Chapter Text
"Sun will be up soon."
The ceiling flickers with shades of blue from the television that hasn't been turned off for the past eight hours or so, some news station anchor talking about the destruction left on that island off Santa Monica pier again and Emizel has just enough empathy to be grateful Shilo fell asleep. He's nearly nodded off himself a few times, at least until the number four jolts through his body like lightning and keeps him staring up at the hypnotic light of the screen, internally insisting that it's more entertaining than his dreams anyhow. If he squints hard enough, he can almost convince himself that the wavy patterns are early morning light peeking through the leaves of some large tree and imagine he's laying beneath it, with no fear of burning alive and no loss on his shoulders.
Emizel doesn't move at the sound of Arthur's voice, thought it does pull him from his mindless stupor. His senses heighten and he hears a heated argument about six rooms down, a late driver park by the lobby, Shilo's soft whimper in the bathtub-turned-bed from what is probably not even that bad of a nightmare. Cheap hotel soap hits his nose, shitty sheets scratch along his bare arms, and the leftover twang of metal just won't seem to stop tasting bitter in his mouth; more reminders that, yeah, he's here in the middle of nowhere, Arizona, with no home and no friends and nothing left of his unlife.
At least it's better than No Brakes. Kind of.
Arthur's concern is almost palpable in the air and Emizel lets out an instinctual huff to try and blow it away, choosing not to grace his observation with a response. He simply unfocuses his eyes once more and lets the TV lights lull him back toward a blissful state of numbness, knowing he won't have much time left to wallow anyway. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
"I'm going to wake Shilo," Arthur says, and it's pointed in a way that says he also needs to get ready. "We'll leave soon."
Emizel waves a hand nonchalantly as Arthur stands from the bed next to him.
"I'll wake him up, it's fine. Go pack your own stuff, or something."
Invisible hands try to tug him back down to the bed, but Emizel pushes through the grogginess and sits up, glancing over at Arthur as he does. Though he never tended to emote much even before the Midnight Circle's transformation, the crease in Arthur's brow and added uneasy shifting of his wings is readable as ever, making it painfully clear how much worry he's trying to hide, which is no surprise. After their crushing defeat during the Cullen Games and the hell that came with it only for all of them to end up running for their lives due to Edward's fierce grip on Los Angeles, it's almost laughable to think they wouldn't be royally fucked in the head from. . . well, everything really. Any reasonable person could tell they weren't doing too hot and Arthur is the most reasonable person Emizel has ever known.
Their gazes meet and Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"Are you sure?"
The question alone reveals that Arthur heard Shilo's small cries too and despite being terrible at comforting other people, Emizel thinks he wants to give it another try. That, and seeing Arthur's upsetting appearance first thing when waking up is a fate he wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy, least of all his brother-type-person. It can't be that hard, right?
He nods and swings his feet over the bed, leaning back to stretch his arms, back cracking slightly from the strain. Arthur still seems unsure but he doesn't press it, pulling the mask higher on his face and hood over the black bandana covering his hair, tapping his signature red sunglasses into place on the bridge of his nose. Void lightly hops onto his shoulder as he slips the keycards into his pocket and makes his way to the door, pausing with gloved fingers curled over the handle.
"I'm going to return the keycards and top off my blood supply at the front desk. Don't leave until I return."
"Aye aye, captain."
Emizel reaches up to salute him only to find the door clicking shut, Arthur's footsteps already fading down the hall. He lets his hand fall and sighs to himself, the muffled babble of the TV his sole comfort now in the wake of Arthur's absence, thoughts of all the things he could have done better already scraping across his mind like claws. It's almost debilitating, shoulders going tense without his notice and there's a split second where he wonders if he'll be able to make himself move, so bogged down by regret that he becomes nothing more than a statue there on the hotel bed.
His gaze zeroes in on blue television static.
Then he forces himself to stand before the thoughts encroach any further, cracking his neck while walking to the bathroom door. The air is brisk against his skin, more exposed than usual without his jacket laying abandoned on the bed behind him, yanking his pants back up to his hips and tightening his belt. His feet drag along carpet as he walks and he feels the thread catch on his sharpened toenails, cursing to himself as he yanks his foot up and steps on his heels instead until he makes it to tile. Should've kept his socks on.
As he puts a hand on the door handle, something red catches his eye and Emizel meets the gaze of his own reflection, pausing for a moment to stare. Dark circles are prominent under his eyes that weren't there last time he cared to check, making his expression seem haunted in the low light haloing him from behind, almost monstrous with how the shadows sharpen his features. His hair is somehow even messier than usual, sticking up oddly since he hasn't gotten it trimmed in a while, blond washed out into a gray here in the darkness, skin ashen to match. Looking at himself, it's disconcerting just how much. . . older his face is. He's nineteen forever now, but the age doesn't quite seem to fit anymore.
While turning away, Emizel resolves to never look at himself again.
He doesn't bother knocking, opening the bathroom door to see a pile of blankets and towels all perfectly arranged to simulate safety, Shilo's voice barely perceptible through all the layers. There's a wet spot on one of the pillows where the showerhead must have slowly dripped onto during his nap, darkness hiding yellowed tiles and mysterious stains around the base of the toilet, the epitome of rock bottom. A part of him wishes vampires could drink, because he's got a feeling that Shilo probably needs a good shot or two right now.
Before he can fantasize about vodka too much, Emizel flicks on the light and pulls back part of Shilo's protective cocoon, exposing the anguished expression of the prince underneath. His body is stiff, curled onto his side and shaking as small gasps escape from his throat, sleeping badly through whatever horrible vision he's having. Remnants of Emizel's features are littered on his face from their impromptu swap and the sight feels unnerving somehow, like looking into the world's most fucked-up funhouse mirror.
Still, Emizel leans forward to grab one of Shilo's shoulders and begins shaking him carefully, hoping for both of them that he's a light sleeper.
"Hey, Shilo."
The effect is near-instant, Shilo bolting straight up as if he'd been shot and letting out a sharp yelp.
"Emizel! E-Emizel, it's—you—" Shilo grabs at his arm, forcing him onto his knees as he lets out a wail and buries into his shirt, clutching desperately like Emizel would disappear at any moment. "You were dead, you—you died, they killed you, took all—all your lives, and you—you—"
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Emizel forces the sudden tightness in his muscles to subside and tentatively returns this semblance of a hug, patting Shilo's back awkwardly. "I'm not dead, see? You're holding me, really tightly actually."
Shilo barely seems to hear him, only pulling Emizel closer and causing the rim of the tub to dig painfully into his mid thighs, making it hard to balance on the slippery tile. Against all odds, he manages to keep a grip with the balls of his feet and exposed holes in the knees of his jeans, slightly more grateful that he didn't wear socks now that he's here. Whatever dream Shilo had obviously shook him bad and though he doesn't know how else to help, Emizel thinks that letting him cling like he's holding a teddy bear is as good a start as any.
It's weird for a small while, Shilo muttering nonsensically into his chest and Emizel continuing to pat him on the back, hoping that this is somehow calming him down and wondering if he's doing a good job. The movement does seem to work eventually, Shilo's whimpering beginning to slow as his grip becomes less violent, shoulders sagging in relief, nails no longer puncturing into Emizel's spine. Shilo gently leans his weight forward and Emizel holds him there, subconsciously noticing how odd it is not to hear breathing after a breakdown, yet another thing that isn't human about him anymore.
"I. . ." Shilo speaks into his chest, muffled from the angle. "I'm glad you're not dead."
"Uh, me too, I guess," Emizel says. He decides not to mention that he already is.
Shilo pulls back and oh, that's right. Vampires can cry because there are stains of red down his cheeks now, blood pooling in the corner of his good eye and staining the front of Emizel's shirt, creating a haphazard mess over the both of them. Arthur probably won't be too happy about this but Emizel has a strange feeling he'll let it slide. If all else fails, Shilo can bring out the puppy dog eyes and solve everything the way he always does; with the charm and grace of a prince. Perfect and proper.
There's a slight pause as the brothers assess each other, Emizel squinting slightly when he sees Shilo tilt his head with a new tenseness to his jaw. In this moment, he looks almost angry, frustrated in a way that mirrors his own usual demeanor, a reflection he literally just promised himself he'd never look at again. That was probably a stupid idea in hindsight.
"You look. . ." Shilo purses his lips. "Unwell."
"Not as bad as you," Emizel responds, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. Oh god, that was dumb, wasn't it?
"It was just a nightmare," Shilo says and smears some blood across his face as he attempts to wipe tears from his eyes. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Did you sleep at all while we've been waiting?"
"Yeah," he lies and immediately clocks Shilo's brow furrow so similar to the way Arthur looked at him only moments before, concern mixing in with the frustration. He has half a mind to wonder if Shilo can read auras the same way Arthur does but before he lets his brain wander too far, Emizel leans back from the tub. "And while it's nice of you to be worried, it kind of feels like you're changing the subject. Do you wanna, I dunno, talk about anything?"
"I think that blood on your shirt is proof I got it out of my system. You, on the other hand, look like you're trying to become the sickly, Victorian child you and Arthur always accuse me of resembling."
"I'm fine, really. The last little while has taken it's toll on all of us, so maybe—"
"Is it about Theo?"
All at once, the world comes crashing down around Emizel, vision blurring as a ringing begins to fill his ears, Theo's laughter echoing through the haze. Memories are a jumbled mess in his head these days but despite missing pieces and scrambled thoughts that no longer seem to make sense, images of his best friend have stayed clear as ever through the fog. He sees himself and Theo playing Smash Bros together in an unfamiliar hideout, beating up Fangs in an alley, the infamous soda incident that gave Theo his nickname; thinking about it, these are his only happy memories left now and it's of them, two best friends, side-by-side through hell and smiling in the face of monsters as if nothing could ever bring them down.
Then, the worse parts. Soda becoming Noda, then an alcoholic stumbling drunk through the streets far too late for an average human to be awake. The jolt of horror after seeing the new, jagged scar across Theo's face that he never bothered to learn the origin of. The fear in his eyes when Theo asked Emizel if he was a monster like Shilo, like Edward. The sinking in his gut when he realized he lied.
Theo, trapped in a vampire control room for hours at his request. Theo, fighting a primogen with impossible luck that had to run out eventually. Theo, using his own severed arm as a shield that couldn't protect him.
An overwhelming urge to kill and run and cry and obey. An urge to help his friend left unheeded in the face of Edward Twilight's command. An urge to run.
He ran.
He ran.
He left Theo alone with the most dangerous vampire in Los Angeles and his arm cut clean from his body and he knows there are worse things than death when you're a human living in a vampire's hierarchy, how could he leave, how could he have been better, been stronger, maybe if he had done things differently, done things right then everything would be fixed and Theo wouldn't be dead, worse than dead, oh god what happened to Theo—
"EMIZEL!"
There's a sudden, sharp pain on his cheek and Emizel gasps, blinking back to reality. Shilo is knelt over him, expression frantic with one hand on his shoulder and the other hovering shakily between them, which might explain the stinging on his face. His head is stinging too and he realizes his claws are buried in his own scalp, blood trickling down his forehead, neck muscles tense with the strain of digging. Somehow, he's fully sitting on the bathroom floor now, back pushed up against the door and curled over himself like he's a small child again, hiding from the monsters in the dark.
Guess some things never change.
"Emizel, can you hear me?! You're hurting y-yourself, please—"
"I hear you." Slowly, Emizel peels his claws from his head and places them palm-down on the tile below him, noting idly that he's colder than the porcelain. Or plastic. Or whatever they use to make tiles these days. Hopefully the blood won't be too hard to scrub out.
"You—" New tears have found their way down Shilo's face and he relaxes slightly at Emizel's response, moving so he has both his hands on either shoulder. "You got that look in your eye as if you were about to—to frenzy, but then you started ripping at your head and hair and I—I didn't know what else to do!"
"You. . . didn't dominate me?"
"I—I don't know, I wasn't thinking straight and it doesn't—hasn't felt the same since the games, so I—"
"Thanks."
"W-what?"
"For, uh, not doing that. It's—yeah. Thanks."
Shilo blinks. Opens his mouth—still filled with shark teeth to match Emizel's—then closes it, nodding slightly.
"Of—of course. I wouldn't want to. . . to do that to my brother."
Emizel lets out a heavy sigh (habit more than anything, he thinks) and leans his head back against the door, rubbing his face as Shilo carefully settles on the floor across from him, leaving both of them with no room left to maneuver in the tiny bathroom. His eyes follow the proper way Shilo crosses his legs, sitting upright almost instinctively in contrast to his disheveled countenance, messy blond hair tangled in places since it's been growing back more quickly than normal. The emerald dress shirt Arthur forced him into is wrinkled and buttoned wrong, probably from elongated nails he wasn't used to having and explaining the punctures of a few small holes into bits of his black slacks. It's a little odd to see his ears so round and it strikes him how different Shilo looks compared to when they first met, all privilege and no spine, a prince whose only life was from within the confines of some dusty old castle.
"So. . . what happened?" Shilo asks.
Emizel shrugs. His jaw is tight.
"I dunno. Guess it's passed now, though."
"He was there with you in the bunker, wasn't he?" Shilo clasps his hands together in his lap, gaze having never left Emizel's. "Did he. . . ?"
The question hangs heavy in the air, oppressive and haunting with the implication alone of what could have happened, knowing Edward's potential for cruelty. He recalls Shilo's forced blood bond, the ghouling of so many innocents in the short amount of time they were around, those damning words of kill each other bouncing painfully around his skull. It feels terrible to admit but as his mind comes up with worse and worse ideas for what Theo might be going through under Edward's command, Emizel almost hopes he bled out when he lost his arm. In the face of Edward Twilight, death would be a kindness.
Luckily, before he gets a chance to think any longer, there's a soft knock on the bathroom door.
"We need to get going," Arthur's muffled voice says from outside. "The sun will be up soon and we have a bit of a drive. Meet me in the car, quickly."
"Alright," Shilo responds, though he makes no move to get up. "We're coming."
Arthur's footsteps recede and Shilo looks at him strangely, red eyes seeming to pierce into his soul. There's a lot going on in his gaze that Emizel doesn't understand, that same worry and slight wrinkle of his nose giving him enough of a hint to decide that he would rather not figure out what it means just yet, choosing to pull himself off the floor instead. Emizel leans against the wall as he stands, unintentionally smearing some blood and more intentionally avoiding eye contact with Shilo when he sways a little on his feet.
"We better get going," he says—avoidant as always—but a hand curls gently on his shoulder as he begins to reach for the doorknob.
"I'm. . . worried about you." Shilo's words are careful as his grip, not holding on too tightly yet refusing to let go. "Seeing you like this, it's—I don't know. You're not like yourself and I want to help you—"
"It's fine. I'm fine, okay? That was a one-time thing, it won't happen again."
"Emizel, you hurt yourself. I'm not simply going to let that go."
"Well, too bad." Anger overtakes him in a way that is familiar as breathing (or maybe not, since he doesn't breathe anymore) and Emizel pushes his way out of the bathroom, yanking himself away from Shilo like he's always done, always had to. He practically stomps toward his shoes and scowls when his nails snag on the carpet once more, sitting down on the bed to yank his socks back on. "I don't need your help."
"Emizel—"
"Just—just stop. I don't want to talk about it."
The mumble of the TV practically vibrates in his mind now, too loud, too painful, and Emizel huffs in annoyance as he shoves on his shoes. Who does Shilo think he is, trying to be nice when Emizel was the one supposed to be comforting him after a nightmare? It's almost like he wants to prove how much better he is, how much more put-together he looks in spite of everything and if there's anything Emizel hates, it's an equal pretending to pull rank. Not his fault he wasn't raised in a castle, sitting all pretty up there in a gilded tower and being born into a title the way Shilo was. Well, it kind of was, but he was literally a fetus back then. How was he meant to know strangling his twin in the womb would bar himself from royalty?
A small part of him wonders why he got this angry over something so. . . so insignificant, but right now, the rage flows intensely in his undead veins and he aims a nasty glare at Shilo's back, quickly shoving on his jacket as he makes his way over to the TV. He glares at that, too, the light and news anchor and words spat at him offensive as if it were all directed at himself, all a personal attack on his honor, all aiming to make him feel worse than he already does. People's expressions become sneers—mocking his weakness—and Emizel's jaw clenches.
Without a second thought, his fist connects with the TV and it shatters from the hole he makes, glass slicing through his knuckle triumphantly as the screen goes dark, silenced at last. He feels a sick satisfaction when Shilo yelps in surprise, easily pulling his fist away to wipe the debris on his jacket and he turns toward the door, not bothering to look back as he steps victoriously into the hallway outside. That'll show 'em, those uppity pricks.
No one calls Emizel Tucker weak. He's not weak. Not anymore.