The World Will Stain Us

And I Wonder How To Move On

Nights blurred into days blurred into longer nights. Andy found himself wishing he could sleep, but afraid of what he'd find when he closed his eyes, afraid the same flashes of memory would haunt his unconscious mind as much as they did his waking one. Wishing he could focus long enough to work without the memory of CC's expression as he fell pressing against the corners of his mind. Wishing he wasn't built in such a way that he couldn't deal with his shit like a normal person, wishing he wasn't so afraid to talk to the men he loved the most, wishing it would all just stop.

The flash of crimson eyes, warm blood trickling down his back from the cuts and scrapes he'd given himself struggling against the wall, fangs in his throat, helpless to a creature he hadn't known existed―

No. He didn't need memories of his own turning crowding his head again, not now, not mixing with CC's―warm, bright, beautiful CC, who never should have been in that position to begin with, who'd been drunk and too kind for his own good.

He would wake, screaming, every time he drifted off. Every time the memories overcame him. He'd scream and scream, half-convinced he was still in that alley, that this was all just some horrible nightmare and he'd wake to find himself still losing blood in the clutches of that damned pretty stranger with the beautiful laugh.

Was CC waking in a cold sweat, now? Remembering the terror of waking up buried in a shallow grave, the confusion, the desperate need to get out? The hunger upon emerging, the painful pangs, the metallic taste of blood somehow soothing his throat? Was he blaming them, blaming him, even now, for turning him without consultation?

I didn't have a choice, Andy wanted to cry. None of us did! We were drunk, we weren't thinking, and then he died and we couldn't lose him like that, we couldn't―I couldn't! 

But it was no use yelling when the only person he was fighting was himself.

He'd scream and scream, and Jinxx would come running. Eventually Jake would too. They would run in and wrap him in their arms and reassure him that he was safe, he was safe, he was safe. They would talk, about everything and nothing, about their own immortal lives, the things they'd seen, the people they'd met―talking and talking until he calmed down, until he was able to pull away from their embrace and mumble an apology for being so weak, so fragile. An apology that they always assured him was never necessary, but that he always mumbled anyway.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. My fault. My fault. My fault. It would never be enough to make up for what he'd done, even if he said it until the words stopped having any meaning. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

He was on the floor, his back pressed to the wall, his knees drawn up, his head in his hands; too much, too much, too much. If only his mind would let him be. If only he could stop replaying that night. If only, if only, if only.

They would hold him until he was calm, and then continue to hold him long after, making sure he was okay. Gradually, he began to associate them with safety, with warmth and love. They were different, when they came to him: Jake was strength, surety, a whispered promise of protection and safety; Jinxx was quieter, as he always was, offering solace and protection and empathy. Andy came to lean on them both, and eventually, when the nightmares finally ceased, he offered his own strength in return, an infinite thank-you.

"Andy?" A knock at the door, accompanied by Jake's voice. He sounded pained. "Andy, please come out. It's Jinxx."

Andy raised his head and stared at the door, his brow furrowing. Jinxx? What was wrong with Jinxx?

"Andy, please," Jake said, and his voice sounded close to breaking. "It's...it's bad."

Concerned, Andy finally rose to his feet, crossed the room, and opened the door. Jake looked a little surprised that he'd actually gotten up.