#vampire!junhui

Easy in the way that you can afford to sit on your padded armchair by the window, and leisurely watch the rain. Droplets fall on the glass and trickle away the same way time does — slowly, little by little. You suppose this is what happens when you have all of eternity at your disposal.

On the sidewalk, a young woman scurries to the door of her apartment building, caught unfortunately without her umbrella. You click your tongue. Humans are always running, always rushing; they hurry to their next destination, constantly trying to save time.

It's unthinkable, to you.

The poor girl's hair is absolutely drenched by the time she finds shelter under the awning. It was 1852, if you remember correctly, when some Derbyshire lad first invented the modern umbrella. You hadn't bothered buying one at the time. You rather liked to amble along in the pouring rain, letting it soak your skin the way the sun might have if you were able to bask in it.

There is a knock on your door just as the girl manages to buzz into her building. A small grin curves on your mouth. You know exactly who it is.

"Come in!"

The door creaks open, and heavy footsteps pad through the doorway. You welcome your visitor with a warm smile as he appears into the small living room area, and hold your mug out slightly as if to offer him some.

"Blood?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to lock your door?" Junhui asks, shaking his head. "There are some crazy folks out there."

"If someone tried to kill me, I'd gladly take it over having to live on to the end of time."

"Don't say that," he huffs, eyeing the mug in your hand. "Do you happen to have any more of that?"

You laugh. "In the fridge."

Junhui bows dramatically in thanks before making a beeline toward your kitchen, glasses slightly askew. The rain doesn't feel as heavy with him here. It's a little less lonely when he's around — you consider yourself lucky to not have to brave eternity by yourself, not entirely. Whenever a stray thought crosses your mind, or you want to reminisce on a memory that occurred some several hundred years ago, all you need to do is take the elevator one floor up.

That, or he comes to you, which is what usually ends up happening.

He cozies himself into the second chair you'd bought only because of him, when the two of you needed to move cities again and chose this specific apartment building. The mug nestled between his hands reminds you of your brief residence in Poland-Lithuania in the early 1700s. You'd bought it carelessly then, quickly taking it off the hands of an elderly neighbor who was selling her belongings.

Now it is mostly used by your closest, and only friend.

"You know, it would be so much easier if we lived together," Junhui says absently. "We'd save on rent. I wouldn't have to take the stairs when the elevator breaks. And you wouldn't miss me as much."

"Bold assumption on that last one," you bite back. But you smile, and he knows you don't mean a word of it. "Where have you been the past few weeks?"

"Shenzhen."

You look up all of a sudden. "Really?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, brows slanting. "I mean, it's been — what, two hundred years? — since I went back and visited. I thought I should at least go see what's become of it now."

"And?"

Junhui shakes his head, half in awe and half mourning. "Unrecognizable."

The feeling isn't foreign to you. You hadn't bothered to go back to your hometown at all, not even once since your old life ended and your new one began.

But Junhui has always been far more sentimental than you. He likes to hold onto memories, clinging them tightly to his chest instead of letting them flutter away in the wind, as they always do. He takes delight in remembering, in reliving. He told you once, that to honor a memory is to believe in such a time.

"In a good or a bad way?"

"Well, good," he says. "It's a beautiful city now — buildings everywhere, streets sprawling. They're doing really well, it seems."

You soften, knowing he hadn't had any of that ease growing up. "Maybe you can go back for a little while."

"Someday."

"Someday," you echo.

Junhui takes another long sip from his mug, sharp features settling into slight unease, and tucks his legs closer to his body. He's tall, with ridiculous proportions, and sometimes you wonder how he manages to fit on the little old chair.

"I visited Wonwoo," he says.

"Ah."

"Yeah. Flew into Busan on my way back." A beat. Then, "He's doing good."

You don't say anything. It's best not to, at times like this. Instead, you turn your head slightly, allowing him the privacy he seems to need. Giving him space, but making sure he's not alone. It's something you're used to.

"Did you bring him sunflowers?"

His voice cracks. "I did."

Junhui exhales a long breath, plasters on a smile you see directly through. He's terrible at doing this. He wears his heart on his sleeve, every emotion there for you to read even when he doesn't say a word. His eyes betray him more often than not. They speak volumes when his mouth refuses to.

"I shouldn't be like this," he says quietly. "It's been a century, nearly."

You shift slightly, pulling your shawl tighter around your shoulders. "It's okay to grieve."

"I know." He sighs, lashes just barely brushing skin. "But… it's just stupid."

"No, it's not," you counter. "You'll still feel, Junhui. There's no way to just magically turn it off."

Junhui says nothing, but you watch the way your words sink into him like a harsh truth. Memories tended to blur together as the decades slipped by, but you can't ever forget the way he had sobbed at Wonwoo's funeral, the grief wracking through his body. He had been empty for so long afterwards, living like a man with no soul. It pained you to see it.

In the years that followed, you never succeeded in consoling him. Theirs was a decades-long friendship, after all, and time is measured differently for one who has all of it in his hands.

During your time living in South Korea, you had watched them go from strangers to the dearest of friends. He had been one of the few humans Junhui had ever trusted with his identity, which he did not do easily. Even after some time had passed, and people began to grow suspicious of your ever-youthful appearance, Wonwoo had continued to keep in touch regularly. The last letter he sent had been dated July 3rd, just two weeks shy of his birthday and several days before he passed away.

Junhui visited his grave every year, without fail. And he never went without sunflowers.

He shakes his head, as if it'll shake the memory of his friend away, too. You know that it won't.

"He lived a good, long life," you say softly.

"It is what it is," he agrees. "Life, then death, and life again."

"Not for us, I suppose."

He smiles sadly. "Touché."

Junhui brings his mug to his mouth, and when he lowers it again, his lips are stained a blooming red. It contrasts rather beautifully with his sharp features and the paleness of his face.

"Why'd you come down here, anyway?"

He shrugs, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "Got bored. There's only so much Dickens you can read before you feel like you're losing your mind."

"You have a TV for a reason," you deadpan. "The humans are coming up with new technology every year now, you might as well use it."

A little smile creeps onto his mouth, and you allow yourself a good look at it. From here, you can see each one of his moles and the tiny sparkle in his eyes.

"Why would I do that when I come downstairs and bother you?" he teases, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I know you wouldn't have enjoyed Mulholland Drive without me."

"I didn't even enjoy it with you."

"That's just you having bad taste."

This draws a sharp laugh from your throat. Junhui looks pleased with himself, soft laughter bubbling from his own chest. Perhaps this is the sort of thing you must treasure now. Your centuries of exploration and seeking novelty are far behind you, but good company is something you will only ever chance upon if you are exceedingly lucky.

"If you're that bored, you can finish my crossword puzzle book," you say, "and I can finally finish my show."

"What an exciting evening you are having." Junhui stands, carefully setting the mug down on the windowsill. "Where is it?"

You wave a hand in the general direction of your room. "Somewhere on that bookshelf. I haven't touched it in at least two years now."

"You're horrendous," he says, but the playful undertone is still there.

He disappears into your bedroom, and you head to the sink to wash the mugs. The blood rinses away easily; it always does. But you still scrub the ceramic thoroughly before turning on the faucet again. Normalcy, whatever that means anymore, is something you can only find in the little things now.

Junhui's lying on your floor in the living room when you're finally done, the eraser end of the pencil between his teeth and brows furrowed as he ponders a particularly difficult clue. You chuckle to yourself at the sight.

"Quit chewing on that," you tell him. "What's got you all confused?"

"It's— ah, never mind, I got it." He takes the pencil out of his mouth to scribble an answer in the boxes, before looking up at you. "What are you doing? Come sit."

Sighing, you make yourself comfortable on the floor, remote in hand. Junhui lets out an excited ah! as you turn on the TV and he fills in another answer. The sight is not unfamiliar to you. Still, it warms your heart every time. You have spent many a rainy day alone, just you and your thoughts. But those days are long gone now.

You find yourself unable to focus on the episode, no matter how much you try. Your eyes keep straying to Junhui, to the man you call your friend. Perhaps he's not quite that anymore, but who are you to care? He is always so alive despite being quite the opposite, so eager to learn and explore everything in the world, and you find him that much more charming for it.

Under the soft light of your living room, he seems to glow. His eyes shine, and it highlights the soft slope of his cheekbones. In a simple word, he is quite beautiful.

"You're staring," he says quietly. It's not a question. But you still nod.

"Yes." You scoot a little closer, and he finally looks up at you. "Did you know your eyes are amber?"

"I didn't," he laughs. "How could I? All these bathroom mirrors are essentially useless."

"They're the color of honey. Very smooth. Very golden," you continue. "Remember when we visited that beekeeper in Peru?"

"Mm-hm." He doesn't take his eyes off you. "Tell me more."

You hum lightly under your breath, eyes tracing his features. "You've got a lot of moles, actually."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." Carefully, you reach out, fingertips brushing his skin. He doesn't start, just melts into your touch as he watches you silently. "Here, here, and… here."

You ghost your fingers over the top of his mouth, just shy of his upper lip. His breath is soft and warm against your skin. In his eyes is something that stirs a faint emotion in the tightness of your chest.

"You have one, too," he says. "Just under your eye. Like a star."

You smile. "We match, then."

Junhui's gaze is soft as it settles over you like a warm blanket. Your hand falls away from his face, but your eyes stay on his, enraptured. For a brief moment, you feel like the distance between the two of you is magnetized by an impossibly invisible force.

Then he huffs out an incredulous laugh, eyes shining with mirth.

"Sucks," he says.

You frown. "What?"

"'Good or bad vacuum cleaner review'," he recites, pointing to the crossword puzzle. There's only one clue left, and he crosses it out, penciling in the word with ease. "That one had me stuck for a while."

The laughter bubbles out of you unbidden. "That's why I gave up on it."

Junhui flashes you an amused smile. Centuries of friendship means he knows you inside out, after all. Wordlessly, he flips the page to a brand new puzzle, and the pencil's eraser goes back between his teeth out of pure habit.

Outside, the rain has finally stopped.