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Pyro stands in the corner of the storage room, watching Scott root through the chests lined up against the wall. Scott had bid him follow when he passed him in the great hall, and Pyro had complied without a word of question. He wishes that he'd asked earlier so he could be more useful, rather than being another object in the room taking up space along with the unnecessary torch and decoy bed.
There is nothing down here but extra storage. Materials for building and crafting are held upstairs in the alcove next to the altar, with spillover moved down here on occasion, something they haven't had to do for some time. Though come to think of it, he'd seen Scott come from the alcove area, which means Scott had searched for whatever he'd needed there before coming down here. And picking up Pyro on the way, for whatever reason.
Unless he was looking for blood bottles. They were running low, but Pyro could've sworn he'd seen some in the stash upstairs. Maybe another coven member took the last few without restocking. All speculation, of course, but more likely than Scott coming down here for anything else.
It would be discourteous to bring up a potential lack of blood bottles directly, so he tries an alternative route. Tentatively, he asks, "are you hungry, sire?"
Scott doesn't respond immediately, and when he shuts the chest he'd been looking through, the sharp click of the latch closing feels purposeful.
Pyro feels him turn before he physically does, the sway of his cape like ripples in dark water obscuring the enormity of the monster lurking beneath. The weight of his attention precedes his gaze until the entirety of it finally rests on Pyro, forcing Pyro's nonexistent breath to stutter in their chest from a vise seizing their heart.
Maybe that was the wrong question after all. Maybe they should've kept their mouth shut until Scott deigned to divulge his plans, like always.
Scott smiles. He smiles the way he always does: cold, distant, so pleasant it feels wrong, and Pyro aches in a way they can't describe. They hate it. They want to see more.
"We're always hungry," Scott drawls.
The response would be casual to a regular bystander, but Pyro is no such person. They feel the centuries roiling beneath those words, and the faint brand on their soul from the bond pulls taut. Elder, elder, their senses hiss and they almost take an involuntary step back even though Scott has done nothing but regard them. They want to clench their fists and dig their nails into their flesh, so deep that the biting pain reminds them that they are still themself, their own, not beholden to anyone else. But their limbs hang limp, and they do nothing in the end.
"Well," Scott chirps, setting his hands on his hips. If he's aware of the effect he has on Pyro, he shows no indication of it, which makes Pyro wonder if they'd imagined the effect entirely. "As I thought, nothing here. Prey won't hunt itself, and we should have some free time before we go for another beacon." He's turning, that oppressive gaze going with him as he runs his fingers along the flat of the chests and reaches for the door. "We'll cover more ground if we split up. I'll head to the dead forest, and you can-"
"You can drink from me," Pyro blurts. Then his mind catches up and he clenches his jaw to prevent any more of those needless, nagging thoughts from breaking out again.
It's too late.
Scott's looking at him - looking at him - all of a sudden, one perfect eyebrow raised in the very image of someone who has just found an interesting, undiscovered bug and intends to dissect it. If not for the flutter of his collar settling, he could have been facing Pyro this entire time. "What was that?"
"You can…" Pyro's mouth feels dry. Did Scott's eyes flick down to his neck for a second, or is he imagining things again?
There's a chance he can still salvage this, take back his words and pretend he meant to say something else.
But what would be the point? Scott knows. He always does. His question is more for his entertainment than for clarification - even now, he waits for a response with exaggerated patience. And if Pyro were to say otherwise, he'd be lying to his sire.
So he quietly clears his throat and repeats himself, injecting more surety this time. "Sire, you can drink from me."
Scott watches him for a beat longer until the tension breaks with a sharp chuckle. His facade melts into the picture of satisfaction and like a mortal contagion, Pyro finds his own lips involuntarily tugging up into a smile of relief. Surely relief, and not something like anxiety where the body's physiological response to stress is to draw the mouth into a rictus.
"Pyro, Pyro," Scott draws out his name as he glides closer, the vowels rolling off of his tongue in that beautiful accent of his. He sounds so amused. "My dear fledgling, do you know what you're offering?"
Dread and want war in Pyro's chest. They feel small again, like they always do when the full brunt of Scott's attention bears down on them instead of the lazy, casual glances he'd sweep their way every now and then. Even halfway across the room, the space is too small to dilute his all-cosuming presence. It reminds them of flying too close to the sun, charring and burning and falling as the sky fills with smoke. A metaphor all too literal for their current existence.
But some part of them has always wanted this, a voice in the back of their head pipes up. In familiar company, Scott doesn't bother hiding his vampiric features. When he isn't watering himself down to appeal to the humans, his fangs flash with every smirk, every curl of his lips. And there are times where Pyro catches their gaze lingering on his mouth even after the fangs have disappeared; it would be a lie if they said they hadn't thought of offering their sire their blood as an excuse to stay in his orbit for a few moments longer.
Their fate has long been sealed, a long chain stretching back in time. Since they opened their mouth earlier. Since they followed Scott back to the castle after being turned. Since they let themself feel safe enough in the company of two vampires in human skin to follow them out into the night.
… Since Czesław in the river, and Pyro's departure to Oakhurst thereafter.
Do you know what you're offering?
"Myself," he answers, his jaw clenched tight.
Scott steps forward. Pyro steps back. Nothing is making him step back, no vampiric compulsion or whatever it was that the stories always spoke of; he just does. Scott keeps drawing closer until the back of Pyro's knees hit the bed and he falls into a sitting position, gazing up at his sire who looms over him.
"How eager." Scott leans down. It's dim in here with the single torch that doesn't really need to be here given their kind's night vision, but Scott's eyes gleam nonetheless, as if the deep burgundy of his irises hold their own kind of light. "How… loyal."
Whatever sensation that had been prickling around his neck fans upward into his cheeks, and he ignores the twist in his stomach that also comes with the insinuation. The purr at the end of Scott's words curls around his head, nestling into his ear canals. He'll hear that for days, he thinks miserably.
"If you're offering, how could I bring myself to refuse?" Scott closes the last few steps, and with nowhere else to back away, Pyro finds himself caged in once Scott pushes a leg to the edge of the bed, filling the space between his knees.
"Sire-" he is leaning back on his elbows, muscles straining to keep himself propped up.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to-"
"You lie down, Pyro," Scott chides. "It's awfully difficult to drink from someone halfway."
Swallowing hard, Pyro eases himself down.
Scott is on him, knees bracketing his hips, hands coming to rest at both sides of his head. It happens so swiftly that in the following stillness the only motion is Scott's cape settling around them in a silken rustle, like curtains drawing closed. Though the room still exists beyond the inky fabric, it is as if the world narrows down to this singular space: Scott, Pyro, and the distance between their chests.
Pyro feels their breath catch - the futile motion of their throat closing around a now-vestigal airway. But nothing happens. Scott remains unmoving. So close. Too close. They want to push him away. They want to pull him in. Something needs to happen, resolve this half-transitional scene that the two of them occupy, or Pyro may fall apart from the extended wait alone. They want-
"You're shaking," Scott observes. Nothing out of concern; merely a statement. If anything, a comment about an inconvenient factor. His expression is thoughtful, and the strange brightness behind the hue of his eyes grows more pronounced under the hair that now shadows his features.
"It's nothing, just-" A thought had occurred to Pyro in the last few seconds during their brief stall, far too late to undo the position they find themself in. Scott could drain them dry if he wanted to. Unmake Pyro the same way he made them. There's no point, and they should stop talking, and what an irreverent fledgling they are to make requests of their sire, but- "Don't kill me," they whisper. It comes out hoarse, and it takes everything in them not to cringe at how they sound. "Please." They'd only recently come into this new form, gained all this power that they will use to right the wrongs of their past life once they get out of here.
"I'm not that hungry." Scott rolls his eyes, and brushes a lock of Pyro's hair from the nape of his neck. The motion is terribly slow, so terribly gentle. Pyro shivers - from the frigid touch or the open air settling against his skin, he's not lucid enough to determine. If his heart were still beating it would be trying to break out of his chest, and he finds that he doesn't need blood flow to feel dizzy. Scott continues, "and you're my fledgling, after all. I won't hurt you"
Pyro thinks back to the lake. The water rushing into his lungs, the dark plume of his blood rising in the water with the last burst of bubbles before he drowned. Had it hurt, then, the gaping wound Scott had torn in his throat? The memory is indistinct, like an artist's sketch of a scene before the undercoat becomes the first layer between lines and viewer.
But he wasn't a fledgling back then, and he is one now. Scott's fledgling.
They force themself to relax. Scott dips his head down, and when he notices the tension leaving their muscles, he pauses at the periphery of their vision.
"Good," he croons. The single honeyed word sends lightning sizzling down their spine.
Even though they're expecting the bite, it arrives in a shock. The only warning they get is the brief touch of cold lips before Scott's fangs are sliding in, breaking their skin cleanly and sinking deep.
Involuntarily, they shudder. One of Scott's hands comes up to their shoulder to hold them firmly in place, but they are too focused on the feeling of his teeth over his touch. The bite stings, but the feeling ebbs as Scott begins to feed, and they are surprised to find that the pain they expect is absent. Only the rasp of Scott's tongue around the initial incision, teasing against their skin ever so slightly to encourage bleeding.
The pull from Pyro's neck drags his stagnant circulation into motion again, sluggish at first. It sends a bone-deep shiver down to his very core, and he gasps. Without meaning to, his hand has found its way to the front of Scott's blouse, fisting into the fine silk, pulling him closer. His heart may lay lifeless in the cavity between his ribs but here is Scott, his lips buried in the crook of his neck, bidding his blood flow again, his veins flutter.
Abruptly, the teeth are gone. A hand closes around his wrist.
Pyro almost whines. Whines.
"Ah-ah," Scott's voice drifts from below his ear, chastising. "No touching."
Pyro lets go like they'd been burnt. Their skin buzzes, blood welling up around the bite. They expect Scott to resume but instead their sire takes their offending hand, laces their fingers together, and pins it down beside their head.
"Silk wrinkles easily, you know," Scott says. "And this shirt is one-of-a-kind, so I can't really get a new one"
"I'm sorry," Pyro manages. They can practically feel Scott's lips move as he speaks, so close to where they want him to be.
"You still have much to learn, Pyro." Scott hums, ever languid. "Now, do you need me to hold your other hand as well, or can you behave?"
"I-" Pyro squeezes his eyes closed in an attempt not to react - he would like Scott to pin his other hand down, his traitorous mind whispers. But that's not what Scott wants from him. "I can behave." The tightly wound spool in his chest is unravelling much too quickly for his liking. The last bit of control snaps; his mouth moves without him, words coming out strained. "I'll be good."
"See to it that you are." Without further warning, Scott's fangs sink in once more.
A force of nature: that is what Scott is. The want simmering low in Pyro's chest roars, incinerating the weak net of his will keeping it down in its blaze.
Pyro wonders if he could become something like Scott. A wild creature of the night whose gaze strikes the sense of inferiority into anyone who dares meet it. Something unapologetic, successful, free. Maybe one day he'd be in this same situation but as Scott, with a discarded version of himself beneath him. He'd kill that sorry man. If he were Scott, he'd kill Pyro.
Could he ever be? Could something as furious and messy as himself ever become anything remotely close to his bewitching sire? If Scott were to kill him now, he'd do it with grace. It would be monstrous but it would be artful, with deliberate intention like everything in his inconceivably long unlife.
Pyro imagines it.
In this dream, Scott straddles him with undisguised hunger in his eyes. Oh, how intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of that heavy-lidded look. Isn't that what Pyro's always wanted? To be looked at, to be desired, to be held at the center of attention until it consumes him bit by bit? He is seen, and is it really that bad if it is his demise gazing at him?
His skin would open so easily. It would welcome his sire's touch, peeling back like a pale flower in bloom to reveal the truth that this body is nothing but a slaughterhouse, cuts of rotting meat strung up on rusted hooks.
They imagine Scott breaking the seal that is their ribcage and carefully examining the boons underneath, mapping out his path of approach through what is offered. They imagine Scott's deft fingers tracing the paths of their arteries, slipping between the folds of their muscle. Those same fingers would find the ends of bones to undo every ligament connection, unhooking the moorings of their physical form into distended, bloody petals. Perhaps he would muse on the construction of their body, noting down all their failings and imperfections with the scrutiny of a butcher deciding which cuts of meat are good enough to keep, which are mere scraps to throw away.
Naturally, their throat would be the first thing to go. It ends in shreds. Each and every torn cell departs the structure of their body with intimate knowledge of the shape of Scott's fangs. The same fangs stained red with their blood, the same blood surging out of their veins that will go on to streak along the valleys and crevasses of their body until it pools into reservoirs in the dips of their bones, the folds of their organs. Ready for the taking.
Their heart would fragment in Scott's hold with the slightest squeeze. It was always a brittle thing; their parents would say as much after they dared ask them for a shred more attention than they deserved, after they dared speak up about their mistreatment at the hands of their peers. Too sensitive, their parents would sneer, too weak for the reality of the world. In life and in death their heart remained this way, never having learnt better, but now it finds purpose sliding down Scott's throat in grisly pieces to settle among all the things Scott holds close to his chest. Scott would see it - see their value, savour the taste of them lingering on his tongue.
Scott picks at the remains of their ribs. A pale arc breaks off in a loud crack with barely any effort; Scott holds it up to his mouth with hands so bloodied the gore forms a second skin - a glove - down to his slender wrists. He darts his tongue out, licking a slow, long line along the rib, revealing the ivory beneath the film of pink.
Pyro forgets how to breathe.
The bone fractures. Fissures race down the centreline until it breaks into two long pieces, revealing the glistening dark marrow nestled within. Pyro is met with the full display of Scott's mouth working away at the exposed tissue, lips curling around the hollows as he delicately sucks the fluid within the sponge past his fangs onto his tongue. What would be a messy process for anyone else manages to become performance on Scott, dizzyingly precise in motions that leave not a single smear marring his face.
Somehow, Pyro finds a stake in their hand. A rough, crude thing carved by hands that had never meaningfully held a weapon before. Not like this, not with this determination. They could- no. This is, of course, all part of the imagining - Pyro would never dare to bear a stake before their sire, and if they must, then they would do so as their sire's weapon. But their raw hand closes around the stake beside them nonetheless and when they look up again, Scott is watching them. He sits over them, the bone previously occupying him nowhere to be seen.
Evidently, he has noticed the weapon in their hand. Panic rises in what remains of their chest like a frenzied bird trying to break from its cage. They have no throat to vocalise with, no quick means to plead their innocence-
The intensity behind Scott's gaze silences their thoughts. The bird meets its demise with a sickening crunch. Whatever burning pain caused by splinters pushing into the exposed nerves of their hand dulls in comparison to the darkening of Scott's eyes.
Scott doesn't say anything as he leans close, exposing his back; he doesn't need to. Pyro understands the provocation. The permission given. He observes his own body as an audience watches a puppet show when his arm lifts. The muscles extend, contract, slide past each other in folds of desiccating tissue until they bring his hand into position around Scott's back like the beginning of a deathly embrace. The stake hovers mid-air, a sharp promise.
He ignores his trembling grip.
As Scott commands, Pyro must. If he must be treacherous, then let his treachery belong to his sire too.
It falls.
Pyro drives in the stake with all the strength they can muster in their torn body as though in this act of blasphemy they aim to stake themself too - one arrow, two hearts. Scott remains unmoving as the stake pierces his back and erupts though the front of his chest, thudding to a harsh stop between his ribs. A stain spreads, then a hole, marring his perfect shirt, opening the barest glance into this impenetrable visage. Pyro had imagined this before in their fits of fear… have they? Surely not. Revulsion shudders through each tug of a tendon. No, they would never think of raising a hand against their sire. Desperate, they look to Scott for approval only to flinch at the sight of furrowed brows. They have done the wrong thing, misinterpreted his command-
The brows smooth, and Scott exhales through a growing smirk. His expression takes on a sharp edge of pride and surprise like he hadn't believed that Pyro would truly execute what he allowed them to do - but they had. The acknowledgement scorches through Pyro, its own flavour of relief. They want to laugh, to sob, to scream, but all that comes out is a gurgle of air passing through the flaps of shredded vocal flaps stuck to the sides of their pharynx.
Scott still doubts his devotion. Pyro will prove himself. It's his choice, his want, his lot that he'd thrown in.
In this dream, Scott bleeds, a veritable deluge of blood streaming from the wound through his chest. The hue is indistinguishable - red, black, silver, or nothing at all obscuring the yawning cavern behind the bleached arcs of his ribs - as if the vision itself is so sacrilegious in its imagining that to see clearly is to sin. No, their sire can be nothing but flawless, perfect, untouchable. So Pyro does away with sight and revels in the sensations instead: the stench of iron choking the air, the cold, viscous liquid sloughing into their waiting chest cavity, enveloping their organs and filling them to the brim like a vessel made for the sole purpose of holding Scott. Until they can't tell where Scott ends and they begin, until the stake in Scott's back is a stake in their own, until every part of them sings I am his, I am his, I am his.
When Scott takes their eyes, he leaves his fingerprints on the inside of their eyelids. They feel the tug of their optic nerves sliding from their sockets, the subsequent distension as they pull taut. And finally, with bated breath, the elastic snap of them tearing free. It is not a sharp break, not a sudden force that leaves them reeling; it is more akin to a caress, gentle pressure over time until something gives way. What nerves still connected to the inside of their skull ooze down their cheeks like supple tears coming to brush against the corner of their mouth. If they so dared, they could poke their tongue out and sample the dregs of what rightfully belongs to Scott.
Pyro doesn't need to vision to know Scott's actions. There is enough of him in Scott that they are bound by primordial flesh: Scott partakes, and Pyro perceives. Pyro perceives the severed nerves between their sire's fingers, the eyeballs in the cup of his palms. His sire is inspecting them like a jeweler searches their stones for blemishes: onyx sclera, ruby iris, fibre thin capillaries like marble veins. And as he watches, Scott plucks one up between his fingers with a delicate touch and places it primly into his open mouth. His fangs flash as they close around the eyeball, but not before his tongue curls around its base.
Scott's teeth graze along the curve of membrane. Bites down just the slightest bit to test the bounciness, to find familiarity in the mouthfeel. Then he bites - truly bites, with the regal viciousness only he is capable of. The razor lines of his teeth saw into thick tissue. There is resistance for barely a second before it breaks, flooding his mouth with vitrious fluid. The eyeball doesn't pop; it deflates under the push of his tongue, its remaining insides squeezing through its puncture wounds. What remains is a jumble of empty film.
Pyro expects Scott to spit it out, or otherwise dispose of it, as surely their sire would dispose of a thing after it had fulfilled its purpose. But Scott doesn't, and as if he knows that Pyro sees what is happening, he holds up one bloodied finger to his grinning lips in a shushing motion, then swallows everything whole. His head tips back to allow Pyro the sight of his long, flawless throat, the bob of his Adam's apple as the eye goes down. It is a vision Pyro feels they shouldn't be seeing. But they can't look away, don't have the means to do so, and so they have no choice but to watch on, mesmerised, as the process repeats with their other eye.
Scott empties them out so thoroughly that by the time he finishes with his disassembly, his claws are scraping against the inner face of their spine, pruning the last shreds of gristle from between their joints.
Their skin lays in tatters beneath them like macabre tablecloth for the feast taking place above. Their organs have been consumed, their muscles undone, their arteries emptied. Yet Scott is still looking at them like they have more to offer, and beneath the thin film of trepidation they revel in the attention. Their sire has always seen more in them than they could themself; yes, if he can see it, then it shall be his. His blood-slick hands slide up from their torso - fingers drumming along each remaining rib, leaving smears of red in their wake - to cradle their ruined, eyeless face.
They ache from the closeness, from the anticipation. Even without a working body, they tremble, reaching. What else is there? What is there left? Show me-
"Pyro. Py-ro?" There's a hypnotic voice calling for him, lengthening the first vowel of his name like a song. Nobody's called him that nicely before, as if his name were something to be savoured rather than spat. He blinks blearily as his sight comes back into focus, catching on a smear of ivory that sharpens into the elegantly coiffed hair of one Scott Goldsmith, then his face, then the bow of his ashen lips, now stained cherry red with blood.
I hope I tasted good, is the only thing that passes through Pyro's mind. The scent of iron lingers between them.
"You there?" Scott is close enough that their noses are almost brushing, and if Pyro were so bold, he could close the gap and taste himself on Scott's lips- but no, no, he couldn't possibly.
It is agony to want so badly.
"I-" He stumbles as reality sinks its violent grip into him. His eyes are back in their sockets. The haze of the dream recedes into the shadows between the stone bricks in the walls. How long has it been since Scott started drinking? Surely not too long. His hunger feels sharper, more pronounced, but not so much that would indicate a significant loss of blood.
His body is still his as it was before he lay down, unbroken save for the faint sting pulsing at the base of his neck; it'll go away soon with his accelerated healing. He is all too aware of his blood slowing in his veins without an external mover. It diminishes into a drag, then stumbles to a stop, laying still and silent once more. He can't help but feel bereft of something he can't name.
"I didn't take that much," Scott is saying, and his presence draws away, the curtain of his cape receding from around Pyro. He sounds… not disappointed, but certainly not approving either.
"Wait- wait, I-" Pyro's words come out breathless. His legs feel like jelly dangling over the edge of the bed, and he reaches a hand out toward Scott until he realises what he's doing and drops it to his side, pretending it was a lead up motion to him pushing himself up.
Bad choice. As soon as he sits upright, the room spins. He almost pitches over onto the floor if not for the hand catching him by the chin.
"Back in the waking world now, my dear fledgling?" Scott guides Pyro back on to the bed. His grip is firm. Gentle, even, if Pyro allows themself to believe.
"Yes, I'm back." It takes significant effort to keep the whirlwind of emotions from seeping into their voice. That same hand had, just moments ago, been taking them apart. The same claws whose pointed ends now feather at the edges of their vision. If they think hard enough, they can remember the lines of Scott's palms leaving imprints in their skin. "I'm awake."
"Hm. If you're lucid, let's find you some food." Scott gives them a once-over from where he stands above them, tilting their head up to meet his eyes. No doubt he knows of their hunger, manageable as it is. The bond between them simmers lowly. "Don't hurt yourself before we get to that."
Pyro nods and steadies himself with both hands beside him; Scott doesn't bother to return the nod, instead tracing the curve of his jaw with a faint scrape of claw before letting him go. Pyro almost chases it, balance be damned, as if some invisible string stronger than their vampiric bond had bound him to that fleeting touch. He needs more of it, needs it forever as long as this body still moves.
The dream is fading, his flesh in Scott's mouth and his viscera under Scott's nails. He pushes it away in the hopes that it would fade faster, a wave of hot shame returning with his bearings. How unbecoming of him. What his sire needs is a useful fledgeling, not a needy one. Scott is already out of the room, the hem of his cape curling around the door frame; he is not one to wait if waiting is not part of his plans.
As soon as they feel well enough to balance, Pyro staggers to their feet to catch up.
They are in such a rush that they almost run into someone standing outside - Scott standing outside. An apology bubbles up to the tip of their tongue but the fact that he is there at all renders them speechless. At least they have the sense not to gape; they would no doubt be chastised for impropriety.
Their sire tucks what seems to be a white handkerchief back into his vest pocket and they notice with a twist in their stomach that their blood no longer stains his lips. That shouldn't matter. That doesn't matter. None of this matters.
Scott slants a look at them when the door shuts behind them, and is off without a word. The sharp click of his heels echoes in the crypt halls with each measured stride. Bold enough to flaunt his presence, enough to fill the silence of Pyro's steps close behind.
Eventually Scott says, "it's been quite a while since I've had someone zone out on me while I fed."
His tone is as unreadable as always. Something clenches in Pyro's chest. "I didn't mean-"
"It's inconsequential." Scott dismisses his attempted apologies with the careless flutter of a hand. "Goes to show that you trust me. Isn't that right?"
"Of course, sire"
"Of course. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here."
Unsure of the insinuation, if there even is one, Pyro elects to say nothing over risking the wrong response. The interaction doesn't seem explicitly negative, at the very least. He finds solace in that. He can always impress Scott later in hunting, fighting, continuing work on the castle-
"Had a nice dream?" Scott, evidently, is not done with him yet. They've made it to the exit of the crypt and begin their ascension up the stairs. The light of dusk streams down, catching on the sharp edges of spiraling steps.
With the reminder comes a flurry of images, sensations. The details may be gone, but Pyro still catches brief flashes of what he had felt in that imagined scene.
"You must be teasing me, sire." If he were still alive, his cheeks would be burning up. Either way, he is glad he follows behind Scott in case his face is making some discernable expression that would give him away.
"Hah." Here, now, is the audibly amused lilt to Scott's voice. "Maybe I am."