Archive of Our Own

Equidistant

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It was when I hit fifteen did I slowly realise my life was going downhill.

Okay, not exactly downhill. It was more upwards and shaken, like the jaunty end of a long car ride. Now, my world sort of bounces and jitters, or rolls away flat on more calm nights. But hey, let me start somewhat at the beginning.

I actually wasn't just fifteen when my world hit a miniature hurricane. I was middle fifteen, middle of adolescence and all that good stuff; middle of the year, exactly a half way point from here and the upcoming slant of sixteen. My life until that moment hadn't been perfect. I'd spent a good portion of thirteen sitting through smashing plates and raised voices; I'd learned to define the husky shouts of my near absent dad and the thin, tired whispers of my all too present mother. Mother knows best, and yeah, Mom lived by that rule. It was as if she felt that the empty space Dad should have inhabited carved out its own emptiness in us as well. She tried so hard to compromise, with sneaky dollar bills pushed into our hands beneath tables and the almost overpowering smells of our "favourite" meals. I got sick from roast turkey and my cheeks ached from grinning, but I did it anyway for Michael was silent and surly, and I was the bright spark, the irresistibly buoyant baby brother.

Or so sitcoms dictated, at least on my beloved MTV.

I tried my best to fill it. Like a worn old actor on Broadway, I would break out on stage, heckling gimmicks and shit eating smile applied like social lipstick. I would perform, the tired old audience would clap, and I would retreat into my box, folding up my limbs and sore lips and pain like a old puppet in a suitcase.

If you ever get to the certain platform my life is on at the moment, you're supposed to forget this. Piece by piece, the grains of sand that compact together to make your earlier memories fall away, forever eliminated by this new life. Alan seems pretty confident I will forget. He tells me so, in the few moments he actually feels like talking.

Which is rare.

But he tells me in such a way, with that little smile of his, and well, I find it difficult to trust Alan, especially when he smiles.

Scary as fuck smile.

Fourteen was spent in stuffy offices with suited balding men and hordes of thick paperwork; so much ink and paper that permitted a barrier to freedom, for all of us. Dad came around and hollowed. Mom lay in bed and cried, patterning old pillows in watery mascara. There was a special indent in Michael's room, right next to his door, where he'd punched the plaster so hard it had finally caved.

I buried myself in comics and the budding teenage rebellion of MTV and clustered shops brimming with clothes all colours of the rainbow. I learned how to style my hair perfectly; there was a smirking kid behind the bike sheds who poked a heated needle through my earlobe. He'd pinched the Bunsen burner from the science department at school. My ear stung white hot razors, my eyes ached from the banal glare of television and I stood out, colourful and loud and refusing to get stepped on. I learned not to really care about school, as my grades were good no matter if I studied or not, and soon my grin slid on with ease. I'd always been popular. No trouble there.

I would go home and cook dinner for Mom and wait for Michael, sandwich on the side, to get back from seniors. Michael was never late. He never saw girls or went out drinking or smoked pot. In some ways I hoped he would. It would have been far more normal.

The divorce came through just after my fifteenth birthday. Money was scant, Mom said, although I could see the crinkles deepening around her eyes at how the locals looked at her, looked at us, and especially how they looked at me. What we all needed was a new start, she declared, through my pained smiles and Michael's silence. And before I knew it, we were packing off to Santa Carla.

Michael claimed to have all these hazy, golden memories of Santa Carla, from when we were kids. I can't say I remember much of it, for I seriously don't think any of it actually happened. Summers in Phoenix were hot wastelands; the dusty inner city burn of urban life. Winds were still, air was polluted by a toxic melting pot of sweat and grit and life. Phoenix was vast and dynamic and sweltering. And to think; for a while, I thought I belonged there.

Santa Carla was hot; a brisk, energetic heat that inspired movement. As we drove, Mom chatted animatedly to me about past ventures as a hippie in her hometown, completely missing out the time and place she met Dad. If he was a major part of the patchwork that contributed to the long years of her life, then she had been plucking each thread undone and crumbling it away with her delicate fist. People who meet my mother say she can't do anger. Bullshit. Mom could do anger, but in a passive aggressive kind of way that I must say, I've inherited in full. I was so used to the firmness in her mouth and tension creasing her forehead that seeing her so happy...tired, but happy, was a shock to my already singed senses.

I could go on for ages about Santa Carla. It was a weird place, populated by burn outs with wonky hairstyles, tourists in bad shorts, pretty boys and hardnosed women. Everyone in a smock was an ex-hippie. Everyone who bore a logoed t-shirt was a pothead. The majority of surfers were lazy types, addicted to surf and little else, and some of these idiots ran around with shark tooth earrings and hazardous tops with Surf Nazi scrawled across toughened biceps. It was a huge, multicultural mess of a town. Brittle and broken and damn beautiful.

Those weren't exactly my first thoughts when we first passed the infamous Murder Capital of the World sign. As if they would ever be that poetic. I scouted the streets for my favourite shops stocking my best brands, but all I could see were rows and rows of ice cream shacks and quaint little cafes. I was excited about the prospect of a carnival on the boardwalk, although it was rusty and old and was possibly one hell of a safety nightmare. It was the boardwalk I wanted to see. I was halfway fifteen at that point, halfway me, and for some weird reason, I just really wanted to see the boardwalk.

Get the hint yet?

Grandpa's house fitted the mood of Santa Carla well. It had all the dignity of some rustic hunting lodge, although Grandpa did no hunting. Not of the animal variety, but we weren't in the know yet. Grandpa was a taxidermist, and a proud one at that. Each nook and cranny of the rambling old house was strung out with his gruesome wares. It was a big place, but pretty old. It had been Mom who'd nagged Grandpa enough to get a phone the previous year, so a television was out of the question.

Michael and I did the usual sibling thing of arguing about rooms. Michael won, but in a way, I let him win. It was rare to see him smile.

Despite it all, I still felt that odd little pull to the boardwalk. Earlier in the day, it had been buzzing and lively, everyone so involved in the atmosphere they seemed to be lost in it. And maybe I wanted to lose myself in it as well, even just for a while.

Mum insisted on coming along, bundling both of us in the car. Michael gritted his teeth and peered out the window, arms folded. I kicked the back of his seat until he had to turn and bat at my legs with his pinching fingers of doom. He scowled, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

The boardwalk reminded me of these huge parties, the kind you would never get invited to usually, but somehow you knew the friend of a friend or something and just tagged along for the heck of it. Michael snuck me a grin, and yanked me through the crowds; away from Mom's worrisome smile and the old car, into a large stadium that was currently throwing a free concert. It was an off kilter choice for Mike. He preferred slow string ballads to hair raising jazz saxophones, but I followed anyway, grateful at a final distraction. And hey, it was good music.

It took me a while to realise my brother was distracted.

It was sort of there when my jaunty car ride began. The road behind was bumpy, but the lane ahead was thwart with cavernous holes.

I followed his lingering stare, and realised the holder of Mike's attention was a girl with dark curly hair. She kept catching Michael's gaze, before snatching her eyes away at the last minute, and I felt a sudden bolt of impatience at this faux little love story. I playfully tapped Michael's cheek to the side, as the guy was now giving the blonde chick from Fatal Attraction a run for her money. But the next thing I knew, Michael's arm was closing around my shoulder and I was being hauled through the throngs of people in a show of hot blooded male pursuit.

Michael spoke to me in clipped tones, evidently pissed at my presence, and I ducked from under his arm. Before, I'd been a friend. Now, I was just the little brother, and I'd reached that clause without actually having a part in it. That would have frustrated me if I hadn't been so openly distracted myself at that point, enough for Michael to slip from my side and chase the girl into the crowds.

Looking back, I do miss Frog Comics. It really was a great place, more packed then any library in terms of the crime fighting costumed men and all their adventures that had so entranced me as a teen. It had baskets and shelves and stacks brimming with every comic imaginable. It wasn't that big a shop; it only sported two gangways, pillars and racks separating them. It was a dark little place, or it was that night. It was shrouded in neon from the outside and the shadows of multiple colourful papers inside. It smelt of dust and old newsprint. I waltzed in, knocking past two giggling girls, and sidled up to the Batman section.

It's about here that the floodwaters begin to rise.

I didn't know what to expect. Well, I did, being in a comic shop and all that, which to me at halfway fifteen was a personal heaven. I was halfway here, in dead way Santa Carla, halfway through my life thus far. And then it came around the corner, and I was suddenly just fifteen and Santa Carla was suddenly a place, a place in which I belonged.

It was a boy.

Cliché, right?

There had been boys in Phoenix. It wasn't like I had never seen a boy before, god knows up until that point my life wouldn't have been worth living. Back home, there had been boys, better looking boys with trendy haircuts and stupid sweaters and flashy sneakers. Boys who liked guys and boys who liked girls and boys who wore their Sunday best to church...just you know, boys.

But this wasn't like any boy I'd ever seen before.

The heat of his glare had got my attention, and he held my attention enough for me to drink in the soft curve of his jaw, the flat line of his mouth and the stern hazel of two stony eyes. His nose was slightly snubby, his clothes sort of military inspired, but strangest of all was a red bandana immersed in the fair mop of his hair. He had a folder propped open in his hands, a pen tucked behind his ear. He obviously worked here. I saw him give my attire a once over, before resuming his scrutiny.

I'll be honest. I wasn't blown away, but nor did I think I was meant to be. I hadn't realised then what this meeting meant, what it would mean...what it would mean now.

His odd fascination was shared by another boy, who I spied through the wired shelves. He was dark haired and dead eyed, and looked at me as if I brought in a bad smell. As I made my way around the shop, I bumped my arm against the bandana wearing stoic. Not even a blink.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to think of the two brothers. Maybe besides the notion they actually were brothers. Whether they were gonna make small talk or jump me and steal my pocket money, it was hard to tell. By their expressions, the latter seemed far more likely.

The second brother had been Alan Frog. A sneering son a bitch, and god, that hasn't changed. And of course...the Rambo wannabe. The standstill in Sam Emerson's life. Edgar Frog.

So why exactly was this guy a hurricane? I can't say I actually know. It must have been a sort of low level uprising within the cracking bubble that was my world; slipping under the surface, and expanding and widening to such an extent until I had to take notice of it. But then, back in the summer of 1986, it held for me little impact and affection. But that was then, however fleeting and stupid a moment and this is now.

Alan is still insistent I'll forget.

Sometimes, I borderline wish I could follow his advice and do so. But all these memories collect and assemble some kind of barrier between what I was then and what I am now. It locks within me and keeps some part of me alive, the way I used to be.

I don't want to go into the whole vamp fiasco. How the Frogs pushed a survival manual disguised as a comic book in my hands, how Michael woke up one morning and was no longer my brother, how I'd come this close to being devoured in a freaking bubble bath by an approaching force devised of nothing but feral need, how my mother dated some gawky freak in bad glasses, how I came to know names such as Star and Laddie and David without actually having any reference for them, how Edgar became my friend and Alan a close ally, how I shot down a dark haired good looking vamp with a bow and arrow, and how Santa Carla wrapped itself around me and refused to let me go.

I didn't realise that at the time though.

Of course, I wouldn't have.

I was a constant in terms of the Frogs, though. In a world full of people generic in their desire to be out there and odd, to actually be around people who were generally weird and considered so even by the laid back town of Santa Carla, was just too cool for me to pass up. The Frogs were strange in the fact they knew exactly what they wanted from life. They were hard and used to living already, even from a young age, although that may have been more to do with the pot riddled parent then any actual choice. They conducted common sense in chaos.

In a time we were most chaotic...bodies changing and hormones clashing and chasing...they seemed completely solid, a sign of stability, even with the crazy shit of hunters and vampires.

But maybe they weren't as removed from this world as they claimed to be.

I was about fourteen when I figured I liked guys. But so much had been going on at that time, so much pain fuelled papers and court hearings that I thought it was just a little hormonal upheaval. I didn't want to upset Mom anymore then she already was. But when I got past the halfway point, when I hit sixteen and stepped into that rickety car, did I realise that my first instincts had been right. I did like guys.

We were nearing seventeen when this happened.

I'd been friends with the Frogs for nearly two summers, and nearly everything in between. I'd sort of become their unofficial third wheel, or as I preferred to see it, their wise cracking go between. We were close, crazily close; we rarely hung out with anyone else. The summers were long, hot...crackling warmth that seemed to seep not only into our skin and nerves, but between us.

It was about mid-August, and Jesus, it was one of those feverishly off kilter summers. Alan was sick with some kind of heat mad virus, and was upstairs in my bedroom wrapped in linen sheets with fresh glasses of cool water, supplied by my worried mother. She always freaked over the Frogs, always trying to fatten them up or buy them small things, like t-shirts or hats, or small toiletries. Even Alan would say thank you to my mother. Thinking back, I do sometimes miss her, although it's dulled by some kind of red tinted haze. In my memories, I miss her. In person, I don't.

We were planning to go to the beach, but Edgar was reluctant to leave his brother and I knew Alan would hate it if we went anywhere without him. We couldn't really approach him ether; he was horribly contagious, or so a mussed looking Star had mumbled, tripping over her own feet as she ambled down the stairs.

To compromise, Michael found some dime store inflatable pool that had been gathering dust behind a rotting Santa in the shed. It was large and deep; we pumped it up in the garden, and filled it with lukewarm water to cool the scorching red on our skin. I had no qualms about stripping down to my swimsuit and jumping into the rubbery thing. Edgar twisted his hands around his t-shirt, and after some heckling from me, narrowed his eyes and removed his top. He didn't touch his jeans, swatting my teasing hands away, until I looped my finger around his fly and gave it a tug.

He froze then. I caught his gaze, my lips inclining into one of my secret smiles. It was one of my little ways only he was becoming privy to, but he didn't return my widening grin or back away from the electricity in my gaze.

He grunted then, and he removed his own jeans, leaving him bare in boxers.

I barked with laughter, my hold on his arm a little harsh. I needled if Alan wore briefs, but he turned his head and muttered he wouldn't know. That was bullshit; they were brothers. They even shared a bed, as lack of funds rendered them too poor to even bother about better sleeping conditions. But the sudden sombre hardness in his tone culled my desire to tease. I worried sometimes if I pushed too hard, was too demanding of his attention, he would flake away and leave me alone. I was feeling this for a reason I wasn't aware of yet.

He finally slipped in beside me, and we got to laughing and being young, stupid...reckless.

Sweat speckled my forehead. I was boiling. My gelled hair was damp, clinging to the back of my neck and the base of my brow. Beside me, Edgar was speaking, something about shoplifters and vampires, and a possible connection, but I was suddenly drawn to his mouth, the hardening jut of his jaw, and as he lifted his arm to gesture, tendrils of water slid down his flesh and plopped into the warming water.

A sharp cuff broke my concentration.

"You listening, Mr Mallrat?"

He was watching me intently, eyes bright with irritated affection. He duffed my head lightly again, smirking, and I went to exact my revenge.

I must have flopped forward too strongly, for my momentum brought the pool with me. It flipped over us, covering us and drenching us through to our skin. I slammed my hips into Edgar, who growled deep in his throat, thrown back by my weight. We smacked into the grass, and Edgar shivered, suddenly cold by the liquid cooling on his flesh, his eyes closing to complete the effect.

I don't know why, but I...

Well, I did. And suddenly there, I got everything.

I was kissing him.

There was nothing tentative about it; I'd interlocked my leg around his knee, my hands were planted firmly on his face, and I kissed him. Rocks were digging into my shin; I could feel blood burning against my skin, smearing down Edgar's calves, and he was still, below me.

His fingernails were cutting into my arms. He was so much stronger then I; if he had wanted, he could have hurled me back and pummelled my face in. But he didn't. He seemed to shrink, and as I moved against him, I could feel my own body responding. The friction made him gasp; he sucked in breath through his teeth, the heat of his cheeks scalding my fingertips. Brashly, I ripped out my spare hand and tiptoed it down his chest, questioningly prodding the entrance to his boxers.

He couldn't quite articulate my name. He shuddered, his tongue jerking against mine, and I took that as consent enough. I slipped my hand in, and he gave a brief, strangled shout.

Footsteps crunched on glass, and I rolled off quick, lying beside him on the paving. The sun burned through the blood orange of the old paddling pool, stinging our flesh a dozy yellow. As a laughing Michael lifted the inflatable, Edgar's eyes flashed at me. He got to his feet without a word, and marched towards the house.

A bleary eyed Alan was resting against the door frame, sneering in our general direction. He coughed into Lucy's lace hankie, wiping his nose suspiciously as his stone faced brother passed him without a greeting. I was on my feet, dashing towards the two of them. The grass was dry beneath my wrinkled soles; I tripped on the paving, and collided with the decking of our conservatory.

Michael was above me in a moment, as was a slow walking Alan. I heard the clatter of saucepans as Lucy dropped what she was doing, and the rustle of her skirt coming closer. There were a series of blurs above me, swimming deliriously in my line of vision. The throb of a blossoming cut stole across my forehead, and I groaned, gritting my teeth. Hair stuck to the gash, and as I went to move them, someone else did it for me.

"You're an idiot, Sam."

It was a familiar growl, but the worry in Edgar's eyes was stark. He glared down at me, his jaw clenched, but he was near enough cradling my head in his lap. Star was bringing over antiseptic, and Laddie bit his lower lip so badly it began to bleed. Lucy was scolding me hotly, but there was moisture building in her eyes, and Michael lightly chucked my chin. Alan crossed his arms, tutting, but nudged me with his foot, which was pretty much the same as giving me a fully-fledged hug. But Edgar was there, floating above me like some wonderful fever dream, and I instantly felt better.

We never talked of it.

Edgar was good at pretending nothing was up. Too good.

I remember on one very rare occasion, finding out the Frog Bros had a fight. I'd just pedalled over on a cool day in November, to find the store half closed. I'd barely slunk in halfway when Edgar burst from the back door, fists trembling. His lips were set in a thin line, his chest squared, as if expecting a confrontation. He paused when he saw me; his shoulder slumped a little at my quiet questions. He wouldn't tell me the problem, but the lingering silence pervading from above and Edgar hiding a pair of broken dog tags in his pocket was more than enough.

For so long, before and just after Santa Carla, my feelings had been so scattered. Each phone call to Phoenix was fixed with awful tension. We couldn't mention Dad's name, for Mum's lip would purse and Grandpa would rip out an animal's organs with a little more gusto then before. And after vampires, after a cave I had only seen once and a blonde fellow with ashen skin I had only seen deceased, did Michael begin to descend into long, gloomy silences, shut off from us all. Sometimes, Star could reach him, and so could I, if I perceived long enough. But there came a time when all attempts at cracking his solitude wasted away to nothing. Star and I would look at each other with mirrored worry.

In the middle of all these rubble that made up my life so far, Edgar was there. He didn't do anything. He just centred himself in my life, unchanging and grounded deep. Over the upcoming years, our friendship thickened and deepened. For a short while, even with Michael's gradual fade into silence (until the time he didn't respond at all) we were happy. If I'm honest, I hadn't been happier before in my life, and after the bathing fiasco, I was faced with this wonderful...damn painful reason.

I wasn't halfway. I wasn't nearly anywhere. I was there.

Yeah, but all things end.

It ended.

It was a stakeout. We were all older, pretty much an accomplished trio. The years that had all merged into a happy mesh drained away slowly as some red lipped bitch drained her wrist into Alan's mouth.

I had seen Edgar emote many times before. Drank in every mood, every subtlety...I could pretty much read him as well as Alan could, or so I liked to think.

Raw heartbreak was not something I acquainted with Edgar.

He would have never admitted it. He was far too tough to admit it. But the look he gave his brother, who was gasping and bloodied and hungry...the look was a mingling of everything we'd shared over the past years. It was Alan punching his shoulder as Edgar misplaced the shop's funds, or letting Edgar read the latest Batman before him, or striding up to some flat nosed bully and giving him a black eye for winding his brother. Nobody touched Edgar. It was the sense of comfortable stagnancy between them, how they could read each other without a word, how close they were, enough that Edgar could say anything...do anything...and Alan would accept. And likewise.

It was a closeness I had been severely jealous of, but now all I felt was bile rising in my throat. I wasn't just witnessing the destruction of everything the Frogs held dear, but also Edgar's world.

The time after that was in a word, awful. Michael disappeared soon after. I recall lying on the landing, whacking a ball against his door. It was something he used to hate. If I hit hard enough, maybe he would reappear and chase me down the stairs, trying to trip me and mess up my hair. Like he used to.

I spent the next few weeks with Edgar. I even brought my own camp bed, and I'd curl up on the floor of his bedroom. Edgar religiously slept on the right side of the bed; Alan's gap grew vacant and cold. He'd left this gigantic hole in Edgar, in me...between us. I stayed away from the dark cage of my home and grieving mother, and Edgar soon gave up on his room altogether and we bunked on the inky floors of the comic store.

In those days, I would help out with the shop. In the evenings, we would walk along empty beaches, stakes in our back pockets, and dine on cold Chinese and flat soda. This is where Edgar is most defined in my memories. Sand between the rough skin of his toes. His hair caught alight by the fading light of the sun. His eyes flooded with something I couldn't reach. Between us, there existed only silence and a weird kind of comfort.

During our sleepovers, I would stay awake and hear him cry out in his sleep. He would thrash away blankets with kicking legs, moaning with a distress that made him seem do damn young.

One night, I woke up.

Edgar had pushed his sleeping bag close to mine. Usually, he slept near the counter, but he'd pulled the heavy duvet and pillow and settled it beside my head. He was coiled up into his covers, fists binding batman patterned blankets over his head. In the half neon lights of the pinball machine, I could see the glisten of moisture on his cheeks.

I moved the hair from his eyes, and watched him sleep until dawn came creeping beneath the shutters and I dropped off in the safety of early morning sun.

I sound pretty lovesick, don't I? Well, I was. Heh. I had it pretty bad. I still do. Kinda pathetic, as Alan so enjoys pointing out.

That ended aswell.

The phone call came quickly; an assortment of hurried grunts and scrambled words, all of which translated to Alan and threat and stay away.

By the time I'd gotten to the comic store via Michael's old bike, I found it to be empty. I checked everywhere, even scurrying through the messy remains of Edgar's belongings and creaking open the Frog Parent's door. But Edgar was gone, without as much as a note or farewell or address. Edgar was gone...without me, and I was numb.

The bastard had left me behind. In godforsaken Santa Carla; in a lonely old house with a struggling mother and a cluster of strangers. Michael had hightailed it outta there, gone where the hell neither of us knew. There was nothing for me there, not a damn iota of anything, and my sleeping feelings bubbled and rocked into a mishmash of hate and affection, because the son a bitch had done it to keep me safe.

Fuck if it was the only way he knew how.

At the time, I was furious. I felt utterly betrayed, in a way that was radically apart from my useless Dad or Michael's disappearance.

If it hadn't been for the littlest ex night crawler...Laddie...I most possibly would have gone off the deep end a lot sooner.

Laddie was a good kid. Over the years, he'd matured beyond his status as a mute besides Star, and after Michael's downfall and Star's agony, we'd grouped together and became friends. We were friends more than we were ever makeshift brothers. Up until that point, I was sick of brothers.

I managed to secure a small apartment over a tiny tourist shop, which sold ice-cream and cheap t-shirts. To pay my rent, I worked there and spent my evenings with Laddie, who would cycle down to drink beer in the cooling shade of late afternoon. Both of us got lazy. I'd long since avoided taking out stakes or holy water, although Laddie always had a clove of garlic in the worn backs of his jeans. He was quite a silent person really, who'd listened to me spill my guts on more than one occasion. I was grateful but also a little guilty. Nearing eighteen, Laddie was a little more than good-looking, with his grey eyes and aloof nature. I wasn't blind to the attention he got from girls. A part of me wanted him to break loose from Santa Carla, to chase after pretty women and have a life outside my quiet dependence and lukewarm beer.

I and Laddie got close. Scarily close. Star was still his number one confidante, but she eventually blossomed at the idea of Laddie having an "elder brother" figure he could talk to and rely on. My mom thought it was cute, how we were always together. Soon, Laddie became more than a regular at my workplace. He began to nap on my couch, before we pulled in an old camp bed and a beaten up old closet to store his few belongings. When the guy who owned the store dropped dead of a heart attack the following month, leaving his store to whoever had been working there at the time, I had more than decent money and Laddie moved in as a shop boy and roommate.

I stocked away all my anti vamp gear. In a way, I felt like I was folding up Edgar; pressing him down and shoving him carelessly into the drawer. I sure as hell didn't want him to be a part of my life anymore, even if he so was.

Laddie knew I missed Edgar. I guess now he knew more then he should have done, maybe about Michael and Edgar and the empty space that used to be called Alan. He brought back a few girls, but only ever to talk and occasionally mess around. He never went any further than that. I wondered sometimes...just sometimes, when the silences stretched on a little longer then they should and I heard the pad of his feet across the landing, crossing and recrossing the small area that contained my bedroom. I woke one night to find him swinging his legs from my window sill, observing the night outside. It was times when he did things like that which made him still seem like a kid, although the way he caught my eye was anything but childlike.

To say I wasn't attracted to him would be a lie. I was, quite strongly, although the pull seemed to be only curiosity on his part, and looking back, he maybe didn't bring back girls out of common courtesy for me. I was extremely fond of the kid...still am, to be exact. And from a more balanced perspective, although I'd love to say he was drawn to my dashing good looks and sense of style, he properly hung out around my bedroom and around me for some kind of comfort. He missed his brothers, he missed Edgar and Alan, and I was the last remnant of that old world.

I began to think about leaving Santa Carla behind. About taking Laddie with me. A silent voice inside murmured about finding Edgar Frog.

That Christmas, I ignored Dad's card. I saw Mom scouring the pile for Michael's handwriting. Star had long since stopped checking the post or watching the roads. She sat apart, running her hands through Laddie's hair and asking what he would like for the big day. A blur of colour drew my eye. Sitting under a card from some distant aunt Jillian or something, was a postcard with my name stamped on it.

I overturned it quickly. It wasn't from Michael. Or Dad.

It was from Edgar.

Quickly scrawled on the side, in smudgy blue biro, was this;

Sam,

Hope you're okay. Keep safe.

Edgar

The front was a gaudy picture of a beach and some lack lustre looking seagulls. But it was Edgar's cramped little consonants and droopy vowels, and the way he had signed his name, a little lilt in the ending r and the main E flicked up straight and tall.

My breath caught so high in my throat I thought I would pass out.

That bastard.

Bastard.

I'd been doing so well. Getting my own place, setting up a job, patching up Mom and getting along with Star, and of course...Laddie...but this one card, this tiny message, which for anti-social Edgar meant a mountain...screwed up my chest and gritted my teeth and threw me back, back into the jumbled madness of my emotions, of my memories, and I banged from the room so quickly Lucy dropped the tinsel and Star blinked through the mad mat of her hair. Laddie followed me, out of the door and across the yard.

I sat on the old porch near the empty shed, my head in my hands. From between my splayed fingers, I could see Laddie hovering near the front door, the dark grey of his eyes wide and concerned. My lips twitched. He was such a sweet kid, and I quite fancied keeping him.

Edgar had been trying to be kind; maybe keep some semblance of our friendship alive. Unknowingly, he killed me a little more each time. And just like that, I slipped a little back, into so much of what I had been trying to forget.

It was the following June when it happened.

It was just starting to get fry-eggs-on-the-pavement hot. Money was pouring in on all directions, for the shop was busy and the tourist community extra demanding on their ice creams and cheap plastic buckets. I worked behind the counter, winking and grinning at each approaching customer; pretending to flirt with girls in summer dresses and boys in tight shorts had its upsides. Laddie heaved boxes outside, sorting out our new stock, and wading off all attention. Star, between running a tattoo and piercing parlour in the hulk of the main boardwalk, had taken to helping us out when the store got overly crowded. As I slaved over pricing and sand coloured spades, I kept my eyes off the postcard tacked to the board next to my head; the sides were worn by manhandling.

The day dragged into a humid evening. Downstairs, Laddie lounged out on the settee, watching Back To the Future. Sweat had stuck my t-shirt to my back, congealed grime and sand below my feet, and I was desperate for a shower.

Steam flooded the room. I'd just finished washing my hair; although the tea tree oil and fresh splash of water was great, I missed the scented bubbles and space of our large sixties bath back at home. Fishing my damp jeans from the floor, I yanked them up to my waist and stepped from the bathroom.

Propped beside my bed, comic book open on his knees, was Alan Frog.

The sandy brightness of the shop, the way the bracelets on Star's wrists clinked as she walked, the tearing frustration in my mother's smile, the stubborn pictures of Michael that never left the mantel, the feverish sheen of Laddie's eyes...crumbled and wilted, for Alan Frog was there, dropping the comic to the floor and pushing himself off my bed.

And there I was, trembling and human and near naked, my fists bunching the material gathered around my stomach, and I shivered when he touched me, for his fingers were ice yet his eyes were soft. Any wit died on my lips. Laddie was downstairs; I could hear the perky beat of tinny music rising through the floor, yet there was a silence that hung between me and Alan, which spoke of history and an ambiguity that fucking terrified me.

He was near enough the same. He hadn't aged a day; his skin was as smooth, and as unfeeling as marble. His lips curved at my flickering gazes at his attire, which consisted of black jeans and a simple black t-shirt. Behind him, seated on my pillow, was a dirty white cowboy hat.

"It's been a long time, Sam."

I couldn't say anything; the solid black of his eyes drank me in, and all I could emit was a low, frightened moan. He didn't flinch at my evident discomfort, but pressed a chilled palm firmly against my chest, and with his spare hand, gently leant my neck to the side.

It was all so gradual, so bizarrely genteel, that for a fleeting, foolish second, I figured I could have a chance.

"Al...please..."

If there was blood on my hands, Edgar would disown me. I would never see Mom or laugh at Star's jokes, and god, Laddie...

Alan's fangs split through his smile.

I can't actually remember the last few seconds of my weakening humanity. It's a haze of broken skin, breath heaving and rushing through the stilling beat of my heart, the burn of liquid bubbling around Alan's mouth and the nervous trill of Laddie's voice, calling my name. Later, as Alan drove, the blare of streetlamps streaked against the cool dryness of my flesh, and spun moonlight gashes on the car's ceiling. I observed them skate over the windshield, over a smirking Alan, who rubbed his thumb against the corner of my mouth and trailed fingers through my hair.

I was halfway again.

Halfway to a monster, halfway to a man.

My mind jittered; the car shook beneath me and Alan made clicking sounds with his tongue.

"I was planning on bringing Laddie for the ride. What do you say, Sammy?"

I shook my head.

Man.

"You must be thirsty."

My eyes brightened; my stomach twisted, and I sat up straight on Alan's seat; a grin that may or may not have been mine stole across my face.

Monster.

It took me a moment to realise, but Alan was taking me to see Edgar.

He'd parked at a gas station. He was cursing, his headband slipping down his face, his hands hauling the pump firmly into the gasket. He was only a few miles from Santa Carla, and before, this would have enabled a lurch in my chest, but Alan's red fog had gotten under my skin and sterilised the tangled web of my emotions.

As we drove past, Edgar must have recognized the car, for he snapped his head up and scrutinised the dark shades of the windows. He caught a brief glimpse of my pale, thin face, for the pump clattered to the floor. Oil pooled from the leaking tap, spreading around his boots, and I recall I visualised it as blood. He followed us out into the road, fingers fisted deep into his hair. He called Alan's name...the older brother sniggered lightly, as if he'd made off with the latest Batman, and then I heard Edgar scream for me.

I would have broken through the door if Alan hadn't wrenched me backwards. I struggled, hissing; my newly budded fangs biting into my tongue and drawing blood. Alan peeled up his sleeve, tore deep into his own wrist, and forced the bleeding wound to my mouth in a bid to placate me. My swelling hunter burst into life, and all thoughts of Edgar...to seeing Edgar, of getting to and having Edgar, suddenly enwrapped into this new sensation. I wasn't just thirsty for blood. I was thirsty for Edgar's blood.

Hey, I did fight it. Alan's little gift was a one hit wonder. After that, I drunk or starved. He disposed of stray cats found crying in my grasp; he caged me into the small warehouse where he made his sinful living. It was sparsely furnished; cold, although there was a small yearbook of all three of us in it. I scanned through it so many times, that my eyes grew wild and delirious and I pictured red oozing from eyes and mouths and ears. I fled more than once; he would find me, and casually bring me back, sneering through my weakening jokes and jumbled pleas. Sometimes, I would grip his jacket and shake him, eyes blossoming crimson and spikes juttering through my gums, shrieking for freedom through death or relief, and silently, Edgar. He would smile and coolly detach my fingers latched onto his clothing.

He would force me to sleep near him when the sky was high, and the expanding chill of his slumber soaked into my mind and refused me the luxury of dreaming of sand coloured shops and a pair of Laddie's flip-flops tousled amongst the stock and a worn postcard, sliding beneath a brochure and disappearing forever.

And then...then it happened.

I was halfway man, at that point. I can't remember much of the personal or emotional agony, nor do I care to, because frankly, it was an unhappy business. Those angry, ugly months dragged on before I thought I'd go mad with bloodlust and memory and want.

Through it all, Alan whispered to me. Strange things, hateful things, sick little things that swamped my common sense; things that weren't true, for Edgar never truly abandoned me but he didn't trust me enough to take me with him. That Michael found no time in his life for me anymore...he had run, hadn't he? That Laddie had only seen me as some piss poor substitute for his deceased brothers. I was nothing; I was nothing, until he could make me something.

So much energy into splitting the fine hairs of my sanity.

Jesus, it worked aswell. Looking back, I see it was all bullshit. Even Alan freely admits that; never with words, but in the crinkles of his rare smiles and the glacier shine of his eyes. With each whisper, with each new strangled pang of hunger, he dismantled me little by little until he replaced my organs with hate and my conscience with a ripple of my former compassion. He complied me together, slotting each piece into a crooked new design with a clinical, exact eye.

I was now half way monster.

My Grandfather, frail as he was, came looking for me.

Lucy had lost another son. Star...oh god, troubled, wretched Star...and Laddie, who followed Grandpa Emerson into the dank back alleys of our little home.

My hate was beautifully honed. I'd been re imagined, redesigned, into something with the potential for a ruthless ever last, and as Alan silently stepped from the shadows to greet our guests, I hung back, smirking in the shadows.

Upon seeing Alan, Laddie's eyes stretched and he wordlessly gasped. He tugged on Grandpa's checked top in warning, but Grandpa had that famous Emerson persistence, and coldly addressed Alan about my whereabouts.

"Right here, Gramps."

I wouldn't have killed my Grandfather; I didn't want to. I was figuring out Alan's pretentious manipulation plan; I wasn't stupid. I very much knew I was still loved, still missed, as moisture built in Laddie's eyes at my appearance, and Grandpa's face paled.

I still cared for the crusty old fool. We vamps aren't completely devoid of hearts. But he charged at me, stake poised in full attack, and I shot out a claw; twisting his arm behind his back and the sick crack of bones made Laddie start. The beat of blood was suddenly too loud, and the noise was unbearable...or that could have been Laddie's horrified scream as my fangs found Grandpa's flabby throat and the beast inside roared its approval.

Or I did. Or Alan did, in a proud tilt of his chin. Such an accomplished parent.

I dropped Grandpa to the ground, wiping the sticky residue of his blood off my chin. A pound of feet drew mine and Alan's attention; Laddie had spun on his heels and was making for the main walkway, where a battered old truck lay in wait. Poor kid thought he was heading towards salvation. I soon absolved him of that; tearing down the alley and slamming the kid into the wall. Laddie's eyelids fluttered from the crushing press of my bulk; I held him upright, drawing blotchy patterns of blood on his upper arms with my talons.

He stared up at me, still young and sweet and handsome, and I smiled a shadow of my old grin. Teardrops clung to his eyelashes; he curled his hands into my jumper in an effort to push me away, but my strength was too great. Wouldn't it be wonderful to take him back with us? To the darkness of Alan's little hidey hole, where he could drink and unlive and be beautifully conditioned to see the world the way I was beginning to see it.

A little dark, I know. I wasn't completely myself yet; I was currently coming down the slope into monster with a tiny side order of man on the side, but here I was drunk on blood and the first signs of power. Alan loomed over my shadow; cocked an eyebrow at my shivering Laddie, and smarmy bastard, waggled his fingers in hello.

There was suddenly water slicing through my jacket; so hot, so freaking hot, like nothing I'd felt before. It scolded my arm, skin peeling back in ugly clumps, and a stubby hand struck out and grasped Laddie's collar.

Edgar Frog heaved the kid behind him; he glared at me, sorrowful and hateful and hurting, his lips down turning; his eyes wearing the exact same expression from all those years ago, when my hand on his back was the only comfort, the only temporary protection he'd allowed in his world since Alan and their brotherhood vanquished into nothing.

Laddie was sent sprawling into the truck.

Alan was advancing slowly, slinking his hands into his pockets and sneering.

Edgar glanced at him in poorly concealed concern; his eyes darted back to me.

"I was coming back," he said quickly, a stake brandished in the space between me and him. "I was coming back."

To get you.

I opened my arms, just nearing the halfway point between us, and my smile...I can even feel it now, smearing across my face and making even immortal muscles ache.

"You came a little slow, bud."

He'd been my hurricane, my personal tsunami, my reason and pain, and for a while, even a dream. How corny and fucked is that?

The agony was clear on his face, and instead of my trademark empathy, I relished in the sight. However, not to be too out of character, I pouted and winked, as if he was a good looking customer in the sunny hide of my store, and he backed away, his entire body quivering with a mix of anger and regret.

He backpedalled into the truck, slamming the old door shut, and in a screech of tyres, was gone into the night.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

I suppose I'm a monster now. I've reached that conclusive standpoint; I may as well accept it. I interwove myself sneakily into Alan's world, becoming something of a right hand man and occasional boyfriend, and even I must admit; I'm doing well for myself. I have gathering status and above reasonable power. My silver tongue and flirtations are just as necessary as they were in my honey coloured shop, and who knew, there could be a link between ice cream retail and vampires? These memories; however scattered and shattered they are, still herald some power over my choices, for it is in my memories that I am human. It's like stitching together a separate consciousness, and although it is a trivial thing...Alan would say mortal...I like a little indulgence every now and then.

As this brief display of memory has shown.

I still want Edgar though.

Heh.

I haven't changed my mind about that.

Me and Edgar have been involved in little games over the past few months, namely in his consistent desire to kill off Alan's fledglings, and when we do fight, it's all teeth and bite and claw; no banter, nothing. I won't speak unless he will, and the tightening in his jaw tells me stories...and here I was thinking that if I acted as a monster, I would be easy to kill. But somehow, he is searching for something; a tiny echo perhaps, of the friend he knew? Pathetic. In my memories, I crawl beneath my consciousness and crouch behind the narrowed fury of my bloodlust, tears staining my shirt and hands braced over my head.

In moments of madness, I find my stomach churn and my face fall and a small voice, modest and lost, whispers for him to find me.

But Alan reappears, stretching his shadows over my back and I forget. I forget, I forget, I forget...

I heard it along the undead grapevine that Michael is still very much alive; a vampire, and touring the cities with David. He sent me a letter...how archaic, so cute...and told me about how he is looking forward to see me during the summer, when he finally does the full u turn and heads back to Santa Carla. Mom doesn't know I'm a vampire; Star does, and I've trailed her some nights just for the fun of seeing her swing her head, curls flapping in the breeze, to glance cautiously at an empty road full of whispers. She's planning to leave, apparently. Maybe go in search of Edgar and Laddie. I've gotta hand it to Twinkle; she is a consistent survivor. But one of these days, we'll collect her. She will have to survive in our world then.

Laddie is stuck to Edgar's side. This pisses me off beyond all comprehension, as Laddie was a part of my life...fuck Edgar, fuck his mission. Laddie belongs in my fraction of my woods, and when the time comes, it'll be me who'll turn him.

In more moments of madness, I protect the two of them. I sweep past so fast in a blur of black, they fail to see the blue of my eyes or my shit eating smirks as I dispatch their enemies with effortless ease. And here I was thinking...again...that Edgar would be more efficient. I could lie and say I do it so it is me, who kills them, but Alan would never harm his brother and even I have standards. I'm protective of Laddie and still harbouring a lifelong crush on Edgar...now an unlife one...why on earth would I want him dead?

Edgar is too damn smart for his own good.

One of our legendary head to head battles took place between the stillborn horses of the dark carousal at midnight. It was funny actually, how we both took care not to damage Santa Carla's most iconic relic. But Edgar bested me (which is rare) and had me backed up into one of the old carriages. His scowl was lined with his trademark determination, but the stake wavered, and this time, he was the first to speak.

"You've been interfering."

I knew what he was referring to...of course I did. I didn't reply; I placed my forefinger in my mouth, and absently nibbled at the nail, my lips deviating into a rounded line.

Edgar's eyes were slits at my silence. Still upholding the stake, he cautiously sat opposite me, perching on the rusty old seat. Memories of the cheap blast of candy cane scent, of twirling chimes and Edgar's hair whipping around his face as me and Alan swirled the car to make it go faster...bloomed and died in the night. I yawned, bored. I sideways glanced at my watch, and the creases on Edgar's brow deepened.

"Alan really did a good job on you," he muttered bitterly, bringing the stake up to his chest. He brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes, and I found myself wanting to be the one who did that. "You really are lost, aren't you? There is nothing..."

"There might be," I said softly, kicking my feet out and resting them on the seat next to Edgar. "If you're willing to find it."

He looked at me then, all hard hunter, although I could picture how inside his inner eyes were swimming, and I couldn't believe this man in front of me was the snub nosed teenager that had obliviously taken my life and then abandoned it, where it rotted in darker territory.

I was suddenly assaulted with the horrible hopelessness of it all, and I smiled at Edgar. He searched the gap in my mouth for the gleam of teeth; before his own eyes lightened and his lips quirked in a silent, stoic return.

I was on him so quickly he didn't have time to blink. I launched for his wrist; brought it to my mouth, and sank my fangs in.

Edgar's response was a stream of choked curses and guttural moans; he lost grip of his stake, but his fist battered away at my back; it didn't have much effect, but I grunted, shifting. This wasn't a kill or maiming bite; it was a claiming one, and surely there was a patch in Destroy all Vampires that described its purpose. Edgar was struggling, but he knew, by the angle of my head and the position of the bite, that he was in no mortal danger.

He gritted his teeth, but his groans subsided into heavy breaths. His chest raised and fell beneath mine; I drew back, lapping the salty sweet tang of Edgar's blood from my knuckles. His skin was pale, but the hard hazel of his eyes sought out my smirk. His headband had unraveled, tangling down to his shoulders, and one arm still clung, however unknowingly, to me.

I nipped lightly at my finger, drawing forth a fine bulge of blood. He growled as I pressed it into his wound; it wasn't enough to infect him, but enough to connect a thin wire between us, and as I gently circulated my claw around the rip in his skin, he shuddered and his head hit the back of the carriage.

"My life is yours, bud," I resisted the urge to invade his thoughts; the man was panting, half famished between me and the rusted metal of the old chair. "And so yours is mine."

I took to the air, leaving behind a baffled Edgar and blood specks decorating the flawless white of my teeth.

I was meant to be halfway, huh? There was no halfway. Man and monster mingled to create what I am now, and Alan swears by this definition, although I bemuse myself by thinking that such a creature...of what Alan is...once lurked beneath a khaki wearing comic kid with bad hair. I pluck Alan from my memory, and each time, he paints it red.

Without Edgar, Alan is half of himself. In fact, I don't know what Alan considers in terms of being "himself"...but the only person that ever made sense to him was his brother. And the only person who ever stabilised my world was Edgar, so I can say our desires match in their terrible neediness. I never told Alan of my small encounter with my old crush, bent over him in our special, romantic location. But Edgar never speaks of it. I don't see him out on patrol in our areas anymore. Word on the street is that he too is thinking of packing up with Star and Laddie, and making for the hills.

We lost him once...I lost him once, and I'll be damned if it happens again. He stepped out of my world, taking my resolve with him, and in terms of that, he has a debt to pay. So maybe next time he walks out of the shower, half clothed and vulnerable, Alan and I shall be cruising on his bed and waiting; spikes breaking through smiles.

Maybe.

I watch him nurse his scars. I watch him wait, as he is halfway between the pull of the past and the cold kiss of a dead brother. I watch him, my memories sparking in toxic blazes of colour, and the kid with the lonesome father and patient mother and awkward brother, the kid with the crappy trench coat and swaggering walk; the kid with a twinkle in his eye and gel cloying his hair...he lives again, through my smile, and each time, Edgar falls a little more into it.

Halfway to hell, halfway to heaven.

The only time I felt absolute, completely complete in myself, was when a boy in a red headband appeared from around a corner and invited me, for a short while, into his world.