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Fabien could feel Phyre thinking as he stared, unmoving, into the back of their eyelids. He could feel the start and end of thoughts, like brushstrokes, and how some pressed just a bit too hard to the paper of their mind.
It had been a long night, too long maybe, between dealing with the shit in the Underground and everything else and Fabien could easily admit there was a lot to think about.
It was strange though, figuring out how he fit into Phyre’s mind; there was something like a barrier between them, there but not quite. More like a screen or a glass window. Easy to see through but still in the way.
It meant that while apparently it was quite simple for Phyre to hear Fabien’s thoughts, especially if he thought them at an average ‘volume’ in their shared mind, the reverse wasn’t always true.
Whether that was an elder kindred thing or a Lasombra thing or maybe even just that Fabien himself was only a passenger on the choo-choo train to Phyre-town, it was difficult to tell. Sometimes Phyre’s thoughts were easy enough to decipher, like his louder emotions, anger, fear, or his beast rising to meet a challenger.
Or uh, as Fabien had recently found out, all varieties of sexual gratification. That was fun. The man sure did get around, which Fabien meant in a complimentary kind of way.
But anything else was like looking through smoke and shadows at a moving object. Fabien could get the size and shape of Phyre’s thoughts, but nothing much more distinct, not without pressing at the elder’s mind, which would be both extremely noticeable and wildly rude.
He was already an unwanted hanger-on. Prying into Phyre’s thoughts wasn’t a great plan. Fabien trusted that if the Lasombra wanted to tell him something, he’d make himself known.
“You think yourself a hanger-on, Fabien?”
“Hm?”
Phyre opened his eyes, light from the fluorescent overhead lamp bright and invasive. They were still sitting on Dale’s bed, legs crossed.
“You think yourself unwanted. I would have thought this myth would have been dispelled given our previous endeavors at the Makom.”
Phyre’s thoughts cleared, faded, then restructured and resolved themselves into something shaped much more like… fondness.
Fabien sighed.
“No, I just— I’m no expert on blood sorcery but you realize it’s not likely I’ll ever be able to… leave you, right? Or if I do… well.”
“Ah. Is that all?” Phyre laughed, and for some reason the non-chalantness of it ate at Fabien’s patience.
Unusual.
“Phyre, I mean— We’re… enjoying it right now, but it’s all fun and games until you get tired of having a Malkavian in your head, or, I don’t know, I slowly lose what’s left of myself.”
“Yes, and?”
“And,” Fabien felt something like ire rising, which he promptly shoved back into the box it was crawling out of, with force, “Then what happens?”
Phyre shrugged.
“Then we deal with it. It was you who said we were in this together. As partners. Through the mess.”
“Right. Yeah. Yes. Okay.” Fabien felt himself settle, only somewhat uncomfortably, back into the recesses of Phyre’s mind, feeling a little like a cat pet the wrong way.
Instead of responding, the Lasombra closed his eyes again, relegating their mutual consciousness to the inkiness of the inside of their eyelids. Meditating, perhaps?
Fabien decided to try again. He couldn’t leave it like that.
“I don’t blame you, Nomad.”
“……for?”
“Not wanting someone in your head. Even if you do appreciate my finer qualities.” The joke fell a bit flatter than Fabien had intended. Oh well.
Phyre’s psyche manifested again, more solid, more heavy in their mind, but very thankfully, he did not seem keen on pursuing the Malkavian. He was just… there.
Fabien suddenly felt oddly exposed, despite having no physical presence in the room.
“It would not have been my first choice, to have someone inside my own mind, Fabien.” Phyre finally conceded, “but I do not dislike it as much as I would have expected. It is a comfort.”
Fabien snorted.
“You are comforted by strange things, oh great and wondrous Nomad.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply accepting of the things in the world that I cannot change. There is something of that acceptance that does come with age, Fabien. To find oneself less concerned with the why on its own and more concerned with the solutions.”
Fabien floundered for a moment, stuck between wondering why Phyre wasn’t more disturbed by their situation and being sort of thankful they’d found what common ground they had. And why should he argue with a good thing?
There wasn’t usually much common ground between elders and ancilla, and especially not Malkavian ancilla that never shut up.
Fabien finally landed on agreeing, sort of.
“Well. Fine.”
Phyre said nothing, but the heavy weight of him in their mind felt almost closer now. Waiting. Circling?
No. No, was Phyre… worried? It wasn’t an exact match for the feeling, but he wasn’t circling or stalking inside their mind, he was… hovering.
Oh. Phyre was worried about him? That made a strange sort of sense. The elder kindred felt, and keenly, as so many of their kind did. He was just better at keeping it stuffed away.
“You are hiding, Fabien. Cornered. Unsure. This is most unlike you.”
“I just… need rest, Phyre. I’m sorry.”
And Fabien was sorry, it was true. It wasn’t like him to react with so many raised hackles and spines.
“What would comfort you?”
The sudden question stopped the younger Malkavian in his metaphorical tracks for a moment, surprised but also not at Phyre’s straight-forwardness.
Oh, Phyre. Bless him, really. He was shockingly sweet at times, spine-ripping not withstanding.
But Fabien wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. What would be a comfort right now? What would bring that itch in the back of his psyche to a bearable level? Solving any number of impossible seeming cases would do it, but that was a work in progress.
“I… could we try some music? I used to put on show tunes, back in my old place but maybe Dale has something?”
“As you wish.” Phyre was on his feet before his eyes were even open, crossing the room to turn his careful attention to the magical musical box there.
It took them a few minutes of back and forth, and of reading through record titles, most were not to either Phyre or Fabien’s tastes, but eventually they’d gotten the thing working and the soft sounds of a guitar being plucked had spread through the dingy room.
Hm. It was better. It was helping, a bit.
It seemed to help Phyre too, maybe, who had returned to his spot on the bed.
They both sunk into an extended silence inside their shared mind, with Phyre listening to the music and Fabien hearing it through his senses in turn, how Phyre would focus on one note or chord and play it again inside his mind when the music repeated a refrain. Through the sifting, shifting barrier, Phyre’s thoughts evened into something reflective and calm, and then… a not-quite-there but very very strong scene solidified in front of Fabien inside the Lasombra’s mind. Not quite a vision, or a memory, but a memory of a memory.
White, delicately carved stone, curving up into vaulted ceilings hanging above in the moonlight like hand-made icicles. Walls carved with such care, such delicate, beautiful craftsmanship it would bring you to tears. Mosaics, made from hundreds of thousands of pieces, each placed with such monumental care it was extraordinary any being could have made them, never mind mortal hands.
Or maybe especially extraordinary that it was mortals. They had so much patience for being so short-lived.
The music flowed in the place, into the memory, someone playing a guitar too, echoing around pillars and spilling into a courtyard with a clear, still channel of water at its centre and plants of all sorts.
Fabien hummed contentedly, and then Phyre’s psyche gave him what could only be described as a gentle… nudge?
Fabien half-expected the memory of a memory to fall apart, but it didn’t. Instead it solidified into something more, almost real.
Not quite like the sunflower field, but similar enough in concept. A controlled vision, shrouded in Phyre’s memory.
The water of the long pool rippled, then calmed again, and Fabien could see the courtyard more clearly. Could smell the plants, see the marble stonework of the walls and pillars, see the stars and milkyway twinkling above them.
He wasn’t quite there. Neither was Phyre. But they were still standing at the water’s edge, watching the reflection of olive and orange trees in the water.
“…where are we?” Fabien whispered his question, not wanting to break the carefully constructed gift he was being shown.
“España. Spain. A palace called Alhambra. Built long before I was born, by Muslim conquerors of Spain. Reconquered by the Christians in the time of Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. It was where the court of Prince Mergildo de Viana was held while I was his guest of honour for some years beginning in, oh…” Fabien could feel Phyre reference times, places, in his mind. “Seventeen twenty-two, I believe. I was still young.”
A sparrow, unusual to see at night, flitted amongst the branches of the olive tree across the courtyard from them.
“It’s…. beautiful, Phyre.”
It was. There weren’t really any other words for it, for the level of detail in every wall, every shuttered window, every arch and every pillar.
“I am glad to do it some modicum of justice. I thought so too. One of the single most beautiful places I have ever been, even in disrepair as it was at the time. I would sit for hours, at the pleasure of the Prince, listening to the music he insisted must be playing at all hours. For it was not España without music, he said.”
Fabien looked around, across the water to the moonlit shadows that seemed nearly alive underneath the overhangs and pillars. He smothered the urge to do anything too quickly or forcefully, lest he shatter the vision.
It was, however, surprisingly strong, particularly for someone who wasn’t Malkavian, but then, memories and visions were only as substantial as the mind constructing them, and the Nomad was nothing if not a sheer force of will.
With a careful hand, Fabien reached out to touch the water, and instead of breaking as he feared it might, it rippled, cold and cool.
“We should travel.”
Fabien jerked back, startled.
Phyre’s voice came from beside him instead of from their shared spot in the illusion.
Fabien turned, carefully avoiding brushing against reality as the Nomad’s form clarified into being, standing next to him.
He looked the same as Fabien remembered, of course, perks of being kindred, but for his clothes and hair.
His hair was longer, pulled back in a surprisingly elaborate style that went nearly past his shoulders, contrasting with the cream-coloured embroidered silk of… well. Fabien wasn’t sure what that kind of outfit was even called. Was it Spanish? Arabian of some kind? Turkish? It was definitely silk and it was definitely expensive, he could tell that much.
Phyre’s eyes were outlined in deep, delicate charcoal, accentuating his golden-brown irises, in a style Fabien could only really associate with more eastern countries. Or maybe old movies?
He was beautiful, as beautiful as the scene they were inhabiting. Maybe more. Definitely more.
“Sorry?” Fabien finally said, feeling a bit stupid in the grandeur and only just remembering that the Nomad had actually, you know, said something.
“I said; we should travel.” Phyre’s expression was open. Relaxed. A far cry from what Fabien could feel from him when he was dealing with problems of the Court as its Sheriff. “When this is all over. When the mark is removed and we are free. There is a world out there, Fabien. As beautiful as Seattle is, there is more.”
“Maybe. If I still…” Fabien lingered in the moment, let his words float off. Phyre didn’t need him to say what they both knew, not now.
The sparrow had disappeared from the olive branch, replaced instead by some other bird that Fabien couldn’t identify, dappled and somewhat chubby, with large, pitch-black eyes and a wide beak.
Said pitch-black eyes which turned and made direct eye-contact with the detective.
Phyre made a delighted sound, and oh, Fabien would commit it to memory. Forever, if he could.
“Çobanaldatan.”
“What?”
“A… Hm. I am afraid I do not actually know the name of the bird in English. It means… deceiver of the shepard?”
The bird peered at them both. Fabien peered back.
“That… doesn’t make any sense.”
Phyre shrugged lightly. “No. I think it makes more sense in Türkçe. The language names things strangely to a native speaker of English.”
They lapsed into silence for a while, Fabien watching the strange little bird who had gotten bored of staring into his soul and had begun to hop from branch to branch in the moonlight, inspecting olives as it went.
“What was Spain like? Your time there?”
“Warm. Comfortable. It was only a few years after a mortal war over succession, but then, people are always fighting over thrones, kindred and kine both. I was the guest of honour of the Prince of Granada, as I mentioned, but it was… a gilded cage.” Phyre tilted his head. “It was not bad, I have long understood how to maneuver myself in the courts of kings and Princes, even when I was alive.”
“Right. You were a vizier or something?”
The bird jumped down from the olive tree to inspect the clear water of the pool, wings ruffled.
“I was. Do you know what a Devshirme is?”
“Uh, no. Safia mentioned it, though, didn’t she?”
God, Phyre was so beautiful, face shadowed by his hair, staring across the water with that wistful look to him that would have been dangerous to be so free with around most other kindred. Why did Fabien get to see this? What made him so special?
“Yes.” Phyre’s eyes were on Fabien again, knowing, looking at, not through him. “Devshirme means blood tax. It was the practise of taking young boys away from their Christian families under the sultan’s rule and training them to be soldiers and bureaucrats. A way to punish families that were not the majority religion, and to train up loyal men dedicated to only the crown rather than their own blood.”
Oh. The way Phyre spoke was even and collected, but… it was raw. Hundreds of years later and it was a wound in his mind, still. History was full of monsters, wasn’t it? Humanity was so capable of cruelty.
“And you were one of these?”
“Mm.” The bird had disappeared. Phyre knelt, slowly, at the water’s edge, and even in his conjured memory his reflection was obscured by shadow and formless light, as it was for all of Lasombra’s childer. “I was, indeed. But I was not from a Christian family. Muslims were safe from their sons being taken, but… some, you see, saw it as a way to get rid of younger sons or to progress their place in society if their son became esteemed. If you could not afford a good education for your youngest son, and he was only another mouth to feed, you might, as my parents did, bribe the officials who collected the Christian boys from their families.”
“Your parents sold you?”
The Nomad laughed, mostly without humour, but there was still something lighter in it than Fabien would have expected for the topic.
“If you wish to be technical, they paid for someone to take me away.”
“That’s mighty fucked up, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Phyre’s mind, his tight hold on the shared memory, felt less heavy at Fabien’s words. Somewhat joyous, maybe, as odd as it was for the subject matter. Trusting.
Oh, Phyre.
“So, they, er… had you taken away to be trained, and then you became a Vizier?”
“Indeed. I was skilled. Eventually I came to work directly for the Sultan; a man renowned for his cruelty and heavy-handed tactics. I advised on matters of war and politics. I was ruthless and calculating and everything they trained me to be. I was feared by many.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “It did not save me.”
Fabien hummed for a moment, then sat and carefully, willfully, began sliding his brown leather shoes off.
“Your mortal life sounds more interesting than mine, I’ll give you that. Shit, but definitely more interesting.”
Socks should come off too. It might have been a dream or memory or an illusion or all three at once, but Fabien was not about to walk around with soggy socks. No thank you.
“So how did you end up in Spain?”
“Ah, I was still young at that time. I had been travelling since my Embrace, on and off, for almost eighty years, and when I ended up in Granada, the Prince… took a shine to me, we shall say. I stayed for only a few years but...”
Fabien could feel Phyre’s amusement as he tucked his socks into his shoes and scooted forward to the edge of the pool to dip his toes into the crystalline water.
“He took a shine to you?”
The Nomad inclined his head ever so slightly, his amusement now evident in his eyes too. Maybe that’s what people meant when they said ‘twinkling with mirth.’
“How explicit do you want me to be?”
“Oh.” Fabien nodded his understanding. Damn, the water was cold. Almost made him shiver, probably an artifact of the illusion. “That kind of shine. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You flatter me.”
“I’m not trying to, honest, you just….” Fabien looked out over the water. It felt ridiculous, even in the confines of his own mind. Their own mind. “I can see why someone would want you as arm candy.”
There was that fondness again. As though telling someone they looked good on someone else’s arm was a compliment.
“Whatever you’re imagining, it was far more deplorable, but I enjoyed every second. It was there that I learned that even things that seem like they will last forever… will not. I have seen empires that I thought incapable of changing fall apart. I have seen countries and peoples disappear into history, Fabien. Nothing stays. Especially for kindred.”
Fabien felt the ghost, the concept, of a hand touch his shoulder, ever so lightly, and leaned back into it. The night was warm but not stifling and the water-that-wasn’t-really-there was cold; a perfect balance.
“No.” Fabien agreed, finally. “No, it does not. But we have now, don’t we? Insane as it may be.”
There was no answer, not for a few seconds that stretched into a moments, but when Fabien turned, wondering and worried that the daydream might have faded, Phyre was still there, inches from him, staring. Silent.
“What?” Fabien finally ventured. Had he said something strange? Done something stupid?
“We do have now, yes.”
And then Phyre was kissing him.
Sort of?
Neither of them were there, not really, but Fabien could still feel it. Phyre pulling at the edges of reality to impose a thought here, a feeling there, of cold, kindred lips against cold, kindred lips, hungry and soft and insistent.
The feeling of fangs nipping ever-so-gently at him, a hand on his jaw, coaxing his head back to deepen the kiss. Phyre’s tongue gently asking permission to go further, and suddenly Fabien was grappling wildly at the shared dream with his own psyche, and the elder just… surrendered to it. Gave in, just like that.
Not even a hesitation.
He simply let Fabien take control of this memory-that-wasn’t-a-memory, let him shape it and corral it until it redefined itself and was the same but slightly different.
There was grass now, green and full of life, which Fabien could see when he pulled back because he was apparently sitting fully atop the elder Lasombra’s lap, who was sprawled haphazardly in the aforementioned grass looking slightly dazed and more than a bit pleased to be there.
The untamed grass didn’t really make sense in the courtyard of carefully curated bushes and trees and what had previously been marble slabs on the ground.
Luckily, it didn’t need to make sense.
“Fabie—“
Fabien wasn’t about to let him finish his sentence. Or really start it for that matter. Whatever he had to say could be said later. Right now, wherever here was, Fabien had this, had control.
And Phyre. He had Phyre.
Fabien kissed him again, softly, and with a bit more mental effort, the scene shifted slightly again, the moonlight fading to be replaced by the sun, hot, cloying, dangerous when real, but only a mirage of the actual thing.
When he pulled away again, Phyre’s face below him was cloaked in Fabien’s own shadow, but his eyes glowed, fangs bared slightly in a self-satisfied little smirk.
Fabien leaned down, yanked Phyre’s head up, and really kissed him this time. Hard.
With tongue, thank you.
Which the elder seemed to deeply appreciate the idea and execution of, because all the willpower and certainty that was Phyre surged up to meet the Malkavian, a storm of need and satisfaction.
It was a good thing Fabien couldn’t faint, because the hungry, desperate noise that Phyre made in response to him pulling away again was so attractive it verged on painful.
“You’re a goddamn animal, Nomad.”
The heavy, hot feeling of hips bucking up to meet his own filled Fabien’s mind.
“I am. Always. If I could sink my teeth into you, ah—“
Fabien moved to pin the elder’s hands above his head, willing their pocket of not-quite-reality into one where he was somehow more physically powerful than Phyre, leaning forward to leer over him, to turn every ounce of practised perception onto the form writhing under him.
“You already sunk your teeth into me once, Phyre. Surely I should get a turn?”
Phyre growled, low and wanting, and so, so, needy.
The desperation was palpable, radiating off Phyre into their shared mind, showing up as flashes of memory and sparks of intriguing ideas that Fabien would have to investigate to their fullest extend later.
Phyre wanted him. Him.
Fabien had never bitten him, of course, so that wasn’t a memory he could conjure. In fact, he’d never really shared blood with another kindred, not in that particular way that was apparently better than sex.
But he remembered what it felt like to be consumed. Painful and anything except gentle, but it too had been pleasure over pain until the last few seconds, if he ignored his face being beaten in.
And he remembered what his Embrace had been like, the terror, the fear, and then the overwhelming and complete sense of need. Of acceptance. Of pleasure.
He could focus on that, surely.
Phyre was panting, however unnecessarily, below him, hands still caught in Fabien’s grasp, naked and—
Oh, he was naked now. They both were. That was nice. Had Fabien willed that into being? He could work with that.
Phyre was laid out beneath him, a memory of warmth to his unmarred skin; no sign of the blood sorcery that had bound them both here.
It took only a moment of slowly leaning forward til their chests touched, closer and closer to the Lasombra in his grip, breathing hot through his own teeth, for Phyre to understand his intentions, and God.
Phyre actually keened, tipped his head back like he was offering Fabien everything, the line of his throat bared and glorious.
Which he was. Glorious. Surely the legendary Nomad knew of his effect on people. On Fabien, most importantly.
Fabien wondered idly if the Prince of Granada had ever taken Phyre here in the real version of this courtyard, opening him under the starlight like some kind of fucked up metaphor of a flower, all begging words and cries into the night.
Fabien pressed his nose against the crook of Phyre’s neck, nipping at his jaw, drawing in the powerful scent of the elder through memory, forcing it to be real within the boundaries of their space.
He smelled like wine, somehow. Crisp and sharp and with a hint of something raw, like soil after rain.
He hovered, not-quite hesitating, but tasting along the line of Phyre’s throat, pressing small bites to the skin here and there; not enough to bleed but enough to warn.
Phyre honest-to-god whined in his ear, exceptionally pathetic in the loveliest possible way, and Fabien slowly, so slowly, pressed his fangs to the tender flesh of Phyre’s throat.
He didn’t even need to bite, not for Phyre to react, apparently, because the writhing elder stilled in his grip, waiting for those fangs to sink in.
He waited. And waited some more. Until finally…
“…Fabien.”
Fabien smiled, certain that his willing captive could feel it through their shared mind. Or maybe against his cool skin.
“Phyre.”
“You are a tease.” Somehow the way Phyre said it sounded more like an accusation than a compliment, but either was fine.
God, this was good.
Could it even be improved? Maybe not. All Fabien could do was try.
Phyre gave a noise of disappointed pleasure as Fabien pulled away, just far enough to make eye contact.
“Tell me what you want, Phyre.”
The elder kindred below him made a desperate noise, soft, but bordering on angry almost, though Fabien knew he was not. He could feel how much he was enjoying this; being taken at another’s leisure. At Fabien’s.
The simple idea of being taken, of being wanted, in such a public display, even if they were technically alone.
“I want you to—“ A gasp as the Malkavian rolled his hips down to meet Phyre’s, a little unpractised but eliciting the result he wanted anyway, that sweet friction. “Drink me, Fabien. Please.”
So Fabien did. He’d asked so nicely after all, it would have been rude not to.
He pressed his lips back to Phyre’s jugular, to the point where he could have felt the beating of his heart if he had still been alive, drew on what memories he had of being drunk from, and sunk his fangs into his partner’s throat.
It was… divine. That was the only word for it.
The rush of memory and emotion from Phyre invaded Fabien’s senses, the most erotic and pleasant memories of feeding and being fed from in an unlife that stretched nearly half a millenium washed over Fabien like a tide. The pain and pleasure of being sunk into, the pull of vitae from veins, the thick and heavy taste of sweet, rich kindred blood against his tongue. The most desperately glorious quenching of thirst.
And, God on high, the noise Phyre made was obscene.
His hips rolled up to meet Fabien’s again and when Fabien let go of his hands to yank Phyre’s head back even further, his claws dug into the younger kindred’s back, sure to leave bloody trails if any of it had been real.
Fabien felt his beast rearing, not dangerously so, but enough to make him want to take, to possess.
And for once, it was allowed.
He sunk his fangs in further, more, dragged Phyre’s vitae over his tongue and teeth as he drank, and reveled in the other kindred pulling him closer to facilitate their joining.
No wonder so many kindred went around getting themselves stupidly blood-bonded to the worst possible people.
To say it was addictive was an understatement. And this was just from their shared memories? Clearly Fabien had been missing out.
But as they said, there was no time quite like the present, and in the present, Phyre was pressing himself against Fabien like he was trying to crawl inside his skin.
Ironic.
Very sexy though. There were claws raking down his spine, one hand finding the back of Fabien’s head to keep him locked against Phyre’s throat, hips pressing up against his own over and over and over again. Perfect. Lovely.
The feeling of drawing vitae from the wound quickened in a strange way, sharpened around them, and Fabien was suddenly aware that Phyre would quickly be reaching a dangerous point of bloodloss, if this hadn’t been a memory folded into a vision.
It felt real enough, so with one last draught, Fabien carefully withdrew, despite Phyre’s delightful noises of protest.
When he pulled back, blood dripped sluggishly from the open wound on Phyre’s throat, trailing paths Fabien wanted so desperately to follow with his tongue, and Phyre was heaving in breaths of air like he needed them to live.
The Nomad was certainly something else, but here? He didn’t look like the monster or the animal he did in battle. A force of nature, yes, something raw and primal, sure. His fangs were still bared and the beast still lingering at the edges, but it wasn’t… Hm. It was different.
Phyre’s eyes were wide, pupils blown to ridiculous proportions, nearly black with his shadowy Lasombra birthright. His dark hair framed his face, mused and unkept. He looked… wild, flushed and powerful.
Every ounce the infamous kindred that he was.
And he was staring up at Fabien like Fabien was the same sort of creature as he was. As though they had ever, at any point, been on an equal playing field.
Fabien licked his lips, the vitae there still heavy and sweet, and watched as Phyre tracked the movement of his tongue.
“Is this weird?” Fabien finally asked, like an idiot, and maybe he was, but Phyre was still staring at him like he was the moon itself and frankly, he wasn’t really sure what to say.
“Is this—? Fabien.” Phyre let his head fall back against the green, green grass with an audibly dull thunk.
“What? It’s a valid question. Do you think this counts as masturbation? A sin against the Lord and all that?”
And Phyre was laughing now, even as blood dripped sluggishly from the open wound on his neck, eyes light with mirth.
Fabien thought it was a far better look on him than just a beast of a kindred capable of taking people’s heads off their shoulders like they were rubber dolls.
“You have the strangest timing with words, detective.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” Fabien shrugged. “I’m getting the impression you really, truly don’t mind me in your head, which is a lot more strange, I think. Maybe I’m the normal one.”
Phyre only shrugged, then reached one hand up to softly tilt Fabien’s jaw, like he was examining something precious, running his remarkably sharp nails along his throat with delicate precision.
Fabien wondered what he saw. Was Fabien even… corporeal, so-to-speak, in this vision? Phyre had never seen his face, not while he was, well. Conscious.
Hopefully he didn’t look like the version of himself they’d found on the warehouse floor. That would be… disturbing. Yuck. Brains were supposed to be on the inside.
“You look like yourself, Fabien.” Phyre’s fingertips were wandering, tracing circles in the wispy hairs at the nape of Fabien’s neck.
“How do you know what I look like?”
“Ah, there was a picture of you on a wall in the police office. A newspaper article.”
Phyre traced the shell of his ear and Fabien had to stop himself from shivering at the contact.
“What is this, Phyre? What are we?”
The Nomad’s response was to pull him down into another kiss, open-mouthed and fangs sliding against one another.
Fabien could taste Phyre, sharing the remnants of what he’d taken from the elder, and he was almost sure he could taste himself, too. Something he could barely identify but flowed from Phyre’s memory like a leaf floating down a stream.
They parted long after Fabien lost track of counting the seconds, and Phyre breathed slowly into the centimeters of space between them.
“Fabien. We are partners, as you have said.”
“This isn’t going to end… well. Even if it doesn’t end badly, it won’t end well. I—“
“Fabien.”
Golden irises stared into Fabien’s soul and held him there. Riveted him in place. Not with any supernatural powers, but with an aura of certainty.
“If it is to end poorly, then it will be because of someone else’s actions. Not mine, and not yours. If it is inevitable, then it is inevitable. All things end. All things die. What I have learned in nearly five hundred years of existence is not to throw away what I have simply because some day I will lose it.”
There was silence. A crawling, itching silence in which Fabien desperately wished he could say what he meant, then wished he knew what he meant, and then finally, he simply sighed.
Elder kindred really had everything, didn’t they? Good at popping heads off, good at intimate acts of debauchery, good at having wisdom on hand in insane circumstances. It was unfair.
“Right. No throwing the baby out with the bathwater, huh?”
Phyre tilted his head, difficult though it was from his place laying on the grass.
“Indeed. Now, if I may…?”
Fabien was about to ask what he meant by that, what he intended, but then Phyre smiled.
A perfect smile, too, all teeth and pearly white fangs, and suddenly he was gripping Fabien by the hair and flipping them both over a startling display of speed, though it shouldn’t have really been a surprise given the feats of strength Fabien had seen the elder achieve.
Fabien heard himself make a somewhat undignified yelp, and found himself staring up at Phyre, who was now straddling him with all the non-chalantness of a… uh.
Gosh, Phyre really was a pretty picture, framed in the memory of sunlight behind him.
“I have some further memories to share, güvercinim. If you would be interested?”
Oh.
It was safe to assume that Fabien was very, very interested indeed.
~~~~~~~~
Art by WarieLym/Thornb4ck on Tumblr! I am utterly flabbergasted and flattered that someone was inspired enough by my work to make art of it. Posted with permission