Page 47 of Bound in Blood
“It is nothing,” he muttered, accent making the English words nearly unrecognizable.
Jiro was quiet for a long moment, watching Marco in a weighted way. He wasn’t prying or pressing, because he already knew. Marco said two words, and Jiro had determined exactly how he felt. How he hated being on the outside looking in, knowing he could never have his humanity back. Marco would have been thirty years old this past year, but instead, he never really got his twenty-fifth birthday.
“You don’t have to lie,” Jiro said finally, his voice steady. Beyond him, the clock ticked closer to midnight, closer to ringing in Marco’s sixth year as a monster.
Marco’s jaw tensed. It wasn’t alie, not really. It was nothing. He wanted to go down there, but as a human. Marco wasn’t a human, therefore he didn’t want to go. So, it was nothing. Useless to dwell on. Stupid to care about, really.
“I don’t lie,” he muttered finally, trying hard to focus on his book, grip on the cover tightening in frustration. He clenched his teeth as he forced his eyes onto the page, but the words blurredtogether until nothing made any sense. Useless, childish book. He wasn’t achild.Shouldn’t be forced to start from scratch. He felt like he’d been reborn into a world where everything reminded him how small he was, how little he was worth. Like a child, he had no control, no home, nothing to his name. Just a rooftop, a children’s grammar book, a war he was an ocean removed from, and a world that no longer made sense to him.
“I don’t lie,” he repeated, but he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.
Jiro nodded, eyes never leaving Marco’s face. There was no judgment there when there definitely should be. Jiro was a second-generation American, and Japanese was nothing like English. Marco, at least, had the advantage of already knowing the Roman alphabet, while Jiro grew up with two sets of characters to learn. And yet, he never made Marco feel lesser than, even when he had every right to.
“Then tell me the truth,” Jiro said simply.
Marco’s first instinct was to turn to anger, like his brother had. To say something cutting, to push the other man away, but the words wouldn’t come. How could he hurt the only non-family that never asked him to be something he wasn’t?
He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from the book, eyes leveling with Jiro’s. “I… miss getting older,” he settled on finally, quietly, voice barely audible over the street noise. It was the only way he could accurately describe what he was feeling.
Jiro nodded once, the motion deep with understanding, like Marco had said the most obvious thing in the world.
“I was nineteen when my humanity was stolen,” he said. “My siblings, my parents, my extended family all told me never to grow up, that it was a trap.” He exhaled, looking out to the crowd. “I believed them then. I don’t now.”
Marco’s throat felt tight. He clenched his jaw, looking away. Jiro had been the youngest of seven siblings, he had told Marcoonce. He’d been turned a few years before Marco. They’d be nearly the same age before the immortality set in. Marco tried to imagine Jiro’s forever-teenage face lined with the appearance of a thirty-year-old man. It would suit him, Marco was sure. Age would only enhance his features. If they were two human strangers on the street, he would turn Marco’s head, at least.
“We still change,” Jiro offered, and Marco felt a little guilty for staring at his face for so long. “We don’t age, not like them. But our minds do.”
Marco scoffed, shaking his head. “Not the same.”
“No,” Jiro agreed, “But you take what you can get.”
Marco looked out at the city. The noise had reached a fever pitch, the countdown about to begin. Back home, with the turn of the new year, they’d reflect on goals they wanted to achieve.‘Buoni propositi’they called it, ‘good intentions.’Americans called them ‘resolutions,’and Isabella had encouraged Marco to make some.
He nearly scoffed aloud at the thought.Resolution One: Try to be less dead.He looked over at Jiro, who was still watching him with an intensity that made Marco squirm.
“Do you have resolutions?” Marco asked aloud, if only to keep the other man talking. To keep those deep brown eyes on him a little longer.
Jiro tilted his head, considering. “I don’t usually make them.”
Marco raised a brow. “Why not?” he asked. He knew whyhethought they were useless, but he wanted Jiro’s opinion, too.
Jiro thought for a moment, his eyes searching Marco’s face. “I didn’t see a point.” Marco could have sworn Jiro’s eyes flickered over Marco’s mouth, for just a moment, “Maybe this year, I’ll make one.”
Marco nodded. “This year, I will master English,” he said, though he didn’t quite believe himself. He kept thinking of dark eyes ghosting over his lips. Had Jiro shifted closer?
Jiro nodded, offering his own resolution. “This year, if I want something, I will go for it. No second-guessing.”
Marco huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. When had Jiro ever not gone for what he’d wanted? He always seemed to have no shortage of books to read or blood to drink or partners to bed. It wasMarcowho had never pursued what he wanted. “Bold,” was the response Marco settled on, glancing back out over the city. The countdown had begun below, distant voices raising in anticipation.
Ten
Marco turned back to Jiro, who was still watching him. Had their thighs been touching all night, or was this a new development?
Nine
Jiro’s smirk deepened. “One last English lesson this year.”
Eight
