Author's Note - Shmeh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Don't glare. . .(shrink) I have written ToL, I just can't bring myself to post it. . . Please wait just a few more days. I never have time to do anything now, I really hate uni exams. . . TT

NO SPOILERS (okay perhaps books one and two, it's based during seven but I guess it's up to you) BUT SLASH. You know what slash means? No? Then leave. Yes, and don't like it? Leave. Yes, and LOVE IT - go right on, babe.

So. Overview. This is a pointless Darren/Larten drabble oneshot inspired by a special friend. I must be going insane to be writing a story containing Darren. Strangle me now before I write any more. . .

Disclaimer - Blah blah, I don't own Darren Shan, all of the characters' mind, body and soul belong to Darren Shan the author, as everything does.

Honeyed-lemon Fantasies

For - Inyx because I lost a bet to her. People, NEVER bet anything with Inyx, who is, at the moment having a generally hard time writing multiple fics for people, and is my GOD because her stories rock my fuzztail. (that made no sense, I know)

Some things speak so much louder than words. You know - just the sound of someone's breathing, the distinctive scent of their skin, the texture of their voice, the way the dusk light falls on their face, the little things they do without noticing that they're doing it - like scratching the scar on a cheek.

I am staring at his thin, pale lips. They move, producing a rich, deep voice that rings in my ears but give me no meaning. I let every vowel sink through me, reverberate, soak into my soul - but I don't take in the meaning. It's easier that way. It's so much easier - to fantasise about what I want him to be saying to me.

. . . What do I want him to say, I'm not quite sure. "I'm proud of you" - no. "I love you" - no. "I want you" - hell, what am I thinking! No, I know perfectly well what I'm thinking. I dare not say it out loud.

I stare at his lips again. I close my eyes. I drown in the texture of his voice.

' - ren! . . . .DARREN!'

His voice calls my name, urgently, like he does so often in my crazy little fantasies - but only when I open my eyes to watch his lips again, do I notice it was not my imagination - he glares angrily at me, the frown-wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening into dark crevasses. I blink back at him, the impact of being yanked back into reality still not reaching my brain.

'Darren! Wake up! Are you listening to me?'

'. . . . . Yes.'

'What did I just say?'

His lips purse tightly, and I bite my lip. He stares angrily at me, and I stare dreamily and somewhat guiltily at him. He sighes, running a hand through the orange tuft of hair on his balding head - the fading sunlight glints off his smooth scalp, and he moves a little to get into the shade of the curtains.

'Repeat what I just said, Darren.'

'. . . . .I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.'

'I did not think so. I was explaining to you, ways to avoid the sun. I know this may bore you because you do not need to avoid sunlight yet, but it will come in handy when you become a full vampire. This is very important. Now concentrate!'

I was concentrating, Mr Crepsley. At your face, your eyes, your lips - just not your words. Not your real words.

'Sorry.'

'You have my forgiveness. Now, we will continue on from when I was talking about hyperventilation caused by sunburn - you remember that, yes?'

He raises an eyebrow. I look away.

'. . . .Yes.'

'Good. So as I was saying. . . '

His voice drowns out again into just texture. I imagine his voice talking to me. Sweet nothings and honeyed words of love, whispered in my ear.

It's not a crime, is it?

I know I'm desperately lost. Lost in the warmth evaporating off his skin, the exhaled breath escaping his mouth, the air in the van soaked in soft amber light, shining in its perfect moment - I want to keep moments like this, frozen in its beauty, locked forever in my heart until the day I die.

His eyes wander over the paper as he scrawls messy diagrams all over it to describe whatever it is that he must be explaining to me. I stare not at the paper, but straight into his eyes. His eyes are a dark brown, tinged with the faintest hazel around the edges. He clears his throat and coughs once, a touch of the winter cold still painfully rough in his throat. I don't mind it. It makes fantasising so much easier - I can imagine just what his voice would be, dropped low and husky, or even breathless and hoarse.

He takes a sip of the warm, remedial honey-lemon drink that Mr Tall had made him earlier.

His voice is now somewhat smoother, to my relief or brief dissapointment. I don't know which.

My eyes wander from his throat, down to his pale, pointy collarbone, then trail to the smooth, muscular chest underneath the loose buttoned shirt he is wearing. His chest rises and falls steadily with every breath, the fabric covering it sliding past his skin a little every time. I want to button the shirt up properly so that he won't be cold - but at the same time want to throw him down and strip him bare. My throat feels hot and dry, and I can't help but swallow.

I want, so much, to know if his mouth tastes of honey and lemon. Is the flavour lingering on the tip of his tongue? Is he still rolling the liquid around in his mouth? Or does his mouth have a distinct taste of himself - or maybe of the blood he has drank all of these years. . . ?

I want, so much, for him to feel the same towards me. I want him to want me. I want him to need me. I wonder if I can make him feel the same things I feel right now. Probably never. . . not in the nearest century, I bet.

I want, so much, to know the taste of his skin. So smooth, so pale - does it taste sweet like I have so many times imagined it to be? Would the scar on his cheek feel rough on my tongue? Would his tight, pursed lips be soft if I nibbled on them - would his ears turn red either with anger or embarassment - if I whispered into them what I really felt - what I want to do to him, and what I want him to do?

I need, so very very much, to know what his skin would feel like against mine. What his hands and tongue would feel like on my body. How he would react if I did all the things I want to do to him. How his usually controlled face would change, how his voice would change, how he would look at me, how he would . . .

'. . . arren? Darren?'

His eyes rest on me. He looks worried. Worried? Why would he be worried, when I wasn't concentrating on what he was saying? Why would he be worried, he wouldn't care less - I'm just a useless brat to him, just a brainless, useless. . .

'Darren, are you alright?'

His thumb slides over my cheek - his hand is so warm. I can feel the warmth soaking into my cheeks, even though it's not touching directly - just hovering there, emitting soft heat as if to dry my wet cheeks.

Wet cheeks.

I'm crying. I can't stop now, the streams won't stop. Once it's started, it's like a flood, a tidal wave, it just comes and comes and flows and flows, choking my every breath and disabling my voice.

'I. . . '

I start, but break down in tears again, sobbing helplessly, confused and furious at myself. I want to kill myself right now. God zap me. Mr Crepsley looks thrice as confused, not knowing whether he should be comforting me or looking away.

He has no idea. He has no idea I want him so badly that I'm losing my sanity. He has no idea why I'm crying. He has no idea I love him.

At least, I didn't think he did.

Until he . . .

'Darren. . . .'

All I can see is his white shirt, and the pale skin peeping from the loosely buttoned opening. His arms are loosely tossed around my back, stroking gently and comforting. I can feel his chest rise and fall against my cheek as he breathes - I can feel his heart beating softly - I can feel his warmth, so firm and warm, and whatever happens right now I would not care - I wouldn't give a damn shit if I were to die right now because he's holding me in his arms, even if it is loose and awkward, because this time - it's not my fantasy.

It's not my fantasy.

I look up at him, my sobs softer now, a trembling, feeble smile on my face. His tight lips unwind into a caring smile, and I feel like crying again, just from the knowledge that he smiled for me. His thumb runs over my cheek again, this time running down to my chin, tilting my face upwards. His mouth opens slightly. My throat goes dry.

. . . . .Honey and lemon.

Sweet, warm and soft, and I don't bloody care about the stupid cliche.

I think I'm going to faint from ecstacy.

And the best thing about it - is that I'm not imagining it.

It's not my fantasy.

It's our fantasy.