Coda
Pairing: Michael/David
Rating: R/15 at the moment!
Summary and disclaimer: Sorry about some of the screwy formatting on margins on this one-I can't quite get it sorted out! The Lost Boys will always be owned by Warner Bros and Joel Schumacher and no-one could have played David like Kiefer. This is a continuation of the movie, based on the popular theory that horns are not the same as wood. It plays with the idea that David and Michael were lovers during the movie and it's not very flattering about Star (I promise to even the score with a Star/Michael fic at some point!!). Much angst, some allusions to sex and very little plot-so what's new?!
The waning sun dipped lower on the darkening horizon. Michael had left the house a few hours ago, unable to cope with any more of his mother's enforcedly cheerful tidying up. As if it really mattered. The house, to all intents and purposes, was beyond repair. The whole family had spent the previous night (what was left of it) in the Santa Carla Motel, and they had returned in the cold light of day to the battered heap of wood and rubble that was Grandpa's house. It was no use. The house was ruined. It was now only a matter of time before his mother gave up and they would have to formulate a plan B for their lives. The bodies of the vampires were gone, no one knew where. It was as if they'd turned to dust and scattered themselves in some perverse memorial across the landscape. Even his body had gone. The strange thing was, where there were small piles of grey dust as markers for where the other Lost Boys had died, there was no such evidence for David. Nothing at all remained to show the vampire had even existed.
Michael blinked at the memory of him. Knowing he was gone did not make dealing with the memory any easier. He could still hear his voice; still feel the touch of his hands during his initiation; still smell the musky, aroused scent of vampire attraction. Michael may well have returned to being mortal, but he was finding it difficult to embrace his human side as easily as he had the vampire life.
"David…" he whispered, and just as quietly the warm breeze took his words away. He shivered, in spite of the humidity. His ears strained for the answering call, the seductive purr of his vampire lover; but the sound was absent from the breeze that caressed the backs of his arms and the nape of his neck. What he wouldn't give to hear that rasping, scratching voice, as textured as antique silk. David was gone; he had to accept that and move on. And yet…Michael still felt his presence, lingering like the scent of expensive aftershave on a ruffled pillow. It was as if the town of Santa Carla hadn't quite purged herself of the violent delights of David, childe of Max and sire of Michael and the other Boys. His essence still pervaded the night like some obscene perfume; it was as if Santa Carla, in her lust for pain and destruction, craved David just as Michael did.
Michael blinked away the sudden tears that threatened to spill from his tired eyes. He knew this wanting, this yearning was all wrong. He had regained his mortality when Max and the Boys had been vanquished; he should be grateful for that. He tried, for a moment, to cling on to the notion that his humanity was a gift, that his resurrection into the world of sunlight and the living was a blessing that he neither deserved nor had a right to expect. But it wasn't enough to keep the anguished moan from escaping his lips. He didn't want his second chance in the land of the living. He only wanted the delicious, pleasurable pain of David's cool body; and the promise of an eternity of sensual delights in the realm of the undead.
"Come back to me," Michael whispered brokenly. "David, I'm so sorry…Please, come back," He bowed his head to hide his tears, knowing that he should return to Star and his family and try to forget his obsession. In spite of that knowledge, for just one moment, he gave in to the grief that cut him to shreds and he felt the pain, and the memory of David wash over him. The way David had, on the night he was initiated, slung his arm around him by the railway bridge. The sensation of David's breath on his face, far too close to his lips, when he'd pulled him closer and then teased him with his own immortality by jumping from the bridge. The gestures could have been interpreted as merely the horseplay of two young men, as a metaphor for the towel-slapping locker room jollity of teammates, but Michael had felt the jolt in his groin when David had pulled him close. He knew then that this was no jocular teasing. Indeed, it had led to an encounter that had shocked Michael in its unfamiliarity, but awakened a part of him that he hadn't known existed.
His thoughts drifted to the all-too-brief night that he had spent with David in the antique four-poster bed in the subterranean hotel, the memory mocking his conscious mind, reminding him bitterly of what he had lost. He had, if the truth were acknowledged, spent two nights in the same bed, but the first encounter was by far the more memorable. The second, with Star, had been a vain attempt to deny what he felt, both for David and for his newly awakened bloodlust; a tame coupling that did little to relieve either sensation. In contrast, every part of his body remembered David's touch; the silken caress of the vampire's long hair against his own bare skin; the throbbing arousal that had awoken inside him from the moment their lips touched; the trembling ecstasy of orgasm at David's hands. He was branded by the encounter, and the merest memory of it seemed to evoke the physical sensations, the pain of David's fingernails digging into his shoulders, the voluptuous agony of David's violation of his body and the heated kisses that felt so at odds with the coolness of the vampire's flesh. He had walked the path between life and unlife that night, and it had shown him which was more preferable.
Of course, Michael reflected, his duty had been to the living; to his mother, his brother and his grandfather. The moral choice had to be made, and he had sworn allegiance to the mortals in his life. The immortals, all of them, had to be eradicated, whatever the physical and emotional cost. Bitterly he reflected on that choice. His humanity decreed that he had made the right decision. He had thrown himself in with the side that believed, as the Froggs had put it, in "Truth, Justice and the American Way." His heart, on the other hand, mourned the decision intensely. The charade of his fight with David, when he had felt the vampire trembling with rage and desire was, to his mind, unforgivable. As David lay dying, impaled on one of his grandfather's less ambitious taxidermy projects, it had taken all of Michael's self control to stop himself from screaming in pain and fury. Seeing the light dying from David's eyes had been enough for Michael to want to reject his humanity for good. In the moments that followed, and during his return to mortality when that bastard Max had rotted away, Michael's bereavement began.
Overwhelmed by his own memories, it seemed hours later when Michael raised his head once more. Velvet night had fallen now, and the air was cooler. Michael shivered and slowly stood from the large rock where he had been seated. Knowing he could delay his return to the family no longer, he began to walk slowly back down the beach. He kept his eyes fixed on the liquid darkness of the sea as he drew closer to the light and life of the fairground. The vampire strength and bloodlust had left Michael the moment that Max's unlife had been ended, but the heightened awareness of people around him had remained, and Michael couldn't deal with the amount of heaving humanity that had massed at the fair. He stopped once more by the water's edge and looked back to where he had been. A movement caught his eye, a darker shade of black in the darkness of the late evening. Someone, or something, was crouched by the very rocks where he had spent the past few hours. Blinking, Michael tried to clear his vision. He knew it was probably an animal, or one of the tramps that frequently slept on the beach, cushioned somewhat by the still warm sand, but he just wanted to be sure. He took a step closer to the rocks, and as he did so, he perceived what his tired mind told him was a wisp of white-blond hair.
"No," Michael whispered. "It's not you. It can't be you…" He shivered, but this time it wasn't the cool evening air that was to blame. "David…" he murmured, desperately hoping, the pain of anticipation running him through. And then, the answer came.
"Michael…"
It was faint, barely audible, but Michael knew he'd have heard that voice above a hurricane. It was the same voice that had seduced him with the promise of an immortal life and the vows of a sensual union.
"Michael…"
Rushing forwards, still unable to comprehend the whisper of his name on the late night air, Michael sprinted back to the rocks, back to the comfortable darkness.
"Michael…"
There, slumped awkwardly against the large stones, was the person that Michael had craved, the lover whose loss he felt so keenly. Beloved. Sire. David.