Won't You Come Home? [Ishaq]

[Jesse Fforde]

It's not often that Jesse sits around and does nothing. It's not often that he is unpreoccupied. He likes to keep himself occupied so as not to sink again into the dirge of depression and suicidal tendencies; for quite a while he had occupied himself with anxiety, and irritation about the whereabouts of his progeny. Axel is around, he knows. Although Jesse is disappointed that Axel has been removed from Tytonidae, it doesn't mean that Axel has been ostracised from Jesse's life. And, just because Ursula has a different opinion to Jesse, it doesn't mean that he'll cut her out, either. He's willing to understand that not everyone can be passionate about the same things he's passionate about. Though, one of the things that he does care for is his little bloodline. Those who have claimed his name, and who reside under his umbrella.

There's only so much he can do, though. They are all independent beings, and he coddled none of them, in the beginning. He's not about to start coddling them now. Of course he wants them to be around - there's a comfort in contentment that burgeons through his body whenever he's surrounded by his own blood, and it doesn't happen as much as he would like. He's too stubborn a creature to admit his need for them, however - too independent and accustomed to his own loner ways to reach out to them. They have his number. They know they have an entire house to use as their own, should they require it.

But still. Ishaq's sudden presence on the Fforde board has Jesse realising there is more that he could have done. Ishaq hadn't died. He hadn't left the city. Would Jesse have known, if either were the case? All it takes is a simple text message; a single response to assure him that his progeny are fine, and to assure them that he doesn't ignore their presence. That he does think about them, in a platonic kind of way.

Rather than continue their conversation on the Crownet, Jesse instead pulls out his phone to contact Ishaq. The guy might say that he's never been better, Jesse wants to make sure. He wants to touch base. He's not sure that Ishaq knows about Andras, and Jesse wants to discuss with him their inclusion in the larger family. Maybe Ishaq wants to be alone, but he doesn't have to be. Jesse types out the text:

Ishaq. Meet me somewhere?

He makes sure the phone is on vibrate before pushing it into his pocket. He pulls a jacket over his shoulders and heads for the elevator - he'd been checking in at the Eyrie, and will now make his way out of doors while he waits for Ishaq's response.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

Ishaq. Meet me somewhere?

The phone trembled in his grip as he stared at the text. It wasn't fear that shook his body and threatened it with the possibility of losing the body against gravity's pull. Meet him somewhere. He...Jesse wanted to him to meet him somewhere. Somewhere involved a building filled with normal people. People who have been carrying on with their lives, some unknowingly fraternizing with monsters in disguises. He was the monster. For over a year, he hid from the presences of those he held so close to his hearts. They had called and called. Each message pleading with him to let them know he was alive and well. But Ishaq wasn't alive and he sure as hell wasn't well.

No one who willingly decides to live in a crack house is well.

He may have come across as well when he made his presence known on Crownet. He honestly didn't know what came over him. Perhaps it was the lapse of sobriety he was experiencing which made him level headed just for a moment. Or perhaps the longing to be among some sort of peers. He couldn't be among the peers he desired so deeply. Not yet, at least. He needed to get control of this...ailment. No, it wasn't an ailment. It was more of an additional addiction on top of the one he already had. And he was good at functioning with his drug habit. Hell, most in the music community knew about it. Some cared. Others thought it enhanced his persona. What it really did was alienate him from his family, almost split up his parents, and almost got him kicked out of the band. That is why he had to become functional on the drugs. Enjoy them but not let them take his life like it almost did once.

But this....this was different. This addiction threatened to take lives. And boy...had he been taking lives. No one came looking for the poor crack addict, lying dead in the streets. No one sure as hell was going to report the deaths of low level gangsters either.

So when he trembled at the text, he trembled because he knew it was going to take everything in him not to attack. Not to feed the addiction. To appear normal in front of everyone he came in contact with in public.

Could he do this?

Eh. What the hell?

His dirty finger tips quickly worked to respond to the text.

I'll meetya anywhere you want to go.

Tucking the device into his back pocket, Ishaq raced toward the clubhouse he periodically sneaked into from time to time. While most of the time it was still and feed, this time his sole purpose to clean himself up. If he was going to go into public, he might as well look good doing so.

[Jesse Fforde]

The response comes not long after the first message had been sent. Jesse’s out in the warmer Canadian air, breathing in atmosphere that people elsewhere in the world might consider cold, but which Jesse—Canadian born and bred—finds tolerable. Pleasant, even, though it doesn’t touch him anymore. As if his body is immune to any shift in temperature. Still – he prefers heat to cold. Prefers fire to ice.

Anywhere he wants. Jesse’s head rolls on his shoulders, the hand holding the phone dropping to waist height as his eyes narrow toward the city. He’s standing right out front of the Eyrie; the trees shiver around him, wind whispering through the leaves. As if they’re talking to each other. Through the denseness of the wilderness, there’s the glimmer of lights in the distance.

Truth is, Jesse is worried about Ishaq. He won’t say it, in so many words. He might not even show it. But – lack of control? Living in a crack den? He shouldn’t have left it so long, before trying to find Ishaq. These are things Jesse might be able to help with. Should be able to help with. It’s what he’s there for – he knows the kind of responsibility required of him when he sires these people by force. He’s not just going to let them flounder. But isn’t that what’s happened with Ishaq? He assumed the man was independent and able to take care of himself. But maybe that’s not the case. Maybe Ishaq is stubborn and won’t ask for help. Maybe Jesse should have forced the help upon him.

Like he intends to do right now. He lifts the phone and taps out the reply:

Derelict homes, nearest to the slums.

Jesse’s not stupid. Ishaq had mentioned, even if on the sly, that he had trouble with control. Jesse’s not stupid enough to meet him in a crowded area; he wants to see Ishaq. He wants to assess. He wants to see just how far gone his childe is, and what needs to be done to help him.

With the text sent, Jesse swings a leg over his bike and pulls the helmet onto his head. One swift kick to the ignition, and the bike roars to life – there’s a spray of dirt as he takes off, and speeds toward his destination, swinging through the familiar streets with practiced ease.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

Eerily enough, the clubhouse was quite quiet. Either everyone was out or everyone was sneaking around, waiting for a poor ******** to make the mistake in walking into their lion's den. Slipping into the bathroom proved to be an easier task than he thought as he closed the door and locked it for safety. Ishaq took a deep breath and crept toward the mirror slowly. He knew what he was going to see; yet, even days of preparation didn't make the sight any easier to take. When he looked in the mirror, it was like the young man was on a consistent bad trip. Rotting flesh, maggots driving in and out of holes in his skin, and more were enough to drive any person insane. At times, he swore up and down he could smell the decaying of his body.

Ishaq quickly shifted his gaze toward the sink, a shaky hand reached out to turn the faucet on to get the water running. At least there was hand soap in the bathroom. Wetting his hands, he pumped several streams of liquid soap into his hand and lathered up. He scrubbed at his hands. He scrubbed at his face. Hell, he even pulled his shirt up to scrub under his armpits. It couldn't hurt to be fresh under there too. Rinsing off, he stretched out to snatch the towel off the wall and began to dry his face. As he pulled the towel down his face, he caught a glimpse of the action in the mirror. A sliver of skin came off right with the towel. Jumping back, he threw the towel on the floor and peered down at it., "Da ****...."

Of course, there was no skin on the towel. Of course, he knew his mind was playing tricks on him. So he picked the towel back up and finished drying himself off. The iPhone vibrated in his back pocket and he subconsciously just pulled it out as he laid the towel across the edge of the sink. Another text from Jesse. He didn't have to unlock his phone to read the message. All it said was...Derelict homes, nearest to the slums.

The Derelict homes were literally a hop and skip away from the slums. Jesse must of knew that; of course, he knew that. Ishaq rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. He could back out of this if he really wanted to. He could just slip right back into the abyss and not be heard from again because he was good at that. But what would be the point of that? And who was to say that the man wouldn't dare to come find him in the slums? He very well could. It wasn't like the slums had many hiding places. Jesse could easily find him.

Turning the light off in the bathroom, Ishaq unlocked the door and slipped out into the hall way. And just as he had easily done most nights, he slipped out the clubhouse and made his way out of the slums. He guessed he owned it to Jesse to meet with him. It's not like Jesse shunned him or made him disappear. After so many years envisioning what death would be like, he had taste it. Now, he lived forever and he didn't know how to handle it. For all of eternity, he was going to watch from a distance as his love ones slowly or quickly die off. Natural deaths, freak accidents, perhaps even self inflicted, he didn't know. All he knew was he'd be there for all of it. Maybe one day he'd be strong enough to subdue this part of his addiction, but until then...perhaps it was best for him to remain with his kind.

In ten minutes, fifteen tops, he found himself standing on the street filled with derelict homes. Unsure if they were going to be meeting in a specific house, he perched himself on the curb. Ishaq was nervous as hell but he didn't want to appear that way once Jesse arrived. So he resolved to have a cigarette or two to calm himself. At this point, it was looking like it was going to be three or four.

What would he do once he saw the man? Hug him? Punch him? Shake him? Holy hell, he was unsure of that too. He'll do what came naturally to him. He always did.

[Jesse Fforde]

This city is Jesse’s home. He’s not one of those who have come to visit, only to have met the monsters who live in it—to have had those monsters steal them out of their ordinary lives and hold them here, trapped, for fear of real death outside of its orders. Jesse had never had the urge to travel outside the city’s borders. Why should a man leave his own kingdom? As a child, he’d grown up as a miscreant. Never did he go straight home from school. Most of the time, he never went to school at all. He skipped from gang to gang, slipping and out as if he were the most slippery fish in the current. Either that, or he knew the current better than the rest. The ordinary occupations or everyday life never concerned Jesse, and he lived in a kingdom of his own making.

And now? Now, sometimes his ego reaches such heights that he could imagine himself a prince. An acolyte of hell rather than of heaven, with all his fire and his fury. As the bike roars beneath him, as he glides through the city upon it, he considers all the back streets. The buildings, the shops that have come and gone. He remembers those corner stores from which he’d stolen candy; the bright tags of spray paint that still exist in some alleys, some dilapidated buildings, peeling and faded.

He had luck on his side, too – he grew used to his freedom as a boy, able to come and go from home as he pleased. No be home for dinner or go to bed right now. No clean your teeth or brush your hair before you go to school. He had none of that, and yet he had a bed into which he could crawl at the end of the day, in a room, in an apartment with a door that locked. Some kids didn’t have such luck, he knows that now.

No, he had never sought a family, but now he has been given one. Altaire, which is no more, at least for him. Maybe it was partly his fault, his inability to be within a family that caused a disconnect. But that doesn’t matter. He has Tytonidae. He has Andras. He has Fforde. That small group of wayward souls that he can call his own, that claim his name as theirs. It took him a while to discover it. It took him quite some time to come to terms with what exactly it was that he felt. But here it is.

They are his to care for, whether they want that care or not. He’s not doing it out of obligation, as much as he might tell himself or others. He’s doing it because he wants to, because he needs to. Because if he doesn’t, if something happens to them, it’ll be his fault. And he won’t have that. This re-connection, this meeting with Ishaq, it should have come sooner.

He rounds the corner and down the road that’ll lead to the derelict homes. It’s here that he met Ishaq, in one of these bathrooms that he turned him. He can’t remember which it was. Maybe Ishaq does. Maybe that night is burned forever in the guy’s memory, never to be forgotten. It’s not long before Jesse sees the figure huddled on the curb, head wreathed in smoke. The bike glides up to the curb. Silence descends upon them as Jesse kills the engine. He removes the helmet, balancing it on the handlebars. Feet grind against loose asphalt as he stands, pushing his hands into his pockets as he wanders to stand in front of Ishaq, trying to assess. He narrows his eyes and glances over his shoulder.

“One of these empty?” he asks. Perhaps they should go inside.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

An eerie feeling of familiarity washed over his form as he sat there, puffing continuously on the cigarette. It had been close to a year now that he's been...well, dead technically but it felt like it happened yesterday. Meeting death again had not been a part of the plan when he had ventured into one of the many derelict homes. No, he had other plans. He planned on having a kick *** show. He planned on either finding him a nice piece of *** to take home with him with him. And if his efforts were not met with a great outcome, which was rare, he'd apologize to Dizzy and take him home instead. Dying had not been a part of the plan at all.

And sure, he spent the first few months trying to figure things out; mostly, he tried to figure out if he was on a bad trip. For months, he expected to wake up and find himself on the bathroom floor, music blaring from the other side of the bathroom door. Him, finally settled down, laughing while he shook his head. But none of those things happened. Ishaq found himself withdrawing from the very people he loved, claiming he needed time to think about life and where his was heading. To them, it sounded a lot like a decision to clean up his act and crack down on his addiction. No pun intended, of course.

If anything, the addiction was stronger and it now was accompanied by an even stronger addiction.

So did he feel comfortable sitting on the curb, smoking? Hell no. When he agreed to meet with Jesse, he hadn't agreed to the quick trip down to memory lane. Exhaling, Ishaq dug his cigarette into the cement until it was out for sure. Tucking yet another cigarette between his lips, he paused as his ears picked up a sound of approaching motorcycle. The louder and louder the sound grew, the longer he sat paused in his actions. He didn't make a point to move off the curb but stared intently, trying to make out the figure. In his body, he knew he didn't need to make such a hard effort; he knew who it was. He knew it was Jesse.

Focusing his gaze on the end of his cigarette, he lit it while he listened to the man's movements. His nails dug into the jeans, fingers scratching at his now itching knee. A shadow descended on his form as a pair of feet appeared in his line of vision. Ishaq looked up and there stood Jesse in all his glory. If the man was nervous, he did a great job hiding it so he felt he should do the same.

"Yeah," answered Ishaq as he exhaled smoke into the air. Shifting, he placed his hands on the curb and hoisted himself off the ground to stand in face to face with his maker. His brown eyes bore into the other's, though, he was unsure what he was hoping to find. His body turned with his arm as he pointed to a house to his left.

"I haven't seen anyone enter that house since I've been around to area. We can check it out. Talk there," he explained, shoving his right hand into its corresponding pocket. He stepped off the curb and began to walk into the general direction, pausing to nod his head toward Jesse's bike.

"Nice bike."

He brought his knuckle to his nose and swiped at it, relieving himself of the random itch. All he could hear was his soles of his converses kissing the gravel roughly. Already, he felt awkward as hell and just plain unsure as to what to expect from this all. But he kept walking to the dingy yellow house.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse smirks. Nice bike, by way of small talk. Jesse, too, glances over his shoulder; the bike gleams in the dim light cast off by the street lights. The streets seem empty, but of course they would. It’s tempting to circle back to collect the bike, to roll into whatever house it is they decide to have their little tete-e-tete within. He finds his sharp gaze drifting between the empty houses, the empty streets, though knowing they’re not completely empty. There’s something about these kinds of neighbourhoods; there’s a taste in the air, a touch on the back of the neck – there’s something lurking beneath the surface.

He’s not concerned about his bike, however; as soon as he turns his attention back to Ishaq, he remembers why he is here and the bike his forgotten. They saunter toward the house together, and Jesse can’t tell by looking at Ishaq whether he’s okay or not. He can’t tell whether he’s wearing a mask and exerting too much control, or whether he’s not being himself. He doesn’t know Ishaq well enough to figure out, yet, who he is or who he isn’t. He doesn’t know what to expect.

The house they find refuge in is indeed empty – or seems so, from first impressions. Maybe it had never been lived in to begin with. Whatever the case, it’s clear that no one checks in, here. People go missing, here, and no one comes to look. Within the front door there’s a wide open room; there’s a hall on the other side that leads to other rooms, but they don’t really have to explore the place. As soon as he breathes in the air Jesse knows the place hasn’t been used for a very long time. The air is dusty, musty, old, and stale. It hasn’t been stirred by warm blood in recent days. Glancing through a side door, Jesse sees a mattress in a corner. On top of the mattress there is, what Jesse first assumes, a clutter of rubbish. Upon closer inspection, however, he finds not rubbish, but a set of bones. Human bones. Maybe some vampire’s quick feed. Some homeless soul whose fate could have been worse.

In the main room, however, there are a couple of milk crates scattered around a makeshift table. There are a few empty bottles, either whole or smashed, nearby. There’s a half-full one standing on the table and Jesse picks it up; he takes a sniff at whatever’s left inside. He screws up his nose and tosses it aside, too – it bounces once on the hard floor, before smashing. Red gloop doesn’t so much as splash, but pool around the broken green shards. Wine that might have been nice, once, but now which is far too old to be drinkable. Not that Jesse can, anyway.

Jesse gestures to a crate, and takes one of his own. From his pocket he retrieves his own pack of cigarettes. Although it looked as if Ishaq had smoked a whole packet of his own out on the pavement, with the butts littered around his feet, Jesse offers Ishaq one anyway.

“You know we don’t have to keep meeting like this,” he says with a gleam to his blue eyes, watching Ishaq carefully, gaze penetrating in its narrowness. “There’s a whole house available to you. With lights and warm beds and hot water. Even a pin-ball machine,” he says. “You say you can’t control your feeding. Is that it? Is that all of it?” he asks. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

The house stunk; it was perfect. Ishaq had such a glorious relationship with the various derelict homes. They provided him shelter during times he was strung out something fierce. They were great places to have shows because no one lived in them; so, there were never complaints about the noise level. Not unless people got too crazy and the attentions of cops were attracted to the scene. He loved the homes. He loved the emptiness provided. Each home told its own story and often, he found inspiration to write his lyrics. The emptiness and imprinted memories of the homes easily mirrored the same in Ishaq's own heart. That was probably why he found himself wandering in the area more often then not. Sober or not.

While Jesse meandered about, examining the obvious contents of the house, he moved about in a dream like fashion towards the wall. Pressing his hands against the sturdy surface, his forehead rested against the clammy wall then shoved his nose into it. His chest rose slowly as he took in the smell closer. He wished he could see what these walls had seen. Who had lived here? Why was the house so empty now? Did happiness ever reside in its clutches? Did it only see tragedies and heart aches? Ishaq wished he could talk to the walls and tell them that he too knew what it was like to decay for the inside. That he knew what it was like to feel a home up with junk, so much junk that nothing good seemed to be found.

He understood, more than before. More than ever.

The smashing of the wine bottle echoed throughout the house. It's vibrations Ishaq could feel bounced from the walls and filled the air. It took him a moment to process what happened. He turned and glanced at Jesse before his gaze drifted toward the floor where the liquid puddled. It looked like blood. It reminded him of his own blood and how it puddled in the bath tub on that faithful night. His nose scrunched up and this...sickening ache began in his stomach. Ishaq shifted away from the sight and focused on the real reason he was in the house anyway. It wasn't to bound and share in its emptiness, but to hopefully move on and get a better handle of his life. Or...whatever he was suppose to call it now.

His hand snatched up the gestured crate, and in one fluid motion, he sat upon it as he set it down in front of Jesse. A cigarette was offered and he took it as if he hadn't smoked enough of them outside while waiting for the other. Still, it wasn't like he was going to die from their poisonous substances anyway. He could smoke them as much as he wanted from here on out.

"Damn, Jes," he chuckled out after the onslaught of bluntness. ****, he didn't beat around the bushes and he could appreciate that aspect for the moment.

Pausing, he lit the cigarette up and took a drag from it. What was it? It sounded great, the place. A warm bed. Hot water. Lights. It sounded really nice; yet, he couldn't find it in himself to want it. No...not that. He wanted it. He didn't deserve it. No, that wasn't it either. What was it? He wanted it, he didn't deserve it, but he didn't need it either. He didn't need it if it meant loosening his grip on what had kept him afloat for most of his life. His one true love. It was a helluva drug. A part of him wanted to play it off, but as Jesse's bore into his skull, he knew he couldn't keep it to himself. Why? He was sure the male had tasted it on him that night. Hell, he could probably see it seeping out of his pores right now.

Ishaq ran his fingers through his hair as he puffed on his cigarette silently, working up the nerve to be honest. "You know why, " he murmured around the stick, "Next to blood, it's my life line. I can't just leave her alone and I like being close to her. Can't have that **** in your house, Jes. Straight up disrespectful. Hell, I couldn't even shoot up in my parents' house."

"Plus, your house sounds so nice and ****. I'm sure everyone enjoys living there. I mean...everyone is there, right?"

[Jesse Fforde]

The packet of cigarettes gets tucked back away, and the two men sit on their crates at that makeshift table in the middle of a derelict house. Alone, their voices almost echoing in the emptiness of the room, but falling flat, too. Jesse knows they won’t be overheard; they can say what they need to, here. And honesty appears to be the name of the game. Jesse doesn’t have any problem with honesty, not really. He knows exactly how to tell people exactly what he thinks, and why, regardless of whether it’ll hurt their poor little feelings or not. He doesn’t coddle, he doesn’t gossip, and nor does he indulge in drama. Not if it’s petty. Not if it can be resolved if two parties just talk to each other like civilized ******* adults, and if those adults aren’t embarrassed by worthless ********.

It’s the same kind of thing here, really. Ishaq, and his addictions. It’s drama, in a way, and Jesse’s not going to indulge it, or encourage it, or laugh it away. There’s a choice to be made and Jesse mulls it over while he takes a drag of his own cigarette – while he watches idly as the tiniest piece of ash drops from the tip of the stick and floats, dancing to and fro upon the air, down to land on the denim of his jeans.

First, however, he will answer Ishaq’s question. Jesse could shrug and nod and say yes, but it would be a lie. He tries to remember – how long has it been? Ishaq was around when Fforde was created and Jesse himself was ostracised from Altaire. Since then? Jesse’s been welcomed back and ostracised another couple of times, and now he chooses to ignore it completely. Does Ishaq still have access? Is he still welcomed by Altaire? Either way, he supposes, no one from that side of the bloodline have contacted him or tried to pull him from the slums. It doesn’t matter, it has no bearing.

“For a while there was nearly no one,” Jesse says. He lifts his gaze to Ishaq’s. There’s thoughtfulness, there. But then he decides, no. Ishaq doesn’t need to know about Jesse’s peculiar mental and emotional breakdown, the way he had assumed all his progeny had walked away, that they did not consider him a proper mentor or sire. He had tried to create a home, and yet none of them had used it. Since then, however, a few have drifted back. None of the past has any bearing on Ishaq’s question, and so Jesse clears his throat. “Not everyone, but a few, yes. They come and go,” he says. Again, he gathers his thoughts, before clearing his throat. He leans forward – he means business.

“We all have our vices,” he starts. “We have our lusts and our addictions. I like to start fires,” he says with a shrug. He knows that Paige has a specific taste for torture. He’s sure the others probably have their little secrets, too – but that’s what they are. Larch Court is a haven, not a place where these vices are brought home, where they could possibly put the occupants in danger.

“No, I would prefer that drugs are not brought into our home,” he says. Our, because it is Ishaq’s home as well. “The last thing we need is a day time raid, when there are vampires inside and black market blood bags in the fridge,” he says with a curl of the lips. The time to decide has arrived – to intervene, or to let Ishaq continue as he is?

“Are you lonely?” Jesse asks. “Are you… happy, to live like you are? By yourself, night to night, slave to your addictions? We all have our vices, man, but the trick is to control them, rather than to let them control you…” he says.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

He cleared his throat as he hunched forward a bit more. His middle finger flicked the end of his cigarette, decorating a small area with a slew of ash. It was always better for him to be honest; he was a horrible liar. Some said it was both a blessing and a curse. It made him a genuine person, he believed. No one ever had to wonder what he was doing; he always told it. His parents always saw it as a blessing. His father had dreamed his one and only child would rise up to be an honest man in the community. He dreamed his son would make him proud. Instead, he got a son who was swept up by the illusions of being a rock star. Oddly enough, Ishaq succeeded more than he failed, but that didn't mean anything to his father. Their relationship had been strained for a while.

His mother still loved him, at least. She tried to tell him often how much his father loved him too. But he couldn't find it in his heart of hearts to believe her. He didn't hate his father, and he had high hopes one day his father would come around. That time, it seemed, would never come as he sat there, looking Jesse in the eye. Really looking Jesse in the eye. Here sat the reason why he couldn't go home to his parents. Here sat the reason why he wouldn't for the longest time be able to hold his mother ever again. Ishaq was an honest man and he knew deep down he wouldn't be able to keep the evident changes to his life style from his parents. He feared being disowned more than anything now.

The more he thought about it, the more Ishaq found himself getting irritated. No, not irritated. Angry. Yes, angry. Finishing off the cigarette, he extinguished it by smashing its lit face into the ground until it no longer burned. His palms, though they weren't perspiring, rubbed against the tops of his jean clad thighs. His body shifted on the crate, that he now found to be uncomfortable. His eyes fluttered up to look at Jesse wants more. He could see his lips moving and he knew he had to truly focus in order to catch what he was saying. Only a few were wandering back. It made Ishaq question a few things. Was he one of the few? Had Jesse even expected to see him ever again? Did the others leave one by one because they too hadn't grown accustomed to their new lifestyle? Why were they all coming back?

If they were like Ishaq, they had no where else to go.

"Im not stupid, Jes," he muttered as he closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, " I wouldn't bring it to the house. I haven't been arrested for drugs and I don't plan on that starting now that I am a...vampire." Arrested for trespassing? Of course. The bands usually played in abandoned areas and he had had his share of a few run ins with the cops. Some times, they had caught up. Other times, he made an effort to high tail it the **** out of there because of his particular vice. If he had to, he toss it out. Usually in a place hidden but easy for him to find because it was an expensive ******* habit to keep up with and every little ounce was worth protecting.

Ishaq stood up. At this point, he needed to be on his feet; he needed to feel like he wasn't confined to being in Jesse's face. The more and more the other man spoke, the more and more he felt like he had been tricked into an intervention. And this time, no one from his family was participating nor his band mates. No, instead it was motherfucking Jesse Fforde, the man he owed his death to. And when he asked him if he was lonely. God, Ishaq didn't know what to think or even what to say at that point. He turned around, placing his hands on his hips, and hug his head. And he...he laughed. He laughed. His shoulders rose up and down as his whole body was taken by the sheer hilarity of the situation.

"Am I lonely? What kind of fuckin' question is that?" asked Ishaq through his continuing laughter.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as his laughter settled. "Of course I'm fuckin' lonely. I can't go home. Do you understand that? I can't go home." Right then and there, reality finally dropped onto his shoulders like a ton of bricks.

"I can't fuckin' go home, Jesse. So no, I'm not fuckin' happy scurrying around at night trying not only to get a fuckin' fix but to fuckin' feast on other people's blood like some crazy mad man. Who does this ****, huh? This **** isn't normal. I'm drinkin' people's blood. I can't go home to my parents. Cause they're still alive, Jesse! They're still very much alive. I can't go near my band mates. I can't go anywhere near my old life." Ishaq dropped his hands and balled them into tight fists until he could feel his nails digging into their palms. He whirled his body around and kicked the crate he once called a seat, the force hurling it toward the wall.

"I'm standing here with you and I have no clue what the hell made me reach out to you in the first place!" he raved, "I don't have anyone else but you! And it's fuckin' aggravating to sit here and play this intervention ******** with you as if you're a concerned parent! You took my life away and I don't fuckin' understand why. But now, you're fuckin' stuck with me because you..." Ishaq pointed at him before he brushed his fingers through his hair.

"You and her are all I got now. And you're fuckin' stuck with me."