Disclaimer; I don't own a thing. AU, reworking of an incredibly old fic, "When The Path Diverts". Will contain slash, dark themes, blood and violence. You've been warned. Title taken from a Robert Frost poem.
The Road Less Traveled By
Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?
Part Five;
Blood is life.
Michael knows this acutely, deep down in the very marrow of his bones. He knows it as well as he has come to know the rough and possessive touch of his lover... something that he reveres more than he should. David is Pack; and Pack is safety. Pack is family. Dwayne, Marko and Paul have quickly replaced those that had held a certain place in his heart, one that had ached with the loss of a broken home, and a broken childhood.
But, as the saying goes; you just have to put the past behind you.
A rich, coppery slickness slides down his throat, satiating a hunger that has been tearing violently at his innards for the past few hours. Indeed, it is the beast inside that demands sustenance as much as it demands the feeling of home, of Pack. It is this that Michael had been warring against so desperately before; though now wonders how he could have ever rejected it.
Cold fingers slide across his throat, hard, coarse nails that drag along his cheeks to trace his lips, delving into his mouth and suddenly slick with blood. David is here, always here, currently an almost indifferent lover as Michael feeds, pressed tight against his bare back.
Soon, the gasping breath of the boy begins to fade, those plush lips wide and open as that precious heart stops beating. Michael pulls away lest he draw on the beginnings of dead blood, licks his lips, and leans back.
"I never thought-"
"Thought what? That you would adapt so quickly?"David utters, dragging his lips over Michael's ear, the hot breath causing him to shudder, "like I said; you're one of us, Michael... and you're mine."
Such a simple declaration that it has Michael, whose face is once more smooth with the lines of burgeoning manhood, turning so as to meet David's lips in a feverish kiss, giving himself over to the lust that so quickly pervades his senses. It shifts through the stolen blood in his veins, heating up his body in preparation for an act so primal, so needy, that Michael allows himself to be pulled down by hard hands and a vicious smirk, back into the carnal sanctuary that is their bed.
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The Boardwalk is its usual hustle and bustle, filled to the brim with overactive kids and teenagers, doped up on pot and candy and the general atmosphere that permeates the very air of downtown Santa Carla.
Sam would much rather stay indoors with a comic book.
But this... this is at least the next best thing.
And yet, the comic book store is currently not the haven that Sam wishes it to be. Right now, it is a very hostile environment.
"Look, guys... Mike's just... he's not..." Sam lets out a heavy breath alike to a prepubescent tantrum and stumbles over his own words, tongue-tied, "he's just not a killer, alright? An ass, yeah, but a murderer? Mike? Are we even talking about the same guy here?"
The Frog brothers exchange a look, unimpressed. It was Sam, after all, that had come to them and expressed his fears... and they are merely offering their side of things.
"Our contact says otherwise." Edgar says.
"Sam, you've said it yourself. Your brother's changed... beyond saving. It's time to face facts, man; your bro's a goner." Alan is the voice of reason against Edgar's stoic expression, against his brother's solid determination. "And it might as well be you that does the honours."
Conflicted, Sam drags his fingers through Nanook's fur, who whines at him uncertainly. Dogs notice these things, Sam knows, and the obvious tension that resides in the Emerson household is thick enough to cut with a knife.
And yet, a part of Sam still acknowledges the brother that hid him from fatality. Dad, well he wasn't always a sober man, and it was Mike and Mom that bore the brunt of it; never Sam.
Mike, who'd push Sam under the covers and tell him not to come out, even when it'd gone quiet. Who, when all was dark and taut after the battle, would come and reassure him that Dad had passed out on the couch, drunk and exhausted.
Mike, who'd made up some obscure tale as to how he'd managed to get such an impressive shiner.
"No..." Sam shakes his head, fingers tightening around Nanook's collar, "I can't. Whatever he is, whatever he's done... he's still my brother."
Alan merely shrugs, leaning shoulder to shoulder with Edgar.
"Then we'll have to do it for you."
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The scent of sand and salt permeates Michael's nostrils, no less dimmed by the overpowering presence of blood. Indeed, he finds the crashing of the waves and the crackling flame of the bonfire to be as soothing as the arms that encircle his waist.
However, food is the last thing on the Boy's minds, and the distant sight of Paul and Marko, gleaming red, means little to Michael right now. It is the afterglow, where – although David and Michael had fed hours previous – revelling in the carnality of such brutal murder is first and foremost, where David's blood kisses up and down his throat is what has him humming in pleasure, and not the warm weight of a full belly.
And yet, the Pack is content, is it not? S'all that matters.
The purr that rumbles deep in his chest is pure animal, escalating in volume as the sharp sting of fang graces his neck alongside the smooth kisses and rough burn of stubble. Michael bares his throat; submission and delight, because fuck... he can't get enough of it. Of David, whose gloved hands move fluidly under the worn material of his shirt, as sure of his dominance over Michael as the knowledge that the sun always sets.
For a moment, David's hands pause and Michael tenses in anticipation.
There is someone here.
Someone... watching.
The scent of fear and blood and Sammy reaches his nostrils, buoyed by the wind, and for a moment Michael is confused, because his brother shouldn't be here, not now. He should be at home with his dog and his comic books, because here... here he is a threat.
And it's when that fear becomes tinged with self-righteous anger that Michael feels he has to act.
Sam, who had only wanted to clear his head by the waves, is in the wrong place at the wrong time. The mortal's very presence threatens the existence of the Pack, his association with hunters being what sets him apart from the rest of the blood bags that wander the Boardwalk. And yet, he is brother. And against his better judgement, Michael decides to meet Sam head on, away from the circle of safety, and the fine hairs on his neck rise; the Boys have his back.
But, they give him this. Sam is family. Sam is blood.
Of course, it blows up in his face.
Quite literally.
"So... this is who you are now, huh?" Sam spits, voice ripe with fury and indignation. "A bloodsucking murderer? A whore?"
"Sammy, I..."
It shouldn't sting. It shouldn't. But it does, and his face flushes red with an awkward kind of shame. But no matter how hard he tries to get a word in, to explain himself, to prove himself to the one person he'd deemed it right to protect through all of that shit back home... Sam's anger is simply too palpable.
"I trusted in you, Mike. I really did. And now... I have to kill you."
