One day, weeks after Divia, Lacroix woke as the sun set and froze. Suppressing the instinct to jump, he turned to see someone lying next to him in his bedroom. He still preferred dark reds and blacks for his rooms, except for the two set aside for Janette and Nicholas, though they didn't always use them. Their rooms were always there for them, just in case.
Although in this case it appeared Nicholas hadn't used his room for weeks, Lacroix realized suddenly; he had slept with him instead. He was here, in Lacroix's house, by his own will. And not even in his own room! It boggled the mind, and Lacroix had the unsettling feeling of coming back to his senses after a long submersion in shock. After Nicholas killed Divia, he had lingered by him as he wrapped her body in white sheets and set it ablaze.
He could barely remember it, despite his vampirically precise memory. It was disconcerting. He sat up slowly on the bed, detangling himself from Nicholas, who he had apparently been holding onto. Lacroix rubbed his face with a free hand and stared down at his son.
Nicholas had the healthy flush of a real diet on him, and was dressed in the pyjamas Lacroix had put into his room years ago. He suddenly recalled being handed a glass and someone tipping it to touch his lips-his anything but obedient child had fed him, Lacroix realized. He must have guided him around appropriately, seeing as he felt as though he had showered just a while ago.
He felt recovered, but shaken internally. After danger things always got worse. The aftermath killed just as many with aftershocks as actual battles did. And what would Nicholas say upon waking? No doubt Divia had enjoyed regaling him with what he had done to her. And how only she could have him. She'd even said that back then, in the past. That only she could have him. It had disturbed him intensely.
Gods, he thought. Is that what Nicholas felt? That worry and horror... no, it could not be. Nicholas had always come to him like a moth to a flame. Soft and entranced, embracing him gently. It was always deep, quiet romance with him, and while Lacroix could provoke him into intense reactions, it wasn't his default.
He saved his passion for music, always writing scores upon scores of it. Lacroix knew he sold it to mortals and their industry, but refrained from commenting. Nicholas got deep fulfillment from his work, and Lacroix knew how dangerous it was to keep an artist from their medium. For the first time in his life, he looked down at his son and wondered what he would say-not with anticipation or grim acceptance, but with dread.
There was no way out of it-he would speak of Divia at length. He'd ask questions, want to know about his past, his feelings. And all of it was too much.
He got up and left.
Nicholas woke up to hear something familiar... what was it? He strained to hear, turning over, half awake. It was cold and he wanted to sleep more.
"Indeed, my dear, I think you have the wrong take on Poe..." a voice spun, drawing you in. It continued, all academic expertise and wry art of war clapbacks. His eyes snapped open. It was Lacroix. He was taking callers on his radio show. Nicholas sat up in a confusion, hair askew. The bed was empty.
So he had woken up, he thought. He sank back down onto the bed on his elbows. Aristotle had been right, the old ones could enter a recovery phase of docility and nonsense talk for a while and emerge as if everything were normal. Lacroix had pulled through. He finally woke up for 'real',
Nick thought, and sighed with relief in the echoing, empty halls of his father's house.
He trusted Aristotle, but he had been worried. To see Lacroix murmur strange babble-talk that didn't make sense and become still and pliable in his hands was one of the worst things he'd ever dealt with. It was a terrifying living death to witness.
Aristotle had warned him that Lacroix would be very sensitive about all of it when he woke, but Nicholas hadn't listened to him-he'd been too worried about him waking at all. And now he had, only to leave? What?
He sat up and crossed his legs. Pondering, he picked up the phone on the bedside table. Should he call Lacroix and ask if felt okay? Why had Lacroix bothered to go do a show at all anyway? Or what about Aristotle, he might have more answers... Of course Aristotle was all preoccupied with his own problems, namely a woman. Called Parker, the girl was a young mortal with a lot of experience stealing under her belt. Aristotle had become somewhat fascinated with her after she'd found him-convinced that stealing immortality would be the greatest work of all.
She was an odd one, very strange, but Aristotle had warmed to her immediately-and vice versa. He had talked to Nick repeatedly about possibly taking her as his child. There were only a million endless potential problems there, so he called all the time.
Lacroix would be done with his broadcast soon, he realized with a start. Nick had put him down for time off at work, with the caveat that he could return at any time. What would he say after enduring this 'sick time'? Nick doubted he'd be happy to talk about feeling anything less than one hundred percent, much less being cared for like a child by his own crazy son.
He needed something to talk about... something to allow Lacroix and himself a reprieve. Nick jumped as the phone rang suddenly.
It was Aristotle. "I may have over-estimated my emotional control," he began nebulously, and in that second, Nick knew what had happened. He'd taken her, overwhelmed by the joy and the spell of connecting with someone. Sharing emotions, even without blood, was a serious high for immortals-especially since most of them had few things [or people] left that could do it.
From what Nick could surmise from Lacroix's odd statements and Aristotle's history lectures, many ancient vampires simply tired of existing at all and wiped themselves out. They needed a break. Without death looming ahead, life had turned into a hell for them. A world they didn't care about, new languages, new worthless mortals, endless change, never feeling like the wheel would stop rolling. They were metaphorically crushed under the wheel of time.
He threw some clothes on and rushed out the window to Aristotle's apartment. Even Nick was more ready to make a child than him-and he wasn't at all. Aristotle had as much emotional sensitivity as Nick with less tolerance for cultural prejudice. He basically hated Lacroix and felt he should adjust his behavior to make room for the 'intersection of their two oppositional cultures of medieval and late Roman'.
Nicholas personally felt more comfortable when Lacroix was just himself than if he'd acted like he felt religion was a-okay. It would just be weird. Lacroix was a hardcore atheist, and intense in literally every other belief or feeling he had. He was on or off, black or white. It was Nicholas who was sometimes grey.
Even though he hadn't mentioned Aristotle's quandary to Lacroix, he felt he'd disapprove. The issue was that Aristotle didn't want to be 'bad', as he put it, but seeing Lacroix that way left some things out.
The wind whipped at his face as he picked up speed above the city. Now, centuries later, he could see clearly why Lacroix had performed many of his harsh schemes. He had wanted Nicholas strong, open to new things but not naive, level-headed instead of idealizing people, curious but not falling into snake oil traps, and on and on.
Because Lacroix had created all those scenarios himself, he had been able to 'expose' Nick to the real 'immortal' world and its dangers without actually putting him in danger. Over the years, Nick had heard of other fledglings who died both old and young, all making stupid mistakes.
Every story he heard made him think the same thing: I remember when Lacroix taught me better than that... Immortality made everything more of a risk, more of a problem. His lessons had schooled him in being alert, cautious, wise and restrained. He had tempered him a little from his natural emotional tumbleweedness. Not that he didn't still just roll across the plains of life, but at least he was a bit more experienced.
Nick landed on the windowsill of Aristotle's apartment, just outside out town, and pulled it open. He could hear Aristotle begging the girl to put her hands down. His tone indicated it wasn't working... Nick took a deep breath and headed in. Living eternally as a child, as 'lower' and 'beneath' someone wasn't something most people could handle. Even mortals could wait until they grew older and their elders died in turn. Vampires didn't get that feeling of succession, of freedom. It was a hard reality. Your mother, father, lover, friend, teacher, punisher, bully and benefactor was always the same person, forever.
It got unbearable real fast. Aristotle was about to sink in the quicksand that was early immortal toddler behavior. As the mind adapted to its new life, most people had to be 'taken' care of like little two or three year olds. And what phrase came to mind?
The terrible twos.
When Lacroix returned to the house, Nicholas was gone. To his job surely, he thought, annoyed.
Nick had probably felt finally free, literally, when he woke up. At least he could sit in peace. There wasn't even a note. Lacroix paced through the halls of his home, curiously observing all the changes. There was a gameplayer device hooked up to the television, and most of the rooms were in a bit of disarray. As an understatement.
Nicholas wasn't the ocd organizer type, he thought wryly. The kitchen was filled with dozens of bottles of blood, surprising him, and his son's personal room in the house was a total mess.
The floor was covered with hundreds of pieces of music scoring paper, and a laptop was set up next to a tiny electric keyboard. He had been busy with this.
Most of the time, his children didn't live with him or use their rooms. It didn't change the fact that they were there, and he enjoyed spending time finding things they would like. Things that seemed to 'fit' their style, their personality. Nicholas' room was always very simple and comforting, with a enormous down comforter on the bed, and an openness to the shelves and furniture. Everything was wood and big, shapeless pillows.
The bookshelf included both what Lacroix wanted him to read [if he could pick] and what he would want to read in reality: criticisms of society and culture, adventure stories and discussions of his cult's religious texts.
Lacroix still couldn't believe that his silly little cult had survived; just his luck that Nicholas had been born into it. He never said it, but he couldn't begrudge his son his god, it did comfort him so. He had often found Nicholas asleep clutching a rosary-with no marks on his hands. There had been many odd incidents of Nick being able to touch holy items without pain, but Lacroix was loathe to discuss it. Nicholas had unique abilities, but was not objective enough to practice and refine them anyway.
His room's shelves always had a few books of poetry. Nicholas was one of the few who knew that not only did Lacroix love writing it, he was also an enthusiast. His collection was enormous. In that vein, Nicholas had always given him little volumes of verse if he'd enjoyed them so that Lacroix could comment on them. They had always had long, endless conversations. They could talk about anything.
Of course, that didn't stop Nicholas from pursuing a whole other life than his 'real' one. A fake, pretend-mortal life, where he wasted his time, kindness and simple good heart on transient, mindless peasants. Hopefully, it would make him feel more confident and bold, Lacroix thought. And perhaps it could slowly fix his naive outlook in a natural, easy to accept way [since he rarely appreciated Lacroix's own, hard-won lessons]. ...It was a trade off.
And now here he had been. Not at his job, not at his apartment, here in Lacroix's own house, beside him. His golden hair had been spilled haphazardly across his pillow, his dark blue pyjamas only accentuating his natural Apollonian beauty. His son had always been unique, in look and in oddities. Weirdly, he had one little loophole in his 'run away' plans that Lacroix could never understand. He still called.
After Lacroix inevitably found him every time-wondering if he'd wanted it, since he never used a real fake name, just his own-Nicholas would call him. And they would talk about everything.
Everything but the fact that he randomly ran for it. It was hard to think about head on, much less to really process and deal with. Nicholas would call him every night and talk until he fell asleep [on the phone, even] two hours later, but would rarely come and see him. He had often seemed almost afraid of him, but not in a corporeal way. And not because he was being threatening-because seeing him made Nicholas look away, hesitate, become nervous. They fell into being lovers over and over, but then would stop for a while when Lacroix inevitably said something too sarcastic about anything he held sacred. From mortals to Mary the Virgin, it was a long list.
Sometimes Lacroix caused their relationship [whatever it was at the time, at least] breakup without even realizing he'd done it until Nicholas wouldn't call him. It was often a shock. Nicholas was special to him, unique in the immortal community. Everyone else had a layer of conniving and false kindness at work, but never him. Nicholas was always himself, even though it never gained him anything. Even though it put him at a huge disadvantage.
He was also the only one who wasn't afraid of Lacroix. Even Janette was more obedient than honest. Nicholas refused to fake a moment, to lie for a second. It meant they constantly argued and created endless problems for them, but it also was the only real thing in Lacroix's life. Most immortal
children were simply soupy with their yes-men attitude, simpering and agreeing like a sychophant.
Many powerful immortals had children like that, and appeared to enjoy it. It only showed them to be fools.
He knew that the day Nicholas did that, became fake and pretended with him just to make things easier, was the day he would lose forever. Lacroix would do anything to make sure that never became reality. He could not bear to be alone, especially since the memories of Divia's early death at his own hand had always haunted him. Even when arguing, Nicholas always soothed him just by being there and being 'real' with him. They had hard lines they never crossed. As in, Lacroix was too much a stalker, yes, but Nicholas didn't ever bring that up-the patheticness of it. The weakness of it.
Or rather, he didn't use it against him. There were many things they never used against each other. Their physical relationship, or the way he liked to hold onto him as they slept; Nicholas's weird hidden photo collection of him [doing nothing, the photos were all boring, to be frank]; the way
Nicholas had to come over sometimes because he couldn't fall asleep by himself.
And sometimes he had to back out of a room unseen because Nicholas was smelling his shirts... even though they were hanging in the closet, fresh and unworn.
There was the way Lacroix's blood was way too truthful for either of them, and the way Nicholas's was too jealous. It was laughable but true. Nicholas had a weird possessive hatred of Lacroix's friends. He seemed to think that any of them could suddenly interest Lacroix and create an 'out of the blue' relationship-you'd think that would be exactly what Nick wanted, for him to be pre-occupied with someone else, but no. Nicholas hated them with a passion. Any friend of Lacroix was no friend of his, despite his outward respectfulness.
They also didn't really talk about their mutual interest in each other, their love. It was too inappropriate for Nicholas' inherent, strongly felt cultural feelings and too 'weak' for Lacroix. And it was Lacroix's blood that sometimes revealed the wish that he could relax, take a day off, stop caring about Nick-but he couldn't turn it off. It was hard to live through.
It was too uncomfortable for either to mention. Even Lacroix didn't want to truly humiliate Nick, or vice versa. Nicholas had his own strange issues-the truth came out in blood, time and time again. He always got inexplicably nervous that Lacroix was eyeing some random little mortal to make a new child, an easier one, somebody who just went with the flow instead being a crazy stick in the mud. A dutiful child, a respectful protege, a loving
subordinate. How embarrassing was it to get worried about your stalker losing interest?
Lacroix's blood was older, too, with deeper levels of thought.
He wanted someone to love him. He wanted it like plants want the sun to rise each morning, it felt inescapable, essential, like a disorder of wanting co-dependency. At the end of all his philosophical wanderings he had realized that that was something that mattered to him. He felt it like a weight on his chest.
He had been so intensely lonely for so long that he was willing to do almost anything for Nicholas's companionship. He didn't care what it took or what kind of time it was: all that mattered was he got those hours of time with him. The reality was, he needed quantity over quality. It could be time arguing, or fighting, or sleeping together. He preferred love, but he'd happily take anger over nothing. It was so much better than being alone, sitting in silence, hating being alive, than having no one. That was a fate worse than death, and he knew, since he'd lived it.
Years had passed as he sighed at each new day, eons had skipped by while he almost couldn't find a reason to get out of bed. He did of course, and put on the appearance of a happy snake, but his heart wasn't in it. No one knew how aimless and upset he had been for most of his immortal life.
No one but Nicholas. He and Janette rarely shared blood-people usually only did it in the most committed, loving of relationships. Because you could read so much in blood, so quickly. As the minutes passed, you could learn things you didn't want to know.
Like the fact that Nicholas thought he was a little 'fixer-upper project' of Lacroix's to pass the time, that he had chosen him because of his quote goodness. As if he was a fun side interest so that Lacroix could practice intimidation, manipulation and disdain.
Most of the time Nicholas didn't think that, but a little part of him felt that way, and it was worse than a flesh wound to know it. He needed Nicholas, that was his big flaw. He was co-dependent. He couldn't bear to have their relationship trivialized, even in jest.
Of course, that didn't mean any of them acted appropriately. While their hearts were in the right place, they both acted like idiots most of the time. Just like all the other immortals, and the little mortals as well.