Chapter Text
Drunken Sweetheart
Suddenly the drunken sweetheart
appeared out of my door.
She drank a cup of ruby wine
and sat by my side.
Seeing and holding
the lockets of her hair
my face became all eyes,
and my eyes all hands.
Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī
1.
The first assault on his senses comes via his nose. It’s the smell.
It’s mold that rockets up your nose into your sinuses and makes your eyes water. It’s wet dog fur and urine smell or possibly just dog urine, the kind of pungent stink that penetrates multiple layers of skin and seeps into your bones.
Something tickles Guillermo’s nose besides the unholy odor and without opening his eyes, he tries to swat at it but his arms don’t move and slowly, he becomes aware that his arms are pinned underneath him. He jerks his head back and that’s when the pounding of his head and the gag-inducing taste on his tongue reveals themselves to him and with a gasp of horror, he finds himself looking way too up close and personal with the ugliest, smelliest, gold/orange/brown carpet he’s ever seen.
He’s face down on the floor and his arms are dead asleep and Guillermo squints to prevent his aching eyeballs from falling out of his throbbing head. He rocks and rolls until he lands on his back, the motion change of position making his head swim while his mind works feverishly to form a reasonable explanation for being there. Wherever that might be.
What the fucking fuck, Guillermo says to himself, looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling — a popcorn one, generously adorned with long streams of dust and who knows what the hell else.
He breathes in deeply, trying oxygen to clear his head but it only brings the smell in the room deeper into his lungs, stinging and burning his throat and it takes some doing to fight down the feeling that he’s going to vomit. It passes, though and Guillermo tries to take stock just in case he loses consciousness again. He knows he ought to get up from this disease-ridden carpet but he hurts from his head to his feet and his limbs feel like they aren’t attached to his body.
He is able to turn his head, though and he startles again when he sees that Nandor is next to him, on his side and snoring softly. He’s on the floor, not safely tucked into his coffin above a drawer of Al-Qolnidarian soil. So, obviously, Nandor is not asleep but passed out on drug blood. The evidence is right there — some dark red crust in the corner of his mouth and a little clump in his hair. Guillermo grimaces at the sight. Nandor is going to be so pissed when he sees that.
He lifts his pounding head gingerly, willing down the nausea that claws at his stomach and rises precariously in the back of his throat. He takes in the stained walls and torn wallpaper, the faded dresser and pretty soon, he’s sure his elevated heart rate is going to wake Nandor because panic is starting to set in.
He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t recognize this room. It looks like the cheapest of motel rooms and not one he’s been in before. There’s a window above his head and Guillermo can see light beyond the cheap, shredded curtains, illumination that is definitely not from a silvery moonbeam or a streetlight.
He doesn’t understand. The last thing he remembers is leaving for the night with all four vampires, heading toward — where were they going? Why can’t he remember? What time is it?
Carefully, by inches, he pushes and scoots himself into a sitting position with his back against the bed and he groans as the change in elevation increases the throbbing behind his eyes. He looks down at Nandor with growing dread. He can’t avoid it any longer. He’s going to have to wake Nandor and it’s never a pleasant task, even when the circumstances are routine.
He reaches out and attempts a gentle but solid shake on his shoulders. The first one doesn’t take but the second one does and finally, Nandor startles and takes an angry swipe at Guillermo’s arm, which mostly misses him. He glares at Guillermo, brushing aside a long length of hair that has escaped his man bun.
”Stop touching me, Guillermo. I —“ Guillermo sees the moment that he realizes where they are and Nandor’s expression tightens with confusion. “What has happened? Where is this place? Why are you up there?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. What do you remember?
Nandor’s handsome face twists into an expression that is the combination of agony and irritation. “My head aches terribly. And it feels like something moldy has taken up residence in my mouth, it’s horrible. I can’t think right now, it makes my body hurt.”
“Yeah. Same,” Guillermo says, smacking his lips and sticking his tongue out to try and rid himself of the terrible taste.
Nandor shifts around, propping himself up on one elbow. “We were in a disco, were we not? Or perhaps a library? And we — met some people —“
Guillermo covers his face with both hands in utter misery and something metallic touches his nose. “Oh.” Guillermo realizes that he’s wearing one of Nandor’s rings. One of the nice ones.
Nandor spots this at the same time Guillermo does and he pulls at Guillermo’s hand roughly, rough enough to make his elbow joint crack.“What are you doing with my ring?“
“I — I don’t know,” Guillermo says softly. He is totally baffled, staring with sore eyes at his hand like it belongs to someone else.
“How dare you try to steal from me?”
“What?”
“Guillermo, you disappoint me,” Nandor says, his words are slow and slurred, like his tongue is too thick for his mouth. “Taking advantage of me while I am compromised by drug blood. In all these years, I never took you for a thief.”
“I’m not a thief,” Guillermo shouts back at him.
“Then, how do you explain this?” Nandor asks, gesturing angrily at Guillermo’s hand.
He doesn’t do it often — sometimes, when Nandor says something especially stupid, Guillermo gives him a tolerant look, maybe one of borne of his affection for him, the way one might look upon a beloved person who is well meaning but thoughtless — but today, wretchedly hungover and anxious, Guillermo sneers at Nandor’s accusation.
“Oh, you caught me. What a crafty thief I am. Stealing one of your gaudy rings and then wearing it in front of you.”
Nandor moans and drops back down to the floor, hitting the back of his head with a thud. “Stop that shouting, we are not at the Night Market,” he half-whispers. “And gaudy? That is a priceless piece. One of the ones I brought back from my travels.”
Guillermo glares at him and pulls at the ring. But his fingers are as swollen as his head feels and it doesn’t budge. “It’s not coming off.”
“You cannot keep it. It has sentimental value.”
“I don’t want to keep it,” Guillermo says through his clenched teeth, twisting the ring around, trying to loosen it up. But it’s no use. All the motion does is tear painfully at his skin. “I’ll give it to you once we’re safe at home. Just shut up and let me try to figure out where we are and how we can get back.”
Nandor scowls, the dried blood in the corner of his mouth cracking even more. “You are a mean drunk, little man. No more alcohol for you.”
Guillermo starts to argue with Nandor but he thinks better of it. Who says alcohol is the cause of Guillermo’s hangover? Someone might have slipped something in his drink, the same something that got slipped into Nandor’s (and he presumes Nadja and Laszlo’s) bloodstream. He wonders if they’ll ever know exactly what happened.
But Guillermo shakes off his curiosity. He’s got bigger fish to fry now, like figuring out where the hell they are. He slowly rises onto first one knee and then the other, testing his gag reflex as he goes. He’s not only hungover but his entire body is one giant ache. From the top of his head to the arches of his feet, he feels bruised.
He braces one hand on his thigh and another hand on the bed to push himself up and he glances at his watch in the process. What the fuck, he thinks and maybe he says it out loud because Nandor gives him a squinty look from the floor.
Nandor whimpers. “What is it now?”
“My watch. It must have stopped because this can’t be right.” He looks at Nandor with mild hysteria. “It says three o’clock. We can’t have lost that much time.” With desperate speed, he reaches into his pants pocket for his phone but he’s met with a black screen. It’s dead. “We’re so fucked,” Guillermo says because it’s his turn to whimper.
“Well, you had better —“ Nandor lets out a terrible belch that makes Guillermo flinch. “Oh, wow. I think I am about to regurgitate.”
Guillermo points a damning finger at him. “Don’t you dare throw up right now. If you do, you’re going to clean it up.”
“Rude.” Nandor rolls back onto his side facing away from Guillermo, groaning miserably. It’s quite a sight to see a guy of Nandor’s size try curling into a fetal position but Guillermo isn’t in the mood to laugh right now. Once again, he eyes the dirty, worn carpet. It’s that shaggy kind that he’s seen in 70s movies and he assumes that’s approximately when it was installed in this room. Guillermo starts to mention how unhygienic it is for Nandor to continue laying on it but he keeps quiet out of a combination of meanness and exhaustion. He’ll mention it later, when Nandor has recovered enough for it to really make an impact.
He gets his feet under him and after a few seconds of stillness to make sure he’s steady, he goes to the window. Guillermo peers out to try and find his bearings, careful not to let any sunbeams hit Nandor, although after accusing him of theft, it would serve Nandor right to get a little crispy.
The light slices like razor blades to his eyes and it takes a moment before he can open them wider than a slit. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not any place familiar. It could be Anywhere, New York, or possible Anywhere, New Jersey. He’s got no choice. He’s going to have to leave the room to discover exactly where they are.
Guillermo lets the drapes fall back into place, pulling the two sides together so that there is a minimum of light coming through. And the motion draws his attention to the ring again.
So, okay. In his time as Nandor’s familiar, maybe he’s tried on a cloak or two and possibly he’s tied one of Nandor’s scarfs around his neck. But jewelry? He’s never once fucked around with Nandor’s jewelry because he knows how particular Nandor is about his jewelry. How the hell did he get Nandor’s ring on his finger?
Guillermo has to shake himself again. The answer to that question is not at the top of his list right now. Judging from the snoring, Nandor has passed out again, so Guillermo walks around him to get to the door.
Gently, he turns the door knob and pulls the door open enough that he can stick his head out. He does so quickly, just a quick peek out into the hall, fast enough that his stiff neck makes a cracking noise. He pulls back and gives it a minute and when no one comes after him or shoots at him, Guillermo carefully steps out of the room and closes the door behind him.
The hallway is just as bad as the room. It’s dark and scary-looking, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. All that’s missing is a body slouching against the wall. There’s a baby screaming in one of the rooms and an audible argument in another. He looks around for clues as to their location but besides a dusty fire extinguisher hanging haphazardly on the wall, there are no distinguishing marks, no hint of where they are.
Guillermo comes upon a staircase and he starts down. He discovers a lobby down two flights of stairs, although that’s a pretty formal name for what is about the size of a nice walk in closet. The “desk clerk” or whatever the hell is seated at a high desk set behind glass. Is that bulletproof? Guillermo wonders, reaching into his pants pockets for the stakes and the silver handled knife that aren’t there.
The old man is sitting in a barstool height chair and is seemly mesmerized by something on an old pc monitor. He glances up at Guillermo, dismissively at first but then, his tired, scruffy face almost brightens. He seems to recognize Guillermo but Guillermo is certain he’s never seen the guy before in his life.
“Hi,” Guillermo says cautiously.
“Well, well, look who’s up. I’m surprised you can still walk, dude.” Guillermo doesn’t understand the reference at first but then, he gets it. Not a look of recognition — definitely a leer.
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I know it’s your honeymoon and I imagine you’ve got your hands full with that big guy but check out was at eleven am.” Guillermo’s stomach plunges as the man goes on.”You and the mister owe me another 85 bucks.”
2.
He staggers back up the stairs and down the hall, his heart in his throat, his already soured gut churning, his jaw dragging the floor.
He can’t take a breath that isn’t a panicked wheeze. He looks blankly at the numbers spray painted on the doors that line the hall and keeps walking until he stops in front of the one he thinks belongs to him and. His husband.
Guillermo leans weakly against the wall. He tries as hard as he’s currently able but he can’t absorb it. What just happened? Did he fall into another timeline? Is he under vampire hypnosis? Is he still so fucking wasted that he’s hallucinating?
It’s inconceivable. It’s insane. How could he have married Nandor the Relentless and have no memory of it? It is possible that the creepy pervert at the desk is lying to him. But unless he’s a player in someone’s elaborate practical joke, why would he?
Starting from the moment he woke up on the other side of this door, nothing, absolutely zilch, is making any sense. Guillermo holds his wildly unsteady hand out in front of him. The ring. On the third finger of his left hand. Could this be his fucking wedding ring?
Guillermo knows it’s a stirrup ring from the 12th century because he’d done online research on all the treasures Nandor brought back from Al-Qolnidar. The entire ring is formed of intricate gold filigree, from the band to the large dome center, inset with tiny diamond chips in several places. It is really beautiful.
He’s only ever seen it in a velvet lined box down in Nandor’s secret room, when Guillermo himself had put it away. Had Nandor put it on before they left the house? He had no clue. Whenever Nandor wants to wear a particular piece, Guillermo is the person to fetch it and he has zero recall of taking this ring from the treasure room.
But. He can’t avoid facing Nandor forever and besides, this hallway is every bit as creepy as the rest of the hotel. He draws in a deep breath and knocks on the door. He doesn’t get an answer until he pounds on it with his fist and someone in a room down the hall yells at him to shut the fuck up.
Nandor opens the door just a crack, his dark, reddened eyes and his messy hair all that’s visible. When he knows it’s Guillermo, he steps back and the door opens enough that Guillermo can step into the room.
Nandor stumbles backward and sits on the bed with his head in his hands. “What did you find out?”
Guillermo looks Nandor’s dark, dark hair and a sound comes out of Guillermo’s mouth that bears no resemblance to English, Spanish or Al-Qolnidarese. How can he do this? How can he possibly announce to Nandor — here, in this fleabag motel, with both of them as hungover as shit — that they apparently got married while wasted on unknown substances?
That not only were they wed but they chose this dump to spent their first night together in wedded bliss? His heart is thundering and his thoughts are banging off the insides of his sore head until his vision starts to get cloudy.
He has to assume they did not consummate this unholy union, since both he and Nandor woke up fully dressed and sprawled uncomfortably on the floor. Guillermo feels like no matter what mind-altering chemical he’d consumed, that his body would fucking know whether he’d done the nasty with Nandor. So, presumably, they’d both passed out before they could — could do the deed. At least, there’s that, Guillermo thinks to himself, wheezing and shivering, his chest squeezing tight with panic and an awful foreboding.
So many times over the last thirteen years, he’s considered that working for Nandor might have a definitive end to it. He could be kicked out of the house after some childish hissy fit over some stupid thing or some weird vampire related circumstance could be the literal end of him. And after Marwa, he had to consider that Nandor’s long, pathetic journey for love might eventually reach a satisfying conclusion and that he would get married again.
But marriage, like this? Guillermo never, in all his years in Staten Island, ever considered this.
He doesn’t know how he’ll tell Nandor. But one thing is clear — they’ve got to get the fuck out of here and back to the relative safety of home before he does. If and when Nandor undoubtedly goes literal batshit and tries to throw him through a wall, Guillermo will be better able to defend himself there.
Nandor raises his big, dark head and his lips curl into a grimace. “You do not have good news, do you?”
“Well,” Guillermo begins weakly, breathless with sickness from his hangover and dread over the conversation to come, “it depends on your definition of good. I did find out where we are. We’re in Brooklyn. And not the good part.”
“Is there a good part of Brooklyn?”
“Good point. But we need to get out of here and I can think of only two options. We can wait a few hours until it gets dark, which is not my first choice because I’m pretty sure I can catch a case of hepatitis if we’re in this room much longer.” Guillermo looks pointedly at the bedspread that Nandor is sitting on. Nandor sees this and correctly deciphers the reason. He scowls and he gets to his feet.
“And the other option?” He asks while brushing off the back of his trousers.
“You can transform into a bat and I’ll wrap you up in my coat and we’ll get the fuck outta here.”
“Let’s do the second one.”
“Yes, let’s.”