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Everything hurts.
Tango winces, a soft sound on his lips. His muscles burn something fierce.
Ugh, what…?
Memories come back in flashes, less images and more physical sensations– rough hands trailing down his sides, nails raking across flesh. The sharp burn of alcohol.
Tango groans.
The cold weight of a missing presence, a lonely house. The thrill in every ping! of his phone.
A text saying, “I’ll be back before you know it!”
He shifts under his sheets. The movement makes his body ache, every part of him sore and twinging like he hasn’t moved in a week. His joints protest with each stretch, his limbs heavy and his throat scratchy enough to be painful–
Seriously, what the hell did he do?
It comes to him in bursts of color, searing images in his mind’s eye.
Short blonde curls, soft to the touch but not the right scent. A grin that spelled trouble, crinkled eyes that are the wrong color entirely. A handsy trip back home.
Biting, and lots of it. Near-torn clothing. Hot breath on his neck, and then–
Tango shudders.
Sharp, white-hot pain, then– nothing. Just pure black, a mental wall.
Trepidation scuttles in his veins, a growing itch that begs to be scratched.
That… Can’t be normal.
So Tango stretches his neck, (ow.) forcing himself to get up. (double ow.)
It doesn’t make sense, he thinks, squinting at the dim room. His body hurts, but not the way it would after a– a rough night. He stretches his shoulders, a pained noise in his throat at the way it protests, dull pain blooming like a wildfire. Why does it hurt this much?
It’s not even just his shoulders. It’s his lower back as he twists this way and that, his arms and legs as they unfold. He’s not that old, is he–?
Tango freezes.
His gaze lands on his sheets. He narrows his eyes, rubs at them as he peers down at what looks like… Well, it’s hard to make it out in the dark, (blackout curtains are damn good at their job) but Tango’s pretty sure that it looks like–
“Is this blood?” He rasps, wincing as his throat stings. Without much thought he brings it to his nose, breathes in deep and jolts, “What the–?!”
Tango fumbles for his lamp. His hand brushes over some paper.
…Wait.
His eyebrows pinch together, Tango turning to look (ow!) as he flicks the switch on.
Hey, the note reads. I am so, SO sorry.
Tango makes a face. Well, that’s promising.
There’s no other way to put this. You’re not gonna believe me, but it’s true. I’m not messing with you.
Tango squints at the handwriting, dread pooling in his gut.
I’m a vampire. And because of me, now so are you.
…Huh?
He reads it again, and again, and again. The words don’t change.
“Oookay,” Tango says, eyebrows practically jumping into his hairline. “Vampire. Right. Yeah.”
I know, it’s crazy. (Tango’s hands wrinkle the paper, you think?!)
But you must be starving, and I know this cuz I’ve been there, bud. And I know where you can get your first meal.
Tango’s eyes go wide. If he sees an address on here–
I know this guy who sells blood.
Tango deflates in relief. Geez.
He’s the local butcher, you’ve probably seen his shop. His name’s Impulse– Tango unfolds the paper– and if you ask, he’ll be sure to let you buy some discreetly.
And before Tango can question how exactly Impulse managed to worm into this…
Again, I’m really, really sorry about this. I thought I had myself under control. But I’ve gone and killed you, so this is the least I can do to help.
If you need a friend, here’s my number. Call me.
– Jimmy
Tango puts the paper down. His mind is… Eerily calm.
Er, blank is probably the better term.
“That’s… Huh,” He mutters to himself, folding it up and turning back to his bed. “The hell kinda prank is–”
Tango pales.
“Holy shit!”
His sheets and pillows are practically covered in blood, a large, dried pool of it staining the cotton a rusted shade of red. The more he looks the more he finds, hints of dried blood on his collarbone, the rest of it just out of view.
Panic shocks him into movement, yanking off the sheets and practically leaping off the bed.
He ignores the way his muscles protest, sore and twinging as he–
“Ow!”
–as he falls. Right on his ass.
Amazing.
“Goddamn,” Tango groans, wincing through the ache. He steadies himself against the bed, “It’s like he hit my center of gravity, too.”
Not like he really remembers the guy’s size, but–
Tango stands, grumbling as he rubs at the sore spot. Gods that hurt more than it should.
He flips on the light.
The rest of his thoughts fizzle out, half-formed innuendos thrown out the window and lost forever.
His bed looks like a massacre.
Nausea roils in his stomach, crawling up his throat.
Somehow, being able to see the blood in full display actually makes him feel worse. Go figure.
An itching fear crawls underneath his skin, leaving him frozen in place, his eyes wide as he takes in his room: the heap of clothes just beside his bed, the blood soaked into his pillows and sheets. Tango’s hands shake at his sides.
(But I’ve gone and killed you, so this is the least I can do to help.)
“Did I just die?” He asks into the quiet room, his voice tapering off into a wheeze. “I’m no expert, but that’s a lot of blood.”
Tango looks down at himself– naked as the day he was born, with blood trailing his collarbone and chest. A thought hits him, and it isn’t pretty.
No fucking way he wasn’t kidding.
Heart pounding, Tango goes to rush to the nearest bathroom–
Then stops.
There’s a slit of light peeking through one of his windows. Tango swallows.
Tentatively, he reaches out, a hand bunching into the fabric before he pulls–
“See, it’s not so ba– AckgGAH!”
His body explodes into searing pain, the burn of it white-hot and making his blood boil and steam. He scrambles away from the light, blinded and screaming as he backs into a corner.
It’s agony, like he was set on fire, like the flame is scorching through his flesh and eating through muscle. He screams his throat raw, shakes and writhes on the floor and begging for it to stop.
Through it all he can hear a faint sizzle– his vision refocuses in splotches of color, the feeling you get when you stare at the sun. Hissing through grit teeth, he shields his eyes from the light.
His vision sharpens, slow and steady, and he can see…
Burnt, raw skin stares back at him. His body is mottled with pinks and angry reds, and honestly he was expecting something worse– like charred spots where the skin burned right off. ‘Cuz that’s how it feels.
As Tango assesses the damage, his eyes go wide. The pain recedes, bit by bit, the reddened skin going back to his usual pallor within seconds. The burning turns into a dull throb, then nothing– and all Tango can do is gape.
Yeah, that– that can’t be normal.
He forces himself to stand, careful to avoid the sunlight as he runs to the nearest bathroom, like he was supposed to–
He pauses. His hand hovers over the doorknob.
“He can’t be serious,” Tango tells himself, icy dread in the way his fingers shake. “He can’t be. This is just some– freak accident. A messed up prank.”
(His skin tingles with the memory of how sunlight burned.)
Tango laughs, feeling it catch in his throat.
“Yeah,” He opens his eyes. “Yeah.”
He swings the door open.
Rushing to the sink, he washes away the blood with some water. He freezes.
Are those–
“Puncture wounds,” Tango says, voice faint. Things click into place with a sickening clarity– his bloodstained sheets, his final few memories before things go black. He remembers the spark of interest in his chest when he caught a glimpse of sharp canines, only realizing how bad of an idea the whole thing was when the guy bit down– “No way. No, no fucking way. There’s no way I’m a…”
A vampire, Tango thinks, only slightly hysterical. He can’t even speak it, his limbs shaky, his chest tight. “They’re not real, they’re, uh. They’re horror stories, I can’t be…” He trails off into murmurs, half-crazed as he presses down on the bite mark– “Ow!”
It looks old, but as he touches it it twinges like it’s sore– not quite a fresh wound but it sure almost hurts like one…
Tango drags a hand down his face, stifling a groan. Can’t anything make sense? He thinks, nine levels of exhausted. “If this is a dream, I’m getting real sick of it.”
Nothing happens. He doesn’t wake up, and his reflection looks exactly the same.
So, Tango does the only thing he can think to do in this situation: He puts all of his fear into a tiny little box, and resigns himself to having to clean his bed.
He also makes sure that the curtains are shut. He is not going through that again.
Tango shrugs some clothes on, brushes hair away from his face. At least I can still see my reflection, Tango thinks wryly. Glad to know that’s bullshit.
The rest is just, at this point, an old routine. He peels back the sheets, glaring holes into the stained mattress until he lets out a breath. He grumbles about having to bust out the baking soda, saying, “Gods, you’d think I was over this.”
Tango drags the sheets and pillows into his tub, “Stupid Jimmy…” He sighs, turning the water on and watching it seep into the fabric, dried blood making it murky when he wrings it out. “Stupid vampire.”
Tango leaves the water running for a bit, heading back to his bedroom. For a few moments he just stares at the bare mattress– a collection of smaller, insignificant stains, with the huge blob glaring daggers right back at him.
Ugh.
Tango grabs the note from his night stand, shoves it into his pocket.
“It’s just like cleaning a period stain,” He tells himself, making his way into the kitchen. Where’d he put the baking soda, again–? “You’ve done this before. This is fine.”
He swallows, gets his head on straight. Because he has to, he has to– “You’ve done this before,” He echoes, “It’s just a chore.”
Tango catches a glimpse of his reflection, a short moment as he passes by the bathroom.
“…It’s just a chore.”
—
Three days. That’s how long he was out.
Tango scowls at the floor, sitting next to the tumbling washing machine. Stupid, stupid.
Three days dead, and Zed’s worried about him, a few missed calls and texts on his phone.
A couple hours ago, Tango said he’d deal with it later.
…It is now later.
So, with his bed made and his sheets drying, Tango is, unfortunately, alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts like why he got handsy with a guy at a club and brought him home, why Tango decided it was a good idea just because he had blonde hair and smelled nice and looked almost like–
Tango scowls, shaking his head.
Yeah, who is he kidding? He knows exactly why.
He knows he doesn’t always make the best choices, but… Really, accidentally bringing home a vampire?
Just his luck.
Tango slumps, leaning against the wall. He lets out a sigh.
Over the course of the day he’s learned a couple of things about his new vampire-y self, and absolutely none of them are good.
(Though, Tango’s very much aware of how becoming a vampire has just. Not changed the tint of his skin at all. The near-deathly pale look is all natural, baby!)
But most importantly: Food doesn’t do anything for him anymore. At all. He’d tried making breakfast, and it still tasted good and all– the eggs were crispy at the edges, the hotdogs cooked the way he likes it. It’s just…
Tango grimaces at the texture, fighting a gag as he chews, swallows. It’s all somehow too much and too little, like the flavor is there but it feels… Muted. Dull.
He sets down his fork, pushes back his plate. Yeah, no. Maybe not.
His stomach grumbles. Unease makes Tango’s hands twitch. If food doesn’t do anything for him, then…
Tango shakes his head, goes to put the food in the fridge.
It’s fine, he thinks, very carefully not thinking about what that could mean. It’s fine, I’m not even that hungry.
Everything is fine.
—
Everything is not fine, Tango thinks, his hands white-knuckled around the laundry basket. I repeat, everything is not fine.
Tango brings the basket over to Zedaph’s room, feeling dread and hunger rumble in his stomach as he gets closer– Zed’s scent getting stronger with each passing step. The man in question is busy unpacking his stuff, humming to himself as he hangs up his unused clothes.
Tango nudges the door open with his foot.
It’s a mixture of something sweet, a hint of citrus and something undeniably Zedaph that permeates Tango’s senses. It hits him like a truck, an explosion of hunger coursing through him– Tango grips the basket like a lifeline.
It’s just– it’s that perfume Zedaph likes to wear sometimes, the kind that’s a bit much for Tango to use on himself but works unfairly well on Zed–
Tango grits his teeth hard enough to make his dentist wince.
His stomach flips until he’s swallowing back his bile. Anxiety slams at his chest as he enters the room, a smile on his face that Tango hopes is convincing– the damn room is concentrated with Zed’s scent.
Before Zedaph got back the room held faint whispers of him, enough that Tango knows it’s there, but not… Not like this.
Tango’s pretty sure he’s gonna die here, and it’s not gonna be pretty.
Zedaph just grins back, “Oh, thanks! All my laundry’s in the bag over there, but uh– I can take care of it. We got any food for lunch?”
None that I can eat, “We’ve still got some stuff to work with,” Tango replies. His brain is a haze of hunger and want– “I went grocery shopping last week.”
“So you said,” Zedaph hums. He opens up his bag, dumping the laundry out and into the basket. Without missing a beat, he adds, “Mind telling me why you’ve been ghosting me for the past week?”
Tango freezes.
“Uh… Well,” He wracks his brain for anything, literally anything– He scratches his cheek, sheepish, “Would you believe me if I said I got sucked into my work?” His grin wobbles under Zedaph’s scrutiny.
Tango’s voice comes out weak, “I mean, Decked Out 2 isn’t gonna program itself, and I miiight’ve hit a groove… Again…”
Zedaph narrows his eyes at him, considering. Tango has half a mind to wonder if he should be sweating this much for someone who’s dead.
Then, Zedaph sighs. “Guess it wouldn’t be the first time…”
Tango beams, “Yeah, exactly! So there’s nothing to worry about!” He grins, deflating when Zedaph gives him a Look. “Okay, okay. Tango, be better at communication. Got it.”
“Like you ever learn,” Zedaph retorts, rolling his eyes. “One of these days I’m gonna set up a baby monitor in your room.”
Tango sputters, “Wh– hey! Keep your creepy stalker stuff out of this!”
“It’s not stalking, Tango, we live in the same house–!”
“So you admit that it’s creepy–”
Zedaph giggles, the sound chiming in Tango’s ears. “It’s not creepy!” He protests, “It’s for your own good!”
Tango fires back with another retort, the two of them settling into their old routine– like Zed never left, and Tango isn’t a vampire and everything’s all sunshine and rainbows.
For a few moments, Tango can almost just… Forget.
Tango’s hands twitch at his sides.
His senses don’t quite get the memo, though.
All through it he can still smell Zedaph, the flowery sweetness that clings to his skin, the tinge of salt– which, if you ask Tango, is already way weirder than anything Zed could come up with, but that’s not really the point.
The point is it makes the ache flare up like a spark, his mouth watering like he’s starving and his hand reaching out–
Their hands brush, just the barest hint of contact. Tango tries not to flinch.
–But above all, he tamps down the urge to pull Zed close.
It’d be so easy, Tango thinks to himself. Zedaph’s telling him a story, something about his friend Jack– He’s right there.
It’d be so…
(How easy would it be, to just reach out and touch? To pull Zed’s hand back as it retreats, twine them together like Tango’s always dreamed? How easy would it be then, to tug Zed towards him and grin, pull him into a–)
Tango realizes he’s run out of shirts to fold. Ah.
After a while Tango excuses himself, prattling off some excuse about bringing the heap of laundry out of the room, I’ll see you at dinner leaving his lips. His voice doesn’t shake.
The door clicks shut behind him. Tango lets out a breath.
…His hands are definitely shaking, though.
He feels delirious– high off of just being near Zed, desperately aching to just…
Tango licks his lips. A thought worms its way to the surface.
Hot blood on his lips, Zedaph’s pulse racing. His skin warm and so soft under Tango’s tongue–
Shame crashes through him like a wave. He almost drops the basket entirely.
Then, very quietly:
“Oh, fuck.”
—
It’s nearly 6pm when Tango heads out. The sky is dark, the lamps outside flickering on in bright, orange cones of light. Even then, he shrugs on a sweater and some pants– the sun may be down, but Tango’s pretty sure he runs colder than he used to, suppressing a shiver when a soft breeze chills exposed skin.
He huffs, trudging forward. Go figure.
Tango hums, practically on autopilot as his feet take him to where he needs to go– to a shop with a gaudy, yellow and black neon sign that says iChop. Tango snorts.
Him and his branding, Tango thinks, amused as he lets himself in. “Hey Impy!”
The smell of meat washes over him like a wave, tender flesh and the iron tang of blood permeating his senses– not quite what he needs, but close enough. Tango’s eyes dilate. His mouth waters, shame curdling in his gut.
Tango shakes it off.
Impulse turns to face him, an easy smile on his face, “Oh, hey Tango!” He frowns, “You look…”
“Like death?” Tango offers. Impulse snorts, shrugging as he turns back to his chopping board. His meat cleaver shines under the fluorescent lights.
“You said it, not me,” Impulse teases. There’s a loud thunk as he prepares the slab of pork, his movements practiced, efficient. “Anyway, what brings you here? You out of food already?”
Tango hums, his eyes scanning the array of meat, the different cuts and sizes. He tries, really tries not to think about sinking his teeth into the raw meat, reining himself in like some kind of rabid ani–
Thunk!
Tango jolts. Fuck.
He shuts his eyes tight, rubbing at his temples, “Something like that. Zed’s back home.”
When he opens his eyes, Impulse looks concerned. Tango bites back a groan.
Great.
“Are you okay?” Impulse asks. Tango feels his bones thrum, anxiety and exhaustion wracking through him, trying desperately to maintain eye contact– “No offense, dude, but you do actually look really tired.”
A laugh drags itself from Tango’s throat, wheezing and painful. “You think?”
“Tango–”
“Look, can I buy some blood?” Tango blurts out, which. Okay. Not his finest moment.
Impulse blinks. He puts the chopped pork away, cleaning his board and cleaver, “I mean, yeah? How much d’you need?”
A part of Tango thrashes, claws at him with its hunger as it screams as much as you can give. He doesn’t even realize that he’s rushed forward, leaning over the counter as Impulse’s eyes go wide. Impulse backs away, just a step, and Tango’s brain screams for blood, leaving him salivating and come back here–!
“Tango,” Impulse says, his voice like steel. “Focus. How much blood do you need?”
Shame lands like a whip on Tango’s mind. Fuck, fuck.
Tango stops, backs away from the counter. Pull yourself together!
Impulse’s grip on his cleaver relaxes, but only by a fraction.
Tango coughs, “Uh, how long does–”
“A bit over a month, as long as you keep it in a fridge.” Impulse replies, his eyes still Tango, looking ready to bolt. Or fight. Whatever.
Tango shuffles on his feet.
“Er, great. Yeah. How about–” How much blood does he need? “–a gallon.”
Impulse stares at him. Tango holds back a wince.
“A gallon.”
Tango shoves his hands into his pockets, giving his most convincing, award-winning grin.
“Yep,” With a pop on the p.
Impulse’s expression doesn’t change. Tango thinks his grin might not have helped. Probably even did the opposite.
Finally, Impulse lets out a sigh.
“Okay, yeah, I can do that for ya, just stay here.” He says, before walking off into the back room. Tango just stares, mouth slightly agape.
No way…
After some time, Impulse comes back with a large plastic bag. He places it on the counter, and Tango peers into it to find– “Dude, are these juice packets?”
Impulse nods, “You got it.”
Uh, “…Are these full of–”
“Also yes,” Impulse replies, ringing up his total. Tango’s mind is reeling to catch up as he pulls out his wallet, almost buzzing with questions. “The packaging makes it less obvious.”
Tango isn’t entirely sure he’s still on the same planet right now, to be honest. “Uh huh.”
“That’ll be ten dollars,” Impulse chirps. Tango pauses, looks up from his wallet. “What?”
What does he mean what?
“What’s with the discount?” Tango asks, placing the money on the counter. “And why– why did you just have these ready?”
It’s– it’s a small thing, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. A shift behind Impulse’s eyes, the blacks of them now darker, a spark of gold in his irises. Impulse picks up his cleaver, old bloodstains on his apron, some clinging to his hands.
His voice reverberates in Tango’s bones, “I didn’t ask you any questions, did I?”
Fear, sharp and ice-cold, stabs through Tango’s chest.
“No,” Comes the faint reply. “No, you– you didn’t. Sorry.”
Impulse relaxes, and in the next moment, it’s gone. All the darkness and weirdness and flickering gold. He shakes his head, sheepish. “Sorry about that,” He sighs, “Just– habit. I guess. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Bit late for that, Tango thinks wryly.
“I get a lot of people coming into my shop, Tango,” Impulse says, his voice low. “You’re not the only one who’s gone asking for this.”
Oh, Tango thinks. Ohhh.
A knowing look settles in Impulse’s eyes. He nudges the bag toward Tango, “I put some steak in there as well. So Zed doesn’t ask questions,” He smiles, full of warmth. Relief sinks into Tango’s frame. “Consider this a gift from a friend.”
“Not a favor?” Tango asks, lighthearted but genuine, because– come on. This is Impulse. Impulse just shakes his head.
“No, not a favor,” He grins, “But next time, you’re paying full price.”
Tango laughs, “Yeah, yeah, I figured.”
He grabs the plastic with a soft grunt, a smile on his face as he says, “Thanks, Impulse.”
Impulse just waves him off, “Don’t mention it,” Then, just before Tango leaves, “Oh! And tell Zed I said hi!”
Tango salutes, making Impulse laugh.
“Will do!”
—
Tango stares down at the steak Zed prepared for them, nudging and poking at it with his fork. It’s good, Tango knows it is, cooked exactly the way he likes it. The smell of it is intense, a bit smokey and buttery and a lot of things that normally should be a good time for his mouth.
But instead all it does is make him feel, uh. How does he say this without sounding like a total jerk…
He’s trying– and, currently, failing– to swallow his bile.
It’s just– the texture, the lack of taste. Not because of Zed! (He thinks.) But it’s… Food always tastes wrong now and he knows there’s not gonna be much blood in this, so he’s just kinda... Hungry, with nothing to properly sate him.
Also, garlic is awful on the nose. Blegh, how could he stand this?
Not to mention how Zed smells across from him…
(Flowery, almost citrus-y scent, so potent he can practically taste it. Nectar on his tongue, tacky and sweet…)
Tango shivers.
“I know I’m not the best cook,” Zedaph pipes up, eyebrows creased. He frowns, swallowing a mouthful of steak, “But am I really that bad?”
Tango jolts, “No, no!” He shakes his head, trying to will away the stench of garlic, “You’re good! You know I like your cooking– s’just, you know, I think my tastebuds are all janked up. Burnt my tongue while you were gone, ha.”
Tango fiddles with his fork.
“You’re a horrible liar, Tango.” Zedaph tells him, put out. “I mean, you do look–” He pauses. “Like that, but–”
Tango wants to sink into his seat. “Gee, thanks.”
“–But,” Zedaph repeats. “If you didn’t feel like eating, you could’ve just said so?” His mouth twists, in the way that’s almost a pout because Zed is like that and– “I could’ve made soup. I make good soup!”
Tango looks down, “Zed…”
Big mistake.
Tango isn’t entirely certain what Zedaph said after that, to be honest, because he just noticed Zedaph’s shirt collar drooped down a bit in all of his gesturing. Which.
Tango’s eyes lock onto the bit of exposed skin, a hint of Zed’s collarbone, the mole on his shoulder. His gaze drifts, dips down, down into where tan skin turns plush, wisps of hair on Zed’s chest…
“–are you even listening?”
Tango’s fork clatters against the plate.
He almost jumps out of his skin, “Huh, what–?”
“You really are out of it, aren’t you…” Zedaph narrows his eyes. He stands, going over to Tango, “Alright, c’mere.”
He pulls a thermometer out of his pocket– “Why do you just have that on hand?!” Tango squeaks.
He pushes himself away from the table, away from Zed. Zedaph scowls, “Don’t question me!” He points the thermometer at Tango, who shies away from it, standing up– “Goodness, it’s not a knife, Tango!”
Zedaph moves a step closer, Tango takes a step back.
Gods, he almost forgot just how stubborn–
“GAH!”
Zedaph pounces on him. Water sloshes around in their cups, the table jostling.
Tango wiggles away from him, “Since when were you afraid of thermometers?!” Zedaph asks, “Open your mouth!”
“Since–” Tango squawks, the thermometer thrust at his face, “Since now! Are you trying to blind me?!”
Zedaph tries again, “I’m trying to help!”
“By stabbing me in the face?!”
“Would you prefer the rectal one?!”
Tango covers his mouth, “Nmm-mm!”
He backs up even further, then–
“Ow!”
–His back hits a wall.
Fuck.
Zedaph crowds into him, a stupid, smug grin on his face. Stray blonde curls have fallen out of his hair tie, mussed up in their chase. Tango kind of forgets how to breathe.
“Gotcha.”
Zedaph prods at Tango’s hands, still covering his mouth. The metal end of the thermometer taps against a knuckle.
Zedaph looks down at Tango expectantly, “Well?”
Tango glares at him. Zedaph sighs.
“Hard way, then.” And before Tango can figure out what that means–
Zedaph uses his free hand to pry Tango’s hands off, “Come on, Tango, don’t be–”
He stops, eyes wide.
“You’re freezing,” Zedaph breathes. Shit, “Tango, what–?”
“I gotta go,” Tango squeaks.
He worms his way out under Zedaph’s arm. Flees with extra flee, his undead heart racing. He hears Zed call out to him as Tango thunders up the stairs–
Slam.
Tango locks his door with a click, then slumps against the wood with a groan. He buries his head in his hands.
Nailed it.
—
Impulse has scammed him, that prick.
Tango’s stomach rumbles, his face twisted into a scowl as he grabs yet another packet from the fridge, stabs it with a straw and sucks.
His hunger abates, but not by much. Stupid, stupid.
Tango has just enough self control not to slam the fridge door shut. If this thing breaks on him, then he’s really fucked.
(He fidgets with the note in his pocket, If you need a friend, here’s my number.)
This has been his nightly routine for nearly a week now: sneak into the garage when Zed’s asleep, feed off of his stash of blood in an old refrigerator, go back to his room. The stash that should have lasted him a month.
…At least, that was the plan.
What Impulse didn’t tell him was that the stupid packets would barely make a dent in his clawing, burning hunger. He wasn’t warned he could tear through three or four in one night, his hands shaking as he slurps up the blood, consuming it like a starved animal–
Tango leans against the fridge. His chest heaves, his vision clearing.
He licks his lips, that’s three.
(A voice hisses in his ear, lilting and sweet.)
(What’s one more?)
Tango curses.
He tries to wring the last few drops out of the packet, savoring the metal-tang of blood. His mind drifts upstairs, down the hall and sleeping peacefully under soft sheets. Tango thinks of a shirt collar tugged down, his lips licking at Zed’s pulse and–
Tango jolts. No, no.
He throws the empty packet into the trash, gritting his teeth as he takes another one. Last one, I mean it this time.
He slides his back down the door until he’s sitting, grimacing as he brings the straw to his lips–
The door opens.
Tango’s mid-sip as he makes eye contact with Zedaph, confusion written all over Zed’s face. Panic makes Tango jolt, and the blood he’d been sipping rockets straight into his throat–
“Hgk!”
He spits out a mouthful of it, violent coughs wracking him as Zedaph rushes over, “Tango! Oh my goodness, are you alri…”
Zedaph pales.
“Is that blood?!”
Tango’s still fighting a war against the coughing, and losing miserably. “I– no?”
Zedaph’s voice goes shrill, “That’s definitely blood!” He fumbles for his phone, “I’m– I’m calling an ambulance, hold on–”
Blood drips down Tango’s chin, “What?!”
“What d’you mean what?!” Zedaph shrieks.
“I’m not– oh, gods my throat hurts– I’m not dying!”
“Are you sure?!”
Tango’s going to kill him, “Yes I’m sure!”
“So why is there blood?!”
“I was drinking it!”
Zedaph stops. Tango, far too late, realizes what he just said.
“You were what?”
Well, fuck.
—
A few paper towels and a lot of awkward, processing silence later…
“So like,” Zedaph starts, wringing his hands. They’re on the couch now. “What was that?”
Tango laughs, strained and maybe a touch manic. “What was what?”
Zedaph sighs, “Is the blood drinking necessary or recreational?”
“What kind of question is that?!” Tango shrieks, “Who drinks blood for fun?”
“I don’t know, you tell me!” Zedaph retorts, hand flailing about. “And why was it packaged like juice?”
Blame Impulse, Tango thinks, burying his head in his hands. He groans, “This is the worst.”
How the hell is he meant to explain this?
Tango bites the inside of his cheek, and thinks… Maybe he should just…
“I’ve been worried about you, you know,” Zedaph says, his voice hushed, the way it only gets when he’s trying to be careful. “You’ve been acting so weird, Tango. Weirder than normal. And you think I don’t notice when you’re being discreet about your trash, but I do. Are you–”
Zedaph looks him in the eyes, and Tango knows he’s fucked. Zedaph hates eye contact.
“Are you okay?”
Tango’s throat goes dry. “I…”
The words push against his throat, begging for release. Is it worth it?
Tango opens his mouth to speak:
“I’m a vampire.”
A beat, the tension thick. Zedaph is quiet.
Then, “Tango, you know you can just say it's drugs, right?”
HUH. “It’s what?!”
Zedaph makes a face, “You don’t have to lie to me, we can– we can figure this out–”
Tango squawks, incredulous. “I thought we established that I was drinking blood!”
“The blood could be laced with something–”
Tango is going to scream, “Why do you keep insisting on drugs?”
“Wh– so I’m just supposed to believe the vampire thing–”
“Yes!” Tango snaps, rushing forward. Zedaph’s eyes go wide.
Regret slams into him like a wave. Tango feels his fangs recede, his expression melting into shame– Wait.
Tango covers his mouth. Zedaph sits frozen in shock.
“Your teeth…”
“Believe me, now?” Tango hisses. Zedaph blinks. “I told you. I told you.”
He’s going to leave, his mind screams at him. He’s going to leave, you scared him, you’re a monster–
“That’s incredible,” Zedaph breathes.
Tango’s brain screeches to a halt.
What?
“Have you always been one?” Zedaph asks, inching closer. “Can you turn into a bat?”
“What is going on,” Tango mutters.
“I’m figuring out your powers, hush,” Zedaph scrutinizes him, “Can I see that again?”
Tango bats his hand away, “Do not put your fingers in my mouth.”
“That was one time!”
“I’ll bite you this time, don’t test me!”
Zedaph laughs, finally giving him his space.
“Sorry!” He says, not looking sorry at all. “Just! It’s fascinating, Tango– I didn’t know vampires were real!”
“Don’t look so happy about it,” Tango says dryly. “I died for this, you know.”
The smile drops off Zedaph’s face.
“What?”
Talk about a mood killer.
Tango shrugs, “Well, yeah,” He looks down at the couch, picking at a stray thread. “How else do you think vampires are made?”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure I was dead for three days,” He adds, voice light. Like discussing the weather. “So that was– fun. I haven’t had to clean blood off my sheets in ages.”
“Oh,” Zedaph says. He takes a seat again, “Is that why you didn't reply to my messages last week? The real reason?”
“Yeah,” Tango laughs, a hollow sound. “Now I’m just kind of. Stuck like this, I guess. No sunlight, night vision, the whole shebang. I’m– basically some kind of blood-drinking monster now, so. Hah.”
His throat goes tight, his hands shaking as he picks at the poor thread.
He can’t look at Zed.
“Fun, right?”
Zedaph inches closer, “You’re not a monster, Tango.”
Tears sting at Tango’s eyes.
“I’m serious, you’re not,” Zedaph takes his hands again, smoothing his thumbs over cool, pale skin. “You’re a vampire, but before that, you’re my friend. And I don’t care that you have to drink blood– nobody talks about my buddy like that, not even you, okay?”
Zedaph squeezes his hands, “Okay?”
Tango sniffs, wiping at his eyes. A wobbly smile tugs at his lips.
“Yeah, yeah,” He rasps. “Okay.”
For a few moments, Zedaph just looks at him, purple eyes piercing, taking him in.
“I’m going to hug you now,” Zedaph says, moving closer. It isn’t a question.
Tango laughs, “What, I don’t even get a choice?”
“Nope!” Zedaph chirps.
Tango shifts, making room for Zedaph to pull him in.
“Alright, c’mere– mmpf!”
Zedaph hugs him tight, less like an embrace and more like he’s squeezing the life out of him, arms coiled like a snake. He relaxes after a moment, his breath tickling Tango’s neck– and Tango tries very, very hard to focus on just hugging him back.
“Your heartbeat is so slow,” Zedaph murmurs after a while, his arms settling around Tango’s waist. Tango kind of doubts that. “It’s like, you shouldn’t even be…”
Zedaph swallows. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face into Tango’s neck. Tango bites his lip hard enough to bleed.
To his horror, he feels something wet against his skin.
“Are you crying?” Tango tries to pull away, he needs to Zed’s face– “Zed, Zed–”
Zedaph only tightens his grip, “ ‘m not crying,” He says miserably. “Not crying at all, no siree.”
Tango feels his heart constrict. “Zed,” He says again. He feels like a broken record, wretched and useless. “Zed, look at me.”
Zedaph shakes his head. Tango lets out a breath.
“…Please?”
It takes a few moments, but eventually, finally, Zedaph caves.
He relaxes his grip, letting Tango pull away from him, just a little. Zedaph sniffs, wiping at his face. His eyes still shine with tears.
Tango’s heart hurts.
His own feelings be damned, he cups Zedaph’s face, cradling him gently between his palms. Tango wipes at a stray tear, “What’s wrong?”
Zedaph lets out a shaky breath, steadying himself.
“I could’ve lost you,” Zedaph whispers. His expression crumples, the weight of it making his hands shake, “Tango, I could’ve…”
Oh, god– “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Tango says, a waver in his voice. There’s a lump in his throat, his hunger forgotten. “I’m still here.”
“But I didn’t even know,” Zedaph sobs, and it hurts to look at, makes Tango want to do anything to make it stop– “I didn’t know you were dead for three days, I didn’t– I was worried but you could’ve not woken up and I wouldn’t have known until, until–”
Zedaph shudders, eyes screwing shut. Tango doesn’t know what to say.
Gods, why doesn’t he know what to say?
Tango rests their heads together, thumbs still smoothing at Zedaph’s cheeks. Tango lets him cry, lets him tire himself out– all the while hoping that this, this closeness, this being here… Is enough. At least for now.
Please, Tango thinks, a few tears of his own slipping from his eyes. Please let this be enough.
It hits him like a ton of bricks, crashing into him like a wave as the reality of his situation sinks in. It’s a whole whirlwind of things– is he essentially immortal, now? Is he in danger if anyone finds out? He’s gotta be, right? How is Tango meant to live the rest of his life like this?
And, if the immortal thing is true, then…
Zedaph lets out a long, shuddery breath. Tango lets his eyes flutter shut.
Future Tango problems, he tells himself, breathing in and out. He pauses.
And Zed, he amends. Tango and Zed problems. A small smile tugs on his lips.
Yeah… Yeah.
After a while, Zedaph pulls away, wiping his eyes– back to normal.
“So,” He starts, “You hungry?”
“Gee, am I?” Tango mutters, “You made me spit out my meal!”
Zedaph laughs, “Sorry, sorry!”
“Quit laughing, jerkface, I gotta buy more from Impulse now,” Tango grumbles. He sighs, “I need to make some kinda deal with him… A gallon does not last long.”
“Impulse knows?” Zedaph asks. Tango nods.
“Basically, yeah. I’m wondering if it’s better if the blood is fresh, though, like– Ugh, I don’t wanna kill anything, but maybe some… Chickens…? Hmm…”
Zedaph blinks at him, “What about people?”
Tango’s eyebrows jump up, “What about people? I’m not going to– I’m not doing that, Zed– What are you doing.”
Zedaph tugs his shirt off, placing it on the back of the couch. He grins.
“I’m letting you feed on me!” He chirps. Tango gawks.
“What?!”
It takes all of Tango’s restraint not to pounce on Zed right then and there.
—
Tango’s snapped out of his daze by Zedaph’s rapid-fire instructions, something about snacks and some sugary drinks, blood withdrawal protocol and blah blah blah…
Tango tried to listen, sort of– it’s just that his brain was still stuck on the I’m gonna feed on Zed part. Which. He definitely has normal, very platonic feelings about.
He leaves the kitchen, snacks and juice in hand– and nearly walks into a wall.
Zed is still very much shirtless, soft fat and tufts of blonde hair just hangin’ out. He’s humming to himself as he accepts the food from Tango and sets it aside– blissfully unaware of how Tango’s hunger roars.
Tango licks his lips. Fuck, he needs him.
He eyes Zedaph as he sets up their place on the couch, laying towels across it so they don’t make a mess. Tango’s not sure he even blinks.
(Man, and he calls Zed the creep.)
“Alright, ‘m all set up!” Zedaph says, chipper. He sits down, pats his lap, “Come on!”
Tango sputters, his face heating up, “On your lap?!”
“Well, yeah?” Zedaph tilts his head, “How else are you gonna bite my neck?”
Tango’s world skids to a screeching halt.
Somehow, somewhere, he thinks Impulse just burst out laughing.
What.
“Hold on a minute,” Tango’s voice is weak. “I thought I was going for your arm or something– you know it doesn’t have to be near the neck, right?”
“I know,” Zedaph shrugs. “Just thought I’d get the full vampire experience.”
Tango gapes at him, “The full vampi–” He cuts himself off. “Actually, nevermind. That checks out, it’s you.” Zedaph just beams.
“Indeed it is!” He pats his lap again, “Now come on, we don’t have all night!”
“Impatient much?” Tango grumbles, doing as he’s told. Er, actually– “How do I–?”
“Face me, then you can sit properly,” Zedaph instructs. “That’s it.”
Tango feels his face flush. Gods, this guy.
Zedaph quiets as Tango hovers over the bit of exposed flesh, steadying himself as he licks his lips, hands shaking with nerves.
"Okay," Tango whispers to himself. "Okay, on three."
"One," He breathes in.
"Two," He breathes out.
Tango feels his fangs sharpen in his mouth.
"Three."
And then Tango actually gets his mouth on him, just the barest hint of teeth– Zedaph’s breath hitches, the sound catching in his chest. Zed is warm under his lips, and tentatively Tango nips at the soft flesh–
"Tango," Zedaph breathes, strained. Tango fights a shiver, the sound of it washing over him like a reverb, goosebumps rising on his skin, "Just takin' your sweet time, aren’t you?"
Tango huffs, pulling away slightly. His breath cools the saliva in seconds. Zedaph swallows, and Tango’s eyes follow the bob of his throat, fingers itching to touch.
He turns to look at Zed’s face, takes in the way his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, teeth digging into his lower lip– Tango swallows back his want, the sight like syrup on his tongue.
He feels drunk with it, sick and delirious with his mouth watering, a man given everything he’s ever wanted.
Tango has never felt so hungry in his entire life.
He rests his forehead on Zedaph's shoulder, “God, Zed,” He whines, voice weak. "I don't think I can do this."
"You've got this," Zedaph whispers, the softest Tango’s ever heard him. "Just– just go for it, yeah? Rip off the bandaid. You'll get the hang of it eventually."
And somehow it's that that gets Tango's heart racing even more, practically thundering out of his chest. The idea that this isn't a one time thing, that Zed expects Tango to do this regularly, that Tango's mouth on Zed's neck isn't just a fantasy anymore but instead a future fucking routine–
"Relax," Zedaph soothes, his voice like soft wool, like a comforting blanket. Tango sighs, feels the tension leaving him–
Tango squeaks. Zedaph huffs a laugh, "That's the opposite of what I said."
Tango focuses on the warm press of their foreheads, Zedaph’s bare chest against his, only separated by Tango’s shirt. He feels the heat of him, solid and steady and there. Feels his heartbeat, listens to him breathe.
He feels his mouth water something fierce, hunger crashing back in with a vengeance, burning through his undead veins. Tango grits his teeth.
He focuses on his breathing, but that has the unintended side effect of making him smell Zed, too. Gods.
“…Tango?”
There’s something to be said about the fact that Zed’s already letting him do this, baring his neck to him. There’s something to cherish about that trust, but Tango feels his shame curdle and bubble in his gut, growing more intense when he thinks about Zedaph’s expression, wincing and twisted in pain–
“I can’t–” Hurt you, use you, ruin you– “I can’t.”
He shuts his eyes tight, trying to purge the image of Zed underneath him from his mind, blood on his skin. It doesn’t work.
“Yes, you can,” Zedaph’s thumb soothes at his skin. He tilts his head, baring his neck. “If it helps, just– keep your eyes closed. Listen to me.”
Zedaph’s voice, pitched low, “You’ve got this. Relax.”
Gods.
Tango buries his face into the crook of Zedaph’s neck, breathing him in and letting his mouth wander, just a little. Zedaph freezes.
Tango grins against his skin, “Relax, huh?”
“Shut up,” Zedaph hisses. Tango just laughs, soft and breathy.
It’s grounding, having Zed pressed up against him like this. Grounding and fucking maddening. Tango feels something in him uncoil, slow and steady as he mouths at Zedaph’s pulse–
“Tango,” Zedaph whispers, pink blossoming in his cheeks, eyes half-lidded. “I thought you were going for the shoulder.”
“You wanted the vampire experience,” Tango mutters, his thoughts clouded with want. Zedaph’s pulse kicks up a notch and he can feel it, satisfaction building a fire in his chest–
This is dangerous territory, Tango thinks, there’s no way he can explain this. No way this doesn’t give him away.
–And then Zedaph makes a small noise, half a whimper caught in his throat.
The fire burns into an inferno. Something clicks into place.
Somehow, Tango thinks Zed already knows.
The only thing that matters to him right now is the salty taste of Zedaph’s flesh, hot under his mouth. He leaves a trail up Zed’s neck and along his jaw, all tongue and needy teeth. He bites, sucks, leaves Zedaph gasping until their eyes meet–
“Gods, we’re stupid,” Zedaph breathes, and he yanks Tango up, away from his neck and back down into–
Tango makes a startled noise, muffled by soft lips.
Oh.
His world shrinks, folding in on itself until it’s just the two of them left. It all just feels so right– The heat of their mouths, the noises they swallow under the dim moonlight.
Tango kisses him back like he’s been starving for it, Zedaph’s hands tight on his hips– Tango feels his teeth catch on Zed’s lower lip, the copper-tang of blood so sweet on his tongue, his instincts singing with relief as Zedaph moans.
Tango’s hands come up Zedaph’s neck, one cupping his face while the other snakes into his hair and pulls–
Zedaph gasps as Tango pulls him back for air, blood and spit shining on their lips. Their chests heave, Zedaph soft where Tango is lean, and Tango thinks he’d give up just about anything to live in this moment, his body like a live wire on Zed’s lap.
Tango’s breath comes in pants. He needs, he needs–
Tango’s hold tightens, tilting Zedaph’s head. He hovers over the slope of Zedaph’s shoulder, his fangs growing longer, sharper. Zedaph’s hold on him stays steady.
“Do it,” Zedaph says, his voice barely a whisper.
The last of Tango’s restraint falls away.
He sinks in with his teeth, shutting his eyes tight at the way Zedaph gasps, hot blood trickling from the wounds. He laps it up like it’s nectar, crimson staining his teeth, tongue, lips.
It’s not much, logically, but it’s good, soothing that primal hunger that settled in his veins. There’s no finesse in the way Tango laps up the blood, dragging his tongue against the angry red of the punctures and taking his fill.
And that’s not even mentioning the noises Zed makes.
Tight little sounds escape from his throat, slipping past his lips. They’re small, needy things that hitch and stumble whenever Tango puts the flat of his tongue against bloody skin, turns keening when Tango puts his lips on him. Zedaph gasps, whimpers, writhes a little as Tango feeds–
And all Tango can think of is how intoxicating this all is.
It’s not long before the bleeding starts to slow, and Tango just lies there on top of Zedaph, sated like he’d just eaten a nice meal. Their chests heave, Zedaph’s eyes fluttering shut as he leans against the couch.
Interesting, Tango notes, his eyes half-lidded, blood drying on his lips and chin. He’s not full, but the difference is huge.
A voice prods at the edge of his consciousness, lulling him back awake.
“Tango, you done?”
“Mmrh,” Tango responds, licking his lips.
“Good, ‘cuz I’m dizzy.”
Tango nuzzles into his neck, “Mmmh…”
Zedaph shivers, pats him on the back, “Alright, come on, up,” At Tango’s protests, he groans. “Tangooo, get off me! I need to patch myself up!”
He pauses, “I also need some snacks– whew that’s. Wow. Woozy.”
Tango grumbles, and slowly, begrudgingly… He stands.
Yawning, he says, “I’ll help.”
Zedaph sniffs, chin raised because he’s like that–
“You better!”
—
Some time later they end up settled in bed– Zedaph’s in particular, because something in Tango screamed the moment they tried to separate– huddled close under the sheets. Zedaph’s snoring softly with his face buried in Tango’s hair, Tango holding him close.
He buries his face into Zedaph’s chest. The way he’s always wanted to, but never could.
Until now.
Tango knows that they still have a lot to talk about– what this means, what they are, plans for dealing with the whole situation. But as he breathes in Zedaph’s scent, cradled in between his arms…
Tango’s eyes flutter shut.
At least for now, all that can wait.
—
(A yellow note, unfolded. He’s answered at the first ring.)
(A voice crackles through the phone, “Hello?”)
(“Hey, Jimmy,” Tango says, “I know it’s been a few days, but…)
(Tango glances at Zed, who gives him a reassuring smile, bright like the sun. Tango lets out a breath.)
(“Is your offer still open?”)