Garden's Door

There's a tempting caress of fire stone lips, a smoldering coal that rises from the ashes, and wrath's fiery kiss moves to press down into the smooth silk ends of Damon’s wintery splayed locks—hovering just beneath his nape. A playful brush and it stays there mockingly; until the child that harvested its affection like a suitable host, twists his lips down with a scowl. There's barely a shimmer of hesitation, before a pale figure is pressing forward.

Wrath.

The floor creaks with a push of scarred fingertips and the shorter male emerges to a stand. In seconds the wall Damon's side had favored seemed to croak with longing, already it begins to ache for his company, but a foot plants ahead and he abandons it anyway. Each burdened advance holds the type of grace one could liken to a wolf, guiding his limbs forward with cautious intention. The boy was smart.

Yet Clay doesn't breathe another word.

Disdain, unlike anything Clay had ever seen before, catches sapphire flaked with garnet. The hostile burn temps Clay to slightly upturn his lips into a poisonous smile. Elegance wouldn't be the first affiliation the elder would grant the boy colored with pastels of a fogged dawn, but the flutter of aggression that spills over Damon's lashes to splash over heated pools, sings of its own special charm. Rouge, untamed.

Damon Salvati…dripped of challenge.

And the brunette's feathers ruffle to rise to the occasion.

"Well I don't care what that crazy coot said, I don't want you in here." Damon states in a hiss of sharp disapproval, hatred a pitiable swirl of amethyst. Clay almost wonders what he did to deserve it, almost.

Instead, the young brunette only frowns in fabricated disapproval, ruby content on watching the youth slowly unravel under his scrutiny. Out of the corner of his vision, Clay sees a flower weep into a bend. The boy just makes a low hum of pity.

"Is this how the children of Plain’s Brook Orphanage behave?" The young teen muttered in such a silk, chiding way that Damon's youthful face momentarily looks more baffled than provoked.

The imploring stare doesn't last long, however and just when that pale mouth opens with vengeance, Clay cuts him off. "I'd thought they'd be more well-mannered, considering the circumstances. It seems I was mistaken. Tell me, Damon, is this place special to you? Or are you always so inclined to bare your fangs at strangers?"

The boy in question bristled, and those metaphorical fangs only flashed more noticeably. The anger which was barely kept at bay was painted in every plane of Damon's intolerant stance. Small fists curled into white sheets, furrowed brows and strained shoulders.

"Don't lump me with in with those dumb leeches in this place! I could care less how they act or don’t! (Clay's blush lips twitched at the creative insult) This place isn't anything spe—"As if suddenly catching on to his defensive outburst, Damon effectively brought the knife down on his own words with a scowl. "I don't have to explain myself to you, you don't have any authority over me. Just go away already." The boy retorted, anxiety creeping in the pitch of his tone that rippled with jittered anger.

It's then that Clay takes notice. Thick lashes fold down over a smolder of sapphire, and the male of prestige is raking his gaze past the boy's amusing countenance, to settle on the silverette's legs that exude an exotic scent. Metallic lavender, he acknowledges, just as Damon starts to favor his right side, crimson peeking in shallow dots beneath the surface of his jeans.

The wounds…are seeping.

Ares's gaze remains unchanged, but the room suddenly feels ten times more artic. A notice taken with a brisk shiver that runs down Damon's spine. At the base, the first snowflake blooms. "Correct, you don't have to explain yourself to me. However, I won't be leaving until I've finished what I came here for."

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The undeniably inhumane child steps forward, Damon's foot slides back in turn. There's this sense of wrong, Damon can't place and immediately after he recognizes the sensation, there's this sliver of apprehension that jump starts the rapid acceleration. His heart hammers in his ears. Beneath its call of panic, is the faint echo of the pounding need to get away, and it tugs at his weighed down ankles. It eerily reminds him of the instinct that overtook him when the nightmare he had cupped his chin, long, claw-like digits turning his head to the side, forcing to watch as she….she…raven hair.

Fire. Fire.

She was chewing his mom’s fingers.

The stranger advances further and Damon decides he's had enough for the day.

‘I feel sick.’

"Fine. If you won't leave, I will." With a pained 'tch', the boy's shoulder is colliding harshly with Clay's for the second time that evening. The cloth crinkles with the faintest of sound, when Damon's limp of impassioned retreat is grounded to a halt. The hand that curls around his thin arm—it's no larger than his own, yet unfathomably strong—draws him to a stop.

Alarm bells pull the hairs on the back of his neck to an alert stand. The silk strands screeching in warning.

I’ll spare you.

"Don't touch me!"

My precious boy.

Is the snap that a clip from Damon's enraged tongue demands, but it doesn't suppress that startled gloss that widens his lids when the stranger roughly jerks him towards the stone bench, the bone hued stone, brought to a contrast by vibrant blooming roses.

Before he can even hope to squirm out of the grip cutting off his blood circulation, the back of his knees hit the edge of the bench—and dread pours like iced lava over his stomach in the gentle 'clink' of a stir. Much sooner than Damon hoped, his body crumbles down to settle onto the bench with a sharp twinge, the blade of his shoulder hitting the back support of the stone bench with force. The sharp hiss of pain goes unnoticed when Clay's other hand presses down on his other arm, holding him in place.

Damon's already prepared for the pain to come. He knows another beating sits at the horizon. But the child doesn't know whether to laugh, or just cry as he waits for it to be over. Gritting his teeth, he waits for the older kid to add another activity to his list of daily torment.

"Apologize!"

Waiting…

"You're nothing but a freak."

Yet the pain doesn't come.

"Don't do anything rash, such as kicking me in any unfavorable places. That seems like something you would do."

A blink flutters, and Damon's head is tilting down to follow the unnerving stranger's movements after the male makes no move to strike him. The request brings white bangs to frame heavily confused lilac hues. Those small hands have released his arms from the iron cage, but now they rest, unwanted, on the curve of his knee caps.

Lilac stays on the hands touching him; the boy is too perplexed to provide commentary on his possible inclination to kick someone in their family jewels.

"What are you doing?"

The question hangs between them when Clay’s stare shifts upwards to meet his gaze from overly pretty midnight lashes. And Damon is still too astonished at the fact that the brunette hasn't started to litter his disgusting existence with bruises yet, to really take note that an awkward teen around his age shouldn't appear that well-adjusted. It slips his mind that Clay acts too 'well-adjusted' as well.

"You're injured. I'm merely easing the pain until the Chairman arrives."

Understanding sparks and then…

Little digits protectively reach out to hide the blood that has leaked through his jeans; those same digits push Clay's hands away when the owner realizes the attempt is futile. It doesn't deter Clay from watching curiously as Damon seems to tense up like wash board, the kind his house maids favor.

"I didn't…ask for your help." Is the only response the boy seems to be able to coax past his tongue, awkward, tense—Damon isn't used to being fretted over.

The previous hostility dissipates from the otherwise condescending foe Clay is able to conjure at the tip of a hat. Smooth palms retracting from tattered jeans, a suitable sacrifice for the way Damon glares at him in suspicion when he reaches full height.

Like a skeptical albino kitten.

"Indeed. Sit tight anyway, I believe I passed the infirmary on the way here."

Clay is already half way to the door, when Damon speaks again. The focus of those remarkably hate filled eyes leave nothing to imagination as to where he's staring—the center of his back.

"... Don't bother. I'm going back to my room. I don't want your help."

Sapphire flares, before burgundy peers at Damon's hunched form. The curls of brown locks hiding the displeasure from the sideway glance.

"I'd hate to have to bring attention to your injuries. I'm sure James and his daughter would be heartbroken at the discovery." Clay warned, almost pleasantly.

Just like clockwork, Damon flinched. The boy's fragile shoulders are rigid like a drawn bow—full of tension. "Don't get them involved…"

The intricate designed greenhouse door is pulled open with a creak of its hinges, and Clay’s back is again the only sight that welcomes the twelve year old's stares. There's a pause and one last little smile that doesn't reach the brunette's eyes, before a simple, "Then, don't go anywhere" is uttered.

After the words are given with more than a grain of salt, the door shuts again with a loud thud—and the smell of the thriving plants surrounding Damon lose their sense of comfort. The clock ticks on by, five minutes slowly ticking into seven, but legs tinged with burning pain don't make a move to flee. Damon's body stagnant since his fickle companion departed, the orphan was content to stare at where the taller boy once stood. The gears in his head moving enough to make up for his body's lax state.

Why…?

The white shirt folds to encase Damon's wrists when his fingers slide out to gingerly cup the crisp edge of the bench, smooth nails scraping the material teasingly as his self-loathing bites into his neck with the poisonous fangs of a snake. There's a beat and silver lashes can't hide the way his brows draw together, and they can't hide the way he can't tear his gaze from the door.

For the first time since meeting Amelia… the silverette was stepping into uncharted territory. The stranger's mocking words clashed heavily with the tender touch, and it didn't help that the kid had been unlike anyone he had ever met. The first person to not immediately bring up his unnatural features. Those soft features were unreadable—the opposite of the other children he had come to meet, hostile or not, they all were still brimming with a childish flare he lacked.

"The chairman requested that I wait here… Damon."

That face lacked any innocence…

Damon didn't know what to make of it.

One set of fingers slipped from the bench, to rest tenderly over the side of his neck.

Why are you helping someone like me?

I’m not worth it.

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Humidity, thick and overbearing in its contents, drapes leisurely over Damon's form, a pair of slipper adorned feet brushing against the floorboard for the third time this evening. Each subtle kick oozed boredom and the flickering lights overhead do little to appease the tipped back skull that watches the vibrancy of the room change consistency. Dully the boy was begins to wonder if everything that had transpired was a well-acted prank.

The minute hand makes another movement; officially fifteen minutes have passed since the guest had left the room.

The area stained with green is quiet, devoid of life aside from the towering plants, when the night inclined boy tips his head to the side, lilac spheres defeated as he waits for that door to open. It's in the blanket of silence, that Damon feels most at home. Silence was the welcoming disappoint that was a hushed thrum beneath Damon's wispy lashes.

Another noise sounds, mockingly, from the other side of the door and with the temptation of his demons slither out to play; he readjusts himself on the bench. One more minute and then he'll leave.

The argent haired child closes his eyes, his neck rested at an uncomfortable angle on the edge of the bench. The biting discomfort whispering that he should leave, but for some reason, he doesn't want to.

Just a little bit longer.

Maybe for once…

Artificial light kisses Damon's vision when his lids part on the tell-tale creak of the garden's door. Steady footsteps later, and the boy is straightening—head swiveling to the left. Relief, unaccounted for, colors the silver flakes of his eyes with wonder and confusion, before it fades as easily as it came.

"What took you so long?" Damon mutters, watching Clay advance with a medical kit in tow.

The presence that put him on edge…

"Please keep in mind, Damon, that I am not familiar with this orphanage." Clay retorts after he's situated on the floor in front of Damon's legs, his formal slacks crunched as he crouches there.

…Intrigues him.

The youth watches those slim fingers open the case with a snap.

"So…in other words," Damon starts, eyes still set on Clay's fingers when the other looks up at him. "You got lost?"

The fingers pause, before they begin to rummage for what Damon can only assume is disinfectant. "Does that idea humor you?"

A dark brown bottle is grasped between calm fingers, and the seed of doubt is planted in the way Damon seals his mouth shut with a gentle rub of his lips. The question was harmless enough, curiosity an innocent chime of syllables that gave it a melodic jingle. But even so, the idea of humoring anything drags with it a deep sense of guilt, and soon Damon's gaze is shifted to the right. Claws of accusation a stain beneath his skin.

His parents…would never be able to laugh again. What gave him the right?

The flower under his gaze stares back at him, and Damon only offers the fleeting ghost a smile. An answer never leaves his lips.

Silence reigns, until blue jeans are being folded upwards to touch Damon's knees. Then, Clay tries again. "I simply took a wrong turn." He offers.

Damon's palm moves down to block Clay's hand from the other pant leg. "I can do that on my own."

There's a pause, before feminine lashes narrow with subtle annoyance, but the simper is polite as ever. Fingers take hold of the obstruction to his path and peach warms porcelain. Natural skin versus paper white.

"I'm sure you could. Now hold this."

Furrowing his brows as the stubborn mule of a person basically forces two rolls of bandages into his grip, Damon is half tempted to toss them back. But after blue denim is bunched upwards, Damon remains mostly passive as the male sets to work.

The first touch of alcohol is painful, white teeth pearling together in a grind as the urge to connect his fist with the pretend nurse's jaw becomes present. It hurts, worse than when they were originally created.

"It'll be over soon." Clay promises, and Damon's breath is little less rushed. Every flinch is soothed when the elder tenderly brushes over the searing wounds with cotton.

Swipe, clean, stroke, and bandage: the pattern repeats until the crimson that stained the flesh in dark contrast is a hazed memory.

After a moment of the unaccustomed touch lingering on the calf of his leg, Damon pulls away disgruntled. Clay does the same, setting the materials to the side while Damon brings his pants down to cover his wrapped injuries. There's a moment of just hushed movements, which do little to settle the twelve year old's mind—when he notices the male's attention.

Clay isn't putting any of the supplies away.

"What is it?" Damon asks reluctantly.

Clay only drifts his gaze from his, down to his upper thighs. There's a prickle of surprise, and then Damon had to hold back the heat creeping up on his neck at what the gaze suggested. He may have been young, but he wasn't stupid.

"…. You're joking right."

To Damon's irritation, his company's features stood in marbled stone.

"Your injuries don't stop at your knees, I'm trying to finish the job. Now stop acting like a child."

Damon look scandalized. "Fat chance! I'm not taking off my pants in public let alone in front of some guy whose name I don't even know! I may be an orphan but I know stranger danger!"

Clay rested on the back of his hands when Damon all but climbed further on the bench to get away from him. A soft breath of a sigh and Clay observes the tips of Damon's light ears churn into a faint cherry blossom. There was something explicitly cute about the words stranger danger leaving that boy's mouth.

Easing off his knees that ached from resting on the wooden floors for an extended period of time, Clay merely replied, "Clay Ares."

There was a grumble, something akin to a choke of disbelief, before he heard Damon shuffle. Already sensing the losing battle, Clay set to work on placing the items securely back in the kit.

"I'm still not taking them off. That's…gross…not wearing pants. I'll fix up the rest later!"

The bandages were placed on the far right corner and the box slid shut with secure snap, the sound buried beneath the rich laugh that was breathed under the radar. Damon wanted to smack the stupid smile off Clay's face.

"Did you just laugh at me?!" Damon demanded to know, though he was already aware of the answer.

Clay just smiled in turn, playing the oblivious card with skill. Damon didn't have much to go off of, but he was starting to think Clay was a bit of a douchebag. "It's your overactive imagination. Anyway, I believe we're done here."

Scoffing, Damon stepped down from the bench his feet were curled against protectively. A shared glance between the two, a feeling of dread, and Clay was suddenly facing the door with an impenetrable countenance.

"... Ah I sense something unpleasant behind the door."

The duo stiffened as James burst through the door, the slender man heading towards them with a strange crackle of energy that made his glasses gleam with triumph. Flippantly Damon wondered what had the man in such a good mood, but he decided against asking.

"You are still here! I was afraid you'd have left. I apologize for the time, I had trouble locating the blasted thing but here it is! One specially delivered gift for Mr. Ares!"

Two eyes slid shut, and if an aura could suffocate, Damon was surely being stripped of his oxygen supply.

"This is a birthday card." Clay finally stated, the patience that had basked his form earlier entirely reduced to ash.

"Yes! Filled with love from yours truly! Ashton and I were best friends back in the day, you know."

"Then you are aware, his birthday was months ago." Damon didn't have to look at the blonde to know he flinched—Clay looked as if he would slit the male's throat. Blood coated claws, scarlet irises… the spider's web; it wasn't an image non-relatable to the brunette.

The wounds on his legs tingled in protest.

"No time like the present, nee?" James answered in a nervous chortle, before turning towards Damon. Glasses lowered, and those brown eyes filled with warmth. "Oh Damon, isn't this a surprise? Have you been here the whole time?"

A shrug and his less than enthused boy found interest somewhere else. "I was just going for a walk."

Knowledge was the tease that eased past his lips. "Did you keep Clay company then?"

"I didn't."

"He did."

The difference in answer had Damon's pale cheeks blossoming into a faint brush of color, his lips pulled down into an irritated wave. The figure he would happily claim as his son if given the chance appeared more flustered than James had ever witnessed. He could only hope that was good thing.

"This is fantastic. You've managed to be around someone who isn't our dear Amelia! You must be something special, Cl—OUF!" A slipper was hurled into James's stomach, just as albino hair shot past his vision in an aggravated stomp.

"When I get old enough to do it, the first thing I'm doing is punching you!"

With that promise still ringing in the air behind the slammed cheery oak wood, Clay released an exasperated sigh from his lungs while the self-proclaimed adult of the room started to complain.

 "Was it something I said?"

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When the madness had cooled down, James and Clay headed away from the room with a soft pitter-patter of steps. The entrance to the orphanage lay near, and when they came to a stop before it, Clay's tongue dripped with the fruit of knowledge. The apple's sweetness was bitter on his canines.

"If you wanted me to meet Damon, you could've handled that more professionally." Clay pointed out in a simple rebuff of tactic.

That comment made James startle, the glint of his glasses showcasing the widening of his eyes. Yet Clay watched the man laugh gently only moments later, unaffected by the fact his plan had been realized. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, the Ares’s are a family to be trifled with. Hm, regardless though, it seems you handled that fairly well. For a moment, I thought to intervene."

Clay hummed, but didn't say much on the matter. Sapphire glanced around before the male plucked his coat from the rack beside the main door. "I take it Drew has left already."

"Yes, though if it's any interest of yours, he promised to be back next week."

"Is that so?" Clay mumbled, finger elegantly tracing the buttons to a close.

James watched fascinated by the sophistication that seemed to follow Clay with a predetermined glow. Unnatural, but a simple truth. It was what had drawn him to that family in the first place. "According to my darling daughter, one of the orphans, Sara, has taken quite a shining to him. Drew promised to bring her chocolate biscuits."

With a jacket completely clasped and his father’s 'gift' tucked safely beneath his arm, Clay tipped his head back to regard James with a nod. "Well then, I suppose I'll be accompanying him when the time comes. Keep the information a secret from Damon though, I'd like it to be a surprise."

After James agreed with a simple, of course and a suggestion to bring Damon a book, Clay turned to take his leave. The sky was already bled in shades of nightfall when the leaves of fall crunched beneath his heel. Two steps forward, next a pivot.

"Oh, one last thing." A subtle turn of the head caught James's attention, before the silky voice gave a simple order. "Please keep a better eye on what goes on with those demonic brats when you're not around. I don't expect to see Damon covered in blood again. Do I make myself clear?"

James didn't try to hide his baffled stare this time around, looking down at the child who peered at him with authority. Julia had once given him the same look—and it had ended with him seeing a whole new side of the family he cherished.

Guilt formed and James’s finger entangled with his bangs subconsciously.

"I swear you and your father aren't human. But I will be more aware, I didn’t realize those wounds were from an external source." He admitted. Slouched shoulders pegged the elder man as defeated, and then the door shut behind Clay with a disregarding gloss that missed the chairman's radar. A shake of brown locks, and his form melted into the ink, the ends of his coat shifting in the breeze.

At eight o'clock, Clay Ares was headed towards a book store.