“This was reckless,” you say, thought you’re not sure if you mean the market trip or this moment in the alley. Maybe both.
“Completely.” His smile is soft, crooked. “Would you do it again?”
Or, you and Zaros explore the market of Ýalos in secret.
Notes from author: Have another fluff piece for these two (with a tinge of angst). I think the fandom has made me like these two idiots more than I wanted to.
“You’ve never had one of these, have you?”
Zaros is grinning at you over a skewer of something that smells incredible—spiced meat, charred at the edges, glistening with some kind of glaze. The vendor’s stall is wedged between a fabric merchant and a potter, its awning a brilliant saffron yellow that makes the afternoon light look golden.
“I don’t even know what that is,” you admit.
“Exactly my point.” He’s already pressing it into your hand, ignoring your protest. “You can’t rule Serulla if you’ve never tasted street food from Ýalos’s market district.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Try it.” His eyes are bright with challenge. “Or are you afraid?”
You bite into it just to prove Him wrong. The taste explodes across your tongue—savory, sweet, with a heat that builds and builds until you’re gasping slightly. Zaros’s laugh is delighted and completely unrepentant.
“Too much?” He asks, though He’s clearly enjoying your reaction.
“It’s—” You can’t quite catch your breath. “Warn me next time.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” But He’s already buying you something to drink from another vendor—some kind of sweetened yogurt that cuts the heat perfectly. His fingers brush yours as He hands it over.
The market is messy in the best way. Color everywhere—fabric stalks bursting with embroidered silks, spice merchants with pyramids of saffron and paprika, jewelers displaying their wares on velvet. Above it all, the domed buildings rise with their intricate geometric patterns, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the call to prayer from the Deipis.
You’ve never seen Ýalos like this. From the palace, it’s all distant and orderly. Down here, it’s bustling with life.
“Come on,” Zaros says, and His hand finds yours. “There’s a bookbinder three rows over who does incredible work. I thought—”
He stops mid-sentence. You follow His gaze and see her—a high noble, examining fabric at a stall not twenty paces away. Her eyes sweep the crowd, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think she’s looking directly at you.
“Walk,” Zaros murmurs. “Slowly. Like we belong here.”
But slowly isn’t enough because she’s turning, really looking now, and her expression shifts into something like recognition—
Zaros pulls you sideways, through a gap between stalls, into a narrow alley where the buildings create blessed shadow. Your back hits carved stone, and suddenly He’s there, close enough that His breath ghosts across your cheek.
“Don’t move,” He says quietly. “She might have just been looking at the crowd.”
But He doesn’t move either.
You can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. Can feel the fabric of His cloak where it brushes against yours. The alley smells like spices, stone and something distinctly Zaros—ink and paper and that particular scent you’ve are haunted by.
“I think we’re safe,” you manage after what feels like an eternity.
“Probably.” But His hand is still braced against the wall beside your head, and His eyes are doing that thing where they trace across your face like He’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re one of His sketches. “We should go back.”
“We should.”
Neither of you moves.
“This was reckless,” you say, thought you’re not sure if you mean the market trip or this moment in the alley. Maybe both.
“Completely.” His smile is soft, crooked. “Would you do it again?”
The question remains unanswered for a heavy second. Because doing it again means planning another escape, means more risk, means continuing whatever this is that exist between you.
“Yes,” you hear yourself say. “Next month. If we can manage it.”
“If we’re both still here.” He says it lightly, but there’s an edge to it. One of you might win the trials. One of you might leave. One of you might become Eminence while the other fades into the background of court life, and then what?
Then nothing. Then this ends. Then you go back to being what you’re supposed to be instead of what you desperately wish to be.
“Next month,” Zaros echoes. It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a lie. Or hope, which might be worse.
His hand finally leaves the wall. The loss of His warmth is immediate. You hadn’t realized how close He was until He’s not anymore.
“I should walk back first,” He says. “Wait a few minutes, then follow. We can’t be seen returning together.”
“Right. Of course.” You try to smooth your cloak, though it’s hopeless. “Zaros—”
“I know.” He’s already stepping back, creating the distance that your positions require. “I know.”
You watch Him disappear back into the market crowd, swallowed by color and noise.
The alley feels very empty without him.
You wait for the appropriate amount of time—counting breaths, counting heartbeats, counting the seconds until it’s safe to follow. The stone wall behind you holds a ghost of warmth where you pressed against it.
When you finally emerge back into the market, you catch a glimpse of saffron-yellow awning. The vendor who sold you that first taste of freedom, of life outside palace walls. You can still taste the spice on your tongue.
Next month, you think. Next month you’ll come back, and maybe next time you’ll be braver. Maybe you won’t wait for Him to pull into dark corners. Maybe next time you’ll close the distance yourself.
You adjust your cloak and walk toward the palace, leaving the colored awnings, the sound of His laugh and the warmth of almost-touching behind you.
But not quite. Not entirely. Some things, you’re learning, are harder to leave behind than others.
Extra notes from author: Unfortunately no fancy title reference for today. I just really like saffron yellow. Also Ýalos is pretty interesting to imagine when writing. This is obviously shorter than my other fics, but it was still fun to write!
“What are you smiling about?” Xanthus asks, catching your expression.
“Nothing.” You set down your mug, moving around the counter to kiss Him again. Just because you can. “Just glad I moved in. Semantics aside.”
His answering smile is radiant. “Me too, love. Me too.”
Or, waking up to Xanthus and sharing a morning.
Notes from author: A canon letter from saqu’s site is used in this fix. (X)
Waking up is a mundane task at best.
Open your eyes, face the world, follow the schedule memorized by heart. You’ve mastered the craft of mundane days over the years—the sun will peek out through cheap curtains, your nose will scrunching up at morning light, the ritual of throwing the blankets over your head and facing another ordinary day.
But there’s nothing mundane about the heavy velvet curtains blocking every trace of dawn from this room. Nothing ordinary about the silk sheets against your skin, cool and expensive. And certainly nothing routine about the arm draped across your waist, pulling you close against a chest that doesn’t rise and fall with breath.
It still feels like a dream every time you wake beside Xanthus.
You’ve learned to take these moments slowly—sweet minutes before the dat demands anything of either of you. His face in repose is different from His waking expression. Much softer. The careful control He maintains drops away in these hours, leaving something almost delicate in the curve of His mouth, the way His hair falls across His forehead in perfectly imperfect disorder.
Your hand slips free from the silk sheets. Carefully, oh so carefully, you trace the line of His eyebrow. The arch of it, the texture. Your fingers map the geography of His face like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re afraid of forgetting even though He’s right here.
The need is instinctual and overwhelming. To know every detail, every plane and angle, to commit Him to memory in case—
In case of what? You don’t let yourself finish the thought.
Your touch drifts lower, fingertips ghosting across His cheekbone. His skin is cool beneath your palm, but you press your warmth into it anyway. You’re not even sure if vampires need warmth (or sleep), if they even register temperature the way you do, but you want to give Him yours regardless. Want to leave some trace of yourself on Him the way He’s left himself all over you.
Your hand moves almost without permission, drawn to the center of His chest. To where a heartbeat should be.
You know better. You’ve known since that first night in the alley, since He told you what He was with blood on His lips and your pulse hammering in your ears. But some part of you still searches for it—that steady rhythm, that proof of life.
There’s nothing. Just cook skin and the faint impression of ribs beneath. Your palm doesn’t move from His chest.
Your mind is a dangerous place when left to wander. How can you miss someone when they’re right next to you?
“You know I’m awake, right?” Xanthus’ voice cuts through your thoughts, warm with amusement.
You freeze. His eyes are still closed, face perfectly relaxed, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of His mouth now.
“How long have you been awake?” you ask, not moving your hand.
“Long enough to feel you cataloging my face.” His eyes open finally, dark and fond. “Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re this fascinated by my eyebrows?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He shifts slightly, the arm around your waist tightening to keep you close. “You do it every morning. You forget I don’t really need sleep. I feel everything you do every morning.”
“You’ve been keeping track?”
“I’m four hundred years old, love. I’ve gotten quite good at noticing patterns.” His free hand comes up to cover yours on His chest. “Especially yours.”
The touch is deliberate, pressing your palm firmly against where His heart isn’t. His fingers are cool as they lace through yours.
Your breath catches. “Xanthus—”
“I’m here,” He continues, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you at all. “No heartbeat, perhaps, but I’m here with you. And that’s not nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you agree, voice rough.
“So.” His hand leaves yours to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Since you’ve been studying me, I think it’s only fair I get to return the favor.”
“That’s not—”
But He’s already shifted, rolling you onto your back so He can lean over you, propped on one elbow. His gaze travels across your face with the same intensity you’d just shown him—deliberate, through, mapping every detail.
“There,” He murmurs, almost to himself. “The way your eyes are still heavy with sleep. The line between your brows that appear when you’re thinking too hard. That spot just there—” His finger taps gently beside your mouth. “—where you always bite your lip when you’re nervous.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” His smile is soft. “Each morning, love. I’ve been paying attention too.”
The words settle in your chest. Each morning of Him watching you the way you watch him. Each morning of this—silk sheets and velvet curtains and the strange intimacy of waking beside someone who doesn’t sleep the way you do but stays anyway.
“Kiss me,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel.
Xanthus stills. “Are you certain? You’ve just woken up, and I haven’t exactly—”
“Xanthus.” You reach up, fingers threading through that perfectly mussed hair. “Kiss me.”
He does.
It’s gentle at first—a soft press of cool lips against yours, careful in the way He always is with you. Like you’re something precious. Something that might break if He’s not cautious.
But you don’t want careful right now. You want the proof that He’s here, that this is real, for each morning of waking up beside Him haven’t been some elaborate dream your lonely mind conjured.
You pull Him closer, deepening the kiss, and feel His sharp intake of breath against your mouth. His hand cups the back of your neck, angling you exactly where He wants you, and there—there’s the Xanthus you know. The one who’s lived for four centuries and knows precisely what He’s doing. The one who kisses you like He’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless—well, you are. Xanthus looks composed as ever expect for the way His eyes have darkened, the way His thumb won’t tracing small circles against your pulse point.
“Good morning,” He says, and there’s something smug in His smile.
“Morning.” You’re very aware of how your heart is racing, how He can definitely feel it under His fingertips. “That was—”
“Many mornings overdue?”
“I was going to say nice, but sure. That too.”
He laughs, low and warm, and presses another quick kiss to your forehead before rolling away. “As much as I’d like to stay here all day, I believe you have a routine to follow. Something about coffee and breakfast and actually leaving bed before noon?”
Right. The real world. Responsibilities.
“What time is it?” you ask, already mourning the loss of His warmth beside you.
“Just past nine.” He’s sitting up now, running a hand through His hair to tame it. It doesn’t work—it never does in the morning, and you’re delighted by that. “Which means you’re already behind schedule. Don’t you usually wake up at seven?”
“How do you—”
“I’ve been paying attention,” He reminds you, that knowing smile back on His face. “I know your schedule better than you at this point.”
“Go on,” He urges, standing and offering you His hand. “I’ll get started on breakfast while you get ready.”
“You don’t eat.”
“No, but you do. And I’ve become quite proficient at cooking for someone who can’t taste any of it.” His smile turns slightly wicked. “Besides, you’re about to discover I’ve taken some liberties with your clothes while you were sleeping.”
“Liberties?”
“I may have organized your things. Some of them. The ones I found in the luggage scattered across my bedroom floor.”
He tugs you to standing, steadying you when the silk sheets try to tangle around your legs. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
You should be probably annoyed and protest the invasion of privacy or the presumption or something. But looking at Him now—dark eyes warm, hair still mussed from sleep and fingers, that soft smile He only shows when it’s just the two of you—you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“Thank you,” you say instead.
“You’re welcome.” He squeezes your hand once before letting go. “Now go. Get ready. I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”
He’s gone before you can respond, moving with that preternatural speed that still started you sometimes. One moment He’s there, the next you’re alone in his—your?—bedroom, silk sheets pooled at your feet and the ghost of the kiss still tingling on your lips.
You take a moment to look around properly. The room is massive, all dark wood and burgundy fabrics, heavy curtains blocking every window. There’s a wardrobe against one wall that definitely wasn’t open yesterday, and you peek inside you find your clothes hung neatly beside his. Color-coordinated, even. Of course.
A door on the far wall leads to an en-suite bathroom, and you find more of your things arranged on the counter—toothbrush, skincare products, the specific brand of soap you prefer. Everything exactly where you’d put it if you’d been the one unpacking.
It’s unsettling and touching in equal measure. The care He’s taken. The attention to detail.
You go through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes (He’s even folded your favorite sweater and left it on top), the mechanical process of making yourself presentable for the day. But your mind is elsewhere, still caught on cool lips and silk sheets and the feeling of His hand over yours on His silent chest.
When you emerge from the bedroom finally, properly dressed and slightly more awake, you pause at the top of the stairs. The estate is quiet except for faint sounds from the kitchen—running water, the click of dishes, Xanthus moving through space with that uncanny grace of his.
You should go down. Should join him.
But there’s a door to your left, slightly ajar, and through it you can see shelves. Books. Lots of books.
Just a quick look, you tell yourself. Just to see what kind of things a four-hundred-year-old vampire keeps in His personal library.
The room is smaller than you expected—cozy, almost. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, packed with leather-bound volumes in various states of wear. There’s a reading chair by the window, the curtains here thinner than the bedroom, allowing filtered light to seep through.
You drift toward the nearest shelf, fingers trailing along spines. Poetry collection, history text, what looks like someone’s journal from the 1700s. Everything is organized with the same meticulous care as your clothes.
One shelf is cleaner than the others. Recently dusted, like books are frequently pulled from here. You lean closer, reading titles—most are poetry, but there’s one slim volume that’s been handled more than the rest. The leather is worn smooth, spine cracked from repeated opening.
You pull it free carefully. It’s not a published book at all, you realize. It’s a journal, a personal one.
You should put it back. You know you should.
But the pages fall open almost on their own, and you find yourself staring at the cramped handwriting dated August 28th, 1641.
The weather proves warm as a year prior, yet I am null to it’s warmth; for the frozen breath seeps into my bones. I am enslaved to perpetual hunger of which no remedy can abstain, and foreign remnants of iron linger upon my tongue that yearns for a deep embrace I cannot hope to flee. This is my atonement, punishment orchestrated by none other than the DEVIL.
I am damned to this fate.
Your chest tightens. This is Xanthus—no, Lawrence, a year after His death. A year into being a vampire and hating every moment of it.
I am unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love. And I shall keep this promise to myself for as long as I am Lawrence Cleyburne.
You feel your heart drop to your stomach. You have no right to dig through His life like this—though you doubt He didn’t do the same to your own history. But the pages of this journal feel heavy with the ink of pain, it feels as if it might spread onto you.
You’d rather hear Xanthus’ pain from His own lips. Not pages from journals you had no right to open.
You return the journal to it’s rightful place. You’re about to leave the room when you feel the hair on your neck rise. The eerily quiet steps of your partner (lover?) reach your ears. Suddenly you regret getting caught (not the snooping).
You quickly turn your back to the door, and start looking at any other book. You still at a random spot in front of the bookshelf, though the sound of footsteps are gone now. Did He turn around and go to another room?—
“Find anything interesting?”
Your heart is still racing from what you read, but you manage a casual smile. “Just looking. You have a lot of books.”
“Hundreds of years collecting will do that.” He moves into the room, coming to stand beside you. “Thought I’ll confess, most of them are decorative at this point. I’ve read them all at least twice.”
“All of them?”
“When you don’t really need sleep, you find ways to pass the time.” His fingers trace along the spice of the poetry collection you’re pretending to examine. He tilts His head in thought.
The sight brings a smile to your face.
“There it is,” He says quietly. “I was beginning to worry I’d have to work harder for that.”
“For what?”
“Your smile. You looked troubled when I came in.” His eyes search your face. “Everything alright?”
Unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love.
The words echo in your mind, but you push them away. This isn’t the moment. Maybe there will never be a moment to tell Him you’ve read His private thoughts from 1641, seen the depth of His self-loathing laid bare.
“Just thinking,” you stay instead, which isn’t entirely a lie. “About how strange this all is. Waking up here. My clothes in your wardrobe. You downstairs cooking breakfast even though you can’t eat it.”
His expression shifts. “Strange in a good way, I hope?”
“Strange in the best way.” You step closer, taking His hand. “I was just taking it all in. This is really happening.”
“It is.” His fingers lace through yours. “I’ve already cleared three additional shelves for your books. Non-refundable, I’m afraid.”
“Three shelves? I don’t have that many books.”
“You will. I’m planning to spoil you terribly.” He tugs you toward the door. “Starting with breakfast that’s getting progressively colder while we stand here discussing my hoarding tendencies. Come on.”
He’s holding your hand. Leading you downstairs to breakfast He made specifically for you. He remembers the coffee orders and the exact way you like your eggs.
“You made me breakfast?”
“I told you I would.” He’s leading you toward the stairs now, fingers laced through yours. “Though I’ll warn you, my cooking skills are somewhat limited by the fact that I haven’t properly cooked in years.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
The kitchen is spotless—of course it is—with a single place setting at the counter. Eggs, toast, coffee (in your specific mug from your old apartment, which He must have packed).
“This is,” you gesture at the plate, the coffee, him. “This is a lot.”
“Too much?” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in His expression.
“No! Not too much. Just different.” You set down the coffee mug, meeting His eyes. “Just different. Good different. I’m not used to someone knowing this much about me.”
“Well.” He reaches across the counter, fingers finding yours. “You’d better get used to it. I’m fairly certain you’re stuck with me now.”
“Fairly certain?”
“You did move in. There’s no take-backs on that decision.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to move in. I remember you suggesting it and then somehow all my things ended up here.”
“Semantics.” His grin is unrepentant. “Eat your breakfast. We have plans.”
The idea of waking up next to him, spending every waking moment with your eyes on him, eating breakfast with him, running up and down stairs with Him brings a smile to your face. Your life isn’t just about surviving every day anymore. You can start truly living.
“What are you smiling about?” Xanthus asks, catching your expression.
“Nothing.” You set down your mug, moving around the counter to kiss Him again. Just because you can. “Just glad I moved in. Semantics aside.”
His answering smile is radiant. “Me too, love. Me too.”
Extra notes from author: This is probably my last long fic for now. My studies are starting again! With this fic I am spreading the housewife Xanthus propaganda. Audric let them go, all Xanny wants is an apron (preferably with the lettering “kiss the cook”).
I know a lot of people voted angst, so I threw in the depressing 1641 letter in just for y’all.
Honestly, the timeline of this fic (where it takes place in the canon story) is a bit skewed. Maybe it’s before everything went haywire.
Now I’ll go into hibernation and only post small drabbles thank you very much. I’ve been able to write fics pretty fast this week but I think my motivation has run its course 🥹
The title is inspired by “In bed, The kiss” by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Fun fact, the painting is queer! (From the information I have)
YGHHH MY GOD EVERYTIME YOU UPDATE SISTER I SWEAR IM PREPARING MY TEARS IN THE NEXT BUCKET AND IM ON TRAINLAND TO A WORLD OF SADNESS
But this time its all happiness :,3 Love has been growing up in a world of pain from their family’s history and like- imagine having to leave behind the people you love and care in order to live a life you would never get if you stayed with them. Thats how and why they felt how mundane waking up was, everyday, they’d stare at the walls of a home of curtains with no warmth— XANTHUS THO HE SWOOPS IN
Literally I mean— that man just takes care of EVERYTHING, down to the unpacking, the cooking and just he looks after Love like a mother hen that loves her children more than herself, and he sees them as their sole protection and responsibility forever! Honestly though, throughout we can see that Xanthus likes cutting Love off alot? Like they’ll say anything and immediately he’ll say something ontop or with it, like he’s ensuring that they see their life the way he sees it and WILL make it for them, he is extremely possessive probably mot just from the bond but from how much Love MEANS to him!!
And the note scene. Oh my god.
“I am unworthy of life as I am unworthy of love.” OHMFG TUMBLR DECIDED TO DLEETE ALL I JUST SAID SO IM RETYPING IT FUCK SAKE.
THE FACT THAT LOVE CAN SEE HOW MUCH HE STRUGGLED WITH HIS SELF WORTH AND HOW MYCH HE HATED HIMSELF SO THEY TACKLE HIM WITH ALL THE LOVE AND HAPPINESS THEY CAN GIVE?! BECAUSE THEY KNOW THATS WHAT HE DESERVES AFTER DOING EVERYTHING FOR THEM?!?
Im cryjnv . Theyre so supportive of each other, not from the bond, but I truly believe they love each other
I cannot stop yapping at this man— AND THE PAINTING YOU PICKED FOR THIS?! KISS IN THE BED?!? Ohmygod if that is not the romantic thing I have ever seen— IT REFLECTS XANTHUS’S NEEDS FOR HIS LOVE AND HOW HE JUST WANTS THEM BY HIS SIDE IN COMFORT 😭 AAAAAAA-
I am not okay- GOODLUCK WITH YOUR STUDIES I’LL MISS YOU AND I WILL REREAD EVERY SINGLE PART OF YOUR WORKS RAHHHHH COMEBACK SAFELY QUEENNNNN
Your analysis always makes my day! Thank you so so much! 🩷🩷 I’m glad you liked this fic!
And thank you for noticing how Xanthus cuts of Love alot. I tried to put this fic on the specific part in the timeline when the relationship would be a bit new for the two of them. It was obvious in the first episodes how Xanthus craves that control and doesn’t want fate to decide everything, so I tried to portray how he always has every detail thought out and how he wants everything to go his way.
AND thank you for again for noticing the painting everytime!! It makes me so so happy!!
Thank you again<3 You made my day. I love your analysis on every one of my fics. You read between the lines so well and catch all the small details!
“What are you smiling about?” Xanthus asks, catching your expression.
“Nothing.” You set down your mug, moving around the counter to kiss Him again. Just because you can. “Just glad I moved in. Semantics aside.”
His answering smile is radiant. “Me too, love. Me too.”
Or, waking up to Xanthus and sharing a morning.
Notes from author: A canon letter from saqu’s site is used in this fix. (X)
Waking up is a mundane task at best.
Open your eyes, face the world, follow the schedule memorized by heart. You’ve mastered the craft of mundane days over the years—the sun will peek out through cheap curtains, your nose will scrunching up at morning light, the ritual of throwing the blankets over your head and facing another ordinary day.
But there’s nothing mundane about the heavy velvet curtains blocking every trace of dawn from this room. Nothing ordinary about the silk sheets against your skin, cool and expensive. And certainly nothing routine about the arm draped across your waist, pulling you close against a chest that doesn’t rise and fall with breath.
It still feels like a dream every time you wake beside Xanthus.
You’ve learned to take these moments slowly—sweet minutes before the dat demands anything of either of you. His face in repose is different from His waking expression. Much softer. The careful control He maintains drops away in these hours, leaving something almost delicate in the curve of His mouth, the way His hair falls across His forehead in perfectly imperfect disorder.
Your hand slips free from the silk sheets. Carefully, oh so carefully, you trace the line of His eyebrow. The arch of it, the texture. Your fingers map the geography of His face like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re afraid of forgetting even though He’s right here.
The need is instinctual and overwhelming. To know every detail, every plane and angle, to commit Him to memory in case—
In case of what? You don’t let yourself finish the thought.
Your touch drifts lower, fingertips ghosting across His cheekbone. His skin is cool beneath your palm, but you press your warmth into it anyway. You’re not even sure if vampires need warmth (or sleep), if they even register temperature the way you do, but you want to give Him yours regardless. Want to leave some trace of yourself on Him the way He’s left himself all over you.
Your hand moves almost without permission, drawn to the center of His chest. To where a heartbeat should be.
You know better. You’ve known since that first night in the alley, since He told you what He was with blood on His lips and your pulse hammering in your ears. But some part of you still searches for it—that steady rhythm, that proof of life.
There’s nothing. Just cook skin and the faint impression of ribs beneath. Your palm doesn’t move from His chest.
Your mind is a dangerous place when left to wander. How can you miss someone when they’re right next to you?
“You know I’m awake, right?” Xanthus’ voice cuts through your thoughts, warm with amusement.
You freeze. His eyes are still closed, face perfectly relaxed, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of His mouth now.
“How long have you been awake?” you ask, not moving your hand.
“Long enough to feel you cataloging my face.” His eyes open finally, dark and fond. “Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re this fascinated by my eyebrows?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He shifts slightly, the arm around your waist tightening to keep you close. “You do it every morning. You forget I don’t really need sleep. I feel everything you do every morning.”
“You’ve been keeping track?”
“I’m four hundred years old, love. I’ve gotten quite good at noticing patterns.” His free hand comes up to cover yours on His chest. “Especially yours.”
The touch is deliberate, pressing your palm firmly against where His heart isn’t. His fingers are cool as they lace through yours.
Your breath catches. “Xanthus—”
“I’m here,” He continues, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you at all. “No heartbeat, perhaps, but I’m here with you. And that’s not nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you agree, voice rough.
“So.” His hand leaves yours to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Since you’ve been studying me, I think it’s only fair I get to return the favor.”
“That’s not—”
But He’s already shifted, rolling you onto your back so He can lean over you, propped on one elbow. His gaze travels across your face with the same intensity you’d just shown him—deliberate, through, mapping every detail.
“There,” He murmurs, almost to himself. “The way your eyes are still heavy with sleep. The line between your brows that appear when you’re thinking too hard. That spot just there—” His finger taps gently beside your mouth. “—where you always bite your lip when you’re nervous.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” His smile is soft. “Each morning, love. I’ve been paying attention too.”
The words settle in your chest. Each morning of Him watching you the way you watch him. Each morning of this—silk sheets and velvet curtains and the strange intimacy of waking beside someone who doesn’t sleep the way you do but stays anyway.
“Kiss me,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel.
Xanthus stills. “Are you certain? You’ve just woken up, and I haven’t exactly—”
“Xanthus.” You reach up, fingers threading through that perfectly mussed hair. “Kiss me.”
He does.
It’s gentle at first—a soft press of cool lips against yours, careful in the way He always is with you. Like you’re something precious. Something that might break if He’s not cautious.
But you don’t want careful right now. You want the proof that He’s here, that this is real, for each morning of waking up beside Him haven’t been some elaborate dream your lonely mind conjured.
You pull Him closer, deepening the kiss, and feel His sharp intake of breath against your mouth. His hand cups the back of your neck, angling you exactly where He wants you, and there—there’s the Xanthus you know. The one who’s lived for four centuries and knows precisely what He’s doing. The one who kisses you like He’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless—well, you are. Xanthus looks composed as ever expect for the way His eyes have darkened, the way His thumb won’t tracing small circles against your pulse point.
“Good morning,” He says, and there’s something smug in His smile.
“Morning.” You’re very aware of how your heart is racing, how He can definitely feel it under His fingertips. “That was—”
“Many mornings overdue?”
“I was going to say nice, but sure. That too.”
He laughs, low and warm, and presses another quick kiss to your forehead before rolling away. “As much as I’d like to stay here all day, I believe you have a routine to follow. Something about coffee and breakfast and actually leaving bed before noon?”
Right. The real world. Responsibilities.
“What time is it?” you ask, already mourning the loss of His warmth beside you.
“Just past nine.” He’s sitting up now, running a hand through His hair to tame it. It doesn’t work—it never does in the morning, and you’re delighted by that. “Which means you’re already behind schedule. Don’t you usually wake up at seven?”
“How do you—”
“I’ve been paying attention,” He reminds you, that knowing smile back on His face. “I know your schedule better than you at this point.”
“Go on,” He urges, standing and offering you His hand. “I’ll get started on breakfast while you get ready.”
“You don’t eat.”
“No, but you do. And I’ve become quite proficient at cooking for someone who can’t taste any of it.” His smile turns slightly wicked. “Besides, you’re about to discover I’ve taken some liberties with your clothes while you were sleeping.”
“Liberties?”
“I may have organized your things. Some of them. The ones I found in the luggage scattered across my bedroom floor.”
He tugs you to standing, steadying you when the silk sheets try to tangle around your legs. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
You should be probably annoyed and protest the invasion of privacy or the presumption or something. But looking at Him now—dark eyes warm, hair still mussed from sleep and fingers, that soft smile He only shows when it’s just the two of you—you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“Thank you,” you say instead.
“You’re welcome.” He squeezes your hand once before letting go. “Now go. Get ready. I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”
He’s gone before you can respond, moving with that preternatural speed that still started you sometimes. One moment He’s there, the next you’re alone in his—your?—bedroom, silk sheets pooled at your feet and the ghost of the kiss still tingling on your lips.
You take a moment to look around properly. The room is massive, all dark wood and burgundy fabrics, heavy curtains blocking every window. There’s a wardrobe against one wall that definitely wasn’t open yesterday, and you peek inside you find your clothes hung neatly beside his. Color-coordinated, even. Of course.
A door on the far wall leads to an en-suite bathroom, and you find more of your things arranged on the counter—toothbrush, skincare products, the specific brand of soap you prefer. Everything exactly where you’d put it if you’d been the one unpacking.
It’s unsettling and touching in equal measure. The care He’s taken. The attention to detail.
You go through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes (He’s even folded your favorite sweater and left it on top), the mechanical process of making yourself presentable for the day. But your mind is elsewhere, still caught on cool lips and silk sheets and the feeling of His hand over yours on His silent chest.
When you emerge from the bedroom finally, properly dressed and slightly more awake, you pause at the top of the stairs. The estate is quiet except for faint sounds from the kitchen—running water, the click of dishes, Xanthus moving through space with that uncanny grace of his.
You should go down. Should join him.
But there’s a door to your left, slightly ajar, and through it you can see shelves. Books. Lots of books.
Just a quick look, you tell yourself. Just to see what kind of things a four-hundred-year-old vampire keeps in His personal library.
The room is smaller than you expected—cozy, almost. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, packed with leather-bound volumes in various states of wear. There’s a reading chair by the window, the curtains here thinner than the bedroom, allowing filtered light to seep through.
You drift toward the nearest shelf, fingers trailing along spines. Poetry collection, history text, what looks like someone’s journal from the 1700s. Everything is organized with the same meticulous care as your clothes.
One shelf is cleaner than the others. Recently dusted, like books are frequently pulled from here. You lean closer, reading titles—most are poetry, but there’s one slim volume that’s been handled more than the rest. The leather is worn smooth, spine cracked from repeated opening.
You pull it free carefully. It’s not a published book at all, you realize. It’s a journal, a personal one.
You should put it back. You know you should.
But the pages fall open almost on their own, and you find yourself staring at the cramped handwriting dated August 28th, 1641.
The weather proves warm as a year prior, yet I am null to it’s warmth; for the frozen breath seeps into my bones. I am enslaved to perpetual hunger of which no remedy can abstain, and foreign remnants of iron linger upon my tongue that yearns for a deep embrace I cannot hope to flee. This is my atonement, punishment orchestrated by none other than the DEVIL.
I am damned to this fate.
Your chest tightens. This is Xanthus—no, Lawrence, a year after His death. A year into being a vampire and hating every moment of it.
I am unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love. And I shall keep this promise to myself for as long as I am Lawrence Cleyburne.
You feel your heart drop to your stomach. You have no right to dig through His life like this—though you doubt He didn’t do the same to your own history. But the pages of this journal feel heavy with the ink of pain, it feels as if it might spread onto you.
You’d rather hear Xanthus’ pain from His own lips. Not pages from journals you had no right to open.
You return the journal to it’s rightful place. You’re about to leave the room when you feel the hair on your neck rise. The eerily quiet steps of your partner (lover?) reach your ears. Suddenly you regret getting caught (not the snooping).
You quickly turn your back to the door, and start looking at any other book. You still at a random spot in front of the bookshelf, though the sound of footsteps are gone now. Did He turn around and go to another room?—
“Find anything interesting?”
Your heart is still racing from what you read, but you manage a casual smile. “Just looking. You have a lot of books.”
“Hundreds of years collecting will do that.” He moves into the room, coming to stand beside you. “Thought I’ll confess, most of them are decorative at this point. I’ve read them all at least twice.”
“All of them?”
“When you don’t really need sleep, you find ways to pass the time.” His fingers trace along the spice of the poetry collection you’re pretending to examine. He tilts His head in thought.
The sight brings a smile to your face.
“There it is,” He says quietly. “I was beginning to worry I’d have to work harder for that.”
“For what?”
“Your smile. You looked troubled when I came in.” His eyes search your face. “Everything alright?”
Unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love.
The words echo in your mind, but you push them away. This isn’t the moment. Maybe there will never be a moment to tell Him you’ve read His private thoughts from 1641, seen the depth of His self-loathing laid bare.
“Just thinking,” you stay instead, which isn’t entirely a lie. “About how strange this all is. Waking up here. My clothes in your wardrobe. You downstairs cooking breakfast even though you can’t eat it.”
His expression shifts. “Strange in a good way, I hope?”
“Strange in the best way.” You step closer, taking His hand. “I was just taking it all in. This is really happening.”
“It is.” His fingers lace through yours. “I’ve already cleared three additional shelves for your books. Non-refundable, I’m afraid.”
“Three shelves? I don’t have that many books.”
“You will. I’m planning to spoil you terribly.” He tugs you toward the door. “Starting with breakfast that’s getting progressively colder while we stand here discussing my hoarding tendencies. Come on.”
He’s holding your hand. Leading you downstairs to breakfast He made specifically for you. He remembers the coffee orders and the exact way you like your eggs.
“You made me breakfast?”
“I told you I would.” He’s leading you toward the stairs now, fingers laced through yours. “Though I’ll warn you, my cooking skills are somewhat limited by the fact that I haven’t properly cooked in years.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
The kitchen is spotless—of course it is—with a single place setting at the counter. Eggs, toast, coffee (in your specific mug from your old apartment, which He must have packed).
“This is,” you gesture at the plate, the coffee, him. “This is a lot.”
“Too much?” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in His expression.
“No! Not too much. Just different.” You set down the coffee mug, meeting His eyes. “Just different. Good different. I’m not used to someone knowing this much about me.”
“Well.” He reaches across the counter, fingers finding yours. “You’d better get used to it. I’m fairly certain you’re stuck with me now.”
“Fairly certain?”
“You did move in. There’s no take-backs on that decision.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to move in. I remember you suggesting it and then somehow all my things ended up here.”
“Semantics.” His grin is unrepentant. “Eat your breakfast. We have plans.”
The idea of waking up next to him, spending every waking moment with your eyes on him, eating breakfast with him, running up and down stairs with Him brings a smile to your face. Your life isn’t just about surviving every day anymore. You can start truly living.
“What are you smiling about?” Xanthus asks, catching your expression.
“Nothing.” You set down your mug, moving around the counter to kiss Him again. Just because you can. “Just glad I moved in. Semantics aside.”
His answering smile is radiant. “Me too, love. Me too.”
Extra notes from author: This is probably my last long fic for now. My studies are starting again! With this fic I am spreading the housewife Xanthus propaganda. Audric let them go, all Xanny wants is an apron (preferably with the lettering “kiss the cook”).
I know a lot of people voted angst, so I threw in the depressing 1641 letter in just for y’all.
Honestly, the timeline of this fic (where it takes place in the canon story) is a bit skewed. Maybe it’s before everything went haywire.
Now I’ll go into hibernation and only post small drabbles thank you very much. I’ve been able to write fics pretty fast this week but I think my motivation has run its course 🥹
The title is inspired by “In bed, The kiss” by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Fun fact, the painting is queer! (From the information I have)
Said I’d write a Xanthus fluff fic and I made third of it angst, the other third about his weird stalking tendencies and then the fluff. (And I’m not even done).
Oh and I made myself cry 😐
Here’s a few snippets!
“Kiss me,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel.
Xanthus stills. “Are you certain? You’ve just woken up, and I haven’t exactly—”
“Xanthus.” You reach up, fingers threading through that perfectly mussed hair. “Kiss me.”
He does.
It’s gentle at first—a soft press of cool lips against yours, careful in the way he always is with you. Like you’re something precious. Something that might break if he’s not cautious.
+
But the pages fall open almost on their own, and you find yourself staring at the cramped handwriting dated August 28th, 1641.
The people have spoken! I did not expect that option to win (but i guess we all want domestic fluff because saqu is literally torturing us) I also promised to write the 2nd placer so the angst piece is also on my to-do list! Thank you for voting!
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Extra notes from author: this is more of a character study and my theory of what happened during 1693, when Xanthus drained an entire village and how Audric plays into Xanthus’s psyche. More notes at the end of the work explaining the references.
1693, English countryside
The hunger is a living thing now. It has teeth and claws that rake at the inside of Lawrence’s ribs, that claw up his throat with every shallow breath.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you listening?”
Lawrence forces himself to focus. They’re in the study of whatever lodging Audric has secured for them this month—he’s stopped keeping track. The older vampire stands by the window, bathed in moonlight, looking as composed as ever.
“Yes,” Lawrence manages. “The village. You said there have been disappearances.”
“Seven in the past months.” Audric turns, hands clasped behind his back. “The pattern suggests vampires—fledglings, most likely. Reckless ones. I need someone to investigate. To scout the village. Talk to the residents, see if they know something.”
Lawrence’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. The wood grain bites into his palm, grounding him. “You want me to go into a village.”
“You’ve done reconnaissance before.” Audric’s tone is matter-of-fact. “This should be straightforward. Observe, listen, report back. Just talk to the humans, Lawrence. You can manage at least that, no?”
There’s a pause. Lawrence knows he should mention it—the trembling in his hands, the way every heartbeat within a mile calls to him. But admitting weakness to Audric has never felt safe.
“When should I leave?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Audric moves to the desk, unrolling a map. “The village is called Thornbury. Small, perhaps forty residents. Five miles northeast. You’ll question the residents and return before dawn with your report.
Five miles. Forty people. Lawrence can already imagine it—the scent of blood, the sound of heartbeats, the warmth of living bodies in the cold night.
“I’ll be careful,” he says.
“I’m certain you will be.” Audric’s gaze is steady and unreadable. “You’ve always been reliable, Lawrence.”
The praise sits wrong in Lawrence’s chest, but he doesn’t examine why.
After Audric dismisses him, Lawrence returns to his room. His journal sits on the small desk—leather-bound, pages filled with increasingly desperate entries. His mother had kept journals too, before his father packed and hid them after her death. Her handwriting had been elegant where his is cramped, her words full of observations about garden flowers and changing seasons.
He wonders if he should put to paper the hunger that bites at him and consumes him. The primal need for the ichor running through the veins of every passing heartbeat.
The hunger frays the edges of my control.
How long will the vampire blood, akin to a drug that poisons his heart between his ribs, sate him?
It dampens the need without satisfying it, like drinking seawater. I feel high off of it. I crave more.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
God, if you are there, if you have faith in me, please—
Let me keep a shred of my humanity tomorrow.
He sets down the pen, staring at the words until they blur.
+
The village of Thornbury is smaller than Lawrence expected. Cottages cluster together, smoke curling from chimneys into the night sky. He can hear everything—the crackle of hearth fires, a mother singing to her child, the rhythmic breathing of families settling in for sleep. And underneath it all, the steady drum of heartbeats.
So many heartbeats.
Lawrence forces himself to focus on the mission. He moves through the village, listening.
An old man by the tavern speaks of the battle at Lagos, how his son is off in Portugal, fighting alongside the grand alliance. There’s a spark of hope in his voice, maybe his son will come back from war.
Lawrence tries to remember the face of his father. He wonders if the noble Viscount Richard Cleyburne ever mourned his son.
Lawrence stills outside the tavern. He has heard of the battle of Lagos. He doesn’t let himself imagine the grief when the father in that lonely tavern finds out that the grand alliance fleet was defeated, that his precious baby boy won’t return home.
Lawrence stumbles. The night air feels too hot on his skin. His hands are shaking. The pit in his stomach grows larger, consuming his entire being. The hunger hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s worse. Crueler in it’s primal want and need.
Lawrence should leave. He should run back to Audric’s lodgings. He can’t stay here. The villagers are too close. There are so many heartbeats.
He should—
“—are you feeling alright, son?” The man who’s worried mumbling Lawrence heard inside the tavern is now in front of him.
The man is extending a hand.
The blood runs through his veins.
The man rests his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, gripping it to try and stabilize him.
“You look pale, my son. You should come inside. Come.” His voice is too kind. Not worth the one touched by the devil. “At least get a drink to calm down.”
A drink.
Lawrence has grown to familiarize himself with the dark crimson of blood. Of how it sticks like sin on his skin and tastes like rot on his tongue. How he’ll never be able to wash it off.
More.
The old man is dead now. He’ll never grief his son.
I’ll be quick. Careful.
What had he done?
There’s a cottage near. It’s dark quiet. A family is sleeping. A boy is clinging on to his mother. They won’t even—
+
Audric find him in the town square.
Lawrence is sitting against the well, staring at nothing. His clothes are ruined. His hands are stained. The dawn is perhaps an hour away, pink just beginning to touch the horizon.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice is quiet. “Can you hear me?”
Lawrence doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is shaking. “I was going to take just one— just one to make it back! I didn’t—”
“How many?” Audric asks finally.
He knows how many. He can feel the heartbeat of the entire village is gone. He doesn’t need to ask Lawrence. But he has an insatiable curiosity to hear it from the fledgling voice.
Audric wants to hear Lawrence say what he did.
“I tried to stop,” Lawrence whispers. “After the first I tried. But the hunger—once it started, I couldn’t— what did I do?”
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Lawrence says nothing. It’s easier that way.
notes ﹕ A few days ago I talked about my theory that Audric had a role in why Xanthus was starving that night. Of course Xanthus isn’t 100% innocent. But a moment from an earlier episode made me think about this differently. I remember Xanthus spoke to Love about how important it was for makers to stay to teach their fledglings how to deal with the hunger.
In my mind, Audric wanted soldiers. At least at one point in their lives, Xanthus was an experiment at best. His maker had a hand in dooming him. What also gets me is how Xanthus spoke about Audric—always respectful but a tinge of something else.
Also the title is a reference to “Saturn Devouring his Son” by Fransisco Goya. Take that as you will.
The battle of Lagos really happened. I wanted to draw parallels between the villagers and Xanthus. The son of at war, the father waiting for said son, the child sleeping next to his mother.
Thank you for reading this far!
Excuse the tags, they’re just there for post engagement.
This story in the audio actually tore me in and out, from the shift of us hating each layer of hell of Audric’s being, now we see Xanthus isn’t a saint all that either, and we already knew he was bad, but we didn’t know village carnage worthy.
YOU LET HIM WRITE IN THE JOURNALS AFTER HIS MOM- which makes me want to tear out my clothes in fucking agonyyyy HIS FUCKING DAD ISTG- Im so happy btw that so many ppl are seeing the clear connection of fatherhood between xanthus and audric like- I thought it felt eerily strange that Audric took him in and fuckin weaned him, like a parent would, and he put all his ambitions and wants on him as a suffocater does.
“It was the best meal of my life.”
I love LOVE the fact that you chose saturn devouring his son for this, because the fucking CONNECTIONS that you out between the painting and Xanthus and the pair is so good— SO GOOD.
Saturn ate his son out of fear that he would rise up against him, same as Audric trying to kill Xanthus for what he did, or maybe it was Audric’s paranoia that oke day, Xanthus would be his end, and he was in a way.
Xanthus killing the father out of pure hunger and desperation, like Saturn, and looking and feeling so content. Because it was the best meal he’d had in ages.
AND THE FACT THAT WHEN GOYA DREW THAT PAINTING HE WAS ACTUALLY GOING THROUGH LOSS OF HIS SANITY FROM FEAR AND ISOLATION FROM THE WORLD??? BECAUSE XANTHUS WAS ALSO GOING MAD FROM BEING AWAY FROM HIS FAMILY AND HIS PEOPLE?!
Im going fucking insane . This is so well layered, multi dimensional levels of storytelling, detail, this couldn’t have been any better, you actually made a Shakespeare level of playwriting that modern authors are selling their souls to find. Ik every single greek author is rolling in his grave rn for not meeting you
I mean this, with all my heart, you are a genius writer. You should be a fuckin historical icon AND I PREDICT YOU WILL BE 🩷🩷‼️🩷🩷 THANK YOU AGAIN FOR ALWAYS FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL REMINDER THAT VOICES CAN EXIST IN ANY FORM OF BOOK OR WRITING!! Xanthus should take notes from you 🥹🦋🦋🦋🦋
how can i even begin this. Where have you been my entire live. You got everything. LIKE EVERYTHING. i feel so seen right now!!! You are every writers dream and i am so lucky you read my fics. Thank you so much! You understood every little detail. Especially the title. I was waiting for someone to comment on it. Thank you thank you. YOU LEFT NO STONE UNTURNED AND NOW IM CONNA CRY AAAAA
I appreciate you so so much. You made my morning, night literally everything.
“...decades from now, this pond still here, the koi grown large and old, and you still beside him watching them glide through water that never stops moving.
It’s the longest he’s thought about the future in years.”
Or, you and Isaac build a koi pond in his parents memorial garden.
2023, Isaac’s estate
The garden hasn’t changed since that night fifteen years ago. Same stone path, same beds of blue orchids his mother favored, same oak tree where Isaac used to read while she worked. The only difference is the memorial stones—simple granite markers where his parents fell.
Isaac has avoided this corner of the garden for years, only visiting it once every year. Even after you moved in, even after he started venturing outside more, this spot remained untouched. Sacred in the worst way.
But standing here now, blueprints in hand, he thinks it might be time to change that.
“You’re sure about this?” Your voice comes from behind him. You’ve learned to read his silences, to know when to push and when to simply be present.
“No,” Isaac admits. He crouches down, running his fingers over the grass near his mother’s stone. “But I think she would have liked it. A pond. Koi. She always talked about adding water features to the garden. My father never approved—said it was frivolous.”
You settle beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. “What changed your mind?”
Isaac is quiet for a moment, thinking about the past two years. About Pickle coaxing him outside, step by step. About learning to exist in open spaces without his chest tightening. About the way grief has slowly shifted from something sharp to something he can hold without cutting himself.
“I want this to be more than where they died,” he says finally. “I want it to be something living. Something that moves.”
You don't say anything, but your hand finds his. The touch is warm and grounding.
“I’ll need help,” Isaac adds, glancing at you. “I’ve researched the construction process, ordered the materials, and mapped out the dimensions. But the actual labor—”
“I’m not exactly construction-experienced,” you interrupt, a smile on your face. “Remember when I tried to hang those shelves in the library?”
“They were only slightly crooked.”
“They fell down three days later.”
Isaac’s mouth twitches. “Point taken. I’ve hired contractors for the heavy work. But I thought—if you wanted to help with the finishing touches. The plants around the border, choosing the koi. Small things.
“Small things,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I can do small things.”
+++
The contractors have been efficient. The hole is dug, lined, and filled. Filtration system installed. What was once grass near the memorial stones is now a kidney-shaped pond, water dark and still in the morning light.
Isaac stands at the edge, coffee in hand, studying their work. It’s technically correct—proper depth, adequate circulation, appropriate positioning to avoid too much direct sunlight. But it looks stark. A hole full of water rather than something sentimental to him. To you.
“You’re brooding.” You emerge from the house with your own coffee, wearing the cardigan Isaac bought you last month. “What’s bothering you? You’re making the face.”
“What face? I have a perfectly normal face.”
“You have a beautiful face, but right now your brows are furrowed and you’re staring daggers at the pond.” You stand beside him, surveying the pond. “So, what’s bothering you?”
“It’s too empty,” Isaac says. “The structure is sound, but it needs more. And, no— I have no idea what.”
You’re quiet for a moment, then you set down your coffee and start walking the perimeter of the pond. Isaac watches you, noting the way you pause at certain spots, crouch down to examine the stone edging, and tilt your head in thought.
“Rocks,” you announce finally. “Big ones, irregular shapes. To break up the edge. And plants—those irises that grow in the water. What are they called?”
“Japanese irises. Iris ensata.” Isaac frowns, considering. “That could work. The contrast between smooth water and rough stone. Purple flowers complement the orchids.” He pauses, studying the space. “And chrysanthemums around the border. My mother planted them every autumn. White and gold.”
“Like that painting you have in the library?” You ask. “The one with the flowers and the stream?”
Isaac nods. It’s paulownias and chrysanthemums beside flowing water, gold leaf catching the light. He’d purchased it years ago. Now he understands it reminded him of his mother’s garden.
“Something like that,” he says quietly.
“And maybe some of those floating plants? The ones that look like lily pads but smaller?”
“Water Lettuce.” Isaac pulls out his phone, making notes. “We’d need to be careful about coverage—too much and it blocks oxygen exchange. Perhaps—”
“Wait, it’s named Water Lettuce?”
“Yes?”
Your comically confused look makes his smile widen.
“Ugly name.”
“Be kind to the plants, Pickle,” Isaac tuts. “You’ll be seeing them for a long time.”
“Fine. I apologize to the Water Lettuce,” you huff, though the promise of a long time in this house, next to him, makes your heart beat faster. “When do we get the fish?”
“Koi,” Isaac corrects automatically. “And not until the ecosystem is established. We need to wait four to six weeks, ideally.”
“So we have time to pick them out.”
“Yes.” Isaac hesitates, then adds, “I thought we could visit a breeder together. There’s one in Surrey with an excellent reputation. We could make a day of it, if you’d like.”
Your expression softens. You’ve learned what it means when Isaac suggests leaving the estate and how much effort it takes him to offer that.
“I’d like that,” they say quietly.
+++
The drive to Surrey takes two hours. Isaac white-knuckles the steering wheel for the first thirty minutes, jaw tight, but your mindless mumbles close to his ear and gentle touch on his knee relax him. By the time you reach the breeder’s facility, his shoulders have dropped from his ears.
The ponds are extensive—dozens of them, in varying sizes, filled with koi of every color imaginable. A woman in her sixties greets you.
“First time keeping koi?” She asks.
“Yes,” Isaac confirms. “I’ve done extensive research on the care requirements, water parameters, feeding schedules—”
“He made a spreadsheet,” you interject. “Multiple. Printed, and now I have to memorize them.”
The woman laughs warmly. “Always good to be prepared. What size is your pond?”
As Isaac discusses specifications with the woman, you wander ahead to look at the koi. Isaac finds you a few minutes later, crouched by a pond, watching the fish glide past.
“They’re beautiful,” you say without looking up. “I didn’t realize they’d be so big.”
“These are mature specimens. We’d start with younger ones.” Isaac crouches beside you. “They can live for decades with proper care. Some have been known to reach fifty years or more.”
You glance at him, and your expression makes Isaac’s chest feel full.
“Fifty years,” they murmur. “That’s a long time.”
“Yes.” Isaac watches a particularly striking red and white koi swim past. “It’s a commitment.”
“Good thing you’re good at those now.”
The comment is light and teasing, but it lands with weight.
“I’m getting better at it,” he amends.
The woman returns with a net and a list of available young koi. Over the next hour, she helps you select five—a mix of colors and patterns. A kohaku with red and white markings. A bright yellow yamabuki. A sanke with red, white, and black. A platinum ogon that shimmers silver. And a small soragoi, gray-blue like storm clouds.
“The soragoi,” the woman says as she bags them carefully, “they’re known for being friendly. Often the first to eat from your hand, if you’re patient.”
You light up at this. “We can hand-feed them?”
“Eventually. They need time to settle first and get comfortable. But yes, with patience, most koi learn to recognize their owners.”
As you drive home, the bagged koi secured carefully in a cooler, you keep turning around to check on them.
“Stop worrying,” Isaac says, though his tone is gentle. “They’re fine. They'll survive the journey.”
“I know. I just want to make sure.” You settle back in your seat. “Did you see how much that little gray one seemed to watch us? The soragoi?”
“I noticed.”
“I think that’s my favorite.”
Isaac glances at you, noting the soft expression and the way you’re already attached. Something warm blooms in his chest.
“We should name them,” you continue. “Is that silly? Naming fish?”
“Koi aren’t fish. They’re—” Isaac stops himself, hearing how pedantic that sounds. “I suppose we could name them. If you’d like.”
“The red and white one reminds me of those peppermint candies you keep in your study. We could call it Pepper.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Peppermint?”
“No.”
You laugh, and Isaac finds himself smiling despite his protests. By the time you reach the estate, you’ve named all five—though Isaac refuses to acknowledge that “Pepper” has stuck for the kohaku.
+++
The pond has transformed. Rocks line the edges now. Water irises bloom purple at the northern side. Water lettuce floats in clusters, and the water lilies have started to spread their pads across the surface. White and gold chrysanthemums border the pond’s edge, just beginning to show their autumn color.
And swimming through it all are five koi that have grown comfortable enough to approach when Isaac and you appear.
You’re at the pond now, in the early evening. You have taken to coming out here after dinner, sitting on one of the flat rocks by the edge. Isaac joins you more often than not.
“Do you think they’re happy?” You ask, watching the fish glide past.
“They’re fish—koi, Pickle. I don’t know if they experience happiness the way we define it.” Isaac pauses, then relents. “But they’re healthy. Eating well. By all metrics, they’re thriving.”
“So yes?”
“Perhaps.”
The soragoi—which you have insisted on calling Storm despite Isaac’s protest that it’s too much on-the-nose—swims closer. It hovers near the surface, and you extend your hand slowly, letting it rest on the water.
Storm doesn’t flee. In fact, it drifts closer until its nose nearly touches your fingers.
“Isaac,” you whisper, barely breathing. “Isaac, look.”
Isaac is already looking. At the koi, yes, but mostly at you—the wonder on your face, the gentleness in your movement.
“Try feeding it,” Isaac says quietly. He pulls out a small container of food pellets you keep by the pond, offering a few to you.
You take them carefully, holding one between thumb and forefinger, extending it toward Storm. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Storm rises, mouth breaking the surface, and takes the pellet directly from your hand.
Your laugh is pure delight. “Did you see that? It ate from my hand!”
“I saw.” Isaac’s throat feels tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the fish. The other koi, seeing Storm get fed, begin to approach. Soon you’re surrounded by koi, all of them vying for attention, and you’re laughing and trying to feed each one fairly while Isaac has his eyes only on you.
When the food runs out, you lean back, grinning. “That was incredible. Did you want to try?”
“Perhaps another time.” Isaac stills for a moment, then adds, “thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For helping with the pond. For—” he gestures vaguely, struggling with words the way he always does when emotions are involved. “For making this place come alive.”
Your expression softens. You reach over, taking his hand and pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
Isaac’s eyes brighten. He first locks eyes onto your lips, grazing his knuckles, then the pond—at the water rippling with fish, the plants swaying in the breeze, and the way the evening light catches on the surface. “I think my mother would have liked this. The koi, the irises, and you. She would have loved you. She always wanted the garden to feel alive.”
“Not just the garden,” you say gently.
Isaac understands what you mean.
“No,” he agrees. “Not just the garden.”
You sit here as the sun sets, watching the koi swim lazy circles, and Isaac thinks about the next fifty years. About the fish that will outlive most pets, about gardens that need tending, about the person beside him who somehow convinced him that open spaces don’t have to be terrifying.
Storm swims past again, gray-blue scales catching the last light, and Isaac allows himself to imagine it: decades from now, this pond still here, the koi grown large and old, and you still beside him watching them glide through water that never stops moving.
It’s the longest he’s thought about the future in years.
It doesn’t frighten him the way it used to.
notes: A few years ago my class went to an aquarium. The koi had a separate pond outside. They were majestic, but stupid little me didn’t know how to properly handle them so I accidentally scared them 😭 I tried doing them justice here. The research for the proper facts for koi care, where to get them near London (turns out there’s a place called Surrey with actual koi farms), their types (soragoi rule) took around 3 hours. And that’s not even taking into account me planning out the fic. Oh and the plants are all real! There are Japanese Irises that grow in the water!
I think building a pond like this suits Isaac and Pickle. I tried to tackle his agoraphobia and grief here. This is a step in the right direction. I apologize if I got any facts from the lore wrong.
I realize Isaac was like “Actually, it’s koi, not fish! 🤓☝🏻” That’s like saying koi fish, basically carp fish. 😭
The title is inspired by “Paulownias and Chrysanthemums” by Sakai Hōitsu.
DEAR GOD I AM STRUCK BY THE UNNATURAL BEAUTY OF THIS WRITING AND I WANT TO IMPALE MYSELF IN DEFERENCE I AM BLOWN OFF AND BLOWN AWAY THIS WAS SUCH A CHARISMATIC AND HEARTWARMING RIDE
Isaac is so NATURAL here he’s so perfect- he’s articulate, he likes to make sure everything is from his correct perspective of what the pond is and should be, he’s not doing it for himself but for his mother, and he carried all her hopes into making this pond real— AND FUCKING PICKLE BRO, COULD YOU HAVE NOT MADE THEM ANYMORE PERFECT?! They’re so caring towards Isaac and always seem to make him happy despite what he feels, they still reach out to make him feel whole and better about this new addition to his life he never thought he’d see, every fucking inch of this fic is written with love and happiness and I ate everything and I feel whole and goddamnnnnnnn
I cant stop reading, this is so well detailed and written you couldnt convince me you arent secretly isaac in disguise, I hope you get your koi fish pond, if it was that beautiful in the aquarium then it will turn into the most dazzling thing on earth in your home!!
THIS IS LITERALLY THE SWEETEST WORDS IVE EVER RECEIVED FOR A FIC. I NEED YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME. i literally have a tear in my eye. i might cry. Thank you. I LOVE HOW YOU NOTICED EVERYTHING AAAAAAA this means so much because you analyzed it perfectly and i feel so honoured thank you!!!!!!
“...decades from now, this pond still here, the koi grown large and old, and you still beside him watching them glide through water that never stops moving.
It’s the longest he’s thought about the future in years.”
Or, you and Isaac build a koi pond in his parents memorial garden.
2023, Isaac’s estate
The garden hasn’t changed since that night fifteen years ago. Same stone path, same beds of blue orchids his mother favored, same oak tree where Isaac used to read while she worked. The only difference is the memorial stones—simple granite markers where his parents fell.
Isaac has avoided this corner of the garden for years, only visiting it once every year. Even after you moved in, even after he started venturing outside more, this spot remained untouched. Sacred in the worst way.
But standing here now, blueprints in hand, he thinks it might be time to change that.
“You’re sure about this?” Your voice comes from behind him. You’ve learned to read his silences, to know when to push and when to simply be present.
“No,” Isaac admits. He crouches down, running his fingers over the grass near his mother’s stone. “But I think she would have liked it. A pond. Koi. She always talked about adding water features to the garden. My father never approved—said it was frivolous.”
You settle beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. “What changed your mind?”
Isaac is quiet for a moment, thinking about the past two years. About Pickle coaxing him outside, step by step. About learning to exist in open spaces without his chest tightening. About the way grief has slowly shifted from something sharp to something he can hold without cutting himself.
“I want this to be more than where they died,” he says finally. “I want it to be something living. Something that moves.”
You don't say anything, but your hand finds his. The touch is warm and grounding.
“I’ll need help,” Isaac adds, glancing at you. “I’ve researched the construction process, ordered the materials, and mapped out the dimensions. But the actual labor—”
“I’m not exactly construction-experienced,” you interrupt, a smile on your face. “Remember when I tried to hang those shelves in the library?”
“They were only slightly crooked.”
“They fell down three days later.”
Isaac’s mouth twitches. “Point taken. I’ve hired contractors for the heavy work. But I thought—if you wanted to help with the finishing touches. The plants around the border, choosing the koi. Small things.
“Small things,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I can do small things.”
+++
The contractors have been efficient. The hole is dug, lined, and filled. Filtration system installed. What was once grass near the memorial stones is now a kidney-shaped pond, water dark and still in the morning light.
Isaac stands at the edge, coffee in hand, studying their work. It’s technically correct—proper depth, adequate circulation, appropriate positioning to avoid too much direct sunlight. But it looks stark. A hole full of water rather than something sentimental to him. To you.
“You’re brooding.” You emerge from the house with your own coffee, wearing the cardigan Isaac bought you last month. “What’s bothering you? You’re making the face.”
“What face? I have a perfectly normal face.”
“You have a beautiful face, but right now your brows are furrowed and you’re staring daggers at the pond.” You stand beside him, surveying the pond. “So, what’s bothering you?”
“It’s too empty,” Isaac says. “The structure is sound, but it needs more. And, no— I have no idea what.”
You’re quiet for a moment, then you set down your coffee and start walking the perimeter of the pond. Isaac watches you, noting the way you pause at certain spots, crouch down to examine the stone edging, and tilt your head in thought.
“Rocks,” you announce finally. “Big ones, irregular shapes. To break up the edge. And plants—those irises that grow in the water. What are they called?”
“Japanese irises. Iris ensata.” Isaac frowns, considering. “That could work. The contrast between smooth water and rough stone. Purple flowers complement the orchids.” He pauses, studying the space. “And chrysanthemums around the border. My mother planted them every autumn. White and gold.”
“Like that painting you have in the library?” You ask. “The one with the flowers and the stream?”
Isaac nods. It’s paulownias and chrysanthemums beside flowing water, gold leaf catching the light. He’d purchased it years ago. Now he understands it reminded him of his mother’s garden.
“Something like that,” he says quietly.
“And maybe some of those floating plants? The ones that look like lily pads but smaller?”
“Water Lettuce.” Isaac pulls out his phone, making notes. “We’d need to be careful about coverage—too much and it blocks oxygen exchange. Perhaps—”
“Wait, it’s named Water Lettuce?”
“Yes?”
Your comically confused look makes his smile widen.
“Ugly name.”
“Be kind to the plants, Pickle,” Isaac tuts. “You’ll be seeing them for a long time.”
“Fine. I apologize to the Water Lettuce,” you huff, though the promise of a long time in this house, next to him, makes your heart beat faster. “When do we get the fish?”
“Koi,” Isaac corrects automatically. “And not until the ecosystem is established. We need to wait four to six weeks, ideally.”
“So we have time to pick them out.”
“Yes.” Isaac hesitates, then adds, “I thought we could visit a breeder together. There’s one in Surrey with an excellent reputation. We could make a day of it, if you’d like.”
Your expression softens. You’ve learned what it means when Isaac suggests leaving the estate and how much effort it takes him to offer that.
“I’d like that,” they say quietly.
+++
The drive to Surrey takes two hours. Isaac white-knuckles the steering wheel for the first thirty minutes, jaw tight, but your mindless mumbles close to his ear and gentle touch on his knee relax him. By the time you reach the breeder’s facility, his shoulders have dropped from his ears.
The ponds are extensive—dozens of them, in varying sizes, filled with koi of every color imaginable. A woman in her sixties greets you.
“First time keeping koi?” She asks.
“Yes,” Isaac confirms. “I’ve done extensive research on the care requirements, water parameters, feeding schedules—”
“He made a spreadsheet,” you interject. “Multiple. Printed, and now I have to memorize them.”
The woman laughs warmly. “Always good to be prepared. What size is your pond?”
As Isaac discusses specifications with the woman, you wander ahead to look at the koi. Isaac finds you a few minutes later, crouched by a pond, watching the fish glide past.
“They’re beautiful,” you say without looking up. “I didn’t realize they’d be so big.”
“These are mature specimens. We’d start with younger ones.” Isaac crouches beside you. “They can live for decades with proper care. Some have been known to reach fifty years or more.”
You glance at him, and your expression makes Isaac’s chest feel full.
“Fifty years,” they murmur. “That’s a long time.”
“Yes.” Isaac watches a particularly striking red and white koi swim past. “It’s a commitment.”
“Good thing you’re good at those now.”
The comment is light and teasing, but it lands with weight.
“I’m getting better at it,” he amends.
The woman returns with a net and a list of available young koi. Over the next hour, she helps you select five—a mix of colors and patterns. A kohaku with red and white markings. A bright yellow yamabuki. A sanke with red, white, and black. A platinum ogon that shimmers silver. And a small soragoi, gray-blue like storm clouds.
“The soragoi,” the woman says as she bags them carefully, “they’re known for being friendly. Often the first to eat from your hand, if you’re patient.”
You light up at this. “We can hand-feed them?”
“Eventually. They need time to settle first and get comfortable. But yes, with patience, most koi learn to recognize their owners.”
As you drive home, the bagged koi secured carefully in a cooler, you keep turning around to check on them.
“Stop worrying,” Isaac says, though his tone is gentle. “They’re fine. They'll survive the journey.”
“I know. I just want to make sure.” You settle back in your seat. “Did you see how much that little gray one seemed to watch us? The soragoi?”
“I noticed.”
“I think that’s my favorite.”
Isaac glances at you, noting the soft expression and the way you’re already attached. Something warm blooms in his chest.
“We should name them,” you continue. “Is that silly? Naming fish?”
“Koi aren’t fish. They’re—” Isaac stops himself, hearing how pedantic that sounds. “I suppose we could name them. If you’d like.”
“The red and white one reminds me of those peppermint candies you keep in your study. We could call it Pepper.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Peppermint?”
“No.”
You laugh, and Isaac finds himself smiling despite his protests. By the time you reach the estate, you’ve named all five—though Isaac refuses to acknowledge that “Pepper” has stuck for the kohaku.
+++
The pond has transformed. Rocks line the edges now. Water irises bloom purple at the northern side. Water lettuce floats in clusters, and the water lilies have started to spread their pads across the surface. White and gold chrysanthemums border the pond’s edge, just beginning to show their autumn color.
And swimming through it all are five koi that have grown comfortable enough to approach when Isaac and you appear.
You’re at the pond now, in the early evening. You have taken to coming out here after dinner, sitting on one of the flat rocks by the edge. Isaac joins you more often than not.
“Do you think they’re happy?” You ask, watching the fish glide past.
“They’re fish—koi, Pickle. I don’t know if they experience happiness the way we define it.” Isaac pauses, then relents. “But they’re healthy. Eating well. By all metrics, they’re thriving.”
“So yes?”
“Perhaps.”
The soragoi—which you have insisted on calling Storm despite Isaac’s protest that it’s too much on-the-nose—swims closer. It hovers near the surface, and you extend your hand slowly, letting it rest on the water.
Storm doesn’t flee. In fact, it drifts closer until its nose nearly touches your fingers.
“Isaac,” you whisper, barely breathing. “Isaac, look.”
Isaac is already looking. At the koi, yes, but mostly at you—the wonder on your face, the gentleness in your movement.
“Try feeding it,” Isaac says quietly. He pulls out a small container of food pellets you keep by the pond, offering a few to you.
You take them carefully, holding one between thumb and forefinger, extending it toward Storm. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Storm rises, mouth breaking the surface, and takes the pellet directly from your hand.
Your laugh is pure delight. “Did you see that? It ate from my hand!”
“I saw.” Isaac’s throat feels tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the fish. The other koi, seeing Storm get fed, begin to approach. Soon you’re surrounded by koi, all of them vying for attention, and you’re laughing and trying to feed each one fairly while Isaac has his eyes only on you.
When the food runs out, you lean back, grinning. “That was incredible. Did you want to try?”
“Perhaps another time.” Isaac stills for a moment, then adds, “thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For helping with the pond. For—” he gestures vaguely, struggling with words the way he always does when emotions are involved. “For making this place come alive.”
Your expression softens. You reach over, taking his hand and pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
Isaac’s eyes brighten. He first locks eyes onto your lips, grazing his knuckles, then the pond—at the water rippling with fish, the plants swaying in the breeze, and the way the evening light catches on the surface. “I think my mother would have liked this. The koi, the irises, and you. She would have loved you. She always wanted the garden to feel alive.”
“Not just the garden,” you say gently.
Isaac understands what you mean.
“No,” he agrees. “Not just the garden.”
You sit here as the sun sets, watching the koi swim lazy circles, and Isaac thinks about the next fifty years. About the fish that will outlive most pets, about gardens that need tending, about the person beside him who somehow convinced him that open spaces don’t have to be terrifying.
Storm swims past again, gray-blue scales catching the last light, and Isaac allows himself to imagine it: decades from now, this pond still here, the koi grown large and old, and you still beside him watching them glide through water that never stops moving.
It’s the longest he’s thought about the future in years.
It doesn’t frighten him the way it used to.
notes: A few years ago my class went to an aquarium. The koi had a separate pond outside. They were majestic, but stupid little me didn’t know how to properly handle them so I accidentally scared them 😭 I tried doing them justice here. The research for the proper facts for koi care, where to get them near London (turns out there’s a place called Surrey with actual koi farms), their types (soragoi rule) took around 3 hours. And that’s not even taking into account me planning out the fic. Oh and the plants are all real! There are Japanese Irises that grow in the water!
I think building a pond like this suits Isaac and Pickle. I tried to tackle his agoraphobia and grief here. This is a step in the right direction. I apologize if I got any facts from the lore wrong.
I realize Isaac was like “Actually, it’s koi, not fish! 🤓☝🏻” That’s like saying koi fish, basically carp fish. 😭
The title is inspired by “Paulownias and Chrysanthemums” by Sakai Hōitsu.
omg have you watched Interview with a Vampire? i noticed in your writing with Xanthus and Audric you used the word “drained” which they use a lot in IWTV when they suck the blood dry from someone
no, I have not watched it. Though it is on my watchlist! I’ve heard great things about the series/movies. I’ve seen so many edits of the series that it feels like I already know the plot.
And the word “drained” I think is used in many vampire themed medias, so that’s probably why it ended up in my vocab 😭
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Extra notes from author: this is more of a character study and my theory of what happened during 1693, when Xanthus drained an entire village and how Audric plays into Xanthus’s psyche. More notes at the end of the work explaining the references.
1693, English countryside
The hunger is a living thing now. It has teeth and claws that rake at the inside of Lawrence’s ribs, that claw up his throat with every shallow breath.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you listening?”
Lawrence forces himself to focus. They’re in the study of whatever lodging Audric has secured for them this month—he’s stopped keeping track. The older vampire stands by the window, bathed in moonlight, looking as composed as ever.
“Yes,” Lawrence manages. “The village. You said there have been disappearances.”
“Seven in the past months.” Audric turns, hands clasped behind his back. “The pattern suggests vampires—fledglings, most likely. Reckless ones. I need someone to investigate. To scout the village. Talk to the residents, see if they know something.”
Lawrence’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. The wood grain bites into his palm, grounding him. “You want me to go into a village.”
“You’ve done reconnaissance before.” Audric’s tone is matter-of-fact. “This should be straightforward. Observe, listen, report back. Just talk to the humans, Lawrence. You can manage at least that, no?”
There’s a pause. Lawrence knows he should mention it—the trembling in his hands, the way every heartbeat within a mile calls to him. But admitting weakness to Audric has never felt safe.
“When should I leave?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Audric moves to the desk, unrolling a map. “The village is called Thornbury. Small, perhaps forty residents. Five miles northeast. You’ll question the residents and return before dawn with your report.
Five miles. Forty people. Lawrence can already imagine it—the scent of blood, the sound of heartbeats, the warmth of living bodies in the cold night.
“I’ll be careful,” he says.
“I’m certain you will be.” Audric’s gaze is steady and unreadable. “You’ve always been reliable, Lawrence.”
The praise sits wrong in Lawrence’s chest, but he doesn’t examine why.
After Audric dismisses him, Lawrence returns to his room. His journal sits on the small desk—leather-bound, pages filled with increasingly desperate entries. His mother had kept journals too, before his father packed and hid them after her death. Her handwriting had been elegant where his is cramped, her words full of observations about garden flowers and changing seasons.
He wonders if he should put to paper the hunger that bites at him and consumes him. The primal need for the ichor running through the veins of every passing heartbeat.
The hunger frays the edges of my control.
How long will the vampire blood, akin to a drug that poisons his heart between his ribs, sate him?
It dampens the need without satisfying it, like drinking seawater. I feel high off of it. I crave more.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
God, if you are there, if you have faith in me, please—
Let me keep a shred of my humanity tomorrow.
He sets down the pen, staring at the words until they blur.
+
The village of Thornbury is smaller than Lawrence expected. Cottages cluster together, smoke curling from chimneys into the night sky. He can hear everything—the crackle of hearth fires, a mother singing to her child, the rhythmic breathing of families settling in for sleep. And underneath it all, the steady drum of heartbeats.
So many heartbeats.
Lawrence forces himself to focus on the mission. He moves through the village, listening.
An old man by the tavern speaks of the battle at Lagos, how his son is off in Portugal, fighting alongside the grand alliance. There’s a spark of hope in his voice, maybe his son will come back from war.
Lawrence tries to remember the face of his father. He wonders if the noble Viscount Richard Cleyburne ever mourned his son.
Lawrence stills outside the tavern. He has heard of the battle of Lagos. He doesn’t let himself imagine the grief when the father in that lonely tavern finds out that the grand alliance fleet was defeated, that his precious baby boy won’t return home.
Lawrence stumbles. The night air feels too hot on his skin. His hands are shaking. The pit in his stomach grows larger, consuming his entire being. The hunger hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s worse. Crueler in it’s primal want and need.
Lawrence should leave. He should run back to Audric’s lodgings. He can’t stay here. The villagers are too close. There are so many heartbeats.
He should—
“—are you feeling alright, son?” The man who’s worried mumbling Lawrence heard inside the tavern is now in front of him.
The man is extending a hand.
The blood runs through his veins.
The man rests his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, gripping it to try and stabilize him.
“You look pale, my son. You should come inside. Come.” His voice is too kind. Not worth the one touched by the devil. “At least get a drink to calm down.”
A drink.
Lawrence has grown to familiarize himself with the dark crimson of blood. Of how it sticks like sin on his skin and tastes like rot on his tongue. How he’ll never be able to wash it off.
More.
The old man is dead now. He’ll never grief his son.
I’ll be quick. Careful.
What had he done?
There’s a cottage near. It’s dark quiet. A family is sleeping. A boy is clinging on to his mother. They won’t even—
+
Audric find him in the town square.
Lawrence is sitting against the well, staring at nothing. His clothes are ruined. His hands are stained. The dawn is perhaps an hour away, pink just beginning to touch the horizon.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice is quiet. “Can you hear me?”
Lawrence doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is shaking. “I was going to take just one— just one to make it back! I didn’t—”
“How many?” Audric asks finally.
He knows how many. He can feel the heartbeat of the entire village is gone. He doesn’t need to ask Lawrence. But he has an insatiable curiosity to hear it from the fledgling voice.
Audric wants to hear Lawrence say what he did.
“I tried to stop,” Lawrence whispers. “After the first I tried. But the hunger—once it started, I couldn’t— what did I do?”
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Lawrence says nothing. It’s easier that way.
notes ﹕ A few days ago I talked about my theory that Audric had a role in why Xanthus was starving that night. Of course Xanthus isn’t 100% innocent. But a moment from an earlier episode made me think about this differently. I remember Xanthus spoke to Love about how important it was for makers to stay to teach their fledglings how to deal with the hunger.
In my mind, Audric wanted soldiers. At least at one point in their lives, Xanthus was an experiment at best. His maker had a hand in dooming him. What also gets me is how Xanthus spoke about Audric—always respectful but a tinge of something else.
Also the title is a reference to “Saturn Devouring his Son” by Fransisco Goya. Take that as you will.
The battle of Lagos really happened. I wanted to draw parallels between the villagers and Xanthus. The son of at war, the father waiting for said son, the child sleeping next to his mother.
Thank you for reading this far!
Excuse the tags, they’re just there for post engagement.
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Extra notes from author: this is more of a character study and my theory of what happened during 1693, when Xanthus drained an entire village and how Audric plays into Xanthus’s psyche. More notes at the end of the work explaining the references.
1693, English countryside
The hunger is a living thing now. It has teeth and claws that rake at the inside of Lawrence’s ribs, that claw up his throat with every shallow breath.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you listening?”
Lawrence forces himself to focus. They’re in the study of whatever lodging Audric has secured for them this month—he’s stopped keeping track. The older vampire stands by the window, bathed in moonlight, looking as composed as ever.
“Yes,” Lawrence manages. “The village. You said there have been disappearances.”
“Seven in the past months.” Audric turns, hands clasped behind his back. “The pattern suggests vampires—fledglings, most likely. Reckless ones. I need someone to investigate. To scout the village. Talk to the residents, see if they know something.”
Lawrence’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. The wood grain bites into his palm, grounding him. “You want me to go into a village.”
“You’ve done reconnaissance before.” Audric’s tone is matter-of-fact. “This should be straightforward. Observe, listen, report back. Just talk to the humans, Lawrence. You can manage at least that, no?”
There’s a pause. Lawrence knows he should mention it—the trembling in his hands, the way every heartbeat within a mile calls to him. But admitting weakness to Audric has never felt safe.
“When should I leave?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Audric moves to the desk, unrolling a map. “The village is called Thornbury. Small, perhaps forty residents. Five miles northeast. You’ll question the residents and return before dawn with your report.
Five miles. Forty people. Lawrence can already imagine it—the scent of blood, the sound of heartbeats, the warmth of living bodies in the cold night.
“I’ll be careful,” he says.
“I’m certain you will be.” Audric’s gaze is steady and unreadable. “You’ve always been reliable, Lawrence.”
The praise sits wrong in Lawrence’s chest, but he doesn’t examine why.
After Audric dismisses him, Lawrence returns to his room. His journal sits on the small desk—leather-bound, pages filled with increasingly desperate entries. His mother had kept journals too, before his father packed and hid them after her death. Her handwriting had been elegant where his is cramped, her words full of observations about garden flowers and changing seasons.
He wonders if he should put to paper the hunger that bites at him and consumes him. The primal need for the ichor running through the veins of every passing heartbeat.
The hunger frays the edges of my control.
How long will the vampire blood, akin to a drug that poisons his heart between his ribs, sate him?
It dampens the need without satisfying it, like drinking seawater. I feel high off of it. I crave more.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
God, if you are there, if you have faith in me, please—
Let me keep a shred of my humanity tomorrow.
He sets down the pen, staring at the words until they blur.
+
The village of Thornbury is smaller than Lawrence expected. Cottages cluster together, smoke curling from chimneys into the night sky. He can hear everything—the crackle of hearth fires, a mother singing to her child, the rhythmic breathing of families settling in for sleep. And underneath it all, the steady drum of heartbeats.
So many heartbeats.
Lawrence forces himself to focus on the mission. He moves through the village, listening.
An old man by the tavern speaks of the battle at Lagos, how his son is off in Portugal, fighting alongside the grand alliance. There’s a spark of hope in his voice, maybe his son will come back from war.
Lawrence tries to remember the face of his father. He wonders if the noble Viscount Richard Cleyburne ever mourned his son.
Lawrence stills outside the tavern. He has heard of the battle of Lagos. He doesn’t let himself imagine the grief when the father in that lonely tavern finds out that the grand alliance fleet was defeated, that his precious baby boy won’t return home.
Lawrence stumbles. The night air feels too hot on his skin. His hands are shaking. The pit in his stomach grows larger, consuming his entire being. The hunger hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s worse. Crueler in it’s primal want and need.
Lawrence should leave. He should run back to Audric’s lodgings. He can’t stay here. The villagers are too close. There are so many heartbeats.
He should—
“—are you feeling alright, son?” The man who’s worried mumbling Lawrence heard inside the tavern is now in front of him.
The man is extending a hand.
The blood runs through his veins.
The man rests his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, gripping it to try and stabilize him.
“You look pale, my son. You should come inside. Come.” His voice is too kind. Not worth the one touched by the devil. “At least get a drink to calm down.”
A drink.
Lawrence has grown to familiarize himself with the dark crimson of blood. Of how it sticks like sin on his skin and tastes like rot on his tongue. How he’ll never be able to wash it off.
More.
The old man is dead now. He’ll never grief his son.
I’ll be quick. Careful.
What had he done?
There’s a cottage near. It’s dark quiet. A family is sleeping. A boy is clinging on to his mother. They won’t even—
+
Audric find him in the town square.
Lawrence is sitting against the well, staring at nothing. His clothes are ruined. His hands are stained. The dawn is perhaps an hour away, pink just beginning to touch the horizon.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice is quiet. “Can you hear me?”
Lawrence doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is shaking. “I was going to take just one— just one to make it back! I didn’t—”
“How many?” Audric asks finally.
He knows how many. He can feel the heartbeat of the entire village is gone. He doesn’t need to ask Lawrence. But he has an insatiable curiosity to hear it from the fledgling voice.
Audric wants to hear Lawrence say what he did.
“I tried to stop,” Lawrence whispers. “After the first I tried. But the hunger—once it started, I couldn’t— what did I do?”
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Lawrence says nothing. It’s easier that way.
notes ﹕ A few days ago I talked about my theory that Audric had a role in why Xanthus was starving that night. Of course Xanthus isn’t 100% innocent. But a moment from an earlier episode made me think about this differently. I remember Xanthus spoke to Love about how important it was for makers to stay to teach their fledglings how to deal with the hunger.
In my mind, Audric wanted soldiers. At least at one point in their lives, Xanthus was an experiment at best. His maker had a hand in dooming him. What also gets me is how Xanthus spoke about Audric—always respectful but a tinge of something else.
Also the title is a reference to “Saturn Devouring his Son” by Fransisco Goya. Take that as you will.
The battle of Lagos really happened. I wanted to draw parallels between the villagers and Xanthus. The son of at war, the father waiting for said son, the child sleeping next to his mother.
Thank you for reading this far!
Excuse the tags, they’re just there for post engagement.
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Extra notes from author: this is more of a character study and my theory of what happened during 1693, when Xanthus drained an entire village and how Audric plays into Xanthus’s psyche. More notes at the end of the work explaining the references.
1693, English countryside
The hunger is a living thing now. It has teeth and claws that rake at the inside of Lawrence’s ribs, that claw up his throat with every shallow breath.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you listening?”
Lawrence forces himself to focus. They’re in the study of whatever lodging Audric has secured for them this month—he’s stopped keeping track. The older vampire stands by the window, bathed in moonlight, looking as composed as ever.
“Yes,” Lawrence manages. “The village. You said there have been disappearances.”
“Seven in the past months.” Audric turns, hands clasped behind his back. “The pattern suggests vampires—fledglings, most likely. Reckless ones. I need someone to investigate. To scout the village. Talk to the residents, see if they know something.”
Lawrence’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. The wood grain bites into his palm, grounding him. “You want me to go into a village.”
“You’ve done reconnaissance before.” Audric’s tone is matter-of-fact. “This should be straightforward. Observe, listen, report back. Just talk to the humans, Lawrence. You can manage at least that, no?”
There’s a pause. Lawrence knows he should mention it—the trembling in his hands, the way every heartbeat within a mile calls to him. But admitting weakness to Audric has never felt safe.
“When should I leave?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Audric moves to the desk, unrolling a map. “The village is called Thornbury. Small, perhaps forty residents. Five miles northeast. You’ll question the residents and return before dawn with your report.
Five miles. Forty people. Lawrence can already imagine it—the scent of blood, the sound of heartbeats, the warmth of living bodies in the cold night.
“I’ll be careful,” he says.
“I’m certain you will be.” Audric’s gaze is steady and unreadable. “You’ve always been reliable, Lawrence.”
The praise sits wrong in Lawrence’s chest, but he doesn’t examine why.
After Audric dismisses him, Lawrence returns to his room. His journal sits on the small desk—leather-bound, pages filled with increasingly desperate entries. His mother had kept journals too, before his father packed and hid them after her death. Her handwriting had been elegant where his is cramped, her words full of observations about garden flowers and changing seasons.
He wonders if he should put to paper the hunger that bites at him and consumes him. The primal need for the ichor running through the veins of every passing heartbeat.
The hunger frays the edges of my control.
How long will the vampire blood, akin to a drug that poisons his heart between his ribs, sate him?
It dampens the need without satisfying it, like drinking seawater. I feel high off of it. I crave more.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
God, if you are there, if you have faith in me, please—
Let me keep a shred of my humanity tomorrow.
He sets down the pen, staring at the words until they blur.
+
The village of Thornbury is smaller than Lawrence expected. Cottages cluster together, smoke curling from chimneys into the night sky. He can hear everything—the crackle of hearth fires, a mother singing to her child, the rhythmic breathing of families settling in for sleep. And underneath it all, the steady drum of heartbeats.
So many heartbeats.
Lawrence forces himself to focus on the mission. He moves through the village, listening.
An old man by the tavern speaks of the battle at Lagos, how his son is off in Portugal, fighting alongside the grand alliance. There’s a spark of hope in his voice, maybe his son will come back from war.
Lawrence tries to remember the face of his father. He wonders if the noble Viscount Richard Cleyburne ever mourned his son.
Lawrence stills outside the tavern. He has heard of the battle of Lagos. He doesn’t let himself imagine the grief when the father in that lonely tavern finds out that the grand alliance fleet was defeated, that his precious baby boy won’t return home.
Lawrence stumbles. The night air feels too hot on his skin. His hands are shaking. The pit in his stomach grows larger, consuming his entire being. The hunger hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s worse. Crueler in it’s primal want and need.
Lawrence should leave. He should run back to Audric’s lodgings. He can’t stay here. The villagers are too close. There are so many heartbeats.
He should—
“—are you feeling alright, son?” The man who’s worried mumbling Lawrence heard inside the tavern is now in front of him.
The man is extending a hand.
The blood runs through his veins.
The man rests his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, gripping it to try and stabilize him.
“You look pale, my son. You should come inside. Come.” His voice is too kind. Not worth the one touched by the devil. “At least get a drink to calm down.”
A drink.
Lawrence has grown to familiarize himself with the dark crimson of blood. Of how it sticks like sin on his skin and tastes like rot on his tongue. How he’ll never be able to wash it off.
More.
The old man is dead now. He’ll never grief his son.
I’ll be quick. Careful.
What had he done?
There’s a cottage near. It’s dark quiet. A family is sleeping. A boy is clinging on to his mother. They won’t even—
+
Audric find him in the town square.
Lawrence is sitting against the well, staring at nothing. His clothes are ruined. His hands are stained. The dawn is perhaps an hour away, pink just beginning to touch the horizon.
“Lawrence.” Audric’s voice is quiet. “Can you hear me?”
Lawrence doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is shaking. “I was going to take just one— just one to make it back! I didn’t—”
“How many?” Audric asks finally.
He knows how many. He can feel the heartbeat of the entire village is gone. He doesn’t need to ask Lawrence. But he has an insatiable curiosity to hear it from the fledgling voice.
Audric wants to hear Lawrence say what he did.
“I tried to stop,” Lawrence whispers. “After the first I tried. But the hunger—once it started, I couldn’t— what did I do?”
“Get up.” Audric commands, “we need to leave before the sun rises. This will be discovered eventually. They’ll say some nameless plague, or madness. But we cannot be here when that happens.”
“That’s all?”
“What would you have me do? The dead are dead. You delivered this fate to them.”
Lawrence says nothing. It’s easier that way.
notes ﹕ A few days ago I talked about my theory that Audric had a role in why Xanthus was starving that night. Of course Xanthus isn’t 100% innocent. But a moment from an earlier episode made me think about this differently. I remember Xanthus spoke to Love about how important it was for makers to stay to teach their fledglings how to deal with the hunger.
In my mind, Audric wanted soldiers. At least at one point in their lives, Xanthus was an experiment at best. His maker had a hand in dooming him. What also gets me is how Xanthus spoke about Audric—always respectful but a tinge of something else.
Also the title is a reference to “Saturn Devouring his Son” by Fransisco Goya. Take that as you will.
The battle of Lagos really happened. I wanted to draw parallels between the villagers and Xanthus. The son of at war, the father waiting for said son, the child sleeping next to his mother.
Thank you for reading this far!
Excuse the tags, they’re just there for post engagement.
