I Have Never Known Peace [Jesse]

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey wanted to drain him. Wanted that body to sag even farther, that heartbeat to slow, slow, creep. Wanted it to stop. But there was a bond between them, now, something unshakable, something that wouldn't allow Mickey to do it. Would never allow Mickey to do it. These days, he felt it, creepin' up on him, like strangling ivy. That bond clasped around his wrists like shackles. Mick knew what shackles felt like, had spent his fair time in prison. But this was so fuckin' different. It was like holding, in your hands, heroin. A real, live, emobodiment of your addiction, that walked and talked and laughed and sneered. Jesse was all of those things, and Mickey hated him for it, or tried, but when he felt fists against his chest, shoving, he had to listen. Though his brain didn't want him to, wanted him to keep going, all the way, finish it, his mouth came away from that throat with a gasp and he stumbled backwards, blood dripping down his chin from his bared teeth, wetting his beard. Mickey heaved, trying to fill his air with lungs, but it didn't change anything. Now, more than ever, he didn't need it, barely subsisted on anything other than the iron tang of blood. Mickey tried to plant his bare feet hard on the ground, wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his knuckles, watched Jesse, green eyes bright and hard, like a wary dog watching a larger predator.

<Jesse Fforde> As soon as Mickey's weight releases him, Jesse buckles. Like he can't remember what gravity feels like, and it wants to pull him down to the ground anyway. He doesn't hurt, anywhere, except that clawing, burning ache in his throat has intensified a thousand-fold, so that his own canines are sharp and contrast neatly against his dried-out lips. Jesse had sauntered into the room looking healthy (or as healthy as a Necromancer can look) but now he looks like he'd just crawled his way up out of a grave; a three-day-old corpse. His skin is sallow and grey, and seems to have a shrunk a little closer to his bones. Nothing that can't be fixed with a few good meals, though, so Jesse's eyes remain bright and, although he's doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying to regain his balance in reality, his lips curl into that trademark grin. "There, see? Nothin' to worry about," he says. After that little show, he's confident that Mickey will at least get the hang of the feeding part, and can only hope the guy remains unseen. "Though of course I should tell you to drink blood bags instead," he coughs, his voice an irritant in his burning throat; a voice that is now only a rough husk of a whisper. "It's not always possible..."

<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey's head swam. He felt drugged, for a second, unable to hold onto anything, so he swayed there, standing, looking like a drunk, looking like his goddamn pa in all his alcohol-stenched glory, the second before Mickey had pulled the trigger on him. I'm sorry, pa, he'd said, after that bullet busted open brain and he'd seen blood like he'd never seen blood before. Mickey had seen blood since, saw it now, where it painted the side of Jesse's throat, where it coated on his tongue, thick and heavy, strangling. His belly felt full but his mind was racing, too fast, too hard, like he'd done a bump of cocaine, too big, a mountain of it crammed up into his brain. Inked fingers scrubbed over his face, in his beard, through his hair, and he heard something about blood bags, something about worrying. The ground hit Mickey's knees too hard, when he slumped down, to steady himself, and that bond made him worry about Jesse's skin, the pallor of it, the way the red was stark against it like some goddamn Pollack paintin', the kind he'd seen, once, in the art museum in downtown Chicago. He'd stared at it then, seeing but unseeing, like he stared at Jesse now. When he spoke, his voice was low, gravel. "Are ya okay?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse pushes himself into a standing position, forcing himself to stay upright. Before Mickey's eyes, some of that skin fills out, just a little. A tiny bit of colour returns to Jesse's skin, mainly where the ink is etched, brighter and more vibrant in death than in life. He at least has the energy to boost his own blood a couple of times. Just a couple. He needs more, but he has a feeling he'll go out. Teaching this **** to Mickey has Jesse hungering for a live meal. For fresh, hot blood, right from the vein. "Fuckin' peachy, man," Jesse says. There isn't even any sarcasm. He is peachy. Despite the loss of blood, Jesse is high, content, walking on a bed of fluffy white clouds. He has no doubt, now, that Mickey is going to make it through this transition. He saunters slowly into the bathroom and comes back out with a wet cloth, wiping at the blood on his neck. He could feel it there, sticky and coagulating. He's got to go to work, and he can't very well do so while looking like he's heavily bleeding at the neck. The wound is already mostly healed. There's still two more nights of this. His only concern being, really - he hopes that Mickey isn't taking too much of his blood. That he's not going to start this life with a preference for vampiric blood, rather than humans. But they'd have to wait and see. A learning curb. "You all good now?"

<Mickey Macintyre> Peachy. Mickey didn't feel peachy. His skin felt tight, stretched all the way, uncomfortable in, like he was wearing a suit over his own body, strangling. Too much blood in his system, pumping too hard. He was hard, from the closeness and the taking, the give and the blood. The Chicagoan ignored it, and Jesse left, to go clean up his neck. While he was gone, Mick struggled back up to his feet, adjusted his crotch, spit on his palm and swiped it against his mouth, to clean the blood that was drying there. He was cleaning off his palm when Jesse came back, looking more alive, more color, no longer pale as a sheet. "Yea, all good, boss," he said, not quite sounding it but gaining more confidence in his voice as more time passed.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse of course knew the difference between someone saying something they mean and something they don’t. He does it all the time. Maybe. No. Most of the time Jesse’s as blunt as a century-old knife when it comes to answering questions, but sometimes he replies with all the sarcasm of someone who doesn’t want to answer with the kind of honesty that’ll lead to conversations that he does not want. Mickey tells him it’s all good, and Jesse watches the guy for a few heavy seconds, staring in that way he has, until he finally nods and accepts the answer. “Another couple of nights. Two at most, I think,” Jesse says. “And you’ll be free to roam…”

<Mickey Macintyre> Two more goddamn nights and he was free. Free to do what? Once this was done, what would happen? His skin was already so much paler, his heart rate so much slower, barely a creep. Sometimes, he caught himself not breathing for several minutes at a time and it frightened him so much, Mick thought his goddamn lungs would burst with how much air he forced into them a second later. "Free, huh?" he asked, mostly to himself, and rubbed an inked hand over his mouth in thought. "Good. I think. Yea, good."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smirks, and laughs. As if he can see the cogs turning uncertainly in Mickey's brain, though of course he can't be aware of what the guy is thinking. "Yeah, free. With boundaries. Not many, though," Jesse says. Honestly, Mickey will be free to do what the **** he wants, though Jesse will of course hope he chooses to stick around. Not that he'd say as much out loud. No, that kind of sentiment isn't allowed. "You can tell me to go **** myself if I ask you to do something, though. Probably can already do that," he says.

<Mickey Macintyre> That was fuckin' nice. So nice. Mickey allowed himself a grin, then, wide, and looked over at Jesse. "No fuckin' ****?" he asked, almost in disbelief. Now that, that was fuckin' freedom. Thank Jesus H. Christ. "Tell me to do somethin'. Just so I can tell you to **** off, like, a goddamn second after."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse rolls his eyes, still holding that bloodstained towel in his hands. There's still that curl of a smile on his lips, though. "Why don't you go **** yourself, Mickey Mack," he says. There's that twitch in the back of his mind, like he wants to go check a mirror to make sure he's got no blood on him. Suitable for the public. But he can't. He saunters a little closer to his progeny-in-the-making. "Did I get it all?" he says, turning his head to show off his neck.

<Mickey Macintyre> Go **** yourself. Well, he had the erection. But he didn't feel any particular desire to fix the issue, which meant that it worked. Mickey grinned ear to ear, and he felt like a weight had been lifted from him. No longer Jesse Fforde's human *****-slave. Hallelujah. The other man came closer, exposed his neck. "Almost," he said, and licked his thumb, reached up. A bit of red stained the skin beneath jaw and he cleaned it away, careful, before popping his thumb in his mouth. "Now yer good," he mumbled.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse's eyes linger on Mickey's face as he reaches up to clean away the blood, like some mother hen with his licked thumb. It's amusing, really, but Jesse can't find it in himself to feel awkward. He's nothing but at ease with Mickey, that growing bond a warmth that soothes him. That's the real desired outcome, really--that echo of a high that he always feels when he's with his family. He nods and saunters back over to the bathroom, tossing the towel inside to be washed later. When he comes back, it's to reach for his jacket and pull it back over his shoulders. "I'm goin' to work. If you feel like you can go out, you know where to find me. Otherwise I'll see you when I get back," he says.

<Mickey Macintyre> Work. Oh, right. Mick hadn't been at work the entirety of this week, and he missed going out, being strong enough to be able to. But it was best to keep his damn head low, for the time being. Two more nights. He'd survive, that long. Two more nights. "Yea, I'mma stay in, I think," he said, when Jesse finally came back, grabbed his jacket. "I'll see ya tomorrow, yea?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods as he rolls his shoulders and coughs to clear his throat. Work for a while, yes. And then maybe he'd go out to hunt. The magic of boosting himself had helped to clear away some of the desperation to feed. But the sight and smell of blood, and the violence with which his had been taken tonight, inspires in Jesse the need for more violence. For hot blood. Scared blood. "Yeah, tomorrow night," Jesse says, grinning at Mickey before sauntering of the room, heading for the portal that'll take him to Gresse's.