Things that Matter [closed]

[Blaize]

[BLAIZE]
The tour had ended, and Blaize was home. Back in Harper Rock, and with a new childe in tow. Breno. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it had happened – whether by fate or by force of some will he didn’t know he had, Breno was now part of the hoard of undead. Although Blaize hoped that Breno wouldn’t hate it, or hate Blaize for what he had done, the sacrifice seemed worth the relief. The black dog of suicidal depression had got so bad that the Swan had assumed it was part of being a vampire. It was some heightened emotion, some remnant of rage from his youth. It made no sense, given how much he thanked Lyonel for what he had done, for turning him into the vampire that he was.

But now here he was, right as rain, happy as the day he was born. The letter he had written to his sire still sat in the back of a drawer of his desk at the studio, unsent and unread. And Blaize was embarrassed to think of it now, embarrassed to think of how close he had come. It all felt like a dream. As soon as Blaize’s blood filtered Breno’s system, the darkness was lifted like a thunder cloud pushed away by a strong gust of wind. Back in Harper Rock, it was back to business as usual, back to the studio and the drug trade working out its back doors. Back to dancing – now just for practice, rather than for a particular role. Still intense, but not as intense as usual, Blaize had the studio to himself. Max Richter played through the loud speakers, Blaize studying a video of a ballet based on the works of Virginia Woolf. It was less traditional than he would have liked, but was intriguing nonetheless.

He sat on the floor while the laptop sat open on a chair in front of him; he was wearing only dancer’s tights, barefoot, focused – trying to memorise the choreography so that he could imitate, as best as possible.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Another hour passed after she had hastily scribbled the last word, and she still hadn’t moved. It was if her legs were frozen in that bent position, her arms cemented to her knees. She hardly felt the rain as it bathed her skin, nor did she notice the lightning that struck the ground mere feet away. The thunder, however, was the one thing that shook her from her stasis. It crashed across the sky, causing the window above her head to rattle, a few cracks spider-webbing through the wary frame. For a moment, she contemplated remaining there until morning – but then she remembered.

Morning for her meant death.

Groaning quietly beneath her breath, she finally forced her limbs to wake, each one screaming in protest as she reluctantly pulled herself to her feet. Her jeans felt as if they weighed a ton, the denim clinging to her shapely legs in an uncomfortable manner. “You brought this on yourself,” she muttered, her words soon drowned beneath another massive clap of thunder. Pushing her hand through her soaked curls, she clutched her notebook to her soaked shirt and turned in the direction of the studio. She hadn’t a clue if he’d be there, but it was the one place she always knew to find him.

It didn’t take her long to find the door, and it took her even less time to push her way inside. It was if she finally realized it was raining and that she was soaked. The first step she took into the studio nearly had her falling, but it was by the grace of God – or her vampirism – that she managed to throw her hand against the doorframe before she completely wiped out. Straightening to her full five foot four height, she gave her thin, thoroughly drenched, shirt a pull and followed the sound of music until she found him.

“Blaize.”


[BLAIZE]
So focused was he on his work that he barely noticed the storm raging outside. It was the kind of natural spectacle that had people running and hiding, but Blaize remained where he was, confident in the structure he found himself within. The walls were solid, the roof steadfast. He should have had a notebook with him, he should have been writing things down – but he was happy to just watch and re-watch the ballet until he had all the moves memorised. And if he forgot something? He’d improvise.

He didn’t hear the door opening, nor did he hear it close. He heard nothing until he heard his name, spoken in a voice that he would never forget. He vaguely recalled the note that Aleksandra had left behind, and the date she’d written of her return. A date, back then, he’d thought would be too late. He turned on the spot to take her in, rain-sodden and heavy – in features, not in frame. His jaw hung open, that realisation that he hadn’t called her, or texted her.

Just as he was about to speak there was another thunderous clap, the flash of lightning simultaneous. The power flickered before it went out completely, a fizzing hissing sound cursing outside somewhere. A power pole had been hit. The music ceased, and Blaize lithely got to his feet. It didn’t matter that there was no light. He could see perfectly, regardless. Perks of being a vampire.

“Aleksa,” he said, finally. “Don’t you own an umbrella?”


[ALEKSANDRA]
As a child, she had always been afraid of the dark. It had, truthfully, followed her into her adult years. Now, however, that fear she always felt clawing at her throat was dormant. Instead, she waited the millisecond it took for her eyes to adjust, and then she watched him. It never failed to leave her breathless, the way he moved. It was as if he wasn’t of this world, his body connected to a plane that none of them could reach. She had witnessed other dancers before – but nothing like him. Gritting her teeth against the sudden surge of… whatever… it was she felt when she saw him, she worked her jaw.

She had never felt the urge to strike him before, but now, at his question – it burned through her veins. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t even send a letter. Instead, he didn’t care. He never cared. With a quiet laugh, she shook her head, sending drops of rain across the room. “Is that really all you have to say?” Her words were hushed as she stepped forward, despite herself. She still felt that pull to him, the pull that would surely leave her broken if she didn’t figure it out. She was already well on her way.

Tightening her arms across her chest, she clutched her notebook in a titan’s grip and narrowed her eyes, the blue sparking with as much light as the lightning outside. Words burned the tip of her tongue, her fingers ached to touch him, to feel that he was real, to know that she was home – but she remained frozen, much like she had in that deserted alley. Instead, she watched him, red-rimmed eyes refusing to pull from his face, as if she could tear the truth from his expression.


[BLAIZE]
No, perhaps it wasn’t the best question to ask, given Aleksandra’s state and the reason she’d been away. Her father had been ill, Blaize remembered – and now faced with Aleksa’s rage and her rimmed-red eyes, he had a sudden sinking feeling that her father didn’t get any better. And here he was asking about umbrellas. His lips pressed together in a tight line, silence pervading the space between them – aside from the thundering rain on the roof – as Blaize tried to figure out his next course of action.

“I’m sorry. Welcome back…” he said, which is what he should have started with, he mused. Given the daggers Aleksa’s eyes had turned into, Blaize doubted that any form of physical contact would be wise. And so he merely stood there, paused, arms hanging limp at his sides.

“It didn’t go well, did it?” he finally asked. Was there any other way he could say it? There was no sensitive way to ask ‘did your father die?’ He could only wait and see whether Aleksandra would tell him of her own accord. The darkness was interrupted every few long seconds by flashes of lightning – some close, some far away. He turned from that vicious glare and cocked his head, indicating Aleksa should follow. There was a cupboard in the locker room with clean towels inside, for the dancers to use after long and arduous sessions.


[ALEKSANDRA]
If she hadn’t been watching him as closely as she was, she would have missed the sudden tightening of his mouth. It was an expression he made often, though it gave her no true insight to his thoughts. It wouldn’t surprise her if that subtle hardness was due to the fact she was dripping rain on his floor – he took his work seriously, and this studio was a part of him, after all. Clamping down on the desire to suddenly grip her shirt, pull it off, and wring it out right in front of him, she instead clutched her journal tighter. The words within seemed to burn through the cover and into her hand, reminding her.

“Thank you.” The response was automatic and lacking the usual warmth she graced him with. It was if the light had been leeched from her, leaving her nothing more than a shell of the woman she once was. It wasn’t just the death of her father that left her reeling, but the man in front of her. He was the most confusing, insufferable, intense man that she had ever met, and he constantly left her balancing on the edge of insanity. If he realized the affect he had on her, he didn’t care. That was all it came down to, it was written in a bold, deep scrawl in the pages of her notebook, and it was glaring at her now.

He didn’t care.

As if wanting to drive the point home, his question hung between them. In another state of mind, she would have found his form of the question endearing. If it hadn’t been aimed at her, about her father, she might have teased him. Instead, she gave a bitter laugh and finally unwound her arms, holding them out at her sides. “Does it really look like it went well, Blaize? I mean, seriously.” Her wild emotions had her accent growing thick, and as she pushed her hands through her hair, she forced herself to follow.

“He was alive long enough to see me walk through the door, and you never called.”


[BLAIZE]
“I ah…no,” he said, chewing at the inside of his lip as he found the cupboard, opened it, and pulled out one of the fluffy white towels. Did he even know who washed these? Who brought them back every day, neatly folded as if this were a five-star hotel? Probably Laura. He made a mental note to thank her. The towel fell out of its folds as he held it out to Aleksa, his other hand held out, palm up, for her to put the book into. If she wanted to. He could take it off her hands if she wanted to dry herself.

“I…” he started to tell her that he had things going on, that he was barely in the state of mind to call her. But he caught himself just in time. It would be equally – if not more – insensitive than asking if she had an umbrella. He couldn’t offer excuses, couldn’t pretend his problems were worse than hers. Even if he, too, had nearly ended up dead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “For your father. And for not calling,” he said. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, but the answer was standing right in front of him. No, he wouldn’t be asking that question, either. There wasn’t much more that he could say, or do. Was there? She had come to him. Was it for comfort or condolence? He was so unpractised at both. Care was not something he was accustomed to, and was not something he knew how to show. It should have come naturally, shouldn’t it? And yet, Blaize remained stunted.


[ALEKSANDRA]
For a moment, she thought about handing him the book, allowing the cover to fall open, and revealing the words written within. The desire lasted an entire second before she turned and tucked the book into one of the cupboards as slender fingers quickly pulled the towel from his grasp. Lifting it to her face, she hid her features within the comforting white, her eyes closing as she fought to control her emotions. A breakdown was on the horizon, threatening to take her over until she was a quivering mess.

She couldn’t allow that to happen.

Even though she didn’t need to breathe, she pulled air into her lungs and ran the towel through her hair, tired eyes landing once more on his as he stumbled to apologize. She had hoped to hear something more, to know that the dark thoughts plaguing her mind were a lie, but it appeared that wouldn’t happen. Instead, he was further driving the point home – she wasn’t important. “Don’t apologize,” she muttered, fingers deftly working the towel through her hair. “It’s my fault for not realizing the truth sooner. I mean, you did practically write it in the skyline. You don’t care about me.”

The moment the words were breathed into the world, she closed her eyes and dropped the towel. Her other hand pulled the notebook from the cupboard, fingers clutching it so tight, the cover bent. “You saved my life; you don’t owe me anymore than that, right?”

[Aleksandra]

[BLAIZE]
The notebook was tucked elsewhere and Blaize’s arms dropped again to his sides. The words that Aleksandra spoke were the last he expected to hear. “No,” he said, shaking his head. That trademark frown creased his brow. The last couple of months came back to him in a whirlwind, a crushing roar in his ears as he again recalled that letter that was stuck in the bottom drawer of his desk. There were moments in those darkest hours where all he could think about was Aleksa. He’d wanted just to be near her, to bury his face into her hair, to hold that connection close. But she wasn’t there, and even if she was he wasn’t sure he’d have called her.

“Of course I care,” he said, taking a step back, pushing his fingers through the smooth platinum blonde of his hair. “I just… I really suck at showing it, okay? I had … **** going on and I... I wouldn’t have been any help to you. It probably would have been worse for you if I had called,” he said, letting loose a huffed sigh.

“I’m not really sure what to tell you. I am sorry about your father, okay? Really, truly sorry. I’m not just saying the words,” he said with a shrug and with raised palms. It was a gesture of surrender. He’d fucked up. In more ways than one, he’d fucked up. What else could he do but apologise for it?


[ALEKSANDRA]
It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to succumb to her emotion, to give herself that moment of being illogical, irresponsible, and erratic. In fact, the first time she had acted out was during her first breakdown. She remembered it clearly – she also remembered he had followed her. He had calmed her down, had made her see sense. It was moments like that night that had made her believe she was more to him than… this. It was that memory that kept her from walking out the door – and it was his quickly uttered ‘no’ that kept her standing in front of him, eyes lifting from the floor to his face.

That frown was back, and she wanted to reach out and smooth it away with her fingers, but she remained still, her fingers tucked against her sides. If she touched him now, what would he do? The need to step into him, to wrap her arms around him, to just let all of this go had her eyes burning, and she quickly wiped her knuckles across her cheek, forcing the tears to remain at bay. It was the hardest thing she had done in days, and she swallowed past the ache in her throat as he spoke again. “We all have **** going on,” she whispered, voice thick as she shook her head.

“You could have called. I would have been fine with a text! Something to let me know that the one person I have left in this world that I care about was there.” Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she let his words run through her mind and released a quiet breath before focusing on him again. The distance he put between them hurt, and she watched his agitated movements with wary eyes. “If you were going through something, Blaize, we could have been there for each other. What could have been worse than this that we couldn't handle together?” Without thinking about it – she knew if she did, she’d rip the page out – she handed over her journal, hand shaking slightly.


[BLAIZE]
His tongue sucked at his teeth, an unreadable expression marring his otherwise unmarred features. We all have **** going on, she said. It was as he expected, and so she should say that. The excuse he’d not wanted to utter before was met with the same reaction as he expected, and why should it have changed in that single minute? Blaize shook his head, wanting to object. No, they couldn’t have dealt with it together. He wasn’t trying to say that his **** was worse than hers – but that they were equal, in their own ways. It cut him to the quick, to think that he had abandoned her in some way. How could he have known he was the one person left she cared about?

He took the shaking journal, tentatively holding it between his hands. Did he want to read it? What was inside that was so important, beyond what she’d already said. But she seemed to want him to read it. So he did. While his eyes scanned the pages, the frown only increased. Again, he pushed his fingers through his hair though his hand paused halfway, holding his head as if he might lose it if he let go. Subconsciously, he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

When he finished, he lifted his eyes to Aleksa, the green-blue of them ablaze with god-knows-what. The damp journal snapped shut in his grasp and, not knowing what to say, he brushed past Aleksa. He existed the locker room, his footsteps pounding on the wood of the studio floor as he crossed it to the office. The journal was deposited on the desk as he set in the chair, leaning down to open the drawer he knew contained the letter. The letter that hadn’t been intended for Aleksa, but it would give her a clue. Something, so that he didn’t have to say the words. The envelope was still sealed. Whether she followed him or not, he found her – he held out the letter. Wordlessly. He said nothing, just waited for her to read.


[ALEKSANDRA]
She hadn’t known what to expect the moment she handed over her journal. There was a small part of her, a tiny flare of hope that he would hand it back. That flame was quickly doused when he finally pulled it from her trembling grasp and flipped open the bent cover, bringing her words to life. The ink seemed to jump off the page, and she waited as his eyes drank each and every one in. Her attention remained locked on his expression, and she noticed every change. From the tensing of his jaw, to the tightening of his eyes, finally, to the way his muscles tightened when he gripped his skull. Every motion he made was catalogued by her, burned into her memory, and each one was as confusing as the first.

When he finally reached the last word and lifted his gaze to hers, the look in them was enough to freeze her. She had thought she’d known every emotion, every tic of his jaw and every line of his face, but the flare she saw come to life in his eyes was something she had never encountered. Parting her lips to speak, she tried to force the words over her tongue, but nothing happened. Instead, she made a small, intelligible sound, one that was missed as he suddenly brushed past her.

God, what had she done?

What part of what she had written had caused that look in his eyes?

She couldn’t put a name to it, though she tried as she hastily followed his retreating form. Had it been disappointment? Regret? It was impossible that it had been jealousy, wasn’t it? Unable to bear the silence anymore, she placed her hand on his back as he pulled open a drawer, her voice shaking. “Blaize, please, say some--- what is this?” It was a stupid question, she knew, but what else could she say? He had read the innermost workings of mind and had said nothing. Instead, he had handed her a letter. A letter he clearly intended for her to read, if the silent glare was anything to go by.

Carefully opening the envelope, she pulled the paper out and dropped her gaze from his, taking note of the slope of his handwriting as each word seemed to burn into her brain. Unlike the man before her, her expression was as open and readable as the paper in her shaking grasp. Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth parted in a gasp of pained shock. Forcing herself to take in every single word, she hadn’t realized she was openly crying until the tears began to drip onto her skin. “Blaize,” she whispered, her voice broken and cracked as she stared at the letter for a moment more – before wrapping her arms around him, the paper held carefully in her grasp.


[BLAIZE]
There was a lot to process from the journal that Aleksa had given Blaize. Not only about how broken she was about her father, but also considering her feelings toward him – toward Blaize himself. Feelings he didn’t know she had – though given his own missal to Lyonel, he wondered if it were normal, somehow, for childer to feel a gravitational pull toward their sires. Could they explain Aleksandra’s feelings that way? Would it be insensitive to suggest it? Blaize thought it might be best to get more information, first. To ask Breno, perhaps, if he felt the same way. Demi, even, if she felt such high regard for Lyonel.

The letter he’d given to Aleksandra, though, could in part have been written to her. She was not mentioned, but there had been a similar need for her – for Ayunli, too, who Blaize rarely saw. And her reaction to the letter was the exact reason why Blaize had kept his feelings to himself. He didn’t like the sympathy. He didn’t like her tears, or her shock. He didn’t want to be the subject of anyone’s pity.

And thus when she wrapped her arms around him, at first, Blaize was tense and unmoving, jaw clenched as he struggled to come to terms with what he had so hastily shared. After a few moments, however, he relaxed, softened, his own arms returning the favour. He did just as he had wanted to do when he had sunk into his deepest, darkest hours; he buried his face against Aleksa’s damp hair, taking a deep breath to savour her scent, her very presence.

“I’m okay, now,” he breathed. “It was a… a glitch. See? It would have been cruel of me to call you and tell you I needed you. I couldn’t…” he said. “You needed me but I’d have been a burden. I can’t be anyone’s burden,” he said, voice hard.


[ALEKSANDRA]
She hadn’t truly processed the action of her embrace. There was no weighing her options – there had simply been a need to feel him, and a need to comfort him. It had been pure instinct for her to wind her arms around his form, to press her damp cheek against his chest. The moment she had, that millisecond she was able to breathe in his familiar, comforting scent, the chaos in her mind quieted. The anger she had felt towards him dissipated, and while it was partially due to the letter currently burning her skin, it was more due to the feel of his skin against hers. It hadn’t even bothered her that he had tensed.

Blaize wasn’t a creature of comforts.

She had known that the moment she had opened her eyes after he had saved her life. Yet, he had always been there for her. She knew he would have done the same for any of his creations, but there was a cage in the darkest parts of her mind, locked away and buried beneath brick, that believed she was, even in the slightest part, different from them. Of course, that was just the hope. The hope she refused to give a name to, the desire she fought tooth and nail to explain away. Releasing the useless breath she’d been holding, she slowly unclenched her fist and allowed the paper to fall to the desk, her other hand gently gliding along his spine.

“A glitch,” she repeated slowly, her head shifting just in the slightest before she relaxed again. She didn’t believe him. Wanting to die wasn’t a glitch. There was something inside of him, something that was desperately needful of Lyonel. Could that be her curse, too? Could she want hi—no. She didn’t want Blaize. She needed him, yes, but that was because he had given her life. That was it. That was –all.- “You are never a burden to me. Next time, at least give me the option to help. Please,” she whispered, her fingers bending slightly on their own accord, nails biting into his back before she relaxed.

“I can’t lose you, too.”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize grunted. It was a reluctant form of assent. It might have been up to her whether he was a burden or not, that was her decision. But that wouldn't change the way he felt. If he were to feel weak in any way, shape, or form, he would not commit. He would not do it. He would not give in. He knew that if he were to ask for help -- from Aleksa, from Lyonel -- it would be given, happily, without haste. But he hoped that it was only a one-time occurrence. He hoped that he would never again be subject to such dark desires. Right now, he had zero urge to commit suicide. He was in a good place; he had the ballet, and due to the tour he now had renown. Those who were in power, they knew his name. He could do what he wanted. He didn't lack for money. And here he was, with someone who didn't want to lose him -- even though he was almost certain there was zero reason for her to want to stick by him. Wasn't he far too cold?

But, he had to admit -- this embrace was nice. It was... comforting. Unlike his forays with Ruelle, which had a particular purpose, this was the epitome of warmth, even if their bodies were cold. Warmth wasn't always a physical sensation. And so he indulged in the embrace a while longer, eyes closed, before he eventually came to his senses. Somehow, this had become all about him. And this was exactly what he'd always worked to avoid. Sure, he liked to be the center of attention, but only where his talent was involved. Not his weaknesses. He cleared his throat and began to pull back, and away.

"I'm fine," He said. "You, however, are soaking wet. And you are not alone," he said. "There's ah... showers, down there," he said, gesturing past the lockers toward the tiled showers. "And there's a dryer here, somewhere. Laura manages to wash and dry the towels. I know I've seen one..." he said. The logistics could be tricky. "If you uhm... you can go for a hot shower, if you want. Kick out your clothes and I can put them in the dryer..." he said. He'd taken care of Aleksandra before. This was different. This was more tender. And he struggled, even while wanting to help. It was like a foreign language.

[Blaize]

[ALEKSANDRA]
It was if the moment she finally caved and allowed herself to embrace him, to fully give in to the need of comfort, she couldn’t pull away. She had known there was a chance of this, which was why she had chosen to remain by herself, to wallow alone in her despair. Easing her fingers from his spine, she kept her eyes closed for a moment, simply enjoying the feel of his skin against hers. It wasn’t until he began to pull back, that she realized she had fallen too far into the connection. With a slow shake of her head, she attempted to clear her mind as he began to speak, slender fingers working through the wet tangles of her dark locks. “I didn’t even realize,” she muttered, wary blue gaze traveling his chest.

She had gotten him wet.

Dropping her arms completely, she took a step back and dropped her attention to her clothing. The outfit she had hastily chosen before she departed Australia had been fashionable and clean. Now, it clung to her body with a coldness that battled the temperature of her own skin. It felt foreign to her. “Right, Laura.” She hadn’t realized she’d mentioned the name of the screeching, shrill instructor, and instead chose to focus on the way her shirt made a strange sound when she peeled it from her torso. “Yeah, I guess I do need to shower. I haven’t since the airport,” she agreed, finally lifting her eyes back to her sire, her smile small and lacking the usual warmth it had once held. “How long do you think my clothes will be to dry? Unless you’d have me walking around in nothing but a towel?”


[BLAIZE]
That she had transferred dampness from herself to Blaize barely phased the dancer. He had no clothes for the dampness to cause any discomfort; the tights could be changed for jeans. A solution was quick to enter his mind but the words were slow to pass his lips as he watched Aleksandra peel the wet clothing from her body. Now that he payed attention, he wondered whether these clothes COULD be thrown in the dryer, or whether the tumbled heat would ruin them. But he held his hand out for her blouse, anyway.

It wasn't unusual for women to peel their clothes off around Blaize -- so many of them assumed that because he was a ballet dancer, because he moved like a ballet dancer, that he was gay. It worked to his advantage, though most of the time he had very little interest in their bodies. Most of the time, he was an asexual creature. Only every now and again did he seek a one night stand to blow off some steam.

The repetition of Laura's name did not go unnoticed -- he tried to detect whatever hint of emotion there was in those two words. Everything that Aleksandra said or did, now, was reshaped according to the words and tone of her journal, the things that she had said. Blaize shouldn't have smirked, but he did.

"I don't mind you walking around in a towel," he finally said. "But I have some clothes here in a locker. If you'd be more comfortable, you can borrow some. I've got a shirt that'll probably fit like a dress..." he said. Hardly as designer as the clothes Aleksandra was now peeling off, but better than nothing. And dry.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Had she been in the right mind, the knowledge that she had stripped herself of her shirt in front of him would have embarrassed her. Now, however, she held it out numbly and gave a shrug of her shoulder. “Whatever you prefer is fine,” she replied easily, fingers working lamely through her curls. Without the anger burning through her veins, fueling her with adrenaline, she felt… exhausted. Every step she took was forced, and she tried to remember the last time she had slept – or ate. Warily, she began to chew on her lip as she turned on her heel, putting her back to the man, fingers slipping beneath the strap of her bra absently. This – no, this material of clothing, she would –not- be taking off.

“Where are the showers again?”

She tried not to spend too much time within his studio. It was his place – his haven, as she liked to think of it. It was where he thrived, and she knew how she was when people stepped within her kitchen. Of course, he was the only one that was allowed to even come within five hundred yards of her space – and she had never thought to ask him if he was okay with her barging into his. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she worked her jaw, the question poised to spill from her tongue. Instead, her stomach clenched, bringing the inquiry to a stumbling halt as the hunger reared its monstrous head.

The thought of feeding had her stomach churning, and she bit down harder on her lip, as if that taste would be enough to sustain her. It was bitter and cold, and instead of satisfying her hunger, it nearly caused her to vomit. Clearly, she didn’t have a choice. “I’ll need to slip out and eat after. Is there a bar nearby?” The words were whispered quietly, as if she were ashamed of them. Questions ran through her mind – would he care if she went out? Had she even fed in Australia? That night with the green eyed stranger was still blank in her mind, and she couldn’t recall if she had used him for more than one need – both needs that she felt now, and both left her feeling guilt she wasn’t sure she should be carrying.


[BLAIZE]
To anyone listening, should they have been eavesdropping on the vampires’ conversation, nothing would be amiss. ‘Slip out and eat’ and ‘bar’ were ordinary things to say, though of course both Blaize and Aleksa knew better. It was as if the dancer had forgotten that he hadn’t just saved Aleksa’s life, he had forced the same curse upon her that he had to endure – the act of ‘feeding’. It had been a few nights since he himself had last had a ‘meal’, and the very thought of it now churned his stomach. He hated it, loathed it, could not stand it.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he said. “I can bring someone here. Unless you have a specific taste…” he said. It was a trick he’d discovered while on tour, before Breno had come along. If he focused hard enough, he could lure a human to him, no matter where he was or what he was doing. They would come. A lone human, upon whom he could feed, thankful that though he had no fangs there was still some magic that helped them to forget what they had suffered. He only wished it worked in reverse – that he would forget, too. It was yet another issue he had shared with no one. No one, bar Breno, because it was something Breno needed to know in order to agree to the terms of the agreement they had struck.

“Showers are this way,” he said, moving past Aleksa to head toward the back wall; to the left was a door that led through to the showers. He moved with all the grace of the dancer that he was – a well-oiled machine. “If you ah… toss your clothes out I can take them. And I’ll bring you back something dry…” he said. “Not that I wouldn’t mind you wandering around in a towel. But they’re small towels. And…” he stopped. Did he have to explain why it wasn’t wise to tempt him? Probably not. “…you’ll probably be more comfortable in a t-shirt.”


[ALEKSANDRA]
When she had first awoken to her new ways of life, her foremost fear had been that she would never be able to eat again. It wasn’t that she was overly unhealthy, nor was it that she couldn’t bear the thought of skipping a meal. Creating recipes, cooking, and baking were her passion. It was her dream to open her own restaurant, and if she couldn’t taste a single bite of what she had created, that dream would have been shattered. She had thought –that- was the absolute worst thing about being turned, and it wasn’t until she realized that while she could eat, it was /what/ she needed to eat that ruined her.

Even now, with her stomach twisting into knots and sending flares of pain through her nervous system, the thought of tasting blood left her ill. It didn’t matter how she tried to fix the issue, she could always taste the thickness of the life-source as it swirled within whatever glass she had procured. It was almost easier for her to sink her teeth into the neck of another than it was to pull from a bag, but even then, she was left with the urge to vomit everything she had consumed within a matter of minutes. With time, she figured it would get easier, but for the moment – it left her off balance and constantly nauseated.

“I usually prefer men,” she admitted, her voice still as hushed as it was before. Running her tongue along the bite on her lip, she sighed as she noticed it’s was already healed. “They’re stronger.” It was a hastily added on explanation as she ran her fingers through her hair before drumming them nervously against her bared stomach as she turned to follow him. “How on earth can you bring someone here? Is there a call service?” Did he have an escort number on speed-dial – and why on earth did it make her jealous that he might? She was constantly having to remind herself it wasn’t her business with whom – or how – he spent his evenings when she wasn’t around to bother him.

Pausing at the door, she raised a brow at his hesitation before offering a small, quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t torture you, Blaize. I’m sure seeing me running around in nothing but a towel isn’t at the top of your list,” she teased, her eyes dancing with a flicker of warmth before it vanished. “Just give me a second and I’ll toss out the rest. I’ll leave the door cracked so you can bring me whatever you find.”


[BLAIZE]
Men, she said. She preferred men, and she wouldn’t see the way Blaize’s expression twitched, mouth set in a grim and crooked line, eyes flashing with an indescribably heat – and not a good heat, either. It was the kind of heat associated with destruction. Not fire, but like a faulty phone that blows up in someone’s face because it’s overloaded and overwhelmed. To even have a preference! Blaize had no preference. It didn’t matter whose blood he took, the guilt crushed him. It didn’t matter if they were young or old, male or female, good or bad, strong or weak.

“Uhuh, stronger,” he said, voice flat and relatively bereft of any feeling. While there was talk of torture and running around in towels, he was imagining a towel-clad Aleksandra wandering through a hot and smoky bar, seducing the strongest, beefiest man there. He imagined her being lifted, imagined her legs wrapping around the stranger’s waist, her body pressed tight to that of her victim. They’d reached the bathroom and Blaize just stood there, staring into space, eyes glazed – until he realised Aleksandra was still talking to him.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh… no. Not a call service. It’s something I assume all Mystics can do. I just reach out into the universe and tell it I want a human and a human just waltzes on in. I haven’t tried to ask for a specific type,” he said. There was another thunderous crack overhead, the walls shaking. “You don’t want to go back out there,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll bring someone,” he nodded, before turning and striding away, off to find something to adequately fit Aleksandra, to cover her up, to keep her away from the threat of temptation.


[ALEKSANDRA]
“What a wonderful conversation,” she muttered under her breath as he turned and began to walk away, though there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he had heard every word. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t grown used to his lack of proper etiquette, but it still had a way of sinking beneath her skin. Every once in a while, she found herself questioning her sanity – especially when it came to dissecting her range of emotions for the man stalking down the darkened corridor and away from her. One moment, she was attempting to convince herself that she /wasn’t/ falling for him, and in the next, she was having to convince herself that there was a redeeming quality beneath his cold exterior.

Right now, it was making her mind a warzone.

Pushing herself from the frame, she stepped further into the bathroom, fingers already working to remove the remaining articles of clothing. Carefully pulling her phone from the pocket of her jeans, she bundled the wet fabric into one hand before using her foot to nudge them out the door. As she slid her thumb across the screen, it began to ring, an unfamiliar number flashing in blaring letters. Opting to ignore it, she quickly sat the device on the stand beside the door, the ring continuing to echo as she moved to start the water. Stepping inside, she rested her head against the cool tile as another clap of thunder shook the building. Briefly, she wondered if she’d be electrocuted – and if she’d survive it.

As the welcoming heat from the shower danced across her skin, the phone chimed again, this time, signaling a message. And then another – and finally, a third, before it went silent. Despite her curiosity, she turned her back to the door and reached for the half-empty bottle of shampoo that had been discarded, before quickly lathering her hair and running her hands along her body to wash away the reminders of Australia - and her guilt.

[Aleksandra]

[BLAIZE]
Blaize had indeed heard, and a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't as if he purposefully went through life trying to be a mystery to people; he'd clammed up, become a closed and locked box with no key, very early in life -- probably from the age of seven. He'd always been an overly serious little boy, and it had followed him into adulthood. Still, whenever his closed exterior frustrated others, whenever their frustration was obvious, it amused the dancer. It shouldn't have. It should have made him remorseful. But what did he have to be remorseful about? He'd said what he needed to, had answered Aleksa's question, and didn't feel the need to elaborate on his feelings. Feelings had no place in his life. Thus far, anyway.

Entering the office, Blaize stopped and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darker space, waiting for the flash of lighting to reveal where he had dropped his duffel bag hours earlier. Within its canvas confines were a few shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans. He didn't bother smelling them -- he didn't sweat. They could have been dirty, could have been worn, but they didn't smell of body odour. Sure, the scent that was specific to Blaize himself clung to every fiber, but it wasn't a bad smell. It was just... his smell. The shirt was white, a thin cotton. It was of the new, distressed style -- long and comfortable, and, he mused, not SO distressed as to show much skin through the intentional tearing.

He collected the shirt and, after some deliberation, a pair of boxers and his only belt. Unless she wished to walk around without underwear in which case... he shook his head, and refrained from thinking about it.

As he started to make his way back, he heard the melody of a phonecall, then the chime of messages; his ears perked for the sound of Aleksa's voice, primed to tell her she shouldn't use her phone in the middle of a thunderstorm. At the door, he resisted the urge to peer inside, and hung the shirt, boxers, and belt over the top of it. "Clothes are on the door," he said, voice raised just enough to life above the sound of rain, and of the running shower. In the darkened space, the phone on the floor was like a beacon. The only light, it lit up the whole room. And Blaize couldn't help but glance at it as he crouched down to collect the wet clothes.

"And Brandon wants to go out again. Was he not strong enough for you?" he asked -- assuming, since Brandon remembered Aleksa, that there was no feeding happening. It wasn't as if Blaize could say anything. There were probably still smudges on the mirror out in the studio -- clues as to his own one night stand.


[ALEKSANDRA]
As the water washed away her indiscretions, she swore she could hear her father’s voice in her mind. His deep, comforting tenor vibrated within her skull, the warnings that he had always given her playing like a broken record; never talk to strangers, never play with fire, and the more pressing one at the moment – never be near water during a thunderstorm. She could remember sitting on his knee, watching lightning streak across the sky as he warned her of electrocution. It was almost as if she could feel the power leap across her skin now, even as she tried to rationalize that she was safe.

Pressing her forehead to the tiled wall, she took a steadying breath, and found herself missing the way the motion had once comforted her. Now it was a reminder of her immortality – and the fact that she was, aside from Blaize, utterly alone in her eternity. She had never truly been a social person, but when she had lost anyone that truly mattered to, the weight of loneliness was almost too much to bear. Pushing from the wall when she heard his approaching steps, she quickly ran her hands along her body, removing the remnants of soap as his voice broke through her melancholic thoughts.

“Thank you,” she called out, putting her voice above the water and thunder, though she hoped he had missed the crack in her words. She was about to say something more, to ask if he had managed to find a towel for her to use that wasn’t already wet from the storm, when he spoke again. Narrowing her eyes for a moment, she reached a hand out and gave the knob a twist. “Brandon? I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said slowly, her uncertainty clear in her voice as she lowered the heat of the water. “Maybe it was a wrong num--- wait.” Catching herself before she said too much, she closed her eyes as a memory assaulted her.

Tall, dark hair with piercing eyes.
A crooked smile, muscles that worked beneath a thin black cotton tee.

Tattoos that wrapped around strong arms.

“It wasn’t that,” she said quietly as she finished turned off the spray, sending them into silence for a moment before she began to step out. “I don’t know how he managed to get my number.”


[BLAIZE]
The shower stopped, and Blaize was still lingering by the door -- the door to which Aleksandra would have to come to retrieve the clothes that he had collected for her. With wet clothes in his arms, his mind slowly caught up with him. Wet, yes. Aleksandra would be wet. Still. And she would need another towel. The dancer went to the nearest cabinet and, cradling the wet clothes in the crook of one arm, he collected a towel with the other. Soundlessly, he returned to the bathroom door. His own heavily tattooed hand, towel enclosed in fist, was thrust through the minute crack. He had his back to the wall, his eyes peering out at the locker room.

It wasn't that, she said, and Blaize didn't have to ask the questions to know exactly what it was. Again he reminded himself that he too had indulged in some mindless pleasure -- the perk being, of course, that Ruelle didn't have Blaize's number. She knew where he worked. But she hadn't been back. She hadn't tracked him down. She wasn't expecting anything else from him -- which was exactly how Blaize liked it.

"Did you leave your phone unattended?" he asked. It was as simple as the guy picking up Aleksa's phone and sending himself a message in order to get her phone number. But what kind of creep did that, if a girl didn't want him to have it? Anyway, it was none of Blaize's business, or so he told himself. So he didn't ask any more questions. Didn't think about it. He shook the towel that he held, suddenly irritable and impatient and not quite knowing why.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Easing the offered towel from his clenched fist, she allowed her fingers to brush across the tense skin of his knuckles before wrapping the cloth around her small form. “I’m not a child,” she sighed, though she lacked the intended bite of her statement. He hadn’t known what she state she had been in when she had stumbled into the bar, her hair a wild mess, her eyes blood-shot. She barely remembered that night. Had she left her phone out, unattended, for Brandon to do with as he pleased? It wasn’t like her. She was always careful, always sure of every step she made, every single action precise. That night, however, she could hardly blame herself if she had done something /else/ careless.

“Maybe I did. Maybe he stole it. I don’t remember, okay? I don’t remember anything about him.” Using the towel to wipe away the remaining drops of water, she ran it quickly through her hair before curling her fingers in the hem of the worn shirt and pulling it from the door. It didn’t take her long to get dressed, the belt carefully secured around her waist. It wasn’t something that she would have picked for herself, but with the familiar scent of him comforting her with every movement, she didn’t think to complain. Instead, she pulled the door open and lifted her phone from the floor, bright eyes scanning the messages before she gave an inaudible sigh. “Should I call him?”

How did one end a one night stand – especially one that they didn’t remember? Pressing her fingers through her loose curls, she rested her hip against the frame and studied the man before him, her brows furrowing as she noted the irritation that seemed to heat the air around him. “What’s wrong?”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize rolled his eyes skyward. It wasn't a judgemental question. Leaving one's phone unattended wasn't a childish thing to do. For instance, Blaize didn't even know where his was right now. He let the statement go, not one to start arguments where there was no cause for them. He clenched and unclenched the fist that had previously held the towel, meandering a few steps from the bathroom doorway. The wet clothes were still cradled in his arm, the coldness of them crisp against his skin. The dryer was through a door down the hall, and he took a few steps in that direction, only to be halted as Aleksa continued, her tone snappy even though he'd just asked her a simple question. And then she was standing there in front of him, asking him more questions and he shook his head, mouth hanging ajar.

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong," he said, only belatedly realising that there was a frown still curled at the bridge of his nose. He did his best to control his own expression, to banish the frown from whence it came. And he did a good job at it, too. A minute glance was spared for the bareness of Aleksandra's legs -- they were nice legs -- but it was a mere twitch, a ghost of a glance that may never have existed.

"Call him if you want to see him again. If you don't, then don't call him," he said, the words thrown over his shoulder as he finally turned to the hallway, headed for the small laundry room and ... well, the power was out, anyway. So there was no point in even assuming the clothes would dry tonight. She'd have to wander around in her makeshift toga. The clothes were deposited into the dryer regardless, the male making a mental note to attend to them later.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Once again, she found herself contemplating why she bothered to stay with him. He was too cold, too distant, and his personality lacked everything that she sought in a companion. It wasn’t until he turned to walk away from her – once again – that she allowed herself to study him. Usually, she would have begun to walk after him, demanding to know why he had suddenly turned against her, but tonight was different. Tonight, she remained against the frame of the bathroom, arms crossed over her chest. He was easy on the eyes, that much was clear, with the way her gaze traveled down the length of his back, to the tights that hugged his muscular legs. He was good-looking, passionate about his dance, but when it came to common socialization, he was sorely lacking. Yet, she remained. She always would.

“You’re a liar,” she finally spoke, her words nearly drowned out beneath another clap of thunder. “I won’t push, though. You’ll just tell me I’m looking too far into things.” Stepping away from the wall, she gave the thin shirt a gentle pull to straighten it out and headed down the hall, her steps as quiet as his. “Would you care if I saw him again?” Why had she asked that? Why did she care if he cared? She didn’t /want/ to see him again, but he was beginning to get under her skin with his sudden change of attitude. Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe she was finally beginning to lose her mind. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t plan to. He’s in Australia, and it’s not like I’m ever going back there.”

Realizing she had followed him into the laundry room after all, she quickly turned on her heel and changed course, instead moving into one of the mirrored rooms. Brushing her fingers along the railing, she bit into her lip and finally brought her phone to life, fingers flying across the screen as she sent a rapid response to the unfamiliar, and almost daunting, phone number.


[BLAIZE]
Liar, she said. Internally, Blaize protested. He wasn't a liar. Even he told himself there was nothing wrong. Why should there be? There were reasons why he did the things that he did -- why he preferred that Aleksa where clothes instead of a towel. He knew himself better than anyone. He found her attractive. If thoroughly tempted, yes, he'd sleep with her. And then what? He'd treat her like he did every other woman. He'd not call her, like she'd already accused him of doing. And then she'd hate him. She'd stop coming around. And he lied to himself, telling himself it wouldn't matter, that she'd been absent anyway -- but he rememebred how much he had needed her. How much her very presence could have soothed him. And he didn't want to throw it away.

It was completely, irreconcilably selfish. That's how it would sound. That he didn't want to hurt her for his own gains. But these were the things he told himself, because he was so accustomed to it, to never forming attachments because they never did last. And he knew the fault was his own -- and he never had, nor did he think he ever would apologise for it.

Though, he did care. Of course he did. If he didn't, he wouldn't have saved Aleksandra to begin with. He wouldn't have dropped what he was doing to help her those many months ago when she'd come into his studio an anxious mess. He wouldn't have shown her the tower, the quiet, dark astronomy tower where she might go to find peace and calm.

Anyway. He was saved from answering the question. Aleksandra herself said it didn't matter. Blaize took that to mean that he was let loose, that he was not obligated to answer. He followed Aleksandra back out to the studio. He did not want to encourage her to push, nor did he want to answer any more questions. The guy was in Australia. It didn't matter.

"You look like you're wearing a bad toga, and as far as I know there aren't any student parties happening at this time of year. It's raining cats and dogs, and I really don't think you should go into a bar like that. I'll bring you someone," he said, taking a seat in one of the foldable chairs and closing his eyes -- reaching out into the ether. And asking for anything other than a strong man -- if asking worked at all.


[ALEKSANDRA]
“You act like any one is going to care about my outfit if I were to find a bar,” she chuckled as she finished her response. Hitting send, she waited a second for the message icon to say ‘delivered’ before locking her screen. She doubted she’d hear from him again – at least, anytime soon. Placing her phone on a small table at his side, she kept the screen facing up, uncaring that he might read another message. Pressing her fingers through her hair, she began to tedious act of carefully untangling the washed curls, slender digits tugging through the darkened strands with care. She hadn’t planned for a run through a storm, nor had she planned for a quick – yet warm – shower in his studio. Her bag was still unpacked at the door of their apartment, and within it, her brush and leave-in conditioner.

There weren’t many things she prided herself on. She didn’t think herself gorgeous, nor did she find herself anything other than average. Yet, her hair ranked high on her list, just below cooking. It was the one thing she had about herself that she took pride in, and so as he sat, his eyes closed and his face focused, she made sure that each curl was carefully maintained. For a moment, she was mesmerized by the way he sat so still, and she began to contemplate how the power worked. Was he secretly sliding his thumb over the number pad of his own phone, dialling the escort service? Or was what he said true, and as a vampire, he could reach out into the world and lure someone to them?.

As if fate wanted to teach her a lesson, the sound of a door crashing open jolted her from her thoughts, and within seconds, she was on her feet. Fear flashed in the blue of her gaze before her eyes adjusted to the hulking figure standing in the hall, rain dripping steadily from his blonde hair. “It looks like you listened after all,” she muttered under her breath, eyes sweeping the across the muscular form of what appeared to be a college student, if the HRU jersey that clung to his chest was any indication.

[Blaize]

[BLAIZE]
Blaize was curious, of course, what she chose to reply with. What was she telling Brandon? How was she placating the poor man's heart? Did Blaize really have any sympathy for him? He eventually decided that no, he did not. And nor did he wish to pry into Aleksandra's business, nor explain to her that he cared what she wore into a bar. To do either would be creepily overprotective, and he could not claim that he had any right nor power to dictate what Aleksa could or could not do.

The door crashed open and, though it might have startled Aleksa, Blaize was not surprised. His eyes opened, slowly, wondering what they were going to get. It was always a bit like a kinder surprise, one never knew what the cat might drag in. In this case, it was the complete opposite of what Blaize had asked for. At least he learned that the power didn't listen to what you wanted. It was just enough to bring a hot, fresh meal. Or witnesses. Or whatever else anyone might want to use the power for. Granted, Blaize didn't use it as often as he could have, but it had come in handy when he was on tour. At least he could pick the time and place of his haphazard, shameful feeding. As much as he loathed who he'd lured into their space, his face remained placid, his gaze seemingly disinterested. There was probably some kind of hockey practice, and they'd let out when they realised the power wasn't coming back on. Or this guy thought he'd be a hero and brave the storm. ******* idiot.

At first, he didn't see the two vampires in the room. The room was covered in mirrors, and neither of the vampires were reflected in them. There was another flash of lightning and the guy's wide eyes bounced between Aleksa and Blaize. "Sorry, ah... it's ******* chaos out there. Mind if I chill until it dies down...?" he asked, and Blaize just shrugged and nodded. It took a good half a minute before the human realised there were no reflections in the mirrors -- none but his own. In the next flash of distant lightning, one could see the uncertainty upon his handsome features. Blaize stood and approached, an easy smile on his lips.

"Sure. We can get you a towel," he said, though he went nowhere near the door to the lockers, the door to where the towels were kept. Instead, he headed for the front door, pale fingers reaching for the deadbolt. If Aleksa wanted to feed, now was her chance.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Uncurling herself from the floor, she carefully ran her hands along the thin material of her make-shift dress as she watched the man step further into the studio. The lightning was truly unneeded for her own eyesight, and when the bright flash disappeared, she watched the wariness morph his features into something almost childlike. In those moments of darkness, she could peel apart every emotion that danced across his features and darkened his eyes, and it told her everything she needed to know. He might be strong on whatever field he dominated, but when it came to situations like these, he was just as afraid as the rest of them. “I’ll get that towel,” she spoke suddenly, voice as smooth as silk.

Somehow, she managed to move with an almost feline grace. The hunger seemed to control her, and with every bit of power she possessed, she managed to keep his attention on her with each sway of her hips. It was better, she mused, than for him to turn around and witness the muscular blonde as he made sure every lock was secure. “What brought you out in this storm?”

Her voice was still quiet, a sweet, almost seductive lilt causing her accent to thicken as she grabbed a random towel from the floor. She could smell the sweat on it, and she knew that it was one that had missed during clean-up. It wasn’t as if she truly cared about his answer – or the fact she was offering him a second-hand towel.

Unlike her sire, she felt no guilt when it came to feeding. It was a way to survive. It wasn’t until after, when she was curled under the warmth of her blankets, her face buried in her pillow, that she allowed herself to cry. Until then, however, she was another person, one that needed to survive, even as pain tore at her heart like a frenzied jungle cat. Making her way slowly back towards him, she offered him the towel, though her gaze slipped past him as he uttered a response, and she focused on the wall.

It was time.

“You’ve got something…” That was the only warning she gave as she tangled her fingers into his hair, almost like a lover’s caress, her small form lifting high onto the tips of her toes so she could sink her fangs into his vein with a soft sound of pure satisfaction.


[BLAIZE]
It was fascinating to watch. Had he ever watched Aleksandra feed before, beyond the first time? He certainly had not witnessed the way she had grown and evolved, the way she turned into a flawless predator -- using her strengths to her advantage. Turning from the locks, Blaize was witness to the jock's enthrallment. Who could resist the way she moved? And Blaize considered himself an expert in movement. Even his attention was captures and, like watching a car crash in process, he could not tear his eyes from the scene when her canines sunk deep into the flesh of her victim's neck. He imagined he could even here the 'pop' as sharp teeth broke through the protective layer of the artery.
He tore his eyes away, striding toward the door to the office. He wanted to disappear. He didn't want to witness this for more reasons than one. It inspired within him all the shame that he refused to show; it inspired within him a thirst that he so often ignored. His hands found the edges of the door frame as he leaned into the darkness of the room, hovering on the edge of indecision. He had summoned the human here, and had helped Aleksandra to sate her need. He had done his duty as a sire -- as someone who did genuinely care for her, despite all her doubts. Eventually she would grow tired of him, or she would realise that his care manifested in subtle ways; he did things for her that he would never do for anyone else. It just wasn't obvious.

And yet, he turned. Silent footsteps carried him back to the twined bodies. His plan? He needed blood, too. And here was a human, and a vampire who'd already made the requisite wound. A human, already dazed from venom. Blaize circled the vampire and her victim, before pausing by Aleksandra's side. His hand smoothed up Akeksandra's spine, settling between her shoulder blades. He wasn't telling her to stop, yet. He wasn't pulling her away. He was letting her know that he was there. He stood close, the scent of blood, fresh, now calling to him, thirst waging with guilt. One would eventually overthrow the other. She would feel his breath against her neck, her jaw. And yet, he did not ask. Not yet. Still uncertain.


[ALEKSANDRA]
As the first drop of blood warmed her tongue, coating the muscle with a unique explosion of sweet copper, she made another involuntary sound of delight. From the moment she had awoken as a vampire, embraced by a darkness that she had never encountered before Blaize, she had been at constant war with herself. Her compassion was constantly at battle with her hunger, and though the thought of harming another innocent victim weighed heavily on her mind, survival won out. In part, it was because of her sire. She knew if she were to ever stumble off path, he would bring her back. He would never allow her to become the beast that had ripped her life from her that night.

The other part, of course, was the thrill.

When all was said and done, the dust settled and her needs satisfied, she would feel the guilt. Until then, however, she revelled in the pressure of his body against hers. She welcomed the strong embrace as his arms wound around her middle so he could pull her in. She hadn’t deceived him when she stated that her preference had a lot – everything, really – to do with strength. Men held themselves better. Even as they began to sway, they didn’t stumble or fall. Instead, they always tended to embrace her. Some moved their fingers through her hair, others clutched at her clothing until it torn. Women, at least in her experience, tended to faint if she were to risk taking too much – or fought too hard.

Pressing even closer to the man, she slid her tongue along the wound she had made, unwilling to allow even a few drops to escape her notice. From the outside – even from his vantage point – it might look as though the two were locked in a passionate embrace with the way she clutched at him, her lips to his neck, and he held her secure. She had just tangled her fingers deeper into his hair when she felt the touch to her back, and unlike the animalistic creature that had killed her, she didn’t snarl. Instead, she pressed into the touch, her lashes fluttering as he came closer, even as her victim clutched at her risen shirt, threatening to tear the material with each weakening sway.


[BLAIZE]
Too many considerations passed through Blaize's mind. Although he felt the way Aleksandra arched into his touch, she remained latched onto her victim's neck. She was starving. She hadn't fed. She needed it more than Blaize did. And if he tried to take what he needed, too, then the victim would die. He doubted that either of them wanted his death on their hands. Hadn't he just assured himself that he'd done the right thing? He'd brought this 'meal' here for Aleksandra, and to take it for himself would be selfish. It would defy the point. So many excuses in order to talk himself out of his own thirst, to deny the aroused hunger. There was a painful ache in his gums like the canines were trying to push through, to form sharp points that he could use to take what he needed. But they failed, as per usual. And it was becoming unbearable.

So when he did speak, it was not to ask Aleksandra to share, as had been his original plan.

"You should stop," he said, voice a gruff whisper near her ear. "If you need more I can bring you someone else," he said, swaying backwards and resisting the urge to grab the guy's hand and break it in order to loosen his grip on Aleksandra -- as if he were the one feeding, and she the victim. She was no one's victim in this scenario, however. She knew what she was doing. But Blaize would not forgive himself if he allowed her to kill someone under his watch.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Carefully untangling her fingers from his hair, she danced her nails across the nape of his neck as she settled back, her eyes bright for a moment. His rough voice had sent a shiver down her spine, and she hoped he hadn’t felt it as her fingers worked through her hair, smoothing out the mussed curls. “I’m fine,” she replied, tongue brushing over her lower lip. She could still taste him on her skin, sweat and rain mixed with something far more exotic. With her hunger satisfied, she began to step back, but the muscled arms kept her in place. Of course, she could break the hold, and she slid her hands down his arms to lock them around his wrists as his fingers dug into her hips. “This is why I prefer men.”

She had taken from him, and yet he remained upright, though his eyes were glazed and his skin pale. Had it been a woman – or even a boy, someone young – he would have collapsed at their feet. Instead, he held on, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to let her go. Unsure of how long the venom tended to last in their systems, she reached up and trailed her fingers through the blood staining his throat, watching the crimson darken her skin as lightning lit the studio in a bright flash. “He’ll be fine,” she said finally, watching as the blood trailed down his throat and pooled around the tattered neck of his jersey. There was strength in him, in the way he kept his arms chained around her, even as he swayed.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize had no doubts that the jock would be fine. Even as he swayed, even if a little more blood was taken than was healthy, he was a big guy. He could handle it. He might wake up the next day with one hell of a migraine, but he would get over it. He wouldn't, however, if Blaize were also to take his fill -- and even as he stood there, watching Aleksandra's fingers play with the blood against the rough skin of her victim's neck, Blaize knew that if he were to give in, he'd be far less gentle than Aleksandra. And thus, the dancer took another step backward.

The shiver he felt gently wrack Aleksandra's body he put down to satisfaction. The blood on her tongue, the chill in the air, the man who had his strong arms wrapped around her. She looked happy there. Content. Blaize's feeding was never quite as smooth. His victims were never so quiet. Without canines, the venom was slower to work. The bite never silenced them, because he had to use a knife. It was only after he had them pinned, only after he could roughly tear at their skin with un-sharpened teeth that he could get them to be quiet, to relax. To forget.

The envy broiled in his veins, jealousy thick like hot molasses. What for? He wasn't entirely sure. Nausea trapped in his throat, a wave of dizziness causing him to take another step back. "Maybe you should take him home, then," he said, face hardening, returning to its ice-like facade of sharp edges and harsh lines.


[ALEKSANDRA]
His words washed over her like a frozen shower, and she quickly dropped her arms, fingers working to pry the jock’s wrists from her waist. When she stepped away, the man swayed once more before holding out an arm, large hand slamming onto the nearest rail for balance. The force of his weight caused it to tremble, the sound a steady thrum that was quickly drowned beneath the thunder. None of this mattered to her, however, as her darkening gaze was locked on the blonde. “Excuse me?”

She had heard him. She had heard every harsh word, had already analyzed the inflection and studied the icy lines of his face. There wasn’t a letter he snapped that she hadn’t filed away, yet as he took that step away, adding a distance between them that chilled her worse than the glare in his eyes, she found herself speechless. At least, she had been. Slowly shaking her head, she lifted her hand to press to her chest, fingers digging into the spot where her heart had used to beat. Now it remained still, and yet, she could still feel the ache of shame and… something she couldn’t quite put a word to at his anger.

“Maybe I should,” she responded, her voice completely different from his. Where he was cold, she was filled with fire. “I don’t have a reason not to.” Once she opened her mouth, allowed her words to spill off her tongue like gasoline on an open flame, she couldn’t stop. Turning at the last second, she walked back towards the man, her fingers sliding along his arm to grasp his bicep, preparing to hoist him up. When she touched him, his arm began to twitch, fingers tugging at her shirt as he gave a quiet groan. She paid him no mind, small fingers digging into his skin as she kept her attention on Blaize.

“Do I?” There was a question in her eyes, even as her words still held that heat – and something else. Something soft and unsure, something that understood his answer was somehow pivotal.

[Aleksandra]

[BLAIZE]
The storm outside showed no signs of abating. If anything, it had got worse since Aleksandra had arrived -- since their meal had stumbled in and out of the cold. Now that his meaty arms were no longer around Aleksanda -- now that Blaize was no longer tempted by the blood pooled at his neck -- the dancer relaxed. He tried to assess his own reaction, and whether it had been too much. He should have just kept his mouth shut. But now here they were, Aleksandra confronting him. And he knew if he answered the wrong way, she would take her meal and walk out with him. Out into the storm.

"Don't be..." stupid, he wanted to say, but knew she'd take that the wrong way, too. Frustration dug deep into his features as his hand, fingers spread - almost clawed - gestured out at the weather. "Why would you go back out there? We just got you dry. It would defeat the purpose," he said. "It doesn't matter for him. He's already soaked," he said, nodding to the beefcake who was dazedly trying to keep himself upright. Blaize closed the distance between himself and the front door, unbolting the locks that he hadn't needed to bolt in the first place. The door opened with a gust of wind, which Blaize ignored. The chill did nothing to him. He then approached the pair and placed his hands on the guy's shoulders, brushing at Aleksa's grasp to try to get her to let go.

"He'll be fine," Blaize said, guiding the zombie-like hockey player back toward the door, and the storm. A slight frown appeared upon the guy's brow but he otherwise didn't seem to resist. He was as docile as a well-trained dog. Blaize didn't think the guy would come to any harm outside. If he did, it would only be a mild flu. Big guy like that had to have a good immune system though, right? He was healthy enough. And if some other vampire should be out in the weather, wanting to take advantage of an already-weakened victim, then so be it. Blaize wouldn't know about it. It wasn't his problem. It wasn't his guilt to bear.


[ALEKSANDRA]
As the storm continued to rage outside of the window, lightning illuminating their features in an eerie glow of white and blue, she watched the thoughts race across his face. He didn’t realize, that even with his hardened mask firmly placed, his eyes betrayed him. The frost that covered his dangerous glare did nothing to hide the cogs that turned frantically in his mind. While she couldn’t hear the thoughts, she knew they were there, his inner battle one she was used to witnessing from the sidelines. With an irritated breath of her own, she curled her fingers into the palm of her hands, nails biting into her skin. How could one man be so difficult? It was maddening how hard it was for him to admit the truth.

The pressing question, however, was what truth did she want to hear?

Shaking her head, she ground her teeth together as she fought the urge to lash out. Already, she could feel her mind slipping into the chaos, the soft hum of dying electricity buzzing in her ear. The thrum of blood in her victim’s veins echoing in her mind, and she turned her head away as the distorted reflection began to mock her. As her senses continued to heighten, her emotions threatening to overrun her, she dug her fingers deeper into the human’s bicep. It wasn’t until she felt the soft brush of his fingers against her skin that she began to relax, and as she eased her aching hand from the man, she sighed. It was ridiculous how easy it was for him to calm her, even if he didn’t realize she needed it.

She needed [i[him.[/i]

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice a gentle whisper as she turned to face him, arms crossed lazily over her chest. He had answered her question in his own way. He didn’t want her going into the storm. He didn’t want her going into the storm with a stranger – with him. He didn’t want her to go, and so she didn’t. She didn’t watch as the man stumbled into the rain, nor did she watch as the door shut behind him. Instead, she kept her gaze on the blonde, her head tilted as she rested her hip against the rail, blood coated fingers drumming an unsteady beat as she finally spoke the question on her mind.

“Did you really think I’d go with him?”


[BLAIZE]
The weather really was a sight to behold. Through the open door, the wind whipped at the trees and each time the sky lit up with sheets of lightning, the driving rain exploded like millions of pieces of broken glass. It was into the maelstrom that Blaize sent the Jock, and as he watched the guy stumble off in the direction of (what he assumed) alternative shelter, Blaize felt no remorse. It was like sending one of his childhood bullies out into the rain (one of those who soon learned that a male ballerino was not someone to be trifled with). Blaize had no care for these people. No sympathy at all. He barely cared about anyone. He could count his care on his fingertips.

The door was closed and locked behind him; not locked to keep anyone in, but to keep everyone else out. The broiling thirst that clawed and scratched, now realising its opportunity was gone, started to settle -- even though it still bristled, like spiky caterpillars crawling through his veins. The cause for Blaize's discontent now gone from the building, the dancer, too, relaxed a little. Though now he just looked tired. The battle with his own morals, with his thirst, was like running ten marathons -- like Albrecht, forced to dance until he died.

"You looked like you were ready to," he said. The answer was yes. She had been poised and ready to go; if Blaize had answered that no, she had no reason not to take the guy home, he believed that Aleksandra would have left the building. Now he wondered whether she really would have. If they could turn back time to five minutes prior... but did it matter? He glanced down at the shirt that now adorned her, a frown curling the corners of his lips. It was telling, how close she'd got to her victim. The rain soaked into his clothes was now soaked into hers. "You're wet again," he said. Granted, she wasn't a drowned rat anymore. And then, eyes naturally cast toward the state of her makeshift clothing, he glimpsed the red still staining her fingertips. The dancer swayed on his feet. He was stronger than this. He knew he was. So although his lips had parted to tell Aleksandra she should go clean her hands, he instead said nothing.

"What would you have done if I'd said you had no reason not to go home with him?" he asked instead, eyes returning to Aleksandra's face. It was easier to focus, even though her lips, too, were stained red...


[ALEKSANDRA]
Unable to keep herself still, she curled her fingers around the smooth surface of the rail, nails digging small indentions in the material as she continued to watch him. It didn’t matter how often she pushed forward, how many times she convinced herself that being near him was a hazard to her heart, there was always something about him that pulled her back in. She was a moth to the brightest flame, and the closer she flew towards the beckoning light, her wings were ignited. From the moment she had come to, tucked safely in his arms, she had felt the thread that entwined them in some unbreakable manner.

She had tried not to look too much into it. Even now, she refused to put a name to the feeling that coursed through her veins as she watched the emotions flicker across his features. They were subtle little things, far too miniscule for her to decipher or even begin to name. It didn’t stop her from trying, oh no, Lord knows she tried to pick apart every gleam of his eye, twitch of his lip and line of his face. Even now, as he began to walk back towards her, his muscles relaxing but his face still a hardened mask, she found her mind traveling to places it shouldn’t be near, even as she told herself to turn away.

“I was feeding. I offered to go out. This storm wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said, brow arching as she slid her bloodied fingers from the railing to trail them through her hair. “Why did you offer for me to feed if it was going to bother you? Hell, why did it even bother you? Is it something I did?” She didn’t know why she bothered to question him. As much as she wanted him to answer, to give her something to go on, she knew she was only setting herself up for disappointment. He had yet to give her anything, why would he now? Releasing a quiet breath, she pushed from the rail and began to walk towards him.

She had no idea what she planned to do, and so when she finally stood in front of him, she stopped. Her hands were held loose at her sides, fingers clenching and relaxing as she chewed on her lip. Wide eyes stared up at him, the blue a chaotic shade as she tried to calm her own emotions. They were heightened, spinning out of control, and she couldn’t put a name to them. Instead, she shook her head, her shoulders slumping just slightly at his question. “I wouldn’t have gone,” she replied honestly. “I would have sent him on his way, and I would have stayed with you."


[BLAIZE]
It was there, on the tip of his tongue. The reasons, they swirled at the forefront of his mind. Aleksa taking the blood that she needed did not bother him. It was nothing that she had done, specifically, that had bothered him. There were plenty of explanations for his behaviour but how many was he willing to reveal? Was he willing to reveal any at all? Was he willing to reveal to his childe that, as a vampire, he had one major flaw? He was defunct. Fangs that did not work, an aversion to blood that didn't send him reeling -- not the sight of it, but he couldn't drink it without being plagued by the possible consequences to the blood's owner. Even blood packs. Whose life wouldn't be saved because there was not enough stored blood in the city to save them? And how could he explain his concern that his attachment to Aleksandra was the same kind of attachment he had to Lyonel? And if he acted upon it...

He shook his head, slowly. Aleksandra had approached, and he didn't need the lightning to see the blue of her eyes. It was a pure blue, unflawed, burning with inquisition. She would have stayed, despite his bad attitude. She would have stayed despite it, so did that mean he could keep his answers to himself? Or did it mean he owed her something? Blaize sighed. Aleksa had done nothing to deserve it. She'd have stayed despite all Blaize's efforts to keep the wall between himself and the rest of the world sturdy. But, that same old query came to mind -- what if he spiralled again? What if he needed her, but she was nowhere to be found because he'd so thoroughly succeeded in keeping her at a distance? It was Blaize's turn to chew the inside of his lip. She'd already read the letter he'd written to Lyonel. She could already see the crack in the facade.

"It was nothing you did," he said, eventually. "I offered because despite everything you might think, I do care. And you needed it. So I brought someone here. For you. Despite my own inhibitions. If I'm bothered it's at no one else but myself," he said. That was explanation enough. He didn't have to tell her why. He didn't have to reveal all his weaknesses. He was supposed to be the stronger one, wasn't he? He was supposed to be the support system. How could she have faith in him if she figured it out?

"Why? Why would you have stayed with me?" he asked.


[ALEKSANDRA]
She couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands. One second, they were at her sides, the next, they were bunched in her shirt. Finally, she had moved to cross her arms beneath her breasts, fingers digging into her ribcage as she watched him silently. Again, the thoughts were written across his features, and his eyes gazed back at her with such contemplation, she practically begged him to tell her. Why did she have the need to know everything about him? Why did she want to pry apart his mind, and revel in every secret that lurked within? It was stupid, it was selfish, and she didn’t care.

Pressing her nails deeper into her sides, she felt the fabric threaten to tear, but she didn’t ease up. Instead, she continued to watch him, jaw working as she fought against the words building. Tell me, she would demand, her voice soft and coaxing, let me in. She would say the words, and he would shut down. He would scoff at her, wave his hand, and tell her there was nothing to see. He would turn his back on her and start to walk away, his movements as fluid as a calm lake and sinfully graceful. Biting down on her tongue, she winced as her fang cut into the soft muscle, causing her bitter blood to mix unpleasantly with the warmth of copper she had just consumed. The taste was worth it, if it would keep her quiet as he finally parted his lips to reveal what she prayed was insightful.

“I still don’t understand. If it bothered you, you should have just let me go out. I would have come home to you,” she stated slowly, her mind working to piece together the fragments of his answer. There was something there, something she wasn’t quite grasping. Blaming it on her age as a vampire, she shook her head and brought her hand up to place it gently on his chest. She constantly felt the need to touch him, to have a sort of closeness that would keep her steady. Just that simple connection calmed the storm that was brewing in her eyes, and as she mulled over his question for her, she sighed.

“I care, Blaize. I can’t explain exactly how I care. I just know that I don’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else.”

[Blaize]

[BLAIZE]
Blaize considered Aleksandra's words and nodded, slowly. He placed a hand over hers, where it rested against his chest. He took her hand in his, looking down at them, as if they were foreign objects and he was trying to figure out what they were. "You read the... what I wrote. To Lyonel. I feel a severe attachment to him -- my sire. I always want to be near him but I exert control, and willpower, to stay away. Not all of the time, but I'd get nothing done, would achieve nothing if I gave in to it," he said softly, eventually looking up.

"It's the bond, Aleksa. There's something in it. Something stronger than... anything. Your company is also... well. You could have gone out, yes. But it seemed stupid, you're barely dressed and you'd just get soaked again," he said. There were practical reasons why bringing someone here was a better idea. "And if we'd both fed from him he could have died. And I don't particularly feel like dealing with a dead body," he said. He remembered the time he killed a thief, by accident. It was after he was first turned and he didn't know his own strength. One swift elbow to the chin to get the guy to shut up, but he'd instead cracked his neck. Dead. For weeks afterwards he expected the police to come find him, but they never did. It had been taken care of. And Lyonel had helped.

Now so close, when Aleksandra spoke Blaize could smell the blood on her breath. The ache in his gums would not let up, the thirst flaring, causing the muscles in his jaw to twitch and jump. She was his first childe, sired not too long after he himself had been turned. And here they were, still figuring **** out together. He'd always felt closer to her, which wasn't really saying much. Blaize, feeling close to someone -- he was still distant, his acts of care coming across sharp, and unpracticed.

"It is the bond, right?" he asked, curious. Was it something that felt foreign to her, some outside force? Or was it organic?


[ALEKSANDRA]
As his hand dropped, his strong fingers wrapping around hers, she braced herself for rejection. Already, she began to twitch her fingers, working to ease them from his grasp, but stilled when he held on. His look of naked confusion tugged at her heart, and as much as she wanted to press her other hand to the strong line of his jaw, she kept it loose at her side, fingers pulling nervously at her shirt. When he spoke of the letter, a bitter darkness swelled in her chest, nearly choking her with its immense power. She wanted nothing more than to forget the raw, emotional words he had penned with hard, frustrated strokes. The page, resting somewhere in his office, could turn to ash and she still wouldn’t be satisfied.

“You think the bond is making you act like a jealous and protective boyfriend?” Keeping her voice soft, she tapped her captured fingers once against his chest, the bare skin cool beneath her palm. The maroon of her nails was a sharp contrast against the tone of his flesh, and she found her gaze drawn to it. It was a distraction, something to pull her eyes away, so he couldn’t read the turmoil in them. It shouldn’t bother her that he was blaming what she felt – what she hoped he felt – on some metaphysical force. She should have felt relief, not her throat tightening to the point swallowing became painful. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she released a pent up breath and bit her lip.

“I could have stepped aside and let you fed,” she said quietly, her voice distant. She was no longer there in the room with him, and instead lost in the dark crevices of her own mind. She didn’t want to believe it was the bond that made her feel connected to him, and the truth of it was, she didn’t. The words he wrote in the letter, the way he described his feelings for Lyonel – it wasn’t the same. She could leave him; she just didn’t want to. She wanted to be with him, but she also wanted her space. She didn’t feel as though she would go crazy if she wasn’t at his side. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

The question was quiet, her eyes slowly trailing back to his, the blue dark. She was finally putting a name to what she felt, and he was trying to rationalize it away, to blame it on something else. Something no one could truly explain, something he didn’t have to think about.

Her father had been right – the fates were rarely ever kind.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize visibly tensed, like her response sent an electric jolt through his limbs. A jealous and protective boyfriend? Was that really how he was coming across? "If I was a jealous and protective boyfriend, he'd have left here with a broken arm," he said. He failed to mention, of course, that he'd imagined doing just that. He shook his head. There was a voice in his head telling him to let go of Aleksandra's hand, like it was a hot potato, and to turn away, to walk away. Instead, his grip tightened. His own body defied him.

"I didn't want to feed. It's fine. I'm not thirsty," he said. It was a blatant lie -- he was unaware that it showed, that it would only get worse, the way the dark circles built under his eyes, the way his jaw became more and more gaunt, the sharp lines only adding to his ice-cold exterior.

"It'd be better for you," he said, finally. And, finally, his body behaved, and did as it was it was told. His grip loosened, and he took that step away. He turned and massaged his jaw. A heavy sigh dropped before he turned back. "I have never had a girlfriend. I've never had someone I called partner. I'm too focused on my work. I'm not good for anyone," he said, palms up as he shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't a cry for pity. It wasn't as if he'd never been asked, or sought after. He'd just never been interested. And now it was just habit. He'd voiced it, that word. Girlfriend. That was what they were talking about, weren't they?

"Right? I've said that I do care about your wellbeing. So to... I'd be doing you a disservice. If I hurt you. Which I'm bound to do. I've slept with women. And when I do, they know full well it's going to lead nowhere. It's just a bit of fun. That's not what you want, is it?"


[ALEKSANDRA]
“Of course, because that’s the only way to show jealousy,” she snapped, even as she felt him tense beneath her palm. Suddenly, she felt too constricted. The touch she had been reveling in ten seconds ago now felt like a cage, and it only worsened when he tightened his grasp. She wanted to pull away, even as her body was drawn closer, despite the alarm sounding in her mind. Something was happening, something she couldn’t name, but something she knew was inevitable. It was like watching a horror film and knowing that once they headed into the basement, they would never be heard from again.

“God, you’re such a liar. You look like you’re ten seconds away from starving to death.” Her voice was sharp, the careful control she had on the volume cracked. He was infuriating. The hunger was in his voice, just as it had been in his eyes as she trailed her fingers along her victim’s throat. It was there, written in his features, and he still tried to convince them both that he was fine. She had known for a while now that something was remiss about him, but she hadn’t pushed. Now, she didn’t have a choice.

Parting her lips to demand that he summon another human, she slammed them shut when his words cut through the air, slicing her heart like a knife. At first, she couldn’t believe that she had heard him right. It was impossible that this man, this strong, cold man would have spoken those words to her. Yet, when she felt his touch pull away, heard his feet lead him further from her, she knew it was true. Swallowing the painful lump in her throat, she turned her head away and clenched her fists, her lashes coated in the tears she fought to not spill. He couldn’t see her cry. Not over him. Not like this.

Without realizing she had moved, she brushed past him, numb feet leading her to the door. He hated the thought of her going out into the storm, yet with a few words, he was about to send her out. Just as she reached the door, fingers curled around the lock, she stopped. Hurt mixed with anger and the thin grasp she had on her emotions snapped like a strayed band, causing her to slam her fist against the wood. “No,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes blazing as she turned to face him. “No. **** you, Blaize. You don’t get to dictate what is good for me, not when it comes to this.”

Narrowing her eyes on him, she held her hands out at her sides, her soft features hardening with her anger. “What do you think you’re doing now? You’re tossing me aside without even considering giving it a chance, and you claim to care? I’m not just another woman, did you even think of that? Of course not, because that would require too much ******* consideration! It’s just another excuse so you can keep yourself hidden behind the frozen wall you erected around your heart!”


[BLAIZE]
Yes, this was better. That's how unhealthy Blaize was -- he preferred this, seething, exploding anger over sympathy. That's how unwilling he was to let anyone in, to appear less than what he was. Her fury filled him, his shoulders squared and his chest expanded as he pulled in the air that he did not need. This was the kind of fuel he needed, the kind he used when he danced. When he had to play a character who was in love, who would do anything not to lose that love. A selfish character, who nearly lost his life for love. A bitter laugh touched Blaize's tongue. Albrecht, who wooed Giselle, who then died of a broken heart. It was fitting.

He'd watched her approach the door, eyes wide and lips parted as he struggled to figure out what he wanted to say, if anything at all, body still tense as it warred with itself. Make her stay or let her go? But he didn't have to decide. She'd turned on him and unleashed the storm; a storm inside, now, as well as out. It was the perfect soundtrack.

"Yes!" he responded, a whip. "I care. I don't just claim it. You can believe that I don't. That's your prerogative. You..." he said as he took a step closer. "You are mine. You're not just another woman. If you were just another woman, if I thought you were just another woman, I would have slept with you already, yeah?" he said. His voice, too, was raised. Rarely did he shout -- rarely did he give in to confrontation. He hadn't the patience nor the care for it. But here he was, caring. He took another step closer.

He stopped, then, and laughed. It was insane. It was mad. She wasn't just another woman, so he wouldn't sleep with her. He didn't care about any of the women he'd slept with. None. But he cared about her, and he wouldn't touch her. Maybe he needed a therapist. "How am I not being considerate? I tell you I don't want to hurt you, and that's inconsiderate? How is that inconsiderate?!"


[ALEKSANDRA]
As he stepped closer to her, she remained still, her hands shaking as shoved them through her hair, a frustrated growl vibrating from her throat. She had never given in to the anger that lurked beneath the surface, nor had she ever feel as ignited as she did standing before him. “I’m yours?” The two words were fired like a bullet between them, the fire burning brighter in her eyes when she laughed. It was a harsh sound, one fueled by the insanity of this moment, of the words he shouted at her. She had never been in this situation, she had never felt the way she did for him, and he was pushing her away. It was either to laugh or cry, and she’d be damned if she’d allow him to feel an ounce of pity for her.

Digging her nails into the back of her neck, she drew in a sudden breath as he moved closer. The storm outside had nothing on the one waging in her heart, the darkness seeping through her veins. She wanted to lash out, curl her hands around something and rip it to pieces. She wanted to take a step back and out into the night, she wanted to slam the door in his face, and she wanted to wrap her hands around his neck. He had made her completely drunk with anger, she felt as if she were about to combust. “Enlighten me on how I’m yours! You won’t be with me; you swear you care, but I’m not allowed to be with anyone else, is that it? Is that how I’m yours? You won’t have me, but no one else can, either?” Shaking her head, she dug her heel into her forehead and barked another laugh.

“How fucked up is this? God,” she groaned, her fingers itching to touch him, even as she fought not to run. She had never believed a man to be worth this heartache, and yet here she stood, fighting for someone that was so twisted, he didn’t know how to want her. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for taking the time to tell me how you don’t want to hurt me by just ******* me and tossing me aside like all the other women that were stupid enough to think you could give a ****!”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize laughed, the sound hardly mirthful. "They don't think I could give a ****. I try not to be a complete asshole, Aleksa. They know what they're in for, and they're looking for the same thing. Numbers are never exchanged," he said. And it was true. The women he found were the ones who wanted to let off steam, the same as he did. They never wanted anything more. They were never looking for relationships, either. There was always an understanding; no one's hearts were broken.

The words coiled in his throat, the determination, the complete inability to comprehend his own feelings. It was like there was someone else inside of him, telling him what to say and do. He tried to swallow them down, but as soon as he opened his mouth the words came wandering out, without permission. Anarchists.

"You could have taken him home," he said, gesturing to the storm outside -- and the jock who'd stumbled back out into it. "I wouldn't have stopped you. You can do what you want. You're right. I have no right to tell you what to do or who you spend your time with," he said. He wanted to mention Brandon. She'd done what she wanted then, hadn't she? Blaize hadn't a choice in the matter. And nor did he think he should, either. "You have my blood running through your veins but no, that doesn't mean I can claim ownership" he said. His voice had cracked in there, somewhere -- half due to emotion, half due to thirst. It was not accustomed to shouting, and was now gruff with the effort.

"I don't want to toss you aside. I don't want to disappoint you. I don't want to **** **** up," he said, harshly. There was a slow-burning gleam in his eyes, too. He truly thought he was doing the right thing. "I don't want to toss you aside!" he repeated. Shouldn't that be what she takes away from this?!

[Aleksandra]

[ALEKSANDRA]
Tossing her hands in the air, she raised her eyes to the ceiling, trying to find strength from some outside force to be able to make it through this. When she was answered with only silence, she pinched the bridge of her nose and released a quiet breath, though her body still hummed with anger. It was no-where close to simmering. In fact, it seemed to burn even hotter as he continued to shout. She could stand there and continue to argue with him over the woman he slept with, but each time he uttered the words, she was filled with a white-hot jealousy that clouded her mind until she couldn’t think.

“That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Just some pathetic woman you saved on a whim,” she scoffed, the hurt burning in her eyes, even as her voice remained harsh and unsteady. “I get it now. It was there in front of me the entire ******* time. I allowed myself to fall for you. God knows I fought it, trust me, I did. I told myself this would happen. I told myself you could never care about me, not truly. I’m just a possession.” Her voice, having quieted for a second, rose again, the harsh words echoing as she clutched her hair.

“You can shout that until you choke on the words, love, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s exactly what you’re standing there doing. You try to rationalize everything away, to find an excuse to not have to love anyone but yourself, be it the bond or your blood in my veins!”Clenching her jaw, she took a step closer, then, this time closing the distance between them until there was only one step left. It wasn’t until she was there within his reach that she circled back to his earlier comment, the one that had been burning in the back of her mind, the one that had doused that fire inside with gasoline.

“I could have take him home, I could have fucked him, let him touch every inch of my skin as I let him inside me, and you’d be okay with that, wouldn’t you? It wouldn’t bother you at ******* all,” she shook her head then, her hands dropping to her sides as she dug her nails into her palms, blood dripping from the crescent shaped wounds she made with each twitch of her fingers.


[BLAIZE]
"No!" he shouted. Why did it keep coming back around to this? Why was she insisting that he cared for her less than he did? It was infuriating. "I have NEVER called you pathetic and you are the ONLY one who thinks so lowly of yourself. Don't you dare project your low self-esteem on me. You are not just a possession. You are a person who -- **** it, why would I repeat myself when you don't believe me?" he said. And then she was so close that he could reach out and grab her. He wanted to grab her about as much as he wanted to dance backwards. That's what this was. A badly choreographed dance -- but that didn't mean it lacked the passion. Bad choreography could always be saved by passion. It was redeemable.

He imagined the jock with his hands all over Aleksandra; he imagined the dance they might initiate together elsewhere, in a place where Blaize was not invited. His gaze flickered to the curve of Aleksandra's neck as he imagined it arched in pleasure, her plump lips parted to release a gasp and a moan. He could see her hair spread out over the pillow, her hands clutching at the sheets. Hands that were... bleeding. Blood. Aleksandra's blood. He could smell it. It wasn't the right kind of blood to stir his thirst any more than it was already stirred, but it stirred something else. What had she accused him of? Acting like an overprotective boyfriend? Wasn't there such a thing as being protective, and wasn't that a good thing?

"Stop," he said as he finally reached out, as he grabbed her hand and, palm up, brought it to his lips. As if he could kiss the wound better -- and perhaps that was the case. Perhaps, with one flick of his tongue, those miniscule crescents would disappear. "Please stop. Don't make me lie to you," he said, head bowed and eyes closed, willing her fury to dissipate. If there'd been no blood, if she'd not hurt herself, he would have said no. He would have said it didn't bother him at all. He'd have done so with a cool and calm facade even though he'd have been screaming at himself on the inside. But he couldn't say yes, either. The words were stuck in his throat, stubbornly refusing to come out.


[ALEKSANDRA]
“You didn’t have to!” Her voice broke on the last word, the consequence of her anger finally catching up with her. “You didn’t have to,” she repeated with a shake of her head. Where he didn’t want to repeat himself, she didn’t want to continue this uphill battle when she knew she would be crushed. Even though her voice had dropped a few octaves, the fire was still there, threatening to burn him. She was beginning to run out of things to say, of ways to make him see how the entire evening had made her feel. He shouted he didn’t want to hurt her, yet he was breaking apart inside. He snapped that he didn’t want to disappoint her, and yet, here she was, aching in a way that had no name.

Swallowing thickly, she winced slightly when she felt the raw burn of her throat. When was the last time she had ever yelled in such a manner? Had she ever? With a slow shake of her head, she watched as his gaze dropped to her throat, and she could see the darkening of his eyes. What it meant, she had no ******* clue, because as usual, he remained quiet. Instead, he stared at her, lips parting to speak, to give her another excuse, another platitude – before he silenced. Only when he turned his attention to her hands did she feel the burning ache of her grasp. Moving to uncurl her fingers, she was a second away from wiping her palms on her shirt, when he was there, his lips pressed to the torn flesh.

It left her stunned for a moment, the soft touch sending sparks of pleasure through her veins, even as her heart continued to break apart piece by piece. His simple plea was almost enough to tame the inferno within her heart – and then he spoke again, causing the fire to roar back to life. “I’m not making you do anything! You don’t have to lie to me. You can tell me the truth. For once in your life, Blaize, tell someone how you truly feel.” She wasn’t yelling anymore. Instead, her voice was soft, each word catching as those tears she thought to fight escaped and trailed down her cheeks. “Or let me go.”


[BLAIZE]
The ultimatum hit Blaize like a blow to the chest. Why did she demand that he spell it out for her? Why did she have to go and do that, after he'd given her so much already? In the space of a few hours he'd revealed to her more than he'd revealed to anyone, ever. It wasn't much, no. But for Blaize it was momentous. She couldn't see how much he'd already allowed that crack to grow, a fissure running deep through the ice coating his soul. Again, those muscles twitched in his jaw but his hair was soft as it fell forward, his eyes sorrowful as he blinked.

Her hand was so small in his, the damage she'd done to herself sending sparks of guilt to his gut, where it broiled like spilled oil, uncomfortable, an eyesore on the landscape that was the ocean of his innermost being. She had given him an ultimatum, a choice, and he hated it. He'd hurt her already and they weren't even involved. What could he manage if he were to give in? If he were to take her home instead. If he were to tell her how he really felt -- that he wantd her, needed her in his bed. That he was sick of being so cold. That he was lonely in all his success and ambition. That he wanted to laugh more, wanted to thaw. He wanted to feel warmth. But he was dead now. Dead on the outisde as much as he was on the inside and could he really promise that he would change? Did he know that he could change? She'd argued with him, she'd tried to convince him otherwise. She'd tried to tell him that he had no right to tell her what was good for her.

But it had not worked. He didn't want to lie. He didn't want to tell the truth. He didn't know what he wanted -- except that he didn't want to lose her. Either way, he thought it was going to be inevitable. His tongue swiped his lower lip; he tasted copper, he tasted her. For a moment, he closed his eyes again -- and then he let her go. Where his fingers had curled so protectively around her palm, now he let her go. He let her hand drop. He took a step back, and he turned. His fingers roughly tore through his hair, pushing it from his face. And there he stood, his back to Aleksandra, saying nothing. He stared at the reflection of the studio in the mirror across from him; he stared at the door. He could not see himself, and Aleksandra was a shadow, her reflection mangled and deteriorating. It wasn't her. He didn't know what to say. So he said nothing at all.



[ALEKSANDRA]
For someone as open as her, she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that there were people in the world that hid who they were beneath layers of frost. She wanted to believe that there was something there, something lurking beneath the surface that she simply couldn’t reach, but with every shouted word, that hope dimmed until it was no more than a small flicker in the dark. She couldn’t blame him. He had made it clear from the very beginning, even when he comforted her broken form in his arms. It was her fault, because despite all of those warnings, she had fallen for him. Her father used to tell her that the heart could be a hateful thing, wanting what it wanted despite the consequences.

He had been right.

As she stood there, her head once again wrapped in his, the touch comforting as it was confusing, she knew that there was no turning back. Even as the silence grew heavy with the unspoken words, even as she watched his face for a sign of what was to come, she knew that it had to be said. They couldn’t continue on as they were, could they? The moment she realized how she truly felt, she had to tell him. It would have eaten her alive every day if she kept it bottled up. She was already controlling so much, and that grasp she had on her enhanced emotions was thin enough already. Lifting her gaze along the lines of his face, she ached to run her fingers through his hair, to push that lone lock back into place.

Instead, she watched his tongue sweep across his lower lip, the motion drawing her eye even as she felt his hand start to relax. At first, she didn’t fully connect with what was happening. It wasn’t until she felt her hand fall limp back to her side that she realized he was moving. By then, it was too late. She knew what was coming before he took that step, and the pain of it was too much. With a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, she turned her head away, her sob choked, even though she tried to quiet it. Just as his fingers flew through his hair, so did hers, gathering the dark curls until her scalp ached.

“Okay,” she finally whispered, the one word broken as she stumbled back a step. Was there anything else she could do? Anything more she could say? She had thought she made it very clear. She believed in him, in them, and what he could offer – but he turned away. There wasn’t a verbal answer, but wasn’t turning his back on her enough, especially after everything that had just transpired? God knows she didn’t want to go, but he had turned away. “Okay.” Dropping her hand from her hair, she let it fall wildly over her shoulders as she wiped beneath her eyes, the tears soaking her skin as she took another step back and turned, shaking fingers uneasily sliding the lock free before the door swung open.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize didn't expect Aleksandra to fight him on it. How could she? His silence was final. There was nothing more to argue. Just as he expected, she turned. Across the room, he could see the blink of her phone -- the little light indicating that she had a message. Brandon texting her back, probably -- Blaize didn't care. Wasn't she going to come back for it? Everything she had brought with her -- her notebook, still in the office -- she was leaving behind. It would be a reason for her to come back.

Wind whipped at his hair, slapped at his skin. The door was open -- and he looked, just in time to see Aleksandra's silhouette pass out into the night, into the rain and the storm. The door closed and Blaize was left alone in the silent roar, the rain slamming against the roof. Was it really the roar of the rain he was hearing, or the roar of his own stupidity as it rushed through his blood stream? Again, his eyes were drawn to the blink of her phone. She would be back for it. He clung to that hope, knowing that she would come back. And it dawned on him, in that split second. It dawned on him that while the choices had waged a war in his soul, he'd taken the wrong side. He'd backed the wrong choice. He'd fucked up. How idiotic was it that he had just let her go, but already wanted her back?

"****," he barked, the force of the word stolen by a clap of thunder. The storm. And he'd just let her walk back out into it. What else had he expected?

And just like that, he changed his mind. Would it matter? Was it too late? He strode across the floor, feet no longer silent, his steps competing with the thunder still rumbling outside. He wrenched open the door; he could still see her, that slim figure -- again drenched -- walking away. "Aleksandra!" he called, shouting above the storm. Could she even hear him? He ran to catch up, bare feet digging into the mud. It splattered up his calves. And what was he going to say to her when he reached her? What could he say to her? Could he break down? Could he shout the truth at her through the pounding rain? And then he was there, he was behind her. He reached out, fingers sliding down her arm to grasp her wrist. And the words, the ones that he desperately needed, weren't there. They wouldn't come. So he did the next best thing.

With an arm curled around her waist, his fingers pushing the hair from her face, hand curled around the back of her neck -- he was both gentle and rough as he pulled her in, as he tasted the rain when he claimed her lips with his own. Tentative, slow -- waiting for her to push him away and slap him. Kick him in the balls. He probably deserved it.

[Blaize]

[ALEKSANDRA]
For the second time that night, she found herself in the storm. The lightning was violent now as it streaked across the sky, illuminating the darkness and threatening to blind her all at once. As the rain pounded against her skin, soaking her within seconds, she pressed a hand through her hair. She knew how she must look, drenched as she was in nothing but his t-shirt, the thin white material offering her no protection from the storm’s assault. For a second, she thought about turning back, but what would have been the point? They had said all they needed to say, and he had made his choice. He had let her go, had allowed her to venture back into the thunderstorm – and away from him.

No, she couldn’t go back.

Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and ducked her head, her bare feet carefully navigating the puddles as she tried to more as much distance between herself and her heartbreak as possible. She had been foolish, she could see that now. Hell, she saw it the moment she walked in the studio. She had written it on the pages of her journal, had scrawled it across each line. The warning was there, and she chose not to listen. She chose to ignore it, to plunge headfirst into the disaster without blinking. Wiping angrily beneath her eyes, she choked on another sob, this one drowned beneath the clap of thunder. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, and now she couldn’t seem to stop the tears.

They flowed freely down her cheeks before being washed away by the rain, only to be replaced by a fresh wave. Hating herself for how she had given in, she shook her head and moved to step off the curb. She barely had her foot on the road when an arm encircled her waist. Before she had a chance to panic, he had her spun to face him, fingers curling against her neck. His name was on the tip of her tongue – and then his lips were on hers. For a moment she frozen beneath him, fingers still against his biceps, and then she was leaning into him, deepening the kiss as her hands worked their way into his wet hair.


[BLAIZE]
There was tension in her limbs and Blaize waited; it was like time trying to stand still. The lightning crept slowly across the sky, electricity burning up the darkness. The rain drops were like diamonds as they fell, steady and constant. The blonde of Blaize's hair darkened beneath the wet, clinging to his skin as rivulets caressed his back, his shoulders, soaked into his tights. He may as well have been naked for all the protection they served.

But she didn't. She didn't push him away, she didn't slap him or kick him or deny the truth of his feelings as he shed light via action rather than by word. The tension slipped from her limbs and she gave in. The kiss deepened and Blaize, Blaize broke the kiss only so that he could gasp his relief. His arm wound tighter around her waist, he lifted her, tongue tasting the salt upon her lips. The salt of her tears. The tears that he had caused. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't wanted to. And now he would kiss them all away. He didn't care about the rain, the lightning, the thunder. He didn't care about the statistics; he didn't care if they were both struck dead.

No, that last part was a lie. He'd fought hard not to die, to live eternal, to have the strength and grace and dexterity that vampirism could offer. He'd asked for death, so that he could live forever, to bask in the glory of all his success. But what was eternity worth if it was spent alone? Her lips were soft, and he could have sworn there was warmth there even though both their bodies were deprived of it. It took willpower to pull away, but he did. His cheek grazed against hers, his hand cupping the back of her head. His lips were against her ear. "I'm sorry," he said, words heavy with regret. "Come back?"


[ALEKSANDRA]
At the first taste of him, it seemed as if her world came to a screeching halt. She couldn’t feel the rain as it coated her skin, nor did she hear the thunder as it cracked furiously across the skies. The lightning was no more than a flicker of dim electricity that failed to compare to what she felt the moment their lips met. In a single breath, the entire night had been washed away, and for the first time in days, she felt as if she was finally awakened. The despair, the heartache, the confusion and anger disappeared.

It seemed as if an eternity has passed from the moment she walked out the door until the second he had wrapped his arms around her. Now that it had happened, now that she was pulled into his body, her lips alit with the taste of him; she could finally admit the truth. She had hoped he would come after her, prayed that he wouldn’t let her wander into the dark without his touch. Pressing her lips back to his, she kissed him slow, savoring the pressure, the feel and the taste before she finally allowed him to pull back. As his voice brushed against the sensitive shell of her ear, she offered a small nod. With him no longer distracting her, she suddenly remembered the chaotic storm.

And their clothing.

“Okay,” she whispered. This time that simple word didn’t hold the finality of their entire relationship within it. Instead, it held hope, a promise of something new – something more. “I’m sorry, too.” There was so much she had to apologize for, and yet she couldn’t think of one single reason that she could voice. They were all there, spinning in her mind, yet the touch of his lips had left her dazed. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she slowly trailed her fingertips across his scalp and traced a path across his jaw, her smile warm, despite the red lines around her eyes. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss beneath his ear, her eyes closing as she wound her arms around his neck to hide her face against his shoulder.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize shook his head. He held on for several long seconds; she'd agreed to come back but they didn't move. They stayed there, in the rain. But he had her back. Physically, emotionally, he had her back. They didn't have to be under a roof. He pulled back only so that he could nudge a kiss to the corner of her lips. "You don't have to apologise," he said. "You have nothing to apologise for," he added. Because she didn't. She only wanted what anyone would want. He closed his eyes and settled; he didn't want to move just yet. They were already saturated. A little more rain couldn't hurt. They couldn't get ill, right?

"I struggle feeding. It wasn't you. I wasn't even totally sure we'd kill him. I just couldn't do it. I don't get teeth like everyone else does. And I just... I can't," he said. He breathed against Aleksandra's neck. He didn't want to look at her while he revealed his weaknesses. But if he was going to show her something, he had to show her everything. He had to lay himself bare, strip himself to pieces. But he didn't have to do it all at once, did he? He could give her crumbs, bits and pieces. And anyway, she already knew the worst of it.

"I want to be everything you need. Okay? I've never... just be patient with me, okay?" he said. He still didn't say everything that he could have. He didn't say what had been on his mind earlier. He'd said all that with a kiss. And he was promising to try. To give this a chance like she'd accused him of failing to do beforehand. Blunt teeth nipped at the skin of Aleksandra's jaw, his fingers dragging a the cloth of his own shirt as it clung to her back. "We need to get out of the rain," he muttered, though he still made no attempt to move.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Under different circumstances, Aleksandra would have pressed her hand to his chest, untangled herself from his embrace, and pushed him towards the sanctuary of the studio. There was warmth within the walls, the roof would shield them from the angered skies, but it didn’t matter to her. As his arms banded around her middle and held her secure against his chest, she didn’t care about anything. The lightning streaked across the sky, bathing them in the electric white glow, and she simply smiled. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, love,” she whispered, her words nearly drowned beneath the wind.

Brushing her lips across his jaw, she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace, her fingers working lazily against his skin. For a long moment after he spoke, she didn’t move. “That’s fine,” she finally spoke, her voice tender as she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her own bright. There wasn’t a single ounce of pity in the blue, nor did she offer him sympathy. There was no reason for it. He was strong – far stronger than she ever hoped to be. He might view it as a weakness, but she saw it as something more. It was a true testament to his dedication to survive. “We’ll work on it.”
That was all she said to his admission. She knew he wouldn’t want her to dwell on it, she could see it in the way he had dipped his head and refused to look at her. “It’s not going to be easy.” Her words were blunt in their quiet deliverance, and she brushed her fingertips across his brow. “We both have something to work on, but I believe in you, in us,” she continued, her smile soft. “I’m not going anywhere.” There was a conviction in those four words, determination in the spark in her eyes. It hadn’t mattered that she had walked away only minutes ago – that was different. That was him being afraid to reach out; that was her being afraid to continue fighting.

Now they stood in the rain, their feelings laid bared between them, unable to be ignored. Tipping her head to the side as his teeth worked against her jaw, she didn’t bother to fight the shiver that raced down her spine. He already knew what he did to her – what he meant to her. Instead, she tipped her head back to look at darkened sky, the moon invisible behind the furious gray clouds. “We should,” she agreed, her own fingers plucking at the thin material of her shirt. “Someone is bound to find us sooner or later,” she chuckled, though just as he remained still, so did she, lips finding his once again.


[BLAIZE]
Love. She kept saying it and he knew it didn't mean anything, but it struck a chord nonetheless. He couldn't remember a time he'd loved anyone -- not in the romantic way. He definitely couldn't remember a time he'd told someone he loved them. The last time was probably his mother, way back when he was young and clueless, still a child who believed his mother was the be all and end all, the one human in the world he could count on. It wasn't as if his mother treated him badly. She was still around. She still answered his phone calls, should he pick up the phone to call her; she still called him, once in a blue moon. Sometimes he wondered whether he was adopted, that was how little he fit in with his own family. But when there's zero support from those that are supposed to support you, of course you're going to break away and do your own thing. And he supposed, in a way, he still did love his family. It was an obligatory love. And it was one he rarely acted on.

And when Aleksandra said they'd work on it, he didn't know what 'it' she referred to -- his issue with feeding? Or his lack of know-how in regards to relationships? Either way, he didn't ask for clarification. He'd prefer to ignore the feeding thing altogether and was more than happy to let the subject drop. He had to assume that she was talking about them, anyway -- though he had no idea what it was that she needed to work on. He just nodded, the conversation far too heavy and heartfelt for the man who never did what his heart wanted, outside of dance. His heart was a defunct organ, both physically and metaphorically.

He laughed against her lips as she said someone would find them, eventually. Did it matter? That person might call them mad for kissing in this raging storm, or they might say nothing at all. No one else should be out in this chaos. Blaize didn't think they'd be found and nor did he think it would make a difference if they were. "I don't think I have any more spare shirts..." he said, eventually. He might have one, he supposed. He'd be without. But he could go shirtless. That didn't matter. And as tempting as it was to stay there and keep on kissing her, hungrily, he forced himself to stop. His fingers tangled with hers and he squeezed lightly, before leading them back across the quad. He was filthy, with mud all up the back of him. Despite all the warnings not to shower in the middle of a storm, he figured that's where he was headed -- so long as he could tear himself away from Aleksandra long enough to do so.


[ALEKSANDRA]
The sound of his laughter was so rare; she was stunned into brief silence at the warmth of it. Tipping her head back, she gave his lip a soft bite before pulling from the kiss, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Well, you already passed on the option of me running around naked,” she teased, shoulder lifting in a shrug as she forced herself to keep her distance from him. Her earlier concerns seemed minimal now that he was no longer pressed against her, lips colliding in a heated kiss that caused her to weaken. Just as she was about to throw caution to the wind and wind her arms back around him, his fingers found hers, the protective embrace tightening before he began to lead them towards safety.

It took strength not to stop him, to glide her hands up his back and pull him back to face her. It was as if now that she had a taste of him, she couldn’t get enough. There was hesitation in her thoughts, though, as if she were afraid if she let him go – he would continue on without her. Tightening her hold on his hand, she raised a brow as her bright gaze travelled along the length of his back, taking in the dirt that had splattered in odd designs along his skin. “You’re a mess,” she exclaimed, one hand giving in as she reached between them and trailed her fingers along his side, brushing away some of the mud.

[Aleksandra]

[BLAIZE]
For a moment Blaize wondered if a single (or a few) kisses could change everything so quickly. If they returned to the studio, would they share a shower? Would they both run around naked? No, he mused. No, not yet. As tempting as it was to allow his bloodlust to turn into a different kind of lust, he wanted to go slow. Not only for his own benefit, but for Aleksandra's. She was not like every other woman and he wanted to take his time to appreciate her. Lips parted to say something to that affect -- or to at least say no, but instead the sharp frown was quick to return.

Yes, he was a mess. They had already established that, hadn't they? They just hadn't said the words out loud. She'd already said they'd work on it together, and he'd thought he'd successfully dropped the subject. It was only when he felt her touch, a delighted shiver running down his spine, that he realised she wasn't referring to the emotional, moral mess that resides somewhere between his heart and his sternum. She meant literally. Physically. "Oh," he laughed, pushing open the door to the studio and ushering Aleksandra inside. He locked the door behind him, mostly so that they would not be disturbed. any more. The rain died to a gentle hush; even the thunder had calmed. The storm was beginning to move away.

Water pooled beneath their feet and Blaize stood still, not wanting to make more of a mess than had already been made. The floor of the studio was littered with water and it would have to be thoroughly dried before any of the dancers returned to it. He would not be responsible for injury. "I should shower," he said, reachaing around behind his back to wipe at some of the mud, only now realising how much of it there was. "... maybe it'll be me walking around in a towel," he said with a distracted wink.


[ALEKSANDRA]
As they entered the warmth of the studio, she brushed her hands across his stolen shirt, the thin fabric clinging to her in a rather uncomfortable manner. Gathering a bit of the threadbare material in her hands, she peeled it from her skin, doing her best to ensure that it didn’t reveal too much of her figure. The moment she released it, however, it molded back to her torso as if it was meant to be there. Shaking her head, she couldn’t help but chuckle at the predicament they found themselves in, and she carefully and quickly dusted a bit more of the dirt from his back as he turned to lock the door.

Standing as frozen as he in the entryway, she eyed the water that dripped in a steady fall beneath their feet. It would have been better if it had just been water, but the dirt and grime began to mix in, turning the crystalline rainwater a dirty shade of tan. “Where can I get something to clean this up with?” Her question was almost instantaneous. She wasn’t positive of how he felt about mess, but it was a common occurrence in her career. Between the flour, sugar, salt, and icing – just to name a few – she was constantly on the move, cleaning every surface until it sparkled as if it had never been touched.

“I won’t complain,” she grinned, his taunting words momentarily distracting the quickly growing puddle. Gliding her hands along his chest, she lifted them to his skull, fingers twisting into his hair to pull him down to her, lips finding his for just a minute. At least, that was what she had intended. She had only wanted to kiss him for just second, to prove to herself that it hadn’t been the storm that had brought them together. Now that they were inside, where the entire evening had started, she had just wanted to know it was real. Instead of lasting only a second, she deepened the kiss before laughing breathlessly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she truly wasn’t, “You probably want to get in the shower.”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize wasn't at all concerned about the way she kissed him; the way it distracted him from what he should be doing next. Whatever he'd had planned for the night was ruined by the storm, anyway, or so he told himself. The laptop would probably work disconnected from the power for a couple of hours, and he could still work on the choreography he'd started earlier. But suddenly, this seemed far more entertaining. And it was allowed to be, right? He wasn't letting off any steam. Not yet. Honestly, he didn't want to shower at the studio. He wanted to go home. He wanted to take Aleksandra with him, where he could take her to the couch and they could pretend to watch a movie. Unless the power was out there, too. In which case they'd pretend nothing.

"Not particularly," he replied against her lips. He hadn't missed the way his shirt clung to her body, not leaving much to the imagination. The tights he wore matched the tone of his skin and, they too, were lacking in the imagination department. They were in a predicament whereby they should probably try to get into dry clothes, get cleaned up. They should dry the floor. They should go somewhere more comfortable. And yet Blaize, at least, was reluctant to even start. And the studio, even the office, was a cold place with no soft surfaces. It wasn't a place one would go to relax.

His arms wound around his childe, muscles flexing beneath the skin as he lifted her up off her feet. The dancer was not a fan of hunched shoulders and thus he brought the woman to his own height, forcing their bodies to sit, flux, together. If she had any issues with the way his hand rounded the curve of her backside, he believed Aleksandra to have enough sass and independence to let him know. But it really was the easiest way to hold her as his lips generously welcomed hers.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Whatever her intentions had been when they walked through the door no longer mattered. The only thing that appealed to her was the feel of his muscles beneath her hands and the taste of his lips. She wasn’t a saint – she’d had boyfriends, she’d had flings – but in all of them, in that moment, she couldn’t think of a single one to have kissed her like he did, or make her feel as he did. There was a spark that sent electricity burning through her veins, a kind of hunger that she hadn’t expected. With her fingers in his hair, she remembered nothing that she had needed to say or do. He made her forget everything.

Even the fact she had, just ten seconds prior, mentioned a shower – and a supply closet.

When he slid his hands down her back to hook them beneath her ***, she instantaneously wound her slender legs around his waist. It wasn’t as though she had been held like this before. She didn’t truly know that was where her legs were supposed to reside, or that her fingers were supposed to tighten in his hair. No one that she had been with had ever held her as passionately as this. Instead, they opted to break the embrace or move to a bed within seconds of growing uncomfortable due to her height. So, no, she wasn’t well practiced in this type of kiss, but it had come naturally to her with him.

Brushing her lips against his, she finally loosened her hold on his damp hair and trailed her fingers down the nape of his neck, nails scraping gently at the skin before she laced her fingers together. A soft sound escaped her throat as she kissed him hungrily for a few minutes before. Finally – reluctantly – she found the strained thread of strength pull back, though she still peppered feathered kisses to his jaw. “As much as I enjoy this, and trust me, I do – are you comfortable to stay here the rest of the night?”


[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra pulled away and Blaize sighed, eyes opening to the dim studio. On the roof were the shadows of the trees from outside, swaying in the wind that still kicked up due to the storm. Windows that filled a whole wall. And there was a window in the office, too. The only windowless place was the locker room but as soon as the day broke, Laura would be there. And there would be classes -- and there would be students coming and going. "No," he replied finally. Reluctantly, he let Aleksandra go, allowing her to slide down and return balance to her own two feet.

"We can't stay here. There's nowhere comfortable for vampires to sleep during the day," he said. They had to go. They had to... but did they really? There was water everywhere, yes, but when Laura came in the morning she would see it. She was professional enough not to allow the students to dance if the floor was wet. She would clean it up -- probably cursing Blaize all the way, but she would do it. It wasn't uncommon for Blaize to be selfish, however.

"**** it," he said. "I'll give Laura a bonus. She can clean it up. Maybe she'll call in Darcy," he said. Darcy. He remembered, now. It wasn't Laura who washed all the towels and folded them and put them away, neatly. It was Darcy. Either way, he'd make sure they were compensated. "My car is out the front. I just have to get my keys. Wait here..." he said. He crossed the hall first to grab his laptop, closing it so he could carry it back into the office, where he locked it away in a drawer. He collected his bag, and the keys from within it, from the corner where he'd thrown it. Back out in the studio, he approached Aleksandra with a determined stride., brushing past her to open the door. Again. "It's the skoda," he said, though he assumed Aleksandra would remember what he drove. An old Skoda -- he should be able to afford something new by now. But why fix what's not broke?


[ALEKSANDRA]
Once her feet were firmly on the ground, she tried to mask her disappointment by smoothing a hand through her hair. It was better this way, wasn't it? They needed the distance, that small moment to take that metaphorical breath and find some clarity. It wasn't as though she couldn't handle those few seconds without his touch. As if to convince her herself of her own lie, she carefully stepped over the puddles and further into the studio, eyes searching the darkness for her phone. When the screen lit up, allowing her a brief glimpse of her alerts, she cringed. Even from where she stood, she could tell that someone has taken liberty with her inbox. "Damn," she sighed, fingers suddenly trembling with anxiety as she swept it off the cool surface.

Among the slew of messages from Brandon - ranging for sexual to angry - were two from her best friend. It was those she focused on, those that helped calm her. With a quick reply, she palmed the device and stepped back to the door, her face the mask of innocence as the messages taunted her. In truth, they meant nothing to her, just as their author did. He had been a mistake, one she would be better off forgetting. It wasn't because of him that her phone felt like fire against her fingers. It was because of the man that moved towards her now, face determined and eyes holding that familiar glint.

They'd only just begun... whatever this was... and she wasn't willing to risk it because of a few slanderous messages. Instead, she tilted her head as he brushed her aside, free hand reaching automatically for his. Intertwining their fingers, she followed him towards the car, eyes drawn to him momentarily. "Darcy? Which one is she?" It was a genuine question - one that, had been voiced by another, might have come across as envious. With her, however, it was simply curious. She supposed it was also a way to distract her from the more pressing question, the one that burned the tip of her tongue - the one she voiced anyways.
"What does all of this mean for us...?"


[BLAIZE]
The bag hung, barely heavy, over Blaize's shoulder. He'd seen the expression on Aleksandra's face before it had lifted from her phone. He was curious about what she'd read there, but wouldn't pry into her business. It was hers, and she'd said she had no interest in seeing this Brandon again. Who was Blaize to distrust her?

Once they were both out of the studio he stopped only to lock the door. The feel of Aleksandra's hand in his own was so foreign; when had he ever held hands with a woman? The encounters he'd had, the ones he had sought, they weren't the kind where he'd walk down the street with a woman holding her hand. It was the slam-against-a-wall, throw-into-a-bed, rip-open-her-shirt kind of interactions. Not that he didn't think such interactions were possible with Aleksandra -- swallowing down the desire, even, as his gaze again grazed her shirt-clung body. Still, his grip tightened, his hand anything but a limp fish.

"Darcy is the... blonde one. I think," he said, shaking his head. It wasn't just that he didn't really pay that much attention. "She mainly works during the day. Or she's gone by the time I get here," he said. He'd met her. Laura had done the interview, had been the one to hire her. She did a good job, as far as Blaize knew. He'd heard no complaints from the manager.

"New, anyway," he said. By now they'd reached the car; the rain hadn't stopped but it had slowed, though it didn't matter too much -- except for their phones. He brushed his lips over the rise of Aleksandra's cheek and let go her hand. He had to. They couldn't climb in the car with their hands clasped. First he unlocked her door, opening it for her before striding around to the driver's side. He could have asked 'your place or mine', but it sounded cheesy even in his head. Never afraid to take the lead, he decided they'd go to his -- the new apartment he'd bought. The one to get away from the penthouse. The one no one else knew about, yet.

Only when they were safely ensconced in the confines of the car did Blaize level a heady stare in Aleksandra's direction. "What do you think it means?" he asked, unable to keep the hint of subtle irritation from his tone. He'd kissed her, hand't he? He'd done that. He had initiated that. After the conversation they'd had... he thought it was obvious. Maybe it wasn't. "What does it mean for you?" he asked, irritation replaced by curiosity, brow arched.