A/N: So this story is sort of a mix between Klaine and the movie Daybreakers. If you haven't seen Daybreakers and are a horror/suspense junkie like me, you should check it out, it's pretty good. Anyway, the vampires in my story are going to adhere to those from Daybreaker's-no big superpowers, just pale skin, golden eyes, and they're burned by the sun. My future chapters are not going to be this long, in fact, they'll be quite a bit shorter. This is just to get the ball rolling for the rest of the story and to establish the characters. Enjoy :)
November 28, 2019—8:15pm EST—44⁰ F—New York City
A few scraps of crumpled newspaper drift along the dimly lit streets, riding the light nighttime breeze. Each spotlight of yellow from the streetlamps above highlight the thin layer of accumulated grime on the surface of the pavement. It is dark and the air is chilling. But the city stays very much alive.
The term 'nightlife' has more or less been eliminated from the general vocabulary. 'Nightlife' has become regular life, and the daytime is void of any action, at least above ground. The world is changed, and the balance of power has shifted to a different species. Glowing billboards depict images of pale, smooth faces, and golden yellow eyes peer from behind whitened, commercial smiles. The ubiquitous, rotating 'S' symbolizing the Subwalk tunnels pulsate around every corner, on every television screen.
"In recent news, President Moore has just returned to the states after visiting with Britain's Prime Minister to discuss the future possibility of a worldwide blood crisis. Third-world countries have already begun to feel the effects of starvation and Congress members are currently debating whether or not to send aid to those countries' governments…"
The blaring voices of CNN reporters echo through the streets from lucrative newsstands. Faintly interested citizens pass by and glance apathetically at the videos showing destruction and desolation before continuing on by without so much as a compassionate thought.
"During last week's press conference, Moore assured the media that military efforts to capture remaining humans have increased two-fold. However, despite the President's confidence, many corporations have begun to pull their human stock and lay their trust in the hands of larger blood-farming companies such as Bromley Marks…"
"Senator Wes Turner has started a campaign against human farming and teamed up with renowned hematologists of the Bromley Marks Corporation to find a suitable blood substitute…"
"The NYPD and other local law enforcers have come together in order to solve the outbreak of subsider attacks in suburban areas as well as the Subwalk tunnels…"
"This program is brought to you by Subwalk, the safest way to travel during the daytime…"
Sounds mingle and mesh into one monotonous buzz. The noise fills the air and replaces the memory of silence itself.
A boy strolls down the edge of the curb, the concrete glistening with the grit of passing cars and remnants of rain. His brown, chestnut hair stands in stark contrast to his pale, satin skin and his irises flash in the beams of glaring headlamps. A grey zip-up hoodie caresses his slim frame as he ambles along against the current of the oncoming crowd.
The day is just beginning for him; the sun has only recently set. He can smell the crisp scent of winter on the air and the promise of snow. His sight rests on his favorite coffee booth just up ahead, famous around the block for consistently serving twenty percent blood in every beverage.
After he pays for his drink, he sits down on a nearby bench and sips lightly, sighing as a glowing warmth spreads through to the tips of his fingers. People pass by and give him no notice. He is accustomed to being alone; he never was much of a people person, even before the outbreak ten years ago.
Snippets of memories of his human life rush back to him in a mournful haze. He cannot remember what it is like to have a heartbeat, to feel the rays of sun on his skin, to grow older. His old life is overshadowed by newer, darker experiences, and his past is slipping away.
Suddenly, his phone vibrates in his pocket and startles him from his reverie. He pulls the device out and sees a picture of his father in the center of his screen, his thumb drifting deftly over the touch pad as he accepts the call.
"Dad?"
"Kurt, where are you? Did you leave the house early again?"
"Yeah. Is that a problem?"
"Yes, it is. How many times do Carol and I have to tell you? If you're going to go out for a walk in the morning, at least write us a note so we know where you are."
"Dad, I think I'm old enough that I can go where I please. I've turned seventeen ten times."
"You're still underage, which means you will abide by our rules, especially while living under our roof."
"Maybe I should just move out then. It's about time."
"Hey, I don't want any lip from you right now. Just come home so we can have breakfast as a family for once. Carol has a treat for us; I'm not supposed to tell you, but she managed to snag a package of 'A- positive'. Isn't that great? A whole package. I hear the pure stuff is pretty hard to find nowadays, too."
"…Okay, fine, I'm coming home." Kurt says begrudgingly, his thumb and forefinger pinching insistently at the bridge of his nose. "But at some point, you have to accept that I'm not your teenage son anymore, Dad."
"By technicality, you are." His father replies. The call cuts off abruptly and Kurt is left staring at the blank screen of his phone. He feels empty and cold.
The walk back home does not take long. Kurt uses a shortcut through alleyways and backstreets, the route so familiar, he could navigate it blindfolded. His previous home in Ohio had been left behind once his family had all turned; the decision to move had been unanimous. It was safer in the city; there were more of their kind living there, and, as Kurt's father had reiterated numerous times before, strength is found in numbers.
Kurt rounds the corner onto his street, breathing a contented sigh as the immense wall of his apartment building shields the noise from the busier street. He glances up at the mountain of glass and metal, watching as the light from a passing car flashes, serpent-like against the inky black panes.
By the time he steps through the threshold of his home, his family is seated around the dining room table—a rare sight indeed, considering they eat in front of the television most nights—feasting away on Carol's surprise breakfast. Burt looks up at the sound of the creaking door and smiles at his son, the corners of his mouth stained a dark, enticing maroon. A spoon sits in between his strong fingers, and in it a few wheat cereal bites are perched in a pool of the same reddish liquid. Its scent is potent and fills the room in a tantalizing haze. Kurt finds himself drawn to the table, his quarry with his father all but forgotten as he sits with the rest of them and reaches for a bowl.
"How was your walk, Kurt?" Carol asks as she shakes cereal into Kurt's bowl, handing him a spoon.
"Same as usual. Got a cup of coffee."
"You need to stop wasting your money on coffee." She says with motherly disapproval.
"You need to stop wasting your money on cigarettes." Kurt replies bluntly. Ever since the outbreak when the whole of society discovered their nasty habit would no longer kill them, more and more people have taken up smoking as a pastime. The chemicals still affect the system, but the smoke no longer damages the lungs, leaving the population addicted but not harmed. The only disadvantage for Kurt is the smell; he hated it as a human and he still hates it now.
Carol screws up her mouth, unable to produce any valid argument, and takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing silvery-gray tendrils out through her parted lips. Her eyes flicker over to Kurt's bowl again and she springs up from her chair, grabbing the plastic pouch of blood from the kitchen counter and brandishing it with a grin. The pouch is one normally connected to an intravenous tube, the symbol 'A+' printed in bold letters across the white label.
"Guess what I have?" She sings, shaking the pouch lightly so its contents slosh distractingly in its container.
"Wait, don't tell me…" Kurt says sarcastically, but his remark is absent of any edge, for his attention is focused on the thing in her hand instead. He takes the offered blood and pours it over the cereal as if it were a quart of milk, licking his lips absently as a drop splashes off the edge of the bowl and onto his hand.
In retrospect, the wheat cereal is not at all essential to the meal. All nutritional value comes from the blood alone. But, even ten years after the abrupt dietary change, Kurt, as well as the rest of society, prefers to include regular food as well. The small slivers of memory from previous human life constitute this habit; it symbolizes civility in an act that would normally be considered gruesome. By including normal food, consuming blood doesn't seem so barbaric.
The taste lingers on his tongue, rushes through his cold veins and awakens his senses. He can feel so much more, can hear every tinkering sound in the apartment. Invigoration soars in him, warm and strong.
How ironic that, while the population berates the idea of humanity, they crave the very thing that makes them feel alive again.
Kurt thumbs through the songs on his iPhone during his usual, daily walk. He selects one of Celine Dion's many hits and strolls happily down the sidewalk, the darkness alight with flashing neon colors. His watch reads 7:34. Night is beginning to come sooner with the approaching winter, and he mulls over fashionable winter clothing as he makes his way back to the apartment.
He passes an alley on his left. Long and dark, the shadows creep along its walls and devour the brick until its depths are cloaked in blackness. The alley is a short distance away from his home, so he knows it well. The narrow space is surrounded on three sides by buildings, fire escapes cascading down to the ground from closed windows. Five years ago, he used to retreat there when he needed time to himself. Now, he rarely ventures down the path.
A flicker of a shadow catches the corner of his eye and he stops mid-step. His hands shoot up to pull out his earphones, and Celine's voice disappears as he stuffs the tangle of wires into his jean pocket. Silence envelops him like a fog.
He turns to gaze into the mouth of the alley, and for a moment feels a twitch of alarm. Countless news stories of subsider attacks appear front and center in his mind, and he tenses, half-expecting one of the grotesque creatures to spring out from the behind the line of black. Instead, a faint shuffling echoes off the walls, followed by a weak cough. Kurt's ears prick as he listens for any more signs of life and he shifts forward involuntarily, flinching when his shoe scuffs against the pavement, loud in comparison to the surrounding quiet.
"Hello?" Kurt calls softly, angling his head curiously. His muscles are still stretched taut with caution.
No answer comes, but suddenly the air seems too quiet, as if the silence is intentional. Kurt steps deliberately now, bringing himself closer to the edge of where the light from the streetlamp disappears. He contemplates something for a moment, and then pulls out his phone, using the light of the screen as a torch as he shines it into the space. The alley brightens slightly, enough for him to see the outline of objects along the ground. Two dumpsters sit facing opposite of each other, bits of torn newspaper littering the pavement below them. The black, wiry skeletons of the fire escapes protrude from the walls and down. Cardboard boxes are stacked in lopsided piles where owners had left them, bits of packing peanuts strewn along the building's foundation. Noticing nothing out of the ordinary, Kurt retracts his phone and slides it back into his pocket, giving the alleyway one last cursory glance before turning to leave.
There is a barely audible, but discernable exhaling of breath.
Kurt whips around, pulling out his phone and shining the light in one swift movement, quickly enough to catch the silhouette of a figure dart across the space. He switches the camera flash on and sets it on a steady beam, squinting as the alley is flooded in a brighter, white glare. He can see everything now; he can identify the individual flecks of color in the pale bricks, the stains of the slimy residue creeping along the concrete. Again, the alley is empty of any signs of life, and Kurt nearly growls in frustration. One of the dumpsters casts a shadow behind it from the light, serving as the only hiding place for the mysterious being that Kurt is searching for. He determinedly strides into the alley, keeping his phone at an arm's length in front of him. The shadow shrinks as he gets closer, ebbs away as the white swallows it.
Kurt stands nearly four inches from the side of the dumpster, and shoves his arms forward, drenching the small space with brightness.
He's suddenly staring at a boy.
Cowering pitifully in the corner, his arm stretched out protectively in front of him, the boy cringes into the wall, his eyes squeezed shut in frightened expectation. Of what he is bracing himself for, Kurt does not know, but he feels his nerves begin to deflate, and he frowns sadly as he stares at the poor person below him.
He must be homeless, Kurt thinks, and he feels a small part of his heart ache in reaction to the somber thought. The boy looks ragged and unclean, his curly mass of dark hair matted against his forehead from dried grime and rain, clothing frayed and torn in some places and covered in a layer of dirt and street runoff.
His breathing is panicked and erratic, his body trembling violently, and Kurt wonders what he is so afraid of.
"Um, hi." Kurt ventures, waving awkwardly with his free hand. He reaches out to touch the quivering figure, but the boy shrinks farther back, choking and stuttering on terrified breaths.
"My name is Kurt. What's yours?"
"D-don't—!"
Kurt flinches at the sudden shout, but stays where he is standing.
"P-please d-don't kill me…Please, I-I'm b-begging you," the boy's voice is hoarse and scratchy and he is obviously exhausted. Kurt is taken aback, his eyes widening with concern.
"What? Wh-Why…I-I would never…I'm not going to hurt you or anything, I'm just…" He stammers, trailing off in shock.
Kurt watches as the boy cautiously glances up from his hunched position, keeping his arms half extended to ensure a safe distance between them. His frightened gaze travels from Kurt's shoes up, calculating the danger risk with every stitch of fabric, every inch of muscle, every curve of bone, eventually rising up to Kurt's face and locking eyes with shaky deliberation.
Oh.
Green…green and copper and little slivers of earthy, nutty brown that fan away from the intense, black center point in a gradient-like array of hazel. They are beautiful.
And yet…so, so very earth shattering.
Because nobody has green eyes. Or blue eyes. Or black or brown or grey. Nobody. Only the same piercing, unanimous gold. Kurt's mind spins rapidly and his breath halts midway up his throat; he realizes what he is looking at, what the person crouching less than eight feet away from him really, truly is.
Human.
"Oh…Oh my god…" Kurt murmurs, his jaw dropping open as his brain pieces together the impossible, that there, in one of the most inhabited, bustling cities in North America, a human is wandering alive and un-captured.
"P-please…I don't want to die…"
"I'm not going to hurt you, I promise, I just…I can't believe…you're…you're human," he breathes the last word with a sense of wonderment. Kurt shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet and crouches down until he is at the same height as the boy, holding out his hands in a reassuring gesture so as not to scare him. He doesn't give a second thought to the possibility of soiling his clothing or mussing his hair. He is mesmerized, enraptured by the situation.
Kurt lifts out his arm for a customary handshake, but suddenly the formality seems corny and completely inappropriate for the current circumstance, so he lets it fall. Meanwhile, the boy is pressed flush against the brick wall behind him, eyes darting in every direction as he tries to find an escape, somewhere he could run to, but he comes up dry. Kurt has him pinned in a corner, and the only way out would be to use violence. He can't risk it for fear of being overheard and caught. He is trapped.
"Do…do you have a family?" Kurt asks carefully.
The boy stays determinedly quiet, his jaw set stiffly in reaction to the question. Kurt realizes he struck a nerve, and he backtracks.
"I'm not interested in exposing them, I swear, I…I'm just curious if you came here alone or if you've lost your group. I won't call the cops or anything; that would be the equivalent of killing you…" he shudders at the thought and swallows, taking a moment to regain some composure before speaking again. "You can trust me. I like humans and I miss being one. I won't put you or anybody else in danger. Please, don't be so afraid. I can help you."
The boy shifts uneasily, his gaze darting around the alley for a moment before resting back on Kurt. A resigned sigh pushes past his cracked lips as he realizes there is nowhere to go, no other option but to place his life in the hands of the being across from him, and a lump of fear forms in his throat.
Kurt notices the change in temperament and he smiles, celebrating. "So, like I said, my name is Kurt. What's yours?"
Hesitation. The tension lingering in the air is strong and palpable.
"…Blaine."
"Nice to meet you, Blaine." Kurt says warmly. "How long have you been in the city?"
Blaine's brow pulls together, his wide eyes refusing to so much as blink as he sifts through his memory for a date or any length of time.
"I…can't remember exactly." He whispers. "…a week or two, at least...maybe three."
"Where have you been staying?"
"W-why do you want to know?" Blaine counters Kurt's question with another, his voice carrying a tangible edge. Kurt puts his hands up as a sign of peace.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I understand. It must be incredibly frightening being in a city surrounded by people…" Kurt smirks. "…people like me. Well, assuming that you think of us as people at all."
"I d-don't." Blaine replies firmly, though his voice breaks with anxiety.
"…I understand that, too. If I were in your position, I wouldn't think of me as someone who had a conscience, either."
Blaine's features contort with confusion and alarmed disbelief. "W-why are you being s-so…empathetic?"
Kurt raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Why wouldn't I be? I was once human. I wouldn't like it if I were treated like nothing more than a piece of cattle."
"But…but you're one of…them."
"I'm not like everybody else."
"W-well, you say that, but…why should I trust you?"
Kurt considers something for a moment and then squares his shoulders, locking gazes with Blaine meaningfully. "I can't give you a reason. I wouldn't expect you to believe me if I did. All I can say—all I can promise—is that I won't do you any purposeful harm. I'm not saying you have to trust me. I'm just saying you can."
Blaine nods numbly and swallows, a long moment of silence passing before his body visibly begins to relax. His head slumps back against the wall and his eyelids fight against the gravity pulling them closed. A long breath escapes through his lips as if he had been holding it in for days, and his arms fall slack against the concrete beneath him.
In the light of his camera, Kurt finally notices what he missed in the tense conversation that he perhaps should have noticed before. Blaine's skin is very pale, nearly as pale as his own, and stretches taut across his cheekbones. A thin sheen of sweat slicks the plane of his forehead and purple, bruise-like shadows frame the underside of his eyes. Not having seen a human in nearly eight years, Kurt did not immediately realize the problem.
"You're sick," he says, more to verify his own silent question than to inform Blaine.
"…I guess."
"And you're starving. When did you last eat?"
"…can't…can't remember…"
Kurt does not think twice before speaking, and his voice comes strong and firm. "You need to let me help you."
"W…what?"
"Let me help you. Come with me to my apartment. I can get you some food and you can shower and recover."
"What? N-no—no, no I can't—"
"You wouldn't be imposing on me or anything, I really don't mind at all."
"No, n-not that. I can't just…just come back with you." Blaine says, his eyes wide again with shock, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say more but couldn't find the air to do so.
"Well, not right now. You'd have to wait a few hours until my Mom and Dad leave for work and my brother leaves for school. After that, the place will be empty." Kurt sees the doubt in Blaine's eyes and he sighs. Blaine seems to find his air again he opens his mouth to speak.
"But, what if somebody notices me on the way there? What if they smell me or something, or see my face or…" he trails off as possible scenarios flash through his mind.
"Here, you can take my sweatshirt." Kurt says immediately, pulling his arms out of the sleeves as he undoes the zipper. He folds the garment in his hands and drops it in Blaine's lap so he can't refuse the offer. "Just pull up the hood so nobody can see your eyes. And I wouldn't worry about your scent." Kurt throws him a rueful, lopsided grin. "No offense, but hanging around dumpsters doesn't make you smell like a rosebush. I don't think you'll have a problem."
Blaine's gaze whirls between Kurt's sympathetic face and the grey sweatshirt lying in his lap. He considers the situation with the same enthusiasm a dead man may have when choosing the manner of his execution. In the end, the empty gurgling of his stomach and the sting of his parched throat wins out.
"…I guess…I guess I can come with you," he mutters. Kurt frowns at his lifeless tone.
"I won't let anything happen to you."
"…okay."
"I won't."
Blaine looks up into Kurt's eyes, suddenly feeling moved by the amount of sincerity that lies there. Kurt is so sure, so intensely earnest, he almost believes him.
"How long should I wait?"
Kurt looks at his watch, gauging the time in his head.
"Give me…two hours. I'll come back here and walk you to my place."
"What if something comes up?" Blaine asks.
"I'll understand. If I don't find you here, I'll assume you had to escape from danger." He catches Blaine's concerned eyes flicker down to his sweatshirt. "Don't worry about that. You can keep it."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
"Two hours, then?" Blaine breathes, his anxiety showing as his fists curl tightly around the soft fabric.
"Two hours."
Kurt gives one last final nod and stands up to leave. He turns the light off on his phone, leaving the alley flooded in darkness, his footsteps echoing off the concrete as he approaches the light of the streetlamp again. Just as he reaches that line, Blaine speaks up hastily.
"Hey!"
Kurt's footfalls stop and another pause of silence congeals the air around him. Blaine bites his lip nervously.
"Thank you."
Kurt's lips pull into a smile and he continues walking down the empty road to his home, reveling in the feeling that is coursing through him. He has never felt so warm, so liberated, so free. Something about that boy, Blaine, draws the happiness and sadness out in a way he has never felt before, and he doesn't know quite what to think of it. He looks down at his watch, counting the seconds in a minute and aching at how they suddenly feel so long.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven-thousand, two hundred seconds.
In two hours, his life as he knows it will change.