Blood Ties

Dante wasn't usually one for public affection, though not because he felt it was unnecessary or wrong. He just hadn't really come across a chance to kiss someone like this in the middle of a bar before, most of his experiences being on his travels in the middle of a rainforest, or at the top of some mountain somewhere. Yet, it didn't stop him eagerly pressing in for another kiss, indifferent -or possibly just uncaring- of the glances in their direction.

Such glances were made by Amelia, though she wore a bright smile on her face in response to seeing her brother happy. It wouldn't last long, she estimated, with Dante destined to grow sicker until his inevitable death at the hands of their family, but she was eager to have him enjoy the benefits of being with someone for as long as he could.

That was the only benefit she had of falling for someone like Morgan; someone who wasn't going to be killed off by the family, thanks to the agreement in place that no villager would be harmed. He also knew exactly what she was, which saved her from worrying about revealing it to him. Expectedly, she didn't talk about what she was to him, knowing the topic was one he would dislike, but she was fine with that, preferring to spend time talking about things that wouldn't cause arguments.

"Oh my, you two are getting along marvellously, aren't you? How wonderful. I knew you would, of course. My brother seems to be all innocent, but he's, how you say... he's a little minx, sometimes. But he's a superb person, Dante, you've clearly identified that," the older sister cooed, resting her head in her hand, her other one reaching to hold Morgan's. "Don't you get too tipsy now, Remmie. Mummy and Daddy don't like it when we drink so much, hm? I'm trying to restrain myself from ordering another glass of wine, I wouldn't want to get a dreadful headache tomorrow morning."
 
"Oh, stop!" Squeaked Rembrandt with another giggle, covering his face in embarrassment. He would have happily gone further with Dante if they were in private but he felt as if the whole bar was watching them with only made him flustered. He was smiling nonetheless despite his embarrassment, lightly hitting his sister's arm with a huff. "Mummy and daddy... they can shove it!" He blurted before ordering another glass of wine. "They can punish me all they want, I want to have fun."

"I thought you said your brother was all quiet and boring," drawled Morgan into Amelia's ear before lining her neck with kisses as he pulled her close. "You know, it's hardly fair that they get to have all the fun, Amelia. I should be able to get all nice and affectionate with you too, you know," he huffed with a teasing roll of his eyes.
 
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Amelia's first reaction was to be concerned by her brother's apparent desire to ignore the potential repercussions of their excursion to the tavern. It was inevitable that the couple would discover what their children had gotten up to by the smell of alcohol on them, and that in itself would provoke a telling off. If they any evidence of them being intimate with other people, it would enrage them, but those could be easily hidden. It didn't soften Amelia's worries when she saw her brother order more wine, already seeing him grow tipsy alongside Dante, whose sole concern at the moment seemed to be kissing Rembrandt and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear.

It took only Morgan's affection to snap her out of her moment of sensibleness, being too engaged in the new romance to care too much about what her parents might say about it. It was early days with Morgan, admittedly, but she felt as though he was the love of her life - so why would she pass up an opportunity to be affectionate with the person she already loved so much? If she passed it up, she knew she'd regret it, so she quickly followed her brother by ordering herself another glass of wine and wrapped her arms around her boyfriend with a giggle.

"I never said he was boring, don't be so mean! I said he was quiet, yes, because he sometimes is. Dante's brought out the best in him, I think. They're so sweet together," she slurred with another smile, taking in her brother and Dante. "You are getting affectionate with me; there's only so much we can do in public, Morgan. I'm still a lady; I won't be sneaking off to the toilets to do anything rude with you, silly."
 
"Ah, sometimes I forget that 'you are of royal blood' or whatever," he replied with a roll of his eyes and a smile on his face. It was something he could forget pretty easily more often than not, though he knew he had to keep the lingering fact that he was, in fact, getting affectionate with a monster who has been around for centuries. He didn't really let himself focus on it much, though, knowing it would just ruin the mood. He would prefer to pretend that Amelia was just some average girl, albeit a bit kooky.

"You're such a lady, Amelia, I almost feel bad for ruining such an innocent madam like yourself," he teased with a snort before leaning back, ordering himself another beer. "How such a well-behaved young woman go for a dirty commoner like me is almost laughable. I'm the luckiest man in this boring village, Amelia," he purred, only really being distracted by Rembrandt's eager and bashful laughter.
 
"You aren't a dirty commoner, that just isn't true, Morgan. Gosh, you're wonderful," she tipsily smiled in return, hiccuping through her drunkenness, which only really caused more drunk giggles to leave her. After two drinks she was already wasted. As the night progressed, and she downed more and more glasses of wine, her drunkenness inevitably increased, to the point that she would remember next to nothing of what went on in the following hours.

The same went for Dante too, the man waking up the next morning to find himself in bed, with the only clothes still on him being his socks, and he doubted they particularly counted. His head ached and his throat was dry, but that was nothing compared to the pain coursing through his body; a pain he realised he had never felt before during most of his hangovers. He had little idea that it was the result of the tampered breakfast, only assuming that this was a bad hangover: a really, really bad hangover.

The disappearance of his belongings caused his focus on his pain to disappear. He looked around wildly for any sign of his bag, then tried to remember whether he had moved it in the night. All he could remember was stumbling home with Rembrandt and getting into bed with him. After that, he remembered very little, brief flashes of their night together in bed breaking up the otherwise overwhelming blankness. Naturally, he assumed his bag was misplaced, that he'd simply left it elsewhere - he wasn't going to accuse the family of moving it to the basement to root through later on, which was precisely what they had done.

"Ugh-- Rembrandt, you there?" He asked curiously as he pushed himself up, wincing at the shooting pains. "I don't feel so good, man."
 
Rembrandt was in fact in the room, though was tending to the chores of dusting the curtains. Fully clothed, he had tried his best to act natural that morning to his parents. That being said, he was desperate to keep by Dante’s side so blaming his need to leave on chores was the plan. Glancing over, he offered a smile.

“Oh, you’re awake?” He confirmed quietly, his smile fading to a feigned frown. “Oh, jeez... Dante, did you drink too much? You look awful - don’t get up, I can attend to you from bed if you need anything,” He quickly reassured all the while blushing lightly upon seeing the other naked. Unlike the other, he had remembered the night pretty well including all of the ‘fun’ they had. Just the thought led to nervous snorts and giggles. “I don’t blame you, you had a wild night.”
 
"Nah, this isn't like a hangover; this is bad. Really bad," he groaned, flopping back into bed once he came to the realisation that any sort of movement would only make him throw up. He did assume this was a hangover -he had no reason to assume otherwise- but the intensity of his pain meant he couldn't even laugh about his stupidity. Normally, he would manage to chuckle at the state he had gotten himself into after a night's binge at the bar, but the pain he felt at the moment was so agonising that he couldn't do much else other than weakly pull on some boxers (in case someone else entered the room) and tug the covers over himself with a shiver.

"...Last night was fun though, don't think I forgot that. It was great," he smiled tiredly, forcing his eyes back open as he observed the other man quietly. "I mean, I didn't think we'd... go that far when your parents seem pretty strict about... that sort of stuff, but it was fucking amazing, man-- did you move my bag when you were cleaning up?" He asked suddenly, having leaned over to get his phone, only to realise that, like his bag and belongings, had also disappeared too. "I need to phone the editor at the paper, tell 'em I'm running behind. I... I'll need to get going later, when I'm better, y'know?"
 
"Oh, my sister must have moved it," he replied in seemingly genuine surprise, looking around the room curiously. "As for what we did, my... my mummy and daddy don't know, I don't think so at least. They might know and are just waiting for me to admit it," he admitted, growing quiet as he looked out into the hallway. After a moment, he moved to close the door with reddened cheeks.

"They mustn't know," he explained. "If they did, we could both be in trouble - you less so, of course. You're our guest and I hardly imagine my father would want anything to happen to you," he quickly stated, nearly slipping up the truth as he spoke. "I... will see if I can get your phone, though I'm not quite sure where Amelia had set it. What matters the most right now is how I can help you feel better, yes? You look dreadful, Dante."
 
"Cheers, that really helps my self-esteem, doesn't it? Being called dreadful by the person I've just had sex with, that's real nice of you, Remmie," the man remarked with a light laugh, forcing himself to sit up from the bed just so he didn't look a dreadful as he apparently did. He was all set to head off on the rest of the journey, after all, and lying about in bed wasn't going to help achieve that.

"I won't tell them, it's not something I'll be blabbing about to your parents, trust me. Can you just help me find my things and... and then I need to go, I've overstayed my welcome already," he weakly smiled, pulling on his jeans as slowly as possible, to avoid the urge to throw up. "...Forget about my health, it's just a hangover. I need my stuff so I can get going-- I'll call you later, yeah? I want to keep in touch with you, but... I do need to head out, so maybe help me find my stuff?"
 
“You need rest, Dante. You can use the home phone if you need to contact your editor so bad,” Rembrandt replied quietly before moving to fluff the pillow. “I would feel horrible if you were to get sick or worse, hm? I’ll make you some tea - my mother’s special recipe, it should help with your stomach. I can also make some toast for you to get something in your stomach.”

Before the other could protest, Rembrandt hurried out with clear anxiety. He was always uncomfortable at this part, when the victim still had a bit of health to protest. Clearing his throat, he offered a nervous smile towards his mother. “He’s becoming suspicious.”
 
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Charlotte had been calmly sat in the drawing room, stitching together a new dress for one of her daughters. With a cup of tea at her side and a plate of shortbread biscuits she had baked, she was content enough to spend the next hour or two in that spot, having little else to do that day. It was only when her son entered that she placed down her work with a faint frown, cursing herself for not paying that much attention to the guest. She had dealt with their paranoia countless times in the past, and while she didn't let it worry her too much, it was always a concern when the guest still had some strength.

"...You know what to do, Rembrandt. Fetch him some tea and add those herbs and... simply tell him that we're searching for his things. The herbs should kick in in a few hours, if we increase the dosage. He shouldn't give us many problems after that. He certainly won't be able to take my son and daughter down to that horrid little tavern," she pointed out with a faint grimace. She had planned not to mention it, waiting for her son to own up, but she didn't have her husband's patience. Immediately, her face pulled into an emotional frown, glancing up at the other from the couch.

"What did you do, Rembrandt? You ran off into the night and had drinks with him and Amelia? Why? Have your father and I not provided enough for you here? Do we bore you? Have you tired of living with us?" She questioned slowly, frowning as she pushed herself to her feet. "I know you both got drunk, I can imagine you drank a lot under that horrid boy's influence. Your father is... furious, Rembrandt. You ought to apologise; he's waiting for you to be mature and own up to your mistake. Your sister ought to do that too."
 
He was already anxious but to hear that his mother had found out somehow caused him to grow pale, freezing in place. Looking away from his mother with a growing frown, he couldn't lie to the woman. he had gone through enough emotional gymnastics from both of his parents to know that would never happen again so he was reluctant to nod in confirmation at the mention of the tavern.

"We... I... I just thought it would be a bit fun. He's a lovely man, mummy; a very wild spirit, one might say. I just... I wanted to enjoy that before we eat him," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. He didn't want to admit it all and perhaps there was a chance his mother wouldn't hear but he knew it was a fruitless attempt. "I apologize, mummy."
 
"...You don't think I realise that you children do this with our guests? Of course I know, I'm not naive, Rembrandt. Your father isn't exactly pleased by you and your siblings' activities, but I... well, we reluctantly understand, I suppose. It's not a relationship, that would anger us, so it's... well, I... can't stop you making those decisions, can I?" She sighed, reaching for her tea with an absent glance out of the window to take in the garden and the various garden birds fluttering around.

"...It scared me when I woke up to find you and your sister had disappeared, didn't you think about that? I worried you'd run off and abandoned us; I know how fascinated you are with stories of travel and exploration. I don't ever want you to leave me, Rembrandt. You're my youngest, I... suppose I worry about you more because of that. Just promise me that your little activities with our guests... they're a little more subtle if you insist on doing that. I'm not going to make you miserable by suggesting you stop, even though your father wants to enforce that," she smiled weakly, encouraging her son to take a seat for a moment. "Your sister just went to have a few drinks, did she? She didn't do anything with our guest either?"
 
What his cheeks lacked in color before now returned tenfold, his cheeks beetroot in embarrassment as his mother spoke. Hesitating, Rembrandt did obediently take a seat across from his mother though actively avoided looking at her. He never really knew what to expect from his parents when they were angry so he slewys feared the worst, even when the woman seemed to relax a bit.

“Amelia? Oh, I... I’m not sure,” he admitted, his frown growing in worry. “I don’t believe I remember her returning home with anyone else, I believe it was just us three but I could be wrong. It’s... all a bit blurry, mummy.”
 
The quiet smile on Charlotte's face all but disappeared at her son's remarks. She hadn't even contemplated the idea that her youngest daughter might have brought someone home, assuming that she was far too smart to get herself recklessly involved with any local person. The woman could understand and, in fact, deal with her children taking interest in guests that would, after a month or two, cease to exist and be a problem to them; it was temporary. However, the locals weren't; they were safe from harm, and she found it astounding that her daughter might have been so stupid as to get involved with someone.

Without a word, she rose from the couch and beckoned her son to follow, her expression now stormy. She wasn't as strict as her husband was, but there were, of course, some things she couldn't turn a blind eye to - and this was one of them.

It had been a bad idea to bring Morgan home, Amelia realised that the moment she woke up beside him in bed, but she was drunk and she realised her best decisions didn't take place whilst in that inebriated state of mind. Leaving him to sleep, she went about her usual morning routine, attending breakfast and helping clear away plates, before rushing back upstairs to try and get the young man to wake up and hurry out without anyone noticing. Apparently, she hadn't done that in time, nervously pacing back and for as Morgan got changed and stopping abruptly when her mother opened the door. "...T-This... isn't what it looks like, Mummy, he... M-Morgan was... I..."

"...Morgan. The delivery boy who brings us items we can't make ourselves. Ah yes, I recognise him now. How... interesting," drawled Charlotte calmly, turning to Rembrandt with a forced smile. "I wonder if you can be a good boy for me and fetch your father, I'm sure he'll know what to do about this."
 
“I... but mummy, must we involve daddy?” Whispered Rembrandt, sharing the horror he was sure his sister was feeling. Squirming in discomfort, he looked away from the couple in hopes that his mother would understand. “Can’t we just let Morgan go? You... know the outrage the village will feel-“

“This was all a mistake, Miss,” reassured Morgan with a nervous laugh, shimmying up his jeans before moving to tug on his sweater. “I’m sure you understand. I’ll just head out and we can all forget about this, yeah?” He urged, a nervous smile on his lips before grabbing his bag, his eyes drifting to Amelia apologetically.
 
"Of course we have to involve him. This isn't a guest; this is a villager who knows precisely what we are and what we do. I don't think it's at all wise of your sister to have involved herself romantically with one of them. It's disrespectful and downright disobedient and... well, I'm sure she'll get grounded for a little while as a result of her stupidity," drawled Charlotte as she calmly ushered her son away again. She knew that the involvement of her husband would cause outrage, but he needed to know. This took place under his roof, after all, and Charlotte didn't want to deal with this alone.

"I'm sure you know we can't hurt you, but I don't want to send you off until you've gotten the message to leave her and us alone. Of course, we'll need a new delivery man; I don't want you setting foot on our ground again," she continued fiercely, choosing to ignore her daughter's teary efforts to persuade her mother not to enforce that. Morgan was someone she had fallen in love with; she didn't want their contact to just cut off like this.

"...W-What's so bad about me... having a boyfriend? You and Daddy found one another. He brought you into the f-family. Why can't I bring Morgan into ours? H-He... He likes me, nobody else will."
 
"He wouldn't understand us, Amelia. He's human, he has no way of understanding what we go through," Samuel replied, having been patiently waiting in the living room with a cup of tea in hand and the local paper in the other. Looking up knowingly, he turned his tired gaze towards his wife. Neatly folding the paper, Rembrandt grew stiff at the calm sight of their father as he motioned the children to sit in the adjacent chairs. Morgan remained standing, having always been terrified of Samuel - naturally. He knew the savage side of the family and if anyone was willing to kill him, he imagined it was Samuel.

"Why must you disobey your mother and I?" He questioned, genuine hurt in his tone. "We give you everything and you are willing to throw that away for some boy, Amelia? Rembrandt, I know you're my youngest but that doesn't mean you are without scolding. You're old enough to know that what you did was wrong. These silly little fantasy novels you read of lavish adventures and treasure hunting are simply balderdash. I'll be honest, you both have disappointed me," Samuel drawled with a frown.

"As for Morgan, I suggest you stay away from this home. Speak with one of the other villagers and find a new delivery boy because I want you staying far away from my daughter. If I catch you seeing her I will break our agreement," he said simply, though his eyes expressed deep anger. "Amelia, you will find a man far more worthy of your love when you are older. You're still young, I don't want to let my youngest daughter out with some lowlife like this boy."
 
"That's so unfair. No man is ever going to be good enough for me in your eyes; you're happy to... to leave me without a companion for the rest of my life, aren't you? Morgan is a gentleman; he's kind and sweet and funny and he already knows what I am. H-He doesn't let it affect what we have and you're banning him from seeing me? No other man is going to be a-as accepting; they'll think I'm a monster, Daddy, and you know t-that!" Amelia began, her desperation to somehow salvage her relationship being on full display, though she didn't remotely care how emotional she became. The situation was highly emotional for her, after all.

"And... And Rembrandt has done nothing wrong. He's allowed to bury his head in the clouds if he w-wants. You tell him stories of your travels, so of course he's going to find them interesting and dream of adventure, it's... only natural--"

"...You need to leave now." Charlotte spoke sternly as her eyes fell on Morgan, unsubtly motioning him to the door. She could already anticipate her daughter getting yelled at for her behaviour, and she wanted Morgan to leave before that ensued. Similarly, Rembrandt, she decided, needed to make his exit too, before he landed himself in even bigger trouble like Amelia had. "Rembrandt, take up some tea to our guest. Double the dosage of those herbs so he gets sicker."
 
“... yes, mummy,” Rembrandt whispered, his eyes apologetic as they landed on Amelia. They then instead looked up at Morgan who was clearly terrified, his face pure white. Tugging at the human’s hand, he led Morgan to the door to try and avoid any more tension before heading to the kitchen obediently.

With the cup of tea in hand, Rembrandt’ expression was gloomy. Setting the fragile teacup down before checking Dante’s forehead for a fever. “Oh, this isn’t good...” he whispered when the other was hot to the touch. “Could if have been the rain when we headed out last night, perhaps?”