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Perhaps Autumn had always been his favourite season, or perhaps it had grown on him over the years. He’d fondly remembered Summers past; long hot days that bled into sticky nights best spent in meadows under a blanket of stars. The hum of overzealous honeybees was replaced by the chirping of moon-worshiping crickets, and it was still warm enough that clothes peeled away as effortlessly as orange skins. There were a few delightful memories that had been formed in the Winter too; long cold nights that warranted a mountain of blankets. Body heat had always been best shared when limbs tangled together and cherry brandy spiced the blood. Spring and Autumn were transitory seasons, an expanse of fleeting twilight between two extremes. Putting aside the fact that the white-haired Vampire had been born in September, his soul had a natural affinity for Autumn. After all, he had always been a fan of dress-up and spooky tales, and only a fool failed to admire the leaves as they blazed, glorified, in the crisp, dry air. Not even the dreary, colourless nights of Harper Rock had the power to dull Autumn’s shine.

The sky was clear tonight and hung over the cityscape like a deep navy canopy. The gleam from headlights, windows, and overhead lamps blotted out the stars, but caused those fallen leaves to sparkle like veins of gold in a concrete quarry. Not that people cared to pause and appreciate or even acknowledge the world around them. Even in a city plagued by disease and the supernatural, Monday night held very much the same routine as it always had. Commuters moved as a stream down the roads and pathways, juxtaposed by the occasional wayfarer who broke the fast-flowing current like a rock. Had anyone cared to examine anything beyond their carapace with a reflective eye, or had taken action when their collective livelihoods had been threatened, then perhaps the circumstances of the city might have been very different.

Change came to Harper Rock as leisurely as the leaves fell, and came slower still to Myk. Time was a construct that he’d never really understood, or felt, in the same way others did. The significance was mostly lost on him because his memories were more often obscured and twisted. It was as though his brain took the past, present, and future and pressed them together, folding and kneading them like strands of coloured play-dough. His father’s diagnosis suggested that there was a remedy to his fractured mind, but Myk didn’t see a problem that needed fixing. Of course he’d woken to inexplicable scenes - many that distressed him - and yet he had survived them, cementing his conviction not to worry. Besides, there were many great things in the world that had yet to be catalogued or fully understood, so it seemed just crazy to follow a path he didn’t believe in.

What Myk believed in quite strongly, however, was having the freedom to follow his whims. He liked who he was; he stood out from the crowd, he was confident, and unapologetic. The Vampire was an incredibly vain creature and indulged in a hedonistic lifestyle, yet he was far more capable than what seemed fair given his many, many vices. That wasn’t to say that life was an endless party for the Telepath. There were still nuances that escaped his comprehension, a limit to his patience, and prizes he longed for that were outside even his reach. One such prize happened to be approaching him from the opposite side of the road just as inspiration had struck to comb a silver-clawed hand through his wispy locks. The Allurist hadn’t seemed to notice the white-haired Vampire as he adjusted a pair of headphones, but the same couldn’t be said for the Telepath as the scent of cinnamon permeated the air between them.

Myk paused on the step as the other male passed, proceeding into the alleyway. Those pewter eyes grew as large and round as silver dollars before narrowing again. This was a prize that he’d tried to claim several times before, but one that fate had always snatched away from him. A sly glance and a quick Appraisal over his shoulder confirmed it and he turned his whole body, his brows puckering and his heart heaving as the herculean figure walked away from him once again. Perhaps he should have let it happen. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gotten lost in fantasies and remained anchored to the present, appreciating what treasures were already open to him. Perhaps he should have mirrored the inaction of his fellow civilians and not followed Fable into that alleyway. There were a lot of questions surrounding the Telepath, but one certainty: he’d never regret a decision in his life.

Despite the steel heels and ostentatious buckles of his knee-high boots, Myk made little to no sound as he marched back through the alleyway. He came up on the other male’s side in seconds, swooping in like an owl; the sleeves of his fur collared cape acting as the bird’s intimidating wingspan. Rather than clutch the male by the throat with his talon-like nails, the Telepath acted on a far more devious plan. By looping a finger around the wire of Fable’s headphones, he was able to snatch the little piece of plastic out of his ear, exposing the pink shell to his probing tongue. At first, Myk was content with lathing a wet trail around the exterior, but it wasn’t long before he fell to the temptation of being a mischievous little ****. He forced the fat, wet muscle into the canal, wriggled the tip to ensure it both tickled and disturbed, and then took a wide step back from Fable. He couldn’t restrain the witch-like cackle that burst out of his lungs, past his red-painted lips, even if he’d wanted to…

Having caught Fable completely off guard, it was natural to expect some kind of retaliation. Anticipation had spiked in his veins, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end and his porcelain skin to bead with goosebumps. It was that thrumming, liquid excitement which had his muscles at the ready, allowing the smaller, swifter Vampire to leap out of the way of the male’s lunge; an action that was certainly meant as a form of defence. Myk doubted that Fable would mean to do anyone harm, even those who wished death upon him. He was just too darn sweet for his own good. It was certainly his most attractive quality, yet also a source of extreme annoyance for the Telepath. On the one hand, he wished to protect and preserve that tender naivety so that there remained at least one bright, sparkling source of goodness in the world. And yet, he was the very person that should have stayed far away from the other male so as to prevent that light from being snuffed out for good.

Amusement flared in those pewter eyes as he continued to laugh maniacally at Fable’s reaction, at the expression that soured his handsome features. He almost wished to break from his mischief to massage the frown out of the man’s brow, but resentment had shackled iron balls to his wrists and ankles to keep him in place. The white-haired Vampire was a vengeful soul and such revenge was often swift and, to his victims, more confusing or disgusting than outright harmful. Myk was rarely violent, which was just as well for the Allurist as he rudely shoved the Telepath against the wall of the alleyway. His thoughts and blood pressure raced as the back of his skull connected with the brickwork; perhaps the doe-eyed labrador had evolved into a wolf during his absence. Suddenly, there was a hand snaking its way around his jawbone to the back of his neck, there was another hand in his hair. Myk’s glare broke and he obliged to a perceived command to lift his chin, exposing his throat, but the male snared his lips instead.

He froze. Even as the Allurist sought to part his lips and steal his breath away, the white-haired man remained unmoving. His spine erected against the wall as Fable sought to seal their chests together, his eyes took to the darkness of the sky as his mind experienced a blackout. Slowly and cautiously, he began to wake from the shock. Like frozen dew thawing in the Winter dawn, he moved to respond. His eyes fluttered closed and the tension in his body uncurled. Myk raised his hand to Fable’s face, the tips of his platinum-drenched nails skidding along the curve of a cheek. His other hand gripped a shoulder before slipping up just enough so he could press his fingertips through that honey-bleached hair, twisting his digits to capture those strands and tug. He didn't pull hard enough to be painful, but certainly enough to act like reigns. Whether he had planned to fight and tear those hands off himself, or claw his way inside the other male through his mouth, however, Myk couldn’t quite figure out at that moment.

The truth of it was that the Telepath held a very sacred place in his heart for that man. Myk had felt it on the very first day they’d met; a silent pull in Fable’s direction like a ghostly rope had been tethered to his heart and dragged him closer. When they’d crossed the line, it had only become worse; his affections unearthed and dragged into the limelight like a pulsating, malignant force. The attraction had always remained there too, like a humming just below the edge of Myk’s hearing that became an ear-splitting crescendo that was impossible to ignore whenever they were reunited. He assaulted Fable with his attention, the need to escape into an alternate reality where there was no pain and only pleasure could be found. He had pressured Fable into the role that suited him best, took release from him, and then the man would disappear as if he was never really there. It was always best to believe he was dreaming because living without him had felt like a nightmare. At least, it had been that way until he’d met Claude…

Clarity cut the indecision from his limbs and his fist tightened in Fable’s hair, pulling their faces apart. Myk gasped in the wake of it, cold air spilling over cheeks and bringing attention to how sore and slightly swollen his lips were following the onslaught of blunt teeth and forceful kisses. His pewter eyes became leaden and dull as he worryingly observed the man’s features. In the same moment, a frown blemished the contour of his brow; the tiny wrinkles reflecting the new bumps in their relationship. And, as if defeated, his hands slid down to rest, feather-light, on Fable’s shoulders. Some dormant part of his brain woke to the idea of applying an apology to the situation - like covering a severed artery with a bandaid - and so of course, the superior parts of Myk’s brain scoffed. Still, he clenched his hands around Fable’s shoulders until he’d balled the fabric into his palms. Whatever he decided, he just couldn’t let go, not yet.