(I Would Like To) Take You Home

The club is loud and pulsing and striped with strobe lights and Mike loves it, despite – or maybe because of – the fact that it’s so unlike his usual haunts. He stands out like a sore thumb here, his pastel pressed jacket and trousers completely at odds with the skinny jeans and tiny skirts worn by the girls and boys pressed in all around him.

Mike takes a deep, unnecessary breath, inhaling the smell that hangs thick in the air between him and the crowd; it’s a sweet, tangy mixture of blood and sweat and human pheromones, and it’s intoxicating. He’s already fed tonight but these humans smell delicious and he’s never been one to turn down a healthy snack.

He glides over to the bar, orders a drink he won’t touch and just lounges there, casting a speculative eye over the crowd. They’re mostly as young as he looks, fresh and untainted and fucking mouth-watering, and Mike can have any one of them he wishes. The desire rises in him then and he can almost feel himself going dizzy with it, like when he was human and a child and would spin around in circles just to watch the world whip by.

(It’s not hunger, it’s not anything like it. Hunger is desperation and need and clawing for the first warm body with blood pumping through its veins. This is pure, selfish want and Mike loves it, loves that he has the power to just take what he wants like he never had when he was alive.)

The vampire halts in his assessment of the room, pausing on someone just across from him. He’s fairly tall, Mike thinks, possibly just a few inches shorter than himself, with a mop of curly dark hair and the most innocent face he’s seen since-

No. Mike is not going there. Not now. Not tonight. He catches the boy’s eye – because he is a boy, can’t be any older than eighteen at the most – and smiles, slow and steady and sharp, tipping the brim of his bowler hat in greeting. The boy looks surprised for a few moments but smiles back, face flushed and eyes bright. He’s practically glowing with his humanity, with his mortality, and something dark and primal within Mike throbs with the urge to extinguish that light as brutally as possible.

He turns, making to leave, and doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know the kid’s following him. The smile twists on his lips, momentarily baring a flash of white fangs at anyone who happens to be glancing in his direction, before it’s gone.

Outside, Mike leans against the wall and pulls out a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke any more, can’t, but it’s part of the game, part of the act, and Mike is so very good at acting.

(He misses it, though, misses the slow burn of the smoke in his lungs more than most of the things William said he would miss about being human. Sometimes he feeds on addicts with nicotine-stained fingernails so he can remember what it tastes like, just for a few moments.

It’s almost better than the blood. Almost.)

Bringing the cigarette to his lips, Mike lights it with the lighter tucked in the pocket of his jacket but doesn’t inhale, can’t. He contents himself with sucking on the filter, watching the smoke curl out of the end of the folded up piece of paper. It tastes empty, bland, like bread that’s gone stale.

The kid ducks out of the club a few moments later, eyes darting around the little alleyway until they rest on Mike and crinkle in a smile. He’s shivering, a little, and it occurs to Mike then that it’s probably cold out here. He’s a supernatural creature of darkness, he isn’t affected by such minutiae as temperature, so he shrugs off his jacket and holds it out, quirking an eyebrow when the boy just blushes and shakes his head, mumbling what sounds like no thank you.

“Take it, kid,” Mike says patiently, layering his voice only a little. He saw the reluctance in the boy’s big hazel eyes when he shook his head, and he knows it’s just deeply-ingrained politeness that’s making him decline the offer. It won’t take much to convince him. “I figure you need it more than me.”

Sure enough, the kid doesn’t hesitate longer than a second before taking the jacket and shrugging it on, smiling gratefully at Mike. He blows a smoke ring into his face in response, laughing when the boy starts coughing violently.

“Take it you don’t wanna bum a smoke, then?” Mike says, amused.

The kid stops trying to cough up a lung long enough to look indignant and choke out, “I’ll have one if you’re offering.”

Mike arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as he digs out a cigarette and hands it over, letting their fingers brush for a few moments too long to be accidental. He leans down to light the cigarette when the boy’s got it between his lips, watching him intently as he flicks the lighter and the flame ignites. The kid blushes, glancing down to break the contact, and Mike smirks before slinking back to his position against the wall. Sometimes, this is just too easy.

The boy doesn’t cough when he takes his first drag but his eyes are scrunched up with concentration and Mike can tell it’s not without great effort. Chuckling to himself, he just watches the kid for a few moments, sucking on his own cancer stick.

“So what’s your name?” he drawls, cigarette dangling at his side. He could probably draw it out of the kid’s mind, take it by force, but when there’s no need for it, Mike prefers the more conventional approach to conversation.

“Ke-Kevin,” the boy stutters out, cheeks flaming as he glances down at the floor and bites back a nervous smile. Mike thinks he would’ve found it endearing, back when he was alive, but now all it does is clench something tight around his stomach and remind him of the innocence of the boy, of his humanity, of his mortality. “What’s yours?”

“Mike,” Mike says, surprising himself. He never gives his real name, offering instead the one you’ll be screaming when I’ve got my hand between your legs (or his fangs in their neck, but he doesn’t usually mention that part until later, if at all).

It unsettles him, the way he was so taken aback by the genuine look in the kid- Kevin’s eyes and the way he’d looked up at Mike through his lashes, shy, that he’d just blurt out his name like that. Like... like a human would.

The kid’s mouth is open like he’s about to say something else but Mike doesn’t give him the chance to talk. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to have to do it now. He can already feel his resolve slipping, the tight ball of want unravelling in his stomach.

Detaching himself from the wall, Mike steps forward until he’s crowding Kevin back against the brick, hands braced on either side of him. He smirks when the kid squeaks and the feeling of dizzying desire returns in an instant.

“What are you-”

“Relax,” Mike murmurs, and Kevin’s body goes instantly pliant beneath his.

He angles the kid’s chin with his fingers, tugging him up to fit their mouths together. Kevin makes a startled noise, lips parted, and Mike takes the chance to lick into his mouth. He tastes a little like the cigarette he was smoking, like spearmint and peanut butter and something sweeter Mike can’t name, but he doesn’t linger on Kevin’s mouth for too long. He pulls away enough to brush his lips down Kevin’s jaw, kissing gently across his neck, and he smiles against the skin when the kid gasps. He trails lower, teasingly slow, until he finds the pulse point on Kevin’s neck, until he can feel the steady ba-bump of the blood flowing beneath the surface.

Mike mouths over the spot for a few moments, breath ghosting over the skin. Then he lets his teeth scrape over it, gentle, hesitant. This time Kevin whines, high-pitched and desperate and he arches up, tilting his head to give Mike better access to his neck. The fool. All Mike has to do now is sink his fangs into the soft, soft skin and suck out every last drop of Kevin’s sweet, sweet blood, and that’s it. That’s the end.

Mike pulls away abruptly, blinking hard. He peels himself off Kevin with great effort and strides away without a backward glance, even when the boy calls after him, his voice cracking on Mike’s name.

***

Mike finds a girl on the edge of the city who’s more his usual type: classy dark curls that fall down her back and a painted on smile that’s as red as the blood pouring out of the gash across her neck. He doesn’t finish her off, can’t, and she’s going to bleed to death on the pavement. All that blood going to waste. William would be so disappointed in him if he knew.

“Please,” she wheezes, “help me.”

Mike straightens up and watches her body shudder and convulse in his peripheral vision for a few seconds before finally going still. He tries to ignore the fact that he still feels empty, despite the two and a half litres of blood filling his dead veins, and turns away to leave.

The house is quiet when Mike gets back, quiet in the way it always is less than an hour before the sun rises. The Dandies don’t like taking risks they aren’t certain they’ll get a return on and there are few besides Mike who’re willing to chance instant incineration for the sake of pushing back the night as long as possible. William is one of them. Brendon is the other.

Brendon Urie, who’s perched on the wall outside the house, grinning like the cat in that human story his boyfriend Ryan loves so much. Someone in somewhereland? Mike doesn’t know; he’s never really liked reading, even and especially when he was alive.

(William likes to click his tongue and call him an uneducated fool when he says things like that, but Mike doesn’t care. He’s never seen the point of hiding what you really mean behind characters and metaphors and complicated plots. If you’ve got something to say, say it, that’s his philosophy.)

“You’re out late,” Brendon remarks, getting to his feet when Mike stops in front of him. “Must’ve been a good evening.”

“I could say the same about you,” Mike says evenly, gaze flicking up and down and finally away, dismissive. “Is William still up?”

Brendon shrugs but his eyes are gleaming, not fooled by the deflection. “You have something-” He leans forward to swipe his thumb across Mike’s lower lip and down his chin. Mike flinches and Brendon smirks, holding up his blood-stained finger. “You ought to be more careful, Mike,” he says, shaking his head with mock-concern. “Anyone could’ve seen you.”

“They didn’t,” Mike says shortly. “I’m always careful.”

Brendon arches an eyebrow. “I’m sure you are,” he says, but his eyes don’t agree. “If you’ll excuse me, the sun’s about to rise and I don’t want to be caught outside when it does. Good night, Mike.”

And with that, Brendon turns and strides inside the house, leaving Mike standing there, a frown etched between his brows.

He goes back to the club the very next night.

He tells himself it’s because of the music, because of the atmosphere, and most definitely not because of a fluffy-haired boy with the most innocent face he’s seen in decades. (Mike is so very good at acting, at pretending, even to himself.)

It’s easy to disappear, once he’s inside; Mike has abandoned his suit and bowler hat for the scruffy jeans and hoodie that he scrounged off his victim of the night, so it’s easy for him to melt into the crowd and find a dark corner to disappear into.

***

Kevin’s at the club again, and it’s totally not because he’s hoping to bump into the guy from yesterday who’d pushed him up against a wall and kissed him and-

-and then just left.

Kevin tries not to sigh too long-sufferingly as he shrinks back against the wall. But, seriously, it is just his luck that the one time he finds an admittedly scary-looking but kind of ridiculously hot guy who isn’t averse to pushing him up against vertical surfaces and kissing him, he lets him run away before he can ask for more than just his name.

Mike, Kevin thinks suddenly, like he’s worried he might forget it otherwise, and brushes his fingers over his lips. He settles further into his corner, tugging Mike’s jacket closer to his body. It’s a very nice jacket, snug but not tight-fitting and lined with something soft and warm. Mike will probably want it back. Mike might even come looking for him in order to get it back.

This thought cheers Kevin up considerably and he lifts his head, scanning the crowd for a stiff bowler hat, a swish of coat tails, a wry little smile. He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when he comes up blank.

“No, no, no, this absolutely cannot do,” announces a voice, loud enough to be heard over the pulsing music.

Kevin looks up and gives a start; there’s a man standing in front of him, dressed rather like Mike was, complete with intricately patterned waistcoat and bowler hat pulled down low over his face. (Kevin’s not sure how he missed him in his assessment of the crowd, actually, given his attire.) The weirdest thing is, though, he’s looking at Kevin exactly like Mike had, something almost predatory in his eyes, coal black instead of greyish blue, but the shiver down Kevin’s spine from that realisation isn’t anywhere near as pleasant this time around.

“Huh?”

The man smiles at him, continues, “Someone as pretty as you should never look this sad.”

Kevin ducks his head, recognising it as a pick-up line – and not a terribly good one, to be honest – but not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge. “I’m not,” he mumbles, shifting on the spot a little, “sad, I mean. I’m not pretty either, I don’t think, I’m just sort of cute-looking, in a little kid kind of way? And that’s okay, I mean, it’s not like I wanna be roguishly handsome and have manly sideburns and a smouldering gaze or whatever, I’m happy just the way I am, and I’m totally not sad, not even a little bit.”

The man smirks then and Kevin fights off the blush threatening to turn the tips of his cheeks pink. He doesn’t think he’s very successful; he goes red pretty easily, especially when he’s embarrassed and especially when he’s lying. Kevin isn’t very good at lying.

“Shame,” the man says with a coy smile, “I was looking forward to having to kiss the look off your face.”

Kevin just sort of squeaks at that because seriously, what is it with kind of creepy hot guys he doesn’t know hitting on him all of a sudden? This kind of thing does not happen to people like him. It just doesn’t. He doesn’t care that it’s a line, it’s just a stupid line and is probably used to reel in a million different fish on a million different hooks. It’s not a line that’s ever been used on him because this kind of thing just does not happen to him. Kevin feels confident saying that definitively.

The man’s looking at him expectantly, though, like he expects Kevin to have something coherent to say in reply to that, so he mumbles, “Well, that would, um, that would have been very kind of you. I’ll keep it in mind? Thank you.”

Thank you? That would have been very kind of you? Kevin curses the wretched lump of grey matter he ended up with as a brain and vows to just keep his mouth shut in future. Maybe he’ll get himself into fewer embarrassing situations that way. He sort of doubts it but hey, he figures it’s worth a try.

The man bites down on his lower lip, looking very much like he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re welcome,” he replies, mimicking Kevin’s grave tone. “Feel free to call on my powers of seduction whenever you’re in need.”

“Yeah, um, I’ll do that. I’m Kevin,” he adds, because he kind of feels like the guy ought to at least know his name if he’s offering Kevin, well, happy-making kisses. (And probably more than kisses, realistically speaking, but Kevin isn’t ready to think about the implications of that quite yet.)

“Brendon,” the man says, tipping the brim of his bowler hat in a way that is chillingly familiar. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kevin just stares at him for a few moments, before blurting out, “Do you know a guy called Mike?”

He instantly feels stupid because wow, just because they dress the same and tip their hats the same way and sort of look at him in a vaguely similar way – and he really doesn’t want to think about what that look in both their eyes could mean because it’s kind of sort of a little bit creepy – doesn’t mean they know each other. Nice one, Kevin.

Brendon’s eyebrows hitch upwards. “Mike? Tall, scruffy, too-long hair, delectable taste in waistcoats?” Kevin nods, and Brendon’s entire face lights up. “Yes, I do believe we are acquainted. Are you?”

“Um,” Kevin says. He thinks back to their brief interaction and wonders if Brendon would consider that being ‘acquainted’. “Yeah?” he settles on, chewing his lip.

Brendon’s eyes positively gleam when he grins. “How interesting,” is all he says, though, “how very, very interesting. When did you meet? Just out of curiosity.”

“Yesterday, actually,” Kevin says, feeling his cheeks heat up at the memory. “I was cold and he, uh, he gave me his jacket, this one, actually, ‘cause I never got a chance to give it back to him, and we sort of talked, a little.”

“I see,” Brendon says knowingly, smirking at Kevin like he knows he’s lying. Kevin would not be surprised. “You talked. That sounds a lot like Carden’s MO.”

(Carden, Kevin thinks, Mike Carden, and files the name away with the rest of the mostly useless information in his brain, like the menu for the Japanese takeaway ‘round the corner from his flat and the entire discography of John Mayer.)

“We did,” he protests, conveniently overlooking the fact that exchanging names and then saliva hardly counts as talking. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, we go way back. He’s almost like my brother,” Brendon says, snickering a little, but Kevin can’t really see what’s funny. Also, he’s not sure how Brendon and Mike got from being ‘acquainted’ to being ‘like brothers’, but something about the way Brendon is looking at him is making that seem less important, somehow. Kevin’s finding it hard to think straight, actually, and he has to keep blinking hard to stop the room from spinning.

When Brendon speaks again, his voice is low and breathy. “So Kevin,” he says, his eyes glowing like embers in a fireplace, “tell me about you and Mike. I want to know everything.”

***

Mike’s not sure how long he’s been at the club when he glances up and catches sight of a familiar bowler hat atop an equally familiar head, but he was on his second untouched drink of the night and was considering leaving before he noticed the unwelcome sight out of the corner of his eye.

Hands curled into fists, he crosses the club in three short strides and grabs Brendon by the shoulder, whirling him around. But before he can say anything, before he can demand to know what Brendon is doing in this part of town on this particular night, whether he dared to follow Mike here or if it’s just a coincidence, he notices the familiar head of curly dark hair to Brendon’s left and the bottom promptly drops out of his stomach.

“Kevin,” Mike says, and Brendon takes advantage of the distraction to wriggle free of his grasp. “What are you doing here?”

Brendon slings an arm around Kevin’s shoulders, smirking when it makes Mike’s entire body stiffen. “We were talking,” he says amiably, “weren’t we, Kev?”

Kev? Mike thinks, incredulous, and it must show on his face because Brendon’s smirk deepens.

Kevin nods enthusiastically, oblivious to Mike’s chagrin. “Yeah, we were talking,” he says, giggling like this is somehow the funniest thing ever. “About you.”

Mike narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know what’s going on here but he’s starting to get a clue and he does not like it. He does not like it at all.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, squeezing Kevin’s shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. Kevin doesn’t even flinch. “He was telling me all about how you two met. Love at first sight, wasn’t it, Kevin?”

Kevin’s so far gone he doesn’t even blush at that, he just gives this contented little sigh and gazes over at Mike. “Yeah,” he says happily, “love at first sight. Yeah.”

Mike winces with second-hand embarrassment; he’s pretty sure the kid would never say something like that if his head weren’t messed up in fifteen different ways at once. Mike’s hands are starting to hurt from how much he’s not using them to punch Brendon in the face.

“Oh Mike,” Brendon says, eyes glinting with mischief even as he manages to sound charmed, “he’s so adorable. He was just telling me what it felt like when you kissed him – like going on a rollercoaster, wasn’t it? Or was it butterflies in a cage?”

“Butterflies in a cage,” Kevin confirms, beaming like he’s proud of his metaphor. “Lots and lots of butterflies, flapping around all over the place.”

Brendon mouths adorable at him, eyes sparkling. Mike’s own eyes narrow and he reaches for Kevin but Brendon tugs him away before Mike can touch him.

“Stop it,” Mike orders, “you’re hurting him.”

“Now, now, Mike,” Brendon tuts, shaking his head. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you how to share?”

Mike hisses out a “Fuck you, Urie,” but he doesn’t lunge at him and tackle him to the ground and beat the living shit out of him like he kind of really wants to. Brendon would heal quickly, Mike knows this, but William would probably still kill him for harming a hair on his precious protégé’s little head.

(The thing is, vampires don’t share. Vampires don’t know how to share; all they know is possession and ownership and territory and rules, and Mike has no idea what Brendon’s trying to achieve here by breaking them. If he’s just trying to piss Mike off, he doesn’t need to go to all this trouble. He does that already simply by existing.)

“Share me?” Kevin looks confused, but it’s hard to tell it apart from the effect of the mesmerism. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Mike says, conjuring up a smile and layering his voice with as many currents of listen to what I say, do not panic as he dares. (Human minds are incredibly fragile contraptions and Mike doesn’t want to mess Kevin up any more than Brendon already has, not if he doesn’t have to.) He curls a hand around Kevin’s elbow, light, possessive, and tugs him out of Brendon’s grip. “Get a drink,” he orders, staring intently at the kid, “you’re thirsty.”

“Yeah,” Kevin says slowly, blinking a few times, “I am. I’ll, uh, I’ll just be back in a sec. Bye, Brendon.”

Mike watches him wander off in the direction of the bar before turning back to the other vampire, who’s inspecting his nails like he’s bored by this whole affair. (Brendon is not as good at acting as Mike.)

“Back off, Urie,” he says, still vaguely proud of how he’s managed to not jump him quite yet. It won’t last, especially if Brendon keeps on smirking like that.

“You haven’t turned him,” Brendon states, glancing up to give Mike an even, narrow look. “You haven’t even fed on him. He’s fair game, Carden, and you know it.”

Mike swallows down a snarl because, dammit, he saw the boy first so he is his, and Brendon has no right to try and take what doesn’t belong to him, whether Mike has a physical claim over it or not. There are rules, there are sacred, unspoken, unbroken rules that they all follow, without fail. (Except for maybe William but William’s their leader, he can and does do whatever the fuck he wants.) However, as much as Mike is loathe to admit it, Brendon’s right. He hasn’t turned Kevin, hasn’t so much as put a mark on him to stake his ownership. He doesn’t have a physical claim over Kevin, which does make him, essentially, fair game.

“Not for much longer,” Mike says through gritted teeth, and he means it.

Brendon arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh really. What if I got there first?”

“I’d kill you before you got your fangs anywhere near his neck.”

Mike’s sort of surprised at the level of venom in his voice but Brendon only chuckles, still mostly amused and not annoyed by the way Mike’s handling this situation.

“Oh Carden,” he says, shaking his head in condescending pity. “You’re rather attached to this little human, aren’t you? I don’t blame you; he smells delicious. I can’t wait to get a real taste of him.”

Mike snarls and Brendon steps back, something akin to fear flitting across his face for the first time. It’s not unfamiliar, not for them. Mike is William’s second-in-command and, arguably, his best friend. Brendon is a runt William took a shine to when he was out on the prowl one night, and decided he liked his pretty mouth and pretty eyes too much to just kill him.

Mike and Brendon have never gotten on.

(Brendon thinks Mike’s unworthy of his status, that he isn’t elegant or sophisticated or intelligent enough to deserve a place in William’s affections. Mike thinks Brendon’s a mouthy little shit with too much bravado and not enough wits to keep himself alive. It’s not exactly a fantastic basis for friendship though most of the time, they do try and keep things civil.

This is not one of those times.)

“Back off, Urie,” Mike repeats, but this time his voice is as flat and as terrifying as the look in his eyes. He feels rather than sees Brendon flinch away from him. “Kevin is mine. You do not get to touch him and you do not get to hurt him. Ever.”

Mike strides off without another glance back. He finds Kevin at the bar, chatting amiably to the bartender and sipping something purple-coloured from a glass. Mike can tell there’s no alcohol in it from here and takes a moment to wonder just what on earth this kid’s even doing here. It doesn’t seem, by any stretch of the imagination, like his scene. Mike would’ve pegged him as the youth group and boy scouts type, if he’s honest.

Kevin gives a start when Mike sits down next to him, says, “Mike, you scared me.” His eyes have lost the glazed look entirely, Mike’s glad to see, and there’s a smile on his lips that he can’t help but return, just for a moment. “Where’s your friend?”

Mike looks away, scowling. “Brendon’s not my friend,” he says vehemently.

“Oh,” Kevin says, confused. “He said...” He frowns with the effort of remembering. “He said you two were like brothers.”

Mike lets out a harsh little laugh at that; in a twisted sort of way, it’s true. “He’s still not my friend,” he says, “and he shouldn’t be yours either.”

Kevin still looks confused but Mike can’t really blame him. “Why not?”

“I’m a vampire,” Mike informs him, matter-of-fact, and Kevin nearly chokes on his drink. “So’s Brendon.”

“Oh,” Kevin gulps, face pale, “that’s, um... good to know?”

Mike frowns. That’s not the response he was expecting. Hysteria, disbelief, a drink thrown in his face... anything but calm acceptance. Or, well, sort of calm, within the realm of choking on drinks and the loss of blood from the face. (Mike figures the kid’s entitled to that at least, and it’s more than tame compared to some of the stuff he’s been subjected to over the years.)

“You’re not freaking out,” he says flatly. “Why are you not freaking out?”

“It’s not like I didn’t already know vampires exist,” Kevin says, shrugging. “I haven’t been living under a rock or something. I’ve heard things, seen things. It’s kind of hard not to.”

Mike’s body tenses. The kid doesn’t look like a hunter, but then they never really do. Resisting the urge to demand to know whether or not Kevin knows a guy called Pete Wentz, he asks, reasonably enough, “Did you know what I was, yesterday?”

Kevin bites his lip, cheeks pink, and shakes his head. “I just thought you were special,” he says softly, quickly, like he doesn’t think he’ll get the words out otherwise. “I mean, you know, you just looked... yeah,” he trails off, scrubbing a hand through his loose curls. “I’ve never seen a vampire up close before.”

“Well yeah,” Mike says dryly. “Generally people don’t survive getting that close to a vampire because most of the time, it means you’re dinner.”

Kevin manages a weak smile at that. “So is that why Brendon being a vampire means I shouldn’t be friends with him? Because he’ll eat me?”

“Brendon being a vampire means Brendon will torture you to the brink of extreme pain before he rips your throat out and eats you,” Mike says bluntly. “Brendon likes to play with his food.”

Kevin’s eyes widen and his body shudders in a very satisfyingly terrified way before he murmurs, “Okay, yeah, I trust you, that is a totally valid reason not to befriend someone.”

“You... you trust me?” Mike frowns, sceptical. “Really?”

“Well, yeah.” Kevin’s eyes narrow with confusion. “Should I not?”

“I’m a vampire,” Mike repeats, like this should be obvious. It is obvious. Kevin shouldn’t trust him. Why does Kevin trust him? No person in their right mind would put their life in his hands if they value their continued existence. Mike’s a vampire. “I’m kind of in on the whole ripping your throat out and eating you thing.”

Kevin shrugs. “I figure if you were gonna kill me you’d have done it already. It’s not like you didn’t have the chance.”

“What if I were just biding my time?” Mike asks, careful to keep his voice even, because he’s still not sure that he isn’t. “What if I were trying to gain your trust, to draw out the process to make it even more painful? What if I were just playing with you too?”

“Then I guess I’d be screwed,” Kevin says, decisive, “but I don’t think you are. You seem like a more straightforward kind of guy. And kind of impatient, actually. Not in a bad way,” he says hurriedly, like he’s worried Mike might smite him for such a heinous insult, “just that if you wanted something, you’d take it, no messing around.”

Mike’s lips twitch into an involuntary smile. “You’re probably right,” he says wryly, “but that doesn’t mean you should trust me.”

(He gets the feeling Kevin is the type of boy who offers trust like he offers smiles: readily and not by halves. It’s all or nothing with him, and Mike would admire him for it if it weren’t so fucking foolish. Trust gets you nowhere in this world except stuffed in a rubbish bin in an alley with fading bruises on your neck.)

Kevin shrugs. “Maybe not, but... there’s something about you, I don’t know. I can’t help it.” He grabs his drink, downs the remains and then says, before Mike can question him further, “I should be going soon, actually.” He’s biting his lip, and there’s a wistful little look in his eyes like he’d much rather stay. “I’ve got a class really early tomorrow morning.”

Mike arches an eyebrow. “What kind of class?”

“Experimental and avant-garde film and video. I’m doing film studies at college,” Kevin explains eagerly. He looks proud as he tells Mike this and the vampire feels a surge of something like affection for the boy that he can’t quite explain. (Kevin still has his whole life ahead of him, still has graduation and a job and a life to look forward to. Mike can’t even remember what that feels like.)

He makes a humming noise in his throat and asks, “What’s it like?”

“It’s excellent,” Kevin says with a gleeful little grin, and then he launches into a description of everything he’s been doing so far. His eyes are lit up with excitement and enthusiasm as he explains to Mike the differences and similarities between classical and contemporary cinema and the various aesthetics they like to use, not that Mike has a clue what that word means. Kevin loses him completely when he starts talking about theories of spectatorship and mass culture and Mike just watches him talk, watches his mouth move and his hands flail as he gets more and more excited by what he’s talking about.

(It’s... well, it’s kind of adorable, actually, and it’s making Mike want things. Things he doesn’t normally want. Things like, fuck, holding hands and trading kisses over coffee and cuddling under blankets and waking up every morning with a head of fluffy hair on the pillow next to him.

Stupid things. Ridiculous things. Maybe kind of awesome things.

Things he can’t ever, ever have and he really ought to stop forgetting that. It’s been so long since he let himself get close to someone and he should know better, he should know what happens when he tries to have nice things.)

When Kevin pauses to take a breath, which Mike suddenly notices he hasn’t done for a while now, he says, slow and careful, “That’s really great and all, but weren’t you supposed to be going? About half an hour ago?”

Kevin glances at his wrist and his eyes widen. “Darn it, you’re right. I hadn’t even noticed it got so late.”

Mike’s mouth twitches involuntarily and he digs his teeth into his lips so he won’t start grinning. “I’m walking you home,” he says. “I told Brendon to back off but I don’t want to take any chances. I’m not letting you die if I can help it.”

“Why?” Kevin asks, a look of genuine curiosity in his eyes. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a really awesome thing for you to do and I appreciate you preserving my existence and all, but it’s just- why do you care?”

(Mike thinks about telling Kevin how ridiculously good he smells, how every time he looks at him he wants to drain him dry and protect him from the world at the same exact time, how his cheerful, childlike innocence makes Mike yearn for something he lost a long, long time ago.

But that’s kind of a lot to say to someone you’ve just met and Mike doesn’t want to freak the kid out any more than he already has. And, besides, he doesn’t spill his guts to every Tom, Dick and Harry he sees. Mike is not that kind of guy.)

“You seem like a good kid,” he says, shrugging. “’sides, wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

(Mike manages to turn the compliment into something that sounds vaguely mocking, somehow, but Kevin blushes anyway. He has never been called pretty before today, mockingly or otherwise, and he’s never really had a high tolerance level for compliments anyway.)

Mike takes advantage of Kevin’s temporary distraction to grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him away from the bar. Kevin squeaks in protest but it’s mostly just for show; he doesn’t really mind being manhandled by Mike, especially when he’s pressed flush against Mike’s strong, sinewy body and has an excuse to lean into his touch.

It seems as if the crowded dance floor parts in the middle for them like the Red Sea for Moses but Kevin suspects it has more to do with the force of Mike’s glare and his sharp, pointy elbows. They’re out of the club and heading down the street when Kevin stumbles because the way Mike’s holding him is a little awkward, and the vampire releases him momentarily, just to let him get his balance again.

That turns out to be a mistake.

Brendon leaps out of the shadows and knocks Mike out of the way, tackling Kevin to the ground. His hands are at Kevin’s throat in an instant to tip his head back and his fangs are extended to sharp points mere inches from Kevin’s neck and he has a moment to think oh God, this is it, this is the end, I’m going to die, oh God before the heavy weight on top of him disappears and Brendon’s ripped off of him.

A wave of relief crashes over Kevin and, gasping, he struggles to his feet, blinking away the blackness hovering on the edge of his vision. He can just about make out Mike standing over Brendon, who’s writhing on the floor in agony.

“I fucking warned you, Brendon,” Mike hisses, glaring down at the other vampire. “You don’t get to touch him, you understand me?”

Brendon groans out something that sounds nothing like agreement and everything like fuck you.

“I said,” Mike says, voice dangerously soft, “do you understand me?”

When Brendon doesn’t respond, Mike stomps down on his stomach, grinding his heel into the soft flesh. Brendon cries out and Kevin winces.

“Mike,” Kevin says, soft and quick, “hey, no, there’s no need for that.”

Mike whirls around, snarling, and Kevin takes an unconscious step back. “He could’ve fucking killed you, don’t you get that?” he snaps, his eyes blazing with a fury Kevin has never, ever seen before, not in Mike’s eyes and certainly not in anyone else’s.

“But he didn’t,” Kevin says, with a calmness he doesn’t feel. “He didn’t even pierce the skin. I’m fine, Mike. Let Brendon be.”

(This is, quite obviously, a complete lie. Kevin’s shaking all over and his face is as white as a sheet and he can’t really swallow past the lump in his throat but he’s alive, and he can’t let Mike beat Brendon to death for something that didn’t happen.)

“Yeah, Mike,” Brendon wheezes out, “let Brendon be.”

Mike growls and Kevin steps forward, touching his arm. “Mike,” he says, breath soft and whispering over the vampire’s ear, “Mike, come on, Mike,” and somehow that penetrates through the haze of fury cloaking Mike’s brain and brings him back. He doesn’t protest when Kevin tugs him away and only throws one last glance over his shoulder in Brendon’s direction before following Kevin home.