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Well, asking him what’s wrong would be the best course of action, correct? You want to get to know him more and you care about him greatly, so this is a good way to show that. However, if you want to wait for him to cool down a bit, I would understand. Just be yourself and follow what feels correct for you.

- 🌕

1739 CECIL B. MOORE AVENUE, PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA — SEPTEMBER 3RD, 2025, 2:04AM.

(content warning: LONG post (over 3k words), mentions of attempted murder, organized crime (human and drug trafficking), and blood.) many thanks to @lingerie-lectures for help with writing this.

The night lays itself gently over Philadelphia, listless and comfortable, breathing slowly in soft sighs of cool and humid breezes. A car passes by occasionally, a smattering of noises hits the ears of those still awake at such an odd time of night... but for the most part, the city dozes.

For the most part.

One man sits on what little constitutes the building's porch, his back protesting the uncomfortable chair available. An ashtray sits with a lit cigarette inside it, the smoke wafting out. The man does not bring the cigarette to his lips even once, but he breathes in the smoke with a deep sigh in through the nose, out through the mouth. The magma-hot ire in his expression could have very well lit the tobacco itself. He glowers at rooftops, gaze far away.

Emmanuel Juaréz prides himself on his patience, his diligence, his sheer discipline in matters of the heart and mind. His life has not allowed much wiggle room for split-second decisions, especially ones of mercy. He has stared down both ends of the barrel of a gun, and he did not flinch in either direction. He has stared into the abyss, into its true and ugly depth, and watched it blink. He is used to stress. He is used to hunting and being hunted. He is even used to the stress of hunting and being hunted for months at a time.

He holds no fondness nor any true disgust for the lengths he has taken to keep vulnerable, aching bodies under his protection and away from the forces that harm them. (Others have done worse. Others will do worse. His measures are, and have always been, preventative at the end of the day.)

Somehow, even with all of that said, Emmanuel Juaréz is at the end of his fucking rope.

This is where Ronaldini finds him when he hesitantly opens the door.

It is not often that Emmanuel seems to be bothered by anything, and the sight of it now is almost disconcerting for the ironing board. How does one go about approaching a man who seems completely unflappable and closed off on even the best of days to ask how he’s feeling? Is it worth it? Is it even possible?

Regardless, he decides to try, and in the most Ronaldini way possible at that. ( After all, occasionally clothes make it through the laundry to his board with spare change in his pockets, and there is a specific trick involving them that’s a staple to any magician’s kit. ) One gloved hand—slightly trembling despite his best efforts—brushes behind Emmanuel’s ear before pulling back with a penny held gently between two fingers.

He lets the coin glimmer in the faint light before he speaks. "Penny for your thoughts, my dear?"

There are times where Emmanuel wishes he were not a vampire, but simply a man. Rarely does he wish for such regarding his superhuman acuity, but he senses the hand long before Ronaldini speaks. However, he couches his premonition in a soft smile, one meant to disarm. "They are not worth such. I am not thinking of anything in particular. I am simply… trying to calm down. The words that I heard disturbed me," he replies.

Ron frowns, brow furrowing with the action and he moves to stand with the vampire. "They’re worth that and more to me, if you’re willing to share. If it’s truly nothing, though, I would enjoy simply basking in the night with you."

"Do not trouble yourself. We have had enough trouble and I will not add more." The words come out of his mouth before he can stop and think, and Emmanuel closes his eyes to hide the wince of internally kicking himself. Almost imperceptibly, his hands tighten on the lapel of his jacket… and then he sighs.

"Está situación me estresa, y ya. No quiero que te preocupes por mí." He can only admit to such a thing in his native tongue, and he hopes that Ronaldini doesn't understand, and simply will let it hang in the air. He is not so lucky.

"I may be new to this," Ron gestures between the two of them—whether it’s their relationship specifically or relationships in general remains unclear, "but I know at least a little worry is natural when you… when you care for someone else. I will not force you to speak, beloved, but you are not trouble for me. It would be nice to bring you some of the peace you’ve brought me, whatever form it might take."

Emmanuel's lips curl up in a bittersweet smile—he's both touched and terrified of such an admittance. He knows what he feels, he knows how dangerous it is to get attached for a multitude of reasons… yet his heart seems to beat once, just a little jump before it stills again.

"You are too kind to me. You do not know me," he says. Part of him wants to keep it that way. Part of him yearns, scrabbles at the door like a starving cat. "These thoughts are trouble for me, and I wish to excise the tumor. We have work to do."

"I would like to know you. If there’s a tumor to excise, I’d like to be your scalpel. I understand why you might not wish the same, but that is how I feel." Ron's voice is soft, the words tumbling out almost unbidden.

The dutiful and steadfast comments hit like daggers to Emmanuel's heart. There has only ever been one man he has stood by so firmly, and has stood by so firmly to him. "Ay, que tierno…" he whispers to himself. It isn't derisive; it comes out on a sigh, something tired.

It is a moment before he speaks again, delicately sewing the sentences together. "To know me is to give you a loaded gun. To know me is to trust you will not pull the trigger. There have been many who have told me such sweet words and then the bullet pierces my neck. You must understand my reservations."

A few emotions flash over Ronald’s face before it settles on something akin to determination. "I understand, and I would not push you to abandon them." He takes one of Emmanuel’s clawed hands in his own gloved one, lifting it up to kiss the palm. "I would earn your trust, though, or at least try. I… I would not willingly harm you, but actions and time speak louder than simple words."

Slowly, Emmanuel pulls his hand away, like it pains him to do so.

"Ronald… Do you know what it is like to kill a man? Do you know what it is like to move like lightning through swarms of gunfire, pin your target down and disarm him with enough force to nearly take his arm off with it? To hold his skull in your hands even as his body thrashes against you, and with just a little effort, twist…?"

Emmanuel trails off, eyes slipping shut as he pantomimes—precision, deadly precision.

"I am familiar. I hold no delusions of who I am and what I do. All I know is that what I want is for those who cannot fight for themselves to be safe. I do not want to drag you into such depths."

What Emmanuel tells him should be surprising—worse, it should be downright horrifying. Instead, there’s something like the feeling of being able to fit puzzle pieces into place to see more of the picture they’re supposed to create. "Not in the same way you do, no. But…" Ron trails off.

What he does know is belligerence, a hand grabbing him and hefting him in the air as someone screams for help. He knows forcing himself to slip through fingers and burning skin beneath his metal underside instead of wrinkled fabric while the victim stood watching, petrified. A human body has so much blood in it, and he knows what it is to be covered in it as it seeps towards him in a puddle after the assailant stumbled back and hit their head, dropping both of them to the floor.

He has not killed, he did not want to kill, but he got close enough that he can never be truly sure if the rust on him is truly rust. If he had bile, red stains would swell their tides towards his throat.

"It would not be dragging, not if I fell willingly. I told you, I want to know you. This is part of what that means, and I do not wish to run."

Something shifts in Ronaldini's mood, and, perceptive as ever, Emmanuel catches on immediately. There is a story there, perhaps a sordid one. He won't pry.

Instead, he takes Ronaldini's hand in his again, interlocking their fingers. "Tell me. Why do you want this? Why do you want me? What do I give you…?" he asks.

Ronaldini's posture relaxes when Emmanuel’s hand takes his again. The cold seeping through is grounding, and he wishes—not for the first time—that he wasn’t wearing these damned gloves so he could properly feel the callouses on those palms that he’s seen and felt in other places.

"You saw me—and not just the performer, though I am glad you enjoy that part of me as well. You found me where I was hidden away and brought me out with you, made me feel seen in a way no one else has before because I have always been terrified of not being enough as I am. There are better—" No, this is not a time for doubt. "—other people in the house you could have chosen, but you are here. You know Ronald, not just Ronaldini. I want to choose and know and care for you as well."

As Ronaldini speaks, a smile slowly creeps upon Emmanuel's face—one that's genuinely touched. He listens close, listens carefully. "I prefer Ronald, if you would believe it."

"It would be hard to believe from anyone else, but I trust you more than most people. Thank you," Ronaldini whispers.

Emmanuel hesitates before speaking again. "I am stubborn. I do not relinquish control very easily. I always think I know what's best, no matter what the circumstance. I am particular about what I eat, when I eat, and where I eat. I am quick to anger, but I will never show it unless it is too late. I remember everything... and I never make my bed."

Ronaldini's eyebrows raise ever so slightly before falling into something softer as Emmanuel goes on. "The first two I know. The third is unsurprising. I’ve never known you to be wrong, of course, but if you ever are, I will argue with you because I care. I don’t yet require meals, but once I do, I only wish that we’ll be able to share them from time to time."

His grips on Emmanuel’s hand tightens slightly. "I’d… I would like to some day know you well enough to be able to tell if you’re angry before it’s too late, as you said. And I’m an ironing board—my entire job is to leave things neater than they were when I got them. I’ll make the bed and it will be perfect." Though said with a smile, the last part sounds incredibly serious and determined.

Emmanuel wills himself not to giggle at Ronaldini's determination at such a simple thing as to make the bed. "With those I love… I am more open."

He falls silent for a while, looking up towards the sky and breathing in the smoke of the cigarette, though he still does not take it into his mouth. "My line of work is dangerous. Its horrors will not soon leave you. I am someone who works outside of the law to bring justice… And it is a slippery thing, to keep your morals when the easiest way to get the job done is the most repugnant."

"What I am best at, and what I find most fulfilling, is saving victims of human trafficking and destroying their captors. However, I am familiar with the world of drug trafficking. I have a friend in manhattan who deals with that more frequently, and most of the time, it is to get necessary supplies to hospitals, addicts, and rehabilitation centers for far, far cheaper than most would offer."

Ronaldini perks up a little as he realizes he's focused on the entirely wrong thing while Emmanuel's explaining the reality of his work and his world ( the man loves him; he loves him? ) . This is, after all, what he wanted: to know the vampire. He does not let go of Emmanuel's hand, doesn't even loosen his grip. "It sounds like the work you do is incredibly important. I'm honored that you'd share it with me."

"It is to share it and to warn you of what will happen if you choose to follow me into the darkness. It is important work, even if it is bloody. It is up to you what you do with this information."

He lets that hang in the air, finally putting out the cigarette now that his mind feels clearer. Ronaldini lifts Emmanuel's hand to his lips once more, this time pressing his lips to the back. At the word 'bloody', he stills almost imperceptibly—it is rather unlucky that his lover has supernatural senses.

( Blood. Stains. Skin and metal scrubbed raw and hidden under layers of clothes. )

"I have requested that I be the one to Realize you."

That yanks Ronaldini straight out of the spiral he would have fallen into. "So... it's true?"

"Yes."

For a moment, Ronaldini is lost for words. To be able to Realize someone is to love them—they may not know much about the process, but of that much Skylar is certain. Ronald knows he loves Emmanuel, but to have it be so certainly reciprocated feels almost alien and—

God, he loves those eyes.

"You're going to Realize me? I mean, there’s not another soul I’d rather have as my ferryman between the mundanity of objecthood to humanity, of course, that goes without saying. But you believe you’d be able to? You... you feel that strongly for me?"

Emmanuel notices that hitch, that slight hesitation at even just that small admittance. He removes his hand, but moves it to gently settle at Ronaldini's waist and pull him close. Intense burgundy eyes stare deeply into Ronaldini's deep hazel ones, expression unreadable.

"I do. But if you cannot follow me… Do not make yourself follow me. We part as friends if we must."

"No, not that, never that! All I have wanted since I met you is the gift of going where you go for as long as you might allow me, and nothing has or can change that. There just… may be some things we should discuss. About me, I mean," Ronald replies.

"Then tell me. I need to know. If I am to do this—and I will do this—I must take care of you." Emmanuel gently brings his free hand up to cup Ron's cheek, thumb stroking the smooth skin. He keeps staring into Ron's eyes, but there is no push of vampiric charm… Just the intense eye contact of a man searching for answers.

"Give me one moment, then." With great, great reluctance, Ron steps out of Emmanuel's hold so he can remove his jacket and cape, hanging them over one arm while he rolls up the opposite sleeve neatly to the elbow and removes the glove from that hand. Purple-red marks seem almost spattered against the skin, covering much of the now-shaking hand.

"These stains upon my body… I was not made with them, and they are not rust."

Emmanuel gently takes Ronaldini's arm in his grip to survey the marks further, his gaze cool and analytical rather than horrified or confused. The spatters resemble port-wine stains… but these are not birthmarks, just as blood is not wine. He knows the false name he gives his favorite tannin, after all. "May I ask how this happened?"

It was a domestic dispute, I believe. Honestly, I wasn't paying too much attention--arguments amongst the families of the upper echelons where I held my performances are rather common, if you can believe that. It wasn't until they had me held up in the air that I realized what was going on.

It takes everything in Ron not to yank his arm away and cover it all back up. However, Emmanuel was vulnerable with him, so Ron can be brave enough to return the favor. "We can move our object forms just a little, you know. It takes effort, but I was able to heat myself up and slip through their fingers."

His own fingers tense for a moment before he forces them to relax. "Whoever it was, I hit them in the face, metal side down. I… I burned them, I think. Then they stumbled and fell. Hit their head. Humans have so much blood in them and I just sat in it for hours while the police made sure the victim was alright and took the assailant away for medical treatment. I don't know how long it was, but it was enough for stains to set."

Ron swallows hard, looking away from Emmanuel's intense stare. "I haven't been able to get them out. I tried everything before resorting to cover them up. Usually, I'd use stage makeup, but with everything going on lately I'd resorted to just the barrier of clothing to hide it."

"I did not realize they were such stains—I thought they were simply birthmarks." Emmanuel gently runs the pads of his fingers over Ron's arm, tracing the spatters methodically, almost reverently. "You did the right thing and you saved their lives—both of them, even if one may have started the whole problem. I am sorry that you were made to sit in such a horrible situation. If it helps… I do not see you any differently."

He pulls Ron into a tight hug, letting the embrace do the rest of the talking. He breathes slow, deep, steady—he must be the one for Ron to lean on right now. Ron sags into Emmanuel's arms—if he did not have to worry about his hat falling off, Ron might have even buried his face in the vampire's shoulder.

This, though, this is enough; the sheer relief he feels is staggering.

"I know I did the right thing. I don't regret it. It is… good to hear it from you, though; thank you, my dear. But I'm not afraid of you, or blood for that matter. It's the stains."

And there's no better way to explain it than that, is there? He'd rather watch blood spread from a source than deal with the stains afterwards. Emmanuel has always been such a clean drinker—at least from what Ron has seen—but even the possibility of new stains being added to him, to the pristine white collar just high enough to cover the worst of the marks on his neck, is near petrifying.

"You are not stained. You are not marred. You are simply changed by your experiences. That is all it is." He sets Ron's hat down on the table, carding his hand through the soft, short black locks. "Be still, mi pavo real."

Now Ron does bury his face against Emmanuel’s shoulders, arms wrapped around the vampire’s torso like he’s the only life preserver around in miles of stormy sea. He is everything, Ron decides, everything that he hadn’t known he was missing and more.

"I love you."

It’s quiet, muffled against expensive fabric, but completely heartfelt.

"… I love you, too."

If Emmanuel's heart still beat, it would have skipped at least a beat or two. His breath catches in his throat, and he forgets to continue on afterwards. His eyes widen, and he slowly reaches up towards the little raised buttons on the very pink Dateviators he wears.

He presses them.

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