Author's Notes: First foray into Lost Boys fic, thanks to being bitten by a plot bunny after a recent rewatch (or three) of the film following a several year hiatus, despite owning a copy. (Netflix just makes things easier!) This IS a WIP, but I am currently five chapters deep in the writing, so updates should be pretty regular for a while at least.

Title borrowed from the song of the same name by R.E.M. (though it was the version by First Aid Kit that was playing when I was titling this fic).

Also, I've taken some mild liberties with the timeline in the film. (Based on in-film comments as well as deleted scenes, I'm working off the idea that Michael spent quite a few nights hanging out with David and his boys before he went floating to the ceiling in his room.) It's not hugely important to know that, but thought I would say so regardless, to curb any confusion.

Think that's it. Hope you enjoy!

Max's remains fall like tainted snow, bathing the room and its occupants in soot and ash. The head of Santa Carla's gang of vampires, killed by a fence post driven - literally - straight through the heart.

It should be over. It should.

But as Star releases a gust of air against Michael's neck, her body sagging in his embrace on the exhale, Michael knows that for him, it's really not.

Her hands clutch at his shirt as she murmurs her relief, and he tightens his knuckles where they grip her close. Between one breath and the next, her scent shifts from a familiar rusty tang to something sweeter. Richer. The thrum of the blood pulsing through her veins grows louder in his ears with the rapid change; hunger swelling in his gut that makes saliva pool on his tongue. He flexes his fingers out, then in; uncertain. Disappointment warring with relief when she pulls away and rushes towards Laddie at the child's joyful shout of her name.

Michael swallows. Sucking in a short breath of air that only serves to highlight the fact that his thirst hasn't faded with Max's death. The inhale carries the myriad scents of the room's human occupants straight to him.

Want - need - claws at his insides. He digs blunt nails into the fleshy meat of his palm, and forces it down. Down. Burying it beneath a layer of paper-thin denial he knows won't last past sunrise.

But for now….for now he will try and pretend. Pretend that he too feels the same freedom that Star and Laddie are enjoying. And so he forces a quiet query up and out, asking if everyone is okay.

Because maybe if everyone else is, he can be too.

The question seems to break the still air of the room and his mother and brother rush to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, and his waist. He wants to cling to them. To bury his face against his mother's warm skin the way he did when he was small and frightened by the monsters in his closet. When he would call her name out in terror, and she would scoop him up in her arms and rock him back to sleep. Promising him that no harm would come to him. That she would keep him safe.

He wishes that he was that small boy again, and that the monsters could be kept away by the will and vigilance of his mother's arms. But his empty stomach clenches tight when he bends his head close to theirs, his gums itching around his canines, and he knows that the only monster in the room is him.

He pulls away, grateful for the distraction that his grandfather offers. The old man's blasé statement popping the tension in the house like a pin to an overinflated balloon.

His mother and his brother begin to pepper the man with questions, but he shrugs them off. Barking out a rough command. "How 'bout we save story time forafter this mess is cleaned up, huh? Blood stains you know."

As far as a call to action goes, it gathers only a lukewarm response, but Michael grasps at the diversion it offers regardless. "Yeah. Sure, Grandpa." He backs away from the carnage coated kitchen, Sam at his heels, while his not even remotely appeased mother stays put, blinking owl-eyes at her root-beer drinking father.

Michael makes his way back to the living room - or, what's left of it - his footsteps faltering as he walks past his Grandpa's workshop. He doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to turn his head towards the pale body laying slack on the desk, but he can't seem to stop himself.

The sight sets off a confusing mess of emotions in Michael.

Anger. Fear. Pain.

Loss.

It's all too much. A swirling maelstrom that he is in no place to deal with at the moment. Not if he wants to stay functional for any length of time. And he needs to stay functional. Because if he doesn't…if he lets himself slip down into that pit?

Then this will all have been for nothing, and he can't have that.

So with a monumental amount of effort, he tears his eyes away, and continues on through to the living room.

He works his way around the truck, where the Frog brothers and Sam are arguing over who gets the honor of backing it out of the house. When he makes it to the other side, he's surprised to find Laddie and Star slumped against the banister, asleep. Twin heartbeats thump out in time from the pair in a strange sort of synchronicity, loud as thunder in Michael's ears.

He reaches out towards Star to wake her, but catches himself, hesitating to make contact with the bare skin of her shoulder. Something telling him it would be a bad idea to do so while his cravings remain. Instead, he kneels in front of her, pressing his palm to her skirt covered knee and gives her a nudge. "Star?"

"Hmm, Michael?" She blinks at him, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a soft, sleepy smile. He tries to return it, really he does, but he can't manage more than a half-hearted grimace.

"You fell asleep?"

"Mmm...tired. Aren't you tired?"

Michael shakes his head. There's a lot he's feeling at the moment, but tired isn't one of them. Bitterly, he thinks that will only come with the sun. "Come on, let's get the two of you upstairs."

"Okay." She slides upright, pulling Laddie with her. Michael rests the tips of his fingers on top of the shirt against her lower back as he guides her up the stairs and down the hallway to his room, frowning when he sees the state of his destroyed bed. He changes course, and leads the pair to Sam's room, and helps them get settled. Laddie's out the second his head hits the pillow, but Star's hand tangles with his as he pulls away, the touch of her skin on his an electric fire sizzling up through his nerves.

The look she gives him is open, relaxed. The brown of her eyes so very warm, and yet it takes a force of will he had no idea he possessed to keep his eyes from straying to the curve of her neck. "It's over, Michael. It's really over."

Michael can't quite bring himself to voice a lie, but he manages a nod as he disengages his hand from hers. "Get some rest, Star."

"Stay?"

He shakes his head. "Gotta clean up first."

She sighs, her eyes closing as she relaxes into the mattress. "Come back."

It takes several long seconds for him to break his focus away from the pulse at her throat to voice a gruff "okay." But even as he says it, he knows that he won't. He can't.

Not when he's starving and she smells like food.

He pulls the door tight behind him, closing his eyes and pressing his back against the wood to center himself. Through the door, he can hear the slow, steady breathing of pair behind it. The scent of their blood over the distance as strong and clear as if it were spilling to the floor at his feet. The both of them so very human now.

So why isn't he?

Anger and frustration mix with the hunger. He clenches his hands into fists. This time, too long nails press against his palms, leaving bloody crescents. The desire to lick them clean rises fast, and hot. He counts backwards from ten to get himself back under control, but his reverie is broken at three by a worried sounding "Mike?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"You - uh, you okay?"

Michael coughs out a monosyllabic laugh. He cracks his eyes, sliding his gaze from the ceiling to his baby brother, and finds any will he has to lie flee him at the concerned expression on Sam's face. "No. I'm not." He pushes off the door, pulling himself up straight. "Laddie and Star are sleeping in your room tonight. They've been through a lot, so leave 'em alone, alright?"

"Yeah, sure, Mike. But-"

"Listen, Sam, can we just...not. Please?" He look at his brother, the weight of everything that's happened, of everything that is still happening to him, pressing down on his shoulders like a physical force until he is slouching into himself.

Sam's worried gaze softens a fraction. "Okay, Mike."

"Thank you."

"Grandpa says we need to get all of the, um, remains and stuff out of the house before sunrise. Says they should go up in smoke if we do that."

"Should?"

Sam shrugs. "Apparently, Alan and Edgar are right about a few things, and all shitsuck-" Michael stiffens in anticipation of his brother's oft-use descriptor, only for Sam to cut himself off mid-word. "All vampires go out different; may mean they won't all react the same to a sunlight burial. Worth a shot though."

Unbidden, an image of David waking up screaming and on fire in an open field at dawn flashes across Michael's mind, and he flinches. "Yeah. Right."

Sam frowns, eyes pinching at the corners. "Mike-"

"Come on, Sam. Let's just- let's just get to work."

The frown doesn't leave his little brother's face, but he gives a nod of agreement, which is good enough for Michael.

Hell, anything that means that Michael doesn't need to talk about what he's thinking or feeling (or regretting) is good by him. And if it can keep him distracted long enough that he can stop thinking about anything and everything entirely? Even better.

The two of them creep back downstairs to gather up a bucket and trash bags. As they exit the kitchen again, they leave behind their wide-eyed mother - who seems to be peeling slow answers out of their grandfather - and gather a trail of Frogs on their way back up the stairs.

When Sam swings the door to the bathroom open, Michael blanches. The carnage inside is even worse than what's in the kitchen, but it's the visible remains of Paul sloughing away in the tub that makes him feel dizzy.

"Bloodsuckers are disgusting pieces of work. The way this one melted down like a slushie? You guys are gonna need new pipes."

"Really, Ed? You think?" Sam's sarcastic retort lightens the atmosphere enough to break Michael from his staring contest with the corpse he'd been parting with just a few days earlier.

How has this become his life?

Leaving the trio bickering in the doorway, Michael steps into the bathroom, only to come up short when he catches sight of his still translucent reflection in the blood-smeared mirror. Shit.

Unwilling to deal with his ongoing half-vampire status with the Frog brothers around, he backs up, thrusting the bucket into the darker haired kid's hands and pushing his way back out of the bathroom into the hallway.

"Mike? Where you going?"

Michael slows down his departure, but doesn't turn around to look at his brother. "Downstairs. You three can handle this. I'll deal with the rest."

Behind him, one of the Frogs voices his approval. "Divide and conquer. Good plan. I like it."

"Ed? Shut up."

"What? It's a good plan-"

Michael tunes their conversation out as he works his way down the stairs and over to where Dwayne's electrocuted form is disintegrating against the wall. The bickering upstairs is still audible to him, but considering he can also hear their heartbeats (and those of Star and Laddie sleeping in Sams room, and his Mom and Grandpa in the kitchen) that isn't that big of a surprise.

As he stares at the corpse, trying to reconcile it with the memory of the living version, the memory of David's form going slack flashes to the front of Michael's brain, and he knows that Dwayne's body is going to have to wait until he's dealt with his own personal devil. With a sigh, he changes course and heads into his grandfather's workshop where the remains of his kill lay waiting.

'You tried to make me a killer!'

'You are a killer.'

Turns out, David was right.

Idly, Michael wonders if that's why he's still... still, and Star and Laddie aren't. Was killing David the nail in his coffin? But if it was, why didn't he fully turn? Is it because David was a vampire and not a human?

Did he fuck up the vampire checks and balance system so much that the universe just doesn't know what to do with him, so it's opting to leave him to deal with it his damn self?

His mind is spinning with so many questions that he doubts he'll ever have satisfying answers to. Not like there's anyone left to ask anyway, is there?

He slips into the room on quiet feet, eyes locked on David's unmoving form. If it weren't for the horns protruding from his chest, Michael could convince himself he's only sleeping.

Or maybe Michael's the one that's sleeping, and this whole shit-show has just been some drug-induced nightmare. He pauses to suck in one shaky breath after another.

Absent of the teasing eyes, and taunting smirk, David looks so very young. It makes Michael wonder how old he was really. Never grow old, and never die? So how long had David and his boys been roaming the world, killing and eating and partying. A year? Ten? A hundred?

Michael wishes he'd had a chance to ask, but tells himself it's better this way. Better that things ended before David's claws had dug any deeper into Michael. If he's feeling conflicted now, when he'd only known him for such a short time, and not all that well, he can't imagine how much harder things would have been another week down the line. Or a month.

Would he have been able to make the same choice then? It scares Michael that he's not sure. Because there was no other choice. It was David and his family, or Michael and his.

No contest.

Right?

He takes one more breath, releasing it on a long exhale to help clear his head. Doubts and second guesses will have to wait.

He slips his hands beneath David's shoulders and pulls the body up and off the antlers. The action makes a horrible squelching sound that seems to echo off the walls, but the body moves with ease. Like he's lighter than air.

Even so, Michael slumps back against the desk and shuffles his burden against his chest; lifting David higher until he's holding him in a bridal pose. His arms clench tight, pressing the body close to him. A quiet, hidden part of his mind whispering for David to wake up.

But he doesn't. Michael tries to tell himself that's a good thing, even if he only half-believes it.

Michael carries David through the rubble of the house with more care than is needed, and certainly more than he can justify given... everything. He works his way over the broken porch, and past the truck, parked haphazardly half-on half-off said porch, and down the drive. He eyes the back of the flatbed, considering his options, before dismissing it. He opts to head a few dozen feet away from the home and its many walking, talking heartbeats to where it's almost quiet, and lays David down on the grass in the light of the moon overhead.

Without really meaning to, Michael settles on the ground beside David, legs curved under him, and just... stares.

At the wounds on David's chest. At his gloved hands, no longer twisted with claws. At his deceptively innocent looking face.

Michael's back bows, the need to drink in the vampire's features more pressing at the moment then the hunger still (forever) simmering in his stomach.

He wants to memorize it. Needs to. He could tell himself it's so he's never so unsuspecting again. That if he wants to keep his family safe, he needs to be able to find the wolves prowling amongst the sheep.

He could tell himself that. He could. But he doesn't. He won't.

Not when David's dead and he's stuck where he is: halfway human, halfway not. No cure that he can see in sight, hunger burning a hole in his stomach that he knows will either be the end of him, or the end of someone else.

He's done lying to himself.

And even if he can't quite untangle the knotted mess of emotions David's left him with, he knows enough to recognize that he doesn't want to forget what the vampire looks like, because he'll miss him when he's dust.

So he lets his eyes coast over every line, every curve. The slope of his nose, the dip at his chin, the soft bow of his mouth.

A minute passes. Then two. Three.

He loses count.

It's only when he catches his mother's quiet question of "Where's Michael?" coming from inside the house that he is jolted out of the one-sided staring contest.

But before he goes, he leans close, his lips grazing the shell of David's ear. "I had to. To protect them."

The words he thinks, but doesn't dare say, ring like a bell in the air between them.

His mother calls for him again, and Michael goes back inside.

~~~\/~~~

For an hour - every minute ticking by in pulses of blood and warm breath, each one reminding Michael of what his family is and what he decidedly is not - Michael endures his mother's gentle and not-so-gentle demands for answers. Explanations. Pleas to help her understand.

But there's nothing he can say to make it all make sense. He doesn't have the words to convey what happened. He can give her the facts. The wheres and the whats and the hows. Bottles of blood. Falling until you die or you fly. Fiction come to life.

But that's not what she's digging for, Michael knows. His grandfather explained all that already. What she's looking for is the why. Michael's why. Not Max's, not David's. Michael's. And he can't explain that. He can't.

Because peer pressure can excuse a lot, but not the way that he guzzled from the bottle the first night, or the way he went back for seconds the next.

Or the next.

But he tries. He does. At least, a little. But despite his (not best - not even close) efforts, it comes out in stilted one and two-word responses, sprinkled liberally with 'I don't know' and 'I'm not sure.'

His grandfather stands nearby during the mild inquisition. Silent. Watchful. Like he knows what it is Michael isn't saying.

And for all Michael knows, maybe he does.

Old bastard seems to know a whole hell of a lot more than he lets on.

By the end of the uncomfortable conversation, Michael's feeling twitchy. Moving from sitting to standing, and back again. The still blood-wet walls of the kitchen closing in on him like a cage the longer he stays there.

He's eyeing the back door like it holds the keys to his salvation when Sam and the dark-haired Frog trudge into the room, gore decorating their clothing. Sam's face is ten different shades of grossed out as he makes a beeline for the drawer of dishtowels, wiping his face and hands clean without so much as a hello, much to their mother's displeasure.

"Sam! Those are for dishes!"

Sam tosses a towel at the Frog brother, who begins to wipe his greasy face with it. "Sorry, Mom, but every last towel in the bathroom is covered in vampire guts. It's either these or Mike's clothes."

A growl rumbles out of Michael at the joke, halting Sam in place, towel halfway to his face. Michael recognizes his error a second too late to stop it, so he swallows it down best he can, hoping to deflect. "Try it, see how fast I turn your favorite jacket into rags. Bet we could clean the whole kitchen with it."

The fear that had taken over Sam's face fades. "That's cold, Mike."

"You started it." Michael gives him a sidelong smile, tense muscles easing when his brother returns it.

Sam clears his throat. "So, uh, Grandpa? I think we're gonna need a new bathroom. It's pretty gross up there"

"And new pipes." The Frog brother interjects.

Sam nods. "Yeah, and new pipes. For sure."

Their mother laughs, but it's strained. "Oh, I'm sure you boys are exaggerating. It can't be that bad."

"No, Mom. It is. You think it looks like Carrie's prom in here? The bathroom is like if Jaws and Carrie got put in a blender together."

"Sam."

Michael edges his way towards the exit while Sam and their Mom fall into a familiar bickering. Unfortunately, the missing Frog choses to enter at the same time, a scowl on his face.

"Yo, Fang-Face, where's Billy Idol's corpse?"

The question is like a needle scratch with how quickly it silences everyone in the room.

"I carried him outside. Why?"

"Where? I was just out there dropping off the drippings from Hair-Band, and didn't see it."

Michael can hear heartbeats speeding up all around him, the tang of fear slowly filtering out of their pores. The scent is heady, and Michael can feel his nerves fraying further. "Well he's out there. Ain't my fault you're blind."

"I'm telling you, it's not out there. I looked."

Rambo gives Michael a pissy look, and the urge to tear into the boy's throat rises swift, and hot. He closes his eyes and heaves out a long breath to force himself to calm down. "Don't believe me? Fine. Come on. I'll show you."

"We'll come too! Alan and me." Michael swivels his head towards Sam at his outburst, confused by the expression of frightened concern on his brother's face, and shrugs.

"Whatever. I'll grab Dwayne on the way out, won't be a wasted trip."

~~~\/~~~

Michael carries what's left of Dwayne's body slung over his shoulders, Sam and the Frogs at his heels. His feet lead him back to the place where he left David's body, ready to gloat, only...David's gone.

Shit.

Michael lays Dwayne down, and searches the ground for any evidence of the missing vampire, but there's nothing. Not a trace.

He lifts his eyes to the treeline, searching. But if David's out there, Michael can't see him. Can't feel him. He says his name, once, in a whisper. And then thinks it, at a shout. 'David!' He waits, but there's no response.

Shit. Shit.

"Shit."

Sam makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cough. "Could he have, ya know, disintegrated or something?"

The less-annoying Frog, Alan, Michael thinks his name is, answers. "It's possible. In 'Destroy All Vampires' issue 22, there was a vamp that only dusted after the stake was pulled out of its heart."

Rambo snorts. "Yeah, but that happened as soon as the stake was removed, Al. Not however long it took Death-Breath here to carry Blondie outside." The boy narrows his eyes at Michael, but Michael doesn't have time to care. His anger and hunger pushed to the side in the wake of David's sudden disappearance, and all it might mean.

Because if David's alive...if he's alive...well, Michael's not sure if the feeling stuttering through his heart is hope or fear.

"Could be a delayed reaction? We know they all go out different, and this one was clearly shish-kebobbed." Alan offers.

"Maybe. Or maybe Renfield over here didn't actually kill his master. Maybe he just made it look like he did, and then first chance he got, he carried him out here so he could sneak off to lick his wounds without us knowing."

"Nuh-uh. No way. Mike killed him. Stabbed him straight through the heart, didn't ya, Mike?"

Michael tears his eyes away from the skyline and tries to focus on his brother. "...Yeah. I did." It's not a lie, it's just that it also may not have worked.

Michael doesn't say that though.

Even if he knows maybe he should.

"See, guys? Mike says he killed him, then he killed him. The body must of turned to dust after Mike brought him out here. Those books don't know everything."

Sam's expression when he looks at Michael is pleading, asking him without words to please tell him he's not wrong. Michael wants to relieve his doubts. Wants to make him feel safe again. But he can't.

Not when David's body is gone and Michael's still halfway to death - creeping closer and closer to the finish line with every slow beat of his heart.

Not when there's a whisper on the wind calling his name that Michael wants to follow.

An arm wraps around Michael's waist, jolting him back to the here and now. He glances to his side, and sees his brother giving him a distressed smile. "Come on, Big Bro. Mom's waiting."