He was floating. Falling. At times he felt sand brushing between his toes. When had he taken off his shoes? Then, a crisp and wet fog kissed his skin. Michael's own screams echoed back at him like they were coming from someone else, joining with the laughter of the others. Those same laughs were like something between cruelty and unbridled joy. It was both terrifying and infectious.
Michael couldn't breathe anymore. Maybe he didn't need to. He became numb to his own fear, feeling cool water run over his fingers, then leather and denim. Skin and lips. Dark, rolling fog melted into blinding daylight.
He fumbled for the window blinds when Sam came barreling into his room, shielding his face. Fuck, it was bright.
"I'm up, I'm up," Michael croaked, managing to shove a pair of sunglasses over his face. Then he found the phone shoved in his face and Sam said something stupid, so Michael flipped him the bird. Nothing really seemed to register. He said something to mom over the phone, bitched at Sam for a minute or two, and then before he knew it he was waking up in a much darker bedroom.
Michael sat up in bed, removing his sunglasses so he could rub at his eyes. He didn't remember coming home. Was he really that drunk last night?
Vague images flashed in his mind's eye, but none of them made sense. How had he even made it home? There was a bridge. A train. Impossible.
Not wanting to scratch at the uncomfortable thought that maybe it wasn't a dream, whatever he'd done on that bridge, Michael left his room. Sam was downstairs clattering around the kitchen making a mess.
"Sam?" Michael called out, an uncomfortable feeling settling into his shoulders. He wanted to go out, but he vaguely remembered promising to babysit. His mood soured. Would Sam rat him out if he left anyway?
"I'm in the kitchen!" Sam shouted back. No shit. Where else would he be, making all that noise?
"It lives," Sam remarked, watching his older brother stalk into the kitchen. Michael didn't acknowledge the remark. Instead he just leaned against the kitchen island and let out a deep sigh, rolling his head from side to side to work the kinks out of his shoulder muscles.
"Mom's upstairs," Sam added, "she's gonna head out soon. Hey, try this-" Sam was standing at the stove with a tomato stained apron and a wooden spoon with some sort of concoction on it.
"No," Michael replied flatly.
"Fine, you're missing out," Sam replied with a shrug, tasting the Frankenstein-food himself. His smile he used to follow up a cringe was unconvincing. He quickly dropped it back in the saucepan he'd been stirring.
"Hey, if you don't wanna babysit," Sam began, "cause we both know I don't need one, obviously—-why don't you just drop me off at the comic shop when mom's gone?"
As far as stupid ideas that would get Michael an earful later if they got caught, it wasn't one of Sam's worst.
"You'll need a ride home," Michael pointed out. His voice sounded rough, gravelly. Probably from whatever was in that wine he'd had last night. Against his better judgment, the thought of it made his mouth water. He'd kill to try it again.
"Just pick me up in a couple hours, Mike. You aren't gonna hang out all night again, are you?" Sam nearly whined, then abruptly switched tactics, "if it's that chick, just bring her home. Mom doesn't need to know about that either…"
"Mom doesn't need to know what?" Lucy chirped, striding into the kitchen with Nanook padding behind her. She leaned over to kiss Michael, pulling back abruptly.
"Are you okay, sweety? You feel cold," she pressed a hand to his forehead.
"Fevers are hot, mom. I'm fine," Michael replied moodily. He hadn't meant it to come out like that, but it did. Lucy pulled back from him to adjust one of her stud earrings. He knew that look on her face, and he hated it. It was the look of understanding and hurt. Sam gave Michael one of his own dirty looks, too, as if he'd meant to sound like a jerk.
"Well, just take care of yourself tonight. I'll be back soon, and–" Lucy looked back over at the stove, leaning closer to Michael conspiratorially, "there's lunchmeat and cheese in the fridge if you get hungry." She whispered the second half, ever aware of Sam's own delicate feelings. Something both Lucy and Sam had in common.
"Don't stay out too late, mom, Santa Carla's the murder capital of the world," Sam advised, waving his spoon in the air. Michael scowled at the flecks of sauce that hit the counter. It positively reeked.
"Sam," Lucy chided, "where on earth did you hear that?" She adjusted the chain of her shoulder purse as she headed towards the door, shaking her head.
"I saw it on a billboard, mom, right when we were driving down!" Sam exclaimed, "be safe!"
"I'll keep that in mind," Lucy replied with a soft giggle. She paused to give Michael one long, thoughtful look. "Michael."
"Huh?" Michael asked, pulling away from the counter and looking back at her. He tipped down the shades he'd yet to remove.
"I love you. Both of you." With that, she was out the door and rushing past echoing wind chimes towards her car.
They both watched her leave. A few tense minutes passed as they waited for the sound of tires on gravel fade into the night. Then Sam tossed his spoon back into the saucepan with a loud clatter, clapping his hands together.
"Ok, so I'm thinking burgers, you drop me off at the comic shop, do whatever it is you do with whoever or whatever–" He launched into his nefarious plan, while Michael only half-listened. He'd like to see Star again. The guys too. Actually, he really wanted to go back out tonight. Maybe even have a little more wine. Not as much, though, he told himself.
Neither Sam nor Michael saw the bikes in the darkness, or the yellow eyes peering towards the house, waiting…
Max examined his finely-trimmed nails. It wasn't terribly convenient to manicure them every night, but civility had its price. Modern conveniences certainly made blending in easier than it used to be, at the very least.
He wasn't anxious. He was too old for that. However, that didn't mean he wasn't excited. He was thrilled at the idea of a true companion in his home. A wife. A mother. A woman so pure and sweet, that the diamond she would become from her human casting would outshine the stars.
All in good time, though. They still had to get to know each other first. They'd have to at least spend three days doing that, he reasoned with himself. This was only day two. Max had always rather enjoyed the idea of whirlwind romances. Not that love really factored into anything in the end. He wasn't nearly so delusional to believe himself capable of something quite that human. It didn't mean he couldn't go through the motions. Play the part.
Lost in his musings, Max enjoyed the view from the window beside his table. The best spot in the restaurant. Perhaps tomorrow he could bring home a set of twins to dine on. One for Thorne, and one for himself. If things went well tonight, who knew? Perhaps triplets were in order.
"I'm sorry I'm late!" Lucy approached the table, and Max immediately climbed to his feet, holding out a hand to her.
"Not at all, you are just on time. If anything, I was early," Max replied, kissing the top of her hand. Lucy blushed prettily, and looked down at the candle-lit table with two sets of silk-wrapped silverware and a fresh breadbasket waiting for her.
"This place is lovely," she remarked sweetly, taking a seat across from his once Max pulled out her chair for her.
"It's one of my favorite spots," he replied, sitting back down and clasping his hands together over the table top. "They're open well past midnight almost every weekend," he explained, smiling broadly. "I'm a night owl, you see."
"Well, I'm not surprised," Lucy replied politely, "I'll bet you work late all the time. Everybody likes to rent movies at night, don't they?"
"You could say that."
They made idle chatter for a time until it came time to order. Lucy demurely ordered a salad, to which Max insisted she would also have a steak. He spared no expense. From the Dom Perignon for toasting to a more luxurious port to enjoy with dessert.
"You really don't have to go through all this trouble," Lucy assured him, looking with wide eyes down at her steak. Cooked well done to the point of charred.
"There's no point in a night out if you can't have everything you want, Lucy. It's no trouble at all," he replied. She'd learn soon enough that any choice he made for them was from the kindness of his own heart, or rather - - any choice made for them was his and his alone to make.
Max placed a hand over Lucy's before the dessert arrived. A decadent chocolate cake bedecked in curls of dark shavings and dripping with cherry brandy sauce. "I just want you to know, Lucy, that I have enjoyed this evening very much. I don't often go out, and when I do it's never with such charming company."
Lucy blushed, letting her hand rest under his, "you're very nice, Max. This is all just so much." She looked about her, a little nervous, a little helpless. The woman wasn't accustomed to luxury, he could tell. She'd adjust soon enough.
"Ms. Emerson?" The waiter approached their table, bowing his head respectfully towards Max, "there's a call for you in the lobby."
Lucy pulled her hand away from Max's, her eyebrows shooting up, "is it an emergency?"
The waiter shook his head, "that I do not know, madam."
With a smile, Lucy grabbed her purse from below her chair and nodded to Max, "it's probably Sam or Michael. I swear, they're great kids, but sometimes they need a little attention. I hope you don't mind."
Max shook his head, "not at all, Lucy. I understand being a parent can be difficult. Boys need a mother, after all."
She swiftly departed the table, allowing Max to enjoy his private company for a while. The port was delivered to their table while she was away, allowing him the time to mull over whether or not he was going to take things to the next level tonight. Was Lucy the one? He thought about the phone call, looking down to examine his Rolex idly. Yes, she'd do.
He bit deep into his bottom lip with human teeth, not wanting to risk making too much of a scene. It hurt a little more than sharper fangs might, but it got the job done. Max brought Lucy's glass to his lips to feign a sip, letting a few droplets of blood spill into the port and swirling it gently. Deftly, he snatched up a napkin to wipe the rim and replace the glass on the table.
Lucy returned shortly with a pained smile, "sorry. Sam was asking about my father's car we sold. He thought we still had it in the garage. It's a long story. I hope you didn't mind waiting too long.
"Oh Lucy, not at all!" Max exclaimed, gesturing towards the cake and port, "but before we continue, I insist you try the port. It's absolutely divine. No other vintage like it."
"Goodness," Lucy replied, emitting a soft giggle, "maybe just a tiny sip or two. I still have to drive tonight, after all."
"Don't worry, I promise I'll be the perfect gentleman," Max told her, earning himself another pleasant laugh. She loved the port. Every last drop.