by Aimer Boyz
Symon was too old for this. Way too fucking old to go whizzing down a hill on a piece of wood.
Too old to have fun?
Ah, fuck.
“Does that thing have seat belts?” Symon asked, pulling the mitts on, and following Michael.
“What do you care?” Michael asked, looking back at Symon, that ridiculous sled propped on one shoulder. “Don’t you guys do the miracle healing?”
“Still hurts,” Symon muttered into the collar he’d pulled up around his ears.
Chapter 18
SYMON HAD THOUGHT nothing could top the sugar-coated, winter wonderland that was Queen Street, but this…This was a freaking Disney scene. Lights strung across a snow-covered hill. Bundled-up people, sleds in tow, braving the cold. Laughter riding on the silent night air. Nothing about this winter-white fantasy felt real to Symon. Nothing, but the man at his side.
The man wearing a knit atrocity of a hat that covered most of his forehead. Flaps dangled over Michael’s ears, ending in woollen braids that hung past his shoulders. He should have looked ridiculous, but his eyes appeared huge without the distraction of his hair and his smile—
“Ready to be nine years old again?” Michael asked, smacking his gloves together.
At nine, Symon had been at the mercy of a tutor who was excessively fond of his birch rod. So, no, he never wanted to be nine years old again. “Sure.”
Michael dropped the sled in the snow, sat on the tail end of it. “All yours,” he said, waving at the empty space in front of him.
“Yeah, thanks,” Symon said, but he didn’t move. “Aren’t we supposed to be steaming up your truck windows?”
“Nah, that’s high school.” Michael patted the red plaid cushion that lined the bottom of the toboggan. “Sit.”
What are you doing?
Symon had been asking himself that for a week now and he still didn’t have an answer. Yes, Michael looked good, but food always looked good. Yes, his submissive streak called to the predator in Symon, but sex had never been a priority for him. And yes, Michael’s blood went down like warm honey, but…There was a strange alchemy between them. Not only was Michael different from any human Symon had ever known, but Symon was different when he was with Michael. He was different because of Michael.
Symon sat, Michael scooting up behind him, his legs bracketing Symon’s. “You want to steer?” he asked, grabbing a loop of cord attached to the front of the toboggan.
“With that?” Symon snorted. “No. This thing has brakes, right?”
Michael shook his head. “Sorry.”
He didn’t look sorry; he looked happy. Symon didn’t know how he himself looked, but he knew how he felt. Apparently, happy was contagious.
Michael tucked a few escaped strands of blond back behind Symon’s ear. “Now would be a good time to put the hat on.”
“Yeah.” By which Symon meant never. He looked down the long slope of white to the line of fir trees that marked the bottom of the hill. “Maybe a helmet.”
“Grow a pair.” Michael did something with his right foot, leaned forward, and the toboggan took off.
They hurtled down the hill, picking up speed as they flew over the snow. Wind tore at his hair, cold stung his face. Exhilaration in every heartbeat, Symon was alive again, because of a dimple.
The terrain under the snow could have used some serious landscaping. The lumps and bumps lurking under the blanket of white provided an extra level of excitement Symon could have done without, the sled having a nasty habit of smacking into the ground with a jolt that rocked his spine.
“Michael,” Symon warned, digging his hands into Michael’s thighs. Directly in front of them, an overturned silver disc of a sled and a guy picking himself out of the snow. Every instinct told Symon to launch them both off their flying slice of wood, but this was Michael’s show, he was in charge. Symon didn’t want to rip control away from his prey, not here, not with their clothes on.
Determined to trust that Michael knew what the fuck he was doing, Symon watched as their sled headed right for the guy in a Canada Goose jacket. He was standing now, swiping at his legs, smacking the snow off his arms. He looked up—
“Lean left,” Michael shouted.
“What?”
“Lean left.” Michael pulled on the cord, tilted his body to the side, and Symon moved with him. Together, they swerved around the upended sled and Michael whooped like he’d won gold at the Winter Olympics. The ground levelled out, the sled slowing to a stop under a sentinel of trees.
“See, a dating activity,” Michael said, wrapping his arms around Symon.
“Yeah. It’s right up there with roller coaster rides and trampoline parks.”
“So cute,” Michael said, a rumble of laughter at Symon’s ear. “All teen angel on the outside and grumpy old man on the inside—Shit.” Flat on his back, Michael looked up to find Symon sitting on top of him.
“Teen angel? When we get back to the hotel, you will apologize. Naked. On your knees. With my cock in your mouth.”
“Yeah, that sounds—”
Symon raised a hand, cutting Michael off. “Say, yes Symon.”
It was growing on him, this little head game they played. The challenge was in figuring out what Michael liked and giving it to him. The reward was not so much Michael’s submission, but the pleasure he took in it.
“Yes, Symon.” There in the winter dark, lying on his back in the snow, Michael gave Symon the smile he had come to think of as his alone. Not the wide slash of dimple he flashed at the unsuspecting public, this was a quiet curve of lip, a private thing. “Please, Symon.”
***
There weren’t a lot of people out sledding that night, but enough that Symon had to trudge up the hill human style. He hadn’t physically exerted himself like this in centuries and it felt surprisingly good. “Again?” he asked, as they crested the hill, tugging the sled behind them.
Michael’s phone chimed before he could answer. “Sorry, I have to get this,” he said, pulling his glove off, and his phone out. “Dad? Okay, I’ll text the guys. Yeah, twenty minutes.” He swiped the call closed, thumbed in a message, and hit send. “Want to see an ice harvest up close and personal?”
“Now?”
“Yep,” Michael said, slipping his phone away. “I can drop you back at your hotel if—”
“I’m coming.” Like he was going to miss the opportunity to see the ice wine process in action and meet Stavros Santos.
“They’re going to put you to work,” Michael warned, hoisting the sled onto his shoulder.
“I’m counting on it.”
Michael didn’t waste any time on the walk back to his truck, his boots hitting the bricks with a distinct sound of out-of-my-way. “Pulling grapes off vines, not how I saw this evening ending. The plan was to thaw out in your hotel room, order hot chocolate with a dash of something stronger, I mean for me. I figured you could guzzle your hot toddy directly from my neck. Best laid plans, right?”
Symon could see it, the two of them curled up on the spindly-legged love seat in front of the fireplace, his mouth on Michael’s neck, Michael sipping—
“There’s a story, a fable,” he said. “Something vampires tell fledglings before they tuck them in for the morning.”
Michael shoved the toboggan into the back of his truck, slammed the tail gate shut. “A blood sucker’s bedtime story?” he said, walking around to the driver’s side. “This should be good.”
Symon slipped into the passenger seat, reached for his seat belt. “It’s vampire, or nightwalker, not blood sucker.”
“Oh, nice,” Michael said, slapping the gear shift into reverse, and looking over his shoulder. “PC lessons from the guy who calls me prey.”
“But you are prey,” Symon said, thinking you're my prey.
“Racist,” Michael said, but he was smiling as he aimed his truck at the street. “Tell me a bedtime story.”
“Once upon a time,” Symon said, playing to his audience.
“An ancient vampire walked the night. He wandered the world, feeding where he would, tasting all the earth had to offer. Tasting…everything his prey tasted.”
“Yeah, I can see why you guys would like that one. Think it’s true?”
Symon shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s always been just a story, but we could test it out.”
“Right. Turn my attempt at romance into a scientific experiment. Promoted from prey to lab rat, such an honour,” Michael said, pulling the truck to a stop at a red light.
Symon grinned, gifted Michael with a flash of fang that had Michael reaching for him, sliding a finger a long his bottom lip.
Symon caught Michael’s wrist, stilling that caressing finger, but he didn’t push him away.
“Let me,” Michael whispered into the silence between them, and Symon loosened his grip. Allowed Michael to nick his finger on his fang. Accepted Michael's offering, his eyes burning and his cock hardening.
“Down, Fido,” Michael teased, but his voice was thick, as he slipped his finger free. “There’s more where that came from.”
Symon turned his attention to the quiet streets on the other side of the windshield. Sleepy houses flowing past the truck’s windows, he held Michael’s teasing in his mind, stroked it, cuddled into its warmth.
Blood was everywhere. It walked around on two legs, followed Symon like a puppy, but Michael was more than his blood. In the context of the centuries Symon had walked the night, a week was nothing. Nothing and yet, Symon didn’t know how he was going to go back to the anonymous feedings that had been his life before Michael. Go back to dazed eyes that never knew him. Back to food that didn’t laugh, and plead, and demand more from him. It was addictive, the pleasure he found in the fact that Michael knew the truth. It was intoxicating, this unprecedented freedom to be himself, to rip the curtain of pretence aside and stand in the light of Michael’s smile. Symon’s mouth went dry, his chest tight, at the thought of giving that up. Giving Michael up.
“You okay?” Michael looked across at Symon, at the hand Symon hadn’t realized he was holding to his chest.
“Yeah,” Symon said, forcing a smile. He fisted his hand, thumped his chest. “Must be something I ate.”
“Not smart to insult the chef, Babe,” Michael said, turning off Niagara Stone Road into wine country. He waggled his eyebrows or, at least, that’s what Symon thought he was doing. It was hard to tell what was going on under that horrendous hat. “Not if you want more of what he’s cooking.”
“Maybe I've had enough,” Symon said, knowing he hadn't.
“Spring rain, delicate, light, with an undernote of apple blossom,” Michael said, his voice set to entice.
“Tempting.” Symon smiled, watched the road, and the vineyards on either side of it, stretching into the dark beyond the truck’s headlights. He’d toured this area with his realtor, but he still couldn’t tell one concession road from another. “You always harvest at night?”
“Yes. The temperature drops, the grapes freeze, and we’re in a race against the clock. We harvest the whole crop in one go, have to get to the grapes before the sun does.”
“Yeah,” Symon nodded, slanted a smile at Michael. “I know all about that.”
“Right, sorry. You must know this stuff already.”
“No,” Symon said, waving Michael’s apology away. “I meant; I know about getting everything done before the sun comes up.”
“Yeah,” Michael said, turning onto a road imaginatively named Line 3. “I forget sometimes, you know?”
No, Symon didn’t know. He didn’t understand how Michael could possibly forget he was hanging out with the undead. “Date a lot of monsters from late night television, huh?”
“What?” Michael took his eyes off the road to stare at Symon. “What are you talking about?”
All this time, Symon had thought Michael was following some misguided Canadian notion of polite, treating Symon like he was a person and not a fiend. But no, Michael wasn’t faking it. He didn’t see Symon as a demon damned for all eternity. Symon didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t trust it. That’s not how the world worked. Humans couldn’t see past the blood and the fangs, even humans like Michael who had their own secrets to hide. That’s why vampires kept the Eternal Secret. That’s why this thing between them couldn’t be. Michael might think he was okay with Symon gnawing on his neck, but that was his hormones talking. Once the novelty wore off, he’d find someone else to make him beg. Someone who didn’t die at dawn.
“Symon?”
“Nothing, sorry. Bad joke.”
The truck’s headlights drilled holes in the dark, found bends in the road that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The only sound, the crunch of winter tires over the frozen ruts in the dirt road. Eyes on the windshield, Michael spoke into the silence. “You’re not a monster.”
Symon didn’t need a human to tell him he wasn’t a monster. He knew that. So, why did Michael’s words feel like a benediction? Why did something small and aching inside Symon feel like it had been waiting to hear those words forever?
“I’m not human.”
“No, you’re not,” Michael agreed. Even in profile, Symon could see his mouth tip into a smile. “You’re like Dracula meets Teen Rebel. Totally hot,” he said, turning onto a private road and driving past a gatepost that read ‘Santos Wines’. “Ah, crap.”
“What?”
“Dani beat us here,” Michael said, pulling into a space between a Jeep and an SUV. “My father has this thing, a competition. Whoever fills the most crates, wins a dozen bottles from a previous season. I don’t care about the wine, I don’t even care about winning, so long as I beat Dani. Maybe he got here first,” he said, opening the driver’s side door, and grinning at Symon. “But he doesn’t have you on his side. Dani’s not winning shit.”
Symon followed Michael through the collection of cars, trucks, and SUVs that littered the snow-packed ground in front of the main house. Behind the house, it was coordinated chaos. To Symon, it looked like a scene from a disaster movie. Everyone he saw was bundled up against the cold, scarves covering their faces, hoods pulled over their hats, and…lights strapped to their foreheads? Bizarre.
In the centre of the mayhem, a man stood, stacks of plastic crates at his side. “Mark, Allan, thanks for coming out. We’re picking the Riesling block. You know the drill. Janet, good to have you with us. Thanks for coming. Tag along with Rachel, she’ll show you the ropes. Clayton, grab a crate.”
Symon didn’t need to ask if this was Michael’s father. Same height, same breath of shoulder, same God-awful taste in head wear. Santos senior wore a pair of hurt-your-eyes, neon green, fake fur earmuffs over a knit toque.
“Dad,” Michael said, grabbing a crate and handing it to Symon. “New recruit. Meet Symon Bradewey. Symon, this is my father, Stavros Santos.”
“Mr. Santos,” Symon said, offering a red-mittened hand to Michael’s father. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Symon Bradewey,” Stavros said, wrapping his gloved hand around Symon’s. “You’re the guy from the gala, the guy Mikey was kissing.”
Chapter 19
MIKEY?
SYMON WASN’T expecting their lip lock at the gala to be the first thing out of Michael’s father’s mouth, but hearing him call Michael Mikey? That bent his mind. Mikey was a kid with training wheels on his bike and ice cream on his face, not—Symon shot a side glance at his human.
“Don’t even think about it,” Michael muttered.
Too late, Symon thought, smiling at Santos senior. “I’m new in town, didn’t want to be rude.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Michael spluttered while his father laughed. The craggy slash denting his left cheek telling Symon what Michael would look like in thirty years.
“That’s what you do with your Saturdays now?” Michael said, to his father. “Hang out on Facebook?”
“Who needs Facebook? Your mother must have had ten calls before breakfast on Saturday. Pictures too. S
ome tie, by the way. Where’d you find that, a toy store?”
“Where’d you find these, a time capsule?” Michael teased, flicking a finger against one of his father’s techno green earmuffs.
Stavros ducked away from his son, raised a hand to pet his injured earmuff. “Hey, I found these on eBay, they’re vintage.”
“You know vintage just means old crap, right?” Michael said, grabbing a crate off the pile for himself. “Dani needs to get a life.”
“It wasn’t just Dani,” Stavros said, flashing the fast-forward version of Michael’s dimple. “I think there’s a, what do you call those things, hash tags?”
“Freaking small towns,” Michael grumbled. “I’m surprised Mom hasn’t called.”
“She’s been busy,” Stavros said, reaching into a bucket, and pulling out two sets of the peculiar head lights. “Some of these reception halls book a year in advance.”
“Yeah, so funny.” Michael slipped the Velcro strap over his hat, centred the light on his forehead. “Where do you want us?”
“Riesling block and you better step on it, Dani and his brother were one of the first ones here.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Michael said, switching his head light on. “We’ve got this.”
***
Symon had never worked a harvest, never seen his grapes snipped from the vines in the summer sun. He’d celebrated the harvest with his staff yes, but only when the day turned to dusk, and the dancing started. He hadn’t thought he was missing out on anything, hadn’t let himself think that. Symon had survived the centuries with his sanity intact because he refused to dwell on what he couldn’t do, what he couldn’t have.
Tonight, he had this. His first harvest, and Michael.
Crates in hand, they walked through the vineyard, Michael raising a hand or calling out to almost everyone they passed. Symon was surprised he recognized anyone, bundled up as they were. Hulking shadows under the glare of their bizarre headlights, these people all looked the same to Symon, but then, he wasn’t paying attention to any human but his.
