John Doe

Ben had never been one for quick, whirlwind romances. He'd been through enough bad breakups to learn his lesson about jumping the gun in relationships. More often than not he'd wind up with a broken heart, a ruined self-image, and an empty wallet. It was his hubris: he was just so desperate to be loved by someone - anyone - that he'd fall head over heels for the first guy who paid him a compliment.

That night, he'd been at the bar nursing a neat whiskey and fresh off his latest breakup - Chad. It had been a dumb idea even to think about going out with that douchebag. Chad wasn't bad to look at though, and knew all the right moves and all the right words to get Ben's motor humming. Ben just hadn't seen all the red flags right in front of his face before that motor stalled out completely.

Ben had just ordered another round - his last of the night - when tall, blond and gorgeous strode into his life unannounced. The bar was pretty much empty at that hour, and yet he took a seat at the counter right beside Ben. A quick once over out of the corner of Ben's eye confirmed that this stranger was quite a looker. Still, he was burned too badly and a hundred times too shy to strike up a conversation. He was content to finish his drink in peace, until the stranger nudged his arm casually. "Drinking to remember, or forget?"

The question was so out of the blue, Ben just blinked for a moment. He didn't know how to respond at first, then cleared his throat softly and finger-combed his unruly dark locks. "Both... neither. I dunno. Does it matter?"

The stranger sipped his gin and tonic pensively. "Kinda. If you're drinking to remember, they must've been really special. If it's to forget, you're better off without them. So: which is it?"

Ben knocked back the rest of his drink, grimacing at the trail the amber liquid burned all the way down his throat. "In that case, it's definitely to forget. Excuse me, I gotta get goin'." He stood up to leave, but stopped when the stranger's hand landed on his arm. His grip was strong, but very gentle at the same time.

"You can't run off on me yet," the stranger said, his lips curling in a cocky grin. "We've only just met. It's bad manners to be honest."

Part of Ben wanted to tell this guy to just shove it, and walk away for good. The other half of him was strangely enamored. It might've just been the whiskey, or the way the lights reflected off his impossibly blue irises. Or, were they green? They almost seemed to change color from different angles. At least the vibe he was putting off was warm and charming, and not creepy like some other guys Ben had dated. Against his better judgement, he lowered himself onto his barstool again.

"That's better." The stranger wasted no time ordering Ben another drink, then clinked his glass against Ben's when it was in his hand. "I'm John, by the way. John Doe. And you are-?"

Ben's whiskey nearly came out through his nose. "Are you for real? I mean seriously: John Doe? If you don't wanna give me your real name I'm cool with it, but you're gonna have to do better than that!" The deadpan look John gave him was at once unsettling and slightly amusing. If Ben didn't know any better, he looked genuinely confused.

"That's my real name," he insisted, furrowing his brows. "Or, at least that's what my momma wrote on my birth certificate. Do you think my name is strange or funny or somethin'?"

Ben's cheeks warmed with embarrassment. "Oh... n-no, not at all. I just thought-... Nevermind. I'm Ben. Ben McCoy. It's nice to meet you."

Cringe-worthy introductions aside, their conversation was at once scintillating and very enjoyable. John was charming and effervescent, moreso than any person Ben had ever met. On top of that, they seemed to share quite a few common interests: music, literature, movies, hobbies, etcetera. They spent so long talking that Ben didn't notice how late it had gotten until the bartender announced it was time for last calls. Ben quickly paid his tab and readied to leave again. This time, John stood up with him.

"My apartment isn't far from here," he said casually, rubbing Ben's arm. "Just around the corner, actually. Would you like to see it?"

Ben was more than a little tipsy at this point, but sober enough to recognize an invitation when he heard it. As much as he liked John, he wasn't about to make the same mistake of moving too fast too soon. "Nah, I'm good," he insisted. "Maybe next time. Hey, why don't I give you my number? That way, we can talk or text, or whatever."

John's mouth twitched a little, his eyes red in the glow of the neon Budweiser sign above him. He seemed a bit disappointed to be turned down, but played it off smoothly with a shrug and a toss of his perfectly messy blond tresses. "I don't have a phone. Don't believe in 'em. Don't worry, Benjamin: I'll find you. Be safe going home now, y'hear?"

Ben laid awake in bed thinking about John. More notably, he was thinking about what he'd said: "I'll find you." What the hell did that mean? He hadn't said it in a malicious way, but it came off very odd. Maybe Ben's creepazoid radar was broken. Seriously, who didn't have a cell phone in that day and age? Saying he not only didn't have one but "didn't believe in them" felt defensive and more than a little patronizing. There was also the way he'd said his name: "Benjamin" instead of plain old "Ben". Only Ben's mother had ever called him "Benjamin," and only when he was in the worst trouble of his life. With a sigh and a grumble, Ben just rolled over and put his pillow over his head. He was drunk, it was stupid late, and he had work in the morning. No time to worry over mysterious men now. Regardless, quite some time passed before sleep eventually found him.

Over the course of the next few weeks, John would pop up in the most random of places: the coffee shop where Ben stopped off on his way to work, in the park while he was out for a morning run, at the hospital Ben volunteered at on the weekends, and so on. Ben didn't think John was the stalker type, and had no evidence that the tall, pale blond was following him. Still, these run-ins were too frequent and too consistent to be pure coincidence.

Everyone Ben introduced John to immediately seemed to like him, which further complicated things. Once, he bumped into John at the grocery store, while picking up a few things for dinner with his sister, Kayleigh. After John was out of earshot, she'd nudged his arm with a smirk. "He's cute. I approve."

Ben's ears immediately started to burn. "Oh my god, Kay, shut up! He's just a friend. Barely an acquaintance, actually!" After that, he quickly became engrossed in a package of granola bars just to avoid the smug grin she was giving him.

Despite the odd run-ins and warnings blaring in the back of his brain, Ben couldn't deny that he was drawn to John. He wanted to be with him, to feel his arms around him and have those perfectly-formed pink lips kiss every inch of him. At the same time, he wanted to be smart and cautious, and not to rush things like he'd always managed to do before. It didn't help that nearly every encounter ended with an invitation for Ben to see John's apartment. Each time Ben turned him down and John accepted his answer graciously, but each subsequent ask became slightly more and more aggressive. Not enough to be scary or a complete turn-off, but just enough to make Ben slightly uncomfortable after they parted ways. John's pursuit lasted about a month before Ben finally agreed to go back to his apartment.

Ben wasn't sure what he was expecting the apartment to look like, but found himself slightly underwhelmed and a little relieved. It was just a normal-looking studio apartment over a hair salon downtown. The furniture was minimal but tasteful, with a very noticable vintage flair to it. Being the son of a carpenter, Ben recognized that most of the pieces looked to be from the 1930s or even older, and in great shape. He'd stopped to admire the handmade dovetail joints on one of the end tables and the vintage Tiffany lamp sitting on it while John poured him a drink from the bar cart on the far side of the room. "Those have been in my family for generations. Do you like them?"

"They're gorgeous," Ben admitted. "Even back in the day, they must've cost a pretty penny. I know half a dozen old ladies who'd kill to get their hands on furniture like this."

A coy smile graced John's lips as he handed over the drink to Ben. "I'm flattered, I suppose. Here Darlin': whiskey, just like you like it."

John's soft drawl sent a shiver down Ben's spine. His accent didn't come out very often, almost as if he tried to hide it on purpose. When it did, it was a heavy yet refined accent. Like something left over from the Antebellum South: round, full of charm and oozing a genteel nature with every syllable. It was a gentleman's drawl, one that would put Rhett Butler's to shame.

Ben's hand shook a little as he took the highball glass with a quiet nod. The whiskey inside it was at the perfect temperature, and smooth as silk with pronounced notes of wood and smoke. He'd never tasted any whiskey half as good, which probably meant it was incredibly old and incredibly expensive. "This is good stuff," he noted. "You didn't have to break it out on my account."

John's smile widened and he led Ben over to a low, tufted couch. "Why not? What's the point in living if you don't indulge in the finer things every once in a while? Besides, only the best will do for you, Darlin'." His palm found its way to Ben's left upper thigh, where it stayed for a good, long minute.

Ben swallowed and set his glass on the coffee table, gently nudging John's hand off. "Uh... about that. This all is really nice of you, John, and I like you a lot. I just don't think I'm comfortable with how fast this is goin'. I mean, I barely know you, an'..."

Whatever he was going to say was forgotten in an instant when John's lips crushed against his. Ben forgot everything, even his own name, he was so lost in the heat of passion. The next thing he knew, he was laying flat on his back in a bed, and it was morning. John was MIA, but a pretty little breakfast tray was sitting on the nightstand complete with a fresh white rose in a crystal bud vase. Ben's clothes were neatly folded on the foot of the bed, and freshly laundered by their smell. The note left on the tray next to the heaping plate of bacon and eggs was short but very sweet: "Good morning, Darlin'. Sorry I had to run. Stay as long as you like. We'll meet again soon. J."

Ben was very confused and more than a little upset. He couldn't remember a thing that happened last night after John had kissed him. He had flashes, and they were great flashes, but it bothered him a lot. He'd been completely sober before coming to John's, and even then half a sip of whiskey was nowhere near enough to get him blackout drunk. Thinking about it too much made his head hurt, and he was too hungry to think anyway. That, and that bacon did look really good.

For the rest of the day, Ben felt groggy and a little sluggish despite getting more than eight hours of sleep. He had a hard time focusing, and more than once he had to ask someone to repeat themselves because he just couldn't pay attention to save his life. When he got home that night after work to take a much needed shower, Ben found something very alarming. There was a sizeable love bite on the left side of his neck. The skin around it was raised and heavily bruised, and there were even teeth marks sunk deep into his flesh. It hurt to even touch, and was very upsetting to see. Ben was all for getting frisky, but drew the line at stuff like that. From that moment on, he chose not to have anything more to do with John, even if he did cook a fabulous breakfast.

For three weeks, Ben saw no trace of John, which left him with mixed feelings. He was relieved that the "accidental run-ins" had stopped, but having John drop off the map after the night they shared together made him feel cheap and dirty. Like so many other men Ben had dated, it seemed like he'd gotten what he wanted and bailed at the first opportunity. Two months to the day after they met, Ben was at that same bar when John appeared at his side again.

"Good evenin', Darlin'," he drawled, greeting Ben with a kiss. "It's been a minute, hasn't it? Sorry, I've been away. But I never stopped thinkin' about you for a second."

Ben pulled away, shivering at the feeling of John's lips on his neck. He'd lain the affectionate, gentle kiss right over where the love bite had been. It had healed over completely, but Ben still had scars in the shape of John's teeth that were barely visible. "Spare me," he muttered. "I ain't interested no more. Just leave me the hell alone!"

An involuntary gasp left him when John suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around on his barstool to look him in the eye. "Benjamin, that's no way to act now. I said I was sorry, and I do care about you very much. You're very important to me, in more ways than you can ever imagine." His strong yet gentle hands slid down Ben's arms, coming to rest on his thighs. "What do ya say we get on outta here, an' I'll make things up to ya?"

Ben quivered all over, closing his eyes when John's hands made their way back up to his face and scalp. He was mad as a heifer with a hernia, but John's charms were irresistable. "I... wait... I don't-..." In the blink of an eye, he was waking up in John's bed again with no memory of how he got there. Just like before there was a breakfast tray waiting for him - pancakes and sausage this time - and a neat stack of clean clothes, along with a similar note. The difference was this time Ben felt even worse, both physically and emotionally. He felt so bad that he called in sick to work, and spent most of the day in bed.

Once he had the energy to finally get up, he took the longest, hottest shower of his life. There was another love bite like before, this time on his left shoulder. Touching it made him feel woozy, which made cleaning it very difficult. After his shower, he still didn't feel quite up to going outside yet. The sunlight hurt his eyes and made his headache worse, and he couldn't go five steps without feeling like he was going to either faint or puke. John still hadn't come home, so Ben felt he had every right to snoop around the place to his heart's content.

Besides the antique furniture, there wasn't really much of interest around the apartment at first blush. John didn't even have a landline, computer or a TV. The only electronic in the apartment was an old cabinet-style radio left over from the '40s. A closer inspection of a bookshelf loaded down with pristine first editions - mostly Victorian literature: Twain, Shelley, Wilde, etc. - drew his eye to a large old photo album. The leather-bound folio was labeled "Summer, '64", and was very heavy in hand. Curious and with nothing better to do, Ben settled down on the couch and started flipping through it.

By the date, he'd assumed it was cobbled together by John's parents or even grandparents. A quick perusal of the first few pages however informed him it was much, much older. Every photograph was in black and white, with the subjects all staring stone-faced and grim at the camera. Based on the clothes they were wearing, the photos had to date to the Civil War era... an assumption confirmed by several pictures of soliders in both Union and Confederate uniforms. Ben wasn't paying too close attention to them, until his eye was caught by a very familiar face in one of the pictures.

The man staring back at him in the picture was the spitting image of John Doe. He seemed a little younger than John, however, barely twenty in comparison to the thirty-something man he knew. Even though the picture was in greyscale, the young confederate solider was ruddy-cheeked and had a kind of fire in his eyes. A fire he'd seen in John's on more than one occasion. As Ben thumbed through the album some more, there were other pictures of the same solider. Most had him in a Confederate uniform, but there were others where he was dressed in Union colors. In the latter photos, a tall, thin man stood at his side in nearly every frame.

Ben could never quite make out the taller man's face in any of the pictures. There was a grease smudge or a strange blur in every image of him. He was certain it was the same man, however, based on the pocket watch he wore in his waistcoat and the ornate ram's head cane he was leaning on in every shot. The pictures displayed a distinct passage of time, over which the man who resembled John seemed a bit older and more drained little by little. By the time Ben reached the end of the album, the tall man had vanished from the pictures, and John and the young solider could be twins.

"Havin' fun?" John's voice made Ben leap out of his skin with fright. He slammed the album shut and whipped around, a hand on his pounding heart.

"Holy crap, you scared the livin' daylights outta me!" He set the album down, embarrassed. "Can ya blame me for bein' nosy? I still feel like I barely know you, even though we've gone to bed twice. Can you knock it off with the bitin', by the way? I don't like it, and the marks they leave hurt like hell!"

John, who was pouring himself a drink at the bar cart, paused and looked over at Ben innocently. "Marks? What marks?"

Ben narrowed his eyes, then tugged down the collar of his sweatshirt to show off the bruise on his shoulder. "Don't play stupid with me! I know what teeth look like! You know what? I'm outta here! I'm done with all this garbage. Don't contact me again!" He jumped to his feet, pausing a moment to catch his balance because he stood up a little fast, and headed for the door. Within a heartbeat, John was directly behind him and had a hand on his elbow. Ben's mind raced, as he was trying to figure out how John had moved so fast, when the blond pulled down his collar gently to examine the bite.

"I'm sorry, Benjamin. I never meant for this to happen. I must've lost control... again." His tone was genuinely remorseful and heavy with sorrow, as his eyes studied the raised welt. "It's too late to stop it now, though. I know from experience."

Ben's heart hammered against his ribs. "Stop what? What the hell are you talkin' about?! Get your damn hands offa me!" He tried to pull out of John's grip, but the blond's hands were far too strong. Inhumanly strong. Ben was twisting and flopping around with all his might, and yet John barely seemed fazed.

"The pain doesn't last long," he assured Ben. "The hard part of the transition is almost over. After that, you won't feel any pain ever again. Or heat, or cold. You'll never get sick either."

Ben abruptly stopped struggling. John's eyes - which were bright, sparkling blue moments ago - had shifted to an intense, deep black with green and gold flecks. They were beautiful, but terrifying at the same time. Ben was deathly afraid, and started quaking all over. "John... wh-what are you?!"

John chose not to answer with words. Instead, he yanked Ben close in a single fluid motion and sank his teeth into the shorter man's tanned flesh where his neck and left shoulder met. Ben's dark eyes widened to the size of saucers and his mouth dropped open in a silent scream. The pain was indescribable, paralyzing him completely. After a few seconds, he became aware of a sharp drain on his energy. Like a bad crash after downing too many red bulls in his early college days. There was something else there besides the pain, however. Something unexpected: an intense, overwhelming pleasure. The more time passed and the lower his energy dipped, the pain slowly faded and the pleasure intensified. Everything became a strange haze of swirling emotions and images, shortly before the world turned black.

When Ben awoke, he was once again in John's bed. This time, however, John was curled up at his back. Something in Ben felt much different, like he had changed at a fundamental level. Whatever it was, he didn't really care about it. He laid there, blinking at the full moon outside the window which was brighter than he'd ever seen it, while John left a kiss on his shoulder. "I love you, Benjamin. Now, we'll be together. Forever."