The Leech & The Whore [1]
For those who don't know, I'm taking part in National Novel Writing Month this year. I decided to write the backstory for my characters Blake and Phoenix for it (because who doesn't love sex, violence and idiots?) and need all the motivation I can get to actually make me finish this. I need 50,000 words in a month. So far, I am lagging behind. Ack.
Anyway, some people from the wonderful world of Lavaliere expressed interest in reading this so I am going to post it in sections. If you guys have an LJ please comment here! If not, comment on the VF journal I linked this into. Please? Comments will spur me into writing more and I'm only posting since a few people were interested. Much love shall be sent your way!
Anyway, onwards. No explanation necessary as this is the start-start. Ehem. Oh, RP people,I've been told my prose-style is different from my rp one. I don't see it but tell me if you do! I think I might name each section after a random object associated with it...let's see how that goes.
The bartender was watching him.
He was used to it, being blessed with the ability to walk into a room and give most people strained necks as they turned to follow him move. A half-smile had sometimes been enough to cause girls to drop their drinks and men to stop talking to their girlfriends mid-sentence. Those unfortunate enough to catch his eye would find themselves swept away by ordinary words spoken in a honey-tongue and they would only start believing they’d gone home with him by the time they were leaving alone the next morning. Feeling people watching him was as natural as breathing and it was only when their lustful gazes stopped running mental fingers through his hair that he started to feel uncomfortable.
But this was different. He could feel this gaze far more strongly than all the others. It cut through the warm background haze of interest like a cold knife. No matter where he moved, no matter who he spoke to, the same level of malice was being directed his way.
Dismissing the blonde he had been sweet-talking with a few kind words that she wouldn’t realise she should be upset about until she was outside, he placed his glass down with a decisive click. As refreshing as the unwarranted anger was, it was cramping his style. He wasn’t going home alone tonight and it was too late to try another bar. The problem needed dealing with. He drained his glass and stood up in one fluid movement, waiting until he had crossed half of the room before glancing up.
He looked straight into the patient eyes of the bartender. Having not properly appraised the man before, he hadn’t been sure what to expect and caught his breath despite himself. The eyes that had been tracking his every move like a starving hawk for the last two hours were of a dark amber, the iris circled with a thick line of black. If it weren’t for the pupils, which were small and unremarkable, he would have been left with the distinct impression that he had been being watched by a cat. The intensity and air of silent condescension were strangely feline.
Finally dragging his eyes away from the pair that still refused to blink, he carried on approaching the bar, usual swagger slightly lacking. As his gaze swept over the bartender, this swagger vanished completely. Fuck. Pale skin stretched over high-cheekbones. Thin but well-shaped lips. Dark hair that reflected the dim lights like an oil-slick. Cleaning a glass aggressively with long fingers, the bartender finally blinked. Thick lashes brushed against porcelain cheeks before the eyes focussed once again.
Reaching the bar at last, the receiver of the gaze swallowed past the surprised lump in his throat and hitched his full lips into one of his most winning smiles. It was one thing to have someone giving him death-glares for no apparent reason. It was another thing entirely when the person glaring was this hot.
“Hey,” he said easily. “Busy night, isn’t it?”
His accent was one of the British ones that is hard to place, fairly well-spoken without being pretentious, the sort of accent that is easy on the ears and inspires instant trust. Usually. The bartender was apparently immune and simply placed the glass he had been cleaning down. He licked his lips as if to speak but said nothing, indicating with a slight tilt of his head that the customer might always be right but that the customer was not deserving of an answer.
“I bet you’re having a hard night,” he continued, leaning his toned stomach against the bar, elbows on the mahogany surface. Ignoring the remark although undoubtedly aware that he hadn’t moved all night while his colleagues rushed around, the bartender finally spoke.
“Are you gonna order or what?”
“American?” A raised eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“Not really.”
“Which state?”
“The one that has fuck all to do with my job. Hurry up and order, hotshot, or stop wasting my time.”
From the speed and inflection of his words, it was probably a city accent. What was an American city-boy doing working in a back alley London pub? Whatever he said, this was more interesting than anyone else he had approached all evening. Deciding to humour the man for now, he ordered a gin and tonic and watched as the bartender fixed the drink with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. A blind man with arthritis could have done it more quickly. However, this didn’t annoy him as much as it should have. In fact, it gave him an opportunity.
“The name’s Phoenix.”
The bartender almost dropped the drink as he snorted with laughter.
“Nice,” he murmured with a slight smile. He slid the glass across the bar. By the time Phoenix had picked up the glass, the smile had gone.
“My mother has no taste in names,” he continued, holding the glass against his lips. “I was the luckiest sibling, believe it or not.”
“I don’t care enough to believe it or not,” came the swift reply.
“Your name?”
Silence. He had expected as much.
“If you’re going to spend the rest of the night staring at me, it’d only be polite to give me something to call you.”
“And why would I be staring at you?”
Phoenix blinked.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“You’re too bright. My eyes would burn if I tried to stare at you for too long.”
“Then you’re in trouble already, aren’t you? You’ve been watching me since I came in.”
A long silence punctuated only by the bartender picking up another glass and beginning to wipe at it angrily. He finally lowered his eyes. The moment spun out between them, Phoenix’s smile slowly widening.
“Don’t deny it,” he murmured in a sing-song voice. “I don’t blame you.”
“Arrogant prick,” the bartender muttered before turning away to place the glass back on a shelf.
“So you’re name is...”
“Blake.” Still refusing to meet Phoenix’s eyes, the dark haired man began cleaning another glass. “And you have no right to tell me it’s stupid, with a name like yours.”
“It is quite stupid though.”
“Yeah. Not my choice.”
Laughing a little at the redundant comment, Phoenix finally took a sip of his drink. He hopped up onto a barstool and, ignoring the irritated sigh from Blake, grinned at the man.
“So what has you so pissed off at me? Did I forget to wipe my shoes or something?”
Choosing this as a good time to remember he had a job to do, Blake turned to a customer who had been hanging hopefully over the bar for a while and efficiently fixed their drink. He was polite, if less than enthusiastic, and Phoenix realised there really must be a reason why he was being treated so badly. It was definitely personal. Too bright, he had said. Was it his looks alone? It wouldn’t be the first time. Catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, he supposed it was a possibility.
Seeing Phoenix for the first time, people often assumed he was a failed movie-star or a porn-star in disguise. His skin was smooth and naturally tan, his build muscular without being truly athletic and his style some strange mix between formal and alternative. Today, he wore a black waistcoat over a white shirt which was fairly normal, albeit with a red ribbon tied around his neck like a choker. This alone wouldn’t be enough to warrant hate but his most distinctive features might do the trick. His hair was a bright red, not auburn or brown but a burning scarlet like the evening sun glowing through the autumn leaves. His eyes appeared a rich brown at first glance but upon proper examination would prove themselves to be crimson, their intensity varying constantly.
Phoenix started to feel worry eating away at his considerable ego. Had Blake noticed? Most people didn’t or didn’t want to question him. Then again, with amber eyes like that, maybe the bartender had something to hide. Maybe the glaring had more to do with anxiety over his own identity than any aspect of Phoenix’s.
“Need to go powder your nose or something, hotshot?”
Or then again, maybe not.
“Would you tell me why you’ve been watching me if I did?”
“Persistent asshole,” Blake hissed, eyes seeming to burn in their intensity now. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I have no idea what you’re thinking,” Phoenix admitted, finishing his drink far too quickly. “Which is unusual. Did I approach your girlfriend or something earlier? The third one, the brunette, she said she was taken. Is she yours?”
“Hell no,” he replied instantly. “I’m not that sort of guy.”
“The sort who gets jealous or the sort that has a girlfriend?”
After a long, angry stare Blake turned away and began walking along the bar muttering “give me a break.”
“Hey, you don’t have to leave,” Phoenix said quickly, jumping to his feet and trying to keep pace with the other man. They reached the exit to the bar and he stood in the way with a sincere expression. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop giving you a hard time.”
“Chill out dude,” Blake said with a bemused expression. “I’m going to collect glasses. That okay with you?”
“Oh.” Phoenix stepped to the side with a sheepish smile wondering when he had become so emotional over people he didn’t know. “Right.”
“Anyway, you wouldn’t,” Blake said, passing the redhead.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Stop giving me a hard time. Would you?”
Phoenix grinned and slipped back onto his bar stool. “Not in a million years.”
An hour later, Phoenix was running out of money and Blake was running out of excuses to stay away from the redhead who sat waiting at the bar every time he left on some work-related errand. From their brief snatches of conversation, Phoenix had learnt that Blake worked here every night, thought gin was the drink of the devil and didn’t really seem to like anyone or anything. In turn, Blake had learnt that Phoenix could turn almost any passing comment into a chat-up line, had visited a different bar every night for three weeks and would chase after anything pretty, male or female, although not usually for very long.
“When do you finish work?” the redhead asked, still speaking clearly in defiance of the glasses littering the bar in front of him, which Blake had refused to collect.
“Shouldn’t you be going home by now?” the bartender snapped, fragile patience near breaking point. “It’s almost two in the morning. Aren’t there people you should be fucking right now?”
Dismissing the insult with a wave of one hand, Phoenix leant forward, almost knocking a few glasses across the bar.
“There’s no one waiting for me,” he said simply. His eyes, before an indefinable shade, were by now most definitely crimson in colour. “I think it’s better that I’m here, don’t you?”
“No. It’s been fucking hard to get anything done with you sitting there staring at me the whole time.”
“Well, now you know how it feels.”
Phoenix grinned in triumph as Blake’s amber eyes, now seeming to glow dimly in the gloom, snapped up to meet his own.
“Is that what this is all about? Jesus Christ, I was starting to think you weren’t so stupid but I guess I was wrong.”
“I just want to know,” Phoenix insisted, contriving to lean further across the bar. “Then I’ll leave.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, if you tell me that you were staring because you were interested then I guess I wouldn’t have a reason to leave, would I?”
Blake turned and began stacking glasses angrily. The pub was almost empty now, the only other customers being a group of students in one corner and an old man sitting by himself at the other end of the bar. The poor man was so far removed from reality that he usually sat that way until forcibly ejected. Usually, this irritated Blake to no end but since it meant that the man had ignored the exchanges occurring just down from him it seemed a blessing this time.
“Well?” Phoenix’s enthusiasm was undaunted by the pause.
“Well what?”
“Are you? Interested, I mean.”
“Just drop it dude, seriously.” Blake finally turned back to the redhead, expression weary. “It’s getting old. Phoenix, that was your name right? Just go home.”
“Not by myself.” It was spoken casually, tone almost playful, but something about Phoenix’s expression suggested this meant a lot more than he pretended. Blake noticed this but chose to ignore it.
“Then look somewhere else, okay?”
“Where?” Phoenix gestured toward the students sitting in the corner, the movement triggering a fluttering of teenage hand to hair and makeup. “There?” He turned to stare at the group. The guys were nothing special and the girls were average at best. Surveying them with a clinical air, Phoenix locked eyes with a small blonde. She squeaked and dropped her glass. The smash resounded in the almost empty building, almost lost in the peals of laughter from her friends.
By the time Phoenix had risen to his feet, Blake had already crossed the room and was crouching by the group, gathering the shards of glass back into the remains of the whole. The girls’ eyes flickered over the barman as he worked oblivious at their feet and Phoenix almost laughed. So, he wasn’t just desperate, after all. Blake was not an average looking guy, that was for sure. He slipped off of his stool and hurried over to the group, invading Blake’s personal space with lightning-fast subtlety.
“Here, let me help.”
He reached out as Blake clambered back to his feet and turned, holding the glass carefully before him. The mountain of shards and chunks caught the light like unrefined diamonds. The side that had smashed faced outwards, a jagged edge that slashed upwards through the air.
Having not been anticipating Phoenix standing so close behind him, Blake took a half-step forward, pushing this edge against the outstretched helping hand.
With a hiss of pain, Phoenix withdrew his hand quickly but not fast enough. Blake parted his lips to apologise but froze, eyes wide and fixed on the wound. Blood welled up along a seam that ended at the base of Phoenix’s little finger. Something in the air changed.
Phoenix always knew when he was being watched. Without looking, he could tell whether the person watching him was interested in his body or his charm, in a fling or in something more serious, if the person was confident in their ability to seduce or terrified that they were inept. He was a connoisseur of all manner of stares and knew how to manipulate them to achieve his own ends. But this was different. This wasn’t a glance of interest, not even one of desire.
As Blake gaped wordlessly at the blood now running down to disappear beneath the cuff of Phoenix’s white shirt, the redhead could only think of one word to describe the quality of this stare.
Craving.
He didn’t understand the reaction but any change from the hostility of before was a good one. He raised his hand to his lips in experiment, satisfied to see Blake follow the movement as if unable to look away. Behind them, the students watched with curious expressions, one of the girls having to look away, cheeks burning, as Phoenix licked the blood away from his skin. She gave a nervous giggle, the sound
snapping Blake out of his reverie.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he muttered, sweeping past Phoenix and back towards the bar, broken glass held out in front of him like a weapon on standby. The redhead followed him as though drawn on invisible strings, tracking him to the end of the bar as he ducked back to his work station and then mirroring his movements as he paced the length. The pain in Phoenix’s hand was barely noticeable now. He watched as Blake set the glass down on a low shelf, carefully turning the edge that still carried traces of Phoenix’s blood towards the back. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through the man.
“You want me, don’t you?”
Spinning around with wild eyes, Blake threw his hands into the air. “How can you be so fucking arrogant?” he shouted.
“Practice,” Phoenix replied smoothly, leaning heavily on the strip of mahogany that separated him from the other man. Draping his arms across so that his hands hung in the air only inches from the bartender, the redhead licked his lips before continuing. “But that’s not the point. You do, don’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blake managed through gritted teeth. “Now are you done? Only I have to tidy up.”
“No, I’m not done.” The bar creaked as he leant his weight on it fully, reaching upwards to brush warm fingertips across Blake’s cheek. The skin was as smooth as he had imagined but so much colder than he had expected. “That was why you couldn’t take your eyes off me earlier, isn’t it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, just-“
The students in the corner cried out as Blake’s fist connected with Phoenix’s jaw, the force of the blow sending him falling back away from the bar and landing in a tangle of chair legs and ribbon as his makeshift choker came undone. There was a long, tense moment of silence before the redhead pulled himself back to his feet, pulling down another chair with a clatter in the process. He touched his cheek with hesitant fingers, finding the skin hot and tender. It was going to bruise. The coppery taste of blood seeped against his tongue and he knew his teeth had split the skin of his cheek. For a moment, he looked angry. The moment passed.
“Wow,” he said with a half-smile, still holding the injured cheek. He took a cautious step back towards the bar. “You’re not cute at all, are you?”
There was another cry from the students as Blake vaulted the bar with apparent ease, the movement both efficient and melodramatic. Phoenix just had time to step back before fists were flying in his direction, accompanied by elbows and even knees. If it hadn’t been for his teenage years filled with bar brawls, Phoenix would have been in trouble. As it was, he managed to block a large percentage of the blows although everything soon began to hurt. Blake was a good three inches shorter than Phoenix but each punch made up for lack of technique with strength. The bartender was apparently a tightly wound package of energy and rage, with Phoenix having just found a way to undo the frayed string that held it together.
The redhead tripped over a chair leg and went sprawling face-first on top of a table. He rolled out of the way and just avoided being smashed in the head with the stool he had knocked over earlier. The wood splintered against the table before being discarded as Blake pursued Phoenix over to where he was backing up against an ancient jukebox, long broken. As the redhead raised his hands before him, a feeble attempt to stop the onslaught, he couldn’t help feeling the all too familiar electric pulsing in his nerves. As violent and angry as this was, it was sexy. It was rare he met someone as persistent as himself. Whether the motivation was seductive or violent, it was still intoxicating.
Blake drew back a fist, previously incensed expression having turned into a calm mask of determination. His tawny eyes were fixed on Phoenix’s unharmed cheek and the redhead could too easily imagine the calculations going on in his head. He didn’t mind, not really. He did deserve it. But this didn’t mean he had changed his mind about anything at all.
The advantage of being driven by lust rather than rage meant that he still had the ability to manipulate the situation.
Smirking, Phoenix caught Blake’s wrist as the fist descended towards his face and pulled backwards, arm slamming back into the jukebox behind him. Caught off balance, the bartender fell against the redhead with a cry of surprise which was quickly smothered as a hand was woven into his hair and his lips claimed in a kiss that was far more gentle than the situation required. There was a burst of music, a cheesy 80s love song, as the impact jolted the jukebox into temporary life.
There was just enough time for Phoenix to register that the bartender tasted of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper alcohol before Blake wrenched himself away. He would deny it to the ends of the earth no doubt but Phoenix could tell the other man’s heart was racing; he could feel it even across the distance. The jukebox squealed and faltered, slowly lapsing back into sleep.
“I wonder if they’re involved?” A frightened whisper from the other side of the room.
“One hell of a relationship they have, then.”
The female students were watching them with wide eyes and Phoenix smiled sheepishly at them.
“I wonder if we should call the police...”
Walking back towards the bar, having to kick his way through a mess of wood and glasses, Blake refused to meet anyone’s eye.
“What the hell is going on?” An angry looking man, all stubble and greasy hair, stood behind the bar. “What did you do to the jukebox? And my pub?”
Eyes still lowered, Blake cleared his throat but said nothing, standing like a schoolboy called out for misbehaviour. He waited for the redhead to make some suave remark that would get him off the hook and leave Blake with the blame but no response came from behind him. After a silent moment, the owner of the pub sighed.
“Blake? You there? It’s only polite to explain why you trashed my property. Again.”
Blake spun around to face the jukebox. That side of the room was empty. His catlike eyes swept back and forth frantically but the bastard had definitely managed to sneak out. The red ribbon still lying on the floor was the only testament to his existence. Blake glanced at the students to find them all looking towards the front door as if waiting for someone to come in. Phoenix must have left that way for them to be so interested.
“There was a man,” Blake said uncertainly, turning back to his boss. “Causing trouble.”
“A man?” An incredulous raise of his eyebrows signalled his disbelief. “Of course there was, B. Just like the last time you let loose and started smashing things. What have you been drinking this time, you idiot? I told you last time that-“
“I’m stone cold fucking sober, Terry,” Blake insisted, stepping forward and narrowly avoiding tripping over an upturned chair. “There was this dude. He came in and started-“
“Save it, mate,” Terry said with a wave of his hand. “I can’t be arsed to listen right now. Just clear this mess up and get Mr Moseby up, will you? We’ll talk about your pay tomorrow.”
Grumbling under his breath, Blake set about tidying up. It didn’t take as long as he expected although he needed two black sacks to bag all the broken glasses, ashtrays and stools. Once these had been lugged out to the backroom, he approached the jukebox with angry eyes.
The damn thing looked as if it was about to start leaking smoke or sparking at any moment and there was a large dent in the casing where Blake’s hand had been pulled in. His eyes widened as he looked and he traced a finger over the dent. His skin came back red. Blood from Phoenix’s cut had transferred itself to the machine.
His eyes fluttered shut. Blake had raised his finger halfway to his lips before movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. He dropped his hand with a guilty expression and directed his glare towards the student standing nearby.
“What are you doing?” he asked, aware he had no grounds on which to question her. In her hands, the blonde held the red ribbon. Her blue eyes widened in fear as he approached her.
“I was just...”
“I’ll take that, thanks,” he snapped, snatching the ribbon out of her hands and shoving it into the pocket of his black jeans. If anyone has asked why he was taking it, he would have told them he was just tidying up even though he knew that was a bad lie. In truth, the last piece of evidence that pointed towards what had just happened needed to be cleaned away. If some girl waltzed off holding the ribbon, he’d never be able to forget that a group of kids had been witness to what was essentially the raping of his dignity, not to mention his lips.
Shooting him a confused glance, the girl headed back to her group which were waiting at the doorway. Once they had left, the door shutting with a dull thud behind them, Blake was left alone with Terry and the ancient Mr Moseby who still sat at the end of the bar, clutching his long empty glass of whisky with withered hands.
Blake sighed, running one hand through his already tousled hair. He took a deep breath and held it for a count of four before letting it hiss between his lips. Once he felt sufficiently calm and could ignore the pangs of pain that still pulsed through his pride, he approached the old man. If anything could be guaranteed to change this stupid evening back into the painfully mundane, Mr Moseby was a good bet.
“C’mon Mr Moseby,” he said wearily. “It’s that time again. Let’s get your coat on.”
“Oh?” The old man peered at Blake through rheumy eyes, finally releasing his glass with an audible sucking sound. “Who are you, then? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m here every night, sir. Blake?” he said, picking up the man’s coat for him and holding the arms out. As the man slipped in awkwardly his face lit up with recognition.
“William!” he cried triumphantly. Blake was sure he could hear Terry snickering from behind the bar. “I’m sorry, you must have dyed your hair.”
“No,sir, I’m not William. I’m Blake. Just Blake, okay?”
“Whatever you say, William,” the old man answered happily, sliding off his stool and starting to shuffle towards the door. Blake continued to argue the point as gently as possible until Mr Moseby was merrily weaving his way down the street outside. Blake paused in the doorway for a moment, letting the cold night air soothe his heated skin.
The street outside was empty and dark. The streetlight had broken again meaning that the alleyway that ran alongside the building and a small portion of the street outside were wreathed in shadows. A tiny breeze blew a few strands of Blake’s dark hair into his eyes and he withdrew back inside.
“I’m off, Terry,” he called, not seeing the boss and not caring if he heard. “See you tomorrow night.”
He retrieved his jacket from the backroom, a torn leather affair, and slipped it on over his equally black shirt. The only colour on his person was the dim yellow of his eyes and the red still staining his fingertip where he had failed to wipe it properly. Finally alone, he licked at the digit until it was clean, being reminded inevitably of the way Phoenix had cleaned his wound from the broken glass.
Phoenix. Honestly. What sort of a name was that? That guy was a porn-star or something, no doubt, maybe a rent-boy down on his luck. He’d have to be pretty desperate to hit on someone like Blake, after all, someone who was vociferously not interested and violent to boot. Yes, the whole incident could be dismissed as the work of one of the few people worse off in this city than Blake himself. It would be easier to forget if the bastard hadn’t managed to steal a kiss from him.
Mentally kicking himself for being manipulated, Blake pushed open the door and slipped out onto the moonlit street.
Whatever, he assured himself, the idiot’s gone now so it’s nothing to worry about.
He pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket in celebration and began walking away, following in the steps of the old man who could still be seen in the distance. He was reaching for a lighter when a hand shot out of the pitch-black alleyway and tugged on his collar. With a cry of surprise that sent the unlit cigarette tumbling to the ground, Blake was pulled into the shadows.
“Miss me?” a voice breathed into his ear before strong hands pushed him back against the alley wall. Stumbling on the mess of old crates and newspapers stacked in this space, Blake fell heavily against the bricks. The hand holding tightly onto his collar let go and pressed itself against the wall next to his head. The other gripped onto his shoulder, holding him in place. A warm body was next hovering over his own although not quite touching, one knee pressing against his leg. He could see nothing and silently willed his eyes to adjust so that he could aim at something to hit.
“Why the hell are you still here?” Blake hissed, not wanting to shout lest he should attract Terry’s attention. It was bad enough that this was happening at all even without an audience. He twisted his head to the side to avoid a kiss he felt approaching rather than saw. The lips pressed against his cheek instead.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Phoenix whispered against his skin. “I’m not going home alone tonight.”
“I said, it’s not my-“
“And I think you want to be the one I take with me.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re still-“
“You’re not trying to get away though, are you?”
Silence. In the darkness, Phoenix smirked.
“You’re much stronger than me. I saw that earlier. If you really wanted to leave, all you’d have to do is push me away.”
Too late, Blake started to resist but was stopped by the lips pressing against the juncture between his head and neck. No matter how much of a bastard Phoenix was, the redhead obviously knew what he was doing. Words died on Blake’s lips and he pressed his palms against Phoenix’s chest, unable to make the connection in his mind that told him pushing back was the next step to being free. Instead, his fingers curled into the redhead’s shirt.
“Stop this,” he mumbled, pushing himself back against the cold wall as if he wanted it to swallow him.
“Why?” Phoenix asked, trailing his lips to the corner of Blake’s mouth in an effort to get the bartender to willingly turn his head.
“I’m not into guys,” he protested, his next sentence morphing into an incoherent murmur as Phoenix tasted the corner of his lips with a warm tongue. He turned into that touch despite himself, feeling something primal pulling on his nerves. His lips met the redhead’s in a kiss more passionate than the one against the jukebox and he found himself parting his lips so willingly it made him ill. Perpetually set on doing exactly what Blake didn’t want him to do, Phoenix suddenly broke the kiss. When he spoke next, his voice was low and husky, nothing like the suave tones from inside the bar.
“You don’t need to be into guys to be into me.”
Blake laughed, a sharp bark of laughter that ripped its way from his throat.
“I never thought someone could be this arrogant.”
“It’s true.” Catching Blake’s lips in a kiss that he was all too eager to return, Phoenix released his grip on the bartender’s shoulder and raked it through his dark hair. “The whole idea of being ‘into’ this and that is ridiculous, anyway,” the redhead continued, speaking against Blake’s lips. “What matters is what feels good and what doesn’t. Does this not feel good, Blake?”
The bartender shivered and bit his lip as Phoenix lowered his head and sank his teeth into the skin of Blake’s neck.
“Stop it already,” he whispered, eyes that he hadn’t realised were shut slamming open. Phoenix had reminded him powerfully of an even better reason for him to be leaving. His eyes were now adjusting to the darkness and he realised Phoenix wasn’t wearing a jacket, even in this cold.
“Do you have any other excuses?” he asked, keeping his lips against Blake’s skin. He pressed his weight against the smaller man who started pushing back with earnest now, unwilling to truly fight in case it brought someone running. Besides, he didn’t feel angry anymore. It was fear that was coursing through him with every frantic beat of his heart.
“Yeah. I have another one.” He managed to push Phoenix just far enough away to look the redhead in the eyes. “You have no fucking clue what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he replied smoothly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“No, I mean it. Get off of me, already. I don’t want to-“
“Denial is a terrible thing.” Lips trailing over his skin, a hand sliding up beneath the hem of his shirt.
“It’s not that, it’s-“ A feeble push against strong muscles as his nerves burned.
“Just relax.” Nails raking against his skin, now.
“For fuck’s sake, let go.” Pulling the man closer, muscles obeying the inner voice rather than the one that screamed at him to run before he did something really stupid.
“Make me.”
Phoenix was breathless, now, and gave up on speaking as Blake leant forward and ran his tongue over the redhead’s bottom lip. With a small noise of triumph, Phoenix cupped the bartender’s cheeks with warm fingers. The kiss was searing, all lips and teeth and Phoenix could taste his own blood on his tongue from the injury earlier. This didn’t seem to deter Blake. His kisses became more desperate, his hands grasping tightly onto Phoenix’s shirt. As the lips trails from his own down to his neck, Phoenix tilted his head back and silently praised himself. He knew his was good but-
“Fucking hell!”
Pain, hot and biting, ripped through his neck and the surrounding area. Phoenix wrenched himself away from Blake and fell against the opposite alley wall. He raised a hand to his neck and his fingers came back wet, the blood black in the moonlight. His hand shook involuntarily and he raised frightened eyes to the other man, breathing still ragged but heart pounding much faster than before.
Blake leant against the wall where he had been left, arms hanging limply at his sides. Blood made a black smear around his lips, one drop trailing down his chin like oil. His head tilted back against the bricks and a bitter laugh bubbled up from his throat.
“I told you,” he said, voice clearer than it had been before. “But you didn’t listen, did you, hotshot?”
As Phoenix watched, his raised pale fingers to the blood around his lips and began cleaning it off, transferring it into his fingers before licking it away. If it hadn’t been his own blood, Phoenix would have found the image almost painfully sensual.
“What did you...”
“Doesn’t take a genius to work that out.”
“Then...what...”
“What am I?” Blake asked for him, lips curling into a smile void of humour. “Don’t worry, I’ve been asked much worse.”
He spun slowly until he was facing the wall, supporting himself with his elbows, his hands curled into fists. No longer able to see his expression, Phoenix couldn’t be sure but his next words sounded more sad than angry.
“Work it out. It’s not fucking difficult.”
Phoenix touched his fingers to the wound again, flinching as the torn skin was moved. It felt like a bite from a dog, almost, with a row of rough but sharp incisions from strong teeth. Only one row, though. Below it simply felt as if he had been bitten by an over-zealous lover who was choosing to ignore the safety word.
Glancing at Blake again, Phoenix’s expression sobered from one of fear to one of disbelief. He had heard rumours from the shadier clubs he’d visit, rumours that sounded sexy until you really considered the possibility of it being true. The media and fiction posed it as something sexy, that was certain, something safe enough to be the risky part of a teen drama but not dangerous enough to frighten you.
He remembered Blake’s eyes, their dim amber reflecting the light in strange ways.
The bartender had felt different, from the very start. Usually, Phoenix would feel a pull from anyone nearby as they mentally imagined being with him, however much they denied it. With Blake, he felt a push, an angry sort of passion that refused to submit without a fight. Phoenix’s charms were almost useless here it seemed and he had to use actions to get a result.
He remembered the way Blake had frozen as he licked the blood from his hand, the way his kisses had become hotter when his mouth began bleeding.
The man still leant against the wall, hair hanging down and obscuring his face. Still leaning against the opposite one, Phoenix licked his suddenly dry lips before speaking.
“Don’t tell me you’re a vam-“
“Hell, don’t say the fucking word,” Blake interrupted without moving. “You’ve already kissed me in public and had me pushed up against a wall, at least leave me some of my dignity.”
“But you are, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” The word was breathed against the cold bricks and Phoenix began edging forwards.
“Jesus. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Yeah well, you shouldn’t be so surprised, should you? Seeing as you’re not exactly normal either.”
Phoenix stopped approaching, eyes widening once more.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for start, it’d take someone not playing fair to get me all shaky over a smarmy hotshot asshole.”
“Bullshit.”
Blake sighed before answering this time, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can taste it. Don’t ask me how because I’m not gonna try and explain. What the hell are you?”
Phoenix crept forward, lips twisting back into a smirk. Not being able to see him, Blake didn’t realise the redhead’s intentions until their bodies were pressed flush together. Lips trailed against Blake’s ear for a moment and he could feel warm breath on his cheek.
“How about I explain all of that somewhere warmer?” he murmured.
Blake laughed. “Have you not been listening? I could tear your fucking throat out. Just drop it already. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just let me go.”
“You need blood, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Do you have to kill someone?”
“No.”
Phoenix grabbed Blake bodily and spun him around until they were back in their previous position. Blake’s eyes slammed open, their irises now burning silver in the night.
“Use me.”
The command was so quiet that Blake would have thought he had imagined it if it weren’t for the utterly wicked smile he was wearing and the seriousness of his eyes.
“What?”
There was a loud slam and the metallic scraping of a key in a lock. Both men’s eyes turned towards the mouth of the alleyway. Terry’s voice could be heard drifting through the night, muttering to himself about damages and repairs. Catching Phoenix’s eye, the bartender expected him to call out. The blood still ran freely from his shoulder and the pain would be bad, even now. Instead, a finger was pressed against his lips
“Why are you-“
“Shut up,” Phoenix whispered and pressed his own lips against his finger, further stopping Blake from speaking. His eyes remained open, watching Blake’s silvery orbs intently. Blake stared back, expression unreadable.
A mix of mumbling and jangling keys passed the mouth of the alleyway as Terry left the premises. His footsteps echoed through the empty streets. Once they finally faded away, Phoenix let his hand drop, pressing his lips fully against Blake’s.
“Use me,” he repeated quietly. “We’re partners in crime now. We have a secret and I have one of yours. If you want to learn one of mine, all you have to do is come with me.”
“But...”
“I said it before, didn’t I? If it feels good, that’s all that matters. And this,” he laid one hand over the wound on his shoulder, “doesn’t feel bad. I bet you usually run once people work out what you are, right?”
Blake nodded, not trusting himself to say anything that couldn’t be manipulated.
“I’m not going to let you do that. And I’m not going anywhere. So, use me, Blake. I’m not offering a favour, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He leant forward until he was whispering directly into Blake’s ear, feeling the man shiver against him.
“I’m fully intending on using you too.”
Blake spoke without meaning to, but once he had started it was too late to go back. He was just hungry, that was all. He hadn’t so much as tasted blood for weeks. It had nothing to do with Phoenix. It could have been anyone.
“Fine. How far?”
Anyway, some people from the wonderful world of Lavaliere expressed interest in reading this so I am going to post it in sections. If you guys have an LJ please comment here! If not, comment on the VF journal I linked this into. Please? Comments will spur me into writing more and I'm only posting since a few people were interested. Much love shall be sent your way!
Anyway, onwards. No explanation necessary as this is the start-start. Ehem. Oh, RP people,I've been told my prose-style is different from my rp one. I don't see it but tell me if you do! I think I might name each section after a random object associated with it...let's see how that goes.
The bartender was watching him.
He was used to it, being blessed with the ability to walk into a room and give most people strained necks as they turned to follow him move. A half-smile had sometimes been enough to cause girls to drop their drinks and men to stop talking to their girlfriends mid-sentence. Those unfortunate enough to catch his eye would find themselves swept away by ordinary words spoken in a honey-tongue and they would only start believing they’d gone home with him by the time they were leaving alone the next morning. Feeling people watching him was as natural as breathing and it was only when their lustful gazes stopped running mental fingers through his hair that he started to feel uncomfortable.
But this was different. He could feel this gaze far more strongly than all the others. It cut through the warm background haze of interest like a cold knife. No matter where he moved, no matter who he spoke to, the same level of malice was being directed his way.
Dismissing the blonde he had been sweet-talking with a few kind words that she wouldn’t realise she should be upset about until she was outside, he placed his glass down with a decisive click. As refreshing as the unwarranted anger was, it was cramping his style. He wasn’t going home alone tonight and it was too late to try another bar. The problem needed dealing with. He drained his glass and stood up in one fluid movement, waiting until he had crossed half of the room before glancing up.
He looked straight into the patient eyes of the bartender. Having not properly appraised the man before, he hadn’t been sure what to expect and caught his breath despite himself. The eyes that had been tracking his every move like a starving hawk for the last two hours were of a dark amber, the iris circled with a thick line of black. If it weren’t for the pupils, which were small and unremarkable, he would have been left with the distinct impression that he had been being watched by a cat. The intensity and air of silent condescension were strangely feline.
Finally dragging his eyes away from the pair that still refused to blink, he carried on approaching the bar, usual swagger slightly lacking. As his gaze swept over the bartender, this swagger vanished completely. Fuck. Pale skin stretched over high-cheekbones. Thin but well-shaped lips. Dark hair that reflected the dim lights like an oil-slick. Cleaning a glass aggressively with long fingers, the bartender finally blinked. Thick lashes brushed against porcelain cheeks before the eyes focussed once again.
Reaching the bar at last, the receiver of the gaze swallowed past the surprised lump in his throat and hitched his full lips into one of his most winning smiles. It was one thing to have someone giving him death-glares for no apparent reason. It was another thing entirely when the person glaring was this hot.
“Hey,” he said easily. “Busy night, isn’t it?”
His accent was one of the British ones that is hard to place, fairly well-spoken without being pretentious, the sort of accent that is easy on the ears and inspires instant trust. Usually. The bartender was apparently immune and simply placed the glass he had been cleaning down. He licked his lips as if to speak but said nothing, indicating with a slight tilt of his head that the customer might always be right but that the customer was not deserving of an answer.
“I bet you’re having a hard night,” he continued, leaning his toned stomach against the bar, elbows on the mahogany surface. Ignoring the remark although undoubtedly aware that he hadn’t moved all night while his colleagues rushed around, the bartender finally spoke.
“Are you gonna order or what?”
“American?” A raised eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“Not really.”
“Which state?”
“The one that has fuck all to do with my job. Hurry up and order, hotshot, or stop wasting my time.”
From the speed and inflection of his words, it was probably a city accent. What was an American city-boy doing working in a back alley London pub? Whatever he said, this was more interesting than anyone else he had approached all evening. Deciding to humour the man for now, he ordered a gin and tonic and watched as the bartender fixed the drink with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. A blind man with arthritis could have done it more quickly. However, this didn’t annoy him as much as it should have. In fact, it gave him an opportunity.
“The name’s Phoenix.”
The bartender almost dropped the drink as he snorted with laughter.
“Nice,” he murmured with a slight smile. He slid the glass across the bar. By the time Phoenix had picked up the glass, the smile had gone.
“My mother has no taste in names,” he continued, holding the glass against his lips. “I was the luckiest sibling, believe it or not.”
“I don’t care enough to believe it or not,” came the swift reply.
“Your name?”
Silence. He had expected as much.
“If you’re going to spend the rest of the night staring at me, it’d only be polite to give me something to call you.”
“And why would I be staring at you?”
Phoenix blinked.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“You’re too bright. My eyes would burn if I tried to stare at you for too long.”
“Then you’re in trouble already, aren’t you? You’ve been watching me since I came in.”
A long silence punctuated only by the bartender picking up another glass and beginning to wipe at it angrily. He finally lowered his eyes. The moment spun out between them, Phoenix’s smile slowly widening.
“Don’t deny it,” he murmured in a sing-song voice. “I don’t blame you.”
“Arrogant prick,” the bartender muttered before turning away to place the glass back on a shelf.
“So you’re name is...”
“Blake.” Still refusing to meet Phoenix’s eyes, the dark haired man began cleaning another glass. “And you have no right to tell me it’s stupid, with a name like yours.”
“It is quite stupid though.”
“Yeah. Not my choice.”
Laughing a little at the redundant comment, Phoenix finally took a sip of his drink. He hopped up onto a barstool and, ignoring the irritated sigh from Blake, grinned at the man.
“So what has you so pissed off at me? Did I forget to wipe my shoes or something?”
Choosing this as a good time to remember he had a job to do, Blake turned to a customer who had been hanging hopefully over the bar for a while and efficiently fixed their drink. He was polite, if less than enthusiastic, and Phoenix realised there really must be a reason why he was being treated so badly. It was definitely personal. Too bright, he had said. Was it his looks alone? It wouldn’t be the first time. Catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, he supposed it was a possibility.
Seeing Phoenix for the first time, people often assumed he was a failed movie-star or a porn-star in disguise. His skin was smooth and naturally tan, his build muscular without being truly athletic and his style some strange mix between formal and alternative. Today, he wore a black waistcoat over a white shirt which was fairly normal, albeit with a red ribbon tied around his neck like a choker. This alone wouldn’t be enough to warrant hate but his most distinctive features might do the trick. His hair was a bright red, not auburn or brown but a burning scarlet like the evening sun glowing through the autumn leaves. His eyes appeared a rich brown at first glance but upon proper examination would prove themselves to be crimson, their intensity varying constantly.
Phoenix started to feel worry eating away at his considerable ego. Had Blake noticed? Most people didn’t or didn’t want to question him. Then again, with amber eyes like that, maybe the bartender had something to hide. Maybe the glaring had more to do with anxiety over his own identity than any aspect of Phoenix’s.
“Need to go powder your nose or something, hotshot?”
Or then again, maybe not.
“Would you tell me why you’ve been watching me if I did?”
“Persistent asshole,” Blake hissed, eyes seeming to burn in their intensity now. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I have no idea what you’re thinking,” Phoenix admitted, finishing his drink far too quickly. “Which is unusual. Did I approach your girlfriend or something earlier? The third one, the brunette, she said she was taken. Is she yours?”
“Hell no,” he replied instantly. “I’m not that sort of guy.”
“The sort who gets jealous or the sort that has a girlfriend?”
After a long, angry stare Blake turned away and began walking along the bar muttering “give me a break.”
“Hey, you don’t have to leave,” Phoenix said quickly, jumping to his feet and trying to keep pace with the other man. They reached the exit to the bar and he stood in the way with a sincere expression. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop giving you a hard time.”
“Chill out dude,” Blake said with a bemused expression. “I’m going to collect glasses. That okay with you?”
“Oh.” Phoenix stepped to the side with a sheepish smile wondering when he had become so emotional over people he didn’t know. “Right.”
“Anyway, you wouldn’t,” Blake said, passing the redhead.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Stop giving me a hard time. Would you?”
Phoenix grinned and slipped back onto his bar stool. “Not in a million years.”
An hour later, Phoenix was running out of money and Blake was running out of excuses to stay away from the redhead who sat waiting at the bar every time he left on some work-related errand. From their brief snatches of conversation, Phoenix had learnt that Blake worked here every night, thought gin was the drink of the devil and didn’t really seem to like anyone or anything. In turn, Blake had learnt that Phoenix could turn almost any passing comment into a chat-up line, had visited a different bar every night for three weeks and would chase after anything pretty, male or female, although not usually for very long.
“When do you finish work?” the redhead asked, still speaking clearly in defiance of the glasses littering the bar in front of him, which Blake had refused to collect.
“Shouldn’t you be going home by now?” the bartender snapped, fragile patience near breaking point. “It’s almost two in the morning. Aren’t there people you should be fucking right now?”
Dismissing the insult with a wave of one hand, Phoenix leant forward, almost knocking a few glasses across the bar.
“There’s no one waiting for me,” he said simply. His eyes, before an indefinable shade, were by now most definitely crimson in colour. “I think it’s better that I’m here, don’t you?”
“No. It’s been fucking hard to get anything done with you sitting there staring at me the whole time.”
“Well, now you know how it feels.”
Phoenix grinned in triumph as Blake’s amber eyes, now seeming to glow dimly in the gloom, snapped up to meet his own.
“Is that what this is all about? Jesus Christ, I was starting to think you weren’t so stupid but I guess I was wrong.”
“I just want to know,” Phoenix insisted, contriving to lean further across the bar. “Then I’ll leave.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, if you tell me that you were staring because you were interested then I guess I wouldn’t have a reason to leave, would I?”
Blake turned and began stacking glasses angrily. The pub was almost empty now, the only other customers being a group of students in one corner and an old man sitting by himself at the other end of the bar. The poor man was so far removed from reality that he usually sat that way until forcibly ejected. Usually, this irritated Blake to no end but since it meant that the man had ignored the exchanges occurring just down from him it seemed a blessing this time.
“Well?” Phoenix’s enthusiasm was undaunted by the pause.
“Well what?”
“Are you? Interested, I mean.”
“Just drop it dude, seriously.” Blake finally turned back to the redhead, expression weary. “It’s getting old. Phoenix, that was your name right? Just go home.”
“Not by myself.” It was spoken casually, tone almost playful, but something about Phoenix’s expression suggested this meant a lot more than he pretended. Blake noticed this but chose to ignore it.
“Then look somewhere else, okay?”
“Where?” Phoenix gestured toward the students sitting in the corner, the movement triggering a fluttering of teenage hand to hair and makeup. “There?” He turned to stare at the group. The guys were nothing special and the girls were average at best. Surveying them with a clinical air, Phoenix locked eyes with a small blonde. She squeaked and dropped her glass. The smash resounded in the almost empty building, almost lost in the peals of laughter from her friends.
By the time Phoenix had risen to his feet, Blake had already crossed the room and was crouching by the group, gathering the shards of glass back into the remains of the whole. The girls’ eyes flickered over the barman as he worked oblivious at their feet and Phoenix almost laughed. So, he wasn’t just desperate, after all. Blake was not an average looking guy, that was for sure. He slipped off of his stool and hurried over to the group, invading Blake’s personal space with lightning-fast subtlety.
“Here, let me help.”
He reached out as Blake clambered back to his feet and turned, holding the glass carefully before him. The mountain of shards and chunks caught the light like unrefined diamonds. The side that had smashed faced outwards, a jagged edge that slashed upwards through the air.
Having not been anticipating Phoenix standing so close behind him, Blake took a half-step forward, pushing this edge against the outstretched helping hand.
With a hiss of pain, Phoenix withdrew his hand quickly but not fast enough. Blake parted his lips to apologise but froze, eyes wide and fixed on the wound. Blood welled up along a seam that ended at the base of Phoenix’s little finger. Something in the air changed.
Phoenix always knew when he was being watched. Without looking, he could tell whether the person watching him was interested in his body or his charm, in a fling or in something more serious, if the person was confident in their ability to seduce or terrified that they were inept. He was a connoisseur of all manner of stares and knew how to manipulate them to achieve his own ends. But this was different. This wasn’t a glance of interest, not even one of desire.
As Blake gaped wordlessly at the blood now running down to disappear beneath the cuff of Phoenix’s white shirt, the redhead could only think of one word to describe the quality of this stare.
Craving.
He didn’t understand the reaction but any change from the hostility of before was a good one. He raised his hand to his lips in experiment, satisfied to see Blake follow the movement as if unable to look away. Behind them, the students watched with curious expressions, one of the girls having to look away, cheeks burning, as Phoenix licked the blood away from his skin. She gave a nervous giggle, the sound
snapping Blake out of his reverie.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he muttered, sweeping past Phoenix and back towards the bar, broken glass held out in front of him like a weapon on standby. The redhead followed him as though drawn on invisible strings, tracking him to the end of the bar as he ducked back to his work station and then mirroring his movements as he paced the length. The pain in Phoenix’s hand was barely noticeable now. He watched as Blake set the glass down on a low shelf, carefully turning the edge that still carried traces of Phoenix’s blood towards the back. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through the man.
“You want me, don’t you?”
Spinning around with wild eyes, Blake threw his hands into the air. “How can you be so fucking arrogant?” he shouted.
“Practice,” Phoenix replied smoothly, leaning heavily on the strip of mahogany that separated him from the other man. Draping his arms across so that his hands hung in the air only inches from the bartender, the redhead licked his lips before continuing. “But that’s not the point. You do, don’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blake managed through gritted teeth. “Now are you done? Only I have to tidy up.”
“No, I’m not done.” The bar creaked as he leant his weight on it fully, reaching upwards to brush warm fingertips across Blake’s cheek. The skin was as smooth as he had imagined but so much colder than he had expected. “That was why you couldn’t take your eyes off me earlier, isn’t it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, just-“
The students in the corner cried out as Blake’s fist connected with Phoenix’s jaw, the force of the blow sending him falling back away from the bar and landing in a tangle of chair legs and ribbon as his makeshift choker came undone. There was a long, tense moment of silence before the redhead pulled himself back to his feet, pulling down another chair with a clatter in the process. He touched his cheek with hesitant fingers, finding the skin hot and tender. It was going to bruise. The coppery taste of blood seeped against his tongue and he knew his teeth had split the skin of his cheek. For a moment, he looked angry. The moment passed.
“Wow,” he said with a half-smile, still holding the injured cheek. He took a cautious step back towards the bar. “You’re not cute at all, are you?”
There was another cry from the students as Blake vaulted the bar with apparent ease, the movement both efficient and melodramatic. Phoenix just had time to step back before fists were flying in his direction, accompanied by elbows and even knees. If it hadn’t been for his teenage years filled with bar brawls, Phoenix would have been in trouble. As it was, he managed to block a large percentage of the blows although everything soon began to hurt. Blake was a good three inches shorter than Phoenix but each punch made up for lack of technique with strength. The bartender was apparently a tightly wound package of energy and rage, with Phoenix having just found a way to undo the frayed string that held it together.
The redhead tripped over a chair leg and went sprawling face-first on top of a table. He rolled out of the way and just avoided being smashed in the head with the stool he had knocked over earlier. The wood splintered against the table before being discarded as Blake pursued Phoenix over to where he was backing up against an ancient jukebox, long broken. As the redhead raised his hands before him, a feeble attempt to stop the onslaught, he couldn’t help feeling the all too familiar electric pulsing in his nerves. As violent and angry as this was, it was sexy. It was rare he met someone as persistent as himself. Whether the motivation was seductive or violent, it was still intoxicating.
Blake drew back a fist, previously incensed expression having turned into a calm mask of determination. His tawny eyes were fixed on Phoenix’s unharmed cheek and the redhead could too easily imagine the calculations going on in his head. He didn’t mind, not really. He did deserve it. But this didn’t mean he had changed his mind about anything at all.
The advantage of being driven by lust rather than rage meant that he still had the ability to manipulate the situation.
Smirking, Phoenix caught Blake’s wrist as the fist descended towards his face and pulled backwards, arm slamming back into the jukebox behind him. Caught off balance, the bartender fell against the redhead with a cry of surprise which was quickly smothered as a hand was woven into his hair and his lips claimed in a kiss that was far more gentle than the situation required. There was a burst of music, a cheesy 80s love song, as the impact jolted the jukebox into temporary life.
There was just enough time for Phoenix to register that the bartender tasted of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper alcohol before Blake wrenched himself away. He would deny it to the ends of the earth no doubt but Phoenix could tell the other man’s heart was racing; he could feel it even across the distance. The jukebox squealed and faltered, slowly lapsing back into sleep.
“I wonder if they’re involved?” A frightened whisper from the other side of the room.
“One hell of a relationship they have, then.”
The female students were watching them with wide eyes and Phoenix smiled sheepishly at them.
“I wonder if we should call the police...”
Walking back towards the bar, having to kick his way through a mess of wood and glasses, Blake refused to meet anyone’s eye.
“What the hell is going on?” An angry looking man, all stubble and greasy hair, stood behind the bar. “What did you do to the jukebox? And my pub?”
Eyes still lowered, Blake cleared his throat but said nothing, standing like a schoolboy called out for misbehaviour. He waited for the redhead to make some suave remark that would get him off the hook and leave Blake with the blame but no response came from behind him. After a silent moment, the owner of the pub sighed.
“Blake? You there? It’s only polite to explain why you trashed my property. Again.”
Blake spun around to face the jukebox. That side of the room was empty. His catlike eyes swept back and forth frantically but the bastard had definitely managed to sneak out. The red ribbon still lying on the floor was the only testament to his existence. Blake glanced at the students to find them all looking towards the front door as if waiting for someone to come in. Phoenix must have left that way for them to be so interested.
“There was a man,” Blake said uncertainly, turning back to his boss. “Causing trouble.”
“A man?” An incredulous raise of his eyebrows signalled his disbelief. “Of course there was, B. Just like the last time you let loose and started smashing things. What have you been drinking this time, you idiot? I told you last time that-“
“I’m stone cold fucking sober, Terry,” Blake insisted, stepping forward and narrowly avoiding tripping over an upturned chair. “There was this dude. He came in and started-“
“Save it, mate,” Terry said with a wave of his hand. “I can’t be arsed to listen right now. Just clear this mess up and get Mr Moseby up, will you? We’ll talk about your pay tomorrow.”
Grumbling under his breath, Blake set about tidying up. It didn’t take as long as he expected although he needed two black sacks to bag all the broken glasses, ashtrays and stools. Once these had been lugged out to the backroom, he approached the jukebox with angry eyes.
The damn thing looked as if it was about to start leaking smoke or sparking at any moment and there was a large dent in the casing where Blake’s hand had been pulled in. His eyes widened as he looked and he traced a finger over the dent. His skin came back red. Blood from Phoenix’s cut had transferred itself to the machine.
His eyes fluttered shut. Blake had raised his finger halfway to his lips before movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. He dropped his hand with a guilty expression and directed his glare towards the student standing nearby.
“What are you doing?” he asked, aware he had no grounds on which to question her. In her hands, the blonde held the red ribbon. Her blue eyes widened in fear as he approached her.
“I was just...”
“I’ll take that, thanks,” he snapped, snatching the ribbon out of her hands and shoving it into the pocket of his black jeans. If anyone has asked why he was taking it, he would have told them he was just tidying up even though he knew that was a bad lie. In truth, the last piece of evidence that pointed towards what had just happened needed to be cleaned away. If some girl waltzed off holding the ribbon, he’d never be able to forget that a group of kids had been witness to what was essentially the raping of his dignity, not to mention his lips.
Shooting him a confused glance, the girl headed back to her group which were waiting at the doorway. Once they had left, the door shutting with a dull thud behind them, Blake was left alone with Terry and the ancient Mr Moseby who still sat at the end of the bar, clutching his long empty glass of whisky with withered hands.
Blake sighed, running one hand through his already tousled hair. He took a deep breath and held it for a count of four before letting it hiss between his lips. Once he felt sufficiently calm and could ignore the pangs of pain that still pulsed through his pride, he approached the old man. If anything could be guaranteed to change this stupid evening back into the painfully mundane, Mr Moseby was a good bet.
“C’mon Mr Moseby,” he said wearily. “It’s that time again. Let’s get your coat on.”
“Oh?” The old man peered at Blake through rheumy eyes, finally releasing his glass with an audible sucking sound. “Who are you, then? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m here every night, sir. Blake?” he said, picking up the man’s coat for him and holding the arms out. As the man slipped in awkwardly his face lit up with recognition.
“William!” he cried triumphantly. Blake was sure he could hear Terry snickering from behind the bar. “I’m sorry, you must have dyed your hair.”
“No,sir, I’m not William. I’m Blake. Just Blake, okay?”
“Whatever you say, William,” the old man answered happily, sliding off his stool and starting to shuffle towards the door. Blake continued to argue the point as gently as possible until Mr Moseby was merrily weaving his way down the street outside. Blake paused in the doorway for a moment, letting the cold night air soothe his heated skin.
The street outside was empty and dark. The streetlight had broken again meaning that the alleyway that ran alongside the building and a small portion of the street outside were wreathed in shadows. A tiny breeze blew a few strands of Blake’s dark hair into his eyes and he withdrew back inside.
“I’m off, Terry,” he called, not seeing the boss and not caring if he heard. “See you tomorrow night.”
He retrieved his jacket from the backroom, a torn leather affair, and slipped it on over his equally black shirt. The only colour on his person was the dim yellow of his eyes and the red still staining his fingertip where he had failed to wipe it properly. Finally alone, he licked at the digit until it was clean, being reminded inevitably of the way Phoenix had cleaned his wound from the broken glass.
Phoenix. Honestly. What sort of a name was that? That guy was a porn-star or something, no doubt, maybe a rent-boy down on his luck. He’d have to be pretty desperate to hit on someone like Blake, after all, someone who was vociferously not interested and violent to boot. Yes, the whole incident could be dismissed as the work of one of the few people worse off in this city than Blake himself. It would be easier to forget if the bastard hadn’t managed to steal a kiss from him.
Mentally kicking himself for being manipulated, Blake pushed open the door and slipped out onto the moonlit street.
Whatever, he assured himself, the idiot’s gone now so it’s nothing to worry about.
He pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket in celebration and began walking away, following in the steps of the old man who could still be seen in the distance. He was reaching for a lighter when a hand shot out of the pitch-black alleyway and tugged on his collar. With a cry of surprise that sent the unlit cigarette tumbling to the ground, Blake was pulled into the shadows.
“Miss me?” a voice breathed into his ear before strong hands pushed him back against the alley wall. Stumbling on the mess of old crates and newspapers stacked in this space, Blake fell heavily against the bricks. The hand holding tightly onto his collar let go and pressed itself against the wall next to his head. The other gripped onto his shoulder, holding him in place. A warm body was next hovering over his own although not quite touching, one knee pressing against his leg. He could see nothing and silently willed his eyes to adjust so that he could aim at something to hit.
“Why the hell are you still here?” Blake hissed, not wanting to shout lest he should attract Terry’s attention. It was bad enough that this was happening at all even without an audience. He twisted his head to the side to avoid a kiss he felt approaching rather than saw. The lips pressed against his cheek instead.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Phoenix whispered against his skin. “I’m not going home alone tonight.”
“I said, it’s not my-“
“And I think you want to be the one I take with me.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re still-“
“You’re not trying to get away though, are you?”
Silence. In the darkness, Phoenix smirked.
“You’re much stronger than me. I saw that earlier. If you really wanted to leave, all you’d have to do is push me away.”
Too late, Blake started to resist but was stopped by the lips pressing against the juncture between his head and neck. No matter how much of a bastard Phoenix was, the redhead obviously knew what he was doing. Words died on Blake’s lips and he pressed his palms against Phoenix’s chest, unable to make the connection in his mind that told him pushing back was the next step to being free. Instead, his fingers curled into the redhead’s shirt.
“Stop this,” he mumbled, pushing himself back against the cold wall as if he wanted it to swallow him.
“Why?” Phoenix asked, trailing his lips to the corner of Blake’s mouth in an effort to get the bartender to willingly turn his head.
“I’m not into guys,” he protested, his next sentence morphing into an incoherent murmur as Phoenix tasted the corner of his lips with a warm tongue. He turned into that touch despite himself, feeling something primal pulling on his nerves. His lips met the redhead’s in a kiss more passionate than the one against the jukebox and he found himself parting his lips so willingly it made him ill. Perpetually set on doing exactly what Blake didn’t want him to do, Phoenix suddenly broke the kiss. When he spoke next, his voice was low and husky, nothing like the suave tones from inside the bar.
“You don’t need to be into guys to be into me.”
Blake laughed, a sharp bark of laughter that ripped its way from his throat.
“I never thought someone could be this arrogant.”
“It’s true.” Catching Blake’s lips in a kiss that he was all too eager to return, Phoenix released his grip on the bartender’s shoulder and raked it through his dark hair. “The whole idea of being ‘into’ this and that is ridiculous, anyway,” the redhead continued, speaking against Blake’s lips. “What matters is what feels good and what doesn’t. Does this not feel good, Blake?”
The bartender shivered and bit his lip as Phoenix lowered his head and sank his teeth into the skin of Blake’s neck.
“Stop it already,” he whispered, eyes that he hadn’t realised were shut slamming open. Phoenix had reminded him powerfully of an even better reason for him to be leaving. His eyes were now adjusting to the darkness and he realised Phoenix wasn’t wearing a jacket, even in this cold.
“Do you have any other excuses?” he asked, keeping his lips against Blake’s skin. He pressed his weight against the smaller man who started pushing back with earnest now, unwilling to truly fight in case it brought someone running. Besides, he didn’t feel angry anymore. It was fear that was coursing through him with every frantic beat of his heart.
“Yeah. I have another one.” He managed to push Phoenix just far enough away to look the redhead in the eyes. “You have no fucking clue what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he replied smoothly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“No, I mean it. Get off of me, already. I don’t want to-“
“Denial is a terrible thing.” Lips trailing over his skin, a hand sliding up beneath the hem of his shirt.
“It’s not that, it’s-“ A feeble push against strong muscles as his nerves burned.
“Just relax.” Nails raking against his skin, now.
“For fuck’s sake, let go.” Pulling the man closer, muscles obeying the inner voice rather than the one that screamed at him to run before he did something really stupid.
“Make me.”
Phoenix was breathless, now, and gave up on speaking as Blake leant forward and ran his tongue over the redhead’s bottom lip. With a small noise of triumph, Phoenix cupped the bartender’s cheeks with warm fingers. The kiss was searing, all lips and teeth and Phoenix could taste his own blood on his tongue from the injury earlier. This didn’t seem to deter Blake. His kisses became more desperate, his hands grasping tightly onto Phoenix’s shirt. As the lips trails from his own down to his neck, Phoenix tilted his head back and silently praised himself. He knew his was good but-
“Fucking hell!”
Pain, hot and biting, ripped through his neck and the surrounding area. Phoenix wrenched himself away from Blake and fell against the opposite alley wall. He raised a hand to his neck and his fingers came back wet, the blood black in the moonlight. His hand shook involuntarily and he raised frightened eyes to the other man, breathing still ragged but heart pounding much faster than before.
Blake leant against the wall where he had been left, arms hanging limply at his sides. Blood made a black smear around his lips, one drop trailing down his chin like oil. His head tilted back against the bricks and a bitter laugh bubbled up from his throat.
“I told you,” he said, voice clearer than it had been before. “But you didn’t listen, did you, hotshot?”
As Phoenix watched, his raised pale fingers to the blood around his lips and began cleaning it off, transferring it into his fingers before licking it away. If it hadn’t been his own blood, Phoenix would have found the image almost painfully sensual.
“What did you...”
“Doesn’t take a genius to work that out.”
“Then...what...”
“What am I?” Blake asked for him, lips curling into a smile void of humour. “Don’t worry, I’ve been asked much worse.”
He spun slowly until he was facing the wall, supporting himself with his elbows, his hands curled into fists. No longer able to see his expression, Phoenix couldn’t be sure but his next words sounded more sad than angry.
“Work it out. It’s not fucking difficult.”
Phoenix touched his fingers to the wound again, flinching as the torn skin was moved. It felt like a bite from a dog, almost, with a row of rough but sharp incisions from strong teeth. Only one row, though. Below it simply felt as if he had been bitten by an over-zealous lover who was choosing to ignore the safety word.
Glancing at Blake again, Phoenix’s expression sobered from one of fear to one of disbelief. He had heard rumours from the shadier clubs he’d visit, rumours that sounded sexy until you really considered the possibility of it being true. The media and fiction posed it as something sexy, that was certain, something safe enough to be the risky part of a teen drama but not dangerous enough to frighten you.
He remembered Blake’s eyes, their dim amber reflecting the light in strange ways.
The bartender had felt different, from the very start. Usually, Phoenix would feel a pull from anyone nearby as they mentally imagined being with him, however much they denied it. With Blake, he felt a push, an angry sort of passion that refused to submit without a fight. Phoenix’s charms were almost useless here it seemed and he had to use actions to get a result.
He remembered the way Blake had frozen as he licked the blood from his hand, the way his kisses had become hotter when his mouth began bleeding.
The man still leant against the wall, hair hanging down and obscuring his face. Still leaning against the opposite one, Phoenix licked his suddenly dry lips before speaking.
“Don’t tell me you’re a vam-“
“Hell, don’t say the fucking word,” Blake interrupted without moving. “You’ve already kissed me in public and had me pushed up against a wall, at least leave me some of my dignity.”
“But you are, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” The word was breathed against the cold bricks and Phoenix began edging forwards.
“Jesus. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Yeah well, you shouldn’t be so surprised, should you? Seeing as you’re not exactly normal either.”
Phoenix stopped approaching, eyes widening once more.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for start, it’d take someone not playing fair to get me all shaky over a smarmy hotshot asshole.”
“Bullshit.”
Blake sighed before answering this time, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can taste it. Don’t ask me how because I’m not gonna try and explain. What the hell are you?”
Phoenix crept forward, lips twisting back into a smirk. Not being able to see him, Blake didn’t realise the redhead’s intentions until their bodies were pressed flush together. Lips trailed against Blake’s ear for a moment and he could feel warm breath on his cheek.
“How about I explain all of that somewhere warmer?” he murmured.
Blake laughed. “Have you not been listening? I could tear your fucking throat out. Just drop it already. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just let me go.”
“You need blood, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Do you have to kill someone?”
“No.”
Phoenix grabbed Blake bodily and spun him around until they were back in their previous position. Blake’s eyes slammed open, their irises now burning silver in the night.
“Use me.”
The command was so quiet that Blake would have thought he had imagined it if it weren’t for the utterly wicked smile he was wearing and the seriousness of his eyes.
“What?”
There was a loud slam and the metallic scraping of a key in a lock. Both men’s eyes turned towards the mouth of the alleyway. Terry’s voice could be heard drifting through the night, muttering to himself about damages and repairs. Catching Phoenix’s eye, the bartender expected him to call out. The blood still ran freely from his shoulder and the pain would be bad, even now. Instead, a finger was pressed against his lips
“Why are you-“
“Shut up,” Phoenix whispered and pressed his own lips against his finger, further stopping Blake from speaking. His eyes remained open, watching Blake’s silvery orbs intently. Blake stared back, expression unreadable.
A mix of mumbling and jangling keys passed the mouth of the alleyway as Terry left the premises. His footsteps echoed through the empty streets. Once they finally faded away, Phoenix let his hand drop, pressing his lips fully against Blake’s.
“Use me,” he repeated quietly. “We’re partners in crime now. We have a secret and I have one of yours. If you want to learn one of mine, all you have to do is come with me.”
“But...”
“I said it before, didn’t I? If it feels good, that’s all that matters. And this,” he laid one hand over the wound on his shoulder, “doesn’t feel bad. I bet you usually run once people work out what you are, right?”
Blake nodded, not trusting himself to say anything that couldn’t be manipulated.
“I’m not going to let you do that. And I’m not going anywhere. So, use me, Blake. I’m not offering a favour, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He leant forward until he was whispering directly into Blake’s ear, feeling the man shiver against him.
“I’m fully intending on using you too.”
Blake spoke without meaning to, but once he had started it was too late to go back. He was just hungry, that was all. He hadn’t so much as tasted blood for weeks. It had nothing to do with Phoenix. It could have been anyone.
“Fine. How far?”