I finally updated this story. I am so sorry for the long wait! I know, I know, I'm the worst updater in the world. Well, I hope this chapter is good enough to make up for the horribly long wait. I will try to get more done this summer. Please leave me reviews! It makes me more motivated to write when I know people like my work.

Thank you very much to: Yami Kitsune1, Megami Riley (yes, I saw both of those movies), Zilent1 (any review is good in my bookJ), FallenPhoenix721, Totchi, Akurei Hikari (yeah, that's always how I've written Nagi, I don't know why), Reliak (love you, babe), Kiarene, Bloodrose 'Valentine' Foxxstar, Fate-sama (if you don't like Crawford, you might not like this chapter; sorry), storie2tell (vampiric blood; no, just a ghoul; and Crawford didn't want Nagi to let any light into their coffins), Knives (thanks), Funeral-Angel, KitsuneNekoTigi, siryu (can't write lemons in here, or my account will be deleted again; sorry, I would if I could; and I don't think there will be any threesomes in this either at this point), and Sorceress of Wind for your reviews! They make me happy! I promise I will personally thank you next chapter if you review this one.

By the way, since this was a question, I will quickly explain about Nagi drinking Schuldig's blood in chapter 2. Basing the idea off of Vampire: the Masquerade, if a human drinks the blood of a vampire, they become a ghoul. A ghoul looks and acts just like a normal person; they are just able to sense that someone else is a vampire more easily, and they are more inclined to follow the bidding of the vampire they drank from. It is also extremely pleasurable because the blood is so potent. Schu did it to pleasure Nagi. It first tasted like blood because Nagi was not used to the sensation, but once the initial surprise wore off, the potency came into effect. I hope this clears up any confusion on that part. These vampires here don't follow any one particular type of vampire; I'm stealing from Anne Rice, White Wolf, and other vampire things as well as making some of it up on my own. If something doesn't make sense as to why it is, please do write me, and I will do my best to give you an answer.

Warnings: yaoi, angst, violence, language, shota, lime, death of non-main characters

Rating: R for language, adult themes, and violence

Pairings: Schuldig x Nagi, Crawford x Schuldig, OC x Crawford

… centered means change in view but not time

means time or scene change

'Italics' mean thought

Nights turned into weeks, and the weeks quickly turned into months. Every night was filled with pleasure. Shopping, sex, blood, love. It all melded into one and another until every night was filled with a bliss unequalled by anything else. And Nagi, for the first time in his long fourteen years, was happy.

"You can do whatever you want during the day, but your nights are mine," Schuldig told him, stroking his silk-fine, dark hair. "You're my baby now, and I want to spend time with you." Their nights were filled with the heat of coursing blood, a small, delicate body curled against a larger, firmer one, petal-soft lips on colder, harder ones… All of this mixed together in a sensuality unparalleled.

But even as their own relationship heated up, Nagi's relationship with Crawford seemed to grow colder by the day. Crawford barely spoke five words to him a night. Nagi tried to talk to him, but Crawford always seemed to find something else to do or somewhere else to go to avoid him. Sometimes Nagi couldn't even find him because Crawford had had a vision of him coming and vanished from the house. Finally, unable to find any way to approach the stoic American, Nagi turned to Schuldig to play mediator.

"Good evening, Sunshine," Schuldig told Crawford one night just after sunset as Crawford sat behind his desk in his office. Crawford glanced up in annoyance at the flame-haired man in the doorway who grinned at him wickedly.

"What do you want, Schuldig?"

"Nagi's been getting this feeling you don't like him," Schu said, looking down at his nails. "I don't know where he got that idea…" he added, not bothering to hide the sarcasm that dripped from his lips easy as blood.

"He is your charge. You are responsible for him."

"That doesn't mean you can't be nice to him."

"Go play with your toy, Schuldig. Play with your doll until you break it."

"Break it? What are you talking about?"

Crawford remained silent, amber eyes glaring slightly.

"Tell me!" Schuldig demanded, striding forward and slamming his hands down on the desk sharply, nearly breaking it in half with amazing vampire strength.

"No." Crawford's voice was exceptionally calm.

"Fuck you, Brad! Why do you always have to have a stick up your ass?"

"You're the one who put it there, Schuldig, so I suggest you stop whining about it. Now, you might want to leave, because your little kitten is on his way up."

Schuldig glared at him before turning on his heel and striding for the door.

It took Nagi nearly three months to finally one night find Crawford in his office while Schuldig was gone out hunting.

Crawford was at his desk, typing something on his computer, his glasses tucked into his pocket. Computers really were amazing creations. Back when he was created, he would have never thought of even a telephone, but computers and Internet… It was simply astounding.

"Crawford?" came a soft, tenor voice from the door. Nagi… What did that boy want now?

"Nani?" Crawford questioned, not even bothering to look up from his computer screen.

"I… I want to talk to you."

"About what?" Crawford asked absently.

"Well… About… About me."

"Shouldn't you talk to Schuldig? He's your lover." Crawford was surprised to hear bitterness in his voice.

"He's not here, and he wouldn't know the answer."

"Oh. Well… Come in." He hated playing parent. He was aware Nagi left the safety of the doorway and was at his side. He typed a moment longer, then turned towards the boy. He was met by empty air. What-? Oh. Nagi had knelt down by his chair, his head bowed submissively. What the hell?

"Stand up," Crawford said with an angry sigh.

Nagi complied, getting quickly to his feet, but he would not meet Crawford's face. Crawford sighed and rubbed his eyes in another human gesture. "What is it, Nagi?"

"…Why do you hate me?"

"What?" he asked in surprise.

"Why do you hate me?" Nagi said again, his voice sounding a bit bolder now.

"I don't hate you."

"Yes you do." Nagi's voice was soft.

"No, I don't. Why do you say that?"

"Because… you don't ever talk to me or do anything with me or… or drink from me."

"You're not mine," Crawford reminded him logically. "I have no right to you."

"You took me before," Nagi said back, a bit angrily.

"I saw no reason to keep you. You were nothing more than a common whore then."

The words prickled against his skin, but Nagi pushed them away. Nothing he hadn't heard before. "You took me because I was a common whore?"

"I took you because I could."

"What about now?"

"Now? You are no longer a common whore. You have learned from Schuldig and become worthy of your position here."

Nagi sighed softly and looked away. "Is that all you see me as? Schuldig's lover, formerly a street whore?"

"Yes."

The words stung like saltwater on what was obviously a festering wound, and Nagi found for a moment that he had no words. How could Crawford feel so negative towards him just because Schuldig was the one who had found him and taken him away from his hell of a life? "Crawford, please…"

"This conversation is over." Crawford swung his chair around back to his computer without further comment.

"No!" Nagi snapped before he could stop himself. "You listen to me!"

Crawford seemed to freeze for a moment before he turned back to Nagi with the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. "Well, well. You have a backbone after all."

Nagi felt his lower lip tremble just a bit at the insult-turned-compliment. "If you don't care for my presence, just tell me, please, and I'll leave you alone. But if this is merely because Schuldig is my lover, I don't see why you hate me."

"It's… complicated," Crawford replied slowly. "I'll tell you some other time."

"Why not now?"

"Because Schuldig is about to come to find you."

"Crawford, please don't hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"And please don't pretend like I don't exist."

"Why not?"

"Because… I want to know that I am part of this family even if I am not a vampire."

"Family?" Crawford almost choked laughing on the word. "Family? You think that is what this is?"

"It's the only family I've ever known," Nagi replied softly but firmly. "I want it to be a family."

"It will not be a family, Nagi. Never."

"Maybe not in the most literal sense, no… But… If you've ever had a family, Crawford, you know how wonderful it is to be around them. To have someone you can love."

Coffee-amber eyes seemed to cloud over in a bizarre mixture of anger and hurt. "Now we are finished."

"What did I say?"

"Get out. Now."

"But-."

"Now!"

Nagi turned and fled from the room, almost running straight into Schuldig. The vampire took the connection without so much as a flinch, catching him up in deceptively strong arms. "Where's the fire, Na-chan?"

Nagi buried his face in Schuldig's jacket. "Crawford is such a bastard."

"Nothing new to me, gorgeous. What happened?"

"I said I wanted us to be a family, and he threw me out."

Schuldig stroked his hair gently. "Shh… I understand, babe. I do. Hey, come on with me, and I'll make you forget all that."

Nagi smiled softly and nodded weakly against his chest. "All right…"

"How does book shopping grab you?"

"Mmm, grabs me like this." Nagi's hand snaked down to squeeze at the vampire's crotch naughtily.

"You little imp," Schuldig scolded, kissing him on the forehead. "All right, a quick screw before we go."

The battle raged on. Everywhere there seemed to be a solid wall of red coats blocking any escape. The tiny group of ragged, American soldiers was huddled together, guns at the ready, bayonets fixed in place. The fear was evident in their eyes, but they would not back down. For freedom and for country, for Glory, God, and Gold, they would endure til death.

One of the Americans, a raven-haired man, clean-cut and handsome in a rugged way, gripped his gun tightly, his coffee-amber eyes glittering like cold bits of metal. His feet were swathed in rags that were stained red from blood. The winter had been cold, and his feet had frozen so they had bled as he marched in the fallen snow, every step like a red-hot poker against the worn skin. His shirt, now ragged from the long, hard months of battling, was a faded gray. His wife had made it. Isabelle. How she had cried as he had left her to fight. His five year old daughter, Nan, had refused to be comforted as he kissed them both good bye, promising to return to them one day. Now the coat so lovingly stitched together was his only reminder of them. He loved them. He did.

The soldier breathed heavily as he surveyed the red coats surrounding him. He glanced towards his captain. He was prepared to die. For freedom, he would die. His wife would forgive him. Besides, twenty-seven was not such a bad age. He shouldered his rifle, sighting along it. He waited for the order from his commander. In his head, he started to pray. 'Our father, who art in Heaven…'

"Fire!" came the shout from his captain, and he squeezed the trigger, the roar of dozens of guns echoing in his ears. His own bullet caught one of the British soldiers in the chest, and the man fell to the ground with a strangled cry.

The bark of bullets was deafening as he knelt to reload his own gun. One-shot rifles were slow and tedious, but he would not let that stop him. He quickly reloaded, bracing his rifle against his thigh. Next to him, a man went down, one arm blown almost completely off. His blood splashed onto his own gray coat, staining it a dull shade of crimson.

The soldiers around him were dropping like flies. He fired again and reloaded, repeating the process as bullets whistled centimeters past his ears. One thing for rifles, they didn't always shoot straight, and that could be a lifesaver at the moment.

A thick, choking smoke covered the battlefield, obscuring everything from vision sans the man on either side of him and a brief flash of scarlet every now and then from the Red Coats. He fired blindly into the smog, only the shouts from the opposing side and the thunder of guns giving him indication where the enemy might be.

Crack! He heard a single shot clearly through the din, and, the next moment, there was a stinging pain in his left side, followed instantly by a gush of hot, sticky blood. He cried out, dropping his gun and pressing both hands to the wound frantically as pain assaulted his whole body, shockwaves of fiery stings lancing through every nerve. He dropped weakly to his knees as his vision swam before his eyes, like ripples expanding in a pond. The man next to him reached out to help him, but the next instant, he was on the ground as well, a bullet lodged in his head.

Well, presumably the Brits couldn't see them any better than he could see them, so they were firing blindly into the smoke. If he could just keep low, he could get out of the way of the fighting. He was in no condition to fight now… He laid flat on his stomach and inched away from the explosion of British guns. Every movement sent a bolt of pain through him, and his unsteady vision blacked in and out as he struggled along, one hand helping himself along, the other pressed to his side to try to stop the bleeding. His hot blood ran over his hand, staining the creamy skin bright red. He gritted his teeth to suppress a cry of pain and pulled himself on. They were near a forest… If he could get to it, he could find a clearing to lie down in…

He struggled along, his arm collapsing under him every few inches. His hot blood made a long, red trail on the hard-packed snow underneath him, and the iciness there bit into his hands. The wind picked up bits of snow and flung them into his face, blinding him with a crispy sting. He crawled on before he could feel sticks and dry, stiff leaves under his hands. He must have reached the forest… He crawled faster, but his ears were ringing, and his vision was multi-colored streaks of light now as pain zinged along every part of his body in white-hot flames. His hand touched a tree in front of him, and he shifted painfully to lie against it. He closed his eyes weakly, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. The pain was slowly dulling into an icy ache. He moaned softly. Isabelle… Nan… He was dying, and he'd never see them again…

"I'm glad you were able to escape," came a soft voice nearby. He groaned and opened his eyes. Who the devil was in this area? Friend or foe? His vision swam as he rotated his neck painfully. Someone was next to him. Someone dressed in fine, black clothing. Through bleary eyes, he made out a shock of shoulder-length bright auburn hair, hanging free like a long, flowing mane. The face was creamy, like fresh milk, though through his hazed eyes, it was impossible to make out any distinct facial features. "They all killed each other, the unlucky bastards."

The voice was clearly male, soft and charming, but full of power. He had a slight British accent, as if his parents had been aristocrats. "Who… Who are you?" the dying man rasped, licking his dry lips with an equally dry tongue.

"I could tell you, but I am more interested in you, Roger Locke."

"How do you know my name?" the man gasped out, then began to cough painfully, dryly.

"I know all about you, Roger. I know about your wife and your daughter. There's nothing about you I don't know."

"Why bother me?" Roger demanded, his throat contracting painfully as he almost choked on his own blood. "Let me die in peace."

The man suddenly shifted so that it was nearly leaning over the bloody soldier. "But you don't have to die, Roger. I could save you."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, something better. I could save you and give you everything you've ever wanted, forever, if only you agree to my conditions."

Pain surged through the raven-haired man's side, and he almost threw up. "Wh… What would they be?" Roger coughed again, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"Remain with me, as my companion, forever."

"That's it?"

"Aye. Your life for mine. Do you accept?"

After a moment, a long moment, that Roger could feel the icy, numbing hands of Death creep its way up his body, he assented. "Aye," he croaked, his eyes closing weakly.

The next moment there was a sudden pain in his neck, hardly noticeable through the horrifying pain the lead bullet was inflicting upon his muscled body. He moaned softly, his hands reaching up with all the strength left in him to twine bloody fingers in the silky, auburn hair that fell freely over his hot face. The owner of the lustrous hair held him tightly, and Roger felt soothing pleasure wash over him, as if he was falling backwards through darkness deeper than anything he had ever felt before. Was he going to Hell?

'Not Hell, Roger. Not Hell. There is no Hell,' came a voice in his mind that sounded just like the voice that had been speaking to him earlier. 'Trust in me. Hold on to me, and I shall give you the world.' The voice faded, and then Roger felt soft flesh touch his mouth. Something gallingly sweet yet deliciously bitter flowed into his mouth. 'Drink. Drink, and live.'

Obediently, he let the flavor enter his mouth. It parched his raging thirst, and he forced himself to swallow, the tender warmth soothing his ragged throat. The liquid kept coming, and he swallowed again, drinking deeper and deeper, clinging close to the soft skin that he was able to determine was a wrist. He could feel one soft hand stroking and caressing his matted hair, and it felt so good.

At first he didn't notice the tingling in his side, but as the wrist pulled away from his mouth, he felt something strange going through his body to his injured side. The torn muscles, ligaments, and skin was repairing itself, pulling itself together as if guided by invisible hands, leaving nothing on the flesh, not even a scar, just a gaping, bloodstained hole in his jacket and shirt. He didn't have much time to marvel over this though before something hit his insides like an avalanche, and he found himself flung against the ground, spasming and jerking, crying out in pain, thrashing as every muscle in his body rippled, then suddenly froze, making his body go into a strange sort of torpor. He tried to move, but everything hurt so much, and he felt as if he was buried under a ton of ice. All he could do was stare up at the starry, night sky through the branches of overhanging trees.

'Just relax, my child,' came the voice in his mind again. 'Your body is dying, but soon it will be over, and you'll be reborn as one of us.' The voice was soothing and gentle, and Roger's mind relaxed with it, though his body suddenly jerked and spasmed again. He couldn't hold back a loud cry that suddenly died on his lips as the world swam for a moment. The next moment, he blinked, and the world cleared. The stars glowed above his head, seemingly brighter tonight than they had ever been. And the leaves of the trees seemed so much more distinct, more detailed and sharp. He had never noticed before…

A pale hand reached down and grasped his own, pulling him up into a sitting position. He could actually see the blood inside the pale skin coursing through the veins there. He stared at it in fascination before becoming aware that a pair of forest eyes was gazing back into his own. He focused on them instead, watching the tiny veins running through them surge with crimson blood. "Roger?"

"Yes…" His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Clearer, sharper. He had to repeat the word again just to confirm that it was his own voice.

The face before him finally was clear to his eyes, and he could see a pale face, a long nose, slender cheeks, eyes the color of the surrounding pine trees, and hair the color of the blood on his clothing. He felt his fingers trembling as he reached up to brush them over the man's cheek slowly. The skin there against his own fingertips made him dizzy, and he suddenly became painfully aware of a hollowness in his stomach that burned like fire within him, and he doubled over, his arms going around himself. Strong arms went around him, holding him, and he could smell the same bittersweetness he had swallowed earlier from the thin, red lines he could see under the skin of the man's hand. He reached for the hand, lifting it to his mouth, instinct kicking in even as his mind had no idea what it was doing. His mouth opened before his teeth connected with each other with a sharp chink. The hand was no longer in his hold.

"No, young one, you've had enough of mine. Come with me." The man holding him stood up, and Roger found himself pulled up easily. The ground beneath him felt softer than it had before, almost like he could sink deep down into the bowels of the earth if he wanted to. But he didn't want to even attempt trying as his stomach sent pain through his body that made him cry out softly and cling to the silky material of the man's jacket.

"You need to learn to feed," the man replied, taking him by the hand and pulling him along. The leaves on the ground crunched under their feet like a whisper as they left the forest and reached the clearing where the battle had taken place not long ago.

The place reeked of death and decay, though the bodies scattered around were less than an hour dead, and the blood-soaked ground seemed to pulse with the very life of the men who had died. Roger felt a strange pull that felt like nausea, but he didn't feel bile rising inside of him like he usually did.

Something reached his nose through the stench, something fresh and alive. Something that smelled delicious and made the pain inside him grow to almost ravenous proportions. A hand took his, guiding him over to a man dressed in a British uniform. He was unconscious, probably from the pain of a bullet wound to his shoulder. He hadn't lost much blood, but his arm would have to be amputated if he were to live. The Brits must have left their wounded behind, in a hurry to catch up to the next American militia ahead after the massacre of the rebels.

Roger found himself kneeling by the man's prone body, watching his chest expand and contract as he breathed, which suddenly made him aware that he was not breathing. He found amazement in that thought for only a moment before a hunger pain unlike any he had felt yet lurched through him, making him spasm slightly. Behind him, his sire knelt, his fingers gently guiding his head down to the man's neck. "Parch your thirst, young one."

Instinct won over confusion, and Roger opened his mouth, feeling a pain against his lips. His newly grown fangs had pierced into his lower lip, and he could taste his own blood there. He licked it up eagerly, the feeling making him dizzy all over again. The man beneath him moaned softly, and Roger turned the soldier's head to the side, hesitating only a moment before clumsily sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of the man's neck. The rewarding splash of blood startled him, almost making him pull back, but the overwhelming hunger inside of him forced him to continue, swallowing the thick mouthful and eagerly taking in more. He almost scraped his tongue against his own razor teeth as he dug them deeper into the neck. Eating was awkward, and he spilled much blood down his chin onto his jacket, but he didn't care, greedily drinking away the blood that poured into his mouth, sweeter than anything he had ever tasted but also deliciously bitter. He drank and drank until he thought he might drown in the flavor, hearing the echo of the man's heart in his ears like an army on horseback all around him. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back. His fangs tore through the man's flesh like a knife through butter, and he let out a growl of frustration as the sweetness went away.

"No more, young one. Dead blood isn't good for you. It doesn't nourish you, and it doesn't taste very good either. Come, we will find you new prey." The words of his new master tickled in his ear like a kiss, and he stood up, licking blood from his chin before wiping it away with his sleeve.

"Did I… kill him?"

"Aye," the man replied, soft hands on Roger's shoulders. "Human lives are so frail. We must be so careful with them. But you will learn that later. Come. We shall seek out more blood for your hunger."

His maker's name was Aeden Ferris, and Roger learned this as they walked along together, and, before only a few minutes had passed, they had covered nearly twenty miles. They found a deserter from the American army, and Aeden fell upon him and drank first, then offered him to Roger, and Roger drank until he was no longer thirsty. As the night drew to a close, Aeden took Roger to an abandoned cabin in the midst of the woods, leading him down into the dark cellar. A hole had been dug in the soft earth there, and Roger and Aeden slept, covered by the heavy dirt around them.

When the sun set again the next evening, Roger awoke with a burning thirst in his body that begged him to rise and seek out the blood that he knew was nearby. Aeden took him out, 'hunting', as he called it, and then they spent the night talking in blissful companionship.

Weeks passed in this way, and Roger found himself content to live with Aeden, spending their nights in companionship, their days in each other's arms under the cool earth. Almost two months had passed before Roger gave a thought to his former life as he sat in a tree staring at the stars. Nan and Isabelle. He hadn't seen them for so long. Would they have moved on without him? Or would they still be waiting, hoping for his safe return? He asked Aeden if he could return to them to speak with them. Aeden assented, so, as the sun sank the next night, Roger left their cellar, found prey for the evening, and then hurried back along the path he had taken not so very long ago towards his home. With his new vampire speed, it took him only a few hours to cover the several hundred miles.

There was a candle burning in the window, the faint glimmer barely casting any light over the ground, but his vampire eyes had no trouble discerning it over the long distance between him and the familiar log cabin. Home. He was almost home. He approached it slowly, almost reverently as a cold wind whipped over his cheeks. What was cold to an undead? It had been so long since he had been home. He had been at war for so long.

He raised one hand, resting it against the familiar wood plane of the door. Home. His home that he had lived in for years with his wife and child. And now they were there, waiting for him. They had lit the candle in the window for him, so he could find them again. For one moment, Roger felt something he hadn't felt since he had become a child of darkness. He felt remorse. He had put them through so much, and now he couldn't even spend life with them, because he couldn't be around them during the day. His will to live had been the only thing keeping him alive to see his family, but it was now the thing that would prevent him from being with them. His heart feeling like deadweight in his chest, Roger pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Isabelle was sitting in her rocking chair, bent over her sewing by the weak glow of another candle. Even though the light cast shadow over her face, Roger had no trouble seeing her through the darkness. The year he had been gone had aged her face and her body, and his vampiric vision only made every tiny detail of it more apparent to him. There were wrinkles under her eyes. Her cheeks were gaunt and sunken, defining her cheekbones against the sallow skin stretched across them. Her hair fell stringy and limp against the side of her face. Lines stretched out across her forehead, and shadows played against her jaw and down the too-slender extent of her throat. Her dress hung loosely on her frame. It was patched and mended in many places, a ratty, wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. For one long, terrible moment, as he stared at the woman he had once loved, Roger felt something inside of him freeze into solid ice. He couldn't remember what love felt like. He didn't remember what holding her had done to him. He didn't remember the warmth of her body or the glow of her skin or the twinkle in her gray eyes. He didn't remember what it felt like to pull her up against him in their bed, to entwine his fingers with hers as he made love to her, to smell her hair and kiss her lips and feel her body pressed against his. All he could see in front of him was a woman who had aged twenty years in one, all because of him, and there was nothing he could do but watch time take its toll on her until she withered away into dry bones.

Slowly, as if sensing the presence of someone else nearby, she lifted her head, turning ever so slightly, her breath stilling as her eyes met Roger's own in the doorway. For one moment, Roger felt like the floor had vanished from under his feet. What if she saw him for what he was? What if she saw through his disguise, saw the monster he had become? Would she reject him?

Their eyes met for a long moment, one that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, even to him, but, as soon as that ended, he found her against his chest, her stick-like arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her face buried in his throat. Hot, wet tears brushed his skin, sliding down to soak into the collar of his shirt as his own arms moved by their own free will to wrap around her and hold her fragile body against his own. He could smell her blood. He could feel the rush of warmth through her veins and the pounding of her heart as she cried, sobbing for breath. His chest felt hollow inside, as did his stomach, his fangs aching as they sensed live, human flesh so close, perfect for the taking.

'But,' his conscience reminded him quickly. 'This is your wife! You love her! She is not like those other people!'

'But she is human, like any other human, and you are not,' the darker side of his conscience responded to that.

"Roger, my darling…" Her voice was soft and strained through her tears, and Roger felt his own throat close up a bit with tears. He felt it run, hot and wet, down his face to rest in her hair, but, when he looked down at where it had fallen, he recoiled sharply. What had fallen was not a tear, but a drop of blood. He quickly swiped at his eyes with one hand, trying to cover his face from her in the process. Blood streaked across the pale white of his hand where he had wiped his cheek.

"Roger?" Isabelle's voice was worried.

"I am well," he replied quickly, stroking her cheek with his other hand as he wiped the crimson stain off on his trousers. "Where is Nan?"

"Sleeping. We shall wake her. She will want to see you." Isabelle took his hand in her own and led him through the hall to Nan's tiny room. Her sleeping form was curled under a warm quilt, a candle burning lazily nearby, casting flickering shadows over her plump cheeks. Isabelle reached out to shake her gently. "Nan. Nan, my sweet. Your father is home."

Her hazel eyes fluttered open, staring blankly up at the two by the bed for a moment before she sat up, holding out her arms to Roger. Roger scooped her up, holding her close against his chest, stroking her hair as he had with Isabelle. Nan had grown while he had been away, but her baby fat still remained. She was as plump as a partridge, and her flesh felt warm and soft to him. Though he cared nothing for the feel of her skin, his mouth watered for the juice that lay beneath the peel, and he closed his eyes frantically to try to block the desire that gnawed at his stomach. He wasn't hungry. He had fed. Nan was his child! His own flesh and blood!

She sighed, and her breath was warm against his neck, ruffling the midnight hair there. Her eyes were closed so peacefully as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders tightly. She was so innocent. So perfect. She was not corrupted by the horrors of this world yet, by the horror he had become. He wanted to keep it that way, but the ache in his abdomen and his fangs was become a persistent itch that could not be scratched. The blood in her body sang in her veins, and he could hear her heartbeat, feel it against his own still one. He inhaled without realizing it, tipping his head a bit to press a kiss to her throat. Almost against his will, his mouth opened, and his teeth sank into the soft flesh there.

He wanted to yank away as he felt them pierce her skin, but the instant the scarlet blood splashed against his tongue, all thoughts of anything else vanished, and he pulled her closer, drawing more blood into his mouth.

She gasped softly as his teeth sank into her flesh, her fingers tightening against his hair before she relaxed as his pleasurable Kiss flowed through her tiny body. Roger could smell her hair against his nose as drank from her, his back to his wife as he drained his own daughter of her life blood, feeling his mind whirl in sensations and the pulse of her heart in his ears.

"Roger." Isabelle's voice told him she wanted his attention as well. But Nan… He couldn't stop now. Not when he was so close to draining the last dregs of her sweetness. "Roger," Isabelle tried again a moment later. When Roger didn't respond, she grabbed his arm to turn him gently around. Her eyes went wide, and she gasped loudly, backing up a few steps.

Nan's heart was barely fluttering now. Roger released her and set her on her bed. He stared down at her for a moment, his body tingling with the fresh blood running through his system, before a scream pierced his euphoria, and he turned to see Isabelle staring at him. Her mouth hung open, her storm cloud eyes so wide he could see white all around the irises. "Isabelle-."

"She's dead! She's dead!" The scream was almost ear-shattering, and, though there was no fear of anyone hearing them, Roger felt an intense need to silence her. The words stung his heart over and over. Nan was dead, and he had been the one to kill her. He raced forward, moving faster than he would have under any human circumstances, grasping Isabelle's wrists tightly.

"Stop screaming!"

"What are you! You are not my husband! What have you done to my daughter!"

Her words echoed in his ears even as his nose was assaulted by the surge of blood from her angry heart, and he pulled her close. The crush of her breasts against his body and the tickle of her hair against his face only made it stronger, and he couldn't stop himself. His teeth tore into her throat, and her hot, irate blood flooded his mouth. Her struggles ceased as she gave in to the pleasure of his fangs, her fingers clenching in his lapels, her eyes closing. She sank against him, and, a moment later, they were sprawled across Nan's bed, himself on top of her, drinking greedily from her slender, white throat. Her body writhing weakly beneath him made him dizzy with pleasure until she finally went limp against the mattress and her heart ceased its frantic ticking.

Roger finally pulled away from Isabelle's body, gazing down at her for a moment. Aside from the puncture marks on her throat, she looked peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Her face had gone white from loss of blood. She and Nan rested side by side, and Roger could only stare for a few moments before it suddenly occurred to him what he had done. His wife and only daughter, his beloved family… He had killed them both in his bloodlust.

A sudden sound cut through the silence of the room, and it was several seconds before Roger realized it was the sound of his own screaming. It carried on, louder than any natural scream, echoing through the house and out into the woods surrounding them. It hurt so much, even more than when his body had died only a few months ago. At least then his soul had stayed within him. Now it felt like it was being wrenched from his body with a white-hot poker as he stared down at the bodies of his dear family. He had come back to them only to cause their death.

His screaming continued for what felt like forever before he suddenly felt strong arms around him, holding him close, stroking his hair. It was Aeden. Roger curled into his arms, sobbing frantically, bloody tears rolling down his face to stain the front of Aeden's shirt. Aeden didn't seem to mind, just holding him, stroking his hair, rocking him back and forth gently until just before dawn when they barricaded themselves in the cellar to avoid the fiery dawn. As Roger curled up on the damp, earth floor, clinging tightly to Aeden, he wondered if that was what all eternity would be like. Would lives come and go as easily as that? Would he harm those he loved? Would he ever truly be able to love, knowing that those lives would eventually be snuffed out? It hurt so much, and all he had now to cling to was Aeden, in hopes that Aeden would not abandon him and leave him alone in this momentary world.

Aeden never left him. After that night, Roger changed his name in an attempt to forget his past. He had all of his future to pursue, and though he regretted his actions, Aeden insisted to him that life would indeed go on. Humans were so fragile, so weak, and they would eventually die, by old age if not by their hands. And so, Roger Locke became Bradley Crawford, and together, he and Aeden Ferris traveled across the sea to Europe for almost a century before the American Civil War broke out, and they moved back to America to feast on the soldiers, runaway slaves, and southern aristocrats alike. They lived in the south for a while after that, occasionally traveling back overseas to England, as well as India, as Aeden seemed to have developed a liking for that particular country.

About the end of the 19th century, though he was happy and content to live with Aeden, Brad began to feel the need for freedom, so he and Aeden parted ways to pursue their own adventures. He thought to himself that perhaps he might find other vampires. Aeden had said there were some, but he had yet to meet one.

America was an exciting place for a vampire to live after the first world war had completed, and Brad contented himself with living there for many years, occasionally going back to England, and later to India, to visit with his sire. He did not meet any other vampires in America as he traveled around the country, to states he had not visited further north and west, but he found many places to visit and things to do.

But it wasn't until after World War II that Crawford finally found himself riveted to one place, and it was for a very specific reason. A German foreign exchange student with flame-orange hair, a love for anything with long legs, and an addiction to the psychedelic. Schuldig.

He had met Schuldig at some kind of party; he couldn't even remember clearly, though it had only been about forty years ago. They had talked, they had danced. Later that night, when Crawford had taken Schuldig back to his residence, they made love. But when he had sank his teeth into the German student's soft throat, intent on killing him, instead of giving in to the pleasure, Schuldig had let him drink for a long moment before pushing him away, demanding some of Crawford's own blood in return. Amused by the fact that the redhead was so adamant about it, he had consented, and he had shared a few mouthfuls of his own potent, euphoric blood with Schuldig.

They became lovers after that for several months, sharing blood and sex at night. During the day, Schuldig would go to classes, swallow or smoke any number of drugs, drink himself into a stupor, and somehow end up dancing in some stranger's arms until Crawford managed to track him down after sunset. How Schuldig ever passed any class at all, Crawford would never know. In the short time he had known him, he had grown attached to the bratty young man for reasons even he did not understand, and when Schuldig had said that he might be returning to Germany, Crawford had done something he had never considered doing to anyone before. He offered Schuldig the Dark Gift.

Schuldig had accepted way too quickly. Crawford had a feeling the man really didn't understand the seriousness of what he was choosing. Or perhaps he was too enthralled in the world of sharing blood and the blissful ecstasy that followed to realize what Crawford was offering. But, nonetheless, Crawford had changed him into a vampire as well, and they lived together for several more months in America, as Crawford and Aeden had used to do, before Schuldig expressed a desire to go see the world, and they had set off on a tour. Somewhere along the line, they found themselves in Japan, and they had been there ever since. But, even from the first few months of living together as childe and sire, Crawford felt like their relationship had changed. How, he could not exactly say, but, as the years went by, they grew further and further apart until all they ever did was fight. They would bicker and argue and snap at each other until they would have to separate to keep from coming to blows sometimes, and they were never intimate with each other again, physically or emotionally. Regardless, they still stayed together in Japan (for financial reasons, Crawford suspected), and that was how it had been, until now.

Crawford rubbed at his forehead. Why had talking with Nagi inspired these thoughts so suddenly? He hadn't thought about Isabelle and Nan in years. The thoughts burned in his mind like a wildfire. And the thought of Schuldig made him strangely numb. That memory was with him every time he laid eyes on the flame-haired fledgling. Many times he had considered wiping out the bratty German and finding someone new to take his place, but that had yet to happen. He tried to bring to mind what it was that had first drawn him to the rambunctious young man that had made him want to spend eternity with him, but he could not recall what that thing was. Whatever had been there was most likely gone now, they had moved so far apart. And now Schuldig was lost forever to that boy. Or at least, til Nagi grew old and died. A single bubble in the forever-flowing river of eternity, one that would soon pop as quickly as it had come into being, and be forgotten.

Forgotten. Some things could never be forgotten. In almost three hundred years he had yet to forget his family, where he came from, and who he had once been. But the blood magic had worked in him, and he could no longer be that person, no matter how much he yearned for it with the little soul he had left. He was a vampire now, a violent, beautiful creature that depended upon its former species for nourishment. And he would remain that creature, that blight on society, for all eternity or until he slipped into madness and let Final Death take him to whatever hell awaited those like him.

With a defeated sigh, Crawford pushed himself up from his desk. He was hungry. Well, more precisely, he wanted to get out of the house, and hunting gave him that excuse. He headed down the stairs, ignoring the muffled screams and groans that were coming from Schuldig's room where he was sure the redhead vampire was screwing Nagi stupid and probably would be for the rest of the night at that rate. He closed the front door with an agitated click, striding for his precious, black Mercedes, slipping into it and gunning the engine. It was silly, really, vampires liking cars when they easily could match them for speed, but what was the point of having money if he didn't show it off? Or so he figured as he pulled out of the driveway and headed down the street, trying to put the memories of tonight out of his head, though he knew he had the rest of eternity to reflect on them.

"Something wrong, baby?" Schuldig asked, running a lazy hand up Nagi's naked side.

Nagi sighed and rolled over to face him. "No."

"I know you're lying, gorgeous."

Nagi sighed again and rubbed at his eyes. "I just… I want Crawford to like me. So badly."

"He does, baby. He does."

"But why does he yell at me? Why does he say I'm just a whore?"

"That's just the way he is, kiddo." Schuldig pulled the sweaty boy into his arms, stroking his hair gently. "He calls me a whore all the time. 'Cept, it's true, so I guess I shouldn't bitch about it, right?"

Nagi couldn't hold back a soft chuckle. "I don't think you are."

Schuldig shrugged. "Brad's got something up his ass. Whatever it is, I envy it."

"Do you love him?" Nagi questioned softly as he curled his fingers into Schuldig's coppery mane, liking the warm reassurance it brought him.

Schuldig was silent for a minute before he slowly replied, "I think at one point I did. I'm not so sure anymore. I want him, that's for sure, but I doubt that's your definition of love." He glanced down at him, affection in his eyes. "But I love you. I really mean that."

Nagi blinked at that, lifting his eyes to meet Schuldig's own. "You love me?"

"Of course I do. You don't believe me?"

"Everyone tells me they love me," Nagi replied, lowering his eyes to the ends of Schuldig's hair. "They love me, they love my ass, they love my blowjobs, they love the way I look under them."

"Well, I love all those things too, baby. But that's not what I love the most. I love you. As a human. As a person. As my pretty little kitten that shares everything with me."

"Eternity must be a long time if you have to live it without love."

"…Yeah, it is," Schuldig said with a long-suffering sigh. Then he abruptly brightened, ruffling Nagi's hair. "Damn you and your post-coital philosophy."