only way out

awake in bed he lies, in murky darkness. unfamiliar shapes move in the night, shadows across the curtained windows. sleep evades his clawing mind. it slips through the gaps, and he’s still conscious when wilmer’s footstep resound through the house.

still ill he feels from the silver. it’s left him weak and body sore. this night he feels particularly bad, particularly needy for the comfort of another. without hesitation, he’s crawling into bed with wilmer.

“are you awake?”

wilmer cook

on hands and knees, he’s hovering over wilmer. his sleep heavy eyes glimmer in the faint light cutting through the edges of the curtains. corbett meets them, wide and bruised.

“i couldn’t sleep.” the bed groans beneath his weight, body lowering. he finds a spot besides wilmer. “i don’t feel well.” he mutters, pressing closer. there’s always been an unexplainable comfort found in wilmer’s. he seeks it now with reckless abandon. “sorry.”

wilmer cook

so close. wilmer’s breath touches his skin, warm and light. smoky musk of incense, and citrus, envelope him, smells unique exclusively to wilmer and invoke only visions of happier times. thin arms loop around him, legs curled, tangled, with his own. he’s relaxed, free from thoughts of the burning thirst and fears of his capabilities.

“yes.” he’s doubtful still of his ability to stay beside wilmer, certain he’s dangerous, a monsters, despite assurance otherwise. but he is content too. “i should have died when i was nine. i was saved by becoming this, and if it wasn’t for that, i wouldn’t have met you again. i shouldn’t be happy with this. i'm sorry.”

was it wrong? tears wet his cheeks.

wilmer cook

they’re both mere shadows in the gloom. eyes shining, reflective, exude sincerity of which he’s seldom seen. maddie—wilmer—doesn’t waver. a rock amid turbulent seas, he’s there beside him.

“i don’t know.” a little closer he presses.

blood spilt by his hands was just, as far as he cared, and the devastation. what did it matter if he was a monster? not once did he wish for death. so strong is his attachment to life, no matter how wretched, that it’s not crossed his mind.

“you smell good.”

wilmer cook

a body that heals in a blink takes longer to repair the damage left from that silver chain. he wore scars, but none like the one left round his neck—they never ached.

“it’s fine.” he rests his hands over wil’s, grip light. “only a little sore.” his eyes stray to the curtained window, where light shown through the gaps. “ma-wilmer. can we go outside? it looks like a clear night. it’s been a long time since i’ve seen stars.”


wilmer cook

guilt makes wilmer kind, accommodating. hidden well, corbett forgets it’s the core of their relationship. guilt’s the force that drives his every decision, and keeps alive the ticking time bomb of a strigoi. a fragile bond built on childhood memories and guilt, will it last?

fresh air, gleaming stars. he scarcely remembers the day. for years he’s known only pitch darkness and murky shapes on the ceiling. a painful transition from dark to light greeted him upon his return to the surface. still the light is harsh on his eyes, burns his white skin. but stars are gentle lights, distant and soft. he’s never forgotten their distant glitter.

he reaches for wilmer, the parting of their entwined bodies painful, stops short. “okay.”

wilmer cook

damp grass underfoot, he can’t remember the last time he’s felt it. even the crisp, after-rain scent is a far off memory. whinechime music, thin and tinny, is an accompaniment to the cricket chips and hooting owls. the night is familiar and not, and he enjoys being able to share it with wilmer while they creep into the yard and lay out on the grass.

“i’m okay.” tonight clouds clear the way for a glittery expanse of navy and silvery blue. how long was it that he and wilmer looked up to the stars? “this is comfortable.”

wilmer cook