We Tend To Die Young (Panic-centric "A Little Less 16 Candles" AU)
Title: We Tend To Die Young
Pairing: Oh, those wacky pre-split Panic boys.
Rating: R
Warnings/Notes: Vampirism, language. Unbeta'd, so if you catch something you should let me know! And I say it again: I swear one day I will write something without vampires in it. Really.
Brendon Urie was only 18 when he left his family home in the middle of the night. They'd warned him about the dangers of the world, about how things worked outside. But he didn't care. All he cared about at the moment was adventure, excitement, things that he'd always been denied. And so he reveled in how easy it was to creep away while everyone else was asleep, walk the few blocks to the train station, and spend most of his life's savings on a ticket to Chicago.
It was 1935, and prohibition had been over for two years, but Chicago was still the city of glitz, glam and danger that Brendon had dreamed of. He pulled his hat down jauntily over one eye and walked the streets alone, taking in the feeling of the new city, of everything it had to offer.
He was there for only a few hours before the stranger caught up to him.
Brendon knew the folks in the city were weird, but this guy was a sight. Dressed in a solid white suit, spats and a bowler hat, he approached Brendon from a dark alley. Somehow, seeing him made the rest of the city that had been wonderful only seconds before look dirty and dingy.
"Hello," the stranger said, reaching out a gloved finger and beckoning Brendon towards him.
Brendon shook his head. "No thanks, mister."
The stranger tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "But sweet boy, I'd like to take you to dinner."
"I ain't no sweet boy," Brendon replied, petulant. "I'm a man now. Out on my own."
The stranger's expression turned sour for a moment before lightening. "Ah, I see," he said. Then, he smiled, wickedly. "Fine then." Then, he growled, hungrily.
Brendon had no time to run as the creature (couldn't be a man, not with those teeth) grabbed at him and threw him back into the alley. Before he could even scream it was on him, holding him down and striking at his neck.
When he was younger, Brendon had fallen off a fencepost he'd been balancing on. The impact with the ground shattered his arm. He remembered that, while his father ran for the doctor, he didn't feel any pain, just noticed the way the light was dancing off the nearby pond.
So it was that in that dim alley, Brendon knew the thing was biting him, drinking his blood, killing him. But all he could stare at was a nearby bottle, tilted on its side, a green paper label already peeling. Just as he thought he could make out the words, everything was dark. He didn't know when he had started drinking from the other guy's wrist, but now...now it was all okay.
He closed his eyes, never sorry he left home.
When he awoke, his killer...William, he somehow processed...was seated beside him on the bed, stroking his hair. "There you are, sweet boy," he murmured. He pressed a light kiss to Brendon's temple.
Brendon started to reply once more that he was NOT a sweet boy, but he couldn't force his lips to form the words. Instead, he nuzzled William's hand, sighing contentedly.
"You're mine, now," William told him. "All mine. My lovely boy." He ran a hand down Brendon's face and neck, pausing for moment right above the place where he'd bitten Brendon before. "Forever."
Brendon shuddered pleasantly and tilted his head back. He couldn't think of what to say...he realized he didn't have anything TO say. He just wanted to let William keep touching him, talking to him. So long as he was William's, everything would be okay.
In the decades that passed, Brendon became keenly aware of how things changed. He wondered how much humans missed the world and people around them morphing and decaying because they were so obsessed with their own changes. When he was 18, the world had been a place that never failed to fill him with wonder. And now, all these years later, the world was boring unless you made your own fun.
William had stayed in Chicago, so Brendon had stayed by his side. He sat at the right hand of the God of the Windy City and it was the only place he could imagine being. William had told him in the beginning that other gangs of vampires went out to hunt. But his gang, the Dandies he called them, they did no such thing. Dandies did nothing so plebian as hunt. They prowled, they sauntered, they did as they would. But they were not like any other vampires that had ever walked the earth.
So Brendon did not hunt. Brendon danced.
Later he would realize the irony in the fact that he was the one who found Gerard. It was outside a club in Chicago and Gerard stumbled out, drunk and swearing, his hand still smudged in paint and ash from his cigarette. Through the sweat and the drunken stumbling, Brendon could see a beauty, hidden carefully in the man's eyes.
He approached, his footfalls soft in the darkness. Gerard looked up at him and began to say something, possibly asking for help or some money. Brendon never knew, never cared. Instead, he held two fingers in front of Gerard's eyes. It didn't take much concentration, Gerard's state made him easy to enchant. Brendon beckoned him closer, twirling his fingers and making him spin.
Once Gerard was in close enough range, Brendon grabbed hold of him and sank his fangs into the smooth, white neck.
Gerard's blood was laced with nicotine and alcohol. He went limp in Brendon's arms, a soft moan escaping his lips as Brendon began to lower him to the pavement.
Thank you for the dance, Brendon projected into his mind. He always tried to be sure his pretty victims had a soothing final thought. You were lovely.
And then William's voice cut through the silence of the night. "Yes, lovely," he said, approaching Brendon as he withdrew his fangs from Gerard. "Your taste is exquisite as always."
Brendon grinned and reached for his handkerchief. "How could I resist?"
"I will not disagree," William said. He crouched by Gerard's body, watching his breathing slow. "Such a shame to waste it."
Before Brendon could react, William had bitten his own wrist and held the bleeding wound to Gerard's lips.
He would later curse himself for the taste he had always been so proud of.
Brendon knew from the beginning that Gerard really wouldn't last as a Dandy. He couldn't stay in somebody's shadow like that. Beckett tried to use him as a hunting dog, sic-ing him on those who crossed him and reveling in Gerard's penchant for artistic violence. But at some point, Gerard stopped playing by his rules. He'd come back at odd hours, if he came back at all. He picked his own targets, he stopped following orders.
The last night he'd come back to the manor he was grinning madly and swaying back and forth unsteadily.
"Where the hell have you been?" William had demanded, his face contorting in anger. "You were meant to be back hours ago!"
Gerard laughed a bit and leaned against the wall. "Come on, we've got immortality. Why the fuck should I run on anyone's schedule but my own?"
William paced to Gerard, gesturing at the other man's rumbled and dirty suit. "You look a mess. You are a disgrace to my Dandies."
"Your Dandies," Gerard shook his head. "Always your Dandies. Well, maybe I'm tired of being a Dandy." He suddenly grew deadly serious. "Maybe I'm fucking tired of being yours."
"I do not know what has been in the blood you have been drinking, but I may just venture a guess," William hissed. "And that is the only reason I am not ripping you apart for this insolence."
"I don't think so," Gerard said, his eyes dark. "I think you know that if you come after me? I'll kill you."
"My Dandies will destroy you," William snapped.
"Before or after you're dead?" Gerard asked, his mouth curling into a half smile.
William pulled his lips back, baring his fangs. "You are an insolent child who should have been put down long ago."
"Nah," Gerard said, backing away slowly, the smile still plastered on his face. "We both know that's not true. I'm not a child, and I'm not yours.
"I'm the future, motherfucker."
And with that, he'd turned and left.
Beckett sent a few soldiers after him, but Carden came back with more bones broken than together and Chiz didn't come back at all. Beckett pitched a fit, throwing things across the room, smashing plates and shelves and tea cups. He ripped at his clothing, shredding the delicate fabric between claw-like hands.
And that's when Brendon finally decided to squeak out "I told you he was a bad idea."
He didn't even realize William's hand was moving until it struck him clean across the face.
Brendon stood in stunned silence, feeling the pulsing pain in his cheek from William's slap. William. Before he'd ripped people's throats out for daring to look at Brendon cross eyed and now he had struck him. Struck him for no reason. And none of this would have happened before Gerard and before PETER.
William had turned away, continuing his fit and snarling. But Brendon felt a strange calm come over him.
"You were the one who turned him," he said, clearly. "Him and Peter both."
William hissed and came at Brendon again. This time, however, it was with closed fists and knees and claws. "You insolent brat!" he cried. "You dare question me after everything I've given you? After I made you immortal? You are no better than the rest of them?"
He finally smacked Brendon hard enough to knock him to the ground. William kicked him once more in the ribs and then pushed his hair out of his face. "I hope you have learned your lesson, Brendon," he choked out. "I am sorry for this. You may join me in bed later if you still wish."
And Brendon had finally had enough, from the Pete thing to this and always being SECOND BEST. As he lay on the floor, feeling his flesh knit back together and his bones reset, he came to a conclusion. He couldn't stay another night here. He had to find somewhere he belonged. He did the only thing he can think to do.
He ran.
He knew the house well enough to be able to leave without being stopped. After all, he was William's right hand, and none of the others knew, yet, about the argument. So when he simply told them he was leaving, no one questioned him.
As he wandered the streets, becoming ever more fearful of the eventual sunrise, he tried to decide where he could go. He needed somewhere far from Beckett, far from the life he'd made for himself. He wanted somewhere he could start over again, somewhere he could get lost.
Las Vegas, as it turned out, was easy enough to get lost in.
Brendon had secretly always wanted to see Vegas. The pageantry and the swell of people intrigued him to no end. He hadn't realized how bored he'd been, staying in Chicago, staying by William's side. When he was human he'd dreamed of traveling the world. Now that he had eternity, now that he was making good use of it, there was nothing to stop him from doing so.
And Vegas, he decided, was a perfect place to start. There was no lack of blood in this city. There was also no lack of bars to spend nights in, looking for fresh faces and sweet girls filled with sweet wines who want to dance. And enough people disappeared there that few questions were asked. Brendon came to love the phrase "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." for more reasons than the obvious ones.
He actually used that tired catchphrase one night, speaking aimiably with an attractive bartender who smiled at him in response. "It's a good city to be someone else in, too," he said as he dried a glass.
Brendon looked at him carefully. "What's that mean?"
The bartender smiled at him, never blinking. "You're just in here a lot, with a different girl all the time, with a different story. I pay attention."
Brendon was overcome with a sudden fear of discovery. He'd be so stupid, he realized that, but this bar had the best dancers and the girls and boys who'd be missed the least most of the time. It was the place to find sweet blood that he had thought wouldn't raise questions. "Oh," he choked out.
"Nah, it's okay," the bartender laughed. "I'm not going to knock a guy for one night stands."
Brendon laughed in response, a laugh loud with relief. "Oh," he said. "So they're not asking you questions about the girl's I've killed?"
The bartender laughed at that. "Yeah, I'm always telling them you're a madman." He extended his hand. "I'm Jon Walker, by the way."
"Brendon," Brendon said, shaking his hand firmly. "And I think you may be my first actual friend in this city."
Jon introduced Brendon to a few of his friends from around town. And Brendon liked these guys. He could see how they were hurt and he wanted to take that away from them, treat them the way William never treated him.
It was while he was talking to Jon that Brendon first got the idea. Jon telling Brendon that maybe what he needed was to go back and face what had scared him off. Maybe he needed closure. Brendon realized, staring into Jon's eyes, that he didn't need closure at all. He needed his own gang. And he needed to take the things William loved away from him.
He'd be fair, he wouldn't play favorites.
He turned Spencer first. He figured that would be the hardest part, but once he had Spencer it would all be easier. Spencer was the steady one of the group, the smart one. He was the one that could shoot a smile at Ryan and make everything okay. So he HAD to be first.
They were at Spencer's apartment watching some mindless movie, when Brendon leaned over and struck. His fangs hit Spencer's perfect neck just right, and Brendon was overwhelmed with the blood and the beating of the other man's heart.
Spencer struggled, but Brendon had years of experience. He could have compelled him, probably should have, but it felt better taking him by force.
When the thud-thud of Spencer's heart had slowed and all but stopped, Brendon pulled back and used a fingernail to slice into his wrist. He held it to Spencer's mouth, watched Spencer lick his lips, his eyes half lidded, and then latch onto the cut, sucking desperately.
Finally he let go, falling back against the couch and looking at Brendon, terrified. Brendon reached out and stroked along his jawline. "Don't worry," he whispered. "The others are coming along, too."
Somehow, that was enough to make Spencer relax and pass out as the change overtook him.
By the time Spencer opened his eyes again, Brendon was smiling and watching the clock, patiently.
"Ryan's on his way," he explained, stroking Spencer's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "And then we can bring him along, too."
Spencer leaned into Brendon's touch, the expression on his face relaxed and comforted. "Feels good," he said, nuzzling Brendon's hand.
"Just wait," Brendon promised, bending over to kiss the corner of Spencer's mouth. "It gets better."
Ryan had the key to Spencer's apartment. The first thing Spencer had done was make him a copy and remind him to come over the next time his electricity got turned off. So Ryan didn't even bother knocking, just flung the door open and walked in, a paperbag of junk food in his arms. "Hey guys," he started.
His eyes focused curiously on the blood stains on Spencer's shirt. "You cut yourself shaving, man?" he asked. But as he stared longer he could tell that there was a difference. He couldn't describe it, couldn't put his finger on what exactly was wrong, but years of friendship and knowing every bit and piece that made up Spencer Smith, he knew something had changed. And his brain slowly processed, that something was BAD.
He dropped the bag and opened his mouth to release a scream.
But the scream caught in his throat as Brendon's voice filled his head, thick as honey and smooth as good liquor. There's nothing wrong here, it promised. Why don't you close the door and come sit down between us?
Ryan blinked once. His face went slack and his breathing eased as he gave into the reassurances in his mind. He closed the door gently and crossed the small apartment, feeling something strangely eager brewing in his gut. He was ready, he realized. Ready for what he couldn't say, but he knew he was ready.
Ryan sat down between Brendon and Spencer, stiffly. Relax Brendon's voice commanded. Nothing's going to hurt you.
Instantly, Ryan melted back into the cushions of the beat up couch, a slight smile crossing his face. Brendon watched with pride and reverence as Spencer reached out and lightly touched Ryan's neck and shoulder, looking curiously as if he'd never seen them before. As if Ryan were the one who'd already changed.
"Go ahead," Brendon told him, softly. "But be careful."
Spencer leaned in, tentative, as if he were afraid of breaking Ryan. Then, with a motion quicker than he himself expected, he latched onto Ryan's throat.
If he expected Ryan to scream or fight, he was mistaken. Instead, he felt Ryan's hand thread through his hair, pulling at it and moaning a little.
Brendon broke out into a smile, taking Ryan's wrist in his hands and biting into it carefully. Spencer needed to feed, but there was no chance Brendon was going to pass up his chance to taste Ryan. And those wrists, leading down to hands with the strong but elegant fingers...really, Brendon thought, how was he supposed to resist?
Ryan sank back into the cushions further, sighing and closing his eyes as he did. Brendon wasted no time detaching himself and then lightly touching Spencer's cheek. "No more, not now," he said, softly.
Spencer back away with a bit of a whine, licking his lips clean as he did. He trailed a hand down Ryan's arm, reassuringly, though, and smiled at his long time friend. "Don't worry, Ry," he said. "It feels so good."
"Huh?" Ryan said, turning his head with great effort to look at Brendon.
Brendon sliced into his other wrist, holding it to Ryan and smiling. "Drink up," he said, soothingly. "And when you're ready, we'll go find Jon."
Ryan's movements were smoother than Spencer's had been. He took Brendon's wrist carefully, drawing it to himself and placing his mouth on the cut as if it were all part of some macabre ballet.
But he drank greedily enough, smooth throat working to swallow Brendon's blood.
Jon Walker was always careful when he headed home after last call. Early mornings in Vegas were a dangerous time and he had no need for Grissom to be digging his body out of a cave and talking about the bugs all over it. So he had learned to take every noise and flash of movement seriously, never assume it was a trick of the light.
But this morning nothing phased him between the bar and his apartment. Nothing out of the ordinary as he unlocked the door and strode into his home, dropping his keys on a table and reaching for the lights.
"Dylan? Clover?" he called out for his cats, who were normally more than happy to greet him at the door with a pounce and a purr and maybe ever a desperate "feed me" meow.
This time, they didn't. Jon edged into the one room apartment carefully. "Clover? Dylan?"
He flicked on a lamp, only to see Brendon sitting in his favorite chair, both cats curled up in his lap and purring.
"They weren't happy to see me," Brendon said, a cat-like smile on his own face. "But then we talked and they agreed that we should be friends."
Jon swallowed. "How'd you get in here?" he asked.
"You gave Spencer a key," Brendon shrugged. "In case of emergencies. We used that. Actually, you're a little later than we thought. And we had to make a stop for Ryan to get something to eat."
"What are you..." Jon was cut off by the feeling of Ryan's hand slamming across his mouth.
"Shhhh..." Ryan whispered in his ear. "It's okay."
Jon whimpered softly.
Brendon stood, the cats jumping from his lap but still trailing close behind him as he approached Jon. "It really is okay," he promised, running a hand up Jon's chest, his touch feather light but with a hint of iron beneath it. "And when we're done here, I'm taking you home to Chicago."
Before Jon could make another noise, Ryan had yanked his head back, exposing his neck so that Brendon could sink his fangs into it.
Jon woke up thirsty.
He could smell the other guys beside him, which, hey, that was new. Not so much the waking up with the other three curled around him protectively as the part where he could smell them and tell each one of them apart just by scent. But no matter what, they smelled like family now.
Spencer was the first one to notice he was awake, and smiled reassuringly. "You'll be less dizzy once you get something to eat," he said, like he was already some kind of expert. He looked down at Brendon and Ryan, both still sleeping like the dead.
Jon realized how apt the metaphor was seconds after he thought it. They were both pale, eyes closed and chests not moving. Not breathing.
And that was not as weird as it should have been.
"Wha..." he started to say, but a feeling of dizziness overtook him.
"Calm down," Spencer said. "You slept the entire day..." he smiled at Jon, trying to be reassuring. And the fangs didn't look out of place.
Suddenly, Jon heard a yawn behind him and looked back to see Brendon, stretching his arms out, mouth open and fangs bared. Brendon smiled up at Spencer and Jon, then leaned down to stroke Ryan's cheek. "Wake up," he said, lightly. And Ryan did, instantly opening his eyes and looking up at Brendon contentedly.
"Vampires?" Jon said. It wasn't in shock or surprise, just needing clarification.
"I'm afraid I wasn't completely honest with you," Brendon said. He picked up a black bowler hat from where it had been discarded on the floor. "But I will have plenty of time to tell you the story while we're headed home."
"Home?" Ryan asked. "We ARE home."
"My home," Brendon clarified, kissing Ryan's forehead. "Chicago." His look suddenly turned dark and threatening. "There's something there I have to take care of."
Pairing: Oh, those wacky pre-split Panic boys.
Rating: R
Warnings/Notes: Vampirism, language. Unbeta'd, so if you catch something you should let me know! And I say it again: I swear one day I will write something without vampires in it. Really.
Brendon Urie was only 18 when he left his family home in the middle of the night. They'd warned him about the dangers of the world, about how things worked outside. But he didn't care. All he cared about at the moment was adventure, excitement, things that he'd always been denied. And so he reveled in how easy it was to creep away while everyone else was asleep, walk the few blocks to the train station, and spend most of his life's savings on a ticket to Chicago.
It was 1935, and prohibition had been over for two years, but Chicago was still the city of glitz, glam and danger that Brendon had dreamed of. He pulled his hat down jauntily over one eye and walked the streets alone, taking in the feeling of the new city, of everything it had to offer.
He was there for only a few hours before the stranger caught up to him.
Brendon knew the folks in the city were weird, but this guy was a sight. Dressed in a solid white suit, spats and a bowler hat, he approached Brendon from a dark alley. Somehow, seeing him made the rest of the city that had been wonderful only seconds before look dirty and dingy.
"Hello," the stranger said, reaching out a gloved finger and beckoning Brendon towards him.
Brendon shook his head. "No thanks, mister."
The stranger tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "But sweet boy, I'd like to take you to dinner."
"I ain't no sweet boy," Brendon replied, petulant. "I'm a man now. Out on my own."
The stranger's expression turned sour for a moment before lightening. "Ah, I see," he said. Then, he smiled, wickedly. "Fine then." Then, he growled, hungrily.
Brendon had no time to run as the creature (couldn't be a man, not with those teeth) grabbed at him and threw him back into the alley. Before he could even scream it was on him, holding him down and striking at his neck.
When he was younger, Brendon had fallen off a fencepost he'd been balancing on. The impact with the ground shattered his arm. He remembered that, while his father ran for the doctor, he didn't feel any pain, just noticed the way the light was dancing off the nearby pond.
So it was that in that dim alley, Brendon knew the thing was biting him, drinking his blood, killing him. But all he could stare at was a nearby bottle, tilted on its side, a green paper label already peeling. Just as he thought he could make out the words, everything was dark. He didn't know when he had started drinking from the other guy's wrist, but now...now it was all okay.
He closed his eyes, never sorry he left home.
When he awoke, his killer...William, he somehow processed...was seated beside him on the bed, stroking his hair. "There you are, sweet boy," he murmured. He pressed a light kiss to Brendon's temple.
Brendon started to reply once more that he was NOT a sweet boy, but he couldn't force his lips to form the words. Instead, he nuzzled William's hand, sighing contentedly.
"You're mine, now," William told him. "All mine. My lovely boy." He ran a hand down Brendon's face and neck, pausing for moment right above the place where he'd bitten Brendon before. "Forever."
Brendon shuddered pleasantly and tilted his head back. He couldn't think of what to say...he realized he didn't have anything TO say. He just wanted to let William keep touching him, talking to him. So long as he was William's, everything would be okay.
In the decades that passed, Brendon became keenly aware of how things changed. He wondered how much humans missed the world and people around them morphing and decaying because they were so obsessed with their own changes. When he was 18, the world had been a place that never failed to fill him with wonder. And now, all these years later, the world was boring unless you made your own fun.
William had stayed in Chicago, so Brendon had stayed by his side. He sat at the right hand of the God of the Windy City and it was the only place he could imagine being. William had told him in the beginning that other gangs of vampires went out to hunt. But his gang, the Dandies he called them, they did no such thing. Dandies did nothing so plebian as hunt. They prowled, they sauntered, they did as they would. But they were not like any other vampires that had ever walked the earth.
So Brendon did not hunt. Brendon danced.
Later he would realize the irony in the fact that he was the one who found Gerard. It was outside a club in Chicago and Gerard stumbled out, drunk and swearing, his hand still smudged in paint and ash from his cigarette. Through the sweat and the drunken stumbling, Brendon could see a beauty, hidden carefully in the man's eyes.
He approached, his footfalls soft in the darkness. Gerard looked up at him and began to say something, possibly asking for help or some money. Brendon never knew, never cared. Instead, he held two fingers in front of Gerard's eyes. It didn't take much concentration, Gerard's state made him easy to enchant. Brendon beckoned him closer, twirling his fingers and making him spin.
Once Gerard was in close enough range, Brendon grabbed hold of him and sank his fangs into the smooth, white neck.
Gerard's blood was laced with nicotine and alcohol. He went limp in Brendon's arms, a soft moan escaping his lips as Brendon began to lower him to the pavement.
Thank you for the dance, Brendon projected into his mind. He always tried to be sure his pretty victims had a soothing final thought. You were lovely.
And then William's voice cut through the silence of the night. "Yes, lovely," he said, approaching Brendon as he withdrew his fangs from Gerard. "Your taste is exquisite as always."
Brendon grinned and reached for his handkerchief. "How could I resist?"
"I will not disagree," William said. He crouched by Gerard's body, watching his breathing slow. "Such a shame to waste it."
Before Brendon could react, William had bitten his own wrist and held the bleeding wound to Gerard's lips.
He would later curse himself for the taste he had always been so proud of.
Brendon knew from the beginning that Gerard really wouldn't last as a Dandy. He couldn't stay in somebody's shadow like that. Beckett tried to use him as a hunting dog, sic-ing him on those who crossed him and reveling in Gerard's penchant for artistic violence. But at some point, Gerard stopped playing by his rules. He'd come back at odd hours, if he came back at all. He picked his own targets, he stopped following orders.
The last night he'd come back to the manor he was grinning madly and swaying back and forth unsteadily.
"Where the hell have you been?" William had demanded, his face contorting in anger. "You were meant to be back hours ago!"
Gerard laughed a bit and leaned against the wall. "Come on, we've got immortality. Why the fuck should I run on anyone's schedule but my own?"
William paced to Gerard, gesturing at the other man's rumbled and dirty suit. "You look a mess. You are a disgrace to my Dandies."
"Your Dandies," Gerard shook his head. "Always your Dandies. Well, maybe I'm tired of being a Dandy." He suddenly grew deadly serious. "Maybe I'm fucking tired of being yours."
"I do not know what has been in the blood you have been drinking, but I may just venture a guess," William hissed. "And that is the only reason I am not ripping you apart for this insolence."
"I don't think so," Gerard said, his eyes dark. "I think you know that if you come after me? I'll kill you."
"My Dandies will destroy you," William snapped.
"Before or after you're dead?" Gerard asked, his mouth curling into a half smile.
William pulled his lips back, baring his fangs. "You are an insolent child who should have been put down long ago."
"Nah," Gerard said, backing away slowly, the smile still plastered on his face. "We both know that's not true. I'm not a child, and I'm not yours.
"I'm the future, motherfucker."
And with that, he'd turned and left.
Beckett sent a few soldiers after him, but Carden came back with more bones broken than together and Chiz didn't come back at all. Beckett pitched a fit, throwing things across the room, smashing plates and shelves and tea cups. He ripped at his clothing, shredding the delicate fabric between claw-like hands.
And that's when Brendon finally decided to squeak out "I told you he was a bad idea."
He didn't even realize William's hand was moving until it struck him clean across the face.
Brendon stood in stunned silence, feeling the pulsing pain in his cheek from William's slap. William. Before he'd ripped people's throats out for daring to look at Brendon cross eyed and now he had struck him. Struck him for no reason. And none of this would have happened before Gerard and before PETER.
William had turned away, continuing his fit and snarling. But Brendon felt a strange calm come over him.
"You were the one who turned him," he said, clearly. "Him and Peter both."
William hissed and came at Brendon again. This time, however, it was with closed fists and knees and claws. "You insolent brat!" he cried. "You dare question me after everything I've given you? After I made you immortal? You are no better than the rest of them?"
He finally smacked Brendon hard enough to knock him to the ground. William kicked him once more in the ribs and then pushed his hair out of his face. "I hope you have learned your lesson, Brendon," he choked out. "I am sorry for this. You may join me in bed later if you still wish."
And Brendon had finally had enough, from the Pete thing to this and always being SECOND BEST. As he lay on the floor, feeling his flesh knit back together and his bones reset, he came to a conclusion. He couldn't stay another night here. He had to find somewhere he belonged. He did the only thing he can think to do.
He ran.
He knew the house well enough to be able to leave without being stopped. After all, he was William's right hand, and none of the others knew, yet, about the argument. So when he simply told them he was leaving, no one questioned him.
As he wandered the streets, becoming ever more fearful of the eventual sunrise, he tried to decide where he could go. He needed somewhere far from Beckett, far from the life he'd made for himself. He wanted somewhere he could start over again, somewhere he could get lost.
Las Vegas, as it turned out, was easy enough to get lost in.
Brendon had secretly always wanted to see Vegas. The pageantry and the swell of people intrigued him to no end. He hadn't realized how bored he'd been, staying in Chicago, staying by William's side. When he was human he'd dreamed of traveling the world. Now that he had eternity, now that he was making good use of it, there was nothing to stop him from doing so.
And Vegas, he decided, was a perfect place to start. There was no lack of blood in this city. There was also no lack of bars to spend nights in, looking for fresh faces and sweet girls filled with sweet wines who want to dance. And enough people disappeared there that few questions were asked. Brendon came to love the phrase "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." for more reasons than the obvious ones.
He actually used that tired catchphrase one night, speaking aimiably with an attractive bartender who smiled at him in response. "It's a good city to be someone else in, too," he said as he dried a glass.
Brendon looked at him carefully. "What's that mean?"
The bartender smiled at him, never blinking. "You're just in here a lot, with a different girl all the time, with a different story. I pay attention."
Brendon was overcome with a sudden fear of discovery. He'd be so stupid, he realized that, but this bar had the best dancers and the girls and boys who'd be missed the least most of the time. It was the place to find sweet blood that he had thought wouldn't raise questions. "Oh," he choked out.
"Nah, it's okay," the bartender laughed. "I'm not going to knock a guy for one night stands."
Brendon laughed in response, a laugh loud with relief. "Oh," he said. "So they're not asking you questions about the girl's I've killed?"
The bartender laughed at that. "Yeah, I'm always telling them you're a madman." He extended his hand. "I'm Jon Walker, by the way."
"Brendon," Brendon said, shaking his hand firmly. "And I think you may be my first actual friend in this city."
Jon introduced Brendon to a few of his friends from around town. And Brendon liked these guys. He could see how they were hurt and he wanted to take that away from them, treat them the way William never treated him.
It was while he was talking to Jon that Brendon first got the idea. Jon telling Brendon that maybe what he needed was to go back and face what had scared him off. Maybe he needed closure. Brendon realized, staring into Jon's eyes, that he didn't need closure at all. He needed his own gang. And he needed to take the things William loved away from him.
He'd be fair, he wouldn't play favorites.
He turned Spencer first. He figured that would be the hardest part, but once he had Spencer it would all be easier. Spencer was the steady one of the group, the smart one. He was the one that could shoot a smile at Ryan and make everything okay. So he HAD to be first.
They were at Spencer's apartment watching some mindless movie, when Brendon leaned over and struck. His fangs hit Spencer's perfect neck just right, and Brendon was overwhelmed with the blood and the beating of the other man's heart.
Spencer struggled, but Brendon had years of experience. He could have compelled him, probably should have, but it felt better taking him by force.
When the thud-thud of Spencer's heart had slowed and all but stopped, Brendon pulled back and used a fingernail to slice into his wrist. He held it to Spencer's mouth, watched Spencer lick his lips, his eyes half lidded, and then latch onto the cut, sucking desperately.
Finally he let go, falling back against the couch and looking at Brendon, terrified. Brendon reached out and stroked along his jawline. "Don't worry," he whispered. "The others are coming along, too."
Somehow, that was enough to make Spencer relax and pass out as the change overtook him.
By the time Spencer opened his eyes again, Brendon was smiling and watching the clock, patiently.
"Ryan's on his way," he explained, stroking Spencer's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "And then we can bring him along, too."
Spencer leaned into Brendon's touch, the expression on his face relaxed and comforted. "Feels good," he said, nuzzling Brendon's hand.
"Just wait," Brendon promised, bending over to kiss the corner of Spencer's mouth. "It gets better."
Ryan had the key to Spencer's apartment. The first thing Spencer had done was make him a copy and remind him to come over the next time his electricity got turned off. So Ryan didn't even bother knocking, just flung the door open and walked in, a paperbag of junk food in his arms. "Hey guys," he started.
His eyes focused curiously on the blood stains on Spencer's shirt. "You cut yourself shaving, man?" he asked. But as he stared longer he could tell that there was a difference. He couldn't describe it, couldn't put his finger on what exactly was wrong, but years of friendship and knowing every bit and piece that made up Spencer Smith, he knew something had changed. And his brain slowly processed, that something was BAD.
He dropped the bag and opened his mouth to release a scream.
But the scream caught in his throat as Brendon's voice filled his head, thick as honey and smooth as good liquor. There's nothing wrong here, it promised. Why don't you close the door and come sit down between us?
Ryan blinked once. His face went slack and his breathing eased as he gave into the reassurances in his mind. He closed the door gently and crossed the small apartment, feeling something strangely eager brewing in his gut. He was ready, he realized. Ready for what he couldn't say, but he knew he was ready.
Ryan sat down between Brendon and Spencer, stiffly. Relax Brendon's voice commanded. Nothing's going to hurt you.
Instantly, Ryan melted back into the cushions of the beat up couch, a slight smile crossing his face. Brendon watched with pride and reverence as Spencer reached out and lightly touched Ryan's neck and shoulder, looking curiously as if he'd never seen them before. As if Ryan were the one who'd already changed.
"Go ahead," Brendon told him, softly. "But be careful."
Spencer leaned in, tentative, as if he were afraid of breaking Ryan. Then, with a motion quicker than he himself expected, he latched onto Ryan's throat.
If he expected Ryan to scream or fight, he was mistaken. Instead, he felt Ryan's hand thread through his hair, pulling at it and moaning a little.
Brendon broke out into a smile, taking Ryan's wrist in his hands and biting into it carefully. Spencer needed to feed, but there was no chance Brendon was going to pass up his chance to taste Ryan. And those wrists, leading down to hands with the strong but elegant fingers...really, Brendon thought, how was he supposed to resist?
Ryan sank back into the cushions further, sighing and closing his eyes as he did. Brendon wasted no time detaching himself and then lightly touching Spencer's cheek. "No more, not now," he said, softly.
Spencer back away with a bit of a whine, licking his lips clean as he did. He trailed a hand down Ryan's arm, reassuringly, though, and smiled at his long time friend. "Don't worry, Ry," he said. "It feels so good."
"Huh?" Ryan said, turning his head with great effort to look at Brendon.
Brendon sliced into his other wrist, holding it to Ryan and smiling. "Drink up," he said, soothingly. "And when you're ready, we'll go find Jon."
Ryan's movements were smoother than Spencer's had been. He took Brendon's wrist carefully, drawing it to himself and placing his mouth on the cut as if it were all part of some macabre ballet.
But he drank greedily enough, smooth throat working to swallow Brendon's blood.
Jon Walker was always careful when he headed home after last call. Early mornings in Vegas were a dangerous time and he had no need for Grissom to be digging his body out of a cave and talking about the bugs all over it. So he had learned to take every noise and flash of movement seriously, never assume it was a trick of the light.
But this morning nothing phased him between the bar and his apartment. Nothing out of the ordinary as he unlocked the door and strode into his home, dropping his keys on a table and reaching for the lights.
"Dylan? Clover?" he called out for his cats, who were normally more than happy to greet him at the door with a pounce and a purr and maybe ever a desperate "feed me" meow.
This time, they didn't. Jon edged into the one room apartment carefully. "Clover? Dylan?"
He flicked on a lamp, only to see Brendon sitting in his favorite chair, both cats curled up in his lap and purring.
"They weren't happy to see me," Brendon said, a cat-like smile on his own face. "But then we talked and they agreed that we should be friends."
Jon swallowed. "How'd you get in here?" he asked.
"You gave Spencer a key," Brendon shrugged. "In case of emergencies. We used that. Actually, you're a little later than we thought. And we had to make a stop for Ryan to get something to eat."
"What are you..." Jon was cut off by the feeling of Ryan's hand slamming across his mouth.
"Shhhh..." Ryan whispered in his ear. "It's okay."
Jon whimpered softly.
Brendon stood, the cats jumping from his lap but still trailing close behind him as he approached Jon. "It really is okay," he promised, running a hand up Jon's chest, his touch feather light but with a hint of iron beneath it. "And when we're done here, I'm taking you home to Chicago."
Before Jon could make another noise, Ryan had yanked his head back, exposing his neck so that Brendon could sink his fangs into it.
Jon woke up thirsty.
He could smell the other guys beside him, which, hey, that was new. Not so much the waking up with the other three curled around him protectively as the part where he could smell them and tell each one of them apart just by scent. But no matter what, they smelled like family now.
Spencer was the first one to notice he was awake, and smiled reassuringly. "You'll be less dizzy once you get something to eat," he said, like he was already some kind of expert. He looked down at Brendon and Ryan, both still sleeping like the dead.
Jon realized how apt the metaphor was seconds after he thought it. They were both pale, eyes closed and chests not moving. Not breathing.
And that was not as weird as it should have been.
"Wha..." he started to say, but a feeling of dizziness overtook him.
"Calm down," Spencer said. "You slept the entire day..." he smiled at Jon, trying to be reassuring. And the fangs didn't look out of place.
Suddenly, Jon heard a yawn behind him and looked back to see Brendon, stretching his arms out, mouth open and fangs bared. Brendon smiled up at Spencer and Jon, then leaned down to stroke Ryan's cheek. "Wake up," he said, lightly. And Ryan did, instantly opening his eyes and looking up at Brendon contentedly.
"Vampires?" Jon said. It wasn't in shock or surprise, just needing clarification.
"I'm afraid I wasn't completely honest with you," Brendon said. He picked up a black bowler hat from where it had been discarded on the floor. "But I will have plenty of time to tell you the story while we're headed home."
"Home?" Ryan asked. "We ARE home."
"My home," Brendon clarified, kissing Ryan's forehead. "Chicago." His look suddenly turned dark and threatening. "There's something there I have to take care of."