Truth and Consequences

by Soledad

A "Pathways in the Dark" story

Part 18 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Acceptance".

For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.

Rating: Adults only, please, for explicit m/m sex and blood play.

Author's note: Horatio Ballard and his progeny are canon characters – I've just twisted them a bit, so that they'd match my story. I'm sure everyone recognized the borrowed characters from "The Guardian".

Summary: After twenty years, Michael finally gets what he's always wanted – but things are never as simple as they seem. In the meantime, back in Pittsburgh, Ted's fate is being decided.

Michael arrived to the LA airport at 19.35, but at this time of the year there was still bright sunshine – aside from the usual smog covering the town, of course. He'd just spent three weeks in Pittsburgh, witnessing the birth of Jenny Rebecca, Melanie's daughter. His daughter. He'd spent a lot of time in his store, enjoying the reunion with his most faithful customers. Signed a lot of Rage comics and merchandise articles. Visited some old friends.

He'd even reached some sort of truce with his mother, thanks to Carl Horvath, although Debbie still wasn't quite willing to forget – or forgive – everything that had been said on Ben's death watch. Unsurprisingly, Lindsay and Melanie had been on Debbie's side. They still couldn't forgive Brian for taking Michael with him to LA, instead of trying his utmost to get Justin back. But at least there hadn't been any screaming and name-calling this time when Michael left again.

The way back to LA had been long and boring without Emmett's witty presence. Michael only hoped that one day he'd be told what his friends were actually doing in LA when he wasn't with them. Being left out like that distressed him greatly, especially as he didn't have anyone else to turn to for comfort and company.

He'd have tried to talk Ted into spending his holiday in LA. But for the first time in a long while, Ted seemed so happy with his new best friend that Michael didn't want to separate them, not even for a short period. With Ted's track record, the whole thing might not last long anyway. At least Horatio Ballard, a handsome, well-educated and successful businessman in his late forties, was a good match for Ted, both in age and interests.

Michael couldn't know, of course, that Ted's becoming fast friends with Ballard had been anything but an accident. In fact, it had been initiated by Edward Vignes, in order to extend the Camarilla's influence to Pittsburgh. Horatio Ballard was an 8th generation Ventrue, some hundred and seventy years old, and he had some brood siblings and a grand-Childe in LA. The latter one, David Geduld, was a powerful Anarch, but on friendly terms with the Camarilla and didn't mind to help building contacts with his grand-Sire.

As the oldest, most influential Ventrue in Pittsburgh, Horatio Ballard could count on becoming the Clan Primogen there, should the town's undead population ever grow large enough to require a Prince. As Clan Ventrue usually was the backbone of the Camarilla, Ballard needed to build a brood in Pittsburgh first, though. Edward Vignes had suggested Ted as the first candidate, as the LA faction wanted people who'd be loyal to Brian. They had decades to plan this and build their base slowly, before sending Brian home to take over.

But Michael didn't know this, of course – neither did Brian yet, for that matter – so he was just happy that Ted had finally found someone who seemed to really value him. He only hoped that this time Ted wouldn't screw it with something stupid.

Leaving the airport, Michael headed for the parking lot. Before leaving for LA, Emmett had promised to bring his car back in time, so that he wouldn't need to take a taxi. But what he saw instead of his own compact navy-blue Metro was Brian's Corvette – and Brian himself, leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette… and smiling.

Spotting Michael, he threw away his cigarette and came to great him in the way he'd always done: with a strange mix of gentleness and arrogance.

"Hello Mikey," he said. "About fucking time you came back."

"Look who's talking," Michael replied snappishly. "Has your master let you off the leash for today or what?"

"Yeah," Brian said with a slow grin. "I'm my own man again. And you're a father. So, feel like celebrating?"

"Not really," Michael answered. "I'm jet-lagged and bored and I don't even know where I live right now. Emmett was supposed to leave me the car with address, key and a route description here."

"I've persuaded him to leave me here instead," Brian said. He leaned forward and touched foreheads with Michael. "C'mon, Mikey, I'll drive you home."

The long-missed, familiar gesture began to crumble Michael's best intentions to keep Brian at arm's length for a while. But he wasn't going to give in that easily again.

"My home," he clarified. "Not yours and Alain's."

Brian nodded. "If that's what you want, yeah."

"Would I have said it otherwise?" Michael snapped, more than a little irritated. "Now, are we gonna leave or do I have to call Emmett first and a taxi second?"

"Don't bite my head off," Brian said defensively, his joy visibly dimmed. But Michael couldn't care less.

"Brian, I'm tired," he said testily. "I've been fighting with Ma and the lezzies all the time, and honestly, I'm in no mood for your mind games. I want to go home, have a bath and go to bed. Can we just do that?"

"Sure," Brian shrugged and opened the car on the passenger's side. "Get in, I'll drive."

The new place was every bit as gorgeous as Emmett had described it through the phone. It wasn't exactly in the Marina, but close enough to see the beach from the large balcony, without being bothered by the noise. The spacious living room offered enough room for a dozen people to have a party, while the generous bedrooms had windows to the North – an important factor for undead residents, although Michael still had a long way to go before realizing the reason. The bathroom had a tube with Jacuzzi and a separate shower cabin. Only the kitchen was way too small, separated from the living room by a tall counter – which was the reason why they had gotten the place for such a relatively low rent. But Michael didn't really mind. Cooking wasn't one of his personal hobbies anyway.

The vampire-friendly aspects of the flat were completely lost on him, of course – although Brian hoped the day when he'd learn to appreciate it, will come, in the not too far future – but he did find it cosy and homely, especially his own bedroom. His belongings had been transferred here from Alain's house, and arranged the same way they used to be. Including the large cardboard image of Captain Astro in full fly, right above the bed, and the action figures on a shelf.

He liked it. It was as if he'd regained a part of his childhood, after having to accommodate to partners with a lot more snobbish tastes. Most people would probably have said "refined", but Michael was not in a particularly forgiving state of mind. Snobbery was snobbery, and both David and Ben had been fucking snobs. In their own way, they both had looked down at him – for not having gone to college, for his interest for comic books, for his simple tastes in food, clothes and movies… for a number of other reasons he didn't feel up to face right now. Thy both said they loved him, but in the end, they just wanted to fuck him. And to possess him, so that they could mould him according to their own taste.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mikey?" Brian's quiet voice awoke him from his brooding. He shook his head.

"Nothing terribly interesting."

Brian's face darkened for a moment. Was it anger? Or sorrow? It was hard to tell, and Michael didn't want to guess. He didn't want to put up with Brian's shit any longer.

"Are you still mad at me?" Brian asked. "I told you how sorry I was that the recent weeks weren't exactly what you might have hoped for, but I really didn't have much room to make any move under the given circumstances. I do have that freedom now, though." He waited for a moment; then, as Michael didn't answer, he added with a certain urgency. "Mikey, talk to me! What is it that you want?"

In that unexpected moment of perfect clarity, Michael realized his chance – and, for the first time in his life, he actually seized it.

"I don't want that much," he replied with a brittle smile. "Just what every other man in Pittsburgh can have… or has already had. To be fucked by the great Brian Kinney."

The bluntness of his answer shocked Brian for a moment. Granted, there had always been a certain tension between them, but they never spoke about it. Not with such brutal honesty.

"Mikey, we've discussed this before," he said. "You've always wanted more than I'd ever be able to give."

"No," Michael said. "We haven't discussed it. You have discussed, it, decided that it was a bad idea, and declared that we won't do it. You wanted to keep me on your beck and call, because that's what friends are for, in your opinion. You never asked me what I wanted."

"That's not true, Mikey," Brian protested, more than a little hurt. "I've offered you, more than once…"

"Yeah, whenever you were stone drunk, high like a kite, or wanted to hurt me," Michael interrupted. "It was never genuine, and you know that."

"You're wrong," Brian said quietly. "It was always genuine. I just never had the courage to speak up, unless I was stone drunk or high like a kite."

"Then prove it!" Michael demanded.

"Now?" Brian asked in surprise. "Just like that? Out of the blue?"

"That's how you always do it, isn't it?" Michael riposted. "And you're neither drunk nor high right now. I want you now… and if you're not willing to give me at least as much as you were always eager to give any trick in The Pitts, you can just fuck off my life. I'll not be denied any longer, Bri. This game has gone on for too long already."

Brian thought for a moment, but he didn't really have many choices. Michael had taken over the ruling of the game (which, in itself, was amazing enough), and he had to adapt… or lose his friend (and long-time lust object) for good. Michael was not joking, that much was very clear.

"All right, Mikey," he said. "Have it your way. But don't blame me if the results don't meet your expectations. I'm what I am… nothing less, nothing more."

"And I am old enough to make my own mistakes and have my own regrets," Michael replied. "Try not to disappoint me. You're Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake – that should be enough for everyone."

At the same time, back in Pittsburgh, Horatio Ballard and his undead associates were discussing Clan politics. Meant were his Brood siblings, Joe Peterson and Lorraine Matthews, his youngest Childe, Nick Falin, the representative of the local Brujah Alwin Masterson, who happened to be Nick's boss at Legal Services, and Jonas Mooney, a Toreador, who worked for Falin & Falin, the law firm of Nick's father.

Save from Masterson, who was Anarch to the bones, all welcomed he possibility of Camarilla presence in the town that had been ignored by both sides due to the way too minor Kindred presence. Since even Masterson preferred the Camarilla to the Sabbat, however, he, too, promised his tentative cooperation.

No one of them had any objection against the person of Brian Kinney as the prospective Prince of the City. The wonderfully ruthless and courageous coup against Stockwell clearly showed Kinney's potential, and his financial success was a proof that he would, one day, become a strong leader for the undead community – given the right tutelage.

"He is still very young," Ballard said, "in both mortal and Kindred terms. He has much to learn about how both societies work. But he has time. He won't be able to return for decades yet; not until most of those who knew him as a young men have died."

"Considering the fact that that means the entire male population of Pittsburgh, that can take decades," the Brujah commented cynically.

"He will need those decades, in order to grow in knowledge and strength," Lorraine replied. "Not even a city with such an small Kindred population would accept a fledgling Prince. If I understand Horatio correctly, it will be our job to prepare the city for the taking. Is that right?"

Ballard nodded. "I'll see if I can cajole our surviving Brood sibs to join us. We need more of our kind here."

"Somehow I doubt that the Jacksons would be willing to leave LA for our sake," Lorraine said. "They've established themselves as one of the lead street gangs – Pittsburgh would be a number too small for them."

"Besides, they're Anarch," Joe Peterson pointed out. "We're supposed to strengthen the Camarilla here. What about Tommy Hinds, though? He still lives in the States, and he has spent nearly a century in the Dark already. We could use him."

"I thought we were supposed to make new Childer," the Brujah said with a frown.

"That's correct," Ballard replied, "but we can't have a city filled with fledglings alone. We need at least a few elders, to establish a proper hierarchy."

"What about this Schmidt character the LA crowd wants you to Embrace?" Nick asked. His Sire sighed.

"He is… well, pitiful would be the right word. I just hope our Blood will help him to grow a backbone; otherwise, I might be tempted to kill him as a total failure. He'll need a lot of training to be of any use, and I probably won't get around Blood Binding him."

"Why do they want to keep him if he's such a loser?" the Brujah asked in bewilderment.

"Oh, he's very creative and reliable in his day job," Ballard answered. "They need him for financial reasons. Besides, they seem to like him, despite his less tan endearing qualities. I just wish they'd asked someone else to Embrace him."

"You don't have to do it, you know," the Brujah reminded him. Ballard sighed.

"Unfortunately, I do. Cooperating with these people means that a lot of very old money will be infused into my business. Even if we mostly deal with the Camarilla in LA? They are in association with such powerful Anarchs as Louis Fortier, who, as I'm sure you know, practically owns the Bank of Lyon. Or the Viscontis, who own several banks in Italy. All they want from me is to make a completely inadequate Childe – well, inadequate, unless we want to take over the porn industry."

Nick Falin laughed, displaying his considerable charms that he usually hid behind his troubled mien.

"Oh, I remember!" he said. "Was he not the owner of that low-style gay porn site, what was it called? same one," Ballard nodded glumly. "I'm all for making money, but I'm a monster of the old school; I like to keep up a certain standard."

"Well, at least he likes opera, too," Nick replied blithely. "He never misses a premiere, it's said. And he's member of various libraries and book clubs. He can't be so bad."

"Trust me: he is," Ballard replied. "I'll have to lead him with an iron fist if I want him to survive among us. And frankly, I don't feel inclined to play Leather Daddy. It's not my style."

"I can help you out with that," Petersen, a large, balding Viking type in his late thirties, offered with a feral grin. Ballard rolled his eyes.

"Don't temp me, Joe! It's hard enough as it is," he said.

"I don't understand why would they not want to bring over Kinney's assistant instead," Nick said. "That Cynthia whatshername. She's pretty enough, smart enough for two, and as tough as nails. She would make an excellent Ventrue."

"Perhaps they didn't think beyond the small circle of Kinney's personal friends," Lorraine shrugged. "Or perhaps they haven't even heard of her. But we don't have to wait for a wink from LA, do we? As long as the city doesn't have a Prince, we can Embrace whomever we damn will."

Ballard shook his head. "I can't. Not right now. I've just made Nick a year ago, and have to concentrate on this Schmidt, which is painful enough. He tries to get into my pants all the time, and I won't be able to feed him this platonic friendship thing for too long."

"Then Embrace him now," the Brujah suggested bluntly. "Drain him, and when he's almost dead, offer him unlife. Then put him under a Blood Bond at once; that way, he'll be forced to obey you, no matter what. Isn't that the Ventrue way?"

"Not the Camarilla way, I'm afraid," Ballard sighed.

"If you weren't the only male vampire on this planet who's not into guys, it could make things so much easier," Peterson grinned. "You cold just fuck him into oblivion, and he'd bare his throat for you happily."

"I can't help it if it's not in my nature," Ballard declared, a bit annoyed. "You know I'm an exception among our kind. If I had it in me, the Change would have brought if forth. It has not. So, you can just accept that I'm not wired that way and leave me alone with my old-fashioned ways."

"You can give him to Joe, once you've Embraced him," Lorraine suggested. "He'd train him properly… in everything."

"No doubt," Ballard replied dryly. Peterson rolled his eyes.

"Oh, c'mon, Horatio, you know I won't harm him. And I'd make a much better regnant than you could ever hope to become."

"That's true," Ballard admitted. "Let me think about it. In the meantime, Lorraine's suggestion concerning this Cynthia does have its merits," he looked at his Childe. "I make her your project, Nick. Learn everything about her. Pursue her. Seduce her. When she's ready, I'll step in and Embrace her."

Nick Falin nodded. Unlike in his mortal days, the thought to offer to do the task himself didn't even occur to him. He was still a fledgling, a baby in vampire terms, far from being fit to make a Childe. His Sire was a hundred and eighty; it was the privilege of the elders to make Childer.

"Lorraine should befriend her first," h said. "We then can work on her in tandem, to bring her down from the zero calories diet and from overdoing the cosmetics. In a year or so, she could become a natural beauty again, who looks like a woman, instead of a starved rat. It would do her a wealth of good."

Ballard nodded in agreement. He was a gentleman of the early 19th century, and as such, he preferred women in their more… natural state. It surprised him a bit that Nick would share his preferences, though.

"Very well, then," he said, "let's do it. But what about the other Clans in the city? How well are they represented?"

"All we have are a handful of Anarchs," the Brujah replied.

"Clan Toreador isn't much better off," Jonas Mooney added. "Although we do have a few Camarilla types in the upper class; mostly in the club scene and in entertainment."

"There is a band of City Gangrel near the Liberty Avenue," the Brujah continued, "led by a certain Cody Bell. They've been Embraced by some unknown Anarch a few years ago, and then abandoned, as it is custom with the Gangrel."

"Cody Bell?" Nick frowned. "You mean the little idiot who founded the 'Pink Posse', supposedly to keep the queers of the Liberty Avenue safe?"

"Afraid so," the Brujah replied. "We'll have to deal with them, sooner or later. They're an instabilizing factor; things can get out of hand quickly around them. And that's why we'll need someone within the police."

"I hope nobody suggests Embracing Stockwell!" Lorraine shuddered.

Masterman shook his shaggy head. "Nah, we need someone who's more… low-key. A detective, perhaps. Or a uniformed cop in the right position."

"That would be doable," Ballard said thoughtfully. "Lawrence has awakened from his torpor a few days ago. We can fake the right sort of papers and plant him in the police, as nobody knows him in town."

"Lawrence?" Lorraine repeated in shock. The natural grandson – and favourite Childe – of Horatio Ballard was thought to be killed in 1993, in the fight for Chicago, which the Camarilla had lost, big time. "I thought he was dead."

"So did I," Ballard replied. "Seems we were both mistaken. He apparently lay in torpor in the Kindred clinic in LA all these years, and has just regained consciousness. He'll come here as soon as he's strong enough to travel."

"That's unexpected good news," Peterson said. "Lawrence has always been a strong and reliable one. But how do you intend to fake the necessary papers? Unfortunately, we don't have any Nosferatu in town to do the deed."

"Our… associates in LA are going to lay the paper trail," Ballard explained. "Joaquin Murietta will create a suitable background within the LAPD, and Four-Eyes, the Nosferatu scholar, will do the rest."

"That's all well and nice for you," the Brujah said, "but what about the other Clans in town. Granted, we are practically Anarch, but you'll need us if you want to keep the Gangrel vermin under control. What about strengthening the Toreador and the Brujah presence, too?"

"That will be necessary," Ballard agreed. "I would suggest, though, that in the absence of a Prince, we discuss potential candidates among ourselves for a while. We must present a united front, after all."

The Toreador agreed. Masterman mulled it over for a moment, then nodded.

"If it's mutual, then I can live with it," he declared.

"Good," Ballard said. "I'll inform Edward Vignes that things are on their way. The details only concern us."

Michael awoke in the middle of the night and felt… different, although he could not guess why. The pleasant soreness after a long, hard fuck – well, more like an entire series of long, hard fucks – was nothing new. After all, one of Ben's personal quirks had been to prove his physical fitness by sex marathons, and he had been a big boy… in all departments.

The pliant weight of Brian pressed against him was nothing new, either. They had slept in the same bed countless times, usually when Brian had been terribly upset by that abusive bastard of a father and needed comfort desperately. Granted, they usually hadn't slept together naked. But that mere fact would not make Michael nervous. He'd asked for it, hadn't he? Asked? He'd demanded, blackmailed, threatened, had fucking fought for the chance to finally get naked with Brian, after all those years of waiting and yearning.

And, after thirty years, he'd actually got what he'd always longed for. And it had been better than he could have imagined. He was sure that he still had that 'fucked by an angel' expression on his face, and it wouldn't have surprised him if he found out that he was actually glowing in the dark.

Brian wasn't a legend for nothing. He rose (heh, heh!) to the challenge to make his reputation a well-deserved one, and it had been obvious that he was using all his considerable skills to ensnarl Michael. Michael snorted to himself. As if it would be necessary! He readily admitted that after twenty-some years, he was sold and conquered anew.

So, what was wrong?

With infinite care, he rolled Brian onto his back, wondering briefly why he would be a little cool to the touch. He had decades-long practice in handling a sleeping Brian without waking him up. The pliant body rolled under his hand easily, and Michael indulged in the pleasure of admiring the beauty of his sleeping best friend for a few moments. It was a sight to behold indeed… but something was different.

Michael's eyes wandered from Brian's curiously still face to the smooth expanse of his chest… and he froze. Now he realized what had been wrong all the time.

Brian was not breathing!

TBC