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“I’m very grateful for her support,” Kiyoi tells the camera, dipping into a polite bow—from across the room, he can see the curtain of his hair fall across his eyes. It’s gelled into a sleek, straight cut on screen, parted on one side, currently parted down the middle in real life, wavy and still a little damp from the shower. Hira blow-dried it for him. Hira’s glued to the television, down on hands and knees before it, reverently watching Kiyoi blend into the background of other actors while the interviewer focuses back on Anna.
As soon as Kiyoi’s out of the frame, Hira lurches for the remote and rewinds it. Cheek cushioned on the arm of the couch, Kiyoi lazily watches himself flash the same fake smile and recite the same congenial lines. The bonus clip, a behind-the-scenes special for a climactic episode in his popular series, barely features him. Hira’s been re-watching it all night anyway, looking just as enraptured on the hundredth time as the first.
Kiyoi’s supposed to be memorizing next week’s script. It’s clutched loosely in his left hand, dangling over the side of the couch. He can’t concentrate on it. It’s grown dark outside the sliding patio doors, reaching that time of night where he usually has the most energy, but he’s so thoroughly distracted by the lean line of his boyfriend’s graceful neck.
His tongue pokes out at the corner, tracing along his lips. He doesn’t usually think of Hira like that. Sure, Hira’s attractive, when he’s styled right—he has intense eyes, sharp cheekbones, a lean physique, but dresses plain and acts clumsy and has no real art to him, but he still catches Kiyoi’s eye and makes Kiyoi want—
Kiyoi forces himself to breathe. Simulates a deep breath. He doesn’t need to breathe. But he tries to slow down his head before he spirals into a pit of shameless desire. Shame prickles down his spine. He lets the script tumble to the floor and instead grips onto the cushions, blunt nails digging into the upholstery. Hira leans towards the screen, further from Kiyoi, stretching out to expose more creamy skin and a little mole on the back of his neck. When Kiyoi breathes deep enough, he can smell Hira—sweat and musk and cheap shampoo.
The clip finishes. Hira rewinds it. He’s obsessed. Kiyoi tells himself he’s not, that he doesn’t need Hira, doesn’t need anything, but he’s so thirsty and only wants one thing. He can’t see the muscles in Hira’s back through the plaid shirt and wishes Hira didn’t wear such bulky things, wishes instead he’d walk around naked, or at least down to boxers, because Kiyoi wouldn’t bite that one area anyway, would be respectful of Hira’s sensitive parts, even though it might be a special pleasure to dig into the most private—
Kiyoi cuts himself off. His teeth grit. He can feel the sharp ends on either side, growing with each passing day—he’ll need to feed soon, one way or another. It’s not just that he could starve, but he could be exposed. Intellectually, it feels too soon. Emotionally, he’s ravenous. His stomach feels empty. Hira made such a delicious dinner for him—a few empty dishes are still on the table. Hira hand-fed him parts of it, because he insisted, even though Hira whined that his fingers weren’t clean, but Kiyoi got an excuse to drag his tongue over Hira’s fingertips and taste him. Kiyoi’s fists clench just thinking about it. It was good, so good. Hira’s such a good cook and only makes the best for him. Hira’s so good to him. But regular food never satisfies Kiyoi for long, and he knows he needs to top up again.
He knows Hira would let him. Hira dazedly reaches to touch the screen, chasing the shape of Kiyoi’s jaw, caressing the image even though the real Kiyoi’s so close. For once, Kiyoi doesn’t snap at him for it. Kiyoi can hardly be jealous of himself. He knows Hira wants all sides of him, every aspect of him, would happily dote on any part of him, would offer everything to him—it’s all right there for the taking. Hira says it all the time—he’d die for Kiyoi.
But Kiyoi couldn’t live with himself if he ever hurt Hira. He feels guilty enough as it is. He should be sucking it up and dragging himself to the hospital, where he can get proper blood packs, like any other of the infinitesimally few people that have his condition. His company doesn’t want that, doesn’t want the news getting out. Before he had an agent, before Kiyoi had Hira, he had no choice but to do it that way. The first time he drank from Hira, he couldn’t believe how much better it tasted. Now he’s spoiled. He doesn’t want to go back. He wants the rich taste of his partner, the intimacy that comes from taking it, the tangible, undeniable proof of Hira’s love—
His stomach rumbles, and he immediately turns scarlet. All the blood left in him rushes to his face. It’s so frustrating when his heart’s barely beating, where his pulse can’t function well enough for him to focus on anything, but his body still find a way to embarrass him. His own body’s against him. Hira startles, pausing the interview and swiveling around all in one go.
He doesn’t say anything, just blinks at Kiyoi, and Kiyoi grumbles, “It’s nothing.”
Hira obediently nods like he’d never question what Kiyoi says, but he still scrambles over. He doesn’t even pause to get up, just comes on all fours. Kiyoi clings to the couch, contemplating bolting up and running off, but Hira’s already kneeling beside him. Rolling up a red-white sleeve, Hira thrusts out his hand, offering his bare wrist for the taking.
It’s the devotion in Hira’s eyes, the way he looks at Kiyoi like he wants nothing more than this: to help, soothe, satisfy Kiyoi, that really gets Kiyoi going. Sometimes, Hira’s irresistibly hot in the weirdest ways. Kiyoi feels like a freak for thinking that. But he does. He appreciates Hira so much.
He mutters, “No,” and buries his face in the cushion. He can’t. He won’t. Hira’s warm knuckles gently brush his cheek, insisting.
Hira whines, “Please,” and doesn’t retreat. Kiyoi tries to resist. Hira doesn’t falter. The longer it goes on, the more time Kiyoi has to drink in Hira’s scent and wallow in hunger.
He bites into his bottom lip, chewing it between his teeth, wishing he could get away with cutting into himself instead of his boyfriend. The borrowed blood in his veins is already rotting. He needs more. Hira hovers there, like he’s as desperate as Kiyoi is.
With a pained groan, Kiyoi breaks. He peeks out at Hira, reaching for Hira’s hand. He moves the index finger out and only allows himself that much. He brings just that one tip to his lips, licks over it, and tilts to ghost his teeth along it. One fang presses into the middle. His eyes flicker up to Hira’s. Even after all they’ve been through, he always expects at least a small sliver of fear. But Hira only ever looks awed, as hungry as Kiyoi is.
So Kiyoi clamps down, letting that fang pierce the skin. Instantly, Hira hisses. He winces, not quite a full grimace, and doesn’t try to pull away. It’s bad enough. Kiyoi pretends it doesn’t bother him. He closes his lips around Hira’s finger and sucks, drawing out all the blood he can.
It’s not much, not from there, comes slowly but steadily and tastes so smooth on his tongue. His lashes flutter, eyes rolling back with the rush of how good it is; even in drips and drabs, it’s ridiculously fulfilling. And delicious. Hira’s delicious. Kiyoi swallows around it and sucks more, gaze dizzily fixed on Hira’s, because Hira’s staring at him so fiercely and that’s wildly hot. Hira breathes a trembling, “Kiyoi...”
Kiyoi moans. He feels helpless, like he’s the one that’s vulnerable, stripped back to his most primal instinct: thirst and how much he wants Hira. There’s no hiding it when they’re locked together like this. It’s obvious that Hira’s not just his greatest support system, but his very life force.
Then Hira makes a small noise of discomfort, and the hazy delight shatters—Kiyoi quickly lets go. Hira instantly whines, leaning forward as though he can force Kiyoi to take more, but Kiyoi’s already lapping at the wound and trying to seal the hole. He licks and kisses it until the bleeding stops and a salty scab forms over it. His attention slows to weak pecks and soft nuzzles, while Hira breathlessly pants and stares at him like he’s a god.
Hira murmurs, “I love you.”
It’s mutual. Kiyoi’s just worse at saying it. For all Hira’s insistence that Kiyoi’s the perfect one, he’s worse at a lot of things.
He shifts across the cushions, feeling rejuvenated and satiated but woozy for it. Stumbling over the edge, he falls down onto Hira’s lap—Hira makes a little ‘oof’ but swiftly moves to hold him.
Leaning into that embrace, Kiyoi rests his chin on Hira’s shoulder and quietly admits, “I love you too.”