fatal to look hungry

by ryttu3k

Summary:

Chase wakes up in Duke Cain's house. And he's hungry.

Notes:

My... what I'll generously call a 'thought process' was this:

1) Man, I really want to play with the hunger motifs all through Dead Take. They’re so heavily used but kind of get buried under the 'take your shot' motifs in the end.
2) Vampires are a really good way to play with hunger motifs!
3) It takes place in LA in October 2025… in fact, IIRC, 23rd October is more or less the day Bloodlines starts, 21 years earlier, isn’t it?
4) I am now writing a VtM AU.

Chapter warnings: Vampire-typical themes (biting, drinking blood, undeath, etc), manipulation, self-loathing.

Chapter 1: Audition

God, he's so fucking hungry.

It's gnawing at Chase's insides like a hand has reached inside him and dug in its claws. It's not just his stomach - this is a full-bodied hunger, one that leaves his head throbbing, his hands shaking, his chest aching like he's been hollowed out. He can remember Duke's words echoing through him, telling him just how empty he really was, how the world only devoured those like him, and -

Shit, why doesn't he remember? Why is the memory of Duke's office a hazy, half-dreamed recollection, overwritten by darkness, and hunger, and the smell of blood?

Chase props himself up on one elbow and takes stock. He's in that bedroom - the horrifying one with the cameras and lights, the ones with closets full of duct tape and dressers covered in tissue and lube. He's half-dressed, and something inside him turns over. A flash of memory - following Duke from the office, following him down the stairs and into the room and -

He hadn't resisted. Why the hell hadn't he resisted? He had to have known something terrible was going to happen. He had been afraid since he had first stepped into the place to find Vinny, his fear so thick in his throat he couldn't speak when he had been summoned before Duke.

But Duke had looked at him, looked into him. And that fear in him had fallen quiet and docile, every nerve singing with the desire to please Duke, to do anything, anything, he'd do anything...

Sitting on the bed, hands curled into the blankets and a hungry screaming void beneath his ribs, it all seems a bit pathetic, that desperation to do whatever it took. He had wanted to be a star, and now -

Carefully, Chase pushes himself up. His shirt is mostly unbuttoned, some buttons missing entirely, and crusty with dried blood. When he presses a hand against his chest, he finds it tacky. His jeans, at least, are still done up, and while a powerful ache thrums through his entire body, he's fairly certain, at least, that he hasn't been assaulted.

(He remembers Duke telling him to kneel -)

Chase presses a hand to his mouth, three fingers hard against his lips.

He remembers Duke telling him to kneel, and he had dropped to his knees so fast they had sent pain shooting up his thighs. He remembers sitting back on his heels, waiting, hands trembling in his lap, waiting for Duke to approach, watching him with every sense tingling, a rat locked in a room with a cat. He remembers thinking, this is what it means, to be a star.

(He remembers thinking, wondering, had Vinny been here too, on his knees in a room with a bed and lights and cameras? Had he watched Duke approach like a shark, knowing that every connection he had wasn't enough to save him from this?)

Duke had caressed his face. His hand had been cold as he had flicked open the top button of Chase's shirt.

He had -

He had pushed Chase back against the foot of the bed. And then he had sank his teeth into Chase's throat.

Chase raises a hand to his neck. It's smooth, no marks to be found, only the cold touch of his own hand. But he remembers it, remembers the sensation of teeth - of fangs burying themselves in his skin, the awful sapping cold weakness before a wash of pleasure so intense it had left him trembling in Duke's hands. He remembers his fingers growing numb, his heart racing in his chest before growing slower, weaker, the edges of the world disappearing; he remembers not caring so long as he never stopped feeling this good.

And then: nothing.

And then: hunger.

He lets his hand drop. Sits there for a long, lingering moment. There's an awful idea brewing, an awful, impossible, stupid fucking idea, he's clearly lost the plot, maybe he had always been losing the plot. Stupid, to think that; stupid, to connect Duke biting him and drinking his blood with sudden coldness, sudden hunger.

Chase doubles over. Presses his forehead against his knees. Tries to pretend that he doesn't feel like he's been ripped open inside, that there's something in his chest scrabbling and clawing to get out, that he feels this close to losing his goddamn mind. The sound he makes is broken, keening.

The door clicks and swings open. Chase lunges.

It's not him that moves. It's something feral, something born starving, something that wants to carve him open to escape. His teeth, his fangs sink into flesh and blood pours down his throat and he wants to sob with joy and relief and pleasure because it's what he needs, and he drinks and drinks and drinks -

He's sprawling back, blood dripping from his lips. He's not satiated, but the clawing emptiness inside has taken a step back; his mind is just that little bit clearer. And now, now he can see Duke, Duke with a bemused smile on his lips, Duke with clear bite marks on his bloodied forearm, Duke with the puncture wounds fading and healing even before Chase's eyes.

"One must never underestimate the hunger of fledglings," Duke says, and Duke smiles, and Chase feels a lurch of adoration so violent he pushes himself up only to drop clumsily to his knees before him.

"What -?"

Duke takes a step forward, backlit by the open door, and reaches out to stroke Chase's cheek. Chase's eyes flutter shut, pressing into his touch; Duke chuckles at the display.

"You were empty, Chase," Duke tells him, and the smile is clear in his voice, so affectionate, so warm. "So I took what little was there and filled you up with me. I devoured you, and then I made you a part of something so much more."

"What did you make me?" Chase says, and it comes out a rasping whisper.

Duke smiles, smiles, smiles. "We call ourselves Kindred. You may know us better as 'vampires'."

There's static in his brain as Duke lifts his chin, as Duke presses his thumb against Chase's bottom lip. Chase opens his mouth obligingly; Duke slides his fingers between Chase's lips and his eyes flutter shut.

Duke is inspecting his - the word turns over in his gut - his fangs, he realises. He has fangs, small but sharp, and yes, he's always been a little self-conscious as it is about his teeth but these are real fangs, vampire fangs, because Duke has made him into a vampire -

But - it's hard to think. Hard to worry about it, on his knees in front of someone he's looked up to since he was half-grown, long, cool fingers in Chase's mouth.

Fuck, he thinks distantly.

Without pausing to wonder if it's a good idea or not, he sucks, licks, swirls his tongue around Duke's fingers; Duke makes a sound of pleasure. "If things had been different," Duke murmurs, "I could have had you here on your knees long ago. Perhaps I could have found a use for you earlier. But now... now, you could be even more magnificent." Duke pulls his fingers free, wiping them dry on Chase's cheek. "My glorious childe. You could be so magnificent."

Something in him thrills all over. He wants to. He wants to, so much, an all-pervading hunger even more than his newfound bloodlust. He wants to be able to slip into another's skin, become something bigger than himself, be moulded and carved into something worthy of Duke's attention and praise. He wants to be shaped, to become art, to become story.

Duke, gazing down at him, makes a pleased sound, then shoves lightly at his shoulder. "Go and wash yourself," he says, and turns away, and suddenly Chase feels so, so cold. "I'll find you a new shirt. Something suitable."

He's left alone, and the room feels that much colder.

Chase stumbles to his feet, dropping his bloodstained shirt to the floor. His reflection in the mirror - and he does have a reflection, he hadn't been sure until he had looked - is pale and drawn, like he's been unwell for weeks; when he opens his mouth, the fangs are obvious. Wordlessly, he begins to wash, cleanse himself of Duke's fresh blood (and if he slides a few fingers into his mouth to suck them clean first, well, no one is around to see) and his own dried blood.

Vampire, he thinks, and the word is unsteady, but his thoughts are a little more solid.

It makes sense, in a horrible sort of way. Duke is reclusive, usually only showing up at his own premiers, held at night and adorned by a hundred million glittering light bulbs. Duke only allows a chosen few into his inner circle; Duke heavily makes use of recordings over face to face meetings. Yes, Duke could, quite easily, be a vampire.

And - now, so is he. For whatever the reason, Duke has chosen him, and he can't pretend through the solid lump of fear somewhere in his gut that he isn't giddy at the prospect.

Duke has chosen him. Him!

Clean, still shirtless, Chase settles on the end of the bed, bare feet resting on the frame, knees drawn to his chest. There's a faint heartbeat still there, quiet and sluggish; some instinct knows it's only because of the mouthfuls of Duke's blood he's been permitted. Breathing is a deliberate action. When he breathes in deeply, fully, he can feel something in him crack and break a little; he hasn't been breathing all this time, save for what he's needed for those few rasping whispers, and the effort now pains him.

He'll need to be able to speak, he thinks distantly, if he's going to be in films. People will notice if he's not visibly breathing.

The door swings open again. Chase scrambles up, half-torn on whether to remain standing or whether he should follow his instincts and fall to his knees again. What would Duke prefer? Strength? Obeisance?

Duke holds a shirt out for him. Button-up, a rich, sumptuous blue with a delicate embossed patterns. Little swirls, flourishes. He runs his fingers over the fabric and finds himself lost in its texture, the silkiness of its weave, the depth of the colour in this dimly-lit room. It spills over his hands like water.

A chuckle, and Chase's attention snaps from it like a broken elastic band. "You will have to learn not to lose yourself, my childe," he says bemusedly, "Our clan, the Clan of the Rose, clan Toreador - our love is for all things beautiful. The price we pay to be born to the night is to covet beauty above all else. To crave it, to collect it."

His own thoughts are almost shy; is that why you collected me?

Instead, Chase clears his throat, draws in a breath. "Clans? Are there different types of vam- of Kindred?"

An affirmative. "There are thirteen clans, not including the clanless and the thinbloods - and most don't include them at all. Our clan, the Toreador, was once known as one of the High Clans. Even now, we're one of the most important, the ones who are at the forefront of Kindred culture and history. We are the artists and the creators, the ones who take the raw parts of history and spin them into something worthy." He smiles, and it almost looks human. "Does that not sound like film?"

Wordlessly, Chase nods.

"You'll learn all of this in time, my boy," Duke says, and gestures. "Get dressed."

He scrambles to obey, to slide the shirt over his skin and button it up. It's the finest thing he's ever worn, well beyond anything he could afford himself; he knows he'll protect this shirt, this offering of Duke's, with his life.

(Somewhere, something deep down in him raises a metaphorical eyebrow.)

"Mind yourself, my childe," Duke says, and takes his hand, and leads him out into the foyer of the entertainment wing.

He realises what Duke's words mean an instant before it hits. The trophies, the posters, the props, the signs and accoutrements of a life in film - he had seen them before, yes, but now he perceives them, the way the light glimmers off the trophies, the composition and colour of the posters. He's surrounded by art, by master works, the products of a brilliant mind, so overwhelmingly glorious he's struck dumb.

He could stay here forever, amidst the gleam of the lights, the strength of colour and form of the posters, the craftsmanship of the props. Even the building itself holds a new beauty entirely, quality built into every angle; Duke has made himself a temple.

"Chase," says a voice, distantly.

Chase blinks suddenly, blearily. Duke comes into focus, standing before him, an indulgent smile on his face.

"Chase," he repeats, "There will be time for this later. Come with me."

And Chase trips after him, follows him like a lamb. Up the stairs to the living area, then another flight, every cell vibrating in the attempt to avoid being transfixed at the way the moon leaves shadow play figures of the trees dancing on the walls, the way the clean polish of hand rails that probably cost more than most people's apartments glides under his palm.

There is so much beauty. It's everywhere, a feast to every sense. He's barely cognizant of his own feet following Duke back up to the office where things had begun.

It's not empty. Chase steps into the room and finds Vinny waiting there for him.

He's seated in an armchair, one of a pair upholstered in dark, rich leather, one leg folded over the other. He's in profile, the subtle lights around the baseboard of the room leaving his delicate leading man features backlit, caressing the lines of his jaw, his nose, his long lashes. Chase can feel his attention fixing on Vinny like he had earlier with the awards and posters; distantly, he can hear his lips shape the words, "You're beautiful."

Vinny turns to him, and his eyes widen. He's on his feet, hands balling into fists, his expression twisting into something ugly as he stares at Duke. "Him?" he says, and his voice cracks. "You turned him, too?"

It's like a sudden dash of cold water to the face. Chase blinks, and the breathtaking beauty of Vinny's face dulls, hardens to simple human attractiveness. He is diminished, the world is diminished, and something in Chase screams at him to bring it back again.

But, another part says, but, at least now he can think clearly.

"'Too', huh?" he says, and his own voice is quiet, hoarse even to his own ears. Because, yes, he can see it now - Vinny's unnatural pallor, the sharpness of his teeth. It isn't hard to guess what had happened.

It's... not a nice feeling. Not nice, the knowledge that he had been chosen, only for that choice to be second-best again. Duke had chosen him, yes - but he had still chosen Vinny first.

Wordlessly, Duke crosses to where Vinny is sitting, settling himself in the other armchair like it's a throne. Vinny sinks down into his again; Chase glances between the two, at how he's been effectively cut out of the conversation again, and swallows, leaning on the back of Vinny's chair instead.

Duke folds his hands in his lap, regards them both. There's a fondness in his expression. Had it always been there?

"My boys," he says, warmth in his voice, and that stupid little part of Chase shivers in glee at the recognition, the possessiveness. "We have a lot to talk about, and that shouldn't be done on an empty stomach." Pulling out his phone, one of those obscenely expensive ones Chase could only dream of owning, he taps in a message, sits back.

They sit in silence for, perhaps, thirty seconds before there's a quiet rap on the door. Duke bids them enter, his tone bored again, and two of the most ridiculously pretty people he's ever seen step into the office, a young man and a young woman. Without further instruction, the young woman moves to kneel beside Duke's chair; the young man crosses to him and Vinny.

"Now," Duke says, and takes the woman's wrist. "Bite. Drink what you need. Don't lose control or you'll fucking pay for it. When you're done, lick the wounds clean, and they'll close." And he sinks his fangs into the woman's wrist, and she lets out a fluttery little moan.

Neither Chase nor Vinny move, even as the young man offers his wrist to Vinny, his throat to Chase. Duke raises his eyebrows at them, gestures one-handed at them impatiently.

"It's fine," the young man murmurs, even though he's pale, drawn, anaemic-looking. "It feels good. Promise."

And - god, but Chase can feel that hunger again, the one that hasn't really gone away since he had woken up in the bed in the bedroom downstairs. It had been set back with that sweet wash of Duke's blood, but now it rises up again, hollowing him out again, a shriek of desperation in the back of his mind.

The sound that escapes his lips is ragged, needy. He'd be embarrassed if he didn't want this so much, wrapping one hand around the back of the man's neck, biting down and drinking, drinking, drinking.

It's good. It's so fucking good, like the smoothest whisky he's ever drank, like the most perfectly tart raspberries, the most bittersweet dark chocolate. It's like sex and coke and music, like disappearing into a role, dissolving into a character. It's ambrosia. It's life.

It's blood pouring down his throat.

Dimly, he's aware of Vinny giving in, grabbing the man's wrist and biting down with a wet sound. But the rest of the world has shrunk down to him and the man and the blood in his mouth, the most perfect ecstasy, half floating with it.

He's being pushed away carefully, then with force. Duke's words - don't lose control or you'll fucking pay for it - burrow themselves into his brain. Chase pulls away with a gasp, blood dripping from his lips; the young man looks dazed and shocking white but gives him a tremulous smile.

"You did fine, sweetheart," he whispers. "Just - just lick it shut, okay?"

Chase nods unsteadily. Obeys, and finds the wounds healing under his tongue, and if he takes the opportunity to lick what blood is left on his skin, it's simply in the name of not being wasteful (and Vinny is doing the same. If it's good enough for Vinny, surely it's good enough for Chase, too?). The young man gives them another bleary smile, then wobbles away to drop heavily in a folding chair, reaching for a bottle of water and a protein bar placed nearby.

Duke is gazing at both of them, a frown on his lips. Chase shrinks a little under that look, the disappointment there.

"Vinny," he says shortly, "You did well. Chase, you were sloppy. Too desperate and needy. Good blood dolls are hard to find. Drain one at your peril."

The hunger has quieted, but it's still there, present inside him. He thinks, perhaps, it might always be there now.

Sitting back in the chair, Duke regards them both. And then he begins to speak: to explain the world they had found themselves in, the rules they would have to follow or else court Final Death, the abilities and limits of their new bodies. The dangers and terrors of sunlight and fire. That, in time, they will learn how to reach out with their senses, how to influence the minds of others (Chase remembers, vividly, the desire to do anything to please Duke he had felt earlier, wonders if he's already seen that one from the other side), how to rouse the blood in their bodies to move faster, to be more resilient, to give the impression of life and to return warmth to their veins. He tells them about the turmoils that have faced the Kindred of Los Angeles in the last couple of decades, about the price so many paid for a wrong step.

He tells them their lives as they know it are over, but now, now they have an opportunity to find a new one. Their new state of being is no obstacle, he tells them. He would shape them into actors who will never be looked askance for only shooting at night, for refusing all food, for little eccentricities. He hands them back their cell phones - and Chase starts, because he hadn't even realised Duke had taken them - and tells them to text, not call, anyone who would miss them, say they would be out of contact for the next few days.

When they're done, he takes their phones again, Vinny seething, Chase resigned. And they're released, the sunrise close at hand, led to a large but windowless guest room to rest for the day.

The door swings shut. Chase thinks he might have heard a key turn in the lock.

"Fuck," says Vinny as soon as they're alone, and turns, and drives his fist hard into the mattress. "Fuck!"

Chase watches him, arms crossed defensively, fingers of one hand clutching at the glorious smooth silk of his sleeve. "So, I guess it's true what they say about Duke being bloodthirsty, huh," he says, a feeble joke at best; he hunches his shoulders, half expecting immediate recrimination.

Vinny lets out a bark of a laugh and sinks down onto the bed, dropping his head into his hands. He's muttering something under his breath, and Chase approaches like he's venomous, one foot in front of the other. Vinny's head snaps up, and Chase's breath - he's breathing again, the blood circulating through his body again like how Duke had showed him - stutters in his chest.

His eyes are full of tears, and those tears are blood-streaked, and that, more than anything, is what drives him to the floor, to his knees, to rest his head in Vinny's lap and wrap his arms around his waist. "It's okay," he whispers, "We're okay."

A hand drops onto his head. Vinny strokes his hair, gently, his hand trembling; then his grip tightens. Chase's eyes water as Vinny yanks his head back, his expression a storm; grief, frustration, care, concern, anger, anger, anger.

"This is fucked, Chase," he says, and his voice cracks again, the polish and composure that Chase is so used to abandoning him. "We're not okay, we're fucking dead. He murdered us!"

He lets go. Wipes his thumb across Chase's eyes. He looks defeated, exhausted; suddenly, Chase can too clearly remember that Vinny is more than ten years younger than him, that he's not spent the last two decades of his life being kicked in the ribs, again and again and again.

He's right. That's the worst of it. There is nothing he can say to fix it, nothing to make it better, no false platitudes that no, really, they really are fine. They are dead. Duke murdered them.

"Why did you come here?" Vinny says, his shoulders slumping. "God, why didn't you stay the fuck away?"

"You wouldn't answer your phone." Chase's voice is subdued, even to himself; he finally gets off the floor, settling beside Vinny on the bed. "You've been acting weird for months, man. I was worried about you."

Vinny smiles without heat. "Now, why'd you do a stupid thing like that?"

"Because I care about you, asshole."

"Yeah, like I said. Stupid thing." But there's still a smile on his face, an exhausted, unhappy smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and that's - something. It's something, isn't it?

Vinny closes his eyes. Kicks his shoes off, then pushes himself back on the bed, stretching out. When he gestures, Chase settles in next to him, on his side, not touching but wanting so badly for comfort and contact. When he bites his lip, his sharp new fangs draw blood.

A shudder runs through Vinny's frame, a faint needy sound escapes his throat. "You're bleeding," he says, not opening his eyes, "I can smell it."

His eyes are still closed when he turns and kisses Chase, licks the beads of blood from his bottom lip, then bites down hard. There's a sudden sharp shock of pain, then nothing but pleasure, and it shouldn't feel so good to have Vinny's fangs in his lip, scraping his tongue, pulling free to bury in his throat, but he's lost to the sensation and all he can do is cling on to Vinny like he's a life buoy.

And there's hunger there. Hunger for Vinny's touch, his bite. His blood, if only Chase can get his fangs in his flesh. The whine he makes is almost embarrassing in its neediness, the way he grasps and clings to him, hooking one leg around Vinny's hip to draw their bodies together.

It's been a hell of a night. He's died, he's been returned, he's tasted blood. He wants more and the force of his want is an all-encompassing scream. Vinny is the only thing normal about the situation, the only thing he has to ground himself, the only thing to keep him Chase Lowry and not to lose himself into whatever Duke wants him to be.

(A part of him, too - he wants that. Isn't that what he's always wanted, to become a part of Duke's world? To dissolve into a role, to become a part of the story?)

So: kisses, and bites, and fevered touch. Vinny has Chase pressed into the mattress, one hand pinning both of Chase's wrists above his head. With a growl, he tugs one free, immediately uses it to pull their bodies flush, to wrap around the back of Vinny's neck; when he finally manages to sink his teeth in, he's not sure whether the taste of Vinny's blood or his moan is sweeter.

When they finally pull away, both breathless through their artificial life, lips and throats stained in blood (and the collar of the shirt, shit, the collar of the shirt!), Vinny lets out a defeated little laugh, dropping his head to Chase's shoulder. "This is fucked," he mumbles. "You know this is fucked, Chase."

Chase makes an affirmative sound, one hand running through Vinny's hair, loose and in disarray from its usual state of slicked-back polish. "We still have each other," he offers, then immediately winces, because damn if it's not the most sappy, maudlin thing he's said all night; Vinny gives him an inscrutable look then laughs again, softly, and doesn't reply.

It's a tense thing, now. Their - whatever it was - has been in a state of limbo since they had met three years earlier, at yet another open casting call before Vinny's fame had shot into the stratosphere. He had been using a fake name back then, wanting so badly to prove himself on the basis of his acting and not who his father was; Chase had remembered watching his read and thinking, he is a star.

(Vinny had admitted, later that night at the bar, drunk on wine and whisky and each other, that he had thought much the same about Chase. That he had not been able to look away, that he had been drawn in by the gravity of Chase's performance. That he hadn't made it to the next call was, he had said, a travesty; Chase had said much the same about Vinny. Vinny had shared his name, then; he had laughed, eyes crinkling, and said that at least he had been rejected honestly. They had fallen into bed together within an hour, Chase grateful to learn the truth, if only so he could cry out Vinny's name.)

It had been ephemeral, what they had. Vinny's star had risen and Chase's had stayed firmly muddied, and it was only in those quiet moments together, Vinny had confided one night, that he was able to just be himself, with no expectations of anything more from him. Chase had nodded wordlessly, wanting more, always wanting more, never saying so in fear that he'd lose him entirely.

And then, the Last Voyage. And then, competition, doubt. Chase, crushed but trying to be overjoyed for Vinny; Chase, fighting uncharitable envy but wanting, wanting so badly to be a part of Duke's world; Chase, watching as Vinny was drawn further and further into that world. Chase, getting those first calls from Duke, musing about how there was something in him, something that made him worthy, perhaps; perhaps, even more than Vinny himself.

The call, the night before. The invitation to the party. Duke. Duke's teeth. Blood. Vinny's blood, here, now, staining the back of his throat.

With a sigh, Chase unbuttons the glorious silk shirt one-handed and wriggles out of it, dropping it over the side of the bed. It'll wrinkle and he can't... quite bring himself to find that level of concern he might have had earlier, not with Vinny's warmth against him.

It's quarter to seven in the morning. Chase can feel fatigue wash over him like a wave, his eyelids heavy, an irresistible exhaustion he knows now is due to the rising sun.

"Vinny," he says, and it's slurred.

"Mm?"

"What now?"

Silence, then a sigh, warm against his skin; and something else, a hint of dampness. "Don't know," Vinny says, and his voice hitches. "I don't know."

"We'll work it out."

An exhausted laugh, cynical. "Sure we will, buddy."

I'll take care of you, he doesn't say. I'm going to make the best of this, even if it means leaving you behind, he doesn't say. I love you, he doesn't say.

"Yeah," he says, and lets sleep take him away.

Chapter 2: Screen Test

Notes:

Chapter warnings: Vampire-typical themes, manipulation, slut-shaming, rough kissing

God, he's so fucking hungry.

It's what wakes him, jolting him from complete unconsciousness to full alertness in the space of a blink. Chase groans thinly, curls in on himself, shoulder brushing cool flesh; he starts at the touch.

Vinny is already awake, watching him, expression drawn. "When you sleep," he says, and his voice is as hollow as a pit, "You're dead. You're not breathing. Your heart isn't beating. You don't move at all. You're just... dead."

"Don't you feel it?" Chase says, and his voice is raspy.

"The hunger?"

"Yeah."

A nod. "I haven't stopped feeling it. Not since I woke up last night." He rolls onto his back. "Remember what Duke said? We'll always feel it - unless we start killing people, and that's, you know. Killing people."

Chase pushes himself up, stares at his hands, at Vinny lying beside him, at the opulent bedding they're on. There's blood on his hands, Vinny's and his own and possibly that young man's, and when Vinny turns his back to get out of bed, Chase pops two fingers into his mouth and licks them clean.

It doesn't do anything to ease the feeling of a gaping hole inside him, like he's been hollowed out.

Vinny pulls his shirt back on, straightens his hair. He doesn't have his hair gel, and the sheer unhappiness of his expression dims his golden boy polish somewhat; still, Chase finds it hard to look away. He swallows roughly.

"What happens next?"

"Don't know." Even Vinny's voice sounds dead. "I guess we go see Duke."

When he tries the door, it opens smoothly, and yeah, a part of Chase is surprised. There's someone waiting behind it, though, and Vinny badly smothers a jump; she's an older woman dressed in the neat, simple black clothing of household staff, giving them both a respectful nod.

"Mister Cain will see you," she tells them both pleasantly, "This way, please."

It's not to the office this time, but downstairs to the entertainment wing, to the audition room with the mirror. Chase glances at it warily, unsure how much had been real, if there really had been another room on the other side, a twisted maze in the steam room, secrets beneath the pool house statue.

How much had been real? How much had been the product of his own mind? He doesn't know, can't know, and it's frustrating him to no end.

There are no seats for he and Vinny this time. Duke is seated at the desk, tapping away at his laptop, and when they enter, he barely glances in their direction. He seems more than content to let them wait, stew in their anxieties; Chase tries to step closer to Vinny surreptitiously.

(Because all of this is insane, it's terrifying, it shouldn't be happening, but - but he's glad Vinny is there. He's glad he's not alone in this.)

After a small eternity, Duke deigns to turn to them, leaning back in the office chair. He looks bored, more than anything else, and quirks a smile that doesn't go anywhere near his eyes. "An eternity in my hands," he grouses, "And there is still no escape from paperwork. How was your day's sleep?"

"Fine." Vinny says it, the word clipped. "Did you know we look exactly like corpses when we sleep?"

Was he rattled by it, waking up next to what, for all intents and purposes, looked like Chase's dead body? Chase glances at him, brow furrowing.

"So I have heard," Duke says with a graceful incline of his head. "That is, after all, what we are now, when the sun is up. No, my childer, we belong to the night, now. To cameras designed for low-light situations and evening premiers and midnight screenings. That is when we are the closest to alive. Chase," he adds, and Chase's head snaps up, immediately attentive, "Have you ever been to a premier?"

Chase hesitates, wonders if there's any good way to mention how many he had shown up at to fringe the red carpet with other fans, feeling that awful desperation in his gut to be on the other side of velvet ropes, to wish with his whole being that it was his feet on the red carpet. He settles for shaking his head; Vinny glances at him sidelong and doesn't contradict his answer.

Still, Duke seems satisfied with that, nodding once. "You will," he says like it's simple fact. "My premiers are always held under the stars. Even before my Embrace, the night has always been more romantic. You will not need to avoid the trappings of fame just because of our new condition. You will not be the next Ash Rivers."

He starts. It's been a long time since he's heard the name Ash Rivers, one of the stars of the late nineties. He had been ten or eleven when Negative Zero had come out, had idolised and adored the charismatic young star front and centre. And then Ash had started a slow but steady self-destruction - he had left film, bought a club. Within a handful of years, he was better known for crashing his expensive cars and picking fights with strangers; a little over twenty years ago, he had disappeared entirely.

Chase had always hoped he had found some sort of peace.

"Ash Rivers," Vinny says slowly, "He was one of us?"

"He was, in the Kindred sense, family." Duke turns back to his laptop, opens up another email. "He was Embraced by Isaac Abrams, my own sire - apparently to save him from an overdose. He was... most displeased with his new state of being. It was quite a different time, nearly thirty years ago. Still, Isaac may well have found a way for Ash to remain in the spotlight, if not the sunlight. He lacks the imagination to see how our kind could remain doing that which we love."

"What happened to him?" Chase asks quietly.

Duke shakes his head. "He drew the attention of hunters. He fled. Whether he survived or not, I never learned. My sire was rather reluctant to talk about him - saw him as rather a failure." When he turns back to them, his eyes blaze. "I will not make the mistakes he did. You will not simply disappear."

Vinny swallows. "When you say that," he says slowly, "You're saying we'd still have our careers - well," The sidelong glance at Chase and faint tilt of the head smarts, but Chase presses his lips together and doesn't say a word - "Despite the fact that we won't be able to go into the sun at all? Won't people notice?"

"I am saying precisely that," Duke says with a nod. "There are remarkable things that can be done in sound stages. With my influence, no one would think twice about the roles you take, the fact that you won't be seen during the day. Did you ever suspect me?"

They both shake their heads.

Duke has loomed large over Hollywood for years. He's spoken of in feared whispers - for the films he makes, for the rumours of what goes on on his sets. But for vampirism? Chase has not heard one inkling that Duke is anything less or more than human, and he's been listening as closely as he could, hanging on every interview, every article, every discussion in the hope that one day, one day Duke might notice him too.

And now he has, and -

"Does that include me?" he asks quietly.

Duke regards him, and smiles. "If you please me, yes."

He stands. Beside Chase, Vinny shivers, a sort of compulsive move, setting his shoulders back like an anxious cat. Chase remains motionless, rooted to the spot as Duke approaches, his expression intense, stopping before him.

"Sweet boy," he says softly, "Kneel."

Chase's knees hit the expensive rug before conscious thought can have any say in the matter. Beside him, he's vaguely aware of Vinny taking a step back, vaguely aware of his disgust; but all that doesn't matter, can't matter with Duke right there before him, gazing down at him with an expression on his face like he's examining a puzzle, something speculative and calculating.

Chase wonders if Duke will ask him to suck him off right there in the office, right in front of Vinny. He wonders if it would be so bad, so shameful.

Instead, Duke unbuttons his right cuff, folds up the sleeve. With his left thumbnail, he presses a crescent into his skin, and Chase can feel every sense immediately jump to full alertness. He can hear Vinny's own sharp intake of breath at the smell of blood, is so conscious of the rug under his knees, the way the air curls around Duke standing before him. His mouth waters. His eyes are fixed on that little arc of crimson, the scent twining around him, drawing him in.

"Suck," Duke says, and offers Chase his wrist.

Chase wouldn't have, prior to last night, described himself as 'bloodthirsty'. Hungry, yes. Starving, at times. Just plain thirsty, sometimes (especially when Vinny was over). But the wave of absolute need that washes over him at the taste of blood, of Duke's blood, would be horrifying if it wasn't so simultaneously ecstatic, if those drops of crimson sliding down his throat wasn't the best thing he's ever tasted, save only for the taste of Vinny's blood that morning; he wants it, needs it, craves it, will do anything and everything Duke asks of him if only he can keep tasting him.

He bites. Sinks his fangs into Duke's flesh, feels the pressure and the give, the way blood spurts hard into his mouth, feels the shudder run through Duke's body, thrilling all over at being the one to give pleasure to such a giant.

Duke runs his other hand through Chase's hair, and it's almost affectionate. Still, his voice when he orders enough is brisk, and Chase hastily obeys, licking the puncture wounds clean (and picking up any last few drops of blood in the process), rocking back on his heels. He feels dazed, wonders if he looks it, too.

"Good boy," Duke says, and his voice is soft. A flush of warmth that has nothing to do with blood shivers through him, even as Duke turns to Vinny. "And you, Vinny?"

Vinny gets on his knees a lot more slowly, Chase notes with the part of his mind able to form conscious thought. There's a familiarity in it, in the way Duke looks down at him, the way his hand moves to caress Vinny's jaw, and there's the sudden thought that maybe, maybe they've been here before.

(Duke, standing proud with all his power, tracing the lines of Vinny's features with one hand; Vinny, those glorious features softened in submission, gazing up willingly, unhesitatingly. He's not quite sure who the hot pulse of envy is for.)

Vinny bites, and it's slow and cautious. But Chase knows when the taste hits, because he can see how Vinny's expression changes, from uncertainty to hunger, from caution to bloodlust. His eyes close, a thin moan muffled by Duke's flesh escaping his lips, and he keeps going and does not stop, not until Duke takes a handful of his hair and wrenches him back. His eyes are glazed, blood dripping from his lips, and god, if Chase could only lick them clean...

Duke sighs. It's not even aimed at him, and Chase still feels something in him droop; he has a sudden image of himself as a dog, its tail no longer wagging. And then, beneath it - pleasure, pride that it's not him that Duke is disappointed in, that he's done it right and Vinny hasn't, that he's won a competition he didn't even know they were playing.

Approval. Lead roles. Blood. It's all tangled in his mind, an incoherent mess of want.

"Vitae," Duke says, heading to the desk. "Vampiric blood. It is life itself." When he turns back to them, he drops two bundles of paper before them with a thump and flutter of pages; Chase reaches for it slowly and finds the script of The Last Voyage.

He glances at Vinny, slowly wiping Duke's blood from his face (let me, let me clean you, let me lick it off -), then back down at the script, reaching for it with tentative hands. The one in front of him has 'Chase Lowry' scrawled in pencil on the front; his hands start trembling as he picks it up.

"Scenes four, sixteen, and eleven. You will be acting for Willie and reading for Patrick against each other, so ensure you learn both sets." Settling back at the desk, he flings a dismissive hand at them both. "Rehearsals will be at four. Don't be late."

Neither move, Chase's hands locked around the script like a lifeline. There's confusion, there. They'll both be acting as Willie? They'll be acting opposite each other, feeding the other the lines to play off?

Has he been cast, or is he an understudy? Vinny's copy of the script looks identical to his own, all the way down to the pencilled-in name. They're learning both roles - would one become Willie and the other Patrick? Or was the other merely a stand-in, a placeholder?

"Well?" Duke snaps, and suddenly he doesn't feel quite so congenial. "Go!"

Chase stands so fast he nearly topples again, ducking his head and racing out the door, not even bothering to look to see if Vinny follows.

 

"No, like - Willie isn't as desperate here. He wants the captaincy so much, but the stakes aren't as high because Marion isn't a factor yet. There's no actual conflict between the role he wants and the person he'd give it up for."

Vinny shakes his head, sitting back against the sofa. "Yeah, but he's still got that need for it. There aren't any distractions, which should make him more focused. He has nothing to do but go for it."

"I don't know, man. Marion gives him something tangible to weigh up against it." Chase shrugs, underlining one line with his finger. "See - he talks about dedication here, but that dedication isn't actually challenged. It's ambition, not desperation. I think that line needs to be... intense, but not as emotional, right?"

"Is there that much of a difference?"

Chase looks up, blinks. Vinny has one leg slung over the other, the script to his side; he's watching Chase thoughtfully. "What, between ambition and desperation?"

"Yeah."

"Well, yeah." Chase draws air into his lungs, out, in again. "Ambition is want. Desperation is ambition combined with the potential for loss. You can be ambitious and be, like - calm, in control, polished about it. But if you're desperate, it's because you can see a way to lose that thing. Willie is desperate later because he knows his relationship with Marion might be an obstacle to what he wants, but here, it's just regular ambition."

Vinny makes a thoughtful sound, picking up the script again.

Vinny studies the script, and Chase studies Vinny. Vinny - perfect, polished, ambitious Vinny - has never really had to face that loss, has he? He wants, and he goes after it, and he gets it.

Chase wants and wants and wants. He goes after it. And he finds not bad, but not what we're looking for, and we've already filled the role, and sorry, you were good, but... He knows desperation. He knows what he stands to lose, with every week and month and year that passes.

And that's what Vinny has never got. That's why Chase is so much the better fit for the role than Vinny ever would have been. Chase got it.

"Yeah, you're right," Vinny finally says, and it's so unexpected that the script almost slips from Chase's hands. "The desperation - that needs to come in later, yeah. Thanks for the insight," he adds, and his smile is dazzling, and aimed right at Chase, and all he can hear is you're right.

"You - thanks," he says numbly. "Just, I've been there, you know?"

Slowly, Vinny nods again. Sets the script down, shifts to sit next to Chase, half-turned to face him. "If Duke is wrong," he says, words slow, sluggish on his tongue, "I have everything to lose. Everything I've worked for. Like - yeah, I know they all say I got where I am because of Dad, but I've worked. And now that's at risk."

"He's made it work so far."

"He's a producer. He isn't in the spotlight nearly as much as I am. He doesn't do the interviews, the media appearances. How could I do a morning show now? Or a lunchtime meet and greet? How could I go to a dinner if I can't fucking eat?" He grabs the script, then slams it down, hard, on the coffee table; Chase jumps. "This is fucked, Chase! We are fucked! He fucking murdered us, and you just - you just drop to your knees like a fucking whore just because he says to!"

The words are fevered. Duke, downstairs, has probably heard Vinny's shouting, and Chase can't even refute them. His hands shake on the script he holds.

It had been fun. It had been fun, going over the script with Vinny, working out how to deliver each line, delving deep into character and scene. Acting, like he had always wanted to, acting, with a Duke Cain script in his hands, acting, with Vinny at his side. God, he wanted so badly for this to continue, for there to be more scripts, more characters. For he and Vinny to be stars, together.

And all Vinny saw was the loss.

Because, Chase has to acknowledge, it is loss for him. Perfect Vinny Monroe had had the world, and then Duke had taken from him; he, Chase, had had everything to gain. No wonder his obeisance had rankled.

"Yeah," he finally says, the word choked in his throat, "I've been - desperate."

Vinny sneers. "Yeah, no shit."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me yourself, asshole," Vinny sneers, and grabs Chase's jaw, and kisses him like he wants to devour him. He bites down, fangs sinking into Chase's lower lip, and the moan tumbles out of him; he bites, tastes Vinny himself, lets Vinny press him against the couch, one cold hand sliding up under the silk shirt still marked with blood on the collar, ghosting over his abdomen and making his stomach squirm in something that isn't quite arousal and isn't quite terror (but he doesn't hate it, why doesn't he hate it, the way Vinny is manhandling him?).

His hands are on Vinny's hips, dragging him close, grinding up against him. Their bodies are dead, unresponsive without the deliberate rousing of blood, but it's the closeness he chases after. Vinny straddling his hips, Vinny's hands on his body, Vinny's nails raking down his skin, Vinny's lips against his, Vinny's blood in his mouth, Vinny, Vinny, Vinny.

Chase has always wanted, so much.

They're both dishevelled when they part, both their hair mussed, Chase's lovely silk shirt half-undone, faces streaked with blood (each other's and their own). Vinny lets out a despairing half-laugh and rolls off, dropping his head into his hands, leaving Chase shivering in sudden cold.

"We'd better get back to these scenes," Vinny says, flattening a hand over his hair, and his voice is as steady, as composed as Chase is flustered. "Duke wants us to read in two hours."

Silently, Chase nods, and picks up the script again.

 

But it goes well, actually, after all of that. They do the scenes, switching places every time, a fun acting exercise even if it stretches all of Chase's acting chops to slip from Willie's mind, to Patrick's, to back again. Duke watches silently or else shouts directions, whittles away weaknesses, shines them up into something glorious.

It's enough to start entertaining fantasies that, perhaps, Duke might change his mind; maybe he would regard Chase, and recognise his passion and skill and hard work, and finally concede that, yes, Willie was Chase's and always had been. It didn't mean Vinny had to be rejected entirely, he thinks; perhaps he could be cast in another major role, or take the lead on Duke's next film.

He's had so many big roles recently. Wouldn't it be fair, to let Chase have his time in the light?

The morning approaches. Duke summons more gorgeous-looking people (what had he called them the day before, blood dolls?) for them to drink from, and this time, Chase keeps control; it's still good, still feeling like life pouring down his throat, but nothing like tasting Duke's own blood. Nothing like Vinny's.

And then, to bed. This time, they're shown to different rooms by one of the black-clad staff members, Vinny left in the one they had shared yesterday, Chase to the one next to it. He's offered a towel and toiletries, a few changes of clothes, all beautifully made, all perfect in cut and colour.

His new room has an ensuite. There's just enough time before the sun rises for him to shower, wash away the last few days; then he falls into a sleep like death.

Chapter 3: Rehearsal

Notes:

Chapter warnings: Vampire-typical themes, mild sexual content involving coercion and voyeurism (two actors coerced into a sex scene by a producer), brief dissociation, mention of past drug use and sexual coercion, brief violence (against inanimate object)

God, he's so fucking hungry.

Chase presses his face into the pillow and groans softly. If he's condemned to wake like this every morning, he's going to have to get used to it; for now, he curls in around himself and bites down on his lip just to taste his own blood.

Still, no matter how much he wants to, he can't stay in bed all night. Slowly, he rises, his limbs heavy, his belly hollow, and dresses in one of his fine new outfits, trailing his fingers over the softness of the fabric. He's never been able to afford things like this, no matter how hard he's worked; he wonders, wonders if he'll ever get used to this, too.

Hunger and riches. Death and beauty. His old life has ended at the flash of Duke's fangs.

A knock at his door. Chase trudges over and opens it, half expecting one of the staff; instead, it's Vinny, looking weary, clutching a towel, a change of clothes, and a handful of toiletries. "There's no ensuite in my room," he says by way of greeting, and steps inside; Chase steps back like being repelled by a magnet.

"No, by all means, make yourself at home, man," he says to the air as Vinny marches straight to the ensuite and shuts the door. "Sure. Okay."

Slowly, he sits down on the end of the bed. Fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, the fine fabric there. He loses himself to it, lets his eyes fall half-shut at the touch of silk under the tips of his fingers, the white noise of the shower; the time slides past like honey, because when he next blinks, Vinny is standing before him, his skin and hair still wet, one hand holding the towel around his waist.

He lets it go. Chase's gaze flicks down, then back up at his face, his own eyes wide.

"Sweet boy," Vinny says softly, an intimate echo of the words Duke had spoken the night before. "Kneel."

He obeys. He obeys faster than he can think, faster than he can doubt. Being on his knees in front of Vinny feels like the most natural thing in the world in all the bewildering, unnatural confusion of the past few nights; Vinny's hand caressing his cheek, his jaw, pressing a thumb against his lower lip feels like a kiss.

Vinny lifts his wrist to his own mouth, bites down. Sweet blood scents the air. He presents it to Chase, then quietly orders, "Suck."

He obeys. He obeys.

Drinking from Duke feels like a duty. And it's a duty he's fulfilled happily, willingly, on his knees before the great film maker, someone Chase has idolised since he was a kid wanting nothing more than to be a part of that world. But drinking from Vinny feels like he's been given a gift, like he's been chosen to receive some sacred blessing, like Vinny has anointed him. He feels alive, on his knees in front of him, his entire body attuned to his presence. He knows that Vinny need only give the word, and Chase would give his life for him, just to make him smile.

He idolises Duke. He's idolised Duke for years. But Vinny... Vinny...

"Enough," Vinny murmurs, and falls to his own knees. Their kiss is messy, smearing blood over both their lips; Chase would be breathless when they finally part, had he still needed to breathe.

For a long moment, they regard each other. Then a smile, a faint sad smile that doesn't reach Vinny's eyes, crosses his lips. "I should get dressed," he murmurs, and stands, and leaves Chase there on his knees, alone.

 

"No, no, no. There's no feeling. Feed me something real. Again!"

It's the early hours of the morning. Chase and Vinny had left their rooms to be led straight to the rehearsal space, their scripts dropped in front of them. "We're going to do a little exercise," Duke had told them, his expression brooking no argument. "I will give you a scene number and your roles. You will have five minutes to read them. I don't care about the lines themselves - I want you to become the characters. Lose yourself in them. Cease to be yourselves and become them. I want you to give me something real."

And it had been fun, actually. Fun to be able to fully melt into the role, to be Willie, or Patrick, or Marion. They had paused at midnight to feed (and strange that Chase was starting to be able to think of it as feeding, to turn the abhorrence of sinking his teeth into another human being's neck and drinking their blood, into a part of his new life), and then had dived back into it, just the three of them, Duke controlling the cameras and the direction alike.

He hadn't been Chase Lowry, failure of an actor. He hadn't been Chase Lowry, newly-turned vampire. He had been whatever the script had called of him, the blood he's fed on turned to sweat and tears.

Feed me something real.

Duke turns a page on the script and stops there. "Scene sixty-two," he says, little inflection in his voice. "Vinny, Willie. Chase, Marion."

Chase reaches for his script, starts flipping through it. But Vinny hasn't moved yet, has not yet picked it up again, and Chase pauses his own search to give him a frown.

Vinny knows the script well already, Chase knows. What is that scene, that has caused him such consternation? Chase flips forward, catches sight of scene sixty-six, flips back a few -

He stops, too. Looks up at Duke, too. A part of him wants to ask why. Another doesn't want to know.

But he does know there's little to no point protesting.

"That's, uh," Vinny starts, then coughs. "How real do - do you want it?"

"Be Willie and Marion," Duke says, and it's still so calm. "Show me their hearts. Their love for each other. Willie's conflict, Marion's doubt. The cold, quiet regret afterwards. I know you're capable. I know you're willing."

His phone is in his hand; the video on it is looped from a security camera. Vinny, straddling Chase's hips on the sofa the night before, Vinny, dragging his nails across Chase's bare stomach, kissing him like he wants to devour him.

They look... desperate. Chase swallows, his mouth dry.

(He's heard stories about this. Actors - usually young, usually powerless - coerced into sex scenes that had been all too real, usually for the titillation of the producers or directors, or for blackmail, or for the sheer rush of having control over someone who could not say no. He had assumed that his age, his gender had insulated him.)

"Well," Duke says, and taps his watch. "You have five minutes."

Chase sinks down into one of the chairs, the script open to scene sixty-two. He knows it, has read the whole script cover to cover, it had just been the exact number he hadn't recalled.

But the scene itself - that, he knows.

He swallows. Focuses on Marion. It's easy to melt into her skin, perhaps easier than even Willie. He knows her hunger for her voice to be heard like his own. He knows how meeting Willie had been a distraction she hadn't seen coming, how at first, she had resented the force of her own emotion. How she had feared and rejected those feelings, knowing that devotion could mean leaving her dreams shattered on the floor. He knows them, because he's living them.

Chase glances up at Vinny, silently regards him staring at the script, his brow furrowed. Knows that he's doing all he can to sink into Willie's bones, his ambition ensnared by his traitor heart, by Marion's presence being the fly in the ointment of his dreams.

"Because... I do love you, Willie."

"I don't believe you."

Scene sixty-two. Willie and Marion, their mutual frustration boiling over into passion. Scene sixty-two, Willie taking Marion to bed, giving in to their desire for each other only to be plunged into regret once the deed was done. Chase stares at the page until the words start to blend together, at the words adoration and genuine care, at the words resignation and left cold inside.

"Time's up," Duke says. "Feed me something real."

Vinny finally looks up, meets Chase's gaze. Then it flickers away again, and his expression turns blank. He turns to Duke, and he nods.

"Is there any -" Vinny starts, then falters. "Any, uh, protection? Or lube?"

Duke tosses him a tube. "You won't need protection," he says drily. "Be subtle about it. Willie isn't using any. Marion is already wet and ready for him."

Chase can feel his heart beating again, racing in his chest as he takes his position for the starting scene. His palms are sweating. He can feel shame and arousal competing for space in his belly.

"Action," says Duke.

In the end, he doesn't remember what he says, exactly. He lets himself dissolve into Marion, lets her fears and insecurities and desires and hunger become her own. He had thought he was Willie, but no, it's Marion, he's always been Marion, it's always been Vinny opposite him, Vinny talking about sacrifice versus want, Vinny who reaches for him with so much careful reverence, Vinny who pulls him into a kiss, into an embrace.

There's no bed here, but there is a crash pad. They tumble onto it together, stealing kisses around gasps and moans, promises they don't intend to keep, futures they wish they could have. Vinny's hands are shaking as he undresses Chase, then himself, as he presses Chase into the mat.

Duke says nothing. If he had been getting off on it, at least that would be something normal about it, about the whole abnormal situation. Instead, he just watches and watches, his gaze fixed on the two of them, transfixed as if he's seen something beautiful.

Chase lets him go. He lets go of everything but the scene, everything but the roles he and Vinny have sunk themselves into. They are not Chase and Vinny - they are Marion and Willie, telling their story, showing their love. Whoever Chase is now, whatever he is, it needs to be let go.

So he lets go. Becomes Marion, in Willie's arms, in Willie's cabin in the Whistlestop, together in the dark on the Mississippi River. It's Marion whose breath catches and shudders in her throat as Willie enters her, it's Marion who wraps a leg around Willie's hips and encourages him deeper, it's Marion who drags her nails down Willie's back.

It's Marion who twines her hands through Willie's hair and kisses him until she can't breathe. It's Marion who sobs Willie's name as her peak approaches. It's Marion who brings the scene to its conclusion -

It's Vinny who stares down at her with wide, desperate eyes, and Vinny whose lips form a name, Chase's name, as his own climax washes over him. And it's Chase who falls after him, head thrown back, pleasure on top of pleasure as Vinny sinks his fangs into his throat; there's red blood on Vinny's lips as they fall back against the crash pad, Vinny's fingers pressed hard into Chase's arms, and he drops his head and buries his face against the crook of Chase's neck.

Still, shaking, Chase wraps an arm around his shoulders, around his waist. "Vinny," he whispers, and it's a hoarse little thing; he doesn't want to look anywhere else but the top of Vinny's dark head, taking comfort against his skin.

"Cut," Duke snarls, and he sounds incandescent. "If I wanted to watch you two fuck, I would have put more cameras in your room. I wanted Willie and Marion. Vinny, whose name did you say?"

Vinny doesn't answer. Chase can feel him shaking.

"Answer me!"

His eyes are shut. His expression is pinched. "Chase - Chase's name. I said Chase's name."

"And what did I tell you to do?"

"Be Willie and Marion."

"And did you do that?" Vinny doesn't answer immediately, and Duke's voice raises again. "Did you?"

Vinny pushes himself up, pulls away (leaving Chase wincing; the scene is over, he's Chase again, there's pain there, it's been months since Vinny has fucked him like that -) and reaches blindly for his shirt, his underwear. "No, sir," he mumbles, mostly to the crash pad. "Sorry."

Duke makes a wordless sound of anger, turns and leaves them to dress.

Vinny doesn't meet Chase's gaze, but Chase can't quite seem to bring himself to look away, to let the lines of his body etch themselves into his mind, the size and shape of his presence write themselves into his skin. He feels aware of Vinny like he never has been, like the blood they've shared has tangled them together. Chase's blood is still on Vinny's lips.

Finally, Duke turns back to them, menace in his bearing, looming over them as they sit on the crash pad. Again, he bites down on his wrist, then holds it to Vinny's face; when he orders Vinny to suck, Chase can practically feel the order ripple through the air.

When it's his turn, he feels nothing. He feels nothing. He drinks, as he's commanded, and feels nothing.

When Duke looks down at him, it's like he's just put together several unpleasant facts and severely dislikes the conclusion he's come to. Then he turns away with a furious snarl, turns his back on them.

"Get out of my sight," he says.

They do.

 

They wind up in Chase's new room. Together, they manage to drag the new dresser in front of the door, which only locks from the outside; he can't explain the sudden uneasiness that fills him when he thinks of Duke, only that he needs to do whatever is necessary to ensure that he and Vinny stay safe (to ensure that Vinny stays safe. Chase knows there's little he can do, but he'll do all he can, to make sure Vinny stays safe).

They shower, together, this time. Wash off sweat and blood and other bodily fluids, the taint of Duke's gaze. Chase can't stop touching Vinny. A hand on his arm, a brush of their legs together. A head on a shoulder. An embrace in the dark in steaming water. Vinny is shaking a little, clinging to Chase's arms as the water streams down his body; suddenly, he breaks the silence and says, "Couple of years ago. December 2023. I was at a party here. He caught me doing a line. Harry gave it to me, actually."

Chase loops his arms around Vinny's waist and lets him lean against him. "What happened?" he murmurs.

"He took me into his office and told me that if I was going to do that kind of shit, I needed to learn discretion and discipline. He said that it'd be too easy for that kind of thing to get out to the press. I offered to suck his dick - I mean, I didn't phrase it like that, but - you know - if he made sure no one saw. That I could be discrete if he wanted me to be. A week later, I got the callback for Last Bone Yard."

Silently, Chase nods. The Last Bone Yard had been the movie that had launched Vinny's career from supporting actor in indie films to leading man. He had been so happy for him at the time. (He had been so jealous he had almost made himself sick.) He had had no idea what it had cost; he tightens his arm around Vinny's waist. "Do you think...?"

Do you think he had something to do with it?

It wouldn't be unheard of. Duke was a kingmaker, everyone knew it. Just because he hadn't had anything to do with the Last Bone Yard on paper didn't mean he couldn't have used his considerable influence, a reward for good behaviour, for compliance, for getting on his knees.

He remembers the voicemail Duke had sent him a few weeks earlier, how he had lavished praise on Chase's vulnerability and malleability. His loyalty and trust. A shudder runs through him.

"Yeah," Vinny whispers. "I think he's been puppeting me this whole time. I think my whole fucking career has been him, all along. And here I was thinking it was Dad." His laugh is a bitter, ragged little thing. "I should have known. All Dad cared about was that I worked my ass off and didn't embarrass him. He wouldn't have actually stepped in to make sure I got any roles. Like he would have cared enough."

He pulls free from Chase's embrace roughly, then turns and punches the wall of the shower as hard as he can. Chase flinches at an audible crack and Vinny's hiss of pain, reaching for his hand; Vinny lets him take it, shaking, letting Chase fuss over him. His hand is untouched; the crack is in the tile. Chase kisses the back of his knuckles nonetheless.

"Chase."

"Yeah?"

"I think we gotta get out of here. I don't think we can do this."

Chase doesn't answer. Makes a little nonverbal sound of agreement and continues silently washing up, the last of the night swirling down the plughole. They're both silent as they dry off and dress in whatever is most comfortable, settling on the bed together. With a sigh, Vinny lies down, resting his head in Chase's lap; Chase runs his fingers through Vinny's hair and stares up at the ceiling.

He doesn't agree. That's the worst part, he thinks - that he doesn't, that he can't agree with Vinny.

It's very different for them, and he can understand, completely, why Vinny feels such despair over their situation. He had already made it. He had the roles to play, the stories to tell, the love from all around him. He had everything to lose.

Chase had nothing. He is nothing. Forty years old, and he has nothing to show for it, bar a few supporting or minor roles in films that no one had seen and TV shows that hadn't aired in a decade. He's spent more time since leaving home living out of his car than with a roof over his head; his resume, if he can call it that, mentions everything from fast food to telemarketing, bartending to retail, with a tiny handful of screen roles scattered amidst it like seeds that failed to germinate.

Vinny sees the loss, and that is his prerogative, because he actually has something to lose. But Chase, under Duke's guidance, could actually become something. He could be moulded by Duke, belonging to the night but still in his orbit, a spotlight all the brighter for the darkness around them.

But - Vinny.

He wants Vinny at his side, more than anything. Whatever has been between them in the past, nameless and formless by their own silent mutual agreement, is taking on some new shape. Vinny is his friend, Vinny is his boyfriend, Vinny is his friends-with-benefits. He is Vinny's dirty little secret, Vinny's stress relief, Vinny's safe place to land.

Not once have they ever given a name to what they are. Why would they ever need to? They text, call each other, meet up. They share wine and whisky, cigarettes and pot, fall asleep on each other's shoulders watching boring TV on the sofa and spend hours discussing characters and scenes and motifs in the latest films, drag each other into the bedroom to undress each other with eager hands, kiss each other goodbye where no one else can see.

When Vinny had gone quiet, when his texts had become more abrupt, their meetings less frequent, he had thought he had done something wrong. When Duke's texts had started, he had started questioning just how safe Vinny might have been around him (and he had been right to, hadn't he? Duke had been manipulating Vinny for years and Chase had never even noticed. Duke had killed Vinny and Chase had walked straight into his own death after him). Duke had moulded their recent past, Duke still sculpts their future.

If Vinny wants to walk away, where does that leave Chase? He thought he would follow Vinny to the moon and back. What would he do if Vinny took a step off that path altogether?

He can see a time in the near future when he'll have to choose. Duke, and a career, and a future, and everything he's dreamed of since he was a kid sitting on a worn carpet, gazing up at a movie playing on TV, or Vinny, lying quiet and frustrated and afraid in his lap, who sees nothing ahead of them but the dark.

A handful of hours more spin out into the darkness. When Chase finally feels sleep take him, he curls himself around Vinny, and does not let go.

Chapter 4: Action

Notes:

Chapter warnings: Vampire-typical themes, violence, death

God, he's so fucking hungry.

It's over a full twenty-four hours later when the door next opens. When Chase had woken the evening before, when he and Vinny had finally slid the dresser away to leave, they had found it locked from the outside. Confined to the room, they had had little to do but sit, rest, talk. They had fucked, they had fought, they had made up again. They had listed favourite films, scenes, lines of dialogue. Discussed stories they had wanted to tell, scenes in the sun they wouldn't get to play now.

They had fallen asleep again in each other's arms, and hunger had curled up in Chase's belly like a cat who had no intention of leaving.

They had risen the next evening, and Chase was so fucking hungry. They had showered and dressed, and Chase was so fucking hungry. They had tested the door, and found it still locked, and Chase was so fucking hungry.

It's probably around midnight when the lock turns in the key. They're in the bathroom, Vinny idly digging through the drawers to see if he can find anything interesting, Chase perched on the rim of the bathtub, when they hear the click and both glance up, sharp as cats spotting a coyote; Duke's footsteps are slow and measured as he walks inside and joins them in the bathroom. His gaze settles on them both, an intense stare like he's trying to work out what they're made of.

Vinny swallows visibly. "Duke," he offers carefully.

Duke regards them both. "I hope," he says acidly, "You've been considering where you faltered in your last screen test. Why you failed."

If Chase gets to his feet and crosses the floor, can he reach for Vinny's hand surreptitiously? Would it make things better, make things worse? He only nods once.

"I have been making arrangements," Duke continues, like he's picking up the thread of a discussion neither of them have been privy to. "In three nights, I will be introducing my new childe to the Camarilla of Los Angeles. The city may be ostensibly held by the Anarchs, but we are still civil. My childe will be formally introduced, and he will be expected to carry out the duties and responsibilities of a fledgling."

"Childe?" Chase says cautiously. Because Duke has referred to them as his childe, yes - but he has also used childer in the plural, and the switch back to the singular is causing a distinct sinking feeling. "Just - just one?"

"Just one."

"And what happens to the other?" Vinny says, and there's something feverish in his eye. He realises too, Chase knows; he knows this won't end well.

Duke doesn't answer immediately. He doesn't need to.

He's regarding them like they've become prey. Maybe it's the hunger that clouds Chase's thoughts, but he can see the way he stares at them, at their mouths, at their throats; he knows someone is about to bring out their teeth. Fear curdles inside him, something wary and hunted, digging its nails in, getting ready to fight or flee.

"I thought you had it," he finally says with a shake of his head. "Both of you. The technical expertise, the precision. The passion, the understanding of character. The hunger. But you're incomplete, the two of you. You're empty. You are empty gaping mouths begging to be fed."

"Then," Vinny says, and his voice is brittle, "Feed us, or let us go."

A raised eyebrow. "One you are a part of this life, you can't opt out. There's only one way to leave, Vinny. I think you know what that is."

Vinny laughs cynically; Chase can see his hands balling into fists. "Great. So you're going to kill one of us and keep the other? Or maybe you're going to make us kill each other?"

Duke smiles.

"Vitae," he says. "Life itself. The blood can tie souls together. Three tastes of a vampire's blood on three nights, and you are bound to them. It used to be common practice for a sire to ensure their childe's loyalty with the blood. It was called the blood oath then, I hear. What, then, if your two fledglings bind themselves to each other? Would they care, if they knew that the strength of their feelings was due to the blood bond? You don't love each other. Your blood makes you obsessed with each other. It is entirely artificial. A special effect."

Chase glances across at Vinny, at the rigid set of his jaw, the tension in his brow, then back up at Duke. Three tastes, over three nights? Yes, they had done that- their third tastes of each other's blood had been before their third taste of Duke's. "We have a - a blood bond?"

"An idiot fledgling's mistake," Duke says, and shakes his head. "One that I intend to remedy."

There's the faintest brush of pressure against his hand. Vinny's own, just making contact, not quite holding on, barely touching but still there. "How?" Vinny asks simply.

"Do you believe in the soul, Vinny?"

He shakes his head. Chase, wordlessly, nods once; Duke catches the movement and smiles.

"It is quite real. It resides in the blood. In vitae. Drink enough, drink someone entirely, and you consume the soul. Everything they were, everything they could be, resides in you." Duke closes his eyes, and there's a smile on his face like ecstasy. "The two of you are incomplete. You have passion, but no focus, Chase. You have discipline, but no heart, Vinny. Should one of you consume the other -"

"I'm not fucking killing him!" Vinny shouts.

He's launched himself from the vanity, taking two frantic steps towards Duke. For a moment, Chase thinks he might actually swing at him, and he rises to stop him, to pull him back, not sure if he actually wants to or not, if he wants Vinny to show just how wrong this is -

"It's not death," Duke says with a shake of the head. "The body dies. The soul continues. Completion. Flawlessness."

He turns to look at Chase, and Chase, quite suddenly, can't look away. Because something about what Duke says rings true, doesn't it? There's a part of him that knows he's incomplete, that he's missing something, has been missing something for years, decades.

Over twenty years of auditions that fail. Twenty years of callbacks that never arrive. Twenty years of couch surfing, or living in his car, or in the shittiest, most rundown little bedsit because at least it's a roof over his head. Twenty years of working menial jobs in the hope that this audition works, that this tape meets the right viewer.

What could he be, with Vinny's skill, his discipline? His soul? With Duke at his back, and Vinny kept inside him, lovingly, protectively?

Vinny bears his teeth. "You're going to let us go," he says. "You're gonna let us walk out of here. Both of us."

"No," Duke says, "I'm not."

"You'll have to get through both of us, motherfucker. Chase -" Vinny turns to him, fire in his gaze; then, he falters. Stops.

Perhaps he can see the uncertainty there. Perhaps he can see that desperate, hungry part inside him, the one who has paused, considered Duke's words. "Maybe," Chase offers quietly, "We don't have to fight. Can we - I mean, can't - can't we just both keep going? Can't you just keep teaching us? I can learn focus, I promise!"

Slowly, pityingly, Duke shakes his head. "There's one way for you to prove yourself to me, my boy," he says, almost gently, almost paternal (Chase remembers, "You're like a son to me," remembers the remnants of a boy who lived here once, feels a shudder run through him). "One way to show you really do have what it takes. You know what it is. You've known this was coming since you showed up here, half wanting to find your friend, half knowing that this test was coming. Did you tell Vinny about my calls?"

Vinny, slowly, turns to face Chase. "What calls?"

The words stick in his throat like a bone.

"Chase and I," Duke murmurs, "Have had some nice little exchanges. You're too polished, Vinny. Too perfect. Chase is messy, imperfect, hungry. He wants to be Willie. You... want to be famous."

"Fuck you," Vinny snarls.

He's right to, Chase thinks. Right to be defensive, for that anger to rise in his throat, no matter how immediately shocking it is to hear him speak like that to Duke. He knows, so much more than Duke ever would, how much love and passion and, yes, hunger Vinny has put in; he's been shaped by his father and by Duke himself, by his name and his matinee idol good looks, but the love has always been there.

Chase has seen it himself. Had been drawn to it from the start, moth to flame.

"Your success," Duke says, unflappably calm, "Has been built on your father's name and your willingness to get on your knees -"

Chase realises what's going to happen a half-second before it happens - Vinny drawing back his arm, Vinny throwing himself at Duke, fist aimed squarely at his face. It connects with a meaty, visceral sound and Duke actually staggers; then, faster than Chase can even follow, there's a twist of movement and now Vinny is on his knees on the hard tile floor, one arm twisted behind him painfully, Duke's hand fisted in his hair, dragging his head back, exposing his throat.

"I've made my decision," Duke says, and there's a growl in his voice now. "You don't have what it takes, Vinny. All you're good for is the blood in your veins. The question now is, who will take it? Will I reclaim the blood I gave you? Will Chase take your soul for his own? Who will you be consumed by, Vinny?"

There are furious, blood-streaked tears in Vinny's eyes. His breathing comes out fast and ragged, unnecessary but unstoppable.

"Well, Chase?" Duke's murmur is velvet, calling to every one of Chase's senses. "In Vinny's blood, in his soul, lies everything you've ever wanted. Will you take it for yourself? Or will you step graciously aside and allow me to reclaim my disobedient childe's vitae for myself? You hold Vinny's fate in your hands."

Chase meets Vinny's wide-eyed gaze. He's trembling.

Everything he's ever wanted - the stories, the roles, the recognition of everything he's done, everything he's sacrificed - is waiting for him. It's there in Vinny's blood, in his soul. And it's love, isn't it? It's love for Vinny to become a part of him, for their souls to mingle. They could be so much greater than either of them could be individually. Duke's tutelage and support and knowledge, Chase's own passion and love for film, for transformation, for becoming something bigger, Vinny's confidence, his conviction, that determination to become a part of it all...

Chase could have it all.

Like he's sleepwalking, he crosses the floor. He kneels, reaches up to cup Vinny's face in his hands. Leans in for a kiss, a soft, quiet kiss like an apology, or a prayer, or a plea for forgiveness.

"Well, Chase?" Duke says.

Chase closes his eyes. Strokes his thumb over the pulse point in Vinny's throat.

"Chase," Vinny whispers, "Please."

His eyes open. He launches to his feet, throws himself at Duke. And Duke is stronger, and older, and so much more powerful, but he can feel a little of Vinny's rage as he grabs him and sinks his fangs into Duke's throat, and it's good, it's still so good, and he's still so fucking hungry; this time he's not going to stop because it's not just about hunger, it's not just about satisfying a need, it's about protecting them both, it's about them both surviving.

Duke has let go of Vinny, struggles to push Chase away. But now, Vinny joins in the fray, fury driving his fists and his feet, and they're working together, working to subdue Duke, and he's weakening as Chase drinks and drinks and drinks -

He falls limp. Duke Cain falls limp in Chase and Vinny's grasp. There's a warmth around Chase's fangs, entwining around him; some instinct knows that although Duke has been drained of blood, the deed remains incomplete.

He does not stop.

And it feels good, it feels so fucking good he can barely stand it. A shudder runs through him, pure pleasure through every cell of his body, fingers tingling, chest fizzing with it. He never wants this to end, never wants to stop feeling this way, the greatest satisfaction, the most satiated he's ever been.

The hunger is gone.

The hunger is gone.

Chase falls back, the ceiling swimming into view, and laughs. For the first time since he had woken up in the Mouse room, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, the hunger is gone.

It's gone.

Every sense feels stretched, the world painted in vivid technicolour. It's the only reason he realises Vinny is crying silently, pressed back against the side of the shower, his expression when Chase looks over twisted in fear.

Fear of Chase?

Carefully, because he's feeling distinctly lightheaded (and warm, and satisfied, and strong), Chase pushes himself up. "It's okay," he says, and his voice sounds like it's coming from the other side of the room, clear in every syllable but not from his own lips. "It's okay. He's gone. He won't hurt you."

Vinny's laugh is a little hysterical. "Yeah. Fuckin' great. What about you? You gonna eat me next?"

"No. No."

"But you thought about it. For a minute there, you thought about it. You would have killed me."

What can he say? How can he refute it? For a minute there, he had considered it, a world of his creation where Vinny Monroe had died at Chase's hands and teeth.

He feels sick, suddenly. Looks down at Duke and sees only a twisted corpse, years-old already. "Okay," Chase whispers, half to himself, "Okay."

Turning, he steps out of the bathroom, giving Vinny the space he needs. When he drops onto the bed, he feels like a corpse again, the heat fading from his limbs, the strength sapped from his veins. He feels old, and tired, and broken; he's murdered someone he's admired since his teenage years, he's come within a hair's breadth of killing someone he -

A footstep, cautious. Chase turns his head, watches with heavy eyes as Vinny takes another step into the room.

"If it wasn't for the blood bond," Vinny says, and his voice is soft and pained, "Would you have killed me? You owe me that much to answer."

Wordlessly, Chase nods once, and closes his eyes.

He expects to hear those footsteps make for the door and leave. There's nothing stopping them now, nothing tying them to the house but their own fears. How long until the staff find out? Would they stop them? Would he want them to?

The mattress dips. Vinny's weight settles beside Chase, his head on his shoulder, his arm around his waist.

"I would have killed you too."

Chase slowly, carefully wraps an arm around Vinny's waist. Vinny buries his face against the crook of Chase's neck, a shudder running through him. "Fuck him," he whispers. "Fuck everything."

There's nothing he can say. Nothing to make it better. Vinny would have killed him. He would have killed Vinny. He did kill Duke. Duke already killed both of them.

He closes his eyes, and holds Vinny close.

They don't have long to stay like this, quiet now, clinging to each other, Duke's body only feet away in the ensuite bathroom. Barely twenty minutes pass before Chase slowly pushes himself up, nudging Vinny up too; they regard each other warily.

"Okay," Vinny finally says, straightening his back with a pop. "Okay. What now? Where do we go?"

"I don't know. I hadn't really thought that far ahead."

Vinny snorts. "Yeah, I noticed. Hang on." He swings his legs off the bed, curls his fingers into the sheets for just a moment, then pushes himself up, padding barefoot to - god, he can't believe even the thought of it - to Duke's body. Chase stands too, peering cautiously through the door as Vinny rifles through Duke's pocket, coming up with a keyring and his phone. The phone he leaves; the keys, he takes.

"Office," is all Vinny says, holding the keyring up. (There's a little figurine of an Oscar on it. Chase is torn between finding it a little tacky, and wanting one for himself.) Then he pauses, glances up and down at Chase, and grimaces. "And, uh, you might want to wash up and get changed."

Chase looks down at his blood-covered clothes, and winces. "Yeah. I'll meet you there."

He doesn't go into the ensuite bathroom, he can't quite bring himself to with Duke's body lying right there. Instead, he gathers up a change of clothes, including his own battered jeans he had worn to the house in the first place, and makes for the main bathroom a few doors down, scrubbing Duke's blood off his face and hands and chest until he's clean.

(Or, at least - or, at least, until he looks clean to anyone else. He feels unclean, polluted, the death dealt at his own hand etched deep into his soul.)

His reflection stares back at him, wan and haunted-looking. He imagines that anyone taking a single glimpse at him would know exactly what he's done. He's sure he can feel the shadows around him growing, deepening, pulling him under.

He shakes his head, hard. Suddenly, he feels acutely alone; he doesn't quite run for the office, but he certainly takes it at a quick pace, finding Vinny seated at the desk and staring at the computer with an expression of extreme consternation on his face.

"Found our stuff, it was in the top drawer." he says distractedly. "So was an external. Look at this."

Chase takes a place behind him, then blinks at the footage that Vinny has found.

There are cameras all through the house. Everywhere, there are cameras, pointing at showers, at beds, at rehearsal spaces. There's footage of themselves, over the past few days - the video Vinny has open is of them in the guest room, cuddled up to each other, talking inaudibly. He opens the folder for the night of the party and finds them there too, Vinny led away by Duke, Vinny being bitten, Duke forcing his bloody wrist against Vinny's slack lips. Chase, roaming the living room with fear visible on his face, Chase, following Duke into the Mouse room like a dog, Chase, on his knees.

Chase shoved back against the bed with Duke on top of him. Chase being bitten. Chase dying.

"Shit," he says quietly.

"Yeah." Vinny swallows, hastily closing the video of Chase, Chase lying there motionless, lying there dead. And he keeps going, finding footage of sex, of drug use, of violence; Duke drinking from people until they fall limp and pale and don't get up; Duke and a parade of faceless others dragging people into the Mouse room for things they don't need to name.

"He was a monster," Chase finally says, and his voice is hollow even to his own ears. "Shit. I've admired him for - for decades, and all this time - he was a monster."

Wordlessly, Vinny nods, then closes the folder and yanks out the cord on the external, shoving it into his pocket with his phone and wallet. He hands Chase's own things to him, then stands. "There's also a map. Apparently he had some kind of - fucking secret escape tunnel. Comes out near the observatory in one direction and the Chinese Theatre in the other. I think - I think we gotta go. And burn down the house behind us."

"Jesus," Chase whispers.

They can't go back, can they? They'll never be able to return to their old lives. And that's not so bad a thing for Chase, but his heart hurts for Vinny, who's losing everything.

Maybe it'd be okay. Maybe it's time for an openly vampire movie star. Maybe they can expose Duke's crimes, the horrors that have gone on in his house. Maybe Chase won't face his doom for killing him, knowing that he had done it to save Vinny's life; maybe Chase can find a place by his side.

He dismisses the thought almost immediately. There's no going back after this. Whatever happens on the other side of the day will not bear any resemblance to the life he knows.

Wordlessly, he nods. Looks up at Vinny, his companion in this horror story, and nods.

They gather their things. Vinny finds oil in the garage store room and splashes it around liberally, and when they spot one of the staff members, his snarl for them all to run at least ensures they'll be burning down an empty house.

Vinny is the one who finds the entrance to the tunnels. Chase is the one who lets his fingers linger over the script for The Last Voyage he had picked up in the rehearsal room as they had moved through it, before dropping it, quite deliberately, in the oil.

Lights a match, biting down on his lip to steel against the sudden spike of terror at the little flame. Lets it fall.

He takes Vinny's hand, and leads him down, into the darkness.

Notes:

Line cut from the first draft:

"They had, to kill the time, played Fuck, Marry, Kill with their favourite characters (while they had been divided on who to fuck and who to reluctantly kill out of Princess Leia and Han Solo, both had agreed that Luke Skywalker was marriage material)."

(Chase would fuck Han because he knows how to give you a good time, marry Luke because he's the most emotionally stable, and very reluctantly attempt to challenge Leia to an honourable fight to the death and allow himself to be killed by her instead. Vinny would fuck Leia because she'd be a good Sugar Mama, marry Luke because he likes the idea of a housetwink with telekinesis, and kill Han for being emotionally distant.)

Chapter 5: After Party

Notes:

Chapter warnings: Vampire-typical themes, exposition, blood bonds doing what blood bonds do

Cameo appearance from my girl Wren (a childe of Mitnick, currently based in San Francisco with her coterie but visiting home at the time, has been in her weeb phase since 2002).

He doesn't wake up hungry. For once, he doesn't wake up hungry.

He wakes sore, admittedly, shoulders, neck, and hips aching from the position he had slept in - slumped against the concrete wall of what he's hoping isn't an actual sewer, Vinny's head pillowed on his shoulder, Chase's own resting against Vinny's. They have no idea where they are, beyond the vague knowledge of 'somewhere under Hollywood', but it's not Duke's house and that -

That can only be an improvement.

"Morning," Vinny mumbles as he starts to stir, "Or, uh, evening, I guess."

"I guess so," Chase says in a strained little half-laugh, "Shit, it's really dark in here. We should have charged our phones before we left."

"You can use a charger when we get to the Warrens," suggests a new voice in the pitch blackness, and neither Chase nor Vinny can quite hide a yelp.

(Okay - it's a shriek.)

Laughter - not overly mocking, at least, but gravelly and genuinely amused. "Damn, you guys really are green. Haven't learned Auspex yet, huh?" There's a click, then a beam of light appears out of the gloom, pointed at the damp ground, the speaker still largely hidden in the dark. "Come on. Gary wants to talk to you."

Chase reaches for Vinny's hand and doesn't let go. "Gary?" he asks cautiously as he pushes himself up, "Auspex?"

"Our primogen - kind of like the clan representative in the city," she says, and the beam of light moves as she half turns. "And Auspex is a discipline you Toreador can use. Enhanced senses. I guess your sire didn't teach you how before he bit it, huh? Come on, I'll fill you in more as we walk."

There's just enough ambient light for Chase and Vinny to exchange a glance. "Who are you?"

That gravelly laugh again. "Just your friendly neighbourhood Nosferatu. Clan Nosferatu, not film Nosferatu. Our little rats spotted you sleeping here during the day and let us know, and Gary sent me out to pick you up. Figured that you'd probably need someone in your corner who's not an egotistical controlling jackass like Duke Cain. You coming? We don't have all night."

What choice do they have? They exchange another look, then follow after the Nosferatu, who swings the flashlight beam around so they can see where they're going; evidently, she know the path well enough not to need it herself. "How do you know that Duke was our sire?" Vinny ventures carefully, not letting go of Chase's hand.

She makes a noncommittal sound. "Information is kind of our thing. Heard there was something fucky going on at Cain's place and we managed to hack one of the cameras. Not one of the important ones, just one in a hallway, enough to catch your movements and shit. I'm guessing he is dead, yeah? We didn't see him leave that room when the fire started. Had to stop watching after that."

They don't know what happened. They don't know all the horrors that took place in that house. Chase lets a breath of air into his lungs, then out again. "Yeah," he says quietly, "He's dead."

"Hm," says the Nosferatu, and continues leading them on into the dark.

It's informative, at least. Their guide tells them again about the disciplines, the vampiric powers they should have; when she mentions supernatural presence, influence, Chase nods glumly and remembers following Duke down to his doom. She mentions the state of vampirism in Los Angeles, much the same as what Duke had told them - about how Los Angeles was, nominally, part of the Anarch Free State, but with clusters of those who still followed the Camarilla, the secret society - more or less - that spread across the vampiric world. About their past struggles with groups like the death cult the Sabbat (no longer a presence, probably for the best) and werewolves (yes, they were real; no, they should absolutely not go anywhere near Griffith Park).

Yes, there's still a place for them, part of the world. No, it wasn't going to be anything much the same as it had been before. Their old lives were over, and what shape their new ones would take was yet to be determined.

But for now, there's light growing, the way forward clearer. "Okay," says their guide, "Fair warning, because you divas get all weird about ugly shit - you're about to step into the dragon's den. Actually, the dragons are these other guys, but anyway -"

She spins around, shining the flashlight in her own face, and Chase yelps. She's bald and bat-eared, with enormous luminous eyes like some sort of deep-sea fish; her grin is inhumanly wide. She is, improbably, wearing a baby-pink t-shirt that bears the legend 'Eat, Sleep, Anime, Repeat' and a lot of brightly-coloured plastic jewellery. When she notes Chase's reaction, she cackles.

"Never gets old. Okay, come on."

(The Nosferatu, she explains as they continue on, the tunnels becoming wider, better lit with fairy lights, adorned with signs and neon lights, have the clan curse of monstrosity. Hence, she says, hiding away from the rest of the world; hence why they've become spymasters and secret-keepers. It's not all bad - for some. She enjoys it, the built-in family, having the best computer gear. She had been a hacker in life, remains a hacker in unlife.)

Chase glances at Vinny, tries to imagine how he'd cope, how either of them would cope, had they been turned into monsters instead of just vampires. Would they have still fallen into each other, remained caught in each other's gravitational pull? If one had become Toreador and the other Nosferatu, would that simply be a gap too far?

He doesn't have to find out, at least. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not at any time in the near future.

There's a ladder to climb to get down to what their guide says are the Warrens, and Vinny slides his hands into his pockets once they're back on solid ground instead of letting Chase take his hand again. Chase fidgets with the ends of his sleeves, missing the contact; Vinny looks haunted, wary, glancing around like he's half-expecting to be jumped. And maybe he is, given the murmurs Chase can hear on the edge of his hearing - there are others around him, unseen, he's certain of it.

Chase is nothing special to other people. Vinny - he's a curiosity. A fascination. He can't relate to the feeling of being stared at, but he can understand it.

The door to Gary's rooms are ones Chase is fairly sure he recognises from the old Chinese theatre before it was renovated; their guide knocks twice and calls out, "Brought the new kids!" Chase swaps Vinny a bemused look, because he's fairly sure he's older than this girl (or - is he? He doesn't actually know how long she's been a vampire), straightening his spine, trying to look like he knows what he's doing and not like he's spent the last few days living out a nightmare; a gravelly voice bids them enter, and she opens the door.

The first impression is that of opulence. There are antique pieces of furniture, a wide wooden table worn smooth and glossy with use. Lamps with coloured glass shades, framed prints on the wall. No, not prints - posters, movie posters, beautifully designed and carefully arranged, all from the thirties and forties, all starring -

"Gary Golden?" Vinny gasps, wide-eyed in visible excitement. "The Gary Golden? Skies of Nevada Gary Golden?"

The laugh comes from behind them, more a wheezing cackle than anything else; Chase starts, whirls around, sees no one there. "I see my reputation precedes me," says the voice from before, now somewhere to Chase's right, "Good to hear there's some good taste in there along with the pretty-boy looks. Wasn't expecting that much of you, spawn of Monroe, you can have a gold star."

(Briefly, jealousy. Chase hadn't made the connection yet, although he does vaguely recognise the name, that of an old actor who had disappeared, presumed dead, in the early sixties. Well, he did seem to have died - he simply hadn't stayed that way.)

He's a little more prepared this time, at least, when Gary (Gary Golden, he can't help but wonder there are more old stars who had been Embraced instead of died, if there's some sort of support group for people whose lives had gone from the public eye to hidden in the darkness) finally shows himself. He's a different sort of monster, at least a little stately-looking, dressed in a shirt and vest that look to be almost as old as him; he smirks when he sees them.

"Spawn of Monroe," he says with a nod to Vinny (who shifts awkwardly, and god, what's Vinny's father going to say? What about Chase's parents? How does he even tell them? How does anyone?), then turns to Chase. "And you are...?"

Clearly not famous enough, Chase thinks dully. "Chase Lowry," he mutters. "No one important."

"Yeah you are," Vinny says, and his voice is fierce; without particularly caring for anyone watching, he crosses the floor and takes his place at Chase's side again, brushing the backs of their hands together.

Chase only doesn't flush for lack of autonomic reactions.

Gary grins. "Oh, young love," he teases, then pulls a phone from his pocket (an old flip phone, interestingly) when it beeps. "Good thing I can't get cavities. Thankfully, you'll be out of my hair -" his brow ridges raise ironically towards his bare scalp - "Soon enough, Grandpa's here to take you kids home."

"Oh, let's not get started with that 'Grandpa' ridiculousness." The voice that echoes down a passageway sounds mildly exasperated, light and cultured; into the room steps a man, grey-haired and suited. He somehow manages to look deeply out of place and yet comfortable; the way he moves around Gary speaks of decades of familiarity and the kind of fondness that's buried deep beneath a surface-level contempt. He nods to Chase and Vinny. "Isaac Abrams. Your grandsire, if you're being technical. I hear you had quite the run-in with Duke."

Vinny lets out a strained laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."

Isaac gives them both a once-over, his gaze lingering on Chase, a complicated expression passing over his face. "You have my apologies," he says simply, then nods to Gary. "Thank you for keeping a ready eye on them. Are we still up for Thursday?"

"Sure," Gary drawls, "I'll bring the popcorn."

"A monthly movie night," Isaac explains with a faint, wry smile. "Shall we be off?"

"Yeah, just - one moment," Vinny says, uncharacteristically shy, then turns back to Gary. "Um, Mister Golden? Could I get your autograph?"

Gary's grin is almost - almost - fond. Chase gets the distinct feeling that Vinny has just endeared himself to the old Nosferatu, and he also gets the feeling this is no easy feat. This is Vinny at his most magnetic, his most genuinely charming and likeable; he feels a little charmed himself, just by proximity.

Autograph safe in Vinny's hand, Isaac leads on. The way out leads sharply upwards, then to another ladder. This opens up into a crypt, and Chase finds himself shivering at being surrounded by the dead, the knowledge that it's only the vampirism that stops him from joining them.

What if Duke had killed him, outright? He knows he wouldn't have been the first to die at his hands or teeth. Would he have still turned Vinny? Would Vinny have ever known what had happened to him?

"Hollywood Forever?" he murmurs as they step out of what he's recognised as the main mausoleum of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It's kind of appropriate, he thinks; it's a link between living, breathing Hollywood and the undead remains below it, a textually perfect symbology for their narrative.

Isaac hums in confirmation. "The connection through to the Warrens has been there since the silent film era," he says with a chuckle and a shake of the head, then straightens up as a young man with a shotgun on his back starts in their direction. "Any lingerers today, Romero?"

"Nope," the man says, popping the P. "Thought there was a bit of action earlier, but it was just a couple of teens trying to pull a Mary Shelley on Fay Wray's grave. So you're the new kids, huh? Good to - holy shit, you're Vinny Monroe."

"In the undead flesh," Vinny says with that leading-man smile, only a little more crooked and wan than it otherwise would be.

(Chase wonders, wonders if this will be the rest of their unlives. Vinny, recognised wherever he goes; Chase, following like a ghost behind him. He wonders, wonders if he'll ever be okay with it, or if there'll always be that little sting, that little shock of envy.)

The guy - Romero, apparently - regains his composure quickly enough, giving them both a friendly nod. "Well, good luck with the whole -" He waves a hand. "Everything. Isaac will take care of you, don't worry. Later, boss."

He strides away, Vinny glances over at Isaac. "Lingerers?"

"Oh, we have a slight zombie problem here that Romero takes care of," Isaac says with the flippant air of someone commenting on the weather, and leads them on. Chase blinks, wonders if he's ever actually going to get used to this world, and stumbles after him.

After the cemetery, after the relative solitude of Duke's house, the noise of the main road hits like a slap. He breathes in and gets a lungful of car fumes, and it's almost welcome, a reminder that the rest of the world still exists. Not everything has changed irrevocably; Hollywood is still itself.

Their destination is a jewellery store. Isaac leads them in through a side entrance into an office decorated in chinoiserie and knickknacks spanning nearly a century, then through a door and up a flight of stairs into a comfortable apartment. There's evidently some wealth here, but in a way very different to the minimalism of Duke's place, much more like the room they had met Gary in - antiques, and collectables and memorabilia, and signs of a life well-lived. There's a bookshelf packed with everything from old, cloth- and leather-lined books to rich coffee table tomes to cheap, well-thumbed paperbacks; the thick curtains are open, and light from the street outside spills inside onto the plush oriental rugs.

Immediately, Isaac busies himself, heading to the small kitchen and pulling out - Chase winces - a few medical-looking containers of what's definitely blood, then a trio of mismatched mugs (one in Wedgwood blue, one from the set of Spartacus, one from Disneyland). He fills them, hands them over (Chase gets the Spartacus mug, Isaac keeps the Disneyland one for himself), and waves them over to the sofa, a worn old thing that was clearly once incredibly expensive, pulling up an armchair opposite the coffee table to face them both.

"I hope Gary didn't give you too much cause for alarm," he says with a smile that speaks of a long and sometimes exasperating relationship. "He's a pretentious old pansy with a stick up his ass - of course, I'm hardly one to talk - who has no love for our clan, but he means well. Usually," he adds with a chuckle.

"No, he was fine," Vinny says with a smile. He's still clutching the playbill Gary signed for him like it's made of gold. "Does that happen a lot? Actors and producers being, uh, Embraced?"

Isaac sighs, taking a sip from his Disneyland mug. "It does," he concedes, "And every case has been different. Some, like Gary, are Embraced into clan Nosferatu, and they find themselves... obligated to disappear from the public eye forever. Their clan curse is significantly harder to hide. Others, particularly Toreador, can adapt. Not all, but - some."

His expression is distant. Chase ventures, carefully, "Duke mentioned Ash Rivers?"

An actual wince, now. Isaac nods, growing solemn. "Ash was a blazing sun who I had dragged into the darkness," he says like a confession. "I had been mentoring him - as a producer mentoring a new star, not in the Kindred sense - when he shot to fame in Negative Zero. He found his new status difficult to deal with. When I found him dying from an overdose... well, I had seen so many young stars burning out. With Ash, I had the chance to save his life, believing a life in the shadows was better than no life at all. Ash did not agree."

"Is he still alive?" Vinny pauses, waves a hand. "I mean - you know what I mean. Duke said he disappeared."

Isaac nods once. "He is. He lives up in Canada now. We're not in communication, but he remains in contact with my adopted childe, Velvet. She lets me know how he's doing, at least."

"I'm sorry," Chase says, and Isaac favours him with a smile.

"Now," he continues, suddenly much more businesslike, "We do have options that Ash didn't have when he was Embraced in the late nineties. The state of CGI and green screen is much improved. So much is filmed on a sound stage now that it would be rather trivially easy to take part in a film and never be exposed to sunlight. The publicity side is a little more difficult, but again, there are ways around that. If you wish to remain a film actor as you are, it would take some adjustment and there certainly are risks, but it could be possible."

A pause to take a sip of his mug of blood. Chase and Vinny do much the same.

"Then," he continues, "There are other avenues. Ways to remain a part of the industry, while not necessarily being as forward-facing as being a film actor. There is stage performance. Animation and voice work. Apparently there are new video games -" He pronounces it carefully, as if it's a foreign concept entirely - "That make great use of performance, using motion capture and the like. Then there's the production side. You already know Duke was able to manage for eight years like that. Well, I've managed ninety. There's writing. A writer may well make good use of a reputation for being a recluse. The mistake I made with Ash," he says, the guilt tangible even to Chase, "Is that I hid him away from the industry entirely. I gave him a club he didn't want as a consolation prize without taking his wishes into account. I would rather not do the same with you two."

Vinny exhales hard, setting his mug down on the coffee table (Isaac hastily picks it up again, sliding a glossy tile coaster under it to protect the lacquer surface). "I'll have to think about it," he says, subdued. "I guess I've never really thought about anything but acting. I always knew I didn't want to get into production like Dad, so it felt like acting was the only other option I had."

"We will find a solution for you, Vinny," Isaac says like a promise, then turns, abruptly, to Chase. "And Chase, what about you? Have you given it any thought?"

Chase's laugh is awkward, strained. "Oh, uh - I never had a public profile to begin with. I just had some - you know, minor roles. Nothing that actually got seen or anything. I'm a blank slate, I guess."

Isaac regards him, and it's like he's looking through him, seeing something invisible, intangible, clear enough for him to read but not for Chase to understand. Then, he nods once, letting out a sigh. "That may be for the best. Chase, you are going to find the next year quite difficult."

He frowns, but it's Vinny who asks first, sounding almost defensive: "Why?"

There's a careful silence, like Isaac is weighing up his words, judging how much harm it might do to speak them. "There is a gift accessible to the Toreador - and many other clans - to give us the ability to enhance our senses, called Auspex. One of the gifts it allows is to see one's aura - your nature, your characteristics, your emotions. And, when one commits an act called diablerie, it can show the marks the deed leaves on one's soul for up to a year."

Diablerie. The word runs like a seductive shiver down Chase's spine. There is only one act that Chase has committed that Vinny hasn't; he can still remember the taste of Duke's soul.

"Diablerie is not just strictly forbidden," Isaac says quietly. "It's taboo. It's the destruction of the soul. It's considered to be one of the worst crimes a Kindred can commit upon another."

"He was going to kill Vinny!" Chase says, and the words burst out of him. "He - Duke was pitting us against each other. He wanted one of us to kill the other, and he - I don't fucking know why, but he chose me. He chose me, and told me that either I could - could diablerie Vinny, or he'd do it himself. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't."

Isaac nods solemnly. "Self-defence has been known to be an excuse others will understand, if not respect," he concedes, "Especially in fledglings, especially when the stakes are high. To diablerise someone is a grave act, but from the sound of it, you were out of options."

"He was trying to force a blood bond on us," Vinny says, and there's enough simmering anger there that Chase rests a hand on top of his clenched fist. It eases, just a little. "He didn't - well, he was too late. He wanted us to obey him and Chase chose me instead."

"You two have a mutual bond?"

"Yeah."

"Another potential complication, then," Isaac says, and chuckles wryly, shaking his head, "Albeit a better-known one. A full bond will fade after one year, should you abstain from each other's blood - which I suggest you do try. Many see the bond to be - artificial, somewhat."

A special effect, Duke had said. Chase looks sidelong at Vinny and tries to imagine himself not feeling the way he does, like Vinny is the missing part of him, the one that fills the hole in his soul. And he knows, cognitively, that what he feels now isn't what he felt just a few days before, but -

They've been through so much together, just in the last few days. Isn't it understandable that his feelings have changed? Isn't it only right that Vinny has become his new sun?

Isaac regards them sympathetically. "You two have started out your unlives with quite the baggage," he murmurs. "Most will understand the bond. They may not respond as well to a diablerist, even a young one who acted to protect. Diablerie holds appeal for many - not just for the pleasure, but for the power. Some become addicted, if they don't practice the strictest of self-control. You will have to be careful, Chase."

Wordlessly, Chase nods.

They have so much to lose. Vinny has had his entire world fall out from beneath him; Chase will be regarded with suspicion for the next year. They will spend the next year tangled in the blood bond, unable to taste each other for fear of binding each other ever closer; they are beings of the night now, not alive but not dead, surviving off the blood of the living.

But: they're not dead yet.

But: they're not doing it alone.

Isaac doesn't keep them much longer. The single bedroom in the apartment isn't lightproof, and his actual bedroom beneath the store hosts just a single King-sized bed ("And you're both handsome young men, but I'm quite certain we don't know each other well enough yet for that," he points out with a grin). But, he explains, handing Chase a set of keys, he does own another apartment down the street, small but comfortable; they can use it for tonight while they work out what to do next, whether to return to Vinny's own apartment or to find something else.

If they need Isaac, he will only be down the road. Otherwise, they are free, free to work out the trajectory of the rest of their existences.

Slowly, Chase sits down on the end of the bed. He's in a borrowed apartment, in a shirt Duke had given him. He can't exactly return to sleeping in his car, unless he finds a way to park in a covered parking lot, or perhaps curl up in the trunk and hope no stray rays make it through. Perhaps, he thinks distantly, perhaps, when Vinny returns to his own apartment, he can keep this one until he can find some kind of job, something that needs little skill and is entirely at night -

Vinny touches cool fingers to his jaw, and presses a kiss to his lips. "I'll get the regular keys cut," he murmurs, "But I'll have to request a new fob for the security door. Might take a few days. Is that okay?"

Chase blinks. "The security door?"

"For my apartment." Apparently, Chase looks stupefied, because Vinny raises his eyebrows, a teasing smile on his lips. "Don't play stupid, man. Of course you're staying with me."

Somehow, he doesn't think there's a lot of point arguing. Chase just closes his eyes, nods. "Thank you."

A sigh, then a dip in the bed beside him as Vinny drops down beside him and then onto his back. One hand closes around Chase's and tugs; Chase lets himself fall back, lets himself be drawn into Vinny's arms, lets Vinny pepper kisses against his face.

"We'll manage, Chase," he murmurs, and he sounds more like the old Vinny, the confident Vinny, the unstoppable superstar Vinny. "Everything is fucked, it's fucked. We're dead. We're fucking vampires, man!" A laugh, and it's just a little unsteady, a little hysterical. "We fucking - we killed Duke and you ate his soul and we burned down his house. We're so catastrophically fucked."

"Yeah," Chase says, feeling that little flutter of panic in his chest, muffled by Vinny's embrace. "Really sounds like we're managing."

"We'll manage," Vinny repeats, "Because I got you, and you got me. Whatever happens, we're not doing this alone. Okay?" He shakes Chase's shoulder gently. "Okay?"

And -

It's hard to be afraid, with Vinny by his side. Hard to succumb to despair, with that blazing expression on his face. Hard to feel anything but comforted, with every drop of blood in his body. Chase smiles tentatively, and Vinny immediately presses a kiss to his lips, more affectionate than he's been in years, more immediately warm and encouraging. More loving.

"There's my Chase," he murmurs, and presses their foreheads together. "We've got this."

He kisses Chase, and kisses him again, and there's warmth, and softness, and care; there's love, and there's the taste of blood on his lips. Chase closes his eyes again, and lets himself be drawn down.

Chapter 6: Post-Credits Scene

Chase wakes, and it's calm and quiet. He lies in a soft bed, the buzz of Hollywood waking up for the night outside the heavily-curtained window; Vinny lies curled up in his arms, just starting to stir. A yawn, somehow graceful even while just waking. He tilts his head back, baring the white column of his throat; Chase's gaze locks there, at the artery tracing its way up like a lover.

He thinks about completeness. The blood in his veins curls possessively around Vinny, mine, mine, mine.

God, he's so fucking hungry...