Chapter Text
As far as he’s concerned, Alfred does not hate spiders—or any type of bug, insect, and everything else nature has to offer. If anything, he’d even say he has a positive opinion on them. It doesn’t bother him how they can seamlessly shimmy their way into the smallest cracks of his flat, or the way their legs quietly crawl their way up, the feeling less than the tickle of a feather.
He wouldn’t be uncomfortable having to get rid of those small creatures in his house, because at the end of the day, it was what he had to do to keep things clean, no?
That was the way he was told to live, and how he’d kept this life of his in the first place. It was what he was told to do when he was a child, when his older brother constantly lectured him and his siblings on the importance of cleanliness in their small, shared, cabin. It was what he’d read while signing up, and what he heard thousands of times at his job. It was the slogan he carried everyday, one that could be used limitlessly.
His job was not an insignificant one, but niche and secretive nonetheless.
He kept the cities—no, countries—clean of dirty pests. Pests that were not given to man from nature, but rather made from man, for man. A rather invasive species as well, spreading from the forests of folklore, to diseases on humans, and now, the present.
Put simply, he hunted down and killed vampires.
Alfred works nights on the frontline alone, where he uses intel gathered by his fellow coworkers and hunts down the vampires. He works until he can finally catch the targeted vampire and until he finds his arm slashing a weapon across a vampire’s neck. And even when his job is technically done, he works until he can gently place the withering corpse into a small grave, where he whispers prayers into his cross necklace, praying for them to find a way to peace.
He does this from midnight, to when the bright glow of the rising sun is visible from his closed eyelids.
When Alfred starts walking back to the headquarters in plans of writing his report, he takes time to notice the smaller things.
He thinks about the refreshingness of the shower he’ll take when he gets home, relishing in the thought of washing out the grease in his golden hair and lathering soap onto his sore muscles. What he’ll write in the report. How a ladybug landed on the sleeves of his shirt and how he almost missed it. And most often, his mind takes him to the vampires of this place.
He gets reminded of every feature a vampire carries. Its sharp canines, used to sink into necks and to drain one of their own blood. Their skin, so sickly looking caused by the lack of sunlight in their way of living, but the same skin that looks so lively at night, thriving and basking in the blue-white light of the moon. A face so human and easily mistakable for one, if not for its unwavering aura that makes you want to approach it, let it drink the life out of you and let you die in the bony hands of such a creature. There is not a single vampire that does not have the same features as the ones before it.
A dangerous thing it was, this creation of man, and what a waste of such captivatingness, because Alfred will always know deep down how he hates their bloodless guts.
As much as Alfred can care for something, to give it time, to show it a smile, he knows how he feels. Sometimes, and most of the time, the smiles he shows are genuine, sincere, but the rarest smile, only the dead eyes of a vampire have seen, are shown in front of a hidden parade of pure hatred. It’s the smile he gives while repeating prayers of peace and rest.
This train of thought stops as he watches a tall building with, “The Beautiful World” plastered in a bold font on the top of the entryway creep into his view. The entire building looks so fancy and rich with its exterior kept so shiny and clean, Alfred almost wonders how he’d landed a job in this place. He enters through the two grand glass doors, careful to not slam them when he closes them. He shines his signature toothy grin to the familiar secretary before taking a turn into the elevators.
Once it’s finally the right floor, Alfred exits and continues walking until he reaches his private office.
The room is rather spacious, but with Alfred’s rank in the company, everyone would say he’s quite deserving of it either way. Following that, the company allows him to add whatever decor he finds to be suitable.
It’s slightly reminiscent of a college dorm room, the place being kept rather minimalistic. In the corner next to a large window rests a glazed wood desk, paired with a black office chair for comfort. With those two things, it’s not a surprise that such an active person like Alfred would get bored easily. Alfred vaguely remembers the time he had bought a couch from a random stranger, a nice lady though, off FaceBook Marketplace. That couch now lays against the wall on the right, paired with a low glass coffee table. Beneath those are simple, oval-shaped rugs.
The place looks fairly lived in, despite it only being used for Alfred to write reports post-mission and to review information given to him pre-mission, but even those take quite long so it’s easily justified. There’s a pair of house slippers messily thrown about across the room, as well as one or two articles of clothing placed in the same manner. An organized space still, even with the subtle mess, just like Alfred likes it.
Treating it as if it were his own house, Alfred removes his tattered shoes and places his jacket on a hanging rack, moving to put a pair of slippers over his socks. He decides it’s better to finish the rest of his work here and go home a little later.
Rummaging through his belongings, he soon finds his computer and opens it on his desk. While he writes his report, he recalls what had happened in the very early morning with furrowed eyebrows and a finger placed on his lips, his other hand resting on his keyboard.
It wasn’t a completely new experience from his old missions, but there surely was something in the air that made Alfred stay more alert. He shakes his head and dismisses the feeling as an uncommon side effect of his earlier coffees.
In the midst of allowing himself to get immersed in typing out his report, Alfred spots a small fly going almost unnoticed.
“Oh,” he mumbles absentmindedly, “how did you get in here?”
Getting up from his chair, he leads the fly out the window and into the fresh outside air.
Even so, a minute or two later, the fly reappears, and Alfred has no doubt that it’s the same one. He’s not bothered by it, he’ll let it linger for a bit before it can find its own way out.
*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*
The last time Kiku had ever seen the brightest cherry blossoms in all their glory, shining in the natural spotlight made by the sun, was when Tokyo was still known as Edo, when he was only a mere mortal. Back then, he was a merchant selling goods in the bustling center of the city, a beloved son and brother to his family.
That version of him had died in the fall, with his limp corpse being covered by the furious rain, and the newer version of him, what he is now, had risen from the pure white snow in the coldest winter he’d ever experienced. By then, he was already accustomed to the daily routine of a vampire. One that had banished him from seeing the pink petals of the springtime flowers gracefully land on the ground again.
Though it feels like such a distant memory, he remembers how he had made a promise to cherish these things, the beautiful, identical, flower petals that fell from the trees. But that was made centuries ago.
Nowadays, Kiku finds himself feeling bittersweet to such identicalities, as beautiful as they may be. As time passes, the sakura come and go, yet anytime they come, they seem to be the exact same ones he’s seen so long ago—pretty, pink, and still absolutely stunning even when his view of them is slightly altered from only seeing them through the midnight moon and dirty windows of his building. He knows it’s a true misfortune he no longer has any beauty to return.
The reason behind that is because Kiku is one of many, many vampires. He is the very thing that humanity locks away with their fire, silver, religion, and hatred. Their hatred burns far stronger than any amount of holy water Kiku has ever had sprinkled onto his skin. But that isn’t the case for many. Kiku is also one of few who wish to return to his home, the same one that is now war-torn: his life. Life when he did not have a head people wished to see skewed and impaled on a stick made of silver and displayed in museums.
More specifically, his life before his vampire days. He still remembers the sensation of waking up to the early sun, its blinding gold light peeking through the doors of his room that were made of thin paper, and the sweet clanking noise of a teacup meeting a wooden table as he rises from his futon. He often recalls the collection of those delicate pretty cups his mother had brought home one day. They carried the most detailed designs, carefully and lovingly crafted by a person with obvious passion and talent. The taste of homemade green tea brewed by her and poured into those cups once left bits and specks of leaves on his tongue, yet now the thought of it alone brings a bitter tanginess in his mouth, bile rising in his throat.
In this life, when the sun rises and the clouds shift to make way for the sun, Kiku spends his time in a coffin, sleeping his limitless days away. However, if he’s feeling productive, he spends his time in alleyways shrouded in darkness alongside shadowy figures. There’s not much he can do either way. His kind are the ones energized from darkness and weakened from the sun.
Vampires and other creatures alike prefer the reflected light of a full moon. That time is when they no longer cower away, when they are driven by an emotion stronger than anything.
Desperation.
They will do so much to get as much food—blood—that tastes just as sweet and mouthwatering as the first time they’d ever tried some, in the only time they can. The restlessness from spending so long in a confined, isolated place makes them hungrier for some sort of action, to move their brittle bones. It brings vampires back from their own type of death—eternal suffering.
But desperation can only drive you to a certain point before you have to understand it does not make you any more human, that it won’t change the deep scarring of two vampire teeth engraved into your neck.
Kiku was constantly reminded of the dents in his neck. He is no different. He was not spared by this unescapable nightly routine, the desperation that inhabited the sorrowful minds of vampires.
As much as he does not favour the feeling, he can’t help but be the one that lures people, holds them with gentle hands on the sides of their faces then leaves them with the unbleeding, stinging injury of someone’s teeth once occupying their flesh. After he does so, he lets the body slump to the ground and his hands guide the eyelids close. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on the mark he left for too long. An unbearable sight for him to see, even when he is the one who left such blemish.
Before the sun rises, he quickly searches around him to see if any of his respected kin are there. If he does see them, which is quite often, he involves himself in small chit-chat, or just lets himself soak in the enjoyable presence of them.
Tonight is one of those times.
“Yao,” he greets, his voice gaining a more tender tone, while his face shows a warm smile. Yao is another vampire Kiku relates to far more than others, and also an old friend. A couple decades could have passed from their first meeting, or perhaps it was closer to a hundred years already.
Yao turns behind him, his long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail swiftly whipping around with him. From his face alone, even in the dim moonlight, Kiku can tell he has recognized his voice by the way Yao’s face lights up in fondness. “Oh, Kiku! How are you doing tonight?” The happy tone of his Chinese seeps into Kiku’s mood, making him feel even more content.
“As well as can be,” Kiku responds in Japanese, a subtle contrast to the Chinese spoken previously. He pauses to think of what to reveal next, “though, my nightly routine has become far more dull as of late…I find myself wishing for something interesting to happen.”
Yao hums in agreement while approaching Kiku, “Anyone out at this time, vampire and not, has thought like that too. We can all understand you, Kiku.”
He doesn’t respond, instead opting to walk back to the place he calls his home, a random abandoned house, seemingly made in the 18th century. This time, with Yao. They start a new conversation on the way, and continue talking until they have to part. Even though they will always have to part ways, Kiku is happy he was able to socialize with anyone nonetheless, especially since it was one of his greatest friends. The happiness is short-lived when he reaches the old building, dirty with mud and vandalism, darkened by the shadows.
He comes to the realization that this same boring routine will most likely continue for centuries to follow. Unless Kiku allows his head to be sliced off at the blade of a silver sword, or until he falls to his knees while every bit of religious knowledge is poured down his body like a liquid, his history as a vampire and his suffering is to continue.
He wouldn’t let it happen.
But oh, how he wishes it would end.