The crowd pushed forward en masse. Feet, encased in impossibly high platform heels or equally dangerous-seeming gold dusted spiky heels, threatened to topple over the painfully, slave-to-fashion, thin women and greased up men staggering eagerly towards the front of the line.
He couldn't see past the wave of glistening, sparkly ponytails, the mile high Afros and the endless blinding clothes ostensibly composed entirely of glitter. However, he could sense that the line was finally moving.
"Jesus Christ" he muttered aloud. This was fucking ridiculous. What the hell was he even doing here? He hated bad fashion. He detested celebrities. He couldn't stand the wildly, inanely popular music called 'disco'. He couldn't even abide the man who had given him the coveted-by-many ticket for tonight's grand opening. The supposed 'party to end all parties'. Great.
He stared, rather nonplussed, at the slim, good-looking kid hanging onto the arm of a woman with enormous eyes. 'He should be home in bed' he thought to himself (sounding dangerously like an old man), 'Not about to enter the lair of talentless, falsely idolized, and freaked out people whose only contribution to the world is some form of crap disguised as 'art'.'
The youngster was trying hard to look cool, casual, like he belonged. He heard the whispers starting and spreading throughout the restless throng. 'That's him." "That's Michael." "Look, he's with Liza." "He's so cute." Squeals ensued. Yuck.
He thought briefly about leaving, heading back to his studio (trendily referred to as a 'loft' by his fellow Greenwich residents). Decided he needed the distraction, the hunt, the conquest, the kill. It would be welcome entertainment, life was getting dull, routine.
It would be easy pickings tonight with this drugged up mob, maybe he should go for a celebrity, that would make some wild headlines for the opening night of this shit hole. He surveyed the scene before him. People were entering the dance club, streaming past the quiet looking man guarding the marquee entrance.
Located his rumpled invitation from deep within the skin tight, wide bottomed pants he was uncomfortably wearing. With some degree of trepidation, he passed the coveted piece of paper over and entered the bedlam that was Studio 54.
The scene inside was an assault to his senses: columns of coloured lights, a large, hanging half moon with a spoon (Nice. Obvious drug reference. Subtle), sweat-slick bodies and the constant thrumming, pulsing, throbbing beat that got inside and felt like an unrelenting heart attack.
He pushed his way through the mass of bobbing, gyrating bodies heaving together on the large dance floor. Head down, he walked full on into the thrust-out chest of one of the ugliest, yet somehow compellingly sexiest men he'd ever 'run' into.
Those lips. Wholly crap, they were incredible, begging to be kissed, sucked. "Watch where you're going, dickhead" the skinny, hyper-mobile man yelled, British accent apparent.
"Sorry" he muttered and kept plowing through the dancers. "Your last album was shit," he turned and yelled back over his shoulder. 'Childish? Perhaps. But what a prick' he thought, pushing against naked limbs with his elbows.
Finally. He'd made it to the other side. Climbed the open staircase to the balcony above. Kept going up, third floor. It was here that Andy had assured him the 'real action' would be happening.
Sure enough. The door opened to reveal two over-done-up blondes bent over a low table and several men seated throughout the small room. But his eyes were drawn instantaneously to him.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled, totally stunned, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Hello" responded the familiar figure. More than familiar. He spoke from around a pretty Asian girl straddling his lap, a total hussy who was sucking on the proffered neck. "I was wondering when you'd show up. This is totally your scene. This party is frigging awesome, huh? Say 'hi' to, um, what's your name again, sweetheart?"
The girl pulled her lips off his neck with a 'pop'. Flicking her long, dark hair, she tossed "Candy" over her shoulder and resumed her attack on the long neck. And added body grinding to her arsenal. Gross. Disgusting, in fact. How the mighty Saint had fallen.
From across the stuffy, smoky space, he slowly regarded the open-neck, clinging black silk shirt, the painted-on dress pants, the ridiculous high-heeled shoes. His hair (what the hell was going on with his hair?) had been piled high and slicked back with some foul-smelling substance. Numerous rings, besides the infamous one, adorned the long, slender fingers. A Rolex glistened on his delicate-looking wrist. And…were those actually chains slung around his neck?
The dude was totally taking the 'days of disco' way too seriously.
And. He had clearly been snorting cocaine, the hundred-dollar bill still rolled up across the mirror placed casually on the table, white powdered residue clinging to its surface.
Oh my god, he was still talking, blathering away about how it had been such a long time, and how this club was going to be huge, and how easy it was to get drugs. Blah blah blah. This was annoying. Ridiculous. Embarrassing even.
"Shut the fuck up" he yelled, advancing, fists clenched. The others in the room paused momentarily, stared at him with mild surprise, and then resumed whatever it was they'd be doing, confident that the outburst wasn't being directed at them.
Everyone that is, except the object of his derision. He started to laugh, uncontrollably, almost hysterically.
Beside himself with rage (although why he was so angry he couldn't really have said), he reached out, grabbed Candy and tossed her across the room. She landed with an 'oomph' on a very handsome young male who momentarily appeared startled but accepted her onto his lap. The girl started to suck on his neck, barely missing a beat.
Shit. He glared, hoping that looks could kill. No such luck. The laughing continued.
He spun on his heel and left the room. Made a mad dash for the exit, pushing people out of the way roughly, going a little more quickly than humanly possible. Too fucking bad. He needed to get away from him, from that ceaseless, maniacal laughter. Or he would….What? What would he do?
Rounded the corner, he came to an abrupt stop. Because there he was. Leaning casually up against the brick wall, looking, well, looking hot. Despite the disco fatigues. Figured.
"Sorry about that" the disco fiend said softly, "Drugs kinda make me.."
"Stupid?" he suggested, not moving.
"Yeah" the other snorted, "You could say that. I was just so happy to see you. I'd heard that Andy had a new 'boy toy' and I knew from the description that it was you. I was hoping you'd show up tonight."
"I'm nobody's 'boy toy'" was all he could think to say. And then, he added, "And Andy Warhol is a megalomaniac."
"Unlike yourself" retorted the other, not missing a beat.
"Ha ha, very funny. However, I wasn't the one with a hooker on his lap only moments ago, cocaine at his feet, young boys at his beck and …."
Lips crashed onto his. Arms were thrown around his body, pulling him close. 'Jesus' was his last coherent thought, 'I've missed him.'
How they made it back to his loft, he couldn't remember, he only knew the night that followed for what it was. Sheer, unadulterated pleasure and desire mixed with that other emotion. The human sentiment that kept screwing things up between them. The emotion he vowed wouldn't become an issue this time.
And it worked for a while. Two years. Two years of allowing human emotions to surface whenever they were together. Which was most of the time. Moving just outside of New York City. The best of both worlds. He ignored the rabbit and squirrel hunting and the other turned a blind eye to his overnight 'trips' back to the loft. And he was happy.
Things might have worked out indefinitely. If it wasn't for Mystic Falls. Not so much a pull for him but the younger man was drawn there. He wouldn't say where he was going, he would just disappear. But he always knew where he'd gone. Back to where it all began. The town of their birthplace. Hah.
New York. He had been left alone again in the dull, boring forest. Decided to check out the new club near his apartment. Some young Bohemian singer. Found a table at the back of the busy, noisy club. Started to drink heavily, he was, after all, trying to 'cut back' on his human consumption. He was trying to do it for him.
Sensed he was being watched. Turning his head slightly, he caught the eye of a cute, mustached youngish male who was obviously giving him the 'once over'.
'Great' he sighed to himself. 'He's gorgeous. And it's been awhile." Two years in fact. One of the 'rules', he was not to be with other men. A rule he had been happy to adhere to. After all, it was him he wanted, not the countless, meaningless men he had fucked and then killed. It was always him.
But, Christ, this one was hot. And he was hungry. Perhaps a quick dalliance, followed by an even quicker kill?
He motioned to the chair beside him and the other male stood and approached.
"Hi. I'm Robert. I haven't seen you in here before".
Patting the chair beside him, he replied, "Well. I thought this place had just opened. So, I haven't been in here before." As Robert sat down, he added "And you have to come up with a better opening line than that. Too cliché. It's only a step up from 'Come here often?'"
Robert chuckled. "Yeah. I get nervous. Approaching guys is still new to me. Especially when they are as good-looking as you. I never know what to say."
"Start with something simple. Like, 'Hi. I'm Robert. You're hot. I want to fuck you.' Or, 'I want you to fuck me.' Whichever way it goes for you. But in this scenario," he pointed at himself, "It better be the second one, because I don't get fucked. Ever."
Robert was looking a little overwhelmed. "I've never actually…" his voice trailed off.
"Oh shit. A virgin. Sorry buddy. That's a little too much work for me. I'm looking for 'down and dirty'. So, thanks for the offer but I'm not interested in cherry-busting."
The other man looked crestfallen. "I'd have been OK with anything, it's just so hard to meet people, you know?"
"So you'd settle for a blow job from a stranger? You can do better than that. You're good looking, seem intelligent enough. It can't be impossible to meet nice guys. Now run along and leave me alone."
"Please?" He heard the pleading in the voice, the desperation. "I really want to be with you, you're perfect." Well, flattery was his Achilles heel. And the night was wearing on.
"Let's go then. My place, it's near here."
The young man stood still, staring around the loft. "This is cool. You have a great place."
"Come here." He wasn't about to waste time exchanging pleasantries. He kissed the other man gently. Placed a hand on the visible bulge straining the jean's fabric. "Nice. Now let me see what I'm getting."
'Robert' started to blush but popped the button and slowly undid the zipper. Shifting a little, he lowered his pants until they were resting on his hips. Pulled out the thick, swollen cock, pre-cum already glistening on its head.
"Very nice indeed." He nodded with approval. "Let me help you with that." And dropped to his knees. Pulled down the jeans until they were pooled around the other man's ankles.
Taking in as much as he could, he began licking and sucking as he reached around and grabbed onto the now-bare ass. 'Robert' began to moan, simultaneously thrusting his hips forward and back, face fucking him. Wow. Didn't feel like the guy was so new to this. He could feel his own erection responding, throbbing.
He looked up into the face above him. Green eyes stared back, the expression inscrutable. Suddenly he was hit with an extreme wave of déjà vu. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. Where had he seen them before?
And at that precise moment, as the cum began to spurt into his awaiting mouth, and as he struggled to comprehend what was going on, he realized they weren't alone.
His brother was standing at the open door behind him. Watching.