Venus (#1 Mixi fan)

There had once been coins at the bottom of the wishing well. People had come from villages long gone, carrying hopes in trembling hands. Wishes for healthy children. Wishes for good harvests. Wishes for lovers to return from war.

Now, the well stood forgotten beneath the moonlight. The stones were cracked with age. Moss grew between them in dark green patches. Beside it stood an ancient willow tree, its silver branches hanging low enough to brush against the earth like a grieving widow's veil.

Owen knelt before it. The night air was cold against his skin. He stared down into the darkness of the well, unable to see the bottom.

"You know," he muttered bitterly, "this is ridiculous."

Shelby had insisted.

"Just try it," she'd said.

"It's a wishing well."

"You literally drink blood and turn into a bat. Why is a wishing well where you draw the line?"

At the time, Owen had glared at her. Now here he was. Kneeling. At a stupid well. Hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

He felt ridiculous. 

He closed his eyes anyway.

Louis.

The name echoed through him like a wound that had never healed correctly. He remembered soft laughter spoken in a language Owen had never fully understood. The warmth of fingers brushing against his own.

Crimson eyes.

Pet names spoken against his ear.

He remembered the way Louis had looked at him.

As though Owen had been worth choosing.

As though Owen had been easy to love.

The ache in his chest sharpened. 

"I don't care how," Owen whispered. The willow branches swayed overhead. "I don't care if it's impossible." His voice cracked. "I don't care if it's cruel." His clasped hands trembled. "Somehow." He swallowed. "Someway." His eyes squeezed shut tighter. "Please." Silence answered. Even the wind seemed to still. "I just…" His breath hitched.

"I want Louis back."

Nothing happened. No magic. No voice from the well. No miracle. Only the creaking whisper of willow branches.

Owen remained there for several moments. Then several more. Until the awful truth settled heavily in his stomach.

"...Right." His voice came out hollow. "Of course."

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He brushed dirt from his knees. His face burned with humiliation.

God.

He had actually done it.

He'd knelt at a wishing well and begged the universe to give him back someone dead.

Someone gone.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Shelby is never hearing the end of this." He looked once more into the dark water below. "You owe me dignity," he informed the well. The well remained unhelpfully silent. "...Should've never listened to Shelby."

His laugh sounded thin. Then Owen stepped away. Moonlight stretched across the grass. Without another glance behind him, his form shifted. Bones shrank. Skin pulled taut. Dark wings unfurled. The familiar transformation overtook him until a bat launched itself into the night sky.

He flew toward Oakhurst. Toward stone walls and familiar corridors. Toward reality. Toward acceptance.

Or at least something close enough to survive.

The next time Owen visited Oakhurst, wishing wells were the furthest thing from his mind. Miracles even more so.

He arrived in a foul mood.

The hunt had gone terribly. He'd spent half the night chasing prey that proved faster than expected, and the other half cursing every branch that had snagged his wings while flying through the forest. By the time the familiar silhouette of Oakhurst emerged against the darkening sky, all Owen wanted was to get inside, complain to whoever would tolerate him, and forget the evening had ever happened.

He dropped into the castle courtyard in a flurry of black wings. The transformation back into himself came as naturally as breathing now; bones shifting, wings retreating, until boots met stone once more. The courtyard was strangely quiet. No raised voices. No distant arguments echoing through the halls. Only the soft rustle of wind brushing through the ivy-covered walls.

Owen tugged at one of his sleeves, dusting off dirt that wasn't even there. Then stopped. "...Doctor?"

Legundo had noticed him. Normally, the doctor's reactions were subtle things. A small nod of greeting. A measured smile. Thoughtful eyes assessing injuries before offering quiet advice. Even exhausted, there was restraint in everything Legundo did.

Today, that restraint shattered. The moment their eyes met, Legundo's entire expression transformed. Relief flooded his face so suddenly and completely that Owen almost glanced behind himself to see who the doctor had actually been looking at. 

"Owen." His voice broke around the name. Then Legundo crossed the courtyard. Not briskly. Not politely. Immediately. "Owen," he repeated, softer this time. "Mon Dieu..."

Before Owen could process what was happening, warm hands had already found his own. Long fingers wrapped around them with desperate familiarity. As though checking Owen was real. As though reassuring himself that he hadn't imagined this.

"Owen," Legundo whispered again.

Then the French began. Rapid. Fluid. Beautiful. The words tumbled from him effortlessly, one after another, spoken with the ease of long practice. Owen caught fragments but couldn't assemble them quickly enough to understand.

"...What?" Owen blinked. "Doctor?"

Legundo didn't seem to hear him. Or perhaps he simply couldn't stop. His green eyes had gone impossibly soft. His thumb brushed over Owen's knuckles. He spoke like someone overcome with relief. Like someone who had been holding their breath for years and had only just remembered how to exhale.

The cadence of it settled somewhere deep beneath Owen's ribs. Familiar. Terrifyingly familiar. Owen knew Legundo was intelligent. A doctor. Educated. It wasn't exactly shocking that he spoke French.

Probably.

Maybe.

Except—

No.

Because this wasn't Legundo showing off another language he knew.

He wasn't speaking French at Owen.

He was speaking French to him.

Intimately.

Naturally.

As if this conversation had begun years ago and Owen had simply stepped away in the middle of it.

"...Doctor?" Owen said again, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Legundo looked at him then. Really looked at him. The smile that spread across his face was small. Tender. Disbelieving. As if Owen was something precious returned after being lost.

He said something else in French. Slowly this time. Carefully.

"Mon trésor."

My treasure.

Owen forgot how to breathe. Louis used to call him that. Never dramatically. Never for show. Half-asleep against Owen's shoulder. Murmured into the curve of his neck. Spoken absentmindedly while patching torn sleeves or brushing fingers through Owen's hair.

Mon trésor.

Like breathing. Like a habit formed through love.

The courtyard vanished. The castle disappeared. The world narrowed into the warmth of unfamiliar hands wrapped around his and the impossible familiarity of those two words.

Owen stared. His fingers tightened around Legundo's without permission. His gaze drifted upward. Past the doctor's face. Past features he knew. Until all he could see were green eyes.

Green eyes he'd searched for in crowded rooms.

Crimson eyes that haunted dreams cruel enough to let Owen have him back before forcing him awake.

Crimson eyes he'd wished for beneath a willow tree beside a forgotten well.

The sound that escaped him barely qualified as a voice.

Small. 

Fragile.

"...Louis?"

Legundo went still. Then his expression softened. Recognition. Affection. Relief so profound it looked painful. The smile that followed was heartbreakingly familiar. The same smile Owen had spent nights trying and failing to remember correctly.

"Oui," he whispered.

Yes.

The world tilted. "No." Owen shook his head immediately. Then again. Too fast. His vision blurred. "No," he repeated, the word cracking apart. "No, that's not—"

Possible.

Louis Legundo lifted one of Owen's hands carefully between both of his own.

"Owen."

He said his name exactly the same way. Softly. Deliberately.

As though it mattered. As though Owen mattered. A memory surfaced unbidden.

"You speak about yourself so cruelly," Louis had once said, pressing a kiss against Owen's knuckles. "As if you matter less than everyone else."

He'd smiled then. "As if I would ever allow that."

Owen's chest caved in around the memory.

"You died," he whispered.

Louis's eyes filled with sorrow. "I know."

"You died."

The words came harsher this time. Angrier.

Because if Louis was here, then where had he been? Because if this wasn't Louis, Owen didn't think he could survive losing him twice.

"I know," Louis in Legundo's body said again.

The wishing well flashed through Owen's mind. Moon's red light crimson against old stone. Willow branches swaying overhead. His clasped hands trembling.

I don't care how.

I don't care if it's impossible.

Somehow.

Someway.

Please.

Owen had meant every word. He just hadn't expected the universe to listen. Tears spilled down his cheeks before he realized he was crying.

A disbelieving laugh escaped him. Broken around the edges. "You've got to be kidding me."

Louis Legundo squeezed his hands.

Warm. Solid. Real.

"Owen." No one had ever said his name like that. Like a prayer answered. Like something cherished.

Owen looked at him. At Legundo's face. At Louis's eyes. At the impossible miracle standing before him.

Then, with a voice so small it threatened to disappear entirely, he asked, "...You came back to me?"

Louis's smile trembled. Tears gathered in his own eyes in Legundo's eyes. "I tried," he whispered.

Carefully, he guided Owen's trembling hand against his chest. Beneath his palm, a heartbeat answered. Steady.

Alive.

Louis leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched. "I've been trying," he confessed softly, "to find my way back to you."

Legundo's fingers tightened around Owen's hand. Then, he froze. The softness left his expression. His smile faltered. The hand pressed over Owen's trembled.

"..."

The doctor blinked. Once. Twice. "Owen?"

His voice changed. The French accent softened into something familiar and uncertain. His brows furrowed.

Slowly, Legundo looked down. At the hand Owen had pressed against his chest. At their intertwined fingers. At how close they were standing.

"...What am I doing?" The question was quiet. Genuine. He looked back up at Owen, confusion spreading openly across his face. "What..." His voice caught. "What am I doing?"

Owen felt the blood drain from his face. The courtyard returned all at once. Stone beneath his boots. Cold night air.

The distant sound of wind moving through Oakhurst's towers. "Doctor?"

Legundo took an unconscious step backward. His eyes widened. He stared down at himself as though he'd just woken from a dream. "I..." His hand lifted halfway before falling uselessly to his side. "Why am I holding your hand?" His gaze snapped back to Owen's. "Owen?"

Fear had begun creeping into his expression. The sort of fear reserved for discovering something wrong inside yourself. "I don't understand."

Owen couldn't breathe. Just moments ago...

Louis.

Louis had been here.

He'd said mon trésor.

He'd looked at Owen as though he'd crossed death itself just to find him again.

And now, Legundo stood before him instead. Confused. Scared. Unaware.

"...Louis," Owen said softly. The name escaped before he could stop it.

Legundo went very still. His expression shifted. Not into recognition. Not completely. Just sadness. Profound and inexplicable. His eyes lowered. "...Louis," he repeated.

As though testing the name. There was grief in the way he said it. A grief he couldn't possibly understand. "...I don't know why that hurts," Legundo admitted quietly. "But it does."

Owen stared at him.

Say something.

Explain.

Tell him what happened.

Tell him that for a few precious moments, someone else had been looking through those green eyes.

Tell him that Owen had gotten exactly what he'd wished for.

Tell him that he'd lost it all over again.

Instead...

Selfishly.

Horribly.

Owen said nothing. Because some terrible part of him was thinking:

Come back.

Please.

Just once more.

Legundo noticed the look on his face. "Owen?" Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer again. "You look..." His voice softened. "You look heartbroken." His hand lifted. Hesitated. Then cupped Owen's face. Warm. Gentle. "Owen, are you—"

The sentence never finished. Legundo's eyes widened. His breath caught. The fear vanished. Recognition rushed in so suddenly it stole the air from Owen's lungs.

"...Mon trésor."

The words were barely more than a whisper.

Louis.

Owen made a broken sound.

"L-Louis?"

Tears filled Louis's Legundo's eyes instantly. His thumb brushed across Owen's cheek as though memorizing the shape of him. "Tu as pleuré" (You've been crying), Louis murmured in French. "Mon Dieu..."

Before Owen could answer, Louis kissed him. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't frantic. It was devastatingly familiar. Gentle lips against his own. Careful. Reverent. Like something precious returned.

Owen grabbed the front of Legundo's coat with shaking hands. He kissed Louis Legundo back immediately.

The world narrowed to warmth and grief and impossible hope. Louis's Legundo's hand found the side of his neck.

Owen thought—

I don't care.

I don't care whose body this is.

I don't care if this is wrong.

Please.

Please don't leave me again.

Then suddenly—

Louis Legundo shoved him away.

"What the fuck?!"

Legundo stumbled backward so quickly he nearly lost his footing. His hand flew to his mouth. Wide green eyes stared at Owen in horror. "Owen!" Panic flooded his voice. "What—"

He touched his lips. Then looked at Owen. Then back at his own trembling hands. "What's going on?" The question cracked apart. "Owen..." Fear made his voice small. "What's happening to me?"

Owen stood frozen. His own lips still tingled from Louis's kiss.

Legundo looked terrified. "Why am I acting this way?" the doctor asked. "I don't understand."

His breathing had quickened. "I held your hand." His fingers curled against his palms. "I called you..." He swallowed. "I kissed you."

His eyes searched Owen's desperately. "Why did I do that?"

Owen opened his mouth. Then closed it again. What was he supposed to say?

Because the dead don't come back.

Because sometimes Legundo stopped being Legundo.

Because Owen had wished beside an old well for the man he loved to return.

Because somehow,

Someway,

The universe had listened.

"I don't know," Owen whispered. It sounded pathetic. Insufficient. Legundo stared at him. The panic eased from his expression. His shoulders relaxed. The confusion softened. A small smile touched his lips.

Without hesitation, he reached for Owen's hand once more. His fingers threaded through Owen's carefully. Familiar. Loving. He squeezed. And this time, when he looked at Owen, there was recognition in his eyes.

"...Mon trésor," he said softly.

Owen's breath caught. Louis smiled.

The first real crack in the ice came entirely by accident. Legundo was making his way through the castle with an armful of freshly folded sheets balanced against his chest. The halls were quiet, save for the distant creaks of old stone settling and the occasional draft rattling against ancient windows.

It was peaceful.

Then he heard a low mechanical rumble. He paused. The sound seemed to come from somewhere down the servants' corridor. A few seconds passed.

Silence.

Then another rumble. Followed immediately by a sharp stream of French that sounded deeply offended.

Legundo blinked.

Slowly, he turned toward the laundry room. There was another rumble. Another curse. Then what sounded suspiciously like someone threatening the machine.

Curiosity won. Balancing the sheets against one hip, Legundo pushed open the door. The sight that greeted him nearly made him laugh on the spot. Louis stood in the center of the room with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Directly in front of him sat the washing machine. The washing machine was doing absolutely nothing remarkable. It simply spun the load inside with a steady rhythmic hum.

Louis stared at it with the same expression a knight might reserve for a dragon. The machine rumbled. Louis narrowed his eyes. The machine continued washing clothes. Louis somehow looked even more suspicious. For several seconds neither appeared willing to back down.

"What are you doing?"

Louis didn't look away from his opponent. "The box growls."

Legundo stared. "The washing machine?"

"It growls."

"That's what washing machines do."

Louis finally glanced toward him. His expression was entirely serious. "It sounds unhappy."

The sheer sincerity in his voice broke whatever resistance Legundo had. A laugh escaped before he could stop it. The sound echoed off the stone walls. Louis immediately looked offended. Not angry. Just offended. Like Legundo had failed to appreciate a very serious problem.

"I fail to see what is amusing."

Legundo tried and failed to compose himself. "I'm sorry. I just..." He shook his head. "You've been standing here arguing with the washing machine?"

"I have not been arguing with it." The machine rumbled again. Louis glared at it. Legundo raised an eyebrow. Louis hesitated. "...Much."

Another laugh escaped him. For a brief moment Louis looked ready to take offense again. Then something in his expression shifted. His gaze drifted back toward the machine.

Not annoyed.

Not irritated.

Confused.

Legundo found himself studying him. Really studying him.

Louis always carried himself with an air of confidence. Elegant clothes. Perfect posture. Sharp remarks. The sort of man who seemed impossible to catch off guard. Yet standing here in the laundry room, staring suspiciously at an appliance, he suddenly looked far younger than the centuries he carried.

Lost, almost. As though the world had moved on without him. Because it had.

The realization settled heavily in Legundo's chest. He'd spent weeks thinking of Louis as Owen's first husband. The vampire who had suddenly returned and complicated everything.

But Louis wasn't just that.  He was someone who had died. Someone who had opened his eyes again centuries later to discover the world was unrecognizable.

Electricity.

Cars.

Phones.

Medicine.

Washing machines.

A thousand ordinary things that everyone else took for granted. Things Louis had never had the chance to learn. The annoyance Legundo had been carrying around for weeks suddenly felt much smaller.

The machine let out another low rumble. Louis frowned at it. "See?"

Legundo bit back a smile. "Come here."

Louis looked over immediately. Suspicious. "Why?"

"So I can show you how it works."

The suspicion deepened. "Why?"

"Because it's a washing machine, Louis. Not a hostile creature."

Louis glanced between him and the machine. His expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "It's making noises."

"That's normal."

"It shakes."

"That's normal too."

"It sounds upset."

Legundo set the sheets down on a nearby table. "It isn't upset."

"How do you know?"

"Because I own one."

Louis looked unconvinced. "You own many questionable things."

Legundo snorted. "Come here."

After a moment Louis reluctantly stepped closer. Legundo crouched beside the machine and gestured toward the glass door. "Look."

Louis leaned down. Inside, shirts and towels tumbled through soapy water. His eyes widened slightly. The reaction was so genuine that Legundo had to hide another smile.

"It spins them."

"Yes."

"And that cleans them?"

"Yes."

Louis stared. The machine continued its work. "That seems inefficient."

Legundo laughed. For a moment they stood side by side watching the laundry spin. The room filled with the steady hum of machinery.

For once, the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It simply existed.

Louis tilted his head. "So where does the water come from?"

"The pipes."

"And where do the pipes get it?"

Legundo launched into an explanation. Halfway through, he realized Louis was actually listening. Not pretending. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Listening with genuine curiosity. And for the first time since Louis had returned, Legundo found himself enjoying his company.

When he glanced over, he discovered Louis was smiling faintly at the machine. Not because he understood it. Because he finally didn't have to figure it out alone.

After the laundry room incident, things began improving in small, almost invisible ways. Not enough that either of them would have admitted it.

But enough.

Conversations became easier. The awkward silences became shorter. Sometimes Legundo would walk into a room and Louis wouldn't immediately leave. Sometimes Louis would make a dry comment and Legundo would catch himself smiling.

It wasn't friendship. Not yet. But it was heading somewhere.

The kitchen incident happened entirely because Owen had the terrible habit of encouraging things.

"Why don't you try cooking?"

Louis looked up from the book he was reading. Owen was sprawled across the couch beside him, one arm hooked around Louis's shoulders. Legundo was sitting nearby, sorting through patient notes.

Louis stared at Owen. "Because I do not eat."

"That's not the point."

"It is exactly the point."

Owen grinned. "You've never cooked before?"

Louis looked mildly offended. "Of course I have." Then he paused. A thoughtful look crossed his face. "...Actually, no."

Legundo snorted.

Owen immediately sat upright. "You've never cooked?"

"I've never needed to."

"Not once?"

Louis gestured vaguely. "Owen, I spent centuries drinking blood."

"Fair."

"I am a vampire."

"Also fair."

"I have no idea why either of you expect me to know how soup works."

Legundo laughed.

Owen pointed dramatically. "That's exactly why you should learn."

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Every terrible idea you've ever had has started with those words."

Several hours later, Legundo was in the infirmary organizing medical supplies when a strange smell drifted through the open doorway.

At first he ignored it. The castle was old. Strange smells happened. Then the smell grew stronger. Smoke. Not the comforting scent of firewood from one of the castle's fireplaces. Not a candle left burning too long.

This was thick. Acrid. The unmistakable smell of something going catastrophically wrong.

Legundo froze with a bottle still in his hand. "Oh no."

A second later hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Owen appeared in the doorway. "You smell that too?"

Legundo slowly lowered the bottle. "I smell that."

They stared at each other. The realization hit simultaneously.

"The kitchen."

"The kitchen."

Then both of them were running.

The closer they got, the worse it became. Smoke drifted through the corridor ahead. Something clattered loudly. A string of rapid French followed. Then silence. Then another loud clang.

Legundo immediately picked up his pace.

Owen looked worried. Which was concerning. Because Owen rarely worried about anything. The moment they reached the kitchen door, Owen shoved it open.

Both men stopped dead. The kitchen looked like a crime scene. Vegetables covered nearly every available surface. A knife was sticking upright out of a cutting board. An onion sat abandoned on the floor. Several more appeared to be attached to the ceiling somehow.

Neither of them wanted an explanation. A cookbook lay open on the counter. One page had been aggressively folded back. And standing in the center of the destruction was Louis. Arms folded. Perfect posture. Utterly composed. As if he hadn't single-handedly transformed the kitchen into a disaster zone.

In front of him sat a pot. The contents of the pot were on fire. Not the stove. Not the burner. The soup itself. The soup had become fire.

Louis looked up as they entered. "Oh." He pointed at the pot. "I believe there may be an issue."

For several seconds nobody spoke. The soup crackled. A small flame popped. Legundo blinked. Owen blinked. Louis waited patiently.

"What happened?" Legundo finally asked.

Louis gestured toward the cookbook. "I followed the instructions."

Owen looked at the pot. Then at Louis. Then back at the pot. "The soup is on fire."

"Oui."

"Soup should not be on fire."

Louis frowned thoughtfully. His gaze drifted toward the flames. The flames flickered back. After a moment he nodded.

"Je m'en doutais." (I suspected as much.)

The silence lasted exactly one second. Then Owen doubled over laughing. Legundo wasn't far behind.

Louis stared at both of them in disbelief. "I fail to see what is amusing."

"You burned soup!" Owen managed between laughs.

"I know that."

"How?"

"I don't know!"

That only made Owen laugh harder. He grabbed the nearest counter for support. Legundo had tears gathering in his eyes.

Louis looked personally offended by their reaction. "I followed the recipe."

"The soup is literally on fire," Legundo wheezed.

"Then perhaps the recipe is incorrect."

"You think the recipe told you to make fire?"

"It neglected to warn me against it."

Owen made a choking noise.

Eventually Legundo stepped forward to inspect the damage. Louis immediately moved aside.

Though not before muttering something under his breath. "Quelle humiliation..." (What a humiliation...)

Unfortunately for him, Owen understood French. The vampire immediately burst out laughing again.

"Oh, don't start."

"You are laughing at my suffering."

"You set soup on fire."

"I did not do it intentionally."

Legundo opened the lid. A cloud of smoke exploded upward. He immediately regretted every decision that had brought him here. Inside was a blackened substance that no longer resembled food.

Louis leaned over his shoulder. "What is that?"

"You made it."

"I am aware." Louis narrowed his eyes at the contents. "But what is it?"

Owen slid into a chair because his legs had apparently stopped functioning.

By the time the kitchen was restored, evening had settled outside the castle windows. The smoke had cleared. The ruined soup had been discarded. The surviving vegetables had been rescued. And somehow all three of them had ended up sitting around the kitchen table.

Nobody seemed particularly eager to leave.

Owen rested his chin in his hand. Still smiling.

Legundo looked exhausted.

Louis looked deeply offended by the entire concept of cooking.

For a while they sat in comfortable silence.

Then Owen spoke. "You know," he said softly, looking between them, "this is nice."

Louis raised an eyebrow. "The kitchen nearly burned down."

"A little."

"The soup attacked me."

"The soup did not attack you."

"It absolutely did." Louis pointed toward the discarded pot. "I was minding my own business."

Legundo and Owen laughed. And after a moment, Louis did too. A real laugh this time. Not one of his polite chuckles. Not the amused huff he sometimes gave Owen.

A genuine laugh.

Warm.

Bright.

Completely unguarded.

The sound surprised all three of them. For a brief moment, the room fell quiet. Owen looked at him. Really looked at him. And his smile softened. Because Louis was happy.

Not forcing it.

Not pretending.

Actually happy.

"Mon amour," (My love,) Louis said, looking toward Owen with fond exasperation, "you are a terrible influence."

Owen's grin widened immediately. "I know."

Louis shook his head. Then his gaze shifted toward Legundo. The doctor was still smiling. Still trying and failing not to laugh. Something warm flickered across Louis's expression.

Small.

But genuine.

"Though perhaps," he admitted, "you are not the only one."

Legundo snorted. "That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I wouldn't get used to it."