Work Text:
Takaba Fumihiko has bitten off more than he can chew.
Not literally, of course. His fangs are untested, untried in the pleasures of feeling flesh break under their force, and lapping up whatever spills out. Still, Fumihiko presses ahead and chews on the fat of his unfortunate circumstances with his molars.
He pushes open the heavy doors to the club gingerly, careful of his new strength and not to shatter the tinted glass they are made of. The smell of the outside – the trash and cigarettes, the people moving together like a high tide he has tried to doggy paddle away from – disappears almost immediately as they close behind him. Instead replaced by something clean and fresh, decidedly less overwhelming.
Fumihiko breathes a sigh of relief and inhales deeply, feeling less like the corpse dressed in a cheap suit than he truly is. He tugs at his collar, wincing when he catches the eternally scabbing puncture wounds on the side of his neck. He rubs his fingers together, feeling them come away sticky and resisting the debasing urge to lick them clean.
His gums ache angrily; he’s painfully parched.
Urgh, he hopes that this is the only time his clothes get stained tonight. He can’t afford the dry cleaning.
Before this, Fumihiko had known about vampires: one of Tokyo’s worst-kept secrets. Still, he never thought he would end up as one.
Fumihiko had seen them at his shows, at the seedy, humid bars, in the corners or hanging upside down from the ceiling; humouring him, or mocking him, with narrow, needle-sharp smiles. He had woken up after a tryst with a shadow, cloaked by long dark hair and a smile of stitches across his forehead, who heckled Fumihiko’s routine down the point of his nose, and they’d argued back and forth mid-performance.
Afterwards had been a blur of flying papers and furious debate, notes exchanged about his set over one beer and then another, and another, until the man was pulling Fumihiko back to his very own apartment with little instruction.
Regretfully, he doesn’t remember much – not even the bite which “apparently” is “supposed” to “feel really, really good” and be “better than sex” if a drinking buddy’s gossip is to be believed. He didn’t even remember the sex, let alone get the guy's name or number! Imagine losing your virginity like that!
He was left in a cold bed with the taste of blood in his mouth, every light in his apartment left on (as if he were made of money!), and a new impulse to bite first and ask questions later.
Now, though, the club is dark and humid, which is nice and comforting in a way he doesn’t expect; a bit like a grave, an unwanted thought intrudes. His footsteps echo across the wide expanse of the space, tip-tapping on the sparkling black tile, as shiny as a mirror that doesn’t show his reflection. It seems endless, the shadowy corners of the room melting into each other to form an illusion of infinite darkness – fitting for the clientele, at least.
Not that his eyes need much light to see anymore. Halogen gleams, fluorescent tubes strung around the edges pulsing like fading heartbeats. A walkway guides him to the bar at the precipice of this place; it’s like wandering through an open, empty ribcage, kept dark within the confines of flesh.
Without jumping club tunes and piles of human bodies pressed flush together, it’s not anything like he imagined. This is certainly not an opulent banquet hall with an all-you-can-eat human buffet either, nor is it a kitschy little spot on the outskirts of the city where blood is served in and supped from dainty teacups for bookish ghouls.
Fumihiko follows the lights along the floor to the designated spot, leaning against the bar top, and waits to – to be served? He isn’t sure how all this works.
There are some other people in attendance, congregating at the corners of the room: the vampire lilies and wallflowers. A dark-haired vampire, with a sharp, curved nose and tired, sad eyes, nods at Fumihiko as he passes by. Fumihiko’s eyes follow the red blotting the corner of his mouth, suddenly and desperately jealous, watching as the man’s thumb swipes it away before he heads out the door.
Beyond that, vampires seem to keep their distance, and for that, Fumihiko is grateful. He doesn't even trust himself not to pounce on them if they get close enough; a hand puppet manoeuvred by the alien desire within him.
So here he is, lingering in his newly found death, at this club he read about online.
There’s a gaggle – or perhaps murder would be more accurate – of vampiric staff at the back. One, a woman with short brown hair tucked behind a pointed ear, glances at him. He tries a smile, closed-mouth and dreadfully unnatural; his face strains around it.
Her expression twists immediately, disgusted, and with a roll of her eyes, she calls for someone else to deal with Fumihiko, “Megumi, there’s some guy at the bar!” Then, in response to her colleagues' scolding says, “C’mon, there's no way this loser is gonna tip.”
Fumihiko tries to suppress (and fails) his annoyance at that particular insult and waits for Megumi to appear.
A minute passes, and then another, and maybe five more. Fumihiko wonders if time passes so much more slowly in his newly eternal tormentous life, but then he figures that this place just has pretty bad customer service. Maybe that’s why you never get tipped, rude vampire girl!
With a glance around the bar, he notices a series of doors at the back – private booths, he guesses, for uh, that.
The whole blood-drinking thing had been a challenge in and of itself. Fumihiko didn’t – doesn’t – know where to start. He woke up to hunger pains he’d only felt as a boy, watching his classmates chow down on candies and potato chips when he’d only had enough money for a meagre ice pop. A feeling filled with envy, dark and selfish, twisting him up inside. He’s been reduced to staring longingly outside his apartment window, tracing circles in the condensation around every person he wanted, wished and dreamed to eat alive.
He’s managed, as best he can, to stay indoors, away from people. He’s only once fallen victim to his hunger and listened for Ishida, his infuriating neighbour, to pass by, justifying any attack he would commit with the excuse that the bastard never separates his plastic garbage from the cardboard. For the good of Mother Earth repeated in his head like a mantra for the twelve hours he was pressed against the door, salivating.
Still, he’s never had the fortitude for blood and gore. Fumihiko doesn’t want to hurt anyone, or risk fainting embarrassingly at the sight of their blood, their flesh split like overripe fruit, before he has a chance to taste it.
Fumihiko has allowed hunger to eat him from the inside out, until it became too much, and he’d tried to find an ‘alternative’. Frequenting a local convenience store in the dark of night did the trick for a while, buying up whatever remaining discounted raw meat they had. All to take it home and lick whatever blood he could from the plastic. A completely debasing act, but at least he’s got three dozen homemade burger patties waiting in the freezer – perfect for if he ever has another guest over again.
Another time, in his twilight wandering, he was so overcome that he’d seized a pigeon from the ground and made to savage it. But then, the thing had cooed and stared at him with its wide, stupid orange eyes; entirely oblivious, not a single brain cell to muster the thought of struggling. Of course, he set the poor thing back on the ground and dropped his head into his hands. It immediately started pecking at some chicken bones discarded in the alley, before pivoting to the greasy cardboard they came in.
Maybe coming here was a mistake.
The smell of blood isn’t as acute as he expected, but it’s still there: enough to make him vibrate from within his skin and wet the corner of his mouth. Saliva drips down his chin, enough that he has to hastily catch it with his hand. If he leaves now, he will have to pass through the crowds, smiling people out to drink and have fun that he would swiftly ruin.
This is no good at all.
No – no, Fumihiko can’t back out now, not when he’s this close. This is what he needs to do to get back control of his life, to stop imagining how good the unthinkable would taste every hour of the day. Most importantly, he can start doing gigs again, with new shiny vampiric marketing to catapult his career into supernatural stardom.
It’s then that Megumi appears, and Fumihiko is catapulted back into the overwhelming oh no i really can’t do this what would my mother think of me know realm of thinking.
Megumi is startlingly lovely, and unfortunately, exactly Fumihiko’s type. His shock of dark hair and heavy eyes, framed with thick lashes, a furrow between his brow that Fumihiko is tempted to obliterate with his comedy, or by simply being a fool. Quite frankly, he looks miserable, and there’s nothing Fumihiko adores more in a man than a challenge.
In a way, he’s reminded of the man from the bar, the one who turned him to begin with. How unfortunate.
God, he smells so good, too. This can’t be happening. Fumihiko hasn’t spoken to another person in a month – why does the first one need to be so beautiful?!
It’s sickening. Fumihiko salivates even more, fangs protruding from his mouth in a sneer he doesn’t intend. He quickly covers his mouth with a hand and tries his best to feign nonchalance. Megumi’s clothes are dark and neat: nothing fancy or new, but the black shirt that reveals his neck and the slight dip into his collar bones is enough to enamour Fumihiko.
Even though Megumi must also be a vampire, Fumihiko is suddenly grateful for the thick bar top separating them, keeping him from lunging over the counter and tasting him.
Takaba says nothing, lest he choke and drown in his drool. Of course, Megumi doesn’t greet Takaba with a smile or much of anything in return. His mouth is flat and straight, if naturally turned down at the corners; the woman from before jeers at his appearance, taking a big drink from the glass she’s now holding before sticking her bloody tongue out when Megumi ignores her. He straightens his back to glance up at Takaba’s face, tapping away on the kiosk in front of him, quickly and efficiently, deftly pulling out a tablet from beneath the bar top.
He doesn’t look at Fumihiko anymore, and maybe that’s a good thing. Instead, he types in some login details and pulls up an application, beginning to talk, a script that has been said a thousand times before. Fumihiko, entranced, watches his throat move each syllable and imagines how the veins tangle together beneath.
“Welcome to The Sixth Eye, the only bar in blood bar Tokyo - catering specifically for vampiric clientele. We offer a wide selection of entertainment and dining options, all catered to your needs and tastes. If it’s your first time with us–” Fumihiko nods mutely. Megumi’s voice is deep and polite, but his expression twinges at the interruption.
He continues, “Great, I’m happy to offer recommendations to start. We also have blood samples available if you’d like to try any particular type or flavour. All our blood is ethically sourced, and we promise our clients satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”
That’s, uh, reassuring?
Megumi is too deep into his corporate script to break the pattern now. He runs through a list of house rules, but Fumihiko barely registers anything aside from the thump of Megumi’s pulse, each slight inhale of breath.
Then, he turns the tablet in Fumihiko’s direction, showing him how to scroll through the list of bright-eyed bloodbags with a delicate swipe of his long fingers. “Here’s who we have on offer for tonight. Anyone you’d like me to get started for you?”
Fumihiko stares at him, dumbfounded, trying to come up with some kind of answer or imagine what the right response to this should be. He glances down at the tablet with pleading eyes, the people who are rapidly looking more and more like his dinner, and back to Megumi.
Megumi sighs and begins with the promised recommendations, “If you’re looking for something light and easy, you can’t go wrong with Kasumi. But if you’re hungry for someone rougher around the edges, Iori or Kashimo are popular with–” He glances up at Takaba’s face, still half hidden behind his hand. He coughs, searching for more appropriate phrasing before giving up, “–men.”
“A fantastic selection!” Fumihiko’s hand falls, and he finally responds, loudly, tragically, as if a cosmic force is throttling him; fangs still bared, everything he says comes out in the voice of Count Dracula. “A veritable feast!”
Fumihiko doesn’t know what he’s doing, other than making a fool of himself, and it’s certainly not making Megumi smile. How embarrassing he must be, to come to this place without knowing a single thing, freshly turned and now pretending to be one of the most famous vampires of all time.
Megumi frowns and shoots a glance to the back of the bar as if to say what the fuck, “So…is there one you would prefer?”
Fumihiko laughs, and even that is Transilvanian. What choice does he have now, other than commit to the bit? He ignores Megumi and throws his hand wide, a picture of confidence and theatrics only ever seen before at a child’s birthday party. “Me? Why, I’d take them all!”
What else is he supposed to say next? No, I want to suck your blood!
Takaba shuts his eyes and wishes he’d burst into flames on the spot, yet continues his show nonetheless, ignoring the quiet ‘ what’ that Megumi lets loose. “Yet, my interest is piqued. Tell me, Megumi. What options might a novice have available to them?”
A deep sigh follows, “Sir, this is not a role-play cafe. You’re looking for NosferaCUTES. That’s three blocks down on–”
“No!” Fumihiko insists, the accent slipping off the word and puddling at his feet. Suddenly, the bravado crumbles like ash in his mouth and, despite the bared fangs, sounds weak, weak, weak, “I mean, sorry – look – okay. I’m new to this. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
A groan leaves Fumihiko, and, wracked with despair, he tries not to drop to his knees. Megumi, a wonderful blessing, decides to take pity. Fumihiko pretends not to notice that the tips of his ears turn red.
“Well, if you – I mean, if it was for a novice, I’d recommend Yuuji.” He draws Fumihiko’s attention back to the tablet, and his wet eyes glance at the picture of a handsome, smiling man. There’s something in his voice that seems…fond – more than a mere coworker, then. “He’s very popular and beginner-friendly. He was just with a client,” Megumi clicks on Yuuji’s face to enlarge his picture, before looking at his kiosk, grumbling, “Ugh, Todo–I mean, his next client should arrive in half an hour, but I think we can probably fit you in.”
All Fumihiko can do is stare at the picture of Yuuji. His bright-eyed grin, muscular neck, the scars at his mouth and brow; his eyes, so wide and warm, almost amber – stupid even. It’s in that moment that the memory hits Fumihiko again, the pigeon he almost gored, and all he can imagine is the pained coo Yuuji would make when he bites down.
He can’t do this.
The thought makes his stomach twist, and his eyes bulge. His hand shoots back to his mouth, and Fumihiko once again doesn’t know why he came here. It’s an overwhelming feeling, hunger, it makes you delirious and selfish, torn between stuffing your face and coveting your meal over hours and hours so it can be savoured. Fumihiko’s teeth are too large for his mouth, and his eyes too big for his stomach – yet he still glances, once and then again, at Megumi’s throat. He doesn’t flinch away from Fumihiko and simply stands there like a tall glass of water; there’s something about his doe eyes that makes Fumihiko want to lean in and take a sip. His smell blankets Fumihiko as he unconsciously leans closer, rocking against the bar; his hands clench on the marble, enough that he can feel it struggle beneath his hands.
There’s something in Megumi’s expression; concern for him, or disgust at him or something else entirely.
With another vampire, maybe it would be easier – it never hurts to ask, unless it does – he shouldn’t – but he has drunk from a vampire before, the one who turned him, even if he doesn’t remember it – so –
“What about you?”
The question is surely an insult; it must be, with how Megumi stills. His hand does little to muffle his desire. Fumihiko feels like a child, stealing snacks he couldn’t afford from his friends, and is drenched in shame, shame, shame. He doesn’t wait for an answer and flees from the bar, into the night.
The night takes Fumihiko about as far as the curb outside.
He sits there, head in his hands and contemplates what to do. In a moment, Fumihiko will get up, dust himself down and go home to sleep away this whole memory from the comfort of his closet; he winces at the thought of another night like that. He still needs to get around to ordering that coffin.
Maybe he will make a quick detour on the way. Killing Ishida doesn’t sound so bad right now, actually.
“Hey, Dracula,” Fumihiko jolts at Megumi’s voice. It seems his shame wants to stalk him in the night, “What are you doing?”
It’s not his question that makes Fumihiko jump for a second time, but his proximity. His smell is enough to make Takaba’s mouth water, enough that he can imagine the taste of Megumi’s blood on his tongue.
Fumihiko covers his mouth and nose with a hand, letting out a nasally, “Don’t get too close!”
Megumi ignores him, dropping down on the curb next to him with a dull thud. It’s like he has no sense of self-preservation, or he thinks Fumihiko is pathetically harmless. He’s only one of those descriptors right now.
Up this close, Fumihiko can see the webbing of blue under his pale skin, not just on his neck but along his jaw and around his eyes; ornate brush strokes that dodge every freckle or mole or scar, determined to preserve even the most insignificant details.
“Oi!” Takaba scolds, a little more weakly than he’d like, “This is my personal space and you are not invited inside.”
“Doesn’t work like that,” Megumi rolls his eyes, drawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one; the sound of the flame igniting, “Not on me, anyway.”
The realisation hits Fumihiko like a rock to the head, falling from a great, great height and leaving him flattened paper-thin on the pavement.
“You’re not a vampire?!” Oh, Takaba is fucked, – he needs to back away from Megumi right now; he should have run home thirty minutes ago rather than sit on the curb feeling sorry for himself.
Megumi takes a drag from his cigarette, the scent quickly (thankfully) becoming the most prominent thing Fumihiko can smell. “How come you’re starving yourself?”
“You can tell.”
Megumi flicks ash to the ground and gives a slight nod, “It’s pretty obvious. Nobara hates dealing with the really hungry ones – she says they are too rough and annoying to deal with. That’s why she called for me.”
“Well, your customer service needs work,” Fumihiko says, surprised with the not-quite smile Megumi gives him. Grateful for the levity, Fumihiko can’t resist the urge to play into things a little more, “The wait nearly drove me batty.”
Megumi snorts, “Awful joke.”
Takaba bristles, indignant and offended in a way he hasn’t been since the night he was turned. Still, even such a reaction – any reaction at all – makes him soften, reminded of his life before all this. He’s also overcome by a strange protectiveness, that Megumi would be working at a bar, out so late on a night just like the one when Fumihiko was turned.
Although, Fumihiko supposes, he is more of a threat to Megumi right now than anyone else is.
“I’m out of practice,” Fumihiko insists, stamping down the unpleasant realisation with honesty. He’d bite clean through his fingers before he’d give in to bloodlust. “This is my first conversation with another person in a month. The whole thing is a real pain in the neck.”
“Yeah, it is,” Megumi responds, rubbing at his nape; chasing a memory, a phantom sensation, a want perhaps. He shuffles closer than he ought to get a better look at Fumihiko’s neck, the unhealed twin puncture wounds there and the blood staining his collar, “Those will only heal when you eat.”
Fumihiko finally drops his hand from his mouth – it was pointless anyway – and smoothes back the loose strands of his hair, “That’s why I came. There’s this one forum that recommended you for – well, the people there called us 'baby vampires’. Someone said it’d change my life forever~.”
Megumi snorts, amused, “Oh, I know the forum. My boss, the owner, has an account there. He roleplays to get new clientele through the door, and calls it direct marketing.”
“What! Unbelievable. Undisclosed ads are against the law!” Takaba wilts with the revelation. God, he’s such a sucker.
Megumi shifts next to him, folding his arms over his knees, “That wound on your throat should be gone by now, though. It looks about a month old.” There’s concern in Megumi’s voice, and he seems to hesitate when he asks, perhaps a little bashful, “I mean, you’ve fed before, right?”
Takaba shakes his head and dares not to offer an apologetic smile around his fangs. Megumi asks, incredulous. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Not once?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Never?”
“Never ever.”
Megumi pulls out his phone and tosses his unfinished cigarette on the ground, “My break is nearly over.”
“Got it.” Fumihiko sniffs sadly and prepares to be alone again, “Thanks for talking to me, Megumi.”
Fumihiko waits as dregs of smoke plume from the cigarette on the ground, the orange ember at the end pulsing as the wind blows over it, desperate to stay alight before Megumi snuffs it beneath his heel. He’ll wait for Megumi to turn, and then watch him go – to make sure he gets the two meters from here to the doorway without incident, and will not hope that he turns back around.
“What’s your name?” Megumi asks, getting up to his feet and rocking on his heels.
Fumihiko looks up, then, reality deviating from the plan he’d storyboarded in his mind once the cameras started to roll. This is a chance: to make a connection, to get what he wants, to ask for advice from a human who knows more than Fumihiko does, to maybe get a number to go with the name this time.
Megumi’s thick, ragdoll hair is haloed by a street light. Takaba’s eyes jump to the thrumming birdwing beating his pulse at his throat, and he looks away, pulling himself to his feet, “Takaba Fumihiko.”
“Nice to meet you, Takaba-san,” Megumi says politely, with a smile that feels like the sun on his skin; unnatural, scalding, and exactly what he needs. He looks over his shoulder to a hulking man banging through the barred doors, and then back to Fumihiko.
When Megumi lingers and then continues in a serious voice, it is contrasted by the pink beginning to blot his cheeks; an abstract watercolour stain that is surely open to interpretation, “Why’d you ask if you could see me?
“Uh,” Takaba scrambles for an answer. The bats have got his tongue before he shoves his foot in his mouth to get it out, “You seem like a ‘wear both hats’ kind of guy? Y’know, the type to serve and be served?”
“You’re kind of weird,” Megumi replies, but the blush doesn’t disappear from his face. Instead, it seeps down to his neck, surely hot to the touch. “We can figure something out for you tonight.”
“How come?” Fumihiko asks, much more school boy and far less grown man. He tries not to get his hopes up, to dare to catch Megumi’s drift. He toys around with the idea, a foolish thing to do, when he is the mouse that’s already under a cat's paw, “You–you think that guy you recommended, Yuuji, would still have time to see me?”
Megumi shakes his head. Fumihiko has got to stop shooting himself in the foot every time; bad decision after bad decision after bad decision.
“Follow me,” Megumi replies, but doesn’t look at Fumihiko. The burning tomato red at his nape says it all. Suddenly, the colour red is possibly the best thing in the world.
And really, Fumihiko thinks, that he has to have made at least one good choice if it brought him here tonight.
“This alright for you?”
Megumi’s voice is drowned out by his proximity to Fumihiko; he can scarcely register the words, all coherent thought lost when Megumi’s thigh pressed against his. The rouge of Megumi’s face should’ve been screaming danger to Fumihiko this whole time – he feels like he’s going to be eaten alive in this room.
The booth Megumi brought them two is hidden away – an older one by the looks of the chipped wooden door frame and worn, cracked leather seating, run down and secluded. A private audience, on a stage Megumi seems to be more experienced in than he let on. Still, the offer Megumi proposed to figure things out is certainly much more than that.
Fumihiko tries his best to settle in the narrow space, sharing a bench with Megumi certainly made for someone more slender than him. Really, it’s much too small to be a two-seater. An idiot must’ve designed this place. There’s not even enough room to breathe, let alone sit separately. This close, Fumihiko can hear the thump of Megumi’s heart, steady and even; he is not afraid like Fumihiko is.
“Why are you doing this?”
Megumi’s elbow juts into his side, not deliberately, as he tries to get comfortable. The temperature is warm, more humid than it was at the entrance. It seemed to get hotter the deeper Megumi took him into this place, passing by the other private rooms and ignoring the sounds that trickled out of each one.
Here it is warm and quiet. Fumihiko feels cocooned by it, the near silence, save for the soft sound of Megumi’s heartbeat, his breathing, the brushing of his clothes against Fumihiko’s when he shrugs.
“Wearing both my hats, I guess.”
Takaba guffaws, and his body rocks with Megumi’s. The boy next to him offers another smile, softer this time, more starlight in the shadows than the glow of the sun. The dark of the room helps with that. Yet he’s acutely aware that Megumi is so close their noses would brush if he leaned in.
“What if I hurt you? Aren’t you worried? You said that the hungry ones can get… too rough.”
Megumi shakes his head, and his hair tickles Fumihiko’s cheek. A bead of sweat forms at his hairline, and Fumihiko watches it. That dark part of his brain supplies: taste it.
Urgh. It’s like he’s about to lose his virginity for the second time in a month.
“Might be easier like this,” Megumi says blankly, offering his wrist to Fumihiko. It hangs in the air, pale and unblemished, palm upraised to him like a drinking cup to catch the mess he’ll make.
He knows Fumihiko won’t reject his offer outright, but he will squirm under Megumi’s gaze: dark-eyed and rude, and that’s just the way Fumihiko likes them.
Fumihiko swallows, unconsciously having leaned forward, his hand raised beneath Megumi’s. They don’t quite touch, even though Fumihiko can feel the heat radiating from him; he’s lulled in deeper, pulled further into the space. The booth is more of a trinket box, keeping them both inside, the latch tightly shut to preserve the moment forever. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t force himself to breathe.
Yet, when he glances back up at Megumi and sees those dark eyes on him, he flounders and feels overstuffed in this cramped space. The scrutiny, the unrelenting gaze, reminds him of the night he was turned in a way he doesn’t especially enjoy right now.
“Stage fright,” Fumihiko laughs off, trying to pull back just a little. Regardless, Megumi follows him, wetting his lips with a pink tongue. He clarifies, “With you watching like that, it’s – I find it hard to perform under pressure. I told you it’s been a while.”
There’s something in Megumi’s expression that shifts again, his rosy cheeks apple and endeared – if such a thing were possible on such a striking face.
It’s there one moment, and then gone the next. Megumi, suddenly put upon, frowns in annoyance and grunts, “We can do it like this then.”
When Megumi straddles him, thighs spread wide over Fumihiko’s own, he’s grateful for the lack of blood in his body so he doesn’t pop a boner right then and there. He scowls down at Fumihiko, giving him a better look at his chin, the mole hidden where his head meets his neck. A flush remains high on his cheeks, before he tilts his head to the side and gives Fumihiko the best view from the gallery of their private theatre.
Takaba is transfixed. He can see it, the blood rushing under the skin, the small blue and violet of each vein working hard – patterns he wants to trace with his eyes, chase with his tongue.
“You can start…whenever,” Megumi says, voice strained in a whisper.
He’s thralled by the sight, nerves falling away as his lips seek to meet the column of Megumi’s throat. It feels wrong not to press a kiss there, so he does – and another, and another – until his mouth finds the tenderest part beneath his ear. Megumi shivers, and his hands find Fumihiko’s broad shoulders, clinging, as if they’re a single wanting thing.
Fumihiko braces himself, arms curling around Megumi’s middle and, with every shred of desire he can muster –
– blows a long, loud raspberry on Megumi’s neck.
Megumi darts back immediately, mouth twisted and face flushed in anger and…arousal?
“What the fuck,” He hisses, knocking his forehead against Fumihiko’s with a clonk. His lips, now bitten, curl into a snarl; serious, hungry.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” Fumihiko returns, only half apologetic, when Megumi moves to bonk their skulls together again.
Distantly, he wonders (worries) if Megumi will turn him away now. Strangely, Megumi does no such thing, face burning brighter red, enough to stain Fumihiko’s cheeks with what little blood he has to muster.
Megumi ducks his chin and turns away just slightly, not enough to tuck away his neck, and grumbles, “Take this seriously.”
Fumihiko wants to – he hasn’t taken anything seriously since he was a miserable university student, constantly arguing with his comedy partner and stubbornly refusing to call his mother when he was sad. He stares at Megumi’s face, feels the weight of his body, straddling Fumihiko’s lap. A hand in his hair, measured, in control when Takaba knows he can’t – and won’t be.
Megumi isn’t offering this out of pity, he realises. This is the real deal. He thinks about leaving, about going home, about being somewhere – anywhere but here. Fumihiko knows that isn’t what he wants, not right now. Megumi helping him, feeding him, is a gesture of faith. That this life can be different, a little less lonely.
Maybe, when he’s back in practice, he can try some more material on Megumi and get a real, genuine laugh out of him.
As Fumihiko leans back in, out of habit, out of need to show that he’s grateful, he mumbles a soft, “Thank you for the meal.”
Megumi cringes, and Fumihiko feels the flush that blooms on his nape when he rests the tips of his fingers there. Still, he holds onto Fumihiko’s suit tighter, fingers curling so nothing can slip between them.
His fangs find Megumi’s throat quickly this time, a rush of desire, seizing the moment before his resolve fails. The skin breaks deliciously beneath the sharp points, the first taste of blood onto his tongue is indescribable, insurmountable, a turning point from which there is no coming back. Megumi gasps, rocking against Fumihiko and clinging to him tighter. His hands twitch, the broken wings of a black bird, and Fumihiko holds him steady to drink deeper.
Megumi fills his cup, thirst unrooted like weeds, and is replaced with pure want. He takes each drag of Megumi’s blood as a secret, something he’d never want to share; his fingers pulse with want, the iron coating his mouth and chin and dripping down onto his shirt. A hand tugs his hair until he keens. Surely, the pads of his fingers will leave marks beneath Megumi’s clothes; a reminder, if only brief, of their meeting.
Yet, the hunger demands more. The rich taste, the darkness of it, pulls Fumihiko deeper and deeper. He’s tethered to Megumi, each twitch mirrored by the other, a single-bodied animal created from hunger – brought together by chance, and embarrassment and shame that has been banished to the deepest recesses of their shared mind.
When he bites down harder, so that nothing might separate them, Megumi lets out a long, drawn-out noise; pained, writhing, yet pulls Fumihiko closer still. The pleasure grows, a simmering in his gut that wants to boil over and scorch them both – filling their insides until they both tremble and moan. It’s wonderful; it’s terrible; it’s too much.
Fumihiko pulls back, near delirious, drunk on blood and the taste of Megumi, heavy on his tongue, coating the backs of his teeth. Megumi pants with him, head tilted back, and looking at Takaba, satisfied. His throat bops as he swallows, and Takaba mirrors it, tasting Megumi again. He’s elated by the high, and that he didn’t kill Megumi outright – it’s enough of a victory that his sluggish heart jumps for joy. He resists the urge to wipe at his mouth, at the blood too precious to waste.
One half of Takaba wants to kiss Megumi, another wants to grovel at his feet.
He doesn’t move from Fumihiko’s lap, and his hands rest firmly on Fumihiko’s shoulders. As Megumi catches his breath and trembles, he smiles at him – there’s a dimple at the corner of his mouth now, more genuine than before. He’s tempted to tell Megumi that he was just iron-deficient all along, not a vampire at all, to poke fun at the absurdity of this whole situation and reject the sincerity of what they’d shared.
Take this seriously, Megumi had told him.
Fumihiko wants to hear him laugh more than anything, but it would be an insult to Megumi to offer him anything less than his best material now. If he sees Megumi again – if he has the chance – if Megumi agrees like Fumihiko wants him to – then he’ll–
Megumi fumbles around in his pants pocket, clumsy and desperate, chasing an idea before he forgets it entirely in the sanguine haze. He draws out a small slip of paper, a business card perhaps, numbers already scrawled in marker as if he prepared it earlier.
“Here,” He slips it into the pocket on the breast of Fumihiko’s suit jacket, “Call next time. Ask for me again.”
Fumihiko nods, with half a mind and a full heart. He didn’t even ask for Megumi, but he is certain he wants to agree – would never want to refuse, never could, never even dream of it. With the blood fresh in his body, it rushes south, too late for Fumihiko to do anything to stop his arousal, especially when Megumi feels it. When he pushes his hips down onto it, and looks at Fumihiko with lidded, heady eyes.
“You still hungry?” Megumi asks, soft at the core of his rough voice, bleary and delighted. Expectant, too – asking for more when he wants to demand it. Fumihiko nods his head, attuned to Megumi through his blood, the thrum of his body, the look in his eye.
Unlike Fumihiko, Megumi refuses to do things in half measures. A hand curls in his hair, while the other fiddles with the fly of his pants. Fumihiko lets himself be brought back to Megumi’s throat and drinks anew.