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The strange, golden lavender-like flowers in the gardens are finally in bloom, and Professor Anaxagoras has not been seen in several days. That man generates a certain mystique that few bother with, with all of his absences and pilgrimages and blatant requests not to follow him around.
But after day three of hovering around his empty office, a particularly faithful student of his can't help but put his concern to words.
On the fourth day, poor and particularly faithful student Phainon knocks on the Professor's door and twists the knob— it's never locked— only to stand in reverent silence and bask in the grassy, medicinal scent of the drying herbs hanging from the window.
Phainon brings with him a flask of fresh water. He twists open the lid and tilts it over the cluster of tiny potted plants by the windowsill, wilting and estranged.
The second best way to locate a missing person is to solicit those who would spend the most time near them. A recluse like Professor Anaxagoras, between trimesters and when he's free of an academic calendars beyond his control, leaves few options— Hyacine being the most probable and most approachable. She's no longer his assistant, but they still have a close relationship!
But where is she? Now that Phainon considers it— whilst circling aimlessly through her gardens for the second time— he hasn't seen her much lately, either. In the evenings, maybe; her errands are brief, her prescription runs delegated, and even the gardens start to show the very earliest signs of neglect.
Concerned, Phainon decides to include tending to them in his routine, as well. He doesn't mind. It's always been peaceful for him. Productive, like clearing a debt.
On the sixth day, Phainon is kneeling in those gardens with a much larger flask resting on the ground beside him, twisting his finger around a sneaky little weed growing far too close to the chrysanthemum bush for a gardener's comfort.
A sweet, familiar voice surprises him from a few paces away.
"Snowy…"
"Hyacine!" Phainon nearly pulls his neck twisting around, joining her under the shade of the atrium. "I've been looking all over for you."
"I know. Sorry." Hyacine taps her fingertip to her lips in warning, and Phainon physically shrinks. "Professor Anaxa asked me to find you."
"What do you know? I've been looking for him, too," Phainon whispers, leaning closer and reading the uncharacteristic tension in Hyacine's face.
"Finally."
It's cool and dark inside. Layered curtains, a variety of patterns patched together and clearly not chosen to match, blot out so much light that Phainon's eyes have to adjust, even with the collection of candles and lamps at waist level and below. It's mysterious and strange and completely unlike a space a bubbly medic like Hyacine would ever curate, Phainon thinks, as the girl herself walks ahead, her hands folded behind her back, and Phainon watches until he sees him.
The Professor. Drowning in a swarm of unkept bedsheets, Professor Anaxagoras props himself up on his elbow to squint back, pale even in the dim light.
Phainon's legs move without need for command.
"Professor," Phainon huffs in dismay, leaning over the makeshift bedding, touching Anaxa's arm like it's nothing. He's seen his professor dressed down on plenty of occasions, sure, but rarely in loose, warm clothing like this that swallows him up and leaves him looking frail. "Oh, Hyacine. What happened to him?"
"He's all right," Hyacine tries to offer, holding the back of her hand to Anaxa's forehead and parting his fringe. He wrinkles his nose but does not protest. "Do you want to sit down, Snowy?"
"He's cold," Phainon murmurs, squeezing Anaxa's hand—
"Excuse me? I'm awake. Don't you think it's rude to talk about me instead of to me?" Anaxa snaps, shaking off Hyacine's hand. It's faint, but his jaw chatters between his words. "We can talk about what 'happened' later. Are you hydrated?"
Phainon gets lost in the pattern of Anaxa's chiton for all of three seconds before the man wrestles his hand free and snaps it in his face.
"I'm talking to you, Phainon."
"O-oh, I thought," Phainon stammers, shimmying awkwardly into the chair Hyacine frees for him at Anaxa's bedside. "Nevermind. I think so?"
"Did you eat breakfast?"
"Yes..." How sweet of the Professor to ask!
"What about supper last night?"
"Did I?" Phainon has to think about it. "Probably…?"
"I hope you did," Anaxa whines, covering his face with his hands. "You always have such massive portions. It's a great quality to have for a warrior, and an especially convenient quality right now. Try to remember."
"Ahah," Phainon chuckles awkwardly, glancing up at Hyacine, who has resigned to watching from a pace away, sifting through an open binder on the table. Her withdrawn behavior is beginning to unnerve him. "Well… I'm glad you're well enough to joke around, Professor. If you're hungry, I'll gladly run and bring you a plate."
Unexpectedly, Anaxa cackles into his hands, and Hyacine closes her book.
"Um… Phainon, I need to explain something to you," Hyacine says, lacing her hands together and turning. "And it is very important that you do not repeat this to anyone. Anyone. Please."
"I promise," Phainon says.
Something cold settles in Phainon's chest. Over the past weeks, he's searched for Hyacine too, finding only empty reading nooks and abandoned tea cups, still warmed. The girl who once greeted him with smiles and stories has been a ghost in her own domain.
Or maybe, Phainon thinks, she's always been this reclusive. Just not for him.
As is natural for a man as enigmatic as Professor Anaxagoras, the details of what became of him on the day of his disappearance make little sense. Anaxa says something about human limits, Hyacine says something about what a man like Anaxa, chasing human limits, looks like to an outsider. Anaxa says the word apotheosis, Hyacine bickers with him, and Phainon rests his head in his hand, swirling his cup of warm tea (that Hyacine had pushed into his hand at some point) while trying to remember what that word even means.
It is upon the utterance of the term vrykolakas that Phainon feels like he can re-join the conversation.
"I know that one," Phainon blurts out. "That's the one that drinks human blood!"
"…Something like that," Hyacine sulks.
No wonder. Phainon frowns, watching Anaxa restlessly sweep his fingertip under the lip of his eyepatch and moreso waiting for him to open his mouth again. Vrykolakes have great, big fangs, he's read.
"It's really not like the ones you read about in stories," Hyacine admits. "This was a… last resort."
"Yes. A fantastic one," Anaxa murmurs, savoring the silence in the room that comes after. "… I have beaten death."
Hyacine opens her mouth to retort, but she pauses with her chest puffed out before surrendering.
"But I'll need to extract a sample," he continues, perhaps to himself. "Several."
"A sample?" Phainon folds his arms and sits back in his chair, somewhat antsy. Hyacine's discomfort is burning a hole in his periphery.
"Of the venom... Once I'm able to produce it consistently, of course. I have a tendency to push my tongue against my teeth when my mouth is dry, and my mouth is currently dry. Now, my tongue is a little numb. Meaning…"
The venom of a vrykolakas, Phainon had read in one rather interesting account, once led a young woman to fall in love with the vrykolakas that bit her— a taller, beautiful vrykolakas queen, who—
"Meaning," Anaxa presses again, gesturing broadly. His fingers are quivering. "It's an… Analgesic. Ugh. What am I going to do with you two."
"I'm sorry, Prof. I'm listening. This is a lot to take in."
"Of course it is," Hyacine says.
"Well, I'm having fun," Anaxa dryly concludes, as if he doesn't look like a cold wind could lull him to sleep. "This is an exciting development. Once I regain the feeling in my hands, I'll be penning quite the journal. In the meantime, Hyacine, I hope you'll be taking notes."
In the tomes of the Grove academic library, truly skirting the lines between scientific accounts and historical fiction, broadly varied stories about encounters with vrykolakes come with all sorts of flavorful descriptions. Bloodthirsty, hairy, bony beasts that congregate in the dark and hunt lone travellers, orphaned fawns, fields of livestock— what terror! And what happened to the vrykolakes? Hunted, starved, hiding, extinct— every account had a theory. To think that two living specimens (Professor Anaxa would refer to himself as a specimen in this case) sit innocently and calmly in this room…
It's fascinating, truly, but the fantasy fades into something truly clinical. Phainon rolls up his sleeve and Hyacine disinfects his arm, rambling about something mundane and unrelated, all the while Anaxa watches with a narrowed eye, analytical as ever. It's not scrutiny, but even if it were, Phainon wouldn't mind— that's just how the Professor is.
"I'm glad we're all acquainted. Now, give me that." Anaxa's cold fingers steer Phainon's nondominant forearm close to his face, tilting it towards the near lamplight and studying the blue weave of his veins.
He's concentrating, testing the pressure of his own lips against each other and licking his teeth, Phainon notes. Hyacine appears over his shoulder, tapping on the flat plane of Phainon's wrist and tracing a line towards his elbow, stopping most of the way through.
"Right over here," she instructs; the gravity of what she's instructing begins to prick at the back of Phainon's neck. "Just curl your lip a little and push your teeth in, but not all the way. Do it quick, like a stapler. It'll hurt him less that way."
More than ever, Phainon feels strangely reminded that he's made only of flesh. Anaxa's reddish eye certainly regards him like it, trained only on the veins in his arm.
"I remember" Anaxa murmurs.
Finally, Phainon can see them— two tiny, sharp fangs peeking from below his upper lip. He can feel Anaxa's breath sail hot and shallow over the fine, white hairs of his forearm.
"Hey." Anaxa pauses, close enough for his hair to nearly tickle with proximity. He doesn't quite meet Phainon's gaze, but Phainon can sense his scrutiny.
"You can do it," Phainon gently says, offering him a smile.
"…I know that."
The firm muscles of Phainon's arm fight not to tense the moment Anaxa's new fangs break his skin, just as Hyacine urged; she lays a warm hand on Phainon's shoulder for comfort, but Phainon is too stunned and transfixed to notice. His eyes sting, too, but nothing comes of that.
"Did he break skin?" She asks him.
"Y-yeah."
"Okay. Professor, now create a seal with your lips around the wound and gently release your teeth. He's going to bleed right away, so be ready." She squeezes Phainon's shoulder, her face inches away, watching him like he'll explode. "You're doing great, Snowy. Relax. Breathe in and out."
"It's all right," Phainon breathes, his brow knit and arm still as waves of hot, sharp pain radiate from his forearm. The Professor is a dizzying mix of cold skin and warm, moist breath, and when he unmistakeably feels the wetness and pressure of his tongue and the pooling of his own blood, Phainon squeezes his eyes shut.
"The venom will kick in in a moment," Hyacine assures him, rubbing his back now. "The pain won't last. It'll just be dull pressure before you know it."
But dull pressure is the last way Phainon would describe it. His entire body feels warm, light, strange, almost relieved. Hyacine keeps talking, surely to soothe him, in her sing-songy working voice. Professor is going to feel a lot better after this, she says, her voice drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through Phainon's ears. It's almost frustrating, but he cannot put his finger on it.
It's really fine, Phainon wants to say.
Phainon opens his eyes, but he cannot watch; has Professor Anaxagoras ever lain hands on him like this? He said his hands were numb earlier, or something, and now, he holds onto Phainon like he needs him. Like Phainon is providing some deeply essential service to him.
And is he not? Anaxa's erratic breath sails over Phainon's warm skin between the laps of his tongue, and there is an unexplainable sense of purpose where he'd once assume repulsion. The plants in his office cannot water themselves. The wheat fields cannot tend to themselves. Anaxa needs this, doesn't he?
It's over before he expects it.
Anaxa drags his wrist over his lips and inspects the bronzy smear along the thin flesh of his trapezium; Phainon's blood stains him, and he seems to still be debating how he feels about the taste— literally running his tongue over the new verizons of his teeth in a way that makes Phainon feel even more dazed than he already is.
Hyacine is wrapping Phainon's forearm with a bandage before he can even inspect it. She asks him if it's too tight, and he only shakes his head.
The three of them are quiet as the rains pick up outside. Even the candleflames are calm in some sort of reverence.
Phainon is tempted to ask Anaxa if he 'liked it'. Hyacine pushes a cup of warm water into his opposite hand and says something about bringing him some bread— It would be rather unfortunate if Anaxa didn't 'like it'. Requesting Phainon by name, drinking directly from his arm… Perhaps a part of him hoped for more fanfare, but…
"Interesting…" Anaxa murmurs to himself, surely on some great, internal tangent about how awful Phainon's blood must have tasted.
"Did it, um…" Phainon's voice is small. He still can't meet the Professor's gaze. "Taste good…?"
Hyacine glances over her shoulder as if she, too, is curious as to what the Professor thinks.
"Did it taste 'good?' Well, I'm afraid my sample pool is far too limited to say," Anaxa says thoughtfully, unable to keep himself from grinning. "It tastes like life itself."
That night, Phainon shakes the rainwater from his hair and lies on his back to rest.
He wishes he'd paid more attention earlier. Again and again, he sees Anaxa cradling his arm and touching it with his lips, and, strangely enough, the feeling after— a sense of relief, not from being released, but from the act of giving.
He thumbs the bandaging over his bite wound— it aches, worse than before, much in the same way the muscles in his arms and core feel after exercise. Satisfying.
Satisfying? Is it right to be satisfied from this sort of thing? Phainon rubs his face with his palms. He can still feel Anaxa's hands, his teeth, his tongue.
It tastes like life itself. The Professor elaborated, but that part went over Phainon's head.
It tastes like life itself.
Phainon can hardly sleep, but that's nothing new.
"How often do you need to feed?" Phainon asks, browsing the shelves in the makeshift infirmary with an armful of jars Hyacine has tasked him with sorting. He'd invited himself over, of course. "Three square meals a day?"
"Wouldn't that be nice?" Anaxa chuckles. He's in brighter spirits today, and Phainon can tell— he's sitting upright, one foot planted on the floor, considerably less frigid than yesterday. Even his hair looks silkier!
"Well, honestly," Hyacine plucks a jar of a spicy-smelling herbal mix from Phainon's hold and sniffs its contents, "While your body adjusts to digesting blood efficiently, you might need it. You're kind of like a newborn!"
"That's wonderful to hear. It's about time for my mid-day feast. Haha!"
"Mid-day feast," Hyacine murmurs, shielding her lips with the spice jar, "As if he's ever eaten lunch in his life."
"Professor," Phainon cries, and Hyacine hurries away before she can laugh. Her spirits are brighter, bringing the mood in the infirmary up with it, Phainon notices— his chest feels notably lighter, too. "Say the word and my arm is yours!"
It's jest, mostly. Anaxa never exactly indicated that he was interested in going back for seconds. Perhaps they should solicit someone else today? Mydei's got plenty of blood— weird, volatile blood, but—
"I can't think of anyone else foolish enough to offer," Anaxa gloats, "Willing prey. I'd be stupid to look the other way."
It's a jab, but a familiar, nostalgic one. Phainon smiles and, at Hyacine's guidance, begins arranging his armful of materials on the highest shelf.
Another day passes. Phainon waters Anaxa's plants again, and while he does so, a strange image flashes in his mind— golden blood trickling like water down his arm, delicately feeding his mint and saffron, nourishing the soil with the essence of life itself. Anaxa's relief and satisfaction; the way he sits up when presented with Phainon's flesh, the way he comes up with a subtly weird and academic way to ask if he's all right. It doesn't quite cross his mind when he's tending to Hyacine's garden, though. That's just regular water.
Hyacine isn't around on the tenth day, but Phainon has made it a habit to show up in the mornings and evenings when he has the freedom, and it isn't until the evening that he arrives.
Anaxa has risen. He's walking around, now— the strength he's gained from Phainon's blood is manifest. Life itself radiates from him, perhaps more than ever.
"Your diet has improved. Don't forget to write everything down."
Perhaps Anaxa can tell from the taste, or perhaps the resulting vigor, of Phainon's blood.
Phainon swallows hard, listening. "The humors are better aligned," he continues. "Less melancholic influence. The sanguine quality is richer. Though there's still a touch of excess phlegm. More ginger in your diet, perhaps. Red meat, wine, spices."
Phainon blinks at him. Then he laughs and wearily says, "If I didn't know better, professor, I'd think you were seasoning me."
"Maybe I am. It's remarkable how quickly dietary adjustments manifest in the blood's constitution. You're becoming an excellent study in humoral balance."
Another smile, though the entire situation makes Phainon's head spin. "I'm glad I can be of use in your research."
"Keep it up."
The apex of Anaxa's nose hovers against Phainon's jaw; he lingers in his hair, his deep intake of breath amplified against the shell of Phainon's ear.
"Are you actually ready? She's not here to count down for you," Anaxa whispers, taunting.
"That's fine. I don't actually need her to." Phainon's voice is low and quiet to match. He feels Anaxa's nails on his neck, tucking his hair to the back.
"I have a question for you, Phainon."
From this angle, Phainon can't quite see Anaxa directly, and Anaxa's face wouldn't be plainly visible, anyway. He hovers too close, out of his periphery, the puff of his breath touching him with every word.
"How does it feel?"
The pain? Phainon doesn't even notice the pain anymore.
His hand rests on Anaxa's waist. It's small, light. He crowds him, resting his weight on Phainon's shoulder.
"You're healthier than when I first found you, Professor. If a little bite is all it takes, then it's worth it to me. Hells, you could even bite me harder if you wanted to."
"I could even bite you harder?"
"Yes…"
"Get serious."
"I am serious!"
"Do you want me to bite you harder?"
"Do you want to bite me harde—"
"It doesn't make a difference to me!"
Even as they argue, their faces are close.
Anaxa leans away, his demeanor completely resetting. "Would it make a difference to you?"
Anaxa's head eclipses the sliver of light coming in from between the curtains; it catches in his silky hair, nearly translucent.
Carefully, Phainon says, "What do you think, Professor?"
When Anaxa finally bites him— right in the warm, fleshy base of his neck, his head resting against the back of the chair— Phainon releases a breathy, vocal sigh he'd been holding in all week. Just as Hyacine had instructed, Anaxa's fangs puncture quickly, but then he lingers like that, administering more pressure not through the solid force of his teeth but, rather, the suction of his lips.
The light from outside twinkles in Phainon's vision. That familiar feeling, that warm, elevating sense of relief, pride, euphoria rushes through him more intensely than ever— something to do with being a major artery, Anaxa had elucidated earlier, poking Phainon's neck at different points.
Anaxa's hand— no longer cool and numb and unfeeling, and quite articulate from days of nourishment, slides over Phainon's shoulder, and Phainon finds himself accounting for the imbalance, leaning over, supporting his chest. It's almost an embrace. Professor Anaxagoras is all but in his lap, hanging onto him, and what feels better than the venom is the ability to fulfill a need external to himself— a debt he's happy to clear.
His eyes flutter closed, and they don't sting. Those same lips linger against his skin.
It's quiet without Hyacine around to supervise, and while Phainon appreciates her knowledge and patience and misses her companionship, he knows that she's out and about, seeing patients and enjoying the baths again, and that she finally has the time and space of mind to do it because of him. A girl like that deserves to enjoy her own garden.
Anaxa bandages Phainon's neck this time. He pulls away after applying the seal and politely puts himself back together— in the golden haze of the sunset illuminating the gaps in the curtained room, it's as if he's fully himself again.
If this is truly a permanent transformation for Anaxa, perhaps little will change in the reclusive scholar's life. What will change for Phainon, trusted with such a guarded secret and honored with the ability to aid?
He makes to rise, but Anaxa halts him.
"Stay right where you are. I'm going to raid Hyacine's pantry for something you can eat. Something productive," he says, turning, his drapery and regalia fluttering behind him. "You deserve it."
Phainon does as he's told. He rolls his neck tentatively, feeling the numbness, the warmth, the burn, and the ghosts of Anaxa's fingers on his back, his jaw, his shoulders, his arms, his own hand.
"Alright."