go for blood

if i'm dead to you why are you at the wake?

I realize the fandom for this is non-existent on Wattpad, but. Oh well. Honestly this is one of my better works, and I wrote it in a week for someone's birthday.

MICHAEL

Star feels different.

What does different feel like?

Michael's whole body feels loose and lazy with relief, any sense of urgency that had swept him up in the past week fading away like dew on the grass in the morning sun after a cold night. It feels like the sun has risen and it's summer again– sweet and simple and bright.

And under his skin, the laziness of their life itches at him– their gentle, slow nights and how easily Lucy and Sam and Grandpa fall back into their life before the Lost Boys in the span of a few days.

It feels like he's holding his breath for something that's never going to come.

"What do you mean?"

Star looks up at him, eyes sharp and searching.

Even with her great set up– a job and an apartment and everything– Star never lets her guard down. She's the only one who hasn't fallen complacent. It's why Michael kept coming back to her.

...Isn't it?

"It's just... a feeling. Don't you feel different?" Star looks out at the sunset, and then back at him.

Michael slips his hands down to her hips. Kisses her until she gives in and stops looking at him like something might be wrong.

When he pulls back, she doesn't look at him intently anymore, her breath soft and catching against his jaw, and he's relieved. Even though he has nothing to hide.

He takes her in, then: her bright red lips, the steel in her eyes, her curls spilling over her shoulder, swaying in the seaside breeze. Her silhouette against the warm colors of the sunset over the ocean as they stand on the bluffs together. The utter perfection of her hits Michael with a gentle jolt, the slow stop of a Ferris wheel. She looks like a dream– the kind of girl every boy would fall over themselves to earn a smile from. He had, before.

But she's not the one in his dreams anymore.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I feel different."

It is a feeling.

He remembers, faded like the distorted way an echo can remind someone, the way he felt when he first spotted her on the boardwalk what felt like a lifetime ago. This thrumming. This wild, irrational desire to get to know her, the thrilling rush of anticipation at the top of a rollercoaster, ecstatic at her first words and utterly enchanted by her smile.

Now, kissing her neck, a new desire rises in him, darker, hazier. He doesn't know what it is that he wants, but he wants. He remembers her in the hotel and he wants, he remembers her on the back of David's bike and he wants, he remembers her leading him to David and the boys and he wants... he wants...

"But you're the only one who knew them," he murmurs. He doesn't look at her.

The sun is down. Star's hands find his. "I can tell you about them."

"No." Michael doesn't know why he refuses.

It's too much to talk about them. It's not enough. It's too direct. It's not the real thing; not direct enough. It's better, he thinks, to pull her into bed and tie himself to the Lost Boys that way than to face what he wants in the daylight.

He fumbles for her, but she catches his hands.

"Just be my friend Michael. Michael." She looks sad for him.