Chapter Text
My dear, do you remember?
It was 1942.
Yufan ran. As fast as his broken legs could take him. Splotches of blood on the rags he called clothes had begun to dry, forcefully burnt by the light of the forenoon sun. The blazing heat caused his pale skin to peel away, revealing rotten flesh underneath. He kept running, faster, ignoring the pain as he stepped on a pile of sharp rocks. His body weakened, both from exhaustion and exposure to the sun. I don’t want to die, he told himself over and over, hoping the Gods—the same deities who had cursed his whole bloodline—might show him mercy.
He could faintly hear the Japanese soldiers muttering foreign words, perhaps ordering their subordinates to strike Yufan with silver bullets, or perhaps giving up, deciding this mongrel wasn’t worth the trouble of torture.
I’m terrified. Tears welled in his eyes, further interrupting a vision already blurred by the absence of his glasses—the only pair his mother had given him after returning from Peking in 1937. Yufan didn’t remember how he had escaped the camp; all he recalled was the overwhelming fear that triggered his sense of survival.
Vampires were savages, they said. Inhumane. Yufan wasn’t even sure which exact atrocity had pushed him to gamble with his life by running away.
Was it when he saw his dear cousin decapitated by a katana forged of silver? Was it when they used his aunt’s weakened body to release their filthy seed into her, before stabbing her heart? Was it when the commander took a liking to him, referring to him with disgusting nicknames, then threatening to turn him into a prostitute? Or was it when he overheard the soldiers speaking of a foreign land that might protect his kind?
Was it all of them combined?
The sight of the forest’s end yawned open before him, sending chills down Yufan’s spine. Funny, wasn’t it? That the numbness which had engulfed him for a long time seemed to evaporate in seconds, giving him a fleeting and fragile sense of happiness. He quickened his steps, losing track of the Japanese soldiers behind him. He kept running, crossing into a demilitarized zone. He continued running, though the sun had already taken a disastrous toll on his declining health. I want to live.
Yufan finally stopped only when his frail body reached the port. He dragged himself up and into a cargo ship flying a flag of stars and stripes.
My love, do you remember?
The war had finally ended.
It was 1948 when Martin saw a group of priests from the Vatican arrive at the port. They looked exhausted; he guessed these were the men responsible for countless funerals across Europe during the war. Martin recalled Virgil and Frankie talking about Mussolini and other fascist goons in Italy. The two Italian immigrants also mentioned how war would never truly end—there would always be someone ruining their own fatherland.
Alas, Martin was rather uneducated about everything.
He was nineteen, forced into harsh labor just to put food in his mouth—all because his father had been officially declared Missing in Action. Martin had no idea where his old man’s body lay; perhaps buried in France, as he had heard the returning troops speak of losing their friends there a few months earlier.
Yet nothing prepared him for the sentence that left a priest’s mouth: “The Eastern Vampires are extinct. The Japanese wiped them all out. Now, we only need to worry about the Western ones.”
Eastern Vampires? The young man paused.
“They were more aggressive than Western Vampires. During the Qing Dynasty, these monsters were used as hunters to kill the invaders,” one of the priests said—a man with red hair, who pulled a flask from his coat. “The Japanese definitely had a plan to create some sort of bioweapon using these Vampires.”
Another priest, one whose slanted eyes resembled Martin’s own, chuckled. “I’d assume so. Eastern Vampires were known for their smaller build and stronger pack mentality. They couldn’t survive without their breed.”
“Even if any of them made it out of those camps alive,” the redheaded priest added, sipping from his flask, likely filled with some expensive liquor. “They’d never be found. They look, speak, and act just like us.”
Deciding he had rested enough, Martin swung the huge bag back over his right shoulder, then picked up a few smaller ones in his hands. He appeared busy, unloading the cargo as Mr. Lefkowitz had ordered him to do. In truth, he was dying to hear more. After dropping the bags near the immigration office, Martin hurried back to the dock to eavesdrop on the priests once again. Foolish, definitely. But the conversation about vampires felt far too important to miss. He always had an urge to learn something new. Vampires are real?
“Give it to me,” Martin said, grabbing a medium-sized suitcase from Virgil’s trembling hands with a grin. “I need more tips from Mr. Lefkowitz.” He lied.
Virgil sighed, letting the younger man carry the last remaining cargo. “Alright. Be careful. The priests say there’s exorcism necessities inside.”
Exorcism? Martin glanced down at the suitcase. It bore a Vatican seal, complete with a huge cross and Latin words encircling it. A peculiar sight for someone who had never been baptized. He had heard of exorcism before—from Frankie’s religious grandmother, who repeatedly urged him to pray to Jesus Christ—but it still felt strange to hold something so holy.
Placing the suitcase carefully on the dock, Martin turned around—and jolted back when he saw the red-haired priest standing directly in front of him.
“Here. Grazie, my boy.” The priest smiled, placing a few coins in Martin’s sweaty palm.
Dear, what is it about my me that you really like?
Virgil yawned, stretching his sore muscles after a long day at the dock. He was a head shorter, with a bulkier build and jet-black hair. Two years older, the Sicilian was Martin’s fellow roommate at the rickety apartment assigned by the American government to house young immigrants, shared with seven other men—half of whom also worked at the dock. Martin, however, was Mr. Lefkowitz’s favorite, even receiving gifts during Hanukkah and more tips than his friends. Perhaps it was due to Martin’s fun, hardworking personality; or perhaps Martin was simply gullible enough to be overworked.
“What should we eat?” Virgil asked, wiping his calloused hands on his shabby pants.
Ah, dinner. The food-ration rule had been lifted last year, and Martin couldn’t be happier about the wide distribution of meat throughout the country. He liked pork the most, though he wasn’t sure if it was just the dish he liked. Smiling, he ran his long fingers through his damp brunette hair, trying to look more presentable before suggesting, “Let’s eat the braised pork at Mrs. Chou’s.”
“Martin, we’ve eaten that damned food far too often,” Virgil scolded.
“Yes. And I’ll eat it for a million more years.”
The Sicilian scoffed. “You’re really into the Chinese guy, aren’t you?”
“I could be. Who knows?” Martin shrugged.
“Don’t let Frankie know.”
Martin chuckled. “I don’t even let James know. I’ll get over him soon enough.”
“The kid is here again.”
Yufan gasped slightly when Lin touched his shoulder. She laughed, teasing him as she continued shredding carrots. Heat crept onto Yufan’s hollow cheeks as he heard the kid and his friend laughing across the tiny restaurant. If Mrs. Chou were here, she would’ve scolded the boys and charged them double for disturbing the peace.
But tonight, with the sun set and the old woman sleeping in her room upstairs, Yufan could finally enjoy the sound of the voice he had grown fond of. With a soft sigh, he began cooking the dish Martin had ordered every night for the past year.
“I don’t know if anyone can like pork as much as that kid does,” Lin said, still focused on the mountain of carrots. “The Italian one is sick of eating here. And it’s not like our braised pork is the best in town,” she added.
“I think so,” Yufan replied absentmindedly. “I’m not the best cook either. Mrs. Chou yelled at me a lot when I first worked here.”
Lin laughed. “It’s obvious the Asian kid likes you.”
Yufan shot her a glare, prompting her to laugh even harder, delighted at how easy he was to tease. “Stop it, Lin!”
It had been like this for two years.
The ship Yufan had sneaked onto six years ago had docked in San Francisco. He was far from home, in a foreign land, with no documented identity to register at the immigration office. At first, he faced discrimination—largely due to being unable to speak a word of English. And why would he? He was a bastard child, the mongrel product of a forbidden union between a Peking man—an opera performer murdered for unknown reasons—and a woman born in the 1700s, carrying the pureblood lineage of the notorious Eastern Vampires.
Mother had told him he was less pure. And according to their ancestors’ promise, Yufan would eventually die. To make matters worse, he was unable to turn humans into vampires. When he passed away, the long line of Eastern Vampires would die with him.
It was thanks to Mrs. Chou, an old woman from his hometown who happened to recognize him as his mother’s son, that Yufan survived. She took him in, clothed him, taught him English, and fed him discarded pig’s blood.
Unlike his pureblood counterparts, Yufan could survive on animal blood. In fact, he had never drunk a human’s blood in his twenty-three years of life. He found it unethical; he wasn’t a ruthless savage. He was as human as the people around him.
“You keep zoning out, James.”
Not realizing he was staring straight at the radio without having pulled the antenna yet, Yufan blinked to bring himself out of his spiraling thoughts. He gazed to his right, seeing Martin standing next to him with the same comforting smile painted on his face. Coughing to hide his embarrassment, Yufan fixed the position of his glasses and returned the smile at the young man. He chuckled, seeing there was some soy sauce smeared on Martin’s right cheek.
“I’ve been calling your name for minutes. Or is this finally a free meal for me and Virgil?” Martin teased, raising a brow.
“Silly,” Yufan breathed, rising to his feet. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
Yufan hesitated for a heartbeat before reaching out. His thumb brushed the smear from Martin’s cheek, letting the moment go longer than necessary. “About how someone can eat this messily,” he murmured. “Try something else next time, will you? Your friend’s about to get braised-pork fatigue.”
Martin’s smile softened into warmer and sweeter. He lifted his hand and curled his fingers gently around Yufan’s wrist, holding it with a reverence that made Yufan’s breath hitch. As if the slightest pressure might shatter him.
“I eat messily because you always clean me up,” Martin said quietly.
Then, almost shyly, he guided Yufan’s hand to his cheek again, pressing the cool palm there. His eyes fluttered half-closed at the touch.
“I like your cooking,” Martin whispered. “And I like your cold fingers on my face, James.”
My dear, I’ve always been terrified.
“What does it taste like?”
“Blood.”
Yufan took a careful sip from the wooden cup Mrs. Chou had set aside for him, filled earlier with fresh pig’s blood from a trusted butcher at the Asian market. In the dim lamplight, it almost looked like he was tasting wine—his slender fingers wrapped around the small cup, the carved wood warm against his cold hands. Even so, the metallic scent of the blood emerged in the little room he shared with Lin. The open window did its best; cold mist drifted in with the night wind, carrying the smells of seawater from the port. But the heaviness in the room wasn’t from the blood. It was from worry.
“Mrs. Chou is getting worse,” Yufan whispered.
Lin let out a long, soft breath and rested her head gently against his shoulder. “Let’s hope she gets better,” she murmured. “So she can scold that Asian kid again for bothering you.” A laugh left her chapped lips. “He’s been all over you ever since she got sick.”
Yufan huffed out a chuckle. It was true. Martin had been visiting almost every night now—alone, too. And Yufan knew perfectly well that Virgil had grown tired of braised pork.
His gaze drifted to the night sky. A single low cloud flew across the dark, like a bird gliding home. It reminded him of autumn in Peking when cool air brushing gently against his skin, the earthy smell of rain following close behind. A world away. He wondered, often, if Martin missed his own homeland in Joseon. But Yufan never found the courage to ask. He was too afraid he would care too much for the answer.
“Martin is a good kid,” Lin said softly.
Yufan smiled, turning slightly to look at her. “So you do remember his name.”
Lin nudged him with her shoulder. “Of course I do. I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she sighed. “And I don’t want him to be scared when he finds out who you are.”
My love, the biggest fear in my life is not being able to have you as my lover.
It was a cold Saturday in October, the same year Martin had seen the priests. Mr. Lefkowitz refused to let his men work on Shabbos, a tradition Martin had finally learned the history of after being lectured half to death by half the dock. As part of the weekly ritual, the Polish immigrant had handed out cheap wine the night before, lovingly fermented by his wife, who spoke with a German accent so thick Martin wasn’t sure if she was blessing him or insulting him.
At four in the evening, Martin dragged himself out of bed, scrubbed himself clean, and pulled on the scruffy shirt he’d bought a few months ago with the money he’d earned unloading cargo. Men didn’t wear hats as often anymore, so he settled on slicked-back hair—using a hair gel that smelled suspiciously like rat piss. Still, he combed it into his brunette strands carefully.
“Be calm,” Martin muttered to himself, staring at his warped reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His cheeks had shrunk, partly from maturing as he was going to enter his twenties, partly from not being able to afford anything that resembled a decent meal. Stubble dotted his chin, standing out against his pale complexion in a way he hoped looked rugged and not disease-ridden. Martin forced a smile.
He had promised the Chinese man that he’d go to the market today to help buy freshly butchered pork for Mrs. Chou’s signature braised pork.
My love, I’m willing to do anything just to make you laugh.
Yufan hadn’t stopped laughing. Martin showed up as if he were auditioning to be Uncle Sam’s newest poster boy instead of visiting the local market. His shirt was tucked in neatly, his hair slicked back so aggressively, and he kept touching his own chin as if checking whether the stubble was still there. Yufan pushed up his glasses after wiping at his tear-filled eyes with lithe fingers. When he finally looked at Martin again, the young man’s cheeks were turning redder by the second—almost the same shade as the pork they were supposed to buy.
They walked through the market. Saturdays were less crowded, but it was buzzed with the usual noise—vendors shouting in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and occasionally something Martin insisted was Italian but was definitely just someone yelling.
“You look nice today,” Yufan teased, poking at Martin’s sleeve. “Did someone force you to dress this properly?”
Martin cleared his throat so loudly a nearby old lady flinched. “No. I- uh- I just thought since we’re going together, since it’s important… well, since Mrs. Chou needs the pork-”
“Yes,” Yufan cut in, smiling. “Mrs. Chou is the reason you dressed like you’re meeting the president.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Yufan laughed again, soft and warm like steam rising from a fresh bun. Martin, already sweating through his rat-piss hair gel, tried to regain dignity by helping carry the basket. Unfortunately, for some unknown reasons, he ended up grabbing the wrong thing—nearly snatching an old man’s dried squid display.
“Sorry! Sorry- sir- I thought this uh- my mistake!” Martin stammered, nearly bowing.
The old man grunted something about stupid tall boy, and Yufan covered his mouth to keep from bursting out again. “You’re very graceful,” Yufan commented, adjusting the basket dangling on his forearm before handing it to the younger man.
“I’m trying,” Martin muttered as he grabbed the empty basket, ears burning so red they practically glowed under the afternoon light.
They stopped at the butcher’s stall, where slabs of meat hung like grim ornaments. Yufan inspected them with practiced expertise, while Martin stood beside him, pretending to understand anything about cuts of pork. He nodded seriously each time Yufan hummed in approval.
“You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?” Yufan asked without turning.
“Not a clue,” Martin replied immediately.
Yufan’s laugh this time was quieter. After selecting the meat, Yufan moved to pull out the few coins Mrs. Chou had given him, but Martin interrupted by stepping forward.
“I’ll pay,” he said.
“For Mrs. Chou’s pork?” Yufan raised an eyebrow.
“For everything.” Martin blinked. “No- I mean, not everything everything, just today’s everything. Not in life, just the pork. At least, for now.”
Yufan stared at him with his doe-eyes. “Are you saying you want to pay for my everything later on?” heasked, holding back a smile.
Martin nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
Yufan held the stare for a moment longer before looking away, cheeks warming despite the cold October air. “You’re silly.”
“But you’re smiling,” Martin pointed out, grinning.
“I’m smiling at your suffering,” Yufan corrected.
“Fair enough,” Martin said.
My dear, I’m sorry for deceiving you.
The walk back from the market was rather quiet. The fog had begun rolling in from the bay, settling low over the streets in a thin silver veil. Lanterns from the nearby shops flickered, painting warm halos on the pavement. Martin carried the bundle of pork over his shoulder rather than the basket, pretending it weighed far more than it actually did—anything to explain why his heart was thudding like an idiot.
Beside him, Yufan kept his hands tucked neatly behind his back, as if afraid they’d brush against Martin’s again. He walked with his head slightly lowered, glasses fogged at the edges.
They turned a corner, passing an alleyway. Martin shivered. But Yufan didn’t, not even a flinch.
Martin coughed. “Aren't you cold?”
Yufan blinked. “Cold?”
“Yeah. It’s freezing.”
Yufan lifted his hands as if inspecting them. “I don’t really feel it.”
Martin frowned. He reached out before he could think better of it, taking Yufan’s right hand gently on his own. Yufan gasped, startled, but didn’t pull away. Martin’s brow knitted. “Your hand,” he murmured. “It’s- Jesus, it’s freezing.”
Yufan stiffened. “I have bad circulation,” he lied.
Martin didn’t buy that. “Bad circulation doesn’t make you feel like a marble statue.”
Yufan’s fingers twitched in his hold, delicate and cold like something carved from winter. They were much smaller than his. Martin didn’t let go.
“You should wear gloves,” Martin said. “Or at least hold onto me when it’s cold.”
Yufan’s eyes widened behind the lenses, his breath catching. “Why would you offer that?”
Martin shrugged lightly, thumb brushing over Yufan’s knuckles. “Because I want to.”
A flush crept over Yufan’s pale cheeks—warmth blooming on skin that otherwise looked nearly translucent in the dim streetlight. The more Martin looked, the more he noticed: the unusual pallor, the faint bluish tint beneath the skin, the way Yufan’s breath didn’t fog even in the cold air.
Martin swallowed. “You’re pale,” he mentioned it carefully.
“I’m always pale,” Yufan replied.
“Not like this.” Martin hesitated. “Are you sick?”
Yufan looked down at their hands, still entangled. “Not the way you think.”
Martin wanted to ask, he really did. But something in Yufan’s expression told him not to push, not yet. So instead, he squeezed gently. “I’ll get you warm,” Martin said. “And whatever it is, you can tell me when you want to.”
They continued walking, Yufan’s cold hand hidden securely in Martin’s warm one. And even though the fog thickened and the air grew more freezing, Martin felt a strange warmth in his chest—like he was holding something precious, something fragile, something he didn’t want to lose.