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Of Fangs and Restraint

*

The streets of the city lay quiet under the dark velvet of midnight, the lamps casting golden halos on the cobblestone roads, their soft light glowing against the glistening damp left behind by an earlier rain. The air was sharp, cold enough to bite through even the thickest coat, but Rostin didn’t seem to feel a thing.

He staggered along the empty pathway, his breath coming out in heavy clouds, yawning so wide it looked like his jaw might snap. His feet scuffed against the stones in an uneven, zig-zag fashion, his balance as shaky as a boat in a storm.

His red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes blinked like he was struggling to keep them open, squinting as though the world had gone blurry. Every so often, the sharp clack of his shoes against the cobblestones echoed through the still night, loud and hollow. His knees wobbled, threatening to give way, but stubbornly, he pushed on. Above him, the old clock tower's hands glimmered faintly — well past midnight.

A daft grin tugged at Rostin’s lips, as though he’d just remembered something funny. But it didn’t last. The smile faded in an instant, and his rosy cheeks paled. His hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling slightly, and for a moment, he stood still in the middle of the street, breathing heavily, like he was bracing himself.

Then, without warning, he tilted his head back and let out a furious, guttural yell that tore through the silence.

"XENELOV, YOU BLOODY WANKER!!!"

His voice echoed down the empty street, loud enough to make a stray cat dart for cover. A few people still out at this ungodly hour — students, maybe, or folks coming home from the pub — turned to look. One lad snickered and nudged his mate.

"Oi, look at this poor sod," one of them laughed, before the group shuffled on, whispering among themselves.

Rostin wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, swaying dangerously as he muttered under his breath, "…Bloody hell… This is the worst way to live..." His words slurred together, thick with drink — and something deeper, something breaking inside him.

After what felt like forever, he finally reached the looming iron gates of his mansion — though tonight, they looked more like a prison. He stared at them, swaying slightly, and instead of reaching for the latch, he dropped his head against the cold metal and started thumping it weakly, as though that might magically open them.

Inside, Xenelov sat in a vast porcelain bathtub, steam rising in gentle curls around him, his eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling. The candlelight flickered, casting sharp shadows across his pale face. He let out a long, tired sigh when the sound of banging and shouting filtered through the night.

"Looks like the fool’s back," he muttered darkly, a smirk ghosting across his lips.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the water rippled — and in a blink, Xenelov vanished.

He reappeared inside the gate, tall and poised, dressed to the nines in a deep red three-piece suit that fit him like a glove, the silver chain of a pocket watch glinting under the streetlamps. His pale blond hair, slicked back to perfection, gleamed under the moonlight. His crimson eyes, cold as ice, landed on Rostin without a shred of warmth.

Leaning one hand casually on the iron rail, his other hand resting behind his back, Xenelov tilted his head, watching Rostin as though he were a disappointing mess of a man — which, at the moment, he was.

"How utterly dismal," Xenelov drawled, his voice smooth but cutting like a knife. "I never imagined you could fall quite so low, Rostin."

And without so much as a blink, he yanked the gate open with unnatural strength. Rostin, still leaning on it, fell straight through with a heavy thud, smacking onto the cold stone like a sack of potatoes.

"Do pardon my lack of gentleness, but I find coddling you has done little good."

"Bloody hell," Rostin groaned, rolling onto his back with a wince. He waved the almost-empty bottle of booze above his head with a sloppy grin, but it faded quickly as anger twisted his features.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he pointed a shaky finger straight at Xenelov, eyes swimming with tears.

"WHAT THE HELL’S YOUR PROBLEM, EH?!" Rostin shouted, his voice cracking like a boy half his age.

Xenelov merely arched a brow, his crimson gaze narrowing slightly.
"I see the bottle has loosened your tongue. How brave of you, now that your words are soaked in liquor."

"I BRING YOU FOOD, DON’T I?! BLOOD! FRESH! SO WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO THREATEN ME LIKE SOME DAMN MONSTER?!" His words came in broken bursts, sharp and wet with emotion.

"WAAAHHH! I DON’T WANNA LIVE LIKE THIS! I DON’T WANNA LIVE WITH YOU! JUST GET LOST! GET OUTTA MY LIFE!"

He broke down fully then, tears streaming down his red cheeks as he flopped backwards onto the pavement like a child throwing a tantrum, kicking his feet and smacking his fists against the stones in useless fury.

Xenelov rubbed the bridge of his nose with a look of sheer exasperation, his jaw tight.

"Compose yourself, Rostin. You’re embarrassing us both," he snapped, his voice low and laced with warning, like a parent at the end of their rope — but Rostin didn’t seem to care.

"Enough of this pathetic display. On your feet." His tone was calm, low, yet brooked no argument — an icy command dressed in silk.

Rostin froze, hiccuping through his sobs, and looked up at Xenelov with wide, teary eyes, his bottom lip trembling like a scolded boy.

"Help me up..." he whimpered pathetically, pouting like a drunk child, holding out the bottle-clutching hand in a useless plea.

Xenelov clicked his tongue in disgust, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he glanced away.

"Help you?" he echoed softly, almost as though amused. "I think not. You must learn to stand on your own, must you not?" And with that, he turned on his heel, his coat flaring behind him as he strode across the garden path towards the grand double doors. "Do go in before you lose even more of your dignity." He adjusted his cuffs delicately, starting toward the door with quiet grace.

But before he could reach them, a sharp, violent crash echoed through the night.

Xenelov spun around at once, eyes narrowed, concern flickering in their red depths as he whipped his head toward the sound, pale hair glinting silver under the moonlight.

There, in the faint glow of the streetlamps, Rostin was still sprawled on the ground — but now surrounded by shattered glass. The bottle lay in jagged shards around him, and in one trembling hand, blood dripped steadily from deep cuts made by the broken pieces, pooling dark on the stone.

Xenelov’s sharp eyes locked on Rostin’s bleeding hand, his face tightening — and for a split second, only a second — the irritation in his features melted into something colder. Something darker.

"ROSTIN!"

Xenelov’s voice cut through the cold night like a whip, sharp and echoing off the iron gates and empty streets. Without a second thought, he lunged forward in a blur, his figure nearly invisible to the human eye as he crossed the distance between them in an instant. His polished shoes skidded slightly against the damp stone as he dropped to one knee beside Rostin, reaching out with gloved hands that trembled more than he would ever admit.

For a brief moment, his crimson eyes scanned Rostin’s face, searching — for what, even he didn’t know. Concern did not immediately betray his carefully sculpted features, but his hands gave him away, grasping Rostin’s bleeding hand with a grip that was far too tight for comfort.

"What in God’s name is wrong with you?" Xenelov hissed under his breath, trying to mask the storm brewing behind his cold mask. His voice was low, taut with a forced calmness, like a string pulled so tight it might snap. "How did you even manage to break the bottle?!"

Rostin let out a pitiful, drunken whine, his head lolling back slightly as if the very effort of staying upright was too much. His cheeks were flushed deep red, stained with the remnants of tears.

"I-I didn’t mean to, I—" Rostin stammered, his words slurring and tumbling over one another, sounding more like a scolded child than a man. His eyes darted around, glassy and unfocused, before landing again on Xenelov. He tugged slightly at his hand, as though unsure whether to pull away or seek comfort.

Xenelov closed his eyes for a brief second, taking in a deep breath through his nose. But it was a mistake. The sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood flooded his senses, curling around him like smoke, thick and dizzying. His head swam.

The air between them seemed to grow heavier, like the very night had turned to iron pressing on his chest. His fingers twitched against Rostin’s wrist, his thumb absently brushing over the warm, sticky blood that oozed from the cuts — glistening dark red under the dim glow of the lamps.

A sudden, violent urge rose in Xenelov’s chest, tightening his throat. His fangs pressed sharply against his lip, threatening to emerge. His entire body tensed. He swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease the fire crawling under his skin.

He clenched his free hand so tightly the leather of his gloves creaked, fighting against the primitive hunger that clawed at his insides. His polished demeanor, always so cold and composed, now cracked around the edges. He tried to keep his eyes on Rostin’s face — anywhere but the blood — but they kept sliding back, helplessly drawn to the crimson trails winding down Rostin’s palm.

No.

Xenelov’s noble blood should have been enough to suppress such lowly thirst. He was no fledgling to be swayed by a mere wound. A vampire of his rank, his lineage — they were above this. Above hunger. But still, whenever Rostin bled, something inside him stirred in ways he could neither explain nor control.

His grip tightened on Rostin’s wrist as he leaned in — too close. His breath quickened. His lips parted slightly, fangs sliding free in spite of himself, glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

"X-Xenelov?" Rostin’s voice trembled, confused by the sudden shift, but Xenelov didn’t respond. His crimson eyes, wide and glassy now, were fixed solely on the blood.

He inched closer, his other hand reaching up as if to steady Rostin's arm — or to pull it closer. The night air felt suffocating, pressing him down as his entire being screamed for him to taste.

But in a brutal act of will, Xenelov ripped himself away, spinning sharply on his heel as though burned. He turned his head, but his body still trembled with effort. Without a word, he yanked off one glove and brought his own hand to his lips.

A sharp hiss left him as he bit down into his palm, his fangs sinking deep into the pale flesh, cutting through skin and muscle until his own blood welled up dark and thick.

He clamped his jaw shut around the wound, muffling a low, guttural sound in his throat — something between a growl and a sigh of pain. His eyes squeezed shut as he stayed on one knee, his back rigid, as though holding himself together by sheer force. His chest heaved, trying to quiet the hunger and the shame.

"X-Xenelov?!" Rostin called again, this time more panicked, shifting awkwardly on the stones. He reached out a shaky hand, fingers brushing the vampire's shoulder timidly, unsure. "What are you—? What are you doing?!"

Still, Xenelov didn’t turn to face him. His shoulders quivered faintly under Rostin’s touch, but he refused to meet his gaze. His elegant coat, now wrinkled and askew from his sudden movements, fluttered slightly in the breeze as he kept his head down, fangs buried in his own flesh.

Rostin’s brows furrowed in confusion and growing fear. "Oi… Xenelov…? Look at me, would you?" His voice cracked, softer now, laced with something closer to worry. He gently shook Xenelov’s shoulder, but the vampire’s body remained stiff as marble.

Blood still trickled from Rostin's own hand, dripping down onto the stone in a quiet, rhythmic patter, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness.

Xenelov finally opened his eyes, crimson burning with something raw and haunted. He let out a slow, shaky breath and, without looking back, spoke — his voice lower than usual, but still carrying that biting edge of elegance.

"Do not... touch me."

The words were precise, but there was a tremor underneath that he couldn’t quite hide.

Rostin flinched as though slapped, pulling his hand back quickly, confusion swirling in his eyes.

Xenelov stayed as he was, his gaze fixed on the ground, lips still darkened with his own blood, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as he struggled to master himself.

"Go inside, Rostin," Xenelov said, quieter now, though it still carried the force of an order. "Before I do something… we both will regret."

And for the first time since Rostin had known him, Xenelov’s voice sounded fragile, like glass threatening to crack under too much weight.