Note: I do not and never shall own the characters in Lost Souls. They are the delicious creations of Poppy Z. Brite.
Another Note: This one shot is written as if Zillah and the rest of the beauties had never been attacked by Steve. On with the show?
-Blessedness-
Christian wasn't surprised to find Nothing in his waking arms. After the session between Nothing and Zillah that had left screaming echoes upon the walls, Christian knew Nothing would sneak his raw, sore body between his tender legs.
The moonlight struck Nothing's face, highlighting the raven hair dye a sickeningly erotic blue. Christian reached over the push away the strands, revealing Nothing's pale brow. He marveled at how peaceful Nothing could appear, as if he hadn't been born by ripping his way from his mother's womb. As if he hadn't lost his innocence in his 124 years of life.
It was hard to believe they had lived so long, the reckless Molochai and Twig, the violent Zillah, and the sweet sweet Nothing. As for himself; Christian guess he was pushing 500 years, at least. But despite his flawless features the vampire had not aged well. The others, they had each other. Christian however seemed to be good only for a tease from Molochai and Twig or as a lover for Nothing that would not tear the boy's skin off. He knew that Nothing did not love him, he was merely a few hours rest.
A desperate old man, that was what Christian had become. Although he had been this way ever since the first time Zillah had entered his bar. They were all he knew. With them, he was not alone.
But Nothing mumbled dreamt words as Christian's tongue gently licked crusted blood that rested so demurely upon the child's throat and he knew that to be watching these passionate vampires without gaining the warmth was much, much worse.
Christian wondered what he would take when he left. Would a bottle of Chartreuce be too sentimental? Never mind, he told himself, he would take nothing.
The mattress dipped as Christian untangled himself from Nothing. He sighed softly when the disruption of weight woke Nothing. He wanted the boy to sleep, forever, so that the angelic face could be cast as if stone. Instead, Nothing's eyebrows furrowed and he wiped a spittle of drool from his lips.
"Nnhh. Where are you going?" he asked groggily.
"I'm leaving," Christian replied. After 500 years he wasn't one to mince words.
Nothing sat up, the sheets fell from his torso to reveal milky skin and shimmering nipple piercings. They matched his father's. He had noticed Christian's gradual air of withdrawal, but to have him leave like this made Nothing's heart clench.
"Please don't," he pleaded softly, "I still need you."
Nothing knew that he was lying, nonetheless, Zillah's child placed his hands onto the hem of Christian's shirt.
"Come back to bed. Let me hold you, my blessed Christian."
The ancient felt his lips curl into a mirthless smile. Nothing certainly had grown. Even Zillah could no longer deny his boy's succulent demands. But Christian was too old for these games. Besides, it was time for him to go.
When Nothing saw that he had lost, his hands dropped back to the sheets.
"Where will you go?" he asked, defeated.
"Does that matter?" wondered Christian, and he held his arms out to Nothing. The boy lept into them, holding Christian tightly, his poking ribs against the other's chest.
"I'll miss you," Nothing whimpered, although his tears did not yet fall.
"Don't," was all Christian could say as he gave Nothing one last soul searching kiss. Nothing bi Christian's tongue, saying goodbye through the transaction of blood. How easy it would be right then for Christian to slip back between Nothing's decadent thighs, perhaps there was time for one last tender screw.
Soft black velvet rippled through the air, Christian's coat flared as he turned and etched Jessy's blood into the carpet one last time.
- -
Nothing thought, as he sat besides the murky river, that he could make out wisps of Christian's hair, floating above the surface.
But Christian was long gone, carried away by the brown waters, through the city of carnal pleasures along with the poor souls that had ever suffered Christian's hunger. Blessed Christian.
Nothing wished his tears, which fell upon the silver pistol held in his fingers, had been the tears of blood.
"Did he shoot himself in the head or the heart," he wondered. Logic told him that Christian had chosen to put a whole through his brain, but he liked to imagine that the bullet had licked it's way into the soft folds of Christian's heart.
He stood, stuffing his hands into deep pockets.
"Goodnight Christian," he whispered to the eternal river.
- -
And Christian closed his eyes, welcomed truly into the arms of death.