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Summer rain dripped idly down the car windows.
The streets of San Cazador trailed past, immersed in shadow and silence.
Alan observed his brother quietly. Car lights flitted across Edgar's face, briefly catching the stony set of his features; the curve of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the down turn of his mouth. Alan stared, committing every detail, every mark, every mar to memory. The dry crust of Edgar's blood still lingered beneath his blunted nails; he lifted the digits to his mouth, and found no pleasure in the rank, metallic tang.
The revelation brought no relief.
Claus sat in the back seat, gazing awkwardly out the window. His fingers twisted around his t-shirt in nervous bursts; he was obviously still trying to equate the existence of vampires with real life. Zoe, Edgar's female friend, had her knees drawn up to her chest; the cropped bangs of her hair tucked behind her ears. Occasionally, Alan would catch her eyes in the reflection of his wing mirror. She was watching him; had been watching him the entire journey, and sometimes her gaze would flit to Edgar, before uneasily gliding back to him.
Alan wondered if she was trying to detect any similarity between them, which was understandable. Nobody really believed they were brothers. Edgar had always been fair, short, wiry. Alan was the lean, dark, older brother; who carried his strength in his broad shoulders and compact chest. They never looked alike, even when they were young.
Or maybe that wasn't the case. There was heaviness in her stare, a hidden weight that Alan found troubling. It wasn't directed at him, but at Edgar, who was clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.
Alan thought about the sharp brightness of her eyes earlier; the softening edges of Edgar's expression, and how realization, cool and vaguely bitter, had crept into his stomach like a sleeping serpent.
Then there was the pound of Edgar's blood; full and alive and intoxicating, beneath his hold. He had hoisted his brother up high, Edgar's army boots flailing beneath him. Then there was release, the beast screaming and hissing within him. Coiled, monstrous energy had been seeping from his muscles, his skin, his heart; darkness draining away into nothingness. Humane sanity had gripped him once again, and the violent throes of his hunger evaporated into the night, chased away by the efforts, the protection, of his younger brother.
On a high, they roared their typical fifteen year old secret handshake. Edgar had been grinning, grinning so widely Alan wondered why his face didn't split.
And then there was warm arms embracing him; Edgar, his stony, unapproachable brother pulled him close, and Jesus, it was like sun and daylight and heat, so many things, so many human, good, Edgar things, that he'd been denied. It came crashing back with Edgar's breath warm against his neck and the weight of his brother, tight and secure, in his arms.
But sunlight burns the skin, hurts the eyes, dries the earth.
But Edgar was back, and surely, he was back. They were the Frog Brothers again, human and fearless and free, who had no time for blood or blood suckers. Surely, that would mean everything was alright again.
It hadn't ever really been alright. Not with him, never with him, okay when they were kids, maybe, but over time…when his body changed and voice deepened, and Edgar, beside him always, expecting and protecting and caring….
Edgar was looking at him.
Alan cocked his head, lips twitching into a half smile.
His brother jumped, breaking the connection. His focus reared once again on the road.
The Bookener eventually came into view and Alan heard Zoe gently invite shivering Claus to stay for the night.
.
.
.
.
The old truck drew up beside the empty trailer.
The sky was empty, black, and devoid of stars. Alan usually wouldn't care, but it had been so long since he had seen the pink embers of morning on the horizon. He struggled to recall the dozy warmth of late afternoon Santa Carla sun, which used to thaw the chill of ocean spray clinging to his cheeks. How golden light would reflect off the sheen of Edgar's skin, peeking through the drawn blinds of their shared bedroom. The heat could be unbearable; he couldn't sleep because of it. His hair, greased with sweat, would stick to the back of his head, the air heaving and suffocating his senses. The pavement of the boardwalk boiling beneath the skin of his toes...
"Careful getting out of the truck. The step is dodgy."
Edgar's quiet growl brought Alan back to earth.
His brother kicked the door open, and Alan heard the crunch of his boots on the gravel. Alan followed soon after, minding the step as forewarned. Edgar breezed past him, his eyes still downcast. The jangling of his keys and squeak of the trailer door made Alan lift his gaze expectantly.
Edgar, gruff as always, beckoned him in.
"You're invited this time." There was a smile in his tone, and Alan smirked in reply. He entered the tiny trailer, pressing a little closer to Edgar then he needed to. Edgar didn't flinch, and the ache in Alan's gut squeezed a little harder.
He never flinched from Alan. Not even when he'd been crouched over, cursed iron dribbling down his chin, and the pound of Edgar's heart drawing nearer and nearer. They'd been horror in his brother's eyes, fear and sorrow, most definitely, but not rejection. Alan wondered later if he devised the rejection, the banishment of their brotherhood, in his mind. Anything to keep Edgar away, and god, anything to keep him close. Edgar was such a determined bastard. He kept coming back, in sporadic bursts throughout the years; another optimistic plan on his lips, and more empty talk of salvation. And sometimes, as the hope faded and hopelessness numbed the light in Edgar's eyes, sometimes he would come and just sit in watchful silence. Observe the gruesome wares of Alan's pitiful work, and occasionally, the blood on Alan's hands, and Alan would bite back a bitter laugh. Blood! Blood, oh god, how their lives were lined in blood, and it was everywhere, all the time; on his clothes, on his hands, in his hair, in his mind and pulsing, deep and hungry, in his soul.
Maybe Edgar just wanted to be close to him, like they used to be, when copious amounts of blood only existed on the flashy pages of comic books, and they basked so much in the Santa Carla sunlight that they could blame seeing vampires on heatstroke.
This filled Alan…it filled him then, and even now…with a fierce pride, a familiar possessiveness that out of everyone, he was still the one Edgar flocked to. Even with his vampirism stretching between them, Alan was still the one…and Edgar, even with his silences, still needed the quiet self-assurance of his older brother. With this came crippling heartache, for that previous world was lost and hollow.
It was heaven, even for a short while, to have his brother share his darkness with him. Torture, for Edgar's blood sung loudest to him, tempting heat and life which betrayed more than Alan would ever admit. That old book, a gift from one of his old connections, described in haunting detail the nature of the bloodlust, the mechanics of its being, so to speak…and how it interlinked with the subconscious, with all that was forbidden.
Edgar passed along the old room, and began to run the tap. He placed his hand under the nozzle to test the temperature, and Alan stared at his back. He seemed so old. They both did, and Alan wondered why that had never made a difference. His eyes darted across the jumbled, yet clean contents of the trailer. There was only one bed, and Alan fought back his complimentary sneer. Something's never changed, it seemed.
Propped near the bed was an old picture. Alan frowned. It was that old one, taken shortly after the Emerson's defeated the Lost Boys; Edgar, Sam, and himself.
The cheeky blue of Sam's eyes caught Alan's gaze.
You got lucky, bud. They seemed to say, and for a brief moment, Alan could hear the crisp tones of Sam's voice echoing in his head. I wasn't so blessed. But in some ways your luck has run out, hasn't it, Al? The problem with living in the light bud, is that it doesn't conceal quite as nicely as darkness, does it?
"Alan."
The older Frog shivered, resting a hand over his brow cloaked in sweat. Edgar had drawn closer, and Alan could feel the weight of his hand on his back. His younger brother narrowed his eyes at the incriminating picture.
"Are you thirsty?"
"No." Alan shook his head, and sideways grinned at his brother. Edgar weakly smiled, and placed his glass of water behind him. The hazels of his eyes were sizing him up, maybe if checking if this wasn't some dream or not. Fighting down the pain rising in his chest, Alan gestured towards the bed.
"Gonna be squashed tonight, or what?"
Edgar's smile disappeared. He turned to peer at other places of possible respite.
"I could always bunk on the floor…"
"No." Alan's recant was a little too sharp. "No, it's cool."
He'd had Edgar's watchful intensity in the hovel he called his home, but also his brother's desperate, volcanic rages. There were words exchanged over and over again, all the while brimming with the same disdain. Disdain that Edgar housed for himself, for allowing the hell of their burden to get this far. Fury that Alan allowed this, this thing to exist between them and how he never, never seemed to do anything to resolve it. Sooner or later, his will would snap, and he would be forced to feed, and Edgar would be forced to…
"Your hair."
Alan blinked.
"What?"
Edgar's lips stretched into a tired, but genuine smile.
"It's a mess, bro."
Bro….
Alan smirked, running his hands over his scalp. Damn, his hair was long. It reached his lower neck, thick and tousled by neglect.
"That bad, huh?"
Edgar sniffed, his former militancy edging into his expression.
"It's damn hideous."
You sound like Sam. The thought brought back another aching sensation, but it wasn't one of loss. The solidity in Edgar's voice, the depth of his inflection as he mentioned Sam's death, hadn't been lost on Alan. He bit his lip, crushing down the less than gracious feeling.
"Hm. Wanna cut it then?"
Edgar lifted an eyebrow.
"You serious?"
Alan flashed one of his famous grins. The action caught Edgar short, and it struck him with pleasure to see such a reaction. When they were kids, cutting each other's hair was a common occurrence. They were always too broke to afford the hairdressers.
.
.
.
In the weak, stuttering light of the dying bulb above their heads, did Alan feel his brother's hands on his upper neck Edgar was squinting with concentration, and Alan felt the dry, soft locks of hair ghost past his shoulders.
"You're not going to stick a bowl on my head, are you?"
"Fuck off."
Edgar chuckled. Damn it, Edgar was laughing.
He hadn't heard that in a while.
He pursed his lips, attempting to battle troubling thoughts. At least here, he was safe from the smiling glare of Sam Emerson in paper.
"Who was the girl?"
"Zoe?"
Edgar's breath tickled the back of his now exposed neck. Alan repressed a shiver.
"Yeah." Alan's voice was deceptively soft. "Friend of yours?"
The implication was strong, and Edgar, for a brief moment, was silent behind him. The bent nail scissors had stopped their work.
"Just a friend." Edgar's tone was careful, as he was always careful around Alan's softly spoken questions, and Alan's brow furrowed. Edgar resumed his cutting, and the silence stretched on even longer.
It was halted by Edgar's low grunt.
"It's done."
Edgar drew back, away from Alan, and for the first time, Alan wondered if Edgar knew.
Alan stood up, tentatively fingering his brother's handiwork. Truth be told, it wasn't half bad. It was a relief really, with the weight off his neck.
Edgar turned on the tap, washing his hands. The solemn intensity, the stiff, questioning personage he had adopted over the past few hours, began to tear at Alan. They were together again. Everything should be fine.
"Edgar…"
"I'm sorry." Edgar screwed around the tap until the gush of water was reduced to a plinking spot of water, as small as a teardrop. His voice was anchored in its usual monotone, but the speed of his words told stories. "I'm sorry about saying you weren't on our side. I always knew you were, it just…"
Edgar paused, cutting his words. His hand, hanging down by his hip, curled into a trembling fist.
Alan remained silent behind him.
Edgar slammed his hand on the sink top, emitting a long, rattling sigh of frustration.
"It just…hurt to see you that way."
Alan raised his eyebrow, his frown deepening. He held out his hands in an open gesture.
"Edgar…"
"It's been so long, and everything has been so fucked…"
"Edgar, its fine. I'm here."
Alan took a step towards Edgar, and this time Edgar did flinch, physically press away from his brother, and Alan pretended not to see the flicker of apprehension in his eyes.
He kept moving forward until Edgar scooted back to the wall. The tension tightening his jaw faded. Something profound, intense, intemperate, was blooming in his brother's eyes and Alan could physically sense the pain, the years painted in blood, the fear of monsters residing in shadow, the flash of Sam's budding teeth and the pulsating red of his own darkening world, begin to bubble inside of Edgar; twist and push through the surface of his brother's stoic façade.
Something was polishing Edgar's irises.
Alan looked him directly in the eye.
"I'm here."
He placed his arms around Edgar then. He hadn't planned it. It was awkward, and a little rough. The impulsive embrace from earlier had been too fleeting, too easily distracted from, and he wanted to feel Edgar, solid and stupid and young, so that this wasn't a dream and he wasn't going to wake in a darkening room, alone and abandoned by the sun.
Edgar stilled, frozen by machismo standards or some other bullshit, but then…
"Fuck…"
Edgar fiercely brought his arms up to Alan's back, and steadfastly gripped his brother's soiled jacket; burying his face in the crook of his brother's shoulder. He held on tight, knocking the wind from Alan, as if terrified his brother would come apart in his arms; dissipate once again into the cold jaws of shadow, leaving him alone.
Edgar…
"Fuck." Edgar's voice was muffled by Alan's collar, choked with tight, reluctant emotion. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"
.
.
.
"You know it's fucked right?"
Alan doesn't need to turn to see it is Sam. And hell, it is still Sam, even with the bloody eyes and the sharp teeth and disgusting nail hygiene.
Alan fingers the coarse fur of a long dead beaver beneath his gloved hands, which are painted with blood.
"Want do you mean?"
Sam grins and it's horrid and familiar at the same time.
"The way you think about your younger brother. And trust me Al, even as a vampire, I think that's pretty screwed up stuff, bud."
Alan's fist tightens, but his voice betrays nothing.
"Stop talking, Sam. Go and rip open some bum's throat." He brings a bloodied finger to his mouth. His thirst is violent tonight, full and cruel, and being near Sam seriously doesn't help matters.
"It's not the done thing, bud." Sam circulates his workbench, forcing himself into Alan's eye view. Fury creeps into his insides. "It's not even a vampire thing, Alan."
The teeth flash into plain sight.
"He won't have you, you know." The sardonic glee in Sam's tone is tangible. "Not like this, Alan. But as vampires, we tend to see things more…" The smile widens, and for a second, it almost looks caring. "….alternatively."
Something human screams inside for Alan to tell Sam to leave him alone, but another thing takes charge; something selfish, lusting.
"What do you mean?"
Sam looks positively delighted at this change in mood.
"Go outside, Alan. Feed, partake in the hunt, and awaken what you are meant to be. Go to Edgar, pull him into our world, and you'll be surprised…" Sam dances a hand across Alan's back, and Alan shivers, from silent promise and severe self disgust. "….how the shadows can adjust things."
The sickness expands in Alan, and suddenly the world is blistering red.
"No!" His voice echoes, savage with thirst and thick with hate. "Get out of here, Emerson!"
Sam's face softens, but his eyes are mocking.
"Do you seriously think you can have him any other way, Alan?"
.
.
.
The night plodded on; pedantic, unchanging, and slow.
Edgar, exhausted with emotion, lay sprawled on the bed. Moonlight gently trickled through the drapes, and Alan was reminded of the hot, stuffy prison of their old room.
The loss of monstrous power in his limbs still shocked Alan. He sat on the faded loveseat, observing the curled up form of his younger brother; his only family, his only friend, the last person he had in the world. Edgar was everything, and still, to Alan, it wasn't enough.
He wouldn't see why.
And he still couldn't face himself, couldn't dare peel back his own flesh, scope out his insides and examine what the fuck went wrong, what had blackened and corroded his core all those years back to give him such feelings, to make him so unnatural.
Alan pulled back the threadbare blanket covering his legs. He lifted himself up, and silently padded across the room, standing above the slumbering form of Edgar.
Edgar, who had clung to him earlier, just like he used to, where there were monsters in the cupboard and beasts under the beds and fangs glinting in the blackness behind windows. Edgar, who had a different headband for each occasion. Edgar, who fixed up his old beret for Christmas, and gave it to him at midnight because he didn't want the Emersons to see. Edgar, who relied on him, confided in him, involved him in everything…who loved him, and Alan knew, knew that he had to keep his secret, to protect Edgar. For he would protect Edgar from anything, even himself.
He'd sacrificed his immortality, his bloodlust, and his only chance. His last sick little chance, and somehow, he could hear the remnants of the dying beast inside him give one last hollow, bitter little laugh.
He tugged back Edgar's covers, and slipped in beside his brother, as silent as a shadow.
Edgar shifted and moaned softly; but did not wake. Alan, eyes glassy, gently unhooked his brother from his sleeping position, and tenderly pulled him until Edgar's head rested on his shoulder.
Alan stared impassively at the small trailer, which was full of Edgar; stitched into the lining on the loveseat, weaved into the dirty washing and unsorted documents and scattered comics, all of which were shrouded in shadow.
Alan raised a hand, and lightly soothed out his brother's hair.
He wished to linger in the darkness, if only for a little while longer.