Willan nuzzles into my hand when I cup his cheek, my thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “I—I made the tea? If you want it?”
That perks him up, as much as it can. His eyes, which were fluttering shut, flare open again. “Gods.” His moan is pathetic, and rather sweet. “Yes, please.”
He must be keen because he withstands my snickering and my awkward assistance getting him sitting up against the black padding of his headboard. Once he’s settled, with his pillows piled up behind him and the quilt he’s kicked off back over his lap, I hesitate, not entirely sure what to do with myself.
“Get in the damned bed, Nikolo.” Willan whines, his head rolling against the pillows and raising his hands just high enough to make grabby hands. “And give me the tea.”
I don’t get under the covers with him—I came straight from work. He might be ranking up his bed, but I don’t need to add to it. I do sit on top of the covers next to him, though, enjoying the way he automatically leans into me.
“I hope it’s okay. I mean, I couldn’t taste it or anything, and it’s been years but?—”
“Shut up and give it to me, Nikolo.” Willan grunts and groans and gives a horribly rattly cough that brings back my nerves again while I raise the tea to his lips. He cups my hands to hold it steady and slowly he takes a sip.
I watch his throat work thickly, and the terrible grimace as he swallows.
“Fuck, did I fuck it up? I’m sorry—” Willan holds my hands in place when I try to take the mug away.
“It’sperfect. Just like I remember.” Willan sighs happily, his face relaxing. “Just hurts to swallow.”
“Did you want to wait then?” I offer, but he shakes his head.
“No. Sometimes a little pain’s worth it.” Willan smiles and presses on my hands so I tip the mug. It’s slow going, but he manages to get half the chocolatey tea down before he’s had enough.
“Thank you.” He sighs, his body collapsing in exhaustion, his face mushed into my chest. “What time is it?”
“Gimme a sec.” I push him back just enough to pull off my top so he doesn’t have to inhale all the alcohol fumes and shimmy out of my pants. Then I resettle him on my chest, wrapping my arm around his shoulders and tugging him close. “It’s late. Like, three in the morning.”
Willan sighs, nuzzling into me and throwing an arm over my waist. “Stay?” He asks, already dozing back off. “Please?”
Kissing the top of his hair, right on one of the unravelling braids, I squeeze his shoulder. His place isn’t secure, I know that. The heavy black draped curtains may look impenetrable, but they aren’t vamp rated. But I could stay somewhere. It wouldn’t be the first time I spent the day in a closet for safety. And at least this time, it’d be for someone worth it.
“Yeah, I’ll stay.” I take my promise literally, for as long as I can. Scrolling on my phone until he’s in something resembling a peaceful sleep, I can’t take feeling scungy from work anymore and I need a shower.
It takes some digging through his stuff, which I don’t feel a lick of guilt over, to find a pair of black sleep pants made of Mazheri spun fabric. I don’t bother with underwear. I also don’t think I can just lie in the bed until the sun comes up, so I end up tidying up his living room where he dumped his stuff when he came home, put his phone on charge, and do the few dishes in the sink.
Still not done, and on a mission to make him feel as good as possible when he wakes up and I’m dead for the day, I root around in his fridge until I strike gold with a handful of vegetables in the crisper and hand made dumplings in the freezer. Of course Willan has fresh vegetables in his fridge. He’s such an adult about everything. I get lost roughly halfway through my impromptu soup making endeavour but a quick search on my phone gets me over the hurdles and soon enough it’s simmering away on his stove, filling the apartment with yet another familiar smell of my childhood. The mountain got damned cold in the winter—we ate alotof soup growing up.
I get it all boxed up in the fridge in the perfectly matching containers in Willan’s cupboards and all traces of my efforts cleaned up and get back to Willan in the bed. The moment my ass hits the sheets he’s barnacled to me. It’s immediately obvious that he’s naked when he throws a leg over my thigh and half climbs on top of me. Because I’m not dead yet, my dick reacts at his proximity and the friction, but I ignore it, grabbing one of the books from the pile beside the bed. It’s a heavy ass, dry book about the vampire rights movement over the last century. In fact, I realise, looking over the stack of books, they’re all on vampires, each with colourful sticky tabs sticking out the side.
A half smile tugging at my lips, I settle into the bed with Willan’s lightly snoring face pressed into my chest until I feel the first stirrings of sunrise.
“Nooo.” Willan grumbles. Getting out of bed feels like fighting an octopus with the way he keeps clinging to me any way he can. I don’t want to leave him, either. In fact, I hate it. What if something happens and I’m just there, dead in his wardrobe? What if he needs me?
But it would be worse to have him wake up to my fried remains, so I dig out a pen and some paper and find some sticky tape in the kitchen.
VAMP IN WARDROBEI write in big black letters, sticking it to the door with twice the tape I need. Every vamp’s heard horror stories about someone’s maker’s maker’s friend’s, clan mate or cousin being crispified from being careless with the dawn. I’m not about to be someone's horror story.
Once all of his shoes are carefully relined up outside the wardrobe, I climb inside. At least my hiding place smells like him, not that it matters when the sun rises and the world disappears.
WILLAN
Everything hurts.Even my hair follicles ache.
I blink myself awake, but my brain is sludge. Maybe it’s the onslaught of magically enhanced viruses attacking my body, but something feels wrong. I had the craziest dreams about Nikolo. So many of them, some that he was here, some that we were back on the mountain. And another one where we were fucking in the clouds while woodland creatures played small stringed instruments.
Fucking weird. Being sick is the worst.
With monumental effort, I roll over, groping at the bedside table for my phone, hoping like fuck that I charged it. I find my phone and almost blind myself when I unlock it. Through mostly closed eyes I see I’ve got a bunch of messages from my friends who’ve all no doubt heard about my miserable suffering. It hurts too much to look, so I don’t bother checking them just yet. There’s messages from Egbert, too, begging for a sign of life with increasing distress. I mash the screen until I’m pretty sure I’ve sent him a thumbs up and move on.
