A/N: Okay, so I am totally into this story now you guys :) I literally can't stop thinking about it.
Anyway, this chapter starts in Kurt's point of view again. I'm not sure whether or not I'm going to do like an alternating pattern with the POV's but I will have to switch back to Blaine when I tell his back-story, so we'll see.
Kurt sits patiently on the steel gray sectional in his living room, inspecting his nail cuticles casually while he waits for the sound of running water to stop from the bathroom down the hall. He tries not to let his mind stray too far from the present because then he'd start thinking about why he is doing all this and how crazy it is if thought about realistically. Sure, there's no law against secretly harboring humans in your city loft-apartment, but he is more than certain that it's something heavily frowned upon and possibly punishable by some form of law, his parents included.
He just can't get over why he feels the overwhelming need to help this boy.
Finding an un-captured human dead center in what is probably considered to be one of the most highly concentrated areas of vampires in the United States is nothing short of a miracle. Not for said human, obviously; it's more of a hellish nightmare. But just the sheer magnitude of Kurt's discovery leaves him a little short of lightheaded, and he can't shake off the feeling that he's neck deep in a very serious situation. Maybe even a very dangerous situation. Because if anyone finds out what, or in this case, who he's hiding…
But all of those thoughts fly unceremoniously out the window as the pattering sound of the shower cuts off and Kurt is plummeted back to earth.
A few minutes of silence pass before there is the quiet click of an opening door as Blaine steps out from the bathroom and into the living area. Kurt turns his head slowly to acknowledge his guest's presence, only looking away from his nails when his face makes the full rotation.
And wow…
Kurt blinks in confusion. Is this really the same boy he pulled off the streets a few hours ago? Blaine's hair is freshly washed and towel dried, the loose curls sweeping gently across the smooth skin of his forehead which, impressively, is clean and void of any of the previous buildup of grime. Without the filth, Kurt can see the chiseled cuts of Blaine's curving jawbone, the handsome beauty of the feature marred slightly by the fact that the boy's malnutrition is only more noticeable from behind the layer of grit.
"You need to eat," he comments lightly, but his eyes can't stray away from the shocking transformation, like Blaine had removed a gruesome mask to reveal charming, masculine artistry.
Blaine stands self consciously in place, glancing uneasily around the apartment like he had when he first entered, almost as if he suspects there to have been an ambush planned while he'd let down his defenses. Kurt feels a pang of sadness at Blaine's distrust and holds up his hands to assuage the boy's fears.
"Hey, no need to worry, okay? I don't have anything up my sleeve. Well, actually that's not true; I have a gorgeous silver-platedArmani watch, but that's beside the point. You can trust me."
The two lock gazes and Kurt tries his best to put as much sincerity as he can muster into his eyes, begging silently for the timid boy to listen to him, even just a little. Much to Kurt's immense relief, Blaine seems to thaw a bit and his shoulders relax ever so slightly from their hunched position.
"Okay…" Blaine murmurs, his gaze shifting around one last time before coming to a permanent stop on Kurt, who stares at him unwaveringly in return. As much as Kurt tries, he can't stop from congratulating himself on the clothing choice; for some reason, the forest green muscle tee and loose skinny jeans he let Blaine borrow really compliment his ivory skin tone as well as his moderately muscled build. It's almost—no, Kurt won't say it, he won't...but he can't hold the word back—attractive.
Not almost, it's definitely attractive.
Kurt blinks a few times more and dispels the thought.
"So, uh, food…right."
Kurt leads the way into the kitchen, giving Blaine a pointed look as an invitation to follow when his guest stands statuesque in his spot. They make their way over to the refrigerator, and Blaine steps quickly back when Kurt yanks open the door to reveal shelves stocked with surprisingly ordinary items, though there's a lot of it, and Blaine's stomach responds predictably.
"Sorry," he says, mildly embarrassed. He wraps his arms around his rumbling torso and looks to his feet, a small hint of red growing across the pale stretch of his cheekbones. Kurt swallows reflexively, trying to ignore the instinctual draw of Blaine's reaction, and he stops the flow of air through his nose. A sudden, anxious feeling overcomes him as he realizes how risky this is, not just for him but for Blaine as well. But Blaine's expression distracts him, the boy's eyes glinting hungrily at the stockpile of food, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet the dry plump of his bottom lip.
"Don't worry about it," Kurt says in response, giving a small smile. The red fades from Blaine's cheeks and Kurt lets out a silent sigh of relief. "You must be absolutely famished. Help yourself to whatever you want."
Blaine's expression lightens despite his nervousness, and Kurt grins happily as the boy reaches tentatively into the fridge, pulling out an apple and two cheese sticks. For a moment, Kurt's grin falters—surely he must be more hungry than that, right?—but then Blaine quietly asks, "Do you mind if I start out with this and go back for more? I don't think my body would react well if I just started stuffing my face after a week or so of nothing…"
Kurt eyes him warmly. "Sure, no problem. Have as much as you like. Actually, since you're eating, I might just have a little snack myself."
Silence.
Blaine drops his food. His face blanches and his skin pales to a deathly white.
Kurt's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, barely noticing when the newly bruised apple rolls and hits the tread of his shoe. "What's wrong?" he asks anxiously, leaning forward and subconsciously stretching out his arm in questioning. Blaine's breath hitches in his throat and he backs away, his lips suddenly cracked and dry and his eyes wide and staring.
"Hey, what did I say?"
"Don't touch me," Blaine whispers, his chest rising and falling frantically. He breaks his gaze from Kurt for half a second to search for a safe exit, but there is none. Kurt can see the raw fear in his eyes, can almost hear the panicked thoughts screaming through his head, 'get out, get out now!'. He's not sure exactly what he did wrong, but suddenly his mind conducts a quick replay, his words echoing loudly in his mind as if the universe were trying to personally point out his mistake.
Oh. That's why.
"Wait! Wait wait, that's not what I meant!" Kurt exclaims, his eyes widening in diameter to match Blaine's. Blaine stops retreating for a moment, but the fright does not leave his face and his breath refuses to slow. Kurt can just hear the rapid beating of his heart through his t-shirt and he winces at how callous he had just been, how carelessly he had caused this boy to distrust him again. These kinds of frequent shocks to the system couldn't possibly be doing anything to help Blaine's health either, and Kurt fights to restrain the onslaught of guilt and the urge to face-palm.
"I would never…I'm not going to…t-to eat you—oh god, that sounds so stupid!" Kurt groans, just barely managing to stop himself from running his fingers through his hair and ruining his perfect coif. Could the awkward tension in the room get any more pronounced? He tries to break through the veil of frustration and figure out how to fix the little disaster, even though a very, very small voice in his head reminds him of what Blaine's blush had looked like to him, how enticing it had been, how warm it had looked, how appetizing…
No!
"Look," Kurt begins soothingly, but his wince taints the effect. "I promise that, as long as you're with me, you're safe. I won't hurt you and I won't put you in danger. But, I'm not forcing you to be here, either. You can come and go as you please—even though that sounds a little unwise, honestly—but it's not my right to decide things for you. I'm just here to help, I swear."
A long time passes of nothing but Blaine's strained breathing and Kurt's pleading gaze. It almost seems like each second comes and passes slower at each tick of the clock, and Kurt resists the urge to growl in frustration. He isn't irritated with Blaine; he's irritated with himself, at the whole situation, at the world. None of this would be necessary if the plague had never come to be. Everything seems to be in perfect, working order, but really the planet is just one massive, chaotic mess disguised by a mocking impersonation of organization. And he's angry about it for the first time in his life.
"…fine…" Blaine whispers and a small blush creeps onto his cheeks again. Kurt glances to the side uncomfortably until it fades. When he looks back, Blaine is grimacing sheepishly and bending to the floor to retrieve the dropped food.
"I…I just freaked out over nothing, didn't I?" the boy mutters as his fingers curl around the cheese sticks. Kurt reaches for the apple since it is closest to him, his face tilting up from the floor to stare into Blaine's thoroughly embarrassed eyes.
"I would've done the exact same thing if I were in your position, trust me," he replies. Blaine holds his hand out for the apple but Kurt places it on the counter instead and walks back to the fridge. "Don't worry, I'll get you a new one; you don't have to eat it when it's all bruised and nasty."
Blaine gives a small grateful smile. "I feel like I'm going through a violent lifestyle whiplash," he comments shyly, staring down at the floor. Kurt turns with the fresh fruit in hand and lifts his eyebrow, shutting the door of the fridge with the heel of his foot.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, less than five hours ago I was rummaging through dumpsters for my next meal and now all of a sudden I'm eating like a king. I'm half convinced that right now I'm still back in that alley dreaming."
Kurt smirks outwardly but inside a part of him breaks with pity. He suddenly feels very spoiled standing in his custom made kitchen, surrounded by luxuries and amenities to which he normally wouldn't spare a second thought. Blaine has probably experienced more horrors and hardships in the last few years than Kurt would in his entire lifetime. He wordlessly hands the new apple to Blaine and heads over to the pantry to choose something for himself.
"You can have a seat, if you like," Kurt calls, his eyes still roaming the shelves. He doesn't want to eat more than Blaine—he would just feel more guilty—so he settles on a small box of low-fat rice cakes. Normally, he would dip the cardboard-like cakes in a tall glass of O-negative for more flavor, but he has a feeling that Blaine would be a little more than unsettled if he tried.
As he closes the door, he hears the soft noise of Blaine settling into couch cushions in the room over.
Kurt strolls into the living and joins Blaine on the couch, sitting on the opposite end to ensure a comfortable distance.
"So," he begins, popping a rice cake into his mouth. Oh dear god, these things are disgusting, he thinks, and places the box on the glass, oval-cut coffee table. "Are you feeling a little better? How's the fever?"
Blaine looks up from a small bite of cheese. The way he's holding his snack, reverently like it's a precious jewel, stabs at Kurt in a way that he doesn't quite know how to handle.
"…about the same, I think," Blaine replies softy. The paleness of his cheeks does nothing to soothe Kurt's worries, and he briefly considers reaching over to place a hand on the boy's forehead to gauge his temperature. However, he knows how delicate Blaine is at the moment, and unwanted physical contact might send his nerves over the edge, so he decides against it.
Kurt clears his throat at the heavy silence. "Ahem, so, um…my parents get back around six-thirty so that gives us just about…" he checks his watch. "Just about seven hours to kill—er, I mean to waste…" Kurt grits his teeth against the inner dialogue of insults his conscience seems to eagerly throw at him. What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you want to send him running? God, how many times can you unknowingly throw carnal subliminal messages at the poor boy before he cracks?
"Oh, okay." Blaine replies, his face twisted slightly in nervous confusion at Kurt's pained expression.
"We have to figure out what's going to happen before they get home," Kurt continues, recovering from his guilt-spree. "I mean, it's obvious that they can't know you're here."
Blaine's eyes fill with fear and his brows shoot up in surprise. "T-they can't?"
"No, I'm afraid not. My family probably wouldn't react well to, er…well, to you. Unfortunately, they don't think the same way I do. You see, my parents are…pretty sheltering." Kurt settles for the nicest of explanations and shrugs as he lets his words marinate, as if 'sheltering' explains just about everything. Blaine doesn't seem to understand, so Kurt clarifies.
"They don't want me getting into any trouble and, well, you're sort of…troubling."
"Oh…"
"Yeah…I mean, to be honest, if someone found out I was harboring a human," Kurt frowns at how impersonal he sounds, "There's no doubt you would be turned in immediately, and I would be up shit creek without a paddle. There's no set consequence for what I'm doing, but I'm sure our city authority would come up with something, and my Mom and Dad would have a conniption. So, for now and for both our sakes, we have to keep this a secret."
Blaine's face twists with conflict. "The way you're putting it…it sounds like you expect me to stay for a while."
Kurt blanches for a moment with realization and them immediately backtracks, his hands flurrying anxiously. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…I wasn't trying to decide things for you…I mean, you can stay as long as you want, I—I just sort of assumed you would stay until you got better, at least…" he trails off, his eyes dropping down to his lap where his thumbs unendingly fiddle.
"But…how would you not get caught?" Blaine asks quietly.
"That's a good question. That's why I have to figure this out sooner rather than later. I need a plan." Kurt says more to himself than to Blaine, tapping his thumbnail against his teeth as he drowns himself in thought.
Blaine stares at Kurt from across the couch, his emotions swirling around in a dangerous whirlpool of contradiction. If he takes Kurt's offer to rest here for a few days, he'll be able recover and get well enough to go back out and continue his original mission, the reason he came to the city in the first place. He needs the energy; there's no chance he can survive in his current state out on the streets. It would only be a matter of time before the hunger or the thirst got to him, or he was discovered by somebody much less accepting and compassionate than Kurt.
But if he did take the offer, he'd be putting not only himself in danger, but Kurt as well.
He feels like he's being split in half. His mind is saying, don't do it; it's too much of a risk; if it doesn't end well it's not just you're ass on the line this time; don't be so selfish, Blaine.
His body retorts, are you kidding? You're going to pass up the offer of days worth of free food, showers, and comfortable rest just for the sake of a blood-sucker? I'm hungry, dammit!
"I have an idea." Kurt pipes up suddenly, breaking Blaine away from his reverie. "If you do choose to stay, I can set up a cot in my walk-in closet. Neither my parents nor my brother would ever dare to go in there; apparently I guard my clothing with a passion that borders insanity. You can sleep in there for the time being—and hide there when my parents are home—while you recover and you can shower during the day when everyone is away…or during the night, rather; sorry, I guess my night and day constitute two different things than yours."
Blaine nods at this sentiment, his mind flashing back to when he first entered the city during the daylight, how the streets had lain bare and empty under the beating sun and the air had hung saturated with an unearthly quiet. The plague seemed to have reversed time itself.
"I know what you mean," he says, shaking off the eerie mental picture. The plan seems somewhat solid; he supposes maybe…maybe he could stay for a day or two? Three at the most? Just until he got better enough to continue what he'd first started…
He swears to himself that he won't cause any trouble. When the entire family is home, he'll sit in the closet and not make a single peep. He'll try to not even breathe loudly. He'll be like a human statue; unmoving and unnoticeable. It'll be fine. And when his stay is over, he'll go on his way and never bother Kurt again, never involve his benevolent caretaker—there you go again, you have to stop that— in his worries.
At least, that's what Blaine promises himself.
But before he agrees, he wants to learn more about Kurt's situation and what it would entail for himself. He deserves to know what kind of household he's going to be intruding upon—even if it is secretly.
"You said you had a brother, right?" he asks as he finishes the second cheese stick and moves to take the first bite out of the apple. His teeth sink in with a satisfying crunch and the inside of his mouth practically explodes from the sweet flavor. Kurt's answer flies right over his head as he is momentarily distracted, and suddenly his brain is recapping every instance where he had to eat from a dumpster, wondering how he'd ever managed to do something like that when fresh food like this had graced his taste buds before.
"Sorry, what was that?" he says after a moment when his gaze refocuses. He's slightly shocked to see the look in Kurt's eyes; it's…sad. Broken. Blaine doesn't know what to think.
Kurt refocuses and his face returns to its previous position of calm. "He's, um, not actually my brother, per se. He's my step brother. My dad remarried after…after my mom died…"
"Oh," Blaine replies lamely. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Kurt says, his eyes shifting to his feet. "She passed a long time ago. My dad married Carol just before the plague hit, but I knew Finn from my high school. He was the quarterback for the football team."
Blaine's a bit off-put by the edge in Kurt's voice at the mention of 'quarterback'. It makes him curious. Which, in his mind, is not good. Because curiosity means you are getting comfortable. And he can't afford to be comfortable. But try as he may, he can't stop himself from asking questions, even though his conscience chides him for his lack of anxiety.
"You don't like him?"
Kurt narrows his eyes and for a moment Blaine becomes tense, afraid that he's hit the wrong button, afraid that Kurt's taken offense, afraid that there are consequences that follow. But then Kurt relaxes with a heavy sigh, and shakes his head.
"No, it's not that. It's the whole…football-popularity thing. Finn's nice enough, it's just…the whole social hierarchy thing really did a number on me back then…I just—I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay."
Blaine blinks. "Er, no problem…"
The silence that follows is a bit awkward so Blaine takes another bite of his apple, closing his eyes as he relishes the taste.
"Okay, you've got to stop that." Kurt pleads.
Blaine's eyes shoot open again. "W…what?" he asks confusedly, glancing nervously at Kurt as though he is about to be reprimanded. Kurt has the same saddened look in his eyes and Blaine is left to decipher it amongst all of his other muddled thoughts.
"I swear, when you eat like that, it makes me want to cry," Kurt says softly, his face a bit sheepish but his eyes glistening with moisture. "You look so starved and…gosh I'm such a drama queen, I'm sorry…"
Blaine's gaze ping-pongs between the apple in his hand and Kurt's mortified expression, and suddenly another question pops out of his mouth of its own accord, a question he's wanted answered for a while now that's nagged at him constantly, probably the most important question of them all.
"Why do you care so much? Why are you helping me? You're different from everyone else in this city…why is that? What are you getting out of all this?"
The inquiry tumbles from his lips in almost an accusatory tone, and Kurt flinches ever so slightly in his seat, glancing up with unsteady, unsure eyes that stab Blaine with a fortuitous sensation he'd never felt before. It's a little alarming, as though a sudden switch is flicked in his brain for half a second before switching back to the same position in which it started, flashing a dizzyingly bright light before plunging everything into the same gray monotones as before.
And…he saw something in that brief moment. He saw color and life and he felt that elusive glimmer of warmth that has evaded him for years, felt his heart stutter out of something other than fear, something much, much kinder and gentler…
But it's gone, and he doesn't have the time to dissect it before Kurt begins to respond, his golden opalescent eyes directed down at his lap.
Why can't you get a deep breath? Why can't you stop staring?
Blaine can't answer.
"I…I honestly don't know." Kurt admits meekly, wiping away the residual moisture still trapped in his lower lashes. "I know I told you I missed being human before—and that wasn't a lie—but…I can't tell if that's the only reason."
Blaine has to strain his ears slightly as Kurt trails off, his soft voice disappearing into the quiet, wavering with uncertainty and vulnerability. There's another flash similar to the first one, but this time it lingers, smoldering in Blaine's chest before dimming out and extinguishing like a slowly dying ember on the end of a candle wick.
"Well…no matter the reason," Blaine begins, waiting until Kurt looks up so they can lock gazes, so he can be sincere and honest. "Thank you. For everything. I don't know what would have come of me if you hadn't found me. I owe you my life."
"You don't owe me anything. In fact, I probably owe you. It was my race that did this to you. People like me…they shouldn't be hunting you. It's cruel. And the horrible thing is, most of us don't even think about it. We just go on with our everyday lives as though what they're doing—the farming companies—is the most natural thing in the world."
Before the sensible part of his brain can stop him, Blaine opens his mouth to speak. "Hey, don't go blaming yourself for the mistakes of others. It's not your burden to carry."
What are you talking about? He should be apologizing to you. He's indifferent to all of it too, Blaine. Of course it's his burden to carry. He's one of them. Why are you letting yourself forget that?
His conscience nags him relentlessly, but he just…can't. He can't bring himself to blame Kurt for all that's happened to him. Subconsciously, he certainly trying to. But…
Blaine has already established a personal hatred for Kurt's…species? Race? What would one name a pack of monstrous demons? He's already taken out several vendettas against the CEO's of the farming companies, against all levels of authority. In his mind, their faces are dark and twisted with malice, wrinkled and ugly with evil so deeply ingrained it's practically embedded in their cells. That is the connection he makes when he thinks of these porcelain-like beings.
When he looks at Kurt, though, that connection doesn't spark. When he looks upon the distinct, yet soft curves of his face—when did you notice that?—and the curious glimmer that flickers in the deep chasms of his irises—really now Blaine? Chasms? What's happening to you?—he's see's no menace. No blackness. Only innocence. Kindness.
It's as refreshing as it is unnerving.
"Ready for some more?" Kurt asks after a while. Blaine furrows his brows in confusion but then sees Kurt looking at the fruit resting in his fingers. He glances down to find the apple bitten nearly down to the core. He can't remember eating it that fast.
"Sure," Blaine replies. Kurt gives him a smile and the tension evaporates. The two of them stand and make their way into the kitchen.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. As much as Blaine tries to stay on his guard, he catches himself slipping into a state of relaxation, of ease. He accidentally falls asleep on the couch, a box of Ritz crackers cradled in his arms and a bottle of Gatorade at his side. Kurt wakes him after a few hours to give him some hot soup, saying that Blaine was coughing non-stop in his slumber and the heat should alleviate the discomfort in his throat. Immediately, the ever shrinking voice in Blaine's head scolds him for his ineptitude, his callousness.
But as the hours roll by, as the day—or night—settles in, the voice that fuels the distrust and the trepidation in Blaine's heart slowly disintegrates until it is no longer a cause for annoyance.
"I think I'd better get you set up in the closet soon," Kurt calls from the living room. Blaine is helping himself to a bag of peanuts from the pantry and he looks up in response, his eyes flickering to the giant wall clock that hangs in the kitchen like a three-dimensional mural. It's six o' clock. Time is starting to catch up with him, and a bubble of anxiety forms in his stomach.
What if he's caught? What if Kurt's family finds him? What if they send him to a farm?
No. He can't let him think like that. Not now, anyways. He has to be confident in his choices. If he second guesses himself, he's far more likely to slip up and make a mistake.
Kurt guides Blaine to his room, a part of the residence Blaine hasn't seen yet. He'd spent almost all of his time in the kitchen, living room, and occasionally–when nature came calling—the bathroom since he'd been there and it is a shock to him to find Kurt's room so ornately decorated when the rest of the home seems so minimalistic and stream-line.
Kurt's bed is positioned in the middle of the far left wall, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that are adorned with grey, metallic drapery. A stark white shag carpet pops against the dark chocolate brown of the flooring—the wood almost looks like teak—and a high backed, lion footed chair rests on top it, its golden-flecked upholstery glinting in the light from a nearby lamp that is designed to be almost like a modern take on a candelabra. Simple white shelving units line the rest of the walls, but the objects that fill them bring the room to an entirely different level of class and sophistication, for each trinket and trophy and showcase looks hand-polished and highly valuable in their tastefully staged positions.
"Wow…you have a nice room," Blaine says quietly.
"I know," Kurt replies a bit cheekily, smirking to himself. The closet door faces them from the opposite wall and Kurt steps over to it agilely. Blaine can't help but stare at the sinuous movement in an odd sort of mesmerized appreciation. He can't remember seeing a boy be so graceful.
The walk in closet is huge. And yet, despite its size, clothes still seem to be overflowing from every crevasse in the space. A rainbow of colors explode from every hook, drawer, and cubby, and Blaine finds himself emitting a small chuckle at how Kurt's face lightens at the sight of his massive collection, almost like a small child at a candy store.
A twin sized air mattress lies in the middle of the floor, fitted with cream colored sheets and a down comforter that matches the wood beneath. A few plush pillows sit at the foot of the mattress along with an extra fleece blanket.
"Do you snore?" Kurt asks.
Blaine shakes his head.
"Good. Then we have nothing to worry about."
A few seconds of silence pass as Blaine surveys his surroundings. He's not usually one to get emotional—at least, since the plague hit—but suddenly he finds a lump crawling into his throat and feels his eyes begin to sting.
"Kurt," He begins, turning to the boy. Yes, he's a boy. He's a person. How could someone like him not have a soul? "I can't even…begin to thank you for what you're doing. For what you've done already. You…You're truly one of the most kindhearted people I've met. I wish there was some way I could repay you for all of this, but…"
"Don't worry about it," Kurt says, waving him away. "Just make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, I'll be visiting my room pretty frequently so you can just ask."
"Thank you."
Kurt smiles warmly. Then, as if on cue, there is a faint rattling sound from outside Kurt's room. Both boys' heads turn at once to the noise, but their reactions to it are polar opposite. Blaine freezes, his muscles tightening with panic and fear. Kurt regards the noise with a comfortable sense of familiarity, as if it were routine. A few moments later, a low squelching signals the opening of the front door, and Kurt exits his room quickly, leaving Blaine to retreat into the closet and shut the door behind him.
He can just make out the muffled sounds of voices from behind the door.
"Hey Kurt!"
"Hi Dad, hi Carol."
"So how was your day, son?"
The air stills in Blaine's lungs as he waits for the answer, waits for his fate to be decided for him. It's almost torturous the way Kurt pauses for a half second too long, and even as unnoticeable as the pause is, Blaine can sense the hesitation, the uncertainty.
"Uneventful. Pretty boring." Kurt replies nonchalantly.
Blaine lets out a heavy breath and leans back against the wall, pulling his fingers through his untamed, curly locks. Thank god, he thinks. He tunes out the rest of the mundane conversation and just breathes.
He's in the clear. For now at least.
After he allows the nerves to settle in his stomach, he grabs one of the pillows in his calloused hands, marveling at the soft, feathery texture of the fabric before resting his head in the cushion and sprawling out on his side on the mattress. His tired back moans in relief and he lets his eyelids succumb to gravity, feeling the heaviness of sleep fall upon him almost immediately. He welcomes the warmth, the darkness, and he slowly begins to lose himself under the curtain of unconsciousness.
And he dreams.
He's running—or at least attempting to run. His feet feel like dead weights, and they drag uselessly along the heat tortured pavement. He's so, so tired. More tired than he's ever been. He's never run so much, never had so much adrenaline pump through his body at once. He feels like he could collapse at any time. But of course, he can't. Unless he wants to die.
He doesn't know who it is who's chasing him. He doesn't know what happened to his sister. All he knows is the hollow slap of his converse against the ground, the scorching, suffocating heat of the sunlight glancing off the sweat-slicked plane of his forehead.
He thought he'd be safe during the daytime. They didn't come outside then. It was at night when he had to exercise caution, when he had to slink through the shadows and duck behind buildings. Not now. Not when the light was shining so relentlessly from the sky.
But now they wore full-body suits. They'd had special equipment, special armor. At some time, they'd learned the advantages of daytime hunting and adapted as needed. It left Blaine defenseless. Vulnerable. Constantly frightened beyond belief.
And constant stress takes a toll on one's energy, no matter how tough or resilient they may be.
He can hear them gaining behind him. They're slower with all of the UV-blocking metal, but they're steady and fit and their pace does not falter. Blaine attempts to side track them by jumping fences and weaving through the maze of his suburban streets, but they keep up just the same. He can't shake them. He's doomed.
And then a sound hits him like a bucket of bricks; a voice screams out from somewhere he can't see.
"BLAAAAAIIIINE!"
He immediately recognizes it as his sister, and a rush of determination floods his cells. He picks up his pace, doubling back towards the source of the noise, and eventually finds himself in front of his house. The front door is broken down and the windows are shattered. The shutters lie in small heaps at the foundation and the ones that remain hanging are crooked and skewed.
"BLAAINE!"
He bounds across the front lawn and bursts through the entrance.
And then his heart stops.
His blood drains to the soles of his feet.
They have her. They have his sister.
A huge crowd of them are gathered in his foyer, surrounding the little girl in a semi-circle. Five of them are restraining her tiny, thrashing frame while the others simply watch and stand off to the side. One seems just about ready to pull the trigger on his tranquilizer, but another seems more hesitant. Blaine gapes openly at the conversation in front of him.
"It's a juvenile, so wouldn't the dosage be different? I'm just saying, it would be unfortunate for us to overdose it and lose all the potential blood. The general said to preserve the young ones as best as possible."
"Yes, but the general isn't here. We can't just shove it in the back of the truck awake, now can we? And I don't have time to adjust the dosage; I have a deadline to meet. We'll just have to hope that it wakes up in the end."
Blaine stands frozen in horror at the scene. None of them have noticed him yet; all of their gazes are locked on his little sister. The terror on her face is immeasurable and the rims of her eyes overflow with tears. Her body quivers and her captors have to yank her up by her shoulders so she doesn't fall to the floor.
"…Fine, I guess. Just get it over with; it's starting to make a scene."
Blaine can't control his limbs. He can't move. He can't breathe. He can't do anything.
His heartbeat begins to measure the time.
One…Two…Three…
Tfff!
The sound of air expelling the shaft of the gun wakes him from his trance. But it is too late. The damage has been done. His sister gives one last whimper before falling slack, her eyes rolling back and closing with sleep, her legs dangling awkwardly from where the monster is holding her up.
Finally, some part of him jumpstarts, and his vocal cords spring into action again.
"HEY!" he screams. Every single body in the room turns to him and there is a pause, a heavy hesitation.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
"GET HIM! NOW NOW NOW!"
His poor, battered body does what only what it is programmed to do in situations like these.
He turns away and he runs.
And he doesn't look back to see the face of his sister one last time before he turns the corner and leaves his suburb forever.
A/N: Wowww that was longer than I expected it would be! Anyway, please review! If you do, you are officially awesome :D... No seriously, review.