Lost Boys Fic - Seclusion

Mar 21, 2011 00:49


Title: Seclusion
Rating: PG - 13
Disclaim: I own nothing.
Summary: Sometimes, the past is too vivid. And sometimes, it demands to be seen, even in the most adverse of ways.
Warnings: Supernatural horror, disturbing and complex themes.
Pairing: Alan/Edgar, whether it is platonic brotherhood or something darker is up to you.


Seclusion

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Alan is sitting on their window ledge. His arms are crossed firmly across his chest, and he swings his dangling leg back and forth, back and forth, and scrutinises the grey drag of rain beyond the glass.

He massages his temple, and sighs softly, leaning back against the peeling paintwork.

"Hey, Edgar. Do you think it'll stop raining?"

Edgar lifts his head at his brother's voice. The ledge is empty. The night sky is black, still, swarming behind the window pane in a gathering mass of shadow, and Edgar sits on the old bed, the familiar rattle of the springs hurting his ears. He interlocks his hands in front of him, and scrutinises the surrounding darkness.

The years haven't eradicated much from their old room. The bed is still intact, the sheets crumpled and yellowed with age. Dust is the carpet's second skin. He shifts his boots, and something metallic rolls by his feet, clinking against the edge of the bed.

It's an empty, half crushed can of Denim aftershave.

It had been an awkward gift, from Sam to Alan, on the Christmas of 1989. Edgar had secretly used it without his brother's knowledge, which had cued a friendly fight and Alan's consistent mockery.

"Trying to score girls, bro? Just go onto the beach and take your top off. Get a tan. With that chest of yours you could..."

"Shut up." The tips of Edgar's ears are red, and Alan looks delighted at the sight. He scratches the side of his nose, smirking, and removes his own t-shirt to prove a point. Edgar goes to bite down on a witty comeback, but finds his comment fall flat. He is taken aback by the definition of Alan's chest, and more than irritated by the growing smile wading across his brother's face.

"Jealous?"

"No," Edgar huffs, edging the aftershave under the bed with his foot. "But I guess if vampire hunting didn't pay the bills..." He narrows his eyes, and smirks. "You could always be a stripper."

Alan cocks an eyebrow, and flashes his trademark sneer.

"You would like that, wouldn't you, you pervert?"

"Fuck you," is Edgar's inarticulate reply, and then there is a pillow being pushed into his face, and he squawks, battering at his brother's arm, and they both topple off the bed, and all Edgar can hear is the dark rumbles of Alan's laughter, and feels his own smile crushed beneath feather and polyester sheets...

Edgar's back hits the old mattress. He squints at the ceiling, and catches a whiff of newsprint scuttling around his senses. He slaps his arms to his sides, and feels a strange desire for sleep; to lose himself, here, it's just all too tempting.

He's too big for the bed now. His feet stick straight out at the end, and make his knees ache. He growls, deep in his throat. How old is he now, to be indulging in these games and memories and hollow dreams...they are all gone, spoiled by blood...

Imaginary Alan sits beside him. He's about sixteen, wearing his favourite Metrovitch Jacket and blue jeans, and as he leans over Edgar, the chill of his Dog Tags brush against his arm.

"Hey, bro," His eyes are empty. He weakly grins; it's sad, and a little bitter. "You look older."

Edgar grunts in reply, turning on his side, away from Alan and the windowsill and the stench of old newspaper. His Bandana is soaked in sweat; Santa Carla at night is just as humid as he remembers. He removes it, and drops it beside the bed. Red in darkness, like blood falling through shadow.

He scrunches his eyes tight.

"Edgar..." Alan's fingers scrabble down his back. A hint of reproach tints his tone. "I'm still here, you know."

Edgar fixes his arms across his chest, and lightly presses away from the touch, drawn from the hazy break of memory, and nothing else.

"You don't want to talk?"

Edgar takes a deep, shuddering breath, and reluctant words bubble to his lips.

"There is nothing to talk about."

"Hm." Alan stretches out, arching his back and flumps down harder on the bed. The worn springs squeak and complain, and Edgar tells himself it's because he has shifted his leg a little too quickly.

"You don't believe in me, do you?"

"No," Edgar swings his legs around, and curls his fingers into the rotting duvet. "No, I don't."

Breath, warm as hell breath, tickles his ear.

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

Edgar freezes. The jagged press of claws cut into his arms.

Alan closes his arms around Edgar's chest, and nestles his head into his neck. Edgar remains still, not daring to breathe, and Alan sighs softly. Edgar is hard, unmovable as rock, and flinches from Alan's weight on his hand.

"How old are you know?" There is a smile in his voice. "Twenty six, is it? You look so worn."

"Get off." Edgar monotones, shaking off his brother's grip, and to his surprise, Alan lets go. He hears the rustle of sheets being pulled back, and something that sounds like a sniffle.

Edgar makes the mistake of glancing behind him.

Moisture shimmers in his brother's eyes. He sneers, acting as if he doesn't care, and wipes the corner of his eye with a trembling fist.

"Fuck you, then," he hisses, and when Edgar looks again, he's gone.

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Catherine Rebecca Frog is dying.

She won't leave her bed. She only has a week left, says the doctor with the pitying eyes and harsh voice. Best to keep her comfortable and let her drift away in peace.

Catherine doesn't recognise her son, this dutiful, stone faced carer who has come to bid her farewell. Downstairs, the old shop is deserted and closed up, and upstairs, she bides her time in silence and occasionally, she trembles and vomits, and sometimes, she gathers her old bones and wobbles to the bathroom. In a moment of coherency, she had refused the indignity of a Commode.

The soft faced nurse pops in from time to time, and changes the sheets. Her name is Annie, and she is a rounded girl, rosy cheeked and gently spoken.

"I could change the sheets on your bed, if you like," she offers Edgar, who lowers his head at this offer of kindness.

"No," He doesn't take his eyes off the old woman in the bed. They are joined by blood only. He pauses, and grunts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his old jeans. "No thank you."

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Edgar sleeps on the floor of his old bedroom in a sleeping bag. He doesn't attempt to curl up in the broken down old poster, despite its odd comfort, even under the stale air of its years.

Alan has been rooting through his bag, and discovered one of his old comics. He whistles in pleasure, and lounges on the bed opposite, occasionally hitting his foot against the steel bed frame to attract Edgar's attention.

"Remember this panel?" He holds it out, tapping on the picture of a snarling vampire and a faithful hellhound. "Remember when you were six, how it scared you? You used to bend the book back when you read it, so you wouldn't have to look at it." He grins and straightens up, sending springs jangling. "You were such a wimp at that age."

Edgar is faced away from him, whittling a stake in silence. He inspects his handiwork, and carefully places it beside his belongings. Outside, the boardwalk is silent. Yet downstairs, the screams and cries and laughter seep through the dusty barriers of the drawn shutters. It sounds ghostly, disjointed from reality, and Edgar wonders it is memories.

The book flops to the floor.

The pad of footsteps comes closer, and Alan seats himself beside Edgar, deliberately placing himself in his eye view.

Edgar does nothing. He keeps his focus squarely on the stake.

"Any girls?" Alan's voice is brisk. "Now you're an adult, how's your sex life? Or what is your sex life? Jesus..."

He crawls forward, on hands and knees, and lightly scratches Edgar's cheek.

Edgar is unresponsive. Alan's smile becomes spiteful.

"How's Sam?"

Edgar's jaw tightens. He lines up the stakes in height order, and counts them, one to thirty.

Two fingers sharply flick his nose.

Edgar shoves him away. He doesn't mean to do it so roughly, but he forgets his strength, and Alan stumbles back, striking his head against the bed rail.

He instantly finds himself beginning to rise, and inwardly scolds himself, even as Alan rocks back on his heels, tentatively feeling his head, and shooting Edgar a look of dangerous impassivity.

He stares. And keeps staring, even as Edgar packs away his things, and gets ready for bed, pulling off his clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor. He slots into the sleeping bag, and can't help catching the empty, accusing glare of his older brother.

He switches off the light, and the room is bathed in blackness.

He shifts uncomfortably, and his toes knock against something heavy. It rolls by his by his feet; it's a torch. He reaches for it, and turns it over in his hands. He frowns, mouth in a taut line, and flicks it on.

He casts the dim, circular sheen of amber around the old room. The bed is empty, as is the window ledge. There is nothing else in there, and Edgar exhales slowly, drained, and brings the torch to himself to switch off.

Alan is placed directly above him. His arms hang over his brother's head with all the tensity of a broken doll, and his face is lax, his mouth hanging open as if dead, and his eyes are hollowed with black rage.

Edgar yells. He drops the torch. It falls to the floor, the batteries bouncing out of their sockets, and soaking the room in darkness. He gasps, catching his breath, and feels the caress of icy fingers dragging against his jaw.

"Stop!" His plea takes him aback. He chews his lips, and tries to assert dominance in the low husk of his voice. "This isn't real. This isn't fucking real."

A rusty chuckle echoes in his ear, and Edgar jolts.

He is shivering violently, and it is then he feels arms drape over his chest.

"I was only playing..."

The lights are switched on, leaving Edgar blinking in the glare of artificial light. Alan crouches beside him, all smiles, and chucks his chin as if he is a kid. Edgar's expression is wild; stricken.

"But hey..." He crosses his legs, stares hard at Edgar and in his eyes flicker a strange light. "You won't do it again, will you?"

Edgar mutely shakes his head, and Alan's smile intensifies.

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The next morning, the sky is grey, and dead.

Edgar leaves the bedroom behind. He pauses by his mother's door, and peers into the twilight dark of drawn curtains.

He catches a whiff of reefer, and his lip twitches in disgust.

There is nothing in. Getting groceries is an inconvenience but a necessity. As he passes his old room once more to get his coat, Alan Frog watches him glassily from the crack in the door.

It's a trick of the light, and Edgar ignores it.

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He unpacks the shopping in silence. He puts away the tins in unused cupboards, bunches the bread in a freezer, and discards rotting meat from the bottom of the ice drawer. He does this slowly, each movement operated by a robotic mundanity, although his heart is heavy when there is the sound of shuffling above his head, and he tells himself firmly it is his mother.

He mooches upstairs, counting the steps, and yet in the worn pockets of his jeans, is a packet of salted peanuts.

Alan is waiting, perched on the windowsill. He hasn't moved from that spot since this morning, save the pair of dark eyes glinting in the doorway earlier.

"You left early," he says. He points out the window. "I watched you get into the truck."

"Nice to know," Edgar responds coolly. He rests on the bed, taking off his boots and placing them beside his suitcase. He hasn't fully unpacked, and he's living out of his case and a plastic bag. Alan eyes this wearily, his lips pressed into a flat line.

"How long are you staying?"

"Less than a week," Edgar grunts. He finds there is little point ignoring this apparition, at least for now. "Until Catherine reaches the end."

"Until Mom terminates," Alan chuckles, glancing in the direction of their mother's bedroom. He bites his lower lip, and Edgar knows he is looking at him because he can feel the burn of his stare eating into his back. "But...you won't stay beyond that?"

"No," An impulsive wave of exhaustion rides Edgar's senses. He lies back on the poster, his eyelids fluttering shut. He folds his hands on his chest. "I don't plan to."

Cool hands feather his cheek.

Edgar stiffens. He didn't hear Alan move.

A knee crunches against the peanuts in his pockets.

Edgar's eyes fly open.

Alan shoots to the back of the bed, smirking like the cat that got the canary. He opens the packet, and winking at his brother, casually pops a peanut into his mouth.

Edgar glares at him.

"Oh, sorry," he snipes, rolling a peanut between two fingers. "I guess ghosts don't have taste buds."

Edgar gets up, and reaches for the packet.

Alan sits, and grinning, waits.

Edgar murmurs something unintelligible, casting his gaze elsewhere. His fingers barely glide against Alan's hand before he pulls back. He flumps back on the bed once more and rolls over.

"You can't..." Alan's voice rings with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. "You can't bear to even touch me, can you?"

"Can't touch..." Edgar fists the sheets. "What isn't there."

Alan doesn't respond.

When Edgar looks again, the end of the bed is empty.

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The scouring, gathering clot of heavy cloud is cracked by an ugly streak of lightening. It fractures the sky, as the elements swell and combust into a monsoon of warm rain.

Raindrops slip queasily down the window pane, leaving watery patterns that interlock and writhe, like rouge puzzles, and from her bed, Catherine cries out.

Edgar lets her be.

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"Bro..." Edgar heaves himself up. Distant thunder rumbles overhead, and branches bend and twist in the rushing winds. Gnarled shadows dance across the floor, like waltzing ghosts, and Alan murmurs in his sleep, pulling the covers over his head.

"Alan..." Edgar kicks him, cheeks flushed, but the wide brims of his eyes are bright. "Alan..."

Alan's voice is muffled by his pillow.

"Go to Mom if you're scared."

"I'm not..." Edgar shifts, rubbing the goose pimples on his arms. "I'm not scared."

They remain like that for a while.

Edgar sniffs, eyeing his brother. Something crashes overhead; hale scrapes along the roof, like claws against tiles.

"You know I..." He lightly tugs at the dark tuft of his brother's hair. "You know I couldn't even if I wanted to."

"Vampires can't come out in storms," Alan peels back the duvet, and sleepily cocks his head in Edgar's direction. "They'll get blown about and stuff."

"Oh." Edgar gnaws at his lower lip. "Are you sure?"

"What?" Alan grins; blunt teeth flashing in the dark. "Do you want me to check, or what?"

"No," Edgar lies down, fruitlessly attempting to yank the covers from under Alan. "Don't be stupid. Anyway, a marine never lets down his patrol."

Alan yawns, stretching out his limbs. Lightning illuminates the bedroom in a shock of white; Edgar jolts despite himself, and steels back a yelp at Alan's hand on his wrist.

"Neither does a brother," he says, and despite his drowsiness, his tone is sharp.

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Its midnight; the floor is hard beneath his head. Rain speckled air seeps from each crevice, chilling his flesh. He can literally feel the solid press of floorboard raking through his pillow. He shivers, hauling the sleeping bag up and over his shoulders, but nothing helps.

He quietly inclines his head in the direction of the bed.

There is nothing in the room besides him.

He narrows his eyes. Breathes in deep through his nose, and rises to his feet.

He lies on the bed, unfurls the sleeping bag, and folds himself in it.

"Get off."

Alan's dull monotone prickles his skin. His brother slithers from the shadow of the bed like a wronged spectre. He stands tall, glaring down at Edgar with venom etched into the lax contours of his face.

"This is my bed." He lazily lunges forward, bare foot firmly rocking Edgar's back. "My room. My personal haunting. Get the fuck out."

"This is my bed aswell," Edgar buries his head into his arms. "Shut up."

Alan frowns, but there is a sparkle in his eye as he eases himself in besides Edgar. He rustles the sheets, and bounces down so harshly on the bed the springs twang.

Edgar doesn't even flinch.

"If we're gonna share," Alan lounges on his side of the bed. He scrunches his face in thought, and prods Edgar's thigh with his big toe. "You stay on your side."

"Whatever."

"Not good enough..." Alan shakes his brother's shoulder, smirking. "Yes Alan, or Yes Bro. Nothing more or less."

Edgar growls, feeling the frayed ends of his patience beginning to snap. He swats at the phantom, who weaves back, his lips quirking in a not so pleasant smile.

"Get the hell..."

His gaze drifts to his arm.

His hand is smaller. The fingers are less defined; more rounded by baby fat, and the skin of his arm is clear and smooth. All the scars from work and whittling are nowhere to be seen.

He is staring at the hand of a teenager.

He gasps, reeling his hand back, as if that alone could undo the transformation. He glances back at his other hand; still young. He touches his cheeks, and feels softer skin, devoid of stubble.

Alan's smirk has stretched so far it's a wonder his face doesn't split.

"What...?" Edgar's voice is lighter as well, not weighted by his usual guttural croak. A tremor runs through his body to the end of his fingertips; he shudders as Alan leans forward, ghosting his brother's knee.

"You okay, bro?"

Edgar's breath is tight in his chest. He's feeling light headed, oddly surreal, as if he's fallen out of his own skin. Alan playfully pulls on his headband.

"Still want to share my bed?"

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Nightmares are commonwealth for Edgar. Dreams, just vivid, horrible dreams. He wakes, bathed in cold sweat, on the floor. He stumbles to the bathroom, feeling himself skittering on the sides of hysterics. He wrings his hands, fumbles shaking fingers across his face. He fishes for the raggedy remains of a towel; buries his face in it, and secures his breathing.

It's a nightmare, just another nightmare, no different if Sam gnashed teeth at his old friend or Alan tore into Lucy's neck as opposed to the chocolate cake on a ghastly imitation of his eighteenth birthday, or his parents sprouted fangs, or if Michael would pounce on Nanook, in the middle of the day, and rip the dog limb from limb. Or he's being chased by vampires, even with the scorch of Santa Carla Sun on his back, and the frivolous laughter of the crowds. Dreams. Just dreams.

He hears his mother erupt into a strangled stream of choking coughs.

Alan sits on the bath.

Edgar braces both hands on the sink, and bows his head.

"Go away."

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Alan says softly. He raises misted eyes, and his lip shakes. "I've just been so fucking alone!"

The boy bangs past him; kicks the door closed, and Edgar detects the metallic creak of the bed as Alan throws himself on it. He hears low teenage sobs, and he covers his eyes with a trembling hand.

Edgar ambles back into the bedroom. Alan is still there, wrapped in the duvet like a mourning caterpillar, and refuses to look at him, even when Edgar rests on the side on the bed.

"Alan..."

The boy freezes. He emits low, stuttering gasps, trying to compose himself, and Edgar's face twists in anguish. He has never seen his brother cry like this before; hell, he has never seen Alan cry, period.

"I'm real." He bunches the covers in his fists. "I'm real."

"Alan..."

"Say I'm real."

"You're real," Edgar is confessing this to himself, and oh god, it burns. He squints up at the dark ceiling, and wonders what the heck is happening to his sanity. "You're real."

Arms wrap around his waist. Tears soak Edgar's t-shirt. Alan embraces his brother, holding him with such intensity Edgar is almost knocked back.

"Don't leave," he mumbles. "You mustn't leave."

Edgar doesn't reply to that, but as if of their own accord, his arms find themselves closing around Alan's back.

In the crook of Edgar's chest, Alan smiles.

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The nurse comes again.

"Your Mother is weakening."

She stares at Edgar, bearing the expression of someone who actually cares about her clients. She hooks a red curl behind her ear, and smiles, although her gaze is tinged with reproach.

"You need to speak to her. Keep her comfortable."

Edgar takes the prescription drugs from her hands; plants them on the table, and glowers at the human husk in the bed.

"Do you have kids?"

Annie looks up, startled.

"Mr Frog?"

He doesn't repeat, and Annie sighs.

"Two."

"Speak to them," Edgar turns to her. His eyes are sunken with a gravitas that hitches her breath. "Make them comfortable."

She lowers her head.

"I will."

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"Tell me about him."

Alan is sitting, cross legged, opposite his brother. He's finally fed up with Edgar's comics and weaponry and silences; he wants to talk.

"Who?"

Alan's face darkens.

"Me."

Edgar pauses. He straightens, and looks at Alan directly.

"You turned." He says this slowly, as if chewing over the words themselves. "You left."

Alan nods. It's as if something distractingly old rattles inside his skin.

"He left," he utters. He crawls forward, and Edgar snaps his head elsewhere. Firm fingers grasp the curves in his cheeks; gently tilt his chin so all he sees is Alan. "I didn't."

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Rain oozes down the glass.

Edgar hasn't checked on his mother. Whenever he goes to, a smaller hand closes over his and guides him back down, onto the bed and old decaying sheets and Alan.

The ceiling above pulsates with masses of brown, crumbling mould.

Alan idly caresses his brother's cheek.

"I don't know what happened." He sits his head on Edgar's arm. "It was like memories. We were together, you and I." He traces his name on his brother's belly. He smiles, licking his lips. "Mom and Dad were sleeping on the old counter downstairs. It seemed...nice."

Edgar's eyes flutter shut. He listens to the deep, youthful tones of his older brother; filling the spaces between them. For a minute, he swears he sees sunlight spilling through the dark pools of his eyelids, but then, it is gone; a mere shadow of a thought.

"But then I began to see you. Less and less." Blunt nails cut into his shoulder. "You seemed to blur at the edges. Soon, I would only find bits of you lying around. Like an old t-shirt or a bandana. And even then, that went."

Edgar feels a fragment of bloody mould kiss his lips.

"And then...Dad began to go. He got sick, I think. And then he wasn't there. The shop didn't do as well. We didn't get any new stock in, and the stock I thought we already had was gone. I thought we had a burglary, but I couldn't talk to Mom. She wouldn't listen."

A faint whimper creeps along the landing; Edgar tightens his brow, but Alan hovers his mouth so close to Edgar's ear he doesn't hear anything more.

"One day, I came downstairs. There was nothing. The racks had been folded away. The shutters were drawn, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pull them across. I went upstairs, but Mom had been sick over her mattress, and whenever I came close to her, she would look right through me. I touched her once." His eyes cloud over. "She screamed. Such a horrible sound, Edgar."

His voice deepens. It becomes a low, toneless husk, like the inside of a broken radio, and icy wires pervade through Edgar's veins.

"Such a horrible sound."

Edgar glances at his brother.

Alan is smiling. His eyes are hollowed sockets; the skin empty, crinkled flaps.

Edgar breaks out a gasping, soundless burst of air.

He slaps his brother's hand. Nothing. He can't bend back the bony fingers that are gripping his arm with such ferocity he is losing feeling.

He kicks away, but his hands are small, his body no longer wiry but gangly and babied; a teenager, once again.

Alan continues to sit, and leer. Edgar feels he shall go mad with the sight.

"Alan..."

He scrunches his eyes tight, and wakes, on the floor, in the sleeping bag, alone.

He jumps to his feet; runs to his mother's bedroom.

She is barely breathing.

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Edgar dials the number on his cell phone.

A woman answers. It isn't Annie, but another care worker, and she tells him in bored tones that a stretcher shall be brought around.

Typical Santa Carla. They don't call the police; he could have smothered her with a pillow, for all they care.

They don't.

Two medics arrive. They bundle Catherine in yellow plastic, wrap up the sheets for examination, and struggle down the stairs with the body.

Edgar watches. As he passes his bedroom, he slams it shut with such a boom the two men almost drop the corpse.

"We're sorry for your potential loss," one of them simpers, wiping at his sweaty brow with a yellow handkerchief. "If she doesn't make it, do you have any plans for a funeral?"

"No."

Edgar closes the door; on them, on his mother, and the rain.

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Edgar never travels at night. It's the one rule he never breaks.

Until now.

He enters the bedroom.

Alan is sitting on his suitcase, reading a comic.

Edgar's fists tremble.

"Get out."

Alan doesn't respond. He licks the edge of his finger, and turns the page.

"You knew," Edgar's voice rises, echoing through plaster. "You fucking knew, you disgusting bastard."

"I don't know why you're so upset," Alan drawls, and Jesus, he sounds like an adult. He doesn't look up from the brightly coloured panels. "She never gave two shits about you. I don't know why you're bothering, to be honest."

"Don't you..."

"What's wrong, Edgar?" Alan pulls his legs around, and slips off the suitcase, trainers landing deftly on the holed carpet. "Didn't you make her comfortable?" His voice rises to a high, thick pitch; Annie's voice, perfect. "Didn't you speak to her, like a good widdle boy?"

"What..." Edgar's attention flicks to his suitcase, and then back to the thing in front of him. "What the fuck are you?"

Alan fixes his hands on his hips, and sighs.

"I'm your brother, doofus. Damn, you're dense. You don't change, do you?"

Edgar snarls. He towers over Alan, but as always, his brother watches him, undeterred and a little bemused.

"My brother died five years ago," he hisses. "He drank vampire blood and turned. He is a Master Vampire, and a damn evil one at that. He went after Sam, and turned him too." He narrows his eyes, irate. "So you are just fucking bullshit."

Alan observes him carefully.

He reaches up, on his tiptoes, and flicks Edgar's nose.

"I am your brother," he coos. His smirk widens. "And so is he."

Edgar freezes.

White arms sneak around his shoulders, tap along his back; encircle his chest.

"Hello, Edgar."

A low, toneless husk, like the echo of the inside of a broken radio.

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Below, in the twilight of evening, Catherine Frog is stretched out on a car bonnet.

She is still breathing, albeit barely.

A young man with gelled hair is nursing her head, and smirking openly at his dark haired, sneering companion.

A man with a dark bandana is being forced over her body. He is gagging, as if trying to bring up something, but there is dark juices dripping off his chin, and the smiling metrosexual wipes at his face with a yellow handkerchief.

The other man leans over his struggling prisoner; slits her throat, and shoves the man's face down into the ruined, bloody blotches of her neck.

Above, from the small window, Alan Frog watches.

On the bed, curled up in blankets, is the sobbing vision of his fifteen year old brother.

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The bedroom door is flung open.

Sunlight pours from cleaned windows. Daylight shimmers on old comic books, dirty laundry, half used aftershave, and dozens upon dozens of posters. Marine attire is heaped on old chairs, and a red headband is looped around an old beret, hanging from the foot of the broken down poster.

Mrs Frog smiles sleepily at her two boys.

Alan perks up, rolling back at the covers, and nods stoically in his mother's direction. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, and rubs his tired eyes with a steady fist.

Mrs Frog's brow creases with concern.

"Alan...is Edgar alright?"

His younger brother is crouched below the covers, shivering and muttering to himself.

Alan pauses, and pouts at Edgar. He turns back to his mother, and shrugs.

"I think he had a bad dream."

"I..." Edgar rips back the sheets; he springs up, eyes red rimmed. "It wasn't a dream..."

Mrs Frog strides across the room; gets on her hands and knees, and cradles him like an infant.

Edgar instantaneously freezes.

Over her shoulder, Edgar sees Alan smirk; raising his eyebrows, he lifts a finger to his lips.

Edgar's face crumbles. He brings his arms up, and smothers his face into the curve of his mother's shoulder. She smells of lavender, of soap and clean sheets, and there isn't even a twinge of reefer teasing her presence.

He cries, his voice breaking into small, inane hiccups, and she hugs and shushes him until he composes himself.

Alan waits patiently.

She breaks away, smiling sweetly, and ruffles his hair. Edgar's eyes are swimming with tears; he has never felt this young before.

Alan grins at his mother; cocks his head, and she kisses him on the cheek.

Below, Edgar can hear the gathering chatter of the Santa Carla Boardwalk.

"C'mon boys..." She beams at the two of them. "I've made breakfast."

Wonderful smells drift from the kitchen; Edgar's stomach grumbles. He is suddenly very hungry, and from the corner of his eye, Alan's smile glows.

"Oh, and Edgar..." She chuckles brightly at her dazed son. "Sam is coming around in about half an hour. He wants to discuss Superman continuity, or something odd like that."

"Seriously..." Alan shakes his head. He pokes Edgar hard in the ribs. "He practically lives here."

Mrs Frog laughs; high, bell like, and spins on her heel.

"Get ready quickly, boys. Don't let it get cold."

She disappears through the door, and Alan yawns, arching his back.

"From the smells, it looks like pancakes." He winks in Edgar's direction. "Your favourite, right?"

Edgar doesn't say anything. He stares, long and hard, at his brother. Alan sniggers, biting his thumb, dark eyes alert; he reaches for Edgar, who ducks from his hand like a cowering animal.

"Come on, bro." His smile catches. "Don't be like that."

Edgar lifts the duvet to his chin. His mouth trembles; his jaw tightens in a shade of his old steel, and Alan's eyes flicker.

The smell of pancakes is engulfed by a sudden reek of reefer.

Edgar bolts upright.

"No..."

The words are out of his mouth before he can even stop them, and Alan laughs softly, emptily, as the stench of cannabis abates once more to the delicious lull of syrup and fresh jam.

Alan smirks; he gives Edgar thumbs up, and lifts himself from the bed. He pulls on an old Batman t-shirt, and throws open the window to allow in some air.

"We've got a long day ahead," He stalks around to his beret; fiddles with it, and wanders over to Edgar, who tries his best not to flinch as Alan secures his bandana tight around his head.

He takes a step back, tapping a finger on his chin to admire his handiwork. An ebbing darkness constricts his smile as Edgar shakes, stammering over his words.

Edgar thinks fast.

He launches himself at Alan, pulling his brother into a tight bear hug. He wraps his arms around his brother's waist, convulsing against the hard edges of his chest, and Alan's face softens. He draws soothing circles on his brother's back, and pets his hair with a warm hand.

Alan is so heated. So hot; like he is blistering from the inside out and the touch of his brother's flesh makes Edgar dozy. He leans his cheek against Alan's stomach; his tears dry, leaving lukewarm streaks on his face, and Alan wipes them away with a brotherly hand.

"There. All better, right?"

Edgar nods mutely, still clinging to his brother. Alan tenderly releases Edgar's arms, placing them by his brother's side, and draws away, to the bedroom door.

"Oh, and bro?"

Edgar glances up, stricken.

Alan rests against the door frame, arms crossed.

He smirks.

"Race ya to the kitchen."

fic, alan frog, the lost boys, edgar frog

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