ren/fleur⍣ ೋ

Everyone looks for it, love.

Young or old, fat or thin, black or white, everyone yearns to have their heart warmed by someone special.

I’m looking for it, too. I thought I’d find the man I love in you.

A man who’s experienced. Older, roughed up by life’s struggles.

A man who’ll kiss me like a lover and guide me like a daughter; a father figure.

A man who’ll smoke with me, a man who’ll fill my heart, my lungs, my core. A man who knows what he wants, and what I need.

A man who won’t leave me for being flawed.

A man who will love me, for being me. For being unique.

A man who’s not you.

But I still search for you in my heart. I still look for you in empty streets, and think of you in between lyrics.

I never loved you. Never – I only loved what was the idea of you.

Yet you were the first and only to stumble across the remains of my fragile self and try and help me hold them up. And even though I’m managing on my own, I can feel it slowly collapsing. Shelf by shelf, I’m losing my integrity.

I’m desperate. Desperate for the man I love, and desperate for attention.

And so, I look for the idea of you in others – friends, lovers, strangers.

I seek nothing but a glimpse of what I want. Why can’t I get it?

Why do I miss you? Why do I see you everywhere?

Why am I not able to stay alone?

I find solace in the smoke of a cigarette, in the view from my balcony, behind a screen or on the thin pages of a book. I read about happier couples, I watch movies about what should’ve been.

I punch myself in the heart, again and again, hoping that it’s your fault I’m like this.

I try to pray, never to any avail. I try to write, and end up staring at a blank page.

Everyone looks for it, love. Most people find it.

I hope I’m not one of the unlucky few.

Horrified. That was the only emotion Jonathan felt once he left the hospital. The feeling lingered, for hours on end, as he dashed to the Finsbury Theatre. Everything happened so fast; getting banished from the Ascalon Club, being informed that Pembroke was in danger, that Edgar was in danger, finding his office door wide open with a white ‘X’ painted in messy strokes over it. As if he meant nothing to Priwen, as if he were target practice.

Time wasn’t on his side, for once. Every second he wasted fighting off other Ekons and Guards in his way meant more suffering for poor Edgar. But Jonathan was running on mere adrenaline. The world was black and white around him, his rotten blood rushing in his veins. Geoffrey’s men were the weakest of obstacles compared to the Ekon in this state.

And there was no doubt of the hell that would rise if he found the man dead.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The old theatre’s basement door broke open from the hinges as Jonathan ran inside, expecting to find his poor Edgar safe and sound. Yet what he smelled was dust, mold and blood. So much blood. In that moment, he couldn’t stomach the otherwise inviting smell.

Edgar hung from the ceiling, his face broken and bruised. He was responsive, but also acutely aware of his mortal injuries. He only lifted his head when Jonathan cradled his face. The vampire’s cold palms were like a balm to his sore skin.

“Edgar! Edgar, can you hear me?!” Jonathan yelled, trying to get his peer’s attention.

“Jonathan… is it really you?”

Edgar blinks, and the Ekon was gone. His bounds were cut, and the shorter man falls to the ground. The moment he tries to pick himself back up, Jonathan intervenes. “Easy, easy… Save your strength.”

He’s carried to the nearest chair, the feeling of his lover’s arms holding him upright giving him a sense of comfort despite the situation.

“Don’t try to spare me. As a physician, I know all too well when it’s too late. Punctured lung, broken ribs, internal bleeding… An accurate diagnosis, wouldn’t you say?”

A smile ghosts over Edgar’s swollen, bleeding lips. Jonathan grimaces; this is no time for jokes, he thinks. The Ekon’s heart was pounding, as fear washed over him like a tidal wave every moment he spent overlooking his injuries.

“What happened?”

“They wanted me to confess… Beat me black and blue.”

Edgar averted his gaze; suddenly, the rotting floorboards proved to be more interesting to look at than Jonathan’s fearful expression. He never wanted to see that, not on him.

“Geoffrey McCullum ambushed me at the Pembroke Hospital. He was convinced you and I were responsible for the Skal epidemic… I never imagined that self-righteous fanatic would dare attack us in the open!”

Jonathan sighed. “Edgar, I trust you. But I need an explanation, for all of this.”

And the explanation was short, but bitter on Edgar’s lips. It was, indeed, him who caused the Skal epidemic whilst experimenting on a drug using Lady Ashbury’s blood. Everything, the blood, the death, it was all his doing. What a blasted fool.

No evil plan. No diabolical plot. Just a doctor, with dreams and wishes that clouded his judgment.

“You did what?!”

“...I was just trying to find a cure for the influenza. I swear.” Edgar’s voice was strong, yet the guilt hurt more than any physical injury. Jonathan saw through that – from the way the other man’s heart was racing, from his trembling frame. Yet he was the one to blame for it, all of it. A trusted friend, perhaps lover, who brought despair to every corner of London.

Jonathan had long pulled away from him, pacing around the room to try and figure out just what he should do. He ought to let him die, since such a grave mistake cannot simply be forgotten! His carelessness, his rogue experiments, led to the spilled blood of hundreds!

But, Edgar was a kind soul. And Jonathan knew he wouldn’t have the heart to let him suffer. No, he loved Edgar too much for that. It was a vile dilemma, one that could jeopardize everything if he made the wrong choice. And having Edgar die in his arms was something pulled out of his worst nightmares.

He had to compromise. But perhaps the gift he granted Edgar was more of a fulfilled dream than a punishment.

“I can save you, Edgar… I can mend your broken body into one like mine.”

Edgar looks up, shocked. “Really? After all I’ve done? After all that’s been said, you still want to offer me this gift?”

Jonathan paused, his eyes downcast. He’s trying so hard to keep himself composed, to refrain from lashing out because, truly, he can’t. Not at Edgar, as much as it pained him to hear that the other man considers immortality an eternal gift and not a punishment.

He raises his sleeve, and bites into his own wrist. Edgar gazed with a sort of desire one would only see in a man starved. And, once his hand outstretches to Edgar, he takes it. His hands trembled, but he tried to keep his grip firm. And so, Edgar started suckling.

It was like he couldn’t stop. The cold, cold blood tasted like the finest ambrosia to Edgar. It was sweeter than wine, yet more bitter than hard poison. It was the most effective medicine, able to heal all sick and wounded. It was the blood of his lover, and the blood of his Maker.

Tears dripped down Edgar’s eyes. Tears of joy, or pain. For once, Jonathan didn’t want to know. He didn’t, for he was crying too.

Edgar lowers his grip to hold Jonathan’s hand, swaying forward when the Ekon forcibly tears his wrist away from his ravenous mouth.

And Jonathan was left staring, as his lover slumped forward in his chair in death… and soon, rebirth.

Eternal life awaited Edgar. His greatest dream came true.

So, then, why does Jonathan feel such grief?