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1. It was 1957 and Josef was sick of just about everywhere. He'd spent the forties in New York attending parties and being too rich to get sent to kill people in Europe. After... Sarah, he'd decided that Europe wasn't a bad idea after all, and went from the Rhine to the Polish border trying to find and then lose himself in some of the Weimar spirit that had blown through Germany after they'd lost the last war. Unfortunately the aftermath of this one hadn't produced the same results; it had left all his favorite haunts either broke, Soviet, or both. Disgruntled, he bid Europe farewell and headed back to America. West coast, this time.
He called a couple of friends in the area to help him get set up, and in a week was taking off his sunglasses in Coraline's joint up on Sunset, somewhere in the middle of one of her famous parties.
"And this is Mick," Coraline cooed, pulling the fledgling who she'd been droning on about over. "Say hello to one of my oldest friends. Mick, this is Josef Kostan. Josef, Mick. My husband."
"Well, how about that," Josef said as he shook Mick's hand. "How long's that been going on?"
"Five years," Mick said, sounding a bit bewildered.
"Wow, which one's that anniversary, wood? Get yourself matching stakes somewhere?" He flashed a smile and Mick looked a little more worried. "Seriously, you two. Mazel tov." He gave Mick's hand a bit of a tug and leaned forward.
He'd only meant to buss his cheek, honest. But Mick got his signals mixed up, or was nearly as thick as he looked, and wound up getting a mouthful. And his startled yank backwards wasn't much of a compliment.
Irrationally stung, Josef gave Mick one of his better glares. "C'mon, don't be so provincial," he said, then stepped forward for real.
This time he got Mick's mouth open, slipped his left hand into the guy's hair, tugged their hips together with his right. He licked past Mick's startled gasp and tasted blood on his fangs.
He let go with a satisfied smile. Mick was staring at him like he was from Mars, or at least West Hollywood. Coraline was smirking.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mick," Josef said. "Got anything to drink around here?"
2. There wasn't anything special about that evening in 1971; Mick and Coraline had been off-again for about a month and Mick hadn't moved off Josef's couch yet, so they were shooting the shit and talking about Josef's new freshie, a fey boy named Tony.
"I just don't get it," said Mick, somehow managing to sound squarer than his normal fencepost rectangularity. "I mean, it's not like you're hurting for options, so why pick a man?"
"Maybe I just like the variety," Josef said.
Mick snorted. "But then they're only good for one thing."
"No, he's definitely good for more than one thing." When Mick looked startled, Josef waggled his eyebrows and smirked.
"See, that I don't get," Mick said. "A guy's never going to be as good as a girl in bed, and he's never going to be as good at kissing--"
"Really?" Josef said, leaning forward. "That sounds like a challenge."
Mick didn't actually move as he climbed forward over him, so Josef figured he was in the clear. He straddled Mick's lap, then tilted Mick's head up and kissed him.
Josef really gave it his full attention, too; he had a point to make. He licked Mick's lips gently until they parted, softly explored his mouth with his tongue, mouthed tender obscenities into his teeth. When he pulled away, Mick stared up at him dubiously.
"Okay," Mick finally said, "I might believe you on the kissing thing."
"Well, you'll have to shell out for a much nicer date to find out about the other thing," Josef said, standing and stretching. "At least from me."
3. It was 1985. The best thing about the 80s, as far as Josef could attest, was cocaine. Freshies rolling on the stuff were the best dinner companions he'd had in centuries, and the resulting high made even vampire senses sparkle. He was aware that other people had already decided that the 1980s were synonymous with continuous coke-fueled orgies, but in this particular case he really didn't mind just following the trend.
The party he was hosting had been going on for about five and a half days when Mick burst through the door. Josef sat up from the lap of the brunette he'd been idly tasting, saw who it was, and clambered to his feet. "Hey, Mick! C'mon, grab a seat. Or a wrist. Or whatever body part you most like."
Mick nearly tripped over something or someone on the floor, but he made it to Josef and stared a him blurrily. Or maybe that was the coke. "Coraline and me are through," he said.
"Wa-hey, congratulations!" Josef said, and kissed him. He got his tongue all the way to Mick's tonsils before he tasted the ashes.
Then Mick had his wrists and was pushing him back, staring at him with that haunted do-gooder look he occasionally cultivated. "No," he said, "I mean I killed her. I staked her and watched her burn."
Josef couldn't think of anything too clever to say in response. "Oh," he finally said. "Do you need a drink?"
Mick looked around at the mostly-comatose crowd. "Not from--I'm sorry. I can't do this right now."
"C'mon, I'll call you a cab driver," Josef said, tying up his robe. "And then you'll have a lift home, too."
4. One of the freshies that Josef picked up in the 90s insisted on calling turning a human into a vampire "The Kiss." That was fucking stupid. Turning Mick didn't feel like kissing him, it felt like fucking him.
It didn't help that as soon as he tasted Mick's blood he was hard, (Mick was, too, clenching at Josef's shirt, falling against him,) and that Mick was moaning in his ear, (gasping for breath, maybe, his erection softening as he collapsed, limp, in Josef's arms,) and that when Mick bit down on his arm the pain was as sharp as pleasure ever was. It was like sex, that was all. Penetration and release, by mutual agreement.
Mick licked the last of Josef's blood off his lip and something answering inside him burned.
5. This morning--
"I don't know how it's going to go with Beth," Mick says. "Maybe it'll all go wrong."
"It usually does," Josef says.
Mick nods. "If it does--or if it doesn't, y'know... having you here through all this, that's meant a lot to me."
It's almost chaste, the promise he presses to St. John's mouth, before he lets himself think too hard about it. Mick's expression hasn't changed when he steps back.
"Well, y'know," he says. "Someone's gotta keep you sharp."
"Thanks," Mick says.
The moment passes. Josef goes to get another drink.