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“Last call,” Shane says, tapping his fingers on the bartop in front of his final remaining customer of the evening. It’s Felix, his regular. He comes every Sunday night and orders several dirty Belvedere martinis over the course of the evening. Never gets any food. He’s a lingerer, always staying until the last possible minute. It doesn’t usually bother Shane too much, since the guy tips well. But tonight, he’s antsy– he’s barely seen Ilya all week, and he misses him, knows he’s sitting alone in his apartment, waiting for Shane.
“One more for the road?” Felix smiles. His teeth are so white they practically gleam, and Shane almost asks what kind of whitening strips he uses. The guy is handsome, in a cherubic, sculptural sort of way. Shane’s never quite sure how old he is, can look 25 or 55 depending on the way the dim bar light catches him.
Shane smiles back, politely. “Sure thing.”
The television above the bar is playing a hockey game. The Montreal Metros against the Boston Raiders. As Shane stirs Felix’s martini, he watches intently, hyper-aware of the distant pain in his knee.
“You‘re an ice hockey fan?” Felix asks.
“You could say that,” Shane replies, then realizes belatedly that’s kind of an odd answer. “Used to play pretty seriously,” he elaborates.
“Not anymore?”
“Injury,” Shane smiles wryly, not willing to elaborate further. He feels more at peace, generally, with what happened, but he doesn’t want to perform gratitude for a stranger right now, to listen to some kind of generic platitude about everything happening for a reason. Felix just hums, consideringly, while Shane squirms.
After his shift, Shane walks to Ilya’s house. He’s tired from the day of work, meanders bleary-eyed onto the bridge that penetrates through the center of the city. He looks at the Don River, just sitting there all accusatorily. He wants to jump in head first. He wants to shout at the river, “you think you can hold me?” But he doesn’t do any of that, because Ilya is waiting. He keeps on walking.
When he walks through the front door of Ilya’s basement apartment, Ilya is standing in the kitchen, pouring two cups of chamomile tea. Shane’s heart clenches, his face warms. He toes his shoes off, moves to hug Ilya from behind, pulled to him like a tide, like a riverflow.
“Hi, baby,” he wraps his arms around Ilya’s back, running his palms up and down his chest. Ilya leans back into him, turning his head to kiss his cheek. “Hi,” Ilya whispers against his face, smiling. Shane’s hands squeeze the taut muscle of his pecs. Their relationship is still new enough that every touch lights Shane on fire. Whenever they pull apart, Shane’s body vibrates for hours with the after-effects. Gooseflesh sensitive to the touch.
“How was work?” Ilya turns to face him, now.
“Mmm, it was fine.”
“Was your boyfriend there?” Ilya asks. He’s teasing, Shane knows, but there’s something in the set of his eyebrows that makes Shane back up a little. “Ilya–”
“I don’t trust that guy,” Ilya’s arm curls possessively around Shane’s waist, pulling him closer. “He only ever shows up for your closing shifts, and Sveta said he just stares at you the whole time. That is weird.”
“Hey. It’s not like that. I think he’s just lonely and wants company. Some people like me as a person, you know,” Shane argues.
“I do know, Shane. I empathize deeply with these people. I am one of them. We have support group. Meets on Thursdays.”
Shane uses his good leg to give Ilya a gentle kick. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Ilya sighs dramatically, “I am just trying to protect my very handsome boyfriend from being kidnapped by creepy dracula man. And yet, he tells me, no, Ilya, vourdalak is such a nice guy–”
“Hey, we interact with way too many alt-goth people at work for you to be calling them creepy draculas–”
Ilya cuts him off by nipping at Shane’s neck. “Oh, so this is what you want, then? Want me to bite you, hm?”
“Ilya,” Shane breathes as the nips become open-mouthed, wet kisses, tracing up his jaw. He’s grateful, then, for the open floor plan of Ilya’s apartment, the way they can take just a few steps and collapse onto Ilya’s queen-sized bed together, unmade since this morning, pillows still smelling like Shane’s shampoo after he slept with wet hair last night.
Later, after their clothes have been tossed aside, after Ilya has opened him up painstakingly slow, has pushed inside, Ilya will return to Shane’s neck, sucking gentle marks onto the side.
“Harder,” Shane will beg. He wants Ilya to break skin, to draw blood. Wants to go to work next Sunday and still have an open wound that his boyfriend put there, wants that one regular plus all the other guys to know he’s taken before they even see him because they can smell the blood.
But Ilya’s mouth remains slack, his open-mouthed, sucking kisses will leave soft red marks that last for a day, perhaps. Skin intact. Not even a bruise. He whispers, “I love you so much,” against Shane’s neck, like an apology.
And Shane forgives him, of course. Ilya gives him more than enough. Gentle, thoughtful Ilya, who doesn’t want to hurt Shane. Wants to make love to him. Wants to feed him chamomile tea after a long shift at work. Wants to rub the knots out of his sore neck instead of making it hurt even more.
“Love you,” Shane breathes, as Ilya fucks up into him. “Love you so fucking much.” He reaches a hand up to push Ilya’s curls away from his forehead. He can see Ilya’s pulse thrumming through the prominent vein on his temple. “You’re so good to me.”
“Baby,” Ilya whimpers, the look on his face open, adoring.
“Yeah, fuck,” Shane groans when he feels the fat head of Ilya’s cock drag along his prostate. “‘M your baby.” When Ilya comes inside him, he swears he can feel the heat of it. Imagines Ilya spreading through his veins like venom.
Ilya pulls out, leaving little love bites across Shane’s chest. Works his fingers back into Shane’s sloppy hole, presses against his prostate until Shane cries out and comes all over his stomach.
After they’ve showered and Ilya has flicked off the bedside lamp, Shane whispers, “you know you don’t have to worry about me with that guy, right?” They’re just laying together, Shane on his side, letting Ilya’s fingers trace down his spine. Even in the dark, he can tell there’s still a slight stiffness to Ilya, despite fucking it out.
“I am not worried about you doing anything. Just think something is off with him.” Ilya strokes down Shane’s back gently. “He looks at you like he wants to eat you.”
“You look at me like that, sometimes,” Shane teases.
“No, it’s different,” Ilya argues. “It’s not in a sex way. It’s like he wants to… like he wants there to be nothing left of you, when he’s done.”
Shane thinks it would be fine, if Ilya looked at him like that, too, but he keeps that inside. Ilya gives him more than enough, he reminds himself. Shane turns his neck to face him. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “You know we’ve all dealt with weird customers before. I can handle it.” Then, quieter, “S’cute you’re looking out for me.”
Ilya scoots closer to lick Shane’s cheek. “I am cute. And I won’t let anyone else eat you.”
—
It had been a week since Ilya had brought up the odd regular, but like always, Felix had been there tonight when Shane clocked in and taken over for Marleau. He sits at the bar, expectantly, nothing in front of him. Distantly, Shane wonders if he’s been waiting for him to arrive before ordering.
Shane gives him a nod before preparing his usual drink. He keeps a wider berth than usual, busying himself with tasks behind the bar rather than opening himself up to small talk like he usually does. And yet, he’s hyperaware of Felix’s gaze tracking him. When last call comes, instead of stopping by Felix and asking if he wants one more drink, Shane just places the check in front of him. To Shane’s frustration, Felix looks amused. Like Shane is being particularly entertaining tonight.
“Thank you, Shane,” the man lisps before heading out. Friendly, as always. He’d left a bigger tip than usual. Shane releases his held breath. Tells himself he needs to chill, that he’d let Ilya get in his head, that this guy was clearly harmless, was normal and respectful and just wanted a fucking drink like everyone else.
Shane hauls the night’s trash to the alleyway. It takes him longer than he’d like, because he has to take it in batches. Too often he’d tried to carry it all at once and ended up tripping and tweaking his bad knee. Once, when he’d just shoved all the day’s trash into one over-stuffed bag, a broken beer bottle had cut through the polyethylene and slashed him when he swung the bag over his back. He hadn’t noticed until he’d gotten home, gone to shower, and seen blood on the tile. He remembers turning in the mirror to see the gash, the thick red blooming from beneath his skin. That’s what’s inside me, he’d thought, before vomiting into the sink.
Now, he’s on his third trip to the back alley dumpster. He’s breathing a little heavier than the first trip, and he can see the fog of his effort in the musty air. Just one more bag, he thinks, and then he’ll walk home along the river, tracing its flow back to Ilya’s apartment, like he’s done so many times before.
Shane heaves the last bag into the compactor, listening for the crunch. Instead, he finds himself distracted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He turns to see Felix standing just a few feet away.
He clears his throat, tries to act like this is fine and normal, like he often runs into customers in the inaccessible back alley behind his workplace. “Um, hey, man. Did you forget something at the bar?”
Felix’s eyes look brighter in this light, somehow. Metallic, maybe, like copper. Shane’s never seen anything like it. Wonders how he never noticed before. He’s wearing the same outfit he always wears, some dingy, ill-fitting suit. And– has it always had so many dark splatter stains on it? What the fuck even is that—
“Had a question for you, actually,” Felix says, smiling. Which is, of course, when Shane notices the fangs.
He groans, irritated. Of course Ilya was fucking right. Felix looks a bit put off by this reaction. Like he was expecting fear, or disbelief, but not annoyance. He asks, a bit petulantly, “you’re not even going to hear me out? I have an offer for you.”
Shane sighs, moves to lean against the alley brick, motioning for the vampire to get on with it. “Whatever, man. Do your best.”
Felix wastes no time coming closer, his cold hand hovering over Shane’s lower left thigh, right by his kneecap. “I could fix this,” he whispers, breath frosting over Shane’s neck. “I could take the pain away. You could play again.”
Shane closes his eyes tightly. “And what would you want from me?” The question is ripped from deep within him, pulled forward by some ghastly skeletal arm. He knows, when he hears the steadiness of his voice, that it’s Shane Hollander, hockey player, speaking. Knows he’s been biding his time, watching. Watching Shane move on, fall in love, work a dead-end job, limp around. Watched Shane dismantle his corpse, live anew with his parts. He’s watched silently, but now, he seizes the opportunity to come alive once more.
“Companionship. Connection. I’m lonely. And you’ve always been kind. I could tell, from the minute I saw you. That you carry pain. I just want to help, Shane, really.” Shane feels something cold trace the edges of his ACL surgery scar.
“What about Ilya?”
“What about him?” Felix coos dismissively. “Do you really think he could ever understand?” And Shane knows what he means, knows that he already feels like some interloper destined to live on the outskirts of society, that to become like Felix would simply be biological confirmation of the way he’s always felt– like something cold and dead, inanimate, a metal blade tracing the ice, something that could draw blood if angled just so.
“Not the most social,” his coaches had told interested scouts. “Like he was made in a lab to play hockey,” he’d once heard a commentator say. “Nothing else behind those eyes.”
But Ilya, Ilya. Not a sharpened blade on a frozen pond but a socially graceful swan swimming through a wide-open lake. A glowing bright light in the room, how could Shane ever think his skin wouldn’t burn up in proximity.
Rose always said it was like Ilya had a “soul business card,” like when he introduced himself some psychic information was wittingly passed between you and him. I know him, you might think, catching his magnetic glance across the room for the first time. He was so open, willing. Flamboyant, maybe. A little bit too much. Like a stage actor on a film set. But who was Shane to refuse such an invitation, to turn from an opened door beckoning him inside. He’d spliced himself into the vacant gaps of Ilya’s life— an occupation, a possession.
And maybe if Felix had asked him months ago, Shane would have self-sacrificed. Would have detached himself for Ilya’s own good, would have disappeared into the night, jumped into the river and been washed away. But now he had learned what it was like to be warmed by the hearth of Ilya’s heart. Had shared Ilya’s plush queen-sized bed in that basement apartment, had realized you could still lay comfortably even twelve feet underground.
“No,” he says, removing Felix’s hand from his neck, pushing his hard chest until he hits against the brick on the other side of the alley.
Felix’s eyes grow impossibly darker. Shane runs.
—
“So, you were right,” Shane says, breathless, entering Ilya’s apartment and kicking off his shoes.
Ilya is lounging on his Facebook marketplace couch, feet outstretched onto the mismatched ottoman Shane had insisted upon when he’d learned Ilya usually propped his feet on the coffee table. He raises his eyebrows. “Probably, yes. But remind me about what.”
Shane slouches onto the cushion next to him. “Vampires,” he explains, stealing a sip of tea from the mug Ilya has just poured. “And also that guy being a fucking freak.”
Ilya hums, setting down his book to curl an arm around Shane. “What a shame. Would’ve been fun if he was just a cool, lowkey vampire with no ulterior motives.” Shane groans. “What was it you said? That some people are after your dazzling personality instead of your blood?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that he didn’t just want to kill me. He also wanted me to be like, his undead psychosexual buddy. Like Louis and Lestat.”
This makes Ilya pause. “And you said no, right?”
“Duh,” Shane nuzzles into Ilya’s armpit, feeling hot and embarrassed. “But—” he stops, not sure if it’s appropriate to say that, for one sickening second, he had considered it.
“Yes?” Ilya’s voice has no judgment, just curiosity.
“He tried to tell me I could play hockey again,” Shane rushes out, face still hidden. He doesn’t need to say, part of me wanted it. Part of me still does. Ilya grips his jaw, then, bringing Shane upwards to lick into his mouth. His grip is tight, stern, and Shane trembles with it.
“You still think all you’re good for is hockey, then?” Shane turns his head into the pillow, shameful. He feels exposed, found out. Ilya takes his face in hand, turning him to look head on, his other hand diving into Shane’s boxers.
“And what about this?” Ilya grips Shane’s ass, spreading him to expose his hole. “Don’t you know you were made for me? Made to be with me?”
“Ilya,” he breathes, “show me, please, Ilya.” Ilya grabs their living room lube as Shane undresses. He preps Shane sloppily, knows Shane likes it when he feels stretched taut around Ilya’s cock. At the third finger, Shane gets desperate, begging, fucking back against Ilya’s hand. He doesn’t want prep, doesn’t want slow and gentle, he wants to Ilya to fucking destroy him.
Ilya coos. “My pretty baby,” he whispers against Shane’s cheek, “needs it so bad.” Shane nods, eyes watering as Ilya finally slides in. It’s a tight fit, and Ilya traces where they’re connected, pressing against Shane’s perineum as he thrusts. Shane groans at the added pressure.
Shane is so fucked open, it isn’t hard for Ilya to press another finger alongside his now slow-moving cock. Shane wants to cry out, but Ilya is squishing his cheeks. “Never got fucked before me, now look at you. Just take everything I give. You weren’t made for anything but this,” Ilya promises, easing his finger out so he can fuck up into him faster and harder.
“Bite me,” Shane begs, when he feels like he’s about to come. He wants every part of him to have been touched by Ilya– even his innards, even his blood. A blessing, a purification. “Please, Ilya.” Ilya wouldn’t do it before, but things are different now, Shane knows. He can feel it, the shift in Ilya. Something desperate and animalistic that has come alive in him to answer Shane’s void-call.
Ilya smirks at him knowingly. Bends down to the long line of Shane’s neck, where it meets the shoulder. He laps at the sweat that’s gathered there— Jesus, like he’s lubing up Shane’s skin for it.
“You can do it hard,” Shane babbles, “want to feel it, want to see it, oh—“
Ilya bites down. It hurts, like everything does, like the dull ache in his hole from Ilya’s relentless fucking, like the twinge in his knee from where it’s wrapped around Ilya’s waist. But this pain is his— his and Ilya’s. He knows he’ll crave it forever, feels reborn, remade.
Shane comes with Ilya’s teeth in his neck, clenching down on Ilya’s cock. Ilya licks over the wound, and Shane whimpers lightly, making Ilya lift his head up. Shane just stares at him, mouth all bloody, eyes wild. He can feel his pulse in the free-flowing wound on his neck and he loves every second of it. “You can never fucking leave me,” he slurs out as Ilya grinds his fat cock deeper into Shane. I turned down eternal life for you, he thinks. And, even more significantly, I turned down playing hockey again for you.
Ilya smiles, red lipped. “No,” he says. “I can’t.”