Chapter Text
Somewhere in between life and death – and life again, if the state Jonathan presently finds himself in can rightly be described as such—this consciousness and strength and hunger like he's never known before, nor thought possible – he inadvertently sheds the notion that Dracula is solely a creature to be reviled; someone he's, above all else, vowed to destroy.
And yes, Jonathan is a prize fool for granting himself this liberty. He should rightly well and fully mire in his own firsthand experience of Dracula's cruelty rather than, like a puff of smoke which molds itself about and beyond some immovable object, come instead to admire Dracula's curiosity, tenacity, and intelligence.
He ought to balk at Dracula's presumptuous familiarity and the strange tenderness he fixes on him now, eyes wide and beseeching: "Tell me, my dear, what you know of astronomy."
Jonathan hesitates. It's difficult to focus on anything but the weight of Dracula's hand at the small of his back. Then: "Er, next to nothing, I'm afraid, my lord."
"Johnny, Johnny. I've told you," Dracula chides fondly. "You must call me Vlad."
"Vlad," Jonathan turns the name on his tongue, finding it sweeter than he supposed it would be. More welcome than he hoped.
Then Dracula's – Vlad's – mouth curves into a grin, knife-sharp and quite as deadly. They're stood side by side on the castle battlement, the very spot where—where Jonathan was—
Where he found himself—
Reborn. Jonathan shivers as Vlad's hand skirts up the knobs of his spine to settle between his shoulder blades. "Yes, Johnny," he purrs, "just like that." Then, consideringly: "D'you know, I once drained a man who speculated that the night sky is far more ancient than we realize? Ever since, I've never quite got the idea out of my head that the very light of the stars themselves might be thousands, perhaps even millions of years old. Can you imagine, Johnny? Every celestial body we see before us now could be long since extinguished, given up eons ago to the obdurate march of time. Why, we might be the last ones left in all of creation."
Jonathan stares at him. And then he feels something shift within himself. For the first time, he senses in Vlad an immeasurable loneliness; a well of yearning so deep and wide as to swallow entire all that might break its surface.
"Human life is so fleeting. But we can capture it. Harness it. Refine it to our own purpose," says Vlad. "We can choose to be more, Johnny. 'Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es.'"
The words translate effortlessly within Jonathan's brain, and he thinks, not for the first time, that yes, the Count has indeed made him his friend.
After a long moment, Jonathan huffs out a breath, only for Vlad to catch it, swallow it down like wine. Like blood. Then Vlad surges forward, his tongue setting against Jonathan's lips, and Jonathan opens to him—opens, opens, at last.