I walked out of the shadows...And into a lamp-post (kills_jellyfish) wrote in amecorpsesprit,
I walked out of the shadows...And into a lamp-post
kills_jellyfish
amecorpsesprit

Chapter Five - The Room At The Bottom Of The Stairs

Title: Love's Just A Four Letter Word - The Room At The Bottom Of The Stairs
Warning: NC-17 extreme violence


"You’re… you’re sick? How? What’s wrong?" Tyn’s grip tightened, pulling Miroslav almost onto his lap, nuzzling his face into the were’s shoulder. "I don’t think… I don’t think I could ask you to… to do anything, Miro. Especially if you’re ill. I can’t. I can’t ask… ask you to hurt someone you love." He shook his head, although he had to admit, the prospect of freeing Edvard had given him a kick, a quickening of his pulse which the Roma couldn’t have not noticed.

Truth be told, he would need someone’s help. Miro seemed to be the only one who would be able to give it, but there was no way… no. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. To do that would have made the escape… tainted. He couldn’t and wouldn’t let Miro do something that could harm him, or endanger him. It was that simple. And if the truth was going to be told, then Tyn hadn’t understood, but the tone had frightened him, and that was not a good sign. He would not do that. He would not. Tyn was capable of making his own plan, executing it, and achieving his goal. He would now, he decided, work on getting Miroslav free too. Even though he doubted the werewolf would want such a thing. If he was in love… then he would return. Although Dante might beat him for it, Tyn doubted that Dante was insane enough to murder what appeared to be his most powerful, and loyal, servant, if he did indeed have more. But Tyn would give the other boy a chance, and Miroslav could get… get some sort of medical attention, and get better, and maybe… maybe then he would return, and things would be better for him. At least, that was what Tyn hoped.

"Miroslav… you said… Dante will come to get me. When? For how long? Will… will you come with us, or… or will you stay here? Alone? If Edvard… if Edvard is there, I’ll… I’ll be able to do something Give him a chance to get out. If you can… you can make sure he… he makes it out of here… then that is all I can ask of you." He was still crying, he realised, tears falling into the European’s dark hair, like tiny diamonds. "I couldn’t ask more from a friend."

Feeling the wet droplets catch in the silken tangle of his hair, there was another shiver that ran down Miroslav's spine, a tremor that didn't stop for a while. "Don't..." he choked, face tightening, the lines creasing painfully. "Don't cry. Do anything but cry." the words lingered a moment before the were-dog could even continue, seemingly having to regain himself before the fragments in his mind would even string together-it took much longer for them to form in his mouth.

"What I have can't be cured. I'm sick /inside/. My heart's sick, my mind's sick... there's nothing any doctor can do. No one can fix what's been done. My Master doesn't love me, my Master cares nothing for me... There is no reason for you to have to do anything other than escape from here. There's no need in repaying me, there isn't anything to give, nothing to spare, nothing to change... Just get out when you're given the chance.... You shouldn't suffer from what I've been unable to stop." he halted for a minute, feeling the heart of the other beat heavy against its ribcage, making something inside the Roma leap, like he had been given an electric jolt. "Master will come soon for you, you alone... and you will see Edvard. Don't go to him, don't touch him. Master will leave you until morning, when he will come again.... From there he will bring you back to one of his rooms, I'm sure. Perhaps, by that time, I can help. What I do takes no courage, it takes only cowardice. I want you to think nothing of it. Just..." he whimpered and said no more. What could he say? There was nothing else. Nothing that could matter to Tyn. He couldn't express this feeling pulling him down like dead weight, there was no common ground to say they had to understand.

So, in his mind, he halfway devised a plan. Miroslav would leave when his Master arrived... Just... Go. All against his Master's wishes, heading to the nearest place he could find to furnish his needs. My God, though; who here had silver bullets? Chilled, silver, bullets. They /had/ to be chilled; for, when they rushed from a barrel to the base of a hot, troubled brain, there would be need of icing. There must be something to cool those awful fears and doubts and dreads forever.

Why couldn't anyone love him back? Why did this have to be how it ended?

There was another shivering through the cold body of the were-dog. This would have to be it. What other way was there to save two such adoring souls from this twisted-horror tale they were being spun into? There wasn't. Not in that mind so spinning and pained. Dry, pathetic sobs caught in the boy's throat, and he swallowed them. He was a coward. What was there to do? Dante never said anything to encourage the were-dog against it.... There was nothing. Rape, beatings, hateful words, wronged accusations...

I love my Master. I love him.

The words kept coming back.

No you don't! What's to love? To adore?

Everything.

Nothing!

Yes. You love him more than you do yourself.

Not anymore.

Anymore?

Yes, not anymore.

It was the tremor of the swallowed tears that hurt Tyn the most, and all he could do was softly, very softly, stoke Miroslav’s back, muttering gently and consolingly in coos that had no real meaning, but where universally used to try and soothe those in need. Tyn didn’t find it soothing, and his own tears, although he was trying to hold back for both their sakes, only grew more painful.

"No you aren’t. You aren’t! You aren’t, I know you aren’t! You aren’t sick." He managed, between sharp intakes of breath. "You’ll be okay. But… you need to come with us. You’ll be fine then, I know you will be. Please Miro…" The youth swallowed, tears streaking his face, a face so different to the cocky, rude boy that had taunted Edvard in the night-club just two nights before. He was a child again, innocent and naïve, desperate in his need to right all the wrongs in the world. "You can come with us! And… and you’ll be okay and you can stay with me… when… when Eddy goes and… and be my friend…" he pleaded, clinging tightly to the other, face buried into the Roma’s bare skin.

"I can’t let you… I can’t. It isn’t right. I’ll get us free. And… and then… then you will come too. And Dante won’t stop us. And then we’ll be safe, and then… then…" his voice trailed off. What was he going to do? He didn’t know. Somehow… he would… he didn’t know. But it all hinged around that precious few moments when he would be on his own with Dante, and perhaps, just perhaps, able to do something, anything, to get him out the way. Push him down the stairs, knock him out, anything. Just for a few minutes, to distract him, get Edvard out, get Miroslav out. And then… then he would leave too, if he could. If not… well. Best not think about that.

"Miro… you deserve better then this. You know you do. I want… I want to make sure you… you get out of here. I want you to be happy. I think you’d look beautiful, if you smiled. Dante would have loved you, I know he would have, if… if this hadn’t happened to him. I’m so sorry that it has. I am… but… I can’t let this happen to you. I can’t… let his madness kill you too, understand?" He said, slowly, strokes his fingertips over the bare shoulders. "I’ve never had a best friend… I’d like you to be… to be it."

"I am sick." he murmered into the boy's shoulder, unable to keep himself from shivering. This whole little gesture, the patting, the gentle, silky words meant to soothe him... it was so beautiful, so strange to him that he wasn't quite sure how to go about it. "I can't come with you, Tyn. If I could leave, I would have long before now... before it came to... this." the last word sounded so resolute, so... final. Biting his tongue and swallowing the blood, his eyes would crinkle as he reminisced, face pressed into the neck of the stranger. "We were beautiful. God, we were so beautiful, Tyn. I could smile, and my Master, my Master he would hold me and talk to me... We were nothing more than midnight lovers in Spain. We were so beautiful." he choked, feeling as though he could wretch. But there would be nothing there; the were-dog had stopped eating on his own accord, Dante never faltering to say he should eat again. There was agony, centuries of it swelling in the sides of his heart, making the empty spaces seem to fill with some noxious gas. Sniffling, he went on, words muffled as the lips were pressed to skin, still no tears able to flow from those pained, awfully innocent eyes. "You can't stop him, you know. Only I can keep him from hurting you. From hurting Edvard... I want you to have the eternity I never had. Only a friend would do that, don't you see?"
There was no waiting for an answer though, as gentle footsteps had left the stairwell and were now echoing down the perfectly still, silent halls that were pitch black before. It was a merry gait, as though just on a stroll through the prettiest park those shoes had ever trekked. Humming accompanied it. Surely, it hadn't been that long since the two had been locked in together, had it? It had, time breaking free of reasonable barriers and dashing forwards. Perhaps that was the only way in which whatever God there was had been merciful-merciful enough to not let them stew in that for long, silent hours when the words all ceased. There was a scraping of a key in the door and then the heaving of the massive wooden slab inward, making Miro tremble and shifting in one movement to his feet. The were-dog had brushed long, cold fingers over the boy's cheek as he did, whispering softly into Tyn's ear, "Remember what I said..."
"Ahhh," light illuminated the now shirtless, somewhat sloshed Italian, a bottle of wine in his left hand. Cold eyes narrowed, looking the pair over like something for sale. "Leave us, won't you, Miro?" The creature hurried to do as he was told, slipping past them and streaking off down the hallway. The right hand extended to Tyn, fingers spread, eyes glazed as he smiled. "Ready to see your lover now, my dear?"

Tyn inched back, feeling somehow naked and alone without the were-dog's arms and legs and body close to him, and now cold, so cold. It was not the fresh, or at least, different air that blew in from the open door, but the man who spent in through it, and as soon as he opened his mouth, Tyn's world, which seemed to have a tiny glimmer of hope, collapsed in on itself. Dante's words were cruel, and his voice more granting and sickening than Tyn remember it to be. Perhaps in the absence of this monster, and in the presence of the small, frightened boy, Tyn had grown... less frightened.
But now it all washed back, swallowing and drowning him like a tsunami, sweeping him away. The wine fumes themselves attacked his head, making him passively drunk, making him feel more sick, sick to his stomach and ready, ready to curl up and never move from this little batch of floor that was still warmed from Miroslav's body. Without this small ally, Tyn felt even more lost. His eyes stayed on the floor, not looking up as Dante left, but raising a little when Miro stood, then sinking back down, his spirit already broken.
He didn't have a choice, or not, did he? He had to go, to see Eddy, to... to try to leave. And what of Miroslav's plan? Tyn didn't know what it was, and if he did, probably would have been even more scared. The were-boy should have got away. Run, escaped. Miro was a fool to stay, but a brave fool. And Tyn, for some reason, wanted to be like him. But he wanted Miroslav free, too. He deserved his freedom.
However.... Miro had a plan, which was more then Tyn had. Perhaps... well... perhaps it would be best for Tyn to rely on Miro, who... who seemed trustworthy. He had to be. Of course he was.
It was so moments, perhaps a minute or more, before Tyn eventually considered answering Dante. He seemed to almost... not forgotten his host's presence, but been..... preoccupied. Eddy. Eddy was going to be alright... Tyn would see to that. He was not going to let Eddy suffer. Not any more. He wouldn't be able to take it, Tyn knew he would go crazy if he was left alone... He'd kill them both, if he had to, in some sort of Romeo and Juliet parody. He knew how. But now was not the time; he better answer Dante before the alcoholic bastard lost it.
"I...yes, I suppose..." He managed, and tried to stand, grabbing the corner of the chair as he hauled himself off the floor, and then shakily looked up at Dante for the first time. "If you mean Eddy..." He added quickly, shame filling his thin frame. He knew what he'd offered Dante, and now felt sick to his stomach, could taste the bile rising in his throat, but he kept it down. "Please, take me to him..."

Dante was watching, smirking at the crestfallen, broken little doll he had captured. So innocent and pretty sitting there, seeming so lost in this dark, dank, cold room. "Of course I mean Eddy." the vampire replied, eyes glittering malevolently, dropping the hand as Tyn had failed to take it. Instead, to pacify himself, he kept staring at the young man, bottle of wine lifting to his lips and sloshing in its container. He took a long, quenching swig of it, eyes never lifting off of Tyn. When the half-drained bottle had resided back at the man's hip, the cold hazel eyes looked even chillier, more glazed than they had been before. Certainly, a vampire his age could not become inebriated-seeing as even young vampires could shrug off the effects of alcohol; yet, there was something in the Italian's mind that didn't click. In his mind, the darker, older parts remembered what it was like to be so drunk that walking was quite a challenge, and instead of relying on his new instincts, to shake off the drunken stupor, his mind indulged in the past, making him feel as drunk as he would have been.
"Well, come on then." he lifted his arm, waving to the hallway. Not wanting to wait, he snatched Tyn by the arm and shoved him into the hallway, pointing out the direction in which he should go. When they made it back out to the stairwell at which they had been hitting a crossroads earlier, Dante was still hawking his heels. "Go on," one hand shoved him towards the stairs. "Get down there. Second door on the left."
Then they made it there and Dante yanked on the knob, hearing it creak and whine under the heavy press of his muscles. It gave, opening outwards towards them and leading down a closed set of stairs, unlighted and concrete. Once again, the shoving and hurrying of the Italian followed them down. From there, they were in the dark. The eldest vampire took Tyn by the shoulder, ignoring how the other made as if to duck out of his grasp, leading him along until there was a flicker of light at the far end. It seemed that down here there were many rooms, but the farthest down on the right was the one where there was no door, and golden shimmers were making shadows on the hall floor.
As the pair approached the door, there was a nasty growl from inside, something bestial and hostile. "YOU SON OF A BITCH!" he howled, the clinking of chains and the wet slam of a body against concrete was heard. "Dante, I'll rip out your fu-"it stopped as they stepped inside, movement at the other side of the room ceasing also. "Tyn? My God, you sick bastard! Why did you bring him down here?"
Dante grinned, letting himself step closer to Tyn. "Because. I thought he would like to see you... Tyn, take that lantern over there and go and inspect your lover. I would suspect that you need to keep your distance." One hand placed itself near the middle of the boy's back before giving him another push-this one aimed near the table not that far off that held the small lantern, oil and wick both nearly gone.

The youth's legs had locked, however, as soon as he had heard Edvard's shout, and the shove drove him off his feet, making him stumble into the table, stomach hitting the edge and forcing the breath of out him, but he caught the lantern before it would fall and spill. Gasping, he pulled himself up, still feeling that sickness, although now it had increased. Why would he need to keep his distance? What had Dante done? There was nothing, save physical distance or causing harm to Eddy that would even stand a chance of keeping Tyn from touching his lover, holding him. He was going to ignore Dante, whatever Dante had done but...
But what had Dante done? If the damage he had inflicted was that severe... oh god. Oh god, what had that monster done? Tyn didn't want to know. He was shaking. Shaking so much he couldn't even lift the lantern. He didn't want it, anyway, didn't need it. He would find Eddy, and get him loose, and he wouldn't have to see. He wouldn't. And then... then they would be together, and it would be wonderful and then... something would happen. But Tyn didn't know what. Either... either they would get free, or not. It didn't really matter which, because he was not leaving Eddy now. Not again. He had learnt his lesson.
"Eddy...Eddy, are you..." he was going to finish the sentence with ''alright" but then how could Eddy possibly answer? Especially as Tyn's voice was drowned in sobs, sobs he hadn't realised he was making, but had been since Dante had lead him down those dark, concrete steps. "Oh god, Eddy..." He managed, moving forwards through the room, leaving the lamp on the table as he stumbled towards where Edvard was chained, tears blinding him as he fell onto his knees again, the sent of blood, flesh blood, stolen blood from the night of their lovemaking, filled his nostrils and made him gag. That was Edvard's blood. And as his hands went to the floor as he wrenched dryly, he felt the crimson, sticky puddles there, and that brought forth a fresh wave of vomiting. Although, how can you vomit when there is nothing in your stomach? You can't, but Tyn was trying.

Edvard was watching silently, eyes lowered, watching Tyn's feet in utter shame. Thank God the boy hadn't brought the lantern. At least he couldn't see the full magnitude of what had happened now, he couldn't watch the blood oozing off of him. Yet, that thought was lost as Dante moved towards the table, setting his bottle of wine upon the top and then letting his fingers wrap the handle of the lantern. It was merely a moment before the eldest had moved to them, illuminating the subject of the agony, and his lover. "Well, at least I think I do nice work..." Dante drawled, eyes still looking fuzzed, his face utterly pleased, calm.
Var growled, closing his eyes as the light trailed down his naked body. His usually pearly skin was brusied black and purple in large spots, mostly around his hips and shoulders. Around his arms where the shackles were still hissing and jetting small puffs of what looked to be smoke there were more bruises, tears of flesh making rivulets of oh-so precious blood spill down his arms. He resembled Jesus on the cross, arms pinned to either side, legs supporting him weakly close together. Ragged breaths made his thin, abused chest rise and fall helplessly. Those ebony curls were now dripping with both sweat and blood, clinging to his hot face, eyes not daring to look to Tyn. "I'm sorry, love... That you... See this." the younger man sighed, coughing up blood with the words. "So sorry..."
With the convulsion of his chest, the drawled out inscription that looked to have been done with a knife across his chest set to bleeding again-long passages from what looked to be random scriptures in Italian smeared in blood. "What do you think, dear heart?" Dante smirked, looking down to the pitiful sight near his feet. He didn't wait long before he retrieved the wine bottle and found the same place he had been standing not too far in front of Edvard, still waiting on an answer.

Tyn looked up, his tears leaving trails over his cheeks, his eyes wide, horrified but shocked and disgusted, another shudder running through his body, and it wasn't bile he tasted this time, but blood. He didn't answer either Dante or Edvard, his amber eyes fixed on the scripture carved into Eddy's ribs, and he forced himself to stand, swaying slightly, and reached up, touching his fingers to his lips and then moving them to Edvard's, unblinking, unspeaking and unbreathing.
As he moved his fingertips away, his arm moved down to the manacles that had bitten into the vampire's wrists, and then he looked at Dante, his yellow eyes cold, and now as narrow as a cats, or, more precisely, a snakes. "Undo them. Right now." He breathed, slow, and his voice somehow reflected dunes of sand. Heavy and hot and steady, but always moving and oh-so-dangerous. "Let him down, Dante, you little, insignificant worm." Tyn spat, turned on Dante, his finger flexing. "You have no idea who I am, do you? No idea. And you have no idea exactly how much I'm going to hurt you." It was then the lightening reaction, something Tyn would not normally have possessed, took over, his whole body contracting before he leapt on Dante, using the same move had had used outside the club on Var.
This time though, his veins were full, and his brain was taking a back seat, something far older then his mortal and immortal years put together taking control of his spirit as his knees found Dante's liver, pushing hard into him, and his fingers planted on the elders wrists, fangs bared as he tried to get to Dante's throat. Trying to bite him.

The ebony-haired man watched, transfixed by the movements of his love. The fingertips touched his trembling lips, and he whimpered, the pain of one more touch unbearable. He could taste bile forcing its way up with another bate of blood. This was wrong, all so very wrong; the touch wasn't meant to cause such pain, such physical and mental turmoil, but it did. It was just fire filling up his insides, torching his spine and making him sway, lips parted in wordless, endless hurt. Dante was sniggering as he watched the reaction to this sentimental touch, seeing Tyn's fingers slip to the manacles, oblivious to the pain his own gentleness was arousing in the other, less fortunate creature.
Then the Italian heard the words, but didn't comprehend. "You?" he sneered, lips curling angrily, not seeing the lunging at first. He didn't even notice, really, until he hit the ground, knees grinding into him, nails biting hard into his arms, and the cold, vile feeling of fangs nipping his neck. Gasping at the rapid movements in the other, he was struck dumb for a moment, wine spilling down his arm. Then, he got hold of himself, eyes dilating as something else took over. Something completely insane, something... something that made his normal demeanour like that of a baby bird's. There was a strike of breaking glass against the young man's temple, the broken bottle neck drawing hard up Tyn's arm and drawing blood. That's what set him off-the blood. Against all the struggles that Tyn was attempting to lodge his fangs into the eldest's windpipe, there was a resoloutness about him, something that wouldn't, and couldn't be stopped. Screaming like something straight from hell, Dante rolled, fingers fighting and catching Tyn by the shoulders and slamming him into the ground. Once, twice, thrice, and again and again he lifted the other's shoulders off the ground, only to bash them harder and harder onto the concrete. Var's protesting, choking cries were lost in the siren wails, Dante keeping up his movements until the other would submit. He wasn't a man anymore, or even a vampire. He was totally consumed by the darkness in his mind, animal and mad all at once; he would keep trying to stop the attempts until his rattled brain saw that he could lap up that river of crimson now flowing not only from Tyn's arm, but from his nose and the back of his skull as well.
Dante panted like a dog, eyes covered with pupil, iris gone. His lips pulled back in his own show of fangs, head turning side to side, looking Tyn over like a slice of meat, tongue riding past the hard teeth, pink with his own blood.

The pain was horrendous, this brain being sloshed about in his skull with no regard to his own feelings. Not that he had any other then sheer animalistic rage, and the lightening shoots of pain which issued from his head, shoulders, face. But he did not let go, nails tightening on Dante's flesh. When a vampire bites another of his kind, rumour said it took the soul from both, made them insane, inhuman. Tyn knew he hadn't bite hard, nor deep enough, and that angered him still further. How dare this monster refuse to die! How dare he try to kill Tyn, when Tyn was attempting that same act upon him. It was infuriating. It was... it was something, something that made Tyn, or whoever he thought he was right now, boil over in anger, made his muscles contort and relax in odd shudders, and made him all the more eager to kill, and not be killed.

With this revelation at the forefront of his mind, he let go of Dante's arms, allowing himself to be forced to the floor again, and once there, to brace himself for the next slam against the blood-covered concrete. Before that came, he managed to gasp several short breaths, and then brought his feet sharply into Dante's chest, using the force he had been smashed against the floor with to push hard on the Italian's ribs.
That gave him just enough time to pull himself out of Dante's hold, to catch his breath, although he didn't try to stand. He could feel the blood soaking down his back; from his shoulders, from the back of his head. To stand would be stupid, so he stayed on his knees, swaying slightly, and ignoring Edvard's existence as he lunged again.

Dante was still making an effort to cling to his victim as knees came into sharp contact with his ribcage, forcing the air hard from his ancient lungs. Gasping and gurgling, he was thrown back onto the frigid stone floor, blood pools there congealed and clinging to his naked upper body like mud. Hissing and spluttering as his lip split and stung in the healing process, he regained himself, swerving onto his hands and knees and meeting the attack when it came, the weight and speed of his attacker throwing him back onto the floor. With eyes still dilated and nails still keen on ripping flesh, he threw all he had into rolling over, placing himself on top of Tyn; then, with quite an effort to the thrashing, snarling youth, he did it, knees digging hard and pinning the hips, hands at Tyn's throat. Claws bit into the pallid flesh, fangs gnashing much like a rabid animal's just inches from the other's face, eyes rolling, unblinking in their sockets. Sniffing at the air, his head dipped and he quieted his mad calls. It only took a moment to figure out what had caught his attention, for, he was now licking at a cut on the boy's cheek that he had inflicted, the one dripping crimson down his face. Dante's body went rigid, movements slowing except for the pressure he continued exerting onto Tyn's neck, the protesting screams of Edvard lost on him. There was nothing human to him, not even a glimmer of sanity shown through his eyes, only beastly heavy breaths seemed to come with the hard, rough lapping of his tongue, aching body riding up a little as more blood flowed freely into his mouth.

The shiver of revulsion as the damp, hot tongue made its way over the skin of his face was the only movement Tyn made, his body pinned so successful and his breath almost no existent as his windpipe was closed, crushed, under Dante’s claw-like hands.

What had he gotten himself into? He was going, he could feel his body start to shut down, his lower body, from the hips down, already going numb and heavy. Struggling would make that worse, he knew. His fingers, which had automatically clung to Dante’s wrist, tried to pull them off, had given up sliding down to rest either side of him, by Dante’s knees. What was the point of struggling? He was going to die, he might as well die now, while this… creature was crazy enough to make it quick, although Tyn doubt very much that it would be painless. And he wouldn’t be tortured. He wouldn’t have to watch Eddy die, and be able to do nothing about it. He would be free, and he’d be able to… to wait for his love and be together on the otherside. If there was one. He didn’t think there was, or perhaps he and Eddy would go to hell, which seemed much more acceptable. Well… they would be there together, at least. A friendly face in the swirling, pain-filled rest of forever.

Wait a second.

Wasn’t… wasn’t that what Eddy was having to go through? To have to watch Tyn die, and not be able to help, to save him? Tyn’s eyes snapped open, and he began to thrash wildly again, swearing in a hoarse voice as his hands clamped once more into Dante’s wrist, nails biting into the veins, trying, trying to weaken that hold just a little…

He gasped for another breath, his first in almost a minute, but it wasn’t enough, and he took another, or tied, but the hands did not seem to be loosening. Damn. He closed his eyes, gathering what little coherent thought he had left, he raised his knee, sharply, into the V of Dante’s legs, feeling like a traitor to all of mankind.

There was a moment there that this monster seemed to have sensed victory, triumph over this crumpled heap beneath his own. It might have been the windpipe, crushing like a paper bag beneath his fingers, or the slowed, halting breathing that made his chest quit heaving... or maybe it was even the loosening to the appendages; whatever it had been vanished and was suddenly replaced by stars dancing in front of the dilated pupils. Horrible, white pain made him yowl, crumpling in onto the now squirming, fighting vampire beneath him, lips pulled back over those blood-soaked fangs. Whimpering pathetically, his grip didn't loosen, but his eyes shut momentarily.

Tasting the blood still in his mouth, the animal hissed in the crazed elder's mind for him to avenge that pain, unleash that anger bubbling up in his stomach, into his chest, the anger that was boiling up his spine.... and he did. Quicker than greased lightening, one hand had let go of the boy's throat and slammed hard, nails digging deep into the flesh of Tyn's face. His banshee screeches regained as over and over the hand retaliated, scoring long, blood-spurting marks over the right side of prey's face, Edvard’s screaming lost once again in the noise-not that either of them were paying him any attention.

It was utter insane rage that kept pushing him, even when the blood spurted into his own face, running over his lips and splashing into his eyes. Only did he stop when that fountain of thick, red manage to slip into his mouth, causing the same effect the blood had before. Dante went completely stock still, bending heavily over the now bleeding meat of where an eye and eyebrow should have been. His cheek was not severely damaged, seeing as most of this wronged hatred was forced at the focal point of Tyn's face, the most useful part-one golden, beautiful eye. And now there was that gaping hole that so interested the massive Italian's animalistic curiosity. Like a small, confused puppy, a pink tongue dipped down into the terribly bleeding socket, lapping it away. Ignoring everything else, the gagging of Edvard lost on him, the vampire whined softly with pleasure, somehow cutting off the bleeding as the tip of his tongue pinched off the hose-like vein. This, however, did not keep him from lapping at the small, natural goblet of ruby red.

As soon as that one hand had left his throat, he had taken several gasping, rushed breaths, sure that the hand would move back with a tighter, surer grip, one that would crush the life right out of him. But when the nail slid into the soft, bloodied skin on his face, he screamed. He screamed all those breaths right out again, and probably before any of that air had reached his lungs. He screamed, a sound of complete and utter pain, nothing else. There was nothing else in his mind, in his heart, but this seemingly endless, pointless suffering as his body contracted under Dante, his scream fading as his lungs emptied completely.

With the last, dying, feelings from his face, he felt the tongue dip, and he squirmed, the pain coming afresh, but then just as every other sensation died, the pain died too, leaving him with only the weight of Dante’s body pressed so heavily on his chest, and the knowledge that he was…

The blue haired, blood-covered, sightless, breathless, dying youth gagged, body convulsing violently, shaking and shuddering as if he had rested above the epicentre of an earthquake. His fingers curled into Dante’s shoulders, not trying to damage but just… cling, hold on, because he could now feel himself slipping as the right half of his face remained numb, but the back of his head, the part of his brain that no-longer received messages from his eye, was burning. Burning so hot it felt like the stones he laid on would melt. His body was trying to fix itself. But with the tool of sight gone, there was nothing there to repair, nothing by a few bloody veins and the torn flesh of his cheekbone and eyebrow. And with the lapping, curious tongue there, it would not fully heal. Would never heal. He was damaged, damaged and was now imperfect. Imperfect and destroyed. No one would want him now, his beauty gone and his mind…

His mind. He didn’t even know what he had done to that, but clearly, he wasn’t going to be the same, ever. Not only the physical harm done by Dante’s nails, ruining the part of his brain most creatures almost solely relied upon, but the psychological ruin too. It was Dante’s fault. Dante had made him imperfect. He had broken the boy. Broken and now would be broken in return.

"That was my FACE, you goddamn motherfucker!" He screamed, surprised he managed to voice the words, never mind shout them loud enough to echo about the huge underground space. "MY face. MY GODDAMN FACE!"

Startled, still in that small puppy state of mind, the vampire huddled back from his previous actions, glazed eyes staring blindly down to the bleeding mass and then over to the undamaged eye. He whimpered softly, as though completely oblivious to what he had done, any memory of it already leaking away from his mind. With a small shiver, the Italian let his hands curl over Tyn's shoulders, mindlessly pinning him to the ground with a mortified look that the other would try and retaliate - reason unknown. Even with blood dripping down his mouth, he seemed completely ignorant to this rage-filled face, wondering how it became so mangled; guttural sounds dropped from his mouth in broken syllables, Var gasping for breath as he saw chunks of what /had/ been his lover's face near him in a pool of blood on the floor. Gagging, he was also oblivious to the sounds of pattering feet on the concrete floor from the hall, and in a moment, no one had seen the newest arrival-that was, until he too began to gag and wretch dryly, his face turned to the side, thin body wracking with terror and tears. His feet were spread wide to support his very unstable frame, arms held out in front of him, both hands loosely holding a pistol.

Miroslav took a deep intake of air, and then let it out, trying to steady, calm himself; yet, instead of that, another sort of dry sob erupted him and he cried, eyes staring fixedly at the ground, black curtain of hair hanging all around to hide his tears, "Master Dante... My God, what is it that you've done now? Why? Why, why, why...?" his voice cracked and his body began to shiver, causing the Italian to turn his attention from Tyn, hands still holding him heavily down. The look on the eldest man's face turned from that of a frightened puppy to a child's, innocent, naive, and needy. "Miro?" he called back to the figure framed in the doorway, his voice nearly inaudible. "Where were you?" Dante whispered quietly, still looking so frightened that it made his manly, chiselled figure seem to crumble before all of the others.

Tyn gasped again as the other fingers left his throat, although it made little difference, he was still pinned, still helpless, still trembling and still trapped. But something had changed. With his left eye, although the sight was fuzzy, shifted oddly to one-side, he could see the reflection of himself in Dante’s own eyes, he could see his face, the mess and the blood that covered the pale skin, and the look, the way his muscles had shaped his expression. He looked… evil. Enraged was not a good enough word, it was beyond that. It frightened him, and it quickly vanished, in time for his captor, his torturer, to mutter that soft, childlike word.

Miroslav. Tyn had forgotten, completely, about the were-boy’s plan, about his existence, infact, although in his defence he had almost forgotten about his own. And with Dante sounding so… so alone and fearful, Tyn felt a pang of horrible guilt. How could…. How could he and Miro have plotted… plotted Dante’s death? Sure, he was insane, he was a monster but… he was so helpless now that Tyn knew he couldn’t possibly go ahead. Not with whatever Miro had planned.

"Miro! No, leave him!" He managed, and instinctively coiled his arms up, over Dante’s back, the gesture useless at stopping a bullet, but worth something, perhaps. He didn’t know why he did it, and after a moment he left the urge to let go, and push Dante away, and would have done, if he had the strength to. This creature, or at least, one mind of this creature, didn’t deserve life. But this side of Dante, if it wasn’t a trick, was so exquisitely naïve and… beautiful, almost, that Tyn felt torn in two. "You mustn’t hurt him, Miro. Just… get him off me." He managed, not knowing what to say. "Get… get Eddy down. Then get Dante off me. He can’t do anything worse." To Tyn. Which was true, at least. As long as Tyn was occupying Dante’s physical attention, then Eddy could be brought down, seen to. Then things could be sorted out. If Dante stayed in this frame of mind, which Tyn prayed he did.

Lifting his face in an almost strained way, Miroslav stared, stricken at Tyn, his mouth agape, tears trailing down his face. God only knows how many deaths went on to cause those tears, to put that power back into such dead eyes and give them those salty, wordless drops of undeniable agony. "What?" he murmured, staring over the horrible mangled face of his new-found 'friend'. "Do you... are... are you suggesting that... I would h-h...k-kill my master?" the words were caught for a moment in the were-dog's throat, and then they all came rushing out with another sob, weeping pathetically, unable to quit.

Tears had captivated the Italian, seemingly twisting his mind again, making his voice richer, somewhat safer, but the look of horror stayed on his face.

"I wouldn't... I would never... Dante, oh god, Dante... I would never hurt you like that. I couldn't.." the boy shook his head from side to side, fingers still loosely holding the gun. "These bullets... These bullets... aren't for you, good Master. They're for me. For me. I don't think that you would... miss m-me... all that mu-muuch." he sniffled, having to lean into the doorway. "I just wanted, my sweet master, to take away something that was never yours... g-give them," he waved the gun towards Eddy and Tyn, "back what you've taken... Master, oh Master... Forgive me." he trembled all over, leaning heavily into the door frame, gun drawing closer to himself, as though just not sure where to pinpoint the problem. The temple, the heart, the mouth... where was the barrel of a gun best suited?

Dante blinked, scuttling off of his victim and crawling a few feet away, voice still not matching the look on his face-now strained and pained. "Miroslav.. Why don't you... give me the gun?" The were-dog violently shook and his head followed suit, taking large jerks from side to side. "No, nonono. I can't, Master, I can't."

"You can."

"No!" he cried, tears falling heavily down his naked front, looking guiltily at the one who was slowly getting to his feet, seeming to regain his composure.

"My love,"

"Don'!" he barked, begging to become louder with every sobbing shudder. Dante's hand had reached out for the pistol, his child-like innocence seeming to be gone, but not replaced by that brutal monster... replaced instead with something that two out of the three there had never seen. Miro had seen it, in the first days of his after-death.. this was the Master that he had loved... but he couldn't trust Dante anymore at all, so he jerked back into the hall, shaking his head. "I have to stop it, Master... Dante... I have to make it stop."

The blinded youth had, somehow, managed to get to his feet, the broken glass of the wine bottle crunching under his feet as he stumbled into the wall, holding onto the mortar-filled gaps between the breeze-bricks, trying to keep his laboured breathing quieter, his remaining eye fixed on the squabbling pair. On the one hand, he wanted to stop, to interfere, and to save Miroslav from himself. He was not… no. Dante would not let the lycan do that. It was... wrong. However, the more instant side was demanding, in no uncertain terms, that Eddy needed to be brought down. Miro and Dante would sort out their own problems, but Eddy was Tyn’s concern, and Tyn’s only. He stumbled, clinging to the wall, and then, his head bowed, feeling ugly and disgusting and for some reason unworthy, and traced the shape of the manacles, his blood mingling with Edvard’s as he searched for some way to get his love down, without hurting him anymore. Asking the others was not an option, and in his own state he might hinder more than help.

Tyn glanced up then, desperately fighting the urge to touch the shredded chest, the scripture inscribed there almost illegible, covered in dried blood, and Eddy’s face looked haggard and almost frightening. Tyn needed to get him down, and to do that, his eye fell on the chair by the table, and then moved back to the mortar in which the chains of the manacles had been secured.

Pulling over said item of furniture, he stood on it, and with his already bleeding, torn fingers, began to tear at the rotten cement that held the chains still, taking several minutes, but as the hold had been strained by so much struggling, and by rust, the joint broke, and Tyn jumped down, catching Eddy as the other chain gave way under the weight of the thin, battered body. "Eddy… Eddy…" Tyn managed, and then broke out into tears, tears that mingled with Miroslav’s weeping to form a symphony of tears in the dark hellish room.

Edvard leaned his forehead against the other's chest, trying to regain his balance that had been so offset from lack of blood and the excruciating pain running continually up and down his spine. The core of him was on fire, stinging and writhing with physical pain. His mind was feeling waterlogged with so many things, so many negative thoughts, feelings, misunderstandings... But his saviour was here, holding him up from falling onto the dark, cold floor underfoot; and, in spite of all the unpleasurable feelings his touches kept causing, he was so grateful that Tyn was there. Nuzzling him wordlessly, he coughed, chin resting at such an angle on the youth's shoulder that he was watching the pair, still squabbling.

"Miroslav, listen to me... I don't know what's caused this, but you have to give me the gun... won't you tell me what is wrong?"

"What's wrong?" the were-dog replied, looking at his Master guilt-laden and obviously troubled beyond redemption. "What's wrong? Master, how cold it is to ask that!"

Dante mustn’t have thought it cold, because he started up anyway, moving closer fraction by fraction, hand raised for the pistol. "My love,"

"Don't call me that!" he howled, firearm lifting dangerously closer to his brain. "Don't call me that... Anything... anything but that... insult me, hit me.. something!"

The Italian shook his head, surprised by these words. "But I wouldn’t, Miroslav, what has gotten into you?" his hand lifted, reaching now, not for the gun, but for the other's cheek. Fingertips pressed there for a moment, and then stroked down to his jaw, effect what he wanted. Miro turned up his chin, still bawling as he was pulled, gun pressing against his own chest, into a soft embrace. "Dante, Dante... Master.."

"Shh, hush with all that 'Master' nonsense..." one understanding hand rose again, still stroking the boy's hair, eyes so changed by this transformation of mind that Dante no longer looked like Eddy and Tyn had ever seen him before. Edvard shook his head, murmuring Tyn's name. "Leave... leave now." he gurgled, fluttering his eyes. The door was blocked, but that seemed unimportant.

With Edvard’s weight against him, both suffering loss of blood and near-unbearable pain, Tyn doubted he would have been able to move very far anyway, his fingers moving to Eddy’s wrists, tugging the manacles, pulling at them in an attempt to remove the silver spikes. One broke, the metal, bloody and hot, fell to the floor with a loud clatter, but the other would not budge. Gritting his teeth, Tyn tried again, but was again unsuccessful.

He sighed, pulling Eddy carefully around, letting him lean again Tyn’s left side, keeping the mess of the right side of his face out of Eddy’s view, and keeping his lover in his line of sight, wary of the slippy, gore and glass-covered floor. He was just as wary of Dante, the gun, and of Miro’s sudden urge to die, which confused and saddened Tyn more then he really understood or realised, putting the sick, depressed and heavy feeling down to his injuries.

Letting the older, taller man lean on him, the youth made his way to the door, where Dante still had Miroslav trapped in that tight, all-encompassing embrace, and even though he did not fully trust Dante’s sudden and complete transformation (who would, when after all, only 10 minutes ago Dante had viciously scratched out Tyn’s eye?) Tyn felt himself feel that perhaps… perhaps things might be better. Who knew? Not him.

Tyn eased Edvard through the door, towards the steps that lead upwards, to the main floors, his breathing already becoming shallow again, forcing him to stop repeatedly, before carrying on for a few more steps. He was feeling dizzy now, his brain in overdrive as it struggled to interpret images that were too far to the left, making the climbing of the stair especially difficult. But once they reached the top, Tyn was able to gentle ease Edvard down, sit him on the steps and press his lips against his lovers, only briefly, but it was enough. And now… and now, Tyn supposed, he had better find something to get Eddy cleaned up, himself too, for that matter. And them some clothes, because god help him, he was going to not carry Edvard home naked. If he was stopped by the police tonight then he damn well refused to take responsibility for his actions.

Edvard had done his best to keep from wincing and crying out at every little movement he was forced to make and the stinging rush of the three puncture holes as large as quarters tried desperately to seal themselves back over. Moaning painfully, he had to keep himself upright, forcing his body to co-operate and not over exert his lover as they made their way through the door. Passing the pair still clinging to each other, one chain now wrapped around the raven-haired man's upper arm, Edvard caught Dante's eyes, and gaped out how different they were. They stared on, soft and as human as anything, looking at Eddy as though he had never, ever seen the man before. Of course, the vampire quickly averted his eyes, his mind working hard to keep him and Tyn moving.

Dante was holding to his love as though Miro would try again to break away, not feeling the gun-cold and forbidding against his chest. Had the others not believed, he had truly and completely snapped. Reverting back to what he had been before all the turmoil, he was now just as placid and docile as a sweet child's plaything again. Miroslav believed it, and that's all that mattered. When he heard the footsteps, and the grunts of agonising pain drifting away from himself and his Master down the hall, he knew that the other two could get out... if they were all right would be another story, one he wasn't able to think on right now.

At the top of the steps, Eddy pulled himself around the doorframe, shutting the large wooden slab to the hellhole beneath. Staring up at Tyn, he murmured, voice painfully tight, "I... I... love you." The man hugged Tyn's legs, naked body still twitching and writhing with shock.

Tyn let himself fall to his knees, leaning forwards to carefully hug Eddy, face pressed into his lover’s neck as a single trail of tears seeped down his cheek. "Shush, no talking. I need to find you something to drink… and something to wear." His fingers, gore trapped under the nails, moved the dark threads out of Edvard’s eyes, looking at them and then turning away, seeing himself reflected again.

"Do you want to wait here? I’ll be 30 seconds, no more. I don’t want you straining yourself. Stay." Tyn said quickly, sight flickering around to the doors leading off the main lobby, and then dashed into the one that he hoped was some sort of kitchen. Water, cloth, bowl. That’s what he needed right now. Cold water, lots. Grabbing what he could, he dunked his own face in the sink, filled with icy, clear water, that when he pulled away was stained scarlet. He drained it, then dunked himself again, using the palms of his hands to scrub all the dried, horrible remains from his face, and then drained that too, before filling a large bowl and grabbing several towels, making his way back to Var, and sinking down in front of him again. "This… might sting, you know that, don’t you? I’m going to clean you up and then get you home. And then I swear you aren’t leaving my sight ever again." He leant forwards, kissing Edvard more deeply then he had dared to before, and then pulling back. Tearing up a towel and dumping it in the water, ringing it out and then, carefully, nervously, beginning to wipe off the blood that covered Var’s chest and abdomen. How dare… Tyn stopped his tirade there. It was pointless to angst over it all now, now it was over and they could go home and drink tea and smoke and then Tyn could crawl into Var’s arms whenever he felt like it. But that was for then, and not now. "I’m sorry I didn’t get there earlier, love…" Tyn whispered, pulling the blood-stained cloth away and then washing it out again, before just as tenderly beginning to wash the blood and sweat from Edvard’s elegant face.

The vampire had gurgled softly, the blood seeping into his lungs at an alarming rate, when Tyn had left him. One arm had lifted pathetically, brushing the legs of his pants, unable to gather the strength to hold onto him, keep him from being left here, on the floor. In his now troubled brain, he could see Tyn walking into one of those rooms and not ever coming back out again, or leaving through the front door.... it was his fault, after all, that everything had happened. He was the reason that Tyn's eye was no more, he was the reason that the youth's mental state was crumbling under the golden stare, he was the reason for it all. The pain was his fault, even though Dante had inflicted it, he, Edvard, was the one who had seen to it that the circle rolled again, making another life destroyed.

Feeling tears well in his hot eyes, he hung his head, not daring to lift it even when Tyn came back and bent next to him on the floor. His lover did return, but the vampire wasn't sure that was what he wanted now. When the words about the places stinging were issued, Edvard just grunted. When the kiss was pressed heavy against his lips, though, his eyes flickered, and he frowned, saddened and yet hopeful; was that possible? "It," he winced as the blood was wiped from his wounds. "Wasn't your fault..." His hand lifted and stroked once down Tyn's jaw, smiling at him the best he could. "My.. pants are... on the stairs... Get them, I'll finish this..." All Eddy wanted now, was to be out of this wretched place, wanting to hurt instead in his love's apartment, wanting to feel so terrible at least where he had a good memory. "Get them." he repeated, taking the rag carefully away when the other had finished wiping his face.

Tyn looked up, his hand brushing back his hair, several shades darker now, like a violent Caribbean sea, covered both his eye, and the mangled, scaring flesh where the other should have been. He saw, though, the forced smile, and then how it faded as Edvard’s face moved. His mood dropped a little more from the little peak of hopeful exhilaration, back down into the quiet, brooding, waiting nothingness that he had occupied in Dante’s art room, in the dark, wondering and watchful.

He looked at Var a moment after the question, no, no, wasn’t a question, was it? It was an order, a direct order, with no free will involved. He had been told, so he would do, although for some reason, something tiny in his chest seemed to give out at that moment, and he nodded, letting go of the towel and getting to his feet, unspeaking as he fetched the torn, rather cold denim trousers.

Perhaps it was just the after-effects, the stress, the pain, and the tiredness that was seeping through them. Probably. Hopefully.

Tyn didn’t like it though, Edvard’s tone, the grunting answers to careful, worried questions, the air of dissatisfaction. He made his way back to Var, having for some reason, folded the jeans as he walked, or rather, stumbled back to the steps, his eye on the floor as he held them, not out towards the elder immortal, but towards him, fingers limp and grip loose, ready for the fabric to be snatched from his fingers, or to be taken gently. Either way.

And then, slowly, Tyn bent at the knees again, sitting on his heels, hands still out-holding the trousers, but the rest of him merely giving in from a moment, letting him slip to the floor under the weight of his thoughts and of the air pressing down around him, and of that golden, aristocratic stare that he would in no doubt, be receiving.

Edvard had barely been watching, trying to scrub the nastiness from him, trying to wipe away Dante's every fingerprint, his every lingering touch that he could feel, burning down to the bone. His eyes lifted again, seeing Tyn slowly squatting, and then seating himself back onto the floor. The look on his love's face worried him though, and somehow, it was his fault; he had made that assumption law in his mind this evening, and didn't plan on changing it. His lips trembled momentarily, words not coming to his aid. One hand raised and placed itself onto Tyn's, seeming to forget everything. They were sitting in the middle of a large, very evil man's house, just waiting for him to snap back downstairs, and here they were, holding hands. Touching, but not sensible... somehow, that didn't bother Edvard; surely, they couldn't be in worse shape?

"I..." his voice was still weak, testy. "Sorry.. you shouldn't have had to... I mean I.... Will you forgive me? I know.. I will... understand.... if you don't." yes, Var's precious, large words that usually seemed to be so confident even when they were stupid were failing him, leaving him with broken fragments of a sentence that he was crawling through, eyes feeling like swelling masses as unbidden tears seemed to well. Leaning forwards, he carefully wrapped one arm around Tyn's shoulders, kissing his cheek softly. "Let me take you home..." He said it with such strength that he did not possess, as if he was in charge, invincible, and not sitting battered and bruised upon the floor.

The youth nuzzled his face against Var, and then, swallowing down his own tears as he clung to Edvards shoulders, his own body raked with the effort of keeping down the sobs, his fingers curling into the dirtied tendrils of ebony hair, clutching it. If he hung on, then things would all work out alright, if he hung on… "Only if you let me take you home too."

But of course, he couldn’t do that. Eddy needed to get home, to find somewhere familiar and secure where he could start healing again. Not just physically, either. That was simple enough, for their kind. But a mind is a many-layered thing, and with an immortal, those layers, like the layers that built mountains, were continuously being built on. Eddy still hadn’t recovered from his last run-in with the sadistic Dante, and that had be hundreds of years before Tyn had even been born. He didn’t know how long, if it was even possible, for Edvard to recover this time. He didn’t even know how long it would take for himself to recover, because he…

Tyn blinked. He was watching himself watch himself. He was analysing his own thoughts while watching himself analyse them. What on earth was going on? His head felt heavy still, heavy and hot. He pulled himself out of Var’s grip, unfolded the trousers, and tried not to think. But somewhere, in a deeper layer of his mind, he was thinking. He was thinking, "oh Jesus Christ, I’ve gone insane. Look at me, I’m thinking about thinking about thinking. And now I’m thinking about that. I’ve gone totally insane."

He swallowed again, helping Var up and dressed, and then wrapping one arm about Var’s waist, leading him towards the front door, the many layers of his mind all humming together as every thought was analysed and pulled apart, and then those analyses analysis as his brain tried to work out exactly what made his brain work.

As he pulled open the door, and stepped outside, his arm still tight around Var in the pre-dawn haze, he looked back at the tumble-down building, memorising every second he had spent in it, every aspect of all his emotions and all of the thoughts he had had, before turning back to Var with a small, soft smile, and wandering back out of the suburbs towards his own home.

"We still have to get some sugar."

Var leaned against Tyn slightly, feeling the fresh, near-morning air fill his lungs and sting them, making the cuts on his chest burn and tingle. He, on the other hand from Tyn, was trying to disperse all those memories he could feel rattling through his mind, each of them wishing to be re-observed, analysed... whatever it was... He didn't care for the terminology, just the meaning that reliving those things that had happened in the span of eight hours would be even more traumatic to his very feeble mind. Hearing the words pass from the sweet youth's lips, he muttered back with a small chuckle and a grin, "I know... I was thinking about that quite a bit in there.... How we needed sugar for the tea when we got back and all... Quite worrying, it was." he nodded, trying to look very serious in spite of the crumpled feeling he kept getting in his chest; the impression that he was wilting was oh-so strong, overpowering, if you would. Yet, here, in the dull darkness, Edvard felt somewhat better, the small conversation, the rub of the other's voice... it lulled back those self-observant thoughts, feeling them fade into the sleepy mist clouding the broken aristocrat’s mind.

"Did I tell you... that I loved you?" he asked tiredly, turning his copper-toned golden eyes to Tyn, smiling faintly through the nagging pains and vile memories fluttering around like moths in his skull. "Because I meant to... I meant to say how sorry I was.. for everything... And to tell you, that I was... stupid for meeting you... but I can't really say that last thing and mean it, you know.. It would be a lie... because I wanted you ever since I saw you in that bar, rotten snob that I was being... you were..." he sighed and then pressed a kiss to the other's cheek, seeing the front of their building draw nearer and nearer. "It doesn't matter... I love you." the grip around Tyn's middle tightened just slightly, as though frightened that the words would scare the other away.

The flesh of Tyn’s cheeks under Eddy’s lips blushed brightly, a smile forming on his lips that almost coy; the flushing, virginal coy that some men found more attractive then forward, direct flirtation. "You did say… but I like hearing it. You can say it as many times as you want. "

Tyn stopped, gently wrapping his arms around Var’s shoulders, pulling him into a slow, lazy, tender meeting of tongues and lips, before the youth broke away, blue hair covering that damaged half of his face. "I was… more of a bastard then you were, you have to admit." He muttered, referring to that night, what, less than a week ago. "I picked that fight with you and did… well…" he bit his lower lip, eye flickering from where his hands had come to rest on Edvard’s hips, to the deep, amber eyes, and then back down. "I was acting like a whore. A very cheap one." He smiled, sliding his hand back into Var’s, and leading him into the building, up the stairs, and then down the corridor.

"Miroslav… will be alright, won’t he? Dante, Dante won’t hurt him. I don’t think so, do you? I mean they seemed… Miro loves him very much. I can’t… can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, watching Dante… and not, not being able to do anything to stop his love… to help him." The stream of consciousness needed no input from Edvard, it was merely things that needed to be said, things that Tyn needed to say. In the few moments, he had grown close enough to the were-dog to offer him a home, a heartfelt offer rather than one made out of pity. And now, Tyn felt that he had lost a friend, a best friend, and he was too frightened by ‘mights’ and ‘maybes’ and ‘ifs’ to dare plan any trip to see Miro again.

He pushed open the door, pulling off his torn, bloodied shirt as soon as he stepped in, and waited, watching Edvard shut the door. "I’m sleepy…" he yawned, almost breathless, and then nuzzled into Var’s arm. "Bed?" he took his lover’s hand again, leading him into the room, stripping Eddy and then himself, in an odd parody of their lovemaking a night or perhaps even two, before. It was hard to tell how long it had actually been down there.

There was further parody in the fact that now, when Tyn had more to be ashamed and embarrassed about, the scars, bruises, claw-marks, he seemed not to care, the apparent embarrassment the loss of his eye, which he was obviously covering.

Standing on tip-toes, he leant up, hands finding Edvard’s shoulders, and kissing him again, just as reassuringly tender and not demanding anything in return, leading him back towards the bed and then snuggling down into the covers, his body already half asleep.

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