By Quon and Tom
10.
The first wave hit him like a hard punch in the stomach; he doubled over in
agony, wheezing, releasing Carlos’s arm and clutching at his stomach. Yet as
suddenly as it had begun, it ended: fighting for breath, Paul straightened up,
breathing hard and pushing his blonde hair out of his face.
“Paul?”
Paul looked up at him, shaking, struggling to control his winded lungs. His
stomach felt sore, but something strange, something foreign coursed through his
veins. A decision he had made, had mused on over for twenty-four hours, a decision
he could not reverse.
He had turned himself into a vampire too. An animal. A creature of the
night. A partner for another lonely, eternal creature. He remembered that just a day
ago, he had lived in terror of this man, of what Paul perceived as an affliction. Now
he was willingly taking on the very same affliction. Paul dizzily wondered if he
would regret this, but at the moment, he was empty of repentance. Carlos was no
longer alone. Carlos had him now.
Paul crawled off of Carlos to lie beside him. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Carlos.”
He whispered, placing a kiss on the other man’s collarbone. Carlos wrapped his arm
around Paul’s shoulders and stroked his hair.
“I know, Paul. It’s okay.” His voice came out hoarse but calm and certain.
Paul looked up at Carlos’s face; it had fully mended and looked as beautiful as ever,
if not more so.
Paul propped himself up on his elbows to kiss him; he felt the curious
sharpness of teeth, tasted the warm slick heat of Carlos’s mouth, tasted traces of
blood.
But Carlos was still weak; Paul knew this, he could see it, and he broke away
after a little while and lay back down against the other man’s side. Carlos closed his
eyes and fell back asleep.
As he put his lips against Carlos’s neck, Paul realized sleepily that he could
not bite the man, not in this state, but he had to suck like a baby before he could fall
asleep.
Later they awoke, and Carlos fed them both on slivers of raw meat from the
fridge. Paul was surprised – no, delighted – by how his body yearned for the taste of
flesh, soft and subtly fibrous, torn easily by sharp incisors. Paul watched Carlos,
watched the elegant, restrained way he nibbled at his food. Carlos didn’t meet his
eyes, his whole posture suggesting an insular, lonely self-control. He wanted to
reach across the table and catch those long pale fingers in his own, press them to his
lips: he didn’t. He sat, he chewed and he wondered if he had made the greatest
mistake of his life.
Wiping his mouth on white cotton, Carlos regarded the boy across the table
from him. The cocksure confidence had dissipated and he sat there young and blond
and beautiful. Paul.
“Blood of my blood…” murmured Carlos.
Paul arched his brows, half-terrified and half-relieved at the sudden break of
silence.
“Flesh of my flesh. Creature of the night, eternal lover of my very soul…”
Carlos smiled, breaking the somber tone of his voice and causing Paul’s
heart to clench an excruciating clasp of love.
“Mine. My own, from now until death.”
Paul reached for his Carlos’ hand, at last, and found his touch reciprocated.
They stood, their bodies in harmonious symmetry. Carlos led him back to the
bedroom, a room that had seen so much drama, so much sex and blood-shed in the
past few days. Paul wasn’t scared now. His newly mixed blood thrilled through his
veins and all he felt was a tremendous anticipation.