By Quon and Tom
9.
Carlos choked as runnels of blood ran down his throat ticklishly; he ached
with furious pain and a million shards of fragmented, piercing stings. He pried open
sore eyes, eyes that had quickly blackened with the fierce wrath of Paul’s fists.
“Paul?” It hurt to speak.
“I’m sorry, Carlos, I’m so sorry.” Paul’s eyes were filling with tears.
“Paul…” Carlos whispered against the dripping wrist pressed to his lips.
“Stop.”
“Please, Carlos. Just do it!” Paul mumbled, nudging Carlos’s lips with his
wrist. The vampire’s dark eyes closed in resignation and Paul winced as the bassist
latched to the deep cut Paul had opened for him. He sucked gently, and Paul tried
not to tremble at the feeling.
Paul thought that Carlos looked better already as he released his arm and
leaned back against the wall, lips painted with dry and fresh blood. He watched Paul
through puffy, blackened eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Paul murmured, leaning forward to kiss
Carlos’s bloody lips. Carlos turned him aside.
“Maybe you’d better just go now,” Carlos whispered roughly. Paul blinked
in surprise and frowned.
“But Carlos…”
“You should go,” Carlos repeated solemnly.
“But you’re hurt. Can’t I just—”
“Paul, go. Now.” The black-haired man said as firmly as he could. Paul got
to his feet.
“I’m sorry, Carlos.” He whispered once more.
“Will you just go!” Paul saw that Carlos was healing as time went by,
knotlike bruises receding and bleeding cuts closing by the moment. A vampire’s
blessing.
“You’re not the animal. Or the freak. I am.” Paul whispered as he shut the
door behind him.
Carlos hauled himself to the bed, lay face-down in the pillows, and cried
himself into an uneasy, pained sleep as his strange body repaired itself.
Paul sat in the kitchen for an hour at least, covered in blood and exhausted.
The sudden adrenaline had finally receded, and Paul was left alone, shivering, in the
dark, to think about what he had done to Carlos. To a man he now realised would
have gone to the ends of the earth in his love for Paul.
How could Carlos forgive him for what he had done? Paul stared at the deep
crimson rift in his wrist, still leaking a few small trails of blood down his arms. He
touched the sore spots on his knuckles: pains of fury and hate. He touched the small
punctures on his neck: pains of love and passion, Carlos’s own version of it. Paul
had managed to misunderstand Carlos in every way possible about this, even when
he wanted to be a helping hand and a crying shoulder. He had managed to fuck it all
up for both of them. What if Carlos dies? What if I killed him?
Paul licked absently at his wrist, thinking about Carlos, or trying not to think
about anything at all. He felt too tired to do anything more. Curling up catlike on
the sleek wood floor, he closed his eyes and slept.
The apartment became his cell for the next twenty-four hours. He paced the
cold wooden floors, scratching his wrists with frustration. He was hungry too. The
fridge was empty except for a few curling slivers of pancetta. The freezer contained
box after box of blood-red steak and tender venison, the color of a bruise. Paul drank
water, drank coffee and alcohol. His feet learnt the steps to the bathroom, knew how
to turn to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror.
Behind the bedroom door, Carlos lay beneath the covers, his body heavy
with sleep. Sleep: it repaired and rejuvenated his slim pale body, but left his heart as
mangled and raw as ever. Even in the surreal torpor of the deepest dreams, thoughts
came unbidden. There were thoughts of Paul, trying to hurt him, hating him with a
fury that made his eyes burn like blue flame. There were thoughts of murder, and
fear in the hearts of all those he called his friends. Then there were thoughts of
death, and the sweet release that would bring.
At some time, some unknown gloomy hour, the bedroom door opened to
reveal Paul silhouetted in the light from the lounge, a carving knife clenched in his
hand. He walked towards the bed and Carlos waited for the end.
“You shouldn’t live like this,” said the figure, a smudgy sketch in darkness
and blond. “This is no way to go through life, scared and alone, hated by your
friends and cowering in your bed.”
Carlos rolled onto his back, stretching his neck as he waited for the blade to
pierce his flesh. Once, twice…how many blows would it take to rid him of this curse
and leave him as a crumpled, bloody - but undoubtedly human - corpse?
“Trust me, Carlos, this is for the best.”
Carlos braced himself for the pain.
When it came, he almost cried out in surprise. It was no brutal stab or
butchering slice. It was a scratch, the tiniest slit made on the side of his wrist. Blood
flowed in a small vivid trickle.
“Please trust me, Carlos, I want to help you.”
Carlos opened his eyes in time to watch Paul mount his tender body. Legs
astride his hips, his warmth gently enveloped the vampire. Paul held Carlos’ gaze,
his eyes at once wild, optimistic and terrified.
“Trust me,” he intoned, and hesitantly raised his friend’s wrist to his mouth.
Vampire’s blood glittered before his eyes. He licked his lips.
“You’ll never be alone again, Carlos, I promise you that with all my heart.”
Bringing Carlos’s bleeding wrist to his lips, Paul drank as a vampire would.