lately
karierte
Monday
Monday's child is fair of face
Ingrid hates it when things die.
She'd wept, once, holding her twelve red roses and watching them wither between her palms, the colour seeping out of them and into the air. The sky was crying with her too, pathetic fallacy falling from the sky in frequent, tiny droplets.
The stems slowly crumbled into dust, hourglass sand gritted in her life line. She was damned to be like this; soulless and seventeen forever, looking on while the world wasted away around her, always changing.
…Will shouldn't have bothered.
Tuesday
Tuesday's child is full of grace
He liked to whisper in their ears.
Pretty, poisonous little nothings slithering out of his mouth like snakes and caressing their throats. Unnecessarily gentle, perhaps, but he'd enjoyed it…the shivering and the sharp intakes of breath as his fangs gently grazed their pulse points, his lips pressing a muted kiss against the junction between neck and shoulder and feeling the blood leap against soft skin to meet him.
Smile.
Sweet-smelling, rich velvet slipping beautifully into his mouth; tasting like fine wine dark and fresh as he drained them—feeling alive as they lost their lives, as they jackknifed apologetically onto the floor. He'd croon lullabies to their corpses, dripping with false sentiment, tongue licking away the last.
Carpe jugulum.
Wednesday
Wednesday's child is full of woe
It was just difficult sometimes, having a loony for a Dad.
No wonder his mum had ran off with that estate agent. He couldn't blame her, really: recently Jonathan had begun to wish there was an estate agent for him to run off with, too. She could have at least taken him with her.
He bloody hated caravans.
There wasn't any milk. There wasn't actually anything in the mini-fridge anyway, so it wasn't much of a loss. He opened a cupboard and a few stakes fell out, along with an Indiana Jones-ish hat. He toyed briefly with the idea of staking himself and promptly gave up both on it and the tea.
"Pizza, Jonno?" His dad asked obliviously.
"Yeah," he sighed.
Thursday
Thursday's child has far to go
He was born on a Thursday, Robin was. His Mam had told him it'd been right lovely when he was born; a languid afternoon with strained sunlight beaming upon his downy little head, armed with that cherubic smile he used to have…and wouldn't it be nice if he toned it down just a teensy bit, this whole vampire phase he was going through at the moment? Then, Vlad came around for tea.
It didn't seem to matter now: fangs or capes or Thursdays, as they fumbled on the rough of his bedroom carpet, him peppering sloppy kisses along Vlad's glorious collarbone and sort of hoping they'd leave marks.
Friday
Friday's child is loving and giving
Elisabeth did try to be a good mother. She couldn't help it sometimes, when they were all there assembled primly around the kitchen table or putting up tents in the damp Welsh countryside and there was that perfect domestic goddess feeling which seemed almost like a congratulatory pat on her back, but she did try.
And she was trying now. Very hard, in fact, because her little boy had chosen now to be the opportune moment to unburden himself of his homosexuality. Now; in front of their entire extended family, after he'd passed the turkey over to Graham to carve. His nan paused mid-Brussel sprout - processing this thought.
"That's nice." She managed; finally. She used her best Understanding Smile.
"I don't think you understand." He muttered in reply, mushing a carrot with his fork and she had always told him not to play with his food. Dear God, he looked as if he was going to embarrass them further and Elisabeth was desperately trying not to leap over the table and give him a good whack on the head with a chair leg.
"We do." Graham interjected and she added smugly to herself: that's why I married him.
Robin paused at this, but decided to carry on further.
Or at least he was going to, until his nan finished the Brussel sprout and did the decent thing of kicking him rather viciously on the shin.
Elisabeth loved her family.
Saturday
Saturday's child works hard for a living
She rubbed self-consciously at her temples, brushing a strand of hair out of her face and tucking it neatly behind her ear. Chloe liked neat things, concise things, things which had special places in labeled drawers, scientific calculators and of course, ticks in red biro. Of which she received many, thank you very much.
But Chloe Branaugh was moving onto bigger and better things…things like designer clothes, straighteners, eyeliner pencils, reading Heat magazine horoscopes and boys. She was actually quite looking forward to it. She might even roll up her charcoal grey school skirt a couple of inches above her knees, just to see what might happen; if anything might happen.
Besides, she'd heard that Jonno van Helsing's DVD collection was alphabetised.
Sunday
And the child born on Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay
It's best if no one ever knows, Vlad thinks hazily, lying supine beneath him, forehead to forehead. They are two people breathing the same breath, or one person breathing and one undead boy clutching greedily at the living.
Everywhere he touches; burns. He's never been this warm before, not like this—head tilted back with Robin's knee excruciatingly between his legs, a hand clamped over his mouth lest Ingrid stops wallowing in teenage angst or his Dad feels the urge to find out just what his son and his son's friend are doing together.
Robin whispers things like God and V-vlad! when Vlad is on his knees in front of his crotch; cheeks hollowed and sucking for all he's worth as bitten nails dig crescents into his scalp. Vlad chokes out embarrassing guttural noises in return whilst those pale fingertips trace words on his inner thigh.
He knows this isn't going to last, not while Robin's still human and they're barely adult enough to know what they're doing, only fickle enough to want it, but it doesn't stop him. He can't stop, entangled with Robin and their strange formula of hope and love.
A/N
This was for drygionus; so she could read something other than her own stories, XD. The little nursery rhyme I did this to is by Mother Goose, but I have 'Stop & Stare' by One Republic in my head right now. I think it fits nicely with Vlad: I've become what I can't be and the little brooding hero part of his character.
Feedback is loved? :3