Work Text:
The one who says “I love you”,
Is a melancholic bard,
Whose voice has been lost.
If only love,
Had a language of its own.
A thousand happy larks, in your eyes;
A thousand silent canaries, in my throat.
If only love,
Had a language of its own.
- Translation of a Persian poem by Ahmad Shamlou (ای کاش عشق را زبان سخن بود)
His mind is made up, his bags are packed. But there is a yawning chasm in his chest he can’t cross over yet. I need wings for that , he thinks with an unexpected kind of dry humor he must’ve picked up from Nandor. Wings, or time. Time fixes everything, his abuela used to say when everything was broken and nothing seemed to help. And once he becomes a vampire, Guillermo thinks with a confidence born out of years of ‘ignoring your problems until they go away’, he will have enough time on his hands to fix his entire life.
“I’ve asked Derek to turn me into a vampire,” he says in a low tone because he can’t trust his voice not to shake. Plus, the ambience calls for hushed voices, tender gestures and slow blinks. The lull in the library, the flickering candles, the soft rustle of old paper being turned over. But most importantly, it’s Nandor, sitting rigid and straight-backed on a fancy chair made of the finest wood and fabric, manifesting the last remnants of royalty he still holds around his tall frame like a well-loved, yet threadbare security blanket; holding a book too small for his princely hands, which deceptively look soft and elegant on the outside but have been used to handle heavy swords like mere twigs and rip out heads for the merest inconveniences for centuries.
Everything about Nandor is deceptive, Guillermo thinks. He’s vulnerable where he looks strong and he’s deadly where he looks soft. It’s one of the two reasons that keeps drawing Guillermo back to him, like a dumb lamb to the slaughterhouse; the other is his stupidly pretty face.
“Oh.”
“Oh? Is that all you have to say?”
He doesn’t know what he expected Nandor’s reaction to be, but a simple ‘oh’ and eyes that don’t even look up from that damn book to grace him with their depth and intensity wasn’t it. It’s been thirteen long years, goddammit. Surely, his decision to finally nullify the contract between a vampire and a familiar deserves more than a mere oh? Has any human ever done that before, in the whole wretched and admittedly depraved history of familiarhood?
“What do you want me to tell you, Guillermo?” Nandor is still not looking at him and the urge to scream is rapidly bubbling up in Guillermo’s throat like stomach acid. “You made it quite clear last year that you don’t want me to be your sire.”
And just like that, Nandor does it again; throwing him for a loop when he was this close to pressing a stake to that long, pale line of his throat and making him submit like a devoted supplicant before a deity.
“What? When did I...? What are you talking about?”
“Have you forgotten? Yeesh, human memories are so fickle!” Nandor’s eyes flicker up to him for a brief moment before dropping back to the book in his hands, and despite the derisive, firm tone, Guillermo is startled to find them shining with a wavering sheen of wetness in the candle-lit room. “You left me at the train station, Guillermo. We were supposed to travel the world together and then go back to my homeland so that I could turn you on my ancestral soil. Do you even know what it means for a vampire to share ancestral soil with someone? Do you? I guess not, because you didn’t show up and I didn't sire anyone when I got home, because everyone there was already a fucking vampire.”
Guillermo had stopped listening the moment Nandor said ‘you left me at the train station.’ Hands balled into fists, heart beating an angry pace, the scream he had been so valiantly keeping locked-in behind his gritting teeth finally breaks free.
“For fuck’s sake, Nandor! I told you it wasn’t my choice! I wanted to go with you and have you be my sire! It was Laszlo who-”
“Yeesh. It’s always blaming the others with you!” Nandor bristles, but is not quite matching Guillermo’s screaming volume. His voice is still this side of controlled anger and agony, but the ice in his bottomless eyes is somehow worse. “Was it also Laszlo’s fault that you stayed the whole year with Nadja in London? Did Laszlo force you to get a human boyfriend and forget all about me? Huh? I even called you through the ether after I finally calmed down and forgave you for your betrayal, but you never answered! You didn’t even want to come back here! And then when we met, you never said anything about still wanting me to make you a vampire! Not even a word! You told me I was dead to you and then you were happy to see me get married to someone else! What was I supposed to think?”
There are…so many things to unpack here, Guillermo thinks with a heart working double time and eyes blinking rapidly to clear the tears of frustration and grief that have gathered there. He knows there’s something there in Nandor’s outburst that his subconscious is trying so hard to keep him away from. Something about ‘forgetting all about me’ and ‘happy to see me get married to someone else’ ; those had nothing to do with vampire turning. Or did they? Guillermo loathes to admit it, but Nandor is right. He doesn't know the significance of a vampire wanting to turn someone on their own ancestral soil, because no one in this goddamn household ever bothered to educate him on the nuances of vampire culture that he never stumbled upon in his admittedly meager research; but he’s also way past the point where he could just ask his former master those kinds of casual questions and expect an honest answer that wouldn't be dripping in sarcasm and derision.
And yes, Nandor did try to contact him through the ether once; but that was five months after they got separated and in his defense, when the call came he had been on an extravagant dinner date with his then boyfriend. But Nandor didn’t call him again and Guillermo’s attempts the next day to persuade Nadja to contact Nandor on his behalf failed; because apparently, using the ether isn’t a power shared among all vampires and Nadja had been keeping in touch with Laszlo through letters . And Guillermo had no idea where on this godforsaken Earth Nandor was strutting about in his fancy red coat and ridiculous blue Jansport to send him a fucking letter; like it was the 18th century and Guillermo was the distressed heroine in a Jane Austin novel.
At the end, Guillermo decides not to revisit that particular thread of memory, because it would make him talk about his boyfriend, well former boyfriend now, and honestly, that’s the last thing he would want to talk to Nandor or anyone else about now or ever .
“I… yeah, okay, you’re right. It was my decision to stay in London, because that one year away from you made me realize a lot of things. I started to live my life without you and I wanted to prove to myself that I could actually do it. That I still had some independence from you and your problems and I could put myself first. But the moment I saw you back here, it was back to fucking square one. You always make everything about you and I'm too fucking weak to resist your pull.”
“That’s not true,” Nandor gives him an offended look, thick brows furrowed over stormy eyes and lush lips turned down in displeasure. “I never used any pull on you, Guillermo. Everything you did for me, you did it on your own and for your own. I never forced you to do anything for me and now that I’ve stopped being the tool to get you what you wanted, you’re throwing me away like a soggy masturbation rag! You’ve never been under my pull or anyone else’s, but your own whims and dark desires.”
Guillermo’s first impulse to Nandor’s grandeur speech is to protest, to negate his ridiculous points, because how dare he talk about being a throwaway, useless tool. But why would he, when all Nandor is saying, especially in that strangely calm and collected tone, is to confirm Guillermo’s own self-realization that he has independence and agency from him? He needed to hear this, maybe not in so many words, and from Nandor more than his own inner voice.
He didn’t know how much he actually needed Nandor to tell him that everything that brought him to this moment and place in time, all the murders, humans and vampires alike, and all the wrong and selfish choices and the feeling of finally being comfortable in his skin, even if the said skin turned out to resonate more with a so-called monster’s than an ethical, upstanding citizen of the society, was a long, twisted game of his own design.
Falling in love with Nandor might have seemed inevitable in hindsight, but that had more to do with how much Guillermo was willing to fall than Nandor actually snatching his hand and tugging him down.
“Where did all that introspection come from?” He finally asks, not trusting his fragmented thoughts not to make a whole mess out of this already fragile conversation.
Nandor waves the book in his hand, lips slightly crooked upward in a faint impression of a sneer. Guillermo tries to read the title out of an automatic sense of curiosity, but the print is too small to read from where he is standing.
“I’ve been reading a lot of books in case you didn’t notice.”
That answer was a kind of non-sequitur, perhaps a half-assed attempt to bring their conversation to an abrupt end so that Nandor could go back to reading his precious books. It also reminds Guillermo why he had decided to leave in the first place. Was Nandor seriously going to spend the next 20 years ignoring Guillermo to read fucking books? And not getting bored out of his mind? Nandor is impulsive, but he’s also excessively dedicated to see whatever he starts to its conclusion.
Guillermo exhales noisily in the suffocating stillness of the room and drags a hand through his curls in frustration. Even after all this, a whole year apart and another year almost attached at the hip, overcompensating for the lost time, Nandor doesn’t seem to give a fuck about the going-ons in Guillermo’s life.
“So, that’s it then?” He can’t stop the miserable tone from slipping into his voice, even though he’d rather be angry and upset at Nandor than feeling sorry for himself.
Nandor heaves a deep sigh of his own and marks his book before putting it away on the table next to him; looking up at Guillermo with big, softened eyes, finally giving him his undivided attention like how desperately and stupidly Guillermo still wants him to do.
Guillermo holds his breath, bracing himself for Nandor’s next words, as if a hurricane is headed his way to turn his whole life upside down.
It’s the same expression he had two years ago (fuck, it’s been that long already?) when he had been leaving for that stupid Wellness Center cult, eyes lost and voice broken, shoulders drooping under the heavy weight of chainmail armor and 700 years of depression and misery, no trace of that powerful, imposing vampire in sight; when he told Guillermo in that oddly vulnerable tone that he cared for him too much to burden him with the curse of vampirism and Guillermo almost confessed his undying love for him right on the fucking doorstep like a scene in one of those many crappy romcoms they had watched through the years; Just a few minutes after saying the stupidest thing he could have said to someone so desperate for love he was willing to pull out his teeth and cut his gorgeous hair every night, starving himself for a whole month and letting himself be emotionally and sexually manipulated by that deceitful cult leader. The fact that Guillermo hadn’t known any of this at the time didn’t exempt him from the awful guilt that took hold of his broken heart and never let go.
He should’ve known better; should’ve looked up to read the bold, capitalized letters held over Nandor’s head on a flashing neon sign. What good did it even do, knowing the exact shape of the curl of Nandor’s hair where it gracefully hit his shoulders or the veins on his enormous, long-fingered, ring-adorned hands or the almost invisible puncture in his left earlobe reminiscent of a piercing from when he was human, which appeared only when Guillermo pulled the thick curtain of his hair back for the before-the-coffin brushing? What good any of this knowledge did for either of them when he had no idea his master had been walking precariously on the edge of an existential crisis of vampiric proportions even long before they met for the first time outside the Panera Bread.
And to think if it hadn’t been for Colin Robinson’s death, Guillermo would have lost Nandor to that fucking super slumber for who knew how many years.
All because Nandor thought Guillermo would’ve wanted vampirism at the cost of losing him forever. All because Guillermo had foolishly said, on that fateful night on the doorstep before Nandor left to pursue his happiness away from him, ‘ Can you please, please turn me into a vampire before you leave? So that after all these years, you and I both can be happy.’
Happy. What a traitorous, ambiguous, foreboding word. He went back for Nandor because he missed him; because he wanted Nandor all to himself and needed him and only him to be his sire; because Guillermo had chosen him, because who better and worthier to sire him than a 750 year old former king with immense strength and cool powers and insane mastery over sword-fighting? And the fact that he looked like a beautiful, invaluable relic from days long gone didn’t hurt either; even at times, overshadowing his least desirable attributes.
But was Nandor any happier dragged forcefully back home and put inside a cage in absolute darkness than he had been surrounded by his new, equally-depressed and delusional friends, dancing under neon lights and pulling his fangs out every night? In those… those skimpy shorts and heartbreaking haircut, playing pretend at how to be human? Would becoming a vampire make Guillermo happy? He sure as hell hopes it will, because at this point, he has burned all the bridges behind him and he knows no other alternative.
(How else is he going to justify and come to terms with all the murders and inhumane crimes he’s committed if he isn’t going to be a vampire at the end of it all?)
“I'm happy for you, Guillermo,” Nandor sounds somber and sincere, like he rarely does, but the smile he’s giving him doesn't reach his eyes, like they usually do. The hurricane Guillermo had been bracing himself for washes over him like soft, morning drizzle. “You’re finally going to have your heart’s desire and I'm glad it’s not by me. Better have someone sire you who doesn’t think of vampirism as a curse and eternal punishment, right? Who knows if my own horrible experience with turning and immortality wouldn’t have tainted yours?”
It’s an opening to finally, finally ask Nandor about his own turning; about who his sire was and why he thinks vampirism is a curse. What did he have to trade in for eternal life? Was vampirism something he had pursued as vehemently as Guillermo, but later came to loathe it or was it forced on him and he never wanted it in the first place? Why isn’t he happy with his immortality like Nadja and Laszlo and every other vampire Guillermo had met or slayed? Why had he thought becoming a human would’ve made him happy after 700 years? Why do his eyes shimmer now like he’s about to cry, like every bit of happiness has been sucked out of him along with his warm, human blood?
Why does this have to hurt so much?
But the question that finally makes its way past Guillermo’s cracked lips is a stuttered, “Are you…are you happy? Not for me, but in…in general?”
Nandor opens his mouth wide in a grimacing impression of a grin, ivory fangs coming into view and catching the warm candlelight like pearls even as the surface of his onyx eyes quiver and become unmistakably wet. Out of all the vampires Guillermo has ever seen, and there’s been a lot of them in the long years of his familiarhood, Nandor’s fangs, the first ones he ever laid eyes on and immediately wished a pair for himself, have remained his favorite.
“No, but I haven’t been truly happy since I turned sixteen and that’s no one’s fault but my own and my cursed destiny,” Nandor’s tone is jarringly light and almost playful while Guillermo can’t even wrap his head around the concept of over seven-century-long misery. “Don’t worry about me, my sweet Guillermo. I've managed without you for centuries past and I will continue doing so for centuries more.”
The last words are cutting, Guillermo thinks, with how dismissive they sound, and what does he mean by centuries more ? Does he actually expect Guillermo to be gone for fucking centuries ? But Nandor’s tone is warm and inviting despite the harshness of the words, and the grin/grimace on his stupidly pretty face softens the ragged edges of his words exactly in the same way it did thirteen years ago, when the ancient vampire draped in kingly brocade and an imposing aura talked about luring virgins and chopping up and burying bodies and doing some light housework as a familiar’s job description and Guillermo had never said yes to anything faster in the entirety of his nineteen years of life.
“I…I loved you, you know?” The confession leaves a hollow feeling in his chest, like how he imagines a stake wound would feel a moment before the slayed vampire’s every dead atom disintegrated into dust; maybe because he had been expecting a world-altering event when he finally said those cursed words out loud and all he got was a sorrowful gaze and shimmering eyes.
“I didn’t know. But I loved you, too.”
“I didn’t know that, either.”
Guillermo imagines his own expression is mirroring Nandor’s. Stricken with grief and mourning for something lost instead of disbelief and shock for something outrageous and phenomenal. Are they really here right now in this warm, dusty room surrounded by flickering candles and hundreds of ancient books penned by authors long gone, talking about love that had come and tiptoed right past them without tapping either of them on the shoulder?
Or is this just another chapter in their too complex, fate-defying relationship that they need to turn over before they get to their happily ever after in the epilogue? After all, by definition alone, they’re mortal enemies and no love and camaraderie should have been feasible between them. But Guillermo fell in love before he knew he was a slayer and his brain, too busy mapping out the curve of Nandor’s lush lips and the gentle curl of his luxurious hair, never got the memo.
“Hmm. Guess we just don’t know a lot about each other.”
No truer words have ever been spoken between them, Guillermo thinks with a terrible kind of clarity he could totally do without. Thirteen long years, well technically twelve with one year spent with the image and memories of Nandor intruding through his quiet hours, and they’re still strangers where normal people would’ve become inseparable soulmates.
Guillermo never asked Nandor the important questions or the simple questions or even the silly ones. Hey, Nandor. Where’s your sire? What happened to your horse? Why are you so sad all the damn time, tell me how to fix it. Or, Hey, Nandor. Who’s your favorite basketball player? Do you have a preference for blood types? Tell me about how you met Nadja and Laszlo. Or, Hey, Nandor. Can vampires swallow cum without vomiting?
For him, it was all about assumptions because he was always right where it mattered and when he was wrong, it simply didn’t matter. For Nandor, it was because he just didn’t care to know. And that was an assumption, too, wasn’t it. That was actually Guillermo’s longest-holding assumption and Nandor proved how wrong he was just a few minutes ago.
Nandor hadn’t just cared about him. He had loved him. Oh.
“Is it too late?”
Nandor arches his thick brows over bottomless eyes pinning him in place. “For vampires with all eternity stretched out at their feet? Never. Unless of course we die of something other than old age; in that case, yes, it will be too late.”
The way he looks at him, like Guillermo is the last thread to his waning humanity he’s holding onto for dear life, like Guillermo’s a raft keeping him afloat on a stormy sea; like the whole world is crashing all around them and Nandor can’t look away from him, afraid that they’d be torn apart with the next blink. That look is still there in those eyes, infused with trauma, fear and longing for something he doesn’t think he deserves, but there’s something else too. Something like resignation, like sacrifice, like grief. Like letting go, like running away, like staying behind because he didn’t want to stop Guillermo from growing wings.
Guillermo hates that look from the deep recesses of his still beating heart. Not because of how Nandor is letting go of them after all these years of being the most intimate strangers in the world; but because of how Guillermo is going to let him lose them without a fight.
“So I guess, I’ll see you around?”
“Yes, Guillermo. Assuming neither of us gets staked through the heart before we’re ready to meet again, we will be…seeing each other around.”
Despite the sobering words (what if he comes back home and Nandor isn’t there anymore?), the former warlord is giving him one of those goofy, precious smiles with bright, twinkling eyes like he’s gotten glitter in them and Guillermo’s heart swoops like he’s slipped through Nandor’s arms again and is plummeting to the ground.
Even with the wings, Guillermo wonders, will he be able to stop falling and tripping all over himself every time Nandor so much as throws a little smile his way? And would that be such a bad thing? After all, if there is one thing Guillermo knows how to do best, beside slaying a room full of deadly vampires, it’s how to get to his feet after each fall, stronger than ever.
“Fuck, Nandor. I'm gonna miss you so bad. I’m missing you right now.”
“If it's any consolation, I will miss you, too, aziztarinam .”
Guillermo doesn’t know what the last word means, but he doesn't need to google the word to realize its weighted significance as it settles like the cloying aroma of wild tuberose in the yawning distance between them.
He will miss the simple act of carding argan-scented fingers through that luscious hair; the calming ritual of dressing Nandor in vintage clothes and admiring the bold clash of vibrant colors against the pallor of his skin; the sinful gleam of crimson blood dripping from sharp, ivory teeth and the cutting ridges of hunger that flashes yellow in dark, bottomless eyes.
But more than anything, he will miss all that he never dared or was allowed to have; the feel of Nandor’s fangs piercing through his neck; the taste of Nandor’s blood in his mouth as he was finally turned; his promised trip across the world and a visit to Nandor’s homeland. He will miss so many things and yet, here he is, about to leave his cracked, bleeding heart behind.
“Can we…can we hug at least? Before I go and become a vampire?”
The sunny look in Nandor’s eyes suddenly simmers down into a nervous, cloudy one and the way his fang pulls his bottom lip to the side and the tips of his fingers touch in that endearing but telling way is answer enough. Guillermo inwardly curses himself for still being so weak for the idea of those long, strong arms around him, making him feel like he belongs. (He never belonged.)
“What if we hug and we don’t want to ever let go?”
The answer throws him, and Guillermo stands there for a few seconds, speechless. Is that the reason why Nandor has been so reluctant to hug him all these years? Because of fear ? The fear of wanting to hold onto something that you think will never be yours? Something that he thinks isn’t meant to last? Is every aspect of Nandor’s personality controlled and shaped by fear? And if yes, why?
Wasn’t he used to be a warlord and relentless in bringing every one of his enemies to their knees? Where did all that courage and self-assuredness go? Does eternity do that to you? And if yes, would Guillermo, now that he has found meaning in his ability to protect his family , still want it?
No. What is he thinking? Nandor’s relationship with vampirism is a special one. As a human, he must have had everything which vampirism took away. Guillermo will be like Nadja; like Laszlo; like Jenna. He will love every minute of his eternal life, and he will make sure Nandor does the same.
“That’s…why are we doing this to ourselves, again?” Guillermo finally asks, sounding a painful mixture of hurt, confusion and frustration. “We could be together right now and instead we’re trying to push the other away.”
“Maybe we’re still scared.”
That damn word, again. If only Guillermo knew how to take all of Nandor’s fears away. Maybe then, neither of them had to hurt.
“Of what?”
Nandor leans back in his seat, exposing the pale column of his throat and crossing one long leg over the other. Unbidden and far from the first time, Guillermo wonders about the night Nandor had been turned and imagines the two punctured scars in the hollow of his neck. He’s never seen those scars anywhere on Nandor’s body, despite having seen him in nude on so many occasions. The naive, awestruck version of him used to think Nandor had always been a vampire; that he had been born as one, ancient and beautiful as he was. Later, he came to this bleak realization that Nandor and vampirism were far more antagonistic towards each other than vampires and slayers have ever been. And the realization had given him both hope and despair in maddeningly equal measures; despairing at the fact that Nandor would be the most reluctant vampire to turn him as his affections for Guillermo grew, and having his heart filled with more hope that Nandor would be the most willing vampire to have a romantic relationship with a slayer.
That dichotomy again; Nandor’s most charming and frustrating trait.
“Have I ever told you about my greatest fear, Guillermo?”
There it is; Guillermo’s heart stutters at the realization that the storm he had been bracing himself for earlier is finally about to hit him square in the face and he’s not ready for it. He’s never ready for it.
“No. I don’t think you have,” Guillermo says with trepidation, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against the horrifying monster Nandor is about to unleash on them both.
“It’s slayers.”
Guillermo startles, not sure if he heard it right. “What?”
“My greatest fear is vampire slayers,” Nandor explains in a tightly-controlled voice, but the miserable expression on his face is honest and his eyes are rapidly blinking traitorous tears away, while his fingers are locked together with such ferocity Guillermo fears he’s going to break his bones; the telltale signs of someone doing their utmost to stop remembering a traumatic event.
Guillermo should stop him; should comfort him; put a hand on his back and tell him it’s alright; that bad vampire slayers can’t hurt him anymore, because Guillermo will kill them all, as he had time and time again. But he doesn’t do any of that. Nandor right now looks like a grotesquely beautiful picture of the most terrible things; the kinds that you can’t avert your eyes from no matter how morbid they are; like Evelyn McHale on top of a crushed car, framed by dented metal and broken glass, and Guillermo’s fingers itch to reach into his pocket for his cell phone and preserve this fragile moment for eternity.
(Briefly, he wonders if he’s one of those bad vampire slayers that Nandor is so scared of, if his reaction to seeing Nandor so vulnerable and scarred is a stomach swoop and the primal urge to push Nandor further into the abyss, to see how far he would fall before he’d call out for help. Guillermo’s help.)
(He always looks so beautiful on his knees; with his head tilted to the side under the powerful pressure of Guillermo’s gloved hand against his pale, unblemished throat; dark, thick strands of hair tangled sensually in Guillermo’s fist. Many days Guillermo had spent alone on his small bed in his small room, running his hands down the wide span of his own naked chest and imagining it to be Nandor’s instead. He wonders if vampirism will give him the courage to finally lay claim to what he has been yearning for so many years.)
“I’ve always been the most scared of slayers and not because they’re our mortal enemies.” Nandor continues in a small voice, unaware of the dark, lustful thoughts swimming inside Guillermo’s head. “Centuries before the two of us met, I had a… let’s say, troubling encounter with some of them. Ever since I found out you’re a slayer, too, I’ve been struggling a lot to reconcile Guillermo the familiar who I loved deeply with the Guillermo the slayer who I was…terribly scared of. For the most part, I’d try to forget you’re a slayer. It made things much easier.”
Despite the rare display of tremendous amount of honesty and emotional vulnerability from someone who hates his feelings , there is a lot Nandor is not telling him, which Guillermo can read in his severe scowl and pinched expression; that troubling encounter…what did those fucking slayers do to him that Nandor hasn’t been able to recover from the trauma after centuries ? Yet, this is another thing Guillermo won’t ask because it’s too late. They’re parting ways and saying their goodbyes. There’s no time to sit down by the fireplace, reopen old wounds and poke around badly healed bones over idle chats about centuries-old traumas.
Or maybe, he’s just a coward.
“I thought…I thought you just didn’t care.”
“Oh, I cared. I cared a lot, Guillermo ye ghashangam . Funny how you can care so much about something and still appear as not caring at all. Must have something to do with the curse that old witch put on me some centuries ago.”
There it is, again; another term of endearment in Nandor’s long-forgotten mother tongue whose meaning Guillermo is actually pretty sad he doesn’t know. He hopes vampirism will give him the courage to return the favor and call Nandor by his favorite Spanish pet names. He would love to call Nandor mi corazón and mi vida as his actual heart and life finally ebbed away and bled into his new existence as a vampire. He would also call Nandor precioso as he kissed the side of his neck and trailed his cold, blood-stained lips across the scented coarseness of his beard.
His heart aches with longing as he says, “You’re still my favorite vampire,” and gives a lopsided smile in a valiant attempt to stop himself from crying.
“And you will always be my favorite bodyguard.”
“That doesn't count! I was your only bodyguard.”
“No, you weren’t. I was a viceroy, remember? I had as many bodyguards as the whole population of the Island of Staten; maybe even more.”
“Did you ever…fall in love with any of them?”
Guillermo doesn’t know why he asked that. Is he stalling? Does he really want to know? Is he going to be jealous of people Nandor might have loved centuries before he had been born? Will this 700-something-year distance between them ever disappear? And does it matter if it won’t? He came to love Nandor like this, with the monstrous shape of all the distance and mysteries and secrets looming over and yawning between them. He thinks he would come to love every version of Nandor there is, across space and time; the amount of love he holds for this ancient vampire makes it feel inevitable, like fate, like death, like rebirth.
Is this how it feels to have a soulmate ?
“Yes,” Nandor nods his head, expression lighting up with a complacent smile. “I fell in love with almost all of them; except for Behrouz the Mighty. He was a traitor and a cheater. He was always trying to seduce Roshni, one of my wives, with false stories of his heroism. I had him beheaded for treason and also for being a lying douchebag.”
Guillermo laughs at the gruesome tale in spite of himself and Nandor’s smile turns wistful. Guillermo doesn’t know if Nandor was being serious about the beheading or if it was just his usual brand of dark humor to lighten up the mood. Not that it really matters; Guillermo has always been a terrible enabler of Nandor’s every dark wish and desire and Nandor has never judged Guillermo for any dark desire of his own. Except for wanting to become a vampire, that is; but that was a whole different story, wasn’t it? That was just Nandor trying to shield him from what he perceived to be the least desirable side effects of eternal life. When it comes down to it, Guillermo has never known anyone more understanding and even encouraging of the darker side of him than Nandor.
They’ll be right for each other, that much he does know. For good times and the bad times and the lazy nights in between. He knows there won’t be anyone for him like Nandor. He won’t want anyone but Nandor. And now that he knows Nandor loves him and is willing to wait for him to get his shit together, even if it takes centuries (it won’t; Guillermo has a feeling that he will be back either right after he managed to convince Derek to turn him or in 20 years as Nandor will finally be done with his books), the idea of spending his eternity together with Nandor sounds all the more plausible and appealing.
The thought makes saying the next part a little bit easier.
“Well, goodbye, Nandor. Wish me luck?”
The self-pleased expression on Nandor’s face turns calculating and for a fleeting moment, Guillermo wishes that Nandor would say something, anything , that would discourage him from leaving.
But Nandor doesn’t and Guillermo thinks he loves Nandor even more for it anyway.
“Very well. I will use one of my last remaining wishes to bring you more luck. Make sure to tell your friend Daren what a generous vampire I am.”
“It’s Derek,” Guillermo corrects him, more as a reflex than an actual concern that the wish would go awry if Nandor used the wrong name. The truth is, he wasn’t expecting Nandor to spend one of his two remaining, precious wishes on him, and if his intuition is right and there weren’t any wrong signals, he suspects Nandor will never make use of the last wish, intent to keep the Djinn here with him for as long as possible. So in a sense, Nandor just gave him his last wish. But then again, if Guillermo allows himself to be painfully honest, Nandor also tried to give his wish-fulfilled Freddie to him. And then sent the wish away for Guillermo’s sake. So in a deeper sense, this is the third time Nandor is giving away his wish to him, and they do say the third time’s the charm; especially when the third wish is actually about giving Guillermo more luck. And Guillermo thinks, more than time and wings, it's luck that he needs.
“For what it’s worth, I really hope vampirism will treat you more kindly than it did me.”
Guillermo thinks about the first night he laid eyes on Nandor, the moment he realized his wild, seemingly unreachable dream could actually come true. He thinks about the fantastical places Nandor took him over the years, where no human had ever been privy to; about all the times they went flying, playing chess by the window, gossiping about the neighbors; how Nandor’s eyes lit up like guiding stars when they watched Twilight at the movies for the first time, and all those other movies they watched together at home on quiet, rainy nights; and he says with misty eyes and a soft, grateful smile, “It already has.”