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 [ +18 ] Yea, Though I Walk Through the Valley [ for Mara ], vampires??? who knows???
Lar
 Posted: May 26 2015, 05:05 PM
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The beginnings of an early summer storm rumble near the mountaintops. The trees lift their leaves to cup the coming rain and tremble in anticipation like a church before communion. Here their scarred comrades lay on the hills, sun-bleached and decaying—victims of the storms before. And here the saplings cower under their brothers and wait for lightning to strike a hole in the canopy. The humidity damps down the songbirds and raises the petrichor, the wet earth, the smell of mother nature.

Nestled in the valley, beneath the stark stone faces and rolling ridges, Canfield huddles away from the storm. The gravel roads will wash out when the rain comes; the creek will flood. The trailers will stay planted in their parks like crops, and the factory will puff its smog into the clean piney air, and the headlights of rusted out pickup trucks will snake through the fields.

There is scarcely anything to do in Canfield, save what can be done outside. When the first bolt splits the sky, the community center on Lyndon Avenue is the last bastion of entertainment. Mostly everyone is there, because it's better than staying home when the satellite reception goes out, and whoever doesn't live in Canfield has wandered in from the motel across the street.

It's bingo night. Hardly anyone cares. The caller may as well be talking to himself and the three elderly women who are daubing their cards at the front of the room. Towards the back, the highschoolers are leaning and talking in the disinterested way of teenagers (who would rather be up on the cliffs drinking), and the middle is broken family units chasing the small town news around in circles. Simon is as close to the door as can be, peering out at the darkened sky and wishing for it to let up. The stink of people—sweat and salt—turns his stomach. Each minute turns him cotton mouthed. He holds his plastic cup of juice like a shield and dodges glances from his high school classmates: where have you been?

In the woods, maybe. Simon is scruffy and greasy, his dark jeans scuffed and fraying. There's a darkness about his eyes, a sick pallor beneath his caramel skin, a thinness about him that speaks of long nights and little food. He looks like a feral animal, jumpy and caged in the bingo hall. He slips out the doors.

Outside. The air is thicker, wetter, but a breeze coming off the ridge tempers it and stirs the mussy curls of Simon's hair. It doesn't smell like raw red meat just outside the door; it doesn't feel so much like junkie jitters. The fat raindrops join him in front of the community center, watering down his thick red punch, but Simon skitters beneath the overhand and stands—leans—away from the weather, one temple pressed against the rough brick wall.

He looks—feels—ill.
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 Posted: May 26 2015, 05:46 PM
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He welcomed the gloom, the darkness of the storm created a buzz in the air that made the hair on his arms stand in a feeling of anticipation. It was his favorite type of storm, one that made the air heavy and loomed over the hills across the valley. It made the citizens edgy and bored, they always crammed themselves into an activity hall to pass the time. He can't make fun of them, or even criticize them. Gwyn followed their lead, because he liked to keep himself aware of the goings of the town.

The women next to him were clucking their teeth at the teenagers behind them, the ones who were sprawling against the wall. They were grumbling under their breath to each other, how it was "totally lame." Gwyn tried not to listen, he really did, but it was so hard when they were talking so loud to each other about how the storm "totally ruined their fun evening." His lip was quirked in a smirk, and he leaned into the aged woman beside him, digging an elbow gently into her side.

"I don't feel bad for them," he drawled into her ear when she turned. The lady smiled at his comment as she stamped a '03', leaving one more spot until she got a bingo.

"Oh, I don't think anyone does, dear." She replied in a soothing tone, as if she was trying to calm him. "They just get so antsy when it gets this way, the weather, you know?" She gestured upwards to the ceiling with her marker, as if they could see the sky in the room. "Everyone gets antsy, except you."

Gwyn rolled his eyes at her. There was a reason why he hardly talked to the group he was sitting next to, but it was just so much better than talking to the single parents to his left with the children that were sniffling and wincing at every howl of wind. Or the pre-teens who were all sitting against the wall near the door, talking quietly about God knows what. He relaxed back into the old, rickety chair he was sitting in, crossing his long legs at the ankles.

"I happen to like the storms, it's calming." He replied conversationally. "It's much better than the sun beating down on the fields, making everything hot and sticky. I'd rather walk, not swim through the air-" he paused when a scent tickled his nose. It was a dank scent of rust and cinnamon. It made him suppress the urge to sneeze and he untangled himself to stand at his full height, putting a gentle hand on the shoulder of the woman he was leaving.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Madeline," he said shortly, "I forgot to put my car windows up."
The woman hummed a good-bye, focusing on her bingo card.

"You stay safe out there, Gwyn. I know how you boys get."

"I'll always stay safe, if only for you." Gwyn smiled distractedly. He focused his gaze on the entrance, past the group of teen sitting in a circle and the group of little tykes waddling around and drooling at each other. The scent was strange, it tickled his nose, it wasn't right. It wasn't really a bad strange, but it was different.

He'd gotten to know most of the scents that inhabited the town around him, he had to, if he wanted to stay and keep his territory safe. It irked him. He followed the scent out the door, shooing a tyke back to their parent that wanted to hug him. The wind was picking up outside, and he had to catch the door to keep it from slamming against the exterior of the small hall. He was smelling the air from down-river, the musty scent of the water and the scent of pollen now that he was outside. Gwyn swiveled his head, his eyes flashing concern the moment he noticed the man under the over hang.

Rain started to pound around them, and Gwyn ducked under the over hang, almost next to the person- or, really behind them. The scent was stronger next to the other, and it caused him to cough quietly. He couldn't tell if it was a new-vampire scent or a corrupted one, but it tickled his throat and made him want to sneeze.

Which was interesting, he'd scented a lot of things in the world, and not even moldy ginger could get him to cough like this scent was making him want to do. He supposed that it could be the scent of the woods clinging to the other, but.

It was such a strange and new scent.

"Claustrophobic?" Gwyn asked after a moment, his voice low, like he was talking to a scared animal. His sweater was getting rain drops on it, since he didn't want to inch too close to the other. His hair was already tousled from the wind, the brown turning into a near-black where the rain had started to soak through and plaster it to his skin.

"Because I can totally understand, but you don't, ah, look too good there, buddy." He continued after a moment, edging a little closer under the overhang. "Especially if you'd rather deal with this-" he gestured out with a callous-covered palm to the storm around them, "then the inside of the hall."
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Lar
 Posted: May 26 2015, 06:42 PM
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Thunder rumbles across the valley—followed closely by the low rumble of a voice. Simon turns, startled, and spills half his drink onto the cracked concrete. His eyes dart over Gwyn, evaluating. Here's a face he's seen before, with a name he might remember vaguely—and all of it feels a lifetime away. There was a Simon who listened to gossip and talked to other people, who was warm.

That boy is dead.

He notices the chill more as the humidity sinks in; there is a deep, abiding silence where his pulse should be.

"I like the weather," Simon says defensively. Again his cup comes up like a shield, and he sips the warm juice and feels it roll sickeningly—unsatisfyingly—down his throat. At eighteen, Simon is expected to be sullen, but this is something different. He pulls back into the wall as if it might swallow him; glances past Gwyn as if seeking an escape route. Caged. Cagey.

"I had..." he measures each word carefully. "A falling out with some friends. I just needed to get away." From bingo, yes, but before that from Canfield as a whole, from a little rusting trailer and a family in shambles. Now he is gone too far away.

"You're missing bingo." Simon's voice is as pointed as the little pocket knife resting in his pocket.
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 Posted: May 26 2015, 06:59 PM
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"Oh- shit, kid," Gwyn lurches forward on one foot, going to catch the liquid that slipped out of the cup. Except, it's a liquid, and it just coats his fingers with the sticky substance. It was a good way to figure out what was in the cup Simon was holding, and he brought his hand up to flick his tongue over his fingers.

It was just punch, the cheap kind of punch that they were serving inside.

Which, was peculiar and strange, considering the kid in front of him was so young and so thirsty. That was what the taste in the air was, Gwyn figured. After seeing the boys face, the pale sheen beneath his normal skin color. It was a very long time since Gwyn had ran into one of his own, an extremely long time. It had been almost a decade since he ran into the last one.

He keeps his eyes on Simons face, trying to keep his gaze neutral and open.

"Ah- a falling out." Gwyn responds understandingly, putting himself up against the wall next to Simon. He shrugged his hands into his pockets, playing with the loose change in his jeans as he pondered what to do.

He rolled his head to look at the other at the mention of bingo, his mouth opened in a laugh, purposely flashing his fangs at the younger man. "Bingo?" He repeated, spreading his arms from his side.

"Do I look like an old hag?" He ran a hand through his hair in a small nervous gesture, unsure of what to do. He could approach the other in a multiple of ways, some violent and some... not so violent, but with how Simon was acting, he had a feeling he was about to get jumped on. Not a good jump either.

"Actually," Gwyn murmured, slouching against the brick. "Don't answer that, I don't want your snark."
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Lar
 Posted: May 26 2015, 07:33 PM
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It's goodwill that leads Gwyn to jump to help, and goodwill that chases Simon back along the wall. He never asked for help, or attention, or anything beyond quiet apathy and ignorance from the self-absorbed bunch in Canfield. There is suspicion in the young man's eyes as he watches Gwyn lick his hand clean like a cat. Maybe something other than suspicion—that look that a dog gets when he smells meat.

It's a moment before Simon comes back to himself and lays against the wall again. Gwyn is in no hurry to move, and the rain is thundering on the metal roof, so Simon calls a quiet truce. The tension in his shoulders drops.

"What makes you think I'd snark?" he asks snarkily. This is teenage petulance, not caged-animal terror—if Simon saw the flash of fangs, he doesn't react. There is enough whirling around his mind. Nausea gnaws at him, and he closes his eyes and swallows, tipping his head back against the wall. Nothing has eased his stomach in days except the thought of rare steaks.

"Why are you out here, then, old hag? You know why I am."

More or less.
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 Posted: May 26 2015, 07:55 PM
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"Just- stop being so jumpy." Gwyn says, a bit of a snap to his tone that he tried to cover with a smile. He didn't know why the kid was being so jumpy, his biggest guess was the hunger that was getting to him, with the way Simon eyed him hungrily.

Could he even tell what Gwyn was?

Or, more importantly, what he wasn't?

He lets the thud of the rain above them surround them for a few moments when Simon replied, leaving the snarky reply to float for a moment before he opened his mouth.

"Oh, so, what was that that just came out of your mouth?" He turned his body to face Simon, crossing his arms. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, his eyes watching the swallow of the throat, the bob of Simons adams apple.

"Me?" Gwyn reiterates, spreading his hands. "I just, wanted to know what's up. You seem. On edge, everything okay up in your little brain?" His hands moved as he spoke, tapping at his temple. "You look like you're going to puke. Either puke or, you know. Eat me, since you've been eyeing me like a nice steak."

A little bait, Gwyn thinks, to set the trap, see if he bites.

Or maybe he has to be a little more aggressive than the good-guy neighbor he makes himself out to be.
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Lar
 Posted: May 27 2015, 02:24 PM
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As if Simon could stop. He's terrified of everything—it feels as if someone will see right through him any second. Or worse, someone else will whisk him off into the mountains and change his whole life. Again. He's been shaken.

He's shaken again, when the other man all but reads his mind.

"Look, man—" he squints at Gwyn. "I don't know you, you don't know me. I feel like hell today and I've got my own shit going on that you can't really help with. I don't want to be the talk of the town and I don't want to be here and—"

I'm scared.

Simon swallows hard to clear the lump rising at the back of his throat, the bile churning down beneath. He looks paler, if possible. For a moment he wonders if he could bolt off into the storm without Gwyn following. Instead he drains his drink and puts his hands to work fiddling along the seams of the plastic, and for a while he stares and counts the raindrops and lets his silence brood.

"Maybe I should eat you," Simon says after a stretch. The ghost of a smile flits across his lips, showing no teeth—no fangs. "Fuck. You're nosy."
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 Posted: May 27 2015, 03:06 PM
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"So, I was right?" Gwyn asks, leaning forward slightly. His nose twitched when he got a whiff of the cinnamon smell that rolled off the other in waves, it was a lovely scent, once he got past how heavy it settled in his mind. He let the teenager prattle on before him, shifting his stance so he was a little bit bigger than he appeared. There was a screech of a toddler running through the rain, a giggle of a brother who was following her into the bingo hall.

The parents hardly gave the two of them a second glance, however the father clapped a hand on Gwyns shoulder as they passed with a mumbled, "good to see ya," before they followed their excited kids into the hall. Gwyn smiled at them, distracted for a quick moment as he responded with a noise in greeting. His eyes followed the couple in, caught the door for them as the wind decided to keep it open. As he was adjusting the door so it was shut he was glancing back at Simon, his eyes squinting.

"You look like hell," Gwyn nodded in agreement to the statement. "How long," he started, turning around to lean on the door, his clothes getting soaked from the rain, but he couldn't risk anyone walking out at the wrong moment.

He lets the start of his question float in the air, a crack of laughter leaving him.

"You, eat me?" Gywn repeated, taking a step back under the awning. A little vampire brat, challenging him in his own territory. It was cute, it was naive.
If Gwyn didn't have the heart, he would just kill the boy right now.

"I'm all bones, no meat. Well. There is meat but, it's not good meat, it's not the kind of meat you want." He watched Simons fingers play with the plastic and exhaled through his teeth. "You, on the other hand. Lots of meat in places where I would want it- which, brings me to the question." He adjusted his stance again bringing his hands up to rest on either side of Simons head, effectively trapping him.

Unless the other decided to kick him in the balls. He may be dead, but holy hell his family jewels were still sensitive mother fuckers.

"Why aren't you feeding right now? You are literally-" Gwyn tapped the other on the collar bone with his knuckles. "Skin and bones- You do know you need to drink blood, and what you had in your cup- that didn't count." He tilted his head to the side, his eyes squinted. "Or do you not even know how to hunt; who the fuck would change you?"
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Lar
 Posted: May 27 2015, 08:26 PM
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How long? Three days, four, five? Long enough that the bite on his thigh is still red and raw, crusted and scabbed but terrifyingly present. Simon almost says this, and then catches himself and makes a rough sound in his throat instead—a laugh, maybe. A sob. His eyes have the look of someone deranged, someone who has seen ghosts and felt them walk through him.

And in contrast hang the moments before, the normal family going to a normal bingo game on a normal night in a normal valley. Simon might have had that once. He can't remember it.

"I was—I was joking, okay? Calm down." There is a danger in Gwyn's body language now that Simon picks up, if not consciously; there is a predator in him, guarding the door and preparing to strike. There is a predator in Simon too, but a young one—inexperienced and scrambling, startled when Gwyn traps him up against the wall. Instinctively, Simon drops his cup—he hears the plastic land on the sidewalk—and reaches to his pocket where he has a little dull knife hidden. He palms it and presses back against the wall, away from Gwyn and the tangy tantalizing trace of iron on his breath.

Simon narrows his eyes at the man before him. "Did you do this to me?" He flinches away from the other man's touch, scraping an elbow on the wall in the process. No blood rises to the surface.

"Whatever you think you know about me, you're wrong." Now he lowers his voice to a hiss, barely audible over the storm. "I never asked for this."

Up close, it's apparent that Simon has no fangs to speak of.

The point of his little knife finds a place up against Gwyn's ribs, threatening.
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 Posted: May 27 2015, 08:53 PM
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"A joke has sarcasm," Gwyn drawled, his eyes watching the cup nearly fall to the floor. His hand snatched out, grabbing the flimsy piece of plastic and he crushed it in his hand, a frown on his face.
"And you shouldn't litter, you know. Didn't your mom ever teach you manners?" He obviously didn't expect an answer, because he leaned over to the left of Simon, shifting his position to drop the cup in the trash a few feet from where Simon was.

He eyes the younger one as he palms the pocket knife, a flash of amusement in his eyes. Gwyn might be having a bit of fun with the other, it wasn't every day he was able to mess with his own kind. So little happened in this town, anything was better than same-old. He lifts both his hands up in a universal sign to show how empty his own hands were.

"Me, why would I turn a brat like you into-- just."

He was obviously going about this the wrong way, judging by how Simon looked like he was a trapped kitten and could lunge at any moment. Gwyn shifted away from him, keeping his hands in the gesture of innocence. He was quiet for a few moments before he opened up his mouth, his eyes on the blade that was poking him through his cashmere sweater.

Which, he should note, was less than a week old, and he really didn't appreciate a snot-nosed brat poking a hole through.

"Look," Gwyn said lowly, his face sobering up. "Is this a joke, do you even- do you even know what you are? Have you even fed? You look-" he swallowed, his eyes flicking up and down the others body.

"You look like shit, have you done anything- you know, I don't think you should be over here right now, at the bingo hall. I think you need t-"he stopped talking the moment Gwyn realized that Simon didn't even have fangs. His brows furrowed, he stepped closer.

"Uh, I really think you shouldn't be here, at all. I think..." He trailed off, his eyes darting up to the sky, his tongue wetting his lips. Fuck, he really did not want to take in a new vampire, it was not in his plans. After the last one, he didn't want anything to do with anyone that was less than a few decades old.

"I think you need to come with me," he finally said, pushing the knife away from his body with his hand, or at least a safer distance away. "Do you have a family, anyone that... knows what you're going through?"
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 Posted: May 28 2015, 08:32 PM
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"Whatever you think I am, I'm not," Simon says, with the conviction only a stubborn teenager can muster. The V-word has crossed his mind, back and forth like a pendulum all week. It adds up if he's willing to believe the fodder of YA novels. It makes sense, in a world where those things exist. But they don't, Simon has told himself. They don't.

If he has fed, Simon shows no signs. His skin is pale, cold, bloodless, to the point that his lips are scarcely pink. The boy is skin and bones, not muscular enough to subdue anyone to feed. Even the rats scurrying in the shed where Simon has been sleeping are too agile, as appetizing as they've become the past few nights.

For a breath, Simon lingers in fighting mode, knuckles white around the handle of his little knife. Then he caves. He drops the knife back into his pocket. Gwyn knows too much to be a casual observer, too little to be the monster that did this to Simon.

"I haven't fed," he murmurs. "I—can't." Won't? At this point, when every foreign heartbeat makes him yearn for something he won't say—when the smell of humans packed into the bingo hall makes his mouth water—would he?

"Maybe I shouldn't be here, I don't know." Now Simon searches the other man's face, his sunken eyes flitting like moths. "I don't know where else to go. I don't know what to do." He chokes out a laugh and rubs his temples, turning away from Gwyn. He feels so sick.

"This is fucking ridiculous. I don't—"

Simon bends and retches. All that comes up is the red punch, dripping onto the concrete like blood—weak, watery blood. Simon is trembling, his weight pressed against the wall for support. The nausea lingers, but after a bit he stands again, looking weary and lost.

"I can't talk to my family. They'd think I'm nuts."

And then, as an afterthought:

"Am I nuts?"
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 Posted: May 28 2015, 09:16 PM
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"It isn't what I think, I don't think anything, it's just what I know." Gwyn said to the other sternly. He swallowed on a curse, choosing to sigh out his annoyance instead. He poked a finger through the hole in his sweater, his displeasure clear on his face. He felt like he was dealing with one of his cousins- when they were alive.

"I just bought this." He grumbled moodily, stopping and straightening when he realized he was acting just as moody as Simon and it wasn't helping the problem that was at hand. He was made to do this, he wasn't made to help people. He just wanted to be himself, and drink with his friends, not help a kid through puberty. His eyes looked Simon up and down again, an eyebrow quirked in his own amusement.

A very late puberty.

He, personally, hated teenagers, and children, and everyone that was basically younger than him. The attitude, the mood swings... everything about it made him want to rip his hair from his scalp. Which, as painful as it might be, he felt like it would make the annoyances stop.

Gwyn nearly blanched when Simon admitted that he hadn't fed yet, that wasn't right- it wasn't right at all. He shouldn't be standing, he shouldn't have the be able to keep himself from lunging at anyone and he was not prepared for this at all. "You haven't fed- at all? Not even a little... Drop?" He exhaled loudly through his teeth and took a step back when Simon hacked up the punch.

Which, he was waiting for, because that was definitely a hint that he hadn't eaten as much as he should of.

Gwyn watched Simon quietly, and he hesitated before he opened his mouth.

"Hey, yeah, i understand you," he said quietly, rocking back on his heels. The weather around them had started to let up, it was still raining heavily but the wind had died down to a low hum in the distance. There were numerous options he could do, he guessed.

Well, really, there was two.

Find a person for Simon to feed on, or feed Simon himself.

And, well, fuck, he did just feed the other night, which is why his body was humming with energy at the moment.

"No, you're not nuts, you're not even close to nuts." Gwyn snapped after a moment of silence. "If you're nuts, then I'm nuts, and I know I'm not nuts, something bit you, you're scared, you haven't fed on anything and you're probably throwing everything you put in your body and it's scaring you even more." He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

"You're coming with me," he said shortly, wrapping one of his hands around Simons upper arm, easily engulfing the younger mans bicep. It was pathetic, how small the other was. "You're coming with me and I'm going to give you something to make yourself better. I don't live too far- do i need to go bring my car to you, or can you walk?" He asked, keeping his hand on the boy.

He wasn't going to let the other run, at all.
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 Posted: May 28 2015, 09:52 PM
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Simon knows that he's irritating Gwyn—he sees it in the way the other man touches his newly damaged sweater, hears it in the man's sigh. Guilt twists its way through his stomach along with the nausea; shame follows it closely. Whoever is responsible for this, Simon is trying to pick up the pieces. Gwyn isn't at fault.

The teenager wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and breaths heavy storm air into his lungs, tasting pine and dirt on the wind. Since that night, smells are more pungent; if he concentrates, Simon can untwist them like a piece of twine, pulling out the chemical smell of factory, the stink of fertilizer, the tempting musk of humankind. Gwyn knows what's wrong with him, like a doctor diagnosing a rare disease. It's a relief and a threat at once.

"It's not like I got a tutorial," Simon mutters into the wind. What does he know of vampire lore? Only that there are fangs and blood involved, that the girls at school go nuts over Edward Cullen. Maybe someone was supposed to linger and show Simon the ropes—he feels that absence deeply, somewhere beneath the sickness and stillness of his cold body. Even the monsters won't keep him.

The future is too far for Simon to reach, when his trembling hands are braced against the bricks. Part of him hopes that the world stops here, and that there is nothing after: no following Gwyn like a lost puppy, no licking blood from the bodies of the dead. However hard he wishes, the rain still falls around them. There is no stopping the inexorable creep of fate.

"I feel nuts," he breathes. "I want it to stop."

He wants Gwyn to be wrong.

"Somebody bit me," Simon corrects. And then, quietly, "I'm scared."

Like a little boy lost in the world, he leans into Gwyn's touch, appreciative of something solid to rely on. Simon is visibly dazed, dizzy, with the faraway look of a shellshocked man—and yet he steps forward toward Gwyn, steady on his feet.

"I'll be okay, I think. You don't have to baby me."
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 Posted: May 28 2015, 10:37 PM
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"That's the issue, dammit," Gwyn said under his breath. "You're supposed to- you were supposed to consent to-" he gestured to Simon, "-this. This isn't supposed to just happen. People don't just randomly become vampires because they go for a walk in the woods, or go to school, or stay out late." He was talking with his hands now, they were a flurry of motion that showed his aggravation.

Not with Simon, but with the situation. He didn't think he could be mad at Simon for anything at this moment, not even if he slashed his dinky little knife down the front of his sweater.

"It's- such a disgrace that someone would change you and just leave you," he rambled on, putting his hands on his hips, crossing them, picking at a piece of string that frayed from the hole. Gwyn still talked to the man who changed him- who made him into a vampire. They talked weekly, through the phone, through skype. Anyway they could communicate, they took the chance.

Because once someone chose to change you, it was basically them bringing you into their family. You got together, you celebrated life and death. You grieved with each other. It didn't make sense to Gwyn why someone- or how, even - would change someone and just leave them. It was why he didn't want to change someone. He didn't know if he could go through with another one if the fledgling die. Or went feral.

"Ah- damn, I understand. It's alright, i'll. I can help you out, let's just get you to my car, kiddo." He directed Simon to his car, pulling out his key FOB to unlock it. It was a dated Ford Escape, the back was full of misc items and clothing that he thought he would need. He talked as he got Simon situated in the front seat and started the car, turning on the heat.

He didn't need it, but he was pretty sure Simon was cold.

"You have a right to be scared," Gwyn murmured, turning down the radio so it was a dull drone in the background. He backed out of the parking space he was in, turning down the road in the direction of his house. "Do you have anything besides the clothes you're wearing? I might have a little something here in the back- not luxurious or anything just. Something for you to slip on if you're too cold. You look like ice."

He continued to ramble on through out the car ride, it was an extremely short one, not even over five minutes before they pulled into quaint little thing on the side of the road, it wasn;t even far back from the road, the din of cars driving by were still audible inside the house but it was a nice, white noise. At least Gwyn like it a whole lot then the silence of the last house he had.

"Alright, here, c'mon." Gwyn grumbled to Simon as he ushered him into his house, close behind his heels. When they were in, he made a bee-line to the kitchen, not stopping to take off his shoes and effectively tracking mud through the house. He didn't seem to care though, rummaging through a drawer, looking for something.

Gwyns house was... homey, to say the least. He had pictures of his family up, of his animals, of his past relationships. Kitchen Gwyn was in was well stocked, with photos on the fridge and with a stupid octopus timer on the stove that had those stupid googley eyes on them. Most surfaces were covered in an assortment of knick-knacks. He was a bit of a hoarder with gifts that were given to him, but it made the house seem broken in, it made it his.

He liked his house, loved it, really.

"Now, are you afraid of blood? Because if you faint at the sight of blood, i'd like to know now so I can sit you down on the couch."
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 Posted: May 29 2015, 09:44 PM
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Supposed to isn't worth anything to Simon. He is supposed to be graduating in the next week and finding full-time work, supporting the bits and shambles of his family if he doesn't run to the next town before they can see his paychecks. Sure enough, he is a vampire now because of a walk in the woods, and a half-formed one at that; an abortion of a vampire, doomed to fail on his own and wither into a bloodless mummy.

"Maybe I deserved it." Beneath the sour exterior, there is a little piece of Simon's heart glowing through.

He has earned what life hands him.

Gwyn's voice fades into the background as the world pitches and rolls, though Simon remains on his feet. The wet chill of the storm hangs on him like a blanket, and he finds that he no longer shivers; his body is cold to the core. Wavering, he clambers into the front seat of the other man's car. This could be another death sentence, another blow to rock his world. Simon doesn't care if it all ends now.

The heat blows onto him, and he finds himself leaning into it, longing for it. He's forgotten what warmth feels like.

"I don't have anything," Simon says over the low din of the radio. Bunched up in the passenger's seat, he peers over at Gwyn, then at the junk in the back seat. "I'm fine. I'm not cold." As if frost itself hasn't been chewing away the nerves in his fingers these past few days.

The boy is a sorry sight, sopping wet with his head pressed against the window, jostling into the door over every bump along the Canfield roads. He hears nothing else Gwyn says until they pull up to the house—Simon is surprised to find that it looks like anywhere else in the sleepy valley.

He's increasingly aware of the tingling in his toes as he half-stumbles into the house behind his new companion; he's increasingly aware of the faint scent of sweetness that permeates the foyer, like fresh-baked sugar cookies. There are knick-knacks all over, trinkets and photos that must tell Gwyn's life story. Simon find himself staring at them, trying to weave the tale together as he trails mutely behind the older man.

"I'm not afraid of blood," he mutters, his fingers tracing around a photo of someone who distantly resembles Gwyn—a brother maybe. A son. A cousin. It's hard to tell; hard to tell how old the vampire might really be.

"I just don't like it." Simon's stomach twists in anticipation, but his mouth waters.

Some animal part of him knows that blood is what he needs.
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