Early hours, 15th October, 1891 — on the lookout, a garden in London

Little enough left to do but wait.

It must be nearly four in the morning, thereabouts. The others in their little crew were off ransacking the house where it stood, grand and darkened and quiet. An easy two-man job, really. Ishmael was lurking in the shadow of the house outside, the deserted lawn stretching out before him, on watch. On watch with Monty, which had been a mistake.

Things were... fine. Well, not fine – they were strained, and they hadn’t been the same since March – but when it came to the profession, they had been making it work. Beyond it, Ishmael had spent more nights up at the caverns. Monty shot him sullen looks from time to time. They didn’t talk about the future.

But they had been off-and-on before, this was a habit same as it had always been; and the stalemate could sprawl out forever if they wanted it to, and Ishmael knew he would win it. If losing Monty was winning. He still didn’t know what he wanted.

(He did miss Monty.)

But he was trying not to think about it. He’d prowled the length of the house, half-hoping for a disturbance, and padded back to Monty (who was only here because someone needed to be able to use a wand if necessary). He tried to focus on the scratchy feeling of his throat instead, the thirst he would have to indulge when they were finished here – but now Monty was close enough to smell, and eventually Ishmael dared one glance at him. “Everything alright?” he asked neutrally, trying hard to sound offhand.

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Monty Morales / Roberto Devine

  

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It had been months since their argument and Monty still wasn't over it. It had him feeling cranky. The lack of regular sex only added to his crankiness since he was surprisingly loyal when it came to that. He hadn't touched another since becoming involved with Ishmael. He cursed his own nature. If he was less loyal when it came to that department, maybe he wouldn't feel so damn lonely.

Work was work though and Monty was a professional criminal, thank you very much. He could stand being in Ishmaels presence if it had to do with work.

He mostly kept his eyes on the house, wondering if he could ever live in so grand a place rather than the abandoned large London house they had claimed for their own. He liked the view, it was something he deserved to have.

He had sullenly longingly watched Ishmael prowl the length of the house before looking away when the vampire turned back. "Why wouldn't it be? Everything looks quiet."

  

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The closer he was, the further away he seemed – or maybe Ishmael just felt that way when Monty refused to even look at him. If Ishmael existed nowhere else in the world, not in daylight or in reflections or on registries, at least Monty had always seen him. And when Monty didn’t, well –

Ishmael still wasn’t going to reach out and touch him like he wanted to, though. This was not the time or the place, and if Ishmael was going to pretend as though his eternal existence was not feeling increasingly lonely without Monty in it, being needy was not the way to sell it.

But maybe he could catch Monty by surprise enough to make him look back. “No,” Ishmael answered honestly. He hadn’t asked about the lookout, or the house. “I meant – with you.”

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Monty didn't know what Ishmael meant by his 'no'. Did things not seem quiet? He turned to look at Ishmael inquisitively. Had he heard someone approaching? Monty went on alert until Ishmael finished speaking.

"Oh," Monty said, not quite sure what to say. "As I said, why wouldn't it be?" That was a lie and Ishmael probably knew it but Monty didn't particularly care at the moment. He also did not know what Ishmael had been expecting him to say.

  

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Excellent: he had Monty’s full attention now. His confused attention, at least; Ishmael wasn’t sure why it always felt like a victory, to have Monty’s attention. It always did, and always had. And it wasn’t the time or the place to be playing games like this, or to really get into it – they were supposed to be on lookout for a reason – but right now Ishmael wanted him more than anything, so he didn’t care.

And Monty was pretending that nothing was wrong between them, so fine, Ishmael raised an eyebrow to really test the theory. “So, we’re past that, then?” They both knew what he meant by that, their argument, and surely Monty had relived it as often as he had; he didn’t need to spell it out again. “You’re over it?” He wanted Monty to be: he wanted to get everything that he wanted, for things to be easy and ever in his control and for Monty to understand without Ishmael needing to say anything else about it.

So he reached out now, stepped closer, slid his hand up Monty’s arm in a supplicating caress. (To see whether the months apart had softened him, whether they could go on as before – although, in his throat, Ishmael still felt sure that Monty hadn’t forgiven him, and couldn’t forget it.)

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No, they most certainly were not. "I am not over it but I understand. I suppose." Why was Ishmael choosing now to rehash this? He conveniently forgot that he had been avoiding the vampire for a while now and thus Ishmael had not had a chance to rehash things before now.

Monty had been touch starved so the hand sliding up his arm had him wavering. "You make it impossible for my thoughts to form when you do that," he 'admonished'.

  

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Well, that answer was sending mixed signals at best – he said he understood, but he was also still hurt about it, obviously.

And maybe this was supposed to assuage or apologise for that; or maybe Ishmael was using him like he used everyone, stringing Monty along for his own selfish motives, he didn’t know, hell – but he also couldn’t help his smirk at the chastisement.

It was hard to concentrate on the grounds or being on lookout, too, when Monty was this close, but that was fairly obvious too. “Good,” Ishmael only murmured, leaning in to press a long, slow kiss to his neck, happy to be even more distracting if that helped smooth things over between them.

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A low sigh escaped him as Ishmael pressed a kiss to his neck. The fact that he was touch starved did nothing to help strengthen his resolve. He couldn't help it. Ishmael's proximity had already been a sort of torture even when the vampire was keeping his hands to himself. His fingers slid into the vampires hair as he gave into his basic urges. "If the other two get busted, I'm putting the blame on you." Though, to be fair, it seemed fairly quiet.

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   Ishmael

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Monty’s hands were in his hair, so Ishmael dragged them back towards an alcove of the house and pulled him closer. For all he prided himself on being shrewd and clever and sharp-witted, maybe his self-control was lacking here, because at that remark, he only leaned into Monty and laughed. “I don’t care about them,” Ishmael said, and the worst thing was that it was not entirely untrue. “I only want you.”

He caught Monty’s mouth with his for a moment, let his hands begin to roam; but thereafter returned to his neck, raking his fangs against skin. Not a real bite this time, not enough to draw blood yet – just taking Monty’s skin in his teeth and sucking on the spot and considering it. But this was a dangerous game to play, thinking about drinking from him and saying things like I only want you, and Ishmael was half afraid Monty would call him out for it. But not forever, Monty might say, and what could Ishmael answer to that?

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The sound of Ishmael's laughter send a little thrill down Montys spine. "Don't let them hear you say that. They'll sulk at me for days," Monty teasingly admonished. Ishmael's words were nice to hear but he could not help wonder about the truth of them.

Ishmael wanted him. But for how long?

A soft moan escaped him as Ishmaels fangs raked at his skin. He supposed that was one positive - if he was turned, he wouldn't be able to provide sustenance when Ishmael needed it. He didn't do so often as it was.

  

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“I won’t mention it if you won’t,” Ishmael teased back. Fortunately, the others were preoccupied – and, as preoccupied as he could allow himself to be, Ishmael was sure his senses were sharp enough to still catch a disturbance if it arose. And in the meantime...

Ishmael sank his teeth into Monty’s neck, hard, without asking him first – making another selfish choice, just to show how easy it was. Being selfish was the natural choice. He was thirsty now: he would take blood from anyone, anywhere, even from the man he loved. And turning Monty would only be a selfish choice, too, even if Monty couldn’t see that: just Ishmael wanting to keep him in his life for longer.

He wasn’t good at self-denial through selflessness. Refusing Monty hadn’t been natural.

But if he ever did it, nothing would be the same between them, and perhaps Monty couldn’t see that either. Ishmael, mouth slick with Monty’s blood, stopped drinking, swallowed; stayed as close as he had been and pressed another, gentler kiss against the bruising wound.

“It’s not as easy as I make it look, you know,” he murmured in Monty’s ear, unsure whether Monty was too light-headed now to pay much attention to his confessions. (But maybe that was for the best, because Ishmael shouldn’t be flirting with the idea at all, not aloud; not after he had already won the argument.) “It’s not pretty at the start. You’d have no control of yourself.” They would not be able to live like this anymore.

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Monty snorted in response to Ishmael's words before smiling. 

He gasped in combined surprise and pain as Ishmael sank his teeth into him. He winced a little at the sensation of being drunk from as Ishmael welcomed himself to his blood. He could admit to himself that there was a pleasure he derived from knowing he was nourishing the vampire. Helping him to live for another night, slaking his lovers hunger.

"I do loathe giving up control but give me some credit. I do know it is difficult. I observe you more than I think you know."

  

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He knew Monty wasn’t stupid, and that last remark was a little flattering, and much as Monty pretended not to care Ishmael knew how much he did... and this was still a terrible idea, but it was to Monty’s credit that Ishmael was even opening up the debate again.

He wouldn’t have, for anyone else.

“You didn’t know me back then,” Ishmael countered, running his fingers over the nape of Monty’s neck in an unthinking caress, and winding his hand gently into Monty’s hair, not sure which of them he was trying to soothe. “You’ll make a mess of everything.” Everything they had built here, all their habits and routines; living in London would be near-impossible, if they were to avoid the law. And their dynamic would change, entirely. Ishmael would have to clean up all those inevitable messes. He was sure Monty had thought about their future before proposing it; but it was still more commitment than Monty knew.

“And if you regretted it,” Ishmael said, hushed, “you’d always blame me.” And then all of this would be dust and ruin.

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That much was true. He couldn't even fathom how many years ago it had been that Ishmael had been a living, breathing man. It sometimes seemed like Ishmael himself sometimes didn't remember or think of those times.

"What if we went somewhere that there aren't many people around while I learn to control the urges?" Monty asked. "I know you need human blood but animal blood sustains you a little for a while, right?" He didn't know how long that tided a vampire over though.

"I would like to say I wouldn't blame you - but we both know that is a lie. But I can't say if I would regret it. I think of you living life when I am dead and gone, without me. I think of you seeing me age, grow wrinkles, white hair and I cannot stand the thought of it all. I want to still be here with you as the time stretches beyond what I can even fathom." It was probably the most vulnerable and open he had ever been with his lover.

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   Ishmael

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Ishmael only hummed, the only sign of even considering that. Some vampire honeymoon that would be.

You’ll make a mess of everything, Ishmael had just said to him. But he was wrong: Monty had already made a mess of everything. Being this sentimental over somebody – some paltry human – had never been in Ishmael’s plans. Ishmael didn’t do love, didn’t do attachment, didn’t do regret. And here was Monty – selfish, heedless, remorseless Monty – who had waltzed in and wrecked it all.

“Fuck,” Ishmael swore, mostly to himself, into the shadow of Monty’s answer. “Fuck,” he breathed, furious with himself. He shouldn’t have been thinking about fucking him tonight, while they were still fighting; he shouldn’t have gotten close enough to have drunk his blood. He wasn’t in his right mind anymore, still tasting his blood on his teeth. Ishmael swallowed, willing himself with all he had not to let it slip and failing anyway. “I want you to be with me too.” He glared at Monty as the words tore out without his consent. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”

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   Monty Morales

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Monty rose an eyebrow as Ishmael cursed. He couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the way Ishmael was glaring at him. "I don't want to lose you, either. What are we supposed to do about anything now?"

  

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