My New Companion
I don’t know how many nights have passed since I pulled him from that dismal prison in the Auvergne and brought him home with me.
That first night, it was so close to dawn when we arrived at my flat in Clermont-Ferrand that there was no time to even think. Louis hadn’t spoken a single word on the hurried drive back to the city and I’ve never been able to read his thoughts. I put my very existence at risk when I crawled into my bed that morning. He is far more powerful than I and the rising sun would not affect him as quickly as it did me. He could very easily destroy me with this new gift of his or simply break the window coverings and flee, leaving the sun to do the dirty work for him.
Comme on fait son lit, on se couche.
I turned my back to him, wondering if the cracked paint on the wall might be the very last sight I would ever see. I was fighting a losing battle with my eyelids when I heard the creak of the old bed springs and felt him settle in beside me. The last thought that passed through my mind before the death sleep pulled me into oblivion was of how eerily familiar it felt to have him here with me again.
I woke with a start the following evening. If this was Hell, it certainly looked a lot like my bedroom.
I found him in the sitting room, perched on the edge of the chaise lounge like a marble statue. He knew that I was there, but did not turn to face me. I crept closer.
“He was never going to come back for you,” I stated as if I was certain of this fact.
He nodded, but said nothing.
“I’ve been there before,” I continued. “I know how it feels to be left behind.”
I stood before him to survey the damage. His hair was matted with dirt and his clothing were hopelessly torn. Dried blood painted one side of his face, but none of this dulled his beauty in the slightest. I inquired about whether or not he had any broken bones. Such things take time to heal, even for our kind. My questions were met with one word answers.
“About what happened between us…” I started, but was cut off before I could continue.
“Don’t,” He said softly. I could tell it was a warning.
“At least let me clean you up.”
I didn’t wait for him to protest. I found a small bowl in the bathroom which I filled with warm water then returned to his side with a cloth in hand. I had to force my arm to stay steady as I hesitantly reached out and touched the damp fabric to his hairline. I was so gentle at first, as if he were some sort of porcelain doll that might break (or break me) if I applied too much pressure.
No reaction.
Slowly, I moved the cloth over his face, wiping dried blood from his cheek and the corner of his mouth. His eyes closed and he tilted his head back slightly, as if he might actually be enjoying my touch. I dipped the cloth in the bowl again and brought it to his neck. Water trickled down his skin, leaving a white trail where dirt and blood had been washed away.
I watched his hands as I unbuttoned what was left of his shirt. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to stop me. I slid the scraps of torn fabric over his shoulders and down the taut muscles of his arms. It seemed as if he might spring into action at any moment. Every breath I took could be my last and I couldn’t deny the thrill that was intertwined with that thought.
At some point, the cloth fell away and was replaced by my hands moving over his cold flesh. I was pushing him back against the chair and he was allowing it. I crawled on top of him, straddling his thighs as my mouth found his. My tongue darted out to explore his lips and lick away and remaining bits of blood.
One hand slipped to the back of his neck and I pulled back to look at him. Thick black lashes parted and emerald eyes gazed into mine from beneath heavy lids. I would have sold my soul to be able to read his thoughts in that moment, but I’d already given it to the Devil centuries ago. My thumb stroked the side of his neck, indicating exactly what I wanted. He took a deep breath and that was all the encouragement I needed. If he was going to put an end to me, I might as well enjoy myself one last time.
I bowed my head and raised his throat to my waiting teeth. His blood was sweeter than any wine I had ever tasted as a mortal man. It filled my mouth and I swallowed in great gulps, hoping it would never stop. His powerful heartbeat thundered in my ears and I tried to ignore the images that flickered through my mind. A heart-wrenching pain took hold of me then and I knew it was not my own. I was overcome by an immense sense of loss and of being incomplete. I pushed these invasive emotions away and sank my fangs even deeper into his flesh, causing him to cry out in pleasure or pain - the two are often the same in our world. He clutched at my back as another rush of blood spilled past my lips.
When it was over, I lay alone on the lounge, blissfully sated and unwilling to move at all.
I could hear Louis rummaging through my wardrobe in the bedroom. When he reappeared, he was wearing one of my shirts. Black, of course, but a perfect fit as he and I are quite similar in size and stature. He didn’t look at me, but moved through the room and out the door, vanishing into the night. I didn’t expect him to return, but just before dawn, I felt the bed shift as he lay down beside me once again.
It’s been this way ever since that night. He followed when I returned to Paris - a constant, but mainly silent presence in my flat in the Latin Quarter. As for my desires, he is not so much an enthusiastic participant, but he is willing. He has not once turned me away, but wants nothing from me in return.
This new companionship between us is one of give and take and I intend to make the most, for as long as it lasts, by taking all that he has to give.
That first night, it was so close to dawn when we arrived at my flat in Clermont-Ferrand that there was no time to even think. Louis hadn’t spoken a single word on the hurried drive back to the city and I’ve never been able to read his thoughts. I put my very existence at risk when I crawled into my bed that morning. He is far more powerful than I and the rising sun would not affect him as quickly as it did me. He could very easily destroy me with this new gift of his or simply break the window coverings and flee, leaving the sun to do the dirty work for him.
Comme on fait son lit, on se couche.
I turned my back to him, wondering if the cracked paint on the wall might be the very last sight I would ever see. I was fighting a losing battle with my eyelids when I heard the creak of the old bed springs and felt him settle in beside me. The last thought that passed through my mind before the death sleep pulled me into oblivion was of how eerily familiar it felt to have him here with me again.
I woke with a start the following evening. If this was Hell, it certainly looked a lot like my bedroom.
I found him in the sitting room, perched on the edge of the chaise lounge like a marble statue. He knew that I was there, but did not turn to face me. I crept closer.
“He was never going to come back for you,” I stated as if I was certain of this fact.
He nodded, but said nothing.
“I’ve been there before,” I continued. “I know how it feels to be left behind.”
I stood before him to survey the damage. His hair was matted with dirt and his clothing were hopelessly torn. Dried blood painted one side of his face, but none of this dulled his beauty in the slightest. I inquired about whether or not he had any broken bones. Such things take time to heal, even for our kind. My questions were met with one word answers.
“About what happened between us…” I started, but was cut off before I could continue.
“Don’t,” He said softly. I could tell it was a warning.
“At least let me clean you up.”
I didn’t wait for him to protest. I found a small bowl in the bathroom which I filled with warm water then returned to his side with a cloth in hand. I had to force my arm to stay steady as I hesitantly reached out and touched the damp fabric to his hairline. I was so gentle at first, as if he were some sort of porcelain doll that might break (or break me) if I applied too much pressure.
No reaction.
Slowly, I moved the cloth over his face, wiping dried blood from his cheek and the corner of his mouth. His eyes closed and he tilted his head back slightly, as if he might actually be enjoying my touch. I dipped the cloth in the bowl again and brought it to his neck. Water trickled down his skin, leaving a white trail where dirt and blood had been washed away.
I watched his hands as I unbuttoned what was left of his shirt. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to stop me. I slid the scraps of torn fabric over his shoulders and down the taut muscles of his arms. It seemed as if he might spring into action at any moment. Every breath I took could be my last and I couldn’t deny the thrill that was intertwined with that thought.
At some point, the cloth fell away and was replaced by my hands moving over his cold flesh. I was pushing him back against the chair and he was allowing it. I crawled on top of him, straddling his thighs as my mouth found his. My tongue darted out to explore his lips and lick away and remaining bits of blood.
One hand slipped to the back of his neck and I pulled back to look at him. Thick black lashes parted and emerald eyes gazed into mine from beneath heavy lids. I would have sold my soul to be able to read his thoughts in that moment, but I’d already given it to the Devil centuries ago. My thumb stroked the side of his neck, indicating exactly what I wanted. He took a deep breath and that was all the encouragement I needed. If he was going to put an end to me, I might as well enjoy myself one last time.
I bowed my head and raised his throat to my waiting teeth. His blood was sweeter than any wine I had ever tasted as a mortal man. It filled my mouth and I swallowed in great gulps, hoping it would never stop. His powerful heartbeat thundered in my ears and I tried to ignore the images that flickered through my mind. A heart-wrenching pain took hold of me then and I knew it was not my own. I was overcome by an immense sense of loss and of being incomplete. I pushed these invasive emotions away and sank my fangs even deeper into his flesh, causing him to cry out in pleasure or pain - the two are often the same in our world. He clutched at my back as another rush of blood spilled past my lips.
When it was over, I lay alone on the lounge, blissfully sated and unwilling to move at all.
I could hear Louis rummaging through my wardrobe in the bedroom. When he reappeared, he was wearing one of my shirts. Black, of course, but a perfect fit as he and I are quite similar in size and stature. He didn’t look at me, but moved through the room and out the door, vanishing into the night. I didn’t expect him to return, but just before dawn, I felt the bed shift as he lay down beside me once again.
It’s been this way ever since that night. He followed when I returned to Paris - a constant, but mainly silent presence in my flat in the Latin Quarter. As for my desires, he is not so much an enthusiastic participant, but he is willing. He has not once turned me away, but wants nothing from me in return.
This new companionship between us is one of give and take and I intend to make the most, for as long as it lasts, by taking all that he has to give.