18
Lathan
The following days are harrowing. It’s quieter between Lathan and Kylo than usual as they both cope.
Monday’s events haunt him. He could feel it—he was dying. His body in the beginning stages of decomposition, and it hurt . Just like it hurt when his peers were starving him. But this time, he didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t want to believe it. For once— just this godsdamned once —he wanted his parents to be right. That he can control this. That maybe he can live without blood. That maybe he can live without…
Being a vampire.
He struggled through his classes, where the students gave him dirty looks for wearing sunglasses indoors. But if any of them saw his eyes, he’d risk them saying something to a professor or administration. He cleared his dry throat a lot, coughed the tickling burn in his esophagus, even with resorting to sucking on lozenges for days to try and coat the pain. Once back in the dorm, he was relieved Kylo wasn’t there, so he had a second to gather himself, hunching and coughing as hard as he could to try and scratch his throat, in hopes he wouldn’t have to again for a while.
It was getting too hard to hide it all from Kylo, but he was convinced that just a little longer and he’d gain that control. So he went to write another note—a preference over texting, so he could feel like he was still being present, so Kylo knew he’d been in their room and thinking of him—that he’d taken off for a ‘run,’ but he couldn’t find a pen.
When he tried Kylo’s desk, he didn’t expect to find the little vial of shimmering powder. But suddenly the pain in his throat, the ache in his muscles, the way his body pulsed weakly inside—he could no longer feel it.
He was deeply scared by Kylo’s behaviour. The nonchalance. Begging on his knees. Forcing blood into Lathan’s mouth. Cutting himself—
And he hasn’t been so scared since he was a child, facing his mother’s wrath.
He knew Trevor got to Kylo. Of course he did. What he did—well, that’s why Lathan killed him. But he had no clue the violent extent of the harm done until Monday.
To Kylo, and himself.
How stupid he was to starve himself. In the end, he would have died. He would have left Kylo. Just like if he hadn’t found the stardust, Kylo could have left him.
But Lathan’s proud; Kylo’s taking the time every lunch hour, between his classes, to be consistent with a counsellor. He was given priority over the waitlist because of the documented incident he recently went through. Lathan wonders if he, too, needs help. For his guilt, his blame. Maybe he’d want to go together sometime , he thinks, and then shakes the thought out of his head. He’s fearful of their future, every time he asks his boyfriend for a therapy update. The two of them have been so short-lived, yet so much has happened. So much pain. What if he talks to a therapist, and they say we shouldn’t be together?
His heart clutches; he doesn’t want to be alone again, or put the thought in the counsellor’s head by being there in the flesh. Kylo’s been such a light in Lathan’s life that he didn’t know he could have. Always felt that his life was predestined. To be neglected by his ‘family.’ To be cast aside constantly. To work for them. Cater to them. To be alone. He’s never felt that he had much of a choice, that he was truly his own person. Not until Kylo’s love.
But if that’s what’s best for him…I’ll let him go.
Lathan knows he’s still battling with daily nausea, even as it’s lessened—the drug remains in the body for days. But his withdrawal is worse at night: insomnia, incessant itchiness he can’t seem to scratch, even when Lathan rubs him gently with his sleeve, and the anxiety’s made a comeback. He’s offered to get Kylo something to help with any of his symptoms, but he’s reluctant to even take over-the-counter pain meds for the headaches. He wants everything out of his system.
Lathan wants to do for Kylo what Kylo’s been doing for him. He made him a promise: to feed. So he forces himself in line for his serving of blood on Friday, standing amid other vampires. It’s a normal thing, something he’s never thought twice about, but this time is different. They’re all so casual about it, but there’s a war in Lathan’s head. He still doesn’t want it. He’s still revolted by the thought, the sight. But he knows he has to try.
He takes his blood bag, opaque black on one side to make others more comfortable, hiding the blood inside from non- drinkers. Scoping out the cafeteria, the many others feeding, he’s hit by an overwhelming anxiety. The sight, the quantity of smell—Lathan’s immediately walking back to his room, shoving the bag of blood in his bag so he doesn’t feel its liquid slosh in his hand.
He slumps on the edge of the bed, taking deep breaths. This is stupid. I’m being stupid. He retrieves the bag from his backpack, but doesn’t move. For a long time. Like he’s paralyzed, he sits with the necessity in his hands for much too long. But at some point he’s watching his fingers pull out the plastic spout, like he’s outside his own body.
And the metallic scent hits him.
Instantly, his stomach ripples, and the nausea rises up his throat. He turns his head, breathing through the wave of discomfort. After another long moment, he squeezes his eyes shut and brings the spout to his lips. The chilled blood—previously refreshing to him—is disgusting. He groans, forcing himself to swallow the small sip. Fuck. Just chug it.
He takes a big breath in, and then tries again, this time consuming the bag as fast as possible, squeezing to rush more liquid out. But with the way it thickly slathers his throat, he can only swallow so much at a time, and his throat starts to close on him. He sucks as much as he can until nothing comes up, his cheeks too taut, his mouth too full—his throat is constricted and can’t push it down. As it sits in his mouth, a cramp surfaces in his stomach, and he pushes off the bed to zip into their small bathroom.
Lathan slams onto his knees as his stomach seizes, bringing up his drink, the inside of the toilet turning murderous. The blood bag drops beside him, crimson sputtering onto the tile floor. He tries to stop, but the convulsions in his abdomen retch up more. I have to stop. I have to drink it. I can’t let it come back to this between us. I can’t let him hurt himself to save me again.
He whines, pressing his forehead into his arm. “I’m fucking pathetic,” he huffs, breathes quickening. His legs squirm on the floor, and once he trusts his stomach has stopped its erupting, he leans his back against the cabinet door below the sink. His chest is tight, and he rubs it with his fist, hard. He whimpers, not knowing what’s happening, as his breathing continues to elevate, until he’s hyperventilating. He can’t keep still, grabbing at himself, his chest, his throat. I can’t breathe. He starts to cough, gag, his body shaking. He kicks his feet out, over and over again, unable to stay still on the ground, searching for comfortable footing.
Each second feels like hours, and Lathan’s convinced he’s dying again. That he had gone too long without blood, and now it’s catching up to him. His organs are shutting down. His heart is giving up. He claws at his throat, tugging at the neckline of his shirt, trying to get air, but he continues to breathe too fast, barely taking anything in.
“Hey, hey, hey”—Lathan jumps, flinching away from Kylo hurrying to his side, not having heard him come in—“I’m here. What’s wrong? What happened?” He touches Lathan’s arm, then looks down at the shine of sticky red droplets from his sputtering, finding the blood bag across from them.
“I don’t—” he tries, but continues to gasp. I don’t know. “I can’t—breathe,” he forces, the back of his head smacking loudly against the cupboard. This has never happened to him before; he has no idea what this is. He can’t look at Kylo, though he knows he’s there, because his eyes are too busy darting everywhere, his mind failing to reach any semblance of normalcy.
“Okay, sshh, sshh.” Kylo scoots closer, facing Lathan, rubbing near his shoulder. “It’s okay, just focus on me. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
Lathan shudders against Kylo’s touch, his breathing sporadic. He grips the front hem of Kylo’s shirt tightly, desperately, and squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees colours.
“We’ll breathe in for four,” Kylo instructs. “Ready? One, two, three, four”—he inhales after he counts—“and out for four. One, two, three, four.” He blows out, nodding for Lathan to join him.
It takes him a moment to register Kylo’s instructions, missing the first cue. But then he tries to follow along, shakily, forcing his heart to reset its rhythm, and soon the air of his lungs starts to go in and out softer. Though he still feels like he needs to catch his breath, he isn’t tripping over it.
“Good,” Kylo says softly, sliding his hand on Lathan around to his back, soothing his spine up and down. “Just keep breathing like that for a little bit, okay?”
Lathan stops squirming like he was, his body relaxing enough to understand he’s safe, he isn’t dying. He opens his eyes, letting the colourful bursts dissolve from his vision. His grip on Kylo’s shirt loosens.
The calmer he becomes, the more embarrassed he feels. His throat finally starts to reopen—or, at least, feels like it is—and he can swallow again. His chest fills and deflates heavily, but not quickly, not with panic. His lids are heavy and tired, and he stares blankly at the wall.
“I thought I was dying,” he finally breathes.
“Panic attacks often feel that way. I used to get them when I was younger.”
That’s what that was? A panic attack? Lathan glances down at the half-consumed blood bag, sat in its own contents, then runs his hands up his face, gripping the black hair that’s fallen from its do, as he lets out a scoff.
“I’m fucking pathetic,” he says again, though Kylo wouldn’t know it’s for the second time.
“Not even maybe.”
He looks at Kylo tiredly. “I tried, Kylo. I did. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Would it help if I stay with you? To try a little bit more?”
He releases the grip on his hair and sighs, chest tightening. “That might make it worse,” he says. To have you watch me. Watch me struggle. The person I wanted to stop drinking for.
Kylo shifts, folding his legs and resting his head on Lathan’s shoulder, so he’s no longer staring straight at him, continuing his careful backrub. “Could you try just a taste?”
Lathan starts to feel guilty, because he realizes Kylo’s worried. Scared if he doesn’t drink enough. That he’ll witness the sight he did Monday when Lathan’s sunglasses dropped.
He eyes the blood bag. Then reaches for it. Tries his damnedest to stay calm as he cradles it with fingertips, still quivering. He flips it around so he can’t see the clear side that shows the scarlet interior.
I have to do this for him.
He closes his eyes as he brings the spout to his lips once again. Kylo should be able to see the bob of his throat as he swallows, again and again, forcing the half bag of contents down. Most vampires will peel the material open, lick the inside clean. But Lathan only sips until nothing comes out, and then, face scrunched, he coughs, pulling it away from the purse of his lips. His hands dangle, forearms placed on his bent knees, and he hangs his head, breathing hard.
Kylo doesn’t say anything. Lathan can tell he wants to praise him—for this mundane task he’s never had an issue with before—but he refrains. And Lathan’s grateful. Because he already feels stupid. Any sort of ‘attaboy’ or condescending ‘doesn’t that feel better?’ is going to make him feel worse, even if meant with the best intentions. Maybe he’s starting to get it, starting to understand the guilt and the blame Lathan walks every day with, staying quiet as he warms his side.
Knowing he’s still by his side is encouragement enough.
“You’re going through so much already, you shouldn’t have to cater to me like this. I should be able to do this.” Lathan turns his head to the side, seeing Kylo on his shoulder. “You’re doing amazing, you know. I’m really proud of you.”
Kylo smiles. “It’s alright—to also be struggling. You’ve been helping me all week, but you’re going through shit too, so just…let me be here for you.”
Lathan’s never been told that. That it’s okay for him to struggle. Not in a genuine way, from someone who matters. He’s never been allowed to struggle—with chores, with schoolwork, with his instincts. And he doesn’t want to, but something lifts from him being told he can.
“Okay.”