Work Text:
Will stumbles over himself, arms coming up in a fruitless attempt to catch him. He cries out as his torso collides with the hard brick of an alleyway wall. He knows he's not in a great part of town, but he's a vampire for fuck's sake. He should be able to handle himself in a rough neighborhood.
-
He’s being beat- beat with a silver pole that protrudes from a sick man’s hands. There's a net over him, confining him to stay down on the hard concrete of the cracked sidewalk.
-
He doesn't know where he's going, just that he needs to get out of this stupid damn place fast. He assumes the hunters took his phone, considering he hasn't been able to find it in any of his pockets. But he wasn't exactly thorough with searching, in his impaired state. Will doesn't really remember that happening, but perhaps that should be expected because the only thing that he does remember is flashes of hard hits aimed to kill and harsh words.
He would've been caught, probably taken back to some shady warehouse and harvested for parts,if it weren't for the police car that had pulled up. Because yes, the government doesn't give a single shit about vampires. They're generally looked down on in society - employment is hell to find, Will and Mike are ridiculed almost every damn time they leave the house. But even with all of that in mind it is still illegal for humans to kill vampires.
The appropriate term is ‘harvest’, considering prejudice isn't the only reason they're killed off. They're typically murdered for parts to sell on the black market. Teeth too sharp, eyes that glow in the dark, a clawed hand or two. They all make a pretty penny when offered to the right person.
-
Pain- god the only thing Will can comprehend past his fear is pain. He thinks they've torn his calf open, but he can't exactly get a look from how the boot on his neck is shoving his face into rough ground.
-
Vampires, in most circumstances, can't die. Sure, they can feel the pain that might come with death if injured, but they can't die from the mundane things that humans can. There are a few things that can kill vampires, like ingesting the wrong kind of blood (blood allergies are an odd thing), or being slit open with a silver knife. Other metals don't affect them, their skin is impenetrable in that way, but silver is the largest danger to vampires out of them all. There are definitely more than what he can remember- but those are the big ones.
Those hunters had silver.
The wall that Will had been using as a brace ends abruptly. He cries out as his knees slam harshly into the pavement below, thunder bursting across the sky as rain continues to fall against his weak back.
-
His skull is being slammed into the concrete, over and over and over. He cries, and screams, and begs, but the only thing that answers his pleas is cruel laughter and a boot digging into his back as his head is pulled up again.
-
Tears burn at his eyes as he gasps for air- and when he looks down- yeah. They tore through his calf. He chokes on his tears as he takes in the sight because holy shit he can see his muscle flexing beneath all his cold black blood and that is not fucking normal and holy shit he’s gonna die here-
He topples over from where he had fallen onto his knees, groaning weakly when his head collides with the concrete and bounces off of it.
He can feel the rain soaking into his clothes and the chill that comes with it soaking into his core. The pavement below him is uncomfortable, and the pain is worsened by the way small rocks wedge themselves into Will’s calf injury. God, he really is gonna die here, isn't he? After hundreds of years of thinking death to be another part of the impossible, after thinking he could spend eternity with his lover and not have to worry about stupid things like a car crash or sickness or old age. After never even considering the possibility, it seems he's been mistaken.
Mortality only goes so far, he supposes. The universe can't live forever, he isn't so sure why he thought he was capable of doing so.
He considers the possibility of rolling over onto his back, if only to see the cloud-muddled sky one more time before these damn wounds take him out, but quickly gives that up when he shifts and the injury on his leg squelches and drags across the concrete in the slightest.
He’s beginning to feel his energy being pulled from him with some invisible force, and his eyelids slipping shut against his will. He drags them back open the first few times, focusing his strength on staring out into the disgusting and dark streets of wherever the fuck he is. There's a lamp post flickering. His eyes are closed. When they open again, it's still flickering.
He wonders where Mike is now. When Will had left the boy had been reading yet another novel in one of their - admittedly obnoxiously fancy - armchairs by the fireplace. It’s had to have been a few hours by now, so maybe he's taken to continuing his current novel, or tidying the kitchen. That last one is a long shot- there isn't a tidy bone in Mike's body. They should hire some maids or something, honestly.
His eyes have fallen shut again. He doesn't have it in him to pry them open this time.
He’s gonna miss sights like that. Where Mike is just existing in peace, dim lights casting over him as he reads or laughs or scrolls through his phone.
He can feel his consciousness slipping away, but he isn't too concerned about it. He knows death well, even if it's the one thing to have never touched him before. He isn't afraid of dying, much less of whatever afterlife he may receive. He's more scared of leaving Mike, if anything. He's more scared to never see his lover's eyes meet his own again, he's more scared to not have said a goodbye. He hasn't said everything he wants to, considering he thought he had thousands of more years to do so. He’s scared of never watching Mike fuck up a recipe again, of never seeing him scowl at teenagers who regard them with cold looks.
He's scared of never seeing Mike again.
With that thought, unconsciousness takes him.
-
Will wakes up at some point, to gentle hands and soft-spoken unrealistic threats. He knows who it is from the curve of his lover’s hands, and the way his breathy voice goes a pitch higher when he’s stressed.
He’s panting, Will can tell, and from his lidded vision he can see that red and black blood is mixing together on the man’s face to create some sort of fucked watercolor painting.
He doesn't care. He thinks that Mike is a work of art anyways.
-
Usually in the movies the character has a few moments of ignorant bliss when waking up, before realizing that they are absolutely fucked. Will has no such thing. He wakes up, and he is immediately aware of the fact that it feels like he got run over by an entire fleet of school buses.
Apparently, waking up after being beaten to the ground and given a rough glimpse at what death may look like, is not a pleasant experience. He would know.
He peels his eyes open to a pitch black room, windows layered with multiple blackout curtains when one wouldn't do the trick. He’s covered in about 30 blankets, surrounded by several different pillows, and under his head is the distinct sound of a vampire purring.
He's in the nest. God- he hasn’t been happier to be in the nest since his turning.
He almost smiles - gets close to the thought of it - but the image of Mike having to find him passed out in the road and drag his sorry ass home isn't one he thinks he’ll be able to recover from anytime soon, if at all.
The thought of Mike, his corny ass Mike, staring teary eyed at Will’s bruised and bloody body is seared into his mind. And yeah, Will isn't exactly sure if that's what even happened, how he even got back to the nest at all, but either way the thought is enough to make his stomach curl with nausea and throat close up.
Tears burn in his eyes. He fucking hates hunters. He always has, but this is different. This time it’s personal. They almost killed him. He's allowed to be mad- he's allowed to be more than mad. He wants them to choke on their own blood, to choke and gurgle and plead just as he did.
He isn't a violent person (vampire?). He’s never been a violent person, but are vengeance and violence really the same thing?
He doesn't know. He doesn't particularly care.
He curls his head deeper into Mike's collarbone, his own purr staring up in his chest. It’s weaker than it would usually be, halting and stuttering due to his probable fucked up vocal chords, and generally fucked up body.
But he’s in the nest, and he’s safe, and he’s with his lover, and everything is fine for the time being.
one of Mike’s hands begins carding through his curls, the other curling around Will.
Neither of them say anything. They don't need to, not until later at least. The bond, and their instincts, are doing enough.
He’s grateful to have forever with Mike.