A/N: Midterms, in my modest opinion, are pure hell incarnate, more so because like Shaun here, I want my A's kthx. Regardless, I'm aware some of you kind of went "What! Vampires? In my fanfic!" Well, guys, it's more common than you think (I'm so witty). Monster here was born from my dissatisfaction with Twilight, which, being the honest reader I was, I did not guide myself on the movies. No, no, I can tell you Twilight sucks because in a lapse of sanity, I actually read a few pieces and translated a hidden chapter or something (gouged my eyes out afterwards). Real vampire stories tend to be dramatic and exaggerated and I wanted a mixture of that, along with vampires like the ones on Blade, or Dracula, hell, even Daybreakers. But the one that actively gave me hope and made me think vampire stories were not doomed to sparkly virgins and their Mary-sue chicks was Let the Right One In. Now that's a vampire story.
It was impossible. He was hallucinating. One Shaun Hastings could not believe what he was listening, apart from the moaning and groaning and something else he couldn't register but that his mind immediately thought out what it was (nothing to do with low self-esteem, that's just ridiculous).
"C'mon, Becca, hurry up."
"Not my fault you're so slow! Stop it with the squirming. You think he'll mind when he sees us?"
"It's kind of possible he'll call us traitors and have a cow. But maybe he can join us."
"Shaun isn't one for threesomes, Des, he's greedy."
At this point, Shaun, who was eavesdropping through the door, was slack-jawed and unable to believe he was being back-stabbed. The guy he'd been having hopes with, the insufferable twit was cheating on him (not truly cheating as they weren't, well, you know, an item or anything. Not that that'd they ever be, but regardless!) He plastered himself closer to the door, brown eyes wide behind his skewed glasses as they kept talking. The old ladies across the hall were giving him weird looks, but blast them, this was important!
"C'mon, Desmond, hurry up!"
"I'm trying, I'm trying! Fuck, this is tight."
Bloody hell, they were fucking? This was all some clever plan to bang Rebecca? He knew a man like that could not possibly be gay. He had a bike, he did parkour, he had a tattoo, and he had a wonderfully toned body (how he got this last part is strictly personal information).
"Oh my god, shoot it! Fucking shoot it, Desmond, shoot it! The goddamn Smoker choking me, shoot it!"
"I'm on it, I'm on it!"
He knew it, all those days, well, nights, with them having nice conversations and pressing of lips (not really kissing) and that one time in the apartment on the couch when they…wait what? Finally deciding that something about the conversation had turned from steamy sex to bizarre, Shaun opened the door as they both turned to look at him, the game placed on pause. They were playing a stupid game on one of Becca's many console games earned through her own sweat and blood (she made terrible menstrual jokes about that, being the fine lady she was). Shaun stared stupidly as Desmond got up with a smile on his face, completely forgetting the game with Rebecca huffing in annoyance.
"Hey Shaun, sorry I just dropped by, should of told you, but I wanted to surprise you."
Shaun only bleakly nodded his head, face aflame as he felt the light kiss on his cheek and Rebecca's laughter.
"I bet he thought we were fucking!"
Desmond at least had the decency to splutter.
Shaun had very little patience to Desmond's popping in and out of existence (Rebecca said the man had mastered teleportation but he shot that down by telling her he would not submit to her explanation until scientific evidence was presented. She told him to fuck off.) The problem wasn't his near death experiences or the fact that sometimes he would be left mid-sentence (rude. But then again, he's American, what could you expect). No, see it was the part where Desmond didn't mean to do it.
That's right, you read that right (and repeating of the word 'right' is also correctly used, thank you). He would pop in when Shaun least expected it with this ridiculous dopey smile and a bright hello, patiently waiting for Shaun's heart-attack to settle down. This told him that the man was so eager to see him he'd literally force himself into existence through sheer force of will just for Shaun's amusement (at least that's what Shaun thought. It was sweet in a would-you-knock-that-shit-out sort of way). Or those moments when Shaun would off-handedly say he left something in someplace and Desmond would no longer be there, only to reappear on his apartment with aforementioned item and apologize for not being faster. Not to mention when Shaun would complain about lack of groceries, lack of funding, lack of anything really, and Desmond would bring him anything he'd need, only because he whined a tiny bit or those gorgeous pieces of art he'd give him because "I thought you'd like it."
So while the actions, while really sweet and endearing, where not making Shaun uncomfortable, it was the emotion so deeply engrained to them that had him nervous and hissy and just plain out biting.
Love is something you're just not used to, at all. And when presented to you in a silver platter, you freak out, or in Shaun's case, call the guy an insane city monkey, or a posh show off, or a rude asshole. He wonders if Desmond is aware, because he always only smiles and lets it easily slide off like the Brit isn't insulting him with barbed wire and acid.
All he does is nod his head, or hug him and tell him he loves him too, or kiss him quiet, and it's those actions that make Shaun think on future tense about their status.
Not to mention he smacks him right in the face and the wanker only laughs. A man that takes that sort of beating is not only insane but committed. Rebecca insists he's a keeper but he's already told her she can get her opinion and stick it where the sun does not settle its UV rays on.
"This is inadmissible."
"Shaun, c'mon, listen to me-"
"No, no, no! Why did you not tell me this! I mean, I thought we had whatever the hell this is!"
"You're overreacting."
"Overreacting? Excuse me?"
Shaun waved in front of Desmond a black book with a pair of hands holding an apple. "Twilight! You like Twilight! I can't be seen with a man that likes," He made a face, holding the book by the tip of the cover like some vermin with rabies (and fleas. Don't forget those). "This thing, because you cannot call it a book and get away with it, more like a book stand. I will not mingle with anyone who reads this, this abomination. It is an insult to literature everywhere, not to mention it's-" He used his free hand to make quotation marks "Author', was possibly on some sort of drug or hallucinogen when she wrote this."
"It's better than the real thing." Desmond answered with a shrug. Shaun's shoulders flopped down, his face etched with disbelief. He was making his Goldfish Impersonation as well.
"The real thing, Desmond, really, that's your answer? Oh, I'm sure it is on your little fantasy world where vampires and werewolves exist and I'm sure there are also pedophiliac and bestiality enthusiasts out there that share your opinion."
"Are you calling me old or cradle robber? That hurts me and makes me sad on the face." He was smiling as he said this, the arse.
"I am not calling you a vampire, that's what I am not doing but I will call you a bloody twat. I doubt you to be a robber of any sorts because not only am I older than you, you simply don't have the mental capacity to rob anything, much less myself."
Desmond snickered. "Sure, Shaun, whatever you say."
Shaun threw the book on the parkourist's face as he laughed himself silly. "I'm not going out with you, I am not interacting with you, go away, leave me alone you Twitard."
"But Shaun-"
"No! And get your crummy hands off me! You've touched that filth. I will not allow you to touch me with those hands!"
Shaun isn't really sure what he likes about Desmond. The man is infuriating, childish, annoying and by the heaven's he's terrible with anything pertaining social etiquette (the last is a lie, but he likes to pile more negative aspects on the fool to outweigh any good there is, if any). The man practically follows him like some lost puppy, slobber and yips included, and yet for some strange reason, he tends to allow the man to come over to his apartment, or whisk him away on some social outing (they're not dates, alright! Knock it off! And don't you laugh, he's not in denial, that's ridiculous, there's nothing to be in denial of!)
Rebecca always makes a comment on what a nice couple they make, but Shaun is not so keen on that idea, mainly because they're both men. Which would mean that Shaun is gay, which he'd be if the word would be used in a context pertaining happiness (and even then, the happiness part is debatable). He's not gay, never was and never would be. The kisses and the hugs and the sitting together in the couch in amiable silence are just signs of... (uh, bromance? After all, if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were capable of it, why not him and Desmond?) Not to mention that, even if in the remote possibility he might consider Miles as a candidate to be his (wince now) boyfriend, he still has many things which simply do not garner in his 'positive attributes' list (no he has not done it.)
Like the parkour thing. Really now, going about buildings and rooftops and cars and whatever else it is they jump over to get from point A to point B is not so impressive. Even if the Brit himself saw it when he expressed curiosity, it does not mean he likes it. Why would he like it when Desmond jumps from one place to another, muscles straining and sometimes some of his stomach revealing because of his movements? or how he looks afterwards, flushed and sweaty and panting with his lips in a small smile, those goddamn lips stretching the scar which he just wants to- (excuse me, that was a rather large run-on sentence and we will be moving to something else wrong with Desmond).
A motorbike? Really? On top of that, a tattoo? If he chose two overly cliché things, a bike and a tattoo were on top of his list. The worst part was that it was some tribal tattoo which his mind readily supplied patterns and glyphs and other trivial information. Although the design did slightly garner his interest because it was a symbol he couldn't pin. It seemed trivial at first glance, but once he'd asked to fully see it (for research purpose of course) and he'd found that it wasn't some silly badly chosen tribal tattoo (he even foolishly thought it might have been engraved on his skin, but that was even more ridiculous and completely improbable, but he has his doubts because the moment he touched it, it did feel separate). He's also a bit confused by a strange letter 'A' engraved in the curve of his back (uh, he was, uh, admiring the-never mind, moving on). The bike was a, what did the bloke say, a Ducati Desmode-something-whatever (figures it'd have his name). He has no idea what it is or the make or anything important about it but he has Rebecca investigate. She comes back with the information that his brand in particular is not only rare, but expensive as fuck. To his horror, it is also one of the five legally fastest bikes, which meant it was a two-wheeled deathtrap.
(He does not like it at all. He doesn't like it when Desmond takes him out for a ride. Sure as hell doesn't like the way he gets a thrill out of something exciting in a life where 'exciting' is finding out someone placed their book back where it belongs. And above all, he doesn't like how he has to pin himself to Desmond, hold him tight so he won't fall, the air snapping against them, the other laughing, asking "You having fun?")
His schedule, not to mention his moronic penchant for, for, Twilight (shudder now). He only sees him at ungodly hours of the night and he's told the bloody wanker that this stupid vampire obsession is getting out of hand. After all, he's living from eight at night to god knows when. Lucy herself tells him he has all this conflicting night jobs which he might or might not go to (like being a comelier. In other words, the idiot tastes wines for restaurants and they pay him 30,000 to 50,000 bloody dollars. They even bloody fight over him. He doesn't know if this means the wanker's a lot more cultured than he lets on. Then again, we're talking about Desmond here). His weird ass jobs include the normal bartending to taxi driver and even working as a janitor at morgues. He's baffled at this because the first one seemed just about enough, but the blonde tells him that whenever he's not with Shaun, he keeps himself occupied with whatever he wants to do that night. Not only is it odd, it's, well, strange. Why would anyone want to work as a janitor! (No offense to any janitors, but do have in mind you are cleaning up after corpses. You placed yourself in this situation).
Twilight. God have mercy on the Queen, why Twilight! He's caught the man reading all the bloody books at different times, but really, could he have not chosen something else! Hell, even Harry bloody Potter would have been better (the ending was disgusting in literary status by the way). The twat insists it's a prettier version of the real thing and in retaliation, Shaun makes scathing jokes about the book or about Desmond's actions being very what's-his-name-Cullen like. But the worst part, he isn't only contained to It (he refuses to keep calling it by name, least the woman be summoned from the bowels of hell itself). He's read and seen almost all vampire movies, books, and comics. Shaun cannot stress the utter disbelief he felt when Lucy told him this, all the while laughing because Desmond was begging her (threatening in French) not to do it (she actually answered something back and he frowned).
As you can see by the overwhelming evidence, one fact is true. Shaun Hastings does not like Desmond Miles.
"Hey."
Casual wave. Casual snark.
"Hello Desmond, go away."
"I have tickets." Bribe.
"I'm sure you do." Dodge.
"What if I told you it's for the opening ceremony of that museum exhibit you've wanted to go?"
Hook.
"...You listened? Why I'm impressed. You actually have some memory retaining abilities."
Hesitate.
"When is it?"
"Tomorrow night."
Bite your lip. Line.
"I thought you said you didn't like those things."
"But you do."
Reel in, smile. Frown, mull over.
"Fine. I'm not paying a single thing though; you are inviting me after all."
"Sure, can't wait to see you in a tux."
Sinker.
"Very funny, Miles."
For the past fifteen minutes, Rebecca gives him this look which he can't help but feel is the one sign of impending apocalypse he's been mentally preparing himself to accept. That or she's about to make a really nasty comment. Making it here, with over twenty people in a diner and with Desmond and Lucy close, you can just tell it's going to be hell.
"So Desmond, about that finger."
And quickly it seems. The ignorant fool gives a 'hm?' and looks up from his lone glass of water (he insists he already ate. It still looks weird with all three of them with plates and him having nothing but that lone cup), not to mention he stops from trying to take hold of Shaun's hand, the right hand playing with the straw leaving it very visible and his missing ring finger very obvious. Rebecca's smiling from ear to ear like a monster of sorts, maybe a hyena, comparable to a lioness as well and Lucy stopped half-way through her spoonful of chicken soup (she'd been rather fluey lately. Yes that's a word, jam a sock in it).
"Mind sharing the story?"
Desmond blinks and Shaun is reminded of how stupid he can be. He looks at his hand and shows it to them. It looks odd and strange where the finger no longer is, the scar tissue almost unseen. It seems old and Shaun would be under torture to admit that he actually likes holding that hand better (let's not start on fetish things, please).
"Well, it's not that exciting."
"Bullshit, you lost a finger. That alone is exciting, c'mon. Cough up."
A clever kick under the table should shut the tech-geek up but the one to wail out is Lucy who kicks him back (and two-fold. Why is a he friend with women stronger than him?)
"Alright, alright. Back when I was, I don't know, seventeen? Some friends were doing this ritual thing to see who'd become part of a... club. It involved hacking your finger off. That's just about it."
They all stared at him.
"You lopped your bloody finger off to belong to a club?" It's official now. Desmond is an idiot.
"They didn't really give you a choice, Shaun."
"You were forced to be part of a club, and then you allowed your finger to be lopped off?"
"Now you're making me sound stupid."
"I'm making you-! You chopped your finger off for a club!"
Have you seen those times in movies when the whole restaurant stops whatever they're doing to stare at the crazy person who just yelled? Mr. Hastings is the current crazy person wilting away and trying his best to hide himself under the table. Maybe get Lucy to choke him to death with her legs. The place goes back to being full of talking people and Desmond rubs his back reassuringly. At least the discussion is over.
"So what type of club was it?"
Damn Rebecca to hell and back.
Everyone is used to suffering. Their mind is engraved with the idea that, if you suffer, just for some time, you will find true happiness, true love. Your parents tell you stories of hardships, of sleepless nights, and pain. Blood, sweat and tears. They tell you how you'll go out in the world and how you'll repeat the process, but you'll get what you want if you endure, if you just grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up, because eventually you'll find happiness.
Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you instead.
All this time, you search desperately, so is it any surprise when happiness finds you, you're not very happy? You're confused and you think, this isn't right. Your parents told you to suffer as much as possible. Is this half-happiness then? Maybe the method is right and you have to suffer a bit more. You turn away from it and search again.
This is how Shaun lost Kat.
He thought it was too easy, too simple, so he merely let go, thinking that if he suffered a bit more, he'd find someone better. For a long time, he finds no one, and just like everyone else, he filled himself up with regret and maybes and cussing at his own idiocy. He's just about ready to give up, stop searching because it's useless, just how everybody eventually does, heartbroken and tear stained because no one will ever love you like how you want. Everyone is used to suffering, and Shaun hides his pain, just like how everyone does, grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up.
People hide it differently. Dig it deep into yourself, smile everyday even if you're crashing inside. Shaun's brand lashes out and snaps at everyone, wear it on your sleeve and use it as a weapon. No one is used to happiness because it leaves no scar. We're all so used to suffering that happiness is a stranger to us.
Maybe this is why Shaun pushes Desmond away.
He's tried to rationalize the many ways they will crash and burn, how much suffering that will cause and the happiness that will come later, because all good things must come to an end. He finds about thirty different ways they'll fall and smash to the ground. Another twenty how they'll become 'just another couple'. At least fifteen where one of them will cheat. Eight where they have to split for some unspecified reason. Three more where one of them dies, even both. With all these rational thoughts, all these 'do not proceeds', then why are they still seeing each other?
Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you.
All those things he tells himself he hates and abhors about Desmond's behavior, truth is, he likes it. He likes the parkour, because the scarred man is the only one he personally knows who can walk on a rooftop edge without fear of falling (he'd shit himself first before even approaching the edge). The bike, the tattoo, he fucking loves them because it's common in a different way. He doesn't know how to explain it, but it is. Even his stupid schedule and his stupid Twilight obsession, they make him less of a guy, more of a friend, someone he can tease and joke around with. And the man part? Who is he kidding, he wants to bugger the guy into the mattress. His dreams are more than happy to oblige to those thoughts.
Shaun isn't used to happiness, but maybe this time, he'll oblige. After all, the suffering will make the result all that much better.
"Hey."
The Brit gives a hum to show he's listening. They're on the couch, neither on the mood to go out. Desmond is a great big blanket on top of him while the historian searches for channels, something that isn't mediocre or mind-numbing. For all it's worth, he's just channel surfing. What people now call zapping (which is ironic because he's always snapping at Rebecca not to do it).
"Can I ask you something?"
"It's 'may' not 'can'. Simple grammar. Yes, you may. I hope it's better than what I'm doing."
They're here in the couch when they could be anywhere. This is the point where he wonders if this is what he wants. Reminds him of corny novels he doesn't read. This is where the fact that he's a total closet sap slaps him in the face, right there, in the cheek, leaving a big red mark.
"Can I be your boyfriend?"
Maybe it's because the scarred man knows how fragile this is that he words his question carefully. Can I, instead of Would you. Or maybe he's just being a dick.
"Well I suppose you could, if, you know, you weren't such an insufferable prat. But then again, if I don't reign you in, you'll probably go off to pester some other person and while other people's lives do not concern me, I won't hear the end of it from Lucy."
And the bloody idiot's just smiling from ear to ear, leaning on his knees and elbows to press lips to lips, and he's smiling too. We're not used to happiness, we hate the person we love. It's not always like in those novels he doesn't read, but this suffices for the moment. He has to kick him though when he gropes his ass. So much for a sweet moment.