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William Ellis likes to pretend that he does in fact have a normal, albeit boring, life.
There is no doubt he has a wonderful family with adoring parents and supportive siblings who have provided a herd of nieces and nephews for him to spoil endlessly at Christmas for he is addicted to how their eyes light when unwrapping their gifts. Even better is his career which is perhaps not doing exactly what he wanted with his life, but aiding athletes still in their prime to keep from blowing out their knees as he foolishly did in his last year of college kept his cup full with satisfaction. Hell, he also has a great group of friends who are also living their simple lives, all eager to meet up at their favorite pub for a monthly catch up.
However, normalcy ends there in an unfortunate yield, and something far more complicated commences with a crackle and pop of fireworks glowing across fog wafting from the surface of the Thames.
Life seemed reasonable enough as the air began to crisp the first of October, a vaticination of autumn’s frostier chillforthcoming as all things cozy write themselves on his mental list of things that make the season grander. While summer is far more his preference, William does bask in the small talk of holidays from passing strangers and the prospect of American football blaring on the screens of the pub to satisfy his sports fanaticism. This season has its fair share of jubilee despite the slow creep of dormancy inking along the splendor of the trees, flowers too wiltinginto a decaying sleep until verdant sunbeams soothe the petals into unfurling their resplendent glory.
It should be as redundant as that: unpack the winter clothes, wrap a muffler around his neck for the walk, cook hardier stews to stick thick to his stomach and leave him so warm and content that he naps on the sofa—until he walks in on a random October evening to turn into the living room and come upon a sight that is more than what could be concocted for those silly slice of life sitcoms his mum so adores.
“Naib… babe, what the hell?”
From his cross-legged place at the coffee table, the person in question (if ‘person’ can indeed be implied here) perks up from his treasure trove of candy bags which cover near every surface of a ten feet radius and makes William question as to where the hell the figurative Red Death obtained such sugary purchases.
Naib is far from caught red-handed as humility hardly clings to the backs of beings who are no longer under time's limited spindle of thread, his otherworldly milky-blue gaze staring into William’s very sunflower soul (his words, not William’s) with a tilt of his head and a pop of a mini candy bar into his mouth. With a methodical chew, the not-human seems to be dedicating every sense to the taste of the atrocity of empty calories before he finally swallowsand sits there quietly.
“... What does it look like?” Naib speaks with every ounce of deadpan brimming in his deathly lithe form, “I’m sampling the assortment of treats from the store, dear. You did say we needed ‘treats for the trick or treaters’ a fortnight ago.”
Dating someone who was born during the Nineteenth Century should have been on William’s exemptions for lovers; hindsight is a terrible friend though and never truly follows through in the clutch.
The first lesson in having immortal creatures of the night living in the same abode is that getting perturbed never benefits the mortal. Granted, William always keeps his temper under brass lock and key as permitting the fire to flare and to incinerate off the pitch as caused more problems than solved; he can, however, present himself with aninch of exasperation, hands flailing about before flopping against his thighs with a sigh. “Did you have to bloody buy out the store while you were at it?”
Pensive, Naib’s pale lips purse as he ponders upon this, then merely shrugs off the concern. “I had to be sure. I heard giving out bad candy results in being ostracized… which would be terrible standard for you.”
A sigh, tired and too in love to reprimand further, the former forward of King’s own shuffles through the precarious mountains of imported sweets and local treats until he can sit next to Naib on the floor. Nothing is said, their words seemingly on pause while the white-haired sugar fiend rips open a bag of peanut butter cups, and William has a chance to once more ask himself: how the hell did he manage this one?
Oh, well, he recalls how indeed; a twenty-fifth birthday celebration at the Clapham Grand lauded with the typical merriment of his fellows bellowing in cheers conjoined with clatters of beer bottles, his own Magners Rosé glinting peachy delight along the vintage chandeliers. Bless Gupta for putting the whole affair together, his boys at the ready to make sure William did not stumble too deep down the White Hare’s rabbit hole of booze and raucous behavior, but he can recall every detail vividly even years later despite the spirts flowing molten in his veins.
For one, he is definitely aware once the high of the buzz fade into a low strum along his nerves, he is a bit of a cuddler, affectionate with his low-breath croons and handsy back pats. For another, he absolutely remembers his lap full of red leather clinging beautifully to a perfect ass that he just had to have for his own. Oh, how the apricot blur of warm light spun in drunken waltz above them, William with no inherent defense to deny the batting of milky-way blues and the interweaving of his fingers through silver tresses. Lips swollen and tongue tied, he followed wherever this ruby clad vixen led, assured if he were going to his death, his maker was the loveliest image to reap his soul.
What should have been a casual one off bleared from the prospect of having a damn good story to tell his buddies—as he is more than sure he would propose to his nighttime lover with dawn’s first breach across the London twilight—became a blear of hangover delirium which somehow incurred not just one warm body, but two. Life had, in its twisted way, been a lot more interesting after that.
Speaking of two: “where the hell is the old bat? He couldn’t speak sense into you seducing candy out of a poor, underpaid bastard?”
Naib snorts with a roll of his too-pretty eyes, “first off, I used the silly glowing screen thing. Secondly, it’s sundown, so where do you think our dirt bag is? Feeding the pigeons on the park bench while the little shits come up for stories again.”
William blinks methodical when a bite-sized nougat bar is offered to him as this is a roller coaster of temptationchugging hell bound if he takes the forbidden treat, all of which the immortal definitely knows. He has been full of too much unbridled energy since he was a mere babe, accruing a myriad of tall tales of his antics from crawling out of his crib to outpacing older kids on the field, and with such prowess comes a pride in a physique he jokingly claims Raphael would weep over.
Not like William honestly paid that much attention to the griping of Courtauld's boring-as-hell Art History courseworkbecause a certain crazed electrical-engineering undergrad just had to invite a pretentious aesthetician to their eclectic study group back in the heyday, but he can at least remember the deader-than-doornail artists who shared names with a cartoon about radioactive turtles. Otherwise, he could not find anything worth remembering from that chance introduction after he laughed at a would-be Monet of modern times pop a vein at his antics. Granted, such jokes pale when telling them to a night dweller who literally existed during mankind’s fascination with fantastical art things after the Middle Ages. Yet, he tells them all the same if it bubbles forth a chuckle and shake of the old bat’s head.
Oh, there is chocolate-covered goodness being tapped at his lips; Naib is apparently insistent he take a bite of can dy hors d'oeuvre . Hesitation stills his mouth though despite the waft of palm oil and corn syrup delight under his nose, prompting another roll of supernatural orbs to gaze heavenward.
“Eat it, for fuck's sake; I have full intention of making you burn it off tonight anyway. Both of us do.”
Oh. Oh. Now that is quite the offer, all saccharine treat with no arduous trick, and just to relay how open he is to the prospect of activities worthy of a king bed, William takes the candy with his teeth, cheeky grin on his lips while his brows raise suggestively. Barely chewing thrice, he swallows then leans in for their noses to brush as his voice drops into a gravel rumble to tease: “making deals already, kitten?”
“Oh, I just might be, Ellis.”
A grin wicked foretells lustful intention, weaving prophecies of intertwined limbs locked within the vines of cotton sheets, of hot breaths along the bows of lips in search of adoring purchase, of sharp teeth questing for the vein of his neck to ask for permission to have just a little sip. It would be a small sip, just a tiny one, just enough to sate the ache of hunger while the fires of carnal bliss overrun their bones and...
The front door opens and shuts with an audible click, announcing that the third of their little domestic nest has returned from imparting seeds to pigeons during the daily human watching.
Naib glances around at the mess of plastic bags before a figure striking damn near seven feet rounds the corner and the gears of comprehension of what the poor corpse walking has walked into turn so loudly, William cannot help the snicker hissing through his teeth. “You’ve been caught, love.”
“I’ve been jack shit,” the snippy thing with moonbeam locks retorts, “but, welcome home, maggot food.”
With a sigh blistered with the dregs of an age well over a couple millennia, Jack hangs his head with a fatigue that seems grave deep and comatose weary. “What poor mortal did you swindle now, my dear?”
Appalled at another accusation of built on his person, Naib gawks as if slapped with a pair of leather gloves to gall him into a scuffle of fisticuffs before his fists slam with a rattle on the coffee table and he is scrambling to pick up the cheap phone to jerk it up for presentation of his defense. “It’s called technology, you worm-eating fucker, and that happened once—.”
A tug of a smile curves his mouth crescent at their banter, and William leans against the couch as his two lovers prattle on about what sins they committed during their wanderings across the centuries. In Kolkata, there seems to have been a scare at one of the holy sites; in the States, it was traipsing into a shootout between rival gangs. Toss at and toss back leaves him tittering, especially when the slightest of apple red tinges Naib’s pallid cheeks, but what the spectator gathers from the lukewarm argument is a very precise reluctance to use their names.
Names like Naib and Jack are one-syllable lolls on the tongue which piqued curiosity in the former athlete. Lunch break searches on Google only provided so much, and obituaries were practically useless in the case of Jack since the bastard was older than most religions, but William can at least attest he did try to uncover the tomes of his lovers’ past. Those frayed pages are lost in Time’s lofted libraries, collecting their layers of dust as they lie in wait for the end of days, waiting to be forgotten by their narrators as they crystalize into whatever forms fit into current period. Whether it be Victorian gentleman in the alleyways of London or decrepit elders who brood in the sanctuary of their bleak house until the evening sun sets across the shades of the rooftops, there is a story there he may never learn.
Naib proffered some results, or at least once deduced acronym meanings need not apply, but whether it meant numbers or military ranks, the core of it eluded him. Nothing about his lithe partner seemed to equate to a pinpoint of suggestion, and any pestering into leads have died quick under a side-eye glance and a murmur of, “best not to open locked coffins.”
Jack was abysmally harder, brick upon brick, layer upon layer to construct an entire fortress between William and the truth. Naturally, all he is is just a wondering fellow who would like to rationalize where his housemates arrived from, but Jacks have lived by the millions, and hell, he has called a few blowhard assholes some obscene form of ‘Jack’ from his bench off the pitch, so the identity of the old bat is an enigma interlaid in a puzzle box of mystery.
“Names are powerful,” Jack had muttered against his knuckles after dawn’s first yawn stirred the mortal awake one morn months ago, “to know our names is to have power over us.”
Of course, just to be a brat, William had to ask why they could know his name but he not know their real ones since Naib could not possibly be named based on the numerical and Jack, if anything, was more of a James than a Jimmy or Jacky or whatever. The chuckle it had provoked deep the bellows of the ancient vampire’s sternums had scurried spiders across their dusty cobwebs, had ruffled dust mites to scurry along the protrusion of ribs, all funeral tolls during a wedding procession.
“Your name will die with you,” a then wilted sigh chilled along the shell of his ear, forlorn like frost over summer flora, “unless you desire otherwise.”
It sticks molasses dark to his soul how he too could be like them, could walk the valleys and the hills and the caverns three times over before he could blink with miles of land to traverse at his leisure. It is a curse he has rolled between his palms, and he has had to imagine time and time again what it really all would mean. Eternity is a daunting concept, going right over the poor chap from Birmingham’s head in spite of the hours he has sat pensive over it, but it lingers along his shoulders like muslin no matter what he confides. Hell, lecturing himself has provided no fruitful endpoint, leaving him a barren husk of maybes—but what dilutes allure of this gift horse is the tight bond of family corded thick around his heart. Burying his parents would be knee-buckling enough, but to shovel dirt over his siblings’ caskets? On all of his siblings’ children? On the generations to surely grow and die with the passing of their seasons?
William Ellis may sometimes brag on his strengths in both brain and brawn, yet his heart is a softer sort, a tenderbloom of carnation.
“… Don’t worry; you’ll be six feet under before tomorrow morning,” Naib’s threat drowns the rest of whatever mentation might loom over like storm clouds rupturing with the threat of thunderclap, and good for it. It is nearing the dinner hour, the clock ticking ever so closer to the glorious pre-portioned meal sitting lonely in the fridge waiting upon the swarthy Adonis (Jack’s words, not his) to consume with gusto.
Such fixation on food suddenly slaps the question of how Naib, whose diet usually consists of beef blood with ascrumptious dessert of William every fortnight, can even digest subpar chocolate. Fortunately, foreshadowing of snippy little man making a mess of the backyard again prompts a grunt of, “for the love of God, the neighbors are already freaked out enough—wait, how do you even get away with that? He’s twice your damn height!”
With a flow unearthly, Naib downright purrs in response to the shade on his stature, a smirk vixen curving his sinful lips as pats the retired athlete’s cheek. “Now, now, no need to ask questions for answers you will never understand.”
A huff to deflate the broad length of his shoulders into a sag. “If I wanted to be chided, I’d have rung up mum.”
“Here; sugar makes everything better,” coos with a saccharine tune as a means to deflect, Naib tapping pouting lips with a white chocolate pretzel. William hesitates as a mother’s caveat of spoiling his dinner rings with as much brevity at his twenty-eight years as it did when he was a clumsy toddler. However, wasting food is definitely not high on his list of grievances his morals must contend with, but he at least has another stance on his side as Jack slowly takes up the chair closest to the garden window.
“Darling,” the elder breathes, the pet name rolling through his fangs as though the dead man sitting were speaking to a queen of sword and shield, “you are never this pleasant.”
Oh, dear, the expression on that pretty as porcelain face could smite whole nations, could pummel the standing cavalries into their shallow ends with viperous agility, all intent to rain flame from the heavens in the act of decimation upon the souls of any friend or foe. Punishment would run the rivers as red towards the darker inlets of the Styx, exaltation would inscribe his true name into the makeshift mortuaries sinking beneath the smoke plumes of pyres, and what a lucky bastard William is that Naib has never rattled his bones with such a glare. Truly, there has never been such godawful reprimand of his being, never felt as though a tip of a knife would ever meet the vulnerable vein of his neck.
Rather, the usual victim of that bitter twang of vitriol merely shrugs away whatever Sword of Damocles Naib wields, not in the least perturbed by the premise of sabers rattling war song in the near future. With a heave which resounds a tomb’s scintilla of a melody, Jack sighs, “if you are going to bury me, at least do not encroach upon poor Miss Woods’ prized lilacs.”
Naib snorts, nose scrunching in pure indignation: “I’m burying you at the park this time.”
With a grin which underlies the propensity to add kindling to the embers, William gives chance on his own humorwith a low roll of his shoulders, “put him in the sandbox. The little tykes will love to dig him up.”
A mothball murmur of ahh sifts between gray lips as Jack points directly at him, all childlike smile in spite of the history etched into every wrinkle along his doting gaze. It provides a sense of balance, an equity perhaps an outsider at their window might not ever comprehend, but oh, how it is all theirs, especially as the veritable vampire replies in all his catacomb baritone. “Listen to this one, dear heart of mine. The little ones will love a good legend to gloat on to their wards.”
In retaliation to the abrupt comradery struck between his partners, Naib throws up his hands, flinging the empty wrapper into the air in a mere theatrical attempt to flail about in his purported defeat. Whatever snark lingering has dissipated into the softer hues of the evening tide, no more shark bite or hound’s bark on the tip of the Red Death’s tongue which mulls within William mulls a wonderment if all that goading of lavish cults really had a speckle of truth underneath the murky storytelling.
An eon could pass and William could still be sitting there with all his bemusement, so he lets sleeping dogs lie forany further introspection into the entirety of his confounding life cohabitating with a pair of nightwalkers would just cause a lovely headache. Instead, what seizes his attention is a high growl of his stomach, a remarkable protest at the lack of sustenance after a long nine hours of employment moving around his workplace with a hop in his step and a sunbeam in his smile.
“Ah,” the silver-locked harbinger of a thousand ways to kill a man perks up, smile dripping saccharine as he turns back to his famished lover, patting his solid core with a croon, “stay right here; you’ve worked your ass off today.”
With that, the minx rolls up sensuously, giving William a belvedere view of sumptuous curves of an ass framed by shapely thighs before it all pads away towards the kitchen. An attempt to use the microwave in eminent which at least is more or less one of the few appliances Naib is even allowed to touch. The range, dishwasher, and well, most everything else lies in William’s territory as scraping off silicone spatula from his favorite pans at the witching hour was a far from a jubilant pastime. Regardless of the motive, regardless of how endearing it was that a certain epitome of sex on legs thought cooking breakfast at three in the morning without supervision was ‘cute,’ rules were rules and operating the microwave was just a small allowance mercifully granted.
Jack, for the moment, has yet to reprove of potential culinary disaster as Naib leaves, content to sink into his favorite recliner to just exist in the solace of quiet for whatever slices of seconds he can steal. Their time together, while just a splinter in the framework of an immortal’s lifespan, has at least allotted a mutual understanding when it is just them. Silence wraps like a shawl around them, warm against the autumnal chill of the nightshade creeping shadows like ghosts along the floorboards, and William cannot help but be enchanted. After all, for every bit Naib is ethereal beauty, temptation wrapped in a lace-kiss promise of leather bliss, Jack is the robust harbor in a calamity of storm, the rusted yet dependable anchor to tie their energies down in a handsome swath of wisdom.
Placated by the companionable quiet pervading their bond, William studies Jack from afar, still having to task himself with recalling the elder vampire has no need for the breath of life. It somehow unnerves him, an unnatural act he will endure himself until his hourglass empties into an embarking venture towards what he claims will be Heaven gilded with the dance of the mothers and fathers who took their whims before him, joining them in the grand choir to praise for there can never be an end to eternity. Yet, it is another tocsin of quandary of a ‘what if’ to inquire of himself if traipsing over this earthly plane for centuries would bring him any joy on the stipulation they remain at his side. To have these cusps of moments forever, to have these silly arguments over messing with the poor humans, to abate the ardent hunger of lust with two writhing bodies, to simply be with those who bit his heart for their own claim—it is would be a gamble he is too fearful to roll for.
“… He is fond of you. Terribly fond.”
Interruption is not a cold rush of ice down his spine, but a lukewarm memento of whose presence still presides in the living area. Piqued to interest, brown eyes seek for the sallow yellows to beseech for a reasoning behind such statement.
“Do not give me such skepticism; I am aware of every secret that boy keeps. His heartbeat was mine even before…” when Jack trails off, somberness overtakes him as though guilt roots wisteria through the cage rail of his ribs. Solemnity drips into his burnished gaze, cloying dark waves along the golden hue, all bottled message sinking deeper into the unlit depths to confide into the tragedy his voice cannot utter. And, with that, a countenance antediluvian rumples into an aged crease, detritus of whatever plight ransacked his not-soul obvious along the frown lines.
With tilt of his head, William coughs into his fist as if to urge consonants and vowels to waltz morbid from moth-bitten lips. “Before?”
Frozen within the imprisonment of his remorse, Jack does not tarry forth on the subject, so whatever horror the manonce of thriving flesh conducted tumbles from its relève to mold in some festering heap to die alone in an unknown event to be lost to all but the Muses and pair involved.
“You’re bloody tight-lipped, mate,” exhales along the worry of ignorance; then thin lips tilt with a funny little smile and William’s heart skitters across the mirror of a calm pond. Old bastard is really too comely to deny, a fair sight to admire, pallid like a funeral veil on a rainy Tuesday yet inviting as white sheets hanging in lonesome candelabra light. It makes the very nerves quiver with a kind of need stemming from the vision of a coal-black beast in the wild throes of terrible savagery only to bow in submission to someone worthy of its bare neck. Such a smile throttles any prophecy to evade a fate cruel, avoids aforementioned repercussions, and yet—.
And yet, against the wise advice of his elders, William Ellis might want to drown if it would mean always being theirs.
For all his clandestine motives, Jack might once spare a fruit of knowledge to the mortal who shares in his never-ending adorations, mouth ajar at the seam to reply with some metaphor, yet the what could be told singes into a blank as a head pops in around the threshold towards the kitchen. Advertently, Naib has formulated a provocationby dividing their conversation with a glint of his fangs bordered by a grin of a picturesque housewife of the damned. “Dinner’s warmed up.”
“I don’t get it brought to me on a silver platter, your highness?” but William’s humor is met with some unamusedoffhand comment of dirtying up the carpet, and what a concern that is, horribly ironic when taking the wide view of the mess of candy is littered around them. Hell, the Brummy is forced to use his feet to push away the bags and wrappers strewn about like a toddler’s toy collection, making his haphazard walk to the dinner table per his small lover’s command. It is by instinct alone that he senses Jack’s morgue aura at his back more than sees, more hauntthan carcass in the lack of thud at his footfalls. The chill used to be so unnerving, like he was preceding death into the veil of endless sleep; now, there is strange burn to the cold which chimes solace in his soul.
What the former pitch runner may have glossed over years prior is is how he might be the most shielded bastard in all of London.
“There an occasion for the wine?” and indeed, there are two glasses of lush merlot sitting lovely next to a bottle of the fine drink, accompanied by the sole meal. Such alone is not shocking enough as what would have been a paltry dinner in a the meal prep container is instead displayed on a nice plate for consumption of both the mouth and the eyes. Spoiled, William is a spoiled rotten bloke, hearing the skid of his typical chair be pulled from the table lip so he can sit right down.
“Wine is your thing with the worm shit over there,” Naib rightly claims as he pushes William to the table once the mortal has sat his tush down, near mad with hunger. For all his smoke and mirrors, for all his little quirks and quips, even him who is known the tiny package of pretty death can read right through the pages to reveal a truth fragmented in the small yet kind acts.
There is another slide of chair legs across an inch of linoleum, Jack standing like the guilty in the face of the swinging noose of the gallows. Naib glances at him from the sink, puzzlement glistening before the sigh comes. “sit down, you old fart. I’m not not gonna sit down while he eats.”
“This is your chair, my dearest rose; let me be of some use? Despite the horrendous mess of sweets in the main room, you have tried to make us a happy supper.”
William does not even need to twist his head to watch the twitch along Naib’s right eye, the same one which seems to be a little brighter of the pair, a creamier swirl of alabaster curling into the starlight of azure pools. Never has there been a more dazzling gaze, never has the cosmos ever been within his embrace, all of which juxtaposes his very plain brown ones. Chancing a glance askance towards the elder, the mortal wonders what phase in life the suns of Jack’s eyes are, all cataclysmic formulation of helium and hydrogen burning since a time primordial before simmering into the years prior to a bursting nova. The pair already feel otherworldly once more, undeadanachronisms guided through the modern populous by the whims of curiosity much like black cats slinking along foggy alleyways off the beaten pathways, and William has to sit back and lower the tides threatening to overturn his rickety composure.
Never can there be a day he is not faced with the imminence of his own decay.
To lull him from the if and when he will soon meet his maker, a thud of a wine glass lifts William from the muck of his own temporary woes. What just a moment ago was one wine glass now sits the other on his twine placemat, and he is used as punishment again.
“No wine for you,” Naib points out to the other creature with a steel dagger glare. Then, in another enigmatic caprice, he grabs the back of Jack’s own distinguished chair to inch away from the table with a grunt of, “now you sit down.”
“Insufferable,” exhales a eulogy of woven regrets though anyone with a trained ear though would detect of hint of rose petals along the breath unneeded, a fine timbre of amusement to gild the ages with tapestries of white velvet banners waving between the battlefield of two well-matched lovers. Star-crossed or not, they are bound at the hip, red thread knotted around their necks, and William just grins with all the effulgence of a sunflower field ripe at the peak of August. How astounding that these two would share this with him, but it is that intimacy that bites his tongue to tether it from ruining the interaction.
Nighttime drifts into some halcyon rhythm: an inquiry of his day, a small rant of clients who did not regard his instructions on their offsite stretches, a sip of the wine Jack had slowly tugged back to his possession, and Naibmerely gesturing into the conversation to set the mood comfortable. Once, such scenes would have been mundane, too snail-paced for the raring-to-go forward who only concerned himself with living his youth training too hard, too fast, all while thriving on the energies of the people he cared to adhere to. Casting away burdens was far too careless, finding the notion of being mindful of his own bones some ridiculous feat to decelerate his prowess—and against his ego was life ready to brunt the hardest hit, leaving him on the pitch squirming in agony along the too sharp grass blades and too white halogen lights as the world stopped spinning on its axis towards tomorrow’s cometh.
“Will you be donning a guise for Samhain?” comes after the last sip of ruby red wine is supped, and it is then William observes the black stretch of wings draped lazily down towards the kitchen floor twitching for a response, “the little biters do so love the wonderment when they arrive for their sweets, after all.”
Truthfully, not many of his precious minutes have addressed the occasion to dress up in a cheap, thrashed together costume from nearest department store to pass out the cavity inducers to the local youth. Also, admittedly, the date has arrived so abruptly, the train wheels and brakes counter in warlike detrition as shrill protest bursts his ear drumswhile metal grinds against metal, force fighting force. Using what is hidden in the closets of the house will have to satisfy the old bat, so William flounders for the first contemplation.
“Wrap me up in toilet paper and call me a mummy?”
“Ah, a splendid notion! To add, what if we all took part in a theme of sorts? It might just tickle the little mortals to death,” resounds along the corners of their quaint kitchen an odd statement as per usual, but what else can be saidfurther when it is not a terrible proposal? Other than the not so serious implication of kids in their costumes giggling themselves until they fall right over on the porch step? Masks or not, the ghouls roaming the street walks might not be so obliged to ignore them then.
With the ballot on the proverbial docket, William looks to their middle person for some guidance; “you’ll be the spoiler, kitten, so let me hear all your thoughts?”
A shift to cross his legs onto his seat, Naib rolls his head to the right then to the left before pivoting over to William with a grin so Cheshire, the mortal might think his lover were more of a feline derivative. It does not bode well especially when the glean of fangs sparks a chill of fear at what hides behind the pretty face, but also caresses a low pulse warmth between his thighs. Helpless as he is at the hot and cold of such an expression, his nerves roll in wanton agony as he hears a purr, “and what if I want to be a pharaoh to your mummy?”
Then, Jack laughs with an oak mantle comfort, all bourbon cast and snow clad as sleigh bells jingle across the pearly knolls with the shades of pines the only sense of compass. Heat bubbles from the crackle of hearth fire, and an ease throbs in the marrow to leave him sinking down into the wooden embrace of his chair. A bite should be at the ready, all sharp hunger for the neck of a victim who happens to have more authority of knowledge than seraphs on high—instead, it is merely a pout as William too couples his own chuckle as a loving descant.
“I cannot speak on behalf of our William,” Jack purrs, fetching Naib’s hand to kiss the knuckles with a tenderness which peals prose of romances from the height of bell turrets, “but you are already ruler of my non-beating heart.”
To his credit, Naib maintains a lack of emotion, appearing stoic under the affectionate endeavors of a partner who has been at his side for at least two centuries. Then, like the first rosebuds unfurling on an early verdant dawn, ardor tugs at his lips for a smile.
“Huh. That was actually a good answer for once,” Naib admits in a hushed drop.
William should have expected the smaller man’s free hand to reach out then for fingertips to trail along his wrist to reveal unspoken desires. He should have met him halfway as the sea and land will surely meet a gray morning sky miles away down at the shores of the Sceptered Isles for the method is never circumstance to change with a being somewhere around thrice the age of his cantankerous but beloved grandmother, the same who went to her lawyer to have her will filed the day after meeting William’s partners for the first time over. The matriarch had laughed it off, her voice a delicate veil of jest to placate troubled remarks of unknown news she may have kept close to the cross she wore on her neck, yet her eyes told a story of not reminder. Instead, the same shade of sienna as his own darkened with foreshadowing of fate inevitable—unless perhaps some little minx with fangs sharp sauntered right up to intervene.
Whatever conversation of ambitious motifs for costumes dwindles as the suburban gloam glows opalescent through the window above the sink, and for the stolen sliver from Time’s knobbed knuckles, William just basks in it. Quietness is haunt at the doorway, a companion overseeing this strange combination for lovers, observing a golden bond in which only a clean sweep of death’s sickle could cut.
For what feels like eternities long is in fact just a cluster of minutes, and soon enough, the haze clears when Naibslides his hand away to take the dishes to the sink. In an act of normalcy, the caretaker of house and home hums low under his breath as hot water runs from the faucet, a lullaby from lands too far for William to conceptualize. The slight distance from sink to table would leave the mortal with Jack who finishes his wine with a distinguished sip, fitting for a man who exudes an aura of Michelin star dining and bombastic soirees.
With a cough, William strikes up something to appease his curiosity and by God, how thankful he is that is he no cat in the face of a giant bat, “y’know, I’ve never really felt the itch to ask before and you’re about as reliable—if not more than—any Google search, so color me curious as you’re always calling it Samhain instead of Halloween.Why’s that, mate?”
Jack drums his nails along the table as though he is cycling through the books of his mental library, casting each aside until he comes upon the specific page for his needs. Then, he smiles much too fond, fretting William’s heart into pitter-patter jump which seizes every nerve up into a jolt of damn . What chuckle follows does little to alleviate the attack, yet the old bastard provides regardless. “Ah, forgive me as I know your faith is a thriving one, but I knew it first as Samhain, long before those silly Christians stole yet another sacred day from the pagans for some extra blessings from their God, I suppose. It really is just a hard habit to smother, I’m afraid.”
Put precisely, Jack is stuck in the mud from times before Christ himself baptized John near Bethany, from times before Arthur raised arms against the invaders to protect English shores (which William has been informed is asomewhat genuine mythos, yet if the scoff about Ladies in the Lake was any tell to go on, that part might be a tad bit farfetched). Hell, the once Count might even be some creature slithering out from the undergrowth of the Garden of Eden, a dark mass writhing until bones snapped and cartilage cracked to form some wicked illustration of a dashing man who then went out into the kingdoms to reign not through power, but longevity. Somewhere along such the winding path through the sycamores, he found Naib, took him under wing to keep his close. Somewhere further, they found William, and made this little two-bedroom house a home.
At least, for all the caskets laid figuratively upon Jack’s back, William can nod with a hum to relay his sympathy for the traditions now dead or revised into something not quite familiar.
Another hum interrupts the pair at the table, bidding them both to turn to Naib at his station as the once Red Deathtakes sponge to plate to make it oh, so sparkly clean. “Jack, dearest old shit of mine, while you’re prattling on aboutthe good ol’ days, go make yourself useful and start the bath for him?”
Gosh, does he seem that incapable of drawing his own bath? Admittedly, the former forward prefers showers as efficiency is essential when the workdays are shortened now thanks to a earlier drop of the sun to harken evening’s come. Begrudgingly, his joints are fogey things now thanks to over training and rebuilding with resistance routines, and a dash of Epsom salt in a half-filled tub has done wonders for the swelling hydration and potassium can only do so much to counter.
“I can make my own bloody ba—.”
With only a flutter of a breeze on bat’s wings, Jack is gone with just a blink, leaving William to stare bewildered at his empty plate while Naib is undisturbed by the sudden disappearance. Distantly, water rushes through the pipework, a tell all sign that the command was received and enacted in full force by the true terror of the household.
Spoiled; he is utterly spoiled rotten. He rationalizes it, partakes of it, and mulls in it while listening to the tempo of glass and dish clinking in sudsy duet while a classical tune hums slowly through the vents from the upstairs bathroom. Surreal is an understatement to revel in the bliss of a kiss along his temple while fingers trail the breadth of his shoulders to knead along the muscle there, all from a being who could snap his neck in half a second and dance in the glee of his blood splattering the walls. Not to say that Naib has ever committed manslaughter for the profound joy of painting hot red across the ceiling while cackling like a hyena around its kill, but the threat lingers like an unspoken promise to humble William’s poor heart.
“Quit sitting here like a damn lump and go bathe,” is stated not as an offering nor as a suggestion, so William stands, giving his obeisance with as much of a flourish as Jack undoubtedly would were he still in the kitchen. To his amazement, the scarred corners of Naib’s mouth quirk to crystalize from the natural glower to a serene smile all to hew at the heartstrings.
“Guess the old bastard is rubbin’ off on me. yeah?” William reflects that grin with a kiss along the forehead, just one, just one little sneaky steal of affection before he might be away from either lover. In turn, Naib is so quiet, tranquil even as the water stops its turn abouts in the pipes, but his palm finds the plump apple of his cheek, cupping it with a lamb’s tenderness.
“I guess so.”
Spoiled, he is absolutely spoiled rotten: he comprehends it, rationalizes it, struggles to confine it to a healthy foundation despite the flutter of nightingale wing beating against the rail of the cage for glorious freedom. Gratitude should be the primary sentiment, heart alight with a warmth of being cared for and to some degree, it does. The fact remains though that he feels his weakness in the power structure, a lack of being able to fend for himself if ferocity raged within the not-souls of his lovers, and that does indeed irk him.
What befuddles him in far more grander stands is how there is a temptation to the fanged danger, a lack of self-preservation to coax him towards a safer embrace, a loss of flight for the hillsides to fortify against the oncoming crimson tides of two vampires who, really, are just as meek as mice. Or, well, at the minimum, Jack is; the jury is very much out on Naib though William would bet his entire salary if push were to shove and the variables were clear as wind chime, the short-stack would coddle, not cut. Hell, the could-have-been forward would defend this to his grave as he has sat his ass down on the couch whenever he pleased, any snack or drink he could fathom near conjured from thin air while the Birmingham Moseley match plays on the telly.
It tickles him a rosy pink, buds a flush along his peaks of his cheeks as he sinks into a hot bath, stopping only to note his night clothes folded on the counter and a towel and washcloth are both within close reach. It horrifies him, sews black thread into the pulp of his chest to tug tighter and tighter at the anxiety he should muster on the premise that he is a deer amongst wolves, a ripe meal for the mauling. And yet, he is placated within his vulnerability, even as he goes to wash away the trials and tribulations of the hours spent alive and well, scent of lavender and salt brine swirling down the drain with all of Naib’s desires for a tango for three.
Twenty-eight starts feeling like fifty with each and every rise and grind, he guesses.
Routine compels William into the bedroom after he is dressed from his soak, Jack’s humming guiding him through the darkened tides of the hallway towards the lighthouse gleam of the bedside lamp. A revelry elongates each note of the aria trembling along ancient chords to beguile a victorious illustration of a lone bullfighter toasting to the cheering spectators through the throes of endless bravos. Wave after wave of contenders flock into the ring until the book the vampire idly reads thuds closed to end the hooves of bulls digging into the sands before plowing ever forward towards a banner of ruby bordered with gold.
“Did you have a pleasant bathe, Mister Ellis?” croons titillating in his ear, and if William had consumed ten pieces of that damn chocolate for a glorious sugar rush, he might would swoon towards the bed seek a promise of burning the calories clear off his ledger with a tussle in the sheets. Instead, dinner of portioned protein and carbs sits heavy in his stomach and the pillows looks awfully comfortable. Luck would have it that a spot just for him is at Naib’s left side as the unspoken agreement as to who is the ‘middle binding’ resounds consistent.
Rain patters lazily along the high-rise windows, a spot of autumn’s dreary weather to adorn the night with an ambiance so distinctly in need of a nice cup of herbal chamomile to soothe away the thriving stresses clawed deep into the bulk of his back. Maybe there is no steeped tea awaiting William, maybe there is not one hint of wanton moans and writhing limbs within the hour, and maybe there is just a snooze waiting for him once he is down for the count. None of it quite seems to compel him to proffer a smidgeon of concern, more inclined to take his place to press kiss to Naib’s temple then to the corner of Jack’s mouth.
Moments dwindle into a drowsiness threatening to overtake him, almost whisking him away towards the second star on the right so he can dive into the swath of sea clouds splendorous with all the hues of galaxy dust. Just before the darkness of sleep snatches him away from the world of the woken, William’s jaw unhinges for a bear’s yawn to ward off the black spots floating pirouette in his vision. He tries once, then again to speak, but he merely mumbles with a nuzzle into Naib’s hair. “Keep me awake?”
“No,” Jack chuckles, fingers weaving through the man’s locks to coax him to sleep with a gentle scrape of his scalp, “now go to sleep, you stubborn bull.”
“… Did the bloody heaps of chocolate get tidied up downstairs?”
A pair of cold lips peck his own to mollify, Naib’s grin just as lovesome as he coos, “what the corpse talking said, sleeping beauty.”
Two creatures of the night might fuss at each other for their antics of name-calling and they might argue under hisses between sharp ivories, but William is none the wiser as the Sand Man does indeed arrive to bring him a dream as sweet as honey divine. As he runs on knees that do not fail him, as he takes the rugby call to score the winning points for his team, there always lingers at the end of it all the most unusual couple he could ever come across, death clad to defy even the odds of the supernatural. Still, as he raises a trophy into the storm of confetti stream, the colors soon bleed then fade to a winter’s immaculate sheen, bonfire fluttering amber scarves along the fine powder of ice. He should be frigid, a right popsicle despite himself, but there is are two shadows clasping his hands, and somehow an early end in amongst the pines is a fretful panic broken across timber pile.
In a daze from the dancing flame of ritual pyre, William asks these silhouettes of old husks, “isn’t it tiresome? Watching me get old?”
A couplet of laughter greets his query: one is a mountainside echo, brimming with an earthy spice while the other is a grave warmed over, an adagio to charm any chill into a fond memory. Wondering what is so humorous does not one lick of good— but as the fire evanesces into soot to mark the hollows of his eyes, a whisper as somber as a tombstone bites along the vein of his neck.
“All good things come in their right time; never before, never after.”
When William wakes at the insistence of that godawful alarm, he will be greeted not with fang or ember but with smiles, all gentle coaxing from the too comfy bed to ready for another work day. He will not recall his dream, not even give it a chance of rumination, but one December morning when trimming his beard, he will see it in the cold light as stark as a ghost in the corner of a lonely.
Two bites along the thick of his neck, not to transfigure, not to torment, but to possess his body for two creatures’ own. Yes, the human man’s heart will stop, near keeling him over across the vanity as he drops the razor to the sinkas he clutches the sides with a trembling, knuckle white grip. He will be scared, he will be so terrified, like a sugar rush steeped wasp sting and railroad spike eats away the things that make William William and then—and then.
He will go downstairs, take his coffee black with a bit of butter for the fat, kiss his lovers goodbye, and just pretend that this little carved space into the marrow of their ribs is all his to own too.