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The night had been exceptionally dark and quiet. Nights were supposed to be dark at this time of the year, as autumn blended into winter, with long, gloomy-grey days, veiled by streams of cold rain which would turn into snow soon enough. Days like these never got bright, making everything look dead: tall, leafless trees as scrawny as human frames. They all looked the same, hard to tell apart in the dim twilight.
Neither of them had a good feeling about the guesthouse they found. It looked run-down and abandoned, old as if stuck in times long past. If it wasn’t for the one light shining beyond the front door, they would have probably passed it. But the villages up north were all the same: half-dead and left to decay, with only a few old souls around, forgotten by their families, clinging to the place they’ve called home all their life. Even if that home was nothing but an obscure reflection of a brighter past.
Of course, they were the only guests there. The man at the reception, ancient as a grave, showed them through the narrow, murky corridors to a room they’d share. The hardwood flooring creaked under their steps, no matter how carefully placed. There was no electricity. Their way, just like their room, was lit by candles and oil lamps probably in use more than a hundred years ago. Their dim light made the shadows look darker, flickering, and shifting as if they were alive. Sometimes Hizashi thought there were eyes, too… golden eyes, calmly watching them as they made their ways through the house and settled into their make-shift home with the worn tatami and the yellowed sliding doors.
Shouta was tired; he always was. So they went to sleep soon. It might be better not to stay conscious for too long at this place, Hizashi thought. Who knows what tricks your mind will play if the night grew late? But sleep didn’t come easy. There were whispers in his dreams, or was it in his waking? Maybe it was that limbo in-between, when the body is too heavy to move, held down by sleep, but the mind is already wide awake. Hizashi heard them. Sweet, soothing voices, deep enough to stir something in him...a memory of someone long gone, but never forgotten, mingling with dreams and perception.
Only the certainty of muffledly thudding footsteps was enough of an anchor to the realm of reality to pull him out of his odd half-sleep. When Hizashi opened his eyes, Shouta wasn’t lying next to him anymore. The room seemed a little lighter, not exactly brighter, but the shadows didn’t seem as deep, as if they had left together with his man. A horrid, sinking premonition settled down heavily on his shoulders, sending waves of cold down his entire body. It didn’t feel as abstract and vague as a hunch; it felt more substantial, like a clawed hand pawing at his neck.
They weren’t alone. The shadows - there was something, someone in them.
Despite the cold of the room sending shivers down his spine, Hizashi got up and peeked out of the sliding door that was standing open if only by a crack.
The floor was pitch-black.
The dark licked through the door’s crack, small wafts of smoke drifting into the room, but pulling back again if they only went a tad too far. But there were still sources of light, candle flames floating in the fog like friar’s lanterns. So Hizashi ventured out, stepping carefully, one hand on the damp wall.
He looked for the sheet lighting in the dark smoke filling the hallways. The wafts glowed in a deep shade of purple wherever light hit them, and a sweet scent, almost inviting, lingered between them. Following the ghost lights, Hizashi shuffled through the hallways, only vaguely remembering the way he took earlier that night. His steps sounded softened, dull as if filtering through feathers and fabrics.
Eventually, Hizashi reached a door opened halfway, giving way to the light seeping into the darkness just to be swallowed outside. He didn’t know why, but he stayed out of the circle the light drew, tiptoeing the verge - close enough to peek inside, far enough to hide in the shadows. When he spotted Shouta’s figure there, framed perfectly by the doorway, the gasp escaping him was muted by the smoke’s sweetness - very different from the light laughter on the inside. It was a sinister sound, cruel and threatening.
Long, pointy fingers wrap around Shouta’s neck, tapping gently, almost caring. Shouta’s sigh at the touch echoed through the room and spilled outside, as clearly as the laughter earlier. Then, from where the claw came, another body stepped up to Shouta. It was tall, twines of shadows and clouds of smoke veiling the frame, yet Hizashi recognized it. Golden, almond-shaped eyes, smudging around the edges and leaking into the shadows, flickered up from Shouta, staring right at the hero outside in the dark. He knew by those eyes that it was Oboro.
Their friend, Oboro. The one who had died too many years ago. A plethora of memories and feelings flooded his mind, complicated and churning, twisting his stomach with their overwhelming abundance. Shouta had yearned for his lover, their friend; just like Hizashi had yearned for Shouta and loved him. Both of them spent years on end waiting for things that were impossible - the dead to return, a first love to be forgotten. Until, one day, they found comfort in each other. The happiness Hizashi had felt about Shouta turning to him eventually was a muted one. He had always felt like it was some sort of means to an end, an end which wasn’t them . Just a fix, until the impossible became possible.
Which was now, it seemed, for the dead stood there - dark, changed, and uncannily familiar, enveloping Shouta in a tight embrace. Of course, Shouta would sigh and lean in, why would he not? It was all he ever wanted, Hizashi knew it. Still, he felt his heart cracking, seeing his worst nightmares come true.
Literal nightmares, creeping into his consciousness with prickling shivers crawling beneath his skin. What was once their friend looked like a ghost. Nothing but a wraith evoked by their fears, cold and vicious. Hizashi’s breathing stilled when fangs were bared from behind a layer of raspberry-colored fog. Not a wraith, but a vampire, about to claim what has been his all along.
Shining gold peeked up, staring right at and through him from above Shouta’s neck. That look made his cracked heart shatter into thousands of pieces. The black fog knew it, just like Hizashi had known it. He had won and it was Hizashi’s loss. It was over, once and for all. With that heavy, disheartening thought, his body froze and the golden orbs watching him curled into crescents. A mocking grin, triumphant, condescending, and proud, putting long, sharp fangs onto a perfect display as they grazed the tender skin on Shouta’s neck.
“Mine,” a strange, distorted whisper echoed through the mists and shadows. Unnecessarily so, intended to hurt. Hizashi knew that already, felt it pierce through his chest when those fangs sank down, drawing blood without spilling it, and a sigh, gone with pleasure.
Gone, forever.