Sea Monsters and Mermaids [Grey Weston]

[Jameson Dade]

"**** you, it's freezing." Jameson spat into his phone, which he held against his face with his shoulder as he stirred the contents of a bowl. The bowl itself was ceramic, and coral in color. There was a thick liquid inside, which was a shade of brown that said it was some type of brownie or cake mix. However, the cocoa powder on the counter obliged one to believe it was something made a little bit closer to 'from scratch'. Jameson wasn't a good cook, and he wasn't very good at baking either. He could produce something, but not without dirtying just about every dish he owned, and leaving flour powdered on the floor, with hardening batter sludge on the countertops. He had a pie shell on another counter, which had newly been baked. He had even remembered to poke it with a fork repeatedly so it wouldn't warp its shape. The shell though, was store bought, cheap pastry.

"It's a heated pool." Came the cool response. "I just thought you might like to get out of your shithole apartment."

"I can tell you're going for endearing tonight." Jameson muttered back to Chase. The human on the other end of the line had a gift for simultaneously garnering both Jay's ire and his begrudging adoration.

"No, if I wanted to be endearing, I'd bring you some crack."

"You know I don't do that ****."

"Meth is for hillbillies, you heard it here first."

"Don't you have a job to be at?"

"Nah, I let Carter take care of the night anchor slot this week. Thought to myself. 'You know Chase, you could pick up that pretty blonde producer, and **** her brains into your neighbor's living room, or you could invite your master over for a dip. Maybe he'll baby whine at you."

Jameson slapped his wooden stirring spoon into the bowl hard. "Whatever, I'll be there in a few. Please don't be naked." He dropped the bowl onto the counter and let the phone slide into his hand so he could end the call before he heard a response. A few moments later, he was pulling cling wrap over the top of his bowl and tossing a spoon into the sink. The mixing bowl went into the fridge, and he grabbed his phone again so he could shoot a text off to Grey: Going swimming with an asshat. Need you there to make sure I don't eat him. He added the address, and then hit send.

Grey hadn't been there when he'd woken up, most likely because the human needed to get something to feed one hunger or another. Jameson assumed he'd want to return home to pie. Of course, it would probably end up as a bowl of chocolate mousse, but that was beside the point.

He slid to his bedroom to go through his drawers. Most of his clothing was tossed onto the floor in piles. He rifled through it occasionally to try and determine what was clean or not. Sometimes he wore things that were just 'mostly clean'. Occasionally he did laundry, but not nearly often enough. Because it was winter, his trunks were tucked away, folded no less, in their rightful place. He disrobed so he could slide them on, and then a double layer of long underwear went on, then jeans. He layered up his top half too, with the top being his favorite hoodie. Grabbed a towel and stuffed it underneath the topmost layer, so that it looked a little bit like he sported a beer belly. Then he shoved his feet into unlaced boots.

He was on his way a few minutes later, after he tossed Bucket a large rawhhide with knotted ends. The dog would probably chew his way through the thing by the time Jay got home. The trip itself was pretty short on the back of Bob, Jameson's Harley, and soon he was pulling into a long drive. "Neighbor my ***." he muttered under his breath. He'd never actually seen Chase's house before. He'd known it was in the 'good' part of town, but he'd never suspected it was a mansion. He shouldn't have been shocked.

He parked right out front, his kickstand digging into the lowest of a flight of marble stairs which led up to the main entrance. There were two big doors, solid and made of what looked like real wood. "Prick." He decide. The door even had a knocker. He expected for some old guy with white hair to answer the door, asking if he needed to see Master Wayne. Thankfully, he was spared that, because Chase was there in a robe, with a wine glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. "Come in! I was just getting things ready."

"We're going to have a guest, by the way." Jameson greeted, before walking in, past his thrall. The man seemed undisturbed by the news.

"The more the merrier. Is this someone from your little..." He moved the wine glass in a circular motion through the air as if to try and gesture at an entire group of people at once.

"No, this is someone else. He's my human."

"Like me?"

"No, he's loyal to me because he likes me."

"Hey."

"Don't get all piss hurt. He and I are like. A thing. You know?"

"Oh. Ohhhh! " And then the man's lips formed a knowing grin. Jameson couldn't find a fault with it, even though he desperately wanted to.

"So try to lay off the whole..."

"Outshining you in the sexy department?"

There was a pause, and a grunt. "Yeah that."

During their conversation, the two had gravitated deeper into the house, only pausing so that Chase could tear off a sticky note from a drawer, after placing the wine and glass down. He drew arrows on a few of them, and backtracked to place them in convenient locations, to direct Grey when he got there. Soon they were in a large room with a glass roof. A cerulean pool with smooth, still waters dominated the space. The floor was concrete covered in mosaic tile. It looked vaguely Mediterranean. The tile continued onto the walls, which were large murals of undersea scenes, including sea serpents and mermaids. For a second, Jameson had to appreciate his human's taste.

There were outdoor style chaise lounges all over, with weather-proof padding and fuzzy towels. On one metal table there was a silver tray with a poured glass of wine. The bottle and the other glass soon returned as well, along with a third piece of stemware. And then two more bottles, which were placed in a bucket of ice. To the other side was a cheese plate with what looked like crumbles of blue, slices of something hard, and a bowl of brie. Rather than crackers, there were tiny pieces of what looked like toasted French bread, along with some thick grain hot mustard and some sort of figgy jam. The spread included sliced fruit, wedges of grilled (and falling apart) onion, and some sort of cut roast.

Jameson regarded the whole thing with a slight note of skepticism, which was soon confirmed by the flourishing removal of Chase's robe. The thing fell to the ground, revealing an all over tan, and a pair of red speedos that looked as if they'd been put on a size too small intentionally. Which was to say there were some obvious assets on display. Jameson threw a towel at him with a snort. "You know, I'd give you less **** if you stopped doing...that." The vampire said. It was his turn to gesture vaguely, as he stripped down out of his clothing. Soon he was in his trunks with their 'island' design. Green and beige, with flowers in a unique print. They came down to his knees.

He dropped to the edge of the pool, so his feet could slide into the water. Through the surface, they looked wonky and out of their normal shape.

"You get snotty, but you like it." Came the teasing answer, before the man sat beside him. Rather than dignify that comment with an answer, Jameson bumped a bony shoulder into one of the other man's thick arms. He got a grin in return.

[Grey Weston]

He was in an internet cafe when his phone began to vibrate in the back pocket of his frankly too-snug jeans.

The cafe was cramped, having sacrificed floor space for a particular aesthetic. Given the confusion of clashing decor, it appeared that the proprietor hadn't quite decided on what audience they were trying to appeal to. The floor space was dominated by a handful of laminate folding tables whose dark-polished grain had dulled over the years; their surface pitted by circular water stains, each a chalky white in color. Some had grown ashen over the years; obscured beneath layers of grime. As a result, the surface was ever so slightly sticky; a testament to the numerous drinks that had spilled across its surface. A row of what were purportedly bar tables lined the back wall. A valiant attempt at lending the establishment an air of sophistication, they were sleek and bolted into the wall. (He suspected they were, in reality, book shelving,) Their accompanying stools were among the only matching pieces of furniture.


He'd filtered in with the dregs of the late afternoon traffic. It mostly consisted of a handful of students who'd missed their lunch hour, and had largely stumbled into the cafe in an attempt to warm themselves and shed their dazed expressions like snake skin for the next half hour. Despite the late hour, the modest cafe had quickly filled to capacity. He had briefly considered the wicker chairs scattered around the room, but promptly decided against it. The chairs were battered; their neon cushions frayed almost white along the armrests. As dingy as the rest of the place. He'd opted for a corner seat at one of the center tables instead. There was no particular strategy to his decision, beyond an instinctive desire to avoid drawing attention to himself. That, and the row of six desktops provided for public use.

A cup of coffee sat untouched at his elbow. Grey had purchased it some minutes after securing his seat, with the intention of nursing it for the duration of his stay. It wasn't ideal, but he only needed half an hour, at best. In. Out. It helped that much of the focus was on a mediocre musician, fumbling his way through the chords of songs that most of his target audience were too young to be nostalgic for. The coffee proved disappointing. At first, in his haste for warmth, he'd assumed that the vaguely acidic, burnt taste was the result of scalded taste buds. Allowing it to cool hadn't improved its taste, leaving him with the impression of room-temperature battery acid.

His gaze only wavered from the screen when he was forced to half-twist in his seat, reaching to tug his phone from his back pocket. His thumb swiped across the screen, tracing the unlock pattern. He stared blankly at the screen for a moment, an eyebrow slowly lifting.

I left my responsibility at home. He texted back. A beat, and then: It's -5, Jameson. He'd have been content to leave it at that. A minute passed. Two. And then, with a resigned sigh, a final text followed the first two. Give me twenty to put my face on. He jammed his phone back into his pocket a split second later, before rummaging through the large front pocket of his jacket. His fingers closed on the flashdrive he'd placed there the night before. Of course. He hadn't accounted for the lag, and thus, twenty minutes was likely too generous of an estimate. All the same, once secured into the USB port, the small white light at the end of the device flashed rapidly before going dark. He vacated his seat a moment later, absently tugging the drive free and slipping it into his pocket before exiting the building.

He'd chosen to call for a cab, and they were fortunate in the sense that they'd arrived just a hair under twenty-five minutes. "You've got to be ******* kidding me," he muttered under his breath as the taxi slowed, and drew parallel to the curb. Evidently not lowly enough, judging by the way the cab driver's eyes narrowed in suspicion within his rearview mirror.

"There a problem, sir?"

"No. No, just uh...here." He said, digging out his wallet and separating his cash from the billfold and handing them over. The driver's gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Grey experienced a flash of annoyance. The cash had been gained by largely legal means. He'd taken to sitting in on a few illustration classes at the local university. It was information he'd...neglected to share with Jameson. He waited for the space of time it took for the driver to confirm the correct change before existing the car and shutting the passenger side door with perhaps more force than was necessary.

He made his way up the walkway with some reservation. His mood was not improved when his knocks went unanswered. His weight shifted. Restless, as a minute stretched into five. Giving his head a curt shake, he once more slipped his fingers into his back pocket, carefully easing his phone from its confines. His fingers were precise in their movements, despite the cold. The muted click of the on-screen keyboard was the only sound as he drafted a fourth and final text. At this point, I'd be more concerned about your safety, as far as being pinned against a wall and de-- It was, shortly after a premature 'send,' that he realized the door was unlocked.

Five minutes later - after navigating the maze of sporadically placed sticky notes - he found the pair.

"You know, you really should lock your doors," he said dryly, by way of greeting.

[Jameson Dade]

Jameson loved the water, even if water didn't love him. When he had been much younger, he'd nearly drowned. The whole thing had been the result of a dare by a cousin, and not wanting to look like a pussy, he'd tried to dive off of a board without much experience. The result had been a smack to the head and a small body sinking. Of course, there had been adults around, his parents and aunt, and uncle. He'd been fished out of the water, and someone else's breath had rushed into his lungs. Powerful hands had crushed down over his ribs. He'd spit up water, and for a short time after, he saw everything like he was looking through a translucent rainbow. When he'd been drowning, passed out really, he'd been floating underwater. Just beneath the surface, he'd been able to look up through the vision of blue to the light beyond.

The memory was a pleasant one, even though it should have been terrifying. That was Jameson in a nutshell though. He ran towards the things that were bad for him, and routinely danced on the very edge of a blade.

Looking out into the vast, blue, still waters in Chase's house, the memory came back to him. For a moment, he felt a pang of loss, because he didn't need to breathe, so the danger of throwing himself into the torment of deep, dark water lost some of its appeal. He did it anyway, out of nostalgia. His phone was placed with his towel on one of the chaise lounges, and he drank a mouthful of wine. He eyed the spread of cheeses and other spreads before deciding it was too rich for his blood. Then he plucked up a couple of bricks, which were leftover from what looked like a brick oven construction. He used one to crack the other in half and stuffed his pockets with the chunks of brick so that when he stepped over the edge of the pool into the deep end, he sank to the very bottom.

He stood there for a moment, with his trunks sagging low, and decided to sit before he accidentally pantsed himself with his own ingenuity. The water above him rippled for several moments as his dark hair drifted up and around him like the tentacles of a small monster. He exhaled the last breath in his lungs, and bubbles floated to the surface, with some of them clinging to his lips. The chlorine didn't hurt his eyes. He'd been right before. It wasn't the same. The light filtered down from above as it always had, through the veil of shifting liquid lenses, but when it touched him, there was no magic to it.

Above, Chase found himself disconcerted. He had never been particularly attracted to other men, and even with Jameson, the appeal wasn't strictly sexual in nature. He liked spending time with his master, enjoyed looking at his face. He resented it to an extent, because where was his say in the whole thing? He watched the other man sink into the bottom of the pool. He watched those bubbles surface, and even though he knew the vampire would not die from drowning, he retreated from the tiled edge of the swimming area so he could make his way towards a media wall, which came complete with a place to plug in an iPod, ports for CDs, and even a record player. There were speakers hidden all around, embedded in the walls. He hadn't bothered with a television or a screen of any kind really, because he didn't want to watch things when he was swimming; he wanted to hear them. He was, after all, on television all day.

He liked the illusion that there were no cameras when he decided to use the heated pool. He could spend hours floating on an inflatable raft, with the moon high overhead, shown through insulated glass, a glass of wine in one hand, listening to the classics.

But it wasn't classical music he put on the record player, but a vinyl he'd purchased after meeting Jameson.

The music played for a few moments, pouring out of the speakers like warm molasses.

Take me back to the catacombs, I am tempted by her love
Bluest eyes against my own skin, I have never been so caught up
Looking around I see memories, what it was, oh, what it was
There in the lights you said something but I can't remember what

He hummed along silently. He didn't know the lyrics, but the song wasn't for him. And that was when he heard the tell tale vibration of a phone. Jameson's. He plucked it up, and used a thumb to swipe and get a look at the text. A brow lifted. The thing stopped abruptly, part way through a word actually. Then he texted back: hurry up dtf. He hit send, chuckled, and tossed the thing onto a towel before spreading some brie on an unadorned crostini, along with some fig preserves, which were really just halved figs left to ferment a tiny bit.

He sprawled on one of his lounges, legs crossing at the ankle, an arm folded behind his head before sucking his fingers clean with a smacking sound that would have earned him a sharp smack from his mother if she were either alive, or in his presence.

He stretched then, a languid, fluid, animal motion that saw muscle both tensing and then relaxing. It was at that point he heard an unfamiliar voice and glanced up to catch sight of the new figure. He assessed in that moment, the way anyone with a trained eye might have. Scrawny, but pleasant features, he decided. He could see the appeal on Jameson's end. "Not in this neighborhood." He commented before standing. He was a gracious host after all, that much had been drilled into him over the years. He gestured towards the refreshments. "Make yourself at home. I'm Chase Charmody." His hand extended towards Grey, and he wore that literally award winning smile. Jameson thought he would have looked better with at least one crooked tooth. More human. The name Charmody itself, was pronounced car-moe-dee, and the way Chase said it, the last syllables were clipped and faintly resonant in his throat.

There was a sound from the center of the room as Jameson pulled himself out of the water. He walked up the steps and fluid rolled off of him in waves. His hair stuck to his face, some of it tucking under his chin, more of it dragging on his shoulders. He fished into his trunks to yank out the brick halves so he could drop them to the floor. The tile didn't break, but that was just blind luck. Chase inhaled, and went to clean up the mess, as if he was afraid Jameson might decide to start trying to smash things.

"You made it." The vampire said, as he neared, and then he was doing everything he could to get Grey wet (which he would make jokes about later, probably). He hugged him for one, and then rather than kiss his cheek or his lips, he shoved his wet hair into the other man's face, so he could get the chlorinated water to smoosh itself over skin. "Where were you this evening?" Followed after, when he was closer, the words passing over Grey's ear. He pulled away then to get a good look. It seemed as if his partner hadn't quite dressed for the occasion, but for some reason, that just made him grin.

[Grey Weston]

He briefly considered voicing an objection. It was a residual emotion; labeling it destructive criticism would have been generous, at best. At worst, it was petty, a misdirection of his earlier annoyance, offset by the other man's blithe remark. That was the trouble with men like Chase; self-assured that their sandcastle empires would remain forever intact on the shoreline. "No thank you." The response was automatic and uncharacteristically soft. There was an uncertainty about him, unrelated to those lower octaves. Truthfully, he felt out of place. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. Much of his waking hours spent sober were accompanied by a sensation of displacement. Truthfully, he was a man with a foot in the shallow grave of two worlds, fully belonging to neither.

"I already ate." It was a lie. All the same, a smile curled onto his lips; self-conscious to a degree; one corner upturning just enough for the shadow of a dimple to register. Lopsided, but sincere. "Grey," he returned, extending his own hand to grasp Chase's own. His grip was deceptively firm. "Nice to meet you." Despite her myriad of failures - among them, her ability to mother her child - his mother had instructed him on the importance of manners. He'd scarcely released Chase from the handshake when Jameson started for him, folding him into an embrace that abruptly soaked the front of his shirt.

He inhaled, the noise sharp. The shock of Jameson's wet frame pressed against his own momentarily forced his breath to catch. A low noise of complaint rose at the back of his throat, muffled against the wet, slightly matted stands of the vampire's hair. The sharp, chemical smell of chlorine something something from ?. Several of them clung to the curve of his cheek, their darkened tips curling faintly at the tips to just barely frame his jawline. Grey reached out impulsively, tracing the shape of one dark curl with the tip of his finger, gingerly catching it between thumb and forefinger and smoothing it into place a heartbeat later. For the moment, Chase was forgotten. "You think so, huh?" He muttered, hands abruptly lifting to tangle themselves in the wet snarl. Rather than using his newfound leverage to shove Jameson away, however, he continued to wind those fine strands around fingers and the back of either hand, until the former were nearly deprived of circulation.

The end result was that he ended up pressed flush against his chest, face buried just above his collarbone. He was content to stand that way for several heartbeats; grip gradually relaxing as his arms shifted to curl around the appallingly wet vampire. "Missed you too." The words were a murmur, exhaled over skin. There was an echoing stirring of breath; the absence of its warmth causing the skin along the nape of his neck to prickle. He experienced the barest twinge of guilt. "I had things to take care of." He replied. His tone was light, in an effort to detract from the obvious avoidance of the topic. It wasn't strictly a lie. He'd occupied the majority of the morning locked into the small, dingy business office of his apartment, carefully separating a handful of bills from a stack crimped with worn rubber bands, creased white with age, graying at their edges. Securing his right to squat there for another month, perhaps two.

He'd gone to feed Stoker, primarily. There were many things about himself - personal failings - he'd long made peace with. Lapses in personal responsibility. Good judgment. But the willful neglect of one of the sole being who'd kept him sane during the long, bleak stretches where night seemed eternal was a cardinal sin. The air of his apartment had been stale. Reeking of neglect and the undercurrent of aging electrical wires each time the ancient central heating system wheezed to life. Hardly surprising, given how little time he spent in his domicile of late. It had been a little like archaeology; excavating the details of someone else's life, fragmented and hazy. The rest of the day had been devoted to a late morning class. He'd received Jameson's text some hours later.

He released him as he stepped back, though with an obvious reluctance. "Typical. Leave me dripping and then get cold feet." His attire was not appropriate in the least. He wore an oversized utility jacked; a faded olive green in color. It may have been well-tailored at one time. The years, however, had not treated it kindly. The threads had worn thin at the elbows, fraying to an indistinct white. Various patches had been ironed over the worst of the wear, their denim edges softened with age, prone to sudden, sharp angled curls. A navy turtleneck completed the ensemble. Comfortable, but ill-equipped for their host's chosen activity. His gaze briefly cut to Chase again. "I suggest you find something to occupy Poseidon here," he said at last, bracing his hands against Jameson's chest and giving a firm, though affectionate backwards shove.

[Jameson Dade]

Charmody was a name of Irish origin. Originally, that part of Chase's family had come to Canada by way of the United States. Initially indentured servants, the ancestors of Chase's father had paid off their debt in blood, sweat, and years. Once freed, Charmichael Carmody (the men of the family were infamous for using alliteration in their names), had moved north to Canada, in search of something greater than the New York butcher shop which his father had become the owner of at some point in the early 1900's. Once there, contradictory to the stereotype, the Charmody name had difficulty finding traction. Not because Charmichael didn't have many children, they were just mostly daughters. Thus, years later, Chase was born to Carrick Charmody and Ana Ortega. Despite having a very Irish surname, Chase had predominantly gained his Spanish mother's features, except the eyes. From his mother, he had also gained a deep sense of family, a steep graciousness towards his guests, and a knack for flamboyance.

"You insult me!" He said with a chuckle, in such a way that made it clear he wasn't really insulted, but might be if Grey chose not to enjoy any of his hospitality. Of course, the conversation was cut short regardless by Jameson's emergence from the pool, so if Grey did respond, there was no way for Chase to verify one way or the other. He normally would not have cut a greeting so short after a handshake (he regularly embraced his friends), but he lived a lavish lifestyle, and protecting the integrity of his things was ingrained into his mind. A part of his personality. The way the first generation of big money always respected the cash they got because they were the ones who had earned it; even if subsequent generations lacked that same, defining respect for the dollar. Not that Chase was likely to have any kids of his own. He had a goal in mind, and it involved not having to breathe anymore. He was more than happy to exchange one type of immortality for another.

Kids and a baby mama would just complicate things.

While Chase plucked up the pieces of brick and dusted off where they crumbled bits of sand on the tile, he called out over his shoulder "Try some of the brie!" As if he hadn't heard the comment about having already eaten. Maybe he had. More likely than not, he just didn't like taking 'no' for an answer. He disappeared through a door into another room then, presumably so he could dispose of the broken building materials.

Jameson felt breath on his collarbone, and on his neck. Warm, it sent the smallest of shivers racing up his spine. His own flesh was always cool, even if the heated pool had brought him slightly closer to the human's body temperature. Though a fair argument could be made that the shiver had nothing at all to do with the warmth of that breath so much as the man it'd come from. Maybe it was Pavlovian, and Jameson's mind was flung back in those scant seconds to other times. Times when there was nothing between them but a different kind of heat, and the overzealous desire to prove that the dead were still living. At least in one way.

The moment passed, and the magnetic pull between the pair seemed to lessen for a moment. Things to take care of. Jameson had heard those words before. Usually when someone was trying to hide something from him. Like the time Max had gotten his hands on some of the good stuff and hadn't wanted to share. Jay had gotten word from someone else on the streets where Max had been holed up, and they had gotten into a real knock down, drag out. In the end, Jamie'd been on the losing end of the argument, with a split lip, broken ribs, and black eye. Max never had been a very good sport about having his motivations called into question, though.

That never stopped Jameson from asking. Paranoia was a real *****.

"Yeah, what's that code for?" He asked directly, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. He wasn't great at masking his emotions, not when he was really feeling them though. That was the good thing about being high all the time. You sort of stopped caring about anything else. Made it really ******* easy to avoid looking like you wanted anything other than drugs. And if nobody knew you wanted something, like respect, or dignity, or love - well, they couldn't take it from you. But when Jameson well and truly desired something, like affection or happiness, it showed. For a split second, his features twisted into a distrusting mask. That mask barely hid the slightest spike of anger. Then the twist in his visage was gone. Probably just groceries or something. Maybe I forgot something. He reasoned with himself. That had been one of Dr. Ozzy's best pieces of advice. He couldn't control how people acted, but he could control how he viewed the way they acted.

"Nevermind." He said, trying to put a cap on the conversation before it could turn into something ugly. Jameson had a gift for that. Making things ugly.

The damage was done though and Grey stepped back. Jameson thought he saw reluctance painted on the other man's features, and he tried to tell himself the assessment was legitimate, that he was just making something out of nothing. Like usual. The response then was to try and win back favor he might have spoiled with his line of questioning. He got closer. Impossibly closer, and began to tug Grey's clothes off. His movements were quick and deliberate, like he was preparing to do something other than swim with the other man. It didn't quite reach the area of frantic, but it was in the same ballpark.

He was being shoved, and with hands still on a shirt, he stumbled backwards. Then another step, yanking Grey right along with him. A curious chain of events, the pair of them ended up plunking into the water. Jameson hit it first with a smack, then Grey thudded against his chest, then they began to sink a little bit. Jameson kicked and let go of his lover's clothes. He was under water. Then he was breaking the surface, spluttering, laughing. Worries abruptly gone.

That was when Chase peeked back into the room, leaning back to bring his shoulders, head and part of his chest into frame. He made his way back into the room, carrying another tray, this time with cheese stuffed mushrooms and seasoned meatballs, both of which were skewered on toothpicks. He set them down on a nearby chaise lounge. "Poseidon am I?" He asked, as if he had only heard part of the conversation. Maybe he'd been eavesdropping. "Well if I'm god of the seas, then that makes you two my water nymphs!" He took a running leap into the pool, tucking legs under himself, arms clasped around them. The splash threw up water. He didn't surface, instead kicking against a wall to propel him towards the pair.

Jameson got the gist of the game right off and dotted a kiss to Grey's lips. "Well now you're wetter than you were before, and you got a man chasing after you. SPLIT!" He called out, and immediately dove in the opposite direction, so Chase had to pick which of the two he wanted to go after to tag.

[Grey Weston]

He responded to the faux-accusation with a hitch of his shoulders and a wry grin. It was a noncommittal gesture. "Maybe later." It was spoken more out of a desire to pacify than out of any intent to follow through. The wine he wouldn't touch. Alcohol had been his mother's habit. Though perhaps that weren't that far removed from each other; simply trading in one addiction for another. Then they were alone. "Is he--?" He began, only for Jameson's own line of questioning to override his own.


His expression went flat. "Jesus, Jameson." The words were, for all their hushed pitch, toneless. There was an edge to their neutrality; a tension heavy with the burden of resentment. His arms rose to curl loosely around his chest, as if the gesture was something to wield like a rosary. There was no comfort in the worn edges of the conversation. Familiar and devoid of comfort. A trinket for the faithless. The hurt that briefly registered on his face was brittle and fleeting. He flinched slightly. It was a subtle thing; as brief as heat lightning. There was more violence in the way that his muscles contracted than in the flash of anger beneath that mask. Don't. The word went unspoken; leaving a mute tension between the pair in the warm breath that spilled over skin. "What's that code for?" He repeated. There was a sharpness to his voice; a humorless disbelief. Yet, even in his own rising state of agitation, he couldn't fault the vampire's behavior, any more than he could truly make a distinction between himself and their kind any longer. Both had compulsions that could render them monstrous.

He was no better. He was just as beholden to the nature of his hunger; complicit in (self)destruction. Had the situation been reversed, he wouldn't have behaved any differently. Jameson drew closer, and that brief irritation disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. His first impulse was to reach for him; dig his fingertips underneath a sharp jawline and yank him flush against himself. He briefly combated those hands; stiff as the vampire's fingers hooked into his clothing, tugging with a relentlessness that drew a low, pitiful sound from the back of his throat. It held the same impatient tremor as those rare times when he needed one fix or another and Jameson was a little too deliberate. A raw sound of need, defenses stripped bare. The truth of the matter was that it was often difficult to distinguish the greater need.

Jameson was, in many respects, the purest high. Borderline mythical, in that it was what so many spent their lives chasing. It was a powerful thing, that kind of addiction. A dangerous thing. Not that it prevented him from parting his lips as the vampire drew closer; an audible catch to his breathing as he tipped his chin up to shower kisses against Jameson's mouth. Almost chaste at first. Then harder, the barest hint of teeth pressuring against the soft, yielding flesh of his lips. It was nearly as hurried as the tug of his partner's hands. His jacket slid from his shoulders a split second later; crisp material folding to the floor with a muted noise. It was at the premise moment when Jameson's fingers curled into his shirt that he found himself being dragged, swept along in the forward momentum of the vampire's overbalancing. They broke the surface of the water seconds later, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs.

They sank. In a way, it was nearly metaphorical. He broke away from Jameson after a moment; shoving hard off of his body before surfacing. He looked, for a moment, like something out of mythology; sleek and dark haired. There was an immediate, sharp stinging sensation in his eyes, and his vision blurred. By the time it cleared, Chase had returned, a new tray in hand. Grey gave it a cursory glance, expression dubious. His attention diverted once more; refocusing on his partner. His hands rose; trailing water as they slid down his chest. They didn't pause as they slid lower still, to barely pressure against the front of his trunks. The attention was pointed, though it never quite escalated into anything of substance. Mainly because Chase chose that precise moment to speak.

He glanced up in time to take the brunt of the displaced water, eyes briefly shuttering in an effort to shield them. He shot Jameson a look then; one eyebrow lofting as if to question where, exactly, he'd found the other man. "You're both a couple of assholes," he grumbled, goodnaturedly. He returned the peck, just briefly. Whatever tension had existed between the pair had long since dissipated. He shoved off against the bottom of the pool, immediately making for the opposite end with strong, broad strokes. He paused few seconds later. He was at a disadvantage. The water dragged at his clothes, weighing him down. Slowing him and leaving his movements sluggish and choppy. He wasted no time in dragging his shirt over his head; allowing it to drop to the bottom of the pool, before kicking off once more.

[Jameson Dade]

Most people would have called it a roller coaster, the up and down nature of Jameson's feelings; the way he seemed to alternate between the bliss of requited desire and affection, and the intensely possessive and jealous nature of the paranoid. The irony was that there was no parade of offenses that would have necessitated those virulent lows. Jameson's only lover prior to Grey had been Max, and Max, despite his many weaknesses, had never been a cheater. The behavior was learned then, most likely from the sham of a relationship that was Jay's parentage. A man and a woman in love. A man who controlled his wife with the drink, and enough drugs to sedate an elephant. A woman who enabled crime, and paid for her husband's mistakes with her beauty and her body, and her mind. Dr. Ozymandias had once called Jameson strongly codependent. Had said that it was the most destructive of his habits.


To Jamie, it was less like a roller coaster, and more like the big bang and the big crunch. The theory of the universe and its creation was a simple one. Essentially, all things came from a single explosive moment at the start of time and space, when everything poured out of a space so small as to be imperceptible. Eventually, the theory held, everything would collapse back in on itself, and the process would start again. The time scale was more than geologic; it was measured in billions or trillions of years, and Jameson felt like a very rapid version of it played out in those moments when he questioned everything about his lover. There was this dense feeling inside of him, and his chest tightened. Everything felt heavier, like there were invisible weights pressing down on his shoulders, and pressure behind his face. If he had the ability to blush, it probably would have left him red-faced. His jaw would clench and teeth would grind together. His fingers usually balled into fists, and his muscles tensed until he thought they would snap like over-extended bungee cord. He usually overheated, his forehead hot enough to fry an egg on. There was a feeling of helplessness, like something bad had happened, or something had been taken from him, and he couldn't do anything about it but swing his fists at the larger form of fate and life, with their long arms holding him at bay, like a child held away from an adult by the forehead. Endlessly windmilling ineffectively.


Then that feeling would dissipate, not slowly, but all at once. When Grey said the right thing, or reassured Jameson in just the right way. There was an explosion. The weight disappeared, and Jay would smile. There was this feeling like endorphins were slamming into his system, trying to fry his brain in a syrup of hormones and happiness. The sensation of hitting that high right after coming out of a particularly dark low spot was addictive. There was this sound Grey made when he wanted something. Usually when he wanted Jameson. The vampire had formed a Pavlovian connection with it; when Grey expressed himself in just the right way, a switch flipped in Jay's mind. He could practically taste the other man's yearning, and so the lights came on. One moment Jameson was trying to drag his nails from his palm and the next his eyelids were heavy and drooping. It was like he was floating in the water, but it was warm and then hot, and then burning pleasantly in his gut and chest, and head. It was almost too much for him, and Jameson worried he might have another freak out. That happened sometimes when there was too much going on, for him to process all at once. He normally got too excited about something and began to shut down. His mind was usually the first thing to go, and he regressed into a primal thing.

The vampire yanked a body against his own. Had Grey not been a blood thief, and not naturally a little more hearty, Jameson likely would have popped some ribs out of their natural alignment. Such was his desire to crawl right into the other male's skin. The feeling was sexual only on the most basic level. He wanted to be with Grey, to overlap with him, to take up the same space, breathe air into his lungs, suck the blood from his veins, share a soul with him. But he wanted more than that. He wanted them to be wax figures melting in a pot, only to be poured into a newer and better shape. Endlessly swirled together by the hand of something greater. In that moment, he felt an intensity of desire so great that it took the breath from his lungs, and made him feel a little sick. Admittedly, the latter may have had something to do with the abrupt shift from growing rage to peaking desire. He trembled a little bit while they kissed.


The pool water helped to dissipate some of that fire inside of him, like lava flowing into the ocean. He felt the gooey liquid of his core slowly solidifying into something firm enough to stand up under its own weight. He was being pecked on the mouth. Grey looked beautiful in the pool, with hair clinging to his face and water running over his features. Jameson wanted to pin him to the wall and consume him. A hand moved across the front of his shorts. He made a sound. There was brief, pressing movement in the water. Ripples trailed away from them in every direction. The trunks got a little tighter. Grey and Jay had to stop their game because Chase was there, and Jameson wasn't about to tell a man to go away, especially in his own home. He could have. He wanted to. But power used was power lost, and Jamie wanted to hold sway over his thrall's heart on more than a purely technical level.


So the game had to change it's name, and they were suddenly parting, the three of them like magnets of opposite polarization. He found himself against a wall, back pressed against a jet and head nudged against the lip of the pool. Jameson caught sight of Grey a distance away, pulling his shirt off. The sight was unreasonably attractive. Chase missed the first pass, skimming by Grey at a razor's width. The media mogul came up a few seconds later, sucking in a breath, a hand lifted to wipe water from his eyes. For Poseidon, he wasn't very good at manipulating the water. He refused to open his eyes underneath, after a bad experience as a child with over-chlorinated water damaging his eyesight for a while. He'd been fourteen at the time, and had come out of the pool with rings around his eyes as red as sun burn.He'd been forced to wear special lenses for a few weeks and take these horrible stinging eye drops. He didn't take chances anymore.


His chest heaved for a second as water ran over a strong chest, streaking his flesh. He pointed to Grey as if to say 'you'. "If I catch you, little nymph, you have to get out of the pool and eat something, before you shrivel up and die." He demanded. He didn't wait for an acknowledgement, before he dove back in, cutting cleanly through the clear pool. His arms moved in wide arcs to get him deeper and then when he hit the bottom, his feet pressed solidly, before muscular legs curled. Potential energy built and he slingshotted off of the floor in Grey's direction. Arms curled up, and he clasped the other man. It was easy enough, if only because Grey was indeed scrawny by Chase's standards. Suddenly, the blood thief was being crushed against a chest. Not that Grey could not have escaped if he desired. The painful truth was that Chase was easily overpowered by any of the supernatural.


The thrall had feet on the ground again, in the shallow water as he stood. He broke the surface of the water at his waist, and Grey was lifted up into the air, several feet above. Held like a trophy for a moment, a wrestler with an enormous belt buckle, Chase let out a loud and triumphant whoop of a sound. Then his normally gymnastic balance was overshot, and he fell backwards, laughing. He got a mouthful of water as Jameson neared. The game seemed to have changed again, and Jay wasn't about to be left out. He tackled the pair of them with the gusto of a famished man who had just found a cooked turkey randomly at his table. For a moment, the three men were nothing but flailing limbs.

[Grey Weston]

Grey shot Chase a dubious look, countering the man's leveled finger with a wry twist of his lips. Whatever derision existed in the expression was softened by the barest wrinkling of his nose; the creases that collected faint. "If," he agreed amicably. The brief crease chased the shadows from his eyes; brightened that warm hazel into something alive with mirth in a way that made the years - what precious few there were - to fall away. "Then you can cram whatever you want into my mouth." He finished with a wink. He drew his lower lip between his teeth a split second later, worrying the flesh, chapped and made raw; a nervous habit he hadn't quite outgrown with his youth. It was the same expression that etched itself across his features in those rare moments of stillness when the apartment was cathedral silent, when he sat fixed in a corner of the bedroom, shoulders hunched as he bent over his work., ignoring the bite of the metal folding chair that left him numb for hours at a stretch.

He'd filled half a dozen sketchbooks with Jameson's likeness, as the months bled into each other, as indistinct and feathered in his memory as the grayscale of charcoal sketches. Sharply vivid one moment and then muted the next; quick to retreat to the recesses of his mind. There was something borderline feverish in his desire to capture his image; as if he sought immortalize, not the vampire, but the shape of him; the way the air curved around the space of him. As if he drew from the memory of his fingertips on his skin. The lines weren't always clean. At times, they wavered; the evident of an unsteady hand, the corners of the pages stained with the impressions of his fingerprints; fingertips dark with the stain of charcoal dust. Regardless of the medium - pencil sketches, pen and ink, charcoal (later graduating into pastels and watercolors) - the subject was unchanging.

One oil painting in particular - one that had sold in late August - depicted the vampire nestled among wolves. From a distance, their interlocking bodies resembled a bed piled high with furs. A study in grim opulence. It was only upon closer inspection that the glint of eyes - one of the few things in the painting that was truly vivid - as sharply vivid as lucid dreaming while at the mercy of a fever - became apparent. What drew the eye was not so much the nudity in itself as the smaller wolf that hung half-suspended above him, its eyes the exact shade of hazel as his own. Reflected at the center of its pupils was Jameson. It was far easier, he'd found, to allow his hands to speak for him.

The wake of Chase's first pass forced him to abruptly go still. He could have avoided the other man easily. The caveat was that it would have drawn attention. Demanded a suspension of disbelief. It was better, he'd learned, to never give the impression that he was more than he seemed. It was easier to leave people to their assumptions. There were some things that defied explanation, regardless. Such as the fact that it wasn't so much that he was 'scrawny' as it was a change in his metabolism. Between his habit and the compulsion to feed, he was a marvel of modern medicine. He'd regained some weight in the months since he'd met Jameson, though he'd never fully tip the scales in any moderately impressive direction. His reflexes - though far from being on par with the vampire's - had sharpened. All the same, he allowed the near-capture. He felt a pair of arms circle him a second later, their grip solid against his chest.

He didn't struggle as he was lifted bodily into the air. It wouldn't have been difficult to shrug Chase off. But he decided to allow him his small victory. Not that it spared them from overbalancing moments later all the same. He struck the water on his side; the impact driving the breath from his lungs in an unsteady, giddy exhale. The start of a breathless bark of later that was swallowed by the slap of water against his partially open mouth as Jameson abruptly launched himself at the pair. The momentum threatened to drag them under. As it was, he found himself effectively pressed between the pair; locked in the cage of their tangled limbs. "Gross." He said decisively, even as chin was forced to tuck against his chest to avoid the wide sweep of an arm. "Don't make out or anything,"he teased.

A rather pointless reprimand, as it turned out. No sooner had he uttered the words than his hands were reaching blindly to thread his fingers through Jameson's hair for the second time that evening, head tipping back to deliver a soft kiss against the vampire's throat. There was the barest hint of teeth; faint pressure and the whisper of something sharp as he followed it up with a nip. "Not to be a sore loser," he began, "but clothes. Now. Hypothermia. It's a thing."

[Jameson Dade]

Jameson listened to the taunting, and was briefly, faintly happy that Chase and Grey appeared to be getting along. Chase was essentially part of Jay, in a way that he couldn't cleanly cut himself from. Well he could, but it would have involved blood, and a bullet, and ultimately, a lot more in the way of investigation than Jamie wanted to put up with. Chase was an important figure in Harper Rock's community, which meant his death or disappearance would draw unwanted attention. Perhaps one day, Jameson would demand of Chase what he had of Ozymandias. Go. Leave and never look back. Do not remember me, don't think of me, don't talk about me. Or something like that. Memory was a fuzzy thing, even when someone wasn't an addict. Jameson's mind was as holey as Swiss cheese, and he often forgot important things. Sadly, he wasn't the most dependable creature in the world. The words were etched into his brain though, because Jameson was a man used to people leaving him. His father had gone to jail. His mother had buried herself in a lake of alcohol (or, as was the case recently, in a bathtub full of gin). Because of their lifestyle, they had been isolated from anyone who might have gotten close enough to do something about the shoddy living or the terrible conditions. So Jameson had never quite developed the ability to maturely let go of the attachments he felt. Or form healthy ones (as Ozzy put it). Which meant that when Jameson found someone he liked, he became a little obsessed with them. He needed them. He got close. He craved their attention at almost all times. It could be a lot.


Then you can cram whatever you want in my mouth. For a few seconds, Jameson just heard static, and a glance towards Chase told him that the human had picked up on the double speak more quickly than he had. There was a darkening of Chase's gaze, and a widening of his always present grin. It wasn't that award winning smile that many of Harper Rock's citizen's knew, but something else entirely. For one, three were no teeth. For another, it looked a little demented, beautiful like an angel, but depraved like a demon. It didn't help that Jay himself got flashes of images then. He could see the sweat gathering, to trickle down Chase's back. He could hear the obvious sounds of carnal desperation as they grew louder. He tried to block the thoughts from his mind because they made him feel things, he wasn't sure he wanted to feel. Jealousy? Not quite. Maybe it was because the whole thing had been prefaced by Grey's attention. Or maybe it was because Chase really was an extension of Jameson's own will. He didn't really see him as a seperate person, even if he really, very much was. But he wasn't angry. But he felt like he should be angry. And then he thought It's just a joke. Why should I be angry?. Seconds later: Because the thought of them together turns you on, and you feel guilty.. And then right after that. Stop being a little *****, Jesus.


Which was right about the point where the thrall plucked Grey up out of the water and they were falling. Jameson shoved the thoughts out of his mind, like a child pushing another kid into the water. He would explore those feelings later, when he wasn't surrounded by people he cared about.


To his credit, Chase didn't push for Grey to make good on his promise when he lifted the other man out of the water. Though that was undoubtedly his style. He liked to play the long game, when it came to toying with the soul, and heart, and minds of the people around him. Getting a cheap thrill in with no greater plan in mind wasn't something he was interested in. Though that wink did cause him to assess Grey again, doing a once over. Then he felt a body slam into his, and he flailed in the water while Jameson attempted to shove his head beneath the surface. The vampire succeeded almost too easily, which would have rankled, had it been anyone else. Chase adored Jameson for a multitude of reasons. For one, he felt a rare kinship with the vampire, though whether or not that came from the bond they shared as thrall and master, or something else, had yet to be determined. He also hoped that one day Jay would turn him. As a vampire, Chase would have everything he wanted. Immortality. Power. He already had wealth, but the legacy he could leave behind with a lifespan of thousands of years? The idea of it alone was enough to get him hard and keep him stiff for hours. So he could put up with little pokes at his pride. He could handle being pushed around from time to time, because he would eventually get his way. In the long run. And that was all that really mattered, how things got squared away at the end of the day. The 'here and now' was just an illusion and history was little more than words on paper.


He let himself sink deeper, away from those hands, so that Jameson unbalanced. Then Chase swam through the water, beneath its surface. When he came back up again, he caught the side and hauled himself out, water dripping from a powerful body. He reached for his robe, fastening it onto his body to evade the chill, before making his way towards the wood stove. He grabbed a few logs and pushed them inside, before reaching for the kindling which was kept in its own box beside the ornate heating arrangement. It seemed that he agreed with Grey. Hypothermia and all that. He struck a match, and soon a fire was coming to life, waves of warmth rolling off of the stone and metal, and brick to fill the area. The scent was woodsy and sweet at the same time, with the faint undertone of a cinnamon-like spice. The music continued to play while he set up the fire, and pushed the grate back into place at the front, to ensure the flames remained properly contained. But once he was done, he decided they needed a change of atmosphere. Something closer to his tastes. He reached for a remote, and the turntable suddenly stopped, attention instead shifting to one of his computers, which contained several playlists. He wanted a little nostalgia, so soon Santana's guitar was bringing life to the speakers. Rom Thomas began to sing Smooth. That was more like it. He turned the volume up a little bit, but not enough to interfere with discussion, before turning back to the duo. By that point, Jameson was already out of the water. "Gentlemen, I expect a decent amount of this food to be eaten, or I'll be sending it as leftovers." He instructed politely as he padded closer.


Jameson felt lips on his throat. Then watched the retreating form of Grey as the man slid out of the water. "I don't get hypothermia. Comes with the fangs." He retorted cleanly, even as he scrambled towards the steps himself so he could slip out. Water ran down his rail-thin frame in thick rivulets. He then stomped his way towards the seating area, where there was enough food to sate a small army laid out. He grabbed a fluffy towel, which was about as big as a blanket, and ambled to Grey so he could throw the thing right over him. "You, on the other hand, can freeze. And you don't have any dry clothes." He pointed out while Chase was setting up the fire. He then leaned closer to squeeze the human. "So you should probably strip down and let that stuff dry off over by the oven." Which. Well. Admittedly, he just wanted to see more skin. But he was more than a little shameless, and the logic was solid enough for him.


By the time Chase was returning, Jameson had let go of Grey and was flopped onto one of the chaise lounges. He reached for a hunk of cheese to inspect it, lifting the whole thing to his nose to inhale lightly. He'd really only ever had very common varieties, which could be purchased at local supermarkets. Cheddar. Mozzarella. Swiss. He knew what grated parmeasan was, but didn't know it actually came in anything other than a cylinder. Or that it even started off as a wheel. So when he was confronted with brie, he was a little unsure about what to do with it. He settled on taking a bite. Of course, he did so through layers of wax, which were not meant to be eaten. And some sort of powder on the very outside. He nostrils scrunched. He chewed. His tongue recoiled. His face twisted and he leaned over the edge of the chair to let a hunk of it drop onto the ground before putting the cheese back down.


Chase just sort of stared.

[Grey Weston]

"I'm on a cleanse," he deadpanned in the face of Chase's request. "Very exclusive. Rich in protein." He was interrupted a moment later by Jameson's retrieval of the towel. He grew still beneath it for the space of a breath. It was a primal instinct; the need to compensate for the lack of a particular sense with another. He moved with a speed he shouldn't have. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't particularly polished. More to the point, it was enough. His arms wrapped solidly around the vampire's waist, jerking him so that they rested flush together. His chin hooked over his shoulder a moment later. "Do you really want to get into that particular pissing match?" He asked blithely. Ever so slightly coquettish, the words were lost in an exhale against the curve of Jameson's shoulder. His lips barely brushed the surface of his skin; the barest drag of teeth scraping over the thin flesh there.

The pressure was just as dull when he abruptly bit down. His incisors failed to sink home. At least, not fully. He was careful in the subtle working of his jaw. He gnawed gently for few seconds more. "Yeah. Didn't think s--" Jameson's grip provoked a low sound; an incomplete exhale that resolved into a barely audible grunt. At one time, it had driven the air from his lungs; joints shifting with an unpleasant series of dry clicks and disconcertingly wet snaps. It wasn't that the fervor had dimmed between the pair; far from it. It was simply that he had adapted to the touch; embraced the violence inherent in it. Found comfort in the urgency. He stepped back, allowing the towel to fall away to puddle at his feet. His skin had already begun to prickle with the first hint of chill; water beading at the tips of his hair, only to break and steadily trace a path along his skin, before collecting in the hollows of his collarbone. “Who’s fault is that?” He retorted, even as his hands fell to the waistband of his pants, fingers deft in their movements as they worked to unfasten their button.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans, guiding the stiff, unyielding fabric over his hips. It caught at his skin, tugging in a way that drew a ragged hiss from between his lips as the waterlogged denim left his skin raw and faintly flushed. The gesture left him clad in a pair of equally drenched briefs. He swept the discarded clothing article into his arms a second later, though he never quite made it to the wood stove. He turned just in time to witness Jameson expelling his mouthful of Brie.


"That," he remarked mildly, "is offensive." His gaze drew away from the pulped mass of cheese. It was virtually unrecognizable; a ruin of brittle wax that had splintered between Jameson's teeth and reflected the light with a dull luster, and the ivory of the Brie itself. "You have broken the most basic etiquette," he continued. "Always swallow, Jameson." He stepped closer a split second later, movements ginger but unperturbed as he navigated around the chunk of cheese. Admonishment delivered, his settled into Jameson's lap a heartbeat later. "You've got something..." He began as he leaned forward. His words were hushed; not quite husky, but thin. Devoid of his earlier playfulness, replaced instead by a sudden intensity. "Right here." He finished, reaching up to trace a faint smear of white against the curve of his jaw. It was faint; a chalky shade that began just outside of his lip line and disappeared just shy of his chin. The soft press of his lips replaced his trailing fingertip; tongue sliding from between them to lap away the evidence, briefly darting over the crease of his lips. "Hi." His breath ghosted across the vampire's lips; a false exchange of oxygen. He pulled away as quickly as he'd leaned in. "I..." He paused, as if suddenly conscious of his surroundings. It wasn't unusual. Jameson had that effect on the human. The proverbial grounding was never an easy thing; jarring. Disorienting. "Don't stay out too late."

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression wry as his gaze sought Chase's. "Be honest. Do you really plan to stand there and watch us eat all evening? What kind of ******** Food Network voyeurism is that?"