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Exhausted was one way to put the way they felt.
The low light of the kitchen was barely enough to guide them as they rummaged the cupboards, finding nothing of appeal, nor anything of sustenance.
A sigh breaks the silence, bubbling in their chest before tumbling into the open air inadvertently; Water and dry cereal will have to do. Again.
What time was it, even?
As they stand at the counter, gazing with half-closed eyes into the darkened expanse of yard beyond the window they don't notice the candle flicker to life on the furthest counter.
Nor the shadow cast across the opposite wall.
They feel the presence, not because of the occurrences they don't notice around them, but in the way that thread at the back of their mind stirs, sparks to life and tastes of concern; The mental image of themselves imprints a ghost when they close their eyes and though it washes away quickly, they aren't alone and they know this, but between either the weight of sinking emotion or absolute burnout of sitting secluded in the office for the majority of the daylight hours dulled their senses to barely more than an instinctual tingle, if anything.
Yet still, the hands that wrap first around their neck, then to their waist does not scare them. He questions their sadness, but when he is left without response, a kiss greets their temple and he reveals himself before them.
As he takes their hands, the sting of melancholia flitters through him, a shock of emotion he was not unused to but one he did not expect all the same. As he pulls them away from the counter, he flicks a finger towards the corner of the room, and the scratch of needle on vinyl tears at the air; Candlelight roars to firelight in scale, low but fierce and when he holds them closer he feels another strange sensation -- that of anticipation. In return, he offers reassurance in the form of a gentle squeeze of their hands, a palm against the small of their back.
The patter of bare feet on cold linoleum, the vague scent of cinnamon apple, the scratch of the record, they take a deep breath and look deep into the eyes of their demon. Mumble something in protest, but quickly trail off. The warmth of fondness washes over them, they feel it tugging at their mind, their very being and in both ways their connection surges in endearment and familiarity.
“First song I'd heard, after you moved in.”
“Mm.”
He takes them gently, swaying to the beat of the music, an irony in the lyrics. How silly of humans to sing of needing so little, but knowing more than enough of wanting so much. But in some way, he finds himself -- or was it the overpowering scent of his beloved's emotion bleeding through? It was always so much stronger when they were tired, when thoughts are untainted by shameful restraint -- looking down at the head pressed against his chest, messed stripes shaking softly as they simply exist.
Contentment, that's what he feels next. A harmonic balance, shared by either party and intensified by it for that reason.
He can see just fine, but he knows they can't. Do they trust him so much, to allow him to guide them from harm's way? Not as deep a trust as he thinks, maybe, considering they are standing in the middle of their own kitchen, in their own home, but still. They would trust him, eyes closed and hands taken. Perhaps they had decided it mattered not where they were, in what circumstances they find themselves so long as they are in the arms of their lover, the only safety they compel themselves to indulge in is one with the chill of a dead man, even when he bears claws and rears fangs in the dim flames. They could be but pretty prey to him, but in some way they'd find themselves nestled into the fading cold of his heart, with little but the air they breathed and the loving caress that follows the brutality of a monster’s love, for consumption and ravage are the deepest intimacy he's ever known. They could forgive him, for anything he'd do with open arms. After all, what is a butcher, if not an admirer of the slaughtered form? Surely only with care and delicate intricacies could he turn such senseless violence into offerings of dedication. It's a comforting thought. If you are the pig.
It weighs heavy on him that he could just as easily sink his bared teeth into the marred throat of their kindness, offered with such eagerness, and tear them to further pieces. He must tread carefully on this unfamiliar ground of inviting humanity, a part of humanity he possesses now entangled with his own daemonic being. The fires of hell run through his veins, but his heart still beats with distant resolute, only because of the generosity offered by the human that holds his soul, captivated and willing.
And in the moonlight, he knows that every fear he feels they feel too, one way or another. And when in return he is assured, silently promised forever and more, he resigns his doubt.
Perhaps all he needed was the life they breathed into him. And to love them, too.