Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A week after he met Louis, Owen made an offhand mention of needing to cut his hair again. It grew quickly—a constant annoyance when it became long enough to fall into his eyes—and squinting into the dusty mirror he kept for the express purpose of haircuts as he prayed to the holy spirits his hands wouldn’t shake too badly was one of his least favorite times of the month. He wouldn’t admit the latter part of course, not to the only person who seemed to find forgetting his illness, his weakness, easy. Still, there was something disarming about Louis, something that made all the vague complaints and pointless thoughts Owen typically kept to himself slip out. Part of it was that he listened to each of them, treating them more seriously than they deserved, always ready to empathize and agree with even the most petty annoyances. What made that specific instance stand out, even then, was the way he frowned at the words.

“I don’t think you should.”

Owen lifted his head from where it’d been resting on the arm of an ornate couch, staring towards the mayor’s desk where Louis sat, looking vaguely embarrassed at his own bluntness. He wasn’t blushing—nothing seemed to phase him quite enough for that—but as he set down his quill and looked over towards the corner that had quickly become Owen’s, the sheepish expression sprawled across his face didn’t fade. Really, that just made Owen more curious. 

“Why not?”

Louis motioned for him to return to the comfortable half-lounging position he’d taken up on the couch over the past few days, after an incredibly embarrassing incident wherein Owen had stood up after spending hours on the stiff-backed chair across from the desk and fallen over when his spine protested the sudden motion in the most dramatic way possible. It was little gestures like that Owen found the most fascinating—the ones that reminded him Louis knew he was weak, sickly, and, for some reason, just didn’t care. It was odd, almost uncomfortable, to see the way they came so naturally to him. At times, it felt like a reminder that it was possible for others, they simply didn’t care enough to try. 

“Well—“ Louis shifted in his chair, jolting Owen out of the negative thoughts he’d begun to let creep in, “I... don’t think you need to, is all. It curls enough that it can’t pose much of a problem for a while, and you can just tie it back if it becomes a significant annoyance. That would be much easier than cutting it all off, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Owen agreed immediately—he was, after all, and if admitting that meant he got to watch those sharp burgundy eyes soften as Louis smiled at the easy acceptance, then that was just coincidence. Still, Louis seemed oddly pleased by the agreement, more even than when he’d opened his door on that second day to see Owen standing there yet again, with a flimsy excuse about land that was quickly forgotten as the two talked for an hour that bled into the rest of the afternoon. It seemed small, but clearly it meant something, and even then Owen had been absolutely terrible at telling Louis no.

By the time it reached his shoulders, just a few months later, Owen had resigned himself to the fact he would never cut his hair again. As annoying as it was when it escaped the pins he’d been gifted, not having to cut it had freed up an entire afternoon, which he’d instead put towards a far more important purpose. That purpose was, of course, the main reason he was willing to put up with the unruly curls—Louis. 

For some reason Owen had yet to decipher, Louis loved his hair. Often, when they laid together on the couch, Owen’s head wound up in the other’s lap, Louis running his hands gently through his hair as they talked about nothing. The methodical, relaxing motion had the delightful side-effect of lulling Owen into some of the most restful naps he’d ever experienced, but with that came the unfortunate consequence of less time spent soaking in the joy of casual conversation and touch, that unique, enchanting experience he only ever found in the mayor’s presence—though admittedly, when Louis smiled down at him, just as small and closed-lipped as the ones he gave in public, but softer somehow, and whispered to him that he should be getting home soon, it almost made up for that lost time. Almost. 

The days Owen truly lived for were his worst. It sounded odd for him to look forward to the times his bandages were glued to his arms with blood and pus, when every movement sent waves of pain through his fragile nerves, but Louis could always read the stiffness in his limbs, spot the winces he couldn’t quite suppress, and on those afternoons—Owen always visited early on those days, and maybe that was another cue he’d picked up on—he opened the door that connected his office to the rest of his home. 

There was an unspoken rule, usually, that the two stayed in the mayor’s office. With the professional setting came the veneer, however flimsy, that there was a distance between them. Even with their limbs intertwined, sharing hushed, private words, there was always a sense that they could just as easily pull apart, find their way back to the two chairs separated by Louis’s mahogany desk, and pretend none of those evenings had ever happened. It had shattered the first time Owen had seen Louis’s home, but most days, they stuck to it regardless.

That was why Owen made the journey, even when his bones ached and he knew it would be easier to collapse onto his pallet and ignore the straw poking at his back. Even though Louis scolded him for it, admonished him for pushing himself so far the soles of his feet stained the hide of his boots red, he opened his doors regardless. Those nights were quiet, Owen and Louis curled up together in the massive, too-soft woolen monstrosity Louis called a bed, both sharing the lone pillow and exchanging only the occasional word—but laid still in the fading light, Owen could almost forget the pain that would wrack his body if he tried to move. Louis’s presence was more of a balm than even sleep, though Owen had never managed to stay awake later than him, always drifting off to amused gaze and the warmth of a blanket draped gently over him. 

On those days, rare, but less so with every passing month, Owen could almost pretend they were something more than occasional partners in conversation. When Louis woke him in the pre-dawn darkness by running a hand gently across his back and whispering a good morning, he could imagine coming back to sleep in that bed, with that body by his side, the next day, and the one after. Sitting at the single chair as Louis carefully undid and re-wrapped his bandages, watching him wince sympathetically at every length that came away rust-brown, it was easy to pretend he would never have to force his shaking hands to drape them across his own arms again. But every time, without fail, he stepped outside, swung his axe until it fell from his limp fingers, and walked back to his empty home on the edge of the woods.

As it became obvious that Owen’s health was failing, however, the rules began to blur. More and more often, he found himself collapsing against a trunk too sturdy for him to fell, breaths so short he could almost believe he was already dead. The first time it happened, Owen hadn’t gone to Louis at all, too tired to imagine making it all the way back to Oakhurst. When he’d opened the mayor’s door the next evening, Louis had leapt out of his chair so quickly it tipped over, intricate woodwork cracking against the floor, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. His hands had hovered just above Owen’s face, unsure whether his touch would help or hurt, but Owen leaned into it knowing full well even the slightest brush against his skin would sting. It was worth it, if only for the way Louis’s face melted into something so relieved it was if he hadn’t believed Owen was real until he could feel him.

After that, he resolved that he would always make it to town, even if it meant cutting his work so short the sun still hung high above the trees. When his vision began to blur, arms weak, his legs carried him despite their protests, always to the same place. Always home, to the couch and the bed and delighted red eyes that shone like gemstones when the light reflected off of them. And gradually, almost without Owen noticing, Louis’s home began to shift around him. There were two chairs now, and enough pillows on the bed that each of them could have their own, and simple food in storage even though Owen had never actually seen Louis eat. Neither of them commented on it, but even when Owen sunk into the fluffy mattress on the other side of the bed, he woke to their limbs entangled just the same.

With everything in him focused on Louis, other aspects of Owen’s life fell to the wayside. First were the unimportant ones, like keeping his axe sharp and hauling his wood into town on his regular days. The people already whispered snidely to each other about his weakness, as if his ears were just as defective as the rest of him—they wouldn’t care if he was a little late, with a little less wood, not when it would validate all of their gossip.
Next went the mending of his clothes. This one, Owen admittedly didn’t notice for far too long. It seemed, for a while, like his clothing simply needed no maintenance. It was odd that no new tears or holes seemed to pop up, but he hadn’t been able to do near as much work, so it made some kind of sense. It was only when he woke, late one night, moonlight streaming through the window allowing him to just barely make out Louis crouched over a shirt Owen knew was his, dark steel needle glinting silver in the moonlight as he pulled it methodically through the rough fabric. Louis had glanced over, somehow knowing Owen was awake, and merely smiled, whispering for him to go back to bed. When Owen had protested, voice weak and weighed down by sleep, Louis had simply offered him the needle and told him he could do it himself if he so wished. Owen had tried to grasp the needle, but after it slipped from his fingers for the third time, he admitted defeat. At least now, Louis did his mending in broad daylight, rather than cutting into what little rest he got for Owen’s sake.

The last task that slipped out of Owen’s control was far more personal, and all the more shameful for it. The thing was, even on his worst days, the ones where Louis carried him into bed and the pain gnawed at every inch of skin pressed against the mattress and the blanket and Louis’s silk pajamas, Owen found the strength to comb his hands through his hair. He soaked it in some of his precious little clean water from the town well whenever it tangled too badly, and pinned it up whenever possible to protect it from the wind and sweat of his job. It was the one part of his appearance he truly cared about, what he cared for first whenever possible, because Louis loved it, and so he did too. 

But it became increasingly harder to pull the smooth bone comb Louis had gifted him through his hair, as his hands grew weaker and it began to encounter more and more knots that wouldn’t budge. Owen knew that if he could just work his fingers through slowly, tease apart the messy strands, it would get easier again, but it was so hard to find the energy and the time when all he wanted to do was melt into Louis’s side and sleep. He hoped, naively, that Louis wouldn’t notice—but this was Louis, who had a neat little box beside his bed full of brushes and pins and dozens of other little hair ornaments that had gradually found their way into Owen’s possession. He never used them, sure, leaving his hair to fall around his shoulders in tight coils, but he was clearly meticulous about its care—although Owen had never seen him do it, he have had to cut it so often and so carefully that it always remained at precisely the same length, and he was full of suggestions when it had first gotten long enough for Owen to struggle with. 

Sitting together on the couch—it was a good day, one where they didn’t need to leave the office, where Owen could pretend he was just as able as he’d been when they first met—with Owen’s head resting on Louis’s shoulder, tracing the ridged wrinkles of his shirt idly as they talked, he realized too late that Louis had gone to run a hand through Owen’s hair as usual, only for his fingers to pause against a particularly stubborn tangle. Louis frowned at the unexpected resistance to his practiced movements and Owen felt his cheeks burn, shame coursing through him as he recoiled instinctively at the realization spreading across Louis’s face. 

But Louis didn’t scoff or mutter something snide, the way the other residents of Oakhurst might have. He wasn’t like them, of course he wasn’t, because none of them would have let themselves risk illness by getting so close to Owen in the first place, none would have let him come back, or let him into their homes, their lives, the way Louis had. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how lucky Owen had been to meet Louis. Now, watching the realization eclipsed by a dawning understanding, a softening of his eyes that conveyed devastation without the pity that even the most well-meaning townspeople let color their faces, Owen was reminded all at once how perfect Louis was. He said nothing, only opened his arms in silent invitation, one Owen fell into without thinking. Resting against his chest, feeling hands card rhythmically through his hair, working out the knots bit by painstaking bit, Owen felt utterly content. The ache in his arms, the burn of his clothes against his skin—none of it could compare to the bliss of being cared for.

It became a routine before Owen could protest it. Not that he would, when Louis seemed not to mind spending their nights pressed up against each other for easy access to Owen’s head, running a sturdy comb methodically through the curls that had loosened over time, dragged down by their own weight. Its spruce teeth—wood Owen suspected he’d been the one to chop—slipped easily through now that Louis had taken to teasing out the tangles periodically, and even when it finished its duty, they remained in their position, Louis looking down at Owen as Owen looked up at him. They didn’t need the pretense of brushing for the closeness, not anymore, but that certainly didn’t make it unwelcome. Any excuse to feel Louis’s cool skin against his own was a welcome one to Owen.

Chapter Text

On one particular night, where they’d really lost track of time and only noticed the darkness when their candles burnt out, Louis pulled Owen to his feet, an arm around his back to support him if he fell, and offered to walk him home. He accepted—why wouldn’t he? Their time together had begun to grow rarer, to both of their disdain, as the ever-increasing needs of Oakhurst demanded more and more of Louis’s attention. The town’s growth was a testament to Louis’s skill, but that didn’t make the long, empty hours of fruitlessly swinging an axe and doubling over against tree trunks to cough until his throat stung any more tolerable.

They meandered slowly down the recently-cobbled streets, breathing in the cool air, Louis frequently turning to point out one project or another that he’d organized, or signed off on, or that he just thought Owen would like. Framed by the wooden beams of the houses he’d worked tirelessly to raise, his pale hair glowing in the moonlight, he looked otherworldly, too perfect to be real. And yet, here he was, stopping them so much it almost felt like he was trying to drag their walk out—but Owen knew it was for his sake, that he’d noticed the persistent tremble in his legs and adjusted his pace in kind despite saying nothing. It brought up a question, one that had nagged at Owen since their first meeting had spiraled into so many more. 

“Why do you waste so much time on me? I understand being polite when I first approached you about that permit, it is your job, but… when I kept coming back. When it was obvious all I did was distract you. It’s clear how much you love Oakhurst, so why do you keep letting me take you away from it?”

When Owen turned his gaze from the sky to his companion, their eyes met—his dark, unremarkable brown against Louis’s shining red—and the hand that wasn’t intertwined with his rose to cup the side of Owen’s face. Louis smiled, something almost sad in his eyes, and leaned closer to whisper his words into Owen’s ears, as if afraid someone else would hear.

“You’re right—I love Oakhurst, and every person who walks its streets. But none of them compare to you. Every story you’ve told is a reminder of why I hate humanity, how cruel and cold they can be— but you’re proof that I can’t give up on them. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met—your resilience, your kindness, how wholly you love when someone loves you back. You don’t distract me, you focus me. You are why Oakhurst is worth saving.”

And when Louis leaned back, Owen followed him instinctively, not wanting to lose that closeness, the finer details of Louis he’d never been able to see so clearly before. How his lashes framed his eyes, how tiny, near-invisible dark brown flecks dotted his irises, how his mouth parted slightly to take in the fresh air—and Owen wanted to be closer, to know every piece of him, and before he could think further, he was moving forwards yet again.

At first, it didn’t even register. He was too busy delighting at the way Louis’s eyes widened, shock and awe in equal measure, and how they softened into something so adoring it was almost terrifying. It only clicked when the arm not wound around his back came to rest in his hair, and he could feel the curl of Louis’s lips against his own, feel his own move to mirror it, and he was kissing Louis.

As soon as he realized, Owen broke away, stumbling back and ignoring the jolt of pain when Louis’s outstretched fingers caught on a stray curl he’d been messing with as they— kissed. Because kind words were one thing, lying together on the couch and combing through his hair was one thing, but this, this was dangerous. Owen’s touch could only ruin Louis, invite those stabbing pains and spreading sores to the sweet mouth and steady hands he treasured, and he couldn’t allow that.

“I’m sorry,” Owen pleaded, staring down at the cobbles below, not wanting to know what Louis must think, “but I can’t hurt you, I won’t let my disease—”

There was a scoff, low and distant and derisive, but it didn’t matter, because moments later his head was tilted upwards, arms wrapped around him in that firm but gentle way Louis had mastered long ago, and words were murmured into the quickly closing gap between them, determined and certain and somehow almost as beautiful as the man who uttered them.

“You could never hurt me, Owen.”

They made it back to Owen’s home far later than intended, Louis lingering on the doorstep with an apologetic expression even after Owen had invited him in to stay the night. It was improper, he had to be back in his office too early to make the walk back in the morning—in anyone else, it would sound like excuses. But Owen knew Louis better than that by now, understood the depth of his duty to Oakhurst, and only kissed him goodbye with understanding in his eyes, still reveling in the contact. Watching him disappear into the night like just another shadow, the entire event felt almost like a dream.

The next evening, Owen opened the door to the mayor’s office and found Louis sitting on their couch in the corner, fiddling with something small that glittered in the dying light. His eyes widened when he noticed Owen, like he hadn’t believed he’d come back, before a soft, sappy smile bloomed on his face, and he motioned him over to the couch excitedly. Owen sat down, only to be pulled into Louis’s lap, head resting on his shoulder as his arms wound around him. He melted into his lover’s embrace, the cool touch of his skin, and looked up towards Louis’s face, finding him staring down with something almost nervous in his eyes.

“Owen?”

He was definitely nervous. Odd—he’d seemed so confident just the night before. But, what if he’d changed his mind? What if it had been a joke from the start, or some misguided attempt at pity for the town embarrassment?

Louis sighed, long and deep, pulling Owen from his thoughts. His eyes were still worried, but the fondness that saturated his expression was new and comforting.

“No need to look so concerned, I merely wanted to ask you something. It’s just… a difficult question, I suppose.”

“Difficult?” Owen parroted, still just the slightest bit unsure. 

“Difficult,” Louis affirmed with a nod, something more determined appearing in his eyes, “but something I should have offered you far before now. If you had the chance to be cured, free of the disease you despise, would you take it—even if it would make you an outcast?”

That question wasn’t difficult at all, not really. 

“Of course I would,” Owen scoffed, “after all, I’m already an outcast. I only need one person by my side, and I already have him.”

Conflict still lingered in Louis’s gaze, even as it warred with something fragile and hopeful.

“This otherness would be inescapable. You would be something removed from humanity, something no person could hope to understand.”

That was a little more concerning. Still, there was only one thing Owen needed to know.

“Would I still have you?”

“Always.” 

“Then I would take it.”

And Owen could feel the tension melt away from his lover’s form beneath him, before Louis wound a careful hand around Owen’s waist and sat the two of them up, draping Owen across one arm of the couch while he took the other. There was a seriousness to his expression, the kind Owen only ever saw during town speeches these days, and it made him worry. Louis drew a deep breath in, then exhaled—and something about the way his chest rose and fell registered as odd. That feeling quickly vanished, however, as his face melted into a smile filled with pure, unadulterated affection—one that split his mouth wide open in a way Owen had never seen, and it quickly became clear why, as two sharp fangs gleamed amidst his white teeth.

He should have been terrified. But it was Louis, who’d spoken kindly to him, who’d listened when he talked, who Owen had loved for far longer than he wanted to admit. Of course he didn’t flinch away at the sight, not when a part of him had always recognized the inhuman beauty that radiated from his lover. Instead, he leaned forward, reaching towards the hand Louis had left lying on the cushion between them to clasp it between his own. He made no mention of the way it trembled in his grasp, not when he knew just how much trust this gesture had taken. Owen brought the hand to his  face, feeling the chill of long-dead skin, the emptiness where a pulse should have beat on the wrist, and kissed it with all the gentleness he could muster.

That was all it took for Louis to pull him back into his arms, wrapping Owen in an embrace that was comforting in its tightness, whispering to him how incredibly lucky he’d been to find such a perfect person, one who didn’t fear him for what he was. Red rose to his cheeks at the effusive praise, and Louis smiled at the sight, still small, but with none of the reservedness that had always lingered before. He looked lighter than Owen had ever seen him—and then he spoke.

“I should explain properly. I am a vampire—a creature of the night. Should you agree, I can turn you, and you can join me in eternal life. The gift could cure your illness, make you stronger, and— we would have all the time in the world.”

Owen didn’t care what else the gift could do for him, as long as it meant an eternity with Louis.

“I accept. Of course I do.”

“I knew you would,” Louis murmured, eyes soft and full of joy, “but I still had to ask.”

When the urge rose to turn and kiss his lover, Owen didn’t resist, unafraid of the fangs that lurked just behind his lips. Louis’s hands found their way, as usual, into his hair, and when he broke away, Owen found himself curious.

“Hair— is that a vampire thing? You’re always so careful with mine, and I’ve never seen yours look different at all.”

And Louis laughed, something embarrassed and overjoyed in equal measure, tugging absentmindedly at one of Owen’s stretched-out curls as he answered. 

“It is. Long hair is a point of pride for us—our hair doesn’t grow once we’re turned, so losing any of it is a tragedy. Going for another vampire’s hair is tantamount to an act of war, even though we wear it down to make it easier for an enemy to reach, as proof we fear no one.”

That made Owen frown. 

“But, your hair is shorter than it was yesterday. Did something happen?”

Louis’s smile grew again as he reached for something behind him.

“That’s a special case. It’s another tradition of ours—when you find someone you care deeply about, who you’ve chosen to be yours and you, theirs, you prove it by sacrificing a piece of you to them, forever.”

He held his free arm upward, so that candlelight caught on the intricate golden bracelet in his hand. It was the most gorgeous piece of jewelry Owen had seen—and Louis enjoyed gifting him small, shiny things of increasing value, so that said quite a lot. It appeared to be made of three interwoven strands, two shining and gilded and the middle a long, pale white strand that curled easily around the others. It was, Owen realized quickly, a lock of Louis’s hair. He inhaled sharply as it slid over his wrist, resting perfectly against the sliver of skin not covered by his bandages, half at the chill of the metal and half at the care it conveyed. 

Louis only pressed a quick kiss to Owen’s hand as he released it, face soft and open as he continued to speak.

“Having long hair when you’re turned means your sire prepared you for it—you weren’t some failed kill or moment of passion, but rather someone who a vampire cared so deeply about that they’d spent months beforehand to ensure that you would be able to receive their gift.”

“Wait—” Owen realized, “but we’d only known each other a week when you told me I shouldn’t cut my hair. Was that already—?”

“Yes,” Louis agreed, “even then, I already knew you were special. You’ve always been someone I wanted to spend eternity with.”

“Why wait any longer, then?” Owen found himself saying, “Turn me now. I want to be with you forever, for as long as I can.”

At the invitation, Louis’s eyes grew sharp, something hungry entering his gaze. But he wasn’t sacred, not when Louis lifted Owen’s arm to his face with the same care he’d used to slip the bracelet on moments before, not when his face grew guilty as he warned softly that it would hurt a bit, not even when the brush of lips against his exposed wrist, right above his pulse, turned to the pinch of teeth sliding smoothly into his skin.

It did hurt, for a moment. But that moment was brief, before something soothing and numb spread through Owen’s body, his eyes and limbs growing heavy as he slumped further into Louis’s embrace, his lover cushioning him and covering the pinprick marks left behind by pushing the bracelet up to hide them. His thoughts slowed steadily as the rhythmic feeling of a gentle hand ran through his hair, his vision beginning to blur as his heart beat more and more weakly in his chest, and all the while Louis whispered praise and encouragements and a thousand tiny compliments on his eyes, his skin, his sweet, metallic taste. As his consciousness finally slipped away, awareness fading in and out, Owen mustered up the strength to move his leaden lips and ask Louis one last question.

“Will you be there… when I wake up?”

The empty bliss of death stole Owen’s last breath just in time for him to hear Louis’s answer.

“Of course I will.”

Chapter Text

Owen’s first thought, when he woke to darkness, confinement, and something hard beneath him, was that he’d been abandoned. But he felt something, distant and foreign, stir in the back of his mind, something that ached of fear and worry and almost seemed to call his name, something he recognized, instinctively, as Louis. It ate at him in a way he’d never felt before, something far less physical than the fire in his limbs but no less real for it. Something that stood out more because of the distinct lack of pain throughout his body, a feeling so strange it was almost uncomfortable. 

Owen reached upwards, hands brushing across stone, and when he pushed, the slab of rock slid easily away from his hand and fell with a clatter to the floor—and it didn’t hurt a bit. No straining of muscles when he shoved, no sign of the ache that had settled in his palms and never truly left, and when Owen held his hand steady experimentally, he realized it no longer shook. He pushed himself into a sitting position, hands pressed firmly against the rough stone beneath him, and took a deep breath in. It didn’t hurt, but it did… nothing, really. The air whistled into his lungs, then seeped right back out. His chest felt empty. There was a silence he wasn’t used to, where his heart had always beat just on the edge of his awareness, its frantic attempts to keep him alive just barely audible if he focused hard enough. Now, the sound of blood rushing in his ears was just—gone. 

He wanted Louis. It was cold, down here, and dark, and Louis had promised to be there when he woke but he wasn’t and the presence at the edge of his mind, the one that felt like warmth and safety and home, was leaking a steady sense of unease that had already begun to affect him. He needed to find Louis and figure out what was wrong, why he wasn’t with Owen—he needed to lie together on their bed and let Louis run his fingers through his hair, he needed that smile directed at him again, he needed to sink his teeth into that pale skin and taste power on his tongue. He needed to find Louis.

It filled him with a sense of purpose stronger than Owen had felt in a while, almost unnatural in its vehemence. He pushed himself upwards, out of the coffin, and squinted through the darkness, realizing for the first time that he was somewhere underground. The stale air and pitch-darkness should have made that obvious, but somehow he could still make out vague shapes, as if some faint source of light was just out of view. It didn’t matter why—what mattered was that it was enough for Owen to make out a stairwell he made his way towards, his strides longer and faster than he was used to. 

Halfway up the stairs came the phantom sensation of heat. It was barely noticeable; if not for the lack of pain, Owen would have assumed it was just another effect of exerting himself a little too hard. If not for the chill of the tomb he was in, he would have assumed it was just sunlight on his skin. But it wasn’t, a part of him whispered, and the feeling began to build, and something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Owen took the stairs two, then three at a time, not even registering what he once would have thought impossible. All his focus was on the heavy wooden door he pushed open with barely a thought, which let him out in Louis’s storage room. He knew Louis’s house, knew the quickest way to the exit as intimately as he knew all of the little obstacles he could use to drag their time together out just one more moment, and pushed his way past the half-full chests and crates scattered across the floor with a precision that would only register as supernatural later. The heat was rising, and his feet hurt, but it wasn’t the same dull ache he was used to, sores and blisters rubbing against his boots—this felt sharp and lingered even as it began to spread from his soles upwards. 

Urgency pushed him faster, faster through the house, until he was stumbling out the door that led into the mayor’s office. It was wrecked, Louis’s beloved mahogany desk split messily in half, their couch torn apart and bleeding wool from the tears, all of the records Louis kept so meticulously scattered across the floor. This was wrong and Owen couldn’t breathe and he didn’t need to anymore but his feet burned and he smelled smoke and he burst outside to see a cheering crowd and all at once he knew.

Louis didn’t struggle on the pyre. He surveyed the town with a steady gaze, only the pinched lines of his face betraying the pain he had to be in, the pain Owen felt like it was his own, even as the flames licked at his shoes. Owen’s hasty exit had attracted notice, townspeople turning to see him, one woman hovering just a few steps away to ask if he was quite alright, telling him they were all so happy to see him safe and not under the mayor’s bewitchment, but Owen heard none of it. Louis had seen him too, red eyes meeting brown, and somehow, that was what cracked his facade. He screamed something, lost to the chants for death and the woman’s inane mutterings, but Owen felt it just the same—go far, hide, I cannot protect you, I am so sorry. That was when an overzealous man threw another log onto the fire, and it jumped, catching on Louis’s pants, eating away at the fabric and spreading, until the flimsy mental barrier between them, the one Owen hadn't even realized Louis was holding up to protect him, shattered.

If all the pains he’d grown begrudgingly used to—the sting of raw, weeping skin against soft fabric and open air, the bone-deep ache that rose to a fever pitch on his worst days—every hurt he’d suffered since the day the town doctor pronounced him incurable, had all been combined into a single moment—even then, it couldn’t hope to compare to the unfiltered agony eating at Owen’s soul. He was on fire, could feel his flesh blister and peel, his clothes melt into his skin, blood boiling as the flames clawed at his bones, determined to swallow and consume them until all that remained was ash. There was stone at his knees, the cobbles of Oakhurst, and people around him making concerned noises, but there was no one around him and he stood straight and tall even as the pyre around him began to warp, hearing nothing but the jeers of the crowd and seeing nothing but the fear in his fledgeling’s eyes—and Louis was dying, a piece of Owen’s soul cried out, even as his eyes saw nothing but the leaping flames and his mind whispered that the fire ran through his body in place of blood. There was screaming, a high and terrified voice, his voice, and despite everything, the unrelenting burn that they felt as one, the fragment of him that whispered Louis offered up a weak, desperate feeling—comfort, be calm, you will survive—and it was enough.

His body was a weak wooden frame, kindling swiftly consumed, but the fire hadn’t reached him yet. Even though he burned, Owen was alive, and the whispers of the crowd around him came into sharp focus as his mind accepted the pain and let it pool in his unbeating heart, still agonizing and inescapable, but contained. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Could it be the mayor’s witchcraft?”

“Perhaps it’s the Devil’s mark crying out as its kin is cleansed.”

“That boy has always been unholy…”

“Yes, the spirits wouldn’t punish their faithful so—”

“We can’t have one touched by dark forces within our town.”

“Is there room on the pyre?”

The pyre, the pyre, the pyre, the fire that blazed through Owen’s soul, the fire Louis was surrounded by—and they wanted to burn Owen too? Steal their lives away, sacrifice them to the powers that had done nothing for Owen when he was alone and unwanted? He wouldn’t let them. 

Strength filled him, survival instincts he couldn’t understand or control, and the pain was all the more intense, but as it raged through him, it brought the vitality of the fire with it. Anxious energy shot through his stagnant blood, and Owen had to move, to cut the hands on his shoulders from the arms they were attached to. He hissed, something deep and inhuman, and before he could process it, his hands shot out, slashing at the people surrounding him. When they scrabbled uselessly against the thick fabric, as if a part of him had expected them to be sharper than they were, he only applied more force, tearing through flesh to let sweet red blood drip down. 

There were still screams, pain and horror alike, but now it was the town crying out. The people closest to him stumbled back, but those he’d hurt only fell, bodies limp and heartbeats already fading. They smelled tantalizing, like fresh, savory meat, but it didn’t matter, not when smoke still hung heavy on the wind and the pain had begun to fade, not because it’d lessened but because the piece of his heart that was Louis was crumbling, flaking apart, and Owen couldn’t stop it. He was dying, a slow, permanent death, and all that stood in Owen’s way was the panicking crowd.

In the end, they were no obstacle at all. He lunged forward, terrified and feral, and the town parted before him. They learned quickly after he tore through the first few to muster axes and torches—there was nothing they could do to stop him, and it was better to move with their lives than stand and lose them. Owen made it to the pyre in record time, reaching into the fire without care for the way it jumped hungrily at his hands, and pulled the limp body inside it into his arms. He was careful, gentle, just as Louis had always been to him, even though he knew already it meant nothing. 

Owen’s fingers smarted and his palms protested at every small shift Louis’s form made in his arms as he ran, and he could feel it, because it was the only pain he could sense. The only physical pain, at least—his chest was empty, aching, mourning the space within him that just minutes before had been full. Mourning the body in his arms, bones held together by fragile sinew that had long given up on wrapping back around the charred frame. Mourning Louis, because Louis was dead, and Owen had let the pain of it cripple him until he was too late to do a thing. 

Somehow, his legs had carried him back to the empty hut on the edge of the forest, the one Owen hadn’t considered home in months. It was small and dirty and full of things that still smelled of Louis, probably the last place Owen wanted to be, but he needed to do— something. There had to be something he could do, to fill the void that refused to be ignored. He wanted the pain back, because it was Louis’s pain, proof Louis was alive and feeling and seeing Owen even when they were separated by an angry mob.

The mob. The mob that had wanted to burn him, the mob that had burned Louis. None of them deserved to live, not after what they’d done. Owen would tear them to shreds, until blood stained the streets red and there was nothing left but the emptiness threatening to swallow him whole. And he would take all the cold joy in it he could find, but first—Louis needed a place to rest.