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Mission accomplished. Errol's fingers sensed the bizarre beating coming from within the vampire's body and as a result, he had scuffled away as quickly as he possibly could, his body language screaming how distraught he felt. French curse words--Samael still did not know what the two words translated to but he knew that when upset, he swore, and the situation at hand seemed to be enough to send Errol over the edge--left the other man's lips, loud and clear. If left alone, it seemed entirely possible that the blond would rip out his hair while applying enough pressure to his cranium to pop it, releasing juices from within; like that grape the guitarist had punctured back in the supermarket, it would easily break. Not a pretty sight. But this was good, perfect even. He had succeeded in destroying the man who cursed him through the use of implanting an abomination within him. Oh no, he was not done yet. He would take this further.

Now free of the human man, Samael sat completely, grunting with the motion, and gripped onto the edge of the mattress with his hands to help steady himself. Crimson eyes shifted, directing their pupils toward the upset man upon the floor. A smirk firmly planted itself upon his face. "Oh, what's wrong, Errol? You seem.. mm.. freaked out." He tilted his head back, but did not remove his gaze from Errol's still nude body. "'S not like it's yours, y'know. Heh, you think you're the only one I've ********? Man, don't get ahead of yourself. Guess I got caught now though, huh?" A laugh tickled his throat and when he released it, the usually devious noise became winded and weak. Even the infamous sound could not be perfected in his current state.

Soon the man slid off of the edge of the bed, lowering himself gently to the floor, and there, the room began to spin. Vertigo. Again. Groaning, Samael pressed a hand against his face and shuddered. It always seemed to hit at the worst possible moments, leaving him vulnerable when he wished to be strong. Strong like he always was. His fingers parted so he could glimpse at Errol. Making the man believe that the vampire did not lose his virginity to him and that he spent evenings with other men was classic. It would obliterate his entire being. But.. he could not do it. He could not lie to someone who practically destroyed his entire life, for nine months or however long this would take anyway, when he was right in front of him, close enough to physically harm. Close enough to bring a certain mortal life to an end. Now, he would not go that far, but he could scare the other being into thinking so.

Huffing, Samael indignantly crawled forward, slamming his fits and knees against the ground with enough force to create several banging sounds. He looked predatory. Dangerous. Deadly. Eyes blazed with fury and words dripped with venom. "No s**t... you're screwed." He sat back on his heels and blindly groped the air for nonexistent fabric covering the Frenchman, grabbing onto his shoulder instead once he reached around bent knees to forcefully pull him closer. His other hand took a hold of a tan chin and tilted it back so he could snarl in the other's face. "It is.. your ********' kid, dipshit. What the ******** are you gonna do about it, huh? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't maim you right here and.. Nn.." Both grips weakened before strengthening as if pulsating. Flashes of weakness hit, but he would not give up without a fight. But.. this was so strong. This ill feeling.

Samael leaned against the human and panted heavily, neither action by choice. His body ruled him, ignoring the shouts from his clouded mind. How many times had this happened now? How could he be so weak? "What..." He attempted again, voice slurring though he somehow still managed to pronounce each of his words correctly, though his tone was off. "What... are you..." Another shudder and a groan. "...You... gonna do about it... hmm..? What... Ugh..." Both hands shakily released the tan man, one moving to cover the vampire's mouth. Humans were nothing but trouble.

Samael's attention momentarily slipped away from the physical world, focusing itself upon the same thoughts that had bothered him since he first discovered the reason for his condition and the unnatural pregnancy occurring within his previously perfect body. Jumbled, intangible thoughts filled with anger, depression, rage, self-loathing, fury, unspoken fear of the unknown, and irritation. Yes, resentment did overpower many of his other feelings. It was a suitable emotion and seemed entirely appropriate for the scene set in the quaint city of Chicago he had unwillingly become the star of. Loathing for Errol, the man who had the nerve to plant a seed within him. Hatred for the alcohol and blood consumption that brought Errol close enough to touch him. Detestation for the protection rubber products or pills offered to women, those very same products an undead man, let alone any male, never needed to worry about. Abhorrence for himself and his stupid actions; what man in his right mind would become a woman and brag about it in the first place? And revulsion toward the very world that bent and twisted, weaving reality into something little more than some sick joke.

The room shifted before his eyes, compelling the vampire to return to a state of full consciousness. After finding his place regained in the real world, he realized that he no longer leaned against the blond Frenchman in the precise area he lost his usually abundant strength. The mattress below him offered comfort the wooden floor did not and a sort of warmth fluttered to heat his cold body, most of which originated within his abdomen. Lazily, his eyes turned downward to see Errol's fingertips gently touching his swollen skin. His upper lip curled. This was NOT in the plans. Errol seemed almost pleased with the way things panned out and took advantage of the predicament by touching an area of his body he never knew to be sensitive.. until now. The light touch felt good and he was half tempted to allow the Frenchman to get away with his actions. That is, until realization set in and he cruelly pushed the man away in the same weak manner he did everything as of late in. The man was supposed to be breaking, not happily feeling for signs of life within the not-quite-living-but-not-entirely-dead being.

Grunting, Samael forced his body upward and forward to sit, one of his hands brushing against the fabric of now present sweatpants. Well, those definitely were not there before he became stupefied and lost touch with his surroundings. He would never wear something so unattractive as loose, cotton fabric no matter how comfortable it appeared. Wondering where his thong had gone--he could no longer feel the leather tightly hugging his body and this led him to believe he had been stripped of the lovely article of clothing--he slowly blinked his eyes and looked around. He spotted the abandoned rose upon the floor. So that was where the plant had gone; he must have dropped it shortly after leaving the bed, intent on seducing the much younger man. Funny, he had forgotten about the rose until it invaded his vision.

"Damn it.. Just leave me the ******** alone, would you? 'S not like... I want you touchin' me. As far as I'm concerned, you're.. you're a.. ugh.. a dead man..." Samael glared while grunting to cover up a gag, but did not turn toward the other male, finding that the energy needed in order to offer eye contact is far too costly when there were other places he wished to be and different tasks he wanted to accomplish. Crimson Rain would be performing in the next week or so and he needed to be prepared. Normally, such a thought barely fazed him and worry never surfaced, but given the strange events taking place, he could never be too careful. The band's guitarist never made a mistake and his entire image would crumble if he let a little thing such as weakness bring him down.

"Who said 'm keepin' it anyway?" He pressed, fibbing through clenched teeth. The idea of ending the abomination's life had offered itself to him on his way home from the small coffee shop, but almost instantly, it was pushed away. He could not fathom purposely killing someone, not when he was in control of his actions and was not a slave to his instincts. He threatened often enough, but never followed through. "It's proof that we... y'know... ********... and 'm not gonna be a dad. I'm DEAD for cryin' out loud. So... say your goodbyes now 'cause I'll... gouge the thing out.. myself... with my nails... and my fingers... Oh, I'll heal... but the thing will be sliced..."

Samael slouched when he stood and looked at the door, observing his exit point to further avoid eye contact. This was all just... awful. Terrible. He felt ill and to make matters worse, he absolutely hated children. They cried, clung to parents, and crapped all over the place whenever their little hearts desired a release. And this.. thing.. was not a vampire. Hell, it was not human either. It would be a sort of a mixed breed, a disgrace and an outsider in the world. It would live in both worlds, taking on the role of something demonic at night and almost heavenly during the day. It would look like him, that wonderfully tan man treating him with such tender care. The thought was nauseating, more so than the vertigo and splitting headache.

Growling, he staggered to the door, but paused before exiting, hooking a finger onto the pants. Carefully, he removed the bottoms from his body and threw the fabric to the ground where he childishly stomped upon it with one foot. "And I'd rather.. be butt naked... than wear somethin' like this..! Somethin'... that's yours...!" With a huff, he made a motion to continue on his way, but abruptly halted, hesitating. "...Get me... somethin'... to eat, would ya?" He asked softly, voice hinting at his discomfort. Informing Errol to avoid using garlic and onions was seen as unneeded; by now the other man should have realized that both were like poison to the vampire. Samael slowly shook his head and left the room, only to enter another, though the second belonged to himself. There, he grabbed one of his guitars from the closet and shakily walked over to his bed upon unstable legs. It felt good to sit when he did. The man may have been ill, pregnant even, but his dedication to music never ceased.

When Errol cleared his throat and entered the dark bedroom, Samael did not detect his presence, already fully immersed in his instrument and music though not a single chord or note was played, leaving the surrounding area relatively silent. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, relaxing himself through the feeling of polished wood resting within the palm of one of his hands. Nimble fingertips slowly traveled over each small bump of every fret and glided down all six string, growing familiar with the usual extension of his body he foolishly neglected for the past few days. Pregnancy may have altered his physical composition, but his Gibson Flying V would forever remain unchanging. Dependence was placed on the guitar because he knew it would always be there for him, offering love through its wires and knobs. It was his baby and like a good child, one of the very few he could tolerate, it would listen and aid him through the difficult times in his life. He lightly rubbed the face of the instrument with the pad of his thumb, treating it with gentle, loving care, his caresses similar to those a man may offer a loved one.

Without a cord or the amp the aforementioned object would connect the guitar to, the stringed instrument mimicked the sound of an acoustic guitar when Samael did strum it, nail acting as a sort of a pick when sweeping over the second and third string. While strumming, the fingers of the hand still resting upon the neck shifted to cover the fifth fret of the third string and the third fret of the second string, giving the sound a sort of balance rather than leaving it to become some sort of grinding noise. He quickly stroked the same strings several more times, working through the beginning of the first verse of the song he previously spoke to Désiré about. It was not his piece of music so the fingering seemed awkward, but nevertheless, he felt that the melody was workable. The fingers upon both frets moved up one, now positioned upon the fourth and second fret, respectively. A gentle hum emanated from his throat, only audible because of the lack of speakers connected to his guitar.

The vampire cracked open one of his eyes to glance at his fingering, but upon seeing something, or rather a someone, at one side of his range of vision, he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, music coming to an abrupt halt. The Frenchman seemed to want something. Typical. Predictable. Annoying. He parted his lips to speak, but clasped his jaw closed before uttering a single phrase. For some reason, a message about dinner was attempting to surface. It wiggled around in his mind, flailing to be heard and understood. A male voice with a French accent. Something about a kitchen. He almost had it. Dinner was... ready.. done... prepared. That was the word. It was prepared and it currently waited for him in the kitchen. Well, that was fast. Errol probably whipped him up a nice big helping of crap on a plate and masked it as food. Samael never ate human cuisine so he would hardly notice the trap set for him until it was too late.

He scoffed. There was something else. He closed his eyes again and wrinkled his brow. So he had subconsciously realized Errol entered the bedroom; it was just that his mind decided to notify him of the man's attendance until now. This selective hearing thing was really going over the edge. The dinner statement was already transcribed in his mind, taking the form of words with definite letters. And yet, they were incomplete. The second part of Errol's speech escaped him. After another moment of thought, he realized that, frankly, he did not care.

Samael carefully set his guitar flat upon his bed, trailing his fingers over its surface one last time before pulling away from it completely. Phalanges longed for its touch, but he held himself back, momentarily overcoming his obsessive addiction. If he could have had perhaps five minutes longer alone with the object, he would be ready to part it. But sadly, he had to leave it behind. Normally, the vampire would have ignored Errol's words about dinner or whatever else it was he normally talked about, but hunger was setting in. A horrible hunger that clawed at his insides worse than his nausea previously had. He walked toward the door and the man he would run into before reaching his exit, once again teetering upon his legs. Then he remembered.

"I can.. ********' walk myself.. stupid. Assistance my a**..." He brushed past the blond human and flinched. A strange urge tried to overtake him. For a moment, though brief, he wanted to walk right up to the other man and do something regrettable. He wanted to touch him, kiss him, and explore the perfect, smooth, tan body. "..Nn..." Shaking his head and pushing aside his evening brush with insanity, Samael returned a glare to his eyes and continued walking toward the kitchen. "Such.. an idiot... Askin' stupid things like that.. idiot... MonSour..." Before reaching his destination, he stopped and leaned against a wall where he rubbed at his eyes. If he were a human (a terrible thought indeed), this weakness would undoubtedly seem normal or could compare to the a flu or a cold of some sort, but as one of the undead, the loss of senses strengthened for eighty or so years of vampirism, affected him greatly. This had become severely dangerous. For his pride anyway. "..Mm... What're... we having...?" The words were uttered softly, sounding even quieter with his face turned away from the human.

Samael's nose wrinkled in disapproval of Errol's short statement consisting of three simple words spoken to answer his inquiry about the meal; everything sounded terribly disgusting and he realized, no he knew, he was unable to stomach it all. Lobsters lived in saltwater, or so he thought he heard, and spent time whirling around in ocean currents without a single care in the world. For fun, the sea creatures swam in their own urine and the wastes of others, waving their giant red claws (which, by the way, were bulky and attractive in every way) around to keep momentum. Hard exoskeletons did little to protect them from predators and Errol serving the creatures for dinner was proof of this. Errol, a human, could not possibly take down a strong animal on his own. Even when the creature was weakened and placed within a supermarket, it still seemed unlikely. Somehow, someway, the blond man would fail with flying colors.

The salad came next. He had not yet seen the dish, but already despised the leafy greens and whatever else the Frenchman deemed worthy for the very moral-esque meal. Rabbits nibbled upon lettuce and other vegetables, gnarling away at the plants with their rodent teeth. And those teeth forever grew, giving the diseased animals a need to grind them down to prevent further illness and premature death. Now, Samael knew he was above humans, but without question, he was far greater than cotton-tailed animals. He would not stoop to their level and consume something that grew from the ground through dirt and fertilizer, otherwise known as manure. Again with the excretions. It was nauseating. Errol obviously mocked him, feeling that the demonic man would not detect problems with his seemingly harmless meal. Oh, but Sam knew and fully understood. He was not paranoid in the least, he just understood the other man and Errol, he was sinister, indeed.

"Yeah... Thanks, MonSour, sounds great." Samael indignantly scoffed as he entered the kitchen, feet softly pattering upon the tiled floor. A frown stretched itself upon his lips when he heard the sound; normally, the vampire was weightless and detecting his movements was impossible if her were not constantly watched. Apparently now that he had gained weight, this was not the case. And from here on out, he would continue to gain weight until his sleek body turned robust, gravid belly becoming an eyesore for fans and, more importantly, himself. He could not stand the thought of losing his muscles and becoming the splitting image of what humans call obese. A baby within a man was no better than his body storing extra calories as fat below his skin.

Shaking his head, he continued forward, stopping before the table with two place settings. He carefully leaned forward, closed his eyes, and sniffed the food. Not a hint of garlic or onion was detected within the salad or its dressing--it seemed as if Errol finally gave up on poisoning him, at least at the time being--so it should be safe to help himself to everything upon the table. His nose glided over the lobster, hovering an inch or so over its surface, before moving to the drink. Then he caught a whiff of it; this was blood, his blood from the refrigerator. Chilled was never his preferred way of beverage, but at the moment, he would settle for whatever he could shove into his mouth. Errol was still present, but he would rather not feed from him, not when he ran the risk of taking too much and possibly killing the father to be. Oh, how that thought made him shudder.

Despite his previous mental complaints, Samael found the food welcoming. It all looked professionally prepared--though , really, what did he know? It was not as if he ever ate these sort of things--and, secretly, he could not wait to dig in and help himself. With a careful motion to prevent any further muscle ache, he sat upon the chair situated in front of what was obviously his plate, hand already reaching out to grasp the glass filled with his preferred blood type. He pressed the rim against his lips and took a single sip of the crimson elixir, soon grinning in approval. Perfect, though cold. He could live with that. Was he not a chilly being himself? His next action was done quickly because he could wait no longer to eat. The contents of the glass were poured upon the salad and lobster. Upon hitting the sea creature, the liquid made a hissing sound, similar to when cold water comes in contact with a hot pot, but little else happened. He took a fork to the salad and began to mix while setting down the glass.

"...Guess... it doesn't suck so bad..." The guitarist spoke quietly while stabbing at blood-drenched lettuce. Interestingly enough, the green leaves were keen on the added ingredient, trying to absorb the liquid so Samael did not have to spoon it out himself. This was not just rabbit food; it was smart. Blood should have been its beverage of preference. After piercing through a few large leaves and other ingredients, Samael lifted the fork and slipped the covered prongs into his mouth, using his teeth to pull off the food when he removes the metal. With a few chews, he finds the food small enough to swallow and soon gulps it down. It seems bizarre to be eating human cuisine, or rodent feed, but really, this is quite good. The fork returns to the salad, again picking up bits and pieces of the mixed ingredients, as the he continues to speedily eat.

As if to purposely drown out the sound of the other male, Samael stuffed enough salad into his oral cavity to challenge his health by increasing the risk of choking and began to chew loudly. Crisp, fresh lettuce leaves crackled between incisors, the sound intensified since the vampire had chosen to continue eating with his mouth open. If questioned about his actions later, he would answer with a simple 'what the hell're you expectin'? 'S not like I've eaten human food before, MonSour,' because truthfully, the words were not complete lies, adding to the credibility of the to statements. The man had never attempted to stomach 'human food' since awakening as one of the undead; the odors emanated from dishes he supposedly loved during his mortal life often tickled his nose, made his mouth and throat run dry, and churned his stomach. Senses defying human and some animal standards deterred him from ever trying human cooking and, therefore, given that he never practiced table etiquette and proper manners, it made sense that he would not know much about such trivial things. Not that it mattered if Errol complained about any of it. He would easily drown him out again by grinding the lobster between his teeth while carefully avoiding using his fangs once the salad was finished. The last thing the old man needed was meat stuck to his canines.

After pushing the now empty bowl aside, Samael positioned the plate containing his lobster near the edge of the table, moving it as close to his nude body as possible without catapulting the food and dish to the tiled floor. Brow raising, he suspiciously eyed the crustacean while poking it with the prongs of his fork. He observed the meat closely as it moved across the plate with each slight push of his silverware. Lobsters were disgusting while living, yes, but while dead, it seemed to be an entirely different story. The creature seemed welcoming, gesturing for Samael to come closer, but at the same time, it was... confusing. What was the proper way to eat the shelled creature? Usually, a body remembered actions it performed in the past though a mind may not hold any memories of the action, but he honestly found himself lost. Did he ever eat lobsters in the past when he still referred to himself as 'Albel' or did he stray away from it? Did lobsters exist in the early nineteen hundreds? The previous was an idiotic question, and he knew this, but without a recollection of thoughts of lobsters obtained during his life, he did not know what to believe.

Samael poked the hot food a second time, practically playing with the specimen while contemplating the best way to finish his meal. Unlike a human's fleshy exterior, a lobster's was hard to the touch. The slit Errol had made into it revealed a soft interior, but it was unlike any he had ever seen before. Furrowing his brow, he leaned closer and took another sniff, this time the scent of the sea creature and the blood previously poured over its body filling his nostrils. He grunted softly while pushing away, now eyeing his meal as if it were some sort of distasteful foe he had to eliminate. The man's actions turned animalistic, mimicking a curious cat or dog's response to an unfamiliar stimulant. Gently pushes became dangerous jabs. Once, his fork punctured a small hole in the shell and mean, resulting in a soft 'ahh' and another close lean. The vampire may have died at a young age, leaving his mind to suffer because it never fully developed, but at the moment, he acted like someone much younger. Like a curious child seeing candy for the first time. It may have seemed strange at first, but soon, the object would become one of affection.

The longer he ignored Errol's words, the more Samael began to feel inclined to answer, albeit stubbornly. If the blond man forced him to speak, and speak about that out of all things, he would not receive straight answers (though the younger male never was graced with full truths when the vampire had control over his words) while he was so fascinated by his lobster. Stabbing the food again, Samael took a deep breath, groaned, and finally decided to respond. "Look, MonSour, I can do whatever the ******** I want. What do you think you are? My mother?" Really, the question was not at all fair; Samael did not remember his parents so the maternal comparison could have been far from the truth, but given what other teenagers in this century used as retorts, the words seemed plausible, even if they were said in terrible bitterness. "Even if I let the monster live, it'd still GROW in here." He gestured to his stomach by pressing his unoccupied hand upon the small bump growing where his muscles once were. "Nine months, b*****d. Nine, ********' months. 'M not gonna let myself look like a fat a**."

He chopped the lobster with his fork, slicing it while cracking some of the remaining shell. Pleased with his success, the guitarist smirked and stabbed at the small piece of meat and shell with his fork. "You want a kid, you get yourself knocked up, got it?" The food entered his mouth, shell clinging to the meat due to the way he had grabbed it with his fork. Nose wrinkling, he began to chew, growing displeased with the feeling of the hard shell rubbing against his teeth and cheeks. When a particularly hard bit of lobster hit one of his fangs, he hissed and immediately spit the unwelcome specimen out onto a napkin. The remainder of the small crumbs from the shell still lingering upon his lips were pushed away with the tip of his tongue. "What the hell is this crap? Ugh... What were you thinking?"

The fork, once again full of lobster despite how disgusting the crustacean tasted with the shell still attached and in tact (he had learned the proper way to eat the sea creature through his observation of Errol's actions), dangled in Samael's hand, teetering dangerously between two of his fingers. Gravity tugged the silverware toward the table, grasping the fork with an invisible hold, pulling it downwards toward the table until the prongs clattered against the plate and whatever meat he had managed to scoop up fell into a small pool of blood upon his plate. He stared at the Frenchman's face, brow creasing. The two men may have argued more often than not, in fact petty arguments had become a part of their strange relationship, but Errol rarely responded in such a negative fashion. The man actually swore at him, and in English. Errol's words... they definitely caught him off guard. And now he began to feel ill.

Nausea gripped at his throat and stomach, crushing his organs while mocking the undead man, but there was a significant difference between this and his previous illness. Pangs reached his chest, squeezing his heart to the point of paining him and hinting that these horrendous incidents resulted from emotions rather than his condition. He slowly wrapped an arm around his middle, giving his torso a one-armed hug. Crimson eyes crossed to look at the fork held before his face and suddenly, he shuddered, not feeling at all hungry at the moment. At any other moment, he would have barked an insult and uttered a snide comment about not needing to be fed like a child, but nothing worthy comes to mind. Instead, he settled on staring at the other man, optics attempting to narrow though with each try, failure showed itself through the hurt building up within his eyes. Realizing this, his sheathed his eyes behind heavy eyelids and stubbornly turned his face away. Prolonging eye contact would lead to the unthinkable. Why was it that his eyes were suddenly burning as intensely as his aching body?

"You're a ********'... idiot... Even more stupid than I though." Sliding out his chair, Samael stood and rested his hand upon its back to aid himself in finding, and keeping, his balance. Another shudder gripped his body, sending him into a fit of unnatural trembles. Errol really thought he would cease their child's life through inhumane measures. He thought that the vampire would murder the fetus before it had a chance at life or breathed its first breath of air. He had forgotten that his previous words about ripping the child out of his abdomen were said in his anger to scare the other male. Everything backfired again. Errol saw him as nothing more than a cold-blooded, egotistical killer. He should have predicted the Frenchman's reaction, but could not fathom this outcome. It was like some sort of nightmare, an addition to the unforeseen pregnancy. And he was the cause for everything happening to himself, but of course, he would not admit it.

The vampire inhaled deeply and turned his back toward the French human. He had not caught on to the slip up and it was a very good thing that he did not because "You don't like livin' with a man like me?! Then get the ******** outta here! Go back to whatever rock you crawled out from! Go and--! Ugh..." His grip upon the piece of furniture tightened, fingers clenching the backing when another wave of dizziness hit him. He would soon come to regret standing, but not before he cursed at the blond, telling him how he truly felt about everything the other male said. At least, he would give him half-truths based upon negative feelings rather than applying everything he felt to the conversation. "Selfish and horrible?! You're not the one who's knocked up, here! 'M a MAN and a VAMPIRE, damn it! Of all the ********' annoying, inconsiderate things your little French d**k could've done, THIS is what came from it!"

He threw his arms up into the air and waved them around in a mock surrender and now that he no longer holds onto the chair for what seemed to be dear life, he teeters upon his legs, but he does not stop. No, his emotions are too out of control; a calamity had brewed within his mind and it was best to ride it rather than fight against it. "How the hell'd you do it? Let me know because I'd just LOVE to use this one on my worst enemies. Ha. HA! That would be you humans, wouldn't it?!" A flinch, but he ignored it. Pain would not hold him back; he refused to let trivial matters rule him. "Oh! Why don't we just go impregnatin' all the ********' little men we can?! We could eat, drink, and be marry while drowning in chocolate! And then we could have a group puke off! See how far the chunks can fly! And it can go on for nine months while we keep getting bigger and bigger! Oh! How much fun! I absolutely love you, Errol." No word out of his mouth had ever been so bitter as when he spoke of 'love.' "Do you have any ********' idea how-?!"

Samael bit his tongue. Annoyed? He believed he succeeded in getting his point across. Upset? Most definitely. That went with annoyance. Scared? Terribly. Fear of the unknown had been planted and with each shout and every thought passed, it grew until it consumed him. Vampires could not die from regular means, but he never heard of one of his kind becoming pregnant either. What if this were another weakness, something that could bring his immortality to an end? His body began to tremble, fingers tapping against the chair after he returned his digits to the furniture. It was impossible to hide this discomfort. He had no way of escaping from his fate and that, quite frankly, terrified him. Risking Errol seeing the troubled look in his eyes, he stole a glance, but quickly looked away, clenching his teeth again.

"Enjoy your red s**t..." He hissed in his petulance while beginning to leave the room. "And don't you dare... ********' follow me. I don't want to see our face. " Samael stormed out of the room and into the bedroom with heavy steps, but with every few strides, he stumbled and he seemed to have difficulty traveling in a straight line. But somehow, he managed to reach his bedroom door. Upon entering, he slammed the door behind him. After releasing his emotions, the man found himself exhausted and the bed looked more than inviting. Its large pillows and fluffy comforter beckoned for him to move forward and lay upon the mattress and blankets. Yawning softly, he obeyed, not bothering to partake in a fight he had no chance of winning. The moment one of his many pillows caressed his pale cheek, he sighed, feeling contented now that he was alone and away from his troublesome roommate. He did not bother crawling under the blankets, already comfortable where he lay upon his back, arms crossed over his chest and head turned to the side. The feeling of a lack of clothing offered him much welcomed freedom. Within moments, Samael's connection to the physical world weakened, vision blurring as slumber took over. Soon enough, he was completely knocked out, falling victim to a much need rest.

Peaceful slumber did not willingly offer itself to the vampire. What started as a pleasant sleep turned into something foul, leaving the creature to toss and turn for hours. One rough day became two and then several, growing into one week and then many. As the being within him continued to grow, the task of finding any sort of necessary comfort became increasingly difficult, his girth preventing him from sleeping on his stomach, and his attitude worsened, leaving him angry and cranky, more so than usual. Hormones were not all to blame. Exhaustion, aches, and weakness disturbed and frightened the man, but were all hidden beneath a thin veil of rage and behind hisses and growls. In order to keep some sanity, he turned to avoidance, ignoring the Frenchman the best he could and interacting only when necessary. An insult here and a snarl there sufficed and isolation helped him hide the pain he truly felt. It was easier to conceal any whimpering when locked away in his room, strumming upon his guitar. Samael had not murdered his child like he previously stated he would so Errol had no reason to be upset with him. And focusing on his music ever since his Escape the Fate imitation concert helped relieve his stress.

With fame came public appearances and while Désiré stepped out of bounds and into the position of a band leader, temporarily taking Samael's job, by attempting to book fewer performances for the sake of protecting the band's guitarist, not all could be avoided. He worriedly looked over to the much younger vampire as the group prepared to play a lengthy set for a crowd of hundreds in a renowned Chicagoan amphitheater, pale skin glowing in the painful stage lights. Samael's legs trembled slightly, but it was not entirely noticeable unless someone were searching for the movement. His center of balance had been challenged, thrown off by the speedy weight gain. To anyone else, it appeared as if the vampire had chosen an unhealthy path in life and increased his calorie intake while decreasing the time spent on his nonexistent exercise schedule, but the vocalist knew better. Sam was pregnant, very pregnant in a matter of a matter of weeks rolling over into two months. Two months and he already appeared to be well into his second trimester.

Samael acted well and, like always, hid everything behind a cocky smirk, but again, the blond knew better. His eyes, deprived of sleep and long grown dark, told a different story and did not reflect the curves of his lips. Unattractive bags dyed a light purple and blue surfaced beneath both optics. Usually, bruising of any kind healed quickly, but this was not caused by injury; his body was begging him to take it easy. Heavy eyeliner and carefully applied make-up helped hide his sickly appearance from the crowd, but up close, Désiré could still see how feeble his friend had become. But Samael would not back down. He would never back down.

Instead of wrapping himself in leather that would not fit him, the guitarist chose to buy larger sizes of outfits those in his genre of music would wear, however, everything looked awkward because it all hugged his belly but was was terribly loose on his arms and legs. A big tee-shirt with his band's logo upon it--the letter C partially overlapping the letter R sandwiched between two bat wings--safely tucked away his gravid belly behind its black cotton threads. Another pair of cargo pants was purchased especially for this occasion, adorned with heavy chains thrown across belt loops and his pockets. Feeling incomplete, and a bit self-conscious, Samael had decorated his body with accessories to divert attention away from his body's changes. Fishnet sleeves rose to his elbows and were perhaps the only articles of clothing aside from his collar and boots that were not oversized. Earrings decorated his newly pierced ears (he had punctured his cartilage himself backstage), reflecting light off of their silver surface. Thin, black rubber bracelets covered his wrists, the large quantity of wrist-ware successfully hiding the place his fishnet sleeves ended and fingerless gloves began. In addition to the collar from his long lost love, he wore two other necklaces, but stayed clear of anything cross-like. To him, he looked good, as good as possible with a growing baby, and that was all that mattered. He would not let himself look like a slob and fought to hold onto his 'sexy title.' After all, he was Samael, the Samael. A single glance at a woman could send her swooning and when crimson eyes turned toward the straightest of men, the human would question his orientation. Vampire charm had much to do with this, but he strongly believed he had been blessed with looks that went above and beyond a seducer of the night. Pregnancy aside, the accessories at least gave him fashion sense and he knew he pulled the look off well.

"Mm, looks like a full house tonight, huh?" Samael snatched the microphone from Désiré and leaned toward the stand, pressing his body against the long rod. He scanned the audience before continuing, his voice seductive and dangerous, albeit strained. "Guys, watch over your girls and babes, remember to breathe. Weak of heart, get the ******** outta here. 'Cause you know we're not stoppin'. Things're gonna be a little different tonight. You guys like new songs, right?" He paused to give his watchers the chance to speak or scream, many seemed to prefer the latter, not feeling up to shouting over them though he knew it was impossible to wait out the sound completely. "Lucky for you we got some tricks up our sleeves. We're gonna start out slowly and then.. aw, hell, who am I kiddin'? Just don't piss yourselves, alright?"

After his crude, though expected and for some reason loved, introduction, Samael moved himself and the microphone closer to Désiré, setting up the stage for their first song; he and the vocalist would be singing this one piece together. When Samael wrote the lyrics and arranged the music, he had a certain image in mind and it would only work if both men graced the audience with their ironically heavenly voices. The lack of screaming in this piece helped prove that the men actually could sing and did not wrongfully present themselves to others as talented individuals.

Light chords were played, signifying the beginning of the song, followed by an easy drum beat and the bass guitar; this was also one of the few songs that did not begin with some sort of drumming. A beautiful melody filled the air, growing intense with the addition of fortes and emotion felt by the undead. The introduction came to an end, entering the vocal stage. Both men brought their faces toward the microphone, voices harmonized and hypnotic. Samael's eyes closed and his body relaxed. This was where he belonged. It was his element. Here on stage, there was no pregnancy. No Errol. Nothing but himself, the crowd, and his music. It was almost magical. If he could stop time, he would capture this precise moment and...

"Umph!" Samael's hand slammed against strings that should have been strummed rather than harshly plucked and he staggered backwards, bringing the song to an abrupt end when the three other band members turned to stare at him. He slid a hand upon his stomach and shuddered and fingered the covered skin. Something attacked him. It felt as if the baby dealt a blow to the inner side of his stomach with its foot, which, in actuality, was exactly what had happened. He slowly opened his eyes and gazed out into the audience, taking in the stunned faces of the fans. HIS fans. They followed him because he was the embodiment of perfection. But not today. Today he destroyed his title and lost them all. He knew it.

No... The vampire's mind uttered, mortified at what had happened. Clenching his teeth, he yanked the guitar away from his front and dropped it upon the stage, ripping it free from its strap. Facing public humiliation was not his style and he could not deal with this. The stress was becoming too much and if he stayed any longer, surely he would either experience a panic attack (if a vampire could experience such) or jump into the crowd and do what he had to in order to prevent this situation from ever reaching the ears of those not present. He whipped toward Désiré and quietly hissed, "Keep goin', dumbass... I gotta..."

Shaking his head, Samael did not finish his sentence and hurried off stage, one hand pressed against his belly while the other dug in his pocket for a stress relief. He found the small pack of cigarettes once he exited the building and sighed softly, though angrily. What had happened back there? It was all so fast and he could not make sense of it no matter how hard he tried. He began to walk down the path near the river's edge, lighting up a cigarette and bringing it to his lips as he did so. Calm down. He had to calm down. But why and how? He had every right to be angry, even if he hated the feeling at this point in time. All he wanted was to relax and a cigarette seemed to be the only substance capable of doing the job.

A shudder passed through Samael's body, a twinge of anger following close behind as if signifying that he should not find disturbance in the warmth cloaking and moving his hand, but irritation. He quickly slapped Errol's arm away and continued his brisk walk, reaching for another cigarette in hopes of relieving the still building stress now that his first lay burning upon the ground, its position thanks to the unwanted touch. Errol's face could not have been any more unwelcome. Originally, he was under the assumption that the Frenchman hated concerts, especially HIS concerts (the idea alone was enough to pain his chest for unknown reasons), and thought a show would offer safe rounds to tread, but the man had insisted on coming today. And today of all days he just so happened to make an error while losing himself in his work. An event so rare never happened before tonight and if he could regain his senses, he knew it would never happen again. The connection was evident. Errol was the reason for the inadvertent pause in what was meant to be one of Crimson Rain's biggest shows yet. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes. How hard was the concept of leaving him alone? Had Errol not done enough to him yet? Seeking solitude meant isolating himself from his fans, his problems, and the persistent man, and yet, here he was, taking away the last object the vampire could find comfort and belonging in.

"You..." Samael hissed, voice previously so smooth turned dangerously ragged. "Get the ******** away from me! What the hell's your problem, man?! I don't wanna see your face or hear your sorry excuse for a voice! I mean, what's with that accent anyway?! How long have you been in the US, huh?! DROP IT ALREADY!" Trembling hands betrayed him, dropping the remainder of his cigarettes rather than snatching a replacement. He kicked the carton while releasing another long string of curses, using every foul word known to mankind and had gone so far as to shout the Lord's name though it gave him much discomfort. He cursed to God, to Satan, to whoever else may offer an ear or flat out ignore him; he ceased caring. The heavens and hell would hear his rant and afterwards, surely neither would take him if he ever did lose this second life of his. Too dastardly for God, too pathetic for demons of the underworld, he had no place to go. And the thought was completely irrelevant for someone who swore he wished to be alone and was full of vitality. Why was he suddenly questioning his future and death? His life was not ending and would not drift away from him any time soon.

Bits of his sanity chipped away, pried from his mind and heart by the tension pulling at his nerves. He was breaking down and could feel it. Alone. He direly needed to be alone. Five minutes, just five minutes would hopefully do. Both hands crept up to his hair, fingers tangling within his unruly ebony strands and tugging hard. A tingling sensation originated at his roots, but in some terribly sick and twisted way, the pain actually felt riveting. Masochistic exploits became subconsciously known, though would never rise high enough to reach his cognitive mind. Actions based upon emotions of the feral kind never gained any logic. The vampire snarled, vocal chords sending vibrations through his throat.

"You heard me, didn't you?!" Samael returned to barking at Errol, voice coarser now after his previous howling. "I HATE you, you sorry French excuse for a--" And then he turned on his heel to send a menacing look the blond's way, however, the movement was poorly executed and soon, he found himself making a second terrible mistake; this was not his night. He had not yet stopped his fast gait, giving his body an unneeded push forward, but when he turned everything became further off balance. It started with a single misstep. Instead of gripping to the tiny rocks below, his boot slid to the right, causing his legs to uncomfortably cross. In an attempt to straighten himself out, his other foot quickly followed, sending his entire body off balance; if his middle were still lean and his weight equally distributed, the quick footing would have corrected his posture, but this was not the case. And ever the unlucky man, everything happened so quickly, scenery flashing before his eyes before he had the chance to blink, but somehow the scene seemed to slow down greatly, leaving him to move in slow motion.

Samael's body hit the water at his side hard, limps slapping against the surface with enough force to send a splash up and over the path he once walked. Head bobbing under the water, he panicked and inhaled deeply, a mistake indeed. Currents of cold water filled his lungs, prickling the organ with icy needles. Arms fruitlessly flapped, pushed and pulling at the water he would not escape. A few air bubbles left his lips, but no more. Full lungs prevented air from taking residence within both sacks since water already pushed oxygen away; it was basic chemistry really. He closed his eyes and whimpered softly, fear grasping him with fingers more frigid than the water itself. He never did like the Chicago River. Though he remembered little of his human life, he could recall how disgusting these waters were in the early 1900's when he was still young. Back then, he should have seen this coming. Like some sort of bad omen, the river warned him of its dangers while polluted with waste and who knew what. He coughed and parted his eye lids, offering himself a small window of vision. Everything had become tubular, darkness now taking over the edges of his vision. Right, unconsciousness was taking over. It made sense. After all, water was one of the few substances that could harm a vampire, especially a fledgling. He was in no way a recently awakened vampire, but eighty something years did not qualify him as an elder. This end was proof enough.

He closed his eyes tightly and opened his mouth to shout, but nothing escaped and he continued to sink lower, whereas a human would have risen to the surface by now. What a fitting end. To drown in the middle of a fight where he had attempted to look 'cool' and 'tough.' It all seemed so trivial now. Surely Errol was laughing up there, commenting on his weak the man was. Samael was giving a bad name to his kind. Not that he cared. Other vampires hardly ranked any higher than humans in his book. Despite all that was happening, he still cared about himself first and foremost. The baby. Crimson eyes snapped open and his hand groped at the molecules before him, trying to take a hold of the particles. He could no longer see the river bank or the sky. Down below, the water had become murky and his surroundings difficult to decipher; the previous would remain true if his head were not swimming and his vision not hazy. Another desperate wave of his arm did little to help him, but he did not want to give up no matter how fearful he was. Besides, Errol was still above on land. He hated the man and yet, he cared deeply for him. This could not end. Not now.

Another whimper. A tingling sensation overtook Samael's limbs and torso, spreading into his neck and eventually his cranium. Try as he might, there was no way out of this. By the time his limp body hit the river floor, he had already falling unconscious, passing out from his anxiety and his powers being sapped away by a life supporting liquid. The remnants of a single name lingered upon his lips: Errol. Why had everything turned out so badly? Luckily the water soaked his body, hiding the salty droplet rising from one of his eyes. He would deny the tears later. That is, if he somehow survived this.