Archive of Our Own

Tango was never really a religious man. His parents had dragged him to service for as long as they could manage, and every Sunday he had sat through a sermon that he didn't care for. It was fine - everyone did it, everyone was expected to pay attention, and nobody ever really did. He'd stopped going when he was sixteen or so, more interested in spending his Sunday mornings out with friends than not.

He still gave enough care to keep up a facade for his parents, though. Said grace over meals when he was called to, bowed his head in prayer under their heavy gazes, skimmed over the words in his Bible enough to recognize the verses they recited frequently. He'd always thought it was a little over-the-top. The idea that he needed to devote his life to some being he never really knew, instead of something more tangible.

He wasn't so sure anymore.

The building ahead of him loomed like a beast ready to pounce. Even the little belltower, the one he'd always thought was laughably small compared to the grandeur he was so used to at home, felt like it was looking down on something vile.

The building was old, he knew. One of the first structures built in the town, one that still stood tall a few hundred years later. The ragged old church had stood its ground, while everything else around it had already fallen to ruin and been built back up once again. Maybe God really did live here.

The stonework was messy. Rough, worn, and eroded around the edges. It was well-kept, at least, every last inch polished before service every week.

Tango didn't even know what day it was.

The heavy wooden cross anchored above the entrance made him halt. It felt wrong in a way he hadn't known something could. Tango stumbled back a step, boots splashing into a puddle on the cobbles. There was a repulsion there, one so incredibly unfamiliar that it took him a second to even understand what it was. It was something he hadn't even thought to consider - that simply entering the building might not be possible. The idea made him feel sicker than the cross had.

He wasn't sure what he was doing, really. Hadn't been sure since he'd woken up in the middle of the woods, more blood than he'd like to think about dried into his hunting clothes, and a bone-deep chill making him feel like an icicle. He wanted a warm bath, and fresh clothes, and to wrap his mother into a hug and to cry like he wasn't supposed to.

But this - the gory sight of him, the unsteady feeling on his feet, the way the cold seemed to cling to him - it didn't feel right to go home like this. It didn't feel right to go anywhere like this.

And there was something else bothering him. An itch deep down that he wasn't even sure he could pinpoint, let alone name. An empty feeling that he ached to fill with something - like a deep-seated craving of a starving man.

Tango had been stupid. He knew this. Hell, his father knew it before he'd even left. Mutterings about getting himself killed still echoed in Tango's ears, fading down the familiar hallway along with apathetic footsteps. Still, he'd done it. Clung to the righteous feeling in his chest, and followed his friends into the woods for the last time.

Or - maybe the last time? He hoped he wouldn't have to do it again, at least.

Most of it was a blur. It was dark, and windy enough that getting the lantern to light was a chore. He recalled something about monsters, something about heathens - of putting them out of their misery, and stopping things before they took the town down with them.

He remembered dying.

Could still recall it clearly, fresher in his mind than the wounds scabbed over on his skin. A searing pain along his back, then his chest, his shoulder, his neck. It was worse than the time he'd sliced his finger open woodworking, worse than any time he'd pinched skin between cabinets or doorways, worse than that burn from red-hot metal he'd tried to pick up when he was young. Then the fight had started to drain from him, a thick, heavy, cottoned wooziness taking its place. He'd blinked his eyes open to the sight of lanternlight fading into the distance, to a clawed hand still gripping his arm deathly tight, even though he'd already slumped to the forest floor.

He remembered thinking of God then, wondering if people's ravings about a life after were true. If heaven was waiting for him in a short time now, or if it was a lake of fire on the other side of this. He didn't know - he thought he'd have more time to make his case, time to repent for all the stupid things he'd yet to do in life, time to decide if eternity was worth devoting the rest of his life to.

But he didn't. All he had were the hopes that his childhood prayers were enough.

He didn't remember if he'd been mad at the monster for eating its fill. He'd wondered if it saw him as another person, or simply the easy meal he'd been.

He didn't remember if he was mad at his friends, who turned tail and ran without so much as a goodbye. Would he have done the same? If faced with something that could do this to him? Maybe he would've, given the chance.

As it was, he simply let go. There wasn't anything left, after all.

Until there was, apparently.

Tango's attention returned, struck like a flash of lightning back to the present at the creak of hinges. He didn't know when he'd fallen to his knees, but he could faintly feel the way rainwater had soaked into the fabric along his shins. The way the cobblestones dug into the meat of his hands.

The church's heavy wooden door creaked open, and a silhouette paused in their exit. It was hard to see much of any details from his position, the only light coming from the waning moon overhead, but it wasn't hard to guess who'd still be there at this time of day.

A priest of some kind, likely. And given the vaguely familiar shape of the robes, Tango guessed he wasn't far off. He hadn't been to a service in years, long enough that he was unsure if the old man he'd known to stand behind the pulpit was still the same one before him.

He didn't need to wonder for long, though, as the figure took a few slow steps into the moonlight, and closed the heavy door behind him.

It wasn't. This man was young. Younger than the old priest had been, at least, but still startlingly young for someone in that position. In the silvery lighting, Tango could see the uncertainty in the man's expression. An unfamiliarity, though not an unkind one.

"Can I help you?" he called over the street, approaching steps slow and cautious.

What did he even say to that? What did he ask? Why had he even come here? Shown up in the dead of night just to - to what? Ask why he hadn't died in those woods? Why his chest burned with an ache he didn't know the name of? What consolation could this man give that would comfort any of what Tango had just experienced?

He should've just gone home.

Tango lifted himself from the ground, still unsteady as he'd been all night, and mentally steeled himself for the awkward apology he was bound to suffer through. He could at least be polite for bothering someone at this hour.

But his words died on his tongue at the man's choked gasp, at the rush of footsteps, and the sudden warmth of hands through the thick fabric of his clothes.

"Heavens, are you alright?" The priest's voice trembled as he spoke. The warmth of a hand on his shoulder and the scent of something was sending a hearty wave of dizziness through Tango. This sudden proximity felt like an incredibly terrible idea, for reasons he didn't entirely know, but certainly felt.

It took a good amount of strength - and a few seconds too long of concentration - for Tango to shove the man back a foot. Almost immediately, he missed the warmth, craved it like a luxury he'd never known, like it was exactly what he'd been missing for hours now. But still, there was a lingering feeling of 'no, not yet' that was loud enough to overpower the pull.

"I'm fine," Tango muttered warily. He didn't feel fine, but the man being an arms-length away was already too close to bear. Maybe he was glad he hadn't gone home. "I'll be fine. I'm alive, aren't I?"

I hope, at least.

The priest looked taken aback, but adjusted himself to the new distance. "Right, right," he said, clearing his throat. "But - well, there's more to being alright than just being alive." The man's eyes trailed along Tango's form, dirtied, bloodied, and beaten as it was, and Tango's insides squirmed at the attention. Maybe he just shouldn't have come back to town at all.

"Can I -" the man started, though cut himself off just as quickly. He glanced up at the moon, it's position gradually nearing overhead. His gaze landed back on Tango, more intent than before. "You should at least clean up. Dress your wounds and such," he said, lips pursing with hesitance.

What, exactly, was going through this man's head? He wasn't seriously -

"I was heading home already, if... if you need help?" There was a steady resolve in the man's eyes, something that was slowly mixing with the dissipating unease, and a familiar spark of curiosity. His eyes flicked down to Tango's shirt, where he knew the blood had stained the pretty green into a dark, ugly, rusty brown. Tango wondered if the offer was more for his own safety, or the other man's peace of mind.

It was a terrible idea, something that would probably get him into worse trouble than he was already in. But it wasn't like Tango had much left to lose now - he'd already died once, what was a little more recklessness?

"It's not far," the man had begun to plead, "please, just - let me help."

Tango's throat felt dry, his mind clouded. But the thought of finally washing up was persuasive. "Okay," he agreed. "Lead the way."

"What's your name?"

Those were the words that finally broke through the silence of the night. Through the chorus of chittering crickets and occasional accompaniment of other nightlife. The priest's voice was as warm as a roaring hearth. His presence by Tango's side was warmer, alluring in a way that made him want to press closer, even when the instincts in his head still told him 'no, no, not yet, not yet.' It was a confusing push-and-pull, made all the more so considering his strange circumstances.

Tango had never truly been to this part of the town - to the shabby homes that ran downhill, that were cast in shadow by more entwined dead and dying branches than he could count. The sight wasn't beautiful, but he himself didn't look much better right now.

"I just - well, you know, it's not often I bring someone home," the man joked, probably attempting to lighten the mood. The insinuation made Tango snort, and he caught the edges of the man's brief smile. "But it'd be nice to know who I'm helping," he said more seriously, a pleasant lilt tacked to the end of his words.

Tango caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Did he want to share his name, if this stranger really didn't know? He would've thought - well, maybe it was presumptuous to assume everyone knew of him. Then again, everyone seemed to know his parents. Would he usher Tango back home if he knew? Send him into the waiting pit of claws and teeth sure to rip into him for being as stupid as he had been? Shouldn't he want to go home, anyway?

They turned the corner, and Tango followed the man down a dingy, narrow alleyway.

"I can start, if you'd like," the priest offered, shooting Tango a kind smile over his shoulder. "Most of my friends call me Jimmy."

Tango mulled over the thought for a moment, pausing his movement when Jimmy stepped up to a door, which looked like it had seen more terror than Tango had himself, and began to rummage in his pockets for a key.

No surnames, no expectations, no pretenses to it. Just someone offering to help, and asking for a name to call him.

The door swung open with a grinding squeak, and Tango flinched at how loud the noise was. He didn't know doors could sound like that. But Jimmy seemed unfazed, and strode inside with a regular ease, stooping to slip off his boots only a few feet beyond the door.

Tango must've been staring, because Jimmy blinked up at him, confused. "Are you coming in, or do you plan on staying out in the cold all night?"

Right, - he should - he needed to go in, too. His steps hesitated near the threshold, but easily enough, his boots landed on the muddied doormat just inside. Jimmy ushered him off to the side to close the door behind him. Tango shivered as he felt the last wisps of cold night air brush against his skin, before the resounding click of the door left the small room in near silence.

"Shoes off," Jimmy gestured towards the small pile in front of Tango, "I'm going to run some water so we can get you cleaned up."

He was off within seconds, disappearing behind a curtain hung through half the room. And that did look like that's all it was - a large, crudely sectioned room to serve as house and home. A spare few lamps still burned, giving the space a low, warm glow. Tango felt like his own bedroom might've been bigger, back home. It was certainly less crowded.

There was a fireplace in the far back, rough stones giving a safe berth around the pit. The coals still gave off a warmth from where the flames must've stopped hours ago, and - boots tucked away neatly by the door - Tango found himself drawn to it.

"You can sit," Jimmy's voice startled him, and Tango quickly whipped around to face him.

The curtain was drawn back a bit further now, and the sound of a slow-running faucet trickled through the house. Jimmy was filling a pot - a small one, rather than the tub Tango was hoping for, but it would still be better than nothing. The man gestured with his free hand to one of the chairs by the table. There were two of them, both as rickety and rough-hewn looking as the table they accompanied, but they would be better than the floor.

"Can I ask..." Jimmy's voice carried easily over the small space, as Tango dragged one of the chairs closer to the dying heat. The squeak of metal hit his ears, and the sound from the faucet ceased. Tango turned to find curious eyes already on him. "Why the church? I mean, surely the medic would've been a better option?"

Tango wasn't sure he knew where the town's medic even lived. Any time he'd been sick, they'd simply called the man up to the manor. But that wasn't exactly the answer Jimmy was looking for.

Just someone offering to help, he reminded himself.

"I thought I died," he stated simply, voice scratchy.

Jimmy seemed to contemplate that for a moment. Eventually, he brought the pot of water over to the fireplace, hanging it on a rack half-hidden away in the darkness. Tango watched as he restocked the fire, though didn't light it yet.

The man paused in his motions. "I've never seen you at service."

It was an observation, one that Tango was expecting to come with a follow-up. 'Do you practice at home?', or, 'Do you worship somewhere else?', or something else akin to that. He'd been asked before - had stumbled for an answer too many times, had faced a harsh glare too many more, to not have crafted a deliberate answer for the question.

Though, this time, none came.

When no one spoke for nearly a minute, Jimmy flitted away again. Tango simply watched. Gathering kindling and a spark to relight the dying coals. Rummaging through drawers for a fresh set of clothes, and briefly dipping behind the curtain to change into his own. Setting a handful of fresh towels delicately on the back of the other chair, which he'd pulled up next to Tango.

It was too quiet, and with every brush past him, Tango could still feel the warmth coming from the man. Could still taste that scent on the air around him. Still felt that ache of want, of hunger, held back by the tight, thinning thought of 'wait, not yet, soon,' that he desperately wished he understood. He should at least say something, to distract from the overwhelm clouding his mind.

"Tango," he finally gave. There was something bitter with the thought that he hadn't shared it sooner, but the taste faded when Jimmy turned around with a confused look on his face. His mouth opened, brow furrowed in question, but Tango beat him to it, "My name, I mean. It's Tango."

Understanding dawned on Jimmy's face, and his expression shifted to something kinder, sweeter. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Tango." His eyes dipped to Tango's shirt again, to that ugly brown stain that Tango hadn't wanted to look at more than twice, and he quickly checked the water. Deeming it warm enough, he brought the pot down to the floor in front of them. "Let's get you cleaned up then, yeah?"

Tango felt his heart jump in his chest as he watched Jimmy take the seat beside him, close. With a feeling like that, maybe he wasn't dead, after all.

Jimmy dipped the towel in the water, letting the cloth soak in it for a moment, before wringing it out. "I figured start small, and make sure there's no major injuries." He looked up to meet Tango's gaze, brown eyes eternally warm in the firelight, short-cropped hair shimmering like gold when the flames flickered. "Then, if everything's alright, you can finish cleaning up on your own." Jimmy's eyes dipped down to his shirt again, "And I'll lend you some fresh clothes, too. Though I can't promise they'll fit very well."

"That's fine," Tango said, throat suddenly dry. He was thirsty, and his eyes wouldn't stop trailing along Jimmy's skin. Over the way the heat from the fire was causing red to blossom under the surface, warm and beautiful in a way he'd never cared to notice before. He wondered if his nails were sharp enough to break the surface, if he'd be as enraptured watching the blood begin to bead as he felt just thinking about it.

"Here," a soft voice said, and suddenly there was a warmth against his cheek, damp, and soothing, and whole, and almost everything he craved. Tango felt his eyes flutter closed as he chased the feeling, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

And then it was gone as soon as it had come, and he felt himself blinking back to reality.

Jimmy's hand hovered in the air a few inches away, hesitant now.

Tango's breath caught on an inhale as he took the sight of the man in again, painted in soft golds, brilliant oranges, and warm shadows. He swallowed.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice weak. "I'm still cold." It was true - but not wholly. Then again, Tango wasn't sure he knew the whole of it.

Jimmy breathed out a quiet laugh, "Yeah, I bet you are."

Tango didn't know what he meant, because it sounded like Jimmy was saying something more in those words than what he heard. But he quickly found that he didn't care about any of that, because the warmth was back.

The warm cloth was dabbing at his face, swiping layers of grime, sweat, and blood from Tango's skin. The edges of the fabric quickly chilled in the air, but Jimmy refreshed and wrung it out often enough. And even then, Tango didn't mind all that much, because Jimmy was carefully holding his jaw with warm fingers and a gentleness he'd never felt before.

He found himself lost in the motions, in the warmth and gentle scratch of the cloth, in the soft and smooth press of Jimmy's hands against his own skin. He was pliant in the man's hold, eyes fluttering closed as Jimmy tilted his head to the side, rested Tango's jaw against a warm palm. The feeling of it all so close - the heat, the touch, that scent - it was the closest he'd felt to satisfying that craving, that hunger, and the feeling engulfed him in bliss, and want, and need.

The cloth swiped down his jaw, catching lightly on flakes of dried blood and stubble he'd forgotten to shave before he left home. It stayed there for a few moments, before drifting lower down his neck.

The sting of something sharp made Tango jerk back in his chair, tense and alert in a fraction of a second, and a glare already firmly directed across from him.

Jimmy's hands were up in surrender, a small frown on his lips. "I couldn't see the mark - I'll be gentle. Promise."

The cloth, which had most certainly been white when they started, was stained a dark red that faded to pink at the edges. Jimmy busied himself with rinsing it again, while Tango let the tension fall from his shoulders.

He reached a cautious hand towards his neck, towards the spot where it had stung like the slip of a knife, but Jimmy's hand, still warm from the water, caught his wrist before he could reach it.

"Don't touch," he scolded lightly, tugging Tango's hand back towards his lap, "your hands are still dirty."

"Clean them first, then?"

Jimmy rolled his eyes, but obliged, and Tango watched him wring out the now pink cloth once again. The warmth sunk in to his hands more effectively than it had anywhere else, and the sensation was elating, even if it didn't last as long as he'd hoped.

Jimmy rinsed the cloth again once he was done, before he held his hand out, palm up. Tango flashed a confused frown at him, but gingerly placed his hand atop it, awkward with how high it was. Jimmy laughed, and set Tango's hand back in his lap, before inching closer. He tried again, this time gently grabbing that same spot where he'd held his palm earlier, flush against Tango's jaw, and tilted his head to the side just the same.

Oh. He felt a little stupid, now. But the feeling of his hold was just as nice, even if Tango was now bracing himself for that harsh sting.

The cloth was warmer now, and Jimmy dabbed as gently as he could as he made his way back to that spot. It still stung when he pressed against it, and Tango tensed with a hiss of pain, but it wasn't the stabbing sensation he'd felt last time.

There were no words said, but the caution and care taken spoke for themselves. The gentle brush of a finger against Tango's cheek, from the hand still holding his head steady, felt an awful lot like an apology.

Eventually, Jimmy moved away from the wound, and Tango sighed in relief as his head was tilted back an inch. When Jimmy pulled the cloth away again, his other hand stayed.

"That should be good enough for now," he said quietly, eyes darting briefly to Tango's neck. It felt raw, and the skin chilled, despite the warm air of the room. He wanted Jimmy to press his hand against it again, to warm him from the outside in. "Do you want me to try and bandage it?"

Should he bandage it? He wanted to sink into the warmth of a hot bath, and never come out again, but that wasn't exactly an option. The idea of a scratchy fabric pressed tight against skin wasn't very appealing at the moment.

"No," he answered. He lifted a hand to feel it now, and Jimmy didn't stop him, only watched his movements. Tango flinched when his fingers finally roughed over it - though they hardly felt anything, only vague bumps along the lower skin of his neck, where there shouldn't have been any.

"Okay, just try not to mess with it too much," Jimmy said, quiet, and still close. Tango's heart stuttered again when he glanced up to meet his eyes, soft and curious. "Do you feel any better?"

The thumb still held gently against Tango's cheek brushed along an inch of skin with the question, and that insatiable hunger was suddenly background noise to whatever feeling burst in his chest, light, and fluttering, and thrilling.

"Yeah," Tango said, heart constricting. Then, because he didn't want the moment to end, "Still cold, though."

Jimmy's expression twitched into a frown, one twinged with a slight sadness. "Yeah?" he mumbled. Though he seemed to understand what Tango was asking for, as he brought his other hand up to cradle his face.

The feeling was heavenly. Tango forewent any shame he should've had in the moment, and practically nuzzled into the warmth. The feeling was a haze of bliss, the warmth so close, and that scent so clear, and the pressure of Jimmy's fingers slowly trailing over skin was lighting that spark of something else that made his heart beat like he was alive.

Tango heard a quiet giggle as he leaned forward into the touch, and he slowly blinked his eyes open to find Jimmy watching him, a little smile pulling at his lips. He caught Tango's gaze, and Tango found himself staring into the sweetest honey-brown he'd ever seen. He wanted to commit the color to memory, to find a painter who could do the sight justice, even if he was sure no canvas could capture the awe he felt in that moment.

"Your eyes are red," Jimmy mumbled, thumb sweeping gently across Tango's cheek under his eye.

And, oh, that wasn't normal, was it?

Tango looked away - or, at least, as best he could with his face still cradled between soft palms and curious fingers.

Monsters had red eyes, didn't they? Ones so bright that the lanternlight caught them like jewels, and shone just as vibrantly. Or, more terrifyingly, ones so deep and dark they were mistaken for a brown, mistaken for human. Tango didn't know which was worse.

They should be blue. They were blue, last time I checked the mirror.

Jimmy's hand guided his face back, the man's expression softer than was appropriate in this situation. His gaze lingered on Tango's eyes like he was the one with an insatiable hunger eating him alive, like he might die if he didn't have this moment. The sight stole Tango's breath from his lungs.

"I like them," he said softly, too softly.

The flurry of feelings in his chest returned with a vengeance, his heart stuttering again, and something fluttery twirling in his gut. It wasn't an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but the sheer intensity of it made him feel wholly out of depth.

Tango didn't do things like this. He built stupid gadgets that didn't work, and spent weekends with friends hunting monsters that didn't exist, and filled his free time thinking about worlds and adventures that he never put to paper. He didn't talk to strangers, or share intimate moments, or crave human touch like he was a parched man in the desert. He most certainly didn't get flustered at simple compliments - but he was certain that, if he still had enough blood in his system, he'd be blushing.

He rested his hands on Jimmy's wrists, intending to pull the man's hands away, before he stopped. Even just this, the added heat sinking into his hands, was enough to make the small, scared part of him pause in it's actions. Because it felt good. Too good. He felt dizzy with it.

"Alright?" Jimmy asked.

Tango wanted to pull away, to disappear back into the cold, dark woods he'd crawled out of. He wanted to pull Jimmy closer and closer and closer until he could feel every inch of skin, until he was warm again. He wanted to stay exactly where he was, in this moment, forever.

His eyes had closed, but he could still feel the gentle brush of fingers against his face. Could feel the way the muscles in Jimmy's wrist shifted with every little movement.

Tango shook his head in response.

Jimmy hummed for a moment, continuing his soothing motions. If Tango hadn't been so tense, he might've melted.

"Let's try something else then," he said, voice warm. Tango felt Jimmy stand, and his head tilted up with the motion. "Come with me?"

Despite the bone-deep tiredness consuming him whole, Tango followed like a lost dog. Trailed after the heat of Jimmy's presence like it was second nature.

There was a bed in the corner, rough-hewn and rickety as most the other furniture was, but cozier than the polished, fresh-made ones Tango was so familiar with. The sheets were an uneven mess, untucked and ratty, and looked much too light for the cold that sunk in through the walls. The pillows looked no more than glorified cushions, flattened and threadbare with use. Still, the sight was a welcome change from the hard wooden chairs.

Jimmy sat to one side, and gestured to the spot beside him. Tango watched his movements as he placed the wrung-out towel beside him and rolled up a sleeve. When Jimmy looked up at him expectantly, Tango finally sat.

The mattress was stiff, but he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. It was, at least, more comfortable than the chair, even if most of the warmth from the fire was gone.

He felt too close to Jimmy, but was still drawn closer simply by the presence of him, of his warmth, of that scent. He felt - it all felt like too much, but at the same time, it wasn't enough.

"Hey," Jimmy whispered, all-too-close, and yet still inching closer. Tango felt a warm hand grace his upper arm through a layer of fabric, steadying him. His eyes caught on the man's throat, and he could see when Jimmy swallowed, watched the movement with rapt interest.

A gentle hand lifted his chin until he was once again staring into that sweet honey-brown, the color catching faint flickers from the fire and sending the light dancing in his eyes. Thin lips pulled into a small smile, even as Jimmy's brows furrowed together just a touch. The sight was as pretty as it had been a minute ago, and Tango found himself swallowing thickly.

"This will help, yeah?" Jimmy said softly, dropping his hand from Tango's face. He lifted his right arm, palm up, between the two. The long white sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, leaving a generous stretch of soft skin exposed to the air before them.

The hunger, the thing that Tango had pushed aside as best he could since he woke up, roared back to life. It burnt like fire, catching the whole of him alight with a need unlike any other he'd known.

It was startling enough that Tango leaned back, even as his instincts were begging, salivating, at the prospect of launching at the man before him. That little voice that screeched 'now, Now, NOW!' felt loud as a clash of thunder in his mind, but Tango gripped the sheets under his palms and froze in place.

He couldn't - he couldn't do that to Jimmy. To the man who'd just taken him in off the streets when Tango was sure he'd died. To the person who'd been so kind and gentle in ways Tango didn't even know he needed.

"What -" he'd gasped out, before snapping his mouth shut again. Because he could taste it on the air, now, and he hated it, because that meant -

"It's alright," Jimmy nodded, inching his arm a bit closer, into an easier position for Tango. "I promise."

"I can't -" he gasped out, feeling lightheaded at the sight. Pale skin, painted a golden hue by the distant firelight, stretched out before him like an offering. Jimmy's other hand was bunched in the sleeve rolled up to his elbow, clenched tight like he was bracing for it. Bracing for Tango to - to -

"I can't -"

"I'm offering," Jimmy whispered between them, the space closing in as Tango drifted closer, closer. "I've done this before," he whispered, a thousand promises in so few words, "I can stop you before it's too much."

The words barely registered in Tango's brain, having to trudge through the thick, honey-sweet, and all-encompassing urge telling him 'Now', to even reach him. But they did, and suddenly his eyes weren't just focused on skin, but scars, too. Ones that looked all-too familiar to the photos he'd seen before they prepared for their hunt.

Bite marks, he realized. Willing ones, probably, a second later.

"It'll help," Jimmy pressed, inching his arm closer, like Tango wasn't already suffocating on the idea alone. "Clear your head, keep you warm."

Those reasons were amazing. Phenomenal, even. But if that were the case, if he really was - then he'd have to - he needed to - he didn't want to be a monster - he -

The warm skin of an arm was pressed to his lips before he even realized what was happening. Instinct taunted him with a howl of adrenaline, what little blood he had left in his system carrying the feeling to every last inch of him. The heat against him was so close, so tantilizingly out of reach of what he needed.

So he took.

Skin broke under fangs like it was meant to, and the feeling alone was so euphoric that Tango had nearly forgotten the hunger. The first taste of blood broke any thought he had, shattered into a thousand shards he didn't care to pick back up, because this - this was what he'd been craving since he woke. This was everything he'd ever needed, he thought. This was the early morning bliss, the satisfaction of a job well done, the fullness of a hearty meal, the serenity of a firey sunset, and every wonder-filled starry night he'd ever loved. It was life, and so much more, and Tango wanted it for forever and ever.

The feeling settled in his chest, and with it came a warmth that coated him whole, a heat that sunk deep and stayed, like none other had. And just as suddenly, Tango realized what he was doing, and pulled back.

"Fuck, I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry, I..."

Jimmy's head swung back towards him, a soft confusion twisting his brows. He frowned at his arm, now bloodied, and messy, and still looking as unholy a temptation as it had before Tango started.

"Why'd you stop?" he asked, and Tango swore he felt something flutter in his stomach. Did Jimmy want him to continue?

"I can't - I can't do that," Tango gasped, somehow dizzy despite feeling more solid, more present, more there, than he had for hours. "I - I can't - I'm not a monster -" he nearly choked on the word, and his eyes watered.

He could feel the way Jimmy's blood was stuck to his lips, could still taste the metallic tang of it on his tongue - how could he even begin to claim that wasn't what he was? He'd given in when asked nicely, what kind of good person breaks that easily?

Jimmy's frown persisted as he pressed the spare cloth to the wound. It wasn't that big, Tango knew, but the thought that he'd done it so carelessly -

"You're not a monster," Jimmy said quietly. Assuredly. Like it was something he knew. Like Tango hadn't just bit him. "You're still a person. You're still you," he added, nudging Tango's arm with his - now injured - hand. Tango felt like he was going to be sick.

"How can you say that?" he practically whined, eyeing the way Jimmy's good hand put pressure on the cloth. He's done this before, Tango reminded himself, he'll be okay. It'll be okay. He's still alive.

"How could I not?" Jimmy asked, sounding almost offended. When Tango simply blinked up at him, he went on, "You're still here talking to me. You clearly still have a sense of self - a name, a personality." He paused to dab at his arm, the cloth coming away from nearly pristine skin, spare for two small puncture wounds. Tango reached up to brush against the ones surely mirrored against his own neck, as he watched more blood begin to bead on Jimmy's arm. "You stopped feeding before you should've, let alone before I would've stopped you."

Tango tore his eyes away from the enticing sight, and focused back on Jimmy's face, throat dry. "I shouldn't -"

"You have to," Jimmy interrupted, stern. Tango bit his tongue. "You have to eat," he repeated, calmer. "If you don't, you could die. Or - or worse," his eyes darted to Tango's neck, to the place where pinpricks had tingled with every gentle brush of air against them, "you'll end up doing that to someone else."

Dread settled over Tango, a tense, heavy feeling. He pursed his lips.

"You're not a monster. Not at all, okay?" Jimmy settled his hand against Tango's arm again, and the warmth of it was still alluring, even with the sickening knowledge of why. His eyes caught when one of the beading drops of blood slipped down the side of Jimmy's forearm. Tango tracked the movement closely, despite himself.

"But I'm not human anymore, am I?" he rasped, throat swelling with emotion enough that he had to choke out the last two words. They hung, accusing, between them.

Jimmy hesitated, mouth opening and closing a few times, before words eventually left him. They weren't the ones Tango wanted to hear.

"No, I suppose not," he mumbled, disheartened.

The admission settled like a weight on Tango's shoulders. Heavier than the hunting gear he'd hefted on the way into the woods. Heavier than all the expectations his parents had pushed on him throughout the years. Heavier than the tense silence that loomed over them now.

Not human didn't feel real. He'd never even considered it as a possibility. Monsters were monsters, humans were humans, and nothing ever changed. Except that it very much had changed for Tango - and probably hundreds of others like him. Every last shred of humanity ripped from his slowly weakening grasp in the dead of night, as the only people he'd ever trusted with his life fled the scene.

"But you're still you. You're still Tango," Jimmy tried. Then, with a little grin, "Just on a different diet now?"

Something between a huff, a laugh, and a sob fell past his lips. Jimmy's hand slid down Tango's arm until it reached his hand, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It'll be okay," he reassured. As empty as it felt, Tango wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe so badly.

"I've had... friends who've gone through this before," he said, and Tango blinked up at him with renewed, if subdued, interest. The tension in his shoulders loosened in his mild curiosity. Jimmy smiled bitterly, "It was hard for them, too. But I still want to help."

People... had done this before. Have lived after turning. Without devolving into complete monsters, if Jimmy was to be believed - and Tango really wanted to believe.

Jimmy's smile fell to something stern again, though a hint of kindness never left him. "That does start with actually eating, though."

He lifted his arm again, and Tango hesitated. Now that the intensity of the hunger had dulled, it was much easier to ignore the constant draw, the near enchantment even the mere thought of blood had on him. He took the time to search Jimmy's expression, the determined slant of his brow and glint in his eyes, the expectant tilt to his head, the way the corner of his lips twitched upwards when Tango placed a hand back against his arm.

The idea made his stomach squirm. Though the sight of the blood, still fresh and warm, made his head spin in a not-unpleasant way. He dragged the tip of a finger along where the blood had dripped down Jimmy's arm, swiping it away as best he could, before popping it into his mouth. The metallic tang against his tongue, even cold as the drop had grown in the open air, was just short of divine. He had to cut off the pleased hum the taste drew from him, leaving the sound stuttering in his throat.

He took one last glance at Jimmy - to double-check, to make sure, to know if this was really okay - and the small, satisfied smile resting on his lips was almost enough to make Tango shove the man away entirely. To storm out of the house and find somewhere else to look for what he needed. Steal a straggler from one of the herds on the edge of town. Flee to another settlement to terrorize whoever he could get his hands on there. Find another way to live, even when he knew that he should already be dead.

Instead, he ignored the fluttery feeling in his gut, shifted to find a better position, and placed his mouth back against the fresh puncture wounds.

It was almost as satisfying as his first taste.

Tango ignored the warring in his head. The terrified, sickened fracture of his psyche still begging him to stop with every lingering moment. The hunger that gripped the rest of him whole purring in satisfaction with every drop of blood that hit his tongue. The way that warmth flooded him now, stretching to every inch it had vacated so easily the night before. That strange little piece of his heart, thrilled that someone would care enough to help him, even in a state like this. Even when helping meant taking in the way it did right now.

It was all so much.

Once he'd assumed he'd had enough, he pulled away. He swiped the towel from Jimmy's side to press it against the wound himself, and the man gave him a curious look.

"Thank you," Jimmy muttered, a fond awe in his voice.

Tango's eyes snapped to him. He frowned. "What? No - come on, I mean - I should be thanking you," he argued. He could still taste the blood on his lips as he spoke, the thrill of it slowly fading into a mellow satisfaction.

A grin slipped onto Jimmy's face, "Maybe. But still, thank you."

The warm feeling settled happily in his chest, and Tango let himself relax with it. His posture loosened, and his gaze softened, the inviting atmosphere welcoming him with open arms. They were still close - close enough that Tango could still appreciate the warmth radiating from Jimmy - but that drive to chase after the feeling was a distant background hum, now. An afterthought.

There was a fuzzy warmth blanketing over the two of them. It felt like now that his body could hold on to the heat, the fire had done its job in warming the place up.

When he looked back, Jimmy was still staring at him, eyes gone soft in the gentle lighting. He was absentmindedly tugging his sleeve back down, until the edges were snug over the cloth. The movement had shifted his collar enough that Tango caught sight of the skin of his neck, smooth and unblemished, unlike his arm.

He leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of him. He heard Jimmy's little gasp of air, but paid the sound little mind as he peeled back an inch of the shirt's collar.

The firelight caught on a chain hidden just under the seam, and Tango reached a curious finger towards it. The metal burned when he brushed against it, eliciting a quiet hiss of pain, but he still tugged until the necklace emerged from below the fabric of the shirt.

Tango frowned.

A fine silver cross stared back at him, offensive in form, and moreso where it sat against Jimmy's sternum. Something within him flared in anger at the sight - a feeling that almost burned hotter than the way the silver did to the touch. It was an ugly feeling, dredged up from somewhere new, but coupled neatly with Tango's own want for the night to keep going as it had so far. His fingers tightened around the chain, the burn etching deeper into skin as he did.

"Tango," Jimmy called quietly, tugging at his hand against the chain.

"Take it off," he whispered, eyes unable to move from the offending charm. He could barely move with it there, but he wanted to - he wanted to so badly. "Please."

Jimmy finally pried Tango's fingers from the silver, and he stilled. "I shouldn't," he said, voice shaking on quiet syllables. His grip against Tango's hand tightened, as if Tango had reached for the necklace again, despite having not moved an inch. "I can't."

Tango swallowed, gaze still locked in place, even when he wanted to see Jimmy's face instead. "Please," he begged.

This was all he had. Jimmy had been the only light since he'd woken. The heat of a campfire in a vast tundra of icy darkness. The protection of a coat against a harsh wind. The guidance of lanternlight in the pitch black of night.

The little charm laughed in his face, taunting and proud where it sat, starving Tango of any further attempts to bask in the only light he'd ever get again.

"Tango, it's -" Jimmy choked, a sound dissolving into a short whine at the back of his throat. "It's the only security I have. It's what makes me know I'll still be okay, come tomorrow."

Tango cringed, understanding settling like a sinking stone in the flood of frustration that little shape brought to him.

"You can keep it close," Tango promised, "just take it off."

Jimmy hesitated, but eventually pulled the chain over his head. Tango watched until the little charm was hidden within the man's grasp, and shoved in a pocket. He blinked back up to find Jimmy's face pinched with nerves, shoulders drawn in tightly, and eyes watching his every move.

"Thank you," Tango muttered, hands finally free to wander as they pleased. He pressed one lightly against the junction between Jimmy's shoulder and neck, pulling back cloth to admire where he could feel the fluttering of the man's pulse. It was quick, and subtle, but the feeling was prominent under the brush of his fingertips.

Some ugly, posessive urge told him to bite, but he knew better. He wouldn't betray Jimmy just like that - he'd already disarmed the man enough. So for now, he just admired. He watched, and felt, and listened. If Tango closed his eyes and concentrated, he might be able to hear Jimmy's heartbeat.

"What are you doing?" Jimmy whispered, close enough to be loud in Tango's ears. He splayed his palm over the fluttering of Jimmy's pulse, feeling when the tempo spiked under his touch.

"Listening," Tango replied under his breath, concentrating on the faint thump-thump thump-thump reverberating through his nerves. He could feel his own heart trying to match the jittery pace.

"Listening to what?" Tango could hear the frown in Jimmy's voice, and he opened his eyes again. The concern had returned to it's hovering presence, but now accompanying it was a spark of worry, hesitance.

"Your heartbeat," he said smoothly, "it's nice to hear." He hoped it would be at least somewhat assuring, though somewhere in the back of his mind, Tango did understand how it could sound weird.

"Really?" Jimmy asked, dubious.

Tango nodded, letting the rhythm of the man's heartbeat soothe the swirl of emotions in his head. A few deep breaths helped settle him further, leaving him with the blanket of warmth and that buzz of closeness.

He could feel Jimmy's breaths ghost his cheek, quicker than they should be. He opened his eyes to find those same honey-brown eyes staring back at him, sharp and attentive.

"Relax," Tango breathed out, "I won't do anything."

"Then why -"

"I couldn't move with it right there," he explained.

Jimmy huffed, rolling his eyes. "That's why it was hidden. Why take it out?"

Tango felt himself blush - felt it, because the heat from the blood suddenly crowded to his face, and burned, even in the warm air. "I didn't know what it was," he squeaked out. "It - just - I was curious."

There was a moment of quiet, of Tango's nerves buzzing around his skull, ready to jump to a hundred different conclusions as he rushed off a cliff edge - before a giggle broke through Jimmy's facade. It was a quiet sound, bubbling over like lapping waves on a lakeshore, gentle like the babbling of a forest creek, and the movement of it shook them both with how close they were.

A little grin pulled at Jimmy's lips, and Tango couldn't help but watch the movement, a mirror to the expression pulling at his own mouth.

"What?" he asked, trying - and failing - to rid the squeaky embarrassment from his voice.

The giggling quieted, replaced with a short hum from the man. Tango's fingers, still tangled in the collar of Jimmy's shirt, could feel the vibrations of the sound as he spoke, "You're just... like, really bad at this whole vampire thing."

He said it with a teasing lilt, and a smile to match, but Tango still felt the terrifying swoop of dread at the word he'd avoided even thinking since he woke up. Too scared to wonder if it was real. Too scared to think its inevitability into existence.

But that's what it was, wasn't it? Why avoid the name when he knew it was just as real either way?

Tango mulled over the comment, and frowned. "I can't tell if that's supposed to be an insult or not," he admitted.

Jimmy hummed again, and tilted his head in contemplation. "No," he drawled slowly, honey-brown eyes flicking back and forth between Tango's. "It's not," he said, almost a whisper in the small space left between them. "It's..." he breathed out something akin to a laugh, and Tango felt the puff of air against his neck, "a little endearing, honestly."

There was something else building in the air between them, a tension that drew Tango closer, and closer, and closer. It pulled every breath from his lungs, and sent his still heart soaring. A thrill that only seemed to build the longer the air stood still. It spilled over the edges of its container until the feeling consumed him whole, until he was on the brink of whatever restraint still held him back.

It was the way Jimmy's head was tilted - to the side just-so, and Tango's mirroring him - that led his eyes to roam the man's face. To admire the little crease in his brow, the slant of his nose, the ghost of stubble lining his jaw. He could hardly help the way his eyes fell to Jimmy's lips, worry-bitten and a pretty pink. Could hardly help the way the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his own, almost subconsciously.

A feather-light touch brushed against Tango's sleeve. His gaze flitted up to Jimmy's eyes, already staring back at him. A question lingered in them, in the slow, hesitant movements, in the closeness neither of them pulled away from.

The atmosphere was heavy, a weight settled into Tango's open palms. His own to decide what to do with.

His eyes found their way back to Jimmy's lips, an answer within itself. Still, he found himself nodding, as he inched infinitesimally closer.

And yet, before he could truly lean in, "I've never..." he trailed off in a whisper, the words lost somewhere behind his lips.

"Done this with fangs?" Jimmy guessed, the rumble of his voice felt more than heard, but still just as quiet. The little teasing smile that grew on his face was so close Tango could barely see it.

"... kissed anyone," he said seriously, keeping his gaze firmly stuck to the other man's lips. He was too scared of what he might find waiting for him in those eyes.

"Oh," Jimmy mumbled into the still air. He sounded shocked, almost, and leaned back an inch, though he didn't stray any further.

The quiet stretched for a moment too long, and Tango squeezed his eyes shut, worried he'd ruined the moment.

"You don't have to," Jimmy reassured in a whisper, the hand on his arm squeezing gently in comfort.

"I know." He swallowed his lingering nerves, and met Jimmy's gaze. "I want to."

A blush rose to the man's cheeks, blood painting them red in beautifully slow brushstrokes. The color crept along Jimmy's skin, and Tango reached a hand up to trace his fingers along its path, reveling in the heat that bloomed under his touch. He settled his palm against Jimmy's jaw, the same as he'd been held earlier, and leaned in.

The first brush of lips was slow, hesitant, and gently trembling on Tango's part. His lips were slightly chapped, and Jimmy's bitten, but that hardly mattered.

A spark raced down his spine as he pushed into the unsure motion, lighting the feelings in his gut on fire. Gone were the wispy flutterings from earlier, instead replaced with burning licks of flame as the two of them fell into a gentle rhythm.

A hand found its way to his neck, careful to avoid the bite mark, and slowly trailed its way to card through the hair at his nape. Another spark joined the first at the feeling, setting every nerve in its path alight as it went. Tango was nearly lightheaded with it, with the mesmerizing push-and-pull of their mouths, with every light touch that traced fire along his skin, with the whirl of feelings pooled in his gut and set aflame.

An embarrassingly honest hum of satisfaction rumbled from his throat as he broke from the kiss. Though his face was likely already scarlet, if the heat present under every inch of skin meant anything. Before the haze of it cleared, he rushed back to press a slow, full, chaste kiss to Jimmy's lips, before pulling away with a shy, slightly dazed smile.

He could still feel a tingling on his lips, and brought his free hand up to brush against them, savoring the sensation.

Jimmy's smile seemed to match his own, almost giddy, and the same sentiment was held in his eyes, pupils blown wide in the dark. His hand didn't still in Tango's hair, continuing the slow movements, like he was something delicate to cherish.

"Thank you," Tango blurted, hand falling back to where it had tangled itself into Jimmy's collar again. "For everything."

A soft giggle fell from Jimmy's lips, red as a rosebud, and landed somewhere lodged into Tango's heart. He shook his head gently with the sound, a cheesy grin slowly claiming his face. "You're welcome," he muttered gleefully, and pressed a quick peck against Tango's cheek.

Maybe, Tango thought, this won't have to be so bad.