Fear of Love
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed. In particular: SailorEevee – Thanks for the review J In return, I give you…more! Z – I'll try my best to keep it to your standards. Valerie – Glad you like it, hope you like this one as much! Silver Horizon – I hope I don't get stuck on this one too! Haha…glad you like the idea. Sora Rau – Thank you for your review! I'm working on the website…looking for a new (banner free) server, if you hear of anything, let me know! Radical Yamadrak – Glad you like it! I'm trying to make Yamato less like Lestat though, I don't want it to be a copy of Queen of the Damned…although I did like the movie, and Lestat is just yummy J Ying-fa – Glad you like! Read more! Venursia – I agree! I'll continue J Crayon – Hope the descriptions are as good this chapter! Sora's Twin – Don't want it to be exactly like the movie…but I'm continuing! I'm continuing! Sorato - *blushes* Wow…you did that?? I'm working on the next chapter…just a little blocked. Don't worry, it's coming!
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Ni: Welcome to My Life
If there was anything that anyone found odd about that man that had situated himself in the back of the diner, no one mentioned it. His all black ensemble contrasted with his almost too pale face, but what really made him so unusual was the fact that he was wearing dark glasses and it was eleven o'clock at night.
He ordered only coffee, and then he barely touched it, stirring the dark liquid only occasionally. It was not this bitter tasting liquid that he thirsted for. Indeed, the memory of mortal drinks grew faint in his mind. At one time he had been human, eating and drinking as any flesh and blood creature would. But now there was only one drink he craved, only one taste that remained in the foremost of his mind, the sweet, saltine taste of blood.
He was the damned, one of the undead and he lived the life that most mortals only dreamed about. He was the rock star, the puppeteer, he was what the women craved and who the men wanted to be. He was Ishida Yamato, and he was bored.
Long fingernails tapped against the hard wooden surface of the table. Strange how the mortal world could be so tiring sometimes. Even killing didn't excite him anymore, perhaps because there was no longer a hunt. The fool mortals he 'hunted' we always so pleased to see him. So excited to be in the presence of the Ishida Yamato that they didn't realize they were doomed until the last moment.
No, what he wanted was a challenge, someone who would run from him, hide from him…fear him.
He climbed to his feet, black trenchcoat swirling around his equally dark jeans. Slender fingers gracefully placed a tip on the table the silver coins gleaming on the unpolished wood. The faintest smile for the girl behind the counter and he was out the door. Only the noisy jangling of the bell hanging above the exit proved his existence.
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It was cold outside but he didn't feel it. Cold was another dimly remembered feeling. The years of his existence seemed to weigh on him heavier than ever before. For a fleeting moment he wondered what it would be like to have clung to those things that made him mortal. To have cared for his father – the last of a dying generation of samurai – even has he had lain dying, to have watched his younger brother grow into the man he never could be, to have swallowed his stubborn pride and told his mother that he loved her.
But regrets were for mortals, not for those who would live forever. Forever is a long time to brood over past mistakes. The wind swept past him, blowing the trenchcoat open. A pale, white hand pulled at the heavy material, closing it again. An illusion of being cold, of being human. His blonde hair fell into those ethereal blue eyes rakishly, emphasizing the youth of his features.
To be forever eighteen, to never grow old, to never die. When his maker had offered him all this he could not refuse, he had been young and foolish, never knowing how the years could weigh a man down. He could not deny the monster he had become, even now his thirst beckoned, reminding him of his need to drink. Reminding him of what he was.
A man in an alley, the vermin of society, homeless, jobless, penniless. He would be doing the world a favor, doing the world a favor and satisfying his hunger at the same time.
His black boots splashed through the puddles in the alley as he single-mindedly moved towards his prey. He was the angel of death, and the angel of death had chosen.
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The old man rummaged through the dumpster, hoping desperately for some scraps. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but lately everything about life had seemed vague. He only knew of his hunger, ever since his wife had died, leaving him alone in this world, his life had been set in a downward spiral. No children, he'd lost his job due to his age, then his home and all his possessions, now he only had his dignity to lose.
He didn't see the wraithlike figure materialize behind him, turning only at the touch of a cold hand on his shoulder.
"MINE!" he snarled violently, a knife appearing in his dirty hand, he had been the first at this dumpster and it was his. "It's mine! I found it first!"
"I don't want your filthy midden, old man," the voice was hard as steel and yet gentle, comforting, "Tell me, how has life been treating you?"
The man squinted at him suspiciously, "What do you care?"
"It's been tough, hasn't it?" Pale fingers stroked the rough fabric of the man's jacket. His icy blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkened alley.
The first touch of real fear, "Who are you? What do you want with me?" Feebly, he attempted to step back, brandishing the knife again when he realized that he could not break the firm grip.
"Are you ever lonely?"
A single tear trickled down the old man's cheek, cutting a trail in the grime that had collected in the wrinkles, "Y-yes." He whispered softly.
"Then let me help you be free."
That voice, offering the illusion and promise of comfort, was what lured him in. He knew that death was knocking and he accepted it readily, closing milky green eyes and awaiting the inevitable.
Sharp teeth bit down on his neck, puncturing the skin and finding his bloodstream. Gentle lips on his skin, feather light, but it wasn't enough to make him ignore the pain. A soft gasp slipped past his numbed lips as he felt the life being sucked out from him. His knees buckled and he found himself being lowered slowly to the ground.
Then there was nothing but cold. He blinked, struggling to rid himself of the darkness that hovered against the edge of his vision. A pale face, with cold blue eyes and wind-tossed blonde hair floated into his line of vision, the lips moved soundlessly, blood – his blood – still staining them. Then the light faded completely.
Ishida Yamato stared at the limp body lying at his feet. Another human fallen prey to the powers of the dark. Why should he care? But, as he turned to leave, the pale light from a street light overhead revealed the twin tracks of the two bloody tears that had fallen from those ice blue eyes.