Archive of Our Own

It was cold that awoke Sigma from his slumber, thin, icy fingers brushing against his cheek and sliding beneath his jaw, drawing forth a hitched breath.

It was shameful, really. Perhaps he should have recognized the shape of such digits, or the gentleness that they possessed, but his body reacted before his mind could, and the long-haired man, laying on his right side, jerked his head to the left, turning the rest of him along with it. His back hit his soft mattress, and the abrupt touch vanished, leaving something indescribable in its chilly wake: a faint, phantom-like sensation.

Sigma's eyes snapped open in a second. There was no hesitation; no flutter of his pale eyelids. Those traits, so very human, had been stolen from him the moment that he wasn't one, no longer playing the part of a monster in order to live, but living as one. Gaze flicking to the right, Sigma's white-colored eyebrows pinched in what was both irritation and confusion.

Fyodor Dostoevsky was at his bedside.

His hat—ushanka—was gone, revealing dark, disheveled hair, but unlike Sigma, who lied in a white, cotton nightgown, he stood dressed: white button-up shirt, white pants. It was not the outfit that bothered Sigma—white was pure; white was clean—but the fact that this was not a part of their routine. Fyodor did not come to him. He came to Fyodor, desperate for something to do: anything that would appease the man that had taken someone—something—like him in, despite the danger that it posed.

Distantly, he knew that glaring was disrespectful. Glaring would've gotten him slapped before, when he was still in chains—when he was still human, but Sigma couldn't stop himself. Fyodor, as odd as he was, hadn't hurt him yet, and the long-haired man seemed to hold onto that more than he liked to admit, his fixed, red—duller, as the days passed—eyes meeting benign, magenta ones. There had been a time when the color confused him—when he had thought that Fyodor and him were similar, and called out to him because of such, but he had been wrong.

Even so, he was still living.

He sunk into his mattress, white and lilac hair splayed across his silk, gray pillow. “What are you doing?”

The tips of Fyodor's lips curled at his accusatory tone. Sigma's stomach churned at the sight, even if it was unfair; even if it was wrong. “I was seeing if you were still alive.”

The statement itself was enough to make Sigma pause, the muscles in his face instantly relaxing. Many emotions rushed through him at once: surprise, frustration, guilt. He tried to swallow it all down with a quick, quiet gulp, schooling his expression and guardedly asking, “You thought I could be dead?”

“It was a possibility.” The answer came swiftly, the words smooth, enriched by the Russian accent that rolled off Fyodor's tongue. There was something about the way he said it—uncaring, unconcerned—that made Sigma's chest ache.

He didn't know what he wanted. Fyodor's indifferent tone bothered him, yet he knew that he would've felt sick had the man’s voice shook.

It wouldn't have happened, of course. Sigma hadn’t known the dark-haired man for long, but Fyodor Dostoevsky was the most composed person that he had ever met—even if that likely didn't mean much, considering his amnesia. Nonetheless, Fyodor was confident, he was perfect, and Sigma was merely a mess—a mix of contradictions.

Notice me, but don't stare.

Talk to me, but not for long.

Hold me, but, please, don't touch me.

It was almost childish, the way that Sigma’s teeth and hands clenched in unison. Something akin to poison filled his dry mouth, foul and scorching. He didn't understand why he was like this, only that he was. “I'm alive and well.”

Unfortunately, the rough words were not received happily. Fyodor's smile weakened, and although it was such a simple act, Sigma couldn't help but think that the man was disappointed in him. He couldn't determine if that hurt him or frightened him. Both possibilities seemed equally awful in a world where he should've felt nothing—because that was kinder, safer.

When Fyodor's response finally came, it felt much too late. Realistically, it only could've taken the man a few seconds to speak, voice clipped, but Sigma had always been a pitiful thing. “A transparent lie.”

“Huh?” It fell from Sigma's lips too quickly, slipping through the cracks, leaving only embarrassment and regret in its wake. If he had waited—if he had spared a second just to think, perhaps he could've handled the accusation with grace, but he was just a fool. Sometimes, it felt like he was nothing more than confused, like he was designed solely for bewilderment.

Was it pathetic, the way that Fyodor left him floundering?

Sigma had never thought that he was particularly stupid. He had made his fair share of mistakes, but before, when he was prey and not predator, it was his intelligence that had been so valued. He could learn what others couldn’t—discover what he wanted to.

He was so helpful; so special. That's what they had told him. Sometimes, it was expressed with an amiable grin. Others time, it may have been murmured, like some kind of secret: gentle, intimate. Looking back, the manipulation was so clear, but Sigma had only—always—been relieved to talk to someone without a gun to his head: an occurrence that was much too common.

That didn't mean that things were perfect. Threats always hung in the air, spoken or not, but when they weren't physical—when Sigma couldn't see them—he could almost ignore the way that his wrists stung in memory of the tight, silver cuffs he once had known: gone, but not truly. He could pretend that he was cared for, not owned. He could let himself feel safe, and hang onto every honeyed word and every delicate touch.

He could trust, and he could hate himself for ever doing it.

It hurt. He had so little memories, and most of them revolved around the miserable cycle that he had quickly fallen into. He would trust, he would be used, and then eyes that had once gazed at him so fondly would peer at him with malice, because there were always downsides to knowing too much about a person's crimes.

There was no use in trusting others. Sigma knew that now, but back then, he had wanted to believe that someone would be different, that even if they weren't good—even if their hands were stained with the blood of others, they could care for him—genuinely care for him—and he'd mean more to them than the skill that he possessed.

All he had done was escape from one person and move onto the next, each one so different, yet their intentions the same.

They wanted information.

Fyodor wanted nothing.

Even so, a shield stayed clenched in Sigma's unsteady grip. Maybe Fyodor couldn't want because his mind was too sharp. Other than Sigma’s vexation, there was no proof that he had lied. He was clearly alive, at the very least—or as alive as he could be, being what he was.

He sat up and looked at Fyodor, and the dark-haired man looked back, his expression unreadable, but not mocking. After a pause, the man bent his hand, flicking it out towards Sigma's left. “Scoot.”

It took a moment for the word to register in Sigma's mind, yet once it did, his breath hitched. With his lips parted, he quickly looked to the left of the bed then back at Fyodor, ignoring the rush of fuzzy pain that filled his head, pushing against the back of his eyes. “Dostoevsky—”

The taller man seemed to ignore his gawking, his expression unchanging. “Scoot over, Sigma-kun.”

It would've been easy to do, yet Sigma couldn't bring himself to move, frozen like a deer in the presence of a wolf. Did Fyodor not see how embarrassing his request was—how indecent it could be taken? After all, this was his bed—

It wasn't. The realization hit Sigma quickly—a bird slamming against a clear window. It was not Sigma's bed. It was Fyodor's. Everything was Fyodor's, and the man had simply granted him permission to use things.

In a way, he was Fyodor’s, too, wasn't he—because Fyodor hadn't hurt him?

The nauseating thought, as wrong as it felt, brought about a strange sense of comfort, mixed with obligation. Although hesitant, the long-haired man pushed his—Fyodor’s—gray comforter off of his lap and scooted to the left without another word, sliding against the white-colored sheets.

He could not take his eyes off of the man before him, glimpses of past memories flashing through his aching head. At the time, they had been sweet, but they were bitter now, putrid and spoiled. A starving man couldn't care when something was rotten.

That was, of course, until he had to live with the aftermath, and Sigma was doing that now, instinctively picturing the space behind him, imagining how swiftly he could leave the bed and exit the room—the building. Fyodor did not deserve these awful thoughts of his, yet Sigma did not deserve to have them. He watched carefully as the Russian man moved closer, slipping off his maroon-colored slippers and finally sitting where Sigma had once slept, legs folded against the mattress as he faced him. His gaze was focused in a way that was utterly Fyodor.

It made Sigma feel strange. He did not want to be looked at so intensely. It wasn't a good sign. It would only lead to hurt, but there was something nice about the way that Fyodor stared at him: cordial, unwanting. It wasn't like the people in his memories. It was different, but not unwelcomed, and it made the man's insides twist.

“Does it hurt?” the dark-haired man asked, voice but a murmur, and Sigma's breath hitched. For a moment, he wanted to scream.

It was so easy—too easy—to delude himself into thinking that Fyodor actually cared for him. He had already stepped into that lake the first day they had met, scared and desperate, despite being the one covered in blood. Each benevolent act only took Sigma a step deeper. He was going to drown; he was, and he would only have himself to blame.

But Fyodor's inquiry—caring or not—meant that he knew what Sigma had wanted to hide.

“Does what hurt?” the shorter man questioned in return, and the words came out unintentionally angry. Guilt shot through his veins, because Fyodor hadn't done anything wrong, but he couldn't apologize. He didn't want to—not truly, even if it was horrible.

Fyodor raised his right hand at the question, but it didn't meet Sigma's face. It gestured at him—around him—the movement confident. “Everything.”

It was not difficult for Sigma to recall the burn that had coated his form. Even now, it was still there, lightly buzzing beneath his flesh, but it got worse at night, like his body knew another day had passed only for him to fail.

The punishment was painful: much worse than a slap or a kick. His organs felt like they had been set ablaze, and there was an awful ache in his abdomen that left him weak. With his hands on his covered stomach, pushing and pushing, Sigma had curled his legs closer, clenching his teeth against white sheets.

He had gone to bed in tears.

It was too much. Everything was too much, and despite it all, he couldn't stop pitying himself. He had even begged for mercy, the words muffled and quiet, and if anyone had listened, their benignity came in the form of fatigue. Only sleep had stopped the overwhelming pain.

But that was too much to say, and it carried too much weight, so Sigma's response was simple, albeit sheepish: “I-I tried to sleep it off.”

“So, it does hurt,” Fyodor noted, no change in his expression, and it only confused that wanting part of Sigma further.

Did Fyodor care? Did he not care?

Sigma glanced down, embarrassed by more than just his pain. “Yes.”

The bed sheets rustled, the mattress dipped, and the dark-haired man leaned in. Sigma could feel him before he could see him, cold fingers pressing against his bottom lip before he could even look up.

“Open,” the man said, at the same time that Sigma jerked. It was purely instinctual. One moment, his hand was down, and the next, it was in the air, missing Fyodor's cheek after the man quickly tilted his head away—like he had already known what would occur.

Sigma's fist had collided with nothing but moving hair, and the dark strands swayed closer to Fyodor's neck, where they belonged, almost mocking in their motion.

Shocked, Sigma left his clenched hand hovering in the air, his eyes wide and his head full. Every thought of his was unfinished, rapid and pitchy.

He wanted to defend himself—somehow, some way—but all he could voice at first was something akin to a gurgle, and then, when he could finally pull his hand away and try to move further backwards: “Wait, please—”

A hand tugged at his white-colored nightgown, keeping him steady. It did not throw him backwards. It did not pull him forwards. It simply stayed in place, like an ancient statue, fixed and harmless, and Sigma faltered.

“You're going to fall,” the dark-haired man murmured, his accent only softening the words further.

Looking into Fyodor's eyes, utterly attentive and devoid of cruelty, Sigma worried that he already had.

For a long moment, he wanted to be hurt. He wanted to be slapped, insulted, or used—not because he welcomed it, but because he'd have a reason to loathe the man before him, and yet another one to run. It was disgusting, desiring something so wrong and knowing that he could handle it, and the very thought made Sigma's lips twitch. They began to wobble, and he could not get them to stop.

Fyodor did not laugh, but he observed Sigma's weakened defense and pointed his own weapon, delivering the blow in three simple words, uttered with absolute certainty: “You trust me.”

Sigma didn't want to—or, well, he did, some day in the future, where Fyodor's care was absolute and Sigma was left with no uncertainties, but not now. It was too early. It had to be.

But, even so, something in Sigma's stomach twisted at the thought of denying Fyodor's statement: distressing, nauseating. He was so foolish, yet he forced a quiet, shaky sigh all the same, attempting to calm himself as he gazed at rich magenta.

“I do,” the shorter man whispered, his words weak, dripping in immense shame. It was thicker than tar, warmer than a bonfire, and crafted entirely by him.

Hesitant, Sigma moved closer. At the sight of him, stable and willing, Fyodor's hand pulled away. There was no pretending—no possibility of playing the victim. When the long-haired man finally opened his mouth, shamefully glancing to the side, it was completely by choice.

The Russian man leaned in, poised, and Sigma's heightened senses caught a hint of tea: fragrant, floral. He held onto the scent like a tether, focusing on it so that he would not flinch, and his efforts earned him a gentle touch, a cold, pale thumb rubbing against the smooth surface of one of his fangs. When it suddenly pressed down, curious, Sigma's eyes snapped shut, and he forced himself not to breathe.

It wasn't like he needed to. There were many things that he didn't need to do—not anymore—but he had grown too accustomed to the sensation, and there was something about mimicry that felt right. Matching Fyodor's breathing—faint, but stable—Sigma could pretend that he was still human—that he belonged.

Truthfully, he hadn’t copied the man's breathing at first. He had constructed his own: a slow, constant thing, with only a few occasional gaps. It trembled, at times, but it had been somewhat normal. That was, of course, until a graphic nightmare had left him hyperventilating, gasping for air that he didn't even need, and he had found himself outside, wheezing in the heavy rain and tugging at drenched hair.

He had left the front door open—or, perhaps, he had closed it too hard. He couldn't remember. He couldn't think of anything but hands and blood—too much, too much, too much—yet Fyodor had appeared behind him all the same, breathing soothingly. It had taken many long, miserable minutes for Sigma to mimic the pattern, but he had, and he had kept it since.

He hoped that Fyodor hadn't noticed.

He hoped that if he had, that he found it endearing.

He hoped for too much, and he got too little.

“Your resistance is admirable,” the taller man commented, far too calm for someone whose hand was placed in the mouth of a beast. Sigma knew, firsthand, that people had died from less, but he knew that Fyodor knew that too.

That fact only managed to make his stomach churn. Should he be grateful for the praise? Should he feel mocked by the touch? He wasn't sure. He only squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his jaw twitching.

The seconds ticked away, slow and heavy, but Sigma was too distracted to count them. Because of such, he couldn't determine when Fyodor finally removed his hand, but he did, and he used it to cup Sigma's cheek, his palm sliding against soft skin and his attention lasting. Inquisitive, Sigma slowly turned his head, opening his eyes to look at the other.

“Even now,” the dark-haired man started, his words as smooth as silk, “you don't bite me. Why is that?”

The question, soft or not, made Sigma glare, its answer far too obvious—especially to someone like Fyodor. “You know why,” the long-haired man snapped, without any wrath.

Fyodor's lips curled faintly. “Humor me,” the man requested, warmth seeping into his words. It was little—Fyodor could not be warm—but Sigma was desperate, his insides cold, and his lips tightened.

“You're anemic.” It wasn't something Fyodor had told him, but something he could sense—could see: pale skin, cold hands, visible fatigue. Fyodor hadn't struggled to catch his breath, it seemed, but Sigma hadn’t left with him. He couldn't know how the man fared on trips, towns and towns away. “I'd kill you.”

The admission lingered in the air, suffocating, and Fyodor's expression shifted with the following silence. “You would rather die than have me die?” the taller man inquired after the pause, his tone unreadable, and his expression even more so.

Sigma's gaze flicked downwards in avoidance, landing on Fyodor's rising chest before glancing back up. Seeing it as a temporary distraction, he forced his own chest to rise, then fall, breathing once more. “Yes.”

“Yet you do not have to starve yourself,” the Russian man remarked, quicker this time, the sentence strangely gentle, if only a bit infantilizing. “You know that, too, yes?”

“I do.”

“So, what is the problem?”

The vampire paused, for only a moment. He had expected the question, like anyone would, but that didn't make the thought of answering any less exciting—not when something shamefully bitter had always lingered in his heart. With a whine, Sigma closed his eyes, managing the strength to mumble, “Gogol is weird.”

“Weird?” Fyodor repeated, as if the word wasn't enough—as if Nikolai Gogol didn't spin and blather, enter without knocking, and wear blood-stained gloves. Did Fyodor enjoy his childish tricks, then, or the constant questions with cruel answers?

“There's…” Sigma trailed off, his hands clenching at his sides. He wanted to be respectful; he truly did, but Nikolai hardly deserved respect—too barbaric, too eccentric. Opening his eyes, the long-haired man stared at Fyodor, his expression serious. “There’s obviously something wrong with him!” he hissed, a certain weight lifting from his shoulders. “You know it, too!”

The dark-haired man hummed, something akin to amusement gleaming in his eyes. Sigma could see it—truly see it, even with the masks Fyodor possessed—and something momentarily flickered between his ribs despite the man's next words. “How hurtful.”

That feeling extinguished, leaving room for discomfort. Quick to defend himself, because he wasn't mean, Sigma breathily voiced, “A n-normal person wouldn’t want to be some kind of blood bag.”

He was right. He knew that he was right, that Nikolai's delighted offerings were unusual, but Fyodor glanced at him at all the same, with eyes almost playful. Did he disagree, then—or did he simply find Sigma's prattling entertaining?

The vampire squinted, as if that would reward him with an answer, studying Fyodor's eyes and the eyebrows just above them. When no answer came, buzzing into his brain like a gnat, the Russian man used his palm to draw Sigma's face closer, the tip of his cold nose uncharacteristically pressing against Sigma's own. “You care for him,” Fyodor whispered, furthering Sigma's surprise, and something sank in the man's stomach.

A rebuttal formed at the tip of his tongue: rotten, heavy. In the past, caring had not saved him. It had only made things worse, ushering him towards ruin with a lantern in hand, but if it was not care, then Sigma wasn't quite sure how to word the feelings that he harbored.

All he knew, in a world where he knew little, was that Nikolai was not food to him. Irritating or not, the white-haired man meant much more than that, and it was immoral to treat him otherwise—to overlook his natural worth. He did not deserve the pain that came with drinking, nor the loss of something that was his, and his willingness was wrong.

No one should be so willing to place their life in the palm of another.

Sigma recognized how hypocritical that was.

“He's crazy,” Sigma whispered in return, in place of disagreement.

Silent, Fyodor pulled away, the movement slow, and his unoccupied hand slid towards Sigma's own. Sigma did not uncurl his loose fist, letting Fyodor's hand cup it, slender and cool, but he couldn't help but question the man's touch. Was it pity for the dying that had Fyodor so handsy?

Sigma's breathing faltered, anxiety beginning to bubble to the surface. Did Fyodor finally want something?

No, Sigma tried to tell himself, because Fyodor was different, but before he could panic, thinking of doors and shoes—though the latter was not necessary if there was too little time—the taller man spoke, his voice still gentle. “He cares for you, too.”

It took Sigma a moment to process the words, another one to think of Nikolai and his curled lips, and then he exhaled quietly, his covered fist twitching. Forcing himself not to anxiously bite at his cheek, embarrassed by his distress and the thought of a white-haired fool, the man quietly remarked, “He shouldn’t.”

“He won’t let you die,” the Russian stated, his words so certain that they were sickening—yet something disgustingly warm formed in Sigma's chest. It only heightened when Fyodor's thumb, bitten but soft, began to rub against his cheek. “If you won’t take from him,” the man started, and Sigma quickly realized that Fyodor was trying to calm him in advance, “I’m certain he’d think of other methods to sustain you.”

Sigma was not dense. He knew what that meant—knew what Nikolai did to people already. Even so, the thought of blood-filled bags or a fresh corpse at the front door—dragged, mangled—made him gulp. Hesitant, he finally said, “H-He’d endanger other people.”

Fyodor, for all of his physical comfort, could not provide the same verbally. He hummed in agreement, to Sigma's chagrin, and the shorter man couldn't even find pride in the man concurring with something he had said.

Instead, his eyebrows pinched. He thought of Fyodor's influence—his power, and he muttered, “And you'd let him?”

The dark-haired man paused, searching Sigma's gaze. Whatever he found—judgment, most likely—made him pull his hands away, placing them on his covered legs. “Gogol-kun does what he wishes.”

He'd listen to you, the vampire wanted to argue, but he knew that wasn't true. Nikolai could listen, but only if he wished to. His obvious favoritism of Fyodor had not stopped him from ignoring requests.

He had brought a frog into the house, once, despite Fyodor’s opinion on pets, its skin thick, discolored, and peeling. Sigma hadn’t even realized that it was a frog at first. It had laid on its backside in Nikolai's glove-covered palms, not moving, and the only frog Sigma had seen was a drawn one in Fyodor's countless books, its accompanying story incomprehensible.

“What's wrong with it?” Sigma had asked, when Fyodor hadn’t spoken.

Nikolai had only chirped: “It's dying.”

The white-haired man had worn dirty shoes in the house, too, tracking blood instead of mud. It had soiled the tiled floor that Sigma had recently scrubbed, and in his aggravation, the vampire had grabbed the nearby bucket, splashing the other with warm, soapy water. They had stared at each other in silence, then, eyes wide, until Nikolai had finally grinned.

There truly was something wrong with the man. It was irrefutable, etched in sharp teeth and nimble fingers. Regardless of what Fyodor believed—and wouldn't it be lovely, really, to know what he truly believed?—Nikolai was mad and ill-mannered. Because of him—because of his wrongful care for Sigma—more people could get hurt.

The thought swirled in the long-haired man's mind: twisting, tangling. Sigma was a vampire, yes, but he hadn't asked for anymore blood to be on his hands—transferred or not. What if Nikolai killed a mother or an adolescent? What if—?

“That's not fair,” Sigma said quickly—despite the drought developing in his throat—as if it would ease his guilty mind. His voice might've cracked. He wasn't certain.

Fyodor looked at him all the same, like a text worth analyzing. “This world is filthy, Sigma-kun.”

Sigma was not struck by some sudden revelation. There was no pang in his chest—no hitched breath; no startled gaze. 

He already knew that. 

How many times had he cried out because of his maltreatment? How many times had he yanked at pinching cuffs, or went to sleep unbearably hungry?

He didn't know the answer, and, truthfully, he didn't wish to. It would kill him, he thought, to be forced to acknowledge that what had happened to him was real—but to lump people together, especially when Fyodor himself proved that humanity could be kind, didn't feel right.

“I'm a monster,” Sigma argued, in spite of it all—his respect, his self-preservation. His voice had raised, not only in disagreement, but because of his words’ truth: shameful, sickening.

He had never felt more full than with his captors’ blood running down his chin.

At his statement, the dark-haired man sighed, the sound soft and mature: things Sigma was not, nor could ever hope to be. Then, just when Sigma thought that the other would grow aggravated: “I would like you alive.”

It must have been wrong, really, how quickly cold blood rushed to the shorter man's cheeks. Something squeezed at his lungs, restricting air that he did not need, yet it felt more like a saccharine caress than a harrowing grasp.

“You have never told me why,” the long-haired man remarked, once he could finally speak—and he, for all of his observant talents, had never attempted to find the answer himself.

To his shock, Fyodor's response was not gentle, but humiliatingly flat. “Why should I be honest with someone so untruthful?”

The question—so terribly valid—sealed Sigma's lips shut, embarrassment flooding through his veins like poison. He wished that it was, truly. He wished that it would kill him, and perhaps leave Fyodor guilty. It was such an evil thought—he had many evil thoughts, and maybe that was why no one ever granted his unspoken wishes.

When he did not fall backwards and die, to his despair, Sigma mumbled, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you not like Gogol-kun’s blood?” Fyodor asked after a short pause, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if the topic was not anomalous.

Sigma was hesitant to answer, despite the Russian knowing what he was and what he craved. His gaze flicked downwards, towards the gray comforter he really did adore, and his trembling hands clenched shut. “I do like it.”

“Do you wish to die?” Fyodor pressed, in a softened tone likely befitting of a teacher or a tutor: more things that Sigma had assimilated from books.

“I don't,” the vampire quietly replied, even if, only seconds ago, he had wished for his own demise. It was little things like that—those contradictions—which only proved that he was created wrong.

“Then, I’m certain that you know what you want.”

Sigma considered it—others’ well-being, his own. How much pain could he withstand? How long would it be until his hunger consumed him?

“Gogol’s blood,” the man answered, before he had even realized that he was speaking. His eyes widened slightly at his certainty, his chest swelling with guilt, but Fyodor had already heard him.

“Again.”

How was he not disgusted? Why was he never scared?

Sigma's hands clenched tighter—in uncertainty, in shame—short nails jabbing smooth flesh. “I want Gogol’s blood.”

The dark-haired man hummed, pleased. “Good.”

Sigma's gaze shot upwards, warmth flooding his pale cheeks once more. “But he can’t know that!” he shrieked.

“Oh.”

“O-Oh?” the vampire repeated, confused by the short, lacking reply.

“If you hadn’t wanted him to hear,” Fyodor started, his eyes sliding, “I would’ve told him to stop eavesdropping.”

“To stop—”

Sigma cut himself off, the realization striking him quickly: sudden, hefty. With his red eyes widening, he looked from Fyodor to the open door behind the man, far to the left, finally acknowledging the presence that he had failed to notice before.

“Oh,” Sigma repeated, almost just as flat: self-conscious, bewildered. How had he not sensed him?

With a laugh, the eavesdropper revealed himself, his blue-colored eye sparkling with pride, not shame. The other—a green-colored eye, one that Sigma had stared at far too long when he had first seen it, noting its color and its vibrance—was covered by a familiar white eyepatch. Fyodor and Sigma turned, adjusting themselves where they kneeled, and with his lips curled, the white-haired man stepped inside, his dull magenta slippers—the same color as his gloves—not matching his outfit. He stood in black dress pants, sporting a white button-up shirt with a ruffled collar.

Had he gone somewhere? Sigma wondered, before realizing that Fyodor was dressed presentable, too. Had they gone somewhere together?

“Ah, Sigma-kun!” Nikolai chirped, before Sigma could imagine their whereabouts, and if the mad man's gaze hadn't given his lack of remorse away, his tone certainly would have. “It's great to see you awake!” Then, with a sudden display of white teeth: “I happen to think you’re strange, too, you know.”

While Sigma knew that the words should've hurt him—after all, he desired nothing more than to feel like he belonged—he just felt overwhelmed, caught in a repulsive confession with blood so unbearably close. His eyebrows scrunched. His stomach twisted. He was doing it again, being so cruel, but he couldn't stop himself from voicing, “Leave.”

Disrespectful, Nikolai only grinned, peering back at him in amusement. He had always liked games. “No.”

Sigma, on the other hand, was not interested in playing. He was not a child—not a pet, not a toy; and not an exploiter. Irritation flared in the pit of the man's stomach: familiar, but different, somehow. Leaning forward, as if it would make his command more clear, Sigma repeated, “Leave.”

Like a caught criminal, the white-haired man put his hands up, his long braid swaying with the swift movement. “I can't!” he cried out, his lips still curled. “You, my dear friend, require my assistance!”

In response, the vampire clenched his teeth together, pointed edges and all, and he couldn't quite understand why. It was more than just being ignored. It had to be, considering the fact that he had been ignored in worse conditions, with tears in his eyes—they used to be lilac—and bruises on his arms. Nonetheless, something still buzzed inside of him—not that constant, burning pain from an unsatiated hunger, but emotions: anguish, irritation, bitterness.

He didn't need anyone's help. That was the problem, Sigma realized, and his stubborn mind did nothing to disagree. He had managed to escape. He had killed his way to freedom, using the very curse that his captors’ had given him.

These were not things done with aid, but things that he had managed on his own, and even if he knew, deep down, that without Fyodor's presence that day, there was a significant possibility that he could have faced yet another cruel death, Sigma clung to that small sense of self-sufficiency because he had very little else.

“I'm fine.”

Like Fyodor, Nikolai clearly didn't believe such a thing. His hands dropped, blithely clasping behind him as he tilted forward. “That's certainly not what I heard!”

Sigma scowled at the loud, honest words, wishing that Nikolai would return the look. The vampire's psyche, strange and confusing, longed for things that it shouldn't: Hate me so that I can hate you, too.

“You're about to die,” the taller man cheerfully remarked, but it was not hatred that soaked his words. “Again,” he tacked on, without any regard for Sigma's feelings. “Quite fascinating how that works, right?”

How insensitive, Sigma thought, his expression unchanging. He knew that he shouldn't have expected anything more—Nikolai was a serial killer, not a counselor—yet he found himself raising his voice nonetheless, trying to soothe a deep-rooted itch that only the white-haired man could manage to form. “You—”

The insult died on the vampire's tongue, like haunting victims that had come before. He could feel Fyodor's gaze: focused, piercing, and he turned to look at him, his own words suddenly inconsequential.

The Russian said nothing despite his different demeanor. His eyes were sharper. His limbs were stiffer. Fyodor himself was smudged calligraphy; a blurred photo. Sigma could not understand him, no matter how much he wanted to, but his critical expression was enough—enough for the embarrassment to form; enough for Sigma to try to calm himself.

He did not need Fyodor. He was certain of that, and he would mean it every time, but that didn't mean that he didn't value certain things of his—his approval, his space, his time.

Would anyone else have given Sigma access to their library, with books they thought special?

Fyodor had made him aware of such as he led him to the room, only after hearing that Sigma spent his downtime recollecting—or wishing that Nikolai would play cards with him, though he hadn’t uttered that aloud. He had simply listened as Fyodor spoke, his eyes soft, and his voice velvety and quiet, as if they were sharing a secret.

Some books were gifts. Others had merely piqued Fyodor's interest, and that piqued Sigma's in return.

Before Fyodor had opened the locked door, Sigma had already decided that he would at least try to read three books, hoping they would be enough to further understand Fyodor Dostoevsky. The moment the dark-haired man pushed the door open, Sigma decided that he would try to read as many books as he could, if only to stay in the cozy environment.

The lighting was different. The air was different, and Sigma had inquisitively ran his fingers along old book spines, knowing that pieces of Fyodor must have been tucked in a plotline, or paragraph, or sentence. The man had even given him recommendations, stacking books on his wooden desk, and Sigma had thanked him before he had even finished.

Sigma had begun to read the books, of course, but they did not provide him with any answers—unless Fyodor had been a possessive spouse, or had been tied to a stake by his priest's commands.

While Sigma could not find a character that reflected the taller man's demeanor, sometimes he liked—or perhaps hated—to think that answers sat in the room with him, hidden in the Russian texts that he could not read—and there were many. That was why he had flipped through some. That was how he had seen a frog.

Would anyone else have played a song for him, too: a slow, soothing cello piece that Fyodor could perform with his eyes closed—or let him silently sit in their office on a night when he couldn't stop shaking?

Perhaps the kindness was normal, but Sigma was too hurt to think it so, and he couldn't bear to lose it—not now; not like this; not over something that felt so miniscule.

It was a selfish, shameful thought, but he wouldn't let Fyodor's last touches be that of gentle manipulation. They would be affection or cruelty: things that wouldn't leave any lingering regret. Sigma could not settle for an in-between, and, truthfully, he didn't think that he could handle being ignored, or locked away, or whatever it was that Fyodor did to disrespectful people—monsters—that he would like alive.

So, Sigma would be careful. He would watch his tongue. He would—

The determined thought stopped abruptly, disrupted by the pure ridiculousness of it all. Why was he villainizing Fyodor, again, like he had done countless times before, just from a look alone? Why did he spiral so quickly?

What was wrong with him?

The long-haired man looked back at Nikolai quickly—at his nose, at his eye, at the scar that he never explained. Sigma was curious about it, sometimes, but he had scars, too—easily concealable—and he didn’t want to talk about them, either.

With only a fraction of hesitation, Sigma loosened his posture. He softened his expression. He did everything he could to feign respect, if only to maintain Fyodor's own, though, when he forced himself to think more clearly, recalling all of the times that he had bickered with Nikolai in Fyodor's presence, it would make much more sense for Fyodor to be irritated—could he truly get irritated?—by Sigma's own negligence, or the way he was insistently pushing what he wanted away, even after knowing that Fyodor wanted him alive and that this would be the easiest way to satisfy that want.

Was he inconsiderate?

No. He wasn't drinking from Nikolai because he was considerate.

That didn't mean that he was good at tolerating him, however. When Sigma spoke, it was normal—natural, but his pique still showed. Want did not overshadow disapproval. “What do you want?”

The eccentric man laughed, then, the sound short-lived and derisive. “You really don't listen, do you?” he remarked, as hypocritical as it was, and Sigma had to force his own tongue to stay down. “I wish to help you,” Nikolai explained, despite all of the harm that he caused, and he paused. His smile grew. He took another step forward. Then, as if it wasn't obvious what he meant: “Drink from me.”

“Why?” the vampire asked carefully, after a prompt moment of hesitation, where he had instinctively studied the other's visible eye. He couldn't sense any lies, but lies were little things, quick and easy to cover up.

Was this about freedom, again—a loss of the control that a human would strive for?

Somewhere, something desperate, selfish, and yearning murmured: Was this truly about helping him?

“Why not?” the taller man returned with a shrug, his response not helpful, and likely tailored as such. Fyodor and him were alike, in that regard: irritatingly indistinct. “Isn't that what you want—my blood?” He was using his words against him, Sigma realized, and he nearly flinched, his breathing faltering. “Come on, now. You've done it before.”

Sigma had, of course—when he was stronger; when he didn't know Nikolai all that well. Fyodor was insistent—delicately so—and Nikolai wasn't frightened, so what else was he supposed to do? He could only gain—a fresh meal; a compliment. He listened, a trait unfitting for someone of his kind, and he was gentle.

In fact, he had held the man's arm as if it was made entirely of porcelain: fragile, precious. It was more than Nikolai deserved, really, being as cruel as he was, but Sigma truly meant it when he murmured, “I'll be careful.”

Nikolai had smiled at him, then, but it wasn't wicked. There was something soft interwoven in his teeth, even if he looked just as mad as usual, his visible eye twinkling despite his role. “Mmm. Don't be.”

The pale skin had broken easily, simpler to tear than an apple, and warm, fresh blood had flooded Sigma's mouth. He wished that it had tasted nastier. He wished that it hadn't drawn him closer. He wished that it hadn't left such a good aftertaste: sweet in a way that no one else's had been.

He did want that blood again—of course he did—but that was the problem. It was spoken weakly, but after a long pause, Sigma finally said, “No.”

Nikolai's shock was obvious. It was engraved in his dilated pupils, in the slackness of his lips. He was a man denied an expectation, yet Sigma couldn't find any pride in it. After all, there was something unnatural in Nikolai's tone as he repeated, “No?”

“I won't drink from you,” Sigma explained, as if it wasn't obvious what he had meant. Nonetheless, his gaze wavered, something odd tugging at his cold heart.

The silence certainly hadn't helped. Nikolai paused, for just a moment, but that was enough for the air to grow heavy—for Sigma to glance at him once more. There was something soft in the human’s gaze—Sigma swore there was—yet the moment he focused on it, it disappeared like dew before the morning sun, departing with Nikolai's muted hum. The man's lips curled upwards. “You'll hurt my feelings, Sigma-kun.”

Why did that hurt?

A tight knot formed in Sigma's stomach, doused in frustration. He suddenly wanted to spit, or scream, or sob—and why? Because he wasn't being praised? Because Nikolai couldn't read his mind? He tilted his head down, focusing on the bedding, and hair—soft, lengthy—spilled over his shoulders. “Y-You don't understand—”

“Explain it, then,” Nikolai cut in, and Sigma could feel him step closer towards the bed, and picture the blank expression on his face as he did so.

“N-No,” the vampire said quickly, speaking louder than he needed to. Nikolai didn't get upset with him. Nikolai didn't get upset. “You won't—”

Something awful spread through Sigma's veins, hampering his tongue and numbing his brain. He couldn't find the right words. The shorter man winced, angry and embarrassed, and he was grateful that his long hair hid the act. “You'll—”

Despite it all, Nikolai stayed silent, and Sigma wanted to drown in that silence—to be pressed by every wave. He was doing it, again: wishing for a death that he didn't truly want, but he did want to lose consciousness, at the very least. Tears were springing to his dull eyes, and he wasn't sure how long he could keep them at bay.

He wouldn't be understood. He knew that, being something so evil.

But he wouldn't be understood if he didn't say anything, either.

Eventually, Sigma's lips parted. “I'll kill you,” he confessed in a whisper, certain. He could see it so clearly, and he hated how much it frightened him. “I haven't eaten in days. I won't know how to”—Sigma released a short, tremulous breath, self-disgust clawing at his dry throat—“stop myself.”

“I will stop you,” a voice chimed, but it wasn't Nikolai's.

“What?” Sigma asked quietly, lifting his head and turning it slightly, just enough to meet Fyodor's gaze. He had heard the Russian, of course—he was too quick to soak up every accented word—but he watched and waited, needing confirmation. It would be just like him, after all, to want something so badly that it drove him crazy.

“You said you trusted me,” the dark-haired man noted, his lips in a line, proving the authenticity of his previous statement without needing to repeat himself.

“I did,” the shorter man said, hasty. He anxiously bit at his bottom lip, too lightly to cut it. “I do.”

“Splendid!” Nikolai exclaimed, clapping his gloved hands twice. “Isn't it so lovely to have someone like Dos-kun around?” With that, the man flopped onto the bed in front of Fyodor, his legs criss-crossed and his lips curled, brimming with the elation that only the Russian man seemed to bring him: raw, intense.

“Ah!” Sigma shrieked, paying little mind to the others’ shared eye contact. His gaze was much lower. “Get your slippers off the bed!”

“Hmm?” Nikolai hummed, slowly looking away from Fyodor's face, just to tilt his head and grin. His braid shifted. “Just wash the bedding,” he stated, without any care. “Isn't that your job?”

Sigma's posture quickly straightened. “It's not a job—”

“But you wash your bedding,” the taller man reasoned, as if it mattered. “And Dos-kun's bedding.” His expression brightened. “And my bedding.”

“Which is a complete waste of time, because you hardly sleep here!” the vampire snapped, because it was true—because he had spent some nights waiting, pretending that he wasn't. It was none of his business, really, where Nikolai went, but updates on his absences could've been nice.

Nikolai was not nice.

After all, he paused, like Sigma had told him a secret. Maybe he had. He didn't know. All he could do was sit still, as Nikolai's vexing voice asked: “Do you miss me when I'm not here, Sigma-kun?”

No, Sigma wanted to hiss. Yes. I don't know.

Noticing Nikolai's absence didn't necessarily mean that he missed him. Wanting to play cards was not a clear sign of longing. It would've been better to say that Sigma did not yet understand what it meant to miss someone. What could he have missed? Someone's false words? Someone's gun at his head? The past he could recall was filled only with individuals that he could not miss. He could've said that, yet his pride blocked the words.

Instead, he voiced, “I should just kill you.”

He did not mean it, yet something gleamed in Nikolai's visible eye, and the white-haired man turned his head. As if something had sparked inside of him, Nikolai leaned forward, bringing his nose closer to Fyodor's. “He should just kill me,” he told him, amused.

Fyodor was not deaf, but he indulged him all the same—even if Sigma had always wished that he didn't. “Should he?” the dark-haired man inquired, as if the topic was normal.

Nikolai pretended to think, for a moment, before answering, “I'll let you decide!” His blue eye sparkled. Fyodor smiled faintly. Sigma grimaced.

“That's not funny,” the vampire cut in, curt.

Nikolai exhaled in place of a laugh, the breath short and heavy. Sigma felt it just as much as he heard it, want entangling their wicked souls, and he watched as Nikolai took off his left slipper, dramatically tossing it onto the floor nearby. The other one followed, silently plummeting.

Embarrassed, Sigma averted his gaze. “Thank you,” he mumbled, although the words made his empty stomach knot. It had always been much easier to say them to Fyodor than it was to Nikolai—for a mix of reasons, he supposed.

“Isn't there something else you'd like to thank me for?” the taller man teased with a tilt of his head and a lilt to his voice.

Sigma glanced at him once more, his lips in a line, but lacking the coldness of his magenta-eyed savior. “I'll thank you for the blood only after I've had it.”

“Dos-kun spoils you,” the other huffed, almost childishly. “You were more appreciative before.”

That wasn't true. The vampire didn't think that it was, at least, and even if it was, he hadn’t known Nikolai, and he hadn't known Fyodor. It was smarter to be respectful. He still was respectful—somewhat, when he wasn't overwhelmed. Trapped in his own shoddy mind, he found that he often was. Nonetheless, before he could argue, Fyodor spoke for him. 

“He's growing more comfortable.”

Nikolai paused at the firm statement, his gaze lingering on Sigma's sheepish expression for a second too long before he turned his head. “A pity,” he remarked, smiling at the dark-haired man, but the edges of his lips looked different.

“Come closer,” Fyodor told him, as Sigma furrowed his brows in confusion, trying to understand something unspoken from a man gone mad. With a light push of his hands—frail, pale—the Russian slid backwards a tad, his shirt pressing against the gray pillows that morphed at his presence.

“Hmm?” Nikolai hummed, and if he was anyone else, perhaps the sound would've been nice.

“And turn around.”

Sigma blinked quickly when Nikolai glanced at him, a playful grin fixed on his face. He found Fyodor's words humorous, clearly, yet Sigma wasn't quite sure why, and the vampire pursed his lips in place of a response.

Satisfied by the sight, or the opposite, Nikolai looked at Fyodor. “Your instructions could be clearer.”

“Then,” Fyodor started, his voice smooth and rich, “I am lucky you are smart.”

“How kind!” the white-haired man chirped, and it did not go unnoticed how he took the compliment for granted. He did not cup it in his hands and consider its weight. He merely tossed it aside—as if Fyodor was not the brightest man that he had ever known; as if the man's compliments did not taste like green tea and heat his insides: potent, burning.

Was that freedom—or a closeness to it, rather?

If so, it seemed dreadfully rude.

Yet Nikolai turned, and flopped, and none of it mattered. The back of his head hit Fyodor's covered thighs, the Russian's white pants doing little to hide his leanness, and Fyodor raised his hands, gently tucking Nikolai's thick hair behind his ears and gazing down at the man that beamed up at him.

All of it—the look; the touch; the position—was the picture of closeness. They had known each other for years, Sigma knew, although his cautious prying had never led to Fyodor telling him how the pair had met. Asking Nikolai was always a possibility, but Sigma didn't want to, knowing that he could be lied to. Ignorance was better than misconception.

Even now, ignorance would be best, because Sigma took in their positions, as intimate and casual as they were, and he finished a puzzle that he wasn't aware he was working on. A paperweight landed on his parched tongue, yet he still managed the strength to ask: “Can't we do this differently?”

“Hmm?” Fyodor hummed, as if the very idea was entirely inconvenient. “This position would make it easier to guard him and push you away.”

There was truth to that, of course, yet that didn't make it any less embarrassing. “B-But I'll have to be—”

—on top of him. The long-haired man could not bring himself to say it.

“You're more concerned about this than your own demise?” Nikolai cut in—and of course he would be able to say such a thing, when he seemingly possessed no shame at all.

Nonetheless, to have Nikolai of all people treat him so trivially, as if he was crazy, brought about a nauseating sense of humiliation. The vampire could not speak, his eyes wide, and Fyodor did not save him.

Nikolai paused, for a moment, looking at the wall across from him, the circular mirror that used to reside there long gone, tucked behind a shelf after a shameful meltdown caused by the lack of a reflection. Sigma could see something click in the man's mind before he voiced it, the tone of his words entirely wrong. “If I cut myself, you'll come to me regardless.”

In an instant, concern lodged itself in Sigma's throat, its sharp, uneven nails clawing at whatever it could reach and drawing forth a hitched breath: obvious, painful. “Don't,” Sigma said, much too quick—much too loud.

“Then, do it on your own,” Nikolai stated, chipper, like he hadn't threatened to harm himself. “I'm not troubled, you know.”

Sigma clenched his trembling hands at his sides. “O-Okay,” the vampire responded, accepting his own overthinking—his tendency to make things more intimate than they truly were. He had always been clouded by want—for the touch he could get; for the words he could hear—and it was utterly pathetic.

“Everything will be fine,” Fyodor murmured, his accent notably thicker, and his thin hands confidently trailed to the ruffled collar of Nikolai's shirt, filled with intent.

In respect, Sigma looked away, but he couldn't stop himself from picturing it: nimble digits undoing each button with such care, patient and precise. Was it nice, accepting that touch—or did it feel like being prepared as an offering?

There was a quiet rustle of fabric, and Sigma imagined Fyodor gently sliding Nikolai's shirt down his shoulders, both of their lips curled softly at the edges. He wondered what it felt like to be taken care of without clenching his teeth. He wondered what it felt like to be exposed and not feel used.

Seconds passed before Sigma finally glanced in the pair's direction, and they looked at him like they had expected it—had waited for it. Bashfulness thrummed beneath the vampire's cold flesh, but he could not tell if it was because of their gazes or because of the way his eyes lowered, sweeping across Nikolai's milky skin. The man's button-up shirt wasn't completely undone, but it was open enough—enough to reveal the softness of his stomach; enough for his left shoulder to remain completely bare, white fabric bunched at his elbow.

“Well,” Nikolai started, when Sigma didn't speak, “do I look good enough to eat?”

“Umm.” It was all he could voice, as anxious as he was. Only after focusing on Nikolai's expression—so prideful—did the purred comment hit him in its entirety. The shorter man huffed in disapproval. A second passed.

“Sigma-kun,” Fyodor suddenly said, his tone gentle.

Sigma tensed nonetheless, possessing a firm idea of what he would be told. Even intelligence was not needed, yet he played pretend all the same, feigning uncertainty as he mumbled, “Yes?”

The Russian man's eyelids dropped ever so slightly. “Stop stalling.”

Expectation had done nothing to halt the embarrassment that shot through the vampire's veins. He was stalling. There was no use in denying something so obvious, but, for whatever reason—and wasn't that a lie, when he knew why he did it?—he felt the need to defend himself.

“I've only taken from his arm,” Sigma stated, the words carefully crafted. Nikolai was difficult to respect, certainly, but his humanity was not—even if the white-haired man wanted it stripped from him entirely.

“But I assume blood would test better here, yes?” the dark-haired man remarked, and despite voicing an inquiry, he said it with such certainty that it was frightening. “This is closer”—Fyodor's bitten fingertips raked against Nikolai's skin before halting at the man's exposed chest, his smooth palm swiftly pushing downwards—“to the heart.”

Nikolai exhaled sharply, and Sigma felt it, again: a breeze through the wheat field of the throat. He almost pitied him. Fyodor's hands were especially cold, but perhaps they felt different against skin brimming with life. It was difficult to believe that, however, when Nikolai's touch had always felt warm.

But Nikolai said nothing. He didn't seem to care—about the pressure above his heart; about Fyodor's dehumanizing words; about the monster that was going to eat him and the man that was going to watch. For a moment, Sigma wondered what cruel thing had made Nikolai act such a way—and then he realized how wrong it was to suddenly care when he was going to be just as cruel, even if Nikolai wanted it.

Especially then.

“I don't care about taste.” The sentence left Sigma's lips quickly, delivered with the confidence of a man—a monster—telling the truth.

He had eaten stale bread. He had eaten rotting fruit. He had chewed at his calloused palms and ate the little skin he could tear off. He had swallowed something he didn't even want to think of: warm, salty.

He did not care about taste.

And if he didn't want Fyodor to think that he was greedy, too, what then?

“Sigma-kun,” Fyodor repeated. There was nothing different about the way it was delivered, but the vampire knew that it was more stern. Like unveiling a gift Sigma had already seen, Fyodor's hand left Nikolai's chest, tucking Nikolai's hair behind his ear again, despite none of the strands having escaped.

It was a message: I will cut him, and he will let me.

Sigma bit his bottom lip and crawled forward, but not before thinking, He'd like to cut you, too.

Fyodor made no attempt to hide his satisfaction at the sight, meaning that he wanted Sigma to see it, the rubellites of his eyes catching a sudden light. He even let his lips curl, just far enough to reveal a sliver of his white teeth, but it was a bigger smile than the one he had given Nikolai.

Did he think that it'd ease Sigma's tension?

Did he know that it worked?

It was only then that Nikolai squirmed against Fyodor's thighs. It was nothing more than an adjustment of his head and a slight movement of his right shoulder, but it was obvious that he hadn't meant to do it, the act too casual. Nikolai didn't do well staying still, Sigma noted, not for the first time, and he watched as Fyodor's gaze lowered to the man in his lap. Sigma looked down, too, attempting not to think of the fact that Nikolai was trying to be still for him.

As if sensing the realization, Fyodor looked back up at him, still smiling. Sigma met his gaze. “You'll feel much better,” the Russian told him, and it was a double-sided tool, solidifying Sigma's decision while informing Nikolai that the wait was almost over.

“I know,” Sigma responded, and he hadn't meant to say the words so softly.

When he could move no further, Sigma looked down at Nikolai's face: eyepatch and all. He leaned in—trying to remind himself that this was not intimate—with a question in his dull eyes: a silent wish for permission. Nikolai's smile grew in confirmation.

So, Sigma did what had been expected of him. Gradually and awkwardly, he raised himself, draping his left leg over Nikolai's form. The fabric of his nightgown caught at his knee. Quickly, Nikolai grabbed at his hips to support him, and Sigma flinched hard in his hold.

Don't touch me, the vampire almost spit, before stopping himself. His right palm crashed down onto the bed. With a heavy, panicked breath, Sigma jerked his knees closer to Nikolai's legs, scooting upwards and supporting himself on his palms.

Nikolai laughed. Sigma glared, cold blood rushing to his cheeks. Wanting to remind the other that he was the one enclosing him, the shorter man went from his palms to his forearms, bringing himself closer, their chests almost touching. The look in Nikolai's visible eye—focused, excited—told him that it was not a punishment.

“Ooh, my heart's pounding!” Nikolai said it like a madman, but Sigma noticed something—something lighter. There was a mix in the white-haired man's gaze: madness and sanity. The vampire's expression softened.

Curious, although he suddenly thought that he felt it, Sigma leaned down, pressing his right ear over Nikolai's bare chest. The sound of a beating heart greeted him, thumping at a quick, steady cadence.

“I feel it,” Sigma quietly declared, and his shock was etched in every word. He hadn't expected to be told the truth, but Nikolai's heart did race—thump, thump, thump. The sound echoed in his ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. There was so much blood beneath him. Thump. Thump. Thump. He just wanted to—

Sigma's breath hitched, and his head snapped away. That was the only warning he gave before his mouth crashed against the meat near Nikolai's shoulder, sharp fangs piercing the smooth, milky skin. Nikolai groaned, loud, his gloved hands on Sigma's hips tightening instinctively, keeping the monster close.

Blood and serum seeped from the wound like juice from a fruit—silky, sticky—and Sigma mouthed at the warm, broken skin, sucking in all that he could. Something sweet danced across his tongue, so intense that it made his chest ache, and it was more wonderful than he remembered.

He was being given so much, and he wanted it all, white and lilac hair spilling over him and his white-haired nuisance like a curtain.

There was a sudden shock beneath the vampire's skin, and the feeling built—growing, growing, growing. He was a child handed too many toys and not knowing where to start. It was overwhelming, wanting to play with everything—wanting to take whatever he could.

Soon enough, the feeling became intolerable, forcing Sigma to act, and the long-haired man lifted his blood-covered lips. With a slight movement of his head, he dug his teeth into Nikolai's shoulder, earning another pained sound. He returned it with a whine of his own, the blood too good not to.

After all, it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He knew, truthfully, that was only because he had been starved while human. He had seen sweets, of course—Fyodor had shown him cake, and muffins, and cookies—but he had tasted them too late. They were bland. Everything was bland. Everything, that was, except for blood.

Nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had ever filled his stomach the same way—and he was starving. The thought made tears spring to his eyes, despite the fact that he was feasting.

He was so hungry—and he hated hunger. He hated deserts. He hated exploitors. He hated guns.

He hated what he was, and he hated that it saved him.

As if to calm his swirling thoughts, as well as the sensation forming beneath his skin again, Sigma pulled away with pinched eyebrows, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. Droplets of fresh crimson fell onto the man below him, whose breathing paused in preparation.

Sigma bit at the middle of his chest.

The air left Nikolai's form like an unspoken curse. It was followed by a noise pulled from the back of his throat: quiet, high. He pushed back against the man that supported him, and Fyodor's hands moved to tightly cup the sides of his head.

Sigma noisily sucked the man's blood through the crevices of his teeth, the tip of his blood-soaked tongue pressing against the barely-tugged flesh. He could feel something begin to rush to his eyes—that red color returning, bit by bit. He could feel the ache in his abdomen begin to leave, and the remnant fires in his organs extinguish.

It felt so good—and it was all because of Nikolai. Nikolai, who he could not bring himself to like. Nikolai, who he might've already had.

The thought made Sigma's head spin. Attachment was a blade. Attachment was a noose—but Nikolai tasted so good. Each bite hurt, clearly, eliciting a reaction, yet the taller man took them nonetheless—for him, Sigma realized, although he had always known it.

“He cares for you, too,” Fyodor had told him.

Sigma sobbed, with sugar on his tongue.

But Nikolai was still not nice. At Sigma's sound, seemingly brought on by nothing but feeding, the man began to laugh, his chest shaking. When Sigma sobbed again, buried against his warm skin, the white-haired man looked upwards, loudly exclaiming, “He's crying!”

Sigma did not look up to see Fyodor's reaction. He didn't want to. He didn't think that he could handle it if Fyodor was smiling—or if he took in Sigma's streaming tears and satisfaction filled his eyes: the pride of a man who knew him too well.

In retaliation, Sigma let go of Nikolai's skin, dragging his open lips to the right. They left a red streak across the taller man's rising chest—gory, ravishing art. Sigma didn't spend any time appreciating it. Instead, stopping near Nikolai's heart, even if it was a bit cruel, Sigma huffed against the skin—and although it was shaky, wrecked by his weeping, he knew that his breath was inhumanly cold. Only then did he dig in, listening to Nikolai's laughter transform into gargling, another groan following the sound.

Yet the vampire still cried, and the human still cackled—after once again finding the strength. Sigma sobbed, sucked, and swallowed with the vigor of a creature who didn't need to breathe. His chest swelled, flooded with contradicting emotions, each one hot despite his cold core. Gulping, Sigma detached his teeth from the man below him, only to swipe his tongue against the fresh wound he had made.

The flavor never faded. Perhaps that was the most wonderful part.

Sigma wanted to believe that he was unselfish, yet he lapped at Nikolai's skin like he was anything but. It was better to do so, he thought, than to let everything go to waste. Nonetheless, he couldn't pretend to dislike it, feverishly moving his mouth against Nikolai's marred, milky flesh.

It was messy. Everything was messy. Blood stuck to everything—Sigma's chin; Sigma's nose; the front pieces of his hair. The bites on Nikolai's chest cried, red tears trailing downwards, staining his button-up shirt. The bites higher up marked the sheets behind him.

Sigma hoped there wasn't blood on Fyodor's pants. He didn't attempt to look.

He knew that he would have to wash things nonetheless, but it was difficult to think of such a thing when Nikolai's laughter continued to echo throughout the bedroom: noisy, unyielding. Sigma didn't understand how his cries could be so funny—unless that wasn't the only thing that Nikolai found humorous. Was it the touch itself? Was it the location? Was he laughing as a distraction?

Confused, Sigma pressed the tip of his tongue against a deep indent. Sanguineous fluid ringed the muscle. Nikolai gasped through a laugh.

“Dos-kun!” he wheezed, his smile wide. His gaze on the Russian was undeniably firm. The coil of frustration in Sigma's stomach only grew.

Was Nikolai mocking him? he wondered. Was this a cruel joke he could never understand? Was this always the plan—giving Sigma blood, just to laugh at him for accepting it?

Sigma hadn’t asked for this.

Sigma had never wanted to be this way.

Angry, the vampire snapped at skin close to Nikolai's axilla, clenching his jaw. The taller man yelped in return, sucking air through his teeth and squeezing Sigma's hips. He finally laughed harder, the sound trembling. Sigma sipped harder, for fairness’ sake.

Once again, Nikolai's blood, better than it had any right to be, poured into the shorter man's mouth. It hugged his teeth. It caressed his throat. It soothed him—and not just physically.

Because Nikolai had given him this. Because Nikolai didn't have to. Because he might've been spiraling again, trying to read the man's actions as if he was normal, while knowing that he was anything but.

After all, didn't Nikolai laugh at a lot of things?

This was a kindness, he thought, still sucking. His crying had stopped. Fyodor had treated it as such, and Fyodor had never led him astray.

In an instant, something changed. Sigma didn't know what it was, at first, drowning in Nikolai's sweetness and the sound of his own thoughts, but he felt it: a sudden shift in the air; an unmistakable tension. Without warning, hands shoved at his shoulders—or maybe there had been a warning, because when had Nikolai's laughter softened so greatly?

The vampire immediately pulled away with a whine, blood dribbling down his chin. In concern, he raised himself, letting Nikolai's weakened arms drop, and balancing his weight on his shins while the man below him bore five of his marks.

His red-colored eyes were wide. He wasn't certain as to why—but he realized it, when Fyodor looked at him, and the first thing he noted was that he wasn't hit.

It was better that way, really, and not just for his sake. The last time he had been seen drinking from someone, and was struck in retaliation, he had drained them, too.

The dark-haired man leaned forward, still smelling of fresh tea. Sigma's gaze flicked between the man's magenta-colored eyes, trying to read something that he could not understand—like those texts in Fyodor's library, written in a language he did not know. As if he perceived Sigma's thoughts—and he really did, sometimes—the Russian man raised his hand, cupping Sigma's left cheek with his palm. The skin was cold and soft. Hesitantly, Sigma scooted a bit closer, being careful of Nikolai's form.

Fyodor blatantly focused on his eyes. Sigma supposed he would, too, if something so easily seen could give so much information away. He tried not to scowl. He tried not to think about how much deeper the color of his irises were—a color, he and Fyodor knew, that could be redder.

The thought seemed to amuse Fyodor, who curled his lips. “Good boy,” he murmured, his rich accent rolling off his tongue. He slowly dropped his hand, leaving a slight chill on the vampire's skin. Sigma didn't understand why he was being praised for pulling away so quickly, when that had always been the plan, yet something lit inside him nonetheless.

He did not know why he did it.

Perhaps it was the words, forcing memories to the surface. Perhaps it was the trust. Perhaps it was a feeble attempt to replace the arising faces in his mind with someone kinder, but Sigma leaned in, brushing his lips—wet, bloody—against Fyodor's.

It was gentle—quick, chaste. Fyodor didn't move against him. Sigma hadn’t wanted him to. He figured, if he could ignore the pleasant, capering sensation blooming in his ribcage, that he could treat this as nothing more than a gift of gratitude.

Because he was grateful. Because even if he wished for more in many aspects of his life, he knew what it was like to have nothing at all.

He pulled away, and he forced himself to smile softly, even with the cold heart pounding in his throat. Fyodor blinked at him.

He should've known things could never be that simple—not with Nikolai Gogol.

“What about me?” the man asked, his voice notably weaker. He sounded hurt—as impossible as the vampire thought that was—and Sigma watched as satisfaction flicked across Fyodor's face, only to soften just as quickly. Confused, Sigma looked down. He noticed, at some point unbeknownst to him, that he had dripped blood onto Nikolai's nose.

“What?” the shorter man questioned in return—shocked, loud—because Nikolai's words implied that he wanted to be kissed by him, and if he thought about that fully—about someone wanting him without reason; about getting closer to a purpose—he'd start shaking.

“Hmm?” Nikolai hummed, feigning confusion. He pushed the sound, presenting energy that he didn't have—or maybe did, something extra engraved in his exasperating soul.

“You…” Sigma jutted out his bottom lip, decorated in blood. “You laughed at me.”

A short, lively exhale left Nikolai's lips, similar to the sound he had made when taking off his dull magenta slippers. “You're very endearing, Sigma-kun.”

It wasn't much of an explanation, as uncharacteristically kind as it was—mocking or not. Mulling over the sentence, Sigma pressed his tongue against the membrane of his cheek. He showed no sign of giving in, something obvious to the other, who looked into his eyes.

“That's”—Nikolai huffed—“not fair! To pick favorites so blatantly—how cruel! I am the one laying here, you know!”

There was much that Sigma could have said to that—much to nitpick, and nitpicking came easily. Instead, after a moment, he moved his tongue, voicing, “You're right.”

Nikolai grinned, like the cat that got the cream. There had never been any anger in his voice to begin with. “I am.”

Carefully, Sigma scooted backwards, then leaned back down, his forearms meeting smooth, white sheets. He was more graceful, this time around, bringing his face closer to Nikolai's without wide eyes and a hitched breath—panic from crashing downwards. Gingerly, because it would be a waste not to, the vampire licked the blood off Nikolai's nose in one swift swipe. He swallowed it, pulling away.

“Thank you for the blood,” he whispered, not forgetting what he had told the other. He didn't give him any time to respond. Instead, albeit nervously, Sigma connected their lips with the gentleness of a clothes moth, as light as a breeze.

Nikolai kissed back immediately, much differently. With a whine that buzzed against Sigma's blood-stained lips, reverberating through his monstrous soul, the white-haired man pulled Sigma closer, hands hastily grabbing at the back of the vampire's head and tugging him downwards.

Sigma collapsed, unprepared. The man fell against Nikolai's chest, open, pouring wounds meeting his nightgown and soaking the white fabric. The pair gasped, for two different reasons. Sly, Nikolai took the opportunity to deftly slip his tongue between Sigma's parted lips.

The vampire should've been scared. He should've been mad. That was how he always was when someone touched him—glaring, yelling, attacking—yet he didn't fuss, and he didn’t pull away. Strangely, all he wondered was if Nikolai tasted himself—his red essence coating Sigma's mouth, sugary sweet. Strangely, Sigma wondered if Nikolai tasted him, and if he truly tasted as good as the others had said or if they had only fed him flustering lies.

Did he taste differently, no longer being human?

Sigma wanted to know, yet at the same time he didn't—and had no way of proving it. It didn't make any sense. He didn't make any sense. All he was certain of was the blaze in his stomach, undeniably good.

Nikolai swiped at his tongue and his teeth. Fyodor grabbed at a strand of Sigma's silky, lengthy hair, twisting it on his slender finger: an act Sigma was only faintly aware of.

The vampire sighed through the hungry kiss, content, bringing his hands up to cup Nikolai's cheeks with the same care Fyodor had shown him—if only a bit more enthusiastically. He felt the Russian watch him with keen, focused eyes, and rocked his tongue against Nikolai's as the man took, took, took.

And despite being the vampire, Sigma felt like the pair would one day be the ones to devour him.

And, as shameful as it was, with their bodies so close, he would revel in every moment of it.