sorry about the blood in your mouth (I wish it was mine) - FDTD - Seth/Richie (2/3)

[scorpiod1]

It’s not as if Richie isn’t capable of being precise though.

“I want to try something,” his brother says, leaning over him while he sleeps.

Slept. Was sleeping. Not anymore, obviously.

Seth’s sleep schedule has gotten all twisted up lately. He can’t keep track of how many hours he’s sleeping, how long it’s been-sleeps too much during the day and isn’t sure how long he drives at night, when he stops driving and stops going-but Richie keeps track for him. Richie’s always been better at the planning.

“Okay,” Seth breathes out, willing himself to hold still (he’s not scared of his brother, except for how he is-it’s more a bone deep dread, but also a primal instinct, the fear people get when they find themselves alone in a room with a wolf and unarmed, the kind of fear that kept your ancestors alive, that you’d be a fool not to have).

Richie’s fangs slide down. He presses his teeth against Seth’s throat, resting over the rapid beating pulse of his neck.

Seth grabs the gun and presses it against his throat, down to the hollow of it.

Richie chuckles and Seth feels the vibrations in his skin, down to his bones. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“I don’t know, Richie, are you going to eat me?” Seth says, keeps his voice even, keeps it steady. His hands don’t shake but the problem is, he doesn’t think he would shoot Richie, and you should never point a gun at someone you’re not willing to shoot.

“Maybe you should,” Richie says, casual and laid back, talking through his teeth somehow. His teeth scrape across Seth’s throat, like insistent pokers. It feels like a warning, a prediction of what will happen and Seth thinks of all the vampires back at the bar, tearing through a soft human crowd, thinks of Richie and how easily he rips apart bodies now, with just fangs.

Richie’s tongue is cool against his pulse, the rapidly beating juglar of his neck. He half-expects it to be forked, but it feels normal, just not warm. Seth holds his breath without knowing it, fighting back a shudder. He presses his gun into Richie’s throat, trying to push back, but Richie is an iron wall, made up of hunger and death and something old coursing through his veins (and still your brother; all sugary snack foods and sharp knives and warm hands on his back).

“Richie, man,” Seth says. He cups Richie’s face in his hand, his palm fitting perfectly over his skin, slotting like it belongs there. He’s gentle, placating; he’s done this so many times, knows how to tell him “hush” and “it’s okay,” and “you got this” and reassure him just the right way. “Richie, you’re with me, right?”

Richie pulls back. He doesn’t move, his weight pressing Seth down on the bed, but he pulls his teeth away and lifts his head and smiles down at Seth, eyes gleaming bright and warm.

“It’s okay, Seth,” he reassures, “I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t.”

Seth nods, breathing out. “Okay, buddy.” He still has his brother’s face cupped in his hand, reluctant to pull away.

Richie doesn’t move, except to reach over to the hotel drawer and pull out one of his knives, sharp and wicked looking. He puts the knife to Seth’s throat.

“I want to taste you,” he says, serrated blade against sweaty warm skin.

“Richie?” he asks, careful, so careful, because he doesn’t want to be alarmed, but his brother’s eyes are still snake slitted pupils and he’s hungry, glazed over detached stare as he watches the pulse of Seth’s throat.

“I just want a taste. You know how good I am with this, Seth,” Richie says, knife twirling in his hand, lowering his voice, gentle, like how his big brother carried him out of a burning house, told him dad will never hurt them again in a quiet, trembling voice. “I won’t hurt you. Seth, c’mon,” he says.

He used to buy Richie food as a peace gesture, whenever he was mad-I’ll get you the sour worms you like so much, that burger you can’t get enough of-or just whenever he wanted to see him smile, or when he went for a food run, but Richie doesn’t need food anymore. He needs blood.

Seth lays his gun hand to the side, still gripping it but resting his hand against the other pillow. His throat feels bare and exposed, heart pounding in his chest. “Okay. But I will shoot your balls off if you try anything.”

Richie doesn’t even laugh or bristle at the threat, his predator’s eyes gleaming as he looks down on Seth’s throat, placing a knife to the soft skin there.

It does hurt, you fucking liar, Richie, but he’s had worse, so much worse. The burning sting isn’t much, and for a long, intense moment, Richie just stares at it, mouth hanging open and snake fangs out, holding utterly still. The hand Seth had on his face had slipped to the side, hanging uselessly off the bed, fingers twitching.

When Richie places his mouth on the wound, he just clamps down around it-no teeth except the blunt ones but it’s like an animal closing over prey, except his tongue darts out and licks long swipes against his skin that has Seth shuddering for real. He’s not sure what to feel, stomach twisting and sinking at the same time-is this revulsion or desire or fear or all of that at once; can it be all of it?

Richie just licks, long dragging licks and moans against his throat. Seth feels like bowing off the bed, like flames are licking at him, and they’re going to consume him, breath punched out of his gut. He reaches out blindly, instinctively, for Richie, like he’s always done-reaching out for him in the dark, hand clasped around the back of his neck, blunt nails digging in. It’s just Richie’s cool mouth, lips and tongue, and he feels closer than he’s ever been to his brother since the bar, like he might come out on the other side of him if he presses any closer.

Richie’s lips are stained bright red when he pulls away, looking down at Seth with wide eyes, frenzied and brazen. He doesn’t wipe his mouth or chin.

“You taste like cinnamon,” Richie says, when he’s done. When he stops, really-Seth doesn’t feel like they’re done (he thinks of the time he got his tattoo, the ink itched and burned into his skin; that’s what Richie’s mouth feels like).

That doesn’t make sense, that’s not what blood tastes like and you culebras are fucking weird, Seth thinks but he feels like he has cotton in his throat, his tongue heavy, making it hard to speak. The cut on his throat throbs.

He hasn’t let go of Richie’s neck yet.

“Richie,” he breathes out, body exhaling.

*

Seth stares at the wound around his throat, the way the skin swells and puckers around it, the redness around the cut Richie made.

The sun is up and Richie is asleep, tucked under the covers now this time, blankets upon blankets hiding him from the sun. It’s just Seth in the bathroom alone with his reflection.

(He can’t do this with Richie watching. Just can’t, makes his guts twist, like that’s giving himself away, more than he already has.)

Seth looks different in the mirror-paler, like he’s living at night too, sleeping during the day like Richie, more hair on his face, stubble growing thicker. He’s forgotten to shave lately. There are bags under his eyes and it makes him look hollowed out, almost more undead than Richie looks. Beads of sweat are on his forehead and running down his temple, because it’s hot, even in here, air conditioning not worth a damn. Seth thought he’d be tanner in Mexico, sun and beaches, but it’s more hotel rooms and dark roads at night.

Richie looks the same as he always does, when he doesn’t look like a monster-he’s just cooler to the touch.

Seth presses his fingers to the cut, pushes down. Shudders, a shivery sensation up his spine. It still aches, pain throbbing. He feels it beyond his neck, bodily, aching through him.

It’s just a knife wound, Seth tells himself, stop touching it. It’s not the first time Richie’s left a mark, not even the first time he’s left a knife mark on him, but this burns from the inside out. He used to like them, the marks, and he’s not sure if he likes this.

He’s had worse, much worse-nasty, ugly cuts that didn’t heal quite right, scars from fights and guns and his father-but that’s not why he keeps looking at it.

Seth’s fingers linger and the throbbing ache reminds him of Richie’s mouth clamped on it.

“Why did you do that?” Seth asks, when Richie wakes up. Seth fiddles with Richie’s knife on the bed, turns it over in his hand. Lets the tip rest against his fingertips, pressing down slightly, just enough to feel the pinpoint.

“Do what?” Richie asks. Richie is watching tv, in Spanish, but he doesn’t seem to mind-his attention is completely absorbed, except for the flicker of a blink when Seth spoke, but otherwise he’s still as he watches. Maybe he even understands. He always understood faster than Seth could.

“Feed off me,” Seth says, the words feeling awkward and alien in his mouth, like his tongue doesn’t know the shape of them (Is this what we talk about now? Feeding and vampires and ritual sacrifices?).

Richie glances at him, finally, looking away from the screen, eyes bright and fixated on him. The way he looks at him makes Seth feels like there’s something crawling under his skin, underneath his spine.

“I wanted to taste you,” Richie says. His voice is soft, like a faint wisp of wind, and all Seth can think about how awful it was to watch Richie die, with something sucking out his blood.

“But why me? You can get whatever kind of blood you want.” It’s not like Seth could stop him. If Richie wanted to eat babies, Seth doesn’t think he could stop him. “Am I your Renfield now, or some shit?” Seth laughs, but it doesn’t feel like a joke.

“That’s ridiculous,” Richie says, shaking his head too hard. Seth wants to ask what definition he’s using. Ridiculous is your brother being a goddamn snake vampire. “You’re not Renfield, you’re my brother. It’s our blood.”

Oh.

Seth shudders. His neck throbs. He’s all warm in his gut, curling and tightening sensation. There’s something in his throat, like a hand squeezing. But he nods, because that sounds like Richie-he understands that. Blood is simple, when it comes down to it. Blood is family. His blood and Richie’s blood, merged and pooling together.

“Do you want to do it again?” Seth asks.

Richie says yeah, immediately, all hunger and throat dry and scratched, because talking through fangs is still a little difficult.

Seth takes Richie’s knife and drags the edge down his palm, hissing at the sting. He holds out his hand and lets Richie take.

Richie wraps the wound in gauze later, slowly, carefully; Seth thinks of the hole in Richie’s hand that closed up when he died and came back, thinks, we match.

*

Someone puts a gun to his brother’s face and a second later, Seth shoots him. The bang of the gun is loud but the screaming and shouts of the bar patrons are louder still. Kate and Scott stare all wide eyed and horrified, like they’ve never seen a headshot before, never seen the splatter of blood it leaves (Seth doesn’t have it in him to feel bad about their innocence). The rest of the bar patrons-the ones remaining, at least, the ones who weren’t dead yet after that first attack, there weren’t many-are screaming too, half in anger and half in horror and disgust, turning into a cacophony of sounds, all bad.

Seth aims his gun at the closest person around; the round would go through the heart. “Next person who wants to try shooting my brother again, they’ll get a seat next to Mr. Hero here,” Seth says, nudging the corpse at with his foot.

“That thing is not your brother anymore,” Jacob tells him. Jacob has a firm, steady voice, but his eyes were twitching with panic. “It’s a demon, like the rest of them. Look at him.”

Seth glances at his brother, gun still aimed at the man in front of him. Richie stands behind him, his face monstrous-covered in blood, his own and others’, eyes like a goddamn snake’s, scales instead of skin, and teeth long and sharp like cobra fangs too, mouth hanging over like he doesn’t know how to close it. Richie is silent and still-which is creepy but normal-and he just drifts closer to Seth, standing directly behind him and Seth can read I got you back when he sees it.

“This is my brother,” Seth says, hand tightening on the grip, reaching out and putting a hand on Richie’s shoulder that lingers there long enough to make his point. He still feels the same, even if he looks different, he can’t let that get to him right now (he thinks about how Richie’s blood is still on his hands, where Seth tried to stop the bleeding and failed, felt him twitch and stop moving on the ground). “He stays. You don’t like it, you can take it up with Mr. 45 here.”

No one responds, except for the flickering look in their eyes, as dread sinks in-he’s seen it before, in hostages, or crew they’ve worked with, or people he and Richie cornered. The I’m fucked look.

“Don’t be foolish,” Jacob says, almost shouting, voice booming, bossing him around like he calls the shots here, and Seth getting tired of the guy. “He’ll kills us all. You think he won’t kill you too?”

Seth cocks the gun, aims at him. “No, I’ll kill all of you if any of you touch my brother.”

“Seth,” Kate says, softer, pleading-for her father’s life or for herself, or everyone in this bar except him and Richie. ”Seth, please,” she says, gently, but it’s all the same don’t do this pleas, doesn’t matter how it’s delivered (she looks at him the way Vanessa used to sometimes, half pity and half sick with him).

“The answer’s no,” Seth barks. “Or do you wanna have a chat with Mr. 45 too?”

Richie doesn’t say anything, hovering behind Seth, silent, waiting.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Richie whispers in his ear later, when his face has gone back to human shaped (even if he moves different now; smells different).

“Oh, I’m pissed off, but you think that means I won’t shoot these people for you?”

Richie smiles. “I won’t kill you.”

“I know, Richie,” he says, cupping his chin, making sure he looks at him, makes sure Seth sees his eyes. “I won’t either.”

(Kate asks him later, when he’s trying to give her a quick ten minute lesson on how to shoot a gun, how can you do it, just shoot someone and not care.

He wants to tell her, because there’s no judgement in her tone, just trembling hands on the gun-late enough in the night so most people no longer care about morality as well, just surviving-but Seth doesn’t have an answer for her. This part has always been easy for him, when it comes to Richie.)

*

They make it to Mexico City and Seth’s steps are a little lighter, his shoulders less weighed down, weight he didn’t even know he was carrying. Like Richie drinking his blood set loose something in them both, and Seth is tired of the churning stomach sensation, the constant on edge, like he’s still living on the run from the law, like he can’t stop looking over his shoulders.

This is the vacation, he reminds himself, the is a break he was promised, the El Rey without the beach, the paradise his brother told him the bar was when they walked in. Playing tourist feels like a child’s play (Seth is not used to just accepting a vacation as it is; they fight hard for it, bloody knuckle for bloody knuckle), but neither of them mind, wandering the downtown streets and the Zócalo, zipping through metro like kids allowed to play for once. Richie doesn’t even complain about the crowds and Seth buys him horchata from a street vendor.

“I kinda like the jamaica better now,” he says when Seth hands it to him, even if he takes a sip.

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me,” Seth says, and snatches it back.

Richie wanders off, and that’s okay with Seth. It’s okay, Seth tells himself; he doesn’t need to follow Richie everywhere (there are some things they just don’t share now; like Vanessa, or vampires).

This is what freedom tastes like-open road and the flames on his arm and the crowd so big, they get swallowed into it, no one worrying who they are or what they’re after, no cops here for them.

They can’t stay here, of course. It’s too big, too crowded, and Seth’s always had a love-hate relationship with big cities (K.C. was large and a shithole, but their shithole, like that makes a difference; every other big city was just a shithole too, even if it was prettier on the surface). Big cities are nice to disappear in but they can only hide you for so long, and Seth just wants something on the edge of the rest of the world, no one but them.

Sometimes, he lets himself imagine a house on the beach, walking distance from a market, a dog maybe, or a cat-one of those little one-eyed strays he sees around sometimes; it’s a stupid fantasy he never let himself have in prison, and he shouldn’t start with it now. He just doesn’t know where else to go, where to stop. The money will run out eventually. And there’s no place right for Richie anymore.

(Guys like them don’t retire, his uncle told him; guys like them go to prison or go down bloody and die young, except Richie’s going to live forever now, if he plays his cards just right-he wonders what Uncle Eddie would make of that.)

Seth walks around the market, looking for a place to buy a candy skull. It’s not that time of year yet, though, and instead, he flirts with a girl running a jewelry and embroidery stand, for no reason except that he can (it makes him nostalgic for a time before he went to prison, before everything spun out of control). The embroidery is gorgeous and intricate, but remind him too much of the stuff decorating the Titty Twister to really buy. She looks about his age when he went to prison and speaks some English, and he grins at her until she looks down and blushes.

The sun sets and Richie hasn’t come back yet, and Seth knows better than to think Richie got lost or something as simple as that. Richie could find him first in a crowd, sniff him out like a bloodhound (come to think of it, Richie could do that long before he ever became a vampire; Seth just used to be able to do it. too).

Go back to the hotel. Richie will find him there, like he always does. Just go back to the fucking hotel, go to sleep, wait for him to stumble back in at four in the morning, smelling like his fresh kill (don’t look for him, Seth, you won’t like what you find).

Seth run-walks through the streets, checking in corners, going down alleyways. Getting himself lost in a maze of the city, with the street names he only barely understands. He ends up in a part of town not meant for tourists, where no one knows what he’s speaking if he asks for directions, no tour buses rolling around here. He’s lost, and it’s a not a surprise.

“Seth.”

Seth stumbles past a bar with a bottle of beer in his hand when he hears him. There Richie is, eyes fucking glowing, hidden half in shadow of an alley way. The streets not quite empty yet, not quite deserted, not quite safe to go out covered in blood. He turns around when Seth makes eye contact, walking further into an alleyway and Seth runs, deep into an alley behind a bar that smells of alcohol and piss and blood.

Mostly blood-there are three bodies, and that’s more than usual. That’s a little excessive, torn apart fuckers. One is missing his head.

Richie is talking to him, saying something about how the first one was a meal but the other two, they found me. There is no apology, which is fine, because they never apologized for the destruction they caused, but there are three dead bodies and Seth wishes Richie could just leave neat little marks in someone’s throat like the movies, but life’s never been the movies, and Seth’s never liked horror films.

“You know, there’s a temple around here,” Richie says, casual voice once he’s done explaining the mess, leaning against the brick wall. The way he stares is more curious than anything else, head cocked, glance from his handiwork to Seth. “An old Aztec temple, Templo Mayor. You know it was once considered the center of the universe?”

“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” Seth snaps, glares at Richie, who has the gall to frown at him when Seth stares him down. How fucking ridiculous that looks, Richie covered in blood and frowning like a confused child.

All that ease between goes away, a string snapping.

“Goddammit, Richie,” Seth says, half a sigh and half a snarl, but he can’t stop once he says it, can’t stop the momentum of his body, advancing on Richie, pushing closer and closer until he’s in his face. “All the superpowers you have, you can’t figure out how to do some shit like this neatly? Can’t figure out how not to do this every goddamn time?”

“You’re mad at me,” Richie says, staring at Seth oddly, like this is a surprise. “What did you think I was going to do? You knew why I left. You know I’m going to feed, we both know you don’t like to watch. Do I have to spell it out for you? Because I am getting a little tired of protecting your delicate sensibilities.”

Seth punches him. His hand just balls up into a fist and he hits him right there, connecting with his cheekbone, and Richie just stands there and takes it, lets Seth punch him, but there’s no reaction, not a flicker on his face. He thinks it hurts his hand more than it hurt Richie, and that just makes him want to punch him more. But Seth can’t do it, not anymore, doesn’t have the strength to fight with him the same way. There’s blood on his fist-not his own, nor Richie’s. He grabs Richie by his shirt and starts dragging him away, until he realizes he can’t let Richie anywhere until the blood’s washed off his face, until the crowd dies down. Seth shoves him roughly up against the wall instead, and Richie comes, Richie lets him, even though he’s stronger now, can pin Seth against the wall.

“My delicate sensibilities?” Seth hisses. “They are long gone, brother, but I didn’t sign on for this serial killer shit-”

“I’m not a serial killer.”

“That’s what they call it when you kill a person each day. I am pretty sure you have a higher body count than Jeffrey Dahmer at this point”

“What’s your problem, Seth?” Richie asks, the I know better and I’m going to lecture you tone that Seth’s heard his whole life. He straightens up-not hunching, not anymore, drawing himself up to full height, slipping out of Seth’s grasp like he’s butter. He towers over Seth. It’s not something Seth notices often, not when they walk side by side and stand with each other, but he feels small now; he’s always been a small, scrawny kid at the end of the day. “You’ve been different since we left the bar, you keep-”

“I haven’t been the same, are you fucking-”

Richie shoves him against the wall behind him, so fast, it knocks the wind out of Seth’s chest. That one hurts. Glass crunches under his feet. The rough brick digs into his back, his shoulders and spine aching, and Richie hands pressing him against it, holding him there. Richie is covered in blood, face twisted and gnarled, his inhuman eyes staring down at him and flaring.

“You keep acting like I’m dead,” he hisses. Seth expected his voice to be low and gravelly, but it’s trembling, fumbling with the words. Richie is trembling. “I’m still fucking here, asshole, I’m not fucking dead.”

“You don’t have a heartbeat, Richie, I am pretty sure that makes you at least a little fucking dead.”

Richie’s face changes, the scales and ridges receding, slips back into something human, as human as he can look with blood dripping down his shirt and chin. Something familiar. His hands still press Seth against the wall, but he appreciates the shift.

“Is that what you think?” He says softly. “You think I died and I’m just...what? A ghost? A demon?” He laughs, and it’s low and crawling, and it creeps under Seth’s skin. “C’mon, tell me already.”

“I don’t think that-”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, I can smell it, Seth-”

“You know, you don’t help your case for ‘not a demon’ when you say you can smell lying-”

“I’m still here, I’ve stayed, I’m still your goddamn brother-”

“Well, you’re my goddamn something,” Seth says, not nicely (sometimes he opens his mouth and shit just comes out of it, shit he doesn’t mean, shit he does mean; sometimes he can’t tell the difference by what he means or doesn’t).

“Fuck you,” Richie growls out.

“Fuck me? You’re the one leaving corpses all over Mexico-”

“I need to feed,” Richie hisses.

“I know that,” Seth says. If anything, he’s very aware of Richie’s needs, always has been. “God, I fucking know that, Richie-”

“-and, what, you care now?”

He looks into Richie’s eyes. The glasses never did a good job of hiding his gaze, and Seth feels like sagging under it. What a strange feeling it is, to want to punch and kick him, fight and claw his way away from him, but at the same time just wanting to drop and be done with everything.

“No, you know what? I don’t care, I don’t give a fuck,” Seth says, gesturing down at the corpses a few feet away, ugly and ruined. “I really don’t give a fuck, I don’t care about the bodies, I don’t care who you kill, I don’t care that this is what you are now.” Seth feels a little sick, for saying it, what you are and not who you are, and he doesn’t know who to blame for that.

“I just want,” he says, starts, stops. What does he want? His money’s worth, maybe, what he paid to get here for, gave away to Carlos, in exchange peace of mind. That sounds like a joke now, or maybe he just can’t see the beauty in it.

His rib cage is squeezing around his heart, his knuckles grimy and bloody, and Seth wants to laugh, but it would be an ugly thing. It’s all hollow in his chest, like something grabbed him and carved out his insides, bit by bit. “I just want to go back to the way things were.”

“I’m trying,” Richie says. His breath smells metallic and sickly sweet, like death, and Seth is getting sick of it, but he presses his forehead to his, sighs a deep breath Seth knows he doesn’t need, inhaling him. He laces his hands around the back of Seth’s neck, fingers wrapping and holding tight, possessively and Seth just wants to relax into it, cling on to the way things used to be. “I swear, I’m trying.”

Seth puts his hands around the back of Richie’s neck too, just for old time’s sake, for starters. He doesn’t know what he is doing.

(In a hotel in Texas, he slams his brother against the wall, demands for him to deny the murder he committed, demands for him to tell him we’re okay-this is not who we are, this is not who we are. Seth says it more desperately than Richie does.

Richie repeats back to him, this is me. This is me, and Seth should have listened then, when he was slipping away from his hands, losing Richie to something he didn’t understand then, something he barely understands now. This is me, Richie tells him, straight to his face that he’s going to lose him, so Seth only grasped harder.

He grasps harder and doesn’t let go.)

They are getting blood everywhere and Seth doesn’t care-there has been blood everywhere since the start.

“You’re so fucking warm, Seth,” Richie says, rough-hewed voice as he talks. “Everytime you touch me, it’s like you’re leaving burn marks.”

Seth shudders when he says that, Richie’s fingers rubbing the back of his neck, holding on, holding him.

Richie kisses him, blood in his mouth, still hot and warm and thick, the bodies over there, and it’s sick, Seth knows, it’s sick but it’s a familiar taste, nonetheless-bloody mouthed kisses, how often have they’ve done this, Seth punched in the teeth after a fight, Richie bleeding for one reason or another.

Richie keeps his eyes open, like always, stares at him with his glassy, glazed over eyes, hungry eyes.

Seth doesn’t care about dead bodies and he doesn’t care about dead rangers and he doesn’t care about dead tourists and dead locals-he is hollow on the inside, and hungry too, for something else, wants to cut him open and make sure it’s still Richie in there.

Richie’s mouths is at his neck, his throat, tongue against his jugular and teeth on his skin, and Seth waits, waits for the bite to come, waits for him to tear it out and Seth knows he’ll let him, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else, doesn’t know how to pick anything else.

Instead he gets on his knees.

*

I’m all he’s got, he told Vanessa-pleaded for her to understand (no one ever does, though).

Can’t you see I can’t leave him? He tells Vanessa about the fire and means to say, can’t you see I owe him? I’m all he’s got, Seth repeats like putting on a suit of armor. I’m doing this for him.

(Are you telling her or yourself? Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.)

The first time he told her that-long ago, after their honeymoon in Vegas and the shine started to wear off marriage and off him, seeing all the dirt and blood under his nails (they were both criminals, with sordid pasts and records, but Seth always took it too far, more skeletons in Seth’s closet than she had in hers)-Vanessa didn’t get it. She thought he meant it casually, colloquially, the way normal people do, but Seth and Richie don’t know normal, never had normal, wouldn’t know how to build that.

Then, she looked at him like he made her sick.

“Go see a fucking psychiatrist,” Vanessa spat at him once, during one of their fights, storming out of their little apartment, even though it was her apartment, like she couldn’t stand to be near him. “Because you are a piece of work.”

(She had it right then and there, why did she keep trying?)

But eventually she just stared at him sadly. Pitying. Like there was something wrong with him, and he was too dumb to see it. The way you look at terminally ill patients, who haven’t figured it out they're dying yet, and you can’t bare to burst their bubble.

The problem with Vanessa is that he could never make room for her, because Richie took up all the space, no matter how hard he tried, how much he wanted to believe, he couldn’t carve out enough room for her.

The problem with Vanessa is that she got too close in all the wrong ways, and she saw Seth for what he was-not a criminal and a thief and occasional murderer-but a man with an empty space in him, where other people have the spaces filled up, glimpsed at his sick, twisted fused bits inside of him just long enough to leave scars.

(The problem with Vanessa-which is really to say, the problem with Seth-is that he wanted to love her, he wanted to be in love, but Richie was in the way.)

What if he can’t be saved, she asked him in a fast food joint, the one Richie’s loved since childhood. Does she understand that, that she’s telling him to give up on his brother, right in the same kind of restaurant they used to at eat at as kids all the time?

What if he can’t be saved, and Seth thinks, well, I can’t be saved either then.

*

Richie's mouth is warmer than Seth thought it’d be, hotter than a corpse should be. It’s the blood, Seth knows, from the people he just ripped apart, blood staining his lips and chin, and the thought makes him sick but the wires cross in his brain and instead of nausea, he groans, because his brother is sucking him off in some back alley in Mexico City and he didn’t think it’d feel this way.

“Watch the teeth,” Seth says. It’s supposed to be a joke, a weak one, but his voice is breathy and caught in his throat. He doesn’t feel like he’s joking-feels wrung out and stripped open with Richie’s hands pressing against his hips like a brand. It’s hard to say much with his cock in his brother’s mouth, hard to think past that, hard to think when his brother makes a low sound, like agreement-yes, Seth, I will, you don’t need to tell me-that’s what he would say, if he could form words, but it sounds like a moan,and it vibrates around his cock, and Seth can’t keep thoughts from slipping from his mind, image and sounds eclipsing everything into sensation.

He’s grateful Richie doesn’t look up at him-focuses solely on getting him off-because Seth’s not sure he can handle what the look in his eyes would be like, if he wants to see it, but he can’t look away either. Seth’s stomach flops, a hand on his gun in his pocket and the other in Richie’s hair, carded lightly through the loose strands, automatically stroking like he always does, the way Richie likes.

(The gun’s not for Richie; the gun is for habit, and maybe for anyone who decides to walk in on them-they’ll get either Richie’s fangs or Seth’s gun, but the gun is never for Richie).

Richie’s forgotten how to do this-it’s been five long years since the last time and no practice-unskilled with his tongue but he devotes every bit of methodical energy to licking and sucking his cock. Richie swallows him down all the way to the root-no gag reflex, remember, no need to breathe, and that’s sick and hot at the same time, curling at his insides. Seth can’t help sliding his hand down and cupping his chin, feeling his dick in Richie’s mouth, the hollow of his cheek, the blood on Richie’s chin smearing on his hand now, still warm. Richie still thankfully doesn’t look up at him, just makes a small sound like a grunt when Seth touches him, focuses on flicking his tongue and Seth just tries to focus on that too-his nose in his pubic hair and tongue flicking the bottom of his cock, the wet sucking noises and the obscene stretch of Richie’s mouth, he didn’t think a person could open that wide.

Seth comes with a lurch in his gut, the way your stomach flops out on you on a roller coaster on the way down, weightless and shuddering through his body, stealing his breath and any words he could have said. It’s almost painful how his orgasm gets wrung out of him-with short, gasping breaths and his eyes sliding shut in the intensity, his hand tightening on Richie’s chin as he tries to breathe through it. Seth opens his eyes and watches the way his come builds in the corner of Richie’s mouth, not quite dripping down his chin, but not quite swallowing it all. It’s easy for his thumb to slip and touch the corner of Richie’s mouth there.

He wants to say something-I’m sorry, did it hurt, what did it feel like, I didn’t mean to hold on so hard-but Seth just moans instead and keeps holding on.

Seth is panting over and over when he’s done, and Richie is silent. Richie pulls off and leans his head against Seth’s belly, his forehead cool. There is come and blood down his chin and when he glances up at Seth, his eyes are yellow and slitted like a snake, and Seth feels like he’s doing something wrong (he’s wrong and Richie’s wrong and something is wrong, terrified and terrifying, in them both), but he doesn’t know what, can’t give a voice to it.

“Seth,” he whispers, voice soft and low and a little dangerous (but that’s not new, they’ve always been dangerous-that stays with them). Seth can’t read the look in his eyes-too alien for him right now and it bothers him; Richie’s not alien, Richie is Richie, even when shooting all the lawmen in the county, or ripping people apart in back alleys, and fuck it if he’s seeing shit that isn’t there or ripping out throats with his teeth, Richie is Richie and-

“C’mere,” he says, tugging at Richie’s shoulder, pulling at his button-down sleeves (he gets blood on that too, bloody transfer from mouth to hands to clothes). Richie comes up with a grace he shouldn’t have, just rising up and steps too close to Seth, presses his forehead against his like all he wants is to just breathe him in, wants to blanket him and press him against the wall until he’s trapped there. Seth’s not thinking, just feeling, the warm familiar press of Richie’s forehead and his body against him, something to anchor himself to, and he just lets his gun drop and starts roughly tugging on Richie’s pants, shoving down the zipper, shaking and desperate and eager to get his hands on him.

He’s not sure he’s ready to suck his brother’s cock right here, but he can do this, wrap his hands around his cock, the ridges and veins, the weight of it familiar in his hands. He never really forgot how Richie’s cock feels when it’s hard, or the changes in Richie’s face when he comes on Seth.

Richie makes an odd, choked noise for a creature that doesn’t breathe, eyes still fixed on him, wide, intense and single minded, and still fucking yellow-green.

“Is that good?” Seth asks and Richie nods, exhaling a needless breath. Seth tightens his grip and twists, watches with a churning, almost vicious kind of satisfaction as Richie groans and his mouth hangs open (they used to do this too; it was a game-Seth said the game was whoever comes first is the loser, but the game was really always make Richie come and squirm and lose control for a split second; stupid fucking game, really).

“Can I?” Richie asks, his hand trembling, almost gently like normal, but he tugs down Seth’s shirt until his collarbone is exposed and then there’s a knife in his hand that Richie tugged from his belt suddenly, cool steel tip pressing against the skin. “Can I, Seth, can I?” he asks, begs, starved for him.

“Yeah, okay,” Seth puffs out in a breath. It’s quick, barely any time to react, knife cutting into his skin, stinging and sharp-then Richie’s mouth covers the bleeding wound, tongue lapping and dragging long slick strokes, sucking, obscene in a new way. The knife clanks to the ground and Richie wraps his arms around him, holding him close and too tight while he feeds.

Seth squirms, lightheaded, angle a bit awkward now with their heights, Richie’s mouth not at his throat, but still close. Don’t do that, Richie, he thinks, but he wants to lean and arch into it, make it easier on him, tell him it’s okay, almost wanting the press of his teeth; he’s getting used to it.

“Remember how we used to do this,” Seth whispers, rubbing his thumb over the slick slit at the tip of his cock, murmuring the words in his ear. Richie makes a short, whining whimpering noise, soft, trying to cover it up, same as he always did but his body doesn’t lie, hips pumping into his hand (some things don’t change).

“I used to jerk you off when we were kids, remember, Richie, remember?” His voice is all rough and gravel. Of course, Seth remembers-kids’ stuff, he called it, fooling around, experimenting, but they never outgrew it like they should have (once you start that shit, you can’t stop it). “We used to crawl into each other’s bed and help each other jerk off, like this, remember? I showed you.” He needs to know if Richie does too, just needs to hear it.

Tell me this hasn’t changed.

Richie nods against his body, mouth lapping at Seth’s blood and cock throbbing, distracted.

“Tell me,” Seth whispers; he squeezes, presses a bit more pressure, feels precome leak and Richie groan, louder this time, hips just rolling into Seth now, humping his hand. Seth could get hard again off this. “Tell me, say it.”

“Seth,” Richie mutters. His voice is thick, covered in blood, muffled against Seth’s collarbone.

“Say it, Richie,” Seth says, “I want to hear you fucking say it.” Richie stops holding Seth steady. Richie stops drinking, lifts his head and looks with his scary as fuck snake eyes at Seth’s, fucking into his hand. Seth puts one hand around the back of his neck, his fingers pressing against the soft skin there, and twists and jacks him harder with the other. Richie comes nodding his head too fast, eyes unfocused and glazed over momentarily, but never leaving his.

He whispers his name, and it makes Seth shiver, watching him. Feeling him this close and his come on his hands, dripping down on the concrete through his fingers.

“I remember, Seth,” he says softly, curiously. He pulls Seth closer to him, tugging him away from the wall; he’s so close he can’t breathe anything else, but Richie. “Did you think I forgot?”

Seth doesn’t know what he thought. “I just want to hear it.” He thinks he needed to hear him say it more than Richie needed to come.

Seth’s panting like he just came. Richie isn’t. Richie doesn’t need to breathe. Richie isn’t human anymore, but Seth puts his hand on his cheek, making sure their eyes are leveled. There’s blood and his brother’s come on his hand. He just doesn’t care about the stains they left on Richie’s skin, or what they are now.

“Are you with me?” he asks. Are we in this together?

“Yeah,” Richie says, nodding. eyes fading back to something human. His glasses slide down his nose. Seth pushes them back up for him.

“We’re okay,” Seth repeats then. “I think we’ll be okay now.”

(We’re not okay-not since Richie busted Seth out of prison, maybe before that really, when he left Richie alone to his shack in the forest-but Seth combs his hands through his hair, pulseless body pressed tightly against him, and thinks he can live like this.)

Part 1 || Part 3