toothache

"The Greyhound That Followed too Far."

Lives of Game Animals, Volume 1 - Part 2. 1925. Written and illustrated by Ernest Thompson Seton.

Clark had made no attempt at rushing his partner, but neither did he make any move to try and comfort him or lull him into a sense that encouraged lingering. He was merely present.

Eventually they made it to the bedroom and Clark set his tea down upon the dresser and watched silently as Howard gathered the duvet, the sheets. He bundled them up and threw them to the floor and the cambion was set in believing they'd simply be tossed out even as Howard then bundled them up and walked them to the tub.

His gaze wandered in the meantime to the streaks surrounding the bed; his expression remained carefully neutral. By the time Howard had returned and had drew upon some topic to distract himself with, Clark had already caught onto something that he'd begun to gnaw on.

Howard was loud, always. His joy, his sorrow, his anger. Loud and tumultuous. The emotions wafting off him hadn't been able to set right with Clark and his slightly squint said as much, the way he cocked his head as if he was trying to determine if he had in fact heard something correctly.

❝ None of this is your fault. You know that, right? ❞ He wasn't an expert, but there was enough context to go on in addition to the specific combination of emotions he was picking up on. Anger and frustration were such detailed emotions and Clark could pick apart their intricacies with an almost indescribable ease. This was not outward anger, this was anger aimed inward.

This wasn't talking about what Howard was doing, so it didn't count towards Howard's request he was honoring. ❝ Howard, talk me through what you're thinking to yourself. I just-— pretend I'm in your head with you listening in. Just talk. You're upsetting yourself and I want to know what you're saying. ❞ He could do just that, but there was a sense of privacy Clark was adamant to respect. It was one thing to take a gander to determine what Howard wanted to eat or where he wanted to go or how he wanted to fuck-— it was something else entirely to listen in on such personal and intimate thought processes.

The sheets went into the tub first, with Howard pulling a small stool to sit by the side, now armed with a bar of plain white soap he found tucked away under the sink. Clark had ignored the throwaway question, which meant that whatever tactics to swerve out of the discussion would be futile. He'd never learned how to lie, yes, but he didn't quite feel as if he was actively trying to.

"I had a crush on someone once," he continued, in turn ignoring Clark's demand for what little truths he couldn't quite voice at that moment. "It was just after Britain had started compulsory active service. Late 1916, I think. It was easy to assume an identity back then. All I had to do was say I was so and so, where I was from, and off I went."

The soap lathered up over the blood stain, and with it Howard worked the lather into the fabric as he continued. "It was somewhat reciprocated, as much as we could reciprocate in 1916 Britain anyway. We would write letters to one another as if we were planning to send them home to our respective, non-existent lovers. I was Jane, and he was Anne."

"We found ourselves in France first, then Italy the following year. Hardly spoke to one another, but the letters spoke a different story." He snorted. "Never thought I had flair writing explicit sex before on paper. Charged was an understatement."

"We dug trenches during the day, avoiding each other's eyes. People were convinced we hated one another; honestly, we thoroughly sold the story that we wanted nothing to do with each other. How we managed to slip the letters was still a miracle to me."

Slowly but surely the stain was lifted, and on every rinse in water, it began to fade away. "Then the Battle of Asiago happened. I'll save you the details, but we lost to the Austro-Hungarians. The intel had been received by the Italian general a month prior, but he waved it off, thinking nothing of it. It was then my first love died. It was Princip's fault. It was Cadorna's fault. It was the war's fault. It was my fault."

"I held him in my arms as he lay dying. He held my face, smiled, said he was happy that mine was the last memory he had before he passed. That in another life we'd love again, openly, the way he wished we could."

The story paused as Howard rinsed the bedsheet and wrung them dry, setting it in the sink. He undressed the duvet next, chucking it into the bathtub, repeating the steps from before.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis is a mess. An uttered word and the privilege of conversing is destroyed by something unseen. This man stretches against the ground, collapses like a puppet, and then screams soundlessly into a void. He is convulsing in front of Shay like a man possessed, and for a moment, the Omen thinks that it may have been his fault once he felt a subtle shift in his understanding of their proximity. His insides turned with an incomprehensible hunger. This is not a human emotion, but it is housed in a human head with a humanoid brain that remembers some things, and then it doesn't process it correctly. Or maybe, there is no right answer at all. Who really gives a shit when there is a grown man, six feet something, shaking on the ground with steaming skin that sizzles and suddenly calms.

Shay blinks, swaying away from the body a couple of feet away from him. His words fall upon deaf ears, and he beholds some kind of miracle, or curse, take priority over the loud coppers outside. He waves his hand first in front of him, as if attempting to fish for the attention of the wounded man. No such luck at first; his counterpart spends the moment chewing off the handcuff seizing him. The metal is snapped with teeth that do not crack and crumble. Shay raises his eyebrow at the flap of severed skin that splatters on the ground with inky residue. The pollutant shifts his interests onto the tiny pile of bile that suddenly begins to move while the man is busy molding into a pathetic heap of a coil, oversized hamster. The comparison stands true, in some ways. And what's Shay going to do? He isn't going to help a problem the cause of which remains a mystery. In most cases for Shay, this is the end of his road. He is not a doctor; he has no formal education. He isn't going to make things worse by reaching out and patting someone on the shoulder, offering them thoughts and prayers. If the convulsing man dies, then more power to his memory. Shay will devour him regardless, in whichever stage of decomposition he later finds him in.

The piece of flesh crawls away just as Shay swipes his finger over the black stain. He brings it closer to his face. He sees a wiggling heap of…something. Is that an ant? Before the evidence can run away, the Omen sticks his finger in his mouth, swiping his tongue over the smudge. A prickling sensation blurs into his warm saliva, and suddenly a flash of colors Shay does not recognize. It jolts his head back with shuddering eyelids. The taste is foreign and severely tart, and yet it possesses a familiar aftertaste. Something ruinous like putty stuck into a rotting trap. He cannot place it as he finally leaves the outskirts of wherever this mere taste takes him. What an odd adventure. And it seems to last a few seconds. Blinking away a flash of bright green and burnt orange, Shay finds the other man somewhat awake. He blinks at him and shifts from his crouch, leaning one knee on the floor while stretching out the other leg by moving his knee to the side. The man's face is hidden on the floor, and when he speaks, his voice is wet with emotion.

Shay grimaces slightly. "Yeah, I'm su'e." He does not believe the other, but if this is what he wants the reality to be, Shay isn't going to correct him on the obvious. Instead, the pollutant twists his body to face his back to the floor before lying down directly next to the other. Above them, the sirens grow close, exploding with a screech of passing police vehicles. The light pours into the vacant apartment briefly, painting the walls in collapsed purple before vanishing and yielding the sickly-blue light of advertisement signs nearby. Shay stares at the ceiling, observing the dust particles dancing in his eyes.

"Could start by telling me your name, then you can sleep all you want." Shay hums and folds both of his arms under his head while propping one leg up and stretching the other forward.

Howard turned in a way that he could perhaps salvage some dignity in the moment. He covered his face as he curled into himself, hands grasping a handful of his own hair. He was so fucking sick and tired of it all, of being run aground and torn apart for every slight mistake. Not once had he felt as if anything he’d done was appreciated, and ever since his brother’s death, all there was to him was work, work, work.

Work? That implies he was paid for his troubles. All he received in return was more pain, justified or otherwise. It was becoming a sick joke, the way it never seemed like peace was ever within reach. He’d forgotten what a normal response to what he endured should look like, but Howard was certain crying over it the way he did was not the right answer. It only made him feel as though he should have simply walked out of the apartment and surrendered. He’d be locked up and experimented on, perhaps, never seeing the light of day ever again. And that would have been a good ending for him, better than whatever he had now.

“Hávarðr,” he answered quietly, so quiet the stranger might not even hear him. He remembered every syllable rolling from his father’s mouth, the everlasting memory of a man who had led him to this sickening unlife he was living. Why couldn’t his father drown him as a babe when he had the chance, if he knew this was his son's fate? Why was Howard kept alive? What did he see, that Howard needed to stay alive after all these centuries?

“Howard.” His voice rose higher. A small pause. “Pike. Just call me Howard.”

He had half a mind to ask the stranger for his name in return, but was too worn out to even care. Eventually they’d be on their separate ways, with Howard trying to fix the problem he was facing, one way or the other. It didn’t matter if the stranger had a name then, would it?

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: an honest actor in the industry that works against all of them? Lestat grins at the prospect of making a new friend out of a vampire who would rather hold his shadows close, shrouded in them. To Lestat, the spotlight only intensifies. After Monaco, he has been nothing but the front runner of every article that wishes for the former rockstar to clarify one thing over and over again: I didn't do it, I never would do something so monstrous and disgusting. I am one of you. I am not a monster with teeth. But a lie like that would taste bitter. He doesn't want to release his monstrous nature. The trial was merely a reminder of Lestat's capabilities. He'd rather be less messy, but he has that freedom to. He could just turn around and ignore the threats of Talamasca. He could.

Lestat's eyes watch Howard when the vampire takes his arm and touches his elbow. He arches his eyebrow; perhaps a simple show would have cut it if not for the interesting formation of Howard's jaw. No, this is not a classic vampire you see in movies or in the reflection of Lestat's brilliant, blue eyes. He feels a twitch in his limb when Howard's maulers press again him, and then tighter to leave a mark behind. A fascinated sigh: the teeth do not draw from the nether of his body. Howard does not drink from him, even if the actor would have welcomed a taste to prove a point. The man furrows his eyebrows as he lowers his arm to gain a better view of his marked, collapsed skin. The shower bounces off of their outline, running over the crevices to fill the dents with water. Gently brushing the droplets away, Lestat hums.

"If my body could retain ink, I would've asked for this to be tattooed." The actor motions with his gently bitten limb before turning to face the shower head, washing something form his face. "Our bite may be different, but our nature is the same. My teeth leave quite the mess," he chuckles and glances at Howard after pulling his wet tresses over his shoulder. "Or maybe the fault is mine." He nods at Howard while reaching for the shower knob nearby. He confirms that there is no more need for them to stand under hot water, coated with trapped steam in the cabin.

"If you aren't partaking tonight, I am not going to ask you to come with me to dark alleyways or an underground night club." The shower hisses once before the vampire twists the knob to shut off the stream. He stands by the wall, gently squeezing out water from his hair by twisting the gilded bouquet in his hands. "You are bold." Lestat remarks, sweeping his eyes over his co-star. "I like it. And that means we are going to have a lot of fun tonight regardless." A wide smile paints a vain picture: Lestat de Lioncourt still likes to show himself off with company that wouldn't mind a rapid change of plans. Whether he gets to suck from a neck tonight, or simply people watch while basking in attention does not matter to him. He's got a companion that is far more intriguing than a bartender behind a counter of a Hollywood dive bar.

"You should wear red tonight, I think," Lestat whispers as he rakes his hands through his hair to sweep it away from his face. "I think it will suit you."

“Oh please.” Howard rolled his eyes, stepping aside to let Lestat slink out of the bathroom first. “Nothing worth tattooing from me. I’m not that sort of muse,” he snorted, raking his hair back with his fingers. “And why not? I want to see how a rockstar lives his night; and not just any rockstar either. It’s the vampire Lestat in the flesh,” Howard’s eyes drifted down the figure before him, lingering rather suggestively before they raised to meet Lestat’s gaze.

“I’ve learnt that I’ll never get what I want if I don’t act a little more audaciously,” he replied low, “step out of line here and there. Make my wants known. And the worst I could get is a firm no. I think we’ve already established where we are on boundaries much earlier.” Leaning against the wall behind him, he folded his arms and greeted Lestat’s praise with his smile. “Though if my overstepping gets on your nerves, my prince, please let it be known. I do have manners. I just chose not to wear them tonight.”

For a few seconds too long, Howard’s attention fell on the way Lestat’s lips moved when he spoke. There was something so pleasant about it, something so self-assured that it washed over Howard with admiration for the other. It was no secret that there had been multiple attempts on Lestat’s life before this for the vivacity the vampire had subjected his limelight-filled life to. Almost spiteful, his two paws against the world. Fuck everything and fuck everyone -- Lestat will make the world fall to its knees and beg.

What is his reason, Howard wondered. “Sure,” he pushed himself off and sauntered out, offering Lestat a clean bathrobe to slip into. “I’m intrigued by where you’ll be bringing me instead, and in red no less,” he chortled, “a colour I’ve never been seen in, I don’t think. A bit too,” Howard reached for a small towel to help Lestat with his damp hair, “on the nose, I think.”

“I can hear your team looking for you,” he drew in a deep breath as he lingered near the nape of Lestat’s neck. Just to tease, just a little game; they were dancing here and he was well aware of it. Around what and to which piece of music, he was yet to discover. “Rustling around like little bugs. I’m impressed at their dedication. Have you thralled them all, or were they simply mesmerised by your magic? I can never tell, you see.”

“A lot of the things your kind can do, I can do marginally, though most are impossible for me.” Vampiric suggestions, flight, fire, turning. It made Lestat’s kind seem superior to his, though it didn’t bother him if it was objectively true; after all, what mattered in the end is who of all of them could survive the nuclear death of the planet when push comes to shove, no?

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❝ Okay. ❞ He echoed the simple word as if his sureness would somehow help balance out just how unconvincing Howard's rendition had been. The cambion sat up with him, mirrored his movements. When Howard would get up, Clark would get up. Howard was insistent he was deal with this and so he was more than ready to take the following role rather than the leading charge.

A hand came to pet gently through Howard's hair. His fingers were delicate but consistent in their movements, patient and unrushed.

❝ If the duvet doesn't seem salvageable, we can toss it. I'm not saying that to... save you from this or keep you from handling it. I'm just saying that you're allowed to be realistic about it. Make the attempt because you need to but don't feel like you have to go overboard with it. ❞

The hands in Howard's hair transitioned into holding him in turn when the man embraced him once more. He let Howard utter his quiet confessions without a reply. He had his own thoughts on the matter, had his own input, but it wasn't his place to insert that right now.

Then he was pulling away and the transitional gesture meant it was time to move on. ❝ I wasn't going to, darling. Don't worry. ❞ He stood first and offered a hand to hoist his spouse up in turn. Then, he bent to grab up his tea. Coffee after, he decided.

❝ Why don't you just say whatever comes to mind. You did that before and it helped ease you out of your spiral, didn't it? Just ramble. I'll guide the conversation or take charge to keep things going if need be. ❞

With a couple of silent nods, Howard reluctantly stood up, standing loosely in front of Clark, clearly unwilling to go through with it at all if he could. Running away is not an option, however; it has gone too far for too long. Sooner or later, he had to learn to face it all like a man should.

He thought, perhaps he wasn't angry enough. He hadn't been angry for quite some time; he was fatigued, too thoroughly jaded to have it in him to defend or fight for himself. Howard no longer barked and bit and gnawed his way out of the injustices he suffered through -- centuries of punishments tend to bleach away the fight out of even the strongest of people -- bolstered by the fact that the less he fought, the less everything would hurt. If he'd just lie down and take it, everyone would leave him be, eventually.

Howard drew in a sharp breath when they arrived at his bedroom again. From the streaks on the ground and on the furniture near his bed, he could see himself waking up soaking in blood, falling onto his knees on the floor, pawing his way to the bathroom.

How could he have left himself this way for so long?

Nothing came to mind other than wisps of thoughts that seemed to no longer matter to him, absolutely unimportant to voice in the moment. He pulled on the duvet, threw it on the floor, and tugged on the sheets next. Silently, he bundled them up and tossed them into a bathtub, flicking the tap on.

What is there left to say? This was his fault in some way. He should have bitten harder, should have fought dirtier. Instead, he cowered and cried. Clark had gone through worse and came out a victor, so what made them so different?