Chapter Text
Santa Carla, 1975
He kills Paul because they need a drummer, and Paul is spectacularly good.
One final piece in the puzzle that makes up The Lost Boys as David has dictated they will come to be known. A band can’t function without a true rhythm section – Dwayne’s bass is fine, but a kick drum is necessary. Unfortunately, until they find a drummer, the hunt has stagnated. No one actually wants to be stuck with a drummer for eternity, turns out.
“I say we test-run a few guys, see who sticks,” Marko offers one night, mere days before their hunt concludes. “Our way.”
David’s sat in an alcove built into the factory’s walls, fiddling with his key collection. Marko is on the couch underneath a sprawled-out Dwayne. An empty pizza box sits on the ground beside them — post-feeding, Marko often demands takeout.
“And risk exposing them to Max before we’ve made a decision? Fuck no, man,” Dwayne says. He’s the fresh pair of eyes David never knew they needed, only having been turned within the past six months. Unfortunately, neither of them contain the impulse control David actually needs.
“How else are we going to see what they’re really made of?”
“I don’t like the way drummers taste,” huffs Dwayne, and this is when David chooses to step in.
“We’ll find one,” he says, cutting through the latent tension. “It’s only the beginning of summer, boys. We have time.”
Santa Carla's no music capital or haven. It does, however, boast an impressive summer boardwalk series; impressive in the sense that they’d put anyone on stage. “Anyone” could range from garage rock bands to disco groups who’d failed in LA or over on the East Coast. David has seen it all in the years he’s been here, which is how he knows The Lost Boys will succeed.
Their attempts so far had been reduced to several young guys who were all headcases one way or another. One said he was going to “stick it out in Santa Carla” and then fled the state of California altogether when some cops came knocking for drug possession, as reported by Marko who’d stalked the kid. Another was a suspect in an intense money laundering scheme with his last band, dropped off in Santa Carla to never be seen again. A third lied about his age to them when they’d asked if he wanted to audition, the kid wasn’t actually any older than 15.
David has standards to maintain when it comes to his boys.
“Seems counterproductive to keep asking randos,” says Marko. “I want to find someone who’ll really put up a fight, David.”
“You want someone who’ll put up with your bullshit, you mean,” says Dwayne.
David sighs and detaches himself from the brick wall. He stalks over to the couch, sits down on top of Marko’s feet.
“Hey,” grumbles the other vampire, but does nothing to dislodge him.
“I have my eye on an act,” he says, only admitting the truth because he fears if he doesn’t, one of them will take matters into their own hands. “Rumor has it, first band of July is already in town, and their drummer trained in Nashville.”
“Ooo, Tennessee,” Marko giggles. Dwayne punches the other lightly in the arm.
“What’s their name, boss?” Dwayne asks, right foot landing on David’s thigh.
“‘The Rowdy 3’.”
“Rowdy 3…with a name like that, they better be able to handle us!” Marko crows, doing jazz hands into the air.
Dwayne erupts with laughter. David stays silent, confident this time it’ll work out.
The Rowdy 3 turn out to be a group of four.
“Why’re there four of them?” Dwayne asks, picking at a fang with a nail. They’re perched on the roof of the arcade, watching the crowds scream along to the Rowdy 3’s swooning rock noise.
Marko is suspiciously silent. When David looks at him, he’s staring wide-eyed at the drummer. Through their bond, he can sense the dangerous rumblings of adoration.
“Snap out of it, Marko,” he says, snapping his own fangs at the long-haired brunette. The other blinks a few times.
“What was the drummer’s name again?” Marko asks.
“Paul,” David supplies. He’d studied the boardwalk postings fervently.
“Paul…” Marko looks back at the stage.
Paul is long-limbed, brown skinned, and has eyeshadow pasted on thick. He’s wearing a tank top crudely cut from a t-shirt, and leather pants that barely do anything to cover the strength of his legs. David knows without even having to hear him play that he’s perfect.
“I think he’ll taste good, don’t you, Marko?” Dwayne pipes up, the look he gives David implying he’s finally caught on to their blood brother’s attraction.
“Undoubtedly,” Marko literally licks his lips. David rolls his eyes, looking back at the stage, flicks the ash of his cigarette in that direction.
“How are we going to do it, boss?” asks Dwayne.
David’s given this no shortage of thought. Turning can prove difficult when the person has something they want to hold onto. He wonders what this band means to Paul, if he’s really attached to the idea of The Rowdy 3, or is looking for something beyond them. The singer is a short, pale white guy with long blonde hair, who screams into the mic with a wild abandon that David knows can be attributed to weak vocal ability.
Their guitarist and bassist seem almost bored, plucking their strings casually. They’re fundamentally weak, something David can beat, a challenge that is easily met.
“We show him how to have a proper good time,” he says.
Marko lets out a wolf whistle at that.
Post-show is always a living, breathing chaos that they simply merge and fade into. Dwayne and Marko stay in the crowd, knocking into people obnoxiously, stealing puffs of cigarettes from strangers who are too high to care. David monitors from the edges, avoiding all the blatant humanity.
When the boardwalk’s cleared, he finds his boys hanging off the stage upside down from their knees. Security is eyeing them but not moving — they’re known, and feared. Despite only achieving half a rhythm section, they’ve played this stage more times now than any other band, and only eaten a handful of groupies in the process. David prides himself on restraint.
Slowly making his way toward backstage, David glances around at the guards who are mostly watching Marko and Dwayne, and takes flight to land on top of the shitty trailer that makes up the green room. No one ever really keeps an eye on this spot.
The sound of laughter echoes from within the tin can. David sits down and listens.
“We gotta go deeper, man,” says one of them. “What about that bar on 3rd?”
“That place is skeevy as fuck dude,” says another.
He regrets that he can’t place any of their voices, but he’s certain neither of those were Paul. Something deep within already knows Paul. In much the same way he knew where Marko and Dwayne were as soon as he’d chosen them, he can sense Paul now inside this trailer, silently observing the situation.
“It’s perfect,” says the first guy. Maybe the singer. “C’mon, we might as well, not like this place has much else going for it.”
“Hey now.” There's Paul. David feels his fangs pop out in response to the other’s voice. “I think Santa Carla’s got good vibes.”
“You would, Mr. ‘Let me get to the ocean’,” says a fourth voice.
“Let’s get out of this stupid trailer and get partying,” interrupts the second guy, apparently now coming around to the first one’s initial idea.
David ascends into the night sky then, high enough that he can see the trailer still, and watches the band emerge. Paul’s the last to follow his bandmates out, still wearing that same tight outfit as before. A band on a budget, no doubt.
"They're going to CStreet," he says to the two who've joined him in impressive silence. "We'll tail."
CStreet is as true to it's name as any dive bar has the right to be. Grime-filled walls encase a large, square bar covered in more fluids than just beer. Occasionally filled with loud, amplified country or rock music, and always filled with bodies on any night in the summer, it is a paradise for those who want to observe the human condition.
David steers clear most nights, simply to avoid becoming overwhelmed. Tonight he marches in, disregarding the bouncer with a glare. It's past 12 in the morning on a Sunday, thinning the crowd out enough that it's easy to find The Rowdy 3 seated at the bar.
Marko and Dwayne follow him directly to where Paul's sitting with his back to the bar, hands wrapped around a bottle, face impassive while his bandmates flirt expeditiously with any girl who comes close.
"Nice set out there," David growls out over the pounding blues rock blasting from the speakers.
Paul's eyes focus on him, surprise filling his features at how close the blond is. David revels in that, pleased that he's made an impression.
"Name's David," he holds out a hand. "This here's Dwayne and Marko."
"Paul," says Paul, hesitantly taking the proffered hand. "Thank you."
"Of course," David says. Behind him, Marko's radiating desire through their bond to such an extent David's certain even Paul can feel it.
"You guys a band or something?" Paul asks, eyeing him carefully.
David glances back at his fellow conspirators who stand arm in arm, smiles wickedly, and fakes shame when he turns back to Paul.
"I fear you've got us, Paul," he says. "We're a small act, stick mostly to Santa Carla after all."
Interest sparks in Paul's dark brown eyes at that, and David knows he has him.
"Rock?"
"Of a sort," he flashes a look back at Marko to chill it. Marko only smirks.
Knock it the fuck off. he thinks, while Paul smiles and says, "Any chance y'all will be playing while we're in town?"
"I believe we've got ourselves a gig on the boardwalk in two nights, isn't that right, boys?"
"Got that right," Marko says, all teeth, practically bouncing up and down. "Maybe you should stop by."
All of David's energy is concentrated on not knocking Marko's teeth straight out of his ridiculously empty head. He doesn't even hear Paul's response, only sees the guy's mouth moving, as loud as the noise echoing in his own skull is.
"Fantastic," says Dwayne, and taps David on the shoulder. David realizes he'd been frowning, straightens his face.
"See you there," he growls out, and turns away from all of them, stalking toward the edges of the bar.
Warm, living bodies move around him, clogging his senses. Were it not for the hefty surfer he'd eaten the night prior, this might be torment, the never-ending heartbeats and working diaphragms congealing into one living being he would have torn into. David ignores them and makes it to the back exit, slamming open the door and scaring away a couple making out in the alleyway.
It's not that he wants to restrict his boys. He wants Paul, not as much as Marko does but he finds the man's openness and curiosity intriguing, a Southern warmth he isn't familiar with. He thinks he's an excellent drummer. But he knows if Marko doesn't cut it out, they're going to lose their mark, as well as possibly their only chance of a solid rhythm section.
Flicking open his lighter, David lights a cigarette and leans against the back of the Bar, staring up into the summer sky.
He's got no strings, boss. I can tell. Dwayne echoes in his head.
You'd do best to get out of there. he warns, directing the thought particularly toward Marko even if both of them hear it.
We're leaving. Marko interjects, still sounding far too hyped up.
When they emerge onto the back deck, David catches the long-haired brunette by the jacket, spinning him into the wall and hissing at the smile that crosses that sharp jawline.
"I told you to knock it off, Marko," he says.
"Sorry, hermano, I thought I'd help push him a little closer," Marko replies, far too cheekily.
"You're going to push him off our shit if you keep this up. Do it again and you're sleeping elsewhere for the week."
Meting out punishments is a careful exercise. Marko doesn't visibly react, but upset rolls through their bond, and his light brown eyes trail downward. David pushes him a little harder into the wall.
"Got it? Play it cool, or else."
The other vampire nods very softly, and David uses one hand to trail across pale skin, pointer nail digging in ever so slightly to let loose a small rivulet of blood.
"Good," he says, rage slowly simmering from a boil. "Let's get out of this hell-joint."
Friday night — their night, always their night — finally rolls around.
The Rowdy 3 did play another night on the boardwalk, proof of an impressive repertoire that David wouldn't have pinned them for possessing. Only Marko attended, and came back high as a kite and buzzing with energy that Dwayne takes care of, as David's lost all patience for his guitarist. Normally he'd take pleasure in peeling Marko down from the heights his mind has climbed, but he's too focused on getting Paul integrated with them and too worried that Marko will interfere.
David looks at his bandmates now backstage in the tiny greenroom where they've kept the lights off like usual. Practically theirs, the trailer is currently decked out in a wide variety of clothing Dwayne stole from Santa Carla's own Salvation Army, as always. Marko is fervently rifling through a handful of coats with a tank top thrown over his shoulder, nervous energy flooding their bond. Dwayne is only slightly more reserved while he picks a pair of leather pants — David is certain he's caught the bug for Paul too .
Shrugging on a biker jacket he's all too certain came from a body he'd discarded two weeks back, David pulls at the front of his hair a little and clears his throat.
"Let's knock 'em dead, boys," he says, knowing it's possible even without a drummer present.
Done it before, we'll do it again. Dwayne promises as they make their way out of the trailer. David only chuckles low under his breath.
Rounding the corner to the stage he can hear the gathered crowd. They certainly don't pull huge masses yet, but their fans are dedicated enough that he's certain eventually they'll get to touring. Max hates the idea, and David finds that endlessly entertaining.
Dwayne steps on first, his low bassline intro calling attention to the stage, bringing with it shouts and screams. Marko follows, arms raised over his head as he embraces the chanting crowd.
David enters the stage as he always does: like everyone in that audience is his.
Tonight, everyone in the audience is his, but one presence in particular calls like a fabled siren. Paul, front and center barricade, eyes wide as David steps up to the mic and growls into it without even a proper band introduction. In that moment, David dedicates the entire set list to seducing Paul.
"Fuck yeah man, that was our best one yet!" Marko crows into the sky. They're lying on their backs on the stage, passing around a joint and several cigarettes.
"It'll be better with a drummer," says David.
"I think you might've caught us one, boss," Dwayne says, blue eyes shining when David looks at him to pass a cigarette. "And you were pissed at Marko for laying it on thick…"
"It's all about timing," he replies.
Marko chokes on his next drag, and David watches him sit up and try to hack up the lung that isn't really working for the next few seconds. Always ironic how despite not functioning properly, they can still choke on things as benign as smoke.
"Pretty good set," Paul. David watches Marko freeze, and chooses to sit up slowly so as not to scare the drummer away. He's standing watching them a few feet from the stage, hands in his jean pockets.
"Well thank you, Paul," Dwayne drawls.
"But," and at this they all pause, stare, "I think it would sound better with a drummer."
There's actual mirth visible in his eyes. David quite liked him already, but this confirms it. Most wouldn't dare.
"Do you now, Paul?" David says, dragging it out through his teeth.
Marko stands up, wicked grin on his sharp face. "Think you want to prove that to us?"
"You've already seen me play," Paul replies. Through their bond, Marko practically screams with joy.
"The Rowdy 3 will want their drummer," David says. "You're sure you want to ditch them?"
Paul pulls a face at that.
"You've gotta be sure you're Lost Boys material," Dwayne interjects, moving to offer a hand to Paul to step up onto the stage. Those long legs swing easily over the side.
They surround him, David taking center, not too far but not too close. Marko sticks to Paul's back, practically leering over his shoulder, and Dwayne to Paul's left, right on the edge of the stage. David watches Paul carefully, observing the fact that he seems oddly relaxed for a human now surrounded by three predators who could tear him to shreds in a second. Most people at least flinched away from their contact; Paul almost welcomes it.
He barely has to coerce the man into the usual-acceptance riddled mind-scape he places their victims, where he landed Marko and Dwayne initially. A soft shove to the left and Paul's already there.
"What would Lost Boy material include?" Paul asks, eyeing David.
"Your usual course of mishaps and misadventures," Dwayne drawls, hand coming to rest on Paul's shoulder.
"Along with a healthy respect for fucking around," Marko adds. He doesn't touch Paul but David spots fangs poking out around the words.
"To join us, Paul, is to be us," David lets himself smile then, but not kindly. "You will need to relinquish everything, of course."
The taller man seems to consider this through the haze David has put him under. Marko hums a little, eyes glittering in the dim lighting, restraint echoing through their bond. David appreciates the fact that he's exhibiting any such behavior.
Turning is an art form, and David demands total control, which is usually hard to come by when Marko and Dwayne are hanging off his arm. But having the chance to without having to force them into submission as well, that means something.
"Rowdy 3 never treated me half as well as they deserved," Paul says, words slightly slurred.
"Always the case, isn't it?" David asks, finally moving closer and grabbing hold of Paul's shirt, pulling him so close David can smell the beer on his breath. "How about you come find out what it feels like to be respected, Paul?"
Paul nods, and Dwayne lets out a "whoop!" and Marko smiles so wide all of his fangs are exposed where they have fallen into place. David smiles, lets go of Paul's shirt, and guides his merry band onward.
"Coronado ironworks," Dwayne bows low and sweeping in front of the elevator doors. "After you."
"Holy shit," Paul whistles into the cavernous space, eyes wide.
Typically, David might've put more effort in to inducting any one person. Tonight, he's giving away all their secrets, and he can tell Marko and Dwayne are surprised but not letting it show. They need a drummer. Paul is damn near perfect.
"This is where you live?" Paul asks, brown eyes wide, gazing up at the dark ceiling. They'd forgotten to put out their damn near eternal trash fire earlier, so there is light for the human to see some of the space.
"'Live' is an awfully big word for it," Marko says, slapping a hand on Paul's shoulder, delight still singing through their bond. David rolls his eyes.
"So, Paul," David saunters past all three of them, coming to a stop in the middle of the factory floor, hands on his hips. "Tell us you've got no reservations."
"About all this?" says the drummer. "I mean normally I'd ask for dinner first, but…"
Marko lets out a cackle of delight, nails digging into Paul's shoulder briefly before David shoots him a look. Paul merely glances at Marko, a crooked smile on his face, and something within all four of them pulls.
Were David capable of breathing, he might've stopped at that.
For just a moment, they all stand there stupidly, watching each other to see who might shatter first. Paul hasn't even formally joined them yet, and he was able to bring them to a grinding halt.
"We can always have dinner," Marko grins, pushing the tension into a new twisted shape. "Or…"
"Or?" Paul asks, and David is doing nothing at this moment, not pushing him in any direction, not even really keeping him under.
Marko moves, hands coming to grip the sides of Paul's head where his tight curls are cropped close, and kisses him violently. Dwayne lets out a low whistle. Were there fangs involved, David knows this would not have gone half as well, but Paul is kissing Marko back now with a similar unbridled passion. This response is enough for David not to totally lose his shit.
"Oh fuck, man," Marko hisses when they finally part, and David makes a noise in the back of his throat. Both look at him almost guiltily, although Marko keeps his hands around Paul's neck.
"Marko," he says, dipping his head and clasping his hands behind his back. "You know better than to bring a guest in and feed him before we've even ordered anything."
Sorry, hermano. Marko whines internally.
Don't pull anything like that until we know he's cool.
But he liked it. Marko's whine turns confident with that, and David sneers at him.
"I think we should ask our guest what he wants," Dwayne interrupts the silent stand-off from where he's sat on one of the rusted railings, likely because Paul is watching them a little too closely.
"I want to know your whole…deal," Paul says, face carefully neutral, despite the visible flush coating his cheeks and collarbones. Marko parts from him carefully, taking a few steps back.
"Our deal, Paul, is that you give, and we take, and you get something in return," David says. Paul looks mildly baffled and irritated with the riddled nonsense.
"You got family, Paul?" asks Marko, smothering their bond with stupid hope.
Paul shakes his head, "Nah. Don't really… you think someone traveling around the country with a shitty band has anyone to come home to?"
"He has a point," Dwayne says. Marko is radiating satisfaction.
David moves closer to Paul now, watching him carefully while Marko steps back. He rolls the sleeves of his coat up very slowly, as if trying not to spook an animal, hoping Paul can simply accept this. It'd be a waste to have to kill him after all, and that feeling of him being theirs is still echoing in the corners of David's mind.
"No family, no connections, no desire to stay with the Rowdy 3?" he asks. He's still got some grip on the guy, but Paul is answering with his truest self when he shakes his head.
"I stayed with them because it was my only way out," says Paul. David senses desperation mixed with a great deal of pain built within this answer, built within Paul himself who's standing now with his arms crossed.
"Were the Rowdy 3 at least kind to you, Paul?" he asks. Paul flinches. David makes a mental note in regards to this, for future endeavors.
"We will be better than that," Marko says from behind. His voice reeks with a newfound protectiveness over the drummer that floods their bond.
"You didn't run despite Marko practically assaulting you. But you'll still need to prove your worth to us as a drummer," David steps forward, reaches up to cup Paul's chin with his right hand. "And also as a companion."
Paul nods, says a bit slowly, "Your hands are all really cold."
David grins, and pats the other man's cheek gently, then drops the hand to grip the back of Paul's neck. He looks back at Marko, who is once again bouncing back and forth on his heels, and to Dwayne, still sitting on the railing, smiling devilishly. When he looks back at Paul, those brown eyes are locked on Marko.
Bring the cup. He directs at Dwayne, who bounces off the railing gleefully and retrieves the items from where they are stashed. The cup is shortly filled.
"What we're offering you, Paul, should you drink, is something beyond," he says, taking hold of the cup from Dwayne and releasing Paul's chin.
There's a brief pause as Paul takes the cup. Everyone goes tense with anticipation, Marko and Dwayne brimming with it, David hoping against hope that there is nothing more the drummer would like to do.
"You drink this, you're with us forever, Paulie," Marko says.
Paul practically chugs the blood.
Dwayne lets out another wolf whistle, Marko throws his head back and screeches, and David takes Paul into an embrace and lets his fangs graze the other's neck very lightly. The man shudders a little from the invasion already being wrought upon his system, but he does not fail to wrap his arms around David in return.
When he steps back, still holding Paul's shoulder, David looks at Marko. In the multitude of years David has had Marko, he knows his loyalty streak runs deep and wide. Now there are options, and he chooses release.
"Marko," David says, watching Paul, holding Paul.
"I'll show you the best scenery Santa Carla has to offer," Marko sweeps in, taking Paul's hand in his and pulling him back into the cavernous depths before David can even properly release the drummer.
Watching the pair disappear down a corridor, David turns back to Dwayne, who is watching him with interest written across his face.
"Paul probably won't remember all of this come morning, and Marko knows what to do," he says.
"Didn't even ask, boss," Dwayne says. "But you're certain he should do any of the talking?"
Typically it is customary for David to elaborate. To offer the gift is a lesson in humility, or even to simply explain why it was given as was the case with Dwayne.
"Oh, I doubt it'll involve much discussion."
Dwayne cackles, pushes off the railing and comes to stand in front of David, eyes sparkling gold.
"Sounds like we should either make our exit or make our own commotion."
David shoots him a look, one that purposefully signals that tonight is purely about folding Paul in and not adding extra things onto the list of reasons he might simply run away from them all (and subsequently have to die, for fear of having a half-vamp on the loose). Certainly, Marko isn't the most subtle, easy way in, but David is content to let him be the one who formally pitches the idea. Better Marko than Max.
"Fine," Dwayne sighs, and turns away, moving toward the couch to sprawl lazily. "I'll start writing a proper bass-line with the opportunity for drums."