Since the last update, I have flown across half the world and then driven across a thousand miles, got a new place, and started a new school, so--this is late, but forgive me!

“DARRYL!”

He comes at a run, his limbs shaking, bile in his throat. Simon is standing on the bed, his eyes wild with fear. His lips are parted and he's panting and his face is flushed, not pale. His fair hair is spread every which way, caught with static on his nose and ears.

“Spider,” he says weakly.

Darryl rolls his eyes through his skull, but obligingly gets the plate and cup from the kitchen, comes back. Simon has moved towards the pillow end of the bed, staring intently at the floor. “It's gone under the cabinet,” he says, not moving from his position.

Darryl gets down on his hands and knees, peering. It's a daddy longleg, although Simon insists that it isn't. What he calls by that name Darryl reckons isn't even a proper spider. This one has legs a good four centimeters long, and though he can't really see under the dresser, he has to guess it's watching him warily.

He's tempted to just leave it, since the spider isn't doing any harm. But, he realizes, it is doing harm to Simon's wellbeing, for whatever reason, and so it's doing him harm too. “Is there a broom anywhere in here?” he asks.

“Over by the chair.” Simon's voice is high and breathless. He doesn't seem to be about to get the broom himself. Darryl considers asking him to, a little annoyed, and then remembers his friend's compassion of the previous night and feels ridiculous. They each have their trials. He might think Simon's is a bit stupid, but it doesn't make the fear any less real.

Last night, he had been—terrified. His fangs had never been that bad. He doesn't know if it was because there was another human in the house or what, but the pain and the, the horror had been so overwhelming that he hadn't been able to think. The shirt idea had been brilliant and he only wish he had come up with something like it in the past. He'd have to let his mum know about that trick when he called her next.

So if Simon had come up with something that might help his mum, and had not fled at the sight Darryl had presented him with that evening, Darryl would go and get the spider without bitching.

He gets up, gets the broom, and pokes at the spider until it ran into the light again. He doesn't tease Simon about the gasp he makes. He plops the cup down upon the spider, scooches the plate underneath. He even angles himself so that he is between the spider and Simon as he takes it out of the room and deposits it outside.

“I reckon you aren't going to live,” he tells the critter conversationally as it scurries away into the darkness. It is a cool night, the air heavy with the potential of morning dew. Nearby an owl hoots, its sharp eyes on the lookout for movement and for all Darryl knows, spiders; he isn't so big on the appetites of owls, only people and sheep. “But I'm going to rate him higher than you tonight. Sorry.”

He comes back in to find Simon stretched out on the bed, a book in his hand, seeming perfectly at ease in the world again. “Your spider has been vanquished.”

A quick glance above the book, a fleeting, but searingly warm smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

Darryl takes a breath and lets it out, and can't really think of too much. “What're you reading?”

“Clan of the Cavebear.”

“Any good?” He doesn't care much about any books, really, but there doesn't seem to be any other questions to ask.

“It's a classic. I'm not far enough in to know what I think of it yet.”

“That one of the books you brought from home?”

“College, yeah.” So college isn't home. Is that important?

It's too important for him to ask about, it seems. “Good.” Is it? Dumb thing to say.

“I guess. How's the teeth?”

“Fine.” Maybe it's a good thing he said he was a vampire. They wouldn't have had anything to talk about otherwise. Darryl feels unreasonably angry, and hurt, and he isn't sure what to do about it. “I'm off to bed.”

Simon shuts the book, raises his head, his gaze tentative. “You, uh, something wrong?”

What can he say? Yes, but he doesn't know what. Yes, but he does know what: five days left until he's alone again. Yes, because he's an idiot and wants to drive Simon away sooner, but he's frustrated and doesn't know how to express it and never has had to express it because there's never been anyone around. “Just...” It can't be fixed and he only knows how to deal with what can be fixed. “Dunno.”

Simon sits up, curling his legs against the purple silky doona cover. Darryl had meant to change it to something less motherly before he came, but forgot, and then it seemed embarrassing to bring it up later. “Well, come in and sit down.”

It's a direct request, and Simon almost never requests something from him that's not a spider. Darryl edges tentatively into the room, almost sideways steps towards the bed. Does Simon mean for him to sit on the bed, or does he mean the chair? The chair isn't quite facing the bed but what if he gets it wrong? Will he make Simon uncomfortable? Will it be wrong? He perches, awkwardly, on the very furthest end of the bed.

Simon starts to say something, smiles faintly instead. “So... it's not spiders that are bugging you.”

“Nah.” That's easy enough.

“Is it my stupid questions?”

“No.” Maybe sort of not quite. “Eh. Just.”

“...I keep asking too much vampire stuff.”

“Not too much...”

“The wrong questions?”

“Huh?”

“I mean things that offend or embarrass you.”

“Oh, no. Nah. I can live with embarrassment now and then.” It's funny, because you can't get embarrassed when you're alone, so maybe it should actually be something he craves. Maybe he should be saying the crazy emotional statements because they'll remind him that he's not alone. Although say enough of those and he shortly will be.

But he shortly will be alone anyway.

Say the embarrassing things and he'll be alone shorter. No, sooner.

Which was it?

“I haven't even asked the most embarrassing question.”

“What's that?”

“Well you know if you've heard anything about book vampires.”

“I don't read much.”

“Well about the, it just about always, because vampires are romantic figures I guess. There's a kind of desire component that goes along with the bloodlust.”

“A desire for blood?”

“No, that one's obvious. Desire for sex.”

Flatly. “You're asking if I have sex with sheep.”

“No! God no. Just a sexual desire with the bloodlust. Actually, I don't even want to ask that, so don't answer.”

“Why bring it up then?”

“It's just one of those things that always gets put with vampires. They want blood, they heal easily, super strength, the sun kills them, a wooden stake through the heart kills them, they hate garlic, they have sex all the time.”

“I guess two of those are true.”

“Which two?”

An eye roll. “The blood, and the wooden stake part.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Theoretically. Might not, you know.”

Darryl isn't sure whether to be offended or not. “Are you suggesting we have a go at stabbing me to find out?”

“Oh yeah sure. That'll be something to explain when the police come by. 'Sorry, officer, we just wanted to see how good Hollywood is as predicting stuff about vampires. They really should put do-not-try-this-at-home warnings up for that, don't you think?'”

“Mm.”

“Sorry, hey—sorry, you know I'm just joking, right?” Simon's eyes are wide and scanning quickly over him, left right up down. His smile seems fleeting even though it stays, like a light rainfall that should be quickly over but lasts, so that Darryl's afraid to breathe in case he blows it away.

His friend slides a hand forward along the bed and puts his weight on it, leaning towards Darryl earnestly. “I just want to understand. If something were to happen to you and I made the wrong decision because you're a vampire and I didn't know what it meant, it'd be terrible. I'd feel terrible. I just want to know as much as I can so that I—” He trails off, searching for words. Quietly, “So I can get things right, I guess. I don't want to be offensive but I keep getting things wrong, and I'm trying to work out how to get things right, and... and I don't even know what I'm saying any more, really. I've got it all worked out in my head but it doesn't come out right out-loud.”

“No worries.” It doesn't seem adequate, so he adds, “I know what you mean, about words not coming out right. And yeah, I know you're joking. I've just never had anyone ask questions about this sort of thing so I don't know what to expect.”

“Makes sense. And I'd like to say that I'll stop now but I don't really want to, if you don't mind. I mean it, about not wanting to mess up. To mess you up. So I want to keep asking about this stuff and finding out about you.”

“Yeah. Guest's privilege.”

Simon relaxes slightly, smiles again more normally. He runs a hand through his bangs, pale hair on paler skin, both yellowed by the ceiling light overhead. “Do you like garlic?” he asks.

Darryl sighs. “Yeah I like garlic,” he replies.

“And what about the super strength part?”

“Have you noticed me doing anything with super strength?”

“Sure. Your wrestling with that spider was pretty impressive.”

Darryl leans over, grabs a pillow, and hits him with it. The soft sound of feathers landing against skin, the startled burst of laughter. Like a startled bird. The dizzied grin, the bird that does backwards circles in the air. But what's Simon drunk on, he wonders. The bird had bad berries. What does Simon have, and where can he get some?

“No super strength,” he says.

“Do your fangs suck blood?”

Smack again with the pillow. “Do yours?”

“Hey!” Simon grabs another pillow and smacks back. “Come on, that happens in movies all the time!”

“Tell me about Canadians. Is it true you all eat beavers and piss maple syrup?”

“Oh, you're going down!”

Later, tired, they lay and stare at the ceiling. “I'm going to miss this place,” Simon murmurs.

Darryl wants to talk about this least of all. “Yeah.”

“So, do you have sex with sheep?”

“Oh, piss off.”

More warm, delighted laughter. Darryl drinks it in, and smiles.

Morning, bright and glorious. Simon remembers to tap both of his shoes against the porch, then hops impatiently from foot to foot as Darryl more leisurely suits up for the day. The sunlight bounces off the wood beams of the house and falls onto his skin. He has always been a golden summer child, not meant for even the temperate chill of Victorian weather. It stifles him.

“What's your hurry?” the vampire asks, tugging his calf gloves against his skin.

“What's the hold-up?” Simon counters. He punches the air experimentally as he bounces, one-two, shift right, hookshot. He glances at Darryl's shoulder, considers it, decide not. Punches the wooden veranda beam instead.

“Is that golf clubs by the woodpile? You play?”

Dark eyes flick sideways towards where he gestures. “Not really. Hit a ball off into the bush now and then.”

“Aren't clubs expensive, though? Seems a waste to just do that.”

“Found them.” A low, throaty laugh. Darryl seems to be in a good mood this morning. “Tossed by the side of the road.”

“Found clubs?” Simon whistles. “Your country is strange, have I said that yet?”

“Once or twice, maybe.” It's your country too, you idiot, he doesn't say.

They load up into the truck, like always. Darryl shifts into gear and starts down the road. He sees a spider making its slow way up his door and subtly knocks it through the window. Don't bother him today.

“Who lives at that house over there?” A low-slung ranch, blue, red roof like all the ones around there, peeling paint but a heart-shaped wreath on the door. Cows amble by in front of it, ignoring the truck and anything but dew speckled grass.

“Purple and Lemon Stuart.”

“You must be kidding.”

“What? They famous or something?”

“No one is named purple or lemon.”

“I've known others.”

“What are their kids? Orange and Sherbet?”

“They don't have kids, far as I know.”

“Their dogs then.”

“Spot and Shirley.”

“Huh.” A sideways glance. Simon is hopeful, thinking—well, he's not sure. “You seem to know these people really well.”

The hope spirals in the air, hovers, slowly settles to the floor of the truck with the dust as the silence stretches on. “Don't really talk to them,” the muttered answer.

“Ah.” Simon is starting to notice a pattern with this. Asks Darryl about people, Darryl says doesn't talk, doesn't know, hasn't met. But he's always sure about them. Simon has a sneaking suspicion that every single fact Darryl has heard about someone, he memorizes. Just in case. Just in case he ever needs to talk to them, or gets the chance.

But the chance never comes.

And Simon doesn't know what to do about it. He knows Darryl seems to love people. He knows that, for a self-proclaimed vampire, he's safe. He isn't going to harm anyone, and, since the vampirism seems to be hidden for most of the month, no one is going to harm him, if the Disney Beast-pitchfork scenarios are right. But he doesn't make that extra step to actually meet the people.

And lately... lately Simon's been feeling the dangerous urge more and more to fill that gap himself. He's catching himself feeling glad whenever he realizes that the only person Darryl talks to is him, and it scares him.

The rest of the time it makes him want to scream. He wants to yell, two bloody weeks before you told a stranger you were a vampire, two weeks before you trust him enough to come to his room at night begging for help. You idiot. What the hell were you thinking. Why hasn't someone been here for you, someone besides me and your mother. Why not.

There's also the touch thing. He knows with Darryl it's not like that, of course it's not like that, but his friend leans into even the slightest brush of skin. He doesn't seek it out, because he acts like he's not sure he'll get it, but he loves whatever he gets. When Simon stumbles over his feet and bumps into him while they're working, he doesn't shied away like a normal guy, he leans into it. Sometimes, Simon swears, he stands in the way.

But because it's not like that, Simon doesn't know what to do about it. He wants to go all mother-y and just give him a hug, all the time, and it worries him. Or he wants to—well, maybe it would be easier if it was like that, because then it would be something he'd know and understand. He's had gay friends before. It's fine with him.

If Darryl was a girl he'd make it like that in an instant, just to clear things up. He feels guilty about realizing that, because he thinks it shouldn't matter that Darryl is a guy, but it does. He hasn't had any practice with this, doesn't know how he'd mess it up. Flirting with girls is easy, lean on the table, smile like that, toss your head. Eyes bright. Be witty. Glance down shyly, trace one hand down the other, go. He can't do that with Darryl, because—because he has double standards, he supposes.

Simon doesn't know why it's so hard. He doesn't know why he wouldn't be able to handle this feeling with a girl either, but knows he would feel compelled to change the relationship no matter what. He comes from a society where love is a thing you do with your family, your girlfriend, your husband, your wife, but not a friend, not really. For the first time he questions this, but there don't seem to be any answers forthcoming.

He remembers a rant his friend Amber once went on about being a girl. She said, it's all be weak, don't be weak, can't be weak, don't give in, be coddled, be protected, try to be protected, only protect yourself, be loved, be enabled, don't give in. That's easy, he thinks, compared to this uneasy balance. It's don't be weak don't be weak DON'T BE WEAK. Be tough, protect, no Darryl can protect himself, what's there to do? Don't touch him, that's telling him he's weak. It's telling him you want to protect him.

But I do, Simon thinks mournfully. That's the problem. He leans an arm against the window, props his head on his chin. Doesn't look at Darryl.

Even if he wants to make it like that he can't. It would be like rape, he thinks, and shivers. The boy that inexperienced who wants touch that much would not be able to say no. Darryl wouldn't understand. Simon couldn't be sure couldn't be sure he'd know his own mind. Darryl might even like it and never think it was wrong, all of his life, but that would, well that would be...

Simon doesn't know what to think.

Damn him for telling Simon he's a vampire. Damn Darryl for trusting him. He has four, five days left. Why why why why.

Can't tell him. Doesn't even know what he'd say. It's not like Simon lusts after him, he just wants this easy. He just wants this easy, and thinks maybe he's the little kid here, and that's what he don't want to face. He is not strong enough to break these barriers down and say something, damn it.

“Something on your mind?”

Simon shifts his chin against his hand.

“Nah. Just tired.”

“Yeah.”

Overhead, a koala slowly stretches out a clawed hand, pulls a branch down, and takes a bite. The poisons in the leaves leak out, but its small brain is immune. Chews.

“So, super speed?”

“Pardon?” Darryl looks up from his tax forms, a pencil held aloft questioningly in the air. Simon is sitting on the other side of the table, chewing his own pen and staring downwards at a partially-filled crossword puzzle. His hair has fallen in front of his eyes, golden in the lamplight.

“Vampire question again.”

“Oh.” A creak as the chair is tilted onto its rear legs. The dusty wool coat draped across its back just brushes the wooden floor, depositing little lines of orange below. “Ran about as fast as everyone else in primary school.”

“Weren't on any sports teams after that?”

“Wasn't in school.”

Simon's head jerks up, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted. “Really?” he asks. “Isn't it required here, for people to attend until they're sixteen?”

Darryl gives him a sardonic look. “Unless a parent takes over their teaching,” he says. “I believe your people call it 'homeschool'.”

“Ah.” Red flashes up across the boy's fair cheeks. “Sorry. I'm just used to this place being strange.”

Darryl notices that he says the place, not the person. But is that what he means, he wonders. Does Simon find him strange? Is that why he asks all these questions, so that he can satisfy his curiosity about something that bothers him?

Darryl realizes that he can just ask, if he really wants to know. “And me?” he puts in quietly, after too long a silence.

Simon's brow wrinkles, then smooths. “Yeah, well, you're pretty different than anyone else I know. All my friends are from the city, and my family might live on the outskirts but it's still pretty urban. Certainly none of them know how to, oh, shear a sheep or chop firewood. And you're—older. Not in years, I guess, but just the way you act. Mature, I guess.”

Darryl stills, but for a finger running up and down the side of his pencil. Is that a complement? he wonders. Should he say thank you? He certainly feels older, he knows. His muscles ache from daily work, and his skin, damaged from years under the sun, seems much more lined than that of his two-years-junior friend. Some days he feels so tired he scarcely wants to rise from bed.

Maybe it's the vampirism, he thinks with idle amusement. Not super speed or strength, but exhaustion, weariness, aging. Drink blood, die quickly. Well, why not? What guarantee does he have that Hollywood and a few centuries of imaginative writers are right, after all?

“Did I say the wrong thing again?”

Darryl raises his head, flashes a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “No, no worries. Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”

“Eight letter word for a green pepper?” A returned smile.

“Capsicum.”

“You're kidding.” Brows raised, Simon writes that down, then spends a while muttering to himself. “What the hell are chooks?”

"Chickens."

"Huh."

The next few minutes are filled with little but that and the scratching of pens against paper.

“Um...” Hesitant.

“Yeah?”

A silence, long enough that Darryl looks up again. Simon's eyes are turned towards the window, but focused on nothing in particular, just gazing out as far as he can see. His lips part and close again. “Yeah?” Darryl repeats again, gently.

“Just...” Simon reaches up and rests his chin in his palm, tapping a finger against the side of his jaw. “Is there anything, um, human problems I should know about you? Like, diabetes, allergies, history of cancer, whatever?”

Amused, and a little confused about why his friend seems to be so embarrassed about this, Darryl sets down his pencil and stretches. “Nothing really. My nose itches a bit in the spring. That's about all I can think of.”

“Right.”

Simon doesn't ask any more questions. Darryl glances up at him now and then, wondering if somehow he said the wrong thing. Is it just that Simon needs him to be different, that causes his new silence? Is he suddenly more fascinating, if he is a vampire with diabetes, and since he isn't, does that make him no longer of interest?

He remembers what Simon said about his greatest worry: that he would never have anything interesting or unique to write about. Is it that Simon needs him to be his subject?

As the silence continues, Darryl starts to get annoyed again, in that actually-worried way, and then he just gets embarrassed. Oh.

He clears his throat and says softly, "What about you?"

Simon glances up again. "Sorry?"

"Do you have any 'whatever'?"

"Oh." Simon smiles instinctively and softens somewhat. His guess had been right. "Um. Asthma as a child, I guess. It got better as I got older. Other than that--nothing, I suppose, except for my--how did you put it?--scrawny academic looks."

"I don't know if that's an affliction."

Simon stares at him, places his pen on the table with a sharp click. "Are you flir--" He shuts his mouth with a snap, looking somewhat uneasy and off at the window again. "Never mind," he mutters. A shake of his head, pale hair scattering in the dying sunlight. "I guess it depends on who you ask," he says instead. "It's an affliction when I have to hold sheep down."

"Yeah, but that's the cure, right? Exercise, I mean."

"Yeah." Anything for that shy smile and the slight downward flick of green eyes.

They work in silence again for a while. Eventually Simon taps his pen three times against a blank square on his puzzle and says, "My mom's got cancer, though."

Darryl tenses in his chair, subtly, because he is rarely anything but relaxed. He doesn't know what to say. He knows how his world would splinter into a thousand pieces if he heard something had happened to his mum. But he knew that might just be because she's the only one he has. They are the world of each other. But Simon, with his large golden family and dozens of friends--would he feel as sad as I would, he wonders? Or would it be different?

No, he decides. A mum is a mum. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says softly. "Truly."

"Yeah," says Simon, staring at the crossword. "It's--well, she'll get better. I mean, she's gotten better, it's just about gone now. That's why I was able to come here. I was going to stay home to help watch the kids, but my dad said I might not get another chance to visit this place and that he'd be fine with the girls, and Mom would be home again soon."

"I'm--" What can he say? "I'm glad you were able to make it here. And I hope your mother recovers soon."

Simon smiles again. "Me too," he says. Then, sudden animation: he snaps his fingers and straightens up sharply in his chair. "Rhubarb!"

"Pardon?" Darryl asks, drawing back slightly.

"Red pie filling ending with 'b'."

Darryl sighs, shakes his head, and smiles too.

Later that evening, he goes out for firewood and when he comes back, Simon hands him a cup of tea. Darryl is suddenly so helplessly pleased as he takes it that he has to stand for a few minutes in the doorway, blinking. This is something I have never had, he thinks, looking down at the thoughtful gesture someone else had given to him. This is something I may never have again. Treasure it.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“No worries.”

They stand by the fire, warming their feet and hands as they drink. Large white moths flutter against the window outside, attracted by the light of the flames. Their antenna look furry to the touch, but Darryl thinks he remembers hearing that the oils of human hands will kill moths, so he's never tried. He pulls the shutter down so that they can't see the light, though, and don't die on the glass.

"Can..." Simon's voice is faint, still tea warm, moth-wing white, timid as a wounded wallaby. "Can I ask the big question?"

Darryl wonders what that is, and how the hell he's supposed to know. "Reckon so."

A soft puff of breath, tremulous. "No, I mean, well, you don't need to answer if you don't want to. But--how'd you get to be a vampire?"

The aforementioned surprises him by grinning. His teeth are still a little pointed, maybe, but not unlike anyone else's. "That one's not hard. Genetics. I was born like this."

"Really?" Simon sounds interested, and relieved. He smiles and sets his mug on the fireplace ledge. "That's a new one."

"Wouldn't know, mate. But my mum likes to tell the story of how she found out--while I was breastfeeding. She still has the scar."

Simon has to stay silence for a few moments, working on the mental image of that one. "Ah," he manages after awhile. He's not sure whether to be amused or pleasantly disturbed. It would make a good story detail, he thinks. "And what did she think about that?"

"I suppose she didn't mind," Darryl replies. "I think she might have been glad to have another one around; she doesn't really know any other vampires, except some penpal she's got in Switzerland."

"Wouldn't one of her parents be one too, if it's genetic?" Simon wonders aloud, trying to remember some middle school biology. "Or is it some recessive gene?"

He doesn't quite catch the way Darryl tenses, but he hears it in his friend's voice. "Nah," he says, too casual. "She was bitten. My--father."

"Oh," Simon says. Where to backpedal, and where had he left his training wheels, and how did he get down this dark alleyway anyway? "Ah." He's usually good at figuring out what to say, it goes with the writing territory, but this time he doesn't. Congratulations about the potential immortality, sorry about the eternal curse, hope it turns out for the best, I know you are least were worth it. Don't tread in this area. Stupid, he thinks, I'm so stupid sometimes. Where do you go to learn how to talk about this stuff? "I'm sorry, man."

"No worries."

It doesn't quite feel enough, so when they're going to bed after the footie game, Simon pauses in his doorway and calls out softly. "Darryl?"

"Yeah?"

Wets his lips, tenses his hand on the doorknob, thinks brave thoughts. "You're--a good guy."

Simon goes in before he has to say much else, letting the somewhat puzzled "Thanks?" close in with the door. He stands there, one pale, red-sunburn-spotted hand on the knob, and stares at the bed for a long time. This is where Darryl's mom had slept, he knows. What the hell am I doing to your son, he wonders. What the hell is he doing to me. And, most important--is it okay?

The moon shines in so silver-white bright through the window, but it has no reply for him.