The Taste of Red 1/2
Title: The Taste of Red
Author: jzbell
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (past Brendon/William, vague mentions of Jon/Cassie)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex, vampire gore. If you are skeptical of vampire sex, or squicked by bloodplay, you probably don't want to try to read this, as there is an abundance of both. Sticklers for vampire lore might want to skip it, too, since I drew from a variety of sources and took quite a few liberties.
Summary: It would seem absurdly ordinary, Ryan waking up next to another body like this, except for the fact that Brendon's not breathing.
Disclaimer: I'm not even implying that this might be real.
Notes: Vampire fic inspired by Fall Out Boy's "A Little Less 16 Candles..." video. This is basically a hugely expanded version of the vampire ficlet I wrote last November. I've always wanted to write a fic in this 'verse, only with lots of vampire sex and no gang fights at all. Voila! Endless thanks to kkpixie and notshybutsly and fizzyblogic for betaing. Title courtesy of Butch Walker.

For theaerosolkid, for her birthday. ♥

17,000 words, split into 2 posts. Follow the link at the bottom of this page to get to part 2.



Ryan's walking out of the club alone, having given up on finding companionship, when he notices the dark-haired guy in the pale suit.

He's just standing there, like he's been waiting, and their eyes meet. The guy smiles underneath the brim of his white hat, and there's something vaguely wicked about it, about him, something alluring.

"It's not closing time," he says, and his voice sounds like red velvet, rich and warm, "didn't find what you were looking for?"

Ryan shivers, bites his lip. "Not in there," he says, his throat dry. He knows he shouldn't be hopeful, he doesn't even know this guy, but he can't help the way his blood starts throbbing in his veins, and shit, he needs this.

"Well," the stranger says, "maybe I can help you out." His eyes are so warm that Ryan feels embarrassed, exposed. The smile widens, a little, and that's when Ryan notices the fangs.

His breath catches in his throat; it can't be.

Can it?

"I'm Brendon," he says, voice still low.

"Ryan," Ryan breathes. Brendon touches his wrist with gloved fingers and Ryan can actually feel the cold seeping through the white fabric, and oh, God, maybe it can be.

Ryan follows anyway.

*

Brendon's apartment is somehow less of a lair than Ryan had imagined as they were walking over. He’d heard stories, he always thought vampires were different, were... something, but no, there's a kitchen and a bathroom and the clothes on the floor of the bedroom are jeans and t-shirts, nothing like the fitted suit and silky cravat he was wearing outside the club.

The sheets on Brendon's bed are cotton, not satin, and Ryan's almost disappointed, probably would be if it weren’t for Brendon laying him on the bed and climbing on top of him, moving with some staccato combination of grace and energy, skin cool, dark eyes hot.

"What are you going to do now?" Ryan asks, breathless.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Brendon responds, trailing an icy finger down Ryan's skin.

"You-- you're gonna bite me," Ryan says, and Brendon smirks.

"I'm going to fuck you."

And he does.

*

He's cold everywhere he's touching Ryan, even cold when he pushes inside him, and Ryan shakes and shivers, gasping as Brendon rocks his hips and buries his face in Ryan's neck.

Brendon drives deep, steady and cool, God, too cool, and Ryan whines from it. Brendon lifts his head, eyes shining with something convincingly like sadness, "Yeah, I know. Here--"

He angles his head back in and Ryan feels the brush of his lips and the sting and slice of Brendon's teeth, feels every sensation acutely, razor sharp and hot, feels stupidly, amazingly alive.

Brendon seals his mouth to the side of Ryan's neck, tonguing the wounds, sucking so hard that Ryan would swear he feels the pull in the feet he has hooked around the back of Brendon's legs.

The warmth spreads like a blush through Brendon's body and Ryan can feel it where they're pressed together, a sudden infusion of heat through their torsos downward. Brendon's cock flushes hot and Ryan can feel that too, feel it where he's stretched around, where Brendon's pushing in. So hot, my heat, Ryan thinks wildly, shuddering because it's simultaneously the most terrifying and the most erotic thing he's ever felt.

"Ryan," Brendon says, low and wet, and the hand he wraps around Ryan's cock is sure and strong and hot. Ryan chokes out a sound like a sob, gripping Brendon's shoulders, and Brendon moves in to suck again at his neck.

Instead of losing body heat like Ryan might've expected, it seems like it's actually doubling as Brendon drinks, building, burning, and Ryan thinks blearily that this is it, this is the best. Even if Brendon doesn't kill him, he'll be ruined after this, the vague intimacy of normal sex will be nothing without this, without a mouth on him, feeling the draw in every cell in his body, Brendon on him, in him, and him inside Brendon, too, rushing through Brendon's veins...

He isn't really sure when he starts to come, everything's too hazy, but suddenly he is, and it's crashing over him and he's arching and crying out, can feel it everywhere, too much, too much but perfect, perfect.

It's Brendon who brings him back, holding him tight and talking him through it, licking his neck until he stops bleeding. Brendon pulls back and Ryan can see him, flushed, mouth swollen and red, and Brendon ducks to kiss him; the taste of his own blood on Brendon's lips is the last thing he's aware of before he passes out.

*

It's still pitch dark when Ryan first blinks his eyes open; it takes him a minute to realize there are blackout shades on the windows and they’re pulled tight. He can feel Brendon's body--the vampire's body--curled near his, not cold, but maybe not quite as warm as it should be either. Something about that makes his throat tighten, and he slips out of the bed, squinting around for his jeans, trying not to panic but suddenly desperate to get out. He needs... something. Light, maybe, air; he can’t see, can’t fucking think.

When he stumbles out the bedroom door and into the daylight, he blinks some more, shocked all over again at the casual shittiness of Brendon’s apartment. It just might be shittier than his own, which would be quite an accomplishment, given his roommate's sense of hygiene and his own skills at housework. Still, his own apartment doesn't sound very appealing right now, either. Somehow these thoughts, along with a faint echo of Brendon’s big eyes bouncing around in his mind and the pleasant ache clinging to his limbs, stop him short. He pauses, checking his phone for the time, 4:41, and averts his path from the front door.

Taking a deep breath, Ryan walks into the kitchen instead. A quick glance around confirms that Brendon doesn’t have so much as a stray packet of chicken ramen, and so Ryan just wipes out a glass and fills it with water.

He clears himself a place on Brendon’s sofa in the living room, digging the remote out from underneath a pastel hoodie to turn on the TV, settling in. Brendon doesn’t have cable, though, and rifling through the stacks of DVDs on the floor seems like too much work. Ryan’s thoughts swirl; he thinks about his apartment, Jon, Jon and Cassie, how Jon doesn't have time to hang out with him now that he has Cassie, leaving Ryan to go prowling around clubs. Prowling maybe isn't the right word for what he does; moping, maybe. Prowling is what Brendon was doing, outside in the shadows, waiting.

The thoughts spiral back to Brendon and the night before, the sex, how Brendon was waiting for him, how good it had felt, and how he'd really like to do it again. Maybe if he hangs around long enough, they could.

The memories are feeling slightly hazy, though, like the smoke from the club had followed him right out the door, into the street, into the bedroom. Ryan’s head is hurting now that he's awake, throbbing behind his eyes; thinking is too much work. Lifting the glass to drink seems like too much work. Ryan is exhausted. Ryan is really fucking hungry.

He finishes his water slowly, sitting and breathing and vaguely pondering Brendon’s dark dark eyes and the fact that there probably isn't even anyone wondering where he is. Eventually he forces himself to stand. He deposits the glass in the sink and heads for the door.

*

There's a little store on the corner of the block Brendon lives on, and Ryan almost walks on by. He pauses, though, touching his wallet through his pocket. He knows he's got a little cash left from his last paycheck, and he already paid Jon for the next month's rent. He doesn't exactly have that job anymore, apparently retail stores don't look kindly on "apathy and excessive tardiness." He will have to eat, though, somewhere, one way or another. He thinks of Brendon poised above him, Brendon mouthing his neck, Brendon curled up alone in that bed.

What the hell, he thinks. Why not?

*

When Brendon shuffles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and bedheaded and really not very threatening at all, Ryan’s sitting on the counter finishing up a bowl of Easy Mac and nursing a bottle of Gatorade. He’d seen the Gatorade on the shelf and he doesn’t really know what electrolytes do and whether the fluids they supposedly help replenish include blood, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Brendon scratches the back of neck and blinks at him. "You didn’t leave."

"Well, technically, I did," Ryan says, indicating his sticky fork.

"You left and came back?"

Ryan just shrugs, maintaining eye contact as he attempts to lick the last of the orange cheese from his silverware. "You hungry?" he asks.

Brendon’s eyes flash. "I can’t eat that shit."

Ryan lowers the fork. "That’s not what I meant."

Brendon looks noticeably surprised.

"You-- Ryan." Brendon shakes his head and his voice is sharp on the word; Ryan shivers because it feels so weirdly intimate, Brendon using his name like that. Like they already know each other. They probably do; Brendon's come is still in Ryan's ass, and Ryan's blood is in Brendon's veins. "You can’t just... I can’t." Brendon swallows hard and Ryan watches his throat, thinking of the thin skin over his own neck, thinking of the way Brendon’s cool mouth had gone hot against it. "You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. I can’t-- I can’t control this."

I can’t either, Ryan thinks as his heartbeat quickens. The previous night’s activities flash in his mind again, how he lost himself in it, in Brendon, the rush of heat and dark blood. He doesn’t say that, though. He swallows and what he says is, "I’m still alive."

"This time," Brendon hisses. Ryan finds himself watching closely, trying to catch a glimpse of Brendon’s fangs, maybe, and he shivers at the thought, the memory; Brendon blinks like he can tell exactly what Ryan’s thinking.

Forcing himself to take a nice, deep breath, Ryan sets his bowl in the sink and then slides off the counter. He’s not really shaking but he feels like he should be with the way his heart is twitching in his chest. He turns carefully, reaching for the faucet to run water on his dishes, catching his own reflection in the window. He looks pale and his eyes are shadowed and he pauses, listening to the water rushing over the cheap porcelain.

"What do you want?" Brendon asks suddenly, voice right behind Ryan and Ryan jerks, fumbling to shut the water off. He hadn’t heard Brendon cross the linoleum, hadn’t seen him in the window--

Oh.

Ryan twists at the waist and cranes his neck to look at Brendon and can’t help a little gasp, shocked by how close he really is, hovering just there by his shoulder. "What?" Ryan breathes, unable to keep his eyes from slipping, tracing from Brendon’s eyes down to his mouth.

"What do you want, Ryan?" Brendon asks, "why are you here?" his voice wrapping around Ryan’s mind like red gauze, and Ryan feels goosebumps prickle up the back of his arms, as if Brendon were radiating a chill.

Because I don't want to go home, Ryan thinks, because I like the way you look at me, like the way this feels. "I want to do it some more," he says instead, and feels a surge in his belly, excitement, arousal, settling heavily between his legs.

Brendon blinks at him, looking uneasy, except that for him restlessness seems to manifest in tiny bursts of motion with pauses of eerie stillness between. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

"Come on," Ryan goads, surprised by how badly he wants this now that he's thinking about it, now that it's so close, how badly he needs it. "I’ve never," he starts, then stops, averting his eyes from Brendon's because something about Brendon makes him want to give away more, too much, tell more of the truth. "I’ve just. I’ve never felt anything like that. I want--"

Brendon’s laugh is dry and quiet. "Of course, you--" he says, except then Ryan looks up, meets his gaze, and Brendon stops. "It’s," Brendon starts. "It’s too soon."

Ryan smiles, and likes the way Brendon watches his mouth as he does. "I feel okay," he says. "I can take it." He reaches back and lets his fingers brush Brendon’s hip, cool to the touch; Ryan’s not really sure what he was expecting.

"Just." Brendon’s eyes are on the side of his throat now, Ryan can tell, and he lifts his chin just a little. "Fuck," Brendon whispers.

"Please?" Ryan tries, and apparently it works because suddenly Brendon’s hands are on him, slipping around his waist. Ryan straightens to face the counter again, letting himself be pulled back against Brendon's body. Ryan feels Brendon hard behind him, and arches into it.

"Maybe just a little," Brendon mumbles against Ryan’s neck and Ryan tilts his head, almost a nod.

Brendon nuzzles under his jaw, breathing deliberately. The air ghosts cool across Ryan’s exposed skin and he shivers.

The bite hurts worse than he remembers, the pain sharp and real for an instant. It fades, though, when Brendon’s mouth closes, with the first pull.

Ryan moans, maybe, gasps or whimpers, leaning into Brendon and letting himself go.

He gives himself over quickly, too quickly, probably, but he's eager and his blood is raging in his veins and his dick is already throbbing in his pants. He gropes down, pressing his wrist against the edge of the counter and his palm into his groin, squeezing. Brendon makes a noise, following Ryan’s arm, pushing his fingers underneath Ryan’s.

Ryan gasps, forcing his eyes open and seeing only himself in the window above the sink. He can feel the burn tugging at his limbs, his fingers and toes buzzing, can feel Brendon hot and solid behind him. He reaches up and closes the fingers of his free hand in Brendon’s hair, tugging, helping hold himself up, and digs his fingernails into the flexing tendons of Brendon’s hand on his dick, proving to himself that he’s there, that it’s happening.

Panting, Ryan stares at himself in the window, the awkward, eager bend of his neck, and as he watches a trickle of blood erupts from nowhere, dribbles down and pools along his collarbone. It spills over, darkening the collar of his v-neck tee, and he shudders and comes in his pants, shaking loose in Brendon’s hot grip. Even as he’s gasping for breath, though, he’s disappointed, somehow; it had been different, the night before, falling apart in Brendon’s bed, better. He wants more of Brendon. Or something. This just wasn’t quite that intense. He says as much, to Brendon, mumbling, "you could have taken more. Should have."

"Oh, sorry," Brendon says, his voice sounding heavy now, thick with blood and sarcasm, "I didn’t think you wanted to pass out on the kitchen floor."

Ryan has to turn around to glare at him, and he sways on his feet, grabbing Brendon’s shoulder to keep from falling.

"Fuck," Brendon says. "You need to lie down."

*

When Ryan wakes up again, he’s on Brendon’s couch. It’s dark except for the muted TV, but Ryan doesn’t even know if it's the same night anymore. He’s so thirsty his head feels like it's full of cotton. When he tries to move, he shudders with disgust at the feeling in his underwear.

He shudders again when he remembers why.

"Shit," he mutters, glancing around. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, clear and full, and the sight of it makes him pause and bite his lip. Brendon...

Ryan sits up and drinks half the water down before rising and beginning his sweep of the apartment. He walks slowly, sipping the water, feeling the ache in his limbs more clearly than anything.

Brendon’s gone. Ryan doesn’t really know why his heart feels heavier when he realizes it, but it kind of does. Another empty apartment.

Despite the sinking in his chest, he feels lightheaded, strung out, and can't think clearly enough to decide whether to eat or bathe first. The bathroom's closer, though, so he goes for a shower.

*

Ryan feels a little better after he steps out of the tub, the hot water helping wake him up. He's still a little wobbly but also aware enough now to know he's hungry. He dries himself off with Brendon's towel, watching in the mirror, trying to decide if he really does look any paler than usual, if he always had such dark circles under his eyes. He was never really in the habit of sleeping enough. He hated being alone at night, and the clubs were better than nothing. A while ago, him and Jon--

Ryan turns and gasps, swearing when he bumps right into Brendon. "Fuck," he wheezes, taking a gulp of air, "you gotta stop doing that."

Brendon's hot against him, almost too hot, his face flushed, mouth red, eyes bright. He's wearing dress pants, Ryan realizes, but the jacket and hat are gone, the shirt's unbuttoned, too, and the sleeves are hanging open. He looks half undressed, like maybe he'd been in the process when he realized the shower was running. The thought of Brendon undressing stirs something in Ryan, something still lingering under the fatigue and hunger, persistent.

"You gotta leave," Brendon replies. There's an edge to his voice, urgency.

Ryan calmly looks him in the eye, and says, "No."

Brendon's eyebrows shoot up, totally breaking down the stony facade. "No?" he repeats, sounding a little smaller, a little younger than Ryan's heard him. Ryan feels himself flushing helplessly,and Brendon asks him, "Do you have a fucking death wish?"

Ryan shrugs. "Nah," he says. "Do you have something I can wear? My jeans are full of come."

*

Vampires are mean.

Vampires are mean, and Ryan doesn't know why the hell he's kind of staying with one. Brendon is fucking frustrating, hovering around, making sure Ryan eats, making sure he drinks, making sure he rests, and Ryan almost misses solitude. Almost.

It's just that Brendon not only refuses to bite him but completely withholds sex until Ryan gets all his strength back.

"Dude," Ryan says, "this is as healthy as I ever was. It's been days, I'm fine."

"You could just leave," Brendon points out without making eye contact, restacking DVDs on the floor, trying to find a missing O.C. disc. Brendon is a fucking lame vampire, Ryan thinks. He thinks it loudly, too, because he's kind of been trying to figure out if Brendon has vampire powers, if Brendon can read his mind. Brendon moves his copy of Aladdin to the new stack, setting it down with exaggerated reverence.

Yeah, probably not, he thinks. "Or you could just fuck me some more," Ryan tries. The fucking is nice. When they were fucking, he didn't have to think.

"You mean bite you," Brendon says. He sighs, turning to look at Ryan. Ryan's tucked into the corner of Brendon's couch with his heel hooked on the edge, hands clasped on his knee. He tries not to react at the sudden intensity of Brendon's stare.

"Isn't that what you do?" Ryan asks, losing a little steam, sinking back into the cushions. "Are you one of those vampires with a conscience or something?" But even has he says it, he's remembering how Brendon picked him up, dark and seductive, and he knows it doesn't add up.

Brendon shakes his head, turning his face away. "I don't understand you."

Makes two of us, Ryan thinks. He's pretty sure Brendon's assuming he's suicidal. He's not, though. He wonders if Brendon even remembers what it was like to have a vampire bite him, to give up his blood to someone who needed it, really needed him; or maybe he didn't enjoy it, fuck, maybe you're not even supposed to, maybe you're not supposed to feel so utterly and completely alive while the blood's draining out of you, maybe Brendon's just special, or maybe Ryan is.

Maybe Ryan's a freak, or something.

He looks at the line of Brendon's back, stupidly, frustratingly alluring, and wonders if his blood's still inside Brendon, wonders how vampires metabolize blood anyway. Do they piss it out? Does it just evaporate from their skin? He looks at Brendon and thinks of the vivid hum he felt as the blood in his whole body started pulsing toward Brendon's mouth, like that was the center, the triggering point of a full-body orgasm. Ryan's not one for celibacy anyway, not by a long shot; he'd been at the club for a reason when Brendon found him, and Brendon had found him and now Ryan has felt it and he knows and he's just supposed to forget about it? Forget how good it had felt to give himself, all of himself, to Brendon, to let go and lose himself in it and just let it wash over him, utter abandon--

Ryan gets up with a huff and goes to jerk off in the bathroom.

He's biting his lip hard, wondering if he could make himself bleed, thinking of red blood and wondering if it would set Brendon off like in the books and movies. He looks up and Brendon's watching him from the door, that same intense look in his eyes.

Ryan chokes on this thoughts and comes, hard.

He's still panting, head hanging down, staring at the come that's clinging to his fingers, when Brendon speaks, rough. "I'm going out."

Ryan looks up sharply. "Going out?"

Brendon turns around, heading for his room, and Ryan wipes his hand on a towel, struggling to close his jeans--Brendon's, actually, borrowed--and follow.

He finds Brendon by his closet already, Brendon moves about the apartment so fast, and he's peeling off his t-shirt, dropping it and rifling through the crisp dress shirts he has hanging.

"You mean going hunting," Ryan says.

"If you insist on calling it that," Brendon says.

"That's what it is. You're going to go find someone to bite, someone else--"

"Jesus, Ryan," Brendon says, sudden and rough, almost a growl. "Don't."

Ryan stops short, blinking. Brendon gives him a hard look, and then turns back to his closet to finish assembling the costume.

*

When Brendon leaves, Ryan sits around for a while, moping and then feeling like a tool for it. It's stupid that it hurts so much, Brendon's right, it doesn't make any sense, he should just go home.

With a burst of resolve, Ryan grabs his phone, still charged after days because Brendon the ridiculous vampire has a Sidekick too, and storms out the door.

He goes home but Jon's not there, probably working a late shift at Starbucks, or maybe not working at all. Ryan checks the roof, just to be sure, but there's no smoke, no Jon. He finds some cold pizza in the fridge and sits down to watch late-night television.

He doesn't admit to himself that he's lonely until halfway through Conan's monologue, and then the ache hits him hard, gripping him right in the middle of his chest in a entirely unpleasant way, nothing like the lingering ache after Brendon's gotten through with him. That was a good ache, warm and fuzzy and loose. This-- this isn't.

Ryan studies the pale thighs of Brendon's jeans. The fabric's not stretched tight around his legs quite like Brendon's, and it feels softer on his skin from the wear.

Biting his lip, Ryan goes to his bedroom and finds the biggest bag he can, and starts filling it with his own favorite clothes, books, his laptop and charger. He grabs his acoustic guitar by the neck and pauses in the living room before picking out a couple of his own movies, ones Brendon doesn't have, ones Brendon says he hasn't seen. All that time on his hands and Brendon still hasn't seen A Clockwork Orange. Ryan hefts the bag and walks out the door, bumping it closed with his hip, wondering how old Brendon is, really, and wondering if he remembered to stick the Burgess novel in his bag, too.

*

He pulls out his phone as an afterthought in the stairwell, propping his guitar against the wall so he can send Jon a text, Staying with a friend, even though Jon hadn't texted him yet, either.

He didn't really hold it against Jon; he's, well, he's had his own thing going on, like people do, and for all Ryan knows, Jon figured Ryan was asleep in bed whenever he was home.

Jon texts him back a few minutes later. K. Have fun. Don't get killed. Ryan's a little surprised the response came so fast, but he doesn't dwell on it.

*

Brendon's already in the apartment when Ryan gets back. He's just standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, eerily still. His eyes are the only part of him that moves when Ryan first steps into view, letting the heavy bag fall off his shoulder onto the linoleum.

"You came back again?" Brendon says, and he sounds incredulous and maybe something else too, something underneath, he sounds pleased and almost relieved, and Ryan feels his heart give a pathetic little leap and he wets his lips before answering.

"Yeah..." He was going to say something else, wanted to, like maybe that Brendon can't get rid of him that easily, except that the joke seems inappropriate somehow, and before he can think of anything else, Brendon's smiling.

"You're a fucking idiot," he's saying, shaking his head with a little self-deprecating chuckle, but the smile's there and it changes his face; he doesn't look like a creepy statue anymore, he looks human, he looks alive, beautiful.

Ryan finds himself biting his lip, blushing at the warmth in Brendon's eyes, and in the time it takes him to blink Brendon's there, kissing him. He's warm, almost soft, and Ryan mutters, "I thought you wanted me to leave," against his lips.

Brendon tightens his hold on Ryan's waist and nips at his lower lip, causing him to shiver. "I said you should go. Didn't say I wanted you to."

"You're a jerk," Ryan breathes, angling his head obediently when Brendon cups the side of his face and kisses him harder. Brendon's other hand slips farther around the small of his back and he's stuck, held in place, surrounded by Brendon and kind of thrilled. He breaks away and leans back, just a little, just enough, and says, "Does this mean--"

And Brendon says, "Fuck," squeezing tighter and kissing the side of Ryan's neck. His mouth is firm and open and wet and Ryan's pretty sure that means yes.

He tries to shuffle away, hoping to lure Brendon with him, because he wants to get Brendon to the bedroom before his stupid fucking conscience kicks in and he changes his mind, he wants Brendon inside of him, he wants to feel Brendon's teeth, the pull of Brendon's thirst, Brendon.

Brendon turns Ryan's head forcibly, pushing his face against Ryan's neck, his breath gushing along Ryan's collarbone. "Shit," Ryan gasps, "oh, shit, Brendon, please."

"Yeah," Brendon says. He steps back so suddenly that Ryan stumbles and grabs for Brendon's waist, unsteadied already, and fuck, he thinks, Brendon better not think it's because he's still anemic or whatever, God, he--

But it's okay, it's okay because Brendon just holds him up, hands around his biceps, turning him and urging him on.

They make it halfway but Ryan can't tolerate any more, feeling Brendon behind him like that, so close, and he spins around and takes Brendon's face in his hands. His own back slams against the wall and Brendon's weight leans into him and it's so perfect, fuck.

"God, I want you," Brendon whispers and Ryan trembles at the words. Brendon had done a pretty damn good job hiding it, keeping distant, staying in control, but now he sounds almost as desperate and delirious as Ryan feels, grinding his hips into Ryan's.

"So bad," Ryan agrees, nodding frantically until Brendon tips his head up, fingers rough under his chin, and kisses down his throat.

Brendon tears himself away, somehow, and growls, "Come on."

Ryan pushes away from the wall and follows.

The lamps are on dim in Brendon's room, dark golden light and burnished shadows, and Brendon takes Ryan's shirt off first, his hands sweeping over Ryan's skin. Ryan pulls at Brendon's shirt until he steps back and yanks it off himself. Ryan watches, shaking with want, and Brendon meets his eyes and pauses, stone still for just a second, and then he licks his lips and Ryan falls into him.

The rest of their clothes come off and the next thing Ryan knows he's sinking back on Brendon's bed, with Brendon between his thighs and slithering downward, brushing his nose against Ryan's sternum, hands firm on either side of his ribcage. Ryan can feel the deep breath Brendon takes.

He's so hard he can't even think of words to describe it, and Brendon keeps moving, his lips dragging faintly over his stomach, closer. He mouths the side of Ryan's cock, careful to keep his teeth away, and Ryan moans, arching toward the teasing contact. "You gonna bite me there?" Ryan asks breathlessly, wonders if he should be worried that the thought doesn't even scare him. But Brendon pulls away from his dick, ducking his head and kissing Ryan's belly, low, right near the crease of his thigh. He opens his mouth and kisses again, a little more purposeful, tongue and teeth just grazing along Ryan's skin, and Ryan says, "Yes, do it."

Brendon bites-- nips, really, a tiny sting of pain, not much at all, but when he licks over the spot Ryan can feel it tingle and knows he really did break the skin.

"Fuck, you have no idea how good you taste," Brendon groans, shuddering and surging back up Ryan's body, kissing his mouth.

Ryan curls his fingers in Brendon's hair. "Come on," he urges, rocking upward, trying his best to be encouraging, enticing. "Please--"

Brendon grinds down against him, lining their hips up and licking underneath Ryan's jaw, and that's when it finally occurs to Ryan.

"You're so warm already," he murmurs, tugging on Brendon's hair.

Brendon doesn't raise his head, just answers to Ryan's adam's apple. "I said I was going out."

Ryan exhales. "You fed on someone else before me?"

Brendon sighs, going heavy on top of him, the sudden weight almost suffocating. "I wouldn't trust myself with you if I hadn't."

Ryan knows it's insane to be upset that Brendon's trying so hard to keep him safe, but now that he's noticed, he can't help thinking that it feels wrong, that Brendon feels wrong, like the heat of his body is dirty, somehow.

Brendon pushes himself up. "Ryan," he says, practically glaring. "I shouldn't be doing this at all. I should just let you go. I don't want to hurt you, but I could. I know I could even if you don't, and this won't happen at all if I'm too afraid of taking too much."

Ryan looks up at him and doesn't know what to say. The jealousy's tight in his chest like a cold knot and so he just keeps looking.

"What is it with you?" Brendon asks after a tense minute.

"I don't know," Ryan answers, truthfully.

Picking one of Ryan's hands up off the mattress, Brendon brings it to his mouth and kisses the knuckles, one by one, before turning it over. He kisses Ryan's palm and then slips his mouth lower, to Ryan's wrist. After the gentleness, Ryan's not prepared for the slice of Brendon's teeth, right through the inked letters of his tattoo with no warning at all, and he gasps, pulling his knees up, squeezing his legs tighter on Brendon's waist. Holding his hand firmly, Brendon takes a breath and then a draw, and Ryan shudders hard, feeling his blood awaken. He's aware of it, now, feels it pounding in his veins, all the different pulse points throughout his body.

Brendon releases him, licking his lips and swallowing, kissing Ryan's hand again, the underside of his arm, inside of his elbow. "If it makes you feel better," he murmurs darkly, sinking against Ryan and kissing his bicep, his chest, "none of them got anything like this. I didn't even enjoy it."

"'None of them'?" Ryan asks. "Jesus, how many were there?"

Nipping at Ryan's collarbone, Brendon presses his hips down and Ryan arches into it, body thrumming. "Three," Brendon answers. He lifts his head, a wry smirk. "I really didn't want to hurt you."

"Brendon," Ryan says again, can't think of what else to say. Brendon spits in his hand and rubs it over his cock, and when he pushes in, it hurts, fuck, it burns, but not nearly as much as it does when Brendon nuzzles his neck and bites down.

Ryan wraps his legs and arms around Brendon, clinging desperately, sobbing at the pain as it crests and then sinks below the rushing pleasure. Brendon tears his mouth away with a wet, rough sound and kisses Ryan hard on the mouth. He tastes like blood, like Ryan's blood, and oh, fuck, fuck, it's awful and amazing.

When Brendon bites again, more searing pain that dulls into another gorgeous throb centered an inch lower than the last wound, the hum of Ryan's blood builds to a roar, red hot and fuzzy. Ryan can barely tell that Brendon's hips are moving but he knows he's rocking with the rhythm, jerky and frenetic.

"Ryan," Brendon says, voice thick, choked, and he lifts his head and licks his lips and Ryan meets his eyes, black and shining in the dim light, and Ryan clutches at the back of his neck, urging him down again. Brendon closes his mouth over a bite and sucks and Ryan feels his blood rushing into Brendon and gives up, lets himself go with it.

*

It takes Ryan several minutes of gulping for air before he can even begin to think again. It's harder with Brendon pressing small kisses to his lips in between breaths, warm fingers petting his skin, distracting him.

His vision's blurry and frayed around the edges but he's holding on, doesn't think he's going to black out completely, and isn't sure whether that's a good thing.

"You were gone when I got home," Brendon murmurs. He licks the side of Ryan's neck and it sparkles, and makes Ryan wonder if that means his skin is healing already. "Why did you come back?"

I need you, Ryan thinks. He says, "You need me."

Brendon rubs his thumb down Ryan's collarbone. "I'm going to hurt you."

Ryan shifts closer to Brendon, trying to burrow under his skin and realizing giddily that he's already there. He inhales; Brendon smells weirdly good, not quite like a normal person but not completely foreign, either. Ryan can't really explain it, doesn't care to. "I trust you," he says.

"You really shouldn't."

*

Ryan wakes up slow and easy, gradually becoming aware of Brendon curled against him, as if for warmth. It's an illusion that works, in part because Brendon's not even cold, and Ryan tucks his head back in, breathing deep, limbs feeling too heavy to move. It would seem absurdly ordinary, waking up next to another body like this, smooth skin, except for the fact that Brendon's not breathing.

That's just a little disconcerting.

Ryan waits, peaceful and sluggish, letting the shapes of the room solidify in the darkness, challenging himself to stay as still as Brendon but obviously failing, and then all of a sudden he realizes Brendon's eyes are open.

"Mornin'," Ryan says, voice sandpapery. He coughs to clear his throat. "Well, evening, right?"

Brendon hums warmly and his arms tighten around Ryan, just slightly, just enough to make Ryan bite his lip to stop a smile. He feels ridiculous, snuggling with a-- a vampire, but Brendon is, well. Snuggly. "Are you all right?" Brendon asks him, a low purr, and Ryan nods.

"Better," he says. Better than before, better than the first time, better than waking up without you, without this... he doesn't clarify. Instead, he spreads his hand on Brendon's torso. "You're still warm."

Brendon chuckles. "I kinda gorged myself last night," he says.

Ryan thinks of Brendon's teeth sinking into his skin, the way his blood rushes toward Brendon's mouth, the way it tasted on his tongue. He shivers, and Brendon shifts under his hand. Ryan focuses on the warmth under his palm, thinking of it as his warmth, because of him, mostly him and he just won't count the others, all three of them. He was last, most important, so it's his warmth that's lingering inside Brendon. That's what he tells himself. That's what he tries to believe.

*

"There's a guitar in my kitchen," Brendon says, walking over and leaning on the doorframe to the bathroom.

Ryan stop shaving. He tries to meet Brendon's eyes in the mirror, but the clear view straight through to the hallway startles him yet again. "Yeah," he says, turning to actually look at Brendon. "There's a keyboard in your closet, too."

Brendon smiles. "You noticed. Were you snooping?"

Ryan nods easily, looking back at the mirror. "Gotta do something when you're gone, or passed out. You sleep like the dead, you know."

"Well, I would think so," Brendon says earnestly, playing along with Ryan's joke.

"So how come it's hiding?" Ryan asks him. "Don't you play anymore?"

"Not really. It just made me miss a real piano."

"You used to have a piano?"

"William did."

Ryan nicks his jaw with the blade. He turns to look at Brendon again, trying to tamp down the emotion rising in his throat. "Who's William?"

Brendon regards him for a second or two. "No one you need to worry about," he says finally. Ryan frowns at him, and Brendon walks over, slipping his hands around Ryan's waist, tilting his head in and letting his tongue flick over the tiny welt.

Ryan's heart flutters and he swallows hard.

"So, that was much better in my mind," Brendon murmurs. "You mostly taste like shaving cream."

Ryan laughs, can't help it.

"You know what? I got an idea," Brendon says when the chuckles have faded. "Finish up, we're going out."

Ryan doesn't want to admit that he likes the sound of that "we." He hurries anyway, though.

*

Nothing happens when the door opens, and Ryan lets out the breath he'd been holding. "I cannot believe you just know how to disarm a security system."

Brendon grins, mischievous. "I've picked up all kinds of useful skills."

"I don't doubt that," Ryan mutters, following him into the dark. It's some kind of back room, and it's black as pitch, and Ryan trips on something two steps in. "Fuck--" He stumbles, and feels Brendon there, steadying him.

"Sorry, I didn't think-- Here," and then his fingers slip down Ryan's arm and entwine with his own. "Just follow me."

Ryan nods obediently, and wonders if Brendon can see that just fine in the dark, too.

The make their way to another door that Brendon opens, and then they step out into the showroom. It's a little brighter, streetlights shining in the windows, gleaming along the curves and lines of all the pianos. Brendon doesn't drop Ryan's hand, just leads him around, glancing from piano to piano, looking for something Ryan can't even fathom, until he finally stops in front of a huge, black grand in the corner. Brendon reluctantly lets his fingers slip from Ryan's and then takes the bag off his shoulder. He digs out a few candles, sets them around, and lights them.

"Is that for my benefit?" Ryan asks.

Brendon shrugs. "It's not a seduction, if that's what you're asking." He glances sideways up at Ryan, eyes dancing with the flames. "I already know you're easier than that."

"Hey," Ryan says, trying at least to sound offended. "It's not my fault you're, like. Intoxicating, or something." He feels lame, all of a sudden, attempting to vocalize it. What if he is weird?

Brendon doesn't look too surprised, though. He just settles down at the bench, back perfectly straight, and carefully lifts the fallboard. Ryan hesitates, but can't resist, sitting gingerly down beside Brendon to watch, and listen.

Brendon starts to play softly, something simple, the notes ringing in the large room. He seems to like the way it sounds, though, because his confidence increases quickly, and soon Ryan's breath is coming shallow, his chest going tight as he watches Brendon's hands in the flickering light, his arm reaching across Ryan's body to catch the high notes. Brendon's good, Ryan realizes, and he says as much, quietly, when Brendon finishes what he's doing and pauses.

"I should be," he says, brushing his fingers over the keys, caressing without pressing. "I had enough time to practice."

That reminds Ryan, and he sits up a little. "Brendon, how old are you?"

Brendon squints a little, starting another song. It's slow, gentle, and Ryan thinks he might recognize it but he's not sure. He never finished that music appreciation class. "I turned twenty in 1967," Brendon says slowly.

"So you're, like, sixty or something?" Ryan asks.

Brendon looks up from the keys and makes a face at him. "You don't have to say it like that."

Ryan shrugs a little, looking down at his lap. He can't deny feeling a twinge of disappointment, having hoped on some level that Brendon was Victorian, or something like that, old, antique and elegant, that his strange vampire persona was authentic.

"The Summer of Love," he muses, and yeah, okay, maybe that fits. He thinks of the nights he used to spend with Jon right after he left school, lying on chaise longues on the roof, staring at the stars through the smoke while Dylan's voice streamed out through the open window. Yeah, that fits. "Hey," Ryan says, another thought occurring to him. "If you... if you feed on someone who's high, can you feel it?

Brendon laughs, low and warm, the same tones as the piano, and Ryan finds himself leaning closer to bask in the sound.

"I definitely tried, for a while." He stops playing and the last chord hangs in the air. "Yeah, it's kind of a weak buzz. Eventually I realized it didn't make much difference, though, it just didn't matter. The bite-- that's the real high."

Ryan takes a deep breath, lifting his head and letting his shoulders settle, consciously lengthening his neck, displaying it. "I think I know what you mean," he says.

Brendon twists to look at him, eyes dark, intent all of a sudden, and his fingers are cool when they slip around the back of Ryan's neck to pull him closer. "Ryan," Brendon says seriously, and his lips brush Ryan's skin and Ryan shivers eagerly, the bite, Brendon, wanting, wanting. "Didn't anyone ever warn you marijuana's a gateway drug?"

*

Brendon doesn't actually lay off the coddling, but Ryan finds it less frustrating when he's getting some of what he wants, too. He does point out that he managed to survive on his own--mostly--for several years without killing himself, and he doesn't really need Brendon to make sure he's getting enough to eat; Brendon just huffs and insists that he likes cooking, even with garlic.

"I thought you were supposed to find people food repulsive?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "It's just bland, mostly. It makes me a little sick if I eat much, but I like the way it smells."

Ryan likes the way it smells, too, he has to admit. He leans closer, peering in the pot of sauce on the stove, watching Brendon stir. His body is cool next to Ryan, especially compared to the heat from the burner, and Ryan feels him inhale deliberately, turning his head in toward Ryan's shoulder. "Like the way you smell, too."

Ryan brings his hand up to Brendon's thick hair. "You know, for a vampire, you're kind of a dork."

Brendon hums pleasantly and licks Ryan's skin. Ryan tilts his head. "Want?" he asks, the delight at being able to offer curling in his stomach along with the desire, hunger.

"I'm okay," Brendon says, straightening only after another deep breath. Ryan sighs. This... arrangement that they seem to have reached, it's okay, Ryan will take what he can get--yes, please--but he can't help wanting more. It's been days since the night Ryan went back to his apartment, and Brendon's only taken little drinks. In a manner of speaking. He also went hunting, to take the edge off, but the idea makes Ryan sick and so he tries not to think about it.

"You need to knock off this guilt thing," Ryan tells him, instead, trying to keep his voice casual. "Only lame vampires are guilty."

Brendon scrunches up his face. "Blade?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Have you seen the third movie?"

"I see your point."

When the food's ready, Brendon cleans up and Ryan eats. He's not trying to be a dick and get out of the chores, although he won't deny that it is a nice bonus. It's just that it weirds him out when Brendon watches him eat and Brendon needs something to do. He's just finishing up when Ryan stands. "So, thanks," Ryan says, flushing even as he says it. "That really was better than ramen."

Brendon looks pleased, and it's a good look on him, bright eyes and a bright smile. It reminds Ryan of carnivorous flowers, so hopelessly pretty, you'd never guess they were secretly deadly, maybe even after the field guide warned you.

"You ever gonna tell me where you learned how to cook? Twenty is young for such elaborate pasta dishes, even before the rise of the microwave."

Shrugging, Brendon just says, "Maybe someday."

Ryan knows it would be futile to force the issue, so he just steps up closer and cups Brendon's jaw. He leans down to kiss him and when he pulls back he doesn't move his hand, letting his wrist pulse right by Brendon's mouth. Brendon takes a breath, eyes fluttering closed, and Ryan knows he's smelling--he really only breathes when he has a reason to--and that it should maybe be creepy or something but kind of isn't. "Now it's your turn to eat," he says, somewhere between playful and hopeful.

Brendon turns his head, lips brushing past the letters, and opens his mouth.

*

It makes Ryan happy when he wakes up and stumbles, groggy and pleased, out of the bedroom to find that Brendon's set his keyboard up in the tiny living room. He's moved one of the kitchen chairs over in front of it, and when he hears Ryan approach, he turns to smile at him.

Ryan goes back to the bedroom to drag the blanket off the bed, and curls up on the sofa to watch Brendon play.

*

There was more than a Casio hiding in Brendon's closet. Early one evening a few nights later, Ryan pulls two crates of LPs out into the living room. He's on the floor, already flipping through the first box when Brendon makes his way out of the bedroom, pale and tousled and so ridiculously sexy that Ryan's fingers slip on the cardboard corners. Vampire magic, he thinks vaguely. Brendon's lips are still red, and Ryan knows that means he'll still be a little warm to the touch, too.

"You have eclectic taste," he says, instead of what he's thinking. "Beatles, Beatles, Pink Floyd, Stones... and The Carpenters?" Brendon shrugs, coming over to sit behind him on the sofa. "Hair, John Denver, Fleetwood Mac, The Moody Blues, and what's this? Like, a rock opera by Genesis?"

"Shut the hell up, Ross," Brendon says, snatching the thick album out of Ryan's hand and cradling it to his chest. "You would have loved the production for this tour."

Ryan pulls out a dirty all-white album and crawls over to the overstuffed shelves of the makeshift entertainment center, rooting around in the nest of wires. "Is your turntable hooked up?"

*

Brendon startles him, once, by stepping into the shower right alongside him.

"Sorry," Brendon says when Ryan almost slips and falls, and then, "what?" He's smiling, and Ryan has the lights on so he can see Brendon better than usual, his body, the sharp angles of his skinny shoulders, the subtle muscles of his torso underneath porcelain pale skin, and it's striking, Brendon's striking.

"Nothing," he says, throat dry despite the warm mist, "I just never thought-- I guess maybe I thought you'd melt in the water, or something."

Ducking under the water, Brendon wets his hair and shakes it out of his eyes, strands black as onyx sticking to his forehead. He reaches past Ryan for the shampoo, and Ryan sucks in his breath, not sure if it should be this erotic, watching Brendon bathe.

Brendon catches him staring and half his mouth tilts up in a smirk. He jerks his head, "c'mere," and Ryan shuffles closer, touching Brendon's arm because he's scared to fall, and it feels strange, the warm water slick on Brendon's cold skin. Brendon tips Ryan's head and starts lathering his hair, too. Ryan washed it once already but he doesn't stop him, just closes his eyes and focuses on Brendon's strong fingers. He stays still, still as he can, and lets Brendon wash his whole body.

"You take such good care of me," Ryan says, aiming for teasing but falling a little short, too earnest, fuck.

Brendon's smile is too sharp, too cold, for just a flash, but then the pain is gone. "Well, someone has to," he says.

Ryan flushes first, and then thinks, who takes care of you? but doesn't say it. He blinks at Brendon imploringly, and Brendon takes the hint, either that or he really can read Ryan's mind, because he leans in and kisses him. Ryan wraps his arms around Brendon's shoulders quickly, securely, just trying to keep him there, and Brendon makes a noise in his throat. His hands grab for Ryan's waist, but instead of pushing, they just tug Ryan even closer.

Opening his mouth, Ryan slips his tongue between Brendon's lips, knowing he should worry about Brendon's teeth but not caring, not even when, yeah, he feels one pointed fang nick his tongue. He twitches, startled, at the sting, tasting blood, but that's when Brendon grunts again, his grip tightening as he sucks on Ryan's tongue, and Ryan can feel himself melting against Brendon's body, in his arms.

The kiss turns frantic fast, Brendon trying to taste more and Ryan just trying to breathe, gasping for air, choking on water and spit and blood, and Brendon's not having trouble because Brendon doesn't have to breathe at all, licking into Ryan's mouth, biting his lips, hungry, desperate.

There's not nearly enough bloodflow to have the full effect on Ryan, but the sensation is still amazing, heady, too much, and Ryan's hips slip against Brendon's, thrusting erratically, and he nearly collapses when he comes.

Brendon catches him.

*

And the thing is, Brendon's leaning pretty heavily against him too, and Ryan thinks maybe they're holding each other up, the water pouring down on them both.

*

It's after the shower that Brendon decides the towels are dirty. His underwear's all dirty, too, and the bedsheets are definitely dirty.

They traipse downstairs together. The girl unloading the dryer gives Brendon a horrified look when he starts separating things into "bloodstained" and "not bloodstained" and mentions sending Ryan out to the store for club soda.

Ryan looks at Brendon and starts laughing.

"What the fuck, Ross?" Brendon stops what he's doing. He's smiling, but like he doesn't quite get the joke.

"I just," Ryan tries, but ends up cracking up again at Brendon's wide-eyed expression. "I just never really thought about vampires having to do laundry, I guess."

Brendon raises his eyebrows. "You think it's funny that I do laundry?"

Ryan nods.

Brendon throws a t-shirt at him. "Just for that, I should make you presoak these."

*

Ryan's stretched out on the couch in his pajamas, with Edward Scissorhands playing in the background and Brendon lying between his legs, face up, resting back against his chest. He's got Ryan's arms wrapped around him, and he's holding one of Ryan's hands, suckling lightly at his wrist. Ryan's veins are humming pleasantly and every now and then he does rock his dick up against Brendon's back, although it's not urgent.

"Jesus Christ, Ryan," Brendon says, detaching from Ryan's wrist and squirming, and Ryan grunts against the shifting pressure. "Am I going to have to take care of that or something? It's distracting me."

Ryan chuckles, but Brendon goes rigid all of a sudden, and Ryan stops smiling. "What?" he asks, lifting his head, peering down around Brendon. Brendon's still holding his hand, and he reaches for Ryan's other. He's studying Ryan's wrists.

"What?" Ryan repeats.

"Fuck," Brendon says, sounding a little strangled. Ryan frowns. "Your tattoos," Brendon whispers. "They're a mess. I--"

Ryan lifts his hands and looks, and it's true. Brendon's bites always heal fast and pretty clean, but wherever the skin was sliced across his wrists, the letters are jagged, not lined up, no longer legible.

A little blood oozes from the freshest bite down the inside of Ryan's arm, tickling, and Ryan shivers.

"Fuck," Brendon repeats. "I'm sorry, I didn't think. I really liked your tattoos..."

"Hey, it's okay," Ryan finds himself saying. He liked his ink, too, and he's surprised that he's not bothered, but he's really not. He wraps his arms around Brendon. "I kinda like them like this, Brendon. It's like you," he pauses, not sure he should say it out loud, but he steels himself and does. "It's like you've left your mark on me, now."

Brendon's body relaxes on top of him, slowly, gradually, like he's processing it, accepting it. After a minute or two he picks Ryan's hand back up, turning it, leaning forward and licking away the drip that had stained Ryan's arm. "Guess you're mine, then," Brendon says. Ryan whimpers in the back of his throat, agreeing, asking, and Brendon reaches back underneath his body for Ryan's cock.

*

click for part 2.