Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived with his mother, brother and father, and he grew up hearing tales. His mother would tell him about monsters who were not evil, and men who hid their villainy. He would listen, and he would learn. He wanted to make her proud. He committed it all to memory, searched for ways to spot bad people from worthy ones.

Then his mother passed away, and he was left with tales that felt too raw to be remembered. For too long, he was forced to survive, and not live, among people who should have been there for him.

It turned out it would be the other way around.

When he became a big shot at hockey, then got drafted into the NHL, he pretended to be sad as he left the country where he had grown up, but he also knew this new chapter would be an adventure, the like of which his mother had wished for him.

Ilya Rozanov scored a hat trick during his first away game in New York, with the Boston Raiders, and he intended to celebrate the win as it should be.

The team went out, without the coaches, for drinks in a bar close to their hotel.

His glass never ran empty, despite his being underage. They toasted his formidable game which had allowed them to crush one of their serious rivals. Somewhat intoxicated, Ilya felt free. His father had tried to call him earlier, but he had refused to pick up, putting his phone in airplane mode to avoid any of his relatives spoiling his fun.

He partied. He danced with pretty girls who wanted nothing more than to slide into his bed, and maybe later in his contacts on his mobile, but something told him that the night was still young.

When the bar started getting everybody to clear their checks, he saw it as a minor setback. When some of his teammates took it as a clue to get back to the hotel, he didn't begrudge them. There was this buzz, in his head and in his blood, and he didn't want to come down.

They searched for the next bar open and found one where they were only able to have one round of drinks, before the business called it a night.

So much for the city that never slept, the hockey player thought, but he didn't lose faith.

Walking some way around, they ended up in front of an establishment called the Kingfisher.

There were only six of them by now, one from the "old guard", and four younger players along with Russian phenom. As their party had shrunk while the night went on, the newfound bar felt like a perfect place to end their celebrations.

As he looked at the smoked windows, he could see that there were patrons in, and the lights were steady. It didn't look like some place that was about to close any minute now. So they went to the front door, and were greeted by a tall man, whose face was so average, he could have been anyone.

They figured they would be ushered in, but the vigil didn't move.

"How do we get in?" asked one of the younger players. "Do we have to pay or something?" 

Ilya took the lead as their ambassador and approached the man. He was fishing for a bill in this jacket when a hand was raised in front of his face.

His eyes had trouble focusing, and maybe he had too much to drink, but it wouldn't be his first time.

"You cannot come in; the Kingfisher's clientele is looking for a friendly evening. Your team won admirably, and your celebration would not match the tone. Please find a different establishment to patron."

So formal, the guy acted like... what was the dog from Hell's name? Cerberus, Ilya remembered.

"We just want to have a couple of drinks."

"As do the rest of our regulars. This will not be a good fit tonight."

"And what makes it so wrong?" one of the young players asked.

"I suppose that foremost, you should know that the Kingfisher is a gay bar." The hound explained.

"We just want to drink, not fuck. We will not bother anyone," Ilya promised.

However, he perceived whispers from his colleagues, and he turned to face them.

"We have had enough, and a gay bar... Dude, that just ain't cool."

"A bar is a bar," Ilya replied. "You make it gay by searching for a man to fuck."

They did not argue back, but he could tell they were not enthusiastic at the prospect of getting in.

Wanting to prove them wrong, he turned back to the guard, who looked at him as if assessing who he was, beyond just his flesh and bones. 

"We'll be good." 

"The Kingfisher is intent on protecting its patrons' privacy. You are intoxicated from previous rounds, and it would be a liability to have non-members of the community in."

"You think we would out them?" one player said.

"That is a risk we can't take. Have a lovely evening."

Then the man went back against the entrance door, his shoulder squared as if ready to withstand a physical assault.

"I'll come back, and you'll let me in,” Ilya promised, as he started slurring his words.

"I'm no oracle, I can't agree or disagree."

"Just forget about it," the older team member said.

But he didn't want to. The buzz in his head was still strong, but it felt less like alcohol (though he was probably made of 10% spirits at this point) and more like something beckoning to him. 

Explaining this to his cohort felt useless, and complicated, but he felt that tinge, that urge, or perhaps need to get in. 

And while he had no intention of going to a gay club, as the NHL was as old-fashioned as his father, he knew there would be no harm coming from having a drink in a gay bar.

Longing for permission to enter, he turned his heels though and professed again that he would be able to enter, and that he would be coming back as he knew that day would come.

His legs had fallen asleep while he had argued his case, and he needed to stop in the alleyway cornering the establishment. His teammates didn't seem to see him fall behind, and he figured he would make his way back without them.

Putting his head down, he breathed in and out, trying to clear his head.

Cerberus was watching him from the side, and he couldn't help but ask:

"Now that it's just me, do I get to go in?"

"Not tonight," was the answer he received.

There was a small laugh from less lit part of the alley, and he noticed that a man, maybe slightly smaller than him, with a sportsman build, dark hair, and chocolate eyes, who was smoking outside.

Perhaps it was the melodic sound of his chuckle, or the soft expression in his soulful eyes, but Ilya tried to commit him to memory.

The man was obviously a patron who had gone out for the sake of smoking, and he was pulling on his cigarette, watching the hockey player like he was... touching? Relatable?

Words were hard, but feelings were simpler. He knew that this man saw him, not as a hockey player, but for who he was.

That was pretty harrowing, as Ilya wasn't sure who that was. Yet, he felt seen, and he didn't feel as vulnerable as he could have.

"Don't waste your evening here," the man said, his tone mesmerizing. "It's mostly people much older than you'd expect, enjoying a select evening."

"Maybe I'm looking for a boring evening."

"There are plenty of boring and safe places in New York."

Ilya wanted to answer, be witty, funny, or anything in between.

"I'll come back, and get in, just you wait!"

The raven-haired man nodded in his direction, before taking a backdoor back into the bar.

He would come back, he promised himself. He would get in.

As he made his way back to his hotel, something seemed to brush against his consciousness, and he was having a hard time figuring out what it was.

The man had spoken about "safe" places. Boring, and safe. Why safe?

He replayed the conversation in his head and did not understand those epithets.

As he got to the hotel, showered, then crashed into bed, not caring for the older teammate he had been paired with, he thought about the Kingfisher again, and the charismatic man, whose figure was blurry, but whose eyes shone into Ilya's mind.

It was then, a millisecond before giving in to sleep, that he realized that they had spoken Russian. 

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Shane spoke after taking his place in the uncomfortable seat. "It's been.... a very long time since my last confession."

"You're such a drama king," the priest said, as he knocked twice on the wood structure, then got out of the confessional.

Smirking, the raven-haired man extracted himself from the pew like space and took in his friend.

They shook hands briefly. 

Father Greenwood, or rather, Colin as he knew him, was a forty-something man, with a bald head, and darker skin. His eyes were brown, wrinkled because he loved to laugh and to talk. 

Shane spotted a stiffness in the way he moved and asked:

"Is your ankle troubling you again?"

"When is it not?" 

The preacher tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but his friend knew how much pain it caused him, and that the pain was becoming a permanent fixture rather than a sporadic annoyance.

"The Diocese has sent a bunch of used Bibles to replace our decrepit ones; do you mind helping me swap the damaged one with the new?" 

The brown-haired man nodded along, guessing that it would spare Colin the trouble of hobbling around the pews. 

"I can't believe you refused to take my confession," he joked.

"Feel free to come back whenever, I may agree to do it then."

The priest went to the altar, where he placed flyers in the new Bibles to be used in his church.

"What brings you here, beyond pretending to want to confess something?"

"It's my father's birthday." 

"Ah! How old would he have been?"

"He knew he was born on this day, but he was a bit fuzzy on the year, as was the norm back then. I'm guessing he would have turned a few years short of five hundred years old."

He had been part of the first expedition of Jesuits monks to come to Cipango, or Japan, with François Xavier in 1547. He had been about twenty-five years old, certain of his faith, until he had met Shane's mother, the daughter of a merchant man who had met Western people when traveling for his trade. Yuna had gone on a couple of trips with her father and tried to learn the tongues his contacts spoke. She had worked with the Jesuits, as an interpreter, and an ambassador for her father's trade.

"I will light a candle for him," Colin said. "I'll light one for your mother too."

"Thank you."

"How have you been doing?"

"Same old, I'd say."

Shane thought of his parents for a moment longer, as he placed new Bibles and brought back the damaged ones to the altar.

He looked at the stained glass in the Church's nave. It was night, of course, otherwise he would not have been able to visit, but the buildings around and some neon signs around the edifice shone in. The interior was dimly lit, as was expected of such a religious structure.

The stained glass would be so lovely as it was hit with direct sunlight, Shane thought.

But this was not meant to be.

Many years ago, Shane had been born to a Jesuit priest and a Japanese woman. Twenty-two years later, he was reborn as Unmoored, or "vampire" as people who were not part of the species commonly called them. 

"You seem lost in thoughts tonight," Colin remarked kindly.

"You were right in that I was just taking the piss when I pretended to confess, but I felt like we had not seen each other in a while, and I may need your guidance."

"It is yours if I can offer it."

The priest walked to the seat near the keyboard that was used during mass and turned his attention to his friend.

He seemed to sense that Shane's mind was a minefield, and asked:

"How is the Kingfisher doing?"

"Good, as always. The patrons are happy. We have newcomers from time to time, and it's been, darn, maybe a year or more since we've had an incident there?"

Those happened when non-local Unmoored or Passengers came in and did anything that might endanger the sanctity of the place, by hunting humans or being sloppy. 

A flash of sun-kissed hair passed through his mind, and he almost shook his head.

Feeling his friend's benevolent attention, he explained:

"There is a human, a hockey player, who came by the Kingfisher with some teammates to celebrate."

Colin nodded, knowing there was more to that.

"The guardian didn't let him in, and he was right to do so. We had some passengers that night, and they were already rowdy. What I mean is..."

"Intoxicated hockey players running high with adrenaline would have been risking their necks coming in, unbeknownst to them."

"Exactly. It was a bunch of them then. Their leader though, he keeps coming back." 

"How often are we talking about?"

"Let's see." He paused to think, then went on: "he came back a couple of months after their first try. That was three years ago. Then, he has stopped by at least twice a year."

"What does he want?"

"According to him, he just wants to be admitted," Shane answered, thinking about that time he had talked to him.

"Why won't you let him in?"

"What makes you think I'm the one keeping him out?"

"You created the guardian. I know it has the Kingfisher's best interests as its sole concern. However, the apple rarely falls far from the tree, do you know what I mean?"

The vampire wished he didn't, but it did make sense.

Becoming Unmoored, it had unlocked certain abilities in him, that were dormant on his mother's side, such as alchemical abilities to create enchantments, such as the Guardian.

"I have seen him, talk to what he thinks is a bouncer, each time he comes in. This is a good person. Yet I feel... wary."

"Is there any chance he might be looking for a community of his own, out of his hockey team, at the Kingfisher's? He knows it's also a gay bar?"

"I like that, depending on who you talk to, the Kingfisher is either a vampire's lair, a gay bar, or just a really old-fashioned pub."

Colin's words had struck a chord though, and he wondered if this might be one of the reasons the sun-haired man kept coming back. Shane had sensed it was not entitlement driving him, but something different. 

"We are all social creatures, looking for a place to belong," the priest went on. "You walked alone for a long time, until you found your people. Maybe he is trying to find his, whether they be gay, straight, living or unmoored."

"He brings out something in me, that I don't recognize. I don't have words for it. I can't pinpoint what it is. This blurriness, I'm not used to it."

"Do you think the Guardian may be keeping him out because he senses his creator's turmoil?"

"I would hope not."

Ilya Rozanov had come back several times, and each time, he had made an effort to talk to the enchantment. Shane had spied on them, from the streets, or behind a window. The man was polite, and sociable indeed. Every time, he inquired about how the Guardian was doing, about how the bar was doing. He seemed to genuinely care. He listened and took notes. He did not try to push his way in; he respected the refusal once it was expressed. He never left in a hurry, in a foul mood at being kept out. He accepted the sentence, then would talk some more with the Guardian, before going back from where he came from.

"Then maybe, it's time for him to be let in? As a trial? See how he does? Perhaps, seeing him in the Kingfisher's will provide you with the clues to get rid of the blurriness you describe."

"What if he gets hurt?"

"Then you'll heal him."

"But what if he tells what he sees?"

"You seem to have thought a lot about the man and his motivations, as well as everything that could go wrong. You've dealt with Passengers; you've seen times change. You've prepared for the worst, maybe it's time to hope for the best? We are all God's creatures after all."

"Your bishop would excommunicate you for saying stuff like that," Shane quipped.

"I'm prepared for the worst, but hoping for the best."

His friend smiled, then got up, going to a different pile of Bibles.

Shane went to help him, and they worked in companionable silence.

When he left, he had a lot on his mind, the fact that he could be influencing the guardian weighing heavily on his sense of self. The Kingfisher was a welcoming place, cosmopolitan, and fortuitous. 

Who was he to deny its benefit to some who might need it?

The next time Ilya Rozanov showed up to the bar, the Guardian greeted him, then opened the door.

When the bouncer opened the door for him, Ilya wondered if he was dreaming. His heart pounded loudly, and he felt his blood run faster in his veins, drumming at his temples. His brain was struggling to understand that this was it, that he would be let in, but his heart got the message loud and clear.

For the past three years, he had been coming back to the entrance of this pub. He had stood there, talked to the man, making small talk after he'd been informed that he would not be welcome that night. Still, he could not help himself, and he would end up back there each time he was in the city. What lay beyond the door beckoned to him, like a siren's song. He couldn't resist it—and frankly, he didn't want to.

Every time he had been rebuked, he had taken it in stride, though it became heavier the last few times. His teammates knew he kept coming back here and did not know whether he was allowed in or not. They still talked about it like it was his naughty secret. None of them seemed to believe he could be into men, yet they shared looks and made jokes, like he was doing that one silly thing over and over whenever they were in New York.

Being allowed in at that moment felt like Kismet, like confirmation from fate that he had been right to come back.

He nodded at the bouncer as he finally stepped inside.

After the first few visits, he had realized something strange: it was always the same man turning him away. And yet, he wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a lineup. He couldn't even have told you the color of the bouncer's eyes.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it was both not this and absolutely this.

Ilya had thought about that more than once before deciding he did not need it to make sense.

It was part of the experience in a way.

The atmosphere inside was that of a pub, with suave lighting and cozy seats. There were booths and single tables. There was a bar. There were people drinking, talking, and watching flickering TVs.

"What can I get you?" the barkeep asked when he got nearby.

"I'll start with a beer," Ilya said before sitting on a nearby stool.

He watched the liquor shelf and spotted a couple of premium vodka bottles from the Old Continent.

The man behind the bar had blond hair and clear blue eyes and seemed to be in his late twenties. He opened a bottle of beer, which he then put in front of the hockey player.

"First time, right?" he asked. "I'm Kyle, by the way."

"Ilya," he replied before bringing the bottle of beer to his lips.

The barkeep went to attend another patron, and the sun-haired man looked around.

It felt so... regular. Yet, it made him feel anything but. He had made his place in several spaces, as long as he had been alive, but he had never felt like he belonged anywhere just upon entering, except perhaps on ice.

Here, he knew he was where he was supposed to be.

He watched the other patrons, some flirting, some talking, some just drinking, and he felt at peace. He did not regret the time spent on the outside, as it had allowed him to get in.

That first night was only the beginning.

He came back every time he was in town and got to meet some of the regulars. Kyle was always behind the bar, and Ilya was under the impression that the man was linked on a deeper level to the pub. He usually had a beer or two and enjoyed the moment. His life was loud, whether it be playing hockey in front of a crowd or dealing with his family. Here, the volume never became aggressive.

It felt cozy and comfortable. People were welcoming when you tried to talk to them, but they didn't begrudge you if you felt like staying in your bubble for an evening. He liked that.

Looking back, he also felt like nineteen-year-old him would not have been in the right place in life to enjoy the Kingfisher so much. He had wanted to go in, like someone starving wanted food, and he had felt like he was missing something important. In a way, he had been, but his life had been too messy, and he had been, well, too young to slow down or to allow the Kingfisher to provide him comfort in a non-demonstrative way.

Belonging was a hell of a drug. Paired with the knowledge in your bones that you proved that you were worthy, it was bordering on being too potent.

Younger him would have been like a bull in a China shop and would have been too ashamed after making a mess to show his face again. Now, he could sometimes lack the proper etiquette or be slightly awkward, and he knew there were no hard feelings. If nothing else, the pub was about finding out who you were and allowing yourself to be someone else behind closed doors than who you had to be when you were performing in a personal or professional setting.

The world stopped when he was enjoying a beer or a vodka glass. He didn't have to reflect, he didn't have to be someone else, he could just be who he was in that instant. He could be happy or sad, introspective or all out of fucks to give. The Kingfisher took him in for who he was at that time.

He made a couple of friends, like Eric, Kyle's partner. They didn't exchange backstories; they just lived in the moment, whether they were watching a game or playing cards.

Sometimes, the raven-haired man he had met on that first night would be in the bar.

Ilya lived for when they shared the same space.

It was the strangest thing. He didn't know his name, but when he stepped into the Kingfisher, there was something in the air that let him know the man was there before he could see him. Nights when he was there seemed to feel different to patrons too. The stranger seemed to appease spirits when he was around. It was hard to describe. He had a protective aura, which seemed to spread to the regulars.

The hockey player liked watching him from afar. He would have liked to come closer, but the man did not seem open to the company. He was either always busy or working on things.

But he wanted to get to know him. He wanted to hear him say his name and ask for his. He wanted to get him his favorite drink, learn what made his world go round, and just be in his orbit.

Sometimes, the raven-haired man would go outside to have a smoke, but Ilya had never dared follow. Something in him would tell him that his time would come later, that he would get to know him better if he waited. It was almost like instinct or something more preternatural.

So, he watched him and longed for the rare occasions when their eyes would meet.

He would try to imagine what his skin would feel like underneath his hand.

He would have felt guilty, obviously lusting after him, but the stranger had noticed and was not discouraging him. It was a silent dance, unhurried and effortless, as if they had all the time in the world.

He could wait. He didn't mind.

When Shane entered the Kingfisher, he waved to Kyle, as he always did, then went to the back of the bar where he usually spent his evenings. He noticed that somebody was already waiting at what he considered to be his table.

It was the hockey player, with his sun-like hair and his sun-kissed complexion.

His blue eyes reminded Shane of how lovely the sky looked when he was lying on the grass with his mother next to him, and they used to try and assign names to clouds.

He hadn't been able to do it in ages.

Pushing those thoughts away from his mind, he advanced and tried to assess if the player being at "his" table was an error or something purposeful.

He was spared the consideration when the fair-haired man got up and gestured for him to join him.

His usual chair was free, as if he had been expected.

Shane nodded as he sat down and noticed that there was a Bourbon Fresh waiting for him next to a pint of beer.

He looked at the player, sizing him up, and took note of all the efforts he could see.

"It's just a drink," the fair-haired man said.

"It's my usual drink," Shane replied as he sat.

He caught a whiff of aftershave coming from the man, some sort of scentless deodorant, and that was it. No overpowering eau de parfum combining too many ingredients for the nose of most vampires. It was simple. The man smelled of ice, sun, perspiration, soap, and the aforementioned aftershave and deodorant.

It was a good scent.

"The bartender mentioned you favored this drink," the player said, pulling him out of his olfactory analysis.

Blood pressed slightly against his cheeks, a faint blush or just a trace of something else.

"Well, since it's my favored drink, at my usual table, I should probably thank you."

"Don't bother. I just would like to ask you a few questions."

Shane bristled like a cat spotting a water spray.

"You'll like my questions."

"What is your name?" Shane asked, as if he hadn't looked it up.

"Ilya Rozanov. My teammates call me Rozy. You can call me whatever you like."

"I'm Shane Hollander," the raven-haired man replied as the player sat back.

His true first name was Shinji — 真司, but upon coming to live in this part of the world, Shane had been simpler. "So, how do you like the Kingfisher?" he asked the player as he took a sip of his drink.

"I can't keep myself from coming back, I must like it."

"Some people would describe a toxic relationship like that too. Be careful."

"It feels good. It feels simple. And it's private."

Shane saw several of his friends or acquaintances in the room and nodded at each of them in recognition.

"You're Mister Popular, aren't you?"

"Is this one of the questions you plan to ask?"

The hockey player wore a leather jacket with a crew neck. There were a few scratches on the skin he showed, which Shane supposed was an occupational hazard. He had a golden necklace, and from the way it tugged down under his jumper, it had to support a pendant.

His skin was marvelous, which annoyed the older man. Rozanov sported several moles on both his cheeks, and they highlighted his strong features. His nose had been broken and reset several times in the past.

"Let me know when you're done admiring me," the player cheekily said.

"I paint. I can't help but study, look for textures and feel, and all the things that make the difference between a doodle and something worth using my expensive painting oils over."

It came as much of a surprise to Shane as to the player to hear those words come out of his mouth.

"I would pose for you anytime," Rozanov offered with a wink.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. And I really doubt this was one of your intended questions or remarks," Shane said, taking another sip of his drink.

"I'm adaptable, what can I say?" the man said as he drank from his beer.

"Did you win or lose tonight?"

"We won. Don't tell me you're an Admiral fan?"

"I don't follow sports. I watch them when they're on, and I root for the team I feel is making more of an effort and should be rewarded. Do you want to start asking your questions?"

"The first time I came with my team to this place, you were out smoking a cigarette, weren't you?"

His glance had turned intense, as if scrutinizing Shane's demeanor to see if he would be honest and what emotion this question would create in him.

It made sense for a hockey player to have some predator instincts.

"Yes, I was. I told you not to bother. You said you would be coming back again and again until you were let in."

The older man smiled at this memory. He wasn't sure what he liked more about this anecdote, but it made him feel good.

"You look happy I got in."

"Like for sport, I will root for the person who is trying their hardest."

"Have you thought about me since then?"

"Of course. You've been coming back for three years, twice a year at least, before you were let in?"

"And you only thought about me then?" Ilya asked as he subtly moved his chair closer.

If Shane didn't have heightened senses, perhaps this would have gone under his radar.

"It seems the right question would be to ask you how much you've thought about me over the years."

"Way too much, I don't mind admitting," the player responded, this time making a show of moving his chair closer.

His foot searched for Shane's under the table.

It created confusing reactions in the raven-haired man. There was a thrill, his blood rushing, as he was proven right that the last time the man had been in the club he had watched him with desire. There was also disappointment, which was baffling, at the thought that there was attraction there, only attraction. Finally, Shane felt desire. It had been a long time since he had taken somebody to bed with him.

It would be too soon to jump the gun, but if the sun-haired man went on giving interested signals, there was one way this evening would end.

Sadness also made an appearance: if the man got what he came for, he would probably move on.

It was surely for the best.

"Still with me?" Ilya asked, as his sneakers bumped against Shane's.

"Sure. I just short-circuited briefly. I think I need something to eat."

He caught Kyle's eye over at the bar, and the man nodded back before telling one of the waitresses to bring a plate of breadsticks over.

"Are you the boss here? Because people sure act like it," Ilya joked.

"That's the perk of being a patron," the older man replied, biting into one of the appetizers.

He turned the plate over to the player, who made sure to brush his hand as he got one.

As they polished the dish between the two of them in silence, the vampire thought back to the last time the player had been there. Shane had had company, as Brandon and Emilio were passing through New York. They had never been to the Kingfisher before the 1990s, but they liked it, and the friends would meet up occasionally.

"When you look away like that, I wonder what you're thinking about, then I get mad at myself that I didn't give you a reason so that I could be the thing on your mind," the Russian player commented, looking perhaps distressed.

"We've never met long enough to make such an impression on each other, I don't think so," Shane offered gently.

"Yet, you did. For me, at least."

The confession landed somewhere soft, and Shane's shoulders fell slightly, dropping his guard in response.

"I did, hm? In what way?” the vampire inquired, half calling his bluff, and the rest of him genuinely terrible at flirting.

"Your eyes. Your fingers holding the cigarette like you wouldn't care if it flew away. Your lips as you blew out the smoke," the Russian listed off, his eyes meeting each feature he mentioned.

Warmth spread in Shane's veins as the words ignited desire in his being. He swallowed with difficulty, then met the man's eyes.

"It's a shame I didn't make more of an impression then," Rozanov said. "But I'll gladly make up for it, if you let me."

Under the table, a knee pressed against the vampire's, and he could feel an intoxication-like effect on his body.

Lust was not something he felt in control of when he experienced it. Furthermore, it generally resulted in a pleasant experience, but nothing more. What was the use of losing one's head for such meager results?

"Talk to me," the player begged hoarsely.

Shane could taste the man's desire in his voice, as he would if they were kissing. He pressed his knees against the other and answered:

"What would you want me to say?"

"Anything that was true."

In for a penny, in for a pound, no pun intended, the vampire decided to be frank with the object of his desire.

"I think you remember me mostly because I speak Russian. The rest is a beautiful construction your drunken mind created to explain why I made an impression. So, I'm coming clean about this before you decide you want to keep pressing your knee into mine."

The blond man was hanging so tightly from his lips he needed a second to realize Shane had switched languages.

"Fuck," he breathed out, opening his mouth and wetting his lips, as if fighting the urge to do something more.

The raven-haired man brought his Bourbon for a sip, looking away as he gave the man time to reassess his overture.

It felt like a courtesy. When he had started moving around the world, anytime someone spoke either Japanese or French, he felt seen in a way he had a hard time explaining. Being able to use his mother tongues made him like his interlocutor more. Maybe part of the lust on the hockey player's part came from having been understood even when drunk as a skunk.

"You really do speak Russian?" Rozanov asked in English, as if he had issues squaring that away.

"Test me," Shane offered gruffly.

He felt a hand with calluses gently grab his chin and turn him to face the hockey player.

His pupils were eating the blue of his eyes, and his scent turned muskier. He then professed in Tolstoy's language:

"I want to kiss you until I know what you like and how to make you moan. I want to devour your neck, run my tongue on your clavicles, and discover what makes your head tilt back or lean in for more. I want to touch your plexus and run my hand on your chest, feel it heaving against my palms, then my lips."

Shane shivered both at his words and the intensity in his eyes. He could not look away, would not have looked away even if his life was in peril.

"Play your cards right, and maybe you'll get to cross some items off your list. Who knows, I might even return the favor," the raven-haired man promised.

No further words were exchanged as they took sips of their drinks. Their fingers brushed often on the table, and below it their thighs were pressed against one another. Every time the sun-haired man wiped some beer foam from his upper lip, Shane's eye traced his finger's path, taking notes.

The vampire lowered one hand under the table to rest on his knee before it wound up on Ilya's, phantom touches aplenty.

The hockey player brought his hand to the older man's face and started angling it to meet his lips, but Shane broke eye contact.

"Not here," he said.

"I thought this place protected its patrons' privacy?"

"It does. But I'm no hockey player, I don't perform well when there's an audience," Shane reluctantly admitted. "I'll go say goodbye to Kyle, and you can meet me where I was smoking when we first met."

Rozanov nodded, then Shane got up, making sure his coat hid anything untoward, then he went to meet the barkeep.

"You're going to make his night," the man said, with a sly smile as he watched the sportsman exit the bar.

"I'm hoping he'll make mine too," Shane replied candidly. "If anyone is looking for me..."

"You took the night off."

"Thank you, Kyle," he replied, before exiting the bar.

Fresh air hit his face, and he breathed it in, filling his lungs. It did nothing to dampen the fire in his blood, but it cleared part of the desire fog in his head. He wanted to do this, but he also wanted to remember it.

Tightening his coat around him, he walked past the bar front and went to the side, where he found Rozanov with a cigarette on his lips.

Wind had messed up his hair, like a mistress running her fingers through his mane, and his pupils were still wild.

Shane came to stand next to him, their sides touching. The hockey player offered him the smoke, which he took, their fingers touching, a prelude but also a promise for what was to come.

"I would say something like these things will kill you, but I'm not that big a hypocrite."

"People preaching often forget we all must die of something."

They shared a look, smiles tugging at their lips, in complete contradiction of the gloom they spoke about.

"How do you speak Russian so well?" Ilya asked after getting his cigarette back.

"I must have picked it up in a previous life."

There was only a little light coming from a streetlamp further down the intersection, but Shane could see perfectly with his heightened senses and spotted the man's breath intake.

This did him in, and the raven-haired man replaced the cigarette with his lips decisively.

They moaned in unison, and soon the tobacco stick was forgotten on the ground. Hands wrapped around waists while fingers searched for the crook of a neck, tendrils of hair to slip into.

Kissing him like his life depended on it, Shane slowly opened the lapels of the sun-haired man's jacket to get closer, to feel his warmth against his skin. Their chests touched, and Ilya's hand slid between the coat and Shane's waist, bringing them closer.

If there had been any way they could have become one body, they would have found it by now. Threading his hands in the hockey player's hair, Shane resisted the urge to bury his face in the crook of his neck, where his scent would be the most fragrant. Lord knew he was already turned on from tasting his mouth.

Surprise and satisfaction overcame him when Ilya switched them over and pressed the older man's back against the alley wall.

"You're wearing too many clothes," he grunted between unrelenting, earth-shattering kisses.

"It's winter, I can't run around naked."

He felt the sun-haired man part their lips as he cupped his cheek and gave him an affectionate smile in response to his quip.

"Do you want to take this somewhere else?" Shane offered.

"I'm sharing my room tonight with one of the rookies," Ilya said, looking peeved.

The vampire kept his hands running on the smooth texture of the crew neck, trying to find a solution.

His place was not an option, too intimate. A hotel room... There was something shady, almost ashamed, about going somewhere to find pleasure. The feeling just didn't sit right with him.

There was the Haven.

The building was a short walk away, and any vampire could come in and find accommodation for their stay. There was this unspoken rule about it being for a couple of nights at a time and not a permanent place.

Shane had taken it upon himself to make sure the old magic never went out. Each vampire staying there would donate some of their lifeblood to keep it working. When it had been a long time between libations, the raven-haired man was the one providing his help to keep it from vanishing.

"Your hands say that you want me, but your head is thinking loudly about something that isn't me," the hockey player playfully said.

Below his bravado, there was a hint of something more vulnerable, and it needed to be extinguished.

The vampire's hands grabbed the hem of Ilya's jeans, and he raked his nails shortly against the perfect abs and the hair trailing south.

"I'm trying to find a solution," he explained while putting one of his legs between the sun-haired man's legs, brushing against his crotch as he did so.

"Do you not have a place?"

"You're a stranger. Yes, I am devoting my brain power to finding a way we can get intimate, but I also don't want you to murder me in my sleep."

"And if I promised not to do that?"

"A serial killer would absolutely say that and then act as he pleased."

The hockey player pulled the hair at the back of his neck, making him raise his face to him and bare his neck to his mouth.

"You really think that?"

"I really think that I want to put my mouth on all of you, and more, preferably without an audience."

He raised his leg against the man's pants in a teasing way, and he saw Ilya's eyes roll back as his breath became shorter.

"I know a place, not too far from here, where we can do that."

"Will you murder me in my sleep when we're there?"

"Sleep will be the very last thing on my mind," Shane promised.

Between the pounding of his heart in his chest and the way his hands pressed more and more into the sun-haired man's figure, he felt like he was seconds away from ravishing him in plain sight.

"Lead the way," Ilya offered, pressing a kiss on his Adam's apple before releasing the back of his head.

Their limbs untangled, much to their chagrin, and they both shoved their hands in the pockets of their garments.

It was a short walk to the Haven, and they got there in a matter of minutes. Shane could see from the corner of his eyes that Ilya was trying to make sense of where they were.

The Haven was a cross between a hotel and a motel in that there was no main reception at the bottom of the building to direct you to your rooms, but there were also no parking spaces, as was very distinct of establishments along the motorways. The raven-haired man simply went to the elevator, got in, and did not push any button. When the doors closed, the cabin spurred into movement, and a ding sounded, letting them know they had reached their destination.

When he saw that they had been given the equivalent of a penthouse, Shane cheered internally, then turned to the hockey player and gently grabbed his arm as he made them enter the lodgings.

"What is this place?" the sun-haired man asked, looking around. "Are you sure it's not your place?"

"I would like to believe I could tell the difference between a hotel room and my living space."

"But what is this place then?" he asked again, looking around at the couch and then the path that led to the bedroom.

"We have two options. I can explain the way this place is run in painstaking detail, or we can get naked and see what happens once we get there. Your choice," he teased as he placed his coat on a peg near the door.

Bedroom eyes met his, and he smiled as he was pushed against the door, lips meeting his in a bruising yet welcome kiss.

He hummed under his breath, opening his mouth in complete and enthusiastic surrender. Ilya wasted no time, and the moment their mouths opened, the kiss turned hot and unrestrained. His tongue brushed Shane's in a quick, claiming stroke that elicited a gasp, and he caught that sound with his mouth, deepening the kiss. Their mouths moved together in a rhythm that felt dangerously close to losing control, each pull and slide sending a sharp jolt of want.

Shane's fingers were buried in the sunny locks of hair, pulling him closer, tasting the warmth of the day in his mouth as well as desire.

Ilya's fingers pushed under the waistband of his partner's pants, and he scratched his nails against his hip bones, bringing their crotches closer.

If he opened his eyes, Shane knew he would look at his soon-to-be lover in a haze, the desire too strong in his bones for him to keep his head on.

"Want to take this to the bedroom?" he purred.

The hockey player responded by arching his body into his before grabbing the back of his thighs and lifting him up in his arms. Their cocks touched through the fabric, and the raven-haired man wanted to feel all of him against his body.

Ilya gently sat him on the bed, then removed his jacket, then his crew neck, as Shane did the same, not caring where his clothes fell.

They turned to face each other, panting with lust, and the vampire put his hand on the other man's cheek, bringing it closer to his for a tender kiss before sliding his mouth along his chest.

He saw the orthodox cross that was hanging from the player's neck, trailed his hands along his pecs and his abs as his lips tasted him, a prelude to all he wanted to do.

He pushed himself off the bed and wound up on his knees in front of Ilya's pants. He looked up, searching for consent, and found it as the man helped open his pants and pushed them down till his cock was there, glistening with precum.

Shane took it in his mouth and felt the player's hand go into his hair, encouraging him but not pressing him either.

He didn't need to be offered twice, and he ran his tongue along the length teasingly. His hand went to find his testicles and caressed them, wanting to be everywhere, like an inevitability.

He pulled back until only the tip was on his tongue, then he bobbed his head down, humming as he worked his mouth around the length. His hands ran against what he couldn't swallow, and he delighted in the fingers clenched in his hair as well as the moans that were building in the player's chest.

He took his time, driving him mad, feeling his own desire grow, knowing he was making him feel good (so good).

"Stop, stop, stop," Ilya said, and Shane's mouth left his cock as he looked up at him. "I'm going to come if you don't stop," he breathed heavily.

A Cheshire cat smile on his lips, the raven-haired man purred:

"This was what I was hoping for."

The player shook his head as he grabbed his chin, then helped him to his feet as he devoured his mouth again like he couldn't help himself. He pushed the vampire on the bed and reciprocated by covering his lips all over his chest, abdomen, and cock.

Shane couldn't have opened his eyes even if he wanted to, all his agency focused on not pressing the man's mouth harder, feeling his orgasm just a few touches away.

Regretfully, Ilya let him go and came back to press open kisses on his mouth.

"I want to fuck you," he growled.

"I'm not objecting," the raven-haired man replied.

"Do you have condoms? Lube?"

Shane breathed in swiftly, not having considered the technical aspect of what he was ready to sell his soul for.

"Do we need to DoorDash some?" the hockey player went on.

The vampire pretended to throw him a dirty look, then kissed his lips and said:

"Don't question it, but..."

He opened the bedside table's drawer and procured what they needed in mint packaging.

Ilya's blue eyes widened, but Shane just shrugged as he put them on the bed next to them.

This was it, the moment when the sun-haired man could decide that it was all too eerie and weird and walk out.

Shane wasn't sure he could survive if he did, but he owed it to him to let him decide.

They didn't move, and silence hung between them for what felt like decades.

Ilya grabbed the items in one hand, then started kissing Shane again. The vampire took a deep breath and melted his body into his.

Pressing themselves into each other, practicality crept in, and they both got rid of any garments they were still wearing.

Shane forced himself to stay still though every instinct shouted to kiss and lick all of him, to make him his, and to make him feel such pleasure he wouldn't be able to leave when they were done.

Ilya was not idle either, sizing him up before trailing the tip of his fingers against his cheek, his neck, and more.

They fumbled onto the bed, a mess of limbs, trying to become one, driven by desire while looking like inexperienced teenagers. They laughed in each other's mouth as they arranged their bodies around one another in a more perfect fashion.

Ilya must have opened the lube, as Shane felt a finger trace his opening, and he grabbed the man's shoulder as he moaned, his legs parting to give him space.

"I'll make you feel good," Ilya promised.

"Same," Shane replied.

Mouths met, sharing scorching kisses, before necks were offered, clavicle, anything that they could reach without parting the bottom halves of their bodies.

Ilya patiently prepared him, curling one finger into him, finding his prostate. Shane went nonverbal, incapable of forming words, let alone sentences as all he could see were stars behind his closed eyes.

"Good?"

"Yes," was all he could offer.

Gently, a second finger teased, then joined the first one, and Shane's whole body felt like he was on fire.

When a third probed and entered him, he pleaded:

"Fuck me, please."

There was no cocky comeback, only a searing kiss before Ilya helped him turn on his stomach. They found their mark, Shane on all four, terribly vulnerable yet absolutely certain he was safe. He could feel Ilya's hand on the small of his back as the other one guided his cock to his opening.

The man was so careful it was torture. He pushed all the way in, and Shane felt his body tremble in anticipation and pleasure.

Ilya pressed kisses against his spine and anywhere he could reach him as he started with a slow rhythm, pulling out then pressing back into him.

"I won't break, please fuck me into the mattress," Shane offered as encouragement.

He felt him stop for a second behind him as if in shock, then he began thrusting in earnest at a grueling pace, and Shane could only repeat the word "fuck" over and over again.

Ilya was pushing so hard he made his whole body shake, and the raven-haired man wanted more.

They rotated until they were on the side, Ilya pushing into Shane harder and harder, as Shane's hand looked for his face behind him, his skin, anything he could touch.

"I'm gonna come," was said, either by one or both of them.

Shane's hand went for his cock, but Ilya brushed it away, replacing it with his.

At the same time, as his lips trailed Shane's collarbone, he bit down playfully in the crook of his neck.

This pushed the vampire over the edge, and he came, trembling, screaming the player's name.

His body clenching was what his lover needed, and he felt his body tighten as he came, then his arms wrapped around Shane's waist, bringing him closer as he didn't want the moment to end. He buried his head in his neck and pressed their bodies together.

Shane turned around in his embrace and responded in kind. He could barely breathe, but his hands kept pushing locks out of Ilya's eyes, pressing gentle kisses on his lips as he came down.

Shane's skin felt like all his usual nerve endings had sprouted ten new ones, and while his orgasm had taken place, there were millions of little aftermaths or afterquakes still occurring whenever he touched his lover.

They remained intertwined, legs locked, foreheads touching, coming down from what had been an earth-shattering revelation when a cell phone started ringing.

"Nooooooo," Ilya moaned as he hid his face in Shane's neck.

"What is it?" the vampire asked, dread piercing through his bliss.

"Curfew. I need to get back to my hotel, or the coach will have my head."

"Fuck," he whispered.

The phone never stopped ringing, and Ilya untangled himself to go look in his pants pocket for the device. He turned it off and looked at Shane. The vampire tried to smile shyly as the endorphins in his body were replaced with panic.

This was it, the moment when they parted.

"I'll go shower, want to join?" Ilya offered.

Nodding, Shane grabbed his hand, and they went to the bathroom.

He felt like he was just trying to hold onto a couple more minutes, a few more touches, a couple more kisses, until the inevitable end.

They hugged under the shower spray, helped each other clean up, but they couldn't start anything else, as the curfew hung above their head like Damocles' sword.

Ilya put his clothes back on and got ready to leave, though he seemed reluctant.

Shane had hoped to do so much more. He hadn't realized it when they were in the act, but he had treated this moment as a first time, and not an only-once time.

The vampire went to the bathroom again, pretending to style his hair as he tried to keep himself together.

The player came behind him and kissed his neck, then his mouth, as he said:

"Goodbye, Shane."

He couldn't reciprocate, the terror in his voice would betray him, so he only put his forehead against the man's cheek for a couple of seconds, breathed him in, then smiled lightly.

The hockey player left the bathroom, then the suite.

Shane went to sit on the bed and tried to get his feelings under control.

He busied himself with stripping the bed of the sheets so that the Haven could take care of this.

As he did so, he found a small piece of paper stating Ilya's name and his phone number.

He crushed it between his fingers, then put it in the trash. There was no point in pretending there would be anything after that.

They had fucked. Ilya had left. The world would keep turning.

Shane only hoped he would feel less dizzy anytime soon.

As he stood in front of the Kingfisher, three months since he had been there last, Ilya's heart was beating madly.

Ninety-something days since he had tasted Shane’s lips, then his body, and all of him.

Ninety-something days since he had gotten confirmation that he remembered their first meeting right.

Ninety-something days since he had felt like Ilya, and not Rozanov.

Ninety-something days without a word from the raven-haired man.

Had he found the phone number he had left behind?

He had wanted to go back in the bathroom, to give it in person to the man, but had not trusted himself to steal a kiss, which would have turned into something more. So, he had written down his digits and hoped for the best.

He had not expected a flurry of text messages or phone calls, but one would have been welcome, if only to let him know he was coming back that night to the Kingfisher.

Ilya looked over to the Guardian, who had let him get to the door, and nodded at him before pushing the door open.

The ambient noise he had come to expect from the pub greeted him, as patrons talked and watched TV. He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle, like it always did when Shane was in the room.

The hockey player went in further, looking for the man, and saw him sitting at a booth, with a ledger in front of him.

Taking advantage of the fact that he had not yet been seen, he got a beer from the bar and walked around the room, trying to decide how to approach the man.

He could simply plop down next to him on the seat, but what if he was not welcome? He longed to taste his lips again, to hear his voice and his laugh, and wouldn’t do anything that might make him persona non grata with the man.

Should he try to get his attention from across the room? It felt like doing a song and a dance when there had to be a simpler solution.

In the end, he walked to the booth, with his beer in hand, and asked in Russian:

“Is this seat taken?”

Shane’s head whipped around to meet his eyes, genuine surprise there, as if he had believed their paths would never cross again. It should have been demoralizing, but what assuaged his nerves was the fact that the man was pleasantly surprised, though he tried to hide it right away.

Ilya took this as approval and sat in the booth opposite him.

“I didn’t think you would be coming back again,” the raven-haired man said, pretending to absorb himself in his ledger.

“I like the place, and the company was indecently delicious when I was there last.”

He could have sworn the skin beneath the freckles pinkened.

Did you think about me? He wanted to ask. He wasn’t sure he could stomach a negative answer. He searched for something less prone to causing him pain, but his mouth did not get the memo.

“I thought about you. I thought about you naked under me. I thought about you dressed against me.”

Way to be casual, he admonished himself.

Shane ran his tongue over his bottom lip before he looked up and replied:

“It was a good fuck.”

“It was a great fuck,” Ilya countered, acutely aware he had backed himself into a carnal corner. “But it was more.”

“Was it?”

“Well, for me it was. I liked flirting with you. I still have so many questions to ask you, and I can now that we both speak the same language. I don’t have the English barrier.”

Shane hummed, then took a sip of his Bourbon Fresh, lost in thought.

Under the table, Ilya brought his foot next to the man’s, then managed to get rid of his sneaker before running his toes against the other man’s ankles.

He caught the shiver that ran down Shane’s spine and ran his foot slightly higher.

“What we did last time, it was great. It was fun. It was one time,” the raven-haired man said, looking detached. “But it’s all it was, one time.”

“Okay. Okay,” the hockey player responded, as he tried to think quickly. “If that is what you truly mean, I will not pursue you further, in hopes for a repeat performance. However, I still wish to talk to you if you’re amenable.”

“Are you, really? Once the thrill is gone, you still want to… talk? About what?”

“What are you doing?” Ilya replied, getting his foot back in his shoe, trying to respect the distance the man seemed to request.

“Accounting boring things. Instead of going digital, this place still uses a physical ledger, and the math is done by hand. Troy believes there’s a discrepancy, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”

“How will you do that?”

Shane looked at him again, saw the way he was scrutinizing his face and his expression. He put his hand on the page he had been reading, then said, almost accusatorily:

“You cannot be honestly interested in the answer.”

“I like listening to you talk. I may not have any accounting experience, but it’s never too late to learn a new skill.”

Shane could have discussed the many shades of white paint, ranking them according to a long and arcane system, Ilya would have listened. He would have cared. He would have learned. He maybe even would have had an opinion.

“We’re not sleeping together again,” the raven-haired man said.

The hockey player had a hunch this was said for both their benefit.

“Okay,” he replied.

“We’re not.”

“Okay,” Ilya confirmed.

When his phone rang much later, so that he could be back before curfew, he turned it off quickly, then kept on worshipping Shane’s cock with his mouth.

He felt strong hands in his hair, as Shane bucked, then spilled himself into his mouth.

Ilya happily swallowed, then kissed his way up his lover’s body.

They both looked wrecked, their bodies covered in sweat. The sheets told the story of their evening, of their couplings. The walls had heard their moans and pleas for more, harder, again, and so many other words.

Ilya wanted a smoke, but he did not want to have it inside.

They went to shower efficiently, though they could have spent more time together and not have gotten bored. This time, Shane got dressed and followed him outside.

They shared a cigarette, then a kiss so sweet it made Ilya’s knees weak.

“Give me your number, I’ll let you know when I’m back in town,” Ilya all but begged when their lips parted.

“This isn’t happening again, there’s no need to exchange contact information,” Shane said, with a sad smile.

Ilya disagreed, but he figured time would show the man that he was very serious about wanting to know him more and explore their sexual chemistry.

He searched his pockets for a piece of paper and found a shop receipt. Against all odds, he also had a pen and wrote down his number. He placed it inside Shane’s pocket before kissing him again.

His phone vibrated, letting him know his Uber was approaching, and they parted ways.

“I’ll think of you,” he promised.

He wouldn’t be able to get the man out of his head no matter what. He wanted more, more of him, more of everything.

He walked to meet his driver and turned around to watch Shane walk back to the bar. He didn’t turn back to watch him leave.

Ilya’s heart felt smaller than it should have been, but he figured that good things took time. He had all the time in the world.

“Someone’s looking good,” Suzanne exclaimed after pinching Shane’s cheek.

(She would never let him forget that she was his senior by three years, which in vampiric terms made them like twins).

“You’ve done something different, haven’t you?” she asked as he rubbed the pain away.

“He’s in a situationship,” Kyle offered from the bar.

“No, I’m not,” Shane said while Suzanne exclaimed, “Cheeky, tell me more.”

“I’m not!” the raven-haired man said again, hating the way he could feel himself blush.

“As per Merriam-Webster, a situationship is a romantic or sexual relationship whose members have not formally defined it or officially committed to it,” the barkeep went on. “You screw the hockey player whenever he comes around, which is when he has a game in town. You have not defined it. Therefore, you’re in a situationship.”

“I wish you were using your eternity to do something else besides learn the definitions of words from the bloody dictionary,” Suzanne said, “but indeed, you are describing exactly that! In my days, we called it being friends with benefits.”

“In these days, people still call it that,” Shane grumbled.

“Tell me more!”

“There’s nothing to say. He comes around, we fuck, he leaves. There’s nothing more to it, and soon, it will not even be a thing anymore.”

“Says who?” Kyle asked.

“Says probabilities! This is not a sustainable thing. One day, he’s going to stop coming around, and I sure as fuck am not going to run to Boston. My witchy DNA would not bear it, so this is a game of waiting.”

His friends looked at him in such a disappointed and sad way, he wished he had said anything else.

He wasn’t sure there was a proper way to get out of this messy conversation, but it felt like he had contributed in the worst way imaginable.

“I have not seen it, so I must rely on someone who actually knows what’s happening,” Suzanne professed.

She turned to Kyle and said:

“As a third party and reliable observer, what can you tell me?”

“How can he be more reliable than the guy doing the fucking?” the freckled vampire contested.

“Well, since I’m not doing the fucking, I have no skin in that game. From my unbiased standpoint, they started hooking up. The hockey player comes back every time he has a game. They talk for like five minutes max indoors here, then they go and cozy up at the Haven. He’s so gorgeous, I’m not slut-shaming you, Shane.”

“Well, thank God for that,” the vampire said, rolling his eyes.

“They have this dynamic. It happens every time, like clockwork. Our dearie always comes back saying this was the last time, and he is putting an end to this bad idea. And then the Russian player pops around, and his focus is on getting down and dirty.”

It sounded sordid when it was described this way, but trying to make it look good would be like putting a hat on a hat; it would not change what was happening.

Shane sort of wished he was less weak when it came to Ilya, but since their first intimate encounter, things had happened the way Kyle had painted it out to be. Each time, when they parted, Shane said goodbye to what they had, and each time Ilya came back, they would hook up. It was the definition of a bad idea.

All he could do was hope that the hockey player stopped coming around, he supposed.

He didn’t want to think about him committing to someone else, but this was what was going to happen one day.

All he could do was protect himself, take what was offered, and be ready for the last time they clicked. It didn’t matter that they currently were like magnets in the same room. Real life would tear them apart, and the vampire had to be ready.

Suzanne seemed to sense his unease and started talking about one of their long-time acquaintances who was doing… He couldn’t say what, he wasn’t really listening. He drank his Bourbon Fresh, then plastered a fake smile on his face as he pretended to care about someone cloning a poodle or something equally stupid.

Though, when Ilya showed up at the Kingfisher less than a week later, Shane went straight to him and lured him into a dark corner of the bar. They left a couple of minutes later, heading for the Haven, where they shared frantic caresses and touches, as if Ilya could sense Shane was trying to prove something. Neither of them could have said what that was, but it was a terrific evening.

Shane would never admit to caring about something as trivial as hockey games, but the Boston Raiders were in town, having just gotten a draw against the New York Admirals.

He had arrived at the Kingfisher as the match was wrapping up, had barely noticed it. It was Kyle who brought it to his attention, making an off-hand comment about Shane not needing to settle in too well as he would be leaving.

Those words, and the future they planned, had sent a thrill through the vampire. The year was split between October to April, when he would meet Rozanov, and the rest of the year when he wouldn’t see the man for months at a time.

Once, the Raiders went to the playoffs against the Admirals, and that month of June was Bacchanalia, every other week bringing the hockey player back in town when he should not have been there.

While Shane considered himself a creature of habit in most meanings, he was not so deep in denial that he couldn’t admit that he had liked those couple of surprising months.

As he sat at a booth with his usual drink, he realized that he had never asked the player if his team had won the cup that year.

This was such poor etiquette on his part, he was appalled. It was much too late to ask about the results too.

Maybe he should try to be more sociable when they interacted. He was not deluding himself; their thing would end at some point, but that didn’t mean he had to be a dick about it.

The Raiders’ coaches were talking, mentioning everything that had gone right, but also everything that could be improved upon. They mentioned getting back to Boston early so that they could squeeze as much practice as possible before their next game.

Ilya couldn’t keep still.

He was both exhausted from the game and exhilarated at the prospect of the night that would await him.

New York meant the Kingfisher, and it also meant Shane.

If they were leaving really early to get back to Boston, he hoped to steal as much time as he could with the raven-haired man.

Finally, they were released, and they went to the lockers to get their things, shower, whatever.

He jumped under the water spray, washed up thoroughly and quickly, then went to get dressed.

“The Captain is always so happy when we’re in New York,” Ryan Carmichael called out, as Ilya was gathering his belongings.

“Is he?” Kane asked.

The younger player had joined the Raiders earlier that year.

“You don’t know the lore!” Hammersmith exclaimed.

The Russian player liked his teammates, but right now, he didn’t feel like sitting around while they put him on the spot. This could be done on any number of days when he wasn’t trying to get somewhere.

“Back when he was a rookie, and we had a good match,” Connors explained, “we went barhopping. We almost ended up at a gay bar, the Blue Heron, or some shit?”

“Kingfisher,” Hammersmith corrected.

“Right. They wouldn’t let us in, and the captain made a drunken vow to get admitted one day. When we’re in NY, he always goes back.”

“A gay bar?” Kane asked, like the thought alone was shameful.

“It’s a select club, and yeah, some of its clienteles are in that community, but it’s a really cool place where none of you fuckers will ever set foot in,” Ilya corrected, trying to be humorous when his blood was boiling at the implication.

“So, they’re letting you in? I just figured you went back and tried, then got to a closer bar or something… You’re always gone the whole night,” Marleau mentioned.

They usually shared a hotel room, so he knew about the Russian player’s nights out.

“Some of you will not change socks for a full season, but my going back to a bar when we’re in NY is suddenly too strange? How about you worry about hygiene, and I worry about where I get my beer?”

He turned to stash his belongings into his bags when his phone started vibrating.

There was this foolish hope, as always, that it could be Shane. Maybe he knew he was in town, and he wanted to make sure they were on for that night.

But he sort of knew better. He felt the thrill, the excitement, and tamped it down immediately so that he could still have a good night.

The man just would not take his phone number. They would explore each other’s body, be vulnerable and intimate in the most carnal and animalistic way. Yet, taking his number was apparently the one thing that just went too far.

He still hoped, holding on to the fact that he would come back to the Kingfisher, and they would spend the evening together. Maybe the other man was slower when it came to coming to terms with what was happening.

“I’m just yanking your chain,” Hammersmith said, good-naturedly.

He pretended to laugh it off, as he looked at the caller ID.

Then he saw his missed calls.

And answered.

When dusk finally set, Shane left his apartment and made his way to the Haven. It was calling to him, or more accurately, to his bloodline. It needed to be refueled, as it had received too many visits but not enough offerings.

There was just something weird, unpleasant, putting him in a bad mood and headspace. He had not felt like himself in days.

He didn’t long for the night, nor did he pine for the day. Everywhere he was felt unsatisfying, but nothing appealed to him to get him out of this state.

He felt like a literal stick in the mud, embedded in a reality he did not recognize.

However, nothing had changed. Maybe this was what was bringing him down, he pondered. Since his Unmooring, such a long time ago, things had not really changed. He had adapted routines and patterns, but he had never gone out of his way to do something different, or to be someone he had not met.

There was no way he could bring this up to his friends, they would all worry about him. They’d be sincere, too, but there was also the alchemical aspect of his being. Kyle had mentioned that the Guardian had snapped at a prospective patron. Emilio had gone to the Haven, where he had apparently been granted safety from the sun, but none of the usual amenities.

It felt so strange too. He was realizing that in all his years—and there had been quite a few—he had never found himself in such a funk before. He had not powered so many enchantments through his abilities either, and he wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew.

Or perhaps it was something plainer, and darker, and more… human.

Ilya had not shown up to the Kingfisher after his game.

He wouldn’t have cared if Kyle had not mentioned the Boston team was in town. Yet, he had known, and there was this… He couldn’t find the words, he thought, as he hugged his coat closer to him, as if he was cold.

He arrived at the Haven, which had an unusual aura, fluttering when it was usually steady.

The raven-haired man walked into the building and looked around.

It had changed, but he could not tell if it was due to his poor composition, or if there was something wrong with his alchemy.

He went to the elevator, where the light flickered, and got off in the penthouse.

The vampire would always think of it as such, but it barely suited the description. It could have been an apartment in a building from the previous century, functioning, but looking decrepit.

The bed where he had been spending many nights over the last couple of years looked like a cheap motel one.

“You’ve let yourself go,” he whispered to the built structure, stating what felt obvious rather than denouncing it. “What has happened to you?”

The walls and floors whispered, in their typical way that could not be described to someone who didn’t talk with foundations as he did.

“You’ve let people take too much out of you, and have not asked for enough in return,” he went on.

A lamp blinked, as if in disagreement.

“Then tell me what is wrong,” he offered, laying one hand on a wall.

He closed his eyes, and his consciousness reached out to the magic that layered everything that existed in this space.

The Haven was restless, but not because it was being used too much. It was the strangest thing. It longed for something…

Longed for what?

The vampire made this query through his touch and heard back from the molecules that composed the architecture.

It hoped to become more. To evolve. It still wanted to welcome any creatures who might need it, but it looked for… permanence? Part of it longed to grow old with the same people inhabiting it, having a life between its walls.

Shane made sure not to take back his hand in what could have been perceived as judgment. He let his fingers linger on the walls, hummed with the structure, let it speak, and listened.

However, he was baffled. Witches had created the place before he was around; it was not his creature, but he had taken over the upkeep when the creators didn’t return. Never in his life had he heard about magical structures longing for anything, and even less, hoping for a different future.

Still, it was his duty to try and make it happen, wasn’t it?

He went to the bedroom, where the hearth was. He grabbed the alchemical knife he had received two centuries earlier and cut his hand above the fireplace.

The Haven drank his blood so quickly the firestone never got wet. Shane gave as much as he could spare, making sure the wound didn’t heal until he was done.

Around him, the building got back to its previous glory. Yet, in his bones, he also knew that a whole floor had disappeared, as it had been suffering from despair or neglect. It would reappear at some point, and he really hoped it did.

He would need to send messages to his Unmoored family, letting them know that they could lose the shelter if they did not offer libations every time they came over.

His head spun for a second, so he sat on the bed.

A treacherous part of him thought it smelled like it usually did when he had shared a moment with Ilya.

It could not be, and he told himself so.

He truly was a drama king, as Colin liked to call him.

He had been preparing for the moment when his tryst with the hockey player would end, had refused to tie themselves together more than was needed. Rebuking the man’s attempt at leaving his phone number had seemed so important at the time, but when it came down to it, it had been a small act of rebellion, and it was turning out to be a self-inflicted wound.

If he had taken it, he could have asked the man, “Was the last time our final time?”, or something wittier, funnier, like “It’s okay to grow tired of little old me, but I would have loved a notice.” It would have been delaying what was unavoidable.

Funny how his careful preparations had not been up to par. He took pride and reassurance in the fact that he had not caught feelings for the man. He just missed the courtesy of being informed they had come to their natural end.

He felt a vibration, like the building was… having a laugh?

He needed to feed. He had a couple of blood bags in his fridge at home. He would feel better after he drank them, and maybe ate something hearty, like mac and cheese or something quick to cook.

And perhaps then, he would be able to sleep, and dream, and maybe get back to who he used to be.

The building laughed again. Now that was getting nasty.

He left the place without wasting another second.

He felt weary in his bones, tired in a way he rarely had before.

The Russian player left his teammates as he made his way to the Kingfisher.

Ilya couldn’t help thinking about the last time he should have been there, when he had been so close and it had been taken away from him at the very last minute, turning into a cycle of pain and just pain.

His father had died. His wife had tried to call the hockey player’s brother, to start arranging things, but Alexei was on a bender, somewhere, somehow, always at the worst time.

Polina had been relieved to talk to Ilya, while he had felt himself shrinking and shrinking again as he heard the news.

He knew his father would only have bad days, that good ones were a thing of the past, but he had not been ready for the man to have so few bad days left. The hockey player had flown back to Russia that very night and done all he could to honor his late father.

Accompanied by his childhood friend, turned occasional lover Svetlana, he had given this task his best, all of his attention, in respect for the man who had raised him, and had come up short in the eye of everyone he didn’t give a shit about.

His brother tried to get money out of him, and Ilya took no pleasure in cutting him off and telling him to never contact him again. He set Polina off in a very comfortable fashion (she had stood up by the late asshole as he became worse, so he owed her that much). There were a few other bridges to burn, links to cut.

It should have felt like being reborn, an exorcism of so many things he didn’t want in his life.

Still, his father when he was lucid was the only one who dared speak about his mother. Alexei had managed to convince himself he had been born from the old man alone, that there had been no one involved in his coming to birth.

Burying his father meant burying his mother again.

Saying goodbye to Russia meant relying on people on her side of the family to still honor her memory.

It felt like running away not from the people he hated, but from those he missed the most.

When he had been back in the place where he had grown up, where his father’s body had been exposed to mourners, Ilya had found himself back in his childhood bedroom, and he had seen, and felt things he had numbed down for years.

Since then, coming back, saying fuck you to the leeches in his life, but also to the rare, good memories, he had felt tired. Exhausted.

He had played games, and he had scored goals. He had given speeches, rallied spirits, done it all.

Coming back to the Kingfisher that night felt like the one thing he was doing that was just for him.

He moved to the main door and waved at the guardian. The tall man appeared relieved to see him, as if he had worried? He was probably imagining things.

Pushing the door felt more like coming home than flying back to Russia had.

There it was again, the conversation, the buzzing of people coming together, glass clinking.

Fuck, that felt good.

As he got closer to the bar, and realized he could not see Shane, his enthusiasm fell down. If only Shane had taken his number, had sent him a text, they could have planned to meet.

If he had been smarter, he could have called the Kingfisher earlier in the week to let Kyle know when he would be around and hopefully have him convey the message to Shane.

There was this saying, all roads lead to Rome. Shane was his Rome, and he hoped that the saying would come through for him.

He made chit-chat with the bartender, who inquired about his lack of appearance for a while.

“I had watched your last game, stumbled upon it, really, but I was so sure you would be around that evening,” Kyle said. “Truth be told, I think we were all a bit sad not to see you that night.”

“Who is we in that sentence?” Ilya asked gently, his heart beating slightly faster.

The barkeep bit his lips, as if he felt he had said something he shouldn’t have. He then ran his tongue over his bottom lip, and replied:

“You’re quite liked around these parts, even though our heart belongs to the Admirals.”

Ilya smiled then went to a darker corner of the bar, where he could see but not be seen, as he let the atmosphere, the easy congeniality, and the bonding silence wash over him like baptism water.

He closed his eyes and imagined what his mother would have thought about this place.

She would have loved it. He just knew it. The way people acted, the quiet understanding, the easy companionship… Irina would have thrived there. She would have gotten a fruity drink, something that felt nothing like Russia, and she would have conversed with patrons.

She would have made them feel special, in that way only she knew how to do it. The Statue of Liberty had a poem about giving the huddled masses to her, for safekeeping. Irina would have kept people’s secrets and made them feel good about who they were. She would have understood how hard it could feel to be honest with the people around you, and how sometimes you had to keep a part of yourself in a secret place, for safe keeping.

It was how she had survived the first years of her marriage, stealing little parts of herself, of who she was, this beautiful, funny, whimsical creature. She had put them in her pocket like one would have cards. She locked the most important one somewhere down in herself and only shared those with people who she thought deserved to see them.

He had been one of the few lucky ones to see all of her. He would keep cherishing those snippets of who she was, alive in his memories, even if she wasn’t around anymore. The ogre, his father, had shed his mortal coil, but his reign of terror would remain if Irina remained a secret. She deserved so much more.

Ilya raised his glass silently to his mother, and to the peace she would have found here.

When he opened his eyes, they met Shane’s who was coming in, shaking the rain off his coat.

Warmth spread in his chest, at the sight of the other man. He took in his genuine puzzled expression when he spotted him and wanted to go to him. When he saw the raven-haired man get a drink from Kyle, then look at his shoes, the warmth was replaced by a misty cold. He could see that the man was debating coming over to him, but more accurately, he felt gutted at the thought that this was not a given for the mysterious man. There was a world in which he would have gotten somewhere else, taken a seat, and ignored Ilya.

He chose not to but knowing it had been a possibility cut down any assuredness he felt, cleaved it in small pieces really.

“Kyle mentioned you were looking for me,” the patron said, holding a different drink than his usual Bourbon Fresh.

So many things were wrong with this picture, the largest being how casually he looked at him, like they were… something more than acquaintances, but with no tenderness… Business partners came to mind. He was also speaking in English, something he had not done since that first night they shared together.

“I’ve missed you,” the Russian player heard himself say in his native tongue.

There was no answer, no quip, no reply. No “I missed you too,” nor a “get fucked.” It was indifference.

The sun-haired man looked around, surprised there was no blood on the ground from where his soul was bleeding.

“Well, hope you have a great evening,” Shane finally said, before making to turn around.

Ilya went to grab his wrist but stopped himself before he touched the man.

The raven-haired man read his move, and stopped, his chest rising in something between a sigh and something sadder.

“What do you want, Rozanov?”  He finally asked.

His voice sounded as exhausted as Ilya felt, like words were hurting him.

“I had hoped you would call me by my name.”

“I never should have done that.”

I never should have started this thing with you, was the subtitle.

“I wish you’d stay at this table, shared a drink with me. I can tell you don’t want to go back to our place with me,” Ilya swallowed hard as he spoke what he knew, “but I still wish you would want to be around me, in any capacity.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick here,” Shane offered, his eyes looking conflicted, as he played with his drink. “I just… We’re a bad idea. We’ve been acting on this bad idea for months… Hell, years now. But we know it’s purely sexual, which is fine. We’re consenting adults. I just feel like I have outgrown this bad idea, and I see it for what it is. It’s only going to end with one of us leaving, and the other in pain, having done something stupid like catching feelings. How about we just don’t go there? We don’t let it unfold. This means we save ourselves the tragic ending, and the avoidable heartache.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” the Russian man said.

“I know I don’t,” Shane replied, tilting his head to the side, with a contrite expression.

What did it mean? Did he understand that Ilya was ready to see his whole world burn down when Shane eventually moved away from him? Was he implying that Ilya would be the one not coming back?

Was this about the last time, about the “we” who had expected Ilya after his game?

He stood stoic for several beats, as his soul shattered in pieces, destroyed by friendly fires, good intentions, and unexpected grief.

“I wanted to see you, last time I was there. I was ready to come here. I was counting the minutes…”

“Not being there then is not a big deal, it’s just a foretaste of something inevitable…”

“But my father died, and I had to go back to Russia.”

Shane’s lips formed a perfect o, and finally, he stopped trying to run away from him.

He was not leaping into his lap either, but for the first time since they had spoken that night, it felt like he could stand being in Ilya’s presence without feeling the need to run away.

“My condolences.”

“He was an asshole, I’m glad he’s dead,” the player said bitterly, still in his native language.

The raven-haired man made a face, but it was not dismissive or disgusted. He was pondering, it seemed, commenting, and Ilya wanted him to say his piece, and say more.

Please never stop talking, not to me, he thought, hoping his eyes conveyed a permission, a clue, anything the man might need to stay with him longer, even in this shitty moment.

Finally, his chest heaving as if despairing at his action, the beautiful man took a seat at his table and put his drink down.

“Grief is a savage beast. Every emotion you will go through is your own. Allow yourself to experience them, as crappy as they are. We don’t get over grief, we learn to live with it, to carry it with us.”

Ilya was too busy drinking in his words; he almost missed out on the fact that Shane was speaking in Russian.

“I lost my mother when I was younger, grief has been a companion of mine for some time,” the sun-haired man said.

“I’m sorry this is the case. You know how destructive it is, and how pernicious, then.”

“Who did you lose?” The hockey player asked.

“My parents. My father first, then my mother. It happened within months of one another.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, but I won’t pretend time has smoothed things over. Sometimes I feel like there is a stone, in the pit of my stomach, that I will never be rid of. It’s what their deaths did to me.”

“I’ve carried my mother’s spirit in the cross around my neck, and it is comforting. I like having it with me. I just want to be rid of my father’s.”

Shane took a sip of his drink, nodding.

“It sounds like this was not a nurturing relationship, for which I am really sorry.”

He paused, crunched his nose in thought, then went on:

“I’m no Yoda, I don’t know everything, far from it, but there may be days when you genuinely miss the man. My only advice would be to let those days happen. It’s part of the process. It’s okay to miss him even if he was not a good person. Grief… There are no wrong ways, but many people pretend not to experience it. That’s the worst part. That’s how bad people become ghosts. Protect yourself from ghosts. If he becomes a ghost, he wins.”

“But if I mourn him, he becomes part of me? He joins my mother in my thoughts?”

“He’s already 50% of your DNA. There’s no pretending he never existed. You get to choose the place he holds for the rest of your life. You can make him an obstacle to overcome, or a small man who made bad choices and doesn’t deserve to be more than something from the past.”

“Is that what happened with your father?”

The raven-haired man took in a deep breath, and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“We all have our back story. I’ve cursed my father’s name, and I’ve also cried a thousand tears over his memory. In the end, I take solace in the fact that he did his best, and he did love me, even if he did not do it perfectly.”

“I was a token, for my father, a racehorse to be showed around. In the end, I think he would have loved to be able to put me down for not living up to his expectations.”

“I’m still sorry. Not for him, but for what you’re going through.”

They shared silences like some shared a bed.

“I don’t think I want to miss him,” Ilya said, drinking part of his vodka.

“Maybe you won’t. I just wanted you to know that there is no right or wrong way.”

“Was your father a bad man too?”

“You know how they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Well, redemption, and condemnation also are. It took me time, but I’m at peace with my father. My mother and he… They were in a tough situation.”

Ilya said nothing, hoping he would want to share, or if not, at least stay in this moment.

Shane was looking for words, as he needed to give context, or clues, to make his experience understandable.

“I was born a crime, as Trevor Noah once said. It took a toll on my parents, and all their family.”

“A crime? Incest?” The Russian player asked, trying to understand.

A bittersweet laugh.

“My grandparents would have handled my birth better if I was the fruit of this curse. As you may have noticed, I am the child of two cultures, and none of them value biracial children. My parents were cast out, and they had to make a living, while their communities ostracized them.”

“I’ve never asked, but I can sort of tell.”

“My mother was Japanese, and my father was French. Both came from very traditional backgrounds.”

A silence, then a sip of their drink.

“Just… I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes I can’t breathe, like his corpse is weighing me down, making sure I don’t get to be happy he’s gone, or to feel free.”

“It will come,” Shane offered, his hand gently brushing against his.

Truly, Ilya didn’t want to talk about the asshole anymore, he had cost him so much.

“I hate him for not dying twelve hours later. I would have seen you, then I would have had to deal with his mess.”

“I’m not certain our encounter would have made a difference.”

“But it would have,” the sun-haired man promised.

His mother had so many stories, some involved mere mortal standing in front of deities, trying to be worthy of their light, of their time, of their attention.

Shane was his deity, and he knew he wasn’t worthy.

But he wanted to.

Words failed him, again, and he breathed heavily, struggling with the lead blanket that had overcome his brain since that damned phone call.

Shane grabbed his hand gently, then walked them outside of the bar. He had grabbed both their coats, and he helped Ilya into his when they stood in the April cold.

The hockey player felt like a child being managed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The raven-haired man pushed them in the side street and waited next to him as he slowly found his way back to the living, leaving the dead behind.

He wanted to feel alive.

So, he kissed him.

Shane couldn’t deny, didn’t want to deny him it felt.

Time became blurry, and they ended up in their usual haunt. The beautiful stranger had wanted them to have a space to talk, but Ilya was all out of words.

Their bodies had a secret language that no one else could understand, and they conversed.

Shane’s lips on Ilya’s skin made him feel alive. Burning was better than feeling numb, and he welcomed the bite that came with the scorching heat.

Their coupling was frantic, both trying to prove something to the other, making promises their lips could not utter, and their ears couldn’t bear to hear.

As he looked Shane in the eyes, his hips pushing in and out, his orgasm teetering on him, the Russian turned them over, and put his lover on top of them, in charge of the rhythm.

In charge of them.

The raven-haired man did not need to be told twice, and set a devastating pace, his fingers scratching Ilya’s chest, as if barely holding himself back. He kissed the cross around his neck reverently, then sucked on one of his nipples.

The sun-haired man grabbed the back of his head and brought their lips together.

Their climax rolled over them, like life claiming back its territory, and the player moaned his lover’s name loudly.

In response, he felt Shane bite down on his neck.

His teeth pierced his skin, and a second orgasm started overtaking Ilya, as he felt lips and teeth work together to suck his blood.

He wanted more, and put his hand behind Shane’s head, cradling it, pressing it deeper against his vein, as he lost himself in pleasure.

He was alive, and Life became him.

Shane could feel so many things, Ilya’s familiar odor filling his nose, the feel of his locks against his cheek, the gentle pressure of his hand behind his neck, lighting his nervous system on fire. Their chests were touching, their breathing in sync. Yet, something was different, more…

It was then he felt the skin underneath his tongue, as he was brushing the puncture marks he had left behind.

His eyes shot open, and his mouth gaped as dread filled his entire being. The sweet taste in his mouth was…

Ilya’s blood.

He didn’t think, he couldn’t think, all he knew was that he needed to get away from the man before he hurt him further.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He jumped off the bed, and before he could think about anything, he was closing the bathroom door behind him, his heart beating erratically, adrenaline and shame crashing over his system.

What the hell had he done?

What had he dared to do? Impose himself? Let his baser instincts take over?

He could have killed the man.

All because he had lost control of himself.

There was a riot of words in his head, like a murder of crows picking at his brain. Nothing made sense, yet everything did. He had done the unthinkable.

Naked as the day he was born, he forced himself to his feet in the bathroom and searched for his shameful eyes in the mirror.

His pupils were blown, his cheeks were rosy, and there was a flush, an air to him. He glowed.

He had never hated his biology more than he did right then.

A drop of blood had found its way just below the corner of his lips. He collected it at the tip of his finger and would have washed it under the water spray. He really would have, but instead, he brought it to his mouth, and had to press his hands on the basin, as he held back a moan.

It was ambrosia.

He wanted more. He never would have it again if he could help it.

Listening to the sounds coming from the other room, he heard his name being called out and expected to hear the sun-haired man run away from this place, from what he had done, from him.

But he didn’t.

There were noises, Ilya muttering something to the sheets, as he seemed to be struggling with them, then Shane heard padded footsteps on the ground.

Panicked, he locked himself in the room.

“Shane? Please come out,” Ilya asked.

“I can’t. You need to get away from me.”

“I need no such thing. But that’s okay, take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you want to talk.”

There was a gentle thud, and he could just picture it, Ilya wrapped in the bed sheets, having sat down in front of the door, his head resting against the wood.

Shane’s heart broke in a million shards, each of them hurting in his chest. The man had to be under the influence of the endorphin the bite had released, but soon it would wear off, and he would bolt.

As could very well be the last time they were ever in the same space, Shane crawled on the floor and went to lean on his side of the door.

They remained as they were, the vampire feeling blessed at each breath he heard, committing them to memory.

Part of him could have sworn he could feel Ilya’s warmth seeping through the wood door, but he figured it was just his mind playing tricks on him. He deserved it.

Seconds turned into minutes, and Shane felt like he was nearing the end of a terrifying countdown, that he could not assess, but that would result in the man leaving the penthouse forever.

There was a lull, and a soft snort. Lips smacked together, a hand brushed hair on the other side of the door.

“Sorry, I think I fell asleep for a second there,” Ilya said from his side of the door.

Speechless and baffled, Shane listened as the man repositioned himself from his spot. He was worried, too. Sleep meant defenseless, or worse, relaxed. This was at the very bottom of ways this moment could go down. Had he unwillingly made his dangerous nature more palatable to the young man in the course of their many encounters? Could his biology have accustomed his partner to this threat, and numb his survival instinct? This would be such a betrayal, he couldn’t fathom it.

“You don’t really want to be here,” Shane said softly.

“Agree to disagree,” was the response he got. “Aren’t you cold? I could bring you a blanket and leave it in front of the door for you to take it.”

“How is your neck?” the vampire replied, fighting very hard to not let the compassionate word lure him into thinking anything was okay in this situation.

“A little sore, but I have had worse. If you let me in, you could check for yourself, or I could look into the mirror to give you a proper update.”

He couldn’t come in, he just couldn’t, Shane thought as he lifted his head to the doorknob. Which… has disappeared.

He felt the Haven hum in response, as if letting him know that it was there for him and cared for him.

He was so undeserving…

“You should be protecting him from me,” he whispered.

Ilya got up awkwardly from where he was, and Shane listened as he stumbled around the bedroom. He came back to his previous position, and the vampire heard the click of a phone being unlocked. There was a light from underneath the threshold, and he figured the man was using his mobile as a flashlight.

“Funny, it’s turned into a hickey. I expected puncture points, or something, but it turned into a love mark. I really don’t hate it, even if the guys will be riding my dick in the locker room about having gotten some.”

Tenderness could be heard both in his tone, and in his words, and Shane could picture a soft smile on his lips, as the man took in the mark on his neck thanks to his phone.

“You should be freaking out, you can’t be so chill,” he whispered.

More shuffling around, as Ilya got comfortable.

“I’m no fool, even if I don’t always show it. I have seen many things since we met. I’ve seen the bouncer at the Kingfisher, and I know the reason I can’t recall his feature is because he had no features. He’s not real. We come to this place, which when we arrive is a five-story construction, but the elevator had many more floors that can be reached. When I look out the window,” he pushed against the door as he did exactly what he was describing, “the view is that from at least fifteen floors higher. I have seen the door handle disappear when it was there earlier. It doesn’t faze me.”

Another thud, as his head hit the door again.

“I’ve scratched you when we’re fucking, and I’ve felt your skin tear beneath my nails. I’ve hated myself for it when it happened, but when I checked, your skin looked rosier, showed lines where my claw marks should have been, and discolored skin which disappeared in front of my eyes.”

Shane thought about how much he loved feeling the man’s nails against his skin, a bit on the savage side, animalistic.

“I’ve heard Kyle talk with patrons about his time in ‘Nam when he was younger. He would recall being drafted and losing so many friends to a senseless war that could never be won. I’m not a history expert, but he should not look so young if he is a veteran of that war.”

Shane shook his head helplessly.

“I also know for a fact he doesn’t lie about his time there. It’s one of the things my mother gave me apart from my devastating good looks, my brilliant honey hair, and my humility. She gave me the gift of sensing when someone is untrue. I can sense a lie. I can sense a monster. I’ve felt you play with words when we talk, so as not to lie, but not to say something that would create reality distortion. I’ve stood in your presence. I just buried a monster of epic proportions, and I could feel it in my bones, even when I was not in his presence, how horrifying a human being he was. I’ve never sensed anything like that when I’m around you. I can sense your truth, and your nature. I’m not afraid of you.”

Each word hit Shane like a ton of bricks. The sun-haired man had been underestimated by so many people, including himself. Shame was one of the many emotions that coursed through his heart as he thought about the underlying message.

I can sense a lie, I can sense a monster. You’re not one.

A single tear ran down his face, and he let it drop to the floor. Such trust, and he should not deserve it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally whispered.

“I know pain. I’ve experienced it my whole life. You’ve never dealt me any, not even when you gave me this mesmerizing hickey. I love it so much, I wish you could see it. I wish I could get it tattooed on my skin. When I press it, there’s a light soreness, but no pain. It’s a fucking wonderful reminder, and I hope you’ll love it as much as I do.”

The man was pushing through Shane’s wall with the strength of a wrecking ball, but the demeanor of a gentleman.

There was a vibration, and the doorknob reappeared.

“I’m coming in, okay?” Ilya asked, as he seemed to see it.

No words escaped the vampire, as he took a step back, for the door to open.

The hockey player appeared, wrapped in bed sheets, like Shane had imagined. His hair was messy, and his eyes were tired. There was a bruise on his neck, and for a second, the vampire allowed himself to love it with all his being, to embrace what it meant.

“Oh, Shane,” the man whispered.

He felt exhaustion override the adrenaline and fear that had kept him upright, and he let the tall man wrapped him up in the linens with him, pressing him against his body, with all the trust in the world. They walked back together to the bed, where a comforter had appeared. Carefully, humming under his breath, and making sure his intentions were always clear, Ilya made them lie down together. He wrapped himself against Shane’s back, cradling him in his embrace, showering him in something that felt dangerously like affection.

“We’re okay, just relax, okay?”

Breathing became easier, with their bodies curled around one another. Anxiety finally took a back seat in his mind, as he allowed himself to be in the moment, in the arms of the sun-kissed man.

When the curfew alarm rang in the room, they both moaned.

“I don’t want to go,” Ilya murmured against the vampire’s neck. “I’m not going, fuck it.”

“You need to go,” the raven-haired man replied, turning in his embrace to face him.

“What’s happening here is more important. I can take the punishment for being out late.”

As his sanity was hanging on by a thread, Shane dropped all pretenses, and replied:

“I don’t want you to go either. Yet we can’t be fine just by having you stay here. You’re so tired, you need to get back with your team, so that you’re always surrounded, should exhaustion take over. I’m not running away though, I know you wouldn’t let me. Please, I’ll call you a cab and get you back to your hotel. In the meantime, I can come to Boston, let’s say in three days’ time, and we can discuss more about all the things I wasn’t ready to broach today. It will give you time to sleep a bit. It will allow me to try and get back as close to homeostasis as possible. We can start this conversation again, on better footing.”

“Could you come to Boston the day after tomorrow or the next one? I have a game every three days, I would need to check my schedule to make sure I’m not away when you’re there,” Ilya asked, looking into his eyes from under his long lashes.

The vampire allowed himself five seconds to just take him in. When those had lapsed, he reached out to the bedside table, and the Haven provided him with his phone. He turned it over to Ilya, and explained:

“You can give me your number. We can arrange the day, make it as soon as possible while making sure you still get to rest.”

The hockey player took the device after it was unlocked and did as he had been asked.

When Shane got his phone back, he saw that Ilya had not sent himself a text, or made his phone ring, to have his number too.

Whatever came out of their talk, they needed to be on equal footing. Shane wrote a text quickly and made the other man’s phone ring.

The sun-haired man reached around, and a tender smile appeared on his face as he read the simple words:

“I don’t want you to be in trouble.”

He nodded.

The vampire called him an Uber as Ilya got out of bed and put his clothes back on.

They shared a kiss, when the driver was only a couple of minutes away, and Shane leaned into the hand cradling his face.

“We are all right, no matter what,” the hockey player said, pressing their foreheads together.

When they parted, his phone rang, and he saw that his partner had sent his home address in Boston, and his schedule for the next couple of days.

Shane followed the cab ride on his mobile, until the man was back at his hotel. Then, he went back and buried himself in the comforter and linens, as he promised to write back in the morning, when they both would have gotten some sleep.

He should have felt afraid, but he knew their talk needed to happen. All he could do was prepare for it yet not overwork it, and most importantly, prepare himself to be okay, whichever way it went.

“I’m leaving, should be in Boston around 9PM, will keep you updated.”

Ilya smiled as he read the text Shane had sent him.

In less than five hours, he would be seeing the raven-haired man again.

He finally felt rested, since coming back from burying his father, as if things were finally falling into place. He couldn’t tell what the night would bring, but he was casually optimistic. At least they would both know where they stood by the time the night ended.

Traffic was hell, but he had expected it to be. The I-95 lived up to its reputation for trying patience. It gave Shane time to think about what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to phrase it.

It all came back to what he had done, and what that had made obvious.

In truth, it was terrifying. So far, he never had to have this discussion with anybody that had not joined the Unmoored, therefore it was making it complicated to know what would be considered necessary knowledge, and what would have been oversharing.

Still, almost five hours of traffic later, he was not much closer to knowing what he would make known.

They had planned to meet in a bar, not far from Ilya’s place, so that neither of them had to rush to get there. The hockey player had an evening training session, as well as strategy discussions for further games. Meeting there would allow them to reconvene when they were together.

However, when he arrived in front of the establishment, Ilya was already there, having a cigarette next to the entrance, wearing a beanie and a dark jacket. Shane came to meet him, and when the hockey player flashed his cheeky smile, part of his distress floated away.

“I thought we were meeting inside,” the vampire said, as a greeting.

He kept his hand in his coat pockets, suddenly unsure how to present himself out of their usual carnal dynamic.

“I finished early, thought we could walk to my place,” Ilya replied, before offering him the smoke.

The raven-haired man took a drag, watching his partner from under his lashes.

There was no … fear or anxiety, just pure happiness at seeing him. It felt a bit like a dream, for someone to trust him still after what he had done. Surely, once the endorphin had dropped, and he had slept, Shane expected his common sense to tell him to run away from this mess. Instead, Ilya was embracing the chaos, as he did most things in life.

“Sure, lead the way,” he replied, before handing back the cigarette.

They walked side by side, without a word, but their silence was comfortable. Maybe he could do this after all. Then he would remind Ilya about the virtue of self-preservation, for he behaved like a cautionary tale in the making.

The night was lovely, though fresh. The moon could be seen, waning, and Shane liked the shine on his skin. They moved from the more active part of Boston to a posh residential neighborhood. The hockey player led him through parks, and hidden staircases, until they got to his front door.

They entered into a large living room, with tall windowpane. It had to be lovely standing in the light when the sun gently shone through.

“Do you want something to drink?” Ilya offered, as he removed his jacket and put it on a coat rack.

Shane followed his example, and removed his shoe, an old habit. He enjoyed the feel of hardwood floor against his socks.

“Water will be fine,” he replied.

Two glasses were poured, and they stood awkwardly around each other. To think that a few days ago, they would have been all over each other, making the most of their limited time together… The difference one action made.

The atmosphere became heavier as they did not speak, and the sun-haired man finally said, with a chuckle:

“We can take all the time we need, but I’m flying blind here. Are there things I should know so that my home remains hospitable to you?”

“You would worry about the predator in your living room not being comfortable,” Shane tried to joke. “Sun is a big no-no, but since it’s not coming up for a long time, I’m okay. I have no aversion to the items usually associated with my species’ stereotypes.”

His stomach growled, and he blushed.

“Sorry, I should have eaten more before I left.”

He lowered his gaze, afraid of what he would see in the hockey player’s, and rushed an explanation:

“I eat normal food, I need it, for calories and the like. I did not have a normal meal before I left, hence my stomach howling like a wolf.”

He felt the other man come closer to him, and gently, carefully, put his hand on his wrist, to grab his attention.

“There’s a place that delivers, not too far from here. They make great burgers. I can place an order; I wouldn’t mind a bite either.”

Shane looked into his sky-blue eyes, and nodded, smiling softly.

“That would be lovely.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were polishing off their dish. The shared meal had softened the ambiance, and they had exchanged quips and bits.

As he wiped down his mouth with a napkin, Shane looked at Ilya, at his perfect face, and his blind trust that he should not be giving freely, and he said:

“How about I tell you a story, to start this off?”

Upon receiving a nod, he started:

“Once upon a time, there was a Jesuit priest who came to Cipango, to share the one true faith to people who had not heard it. There, he met a native woman, who was strong-headed, had no fear of speaking her mind, and seemed absolutely uninterested in the things he was peddling.

They fell in love, and out of their secret, a child was born.

Looking both too much and not enough like either of his parents, he stood out, and they had to flee, to keep him safe. The child grew, witnessed as his father got shunned from his people for having married a woman, and the same happening to his mother because she had chosen a would-be conqueror as her partner.

He knew he was the source of his parents' trouble, but they never begrudged him for it. He saw them fight, sometimes, as their cultures gave them different views on so many subjects. He also saw them make up, compromise, when they decided that there was always a middle way for those who were willing to look for it.

The three of them moved around a lot, especially as the son became a teenager, and could not be hidden as easily as a toddler could be.

One day, a group of villagers stormed the place the couple had made their family home, and killed the father, to prevent him from cursing them with his foreign gospel. The son wanted to get revenge, but his mother, through her grief and own anger, told him this was not what the late man would have wanted.

So, they moved again, this time closer to people who had once been companions of the late man, hoping to find compassion there. They did not, but the priest was interested in that mixed blood child, so they let the family on their premises. There, the mother caught a lung infection and passed eight months after her husband had.

The child became an orphan aged 17, and had a choice to make, stay with his father's people, or try to make it out there with his mother's. In the end, fate chose for him. See, his mother had been the daughter of a merchant, who had shunned her when she had gotten pregnant. However, growing older, but no kinder, the trader needed someone to be able to talk to the newcomers, while reassuring the locals. His grandson was the perfect specimen, speaking both the native tongues of his parents.

Hoping to find himself, the now lone boy went to work for his grandfather. It was ingrate work, and family only meant being beholden to his elder, but he stayed. When he was 23, he was sent away, with an embassy to a neighboring country, to deliver goods that had been paid for. There was an ambush, and he died.

It was also when he was reborn, this time as an Unmoored. The year was 1571.”

The whole tale felt cathartic. He hoped it made sense.

The hockey player looked at him, with a million questions behind his eyes, but apparent control over what he would say.

“Thank you for telling me this,” he finally offered.

The raven-haired man only nodded, before taking a sip out of his glass.

“Do you believe in God?”

Shane looked up and found Ilya’s stare, saw the genuine curiosity, and replied:

“I don’t think I had this question on my bingo card. I don’t. Not in my father’s God, nor in my mother’s shinbutsu-shūgō. I believe in Life, though, in the sense that it always finds a way.”

A thought crossed his mind and he added:

“I go to Church, a couple of times a month, it’s a bit like a trip down memory lane. The priest is also a good friend, he knows I’m just there for the vibes, he doesn’t try to sell me on the gospel.”

“Does he know about you?”

Another wild card question.

“Yes. I was not the one who told him, he knows another Unmoored who put us in touch.”

“You mentioned the Unmoored, that is how you like to refer to yourself?”

“I will call myself a vampire too. Unmoored is the original word, but when society started describing us with that word, well, we had to go with the flow, and embrace it, though the folklore is way off.”

There was a pause, and Shane wasn’t sure what to expect.

“You eat food, but you also drink blood. I liked when you bit me.”

The sincerity in the man’s eyes was almost too much to bear.

“We don’t drink blood for the sake of it, for platelets or anything like that. When we bite, and the bite is welcome, there is a reaction, what we call an alchemical one, and the blood sustains us. Vampires, or unmoored, are creatures of Alchemy. We need it to survive.”

“Alchemy?”

It was not a perfect analogy, he explained, but that was how they called it.

“It’s not magical, it’s more like the chemical property, matter is not created nor destroyed, it is transformed.”

“I know it was a French fucker who came up with that, and you do speak French, right? How did he phrase it?”

The smile on the other man’s lips was tender and flirtatious. This was dangerous territory, another bad idea to the long list of those they favored, but Shane couldn’t deny him.

“Rien ne se perd, rien ne se crée, tout se transforme,” he said in his father’s native tongue. “The fucker is called Lavoisier, for reference.”

“I’m probably going to forget his name; I have so many questions.”

He came closer, their knees almost touching, and he started firing away.

Yes, vampires knew how they had been born. They were creatures of alchemy, or magic. Yes, magic was real, commonly referred to as witchcraft, practiced by both men and women. No, there were not that many of them, and those burned in the previous centuries were mostly non-actual witches.

He explained that the longer you lived, the less you relied on blood if you wanted to. He also explained that when in a pinch, vampire metabolism would use either of its two sources of replenishment to survive.

“What happens when you’re in the sun?”

“I desiccate. I could show you once, it hurts like the dickens, but as long as I move away from the direct rays, I will recover in a couple minutes. The sun makes me look like a mummy.”

“Who turned you into a vampire?” Ilya asked. “Are they still around?”

Shane took a couple of seconds before answering, as he remembered the day his life had ended and began again.

“Tadashi was a mercenary, hired by a trade rival of my grandfather. He took pity on me, after I tried to escape the ambush site, bleeding like a pig. He offered to give me a second chance at the whole living thing. I agreed. As for where he is now, Passengers tore him to pieces two centuries ago.”

“Passengers?”

“Those are the vampires who will feed on unwilling human subjects. It is not natural, contrary to what the propaganda would have society believe. Vampires are pretty self-sustaining; we can drink blood from one another.”

“You mentioned alchemy, or magic. The bouncer is alchemical, isn’t he? And the place where we go?”

“It’s a bit more complicated. I am not just Unmoored; I have Alchemical blood too. As a result, I can create things or sustain them. I created the Guardian for the Kingfisher, and I’m sustaining the Haven, giving it my blood when its power depletes. It’s a place for vampires who need to lay low for a short while, and they pay with blood. Some are frankly cheapskate, and don’t leave enough.”

“Like tips?”

“In a way, though the Haven only goes by on tips, like many service workers I suppose.”

“Did you keep me out of the Kingfisher the first time I came?”

“I suppose, in a sense.”

He thought about it again, then explained:

“The Guardian is mostly autonomous, he assesses which person would go well in the pub at any time and lets people in accordingly. The first time you came, you were intoxicated, and there were Passengers in. Letting you in meant putting you in danger. The following times… The enchantment relies on reading the atmosphere and mood of the patrons to avoid creating friction. I may not have been willing to let you in, but I couldn’t have been the only one. The Guardian is not my alter ego, he just… is.”

“But there’s part of you in him.”

“And now there’s part of you too. Once you’re admitted in the pub, you become part of his entrance algorithm, if you will.”

Ilya looked surprised at the notion.

“Am I now?”

“In a sense. You’re a core patron. We have many of those who only come once every couple of years. If you changed significantly, you could be kept out, but I don’t see that happening any time now.”

The hockey player blushed, and Shane was reminded of his discussion with Colin, about belonging.

“Where did you pick up Russian? Where were you ever in Sakhalin?” He pondered, referring to the land various countries had claimed as theirs through history.

“I crossed over to Russia mid-19th century, indeed, when things were not as clear as they are now. I picked up the tongue in the process. I was not welcome though, so I mostly hid, then went on my way.”

“You do speak it with some words my grandfather would have used.”

“I don’t know if I should be proud or offended, so I’ll just revert to… Okay.”

A lull, and then:

“Is feeding always so sensual?”

Clear blue eyes stared into his, no remorse or regrets to be read there.

“Not in my experience,” Shane replied, lowering his eyes as he tried to hide his pink cheeks.

“What does that mean?”

Fighting the urge to reply with a question on semantics, so that he could skirt around the subject, the vampire breathed in deeply, then bared himself as he explained:

“I usually feed from … friends. We have arrangements. We all consent, and this way, we get the alchemical aspect of our meal. However, I’ve never had it happen during a sexual encounter, nor create stimulation. I know that there are pheromone-like aspects to being fed upon. Between the euphoric feeling, and the light-headedness that comes from the blood loss, I can imagine it can feel like being drunk.”

“It felt different than anything I have ever had in my life.”

There was something so permanent about that statement, like it could not be challenged, and never would be. Shane couldn’t reply with his own experience, and he did not wish to volunteer that in paired vampires, feeding tended to happen during intimate moments.

Instead of lying or giving the impression he was dancing with the truth, he simply smiled and pondered if it triggered something in his partner.

All he could offer was:

“I’m sorry I took advantage of you when your guard was down. I never wanted you to feel unsafe around me.”

“I didn’t. I liked it, really, it was unexpected, but I didn’t mind being on the menu,” Ilya replied, putting a hand on the vampire’s knee, as he leaned in for a kiss.

If he had been a better man, Shane would have used his speed to dodge the soft lips on his, but he wasn’t.

It felt like a first kiss, the kind that made your insides melt, and made you believe you could slay dragons.

He sighed as they parted, then forced himself to put distances between them.

“It can’t happen again.”

“You’re saying “can’t,” instead of “won’t,” we can work with that.”

“It won’t happen again,” the vampire replied.

A glint of amusement met his stare, and he supposed he should have been more convincing.

“Do I need to eat more meat, or something? Does blood taste better with anemia against all odds?”

“I’m not answering any of these foolish questions.”

He looked at his phone, and figured he needed to get back. He expected way less traffic, but the hockey player needed to sleep in order to prevent injuries.

“I need to go.”

“But you don’t,” Ilya professed, jumping off his chair. “I have great curtains in my room, and if it’s not enough, well…”

Shane had to let that thought play out, out of curiosity.

“Then we can drag the mattress in the guest bathroom. It has no natural light. We could sleep in there.”

“You get extra credit for ingenuity, but I have to leave. I just shared a zillion mind-baffling facts with you, and you should have time to let it rest, before you decide if there is a future where we are friends.”

“If?” Ilya huffed, then came so close to him, it felt like he was trying to become part of him.

He felt the hockey player’s hand on his stomach, making seductive patterns.

“You’ve only fed one way tonight, and I have plenty of ideas to get us in that space again.”

He couldn’t have stepped back, couldn’t have moved his body, and hated himself for it.

“Think it through. The season is almost over; you’re not coming back to New York till the next one begins. That gives you about six months to consider things and maybe meet someone that would get you off this very dangerous path.”

“I may not be centuries old, but I know what I want. Don’t make me out to be silly or stupid…”

“It’s nothing like that! I honestly believe you should mull it over, or quite frankly, forget about it. We’re such a bad idea, I’ve said before, I’ll say it again. Yet I have apparently lost all of my fucking senses since I met you!”

The hockey player looked in his eyes, then pressed his hand against his cheek.

“I don’t need to be protected…”

“Maybe I do!” Shane fought back, pushing away from him, feeling like Atlas carrying Earth. “I had to call one of my oldest friends, pretend to care about something they are on about, their latest fancy, then tried to casually ask “hey, when you feed from your paramours, does it usually make them come?”

The grin on Ilya’s lips was decadent and indecent, like he had won.

“We can figure it out.”

“Fuck me,” he sputtered.

“Yeah, fuck you!” the sun-haired man replied, cornering him against a wall.

“When you came by the Kingfisher, I told you only old farts hung in there, and you’d be better off. Well, turns out I’m one of the old fuckers, and I still stand by it!” the vampire replied, using speed to move around the man. “Have a great night. We can talk again next time you visit the Kingfisher!”

And he then proceeded to all but sprint out, his heart bouncing in his chest.

He ran all the way to his car, and got it started.

He had been back in New York for a full day before it felt like it slowed down.

Ilya showed up in New York two weeks later.

To nip any speculation in the bud, he went straight to the Kingfisher and waited for Shane there. He had let him know he would be there and only wanted to talk. Kyle welcomed him and got him a shot of vodka, as well as a beer, while the hockey player allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He knew how it looked, and couldn’t help but bounce his leg, as he waited for his NY lover to appear.

When the door let in the raven-haired man, Ilya felt relief course through him.

He caught a glimpse of Kyle’s smirk and knew how important it was for him and Shane to talk.

The vampire went to a booth, deeper in the shadows, and Ilya followed him.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I know it probably looks bad, so I wanted to grab the bull by the horns and let you know what I’m doing here.”

Shane looked at him, in that way that felt like he was reading his mind, then nodded, giving him permission to continue.

“I will be staying in New York for the summer. The season is over, and I would usually have gone back to Russia, while waiting for the next one. We both know it’s not something I plan to do this year.”

The raven-haired man nodded.

“I thought about where I could go, and what I could do, but it’s my first free summer. I don’t want to overthink it. You told me that I’m part of the Kingfisher’s algorithm, and it feels like a good place to start. I will be doing my own shit.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself. I think I get your meaning, and I’m all for it. You should spend time somewhere that makes you feel good, that allows you to have a respite from the complicated months and years you’ve been having.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m chasing you like a madman. I am of course insanely into you, but this is not the motive for this visit.”

Shane smiled lightly at his confession, seemed to think better than saying what came first to his mind, then nodded again.

“Feel free to use the Haven if you need to. Just let Kyle know, so that he can do the libation.”

“I have found a hotel, and will be getting an apartment for the summer,” Ilya replied, though a thought crossed his mind. “You won’t be around to take care of the Haven?”

The vampire sighed and seemed to search for his words. Ilya had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something was being decided and he was not part of the decision-making process.

Sure, he legitimately wanted to spend time in New York, and he did not come here to hunt Shane down, but he would be lying if he pretended he had not entertained the thought that being so much closer could give them more opportunities to get together.

“I’m going to visit an old friend, in Louisiana for a couple of weeks.”

There was no lie, but Ilya felt a backstory, the hint of a “however”, or a “but.”

“When did you take that decision? Is this some bullshit thing about protecting me?”

He did not need to be protected. He just wanted to be free, for once. Or as free as his industry would allow him to be.

“I was always going to New Orleans, but Kyle seeing you in town may have given me the final nudge into booking my trip.”

“How will you go there, avoiding light?”

“We have some underground ways. It is nothing too elaborate, but I can travel to Louisiana from New York in a safe fashion. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The hockey player realized he may have done more than entertained the idea when he felt his hopes get crushed.

“Do you need to feed before you leave?” He offered, his mood having soured greatly.

Such a stupid question, he thought as he saw Shane wince.

Yet, he was genuine in his offer.

“No, thank you. I’m good. I’m sticking to a straight ‘from the bags’ diet for the foreseeable future.”

So, there they were.

 It did not feel like the end though. So they drank, and parted ways, like old friends. It felt like an out-of-body experience, not trying to seduce the man into his bed. But he could wait, and he had much figuring out to do.

When he came back the following night, Kyle confirmed that Shane had gone, as he had said he would. The barkeep gave him his phone numbers in case he needed anything.

From there, Ilya focused on himself, and on finding out who he was, when he was not worried about his father’s health, about his brother’s threats, nor trying to entice a splendid vampire in his bed.

All of it took some getting used to. While he had blocked Alexei’s phone number, Ilya kept waiting for his brother to get a burner phone, or use Polina’s one to try and extort him some more.

He found a place outside of central New York, to be able to go on runs in the morning, without worrying about traffic or being seen. He experienced so many strong emotions through this process. At first, it felt like he was playing hooky, and part of his mind seemed to expect he would be jumping on a plane soon to the old continent.

Then, he let his agent know where he would be spending his summer. Many questions were left unsaid, and he felt judged, like he was defecting. That was not to his liking, nor good for his peace of mind. He started looking out for a different agent, discreetly.

He would organize his life, try to find out who he was when he was not Ilya Rozanov, the Boston Raiders captain, nor Ilya, the proud son of Russia. He came to terms with the fact that his time in New York over the years had shaped a third persona in him, Ilya the part time lover of a man who had many secrets. He had been okay with it, when he didn’t know, and he was finding out that he was still so, now that he knew more. Some of the man’s reactions made more sense. Lots of it felt like conjectures. He would have liked confirmation though.

While he would not have traded his time with Shane for anything in the world, he felt saddened upon realizing that he had so many facets, and none of them felt truly like him.

He would not say that over the nearly two months when he was alone in New York, he truly found himself, the real him, the one he had kept hidden, but he got clues.

Hockey was something he was really passionate about, it was not just something he had been pigeon-holed into being.

He liked dogs. He liked cats. He’d stop often when running to greet one or the other. There was a squirrel on his path which seemed to have a lot to say to the hockey player, not caring that the man could not understand him. It was refreshing. Sure, animals had been around in his old life, but those were the first times he had not cared about who could be watching, who could be reporting what. He could just be silly, and chirp back at a chipmunk.

There was this weight that was slowly being lifted from over him, and while it still weighed him down, he would find his way from out of there.

He had gotten older. Sure, age was but a number, but things he would have done when 19 or 22 were not what he did when left to his own devices. He went clubbing a couple of times and got bored. He used to live for the thrill of the chase, the sweet taste of victory. When he went out now, he got bored.

He would send Shane text messages, a few times a week, and received about an equal amount back. Those gave him a bigger thrill than finding a hot partner for the evening.

It had hit him like a ton of bricks, but maybe he was ready to stop being such a free spirit. There was one constant person he wanted. He also came to terms with the fact that perhaps the raven-haired man was in fact wrong about Ilya having no self-preservation. One evening, at the Kingfisher, Passengers were around, and one tried to seduce Ilya. The man spotted him even before he entered the business and did not need to be told twice to keep his distance.

This meant that the hockey player’s fight or flight response never kicked in around Shane, because of who the vampire was at heart.

Those were two long months, and he was nowhere near having discovered all he could, but when he spotted his lover at the Kingfisher the following night, well, he was ready for part of their dynamics to kick in again.

Their getting back together felt inevitable, so Ilya did not worry himself with it.

Many things were uncertain, or needed to be discovered, but he just knew that Shane coming back was a sign, that he was ready to be in the same space as he was, both physically, and metaphorically. Ilya knew he wanted the man. He wanted his bad moments, and his good ones. He wanted his nights, and his days. He felt very greedy about all he wanted but could not bring himself to feel shame. So much of his life had been for someone else, he deserved to be man-crazy, especially when it came to such a fine man.

So, he did not fret. He trusted what he could feel in his soul, hell, even in the marrow of his bones, and just trusted that they would find their way back together. From there, it would be up to him to show to Shane that there was a future for them, and that the vampire thing was so secondary when it came down to it…

He remained on his self-discovery path.

Suzanne had hoped he would stay longer, but Shane had been just about ready to behead his oldest friend with his bare hands.

After that disastrous phone call about paramours being bitten during intercourse, and his subsequent coming to visit her even though he was not a New Orleans man, the woman had put together that he was being both hunted and haunted, as she liked to call it. She found delight in the fact that said paramour was so young, and in a complicated moment of his life.

“You never get to make decisions when everything is going right, you always adapt on the fly!” She would say.

While she was not technically wrong, this was not the commentary he had come to hear. In fact, he would have been fine with no analysis of his personal life.

Luckily, he had his own accommodation, so he could run away from her when she became too much to bear.

He painted a lot though, and his thoughts seemed focused on one subject.

This should not have come as a surprise. In the past seven years, he had depicted Ilya so many times in his work. He had detailed his lashes, the moles on his body, the way he smiled, or turned seductive when he came after him.

He felt like a stalker, a hunter, studying his prey, and it brought him shame.

Finally, he mentioned it to his friend, who only shrugged.

“You and I, honey, we don’t do things halfway. We find people who enchant us, and we remain in their thrall. It’s not a fault, or a character failure. It’s part of life. If we had had a shorter life span, maybe we would have been attracted to the ‘wrong’ person, the bad boy, the provocateur, that one person who seemed less likely to fit our lives. Instead, we’ve got centuries, and we revel in being charmed.”

“You’re being too flowery about real fears I have.”

“You’ve been afraid of yourself since I’ve met you. You never trust anybody in a meaningful capacity. You give part of yourself, but you stay in control. It’s like you’ve internalized that bullshit about vampires being predators. We’re … something else, but we’re not inherently bad, and we don’t ruin lives.”

Needless to say, this was an argument they had over and over.

Suzanne put some of his less descriptive works in her art gallery, paintings of Ilya’s hands, and silhouettes Shane had painted.

“For someone who has not had natural light in centuries, you’ve managed to paint great pictures. I’ve rarely sold pieces so quickly, people are raving about the way you handle sunlight, and make it prominent without featuring it in your art.”

Being with her, and Samson, her chosen soul, it forced Shane to ponder subjects he had not considered in a while.

They walked in the sunlight when he couldn’t. He missed it, but he had never been in a position to regain that ability.

As he stayed inside when the couple went out, it was not jealousy that animated him (much to his shame) but rather, envy. He found himself longing for the ability to do what they did.

He had been fine not seeing the day for so long, as he knew the trade-off it would require. Indeed, it was only possible once two souls had been linked. The one thing that had changed was of course himself: for the first time since his unmooring, he was thinking about the extra step that would put him back in daylight. It was no coincidence that this happened as he became more and more intimate with Ilya. There was someone in his life who made him think of latter days, and time to come.

 It was, however, absolutely unfair and unwarranted, as the hockey player was woefully ignorant of this world, this aspect of vampire being.

When he sat down, and put it into words, it shattered his world. How could he be considering such things, while telling the man to run away from him? He felt like there were too many people in his head, and he was not used to it. For most of his adult life, his priorities had been cleared. He had chosen a path, a philosophy to live by, and had stuck to it.

Choosing a soul to share a bond with was abstract, something he never would have considered. Yet he did.

After driving himself half mad, he decided to get back to New York. His life was split into a million what-ifs, and he was tired.

He wanted to get back to what he knew, his apartment, his friend, and then perhaps, go from there. He didn’t know what would happen with Ilya, but there was no point staying away if all he did was think about it. The text messages they had exchanged while not intimate showed that they still were on the other’s mind.

He needed to get his house in order, so that he could gain clarity on what should really be a worry or not. In the end, he might be driving himself crazy over a lust story, and it would have been a terrible waste of time.

So, he put on his big vampire pants, and went back home.

When he stepped into the Kingfisher, he finally felt like he had arrived. Getting back to his apartment had been great, seeing his belongings too, but there was just something different about the pub.

His eyes searched and found Ilya, having a beer at the bar.

The vampire’s chest swelled up. The man looked thoroughly sun-kissed, tanned in the way someone who had enjoyed daylight could be. There was also an air of freedom about him, about newfound purpose, or discovery. The hockey player was not the same as he had been during their last encounter, and Shane was filled with anguish, at the thought that he had missed his fitting in his own skin.

It was unexpected, completely new too. They usually only met a couple of times a year, Ilya would change over each encounter, Shane was the one staying static. Yet, there was something different and cruel in his realization: if he had stayed, he could have seen it happen.

One thought appeared clearly in his head: he wanted to see what was to come.

With a renewed purpose, he walked to the hockey player, who was watching him with infinite tenderness.

What the hell had he been running from? They should have been talking, shouldn’t they?

“Hey,” he said casually.

“Welcome back,” the sun-kissed man replied.

Feeling that they had the attention of several of the Unmoored patrons of the bar, thanks to their perfect hearing, Shane looked around, then offered:

“Did you know the Kingfisher used to be a speak easy in the 1920s?”

“I did not. You must have looked dashing in a fedora.”

“I still do. Do you want to see one of the many hidden rooms from that era?”

“Lead the way,” Ilya said, not touching him, yet letting him know through his peaceful demeanor that he would have followed anywhere.

Shane led him into the small kitchen, and into what one would have assumed would be a fridge. When he opened it, he moved a couple of boxes around to reveal another door. There, they made their way into one of the hidden chambers.

Ilya looked around, took in the red velvety booths, the space to dance, the huge bar with bottle of liquors remaining, and clicked his tongue in approval.

The raven-haired man went to another part of the room and pointed to a doorknob.

“Just push this, and you’ll find yourself in the alleyway behind the pub.”

The hockey player took his time, coming to meet him, and gave the fixture a quick look, before purring:

“I missed you.”

Music filled Shane’s head, contrasting with the loud beat of his heart.

“Please, for my peace of mind, tell me that you understand about the hidden door.”

“I do understand about the hidden door,” Ilya confirmed, before gently pushing one hand behind the vampire’s waist, and the other resting on his shoulder.

Shane couldn’t deny him, and kissed him, tasting the sun on his lips. He opened his mouths and soon they were panting, standing daftly in front of a secret door, their hands touching the other like it would save them from impending doom.

Forcing himself to get back to his original point, the vampire grabbed Ilya’s hand, and took him to the bar, where he served them both drinks.

“I wanted to take you there because I have things I wish to say to you. However, I didn’t want everybody to listen to us in the main room.”

“Okay.”

Such trust was a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

He took in the man, with his messy locks, his clear eyes, his calloused hands that felt as soft as cotton when they touched his skin.

“I went away, for a while, with friends. I spent time there, and this is totally boring. My point is, we’ve been… We’ve been super intense, you and I, for years now, and I bit you, which seems to be super low on your danger radar.”

“I liked it. It doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s good for me. I’d say it’s the opposite, I enjoyed it because it was amazing for me.”

His sultry tone played right into Shane’s never extinct desire for him.

“I don’t mean to imply anything. I’m sorry, I should have thought more about what I wanted to say.”

“I don’t mind. Take your time. There’s literally just us in there,” Ilya gestured to the vast room. “Was it as fun to be here as it looked? Were there flapper girls? And bandits?”

“There were, and regular people too. It was so different back then. Some things got better, but in some ways, they also didn’t really change,” Shane confessed. “I looked white enough to not have to deal with discrimination against non-white population, I could go to most establishments. In this room, everybody was welcome, no matter your skin color, gender or who you loved.”

“It pained you, to ‘pass’ as white, didn’t it?” Ilya asked, with extreme foresight.

“At times, it did. And at other times, I didn’t pass. It was never about me, always about who was looking at me, and I hated it. But let’s not go down that gloomy road.”

Ilya stole another kiss from him. When they parted, Shane felt more centered.

“I keep saying we’re a bad idea, but I would be lying if I did not confess that it’s also my favorite bad idea I’ve ever entertained. I like to be in control, it’s part and parcel of who I have become over the centuries. However, when I’m with you, you often take control into your own hands, and I can’t say I hate it. However, I don’t want to go back to just hooking up when we see each other. I will not pretend that I don’t want you terribly either.”

He paused for a second, letting the words sink in.

“I know that you have planned to be in New York longer. I was wondering if you would be amenable to us getting to know each other.”

“Is that what you want?”

There was hope, but also, fear of rejection in the hockey player’s eyes.

“I do, actually. I would like to get to know you. I would like to see you outside of intimate settings, if that felt like something you’d be into. This would be something we would go into as equals, not prey and predator, though that can be fun in certain settings. I’m losing myself here…”

“I would very much like to get to know you better too,” Ilya said, coming to his rescue.

A grin slowly spread on Shane’s face. Carefully, he lifted one of his hands, and brought it to barely touch the hockey player’s. The sun-haired man stretched his fingers to touch it, and on the ground, his foot searched the vampire.

“I am very interested in what you’re offering. But, could I ask for a favor?”

The raven-haired man forced the panicked voice in his head to shut up, as he said:

“Sure.”

“Be open. Say what you feel. Don’t worry about scaring me away. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Maybe I will be the one scaring you shitless. Let’s just … trust the other to digest news.”

“I can do that,” Shane promised, before kissing him softly.

The following weeks were a blur, and a delight.

Shane took Ilya to his place, instead of the Haven, and the hockey player was baffled to see that he had indeed been the subject of many paintings by the vampire.

Sure, he had remembered the man saying he painted when they first talked, but he had underestimated how prominently he would have been featured in his works.

It was humbling. Hockey players were made to be broken and put together again, at the will of the public, at the mercy of the puck. Sure, he knew he was a handsome man, but in his career, it was the least important thing. It had even been a hindrance when people would joke about how terrible it would be to mess up his pretty boy’s face.

Yet, in Shane’s painting, he was not a pretty boy. He was a man, whose feature told a story rather than be a poem to his good looks. The vampire had spotted some of his faintest scars, and casually elevated them to tell his story.

Staring at some of these paintings, Ilya had felt naked but seen.

Shane was an incredible artist, as his apartment had no sunlight in, all glasses being tinted.

Ilya learned that when he was not painting, the vampire would go to a research committee, and clock in some time, helping them work on their latest projects. Vampires used science to understand what they could and could not do.

Their blood could cure injuries, and even save lives, yet it could not help with human diseases. If you crushed your hip falling off a cliff, vampire blood would make you right as rain. If you got the Spanish flu in the 1920s, your vampire friend would have to watch you die.

There were also random (to Ilya) truths. For example, nettles were a pain in the vampiric ass. Shane’s shin rubbed against the plant, one time they were having a midnight stroll in a park, and he got an epic rash. He explained that his blood would need time to get rid of it. Indeed, it had been poisoned through contact. If another vampire had been there, they could have offered their own blood, and made the rash go away. On their own, after an encounter with nettles, vampires were in pain.

“It’s all about blood poisoning. If you’ve got septicemia, I can cure you. If you’ve got tuberculosis, I’m no use to you.”

That had been part of the fun part of getting to know one another.

Somewhere along the weeks, Ilya dreamt about falling into an icy lake, about his mother screaming his name, and darkness. He woke up with sweat pooling down his back, and his lover held him for hours, patiently brushing the tears out of his eyes, and the unease away from his heart.

Yet, the dream happened again, and again, each time with more details, and more dread.

Until it turned out to be a memory, rather than a nightmare.

They went to Suzanne who loved hypnosis to help them make sure they understood what was happening right.

Under her spell, Ilya remembered that time when he had been four, and he had fallen into a lake. He had almost died, his mother clawing him out of the frozen waters, and calling out the name of someone he didn’t know.

A tall figure had appeared, in the blink of an eye, and Irina had pleaded:

“Please, save my son!”

The man had bitten his wrist, and offered it to the small boy.

Later on, as he had slept in his mother’s lap, her hands brushing his hair soothingly, a conversation had been had, and only fragments came back to him.

What they pieced together was that Irina had once met a vampire, who had refused to condemn her to a life as one of his kind. She had been so hurt by his decision, completely one-sided, but when she had borne Alexei and Ilya, part of her anger had relented. She thought he had left her forever.

The man had stayed, somewhere, close enough to watch over her. However, after saving Ilya, he went away, worried he would end up causing more pain to the woman he loved.

“My mother’s tales about man who are monsters and monsters who are great men make more sense now, don’t they?” Ilya joked, though his heart was bleeding thinking of the pain his mother had known.

Shane had lived pretty much all over the globe at one time or another. He had faced terrible discrimination, both when alive then newly dead. He hated his freckles, though Ilya loved them. He had gotten them from David’s side of the family, and it was a daily reminder of the fact that he was unusual. People from Cipango sometimes had similar markings, but they were much rarer than in Europe. For a long time, Shane’s freckles had just been a permanent reminder of how much he did not fit in.

Ilya loved to shower them with kisses. He could not change what they had once meant, but he wanted his partner to know they were loved.

As was he.

Those words were uttered.

By both of them.

One day, Ilya encountered Kyle out in the sunlight, while he was doing some shopping. It should have stopped him dead in his tracks, as it contradicted what Shane had said, but he knew for a fact the man had uttered no lie.

So, he waited till they were together to bring it up.

Shane had pinkened, in a way he rarely did, and Ilya had understood the conversation they were about to have would be about more than just sunlight.

The vampire told his lover about how vampires came to be. Witches, or alchemical yielders, could communicate to one another through scrying. At a time in history, several people in that community had been in love, and wanted to escape their societies, to be with their loved ones, possibly forever. A coven of thirteen witches scrying together had made a pact and traded their ability to have children for quasi eternal life with their loved ones.

Vampires were born. The witches had been adamant about not wanting to feed off humans, trying to find a new way for themselves. The alchemical trade gave them the capacity to feed off each other and create the vital essence through their mutual consent.

One of the basic alchemical principles was that of “bound souls.” It was not like soulmates, but rather finding someone you loved, and binding your souls together. Once that link was in place, the feeding act created the molecule necessary to walk in daylight.

Forsaking the sun had never been part of the original bargain.

“You’ve never bound your soul to anyone’s?” Ilya asked, his hand running absent-mindedly down Shane’s chest.

“Never.”

“Even though it would have meant being able to go back in the sun?”

“It would have meant letting somebody in, and I wasn’t ready.”

“Are you ready now?”

There had been a beat, a very long one.

Finally, Shane had said:

“I understand what you mean, but I think we’re looking at the same thing from different perspectives, none is wrong. You focus on the sun part, and I focus on the “bond” part.”

“You’re dancing around the subject, and we both know you’re a shit dancer.”

A sigh.

“I’ve never had someone in my life, who made me consider the possibility of seeing the sun again. I won’t lie and say I have not thought about it lately, but it’s a huge discussion to be had, with a life shattering decision, and while I love you, I don’t think we should be discussing sun walking and…”

“You did not just drop that you love me and continue with your sentence like it’s business as usual,” Ilya smacked his pec.

“I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“I would never!”

“Love me?”

Shane grunted, standing upright, as he replayed their last exchange in his head.

He licked his lips, then gently took Ilya’s hand in his.

“I did not expect to admit it, but yes, I do love you.”

“Good. You should love me.”

“I do,” replied Shane, looking lost.

“And I love you too. Pretty sure I loved you first too.”

“This is not a competition…”

“Indeed,” Ilya replied, before pushing him down on the bed. “You were too busy running around like a headless chicken for the first few years to think about having feelings for me.”

“Harsh, but fair,” the raven-haired man conceded.

And thus, they were in love.

Four months went by, and Ilya now sported bruises on several parts of his body. While his heart would always love the one on his collarbones, reminding him of the first time he had been bitten, he had a second close favorite.

It was located on the inside of his thigh, where the skin was paper thin, and the veins were accessible. Shane had bit him there during their lovemaking, and Ilya had seen stars for days.

When Ilya went back to Boston for training camps, Shane followed. They had the windowpanes tinted at the hockey player’s house, and what had once been a second bedroom became an art studio.

They continued splitting their time between New York and Boston, Kyle stepping in to take care of the Haven when Shane wasn’t there.

When they came back to New York for the summer, the Haven created an apartment for them, tailored to their every need. Ilya would joke about never knowing where his clothes were, as the enchantment was prone to change their flat’s disposition to please them, but it was perfect. Irina’s portrait was always prominently displayed, no matter the configuration. Shane painted his parents in a smaller frame, and they joined Ilya’s mother on the wall.

A few years into their love affair, Ilya hurt himself at a game, destroying his Achilles’ heel.

He checked himself out of the hospital, against doctor’s advice, and with Shane’s help, got back to their place. There, they pretended to have a talk, but both knew what would be next. Ilya did not want Shane to heal him and then have an unfair advantage on ice. It was time.

In the privacy of their home, thinking only about each other, and the lifetimes they would share, Shane bit Ilya’s neck, who then bit into his.

Once the transformation was complete, they went off the grid, waiting for the media to stop caring about Ilya Rozanov, the former Boston Raiders’ captain.

Ilya was starving all the time, for food and blood and love, and Shane was there for him.

He never stopped holding him, helping him, being there for him. And the reverse was true.

The first time Shane stepped into the sun, his hands into Ilya’s, he cried.

And every time he did it after that, he would taste the sun on his lover’s lips.

Once upon a time, there was a child born out of love, but in prejudice. Somewhere along time and space, there was a child born out of pain, but loved deeply. The first had raven hair, the second was sun kissed. They had nothing in common and should never have met. However, thanks to a bargain made millennia before by unknowing witches, they would. Nothing could have kept them apart, whether it be monsters, ages, or fear.