it’s like being sat across a wounded puppy. it’s like being handed a stone and taunted over his decision to do so – like the big, rounded eyes, and visible disappointment had physically hurt. and it’s ridiculous, simon thinks, to feel guilty in this situation. he’s the one in bed, the one that had suffered through a concussion, through a gruesome sight of blood, rivulets dancing down fingertips. and yet he feels hasty to interject, to suggest that his memory hadn’t been intentionally wiped – that he’s still strangely grateful to have been aided by the… stranger in question. (maybe it’s his head reminding him to play it safe, sending wordless ideas over to keep the other pleased, poised, comfortable. less willing to tear at simon’s neck.)
it’s true that he doesn’t particularly believe the other’s ‘evil incarnate’ per se – (he sees ‘evil’ in the eyes of true crime documentaries, sees it in the sneers of ceos, in the drunkards who spew filth and fire and point fingers like being different is something to be ashamed of) but if drystan really is supernatural… survival can make even ‘murder’ look grey and – occasionally, moral. simon hadn’t caught the faces of the figures, hadn’t recognized the distant features, or heard lengthy cries, so his connection to the situation had been short-lived, impromptu enough that the details come back only in short bursts. (again, blood, blood, more blood.)
and then there’s an outburst simon doesn’t know how to respond to – but he wills some hint of a smile. it’s somewhat forced, somewhat morbidly amused, and he’s pretty sure that if drystan wasn’t such a convincing vampire, but a mere human playing dressup, simon’s chuckle would’ve been eons more genuine. instead, his reaction is played a little slow, a little off, a little practiced, a little weak. “…right. yeah – that would be… not a great time.” a faint dimple shows up when he attempts a lopsided grin, then forgoing it to answer the questions prior. the quicker they jump to the next point in their conversation, the less they have to linger over fantasies of blood, of death, of simon’s neck open and red and raw. “i’m uh. i’m simon. a taurus, and i guess… i guess i like blue.” (he wonders briefly, if drystan’s is red.)
Generous smiles and tolerant responses extinguished the last remnants of Drystan’s own most recent streak of anxiety, watered down by the returned belief that some sense of genuine camaraderie existed in between the lines of kind expressions and accepted jokes.
The latter being allowed sans any backlash ( no anger, no chiding, no ‘don’t say thats’ ) served as a proverbial set of keys, unlocking a gate that, once past, permitted him to make himself at home in a state of too comfortable, too secure - that anvil hanging over his head that kept his tongue partially in check tugged a few inches higher, resetting his clock of mess free safety.
“Right,” he repeated with one hard, awkward wink of his right eye, sounding once again delighted by the likes of a shared inside joke. “But you never know. Some people like being bit. Kinda like drugs.”
The returned offering of a name kept him from going down the road of selling that any further, and he met the revelation with a series of polite claps. “Simon.” The repetition was drawn out, enough that it could pass for ridicule, though it was merely an attempt at securing it to a flimsy memory. “Simon, Simon, Simon. Like the game. Simon says don’t eat me. I will not call you Sam, I will not call you Sebastian. It’s Simon. I’m gonna remember that one!”
Shaky additions were accepted with equal verve and a sharp breath. “That’s so crazy. Your favorite color is blue, like water, and I’m a Pisces. A water sign, if you didn’t know. And my favorite color is green, like grass, and you’re an Earth sign. Which is pretty much the same as having the same zodiac and the same favorite color. We have so much in common!”
“Anyway...” Enough icebreakers had passed that he felt entitled to address the elephant in the room of his own making - his lingering - and took a quick second to mold his expression into something solemn. “Do you mind if I stick around? For a couple hours?” The reason for the request ( for which there was one, one that happened to be life or death ) was withheld, cards held to his chest. He went for another test instead, setting the next trap, an attempt to snag a pure answer sans any guilt-tripping. Pleased as he was, as content as he should have been, there remained that self-destructive impulse to push and push and push until rugs were pulled and curtains were dropped and the Too Good to be True of it all was revealed.
“What do you do all day anyway? You live alone, yeah?” It was a rhetorical inquiry, since he already knew the answer to that, having snooped around enough to be able to tell. But the second one was less so. “Do you have friends around here? I bet you have a lot...” He would imagine so, because for better or worse, people flocked to kindness like moths to a lamp. “If you tell me who they are, I could put them on my No Eat list.” A concept he’d made up on the spot, but to Drystan’s ears, sounded like the sort that would assure a human of good intentions. “So, y’know - I don’t accidently snack on one of them when I’m out and about. To repay your favors. And so you don’t get mad. Good deal, right?”
