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Apr 13th, 2026

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Victor prayed that no one was awake. It was 2:00 in the morning and their house seemed quiet, but it was hard to tell these days. There was always some kind of chaos that lied within. Their parents knew that they were out partying after the concert, they just didn't know how much partying was in play.
To a layperson, Finch looked like he just partied too much. There was no real reason to look too much into his unconsciousness, right? Victor was about to find out.
Upon entering the house, Victor noticed that his prayers were in vain. Both Pyke and his mother were awake, pacing around the foyer impatiently. As soon as he entered with an unconscious Finch draped around his shoulder, Marjorine went into action.
“Oh for the love of God, what were you guys doing up so late?” She stepped forward, taking in the sight of Finch slumped heavily against Victor. “What’s wrong with him?”
Victor adjusted Finch’s weight, trying to look far calmer than he felt. “I don’t know. I guess he partied too hard.”
Marjorine’s eyes flashed. “What kind of place is serving alcohol to minors?”
“Mom, he’s in a band,” Victor replied defensively. “He gets free booze wherever he goes.”
From the kitchen, Pyke folded his arms, his expression stern but measured. “Whose idea was it?”
“You’re going to have to take that up with Steve Tyler,” Victor muttered and handed Finch off to their mother. “I had nothing to do with this. I just made sure he got home okay.” He started toward the stairwell. “I’m going to bed.”
“Finch, honey, can you hear me?” Marjorine tended to her son in a hurry, brushing his hair back. Her voice shifted from anger to fear in an instant. “Oh, Pyke, he’s unconscious.”
Pyke stepped closer, concern overtaking suspicion—until something caught his eye. He leaned in, fingers gently tilting Finch’s chin. “He’s— oh. What’s this.”
Marjorine followed his gaze. Her head snapped up. “Victor!”
Victor froze halfway down the hall. “That happened before he passed out!” he blurted. “I forgot to eat!”
Marjorine’s face went pale with fury. “You don’t prey on your family members. Hell, you don’t prey on—”
“Ugh…”
All three of them turned at the small sound. Finch stirred weakly, blinking against the light.
“Oh honey,” Marjorine breathed, kissing his forehead in relief. “You’re okay? What happened, did you have too much to drink?”
“You’re home,” Pyke added gently. “You’re safe.”
Finch frowned faintly, his voice groggy but clear. “I didn’t drink at all…”
The room went still.
“Victor,” Marjorine said, low and warning.
“It was an accident!” Victor insisted, panic creeping into his tone.
“Don’t…” Finch mumbled, lifting a hand slightly. “It’s not his fault, Mom. I remember now. He was in trouble. He was pale and…” He swallowed. “He asked permission. I let him.”
Marjorine closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose as she stood. “Still, you don’t hunt people and then lie about it! We have plenty of plasma fruit and plasma packs to take with you. This is no excuse.”
Pyke ran a hand over his jaw, conflicted. “Let me take the blame this time, Marj. We are due for training.”
Victor looked up sharply. “Training?”
“You are still learning,” Pyke said, his voice firm but not unkind. “We have some catching up to do.”
“Pyke, this is unacceptable,” Marjorine snapped.
“This is on me,” he replied steadily. Then his gaze fixed on Victor. “No more taking blood from humans. There is always an alternative. Get some sleep. We will start first thing tomorrow.”
Victor’s stomach dropped. “I have plans tomorrow before Prom–”
“You’re not going to Prom,” Marjorine cut in coldly.
“Mom!”
“You can’t incapacitate your brother and not expect a consequence.”
“Marj,” Pyke interjected quietly, gesturing toward Victor. “He looks sorry to me.”
“So he gets to walk away scot-free?”
“I will take responsibility this time.” Pyke asked, softer now. “Let me try to fix this.” He shifted his attention back to Finch. “Can you eat?”
Finch nodded faintly. “I’ll drink some orange juice.”
Pyke nodded back.
Marjorine moved stiffly into the kitchen and returned with a glass. She caressed Finch’s head once he’d taken a few sips, her movements protective and lingering. Then, without another word to Pyke or Victor, she disappeared inside her bedroom.
Silence settled in her wake. When Finch finished his glass, he nodded to the two of them before groggily making his way upstairs– only half aware of his surroundings.
Victor shifted awkwardly. “Thanks, Pyke. I promise I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I know,” Pyke replied, resting a steady hand on Victor’s shoulder. “We have work to do.”
Victor hesitated, vulnerability creeping back in. “Is Mom going to keep being mad at me about everything?”
Pyke sighed lightly.
Victor stared at the floor for a moment before saying quietly, “I’m not who I was, you know.”
Pyke studied him, then gave a small, reassuring shake of his head. “What are you talking about? You are only you.”
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at Victor’s lips.
–
5:00 in the morning. Victor made sure that everybody was asleep before he ventured outside, knowing this would be the only opportunity that he would get to jumpstart his real vampire training. While he wasn't sure what Pyke had in store for him, he knew that his vegan lifestyle wasn't going to mesh with his plans for this evening.
Victor wasn't going to hurt Seth, but he sure as hell was going to make sure that nothing funny was going to happen during or after prom.
He was pretty sure that he was able to compel Adrian last night, almost positive. It was muscle memory at this point, so what if the chops weren't there.
Right?
This was too important to leave up to chance, so Victor decided to test his powers on a couple of joggers in the morning– not attacking them, just compelling them. Maybe one meal.
He remembered that women were easier to compel because they were more susceptible to someone needing help or asking a question. That felt so skeevy though, but you know what was also skeevy? Seth touching any part of Finch's body, or even thinking about it. This was for the better good. None of these ladies would remember any of this morning if everything went to plan.
The first lady froze mid-step when she spotted him crumpled on the ground near the curb, one hand braced against the pavement as though the world had tilted without warning.
“Oh no, what happened? Are you okay?” she immediately got down on his level, inspecting the damage.
Victor blinked up at her, pretending to be dazed, “I don’t know,” he muttered, pushing himself up slightly on one elbow. “Where’s my phone?”
The woman glanced around instinctively, scanning the sidewalk and the street as though the answer might be lying just out of sight. “Were you robbed?”
“I think…” Victor made a pathetic noise, his hand rising to his face. His fingers hovered near his eye but didn’t quite touch it. “Oh God. I think he hit me.” His voice wavered. “Is my eye red?”
The woman leaned closer despite her hesitation, her expression tightening as she tried to assess the damage. “You… your eye. It’s…”
Once they locked eyes, he knew he had her. Or his confidence convinced him that he did. “Look closely,” he urged, unblinking as he drew her closer into his gaze. “Is it swollen?”
“I…” she began, but once Victor started heading towards her neck, she pivoted hard and smacked his face away. “Wha- what the fuck are you doing?”
“Oh…uh…”
He may have never opted into Bat Form before, but sometimes change was good.
Victor was out of there in an instant, only hearing a faint, ‘Fucking Vampires!’ before he clumsily flew back to the Elven Cottage.
Materializing at the door, he stumbled in before coming face to face with a curious Pyke who eyed Victor curiously. “Was that Bat Form?”
“Uh, yeah. I decided to try it out, it’s not bad.”
“Where were you?” Pyke asked.
“Just taking a walk, clearing my head.”
"Oh." There's a lengthy pause, like his dad was either scrutinizing him or chewing through his words carefully. Victor prayed that it was the latter. "...Do you feel any better? Since last night?"
"Not really." ... “One of the reasons I got so exhausted yesterday is I kept trying to compel this bully away who gives Finch and I a hard time. He almost ruined the concert for me last night, and I just can’t stand it anymore.” He sucked in a much-needed breath as his rambling monologue ended.
Pyke wasn't currently in his vampire form, but nonetheless his face instantly darkened into something flat and dangerous. "Who is this?"
Victor once watched his dad sucker punch a fairy in the neck with an expression just like this, and a flash of anxiety shot through him as he realized he's talking about hunting down Seth.
"Someone at your school?"
"I want to do it," he blurted as he shifted his weight to his other foot and back again. "I know I can use my powers to just make him go away. Somethings not clicking though, I wasn’t able to make the connection like I used to."
His quick cover seemed to have worked. The Stonefaced Murder expression faded away, but now his dad moved on to staring at him, heavy brows furrowed very slightly, eyes unblinking like he's trying to bore his vision straight into Victor's brain. Several deeply uncomfortable seconds slid by before he replied. "So... you want to compel him?"
“...It’s better than picking a fight with him, right?”
Pyke hummed under his breath in response. A small, proud smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and Victor shrugged off the small pit of guilt it brought. "Yeah, okay - good call. You want to start tonight?"
“Prom’s tonight.” Victor informed matter of factly. “The bully will be there, I need to start now.”
“Let’s start now then.”
–
Their yard was quiet in a way that made every movement feel amplified. Victor stood across from Pyke, shoulders tense, fingers flexing at his sides as if bracing for something unseen.
“These powers,” Pyke said evenly, his voice calm but measured. “I’ve rarely used them.”
Victor’s eyes flicked up, uncertainty warring with curiosity. “You have on Dahlia, though.”
“Yes,” Pyke admitted without hesitation. His posture straightened slightly, slipping into the gravity of instruction. “You have to make them want to look at you.”
Victor nodded, though his breath had already begun to shallow. He tried to steady himself, lifting his chin and focusing on Pyke’s eyes the way that instinct and familiarity had trained him to. But there was a faint tremor in him— subtle, persistent. Reluctance. Fear of crossing a line that could not be uncrossed.
Pyke noticed immediately.
“No nerves,” he said quietly. “You are nervous.”
Victor exhaled shakily. “What if it doesn’t work and they freak out?”
“It will work,” Pyke replied with quiet certainty. He stepped closer, grounding the moment. “Say it. Compel me to believe you.”
Victor swallowed. The weight of the task pressed against his ribs. He forced his voice to steady, forced himself to hold Pyke’s gaze.
“It will work.”
Pyke didn’t look away. He watched, assessing—not just the words, but the conviction behind them.
“Good,” he said after a beat, satisfaction threading into his tone. “Keep going.”
Victor remembered how it needed to be done, but the power just wasn't there. The frustration alone motivated him to lock eyes with his Dad and force some modicum of noise out of his brain. LOOK AT ME.
The space between them felt charged, humming with something invisible but undeniable.
“Why.”
Victor didn’t answer aloud. Instead, he forced the thought forward with deliberate clarity, directing it like a blade.
BECAUSE I NEED YOU TO LOOK AT ME.
The response came cool and unimpressed. “Desperation will not help.”
Victor’s throat worked. The command faltered for half a second before he tried again, reshaping it, steadying it.
Because— he corrected himself internally, tempering the urgency. You need to look at me.
He took another step forward , narrowing the distance, forcing proximity to do what emotion could not.
“Better.” Pyke instructed.
I can help…
“Good,” Pyke said under his breath.
Victor held the gaze, pushing carefully now, not with panic but with purpose. You need to go away, he continued, softer, pliant.
“Very good,” Pyke encouraged. “I felt the pull. Make it about helping them. Then they will listen.”
Victor inhaled slowly, grounding himself in that advice. Hẹ̴̿̔̔̌̌͒̀̈́̚͘ļ̴̡̨̡̬̬̩̰̤̦̻̜̑̀̀̇̄̓͜͝p̵͚͕͍̣͎̈́̈́̈́̀̓̆̃̕̚i̸̞̟͒́̌̕n̴̡͕̥̮̝̭̻̹̖̩̹̱͒̋̇̓̎̎̒g̸̰̳̘̘͖̹̖͕̍̐͒̓̒̋̂͂͒̌̂̚̕͝. Not controlling. Framing the command as relief rather than force.
Leave him alone, Victor pushed forward, more confident than ever before. His command reached his father in a way that felt so natural. So familiar.
Pyke felt this immediately and simply nodded, signalling that Victor had finally arrived.
–
Being able to turn into a bat had made sneaking out almost embarrassingly easy. Windows became doorways. Shadows became cover. No creaking stairs, no suspicious glances from down the hall. Just a quiet slip into the evening air.
On the night of Prom, just as the sun dipped low enough to stain the sky in bruised purples and golds, Victor ventured out one last time. He told himself it was about training—about proving to Pyke, to his mother, to himself, that he could control it. That he understood it.
Tonight’s technique required something subtler. Closer engagement. He remembered the method from long ago– before this life, before this family. It had worked then. It would work now.
He approached a local woman walking alone near the corner market, adjusting his expression into something open and unassuming.
“Excuse me,” he said cautiously, polite and soft. “Do you happen to know if this is where Spruce Almighty is located?”
The woman slowed, mildly puzzled but not alarmed. “Oh, he’s a hard one to catch,” she said, glancing vaguely down the street. “Let me see.”
Victor tilted his head slightly, studying her face as if just noticing something.
“Oh wow,” he said gently. “What happened to your eye?”
Her hand flew up instinctively. “There’s something wrong with my eye?”
Being younger helped. It lowered their guard. He let concern color his features, let it soften his posture.
“Yeah, did you—hold on, may I?” he asked carefully, lifting his hand but stopping just short of touching her.
She hesitated—but only for a second.
By then, she was already locked in. His genuineness, carefully crafted and almost convincing even to himself, bypassed the warning bells that should have rung. Curiosity replaced caution. Concern replaced distance.
“Um—” she started faintly, her gaze fixing on his.
“Oh, this is why,” Victor murmured soothingly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Hold on—”
And there it was—the shift. The subtle yielding in her posture. The quiet narrowing of her focus until it was only him.
Thats when he made his mark.
And he would make his mark at least three more times that night. Wreaking havoc in the square of Innisgreen without a care who came across him. Perfecting his technique so that he knew, without a doubt, that Seth would bend to his command that night.
–
Victor had heard about Prom Night since he was a kid. In his memory, it had always been larger than life; crowns, glitter, declarations shouted over music too loud to think through. Johnny had almost always won Prom Jester, grinning beneath that ridiculous hat as though it had been forged specifically for him. And Stevie, then just his girlfriend, had nearly always taken Prom Royalty. It had felt cosmic, inevitable. Whoever won those two titles always seemed destined to end up together.
Even Micah had won Prom Jester once in a while. And, well. Victor knew where that went.
On the drive to the venue, those old patterns looped through his mind. He imagined, briefly and almost absurdly, what it would look like if he and Finch won Prom Jester and Prom Royalty together. The image made his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
In his old life, he had almost always won Prom Jester. Mischief had clung to him like a shadow back then. Now, though? His edges felt dulled. Or maybe just heavier.
Besides, did he even want it? To walk up on stage in front of a million eyes with his brother? Nothing would actually happen. No grand revelation, no magical shift in the universe. Just applause. And beneath it, a current of disappointment from everyone who hadn’t won.
By the time they arrived, his enthusiasm had thinned to something brittle.
“What happened to you?”
He turned to find Moirai studying him, one eyebrow arched. She looked stunning, dark red fabric catching the light every time she moved.
“You look… wow.” He blinked. “That dress looks really nice on you.”
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing it with a small, satisfied gesture. “Betsy helped pick it out for me. She has an eye for it.” Then she narrowed her gaze. “Anyway, why do you look even more miserable than usual? It’s prom. We’re supposed to have fun.”
“Nothing,” Victor muttered. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“About what?”
“Everything.” He scanned the crowd instinctively. “I just keep thinking people don’t want me here.”
Moirai stared at him for a long beat before deadpanning, “Victor, I promise that 90% of the people here are only thinking about how they can get their prom date to touch their junk.”
He recoiled. “Ew. You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wait– even Seth?”
“Probably!” She squinted at him. “Why do you care?”
“It’s just gross!” Victor protested. “That’s my brother!”
“Stop thinking about your brother’s junk.”
“Moirai.”
“Let’s go inside.”
The gym had been transformed into something vaguely magical– twinkle lights strung along the walls, a balloon arch that looked one strong sneeze away from collapse, and his uncle Moisha trying desperately to make the speakers cooperate.
Victor gravitated toward the edges almost immediately, settling near the punch bowl where he could observe without participating. Watching felt safer. Predictable.
Moirai, however, wasted no time drifting toward Chrysa and Cassidy, immediately launching into an interrogation about votes. Across the room, Steve Tyler was already holding court, gesturing dramatically as though the crown had been pre-awarded.
He was in the middle of boasting when Naomi cut in.
“Um, clearly in this situation you’d be winning Jester and I’d be winning Royalty.”
“What in the actual 9th Layer of Fuckshit are you talking about?” Steve Tyler demanded, affronted. “I am a literal Prince.”
“Yeah,” Naomi shot back, unimpressed. “But what makes you think I’m fucking Jester material?”
“I don’t know!” he sputtered. “I’m not the one who bathes naked in the rain!”
Naomi’s eyes flashed. “You are such a dick, Steve Tyler. Fuck you and fuck your sunglasses.”
“Why would you bring my sunglasses into this? Seriously.” He paused, watching her storm off. “Wait, do you really think they look stupid? Naomi!”
Finch, standing nearby, shook his head with affectionate exasperation before spotting Victor lingering by the punch bowl.
He slipped through the crowd toward him.
“I don’t know, Victor,” Finch said casually, snagging a cup of punch. “Do you think I have a chance at Prom Royalty or Jester?”
Victor’s fingers idly traced the rim of his plastic punch cup as Finch bounced up beside him, bright-eyed and slightly flushed from the lights and noise.
“I haven’t voted yet,” Victor admitted, glancing sideways at him. “But I was planning on voting for you for something.”
Finch’s face lit up immediately, surprise giving way to delight. “Really? Which one?”
Victor shrugged faintly, pretending the answer didn’t matter as much as it did. “Which one do you want?”
Finch rocked back on his heels, actually considering it. “Uh… I guess it doesn’t matter.” He scratched at the back of his neck, grinning. “I think I’d have more fun with the Jester hat though.”
Victor nodded once, decisive. “I’ll vote for you for Jester then.”
“Yeah!” Finch said, clearly pleased. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’m going to vote for Seth for Royalty if you don’t know who you’re voting for that one yet. I think he’d be really happy if we both got it.”
The words hit Victor harder than he expected. He hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor for a fraction of a second. “Oh, I… uh, I already promised Moirai I’d vote for her for something.”
Finch didn’t seem fazed. “That makes sense. No worries.” He gave an easy shrug. “I guess it’ll be a mystery then! That makes it more fun anyway.”
“Yeah,” Victor said, forcing a small smile. “I mean, I doubt I’m winning anything at least.”
Finch frowned immediately, nudging him with his elbow. “Dude, if you’re voting for me for Jester, I’m voting for you for Jester.”
Victor blinked. “That just cancels out my vote for you! Vote for yourself!”
“That’s lame,” Finch scoffed. “No one should vote for themselves. That’s something Steve Tyler would do.”
Victor snorted softly despite himself. “Yeah. He and Naomi are probably going to win.”
“Eh.” Finch tilted his head, unconcerned. “Sometimes people like a shake-up.”
The music shifted suddenly, the bass deepening into something more danceable. Finch’s attention snapped toward the floor.
“Hang tight,” he said quickly. “Seth likes this song. I’m going to go dance with him.”
Victor’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. “Yeah go ahead, I’ll still be right here.”
Finch shot him an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Come on! Unleash the beast, Victor. Dance with Moirai! Don’t hold back.”
Victor deadpanned, “I can barely contain myself.”
“There you go,” Finch laughed, already backing away toward the lights. “Live it up!”
Victor watched him disappear into the crowd, the space beside him suddenly feeling wider than before.
Scanning the dance floor, Victor watched the shifting lights wash over bodies in motion until he found Moirai in the center of a small circle of her girlfriends. She was laughing, really laughing, head tipped back, hands in the air, fully surrendered to the music.
Not that he was particularly interested in dancing.
Still, the edges of the gym felt colder than they should have. Lonelier. And he had chosen this spot himself, carved it out deliberately. It was safer here. Safer to observe. Safer not to risk getting too close to someone and inevitably hurting them too.
‘Unleash the beast.’
Victor huffed softly at the thought. Instead of unleashing anything, he turned toward the voting table. If he was going to participate at all, it would be quietly. Controlled. He filled out his ballot with careful strokes and slipped it into the box, as if that small act required precision.
Across the room, he noticed Adrian leaning against the wall near the photobooth, nursing his own cup of punch like it was something stronger. Their eyes met briefly, just long enough to acknowledge shared avoidance, before both of them looked away, pointedly uninterested.
Another bridge burned.
Victor grimaced faintly.
The current song ended in a swell of bass and cheers, whoops and hollers echoing off the gym walls. Then, cutting awkwardly through the noise, came Moisha’s unmistakably enthusiastic ~cool adult~ voice over the microphone.
“Allllll right, you guys, it’s that time of night—let’s see who you guys decided tonight’s Prom court is going to be!”
A handful of students shrieked with genuine excitement. Victor, maintaining his carefully curated indifference, drifted closer to the front. He stopped beside Typhon, who looked equally unimpressed, arms crossed as if attending out of obligation rather than interest.
“The winner of Prom Jester,” Moisha continued, dragging the suspense out painfully, “a newcomer to Copperdale High School…”
Naomi was already half-standing, vibrating with anticipation—or fury. It was impossible to tell.
“Finch Rhyddanski!”
The gym erupted. Finch looked stunned for half a heartbeat before breaking into that open, dazzling grin as the Jester hat was placed crookedly on his head. Cheers rose even louder.
For a split second, Victor’s thoughts scattered. If Finch had won Jester… then maybe. Maybe he would win Royalty. Maybe this was the twist. Maybe this was the moment where he wasn’t just some annoyance standing slightly behind the spotlight. Maybe people saw him as more than an accessory to someone brighter.
Maybe they really were destined to be together.
Naomi, however, burst into tears and fled the gym the moment the hat settled into place. No one followed her. Not even Steve Tyler, who stood frozen, sunglasses still perched dramatically on his face.
Victor realized he was clapping.
He startled at himself, but didn’t stop.
When the applause finally tapered off, Moisha returned to the podium, looking almost smug with the next card in hand.
“The winner of Prom Royalty is another newcomer to Copperdale High School—and I promise Lynn was the one who tallied up the votes—Seth Cartman!”
The words landed like glass shattering.
Whatever fragile hope Victor had been nursing splintered instantly, collapsing inward before he could brace for it.
The crowd, blissfully unaware of the emotional shift happening inside him, cheered just as loudly as they had for Finch.
“Ain’t that some shit,” Typhon muttered beside him, clearly referring to the fact that the principal’s son had just won Prom Royalty.
Victor didn’t hear it that way.
His eyes were locked on the stage, on Finch standing there crowned Jester, on Seth stepping forward to accept Royalty.
“This can’t happen,” Victor said flatly.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
He was already moving closer to the stage, drawn forward by something he couldn’t quite name– disbelief, jealousy, desperation– all of it twisting together beneath the gymnasium lights.
Finch stood beneath the cheap glittering decorations, Jester hat slightly crooked, eyes bright with disbelief.
“This is crazy!” he laughed, looking out over the crowd and then back at Seth. “Who would have thought we would win our first Prom?”
Seth beamed beside him, crown glinting under the disco ball. “Well,” he said, slipping an arm around Finch’s waist with easy confidence, “maybe what they say about Prom Royalty and Prom Jester is true!”
Victor felt the world tilt.
Onstage, Seth dipped Finch dramatically, one hand at his back, the other lifting Finch’s hand with theatrical flourish before pressing a kiss against his knuckles. The crowd roared in approval.
Victor’s stomach dropped.
He barely had time to process the gesture before Finch, laughing, flushed, swept up in the spectacle, leaned forward and kissed Seth square on the mouth.
In public.
In front of the whole school.
In front of him.
There was no hesitation in it. No glance outward. No flicker of awareness.
The gymnasium erupted, cheers ricocheting off the walls, students stomping and shouting like they were witnessing the climax of some overproduced teen romance movie Victor would never willingly watch.
Something inside him snapped into a terrifying kind of clarity.
The noise blurred. The lights dimmed at the edges. His heartbeat slowed instead of quickened.
Unleash the beast.
He had secured his secret weapon only that afternoon– practiced it, tested it, convinced himself he would use it responsibly. Carefully.
But now, with every eye in the gym trained on the kiss, Victor felt the opening. The perfect cover.
He stoned his heart.
He focused.
Seth’s laughter was still visible, his mouth still curved from the kiss, when Victor locked onto him. The world narrowed to a single point– eye contact, connection, the invisible thread he had learned how to seize.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t move.
He simply pushed.
One word, sharpened to a blade, driven forward with all the venom and contempt he could compress into it:
Leave.
The command slid into Seth’s mind like a whisper that wasn’t his own.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then Seth’s expression shifted– barely perceptible, but enough. The brightness dulled. The momentum stalled.
He straightened.
Without explanation. Without ceremony.
He stepped away from Finch.
At first, it looked like nothing more than modesty. A break in the theatrics. A need for air.
He climbed down from the stage.
A few people clapped him on the back as he passed, pulling him into quick hugs, laughing and congratulating him. He smiled automatically, moving through them with mechanical ease.
But he didn’t stop.
He crossed the dance floor.
He moved past the punch table.
He walked straight out of the gymnasium doors.
Victor watched every step.
No fanfare. No dramatic exit.
Just obedience.
And to Victor’s utmost, terrible delight—
Seth left.
“Congratulations on Prom Jester, Finch!”
“Yeah!” Finch answered with a bright but distracted smile, his gaze drifting past the well-wishers toward the gym doors. He watched Seth and a couple of others disappear out the door. The sudden exit was a little strange, but maybe Seth just wasn’t feeling well. There had been a lot of excitement, a lot of noise. Prom was nearly over anyway. Hell, maybe he needed a breath too.
“Seems like things are dying down now,” Victor said smoothly, stepping closer, riding the private high of his successful, dastardly deed. “Do you want to go to the After Prom party?”
“Sure, uh–” Finch hesitated, still peering toward the exit. “I want to make sure Seth is okay. He left kind of quickly.”
Victor tilted his head, feigning mild confusion. “Huh, did he? Maybe he needed some fresh air.” He gestured toward the stage. “Quick, let me get a picture of you in the Prom Jester hat and send it to Mom and Dad.”
That pulled Finch’s attention back instantly. “Yeah! Get me next to the podium, hold on.”
Finch grabbed Victor’s hand and hauled him up onto the stage. For a brief, suspended moment, Victor stood beneath the lights, the glittering banner overhead, the starry curtain framing the two of them.
From here, the world looked different.
He let himself imagine, just for a second, what it would have been like if he’d been the one crowned. If the cheers had been for him. If the kiss had been his to receive.
“Get the balloons too!” Finch called, adjusting the crooked Jester hat with theatrical flair.
“Yeah, I’m getting all of it, hold on,” Victor replied, angling the phone to frame the podium, the banner, the cluster of metallic balloons hovering like captured stars.
Finch posed, grinning wide, basking in the glow of the moment.
And Victor almost believed the fantasy.
Almost.
“I saw what you did.”
Moirai’s voice sliced through the illusion like a bullet through glass.
Victor’s hand stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the phone and turned his head.
Moirai stood at the foot of the stage, arms to her side, her expression stripped of its usual dry amusement. There was no cynicism in it now. No playful edge.
Just accusation.
And certainty.
“Compelling someone away isn’t going to solve any of your problems,” Moirai said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Is this what you wanted? An empty prom hall with just you and Finch?”
The words echoed in the hollow gymnasium.
“Victor, what is she talking about?” Finch asked, confusion knitting his brow as he looked between them.
Moirai didn’t take her eyes off Victor. “How are you going to explain to him what you did? And why?”
“Moirai, this isn’t any of your business,” Victor snapped, though the edge in his voice sounded thinner than he intended.
“It is when you give vampires a bad name,” she shot back. Her expression shifted—not angry now, but disappointed. “I thought you were different.”
She shook her head slowly, as if trying to dislodge whatever image of him she’d once held, then turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded into the vast, empty space of the gym.
Silence rushed in behind her.
The once-crowded dance floor now stood completely devoid of life, glitter and discarded cups the only evidence that a celebration had ever taken place. On the stage, beneath sagging balloons and a crooked banner, only the two of them remained.
“Victor,” Finch said quietly, his voice no longer playful. “What was that?”
Victor swallowed. The weight of it all pressed down on his chest.
“Finch… I’m so sorry.”
Finch’s eyes widened slightly. “What did you do?”
Victor dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before forcing himself to stop. He couldn’t look at Finch at first.
“I just feel like you’re growing further and further away from me every day,” he admitted, the words tumbling out faster once they started. “Let’s face it– I’m not as cool or interesting as Seth. It’s no wonder you want to hang out with him more. People like him. He’s funny. He’s nice to everyone and he’s cool without even trying, in that weird nerdy way that makes him charming. I get it. I get why you like him.”
Finch stared at him, something like realization dawning.
“You… compelled Seth away from the stage?” he asked, disbelief soft but unmistakable.
Victor’s jaw tightened. “I just want my brother back, Finch. I don’t want to feel like I’m losing you.”
There it was. The truth of it, raw and unguarded.
“Victor,” Finch said gently, stepping closer. “I never left. I had no idea you felt this way.”
“It’s not just Seth,” Victor went on, voice cracking despite himself. “It’s the band too. Everyone wants to be your friend because you’re like, the most amazing person ever. Of course everyone wants a piece of you but… I just want some left for me.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Just a little.”
Finch’s expression softened. “Victor… I’m so sorry.”
Victor finally met his eyes. “I’m sorry too.”
For a moment, they simply stood there beneath the sparkling lights. Then Finch stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
The hug was warm and solid and real.
Victor closed his eyes and let himself sink into it. The tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by something steady and grounding. In that embrace, there was no Steve Tyler mocking him for crashing band practice. No Seth hanging off Finch’s arm. No competition. No audience.
Just the two of them.
Reunited.
And for the first time all night, the world felt right again.
Yet before he could think better of it, an unnerving impulse seized him– swift and overwhelming, drowning out reason.
Victor moved without fully deciding to. His hands rose to his brother’s shoulders, fingers tightening as if afraid the moment might vanish. He gently tipped Finch’s chin upward and closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing.
For a heartbeat, the world hung in suspension.
When Finch didn’t immediately pull away, didn’t recoil or protest, something inside Victor unraveled. He deepened the kiss, urgency bleeding through the fragile restraint he’d tried to maintain all evening.
A vulnerable sound slipped from his throat, half sob, half sigh, thick with longing and relief. Tears blurred his vision, sliding unchecked down his cheeks. He was crying now, openly, the weight of months of jealousy and fear crashing over him all at once.
He kissed Finch as though the moment were sacred. As though this was some ancient rite that would determine the shape of his future. Every second that Finch didn’t shove him away felt like mercy. Like absolution.
Victor had braced himself for disgust. For anger. For rejection that would split him open beyond repair.
But it didn’t come.
And that absence of horror or outrage ignited something wild and fragile in his chest.
Did this mean Finch felt it too?
Had all the anguish, all the jealousy, been for nothing?
Were they meant to find their way back to each other like this, no matter how tangled the path became?
Clinging to his brother, Victor dared, just for a trembling second, to believe that maybe the fates had not been mocking him after all.
Finch was the first to come back to himself.
He pulled away gently, just enough to create space between them, an awkward laugh escaping his lips as if he could smooth the moment over with sound alone. “Woah, what was that even?”
Victor’s jaw fell open, reality crashing down in brutal clarity. “I… I don’t know…”
Finch scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but Victor’s face. “I don’t think we were supposed to do that.”
“Probably not,” Victor murmured, the words hollow.
The empty gym, the deflating balloons, the trash on the floor—everything felt painfully ordinary again. No destiny. No sacred rite. Just a mistake suspended in fluorescent lighting.
“Are you okay, Victor?” Finch asked, the awkwardness dissolving into genuine concern. “I’m really worried about you.”
Victor let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I’m worried about me too. That… that was… that wasn’t right.”
Finch stepped closer, careful now, steady. “Let’s get you home. This whole night… this isn’t like you.”
“No,” Victor admitted quietly. “It’s not. I’m… I don’t feel very well.”
“It’s okay,” Finch said softly. “I’m here. I’ll get you home.”
Home.
The word landed like a threat.
Victor’s stomach twisted. If Finch took him home, he would tell Marj and Pyke. He would have to. There would be questions. There would be consequences.
Would they separate them? Would they decide Victor was too unstable, too dangerous to stay? Would they call his Uncle Eric to “handle” it the way he ‘handled’ it in the past?
Victor knew exactly what that meant.
Whatever punishment waited for him, he wasn’t strong enough to face it. Not tonight. Not after everything.
Finch’s hand rested lightly at his back, guiding him toward the gym doors with quiet protectiveness.
But Victor’s mind was already racing ahead.
Home was the last place he wanted to be.
The night air beyond the doors looked dark and endless.
And once again, running felt like the only option he had left.

RAW Paste Data Copied

Victor prayed that no one was awake. It was 2:00 in the morning and their house seemed quiet, but it was hard to tell these days.  There was always some kind of chaos that lied within. Their parents knew that they were out partying after the concert, they just didn't know how much partying was in play. 
To a layperson, Finch looked like he just partied too much. There was no real reason to look too much into his unconsciousness, right?  Victor was about to find out. 
Upon entering the house, Victor noticed that his prayers were in vain.  Both Pyke and his mother were awake,  pacing around the foyer impatiently. As soon as he entered with an unconscious Finch draped around his shoulder, Marjorine went into action. 
“Oh for the love of God, what were you guys doing up so late?” She stepped forward, taking in the sight of Finch slumped heavily against Victor. “What’s wrong with him?”
Victor adjusted Finch’s weight, trying to look far calmer than he felt. “I don’t know. I guess he partied too hard.”
Marjorine’s eyes flashed. “What kind of place is serving alcohol to minors?”
“Mom, he’s in a band,” Victor replied defensively. “He gets free booze wherever he goes.”
From the kitchen, Pyke folded his arms, his expression stern but measured. “Whose idea was it?”
“You’re going to have to take that up with Steve Tyler,” Victor muttered and handed Finch off to their mother. “I had nothing to do with this. I just made sure he got home okay.” He started toward the stairwell. “I’m going to bed.”
“Finch, honey, can you hear me?” Marjorine tended to her son in a hurry, brushing his hair back. Her voice shifted from anger to fear in an instant. “Oh, Pyke, he’s unconscious.”
Pyke stepped closer, concern overtaking suspicion—until something caught his eye. He leaned in, fingers gently tilting Finch’s chin. “He’s— oh. What’s this.”
Marjorine followed his gaze. Her head snapped up. “Victor!”
Victor froze halfway down the hall. “That happened before he passed out!” he blurted. “I forgot to eat!”
Marjorine’s face went pale with fury. “You don’t prey on your family members. Hell, you don’t prey on—”
“Ugh…”
All three of them turned at the small sound. Finch stirred weakly, blinking against the light.
“Oh honey,” Marjorine breathed, kissing his forehead in relief. “You’re okay? What happened, did you have too much to drink?”
“You’re home,” Pyke added gently. “You’re safe.”
Finch frowned faintly, his voice groggy but clear. “I didn’t drink at all…”
The room went still.
“Victor,” Marjorine said, low and warning.
“It was an accident!” Victor insisted, panic creeping into his tone.
“Don’t…” Finch mumbled, lifting a hand slightly. “It’s not his fault, Mom. I remember now. He was in trouble. He was pale and…” He swallowed. “He asked permission. I let him.”
Marjorine closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose as she stood. “Still, you don’t hunt people and then lie about it! We have plenty of plasma fruit and plasma packs to take with you. This is no excuse.”
Pyke ran a hand over his jaw, conflicted. “Let me take the blame this time, Marj. We are due for training.”
Victor looked up sharply. “Training?”
“You are still learning,” Pyke said, his voice firm but not unkind. “We have some catching up to do.”
“Pyke, this is unacceptable,” Marjorine snapped.
“This is on me,” he replied steadily. Then his gaze fixed on Victor. “No more taking blood from humans. There is always an alternative. Get some sleep. We will start first thing tomorrow.”
Victor’s stomach dropped. “I have plans tomorrow before Prom–”
“You’re not going to Prom,” Marjorine cut in coldly.
“Mom!”
“You can’t incapacitate your brother and not expect a consequence.”
“Marj,” Pyke interjected quietly, gesturing toward Victor. “He looks sorry to me.”
“So he gets to walk away scot-free?”
“I will take responsibility this time.” Pyke asked, softer now. “Let me try to fix this.” He shifted his attention back to Finch. “Can you eat?”
Finch nodded faintly. “I’ll drink some orange juice.”
Pyke nodded back.
Marjorine moved stiffly into the kitchen and returned with a glass. She caressed Finch’s head once he’d taken a few sips, her movements protective and lingering. Then, without another word to Pyke or Victor, she disappeared inside her bedroom.
Silence settled in her wake. When Finch finished his glass, he nodded to the two of them before groggily making his way upstairs– only half aware of his surroundings. 
Victor shifted awkwardly. “Thanks, Pyke. I promise I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I know,” Pyke replied, resting a steady hand on Victor’s shoulder. “We have work to do.”
Victor hesitated, vulnerability creeping back in. “Is Mom going to keep being mad at me about everything?”
Pyke sighed lightly.
Victor stared at the floor for a moment before saying quietly, “I’m not who I was, you know.”
Pyke studied him, then gave a small, reassuring shake of his head. “What are you talking about? You are only you.”
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at Victor’s lips.
–
5:00 in the morning. Victor made sure that everybody was asleep before he ventured outside, knowing this would be the only opportunity that he would get to jumpstart his real vampire training.  While he wasn't sure what Pyke had in store for him, he knew that his vegan lifestyle wasn't going to mesh with his plans for this evening. 
Victor wasn't going to hurt Seth, but he sure as hell was going to make sure that nothing funny was going to happen during or after prom. 
He was pretty sure that he was able to compel Adrian last night, almost positive. It was muscle memory at this point, so what if the chops weren't there. 
Right?
This was too important to leave up to chance, so Victor decided to test his powers on a couple of joggers in the morning–  not attacking them, just compelling them. Maybe one meal.
He remembered that women were easier to compel because they were more susceptible to someone needing help or asking a question. That felt so skeevy though, but you know what was also skeevy?  Seth touching any part of Finch's body, or even thinking about it. This was for the better good. None of these ladies would remember any of this morning if everything went to plan. 
The first lady froze mid-step when she spotted him crumpled on the ground near the curb, one hand braced against the pavement as though the world had tilted without warning. 
“Oh no, what happened? Are you okay?” she immediately got down on his level, inspecting the damage. 
Victor blinked up at her, pretending to be dazed, “I don’t know,” he muttered, pushing himself up slightly on one elbow. “Where’s my phone?”
The woman glanced around instinctively, scanning the sidewalk and the street as though the answer might be lying just out of sight. “Were you robbed?”
“I think…” Victor made a pathetic noise, his hand rising to his face. His fingers hovered near his eye but didn’t quite touch it. “Oh God. I think he hit me.” His voice wavered. “Is my eye red?”
The woman leaned closer despite her hesitation, her expression tightening as she tried to assess the damage. “You… your eye. It’s…”
Once they locked eyes, he knew he had her. Or his confidence convinced him that he did. “Look closely,” he urged, unblinking as he drew her closer into his gaze. “Is it swollen?”
“I…” she began, but once Victor started heading towards her neck, she pivoted hard and smacked his face away. “Wha- what the fuck are you doing?”
“Oh…uh…” 
He may have never opted into Bat Form before, but sometimes change was good.

Victor was out of there in an instant, only hearing a faint, ‘Fucking Vampires!’ before he clumsily flew back to the Elven Cottage. 
Materializing at the door, he stumbled in before coming face to face with a curious Pyke who eyed Victor curiously. “Was that Bat Form?” 
“Uh, yeah. I decided to try it out, it’s not bad.”
“Where were you?” Pyke asked.
“Just taking a walk, clearing my head.” 
"Oh." There's a lengthy pause, like his dad was either scrutinizing him or chewing through his words carefully. Victor prayed that it was the latter. "...Do you feel any better? Since last night?" 
"Not really." ... “One of the reasons I got so exhausted yesterday is I kept trying to compel this bully away who gives Finch and I a hard time. He almost ruined the concert for me last night, and I just can’t stand it anymore.” He sucked in a much-needed breath as his rambling monologue ended. 
Pyke wasn't currently in his vampire form, but nonetheless his face instantly darkened into something flat and dangerous. "Who is this?" 
Victor once watched his dad sucker punch a fairy in the neck with an expression just like this, and a flash of anxiety shot through him as he realized he's talking about hunting down Seth. 
"Someone at your school?" 
"I want to do it," he blurted as he shifted his weight to his other foot and back again. "I know I can use my powers to just make him go away. Somethings not clicking though, I wasn’t able to make the connection like I used to." 
His quick cover seemed to have worked. The Stonefaced Murder expression faded away, but now his dad moved on to staring at him, heavy brows furrowed very slightly, eyes unblinking like he's trying to bore his vision straight into Victor's brain. Several deeply uncomfortable seconds slid by before he replied. "So... you want to compel him?" 
“...It’s better than picking a fight with him, right?” 
Pyke hummed under his breath in response. A small, proud smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and Victor shrugged off the small pit of guilt it brought. "Yeah, okay - good call. You want to start tonight?"
“Prom’s tonight.” Victor informed matter of factly. “The bully will be there, I need to start now.”
“Let’s start now then.”
–
Their yard was quiet in a way that made every movement feel amplified. Victor stood across from Pyke, shoulders tense, fingers flexing at his sides as if bracing for something unseen.
“These powers,” Pyke said evenly, his voice calm but measured. “I’ve rarely used them.”
Victor’s eyes flicked up, uncertainty warring with curiosity. “You have on Dahlia, though.”
“Yes,” Pyke admitted without hesitation. His posture straightened slightly, slipping into the gravity of instruction. “You have to make them want to look at you.”
Victor nodded, though his breath had already begun to shallow. He tried to steady himself, lifting his chin and focusing on Pyke’s eyes the way that instinct and familiarity had trained him to. But there was a faint tremor in him— subtle, persistent. Reluctance. Fear of crossing a line that could not be uncrossed.
Pyke noticed immediately.
“No nerves,” he said quietly. “You are nervous.”
Victor exhaled shakily. “What if it doesn’t work and they freak out?”
“It will work,” Pyke replied with quiet certainty. He stepped closer, grounding the moment. “Say it. Compel me to believe you.”
Victor swallowed. The weight of the task pressed against his ribs. He forced his voice to steady, forced himself to hold Pyke’s gaze.
“It will work.”
Pyke didn’t look away. He watched, assessing—not just the words, but the conviction behind them.
“Good,” he said after a beat, satisfaction threading into his tone. “Keep going.”
Victor remembered how it needed to be done, but the power just wasn't there. The frustration alone motivated him to lock eyes with his Dad and force some modicum of noise out of his brain. LOOK AT ME. 
The space between them felt charged, humming with something invisible but undeniable. 
“Why.”
Victor didn’t answer aloud. Instead, he forced the thought forward with deliberate clarity, directing it like a blade.
BECAUSE I NEED YOU TO LOOK AT ME.
The response came cool and unimpressed. “Desperation will not help.”
Victor’s throat worked. The command faltered for half a second before he tried again, reshaping it, steadying it.
Because— he corrected himself internally, tempering the urgency. You need to look at me.
He took another step forward , narrowing the distance, forcing proximity to do what emotion could not.
“Better.” Pyke instructed.
I can help… 
“Good,” Pyke said under his breath.
Victor held the gaze, pushing carefully now, not with panic but with purpose. You need to go away, he continued, softer, pliant.
“Very good,” Pyke encouraged. “I felt the pull. Make it about helping them. Then they will listen.”
Victor inhaled slowly, grounding himself in that advice. Hẹ̴̿̔̔̌̌͒̀̈́̚͘ļ̴̡̨̡̬̬̩̰̤̦̻̜̑̀̀̇̄̓͜͝p̵͚͕͍̣͎̈́̈́̈́̀̓̆̃̕̚i̸̞̟͒́̌̕n̴̡͕̥̮̝̭̻̹̖̩̹̱͒̋̇̓̎̎̒g̸̰̳̘̘͖̹̖͕̍̐͒̓̒̋̂͂͒̌̂̚̕͝. Not controlling. Framing the command as relief rather than force.
Leave him alone, Victor pushed forward, more confident than ever before. His command reached his father in a way that felt so natural. So familiar.

Pyke felt this immediately and simply nodded, signalling that Victor had finally arrived.
 –
Being able to turn into a bat had made sneaking out almost embarrassingly easy. Windows became doorways. Shadows became cover. No creaking stairs, no suspicious glances from down the hall. Just a quiet slip into the evening air.
On the night of Prom, just as the sun dipped low enough to stain the sky in bruised purples and golds, Victor ventured out one last time. He told himself it was about training—about proving to Pyke, to his mother, to himself, that he could control it. That he understood it.
Tonight’s technique required something subtler. Closer engagement. He remembered the method from long ago– before this life, before this family. It had worked then. It would work now.
He approached a local woman walking alone near the corner market, adjusting his expression into something open and unassuming.
“Excuse me,” he said cautiously, polite and soft. “Do you happen to know if this is where Spruce Almighty is located?”
The woman slowed, mildly puzzled but not alarmed. “Oh, he’s a hard one to catch,” she said, glancing vaguely down the street. “Let me see.”
Victor tilted his head slightly, studying her face as if just noticing something.
“Oh wow,” he said gently. “What happened to your eye?”
Her hand flew up instinctively. “There’s something wrong with my eye?”
Being younger helped. It lowered their guard. He let concern color his features, let it soften his posture.
“Yeah, did you—hold on, may I?” he asked carefully, lifting his hand but stopping just short of touching her.
She hesitated—but only for a second.
By then, she was already locked in. His genuineness, carefully crafted and almost convincing even to himself, bypassed the warning bells that should have rung. Curiosity replaced caution. Concern replaced distance.
“Um—” she started faintly, her gaze fixing on his.
“Oh, this is why,” Victor murmured soothingly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Hold on—”
And there it was—the shift. The subtle yielding in her posture. The quiet narrowing of her focus until it was only him.
Thats when he made his mark. 
And he would make his mark at least three more times that night. Wreaking havoc in the square of Innisgreen without a care who came across him. Perfecting his technique so that he knew, without a doubt, that Seth would bend to his command that night. 
– 
Victor had heard about Prom Night since he was a kid. In his memory, it had always been larger than life; crowns, glitter, declarations shouted over music too loud to think through. Johnny had almost always won Prom Jester, grinning beneath that ridiculous hat as though it had been forged specifically for him. And Stevie, then just his girlfriend, had nearly always taken Prom Royalty. It had felt cosmic, inevitable. Whoever won those two titles always seemed destined to end up together.
Even Micah had won Prom Jester once in a while. And, well. Victor knew where that went. 
On the drive to the venue, those old patterns looped through his mind. He imagined, briefly and almost absurdly, what it would look like if he and Finch won Prom Jester and Prom Royalty together. The image made his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
In his old life, he had almost always won Prom Jester. Mischief had clung to him like a shadow back then. Now, though? His edges felt dulled. Or maybe just heavier.
Besides, did he even want it? To walk up on stage in front of a million eyes with his brother? Nothing would actually happen. No grand revelation, no magical shift in the universe. Just applause. And beneath it, a current of disappointment from everyone who hadn’t won.
By the time they arrived, his enthusiasm had thinned to something brittle.
“What happened to you?”
He turned to find Moirai studying him, one eyebrow arched. She looked stunning, dark red fabric catching the light every time she moved.
“You look… wow.” He blinked. “That dress looks really nice on you.”
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing it with a small, satisfied gesture. “Betsy helped pick it out for me. She has an eye for it.” Then she narrowed her gaze. “Anyway, why do you look even more miserable than usual? It’s prom. We’re supposed to have fun.”
“Nothing,” Victor muttered. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“About what?”
“Everything.” He scanned the crowd instinctively. “I just keep thinking people don’t want me here.”
Moirai stared at him for a long beat before deadpanning, “Victor, I promise that 90% of the people here are only thinking about how they can get their prom date to touch their junk.”
He recoiled. “Ew. You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wait– even Seth?”
“Probably!” She squinted at him. “Why do you care?”
“It’s just gross!” Victor protested. “That’s my brother!”
“Stop thinking about your brother’s junk.”
“Moirai.”
“Let’s go inside.”
The gym had been transformed into something vaguely magical– twinkle lights strung along the walls, a balloon arch that looked one strong sneeze away from collapse, and his uncle Moisha trying desperately to make the speakers cooperate.
Victor gravitated toward the edges almost immediately, settling near the punch bowl where he could observe without participating. Watching felt safer. Predictable.
Moirai, however, wasted no time drifting toward Chrysa and Cassidy, immediately launching into an interrogation about votes. Across the room, Steve Tyler was already holding court, gesturing dramatically as though the crown had been pre-awarded.
He was in the middle of boasting when Naomi cut in.
“Um, clearly in this situation you’d be winning Jester and I’d be winning Royalty.”
“What in the actual 9th Layer of Fuckshit are you talking about?” Steve Tyler demanded, affronted. “I am a literal Prince.”
“Yeah,” Naomi shot back, unimpressed. “But what makes you think I’m fucking Jester material?”
“I don’t know!” he sputtered. “I’m not the one who bathes naked in the rain!”
Naomi’s eyes flashed. “You are such a dick, Steve Tyler. Fuck you and fuck your sunglasses.”
“Why would you bring my sunglasses into this? Seriously.” He paused, watching her storm off. “Wait, do you really think they look stupid? Naomi!”
Finch, standing nearby, shook his head with affectionate exasperation before spotting Victor lingering by the punch bowl.
He slipped through the crowd toward him.
“I don’t know, Victor,” Finch said casually, snagging a cup of punch. “Do you think I have a chance at Prom Royalty or Jester?”

Victor’s fingers idly traced the rim of his plastic punch cup as Finch bounced up beside him, bright-eyed and slightly flushed from the lights and noise.
“I haven’t voted yet,” Victor admitted, glancing sideways at him. “But I was planning on voting for you for something.”
Finch’s face lit up immediately, surprise giving way to delight. “Really? Which one?”
Victor shrugged faintly, pretending the answer didn’t matter as much as it did. “Which one do you want?”
Finch rocked back on his heels, actually considering it. “Uh… I guess it doesn’t matter.” He scratched at the back of his neck, grinning. “I think I’d have more fun with the Jester hat though.”
Victor nodded once, decisive. “I’ll vote for you for Jester then.”
“Yeah!” Finch said, clearly pleased. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’m going to vote for Seth for Royalty if you don’t know who you’re voting for that one yet. I think he’d be really happy if we both got it.”
The words hit Victor harder than he expected. He hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor for a fraction of a second. “Oh, I… uh, I already promised Moirai I’d vote for her for something.”
Finch didn’t seem fazed. “That makes sense. No worries.” He gave an easy shrug. “I guess it’ll be a mystery then! That makes it more fun anyway.”
“Yeah,” Victor said, forcing a small smile. “I mean, I doubt I’m winning anything at least.”
Finch frowned immediately, nudging him with his elbow. “Dude, if you’re voting for me for Jester, I’m voting for you for Jester.”
Victor blinked. “That just cancels out my vote for you! Vote for yourself!”
“That’s lame,” Finch scoffed. “No one should vote for themselves. That’s something Steve Tyler would do.”
Victor snorted softly despite himself. “Yeah. He and Naomi are probably going to win.”
“Eh.” Finch tilted his head, unconcerned. “Sometimes people like a shake-up.”
The music shifted suddenly, the bass deepening into something more danceable. Finch’s attention snapped toward the floor.
“Hang tight,” he said quickly. “Seth likes this song. I’m going to go dance with him.”
Victor’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. “Yeah go ahead, I’ll still be right here.”
Finch shot him an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Come on! Unleash the beast, Victor. Dance with Moirai! Don’t hold back.”
Victor deadpanned, “I can barely contain myself.”
“There you go,” Finch laughed, already backing away toward the lights. “Live it up!”
Victor watched him disappear into the crowd, the space beside him suddenly feeling wider than before.
 
Scanning the dance floor, Victor watched the shifting lights wash over bodies in motion until he found Moirai in the center of a small circle of her girlfriends. She was laughing, really laughing, head tipped back, hands in the air, fully surrendered to the music.
Not that he was particularly interested in dancing.
Still, the edges of the gym felt colder than they should have. Lonelier. And he had chosen this spot himself, carved it out deliberately. It was safer here. Safer to observe. Safer not to risk getting too close to someone and inevitably hurting them too.
‘Unleash the beast.’
Victor huffed softly at the thought. Instead of unleashing anything, he turned toward the voting table. If he was going to participate at all, it would be quietly. Controlled. He filled out his ballot with careful strokes and slipped it into the box, as if that small act required precision.
Across the room, he noticed Adrian leaning against the wall near the photobooth, nursing his own cup of punch like it was something stronger. Their eyes met briefly, just long enough to acknowledge shared avoidance, before both of them looked away, pointedly uninterested.
Another bridge burned.
Victor grimaced faintly.
The current song ended in a swell of bass and cheers, whoops and hollers echoing off the gym walls. Then, cutting awkwardly through the noise, came Moisha’s unmistakably enthusiastic ~cool adult~ voice over the microphone.
“Allllll right, you guys, it’s that time of night—let’s see who you guys decided tonight’s Prom court is going to be!”
A handful of students shrieked with genuine excitement. Victor, maintaining his carefully curated indifference, drifted closer to the front. He stopped beside Typhon, who looked equally unimpressed, arms crossed as if attending out of obligation rather than interest.
“The winner of Prom Jester,” Moisha continued, dragging the suspense out painfully, “a newcomer to Copperdale High School…”
Naomi was already half-standing, vibrating with anticipation—or fury. It was impossible to tell.
“Finch Rhyddanski!”
The gym erupted. Finch looked stunned for half a heartbeat before breaking into that open, dazzling grin as the Jester hat was placed crookedly on his head. Cheers rose even louder.
For a split second, Victor’s thoughts scattered. If Finch had won Jester… then maybe. Maybe he would win Royalty. Maybe this was the twist. Maybe this was the moment where he wasn’t just some annoyance standing slightly behind the spotlight. Maybe people saw him as more than an accessory to someone brighter.
Maybe they really were destined to be together.

Naomi, however, burst into tears and fled the gym the moment the hat settled into place. No one followed her. Not even Steve Tyler, who stood frozen, sunglasses still perched dramatically on his face.
Victor realized he was clapping.
He startled at himself, but didn’t stop.
When the applause finally tapered off, Moisha returned to the podium, looking almost smug with the next card in hand.
“The winner of Prom Royalty is another newcomer to Copperdale High School—and I promise Lynn was the one who tallied up the votes—Seth Cartman!”
The words landed like glass shattering.
Whatever fragile hope Victor had been nursing splintered instantly, collapsing inward before he could brace for it.
The crowd, blissfully unaware of the emotional shift happening inside him, cheered just as loudly as they had for Finch.

“Ain’t that some shit,” Typhon muttered beside him, clearly referring to the fact that the principal’s son had just won Prom Royalty.
Victor didn’t hear it that way.
His eyes were locked on the stage, on Finch standing there crowned Jester, on Seth stepping forward to accept Royalty.
“This can’t happen,” Victor said flatly.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
He was already moving closer to the stage, drawn forward by something he couldn’t quite name– disbelief, jealousy, desperation– all of it twisting together beneath the gymnasium lights.
Finch stood beneath the cheap glittering decorations, Jester hat slightly crooked, eyes bright with disbelief.
“This is crazy!” he laughed, looking out over the crowd and then back at Seth. “Who would have thought we would win our first Prom?”
Seth beamed beside him, crown glinting under the disco ball. “Well,” he said, slipping an arm around Finch’s waist with easy confidence, “maybe what they say about Prom Royalty and Prom Jester is true!”
Victor felt the world tilt.
Onstage, Seth dipped Finch dramatically, one hand at his back, the other lifting Finch’s hand with theatrical flourish before pressing a kiss against his knuckles. The crowd roared in approval.

Victor’s stomach dropped.
He barely had time to process the gesture before Finch, laughing, flushed, swept up in the spectacle, leaned forward and kissed Seth square on the mouth.
In public.
In front of the whole school.
In front of him.
There was no hesitation in it. No glance outward. No flicker of awareness.
The gymnasium erupted, cheers ricocheting off the walls, students stomping and shouting like they were witnessing the climax of some overproduced teen romance movie Victor would never willingly watch.
Something inside him snapped into a terrifying kind of clarity.

The noise blurred. The lights dimmed at the edges. His heartbeat slowed instead of quickened.
Unleash the beast.
He had secured his secret weapon only that afternoon– practiced it, tested it, convinced himself he would use it responsibly. Carefully.
But now, with every eye in the gym trained on the kiss, Victor felt the opening. The perfect cover.
He stoned his heart.
He focused.
Seth’s laughter was still visible, his mouth still curved from the kiss, when Victor locked onto him. The world narrowed to a single point– eye contact, connection, the invisible thread he had learned how to seize.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t move.
He simply pushed.
One word, sharpened to a blade, driven forward with all the venom and contempt he could compress into it:
Leave.

The command slid into Seth’s mind like a whisper that wasn’t his own.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then Seth’s expression shifted– barely perceptible, but enough. The brightness dulled. The momentum stalled.
He straightened.
Without explanation. Without ceremony.
He stepped away from Finch.
At first, it looked like nothing more than modesty. A break in the theatrics. A need for air.
He climbed down from the stage.
A few people clapped him on the back as he passed, pulling him into quick hugs, laughing and congratulating him. He smiled automatically, moving through them with mechanical ease.
But he didn’t stop.
He crossed the dance floor.
He moved past the punch table.
He walked straight out of the gymnasium doors.
Victor watched every step.
No fanfare. No dramatic exit.
Just obedience.
And to Victor’s utmost, terrible delight—
Seth left.

“Congratulations on Prom Jester, Finch!”
“Yeah!” Finch answered with a bright but distracted smile, his gaze drifting past the well-wishers toward the gym doors. He watched Seth and a couple of others disappear out the door. The sudden exit was a little strange, but maybe Seth just wasn’t feeling well. There had been a lot of excitement, a lot of noise. Prom was nearly over anyway. Hell, maybe he needed a breath too.
“Seems like things are dying down now,” Victor said smoothly, stepping closer, riding the private high of his successful, dastardly deed. “Do you want to go to the After Prom party?”
“Sure, uh–” Finch hesitated, still peering toward the exit. “I want to make sure Seth is okay. He left kind of quickly.”
Victor tilted his head, feigning mild confusion. “Huh, did he? Maybe he needed some fresh air.” He gestured toward the stage. “Quick, let me get a picture of you in the Prom Jester hat and send it to Mom and Dad.”
That pulled Finch’s attention back instantly. “Yeah! Get me next to the podium, hold on.”
Finch grabbed Victor’s hand and hauled him up onto the stage. For a brief, suspended moment, Victor stood beneath the lights, the glittering banner overhead, the starry curtain framing the two of them.
From here, the world looked different.
He let himself imagine, just for a second, what it would have been like if he’d been the one crowned. If the cheers had been for him. If the kiss had been his to receive.
“Get the balloons too!” Finch called, adjusting the crooked Jester hat with theatrical flair.
“Yeah, I’m getting all of it, hold on,” Victor replied, angling the phone to frame the podium, the banner, the cluster of metallic balloons hovering like captured stars.
Finch posed, grinning wide, basking in the glow of the moment.
And Victor almost believed the fantasy.
Almost.
“I saw what you did.”

Moirai’s voice sliced through the illusion like a bullet through glass.
Victor’s hand stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the phone and turned his head.
Moirai stood at the foot of the stage, arms to her side, her expression stripped of its usual dry amusement. There was no cynicism in it now. No playful edge.
Just accusation.
And certainty.

“Compelling someone away isn’t going to solve any of your problems,” Moirai said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Is this what you wanted? An empty prom hall with just you and Finch?”
The words echoed in the hollow gymnasium.
“Victor, what is she talking about?” Finch asked, confusion knitting his brow as he looked between them.
Moirai didn’t take her eyes off Victor. “How are you going to explain to him what you did? And why?”
“Moirai, this isn’t any of your business,” Victor snapped, though the edge in his voice sounded thinner than he intended.
“It is when you give vampires a bad name,” she shot back. Her expression shifted—not angry now, but disappointed. “I thought you were different.”
She shook her head slowly, as if trying to dislodge whatever image of him she’d once held, then turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded into the vast, empty space of the gym.
Silence rushed in behind her.

The once-crowded dance floor now stood completely devoid of life, glitter and discarded cups the only evidence that a celebration had ever taken place. On the stage, beneath sagging balloons and a crooked banner, only the two of them remained.
“Victor,” Finch said quietly, his voice no longer playful. “What was that?”
Victor swallowed. The weight of it all pressed down on his chest.
“Finch… I’m so sorry.”
Finch’s eyes widened slightly. “What did you do?”
Victor dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before forcing himself to stop. He couldn’t look at Finch at first.
“I just feel like you’re growing further and further away from me every day,” he admitted, the words tumbling out faster once they started. “Let’s face it– I’m not as cool or interesting as Seth. It’s no wonder you want to hang out with him more. People like him. He’s funny. He’s nice to everyone and he’s cool without even trying, in that weird nerdy way that makes him charming. I get it. I get why you like him.”
Finch stared at him, something like realization dawning.
“You… compelled Seth away from the stage?” he asked, disbelief soft but unmistakable.
Victor’s jaw tightened. “I just want my brother back, Finch. I don’t want to feel like I’m losing you.”
There it was. The truth of it, raw and unguarded.
“Victor,” Finch said gently, stepping closer. “I never left. I had no idea you felt this way.”
“It’s not just Seth,” Victor went on, voice cracking despite himself. “It’s the band too. Everyone wants to be your friend because you’re like, the most amazing person ever. Of course everyone wants a piece of you but… I just want some left for me.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Just a little.”
Finch’s expression softened. “Victor… I’m so sorry.”
Victor finally met his eyes. “I’m sorry too.”
For a moment, they simply stood there beneath the sparkling lights. Then Finch stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
The hug was warm and solid and real.
Victor closed his eyes and let himself sink into it. The tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by something steady and grounding. In that embrace, there was no Steve Tyler mocking him for crashing band practice. No Seth hanging off Finch’s arm. No competition. No audience.
Just the two of them.
Reunited.
And for the first time all night, the world felt right again.

Yet before he could think better of it, an unnerving impulse seized him– swift and overwhelming, drowning out reason.
Victor moved without fully deciding to. His hands rose to his brother’s shoulders, fingers tightening as if afraid the moment might vanish. He gently tipped Finch’s chin upward and closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing.
For a heartbeat, the world hung in suspension.

When Finch didn’t immediately pull away, didn’t recoil or protest, something inside Victor unraveled. He deepened the kiss, urgency bleeding through the fragile restraint he’d tried to maintain all evening.
A vulnerable sound slipped from his throat, half sob, half sigh, thick with longing and relief. Tears blurred his vision, sliding unchecked down his cheeks. He was crying now, openly, the weight of months of jealousy and fear crashing over him all at once.
He kissed Finch as though the moment were sacred. As though this was some ancient rite that would determine the shape of his future. Every second that Finch didn’t shove him away felt like mercy. Like absolution.
Victor had braced himself for disgust. For anger. For rejection that would split him open beyond repair.
But it didn’t come.
And that absence of horror or outrage ignited something wild and fragile in his chest.
Did this mean Finch felt it too?
Had all the anguish, all the jealousy, been for nothing?
Were they meant to find their way back to each other like this, no matter how tangled the path became?
Clinging to his brother, Victor dared, just for a trembling second, to believe that maybe the fates had not been mocking him after all.

Finch was the first to come back to himself.
He pulled away gently, just enough to create space between them, an awkward laugh escaping his lips as if he could smooth the moment over with sound alone. “Woah, what was that even?”
Victor’s jaw fell open, reality crashing down in brutal clarity. “I… I don’t know…”
Finch scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but Victor’s face. “I don’t think we were supposed to do that.”
“Probably not,” Victor murmured, the words hollow.
The empty gym, the deflating balloons, the trash on the floor—everything felt painfully ordinary again. No destiny. No sacred rite. Just a mistake suspended in fluorescent lighting.
“Are you okay, Victor?” Finch asked, the awkwardness dissolving into genuine concern. “I’m really worried about you.”
Victor let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I’m worried about me too. That… that was… that wasn’t right.”
Finch stepped closer, careful now, steady. “Let’s get you home. This whole night… this isn’t like you.”
“No,” Victor admitted quietly. “It’s not. I’m… I don’t feel very well.”
“It’s okay,” Finch said softly. “I’m here. I’ll get you home.”

Home.
The word landed like a threat.
Victor’s stomach twisted. If Finch took him home, he would tell Marj and Pyke. He would have to. There would be questions. There would be consequences.
Would they separate them? Would they decide Victor was too unstable, too dangerous to stay? Would they call his Uncle Eric to “handle” it the way he ‘handled’ it in the past?
Victor knew exactly what that meant.
Whatever punishment waited for him, he wasn’t strong enough to face it. Not tonight. Not after everything.
Finch’s hand rested lightly at his back, guiding him toward the gym doors with quiet protectiveness.
But Victor’s mind was already racing ahead.
Home was the last place he wanted to be.
The night air beyond the doors looked dark and endless.
And once again, running felt like the only option he had left.