HI, THIS IS PROBABLY THE MOST ABSOLUTELY SELF-INDULGENT THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN. And when you think about that for a second, it's kind of scary to realise exactly how self-indulgent that statement makes this story.

But, who cares! Obscure crossovers only I could possibly enjoy are what I do best. For whatever value of 'best' such a thing can entail.

SO. UM.

'A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More "Touch Me"' is a music video by the band Fall Out Boy, which you can watch on youtube here. I am so fond of it, it should probably have a restraining order against me. Patrick is the very very pretty one writing in the journal near the beginning; Pete is the cranky vampire dude he hangs out with. This whole journal has basically been one giant love letter to the video for about a year, so if you need more context I guess you should just have a look around a bit.

The Opposite of Life is a vampire novel set in Melbourne, written by Narelle Harris. You can read the first few chapters at the book's website, and if you're able to get the full novel where you live I highly recommend it (see also a glee-post I made while reading). The essential stuff you need to know from the book in order for this story to make sense is that Gary is MADE OF AWESOME. Um. I've done my best to incorporate exposition for everything else as needed.

This story takes place sometime after both the video and the book, but doesn't contain significant spoilers.

Other fandoms, and some of my favourite Melbourne places, make cameos also.


The Opposite of Chicago
by Mary





It takes a lot of sweat and tears -- and no small amount of blood, though that almost goes without saying -- but eventually they get Chicago back under some semblance of control. Close enough to control that they feel comfortable in moving away from crisis measures into an actual long-term plan, anyway. If a significant vampire population is going to be an ongoing situation, then they're going to do their damn best to make it a manageable one.

For Patrick, that means learning everything he can, from everywhere he can. Three miserable, jetlagged weeks in the Carpathians, reading primary-source documents from superstitious medieval monks. A long weekend in small-town Southern California hanging out with a highschool librarian in charge an extremely esoteric highschool library. Several nights in a Nebraska roadhouse run by a no-shit barmaid and her bubbly daughter. And, last on his list, a month in Melbourne, Australia.

Melbourne's last on his list because, frankly, he's scared. Even now, after years of fighting them, Patrick is as frightened of vampires as he ever was. He's got scars on his neck and wrists from when he's been attacked and bitten, and the memory of nights spent in emergency rooms with transfusion drips in his arm. The thought of a city with a thriving -- if that's the right word to use about vampires -- population of undead citizens makes him feel more than a little nauseated.

But Melbourne is the closest real example to what they hope Chicago might one day become, so Patrick's really got no choice about whether or not to visit. Melbourne's vampire community blends into the wider city as best it can: they police their own killers, they keep a low profile, they maintain manageable local numbers. It's about as far from Chicago's messy public gang warfare as a vampire-infested city can be, from what Patrick's heard.

How they're going to convince the surviving gang leaders that assimilation is in their best interest is something Patrick hasn't let himself think about yet. For now he's just going to observe a working society and learn what he can, and then try to find a way to make his findings sound attractive enough that the Punks and Thugs and Dandies at home will listen.

There are a dozen fliers advertising rooms for rent on the noticeboard in the Melbourne University cafeteria. Patrick chooses the one promising "open-minded nonsmoking goth household with two dogs" in Newport, because he's pro-open minds and pro-dogs and likes the idea of clean air after years of living with an habitual hotboxer like Joe.

Newport is a short train ride from Melbourne's city center, where Patrick spends long afternoons lost in the microfiche archives and silent, airy shelves of the State Library reading rooms. He catches trams down to the riverfront and buys his lunches from the small, varied cafes that're scattered amongst the narrow alleys which criss-cross downtown. Melbourne reminds him of the Chicago he grew up in, before the gangs grew tired of the shadows and decided to take over.

He knows he should be doing more than records- and book-study. He could find out just as much about population histories from the internet, without being in the city at all. He knows he should be seeking out the hideaways and haunts of the vampires themselves, and learning from them. But he tells himself that he'll get to it when he's ready, that the background reading is more important for now.





One evening, after another day in the comfortably anonymous library, Patrick's waiting at the train station with his ears firmly plugged by his iPod when he hears someone call his name.

It's Ellie, one of the postgrads who lives in the same rental house as Patrick. Her hair is a faded magenta-red color, the cheap dye shade Patrick thinks of as 'student red', and wears a small garnet gem in a monroe piercing on her upper lip.

"Heading home?"

It's one of those small-talk questions people ask when they already know the answer, so Patrick doesn't bother to reply. It's not that he wants to be rude to Ellie, or anything like that. He's just rusty in the art of mindless chatter -- Joe and Andy are usually talking about something, even if it's something dumb. Pete hasn't made idle conversation for years, and in his company Patrick has lost the skill as well.

"Can you let the others know I'll be home late, so they don't have to hold dinner off for me or anything?" Ellie goes on, when she realizes Patrick's not going to respond. "I know I'm due to put money in for pizza, but Adam called and he's all 'come on, come to the Gold Bug, it'll -'"

"The Gold Bug?" Patrick feels his pulse jump to double-time in his chest. He's known about the Gold Bug since before he got to Australia, but he's never had to think about it before as existing in the same reality as the Melbourne he inhabits -- the library, the shops, the trains, the messy share-house full of messy twentysomething students he uses as a temporary home.

Ellie blinks in surprise. "I didn't know you were into that."

Patrick resists the impulse to touch his fingers to the slowly-fading scars covered by his collar. He's about as far from 'into' being bitten by vampires as anyone can be, really, but to tell Ellie that will just make things even more complicated. Once again, he opts to just stay quiet.

"You should come!" she smiles broadly. The bare enthusiasm in the expression reminds him of Pete, even though Patrick hasn't seen Pete smile in a long, long time. "We can call the others and tell them we're both gonna be late. Come on! I haven't seen you do anything fun since you moved in, and that was weeks ago."

Patrick has to restrain himself from retorting that being voluntarily gnawed on by the living dead isn't his idea of fun. Instead, he says "Maybe some other..."

Ellie pouts. This, too, reminds Patrick of Pete.

That's probably why he sighs and says "okay, sure, I'll come."




The pragmatic, studious part of Patrick spends the first fifteen minutes of his evening inside the Gold Bug cataloging arguments he can take back to the vampires in Chicago.

For starters, the dimly lit club is much cleaner than any of the undead hangouts in Chicago. There's even a fire extinguisher on one wall, artfully covered by a random piece of drapery. Adherence to fire codes is probably a big selling point for a species as flammable as vampires, and a more organized and quasi-legal setup would offer that.

Another possible tick in the positives column is the laid-back, almost laughably sedate interactions between predators and their prey. Even creatures who get off on the thrill of the hunt probably appreciate the chance to pick up some no-fuss fast food from time to time.

The parts of Patrick that aren't the pragmatic, studious corner of his brain that's busily at work are all freaking the fuck out.

His skin is crawling and his heart's pounding, which is drawing more than one interested look from the unattached patron's milling around. That makes him even more nervous, in turn, and so it's basically a horrendous cycle of vicious terror that would be funny except that it's really, really not.

It's the smell that's the worst. Patrick feels like it's coating the inside of his nose and mouth, that almost-scent of cuts not allowed to spill. Droplets neatly licked off skin.

The air outside is a sharp relief as Patrick steps away from the Bug's entrance. It's still early enough that the sounds of cars and pedestrians on the main streets filter through the night air from blocks away.

"Just getting some air," he mumbles to whoever might be listening, resting his back against the rough brick of the wall beside the Gold Bug's discreet entrance.

"I've seen you," a mild voice remarks from somewhere nearby. Patrick looks up quickly, trying to remember the fastest way to get to a tram stop from where he is. "At the bookshop."

Patrick narrows his eyes, trying to make out the features of the slightly heavyset figure standing a little further into the shadows of the narrow laneway, and... yes, he's seen this guy, too. At the second-hand basement bookstore near the train station. Patrick's never thought to look twice at him before, but now the small, familiar signs of someone undead seem ridiculously obvious. A light-gathering sheen in the man's hazel eyes, like in a cat's. A stance just still enough to be unnerving.

"You buy all the vampire books," the man -- he doesn't look any older than Patrick, maybe even a little younger, and the t-shirt and jeans mark him as someone who was alive within the last sixty or seventy years or so. Vampires are creatures of habit, in fashion moreso than in any other aspect of their un-lives. Pete will still be wearing hoodies long after the world has left the look behind.

Patrick shrugs. "Who doesn't like a little Anne Rice before bed?"

"No, you... you buy all the vampire books," the vampire repeats. "Comics or plays or studies about mental illness, it doesn't make a difference. You're a scholar."

Underneath his fear, Patrick feels weirdly proud. Nobody's ever called him that before.

"We could consolidate our collections."

Despite himself, Patrick laughs. "Is this where you invite me back to your rooms to see your etchings?"

The vampire looks puzzled for a moment, then gives a surprisingly awkward grin. It makes Patrick feel a little better. He's used to slick, smart vampires, not slightly geeky ones who need a second before they understand a joke.

"I didn't mean it like that, I just meant-"

"Perhaps this isn't the best way for us to have a conversation," Patrick goes on, winning the Blindingly Obvious Understatement Award with the remark. "Let's meet at the coffee shop upstairs from the bookstore tomorrow? More neutral ground?"

"You're probably safer here," the guy muses. "Everyone inside will know by now that we're talking. I'd be an full-blown idiot to do anything to someone I'd been seen with, especially someone known to any of the regulars. Your friend Ellie's still inside, isn't she?"

Patrick doesn't ask how the guy knows that. He'd rather leave it to his imagination, as overactive as that imagination may be. Instead he just swallows down the choke of fear that's risen in his throat and says, as casually as he can, "You're not very good at brain-to-voice filtering, are you? The thoughts just kind of fall out of your mouth."

Now it's the guy's turn to shrug. Patrick takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can have conversations with vampires, even vampires who aren't Pete.

"Even if it's not as safe, I'd prefer to talk to you tomorrow," he says firmly. "I'll see you there."

"I'm Gary, by the way."

"Patrick."

"I know."

The skin on the back of Patrick's neck prickles as he walks away, like his nerve endings can tell that Gary's watching him.




The coffee shop above the basement bookstore does an awesome sweet potato and eggplant toasted sandwich, and Patrick figures that he might as well make the best of a difficult situation and order one while he waits for Gary.

He's halfway through the meal when he gets the prickle-feeling again and when he looks up, sure enough, Gary's watching him from the edge of the Elizabeth Street thoroughfare.

"You enjoy your food," Gary observes as he joins Patrick at the small cafe table. Patrick grins ruefully, gesturing at the curve his belly makes under his shirt.

"That's the polite euphemism for it, yeah."

Gary rolls his eyes. "That isn't what I meant."

Patrick nods, not meeting Gary's gaze. "Yeah, I know." Pete used to watch him eat sometimes, too.

Patrick misses Pete more than he expected to, but not in the same way he misses Joe and Andy. Missing Pete is like being homesick for a person. Patrick had no idea there was anything in Chicago he could still feel remotely homesick for.

He clears his throat. "So. You're a vampire scholar too. Though I guess the emphasis of that term is a little different for you."

Gary, apparently missing the joking tone of the last few words, looks thoughtful. "Not really. I study the way books and movies portray vampires, the same as you do. It's not different."

"I just meant that, you know, because... never mind." Patrick gives up, drinking the last of his coffee.

"Where's your accent from?"

"Chicago." Patrick doesn't hesitate, or put any special emphasis on the word. He very, very carefully doesn't do these things.

"Oh." Gary's expression is the closest to sympathetic that Patrick's ever seen a vampire manage. There's probably not a vampire in the world that hasn't heard about what the gangs have done to the city Patrick grew up in.

"It's getting better," he says, sounding more optimistic than he's let himself feel. "It's... we're going to make it better. More like." He swallows. His eyes are stinging. This is why he doesn't think too much about Chicago if he can help it. "More like here, I guess."

"Is that why you're here? And reading the books? To learn how to fix it."

Patrick nods. "Yeah." His throat still feels thick.

Gary smiles thinly. Patrick's not sure how to read the expression.

"Most people's hearts only do that if they're thinking about somebody they love that they're worried about. I've never known anybody to do it over a place before. It's... it's cool." Gary looks away, out at the foot traffic and the trams going past. "How people can care about things."

Pete may be motivated by nothing but pure, burning fury, and it may be a bitter kind of half-life, but at least he's got something to be passionate about. Patrick can't even fathom what living forever might feel like if every night was just another fog of apathy. Abruptly and violently, he feels an overwhelming pity for Gary.

Gary gives him an odd look. "You have a wildly changeable pulse. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

Pete did, once, but Patrick's reluctant to mention Pete to Gary. If the two of them ever met, the combined force of their lousy social niceties would probably end the mortal world forever.

"So," Patrick says instead. "I believe you mentioned something about combining our resources?"