance's wrist he could feel the blood pulsing beneath. Oh, how he wanted to snap that wrist at such an angle that the bone broke through skin; he wanted blood. He wanted to drain it from Lance's body until there was nothing left and his black heart had stopped beating.
[ALEKSANDRA]
She couldn’t get to the couch fast enough. By the time, she brushed her hand against the arm, her nails digging into the cloth, the room tipped. It felt as though she was on a ride that would never end. As her vision dimmed, the dull throb revved up to a sharp pain, and she sank into the cushions with a groan. “He needs to go,” she whispered, though she hadn’t needed to. Hadn’t that been the goal from the moment she opened the door to reveal his serpent’s smile? Running her tongue along the edge of her teeth, she practically hissed when she felt the tension in the air, the rage – no, not rage. Hunger. It pulsed against her, crawled over her skin like a thousand insects. By the time she heard the threat roll from her boyfriend’s tongue, she felt as if she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe. All she could taste – all she could feel – was the desperate starvation. Without realizing she was standing, she moved unsteadily back towards his side, her fingers digging into his shirt. “He’s going to leave,” she said, her voice holding a strength that she wasn’t aware she possessed. Her eyes – unfocused and dull – turned towards the bane of her existence, and she watched as his features shifted.
Gone was the confidence, and in its place was fear. She could taste it on her tongue, bitter and thick. It rose just beneath the hunger, and barely surpassed the anger. “Let him go, baby. He’s not worth it. Not this time.” Her voice was a charming whisper as she brushed her lips over a bare shoulder, her palm resting on his spine. She didn’t know if he would listen – or if he even heard her. Dismissing Lance completely, she kept her attention on her partner, and somehow, pushed past the chaos that spun wildly within her to focus on him – and only him. No matter what he chose, she was there.
[BLAIZE]
The whisper did not go unheard; Blaize's hearing was that of a vampire, and he was fully aware of Aleksandra's need for the interloper to leave. And yet, he had given no answer. The asshole just stood there shaking like a leaf and Blaize could think of nothing but the hot blood that was now pounding through a heavily beating heart. Blaize thought of Darcy and the way she'd died; he thought of how he'd lost control, and how he'd promised he never would again. He'd made a vow to himself that he would do better; that he could deny himself blood just as much as he had, but he would resist when the opportunity presented itself. Even with Aleksa's hand against his spine, even though he could feel her focus only on him, he couldn't let Lance go. Rather than let Lance go, Blaize instead pulled him inside, out of the hallway, away from prying eyes. The apartment building was a good one, a rich one, its apartments spread out and its walls thick. It was a better apartment than the one where Aleksa had been staying, where there were plenty of prying eyes. Though Blaize wasn't currently thinking about who or how many might hear Lance scream. One arm pulled back, fingers closed into a fist that was driven into Lance's abdomen. And, when the man doubled over, that was when his wrist snapped. Blaize did it on purpose. Without the teeth to break the skin, he needed some other means. The wrist snapped and Blaize couldn't decipher his own shouts from Lance's. Where Lance had trembled with fear, Blaize trembled with rage. The wrist snapped and then kept going, driven back until the knuckles touched the top of the forearm. Bones splintered and finally broke through skin. Blood flicked and splattered over Blaize's face, into his hair. It hit the roof. It would have continued to pulse and fountain, but Blaize's mouth closed over the gruesome wound.
The blood was hot and fresh and the guilt took a back seat. Blaize told himself that Lance deserved it though, truth be told, he was thinking now of nothing but his thirst, his insatiable hunger, and satisfying it. If Lance tried to pull away, Blaize only held on tighter. He no doubt was making a bigger mess, but again, he wasn't thinking. He wasn't thinking anything at all.
[ALEKSANDRA]
The air around them began to feel like a cage, and she had to close her eyes as the emotions continued to build, each one harboring its own unique taste – and each one as dangerous as the last. Anger, fear, despair, need, and hunger. She tried to catch her breath, to push through the thickening air, to stop the scene from unfolding – but she was too late. She had told herself that she would support him through it all. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t falter, even if he chose the path of violence – but she hadn’t been prepared for this. When he had lost control before, it had been with a fist. It hadn’t been… Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from his back to press it to her mouth, fingers shaking as she pressed them against her lips, as if she could keep the repulsion within. It wasn’t him that sickened her. It was the sound. The cracking of bone, splintering of skin, and the rush of blood through the vein echoed within her skull, bounced around until she heard nothing but that violent melody. Turning her head away, she swallowed the scream that built within her throat, and as tears stained her cheeks – she finally reacted. Battling against the need to turn and run, she reached a hand out, fingers curling into his hair. She had to stop him. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a monster – he wasn’t violent.
“Blaize!” Her voice was sharp, though it lost its commanding tone when she choked, the sound entering on a desperate plea as she dropped her remaining hand to his shoulder. Pulling on him, she tried to disengage his mouth from her ex-boyfriend’s wrist, but she couldn’t. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she remembered being warned against something like this. When a dog when on the attack, you shouldn’t intervene, unless you wanted to be harmed yourself, but she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She had to trust in that, if she trusted in nothing else. If he did end up turning on her, it wouldn’t be him. “Let him go. Come on, love, come back to me,” she pleaded, glassy gaze turning towards Lance. He was fading fast. She could see it in the way his skin paled, and in the way his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He tried to fight against him, he tried to free himself from the vampire’s grasp, but he couldn’t. It was then, she realized, she might not be able to save him. Through all of this, the scent of blood filled the air and painted the walls crimson, but it didn’t affect her. The scent didn’t drive her mad. Her only focus was on saving her boyfriend, on pulling him back from the abyss. Drowning beneath the blood lust, she tried to place herself in between the two.
[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra's attempt to keep Blaize from his meal was only construed by the vampire as further attempt for his prey to get away from him. He didn't lash out at Aleksandra, only resisted her attempts to peel him from his meal, body growing tenser beneath her touch. How long since he had fed? How many meals was he making up for? And yet, his hunger was not insatiable. There was no reason to keep taking beyond what he needed; like when one's eyes are too big for their guts and they order too much food for dinner, and in the end only eat three quarters. It was only when he started to feel 'full' that Aleksandra's pleas broke the surface. His lips pulled back from the wound his actions had created, his eyes glazed as they settled upon the woman trying to wedge herself between him and his prey. Not just a woman, but his childe. And not just his childe, but the woman he...
He leaned back, offering the slowly pulsing wound to Aleksandra. Lance had stopped struggling, having lost the energy to do so, and Blaize was able to release him, to slide an arm around Aleksandra's waist. Yes, he thought. She was right! She should have some, too. It was selfish of him to take all the blood for himself. And then he blinked. It was a slow realisation the crawled from his gut to his heart and outward. The blood churned and he felt sick with it, over-full. When he blinked for the second time his gaze became clearer, understanding flooding the cool green depths. He turned from Aleksandra to Lance, whose face was pallid and his lips slack. Was he dead? If he wasn't, he had to be close to it. The moan that gurgled in Blaize's throat was unrecognisable. What had he done?! He tried to summon the fury; he tried to tell himself that Lance had deserved it, and a large part of him still believed that. Lance was scum. But was scum not redeemable? Surely Lance could have become a better person, if given the chance. The blood tasted bitter on Blaize's tongue and he let go of Lance. He let go of Aleksandra as he took a step back, and then another. Guilt. Oh, the guilt! It slammed into him like a wrecking ball until he was doubled over and on his knees. He couldn't have made it to the bathroom if he'd tried. The bile that spewed past Blaize's lips was thick and red -- a waste of the blood that he had just consumed. But, just as he had been unable to control his fury, now he was unable to control his guilt.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It felt as if she were trapped with a maelstrom, her mind slowly becoming shattered beneath the strain of emotions. The anger, the blood lust, the envy, the fear, the… nightmare that the evening had turned into had all but splintered the woman’s brain in two, and she couldn’t think. Her own actions, her own thoughts and feelings were lost beneath the men, and she found herself having to swallow down the acidic taste of fury as she curled her fingers tighter around her boyfriend’s wrist. When she felt him begin to tense beneath her touch, she started to pull away, her own eyes widening for the slightest moment as – finally – one of her own emotions rose to the surface, daring to be felt. Fear. It only lasted for a second, before she shook the pitiful notion away. He wouldn’t harm her. Hadn’t she already convinced herself of that? He had never once given her any inclination to believe otherwise. When they fought, it was his words that lashed against her skin, or the coldness in his eyes. His hands – unless to wrap around her body, to bring her in – never touched her. Even now, as his mind was lost beneath his need for blood, his hunger taking the reins, he knew who she was. Clearing her throat, she continued to try and shift herself between the two, one hand finally moving to press to his chest. “Sweetheart,” she tried again, her voice quiet, as though he were a fearful animal. If not for the thickening of her accent, she might have been able to play off her own fear, her own worry.
Even with her gaze locked on her sire, she felt the man behind her, heard his choked, wet pleas for release. He was trying to scream, trying to demand to be let go – but there were no words. It was all in the sounds he made, the way he struggled, even as he began to weaken, his body unable to keep up the fight for survival. It never crossed her mind to let him die, nor did it cross her mind that he might deserve it. Maybe, for a second, there had been a brief whisper – but that was before she witnessed the blood – had felt the terror – and now, the guilt. In the blink of an eye, the fury was gone, and the guilt was overwhelming. It pressed against her mind, a black, dense cloud that she couldn’t fight. Her hand fell from him, and she knew it was the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t let him go – he needed her – but how could she focus when the guilt was taking her to her knees? It wasn’t her burden to carry, yet she didn’t fight it off, she didn’t try to run from it. She let it wash over her, allowed the darkened tendrils to curl into the deepest recesses of her heart and mind. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” she heard herself whisper, but her voice wasn’t her own – or was it? She couldn’t tell. When he collapsed, she moved with him, Lance completely forgotten as her arms found the blonde’s shoulders.
Even as he vomited, the blood coating the floor, her knees, and any surface it could reach – she held him. Her tears fell freely as she pressed a kiss to his throat, his jaw, her words of comfort, of devotion, whispered gently into his ear. Behind her, she felt Lance twitch, heard his sharp intake of breath as he came to – and she turned. She didn’t think twice. Pulling her hand back, she curled her fingers into a fist – and slammed it into his jaw. His head snapped back, skull cracking against the door, and then he was quiet once more.
[BLAIZE]
The blood created a lake on the apartment floor, red and frothy as if it had been through a blender. It looked like something out of a horror movie, like it had come bubbling up through the floorboards. The guilt had a hold of Blaize and even Aleksa's tender touch couldn't console him. He didn't lean into it. He couldn't accept her condolences; he didn't look up. Green eyes were steadfast upon the mess he had made, his limbs still tense as he realised how he must look, as the full consequence of his actions found its way home. Aleksandra released him and he swayed, finally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Although he'd ousted a lot of blood from his body, he'd still got enough. He was stronger, now, his skin had gained a healthier glow. The dark circles beneath his eyes had disappeared, and his cheeks had filled out. There was a lustre to his hair that had previously been lacking; and he gained all this at Lance's detriment. Although on any other night Blaize might have admired Aleksandra's successful attempt to keep Lance quiet, for now he could only think about what he had done. Not only was there a chance Lance could die, but Blaize had complicated Aleksandra in the murder. She was a part of it, she was here with him when it happened. She was witness to it. God, she was witness to his utter failure.
Shame compounded Blaize's guilt, grew from it like a weed on a steroids. Before she had a chance to turn around, Blaize had stood and made his way to the kitchen. He found the nearest tea-towel and returned to the scene, brushing past Aleksa so he could tie the fabric tight around the torn wrist. Blood immediately soaked through the cloth, and Blaize was heaving Lance from his fallen position. He was blacked out, now, and there would be no screaming. But he was still alive -- just. If he was going to survive, he needed a hospital. He would not be another Darcy. Blaize would not condemn another to this life. Though he also would not admit to himself that he'd prefer if Lance died, even if Blaize was locked away for the murder. "I'll take care of it," Blaize muttered. He'd wait until he was out on the street before he called the ambulance. He would claim he had found Lance that way -- and would hope that Lance wouldn't remember. That he would tell no one. He refused to look at Aleksandra, refused to acknowledge her pity. He was supposed to be strong for her, and he had failed.
[ALEKSANDRA]
With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she slowly allowed her arms to fall to her sides, fingers twisting in the thin fabric of her top. The lace was too smooth against her skin, and soon, she realized she was tugging on it, trying to pull it from her torso, as if she couldn’t breathe. It was suffocating her. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes as the warmth of the blood pooled around her kneeled form, the crimson staining her pale skin as it trickled beneath her knees and built between her toes. It didn’t cross her mind, as she watched the lights sparkle within the dark pool, that it wasn’t just blood. The froth that had spewed so venomously from her boyfriend’s lips danced among the thick substance, causing the ruby to lighten in places, almost as if it were trying to turn it pink – a color far more soothing. Shaking her head, she barely registered when he moved. Her fingers were still twisting around her top, pulling at the offending material, listening to it rip as it strained against her body. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she breathe? Why did it feel as though she were drowning, a thousand miles away, and all she could see was darkness? She could taste the guilt on her tongue, the overwhelming shame choking her. It wasn’t hers, was it? What did she have to be guilty of? Lance was her ex-boyfriend, she had made that clear. She hadn’t hidden anything from him, she hadn’t played a dangerous game, she hadn’t asked him to come over. She had demanded that he left – and yet, he had remained, he had done this to himself. So, it wasn’t her guilt. How was it possible, then, that she was feeling his? Had she finally, truly, lost her mind? If it was his guilt beating at her, tearing into her heart, ripping apart the long-dead organ, then she had to snap out of it.
With a slow, almost defeated, release of air through her teeth, the brunette slowly placed her hands to the ground. Her palms threatened to slide on the blood, and when she found her balance, she began to lift herself to her feet unsteadily. “No, I’ll take care of it,” she heard herself speak, though her voice sounded as though she was underwater. Running her tongue along her lip, she tried to ignore the drops of blood on her skin as her gaze finally found his, blue eyes wide. It didn’t matter. The buzz of electricity didn’t bother her, the hum of the television, the swish of her cat’s tail. The smell of freshly cooked food that was buried beneath the scent of blood, the way his guilt slammed into her – none of it mattered. Only he did. Forcing a breath into her lungs, she found herself taking a step back, and then another, until she had found herself in the same place he had been at earlier. Grabbing a handful of rags, she made her way back towards the pair and once again lowered herself to her knees. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Did she reach for him again? Did she demand he talk to her, did she throw Lance out the door? She couldn’t get her thoughts to work with her, and so, she settled for wiping the rag along the floor, beginning to soak up the blood – as much of it as she could. She would talk to him. She had to – but first, she had to protect him. She had to clean up the mess. “Go change your clothes. I’ve got it.”
[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra was suggesting that Blaize put Lance back down again, that he leave the body there and go change his clothes and allow her to clean up the mess that he had made. She'd returned to the scene with rags and was intent on cleaning up the vomit that had spewed from Blaize's gut. To see her on her hands and knees like that only made him feel worse; his chest hurt, his gut, his whole mind reeling from the thing he'd told himself he would never do again. The dancer took pride in his control. But he kept losing it, like it were a key without a ring condemned always to be found at the back of the washing machine or between the couch cushions. "Just LEAVE it, Aleksa. I'll clean it when I get back!" he shouted. The anger was misplaced. He was angry with himself. He was furious with himself, but this is what it had come down to. He'd grabbed the door's handle with his free hand and when it swung open, he dragged the prone Lance out onto the landing. No one was there. It was quiet. There was the gentle hum of a building at peace, so at odds with the scene that had just taken place over their threshold. "Close the door. Please just leave it," he said. He didn't have his phone with him, but he assumed that Lance would have his. What self-respecting person didn't have a mobile phone these days? Blaize got to the elevator and waited; he considered dragging Lance back through the apartment and throwing him over the balcony, but that would only inspire questions. They'd be able to figure out where the body had come from. They'd make the connection to the woman who lived in the building -- people would know she was Lance's ex. No, he needed to take Lance for a little walk.
The elevator soon arrived and Blaize held his breath as the doors opened. He dragged Lance inside and immediately looked for security cameras. Were there any? What the **** had he gotten himself into? Should he just come clean? He'd killed someone, once. He hadn't known his own strength and he'd been strangled by the guilt of it. He'd been less than a week old as a vampire -- Lyonel had helped him. They'd covered it up. But he couldn't ask for that kind of help again. He wouldn't. Down on the ground floor Blaize stopped out the front of the building. He let Lance go, letting him slide down and rest against the wall. They wouldn't be going for a walk. Blaize rifled through Lance's pockets until he found the phone; he made the call, gave the address, described the injuries. In one brief elevator ride, he'd decided to do the right thing.
[ALEKSANDRA]
Her hands shook as she knelt within the destruction, the cloth soaked within moments of touching the floor. In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a better way to do this – that she would need something more. Bleach, another handful of rags, a couple of trash bags. Wasn’t there a scene in one of the movies that they recently watched that told her all that she needed to know? Should she risk an internet search on the best methods in covering up… this? With each second that passed, her mind continued to race, and she found herself struggling to breathe. It was more than the panic that gripped her heart, it was the scent. Finally, the sweet tang of copper was catching up to her, beckoning her. Moving to her knees, she tossed the first rag to the side and stared at her hands, the pale skin stained with blood. She had caused this. There were a thousand different scenes playing within her mind on how she could have handled this, on how she could have saved him. With his guilt twisting in her gut, her pain screaming within her mind, she barely noticed that he had moved. It wasn’t until his shout echoed off the walls and ricocheted inside of her skull that she realized he had even spoken. Her features shifted before she could control herself, the flinch reactionary. “And I said I would handle it,” she whispered, though the words were broken. She never lifted her head, her eyes locked on his feet. If she moved from her submission, if she allowed him to see her eyes, she knew he’d hate himself.
Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the tears that his sudden anger had caused. As quietly as she could, she sniffed once and grabbed the second rag, her movements’ jerky as she swiped it across the floor. She said nothing more as she listened to him hoist her ex-boyfriend and she didn’t blink when the door slammed shut behind him, leaving her within the deafening silence of their apartment. It wasn’t until she heard his steps fade that she allowed her shoulders to shake, her sob silent as she finished cleaning up the mess. It wasn’t grand, but for the moment, it would have to do. Quickly gathering the rags, she tossed them in the bin and moved to the sink, the water nearly scalding as she tried to clean the blood from her skin. With every swipe of the soap against her flesh, she counted the minutes he’d been gone. “Where the hell is he?” Pulling her hands from beneath the spray, she didn’t think twice as she snatched the nearest rag to dry her hands and deftly skipped over what blood remained on her way out. Something told her that whatever was keeping him wasn’t something that she wanted. There had been too much chaos within him, too much anger and guilt. It had eaten away at her senses, and as she slammed her palm against the call button, she could still feel it swirling within him – and within her. When the elevator arrived, she stepped in it and frantically pressed the ground floor as she bounced on the heels of her feet, dull, red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the numbers as she descended.
[BLAIZE]
As per usual in this city, the authorities were having a busy night. They said they'd be there as soon as possible, but they definitely weren't just around the corner. Blaize had only given the injuries, and not how they had been given -- a snapped wrist could be the result of a fall. Loss of blood definitely had to do with how close the bone had come to severing the major artery. There was no need for cops. The artery hadn't been torn at the neck. There were no teeth marks; no proof whatsoever that a vampire was involved. If anything happened to Blaize, if anyone came knocking on his door to question him, it wouldn't be tonight. It would be the next night. It would be whenever Lance woke up; whenever he decided to tell the story of his girlfriend who was now shacked up with a vampire. Blaize considered all the ways he'd twist the story; he'd probably make Blaize out to be some monster who had Aleksandra held captive. Compelled. He snorted. If only this were a TV show and Blaize could compel others to do his bidding. At least, then, he could force Lance to forget. There was very little hope that Lance would have mercy, that he would go lenient on Blaize because he was given the opportunity to live. No, if Blaize were lucky enough to avoid the authorities, it would be because Lance might just be the kind of vengeful, over-confidence douchebag who'd want to come back and deal with Blaize himself. But perhaps he'd be too much of a coward for that kind of plan?
Every now and again someone would walk past; Blaize was pacing in front of the unconscious Lance. They'd stop, horrified or worried. Curious. And he'd always tell them it was fine. They could move on. The ambulance had already been called, and the guy was beyond civilian help. Eventually, Blaize could hear the sirens. They had to be at least a few blocks away and it would be extremely coincidental if this wasn't the call they were attending to. Blaize crossed his arms over his chest -- not in a defensive way, but in a way that made him look strangely vulnerable -- and stared into space. What would he tell them when they got there? He could lie. He would lie. It was his word against Lance's, but he'd have to try to keep that mask steadfast. He'd have to keep his debilitating guilt and shame under wraps. There were stairs inside, right? No one was going to go and look. That's what happened. Lance was being a dickhead on the stairs and he fell. They're cement stairs, unforgiving. They're narrow. Gravity, and the force of the guy's own weight -- his wrist wouldn't stand a chance. If he'd thought about this early, Blaize might have actually thrown Lance down the stairs just to make the injuries more consistent. But then he realised he wouldn't have. Not in his current state. He hated Lance. He would never like Lance. But that didn't make his actions any less monstrous, and less horrific. If he couldn't take blood from Lance in a civil manner, how could be possibly throw the guy down the stairs? Probably the same way he could break that other guy's nose. Violence caused no guilt. Curious, that. Whatever the case, it was too late now. The ambulance was peeling around the corner, its blue and red flashing lights bouncing off the building's outer walls. He would never know if he'd have been able to do it or not.
[ALEKSANDRA]
Running her fingers through her hair, she tried to ignore the tension that had coiled tight in the pit of her stomach as the elevator descended. It wasn’t an easy feat by any means, and by the time she had reached the ground floor, she had given up the battle. There was no use in fighting it, no use in driving herself mad when the end result was going to be the same. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew. Without a doubt, the moment she stepped from the warmth of the elevator, she knew it was pointless. The fury, the guilt and the confusion stole her breath as the metal doors squealed closed behind her, just as she had known it would. She didn’t need to see him to know where he was, and instead, she followed that chaotic thread until she was stepping out into the night, her wary eyes finding his. “Blaize, come inside,” she pleaded, even as the glowing lights of the ambulance illuminated her pale and harrowed features. “It’s not going to do you any good to stay out here.” The words came tumbling out, her voice shaking as she stepped towards him, slender hand reaching out as if to grab for him. Before she made contact, however, she jerked back, the fear of rejection dancing in the blue of her gaze. “One look at us and they’ll know… they’ll know, won’t they?” Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she closed her eyes, if only for a second. A split second, as if that one moment of darkness would allow her to undo all of the wrong that had transpired in the past forty-five minutes. As the sirens grew closer, she forced her eyes open again, the blue locked on her boyfriend as she crossed her arms over her chest.
It was clear in that moment, if he went down, she was going with him. It didn’t matter that she was damn near falling apart with the mere thought of being hurt, or that she was digging her nails with such strength into her palms that they had begun to bleed over the single flash of the future. Him, in cuffs. Him, beaten, bruised… or worse, dead. Turning her head away, she pulled her hair over her shoulder as the taste of her blood coated her tongue, the bitterness causing her stomach to roll. “Baby, please…”
[BLAIZE]
Come inside, she said, and Blaize gave the vaguest shake of the head. He agreed -- it wouldn't do him any good to stay out here, but that was the point. He didn't deserve good. She reached for him and his fingers flexed, stretching, wanting to welcome her touch and the strength and support that it might provide. He'd glanced down at the expectation, wanting to watcch their fingers twine, but his hand remained empty, and he missed that look in her eye. Why? Because he couldn't look her in the eye. No, he didn't deserve anything good, which meant he didn't deserve Aleksandra, who'd been on her hands and knees to clean up his mess, who'd offered to take care of it. Was she doing it out of some kind of weird obligation? And now she didn't want to touch him. Why should she? He was a monster. He crossed his arms over his chest in much the same way Aleksandra did, that vague shake of the head now more confident. "No, because they won't look at us, Aleksa, they'll look at me. They'll know because I'm covered in blood, and you're going to go back inside," he said. He didn't look at her until he could smell it; he'd only been able to smell Lance's blood up until that moment, but the wind changed. It danced along the street and swirled around Aleksndra, through her clothes, clutching at the scent of her own blood as it spilled from her palm, as it crawled from her breath. Why was she bleeding?! Blaize's arms dropped and he took that step toward her, taking her by the shoulders and physically turning her around, forcing her back toward the building, back toward safety. The sirens were slowing, their destination reached; they were on the wrong side of the road and had to keep going so that they could make a u-turn and come back.
"Please, Aleksa. Please just go back inside? Don't stay out here with me. You didn't do this, I did. And if Lance comes around and tells them what happened, it's only a matter of time, isn't it? He won't let it go, and I don't want to kill him. So I'm going to have to take the fall for this one way or another. I will. They'll buy it. An altercation between the jealous ex and the boyfriend. Of course they'll buy it, it's the truth," he said. If Aleksandra had been pleading, so too was Blaize. He didn't want her embroiled in the trouble he had caused. He did not want his own carelessness to affect her. He wouldn't allow it.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It was almost tragic. The ache in her chest was insurmountable. It was the only emotion that she could feel, that she could name, and it was the only emotion that was wholly hers. It filled her chest, swelled inside of her heart, and pressed against her rib cage. It tried to suffocate her, to fill her mind with dark thoughts, and all because he let her pull away. He didn’t reach for her when she refused to reach for him, he hadn’t met her half-way. With that one misunderstood action, that missed moment, they had failed. She had dropped away and he had let her go. In the movies, it might have meant the end. It might have faded to black, and left them circling each other in the void if the unknown, but this wasn’t a fantasy. This was reality - her reality - and she couldn’t stand there and allow him to be ripped away from her. Even if his rejection spread through her and choked off her airways, she would take him to safety. She would see him home. As the lights grew closer, bathing the once quiet night in their frantic colors, she grit her teeth. “Blaize.” His name came from between her teeth in an unfamiliar tone, one that begged for him to listen, one that was harsh.
He still hadn’t looked at her. He still didn’t see the way her eyes glistened with unshed tears, or the pale pallor of her skin. He didn’t see the small cut in her lip, or the worry - the care - in her gaze. He saw none of it, because he couldn’t bare the sight of her. His guilt chipped away at her, broke her apart piece by piece as his shame surrounded her and tore through her defences. She could feel it, she could name it, but she couldn’t explain it. Was the guilt because of her? Was he ashamed that he had let himself care for her? Or, was it something more? When he finally broke, his gaze finding hers, his hands urging her away, she shook her head. “No. No, it is us. It isn’t you. It ceased to be just you the moment you kissed me. You can regret that, you can regret me, but if you refuse to go inside with me, then you are not going down alone.” Her voice shook, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. It has escaped, the pain too much for her. Each word had been forced past a lump in her throat that felt too much like a fist full of razor blades, but still she remained adamant.
[BLAIZE]
Blaize didn't understand. He'd inadvertently caught the look in Aleksandra's eyes, the tears that glistened and tumbled. Why was she crying?! Was it because of Lance? She hadn't seemed too fond of him, but she had dated him. If she'd dated him, there had to have been some care, there. Had it lingered? Was she upset that he had been so injured? It couldn't just be that, could it? She'd knocked him out to come to Blaize's side. Did she...? Regrets. She was the one who first uttered the word and Blaize's dropped jaw snapped shut. His eyes -- previously distant and dejected, wide and fearful -- were now sharp. Frustrated, even angry. Of course he knew that Aleksandra could have low self esteem, that she could doubt herself and Blaize's affection for her. But for that self-loathing to rear its head now, of all times? It only made him feel worse. What, in all that had happened, could have made her think that his opinion of her had changed, or that he regretted anything about her? He couldn't fathom. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he continued to push and guide Aleksandra. This time, he went with her. He had his arm around her torso, his stride strong and sure as he caved. There was no choice. If she wasn't going to do as he asked, then he wasn't going to let her come to any harm.
"Don't be... I can't... what the ****, Aleksa? Why would you even think that I regret you? Where the **** did that even come from?!" he said, his voice low but harsh as they crossed the lobby. The white walls and tiles were all lit up in blue and red as the ambulances finally found their mark. Blaize smashed at the elevator button numerous times, though there was no need. It was still waiting at the bottom floor from where Aleksa had exited it. The metal doors slid open with a welcoming sigh, and Blaize led Aleksa inside. He turned on his heel and jabbed the button that would close the doors before they times themselves out. It was only when he was standing still that he realised he was trembling; he didn't want Aleksandra to feel it, and his arm fell away from Aleksandra's waist. He could feel dried blood still clinging to his cheek and his chin and he hastily rubbed at it. "...it should be the other way around," he muttered as he sank into the corner of the elevator, closing his eyes as he tried to regain control of his own senses, his own emotions.
[ALEKSANDRA]
It changed in the span of a single breath. The pain that had gathered in her chest expanded until it cracked, the words she had dared to utter spilled between them. She couldn’t take them back. There was no magical button, no rewind. It wasn’t like her, to lose control of her own voice. It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to cave and give in to the weakness that haunted her. She had always been someone that prides themselves on her strength, that inner will that kept her sane when her world crashed at her feet. Of course, that had been before. It didn’t matter how often she tried to remind herself of who she used to be, the threads of her humanity continued to slip through her fingers like sand. The woman she was now gave in. The woman she was now weakened beneath the weight of the emotions that pressed down on her, and she caved. When the words had left her tongue, when that first tear had fallen, she kept her head high, and she had kept herself at his side. She didn’t matter. He did. Of course, the moment that growl vibrated from his chest and through her skin, she knew that she had misstepped. She didn’t need to feel the first inklings of anger as it seeped inside. It was easily read in the way he embraced her, the tension coiled in his muscles. He was a livewire, and she was a second from igniting him. It didn’t matter, however. As long as he was inside, his face hidden from view, she would take whatever came her way - but not quietly. “What do you expect me to think, Blaize? I can fe— I caused this! If you had never met me, if you hadn’t decided to be with me, this wouldn’t be happening!” Shaking her head, she freed her hands to brush them through her tangled hair, eyes closing for only a moment. She didn’t open them until she heard the doors shut, and then she turned to him, jaw tight.
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, even as he sunk into the wall, his hand pressing to his skin. “Why would I regret you? I brought this onto your doorstep, it’s my ex-boyfriend that forced your hand. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Her words trailed off as she fought to keep herself in place, when all she wanted was to cross the distance and erase the chaos that was building between them. How did she tell him that she could feel it? How did she dare try to explain that his guilt, his shame and anger, his hunger - were no longer his own to burden? There just wasn’t an easy way to reveal to him that she could feel him fading from her, but that wasn’t the worse part. No, the painful part was not understanding why.
[BLAIZE]
The logic was all wrong. Blaize was shaking his head before she had even finished, this 'discussion' the only thing keeping him standing. Without it, he'd probably have sunk into that corner, unable to move, unable even to make it back to the apartment where the mess of his mistake still waited for them. He stared at Aleksa in disbelief. They were trying to reassure each other that neither had regrets, that neither blamed the other and yet they still stood apart. Again, Blaize's arms crossed over his chest, his hands clamped beneath his arms just so that he might get them to stop shaking. "I'm not being absurd," he snapped. "You didn't cause this. If it wasn't Lance it would have been someone else at some other time, some other poor ****** at the mercy of my hunger. Because I won't feed. I can't. I don't want to. Whether you were here or not it would be the same. Lance was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, testing the wrong man. I had these issues before I met you. How... how can you say I did nothing wrong?!" he said, voice failing him at the end. He cleared his throat, ready to continue but he couldn't. Didn't. The elevator doors had opened; they had reached their floor. Although his legs didn't want to, they carried him past Aleksandra and out the door. Had they locked their apartment door, or was it still open? He didn't have his keys. When he reached the door and pushed on the handle, it thankfully opened.
He cringed at the sight of blood still pooled at the door, sinking into the tile grouting. He wanted to go to the bathroom and drown himself in the bathtub, but what was the point in getting clean when he'd just get dirty again cleaning up? His willpower was failing him, but he went through the motions anyway. "I snapped his wrist to get to his blood. I was a savage. You told me to let him go but I didn't. If I fed on a regular basis, if I got what I needed every night then it wouldn't have been a problem. I'd have let him go and slammed the door in his face. This isn't on you. At all. It's on me. I am to blame. This is my fault," he said as he got down on his hands and knees to continue what Aleksandra had started. The rag sloshed through the blood but it barely picked any of it up; just moved it around a bit. He'd need numerous buckets of water and some bleach to get this cleaned up properly. He took the rag back to the kitchen and hesitated at the sink. Did he want to wash Lance's blood down the kitchen sink? The sink that Aleksandra used so often for her work? No. He didn't. But, then, what could he do with it? He was lost. Everything crumbled. All his common sense couldn't find solid ground and his hands.... ****, they wouldn't stop trembling! He turned and went down, back sliding down the kitchen cabinet before he was sitting on the floor, rag tossed aside, arms on his knees and his hands splayed in front of him. The tremble was visible, and he couldn't stop staring, as if the blood was something he'd never be able to wash clean.
