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Ranpo had been sleeping. Then he wasn’t anymore.
The first thing he noticed was how soft it was. Maybe he died. His eyes opened by a sliver, taking in the darkness of his surroundings. Sitting up and looking down at the coffin he was in, it was layered with pillows that must be clouds in disguise. Candies of all kinds were arranged as casket flowers might be. The more Ranpo examined the coffin, the more it seemed to be decorated to commemorate his death. This was rude, because, number one: Ranpo wasn’t dead, and number two: vampires sleep in coffins, not die in them; that’s what humans do.
Everything in the room was new and attention-grabbing to Ranpo as the first things his eyes set upon. All the curtains of every cathedral window in the room were opened, letting in the view and light of the night at its full glory. A cello basks in the moonlight, standing a short distance away.
He turned again to observe the entirety of the room. His eyes met another pair. Purple and dark, the man’s eyes widened at the sight of him. It took another moment for Ranpo to register why; the man was wearing a priest’s uniform, and Ranpo was a vampire.
Had his mind become dim-witted due to the slumber he was in? Ranpo’s mind raced with possible explanations. There was nothing in his memory of what happened before he woke up. How could he have failed to notice the presence of a human? If Ranpo lay back down now, what were the chances the priest would pretend nothing happened? He was in no state to fight; his muscles were weak and rusted from being asleep for so long. Why was Ranpo sleeping in a cathedral anyway?
Ranpo scanned the man before him through the dim moonlight. Long, purplish-black hair fell to his shoulders. He had a polished posture as he sat by the table with a cup of brewed—hm—black tea in hand. Now that Ranpo was properly studying the man, he could see in real time how relief replaced shock in those purple eyes.
“You’re awake,” the man said, setting down the teacup. He stepped closer to Ranpo, kneeling on one leg as he inspected him from head to toe. His hand reached out to touch Ranpo’s face, his chill skin gently caressing him. “It’s been a while.”
“…” At this close of a distance, the scent of blood surged forward to Ranpo. With knitted brows, he forced a swallow to suppress the growing urge to launch at the man before him. “You know me—no, we know each other.”
Noting the small reaction from Ranpo, mild surprise flashed by on the priest’s face, quickly followed by amusement. “Indeed,” he said, moving his thumb to Ranpo’s bottom lip, gently pressing it down to reveal Ranpo’s fangs and brushing slightly against them. “We do know each other.”
Ranpo’s pupils shrank at the contact, his hands clenched tightly, shaking. The man was crazy, that was certain. Even if he was a priest, daring to touch a vampire’s fangs to taunt him was beyond what Ranpo considered normal human behavior. But he didn’t dare bite down; a priest and a vampire stood on opposite sides of ideologies, each with more than one way to restrain the other, with the priest having the upper hand in this situation. Still, Ranpo couldn’t help himself from licking the finger brushing against his fang, hunger clawing at him for the flow of food just beyond that thin barrier of skin.
“My name is Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” Fyodor said, a drop of blood falling from his thumb, intentionally pricked on Ranpo’s sharp fangs. “Do try not to forget it again, Ranpo.”
Ranpo licked away the blood, and some more at the small cut on the thumb. He couldn’t help it; the priest tasted hauntingly familiar, like déjà vu. A dull sensation hummed within Ranpo, the blood was like water to a desert on his tongue.
Fyodor’s breath hitched slightly as Ranpo licked the blood away. “Well, aren’t you a hungry one?” A subtle smirk grew on Fyodor’s face. He removed his hand from Ranpo’s mouth and began combing through his hair, droplets of blood trickling along his fingers. “You’re having a hard time holding yourself back. I can’t imagine… after all, you haven’t been fed since…” He trailed off, watching Ranpo bite his own lips, drawing blood in an attempt to control himself. “Hurting yourself after being dormant for so long is a rather ineffective choice to make.”
“Quit talking and offer your blood then,” Ranpo said, casting a look at the peculiar priest whose hand was still in his hair. Now Ranpo smelled like Fyodor’s blood, which wasn’t helping his hunger. “It’s not like you mind.” Of course, whether or not it counted as blasphemy was not Ranpo’s concern.
“Impatient as always,” Fyodor let out a small sigh. He softly wiped the blood off Ranpo’s lips with his thumb, lifted it to his own, and licked it away—all while maintaining eye contact. “I cannot blame you for this, though.”
Ranpo stared, dumbfounded. Knowing him or not, was this man really a priest? Had humans stooped so low that anyone could become a priest now? Whatever happened to character checks and background checks? Ranpo tried to entertain the idea that perhaps the man might be a supernatural being in disguise, but with his need for nourishment screaming in his mind, it was hard to focus on anything other than the exposed skin of the kneeling blood bag in front of him.
“So confused and hungry… I think I like you in this state more than I expected.” Fyodor’s smile grew wider, satisfied by Ranpo’s intense focus on his exposed skin. He undid his collar, revealing his neck to the already starving vampire. “Go ahead, I’ll let you feed on me… you are quite a pitiful sight to lay eyes upon right now.”
Immediately jumping after the last syllable said, Ranpo roped his arms around Fyodor’s neck, only to flinch back instantly. A silver cross necklace resting around the priest’s neck was the culprit.
“Oh, I forgot about that,” Fyodor’s hands circled Ranpo’s waist. “It didn’t hurt you too much, did it?”
Ranpo shifted his hands to hold onto Fyodor’s shoulders instead. “Priests…” he grumbled under his breath.
He nipped at the cool skin beneath, searching for the most accessible yet least dangerous vein to bite into. He didn’t want to kill the priest; despite everything, the man was the only willing source of food available. A willing prey would be less of a hassle for Ranpo.
A murmur of pleasure escaped Fyodor right next to Ranpo’s ears when he finally bit down.
…
Oh, God above, did he know that this servant of his is a freak?
That aside, at least the blood was enticing, albeit a little shallow and weak. It was eerily delicious—nearly healing—to Ranpo’s core. Did priests always tasted better than regular humans?
“That’s enough.” Fyodor pulled Ranpo away by the nape. “Any more and you’ll drain me. You don’t want to kill the very person helping you now do you?”
A sad, small sound escaped Ranpo. Truthfully, he was not satisfied at all, but he supposed this would do for now. The bite marks he inflicted didn’t heal, so beads of blood were slowly seeping from the wounds. Ranpo leaned forward to clean them up, trying to savor the last drops.
“My, aren’t you desperate? You really were starving,” Fyodor chuckled under his breath, but didn’t stop him.
As the bite wounds began to heal with the help of Ranpo’s saliva, Ranpo let go of Fyodor’s shoulders.
…And shrank down to the appearance of a child, a much more ideal form to conserve the little fuel he had just consumed. He pressed his lips together, reminiscing about the remaining aftertaste.
One of Fyodor’s hands found its way to the top of Ranpo’s head, while the other carried him to sit on his lap, back onto the only chair in the room. Not a word from him as he petted and ran through Ranpo’s hair. A distant, tender gaze resided on Fyodor’s face. It stood a sharp contrast against those deep eyebags on his face.
Ranpo, sat compliantly on his lap. Oddly, Fyodor’s touch was not rejected by his body; it even welcomed it. Ranpo was, more or less, full and comfortable—a feeling he could tell his body hadn’t experienced in a while. A yawn left the small vampire’s lips. Although he had just woken up from a long slumber, drowsiness still crept up on him, weighing down his eyelids.
He pulled away from Fyodor’s hold and was mildly surprised by how easily he managed to slip away. Ranpo made his way back to the coffin, attempting to lift the lid and cover himself inside. As beautiful as the night sky was, with all the curtains open, who knew if he would wake up to a blazing sun and burn to dust?
“Hm?” Fyodor took the lid from him, “Sleeping so soon after eating won’t do any good for your health.”
Ranpo stared at the priest with obvious judgment. “I’m a vampire.” He pulled the lid from Fyodor’s hands.
Fyodor held onto the lid, not budging at all. “Don’t you think it is quite rude to leave the one who so generously fed you alone? With no gratitude either…” He tilted his head, feigning innocence with grace.
“I’m tired! You offered yourself!” Ranpo glowered, pulling at the lid with all his might. “Aren’t you a priest? Doesn’t your God preach all about being selfless? ”
Fyodor let go of the lid, causing Ranpo to stumble backward a few steps. “Rude, but you have a valid point,” he said, his purple eyes curving into a smile. “…Little Ranpo.” He climbed into the coffin as well, the silver cross necklace shifting around his neck as he did. “We shall share it then, being selfless.”
“What are you—” The silver cross pendant twinkled under the moonlight, but that wasn’t what stole Ranpo’s attention. The skin underneath where the necklace rested was raw pink, with a discolored, jagged outline of shades of red, pink, and brown—the type of scar that manifested from repeated healing and reopening. A cross imprinted harshly against the center of Fyodor’s collarbone.
Something Ranpo hadn’t felt in what he remembered as years bubbled up. It sneaked up onto him before he could rationally figure out why what an infuriating sight the scar was, so starkly out of place on that skin.
Sleep forgotten at the back of his mind, Ranpo wanted nothing more than to rip the necklace off—whether the priest was strange or not, and regardless of whether it hurt. The gears in his mind spun rapidly, piecing together information. Ranpo’s hand lunged for the cross necklace, reaching to yank it off Fyodor’s neck with full force. Before he could reach it, Fyodor’s hand shot out faster, closing over Ranpo's eyes.
“Sleep,” his voice was soft but left no room for dispute, his purple eyes glowing as those words reached the small vampire beneath him. “You are tired.”
On command, Ranpo’s body went limp in his arms. Forest green eyes dilated in surprise, a blink of confusion, then realization. At last, Ranpo didn’t fight against the hypnosis. Rather, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. This annoying yet familiar tone of voice, this bothersome power. As his eyes closed again, clarity emerged from the pieces finally falling into place before everything faded back into darkness.
With Ranpo’s head resting against his shoulder, asleep once more, a soft exhale escaped Fyodor. He laid Ranpo on top of his chest, reducing himself to a glorified pillow, and somehow arranged both of them into the coffin.
“…” How long has it been? Years, tens of years, hundreds of years…Purple eyes finally granted rest from their owner, Fyodor’s arms encaged the small vampire between his arms on his chest.