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Because it's just Jack's lucky day, his cellular device dies five minutes after he manages to find Austin's new place.
His shoes are soaked - some kids were playing in the fire hydrant a couple blocks away - his blood sugar is spiralling, and he needs to sit down soon or he's gonna pass out. A woman carrying a sullen-looking toddler on her back holds the door open for him as he walks up the steps. Ah, the kindness of strangers! Now he won't have to buzz in. He hates buzzing in, he thinks, hailing the elevator: he always presses the wrong button.
Elevators are easy - he presses the button for Floor 4 - everything is usually clearly labelled. But intercoms! Intercoms. Sometimes they're labelled with handwritten notes - sometimes the names are of the people on the lease, not the people he's hoping to see - sometimes there are no names at all. Give him a Lap-Top over an intercom any day, he thinks, stepping out onto the fourth floor with only a bit of dizziness.
The hall on the fourth floor is long and narrow, the light tungsten and warm. Ah... he's looking for Apartment 415, Austin said. Jack trails to the left, tentative, looking back and forth between the apartments on either side.
401... 403... 405...
It occurs to him that he doesn't know what time it is. There was a delay on the 6: they were trapped between stations for about half an hour. The lights and AC went out for about half that time, which was great for his anxiety. His cellular device had eaten up over a third of its battery searching for signal.
He hopes he's not too late. But Austin would know he was still planning to come over, right?
409 - 411 - he smells another vampire - 413 opens.
A man steps out with a lollipop in his mouth and a plastic bag of garbage in his hand. His dark blue and white floral button-down is buttoned all the way down - he's an innie, not an outie - and he's wearing worn swim trunks with Nike flip flops. He makes a sheepish face when he passes Jack. He smells like chlorine - like mango and chilli - like sandalwood, vanilla and sweat.
Jack turns to watch him go, feeling lightheaded. He pauses in front of 415.
He smells that same vampire - he smells Austin's blood - he hears moans.
He wrinkles his nose. He wonders if he should knock.
'You here for Austin?' says a voice. Jack looks up from his contemplation of the doorway. 413 is standing there, this time with no garbage in hand. How long has Jack been standing there?
413 quirks an eyebrow at him when he doesn't respond. 'You're a client, right?' he asks, stepping a bit closer. Jack's nostrils flare. 'I think Austin might've double-booked. You should prolly head home while you still can. No need to force a territory dispute or whatever.'
Jack eyes the man's thighs and stomach, his chest and nipples and neck - the organ donor bracelet around his wrist - the dog tags around his neck - the silver threading through his curls.
'Can I bite you?' Jack blurts out. 'I would pay.'
413 blinks. Jack blanches. 413 takes his lollipop out - so that's where the mango-chilli scent was coming from - and looks Jack up and down. Shrugs. Sticks his lollipop back in his mouth.
'Sure,' he says, turning to open his door, 'ok.'
'Not that you look like a thrall or anything!' Jack says, almost frozen in mortification. 'Not that-- there would be anything wrong with you looking like a thrall. Uhh.' He's not sure how to salvage this situation.
413 glances over his shoulder with a small smile. Jack can feel his gums starting to itch. 'Good to know,' he says. 'You can come in for now.'
Jack follows him in. It smells like clean laundry and fresh paint - like chlorine and sunblock - like basmati rice and refried beans. There's a lot of clothes hanging up everywhere.
'Sorry about the mess,' 413 says. He's moving around a bunch of fabric and paint canisters piled up on his kitchen table, next to two different sewing machines. 'Got a show coming up. You can go sit on the couch. How much do you pay Austin?'
'$2000 for a full meal, usually,' Jack says, looking around curiously in the living room as he sinks down into the couch cushions. A show?
413's got a bunch of stuff pinned up on the wall above his television, facing the couch: theatre booklets with no shared theme that Jack can see: Treemonisha, Mule Bone, Seven Guitars, a few others that he can't fully read the titles of - photos of Dorothy Dandridge smiling and striking beside Maria Callas and Dolores del Rio - movie posters in yellow and red, with matching swatches of fabric: Anatomy of a Murder, Lilies of the Field, The Red Shoes, A Man for All Seasons - photographs of a cafe at dusk. Cups of coffee held in brown hands. A face obscured and smiling. Two women in one bed. Sketch art of sparkling dresses and sharp colourful suits. And connecting all the different images, red-wrapped string and yellow-green-goldleaf glinting off the light: the robes cut-out from that one Klimt painting. The Lovers?
No - The Kiss. 'How about half?'
'Huh?' Jack looks up, dazzled. 413 changed into an old dark shirt and soft sweatpants when Jack wasn't paying attention. Has he done this before?
413 comes over to stand in front of Jack, blocking his view of the wall. He's rubbed something on his pulse points, Jack scents: something peppery, kind of ginger-y and green. Whatever it is, it's driving Jack crazy - and 413 just stands there, letting Jack get used to it. Oh yea, 413's almost definitely done this before.
'I said, how about you give me half of what you would give Austin normally,' 413 says, moving to sit sideways on the couch, half on the couch arm, half on Jack's knee.
He's so big, Jack thinks, pleased, pulling him more securely into his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist. Most thralls these days look like a stray wind might knock them over - most fledglings these days have no taste for anything like longevity.
413 seems startled at the sudden movement: Jack smells his blood rising in his face.
'Just so you know,' says 413, 'I won't be doing anything other than feeding you. Like, I'm not gonna call you Sire or Master or whatever.'
'It's good to establish terms upfront,' says Jack, rubbing his nose all along the man's warm neck, 'but you shouldn't be so trusting. I could really take advantage of you, you know.'
413 laughs, low and smug, his lips slightly swollen-red. 'Then I'd just revoke your access to my home,' he says, 'and report you to the East Harlem Council.'
Jack sits back and stares up at 413. He casts his mind back to how he'd been invited in: You can come in for now, 413 had said. He really has done this before. 'You've done this before,' Jack says.
Usually half the headache of feeding off someone new is explaining vampiric etiquette. Never mind that Jack broke about half their rules by propositioning a stranger without even an electronic third party as witness - 413 seems to know quite a bit about vamps already, and he's still smiling in Jack's lap, still-- really beautiful.
Jack's canines are out in full force. It's gonna be tough to talk soon. 'I mean,' he self-corrects, not wanting to imply anything, 'unless you're just really good at guessing.'
'Nah, my ex was half,' says 413. 'She drank from me sometimes - it was more of a comfort thing for her, though. I still don't really know all the rules.' He looks close at Jack. Jack just stares back at him happily. 'Your pupils are really dilated, dude. You want to take the edge off a little? We can keep talking, I don't have anywhere to be for a few hours.'
Jack nuzzles his collarbone, his neck and his throat. He can almost taste the man's heartbeat already. 'Mm,' he says, 'tell me your name?'
'I'm Gabriel,' says Gabriel. He sounds amused. He smells divine. 'How 'bout you?'
'I'm Jack,' Jack sighs, suckling carefully on Gabriel's jugular vein. He bites down and loses himself for the first time in 970 years.
In his memory, he was again by the sea.
The smell of swollen coconut - salt and sand in his eyes - the sun burning more easy now. The stray dogs that chased him in the streets at night. Tree ants that bit him once and then let him be, crawling over him like a rock. The way he denied it at first. Vomiting up human food in a wave of blood and bile. Letting his hunger grow too long and nearly goring a schoolteacher in his bed. Trying to drown himself in the sea. His Master carrying him home while he cried into her neck.
He remembered his Master as unsentimental and serene. Surely he would have died if not for her, if she had not taught him how to survive alone. She was forever trying to put space between them, in fact; forever teaching him to let go.
'Mark me now - we are nothing more than what we owe each other,' she used to say every so often, tying up her long dreads as she spiced and heated blood over an open flame: 'I am making you breakfast, see, so now you must get me supper. You must never let yourself owe anyone else.'
If I am nothing but what I owe you, he always thought, watching her, then why do you always leave me behind?
He comes back to himself slowly, a bitter sort of sweetness heavy in his head. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He's not wearing shoes, he notices; his feet are dry and warm.
It's dark outside now. He hears a fan going - he hears a laugh track - he feels something tickling the top of his head. He smells his Master - the sweat of his stomach through his shirt - the low and lingering arousal near his cock. He nuzzles his belly, breathing in deeply, taking in some of his calm.
'Oh, there you are,' says his Mas-- says Gabriel, a human he barely knows. He sits up - he tries to sit up, 'oh, sorry, hold on, you're all tangled, I was just getting some sewing done--'
He feels fingers in his hair. He brushes what feels like lace out of his eyes so he can look at Gabriel. Flashing blue light from the television plays across Gabriel's face. Jack can smell the blood rushing up his throat.
'Hi,' says Gabriel softly. His fingers are still in Jack's hair, sort of petting him still. Jack feels sleepy, full, and content.
'Hi,' he says. A vague worry forms in his mind. 'Did I hurt you?'
Gabriel smiles with his eyes. 'No,' he says, 'you didn't hurt me.' He looks at Jack closely. 'Did I hurt you?'
'No,' says Jack, sighing. He kisses Gabriel's chin, closing his eyes: leaning up to reach his cheeks, his nose. His mouth. 'Never.'
He hears low laughter as he lies back down - he again buries his face in Gabriel's lap - he melts at the heat of a hand rubbing his back.
'Go back to sleep,' says his Master, 'I'll be here when you wake up.'
And Jack can do nothing more than obey.