A/N image is the color differences in wren's lavender fae eyes vs his plum vampiric eyes

***

Wren's heart beats nearly as fast as the bird he's named for. A rhythmic, steady thumping that jumps in time with the boy unconscious beneath him.

He can already feel the congregation of eyes bleeding him dry, his heart beating faster as he shakes away the memory of peering eyes behind glass windows. The same eyes that appeared last night for only a moment before being replaced with the deadened eyes of a doctor peering above him.

Last night he could barely sleep, every time he closed his eyes the same foggy nightmare coming to mind. A faint memory of white walls against blank white floors, a heavy scent of chemicals drifting through the air that boiled the blood beneath his paper-pale skin.

Each inhale burned like hellfire, his lungs ablaze as if breathing in smoke, slowly suffocating beneath the bright Haven lights. Every time he shut his eyes the same image came to mind, the same sensation of restraints being placed on his body, tying him down to electrifyingly cool metal...

"If we wait any longer he's going to die."

The voice is enough to pull Wren from his nightmarish memories, plum eyes blank for a moment before blinking themselves back into focus.

"Right." He mumbles to himself, avoiding the open gash in Ryder's leg and the sweet smell that drifts out of it. "Guess it's time to pull it out." Wren can barely finish the sentence, his body involuntarily salivating at the mere thought of touching blood. The though the warm liquid washing over his hands, slowly draining down his wrists and staining his skin a deep red...

"Wren?" December's voice drops to a whisper. "Just tell me what to do and I can do it for you."  He murmurs, short breaths tickling the shell of Wren's ear.

He's so close Wren can hear his pulse beating through his neck, the skin thin enough to pierce if December inches any closer.

"The ivy needs magic to work and that alone means it's down to me and Ryder. Considering one of those options is dying it pretty much has to be me." He exhales, the breath faltering halfway through as he nervously rubs the tops of his thighs.

It happens fast enough that neither of them gathers what's happening. There's only a gushing sound accompanied by a forceful grunt before a low scream shakes the campsite. The two boys turn in unison, eyes wide in fear as they fall upon Abrahm, bloody tusk in one hand and a shameless smile painted across his thick lips.

"I was sick of waiting." He grins, dropping the tusk to the ground where it rolls with a hollow thud. "Plus, you two were gossiping like little girls and didn't feel the need to include me. Now I'm included."

Instinctively Wren's hand falls to his mouth, the venom already pooling behind his tight pressed lips as the blood begins to flow freely from the wound.

"Abrahm!" December cries, the shock already wiped from his face. Now only anger hangs in its place, the emotion written in every fine line that marks his flesh. "He wasn't ready!"

Abrahm doesn't seem to listen, the boy merely grabbing a fistful of limp ivy before throwing it into the fae's chest.

Abrahm lets slip a short laugh, lips turned up in a half smile before ripping Wren's hand from his poisonous lips. "What?" He mocks, a glint of the devil in his eye. "Is it too much for a blood sucker?"

Before Wren can throw out even half a rebuttal, Ryder lets out a sharp cry from beneath him. Ryder's breaths are already labored, the dark marks inching up his flesh growing larger by the second, the infected lines traveling too quickly to entertain anymore of Abrahm's sick needs.

"I can do this." Wren whispers, eyeing a worried December from the corner of his eye.

December's lips draw into his teeth as he eyes the gushing wound. His face is nearly as pale as his namesake, a frost overcoming his features as they harden to ice. Emotionless and void to protect himself from what may inevitably come next.

Without thinking, Wren grabs the ivy from within his lap, feeling each vein that winds itself through the plant. For a moment, he shuts his eyes against the light of the clearing, a deep breath coursing through him as his body plants itself against the earth. A warmth trickling through him as he exhales the remnants of magic coursing through his veins.

Holding his breath, Wren sets the ivy into the wound, Ryder letting out a weakened moan in protest. By now his entire body is feverish, the wound hot to the touch as the ivy folds within his skin, the leaves fading into a crimson as they drown in his damaged blood.

Faint rustles drift into an uneasy stillness, the distant melody of shuffling leaves floating into the midday air. Now only the sound of Ryder's whimpers remain, the whisper crescendoing into a mindless din that drowns out the small clearing.

Wren's eyes can only trace the sweat drenched body so close to becoming a corpse. What little color remains in his flesh bleeds out through his wound, faint traces of pigment puddling into dark circles underneath his eyes. His throat is constricted, breathing shallow and constrained as it struggles to greet the already thin air of the woods.

Cautiously, his cracked lips part ways, a breeze blowing through them carrying thin words. "It hurts, Wren.." he lacks the strength to end his words, the sentence merely trailing off into the wind as his eyes lock onto Wren's.

Eyes that seem to lighten in hue, a deep umber brown that has since faded into the shade of coffee and cream. Death swirling into the sickly shade before translucent lids flutter to hide them. Yet it doesn't stop them from locking onto Wren's, a state that can't be broken though his bloody lips attempt to speak, to scream the pain Wren can already sense flows through his black veins.

"I-I-" words can't flow, a dam lodged deep within Wren's throat preventing the pain from being known. A deep breath finds its way fighting to his lungs, a breath that nearly drowns him as he fights to break away from Ryder's glare. "I don't have enough magic in me to get all of it out, Ryder."

The dam bursts too soon, hot tears flooding over Wren's reddened cheeks as he grabs onto Ryder's hand, hard and still as if death has already claimed it. He doesn't have the strength to face December, a silence hastily falling over the clearing. It's remedied only by Ryder's panting breaths before the rustle of grass follows, December's hand falling over his mouth already covered in tears.

December's hand drops from his lips, the thick lines trembling before being stilled by an aggressive bite. "He's not dying." He shakes, a fluttering hand falling into his darkened hair in agonizing confusion. "He's not dying in the middle of nowhere there's another way to do this. There's another way-" By now the tears fully fall, his entire body trembling as he gasps for breaths that his lungs won't allow. "There's another way."

Even in pain December keeps calm, his breaths becoming painstakingly slow, each inhale collected and thought out before escaping his still shuttering lips.

There's a short moment where Wren's own breaths fail him, mimicking December's derail as his mind rushes for a way, any other way, than the one his heart draws out so clear.

"I can draw the blood out. Bite him." He mumbles, eyes locking onto the leaf covered wound now pumping black blood.

Strangely, December doesn't hesitate. Red eyes worn with tears merely blinking in response, head dully nodding in approval.

"Who's to say you won't kill him?" The opposition can only be Abrahm, his signature smirk still lingering in his expression. "After all you're a beast. Beasts kill don't they?"

"He'll die anyways." December barks out, words a rigid snarl though his eyes never leave Ryder's. His hand falls into his cousin's limp grasp as he speaks his next moves. "We do this and we give him a fighting chance. If we do nothing then we are just sitting here watching him die." Each word is a knife drilling into his chest. So close to his heart, only a centimeter away from death, but falling too short to end his suffering. Instead they linger there, each syllable fueled by the pain and endless agony that pumps through his fast beating heart. "Bite him and get it over with."

Before he can finish Wren can already feel the dull sensation humming in the back of his throat. A small murmur that has slowly been inching its way upwards, clawing at his insides with a long awaited vengeance. It's a sensation that hasn't been felt for 170 years, a sensation that was buried years ago by one decision, a decision that's been overruled by the hands of Haven playing God.

It's a feeling that he's been ignoring since the first drops of blood spilled into the earth before him. A feeling that gnaws at his stomach, burns in his throat, and claws at the back of his darkened eyes. The undeniable sensation of a desert being birthed within him, each vein drying out until it's so brittle that it does more than just aches it burns.

Dry tongue slides against dry lips before the inevitable begins to fall into place. Liquid dripping earnestly from the point of his teeth, the venom splashing against his tongue too bitter to ingest. Instead, it spills over his lips, black liquid dribbling down his chin and staining his Haven sweatshirt already littered with an array of blood. And with the venom comes the aches, the pain that flows through each limb, each vein and organ as they prepare for the fight that comes when taking a life.

When bleeding a body dry of the one thing it needs to survive.

The one thing that calls to him, a siren song in power as his body falls into line, lips pressing against the skin of Ryder's thigh. The flesh is hot with fever, cheeks reddening as they press against his inner leg. The first drops of blood wash over Wren's lips as his teeth attach to the wound. Feverish blood pouring into his eager mouth as venom flows into Ryder's veins, weakening his sense of the pain that feeding delivers.

And where there is no pain, there is no control. The world seemingly fading with each inhale of bloody air, each swallow of warm liquid that brushes against his lips and drains against his cheeks. Wren's hands can only find their way to Ryder's hips, nails digging into his skin in a desperate attempt to pull him closer, to feed deeper from the trembling leg clutched in his grasp.

The poison doesn't burn, the taste covered by an undeniable thirst finally being quenched. Blood slides down his throat by the near gallon, each ounce extinguishing the flames that forced their way up his throat, revitalizing each shriveled vein housed inside a dried body for nearly two agonizing centuries.

It's a taste he's craved.

Desired.

Hungered.

It's a taste he's not releasing until the final drop has spilled.