Chapter Text
The irony of two men – villains, murderers, well and true bloodthirsty monsters, them both – standing somberly before a small, freshly turned grave containing the cremated remains of an old, fat, onetime-stray, and dearly beloved housecat, is not lost on Jonathan.
But he hasn't the will to care. After all, he's quite familiar with life's unpleasant contradictions—
By his offhand suggestion which Vlad agreed to with marvelous enthusiasm, they're in Transylvania. Set like a couple of spectres amid the ruins of Castle Dracula, where both he and Vlad had, centuries apart, met demise as well as rebirth. And they haven't been here for decades, not since they visited some years after the second World War only to find the place demolished by Allied bombs, all stone and ash, the smoldering long since gone out.
"She always liked you best, the treacherous beast," Vlad rumbles good-naturedly, after a while.
Jonathan hesitates. Then, "Only because I'm the one who remembered to feed her. And scratch behind her ears just the way she liked. I—I'll miss her—" He swallows wetly, trying to continue, but finding himself quite unable to.
After a long moment, Vlad echoes, "We both shall," before turning to Jonathan, taking him in his arms and kissing him soundly. In the bone-bright darkness of the waxing moon, his expression is sharpened, though so too, Jonathan can make out the humor there; the curiosity which rests just above the deep well of intelligence; the animalistic intensity. He says, "Run with me, Johnny."
And Jonathan can't deny him this even if he wants to: such is Vlad's power of persuasion.
Such is his own grief. And oh, but he does want to run, to all but fly through this air, so cold and clean in his preternatural lungs. Again, he catches Vlad's eye, nodding in luminous moonglow, almost full, streaking the snow-draped forest in silver and blue.
So he runs. Simply runs, sure-footed in unshod feet, before Vlad and beside him. The two of them wild as a couple of dogs in the yet primordial woods of Vlad's ancestral estate, as virile as the wolves they might easily enough become this eve, but don't, for nothing else but their own true selves seems fitting.
Later, Vlad pulls Jonathan into their surprisingly luxe Bucharest hotel suite, and for all their familiarity, the century-long closeness of their bodies and minds, Jonathan still senses a certain awe in Vlad, a wonder that Jonathan is actually here, ever with him, a creature of his own dearly longed-for making.
Jonathan leans in to kiss him, just for that.
Is it good, Johnny?
Yes, Vlad. Yes.
Vlad presses closer, his tongue working against Jonathan's. Jonathan feels more than he sees his belt loosening, then Vlad raises his hand to Jonathan' trousers, palming him through the wool before he undoes his button and zip. He works his fingers into Jonathan's boxers and smoothly takes hold of his cock.
"God," Jonathan hisses.
"Flatter." Vlad drops to his knees, taking Jonathan's trousers and briefs with him. They pool at Jonathan's feet, and Vlad's breath puffs coolly along his length, his tongue flicking at the tip, and then Jonathan's capacity for higher thought goes out, right out as Vlad takes his cock down in one slow swallow.
With a gasp, Jonathan wrenches his eyes shut. Vlad is too good at this.
It's all Jonathan can do to keep his hands off of Vlad's head, forcing him to move, but then – quite possibly gleaning the thought – Vlad does just that, finally, agonizing and slow, his palms and fingers pressed tight enough to Jonathan's thighs that Jonathan feels welts begin to form beneath them.
He can't keep on like this. Not by a long shot.
Vlad, please.
Vlad pulls off, a flushed, heady smile stretched across his mouth. "Tell me what you want, Johnny."
It's still a struggle for Jonathan to speak, so he sends the image of it instead: Vlad pressed against him, buried to the root, and Jonathan's legs slung round Vlad's hips as he coaxes Vlad deeper still.
Jonathan is a dab hand at logistics. And Vlad always comes prepared.
"Oh, my very dearest," Vlad laughs, his mind shaking with lust, and beneath that, affection. He rises up, undoes his own belt and trousers, and pulls a packet of lube from the pocket of his black leather moto jacket. He coats two fingers and reaches round Jonathan's body to prepare him. In another moment, a third finger has joined in, and Jonathan lets out a low, guttering moan as Vlad pushes farther, brushing his prostate.
When Vlad pins Jonathan fully against the wall and hoists his legs up, the strain is at first unbearable—there's just too much gravity at work, the weight of his whole body threatening to rend his shoulders out of alignment. But in moments, Vlad's hands are braced on Jonathan's thighs, trapping him against the wall as he nudges his cock against Jonathan's hole.
Vlad is so very strong, but it's still a bit awkward. And yet Jonathan is filled with a lightheaded honey-sweetness, a slow burn, and Vlad's cock is pushing in as Jonathan's thighs tighten around him, his legs crossed at the ankle by the small of Vlad's back.
Vlad's chest is pressed to Jonathan's as he begins to piston with his hips, and it's almost too much—
And then it is. After just a few minutes, Jonathan comes, his cock pulsing between them, his frame shaking with it, and before long, Vlad's coming too, rocking his hips through his orgasm, burying his face in Jonathan's throat and pressing Jonathan against the wall.
A second passes before Vlad releases his hold on Jonathan's hips and Jonathan sags into him, his body shaking in something – but not quite – like a sob. They settle to the floor together.
"All right, Johnny?"
Jonathan nods, grateful as Vlad begins to quickly and efficiently divest him of his well-mussed clothing. He can sense the dawn coming on, less than an hour away now, and feels sluggish for it. Sated. Even the urge to feed has dimmed to a dull throb at the base of his skull.
He thinks, not without reason, that this is perhaps Vlad's doing as well.
When they're tucked side by side in the huge hotel bed, his face pressed into Vlad's chest, he says softly, "I don't really remember what it was like to be human." Then, after a pause, "I don't even recall how I took my tea."
"Milk and two sugars," Vlad says automatically. And, catching Jonathan's surprise, "Come, Johnny. Leave it go at a raised eyebrow, won't you? You know I prepared all your meals when you were a guest at my castle. I still remember you remarking most enthusiastically on my chicken paprikash. Why, you even asked for the recipe—"
"I thought Mina might enjoy learning how to make it." The sudden reformation of this memory makes Jonathan flinch. And why? He knows that Vlad is nothing if not the keeper of his lost mortality. "What else?"
Vlad's eyes are wide. Beguiling. "You brought in your satchel a diary, a polyglot dictionary, and a well-worn copy of The Time Machine."
"It was my favorite novel. I'd never read anything like it," Jonathan says, smiling softly.
"You were kind, Johnny. Good in a way that I could hardly comprehend. But I knew I had to have you for my own."
"And my cloak, apparently."
"Mm. That lovely brocade lining. I couldn't resist."
"More. Please."
So Vlad talks until Jonathan is at last dragged, willingly, into his death-like slumber—
And in his dream, he and Vlad grow old together. Their steps never falter; their faces remain smooth—but they are old, both of them.
And of course this is not a dream, or not only.