Chapter Text
This thing that you and Mary have, you like it. Somewhere between friends with benefits and a boyfriend/girlfriend arrangement; an unspoken level of commitment without a label. It’s casual, uncomplicated. You go out, you fuck, and sometimes, like on this early morning, you hang.
You’re lounging on your living room couch watching a baking show while Mary chugs away on his busted laptop, plugging sheet music into a pirated composition program. Chelsea is away for the weekend, giving you free reign of the apartment. He’s already bent you over every surface imaginable, and your clothes lay strewn about like the Rapture has just come through. A mountain of blankets covers you both, and with his cold body absorbing the excess heat, the temperature is just right. It’s precisely what you needed after another night of bullshit at work, your undead clientele emboldened by the steadily shrinking days as winter approaches.
A stream of morning light pokes through a crack in the blinds, cutting across the coffee table. Mary looks at it, then you. With a grin, he sticks his socked foot out into the beam, making a little hissing noise to imitate the burning of skin. But you’re thoroughly invested in your show, mesmerized as an old British lady pipes an intricate Pavlova cake, and so he does it again, and again, until he finally gets your attention.
“What are you– Stop that!” You bat at him under the blankets until he retreats back into their safety. “Fucking weirdo. Jesus.” He just snickers before turning back to his work. Grumbling about how you “have to do everything around here, for fucks sake,” you get up to fix the problem, shivering as you shuffle over to the sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony. Before rearranging the curtains, though, you permit yourself a moment to look out over the city, awash with the rosy light of dawn. Lights flick on while others go out, signaling the transition from the night shift to the day. The streets are filling after the lull of the witching hour, the sounds of morning traffic emanating through the glass. Next door, your neighbor’s potted flowers glitter in the first rays of sunlight, their petals heavy with dew.
Try as you might to appreciate their beauty, the exquisite blooms do nothing but fill you with longing.
“You okay?” Mary asks, lifting the headphone off of the ear closest to you. Sighing, you shut the blinds and slink back over to the couch, grabbing your sweater along the way.
“Yeah. I just…” You shrug. “Sometimes I just wish I could experience more of the day, you know?” Mary huffs.
“You’re telling me.” Fuck, he has a point. You can only imagine how out of touch a declaration like that must sound to someone who will literally burn to ash in direct sunlight. “But you’re right. It does suck.”
“And here I was thinking you were the Prince of Darkness.” A lingering question, one of many that’s been plaguing you, crosses your mind. “You were diurnal?” Mary hasn’t been particularly forthcoming about his human past, but you haven’t asked either, until now. You assume it’s a touchy subject.
“As a kid, yeah.” His eyes stay locked on his screen, but he continues. “We were in the day school district. Mom wanted us to grow up ‘the human way.’ Whatever that means.”
“So, you switched later?” He nods.
“Once I went all-in on the music thing.” You hum. A beat passes, the only sound in the apartment the clicking of Mary’s mouse.
You ask without thinking. “Do you miss it? The sun?” At this, he finally looks up, his expression twisted into a scowl.
“What’s with all the questions?” He snaps. “Am I being interrogated, or something?” You open your mouth to defend yourself, to scold him for being an ass, but he cuts you off. “Of course I do.”
Who wouldn’t?
You sit there in silence for a while, chewing on his words. On the TV, your British lady is assembling the Pavlova, decorating it with slices of fig and pear, but your appetite has soured. You’d gotten a taste of Mary’s brooding side that night on the roof, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. It’s like he’s suddenly become a stranger, distant and cold. He’s sitting only a few feet away, and yet there’s a chasm between you, bottomless and miles wide.
How much pain hides behind that crooked grin? What keeps him awake during the daylight hours, when he’s stuck in his coffin and yearning for the sun? You don’t want to know… You shouldn’t want to know. Things between you and Mary are easy because they’re not too deep, just casual fun and heavy sex when you have a moment to spare. Getting feelings involved is a recipe for disaster, so why do you keep doing it? Why ask him these things? Why make yourself so vulnerable?
Because you saw a photograph in a filthy boys’ apartment, and it’s been haunting you ever since.
“What? What’s wrong?” You blink, realizing Mary has been observing you for some time now.
“Nothing,” you mutter, unable to look him in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have pried. I’m sorry.” He scoffs. His left hand, buried under the blankets, makes what you think is supposed to be a jerking motion. He throws his head back, lower lip caught between his teeth.
“Say it again, baby,” he moans. “I’m close!”
“Oh, fuck you!” Growling, you grab one of Chelsea’s frilly throw pillows and lob it at him. He just swats it away, laughing. “Fucking asshole, making me feel bad and shit.” In spite of yourself, you’re suddenly giggling too, your body forcing itself to expel the nervous tension burning in your chest. You laugh until your sides hurt, until you have to force yourself to stop, and clap a hand over your eyes once the fit subsides, heaving a long sigh. “I hate you.” Mary smirks, looking out at the clothes still littering the floor.
“Sure.” He pauses, expression softening. “Sorry for getting pissy. It’s just–”
“It’s fine. I’ll mind my business.” He nods, but there’s a guilty look in his eyes, the creases under them deeper than normal.
“Thanks.”
The rest of the morning passes in silence. Your show ends, and another comes on, this time featuring an aggressive Italian-American guy who won’t shut the fuck up about his new line of copper cookware. You tire of it quickly and shut the TV off, scrolling on your phone until you eventually pass out.
You’re not sure how long you’re under, but it’s a deep enough sleep that you dream a little. In that dream, you and Mary are sitting on a park bench, watching the sun set over the city. He’s got his arm around you, and it’s warm. His cheeks are rosy, a little sunburnt.
“… Go to bed, babe?” Mary’s cold, spindly fingers dance across your forehead, brushing some of your hair away. Slowly, your heavy eyes crack open to find him standing over you.
“What,” you mumble, your tongue like lead in your mouth.
“Do you want to go to bed?” He’s put his joggers back on but is still shirtless. Your eyes flick over the bony angles of his torso, skimming over his tattoos before settling on the two silvery puncture marks on the right side of his neck. You quickly tear your gaze away before he can notice you staring.
“Tired…” Your eyes flutter shut again. Sleeping on the couch always fucks up your back, but you’re exhausted and so, so cozy, you don’t think you could move if you tried. Mary sighs.
“Alright.” A rush of cold air assaults you when he pulls the blankets away. You groan, blindly grab for them, but his skinny arms worm their way under you, one across your back and the other hooking in the crook of your knees. “Here we go.” Mary picks you up effortlessly, holding you like a bride. For as angry as you are about being disturbed, you’re too groggy to fight back, and let him carry you to your room. You’re half-expecting him to drop you on the bed, but he sets you down gently, crawling in beside you and pulling the blankets up. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his frigid body as he buries his face in your hair. It’s tender and sickly-sweet, like a bruised, overripe apple.
“Are you okay?” You feel Mary nod into the crook of your neck.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, already starting to sound sleepy. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest. “You’re warm.”
And you’re freezing. Even through your combined clothes he saps your heat away. You suppose it’s in his nature to consume, if not blood, then the natural warmth of a human body. It’s what makes the fresh stuff such a delicacy, why you live comfortably while the phlebotomists at the banks barely scrape by.
What a sad existence it must be, hungering for the essence of one’s absent life.
The next evening you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, spooning yogurt into your mouth between sips of coffee. Mary sits next to you, slowly drinking one of the cans of O-Pos you now keep in your fridge for when he visits. You have to be at work in an hour, but you’re dragging your feet, sluggish after a turbulent sleep. His outburst, and the admission that came with it, played on repeat all day, and your brain shows no signs of cutting you some slack as the night approaches.
“We’re a chatty bunch,” he says, plucking at the tab of his can. He’s got it bent in just the right way so that when he releases the tension, it plays a short, garbled note, like a guitar with a loose string. Since you’ve started seeing each other you’ve found he’s almost always making music, whether that be whistling a tune, drumming out a beat on a tabletop, or mouthing lyrics to himself. Sometimes it’s cute, sometimes it’s a nuisance. You’re not sure where exactly it falls right now, especially after he snored on and off all day.
At least he slept well.
“Yeah.” Your breakfast tastes bland, like water, but you swallow down another spoonful anyway.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Mary asks. The voice in your head lets out a scream.
“No.” You rest your chin on your fist, looking at the dirty dishes in the sink instead of him. “I’ve just been thinking about what you said, about missing the sun and all.”
“Oh.” The plucking stops. “You don’t need to feel bad for me, you know. It’s not like I’m completely miserable or anything.” In spite of yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches upwards.
“You’re only partly miserable.” Mary laughs, raising his hands defensively.
“Hey, I’ve got a brand to maintain.”
Even with his assurances, the thought follows you throughout the week. It pounces on you at work, while you eat, while you shower. You’ll be walking down the street, catch the morning sun in the cracks between buildings, and suddenly all you can think of is the younger Mary, with his golden hair and pink cheeks, scribbling lyrics on his worksheets in the back of a day school classroom. While you sleep, you’re plagued by dreams of blinding light and burning skin. When you wake, your mouth tastes like ash.
It’s eating you; a twisting, gnawing dread in the pit of your stomach. As the days pass it only gets worse, taking up more space in your mind and refusing to pay rent.
So what do you do? You turn to the Internet.
For several days, your free time is spent going down a half-scientific, half-supernatural rabbithole, browsing various medical information sites, academic journals, and discussion boards. Most of what you find is shit you already know: the components of sunlight, how it causes cancer in humans, and that it is anathematic to creatures of the night like Mary, who are reborn in death and thrive in darkness.
And then you come across r/NewVamps, and quickly learn it’s not that simple. You’d been taught that sunlight sensitivity was more than a physical reaction; it was a fundamental, ontological revulsion to it. The Chaunceys certainly hated it, so much that every new freckle on your skin earned a disapproving sneer and a stern lecture about the horrors of melanoma. It seems, though, that this hatred is instilled over hundreds of years, and for those who are fresh out of the grave, certain human instincts persist. So naturally, with infinite time at their disposal, those who still crave the warmth of the sun have come up with a few workarounds.
That doesn’t make it any less dangerous, though. One miscalculation, one day with a higher than average UV index, and Mary could end up burnt beyond recognition or worse. But you think it’s worth it to try, so at the very least your research doesn’t go to waste.
It takes some time, but eventually you work up the courage to pitch it to him.
05:46 Do you trust me
05:53 Probably shouldn’t
05:54 But fuck it why not
05:55 Great
05:55 I have an idea
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Mary says, eyeing himself in the standing mirror in the corner of your bedroom. He’s clad in a horrendous mixture of yours and his clothes, at least two layers thick, not including your long winter coat on top of it all. His feet are pretty well protected by his boots, and you’ve leant him a pair of leather gloves which he can just barely cram his hands into. He’s got on a faded baseball cap borrowed from one of his bros, and you’ve tied a scarf over it to cover every possible bit of skin.
He looks like a goth babushka. You’re sure it will be all the rage with the kids soon.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out.” Then the gravity of the situation hits, and what it might mean for Mary. “If you don’t think this is a good idea, we don’t have to do it. It’s okay.” He scoffs.
“Who do you think I am?” He pulls a pair of scratched aviators out of his pocket and puts them on, flashing you his best vogue face. “Danger is my middle name.”
You roll your eyes. “Alright, then, bad boy. Let’s go.” Grabbing your bag and an umbrella, the two of you shuffle towards the front door. You’re about to reach for the knob when it turns, and suddenly Chelsea is standing before you, mild irritation on her face as she looks back and forth between you and Mary.
“Hey,” she says, not moving. The two of you respond in unison.
“Hey, Chels.”
“What’s up?”
Awkward silence hangs in the air, until she finally clears her throat and steps into the apartment, her platinum blonde ponytail swishing behind her as she pushes past you. She doesn’t dislike Mary per se, but his increasing presence in your space has definitely put her on edge, especially considering what little she knows about your background. You two also fuck a lot and aren’t always the best at keeping the volume down. But if she has any grievances, she has yet to voice them. Not like you’d listen to her, anyway.
The walk to the park is quiet, but comfortable. With dawn approaching, the streets are beginning to fill up, but the folks you pass are either too preoccupied with their own lives or are too used to weird vampire bullshit to pay you any mind. As your destination approaches your excitement grows, quickly overshadowing the lingering nerves bubbling in your stomach. You’re excited to watch the sun rise, sure, but more than anything, you’re looking forward to sharing the experience with Mary, to make good on all the research and planning that’s led to this moment. It’s dumb, but you hope it makes him happy. If all goes well, maybe it’ll become a part of your routine. A weekly picnic date in the park doesn’t sound all that bad, even if it is disgustingly romantic.
You settle on a spot by the pond, spreading a blanket out on the grass beneath a willow tree and sitting side by side. There are a few joggers about, but other than that, the park is blissfully empty. The sun is just about to crest over the horizon, the sky painted with soft pinks and oranges. At the water’s edge, a pair of swans preen each other’s feathers, honking happily. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
“This is great,” you say, rooting through your bag for your thermos and the cookie you’d packed. Though you’re bundled up, the autumn chill begins to seep in the longer you’re stationary, and so you eagerly unscrew the lid and warm your nose with the pleasant aroma of chai spice. You pour out a small measure of tea into the cap and hand it to Mary, who accepts with a grateful nod. After taking a sip directly out of the thermos, you place it between your knees and work on unwrapping the cookie, a festive pumpkin snickerdoodle thing that grabbed your eye the last time you stopped by Alma’s. You bite into it, and the taste of cinnamon, cloves, and brown butter bursts across your tongue, the sugar lighting up the pleasure centers in your brain. Your spine tingles and you moan, tipping your head back as you chew. “Fuck, she’s done it again.” You hold out the cookie, trying not to be too much of a glutton. “Here.” Mary laughs.
“You and your fucking sweet tooth.” He takes the treat, sniffs it, and then takes a small bite. “Holy shit.” You nod.
“Yeah.” You pass the cookie back and forth a few times. He can only tolerate so much human food at once, though, so eventually he waves you off. After wrapping the rest of the dessert in its plastic and stuffing it in your bag, you let out a contented sigh, laying back on the blanket.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed,” Mary says with a laugh. “You’re always looking out for something.” You just roll your eyes.
“Get off my dick, man. I’m feeling nostalgic.” He looks back at you with a raised eyebrow, silently asking you to elaborate. “When I was a kid,” you explain, “the Chaunceys kept a bunch of apple trees on their property. Massive fucking things. I used to sneak out and climb them to watch the sun rise.”
“Aw, you poor, repressed little baby.” He reaches over to pinch your cheek, but you slap his hand away.
“One time I fell asleep and everyone got into a panic looking for me. Mom called the cops. She thought I got kidnapped, or something.” You choose not to reveal how the small orchard had been chopped down following that incident. Best not to kill the vibe. The memory can’t bother you now anyway, not when there’s crisp, morning air in your lungs and open sky overhead.
“Man, you really were a ‘terror child.’” Mary snickers. “Not like I was any better. I snuck out to go to shows and stuff all the time. Came home in the back of a police cruiser more than once.”
“You? Really? I never would have guessed.” A toothy grin spreads across his face.
“It’s true, I swear.” He sighs. “My poor fucking mother.”
You start to wonder what she, who so desperately wanted her children to live like humans, must think of her son now. The thought is quickly overshadowed, though, as the sun finally crests over the mass of buildings to the east, a vibrant, orange fireball against the pale sky. You jump a little, quickly grabbing your umbrella and opening it, scooting closer to Mary so that you both fit under its shade. Angling it to protect his face, you watch as the park is cast in the glow of sunlight, sparkling in the dewy grass and shining on the surface of the pond. You can feel its warmth already, seeping into your bones like a shot of whiskey.
“Feel okay?” You ask. “You’re not disintegrating or anything?” Mary shakes his head.
“Not yet.” Slowly, hesitantly, he sticks his gloved hands out from under the safety of the umbrella. He lets out a little gasp as direct sunlight touches the leather, but it’s an expression of relieved surprise rather than distress. Wordlessly, he opens and closes his fists a few times, warming himself. A few minutes pass in silence, the sky changing from pink to blue as the sun steadily rises. The birds are chirping, flitting about in the branches above. In the distance, the commotion of morning traffic in the city is beginning to pick up, but you can’t possibly be bothered by that while you’re riding the high of knowing your crazy, potentially un-life-threatening scheme actually worked.
“Thanks for doing this with me,” you say, resting your head on Mary’s bony shoulder. There’s no response. His hands are shaking. Your stomach drops. There’s no burning flesh smell, but that fact does little to quell the uneasiness churning in your guts. You straighten up, inspecting him for any smoke or blistering skin. Physically, he looks fine. But, emotionally? Mentally? Spiritually? You’re not so sure. He stares out across the pond, unmoving save for the tremble in his limbs. You open your mouth to ask if he’s alright, but your words quickly turn to dust. Though his eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses, the tears silently streaming down his pale cheeks are impossible to miss.
So much for your fun picnic date.
“Mare, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles. “That was just a really fucking good cookie.” A few tense, agonizing seconds tick by. Mary sniffles, swallows, and then suddenly he’s sobbing, wrapping his arms around his legs and curling in on himself. For a moment you’re paralyzed, dumbfounded by the display and unsure how to proceed. Should you try and comfort him? Does he even want that?
You have to do something. And so you let instinct guide you, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leaning into him, hoping the feeling of another body is enough to convey that he’s not alone. Sure, you’re not a vampire, you’ll never truly understand what it’s like, but you can at least try. It’s better than nothing.
You sit there a while, just holding him. The sun continues to rise, city life goes on around you. Mary slowly calms down, the heaving of his chest evening out as his sobs return to sniffles.
“I’m sorry,” he finally wheezes. You give him a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s okay. I… Well, I don’t get it, but I do. I get it.” Suddenly, you’re far too tired to find any more enjoyment in this. “You want to head back?” Mary nods.
“Yeah.”
The walk back to your apartment passes in silence. You hold onto Mary’s hand like a lifeline, like he’s going to tear his clothes off and fling himself into the light if you don’t keep him in line. Thankfully, though, he does not attempt to evaporate himself, and you make it home in one piece. From there, you help him strip off the layers of clothing, and then somehow, you’re able to coax him into the shower with you, the water as hot as you can make it without scalding yourself. There’s nothing sexual about it; he lets you scrub him clean, though you leave his junk and scarred neck for him to deal with. He looks like a sad, wet cat while he washes himself, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh at him. Once you’re both clean, you stand under the warm spray for a while, just holding him. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t protest either, so you stay there until your eyes droop and your legs begin to wobble, your fingers and toes all pruny.
After drying off and pulling some clothes on, the two of you collapse into bed, wriggling under the covers in silence. Mary turns his back to you. Normally this would tick you off, but he’s wrestling with the unfathomable expanse of immortality right now. For today, you can forgive him. Spooning him from behind, you drape one arm over his torso. Though you’re still fresh out of the shower, he’s already turning cold, and so you pull him tighter into your chest, trying not to shiver as your warmth flows into him. You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. Mary is silent and unmoving, which you hope means he’s asleep.
Fuck, you forgot how exhausting it is to care about people. What are you doing, coddling this bloodsucker like he’s some poor, sick puppy? You like Mary because he’s low-maintenance, he’s fun. He cracks stupid jokes and grabs your ass in the dark corners of bars. He makes you laugh; he adds color to your otherwise monotonous existence. But when he gets like this, it’s a lot, and how on earth do you handle something of this magnitude? What do you say to someone who’s been cursed to live forever, to watch everyone he loves grow old and die, but can’t even enjoy something as simple as a sunrise? Maybe you’re getting in a little over your head.
But, then again, when was the last time you let yourself hold someone like this?