Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Heavy steps up the stairs, one, two, three, until his foot slips on the wet linoleum. His knees hit the ground hard as he falls, one of his hands flies to the side to grab at the railing. A sharp gasp echoes in the empty hallway as the edge of the stair digs into his left kneecap, a flash of pain travelling quickly up his leg.

His head swims, he’s swimming. A whirlwind of piercing bright light and deep shadows dances behind his eyes whether he keeps them closed or not, unescapable. All sounds aside from his own breaths, harsh and loud, seem muted and hushed, silenced. He’s both inside and outside his body, both looking up the stairs where he has fallen and watching himself curl up on the ground from above. 

With fingers tightly wrapped around the handrail, chipped paint and plastic covering the metal structure underneath, he drags himself upright before he’s ready, heavy limbs moving on their own.

He needs to, he needs to continue, continue up, up, up, up towards home, home and safety, safe, he’ll be safe, safe and away from —

His neck throbs. 

Heavy feet take one step after another, slowly, slowly, slowly bringing him closer to home.

His neck throbs.

This is just a bad dream. Soon enough he’ll wake up. He must wake up.

His neck throbs.

Away, away, away from —

Pulsing lights and the stink of alcohol and sweat, of smoke and strong, heady perfumes, a sick mix of both sweet and bitter, of musk and something earthy and dirty. Flashing red and black, the throb of bass so deep he can locate it in his chest, pumping just behind his heart. A blurry memory of something similar with someone he has forgotten, someone who has left him, faded away, disappeared. Tonight he’s alone.

One more step, two, three. He has nearly reached his floor.

How can his feet be this heavy when he otherwise feels so light, like he’s swimming, like he’s flying?

In the crowd, kind, dark eyes and a beautiful smile, a flash of perfectly straight teeth, unlike his own. A question he can’t hear a word of, but he nods anyway. Anyone, anything, any offer of quick fun is better than being alone. And the stranger is beautiful, his smile infectious. His hands, his eyes, his teeth —

His floor, his door. He drops onto his knees again, hands shooting forward to brace the fall, and he barely notices how his wrists twist and his arms burn from the shock of the impact. 

One knee slides in front of the other, his right hand shakily places itself in front of the left one. Crawling, he edges towards home. Home and safety.

The alleyway is dark and damp, but the man’s touch on him is intoxicating, enough so that everything else around them blurs away.

Soon enough he’ll wake up. He must wake up.

Cold stone against his back, and his arms wrapped around the beautiful man. A moan, a gasp, a whimper. Something warm trickling down his neck, and the delayed sensation of the bite, a sudden wave of pain, piercingly sharp and dreadfully addictive. He hasn’t felt anything so beautiful, so terrifying in a long time.

He must wake up.

“Go home now.”

He must wake up.

.

.

.

Jere bites his lip as he takes another look at the glowing screen of his phone. He reads the numbers over and over again, not registering what he sees for a good while, his brain filled with other things and other thoughts circling around in a seemingly endless foggy spiral until the figures finally snap into clear focus.

Ten forty-eight. Not the time yet.

He turns the screen off and tucks the device back into his pocket.

Jere has vacuumed the apartment and swept the dust and crumbs off the kitchen counter and the sofa table. He has taken out the trash, made his bed, and folded away the laundry that had hung drying on the drying rack for close to a month. He has done the dishes that had waited in the sink for a similarly long time — only a couple of mugs and a few spoons, he has not had the appetite for anything big lately, sustaining himself on the occasional ready-to-eat meal and sandwiches wrapped in plastic he gets from the gas station on his nightly walks. He has scrubbed the bathroom clean, floor to ceiling. He has emptied the fridge of rotten leftovers and cartons of expired milk but bought nothing to fill it again. 

Jere has had time, he has had time as he waits. He hasn’t slept for weeks now, surviving on choppy fits of unconsciousness on the few occasions the sleeplessness has proved too much for his system, during the more quiet moments at work when he hides from his boss in the breakroom or in the bus as he rides back home. But he never drifts off for long, always snapping back awake before his eyes can properly close, before his body can actually rest.

Cold stone.

Dark eyes, perfect teeth.

A question he can’t hear yet he nods anyway.

A flash of red, of pain.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful —

With a shaky hand, Jere takes out his phone.

Ten fifty. Not the time yet.

.

.

.

Jere stares up at the ceiling with eyes too used to the dark. Earlier in the week, or maybe it was just that evening, he’s not so sure anymore, he had thrown his pillows and covers and sheets onto the floor in a fit of frustration. Now, too exhausted to lift a finger to fix the mess, he lies on a bare mattress.

Sleep has avoided him since that night.

He has tried everything. Leaving out the energy drinks and caffeine tablets that used to get him through the day, allowing work to drain him and avoiding any moment of rest until nighttime, winding down with meditation tapes and breathing exercises, drinking until he usually would pass out, pills. None of it has helped.

It’s not that nightmares have come to plague him after the terror of that night, a flash of red, of pain, making him afraid of the dark, of sleep, forcing him to wakefulness. He simply can’t fall asleep, not even when he’s sore all over, his neck throbs, and exhausted beyond the point of passing out. 

Slowly, Jere turns to his side, curling up with his knees close to his chest as he faces the wall. With the move comes a spell of dizziness, a whirlwind of bright and dark that joins the headache thrumming just behind his eyes.

There’s a hunger inside him, a thirst he can’t quench. It keeps him tethered to this pained, barely conscious state — horror has turned into an ache, into a craving, into a need. The need to feel his heart beat faster and faster, impossibly fast, itching under his skin. The craving to fear for his life and wonder which breath will be his last, the thrill of a terminal gamble. The ache for hands to keep him still, for teeth to press against and into his flesh, for dark eyes to smile at him again.

“Go home now.”

His heart skips a beat, his neck throbs, and he continues to stare at the wall with eyes too used to the dark.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful —

.

.

.

A knock at the door, a quiet rap that would go unheard if Jere weren’t so anxious to hear it.

The numbers on the phone screen read ten fifty-nine. It’s almost time. 

It’s time. 

He’s here.

.

.

.

Something calls to him in the dark night. His home doesn’t feel safe anymore. The walls constrict around him, trap him in, keep him away from — 

It’s strange. His home, his safe place where he would hide after a terrible day and whenever the horrors of the world would get too close, has turned into a prison where he paces the rooms, anxious for the wait of a sharp pain, for the anticipation of something about to pierce and tear at his skin, impatiently expecting firm hands to keep him still as plush lips press against his throat, as a greedy tongue laps at the wetness trickling down his neck.

Kind, dark eyes. A beautiful smile. Hands ask for permission to touch, and Jere grabs them, placing them on his hips.

“What’s your name?” A question he can finally hear, spoken straight into his ear in a voice so warm Jere heats up, flushing red.

“Jere,” he gasps, pulling back to lock eyes with the stranger.

Such a beautiful smile.

“Hi, Jere,” the stranger says, the way his lips curl around Jere’s name addictive. “I’m Bojan.”

Sleepless, Jere paces the rooms, his neck throbs, and eyes the front door. Something calls to him outside it.

He can’t hear what it asks of him, but he needs to answer.

Their dance lasts for what feels like hours, Bojan’s hands never leaving their post on his hips, their bodies pressing closer and closer in the pulsing crowd. The lights around them blink in reds and purples and blues, with brief moments of pitch-black in between. Sweat trickles down Jere’s brow, down his back. His skin burns where Bojan’s touch presses into him.

“Come with me?”

The man’s voice is so warm, so inviting. Jere can only nod.

After he finally manages to step outside for the first time, a trembling, nervous hand opening the door, unsteady feet walking him over the threshold, fleeing the walls of his home becomes easy.

Aching all over, with a growing headache pulsing through both his body and his thoughts, Jere drags his heavy feet across the city. The overwhelming hunger keeps him walking, wandering, keeps him feverishly searching brightly lit city streets and dark, abandoned paths twisting through parks and forests, makes him visit the club where it had happened again and again and again, haunting the dark rooms until sunrise, until he has to admit failure this time, this night, too.

What is he doing?

Cold stone.

What is he looking for?

His neck throbs.

The search takes him to corners of the city he has not seen before, to the unwelcoming, cold districts filled with grey steel and glass, the streets where rent costs three times his monthly wages. It takes him to empty car parks behind just as empty malls, to greasy, crowded hideaways, to sleepy neighbourhoods just off the big roads crossing the city, to quiet gas stations populated by other sleepless ones staring dazedly into half-empty cups of bitter coffee. 

Dark eyes.

His sneakers soak in puddles that the seemingly ever-present rain creates. He’s cold down to his bones. Still, he keeps searching for —

Perfect teeth.

Until finally one night, in an unlit suburban underpass far away from crowds, far away from life, a figure stands waiting for him on the other side of the dark tunnel. His heart soars at the sight of the shadow that slowly turns around to face him, and Jere knows, he knows, he knows this is it, this is the answer.

.

.

.

Firm hands. 

Dark eyes.

Sharp. 

Red.

It quickly turns into a habit.

.

.

.

“Hi, Jere.”

“Hi.” 

Holding the door open, Jere stares at the man in front of him. He’s as beautiful as ever, even under the harsh hallway lights, with his finely falling brown and grey hair, youthful face, and kind, dark eyes.

“Will you let me in?” Bojan asks, amused.

And it is funny, isn’t it, how this man who has so many times held Jere’s life in his hands, this man who could have ended him on so many occasions, needs permission to take a single step and cross the threshold into his home. 

Standing there just outside his door, Bojan looks strange, odd, wrong. The thought of him inside is much more pleasing, appealing, right. He belongs there, with Jere.

Jere steps aside. “Come in,” he rasps, just in case the agreement has to be spoken out loud.

The door closes after the man with a definitive thud and a quiet click of the lock.

Inside, Bojan takes his time to carefully hang up his wool coat. After a glance at Jere’s socked feet, he bends down to pull off his boots, lining them up neatly beside Jere’s scruffy sneakers. Once he rises to his full height again, it’s clear that he is not that much taller than Jere, but Jere still feels the man tower over him.

“You have a nice place here,” Bojan speaks softly as he looks around the narrow entryway. 

“Thanks.” Jere fidgets with his rings, wipes his sweating palms against the denim covering his thighs.

“I’ve got something for you.” Bojan continues, smiling as he motions towards a bag he holds in his hand, one Jere hadn’t noticed yet despite his ceaseless staring. 

His heart skips a beat before starting to beat faster, an alarmed thump, thump, thump that he suddenly feels all the way up in his throat. With shaky hands, Jere reaches for the offering —  just an ordinary, non-descript grocery bag, not too heavy, not too bulky. Immense curiosity and a lurking sense of horror make him immediately peek inside.

“You need to eat. You've lost some weight, after…” Bojan’s explanation trails off, but his smile stays.

Inside the bag, there are a few packages of food, the same gas station meals in colourful cartons and plastic wrappings Jere has survived on for the past month.

“Oh.” A sense of relief washes over him, a tightness in his belly releases its nauseating hold. What did he think it would be? A bag of blood? “Thank you,” he speaks, his words crackling with jittery laughter.

Slowly, Jere turns to walk deeper into the apartment. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Bojan follows closely behind. He can feel the man’s presence pulse through his being like a disjointed part of himself, like the ghostly ache of a lost limb. 

In the kitchen, Jere wordlessly places the bag into the otherwise empty fridge with more care than he usually gives to groceries.

Once he closes the door, Bojan steps close. Jere instinctively turns to face him, craning his neck, throb, just the slightest bit needed to answer Bojan’s gaze straight on, but also takes a step back — and Bojan doesn’t stop nearing but walks him backwards, until Jere’s back meets the kitchen counter behind. 

Cold stone. 

A shiver of anticipation shakes through him, a want and a need, a breeze of freezing cold followed by burning heat —

Bojan reaches forward. His hand disappears behind Jere, and then Jere hears the distinctive click of the electric kettle turning on.

“Just making sure that you’ll be comfortable.”

Kind, dark eyes. 

Jere’s neck throbs.

.

.

.

“How many times have you done this now, Jere?” 

Bojan turns around. His grin reaches his eyes, as it often does, and Jere can’t help answering it with one of his own. 

In Jere’s opinion, it hasn't been nearly enough times. It’ll never be enough. 

To think that he once had a life that this wasn’t a part of. To think that there once was a him that didn’t spend the nights awake walking the dark, wandering, searching, answering, a him that this wasn’t a part of.

“Someone could say that you are stalking me.”

Slowly, Bojan walks towards him, sure steps rasping against the loose gravel of the park pathway. Eventually, he gets close enough that Jere could count the man’s eyelashes, if he just could muster up the focus needed for the task, first.

Simply the closeness of the other, the anticipation of contact, of sharpness and red and lightheadedness, is distracting and intoxicating enough. Jere takes in a stuttery breath. His lungs fill with the cool air of a rainy autumn night, his senses overtaken by the scents of wet grass, rotting leaves, and something that will now always remind him of the terribly beautiful night they had met.

An ungloved hand rises and touches his cheek, a barely-there touch. Jere lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me.” Bojan’s voice is close to a whisper but still commanding enough that Jere’s eyes blink back open immediately.

Bojan studies him with a look he hasn’t seen on the man before. Contemplative, and serious, almost.

“You just can’t get enough, huh?”

And maybe Bojan doesn’t need an answer, since the truth is obvious, since the truth can be read all over Jere’s jittery shakes and the pleading twitch of his mouth, but he still shakes his head no. There’s no use in hiding it, in lying. He can’t lie, not to Bojan, not even if he wanted to. The stare of those dark eyes, kind yet piercing, sees through him, strips him, peels back layers all the way down to his bones, uncovering everything.

It’s a dizzying sensation, to be known down to his faults and not pushed away.

“Will you stop torturing yourself if I come to you?” Bojan’s gaze has turned earnest. Worried.

Worried? Torturing?

“Yes,” Jere gasps.

A beautiful smile.

Under a buzzing streetlight, with the muted cries from a group of drunks across the park echoing in the background, Bojan’s teeth caress his skin almost lovingly.

.

.

.

“Is this where you want it?”

Jere blinks, coming back to the present. He shifts where he’s sat on his lumpy, worn couch, with a mug of cooling tea clutched between his hands. He has managed to drink only half of it, even though it’s delicious. Bojan had taken his time to prepare the drink just the way Jere likes it, with more honey than necessary for that added bit of sweetness.

Bojan moves closer across the couch and gently but firmly grabs the drink, moving it away before focusing on him entirely. 

Dark eyes.

Jere feels so lightheaded already.

A flash of red, of pain.

His lips part, and he hesitates for a moment before answering. “N-no, I… Bed. It… It’s softer.” 

They keep the lights off.

Jere sits on the edge of the mattress. Almost immediately, hands emerge from the dark to push him down and manoeuvre him to lie on his side. He can feel the bed shift as Bojan moves, climbing onto it, and the man settles behind him, not quite near enough, not quite touching him, and suddenly that pulse of disjointedness is back, the need to lean back and press against the other emerging and growing stronger by each passing second, the need to feel some kind of connection, the need to let the night swallow him whole —

Then, limbs, hands, all of it a relief. Bojan’s knee knocks against the back of his as the man shifts. One of his arms slides under the pillow Jere’s head lies on and curls around him, and the other folds itself on top of his body, its weight holding him down. One of his hands grabs Jere’s jaw, fingers pressing firmly into the fat of his cheeks, while the other one holds onto his shoulder almost chastely.

And Jere stills, even though under his skin there is a prickling urge to fight himself free of the touch, away, away, away — the urge to fight just to be subdued, to have Bojan grab him with bruising strength, to feel the sharp points of teeth scrape against his skin — almost as strong as the need to sink into the body lying so close to his.

Bojan’s quiet, relaxed breaths in the dark, and Jere’s heart thump, thump, thumping in his chest.

The glow of the cloudy, polluted night sky finds its way in through a slit between the curtains, painting a stripe of orange on the bare wall opposite the bed.

A soft caress along the curve of Jere’s jaw before the fingers tighten their hold again. His head, gently but firmly turned, tuned, angled just so.

The itch under the surface remains, tension in his limbs readying Jere to flee, but ultimately he wants to be touched more than he wants to escape, and above all, he wants Bojan to have him. 

For a moment, everything hangs suspended in the air. 

Then, Bojan noses his neck. The wet heat of Bojan’s mouth presses against his skin, and, without any further warning, the sharp pain of the bite pierces him, the sick sound of teeth punching through flesh echoing in the room

“Haaa…” 

A breathy gasp escapes Jere’s mouth, and he jerks. The hands holding him still tighten their hold, a leg gets thrown over him to keep him from kicking himself free, and then there’s that familiar flash of red as the pain settles in. A plunge into icy water that soon turns burning, and Jere finds himself submerged in a sea of fire. Everything is hot and wet, and he burns and throbs all over, he can hear a sob somewhere distant, a moan wet with tears. 

He must be crying.

Behind the sobs, behind the moans, there’s another sound, a soft hum. The hand still clutching Jere’s shoulder slides down along his tense arm and grabs his hand where it twists into and tears at the bedsheets, bracing against the waves of pain. Fingers intertwine with his just as the teeth in his flesh retreat and lips lock over the bite to suck at the sudden flood of blood.

It’s not any less painful. Now there’s growing and more constant pressure against the wound as Bojan’s mouth keeps working it over, as the tip of Bojan’s tongue keeps lapping over the bite, poking at its torn edges. But now there’s also a hand in his and a body pressed against him — Bojan’s hand, Bojan’s body.

Blood trickles down the curve of his neck, messing the sheets.

Bojan continues to hum contently as he feeds on Jere, as he pulls back the slightest bit to lap up the stray rivulets of red trickling down the back of his neck, as he returns to poke at the bite with his tongue to provoke another rush of blood to leak out. And a hum like that shouldn't soothe Jere, not when his life is being played with, but there’s strange pleasure, strange comfort in being wanted and used so. 

Maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one craving this connection, an end to the disjointedness, to the ghost-like ache. 

The thought is dizzying. 

“Nhh…”

Tension and the fight begin to leave Jere as both his body and mind yield. Bojan’s hand still holding him by his jaw shifts. Its firm touch isn’t needed anymore.

“Ah —”

As Bojan pulls back, his fingers brush over Jere’s lips. They stop moving at the sound that escapes Jere at the unexpected touch. 

A touch devoid of any connection to sharpness, to red. Something that hasn’t repeated since their first meeting at the club, since the cold and damp of the alleyway and the first bite, something that has been forgotten in place of a more burning ache, a more demanding need. 

Hands on his hips, hands on his waist, under his thin shirt, fingers digging into bare flesh, nails leaving half-moon indents behind. Bojan’s pretty lips against his, finally, finally, finally, Bojan’s tongue eagerly pushing into his mouth. A breathless moan, another. One thick thigh slides between his legs, he twitches and grinds against its firm heat and lets his own arms wrap around the man, allowing himself to give in, to hang onto the other. The cold stone against his back doesn’t feel so bad like this.

Then Bojan’s mouth moves onto his neck.

Heat stirs in Jere, familiar in its core but unknown in its intensity. Lightheaded, he leans his head forward as much as he can with Bojan’s continuing exploration of his neck and sucks the digits into his mouth.

Everything stills.

Then, a sharp scratch of teeth against his neck that doesn’t quite break Jere’s skin. 

Bojan’s body pressing and thrusting against his, tighter, closer, as if seeking another way in under his skin and into his veins. A guttural grunt that melts into a whimper, a firm swipe of tongue over the bite that grows into an open-mouthed, demanding kiss of the wound, teetering on the edge of painful.

The stink of metal stays heavy in the air, overwhelming, a persistent reminder of the original intentions of this encounter, and Jere’s whole being throbs. A more pleasant heat flashes through his body, so light and used and powerless and Bojan’s, settling low in his belly, a ball of pulsing arousal.

“Y-you, nh… You c-come again?” Jere manages to slur around the fingers pressing against his tongue, each stuttering syllable sending a burst of pain down his torn neck, but he doesn’t care. 

He just needs to make sure that there’s a next time.

“If you want me to,” Bojan whispers into his ear, voice raspy and almost bubbly with the stickiness of blood. Lips press gently, so impossibly gently, against the throbbing, still-leaking mess of the bite.

“Sleep now, Jere.”

Jere wakes up before noon to weak October light streaming in through the window — the rays of sun too cold to heat up the room, too cold to warm up the empty spot next to him. 

Bojan is, of course, already gone.

Chapter Text

A weight in his mouth, heavy on his tongue, thick and sticky with the taste of metal. Above him, a softly humming light blinks, leaving him alone in the dark before crackling alive and illuminating the scene again.

An alleyway behind a club, quiet and dead. Cold walls of stained brick and stone rise tall around him, reaching for the faraway night sky. The acrid stench of sick lingers in the air, blending with the damp rot of autumn. 

It has rained again. 

He stands by the edge of a large puddle, its water black and still like the night and just as inviting. But invisible hands grip him firmly, numerous hands twist and knit tightly into his clothes to hold him still, one clutches his neck, another his jaw, all keeping him from stepping forward, all keeping him away from — 

From what? From whom?

He leans in as much as the strange restraints allow and gazes into the black void of pooled rain, yet his reflection doesn’t greet him back. The puddle opens before him as dark as an unlit underpass in some distant memory. A memory of — This is it, this is the — Though, this time, he’s aware that nothing, nobody, waits for him at the other side, at the bottom of it.

The light above keeps flickering, bringing the alley in and out of focus, in and out, in and out. 

Until everything flashes red.

A sound echoes in the alleyway, the violent wetness of flesh stabbed, and the invisible hands retreat immediately. 

His legs give out, his arms begin to reach out, slowly, his movements muddled. Suddenly, he’s free of his restraints but still not in control of his body — nobody, nothing is. 

He falls.

Instead of meeting rain-wet asphalt, he sinks through the still surface of the puddle. The water swallows him whole.

And its embrace burns at the first touch, it burns cold, its icy caress is sharp like a bite. It sears and tears at his skin, a painful brush against his neck, his face, his hands, before settling into something much gentler, growing into almost loving flames that lick him from head to toe and then devour him entirely as he sinks towards the bottom of the strange pool, except there doesn’t seem to be a bottom to it, an end to it, no end to this, no end to them, and he keeps sinking deeper and deeper into the endless dark, falling fast, falling hard.

Yet he isn’t alarmed, he doesn’t fight it. He has no reason to, he doesn’t want to. The weight on his tongue, thick and sticky with the taste of metal, the taste of red, comforts him, bringing back the memory of —

He drifts down, falling freely into the dark. His limbs dance with the weightlessness of the pool, the water is silky smooth against his touch as it passes through his fingers. He blinks his eyes open but sees nothing in the endless black, not even a flash of light from above where he thinks the surface is, where it should be.

He remembers — 

A beautiful smile.

And then, the return of the invisible hands, except different. Touches against his hips, jaw, shoulder, twisting and wrapping around his splayed fingers, touches that burn hotter, gentler, more loving than the fire-like water around him. A presence, someone, falling down with him.

Words, distant and unintelligible, as if they were coming from the surface, spoken in a foreign tongue. The scratch of something against his throat as they keep sinking.

Perfect teeth.

His mouth falls open at the sharpness. The honey-sweetness of the water begins to fill him.

Jere wakes up to a broken sob that escapes his mouth just as his hips roll down against the mattress, as his splayed fingers twist into the messy sheets and his eyes flutter open against the weak morning light filling the room — a desperate howl that sounds obscenely loud in the quiet of the apartment, a needy grind against the only warmth, the only softness in his bed, an uncoordinated thrust that repeats, repeats, repeats.

Gasping, he turns and presses his face into the pillow, embarrassed to hear his own need. All the while, his hips continue to grind down, and his leg hikes up to the side to allow for a lengthier drag against the warmth and the softness, looking for more friction to meet his desperation. Biting down on the sweat-drenched pillow, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to catch the fleeting impressions of sharpness and hands and the presence of that someone, a frustrated whine turning into another sob as the dream only escapes further away from his reach, already blurry on the edges and distorted, leaving him to rut down uselessly against the mattress in a pool of his own sweat.

Jere had sunk into the black, a flash of red, the wetness of flesh stabbed, he had sunk towards the bottom of — No end to this, no end to them — There had been a weight, thick and sticky, metallic, and a sweetness like honey that had filled him — But more importantly, he had been there — 

He turns around to lie on his back. His hips jerk upwards, reeling from the loss of contact, the loss of friction. Shoving a hand into his sleep shorts and wrapping a fist around himself, Jere grits his teeth as he tries, tries, tries to remember how Bojan’s touch had felt, how falling with him had felt.

Dark eyes.

Moving instinctively, his free hand rises to wrap around his throat. It’s a firm, stable weight, but it’s also too predictable, too familiar, too soft to offer him what he needs. His fingers twitch with desperation before they understand to dig deeper into the flesh — a poor imitation of Bojan’s sharpness, his nails too dull to pierce skin. 

A gentle press of lips against his throbbing neck.

Jere sobs as a wave of white, too soft, too rushed, all wrong, washes over him. His body still contorts from its weak punch, legs bending and back weakly arching before falling slack onto the mattress. His eyes continue to leak wet as the unsatisfying release settles in and also passes, all of it too fast.

The uneven white of the ceiling seems out of focus. Sweaty sheets tangle around his legs, his hand is sticky in the wrong way, the bitter taste and weight of nothing rest in his mouth.

The ghostly ache of distance, a part of him missing. Jere’s chest tightens with a hard lump that constricts his breath, the sensation of suffocation.

Falling fast, falling hard.

A choppy intake of air, an uneven exhale. The ceiling stays out of focus, and his eyes burn.

Where had Bojan gone?

.

.

.

For days after Bojan's departure, Jere’s fingers keep finding their way up to his neck.

The bite has healed already. It had been gone by the morning Jere had woken up alone in his cold bed, the newly knit-together skin purpley yellow with only the smallest, nearly fully faded bruise. Still, in the slow days that follow, his fingers rise to caress the site of the bite in search of something to irritate, something to poke and scratch at, something to tear open as he stares unseeingly at the open shop floor between customers. They press down with the strength to leave a mark as he listens to his boss drone on about daily goals and sales targets to hit during their morning huddles. Nails dig into flesh as he rides the bus back home after yet another late closing shift, the city already dark around him, swallowed by yet another wave of grey autumn rain. 

Tomi’s lips keep moving. Jere nods occasionally at points he hopes are appropriate enough as he stares back at the man across the breakroom table without really hearing his words. A story about last week’s game. This should interest him.

The tips of his fingers brush over the bite site before sliding across skin towards the back of his neck, seeking out the route stray red had trickled down, the route Bojan’s mouth had so closely followed to lap up the trail of blood. The jagged edge of a broken nail scratches the skin as he pulls his hand back to retrace the path. 

Sharp, but not sharp enough. 

“Jere.” The concern in Tomi’s voice pierces through his focused tracing.

“Huh?” Jere lifts his gaze he hadn’t noticed to have wandered.

Tomi just looks at him quietly without saying anything more. Jere’s touch shifts. A thumb presses against his jugular. 

Firm, but not firm enough.

Despite all his caressing, poking, scratching, and pressing, he can’t find a way to satisfy his want, his need. He can’t find a spot to tease that could imitate Bojan’s touch even fleetingly, he can’t find a spot to ease the quickly returning throbbing for more. The craving to be bit, the phantom ache to connect, the hunger to be held down, the thirst to be used. His want only grows.

Jere wants to see Bojan again. He wants to feel Bojan again, he wants to be whole again. And as much as he misses the sharpness, the red, the precariousness in each encounter, the thrill of the gamble, he finds that he misses the man even more. 

The kind, dark eyes and the beautiful smile that spreads so easily across Bojan’s face. The hesitancy with which Bojan had reached for Jere when he had emerged from the dark underpass that first time, the amused tone and the teasing words that he greeted him with whenever Jere found him in the night, after. The tenderness in Bojan’s touches as he angled Jere just so, the firmness with which he held Jere’s life in his hands. The softness in Bojan’s voice after each encounter as he told Jere to go home now, to sleep now, smiling with such warmth as blood still stained his lips and chin. The surge of lust with which he had pressed against Jere, as if seeking a way under his skin, muscle, bones, and into his veins, a way to make them whole. Everything he knows about the man and everything he hopes to learn, still.

Each darkfall, Jere retreats to his apartment and waits, listening for a knock at the door, anticipating it. But as days pass, as nights pass, three stretching into five and then into a week, two weeks without a sign from Bojan, longer than they have ever gone without seeing each other after that terribly beautiful night, doubt creeps in like an uninvited guest. 

Bojan will return to him, right? He will. Jere had asked him to, had begged him to, and Bojan had promised that he would, had given him an if you want me to, had whispered it to him so sweetly and sealed it with a kiss. He had promised. Or had Jere’s invitation not been clear enough? But Bojan had said those words, had followed them with a kiss — 

Has something happened? Should Jere go looking for him? Or, had Jere been too much? Bojan had seen him, all of him, so close. Maybe it had been too close, his want and need too much. Maybe Bojan had found it, had found him repulsive after all.

Or maybe Bojan had simply had enough. Maybe he had already gotten everything he expected to get from Jere, and the connection Jere felt was only in his head, all of it a production of his imagination, his need, his want. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Falling fast, falling hard.

Jere’s neck throbs. He rests a hand over his throat as he curls up on his unmade bed, settling down for another night of wanting and waiting, eyes slipping half-closed as he keeps listening for that quiet rap at the door.

Fingers poke, scratch, and dig in. 

It’s agonising to ache so for something that he isn’t sure will come. 

.

.

.

Laughter, gasps, curses. On the screen, the puck slides into the net, and a cheer runs through the cramped pub, cutting through and releasing the suffocating tension in the room. Spilt beers, more laughter, shouts and cries of relief. Tomi wraps him in an embrace, shaking with excitement as he screams into his ear. 

For once, Jere doesn’t need to force a smile. He’s not sure he could muster up one that would convince the man anyway. In the short time they have known each other, Tomi has already grown way too observant, he has learnt to read him too well.

But it’s Jesse who catches him when he tries to leave the pub unnoticed, once the third period starts and Tomi’s focus returns to the screen. Of course it’s him. Jere had felt his stare earlier from across the room, he had known to expect something. He had only hoped to be fast enough to slip outside without getting caught.

Jere has taken only a couple of steps towards the door when Jesse manages to cut in and block his escape. Smoothly, without slowing, he pulls him under his arm and leads him away from the crowd. And he goes with Jesse without a fight. He doesn’t have the strength to resist. He doesn’t have the strength to do much these days.

Trapped between a wall and a friend, Jere turns to look out of the windows at the front of the pub. 

It’s getting darker by the minute. He should get home soon.

“Are you on something?”

Jesse’s accusation snaps his attention away from the last rays of the setting sun lighting the city, the growing shadows, the streetlights blinking on.

“What the fuck?” Jere laughs. He meets Jesse’s sharp stare, serious and knowing and way too close.

Disappointment twists into a tight knot in his belly. His laughter dies.

“Why… What makes you think that?” He asks again. “You know I’m not. That’s not me.”

“What is it then? Gambling? Debt?” Jesse’s eyes keep scanning Jere’s face. He bites his lip, hesitating for a moment before leaning in closer and continuing in a softer, gentler tone, as if soothing a panicked, wounded animal. “Or, has he —”

“No, no, and no.”

Jesse’s gaze, still serious, stoic almost, doesn’t betray his thoughts. But then, finally, he sighs heavily. A hand flies up, Jesse removes his glasses before rubbing his eyes. 

“Fuck, Jere. I’m so sorry.” The glasses slide back on to frame the regret in his tired stare. “Tomi told me that you’re… That you… And what am I supposed to think when I see you like this?”

Worried hands gesture vaguely in the tight space between them, and Jere craves to pull up his hood and get his sunglasses out, to hide behind their reflective shield. He knows exactly what Jesse sees — how dark the circles under his eyes are, how pale his skin has turned, how hollow his cheeks have gotten when they had been full for so many years already. When he had been doing so well for such a long time.

But the sun has nearly set. He needs to get home.

“Why not something happy?” Jere croaks. His neck throbs. He curls his hands into fists, resisting the itch to touch. 

He really needs to get home.

“Happy?”

“I’ve just had trouble sleeping.” He hears himself speak, he feels his mouth move, his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “That’s all.”

“You’ve met someone.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Of course Jesse would see that. 

The way Jesse’s lip curls tells Jere everything he’s thinking, but he doesn’t say anything more or stop him from leaving.

.

.

.

“Sleep now, Jere.”

At least he can sleep now, even if it still doesn’t come easily but waits until he’s delirious with exhaustion, until he’s pacing the confines of his apartment, until he’s kneeling by the front door and scratching at the wood like a dog waiting for its master to return home. At least in his dreams he can see Bojan and be free of everything uncertain.

The club, the alleyway, the underpass, all the dark, nameless corners of the city, his bed. In his dreams, he retraces the path he has walked with Bojan, he returns to the scene of the crime again and again and again. In his dreams, memories melt into his restless want — hands, touches, and the sharpness of — the taste of — In his dreams, they keep falling, sinking into the night, together and whole.

“You need to eat.”

And he sleeps, only to wake up to wet eyes and a hand clutching his neck, to a tightly wound knot in his chest constricting his breath, the sensation of suffocation. And he eats, only to keep waiting for his hunger to be sated, to last to see Bojan return to him. 

No end to this, no end to them.

.

.

.

October turns into November, the ever-present rain turns into quietly falling snow, the grey city around him grows white and icy and even more empty. Jere feels colder than ever before. 

The ghostly ache of distance, a part of him missing.

Where, where, where —

.

.

.

The mattress dips under a sudden, strange weight. Jere stirs awake to a presence in the room with him, to sounds of breathing strained with just the lightest exertion hovering over where he lies. A presence, someone. Him.

“Why you take so long?” Jere speaks before thinking, before even opening his eyes, voice rough with sleep.

He receives an answer in a warm, amused chuckle. “I thought I should let you rest,” Bojan murmurs. 

After such a long silence, the words are sweet like honey.

Jere’s eyes sting. His breath gets caught in his throat, struggling out in a strangled gasp. “Don’t need rest,” he manages to rasp before opening his eyes to blink the threat of tears away.

The room is dark, just like it had been some hours before when he had lain down in wait and ultimately drifted off. The curtains have been drawn in front of the window to block away the night, letting in only the dullest glow of dark blue, but he can still see the blurry outline of Bojan’s shadowy figure sat on the edge of the bed, close to him. So close, yet so far, the remaining distance between them rippling with the ache of a long wait.

With movements muddled by sleep, Jere reaches over the bedside table for the light.

Bojan has not changed. 

The man looks gorgeous as ever, dark eyes, perfect teeth, his hair carelessly pushed back just to fall elegantly and effortlessly down around his temples, face untouched by worry and the time that has passed since Jere saw him last, radiant in the bright glare of the bedside light. Dressed in a worn, soft-looking sweater, his usual heavy coat likely left next to Jere’s by the front door along with his shoes, Bojan looks like he belongs right there in his room, in his bed, in that moment. 

Like he had just come home from a late work shift after being away for hours, not weeks. Like he had woken Jere up while getting ready for bed, not by sneaking into his apartment like a stranger and stalking him in the dark.

It feels right. Like how things should be, could be, in some other reality they share.

Relief washes over Jere, the most persistent of his many pains easing with the instant comfort of a missing piece found. Yet, it’s still hard to breathe. It’s still hard to believe that Bojan is truly there, next to him, finally, when it has been so long. He wants to and needs to reach out and touch and grab and shake and confirm the man in front of him is real, of flesh and blood and not a dream, not a cruel trick of his starved, tired mind. 

Bojan is there. He is, he is, he is. Right?

But before Jere has a chance to move, Bojan shifts. The rings decorating his fingers glint with gold as they carefully extend to brush against Jere’s cheek, carved hollow by want and longing. A soft, whispery touch, but real.

Jere draws in a stuttery breath at the confirmation. 

And then, the rest of it floods in, all at once, a violent wave that has him shaking, his pulse quickening, any remnant of sleep gone and replaced with confusion and frustration. Why did you leave? Where did you go? What took you so long? The unanswered questions that had played over and over in his mind during the long, lonely wait fill his head again. I thought that you — Maybe I — We, us — An array of desperate thoughts, angry ones, ones full of fear and others full of worry, ones he had woken up to alone in his cold bed and others that had emerged whenever he dug his nails into the healed flesh of his throat. Soon they are too many to voice, and he can’t open his mouth for the fear that only an ugly, mangled cry will fall out.

“I should’ve come to you sooner.” Bojan continues to speak quietly, so sweetly.

Yes, yes, yes, you should have, Jere wants to say, to shout, to scream. “You’re here now,” he croaks, instead, placating and careful and pained, and he winces at the sound of it.

Bojan’s brow twitches, his lips curl downward. A strange, dark expression flashes quickly over his features while his fingers keep tracing the starved dip of Jere’s cheek. 

“I am.” A deep, rumbling murmur.

Jere shivers. 

“You’re upset,” Bojan observes, smiling again, though a flicker of that something strange, something dark remains in his gaze.

And there’s no use in denying it, in deflecting, like Jere had tried to do just moments before. There’s no use in lying to someone who sees right through all the layers of him and into his core. There’s no use in hiding when they both clearly know, when it only upsets them both more. Instead of opening his mouth, he backs away from the edge of the bed clumsily and lifts the covers in an invitation.

Bojan doesn’t hesitate to lie down with him. In one smooth movement, he slides under the blankets and scoots close, but not quite close enough to press against and into him.

Jere’s neck throbs. The sudden loss of touch feels immense, the emptiness between them too expansive again, the disjointedness, the craving for contact once more an insistent pulse through him. But Bojan is there, he is. And he’s not leaving, not yet. 

He’s not leaving. 

Hope tastes almost nauseatingly, dangerously sweet, but Jere can’t help taking a desperate, starved bite, digging his teeth into its sugary crust.

“I asked you to stop torturing yourself.” Bojan’s voice stays whisper-quiet. The bedside light still glows bright behind him, and Jere’s eyes start to water again as he stares directly at the man and his shining, white halo.

“I… don’t…”

“What is this then? Hmm?” The sheets rustle. Another tender touch brushes against Jere’s cheek, following its dip down to his jaw before tracing the path up again, and he lets his eyes fall closed.

“I sleep. I eat. Like you tell me,” he defends himself. 

When Jere opens his eyes again, it’s to Bojan’s unconvinced stare. Dark eyes. “What am I going to do with you?” the man murmurs as he wipes away the wetness gathered on Jere’s cheek. 

“Keep me. You… keep me.” A hoarse, needy plea, followed by silence. 

Another rustle of the sheets, a flash of shadows moving sharply across the wall. Hands grabbing wrists, the weight of another body rolling him over onto his back, pinning him down. Bojan’s eyes, mouth, skin, Bojan’s breath against his cheek, against his lips. Bojan, Bojan, Bojan. Instinctively, Jere rises to meet the man, arching his body towards the other, gasping as he feels his tense, trembling form against his own.

“Are you sure?” Bojan’s words come out in a rough, urgent growl, unlike anything Jere has ever heard from him, vibrating against his bare throat, teeth scraping against waiting skin. “Jere. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Jere grunts. “Please,” he begs.

He knows to anticipate the bite, but its piercing sharpness feels startlingly new after such a long wait. His wail echoes in the quiet apartment, hitting the walls before bouncing back at them, his sobs ring loud in the night. 

It’s a familiar plunge into ice-cold water that soon turns burning, into flames licking at his skin, lapping at him before swallowing him whole. A pulsing pain points directly to the bite before flashing through his entire being, a throbbing yes, yes, yes running through his mind as he grimaces and cries at the persistent pressure teasing the twin wounds, Bojan’s lips wrapped around them in a tight seal, drinking up the rush of red.

And the fervour Bojan feeds on him with is delightful, desperate, destructive. His mouth keeps working over the wounds, he laps at the flowing blood like a man starved, a low hum thrumming up his throat between mouthfuls of red, the weight of his body on top of Jere’s shifting around as he twitches with his need, occasionally pressing closer, so impossibly close, nudging Jere’s jaw to gain more access to the expanse of his neck. 

Soft sounds of contentment, the slickness of red as it rolls smoothly onto Bojan’s tongue, the touch wet, sticky, and warm against Jere’s skin. The heat, the incredible throbbing heat through his entire being, and pressure from every direction. Bojan’s stable weight astride him, comforting in its certainty, in its permanence.

He is here. He is not leaving.

The flashing, stinging, pulsing waves of pain. Hands pinning him down, rhythmically squeezing his wrists, a firm touch that eventually lifts — only to move higher, covering his palms, fingers intertwining in a new, more intimate hold.

He is not leaving.

Jere isn’t the only one who has missed this, it’s clear to him now. Tears of pain mix with those of relief, burning hot as they trail down his cheeks, as he lies still and simply takes, takes, takes Bojan’s loving touch, the sharpness, the hunger, and the desperation.

And then it’s already over, too soon. 

“N-no, no —”

Bojan pulls away, lips wet and stained red. His dark, half-lidded gaze continues to hungrily drink up the sight of Jere’s throbbing neck before checking up on him, before following the path of hot tears running down his cheeks, before locking onto his sobbing mouth, his parted lips. Hands let go of his slowly, almost reluctantly, and Bojan shifts to sit up where he still straddles his lap.

Heavy breathing, Bojan’s, his, theirs. Shadows dance over a serious face, blurry through his crying.

“Wha…” Jere’s question never makes it out completely, fading into a low moan instead, each attempted syllable tugging a sharp burst of pain down his torn neck.

A hand over Bojan’s mouth, the movement of his jaw and the scrunch of his nose as he bites down. Next, a bleeding wrist presses against Jere’s lips.

“Don’t be scared, Jerč,” Bojan murmurs breathily. “This won’t change a thing. Not a thing.” 

The restless thump, thump, thump of his heart, the overwhelming sharpness of blood in the air, red dripping thick and wet against his lips. But the ache in his neck is simply too much. Despite Bojan’s whispers of encouragement, Jere can’t make his mouth do the only action required of him, lips working only to push more sobs out of him, tongue useless, throat struggling for a breath, and he cries out in frustration as blood smears onto his chin.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, dragi.” 

Gentle, soothing words and kind, dark eyes. The weight against Jere’s mouth disappears, and Bojan’s cheeks hollow as lips carefully wrap around the fresh bite. 

Then he leans back in to find Jere’s lips against his.

The taste of red, the taste of Bojan. A weight on his tongue, thick and sticky, metallic, honey-sweet — and then Bojan is already gone, once again too soon, too soon, always too soon. But the effect of the kiss is immediate. 

As Jere falls into the night, Bojan’s touch anchors him, guiding him through the dark, keeping him whole.