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The night they were turned is a bit fuzzy for both of them.
Vincent says it was a girl for whom he had fancied for a while, Darryl says it was some soldier who was a girl.
They were turned only seconds from each other, and had to learn how to deal with their new normal with each other which was difficult.
“что ты сделал?” Darryl asks, a hint of fear in his voice as he watches Vincent sink his fangs into the runaway soldier’s neck . Vincent only rolls his eyes, dragging the body over to Darryl with surprising ease. He scrambles away from the other.
“Boire,” Vincent urges, pressing the bleeding wound right into the Russian man’s face. He almost shakes his head - that is until he gets a whiff of the alluring scent.
“Boire,” the french soldier urges again, and Darryl does.
“Спасибо,” Darryl mutters, wiping at the blood dribbling down his mouth.
Vincent grins patting at his shoulder in a friendly manner, Darryl offers a timid smile.
That was in 1812, they’ve come a far way from then.
“You should’ve learned English back in the 1800s Vincent, you only have yourself to blame,” Darryl chides. Vincent only grumbles over the line. Angrily sipping on the blood bag he managed to steal from a local blood bank.
"J'avais des choses plus importantes à apprendre,” Vincent retorts, though it’s not actually mean.
“English Vincent, it’ll help with practice,” Darryl reminds, though not unkindly.
“I had other more important things to remember,” Vincent says before adding, “ anyways didn’t you spend a whole decade learning Spanish, only to give up.”
There’s a beat of silence, then:
“That’s entirely different,” Darryl says with a huff, Vincent only laughs. The call goes into a comfortable silence.
“To be fair Darryl, it helps with the whole disguise,” Vincent finally says.
“I guess you’re right,” Darryl admits, hands flying over the keyboard.
“Do you actually do all of your editing?” Vincent asks, a bit of surprise in his voice.
“Of course!” Darryl says indignantly, a bit of a russian accent coming through.
“Careful Darryl, your Russian is showing,” Vincent teases.
Darryl says some insulting things about Vincent which will not be repeated, and the other only laughs it off. It would take more than petty insults to break apart a friendship of two centuries.
It’s 1830. Both of them are young and reckless. Drunk on power one could say. It comes to bite them in the ass later on, but for now they are on a high.
The sun burns them, they are quick to learn that. They choose to travel during the night. Why they stick with each other is also another unknown, but both men won’t deny that the company isn’t exactly horrible. Even if they can’t entirely understand each other.
“We should head to England,” Darryl comments in broken French. Vincent crinkles his nose.
“Why there?” Darryl turns to the French man with a deadpan look.
“Fine, but you’re my translator - I don’t want to learn English, ” the Russian man rolls his eyes, taking off his glasses - which he doesn’t really need, wearing it more out of custom - to clean them.
“Whatever you say Vincent,” Darryl says.
“Lets go to the English country,” Vincent says, before asking, ”didn’t they just get out of a war?”
“I honestly haven’t been keeping up with them,” Darryl admits.
“Guess we’ll find out, but first let’s grab a bite - I’m famished, ” Vincent says, his eyes reddening and veins appearing around them.
“Fine. Hey look dinner’s here,” Darryl says pointing at a drunk man stumbling into a dark alley. They grin at each other, before stalking after their dinner.
They don’t feel an inch of remorse when the man drops dead.
Blood smears their lips and cheeks, but there is not a drop on their clothes. It took practice, they will admit, but they finally mastered the rather useful tactic.
Darryl and Vincent wash themselves in the hotel room they compelled the Innkeeper to give them for the day, curtains drawn and pacing around. When the night comes, with renewed energy they leave the hotel room, the body of a maid stuffed into the closet.
“We need to leave the city,” Vincent casually adds, eyeing a couple of women whispering amongst each other, occasionally glancing at them. Darryl only nods, before giving the giggling women a charming smile. That only serves to make them even more playful.
Still they turn away from them, disappearing into the shadows.
“Have you ever thought of having a family?” Darryl asks, beside him Vincent stiffens.
“I don’t like to dwell on what I can never have,” is Vincent’s only reply.
They have known each other for at least a decade or so, Darryl has learned quite a bit of French, while Vincent learns Russian. Both of them tend to communicate in French, much to Vincent’s relief.
Though sometimes they do speak in Russian.
The world changes, and they are there to witness the passing of time.
Vincent is off in China when he gets wind that a new type of vampire is out and about. It’s from some Witches, and Vincent almost loses his life in that empty Chinese bar. He gets out alive, and makes his way to America - New Orleans to be exact.
“For the last time, Darryl - I’m not going to learn English, unless I absolutely have to, anyways I’ll always have you to translate for me,” Vincent tells Darryl. They were in English Country at the time, and barely managed to escape from the claws of death. Darryl sighs, before flashing him a small smile.
“The world is changing Vince, you’re going to have to change soon enough.”
Vincent smirks at the other, “I'll change when I have to. ”
They leave it at that, watching the world go by.
“Not learning English came back to bite me in the ass,” Vincent mutters, pulling the robe closer to him as he huddles close to the other passengers.
Darryl and him had parted ways a decade prior due to some disagreements they had. Last he heard, the Russian was off in the States. Exactly where Vincent was headed.
He hoped the other was there.
For his own sake.
Eventually the story must end, the actors have to put down their masks and shed their costumes.
For Darryl, his end is accidental. Or a reaction. The sun is out, he misses it - there isn’t much more to say.
For Vincent, it’s not, his stomach and what’s left of his heart is torn out, a wooden stake marking a bloody end for the man (boy). Death apathetically collecting Vincent's overdue debt.
For both, their life ended on a bloody battlefield, red snow chilling their very souls.
"Drink," their condemnation.