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A dark and stormy night. Viktor isn’t particularly fond of these. Not when he wants to see the moon.
The feel of rain drilling hard into his skin nearly makes him feel alive again, and the hush that falls under the rumbling bouts of thunder is almost soothing.
But not when the moon is full and bright. Viktor wants to see this moon, but it’s hidden behind thick and blackened clouds, a faint halo of light as the only indicator that it’s even there at all. During any other phase, Viktor might not have minded.
But not tonight.
He circles his estate like a ghost, gaunt and pale, glowing like the moon itself where it looms above. Its now unobscured light falls upon the slick trail leading through massive iron gates. Through to the woods. Viktor doesn’t hesitate to follow.
He has a handful of hours to the rest of his night, and he intends to spend them lost within trees, wandering the paths and letting nature guide him for as long as he can still stand. It’s become a game of sorts, in his old age -- testing his limits and staying out and awake for as long as he can bear the sun’s poison rays. He has until an hour past dawn, he knows.
Another clap of thunder gives him pause, and he listens intently as its echoing growl fades to nothing. No, not nothing. Something picks up beneath it, masked by the sound until it grows to overpower it.
A howl.
Viktor enters the woods.
*
The dawn is always the worst. The moment of clarity, the split-second realization, the dizzying feeling of being strung between two minds, two beings. It’s the moment of ‘who am I?’ and ‘oh, God, what have I done?’ and ‘please, let that be nobody’s blood but mine’ and –-
Too many moments, not enough time to think. Not when the moon is fading, not when the sun is teasing the horizon, not when the Change happens.
All of Yuuri’s worries are cut short in the sound of bones breaking and realigning, in the feeling of wounds sizzling as they mend themselves, of skin burning as hair retreats, leaving raw and itching flesh in its wake.
Dawn is when the wolf dies, but it’s never gone for good.
Yuuri stumbles, trembling hard, toward the familiar hollowed tree. He’s always certain to end the night of the full moon here, in sprinting distance of the withered trunk. He’s cold. And naked. His skin prickles, the residual feeling of wet fur making him shiver, and although the rain had stopped some time ago, he prays that the spare clothing and thick wool cloak he’d stored safety within the tree’s bark has kept dry.
Luck is on his side, for once, and he dresses quickly, wrapping himself in his cloak very carefully. He doesn’t want to leave any stains. The blood drying on his hands has already started to crust, flaking away from his healing cuts. He tastes blood in his mouth, blood on his lips, blood still trickling down his face in some places. The shoulder he’d managed to bite stings, swollen and tender, but it doesn’t seem to have sustained too deep of a wound. He’d gone easy on himself this night, but he still isn’t looking forward to seeing his reflection in the mirror when he makes it back home.
If he makes it back home.
It’s a startling thought, almost completely unbidden, but when he stills, scenting the air, he realizes that the remains of his wolf senses are alerting him to an unknown and most likely unwanted presence. A threat?
Unfortunately, his stiff limbs and clumsy gait are all too human, even in the between-hour, and he almost slips on dewy grass as he wheels around to face the intruder.
A man stands in the middle of the distant clearing. Watching him.
Yuuri freezes, clutching his cloak tighter around himself and preparing to bolt. The part of him that isn't terrified is indignant, outraged that a human could get this close without his notice.
Not human, his sluggish brain struggles to relay.
No, definitely not human. Not human in the way he approaches, seeming to almost glide along the dirt path without so much as disturbing a single wayward pebble. Not human, the deathly pallor of his face, illuminated by the growing light of dawn. The blue eyes that meet his own burn too brightly to belong to any mere mortal.
Suddenly, Yuuri knows.
"Who are you?” he demands without thinking, panic taking the reins of logic. No, he shouldn’t engage. He should run. He always runs whenever he encounters another being, mortal or not.
Something about this stranger is at once terrifying and oddly disarming, and Yuuri realizes that it’s his smile. Such a kind smile, with twinkling eyes to match it, but Yuuri can see the sharp glint of twin points against pale pink lips from where he’s standing, still hovering by his tree, and he feels his stomach twist.
“Out for a stroll,” the man says, not answering Yuuri’s question. He eyes him for a bit before continuing, his voice low and amused. “And you, sir? It isn’t safe out here at this hour. You ought to leave for your home at once.”
Yuuri turns without further thought, pulling his cloak tighter around him and rushing back in the direction of his cottage. As he does so, he thinks he sees the slightest bit of surprise in the man’s face, as though he hadn’t actually expected him to turn tail and flee so abruptly.
Yuuri’s several strides among the towering trees before he hears the man call out to him one last time.
“Take care. There are wolves in the woods.”
Yuuri shudders and walks faster.
*
The art of camouflage is sadly lost on him, but that’s never been a major concern of his. A bright streak across the blackened sky, white among green leaves and brown bark. He isn’t concerned. He’s the hunter in any form, the fang in the night, and larger creatures -- glassy-eyed birds and prowling beasts -- turn from him, repulsed and afraid. They know.
A pity, really. Viktor’s found that safety is quite dull. He’s been here far too long, unscathed and so irritatingly alive. Is this the price of immortality? Life, yes, but at the loss of sanity, loss of purpose. Viktor craves danger more and more often each day.
And danger is what he hopes to find this night. This night, still and black beneath the full moon.
Such a lovely moon, as unearthly white as his short and ruffled fur. Light passes through the nearly translucent skin of his wings, the membrane stretched taut as he spreads them, catching the breeze and flapping higher. His squeaking is almost imperceptible, but he grows silent as he glides deeper into the woods, knowing that he’d be heard at once. Werewolves have incredibly keen senses.
He smells him before his beady blue eyes pick him out in the dark, hunched and silent save for soft whimpering. Viktor can nearly taste the blood beneath his bruising skin, the marrow flowing within freshly broken and melded bone. He must have just completed his transformation, crouching low near the same hollowed out tree as before, trembling and hacking. Viktor smells blood.
Without further ado, he dives, landing in an ungainly heap across the wolf’s snout.
His tiny claws hook into coarse fur, prepared to be shaken off, but aside from starting slightly, the wolf does nothing. Nothing but stare, amber eyes massive in shock, ears pulled back and dark fur standing on end.
A blanket of quiet falls, the wind dying and the sound of rustling leaves settling into silence.
'Hello,' Viktor ventures cautiously.
The expected reaction. With a snarl, the wolf whips his head back and forth, but Viktor holds on tighter. Something about the enormous fangs snapping just below his frail frame is absolutely thrilling to him. Such danger! He has about half a second to register the dull white scars raked across Yuuri’s snout, and to make the obvious connection between that and the fact that wolves indeed have claws. He releases his grip at once, flapping away before those claws can swipe at him angrily.
'Yuuri, please relax,' he pleads, trying not to let his amusement show in his tone. So much more difficult to control one’s thoughts and the way they’re conveyed without a voice to modulate. But Viktor’s no stranger to it after all these years.
One of Yuuri’s massive paws freezes, lifted in preparation to bat at him, and he stares, looking as perplexed as a wolf can manage. Viktor eyes him a bit warily from where he's landed, high and safe among the branches of the hollowed tree.
'Yes, it’s Yuuri, isn’t it?' Viktor squeaks in triumph when he feels a reluctant affirmation echo through to his mind. 'I knew it the day we met. I read it in your mind.'
The look on Yuuri’s face can only be described as unimpressed, and Viktor can sense that he’s ready to bolt.
'My name is Viktor,' he sends him quickly, trying to soothe his suspicion. 'I mean you no harm. In fact, I want to help you.'
Yuuri, who’d been halfway through turning to stalk off, pauses, ears pricked forward. Viktor can tell by his posture that he’s still wary, but curious.
'I can help you,' Viktor assures him. 'Those scars, I don’t suppose they appear on their own, do they?'
As he thinks this, he notices something odd. On the day he’d first glimpsed Yuuri’s human face, seen his pale and trembling hands clutching his threadbare cloak, there had been wounds laid across nearly every inch of skin, blood half smeared and half crusting. Tonight, however, his fur is pristine, his claws clean, his flesh whole. Perhaps werewolves heal rapidly. Then again, he’s only just transformed, his rampage soon to begin, the damage yet to be done. But if that were the case, why are the old scars, stark white against his black fur, so prominent and unfaded?
Mysterious and skittish creatures, werewolves. Viktor may not understand, but he wants to help.
'When the moon has gone and you are human once more, come to my estate.' He sends the knowledge, the path marked clearly in his mind, and he can tell by the small shake of Yuuri’s head and the twitching of his ears that he’d received it. And now he knows.
'You may come at any time before the next full moon. You may even come during the day, if you’d like, when I am asleep and vulnerable. You’ll find that my doors are unlocked and open to you.'
If Yuuri had understood, Viktor spots no sign of it. The wolf retreats slowly, hackles still slightly raised, but before he turns to flee, he glances back with what Viktor prays is a thoughtful look.
Back home, just before the dawn breaks, Viktor paces in his study, deep in thought. Had Yuuri truly believed him? Would he arrive at his manor to take his offer? It’s an offer too ridiculous to present to a frightened stranger in the woods, no matter the intent. Viktor had hoped that taking on a smaller and weaker appearance in order to approach Yuuri at his strongest and most intimidating might have leveled things between them, might have assuaged his unease. Surely Viktor had been utterly charming, completely trustworthy and convincing?
He winces at the faint light of the creeping sunrise, making off toward his underground chambers for his inevitable sleep.
The last thing he wonders before the day saps away at his consciousness is ‘why?’
Why help this stranger? It isn’t like him to leave his lair to find someone he wants to protect. Is this for his own strange and thrill-seeking gain, or something more?
He dreams of the scars on Yuuri’s face, and wonders how they’d look if he were to ever smile.
*
Yuuri enters the manor cautiously, letting the massive oak doors swing inward with a shuddering groan. Behind him, the sun has nearly set, casting long shadows across the foyer before he shuts the doors. Candles and lanterns line the walls, drawing him deep into the silent halls. He’s hardly even registered his own movement, following an unmarked path as his eyes flit about nervously. And curiously. He’s never seen the inside of a manor before. Gilded frames of severe portraits glint in the light of flames, dancing in the corner of his vision and startling him every so often. The furniture is extravagant and far more expensive than anything he’s ever owned, and he’s certain that there’s a fair amount of gold plating within the various bits of decor.
What sort of man must live here?
It had been several weeks since the night he’d first glimpsed the vampire. He’d known straight away what he was, and yet, despite his nerves, he hadn’t felt particularly threatened. During the next full moon, the man had descended upon him in the form of a bat, small and irritating, squeaking at him within his mind, telling him that he wanted to help. That he wanted him to visit his estate. Not even half a moon cycle had passed before Yuuri had come to a decision.
I should not have come here, Yuuri thinks, hovering in the archway of a large sitting room. Can he truly trust this man?
“A pleasure to see you again, Yuuri.”
Yuuri should have expected this. With the sun beyond the horizon, it should be no shock that the vampire is already awake and ready to greet him. Still, he tenses, whirling about to see the man emerging from an unlit hall. His smile is as kind as ever, but Yuuri still gives him wide berth as he stands aside to let him pass.
“Come now, sit, we haven’t got all night.”
He plops down neatly onto a very nice armchair, gesturing at another across from him politely. Yuuri hesitates for just a moment, pulling his hood lower around his face self-consciously, before taking the offered seat. The anticipation within him skyrockets as the man eyes him, seeming to take in his appearance, and he tries not to notice him staring at his scars. He should have pulled his hood down more.
“My name is Viktor, as I’m sure you remember. You must have, if you’ve managed to find your way here.”
Yuuri says nothing, only stares. Waiting.
“I’m sure you remember that I’d offered to help you, and because I’m a man of my word, I’m going to get straight to it.” He pauses, allowing Yuuri to brace himself before continuing.
“Last moon, and the moon before, were not the first times I had sensed your presence near my lair. You’d always been too far for me to get a clear picture of you in my mind, and yet, each cycle, I’d feel you. These are dark and inhospitable woods, you know. Far from prying mortal eyes. This is why you come here every cycle, to transform and run wild. Am I correct?”
Yuuri nods slowly, wondering if he ought to be alarmed that this stranger had been aware of him for so long. Had Yuuri ever really noticed the ancient manor, lost within the unforgiving woods? He keeps as far from his town as he can when he transforms, and the instincts deeply rooted in his wolfish brain ensure that he does not stray too near anything made by human hands. He has to. Otherwise, he’d lose control.
“You’re afraid of hurting others. And so you hurt yourself instead. Am I correct again?”
Swallowing hard, Yuuri nods once more. His heart had nearly seized at these words, so bold in their assumption but so utterly true. No, he would never hurt anyone. Not anyone who matters. Not if he can help it.
“Well?” Viktor prompts for further explanation, but his voice is not unkind. Yuuri finds himself answering at once, with more ease than he’d thought he’d been capable of.
“I’m a monster,” he says, voice cracking slightly. Viktor raises an eyebrow. “I won’t let myself hurt anyone. No one deserves that.”
“And you do?”
Yuuri blinks at him.
“You believe you deserve that pain?”
Yuuri isn’t sure how to answer. No, he doesn’t deserve to suffer. But he must. Otherwise, others would suffer. He has the potential to cause suffering, to end lives in more ways than one. Death is mercy compared to what one bite or scratch can do. And Yuuri is capable of this. So, perhaps he does deserve the pain, after all?
Viktor must see the confusion written across his face, because he continues, his voice gentle but firm, and Yuuri remembers that they’re in the middle of an apparent negotiation, and Viktor is about to ask something of him.
“I don’t expect just anybody to have extensive knowledge of vampires,” Viktor says a bit loftily, “but I’m sure you know that the strongest among us are nearly invulnerable. With enough time, we can withstand even the most gruesome of physical harm, and some elders, such as myself, can even survive the flames.” His somewhat fond grin has Yuuri wondering if he’s ever actually attempted to test that.
“So, what does kill you?” Yuuri asks, realizing too late how rude the question sounds once spoken aloud. Viktor doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looks a little impressed, and very amused.
“Only the sun, the ancient bastard,” he says sweetly, beaming.
Yuuri nods, once again finding himself at a loss for words. Of course. The sun. Obviously.
“The point I am trying to make, Yuuri, is that you are now acquainted with a being that, short of suddenly being in possession of the ability to harness the fires of the stars themselves, you cannot kill. That is what I’m offering.”
It takes Yuuri several seconds before he understands. It takes him slightly longer before he can speak.
“You must be joking,” he whispers, horrified. Impossible. The man can’t be serious.
“I do so love to joke,” Viktor says cheerfully, sitting back and lacing his hands over a crossed knee. “But I happen to be serious, just this once. I understand that it’s a very unconventional offer, which is why I’d like to offer something a little more reasonable first.”
Yuuri will be the judge of that.
“I’ve seen -- pardon my intrusion, it really can’t be helped sometimes, but I have seen flashes of your cottage in your mind’s eye. Shabby thing, if I do say so myself. If it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like to offer you shelter. I’ll send for food, for clothing, for anything you’d like, Yuuri. All I ask is that you take the time spent here considering my initial offer to help you. I would hate to see you covered in even more scars. Suffering doesn’t suit you, in my humble opinion.”
In the silence that falls, Yuuri finds that, oddly enough, he isn’t very bothered by the idea. It’s strange, the way this man seems to put him at ease. Almost. The man is eccentric, yes, and Yuuri, by nature, is never truly at ease, never truly comfortable and safe. But safety is what this man -- this being, this immortal -- seems to be offering. A grand mansion for him to take refuge in, with all the necessities for living provided, and no threat of being near humans.
I don’t ever deserve to be near humans, he decides firmly. The stares he receives on the occasions where starvation drives him to the public markets are enough to keep him awake each night, wondering if he’d ever glance out his window to find torches and pitchforks steadily marching toward his bleak cottage.
What has he to lose?
“I accept,” he says, voice determined and unwavering. He may not fully comprehend just what this vampire stands to gain by becoming his willing victim, but he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.
Viktor’s face brightens, and he hops to his feet and rubs his hands together excitedly before turning toward the hallway and beckoning to him.
“Right, then. Follow me. I have a master guest bedroom somewhere in his manor, I’m fairly certain!”
When at last they come across the room, Yuuri lets the hood slip free from his head, too stunned to mind the exposure of his face. The magnitude of the space that suddenly belongs to him is too overwhelming, and he turns to Viktor in quiet amazement.
“This… all of this is mine?”
Viktor smiles, and, oddly enough, the sight of pointed fangs doesn’t frighten Yuuri at all. In fact, he finds himself smiling back shyly. Viktor’s face softens at once, and something in the way he speaks is very peculiar, but Yuuri just can’t put his finger on it.
“Yes. Yes, Yuuri, this is yours, and as long as you are here, you may have whatever your heart desires.”
*
Viktor seats himself on the bed, patting the spot next to him expectantly, as he’d already grown so used to doing whenever he and Yuuri settled down somewhere to speak, or to silently enjoy each other’s company. Yuuri had become less and less skittish around him, almost trusting, in his own way, which had come as a bit of a shock. The night he’d extended his offer, Yuuri had returned to his cottage to gather his meager belongings. He hadn’t returned until nearly five days later, sending Viktor into a panic he had tried hard to suppress. Had he said something wrong? Had he misunderstood Yuuri’s soft smile, the look he’d given him after Viktor had offered him anything within his power to obtain?
But Yuuri had returned, sheepish and apologetic, telling him that he’d been wrestling with uncertainty during his time alone. But he’d made up his mind, finally.
“I want to stay. I want to stay here with you, Viktor.”
Viktor can’t remember the last time he’d been so happy at another’s words.
That happiness dies tonight. It dies when the moon rises, heavy and pulling at aching bones. Viktor can’t see it, not within the windowless and heavily padlocked room, but he can tell by the set of Yuuri’s shoulders as he paces restlessly.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Yuuri asks suddenly, turning to face him sharply. His face looks drawn, tired, and so pale that the scars across the bridge of his nose nearly blend into his skin. Viktor can see him shaking.
Viktor pats the bed again, but to no avail. Yuuri has turned away to continue his frantic pacing, unable to stay still.
“Yes, of course. And I know this will help you.”
“Why?”
“Well, you won’t attack yourself if you’ve got a target --”
“No. Why are you doing this?”
Viktor blinks, unprepared for the question. He’d explained it already, hadn’t he? Yuuri looks at him once again, and something in his warm brown eyes seems to flash a dull red.
“What do you stand to gain from this arrangement?”
“Well,” Viktor says again, slowly, “I suppose I can’t quite answer that. Because I don’t quite know. I only know that I want to help you. And,” he adds with a grin, “I’m very old. Life -- or unlife, I should say -- has been very boring. This ought to liven things up for me.”
Yuuri says nothing, only shakes his head in disbelief, wringing his hands and staring at the stone floor. Viktor had been making sure not to pick up on his thoughts during his stay at the manor, but Yuuri’s inner turmoil is beginning to boil over, disturbing his aura with emotional distress.
He wants to snap, Viktor realizes. Yuuri wants to turn on him, to tell him that no, it isn’t fun, it isn’t a game, and Viktor feels slight shame at that. He’d never intended to make light of Yuuri’s affliction. He truly means to help, and he means to show him that tonight.
The bed he sits on had been moved in from one of the above ground rooms, meant to be a place for Viktor, presumably weakened after the attack, to collapse until he awoke the following night. His wounds would heal slowly over that time, granting him enough strength to hunt and recover afterward. He wonders, for a brief moment, if Yuuri would collapse on the bed beside him, or if he’d return to his bedroom immediately upon regaining his human form. The thought leaves him flustered, but Yuuri doesn’t seem to notice.
Yuuri doesn’t seem to notice anything but his hands, which he stares with what Viktor perceives to be horror. Viktor leaps to his feet as Yuuri’s back suddenly spasms, but Yuuri’s voice rings out, high and panicky.
“Don’t!”
Viktor freezes, unaware that he’d even meant to rush toward him, to take him in his arms. To protect him from himself.
“Please,” Yuuri says, softly now, his voice thick with pain. “I’m sorry. Just… please. Don’t come near. Please don’t look at me.”
Viktor swallows hard and nods, turning to face the wall instead. The light of the lanterns near the ceiling plays across it, throwing shadows that elongate and warp. Shadows that transform, black as the beast Yuuri is slowly becoming behind him.
He wishes he could block out the short and quick breathing, the hisses of pain, the sudden cry of anguish above the sharp crack of bones, but he can’t, his senses betraying him as he once again catches the scent of blood pooling beneath bruised skin. Gruesome, the popping of joints, the scrabble of claws, the rip of fabric, and the sobbing, the worst sound Viktor thinks he’ll hear all night. Sobbing, gasping, hitching and hitching until Viktor realizes that what he’s hearing is howling.
Click of nails against stone, puff of hot breath against the nape of his neck. A whimper.
Viktor turns, slowly, ever so slowly and carefully, and stares into eyes like the blood moon.
Soft whining, the same he’d heard the day he’d flown at him, except this time, he isn’t a harmless bat flitting just out of reach. He’s human, man, the thing a werewolf is meant to hunt.
Prey.
Lips draw back in a sudden snarl, and the first swipe happens so quickly that Viktor almost doesn’t notice that his head had jerked until he feels the blood stream down his cheek, sees the blood blazing in the light over the unforgiving steel of Yuuri’s claws.
His tongue flicks out at the blood, sweet in his mouth as he licks his lips. He’d made sure to hunt earlier, granting him just enough strength to survive the night. An exaggeration, of course -- he’d survive either way. But he’d like to remain mostly coherent. He’d like to remember this night. He'd like to remember Yuuri.
Yuuri, to his surprise, backs away abruptly, growling and shaking, and Viktor has only a moment to realize that the twist of his head means he’s going to try to bite himself.
“Yuuri!”
The growling grows louder, but Yuuri freezes, head low, and Viktor is now aware that his own hand is held out to him. He's trembling. They both are.
“Yuuri,” he says again, gently. “Don’t worry. You can hurt me. I promise.”
Eyes flash and jaws snap in the leap and dance of flames, and Viktor’s world is drowned in red.
*
“C-careful, now --”
Viktor is taller and broader than him, and Yuuri nearly drops him in an attempt to hoist his limp body over to the bed. The sheets, so white and clean, are soon smeared red as Viktor is carefully laid across them. Yuuri takes a moment to modestly wrap his own naked body in sheets before turning to Viktor to take in his condition.
He looks… bad. Terrible. The color of his skin is almost lost beneath layers of drying blood, and the entirety of his exposed chest is ripped and slashed, scored with the marks left by Yuuri’s teeth and claws. Yuuri is trembling, horrified, having never seen anyone but himself so utterly ruined after a full moon. The thought gives him pause as he considers how… not bad he looks and feels in comparison. His joints ache, of course, and his entire body is sore, but other than that, he hadn’t broken skin. Any bruises his transformation caused are already starting to fade, as they’re often the first to do so once his werewolf healing begins.
Somehow, against all logic, Viktor is still conscious, eyeing him dully from where his body is so ungracefully splayed on the bed. Yuuri almost wants to laugh, although he’s certain that it’s just hysteria trying to rip its way out of his throat. Viktor grunts as he struggles to sit up, and Yuuri guides him as best as he can. His hands become even bloodier in the process, but he doesn’t mind.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Yuuri asks softly, laying a hand on Viktor’s cheek without thinking.
Viktor’s eyes flutter shut. “No, that’s quite alright. I just need to rest until I can hunt tonight.”
Hunt. Right. Yuuri forgets sometimes -- forgets just what Viktor is until he notices him slip out quietly in the night, leaving the manor wan and returning flushed and lively. Sometimes Yuuri forgets until he’s left alone after Viktor bids him a good morning and excuses himself to his underground chambers. Then again, Yuuri’s sleep schedule has gone through a bit of readjusting, and he often finds himself going to bed at the same time Viktor retreats, rising eagerly as the sun sets to find the vampire emerging from the hall, fresh and smiling. Always smiling.
He needs blood, Yuuri thinks, idly brushing a thumb against his cold skin. Doing so smears the blood further, and without warning, Viktor’s tongue darts out, at first against the spot so near his own lips, and then, as he turns his face toward Yuuri’s waiting palm, against Yuuri’s fingers.
Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to slip a finger into his mouth impulsively, letting Viktor suck away at his own blood there. His face burns, but he lets Viktor do this, eager in any way to help him regain his strength until he’s able to hunt. But it isn’t enough. He needs more blood.
Viktor runs his tongue over each finger, seeming to do so mindlessly, his eyes still closed and his face blank. Yuuri steels himself for what he himself is about to offer.
“Drink from me.”
Viktor’s eyes fly open, filled to the brim with shock. Yuuri imagines that his own eyes must look very much the same way.
“What?”
“Drink from me,” Yuuri repeats, his voice strong and sure. “I did this to you. I hurt you. So, please… drink from me. You know how to drink without killing, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Viktor answers slowly, still stunned. Yuuri hadn’t needed confirmation, as he’s always been quietly certain that Viktor isn’t a killer. Not anymore, at least. Perhaps as a fledgling, when the desire for blood had been the most savage and undeniable, he’d taken lives. But Yuuri knows that when he feeds now, he takes only enough to keep him alive, and not enough to kill.
“Then drink from me. It’s all I can do to repay you.”
The way Viktor looks at him now is so familiar, and Yuuri finally recognizes it as hunger. Has he always looked at him this way? As though he’s something desirable? Something he so desperately wants? Has he always wanted to feast on him? That can’t be true. Viktor has always been nothing but polite, always friendly and never predatory. Quite the opposite, in fact, as Yuuri has often caught him staring with a very soft expression. Still, something in Viktor’s face reminds him of those moments. Yuuri brushes a thumb against Viktor’s lips and watches his pupils enlarge rapidly.
“Please, Viktor.”
Without a word, Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand gingerly, pressing a quick kiss to his pulse. It’s almost a warning, a silent ‘are you certain?’ against his skin, and Yuuri nods, bracing himself.
It doesn’t hurt as much as he’d always imagined. Just a prick, then a pull, then a wave of something indescribable. Viktor’s eyes are closed again, silver lashes gleaming in the candlelight, messy hair falling over his face as he bends his head and drinks. Another wave hits, dizzying and thrilling, and Yuuri squirms slightly, suddenly unable to sit still. He feels a heat shooting through him, a burning and tingling sensation that, to his surprise, doesn’t feel very bad at all.
In fact, it feels good. Very good. Yuuri hisses softly as Viktor sucks more vigorously, his throat working audibly, and something about the sound is almost obscene, bringing the blood rushing to both their cheeks as it fills the quiet room. Yuuri realizes with some alarm that his blood is also rushing elsewhere, and he squirms harder, praying that Viktor doesn’t notice but unable to stop himself from panting and gasping as he starts to sweat.
God, but it feels so good. It feels so good when Viktor drinks from him. The thought of his blood spilling into Viktor’s throat makes him groan, and the sound seems to spur Viktor into pulling harder, making Yuuri’s head start to spin. Any shame he feels is drained away with his energy, and he leans forward to press his forehead lazily against Viktor’s, very much unable to remain upright anymore.
Viktor makes a muffled sound of surprise, and Yuuri jerks back up with a strangled shout as he feels Viktor’s tongue dig into the bite wound. Viktor pulls away and gives him a very apologetic look.
“I’m sorry, Yuuri, I was only closing the wound. Look, it’s healing already.”
Viktor’s tongue, bloody from where his own teeth had sliced it, had sealed the punctures, stopping the flow, but Yuuri’s own supernatural abilities already have the marks growing faint, fading before their very eyes. Viktor bends his head back over Yuuri’s wrist, trying to inspect the wound.
“Remarkable,” he murmurs curiously, seemingly blind to Yuuri’s still flustered state. “And those scars on your face, hm? They don’t heal the way your other wounds do.”
“Oh,” Yuuri says quietly, and something in his voice makes Viktor look up at him intently. “Well… these were my first. The day I was turned. Those don’t fade.”
Viktor seems almost sorry that he’d asked, but Yuuri can see the curiosity spark in his eyes. Not many people know the history of werewolves, and with good reason. Hardly any come forward to share.
“A werewolf’s mark is cursed. The one that turned me… this is the first he left. The mark that changed me. I… people don’t often survive attacks, but when they do…” Yuuri closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “Well. I only wish that I’d have died instead.”
When the silence is too much to bear, Yuuri opens his eyes again to find Viktor still staring, but with an air of patience and understanding rather than expectation. He won’t push for further explanation. Yuuri feels certain of that, somehow.
“Pardon my selfishness,” Viktor says at last, very softly, “but I’m happy that you’re still here.”
This had been meant sweetly, but Yuuri’s short and bleak laughter sours it. “Yes, well, werewolves aren’t easy to kill after that. I know.”
The unsaid ‘because I’ve tried’ hangs thick in the air, but Viktor’s scabbed hands push it aside, coming forward to cup Yuuri’s face. Warm, Yuuri thinks, dazed. Warm hands against his slowly heating face. And Viktor’s own face, flushed the lovely shade of something alive, is so very close.
“You ought to rest. The sun will fully rise shortly, meaning that I’ll soon slip away. I have the strength now to head to my own chambers, so I suggest you do the same. A place like this is unfit for you.”
Yuuri rises reluctantly with him, offering an arm instinctively to steady him. Before he can realize that Viktor, standing tall and no longer limping, doesn’t need his support, Viktor takes his arm anyway and leads him from the room. When they part ways in the hall, it’s everything Yuuri can do not to grab him and beg him to stay.
“Rest well, Yuuri.”
Too exhausted to even think of drawing a bath, Yuuri falls onto his new bed, burrowing beneath the warmth of the covers. The curtains are drawn tight over the large windows, but the growing light peeks out from the edges, and somewhere, high above and forever out of reach, hangs the moon, still pulling at him like the tide.
But, as he drifts into sleep, he feels the gentle tug of a different moon, a new moon -- one that doesn’t frighten him quite as much.
*
Viktor had noticed.
He’d noticed the way Yuuri had squirmed, the way he’d sweated, the soft noises he’d tried so hard to mask as Viktor fed on him. He’d noticed how his eyes had widened, face flushing beneath Viktor’s fingers. Yuuri had given him his arm, and when Viktor had taken it, he’d noticed how hesitant Yuuri had been to break their contact. To say goodbye.
He’d thought on this during his last few moments of remaining consciousness, and when he awoke the next night, he’d started to notice new things.
Silence had never been unbearable between the two of them, both content to bask in the quiet comfort of good company, but lately there had been odd lapses -- strange pauses in which the air around Yuuri seemed charged, agitated, as though he’d like to say something. But he never did. Viktor had often caught him staring in those moments. Staring at him.
Those instances had been far outweighed, thankfully, by pleasant conversation, during which Yuuri slowly began to speak more about himself and less about what he was. Not that Viktor minded learning more about werewolves -- he had several volumes on the subject, though he’d hurried to hide them away, as he’d realized that they were hideously and embarrassingly outdated -- but there had been something much more rare and special in knowing about the stranger he’d so impulsively and graciously accepted into his home.
And so every time Yuuri opened up, boldly telling Viktor what he’d like prepared for his dinner, rather than shrugging and mumbling things along the lines of ‘werewolves will eat anything, I suppose,’ for example, Viktor noticed.
Viktor had done his own share of opening up, of course. Aside from the obvious of opening his entire home to him, he opened up in less grand but more meaningful ways. Viktor’s always had a habit of rambling, especially when story-telling is involved, but instead of growing bored or nodding politely, Yuuri would lean toward him, eyes alight with curiosity. He sometimes didn’t blink, which Viktor may have found disconcerting had it been anyone else. Had it been any eyes other than those, warm and brown and burning through him. Viktor has to admit that he did preen a bit under that gaze, basking in the blaze of a sun he hadn’t seen in centuries.
And that’s exactly what Yuuri is. A star that doesn’t hurt. Viktor doesn’t wince in his light, doesn’t hide from the rays that fill his darkened halls, doesn’t steam and wither away whenever Yuuri enters the room.
And tonight he enters like the sunrise, or what Viktor can remember of it, slowly but surely, bringing a warmth with him that Viktor can feel from where he rests in bed. It isn’t often that Yuuri visits him in his old bedroom, as Viktor isn’t often in it. Viktor would much rather lounge in the sitting room, but on occasion he’ll return to the room he’d once lain in during his days of mortal sleep. He sometimes naps during the night, uncommon bouts of melancholy hitting him unexpectedly, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost picture opening them in the morning to find the sun, in all its glory, filtering through the gauzy curtains of his canopied bed, high above and just outside the grand windows.
Instead, it enters through the door with a knock and a polite cough, and Viktor sits up and stares.
“Yes, Yuuri? Is something wrong?”
Yuuri only shakes his head, looking incredibly nervous but somehow very certain. He’s standing by Viktor’s bed in just a few short strides, and although his eyes blaze with determination, Viktor notices his hands shaking.
“I wanted to ask something of you.”
Viktor pats the bed, and Yuuri sits immediately, inching closer. His face is very red, and he seems to be having trouble making eye contact.
“You can ask me anything you like, whenever you like, Yuuri.”
“When you feed,” Yuuri blurts, “what do you feel?”
Viktor blinks at him.
“When you feed from your victims, when you go out to hunt,” Yuuri continues, looking more and more like he’d very much like to die. Viktor tries hard not to grin. He can’t claim to always understand Yuuri’s fits of nervousness, but he’ll always do his best to soothe his fears. And it seems as though all he’d like now is to question him for vampire lore, so Viktor is prepared to give him the answers he needs.
“Well, it feels good. The way eating anything delicious would feel good, of course.”
Yuuri nods, an odd expression crossing his face. He looks almost disappointed, as though he’d expected more. Viktor scrambles to try to think of something interesting to add, but Yuuri speaks again.
“And me? How did it feel to drink from me?”
He’d tried to say it almost nonchalantly, but hadn’t done a very good job of it. Viktor gapes at him, suddenly unsure that Yuuri’s visit is simply to learn more about the undead.
“I -- well, that is, it felt --” Viktor fumbles, at a loss for words, and his stuttering seems to put Yuuri on edge. His eyes grow wide with horror, as though mortified that he’d had the gall to ask such a question.
“I’m sorry, that was such a -- I’m a fool, I didn’t mean to…” he trails off, lapsing into one of those strange silences in which he stares, mesmerized, into Viktor’s eyes.
Viktor moves closer, taking his hand gingerly, never once breaking their gaze. He presses a quick kiss to Yuuri’s wrist, and his sharp gasp and flushed cheeks are all the answer Viktor needs to a question that has only just now crossed his mind.
“I should leave,” Yuuri whispers, though he makes no move to do so. Viktor loosens his grasp, but doesn’t let go.
“You may do whatever you like, Yuuri. But I’d rather you stay. After all, I haven’t answered your question.”
Yuuri says and does nothing, simply stares. Viktor leans forward slowly, giving him enough time to pull away, and when Yuuri remains still, he murmurs in his ear.
“It was ecstasy. I’d never felt it in my life. Not to that extent. You were the most exquisite meal, and nothing I’ve tasted since that night has ever been quite as good.”
Yuuri shudders hard, and Viktor feels a hand against his cheek, fingers moving back and pushing through his hair. Warm breath against his face now, coming in quick bursts.
“Drink from me again.”
Pulse pounding hard in the neck so near his lips, beating faster as Yuuri waits for an answer. Before Viktor can give him one, his mind frozen numb, he registers slight pressure against the back of his head. Yuuri is gently guiding his face down, tilting his own so that his throat is exposed. It isn’t until Viktor’s lips graze his skin that he speaks again.
“Please, Viktor. I want to feel it again.”
Viktor wants to tell him that they ought to wait for the next moon, or that he doesn’t want to make feeding from him a habit, afraid that he’d start to view Yuuri as prey rather than the precious thing he’d become in Viktor’s life. But the rush of blood is throbbing maddeningly in his ears, throbbing frantically under his tongue as he laps at Yuuri’s neck. This draws a low moan from him, and Viktor’s control slips.
His teeth break the skin only for a moment, and he hardly takes a mouthful before he slices his tongue, allowing his vampiric blood to seal the wound. Yuuri, who’d melted with a whimper, makes a soft noise of frustration, craning his neck further for him, but Viktor pulls back. He tries not to faint under Yuuri’s intense gaze, noticing the way his eyes darken as he licks his lips, but finds that his strength has been sapped away.
“Yuuri,” he says, voice rough, and Yuuri shudders again. Viktor can feel it pass through to him, and realizes that he’s still holding one of his hands. He also realizes that he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Why did you stop?” Yuuri asks softly.
“I…” Viktor finds it hard to speak, hard to focus on anything but the rapidly healing puncture marks on Yuuri’s neck. “I don’t know. I only know that I don’t want to hurt you.”
Yuuri, to his surprise, laughs. Viktor hadn’t noticed how still the air had been around them, but suddenly he can breathe again. Not that he needs to, but being around Yuuri, he almost forgets that he isn’t alive. He takes a deep breath, just because he can. Just because Yuuri makes him want to.
“Yes, I know our little arrangement does far more damage in comparison,” Viktor starts, grinning but trying to phrase things carefully. Yuuri sometimes grows quiet and withdraws from conversation whenever he thinks too hard on the ways he’d hurt Viktor during his transformation. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you punish yourself.”
Yuuri stares at him in shock, laughter dying in his eyes. It’s replaced with confusion.
“Punish?”
“Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it? Repayment? A way to absolve your guilt by letting me use you? That isn’t what I want, Yuuri.”
Realization dawns on Yuuri’s face, quickly followed by an outrage so sudden that Viktor is quite literally taken aback, leaning away in surprise.
“You’d think that of me?” Yuuri asks quietly, eyes blazing. “You’d think that I’d give myself to you as payment? And not of my own volition? Are you blind, sir?”
Viktor has to try very hard not to slip in a very inappropriately timed joke about bats and the myth of poor eyesight. He isn’t sure what else he can say, stunned by the fire in Yuuri’s gaze, the steel in his words like a stake in his heart.
“Have you paid no mind to the… to the way I…” Yuuri pauses, his voice trembling, but he pushes onward. “Perhaps I don’t have a word for it. But I feel something for you that I’ve never known before, and I want to understand. Please, don’t take my feelings so lightly.”
“Never,” Viktor breathes, finding his voice at last. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand briefly before raising it to his lips. “Please, forgive me. I can’t say that I understand my own feelings either, as it’s been many years since I’ve had any.”
Yuuri softens at this, suddenly looking very sheepish. “No need to apologize, Viktor, I-I overreacted --”
“No,” Viktor says against his skin, pressing kisses along his arm. “Your feelings are precious to me, Yuuri. I want to know more.”
Despite Viktor’s telepathic sensitivity, the only indicator of Yuuri’s next action is the way he stiffens, tensing like an animal about to pounce. He pulls back like lightning, hands striking out just as quickly to cup Viktor’s face and yank him forward for a kiss.
Viktor’s fangs cut his tongue immediately, but he doesn’t seem to mind, pressing his body into Viktor’s chest, into his waiting arms. The blood that slowly trickles into Viktor’s mouth has his head spinning, the familiar sweet taste nearly burning him.
Let me burn, he thinks, falling back against the pillows, Yuuri securely in his lap, in his grasp, wriggling and straining against him with a hunger Viktor has never witnessed, not even when he’d stood before him as a ravenous and howling beast.
When they finally break their kiss, panting against each other’s lips, Viktor, as he’s wont to do, notices. He notices the heat of Yuuri’s body, the way it trembles beneath his hands. He notices something hard pressed against him, and he notices the sharp intake of breath when Viktor adjusts their bodies so that his own hardness is laid against the length of Yuuri’s.
“Please,” Yuuri says softly, desperately.
Viktor’s fangs sink into his neck, and he tastes the sun.
*
Yuuri grows accustomed to the dark from that night on. Down below, not in the heavily barred room with its still bloody bed sheets, but within the comforting stone walled confines of Viktor’s personal lair, Yuuri lies on sheets of silk, pressed against a body that’s stiff but warm. It’s warm, because Yuuri warms it, his heat soaking through the vampire’s pale skin.
He lies so still, so immovable, so much like a statue in the pitch black room. Yuuri’s vision in the dark is keen enough for his own survival, but even he can’t see anything in the pure absence of light. But he feels, he smells, he tastes Viktor’s skin beneath his lips as he presses them to his forehead. So stiff. Vampires truly sleep like the dead during the day.
This hadn’t been anything like the first night they’d lain together, bare and sated and exhausted, with Viktor’s strong arms draped delicately around Yuuri’s middle as they slept. This is the day sleep, the loss of consciousness beneath the invisible but ever-present glare of the sun. Viktor had been hesitant at first, uncertain for Yuuri's safety.
“A vampire’s unconscious reflexes can be dangerous, should we perceive any threat to our person,” he’d told him cautiously. Yuuri hadn’t minded. He could no longer lie alone in bed, missing a man so close and yet so far.
That Viktor’s still body hadn’t had any sort of negative reaction to Yuuri's presence had been a good omen, the both of them had agreed. And so now Yuuri descends into darkness to curl around Viktor's body every day the sun rises. If he never sees that burning star again, he won’t mind too terribly.
If only he could never see the moon again. Never feel its pull, a gentle tug at first as it waxes, gradually becoming something that snatches up his insides and yanks hard at the lock and chain keeping his demons at bay.
He feels it now, creeping toward him, and before he knows it, the night of the full moon stares him boldly in the face. Waiting for him to give in, to break, to hurt.
And he finds that, holding tight to the man stirring in his arms, he can’t do this. Not again.
He can’t hurt Viktor again. Especially not after having discovered, quietly one day over tea in their sitting room, that the word he’d been looking for to describe his feelings for him is ‘love.’
Yuuri excuses himself from the room carefully but quickly, knowing that it would take Viktor a few moments to truly awaken as the sun sets. Just enough time for him to leave, and hopefully enough time for him to make it far.
He’d spend this night alone in the woods. He’d hurt himself, let himself give in, allow himself to forget the taste of Viktor’s skin. There would be no prey this night. Only his own flesh, ripped and bleeding, just as he deserves.
He’s quick, but Viktor is quicker. Yuuri supposes he isn’t surprised, watching the familiar white streak dart over his head to settle on a low branch nearby. Of course Viktor would find him. But he won’t let that stop him. Won't let the man convince him to turn back around.
“Where are you going?” Viktor demands immediately after shifting. He doesn’t look angry. Only incredibly worried. This only makes Yuuri feel worse.
“I want to be alone,” Yuuri says quietly, hoping that Viktor can’t tell that he doesn’t mean it. He should have known better, because the look Viktor gives him tells him that he hadn’t been convincing enough.
“Yuuri, please, return to the manor at once. Before you --”
“Before I become a monster?” Yuuri finishes bitterly, sensing Viktor’s slight hesitation. Viktor is always so careful in speaking of his affliction, as though thinking he might upset Yuuri’s delicate balance by simply stating the truth.
Not for the first time since they’d met, Viktor surprises him.
“Yes,” he snaps, and although his voice is steel, there’s no malice in it. “Yes, you are a monster. As am I. What does it matter? Why do you run from it? Why do you run from me? I can help you --”
“You help me only because you want to die, and are too cowardly to go through with it. So you allow me to hurt you, to bring you to the very brink. Isn't that so?”
Viktor blinks, stunned into silence. His face pales further, and Yuuri can tell by the way his mouth works silently that he must have been correct, in some way or another.
“Is that it?” Yuuri prompts, blinking back tears. He's being cruel, but he can't stop. “Are we both just fools in search of death, cursed to remain bound to a life we can no longer bear?”
He wheels around to leave, feeling the moon sneak its tendrils of light through to his bones, but suddenly Viktor is behind him, arms thrown around him, face pressed into his shoulder. Yuuri says and does nothing, only stands there, the two of them still and tense beneath the howling wind.
“You don’t understand, do you? You, who had the audacity to march into my own home and make me fall in love with you. You, the only thing I’ve encountered in all my centuries that makes me want to live. You don’t understand, Yuuri.” Viktor's voice is a whisper, almost frightened.
Yuuri begins to shake, although he can’t tell if it’s his body growing out of his control, or because he can feel Viktor start to tremble behind him. His mind tries to grasp Viktor’s words, tries to understand the words ‘live’ and ‘love,’ but speech fails him. Every time he tries, it comes out as a low whine, a rumbling that threatens to become a growl.
“You think you’re doing the both of us some sort of service by running, by pushing me away with cruel words, by making a martyr of yourself alone in the woods. You, who have tried so hard to die, both inside and out. You, who thinks you deserve anything other than the world itself.”
What does Yuuri deserve? Surely not happiness, not something reserved for humans. There are no happy endings for monsters.
But he’d been there, almost. Happiness is their sitting room, the couches and cups of tea and books and the warmth of the fireplace. It’s in the tales Viktor had told him, stories of old, fables from places Yuuri hadn’t even known existed.
‘I’ll take you anyplace you’d like, Yuuri,’ Viktor had told him one day, the two of them pouring over an enormous atlas. ‘You’ve never left your town, have you? No? Well, I’ll show you the world.’
The world, Yuuri thinks faintly, the tears falling at last. Viktor is his world. He isn't the moon, but something that eclipses it. Something better.
Yuuri looks up at the moon, full and bright, and is surprised to find that he feels nothing.
Viktor presses his lips to his ear, a hand coming up to cradle his head, and Yuuri is less surprised to find that he feels everything.
“If you want to die, Yuuri, so be it -- but let it only be the part of you that you hate most. Let the beast die. Let me be your silver, your wolfsbane, the poison that sets you free. My body and blood mean nothing to me, don't you understand? Death means nothing to me. And so I give myself to you. Tear my heart from my chest -- I'm afraid it no longer beats, but it loves you all the same.”
Yuuri’s vision whites out, the pain shooting through his body blinding him, but when he falls to his knees, slipping out of Viktor’s grasp, his sight suddenly clears. He’s changing, limbs growing and bones shifting and cracking, and yet it’s almost as though his soul has left his body, pain ebbing away to almost nothing, still present but rather dull. His skin tingles, fur bursting forth, and his clothing begins to tear until it’s ripped clean, leaving him bare beneath the moonlight.
He’s him, he’s Yuuri, but he isn’t -- whining high and confused, lost, and where is he? Who is he?
He wants to run, to hide, to howl and to tear and to bite, but something stops him. He can smell someone near, and he turns, crouching low on all fours, hackles raised and lips drawn back in a snarl.
Who?
A man, alive and also not, stands above him, hair as pale as the moon that hangs above them, eyes blue like the sky Yuuri just barely remembers. The man is smiling. He isn’t scared. Yuuri wants to growl, to frighten this man, this prey that refuses to run.
Prey?
Yes, prey. Only for him. Only for Yuuri. He’s tasted him before. He’s kissed him.
A hand is held out to him, and although he isn't sure why, he licks it. With a high whine, he allows deft fingers to run through his fur. Familiar touch. A familiar word, one he's only just learned, one he almost remembers.
The man speaks, and Yuuri’s ears prick up. He knows this voice.
“Yuuri, please come home.”
Home.
Anywhere with this man is home.
The man -- Viktor -- turns to leave, and the wolf follows.