Overcoming Obstacles.
The misty woods’ peace was interrupted by the occasional snapping of twigs, the fluttering of wings, and, occasionally, the snarling swears of young vampires trying to embrace their abilities.
“I’m never going to get the hang of this.” Trevor’s face was scrunched in evident frustration, his fists balled; his eyes red-rimmed. The scruffy Welshman in the too-big leather jacket Dane had slung across his shoulders concentrated on the tree at the far end of the clearing and tried again—stumbling a little with a blur of motion that didn’t quite go as planned [like the prior sixteen attempts]. He swung too far to the left as he lunged for his target, long legs swerving to the side and carrying him at a rapid pace toward a particularly sturdy spruce nearby.
It was only Dane stepping in to prevent inevitable disaster that saved Trevor from a head-on collision with the deciduous, stationary enemy. One hand was all it took, the taller of the two wincing inwardly as Trevor crashed into his arm with a yelp of surprise. Sighing through his nose, Dane rubbed his forehead and let go of Trevor, forcing an encouraging smile.
“Well, by doodly-toot, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Trevor shot Dane a withering stare and shrugged the jacket higher onto his shoulders, mutinous gaze moving to the forest floor. Dane moved to pat him on the shoulder, only to find that Trevor had edged away and hunkered down further in the jacket, looking, for lack of a better descriptor, like the world’s most surly owl.
“This is fucked,” Trevor said, mostly to himself. Dane widened his eyes theatrically and half-folded in a stoop to pin Trevor with a disapproving, fatherly stare.
“Language, young cricket.”
“It’s ‘grasshopper’,” Trevor sighed; blinking out of his sulk long enough to correct Dane’s pop culture misstep. The taller vampire shrugged, eyeteeth protruding over his bottom lip with comedic censure.
“They both have six legs and don’t know how to mind their business,” he pointed out, rubbing his nose and offering Trevor a noncommittal shrug. Trevor closed his eyes briefly to collect himself and shook his head, beginning to shimmy out of Dane’s jacket. “Hey, now, did I say we were done?” Dane piped up brightly, reaching out to firmly tug the coat back into place on Trevor’s thin shoulders. Exasperated, the fledgling looked to his sire and spread his hands, turning slightly in place.
“Look—it’s evident I’m never gonna get this,” he said, frustrated beyond belief. “I can’t—be speedy or strong or any of—that. I’m not—” His voice dropped; softening. “This is hopeless, okay? I was never meant to be this. So just—let me go on pretending.” Dane’s heart sank as Trevor once more began to pull away, from the jacket, from him, from the situation. “We all make mistakes,” Trevor added dully, one arm out of the jacket. “You just happened to make one that stuck around.”
“Hey,” Dane said, sharper than his usual lackadaisical timbre. Trevor glanced back up, finding his arm shoved back into the coat sleeve without ado. Before he could even protest that much, Dane pushed on, declaring: “Wait just a—a tarnacled, barnacled minute, Trev.” There was a shakiness to the words that was echoed in the brief tremor in Dane’s hands.
“You’re not a mistake, kiddo,” he continued, frowning. “Heck, if you are, I am, and I know you won’t let me think that.” Trevor opened his mouth, then closed it as Dane made direct eye contact with him, decisive and sure.
“I made a choice when I made you,” Dane didn’t do serious well—this was difficult. It was damn near impossible to keep it up; to endure the utterly defeated look in Trevor’s eyes and the way his skinny shoulders sagged like Atlas under the Earth. Dane swallowed and pressed on; just once more—like the last league across a battlefield, like the final lap in an Olympic swimming pool comprised of blood, regret, and salty cold tears.
“And I intend,” he added, fixing Trevor’s collar—for he figured he’d let him keep the jacket; despite the slight oversize of it--it suited him, “to see this—see you—through this.” It was Trevor’s turn to swallow; his face turned toward the ground. The forest floor swam in his vision, a flickering kaleidoscope of melting leaves and watery mud. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes and hide his face; but it didn’t matter—Dane pulled him in to hug him close, burying his face against the top of Trevor’s head.
“So let’s give this another try,” Dane suggested softly. “When you’re ready.”
After a long moment of silence, he felt Trevor nod against him, and stepped back to give him space, only going so far as to turn him by the shoulders and point him toward the target tree once more. His hands gripped; relaxed, and let go—only when Trevor was ready, and not a moment sooner.
“I’ll be right here,” Dane said. Trevor’s frame flickered; a sob or a sigh of relief, he wasn’t sure—and the boy was off, direct this time, unfaltering, his figure a smudge of leather and chestnut against the backdrop of abandoned woods—
Mere yards from where Dane’d found him, made him, and carried him home.
