Title: Love's Just A Four Letter Word - A First Unpleasent Visitation part 1
Edvard's eyes turned sharply onto Rosalind like a set of white-hot coals, lips pulling back as though to say something but just as suddenly smushing back together and turning into a horribly thin pink line. Composing himself to keep from screaming obscenities at her, he wiped hair from his eyes and began to scrape the pieces of plate from the counter into the wastebasket. "It was... an accident, you know how it is when you first get up... I was groggy, my fingers... well goodness, things just slip sometimes, you know how it is." and to finish his broken sentence that initiated a few words everytime the hand would dust the broken pieces, he gave a terribly fake, sugar-coated smile that just oozed with loathing.
What the immortal would have liked to do at that very moment was scream that wretched creature's name, demanding through a strain of obscenities that she pack up her shit and take that damn mongrel with her as soon as she could possible leave. /That's/ what he would have /adored/ telling her as he glared at the plastic bag coating the inside of the trashcan. Hardly satisfied with the mental image he was replaying and editing over his mind, he began shoving more bits of trash into the can, cutting himself now and again and cursing his clumsiness.
"He just... snapped, again... I don't know what I expected, with it happening so fast like that. You know, when he broke the-the night-" he abruptly cut off his words, knowing that it brought back painful memories for all of them. Slowly, he re-collected his thoughts as they scattered themselves like ashes on the wind through his mind. Both his hands went to his knees as the pressed together, the bagginess of his clothing showing from the elaborate folds all over. Miro's fingers knotted over each other, picking at the dark flesh almost absently, his fangs hanging on his lower lip before he began again in a soft, fragile whisper.
"He just broke... When... I knew it would happen, with him changing so fast; a mind cannot switch around that quickly or sooner or later it will fray and snap in two. It has... come to that, I'm afraid, I don't know if what's done can ever be fixed. This... this... change has turned him into something completely.... completely wrong. He's never been like this. Never. He barely says anything. And he screams, oh god, I can still hear it when he screams... He screams and goes on for hours. It's unearthly," he mumbled, more to himself as he tried to sort out all the happenings in a logical order. "He just doesn't understand what's happened, I don't believe, and that's the saddest part. I had to... had to chain him in the basement to keep him from hurting us both." The hands on Miroslav's knees moved, sliding up and around to hold his sides, eyes staring stupidly to the coffee table for a long time.
After what seemed to be hours, but in fact was merely moments, the were-dog looked around, catching Tyn's stare and forcing the weakest smile he had.
The /only/ smile he had. "I'm sorry, I did not come here to trouble you with my problems, goodness knows you have plenty of your own... but your mother insisted that I come, and I did want to see you. And Edvard, even if he did not wish it so. He brings back memories, you know. Not good ones, but... sometimes there isn't anything else besides those shreds of remembrance to hold onto..." With a measured sort of stare, he looked away for a moment, probably trying to soak back in the tears he so wanted to shed. Still holding to the last remnants of his smile, he let his hand reach up and touch Tyn's shoulder and then the blue-haired youth's cheek.
Almost carelessly, he brushed back to blue bangs covering that gaping hole on the other's otherwise beautiful face. It took every bit of him to not shiver and turn his eyes away at the horrifying sight of it and to know that the someone who had done that was the one you loved with your entire being. Once more he was caught like a butterfly in the street-one moment just fluttering along until-WAM-out of nowhere he was plastered to the cold grill of a truck, his guts splattered all over the place. Then, as easily as he could, he let the bangs fall back into their previous position, his face the perfect picture of distress and pure, simple empathy.
"I'm so sorry that this all happened to you. You don't even know. I would have given myself before seeing you suffer anymore. You weren't made for suffering. No one is. But you, you especially..." he heaved another breath before starting up again. "You never said what exactly the matter was. Why is it, Tyn, that you are so pale? So fevered? I fear very much for your health, tell me, what has been happening?"
Edvard was listening through the door, past the rustling of those damn skirts and the breath that escaped that pouted set of lips. Sweet Jesus! The very presence of the woman was a nuisance to him. However much he was blocking it out by going through the motions of making tea, he couldn't seem to forget her totally. Suddenly, half way through gathering water in the teakettle he turned on her, words hissing like hot air. "Why did you bring /him/ here? You know nothing about him, what he stands for, what memories he brings back... And you just waltz in with him like he's a fluffy new puppy... You do have a load of nerve, Madame Rosalind. A ton load of it."
Kris nodded, agreeing about the magical quality as he leaned into the tall hunk of warmth, body nuzzling back into the softness of a hand on his back. "I could never leave you like that, love..." From that moment he didn't care who or what saw them, he just wanted to be left alone, alone in the sweetness of their relationship, their bond. Vaguely, as they walked, he wondered if this was what all coupled had. Did everyone get that electric surge? Did they all acquire that sudden want, sudden /need/ to just be in their other's presence? Was it natural to long so foolishly? To feel so attached, so... so... right?
No, it couldn't be, he concluded; if it was, there wouldn't be so much bad in the world, so much... negativity. And everyone would be paired off in their dazed stupor, clinging to their lovers for dear life-afraid to let go... Maybe Kris was just carrying the thought to far, he said, letting his thoughts crash up in his brain like a train wreck. Maybe his thoughts were all out of order and perhaps it was just the feeling of the oncoming evening getting to him... Still mindless of his own body, he let his hands curls into the fabric of Zan's shirt, pulling him closer against the weather. Whatever it this plaguing emotion happened to be, Kris thought once more as he waited on Lysander's foremotioned taxi to pull close, he wished that the feeling it gave him would never end.
"A tonne of it? Thank you, dear." She answered, smiling as if a child had just handed her a bunch of weeds, their best clothes muddy and grass-stained. It was the best way to treat him, perhaps. Like a slightly brattish, spoilt child that wasn’t her own to discipline. She’d damn well have a go, though. "I think darling Miroslav needs Tyn right now. And I think Tyn needs him. Do you have any friends, Edvard? Friendship’s a wonderful thing, you realise… very few of us can keep friendships for very long, can we? I certainly… had to move on from those I loved…" she stopped, taking his bloodied hand, cut from the plate, "Don’t be trying to make yourself a martyr. Wash it, alright? I’m sure Tyn wouldn’t be pleased if you lost a few limbs at my expense. But thank you for helping." She added, as an after thought.
Tyn swallowed, dropping the unlit cigarette back to the table and bringing his own hand up to Miro’s cheek, a thumb tracing the high bone, noting the wetness that gathered in both perfect orbs, and recalling the reaction the loss of his own eye had caused in the other. He wanted to brush that all away. He wasn’t important, Miro was! But the were-dog would not put himself first, would not push to the head of the queue. After all, why should he? As far as Tyn knew, Miro’s dedication to Dante was… although full of poetic tragedy, something that consumed the other small male. Love was a strange thing. The slowest suicide. But… if it would take Miro’s mind off, make him forget his troubles, then perhaps… Tyn would talk. He needed to, really. He needed to be understood, condoled by somehow who could relate to his feelings, his hurt.
He sighed again, leant forwards, pressing a light kiss over both cheeks. "I’m glad you told me. I feel… bad. I mean… we shouldn’t have just run off and left you but… you had him… for a little while, as he was meant to be, didn’t you?" Tyn rubbed his own cheek against the side of the roma’s in a soft motion, before taking a deep breath. "It’s… well, my own fault… I…" he paused in the mess he’d already made of his sentence, tipping his head to one side to show off the scaring Var had left on his throat and shoulder, "I… let Edvard feed from me." He shrugged by way of explanation, "seemed a good idea at the time. But… we had… a bit of a fight about it. And… well… that’s why mama’s here. To be honest…" Tyn let his head fall forwards, resting the brow on Miro’s shoulder and clinging to him, "Gods you’re stronger then I am. I can’t take this, and it’s nothing like what you… I don’t know. He scares me, sometimes. And then he’s the most loving, beautiful…I don’t know… I just don’t know."
Rosa sighed gently, breaking off from her own eaves dropping. She hadn’t known the full story, not from before she had found Tyn, she hadn’t known why he had been wandering the streets, or rather, waiting for sunrise to steal his soul instead of going back to his home. He was bound to have had an argument of some kind, but her knowledge went no further. And now she knew. Not the complete story, but enough. It was an effort not to round of Edvard then, instead she just took another sharp little breath, counted silently to ten, and turned away from the door, brushing passed him, pulling a biscuit-tin from the cupboard that hadn’t been there before, and helping herself to the contents as she stared out the window, humming softly and absentmindedly to herself.
"And… well, he went his way, and I… had to feed so… well, I didn’t pick very well." He smiled softly, and shook his head. "I’ll be alright. I mean, it was only blood, it’ll pass. I’m more concerned about you. What are you going to do? Go back? I mean, I know you have to, but… Miro, I can’t let you go by yourself. You said… it might be dangerous. And besides… I don’t want you to be… alone there. I’ll go back with you, alright? Edvard… can stay here, if he’s going to be like this. But… I can’t let you do that. We’re friends." Tyn returned at weak, battered smile, trying to force some strength into his words. They did have to be strong, but the feeling he got, well, Miroslav had been strong for so long, long before Tyn had been born, in fact, and now, now there was probably very little of that strength left. So Tyn would try and be strong for both of them.
When the taxi, yellow and black like every other taxi in the city pulled up for them, Zan opening the door and allowing Kris in first so he could rattle off the address, before stepping inside and shutting the door, his hand settling on the dark-haired male’s knee, more reserved now that cab-driver shot them a look through the rear-view mirror. "After dinner, do you want to go and pick up your things, baby? And bring them back to mine? I mean, if you’re happy with the idea of staying a little longer, there’s probably going to be a few bits and pieces, right?" he lent back, glancing passed Kris and through the window, watching the world fly by, not recognising it, or even caring about that. The route would probably become familiar.
Cowed slightly from the realisation of his new house-guest's eavesdropping, he turned, shrewdly staring her up and down, waiting for her to turn and pounce on him. She would, he realized, if she didn't have all that dignity she possessed. He knew that Rosa could turn, attack and shove him to the floor where she would brutally rip out every single organ she could before he could even consider retaliation. Funny things, females; especially those motherly ones who had a sick child to care for. Var was nothing to her but some unwanted child that her son continually hung around-a bad seed. That's what Edvard was. But by God, even if she thought him childish he wasn't about to stand there and take it.
"Don't talk to me like I'm five. I have every right to be upset that you brought that, that... /thing/ here. You have no clue of what he means to me, to Tyn. Tyn's confused about that creature. Miroslav might have treated him fairly well, but that's no thing to bring him here. No reason, at least, not a good one. And listen to your son! He proposes going /back/ with Miroslav to that house! Ha! Over my staked and burnt body. You don't know anything about the monster that lives in that house... You can't even guess what he's like. And I'll be damned here on the spot if he even /tries/ going back. I don't mean to be disrespectful to you, Madame, but I am at my wit's end..."
"No," Miro began as he heard the dull murmer like hot steam rising and sloshing against the kitchen door. "No, you won't come back with me. I'm not even going back for a while. And, and if something were to happen, I wouldn't want it to happen to you... I'll be fine." he offered another smile, so forced he was vaguely afraid of his face cracking and his eyes rolling back, drowned with tears. Carefully patting the other's hand that he now held in both of his own, he gave Tyn a gentle look. Reassuring and understanding like no other could have given. It was from experience, experience that no one else owned.
"Temporary insanity is contagious," the Roma said after a long, drawn-out silence, the noise in the kitchen stopped for a moment as the pair inside seemed to be catching their breaths. "Even temporarily it can leak out and poison days and weeks... years. Edvard is... trying his best, I'm sure. He owes you something, that he knows, but he feels something for you... Something strong. And, don't blame him for the way he's acting; I bring back bad memories for him, it isn't his fault. And he's worried about your state of mind in my visit too... But, back to the real business. Don't think I'm trying to sugar-coat anything, Tyn, he really does love you. But, you see, Edvard doesn't understand what he is feeling-or, at least, not completely. I would venture to say that the poor man has never been in love. Not the real, lasting kind, anyways. He overuses the word, I believe, just so he can feel that way. It's a trick the mind subconciously uses, you know. We train ourselves not to see through our own blatant attempts at emotional relief, but we know, really, that it's just an amature act. Yet, we cannot stop ourselves. Your Edvard is that way. He's been that way for a very, very long time."
Suddenly, Miroslav had lowered his voice, knowing now that Edvard and Rosalind would be unable to hear him. It was a trick he had, an ability learned with age. He took another steadying breath, continuing with the dispersal of knowledge. "Edvard has a problem with himself that he cannot pinpoint. The problem lies within his emotions and how he displays him. When he... fought with you, he didn't understand why he was so angry so he took it out in the only way he could, through you. But now, after his seperation from you he sees how he cannot function as well. You notice how he acts around everyone else? The way he's so cold, so horribly distant? That's his confusion.... His act... Tyn, child... He did not mean to harm you," Miro stated matter-of-factly, letting his hand graze the shined scars curling over Tyn's neck. "He merely meant to love you the only way he knew how; but it came out the wrong way."
Leaning back, he drew his hand away from Tyn's for a moment, once again pushing the straying hair from his doe-like eyes. "Forgive me, sitting here, giving you a lecture on your own lover... My analazying... was... rude. But I supposed you would want some sort of explanation for his behaviour? I do not know if that meant anything to you, I have come around to babbling in my old age, I think. So, forget what I said if it was useless...." he sighed and leaned his head forwards onto Tyn's shoulder, hand laying around the back of the blue-dyed skull. "And your blood, there's something fouled up. It is too... I don't know, but it smells very sickly. What was wrong with the one you fed from? Any specific signs of disease, perhaps? Goodness knows I don't want anything to happen to you, along with everyone else in this household... You're horribly hot. You should be in bed... Oh goodness, don't let me keep you, we woke you, didn't we?"
Kris quickly rattled off the address, hurriedly dropping his eyes from those peevishly staring at him through the rear-view. Like a scolded child, his knees drew together as his eyes focused on them. The hand slid over his pants and intertwined with the ones resting on the kneecap. He couldn't suppress the smile coming over him and he gave a gently shrug of his shoulder, momentarily unable to speak. When he did regain his voice he replied croakily, eyes not wasting their looks on the hazed, darkened scenery. "Well, I guess we can, I mean.. well, I don't know. When you see my apartment, you may never want to go back again. It's pretty... well, I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of ashamed of you seeing it, to be honest. It's cheap, that's what counts." Staring at the other's turned face, the singer let his fingers rub over the rough, wind-whipped knuckles, teasing over the hard lumps of skin.
"We can decide later, can't we? Let's just go... bit by bit. It's easier that way. And much more fun; planning is soooo horrid. I don't like it, as you'll probably begin to notice." he laughed it off and leaned over into Lysander's shoulder, waiting for the cabby to pull them to a stop in the darker bits of town outside his ratty apartment building.
The taxi did stop, right outside the building that Kris had been dropped off at on that first evening of their… well, would it have been too early then to call it a romance? Probably, because although Lysander had fancied the young singer then, there had been no love then, although there had been the first stirrings of that flutter in his stomach that night.
The taxi stopped, and Lysander got out, holding the door open for Kris, and then paid, tipping the man and taking him, before sliding his arm back around Kris’ hips not paying much attention to the sound of the taxi leaving. Perhaps with rather more speed then was strictly necessary, although Zan could recall Kris commenting that the area was bad. Ah, this would explain it. A cab-driver with a full cash-tray would not be wishing to risk hanging around. He wondered briefly if the driver would have agreed to wait for them. No matter anyway; he could always hire another, or even call for a private taxi. Slightly more expensive, but still, it would be worth it. Lysander had been metaphorically jumping up and down inside since making the reservation secretly that morning, with the sounds of Kris’ sleeping still floating through the little apartment.
This was going to be too much fun to let anything get in the way. "Don’t mind me. I was nervous about letting you see my place. I think it makes no difference, if you’re bringing someone you like to your house, then you’re bound to be nervous, even if you live in a castle." He pressed his lips over Kris’ in gently reassurance. "And I’m not going to run away because of the apartment you rent, am I? I’m not dating an apartment, I’m dating you, and you… are magnificent." The lips pulled back, away from Kris’ soft skin, and Lysander glanced upwards at the building, trying to reserve judgement and not compare the place to his own. After all, before he had found his own apartment, he’d visited a few that weren’t exactly of the same quality, and some of them had been even more expensive then what he was paying Tyn. Or should be paying, he remembered guiltily. "Well then, lead the way, mon capitan."
Rosa’s eyes, having finished with taking in the view from the little penthouse window, turned to Edvard, and for the first time she let all the disgust she felt for the fellow vampire pour out through her dark, long-lashed orbs. "You give yourself too little credit, sir." She hissed, aware of the soft mummer still floating under the crack in the door, "Tyn would rather go back to whatever hell is waiting him, then stay here with you. Did your little French brain not pick that out, or did you choose to ignore the facts that don’t suit you?" the venom-filled words seemed to hang in the air, the elegant woman sipping from her perch on the worksurface, and moving to him, seeming taller, her eyes brighter, "I would take your soul now, to rid the world of your stain. But I won’t. Because my son still cares for you, even if you scare him. Or have you not noticed that yet, Edvard? Tyn is frightened to death of you, but still clings to your arm."
She didn’t turn to the whistling of the kettle, just reaching out and setting it down on a cold ring, letting the stream of water vapour dissolve in the air. "Just like a child, a boy, on the playground. Maybe if he makes friends with the bully, his life will be easier, hm? Perhaps he’s frightened to leave you? What would you do, I wonder? Destroy his property like the last time you two had a fight? Or, if he left you for good, does he think you’d hunt him down? Or perhaps you just wouldn’t care at all, would you? You’d just let him go." She snarled, for the first time making use of her fangs, baring them like a lion, "I swear before god, I’d slaughter you the moment Tyn stopped loving you."
The boy’s eye was closed for a moment, and as he took a deep breath, took in the smell of the little were-dog, and of that house. Cold and marble and blood and darkness, all mixed with the smell of Miroslav’s hair and skin and everything so beautiful about him. "Stay here for a while, with me, won’t you?" The words were muted, more of a prayer then a request; he hardly heard the words himself, perhaps Miro wouldn’t. If he didn’t, it made no difference. Edvard would never allow it, and although it was Tyn’s house, he couldn’t well have two guests stay that his own lover disapproved of. His mother was one thing, Miro was quite another.
"You said… he’s been like this…" Tyn swallowed, but already the tears were halfway down his cheek before the first dry sob was torn from his throat, and then he clung, like a child to the older immortals back, body shaking with his own sobs. Miro was stronger, braver, and wiser then he was, or even Edvard was. Miro knew what he was taking about, and that was somehow reassuring. "If Edvard… has always been like that… he’s not going to stop, is he? Not for me, not because of me. I wouldn’t… he shouldn’t change." He shook his head, effectively nuzzling into Miroslav’s shoulder.
There were several unsteady breaths, Tyn’s fingers curled into the material of the other’s shirt and jacket, as his mind whirled. He probably should have been in bed, but he was not about to go back now, how could he? No, Miro was his guest, and sick too. Besides… besides…
He couldn’t think of another reason, something twisting in his gut making the fingers clench. "No, No… there was nothing wrong with him. I… wanted to come back, Edvard might have been here still, so… I didn’t really look. It was some mortal guy cruising…" he managed, before lifting his head and pawing at his eye, and the space where the other had been, that reflex still second nature. "I’m sorry, I’m making a scene, I never meant to make a scene. That’s what Edvard complained about, when… when I first met him." What followed was a small, almost pained and somehow eccentric laugh, "You know, I only met him the night that I met you and Dante. Silly really, isn’t it? If I’d gone to another bar…" he shook his head, pressing his face back into that damp expanse he’d made on the other man’s neck.
"You may be older then me, Edvard, but you have no experience. You, in your little protective cocoon of self-pity! When did that happen, what caused it? Is that the reason for all, for all of /this/?" She waved her hand, taking in the kitchen, the apartment, anything else in the world that Edvard’s stain had touched and discoloured like old cotton. "I’m sure you’ve been all over the world, haven’t you? You’ve seen and you’ve helped and you’ve done what you can, but there’s always something that holds you back, isn’t there? Well, sir, I’ve travelled, and I’ve done what I can too. And don’t you throw my god back in my face as your defence, Edvard! My belief is as weak as a thread, but it’s the only thing, the only thing I have to protect me, and even then, I doubt it. You know what doubt feels like, don’t you? It grows and it grows like a cancer, and you’ll never ever get rid of it. But you’re an adult, Edvard. And you are still treating Tyn as a child. You may not believe you are, but it’s true. You can’t stop him doing what he wants. You can reason with him, although reason seems beyond you. But you will not stop him going if that is what he chooses to do."
Miroslav held the other against him, comforting fingers twisting through Tyn's hair, petting the short expanse of his neck that showed. "He will always try to change," Miro stated, knowing he had not helped the situation as he had wished, but hindered it. He took a deep breath, his mind whirling in his head like swill in a wine glass. He shifted on the cushions, every softened angle of them seeming to pinch and bruise his skin; it startled him, how frail he felt, especially now, no Master around, no frightening house, no anything to keep him contained. Rocking against the young man before him, he murmured soft comforts into Tyn's ear as the boy had done before for him. They meant nothing, but expressed the were-dog's greatest sympathy. "What if's are poison, don't consider them; everything happens for a reason, pleasant or not. Do you really regret meeting all of us?" he murmured, his own pangs of regret pulling at his guts. Surely, he had wished that Tyn had never met him, at least, not under these circumstances. And what about Edvard? He almost wished that Tyn hadn't met him, either.
Edvard was a self-proclaimed man, when he was nothing but a posing little boy. No one, of course, would understand this unless they had known Edvard through and through-or had done as Miroslav had-sift through his mind like a scrap book. It would be rather a sad tale to tell the little boy that clung to him, but then again, Edvard had long since lost innocence. It was like pitying the most ruthless sinner; nothing could be done except to pine for the past... And it was useless, Miroslav knew that. It was just another lesson to learn through eternity. "And yes, I'll stay if you'd like... But here, let me take you to your bed. I'm sure both of the parentals running about the house would fret if you weren't getting better. At least, I am. Come now, stand up and hobble into the bedroom with me, yes? I'll bring you tea-and don't object, my head hurts to much to argue, you see." the man said, pulling them both to their feet, a light of something long gone from Miro's eyes shivering and alive in their depths.
Like a pair of war-battered soldiers, they shuffled to the bedroom door still ajar. Miroslav was the most careful attendant, even if his blood was slamming so hard through his veins that he could feel it, hear it rushing through the vein walls.
Then it fell. Like a wall made from cracker crumbs in a sudden breeze, Edvard's whole sense of security, sanity sifted apart like sand. He couldn't meet those boring, hateful eyes. And even as he stood their, mouth twisted coldly, eyes nearly closed, hand behind him gripping the counter, he felt his knees buckle and his mind go blank. God! How true here words were. How horrid, how insightful, how loathsome. But they were true.
He let out a hiss like the steam from the now-cooling kettle, letting the silence thicken between them like cold putty. It congealed and clung onto him at every angle, dragging him down as the pit of his stomach fell out. The immortal felt queasy. He felt beaten, bedraggled, weather-worn, wretched, monstrous, vile.... He felt so much that he couldn't hide his entire embarrassment and his palms began cling tighter to the countertop. For the life of him he couldn't open his mouth to reply, too set-back by her words and the conviction in every statement.
Edvard had never been able to deal. He couldn't deal with situations, he couldn't deal with people, and worst of all, he couldn't deal with himself. He had never wanted to be one of those self-important snobs that wallow relentlessly in self pity, but that's what he had turned out to be. But, but... didn't he deserve to be able to-no... No, he didn't. She was right. He had never, /never/ done anything to improve anyone. And right now! His stomach flipped, making his mouth pull tighter. Right now he felt like a traitor; and not just any traitor, no, now he felt like a traitor that had only leeched off everyone.
There was no way of sugar-coating anything he had done to Tyn. The boy was worse off now that they were together... And silently, he felt himself suddenly wishing amongst the pains jamming through his gut that he had never met the poor boy. Then, as a reaction to that reaction, he felt guilt well up inside. And to that he felt even more reluctance to admit he was feeling anything. Feelings meant weakness and weakness meant a soft spot for Rosa to hit on, not to mention a spot where he felt so vulnerable that he curled up tighter and became even more hateful.
Then, like a little boy who had just been severely reprimanded, he slid down the length of the counter, pushing off from it and grappling for the door. As he spilled into the livingroom, he could sense the sickened darkness closing all over him, the jitters in his body running rampant as his eyes saw the bedroom door push to. He would wait, yes... He would just sit down a moment and let the pair of them get settled. Var knew what Miroslav was doing, he would be helping the weary young man back into bed, while he-Edvard, Tyn's lover-was just sitting there curled up on the couch like a mental-ward patient.
Yes, he would rise from his spot when he heard the racket and fussing with covers dying down on the other side of the doorway to break the news and make peace the best he could with all parties; he had to do something, that or he would fall farther into this pit in which he was sinking.
Kris stood staring up at the building before him, eyes darting over the darkened holes that were uncleaned or boarded windows, his lips making a little pout of disgust. His place was a hell-hole compare that plush apartment of Lysander's. Yet, with the gentle urgings to go inside, he lead on, pushing the nearly-broken-hinged door open and pulling the other man inside by the hand. The lobby was more like a broken down hallway filled out a little wider than the walls. The paint was chipping, the rugs burnt and dirtied, and the chairs (the few that were left) were thread-bare and stained. The ceiling fan ran constantly, the blades sagging down towards the floor, pull strings long gone. And as the fan turned there was the noise of something broken clanking inside. Dejectedly, the young singer sighed and pulled him through the short expanse, towards the stairs. "You'd think that they'd fix that stupid fan, wouldn't you?"
The young man moved at a steady pace up the stairs, in a habit of not getting in a hurry. With each step he would fiddle his fingers over the belt-loops of his pants or back through his hair or over his earrings to keep his hands busy, feeling almost antsy and unaware of a body beside him. However, when they reached the landing that his floor was on, he dug through his pockets, pulling out a worn little key and turning toward the apartment door, most of the other apartment openings along the way boarded up or wrapped with police tape (the real stuff). He smiled wryly, seeing Lysander's eyes glance around and catch the tape. "Oh, don't worry about that stuff, no one else lives on this floor... now." he shrugged and opened the paint-peeled door void of a room number. The lights inside were off but his hand snaked around the entrance door-frame and flicked it on, a pale gold shimmering from a single lamp in the middle of the small room.
It was as it had been before. One bed-unmade, one table and chair, one dresser-scattered with folded clothes, money, cheapo-jewelry, and cologne, one tiny TV with bunny antenna, and a window boarded and covered with drapes to hide them. He rushed inside, quickly trying to fix up a place for Lysander to sit. Glancing around and seeing his table looking rather shabby with cig-packets and a couple of folded sets of clothes, he blushed deeply and started fixing his bed, eyes looking back to Lysander. The floors were also stained with only-god-knew-what, but besides that, the rest of the room look rather well cleaned. "I swear, I'm not a total slob. I just... was in a hurry to leave last time. Sorry, here, why don't you sit down?"
Tyn allowed himself to be moved, muttering an almost inaudible complaint as he was forced off the sofa and the cool leather cushions which had felt so good against the fevered skin of his back. The air in the apartment was heavy, dry, and stuffy and Tyn hated it. He would have rather stay curled all night on the sofa then go back to the bed Edvard and he had shared, would likely still share. But Miroslav was right; sooner or later Rosa would bustle in, away from the small war she had started in the kitchen, and demand he get some rest. She would probably send the were-dog off too, as it appeared she had adopted him, taken him under her wing even though Tyn knew that Miro was older, wiser then her, or at least, that was what we would believe about the petit man.
So he went without anymore complaint, nudging the door open with his toe before stumbling almost blindly into the room. It seemed unusually dark in their, even after the young vampire’s single eye had widened to accommodate the lack of light. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t stepped outside the apartment for too long, or maybe because there was now fewer lamps in the room, or because in his tiredness, the world seemed different. It didn’t matter. He would be asleep soon, and then it wouldn’t matter if it were dark or light; he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
As the pair neared the bed, Tyn’s voice, more stressed and strained then it had been before, rose again, "Stay here, with me, tonight, won’t you? Please Miro…Eddy won’t care, I promise." he then allowed himself to flop onto the bed, his knees having half-collapsed as he slipped from under the arm of the beautiful lycan. That amber orb was already shut by the time he curled his frame into the sheets, fingers twisting into the linen as the sleep-softened words floated through the room again, "I don’t regret it. I’m glad I met you. And Eddy."
She didn’t even attempt to stop Edvard leaving the room, but her glare followed him out, and if possible, would have burnt a hole in his back. Not a large one, or even a painful one, but enough for him to feel and take note. Instead, she turned to the abandoned tea and coffee cups, carefully continuing to prepare their drinks, and although she was tempted to fill Edvard’s with salt instead of sugar, she resisted, and set all three cups onto the tray before she moved out into the living room.
Ah, so there he was. Well, at least he had not stormed out; Rosa doubted Edvard’s legs would take him very far until he recovered from the telling-off she had given him. Perhaps it had been badly timed, or even too harsh, if such a thing was possible where Edvard was concerned, but at very least it had given him something to think about. And about time too. With the ruffling of skirts, she set his cup down on the low table, and then proceeded into the dark bedroom without a word to him. He might not have heard her, in this state, even if she had stood at his side and yelled. But the Frenchman was no longer her concern, in fact, when her knuckles touched the wood of the open door into her son’s room, she had almost forgotten there was a third man in the place.
"Miroslav? Tyn?" She said softly, balancing the tray in one hand as she knocked, before taking it again more securely in both as she stepped in. After setting the tray on the chest of draws, she took one of the cups from it, and carried to the edge of the bed, sliding it onto the bedside table as she sat. And then, like a mother hen, began to ease her son into a sitting position, adjusting his posture and the sheet around him and the pillows behind him, and only when satisfied did she push the hot cup into his hands. "Now, drink that my dear. Didn’t I tell you that you should be drinking more? I’ve bought you something nice, and I got you more ice cream. The strawberry one that you like so much. Oh Tyn…" she sighed, fingers stroking at his hair before glancing at Miroslav. "I’m sorry dear. I made you some tea too, I hope that’s alright? If not, I’ll make you some coffee, there’s plenty to go around. But then I want you to lay down and take a bit of a nap, it’ll go you good. And before you leave, you’re going to eat something. I’ve never seen anyone so thin. It’s not right." Yes, it looked like Rosalind had certainly taken Miroslav on as her own. With a quick kiss to Tyn’s cheek, she took the unfinished drink from him, his breathing already slowed for sleep, and stood. She pressed a brief kiss to Miroslav’s high-cheekbone too, before glancing to see Tyn once more enfold himself with the sheets. "See, both of you need sleep. Tyn, do you want Edvard…" she stopped then, noticing the way Tyn’s body tensed under the blankets, curling tighter into the mattress.