Chapter Text
Leorio stretches, groaning loudly into the night.
After hours and hours in the ER of the children’s hospital—endless crying and rushing, urgent calls, monitors beeping, a couple close-calls that would thankfully live to see the light of day—the night was calm, blissfully silent, its air almost sweet.
“Double-shifts are so brutal. At least I’m not on overnights for now,” he mutters to himself, crossing the parking lot to his car. “Can’t wait to crack open a beer, sit in front of the TV, maybe pop in a frozen pizza …”
His body feels craggy, stiff from being on his feet for hours on end. As he unlocks the car door and drops heavily in the driver’s seat, it's all he can notice. There’s a stubborn crick in his shoulder that pinches as he puts on his seatbelt and the knots in his back twinge as he twists to reverse out of the space, and there are so many other aches and pains he just doesn't have the energy to catalog—most of which can only be corrected by a skilled chiropractic masseuse who he hasn’t had the time to see in weeks. It didn’t help that he had to constantly hunch for the pipsqueaks, that everyone in his life seemed to barely reach his shoulders or lower.
It didn’t help either, that people always claimed he appeared older than his age since he was a teen—now it felt like it was starting to catch up to him and his sore body like some psychosomatic curse. The comments used to upset him, flare his indignation as he retorted that he simply looked “wise beyond his years”, but with age he’d come to admit, cynically, that with the level of poverty he grew up in, he had never had the chance to be young anyway.
Halfway home, he changes his mind about pizza and beer, the bright sign of his favorite fast-food spot rising on the horizon like a beacon. It’s a special treat—one he allows himself once a year: a deluxe burger combo with fries and a large iced tea. This time, a reward for making it through a week of doubles in the ER and having some much needed time-off to shuffle around his apartment like a zombie—bent posture, pained groans and all.
“Be careful, mister,” says the drive-thru worker who hands him his food. “It’s the blood moon tonight.”
Leorio is not a superstitious person. Doesn’t believe in what he can’t see or touch. Still, he humors the warning and leans forward on the steering wheel—peers up past his glasses and through the windshield into the clear night sky to see the faint red tinge to the usually pearly white moon, full and staring back like one blood-shot eye—only to scoff under his breath. Sure, he’ll admit it’s a beautiful sight, the color of it. Haunting, even. But beyond that … It was just an eclipse. Sun and shadow. Science, at the end of the day.
Leorio fixes the worker with a dry look.
“ … And what’s it supposed to mean exactly?” he asks, as he takes his drink.
“Well, you know, crazies come out on a regular full moon.” They shrug. “The blood moon just makes it sound extra creepy, doesn’t it?”
“Ooo-kay,” Leorio says after a pause, fighting the deep desire to roll his eyes.
He fishes a fry from his bag and lets it hang out of his mouth as he shifts his car out of park, giving the worker one last glance.
“Stay in school, kid,” he says before driving away.
Even more than his once-a-year indulgence, Leorio wants a nice, long shower. He abandons the fast-food and drink on the counter the moment he steps into his apartment, making a beeline for the bathroom.
He doesn’t care if his meal gets cold, if the ice melts and turns his tea watery. He’d eaten worse, colder, more tasteless food throughout medical school and his residency afterward. Being overworked and hyper-caffeinated had conditioned his body not to care so much if whatever sustenance he shoved into his mouth was gourmet or convenience, microwaved or even vaguely pleasing.
Besides, steamy extended showers with nowhere else to be were a luxury above all else. No one needed him. (He loved each and every one of his patients but he would gladly trade many of his earthly possessions for these few precious minutes whenever he could get them.) His thoughts were free to run or evaporate in the heat, leaving his mind filled with a blissful nothing. To drop his scrubs and boxers on the tiled floor and step into a strong stream of water pressure felt, in many ways, close to saving his own life.
Sometime later, Leorio steps out, renewed. Towels off his hair, dresses in sweatpants that have seen better days and an old, baggy shirt with the name of his alma mater arched and faded across the front. The heat eased some of the pain in his joints and muscles and he sighs contentedly, despite knowing the relief is only temporary, walking like a new man out into the kitchen to retrieve his dinner then sit back on the couch to finally relax.
A burger and fries is exactly what he needs after that wonderful shower—his eyes practically roll into the back of his head at the taste, washed down with a refreshing sip of cool, sweet iced tea. Better yet, he thinks, turning on the TV, he’ll stream the latest episodes of his favorite drama that he’s missed due to work, adding to what is quickly turning into the perfect conclusion to his hell-week.
Before he knows it, he’s awakened suddenly by the metal clamoring of garbage cans being knocked over outside. Blearily, he opens his eyes, nearly falling onto the floor, aware at that exact moment he’s fallen asleep on the couch. It’s approaching 2AM, according to his watch.
There’s a half-eaten burger on his chest and crumbs on his shirt, which he brushes off before returning the burger to its container. His show is long-gone, having played through until replaced by some truly bizarre shit on the streaming platform he’s never seen in his life. It’s gonzo and unsettling … and it kind of sucks him in for a minute—until he hears another crash and loud clang beyond his window.
Leorio rubs his eyes with a groan, shuffling to the window with an aggravated frown; joints and muscles all re-knotted from accidentally falling asleep in a terrible position.
“Fuckin’ rats. Fuckin’ raccoons. Might as well live next to a zoo,” he complains, scratching at his stubble as he parts the blinds to peer down to the back alley his apartment faces. “I keep telling the landlord—”
His thoughts halt abruptly, eyes growing wide at what he sees. He pushes up glasses to rub at them with the heel of his palms. He looks again, leaning his forehead against the window, nose pressed to the cool glass.
There were only two logical answers to what he was seeing.
Either it was the biggest, hairless rodent he’s ever seen wearing a wig and a dress or it was a person stumbling among the shadows, possibly injured. On second thought, it was obvious it was a person, but the nonsense show he’d gotten hooked into for a moment and forgotten to pause, its soundtracks still making a cacophony of absurd noises behind him, had clearly already done some psychic damage.
The harsh orange tint from alleyway’s lamplight casts an eerie wash on the scene below, the red moon hanging above, a silhouetted shadow stretched and distended along the ground as the figure lurches and stumbles again.
“Shit,” Leorio curses, shaking out of his stun and spurred into action.
The one thing about being a doctor is that you’re never really off-duty.
Stuffing his socked feet into sneakers, Leorio grabs his keys off the counter and heads for the building stairs, practically flying down four flights to the back entrance that leads to the alleyway where his neighbors sometimes smoke and he’s found one too many abandoned kittens.
There’s no one out there now, as he pushes against the door, its hinges groaning open and closed as he spills outside, searching for the stranger who … he could’ve sworn was right here when he left his apartment barely a minute ago.
He breathes in the quiet of the alley, heart quick in his chest from rushing. In the chill, visible puffs of air leave his lips, obscuring his sight before dissipating. It’s all he can hear, save for his sneakers scuffing the ground as he turns in place. The orange light above is too disorienting. He spins in wary circles, neck of a swivel, steps too loud and grating, as he tries to locate, to catch a glimpse of what couldn’t have been his imagination.
The garbage cans are still on their side, rolling idly from momentum, full trash bags strewn onto the ground, thankfully undamaged and tied closed, but a faint stench wafts from them no matter which direction he turns.
He stops, glances up at the moon and it stares back, more red than it seemed earlier, and Leorio laughs under his breath, trying to get his pulse under control. Stupid superstitions have him acting ridiculous … but then, he can’t shake this feeling … The cold air burns his throat. Raises the hair on his arm. The back of his neck. Like he’s suddenly prey. Like he’s being watched.
The sudden presence of a shadow against the asphalt makes him jump.
A figure is at once before him, backlit by the lamp light, hobbling. No discerning features but darkness. And once again, the orange light really fucks with him—it almost makes it seem like the person’s eyes are glowing red.
Leorio swallows his nerves. The person is maybe just hurt. Nothing more. The blood moon is a bunch of fuckin’ hooey. He starts walking forward. Holds up his hands to indicate he’s only trying to help, his tall frame stooped to try and catch their eye or get some idea of their condition. Both, really.
“Hey, man—” Leorio pauses. Are they a man? He can’t tell. Not that it matters. “You alright?”
He only takes a step closer before the person stumbles and sways and collapses into Leorio, and he reacts before he thinks with his arms outstretched.
“Woah, hey,” he says, catching them before they hit the ground. He jostles them but can tell by the weight of their body against his, they’re dead to the world. “I’ve got you,” he assures, despite knowing they can’t hear him.
They don’t seem excessively hurt—no bones or joints out of place, nor visible blood or bruising, or even dirt from what he can tell with a respectfully cursory inspection over their clothes—just out of sorts, maybe thirsty. Dehydrated. An indistinct mumble is a good sign as he lifts the stranger into his arms, carrying them up to his apartment where the lighting is better to check for injuries, the environment much cleaner to administer first-aid, the atmosphere calmer to assess if a hospital is needed. It’s not the first time he’s opened his home to the occasional stranger in need of temporary assistance, and it wouldn’t be the last—or any different, for that matter.
Except that it was.
When Leorio lays the stranger on his couch, he takes a step back, puts his hands on his hips. Coming out of his years of paramedic training tunnel-vision, the medical first-responder adrenaline subsiding, he notices something.
They’re actually … pretty handsome?
Up close, without the eerie light and the weird moon and the warped shadows, they’re not as scary as the scene in the alley led him to believe. Under the dim lights of his living room, their hair, which just brushes their neck, is blond. Golden, almost like the color of wheat grown wild and dancing in the wind. Their face is cherubic yet sharp, young and mature at once as if frozen in time, ageless and forever yet so mortal and vulnerable—
Leorio drags a hand over his face. What was he even thinking? There was a reason he went into medicine instead of poetry.
But he couldn’t stop looking.
He sees a softness, the give in the hard shell of them, even as they remain unconscious.
It’s uncanny.
It’s also, he scolds internally, not a very doctor-like observation either.
He shakes his head sharply, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. Concentrate on the more important things.
He trawls his memory. Attempts to recall if he’s seen this person around the apartment complex. He knows he’d remember a face like that but paired with the unfamiliar style of dress, he draws a blank. Then, he checks their vitals. Presses two fingers lightly into the stranger’s inner-wrist. Waits for the feel of a pulse. But it never comes. There is no pulse. They’re not breathing.
Leorio’s blood freezes. He gently drops their wrist and sits back slowly on the coffee table in front of the couch.
It doesn’t make sense.
From a clinical standpoint, they should be dead.
Yet the person stirs on occasion all the same.
The TV throws sporadic light and long shadows against the wall, shifting his silhouette from behind and casting a dancing, pallid wash over the … corpse? On low volume, the indistinguishable whispers from the speakers sound more and more like curses being hissed in his ear. Leorio suppresses a shiver. He’s dealt with his fair share of dead bodies. Albeit, not falling into his arms outside of his apartment or expiring on his couch. But maybe it was that ridiculous ‘blood moon’ thing getting into his head again.
Leorio takes a deep breath. He’s a doctor. A man of reason. Ingenuity. Certainly, there was a perfectly acceptable medical reason why this person seemed both dead and alive simultaneously—like a spirit could rise from them, possessed, at any moment …
“Okay, that’s it.” He turns off the television and the whispers stop, shadows melting into the darkness of the room. But the quiet isn’t much more comforting. The entire situation isn’t, for that matter.
It’s bizarre.
It’s unsettling.
It scares the fucking shit out of him when the corpse speaks, eyes still closed, body unmoving.
“Do you always make a habit of staring at unconscious strangers?”
Leorio curses. Nearly jumps out of his skin and across the coffee tables he sits on. He retains his composure, though. Just barely. The stranger opens their eyes and he swears he sees a flicker of red again but it could be his tired eyes to blame. He rubs at them under his glasses. Squints. The stranger’s piercing gaze is decidedly gray. Practically steel.
Still, their question is sort of rude. Leorio’s brows knot, expression unimpressed.
“You always make a habit of passing out in people’s arms when you first meet them?”
The mild teasing on their face sombers. Hardens.
“No.”
Leorio blinks at the intense shift in emotion. The person in front of him is so alive—so fiery—maybe he was just, somehow … imagining things. “Listen, man—” He stops himself. Takes in the androgyny of it all, the soft blur of their gender. Backtracks. “Uhhh, how would you like me to refer to you? They, she, he, ze …”
“Use whatever pronouns for me that you wish. It matters little.”
“Huh, okay.”
“Gender is a self-selective thing among my people and I harbor no specificity.”
“Oh. Gotcha.” Leorio blinks. “Your … people?”
They give him a wary once-over out of the corner of their eye. “I am Kurapika of the Kurta clan.” They watch him, seemingly waiting for a flicker of recognition.
Leorio shrugs. “Never heard of ‘em. Or you. No offense.”
“Good,” Kurapika sighs. “I pray it remains that way.”
They push themself into a sitting position. Just that little movement takes a lot out of them and Leorio fights the urge to assist. He can see in the way they move that they’re very independent. Stubborn. Determined. Would brush away his help, if he tried. He sees it in enough patients to recognize the signs within seconds.
“Your name?” they ask, voice strained as they settle. Were they paler than before? It’s hard to tell. Leorio frowns, concerned.
“Leorio.”
“Mr. Leorio—”
Leorio holds a hand up, cutting them off. Reins in his stink-face, for the most part. It sounded cute when kid patients called him that, and most parents and colleagues called him Dr. Paladiknight, but he didn’t need to be called mister by anyone who looked almost the same age as him. He was disrespected enough for his wise-beyond-his-years looks already. He was still kind of young, damn it!
“You can just call me Leorio,” he offers. Silently begs. “No mister, please.”
Kurapika hums, eyes shutting before drifting open again. A wave of fatigue-induced delirium comes over them. Leorio can tell by the way their eyelids flutter and their head droops momentarily to their chest before lifting. “Pairo—I mean, Leorio,” they correct, catching themself, a faint haze settling over the gaze. “I’d like to go home.”
They’re obviously disoriented, in and out of lucidity, from even minor exertion. Maybe anemic? It would explain their pulse or, seeming lack there-of. The pallid complexion. The fatigue and weakness. The only other conclusion he can come to is blood loss … but it’s strange. There are no open wounds, though their symptoms and behavior point toward that as a possibility. Leorio strokes his stubble in thought. Everybody is different and every body is different, he reminds himself. It’s what he says to the kids he treats. And that’s how he speaks to Kurapika. Humors them, playing along. Doing so might even lead to learning some helpful information.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Is there a place I can bring you?”
Kurapika shakes their head, coming out of their daze. “I must find them. My … people are my home. We are nomadic,” they explain, but the delirium keeps them talking. “It’s best we stay away from mortals who do not understand our existence.”
Leorio waits for a laugh or some indication of joking but Kurapika says nothing more.
“… O-kay,” he says after a pause, lightly slapping his own knees. “Well, I can’t just release you out into the night the way you are now.”
“You must,” Kurapika insists. “I’ll be fine.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I’d be fine.”
“Stubborn,” Leorio mutters under his breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose under his glasses.
“I heard that, you know.”
The hint of amusement in their voice is not lost on Leorio. Still, there were more important things to keep his attention on. He already knew from this brief interaction, Kurapika would refuse further medical attention. Thankfully, at worst without doing a full diagnostic and chart, it seemed like they might accept something to drink, something to eat, and maybe a bit of rest before they’d demand to be on their way … to where, again, exactly?
“What are you doing so far from your people?”
“We were ambushed.” Kurapika’s shoulders sag at thought. “Everyone was able to flee but I was weakened and … we were … separated.” Leorio bristles at how frankly Kurapika explains this.
“Well, now that I know you’ve survived an assault—attempted murder it sounds like!—and the assailants are still out there, I definitely can’t just let you go—”
“They’re not out there. Anymore,” Kurapika interrupts. Corrects. “The assailants.”
A creeping feeling like an icy trickle leaks down Leorio’s spine.
“What do you mean?”
Kurapika says nothing. Stares cooly back. It’s obvious what they mean.
He doesn’t know this person. They’ve given him an uncanny feeling from the moment he laid full eyes on them. They could be lying. They could be telling the truth about the whole thing. Maybe the weirdos did come out on blood moons and that had been a warning at the drive-thru from death itself in disguise. Leorio stills. The hairs on the back of his arms rise. If he makes it through this alive, he’ll swear off fast-food for good.
Leorio takes a deep breath. Calms. He’s got to keep a level head. “Right,” he exhales.
“It was necessary. To protect my clan. It’s against our codes, but in self-defense it is not.”
Leorio brow furrows. Literal murder aside, there’s something that still isn’t— “Mortals? ‘Codes?’ A clan?” Leorio sputters as he lists. He laughs uneasily. “I’ll be honest, you’re starting to sound like you’re in a cult or something.”
Kurapika chuckles weakly. “Nothing so infantile.” They say it as if they’ve lived many lives. “Vampires, more like.”
It’s the slight grin that reveals the sudden pointed tip of Kurapika’s canine teeth that makes Leorio think once again that he’s judged wrong and the fast-food employee was right.
Craaaazies.
He’s dealt with his fair share of unstable and delusional adults in his field. He could lightly humor this person and their cultish, cosmetic tooth modifications.
“Right. Because that makes more sense.”
“You doubt me.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever met a vampire, so excuse me if I’m skeptical.” He takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses with the inside of his shirt. “Of course I’m doubtful,” he continues, returning his glasses to his face. ”We’ve just met after you’ve stumbled out from my building’s trash cans like a wounded opossum and into my arms.”
“I … resent that comparison. It wasn’t intentional. The fight weakened me.”
“The killing, you mean.” Honestly, it was a slip but Leorio had a hard time looking past it. Especially in the name of some fictitious vampire group.
Kurapika’s anger flares, as tired as they are. “Self-defense,” they maintain. “We were being hunted.”
“Hunted?” Their story was getting more and more ridiculous. “If you ask me, seems a bit ridiculous for an entire unknown group of people to be poached for no reason—”
“There is a reason.” They look away, the fight leaving them just as quick as it came. “We are … hunted for our eyes, Leorio … They’re seen as trophies.”
Bullshit is one thing Leorio can’t stand. Hell, he’s even got sixth sense for it. Can smell it three miles away. It helps a lot when dealing with hypochondriac patients and parents alike. Not that their fears and mental illness were bullshit, it was just—he was getting off topic. His point is that there was something in the way Kurapika spoke …
No. He was a man of reason. Some people are just good liars.
“Bullshi—” he starts but the word dies in his throat as Kurapika locks their gaze to his.
It was like staring into two blood moons, a thousand times over.
Like rubies and pools of magma burning and red dwarf stars churning—
And like the man of science he is, in the face of indisputable evidence, sometimes he has to drop his biases to immediately reach a conclusion and accept things as truth.
Vampires.
Exist.
Vampires exist.
Vampires, exist.
A sound somewhere between an um and uh and a fuck rises from him as he sits there, transfixed.
Before he can form a coherent word, the scarlet flickers out and Kurapika slumps.
“Believe me now?” they pant with a smug yet weary grin.
Leorio gets a flash to earlier, to the alleyway—the stained moon, the shifting shadows, the blink of red eyes. He hadn’t been imagining it.
Just his luck he invites a vampire into his home on his first night off in over a month.
He gulps. “Are you … are you going to eat me?”
The small laugh that bubbles up from the vampire’s chest is the last thing Leorio expects.
It’s … It’s not funny! He’s really scared! And it’s also rude!
“Don’t laugh! I’m being serious,” he practically pouts, a tinge of indignation to his fear. He doesn’t appreciate being made fun of, even if he is about to die.
“You’re safe,” Kurapika says. Their amusement at Leorio’s expense seems to have brought some life back to them. “I’m from a peaceful clan of vampires. Which do exist,” they assure, “unlike popular myth and media would lead you to believe.”
Did they think he was stupid? How much more were they going to insult his intelligence? He was a smart, sensitive man!
Leorio squints. Scoffs, crossing his arms. “Peaceful vampires? Yeah, right. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“It’s true. We’re ostensibly vegetarians.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“We don’t drink from humans. We feed from other animals—and we don’t kill.”
“You don’t?” Leorio blinks, arms loosening slightly. He’s not sure which part he was reacting to. This is all so much.
“When we do, it’s as part of a ritual. Whether for a meal or, very rarely, a sacrifice. It is a … meaningful ceremony for my people.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asks quietly, mildly confused, maybe even a little concerned. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll come after you guys or tell someone that you all exist?”
Kurapika’s smile is faint, the hard lines of them softening, for just a moment. “I can tell you’re trustworthy … A friend long-ago taught me how to read the language of heartbeats.”
Leorio rushes to cover his chest with his arms, feeling suddenly naked. “You’ve been listening to my heart?”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s a matter of survival.” They raise an imperious brow. “What would you do, if you were me, waking up in a stranger’s apartment after being attacked?”
“You’re right,” Leorio concedes. “But still.”
“It’s what convinced me to reveal myself to you in the alley. I felt I could trust you. At least, temporarily.”
Leorio raises an eyebrow back, calming. “And now?”
“At least you know I won’t kill you.”
“Right. Because you’re vegetarians.” The skepticism in his voice makes Kurapika chuckle and Leorio vaguely registers that he prefers it, their smile.
“There is a word in the Kurta language that is more precise. But the best approximation for it is vegetarian. I agree it’s imperfect.” Their slight smile crumples into a grimace of pain, and Leorio instantaneously rewrites their diagnosis in his head.
They’re not hurt. They’re hungry.
“Perfect shmerfect. You guys don’t have an, I don’t know, ‘in case of emergency’ clause in your codes or something?”
Kurapika scowls through their pain. “Don’t make light of our customs.” Leorio frowns back.
“I’m not. I’m concerned.” The admittance calms the vampire. “I live on the outskirts of the city. The biggest things we’ve got out here are raccoons and the occasional coyote. And, neither of us are in any shape to be trapping wildlife,” he adds hurriedly as Kurapika suddenly makes a motion to stand, clutching the arm of the couch for support.
“I will make do. We live in harmony with our surroundings, the life that gives us sustenance.” At that, they stumble, hand stabilizing them against the side table, and out of doctorly reflex, Leorio reaches for them.
Sensing his approaching, Kurapika whips their head around, steel gray eyes flashing crimson. “Don’t touch me.”
Leorio raises his hands in surrender, backs away. “Excuse me for trying to help.”
“Well, don’t.”
Leorio’s anger flares. “Don’t? Don’t?” The muscles in his jaw pops. “May I remind you where you are right now? Who caught you when you fainted? Who offered to help—”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Kurapika grits out, still stubbornly standing, and Leorio bristles, then calms so suddenly that the immediate absence of frustration leaves a loud silence in its wake.
“Well, that’s the thing about help,” he says, voice measured. “You don’t have to ask to receive it.” Tall frame looming over their hunched form, he looks over the blond’s face, the tired lines under their eyes, the gaunt of their cheeks. He considers their options. There aren't many. "I could grab you a blood bag from work. It'd be cold but I could heat in the microwa—" They shake their head.
"We drink only from living beings."
“You’re obviously hungry. Probably starving even, from the looks of it. Can’t you make an omission just this once?”
“No.”
“No—?” Leorio roars, then practically chokes on his words, jaw clenched, his cool edge quickly evaporating in the heat of the vampire’s defiance and his own disbelief. So stubborn. He takes a grounding inhale, puts a hand on his hip, and hangs his head. His sigh fills the entire room. “Okay. Fine. Then what do we have to do?”
The about-face catches Kurapika fully off-guard. They blink, taken aback. It’s an expression that looks foreign on them, even in the short time they’ve known each other. “Do? What do you mean?”
Leorio fixes him with a flat expression, and the temperature in the room seems to rise a few degrees. “What do you mean ‘what do you mean’?” he grumbles, pushing a hand through his dark hair. “Your ritual thingy. What do you need to complete it? To make it so you can drink from me,” he mutters the last part, a blush clear on his tan cheeks as he looks away.
Kurapika is speechless and the prolonged silence creates a tension in the lines of Leorio’s body, waiting for them to say something. Anything.
“… Well?” he says out of a frowning corner of his mouth. “I’m an animal, after all—a viable donor, aren’t I? Considering the circumstances,” he continues, unable to face them, as the quiet becomes heavier, more pronounced. He slumps a little, readying for the inevitable rejection, inwardly kicking himself. Obviously they’re not gonna go for it. What was he, an idio—
“Candles.”
Leorio almost misses it, can’t stop the huh? that slips from his mouth as he turns to them.
“Candles,” Kurapika repeats, an impatient scowl forming over their reserved yet reluctant expression. “And a bit of earth, water—do you have incense?”
Leorio jumps into action as they list more things.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Kurapika asks from the couch, having finally sat, too weak to be of any real assistance, eyes following as the taller man mills about the apartment.
“Does a house plant work for earth? I don’t have a holy rug. Would a clean bed sheet do?” Leorio responds instead, ignoring the question, searching for the items. “I think I have a little incense an ex left behind …”
By the time he has everything set up, it doesn’t look half-bad—there are as many emergency candles as he could find lit on the coffee table and TV console surrounding the bed sheet he’s laid on the floor; there’s a bowl of water and a stick of incense burning slivers of smoke from its place stuck into the soil of his most resilient ivy plant that normally hangs in the window, with its long vines fashioned into a semi-circle around it all—even Kurapika admits it, half-complimenting his work, and Leorio grins triumphantly.
“It’ll do,” they confirm, as Leorio helps them onto the impromptu holy rug, slumping tiredly. They gesture with an upturned palm. “Sit across from me.”
Leorio listens, lowers himself barely an arm’s length away and mimics the position they ease themself into, legs beneath him. He watches Kurapika look down at the bowl of water between them. Suddenly their eyes flick up to his and he feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Are you sure about this?”
“You don’t plan on killing me, right?”
Kurapika regards him for a moment—probably sussing out his honesty—his fear—and shakes their head.
“No, my people—”
“Don’t kill. I got that. So no offense, but stop asking me. I’m not going to change my mind.” His gaze is heated, candlelight flickering in his serious brown eyes. “I help people. I swore an oath.”
Kurapika stares at him. Something—an emotion, an understanding—swims in their eyes. They nod. Their eyes flash, an intense red once more emanating from where their gray irises once were. Hypnotic.
“Do my eyes frighten you?”
Leorio jumps at Kurapika's question, frowns that he’s been caught under the influence of his gaze. “No,” he lies, knowing full well they can hear his heart hammering in his chest. He scratches cheek, glances away with an embarrassed blush. “Just wouldn’t hurt to warn a guy, is all.” Something like amusement passes briefly over Kurapika’s face but they say nothing.
“Then we’ll begin.”
It takes effort for them to push back their sleeves. They reach for the bowl at the center and dip their hands into the still water, washing them reverently as they speak.
“Light upon my face, grass beneath my feet. My skin cleansed by the water of a lake. My spirit soars among the clouds, my path illuminated by the moon and stars. I honor my ancestors for bringing me to this place, for the life my brethren and sistren provide with their dying breath. I will step forward to humbly share in their joy and carry the burden of their sorrows. By my word and deed, their name will live on … For my scarlet eyes and my blood are one with theirs…”
Leorio is transfixed, the low light surrounding them, the motions and words flowing from them as easy as breathing. He’s startled when Kurapika regards him finally, eyes glowing like rubies glinting in sunlight. He understands now why people covet the Kurta eyes but shucks the thought away, disgusted with even thinking like that.
“Give me your hand.”
Leorio offers it to them, its size noticeably larger between their own as they cup water in their palm and pour it over his hand above the bowl. Though it’s only tap water from the sink, he feels cleaner; cleansed.
Kurapika bends slightly over their joined hands, moves their own—one beneath his knuckles, and the other around his wrist—and Leorio’s eyes widen when he feels the touch of their lips on the meat of his palm below the thumb. Their press tests the give of his flesh, searches briefly for the perfect place to enter, before Leorio feels the pillow of their lips retract and their fangs pierce the muscle.
He had imagined it’d feel like a syringe, sharp and uncomfortable and intrusive. But it’s the opposite. There’s a pinch, but then a numbing, pleasant and distant, like just before a limb falls asleep without the pins and needles sensation.
Leorio lets out a long, quiet exhale, watching them, and Kurapika doesn’t make a sound but their grip tightens, almost painfully, around his hand as they drink; even starving, they remain impressively in control.
It feels like time stands still. Droplets of water cling and fall from their gently clasped hands, catching the reflection of candlelight, illuminated like tiny suns and stars dripping between them.
Leorio swears he feels a breeze pick-up, though knows for a fact all the windows are closed; a chill runs through him, and the candles surrounding flicker and flutter, and he once again has the sensation of being watched. Something in him can't bear to tear his eyes away from Kurapika, but in the peripherals of his vision, shadows—almost figure-like—seem to dance and sway to the blood pumping like drums in his ears, in his heart—and Leorio has the distinct, undeniable impression that he's participating in something ancient.
As strangely fascinating and transcendent this holy moment is—whatever strange numbing is occurring, it isn’t reaching the rest of Leorio’s body as quickly. After only a short time, and the shadow-spirits return to flickering light on an apartment wall, his shoulder pinches and his back almost seizes up as he tries to remain motionless. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do during a ritual? Not fidget or move until you’re told? He was never much good at following those directions. But even as he tries his best now, the length of time he can hold this uncomfortable position is swiftly dwindling.
Besides, while there were a lot of blood vessels in the hand, it isn’t the most efficient location to draw from. He's not sure why thought comes to him. Everything in him seems to be reaching toward Kurapika, wanting to offer them more. Everything. Was this part of it ... ?
“You’re not getting enough blood this way,” he says quietly. “At this rate, we’ll be here all night.” He flexes fingers. “Besides, my arm is cramping.”
It’s not quite a lie but Leorio lays it on thick. It's pretty obvious. The hooded look in the vampire’s scarlet eyes tells Leorio they couldn’t care less.
“What do you suggest?” Their voice is low and serious. It sends a chill through Leorio. But it emboldens him, too. He swallows, unable to truly wrap his head around the fact that vampires exist and that he’s offering himself to one in almost-ritual sacrifice in the middle of his own living room.
Leorio tilts his head to the side and waits for them to connect the dots. Kurapika’s eyes widen slightly when they finally do.
“But I could kill you.”
There’s a thin edge of fear in their voice that reveals they’re maybe not as in control as they both originally thought. But the look in their eyes is hungrier than before, all pretense gone on the first taste of blood in what seems like a very long time; it's evident, in the light of everything shared, that they did not feed from whoever they had killed earlier that night, purely out of principle despite needing to, with nothing to replenish them.
Leorio shrugs.
“Then don’t.”
“You’re putting a lot of trust in a stranger.”
“So are you.”
Kurapika frowns, lifting their head fully from Leorio’s hand, lips stained apple-red with his blood. “It’s nowhere close to the same thing.”
“You take your oath just as seriously as I do.”
They stare at each other, neither willing to budge.
The back-and-forth while they’re still starving is wearing on Kurapika; the hunger in their eyes reflects in the candlelight. Kurapika scoffs. “You’re stubborn.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“You’ll regret this.”
“How about you do me the favor and not make me.”
“You have no regard for your life.”
“I have regard for all life. I’m a doctor.”
Leorio’s comebacks chip away at the frayed edges of their resolve. He can see it, and knows without a doubt that on a better day, in almost any other circumstance, he would lose to the steel so evident in Kurapika’s gaze even now. But today is not that day. It shows visibly on their person, in the set of their shoulders. They never admit defeat out loud.
Leorio shifts to sit back and Kurapika crawls the short distance toward him. But it's as if Leorio's the one moving, being pulled toward them, though as he grips the sheet beneath him in anticipation it confirms he's in fact sitting still. He doesn't have a scientific explanation for the feeling, and Kurapika must feel whatever it is too. As they move, their brows furrow slightly, haunting gaze searching his face, fangs glinting, as if Leorio’s the one entrancing them—when obviously it’s the opposite. Kurapika’s the vampire, after all; he’s just the willing prey.
Before he knows it, Kurapika is between his legs. Leorio braces an arm behind him to support the extra weight of them leaning into him, the vampire settling against his chest. His other hand wraps loosely around their lower back to gently guide and stabilize them as they sit almost in his lap. He pulls his hand away for a moment, expecting a bloody mess from the bite but finds only two clean, tiny circles where their fangs were.
“Instant coagulating effect,” Kurapika explains, noticing his astonishment. They’re so close. Leorio returns his hand to their back. “Are you sure?” they ask quietly. Their words ghost over Leorio’s skin.
“Kurapika …”
Leorio feels the breath of their laughter on his throat.
“I know. Stop asking.”
Maybe because his hands are tough and calloused from use and antiseptics and the strong chemicals he’s worked with, and the skin of his neck is thinner and generally untouched beyond the occasional shave, when Kurapika’s fangs sink into him—the jugular, his doctor-brain specifies—everything is more.
His breath stutters on inhale and Kurapika presses closer to him, a small noise rising from their throat at the influx of blood. Their hair tickles the underside of his jaw, mouth moving against his stubble, coaxing and savoring each drop drained from Leorio.
The numbing sensation starts up again but … different. It gives away to floating. Drifting. Whatever it is, it’s spreading swiftly through his bloodstream much faster than before.
This time there are no jumping flames or dancing shadows or ancient drumming. Just them moving against each other, their clothes shifting, and quiet sounds of the relief they have found in each other.
Leorio hears himself sigh, but the sound is distant, and he grabs for a cushion beside the coffee table he usually uses to help stretch his back. It’s perfect to recline back but keep them both somewhat upright. Kurapika seems too distracted, the hand not cupping the side of Leorio’s throat, resting on his upper thigh for leverage. The only pressure he can feel in his body are the points where he and Kurapika touch. It’s more grounding than anything. He lets himself settle into this subspace, gives himself over to it, stiff joints and knotted muscle unspooling their tension as if submerged in a warm bath. It’s the best he’s felt in weeks, months even.
“… Leo … rio.”
Was that—?
“Leorio.”
Someone was calling him.
Is it an emergency? Was he needed in the ER?
“Leorio?”
Just 5 more minutes …
“Leorio.”
His eyes snap open at the sternness attached to his name. He’s groggy, a little unfocused, but the vague shape above him coalesces into a mop of blond hair, a set frown, and steady gray eyes boring into his. Was that … was that concern he saw?
“Are you okay?” Kurapika asks, as they help him sit up. He feels like he weighs nothing to them. He probably does, now that they’re probably feeling a lot better. They hand him his glasses. When had they fallen off?
“What happened?” His head feels plied with cotton. He raises a hand to his hair and pulls, expecting it to come away in white tufts as if he’d become the plant itself, but he only succeeds in tugging at his roots. “Ow.”
Kurapika watches the action, confused. They’re still between Leorio’s legs, kneeling now.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks, blinking slowly at them. The small, genuine smile that spreads across Kurapika’s makes Leorio warm, giddy. He almost giggles but he thinks he holds it together well. Only a syrupy smile slips.
“I am. You have my sincerest thanks.”
“Mmm, that’s good,” he hums. Nods. “Hey, what the fuck was that?” Leorio says, repeating his earlier question, slurring slightly. He rolls a shoulder experimentally. Not one creak or pop. He stretches neck from side to side. No aches or pains. He feels like a new man. But all his thoughts are moving at a crawl and the idea of a nap sounds divine.
“You didn’t change me into a vampire, did you?”
“As if I’d bequeath the honor to the moral who pulls a feral rodent out of the garbage.”
“Hey, I didn’t say it like that,” Leorioes tries to defend weakly, a little hurt. “You definitely made it sound worse.”
“I failed to mention, my people have … another effect to our bite. A mild sedative. To relax those we drink from, make it a more pleasant experience.”
“You don’t say,” Leorio mumbles.
“Apologies if you felt in any way misguided by what took place. Usually I’m more careful but my judgment was … clouded.” They startle slightly at Leorio’s bark of laughter.
“Are you kidding?” He sways a little as he shakes his head. “I felt like I was on another planet or my soul had ascended to heaven. Whatever it is, that shit’s potent. I feel like I could run a marathon and not feel a thing.”
“Please don't. You need to rest. I … I took more blood than I had planned.”
Leorio could feel it, the heaviness in his body and limbs; the lightness of his head, the slow blinks and the delayed reaction times, vision swimming as he tried to focus on Kurapika’s face. He feels a bit drunk and a bit high, like he was being held up by chance, but then he remembers Kurapika’s hands are still on him, strong and sure.
“Let me help you lay down.”
Leorio expects Kurapika at his side, a touch at his shoulder, but instead he feels a whole-body weightlessness as Kurapika lifts him and carries him princess-style a short distance off the ground. He's a tall man, he can't recall the last time he was lifted so effortlessly. Decades, maybe. If he had enough blood to blush he would have; he shivers instead—at least partially from blood loss, he tries to convince himself. He sinks deeply into the cushions with a satisfied sigh as Kurapika deposits him gently on the couch.
When he looks up at them he's greeted with a pulsing kaleidoscopic scarlet, different than before. There’s an intent. He knows what they plan to do, he's seen the movies. He throws up his hands and turns away the best he can.
“No, don't,” he says.
For some reason, Kurapika heeds. Humors him. Probably out of some clause in his clan’s code or something.
“Why? It's ... easier this way. For both of us."
“I want to remember this. You.”
Words are getting hard for him. The sentence comes out in practically a jumble but Kurapika seems to decipher it without an issue. Their eyes return to a soft gray, and that indecipherable look they’ve been giving Leorio since the ritual.
“Fine.” They give a short nod. “As you wish.”
A favor. A gift. A thanks.
They know Leorio won’t tell a soul.
Leorio hums. “‘preciate it.”
He knows he needs some sugar in his blood, some water and a cookie … but there’s his half-drunken sweet ice tea still on the table that should do it for now. He tells Kurapika as much and they react automatically. They help him sit up and hold the straw to his lips so he doesn’t spill, then lower him back gently. Leorio’s hand shoots out as Kurapika stands, catching the edge of their sleeve. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
“Stay ...”
It’s a request. An invitation.
"... a little bit longer?"
His eyes are beginning to droop and flutter. Everytime he reopens them, Kurapika seems further away. He wants them to wait, hold on, stop moving so fast but he’s so tired.
“It was a simple transaction, Leorio. That’s all,” they remind, gently returning Leorio’s hand to his side where it fell from their sleeve in a weak grip. “However, the exchange was far from equivalent. I am indebted to you. I owe you my life.”
“I don’t want your life.” His eyes had closed but he opened them to meet Kurapika's surprise. “I just want you to come back sometime. Visit. I want to see you’re doing okay.”
They stay silent. Like one promise is already one too many.
“Goodbye, Leorio.”
“Wait, Kurapika.”
He doesn’t expect them to turn, but they do.
“Please,” he tries with the last of his energy. “Please, just … drop by next time you’re in town. Or nearby, at least?”
Maybe it’s the low light or his poor eyesight but for a moment he thinks he sees Kurapika’s expression soften.
“Be well, Leorio.”
Then, suddenly, the space where they stood is empty and Leorio is slipping into unconsciousness and the door snicks gently shut to silence.