dearest.

Boo, all these mysteries.

Seyoon had already told this guy ten things about himself, while Mr. I-Am-Too-Good-For-Small-Talk had revealed basically nothing. Like, he already knew Jaerim was a vampire, therefore a monster and a killer, and had literally witnessed him feeding on a dude. That was the big secret out of the bag, so the guy might as well stop worrying about the rest? Like, come on.

"Well, okay, dodge my question, but just know that I am not gonna be nobody's bitch." Seyoon insisted as he bumped Jaerim back, with greater force than necessary. "I do low commitment, short distance, and casual situationships only." He kept on following, though. "Like, if I can't even be convinced to be this hot forty-year-old's sugar baby, I definitely cannot deal with- whoa."

He was this close to launching into a story about his latest bar adventure when he realized that they'd arrived.

Oh shit, this was a date, wasn't it?

An illegal, trespassing sort of date, but one nevertheless.

For a second, Seyoon just stared. It was dark, but his eyes were bright, almost as if they were lit from within. A flicker of amusement moved through them, like the first spark before a flame could catch.

"And you got me beer." Seyoon sighed. It was a happy sound.

He took the cue stick and cracked open a can. There was no music playing, so he started joyfully humming a tune that would have worked well as background. Guess it was always nice when a guy tried. Even though he didn't have to, because honestly, Seyoon was never that difficult when it came to real babes. Whether they were walking red flags or not.

"You think you are gonna win because you are a supernatural creature and all that, but you are about to get your ass kicked."

Was Seyoon certain he was going to win? Absolutely not. But he leaned over the table with all the confidence of a man who'd never accept defeat. He squinted at the racked triangle of balls, adjusted his grip, readjusted again for fun, then struck.

Fate could have embarrassed him, but it didn't. The cue ball shot forward, cracked into the triangle, and sent colors scattering in every direction. When a striped ball dropped clearly into the corner pocket, Seyoon was already overjoyed. So when a solid followed it into the side, he was actually gobsmacked.

He should really play it cool...

But his amusement was diluted with something else; a gloomy, enshrouded feeling wrapped itself around Jaerim’s ears like a filter through which Seyoon’s words came in. “I definitely cannot deal with—” Yeah, yeah. Jaerim knows. He’s heard the rejection before, he thinks shamelessly, perhaps a dozen times. As a mortal, none of Jaerim’s relationships lasted as long as he would’ve liked. They were like hurricanes and thunderstorms: forming fast and suddenly, wreaking havoc, then leaving nothing but disaster behind. One of his exes even went as far as moving out of the city; he’d tainted everything with his manic obsession. And even six years later, and even though he’s been dead for five of those, the all-consuming obsession finds Jaerim again. 

Seyoon’s red tape means very little to him. Trespassing isn’t a cute, one-off idea he had for a date. It’s a habit. 

          His eyes snap to Seyoon’s figure when he leans over the table to strike the cue ball, breaking the rest out of formation with a series of noisy clacks. Jaerim’s gaze lingers on his hands, the red tips of his fingers as he positions the cue stick between them—up to the deep focus in his gaze, and down to the flash of exposed neck when he tilts his head to line up a shot. Whatever happens on the table is secondary, Jaerim only looks away once everything settles and Seyoon shoots upright in triumph. 

He lets him celebrate early, letting the other jostle him around by the arm in his excitement while his dark, troubled thoughts dissipate with the sound of Seyoon’s laughter. His instigation works; Jaerim’s provoked, but only enough to eventually push him away with a hand against his shoulder before he draws it back to do something else. 

          “I’ll—” Jaerim makes a vulgar motion by pressing his tongue against his cheek and pretending to push something in with his hand. 

He smiles. He does it so quickly and casually that it could’ve been a trick of the light, like striking lighting—leaving only the impression of having flashed because the eyes are too slow to adjust. Jaerim barely makes eye-contact for a second before he tilts his chin towards the table.

     “Finish your turn.” 

"Feels nice."

It did.

Pleasantly, it reminded him of childhood - when he was truly young, wild, and free. Seyoon spent his earlier days in muddy shorts, every rip stitched and restitched until the fabric carried a map of squiggled repairs. His grandmother used different colored threads each time to make it fun, so that he'd wake up the next morning to a little surprise. Every afternoon she'd scoop him onto her lap and run her fingers through his hair like this, expertly tugging free bits of acorn and pine needles. Pieces of flowers and broken twigs he'd picked up on his adventures.

Strange how a monster's touch could remind him of that.

"This shouldn't work on me, you know." Seyoon leaned down on the hand under his chin, tilting his head until the soft padding of his cheek was pressed against unnaturally cool skin. "Your vampire mind stuff." He smiled. "You guys shouldn't be able to dazzle me, or whatever." Seyoon had not one, but two wards against those fine supernatural tricks. Last time he checked, they were both perfectly intact. Which meant, unfortunately, this was all him.

"Anyway." He tipped his chin off of Jaerim's hand and pushed himself up to stand again. "You are being really nice for a vampire."

Seyoon was back to following. To this abandoned location (also potentially his doom?) Jaerim wanted to take him.

"Is this a let-me-learn-about-hunters-through-this-idiot thing? If so, sorry to disappoint, because I legit know nothing. Fell asleep during Know Thy Enemy: Vampire 101, pissed off most of my hardworking colleagues, and got kicked out of all the juicy gossip group chats."

It’s impossible to tell whether Seyoon’s experienced that level of heavy-handed mind fuckery, but he seems to know something about it. Even so, the hunter would never guess exactly what crosses Jaerim’s mind. 

His face would be red if he could still blush. The confidence with which he ran his fingers through Seyoon’s hair suddenly seizes gingerly within him, leaving him frozen for half a second while Seyoon smiles up at him. The moment passes quickly, and Jaerim draws his hand back by the time Seyoon stands, pressing it into his pocket once more, where he quietly digs his fingernails into his palm.

It hasn’t been long enough since he died that he’s forgotten what being a mortal is like. Hell, the embrace is burned so vividly into his mind that half of the time he still thinks of himself as a mortal. He’s drawn such a tight boundary between himself and the beast to keep it from swallowing him, and yet it’s still a part of him. It still dictates his hunger, and his hunger dictates him, and everything is so deeply intertwined that he can’t make heads or tails of it. 

He is a monster. That’s an indubitable fact. However, in spite of everything… he still has capacity for thought, for empathy, for self-awareness. Everything that makes up human consciousness, he has it. 

Jaerim rolls his shoulders. He looks upwards, gathering his thoughts. To be honest, he’d rather not think about this at all, but then Seyoon leans over with a glint of playful scrutiny behind his gaze as he examines Jaerim closely, and he can’t help but play along. 

          “Hey, Seyoon…” His lips curl into a grin around the syllables. “Why would I tell you my plans?” 

He bumps his shoulder against the other, pushing into his space with the same impish look. “You’re too impatient for surprises, aren’t you?” 

Laughter fizzles behind his lips, leaving him in a half-hearted scoff. 

          “Just walk.” 

The sad truth is that Jaerim is completely ‘bitchless’, to borrow Seyoon’s phrasing, though the vulgarism isn’t even remotely far from what he’s heard from his brothers and sisters. He isn’t ready to admit that Seyoon’s the first mortal he’s taken notice of, though; that he’s been shamelessly stalking him for the past five weeks, so he swiftly moves on from the topic as they near their destination. 

          The bowling alley’s been abandoned for the latter half of the decade, as far as Jaerim can tell, which makes it entirely possible that Seyoon hung around here before its doors abruptly closed and never reopened. It wasn’t hard to deduce that the place had been used for money laundering when Jaerim broke in a few nights ago, given that everything inside was still in place, from bowling pins to racks of shoes, and a dozen or so cabinets that were gathering dust in the arcade section. He even found bookkeeping. 

None of it is what Jaerim brought Seyoon for, though. He leads them to the back alley, where an employee parking space is fenced off by a tall, concrete partition. Jaerim jumps six-feet up with the grace and balance of a cat, turning on his heels and squatting down to pull Seyoon up, over, and onto the other side. 

          The lamppost at the edge of the property is all that illuminates the small lot, empty save for a singular pool table that sits near the back door, completely out of place. Jaerim doesn’t make a grand showing of it; he’s somewhat embarrassed of his make-shift date spot, and too reserved to even admit out loud that it’s an attempt at a date. Still, he spent a handful of hours walking around the neighborhood until he found this place. 

Since there’s no electricity, he saw no other way but to drag the pool table outside. And, for the first time in… What, years? Jaerim walked into a mini-convenience store and paid for a 12-pack of beer with money stolen from a guy’s back pocket that he ambushed for feeding… Not too far from here, actually. 

The beer’s still ice-cold in a small cooler that he found inside. Although dirty, it serves its purpose as Jaerim drags it over and leaves it next to the table for Seyoon’s discovery. It’s the same cheap beer he’d been drinking at the party.

"Oh, we are close enough to be taking each other places now?" Seyoon raised a brow. This sounded like a horrible idea. Very much resembled a hey, I wish to eat you in the comfort of my favorite old cabin!

So why on earth was he actually following the vampire to his potential doom? Stupidity? Oh no. At this point, it was perhaps time to be honest and acknowledge Seyoon's true weakness - his brain was fully operational, just outvoted by...something else.

At least if it was not far, Seyoon might be familiar with the place already. He wondered, casually, what tickled Jaerim's fancy. Abandoned factory? That really narrow alley between two condemned buildings? Empty underground parking garage? A dark backyard shed? Seyoon's job meant he wandered around most of the local creepy supernatural squatting spots.

Except normally, when he was out fishing in those places, he'd be dressed cuter, with his hair properly fluffed up for presentation purposes. Jaerim had shown up unexpectedly, and he had to move fast, so he still had a piece of hair sticking up in the back of his head and possibly drool tracks that had not been completely wiped clean.

"Next time, can you call or text ahead?" Seyoon continued to wrestle that stubborn strand self-consciously as they walked. "Oh, right, you don't have a phone. How do vampires even communicate, bro? Am I gonna start getting messenger pigeons? A raven? A blood-soaked handwritten letter tied to a brick?" Maybe Seyoon should stop reading vampire romance novels and pretending it was research.

Seyoon doesn’t realize what he implies whenever he mindlessly complains, like the not-so-subtle reminder that Jaerim knows where he lives, and the fact that he sat around waiting for him, and now that he expects a ‘next time’ before he even knows where Jaerim’s taking him tonight. He can’t tell if it’s confidence or a lack of self-preservation, but it does endear him to Jaerim past the original intent to seek his blood. The strange mixture of resistance tied with willingness excites him more than he’d care to admit. 

          “Whatever,” he sulks, looking toward the street. He’d almost forgotten the ridiculous lie he told Seyoon at the cemetery. To Jaerim’s credit, it’s not entirely unlikely that the guy who fell from a rooftop could also fall into a lake. 

          “Can’t I just show up at your apartment?” 

That seems like the best solution, and whether Seyoon likes it or not, it’s the only one. If Jaerim tips off the Second Inquisition freaks because he tried sexting, he’ll be the ridicule of the entire city, and then it’ll only be a matter of time before either the Inquisition, Camarilla, and hell, even the Anarchs find and kill him. A vampire who can’t keep the Masquerade is a nuisance to all. 

Elias is teaching him all about that. 

          The hunter doesn’t wait around for explanations a second time. Jaerim walks a few paces ahead before he realizes Seyoon’s not following, and when he turns around, he finds him sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. He blinks at him once, twice, unsure what to make of the sight. In the end, Jaerim ends up walking back, staring at the crown of Seyoon’s head with a thoughtful look. His hair is still disheveled despite his efforts, and Jaerim takes the freedom to rake his fingers through the dark strands now that he’s been given the opportunity. 

          “You’re done walking anyway,” he points out, mindlessly carding his fingers through and ignoring the first half of Seyoon’s questioning. “I guess it’s possible you’ve been there before,” he offers nonetheless. “It’s a place that’s abandoned.” 

Seyoon was not expecting to see the sulky vampire again.

Obviously.

But, like, that bastard really didn't show up, eh? It's been five whole weeks, and at this point, the silence was an attack on Seyoon's ego. Ugh. Maybe this was karma's way of paying back for all the times he had ghosted a person after making out at a party.

On this fine Saturday evening, Seyoon was trying to work on a stupid paper. He'd fallen asleep halfway through and was drooling onto his keyboard when he heard the first pebble against his window. He got up lazily, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and raked his fingers through his unruly hair, trying to tame one particular stubborn piece that was sticking straight up.

Wait. What the fuck. Was that the vampire asshole he was totally not hoping to see again, standing in the lamplight and grinning as if he had not dipped for over a month? Why was he throwing pebbles like he had learned courtship from a Taylor Swift song?

Seyoon pushed open his window and leaned over the sill. He realized he was smiling and immediately wiped it off, adopting a half-hearted scowl instead.

"Here to kill me? Took you long enough. My god, I thought your kind was supposed to be more efficient." He gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Could have saved me from two papers and one exam." Seyoon didn't raise his voice, even though there was some distance between the window and his vampire visitor. A normal person might have trouble hearing him, but supernatural freaks came with their perks.

He’s left staring at the empty window and fills the space with a scoff. It only takes a minute at the receiving end of Seyoon’s restless energy to shift his mood for the first time in the past month, to pull something more than apathy and disdain from him. It’s ironic that he’s more at ease around a hunter than his “family”. It’s been five years and most of his siblings still hate him, still remind him of his initiation ritual with cackles, overjoyed that they pushed him to the brink of final death, and spiteful that he survived through it. 

A blank look overtakes his face as he lowers his head and steps out of the lamplight. If he blinks, one of them could appear beside him—could rip this from him in an instant. Jaerim stops breathing. His attention is drawn to the parameter, searching for recognition, for the beast’s hackles to rise. A minute passes—they’re alone. He blinks, finally, when Seyoon appears through the entrance doors ten seconds later.

          Jaerim notes the backpack with a cursory glance. Self-defense weapons? Any previous hangups fueled by five ongoing years of mind-breaking trauma is replaced by the urge to push Seyoon into the bushes and do appallingly immoral things to him without a second thought. 

          “Sounds like you were expecting me,” Jaerim teases in lieu of greeting.

He begins walking backwards, already leading them down the sidewalk, watching Seyoon with a glint in his dark eyes. It doesn’t even occur to him to put on the pretense of sheepishness for showing up—uninvited and unannounced—five weeks after their little event at the rooftop. There’s a few things Jaerim likes to keep close to his chest, like the fact that his sire would disembowel him if he found out that he’s entertaining… whatever this is. 

Jaerim's impatient look was met with a quick kiss of comfort. Seyoon's mind was on the phone conversation, but his body was well-practiced in the art of soothing brooding lovers.

The rest of the call was short and very one-sided. The asshole coordinator fed him the basic information despite his earlier protests, and Seyoon hung up the moment he heard enough. He didn't say he was going to show up, but by now, people understood how he communicated.

It was unfortunate that his weakness was so obvious and that there were certain types of work he could never truly say no to.

"I gotta go," he said, but didn't immediately move to peel himself away from Jaerim. Instead, he let his fingers - the ones that had been running gently along the vampire's jawline - drift lower. Until he was holding a monster's cold, dead hand, the pad of his thumb running over each moon of Jaerim's nails.

The gesture almost seemed laced with sadness, which didn't make much sense, even to Seyoon. Shouldn't he be grateful that something had stopped him from making a mistake?

"You don't go back and eat folks at this party, and I don't tell my people about you?" He eventually let go, pushing himself up and off. "Fair, right? Let's play nice." Seyoon dusted himself off, gently rubbing at a muddy stain on his pants.

"Don't doubt me," he added, shooting Jaerim a look. "I keep my promises, 'kay?" Seyoon planted his hands on his hips as if daring the vampire to fight him on this. "If I lie, you can probably come and find me. It's not like you don't know where I live."

Not that he cares. Should’ve been killed way earlier, if it meant Seyoon wasn’t needed somewhere else. 

          Jaerim leans back on his hands as Seyoon gets off him, turning his head to the side to mask some of his disappointment, but he knows the face he’s wearing. He can’t hide the slight downturn of his lips, the utter indifference in his gaze as Seyoon makes his promise. He’s choosing apathy because the reverse is too pathetic; Jaerim's always been possessive, always been a little more desperate than he’d like, but there’s something darker, now: his desire is tangled with the gruesome urge to carve his teeth into Seyoon. 

He retakes the position he was in before Seyoon crawled into his lap. Jaerim draws his knees in, rests his elbows atop them, and rests his cheek on his hand. He throws Seyoon a disinterested glance, like he’s already tuned him out, though there is something to be found in Seyoon’s parting parlay. It’s not simply the reminder that Jaerim knows where he lives (is that an invitation?), but the fact that Seyoon likes him enough to let him walk free. Satisfaction pools among the disappointment. What a funny decision for a hunter to make.

          “Don’t die,” with one last, dry look, he pokes his tongue out at Seyoon before he returns to firmly ignoring his exit.

Seyoon heard his own heartbeat first, each thump echoing in his ears. His body always made its decision before his mind did, and this time, it chose to remain perfectly still.

And wait.

He saw Jaerim's shut eyes before he felt his lips, and his brain went momentarily offline. It took a second longer than necessary for him to realize he was being utterly unromantic, and to squeeze his eyes shut as well. Another moment slipped by before his shoulders relaxed, before his breathing eased into the pattern of intimacy he was familiar with.

So there they were, technically enemies who should never take their eyes off each other, kissing. The strange part was that it didn't seem wrong. In fact, Seyoon thought it felt really, really right.

He barely noticed the phone buzzing until Jaerim pulled away briefly. Seyoon, annoyed, literally took the thing out of his pocket and tossed it so he'd no longer feel its irritating vibrations as he chased the vampire's mouth. His cell slid across the wet rooftop, rescued from potential doom only by the curve of his hula-hoop. Then, Seyoon, as he draped himself over Jaerim, caught the name flashing on the screen next to the neon glow.

Fuck.

He pulled away. Or rather, more like ripped himself away with reluctance. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he was doing the right thing as he fished for his phone. Because this whole wanting-to-hook-up-with-a-bloodsucker thing was madness, and let's be real, Jaerim was probably going to tear his throat out halfway through sex the moment the rooftop stragglers cleared out and politely left them the space.

He feels Seyoon’s warm breath brush against his skin as he complains into the device and looks up, gazing at his lips as he talks. It’s a better distraction. Jaerim doesn’t move away to grant privacy, he only leans closer and nudges his nose against Seyoon’s cheek, giving him an impatient look when their eyes meet. 

     It’s been years since Jaerim’s had sex. He’s lured mortals into dark corners, into dirty stalls in club bathrooms and dusty couches in basements with the intention to sink his teeth into them before they can even get a hand down his pants. The bite is enough for them to believe that something happened, that he gave them an incredible time—so, so goddamn mind-blowing that they can’t even remember—and it’s how he feeds about a third of the time. He mostly ambushes them in alleyways, but sometimes, the social dance is necessary.

Like now. 

He thinks.

Jaerim suddenly isn’t sure. 

Seyoon isn’t a regular mortal. He’s not someone who can be tricked that easily, yet the uncomfortable tension in his chest tells him another story, one where Jaerim isn’t trying to trick him for his blood. It’s the sort of tension that he’s only ever associated with desire—when he was still alive. Jaerim hasn’t slept with anyone in years because he can’t; can’t feel pleasure, can’t force the rush of blood inside his body to make it work, and yet desire tugs at him incessantly; a feeling he thought he’d forgotten finds him like a crashing wave. 

"No."

Seyoon responded without batting a lash.

"I am not scared of anything if it just involves me." As long as nobody else was at risk, Seyoon could not care less. "But perhaps that's a problem."

He shrugged, turning the doughnut between his fingers. It was a bit late to learn to fear for himself again.

Seyoon had felt too much of it on that night seven years ago - his throat was so tight that every swallow sounded loud. His hands didn't tremble, for they went numb until they no longer seemed to belong to him.

Fight, run, freeze, hide.

Every muscle inside his body barked a different command, but his mind was so overwhelmed by sheer terror that it just kept on telling him to disappear.

Yet here he still was.

After that, he became strangely calm in the face of danger. It was as if he'd spent all of his fear in one night, and whatever was supposed to make him flinch had gone quiet for good.

"Is it so terrible to want to make a mistake?" Seyoon mumbled. Were the words meant for Jaerim, or himself? Perhaps both. "Life is so short. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes." He leaned a tad closer. "Maybe it's okay," he said. "Especially if it's just gonna be once."

Seyoon glanced over, and sure enough, Jaerim was still watching him.

Damn it, he really did like this bloodsucker's eyes. And his stupid face. It was so unfair.

So, in a rather childish act, instead of offering it to his own mouth, Seyoon lifted the last bite of his doughnut and bumped it against Jaerim's lips. Icing sugar might have looked silly on Seyoon's face, but it looked even more ridiculous on Mr. Serious Vampire's.

Jaerim makes a face when the sugary icing touches his lips, frowning like it’s dirt instead of sugar. He wipes it off with the back of his hand, twice, and sticks his tongue out at Seyoon. Sweet food tastes like ash, like someone made paste out of cremated animal remains. Still, Seyoon’s playful little jab gives Jaerim the invitation he needs to reach out—to touch him—to test another boundary. 

He grabs hold of Seyoon’s wrist, pushing the pastry away, and uses the momentum to close in. Jaerim closes his eyes as he casts their lips together, lips half-parted. He holds him in place with a gentle squeeze around his wrist, tilting his chin to the side to push ever closer. 

Seyoon’s pulse is finally at his mouth. He fights back the urge to to bite down, to squeeze tighter, because he can feel it, he can hear the blood pumping from his heart through his veins, can feel it rush to his face to warm it—the tiniest hiccup when their lips first touch, like he wasn’t sure of Jaerim’s intentions. It’s almost enough to make him groan; the proximity, the rush of warm blood beneath only a thin layer of tender skin; he wants to latch on to Seyoon like ivy, to crawl into every crevice.

all of this registers subconsciously in the back of his mind. none of it is new, or unusual, except for the one thing that does stand out to him: not the scent of what is there, but the scent of what is not. and what isn’t there, is the scent of a particular one-legged human. which can only mean one thing, and confirms what he’d already long since suspected: 

silas isn’t coming. 

he isn’t anywhere near, nor on his way, nor does he seem to be at all concerned about this place or alozial himself. 

fine, then. maybe he should just take the man’s remaining leg the next time he does care to show his face. silas has got no need for any legs, anyway, if he’s going to be this unreliable. 

it’s the mention of another name that interrupts both the silence and his thoughts, though it takes him a moment to register it as the vampire’s own name. mostly, because he doesn’t remember asking (not for a name, that is). disdain flashes in his eyes, as if the mere idea of this introduction is somehow offensive to him. no more or less so than the claims that follow— only because those are ridiculous enough to be laughed at. he would laugh, if he thought it was at all funny. 

“this land was never yours to claim,” alozial counters coolly. there’s a newfound sense of authority to his words, though he isn’t quite confident enough to lower his hands. just in case. “the earth does not belong to you, the wildlife fears you, and the plants won’t even bloom.” it’s unfortunate he doesn’t still have his powers, alozial thinks— he would’ve liked to see jaerim get swallowed by a casket of vines. thorny, so they could rip his flesh apart and use his leftovers as fetilizer (then again, that might only end up poisoning the lands). 

if he still had his powers, this time, too, he could have laughed at the audacity of jaerim’s command. he would’ve been less offended if he’d had the actual means to get rid of this intruder. but alas, his position is not quite as favorable. 

and yet, his anger overwhelms his fear. 

“this forest has been under the protection of the fae since it grew its first roots— it’s your own kind that has been disrupting the harmony.” his gaze bores straight through the vampire, the ghost image of the forest behind burning in alozial’s head. one vine, one single vine, would be enough to restrain him; to strangle him. the desire to do so burns with a heated intensity, as if sheer willpower will miraculously help him succeed. it’s hard to decide whether to die or be humiliated. 

but it’s not jaerim’s place to tell him to leave— alozial wants to tell him this, not so politely. he would have, if, if, if. instead, he simply, slowly shakes his head. 

          “And I don’t suppose you’re the savior sent to rescue it?” He scoffs. “Tell me, where have the fae been for the past fifteen-hundred years?” 

Jaerim tilts his head; his gaze, like a black hole, swallows light. The shadows begin to close around him. If there’s any truth to the fae’s words, any hint of possibility, then it must be in the way all bright and living things recoil from him now. 

Idle cowards, the whole lot of them. If they cared half as much as the fae claims, they’d have shown themselves when this mountain burned with tyranny and flooded with the blood of innocents. He got rid of the parasite; him alone. No one helped—not a soul bothered to consider him worthy of rescue when he was robbed of every decency Muwon could conceive to strip him of. He was a corpse in everything but spirit, locked underground where he lay for five years, having lost the ability to move after his muscles atrophied from starvation. All he could do was guess whether his eyes were open or not—he could not tell, in that darkness—and the only face he met was the wicked visage of his master, once, every year, until one day he fed him from his arm and brought him up after Jaerim had served his punishment, born from a dictatorial, arbitrary rule. Jaerim was as dumb as a newborn for months, mute from the abuse and confinement, even after he gained back the privilege to eat, to move, to witness the night sky again. 

It wasn’t an isolated occurrence. It was the common form of subjugation his late master imposed. 

Members of the council knew of Muwon’s methods. All of them, fucking cowards. It’s only until he became a monster that he entered their thoughts, but only enough to wish him dead—

Something rustles in the hydrangea bushes; a large, heavy force. Jaerim’s eyes snap to it and at once he makes contact with a disfigured face staring intently at him; two sharp, dark eyes stare through thick and bulbous eyelids nearly closed with deformity. 

The fae ventured his remarks with intention to insult; but it’s the appearance of this mutant that Jaerim’s violent nature is not prepared to endure. His fury springs to life, flamed on by resentment that the fae’s words triggered, and the nauseating memories of torture endured under his oppressor moves him like an instinct to fight back, to defend the land; the peace he snatched from the dead tyrant. 

          He strikes in a blink. SQUELCH. His hand pierces through the damned creature’s chest, though he does not find the heart. Jaerim rips out a chunk of meat. The mutant howls like a wild beast, worse than a lycan; its dumb, shrill screams incohesive, like it does not understand its own pain; or that it’s even alive. Jaerim gets a good look at it here: there’s no doubt there’s something human about it, an essence perhaps not mortal, but it’s as if someone took the body parts of men and stitched them together. There is no soul, no spirit in its empty gaze, even as it wails in pain. 

With another strike, Jaerim pierces through its throat. It gurgles violently and falls to its knees. He shoves it instinctively, and when it hits the ground, he kicks its head in with a firm stomp. He stares at the convulsing, dying creature in utter stillness. His heart, if it could beat, would be pounding; as Jaerim watches it convulse like a worm, his spirit agonizes over the sorry state of its existence. He can feel it. This creature was not meant to be alive—not meant to exist. A flash of pity, perhaps, is what freezes him in place. 

The mutant twitches as Jaerim dislodges his foot from its skull and turns sharply toward the fae. A fresh swell of rage rises in him; his eyes lock on to the intruder with the pits of hell burning behind them.

Seyoon had come to the party with the intention of leaving with the person with the prettiest eyes he could find.

He'd found the person. And the guy was offering precisely what he wanted.

But fate, as always, was being a bit of a bully.

Still, he supposed it didn't hurt to consider a disastrous idea, just for a second.

He met Jaerim's dark eyes with a steady gaze of his own, breath going quiet, caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, right where Jaerim's mouth might fit if this went badly enough. Seyoon was contemplating. Imagining. Entertaining.

So, alright, he'd invite the vampire back home with him. They would have to take an Uber, because on days Seyoon intended to get hammered, he didn't drive. Especially not when his car had hunter shit in the trunk. At this hour, his neighbour might be wandering the hall again, still searching for the dog that had died six months ago. Maybe they'd wave before opening his door.

If he were Jaerim, he'd break his arm right upon entering, honestly. Otherwise, Seyoon might impress him with all the weapons he had randomly stashed around his place. That was one of the reasons he didn't like bringing hookups home. If it were just the one arm, though, he supposed that was manageable. Maybe Seyoon could even surprise him with the fact that his left hand wasn't that much weaker than his right.

Would they get a real kiss somewhere between all the murder attempts? Perhaps. Hopefully, before Jaerim sank his fangs in. Those with experience always said it wasn't that unpleasant. Euphoria first. Then lightheadedness. Eventually, though, the chill would crawl in before the numbness.

And Seyoon hated being cold.

"How come you didn't jump me in the alley when we first met?" He asked, gaze fixed and bright. "Not to sound conceited, but it's me. Your kind usually looks at me like I am breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You were also hurt, right? From when you...fell." Seyoon recalled the ridiculousness of the situation. "How come you helped me bury a body? How come you followed me upstairs just now? How come you're still sitting on the roof next to me like a normal fucking person?"

Why did he do all of that for Seyoon?

He knows the other is fishing for a reason, for something solid to latch onto. But it’s not that Jaerim expects to be taken seriously, to be led to his apartment after all that was revealed just now. He can’t bank on successfully wooing the hunter into letting him dig his fangs in—his offer is merely to push a boundary, to test where he stands with a mortal who kills his kind for a living, who receives some sense of karmic justice for extinguishing the undead that walk among the living. It’s a tactic borne from impulse, to not even hide his desire, his hunger; to drink from another before him with the gentle touch of an angel, all to lower his defenses. 

But to show him that he's not just a mindless killer? Jaerim isn’t sure if that’s part of it. 

He leans in then, just a bit, if only to avoid thinking that there’s truth in Seyoon’s facetious conjectures. Jaerim rests his weight on his right hand. His chin grazes his shoulder as he gazes closely at him.

Like Seyoon, he doesn’t respond directly, but his words are confirmation enough: 

You are not easy to forget either, bloodsucker.

But he didn't say that. Instead, Seyoon gave him the flattest look he could manage. "Don't flirt with me after you've just sucked my friend's neck, asshole."

A part of him was relieved, though. Nobody died, the vampire seemed to be in a reasonable (?) mood, and with some luck, perhaps the night could even go by without any real casualties.

"Let's go to the roof." Seyoon was about to head up there anyway, before this whole Jeremiah-might-be-getting-laid situation stopped him. There should be fewer people there for Jaerim to potentially endanger, especially as the night got chillier. "Just come!" He beckoned sternly, picked up his hula-hoop, and started walking.

Instead of helping him relax, the party was stressing him out more by the minute. He knew what he needed and decided fuck it, I am not going to let this vampire ruin everything. Of course, he couldn't exactly ditch the said vampire. But when he spotted a familiar face heading up the stairs with two cans of beer, he didn't hesitate.

"Thanks, babe." He smiled extra sweetly as he swiped a can from the dude he had spoken to exactly once at a previous gathering, and a powdered doughnut from the girl he was chatting with.

What?

A beer would hardly do anything considering his alcohol tolerance these days, and he hadn't had dinner. If even vampires were getting fed at this party, then Seyoon shall not let himself starve.

There were only two small groups of people on the roof. One group of girls chit-chatting and painting each other's nails, and another group of quiet, humming folks looking like they might be higher than a kite.

The mortal downstairs is quickly forgotten as they make their way through the house and up to the roof. Loud music pulses through the walls the higher they climb, muffled by the drywall and bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. It smells like spilled beer, loose trails of cigarette smoke, and the distinct stink of sweat. Jaerim watches Seyoon’s brief interactions with his friends in silence. A stolen beer can, a stolen doughnut, and the pair giving Jaerim a curious once-over when they notice him trailing close behind. He remains silent through it all, though he catches every interested glance thrown his way.

     Damp air brushes against his face when they make it to the roof. He hears the distance hum of traffic and the heavy electro music vibrating up through the building beneath them. Empty cans are littered near the rooftop entrance, and the air smells faintly of petrichor from the earlier rains.

Jaerim settles close to the edge with his knees drawn up and elbows resting loosely against them as he glances down into the alleyway below where he spots a drunk couple locked in a semi-private make-out session. Beside him, Seyoon keeps complaining.

The way he complains reminds Jaerim of a child, too.

I hate you.

Jaerim manages to stop himself from scoffing. Seyoon’s dramatics are entertaining as much as they’re slightly irritating. It’s the way he says things like he fully expects Jaerim to indulge him regardless of what words come out of his mouth. And Jaerim does. Maybe that’s the irritating part. 

When he turns toward Seyoon, he’s watching him with a calm, half-amused, half-incredulous look.

     “Again?” He raises a brow. “I seem to recall walking you home and burying a body for you.”

He’d stayed at the cemetery for nearly an hour after Seyoon left, digging seven feet down into cold, damp earth while the night only grew more lonely around him. The body should be eaten by worms at this point, reduced and completely forgotten. Jaerim even took the time to smooth the dirt over afterward, careful enough that the ground looked untouched by morning. (Hopefully, he didn't stay around long enough to find out).

He tilts his head slightly, watching Seyoon with a glint in his dark eyes.

that, and the fact that his own impatience has reached its limit. “i don’t care what you call it, that doesn’t answer my question.” although his voice doesn’t raise in volume, there’s clear agitation lining his words. frustration mixed with a slowly simmering sense of fear: there’s only so much he can do to scare the man with empty threats. and, from the looks of it, his threats will remain just that for the foreseeable future.  

he tries his best not to, but his gaze involuntarily shifts towards his left, the direction of the kang estate. fleetingly, no more than a split second, yet enough to curse silas for being unreliable, and himself for relying on him. if the man were at all in his vicinity or approaching, at least it would give him the opportunity to stall, or to call him over. but if he isn’t here, there’s only one other place for him to be— it’ll cost him his throat and lungs if he has to raise his voice loud enough for it to reach their domain. 

besides, he doesn’t really fancy looking like a pathetic fool— 

that also goes for looking like an ignorant fool. 

“yes, i do know,” he bites haughtily. as a matter of fact, alozial knows exactly where he is. well, as far as it matters to him, anyway. there’s more to the stranger’s words than the simplicity of his question implies, though the fae is certain that there’s no reason for him to inquire further. 

but putting up a show of confidence is one thing; it does not help him ignore the alarm bells blaring in his head. the man has only taken half a step forwards when alozial takes a swift, full step in the same direction, hands coming up protectively in one quick motion. 

old tales speak of heroes unlocking their true hidden potential in times of need; in alozial’s case, there is none of that. no power unleashed, no enemy knocked backwards into a tree— only a mere warning for the stranger to keep his distance, or else. 

He considers this grim fate with his sharp face set in a calm, ruminant expression. It’s almost as if he were at a butcher’s stand deciding how to prepare a slab of meat before he decides which cut to purchase. He really could make use of the old pits that have gone vacant for nearly two centuries, but then, what have his kindred done for him recently, other than fail at their duties? If anything, he should be throwing them below the earth. 

And just like that, Jaerim decides the fae’s fate on a whim. It pleases him to act humanely, after all; he used to fight for this right when he was still collared to Muwon’s tyrannous chain.

Funny, that. 

     “Jaerim,” a handsomely cordial smile flashes on his face. Jaerim’s always been curious about the fae, though he doesn’t suppose this one will let him get close. Perhaps it’s all for the best that he doesn’t get lured in, if that’s really what they do. In a life as long as his, novelty is hard to come by. Shame.

     “I own this land, as it is. And as it is, you’ve taken the freedom to move in.” He lifts his eyes to the trunks of the redwoods and sycamores in the surrounding plains, the hydrangea bushes with purple bulbs and the tiny heads of white abelia’s, the pit of ivy home to countless crawling insects. Jaerim has spent the last five centuries on this mountain; he’s older than some of these trees, and like them, he stands sentinel over the land. 

     “I won’t deal with the predators you invite with your mere presence.” Jaerim’s tone becomes apathetic, his gaze cold. For as long as Adeline resides on Mount Son, nothing—no one—will jeopardize her peace and safety. He makes sure of that. 

besides, her father is the ruler of the underworld, one of the three most powerful gods out there. none of these people—not angus, nor the other students in the room—could ever hope to measure up to her (nor their parents to her father). even if angus weren’t such a poor lecturer, it still wouldn’t make any sense for him to teach her. it’s like having a child explain to an adult how to take care of their taxes: absolutely useless. 

but voicing her complaints will get her sent out of the class and back to the garden. so, maxine tries her best to keep her mouth shut and only mock that pretentious voice inside of her head. 

it’s easy to feign her interest, too— chin resting inside of her palm, eyes focused on the man’s face, and the occasional distracted mumbling to herself as she appears to be making a mental note. that’s all it takes for angus to believe she’s actually paying attention (nevermind the amount of times she’s rolled her eyes at him behind his back).

she would’ve rather spent the hour out on the training grounds, where andreas could’ve actually taught her a thing or two. well, perhaps not taught her anything, but at least he could have given her a bit of a challenge. the best she can say for angus is that the past hour has allowed her to zone out for a bit and rest up; enough so that she’d fully missed the class coming to an end. 

enough so, that she must have not heard the man correctly. there is no reason for that name to follow her here, even less so for angus to use it in his classes. no word that remotely sounds like it, either, so her mind must have really, truly, sincerely wandered off elsewhere.

still, her body responds on instinct, as if it has somehow missed all warning signs and has now been forced into immediate action. it tenses up, ready to shield itself from the impending danger. jaw tight, fingers curled into her palms. she would’ve been wise not to look directly into her direction, but it is the one thing she cannot stop herself from doing so. 

( and it’s hard to understand how she could’ve missed aylin's entrance in the first place, when her scent is suddenly everywhere. subtle, yet somehow prominent. light, yet suffocating. )

for a moment, max fails to rip her gaze away, as if disbelieving her own eyes. because there is no way that the person standing up there is truly who she thinks it is. if it were, surely someone would’ve warned her beforehand. someone would’ve cared for the peace of their little makeshift camp, and not risked starting a war. 

angus— and not just angus, his idiot brother, too, and the rest of the camp— they couldn’t possibly be unaware of their tumultuous past. but her teacher doesn’t seem to be the least bit surprised by her entrance, so he must have known aylin was coming and simply 'forgotten' to warn her beforehand (or ask for her opinion). his cowardly attempt at rushing off would’ve confirmed maxine’s suspicions, if she had at all been paying attention to him. but her gaze remains on aylin, her anger all-consuming, her intentions murderous. 

judging from the lack of genuine surprise, max is almost certain that she herself had been the only one not briefed in advance. her anger flares; some fist-sized rock soars through the air. it ominously hovers behind the newcomer— maxine vividly imagines it hitting her temple and knocking her down the stairs. that’d solve the problem and teach all these morons a lesson. it’s not her fault that angus doesn’t have the qualifications to teach her appropriately and improve her aim.

it’d be easy. quick. 

maxine considers it, taking momentarily solace in the comfort of her own powers. 

aylin moves before she’s made up her mind. towards her, not in the opposite direction. the rock crashes into some old vase instead, noisily breaking apart as it hits the ground. angus should be grateful— blood would’ve been harder to clean, and a body is a hassle to take care of, too. 

whatever aylin’s intentions are, max knows better than to stick around and let her speak. fuck aphrodite, and fuck all her children, too. 

there’s multiple pairs of eyes on her as she jumps back onto her feet and makes for the exit, crashing another vase on her way out. she doesn’t even grant aylin the pleasure of telling her to fuck off, but instead raises her hand and curtly dismisses her with one very simple, universal gesture.

He stands eerily still, and though he’s mostly turned away from her, she catches sight of his strained expression that, if she had more time, would bring forth a frantic apology. The intensity with which he regards the vase is almost enough to compel her to stop, but something stronger moves her to swing the door open and escape the room. She’ll make amends later; Angus’ patience and levelheadedness is a whole legion beyond the person she’s seeking to address first. 

          Out in the hallway, Aylin has the sense to stay a few paces behind Max, and to keep her wits about her so as to not be caught off-guard by another flying rock. She watches her backside with pleading eyes, as if her gaze alone could beseech her to stop avoiding her. They’ve been in this exact scenario countless times—well, even worse—Aylin recalls getting on her knees to beg Max to calm down, once, when she had hurled a particularly targeted remark about her father with a fierce desire to upset and offend her. She had been seeking revenge for something or other, no doubt. For the life of her, Aylin cannot recall why. They’ve had so many fights, she can scarcely remember what started any of them. 

Still, Max has never injured her despite the ample times she nearly has, or threatened to, and Aylin has a sixth sense to tell her how far she can cross the line before Max tries to kill her. She cannot deny that a part of her feels more alive than she has for the past handful of months—it’s frankly disgraceful how much validation she’s instantly received from Max’s reaction. Her mere presence is enough to send her off like a wild thing; Aylin doubts anyone has the same effect on Max as she does. 

          “Wait!”

          It occurs to her then that Max has the ability to manifest rocks and fling them toward her at will, and that she tried to, and that Aylin hasn’t retorted in a like manner. If Max will use her divine gifts without reservation, then by all means, Aylin should, too. 

She presses her lips together in her newfound commitment, willing forth the gifts of her mother. The swell of power is in her throat, burning with command, and when it breaks free, her voice is like a siren call: sweet like a lover, hopelessly alluring, and in every way compelling. 

Seyoon imagined a volcano, molten rocks gathering like his anger. He pictured dipping his hand into the lava, thick and bright, running down his unburnt palm like a slow-moving river.

Would Jaerim still smile so pretty with Seyoon's fire-coated fingers shoved down his throat?

Easy now. A voice that definitely didn't sound like his warned, making the back of his head tingle. There's that temper we talked about.

Fine.

This wasn't really about Jaerim anyway. It was about what this situation reminded him of.

"Okay then." He gestured with his chin. "Go on." As if this was permission he had any right to give. Sorry, Jeremiah, but it was for the best. Making up wild stories to cover up the bite mark would be possible, but Seyoon didn't really enjoy lying to people. Especially gullible friends who'd actually believe him.

"Just don't try anything. Otherwise, I'll have to do my best to stop you." Seyoon shrugged, as if this were no life or death matter. "You already know I'm not like the typical hunters. They don't have a curfew, a known and documented death wish, or babysitters expecting regular check-ins."

His eyes flickered past Jaerim, studying the stupid glowing beads on Jeremiah's chest again.

And he gets it. 

It was Jaerim’s wretched fate to end up a damned monster. If he’d never been marked, he’d be one of the drunk idiots upstairs, deliriously unaware of the dead that lurk among the living with terrible hungers. 

If, if, if… If only that, if only this. Jaerim hasn’t made peace with it. He can’t. He can barely stand to think about that night. And yet, he’s come to the bitter realization that it doesn’t fucking matter, because no matter how vile and revolting his existence is, now that he’s an affront to nature, it’s his sad lot in life to somehow survive. 

It’s what a brush with the darkness does. Seyoon’s just experiencing it from a different perspective.

           “I’ll be gentle,” He rolls his eyes and sits up, repositioning himself until he’s leaning over the mortal, similar to how Seyoon found him. He locks eyes with him as he grabs hold of the mortal’s jaw and delicately turns his head to the side. Then, Jaerim leans down and drags his tongue up the trail of blood that dripped down his neck while they were catching up. When he reaches the wound, he lightly sucks on the tender puncture marks, then tongues at them until he no longer feels them. Jaerim comes up wiping his mouth as he turns to Seyoon.

           “You’re not easy to forget, you know that?” There’s a small smirk on his lips as he disentangles himself from the unconscious body beneath him. Jaerim begins to stand from the couch, keeping his eyes on Seyoon.

           “I remember your little story from the cemetery, I wouldn’t traumatize you like that again.” His tone is making light of the situation, though there’s a simple truth to his words. Even if he wanted to, even though he can, he’s not stupid enough to enact the violence that his mere presence implies. It’s enough that Seyoon is dreadfully aware that everyone in the house is a hostage. 

And besides, he pities Seyoon. It's not patronizing or condescension. He can sympathize with the desire to stab a vampire through the heart more than Seyoon likely imagines.