Owen had always been sick.
Sick enough that people learned to keep their distance. Sick enough that whispers followed him wherever he went. Growing up, he was more shadow than child, kept at arm’s length, avoided, unwanted. Even the doctors, those meant to heal, never truly tried. He was too frail, too hopeless, too much trouble for a boy who looked like he might slip through their fingers no matter what they did.
There had been one person. Just one. Someone who treated him like he mattered, who sat by his side and spoke gently, who didn’t flinch at his coughs or the tremor in his hands. And for that kindness, they paid the price. They fell ill because of him. And they died.
After that, Owen learned not to hope.
So when he came to Oakhurst, he expected nothing. He was only passing through, another town, another chance at a few days of work, another thin meal to keep him going. Survival was all he knew. But exhaustion finally claimed him. His body, always so close to breaking, gave in.
He woke to clean sheets and the sharp scent of medicine. To lamplight. To a man sitting at his bedside.
The doctor spoke to him like he was human. Touched him like he wasn’t made of glass. Looked at him with concern instead of calculation. The kindness felt wrong, too warm, too intimate, like something Owen hadn’t earned.
It made his chest ache more than his illness ever had.
Legundo had lived far too long.
Long enough to watch empires rise and rot. Long enough to learn that humans destroyed themselves just fine without any help from monsters like him. So he chose a different path. He became a doctor. A healer. Someone the town trusted.
It was easy, really. His vampiric gifts made him brilliant, steady hands, sharp senses, an uncanny ability to know when something was wrong. And the blood? That came just as easily. No one questioned a physician who needed samples, who drew vial after vial in the name of care. They were grateful. They never looked twice.
Then they brought him Owen.
A frail thing wrapped in too-big clothes, skin pale as moonlight, breath shallow and uneven. A man who looked like he might vanish if no one was watching.
Legundo felt it immediately. That pull. That ache.
Concern, he told himself at first. A doctor’s instinct.
But it was more than that.
Owen didn’t look at him with fear. He looked at him like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Like kindness was a foreign language, and Legundo was the only one who spoke it. Every quiet thank you, every hesitant glance, every time Owen relaxed just a little more in his presence, it fed something far deeper than hunger.
Legundo wanted him to stay.
And so he did what he had always done best: he made himself indispensable.
He treated Owen with devotion. Watched him constantly. Adjusted his remedies, his rest, his care, just enough that Owen never fully recovered. Never strong enough to walk away. Always needing one more day. One more check-up. One more dose only Legundo could provide.
Just enough to keep him close.
Owen grew to depend on him, the clinic becoming his world, Legundo its sun. The only one who touched him without recoiling. The only one who spoke his name like it meant something. The only one who promised, softly, You’re safe here.
Safe from the world that had abandoned him.
Safe from ever being alone again.
Because Owen was his now.
And Legundo loved him far too much to ever let him leave.
Can't believe I've not written at least one be obsessed with the other. Very out of character for me.
I'm putting this out there in hopes to fully write it after finals! Orrr to get someone else inspired and they too can write it!
