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Blood pools on the dirt ground below the two of them and Fiddleford watches as the crimson liquid stains Stanley’s mid section, red blooming all across his white t-shirt.
His eyes are glassy, barely held together consciousness slipping through them. His irises reflect the stormy sky above, lightning crackling and he doesn’t even flinch.
The man’s chest starts to move less and less, his breathing fading.
With one fluid movement Fiddleford leans forward, cupping the back of Stanley’s neck with his hand and tilting his chin up.
His mouth moves in close, lips pulling apart to reveal two sharp fangs.
Yet he hesitates, trembling faintly as Stanley’s body starts to fall limp.
Perhaps it’s selfish, turning someone, but he’s not losing the man before him.
Even if it means changing his life forever.
Fiddleford’s fangs sink into the flesh of his neck, eyes half closed as tears slip down his cheeks.
He can feel Stanley’s limbs jolt, coming back to life yet it’s not really life, more of a doomed eternity.
His lips pull away, saliva and blood coating his teeth.
“I’m sorry, Stan. I’m so sorry.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against the other man’s temple and keeping it there.
“I couldn’t lose you. I wouldn’t lose you.”