Work Text:
“The world changes, we do not, therein lies the irony that kills us.”
Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire
***
There is a place in China, hidden in plain sight in the forested slopes of the Wuyi Mountains, where time stands still. It could be a shrine, or a palace, or a refuge. Zhang Hao doesn't quite know how to name it. For him, it’s home . Built, carved and painted by the supernatural hands of his blood family. A retreat where the rot of mortality cannot reach. Ageless, like its master.
Roofed corridors and terraces merge with the hillside forest and waterfalls. Fragrant flowers shine in the moonlight like jewels, twisting around wooden columns and spilling over the railings.
The entire compound looks deceptively pure and captivating, just like its inhabitants. And yet, the place is uncanny. Not a glazed tile out of place, not a single chip of paint on the detailed carvings of mythical beasts. Everything looks like it was built yesterday, when it was built hundreds of years ago.
The light of the lanterns flickers happily on the main terrace, from where Zhang Hao admires the view of the moon over the mountains, and below, its reflection in the valley lake.
The night is warm, and the breeze caresses the dyed silk of his pink and red hanfu. His long, loose hair sways in the wind, held back by a simple white jade pin. Always immaculate, always the powerful master of the coven.
He commissioned this particular set of robes last year along with another white and light blue set with hand-painted ice roses, which sits unused in the wardrobe, waiting in vain.
He sighs, crushing a plum blossom petal between his fingers.
Lately, he’s been feeling somewhat apathetic. At some point, the emptiness in his heart has become so big that it’s unbearable. Nothing seems to comfort him anymore. Not even the taste of innocent blood.
Longing is a common feeling for a vampire, but Zhang Hao swears this time it's eating him from the inside.
He blocks out his mind from the sound of loud k-pop music booming in Xiaoting’s room. She’s his youngest neophyte, and he loves her with all his heart, but he’s not in the mood tonight. He also blocks the piano sonata played in the parlor. It sounds too perfect. Vampiric. Overwhelming. Zhang Hao hates and loves it in equal measure.
Deep in the rooms dug into the mountain, a human heart gradually stops beating. A petty criminal ends up being dinner for a voracious blood drinker. The never ending story.
Zhang Hao shows a bit of a smile, comforted by his coven's ridiculous domesticity. At this time of night, the house is bustling with activity, but here, on the balconies under the stars, he rejoices just by hearing the water falling and the sounds of the night.
The view soothes his broken heart, but deep down, Zhang Hao knows he’s only hurting himself by waiting for his return in this bewitched place that holds so many memories of him. He can't help it.
Sung Hanbin . Even his name hurts now.
He was a beautiful Joseon prince who caught the attention of a powerful ancient vampire. Zhang Hao still remembers his flushed cheeks, the warmth of his mortal body or his innocent promises of love. He fell desperately in love with Hanbin. Such was his adoration that he decided to leave him for his sake, willing to let him go on with his mortal life.
But to no avail, because the prince fell sick with heartbreak, calling Hao-hyung in his feverish delirium. In the end, Zhang Hao had to make him his own to save his life, granting Hanbin his powerful blood.
People mourned the loss of their beloved prince. His brother, the crown prince, fell into such great sadness that it almost caused him to lose the throne. But that's another story.
Because, after more than seven hundred years in the blood, Zhang Hao had finally found his companion, his eternal half.
They were inseparable for centuries, traveling the world or at home, celebrating their love night after night.
Hanbin, blood of his blood, turned out to be a skilled vampire. Agile and fast, and so outrageously beautiful to his victims in their final moments that Zhang Hao was almost jealous of them.
But the truth is Hanbin abandoned himself, body and soul, to his maker Zhang Hao, professing such devotion to him that their love story became a legend among the immortals.
Immersed in their eternal honeymoon, they forgot about the inevitable illness that plagues their kind. Time .
Desperate blood drinkers bury themselves in the earth for centuries to survive the waves of time. Others, those too broken, choose to immolate themselves in the night and end their pathetic doomed lives. Time doesn’t pass in vain, not even for a vampire.
Since his birth among the immortals, when history was young and the war drums of Tang Dynasty resounded across the land, Zhang Hao was always an exceptionally strong being. He was able to withstand the onslaught of his long years of life, so he took it for granted that his precious soulmate would be able to do the same.
Around the end of the nineteenth century, Zhang Hao noticed the first symptoms. The lost gaze. The silence. Hanbin barely had any will left.
Soon, it was Zhang Hao who had to dress him every night in robes of pale silk, who brushed his long hair and braided it with pearls and flowers, who led him to this very balcony under the moon, where Hanbin spent, motionless, the long hours of every night.
The most exquisite porcelain doll to behold.
On his most lucid nights, Hanbin avidly searched for any news about Joseon. Zhang Hao's most vehement warnings failed to disassociate Hanbin's soul from his homeland, and even in his weakened state of mind, his eyes still reflected anguish whenever he learned of the corruption in Joseon, or the growing Japanese influence in the government.
For a few years, Zhang Hao's children used to sit next to Hanbin to read to him or simply tell him their stories. They were spellbound by their brother's figure, but always respectful.
It says a lot about Zhang Hao's sanity back then, about how heartbroken he was, that he killed one of his own children with the gift of fire just for touching the neck of a statuesque Hanbin.
Regretful, Zhang Hao cried all night, his tears of blood shining like rubies on his apple cheeks. He didn't stop caressing Hanbin's hand one second, begging him to come back to him.
Please my love, rest if you must, but don't leave me alone in this eternity. I love you.
Waking up from his daytime sleep the next night, Zhang Hao found that Hanbin had left home.
No one has heard from him since, and exactly one hundred and thirteen years have passed. If Hanbin is dead or alive, who knows? Certainly not Zhang Hao.
For Zhang Hao, life is no longer life, just a long succession of nights to endure. He takes care of his coven and his home, he tries to distract himself by traveling from time to time. He simply exists, but there’s no real joy left in him.
And now, for the first time, there’s a murmur deep in his unearthly head, an echo of gossip and excited voices. Hard to block. They reach him trying to get in his good graces, but he’s disgusted by their eagerness.
In the vast immensity of the mental network, the same song is repeated.
A pale East Asian beauty was seen in a small town in the Alps. A bewitching being, in once white rags, killed a young blood drinker who bothered them with his presence.
Too dangerous to approach. Too beautiful to leave them alone. As always, the youngsters underestimate the will of the ancients, attracted by the power of blood. Curiosity killed the cat.
Zhang Hao's heart fills with unwelcome hope. He doesn't want to wait in vain. He doesn't want to dream of his silky skin, only to, once again, force himself to forget it.
Khaled's arrival brings him out of his musings.
“They saw him in Paris too, master. A few days ago. Those ridiculous Sons of Satan swear they saw him prowling the catacombs. I just spoke with Jiwoong on the phone, and he can confirm this firsthand. He made those little beasts talk. And the mind network-”
Zhang Hao waves him to stop and turns to him. Khaled is a splendid blood drinker, with a golden complexion and huge eyes, stunning like all his children. In life, he was a jeweler, whose gem-cutting genius earned him the dark gift too many years ago to count.
“Please leave me alone,” Zhang Hao says dryly. He just doesn’t want to be reminded. Is it too much to ask for?
Khaled sighs in defeat. Zhang Hao knows that his coven cares about him, and that they’re worried, but there’s no point in hiding it. Hope hurts too much.
A few minutes later, or maybe half an hour, Zhang Hao realizes that he’s alone again, much to his relief.
The breeze blows strong for a few moments, shaking the plum branches and bringing with it a swirl of pink petals around Zhang Hao's silk hanfu. And hidden in the wind, a voice sweet as honey is heard.
“Down on earth, it was the memory of your full lips that woke me up.”
Zhang Hao freezes. He’s undoubtedly hallucinating. In fact, he doesn't even remember the last time he fed. It must be that. He’s more than thirteen hundred years old, a true Child of the Millennia, but even he can't last without drinking blood from time to time.
Their kind can choose to be silent like ghosts when they walk, but the steps of the being that is approaching him are deliberate.
Zhang Hao closes his eyes in denial.
He reaches with the gift of mind, but finds nothing. The logical explanation is that this creature was made by Zhang Hao himself, because makers can’t read the minds of their offspring.
Hope finally makes its way into his chest with such a force that he has no choice but to open his eyes.
Hanbin is barely ten steps away from him, the embodiment of beauty clad in trending cream clothes. A cable knit sweater and loose cotton pants. He has short, stylish hair, and his cherry lips outline the sweetest of smiles.
He's dressed for him, Zhang Hao knows. Even in modern clothing, the choice of color and the neat attire give him away. He looks charming, like a fucking k-pop idol. Xiaoting would be proud.
“I'm home, Hao-hyung.”
Zhang Hao approaches slowly, asking with his gaze, taking his time to admire the beloved features.
He places a hand on his cold cheek. Hanbin is the same, but at the same time not. He’s stronger, wiser, healthier. That's what the earth does. Zhang Hao wants to cry with relief, but he holds back.
“Your absence almost finished me,” Zhang Hao admits.
Hanbin has the decency to be embarrassed. He looks down and grabs one of Zhang Hao's long sleeves, in a gesture so familiar that Zhang Hao's heart skips a beat.
“I’m sorry, master. I was broken.”
“I know my love. Welcome home,” Zhang Hao says, as he closes the space between them and captures his lips in a desperate kiss.
Drunk with joy, Zhang Hao bites his tongue and spills his ancient blood into his lover's mouth. Hanbin moans into the kiss, holding onto his waist tightly.
Zhang Hao breaks the kiss just to look at his lost and found treasure once again. Hanbin's lips are stained with blood, and his cheeks are flushed. Zhang Hao swears Hanbin is the only vampire in existence capable of blushing.
And it's wonderful to see him animated and energetic, unlike the last few years before his departure.
“I was stuck in my head, hyung, dying inside. I saw your pain, and I couldn't bear the guilt, so I left,” Hanbin begins to explain. “I think I wandered for a few years, barely conscious, feeding by instinct like beasts, until exhaustion overcame me, and I buried myself beneath the earth of some European forest.”
Zhang Hao wipes away the tears of blood held by Hanbin's impossibly long eyelashes. He’s his crybaby, telling him the story like a child returning from mischief.
“I never wanted to leave you, I promise. Every second away from you hurts. But I was a mess, and I wanted to fix myself for you,” Hanbin keeps saying, rushing over the words, gasping for air he doesn't really need to live.
“It's okay, Hanbin-ah. I understand. You don’t have to apologize,” Zhang Hao answers a little absently. There's a shift in the breeze that brings him Hanbin’s sweet scent. It's intoxicating.
“I wasn't really asleep all these years, just resting I guess. Through the gift of mind, I still learned the changes of the world, but everything seemed distant and uninteresting.”
Zhang Hao nods. He knows, he remembers. He also chose to abandon himself to the earth for a while, hundreds of years ago, to recover from wounds from fighting an enemy coven, when wars between blood drinkers were still a thing.
“My land is split,” Hanbin laments, physically unable to evade the topic. Always the Joseon prince.
For a moment, Zhang Hao is about to answer “ I’m your land ,” but he knows what his homeland means to Hanbin. Zhang Hao is almost glad he was absent during the Korean War. That was painful to watch, even for him.
“Yes, your land is broken,” he says instead. “But you aren’t. You’re as delicious as the first time I saw you, running along the bank of the Han River.”
Zhang Hao's gaze inevitably falls on Hanbin's neck, pulsing with the beating of his immortal heart. Desire and hunger take hold of his guts. The memory of his blood is a siren song, one Zhang Hao wants to hear again.
Hanbin, now silent, covers his neck with his hand out of instinct, and Zhang Hao can hear his heart racing in trepidation.
“In those years, while you wandered, did you let anyone taste your blood?” Zhang Hao asks softly, as he gently removes Hanbin's hand protecting his neck, then traces his cold skin up and down.
Zhang Hao always hated the idea of someone else tasting Hanbin's blood. He's selfish, he knows it, but Hanbin indulged him, keeping himself away from the lust of other blood drinkers. He even avoided giving the dark gift, just to protect the sanctity of his blood, consecrated to Zhang Hao.
Now Hanbin looks seriously offended.
“Never. You know my blood is only yours. That's my vow,” Hanbin answers.
He watches with delight as his lover unconsciously bares his neck, offering himself.
Zhang Hao lunges at him with crushing urgency, holding him in his arms in an imitation of a passionate embrace. It’s not. His grip is brutal and merciless. Almost cruel. Hanbin whines into his arms. The bite is neat, but still painful.
The moment the ambrosia spills into his hungry mouth, Zhang Hao knows he’s a prisoner of blood lust. He hardly indulges himself with blood lately, but Hanbin tastes so sweet, so full of sensuality, beauty and love, that Zhang Hao doesn't feel like stopping after two or three sips.
“I’m yours, gege . Take what you must,” Hanbin sighs, wrapping his arms around his nape for support. He tangles his hands through Zhang Hao's lustrous locks, testing the softness. Another painfully familiar gesture.
Maybe Zhang Hao should stop now. Seriously.
Hanbin doesn't make it any easier, of course. Zhang Hao is feasting on his blood, and he’s being docile like a deer. That only fuels Zhang Hao's lust, who bites again, harder, messier. Hanbin cries out in pain this time, trembling in his arms.
Hanbin is his victim for all eternity. His lover. The purest and brightest jewel among the immortals. Therefore, Zhang Hao is his god and his master.
If anyone else were to drink from this vessel, Zhang Zhang Hao would ensure them the cruelest of deaths. That's for sure.
As Hanbin's heart slows, Zhang Hao drinks unhurried, savoring each thick, red sip, taming his hideous lust. Hanbin moans in his arms over and over again, lightheaded. There’s no strength in his grip, and Zhang Hao can tell he’s on the verge of unconsciousness.
It's time. Zhang Hao reluctantly removes his mouth from the slender neck, licking the already healing wounds.
Hanbin drops down like a helpless maiden, which he isn’t, of course. He’s a powerful vampire subjected to his maker's whims. Zhang Hao laughs and puts his arms under his knees to lift him up. Afterwards, he gently lays him down on the bench next to the varanda. He’s barely conscious, but still gives Zhang Hao a tender, silly smile.
“Will you dress me tomorrow in silk robes? Just like you did every night when I was a prisoner inside my head,” Hanbin asks. His voice is a drunken whisper. Zhang Hao knows how to appreciate sincere thanks when he hears it. Hanbin was a lifeless doll then, but grateful for the pampering all the same.
“I will, but only if you also help me with my clothes. Besides, nobody does my hair like you, my love,” Zhang Hao tells him, sitting on the bench next to him.
Doting on each other is a ritual for both of them, one that Zhang Hao is eager to resume. Plus, at the risk of sounding vain, he loves the idea of them both cladded in pale pink and blue silk, walking through their garden. Two butterflies glowing in the dark.
He remembers.
Hanbin spinning happily over the lake bridge. A bouquet of lilacs and white bells in his arms. His eyes shining brightly, and his long hair flying in the wind. Zhang Hao laughing beside him, freshly fed. So full of life and love, he believes himself truly immortal. Untouchable.
“What are you thinking about?” Hanbin asks softly.
“You,” he confesses, smiling and caressing his lips. Hanbin lets out a purr, melting into his touch. He's losing consciousness quickly. Zhang Hao kisses his forehead and gets up, bathing in the moonlight.
He feels renewed. Love is strange and mysterious. It only took a few moments in his company and the taste of his blood to heal a wound caused by a hundred years of solitude.
Tomorrow, life will be life again in this hidden refuge among the mountains, where illness will no longer touch his sweet Hanbin. Zhang Hao will make sure of it this time.
“Rest, Hanbin. My child. My love. My blood spouse,” Zhang Hao whispers, smiling at the night.