For Life

by W. M. Fawkes

“I’m a year younger than you.”

  Michael took a sip of his bourbon. Four Roses. Not bad for a relatively divey joint. “Then act like it for a change, gramps.”

  Luke huffed and walked away, but he headed in the direction of the dance floor, so maybe he’d actually listen for a change. The man needed to get some excitement back into his unlife, or he was gonna start growing mold.

  The young man slid up to the bar next to Michael, not facing him, cheeks flushed rosy even though he’d just walked in. Up close, he looked a little thin, cheeks just a shade too hollow and circles under his eyes. When Michael took a sniff of the air around him, he smelled traces of the hospital, not drugs, even the medical kind. Recently sick, then. That made sense.

  “Hi,” Michael said. Always the best place to start. “Can I get you a drink? A bottle of water?” Water might be best if he’d recently been sick.

  The young man’s head snapped up, and he stared at Michael. “I’m over twenty-one.”

  “Didn’t doubt it,” he agreed. “But it’s a club, and you were on the floor. Best to remain hydrated.” He almost apologized and pointed out he was a doctor, but that wasn’t going to get his cock sucked. Or get him a snack, assuming the guy was amenable to a little biting.

  Michael didn’t get most of his sustenance from living bodies, but from his privately owned blood bank. He paid handsomely for blood and plasma, sold to research facilities as a cover, and kept enough to feed himself and any friends in need. It felt like a more ethical option than feeding from unsuspecting humans, even if he never hurt them.

  “Water would be good,” the young man agreed, ducking his head. He glanced at Michael’s drink, then added, “But I feel silly going to a club and drinking water.”

  Michael took a sip of his bourbon, then gave the young man a smile and offered the glass.

  The flush on his cheeks amped up, and he accepted the tumbler, taking a tiny sip and flinching at the alcohol. He glanced away, biting his lip, and Michael grinned at him.

  “Water is fine. Bourbon is fine. A margarita is fine. Drink what you want, where you want, and when you want to. Life’s too short to worry about what people will think of you.”

  The young man flinched again, harder this time, and set Michael’s glass down. “You’re telling me,” he muttered, then motioned to the tumbler. “That’s pretty gross. Bourbon?”

  “The best of the best,” the bartender agreed as he arrived, and while that wasn’t remotely true—Michael had a bottle at home that was probably worth more than the actual bar—he nodded. “Can I get you some?”

  The young man bit his lip, looked at Michael, then at the bartender, and seemed on the verge of agreement, so Michael interrupted. “How about a whiskey sour?”

  “Okay,” the young man agreed readily. The bartender gave a nod and set to making the drink. “I have no idea what I just agreed to.”

  “It’ll be an adventure, then. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it. It’s just a little less for old men with no taste buds than this stuff,” Michael said, motioning to his drink. He actually enjoyed the stuff, as evidenced by his ridiculous collection of rare bottles, but it wasn’t for everyone. Luke would disagree, but he’d probably call an old fashioned a fruity drink.

  “I’m Michael. You?”

  The guy winced. “Timothy. Sorry, I’m bad at this. I didn’t even want to come out, but Robin dragged me here.”

  The bartender delivered the drink, and Timothy took a sip, like it would stem the flow of words. This time, he looked pleasantly surprised and gave a tiny smile. Which made sense—the thing was practically boozy lemonade. What wasn’t to like?

  Michael paid the man and turned his whole body toward Timothy. “You seem to be doing just fine. You’re the best-looking guy in the place.”

  Timothy snorted and shook his head. “Seriously? You either say that to everyone or you’ve never looked in a mirror.”

  “Even if I were of that opinion, and I confess to not being into boring old guys, I’m not interested in fucking myself,” he pointed out, making Timothy almost choke on his next sip of his drink.

  “You, um, you’re—”

  Michael leaned in, scraping his stubble against Timothy’s soft cheek and whispering in his ear, “Interested in fucking you? Most definitely.”

  “Oh. Wow. Robin said it would be easy to get laid here but—” Timothy’s eyes went wide, and he slapped a hand over his mouth in apparent mortification.

  Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I’m not sure you’d have a hard time getting laid anywhere, sweetheart. Half the men in this club would like to fuck you, and the other half are bottoms.”

  “Hear hear,” hot-pants guy said, coming up beside them at the bar. Robin, Michael supposed. He waved at the bartender. “Could I get a bottle of water?” Then he turned back to Michael and Timothy. “And bottom here, plus bestie, or I’d totally be trying to get all up on that.”

  That was when Timothy started choking. At least, Michael thought it was choking at first. Then Timothy’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor of the club, whole body shaking.

  Oh fuck.

  Michael dropped to the floor next to him, cushioning his head from the hard floor and checking his vitals, while Robin screeched bloody murder—rather understandably—and demanded someone call an ambulance.

  Luke joined them, grabbing Michael’s cell phone from his back pocket and making the call.

  Two hours later, looking at Timothy’s chart in the ICU, Michael felt sick for the first time in a long time.

  There he was, pushing two hundred years old and buying hundred-thousand-dollar bottles of bourbon. And opposite him lay twenty-one-year-old Timothy Moore, barely starting his life, with less than three months to live.

  Suddenly he didn’t feel quite so far removed from the triage tents of his horrible youth.

  Timothy

  The first thing Timothy was aware of was the steady beep of machines all around him. It wasn’t his first time in the hospital, and unless he died quickly in his sleep, it wouldn’t be the last. With his eyes still closed, he took stock.

  His entire body ached like he’d run a marathon then tried to lift a car—or been hit by it. Seizure, then. Wasn’t the first of those, either.

  He hadn’t gotten laid, so he was definitely going to die a virgin. Cool.

  But he’d been at the club with Robin. He remembered the feel of music thumping in his chest, Robin’s grin as he assured him they were going to have a great time, the hot older guy’s smile as he ordered Timothy a drink.

  Michael. He’d said his name was Michael. And Timothy had gotten one sip of that drink before everything went dark. After that, it was all a mess of flashing lights—different flashing lights than the ones on the dance floor, red and white. A wailing siren, and a rough hand clasped around his, a low voice murmuring that he was fine, that they were on their way to the hospital.

  He’d fainted, had a seizure, in a club in front of who knew how many people, including one extremely bangable man with the kind of beard a boy could sit on for days. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

  The moment he was awake, Robin would lunge at him, frantic and apologetic and generally too much. Timothy took a second to brace himself first.

  But when he opened his eyes to the harsh white light of the ICU, Robin wasn’t there. Instead, standing at the end of his bed, a white coat over his flannel, was the guy from the club.

  Timothy was cursed.

  Michael was holding a clipboard, frowning, looking serious and sexy. He was clearly more than a bourbon-drinking, bar-hopping, manly man. When he looked down at Timothy’s chart, Michael knew exactly what he was looking at. He wouldn’t have to Google “glioblastoma.”

  Timothy’s soft intake of breath was enough to grab Hot Doctor Daddy’s attention. His dark, intense gaze latched onto Timothy’s, and he wanted nothing more than to melt into the mattress and disappear.

  “How are you feeling?” Michae
l asked, setting his chart aside on its spot on the bedframe.

  Timothy shifted. He was in a hospital gown. Fuck, had Michael seen him naked? “Where’s Robin?”

  Michael frowned but let Timothy’s deflection go. “He was upset about pushing you—the music, the lights, everything. My friend Luke took him to get a tea and calm down.”

  Good. That was good. It’d give Timothy a chance to . . . to get himself together. And maybe Robin would chill out in the meanwhile.

  Before Timothy knew what was happening, his eyes started to sting. He pushed the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids.

  “Headache?” Michael’s coat ruffled as he moved closer to the top of the bed. His deep voice was so soft, so full of concern, that Timothy felt like he might shatter right then.

  He shook his head and pressed his lips into a thin line and bit them both, pinching them so they didn’t tremble.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?” Michael asked gently.

  He felt Michael’s hand, a gentle weight on the hospital blanket over his knee.

  “This sucks,” Timothy blurted out. He dropped his hands to his sides. “My best friend is going to watch me die. He can’t do a single thing about it, and the only way I can spare him that is to move home to Georgia, where my parents will call their pastor to come pray the gay away, as if . . . as if I can save my soul and my body just by not being . . .”

  His mouth snapped shut. His hands balled into fists at his sides, the finger monitor slipping off when he clenched them.

  When Michael moved to take his hand, Timothy expected him to fix it. Instead, his fingers slipped around Timothy’s palm. All he did was hold his hand, and damn if it wasn’t nice.

  Timothy looked away, glaring at the light blue blanket over the rough hospital sheets, but he clung to that lifeline.

  “And you,” he whispered. “I ruined your night. You went out to have a good time, but now here you are, frowning at me in a white coat like just another doctor.”

  “You didn’t ruin my night, Timothy.”

  But he could hear it in his voice, the pity. Timothy huffed, rolled his eyes. He let go of Michael’s hand and moved to get up. “I need to find Robin—”

  He didn’t make it far before that broad, rough hand covered his chest. Michael’s thumb fell naturally into the hollow of his throat, but his fingers stretched more than halfway across Timothy’s chest. He’d never thought of himself as a little guy, but maybe he’d just gotten used to standing beside Robin. Michael was enormous.

  Gently, he pressed Timothy back into the pillows, leaving no room to argue. “You need to rest.”

  Timothy felt like a kid when he rolled his eyes and scowled at the curtains surrounding his bed. But maybe it was okay to feel small when Michael’s thumb brushed his skin and his fingers held him still.

  “Robin’s going to be fine,” Michael said.

  Timothy scoffed. “You can’t know that.”

  “I know he’s your friend, and he’d rather be with you than see you run away.”

  How could a stranger know that? Sure, Robin said as much. His best friend had cleaved himself to Timothy as much as Timothy had to him, and when it got right down to it, he couldn’t imagine leaving Robin here—not even if that might be the best thing for him.

  Nervously, he glanced at Michael only to see the tilt of his lips. Even through his thick, dark beard, he could see the etching of a dimple when he smiled. That wasn’t fucking fair—square jaw, dimples, scorching hot confidence—Michael was deeply his type, and now, he was just going to see Timothy as a victim, like everybody else did.

  “This night could’ve gone way different,” Timothy lamented. He bit his lip as he stared at Michael’s.

  “It could’ve,” Michael agreed, “but I’m glad it didn’t.”

  Welp, that was one way to bring a guy down. Cancer wasn’t catching, but sure, who’d want to screw him now?

  “Hey”—Michael’s hand slid up his neck, tilted his chin up so Timothy had no choice but to look at him—“that isn’t what I’m saying. But I think I can help you.”

  “Oh yeah?” The twist of Timothy’s lips felt wry and brittle. “You got a magic dick, Doctor Sexy?”

  Michael’s brow cocked.

  “It’s from a TV show,” Timothy explained.

  Lord, what he wouldn’t do to get Michael to stop smiling at him like that, dangling everything he couldn’t have right in front of his face.

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

  “Too busy saving lives?”

  Michael smirked. “Actually, no. Just never built up the habit. Anyway, I’ve got a great dick, sure, but not a magic one.”

  At first, Timothy thought he was hallucinating when Michael’s canines dropped. He only saw the glint of sharp, white, elongated fangs behind his lips because he was so close. But, Michael leaned in, and there was no mistaking those sharp, pointed teeth for anything human.

  Timothy shivered, remembering the scrape of his beard against his cheek—how close the man had been to . . . to his neck. But vampires weren’t real. They were just in the kinds of books his church had protested and burnt when he was growing up—in movies he wasn’t allowed to watch.

  And maybe, just maybe, standing right there in front of him.

  “There’s more than one kind of magic,” Michael whispered, the sound sending a shudder right down Timothy’s back.

  Suddenly, his mouth was dry. “Are you . . . not . . . human?”

  “Vampire,” Michael corrected, as if that were a completely normal thing to admit.

  Hell, as if they were even possible.

  But now, looking up into Michael’s dark eyes, taking in his stark white skin and the fangs pressing into his bottom lip, he couldn’t help but believe it. Then Michael’s eyes flashed crimson red, and there was no space left for doubt.

  Timothy’s heart stopped in his chest. What the fuck? His aunt owned in a magic shop in Seattle—that was half the reason he’d chosen to go to school there—the excuse to get to know family. She was always going on about the monsters of the underground, but he’d thought she just had an active imagination. There definitely weren’t vampires back home.

  Even though Michael leaned in close and his voice stayed low, he didn’t flinch from speaking the word—vampire. It was hard to imagine anything making a guy like Michael cower.

  Those sharp, pointed fangs glistened past lips Timothy had wanted to fall into only minutes before. They should’ve scared him, but that required far more energy than he had to give. If Michael were really a vampire—even the kind of monster that meant him harm—how much more did Timothy really have to lose?

  “You can help me?” Timothy asked, a quiver in his voice.

  With a nod, Michael’s smile softened. “If you want me to.”

  And there was only one way Timothy could think of for him to do help him when no one else could. “If you . . . if you bite me, will I get better?”

  Michael tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “After a fashion. You won’t die.”

  “Ever?” Could he actually make that trade—living forever just for a chance to live? It went against everything he’d been taught. It went against everything his parents believed.

  And if that weren’t an endorsement at this point, Timothy didn’t know what was.

  “Well, not naturally,” Michael explained. “Not of illness or old age.”

  Before he thought too hard about it, Timothy turned his head and exposed his neck to the man. He felt the rustle of Michael’s breath against his skin. It wasn’t warm. “Okay.”

  This was it, right? Michael had said he could help. It was a chance. He’d take it, and no matter what, he wouldn’t look back.

  Michael pulled away, his lips—his fangs—suddenly far out of reach.

  Flushing in a wave of heat that rushed from the top of his head all the way down his chest, Timothy froze. Shit, had he misunderstood everything?

  “I’m sorry,” he bl
urted out.

  “You don’t need to be sorry.” But Michael had straightened. His expression was reserved, controlled. And somehow, that just made Timothy feel weaker than ever.

  “So . . . you don’t want to, um, bite me?”

  “I absolutely do want to bite you,” Michael said. “That’s not all turning takes—”

  Desperation surged in him, and he was ready to offer whatever it took to convince Michael to keep him from dying. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is. I can do it.”

  Michael sighed. For a second, Timothy thought he was going to shut him down, but then he settled on the bed beside him. He lifted Timothy’s hand and put it in his lap.

  “Okay,” Michael agreed. He kept a loose grip on Timothy’s hand, and for once, Timothy felt like he’d found someone he could lean on. Even if he fell apart, Michael seemed strong enough to take it. “If you’re sure you want that.”

  His pulse jumped. Could Michael hear that?

  Already, Timothy was wondering what it would be like to feel strong again, healthy and vital. “I do want it.”

  He’d never wanted anything more, in fact.

  “You know, I didn’t have a whole lot of options in front of me when my maker changed me.”

  Timothy didn’t either, so he didn’t understand what the holdup was.

  “It’s not a small thing, Timothy. And—” Michael’s eyes flicked around. They weren’t alone, not in any meaningful way. The curtains around him wouldn’t block out sound. Who knew how close the next patient was, or when Robin would come back with Luke? “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”

  Already, Timothy’d taken the idea with both hands. There was a way out of being sick. This was exactly what he’d hoped for. He had a deep gut sense that this was right, no matter what it took.

  “But we can talk about it more?”

  Michael’s responding smile came easy. It was less pitying and more . . . something else. Something bordering on paternal. Caring. “We can.”

  He shifted to pull his phone out of his back pocket. “What’s your number?” Michael asked.

  Timothy gave it to him, and in seconds, he heard his phone buzz on a small stand nearby where his clothes were tucked neatly into a cubby.