by Aimer Boyz
“You’ve got it all figured out?” Symon asked, knowing Michael didn’t have a clue what was coming at him. No one did.
“Yep.” Michael skated a hand up Symon’s thigh.
“What kind of bullshit was that, Michael Mine?” Symon asked, plucking Michael’s hand off his leg. “Me getting stuck with you?”
Michael smiled, his hand sneaking back onto Symon’s thigh. “I like that, Michael Mine. Not that I’m averse to Prey,” he added. “You know, when you’re feeling assertive.”
Symon captured the hand creeping towards his groin, opened their link.
Tell me. Now.
Not the kind of assertive I was hoping for.
Michael.
“Okay,” Michael said, pulling his hand free to tug off his boots. He clambered over Symon, settled against the headboard beside him. “Talking.
“I knew something wasn’t right. I opened my eyes that night and everything was clearer, brighter, the colours more intense. I could hear people talking outside on the sidewalk, smell food from the restaurant downstairs. I swear, I heard the elevator doors slide open out in the hallway. And then…I saw you.
“You were sitting there, watching me, a glass of wine in your hand and it was like I’d never seen you before. So, fucking beautiful, it hurt to look at you. Your hair, your eyes, your skin.”
Vain little shit that he was, Symon could listen to Michael pour out the compliments all night, but Michael gave him a lopsided, self-conscious smile, obviously done with the Symon-is-a-God part of his explanation.
“I felt great,” Michael continued. “I can’t even tell you, like a six-year-old waking up on his birthday, all this energy. Then my head imploded, and my stomach tried to eat itself.” He curled one leg under him and turned to face Symon. “The clues were all there. When you told me, a part of me already knew. Still, heart attack waiting to happen. Was I scared shitless and totally freaked out? Fuck, yes. But even with my mind practically catatonic with panic I knew the fact that I was feeling anything at all was thanks to you. You’d given me back my life,” Michael said, eyes solemn on Symon’s. “The least I could do was take myself out of yours.”
“Right, because thank you and go fuck yourself mean exactly the same thing.”
“I’m not some puppy you rescued from the pound. You don’t have to take care of me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. We were temporary, remember? A winter holiday thing. You practically hyperventilated just suggesting I stop by when I’m in Italy this summer. And then my truck slides off the road, and you’re calling me Michael Mine, and acting like I’m moving in with you. That’s not how it works, Fido. I am not your fucking responsibility.”
“No?” Symon challenged. “So how does it work?”
Full stop. Symon had yanked Michael off course, stranded him in a foreign country. Totally lost, he sputtered, “What?”
“You said it doesn’t work like that so how does it work? This thing with us, how do I make it work?”
“You want to make it work? Wait, wrong question. You want there to be an us?”
“No, I’ve been hanging around here freezing my ass off in fucking February because I like snow.”
“Yeah?” Michael asked, the sun rising in his smile. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did,” Symon protested. “I told you to stay.”
“Yeah, but I thought you were just being nice.”
“Me?”
Michael laughed, but his eyes skittered away from Symon’s. “I felt like some street kid you were tossing coins at. I didn’t want to be your charity case of the week.”
Shit.
Michael was right. Symon hadn’t said he wanted them to be more than temporary. Not when he was human because mixed marriages never worked and not after his conversion either because, guilt. “I thought you knew.”
Michael punched him. Not a full on, meant to knock him out punch, but it got Symon’s attention. “Listen up, Fido. This is how it works. I say, Symon, ‘do you want to see where this goes?’ And you say…?”
“Fuck you?”
“Wrong answer.”
Symon slid his hand up the centre of Michael’s chest. “Yes?”
“Very good. See, you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Epilogue
September. Verona, Italy
“WE’RE GOING TO be late,” Michael said, checking his watch.
“This is Italy, nothing starts on time.” In deference to the occasion, Symon had abandoned his leather jacket and motorcycle boots for the night. The linen jacket was new, as were the jeans that hugged his ass like a second skin.
Michael came up behind him, palmed his ass under the linen jacket. “These new too?”
“Dress code,” Symon answered, leaning back against Michael. “Smart casual. This is as smart as I get.”
Michael crossed his arms over Symon’s chest, met Symon’s eyes in the mirror. “You look good.”
“Yes,” Symon agreed, but he wasn’t talking about himself.
Michael had gone all Euro casual for the night, cream linen suite, white open collared shirt, dress shoes. With his dark hair and skin tone, he could easily pass for Italian, until he opened his mouth.
They’d been to the Verona Arena before, in the pre-dawn hours when the rest of the world slept. They’d explored the walkways and arches of the empty Roman amphitheatre. Just the two of them and the history that seeped through the time-worn stone. Tonight, Michael would see the arena the way it was meant to be seen, with lights and music and crowds of people. Symon was looking forward to it. Not to Aida, he wasn’t a fan. No, Symon was looking forward to Michael’s reaction.
Car stashed in the parking lot on the Via Paglieri, they walked to the amphitheatre. The original outer façade had been destroyed in an earthquake in the twentieth century, but the walls still standing were an impressive shout out to the glory of ancient Rome. During the day, the arena was a tourist mecca. Hordes of international travellers snapping selfies and eating gelato. At night, with its pink and white stone arches lit against the dark, the old amphitheatre was a spectacular sight.
In line at Gate 1, waiting to have their tickets scanned, Michael slipped his hand into Symon’s. “Brilliant. I almost expect to see a chariot drive up.”
Symon snorted. “Not unless it’s attached to a tour bus.”
They stepped through the stone arches into the open-air theatre and Michael looked up at the cheap seats. “You sure you don’t want to sit up there? Think of it, sitting on steps that have been there since the first century,” he said, voice tinged with awe.
“I am thinking of it,” Symon said, leading the way down to the stalls. “Three hours of opera sitting on hard stone. Torture.”
“You can rent cushions,” Michael said, following Symon down the steps to the more comfortable seats in the gold section.
“Can you rent earplugs?”
Symon survived the opera by ignoring it in favour of watching Michael. Part-time grad student that he was, Michael had read the libretto online. Between that and the language app on his phone, he seemed to be following the action on stage well enough. Not that it mattered much, Michael was all about the atmosphere. Symon knew he’d been hooked from the minute soldiers trooped on stage carrying live torches.
Three hours later, weaving their way through the exiting crowds, Michael’s hand hovered at the small of his back and Symon didn’t pull away. He found himself leaning into the touch he would have condemned as claustrophobic in his previous life. The one before Michael.
They made their way through the exits and out into the Piazza Bra where the restaurants and cafes were busy. “What are you in the mood for?” Symon asked, scanning the customers seated at the outdoor tables lining the piazza.
Michael grinned. “I could go for a little—”
“Blond,” Symon said, well aware of Michael’s rather limited palate. Fortunatel
y, he wasn’t picky about his prey’s gender so grabbing a quick bite wasn’t usually a problem.
Towards the end of the piazza, they found a café away from the opera crowds. With a little subtle encouragement, the waiter led them to a table almost hidden in the shadows cast by the outdoor lanterns. He smiled as he handed them their menus, obviously thinking their table choice was a romantic one.
Tucked away against the café wall, they had an excellent view of their fellow diners. Wine they couldn’t drink sat undisturbed in their glasses while they discussed the menu. Symon nodded at a woman two tables over, slightly overweight, but blond. Michael pointed out a young man and Symon was considering him until—
They saw him at the same time. Young, Asian, his dark eyes and brows an interesting contrast to his unnaturally blond hair.
Michael flashed the dimple that had changed Symon’s life. “Want to share?”
Symon had never understood why Andrew didn’t like to dine alone, but he got it now. Nothing enhanced his appetite more than watching Michael eat. He’d developed a taste, they both had, for watching each other, for feeding together, their prey between them, their fangs on opposite sides of his neck. “Be right back.”
Michael’s psychic voodoo made him a natural at vampiric influence, but for this type of thing Symon always did the heavy lifting. His forever young face and slender teenage frame weren’t anyone’s idea of threatening. Add in the blond hair and baby blues, and Symon got more smiles than frowns.
“Excuse me.” Three faces looked up from their phones, but Symon was only interested in one. “My phone just died, anyone carrying a charger?”
Head shakes around the table. “Sorry.”
Symon puffed out a defeated sigh. “Okay, thanks anyway.” He caught the dark eyes of his chosen prey as he turned to leave.
Lend me your phone.
“You can borrow my phone. Would that help?” the blond asked, ignoring the surprised looks from his friends.
“That would be awesome, thanks. I’m not trying to rip you off. But, you know, just to be sure,” he said, adding a dash of flirt to his smile. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Follow me.
“Sure.” Phone in hand, the blond grabbed his backpack. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he said to his friends, ignoring their bemused expression.
“Text us,” one guy called as the other shrugged. Symon’s soon to be après theatre snack raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“Thanks for this,” Symon said, leading the way to his table. “We just got here today, and we’re supposed to meet up with friends tomorrow, but…I’m Symon, by the way.”
“Kim,” the blond said.
Introductions made, beer ordered, Kim looked across the table at Michael. “You don’t have a phone?”
“Yeah, but—”
“He’s a moron,” Symon interjected.
“Like you never forget anything,” Michael retorted. “I was charging it in the hotel room,” Michael said to Kim. He glanced at his watch. “It’s probably done now.”
As Michael had intended, Kim laughed, any lingering suspicions allayed.
They sat there talking, pretending to drink, as Kim’s first beer became his second. This pretext of civility was all Michael, he liked to know a bit about his food. Symon didn’t care where his dinner came from or what plans they had after college, but he had come to appreciate the waiting game. He liked the stolen glances with Michael, the silent exchanges between them.
What do you think? Michael sent. AB negative?
Symon considered the young man on the other side of the table.
I think he’s going to look fucking hot hanging off your fangs.
Yeah, Symon totally got why Andrew didn’t like to eat alone.
Somewhere around Kim’s third beer, the waiters began clearing tables, and setting chairs on top of them. Symon payed the bill and the three of them strolled along the sidewalk and into the Piazza Bra garden. Kim snapped the requisite tourist picture of the statue of Victor Emmanuel II, the first king of Italy in command mode atop his bronze horse. They paid homage at the circular fountain, sitting on one of the benches conveniently scattered around it.
“That’s the town hall,” Symon said, nodding at the Palazzo Barbieri. “And that,” he added, leaning into Kim and pointing at the Gran Guardia. “Is the—”
They were careful with the human. Michael’s arm supported his neck as Symon tipped his head back. They were generous with the pleasure Kim gave them, feeding it back into the man sitting between them. Kim had given no indication that he was gay, but when someone pushed ecstasy into your skin, the body reacted. Human nature.
His mouth attached to the pulse beating in Kim’s neck, Michael spoke through their link.
Think we should help him out?
Symon looked down at the cock trying to rise under Kim’s zipper, grinned at Michael.
He helped us.
They took turns fisting their unknowing blood donor. It wasn’t any hardship; the man had a pretty cock. Even prettier when it erupted onto the pavement between his feet.
They dropped Kim off at his hotel, thanked him for the phone he thought they’d borrowed, and headed home.
“Thank you, for tonight,” Michael said, his hand on Symon’s thigh. “I know opera’s not your thing.”
“Not a problem.” Symon threaded his fingers through Michael’s. “I wasn’t listening.”
There was a question mark in Symon’s life now. A six-foot, two-inch variable in his nights. Michael was a catalyst, and Symon didn’t always know how the reaction between them would play out. He liked not knowing. He liked waking to the night with his cock snug between Michael’s thighs. He liked putting a smile in those grey eyes. He liked the talking, and the laughing, and the giving a shit about someone.
It wasn’t perfect, of course. Michael was as annoyingly happy and optimistic as Symon had feared he would be. Even worse, the man was social. He dragged Symon to movies with Gianni’s family, to drinks with friends he’d met at his language classes, to fucking birthday parties. Exactly the kind of thing Symon had avoided for decades.
Fucking dimple.
Symon didn’t expect it to last, of course. Unlike Etienne and Andrew, he wasn’t delusional. Everything changes, and everyone. He could only hope that change was a long time coming.
***
Symon hung his jacket in the closet and turned to find Michael way ahead of him. His jacket draped over a chair, his shoes sitting under it, and the shirt he’d worn tossed in the laundry basket. Fortunately, Symon hadn’t missed his favourite part of the show.
Michael slid his belt off with the sinuous grace of a snake, dropping it to curl on the floor at his feet. He popped the button on his suit pants, started to lower his zipper only to change direction and tug off his socks instead.
“Sadist,” Symon said, but he was smiling.
Michael took forever with his zipper. If Symon didn’t know better, he’d swear Michael was sliding it down one metal tooth at a time. From his mind to Michael’s, he sent—Bastard.
Michael laughed and let his pants drop, the cream linen hitting the floor.
“Christ’s Blood,” Symon cursed. “I thought you…when did…fuck.”
“Good?” Michael asked, kicking the puddle of linen away from him.
“Good?” Symon echoed. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Michael and the black lace that skimmed his hips and hugged his package. “I didn’t think you…I was joking.”
“No, you weren’t.” No, Symon hadn’t been joking. The idea of Michael’s Alpha male body against the perceived femininity of the lace. There was something about that contrast that just flat out worked for him. He’d imagined it often enough that he’d finally sat down with his tablet one night and showed Michael pictures.
Michael’s response had been definite. “Not happening, Fido.”
Fair enough. If it didn’t do anything for Michael, it wouldn’t do much for Symon. He’d put that i
dea away and moved onto the next one. But now…he tucked a finger under the lace at Michael’s hip. “You said you weren’t interested.”
“You weren’t interested in Aida, but you took me anyway.”
“And this is you saying thank you?”
Michael slipped his arms around Symon, linked his hands together behind Symon’s back. “Want to say you’re welcome?” he asked, a smile teasing at his lips, and his cock stretching the lace into an obscenity.
Symon was on his knees in a heartbeat. He nuzzled into Michael’s groin, pressed his face into lace and man. His licked and bit and sucked, mouthing Michael through the lace.
“Hey, Fido.” Michael slid his fingers through Symon’s hair, slipped his hand down to cup Symon’s cheek. “Think we can get rid of the lingerie? I want you to fuck me.”
Symon yanked the lace down, fisted Michael fast and rough. “And?”
Michael’s eyes slid to half-mast, his lips parting on moan. “Please, Symon.”
Symon sucked Michael’s cock in as if he was auditioning for the role of vacuum cleaner and pulled off with a loud pop. “Lube.”
While Michael dived across the bed for the night table, Symon ripped his shirt off, shoved his jeans down. In seconds, he was climbing onto the bed, his clothes in a heap on the floor.
Michael was waiting for him, his hand between his legs, and his fingers plunging in and out of his hole. Symon knelt on the bed, fisted his own cock, eyes locked on the fingers disappearing inside Michael’s body.
“You just going to watch?” Michael asked. The same question he’d asked Symon that first night, on the other side of the ocean.
“You in a hurry?” With Michael’s eyes on him, Symon spread his legs, cradled his balls.
“Nope. I can wait if you can,” Michael challenged.
Symon might have stood a chance at winning the silent competition between them if Michael wasn’t such a fucking exhibitionist. Fingers plunging, he tossed his head against the pillow and bit his lip, moaning like he was starring in his own porn film.
