AC/DC [Closed]

[Azraeth]

The stadium had been enormous. From a bird's eye, it looked like concentric circles surrounding a rectangular green patch, which constituted the football field. Around the turf were track lines, which could be used to help the footy boys warm up for the big game. And then a layer of bleachers. Another layer of bleachers. And the rigid, metal and plastic exoskeleton which kept everything together. It had just been getting dark when the game had begun, but Azraeth made a special point to arrive and be seated prominently in view of the field. The cost had been ugly, but well worth it. The main problem Az had was that he didn't really know all that much about the 'footy'. The only sport he'd ever learned all that much about had been hockey, and even that had just been for Azariel. Because they were twins, and Azraeth hadn't wanted them to grow apart. This necessitated a certain amount of interest in things he normally wouldn't have cared about. Besides. Watching a bunch of guys crash into each other had its amusing moments.

Throughout the course of the game, he managed to pick up the basics. Those being: The team wants to get the ball into the other team's net. And whenever someone scored, it was the crowd's job to act like they had completely lost their sanity, and were, in fact, going apeshit crazy. At first the whole thing had startled him. The stadium was packed to the limit with people from Harper Rock, and wherever the other team had come from. Their mascot was some sort of long necked weasel. To his credit, Az had looked up the team colors, and a quick google search taught him the customary rituals involved in showing team spirit. Specifically, he'd opted to paint his face, a process that was more involved than it should have been, if only because he had no mirror, and had been forced to beg one of the people at his apartment to help with the process. And so, after the initial shock of having everyone on their feet, screaming at the field, waving signs and holding up banners, he had joined right in. The entire time, his eyes had been on one player in particular.

The game had gone on for what felt like hours, and his side actually won! And so, when both teams had retreated, and other people were beginning to leave the stadium, he found himself carefully wiping away the paint on his face using chemically laced make up removal wipes – which he'd brought along with him for just that reason. Again. The enthusiasm out-did the practical application, which resulted in a few missed spots, where paint clung to a jaw, right against his hairline, and on one cheek. None the less, he found himself ambling towards one of the changing rooms. There were reporters there, who were attempting to get through. Field managers who made sure that nobody who wasn't supposed to be there was, etc. The whole thing was one great big excited riotous affair, and Az wasn't interested in any of that. He just wanted to meet up with someone. So he let the shadows consume him, leaving him in darkness blanketted so thick that nobody seemed to even notice as he bypassed several people to get closer to his destination. Everything was fresh. New. Polished. The plastic still had that 'new car' sme, and the metal framework of walls gleamed . Paint was vibrant over cement foundation.

He made a right turn and was suddenly hit by a wall of steam. The scent of sweat was both acrid and overwhelming, but he didn't mind. There were mostly guys stripping or getting dressed, in various stages of showering. There were some family members scattered about, who had been admitted to chat with their husbands or sons. No children for obvious reasons. The testosterone was thick enough in the air that Azraeth was nearly affronted just on principle. However he finally caught sight of the guy he'd shown up to see and made his way right over to give a tap on his shoulder. Diego was hunched over, doing up shoe laces. He must have gotten into the shower early, because he was already almost completely dressed. All around, there were voices contemplating various ideas. Some of the guys wanted to just go home and relax. But others said that they needed to celebrate properly. They'd won after all hadn't they? So surely, they had to head out and have a bite to eat. Abuse a waiter at some expensive restaurant. Have a lot to drink, before finally retiring for the night at some point in the early morning.

Az was oblivious to most of it. As he tapped Diego's shoulder, he slowly came right back into view. Like the world had been unfocused around him and the camera abruptly fixed itself. His outfit was simple. A pair of jeans which were fitted but otherwise unstyled. His sweater was solid gray with a fluted, wide collar and similar fluting around the cuffs. Long sleeved. He had a jacket on as well, of a darker gray. All of which was paired with some simple tan leather shoes with pointed tips, and long, green grey stripes socks. He let his shoulder come to rest against one of the lockers. Not his first time in a changing room. Twin brother's fault again. He wore a special pair of contacts to disguise his eyes. Scleral lenses which gave him whites, and a 'normal' pupil. He normally wouldn't have bothered with them, but he didn't want to draw too much attention to himself when he knew there would be a ton of media all around. "It sounds to me like the guys who want to go to the Italian place are winning." He said, by way of greeting, shooting a broad grin to the other man. And Azraeth was perfectly content with inviting himself along. Just like he'd invited himself into the locker room.

[Diego Santos (DELETED 7309)]

This should have been a good day. It had started out well enough: everyone was surfing a high of nervous excitement because this match had actually meant something. Even Diego was finally feeling something other than frustration stir in his gut. He’d actually been smiling this morning, greeted his team mates with coffee. It wasn’t his normal routine in the slightest – ordinarily they had a runner who did the coffee errands, got them anything they asked for because the boy was so desperate to be a part of something bigger than himself. It wasn’t likely that anyone even knew the kid’s name, they presumed his age and origins, but there was always a smile for his arrival. When Diego appeared with their coffees instead, the reception was more confusion than elation – not that it had stopped them from accepting the offerings. Diego was in a good mood, his temperament having improved considerably over the last couple of weeks. He didn’t want to put his finger on exactly why that was, and the others had just assumed it was because the fame monster was finally glad to see that their team was going places. It wasn’t untrue.

The Brazilian was never entirely subtle with his thoughts and feelings. When he’d joined their squad little more than a handful of months ago, he’d blazed in, ****-sure of himself with this know-it-all attitude that had immediately rubbed his comrades up the wrong way. It didn’t matter a toss to them that the Brazilian had been employed because of his skill on the field, and it didn’t matter a toss to the way they’d played either. If a team functions as a group of singular units, then the only thing they do together is fail. Their performance had been shocking for a couple of months, but that was to be expected. Their manager, a balding man of 53 named Frank Granger, had spoken into Diego’s ear a few times about his attitude, but changes like that don’t take place over night. Or maybe they do. There had been a noticeable turning point, which had resulted in a cease of whispering threats from Frank and a sudden inception of shouting praises. The whole team had felt the change, like the sudden break of summer, and nobody was about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Their game today was just the start of it. No more little league or minors for HRFC, they were playing against the big fellas now – swimming with the sharks. The soccer season had opened early in March and nobody thought much of the team at first, not when the best they could do was tie during the qualifying stages. When their game improved, however, there was a bit of commotion. People had begun asking questions, people had begun looking at Frank like a drug dealer. Yet, all this suspicion floating around seemed to prop the players up further, lifting them like a surge of bubbles. The sentiment stirred: We’re so good they think we’re cheating! Diego didn’t point out the obvious for them, because maybe bottling his negativity would be the best course of action. So, he put on a smile – finding it easier to do so when he knew that he could have something to smile about later – and encouraged the warming spirits. It proved to be the right choice at first. They’d won the first half. They’d killed it, even though Diego and his fellow striker, Matthew Townsend, only had a few opportunities between them. They were the better team in the first half, but then something changed. The momentum began to swing the other way. And they collectively gave up the equalizing shots just ten minutes toward the end. Diego was pissed.

The away team was from Adelaide, their mascot a red kangaroo – apparently – though it explained why they were hopping over the defenders like they were nothing more than scraps of grass on the field. Each time that ball went flinging past Malcolm Atwell’s head, HRFC’s esteemed goalkeeper, Diego felt like punching the man in his bug-eyed face. In fact, he felt like punching them all in the face. They’d probably let the premature success get to their heads, which was why they’d deflated like balloons when those shots barrelled past them. Diego actually recognised the exchange of arrogance for confusion and disappointment in their expressions; it passed over the pitch like a storm cloud. But they still had time to turn it around and instead of punching them all in the face, he approached Townsend – first striker and effectively captain of the team – to give the man some words of advice. They weren’t going to come from Diego himself, not with how shaky his relationships were with his fellow team mates, but they respected Townsend. The man-child had lived in Harper Rock all his life and his entire existence, including the lifespans of his father and grandfather before him, were centred on football. The Townsend name was apparently a big deal in Canadian Soccer – who knew?

At first, Townsend gave Diego a look that suggested the Brazilian had grown a third eyeball and it was centred in the man’s forehead. Townsend’s blue eyes kept squinting, his long face becoming longer when his jaw dropped. Diego heard the words are you serious? being repeated like a sermon, and each time he nodded his head, eventually putting a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and giving it a pat of encouragement. When they parted ways, returning to their positions on the field, Diego gave Townsend an affirming look and to his surprise, got a smile out of the blonde man. Play picked back up and the captain was a flurry of motion, arm signals and encouraging howls to his team mates, competing with the chorus from Frank himself. Suddenly their defence was on top form, squirreling the ball out from Adelaide’s possession almost instantaneously and setting up the shots bang-on target. But Adelaide weren’t going down without a fight. A single point separated each team from being the victor and as the minutes counted town, the fight got desperate.

Just five minutes toward the final whistle and a shriek of contention was made. Chris Roy, the HRFC’s midfielder, was given a caution for a hard foul after basically stomping on Noah Mason’s foot. The crowd erupted in a series of heckles and cow noises, and somehow Roy had managed to get off light with Mason elbowing him in the jaw a few seconds later. The whistle blew again, the crowd were on their feet and every man on the pitch stopped to watch as Roy and Mason stepped up to each other like flexing gorillas. Diego was the first man to rush in – mainly due to proximity – and was dragging Roy away by his arms before he was joined by Roy’s best friend and fellow midfielder, Dong Chan. Chan was easily the shortest man on the field, but he was as fierce as a wolf. Midfielders must be the most physically fit players on the field. They are the link between the defence and attack, and are expected to run the most in a game. They should be able to penetrate deep into enemy territory on attack and make the transition to defence when the opposition retains possession of the ball. Since it was basically inferred that Dong Chan was also a black belt, probably more to do with the man’s heritage than anything else, nobody fucked with Dong Chan.

After a few seconds of flaring emotions and the more mature members of each team shaking hands and apologising to one another, the game proceeded back into play. It was gruelling. Ninety minutes felt like ******* forever as it was, and when the extra time was confirmed and play-on continued, it was anyone’s guess as to whether they would be playing for another fifteen minutes before anybody scored. Sometimes a game could just swing that way, with each team’s determination hitting off the other and trading blows until it all unwound into a stalemate. The Adelaide team were definitely more experienced and certainly more qualified by mass, but they’d taken an early beating and their stamina levels were dropping fast. Plus, there might have been a contributing factor here and Diego thought on how ironic it was that the *****-cold weather of Canada was finally proving useful. Seven minutes into extra time and the Adelaide defenders were becoming sluggish. Chan and Roy gave them the run around, passing the ball to Townsend in an opening that you could park a bus in, and then it was all over. Townsend faked right, turned left and shot. The goalkeeper dove, his gloved hands scraping over the camber of the ball as it fired into the back of the net. There was a stagnant moment of disbelief before the crowds were on their feet cheering out the last seconds of the game. Moments later and the final cries of the whistle declared their victory.

Harper Rock FC 3 – 2 Adelaide United FC

Diego gave a slow round of applause as he walked toward the centre of the field, where the two teams were meeting for post-game handshakes. Good sportsmanship dictated that every man shook hands, recognition for a well-played game regardless of what happened on the pitch. This was the time where any animosities or disagreements were forgiven and each team could head back to their respective changing rooms. Green eyes kept a watch for Chris Roy and Noah Mason – just in case. To his relief, it was all rather civil. He could have sworn he saw Roy even apologise and pat Mason squarely on the shoulder, but he didn’t realise that there was a smile on his lips. He carried that pride-filled grin with him as they were escorted down the player’s tunnel into the awaiting crowd of media and V.I.P.s. This was the part that Diego dreaded the most. He’d never had a problem with the crowds of spectators watching them play, even if they were as packed in and vocal as sheep. Though, Diego had started to wonder if that wasn’t because those fans were distanced from him, because what he actually hated was being within a crowd. The Brazilian kept his pace swift and purposeful, his head down and his eyes on the floor as he made a bee-line toward the changing rooms. Some of his team mates stopped for interviews and signings and all that other bollocks, but Diego just wanted to get away.

The Brazilian was showered and then part dried by the time his team mates joined him in the locker rooms. There were a few comments, but mostly the men were prancing like peacocks and savouring their victory. Diego was equally preoccupied, reapplying the layers of clothing he had to don in order to brace the weather. Though, it was becoming more tolerable, and he’d found that he was wearing more like two layers these days instead of four or five. He’d pulled on a pair of fitted jeans, tucked his athletic figure under a white t-shirt with a low V-neck, and wrapped himself up in a baseball-style grey and black jacket. Talk of revelries filled the air with the same vibrancy and suffocating pressure as the steam and odour of too many hot bodies pressed into a small space. They were modern-day Vikings, but their desires were traditional enough. After an arduous and prestigious battle, it was time to return to the golden arches of the Mead Hall for feasts and drinks and pretty women – WAGs permitting. They could have gone anywhere tonight, they should have gone anywhere tonight, and although a few suggestions were made, the popular decision was to visit Luigi’s. Again. The Brazilian didn’t bother to protest since the odds were against him: ten to one. This was probably another cultural thing that Diego didn’t understand about Canadians – how obsessed they were with pizza – but at least they appreciated food as well as he did.

Diego was hunched over, tying the laces of his textile trainers when he heard a voice that was both familiar and out of place. Green eyes found the source instantaneously, which made him wonder how he’d managed to miss the man’s arrival in the first place. Initially, there was nothing Diego could do but smirk to himself, that sort of wretched half-laugh you get when something hurts so much it's almost funny. It was as if all the air had been knocked out of him on a bad tackle, and a worse landing. It was that same kind of physical gut punch because that Devil was here, ready to lure him into potential trouble at the worst possible time. It was an over-reaction, but, what Diego wanted to do was hide Azraeth under a towel and secret him out of the room, hoping no one would notice the strange man. Instead, Diego stared at the Vampire in front him, a quizzical expression written into his features as he was studying what was unusual about his appearance. Obviously the clothing was somewhat new to the Brazilian, and the fact that he was lounging against the lockers like he was part of the team was a striking revelation too. What Diego lingered on, however, was the fact that Azraeth’s eyes were… different. Ignoring the matter entirely – his surroundings, his team mates, the fact that Azraeth had made a comment about the restaurant as if he were inviting himself out – Diego dropped his foot off the bench and leant in toward the other man’s face, green eyes honed in on those pupils.

“Are you wearing contacts?” Diego asked, though it sounded very much like an accusation. His head tilted one way and then the other before his back straightened at last. “They look… good.” He was oblivious to how that comment might suggest an aversion to Azraeth’s eyes in their original state because he was just busy looking for a way to avoid saying something criticising like weird, or interesting, or different, or – worst of all – normal. “You look good,” he added swiftly before lowering his voice. “But uh, why are you here?”

Unbeknownst to the Brazilian, his nervous disposition around the stranger in the locker room was being analysed by Townsend, who’d only just walked through the door after signing a dozen football shirts. When he’d turned to ask a few of the other players just who the tall, dark stranger was, he realised that nobody had a clue. Considering how big a deal it was for people other than the players to be in the locker room after a match, added to the fact that Diego had never entertained guests, it made a few of the men suspicious. Having gathered the support of two other players – the tall and heavy-set defender Trey White along with the pasty, skinny defender Mike Simmons – Townsend approached Diego and his friend like a trio of crows. Three sets of eyes looked the pair over identical to the way that footballers look at art exhibits. They had no idea what to make of the spectacle, and there was almost a sense of aggravation rimming their confused frowns as if they felt betrayed by the fact that this was a mystery. Trey White was the same height as Diego, but he seemed to tower over all five of them as he stood in the middle of the two shorter Caucasians. If anyone would speak first, one might expect it to be White based purely on the fact that he was a hulk of a man dressed in ebony flesh. Yet, it was Simmons who spoke up first.

“Who’s your friend, Santos?” he asked, his Scottish accent making the question sound more dangerous than he’d meant it to. Simmons was like that though: blunt and forthright, both looking and sounding like someone you’d meet in a British prison, but was far friendlier than you’d expect. He put out a hand immediately toward Azraeth, wearing a smile that made his strawberry blonde hair look pale in comparison. “Welcome, mate. I’m Mike.”

Suffice it to say, Diego was standing like an art exhibit, or more specifically – statuesque. His apricot coloured skin seemed to pale softly with the fright of his three team mates huddled around him asking questions with Azraeth standing right there. And how would the Vampire react? What would he say? This wasn’t so much of a deer in headlights, shocked-still situation so much as it was a solitary moment of prayer as he pleaded with any deity that would listen to grant him the miracle that would make the Vampire behave.

[Azraeth]

Not long ago, Az had found himself stumbling over his words at the first A.R.E.S. meeting. He had been uncomfortable because it had been years since he'd taken on the stance of neutrality and pacifism. He had thought, errantly, that by not contributing to the chaos that was the 'politics' of Harper Rock's dark underworld, he might see change. And there had been change, but it certainly hadn't been for the better. So there he had been, in a warehouse filled with people who wanted to do something about the state of the supernatural world, and he had honestly been a little overwhelmed at the feelings. Because at his very core, the Mystic did care, and only by putting up that thick barrier of indifference had he been able to snuff out the flames of passion in his chest. The Dragomir had fallen into their own slumber shortly after they had stepped out of the limelight, so it had been easy. Few souls to care about meant that he could content himself with his studies. He might as well have been living a half life. But that single meeting had kindled something in him, and those barriers were slowly coming down. He cared again, and so the rust of ages began to wear away. His confidence was returning at a gallop, and he could have easily looked equally comfortable lounging in an Edwardian opium den or standing over a bloodied crumpled body.

Which was to say that he had that unusual quality of looking at home just about anywhere he went. Including, in this case, a men's changing room. "They're close to my natural eye color." He said when Diego asked about the contacts. It was true enough, though there were details which had been impossible to replicate. At the very least, they managed to give him a more human appearance. And so he watched through false eyes as Diego straightened his back. Az honed in on that change in particular, because the vampire had spent years studying different languages; many of them dead and gone. Though he had majored in cultural anthropology, he had been very fond, in study, of both archaeology and lingustics. Anything that could be used to determine more about the nature of humankind, he found fascinating. But communication was only 7% verbal, according to scholars, and body language made up the majority of what one was attempting to say. Physical gestures, the way a person held themselves – those things resonated on a level that had more depth than words. In fact, words were relatively new. Humans had been evolving for countless years, using only that primal dialogue of glares and bared teeth. A straightened back conveyed interest in something. And. Usually happiness. He attempted not to read too much into it, but Diego was met with a scant grin that showed off hints of Az's teeth.

"I'm here because I promised you I would show you some things, if you recall, and I won't be called a liar." He said, words spilling from his lips like warm honey. A little teasing. Maybe he knew, on some level, that Diego was unsure of himself around the vampire. Maybe Az was being just a tiny bit cruel. It wouldn't have been so out of the ordinary. Despite generally being a kind person (or attempting to be), there was a part of Azraeth that loved watching someone squirm. Especially a human. Especially a human whose blood he had tasted. That was the prey drive again. The instinct inside of him that said to hunt like a jaguar. Nocturnal stalker. However, it was far more likely that Az took no pleasure out of the interaction other than the nearness it offered him to Diego. The man was captivating, after all. The polar opposite of the vampire in nearly every way that could be imagined. But maybe that was part of the appeal. Azraeth enjoyed mysteries. When he had been a young boy, he had purchased a book filled with logic puzzles. Many a night, he would read himself to bed, trying to figure out how to put the clues together in a meaningful way so as to understand the outcome. That was also why he had ultimately learned to love his field of work. Because there was no greater mystery than man. And Diego certainly was an enigma to Az. "Of course, now it seems as if you're going out to dinner, and I wouldn't want to interrupt some team bonding." Note. Az didn't offer to leave and come back later. Or meet up at a better time, which was probably a good indication of his own interest. Normally he respected boundaries, but those were blurry things when dealing with the living anyway.

A new voice joined the discussion, and Az half turned his head to take in the approach of one of Diego's team members. A hand slid out, and the vampire could almost feel his companion growing pale at the thought of what Az might do, like slaughter all of them and walk away licking the blood from his fingers, or what he might say. "I'm Will. Will Carpenter." He said as he gripped the hand and gave it a firm shake. The name wasn't entirely a lie. His middle name was William, and his surname when he had been alive had been Carpenter. It was the name he most often gave to people, because it also happened to be on all of his official 'papers'. "I'm Diego's cousin." And that part was completely untrue, but the guys didn't need to know that. The chances of him getting to know any of them intimately was slim at best. It was the explanation that would lead to the fewest number of questions asked of him, and which he could be most vague with. "In town to guest lecture at the university, and thought I'd surprise our boy here. Didn't he do well out there?" He asked before glancing sidelong to his 'cousin'. To him, it was almost a game. Like some sort of demented checkers, where they quickly put all the pieces into play. Of course. There was always the chance that it would blow up in his face. But that was also half the fun. The danger of getting caught in the lie.

Getting caught gunning down cops and robbing banks.

He drew his fingers back a second later so he could amble right over to Diego, and lean against the man's side, his arm sliding with familiarity around a middle, squeezing the human closer. "So I heard we were going to get some pizza. Who wants to hear about how Diego once accidentally peed on the family cat once?" He asked with a grin that only seemed to get larger. Because by that point, several of the men were watching them. And so he began in the direction of the exit at the opposite end of the room, which led out into a hall, and then from that hall towards the exit where many of the team vehicles were parked. He didn't wait for answers, but he did tug Diego right along after him.

[Diego Santos (DELETED 7309)]

Visions of brimstone and Hellfire flashed before the Brazilian’s eyes as he awaited what seemed like the inevitable moment of his life’s end. He expected fangs and blood and violence as Azraeth unsheathed himself from Human facades and revealed that savagery to these mortals as effortlessly as he’d shared it with Diego – regardless of how little sense that would make. The Brazilian didn’t know anything about a Masquerade, the veil of secrecy that was demanded of their kind for their own survival, he just weakly presumed that the predator could effortlessly destroy these men on a whim and disappear in a blink of the eye. Because Azraeth was mischievous and impulsive in his admiring eyes, even if he didn’t know what the triggers were that would send a Vampire into blood frenzy, or where the lines were drawn between jest and gravity. Diego was unarmed in this battle of wits, with the greatest of his worries being death and blind fury, and the least of his worries being that Azraeth would simply out him in front of these testosterone-driven apes. Even so, on the edge of his fears and frets was a strange, almost unwelcome level of excitement.

The suggestion being that Diego’s brain was wired incorrectly, because he was almost positive that his heart was about to explode from a rush of conflicting emotions. The organ thumped frantically in his chest, threatening to break through his ribcage with every beat as desire, anticipation and fear pumped through him with unnatural force. Green eyes switched from the Vampire beside him to the trio of Humans, their faces still contorted with doubt even if Mike Simmons had made his introductions with a smile and an offer of a handshake. It should have felt peaceful, but, Diego felt anything but calm or confident. Despite the many visions of devastation that clouded his expectations, the reality came in brilliantly focused clarity. Diego blinked at the glare of it, unable to disguise his surprise when Azraeth politely shook Simmons’ hand and introduced himself by a different name. And that part was pretty much tame and delightful compared to the ******** that was offered next: that he and Diego were cousins, and that Azraeth was here as a guest lecturer at the University. To him it was a step too far and the Brazilian doubted that even these knuckle-draggers were dumb enough to believe that one of their own could be a relative of… of, well… someone as princely as Azraeth.

Diego could feel some dark sweetness of power and corruption fog his judgements, a faint burst of something spicy, wild and untamed latching onto his heart. He set green eyes on Azraeth as the Vampire glanced his way, that silent look passing between them incurred a challenge and rebuttal. Suddenly it didn’t matter to him whether the three of his team mates would believe the crap that Azraeth was trying to pass off as brown sugar, because he was more concerned with whether he could keep up with the game. It was only natural for the Brazilian to be competitive. He was the youngest of a pair of sons by a couple of years, which meant that he’d been born into the shadow of somebody else. Whether that had been the deciding factor in his personality was unclear, because Diego had also come from a long line of self-serving narcissists who besides believing that family was the most important thing in the world, also believed that they were above everything because the family depended upon them. The age-old debate between nature and nurture had centred on Diego mercilessly, because each side of the argument – whether a person's development was predisposed in his DNA or was influenced by life experiences and environmental factors – had its flaws and merits. Regardless, as Azraeth was fixed upon the potential for a game of wits and mystery unveiling, the Brazilian was simply focused on how he could one-up the other male.

“Just for the record,” Diego interjected before any laughs or teases were fired in his direction. “It wasn’t an accident, the cat had it coming. I was also five!”

He just had to reiterate his cousin’s story for the sake of his ego. Of course it was all ********, but if he started denying things, acting like this incident was some big deal and a massive stain of shame on his life, then those men would see it like a bull’s-eye on his back and piss on that. Boys liked to play rough, after all, and these boys were no different to playground bullies. The Brazilian had no idea how much of the story they were buying because these guys had managed to establish a group of esteemed poker faces suddenly. Fortunately, Diego didn’t have to stare at their blank expressions for too much longer because William was dragging him out of the locker room. Diego had enough time to shout over his shoulder to his team mates as he was being dragged out the door: “I’m gonna show Will ahead. I’ll meet you guys there!” And by the time he was alone with the Vampire, their almost hurried footsteps carrying them out of the backstage halls and tunnels toward the exit, he was wondering when the façade would drop and Azraeth would let those wolfish fangs shine through a jester’s grin.

“Cousin William? Really?” Diego accused, quirking a brow and smirking at the man who still held close to his side. “So you’re not planning on getting to know the guys very well at all, huh.”

There was something akin to disappointment in the Brazilian’s tone when he spoke, but teasing Azraeth really was the primary objective here. Sometimes Diego was purposefully short-sighted because it was better just not to face up to certain facts, to answer any awkward questions, or deal with the ugliness of the world. When it was just easier to avoid the trouble, Diego saw no purpose to being a martyr. Why suffer the jaws of the beast in the yard when you could just not step into the yard to begin with? That was Diego’s logic and he didn’t see it as cowardice. They said ignorance was bliss, and that life was a short ride, so enjoy the journey – he wasn’t doing anything differently than living with that ideology. Therefore, the Brazilian had dropped that line of accusation almost immediately after they’d left the stadium, approaching a line of vehicles that could only be described as coxcomb cars. Brightly coloured skins curled over the sleek skeletons of the brutes, their bellies pressed low to the ground like stalking cats. Headlights and grills resembled nefarious grins, and since each vehicle was parked with its face looking in on the car park, it was very much like all those faces were watching, and judging, the two approaching males.

A hand was pressed to Azraeth’s lower back then, as though Diego was walking a sweetheart to the dark navy hunk of muscle that was Diego’s Ford Mustang GT. It was very different to what he’d been driving before becoming something of a local celebrity, which was all a part of the fun in being able to show off. The Brazilian hadn’t been modest a day in his life – not meaningfully anyway. So there wasn’t even a hint of coyness for how leisurely he escorted Azraeth to the vehicle, the amber lights flashing in autonomous sequence like a pet greeting its master.

“Presumably we’re going to drive to Luigi’s,” Diego said, pausing by the passenger door for a look of agreement from the Vampire. “I mean, your way’s quicker, but I’m not leaving my car here overnight again.”

[Azraeth]

Azraeth had, in the past, been compared to a feline, and he looked the part as he listened to Diego expounding upon the story he had started. His expression was that of the cat who was playing with its food, though it only briefly flashed across his features before simmering away into the more placid domain of intrigued amusement. Indeed, Diego had good reason to fear what Azraeth might do when left to his own devices, at least based on the man's prior experience. When Az had fed from the Brazilian, he'd very nearly killed him. Oh. He hadn't come close to draining him. The issue wasn't one of controlling the hunger. Az had learned to deal with that easily enough, through meditation, yoga. The same hippie dippy ******** that numerous people the world over used to reinforce their willpower. And willful he was. No, the problem during that first feeding had been that some of Azraeth's personal darkness had risen to the surface. In retrospect, the mystic blamed it on the very bare way in which the two men had met.

They had been exposed to each other from the start, and one of the reasons Az continued to pester Diego was that the mortal had gotten to see him without the layers of false extroversion or that keen sense of fairness which most often set Azraeth into the role of nurturer, rock, anchor. His persona was one which gave itself naturally to grounding larger, stronger personalities. He knew that. But when he had met Diego, he hadn't been Azraeth Dragomir. They had not met as two vampires do, with the weight of past politics and the burden of public face to deal with. They had met as two people. So those barriers which normally kept that predator buried inside of Az had been nonexistent. When he had fed from Diego, the beast inside of him had nearly been let out. Nearly clawed its way right under the Brazilian's skin. Az wasn't sure if the other man was aware of just how closely he had come to dying, and the truth was that the mystic had no intention of letting him know. Which only highlighted how selfish a creature he was. Because he should have wanted to protect Diego from that part of him which wished to rip out a throat and feel the hot splash of blood run over his chest.

Az was selfish because he subjected the other man to those dangers despite knowing there was one inevitable, singular end for them. He chose not to think about it though, because the game of cat and mouse was not about the end result; it was about the build up. The wild adventure.

He heard Diego calling back to the rest of the group, leaning into the man's side, even when it was just the two of them, and they could speak a little more freely. "You sound disappointed about that." He mentioned before glancing up at an angle, one corner of his mouth curling. "First you wonder why I show up at your game, and then you want me to get to know your team. I think you're going to have to make up your mind, because I'm completely happy to give them all the details." He commented. Which was true enough. Azraeth had very little shame when it came to his dealings. It was true that he handled his personal life as a separate entity to his public life. Rarely did the two intersect, but he could see that changing quickly with the mortal. But therein was part of the problem. There were many vampires who didn't look kindly on vampires and humans forming bonds. People had died for it in the past. Az wasn't the sort of creature who would be intimidated, so it was another layer of danger for them to untangle. A bridge to cross when they got to it. The city alert level seemed to be skyrocketting lately anyway, so it was just a matter of time before the old ways were subverted for something new.

Or maybe everyone would just die.

Maybe they would end up as nothing but blood splatters and ash. And if that was the case. Well Az wasn't about to deny himself some fun before the end.

That was the key mistake people made with Azraeth. They assumed that because he was such an outspoken figure towards the objective of community cohesion, that he simultaneously couldn't watch everything crash and burn. In many ways the two were one and the same. The endless hope that the supernatural community would get its **** together and watching as it destroyed itself. That was precisely what it had been doing for years. No help from humans required.

So maybe the real problem was that Az was irresponsible. Because he could have been doing his part to try and halt the degradation of secrecy, as the one barrier between vampires and the potential holocaust. Instead he was more worried about the Dragomir and Diego. Selfish indeed. But happy. But alive. And how long had it been since he'd really felt that way?

He felt a hand against his lower back and he relaxed. He hadn't even realized he had been walking stiffly. He pushed thoughts about how much of a trainwreck life might become in the coming months out of his mind, instead focusing on leaning heavily into a side, his fingers curling against a side before digits decided to curl decisively and a little possessively right over a hip. There was a car in front of them and Az couldn't help but grin. Leave it to Diego to show off his wheels. And Diego was showing it off. Like it was their first date and the man wanted to really impress him with the horsepower, and the taste, and the muscle. "It's gorgeous. How fast can it go, and how quickly does it get there?" He asked when they were at the passenger door. He let the other man open it for him without any real fuss, careful not to touch the paint job on the outside so he didn't leave behind smears of prints.

By the time they were both in the Ford and on their way, his hand had slid between the void created in that world between the seats so he could squeeze a wrist when a palm came to rest on the gear shift. "Just so we're clear, my way is much faster, but I find this infinitely superior." A pause then as he peered towards Diego with false eyes. "If." He continued. "You can get us there in..." He glanced down to his phone, which he had briefly retrieved. He knew about how far the pizza place was from the stadium. "Less than three minutes." Which technically wouldn't be impossible. If Diego ignored every street light and pedestrians...and other cars. And possibly a few street signs. But that was part of the fun wasn't it? Courting danger.

[Diego Santos (DELETED 7309)]

“Top speed is 155mph. It’ll do 0-62 in 4.8 seconds,” Diego said as if he was some sort of bored salesman, practically quoting the Ford manual. He ended the statement with an endearing shrug because it was perhaps cooler to be apathetic toward all that luxurious power. The same unflappable character had been used on Azraeth’s threat earlier too, when Diego had smiled lightly and shook his head. Because it was one thing to rise to a challenge, to counter-attack and up the ante, and quite another to make the attacking party feel like their bomb was a dud. Of course, the Brazilian could pretend to be all cool grins and a calm composure right now, but that was because they were a few miles and minutes away from Azraeth’s threat becoming a reality. There were no safeguards in place, no extortions Diego could devise in order to reel Azraeth in and actually stop him from revealing all to Diego’s teammates, so the best he could do was pretend he wasn’t bothered by the possibility. Undoubtedly the superior man would see through the Brazilian’s ruse, but, it appeared the Vampire had decided to be merciful at least for now. No more comments were exchanged on the subject and Azraeth very willingly allowed Diego to open the car’s door for him and seat him like royalty – no less than he deserved, actually.

Truth be told, the car had a few performance and design faults that Diego was aware of. To start, it had the turning circle of Jupiter, which meant that an average three-point turn became a seventy-two-point turn with much swearing. It also felt heavy, as if made in the industrial era by the original Henry Ford: from steel and iron and, quite possibly, wood and coal. Although the Mustang is billed as a sports car, it really isn’t. A similar mislabelling would be calling the Flying Scotsman a “sports train”. It just isn’t. It’s too heavy. What the Mustang is, is a muscle car. This is a machine that wants to turn its tyres to smoke and go around each and every corner sideways and screeching. Overall, the five-litre V8 engine wins out with its timeless and filthy eight-cylinder soundtrack. Most of the time it’s a soft but menacing pulse of sound, like the tremendously exotic melody of a marauder’s heartbeat, but when that pedal hits the metal, it explodes into deliciously linear acceleration and a life-affirming mechanical roar that, by 6500rpm, must be audible from the surface of the moon. And of course, the heritage-drenched vehicle has the look of a strong American brute with exciting little features thrown in for good measure.

On the speedo it actually says Ground Speed. How delightfully childlike. But there’s more. On the bonnet are two massive ridges that reflect the glare of the sun directly into the driver’s eyes. It’s style over practicality, and it’s prevalent everywhere you look. The speeding-horse symbols – dynamic reminders that you’re driving a Mustang – are projected by down-lighting onto the ground beneath the door mirrors, giving the impression that Ford only employed designers who were 10 years old. It’s a miracle that the car doesn’t have space lasers and fire coming out of its rear-end. The Mustang as it is can be driven quite normally, however. It moves around quite a lot on poor surfaces, indicating that it has fairly rudimentary underpinnings, but for the most part it’s quiet, docile and rather unassuming. Too unassuming, perhaps, because despite the flamboyant touches, the actual shape is a bit low-key and certainly faded against the Lamborghinis and Ferraris that were parked alongside it on a regular basis. Sure, the Mustang didn’t turn as many heads, but the reaction it caused among those who did notice it was enough to paint a silly, candid grin on their faces.

That was why Diego was attracted to the Mustang. It was historic and beautiful with power, grace and presence on the road. It wasn’t too showy and too impractical, and its flaws gave it character, evoking the driver to learn how to tame it. Something too perfect is simply boring after all. When every gear change is smooth and consistent, every corner the same, it makes the driver complacent, it makes him stop caring and stop engaging. Driving a car shouldn’t feel like operating a machine, it should feel like taming a beast, which made the Mustang both aptly named and conceived. So when a hand passed over the threshold between their seats to grip a wrist, and also hook Diego’s attention, the Brazilian’s eyes lighted to the challenge that was offered. And it would be a challenge to negotiate the straights and the winding streets to Luigi’s in less than three minutes with traffic lights, pedestrian crossings and other vehicles to contend with. If Diego wasn’t careful, he could probably end up killing someone, or himself – he rather doubted anything could hurt, much less kill, the Vampire seated next to him.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Diego said off-the-cuff, flashing confident green eyes at his companion so that his accusation was nowhere near a complaint. The grin in his features was reminiscent of a cartoon hyena, though he tried to hide it, pretend that he wasn’t interested in being a menace tonight and glanced at anything that wasn’t Azraeth. There was a pause as they pulled up to a set of traffic lights – the first in a long line to the restaurant – before Diego inclined slightly toward the Vampire and pulled back the sheets on his insidious grin. “Alright. You’re on,” he said, that accent of his making the words come out in punchy breaths. “When these lights go green, start your timer.”

While the Brazilian didn’t have too much experience with racing, that didn’t necessarily mean he cared. When they’d first purchased their personal beasts, him and a few of the guys had done a couple of laps around the city in the dead of night to ‘test them out’. It was pretty much a guarantee and an obligation to their gender that they should throw a little competition into the mix, which resulted in a little race around Bullwood. Boys will be boys, and apparently boys need an established hierarchy probably more than girls do, or maybe they were just a bit more obvious when they were trying to beat each other and climb the ranks to alpha. Regardless of the stereotypes, racing a vehicle was as much a test of skill and reflex as it was about taste, in the choice of vehicle in the first place. It could be said that the Brazilian had chosen poorly when he’d pitted a Ford Mustang against the road-blazing speed of a Lamborghini Huracan, a Ferrari Spider, a Ferrari Enzo, and a Maserati GranTurismo Sport. On paper, the Mustang was going to come a dead-last whilst choking in the tyre fumes of the GranTurismo as the supercars disappeared into the horizon. That wasn’t quite the reality of the situation, however. Diego had come third, scraping past Hugh Cote’s Enzo on the second to last turning when the Mustang’s tyres had just enough tread left to grip the road and come around that bend cleanly. The Enzo’s backend had kicked out a little too far, costing Cote a couple of precious seconds, but Jack Leblanc and Matthew Townsend had made no such mistakes. Their superior speed had them cross the ‘finish line’ in their respective first and second places regardless of whatever skill and determination that Diego could muster, and well, Zack Johnson had simply forgotten how to drive a geared car, so, the Maserati came last having had a sputtering start.

Racing a couple of your boys is different to trying to beat the clock, but Diego never allowed for inexperience, not forgetting the possibility of death, to deter him before. The Brazilian’s approach to life was generally a bit forceful, bullish, and with a small sense of adaptability when he could figure out exactly how to change his game. It wasn’t a secret that Diego was a man of average intelligence, which might have had something to do with the fact that he could never be discouraged from doing something insanely stupid. The traffic lights had held their place for what felt like an eternity, the pestering glow of scarlet burrowing like a parasitic worm in through his eyes, infecting him with anxiety. Cars and other vehicles filtered past in small clusters, allowing for ample space and time to execute a safe journey even if he wasn’t about to put his foot down, and yet, he was compelled to remain in place. Diego had to wait for the green light, when Azraeth started the count down, before pushing so hard on the gas pedal that it would probably go straight through the floor of the car and he’d paddle across the road like Fred Flintstone. When that light did finally turn green, Diego didn’t quite retreat into the dark ages and physically propel the car forward, but the back wheels had spun into a blur nevertheless, hurling a deep navy smoke into the air that trailed like a noxious shadow behind the car as it sped off like a rocket.

A fun misinterpretation of the general speed of light versus the speed of sound occurred when the Mustang tore across the first stretch of road, because you could definitely hear its approach long before it actually arrived. This must have made the other drivers on the road nervous enough to halt in their place or simply hesitate and rubberneck; rather similarly to the approaching sound of an emergency vehicle. You know it’s coming, but you’re not exactly sure where the sirens are coming from, so do you stay where you are or attempt to get the **** out of the way? A difficult decision to be sure, but, most made the right one. The Brazilian didn’t have too much trouble swerving in between the stationary vehicles and testing his luck when it came to amber lights melting steadily into green or red. He had no reason whatsoever to assume that God had taken pity on him, but this kind of luck felt divine when, even after two-thirds of their journey, he had not caused a single accident. Granted, the roads had been a grouping of straights so far, but like a runway that was steadily coming to an end, Diego would either have to suddenly convert his vehicle into something that would fly or take a sharp left turn across three lanes of traffic.

As the gears were dropped abruptly, lowering the car’s overall speed and dropping its nose to the asphalt, it gave an angry groan much like it didn’t quite like the smell. Soon, that groan evolved into a guttural roar as Diego spun the steering wheel and pumped the gas pedal, carrying them across a heavy intersection in a side-ways slide before pulling out at the other end. Diego didn’t have a Masters in Physics, as a matter of a fact it was a miracle he’d graduated from high school, so it was something like dumb luck, wishful thinking and a tiny bit of skill that had propelled the navy Mustang past the on-coming swarm of vehicles without even a scratch. A parade of honking and screeching brakes had chased after them – but there were no scratches. As a matter of fact, there had been little more than a centimetre between the bronco’s tail and an approaching truck before they’d sped off into the smaller, winding side-streets – but again, no scratches and it didn’t matter that Diego’s heart was in his throat at that moment either. The Brazilian wondered whether Azraeth could normally hear the Human’s heart at this separation distance, but figured the sound of a snarling, booming engine would probably overwhelm the sound of his rapid pulse at any rate. It was just as well that Diego didn’t consider whatever was going on in the head of his companion at that moment because he needed his entire focus on the road.

The fact that they had turned into a one-way road with no streetlights should have meant that the remainder of their journey was going to be straightforward. It didn’t. The wider road was narrowed by parked cars and obstructed with the occasional ambling pedestrian. Navigating these side-winders was best performed at lower speeds based purely on the amount of present dangers – an ideal held onto religiously by every single ******* driver on the road, or so it seemed. Nobody seemed to want to dare to go any quicker than 20mph and since there was absolutely no room to manoeuvre around the vehicles and over-take, Diego had to be a little lighter on the gas pedal than preferred. He spared a glance to his companion when he felt the blood rushing into his temples and turning his vision red, then grumbled a quick: “Don’t say a word.” In his mind, Diego was going to fail at meeting the target, fail at impressing Azraeth and therefore become the target of a never-ending taunt. But perceptions are funny things – hold a small weight in your hands for long enough and it can feel like the sum of the world. The same logic could be applied to speed and Diego had no idea how close he was to beating the time and how far away he was from success.

[Azraeth]

He could tell that Diego was trying to impress him without being obvious about it. In life, Az hadn't had the social graces God might have blessed on a cat. Reclusive, selective, exclusive, secretive, reserved. He'd been drawn to a very small group of people. All through high school, he'd only had one close friend, Andrei. Little known fact, Azraeth could speak Russian fluently, because he'd been taught by a Russian. That had been ages ago though, back when he and Azariel had first started to separate, care about different things, drift out of each other's lives. As much as two people living in the same house could. By all rights, Az should have been terrible at reading people, but he had always been an observant creature, and becoming a vampire had opened up his world. Where Azariel had become a killer, and lost himself in the darkness, become smaller and smaller as a person; Azraeth had come into his own. Death had been a tool he used to learn more about himself.

So he had seen it before. That feigned nonchalance. And it only served to make him grin, because he realized that it mattered to Diego what he thought. Even about something as simple as a car. "Sexy." He decided upon, though Az knew painfully little about vehicles. He couldn't have pointed out the difference between two brands if his life depended on it. All he really knew was that you pushed a pedal to go, a pedal to stop, and you turned with a wheel. This was due largely to his having relied on public transit his entire life. When you lived in a place like Harper Rock, it was just easier for a student to use the transport lines than attempt to find a parking lot in the crowded campus parking lots.

"I like to keep things interesting." It wasn't a denial, because Az didn't feel the need to lie about it. Even if Diego hadn't been complaining, Azraeth knew exactly who and what he was. A demon. After all, Diego had been an ordinary man before they'd met. Well no. He'd been an extraordinary man, but he'd had normal hopes and dreams and drives. And what was Az doing? Az was slowly stripping those away, and reshaping the Brazilian into something else. It wasn't even intentional. He doubted Diego even noticed it, because the vampire himself barely recognized it was happening. But it was. What was the end goal? Like a demon, did he want to twist the creature beside him into something unrecognizable? Why? He couldn't have answered those questions if he'd wanted to. Much like his toying with the youth minister, Parker. Of course, in that case, the toying was deliberate. The luring of the minister to him in the darkest parts of the city. The whispering into his brain. The slow creeping insanity Azraeth had been inflicting. Az couldn't say why he did that either, except that there was some part of him, some thing at the core of his being that pulled those strings.

He pulled his cell phone from a pocket, pulling up the stopwatch app that came with the device. He set it to a 3 minute count down, and waited while they were at the light. He could practically feel the tension building inside of the car and in the other man. It was like a bowman tugging at a string, arrow between his fingers. And then the light turned green. Azraeth hit the start button and held his phone in one hand. The force of it was like lightning. They were accelerating so fast he could feel his body trying to crush into the car seat for a couple of seconds. They were roaring down the street. He could feel the power of the engine even though it was in front of him, powering the beast they were inside of. He could hear it like the screaming of a lion. He watched as lights blurred past them and they approached intersection after intersection with too much speed to slow down. And it was delicious. Because Az loved the strength it represented. The danger. Would a car crash kill him? Maybe. Not permanently, but the flirting with a potentially caustic situation was exactly the sort of rush he loved. Another little known fact: For all of his calm and composure, Azraeth was a bit of an adrenaline junkie. He craved the chaos, the way so many in the Worthington bloodline seemed to.

Suddenly, the lights were gone and the road bottlenecked into a one way. They slowed. Az registered the kick in Diego's pulse The man was either about to climax, or he was getting pissed off, and Azraeth wagered it wasn't the former. He cast a sympathetic gaze and then tugged his belt buckle to undo it so he could rest one hand on the console between them and twist closer, one knee on the seat, the other leg mostly straight, foot touching the car mat, his lips suddenly shoved right against the other man's temple as if to tell him to cool off. Though he didn't say that. Third little known secret: Rage was a total turn on. The touch was brief, chaste, and when he pulled back he was grinning. "Well now, this isn't exactly fair, is it?" He asked before his head turned and his gaze swept towards the road. "Hold onto your balls, handsome, it's about to get bumpy." He spoke quietly before he dropped back into his seat and lifted his hand. He shoved the pad of a thumb against his teeth, a fang sliding out to pierce the flesh. He flexed his fingers a few times to get the blood flowing.

Mystic powers did not require ceremony or spellwork, or any flourish at all. In fact, it was much like the magic in Pratchett's Discworld series. You could achieve a lot with very little actual drama. But what was the fun in that? He squeezed his thumb as blood coated his palm and then he pressed his hands together. He could feel it congealing. He was mouthing something. Fingers balled into fists slowly as if he were pulling at the tension of a spring, coiling it tighter. Suddenly they all flicked up at the same time and the ground began to move. Shake. The earth around them rumbled as people raced off as if they had suddenly figured out what their accelerators were for. The road ahead of them cleared immediately save for a few stragglers who either pulled off to the side of the road or were panicking. "Well...let's go." He hissed as the blood began to fade back into his skin, the small wound disappearing almost as quickly as he had made it. He reached once more for his seatbelt as if to say 'safety first'.

They were mobile again. Truly mobile. It was almost a straight stretch to the finish line. And they made it just in time to beat the clock, pulling into the parking lot right as the phone buzzed to say they were out of time. He hit the stop button and stuffed the thing back into his pocket. "So we got here first. Does that mean we get to make out in the car, or do we have to be responsible and go get a table ready?" He asked as his hand dropped once more to hit the button, releasing his buckle for the second time in a manner of minutes. Rather than wait for Diego to be a gentleman and tug his door open, he slid out onto the asphalt. Letting the door slide shut with a metalic clunk of a sound before he met Diego on the sidewalk in front. The pizza place wasn't the fanciest in town, but that wasn't the point. The idea was comfort. Celebration. Victory. He shoved his body against the footballer's, one arm curled around his companion's bicep as he leaned closer to whisper against an ear. "Not gonna lie. Totally almost fondled you back there. In the car. On that stupid slow one way street." He admitted casually, revealing some of the inner workings of his mind. Apparently, despite being exceptionally intelligent, Diego had the effect of making Az think a lot like some sort of teenager. Way to go.

By the time they got inside, Az had disengaged, but only so he could go look for a table. They had most of the team to think about, plus some family members, which meant they were going to need some space. He ended up heading into the back, which was normally reserved for parties so he, and the waitress there could begin pushing two long tables together to make one fast feast-length eating area the likes of which one might have expected in some sort of Norse war story. And it was right as Az was putting the chairs back in place, that Diego caught up to him, after informing the people at the front they were expecting a larger group. So Az let Diego pick their seats before plunking down right beside him. "How long do you think they're going to buy the cousin thing?" He asked, contemplating how he might completely ruin the image.

It struck Az how...normal the entire situation was. Wasn't this what people did? They celebrated their victories together. They ate together. They had fun and chatted, and partied. Not that Azraeth was a stranger to those things. But how long had it been since he'd done that with people who didn't suck blood? Had he ever? Probably back when he'd been part of the local academic quiz team. Basically modeled after the Academic Decathalon of the United States, the idea was to mix a variety of different subjects and have students work their way through questions, math problems, etc. Basically, it had been perfect for the nerd child that was Az. He'd actually been nationally ranked and had specialized in history, mythos literature, and language. Actually, it had set the foundation for his love for scholastic endeavors, and had ultimately paved the way for him to get into the field of anthropology. And then he had died. Ha!

He wasn't the sort of person who got neverous. Not really. Sometimes he wasn't sure what to say, but that wasn't really the same. But, just as Diego had wanted to impress him, Az wanted to impress both Diego and his teammates. He wasn't even properly sure why. Would he be able to deliver? It seemed he was going to be tested soon, because he only got a few moments with his thoughts before he heard a loud voice greeting them as it drew closer. One of the Brazilian's friends. Not one of the ones Azraeth had been introduced to just yet, and along behind him trailed a wife and some of the other men. "Also, we're ducking out in like. A half hour, because I have something to show you." He said, close enough to Diego's ear that only the man could hear.

[Diego Santos (DELETED 7309)]

For as long as Diego could remember, there had always been feasts just like this one to celebrate an occasion. It didn’t matter how big or small the occasion was either, the result was generally the same. You’re getting married? Congratulations, let’s throw a party! You’re getting divorced? Let’s get together to eat and drink until we forget their names, maybe we can even set you up with the bonita down the street. Your cousin’s step-daughter is having braces? We’ll make some soups, come on over and we’ll celebrate her impending beauty. Your cat’s having kittens? I’m sure the family should be together for this one! Brazilians are usually rather affectionate, tactile people with an emphasis on family values and unity. The Brazilian culture, though primarily Western, is very diverse in nature with contributions of African, Italian, German and other European immigrants. The core of Brazilian culture is Portuguese, but this diverse cultural background has helped boast many celebrations and festivals that have become known worldwide. The Brazilian Carnival and the Bumba Meu Boi are just some of the infamous celebrations partaken by the Brazilian people, but Diego figured that his family’s jovial personality was probably something that was unique to them as a unit. They had the means to be so frivolous, after all, so why the bloody hell not!

Diego didn’t think twice about helping Azraeth and the staff at Luigi’s get set-up; the routine feeling like just another part of his life: go to work, got to Luigi’s, go home and pass out. Generally he’d arrive with the team and they would all lend a hand – they weren’t that big yet – but Azraeth and Diego had wanted to skip ahead, hadn’t they, so now there were just a handful of people taking on a task that was easier with twenty. It was his own fault though. Diego didn’t really like the glare off the media lenses and since Azraeth was there, it felt like a pretty good idea to jump the gun, make haste. They’d made more than haste when they’d driven to the restaurant, and Diego didn’t want to think about whatever magic Azraeth was capable of when the roads had parted like the Dead Sea with just a flick of his wrist. Maybe Diego felt safer with his two worlds being as far apart as they possibly could be, but that wasn’t exactly sustainable. It was terrifying, actually, to think about what would happen if his team found out that Azraeth wasn’t actually Diego’s lecturer cousin, William. He didn’t even want to think about broaching the whole, Oh, and he’s also a Vampire subject. Still, if they were going to continue at this kind of pace together, it was going to be inevitable that the truth would come out eventually.

The man’s thoughts were snapped off and tossed into outer space by the time he was dragged off to sit down. Diego hadn’t even noticed that he was stuck on auto-pilot in those moments, moving tables and chairs as if he was made for the job. When Azraeth sidled up close and smiled at him though, he felt like maybe those thoughts of his had been intercepted before they could even get out of the ozone. He must have blinked a couple of times, his jaw hanging open for a good couple of seconds before he realised that wasn’t a flattering look. The Brazilian licked his lips, giving that mouth of his some sort of function other than sitting there because he honestly couldn’t think of an answer. Well, that wasn’t entirely true because he was thinking that the guys would probably figure things out before the night was through, but, he didn’t necessarily want to admit to that. Some small, guarded part of the Brazilian’s brain told him that Azraeth would just see that as some kind of bet and would probably try to fix the game. The rest of Diego’s brain just laughed because as much as that was probably true, he actually thought it was damn adorable.

So it occurred to the Brazilian shortly after that it wasn’t so much that he was trying to avoid the inevitable, but that he wanted to be surprised along with everyone else when it happened. Because Diego enjoyed the magic in not knowing what was coming next. Like when they’d taken that blind bend at speeds too wild to break, and didn’t know if they were driving into an empty road or a brick wall – his heart had raced up his throat and held onto his teeth waiting for the outcome. Azraeth tended to make him feel like that all the time – on edge and yet overly satisfied because at least he wasn’t bored. It was terrifying, sure, but it was also invigorating. Thrill seekers would describe it as that basic response to fear, that primal urge to survive that makes your whole body feel like it was forged from fire and thunder. Just the chance of danger and risk can stir it up like a breeze can conjure a dust storm, and Azraeth was, in Diego’s eyes, an absolutely glorious hurricane.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” the Brazilian finally returned with a grin suggesting Christmas surprises were just around the corner.

It was moments later that he heard the howl of other voices, and even moments after that when those admiring green eyes tore away from the Vampire beside him and looked to the front of the restaurant. Malcolm Atwell had been first to arrive with his wife, Trisha, and Diego tried to pretend he hadn’t been completely blind-sighted by the 6’2” Afro-Caribbean gentleman entering with his skinny, demure wife. Behind him was the blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob Jean Noons and his on-again-off-again girlfriend Louisa. Behind this spectacularly glamorous couple who had seen much sun and plastic surgery, was the odd couple: Dong Chan and Chris Roy. They always seemed to travel in a pair and Diego had questioned – when drunk, and by therefore throwing all caution to the wind – whether Roy hadn’t in fact just hired Chan to be his bodyguard. It made sense, Roy had a mouth that was always getting him in trouble and Chan had the training to make sure that such trouble wouldn’t escalate into criminal prosecutions. Of course, at the time, it was hilarious, but when the word got back to Chan and Roy, there had been a frosty couple of training sessions. Thankfully all was well again, and Diego was busy making polite greetings to the new arrivals when Azraeth had nestled close, lips near an ear, telling the Brazilian that they weren’t staying too long because there was something they had to see.

Beneath the sanctity of the table, Diego squeezed the other man’s knee and smirked softly to himself, skilfully making it out like he was joining in the rather… vague conversation the group was having. The others in the room weren’t really paying attention to the “cousins” anyway, too busy making comments about how the room had been dressed without them so they had to stand about, how they were expecting things to get loud tonight what with their big win, and also a bit about taking wagers on who would show up last. Townsend was the favourite, that guy just loved the limelight so would have been schmoozing, model girlfriend Natalie on his arm, for at least another hour. Roy actually checked his watch and made a point that he had $10 on Townsend not showing up until midnight. Noons was quick to make an addendum to that wager, suggesting that if Townsend had any sense at all he would just take that hot piece of *** straight home and not bother showing up at all; that earned him a glare from both of the women in the party. After that, Louisa decided she was going to get her revenge on the Frenchman as she stole the seat directly next to Azraeth, a.k.a. William, and tried to engage him in small talk. Diego, meanwhile, tried not to laugh too loud…

“So… they say you’re Diego’s cousin? Does that mean you’re from Brazil too? Is that why we haven’t seen you at a match before now? I go to allof Jean’s matches, you know. I haven’t missed one. I’m loyal like that, but some of the wives and girlfriends just don’t really understand it. Trisha and I have been wondering when Diego was going to bring us someone new to hang out with, but you’re, like, the only guest he’s ever had. Why the hell is that, d’you think?”

Her accent was Jersey-esque, despite being born and raised in Harper Rock with her childhood sweetheart, Jean Noons. Diego had always wondered why girls made role models of dumb bitches like Kim Kardashian, but that was a rude thing to ask to someone’s face. Speaking of faces, at least Louisa hadn’t gone overboard with the cosmetic surgery, just enough to give her a nose that was so triangular that a builder could gauge a perfect right-angle by it, and lips so full that trout across the world were jealous of that pout. She had curves in the right places, a good height too with stunning blonde hair and blue eyes, but there was something just… off about her. It was probably because she talked too damn much and had that horrendously obnoxious attitude that made you drone out anything she had to say into a singular buzzing noise. That was probably why Diego was ignoring the fact that she was sat uncomfortably close to Azraeth, top half turned to him so he would have no choice in the full-on view of those double Ds pushed up out of a white peplum dress. Noons wasn’t quite so accommodating, casting glares in their direction occasionally, but all four men were gathered before the table instead of taking a seat. It was Trisha who was next to come over and sit opposite her supposed best friend, Louisa.

Trisha and Louisa couldn’t have been more different. While Louisa was head cheerleader, Trisha was the awkward girl with the frizzy hair pulled back in a bun, and the less than perfect complexion. She was quiet, but not in that timid way, and she actually made Diego a little nervous with those eyes of hers. Two brown pupils watched him like a panther, judging his actions, suspecting him – he didn’t know what was on her mind except that it was probably bad. Her arrival made the Brazilian visibly nervous, to the point where he didn’t dare to maintain eye contact with the petite African lady, and actually considered leaving the table. And he might have made a quick run for it, made an excuse about getting a drink or having a toilet break, had Trisha not glanced directly at him, arching one slender brow at him, those eyes narrowing. Diego looked past her then, toward the four idiot footballers that were his team mates, feeling a little cast-out. The tension was almost as thick as the smell of parmesan and balsamic vinegar, yet, Louisa managed to dissolve that in a very obvious way.

“Oh. My. God,” she exclaimed, her eyes hooked into Azraeth. “I totally forgot that you don’t even know who we all are!” She pointed to herself immediately, laying a hand across her cleavage and smiling proudly before she began pointing around the room like she was choosing people to sacrifice. “I’m Louisa, this here’s Trish. That ******** over there in the white shirt I told him not to wear tonight, is Jean. To his right, is Trisha’s man, Malcolm. Right next to him is Chris. He’s an asshole. Better you avoid him, really. And then you have DC. Well, I call him DC and he doesn’t seem to mind. So, yeah. That’s all of us so far. But I tell you, you’re probably going to forget everyone’s names by the end of the evening anyway so this was probably a waste of time!”

Trisha and Diego rolled their eyes simultaneously as Louisa laughed to herself, all that flesh vibrating.

“Would you boys like a drink?” Trisha asked, rising from the table like some sort of spectre it was so elegant. “The bar is open.”

Despite the fact that she’d effectively stolen one of his reasons to escape the table, Diego smiled casually up at her, nodded his head and was relieved when those dark eyes rolled past him and onto William and Louisa, who was still chuckling to herself. Apparently all that giggling was giving the African lady a headache, so before anyone could open their mouth or nod their head or decline, she sighed.

“I’ll just get you all a beer,” she declared, sauntering off.

“Oh Trish, wait for me, ok?” called the blonde, following after her.

Diego let go of a breath he didn’t even know he was holding when both women had finally left the table. Eventually green eyes passed back to Azraeth and even though he was dying to find out the man’s impressions, he had to make something else clear first.

“It’ll be fun to watch you make excuses to leave actually,” Diego dared, though quickly softened his tone to pleading. “Just… try to be nice, ok? I know they’re crazy idiots, but, I’ve gotta work with those crazy idiots.”

[Azraeth]

Azraeth, while not unique in his perspective, was certainly deeply vested in it. He was the sort of man who liked to get lost on a trip, because life (and death) was a journey. Getting to the destination? What was the fun in that. Give him a challenge? He took it. Give him an order? He would question it. There was exactly one person in the world Az obeyed without reservation, but even the road to that had been long and winding. His soul was the depth of the black tomb at the bottom of the ocean, incomprehensible but vast. He was there to be with Diego, near him. But to say that the primary objective was to get to know the people gathered around the table would have been a lie. They didn't matter to Az. Not really. They were window dressings to him, meriting only a brief glance under normal circumstances. Only valuable due to their connection to Diego. Had they been anyone else, he probably wouldn't have even noticed them. This was not a phenomenon unique to humans either. He did much the same with anyone and anything which had little influence on his life.

No. He wasn't there to make nice and play along with them. He was there because it was another chance to create a memory. Like the first time he and Diego had met, in that gym. Or like the race to get to Luigi's. So he leaned a little bit closer when the pair of them were seated together. He felt a hand on his knee, and his own digits would have crept over Diego's lap so that they could curl against an inner thigh, but he decided to tame his impulse for the moment. Better for the game if the other people didn't see him groping around like some sort of teenager. "I have a feeling that after tonight, they aren't going to believe I'm your cousin at all." He whispered in a tone that only the other man could hear. Unecessary intimacy really, considering the other players and their dates didn't begin to wander in until after that point.

There were faces that passed in front of him like some sort of human menagerie. All different types of beauty, but all of them beautiful none the less in their own unique ways. They began talking almost immediately, because they had all known each other for some time and they had that sort of continuous conversation people develop interpersonally. The variety which doesn't really have a beginning or end. Just people endlessly chattering at one another. Az got the impression that they didn't really hear each other though, not really. They were all connected by their bonds of work, and competition. They were all fighting for the same team, but that didn't mean they really had to know each other. Comfortable distance. Safe topics. The vampire wondered for a moment if that was the way the entire world was. With people just talking at one another, only taking pauses long enough for someone else to say something before continuing their own internalized monologue.

Through the entire thing, Az remained focused on one thing. His hand tucked under the table, fingers curled lazily against Diego's leg.

He glanced up though when a woman sat next to him. Blond hair. Obvious, though not extreme plastic surgery. The type of woman that Az tended to shy away from. Plastic people got under his skin in a way he couldn't quite describe. Anything artificial did that with him. People trying to look like the best versions of themselves, and only managing to look like cookie cutter Stepford wives. "Not Brazil, no." He lied. Mainly because he couldn't actually speak Portuguese, and he didn't want to have to explain why he couldn't. "I actually didn't grow up with him. I come from the United States. Is that a Jersey accent I detect?" He asked, so that he could shift the topic away from himself and towards Louisa. That was the sort of thing that normally worked with people. Get them talking about themselves and they didn't pry too much at your back story. Too busy happily spilling every detail of their lives. Not that he begrudged the verbose in the slightest. He was just naturally tight lipped about personal details. Always had been. "I think Diego focuses entirely too much on work. I've been trying to convince him to go on a trip with me to Vegas for years. You and Trish should help me talk him into it." He commented.

Vegas. Az's home away from home. He loved the clean lines of the street. The depravity. The gaudiness of it. He loved how absolutely fake everything was in the same way that he hated fake when it came to people. Maybe because on Vegas it was gritty, and there was nothing more 'real' than the American dollar or finding yourself down on your luck at some sparkly casino.

Soon they were joined by another woman. Now this. This was a woman. There was something haunting about her. About the way she looked at everyone at the table. She didn't quite fit in, and yet she looked like she could have bested any of the men in a battle of wits. Just because she was quiet. Because she was like Az. Observant. Reserved. Like called to like, and he could almost feel that from her. Like a tangible force.

Louisa introduced him to everyone. One name right after the other, and Az found himself glancing up to each face in passing. The woman spoke just loudly enough that they all looked up when called upon. Some faces were a little confused, as if questioning why they were being called to the front of the class. Others seemed to be used to Louisa's antics. Whatever the case, Az met each of them head on, eye contact. "I'm sure I'll remember just fine." He finally said to Louisa. The woman seemed to fit a certain stereotype. Most might have even called her vapid without really getting to know her. The sweet girls who rushed into everything without really thinking about it. Who were at home in their own skin and who could talk anyone down. In his youth, Azraeth had found them annoying and vacuous, but he had learned that everyone had their place in the world. These same girls were the social grease by which the gears of polite society were lubricated. They were the ones who kept men from grunting at each other endlessly in some prmitive show of force.

So there was a modicum of respect there. Want to rule a clique? Find the glue that holds it together. "I'll take whatever he's having." He decided before the ladies went to go get them some drinks, leaving the two men alone. Well. Alone in front of an entire group of people, but Az was able to lean a little bit closer. He realized he didn't like that he couldn't openly just press right against the other male's side. Lean into him. Press his cheek to a shoulder. Those were things cousins didn't really participate in, and yet that was exactly what he wanted to do. Had he said a half hour? Maybe he should have shortened that a little bit.

"So don't tell them I'm dragging you out to see who breaks a condom first?" He asked, his voice low once more. Teasing really. "The truth is worse actually. You probably got here after it closed down, but there used to be a borough at the very center of the city called Gambondale. About 5 years ago, the military walled it off, huge quarantine. That's where we're going tonight." He whispered softly. Of course, there was more to the story, but Az had promised to show him the supernatural world. Not tell him about it. Poor Diego was in for a rough ride.

Of course, just moments later, the ladies were returning with the drinks on a tray. Trish held it while Louisa passed them out to all the guys and their guests. When Az got his, he offered the ladies a nod, though after that, they seemed interested in sitting a little closer to their husbands. Not that Az was bothered by it; he wasn't 'one of the girls'. He was actually a little thankful because it meant he could pester Diego. Was that selfish? Hoarding the footballer to himself? Nahhhhh. "I'm always nice." He muttered, leaning to nudge his shoulder against the other man's in a playful bump. "And don't think I didn't catch that bit about you never inviting guests along. I know I invited myself, but I'm going to choose to believe that means you liiiike me." He said in an even, clear tone, another tiny stab at poor Diego's soul, just barely audible, especially with everyone else talking.

On the plus side, the food was arriving. It seemed they had some sort of standing order. The usual.

[Diego Santos (DELETED 7309)]

Truth be told, Diego took a little while to acclimate. He wasn’t big on change, even though he could pretend he was, and even convince himself he was. Almost everyone around the table thought that Diego was settling in with the culture, the environment, the job, and the people like a duck taking to a different pond. Like it was just that easy to uproot your entire life, your past, your world, and settle down again a couple thousand miles away with no problems whatsoever. There had been problems for the first couple of months, and Diego’s way of dealing with that was to not deal with that. Because it was easier just to not care about things, let it roll off his back, and go with the flow. Eventually, being this laidback became an integral part of his personality. He still held onto a few reservations, but mostly he was pushing himself to carry on, to not take things so seriously, and take life one day at a time. Maybe it made him a little vapid, but, at least he was happy and he was doing something with his life. He wasn’t going to let anything get to him, keep him down, or control him. Azraeth actually made him as nervous as hell, but, he wasn’t about to let that fear take over his whole life. Not again.

Maybe that’s why Trisha watched the Brazilian with suspicion in her eyes. Maybe she was one of those people who just knew when someone wasn’t being entirely genuine. Or maybe she just didn’t like the interloper to their crowd, the one she’d heard all the stories about from her husband. The Brazilian hadn’t been the easiest person to live with when he’d stepped off that plane and into their lives, stepping right into a central role like second striker too. That almost meant he was leap-frogging his way up the hierarchy – some nobody from Brazil that couldn’t make it with legendary players like Pele, Ronaldo, and Ronaldinho, but was somehow becoming the big shot of their team? And Diego was supremely arrogant, figured himself for a genius when it came to football, and that these guys needed him to pull out of the mud. He hadn’t been shy about letting them know exactly what he thought about them, so of course there was going to be animosity. Yet, in the past couple of months, everyone had started to change their tunes. Diego started acting a little less like a patronising dickhead and the team were beginning to accept that maybe he wasn’t entirely a false prophet. They let him into their lives more, even outside of work; it was becoming like one big happy family, but these were still early days.

Louisa and Trisha were quick to deliver the drinks and then hang close to the men they’d recently snubbed. Neither “cousin” seemed to take offence though, as a matter of fact, they were probably more grateful for the space. Diego was at least, and while there was still a need to keep a sociably acceptable distance between himself and Azraeth, at least they could share more in the way of intimate conversation. The hand curling against his thigh was a bit distracting, not merely because it made the Brazilian’s skin itch with tantalising electricity, but also because its placement was telling. His hand closed over Azraeth’s with relaxed affection as his thumb traced a short circuit back and forth over the other man’s knuckles. The way Diego seemed to dismiss the tender goings-on beneath the surface of the table suggested it was an involuntary motion, though. The Brazilian was openly focused on drinking the beer the ladies had provided and paying attention to what Azraeth had talked about. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t curious, but, there was a time and a place for this kind of conversation and so he’d waited until everyone was out of earshot before he tried to reply.

“Of course I liiiike you,” he said, mimicking Azraeth’s playful jab. “And I would have, you know, invited you along. Eventually. But, you’re impatient. Of course, you are.” He shrugged a shoulder, but he was still grinning, amused, enjoying himself. “So I’ll just take that as you couldn’t wait to spend time with me and… take me on a date to a quarantine zone? That’s romantic. Are we going to watch the moon rise over a heap of glowing green corpses or some chemical waste vats?” He paused for a moment to let the waiters put down some anti-pasti, pizza and various salads, sides, breads, as well as some jugs of oil and vinegar. Diego nodded in appreciation, smiled vacantly at the female server in particular, and then poured the entirety of his attention back to the one who deserved it. He drew an elbow up on the table, his hand resting against a fist, both green eyes glittering mischievously. He was practically blocking out the entire world just to hold onto this moment between them. “So, should I eat now or have you arranged a meal for us? Is bubonic plague on the menu? I don’t wanna spoil my appetite.”