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The cramped apartment smells like stale incense and old leather, the kind of place where the wallpaper peels in artistic surrender. A battered cassette player wheezes out *"Blue Christmas,"* Elvis’s voice crackling through decades of dust. Jesse—all sharp cheekbones and darker-than-midnight eyes—sits slumped in a thrift-store armchair, fingers tapping the armrest in sync with the bassline. His boot nudges an empty blood bag under the coffee table. Joey, meanwhile, is a hurricane in sweatpants. He’s been pacing for twelve minutes, occasionally plucking at Jesse’s sleeve like a kid denied candy.
"C’mon," he whines, "you’ve played this tape, like, four times." His breath smells faintly of peanut butter.
Jesse’s patience snaps. A low growl rumbles up his throat, the sound vibrating deep enough to make the half-empty beer bottles on the floor tremble. "I didn’t have to save you, y’know," he mutters, fangs glinting under the flickering bulb.
Joey grins, unrepentant. "No take-backsies." He flops onto the couch, sending a plume of stuffing into the air. "Besides, what would Danny say if his girls suddenly lost their Uncle Joey?"
"Go find a less annoying human," Jesse deadpans, but there’s no heat in it.
Joey doesn’t wait for permission. He lunges—all elbows and reckless momentum—and presses his mouth to Jesse’s. It’s messy, off-center, and tastes like stolen Pepsi. When he pulls back, his smirk is downright smug. "I don’t think so."
Elvis croons on, blissfully unaware. Jesse exhales through his nose, drags Joey back by the collar, and bites his lower lip just hard enough to sting.