Chapter Text
“Bloody fucking hell, stop it, no one’s dying, shut up,” Paul almost screamed at him as George circled around Paul’s tiny room, unwilling to go back to his own.
It didn’t stop George pacing, staring wearily at the tiny window, lighting the space with a sliver of moonlight, and continuing to pace, he did go moodily silent for a few moments, allowing for another lap, praying Pete wouldn’t come back and see all this, “It’s fuckin’ alright for you to say. How the fuck am I meant to do anything now, how am I meant go back to John and Stu? It’s been weeks and they haven’t got it, but it’s, it’s too much for me now, I’m going to, I don’t know, end up biting them in my damn sleep or something.”
“Haven’t you been you know, feeding on prossies and that sort of thing?” Paul asked, frowning. He leaned back on his bed in his white t-shirt, the line of his neck long and exposed, George stared at it for one drawn out second before snapping back to his brooding, pacing even quicker around the room.
“Aye, sailors too, but it doesn’t make me feel great, does it Paul?” He asked, muttering under his breath, “Makes me feel bleeding drunk and high all the time, with the shit they’re on, and it’s not very polite is it? They signed up for a quick shag and some cash not their goddamn blood being taken,” He complained. It was a serious concern.
Somehow in the few weeks since what Paul had deemed the accident, he had yet to be found out by the rest of the band. Which really made it sound like he got hit by a car, or fell down a flight of stairs, and not made into some horrible beast. It was funnier that way, in all honesty, made it sound subtle and inconspicuous according to Paul. Would’ve probably just been easier to call it his illness, that’s what the other lads thought happened. But Paul had been the one to find him, no chance to hide any of it. George covered in blood, shaking, shivering in the cold damp of the Hamburg night. He had been horrified, at first, that George was dying.
“Told you, stop being so damn miserable, it’s not your fault, and you can’t be expected to what? Lay down and die over it, they’ll live, and so will you,” Paul said, easily, frustration with George seeping into his voice.
“That’s the point Paul! What if they don’t, what if I end up you know, killing someone,” He said it in a low voice, and Paul rolled his eyes in response. Really It was beginning to piss him off more and more that Paul was not in the least bit scared of him. “Honestly you are really not thinking about this properly, got a simple and trusting mind, it’s not all going to work out Paul, I’m going to get someone killed-”
“Oi, oi, stop being a fucking martyr George, we’re not putting you down like a sick dog, get over yourself,” Paul hissed, looking genuinely angry over it. That was another thing beginning to piss George off, that Paul seemingly did not give a shit for his own safety or that of others.
He could kill John, or Stu, or Pete, or any other bleeding person he knew in Hamburg, let alone the rest of the world. It wouldn’t even be on purpose or anything. He just couldn’t fully control it yet, and Paul seemed to be under the delusion that he would somehow magically learn that he could.
George kept pacing, “You don’t understand, I’ve explained it what? Like, a hundred times,”
“Not very well, you’re not a descriptive bloke.” Paul said, watching George lazily, almost seemingly ready to kick him out, “Not writing any poetry anytime soon.”
They were the only ones in, they thought, Stu and John had wandered off to Astrid’s, an increasingly common occurrence, although John being with ‘em was a bit different. Pete as usual was nowhere to be found. Paul was usually pissed off about it too, but tonight he didn’t seem to care, only invited George over, seeing the lad was about to combust. George had started in almost immediately with the complaining, but it was what Paul called ’catastrophising’ that made him start snapping back at George. Even though it was perfectly reasonable to be concerned about a new and uncontrollable hunger inside of him, he thought.
“Sod off, the point is, I’m hungry. But it’s not just that it’s like, it’s lust I suppose,” George tried desperately to find the words to explain it in a way that would make sense to a person, a normal human. It was horrible to have to think himself as not a regular human anymore. Not normal. Bit of a learning curve, one made easier by the fact he now drank blood but a curve all the same. The problem was there was no real good parallel; it wasn’t even just a normal hunger, it was so much worse and more painful than he ever recalled feeling as a person even when he didn’t eat for a whole day, and he was known for being ravenous even then. In fact his lack of consumption of human food had been brought up as a concern by the others already, another sign of his supposed illness that really confirmed to them that he was in fact properly sick.
Paul let out a small laugh, “Ohh, what a scandalous lad you are, George,”
“Shut up, it’s lust, but it’s not, it’s hunger, whatever, people talk about them the same way all the time you know,” he added, accusingly, wanting someone sexually was always compared to hunger, they were just similar like that, “It’s like, you need it, them, but It’s not like I want to fuck them I want to eat them, literally, and it’s uncontrollable, I can hardly keep it in Paul that’s the point,”
“Keep it in your pants, you mean,” Paul grinned.
“I bet John would’ve got it,” George snapped, if he really wanted to hurt Paul he’d have said Stu, but really the idea he’d tell Stu about it before John was so ridiculous he didn’t even consider it, “he’d be a sympathetic ear, not telling me the fact of the matter is I’m just feeling randy when I feel like I could tear out someones throat and enjoy it,” He spat out the words.
Paul snorted, “Yeah well, we’ll tell John when you’re ready. It’s not me that decided on this whole sworn-to-secrecy business. I think it’s rubbish.” Seeing George’s panicked expression, Paul softened slightly, his eyes tipping into that frown of slight concern that was achingly familiar nowadays, “But I’m a man of my word Georgie ol’ boy, my lips are sealed.” He mimed locking and throwing away the key. George was still infuriated with him.
“I’m so hungry Paul,” George said quietly, “I, well, you know, I, I bit someone yesterday. It’s getting worse. But I’m still hungry. I don’t think it’ll ever go away, I don’t think I’ll ever be properly satisfied.” He said, it was one of the worst fears looming over him. For all the abject misery he’d been experiencing, for all the distancing himself from everyone but Paul, for all the complaining, he was mostly scared of fully losing his humanity. Like, properly not being able to empathise, of hurting people and enjoying it too much. He hated drinking blood as much as he needed it, he didn’t want to enjoy the sensation of biting someone.
“You could always bite me,” Paul said, tone light and jovial, almost giving George whiplash from his own internal despair, making him snap his head towards Paul at breakneck speeds, “You know, probably easier that way too. Not too visible mind, don’t want our fellers thinking I found some freaky bird,” He waved a hand casually, drawing his knees up to his chin and shooting George a smile.
“What?” George’s voice sounded wobbly and confused to his own ears.
“Thought your hearing was meant to have gotten better not worse you daft idiot, I said you could bite me.” Paul repeated with an eyeroll, he looked so small there on the bed like that, it was jarring, “I’ve got as much blood as a prossie, probably, don’t know actually. Probably have even more, since I’m bigger.” He said, letting his legs slip down again.
“You’re practically the same as some,” George said, trying to make himself sound as rude as possible. Paul hated being compared to girls most of the time.
Paul only raised an unimpressed arched eyebrow, “You’re deflecting.”
“You just told me to take a chunk out of you Paul!” George spluttered, unsure how to take the request, torn between wanting desperately to accept with a hardly contained eagerness and shut the idea down forever and ever.
“Yeah and I’m giving my willing permission and all, I’ll even sign something if you really want. I’m curious anyway, who wouldn’t be? Sort of thrilling, don’t know if it’ll be agony or sort of nice, haven’t exactly given any interviews on the matter yet,” He explained, reasoning the whole thing out clearly. It was becoming increasingly obvious he’d been thinking about it for a while now, probably why they debated the whole thing so much, beyond it simply being nice to have someone to throw ideas at while they sorted out the rules and boundaries of this whole thing to ensure George didn’t actually get himself or anyone else killed.
“You, you want me to bite you?” George confirmed, wanting it repeated out loud.
A small huff of annoyance from the other man, “Oh yes, George, this is a purely selfish endeavour and I don’t want you to feel better out of it at all.” Paul grinned, “So where do ya want me? Suppose one of the arteries is the best, and don’t give me that look I remember a couple of things from school, that’s what then?” He looked down at his own body, figuring it out, “Neck, wrist, thigh, can’t remember the rest, and you’re certainly not taking straight from the heart. Wrist sounds gross, I reckon, thigh’s just weird, so neck it is. It’s classic for a reason.”
George was still in stunned amazement, “You’re sure?” He repeated.
“Aah he’s come around, has he?” Paul’s smile only widened.
“Fuck off, told you I’m hungry,” George said, drawing back into himself, unwilling to be made fun of.
“Yes, yes I get that.” Paul laughed a little, hands playing with the hem of his shirt, “Should I take my kit off then?” He asked.
George frowned, “The fuck would you do that for?” He asked.
“Not the whole thing, you prick, I meant my shirt, don’t want blood all over it, don’t trust you not to spill, messy lad.” Paul scolded.
“Oh, yeah, shirt off then. Easier, no fabric in the way.” George reasoned out, trying not to seem too pleased about this whole thing. Because he wasn’t, really, it was just Paul. His mate Paul who he’d known for a billion years, and had spent countless time together with, and was in a band with, and moved to Hamburg with. He didn’t feel strangely about Paul more than he felt strangely about anyone else. Was just a shirt, he’d seen him naked for christ sakes.
Paul pulled the offending garment over his head lazily, stretching out after he did so and tossing it off to the corner of the room. Then he sat up in bed and tilted his head slightly, “If you make a mess of my sheets, you’ll be the one washing them, get it?” Paul said, he wasn’t grinning anymore, just had that slight look of anticipation you had when, when, well, George supposed the best analogy was when you sort of expected a girl to kiss you.
It was a kiss, in a way, more intimate too, he was breaking Paul’s skin, taking something from his body with his permission. It was, unfortunately, a bit like sex. But at the same time, extremely very different. Every other time, well the person had been unaware, and they hadn’t been sat there, looking like that at him, it was intimate, unfamiliar. The look on Paul’s face was the only one he’d seen directed at girls, and at John, admittedly, but that was something different entirely. Something he and Paul didn’t have.
Well, seemed like they did have it now. George wasn’t sure what to make of that, the twisting in his stomach churning into something more than hunger, he tried not to examine it, wasn’t exactly the first strange, unidentifiable feeling he’d had lately. What was another to add to the mix. Besides, Paul wanted this, wanted to know, and it’d probably only be a one-time thing, why not make the most of it?
He leaned over Paul, breath ghosting his neck, he didn’t need to breathe anymore but he did. Automatic-like, hadn’t gone away yet, the instinct to. Probably a good thing that, wouldn’t be great to be caught by your mates not bloody breathing. Paul was so warm next to him, he hadn’t been warm in a while now, hot and moving and wriggling and so fucking alive. He looked fucking good like this too, stupid bastard, all thrumming with anticipation, like your first time with a girl, it was a first time, sort of.
Probably bad to make so many sex analogies with your friend, but it was a bit too late for it really, and Paul might actually burst with how tense he was if George didn’t do something soon. His fingers ghosted around the side of Paul’s head, holding him still, making sure he didn’t jolt and accidentally get himself more hurt. Didn’t want his teeth to tear more than they were supposed to. Then, with a thrill running through him he hadn’t felt yet in his time as a vampire, he bit down.
Paul gasped, of course he did, anyone would, feeling those teeth sink into you, it was this quiet little oh sound, not one of fear, more curiosity, aching and burning with it. George revelled in the feeling of the blood pooling in his mouth, and then a sensation of shock washed over him.
Paul tasted good. That wasn’t a shock in and of itself, because now all blood tasted good, but the more he drank it the more George had been able to figure out that it was all different, some was better than others, a certain younger sailor by the docks for some reason might be sweeter than a girl he’d picked up, but then again some older girl’s might be even better than that. He hadn’t figured the pattern to it, sort of assumed it was really only his own mood that determined it, that no blood was definitely going to be better. But now that was all out the window, because Paul tasted fucking delicious, and that was silly wasn’t it?
It wasn’t like Paul was a virgin, ‘cause that was a thing, they’d sort of discussed it, if virgins would be better for him, but that sounded sort of even creepier than just being a plain vampire so they’d given up on it pretty quick. Then it was the wonder of religion, like if corrupting someone made it even better if they really honestly believed, but that didn’t make much sense either under scrutiny. George was beginning to wonder why John and Stu hadn’t commented on their increased proximity yet, had to hit a breaking point soon with all the talking and theorising the two them had been doing. That was besides the point, more importantly, why the hell did Paul taste so good?
His mind raced, at the same time it became sort of hazy, filled with pleasure at the feeling Paul beneath him, had to fight the urge to curve his body against him. Climb on top of the man, feel every inch of him as he drank, the hand curled on the side of Paul's head tighted in his hair as he let out a small sound against his skin, overwhelmed with the sensation of Paul on his tongue.
The blood filled him up fuller than he had been since turning, he felt satiated, and yet desperate with need, he whined into Paul’s neck without meaning too, his other hand grasping wildly at Paul’s uncovered waist, nails, now slightly sharper dragging across his skin without meaning too, he tasted so sweet, saccharine and decadent, the sort you became utterly and powerlessly addicted to.
It was with a sudden jolt of panic at the twitching of Paul beneath his fingers and his uncharacteristic prolonged silence that George pulled back, mouth dripping with blood staining his lips red. Teeth long and coated with the thick red substance; his eyes fluttered open, blown wide and filled with uninhibited desire.
He took in Paul before him, his cheeks pale, unable to flush from the drainage, his own lips bitten with the concentration of being silent, letting George take what he needed. His hands twisted in the sheets beneath him and the bite mark at the junction between collar and neck red and inflamed, leaking a small line of fluid.
After a terrible moment of silence, Paul let out a small needy sound, then spoke “Christ,” Paul said quietly, almost sounding far away, off in another world. “Wasn’t expecting it to be that,” He searched hopelessly for a word for a moment, “much,” he settled on.
“I took too much?” George said, words falling from his lips, drenched with concern, eyes flickering continuously to the line of blood still dripping from Paul, aching to lick it up. To clean the wound with what inflicted it.
“No, no,” Paul leaned forward, regaining control of his movements and voice, more assured, he took George’s face in his hands, “Not too much, I’m right as rain,”
“Look pale, Paul,” George returned, concerned with the man’s wooziness, half slurring his words despite his increased confidence.
Paul shook his head, “That’s a natural side effect, it’s alright Georgie. Just, you didn’t warn a lad it’d be quite that, you know,” He did flush now, despite it all, or at least he seemed horrible embarrassed, “I suppose you didn’t know, what with the others not saying.” Paul added.
“Know what?” George was even more concerned now,
“Feels a bit.” Paul waved his hand, letting George go and leaning back on the bed, neck on full display, George had no hope of not looking like he was staring now. He was staring blatantly. “Bit like a lot.” Paul almost squeaked out the words. “Ah not to say, it’s not that bad, like, and probably doesn’t always feel that way, but it does feel good, did you know that it would?” He asked, trying to sound unaffected and failing terribly.
George didn’t really want to answer, but it was only fair, he’d taken a lot of Paul’s blood after all, “It feels good for me, but, that’s ‘cause I’m eating, you know, the way you feel satisfied after a meal, but even more than that.” He tried. But that was the problem, he was lying a bit, because usually afterwards he just felt plain and normal good and not the kind of good where you wanted to fuck your mate. From his recollection, he’d never wanted to fuck his mate before, but he did now, he did really, really badly.
They were ignoring it, though. The obvious physical reaction the whole thing had on them. George had hardly felt horny besides in the way he half described to Paul at all since he was turned, now it was almost painful to sit still. But It was best that way. Ignoring would make it go away, go back to normal. Talking about it but not doing anything about it, wasn't like the old days, when they could get off together and it wouldn't be weird, because now it was each other that had put them in this state. Wasn't the same as thinking about girls while they just so happened to be in the same room. It was Paul who did this to him, the thought struck him like a physical blow, Paul who made him feel this terribly needy, and wasn't that something? He felt half crazy with the thought.
“Makes sense, maybe I’m an outlier?” Paul said, grasping at the only options remaining, “Wasn’t expecting it to feel that way, I know I said it might feel nice but just sort of nice in the way that a kiss to the neck is nice, not nice like, like it was.” He said, not saying the words directly, but it was obvious now, obvious from the way Paul was angling himself, the way he drew up his knee as George sank down on the bed next to him.
He nodded, “I reckon you’re just an odd one.” He agreed, because he was understanding what Paul was saying, because he felt it too, but it didn’t make it a good idea, didn’t make it right.
“Yeah, outlier like I said. Mind probably went I’m with a girl,” Paul said with a laugh, as if saying isn’t that ridiculous? The idea that I could mistake you for a girl?
“Hope no girls are doing that to you, you’ll have no blood left in ya,” George joked back for the first time, still staring at Paul’s neck hopelessly, because even if it wasn’t right that he wanted Paul more than he did before, which really wasn’t fair, he could want this. Paul had said he could drink from him, and it was better not to waste, right?
“Wouldn’t want that, would we?” Paul grinned.
Then George couldn’t hold it in any longer, “You’ve got a bit sort of,” He waved his hand at Paul’s neck, then at his own to try and demonstrate what he meant.
Paul looked down, angling his head weird, “Oh,” he said, breathily, blinking at the sight, realising for the first time just what he'd allowed to happen, the physical sight of it on his body, it would scar too, probably.
The thought of Paul, marked like that, by him, forever made a feeling go through George he really didn't want to examine, “I’ll get it,” George said quickly, swiping up the blood with his thumb, then staring at his thumb, helpless.
Paul laughed, “Stop being a twat and lick it, you freak, it’s more weird with you doing all that staring.”
“Sorry,” George squeaked, putting his thumb into his mouth almost sheepishly, letting the rich taste wash over him again, eyes fluttering shut.
Paul watched him do it, then blurted out “Do you always act like that? If so maybe your terrible little analogy was right, I didn’t think it would get you that way,” He explained, the hunger and the lust, it was easier to talk about now they weren’t using the actual words. Only vagueness and reference. It was easy to say those words when they meant nothing, when it was only teasing, but now when it was so close and so blindingly real, it felt almost impossible.
Shame filled him, “Ah, no actually, usually a bit more in control after, you just sort of, you know, taste nice, messed with my head,” George mumbled the words, hardly able to meet Paul’s eyes.
“Taste nice?” Paul repeated the words, as if his mind boggled at the thought.
George nodded sheepishly. “Nicer than others, yeah, I’m thinking it’s cause I know you. Emotional connection. Could be one of those things,” he reasoned out, that sounded like it could be true.
“Is that right then? Well, glad I could be of service to you,” Paul said, then he slid back on his bed, pushing back the covers to climb under and settle down for sleep, aparently done with the conversation, “Now would you go back to your own room and stop whining? It’s not like you’re gonna drain the life out of poor Johnny or Stu after all that, can’t be that greedy."
George should have gone then, should have retreated as soon as he was given permission to go. He felt the urge to take proper care of Paul, feed him, make him drink some actual honest-to-god water, bandage him, make sure he was safe and healthy. But he knew Paul would despise it. All the attention placed on what had happened when he was clearly putting on his best performance at being unaffected. All the same, he just couldn’t bring himself to go like that, to leave Paul here alone, and at the same time he didn’t want to be alone either.
“Paul,” He said softly.
Paul’s eyes opened again, staring up at George from his grotty pillow, “Yes love?” He asked.
His hands twisted, still sitting with his legs hanging off Paul’s bed, “Can, would it be bad if,” He started, and Paul sighed,
“As bad as a bloody bird you are,” He muttered, “Yes you can stay, but honestly I’ve heard the way you talk to some of the girls out there, no reason to get all stuttery and shy with me mate. I’ll shove over,” He said, doing just that, shuffling a little to give George even a little room in these tiny single beds.
George slipped under the covers as Paul had, staring at the man in front of him, “Thanks, you know, for all of it,” He said, a little too earnestly.
“Stop being all soppy. Feels wrong it does.” Paul snapped at him, but it was devoid of any real venom, “Do you even need to sleep or are you just trying to suck the heat out of me too?” He teased.
George smiled, “Yeah, kinda, you’re really warm,” he said, amused by the way Paul scrunched his face.
“Suppose I can’t argue with that. You’ve made me all sleepy too,”
“Sorry,” He mumbled.
“Stop, just shut up, and sleep,” Paul said, purposefully closing his eyes and shuffling to get comfortable.
“G’night Paulie,” George said into the air.
Paul draped an arm haphazardly over him, pulling him closer, warm and alive against his comparatively frigid body, but Paul didn’t even flinch. “Sleep,” he said, and George did as he was told.