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This is wonderful, and terrible, and odd.
And just plain wonderful.
Edgar is bent over his anti vamp ware, crafting some more stakes, wood shavings stuck to his marine jacket. Sam is lounging on his love seat, comic book open on his knees.
So blissfully domestic.
Edgar soaks his hands in holy water that can no longer burn Sam, and chops up garlic that has no smell or discomfort.
"Still prepping, bud?"
"Sam," Edgar grinds a garlic clove between his two hands. "You know I never stop."
Sam breaks into a grin. He kicks out his feet, and cradles his head in his hands.
"You know, bud..." He gestures aimlessly, licking his lips in thought. He discreetly sheathes his fangs in the darkness of his mouth. Edgar's blood...Jesus, it's like an addicting drum. "I was thinking we could go out."
Slowly, Edgar lifts his head. There is a barely definable upturn in his lips, and he scoffs.
"Really, Sam?" He straightens up, brushing sawdust from his trousers. He yanks a headband dense in sweat from around his head, dropping it beside his workbench. "Go where, exactly?"
"Hm..." Sam zips across the trailer in a show of supernatural speed; he creaks open the fridge door, his pale face illuminated by electrical light. He senses Edgar shifting uncomfortably; he should really try to get back into walking, but alas, he does tend to forget. He should do it at least for Edgar's sake. "You're completely out of milk, bud."
Ohhhh, they are really domestic.
"Shopping?" Edgar monotones, squaring his shoulders. "You want to go shopping?"
"Well..." Sam fixes Edgar's old t-shirt with a baneful eye. "Not just food shopping."
"Sambo," Edgar groans, and stretches, arching his back. An odd fire dances into Sam's gaze. "I'm on a budget, man. I can't..."
.
.
.
"This is friendship, Sam."
Santa Carla doesn't have a mall. It has trendy lines of shops, expensive independent brands, and of course, cheap markets and second hand stores overflowing with reefer stinking kaftans from the sixties. But on Second Street, just past the boardwalk, a new shop has opened; selling the brightly patterned eye burning fashions of yore that Sam so adores.
Alan had made a badly concealed excuse about working overtime. He'd tried to get Edgar to stay with him, but Sam was getting a little better at winding Edgar to doing what he liked.
Even at the expense of the morose elder Frog.
It was fair, though. Alan saw Edgar all the damn time, for pity's sake. They were basically joined at the hip, being brothers and all that. Alan snatched all the Edgarness; surely Sam could have a turn too.
Edgar is standing stock still amidst the blinding displays. He wrinkles his nose, and slides Sam's sunglasses from his back pocket.
Sam turns to see a shades sporting Edgar.
"Oh c'mon bud, that's just rude."
"No..." Edgar pushes the shades a little further onto his nose. "This is a health precaution."
Sam snickers, bagging his wonderfully co-ordinated purchases at the till. The shop girl, a pretty thing with multiple highlights and way too much eyeliner, slides her gaze down Edgar's defining chest.
Sam, bag in tow, drags out the living beetroot.
The sun soaks the side streets. It's a beautiful day, with the glittering tides and stark blue sky, and Sam just wants to melt into it all. Especially with Edgar by his side, and better yet, all to himself.
He'd link arms with the guy, if only to get Edgar to resemble a spluttering tomato. The teenager's body temperature has just once again reached average after the store girl fiasco.
He goes to say something off hand, but finds an empty space behind him.
Edgar has...paused. God damn paused, outside a second hand store, and Sam notes his gaze flicker to something in the window.
It's a brief thing, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Sam feels something odd bloom in his stomach; creeping up his insides, teasing his cheeks.
He sidles besides Edgar, who upon seeing his friend, instantly breaks away and goes to grunt a question, but Sam's arm snaking around his stops him.
"Sam, do you have to be such a cliché..."
"Is that what you like?" Sam points to the army patterned bandana in the shop window. It rests on a matching top, and Sam's lips quirk. "Nice combo. Who knows, you might even have taste."
Edgar fidgets. His eyes widen in panic as Sam enters the store, smirking all the while.
"Sam, what the..."
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.
.
"C'mon Rambo. Try it on."
They're resting on a side beach, bags sitting by their feet, and Edgar is swatting Sam's hands away. His friend is making a (non discreet) point of attempting to rip his t-shirt off.
"I..." Edgar eyes a group of elderly women passing by, and Sam sighs, rolling his eyes.
"Eddie, there are people near naked on this beach. One fine looking guy with his top off isn't goin' to rock the boat, bud."
"Sam."
"What?"
"Shut up."
Edgar complies, much to Sam's delight. He pulls his shirt over his head, and tentatively reaches for the new top folded in the grey bag. The sun shining off the edges of developing muscle make Sam's grin near enough split his face in half.
Edgar averts his gaze. He forces the top over his head, and tugs it down.
A perfect fit, if Sam doesn't say so himself.
He holds out the bandana, his smile literally grafted into place.
Edgar dutifully ties it around his head, doing that little-hard-yank thing that Sam finds wonderfully endearing.
Edgar catches Sam's grin, and his own mouth twitches.
They walk home, Sam swinging his bags and whistling "Ain't Got No Home." That is one of the best songs in the world; he blasts it out each time he has a bubble bath, to keep the vampires away. Oh, and Nanook close, just for good measure.
"Eh, Sam."
Edgar's voice is a little too soft. Sam cocks his head, blinking.
His friend is half looking at the ground, but there is a deftness invading his expression.
"Thanks."
Sam's cutting comeback dies on his tongue; all snarks and smirks drift away, and he smiles, once again.
"Anytime, bud."
He doesn't link arms, but lightly bumps his hand against Edgar's.
.
.
.
Luna Bay is damn pretty at night.
Edgar is resting on the north beach, trying to hide his exhaustion (he'd been surf board shaping that entire afternoon, as Sam had slumbered in his dark little den) yet his eyes are slipping closed and his answers to Sam's questions begin to consist of dozy grunts. He's slung out on the sand, a hand resting over his eyes, and Sam continues to ease a gentle dulling on his senses.
He doesn't full out believe in mind fuckery, save resembling the freaking poser that is Edgar's older brother, but right now Edgar needs it.
It's almost four in the morning. Something grinds, groaning, deep within Sam's gut, and a bolt of crimson sparks through the vivid blue of his eyes.
He needs something aswell.
Edgar's knee brushes against Sam's fingers; Edgar turns over, leaning into his friend, and it's so sweet and pathetic and strange, that maybe, if Sam had one tiny taste...
Edgar's trust is more important than bloodlust.
At least for now.
Sam pulls away, taking to the air. He finds a brown haired hippie lounging in a side street, and makes quick work of him.
When he returns, Edgar is still snoozing, shopping bags gathered around his feet; Sam smiles. He kneels down, and curves his arms beneath Edgar's body.
The awesome monster basher would kill him if he saw him doing such a thing.
Sam, drunk on blood and contentment, skims through the black sky. He lands in the middle of the now harmless Salt Circle, and helps a staggering Edgar to his trailer.
"Bastard," Edgar growls. "Why the fuck did you..."
"Bridal style and all," tweets Sam. Edgar is glaring at him, but he can't fight his own urges, and as Sam packs away the shopping, Edgar falls into a deep sleep, splayed on the bed.
Sam chuckles, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.
They really need to do something about the falling-asleep-at-night thing. Right now, it just won't do.
.
.
.
That morning, Sam secures the blackout curtains in his "back bedroom." It's about the size of a glorified cupboard, but he loves it anyway. He cheerily sniffs the garlic flowers.
He could get used to this. So much.
The sun is just starting to rise. The sky is beginning to creep pink, and Sam frowns; peeks his head out of his door, and at Edgar, who is slumbering soundly.
He blurs towards his friend.
A ruffle of wind, cold and slight, tickles Edgar's cheek.
The backroom door snaps shut.
Edgar's bed is empty.
.
.
.
Sam never feeds in front of Edgar.
He leaves a little early, shaking himself awake, and zips through the window; occasionally with smoking skin from the last remnants of the sun.
He kills without noise, efficiently, with tiny licks of pleasure as fragile flesh falls beneath his fangs.
That evening, he finds Edgar waiting for him in the salt circle.
Sam wipes his mouth, smirking at his mortal companion. Edgar's eyes are pricked with discomfort; he knows where he has been, and Sam can't begin to comprehend what such a thing does to his conscience.
Edgar vanishes inside the trailer. Sam finds him drumming his fingers on the workbench, looking at nothing in particular.
Sam sweeps his hands around his waist, leaning his face in the grove of Edgar's neck. His friend freezes, muscles tensing beneath Sam's grip. Dried blood flakes from under Sam's nails.
"They're always old, Edgar," he says softly, so close to Edgar's ear, and the husk in his tone surprises even him. The monster is coming out to play, and he indulges it, but doesn't give it free rein. "Murderers. Derelicts. Wasters on society."
A hand dances down to rest on Edgar's hip.
"Stop talking."
Edgar growls, swiveling on his heel. Sam is roughly shoved away; he affably steps back, hands raised benignly.
Edgar has a stake between them.
Sam pauses. His gaze latches on to Edgar; he isn't smiling. There is a snag on his lips, but his eyes are bright; hungry, for the hard poison in Edgar's glare is steeped with despair. His blood is energised by adrenaline, and god, so riveting...
"We're back to this, are we?"
.
.
.
.
They've had a fight.
They never fight. Shit, they've never had to. Edgar is so upfront about what pisses him off it's quite easy to assign oneself with a mental checklist of what not to do in his presence.
But they have now.
And Sam can't...why?
Edgar is completely blocking him out. He turned up the other day to collect his bike. He spoke politely to Lucy, but flat out ignored Sam who had taken the stairs two at a time in a bid to catch his friend.
Edgar is cycling through the streets now, creaking the chains of that old bike of his, and Sam steps so quickly from the shade of the comic shop that Edgar is forced to perform a quick swerve to avoid killing the mallrat.
However tempting that might be.
He halts, his whole body being thrown forward with the momentum, and the strength of his glower is so strong Sam feels his skin prickle.
Doesn't bother him through.
He seizes both the handle bars, and cracks a pained grin in the Frog's direction.
"Hey there, handsome. We gotta talk."
"Got nothing to say," Edgar mumbles, scanning the inside of the shop. Alan isn't there, and Sam blesses the mercies of luck. "Get off my handles, Sam."
Oh, so we're back to names.
"Look man, I'm sorry, alright?" Sam is gabbling this so fast, so completely adverse to his usual smoothness, it causes Edgar to peer at him, expressionless. "I was stupid." His fists tighten over the bars. "It was stupid, alright? Let's just forget it."
Edgar leans back on the seat, appraising Sam with hooded eyes. He crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side, as if trying to figure out the motivation here.
"And why should I forgive you so easily?"
"Because we're friends." Sam ducks his head, screwing his eyes tight. He exhales, weary with tentative relief. "And friends forgive each other."
Silence.
"Hm." A stubby finger flicks a loose strand of Sam's perfect hair.
The handle bars are drawn back from Sam's grasp. Edgar is wheeling his bike into the shop, propping it against the Batman section. Sam shadows him, his entire body jittering, and Edgar ambles over to the unsorted stock.
He points to the Superman pile.
"I need help with this."
Jubilation explodes in Sam's chest.
"Of course, bud," he says quickly, his grin breaking his cheeks. He jumps down besides Edgar, and reaches for the closest issue.
Edgar works quietly, his brow firm with concentration, and Sam slaves away beside him.
Ten minutes pass.
Sam shifts a little closer.
Another ten minutes.
Nearer still.
Edgar shoots him a questioning glance; Sam looks up, shrugging his shoulders.
An hour later, Sam is so close to Edgar he's nearly fully embracing him.
Edgar can't quite keep his stoic Ramboesque act, not with Sam breathing down his neck and rubbing arms against his elbow.
"I'm not *snuggling* with you, Sam," Edgar laments, laying down the last comic. His cheeks are pink. "Don't get any ideas, Sambo."
Sambo.
Yay.
Sam pouts, poking his best friend in the ribs.
He can't resist a wink, and Edgar can't resist a biting comeback.
.
.
.
"No."
Edgar flings the offending thing onto the bed.
"We're not back to that," he finishes, as if in resignation.
The monster wilts, confused.
Sam's eyes glitter.
.
.
.
"You're betraying your race," snarls some sick little beastie with yellow eyes and sunken cheeks. Sam is a lot cuter when he transforms, he's sure of that.
The town centre is near deserted. Edgar is off hunting, and unknown to him, Sam has been trailing him.
And so it seems, this pitiful thing had been following.
Sam licks the blood off his fingers.
"Do I know you, bud?"
"It's disgusting," the thing insists. "Siding with a human...and a hunter too..."
"Fuck you and the tacky shorts you rode in on, pal," Sam graces the ugly bastard with his back. "I've got other things to deal with now."
At this, the vampire hoots with laughter.
"Like what? Alan?"
Sam stills; he folds out his arms, and smiles.
He charges.
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.
.
"I'm not camping out with you in your little lair."
"Are you serious?" Sam temptingly nudges the door open with his foot. "Best bed in the house, bud."
"No means no, suck monkey," Edgar responds, rubbing his temple. For three days now, he's woken up in pitch darkness with Sam wrapped around him like an affectionate snake.
"I've gotta keep you safe," declares Sam, stretching out on the bed. He's just fed off some junkie somewhere, and the result has been extremely satisfying. Edgar grunts in irritation, although he isn't really, and takes off his marine jacket.
Sam watches him, intent. Edgar has little idea how much self restraint he is practising at the moment.
He flashes a crooked grin.
"This is all a little weird, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Edgar glances at the photo; he redirects his attention to his bloodied attire, and frowns. "You can say that again."
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.
.
Sam dawdles through the backstreets, playing footie with a half crushed can. It clatters, bouncing into the gutter; echoing off dank brick and empty space. Sam doesn't care though. Here, he gathers his thoughts; his current, unorthodox, dreamlike predicament at the minute.
Edgar is still young, still full of stamina and drive, only more eroded by life, by his brother, and to some extent, Sam.
Each day he is eaten away a little more.
He has an enemy who is his brother, and a friend who bears the mantle of monster.
Sam catches Edgar staring at him sometimes, wearing an expression of trying, tangled emotions. Sam doesn't care much for reading minds, for sinking into Edgar's head and pulling loose all of his thoughts, his sinful secrets, although he does want to know *everything* about Edgar. Scratch that, he just wants *Edgar.*
But his hunter is confused, pulling back from Sam's presence, and he better not be having second thoughts...
Sam doesn't know what he would do if Edgar had second thoughts. The past two months had been oddly ethereal, marvellous and overwhelming and frustrating in turn. But Edgar's blood agitates him, electrifies the air, goose pimples the dead hide of his skin.
It's becoming harder and harder to retract his teeth; to bury them in human flesh. His eyes judder gold more frequently now, flaring with a sick need beyond blood or sex or companionship.
He ponders, for a brief moment, the novelty of Edgar's refusal.
It brings to mind twisted trees bathed in moonlight, and earth heaped upon a casket that bore his name, and the tears of family.
Vampires in love are a dangerous breed, it seems.
"Nice walk, Sam?"
Alan clouts him so hard he is sent spinning. He smashes against the wall, tumbling headlong into garbage bins. He remerges, spitting blood. He's sure his teeth will grow back in under half an hour.
"You know your car's windshield, Al? How clear and shiny it is at the moment? Enjoy while it lasts. I plan to give it some remodelling."
.
.
.
The two marines and metrosexual are engaging in an arm wrestle.
Sam is hopeless. He has always been at things like this. Edgar beats him easily, but somewhat gently.
A smirking Alan just tries to twist his arm off.
Bastard.
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.
"I'm a little out of my depth, bud," Sam cheerfully chirps, regaining his feet. A bruise blossoming near his ear heals instantly. "I was never good at sports, you know."
Alan fails to reply. A strange kind of madness glosses over his eyes.
He advances.
A claw rips into Sam's shirt; tears good quality material, and then Sam's world is turned upside down again. He crashes into pavement; face down, he laughs, through the harsh strokes of pain and blood pooling around his gashed chin.
"You've fucked with me for the last time, Emerson," Alan says civilly. He angles his boot above Sam's back; a pointed spur gleams in the half light. If he plunges it into Sam's back, it'll puncture his heart.
How poetic. Cut down by a cowboy.
"Get back, Alan!"
An earthy growl slices the air.
Edgar dives between them, brandishing a stubby. A vial of holy water gushes onto Alan's hand; with a gritted shriek, Alan retreats, cradling his peeling palm.
"Get out of here, brother," Edgar warns. He brings the stake up to his face, and Sam sees, for the first time in a while, the seasoned hunter cold to the world. He's seen so much more than that, and a ripple of satisfaction tingles through him.
Alan's eyes are wide...and for a brief second, hurt. But that is gone as soon as it is seen, and he effortlessly transfigures back into heartless son of a bitch mode.
"Edgar..." He points to a smirking Sam lounging behind Edgar; he flutters his fingers in Alan's direction, pouting as he does it. "You're protecting a vampire, brother."
"I'm about to kill one too," Edgar scowls, ever the intrepid stake swinger. "If he doesn't back the fuck off."
Alan's lip quivers in a shadow of an adolescent sneer.
"If you've taken to mingling sides, Edgar," he drawls, examining the back of his nails. His impending fury pricks through his words, and Sam braces one foot on the ground, battling the urge to grab Edgar and make a dash for it. Preferably whilst dropping a spare trash can on Alan's car.
Alan's pupils expand into a blazing, hungry red.
This is a development.
"How is he...?" Alan spits it out, his guise horrific, and yet, more human than ever before. "Any different to me, Edgar?" He swipes out a claw; a baffled Edgar backpedals, face tight with concern, and more prominently, fear. "How is he...more important than your own brother?"
Sam scratches the end of his nose; bored.
"It was me..." Alan is taking a step forward, and this time, Sam pays attention. He almost looks desperate. "Who was with you through it all, Edgar. It was me..." Alan is still moving towards his brother, and lord above, Sam has never seen such stark emotion pounding through him before. "We trained together. We lived together. We did everything together..."
Nostalgia melts into anger.
"Who protected you?" His snarl fades into a low whisper. Edgar stands tall, but Sam notices the shiver in his legs. "Who was there, through every single fucking battle...who was there, Edgar, when parents were drug riddled and useless?"
His voice rises to unbearable heights; fangs hook from blackening gums, claws shudder from spidery, scrabbling fingers.
The monster is taking over. Completely taking over, soaking in every single coherent, reasonable thought, and shit, Edgar is in terrible danger...
"It was you," Edgar mutters, low and tender, and such a revelation knots Sam's gut and sends Alan blinking. The hunter raises his head, staring down his estranged sibling. "It was always you, Alan."
Alan's shoulders slump. He bares his teeth, but his expression is edged with an awful, humane sorrow.
"But..." Edgar continues, his own eyes so damn old, and the stake doesn't waver. "You're not you anymore."
Alan slams his lips together in a cold sneer.
"By proxy, then," he hisses, pointing a sharpened nail at Sam. "He isn't himself, ether."
.
.
.
Alan has this weird, needy little streak that is almost childish.
Alan and the word "childish" seriously shouldn't be on the same line together.
But oddly enough, it fits.
"Sam should just run the store then," he tightly says to his brother, who sighs, resting his head in his hands. "He sorts the stock so well, as you keep saying..."
"Don't be silly, Al," Sam chirrups brightly, swinging his legs from the counter. "I'm sure your stacking abilities are highly commendable."
Alan doesn't pay him the slightest shred of attention. He just keeps morosely scrutinising his weary younger brother.
Edgar finally cracks.
"Don't be stupid, bro," he suddenly snaps, banging down the box of Batman; making them both jump. "How fucking old are you? Eighteen?"
Alan looks stricken.
Sam purses his lips, concealing the budding smirk threatening his lips.
"Jesus..." Edgar swings on his feet, and marches to the backroom. "Have a thought for yourself, would you?"
He slams the door behind him, leaving a echoing quiet.
Sam hums a tune under his breath, kicking out his feet.
Alan's eyes are rounded with shock. He stares at the door, as if paralyzed by the sight.
"Edgar...?"
His voice cracks. A weakness lessens the hard contours of his face.
Proving he never learns, he follows.
Sam nibbles a hangnail on his thumb, and appraises the thriving crowds scooting along the boardwalk.
.
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.
Edgar clenches his teeth. He is obviously aware of his own hypocrisies at this point.
"He's..." Edgar has a staring content with the ground. "He's different."
Sam observes him in silence.
Alan narrows his eyes.
"How is he...?"
"I don't know..." Edgar snarls, thrusting the stake further between himself and his older brother. "He just is."
Something breaks in Alan. Whether its sanity, affection...whether it's anything, Sam isn't sure, only that Alan has once again retrieved his detached mask of Master Vampire, and all fragments of teenage tag along have once again been buried deep.
And he is smiling.
Which is fucking terrifying, as always.
"He still kills, Edgar," he coos sweetly. He twists a coil of Edgar's hair around a pale finger; Edgar hasn't moved, but the stake trembles. "Still feeds. Still murders. Still violates truth and justice, doesn't he?"
Sam is conscious of his own temper building.
"You enable these things, brother," he whispers finally, curving his hand around the arch of Edgar's jaw. He caresses the defined end of his chin, smirking. "Remember that."
He holds Edgar's gaze, and Sam prays he hasn't got the guy entranced.
"Sam." Alan addresses him directly. Sam responds with a smile that could make a cat sick. "If I see you again, around my brother..." He pats the bulge of Edgar's jugular, and Sam can sense the fear rolling off his mortal. He never could kill his brother. Sam is his friend, but Alan is his weakness, and oh god, that fucking kills. "If I see you continuing with these games, I'll kill you. Nice and slow."
Sam salutes from the ground.
"Likewise, El Diablo."
"And as for you..." He pulls Edgar a little closer, and Sam is on his feet so quickly...but Alan playfully smirks, and damn, this is another side Sam has failed to see. "I'm going to forgive my little brother..."
He taps the end of Edgar's nose, still gripping him via glamour eyes.
Fucking poser.
"...For such a hurtful indiscretion."
"Oh..." Sam dryly scoffs. "So you do feel."
He wants to rip Alan's arms off at this point. Stuff them up the exhaust of that ridiculously anal car, peel off his mangy black hair to tear at the skull beneath, litter the streets and sand and sea with the gore and stink of Alan's remains.
Alan fades away.
So does Edgar.
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.
"I am different, bud."
Sam is positioned, erect, on the loveseat. Edgar is hunched over his workbench, his stance unreadable.
"What's freaking weird..." Sam stares at his back. "Is that you shouldn't be."
.
.
.
Alan is always somewhere, always everywhere, and pretty much nowhere at the same time.
Which is no surprise, for he is nothing.
Sam feasts on stronger individuals; bitter-at-the-world punks, who hide knives in their chaps and sport those horrendous checker t-shirts.
He feeds, for he wants to be strong. He wants this badly, and he has no more desire to drift easily through this life.
He disappears, for a little while.
.
.
.
He leaves his little dark room; leaves behind the picture, and a sleeping Edgar, curled in weed stained blankets.
He lends himself the blood red bandana.
He slits his wrist; stains the material, and drinks his own blood.
The pain is terrible, but he does it anyway.
He pretends...he is so good at that...that the fleshy, already half healed cavern in his arm is Edgar's neck.
.
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.
.
He still lingers, in a bid to secure Edgar's safety.
Every sleek, dark sports car he encounters comes out of the deal with a slashed tyre or cracked wing mirror. Just for giggles.
Edgar's courtyard is pretty this time of night.
Edgar's lights are back on again, and the picture rests on his pillow.
As he sleeps, Edgar swears and curses and emits strangled screams.
Sam doesn't mentally comfort him.
He doesn't do anything.
.
.
.
There is such age in Edgar's eyes.
He doesn't want to see Edgar grow old. Doesn't want to see him rot or decay or damn, die. He wants him beside him, just with *him*.
Maybe one day that wouldn't be an issue.
.
.
.
The string of car vandalism makes the papers.
Heh.
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Edgar is hunting; alone.
An abomination of a beast splits open his chest; shallow, but painful.
From the bushes, Sam roars; unholy and monstrous and ghastly.
He takes the thing high; rips it apart, limb from limb, and discards of the remains over the ocean.
He chokes on his hate, his bloodlust, his fucking *need*...and god, he needs it, needs Edgar, needs blood and Alan and death so horridly...
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He wants to trail fingers down Edgar's back, maybe touch the hard surface of his chest and the curves of his cheeks and the arch of his innermost thigh, but Sam isn't a fool...
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.
"Sam..." Edgar is leant back, his eyebrows knotted in confusion, and he discreetly feels the fading warmth on his mouth. "What the..."
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.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam steps down from his small stepladder, and pulls an old bin liner from below the porch. He wraps it around his shoulders, baring his blunted teeth at a less than impressed Edgar. "Hey, what do you think? A new look for me, huh..."
.
.
He glances occasionally at Alan, who sneers in dislike, but he never once relents his full attention from the sombre looking kid with the tasteless headband...
.
.
"Maybe..." Sam taps his fingers lightly across Edgar's shoulder and fails to mask the concern in his voice. "This isn't the best time to push people away, bud..."
.
.
Edgar's voice is a little too soft. Sam cocks his head, blinking.
His friend is half looking at the ground, but there is a deftness invading his expression.
"Thanks."
.
.
"Because we're friends. And friends forgive each other."
.
.
Hey, it was an awesome two months.
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.
Edgar is waiting for him when Sam re-emerges.
He leans against the door frame of his trailer.
The hunter is silhouetted in the acrid sheen of electrical light; haloed with stuttering strobe...a bizarre angel.
He has his arms crossed, his Ramboesque glare in perfect form. His eyes are gentle.
"You're invited in."
Sam hands him the bandana, smeared with his blood.
Edgar turns it over in his hands; brings it to his head, and dutifully ties it.
Sam smiles wintrily.
"Hey, bud."
Edgar inclines his head...just like he used to...to indicate he is listening.
"I was thinking we could go out."
"Really, Sam?" Edgar responds softly. "Go where, exactly?"
Sam places his hands in his pockets.
"I was thinking we could watch the sunrise together."
Edgar stills. He observes Sam, contemplating.
"It'll be like..." Sam can't remember the sun; can't recall the heat, the blinding glare of it or the embers of light shining through Edgar's hair. "Some cheesy movie or something."
Edgar doesn't respond.
"But, bud..." Sam grins, tired. He runs a hand through his hair. "It was nice of you to invite me in, Edgar."
Slowly, Edgar nods. He steps down from the door, and closes it behind him.
The picture from long ago winks at them both from its place by the window.
Sam draws back into the shadows.
Edgar follows.
.
.
So let's dine, dine, dine my darling.
Let's have our last supper, as us, two lovers and we'll dance real sweet and slow.
And then kiss, kiss, kiss to the last clock tick
A final exhale when I'm done and you can keep my last breath floating in your lungs....
FIN.