At night, 31st December, 1892 — Forbidden Forest

Two months. It had been two months, to the day.

Years had passed faster than this. Decades, actually. If he had stayed to watch Inez-Azazel for longer after turning her, Ishmael would have bet his worthless life she would have been much worse – but even with Monty, for whom he had supposed he had infinite patience, Ishmael was now feeling long-suffering. And a little self-pitying. And bored.

A vampire who hadn’t learned to live as a vampire yet was not, apparently, much fun.

And he wasn’t supposed to have left the cavern, for that matter, because he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near people – and Monty might have lost track of the date, after the tumultuous change he’d faced, but Ishmael hadn’t – and tonight, on New Year’s, Hogsmeade was going to be full of drunken revellers until well past dawn. Monty and people did not mix just yet. Ishmael was going to have to get him a leash.

Because Ishmael had left for fifteen minutes, and he’d gone. It was the middle of the night, the forest blanketed in dark, so at least Monty wasn’t going to get burned alive... small mercies. Ishmael still rolled his eyes as he traipsed through the trees, listening closely.

“Monty?” He called, at last turning on his heel as he heard a telling sound. “Monty! Where the fuck are you going?”

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Monty Morales

  

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It had to have been months he felt (it had been two) and Monty was not quite getting the hang of things. He was not used to having no magic. To feeling powerless without it. He'd made provisions before now to offset this part of the change but even so. It was quite a different story to now be living the reality of no longer having that magic he had born with inside of him.

Even worse was having to be in these caverns. He had a perfectly good house in London, why should he have to fester here, in a cave? Oh right, because of those two louts he had. Monty supposed there was point in not wanting to betray their loyalty by horribly devouring them or something.

Ishmael had left, he didn't know where. If he had told him, he had not paid much attention. He was 'not supposed to' leave the cavern but vampire or not, he was still Monty. No one told him where he could or could not go. He was bored, he wanted to be places, his fingers were itching to loot someones house or pockets. So he had left, wandering through the dark forest.

Then he heard his husband lover calling out his name and he groaned at having been caught out. "I'm bored!" He declared, stubbornly continuing to walk towards the distant sight of faux-light on the horizon of the forest. "You never take me anywhere anymore. Did I lose my appeal because I don't have magic anymore? Is that it?"

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   Ishmael

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Monty had always been stealthy when he wanted, even as a human, but there were still tell-tale signs of his vampire tread.

Or the voice floating over declaring, I’m bored! That worked, too.

Ishmael growled, impatient, and paced in that direction until he had reached the shadow of Monty stalking through the forest. “It’s less the magic,” Ishmael said acidly – although he pitied that loss, too; it might be harder for Monty but really, it felt dreadfully inconvenient to him too – “and more the fact that you’d rather be ripping people’s throats out.”

Not that Ishmael cared about the people, particularly. He cared about the hassle and the mess, and the threat of the Ministry, or the other vampires’ judgement of him; he also cared that this Monty, right now, would probably rather be ripping people’s throats out than paying him any attention whatsoever. He took another fluid step forwards and grasped Monty by the arm in an attempt to stop him. “Do you think I like having to be your parent?”

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Monty stopped short both at the others words and the fact his arm had been grabbed. Despite himself, a smile spread across his face. "And you would rather me be nibbling at your throat?" He asked in a sultry tone. His thoughts of going into town were waylaid for the moment. He looked at the other and rolled his eyes, his emotions taking another rapid 180. "You don't need to... but how do you soothe the fiery itch in your throat?"

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That activity had not lost any of its appeal; Ishmael didn’t deny it. In fact – Monty’s new fangs and newfound strength had elevated the sensation somewhat. Easier to be rougher now, and biting no longer did him any harm.

But if lust was one of the remaining sensations Monty had in spades, it was still dulled beside – ah, that. The fiery itch in his throat. “Years of practice at self-denial,” Ishmael said flatly. So there were animals in the forest he could maul in peace, and his stores of human blood, but fresh people were a very different matter. Monty had a cavernous hunger in him now, and might drain anyone dry if he started on them.

Unless Ishmael was supervising, that was, to make sure the human bloodbank went free afterwards. “You can’t go into town,” he added, stern. “But I can send for a friend, maybe, to meet us out here?” One willing human; fresh blood for Monty, if he behaved himself; and a happy fucking new year to Ishmael.

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Ugh. Ishmael could be so infuriating when he was like this. Montys emotions were a whirlwind inside of him, one never settling for very long. Was this a normal part of turning? He couldn't imagine what it might be like to be turned and left on your own. His emotions once more surged into an intense gratitude that at least he had Ishmael to help him. Even if he was so annoying about it.

"Got a parchment full of willing people coming at your back and call?" He asked, half teasing, half jealous.

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   Ishmael

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“Of course I do,” Ishmael drawled, because that was what he was good at – collecting people and calling in favours, and keeping his options open. New Year’s Eve mightn’t be the best time to send for a bloodbank, but if he picked someone who didn’t have anything better to do... and they’d probably be half-drunk already, and suitably agreeable. Hm.

“It’s simple. They give me what I need, and I give them something they want,” he explained carelessly, as if Monty couldn’t guess he dealt in quid pro quos, favours of all sorts. Money, sex, information, a thrill, something illegal – it didn’t matter to Ishmael, as long as they could spare a pint of blood now and then.

“Besides, I couldn’t have survived just on you.” (It hadn’t happened nearly often enough to sustain him, anyway. Not that he had liked feeding on Monty, before, when he’d been more afraid of killing him; not that Monty had liked being his dinner.)

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Monty snorted in response to the others drawled words. He did understand where Ishmael was coming from. It wasn't like Monty did not also have his own personal list of patsies. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that some could also double as blood bank patsies. "My patsies could be of use for this," he mused aloud.

"Yes, yes. Whatever. It isn't like I can feed you anymore anyway. I can still satisfy you the best other ways, though." At the end of the night, he didn't much care what Ishmael got up to so long as he came home to him. Besides, who else could shine better than Monty? No one, as far as the fledgling vampire was concerned.

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Ishmael gave a long-suffering sigh and nod as Monty realised he had a whole new way to manipulate people.

His mouth did quirk up at Monty’s implication, though. (Monty was still as Monty as ever, then; and it was mostly true. If their relationship hadn’t been so satisfying – if Ishmael hadn’t needed him so badly – he would have thought twice about turning him and immortalising it. Ishmael was still not in the habit of being made the fool of time, though, so only time would really tell.)

“Not full of yourself at all, are you?” Ishmael taunted, even as he gave Monty’s arm a suggestive caress. He raised an eyebrow. “So I’ll buy you dinner, and that’ll be dessert?”

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"I speak simple truths, my love," Monty said. Monty did not always use endearments when it came to his lover. Not even after having been turned just so he could be with Ishmael always. But he did do so sometimes and it tended to make him feel a little cringe whilst also getting a sense of enjoyment out of it.

"Sounds like a plan. A great way to ring in the New Year."

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Ishmael’s lingering exasperation melted away entirely at my love, because it was hard not to smile at it. His expression having softened, so did his tone – a little playful now, a little fond. “Good,” he said, rather pleased they had managed to pull back from the brink, and could celebrate the New Year without needless catastrophe. “It’ll get easier, I promise.” In a year’s time, Monty would be so much more settled in his new self... and they had plenty of New Years in their future, besides.

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"If anyone is going to have good control of themselves, it's me," Monty said with complete confidence despite the fact he had just barely pulled himself back now. As it was, he was successfully soothed and deterred from going into the town.

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