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"You're lucky I need you."
Those had been the parting words Coen had spared the man, standing in the makeshift church as he was dressed in gore and grime, never mind the stupid armour he was sent to fetch to 'prove himself' to the priest. Coen was getting rather fed up with proving himself to people who wouldn't give him the time of day, even after doing their bidding.
As for Father Florin, the moment Coen stepped out of their underground gathering, he wanted to drive a sword through his stomach, if not for all he'd said about his mother, then for what he was feeling now.
While opening the sarcophagus containing the armour, something else had come out as well. A small cloud of dust, unnaturally colored, hit Coen in the face, making him cough and struggle to catch his breath. Once his poor lungs had recovered, he'd lugged the armour up to Florin, proving his worth in exchange for safe entrance to Greifberg Castle. Huzzah. Coen hadn't even bothered wearing the armour. It was neither practical nor any better than what he had on then.
The sun was still out when he managed to leave the underground. And that would have been fine, had just a short while later, Coen found himself coughing once more. Not in a fit, no. Nor in a way out of the ordinary. Crypts, ruins and catacombs were notoriously full of dust, accumulated over the decades and even centuries. It wasn't the first time Coen left one of them during the day, coughing.
It was the first time he found himself collapsing to his knees a while later.
It comes so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he scares the people walking beside him.
What starts as a cough grows into what definitely is a fit, forcing throat-grating coughs from him, leaving him breathless. Coen pulls at his collar, turns his head to the sky, and feels pained tears falling down his cheeks. None do him any good. Coen can feel himself getting lightheaded from the amount of relentless hacking. Then, there are people surrounding him, some shouting for others. Someone begins to hit his chest, and when that seems to work, because the coughing subsides, for a moment, someone presses a cup to his mouth, and Coen swallows mercifully cold water. It does nothing to help with his dwindling breath, but it does mercifully relieve some of the coughing.
When he can finally open his eyes, he finds a group surrounding him. A man has a cup in his hand, looking at Coen with concern. An older woman dips her hand in his cup and wipes his cheeks and forehead with it, pushing back his hair. It's soft and maternal, and it has Coen thinking of memories that bring a lump to his throat.
"You alright now, son?" the man says, brows furrowed.
"Fine. Thank you," Coen replies, and hopes he isn't lying. His tight chest is concerning.
"Can we help you get home?" the kindly woman says, and Coen shakes his head. There's no one in Svatrau, except maybe the Manumits, but Coen hasn't earned their trust yet, and he doesn't want the first time they see him to be like this. Besides, there was little they could do to help him now except kill him in an act of mercy (he shudders as he remembers the light leaving Sara's eyes).
But then an idea comes to him, like peeking through the fog.
"How far," he rasps, massaging his throat, "How far t-to Altenmarkt?"
Not too far, it would seem. They insist on helping him get there, but Coen isn't comfortable with showing humans the location of Vicho's home. Not that he distrusts the man (Coen has been dutifully supplying the vrakhir with enough blood so that isn't a problem), but Vicho is still unsure about everything, and Coen doesn't want to do anything to push him over the edge.
So he walks.
It's fucking miserable. Every step feels like he's carrying boulders, on top of trying to keep his coughing down. The way he clings to the side of building get him a few stares, some concerned, some disgusted, but Coen doesn't pay them any mind. He has a place to be, and the sooner he gets there, the sooner he can breathe again.
The panic of suffocating is enough motivation to get to the front door.
It takes more time than he would have liked to find the spare key. Coen usually enters through the balcony, but Vicho had still supplied him with it anyway, lest they need to meet during the day.
The inside is dark, the windows shuttered closed with blinds pulled over them for good measure. Even though Vicho would be in the basement by now.
Coen closes the door behind him, locking it. It's getting worse; he's scared to note, like something is stealing the air from his lungs through a small, punctured hole. Coen decidedly does not want to see how this will end.
Unfortunately, he doesn't have the strength to call for Coen, as things stand. Hunched over, he drops his things to the ground and navigates to the stairs in the corner completely blind, wheezing and breathing deeply from his mouth. It's the only way to get enough air.
It's a miracle he doesn't trip down any steps.
By the time he makes it to the bottom, he feels on the verge of collapse, head spinning from the lack of air. But it's just a few more steps; now, he can't give up. Not when everything and everyone is on the line.
His hand touches Vicho's bed frame, and he'd cry, if he could without leaving him truly without breath.
"Vicho," he wheezes, finding the man's cold, bony shoulder (and it will always be a surprise to him, how much the vrahiri feel like death), shaking him and digging his nails in, "Vicho."
It doesn't take much to get the man awake and surprised. His beady white eyes meet Coen's in the dark, wide with the realisation of who the human in his house was.
"Coen, what—"
"Can't breathe," he tells him with difficulty, each word taking so much effort, so much air, "Think magic—"
"Oh, no," Vicho says, fully awake now, "Wait here. Sit up. Here—" he sits Coen down on the bed, and once he makes sure Coen won't keel over, disappears in a flutter of smoke and red moths. Coen wheezes, clawing at his throat, while his other hand helplessly tries to take off his armour.
Vicho is back, sitting right beside him, a small wooden crate in hand.
"I'm no witch," he reminds Coen, rummaging through what must be glass vials, and uncorking one. It smells unpleasant when he lifts it to Coen's lips, "But I hope this works."
Coen doesn't care. He lets Vicho tilt his head back, swallowing it all in one big gulp. It's bitter and stomach-churning, but Coen doesn't care. He cares that it works.
It doesn't.
Oh, God. Coen is going to die here.
"Resolutely not," Vicho snaps, and it's the first time Coen hears him sound so determined, so absolute.
The words are so abrupt, so disengaging from his current ailment, that Coen remembers something crucial.
"Bag," he tells Vicho, in between wheezes and scratching the man's bear arms with his blunt, human nails, "Mine. Upstairs."
Vicho's eyes are pinned on him, a dab of confusion in his eyes before he understands. He's gone one second and returns the next with Coen's things, rummaging through them according to Coen's instructions: big vial, blue liquid.
Coen can't see in the dark, nor would he be able to make out anything had there been torches; tears of pain are blinding him to anything other than mortal terror and panic. He'll just have to trust the man as he slowly dips Coen down so he's lying against the crook of Vicho's arm and presses the cool glass against his lips, whispering kind, soft things Coen can't decipher at the moment.
The liquid washes over his sandpaper tongue and rushes down his throat. It's one of the better-tasting potions Coen has, cool and refreshing, like dipping into the waters of melted mountain snow.
The vial is pulled away, and Coen takes a loud, gasping breath. And then, to make sure it really did work, he closes his mouth and breathes in through his nose until his chest constricts. His lungs aren't at full capacity, but they're doing far better than moments ago. Relief floods his being just as air floods his body, returning to every nook and cranny it had been stolen from.
Coen opens his eyes, still wet and still unfocused. But it's impossible to miss those twin moons looking down at him, narrowed in concern.
"I'm…fine," he tries to say. Vicho exhales, though he has no need for it, but Coen understands the gratitude underlying it.
"Oh, you gave me a fright," he says, with a poorly concealed edge. Coen hums, closing his eyes again, when Vicho's clawed hand pushes Coen's hair from his eyes.
"I think…I'll take a nap now," Coen says. Vicho chuckles, but doesn’t make to pull away, not yet.
"I have more potions at the ready, if you need them. Try to hold on until moonrise, friend."
"Mhm," Coen replies sleepily, trying to find to right words, even as his tongue and exhaustion weigh them down, "Blood, in my bag… If you need it."
The hand in his hair pauses. Vicho reaches behind Coen's head, moving him until Vicho is lying with his back to the wall, and still cradling Coen in his arms.
"If there ever was someone too good for this cursed life of ours," he whispers between them. Coen tries to hold on, to make sure he hears the last of it, but he doesn't manage, slipping into the welcoming hands of rest, "It would be you, Coen of Laslea."
The next time he opens his eyes, it's night. Coen can tell because there is a deep, insatiable hunger gnawing at his teeth. It is a hunger that is always in the periphery of his vision, following him wherever he goes, and singing so beautifully whenever there's a heartbeat too close; clinging to Coen like tar that will never wash away, until dawn rescues him from its clutches.
He's still in bed, with a blanket pulled over him, but he no longer needs to rest. The vrakhiri side of him takes care of any residual injury or pain, besides getting rid of the magic polluting his body.
With his vrakhiri eyes, he gets a better view of the room. Vicho is not with him, but there are traces of his presence: Coen's bag has been placed neatly in the corner, while his armour and sword lay above his folded clothes. Speaking of which, Coen would have normally felt awkward about being so naked in front of another person, but times have changed, and frankly he's too exhausted to give a damn.
He turns to the stairs when he hears it creak. Vicho comes into the basement, a relieved smile on his lips when he finds Coen awake.
"How long was I asleep?" Coen asks, voice still rough. He can't feel the ache that was left behind once his coughing subsided, but the memory of it still has him inwardly cringing.
"A few hours, no more than five," Vicho replies. Stepping forward, he pauses by Coen's bags and comes back bearing a vial of red. Coen's eyes zero in on it. If he were human, he'd be salivating. His wide eyes and "It is rather ironic, for me to urge the drinking of blood…But you must feed."
"Gladly," Coen says, uncaring of Vicho's existential crisis. He takes the vial and uncorks it with his teeth, spitting it out. He must truly look every bit of a monster, but when faced with hunger so profound it threatens to undo the last threads of humanity he still has…
Coen drains the vial in one gulp and can finally relax.
Vicho sits down on the bed, watching him intently. He's not dressed in his usual finery, opting for a tunic and loose trousers instead. His bare collar has Coen feeling an interest he knows to be dangerous and ashamed of. Here he is, having barely survived death after encountering something supernatural, and ready to dive back in. Albeit, Vicho is not as dangerous as he likes to think himself. But the point still stands.
Sitting up is no longer difficult. But Coen doesn't feel it in him to leave; not yet.
"Thank you for saving me," he tells Vicho, and if he had a heart, it would swell with gratitude. He'd forgotten what it meant to be able to rely on someone, "I can't tell you how…how awful that was. And how grateful I am for what you've done."
"I did nothing to warrant your appreciation," Vicho replies in kind, inclining his head, "You had all that you needed. I was just safe harbour."
"It's more than what I've had in a long time."
Blessedly, Vicho doesn't reply, letting silence fall between them again.
"I also apologise for coming here as a human," Coen dares to glance up from where he's sitting, "I know you aren't comfortable with being among humans yet."
"Truth be told, Coen, I had not an inkling of fear and hunger when I saw you in horrible state," Vicho smiles as he says this, and in his eyes Coen finds something akin to relief and rejuvenation, "All I could focus on was making sure you were alright. I believe you were right when you said things could change. I feel more in control of my body now, thanks to your visits."
"I'm happy to hear that, truly," Coen's smile widens. "We're so much more than this curse. You were one of the people to teach me that. There's so much good to be had if you forgive yourself for the past."
"Ah, using my words against me," Vicho teases, but there is no heat in it, no cruelty in his small smile, "I shall return the favour: Isn't it high time you forgive yourself for the past, too?"
That has Coen freezing, stopping all thought and emotion. But Vicho isn't done. He presses a hand against Coen's, cold meeting cold, and yet it is not unwelcome, "I don't know what wounds or ghosts you carry with you, but I know you'd never hold it over me. You'd tell me I was torturing myself senselessly, and to look to the future instead."
"It's not the same," Coen says, shaking his head, fighting the memories.
"Isn't it?"
And Coen isn't so sure.
He ducks his head. Vicho's cold hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and Coen looks up, finding soft, sad eyes looking back at him.
"You have much to live for too, Coen," he says, and then…and then he's pulling Coen forward until they're chest to chest, and Vicho's arms curl around him in a wonderful, long-missed hug. Coen doesn't remember the last time he'd been hugged like it, be it from a friend or family.
It is entirely too easy to melt into it, to wrap his own arms around Vicho, and to let himself be held until all other anxieties slip away, even for a moment.
"You'll be something wonderful, Coen," Vicho tells him, whispering the words right into his ear. If Coen were human, he'd be shedding tears already, "You'll save your family and find yourself in the process, and the world will become a better place for it."
"You think too highly of me," Coen tells him, lips pressed against the fabric of Vicho's shirt. It smells clean, unworn. No sweat means no natural smells, but it's still entirely Vicho: just a tinge of medicinal, and an underlying signature of cool stone and fresh snow that always points to the man.
"Perhaps," Vicho says back, hand running up and down Coen's shoulders, making the younger vrakhir close his eyes, not unlike a cat being petted behind the ear, Coen is ashamed to be reminded of the analogy, "But not as highly as you think of me."
And there's no answer Coen can give to that except to curl into Vicho's hold and pray that, just for one night, someone else can shoulder the world in Coen's stead while all Coen has to do is forget.