Archive of Our Own ^beta

Since the events at the Nouveau Théâtre des Vampires, Guillermo has taken to standing in the upstairs bathroom of the house (more comfortable, everyone loves this bathroom) and looking at himself in the mirror in between chores. (Yes, he still does the chores. It’s not in his job description but after a week of Nandor getting tangled in the curtains while dusting and Laszlo setting clothes on fire while ironing, Guillermo gave up on delegating. He privately thinks that Laszlo feigned ignorance on purpose while Nandor really was too stupid to figure out the vacuum cleaner.) 

He does this, the mirror-staring, because he used to avoid it and now he thinks that in all those years not looking he must have missed some grand change. Some shift, some line between his brows, some coldness in his eyes, anything that might suggest the white, hot power inside his ribcage. The thing that takes over his body and wants to kill vampires so badly no love could stop it. A heritage, maybe, or a cosmic joke. But every time he does this, while he wipes sweat off his brow or lays an errant curl carefully on his forehead, Guillermo finds himself in the mirror as he always does — wide-eyed, bloody-cheeked, unremarkable. And though he looks the same as he did before, he walks on eggshells around the change he feels, rather than sees. For the first time in his life, he feels powerful. Despite the bluntness of his incisors, the heart beating in his chest, despite, or maybe because of these things. 

He has also taken to leaving the house for a few hours every night to get away from it all (‘it all’ mainly being Colin Robinson, but also the odd tension Nandor exudes every time Guillermo so much as looks at him). Before, before, he would stay by Nandor’s side unless he had to go sort something out for Nandor and the others, or unless Nandor sent him away because he was sick of him. He would find excuses to clean in the same room as Nandor, first out of obligation or need, eventually to check that Nandor wasn’t getting murdered by vampire assassins. Now, in the aftermath, Guillermo needs a few hours every night to feel normal. 

Now, in the aftermath, Guillermo goes to McDonald’s. Though, given that he is the bodyguard of a gaggle of useless vampires, he still makes sure to check the perimeter before he heads out, in case there are council assassins lurking nearby. Early on he would spend hours on this, checking the whole block and only leaving when he was absolutely certain there was no imminent danger. After a few weeks, however, Guillermo found himself getting lazy about it. For one, it's because no one in this fucking household acknowledges a single thing he does for them, so who gives a shit if they die, really. For another, things have been quiet since the… slaughter. Let’s call it what it is, Guillermo. Give the thing a name. Things have been quiet since he, Guillermo de la Cruz, decimated the elite vampire community of New York City. This could mean one of two things: (A) the vampiric council has been scared off by the massacre and has given up on trying to murder them, or (B) the vampiric council is trying to lure them into a false sense of security and they plan to strike when they are at their most vulnerable. Scenario A is, of course, the preferred option. If it’s B, then Guillermo has to admit it’s working. 

So he checks the perimeter of the house, but it only takes him about ten minutes these days. He makes sure to tell his roommates, if you can call them that, to stay inside and not to let any strangers into the house while he’s gone, rolls his eyes at the responses that vary in tone from patronising to outright hostile depending on what time of day it is and whether or not they’ve eaten recently, and then he indulges in an hour or two of being away from the fucking insanity. Not that… okay, so it’s not that the 24 hour McDonald’s is a particularly sane, chill place to be at 4am, but at least everyone there has been alive for less than a century (he hopes). At least everyone there knows about taxes, vaccines, and hit TV show Breaking Bad (he hopes). At least there’s food that hasn’t been contaminated with human blood  (... he hopes). 

After coming here most nights for the past few weeks, he knows most of the regular night shift staff by name. They don’t know his, on account of the fact that working the McDonald’s night shift is a harrowing experience and none of the staff want to talk to the sad-looking man in the cable-knit cardigans any more than they have to. But Guillermo knows Jack, who always gives him extra sweet & sour sauce with his meal, and Saad, who has a tiny skull tattooed on his cheekbone and smiles like he hasn't yet lost the will to live. He knows the janitor, Dave, and Maxine, who only works the drive-through window and always looks high as a kite. Being here makes Guillermo feel normal. It makes him feel like he's taking part in human society, even if it’s just this strange subsection of it. 

“Here you go, man,” Saad says and passes him his Big Mac combo meal with a medium coke. 

“Thanks.” Guillermo smiles at him and when Saad smiles back, it squishes the little skull on his cheek. 

Normal. This feels normal. How nice. 

Guillermo sits down at his usual table by the window. Outside, the parking lot asphalt reflects splotches of neon red and blues. He sips his coke, feeling like an indie movie protagonist as he watches as the lights are disturbed by light rain, the kind of rain that makes his hair go frizzy and seeps into his skin like an illness. At a nearby table, the miserable shape of an old man is hunched over a hot fudge sundae, and Guillermo thinks that it could be his reflection. 

As always, it takes him about 30 minutes to feel like a normal human being again, at which point he is reminded by some memory or unsettling emotion that he is not, in fact, a normal human being. He then spends a further 30 minutes realigning with the life he leads and detaching himself from the life he doesn’t — that of Guillermo de la Cruz, Panera Bread manager who has no idea how to saw through human bones. 

In the end, the Guillermo that arrives back home is the one that knows the smell of decomposing flesh. 

“Ma— Nandor?” 

No response. 

“Nandor?” Guillermo raps his knuckles against the door again. 

Finally, a muffle reply. “What?” 

“Can I come in?” 

“… Why?” 

Guillermo rolls his eyes. He pushes open the door to Nandor’s bedroom and pokes his head inside. 

Standing by his coffin is Nandor, holding the silver hairbrush, with his arm bent awkwardly to reach the back of his head. He looks at Guillermo like one might look at the Jehovah’s Witness trying to talk to you about the one true and Almighty God outside of your front door. 

“What do you want?” 

Guillermo opens the door a little wider and Nandor, the absolute dickhead, takes a step backwards and bares his teeth at him. 

“I just came to check on you. To see if you needed any help getting ready for bed,” he says. 

“I’m fine. You are disturbing my routine.” 

Guillermo looks at the state of Nandor’s hair — the flyaways, the tangled knot at the side, and his shirt with the buttons done up the wrong way. He considers his next words carefully. 

“Okay. Looks like you’ve got everything under control,” he lies. “So I’ll go.” 

Nandor nods jerkily. “Yes. You do that.” 

“Yeah. I will.” 

They look at each other, circling birds of prey. Both of them the bird, both of them the prey. 

Contrary to his words, Guillermo steps into the room fully. Nandor takes another step back. 

“So, Nandor,” he says. “If you can do it all yourself, I don’t know why I dressed you for a decade.” 

Nandor glares at him. It’s not as imposing as it once felt. “Because it is beneath me. I am Nandor the Relentless.” 

“So why not let me help you now?” 

Nandor doesn’t answer. But Guillermo knows all the same, he doesn’t even have to analyse the expression on Nandor’s face. 

“Worried I’ll stake you through the heart?” 

Nandor bares his teeth at him. 

Guillermo runs his hand along the wooden doorframe. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you. I did it to save you all.” 

When Nandor slams his hand down on the lid of his coffin, Guillermo nearly jumps out of his skin. “Stop with this bullshit! Did you come here to rob me of my slumber? The sun is almost up.” 

“I just came to check on you, Master,” says Guillermo. The ‘master’ is a deliberate word choice, and he’s sure that Nandor knows it as well. And yet, there’s a slight softening of Nandor’s brow, some lightness when he next speaks. 

“Go, Guillermo.” 

“It’s just—” Nandor makes an annoyed sound, interrupting him, but Guillermo powers on. “It’s just that I miss hanging out… with you.” 

He nearly said ‘I miss you’, but that is too close to an admission he definitely isn’t ready for. 

“Eugh,” Nandor says, but he seems to lose whatever spirit was keeping him upright and his shoulders sag. He holds the silver hairbrush with both hands in front of his body. “Goodnight, Guillermo.” 

Guillermo digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms. Through clenched teeth he bites out, “Goodnight, Master.” 

He shuts the door gently when he leaves, although every cell of his body wants to slam it like a petulant child. 

The next night, Nandor stops him when Guillermo is just about to head out for his perimeter checks and subsequent McDonald’s visit, that nightly ritual. He stops him in the way that only an insane person would stop a known vampire slayer — by jumping out at him from a dark corner of the foyer and yelling, “Gotcha!”

Needless to say, Guillermo nearly kills him. 

“Master!” Guillermo shrieks, over the pitiful howls of a vampire recently sprayed with holy water. “What the hell was that? Why would you do that? Are you okay?” 

“You threw holy water on me!” Nandor sounds indignant even through the pained whine. 

Guillermo holds onto Nandor’s collar to keep him still while he wipes his red, blistering face with the sleeve of his favourite cardigan. “Because you jumped me! How did you think that would play out?” 

“I said gotcha! It was a prank! Stop it, stop it.” Nandor pushes Guillermo’s hands away. “Stop… wiping me.” 

Guillermo drops his hands and takes a step backwards. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, albeit reluctantly. “You’re already healing, see? No lasting damage.” 

“Of course I am healing. It was only a bit of holy water. I cannot be defeated by your silly tricks.” 

Guillermo resists the small but powerful urge to stake Nandor in the arm, to show him another one of his ‘silly tricks’ and maybe teach the guy some self-preservation skills. Instead he says, “It wasn’t a particularly funny prank,” and tucks his travel-size spray bottle of holy water back into his inner pocket, safely out of the range of moronic vampires. 

As Nandor’s burns slowly smooth over, the two of them look at each other, both apparently uncertain of their next steps. Some fleshy, vulnerable part of Guillermo still stings from last night so he doesn’t really want to talk to his former master. Nandor, on the other hand, just seems lost for words. 

“I wanted to ask where you are going,” Nandor finally manages. “You’re always going somewhere these days. Do you have a secret girlfriend, Guillermo? It’s not okay for you to keep things from me. What else is it you have been lying about?” 

“I—“ Guillermo doesn’t even know where to start with that one. “I don’t have a secret girlfriend.” 

“That’s good,” says Nandor. “Because if you did it would not be okay. You shouldn’t keep secrets from me.” 

“I don’t have to tell you everything,” Guillermo bristles. “You don’t own me.” 

“You work for me.” 

“Barely. You don’t even pay me.” 

“I give you breaks!” 

“Not even remotely the same thing.” 

Nandor frowns, looking for all intents and purposes like a put out child. “So where are you going? It’s the middle of the night.” 

Guillermo snorts. “It’s not even 11pm.” He crosses his arms. “I’m going to McDonald’s.” 

Nandor raises an eyebrow. “To eat?” 

“No, to do pilates,” Guillermo snarks. “Yes, to eat. You know, that silly thing humans have to do. Which I am, by the way. Still human!  In case you had forgotten.” 

“Stop with this,” Nandor grumbles. And then, “Okay. I will come with you to the McDonald’s. I will get my going-out cloak.” 

Guillermo stares at Nandor, who is already turning to walk away. He stammers, “But… why?” 

Nandor whirls back around dramatically. “You are the one who wanted to ‘hang out’,” he snaps. “So stop with this questioning.” And then he’s off, stomping up the stairs in an unwarranted hurry. 

Guillermo stands in the foyer, rooted to the age-old wood beneath his feet, and he watches him go. 

Despite his best efforts, Guillermo can’t figure out a way to tell Nandor he goes to McDonald’s to get away from vampires, not to spend quality time with them. At least he can’t figure out a way to tell him without hurting his feelings. Consequently, 45 minutes later finds them sitting across from each other at Guillermo’s usual table, stewing in a silence so awkward it could feed Colin Robinson for weeks. Guillermo sips his coke just to have something to do with his hands and his mouth, while Nandor looks at the table like he might find the answer to a particularly vexing puzzle in the grey laminate. 

When they sat down a few minutes ago, Guillermo became suddenly and acutely aware that they have never really… hung out in the years that they’ve known each other. And sure, it was his word choice the previous morning, but he meant it in the way that a vampire and his familiar would “hang out” — like when Guillermo brushes Nandor’s hair, or when they go to the store for the express purpose of doing something Nandor needs done. He hadn’t meant “hanging out” in the way that friends might hang out, like Nandor tagging along to McDonald’s to watch Guillermo eat a Big Mac while they talk about their day. This kind of “hanging out” is just not part of their relationship. They don’t do this. Sometimes they play chess together, but that’s only because no one else in the house will play chess with Nandor (he is a sore loser and not very good at chess). Sometimes they sit in the same room together for a period of time and do their own thing, but that’s not a deliberate choice on Nandor’s part, it’s just that Guillermo will find him, sit down near him, and on a good day Nandor will tolerate it. 

“So,” Guillermo finally says, at the exact same time as Nandor says, “Are you—“ 

They both stop. Then Guillermo laughs and Nandor grimaces, his lip curling back in a very Nandor expression of ‘Yeesh’. 

“You go first,” says Guillermo and Nandor clears his throat. 

“Are you liking your drink?” He asks, after a brief pause. 

Guillermo smiles brightly, feeling a little charmed. 

“I am, Master.” 

Nandor harrumphs. “You can stop with the master. I know why you’re doing it.” 

Privately, Guillermo thinks that Nandor most certainly does not know why he’s doing it. He keeps that to himself. 

“Alright,” Guillermo nods. 

“What is it you wanted to say?” 

“Oh! I was just going to ask what you’ve been up to.” 

Nandor frowns. “Nothing,” he says. 

Guillermo waits, hoping he will elaborate. 

“Nothing?” he prompts finally, when it becomes clear Nandor is going to leave it at that. 

“Yes. You know this, you live in my house.” 

“’s probably mine at this point,” Guillermo mutters. 

“What did you say?” 

Guillermo takes a sip of his coke. “I said, it’s probably mine at this point. Given that I’m the only one who has paid rent for a decade.” 

“You pay to live there, not to own it,” Nandor protests. “We killed the previous owners a hundred years ago, so legally it’s ours.” 

Guillermo looks at him, unimpressed. “That’s definitely not how property law works in the US. Or anywhere else in the world.” 

Nandor scoffs. “How would you know? You are too small.” 

“I’m— I’m too small?” Guillermo repeats incredulously. 

“Yes,” says Nandor. “Too small to know these things. Your brain is the size of a peanut.” He approximates the size of a peanut with his thumb and index finger and he gets it ridiculously wrong. 

Idly, Guillermo wonders if Nandor really thinks a regular peanut is as big as an egg. 

“My brain is the same size as yours,” he replies, voice mild. “Probably bigger. You know, if you take into account evolution.” 

Nandor looks at him like he has just said something absolutely incomprehensible. 

“Never mind,” says Guillermo, but he counts that as his point proven.

In the end they don’t talk about anything serious, though Guillermo desperately wants to. He worries that asking Nandor how he feels about anything that has happened in the last few weeks let alone confronting him with how Guillermo himself feels about these things will only spook him. Instead, he eats and Nandor watches him eat, and they talk about nothing at all. Just this aimless back and forth about their roommates, about local vampire gossip that Nandor is reluctant to share, about the antique shop that has opened in Richmond Town which might take some of their clutter off their hands and make it easier for Guillermo to dust.

When Guillermo has finished eating, they leave together. Nandor goes first, telling the automatic doors to ‘OPEN!’ with an intimidating hand gesture, and when they do slide open he looks over at Guillermo like a dog that has performed a particularly impressive trick. 

“Wow,” says Guillermo. “Well done, Master.” 

“Whatever,” Nandor says grumpily. “I know it’s automatic, Guillermo, I’m not an idiot.” And he walks a few paces ahead of him through the parking lot, his going-out cloak dragging through the puddles. 

Guillermo hoped that maybe this newfound interest in hanging out meant he didn’t have to walk home alone, but Nandor turns to look back at him, says “See you at home,” and jumps into bat form. Guillermo watches him flit across the sky, wings fluttering, and he sighs. His breath forms white puffs in the air before him. 

That morning, half an hour before sunrise, Nandor finds him in the kitchen where none of the vampires ever go. Really, Guillermo didn’t think that any of them even knew the room existed. He is on his knees, wearing bright blue cleaning gloves and scrubbing the floor while listening to Material Girl on full volume with his headphones. His heart nearly gives out when he sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye, and he whirls around, one wet, soapy glove holding out his crucifix towards the thing that registered instinctively as a threat. 

Nandor hisses at him and backs away until his back hits the doorframe. 

“You have got to stop sneaking up on me,” Guillermo snaps. He tucks the crucifix back under his shirt, takes off one glove and pulls down his headphones so they hang around his neck.  

“Well, you should stop trying to slaughter me!” Nandor counters petulantly. 

“I didn’t know it was you.” Guillermo sits back on his haunches and looks up at Nandor. “What is it?” 

Nandor adjusts the cuffs of his shirtsleeve, suddenly sheepish. Guillermo narrows his eyes. 

“The sun will be up soon,” Nandor says. 

“Yeah.” 

“I have to get ready for bed.” 

“Great,” Guillermo says and shifts his weight from one knee to the other. He regrets committing to kneeling instead of just getting up, but it’s too late. It would only be embarrassing now. 

Nandor stares down at him with the expression of a man about to be ritually sacrificed. Unhappy, that is. Finally, he says, “Guillermo. I command you to brush my hair.” 

Guillermo’s stomach does a little flip, which sucks. “Really?” he asks. “Okay. I mean, you don’t have to command. Asking is fine.”

He waves his gloved hand, cutting off whatever Nandor was about to say. 

“I’ll be up in a second. Let me just, uh, wipe the floor here.” 

Guillermo likes brushing Nandor’s hair, he always has. It was one of the nicer parts of being a familiar, ranking way above disposing of dead bodies and dusting taxidermy animals. He likes the intimacy of it, that he gets to touch Nandor in a way that feels safe, and most importantly he likes how Nandor looks at him afterwards — tender, vulnerable. Just for a moment. It’s as though the steady ritual of it loosens some knot in his chest. In those minutes after, Guillermo thinks that if he reached inside Nandor’s throat he might find his heart beating, and that Nandor would let him rip it out. 

It never lasts long. By the time Nandor is in his coffin, his face is usually shuttered and he looks as undead as ever. 

Tonight Guillermo savours brushing Nandor’s hair even more than he has in the past. It used to be a given, but now he doesn’t know if he’ll get the chance again. He pulls the bristles through Nandor’s long hair with gentle care and then chases its path with his fingers. Nandor doesn’t say a word the whole time, he just sits on his stool and keeps still, his eyes cast down to the floor and Guillermo holds Nandor’s trust in the palm of his hands like a flightless bird with a sharp beak.

Later, when Guillermo closes the lid of the coffin on him, he could swear that he hears Nandor say, “Thank you, Guillermo,” over the sound of squeaking hinges. He can’t be sure, but he smiles all the same. His hand rests on the ornate wood for a brief moment, and he runs his thumb along the edge. 

“Goodnight, Nandor,” he says softly and leaves the room. 

It becomes a thing, Nandor accompanying him to McDonald’s. Guillermo isn’t sure how, or why, or what Nandor’s endgame could possibly be here, but that week Nandor sits across from him and watches him eat every damn night. It’s bizarre. It’s unsettling. It’s… a little nice. He eats and Nandor sits, they talk a little, and by Friday night Guillermo has fallen into the habit of finding Nandor before he goes out instead of letting the vampire accost him in the hallway. 

At around 1am on Saturday, Guillermo takes a bite of his burger and makes a dejected sound. 

Nandor looks at him quizzically. 

“No pickle,” Guillermo explains. 

“But you demanded extra pickle,” Nandor points out. 

Taken aback by the fact that Nandor apparently listens when he orders his food, Guillermo blinks. After a moment’s silence he says, “I didn’t… I didn’t demand it. I asked for it.” 

Nandor looks at him like he’s stupid, which doesn’t bother Guillermo. Nandor might be a lot of things, a lot of great, beautiful things, but smarter than Guillermo is not one of them. 

“It’s the same,” Nandor says. “She gave you no pickle?” 

Guillermo shrugs and takes another bite of his burger. He chews, then swallows. 

“She’s new,” he responds and jerks his head towards the green-haired girl at the cash register. “Maybe even her first shift. It doesn’t matter.” 

Nandor brings his fist down on the table with a loud bang and Guillermo flinches. 

“What the—” 

“You should not accept this subpar meal. If I asked for a virgin with extra pickle and you brought me a virgin with no pickle, I would tell you to fix your mistake.” 

“What? Where would the pickle even come into play?” 

“It is a metaphor, Guillermo,” Nandor grunts. 

“That’s not what a metaphor is.” 

“Enough of this! I order you to go tell this little green girl to give you extra pickle!” 

Guillermo sinks a little lower in his seat, trying very hard not to check if the little green girl had heard any part of this conversation. 

“Well, you’re not actually my master anymore, so,” he mumbles and takes another defiant bite of his pickle-less burger. 

“Guillermo,” Nandor warns. 

“It’s fine! I’m just going to eat this burger with no pickle! It’s not that big of a deal!” 

Nandor stands up abruptly, looking down at Guillermo from an imposing height. 

“This is unacceptable,” he growls and turns. His cape swishes behind him as though billowed by some strange magic as he stalks over to the counter. 

Guillermo sets his burger down on the crumpled up brown paper bag it came in and buries his face in greasy hands. He breathes in and out, deep lungfuls of breath. Finally, he blindly reaches for his coke and takes a sip. He doesn’t hear what Nandor says, is actually trying very hard not to listen in on the conversation, but whatever it is he hopes that it involves hypnosis in some way. He does not want to be banned from the only 24 hour McDonald’s within walking distance from the house. 

When he catches Nandor’s swishing cloak in his peripheral vision, Guillermo looks up with a pinched expression, fearing the worst. 

“Here,” Nandor says proudly and slams a catering-sized jar of pickles down on the table in front of Guillermo. “Extra pickle. I do so much for you, Guillermo, you should be thankful.” 

“Ah,” Guillermo says and steals a glance towards the green-haired girl at the register. She looks a little dazed. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Master.” 

Nandor sits back down and looks at him expectantly. 

Hesitantly, Guillermo asks, “Did you bring a… a fork? Actually, you know what? Never mind.” 

He grabs the massive jar and unscrews the lid. The seal breaks with a pop. Guillermo looks down at the thinly sliced dill pickles sitting in brine, then at his burger. He takes off the top bun, revealing the unappetising, grey beef patty covered in ketchup and mustard. With a final look at Nandor’s expectant face, he sticks his fingers into the jar, fishes out a few pickles and lays them carefully on top of the half-eaten patty. He places the bun back on it and wipes his fingers on the single battered napkin on the table. 

“Is it enough?” Nandor asks, confused. “That’s not much pickle. I brought you this whole fucking thing!” 

“If I put any more on it will taste like nothing but pickle.” Guillermo takes a bite and smiles through it to show Nandor it’s fine. Voice muffled, he says, “Hmm, delicious.” 

Nandor narrows his eyes, but lets it slide.  

When they leave half an hour later, Guillermo doesn’t even bother to be disappointed when, halfway across the parking lot, Nandor flings himself into the air and flitters away in bat-form. He just cradles the massive jar of pickles like one might hold a baby and walks home by himself. 

When the trend continues the following week, Guillermo finds it hard to think about anything else. By telling Nandor he missed ‘hanging out’, he had apparently manifested Nandor literally… hanging out with him. Like friends. Like two people who like to do activities together and talk about their days. It’s baffling. Nandor is making an effort. Nandor has never made an effort with him in all the 11 years that he has served him, at least not this kind of effort. The glitter portrait and occasional mirror-flying session might have counted for something at one point, but they hardly constituted an effort .

He knows it’s bad when Laszlo starts commenting on it. 

“Say, Gizmo,” he stops him in the hallway. “Are you and Nandor involved in any unsavoury activities?” 

Like a deer caught in the headlights, Guillermo presses against the wall and stares at him. “What? No. We’re not doing anything. No unsavoury activities here.” 

Laszlo doesn’t buy it. He waves his hand at Guillermo and says, “If these unsavoury activities are of a sexual nature, you have to tell me. In explicit detail.”

Out of instinct, Guillermo looks around for the camera that isn’t there. Instead he makes exasperated eye contact with the taxidermy owl to his left. 

“Sure thing, Laszlo,” he promises, already inching away from the conversation. “I’ll let you know.” 

Since that morning when Nandor found him in the kitchen, Guillermo has brushed his hair every day before dawn. They fall into the habit again like they never stopped. Guillermo brushes his hair, Nandor’s shoulders loosen beneath him, and before helping him into the coffin Guillermo does up the buttons of his shirt and smoothes out his collar. He ties back a section of Nandor’s hair with one of the small hair ties he keeps in his pocket and Nandor doesn’t thank him. Guillermo wouldn’t expect him to. 

Tonight, a week and half since Nandor first came with him to McDonald’s, he gathers all the courage he can muster and chokes out, “We could do something other than McDonald’s.” 

Guillermo has his fingers on the top button of Nandor’s shirt and he is avoiding his gaze resolutely. 

Nandor sounds upset when he asks, “What’s wrong with McDonald’s?” 

Guillermo straightens out Nandor’s collar and then drops his hands. “Nothing’s wrong with McDonald’s.” 

“I like McDonald’s. Are you bored of McDonald’s? Is McDonald’s not good enough for you? Do you think that you are above McDonald’s?” 

Guillermo stares up at him. Is this a metaphor? 

“McDonald’s is fine,” he insists. “I like McDonald’s! I just thought maybe McDonald’s and I can go somewhere else for a change.” 

Nandor frowns. “Guillermo, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would McDonald’s go anywhere with you? Like a take-it-away?” 

“Takeaway? No. I meant you. You are McDonald’s.” 

Nandor looks at him like he has lost his mind. There’s a long pause, and Guillermo wants to sink into the fucking floor. 

Finally Nandor says, “What does that mean?” 

“It means: Would you like to go to the cinema with me? To watch a movie?” 

“I don’t like the cinema. It’s too big.” 

Guillermo takes a step back and sighs, “Okay.” 

Nandor clears his throat. “Yes, fine, you have twisted my hand. I will go to the cinema with you. Now help me into my coffin.”

And he daintily holds out one hand to Guillermo, his rings gleaming in the candle light.

It’s not a date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date. Guillermo thinks that if he repeats this to himself in the mirror enough, then he will stop feeling like this — the heat under his collar, the way his stomach is in knots. It’s not a date, but he dresses like it is all the same. Nandor is always overdressed anyways, so he can pretend that they’re both on the same page. He polishes his black boots and he irons his crispest shirt, starched collar standing to attention, and over it he wears his best waistcoat. He spritzes cologne onto his neck despite knowing that Nandor would probably prefer the smell of blood if he had an opinion one way or the other. It’s not for Nandor, it’s for sixteen year old Guillermo who would have killed to spritz cologne on his neck for a date with a vampire. Fifteen years later, Guillermo has killed and he thinks he owes himself this much. 

Nandor steps out of his bedroom looking, for all intents and purposes, the exact same as he does every time he leaves the house. Guillermo is not disappointed by it because he’s normal and he has a mantra, and because Nandor is wearing what Guillermo privately considers his favourite coat, the red one with the fur and the gold detailing. Although he doubts that Nandor gives a shit about Guillermo’s opinion on his clothes, he tucks the idea that it might be intentional into his ribcage. He sits with it. It’s in there. 

They take the bus to the multiplex. Nandor gets into an argument with an old woman when he refuses to give up his seat for her, loudly proclaiming that surely she can’t be older than a hundred years so she has no right to his throne, at which point Guillermo gets up and lets her sit. Nandor spends the rest of the journey glaring daggers in his direction while Guillermo resolutely ignores him. 

“You kind of undermined my authority just now,” Nandor says when they step out into the wet autumn air. 

“Mhm,” Guillermo says noncommittally. 

“You did.” 

“Not your familiar anymore,” Guillermo points out and nudges Nandor towards the glass front entrance of the multiplex. 

Nandor grunts. He starts, “As my bodyguard—”

“Come on. She was so old. She looked like a strong wind would knock her over. You didn’t need that seat.” 

“I do not move seats for humans.” 

“Hm? Yeah? Master, I’ve seen you help Phyllis from two doors down carry her groceries into the house.” 

Nandor is quiet for a long second. When he speaks, it’s with all the venom he can muster. “No, you haven’t.”  

He lifts his hand, but Guillermo stops him. 

“Do not,” he curls his fingers around his crucifix, “hypnotise me right now.” Not that it would work, but the more things he is meant to have forgotten, the harder it will be to keep up the ruse. 

“Yeesh, Guillermo.” Nandor looks down at him with open surprise. “You are in a bad mood today. Are you… hangry? It’s a word Colin Robinson taught me today, it means hungry and angry. Hangry. So you put the two words together. It’s a complicated joke.” 

Guillermo smiles despite himself. He says, “I’m fine, I had a sandwich before we left,” and he tucks his crucifix back under the collar of his shirt. 

They get kicked out of the movie. It’s entirely Nandor’s fault, but Guillermo really should have seen it coming when Nandor’s running commentary throughout the adverts continued into the movie. Ten minutes in, the middle-aged couple in row C shot them such a dirty look that Guillermo instinctively reached for the crucifix around his neck. Nandor, much less restrained than him, made rude gestures and threw some of Guillermo’s popcorn in their direction. It only took another seven minutes for an overworked, dead-behind-the-eyes usher to tell them to leave. Guillermo manages to stop Nandor from kicking up more of a fuss by pushing the crucifix into the flesh of his palm, which means Nandor redirects his energy into being angry at Guillermo instead. 

Outside, the pavement is damp from a light drizzle. 

Nandor stomps around in the throes of a tantrum. He shakes his fist at the sign of the multiplex and shouts, “I am Nandor the Relentless!” 

“I don’t think they care,” Guillermo says and checks his watch — 10:34pm. “Let’s just go home.” 

Nandor turns around to look at him with an unhappy frown. His hair is frizzy from the rain and Guillermo wants to run his fingers through it. 

“But Guillermo, what about your nice clothes?” 

“What?” 

“You are wearing your fancy clothes.” Nandor makes a loose gesture towards Guillermo’s outfits. 

“What, no, this is just— They’re just my normal clothes.” 

Nandor gives him an indulgent, slightly pitying look. Guillermo blushes so furiously he feels a little lightheaded. 

“Our nice picture time was robbed from us, but the night is not over,” says Nandor. He raises his fist. "To the McDonald's!" 

They're in their usual booth and for reasons beyond Guillermo's comprehension, Nandor is sitting next to him . He tries very hard not to let it bother him as he sips his coke and tries to crumple up his burger wrapper into as small of a ball as it will go. He feels off, a little nauseous. Maybe he's coming down with something. 

"Does the little green girl still work here?" Nandor asks, leaning in conspiratorially. 

"Why wouldn't she?" Guillermo chases the straw with his tongue. "I haven't seen her, maybe she works days." 

"Did she get fired because she forgot the pickled cucumber?" 

"What? No." He frowns. "If anything she got fired because you made her give away an entire jar of pickles." 

Nandor scoffs. "Of course not, Guillermo. It was the right thing to do." 

"Hm, her manager might disagree." 

For a moment it looks as though Nandor will argue, but then he folds like a deck of cards and slumps back in his seat. 

Across the room, a lovers' quarrel that Guillermo had so far only been peripherally aware of escalates to shouting. The guy is sobbing and throwing balled-up napkins at the woman, who looks like she is about to start throwing heftier things than paper napkins.

Guillermo turns his head to watch them while simultaneously trying not to look like he is watching them. 

"What is that about?" he asks Nandor, nudging him with his elbow. 

Nandor leans forward to look past him at the couple. The man pushes his chair up with a screech and stands up. Saad, the McDonald's employee with the skull tattoo, hovers nearby, clearly trying to decide if it's worth intervening. 

"Divorce, maybe," Nandor tells him unhelpfully. 

"Okay, but what were they saying before?" 

Nandor asks, "How the fuck would I know this?" 

"You've got vampire hearing," says Guillermo. "Right?" 

"I wasn't listening to them, Guillermo," Nandor mutters. "Why would I be listening to them? I am here with you." 

Guillermo smiles. 

The man throws the remnants of a Mango Pineapple Smoothie in the woman's face. She gasps, outraged, and chases him out of the building, yelling obscenities. Saad looks up at the CCTV camera with the expression of a man who is two seconds away from quitting, then he goes over to scoop their leftover garbage into a plastic bag. 

“Guillermo... Guillermo,” Nandor says, syllables drawn out. He tugs at Guillermo's sleeve. Then, with sudden gravitas: “Guillermo.” 

Guillermo turns his head to look at him. He asks, “Yes?” 

Nandor is closer than he has any right to be, their faces only inches apart, and Guillermo stares at him with unfocused eyes. The edges of Nandor’s face are blurry. 

Then Nandor says, “We should have sex,” and Guillermo briefly loses consciousness. 

Or he blinks. Either way, the world goes black for what feels like an eternity. 

“What?” he asks weakly. His thoughts are soupy-thick, sluggish, incoherent. This conversation could very well not be happening. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe the couple at the movie theater killed them both. Maybe purgatory is the 24-hour McDonald's on Staten Island. Wouldn’t that be something? 

“I am saying we should have sex,” Nandor repeats. 

Guillermo draws backwards and nearly falls off the bench. 

“Absolutely not,” he says, feeling faint. “No. We shouldn’t.” 

Confusion is scrawled across Nandor’s face as if in ink, his eyebrows drawn together, his lips parted so his fangs poke out. 

“Are you bullshitting me?” Nandor asks incredulously. “Then what is this? What do you want from me?” 

“Why would we—” he starts but cuts himself off, as he so often does. Keep it to yourself. “What do you mean, what do I want from you?” 

Sweat prickles at the back of his neck. Nandor looks at him like he is stupid. 

“Guillermo,” he says. “Why are we ‘hanging out’?” 

“Because…” Guillermo swallows, his throat sandpaper dry. “Because we’re friends.” 

“We’re not,” Nandor says, quick and brutal. 

Guillermo swallows the hurt like he is meant to, and yet some of it drips out of him when he replies, “Oh, right. I forgot.” Bitter. Always bitter. 

Nandor looks at him searchingly. The distance between them seems insurmountable now, where previously Nandor had been close enough to be dangerous. 

The harsh lights overhead are making Guillermo's temples throb. He doesn’t know what to say, what to think. He looks at Nandor and all he sees is what could be, not what is. His whole life has just been an exercise in potential. He could be a vampire, he could be powerful, he could be this, he could be that, Guillermo never just is. 

“Mr. Slayer Man,” Nandor says, his voice soft. “I’m very tired.” 

Guillermo nods. Reaches out to touch Nandor’s wrist, a quick brush of his fingertips. Says, “Okay. Let’s go home,” and finds that it doesn’t hurt to say. 

When it hits him the next day, Guillermo is on the phone with his mother, staring at pots and pots of yoghurt lined up in the fridge of the bodega. She is telling him about a cousin who might or might not be getting married, and who might or might not be pregnant, no one is really sure, and Guillermo is trying so hard to focus, while also reading the labels of the yoghurt pots, and then it hits him. It hits him. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

“Amá, lo siento, tengo que irme,” he says in a rush, and he doesn’t wait for her to answer. “Te quiero.” 

He hangs up and bites down on the pang of guilt. He holds his phone to his chest. With shaky fingers, he slides open the fridge door and takes a multipack of Yakult. 

Nandor wanted to have sex with him and he said no. Nandor said they should have sex and Guillermo said no, thank you, I’d rather have a crisis about this and then go home. I’d rather be miserable because you don’t think we are friends. 

He places the multipack in the basket at his feet. Not for the first time he wonders if maybe living in a house full of vampires for a decade has given him some kind of brain damage. 

‘What do you want from me?’ Nandor had asked, and not once did Guillermo stop to consider the answer, or the implications. What does Nandor want from Guillermo? Why does Nandor think they were hanging out? Now that Guillermo isn’t his familiar, who is he? Who can he be? 

Again with the potential. Who can he be? 

He pockets his phone and picks up his basket. Home is only a few blocks away. 

He finds Nandor in the fancy room, watching baby sensory videos on the laptop. Ever since Guillermo showed him Youtube, it's become a nightmarish fixture in his life. Nandor doesn’t look up when Guillermo enters, even though he must hear him. Probably heard him put his groceries away as well, heard him come in through the front door. 

“Nandor,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. 

Lately, he keeps finding himself standing in doorways. Why can’t he go inside? Why can’t he leave? 

“What is it?” Nandor asks coldly and he doesn’t look up from the video. 

“Can we talk?” 

“Eugh.” Nandor grimaces. “Fine.” 

Nandor finally looks up at him, though he seems unhappy about it. For a moment neither of them move. 

“Not here,” Guillermo says eventually. 

“Why not?” 

“Oh my God—” (Nandor hisses.) “Please just come upstairs.” 

Nandor shuts the laptop lid with more force than necessary and gets up. His hair swishes dramatically. 

Guillermo turns around and goes up the stairs. Silently, monstrously, Nandor follows him. 

This is a doorway Guillermo walks through — the door to Nandor's bedroom. His heart is thumping in his chest like it wants to escape. He doesn't have a plan here; it's all just potential, potential, always fucking potential. He could do anything. Nandor might let him. 

He turns to face him. Nandor stands a few feet away, his arms crossed. Picture-perfect discomfort. 

"So?" he says, staring Guillermo down. "What is it? I have many things to do." 

"Yeah?" Guillermo wants to smile but finds that he can't. "Yeah, so do I." 

He steps forward and Nandor steps back. Guillermo wants to strangle him, or hold him, maybe both. 

"Stop," he says. "Stay still." 

Nandor, lo and behold, does as he's told. Guillermo crosses the distance between them until he is standing close enough that he has to tilt his head back to look at him. Nandor looks down, his teeth bared in something like a snarl, but Guillermo hasn't been scared of him in a long time. 

"Thank you," he says, and he can feel his heartbeat at the back of his throat. Then he repeats, "Stay still."

Nandor looks like he wants to argue, but Guillermo grasps the front of his shirt and the fight drains out of him. He uncrosses his arms and stands still, just like Guillermo wanted. 

Guillermo said they should talk, but now that he has him here, closer than Nandor ever lets him get, all he wants to do is push and push and see where this ends. There's an urge inside of him, and it's not potential, it's real. Here, now. Perhaps it has always been there. Perhaps it's the Van Helsing blood, but surely the ancestral urge would drive him away from Nandor, not towards. But here he is, gripping his shirt, and he only wants him closer.  

"Guillermo." Nandor's voice is hoarse. 

In lieu of an answer, Guillermo reaches up with his other hand and curls his fingers at the back of Nandor's head. His hair is thick and smooth between his knuckles. Guillermo pulls him down and kisses him. 

He feels Nandor's shoulders sag, like someone has cut his strings. Nandor melts against him and it's sweeter than anything he could have imagined. Blood rushes in his ears, his breath comes in quick bursts against Nandor's lips, and he tightens his fingers in Nandor's hair. He tugs.  When Nandor growls, he feels it in his chest. 

Guillermo pushes him backwards, step by step, until Nandor's back hits the doorframe. Nandor growls again, so then why isn't he touching Guillermo? Where are his hands? He wants to feel him, he wants this, he wants— 

He told Nandor to stay still. Nandor is staying still. 

"Touch me," Guillermo gasps against his mouth, and then Nandor's hands are all over him, his arm around Guillermo's waist, his hand splayed across his back, the other on his jaw. 

All the times he has imagined touching Nandor, it was never like this. There are expectations when one of you is a vampire and the other is a human, ideas of dominance and strength and violence, who gets to pull, who gets to push. Guillermo had bought into these ideas forever, and he thought it was right. That if they ever kissed, Nandor would kiss him. That if they ever touched each other, Nandor would pin him to the wall, and Guillermo would be pinned. That Nandor would tell him where to put his hands, where to touch him, when to be quiet. 

When Guillermo presses the heel of his palm against Nandor's cock through the thick material of his pants and Nandor whines against his mouth, it feels right. He should be the one to do this, after everything. For a decade he has buried himself, but if Nandor wants this, if Nandor wants him, then Guillermo will take what he needs. 

He realises, with a strange giddiness, that Nandor is hovering. He pulls back to double check and Nandor chases him like he's desperate, pressing his lips against Guillermo's cheek, his jaw. 

Nandor's feet are an inch or so off the ground, and if he wasn't holding onto Guillermo he might be on the ceiling. 

"Stay down," Guillermo says, just to see if he can. 

Nandor sinks until his heels are on the floorboards. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, like he's hungry. His lips are shiny with spit. Guillermo can see the pink of his tongue. He looks needy. So easy. Why is it so easy? If he'd known, Guillermo would have done this sooner. 

He strokes Nandor through his pants and this part is easy, too. Guillermo pushes him back against the doorframe and presses the length of his body against him, head tilted back so he can scrape his blunt teeth along the line of Nandor's throat, down where his beard turns into stubble. 

"Guillermo," Nandor hisses and Guillermo smiles. 

"Yes?" he asks, voice muffled against the cold skin of Nandor's jugular. 

"You— Can you— Eugh," Nandor curls his hand loosely around Guillermo's throat and for a moment it feels as though he might push but he just stays there, caressing him. 

"I can, Master," Guillermo says nicely. "Say please." 

"No." Nandor presses his lips against Guillermo's hairline and it's unexpectedly sweet, but the hand on his throat tightens like a threat. 

Instinct kicks in, and Guillermo grabs hold of his crucifix. He pushes the metal into Nandor's cheek and it sizzles. 

Nandor lets go of his throat but instead of leaning back, he tilts his head into the burn. 

"Play nice," Guillermo says, his voice shaky. "Say please." 

"Fucking Guillermo," Nandor spits, but then he is smiling with his fangs like a display. "Please, Guillermo. Please."

"Please what?" The skin underneath the crucifix blisters an angry red, but neither of them move. Nandor licks his lips. 

"Please put your hand on my dick," Nandor says, and finally the pain becomes too much and he pulls his head back to get away from it. 

Guillermo drops the crucifix and leans up to press his lips against the brutal, cross-shaped mark. He tugs at the top button of Nandor's unnecessarily complicated pants, only able to undo it because of the years he has spent dressing him. 

"Okay," he says, and he feels lightheaded. Some of this is instinct, sure, but Guillermo still keeps cutting himself on the edges of his comfort zone. 

Still, he keeps pushing because it's really all he can do. He has made it this far. He's going to finish what he started, quite literally. When Guillermo takes his cock in his hands, Nandor makes a breathy, desperate sound and it goes straight to Guillermo's head, that sweet taste of power. 

He wants to ask Nandor what he likes, what he should do, but that would be giving up some of that power. He's just going to have to figure it out. It's been a long time since Guillermo has given anyone a handjob, but it can't have gotten more difficult in the past few years, right? 

Nandor is like putty against him, looking extremely undignified with his pants down to his thighs and his hair messed up. Guillermo will fix it later. He'll wash his clothes and comb oil into Nandor's hair and take care of him, the way he always does. 

Nandor bucks his hips, says, "Please," and Guillermo indulges him, strokes him with a firm grip. Nandor's gaze is dark and heavy on him, one hand clutching at Guillermo's waistcoat and the other gripping the door frame behind him, and Guillermo can't help but kiss him. 

He nicks his tongue on one of Nandor's fangs, it might have been an accident, or maybe some part of him wanted it. With a high-pitched whine, Nandor pulls back to stare at him. 

"Guillermo," he warns and his voice cracks. "Be careful." 

Guillermo runs his thumb across the head of Nandor's dick and presses his mouth to his throat. It feels alien, being able to touch Nandor like this, tasting his skin. 

"You know I am," Guillermo murmurs. "You know I want this," and he kisses him again. 

Nandor's hips jerk as Guillermo twists his wrist just so, trying to get a reaction out of him. He wants Nandor on his knees. He wants to get on his knees for him. 

Guillermo can't believe he tried to say no to this. 

"Master," he says and grinds against Nandor in some desperate attempt at getting himself off. It wouldn't take much. 

Nandor takes that as his cue to palm at the front of Guillermo's pants. 

"Don't," Guillermo bites out and Nandor immediately drops his hand. So easy. So eager. 

"Why not?" He almost looks offended, which is cute. 

Guillermo uses his free hand to push Nandor's pants down further. He says, "That's not what this is about," and kisses him one last time. Briefly, barely there. He brushes his thumb along the fading burn on Nandor's cheek, digs his blunt fingernail in to make him hiss, then he sinks to his knees. 

He licks along the underside of Nandor's dick with the flat of his tongue. Above him, Nandor makes a sound like he's dying and his hand comes to rest on Guillermo's head, asking. 

"Go for it," Guillermo says, briefly looking up at him through his lashes. 

Nandor fists his hand in Guillermo's hair, just bordering on too much, and Guillermo wraps his lips around his cock like he always thought he might want to. And he does, he does want to. He wants to be the only thing holding Nandor's attention. Wants to make his legs tremble. Guillermo never thought he could want so desperately, spit-slick lips and hands curled around Nandor's hips, there's nothing in the world that could separate them. 

He settles into a rhythm mostly dictated by need, every sound Nandor makes singes his skin like the cross will one day, and he rubs his own erection through the fabric of his pants. Why is he still wearing clothes? Why is Nandor? Next time they have to do this properly, maybe on a bed, or at the very least on the floor. 

Guillermo reaches up to undo the top button of his shirt and he nearly laughs at how absurd that is. He's fully dressed, and Nandor is shivering apart above him, his dick in Guillermo's mouth, at the back of his throat. 

"Yes," Nandor says, breathless despite the fact he doesn't need to breathe. "Off, Guillermo." 

Guillermo pulls back and looks up at him, frowning. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they've slipped down. "You want me to stop?" 

Nandor's head hits the doorframe with a dull thump, he says, "No, your fucking— All these clothes, why," and the hand in Guillermo's hair slides down to rip open the buttons of his shirt. 

"Hey!" Guillermo protests, but it's also a little hot, so he lets Nandor do it. He slides his waistcoat off his shoulders and it drops down to the floor behind him. 

He looks up at Nandor and finds him staring back intently, his eyes burning. Nandor pushes his hand underneath Guillermo's shirt and somehow that's worse than anything else they've done here, just the feeling of Nandor's fingers along his collarbone, down his chest. Like he wants to touch him so badly he's starving for it. 

With a growl, Nandor goes down on his knees so they are on the same level, kneeling in front of each other. Guillermo runs his fingers through Nandor's thick beard and pushes his thumb against his lower lip. Nandor opens his mouth and takes it, and Guillermo kisses him around his thumb. 

"You're wearing too many clothes," Guillermo says when he pulls back, and Nandor blinks at him, slow and lazy, and shucks off his coat. 

Then he surges forward and gets his hands on the rest of Guillermo's shirt buttons, and that's the end of them. Nandor presses his nose into the dip above Guillermo's collarbone and breathes him in, so deeply Guillermo has to choke down his instincts and stop himself from reaching for the nearest sharp object to drive through his dead heart. 

Instead, Guillermo follows another instinct, spits in his palm and then reaches down to stroke Nandor hard and fast. Nandor's teeth graze the tender skin of his throat and for a moment Guillermo thinks he might bite down, and his whole body braces for it, like accepting the inevitable. But Nandor just follows the point of his fangs with his tongue, then noses down Guillermo's chest. 

Guillermo buries his fingers in Nandor's thick hair, because he wants to and because he can. When he pulls sharply, Nandor's head jerks back and he moans, surprised, his whole body shuddering. His hands are on Guillermo's hips, holding him close as though he might leave otherwise. 

"I can't—" Nandor says hoarsely, "Guillermo. Guillermo. Tell me what to do." 

It sounds like surrender. 

"Just let me take care of you," Guillermo responds and presses his lips against the crown of Nandor's head. "You don't have to do anything." 

Nandor buries his face in Guillermo's neck and lets him. When he comes, he barely makes a sound, he only exhales shakily as he clutches at the back of Guillermo's shirt. 

Guillermo strokes him through it and runs his fingers through Nandor's hair, soothing where he pulled before. 

They don't talk about it. Early that morning, Guillermo helps Nandor get ready for bed the same way he always does. He folds his clothes and buttons up his new shirt, and he doesn't touch him in any way he wouldn't have before. Nandor is quiet the whole time, but he looks at Guillermo more than he should. When Guillermo crosses the room to check the curtains, he feels Nandor's eyes follow him the whole way, and it burns him. 

Guillermo disposes of the body that either Nadja or Laszlo had left in the cell and he scrubs the death off his skin in the shower. It's nearly 10am by the time he goes to bed, and he resolutely doesn't think about Nandor as he curls in on himself in his depressing little room. 

That's a problem for future Guillermo. 

He goes to McDonald's by himself the next night, after tiptoeing around the house and avoiding Nandor for a few hours. Back to the roots, he thinks as he watches Saad's little skull crumple up when he smiles. He used this place to get away from the vampires, and now here he is again.

Except when he takes his tray and turns around to walk to their— to his usual table, he finds Nandor sitting down in the booth like he is meant to be there. Like Guillermo asked him to be there. His hands are folded neatly in front of him on the grey laminate of the table and his eyes meet Guillermo's like a challenge. 

"What the fuck," Guillermo mutters under his breath. Nandor smiles with his teeth, because he absolutely heard him. 

Guillermo puts his tray on the table with more force than necessary. He slides into the booth across from Nandor and unfolds a paper napkin to tuck it into his shirt collar. He peels the lid off his sweet and sour dip. He eats three fries, one by one. 

"Are you pretending I'm not here?" Nandor asks finally, sounding amused. The mark on his cheek has completely healed. 

Guillermo takes a sip of his coke. 

"I just wanted some time away," he says. "Alone." 

"Why?"

"Because I—" Guillermo starts, but falters. He doesn't know how to have this conversation. Everything made sense yesterday, touching Nandor made sense, kissing him, bossing him around. He saw what he could do and decided that he would do it, because he wanted to, because Nandor wanted to. 

Now he just feels restless and odd, not sure what to do with his hands or his feelings.

"I'm just confused," he says lamely. 

Nandor tilts his head. He asks, "Guillermo, are you scared?" 

Guillermo snorts. "I said confused, not scared." 

"Is the same," says Nandor. 

"No, it's really not." 

"What are you scared of?" 

"I'm not— Oh my God, I'm not scared." 

"Then why are you here, running away?" 

Guillermo scowls at him and chews on the plastic straw of his drink. He holds the cup between his hands just to feel the condensation drip down his palm. 

Finally he asks, "Do you really think we aren't friends?" 

"Again with this!" Nandor leans across the table and stares at Guillermo. "Yes, I suppose, Guillermo, you may be my friend. I will allow it. Since you want it so badly." 

"That's not the point. The point is, I don't know what we are. I don't know why we did... what we did yesterday." 

"Sex, Guillermo," Nandor says loudly. "It's called sex." 

"Shut up." Guillermo throws a fry at him and Nandor looks suitably disgusted. 

"Why are you throwing things at me? I'm trying to help you conquer your fears. You should thank me." 

"I'm happy with my fears. I don't want to conquer anything." 

Nandor raises his eyebrows and says, “I think you did some conquering yesterday,” and Guillermo blushes furiously. He hides behind his cup. On the tray, his burger is slowly going cold. 

He asks, “Do you want to do it again?” and feels stupid, immature. Nervous. 

“Ye-es,” Nandor says, drawing it out. “Obviously.” 

Guillermo’s heart leaps in his throat and he nearly crushes the cup with how hard he is gripping it. 

“I thought that is why you wanted to… ‘hang out’,” Nandor elaborates. 

“What?” 

“Like dating.” 

“Hanging out is not— They’re not the same thing.” 

“Eh, similar.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Well, you should have been clearer.” 

Guillermo says, “You should have told me that’s what you thought.” 

“I got you a fucking big… jar of onions or whatever it was. Is that not enough?”

Guillermo grins at him. “I guess it is.” 

“That’s right. Now eat your food. I have better things to do than sitting here!” 

“Really? Like what?” 

Nandor waves his hand, his rings clinking. “You will see, conqueror.” 

With red cheeks, Guillermo looks out at the puddles reflecting neon light in the parking lot. 

Oh, fuck, he thinks. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says. 

“What now?” 

“I think this means I have to tell Laszlo.”