Chase watched them for three whole weeks before doing anything about it. He told himself it was because he was biding his time, learning their routines. The truth was he hadn't fully recovered from what the bitch-witch had done to him, whatever that was. His outward appearance still, like Dorian Gray, refused to reflect the twisted aging within. He could feel his body falling apart, dying all around him, while his face was still young and pretty. It was a peculiar kind of torture all on its own.

Prom was the worst. He got on with a small bit of glamour and watched the four of them laughing and sipping their pink champagne on ice.

They were fine. They were in control of everything.

Control was something that Chase hadn't managed in three weeks. What little he had was motivated by survival instincts, that which he refused to call fear out of a refusal to give in to a sense of failure. He wasn't afraid. He wouldn't be afraid, he was the most powerful damn thing in the state. Would be the most powerful thing in the country, soon. Eventually. Once he killed Caleb, killed his boyfriend, and got his strength back.

The thought soothed him through the night, spent curled around his cramping stomach and with the blanket pulled around his shoulders. He could have gone home. Could have gotten an apartment. The urge to hide and work in secret was more powerful than the need for more comfort than the local shelter would provide. Besides, he could vent his tiny impulses on the homeless and no one would give a damn. It was as good a way as any to pass the time until the circumstances were right. No one would believe the polite, quiet boy in the corner was responsible for doing anyone any harm.

The first body was carted out of the shelter on Prom night. Chase smiled for the first time since seeing Caleb and Sarah kissing under the stars.

Two days later was a senior skip day. Caleb came bursting out of the dorms with Pogue in tow, bastard slut-boy blonde. Like it was the perfect day to sneak off into the woods with his friend. Chase followed them, seething with every glance and bout of laughter.

Car accidents were still his specialty.

It really was a shame to wreck the mustang, just as he'd regretted totaling the Ducati. But the look on blondie's face as he went face-first through the windshield was priceless. He grabbed Caleb by the shirt front while he was still calling Pogue's name in a weak, confused voice. One hand reached out towards the unconscious boy, which Chase slapped away as he dragged Caleb out of the car. The outstretched hand and casual flinging of energy that pinned Pogue to the ground was harder than it needed to be. He hoped Pogue cracked a couple of ribs that way.

"What do you want..."

Caleb's voice was shaky, knowing that someone was dragging him away from his friend, away from the accident, but he hadn't recognized Chase yet. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad, amused at the pitiful bewilderment in the boy's voice. He didn't say anything, though.

"What..." A hand, scraped and weak, tried to push him away. Caleb tried to push himself to his feet and away from the hand around his shirt collar as he realized to whom that hand belonged. "What are you doing here..."

Chase was amused at the way confusion and anger worked their way through the other boy's tone, neither emotion managing to lend him any strength. He dragged Caleb against a clearing and threw him up against a tree before he would even deign to respond. And then, as if to frustrate him, everything he had thought of to say, everything that had led up to this moment flew from his mind.

"God..." He looked at Caleb. The guy looked like hell. "You're so... arrogant. You thought that when the barn burned down, that I burned down with it, that it was over. You've been sitting here for the past year thinking that you won. That you finally killed me." He laughed, even though it wasn't funny. "Well, guess what? You didn't!"

Caleb's eyes focused enough to glare at Chase. "What did you do to Pogue?"

"Oh, Caleb, jeez." Chase's hands curled into fists. "Is it always about your goddamn friend?" That should have been plural. Oh well. "Your little pet? Is that what it's always about?" Inspiration curved up his lips. "Aren't you even going to ask me what I did to Sarah?"

That got a reaction. A nice reaction, Caleb's eyes widening in the first hints of fear and he took a step away from the tree. He was probably trying to lunge for Chase, but one easy step backward sent Caleb toppling on the ground in front of him and spitting out dirt. "You touch her and I'll..."

"You'll do what? Spit on me? Bleed?" Chase's foot slipped out, kicked him in the temple, a petty manifestation of jealousy, anger, and panting desire. "What're you going to do? You can't even stand up straight, you idiot."

Two of Caleb's fingers curled. Chase's legs pulled out from under him, toppling him onto his ass.

"Okay..." Chase kicked out a foot and sent Caleb flying back into the tree again. "So you learned a couple of tricks. Big deal. You're still not going to do anything. You're the good guy, remember?" He almost let Caleb respond. Then decided not to.

"No. You're not the good guy. You tried to kill me. Good guys don't do that. They don't do that."

He pulled himself to his feet, pushing Caleb back against the tree every time he tried to pull away, knocking his head into the wood when it looked like his eyes were starting to clear. At this rate, some part of him knew he might kill Caleb before he had a chance to get out everything he wanted to get out, words, breath, thought, catharsis. Caleb's eyes were coming unfocused again and all he could think about was how liquid brown they were.

"You're not the good guy," Chase muttered to himself. Anger was giving way to hurt, a pathetic and trembling need to make Caleb understand what he was going through. "You fucking tried to kill me and you didn't even apologize. Didn't even try to help. You never try to help."

It might not have been what he had been raised to believe but those few weeks with his real father had taught him enough about living on the outside. A few weeks and five years, by that point, of living like he didn't belong.

"Do you know, can you even begin to comprehend what it was like? Everyone told me I was a monster. I guess you'd agree with them, wouldn't you." And that felt unjust. Infuriating. "I'm not a monster, you fucker. I'm just like you."

Caleb spat blood onto his face. "You're nothing like me," he said, except it came out slurred, dazed. Chase heard the words, had known he was going to say it before he'd rawn breath. Caleb was so goddamn predictable it made him sick.

So when he slammed his mouth against Caleb's as he'd been threatening to do almost since they'd met, his lips tasted of bile and spit and blood. Finish what he'd started on Sarah's bathroom floor. Caleb squirmed and whimpered but he wanted it, he knew he did. They both knew he did. They were the same. Mirror twins. Just, Caleb had grown up with everything Chase should have had. Home and family and love and understanding. The contrast was as great as the heat pouring off Caleb's skin to the cold Chase felt.

And it wasn't that Chase wanted that heat. Desire wasn't what motivated him to shove Caleb up against the tree with the force of his body instead of his power, and he damn well didn't want Caleb that way. Okay, maybe he did. But he hadn't lost that much control. Not yet. That wasn't the point.

The point, he thought to himself as he hooked his fingers into Caleb's shirt and ripped it off with enough force to rake skin from flesh down his chest. Blood welled up in little droplets in the cuts. The point. There had been a point to this.

But whatever point or purpose there had been was lost in the fact that Caleb was so goddamn hot, not sexy just hot as fire, and his hands were scrabbling as much at the bark as at his body. Every inch of fabric had to go until Caleb was just there, naked and vulnerable in front of him. The sight went straight to his head, making him rock back on his heels from dizziness and glee and the power that thrummed in his veins. Caleb was making little insignificant noises. He put a hand over his mouth and whispered, shh.

It wasn't easy. It was rough, and it was awkward. It actually hurt to push into him, so tight, so fucking hot when he was in and working his way deeper. There were whimpers, and he wasn't sure which of them was making the sounds. All that mattered at this point was pushing on to the inevitable conclusion, and even that was kind of fuzzy. He was moving towards something. Surging towards it, riding a wave or a current or a wind that pushed him forward and made him claw at the bark. Made him scream when the wave broke, covering him in sweat.

He pulled back and finally felt the wind cold across his body, realizing that his pants were down around his knees. That he was covered in a sticky mess. Blood and semen and god knows what else. Disgusted with himself, he made it go away with a wave of his hand, backing up.

The accident was still in pieces all around the roadway. Pogue was either unconscious or still flattened on the pavement and he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. Or what he'd meant to do. The boys on whom he'd meant to take his bloody revenge were broken and bleeding and there wasn't much left of them but a shell, kind of worthless and not very satisfying when it got down to it. And through it all there was a tangle of fear that he couldn't identify. Something was wrong with it. With what had happened, with him. He couldn't figure out what it was.

Chase turned, puked what was left in his stomach into the grass. Not much, he hadn't even had dinner, barely had managed to choke down lunch. Thinking things through, self-examination never had been his strong suit. When it came down to it he'd much rather flee than fight. Or give in to the impulses, and a little nasty voice that sounded like his father's, his real father's, whispered that that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. And all he'd ever wanted were answers. That's all he wanted. He hadn't gotten any. Just puke and weakness and a need that chewed his guts up.

"It's all your goddamn fault anyway," he muttered, waving a hand at the wreck of Caleb as if he could push it away. "All your fault."

One of the other boys made a sound, he wasn't sure which one. Maybe a plea, or maybe an accusation, or maybe just an auditory expression of movement. Whichever it was, Chase wasn't going to stick around long enough to find out. His hands curled into claws and he turned and started to run. His feet hit the roadway, skidded on the wreckage of the Mustang and he kept on running for miles until his shoes had turned to ribbons of rubber and canvas on bloody feet. And then he ran some more.

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