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Under the shade of his parasol, Arthur could almost feel alive.
From here, the sun could not reach his body. Silk, white gloves and airy, cotton garments sheltering his skin. Protecting him from the rays that the parasol failed to deflect. Safe in all manners of the word, and modest as a nun. Though he did not dare move too drastically, merely stood as pale and cold as a garden statue that marred the lawn.
Lord Kirkland, the Immortal Lord.
How cruel of an alias it was that he'd received. His neighbors and attendants had grown wary of the Lord's seemingly unfaltering beauty. The absence of wrinkles and silver hairs, of aged weakness in his bones. They'd come to miss his presence on weekend hunts and morning tea parties. And yet, that longing had melted to suspicion, and Lord Kirkland had fled his English estate for a quiet, new life along the Algarve. Now simply, Arthur.
And Arthur did not care if his parasol drew attention. He almost welcomed it. The pay-off was more worth than any potential scrutiny.
The Iberian sun was a stronger enemy than most, and he — after causing significant uproar throughout the nation of France during his travels — was only beginning to understand the importance of simple pleasures in every day life. Especially when life was as long and ceaseless as his.
One such pleasure, was João. A sailor with wind-swept curls, and sun-kissed skin, glowing so golden under the heat that Arthur felt like Midas in his presence.
During introductions, Arthur found himself fighting every instinct. Through his silk, white gloves, he had felt João's warmth. Keeping him grounded to the Earth even as his mouth salivated for the red blood pulsing under João's skin. His chest tightening from the rosary hung around João's neck.
Their conversations were easier. Shrouded by moonlight, and doused in rose-scented perfume, to distract Arthur's senses from João's beating heart. He'd hold tightly onto the glass João would provide, to rid the shaking in his fingers. Drinking the blood red wine as if it were sustenance. And though the effects of the alcohol were laughable, he'd pretend all the same.
And soon, Arthur felt that João began to realize he was a sinner in more ways than one. Every meeting in darkness, each time a more brazen action. A graze of the shoulders, a trailing of one's boot up a leg. Softer whispers, longer stares.
Under one starry night, with the moon in hiding and his parasol tucked away at home, Arthur visited as customary.
"May I come in?"
João's head rested against his all-to-familiar door frame. His blouse unbuttoned, curls untied. He gave Arthur a kind smile, "My friends need no invitation."
This was not an answer Arthur was expecting. He shifted his weight, "Are we friends?"
"Why don't you tell me."
Arthur fiddled with the cuffs of his gloves, "I'd much like to be friends."
"Well," João absentmindedly ran a hand over his own unadorned neck, "Then you need no invitation."
Suspicion, it seemed, beget strategy.
Arthur did not feel João's pulse rise in fear, nor notice goosebumps along his toned arms or tanned chest. With his lack of rosary, the strength Arthur had forgotten returned to his own brittle bones. And still, João did not feel tense.
Arthur inhaled deeply. Smelt the metallic sweetness of João's blood, the hints of sea-salt still stuck in his hair. With each passing day, it had grown easier for Arthur to control his appetite, yet harder to control himself.
João did not falter under his gaze. He waited, patiently, for Arthur to step into his home. But Arthur did not. Arthur could not. Rather, he stared, until his century-aged loneliness spoke for him.
"Please, João," he chided, "Invite me in."
João frowned. It was now that Arthur could sense his pulse rise. "You've lied to me, Arthur."
"It is a sin to lie."
"It is," João straightened, "Then why do you?"
"It is not the only sin I commit."
Ocean eyes looked to the stars. They found the North, and traced the constellations before returning to Arthur. "What else?"
"I would never harm you."
"What else?"
"I love you," Arthur's breathing had turned sharp, "Isn't that the worst of all?"
Whether out of fear of being heard, or fear of shared sentiment, João grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him through the door. Whispering a small, fast, "Come in." Unable to hide his smile.
That night was the first time he'd touched João — really touched. And João had shivered.
Slick with wine, and the newfound confidence that only an infallible man could wield, João had teased Arthur on his gloves.
"I've never seen you without them," he laughed. His gentle, bright, rippling laugh. Running his own fingers down Arthur's sheathed palm, he murmured, "You can trust me. Haven't I made that clear?"
Arthur smiled, right and rare, and certain to be flushed if it weren't for his lack of heart. "I run cold," he replied.
"How cold?"
It wasn't a polite question. Rather, like a philosopher, João longed to test his theory.
Arthur's hands, bare and wanting, rested in João's palms. They were cradled, and caressed, and molded by warmth, and yet they still did not heed. They remained cold. Cold as Arthur encircled João's neck. Cold as he felt João's blood pump below his skin. As Arthur held his chest, and gripped his thighs. As João shivered beneath him. No less eager, no less passionate.
And though touching him, João did not turn to gold.
His heart still beat. His eyes still fluttered, and fingers still curled. And he lived, justly. For years, with Arthur by his side.
But in short time, his hair had begun matching the moonlight on the water. And his skin hung loose as a vestment. He'd bargained with Arthur, that an eternity with him would be worth harrowing the End of Days when it came. That together, they two could convince God. Or outsmart the Devil.
But—
"Life is only beautiful in its impermanence," Arthur had replied each time, "Immortality is a punishment. One that you do not deserve."
Arthur, though loved — somehow — by whom he deemed an Angel, knew the hunger and the rot had settled in long ago. Before he became the faithless monster he now was. His sins racing to catch up with his unremitting afterlife.
And yet, under the shade of his parasol, Arthur felt alive.
Because he was loved, evenly if briefly, despite it all.
He, a statue. And João, his ever-changing garden.
And what more blessing was there than that?