Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?
Blood drips unheeded down a bound form, flesh torn, the noose around his neck loose and flexible and soaked in blood, more for show than actual strangulation, though no breath comes from those cold, dead parted lips. Some might say that Death is serene. Indeed, for when the spirit has left the body and the heart has ceased to beat, it is then that the body is naught but a shell of the corpse’s former self.
For those that reside in Santa Carla, the witching hour is the most dangerous. Here there are hunters that prowl in the darkness, whether they be human or otherwise. Here the blood flows as freely as the drugs and the alcohol, with the heady beat of music pounding beneath the surface. Here, those like the Lost Boys are in their element, senses honed to the taut, flushed bodies of youths who flaunt their half naked bodies upon the sands, their skin encrusted with sea salt. This is their food, their life, the very thing that the vampires live for; the thrill and the chase, and the final rush of copper on the tongue.
Yes, here in Santa Carla, those that venture out at night are aware of the dangers, the hazards. And they take that risk. Their young do whatever they so wish, thinking that the creatures of the night are naught but a fairy tale, whilst their wizened elders are wary and cautious.
It’s a pity that the Emerson’s don’t realise their place in the scheme of things.
Amidst the smoke, Michael lounges, both in body and in mind. He’s as languid as can be, his grey eyes dull as if in a stupor, though only thanks to the half smoked joint between his lips. Courtesy of Paul, of course, who is too busy sprawling on the lip of the fountain in the cave, poking and prodding at a decidedly sleepy looking Laddie.
Funny how one can feel so at home like this, yeah?
“So, Mikey... how’d you like us?” The blond bombshell intones, voice low and husky thanks to the drugs in his system. Leaning his head against the cool stone, Paul can only grin manically, eyes bright, staring at Michael as if he’s looking right through him. And he might as well be, but Michael doesn’t really care. Michael’s floating.
“Hm?” Paul’s voice sounds too airy for Michael to comprehend.
“How’d you like us?” The voice is much closer than the teenager anticipates, turning his head a mere hairs breath away before his cheek brushes Pauls own, the blonds’ eyes practically searing with mirth. “Do you like us enough to want to stay, huh Mikey?”
Hell, if the wine and the smokes keep flowing, Michael will gladly stay here forever.
“Maybe,” he slurs, head tipped back, blowing out a stream of smoke, “maybe not.”
A soft snort of amusement and Paul cocks his head to one side. “Indecision, nice. I like that, s’cool.”
The music blares through the cave, causing Michael to sink further and further into pleasant delirium. It’s everything; it’s Dwayne on his skateboard, Marko with his birds. It’s Paul with the rock box, fiddling between stations, and it’s David, standing naught but a few feet away with such an intense look in his eyes that it makes Michael want to bare his throat in a strange indication of submission.
The joint is taken from his hand by him, by David, whose pale lips part and takes a drag, and pauses before releasing the fragrant smoke in a soft, cotton wool stream. That’s what Michael’s brain feels like; cotton wool, all soft and fluffy on the inside, easy to pick apart at the seams.
David; the self proclaimed leader of the pack, merely withholds the joint from the boy-childs’ grasping fingers, lips twitching into a smirk that is at once callous and bewitching. “Do you like us, Michael?” He repeats Paul’s earlier question, and Michael frowns, as if he’s finding it suddenly difficult to answer such a simple thing. But then, David is so very enthralling, the warm presence of his body beside him, enshrouded in black, and Michael’s hand drops to the side, the joint momentarily forgotten.
As if sensing that he now has his guests full attention David passes Michael the bottle once more.
The wine is life; like nothing he’s ever tasted. It’s a wonder how it was replenished so quickly, for mere minutes ago he was tasting the delicious concoction for the first time, drinking down it’s oddly bitter taste... but finding it good. It stains his lips, slickens them and clouds his brain even more, until all that Michael Emerson can see is David’s eyes; cool and knowledgeable and primal.
Unbidden, his heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he swallows down a large mouthful of the wine to calm it.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
David leans in, close enough to touch, close enough to share the very oxygen between them. “Come with us,” he murmurs, the words as intense at that gaze, with so much heat. So much heat.
Odd, how Michael can trust David like this. His fogged brain has pushed aside the confrontation earlier, the beginnings of the brawl, and over what? A girl?
Starr is forgotten, the gypsy girl curled upon the bed and watching the proceedings with fearful eyes. But Michael doesn’t see the pretty girl he’d glimpsed on the Boardwalk. He doesn’t see the fear and the worry and the knowing in her eyes, for he doesn’t care. Michael has eyes right only for David, close enough to feel his heat.
“Come with us, Michael.”
And who is Michael to say no?