Actions

Work Header

noctuaries

Summary:

Much like the mild afternoon on which Pelle tumbled from the carriage, weakening in the sun as if beaten by its cruel rays, when Øystein took him into his home and permissed his stay—

There is no revoking of this gift.

Notes:

the rest of the Carmilla thing, which is more notably set in a society akin to 1870s England and nabs some plot from it as well. a lot of the first chapter is drawn from Her Habits — A Saunter specifically.

also featuring direct quotes because my god, those bitches gay, and who am I to think I can outdo them?

Chapter 1: gift

Chapter Text

Pelle is an oddity.

Beyond his staggering gait, made more jarring by his lithe and seemingly graceful figure, the man's skin is ice cold and his eyes are a lifeless cornflower blue. The only rosiness to his face comes like the flush of chill, a rouge painted hastily on his cheeks to counteract the bruised color of his undereyes.

He is an amalgamation of characteristics, just out of order enough to capture one's attention and force him into a state of awe; how can such a broken thing work? How can such a broken thing take the breath from your lungs and the strength from your knees, yet never use either to fix itself?

Øystein wishes that he knew, for maybe it would take the enthralling quality away from the man. Perhaps, if he knew just how Pelle worked, the charm he has would vanish. It was a curious fascination at first, a genuine interest in the ill man he had agreed to house for the coming months; however, it grew morbid as Pelle did likewise. His guest only become paler, thinner, and more gaunt — and Øystein often finds himself as enchanted as he is concerned.

Amongst his odd habits, from denying food to requesting thicker curtains be placed in his quarters, Pelle is a man of few words yet captures Øystein when he does speak. Øystein could listen to him for hours, and has. He recalls often the nights where the young and rough tone of Pelle's voice gradually grew raspy as the hours became late and he left to sleep without such menial pleasantries as goodnight.

Such as tonight, when Pelle has guided their small conversation — the silences are so comfortable that neither cares to break them — onto a morbid path and abruptly stands up, beginning to lurch into the hallway. The longer the nights grow, it seems, the more smoothly he walks.

He stops mid stride, though, and turns his glassy gaze onto Øystein.

The blue of his eyes is pure and stark, uncanny as if such a color has never existed elsewhere in the world. Øystein supposes that's possible, for he has never felt so frozen in place. He is dumbstruck by Pelle's stare and hates his sudden uselessness. Something has come over him, something oppressive and charmed and when Pelle speaks in his rasping voice, Øystein has no choice but to listen with intent.

"I must ask you something," he says simply. So simple, are Pelle's words, but their meanings remain murky and unclear all the same.

"Yes?" Øystein prompts.

Pelle changes direction to lean over where Øystein sits, an action as clumsy as a toy soldier and yet as alluring as a saunter. Øystein's heart stops underneath of Pelle's hand, his chilled fingers splaying over his chest. Or, at least, he believes that's what's happened — he cannot look away from the man's face, so carved and brash and suddenly so close to his own.

"I'd like you to stay with me," Pelle says, voice somehow more forceful without changing pitch or volume; grave. "Forever."

"Pelle?" Øystein asks. Pelle is almost too difficult to speak, with how the hand on his chest and the sight of Pelle's inverted cross pendant dangling from his neck choke Øystein.

A sign of the devil, Øystein had thought when he first noticed his necklace, and he had been invigorated by the concept of housing such darkness in his home. Many of the men he knew fancied themselves "evil," but they still married; still prayed to our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name; still submitted to the suffocation of society's demands, and Øystein knew of nothing more weak minded and good than submission.

"You must come with me and love me forever," Pelle reiterates, flat voice betraying the passion in his eyes, "Or come with me and hate me forever."

The only words Øystein can find are: "I could never hate you, little goat."

It is genuine and gentle, and alarmingly unlike Øystein to say such a thing. But Pelle's eyes pull him in with their pallid stare, and he cannot find himself angry at his slip-up, a strange mesmerization falling upon his mind.

"Why do you call me like that?" Pelle asks.

"Goats are evil, and so are you," he replies, with a confidence and simplicity that feels more like himself.

Pelle's smile is reflexive, and it crinkles his eyes in a way that polite smiles never have — this one is genuine. His laughter is airy, and the lightest sound that Øystein has ever heard leave the man's mouth.

He is still in awe when he can feel that laugh against his lips, Pelle's chilled hands on the sides of his throat. Much like his general disposition, the kiss is raw and clattering, as if recognizing the depth of Pelle's evil had unfathomably deepened the uncertain bond between Øystein and his mysterious guest. The pad of Pelle's thumb presses near his Adam's apple, producing a strange and uncomfortable feeling of pseudo-suffocation. He tilts his head back to escape it, and the pressure goes away. Pelle kneels over his lap and presses against his chest with his own and kisses him from above, his long hair shrouding their faces from the dark corners of the room.

It is only them that exists here, and Øystein returns Pelle's sudden enthusiasm more easily as this sudden sense of safety comes over him. It is only them, and no one else; no other thoughts. As Pelle's lips brush the corner of his mouth and Øystein finds his hands unable to leave Pelle's arms, he realizes he has never felt quite as understood and alone as he does with this man.

And to be alone is such a wonderful thing when it's done with another.

Øystein has never met someone quite as Pelle is, from his scattered thoughts and nihilism to his strange sense of humor and odd interests. Øystein has never seen someone so lively and vivid as Pelle when he described, with tasteful words, the distasteful stench of decay. Or even his simple, single sentence adorations of the forests that cluster around the countryside, and his woes about not being well enough to live in them for any amount of time.

All of these things and quirks and obsessions are like a second home to Øystein, who never thought he'd meet someone who shared his mind's persuasions. The shadows they share are a strange form of kinship. Pelle often takes five steps further than he ever might, and openly admits many of the things that Øystein would never speak, but he can only admire him more for it. And, shrouded in his soft hair and cradled between his hands, Øystein feels he has never known of someone he can truly, wholly like as much as this curious devil.

Such profound thoughts embarrass him, though, and he pushes them down rather quickly before he can speak them. Pelle has murmured something to him, but his eyes meet Pelle's once again and he is blinded with a consuming urge to devour the man, or to let the man devour him, or something like that which he cannot comprehend and doesn't care to consider. Fervent is not a strong enough word to describe their force, and it is not difficult to imagine that Øystein has taken his poetic thoughts and put them into this mess of kisses and touches, this mess that exhausts them both with the emotions it has pulled from their hearts.

Pelle murmurs once again, and this time Øystein hears him.

"I hope we die holding hands. You'll love me eternally, won't you?"

It is short, to the point. Øystein feels a smile tug at his lips, but doesn't let it win out.

"I will," he replies, and he has never seen his guest look so alive.

If only he knew Pelle's joy was for quite the ironic reason; Øystein has promised his unlife to Pelle, has spoken the words that will bind them for centuries to come in their shared death. And much like the mild afternoon on which Pelle tumbled from the carriage, weakening in the sun as if beaten by its cruel rays, when Øystein took him into his home and permissed his stay—

There is no revoking of this gift.

Chapter 2: lunar

Notes:

I don't know how many of these I'll post, but most of them definitely won't be in chronological order.

Chapter Text

Øystein had being tossing and turning in his bed, and finally awoke to see Pelle standing at the foot of it. He choked out a pathetic noise, Øystein did, before clearing his throat and questioning him.

"Pelle?" He asks, chest heaving with the exertion of sleeplessness and panic of seeing a ghostly figure by his bedside. His heart did calm, if only a little, at the realization that it was Pelle — abnormal behaviors are no surprise with him; he either hides amongst the shadows or frightfully stays within the light's grasp, and there is little room between these extremes.

The moonlight and its own shadows now cast a deceivingly angelic glow on him. "I knew you couldn't sleep," he says simply, as if this is something one can just sense.

Øystein feels the phantom touch of his lips on his again, and supposes that maybe these things come when you connect with someone.

He wouldn't know.

Such phenomenon is quite new to him.

Lost between polite host and shaken friend — what are they and why does he care for respecting it? — he mutters, "Yeah."

"Would you like to go on a walk?" Pelle asks, unaffected by his apparent surprise, as if he's incapable of even recognizing it.

Øystein's answer comes in the silence as he forces himself from his warm covers, slipping into his boots.

Pelle asked, yet follows him rather than leads, stalking behind in the shadows of the empty house. The building is rather rickety, and thick layers of dust hang in the rooms that Øystein hasn't had reasons to open. He does not put up guests often and has no intentions of taking wife, rendering a good half of the house utterly useless.

The wind bites his cheeks when he steps onto the porch, and he turns back to put on his coat. He smacks into Pelle, who smacks into the wall, and both men utter foul swears.

Once they manage to get out of the door, somewhat unscathed, Pelle takes the lead. Or more accurately, he walks without concern for whether Øystein is behind him, a subtle but noticable grace becoming him as he ventures closer to the clump of trees behind Øystein's property.

An irritably anxious part of him forces him to warn: "It'll be dark in there, this time of night."

Pelle glances to him. "You're in good hands," he promises.

The uncharacteristic confidence — and, God almighty, sparkle of mirth in his eyes — spurs Øystein to follow. It's as if a trance comes over him, his arms holding his coat around his middle as he marches onwards with his companion. His legs are a few inches too short to match Pelle's pace, his wonder for the woods a few drops too little to match the spring in Pelle's lurching steps.

As predicted, it is dark and dreary beneath the canopy of the trees, light falling in dots and rays on the grass under their feet. Øystein has been here a few times, but is not familiar with it; Pelle looks like a fish returned to water, the anxiously stiff and solemn air he carries throughout the house appearing to lift, if only a little.

He has never looked happy, per se. Merely unhaunted.

Whatever lurks inside him subsides as he wanders through the trees with Øystein on his tail. His face is blank and beautiful in its strange way, the ghoulishly sharp features sharpened yet by the long shadows of night. When he stops, looking up through a gap in the trees at the moon, and stares above, Øystein finds himself in that ridiculous trance once again — he finds himself with but one thought, to run his fingers over Pelle's beauty and feel it for himself. He has always been a hands-on man, and can think of nothing more satisfying than finally gaining some semblance of true understanding about the man.

Pelle's eyes slide from the sky to Øystein, curiously tilting his head.

"The moon is pretty, isn't it?" He asks, unperturbed by the man's stare. Øystein has learned by now that he lives in his own world.

"Yeah," he agrees. Pelle seems to find the beauty in such simple things far easier than Øystein; his eye is drawn to aesthetics, while it is Øystein's ears that suffer this artistic persuasion.

"You aren't looking," Pelle says, almost chiding. He reaches over and tilts Øystein's head up with his pointer finger. It's cold and gives him a shiver to have the chill under his chin.

The moon is far less attractive than Pelle is, but there is a certain allure in the way the clouds stretch thin and gather around the bright circle in the sky. Few stars twinkle in and out of the clouds, making the sky look black and daunting. Øystein feels as if he is looking towards the very end of the universe, and then feels embarrassed at such a silly thought. Pelle's ways are rubbing off on him.

"It's pretty," he repeats, to satiate Pelle.

"I feel like I'm seeing another world, when I look at the moon," he says, voice soft; it is tinged with longing and unfocused, as if Øystein isn't really meant to hear these thoughts. It makes him feel something — unidentifiable — to think that perhaps he is getting a look into the corners of Pelle's mind. The man continues, "I belong underneath of it."

Øystein, oddly, agrees. There is little more fitting of a phrase for his guest than creature of the night, and little more as evil as being such a wicked thing.

But, when he thinks this, he immediately recalls the terror and sorrow with which Pelle sometimes regards the shadows; as if his home is rejecting him, belittling him, calling him names. He looks for Øystein in these instances. It has been the only time that Pelle has ever sought out his prolonged company, simply for silent solace.

He realizes that this is the perfect place for Pelle. Light spots the ground under the trees and bathes the clearings, but it is consumed by darkness in most places. Even for being an open place, free of walls and doors and ceilings, there are hiding spots within the trees and bushes — it is both of the things that Pelle always seems to want.

And, undeniably, Øystein has been sensing something like wonder and comfort in Pelle's eyes since they passed the treeline.

As if knowing Øystein has made this realization, Pelle turns his head towards him once again. Øystein remains looking up, a reflexive smile crossing his face when his eyes land on Pelle — in truth, it's partially the new feeling of being in someone else's domain, which makes him feel vulnerable and makes his smile nervous.

"I've never shared this before," Pelle says, flat. "Only you."

The special feeling comes over him again, and he is rendered speechless. Everything he could say is too cheesy and frivolous and frankly romantic, and none of it seems to equal the weight of Pelle's words. Instead, Øystein takes Pelle's hand in his own. He isn't sure about his actions, but knows that they feel correct.

Pelle smiles, small but genuine, and turns to the moon again.

Chapter 3: salem

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Pelle shares Øystein's infatuation. The reason for it is beyond him, and despite the kisses and touches and gradually closing space betwixt them, he can never seem to comprehend that someone so capturing has settled for himself.

He is a starved artist, a musician by trade; his second home is the street; he barely scarcely manages to sustain himself, let alone a sickly guest; and while Øystein considers himself rather fine for a poor man, he is no noble visage. He can offer Pelle absolutely nothing but company and time — both of which he has plenty of, but neither of which he considers himself very useful at.

Yet Pelle sees something in him. Or perhaps, he's only the first schmuck to look in his eyes — awful, awfully beautiful eyes, which sunk their hooks into Øystein and to this night refuse to let go.

Such pretty eyes.

He thinks of them often; there is simply something about them which enthralls him and allows him to be as soft as he is now, nose to nose with the other. The day is bright outside, but the curtains are drawn at Pelle's request and so they sit by candlelight in the library. Øystein's desk chair is not as pleased at having the weight of two upon it as Øystein is to sit in Pelle's lap, an arm curled around his shoulders.

Library is, arguably, a stretch of a word; the room is occupied by Øystein's desk that groans whenever it is leaned on and two bookshelves whose wood complains just as much. Volumes are stacked, for the shelves ran out of empty space years before Øystein ran out of thief's luck. But Pelle likes it here, in this little space, and Øystein has come to like it wherever Pelle is.

Pelle's fingertips are cool where they grace his cheek, and Øystein is close enough to see the specks in his eyes. Blue as the sky, with specks of white clouds and dark trails of smoke, but flat and hollow like a painting that can never capture the soul of the image it portrays.

They are uncanny, yet Øystein almost hates when the moments he's spent staring into them come to an end with a kiss; he could look at them forever.

Yes, there's certainly something about them.

Notes:

the temptation to name this chapter "Jeepers Creepers" was a strong one.

Chapter 4: lethe

Notes:

almost forgot these. here we begin the part where I gave up entirely on chronological sequencing. you guys like this band, you ought to be good enough at detective work!

Chapter Text

Øystein suspected there was a darkness inside of Pelle, a black pit; but he never expected that he was truly a creature of the night. Sure, he is a little strange — still, those were myths. But when he says the words, so casual and simple, Øystein finds himself believing that knelt above him on his bed is a vampire.

It is what comes afterwards that he is truly uncertain of. Yet he puts his trust in Pelle, allowing his life to slip into the man's hands.

"You'll be mine," Pelle says, almost warning though not quite. He must realize, somewhere in his mind, that Øystein does not recognize the weight of his words and actions — even from their short time together, it is clearly his fatal flaw, and some part of his undead heart feels sympathetic enough to remind the man below him of what he is doing.

Pelle will take him regardless, but it is the thought that counts.

"I know," Øystein says. "For eternity."

He smiles, eerily beautiful. "For eternity."

He swallows as Pelle brushes his hair away from his neck, allowing him to slide his hand into the mop of black to hold his head in position. Pelle positions him like a doll, for Øystein is entirely unsure of what he's to do — it's not as if he gets drank from like a wine glass often, no matter how many people he's said bite me to.

Pelle's lips are soft against his neck, and then his ear, and then he whispers a command: "Relax."

Counterintuitively, it makes Øystein want to shiver. He suppresses the reaction by clenching his fists and leaning his head back against the pillow, presenting the muscle in his neck nicely. Pelle pulls back and stares, longing and intense and growing hungry, and then falls on Øystein.

The puncture of his fangs is like a thousand needles. It hurts, it sears, but Øystein's pride won't allow him to show it. His knuckles turn bone white as he digs his fingernails into his palms and curls his toes, trying desperately to waste the adrenaline the pain sparks. The distinct feeling of bloodletting accompanies it.

Within seconds, his pain is replaced by the venom. A lovely sensation unfurls itself inside of Øystein's bloodstream. He squeezes his eyes shut to avoid expressing this, too, body falling limp as it spreads throughout him — his arms, his core, his thighs and calves and feet all feel so heavy and warm. He sighs, ragged and not at all displeased with this. Pelle's lips curl against his skin.

Although he begins to feel faint from blood loss, it is over all too soon. Øystein's body feels aflame with every good thing he's ever felt, and he struggles to lift his heavy arms to hold Pelle close to him. He kisses Øystein's throat, and then his lips, the coppery taste of blood passing between them. The venom truly is a drug; Øystein feels an overwhelming need for closeness, a desire for Pelle's touch and attention and guidance that he finds almost repulsively strong. Submission is weak and he would never do such a thing as to submit to another man, and this loss of control over himself makes him vulnerable in a way that he despises.

But it's Pelle, and that means it can't be wrong, doesn't it?

And as Pelle falls on him again and again, until he feels more alive than he ever has before — he thinks that this simply must be right.

Chapter 5: diaphanous

Notes:

let's be honest, it's a collection, it has no plot. but this would be set before ch4 if we were still trying.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Before he opens his eyes, in his sleepy haze, Øystein is worried that the ceiling may be leaking. His dull senses can only tell something cool is upon his forehead — not if it pitter patters or stays put, not whether it drips or rubs.

Only the chill.

Perhaps it should've made him weary of the possibility it may be him. When he opens his eyes, he starts before he can make out the details of Pelle's figure, sitting on the side of his bed as he strokes his face.

Øystein grows aware that his hand is not the only coldness on his skin, but that the winter air seeping through the house's exterior has chilled his damp skin. He is aware, too, of Pelle's shirt's fabric against his bare arm; his sleeve against his neck and cheek; his hair tickling his face as he leans over him.

"You had a bad dream," Pelle says, soft in volume but bland in tone.

Øystein swallows, throat feeling dry. "And how would you know?"

Pelle smiles a little. He draws his hand down his face and to rest on his chest. "You've got the heartrate of a little rabbit."

He huffs at the comparison. "And how would you know that?"

"I couldn't sleep and so I heard you," Pelle says, leaning back. His hand stays, thumb stroking the fabric of Øystein's shirt as if to soothe him.

"Heard me?"

"I believe you were crying."

"I don't cry," Øystein replies, moving Pelle's hand by his wrist.

The man doesn't take offense; he simply watches Øystein sit up against his headboard with curiosity, hands in his lap. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

Øystein dries his forehead with his shirt, feeling less than clean in his sweaty clothes. Still he nods and accompanies Pelle out the door, the full force of the air helping to cool him off. He matches his stride well in recent days, in line with him throughout the hallways rather than stalking behind in his shadow.

Pelle is silent, not offering a suggestion of where they may go — of where he is taking them — and, for the most part, being a terrible host as he leads him out into the woods. The only indication he gives that he is aware of Øystein's presence is when he grabs his wrist and leads him by it, an awkward scenario in which Øystein cannot quite jog and Pelle cannot quite walk without the two stumbling into one another. The darkness does not help and he steps on Pelle's heels once or twice.

He notices that, oddly, Pelle has forgotten his shoes.

No time is offered for him to mention it, and it would do little good anyways. Pelle tugs him beyond the point he has ever wandered on slow days by his lonesome, towards a swimming hole that must come off the nearby river. Its edges are crowded with brush and cattails, its surface reflecting the full moon that hangs over the trees.

Pelle releases his arm to skid towards the bank, and to Øystein's chagrin, begins to strip.

"What are you doing?" He hisses, stepping closer with caution he isn't sure of the need for. "You'll freeze!"

"I won't," Pelle says calmly, glancing up at him as he wriggles from his pants. "A swim will tire you so much, you won't have any dreams."

"Pelle—"

He ignores him. Øystein stubbornly refuses to allow his eyes to wander, but Pelle's fair skin glows in his peripherals, white as bone. Should he have given in, he might've noticed the silvery scars dotting him.

He is gone before he has the chance, under the water, his pale hair clinging to him with wetness when his head breaks the surface again.

"Come on, you oaf!" He goads, reaching for a stone along the bank to pelt it at the ground beside him.

"Damn you," Øystein grumbles, shrugging off his coat and piling it atop Pelle's things. He struggles with his trousers, but Pelle's jeers overrule his timidness.

He mistakenly submerges himself quickly, the chill stealing his breath and leaving him gasping. Pelle comes to his side — his rescue, more questionably — just as fast, throwing his arms around his shoulders and pressing close to him, shushing his hefty breaths. Some attempt to warm him, although he isn't much warmer than the water himself. Øystein's chest does not slow its heaving any sooner, even with Pelle cradling his head to his chest, perhaps, Øystein fears, because he is holding him.

He finally frees himself and dunks his face in the freezing water, wiping it off with his hand. It helps to overcome the shock.

And then he is splashed and he curses Pelle, flicking a handful of water back at him.

"Damned fool."

Pelle laughs. Øystein smiles before he can process the sound, and then falters. Even as he is splashed again, it's all he can do to float.

"I've never heard you laugh before."

Pelle pauses, his face even paler as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been.

Afraid he's misstepped, Øystein adds: "I like it."

And he does; it is higher pitched and clearer than his voice, quiet, like an old tinkling bell. In fact, he thinks he loves it, a sound as pretty as the rest of him.

Pelle mutters something he cannot hear and then looks away, eyes turning up. The moonlight casts a familiar pattern of shadows on his face, save for the unfamiliar shine off of droplets dripping down his chin and cheeks and neck. His neck which, Øystein notices now that his hair is damp and clings to the back of it, is rather long before leading into his broad, bony shoulders.

He is splashed again, and shoves blindly at Pelle as he blinks it away.

"You stare so often," he says, mirth in his tone.

"You're so pretty," Øystein says, managing the fond words with some difficulty. It helps to not look at Pelle when he says these things, but he forces himself to, watching his thin lips tilt up.

He opens his mouth to speak, but then doesn't. Still, he is so much more graceful about his speechlessness then Øystein is, simply ignoring the man as if nothing had been said at all.

It encourages Øystein and he treads closer to him.

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen," he says. Pelle doesn't pay him any more mind, but his eyes slide to him as Øystein moves his hair from his face.

"Person?" He says, after a moment.

"Man or woman," Øystein says. "No one else..."

He does not finish his sentence, unsure of how to, instead breathing a small sigh. What is he to say? What does Pelle do to him? Saying he is the prettiest man he knows sounds too shallow; interesting, too backhanded; alluring, too romantic; charming, too untrue.

"Yes?" Pelle prompts, closing his fingers around Øystein's raised wrist and drawing the back of his hand to his cheek.

He can only watch helplessly, moving his jaw around as if he may find his words that way. He stutters some nonsense and when Pelle asks him to repeat it, he can't come up with a reasonable lie as to what the jumbled mess meant.

"No one else makes me feel the way you do," Øystein finally says.

It is stupid and naïve and yet Pelle kisses him anyways, holding the back of his head, fingers curling into his half wet half dry hair. He feels the water push around him before Pelle's other hand is on his back, splayed over the muscles of his trapezius, pressing into his skin. He is unsure what to do with his own hands, resting them hesitantly on his cheeks. He chose right; it is addictive to feel Pelle's jaw move beneath his palms.

He noses Øystein jaw when they part, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He backs away, then, looking once more like he's done something he shouldn't have.

"And you, I," is all Pelle says, drawing his hands to himself and retreating into his own corner of the world.

Øystein can only stare, mouth open.

When his muscles begin to grow tired, he complains. Pelle leaves first and he feels emboldened enough now to glance over him. He is alarmed to note his skin drawn so tightly over his ribs when he reaches his shirt over his head to put it on. Øystein feels bad, too, then, for he doesn't have the means to give him warm food to fill himself out with.

He follows and is stopped short of picking up his clothes by Pelle, who is relaxed, in his own far off way, about nudity. He pushes the damp ends of Øystein's hair over his shoulders and rests his palms against his neck. He tilts his chin up with a thumb for their eyes to meet, scraping the nail over his skin gently.

Air betrays him as if he has re-entered the water.

"You're handsome," Pelle says fondly. His hair has begun to dry, his floppy bangs growing frizzy where they hang in his face. Øystein is at another loss for words, swallowing and hoping he doesn't look too dumb as Pelle strokes his neck and draws his fingers along his jaw, down his throat. It makes him smile, or rather grin. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm cold," Øystein breathes. He must shove his clothes on in a hurry, for Pelle leaves him to dressing and begins to wander away into the trees.

Notes:

watching vampire movies. expect more blatant rewrites done for my personal gain.

Chapter 6: portent

Notes:

Remember this shit from nearly 2 years ago? I've had drafts hiding here since I first wrote it.

Chapter Text

"Damn," Øystein mutters.

He is hunched over his desk and Pelle cannot see what's making him fuss until he raises from his spot on the floor. He was offered a chair, but Øystein has mail to tend to and he finds his letters both boring and too reminiscent of his own from years past to sit by. They pile around him in neat stacks sorted by sent, unread, and to throw away, like planks, like prison cell bars. Some ivori colored, some pure white, others kraft paper brown and torn at the edges.

"What is it?" He asks, leaning over his shoulder.

"Sliced myself on the letter opener," he says, showing him his bleeding finger.

Pelle takes his hand and holds it closer to the lamp — a show before he does what he inevitably will. Red pools inside the cut, becomes a drop, and runs over his finger like a tear.

"It's not bad," he says.

"It stings."

"Oh, you moan too much," Pelle bickers. He presses his fingertip past his lips and is amused with how flustered Øystein grows by his tongue passing over the wound and the scarlet trail of his blood. "What?"

"Nothing," he says dumbly, eyes empty of any thought as Pelle cups his warm cheek in a feign of concern.

His blood is faint but coppery on his tongue. Pelle has never had any as fine, finding it difficult not to squeeze his finger to get more miniscule drops. It sooths some part of his soul that he hadn't known was aching — that he hadn't known was there. It is a deep satisfaction, that taste.

He lets Øystein have his hand back but takes his face to kiss him, too overwhelmed to care for the strangeness of his timing. He touches Pelle's arm but makes no move to push him away, a small, surprised grunt leaving him with the sudden force of his hungered kisses. His fingers gingerly curl around his thin arm, but nothing else besides an attempt to keep up.

Øystein still tilts his head back obediently when Pelle kisses his jaw and the softness where it meets his strong neck. He hesitates here, mouth parted, his bottom lip trembling against Øystein's skin. He can hear the thump of his heart in the triangle under his chin, in the veins weaved around his muscles, where his pulse beats seductively.

With all the control he can muster, Pelle presses a kiss over the point, scrunching his brow with the effort of not biting. His skin tastes good, his blood tastes better, and Pelle is growing ravenous by the day.

His own blood comes slow and only sates his desire for the action of feeding, and it lacks the thrashing and fun of a true attack. He needs proper food or he will grow weak. Animals' blood tastes of filth, and the risk of trouble by luring townspeople away is far too great. He never accounted for stumbling upon someone he might desire, might not wish to discard of once he had wrung them dry, and he is beginning to pay the price for his affections.

Pelle may only drag his lips to Øystein's carotid before he must pull away, the man looking up at him vaguely stunned as he draws back into himself.

He doesn't ask why. He doesn't reach for him. Pelle sees the rejection slapped across his face.

"I don't want to distract you from your writing," he lies, taking the first book off a pile near his prior seat and retreating to his own quarters to think.

To yearn.