Deprivation had long since passed the mere pain of hunger. It seemed as though the slightest movement could bring stars to his eyes and throw his balance. For the last three nights, he lay on his side next to March, doubled over in agony, listening to the thrumming of the man's blood in his veins. In the throes of a fit like that that very evening, he was collapsed on the floor before the fireplace, seeking comfort in its warmth and numb to the tears that shone on his cheeks.
A cup of tea was untouched on the mantle. Nothing worked anymore. He couldn't wait anymore.
The front door opened and shut. Footsteps rushed across the floor, vibrating through the wood, rattling Cyrus' teeth. A hand on his arm turned him over like a corpse; he'd always been pale, it was in his nature to be pale, but dark circles surrounding blue eyes on the backdrop of pallid skin resembled death itself. Dark hair clung to his forehead, droplets of sweat between haphazard strands.
"What's happened to you?" March demanded. Cyrus' eyes blinked open and struggled to focus, and March shook him gently, chest constricted by fear as he choked out the words a second time. "Gods, what's happened to you?"
"Please," Cyrus whispered, and a hand rose to grasp his lover's sleeve. "I need to eat."
His lips were parted as he was pulled up, cradled in March's arms, each pointed fang unconcealed, unmistakable. March's eyes widened, the flickers of his gaze too minute to be seen as he counted them, and counted them again. One, two, three, four. He recoiled. Met Cyrus' pleading eyes, looked down once more. One, two, three, four.
"You're a monster."
"You knew."
One, two, three, four.
March shook his head. Recoiling further, Cyrus' firm grasp tangled in the fabric of his sleeve helped him sit up, and he leaned forward, closer to that fragile layer of skin separating him from the sweet smell of blood inside.
"You knew," the vampire repeated, fresh tears blurring his vision. "You always knew. You.. you turned away from it. You ignored my cold hands."
"No."
"You never asked when I left in the dead of night and returned before dawn."
"No." March's voice broke.
"You loved me anyway."
"You lied to me!"
He stood then, and Cyrus' hands fell to the floorboards, pushing himself up on his knees. "I did this for you," the creature sobbed. The ache in the pit of his stomach twisted itself into a deep, searing cramp. He clutched at it, balling his shirt up in a tight fist. "I'm starving. What would you have me do?"
Looking down at him, March clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly through the tightness in his throat.
"Go on, then. Go on and starve."
Without the stomach to watch the death he'd wished upon his former love, he turned towards the door, and had made up his mind to inform the church long before he'd reached it. They would believe he was innocent. The devil wore many faces, and whispered only the sweetest words. A whisper from Cyrus' lips at that moment threw forward a burst of overwhelming heat, fire springing up from those old wooden floorboards in a wall that March quickly drew his hand back from, away from the doorknob.
"You can't do this!" Cyrus cried. The flames spread along the wall in each direction. Heat turned March's terrified expression red and danced in the reflections of his eyes as he turned back to him, watched him drag himself to his wavering feet. "You loved me!"
"You're a monster!" March screamed over the roar of the fire. The glass windows shattered behind him. Stumbling forward, Cyrus reached for him, hands grasp finding his shirt once again, already wrinkled by his touch. He could feel the man's frantic heartbeat and the rush of blood in his veins. The smell drove a dagger into his empty stomach.
He opened his mouth, and there were his fangs. One, two, three, four.
The man with whom he'd shared his bed, his cold embrace, and every ounce of affection he held for a species abhorred by his very existence screamed and writhed in Cyrus' hold, weak, but still too strong for March to escape. Hunger and rage tore his throat open, warm blood spattering the vampire's tear-streaked face. He bit and ripped and fed until the body was ashen grey, face contorted by fear and pain, and the home they'd shared was engulfed in flame.
Cyrus was stronger than he'd been in weeks by the time he left the burning tomb, a cloud of smoke risen in the dark sky. But his stomach ached for more.
You're a monster, March's voice rang in his ears over the sound of the crackling fire. Go on and starve. He followed the path into town, toward the sound of men who'd spotted the smoke and were coming to help. If it was such a sin to survive, then there was no point in pretending he was good.














