Chapter Text
Raphael
With spare time to waste, Raphael had learned to occupy himself, like any other vampire.
So, he had cultivated several interests and hobbies, some surviving the years, other forgotten or abandoned. It was how he came to speak several languages, play the piano proficiently, how he had a precise, excellent, steady hand and absolute perfect aim while playing darts, how he knew he despised all heavy physical contact sports, but tolerated boxing, how he knew he was hopeless at dancing despite having a good sense of rhythm, how Sudoku was his bitch, how he knew he would never say no to a glass of B positive, but could barely stand A negative, and how he, after years of solitude constricted to the darkness, remained at heart a family man.
Every few weeks, Raphael would go down to the neighbourhood near the docks to visit what was left of his family in New York. (Tonight he’d left in haste, not wanting to see or talk to Simon who was already awake. Raphael felt pretty sure he was about to give in, to crack because of that damn smile, and probably fall right back into bed with that incompetent idiot who’d managed to screw him over before they’d even begun—)
He would visit the son and daughter of his now fifty-four year-old niece Belén, whose father, Eliseo, was Raphael’s younger brother. Belén knew what he was, and soon the two children would be told as well. He secretly looked forward to it, knowing they would be excited.
But the point was this:
Raphael Santiago knew very well who he was and what he wanted, and what he valued.
Raphael Santiago was and always had been, and always would be a family man, regardless of age or unlife. That was why, he knew, Camille was horribly unfit for the job of clan leader, whereas he would become a good one. And that was why, he knew, he felt hurt all the more when someone broke the trust of family.
Simon
With spare time to waste, Simon experimented with music, like trying out other genres, or converting songs that had no guitar parts, replacing synthesizers or drums with his own chords. This one, though, was just an old one.
He sang, in a deep voice,
If you breathe in, then I breathe in,
and slowly let go,
If you need it I need it, then I need it,
and only we’ll know,
and then promptly shoved his guitar away, sick of it. What a sappy piece of shit song. Never fucking mind it sounded good.
It was nearing sunrise, a few hours or so, but he’d not been able to sleep. His reflexion told him he looked like crap.
Man, was he hungry. Hunger as a vampire and hunger as a human were two completely separate things! When you were a human, hunger made you sick to your stomach. It made you lightheaded and weak.
When you were a vampire, however, before the bouts of light-headedness and weakness, first came the jittery feeling of unrest. Simon became snappy. Rude.
It was either Be Rude or Be Disgusted: blood drinking still didn’t sit right with him. He’d puked a few times, embarrassingly enough, when he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was human blood he was drinking. Was he a cannibal? Or did that only apply to flesh eating? Agh.
Simon left his room and quietly padded down the hall, down the stairs and turned left towards the kitchen, where he immediately opened the coolers and tore through a pack. Then another. Blood dripped down his chin.
‘You couldn’t have given me a better example of how you’re not taking care of yourself,’ came a voice from behind, and Simon honest to god shrieked. ‘How long’s it been since you last fed?’
‘Raphael! Fuck! What is wrong with you?’ he shouted. The half-empty blood bad was lying on the floor, blood splatters all over the white tiles. ‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘You’re cleaning that up, by the way.’ Raphael entered the kitchen and closed the door. 'How long?'
‘Were you –were you awake?’
‘Apparently. How long, Simon?'
‘So you heard—,’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been hearing—,’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh. Oh, shit, sorry. I’m sorry if I kept you up. If I’d have known—,’ he started.
Raphael cut in, ‘Why did you think a vampire down the hall with enhanced senses wouldn’t hear you? Honestly, Simon.’ He opened the cooler and got out a B positive bag, deftly draining the thing without spilling a speck of blood.
‘Oh. Well, you never make any noise, whether you’re asleep or awake,’ – (the fact was this: to Raphael this was a bit depressing to hear, as if it confirmed he wasn’t there at all) – ‘so I just figured you slept through it. Besides,’ Simon shrugged, leaning over the counter to grab a cleaning rag, ‘I was never loud or anything.’
'How long, Simon?'
He murmured, 'Day before yesterday.'
Raphael rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sighed. ‘You sound good.’
‘I do? Thanks.’ Simon remained awkward. Then, unexpectedly, smiled broadly. He couldn't help it. Raphael looked like wanted to take a blow at that face.
‘Mh,’ he grunted.
‘Rapha, about yest—,’
‘Don’t call me that, entiende?’ Raphael bit out.
Simon looked taken aback for a second, then recovered. ‘Sorry. Dude, you are such an asshole sometimes. I’m trying. And, fuck you, I was trying to apologize for yesterday.’
‘Well, go on then.’
Simon smacked the bloodied rag on the counter. It came down with a disgusting slosh. He pushed up his glasses – unnecessary, but he still liked them. Maybe it was some hipster leftover.
‘I do …’
…
‘You do what? How am I supposed to know what you’re saying?’
Simon pushed out the words with visible effort. Apparently they were both stubborn. ‘I do think about what I did. About Camille, I mean.’
The facts were these:
One, Simon Lewis, a selfish fool, spent most time trying not to think about Camille and how his life had spiralled out of control since that fatal evening he’d gone out with Maureen and Clary.
Two, Simon Lewis might be blind and deaf to a vampire’s standard, but he still scored rather well on the human scale: though reluctant to admit it, it wasn’t too difficult to understand why Raphael was angry. A seething, simmering hate that translated to icy replies and obvious dismissal and avoidance of Simon, as opposed to the others, who let their anger show.
Three, Simon Lewis didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
Simon didn’t say, ‘Shit, I’m sorry you fell for such an ass like me.’
He didn’t say, ‘So, after all this time, it kinda seems like you’re still … you know. Uhm?’
He didn’t say, ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’ Not the clan, but you.
He couldn’t say any of that. Even thought he should have.
Instead he said, ‘I’m sorry I let her out and endangered all of you. It’s my fault she’s out there now, free.’
Raphael stared at him, disappointed.
Raphael
Raphael stared at him, furious. ‘I’m not going to forgive you. Not until you apologize for the right thing.’
‘Rapha—,’
‘Pendejo.’ Raphael shook his head. ‘No.’ He left.
Raphael remembered a specific moment, the day before Camille was set free. A moment seared into his brain, no matter how much he wasted away in his bed with an unresponsive mind.
There was a specific moment, and the facts were these:
Simon came back exhausted from the Institute, groaning about food.
‘Blood,’ Raphael corrected, leaning over Simon’s slumped body in the couch.
Simon waved his hand. ‘Sustenance. What have you. Whatever. Get me some.’
He peeped an eye open and found Raphael raising his brows. ‘Please?’
‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, baby,’ he warned, walking to a spare cooler behind a screen and pulling out a bag. ‘Here. Buen provecho.’
‘I assume that means enjoy or something.’
‘The education system is going down the drain,’ Raphael said. He plopped down on the couch next to Simon. He was staring again.
‘Quit staring, freak,’ Simon grumbled. A bit of blood spilled from the tube, flicking against his cheek.
With the devil quite possibly possessing him, Raphael moved forwards and licked away the drop.
Simon flinched, and blood smeared next to his mouth. He froze and whipped his head to Raphael. ‘Uh…’
‘Mh?’
Raphael leaned in, testing the waters and leaving room for refusal, but when none came and Simon kept switching from staring at his lips and his eyes, he leaned in further and sucked away the blood. ‘Oh. Uh. That …’
‘Well, well, well, baby shuts up.’ Raphael smiled. A genuine smile. And Simon being Simon couldn’t help but mimic it.
‘It’s just, uh, unexpected.’
‘Really?’ He sucked hard and with a soft pop, his fangs protruded and he bit down on Simon’s lips.
And the specific moment was the moment when Simon relaxed around him and took charge. It made him feel, in some respects, alive.
Simon
‘Are you kidding me?’ Simon shouted at him, running into the hall. ‘You’re just walking away? I’m trying to talk to you! You know, you keep accusing me of shit, but I think you should take a long, hard look in the mirror! You think I’m the only one to blame for this whole thing?’
Raphael didn’t turn around. At the top of his voice, he yelled ‘Fuck you!’ and then Raphael swivelled and hissed, ‘Cállate! Keep your voice down, you idiot. Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself?’ Raphael yanked him back into the kitchen and slammed the door shut. Everyone in Dumort was awake.
There was a specific moment, during the early morning before he set Camille free and signed that fateful contract. A sensory memory, one he could smell and hear, rather than see.
There was a specific moment, and the facts were these:
Simon got out of the shower, smelling of pine. It was a fresh, soothing scent.
Raphael tracked his movements from where he lay in bed, a near invisible, content smile on his face. He looked relaxed.
‘You leaving?’
‘Yep,’ Simon said, buttoning his jeans, ‘Going back to the Institute before the sun’s up. Got some stuff I need to take of there. They’ll hate me for asking to black out the windows again, but oh, well.’ Simon towelled his hair. ‘A vampire’s gotta do what a vampire’s gotta do.’
‘You need blood?’
‘Probably for the best,’ Simon grimaced. ‘Yuck.’
Raphael hummed. ‘Maybe you’re going about it wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
Raphael smirked and motioned for him to come closer. Simon approached cautiously, setting the wet towel aside and dipping on the mattress. Now, he wasn’t a dummy. He knew where this was going.
‘It can be good, too, you know.’
Simon pushed his glasses up. His hands were clammy. He smelled pine everywhere.
‘Can I show you?’ It was vulnerable, lacking Raphael’s usual arrogance.
He nodded, and then Raphael put one hand behind Simon’s neck and the other under his chin, thumb pressing against Simon’s skin, bared his neck slowly, and pulled him in. ‘Carefully, and slowly,’ he instructed. At least Simon could follow instructions, and he punctured ice-cold skin, feeling a rush of blood escape. His hands slid up, pausing on both sides of Raphael’s shoulders, then neck, then intertwined at the back of his head, curling into his hair, and he sucked closely, kissing the reddened skin.
It really was the strangest sensation. It made Simon feel warm inside. He never drank blood this slowly, this intently, and certainly not from him.
And that was the specific moment, when Simon pulled away and saw the expression on Raphael’s face. Satisfied and at peace.
Raphael
Everyone in Dumort was awake, pretending not to listen.
‘I still can’t grasp what led you to believe it was the right move. Of all the impulsive, thoughtless—’
‘For Jocelyn, I’ve told you! I needed to save her, we needed to save her! She’s like my second mother. She’s important to me,’ Simon explained for the thousandth time.
‘There could have been another way to save her.’
‘No—,’
‘Yes, Simon, there’s always another way. Do you seriously think that no one but Camille knew where the book of white was? No one? Not a single person?’
‘There was no time! And you know what, I’m getting sick and tired of you lying to me. You’re not pissed I betrayed the clan, you’re pissed I betrayed you, because we—,’ he stopped.
‘Pendejo,’ Raphael repeated with venom, inching closer with a murderous look on his face. ‘You can’t say it, can you? We slept together. I cared for you and you knew what that meant, and then you spat in my face. You didn’t care at all.’
‘I never said that.’ Simon tried to reach out to him.
Raphael slapped his hand away. He didn’t like people touching him. ‘Stop. And you’ve had three and a half months to correct my assumptions.’
Simon deflated and leaned against the kitchen counter, pushing the bloodied rag into the sink. ‘Listen, Rapha, I don’t know what to think, all right? It’s not like you’re so easy to read! And I’m not gonna keep apologizing for what happened, okay? I made a decision – a shitty one, okay, yeah – but I made a decision and I stick to it. I’m sorry for hurting you, it really wasn’t my intention.’ He wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘I wanted … I think about you sometimes,’ he admitted, looking away.
The expression of fury on Raphael’s face cleared and was replaced with sorrow. A genuine face, for once. Simon reached for another blood bag, obviously feeling antsy.
Finally admitting what he felt and sounding hopelessly small, Raphael said, ‘I don’t know what to do with you.’
The sun was setting now, a faint red glow peeping in through the shutters.
‘That makes two of us,’ Simon said.
They stayed in the kitchen side by side for the rest of the morning – early evening. There were still a few droplets of blood on the floor that needed to be cleaned up. The blood bag Simon had been drinking was empty, and he tossed the pack into the bin, settling back against the kitchen island in the middle of the room while taking his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes, running his hands through his hair. Raphael followed the movements. A little bit of blood was starting to turn brown right above Simon’s upper lip. Raphael weighed his options. Most likely the bastard knew. Or maybe he was just an inadequate vampire.
Raphael took a napkin, approached Simon, wiped away the blood, and accused, ‘Tramposo.’
—
The facts were these:
Sometime in the future, Simon would again step out of a shower smelling like pine.
Sometime in the future, Raphael would admit the burden of immortality on his mind, how he could not stand it.
Sometime in the future, Lily would slap Simon, leaving behind an ugly red mark, when Raphael explained the details of what happened between them.
Sometime in the future, Simon would walk around the gigantic metropolis of New York City by himself, undeterred by the lights and the smells, and he would not be thinking himself into an abyss, but instead, smiling at a story Ali told him the day before. He would have abandoned the grand distraction plan.
Sometime in the future, Raphael would find himself paralyzed in his bed, numb to time, pushing away a distressed face floating above him.
Someday, maybe in a decade or a century, or heaven knows when, everyone they once knew would die, the world changing around them at snail’s pace, but they would stay frozen in time.
And then one day, Simon would understand the real importance of new blood, of a fledgling, of the rejuvenating importance of life.