Path of the Vampire forum

[ALEKSANDRA]
“Come on, King, get off the counter. You know you can’t be up here when I’m cooking,” she chastised as she dipped her slender fingers beneath his hefty form to hoist him from the surface. When a low growl rattled his chest, she pressed her lips to the silken fur of his ear before dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. “Go bother Blaize. You know how he just loves you crawling on his clothes.” With a soft hum, she peeled off a small piece of steak and dropped it to the floor, just in time for the rather rotund cat to snatch it from the tile and dash off down the hall, large eyes locked in on his target – the bed. “Your funeral, love,” she laughed as she dusted off her hands, sending a few puffs of flour into the air. She couldn’t remember how long she had been at this – but she felt the exhaustion seeping into her bones. By the time her boyfriend had made it home, she had wanted to do nothing more than crawl onto the couch and forget the entire experiment, but she couldn’t. Finals were closing in, and she felt the fear of failure creeping along the back of her neck, threatening to choke her; she had to get this right. Leaning across the counter, she pressed the ‘off’ button on the radio, dropping the kitchen into immediate silence. The counter was filled from edge to edge with various colorful entrees, and none of them appealed to her. They were all so bland, so typical, that it sickened her. With a quiet sound of frustration, she snatched the plastic-wrap from the drawer and began to wrap up the plates, her movements quick and sure.

Unlike her companions, she didn’t trash the food when she was finished. It didn’t matter how wrong the taste might be, or that she used too much salt in the potatoes – there were others within the city that would eat it, regardless. Once she was finished with the last plate, she moved to put it in the fridge, only to pause when the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door. She had already placed the plate on the counter when the knock sounded throughout the apartment, and dusting her hands on her nightgown, she headed for the entryway, King dancing between her legs. “I don’t need your help,” she chuckled as she swung the door open – and immediately moved to slam it closed. However, the heavy boot stopped the trajectory. “Now, baby, that’s no way to greet me, is it?” Lance’s voice was like molten honey, but she knew the poison that lurked within every word. Narrowing her eyes, she kept her fingers curled around the frame, even as the man reached for her, fingers dipping beneath the strap of her camisole to give it a tug. “It’s like you knew I was coming. Going to let me in, love?” Each word he spoke had her shuddering, but she managed to keep her features schooled as her gaze swept over him. “I’d rather burn. How did you find me, Lance?”


[BLAIZE]
Showering was a habit that Blaize couldn't quite curtail. It didn't matter that he was a vampire and thus suffered no body odour; he didn't sweat, and so it didn't matter how many hours he spent dancing, he was as cool and as clean as when he started. Still, when he came home from the studio and he and Aleksa had decided on settling for the evening in front of the television, the first thing he thought to do was meander through the apartment and to the shower. Eventually he'd conclude that it had something to do with the water, the broiling heat of it soothing some of the dead cold from his skin. It was a comfort, like coming in from the rain or washing away the salt after a day at the beach. The door to the bedrrom was down the hallway and it wasn't completely closed. He'd used the ensuite, and came out of the shower sheathed in steam, collecting the moisture from his hair with a fluffy white towel. What he witnessed when he looked up at the bed was King, the oversized cat, chowing down on something that left a red stain on the duvet cover. "Aleksa...!" he called, dropping the towel so he could clap his hands, the sharp sound causing the cat to skitter. At least he took the meat with him. Blaize couldn't exactly blame the cat. It was a cat. It should have been taught better.

He soon realised, however, that Aleksa wouldn't have heard him call out to her. Blaize paused, the dresser drawer part way open. Had she turned the television on already...? No. That was her voice, and it was accompanied by a man's voice. Someone else was in the apartment -- or at least at the door. Frowning, Blaize reached into the recess of the drawer and, one after the other, tugged on first his boxers (which is all he'd have been wearing were it not for company) and then a pair of dark trackpants. He walked down the hallway and glanced first to the empty kitchen, and then to the front door. It was just in time to see another man tugging at the strap of her camisole -- the one Blaize himself had enjoyed assessing earlier, and which fit her body like a glove -- and calling her love. That endearment, which Aleksandra was so fond of using on Blaize. And now he wondered if she'd picked it up from somewhere else. His feet scuffed to a stop somewhere behind Aleksandra, hazel eyes sharp as he took in the white of Aleksa's knuckles as she gripped the frame of the door, and then the boot keeping her from shutting it. Clearly, this man was not wanted. "Excuse me, but who are you...?" Blaize asked, sliding in behind Aleksa, his chest a mere hair's breadth from her back, his own fingers closing around the door's frame a few hand spans above Aleksa's. "Y'know what? It doesn't matter. It appears you're not welcome..."


[ALEKSANDRA]
She didn’t have to hear him speak to know that he was behind her, nor did she need the feel of his body just scant inches from her own. She felt him. The tension kicked up the second he stepped into the entry-way, and she swore she could taste the anger and distrust on the air. Pressing her hand through her hair, she allowed her fingers to loosen from the door, her arm dropping to her side as she took that single step back. When she did, she felt her back press to his chest, and she knew he was shirtless. The entire time, though, she didn’t remove her glare from the man in front of her. She knew that look, that anger that darkened his eyes, the way his fingers clenched at his sides. “Lance, don’t. Just go.” She felt his anger. She felt the rage that shadowed his soul, the jealousy that threatened to rip him apart. It washed over her, and she had to swallow past the poison filling her throat. A soft, strained sound escaped her chest, but she tapped it down as his dull gaze jumped from Blaize and back to her. “Who the **** is he, Sandra? You’re whoring it out pretty quick,” his voice was heavy with venom, and she ran her tongue over her lower lip before tightening her jaw. She could just step aside, she could move into the kitchen, and allow Blaize to fight this battle. She should, with the way her head was suddenly pounding, the steady hum of electricity starting to crackle within her skull, but she didn’t. Instead, she allowed her full lips to tug into a saccharine smile, the blue of her eyes brightening. “This is Blaize. My boyfriend,” she allowed the last word to fall from her tongue with a sweetness that made the man in front of her twitch.

“You know we’re meant to be together, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re with me. He looks like trash,” Lance spat, his hand moving to curl around her bicep to pull her into him. As a human, she would have fallen right into him, her strength no match for his – but she was different now. Despite the way his grasp made her skin turn white around the edges of his fingers, she didn’t sway, nor did she speak. It was all happening far too quickly, the train wreck unfolding before her eyes in a way she knew she couldn’t control.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize's first instinct was to laugh. Sandra? One of his mother's best friends was called Sandra. She still thought she was living in the fifties, but her make up was always smudged and her smile was always as fake as the blonde of her hair. The nickname didn't suit his Aleksandra. Not one bit. The strained sound that Aleksa uttered, however, stalled the smile on Blaize's lips. She stepped back and his hand found her shoulder. His squeeze was to provide reassurance. The smile was wiped completely when Lance insinuated Aleksa was a whore. It didn't matter what the pretty-boy called Blaize's. The dancer had ego enough to withstand a few misplaced insults. To call Aleksa a whore, however, was stepping over a very clear line. A line that should not be crossed. Fury curled in Blaize's gut, eyes narrowed like twin shards of glass. Rather than rip out Lance's tongue right there on the threshold to their home, Blaize was instead preparing a heavily worded threat. The planned words never tasted the air, however. As soon as the human's dirty fingers wrapped around Aleksa's arm, Blaize reacted. He let go of the door frame and gripped Lance's wrist. Brittle human bones were no match for vampiric strength, and Blaize did not hold back. He gripped and twisted until he could feel bones ready to shatter. "If you want to keep your hand," he growled. "I suggest you let her go and never touch her again."


[ALEKSANDRA]
She should have warned him, but the thought came too late. By the time she had collected herself enough and found her voice, Blaize already had his fingers secured around his wrist. At first, she remained completely still, her eyes locked on the bone-crushing grip her boyfriend had on her ex. “He doesn’t like it when people touch me,” she heard herself say, her voice barely rising above a whisper. She knew how that had to make the blonde sound, but she couldn’t be fussed with fixing her wording. It wouldn’t matter in the end, anyway. Blaize could have been a saint and Lance wouldn’t have reacted any differently. As it was, his eyes darkened, and despite the pain he was clearly in – the rage kicked up a notch – until she swore she could taste it. There was a difference within her, a subtle shift that had she not been taking note of everything, she would have missed. Tilting her head, she watched as Lance blinked back the tears and clenched his jaw, before he finally tore his gaze from her to glare up into Blaize’s eyes. “I’ve touched her plenty before, and I’ll do it again. She knows where she belongs,” he chuckled, and the thickening in the air intensified. She could feel each emotion roll over her like a tidal wave, but she still couldn’t decipher who was who, nor did she truly have time to try and pick apart the splintering of her mind. As the pain began to pulse behind her eyes, she found herself lifting her hand, fingers quickly curling around her boyfriend’s wrist. Instead of trying to pry his fingers free, she merely rested her own against his skin when she felt the sudden wave of jealousy slam into her chest. “This is just ridiculous. Go home, Lance. Go find Rebecca, or Charlene. I’m sure they’ll satisfy your palette.” Ignoring the way her vision blurred, she turned and brushed her lips across Blaize’s jaw before slipping beneath his arm to head for the living room. If he wouldn’t listen to her – hopefully he would listen to Blaize.


[BLAIZE]
Although Aleksandra wasn't wrong, Blaize still inwardly cringed. It hadn't been too long ago that he'd been telling her she'd have to teach him how to properly be in a relationship, and now it sounded as if he were violently over-possessive. What Blaize felt now wasn't jealousy. There was zero green in his soul for this foul-mouthed fool on their doorstep. What he felt was a protective rage. But, she wasn't wrong. He did not like it if people touched Aleksandra with a view to harm her, or claim her as Lance was doing now. Even if they weren't in a relationship he'd have taken issue with the way Lance spoke to Aleksa, as if she were just a possession to be tossed away and reclaimed on a whim. Aleksa's touch did nothing to persuade Blaize to let go of Lance; her kiss was accepted with no dramatic flare. The dancer knew what her choice was long before this had even begun and he had no qualms. If he weren't there with her, he was certain Aleskandra would have been able to defend herself if Lance had tried anything untoward -- even if she didn't realise it, the instinct would have kicked in before he'd got too far. As it was, she was saved the effort.

"I don't give two shits what you used to do. Maybe you shouldn't have taken it for granted. Maybe if you weren't such a possessive misogynist you'd still be with her. But you're not. She clearly wants nothing to do with you so just say goodbye to any notions you have of 'possessing' her. Should I break your wrist or are you going to leave?" he asked. His voice was cool and calm but, if Aleksandra were still nearby, she'd feel the thirst. It tied into his rage and, as his fingers gripped Lance's wrist he could feel the blood pulsing beneath. Oh, how he wanted to snap that wrist at such an angle that the bone broke through skin; he wanted blood. He wanted to drain it from Lance's body until there was nothing left and his black heart had stopped beating.


[ALEKSANDRA]
She couldn’t get to the couch fast enough. By the time, she brushed her hand against the arm, her nails digging into the cloth, the room tipped. It felt as though she was on a ride that would never end. As her vision dimmed, the dull throb revved up to a sharp pain, and she sank into the cushions with a groan. “He needs to go,” she whispered, though she hadn’t needed to. Hadn’t that been the goal from the moment she opened the door to reveal his serpent’s smile? Running her tongue along the edge of her teeth, she practically hissed when she felt the tension in the air, the rage – no, not rage. Hunger. It pulsed against her, crawled over her skin like a thousand insects. By the time she heard the threat roll from her boyfriend’s tongue, she felt as if she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe. All she could taste – all she could feel – was the desperate starvation. Without realizing she was standing, she moved unsteadily back towards his side, her fingers digging into his shirt. “He’s going to leave,” she said, her voice holding a strength that she wasn’t aware she possessed. Her eyes – unfocused and dull – turned towards the bane of her existence, and she watched as his features shifted.

Gone was the confidence, and in its place was fear. She could taste it on her tongue, bitter and thick. It rose just beneath the hunger, and barely surpassed the anger. “Let him go, baby. He’s not worth it. Not this time.” Her voice was a charming whisper as she brushed her lips over a bare shoulder, her palm resting on his spine. She didn’t know if he would listen – or if he even heard her. Dismissing Lance completely, she kept her attention on her partner, and somehow, pushed past the chaos that spun wildly within her to focus on him – and only him. No matter what he chose, she was there.


[BLAIZE]
The whisper did not go unheard; Blaize's hearing was that of a vampire, and he was fully aware of Aleksandra's need for the interloper to leave. And yet, he had given no answer. The asshole just stood there shaking like a leaf and Blaize could think of nothing but the hot blood that was now pounding through a heavily beating heart. Blaize thought of Darcy and the way she'd died; he thought of how he'd lost control, and how he'd promised he never would again. He'd made a vow to himself that he would do better; that he could deny himself blood just as much as he had, but he would resist when the opportunity presented itself. Even with Aleksa's hand against his spine, even though he could feel her focus only on him, he couldn't let Lance go. Rather than let Lance go, Blaize instead pulled him inside, out of the hallway, away from prying eyes. The apartment building was a good one, a rich one, its apartments spread out and its walls thick. It was a better apartment than the one where Aleksa had been staying, where there were plenty of prying eyes. Though Blaize wasn't currently thinking about who or how many might hear Lance scream. One arm pulled back, fingers closed into a fist that was driven into Lance's abdomen. And, when the man doubled over, that was when his wrist snapped. Blaize did it on purpose. Without the teeth to break the skin, he needed some other means. The wrist snapped and Blaize couldn't decipher his own shouts from Lance's. Where Lance had trembled with fear, Blaize trembled with rage. The wrist snapped and then kept going, driven back until the knuckles touched the top of the forearm. Bones splintered and finally broke through skin. Blood flicked and splattered over Blaize's face, into his hair. It hit the roof. It would have continued to pulse and fountain, but Blaize's mouth closed over the gruesome wound.

The blood was hot and fresh and the guilt took a back seat. Blaize told himself that Lance deserved it though, truth be told, he was thinking now of nothing but his thirst, his insatiable hunger, and satisfying it. If Lance tried to pull away, Blaize only held on tighter. He no doubt was making a bigger mess, but again, he wasn't thinking. He wasn't thinking anything at all.


[ALEKSANDRA]
The air around them began to feel like a cage, and she had to close her eyes as the emotions continued to build, each one harboring its own unique taste – and each one as dangerous as the last. Anger, fear, despair, need, and hunger. She tried to catch her breath, to push through the thickening air, to stop the scene from unfolding – but she was too late. She had told herself that she would support him through it all. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t falter, even if he chose the path of violence – but she hadn’t been prepared for this. When he had lost control before, it had been with a fist. It hadn’t been… Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from his back to press it to her mouth, fingers shaking as she pressed them against her lips, as if she could keep the repulsion within. It wasn’t him that sickened her. It was the sound. The cracking of bone, splintering of skin, and the rush of blood through the vein echoed within her skull, bounced around until she heard nothing but that violent melody. Turning her head away, she swallowed the scream that built within her throat, and as tears stained her cheeks – she finally reacted. Battling against the need to turn and run, she reached a hand out, fingers curling into his hair. She had to stop him. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a monster – he wasn’t violent.

“Blaize!” Her voice was sharp, though it lost its commanding tone when she choked, the sound entering on a desperate plea as she dropped her remaining hand to his shoulder. Pulling on him, she tried to disengage his mouth from her ex-boyfriend’s wrist, but she couldn’t. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she remembered being warned against something like this. When a dog when on the attack, you shouldn’t intervene, unless you wanted to be harmed yourself, but she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She had to trust in that, if she trusted in nothing else. If he did end up turning on her, it wouldn’t be him. “Let him go. Come on, love, come back to me,” she pleaded, glassy gaze turning towards Lance. He was fading fast. She could see it in the way his skin paled, and in the way his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He tried to fight against him, he tried to free himself from the vampire’s grasp, but he couldn’t. It was then, she realized, she might not be able to save him. Through all of this, the scent of blood filled the air and painted the walls crimson, but it didn’t affect her. The scent didn’t drive her mad. Her only focus was on saving her boyfriend, on pulling him back from the abyss. Drowning beneath the blood lust, she tried to place herself in between the two.


[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra's attempt to keep Blaize from his meal was only construed by the vampire as further attempt for his prey to get away from him. He didn't lash out at Aleksandra, only resisted her attempts to peel him from his meal, body growing tenser beneath her touch. How long since he had fed? How many meals was he making up for? And yet, his hunger was not insatiable. There was no reason to keep taking beyond what he needed; like when one's eyes are too big for their guts and they order too much food for dinner, and in the end only eat three quarters. It was only when he started to feel 'full' that Aleksandra's pleas broke the surface. His lips pulled back from the wound his actions had created, his eyes glazed as they settled upon the woman trying to wedge herself between him and his prey. Not just a woman, but his childe. And not just his childe, but the woman he...
He leaned back, offering the slowly pulsing wound to Aleksandra. Lance had stopped struggling, having lost the energy to do so, and Blaize was able to release him, to slide an arm around Aleksandra's waist. Yes, he thought. She was right! She should have some, too. It was selfish of him to take all the blood for himself. And then he blinked. It was a slow realisation the crawled from his gut to his heart and outward. The blood churned and he felt sick with it, over-full. When he blinked for the second time his gaze became clearer, understanding flooding the cool green depths. He turned from Aleksandra to Lance, whose face was pallid and his lips slack. Was he dead? If he wasn't, he had to be close to it. The moan that gurgled in Blaize's throat was unrecognisable. What had he done?! He tried to summon the fury; he tried to tell himself that Lance had deserved it, and a large part of him still believed that. Lance was scum. But was scum not redeemable? Surely Lance could have become a better person, if given the chance. The blood tasted bitter on Blaize's tongue and he let go of Lance. He let go of Aleksandra as he took a step back, and then another. Guilt. Oh, the guilt! It slammed into him like a wrecking ball until he was doubled over and on his knees. He couldn't have made it to the bathroom if he'd tried. The bile that spewed past Blaize's lips was thick and red -- a waste of the blood that he had just consumed. But, just as he had been unable to control his fury, now he was unable to control his guilt.


[ALEKSANDRA]
It felt as if she were trapped with a maelstrom, her mind slowly becoming shattered beneath the strain of emotions. The anger, the blood lust, the envy, the fear, the… nightmare that the evening had turned into had all but splintered the woman’s brain in two, and she couldn’t think. Her own actions, her own thoughts and feelings were lost beneath the men, and she found herself having to swallow down the acidic taste of fury as she curled her fingers tighter around her boyfriend’s wrist. When she felt him begin to tense beneath her touch, she started to pull away, her own eyes widening for the slightest moment as – finally – one of her own emotions rose to the surface, daring to be felt. Fear. It only lasted for a second, before she shook the pitiful notion away. He wouldn’t harm her. Hadn’t she already convinced herself of that? He had never once given her any inclination to believe otherwise. When they fought, it was his words that lashed against her skin, or the coldness in his eyes. His hands – unless to wrap around her body, to bring her in – never touched her. Even now, as his mind was lost beneath his need for blood, his hunger taking the reins, he knew who she was. Clearing her throat, she continued to try and shift herself between the two, one hand finally moving to press to his chest. “Sweetheart,” she tried again, her voice quiet, as though he were a fearful animal. If not for the thickening of her accent, she might have been able to play off her own fear, her own worry.

Even with her gaze locked on her sire, she felt the man behind her, heard his choked, wet pleas for release. He was trying to scream, trying to demand to be let go – but there were no words. It was all in the sounds he made, the way he struggled, even as he began to weaken, his body unable to keep up the fight for survival. It never crossed her mind to let him die, nor did it cross her mind that he might deserve it. Maybe, for a second, there had been a brief whisper – but that was before she witnessed the blood – had felt the terror – and now, the guilt. In the blink of an eye, the fury was gone, and the guilt was overwhelming. It pressed against her mind, a black, dense cloud that she couldn’t fight. Her hand fell from him, and she knew it was the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t let him go – he needed her – but how could she focus when the guilt was taking her to her knees? It wasn’t her burden to carry, yet she didn’t fight it off, she didn’t try to run from it. She let it wash over her, allowed the darkened tendrils to curl into the deepest recesses of her heart and mind. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” she heard herself whisper, but her voice wasn’t her own – or was it? She couldn’t tell. When he collapsed, she moved with him, Lance completely forgotten as her arms found the blonde’s shoulders.

Even as he vomited, the blood coating the floor, her knees, and any surface it could reach – she held him. Her tears fell freely as she pressed a kiss to his throat, his jaw, her words of comfort, of devotion, whispered gently into his ear. Behind her, she felt Lance twitch, heard his sharp intake of breath as he came to – and she turned. She didn’t think twice. Pulling her hand back, she curled her fingers into a fist – and slammed it into his jaw. His head snapped back, skull cracking against the door, and then he was quiet once more.


[BLAIZE]
The blood created a lake on the apartment floor, red and frothy as if it had been through a blender. It looked like something out of a horror movie, like it had come bubbling up through the floorboards. The guilt had a hold of Blaize and even Aleksa's tender touch couldn't console him. He didn't lean into it. He couldn't accept her condolences; he didn't look up. Green eyes were steadfast upon the mess he had made, his limbs still tense as he realised how he must look, as the full consequence of his actions found its way home. Aleksandra released him and he swayed, finally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Although he'd ousted a lot of blood from his body, he'd still got enough. He was stronger, now, his skin had gained a healthier glow. The dark circles beneath his eyes had disappeared, and his cheeks had filled out. There was a lustre to his hair that had previously been lacking; and he gained all this at Lance's detriment. Although on any other night Blaize might have admired Aleksandra's successful attempt to keep Lance quiet, for now he could only think about what he had done. Not only was there a chance Lance could die, but Blaize had complicated Aleksandra in the murder. She was a part of it, she was here with him when it happened. She was witness to it. God, she was witness to his utter failure.

Shame compounded Blaize's guilt, grew from it like a weed on a steroids. Before she had a chance to turn around, Blaize had stood and made his way to the kitchen. He found the nearest tea-towel and returned to the scene, brushing past Aleksa so he could tie the fabric tight around the torn wrist. Blood immediately soaked through the cloth, and Blaize was heaving Lance from his fallen position. He was blacked out, now, and there would be no screaming. But he was still alive -- just. If he was going to survive, he needed a hospital. He would not be another Darcy. Blaize would not condemn another to this life. Though he also would not admit to himself that he'd prefer if Lance died, even if Blaize was locked away for the murder. "I'll take care of it," Blaize muttered. He'd wait until he was out on the street before he called the ambulance. He would claim he had found Lance that way -- and would hope that Lance wouldn't remember. That he would tell no one. He refused to look at Aleksandra, refused to acknowledge her pity. He was supposed to be strong for her, and he had failed.


[ALEKSANDRA]
With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she slowly allowed her arms to fall to her sides, fingers twisting in the thin fabric of her top. The lace was too smooth against her skin, and soon, she realized she was tugging on it, trying to pull it from her torso, as if she couldn’t breathe. It was suffocating her. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes as the warmth of the blood pooled around her kneeled form, the crimson staining her pale skin as it trickled beneath her knees and built between her toes. It didn’t cross her mind, as she watched the lights sparkle within the dark pool, that it wasn’t just blood. The froth that had spewed so venomously from her boyfriend’s lips danced among the thick substance, causing the ruby to lighten in places, almost as if it were trying to turn it pink – a color far more soothing. Shaking her head, she barely registered when he moved. Her fingers were still twisting around her top, pulling at the offending material, listening to it rip as it strained against her body. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she breathe? Why did it feel as though she were drowning, a thousand miles away, and all she could see was darkness? She could taste the guilt on her tongue, the overwhelming shame choking her. It wasn’t hers, was it? What did she have to be guilty of? Lance was her ex-boyfriend, she had made that clear. She hadn’t hidden anything from him, she hadn’t played a dangerous game, she hadn’t asked him to come over. She had demanded that he left – and yet, he had remained, he had done this to himself. So, it wasn’t her guilt. How was it possible, then, that she was feeling his? Had she finally, truly, lost her mind? If it was his guilt beating at her, tearing into her heart, ripping apart the long-dead organ, then she had to snap out of it.

With a slow, almost defeated, release of air through her teeth, the brunette slowly placed her hands to the ground. Her palms threatened to slide on the blood, and when she found her balance, she began to lift herself to her feet unsteadily. “No, I’ll take care of it,” she heard herself speak, though her voice sounded as though she was underwater. Running her tongue along her lip, she tried to ignore the drops of blood on her skin as her gaze finally found his, blue eyes wide. It didn’t matter. The buzz of electricity didn’t bother her, the hum of the television, the swish of her cat’s tail. The smell of freshly cooked food that was buried beneath the scent of blood, the way his guilt slammed into her – none of it mattered. Only he did. Forcing a breath into her lungs, she found herself taking a step back, and then another, until she had found herself in the same place he had been at earlier. Grabbing a handful of rags, she made her way back towards the pair and once again lowered herself to her knees. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Did she reach for him again? Did she demand he talk to her, did she throw Lance out the door? She couldn’t get her thoughts to work with her, and so, she settled for wiping the rag along the floor, beginning to soak up the blood – as much of it as she could. She would talk to him. She had to – but first, she had to protect him. She had to clean up the mess. “Go change your clothes. I’ve got it.”


[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra was suggesting that Blaize put Lance back down again, that he leave the body there and go change his clothes and allow her to clean up the mess that he had made. She'd returned to the scene with rags and was intent on cleaning up the vomit that had spewed from Blaize's gut. To see her on her hands and knees like that only made him feel worse; his chest hurt, his gut, his whole mind reeling from the thing he'd told himself he would never do again. The dancer took pride in his control. But he kept losing it, like it were a key without a ring condemned always to be found at the back of the washing machine or between the couch cushions. "Just LEAVE it, Aleksa. I'll clean it when I get back!" he shouted. The anger was misplaced. He was angry with himself. He was furious with himself, but this is what it had come down to. He'd grabbed the door's handle with his free hand and when it swung open, he dragged the prone Lance out onto the landing. No one was there. It was quiet. There was the gentle hum of a building at peace, so at odds with the scene that had just taken place over their threshold. "Close the door. Please just leave it," he said. He didn't have his phone with him, but he assumed that Lance would have his. What self-respecting person didn't have a mobile phone these days? Blaize got to the elevator and waited; he considered dragging Lance back through the apartment and throwing him over the balcony, but that would only inspire questions. They'd be able to figure out where the body had come from. They'd make the connection to the woman who lived in the building -- people would know she was Lance's ex. No, he needed to take Lance for a little walk.

The elevator soon arrived and Blaize held his breath as the doors opened. He dragged Lance inside and immediately looked for security cameras. Were there any? What the **** had he gotten himself into? Should he just come clean? He'd killed someone, once. He hadn't known his own strength and he'd been strangled by the guilt of it. He'd been less than a week old as a vampire -- Lyonel had helped him. They'd covered it up. But he couldn't ask for that kind of help again. He wouldn't. Down on the ground floor Blaize stopped out the front of the building. He let Lance go, letting him slide down and rest against the wall. They wouldn't be going for a walk. Blaize rifled through Lance's pockets until he found the phone; he made the call, gave the address, described the injuries. In one brief elevator ride, he'd decided to do the right thing.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Her hands shook as she knelt within the destruction, the cloth soaked within moments of touching the floor. In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a better way to do this – that she would need something more. Bleach, another handful of rags, a couple of trash bags. Wasn’t there a scene in one of the movies that they recently watched that told her all that she needed to know? Should she risk an internet search on the best methods in covering up… this? With each second that passed, her mind continued to race, and she found herself struggling to breathe. It was more than the panic that gripped her heart, it was the scent. Finally, the sweet tang of copper was catching up to her, beckoning her. Moving to her knees, she tossed the first rag to the side and stared at her hands, the pale skin stained with blood. She had caused this. There were a thousand different scenes playing within her mind on how she could have handled this, on how she could have saved him. With his guilt twisting in her gut, her pain screaming within her mind, she barely noticed that he had moved. It wasn’t until his shout echoed off the walls and ricocheted inside of her skull that she realized he had even spoken. Her features shifted before she could control herself, the flinch reactionary. “And I said I would handle it,” she whispered, though the words were broken. She never lifted her head, her eyes locked on his feet. If she moved from her submission, if she allowed him to see her eyes, she knew he’d hate himself.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the tears that his sudden anger had caused. As quietly as she could, she sniffed once and grabbed the second rag, her movements’ jerky as she swiped it across the floor. She said nothing more as she listened to him hoist her ex-boyfriend and she didn’t blink when the door slammed shut behind him, leaving her within the deafening silence of their apartment. It wasn’t until she heard his steps fade that she allowed her shoulders to shake, her sob silent as she finished cleaning up the mess. It wasn’t grand, but for the moment, it would have to do. Quickly gathering the rags, she tossed them in the bin and moved to the sink, the water nearly scalding as she tried to clean the blood from her skin. With every swipe of the soap against her flesh, she counted the minutes he’d been gone. “Where the hell is he?” Pulling her hands from beneath the spray, she didn’t think twice as she snatched the nearest rag to dry her hands and deftly skipped over what blood remained on her way out. Something told her that whatever was keeping him wasn’t something that she wanted. There had been too much chaos within him, too much anger and guilt. It had eaten away at her senses, and as she slammed her palm against the call button, she could still feel it swirling within him – and within her. When the elevator arrived, she stepped in it and frantically pressed the ground floor as she bounced on the heels of her feet, dull, red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the numbers as she descended.


[BLAIZE]
As per usual in this city, the authorities were having a busy night. They said they'd be there as soon as possible, but they definitely weren't just around the corner. Blaize had only given the injuries, and not how they had been given -- a snapped wrist could be the result of a fall. Loss of blood definitely had to do with how close the bone had come to severing the major artery. There was no need for cops. The artery hadn't been torn at the neck. There were no teeth marks; no proof whatsoever that a vampire was involved. If anything happened to Blaize, if anyone came knocking on his door to question him, it wouldn't be tonight. It would be the next night. It would be whenever Lance woke up; whenever he decided to tell the story of his girlfriend who was now shacked up with a vampire. Blaize considered all the ways he'd twist the story; he'd probably make Blaize out to be some monster who had Aleksandra held captive. Compelled. He snorted. If only this were a TV show and Blaize could compel others to do his bidding. At least, then, he could force Lance to forget. There was very little hope that Lance would have mercy, that he would go lenient on Blaize because he was given the opportunity to live. No, if Blaize were lucky enough to avoid the authorities, it would be because Lance might just be the kind of vengeful, over-confidence douchebag who'd want to come back and deal with Blaize himself. But perhaps he'd be too much of a coward for that kind of plan?

Every now and again someone would walk past; Blaize was pacing in front of the unconscious Lance. They'd stop, horrified or worried. Curious. And he'd always tell them it was fine. They could move on. The ambulance had already been called, and the guy was beyond civilian help. Eventually, Blaize could hear the sirens. They had to be at least a few blocks away and it would be extremely coincidental if this wasn't the call they were attending to. Blaize crossed his arms over his chest -- not in a defensive way, but in a way that made him look strangely vulnerable -- and stared into space. What would he tell them when they got there? He could lie. He would lie. It was his word against Lance's, but he'd have to try to keep that mask steadfast. He'd have to keep his debilitating guilt and shame under wraps. There were stairs inside, right? No one was going to go and look. That's what happened. Lance was being a dickhead on the stairs and he fell. They're cement stairs, unforgiving. They're narrow. Gravity, and the force of the guy's own weight -- his wrist wouldn't stand a chance. If he'd thought about this early, Blaize might have actually thrown Lance down the stairs just to make the injuries more consistent. But then he realised he wouldn't have. Not in his current state. He hated Lance. He would never like Lance. But that didn't make his actions any less monstrous, and less horrific. If he couldn't take blood from Lance in a civil manner, how could be possibly throw the guy down the stairs? Probably the same way he could break that other guy's nose. Violence caused no guilt. Curious, that. Whatever the case, it was too late now. The ambulance was peeling around the corner, its blue and red flashing lights bouncing off the building's outer walls. He would never know if he'd have been able to do it or not.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Running her fingers through her hair, she tried to ignore the tension that had coiled tight in the pit of her stomach as the elevator descended. It wasn’t an easy feat by any means, and by the time she had reached the ground floor, she had given up the battle. There was no use in fighting it, no use in driving herself mad when the end result was going to be the same. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew. Without a doubt, the moment she stepped from the warmth of the elevator, she knew it was pointless. The fury, the guilt and the confusion stole her breath as the metal doors squealed closed behind her, just as she had known it would. She didn’t need to see him to know where he was, and instead, she followed that chaotic thread until she was stepping out into the night, her wary eyes finding his. “Blaize, come inside,” she pleaded, even as the glowing lights of the ambulance illuminated her pale and harrowed features. “It’s not going to do you any good to stay out here.” The words came tumbling out, her voice shaking as she stepped towards him, slender hand reaching out as if to grab for him. Before she made contact, however, she jerked back, the fear of rejection dancing in the blue of her gaze. “One look at us and they’ll know… they’ll know, won’t they?” Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she closed her eyes, if only for a second. A split second, as if that one moment of darkness would allow her to undo all of the wrong that had transpired in the past forty-five minutes. As the sirens grew closer, she forced her eyes open again, the blue locked on her boyfriend as she crossed her arms over her chest.

It was clear in that moment, if he went down, she was going with him. It didn’t matter that she was damn near falling apart with the mere thought of being hurt, or that she was digging her nails with such strength into her palms that they had begun to bleed over the single flash of the future. Him, in cuffs. Him, beaten, bruised… or worse, dead. Turning her head away, she pulled her hair over her shoulder as the taste of her blood coated her tongue, the bitterness causing her stomach to roll. “Baby, please…”


[BLAIZE]
Come inside, she said, and Blaize gave the vaguest shake of the head. He agreed -- it wouldn't do him any good to stay out here, but that was the point. He didn't deserve good. She reached for him and his fingers flexed, stretching, wanting to welcome her touch and the strength and support that it might provide. He'd glanced down at the expectation, wanting to watcch their fingers twine, but his hand remained empty, and he missed that look in her eye. Why? Because he couldn't look her in the eye. No, he didn't deserve anything good, which meant he didn't deserve Aleksandra, who'd been on her hands and knees to clean up his mess, who'd offered to take care of it. Was she doing it out of some kind of weird obligation? And now she didn't want to touch him. Why should she? He was a monster. He crossed his arms over his chest in much the same way Aleksandra did, that vague shake of the head now more confident. "No, because they won't look at us, Aleksa, they'll look at me. They'll know because I'm covered in blood, and you're going to go back inside," he said. He didn't look at her until he could smell it; he'd only been able to smell Lance's blood up until that moment, but the wind changed. It danced along the street and swirled around Aleksndra, through her clothes, clutching at the scent of her own blood as it spilled from her palm, as it crawled from her breath. Why was she bleeding?! Blaize's arms dropped and he took that step toward her, taking her by the shoulders and physically turning her around, forcing her back toward the building, back toward safety. The sirens were slowing, their destination reached; they were on the wrong side of the road and had to keep going so that they could make a u-turn and come back.

"Please, Aleksa. Please just go back inside? Don't stay out here with me. You didn't do this, I did. And if Lance comes around and tells them what happened, it's only a matter of time, isn't it? He won't let it go, and I don't want to kill him. So I'm going to have to take the fall for this one way or another. I will. They'll buy it. An altercation between the jealous ex and the boyfriend. Of course they'll buy it, it's the truth," he said. If Aleksandra had been pleading, so too was Blaize. He didn't want her embroiled in the trouble he had caused. He did not want his own carelessness to affect her. He wouldn't allow it.


[ALEKSANDRA]
It was almost tragic. The ache in her chest was insurmountable. It was the only emotion that she could feel, that she could name, and it was the only emotion that was wholly hers. It filled her chest, swelled inside of her heart, and pressed against her rib cage. It tried to suffocate her, to fill her mind with dark thoughts, and all because he let her pull away. He didn’t reach for her when she refused to reach for him, he hadn’t met her half-way. With that one misunderstood action, that missed moment, they had failed. She had dropped away and he had let her go. In the movies, it might have meant the end. It might have faded to black, and left them circling each other in the void if the unknown, but this wasn’t a fantasy. This was reality - her reality - and she couldn’t stand there and allow him to be ripped away from her. Even if his rejection spread through her and choked off her airways, she would take him to safety. She would see him home. As the lights grew closer, bathing the once quiet night in their frantic colors, she grit her teeth. “Blaize.” His name came from between her teeth in an unfamiliar tone, one that begged for him to listen, one that was harsh.

He still hadn’t looked at her. He still didn’t see the way her eyes glistened with unshed tears, or the pale pallor of her skin. He didn’t see the small cut in her lip, or the worry - the care - in her gaze. He saw none of it, because he couldn’t bare the sight of her. His guilt chipped away at her, broke her apart piece by piece as his shame surrounded her and tore through her defences. She could feel it, she could name it, but she couldn’t explain it. Was the guilt because of her? Was he ashamed that he had let himself care for her? Or, was it something more? When he finally broke, his gaze finding hers, his hands urging her away, she shook her head. “No. No, it is us. It isn’t you. It ceased to be just you the moment you kissed me. You can regret that, you can regret me, but if you refuse to go inside with me, then you are not going down alone.” Her voice shook, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. It has escaped, the pain too much for her. Each word had been forced past a lump in her throat that felt too much like a fist full of razor blades, but still she remained adamant.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize didn't understand. He'd inadvertently caught the look in Aleksandra's eyes, the tears that glistened and tumbled. Why was she crying?! Was it because of Lance? She hadn't seemed too fond of him, but she had dated him. If she'd dated him, there had to have been some care, there. Had it lingered? Was she upset that he had been so injured? It couldn't just be that, could it? She'd knocked him out to come to Blaize's side. Did she...? Regrets. She was the one who first uttered the word and Blaize's dropped jaw snapped shut. His eyes -- previously distant and dejected, wide and fearful -- were now sharp. Frustrated, even angry. Of course he knew that Aleksandra could have low self esteem, that she could doubt herself and Blaize's affection for her. But for that self-loathing to rear its head now, of all times? It only made him feel worse. What, in all that had happened, could have made her think that his opinion of her had changed, or that he regretted anything about her? He couldn't fathom. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he continued to push and guide Aleksandra. This time, he went with her. He had his arm around her torso, his stride strong and sure as he caved. There was no choice. If she wasn't going to do as he asked, then he wasn't going to let her come to any harm.

"Don't be... I can't... what the ****, Aleksa? Why would you even think that I regret you? Where the **** did that even come from?!" he said, his voice low but harsh as they crossed the lobby. The white walls and tiles were all lit up in blue and red as the ambulances finally found their mark. Blaize smashed at the elevator button numerous times, though there was no need. It was still waiting at the bottom floor from where Aleksa had exited it. The metal doors slid open with a welcoming sigh, and Blaize led Aleksa inside. He turned on his heel and jabbed the button that would close the doors before they times themselves out. It was only when he was standing still that he realised he was trembling; he didn't want Aleksandra to feel it, and his arm fell away from Aleksandra's waist. He could feel dried blood still clinging to his cheek and his chin and he hastily rubbed at it. "...it should be the other way around," he muttered as he sank into the corner of the elevator, closing his eyes as he tried to regain control of his own senses, his own emotions.


[ALEKSANDRA]
It changed in the span of a single breath. The pain that had gathered in her chest expanded until it cracked, the words she had dared to utter spilled between them. She couldn’t take them back. There was no magical button, no rewind. It wasn’t like her, to lose control of her own voice. It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to cave and give in to the weakness that haunted her. She had always been someone that prides themselves on her strength, that inner will that kept her sane when her world crashed at her feet. Of course, that had been before. It didn’t matter how often she tried to remind herself of who she used to be, the threads of her humanity continued to slip through her fingers like sand. The woman she was now gave in. The woman she was now weakened beneath the weight of the emotions that pressed down on her, and she caved. When the words had left her tongue, when that first tear had fallen, she kept her head high, and she had kept herself at his side. She didn’t matter. He did. Of course, the moment that growl vibrated from his chest and through her skin, she knew that she had misstepped. She didn’t need to feel the first inklings of anger as it seeped inside. It was easily read in the way he embraced her, the tension coiled in his muscles. He was a livewire, and she was a second from igniting him. It didn’t matter, however. As long as he was inside, his face hidden from view, she would take whatever came her way - but not quietly. “What do you expect me to think, Blaize? I can fe— I caused this! If you had never met me, if you hadn’t decided to be with me, this wouldn’t be happening!” Shaking her head, she freed her hands to brush them through her tangled hair, eyes closing for only a moment. She didn’t open them until she heard the doors shut, and then she turned to him, jaw tight.

“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, even as he sunk into the wall, his hand pressing to his skin. “Why would I regret you? I brought this onto your doorstep, it’s my ex-boyfriend that forced your hand. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Her words trailed off as she fought to keep herself in place, when all she wanted was to cross the distance and erase the chaos that was building between them. How did she tell him that she could feel it? How did she dare try to explain that his guilt, his shame and anger, his hunger - were no longer his own to burden? There just wasn’t an easy way to reveal to him that she could feel him fading from her, but that wasn’t the worse part. No, the painful part was not understanding why.


[BLAIZE]
The logic was all wrong. Blaize was shaking his head before she had even finished, this 'discussion' the only thing keeping him standing. Without it, he'd probably have sunk into that corner, unable to move, unable even to make it back to the apartment where the mess of his mistake still waited for them. He stared at Aleksa in disbelief. They were trying to reassure each other that neither had regrets, that neither blamed the other and yet they still stood apart. Again, Blaize's arms crossed over his chest, his hands clamped beneath his arms just so that he might get them to stop shaking. "I'm not being absurd," he snapped. "You didn't cause this. If it wasn't Lance it would have been someone else at some other time, some other poor ****** at the mercy of my hunger. Because I won't feed. I can't. I don't want to. Whether you were here or not it would be the same. Lance was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, testing the wrong man. I had these issues before I met you. How... how can you say I did nothing wrong?!" he said, voice failing him at the end. He cleared his throat, ready to continue but he couldn't. Didn't. The elevator doors had opened; they had reached their floor. Although his legs didn't want to, they carried him past Aleksandra and out the door. Had they locked their apartment door, or was it still open? He didn't have his keys. When he reached the door and pushed on the handle, it thankfully opened.

He cringed at the sight of blood still pooled at the door, sinking into the tile grouting. He wanted to go to the bathroom and drown himself in the bathtub, but what was the point in getting clean when he'd just get dirty again cleaning up? His willpower was failing him, but he went through the motions anyway. "I snapped his wrist to get to his blood. I was a savage. You told me to let him go but I didn't. If I fed on a regular basis, if I got what I needed every night then it wouldn't have been a problem. I'd have let him go and slammed the door in his face. This isn't on you. At all. It's on me. I am to blame. This is my fault," he said as he got down on his hands and knees to continue what Aleksandra had started. The rag sloshed through the blood but it barely picked any of it up; just moved it around a bit. He'd need numerous buckets of water and some bleach to get this cleaned up properly. He took the rag back to the kitchen and hesitated at the sink. Did he want to wash Lance's blood down the kitchen sink? The sink that Aleksandra used so often for her work? No. He didn't. But, then, what could he do with it? He was lost. Everything crumbled. All his common sense couldn't find solid ground and his hands.... ****, they wouldn't stop trembling! He turned and went down, back sliding down the kitchen cabinet before he was sitting on the floor, rag tossed aside, arms on his knees and his hands splayed in front of him. The tremble was visible, and he couldn't stop staring, as if the blood was something he'd never be able to wash clean.

[ALEKSANDRA]
Just give me the truth, she wanted to shout. The words were on the tip of her tongue, they burned along her throat, and they fell from her eyes. Every word she wanted to say, every question she wanted to ask, glistened on her cheeks before she used the back of her hand to wipe them away. She didn’t understand – she couldn’t begin to understand what had happened. She tried, lord knows she tried. As she watched him, her back pressed to the metal of the elevator’s wall, she tried to understand. She watched every move he made, she listened to the hitch in his voice, took note of the shadows in his eyes – shadows that came and went. How long had they been there? The letter he had wrote to Lyonel, the letter that still burned in her memory, came back with a violent force. The words that had shook her that night replayed in her mind, in his neat scrawl against the crumpled pages. Lifting a hand, she tangled her fingers into her hair; the chocolate curls a sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. She had been tanned, once. She had been vibrant, before she had died. Sometimes she found herself missing the sun, but then she looked at him, she kissed him, and she realized what she had given up – and what she had gained. He was everything that she had been afraid of, but he was a fear she craved. She needed him, and to see him like this, to feel him pull from her – she felt as if she were losing herself. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she pulled her hand from her hair and tore her gaze from him as the doors slid open. When she caught sight of the blood on the floor, she felt nothing. Something had seemed to shut off, a coldness seeping into her chest that hadn’t been there.

As he moved ahead of her, she followed behind, her steps slower. His words had done something to her, and she said nothing as she began to process them. It didn’t cross her mind that he needed her to talk, he might want her to speak. She would – when she could find the words to say. Instead, she stepped to him – and then around, her gaze focused on something far away. She began to clean the counter without a word, the dishes put in the sink, the food scraped into the trash. It was as if she was on auto-pilot, though her mind was racing – inside, she was screaming. All of the words she wanted to say, the ways she could comfort him, the ways she could suggest helping him, dying before they touched her tongue. After a few minutes – or had it been hours? – she finally slammed her hands against the counter. The impact of her flesh to the marble sent the cat flying down the hall, his heavy steps echoing off the walls before he scampered beneath an overturned hamper to hide. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The question came out in a whisper, and they weren’t the words she had meant to say. She had meant to tell him it would be fine, they would fix it, it wasn’t his fault. Instead, that question – the one she had told herself she wouldn’t ask, filled the silence between them. How could he not tell her? How could he keep her in the dark? Stepping around the counter, she walked across the floor and stood in front him, bare feet in the blood, blood that she no longer noticed. She didn’t feel it soak her skin, the warmth lost to her as she reached a hand down and forced his eyes up with a touch to his jaw. His hands trembled – hers were still. It was her eyes that betrayed her. There was guilt, there was pain, anger, uncertainty, confusion, repulsion. She didn’t know where her emotions ended and his began, but still, the question was asked – and repeated, her voice nearly silent.

“For God’s sake, Blaize, why didn’t you ******* tell me?”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize Munroe had always had a strong temperament. Mentally, emotionally, there was a lot that he could take; even when he ought to have been at his lowest, even at that crucial turning point he could have had a panic attack, a breakdown. Nobody would have blamed him. Once they understood why, they'd have looked at him with their frowns and their creased brows and they might have said 'poor boy'. They'd have taken his side. They'd have called the molester a monster, a creep. They'd have vilified him, and Blaize would have stood behind a wall of protectors. But that wasn't how it happened, no. Blaize had instead stood alone, stoic, with clenched fists and clenched jaw, sharp eyes and iron willpower. One step in front of another, he'd soldiered on -- as he always thought it should be. He judged those with weaker constitution, he sneered at them, told them to toughen the **** up and get over it. So when Aleksandra questioned him he knew what the answer was. Deep down, he understood that the very same reason he flinched. was the reason he hadn't told her. Her voice was near silent but it felt like she had shouted at him. The silence had curled around him, wide eyes staring at bloody hands and bloody cloth, the scent of blood filling nostrils that continued to flare. Lungs filled and emptied though the vampire didn't need to breathe, and he couldn't stop the trembling. It didn't matter if he held his hands together, if he squeezed them until the knuckles cracked and splintered. The tremble didn't reside only in his hands, either; it had spread up his arms, through his shoulders, down his spine -- to his very core. She'd cleaned the kitchen as if there hadn't even been a conversation. She cleaned the kitchen around him as if he weren't even there and if he could have put himself back together he might have left the room. Where would he have gone? He didn't know. He couldn't move. What was happening?

Everything had come crashing down over his head. Again. He'd used a shard of mirror to slice into Darcy's neck, but he supposed the impending turn had distracted him. He'd had to keep focused, for her sake, and he'd got through. Each and every time he had to feed from a live human being the guilt compounded and built until... well. This. A nervous breakdown? No. Surely not! He couldn't... Although her fingers were cool, Aleksandra's touch burned. She forced Blaize to look when all he wanted to do was hide. He couldn't decipher what he could see in Aleksandra’s eyes, but it didn’t matter. All he could see was judgment—even if it didn’t exist. She was angry with him. He wanted to throw up but he gulped down air instead. He’d flinched like he was afraid. He’d flinched because he felt small, and vulnerable. When had he ever allowed himself to feel vulnerable, to be vulnerable?! “Please don’t… don’t look at me like that,” he said, wrenching his chin from her grip. He told himself to square his shoulders, to sit up, to get a ******* grip. Instead, against his own wishes, his body folded. Still slouched against the wall, his hands interlocked behind his head as it fell between his knees. He tried his hardest not to rock, though his toes were curled and he couldn’t… “I can’t…” he sucked in a breath of air, and then another. Breathe, Blaize? You don’t need to, he tried to tell himself. But it didn’t make a lick of difference.


[ALEKSANDRA]
He was dying to catch his breath, and she was fighting to release her own. It was trapped in her throat alongside her heart, both creating painful friction until she thought to scream. It built inside of her chest, swelled like a tidal wave that pressed against her ribcage. It was there. She could feel it at the base of her throat, clawing its way to her parted lips, but she swallowed it back. She had thought it would have been difficult, she had thought it would put up more of a fight, but it was his eyes that simplified it. One look into the eyes that had haunted her for nights on end, and she was cut to the bone. Her hand fell away as if he had burned her, fingers curling into her palm as she lifted her fist to her mouth. Teeth sank into the pale skin of her finger, the taste of her blood bitter and violent as it washed over her tongue, but she didn’t turn away in revulsion. She didn’t move to spit it onto the floor, to add to the mess that stained her bared feet. She couldn’t do anything more than stare at him, even as he told her look away. “Blaize,” she began, but his name caught in her throat, the sound strained and confused. He hadn’t answered her question, but then again, he hadn’t needed to. When she took a moment – a span of a second – to look at him, the answer was there. It was in the way he began to shake, in the way he pulled away from her and curled into himself. It was in the way his voice trembled, the way his eyes glistened in the dim light of their apartment. He was afraid. Of what, she didn’t know. She had never given him reason to fear her, and she found herself succumbing to the weight of that knowledge. It pressed against her shoulders until she found herself sinking, her knees meeting the blood. “Blaize,” she started again, this time, her voice stronger. Somehow, she had managed to push through. His emotions began to filter into their own box, allowing her to see with perfect clarity.

Reaching a hand out, she pressed her palm to the side of his face, her fingers threading through a shock of blonde. “Look at you like what, baby? Like I care? Like I’m concerned? Like I just want to understand?” The words were a quiet whisper, the anger drawn from her like a flame extinguished. It hadn’t been her anger she had felt, not in its entirety. The knowledge shook her, but it wasn’t something she would broach – not right now. It made her feel insane, to know that she had felt the pull of someone else’s emotions. Instead, she pushed her fingers deeper into his hair, both hands now knotted behind his skull. She didn’t make him look at her, nor did she pull away. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t walk away from him, she wouldn’t leave him here, alone on the floor. Closing her eyes, she leaned closer, and pressed her lips to his. “It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay, just focus on me.” When he was ready, they would talk. Until then, her focus was bringing him back to her.


[BLAIZE]
Blaize didn't immediately respond. Words were lost, understanding slipping below the radar, consumed by guilt and shame and fear, vulnerability like a loose cannon bouncing around his skull and knocking through every sentence he tried to put together. He continued to swallow, trying to keep the air in his lungs -- he was confused, or at least, his body was confused. It didn't understand how it was not getting light-headed. It didn't understand why its normal synapses weren't working. It should have understood, but adjustment periods had varying lengths, it would seem. Aleksandra's hands pushed through his hair, dislodging his own hands from their locked position. The contradiction to his own assumptions had him lifting his chin, looking up, tentatively seeking her eyes to see if he had somehow been mistaken. Before he could catch more than a glimpse her lips pressed to his -- a ray of sunshine spiked through the clouds, a heady wind pushing them off course.

He didn't fight her off; he welcomed her, he let her in. The kiss forced him to hold his breath, and he continued to do so even as Aleksa pulled back. She told him it would be okay, and he focused on that. Lance had been taken away by the ambulance. He wasn't dead. Blaize hadn't killed him, and maybe he deserved the hurt that he'd got. Blaize nodded, forehead bumped to Aleksa's, his own hands swinging around to tangle in her hair, to hold her head much the way she was holding his. "I'm supposed to be the strong one," he said. It sounded wrong. It didn't explain anything, not in terms that could or should be understood. "I didn't tell you, because I wanted to figure it out. I want to be strong, for you. To help you when you need it, not... weak and... and inconsistent," he mumbled. "I didn't want you to be caught up in this, but I failed," he said, breathing out. "... I failed," he repeated. They weren't ever words he wanted to utter. But there they were, and he deflated like a balloon.


[ALEKSANDRA]
She had braced herself for the rejection, for the chance that he would push her away, but then she felt him soften. His muscles began to relax, and soon, he was kissing her back. Words couldn’t begin to express what she felt when he gave in, if only by a small margin. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his fingers working into the soft chocolate curls adorning her skull, she smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, her lips didn’t curve in joy, but in relief. He was talking. His words didn’t make a lot of sense, but he was talking, and she would follow the few breadcrumbs he left for her. “You are strong,” she whispered, her voice confused as she pulled back a fraction to meet his gaze. There was no judgment in her eyes, no pity and no deceit. She believed what she said – and she believed in him. “How could you ever think anything different? A weak person would give in to this… this curse. A weak person would have withered away and died. I would have failed.” Shaking her head, she moved her hand to rest her palm against his jaw, the pad of her thumb brushing slowly against his lower lip. “Yet, you’re still here. You didn’t kill him. You could have, but you didn’t. You found control. We just need to…” Trailing off, she bit into the corner of her lip, her gaze thoughtful. “We just need to find a way to make it easier. Together. Needing to ask for help doesn’t make you weak.” She wasn’t sure he would want her help, but she had offered it, her gaze no different than any other time she looked at him. It was filled with compassion, adoration, and trust. She believed in him. She believed he was capable.

It wasn’t until she shifted position, that she realized she was in the blood, that it was soaking into her skin. Not wanting to draw his attention to it – but knowing that he would notice, anyway, she shook her head. “We need to finish cleaning this up first, though, and get in the shower.” She didn’t want to rush him, she didn’t want to push him before he was ready in risk of him shutting down, but she knew they couldn’t stay there, in the blood in front of their doorway. Leaning forward, she once again pressed her lips to his, a little more emotion in her kiss, and shook her head. “You haven’t failed me, love.”


[BLAIZE]
The shake of his head was miniscule, but it was there. He didn't agree with her. A strong person would have resisted, and would not have lost control. A strong person would have figured it out by now; they'd have a system, they'd push through the guilt and the disgust and would feed themselves every single ******* night, no matter how much they hated it, so as to prevent scenes of gore and bloodshed. This was worse than just taking a pint and sending someone on their way. This could bring everything crumbling down; this could bring the police to their doorstep. It could bring hunters, and a furious Lance. "I didn't find control so much as... come to my senses in time," he said.

It had nothing to do with control. He shouldn't have lost it to begin with. He disagreed on so many levels, but he wasn't going to argue. He wasn't going to tell her she was wrong, though he didn't deny her help when she offered it. When and if she needed help there'd be nothing in the world to stop Blaize from giving it to her, so he wasn't going to deny her in turn. Deep down, he recognised that he needed it. And though Lyonel had offered it, too, and Blaize knew that he could go to his own sire -- had gone to his own sire -- sometimes a person needed numerous helping hands rather than just the one. He lived with Aleksandra. She was in the best position to help. Blaize nodded, still tasting blood on his lips and clinging to the back of his throat even as Aleksandra kissed him. He still felt like ****, but at least he thought he had strength enough to do what was required. We'll need more rags. And scalding water. And... some bleach. Do we have any bleach?" he asked. He pushed himself to his feet -- feet that would need to be washed so that he wouldn't trail bloody footprints through the apartment. The mat by the door would have to be thrown away, but suddenly Blaize was grateful for his choice in decor. Hard, marble floors. At least there was no carpet they would have to replace.


[ALEKSANDRA]
Now that she had a moment of clarity, one that allowed her to see things without the pressure of influx of emotions, she saw it. She saw the way he trembled, she saw the way he wouldn’t meet her gaze. The guilt was etched in his face, the disappointment tightening the lines around his eyes. He was a man lost at sea, and he needed an anchor. He needed something to hold him together, to reel him back in, and she tried. She had tried with reassurance. She had tried with affection. She had tried, and she had failed. Slowly running her hands along her calves, she gave a subtle nod, though it wasn’t in reaction to his words. Instead, she found herself moving back to her feet, fingers tucking stray curls behind her ear. “You came to your senses in time,” she repeated, her voice soft, almost thoughtful. “I might not understand what you’re going through, but that seems like a sign of control to me.” With a quick brush of her fingers through his hair, she stepped away, her hands already patting down her camisole. It was a panicked movement, because she knew what she was looking for wasn’t tucked into the scarce outfit. No, her phone was across the kitchen, the screen lit up as another message came through. “It might not have been much, but I choose to believe it was control. At the very least, it showed you knew it was wrong, that it wasn’t you. This isn’t you, and it doesn’t define you,” she continued, even as she sidestepped some of the blood to make her way to the device, the screen filled with alerts.

Not bothering with a single one, she brought up her messaging app as her gaze strayed back to her boyfriend. The worry was there, the concern was there, the need to embrace him and tell him it was okay swelled within her chest, but she couldn’t. She knew that wasn’t what he needed. He needed help. He needed to work it through on his own, and he needed someone to help him either accept what he was cursed with, or help him find a way to cure it. With a quick tap of her fingers against the glass, she sent the message she needed, and quickly dropped the device back to the counter. “We don’t. I just asked Callum to bring some, as well as some new towels and a mask,” she muttered, though her attention never wavered from the crouched man. “I didn’t say why, and he didn’t ask.” It was then she took a deep breath and allowed herself to focus, her nails tapping slowly against the marble surface. “What do you think we can do to help you? What makes it difficult for you?”


[BLAIZE]
There was some control, perhaps, but not all of it. That was the curse of being a perfectionist, though. Some was not all. It wasn't nearly enough. But, he had failed to have all the control and this was the consequence; this was where he ended up, with blood on the floor and on his hands and he had to clean it up. He couldn't just sit here all night. he couldn't and wouldn't run away. His soul had been bared to his companion -- Aleksandra -- and it didn't feel as bad as he thought it would. Now that the words had fallen, now that the chasm was gaping wide, why not give it all away? She's stood and he watched her, eyes duller than usual as they tracked her across the floor to the bench where her phone had been left; he wanted to ask who it was that was messaging her, who it was she had replied to. But it wasn't his business, unless it had something to do with Lance. And anyway, the answer was soon given. "I don't know," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "It's difficult because I have no... no teeth, like everyone else has. I can't just... slip up behind someone and take without asking but leave them none the wiser. I have to... use a knife, and they remember me," he said. He knew because of Breno. How often had he fed from Breno in such a manner only for Breno to wake up later, remembering the whole thing? "It's easier if they're willing, if there's some kind of exchange. But it's not easy to find anyone willing in this place, not with the current climate. And those that are willing are the ones who romanticise vampires, who want to feel the pinch of fangs piercing flesh. They're not really keen for some guy to come at them with a dagger," he said, the words strangled and despairing, wrought from him like sweat from a wrung towel.

There was actually nothing more that Blaize wanted than to go for a shower, Aleksa at his side. To pull her into bed with him, to disappear beneath the covers and forget the night as it had transpired. He wanted to forget the mess, but he knew he couldn't. It would just be there, waiting for them when they woke up. Better to deal with it now. Physical touch would be a balm, because at least then he wouldn't feel so despicable. But he was not accustomed to asking for these things. He was not accustomed to needing comfort, or having someone close from whom he could gain comfort. He'd broken, and in those moments of vulnerability he'd have relished warm arms around him. But now he was standing, and with renewed strength came a modicum of control. There were things to do, and he didn’t have to wait for bleach to do it with. Callum had been instructed to bring new towels, which meant Blaize could use the old ones. With his feet, he dragged and pushed the door mat through the blood, using it simultaneously as a mop and as something with which to dry his own feet. Once they were clean enough, he trekked through the apartment to the linen closet from which he pulled two towels. It should be enough. They could mop up the majority of the blood, and the bleach could then do the rest. The towels could be burnt. “I’ll be fine,” he said to Aleksa when he returned. “It was just a glitch. I’ll be fine,” he repeated, even managing to flash her smile.


[ALEKSANDRA]
It didn’t take long for a soft knock to echo through the apartment, and a deep voice to call her name, almost hesitantly. There was an edge to that voice, though, one that warned of danger and violence. She didn’t want to turn from Blaize, she didn’t want to leave him there, if even for a minute, but she knew if she didn’t open the door, her thrall would likely break it down. “One second,” she whispered, as if it needed to be said, as though Blaize had missed the pounding on the door as it became more insistent. “I’m coming, calm down,” she snapped, and instantly, the thunder stopped. When the door opened, she had to force herself not to take a step back from the pure violence that radiated from the man. “You make strange requests,” Callum spoke, his voice a few octaves lower than usual, as if he was afraid to disturb the man that lived with her. “I know,” she responded, quickly snatching the bottles of bleach from him, even as his hand tightened around her wrist. There was nothing threatening or uncomfortable about the grasp, and it only lasted a few seconds as he drank in the blood, the messy hair, and red-rimmed eyes. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together, but he could say nothing. Do absolutely nothing. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be at the bar,” he growled, a second before disappearing down the hall. With him gone, so was the biting electricity that thrummed over her skin, the unease escaping her. Her thrall was one –hell- of a frightening man.

She knew he would never hurt her – he had told her countless times that he would rather die than risk a single scratch marring her flesh, but it still… it wasn’t normal. Nothing about this was normal. Shaking her head, she pushed a few dark curls from her features as she began to dilute the bleach with water, her thoughts spinning. “They remember everything?” Her question was quiet as she dropped the bucket at their side and grabbed a few towels, the blood slowly beginning to come away as she concentrated on the job at hand. She wanted to forget this mess and turn away, but it needed to disappear. It needed to no longer be there, to remind them of what had happened. “You can’t go without blood,” she said, stating the obvious as she let his words sink in, the turbulence of his voice breaking her heart. “You just can’t, so we can figure something out. There has to be something.” Ignoring his protests that he'd be fine, she chewed on her lower lip before tilting her head. “What if… what if you take from me? Can we drink vampire blood? Will it sustain us?”


[BLAIZE]
Blaize could see from where he was standing; he could see the thrall and his protective stance, could see the way he grabbed at Aleksa's wrist and Blaize's head spun. Was it going to happen all over again? Why did the men in Aleksandra's life have to be so pushy, so ... handsy? Why did they have to make Blaize feel like he wanted to break their scrawny necks? The thrall was concerned for his 'Master' and it only stirred at the guilt, the brew still thick and strong and bitter in Blaize's gut, his very soul. No doubt the thrall was afraid for Aleksandra's safety in the presence of one such as Blaize. And maybe he was right to be. How many more men were there in Aleksa's life that Blaize was going to hate? Why did she have to attract the crazy ones, the protective ones, the assholes who tried to work her to death? And if that was who she attracted, then what was he? Someone who'd nearly slaughter an ex, that's who. And that's not a good look on anyone.

The door closed, bleach was splashed. It burned Blaize's nostrils, and now he cleaned with a renewed fervor. He wanted to get it done. He wanted to burn the sheets. He wanted to scrub his skin raw and curl into bed facing the wall with his back to the world. He wanted to hide. It was a new sensation, but he was slowly recognising it for what it was. He shook his head, and his words were sharp. "No. You'd find it just as hard to find a vampire to feed from, even more so than a human. And if I took from you, you'd have to take twice as much to make up for it. No, I'm not doing that," he said. He refused to put Aleksandra in that predicament. And then he stopped. He stopped working, stopped speaking, and stared at the closed door. "Him," he said. "Your thrall. You can tell him he has to grin and bear it and never say a word. I can take from him," Blaize said, turning back to Aleksandra. Even if Blaize wished he had that power himself; he could enthrall anyone. There was the notion of enthralling some other woman... but it was banished. He was too tired for jealousy. To tired to let it fester. He knew he was feeling overly sensitive, and he couldn't pander to the negativity. "...unless you'd rather not put him in danger?" he asked, head cocked to the side, mouth dry.


[ALEKSANDRA]
When he spoke, she remained focused on the floor, her knuckles turning white from strain. She was afraid if she broke contact, something would go missing. A speck of blood or a piece of flesh would get left behind and someday down the road, it would be found. The thought of reliving this evening had her moving faster, her nails scraping against the tile and getting caught in the grout. She felt one break, but the sharp pain was nothing compared to what she had heard in his voice and witnessed in his eyes. It was a drop of water in the middle of a turbulent sea, and she was more concerned of losing them both beneath the crashing waves. Clearing her throat, she pulled back long enough to squeeze out the towel. “I would do whatever it took to help you, Blaize,” she responded, her words carefully chosen. It wasn’t just their relationship that made her speak the truth. It wasn’t their connection that made her willing to walk through fire for him. He had saved her life – he had given her a reason to continue on. When she suffered, he was there. When she fell, he put her back on her feet. If she had to up her blood intake to keep him alive, to help him overcome the curse that coursed through his veins, she would. However, even as she spoke the words, her conviction adding strength to them, she figured it was a lost cause. He wouldn’t allow her to do what she thought was needed, because while she protected him – he protected her.

That didn’t stop the wild thoughts of bed sheets and fangs piercing flesh from entering her mind. Shaking her head, she finished wringing out the towel before dipping it back into the mix, the chemicals teasing her nose. She knew if she were to breathe in, it would burn, and so she kept herself still. It was an uncomfortable sensation, even though she knew she didn’t need the oxygen she craved. Of course, none of that mattered, because within seconds, he had ripped the rug out from beneath her. The sharp gasp of surprise had the burning chemicals infiltrating her lungs, and despite her efforts, she began to cough. Turning her head to the side, she lifted her arm and crooked her elbow as she cleared her airway, before allowing herself a moment to realize that it hadn’t been as bad as it seemed. Her lungs didn’t burn, her breathing wasn’t labored. It was just… disgusting. The taste still lingered on her tongue. “You want to use…” The words seemed lost on her. It wasn’t jealousy that kept her stunned, bleached towel laying against her bare thighs, nor was it her concern for his safety. She trusted him. He wouldn’t kill her thrall, he wouldn’t rip out his throat or snap his spine. It was… surprise. “I… can do that.” Arching backwards, she stretched her arm out until her fingers brushed along the edge of the counter, and a few seconds later, she had her phone back in hand. She didn’t want to give him a chance to doubt himself, so her fingers were already flying across the screen, the message typed and sent within seconds.


[BLAIZE]
They would both do whatever it took to help each other; Blaize would keep his woes to himself to keep Aleksandra safe, and she would give him her very own blood to keep him sated. What else would they do for each other? What else, out of this context? The moment was hardly romantic, saturated as it was with the scent of bleach and chemicals but, as Aleksandra reached for her phone to do exactly as he'd asked of her, Blaize felt the swell in his chest. A feeling so foreign and yet so persistent, weighted as it was with his love for her. Who was Callum to her? Did he mean much? Did she have any qualms, telling him what to do? Blaize shook his head, reaching out to slow her fingers, still them, cover the screen of her phone to make her stop. He stepped closer to her, her hands enclosed within his. "I've fed, Leksa. I don't need anything else tonight," he said. He didn't feel like he needed any more, even if it was technically untrue. He would have had to drain Lance to be fully satisfied, to make up for all that he had denied himself. For now, however, there was a gleam to his eyes and slight colour to his cheeks. He would be okay, at least for another night.

"And maybe... maybe don't command him. Suggest it to him. Ask if he will do it of his own accord because... I think that'll be better," he said. Thinking about it, thinking about what he had revealed to Aleksandra earlier -- it was better if someone was willing, not if they were forced. It would be better if Callum helped Blaize because he wanted to -- his reasons didn't have to matter. The will, however, the will had to be there. "We'll clean this up. Maybe we can... go out while we let the place air out. Maybe we... or we can just stay here but can we not think about it anymore tonight?" he asked, still holding Aleksa's hands tight, searching her eyes with his. "Why were you so surprised? That I suggested Callum..." he asked, the question seemingly out of nowhere. But he was curious, and he didn't want to forget to ask.


[ALEKSANDRA]
There was a shift in the air, one that she couldn’t seem to focus on, to grasp. The darkness began to ebb as light shined through, the rays of sun bright and warm, but she couldn’t pinpoint what had happened. It was as though she was trying to claw her way to the surface, her lungs aching in preparation for a the first burst of fresh air, and as he stepped towards her, his hands enclosing her, she finally burst free. As her eyes began to clear, the influx of emotion starting to deteriorate, she offered him a smile. It didn’t quite brighten her face, but it was genuine, and it was warm. This moment, this night, felt entirely too pivotal. It felt as though they balanced on a tight rope – both in their relationship, and their immortality. Her phone was in her hand, and she felt it vibrate against her skin. She didn’t move to twist her hand; she didn’t try to free herself from his grip. She remained focused on him, her eyes scanning his face, tracing the lines of his jaw. She took note of the color, the healthy glow in his skin. Guilt, then, slammed into her. It filled her and spread through her soul until she turned her gaze away. Tightening her jaw, she finally turned her hand, her fingers circling around his as she stepped into his embrace. She should have known, she should have realized the way his skin pulled and paled. On some level, she thought she had, but she hadn’t realized what it was. She hadn’t been intelligent enough, or strong enough, to put the pieces together until tonight, until he stood before her now, his eyes holding a gleam that they hadn’t before. It was then, when she brushed her lips along his jaw that she vowed to keep him healthy.

“You’re positive? If you’re not, I can get him back here, he’s not that far away…” Her voice trailed off as her phone vibrated again, and she finally laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t force his hand. I wouldn’t do that to you or to him. I asked him if he would be willing to do me a favor, but I haven’t told him what that favor is yet. I doubt he’s going to decline.” Chewing on the inside of her lip, she allowed his question to mull through her mind, her eyes darkening for a moment. “There’s nothing between us, though I’m not sure if that’s a concern. I honestly don’t know why I was so surprised. You always seem to keep me on my toes,” she chuckled, “I guess I just thought if you wouldn’t want my blood, you would want blood packs, but this is better. This is a lot better.”


[BLAIZE]
Before she could even finish answering, Blaize was nodding. Yes, yes he was positive. If he could last days without feeding at all, he could last another night nearly full. He didn't want any more interruptions, any more scenes or confrontations. From the brief look Blaize got of Callum, he didn't look like a laid-back kind of person. He looked intense, and it was that kind of intensity Blaize wanted to avoid. He was already feeling far too ashamed, far too guilty, to allow someone else into their inner sanctum. Because Blaize knew there was every chance the man would decline; the way he had regarded Aleksandra with such tense protectiveness... there was a chance there was something there that Aleksandra wasn't aware of, and that the man wouldn't at all be happy to feed her rabid vampire boyfriend. It wasn't a conversation Blaize wanted to have yet. "Blood packs are unethical. They're supposed to help save people's lives and, though I suppose in a round-a-bout way they'd be saving lives by keeping me from the necks of the innocent, I still don't feel right about it. If they were got from vans set up specifically to feed vampires and people were willingly giving blood for vampires to drink, then I'd be super fine with it," he said with a shrug. In the grand scheme of things, it was such a small part of his night -- something that took mere minutes to take care of. Every other minute, every other hour could be dedicated to enjoying himself, and banishing the guilt. Ignoring it, pushing it to the back of his psyche. Eventually, finally, he released Aleksa's hands. He let her have her phone back. And he bent down to pick up the soaked towels. He carried them over to the fireplace which was not yet crackling but soon would be roaring with the fuel provided by the bleach. "So do you want to stay in or go out...?"


[ALEKSANDRA]
With a quick jerk of his head, he effectively silenced any other concerns she might have had on the topic. She knew her boundaries when it came to the man standing before her. As much as she wanted to wrap her fingers into his shirt and shake him as if he was no more than a ragdoll, she knew that she couldn’t. She wanted to help him, she needed to save him from himself, but there was a jaded strength in his eyes, a stubborn gleam that told her the conversation was all but over. Instead of voicing another word on it, she swallowed her concern and closed her eyes. The light that had peeked through, the emotions that she dared not think on unless she were to get her hopes up – had all but eradicated any of the darkness that had taken its toll on her. It still lingered on the outskirts of her soul, but now, at least, she could theoretically breathe again. For how long, however, remained in question. “Okay, so blood packs are out. That’s fine, love, I can talk to Callum tomorrow,” she smiled, though there was a curious glint in her eye. She didn’t suffer the problems that he did, and yet, she wanted to be the one to help him, to pull him from the darkness, and help him survive. Reaching up, she curled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and lifted herself onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s going to okay. One way or another, it will all be okay.” There was more she thought to say, words on the tip of her tongue, begging to be breathed into reality, but she swallowed them back out of her own sense of fear. Settling back onto her heels, she smoothed her hand down the front of her camisole – and frowned. The material was sticky and warm, and the blood was still on her skin. It wasn’t until then, that the scent began to reach her from beneath the aroma of bleach.

When her stomach rolled, she turned her head away and scanned their surroundings, his words playing over in her mind. Did she want to face the world after what had just happened? Her emotions were frayed, and she felt as if she were a step away from snapping, but… “We should take a shower before we do anything. It will help with the blood, and maybe it will help distress us?” It wasn’t what she meant to say. She meant to mention the fact she could feel him, she could feel –everything-, but she didn’t. Now wasn’t the time – he was the focus, not her. Her time would come. For now, she started to take a step back, towards the shower, her smile turning into something more promising. “Am I going alone?”


[BLAIZE]
Aleksa had followed Blaize to the fire, the heat of it feeling wrong, somehow, as it dried the blood clinging to pants that had previously been clean, unworn since they'd been washed. Not too long ago they'd smelled only subtly of washing powder (which claimed to harness the scent of summer), and now they smelled of bleach and blood. They'd have to be thrown away, destroyed. Blaize stood with his arms limp, his fingers only lightly trailing Aleksa's waist as she leaned up to kiss him. He was still watching her like a hawk, his bright eyes taking in her every movement, wanting to read her every thought. She claimed that it would be okay and though Blaize knew that it was only a sentiment, only the hope of a thought, he allowed it to soothe him regardless. Aleksa couldn't know the future. She couldn't know that it was going to be okay. But they could both try, couldn't they? There was something there in Aleksandra's eyes, like there was something she wasn't saying. Blaize waited, but rather than say whatever was on her mind, Aleksa was distracted. She was distracted by the clothes she wore, the way she touched them as if they were contaminated. A shower, she suggested, as if she couldn't wait to get out of them. And she was right. If they wanted to go anywhere they couldn't go the way they were, and simply changing clothes wouldn't work. Although Blaize had only just had a shower, now he was due for another. He nodded, dumbly. She'd stepped away, but he'd stayed put. Had they finished cleaning? A glance at the doorway assured him that there were no red slashes left in an otherwise gleaming white interior; the strong, acrid scent of bleach assured him that whatever meagre stains were left, they were chemically vanishing.

The dancer blinked at the words she'd said, the suggestion in them clear -- or so he thought. If there was any doubt, her repeated invitation banished it. That she could think of ... well, whatever she was thinking after a night like they'd had, Blaize was dumbfounded. But he still wasn't going to let her go alone. Rather than strip off in the shower, however, he undid the tie of his trackpants so they loosened around his hips; they fell to his feet and he tossed them in the fire after the towels. He moved the metal grate back into place so that the sparks wouldn't fly out and start a fire. Only then did he follow Aleksandra to the bathroom. There, he'd scrub himself raw -- unless he was distracted, which was equally plausible. It was as the heat beat down on their bare skin that he curled his fingers around the back of Aleksa's neck. He held her there, in front of him. He'd been so focused on his own guilt, he hadn't thought to ask: "Are you okay?"


[ALEKSANDRA]
She hadn’t missed the way his features shifted, his expression turning to one of shock – maybe even surprise. There was a sense of confusion threatening to push through the quieting storm of emotions, and she turned her head away to hide the way her lips curved in an amused smile. Her mind hadn’t been on sex. It hadn’t been on moving her hands over his skin, of pressing her lips to his until they both forgot what had transpired. Well, not entirely, but now… now, it was. Would that help? Would she be able to erase the darkness in his eyes, to chase away his demons by guiding his hands to the swell of her breasts? Shaking her head, she ran her fingers through her hair before tugging her camisole off. Her skin, stained red in various spaces, caught the light, but she ignored it as she turned on the spray. As the steam rose through the room, she closed her eyes and swallowed. She wanted to scream. She could still feel it building inside of her, the sensations overwhelming her. The hum of electricity, the sound of his footsteps, and the thud in her ears threatened to send her over the edge. With it, came the guilt once more. She could feel it swelling in her chest, threatening to spill from her eyes. She wanted to be there for him, to wash away his demons, to fight his curse – but her own was rearing its head. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she tilted her head back as the water ran over her skin and burned away the violence of the evening. Her mind was blank – too blank – and then she felt his touch. His fingers curled around the back of her neck, his chest pressed to her back, and she stilled. She quieted.

Tilting her head back, she rested it against his shoulder, her eyes remaining closed. If she opened them, he’d see the turmoil there – he’d misread it. Instead, she lifted her arm until her hand slid over his jaw and her fingers found his hair, where she gently scraped her nails over his scalp. “I don’t know.” She wouldn’t lie to him. They didn’t lie to each other. Instead, she bit into the inside of her lip. “Do you ever… do you feel more?” Her words didn’t make sense, she knew it. A sound of frustration built in her throat, and she lifted her free hand to press her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “I felt you. I felt your confusion, your guilt, your turmoil. I felt your emotions as I felt my own. That’s crazy, right? That’s insane. It’s not possible. It can’t be possible.” With a shake of her head, she allowed her eyes to open, finally, though she focused on the tiled wall before her, gaze traveling the path a few droplets took.


[BLAIZE]
At first, Blaize was confused. More? Did he feel more? He had no idea what she meant. Sure, yes. As a vampire, he did feel more. All his senses were heightened, it was natural to feel more. Emotionally, he considered -- he recalled the dark times, the times he'd wanted to take his own life. He'd considered all the ways a vampire might be killed permanently. He'd never felt like that before, even when he'd been sexually assaulted as a boy. Back then, he'd found his anger and he'd risen above. A few months ago he'd been unable to rise above anything. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say a thing, she continued, clarified. At first, she might feel from Blaize a swell of panic. Given the things he had witnessed and the things that he himself dealt with, he didn't think it was crazy, or insane, or impossible. The second thing she would feel might be compared quite neatly to doors slamming shut one after the other. But doors had cracks, above and below. Doors were not impenetrable. It was a knee-jerk reaction, not something done on purpose. There ought to be a policy of honesty and Aleksandra sharing this... thing with Blaize should not be greeted with a cold shoulder. "It's not insane. It's... new, to me. But it's not insane," he said, slowly. "When... I mean, when did it start? How long have you... felt what I felt?" he asked. He even laughed, though it wasn't at all funny. He turned Aleksandra around, he wrapped his arms around her, burying her head beneath his chin. "I'm sorry. If you've been subjected to that, I'm sorry," he said. It was enough to deal with his own emotions, but to have to deal with someone else's as well? And the kind that Blaize suffered... no. If he could help it, he would not subject her to that anymore.


[ALEKSANDRA]
As her gaze followed the chaotic path of the water, she tried to ignore the swell of emotions within him. The panic, she couldn’t explain. It was a curse in its own right. She could feel the panic, but she couldn’t fathom a reason for it. In that moment, it fuelled her own - and her mind began to travel down a road winding road she knew lead to nothing but trouble. The panic, was it there because he was worried for her - or was it there because he had something to hide? Snapping her eyes closed, she swallowed past the bitter taste the thought had left on her tongue and instead, tried to pull from him. It wasn’t a physical departure. Her body still remained against his, no space between their skin. It was emotional, spiritual. She didn’t want to feel what he felt. She didn’t want to feel how he began to shut down, those doors slamming closed and blocking her off. It was supposed to be a relief - but it wasn’t just the anger and the guilt he had taken from her, but the light. The warmth. Suddenly, she felt chilled, despite the heat of the shower. She didn’t speak, and when he turned her around, she kept her face hidden against his chest. She remained like that for a while, even after he had spoken. There was no sound other that the steady fall of water, until finally, she released a sigh. “If I felt it before, it was nothing compared to earlier. It was like being smacked with a wrecking ball. I felt everything, and not just from you.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to relive that pain and fear that had flooded through her ex-boyfriends veins, nor did she want him to know. Instead, she tilted her head back and brushed her lips over his jaw. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to, trust me. I don’t want this. Please, don’t be upset.” The words were barely whispered, and she realized then that she feared losing him because she was all but taking away whatever privacy he might have had.


[BLAIZE]
Aleksandra didn't have to elaborate. It didn't matter how much of an asshole Lance was, he was still human and could still feel pain, and fear. One couldn't be expected to remain calm and jubilant while one's wrist was being snapped, and blood sucked from the resulting wound. That would be terrifying. And Aleksandra had to feel it all -- that, as well as the rage and the bloodlust, the guilt and the shame. No wonder she'd been a mess! Now that he knew, Blaize became hyper aware. The doors had slammed shut as a knee-jerk reaction, something that he couldn't help -- now, he had time to look inside and really consider what it was he was feeling. One of those doors was pushed open. Maybe it was a test. Maybe he wanted to see how this perception of Aleksandra's really worked. Was it accurate, or was it vague? The sound of the water hitting tile was white noise, and it was calming even as it sluiced over their joined bodies. His fingers slipped through Aleksa's hair, his touch encouraging her to look up at him. To look him in the eye. The door that he had opened revealed the concern. The worry. Yes, Blaize was upset but it was on Aleksa's behalf. He was upset because now on top of potentially being overwhelmed by her physical senses, now she had something else on top of that to deal with. And Blaize wasn't exactly going to be an easy person to live with, if that was the case. He knew himself. He knew the kind of temper flares he was prone to. He knew that itch was liable to return, that deep and dark depression that he only JUST managed to crawl out of on his own last time. It was always there, lurking at the edge of his mind like a threat, ready to knock him on his ***. He was worried what it might do to her. "You have no reason to be sorry, Aleksa. What am I feeling now...?" he asked. "If it's accurate, if it's... if I get to be too much, you have to tell me, okay? I can give you some space..."


[ALEKSANDRA]
As his fingers slipped through the soaked chocolate curls, she wanted to fight the power he had over her. He had already endured so much more in such a small time frame, and the last thing she wanted was for him to suffer more because of the guilt and heartache reflecting in her eyes. Yet, his hold was to strong, and like a puppet on a string, she found her head falling back, her gaze traveling the length of his bare chest to the strong outline of his jaw, until finally, their eyes met. Of course I should be sorry, was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them down when that unfamiliar ache swelled in her chest. It came long before his question, and already, she was trying to put a name to the emotion. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she caught a few spare drops of water, before tilting her head. “Concern,” she began, her expression less pained as she focused on the power between them. “Are you concerned for me – or concerned because you can no longer hide from me?” The question had escaped in her moment of weakness, and she swore she could see them form in the small space between their bodies, only to disappear before she could steal them back. Even though she was tangled with the twisted web of his emotions, the thought of allowing her vulnerability to be displayed for him was too much. Turning her head away once again, she trailed her lips along his collarbone with a calming hum. “If it gets too much, love, I’ll let you know. Perhaps not with words, but you’ll know. “

It already was too much – but not in the sense that he meant. She was beginning to doubt herself, in her ability to be strong. When she took a step forward, she was catapulted four steps back. There had to be a silver lining to this newfound power – it had to mean something that she continued to find herself tossed into the darker aspects of vampirism. Sliding her palms along the strong expanse of his back, she kept her eyes closed as she continued the soft affection of her lips across his skin, distracted as she was by her own inner turmoil. No matter what – she would find a way to control it, and maybe, just maybe, she could turn it into something good. Something useful – and something to make him proud.


[BLAIZE]
They weren't getting much of a wash in this shower, but at least the hot water was washing the blood from their alabaster skin. It matted in Blaize's hair, darker when wet, revealing the brunette at the roots. If he cut off all his hair and let it grow, it would be dark and not bleach blonde. It was something he had considered, though the blonde had grown on him. His arms wrapped easily around Aleksandra, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Concern for you, because I can no longer hide from you," he said. There was fear in there, too -- just a snippet, easily axed. He tried to be optimistic, tried to tell himself he'd never want to kill himself again. It would never get that bad. Aleksa would not have to suffer what he suffered; he would not need to find new and clever ways to hide his true grief from her. Because he could not predict how he might act, this time around. If he knew that she could feel him, to what lengths might he go to push her away? He cleared his throat and took a deep breath in.

"Now what am I feeling?" he asked. The concern was still there, but why did the concern exist? If he didn't care for Aleksa, then he wouldn't feel concerned for her. He focused instead on the why. He closed his eyes as he focused on the good times; the night they met, when he tried eating her food but had to throw it back up again. The night in her apartment, the first time they slept together. The way his mood shifts and lifts as soon as she walks through the door of the studio. He pulled back only so that his lips could press against hers, the kiss reassuring, comforting. And she would feel the way his heart swelled, the ache both painful in its enormity, and addictive in its pleasure. Love.


[ALEKSANDRA]
When she was younger, the shower was her security blanket – her haven. Whenever something would go wrong, whenever she felt as if the world was against her, she would take shelter within the tiled walls and find her solace among the plastic bottles that lined the edge of the basin. The ducks and the frogs that littered the plastic curtain became her best friends as she spent the nights whispering her secrets. As she grew older and her emotions became more volatile, she traded her pajamas for bare skin, and she no longer had childish décor to talk to. Instead, she’d rest her forehead against the frosted glass of her shower door and bow her head as she allowed the heated spray to beat against her flesh. Sometimes, she would cry – others, she would scream, but never did she allow someone else into her sanctuary, where the rising steam offered her privacy and no one would condemn her. That was, of course, until she met him. Not daring to lift her head, she began to dance her fingers against his skin as he spoke. He tried to explain away his concern, and yet, his attempt only fueled the anxiety that had built. As acid coated her tongue, she turned her head to the side and brushed her lips against his collarbone. “Why would…” The question began to form before she had given herself a chance to think it through. The words took residence alongside the bitter panic that tap-danced across her taste-buds, but she didn’t finish speaking them. With a sharp click, she snapped her mouth shut and tightened her jaw to stall any other foolish anxieties that thought to take hold. What did she honestly plan to ask, had she dared to continue? ‘Why would you want to hide?’ ‘Why would you keep secrets from me?’

She was only torturing herself. She was allowing the array of bleak emotions cling to her skin like an oil stain. She could feel the thickness of them as they crawled against her, and she swore she could feel them seep into her pores and dig their way into her soul. It wasn’t her talking. It wasn’t her questioning everything she felt within him – it was the despair, the demons. Finally allowing herself a moment of strength as she relished in the clarity, she tipped her head back to find his gaze – but whatever she had thought to say died on her tongue when their lips met. It wasn’t just the kiss that left her speechless, but the emotion that came with it. It was like he had lit a match and tossed it onto a pyre. The shadows retreated, the negativity vanished, but still, she said nothing. The words wouldn’t come, but that didn’t mean her mind was silent. Instead of allowing the words to grace her lips, the questions ran rampant through her thoughts. Had he meant to? How could he? Was she certain that’s what she had felt from him? Throughout the uncertainty, however, there was one gleaming truth, one certainty that she couldn’t deny. She loved him. She had loved him since he had fallen into the sewers and saved her life. She had loved him as he kept her at arm’s length, and she had loved him when he chased her into the rain and kissed her as if he needed her to breathe. Fueled with the fire he had ignited, she curled her fingers into his hair and deepened the kiss for a few beats, before forcing herself to pull away so she could speak the four words that would change the course of their relationship. “I love you, too.”