The night betrayed Colton. The moon hung full in the sky, casting its glow down upon everything in its reach. The stars were smiling bright, illuminating the black that the moon did not occupy. No wind, no rain, no snow. The day had been warm, the flowers had been abloom, and the birds had sung. They should not have been happy. God should have forbade them happiness this night. There was no happiness tonight.

Hannah. His Hannah. Sweet and confused, tormented from her own demons, but still full of love for everyone else. Was this not true? It could not be true. His Hannah would never have killed Jake. His Hannah would not have had the strength, the will, could not have embodied the hate to do such a thing. She wasn't crazy enough, and crazy she was. No. Colton refused to believe.

Why couldn't the sky cry tonight?

It had been a blur; Celeste dropped off at his parent’s house, his mother trying so hard to console him, but he would not be consoled. Not tonight. The world would not be happy tonight. It was 4:07 in the morning, and the sun would rise in an hour. He couldn't wait.

Why Jake? Colton pulled every memory he could of the man. All the study nights and the pillow fights, all the jokes and dates, the time Jake got so drunk he tried to propose... Where was the bad? Where was it? What could Jake possibly do to be able to provoke the loveliest woman Colton had ever met into murder?

The air hung dry. No tears tonight.

Colton was crying, and he didn't care. He walked through the streets, knowing exactly where he was going, looking lost and forgotten, broken down and worn out. Hannah tried to kill herself... He had never been more scared. She jumped off the balcony and smashed herself into the ground. Eric would be her saviour. Colton wouldn't touch her. He couldn't. She was filthy with murder, and that was a stain that would not come clean. And yet he had been the one to make the call to have her saved. He had been the one to lean over her and tell her she'd be all right. He told the murderer of the love of his life she'd be ok. He had called for help. He had told her he loved her.

Colton hated her. He hated himself. He hated the night and it's peace and cheer. Everything. He hated everything. Why couldn't it cry?

There was an old overpass in the city, its underside the hangout of gangs and drug lords and teenagers while life went by overhead. Colton peered over the edge of the overpass. Jake had been found here. She dumped him here. Here, to be found by a heroin addict and his girlfriend. Here, with the hopes he'd rot alone. Here.

He let himself fall over the edge of the overpass. A moment of weightlessness before gravity kicked in and pulled hard. Colton hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the pain flared. He could care less, though, about what happened to him now. He'd cry into the dirt and let the dust stain his face. He could be found by some junkie looking for a quick buck, or a quick trip. They could take his money; he didn't care. He didn't want this anymore. He didn't want anything.

No. He wanted one thing. To die. When the sun rose, he'd die. He'd die alone, on the same grounds on which they had found Jake; on the same grounds he had met Hannah. Die here. Here.

Colton could not see the smiling stars from where he lay. He could not see the glowing and jubilant moon. The night seemed less cheery now as the soft sobs of the most pathetic and broken man in all of Demaitre rang through the tunnel of the empty overpass. There was no need for the rain to pour out its misery; he'd cry enough for the both of them tonight.


((Para Lizzeh))

The other students didn’t treat him well. No, not at all. They were ruthless little catamites, upon whom all semblances of aesthetic appreciation and hedonistic considerations were lost. They were young, and innocent, but mostly just young. They were searching for a way to relinquish their sinful desires, to be the school boys that Sister Martha intended for them to be. So naturally they took their frustration-turned-aggression out on the weakest of them, or moreover, the prettiest.

Anton had seen him in a nearby French town, where the boys were enjoying an all-night field trip meant to immerse them in the French language and culture. Ostracized from the group, a certain caramel-haired, freckle-cheeked boy had stood out quite obviously. And Anton had taken time out of his busy schedule to stalk the poor thing for about four weeks. Well, it was over now.

The sweet boy lay drained on the floor of his dorm. Call it the price of catching Anton’s eye.

But presently, Anton was driving rather haphazardly down a clear freeway, blonde hair caught in a rush of wind. Dark sunglasses protected pale blue eyes from the brutal onslaught of orange street lights as the jet black Diablo raced down the road with little regard to traffic regulations or road marks. On his body were only a pair of outrageously tight raven leather pants, and a high-collared trench coat of the same material and color. Naturally, he wore no shirt.

On his blood high, Anton really wasn’t looking out for another golden opportunity to open up to him. He had already been treated to virgin’s blood, and the virgin of his personal choosing, no less. So imagine his utter euphoria when his sensitive nose caught traces of his favorite blonde in the world…right beneath him. All was well and good, until he noticed the time. It was only about thirty minutes until dawn…which was very, very bad.

The small black car pulled to a tire-burning, screeching halt on the side of the road. A door opened and slammed, deliberate footsteps rang out on the heavily traversed road, coming to a halt at the edge of the overpass. Locks of shimmering blonde fell like a curtain around a smug face as Anton sneered down at the prostrate form of Colton. So immortal life had finally gotten to him. The Russian vampire took a moment to gloat over his chance prey, and then gracefully leapt off of the ledge.

Without so much as a word, Anton picked the boy up, cradling him close to his bare chest. He threaded his fingers into honey blonde hair, massaging the boy’ scalp mock-tenderly.

“Colton…”

He whispered; voice a spider’s touch against the other’s ear.

“Good to see you again.”

With the same levitation power he had so eagerly displayed at the Beltane Feast, he inconspicuously (As possible) rose up to the overpass again, landing on his feet gently. He lay Colton in the passenger’s seat, almost beside himself with perverted joy and a true sense of victory. Then again…there was something else, some strange exhilaration that came from kidnapping the leader of an opposing coven.

The wind once again whipped Anton’s hair around his face as he pulled back onto the open road, tires squealing piercingly. As usual all traffic laws were disobeyed, and as a result, he reached his home in about ten minutes.

He wouldn’t have Colton bathed.

Instead, he took the wounded boy directly to his bed, and, after stripping him down to his boxers, covered him up.
In the mean time, he ordered Petunia to find a mortal and keep them waiting as well. When Colton awoke, he would wake to a good, fresh meal. It would help with the healing. After all. If you didn’t have your health, you didn’t have…anything.

Sighing contentedly, thankful for his amazing luck, Anton lay down beside the blonde, and waited.

Colton's sobs faded slowly, softly, until there was nothing left. He looked like a corpse. Felt like a corpse. He tried to fall asleep so time would float by faster, but the dull ache in the arm he had crushed during his landing was just enough to deny him a final privilege in life. Stupid bones. They shouldn't be allowed to break.

Car tires screeched above his head, and he ignored them. He had no need to think anything of anyone; in nearly thirty minutes, he'd be ash. He wouldn't exist. Hannah would no longer haunt his every thought, and Jake would no longer hurt him. There would be no Bo, no Lily, no Eric. Celeste had his parents now, didn't she? Besides. Her father would be out of jail soon, and, worse come to worse, Tiffany could have her. The Nephim had Nicodemus, and Ace High could find someone more qualified than he was in no time. He couldn't think of anything that would require last minute patching. He liked that. It was nice to know that he wasn't going to make anyone as miserable as he was.

Anton came up so unexpectedly. He jolted Colton up painfully, and the blonde gritted his teeth with the pain. "No, no..." Colton thrashed once, twice, before his body could no longer take a stand against the searing hurt of both body and soul, and he drifted out of consciousness.

A second later, he felt disoriented. Too warm, too comfortable, and the bed scared him. Where was he? Colton jolted upright, only to be met with the aftermath of his own personal trauma. His back hurt, his arm was swollen twice its size. His head screamed at him, and he burst into fresh tears. Why couldn't he just die already?

Colton groaned with pain, and doubled forward, clutching his arm tenderly. After a few moments of silence, he glanced up to be met with the most unpleasant of sights: the edge of a bed that was beneath floor level. Beltane. Anton. Oh fuck.

"NO!" Colton could sense Anton close, and sprang forward, knocking himself against the edge of the bed, trying desperately to get away. "NO NO NO NO..." It went on, until Colton realized that his legs were not cooperating, and continuously smashing himself into the edge of the bed was too painful. "No..." He collapsed down again, and curled into a protective ball. He shook slightly, more tears, more pain, and not enough death.

"Go... Go away..." He muttered through little gasps and pathetic sobs. He was acting like he was four. How he longed to be four again; carefree, innocent. Look at Celeste. She was three. Perhaps three was a better age? Perhaps. Being dead, however, was his preference at the moment, and Anton had ruined that. Anton ruined everything.

Leave it to Colton of the Nephim to absolutely lose his mind when saved from certain death. Anton sighed and turned from the apparently possessed vampire and call out to Petunia. He ordered her to slaughter whatever mortal she had caught and bring the blood up…quickly. Anton feared that Colton would kill himself via bludgeoning if left to his own devices much longer.

The cocoa skinned servant was up the stairs and in the room almost insanely quickly. Balanced on her erect head was a tray carrying a bowl and white cloth; contained within her hands were two chalices and a bottle wedged between her arms. She knelt beside Colton, smiling at him sympathetically. She set the bowl down on the floor, and dipped a white cloth into steaming water. She rung the excess fluid out, and then climbed down into the bed and set about cleaning Colton’s wounds. Once he was satisfactorily clean, of dirt and blood and all other impurities, Petunia gently wrapped his arm in white gauze from the tray, setting it in a sling. She was amazingly precise, and very gentle at her work. Once she was done she gathered pillows and placed them behind the blonde’s back, forming a prop for him to lie against.

Not a word was spoken by Anton, who instead watched his most favored servant care for his most favored conquest. A placid look settled on his features, and he smiled rather softly as Petunia pressed the edge of a fresh blood-filled chalice to Colton’s lips. She really did want the best for him; it was easy to see. The Russian was almost sad to see her leave the room with her tray, swaying sensually as, surely, thoughts of the blonde Nephim pervaded her mind.

Anton turned to Colton, still quite calm and smiling. He fingered the cup in his hand, which Petunia had served him before leaving. She had caught a virgin Creole for Colton.
How sweet. At length the older vampire spoke, voice something akin to soothing.

“Colton…darling boy…what has happened to you?”

Anton drank his fill, and then motioned to the bottle near Colton.

“Please, accept my hospitality. And remember that this is not Beltane, and I’ve no intention of…an encore performance. Tonight. Right now.”

Colton didn't like this woman... She just marched right in and decided he needed saving. Well, no, he could do just fine on his own. The only thing that stopped him from telling her to leave him alone was the fact that, ewww, there was dirt in his cuts. Colton was a bit of a clean freak, and the fact that she was cleaning out the dirt now, instead of him having to crawl home and do it later... Yes. He'd like her help, for the moment.

Colton cringed and sniffled the whole while, trying to not start screaming at her, telling her, 'Hello? That fucking HURTS!' But, no, he could hold his tongue. She was trying to help. He could understand that, amisdt his distaste of Anton, the trauma of seeing Hannah try to kill herself, and the hurt of knowing she killed Jake.

He wasn't really having the best of nights.

Colton didn't lean back when she made the room for him to do such. No, he sat rigidly stiff, regardless of how much it hurt. He didn't sip the blood she forced upon him; he had learned his lesson from the last time. He put the glass down on the edge of the bed and left it there.

"None of your business," Colton muttered gruffly. "But, I will tell you that you just ruined my night." Which seemed hardly imaginable, compared to everything else that had happened.

It's logical, though. He was going to blame Anton, because the alternative was blaming himself. He knew this was all his fault, and knowing that hurt more than anything. Sparing himself from that hurt required a scapegoat. First it had been death, but since that hadn't worked, it was passed to Anton.

Colton didn't make eyecontact. He just sniffled in his little corner, and kept his head down.