#robot alert

They’re all so tactile. It’s one of the earliest things they’d noted about the boys, gentle, familiar contact being offered as often as roughhousing. Affection and intimacy born from weathering a world that despises them, with no-one else to rely on. It’s not the done thing, to say ‘I’m fucking sick of being hated’, to admit that sometimes the world can be tough, even for a vampire, so instead, Marko rests their chin on David’s shoulder, standing close, too close for the rest of the world to be comfortable with it, expression challenging, downright bitchy to all the passers-by. Or Dwayne hooks two fingers into one of the various loops on Paul’s outfit, not pulling him back, just letting him know that he’s there, and Paul rocks back on his heels, focus drifting from wherever it had been, to level a sharp grin at Dwayne, acknowledgement, silent thanks.

They’re undoubtably worse away from prying eyes, treating each other like furniture as often as they did friends, always leaning on each other, casual, connected, an unspoken bond. None of them mind, in fact, they encourage it, and Asterix makes just as good pillow or armrest as the rest of them.

They can’t tell each other what they mean, what they want to say, ‘the world would be lonely without you here’ when they share a gentle touch in passing, a kiss on the forehead, the cheek, the soft skin behind the ear, but their touch is louder than any shout, if only to those who understand.

They all understand.

Asterix had spent too many years being lonely, of fighting wars and shrugging off bullets and shaking hands with men who would just as soon order a nuclear strike as they would order a coffee. They try not to think about that. Music helps. Music lets them lose themselves, but there are moments when their thoughts are louder than any beat would ever be, and the world turns to white noise, and all they can think is ‘there are men who have caused so much more pain than I ever will, laughing and smiling and living their lives’.

And then Marko’s got a hand on their hip, gentle, still wearing their cocky smirk, but the look in their eyes is a question. Far more gentle than the world is allowed to see, far more gentle than the world can comprehend. Asterix throws an arm around them without giving a proper answer, leans into their touch maybe too much, and it’s answer enough. Marko’s hand moves to rest on the small of their back, beneath their pin-laden vest, across the smooth plane of bare skin at the edge of their crop top. Skin on skin, cool to the touch, grounding. From the outside, they simply look close, friends, maybe more, but no-one’s quite sure. Asterix leans in to thank him, but the expression they wear makes their murmured words appear devious, lips against the shell of his ear as they’re off to terrorise the rest of fair with their miscreant friends, but it’s more than that. Marko turns their head before Asterix can move away, so close their nose nudges Asterix’s, and their eyes meet when Marko tells them it’s no trouble. Any time. And it’s clear they mean it; it’s trust.

Quiet moments are a rarity, especially for Asterix, afraid to be alone with their thoughts, but when a record ends, and all that fills their ears is the faint sound of the needle skipping against the edge of the vinyl, all they know is that they don’t want to be alone. Some of the others have gone cliff diving, but when Asterix surfaces from their corner of the cave, David’s there, reading a magazine, and he looks up briefly, but sees Asterix’s vacant expression, and waves them over. He’s standing, holding out the magazine, asking their opinion in an attempt to get their mind off of whatever was dragging it down, but Asterix has their arms around him, holding probably too tight, their nose pressed to his temple with their eyes squeezed shut.

David goes quiet.

He wraps an arm around them, manoeuvring so they were both more comfortable, tucks himself against them – he’s always annoyed at how short he is compared to them, but now he doesn’t quite mind. There’s something strangely safe about being wrapped up in their embrace like this.

“You’re okay,” is all he can think to say, emotionally stunted and morally bankrupt as he is, and Asterix huffs the quietest laugh, appreciating his effort.

“I know.”

After a beat that feels like an eternity, Asterix lets go, steps back, but David takes their face in his hands, thumb against this cheekbone, eyes searching their face, but for what, they’re not sure. He’s close, almost nose to nose, and Asterix lets their eyes fall closed, to lean in and rest their forehead against his. Tension drops from their shoulders, and his hands are still warm on their cheeks.

“You’re alright, Trix,” his voice is gruff but sure, and this time, when Asterix answers, their voice is heavy, understanding him perfectly, taking reassurance from his words.

“I know.”

The others get back, soaking wet and beaming, to find David and Asterix arguing about something inane, their head in his lap on a sofa that definitely wasn’t built for all six-foot-two of Asterix to be laying out like this, but they’re making it work. David’s scratching their scalp absentmindedly, and the others are soon to join in on the argument. Marko drapes themself entirely over Asterix, head on their chest, just enjoying hearing the others talk. Asterix runs their fingers through Marko’s curls without even thinking, while Paul and Dwayne have both claimed an armchair clearly built for one person, elbowing each other and bickering, but neither giving up their spot. They’ll settle in, side by side, eventually, fitting together in ways that make sense only to them, comfortable looking uncomfortable.

They all know.

No-one says anything, but they all know.

They’re all possessive of one another in a way that the world doesn’t know how to handle. They’re always picking fights and backing each other up without question, making an unspoken show of claiming each other when any unsavoury character tries to step in where they don’t belong. Possible victims, or humans they’re fleetingly interest in aside, they’ll always find their way back to each other, one way or another.

Months go by, and Asterix finds how they fit into all of this, their way to connect and comfort through contact, show their unspoken bond with the group; Paul gets called a ‘pretty boy’ and a ‘poser’ and Asterix knows that while that talk doesn’t get under his skin, they can’t let people get away with talking like that. Like a swarm, called by some otherworldly force, the others can hear it, can sense it too, and saunter over. No-one says anything, and the group of meatheads who thought they’d cornered a poor, hair-metal kid on his own, see leather and denim and hair spiked up. Marko’s pointedly failing to hide their laughter by Paul’s side, David’s sizing up the one who seems to be the leader, and Dwayne’s rolling his eyes, irritated that these meatheads thought they could pull a stunt like this. Paul crosses his arms, all kinds of smug, and finally Asterix joins them, draping themselves over Paul’s shoulders cheek to cheek, making it clear how very hunched they are making themselves to stand at his height, their considerable stature made almost comical with their choice of platformed boot.

“They bothering you?” Asterix asks, voice loud and faux concerned, forearms resting on Paul’s shoulders, and he reaches up to take one of their hands, leaning into them. The pack of vampires shifts ever so slightly, closer, more unified. The meatheads look unnerved for a variety of reasons, which Asterix takes quiet delight in.

“He thinks I’m pretty,” Paul says, all teeth in the face of the meathead leader’s outrage at the implication. Asterix’s eyes don’t stray from the leader, gaze intense, toeing the line between intrigued and intimidating; he’s quickly turning red with fury, his own words turned against him. None of the meatheads know how to read the situation before them, and shuffle off, swearing, derogatory names falling from their lips. It doesn’t phase the vampires, not on the surface, refusing to react as they watch them go; they all know what’s about to happen.

“Bunch of assholes,” Dwayne’s lip curls as he watches them go, and it’s like a signal, a command, with no training or warning; understanding. They’re done with the boardwalk for tonight, heading in the opposite direction, into the darkness and away from prying eyes. They hunt from the shadows, until the leader is alone; they don’t take more than they need, but he is still a warning, even if the other meatheads don’t realise it.

You don’t mess with the mean looking kids on the Santa Carla boardwalk, everyone knows this, but sometimes people forget and need to be reminded.

Whenever you mess with a mean looking kid on the Santa Carla boardwalk, everyone knows there’s always at least another two waiting in the shadows, for backup, for defence, to remind you exactly who it is you’re dealing with. It’s how they can walk with such confidence in the dead of night, at home among the sea spray and kitschy carnival lights, amid the constant movement of the sea, the people, the cars; they’re calm and casual and never one to back down from a fight if they can help it. These kids, delinquents, whether in love with each other, or simply hating the rest of the world, take every opportunity to tell the world that they’d ride, fight, and die for each other, without ever saying it out loud.