September, 1985

"Goddam it," Carl said, holding up a dress shirt straight out of the laundry. "Another one ruined."

Mitchell looked up from his seat on the couch. "I don't know why you feel the need to wear nice clothes to feed. It's a waste."

"Well, I've got to look nice."

Mitchell sat back. The flat was small, and decorated in the minimalist style Carl favored. It was Carl's place, after all. After two months, Mitchell still felt like an overnight guest.

"It's all so high maintenance," Mitchell said, lighting a cigarette. "I used to be like that. Thirty years ago."

"People used to know how to dress," Carl said. "I miss it."

"Yeah, the '50s was a great time for the gays."

Carl shoved the shirt in a cloth bag. "Oh, and it's so much better now. People are so afraid of AIDS it's getting impossible to find someone to take home."

Mitchell took a drag. "Yeah, the fear of death really does make it hard to find blokes up for getting killed."

Carl gave him a look. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"I don't know, I think it does."

Carl smiled, and sat down next to him. "Really, at the end of the day, I just want to find a nice guy to settle down with."

Mitchell looked at him. "What am I, chopped meat?"

"You're not exactly boyfriend material, Mitchell."

"What?"

"You're messy, you're prone to temper tantrums, and I'm not convinced you don't prefer girls."

Mitchell looked deflated. "Thank you, Carl."

"Oh, don't take it the wrong way. I'll be here for you until this - admittedly enjoyable - rebellious phase is over and you go running back to Herrick."

Mitchell frowned. "I'm not running back to Herrick."

Carl patted him on the knee. "Well, maybe if you tell yourself that enough, you won't this time."

Mitchell stamped out his cigarette and crossed his arms. The only thing worse than Carl being condescending was Carl being condescending and right.

"Besides, I'm looking for a human. You know, you're ten times more likely to go clean with a human."

"Ten times nothing is nothing," Mitchell said, with a sniff. "It doesn't work."

"Oh, it does. There's this bloke in Canada with a human wife - clean for sixty years."

Mitchell shook his head. "That's just an urban legend. I've tried it. It doesn't work. Sooner or later you have to kill them."

Carl smoothed a folded shirt with his hand. "I thought you didn't kill her?"

"I didn't, but you have no idea how close I came."

Carl tilted his head. "Well, that's something."

"Not really. I killed three people on the way to see Herrick so we could kill three more people. Feast or famine, that's all it is. Better to just feed every couple of weeks."

"Or maybe get one of those humans with a vampire fetish." Carl glanced at Mitchell. "A willing victim." He placed the folded laundry into the basket. "It's kind of a turn-on."

Mitchell smiled. "You know what we should do? We should go to one of those gothic places in town."

"What, like... a cathedral?"

Mitchell laughed. "You're such an old man. No, you know those kids who go round in black hair and eyeliner. It's like, dark, and... like... horror meets romanticism."

Carl paused. "That sounds about right."

"Right?"

"Put on something decent," Carl said, heading into the bedroom. "We're going out tonight."

Carl scanned the crowd outside of the Noir. "Good lord," he said. "It's Christmas."

"I told you," Mitchell said. "And the best part is, these freaks would do anything to be half the freaks we are."

"It's amazing," Carl said, in his Christian Dior suit. "Absolutely beautiful."

As they walked the line, they passed a young man, walkman headphones around his neck, more outspoken than most of the kids in line, who seemed to be practicing their silent brooding.

"See, if you just do your hair and makeup like Robert Smith, you're only conforming to Robert Smith," he said, loudly. "Robert Smith is the non-conformist... you're just a sheep."

Mitchell took mental notes. He didn't look quite as out of place as Carl in his black leather jacket and jeans, but at least he could claim his lack of eyeliner had something to do with not being part of the herd.

"Oi!" Headphones called as they walked by. "No suits!"

Carl turned, aware he was being singled out. Without missing a beat, he responded. "We're all prisoners. I wear my oppression for the world to see."

Headphones smiled. "See," he said to the Robert Smith clone beside him. "He gets it."

Mitchell leaned in to Carl as they turned and walked away. "That was really good," he said.

Carl smiled. "Well, I'm sure as shit not going to let some little wanker humiliate me. If they respect pretention, pretention they shall have."

The inside of the club looked like any disco they'd ever seen, but instead of dance music, the DJ played angsty goth music. The crowd swayed, never actually pulling any proper dance moves, as that would be entirely uncool.

A young man dressed in all black, including a cape - an actual cape - swayed a few feet from Mitchell and Carl. As he took a drink of his cheap discotech beer, they noticed he was wearing false fangs, as well.

Carl stepped up to Black Cape. "I like your teeth," he said, sounding sincere. "Are they real?"

"As real as can be," Black Cape said. "I got a guy."

"A fang guy?" Mitchell said.

"You could say that," Black Cape said.

"Smashing," Carl said, ignoring Mitchell's eyeroll. "I've always wanted to meet a proper vampire."

Black Cape nodded. "There's a whole group of vampires in Bristol," he said.

Carl and Mitchell looked at each other. "I never would have guessed," said Carl.

"We meet every other Saturday. It's very exclusive. I'm basically the second in charge, so..."

"Hey," Mitchell said, leaning in, "If I join, can I get one of those capes?"

Black Cape pulled the cape together in the front and lifted his chin. "I made this one myself."

Carl ran a finger along the seam. "This is actually really nice work."

Black Cape nodded. "My mum's a seamstress, so." He looked at Mitchell. "But everyone's responsible for their own ensemble. And if you really want in, you have to get the teeth. It's the main rule."

"Well, obviously, I can see why," Mitchell said. This kid was beyond willing to share his blood, he was practically begging to be turned. "It seems like a lot of effort," he said, looking at Carl.

Carl nodded. "Still -"

Carl's thought was interrupted by a commotion behind them. Something - a pint glass, maybe - came crashing down from the balcony, but there was no scuffle, just a lone clubber leaning over the railing, pointing at the self-professed goths below. "Sheep! All of you!" he shouted.

"Oh, look who it is," Mitchell said. "Headphone guy."

Headphones pulled himself up so he was standing precariously on the balcony railing. "You all talk about nonconformity, but you look like carbon-copies!" He thrust his arm behind him to balance himself. "Have some originality! Have some pride! Conformity is not an option!"

"Conformity is not an option!" one of the goths called out in response, holding up his drink.

"Conformity is not an option!" shouted a girl dressed in leather and lace.

Within seconds, the club began to throb with goth foot-stomping as they chanted it over and over: "Conformity is not an option!"

Headphones looked down and smiled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Maybe he was smiling at the irony of the crowd following each other in unison in the name of non-conformity, or maybe he thought he was doing something for the cause, whatever that was. Whatever it was, he got caught up in it and lifted a foot to stomp along, causing his other foot to twist and lose balance. Mitchell and Carl both saw what was about to happen, but there was nothing to be done. Headphones went careening headfirst into the floor below. Even if the few goths beneath the balcony had wanted to catch him, it would have been no use.

"Jesus," Mitchell said, just before pandemonium broke out.

Mitchell and Carl moved toward Headphones' unmoving body, along with half the club.

Carl looked up. "It's not that high," he said. "He could have survived that fall."

"He fell on his head, Carl," Mitchell said.

They pushed through and looked down at Headphones. They both knew it: He wasn't hurt. He was dead. As dead as you could get.

"That," Mitchell said, "is not cool." His mind immediately started to reel, his eyes searching for something to dispose of the body in, before he realized that Headphones was not his problem. It had been a real accident. He could be taken to the morgue, without causing suspicion or raising questions. It was weird.

They looked at each other, unsure what to do in this situation.

"What's going on?" said a voice behind them. They looked. It was Headphones. Of course it was.

After a mouth-gaping moment, Mitchell stepped toward the disembodied Headphones. "You just got yourself killed, you idiot."

Headphones laughed. "What? What does that mean?"

Mitchell pointed to the floor where, behind several hysterical post-teenage goths, his body lie crumpled. Headphones moved toward it to get a look. His expression didn't change when he saw himself.

"That's me," he said flatly. He turned to look at Mitchell and Carl. "How does that work?"

"You are no longer a living person," Carl said. He paused. "I'm... sorry."

Headphones made a face. "So I'm, what, some kind of a spirit or something? No, no, that can't be right. I'm an atheist!"

"Yeah," Carl said. "It doesn't work like that."

Headphones looked pensive. "Oh," he said. "Oh, I'm not going to hell, am I?"

"Well," said Carl, "what is 'hell'?"

Mitchell grabbed Carl by the shoulder. "This is no time to get philosophical, Carl," he said. "We need to get out of here. The police'll be here any second."

"So? We didn't do anything."

"I know we didn't do anything, but think about it. A place like this? Herrick will be the first one here."

Carl tilted his head back in a half-nod. It was always Herrick. "True," he said.

Mitchell turned to Headphones, who was starting to look anxious, in the middle of the commotion caused by his sudden death. "Sorry about... your... body."

"Wait," Headphones said. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Cross over, I guess," Mitchell said, and they were lost in the crowd in an instant.

A/N: All of the cultural references in the fic are real. The story title is the title of an Echo and the Bunnymen song, from the 1984 album "Ocean Rain." For those who may not know (I won't judge you!), Robert Smith is the frontman for The Cure, known for his distinctive voice and look (teased black hair, eyeliner and red lipstick, a style that was heavily imitated in the '80s.)