Chapter Text
And the taste of the poison on her lips is of a tomb.
– HIM, Poison Girl
—
There are bushes.
There are bushes and there is a fence, Barty knows this. He passed a cat a while back and he remembers his way home. He likes to walk and does it often. Barty likes the fresh air and how it combats the ever-looming noose-around-his-neck feeling that he lives with. Rain or shine, it saves money on gas. He gets his steps in or whatever.
Sometimes, like tonight, it’s less walking and more stumbling, though.
Staying in the shadows and being not a person, he knows there’s another fence eventually. He follows familiar cracks and stains on the sidewalk, some shaped like clouds and some shaped like clouds that look like shapes. There’s an electronic gate that gets stuck half the time and you usually have to enter a five-digit code to get into anything beyond the ominous black fencing, but one moment Barty’s staring at the glossy bars, and the next, he’s inside.
Dropping down into his apartment complex.
He can squint and see his building but there are more fucking bushes and he loses his footing. Expensive topiaries squashed by his work boots. Barty successfully botches his landing and busts his knees in damp dirt. His ankle twists wrong, and his shoulder scrapes through his shirt. One of the more stubborn branches tugs at Barty’s pants when he goes to stand, and he trips again.
Now he’s turned around. Tangled up in twigs, drawing even more attention to himself. It’s quiet, too quiet, and Barty freezes when his shoes crunch and there are people asleep just right there. He swallows and his throat burns like he’s smoked it raw.
He takes a left.
Stops and takes a right and there’s his chairs.
The chairs outside of his apartment, the ones Barty bought so his patio didn’t look so desolate and sad. As if he does not care to liven it up or as if he’s too broke to afford a half-off, ugly patio set. Sat on the corner of the little cluster of buildings, number one-oh-four; there’s Barty’s apartment.
He hated parking in front of it when it was empty.
He hasn’t gotten around to getting a plant yet to go on the table.
And Barty knows he forgot to lock the patio door when he left. He just doesn’t do that, doesn’t really see a need. If it’s his time to go, by all means, let them try, and there are stairs as he makes his way towards those chairs. Getting closer, his thoughts drift to cold sheets and no shower. Immediate sleep. His feet are heavy and it’s late. He’s disoriented, slipping in and out of it, and people will be waking up soon.
Barty swallows. He cannot do stairs right now. And then there’s another black gate. A fence. He tries to go gracefully but fails once more. No more stairs, he vows, but Barty can climb one small fence to hop onto his patio.
He’s fuckin’ made it.
His knee doesn’t reach high enough, though. He stumbles over the bars only a few feet off the ground, and his shoe catches between them. Barty nosedives forward and his hands smack against the glass sliding door when he tips. He shouts and it’s very undignified. Fumbling for the handle, he manages to find it and wrenches it open before he can face-plant into concrete.
His shoe somehow manages to unstick at exactly that moment, of course.
He free-falls forward into his apartment.
Barty throws his hands out to catch himself but they miss. They don’t land on the ground, he doesn’t even land on the ground. Instead, a coffee table breaks Barty’s fall. Head cracking against the corner, elbow clipping the hard metal. It’s glass.
Sharp and in Barty’s way where it should not be because his coffee table is not glass nor anywhere near the door.
The glass doesn’t break, which is worse. Barty groans and curls in on himself as soon as he hits the ground. He loses his breath and he doesn’t know if he’s ever been so winded. Body groaning in protest, Barty’s hazy and shaken up now. Enormously confused.
But there’s a shriek a moment later.
In the form of an Oh fuck! which is also what Barty is thinking, and he’s coughing now. Trying to catch his breath and assess what he’s just done. He’s wheezing.
There’s another person here. There’s sound from a tv and there’s the sound of the dishwasher running.
This is someone’s apartment—definitely not his.
He inhales, and it’s not only sweaty grass and dirt he’s smelling; it’s iron. Barty is sure he smells bad like he’s stumbled his way home. He, himself, is covered in the smell of blood like a cheap, cloying perfume. It’s in the air, he can still taste it, but now…now there’s another smell. Different notes he can pick up on.
No one ever talks about how thick the smell is.
So rich and dense, you forget to notice it as much when you wear it every day. When you’re surrounded by it. Everyone has their own smell, but they all have a base note of smooth like metal. Cool and solid. That’s just blood, but it’s rare that someone smells good. Not when Barty thinks this whole instinct in him to consider someone’s blood smelling good is strange. But, well.
It’s a smell that’s hard to swallow. It does not go down right. It goes down sideways and then back up. Barty stills. Whoever’s apartment this is smells divine.
He slowly glances up and meets frightened eyes.
“You’re—you,” the person stammers, standing there with his arms drawn to his chest. “Are you okay—is–is that blood?”
Barty glances down, and there is blood, yes.
“Yes.”
“Well, I—uh,” they stammer. “A-Are you…okay?”
“Ah,” Barty wheezes. “No—nope, I just fell on a table.”
“Did you break anything?”
Barty shifts to his hands and knees. “Your table,” he wheezes. “Sorry.”
He needs to go. This is not good. He’s not going to get in trouble or anything like that, but he’s somehow found himself sitting in it anyway. This person might let it go if Barty plays it off like he’s wasted. But there’s the whole issue of the blood. Barty doesn’t think he sounds wasted enough to play this off like that. The blood is on his hands, smeared around like Barty tried to clean up which he did, but it’s still in his molars and under his cuticles.
“And you’re bleeding.”
“S’not my blood.”
Well.
There’s some of Barty’s own blood mixed in there now, the freshest from his own body because he hit his head on the way down and he can smell it. Getting infected with damp earth; he’s filthy. Barty is bleeding from the side of his head and always thought concussions were no big deal, but going to the hospital is not as easy as just going to the hospital, and now, this person—
“I’m fine, I promise,” he assures. “Don't worry, I—” his wrist buckles when he goes to stand, which is not reassuring. “Yeah.”
“You don’t look…” the person trails off and Barty sees the cogs moving behind his eyes. “Um.”
Barty is subject to the silence that follows, a smoking gun sitting right on this person’s floor.
He is not fast, and he can’t run very well. The front door is probably locked. Barty doesn’t like his chances of scaling another fence this evening and his body hurts too much for a quick escape. He’s been caught literally red-handed.
It takes about four seconds. One and then two, you add them together and it makes—
“Oh my god,” the person standing before Barty gasps. “Wait—oh god, are you a vampire?”
Barty was careless tonight and should have stayed home. Should have gone and gotten his groceries and come straight back, but he hadn’t gotten his fill in a few weeks and hadn’t been able to swallow down the stench on the walk home.
An oversight on his part. It happens.
There’s no real way to go about it that he finds he likes. Barty drinks blood every day, then he feels sick. Gluttonous and sticky. He tries to go as long as he can without, about two weeks, and he still feels miserable. Malnourished and frail. Drinking three times a week makes him sick, too. Not drinking blood at all does not, regretfully, kill him.
It’s less the blood Barty dislikes, and more this need for it his body has. The social aspect of it.
It tastes good. Of course it does, and his brain likes it. It makes Barty happy like a sundae with a cherry on top would, but it’s still blood and if he thinks too hard about it, it’s a bit too thick and almost like warm jelly. Sliding off a hashbrown, kind of…not chunky just really, really thick and hot.
It’s bizarre, and Barty feels disingenuous trying to talk someone up only to drink from them later. Dragging their body behind a bar, carrying someone who’s got twenty pounds on him into a bathroom stall. It’s awkward. There’s no winning, and Barty’s found knocking them out is the easiest way to go about it. There’s no real morally correct solution to his problem where he’s concerned, he falls well beyond ethical principles.
It’s inconvenient as all hell, too.
Barty is good enough at blending in and living his life normally, but that makes it worse. Like twisting the knife, as if he is not someone who has been condemned to walk the earth for the rest of his life. He is not just your average Joe, no. Going on cheap dates just to live another two weeks—that's Barty. His self-confidence is shit and he hasn’t gotten a haircut in months.
His neighbors are a bit scared of him, he made some poor choices in his youth as far as his appearance goes.
Now it’s either knocking someone out or a hookup that ends with him being fetishized. Vampire sex is a real kink. People take one look at him and think he’s into the real crazy stuff. The darker, harder-to-find corners of the internet are filled with stories and tales of supposed snuff porn. The world is real weird; Barty is just trying to make an honest living, live, and stay out of trouble.
But Barty also needs to be able to wake up and go to work in order to do that. He needs to drink blood as one would begrudgingly take vitamins in the morning. There are the blood bags he gets in town, but they’re never fresh and while they don’t really go bad, the ones sitting in his fridge are from a few weeks ago, they make him actually ill, and taste dusty.
And throwing up blood in a new apartment and having to bleach the grout will not happen again.
Barty cannot imagine there are people around who have been having to drink blood for centuries. He pities them.
And he had plans to go out tomorrow and find someone. Sometimes he hooks up with them, and sometimes he genuinely likes them, which, once again, makes it so much worse. Barty feels like a liar. He feels like it’s pointless and he’s not looking for someone, it’s just…he has a long road ahead of him. Silence is still silence no matter how nice you make it seem.
They don’t really make a dating app for vampires. There are no clubs or get-togethers where they sit in a circle and then mingle with a small plate of cold cuts.
Barty’s only gotten lucky a few times. Happening upon someone willing.
Who figured him out eventually. Their eyes usually light up and Barty wonders if this man’s chance encounter with a vampire (Barty) might end up on Reddit. He wonders what this man might rate Barty’s dick game. If he’s going to end up the subject of a very thorough and informative text post about his performance in bed. Rated out of ten or given a few stars.
That might be all that Barty is remembered for.
He knows within the next few years the whole world might finally know who lurks in the night, and maybe then Barty won't have to accept free drinks from strangers, hoping he doesn’t end up drugged and his vampire-organs sold on the black market for some weird, new stimulant.
Maybe then he could settle down. Not with someone who saw his condition as a kink or some strange mark of death or someone that would rate his dick game three out of five stars. Barty is shooting for something a bit higher in this abysmal life.
Barty should have stayed home and instead, he went out to get groceries.
Cheese, specifically.
He doesn’t lose control often, very rarely, but he always feels bad after. Terrible. He always drinks too much when it happens and he gets hazy. Baked. Fried like he’d found himself too many times when he was younger, but instead of greening out on someone’s couch, this is an unpleasant feeling.
Like his head is a cloud and he’s drunk but high and both and has to do the walk of utter shame home. Not even fucked, some random person will wake up tomorrow and feel like absolute shit behind the gas station. Slumped over by the backdoor, maybe a worker will find them and maybe Barty will end up on the news.
He is sorry, he really is. Barty had tried to resist, but the sack of groceries was forgotten somewhere along the way.
The man in front of him, his name is Evan Rosier, and he just moved here a few weeks ago.
Evan had no idea they were neighbors, and it turns out they are not, actually. Not at all.
Barty isn’t anywhere close to his apartment building. It was just luck that Evan also liked that same shitty patio furniture and lives in a downstairs, corner unit. Luck that Barty was too out of it to look for cars or his own car. Surely he would have been able to tell in the daylight.
The glass on top of the coffee table is cracked. Barty’s head is not cracked but it’s bleeding and Evan, well.
He is very worried.
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” he asks again, wringing his hands where he’s standing. “Your head, let me—”
He flinches. Barty doesn’t mean to dodge his prodding fingers, it’s just that people don’t really ever touch him. He doesn’t have many friends and if people know what he is, the touches are rarely kind and genuine.
Evan doesn't seem like a bad guy, but instinct takes over.
“Sorry,” he whispers as if not to spook Barty further. “It’s just about to run in your eye.”
Barty wipes at his temple, and his hand comes back red.
He isn’t sure what to do.
Evan gives him a wet rag and a bag of peas.
And Barty is dizzy. Sitting on a stool at Evan’s counter, and thank god it has a back. Something to support him because Barty’s spine feels weak and loose. He might as well not have one. He’s slouched over, breathing through his mouth as he tries to discern what’s the haze from overfeeding versus the head wound versus the blood loss versus Evan. What clouds are shaped by lingering hunger and which ones take on the form of a sharp jaw. One bright green eye, one brown one. The color reminds Barty of caramel.
Evan smells—he smells so fucking sweet.
Like Barty tumbled into an oven of melted, warm syrup. Gourmand and sugar cubes. Baked goods and it’s making Barty’s nose itch. He’s only half here. One-fourth of him asleep and the other fourth fighting against a handful of awful ideas. Terrible ideas, they’re always the most alluring.
He’s not a dangerous guy, just whatever he is made up of is sometimes.
Barty cannot figure out if it’s endearing or contributing to the headache he has, Evan being this worried. Evan was very excited when he had admitted that yes, he is a vampire, and then insisted if Barty couldn’t go to the hospital, he needed to help him instead. Genuine excitement turned to nervous brows and Barty couldn’t tell him no.
He’s a glutton for kindness.
Not when Evan is wearing little pajama pants with ducks on them and there’s really nothing to be done. What is he meant to say to the sweet thing in front of him in duck pajama pants?
Barty will heal a bit faster than normal and it’ll bruise for a long while. He’ll ache tomorrow morning as anyone would and his body will sting in the shower. He’s got all ten fingers and toes still. It’s not like he’s even bleeding his own blood. He’s fine. Barty has been through worse.
Evan had gotten close and did not seem fearful in the least. He was wide-eyed and cautious, but not hesitant. Barty can see his fingers twitching now; Evan’s got some old shirt on. Hair back. Barty can’t look at his face. He clearly intruded on a nice evening of doing fucking nothing and he’s so sorry.
Barty knows Evan has more questions, and he sighs, letting the peas rest in his lap.
“Go on.”
“Do you drink blood?”
“Yes.”
“Can you eat real food?”
“I can.”
“Do you have fangs?”
Barty nods, tugging at his mouth, letting Evan get a nice view.
They’re not fangs like you see in the movies. Nothing real sharp, although they used to be sharper. They’ve dulled over time, and Barty does not miss when he used to bite his tongue, but he’s been on a few of his own Reddit forums. He might have to sharpen them at some point.
It’s all so silly.
Evan frowns. “They don’t look very sharp.”
“They’re not.”
“Well…are you strong?”
Barty glances back at the mess in Evan’s living room. The coffee table cracked and askew. A book and a potted plant on the ground. Dirt on the rug.
He turns back. “No.”
“Do…” Evan trails off like he’s picking his next question. “Do you have a job?”
“A job?” Barty repeats, thrown off by such a mundane question.
“Yeah, a job.”
“Being a vampire.”
The joke lands but Barty’s still trying to not bleed into his own eye. Tilting his head back. He probably looks a pitiful mess. The first vampire Evan comes across and Barty can’t even break a glass table with his head. He’s clearly a fuck up and ruined a good thing.
He’s so sorry.
“I’m just asking,” Evan fucking sasses, and Barty balks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t—”
“I work on cars.”
“A mechanic?”
“Kind of.”
“What’s that mean?”
Barty flounders for a response. God. Decides on, “I work on like, the engines. A mechanic…yeah. Part-time, kind of. I don’t know, it pays the bills and my dad used to work on cars so I guess…well, I thought I'd be good at it too.”
“And are you?”
Barty blinks. “What?”
“Good at it—working on cars.”
Barty considers this.
“I haven’t been fired yet.”
Evan nods. He’s sitting on the stool in front of Barty. In his kitchen. Resting with his cheek pressed against his propped-up fist. Every once in a while his foot brushes Barty’s leg. The apartment looks almost the same as Barty’s. It’s the same apartment, actually, just…much, much different. Evan is in it for one. His knees are almost touching Barty’s now.
For two there’s a vibe to the place. It’s comfortable. Barty is comfy, the walls don’t seem as harsh and the TV in the background gives the air a bit of life. It’s not silent, it’s not dark. There are nice lamps and there are some plants. There’s an impressive movie collection on one shelf. Barty glances down the hallway he knows must hold the bathroom and Evan’s room, and by the look of what he can see, he’s sure Evan’s bedroom is nice.
It probably kind of matches or something.
“—please.”
“What?” Barty asks, coming to again. “Sorry.”
“You’re hurt,” Evan repeats. Voice firm when he says, “Let me look, please.”
Barty glances down at his leg, where Evan is pointing. His pants are torn and scraped up.
Ah, he thinks. The bushes. He cut open his hand as well, and Barty tries to wipe the blood on his pants but can tell the wound is bad. Feels it. Seems his head is not cracked but he’s falling apart again. It’s all going to bruise, ugly nasty colors.
“Yeah, do you have another rag or something?”
The previous one is blood-soaked on the bar, streaking it red.
“Of course,” Evan says, rushing around to the sink and grabbing one. He wets it. Stands there with his hands behind his back as Barty dabs at his hand. He frowns when Barty peeks up before he stumbles, “I—you can get hurt?”
Barty laughs.
“What?”
“I am just like you, only I have to drink blood every once in a while,” he mumbles before hissing, the skin raw. He peeks up, and clearly, that doesn’t suffice. Barty huffs. “Every two weeks, usually. There’s methods and they differ, but it’s a lot messier the less money you have,” he glances up. “You’ve gotta make due the old-fashioned way.”
Evan clearly processes this information and then frowns. Barty clears his throat and coughs.
“You bite people?”
“Yes,” Barty says simply. And then he adds, just to be sure, “I don’t kill them.”
Evan is silent before, “No, I wasn’t trying to insinuate that.” A pause. “I’m sorry. Either way, I’m sorry.”
“S’not too bad.” Barty pauses. His hand stumbles, and he ends up setting the bloody, damp rag on the counter next to the other. They’re ruined, and Barty makes a note to ask where the trash can is.
Barty can tell Evan finds it humorous at first, the fact that stitching up his hand hurts so bad.
Evan somehow convinced him it was one hundred percent necessary, and then dragged Barty to the bathroom, made him sit, and went to town. Pulling out supplies from under the counter, banging cabinet doors closed. Barty’s legs are too long, Evan is having to hover way too close and he’s squeezing Barty’s thigh with his own, trying to get him to sit still.
The bathroom isn’t very large. Rent here is cheap.
And the cut wasn’t too big, but it was deep and Barty explained that no, going to the hospital isn’t really an option, because he really doesn't know what would happen but he just knows it would not be good. Evan had tried to argue, explaining he’d make them fix Barty up, but as scary as Evan’s determination is, it would probably end badly for both of them. He, once again, explains as much.
He’s had to figure a lot of this vampire stuff out on his own, but Barty’s got common sense.
“Well, you’re just meant to be really tough,” Evan explains, shrugging as he tugs the thread tight. Barty feels queasy, he can’t look. “I’m sorry—no more smiling, I’m sorry.”
“Yet you’re still smiling,” he chokes on a noise. “Fucker.”
“Am I being too rough?”
“Nope,” Barty wheezes. “No, you’re great—perfect.”
Evan is smiling and laughing and he’s got Barty’s blood all over his fingers, sticking them together.
Acting like he’s having a grand ‘ol time. He’s sitting on Barty’s knee, that’s what this is, and Barty winces. This feels terrible. He can’t even be bothered to joke. He feels very, very human. Getting your palm stitched up is just horrible, no matter how angelic the person digging into your skin with a needle is. No matter how soft their touch is, a needle is still sharp.
And Evan is still trying not to laugh.
“No, no—no,” he frowns, faux serious as he leans in close. “I’m frowning, I promise. This is not funny at all, it’s actually very serious and grave…”
His voice fades away and Evan takes so much care stitching Barty up. Tongue between his lips, leaning down to make sure he can see. It makes Barty’s heart do a weird thing, to be cared for. Not screamed at or yelled at. Not feared. He is not feared right now. Instead, Evan thinks he’s funny and they’re laughing.
Barty’s eyes are a bit wet from the pain, but he still manages a huff.
Evan has taken the night's events on the chin in a way Barty doesn’t think he would have himself, and it’s overbearing. Barty feels very strange. Out of place in an apartment that is not his but resembles it. Lured in by this divine face before him, and maybe Evan is going to kill him. Maybe he’s going to kill Barty and hide his body somewhere or drain him of his blood and sell it to the highest bidder.
Or Barty will end up the headline of another online post, with people in the comments laughing at his lack of spatial awareness and how rude he is for breaking Evan’s furniture.
He can try to kill him, but Barty really doesn't know how he’s meant to die.
Evan has a green shower curtain but the toilet seat cover Barty is sitting on looks like a little rabbit's head. With blue ears that flop down and if Barty leans around, he can see one beady eye. There’s stuff all over the counter, his place looks much more lived in than Barty’s.
It’s on the back end of a real nasty tug and a snip that he notes the two toothbrushes by the sink. He squints and Evan straightens. Blocking out the light, he wipes his hands on a towel and throws it in the sink. The toothbrush rattles in its little cup. The warmth is gone from Barty’s thigh and he can finally take a full breath.
“Good as new.”
“Thank you,” Barty says. Means it. Swallows again and coughs. “I don’t—I should head—”
This man has a boyfriend. Girlfriend.
This man has someone who brushes their teeth in this very bathroom.
This man is clearly put out by Barty and this seems like trouble because Barty can’t fight. He can, but it’s embarrassing for everyone. He’ll win, but he’s taking himself down a few pegs in doing so. This is a setup. He doesn’t want to fight this angel’s boyfriend; Barty is tired.
He needs to leave.
“When you drink from someone, do they turn into a vampire?”
Barty blinks.
Evan blinks.
Barty says, “No.”
Evan squints. Intaking the information. He hums. Looks him over, tilting Barty’s head to the side with gentle, cold fingers. Touching his cheek, then his temple. He’s being jabbed at. It stings, but the blood has stopped. He can feel a knot where his hair is matted and Barty is still sitting on the toilet. He clears his throat. It feels like glass. There’s blood at home, but the whole reason he didn't drink it earlier was it was stale. He already drank from someone, he reminds himself, but that does nothing to curb the urge.
Evan smells so good, and Barty still can’t look at his face.
“How many vampires are there?”
Barty frowns and needs to ask for some pain meds. “I don’t know, a lot I think.”
“You don’t know?” Evan sounds surprised.
“No.”
“Do you have vampire friends?”
“No.”
“And why haven’t you bitten me?” he asks, almost offended.
Once again Barty is being asked questions he’s never had to answer before. He swallows. Tries for vague honesty.
Voice high, “You seem nice.”
“Nice?” Evan narrows his eyes.
“I’m fine,” Barty swallows. Not answering the question and reminding himself. “I promise—”
“I was watching a movie on a Friday night and a vampire fell into my apartment and he’s too polite to bite me?” Evan asks, voice a tad higher now. “You have to understand how that sounds.”
Barty bristles. “You’re shouting because I didn’t bite you?”
“I’m not shouting,” Evan snaps. “Just confused and mildly insulted.”
“Insulted,” Barty repeats.
“Yes.”
“Okay, why?”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Barty goes for the kill. “I think—I think you’re seeing someone, so...”
“So fucking what, I can’t have friends?” Evan wipes both hands over his eyes and stands. “God, you smell like wet grass.”
“Well, I fell in some bushes and through someone’s apartment window—”
“It was a door!”
“I can leave, by all means—”
“No!” Evan shouts, his voice racing. Peeking his head back into his bedroom, he collects himself. Quieter now, “No, I mean—you’re not intruding.”
Confusing little thing.
He crosses his arms and looks at Evan. He’s got purple socks on, and Barty still can’t bring himself to look at his face. Can’t bring himself to glance at that toothbrush. It’s dark in the hallway, but he’s gotten half-glances here and there when he was brave enough to attempt eye contact and Barty knows the man before him is just heartbreaking.
And blushing.
Evan clears his throat. “Do you want a drink?”
“Are you trying to ask me out?”
“Wha—no!” Evan shouts, and he’s hiding. Speed walking from the bathroom but Barty follows into the kitchen. “Stop following me.”
“I don’t know where I’m going, this is your apartment,” Barty grins.
He pivots. Evan makes a beeline for the coffee table instead. Picking up his very empty but at one point very full wine glass. Two and two are connecting, and Barty catches that blush darken. Looks at Evan in a new light and Barty is absolutely delighted. Enthralled.
Evan is quite endearing.
Barty runs a hand over the back of his neck. Swallows. This is bad news, he’s not trying to cause issues and he already owes Evan a new table. He’s not getting between this crazy fucker and whatever he’s got going on. Evan’s got something in his eye that spells of fun trouble, but trouble nonetheless.
“I should really go.”
“I thought you wanted a drink?”
“It’s late…” Barty trails off.
“If I asked you to, would you bite me?”
“I—” he stops, rubs the back of his neck harder.
And he makes the mistake of actually looking this time. Facing Evan head-on.
All of his musings and concerns are validated because he is heartbreaking. Evan has a face to match whatever it is about him that is so captivating. Whatever it is about him that makes Barty wish he’d met Evan a long, long time ago. His easy nature, the way he smiles like a smirk. Like he’s in on something that you’re not.
Barty’s known the man for a few hours at most, and he already knows Evan is kind. Maybe too kind.
He’s got two different colored eyes. Piercings. Tattoos. Duck pajamas and purple socks. Barty had seen the flashes of metal when he avoided his looks, but they’re big and shiny and Barty cannot imagine Evan walking into the room and not stealing everyone’s gaze. It just wouldn’t happen. Good or bad, everyone’s eyes must land on him.
Barty sees nothing else now that he’s looked, and Evan’s got freckles.
This candy-coated, sweet, sweet person is asking Barty to turn him into a vampire.
“I’m sorry, it’s really not that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to like,” Barty swallows, looking around for the words. “It’s a whole process. A ritual.”
“A ritual.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s how you became a vampire.”
“Kind of.”
Evan’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking kidding me? What is this, nineteenth-century England?”
The ritual requires two chalices of a certain quality and size. Should they leak or be of unequal size, then the ritual will surely fail. A circle must be drawn with your blood of choice, and the chosen ritual area must be free of interfering beings.
1. All parties must be fully nude.
2. Draw a circle upon the ground. Both parties must reside in the circle until they both awaken, otherwise the ritual will fail. Place the two chalices inside the circle.
3. The one wishing to turn must be bitten.
4. Fill one chalice with blood, which must be shed willingly. Both must be filled halfway. No more or less.
5. The party who was bitten must then bite the other, drinking the venom. Fill the other empty cup.
6. The two parties must now take the chalice of the other's blood and drink from it. Both parties must partake in the entire amount of chalice, for otherwise, the ritual will fail.
7. The centre of the circle will glow, and an aura of the soul can briefly be seen around the individual. Once the ritual is complete, the bite marks will burn and be etched into the skin as a symbol of the ritual that has taken place.
Barty stares down at the laptop in front of Evan.
It’s old. There are crumbs in the vents, and he needs a new one. There are about sixteen tabs open. Barty isn’t being nosy, it just looks like it’s about to fall apart. One wrong click on a porn site, the laptop will burst into flames.
They’re sitting at Evan’s kitchen table. Papers and bills are pushed to the side. There’s a ring of condensation from Barty’s beer on their notebook for notes. Evan is in the chair, Barty hovering behind them, and it’s silent as they read the page. Eyes scanning, finger scrolling.
Intaking information. Squinting, reading it one more time.
Evan speaks first.
“Why do we have to be naked?”
“Okay,” Barty says with something final. He rises. “Okay, where did you find this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where on earth are you reading—”
“I looked it up.” Evan turns to glance at Barty. There’s a crease between his brows. “I’m not stupid, you said there’s a book. I looked for that, and then it led me to this forum—”
Barty’s eyes finally find what he’s looking for.
“—this person said their cousin was the one who told her about—”
He interrupts Evan, reading out the title of the post:
How to become a vampire in seven steps.
“It seemed more promising than the others!” Evan hisses, going to close out of that tab. “I was just showing you,” he defends. “We could have gone with the one that demanded I drink pig’s blood. You’re the vampire here, so you tell me. I didn’t think I would really need to dig up a body, but someone mentioned that as well, so if you think—”
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Barty growls. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m not going to jail for grave-robbing, though.”
“No one said that.”
“You said that!”
“I did not.”
“You just said we have to dig up a body—”
“No,” Evan snaps. “I said someone on the internet suggested that.”
Barty stares at him. Lets those words make their way where they need to go and Evan caves eventually. Rolling his eyes before he moves on.
“Anyway.” Evan’s eyes cut to punctuate the word. “I did manage to find the book you mentioned. You said there weren’t many around, but this person is selling it, I think. I don’t think they know what it is. I found it through the printing publisher and…”
Evan trails off and Barty would give him two gold stars if he could.
Evan is so smart. He’s just so smart, with a good head wrapped in a pretty bow and a pretty face and pretty eyes and Barty is staring. He’s passing it off as awe, of Evan’s stupidity or ingenious, it does not matter but his time is up. He needs to speak, he cannot keep staring—
Evan should have led with the book, not the internet forums.
Barty clears his throat. “So we can buy the book?”
“If you want, yeah.”
Evan had not blinked when Barty explained it’s a bit of a ritual. Something archaic, things that don't exist but do. There’s no gentle way to put that there are strange bits of magic in the world, but he had only nodded slowly and then told Barty he needed to sleep. He had work in the morning. He ushered Barty out of his apartment which he took insult from until Barty was half asleep in his own bed across the complex and Evan texted him follow-up questions that first, fateful night.
Barty woke up the next morning for work to a few more texts. No luck yet, but Evan insisted on plans for the following weekend.
Which finds Barty in Evan’s kitchen, now. Drinking and trying to hunt down this old fucking book. Trying not to look Evan in the eye. It’s dangerous. He’s a walking red flag and Barty had walked in this evening and done a full sweep. Almost. And that toothbrush is still in Evan’s bathroom. There doesn’t seem to be any boyfriend or girlfriend or someone who might interfere remnants beyond that, but Barty doesn’t want any smoke.
Evan blinks at him.
Barty hums. He had not been listening. He had been staring. “What?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
Another blinks. Barty looks at his beer and looks at Evan’s face. Looks at this fucking apartment and the paper towel holder Evan has that’s a dinosaur. Just a dinosaur with a long neck. It’s green. Evan’s almost out of paper towels.
He doesn’t ask what again because he heard Evan clearly and right. He heard that number right and there’s no use taking another peek at Evan to make sure this is what he wants. Barty might catch a glimpse of his face and tip the man that’s about to sell them this fucking book for two hundred dollars.
Barty breathes in heavily and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.
They buy the book, and it’s delivered two weeks later.
In this time, Barty has become aware of three things.
His apartment really is so far from Evan’s. It’s a wonder he ended up where he did that fateful night. Otherwise, he doesn’t think he would have ever met Evan.
Barty has no reservations about turning Evan into a vampire, and he does not care how the internet forums or other people with the same affliction as him may feel about that.
He does not want to be Evan’s friend, Barty wants to kiss him.
Evan is so cool.
So, no.
Evan is on the opposite end of the complex, but Barty suddenly finds himself bumping into him everywhere. What a coincidence! That’s what Evan said the first time he found Barty checking the mail. The second time it was, Oh my god, you’re here too? as they did laundry. The third time he didn’t try to lie, Evan just tossed one of his loose socks that got left behind into Barty’s washer.
Texting—they do that every day now.
Just fun things here and there, sometimes they play phone tag, but it’s veered in a direction less about this damn book and more How was your day?
you would like this movie i think
do you have an egg? i just need one egg please.
Barty tells Evan he’s taking out the trash and he needs soap, and Evan walks across the apartment complex to give him some soap after wandering by on a stroll as Barty dumps his garbage. Barty sits with Evan as he does laundry in his own home because he has a fucking washer and dryer. Barty does his laundry there now. Evan says he likes Barty’s apartment, but Barty knows he’s just being nice.
And as much as he wants to shy away from this person seemingly wanting to be around him, Barty can’t. It’s nice to have company, even if Evan is a tad weird. It’s in a charming way, so that, too, is okay.
Barty learns Evan makes money fucking himself on the internet. His words, not Barty’s.
How crude, right?
Wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Evan’s got a mouth on him that would make the devil blush and he’s bossy and mean and doesn’t take no for an answer when he insists Barty is hungry for more pizza, he already ordered it, so he should just get his ass over here already. He makes Barty fold laundry with him on the couch and Barty does not know what kind of man Evan thinks he is, but Barty is being given entirely too much credit.
About has an aneurysm folding Evan’s underwear.
There is no graceful way to hold a scrap of lace. Satin. Mesh. Tiny bow and that pair is just plain black. That one is barely even there. Oh, there’s a pair of boxers that have cheeseburgers on them. And there’s some sort of…it’s long and soft and ruffles. It’s baby blue and Barty’s eye twitches.
He tries so, so hard to respect Evan’s boundaries, but he wants to shake the scraps of lace in Evan’s face with wide eyes and ask what is this for? Are you seeing someone??
Barty tries to dispel the idea from his mind that Evan is on the internet somewhere. Wearing fluffy, baby blue lace. He’s out there and he makes money and, hell, if Barty stumbled across him he’d give Evan so much money. He would give him all of his money. He would go broke for Evan.
Evan does well for himself, and Barty is folding his underwear.
He and whoever else may step foot in this apartment are not the same.
They’ve eaten dinner together countless times now. Barty tells him about cars he’s not interested in, and Evan tells him more about his job. Barty has not stepped foot in Evan’s bedroom. He’s fearful, he cannot—cannot think of that. What might reside behind that door. That’s where Evan takes the laundry. Takes the long, tall stockings Barty folds into balls because you cannot fold long socks.
He’s bitten off more than he can chew.
Now it’s not about turning this endearing person he owes into a vampire, it’s about liking said person, and Barty has fantasies at night of Evan being his personal porn star. He was an only child, he likes to have things others want. It’s getting out of hand. It’s egregious. He wants a relationship and that word is so fear-inducing, he rather choke down stale blood. There are too many moving parts now.
Such fast friends, Evan calls him his friend and Barty can’t figure out how to ask Evan if he is seeing someone so that Barty can then tell him he wants to see Evan instead. That clearly whoever he’s seeing is not around much. Clearly Evan likes hanging out with Barty, so they should kiss…probably. At some point.
Barty is a vampire but he’s also a man and Evan makes him fold his laundry but he also sits on his couch with his little computer in his lap sometimes while they watch TV and Barty’s eye twitches. He’s never cared for porn, he’s never cared to fuck someone this bad, and it doesn’t match the nonchalant energy he personally brings to their hangouts as friends every day.
There was a pair of shoes one time by the front door—the saddest day of Barty’s life so far.
Barty tries really hard not to see them as dates, the nights they spend in each other's company. He tries really hard to remember the end goal here. His place.
And once again they’re in Evan’s apartment, except they’re on the couch now. Evan unwraps the package as he grins. It’s bubble-wrapped and taped to hell and back. He glances at Barty before ripping it open. Smoothing a hand over the cover, faded old gold inlay. He opens it.
Evan stares at the words. Blinks.
Someone on the TV is crying.
Barty leans over to look and Evan hugs the book to his chest. Turns away from Barty. He bites his lip and then, reluctantly, “Oh, this is not in English.”
Barty cocks his head. “What?”
“This—it’s not in English.”
“Like…”
“Barty, I cannot read this is what I mean. I don’t know how to be any clearer.”
Ignoring the first name drop, Barty deflates. “Fuck.”
“Why didn’t we think of that,” Evan hisses, smacking Barty on the arm with the book. He’s so strong. “God, fuck—you didn’t even—”
“Me?!” Barty recoils. “And how is this my fault?”
“Well…” Evan starts but never finishes.
“Okay, wait. We can translate it,” Barty offers, scooting closer. “Right? There has to be some way to do that. What is it written in?”
Evan opens the book again, offering it to Barty to see as well. He blinks. Thinks. Is not sure, but he’s heard of this book before. When he was younger, when his parents were still around, and he was a child and—
“That’s Romanian.”
“You gotta be fucking with me,” Evan breathes. “Romanian?” He does a double-take. “How the fuck do you know—no, you know what? Nevermind.”
Barty shakes his head, taking the book from Evan. “That’s—yeah, that’s Romanian.”
Evan’s head is in his hands. There’s an old, dusty book they paid two hundred dollars for in Barty’s. He sighs, too. He’s not sure why he’s so on board with this plan. To turn someone else into a vampire. And he’s not even just on board now, he’s antsy. Barty has thought a lot about it over the past few weeks. Just what it means.
It seems like a cruel thing to do in his mind. Rationally. But Evan seems to want it and Barty has very little morals when it comes to anyone that is not himself. He doesn't care what others do, or how that affects him.
Sue him, maybe he’s being a bit selfish. It’s of his nature.
Sure, he’ll help Evan. He’s good company, they can be vampire friends after. It’s the least Barty can do, he fell through Evan’s door, and he never replaced the table. He hasn’t jerked off to thoughts of him yet, but the time is nigh. Barty’s beer is sitting on that cracked coffee table now, Evan is kind. He doesn’t think Barty is a monster, but at the same time thinks of him as little more than an average person. He has a boyfriend, and Barty is just doing him a service. Evan’s company pays enough in return.
It’s so nice to just be Barty, not anything else.
“We can translate the index first,” Evan explains, meeting Barty’s eye. “Find where the ritual is, then translate those pages.”
“Like homework.”
“Like homework, yeah.”
And see, that little kiss was too much, Barty thinks.
Woah, woah, woah—he doesn’t want his head to get too big thinking Evan is only sending him kissy faces, but it’s a nice way to pass the busy, boring day.
But it’s too much because Evan always texts back so fast and Barty likes him so much.
He really, really does. He finds himself not caring what they watch on TV or Evan’s proclivity for documentaries on German composting from the seventeenth century. Barty has himself a debilitating crush, and people like him don’t usually do well with crushes. There’s no point. Having to drink blood from people all the time and being a vampire does not bode well for a relationship or love life, no matter how iron-clad your attention span is or how much restraint you hold when it comes to not pulling the classic arm move while sitting on the couch with a warm sugar cookie. Personified.
Barty’s found himself a gem, somehow, so he’s giddy when he gets to Evan’s apartment on Wednesday.
Even if he turns Evan and then he finds some super hot, buff vampire boyfriend to be vampires with and he leaves and moves away out of his corner apartment, Barty will still be glad. He got something good and exciting for a bit.
That’ll carry him through a handful of years to come.
And even if there’s no boyfriend…Barty is just Barty.
He does not contain enough gumption for the arm over the back of the couch move to come off anything other than cringe. He’s a real sorry excuse for a half-person most days, and the worst excuse for a vampire every day. Even if Evan does like him he just…should not. There are too many better people out there for someone like Evan to settle.
“Okay,” Evan says, and he’s ready to go. Barty can’t help but laugh. He’s got a pen tucked behind his ear, eyes bright and alert. “I have it sectioned out. I think if we—wait,” Evan stops, a hand on Barty’s chest as he leads him towards the living room. “You can like, stay right?”
“Over?”
“Well,” Evan says. “I mean, if you want I just didn’t know if you had…plans.”
“Plans.”
“To eat someone or something. I don’t know, so.”
“We don’t eat people,” Barty sneers, snatching the paper from Evan when he offers it up. “And that’s a harmful stereotype to toss around, so.”
Evan purses his lips like a brat.
A smart one though, so Barty lets it slide.
Evan is draped over Barty’s back, and it’s pushing four in the morning. They’ve been at it for hours.
The unknown pair of shoes are gone from the entryway. Tombstone is playing on the tv and Barty thinks it’s perfect. Strange, but Doc Holiday is handsome, so handsome, they both agreed, and Evan is hanging off Barty, watching him translate the last chunk of text.
They’ve got to put it all together now to make sense of it, but Evan finished his six pages a while ago, and he’s been like this ever since. Barty knows he’s pretty much asleep, and he’s warm. Heavy against his back, arms dangling in front of Barty's chest. Brushing the front of his shirt, picking at it. He’s never given much thought to personal space, but Barty supposes he doesn’t mind Evan invading his.
He’s having a hard time focusing, though. Evan smelling like fucking candied pecans and banana bread and all the baked gooey goods.
“Okay,” he whispers. Nudging Evan. “Hey, I finished.”
“Mmph.”
“Wake up.”
“Hnfg.”
“Evan.”
“Yes,” he says, sitting up. Looking and then seeing. “Right, yes. Okay.”
“It’s done.”
Evan nods. “Mmfhm.”
Barty gives him a weary glance before reaching for Evan’s stack. He starts thumbing through them. It doesn’t all make sense, it’s words stuck with conjunctions and random words like bread where they should not be. It’s not a clean translation, but Barty’s eyes snag on one line.
Tucked into Evan’s six pages:
All parties must be fully nude.
“You’ve got to be—” Barty reaches for Evan’s laptop, flipping through the tabs. Angry jabs at the keyboard. He glances between the pages and the screen. A low growl brewing in the back of his throat. “—fucking kidding me. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Wha’?”
“We spent fucking—two hundred dollars on this book and i-it’s.” Barty gestures wildly, shoving the laptop in front of Evan. “It’s your stupid—the fucking seven steps to turn into a vampire ritual.”
“Ha!” Evan shouts, fully awake now as he steals the computer. His brows draw together and he glances over his papers and the screen. Pretty lips and lashes highlighted by the bright light casting tall shadows on his cheeks. He glances at Barty’s face, back to the screen. Double take. Pause. Nods sagely.
Evan clears his throat. “So… chalices.”
“Like at Medieval times.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Barty takes the laptop back. Or tries to, but Evan holds it in place. He has to scoot closer. They’re touching. Barty feels pre-pubescent. He whispers, “What kind do you think we need?”
Evan types into the search bar:
Vampire chalice
Barty nods. Evan is so smart.
Immediately Barty recoils. Evan makes what should be a horribly ugly noise in place of a laugh. It is not. It’s wonderful, someone probably hears it all the time when they’re here and Barty is not. Barty has started putting his shoes in the kitchen, not where the others were.
He must separate himself from the competition.
“These are really gaudy. These aren’t real vampire chalices.”
“What is a real vampire chalice?” Barty mumbles. Poking Evan’s finger away from the mouse, he navigates to the shopping section of Google. “Old, right?”
“That one is a gold skull.”
“Gold is tacky.” Barty clicks. “This one is plastic and it has a bat,” he hums. “And it’s dishwasher safe apparently, although I don't know…”
“That’s not making it out of the dishwasher.”
“These are not real chalices.”
“No.”
“I don’t—” Barty winces. “We need two matching ones? Exactly the same or we die?”
There are not many options, this is too vague. There seems to be a very large margin for error, and all this is probably why they just… shouldn't be fucking around and finding out. Barty continues to scroll and even goes to the second page of search.
“What does quality mean?”
Barty scoffs. “Beats me.”
Evan pauses where his fingers are now on the keys. Batting Barty’s away. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and it’s a near pout.
“Wait, can you die? If we mess this up?”
“We both could, yes.”
“No, no,” Evan insists. “I mean—you can’t die, right?”
Barty gives him a look and tries to find a place in his mind to put the apprehension he hears in Evan’s voice. Eventually, all he can do is shrug. “I don’t know.”