Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Laszlo became a vampire, he was prepared for a lavish life filled with pleasure and luxury. What he did not have in mind was the 90s. Instead of a mansion in the English countryside, with dark bricks covered in ivy and a loving and insatiable husband or wife, he barely holds onto a shitty, decrepit apartment trying (and failing) to keep the lights on while he tries to ease the tension between his two roommates after their recent breakup.

“Laszlo? Is the power out again?” Marwa asks, entering the apartment. Marwa is a short, slim human woman who immigrated from southern Iran a few years back. It was then that she met Nandor, Laszlo’s other roommate, and possibly the stupidest vampire to ever exist. He sighs.

“Yes, Marwa, they cut this morning,” Laszlo yells from the other room, before turning back to his harpsichord. He plunks meaninglessly at the keys, hoping inspiration will strike. Nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s been a year since it happened.

366 days ago, Laszlo was happy. Music was not a career, but a way of life, of expressing emotion. And there was Michael.

Laszlo should have known better than to fall for a human. Or at least to turn him into a vampire early on. Or maybe he should have noticed something was wrong. Were there signs he could have missed?

355 days ago, he walked into the bathroom to find Michael’s lifeless body bleeding out in the bath, wrists cut open with a small silver knife that now laid bloody and discarded on the mouldy tiles.

And a note.

‘Laszlo,
We have aids
Michael’

And nothing had been the same since.

Of course, since vampires do not have a living immune system, Laszlo is unaffected by the diagnosis physically. But there’s now the knowledge that any human he sleeps with will likely die, and while Lazlo is no stranger to the death of humans, the thought of falling for someone who will be gone so soon scares him. So he usually drains his sexual partners before he can feel anything.

The obvious solution is to find or make a vampire, but the undead community in Staten Island in the 1990s is rather small, and Lazlo really only knows Nandor. Come to think of it, Nandor is the only person that Laszlo has slept with that still walks the earth. Which is a little depressing, because romantically, he really couldn’t think of anyone worse.

Actually, where is Nandor? He’s been gone rather a lot recently. Laszlo rises from his place at the piano and goes to the kitchen, where Marwa sits surrounded by bills.

“There must be a way to pay last month’s rent,” she mumbles to herself. Laszlo laughs. “Marwa, we still haven’t paid last years.” She sighs.

“I just feel bad for Colin Robinson. We haven’t paid him in so long.”

“Don’t feel bad for Colin Robinson. No one feels bad for Colin Robinson.” Colin Robinson, they’re ex-friend and now landlord, is an energy vampire, therefore making him the most boring and insufferable person alive. Or dead. Truthfully, Lazlo doesn’t understand what his deal is. “I hate to ask, but have you seen Nandor recently?” She shakes her head.

“I think he’s working on his new…whatever he does.” After having a short crisis about his eternal life, Nandor decided to engage in experimental protest theatre. Laszlo thinks it’s absolute horseshit, but at least there’s no longer a constant soundtrack of weeping around the flat. “I’ve also heard that he’s seeing someone new.”

“Oh?” he says, suddenly very interested. There’s nothing more entertaining than romantic and sexual scandals. “What’s their name?”

“Guillermo or something. He seems nice, actually.”

“You’re not jealous?” She doesn’t respond and goes back to the bills, giving Laszlo his answer.

Chapter Text

/// laszlo's pov ///

Later that night, Marwa receives a call from Nandor and reluctantly goes out to help fix his PA stuff. He’s got some show opening in a few days, apparently, and he’s forcing Laszlo to watch his pathetic imitation of art. Now, however, Laszlo sits alone, attempting to create real art. But what? He’s got his whole eternal life ahead of him to create, but for some reason, this time, this era, feels important. There’s something so special, in such an awful way, about the now, and he has to do something, write one song to capture it.

But he just feels so….

…stuck.

A knock on the front door brings him out of his spiral. It’s probably Nandor - he’s always forgetting his keys. He rolls his eyes a brings himself to his feet reluctantly. But when he opens the door, Nandor is absent. In his place stands the most beautiful Laszlo has ever seen. His words fall away from him as he takes her in. Her jet-black hair falls onto her shoulders, and a fringe frames her face of porcelain skin. There’s a fierceness in her eyes as if she could easily tear Laszlo to shreds, but something about her makes him crave that destruction. She could ruin him, and he would gladly accept it.

He snaps out of his trance long enough to notice her shivering.

“Um, are you all right, my dear?” He asks, averting his eyes so she can no longer enchant him.

“It’s nothing, they turned off my heat,” she speaks in a strong European accent. Greek, maybe? “I’ve got no power; would you mind lighting my candle?”

“Your candle...?” The moonlight sends a delicate ray in through the window, reflecting off her inky curls. Shit. He’s staring again.

“What are you staring at?” She asks with a smirk, causing his undead heart to skip a few beats. For a split second, instead of this girl, standing before him is Michael. He shakes the thought from his head. That’s insane. It’s the long, dark hair, he thinks.

“Nothing. Your hair in the moonlight,” he responds. Is he flirting? He hasn’t done that properly since…

“So, do you have a match?” She says, inviting herself into the flat. He snaps out of his trance.

“Um, yes, of course,” he says, moving away from the doorway and into the kitchen, fumbling blindly through the draws until he secures a pack of matches. He looks up at her. She’s still trembling. “I say, have we met before? You look familiar.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. I get that a lot. Who were they?” The girl asks, seeing right through him. He turns away with a frown.

“He died. I think it’s your hair. But I’ve seen you around somewhere?” A seductive smile curls onto her lips as she approaches him.

“Do you go out much?” She asks, running a delicate, pale hand through his hair, brushing it behind his ear, sending a jolt of energy through his body, something desperate and primal. No. No, he can’t. “I dance at the Cat Scratch Club.”

“Ahh, of course,” he says, her familiarity suddenly making sense. “You look rather different without the handcuffs,” he says impulsively. She gives him a flirtatious smirk. “It’s a living,” she says quickly before the pout returns to her face. “I need this candle lit!”

“Right, yes. Sorry, my dear, he says, striking a match and lifting the flame to her candle. The warm glow illuminates her pale face, and he stands captivated as the gentle flames reflect in her grey eyes, flickering like lightning in a thunderstorm. And Laszlo knows she’s every bit as dangerous.

“Ow!” She yelps, pulling one hand away from the candle and shaking it.

“Oh! The wax is dripping…Are you okay, darling?” She must be, as she gives him yet another seductive smile and whispers “I like it.”

“You like it?”

“It feels nice between my…”

“-fingers, yes, well, have a wonderful night, my dear, and I suppose I’ll see you around,” he says quickly, blushing furiously as he ushers her out the door and shuts it behind her. Sighing, he leans back against the splintering wood. Once upon a time, he would have flirted back freely. He would invite her out, and maybe she’d return that night. Maybe someday they’d fall in love. She was beautiful. Not just beautiful; magnificent? Exquisite? If there’s one thing Laszlo knows for sure, it’s that he must forget her. Sliding the chain onto the door he wanders back to his piano and plunks mindlessly at the dusty keys, trying to push the girl from his mind. As he thinks, his fingers move across the keys, thoughts of her swirling in with the delicate melody. Musetta’s Waltz by Puccini. E major, pitch-black hair, D over G, stormy eyes, A minor 1st inversion, ivory skin, F.

Knock, knock, knock.

Laszlo halts both his playing and his thoughts as he stands to answer the door. Nandor must have forgotten his keys again. Fucking idiot. He slides the rusty chain back across and opens the door.

“Nandor, you complete fuckwit, I-,” He stops in his tracks, eyes finding not his pig-shit housemate but the girl from before. She looks at him with an amused smile.

“Nandor?”

“I thought my housemate had forgotten his keys. Again,” He mutters. “Are you okay?”

“I think I dropped something earlier,” she says, pushing her way inside, lit candle in hand, to look. “Can you help me?” But Laszlo is distracted. She knows he’s distracted. She’s bent over, stretching herself to only confuse him further.

“What are you staring at?” Laszlo looks away quickly. “I’ve heard that I have the best ass in the area. Would you agree?”

“Wh-what are we looking for?” He asks, begging himself not to be hypnotised by this intoxicating woman. As he moves, his foot nudges something across the floor. He bends down to pick it up, unsure of what it might be in the dim light. “I think I found…” His voice trails off as his eyes focus on the small Ziploc bag filled with tiny white tablets. His stomach drops as he thinks back to how she shivered before.

“Have you got it?”

“No. It was just a lolly wrapper,” he says, pocketing the bag, a familiar sense of guilt flooding through him as the bag presses against his leg through his pocket. “I say, dear, how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” She responds, standing up.

“Your awfully young to be…dancing at those clubs.”

“I’m not that young! How old are you, then?”

“Twenty-five,” he lies, deciding that 300 is probably not an acceptable answer for a human. That’s about how old he was when he died. Probably. He looks at her again. She’s still shivering, pale and thin.

“You know, I used to shiver like you do,” he confesses. She shifts her weight uncomfortably, eyes darting nervously around the room.

“I have no heating in my residence.”

“It’s warm in here,” He points out. She says nothing. “You know, I, myself, used to partake in some…illicit activities.”

“I get a kick every so often,” she says, still not meeting his eyes.

“You ought to go to-.” She cuts him off, moving towards him and brushing a calloused finger over his lower lip. “Do you dance?”

“Do I dance?” He asked, puzzled by the sudden change in conversation.

“Yes,” She confirms, taking his hands in hers and swaying gently. “…they’re so cold,” She mutters. Laszlo freezes. She couldn’t possibly know that he’s a vampire, right?

“Y-yours too,” he stammers in response, as she turns herself around. “Well, what should I be calling you, stranger?” She asks, face dangerously close to his.

“Laszlo Cravensworth,” he says, straining his eyes to prevent them from drifting down to her undoubtedly soft lips. “And you?”

“Nadja,” she says, leaning closer to him. It’s Nadja’s eyes that drop down first, then slowly rise back up to meet his. His cold, dead heart beats faster and faster as her hands curl around him.
“Nadja…” he whispers, his arms slowly finding their place on her back. She’s warm. So warm. As her body heat spreads through him, he’s filled with a familiar aching. Inhibitions lost, he slowly leans in, eyes fluttering closed. Suddenly, a hand reaches into his back pocket, and she steps back with a smirk.

“Wonderful to meet you, Laszlo Cravensworth.” She grins, dangling the bag of pills in front of him, before grabbing her candle and promptly exiting, leaving him in the dark.

Chapter Text

If you asked him five years ago what he’d be doing, Guillermo de la Cruz would never have imagined he’d be the familiar/production manager/tentative romantic partner of an eight-hundred-year-old vampire in the middle of an eternal life equivalent of a mid-laugh crisis, he would have laughed in your face, before proceeding to have a nervous breakdown about his future. After a gap year in Mexico and three gruelling years at college, he was finally ready to leave his part-time job at the bakery and start his own business. That was, until he met Nandor the Relentless, and was suddenly wrapped in a whirlwind of absurdity. And now, he’s wrestling with microphone cables in an abandoned warehouse with zero heating and minimal light.

His reckless tugging at a knotted lead is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone in his pants pocket. Guillermo drops the cord and answers.

“Guillermo! Guillermo, is that you?” Guillermo’s frown deepens at the sound of Nandor’s voice.

“Yes, it’s me, Nandor, where the fuck are you?!”

“Guillermo! Don’t speak to me like that!”

“You’re three hours late to the tech rehearsal! I don’t know what I’m doing, I need you here!”

“Of course you need me, Guillermo, but I need to…”

“…think of an excuse?”

“…no.” Guillermo sighs and sits down on a nearby amp.

“Look, Nandor, I know you’re stressed about this, but-.”

“I’m not stressed. I’ve led armies, I don’t get stressed about performing.” Guillermo rolls his eyes and stands up again, loosening a knot in a guitar lead.

“Okay, whatever’s wrong, I just need you to- Shit!” he jumps back as the amplifier sparks.

“Guillermo! What’s wrong? Is the amplifier okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he responds sarcastically.

“Did it explode?”

“No…t exactly.”

“I’m calling Marwa. She knows science-y things.” A pang of jealousy goes through Guillermo’s chest.

“Do not. I’ve got this, Nandor, please. You’re not calling-!” And he’s gone. “Fuck.”

Within half an hour, a figure enters the dim warehouse.

“I told him not to call you,” He sighs as the figure steps closer.

“He’s stubborn like that.” Marwa approaches the makeshift stage, stepping into the light. “Guillermo, yes?”

“Um…yeah. You must be Marwa,” he says without meeting her eye.
“Yes. Nandor said you were having trouble with the setup, is there anything I can do?” She asks. She genuinely wants to help, Guillermo can see that, but he just can’t get passed how fucking weird this situation is.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, before proceeding to trip over a tangled mass of cords.

“Clearly,” she says with a slight laugh. “Well, I suppose I will be off…”

“Wait! I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, can you please help?” Guillermo sighs. She smirks.

“Let’s check the mic,” she says, picking up a microphone from its case and pulling out a lead. She plugs it in and attaches it to the stand. “Can you turn that speaker down?”

“Um, why would I need to do that?” She scoffs playfully and hands him the other end. He snatches it and plugs it into the speaker, causing a brief but deafening explosion of sound.

“That’s why.” She moves across the stage and continues setting up the PA equipment. Guillermo, totally out of his depth continues his detangling. “So…you and Nandor?”

“No! I mean, no, of course not, well, not ‘of course not’, I mean, maybe, sort of, a little bit.” She blinks at him in confusion.

“I’m not following.”

“We’re not dating. Like, not properly.”

“Still not following.”

“He’s…”

“…lacking in emotional intelligence?”

“…a little.” He swallows nervously. “Um…when you were together, did he..?”

“Get with other people? All the time. It’s just how he is.”

“Maybe he’s matured since then.”

“After 800 years?”

“…fair point.”

“Watch out when he calls you ‘my little pomegranate’. It seems sweet, but…”

“Well, he’s never called me that.”

“Okay. Good.” The air is almost solid with tension. It’s brutally thick, making everything feel ten times heavier.

“He’s different with me,” Guillermo lies. He knows he’s lying. He’s trying desperately to convince himself that Nandor might actually care about him.

“Okay,” responds Marwa as she fiddles with the mixer.

“It’s true.”

“I believe you. Can you test the mic again?” Guillermo nods and promptly approaches the mic stand once more. “Say anything.” He stands. What’s he going to say? What’s the first thing that will come to his mind?”

“…he cheated on me…” The confession echoes around the warehouse, bouncing back to Guillermo again and again until he actually has to accept it as part of his life. Spots appear in his vision, and he starts to feel lightheaded. Through the dizzy haze, he hears a sigh, and a gentle hand is placed on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Guillermo.”

“It’s…it’s fine…” He mumbles as she leads him to a couple of plastic chairs and sits down. He does the same, sitting in the chair beside her. “I mean…I said we weren’t properly dating, but I thought we were for a bit – it was nice for like…a week maybe? Then I get back to the apartment and he’s fucking around with Laszlo! And he is totally unfazed by my presence; he’s literally halfway through fucking him and he looks up like ‘hello Guillermo!’, not even addressing the massive fucking elephant in the room.”

“Oh…”

“And, okay, I know there’s no romantic feelings there, so, fine, if he’s enjoying it, that’s okay. But not even one full week later, I walk in on him with his ex-girlfriend Gale.”

“Gale’s back?”

“Gale’s back. Or…she was…I know he was in love with her, and…that’s what really hurts. The inevitable fact that he will never love me…” he admits, heart heavy with the reality of it. “Um, not that I love him.” Marwa gives another heavy sigh and wraps her arms around Guillermo, holding him close. A small sob escapes his lips, and she runs a soothing hand up and down his back.

“I’m sorry, Guillermo. He really is a stupid man.” He sits up, wiping his face.

“He is. Sorry for…all of this.”

“It’s okay. I do have some good news for you though.”

“What is it?”

“It’s all set up!” she exclaims with a bright smile, standing up and gesturing to the dusty equipment.

“All of it?”

“Yes! Excellent job, Guillermo! You’re an excellent helper.” He rolls his eyes.

“You were helping me, but thank you,” Guillermo responds with a smirk. “I’ll see you at the show?”

“See you there.”