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That guy was outside their house again. The local vampire, they suppose, who lived in the old church over the hill. Vampires, normally, would be a danger to the community— something that needed to be dealt with immediately, before anyone could get hurt.
This one was allowed to remain for a couple reasons. Mainly, the fact that he was more concerned about seeming “cool” than biting people.
Ramone could see him trailing through the field that spanned outside their house, cape, his cape billowing in the wind as he tried to hold it shut. He often took this path back to his home. The candle in their hand didn’t illuminate much, but it gave them a glimpse of the vampire’s features. Hair that was normally styled was slick with sweat, the loose strands dangling over a face stricken with nausea.
Swallowing their nerves, they clicked the lock and pushed the window open, the candlelight flickering in the wind. An unimpressive vampire was still a vampire. Caution was warranted.
“You don’t look well.” They yelled out.
The vampire snapped his head around. Ramone could see him more easily now, watching the way his eyes widened and his body tensed. Instinctively, he straightened, dramatically pulling his cape over himself. They don’t think he realized how lame it looked.
“Who are you, to disturb me?” His voice spat out with a tremor, “Begone!”
A shiver ran through the vampire, muffling a groan with the sleeve of his outstretched arm. They stared forward, confused, until the light flicked across the curve beneath his cloak.
Disregarding all caution, they stuck their head out the window to gawk. “You bit someone? You actually did!”
The vampire blinked. “I— What?” He snorted, offended.
Following their gaze, he gasped, tightening his grasp on the cloak. The shift did nothing to hide his stomach as it stuck out from his torso, swollen from his meal. “No wonder you look queasy!” They remarked.
The sickly green of his face turned red. He stepped forward, hands spread out ominously as he bared his fangs. “Silence, wretch! I will drain you like the others!”
Ramone didn’t respond. They were distracted by the view of his middle, now uncovered by his cloak. His frilled shirt—who the hell wore frills nowadays?—was snug against his unnaturally swollen stomach, the buttons digging into the skin. The sight made them wince.
Biting their lip, they prepare themselves to say something that might get them killed. “Oh, lord— just come inside.”
The vampire pauses, still posed. “Excuse me?”
“Come inside.” They groan, retreating back into their house. “You’re not gonna’ make it home like that. You look like a tick.”
Despite the look of bewilderment on his face, Ramone finds him at their front door when they open it. They’re surprised how quickly he accepted the offer.
The vampire stumbled inside, using the doorknob as support for his weight. He looked worse than they thought. His face, no longer twisted in anger, was sullen and miserable. The door silenced the harsh wind as it shut behind him.
Ramone stops him in place before he can pass them. “First, you’re going to answer some questions. What’s your name?”
His eyes narrow, gleaming a deep red. “That’s none of your business. Mortals—“
They snap a finger in front of his face. “None of that, okay? I’m letting you in my house, here. Tell me.”
The vampire splutters. It takes them a moment to figure out that he’s likely not been asked that in awhile. “Aristotle.”
“Ari—wow, really?—Aristotle.” Ramone breathes deeply, letting out a slow sigh. “Did you kill someone, or just bite them? Don’t lie to me.”
Aristotle licked his lips, looking more and more uncomfortable the longer he stood still, “I bite someone. A few people. They’re all alive.”
“Good. How in the world did you manage to do that?”
“I’m a powerful man.” He replied, sneering.
They didn’t say anything.
He sagged. “They’d all fallen asleep doing night fishing.”
“I see. Very powerful, clearly.”
At the look on his face, they put their hands up. “Hey, hey— look at me. You’re a terrifying vampire, no?”
He swallowed. “I am.”
“—And you’re tough. You’re super suave and tough.”
“Yes.”
“You’re also sick as a dog. So do me a favor and be terrifying while sitting in a chair instead, okay?”
Aristotle snarled, pulling his cape around himself as he limped away. He sat in the armchair like a lead weight, his stomach groaning along with the leather. Ramone stepped past, settling onto the footrest. “Let me take a look.”
The vampire hissed, twisting himself away as much as he could— which wasn’t much.
They frown, eyebrows furrowing. “I just let you of all people into my house because you weren’t feeling well. Are you going to make me kick you out, or let me help you?”
His feigned anger melts, slowly, fading into sickness once again. Grimacing, he shifts forwards, exposing his shirt to them. Cautiously, they lean forward and press their palm over the top. Even through the silk, Aristotle’s skin feels warm with the contents. He looks away.
Ramone undoes his buttons one by one, making sure not to jostle his belly any further. The shape of his middle swells forward when they finish, bringing about a whine from Aristotle. Unrestricted, it curves into a dome, the skin tinted a startling shade of red compared to the rest of him.
“Have mercy,” They murmur in awe, “How did you even?…”
A burp forces itself out of him as a loud gurgle echoes from his belly. They don’t really need to ask to know how it happened.
Sighing, Ramone gently splays their palms over the mass. It’s warmer than it was through the shirt, burning like a furnace. Testing, they press their hand down.
At his wince, they pause. They reassess their position, instead curving their fingers over the width. It seems to be more comfortable for him that way.
Once they dig their fingertips into the skin, the vampire tenses— either from wariness or an unfamiliarity with touch. They can barely feel any give beneath the skin as they rub. The more they do, however, the more the churning under their hand seems to dissipate. The mass of blood eventually starts to cooperate, digesting enough to make the vampire less likely to burst open.
Their palms glide over the skin, now with enough room underneath to permit a proper massage. His once bulging tummy had settled down into a gentle arc, looking less like a tick and more like someone well fed. They realize, suddenly, that they must’ve been doing this awhile.
“Well, you seem much better.” Ramone hums, raising their head. Aristotle, his expression free from nausea, had sunken into the cushions, half buried in his flaring collar. The vampire had fallen fast asleep.
Quietly, they begin to stand, praying that the floorboards don’t creak. They wonder for a second if it’s safe to let him stay, even in this state. If he woke up, he might find room for dessert.
Softly, Artistole’s stomach lets out a gurgle—full and far from unhappy—as he shifts onto his side.
”I guess he can stay the night”, Ramone thinks, tiptoeing off to bed.