but i have promises to keep,

Miles takes a few tentative steps forward, curiously watching them. He’s torn; should he leave them to drunkenly stumble of to where ever it was they were heading or go over to them to see if they needed help getting home?

As they call out to him, there’s a sharp pang of panic before a desperate need to help overtakes him and he’s hurrying across the street with complete abandon. At the mention of being stabbed, Miles does stop- for the briefest of moments- head and eyes darting about, trying to catch sight of any lingering danger. 

When nothing immediately catches his eye, he finishes rushing over, hands outstretched, hovering over the stranger as panic sets in again. “Fuck- are you-.. Shit. C’mon, we’ll gettcha somewhere safer an’ I’ call you an ambulance.” Gently, he takes their shoulder, pulling it in an attempt to get them moving.

Rowan flinches. It’s reflex, mostly; they don’t like to be touched, and all the blood coming out of them is already overwhelming. But they’ve asked for help, and if they want to get it some modicum of reason inside of them reminds them that they’ll need, at least, to act like a person about it. Against every fiber of their being they straighten, and let him get enough of a grip on their shoulder to lead them. 

As they start, unsteadily, to follow after him, they shoot one last glance over their shoulder. The darkness swims before their eyes, but they can’t see a figure there; no glint of a knife catches their gaze. This uncertain picture must be enough of a consolation that they were not followed as they fled.

Turning away, their eyes wander down to the blood blossoming out from their clenched fingers. Between the dulling terror, and the absurdity of seeing themself bleed, after all this time, Rowan cannot help but giggle, and the sound fades into a stream of babbling.

Misery, as sublime as it was, mixed poorly with the stench of rot.  The cloying odor left him choked and lightheaded, and he was grateful for the dimness of the shadows.  The darkness was at least a small mercy when he was so immediately overwhelmed, a minor deterrence against overstimulation.  Only for so long, though, when the stink of death left him nearly faint.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, crouching beside its source.  His focus was directed entirely, of course, on the fragile, sleeping form.  The bloodied corpse beside it, flayed and bloody, had already been escorted into a far more permanent sleep.  Unfortunate, certainly, but there was no helping the dead.  Hands hovered protectively over thin shoulders, but he refrained from making contact – it was rude to do so without permission. 

Poor creature.  He could hardly languish in his own discomfort when they were wrapped in misery as tangible as the death around them.  It was his own choice to be there besides – although, between the intrigue and the desire to help, how could he choose any differently?

He sat quietly, arms wrapped about his knees, hazy with revulsion but loathe to rouse them.  Undisturbed rest, he assumed, must be a rarity.  Such terrible unhappiness, and, why, with but a word, he could stem it at its source.  A mutually beneficial offer to be broached, perhaps.  But for the moment, the rather unpleasant moment, he would steel himself and wait.

It was a long time before Rowan woke up. The day was so warm, so heavy, it lulled them, and even when finally sleep fluttered away from them they could hardly bear to open their eyes. Though they could scarcely know it, their visitor was right--sleep like that was a rarity, nowadays, and the twilight that came after it was almost intoxicating. It was so easy to lie there, listening to the distant rumble of traffic.

Like always, though, fear crept back in. It was gradual, at first. Rowan started to notice the footsteps of passerby on the distant sidewalk; their heart seized every time a car slowed for the stoplight. The longer they laid, the more they suspected that their nest might be leaving some part of them exposed. The shadows prickled at the back of their neck, and seemed at once not secretive, but cavernous. Their limbs began to tremble.

And Rowan sat up all at once, feeling just as panicked as ever. They realized, in quick succession, that they were not alone in the darkness, and that even in the gloom the blood matted thickly across their person would not be missed. 

They gasped, hoarsely, and scrambled back, rampant enough to become both tangled in the bedding and cornered under the bridge in one movement. As they fought to free themself, the corpse that had been their bedmate flung loose from the sheets and sprawled, gracelessly, across the concrete. Blood splattered wetly after it.

It’d been months since he had been struck with the inspiration or even the energy to pick up his camera equipment and capture something. Anything. Tonight though, he got a familiar itching in his feet and finger tips. He’s quick to recognise the urge, to bundle up warm and set out before it slipped away like smoke. 

Despite the hour and despite the dark overcast sky, it was- in Miles’ humble option- that he did his best work at night. 

He had spent nearly an hour on this particular street alone, trying to get something he was happy with or proud of. He was almost ready to leave to find a better spot but that’s when he hears it.

The scuffling of feet against pavement reverberates around the street and Miles turns his attention towards it, camera drifting away from his face to get a better look at at whoever else had joined him. His first thought was some drunk who had stumbled their way from a bar or club. 

His second thought was that the dark street with their darker silhouette against it could make for a good shot so he lifts his camera again, ready to snap the shot but he pauses as he watches them through the lens. Miles had been drunk or around drunk people enough to know that’s not typically how someone would hold themselves.

He stands his ground as he gently calls out. “Hey.. Hey! You alright mate?”

Rowan lurched, drunkenly enough. Back still curled, their head jerked up at the sound of the man’s voice, and as their shoulders twisted to keep their balance they seemed for half a second possessed, erratic. Then gravity reasserted itself, and they stilled, peered down the dark street for the source of the voice.

“H-... help..!” Rowan answered, hoarsely. They couldn’t see who was talking, couldn’t assess the danger from just his voice, but the pain between their ribs was sharp, and insistent, and between the stranger in front of them and the danger behind they were inclined to choose the former. 

From the alley they could still hear the muffled sound of footsteps, sharp and irregular in their own right. Were they coming closer? Disappearing into the night? Rowan’s head swam too turbulently to tell. It was easier to just let whoever-it-was find out for them.

Levi’s not unnerved by the idea that he has been previously noticed by this—individual. Even before the intimidation from the upstarting clan began, he had a habit of staying true to a reasonably small circuit of locations. He did not have a home per se, but he had… spots. Spots that he preferred to all the other places in the city. He wandered, but he never wandered too far if it could be helped. Routine, though appointed as the ultimate source of boredom by many other people, vampires and humans alike, was an aspect of life that he found very calming. Calm did not come often for his kind. He took any and all opportunities he could get.

The routine was simple. He would feast in one neighbourhood for a while, drain the gritty scenery of its opulent supply of vermin, but without going overboard—he would always leave enough creatures behind so that they may mate and produce more delicious creatures. During this period, he would move onto another of his favourite spots, to do the same thing. Eating plentifully, but always allowing his territory to have the chance to build itself back up again. 

Levi was gluttonous, almost obnoxiously so, but he was not stupid. 

“Great,” is his only response to their claim. He shifts and sits upright, exhaling heavily and frowning at the wheezing noise that appears to be coming from his lungs. Why were they complaining? God dammit. Just another thing to worry about.

“Not really. Nothin’ permanent.” He turns his head slightly, eyes crinkling curiously. “Why? Is this an invite to bunk wit’ you?” 

His stomach whines, but this warning is too brief to be useful. He might not have eaten recently but the stench that is released into the air is nothing short of vile.

“… I ain’t exactly roommate material,” he remarks.

“It’s just, I-I-I--”

If the stench is overwhelming, the urge to backpedal is downright noxious. Rowan wheezes, tries to swallow the impulse as best they can, but despite all their intentions and the quiet voice of their better judgement their heart is starting to pound. They grit their teeth against the panic threatening to bubble up and force themself to take slow, deep breaths, as their blackened fingers worry about their lips.

They’re fine. They’re fine. It’s a boy, just a boy; he couldn’t hurt them if he wanted to, and if he did, he could have already.... At least, they tell themself this, so they can muster the fortitude to get the next few words out of their mouth. Tensely, they offer, voice half-choked, “It looks... lllike it’s g-gonna rain.”

They look pained, sound pained, feel pained. But amidst the swirl of abject terror, Rowan feels a little trickle... of relief? It's been a long time since they’ve spoken to anyone, but the loneliness, they realize, often takes a back seat to the paranoia. Maybe they’re doing the right thing.

They cough, once, to clear the tightness in their throat.

Rowan and the rain had never mixed. They’d been a bookish sort of kid, before, the kind of determined loser who preferred a dry, cozy windowsill to a good romp in the curbside puddles any day. Nowadays, any slight drizzle could soak them right to the core, and they hardly had the means to recover if their clothes rotted off their shoulders. Plus, it was freezing. 

So, when the clouds began to gather over the city and the early summer air started to cool, they knew better than to hang around on the street. As the air grew heavy and damp, Rowan slunk away from the heart of civilization, and as the first drops began to fall they ducked beneath the bowing eaves of a very old, long abandoned little house.

It was a place they’d holed up in before; not the cleanest, or the sturdiest by any means--in fact, Rowan preferred the house in part because its distant, constant threat of collapse warded most other vagrants off--but within the cracked and rusted shell of the kitchen it remained, blessedly, dry. When they shuffled through the listing doorframe, they even found the nest of blankets and old clothes they’d constructed last time under one of the countertops mostly untouched.

hey guys i forgot i had an oc for a couple of days