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Splinter Of The Beast

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Rostin walked through the door without so much as glancing over his shoulder. His strides were heavy, each step echoing softly against the polished floor of the house, but he never paused to check if Xenelov was following. Something inside him — a strange, gnawing feeling — told him it was better not to interfere right now, better to leave Xenelov to himself.

A frustrated sigh escaped Rostin's lips as he pushed the door open fully and stepped inside. He didn’t bother to shut it behind him, leaving it ajar, just in case Xenelov decided to follow after. The sharp evening air still lingered on his clothes, but he didn't care. His mind was racing too fast to think about trivial things like cold.

"Ridiculous," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair as he strode towards the couch. His brows were furrowed in deep thought, jaw clenching. "What is his deal?" The question was half under his breath, but it filled the emptiness of the room as he threw himself down onto the couch in exasperation.

Leaning back, Rostin loosened his shirt slightly, unbuttoning the top two buttons as if the tension in his chest might ease. His head tilted back against the cushion, but his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, thoughts swirling around Xenelov's odd behaviour.

Sure, Xenelov had acted strange before — moments when his gaze lingered too long, when his grip on Rostin's arm had been just a little too tight. But tonight... tonight had been different. More intense. More dangerous. Yet Rostin, blinded by the drunken haze earlier, had never fully paid attention to those signs.

As the weight of it all pressed down on him, fatigue finally began to drag him under. His eyelids fluttered closed, and soon, he drifted off into a restless sleep.

The quietness of the room was broken a while later by the soft creak of the door as Xenelov finally stepped in. The vampire paused just inside the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room until they fell on Rostin’s slumbering form sprawled out on the couch.

With a heavy breath, Xenelov leaned back against the closed door, letting his head rest gently against the wood. His eyes slid shut, the tension in his shoulders still not fully gone. Slowly, as though the weight of the night was too much to bear, he sank to the floor, sitting there with his long legs drawn slightly to one side. His elegant figure looked out of place against the simple door, like some ruined statue. The night passed in silence, both of them lost in their own storms.

As morning broke, thin beams of sunlight poured through the window, casting pale gold streaks over the living room floor. The warmth reached Rostin’s face, making him stir.

With a soft groan, Rostin blinked his eyes open, squinting at the sudden brightness. He lifted a hand to shield his face from the sunlight, realising belatedly that he had forgotten to pull the curtains the night before.

"Brilliant," he muttered, rubbing the side of his face as he sat up sluggishly. His head throbbed painfully the moment he moved, and he winced, pressing his fingers against his temples. "Oh lords... my head's splitting..."

As he dragged his hand down his face, trying to blink away the dizziness, something caught his eye.

Xenelov.

Still seated by the door, head bowed slightly, his pale hair falling to half-cover his sharp face. He looked like he hadn’t moved an inch the entire night.

A frown creased Rostin’s brow as he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly from the ache in his skull. His feet padded quietly over the wooden floor until he stood in front of Xenelov.

Dropping to one knee, Rostin reached out without thinking, brushing Xenelov’s soft silver strands back from his face. His hand lingered there for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh.

"Go sleep in your room," he murmured, voice gentle yet rough with sleep.

At the sound of his voice, Xenelov stirred, eyes slowly blinking open. The crimson hue of his irises shimmered faintly in the morning light as he focused on Rostin.

"Rostin…?" Xenelov’s voice was soft, almost surprised, as though waking from some deep and troubling dream.

Rostin gave a small nod, pushing himself back up to stand, stretching his arms over his head in a lazy attempt to chase away the tightness in his muscles. "Yeah, yeah. It’s me. Honestly, you should be in your room," he muttered, yawning.

Xenelov rose smoothly, in that effortless, graceful way only he could manage, dusting himself off as though nothing had happened. He stood tall, folding his hands neatly behind his back, gaze turned outwards towards the window as though avoiding Rostin’s eyes.

"I was going to skip college," Rostin said casually, though there was still a lingering grogginess to his words. "But anyway… I’ll get changed." He made to walk away, brushing past Xenelov lightly.

But before Rostin could take a full step, Xenelov appeared in front of him in a swift blur, cutting him off. A playful glint sparkled in his eyes as he leaned in dangerously close, his lips curling into a sharp smirk.

"My payment, darling," he drawled, voice smooth like silk but holding an edge of something darker beneath.

Rostin huffed in annoyance, rolling his eyes but not entirely surprised. "It's in the drawer of my dressing table. Do you mind?" he asked, pointing lazily to the door of his room.

"Not at all," Xenelov replied with a sly grin, stepping elegantly to the side to allow Rostin passage.

Rostin shot him a tired look before retreating into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Xenelov stood still for a moment, the playful smirk on his face fading as his eyes softened, watching the closed door. He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry far more weight than he cared to admit.

His thoughts spun as they always did — around Rostin. Around the blood.

Blood. That cursed, tempting blood that drove him to the brink.

Though he was of noble blood, higher than most, with needs far less frequent and urges easily controlled — none of that seemed to matter when it came to Rostin. The mere sight of him was enough to make his throat burn, his fangs ache. Every time Rostin cut himself, every time he bled, Xenelov fought a war inside himself not to give in.

But it was getting worse. Every day the desire grew stronger. Even when there was no blood, just Rostin breathing in the same room, it was unbearable.

That was why Xenelov had asked for the blood — demanded it as "payment" each day. But Rostin didn’t know the real reason. He thought it was for survival, for sustenance. But in truth, Xenelov feared that without it, one day he might do something he could never take back.

As the sunlight inched higher, Xenelov rubbed his temple, glancing once more at the closed door before turning away, his thoughts heavy and dark.

It had been half an hour since Rostin disappeared into his room, and now he reappeared in the hallway, tugging the hem of his shirt down as he descended the stairs. His hair was still slightly damp from a quick wash, and his eyes looked less drowsy but still tired. He glanced around the living room, scanning every inch of the space as if expecting to see Xenelov lounging about somewhere.

But the room was empty.

Rostin let out a groan of frustration, his fingers tightening around the small locked packet he held in one hand. He tossed his head back, muttering to himself, "Where did this dude go?!" The question echoed off the walls, but there was no answer.

With a huff, he started jogging up the stairs, the packet still clutched tightly in his hand. His socks skidded slightly on the polished wooden steps as he hurried.

Reaching the first floor, he paused in front of the room on the left. Xenelov’s room — or rather, the room he had hijacked for himself, as Rostin often complained.

Rostin raised a fist and banged loudly on the door, the sound reverberating through the hallway. "Hey!!! Open the door!!!" he shouted, his voice sharp, filled with irritation and a hint of worry.

The force of his knock made the door creak open slightly. Rostin blinked, his hand still hovering midair.

"Huh… he didn’t lock it?" he muttered under his breath, frowning.

Taking a breath, he nudged the door further open and stepped inside, announcing himself firmly as if to mask his nerves, "Yeah, I’m coming in. This is my house, after all…"

But whatever he expected to see inside, it wasn’t what greeted him.

Rostin froze in place, his eyes widening in shock, the packet nearly slipping from his fingers.

Xenelov stood before the large mirror above the dressing table, shirtless, his lean, sculpted torso bathed in pale morning light streaming in from the half-open window. His silvery hair spilled over his shoulders, glimmering faintly in the sunlight, but Rostin’s gaze was drawn to something else entirely.

Ugly, blackened bruises marred Xenelov’s pale skin — grotesque marks that looked nothing like the normal aftermath of a fight. They were almost sickly in colour, a mixture of deep violet, nearly black, and a sickly shade of green that clung to the edge of each mark. Along the side of his stomach, one bruise looked torn and raw, as though something had clawed or burned its way across him from the inside.

Rostin couldn’t stop himself — a small squeal of horror escaped his lips before he could think better of it.

At the sound, Xenelov spun on his heels, his long hair whipping with him, sharp eyes glinting dangerously as they fixed onto Rostin like a predator eyeing its prey.

"What are you doing here?" Xenelov asked coldly, his voice sharp and clipped, every word oozing with restrained menace.

Rostin immediately stepped back on instinct, heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the door hit his back as he stumbled against it, blocking his own way out.

"I-I… I came to give you your food…" Rostin stammered, holding up the packet shakily as proof, though it seemed a pathetic excuse now. His throat was suddenly dry, and he was very aware of how sharp Xenelov’s eyes looked — darker than usual, piercing him through.

But despite his fear, his gaze couldn’t help but flicker back to those bruises. His brows furrowed in concern as he swallowed, finally daring to ask, "But… uhm… what is all that?"

Xenelov didn’t answer at first. Instead, he turned his back to Rostin, facing the mirror again. His tall, lean form stood rigid, and he raised one elegant hand to lightly brush his fingertips over the bruises as if trying to understand them himself. The sight of his pale hand against the darkened skin was jarring.

In the mirror, Xenelov’s crimson eyes met Rostin’s reflection, and for a moment, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps—passed through his gaze before he masked it.

"I couldn’t even sense him come in… My powers… they're not working as they should," Xenelov thought silently, his jaw tightening.

Out loud, he exhaled sharply and said, voice still smooth but lower now, "That won’t work."

Rostin blinked, confused. He still stood by the door, watching Xenelov carefully, noting how the man’s shoulders tensed and how his fingers curled slightly at his sides as though restraining himself from something.

"Wh-what do you mean?" Rostin asked, trying to keep his voice steady but hearing the slight crack in it.

Xenelov turned his head slightly, enough to glance at Rostin through the mirror. His crimson eyes looked darker than ever, and his voice was calm, too calm, when he spoke. "If vampires like me do not feed on pure human blood, we begin to lose ourselves… our powers. These marks… are the beginning of that."

His words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.

Rostin felt a chill crawl up his spine. His lips parted slightly, unsure what to say.

Xenelov let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh under his breath and added, "The blood you bring me… it won’t help anymore. It’s not enough. Not anymore."

Silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Rostin looked away, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, his mind racing.

"Uhm… there’s something you should know," he mumbled, voice quiet, barely above a whisper.

That made Xenelov fully turn to him, his sharp gaze focusing intently on Rostin now, as though trying to read his mind before he even spoke.

Rostin avoided his eyes, fingers fidgeting with the packet in his hands, knowing what he was about to say could change everything.