Chapter Text
Not needing to breathe was something that took time to acclimatise oneself to: even now, Viago often found himself doing it anyway, sometimes subconsciously, sometimes deliberately as a means of mindfulness, and sometimes, just to get in a good smell.
That was how Viago found himself sitting in Burger King with his friend Nick, pretending to nurse a diet cola to evade suspicion, while Nick took in the sensory experience of sitting with the many "interesting" smells of some kind of deluxe burger meal, without actually eating any of it.
“You used to like this?” asked Viago, picking disgustedly at a limp chip.
“Best thing after a night out,” replied Nick, wafting the meaty aromas towards him. “Definitely better than Macca’s.”
“I suppose I will have to take your word for it,” said Viago, holding a paper serviette to his nose, only to find that it, too, had been imbued with the overwhelming bouquet of deep-frying,
“Did you ever stop missing your favourite foods?” Nick asked him, waving the upturned, sauce-soaked top bun dangerously close to his face.
“I suppose I think about them sometimes,” Viago mused, attempting to conjure the sense memory of the soft, yielding texture of a boiled potato, the tang of fermented cabbage, the toothsome chew of buttered rye bread, the richness of slow-cooked meat in spiced gravy, and the honeyed warmth of a pfefferkuchen, sometimes studded with almonds or candied peel if they were very special. “But after a while, you just get used to our... special diet.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s like when somebody develops a wheat allergy or something,” Nick replied, squeezing a sachet of ketchup onto a chip. The sharp fragrance was almost as stomach-turning to Viago as the pickles had been. “You just get used to only eating the shitty gluten-free bread.”
“Ja, just like that,” Viago agreed, “but with everything except blood.”
“Maybe I’d get over it faster if I stopped ordering burgers and chips,” Nick sighed, peeling a corner of cheese from the sad little beef patty. “I dunno if I’m ready.”
“Well, you do have time,” Viago mused, breathing through a scented handkerchief in a vain attempt to drive out the offensive pickle smell. “That is one thing with which we are blessed.”
Nick nodded, squeezing the cheese between his fingertips. It seemed to have no texture that any food should ever have, thought Viago. He wondered if Anton liked such strange, unpleasant foods: when Viago's little vampire team did social with their werewolf friends, it was usually over sippy-pouches of blood and bottles of beer, respectively, and sometimes pretzels or cake. Somewhere in his deepest sense memory, Viago understood pretzels and cake. He wondered what sorts of things Anton liked to eat. He wondered a lot about Anton, about his favourite things and his soft eyes and tight trousers and the little freckles on his forearms when he wore short-sleeved shirts. Anton was nice.
“Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick,” Viago began, uncertain as to whether or not it was even worth asking the question, “how do you think the others would say if they heard of a vampire and a werewolf, you know, having a courtship?”
“You mean like dating?” asked Nick, plucking a sesame seed from the burger bun. “Because I’m not dating anyone. I don’t know what you heard, but it was just a friendly handjob between mates, eh?”
“I have not heard anything!” Viago assured him with mild alarm, having not heard anything, though he supposed on some level it was a comfort to know that at least one of his vampire friends would take no issue with his entering into an understanding with Anton; that was, of course, assuming that Anton liked Viago anywhere near as much as Viago had begun to realise he liked Anton, which was perhaps not something he should have been getting his hopes too high over in the first place, he thought. “It was simply a little thought experiment, a curiosity.”
“Oh yeah?” Nick began idly doodling ketchup swirls across the paper wrapper with a sharp-edged chip. “Are you saying you’re curious about a werewolf, then? Which one is it?”
“No, no, I am not — ”
“Okay, so it’s not Clifton, because it’s definitely not Clifton,” Nick continued, despite Viago's grimacing handflaps of protest. “I think both of the Nathans are married — not to each other, though — but that’s them out, Stu would definitely tell me if, and I don’t think, but then there’s, so that leaves... oh, yeah, that makes sense.”
“What is making sense? I am not courting anyone, Nick,” and perhaps, thought Viago, he doth protest too much at that, but these were uncharted times for his little vampire community, and even if board game night was a resounding success, he worried that the prospect of something more might still be met with suspicion. “But if I did…”
“Aww, sweet as, you should do it,” agreed Nick. “Anton’s a good guy. He’s responsible. He’s nice. Bit boring. Suits you, I reckon.”
Viago flustered a little at that. “How did you guess?”
“Come on,” Nick scoffed, crumpling his uneaten meal back into its sad little paper bag. “You two always end up talking alone in the kitchen at parties. Listen, I know I’m still new at all this vampire stuff, and I’m definitely not a relationship expert, or else I’d be… dating somebody, but you could do a lot worse than dating that guy. I dunno, follow your heart, or whatever?”
Viago nodded.
“You know, I know I still have a heart,” he said, feeling the familiar weight descending in his chest. “I know it doesn’t beat or anything, but I know it has been broken before.”
He smiled, as best he could.
“Come on, why are you expecting the worst here?” Nick tossed his discarded meal into the garbage on their way back into the night. “Look at you. You look like you came out of one of those Jane Austen movies my sister likes. Real romantic stuff. I’m pretty sure they always end with, like, a kiss and a wedding. Just, like, look at him with your big brown eyes and kiss the back of his hand, bro. You obviously like each other.”
Viago remained unsure, but appreciated the encouragement. “Thank you, Nick.”
“No worries,” Nick replied. The clean air of the night carried away any remaining whispers of greasy cheese and tomato sauce, and Viago could not have been more grateful. “What I want to know is, if you got bit by a werewolf, would you turn into a werewolf?”
Viago frowned. “I don't think it works like that,” he said.
“Okay, but like, do you know any vampires who've been bitten by a werewolf?”
Viago plumbed the depths of his memory, but came up with nothing. He shook his head.
“Yeah, I just thought maybe I could get Stu or somebody to bite me,” Nick continued, watching for the traffic to slow, “then I could turn into a werepire, you know? Twice as cool as a vampire or a werewolf, eh?”
“It seems a little redundant, don’t you think?” replied Viago, as they crossed the road and into the little pedestrian shopping strip. There was that fancy soap shop that was always closed by the time Viago and his friends were awake for the night: Viago wondered if you could get fancy soaps on Trade Me.
“Dunno,” shrugged Nick. “What if it means you have all the powers of a vampire, AND all the powers of a werewolf?”
“But we’re already dead, I don’t think you can catch werewolf if you’re already dead,” reasoned Viago. “It’s like catching a cold, except it lasts forever and you turn into a big lovely doggo in the full moon.”
“Yeah we’re dead, but most dead people don’t fly around turning into bats and having jobs, so like what does that even mean, you know?” Nick dug his hands into his pockets, pulling out two single-serve pouches of blood.
“This is true,” conceded Viago, accepting the snack from his friend. It was an unremarkable blood: no extraordinary tasting notes to speak of, but pleasantly smooth and easy-drinking. One might describe it as the instant coffee of bloods, if other people's descriptions of instant coffee were anything for Viago to rely on.
It occurred to Viago that the house was low on paper kitchen towels: perhaps, he thought, it would be worth a trip to the dairy to pick up bits. There was a shop not far from Anton's house, as he recalled. He pulled out his phone, hastily tapping in a text message that he hoped would not read too informally.
“Maybe that’s why vampires and werewolves are supposed to be rivals,” suggested Nick. “We’d be too powerful as allies and friends and... I dunno, doing it.”
Viago nodded, as his phone chirped cheerfully to alert him to a reply. “Perhaps you might be on to something there.”
“So you think werepires could happen?” asked Nick, squeezing the last of his blood from its pouch with a loud slurp.
“No, that’s really silly,” Viago scoffed. “It doesn’t even make any sense! But the other thing. Does anyone even remember what started this old rivalry in the first place? Why shouldn’t we just marry werewolves if we want to?”
Nick gestured in emphatic agreement, wiping a stray drip of blood from his chin. “Yeah, like you with your werewolf crush.”
“Ja, exactly — wait, no, nein!” protested Viago. “I mean maybe, but... can you maybe tell me, do I have any blood stuck in my teeth?”
Viago flashed his fangies at Nick, who shook his head. “Nah, you’re good.”
“Good,” giggled Viago. “I might have arranged a little meeting with a werewolf later this evening.”
“Aww, well done,” replied Nick, turning down the sidestreet to his flat. “Ask him about the werepire thing, eh?”
Viago sighed. “Fine, I'll let you know!”