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Wrote this awhile ago just because I thought that Zhivago/Devin was the most unlikely pairing I could think of at the time. I intend to write a second part eventually but even though I have about three separate drafts of that now, I'm not sure how to go about that. Revised July 16, 2009, because I realized that while I uploaded the revised version elsewhere, I didn't here. I figured that even though Zhivago's a villain in the plot, he could behave differently -IE: not kill- people in his group. He still is an insensitive, self-centered a*****e though, and Devin doesn't always know what he really wants.






Zhivago picked resentfully at the mask, hating the feel of the latex against his skin. It fit poorly: it pulled and rubbed in all the wrong places. Furthermore, the thing made his face hot and sweaty, and he knew that under it he must be a ridiculous shade of red. But those were only trifles compared to the greatest reason why he despised it. The material had a horrible, chemically stench that made him dizzy, and combined with the smog of traffic and the ever-present stink of humans, it was all he could do not to gag in the streets. To be honest, though he had been a vampire for over sixty years, he had never quite gotten used to the increased, often disorientating sense of smell.

Still, it was a necessary evil that had to be endured. He had gained quite a many new enemies since October, ones that were perhaps poorly armed and nuisances at best, but nevertheless they were ones that he’d rather not show his face to. He perhaps had been eager to jump into fights in his youth, but he had more important, more interesting things to do now than mess with some silly teenager waving a badly cut oak stick. At any rate, the only capable vampire hunter he had ever met still lived in Durem -though if he had any sense, he ought to move- and though he never really had anything against a nice, violent bout with Edmund, he knew there was no way he’d win in his current condition. Anyway, he had places to go, people to see, hippies to fondle. He could go play with Edmund later. Right now, the only thing on his mind was red, black, and had enough painkillers to knock out a dragon.

The street was deserted, save for a couple of shabby looking children huddled around a streetlamp. Zhivago licked his fangs instinctively, eyes flashing yellow, and then had a rare twinge of guilt. They were just children after all, little street rats that had no chance against a vampire like himself. They were probably from that chimney of an orphanage, ones that no one would notice if they went missing. Huh, that alone seemed a compelling enough reason to kill them, and who was he to pass up an easy breakfast? But there was that whole matter of staying unnoticed, and besides, they looked a bit too malnourished for their blood to be any good. He gave them a cursory glare, and limped past. Only a few more buildings till the tower and a break from the agony of moving.

It was hell to walk. Zhivago was a vampire, but vampires can only take falling down towers, kicks, and stakes to the ribcage so many times before it starts to leave its mark. Every step seemed to snap the muscles in his back and legs, to tear and shred. There was nothing he’d like more than to just curl up under a bed and die, but that was just melodramatic, wishful thinking that wasn’t conductive for getting work done. But pain was pain and injury was injury, and if he ignored it, it wouldn’t ignore him, unlike wasps and particularly annoying humans, which were more or less the same thing. He had to fix it, because there were places to go, people to see, and anyway, fixing it involved seeing the aforesaid hippie and if he was lucky, it would lead to pointless sex. He might be opposed to the byproducts of intercourse, but he didn’t mind the actual act one bit.

But right now, he had to concentrate on walking the last few feet to the tower without falling down, a Herculean task. Was it always so long, or was that just a trick of perspective? Only one way to find out. Zhivago took an experimental step forward, ignoring the pulling in his back, and found it wasn’t so bad, as long as he didn’t breathe too hard. Another tentative step followed and another and another and then Zhivago collapsed, because although he could walk if he didn’t breathe too much, he couldn’t walk if his legs decided to give out. He laid in the grime and ice for a dazed moment, not completely comprehending why he wasn’t moving, just soaking in a puddle. ‘How…quaint,’ He mentally murmured. ‘Well, isn’t that just perfect? And this used to be a nice suit too but ******** it all.’

And though he would have liked to have wallowed in his own, comforting self-pity for a little while longer and let his designer suits go to rubbish, Zhivago had places to go, people to see, hippies to charm drugs from, and the first two couldn’t be done in a horizontal position and the last not in such a public place. He grimaced, and stood up, though every fiber in his body screamed in protest. Well, that was unpleasant, to say the least. He closed his eyes, and let himself fall back against the brick wall, heart pounding in his chest. Should it be doing that? Zhivago suddenly found it was too hot and his back hurt too much to really care. Shortly, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps on cobblestone.

“Hey, mister, you okay? You need help?” He glanced at this new and very much unwanted annoyance, suddenly regretting that he didn’t kill those rats before he had the chance to embarrass himself. It was just a little thing with hair akin to straw and big, dark eyes, shivering in an oversized white sweatshirt, a bit cute, a bit pathetic, but there was nothing he’d like better than to smash its face in the ground, to make it bleed and pay for seeing him fall. It stared at him with a blandly sympathetic look on its grubby face. Just a little rat, a filthy little human rat, and how dare it talk to him, but perhaps he could have a use for it besides for food.

“Those’r slippery streets, you could break something. You break somethin’?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you,” He hissed, brushing off specks of snow and what he sincerely hoped were leaves off his coat. The human flinched, eyes filling with tears at the unexpected reproach. ‘Little sissy.’

“Oh, err, tha’s good. I’ll be going now,” The street rat muttered, staring at its shoes, before turning to scamper away.

“Stop right there, kid,” Zhivago ordered. It froze in its tracks, cringing.

“Y-yes, sir?” The fear radiating off of it was delicious, almost enough for him to forget that it was a dirty little human rodent not even fit to eat.

“Run to the tattoo parlor, and tell Mr. Demaine that Strelnikov is coming for him.”

“Mr. Demaine, sir? I don’t know who-”

“Demaine, Devin, Devin Demaine. Giant red man with horns, quotes things at people, has a habit of getting stranded under furniture. Very hard to miss. Go.”

The brat nodded and scurried off, leaving Zhivago to his pain. These last few feet were going to be the longest few feet of his life, no doubt.




The painting glared at him with canary yellow and neon green, a vast, Technicolor monstrosity shining in a sea of other abominations against the noble name of art. It was a perfect portrait of madness, and made just about as much sense. Zhivago cocked his head to one side. No, still utter nonsense at a different angle. Did kind of resemble a sunset if you squinted, but only a little.

“Well, that’s…something,” He stated. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s something.”

“It is art for art’s sake,” Devin said, with a blissful, faraway look. Art for art’s sake frightened Zhivago. He could appreciate ancient statues, though he knew full well that the human form never looked so svelte. Vases and other glasswork were pretty, though it seemed such a waste to let perfectly good glasses rot in a museum. Tessellations were boring and made his eyes hurt. Avant-garde surrealism was a symptom of mental illness, and so was neo-Dadaism. Minimalism made him want to kill himself, or, on second thought, the “artist.” Devin devoured the stuff like candy. He had very bad taste in candy.

“Look, we’ve been staring at this canvas for ten minutes. If you haven’t found its meaning now, you’re not going to, and I doubt there’s any to find. Let’s go see the mummies, I want to see them.” Zhivago was not whining. He was pleading for his sanity. “They’re dead, you like that sort of thing, I like that sort of thing.”

“There are infinite meanings to every painting, and I intend to discover every one. But come along, we’ll go see your dead fellows. These will always be here, those won’t.”

They escaped from the heaving throngs of modern art aficionados attracted to the newest exhibition at the renowned art wing of Durem’s Museum Royale, earning a few random glares from a group of overdressed socialites along the way. The ancient history wing fortunately wasn’t far away, but once there, it seemed worlds apart from the explosion of postmodernism they had just fled from, a comforting tomb. The Corinthian columns and marble floors were cold and forbidding, the light dimmed almost to blackness, and along the walls were the artifacts of nights long lost: a painted chalice glimmering in the dark, an ornate necklace without a mistress, bones from dragons now dust. But Zhivago had seen these trinkets nights and nights before, and he led Devin to what he longed to see now.

There were seven of them in six sarcophagi, seven leathery bodies. The double tomb was the real reason he had come here, a stone crypt more elaborate than the unfortunate pair could ever hoped to have possessed. The curators must have presumed from the stolen clothing that they were murdered noble people and thus afforded them to rest in stone fit for royalty, but they were really an extraordinary barber and prostitute. Zhivago observed them, feeling oddly emotional, but perhaps he would allow that for once. Remnants from the fight were still visible after all these years: a torn waistcoat, a hole in the breast of a shirt, a gash across a forehead. Amazingly, though her skin turned brown and tough, he could still see the smear of red across her lips. Zhivago chuckled morosely to himself. Decorated in life, decorated in death. She wouldn’t really have wanted it that way, but so it goes.

“Dobry vecher,” He whispered, and rejoined Devin, who was busy contemplating another sarcophagus like a thief. Apparently, the security guards, lurking like rats by the exits, had that impression too. The new one was ages and ages older than the two and from a foreign city long gone, seemingly nothing more than a tangled mess of bones and gold. Zhivago could hardly have recognized it as human if it weren’t for its face.

“Look how little he is!” Devin exclaimed in a tone of voice more commonly used for declarations of television adoration. “But no more, I should think, than fifty, though they would have considered him ancient by then. They preferred their sacrifices old to symbolize the winter, or so I have read.”

“Interesting.” It looked a bit like an oversized spider with a nose. “I suppose you’re going to tell me more whether I want to hear or not?”

“They took five men at the end of winter, dressed them in finery, and clubbed them till death. I imagine that’s why he’s in such disarray. Then they gutted them and threw them in the nearest peat bog. It was to symbolically kill winter, you see.” Devin was entirely too cheerful for his own good.

“I see. So, ah, what did they do with the entrails?” His eyes lit up with a sort of manic glee, and Zhivago reminded himself to stay far away from history minors.

“They were put in jars underground with spices to pickle them. After three months, they unearthed the jars for the feast of Aranalia. It’s not a bad sort of cannibalism, yes, and dreadfully interesting.”

“Are you suggesting there’s a good sort of cannibalism?” Zhivago laughed nervously. Death was never one of his favorite topics of conversation.

“Well, yes. That way, I understand it was in compliance to religious beliefs. Those men knew their time would be soon up, and they gave their blood and organs up so that their legacy wouldn’t face eternal desolation. It is, I mean with due respect to you, unlike your brand of vampirism.”

“I’m not human, doesn’t count as cannibalism.” To be honest, Zhivago had never really even thought if vampirism made him a cannibal. He spent his time pondering more important matters, like money or whether his lovers were necrophiles if they had sex.

“Oh, I count it. You are more or less human, except for the times when you’re a bat. I suppose you count as a vampire bat then. You just take blood when you aren’t given it.”

“I have to, Devin. No one ever volunteers to give up their blood except for you.”

“I would have given some to you then rather than having you kill someone else. I know you did.” Damn, why was he smiling?

“Would you now?” Zhivago asked.

“Yes, in a heartbeat. It’s sort of romantic, isn’t it? Imagine, a million little Devin atoms mixing with a million little Yuri atoms.”

“You are a very frightening person, do you realize that? Come, I’ve seen all I wanted here. Surely there’s something here that we can both enjoy that doesn’t involve the dead.”

“Well,” Devin murmured with a smoldering look that didn’t suggest so much as scream that things would turn pleasurable very, very soon. “There’s an exhibit on sexuality throughout the ages, and I’ve heard there’s a very interesting section of erotic woodcuts.”

“Please, not so loudly,” Zhivago whispered. Not in front of his parents.




Thank God or whatever eldritch being that happened to be listening that they had invested in an elevator, and curse Devin that he insisted on living on the very top floor of the old watchtower. Zhivago knew full well that living so high had to have been the artist’s idea: it seemed just like him to insist on spending a few minutes of his day just pointlessly traveling. In fact, he probably spent even more time on it than that: he had a sneaking suspicion that the elevator, painfully slow though it was, had to have been that woman’s idea, for though she might be weird and a bit chaotic, she was at least a thousand times more practical than Devin ever was. Nastasya, was that her name? He could never quite remember it, only that it started with an ‘N’ and was in his mother tongue. No, not Nastasya, that didn’t sound right. Natalya? No, not it either, too formal. Nadya? Too short. Natasha? That seemed about right, but he could be wrong. Anyway, it didn’t really matter much, since they had an unspoken agreement to say as little as possible to each other as possible. At least, Zhivago thought that they had an unspoken agreement: he avoided talking to the punk whenever he could and she seemed just as willing to not speak to him. Mutual ignoring was something that he wished that more hunters would get behind.

The elevator gave a sudden screech as it jolted to a stop, ripping Zhivago from his meandering contemplation. He instinctively grabbed hold of the railing, certain for just a brief moment that the whole thing was going to come screaming down. He had fallen down enough towers for one year, thank you. But no wires had snapped to send him careening to his death, the elevator merely stopped and presently the doors shuddered open. Couldn’t they have afforded an elevator that wasn’t so decrepit? On second thought, maybe it was Devin’s idea after all. It seemed just like him to face death each day before breakfast.

He limped out of the elevator car into the hallway. The top floor had once been the housing area for the watchmen that guarded this section of the city in Vladimir Von Helson’s heyday, but the advent of Durem’s police force had rendered them obsolete decades ago. Now it housed a very different sort of person than the burly, often sadistic guards of old, an eccentric, often poetic, often lonely artist, and rooms that once held armor and swords held canvas and paintbrushes. It was, all in all, a good tradeoff, and anyway he much preferred being detained on the top floor now.

He couldn’t hear the sound of the record player, so Devin must have been still working. He never seemed to go out this late though Durem had an astonishing nightlife, always said the colours were all wrong and the people too vague. Zhivago had no clue what that was supposed to mean, but he guessed that maybe it was a human thing or just a Devin thing. Instead, Zhivago always either found him at work or in his room with the ancient record player drowning out the silent world. He had no clue when the man actually slept, but rumour had it that he didn’t anymore. Of course, it was so very hard to separate the rumours about Devin from the facts, because they were both so equally odd and the man had a nasty habit of starting half of them himself. Zhivago was pretty sure that he wasn’t under his sink for as long as he said he was and he was also certain that he wasn’t a descendant of priests-turned-highwaymen from Morcacia, if only because he wasn’t sure if Morcacia was a real country. But with Devin, who could tell?

Well, he hadn’t dragged himself all the way from Aekea just to be disappointed. Zhivago had all the time in the world to wait for Devin, and wait is what he would do. Just not in this dreadful hallway, preferably someplace where he could lay down. Devin’s room would do just fine, even if he didn’t have a proper bed. Perhaps that rumour of insomnia wasn’t entirely unfounded.

Zhivago lurched towards the door, having long since given up on walking properly. To hell if he fell down here, he didn’t care about looking dignified anymore and only gave a thought to collapsing inside that room for a few minutes or hours. Good, not locked. It never was, though Devin had plenty of possessions that would be nice to steal. Zhivago supposed that he just never thought about things like that, or maybe he was just terribly fatalistic. It was hard to differentiate between the things Devin didn’t do because of his philosophy and the things Devin didn’t do because he didn’t know any better. It was a wonder the man had enough sense to put on clothes each day, but Zhivago still loved him anyway, because though he might be dark and strange, at least Devin always had time to talk and he didn’t threaten to put a stake through his heart instead of saying hello, like some other past lovers he could mention.

He was hit with the overpowering scent of cinnamon and oranges, but most of all, the scent of Devin. The smell of humans had always sickened Zhivago -not a very good trait for a vampire to have, admittedly- but somehow Devin was different, because he was his human. The whole room absolutely dripped of him, enough to drown in. The incense had stopped burning hours ago but the scent was still heavy in the air, ashes decorating the surface of his lonely dresser, the only real piece of furniture he had in the room. Dust, the man had someone made dust into an art, and he could make masterpieces out of so much more. In the corner were stacked makeshift chairs, and though they were made of scrap copper, bits of plastic tubing, and whatever spare bits of cloth he had laying about, they were more remarkable than any Von Helson could have hoped to have. His wallpaper was made of advertisements and construction paper pasted haphazardly, but he had somehow made clippings into something that ought to more properly belong to a museum. Old shirts were reborn again as Bohemian curtains, his windows were paintings, and everywhere, everywhere there were a thousand nameless dried flowers and twigs.

He walked over to the dresser and stared in the mirror, a bit broken, a bit scratched, but that’s why Devin probably had it. How strange he looked, a man in a once nice designer suit, a gold tie around his neck, and on his face a mask in the shape of a grinning skull. Well, he had seen many a Gaian wearing odder things in the name of fashion, but Vladimir would have such a fit if he saw what Zhivago was wearing! His choice in bedmates would probably set him off more. Sometimes, Zhivago was rather happy that man was dead.

He was safe now, the mask could go, and in one fluid motion he pulled the thing off. Finally, the smell of it was killing him. He glanced disdainfully at it and cast it aside to deal with later, and then returned his attentions to the mirror. He was right, his face was a ridiculous shade of red. His hair was in disarray, and his skin had turned pale and sickly. Damn, how long had it been since he had fed? Perhaps he really should have killed those street rats. Zhivago sighed and reached for the gold washbasin, splashing tepid water in his face. It didn’t do anything, he still looked awful, but at least it made him feel better, if only a little. Had he hunted any since Halloween? Zhivago’s blood suddenly decided to go cold, and he desperately needed to lay down.

Devin’s bed, if it could be properly called a bed, was every bit as ersatz as his curtains. In fact, it resembled not a bed so much as a giant nest. His mattress was a mess of pillows and cushions nicked from hotel rooms and furniture stores, and instead of blankets, he made do with motley shawls and what appeared to be a theatre curtain. It was motley, it was jumbled, it was the most comfortable thing he had ever come across, and Zhivago collapsed into the nest at once


Zhivago awoke to the sun glaring in his eyes, and the sounds of a nameless rock band screaming in his ears. He froze, and then lunged under the coverings, certain that he had slept till dawn. A sound of faint, deep chuckling was heard and then the sun clicked off.

“I apologize. I can not see very well in the dark.” Oh, not the sun then, good. Devin had finally invested in a lamp.

“Well, a bit of forewarning would have been nice,” Zhivago growled, and tried to pull himself into a sitting position. On second thought, lying down wasn’t so bad. “You forget what I am half the time, and the other half you forget who I am.”

“It is hard to forget you, though I try very hard,” Devin said solemnly, hunched over a steaming kettle of what smelled to be tea. Neither was anything unusual: he always sounded a bit more serious than he ought to and tea was his blood. Personally, Zhivago hated the stuff, couldn’t understand why his friend and lover found scalding water and dried leaves so delicious. If he ever drank anything but blood, it had better be something he could actually taste and would suitably damage his liver. Nevertheless, if Devin shoved the stuff in his face, he drank. It’s generally accepted as unwise to offend the man who gives you painkillers. “Blueberry, pomegranate, gooseberry, raspberry, apple, everything but garlic and only because I haven’t any.”

Devin offered him a glass, and he drank, though the stuff tasted a bit like rotten fruit. On second thought, maybe he didn’t like drinks he actually could taste so much anymore.

“It’s good for skin and eyes,” Devin stated, scrutinizing Zhivago with an almost clinical gaze. “The body says what words cannot.”

“And what does mine say?”

“Your bloodshot eyes indicate a lack of sleep, most likely caused by stress. Otherwise, it’s a sign that you’ve been drinking more than you normally do, also caused by stress. Your skin is more ashen than usual, possibly another product of insomnia. Alternately, it’s caused by a freak virus that your immune system somehow didn’t manage to kill. However, you’re more sensitive to light than usual, which can be caused by not feeding, so I think that I can safely discount the cold or stress theories. Furthermore, you’ve been sleeping in the middle of the night and couldn’t be woken by death metal, indicating exhaustion and a dulling of your other senses. Again, symptoms of not feeding. You’re laying on your stomach, and I’ve slept with you enough to know that you find that uncomfortable. I’ve heard of your tower exploits, so can I not presume that has hurt your back? I have also received word from a very reliable source that you collapsed on the way here. This indicates that your legs are injured as well or possibly crippling joint pain, which is, get this, a symptom of not feeding.” Devin paused for a long minute, eyebrows -or at least, the markings he had instead of eyebrows- scrunched together in contemplation. “I believe that the pain in your back prevented you for several days from hunting. The lack of blood only furthered the discomfort and severely irritated your joints, preventing you from hunting effectively, and thus from actually fixing the problem. That’s what your body says to me, and I don’t like it. Do my eyes lie?”

“No,” Zhivago sighed. “They do not.”

“Good. I went to medical school just long enough to learn when people are in pain. I would be disappointed if everything I learned from observation was wrong. So I suppose you would like something to dull it?”

“Yes, yes, anything.” That sounded a tad bit more desperate than he meant to. Getting the tone of voice right was the key when trying to get medication from Devin. Too needy, and he suspected an addiction. Too blasé, and he suspected a nefarious purpose. More often than not, he saw trouble at the slightest quiver of the voice, an overlong glance, a sudden pause. It was annoying, but Zhivago was like that with his clients. It was much better to deny a person services on mere suspicions than to have them confirmed later with a gun. He had learned that early on in his career the hard way, and if the jagged scar twisting around his torso was any indication, so had Devin. Of course, most of his problems could be solved if he didn’t accept prescription medication as valid currency in his shop, but then again, perhaps it wasn’t a very good idea for a human to deny service to half the people who paid that way. At any rate, it didn’t trigger a negative reaction from Devin: presumably he sensed how much he actually needed those pills. Good, he had halfway convinced himself that he would need to seduce the man first, and now he could enjoy it. He departed the room for the safe, leaving Zhivago to resume contemplation of the furniture.




It was a summer so hot that he had, for once, resorted to wearing white suits instead of the usual black. He could have been more comfortable if he wore more casual clothing, but he couldn’t kill people in tee-shirts. It simply wasn’t done. Besides, the lighter suits added a touch of irony to his purpose, though they stained at the slightest drop of blood. Still, irony made up for the dry cleaning bills.

There was no particular reason he had chosen to lurk around Fascination Street, other than the fact that he knew it rattled Edmund when there was a murder so close to his shop. It was deserted usually this time of night, but occasionally there would be a tasty little goth lost on its way to a party. He could probably have fed quicker if he haunted closer to those parties, but he really had no taste for modern music. Besides, that would entail being around more humans, and the smell of just one was unpleasant enough, even when his senses were changed in bloodlust.

He had assumed that the man was going home, though in time he would learn that he had been headed to the graveyard. It seemed comfortable enough in its surroundings, not cagey and hurried like one who had a place to be and clearly wasn‘t there. Good, it was much harder to kill something when it was jumping at mere shadows. It wasn’t perhaps the best target, easily over six feet tall, built like a bear, and covered in tattoos that were no doubt supposed to be frightening, but a human couldn’t hurt him that much, and anyway he was hungry. He didn’t count Edmund as human.

At any rate, it appeared to be unarmed, for it had no pockets and Zhivago was pretty sure there was no way it could hide a gun in those freakishly tight pants. Decency appeared to have gone out of fashion in the sixties. How could it even walk in that? Furthermore, could it run in those obscene jeans? “Well,” He thought, that killer grin playing with his lips. “time to find out.”

It stopped for a moment to adjust its headphones, the air suddenly filled with the sound of something that sounded like bagpipes and dying cats. Music, that thing thought that was music? Strauss was music, Vivaldi was music, Stravinsky was music. That wailing was something completely different, something that ought to be thrown off a cliff and doused in napalm. How good it would be to end that tasteless brat, to prevent it from infecting other people with its taste in noise. His tongue flicked across his fangs and the grin grew even broader. Yes, this one would be for the good of youth everywhere. Oh, and they said vampires were bad. He was merely a bastion of sophistication, saving the children from the influence of bad taste.

Zhivago tensed and sniffed the air for any intruders, especially peevish ones with long coats and swords. Good, good, they were alone, that simplified everything. He did so hate to kill bystanders, mostly because it was a waste of good blood. Now, how to do this? A quick assault was probably best, but it was the least enjoyable and usually not very clean. He didn’t count himself as prissy, like other vampires he could name, but this was a good suit, and anyway the Laundromat wasn’t open tomorrow. Well, what the hell, there wasn’t anyone around, and what was he going to do, blast that racket at him?

“Well, well, well, a bit late for a gentleman such as yourself to be out alone…though looking like that, I suppose it’s no wonder you’re alone.” The human stopped fiddling with its ridiculous headphones, and found itself face to face with a hit man.

“Can I help you, sir?” Sir, sir? That brat finds itself in front of one of Durem’s most infamous murderers, and it calls him sir? A dash of irony made everything more delicious. But what an interesting voice it had, sonorous and placid, with just a hint of an exotic accent. Pretty, but it would be all the more lovely when he was screaming.

“Yes, I believe you can. In fact, you’re just the thing to help me tonight,” He purred, trailing a finger along its jaw. It shivered under his touch, and it was all he could do to suppress a chuckle. Humans, always thinking about the pleasures of the body, letting it get in the way of common sense. Even Edmund Wesley wasn’t infallible to the charms of a vampire.

“Are you flirting with me?” The human asked, smiling a confused smile. Well, at least the thing wasn’t a complete idiot, though its unfortunate taste in clothing and body art might indicate otherwise. This time, Zhivago let his laugh break through.

“Perhaps. I find it polite to let one enjoy themselves a bit before I kill them.” It smiled more, and then suddenly froze as it realized what he had just said and saw his fangs, so sharp and thirsty. They always did, and he never got tired of it.

“Oh…I-I see,” It said, voice cracking ever so delightfully. It was times like these that he really enjoyed being a vampire. Sure, they all reacted the same way, but it was sort of comforting to know that, whether rich or poor, old or young, they all were stunned in the end. And this one, despite its tattoos and body modifications, was no different really from all the high school students and old capitalists he had ended over the years. “I…understand, I understand what you are and it’s okay really, okay. At least my body will be of some use to another creature rather than rotting in some concrete tomb.”

…What? What? Why wasn’t it crying, why wasn’t it pleading, why wasn’t it fighting, why wasn’t it spinelessly submitting, why was he so damn cheerful? Food didn’t act like that, it just didn’t. Nothing acted like that, nothing with any sense anyway. Maybe he had finally come across a madman. An undignified “What?” was all he could muster. The strange man continued.

“I always had a feeling that I would end something like this anyway, in a dark place with someone who needed something I could give. I would like to live, of course, but death is just what nature wills, no matter how well you take care of your body. At least, at least I’ll be of some use. I hope you don’t find me disagreeable. Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you, take off my shirt? I would not want you to find the fabric troublesome.”

Zhivago continued to stare on in undignified shock, not completely certain anymore that this man before wasn’t just a bizarre figment of his imagination. He figured that all the killing would give him a mental disorder someday, but he didn’t think it’d manifest itself in this form. After an agonizingly slow moment, he gained the confidence to speak again.

“What are you? You don’t act human, you don’t look human, you smell human but senses lie sometimes.”

“I am a man, no more, no less,” He stated humbly, working at the buttons of his shirt. “And I believe that you are a man of the vampiric sort, and I give you my gift of blood.”

“Stop that,” Zhivago said suddenly, sharply, eyes returning to their normal gray. He wasn’t hungry for the man anymore. “Just, stop that.”

“Would you like me to be silent then?”

“No! Just stop…being like that. You’re, you’re not right at all. You know what, forget it. I don’t want you anymore, you…you…whatever you are.” Zhivago scowled, and darted away, only wanting to get away from this thing. Honestly, who was happy about dying? If he had turned back, he would have seen Devin almost crying with relief, because despite all, he much preferred living over dying. But he didn’t, and by the time the shock of the whole incident wore off and Zhivago came back to insult the man, he was gone.







He was, Zhivago thought, only attractive when he was moving. It was something in the way his shoulders moved when reaching for something, how he kept glancing around when he walked as if afraid that everything would disappear if he didn’t make sure it stayed there, how he carried himself like a pilgrim, how his tattoos looked moving from light to shadows, a thousand reasons why. When he stayed still, he had a certain charm, but an immobile Devin’s splendor was like that of an scintillating butterfly resting on a leaf: curious at first, but boring after a few moments. Of course, Zhivago’s knowledge of butterflies was based on hearsay, for the night was mother only to moths and fireflies and anyway, his motherland was far too frigid for him to ever have witnessed many insects as a human, but he thought the analogy still stood, especially since he had stolen it from one of Devin’s poems.

Was he shamelessly ogling Devin? Yes, and gleefully so. It’s not really like there was much else to do in the apartment, and if there was, his muscles were currently preventing him from doing much else but lounge. He had taken the painkillers about an hour ago, but that didn’t make his back any less stiff. Anyway, it was always interesting to watch him cook. True, Zhivago usually found the end product too vegetarian, but the man had such skill with a set of knives. He could have a bright future as a hit man, but that nasty pacifist thing got in the way. A shame too, what an interesting business they would have together. Devin could confuse the hell out of the targets, and he’d shoot them. Fun for everyone.

“That tomato looks like you’ve set a grenade to it. Demaine, that’s hardly the best you can do.” Zhivago had never gotten the hang of complements. Devin just snorted, and proceeded to chop into the fruit with even more gusto.

“Must you be such a b***h?” He sighed melodramatically. “Alas, I can never please you.”

“Now, now, watch your language. Such a bad influence. They’d have locked you in the stocks and let the crowd have a go at you in my day for such a dirty mouth.” Zhivago purred, hoping Devin would turn around, because he wasn’t quite done staring at his backside yet.

“I have read Ruberian literature of your time, and the language was enough to make Natasha blanch. And, to speak of bad influences…my dear Yuri, with all of the paid murder, all the stirring up of animosity between the undead and the mortal, the arson, the grievous injuries, the death threats, the mind games, and all the completely gratuitous sex, you’re the epitome of bad influences. There, I do believe you’ve just been owned.” Devin gave a smug smirk -an expression which rarely passed over his face as he believed that arrogance was detrimental to enlightenment- and resumed his cooking, knives flashing with an almost manic gleam. Honestly, owned? Who above the age of fourteen still said that?

“I very distinctively remember you enjoying the last one,” Zhivago said, resuming his observation of Devin’s back. He had some nerve to speak of gratuitousness when he was working without a shirt on for no good reason. On second thought, any reason why Devin hadn’t a shirt was a good reason. Still, even when only half-dressed, he hated it when he was smug, if just a little. It wasn’t right, it didn’t fit, it just reminded him of how nebulous Devin was. The only constant thing about him was his skin, and even that he sometimes talked about changing. The man wore a mask of sedate happiness, a bit eccentric, a bit out of it, but mostly okay. It was cracked, and sometimes Zhivago got a passing glimpse of what laid restless under it, something eerie and desperate in its solitude, a something that was almost wholly inconstant with what he normally was or pretended to be. Almost vampiric, really, he sometimes was, and something that never failed to both startle and impress Zhivago. Was that the real reason he had grown to love Devin? He didn’t know, and anyway, why was he thinking of something so depressing anyway? There was a half naked man making him breakfast and he wasn’t going to mentally undress himself. “Speaking of completely gratuitous sex, maybe-”

“No,” Devin said sharply before he could finish his sentence. The knife reduced a cucumber to strips and came to rest. “In a few days, perhaps, but you must think of more important things, like rest and blood. That boy you sent informed me you collapsed after a few steps, you came here to beg me for medication, and you have spent the last hour complaining about how sore your back is, in between the snide comments about my taste in music and ability to cook. I know firsthand that vampires can be far more amorous than humans, but really now.”

“Then why,” Zhivago growled, sounding not so much a fearsome vampire as a little boy who‘s been told that no, he can‘t stay up late and watch TV. “why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“Oh, that, I forgot about that. Some punk threw a Kiki at me.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with your shirt?”

“It was covered with ink.”

“…Then why didn’t you put another one on?”

“…”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did.”




It was something that Zhivago didn’t like to think about, because death was always in relation to humans, most of whom counted as “its” and not people. His own final death was as far off to him as the sky and maybe even farther. He figured that it had to happen sooner or later, especially considering his line of work and certain exes that wouldn’t think twice about ramming a stake into his chest, but deep down, he still harbored a naïve belief that he’d live forever. It was a silly human condition. Most of them would lie down and just stop breathing, something he considered anticlimactic at best. Then there were the ones who died of their own stupidity, and he figured those ones had it coming. The only deaths that mattered to him were the endings of his prey. A bite on the neck, a slash of the claw, he drew the process out and that was all it took to exterminate them. Why should bodies so flimsy be allowed to continue?

But he had allowed himself to get involved with humans, and now there was the whole matter of Devin, something he didn’t want to think about but unfortunately had to. Devin, he liked him, maybe even loved him. His affection for the strange man was reasonless: he doubted if he would ever really find him physically attractive, the basis for most human relationships, and he found his beliefs most of the time to be weird and out of touch with reality. It sickened him to think that he had let this pointless flirtation get to him, made him kill things in retaliation. But he still followed him to the tower. He still took care of thieves and thugs for the man. He still kissed him. Zhivago still was fond of him, though he tried not to be, and he was going to die in fifty years or so.

Devin, true to form, brought the subject up suddenly one night. Zhivago lay in the nest of a bed, relishing the cool of the night air against his chest and the warmth of Devin’s body against his own. He half-wanted to get up, partly because it almost felt like a betrayal to his cause to lie with a human, but also because Devin was downright spiky in weird places. Still, it was sort of nice, and anyway he supposed that he oughtn’t awaken the man. Human males had to sleep after intercourse, was that not correct? That was what he had often heard, anyway. It was something he should know, having once been human albeit years ago, but it was one of those little things that he could never remember very clearly, like what the weaker vision was like and how having a cold felt.

Perhaps he could compromise, just move to the other half of the bed. Surely that wouldn’t awake the man, and he wouldn’t feel as guilty about sleeping with a human if the aforesaid human wasn’t practically on top of him. But then there was the whole matter of Devin’s hands: one still resting on the fabric of his briefs, the other half hidden in his hair. What was he, his goddamn teddy bear? Yes, yes he was, and how completely undignified. Good gods, he was Vladimir Von Helson’s personal hit man, not some cuddly little human brat to pet and fondle and...cuddle. In fact, he found the whole business detrimental to his ego.

But on the other hand, why bother? Zhivago had taken a sword to his chest: a few piercings poking into his back wouldn’t kill him. Besides, as much as he disliked the thought of such intimate proximity to a human, it wasn’t entirely loathsome. Devin radiated heat like a desert and it did feel rather nice. Also, if the location of that hand was a clue, they might have sex again when he finally woke up, and the act itself was a rather enjoyable thing. It was all the moral predicaments and occasionally offspring that came after that he disliked. Deciding whether to roll over in bed ought not to be such a difficult decision, but Zhivago found it harder every second. Luckily or perhaps unluckily, the whole problem would resolved itself shortly.

“Hey, are you asleep?” Devin whispered, so quiet that Zhivago didn‘t quite know if he had spoken at all. “Yura?”

“Don’t call me that, Demaine. It’s Zhivago,” He hissed, hating that dreadful nickname. The only people still living who dared call him Yura Andreyevitch were Devin and Edmund, and one of them hopefully wouldn’t be calling him that much longer. The name belonged to a foolish human from decades past, and time and Vladimir Von Helson both effectively purged any trace of that unfortunate creature. The name Zhivago brought infinitely more respect and fear, which he had found to be more or less the same thing. Of course, very hard it is to be fearsome when you are only in your underwear and have your lover clinging to you like a starving remora. Devin made no apologies for the offense, but he very rarely apologized for mistakes that meant anything. Zhivago supposed that he just never felt very sorry or maybe he just wasn’t aware when apologies were in order. Either one was equally possibly, and probably both at the same time.

“I was thinking…I suppose everyone thinks about it, but the answer is forbidden for most, and you might remember…at least I think you ought to know. My knowledge of the whole vampiric process is sort of lacking, alas, and maybe you wouldn’t. In fact, maybe you didn’t really and they just say that’s what happens when you turn, but I thought, I thought maybe you could tell me. Please.” Most every word Devin said was succinct, often strange and perplexing, but it always seemed clear to him at least. That, however, wasn’t. It seemed almost an attempt to avoid the whole matter he had brought up.

“Say it,” Zhivago ordered. The other man fell silent, till he thought that perhaps he had just been talking in his sleep. At last though, he spoke again, if grudgingly.

“How’s dying?”

“Shut up,” Zhivago snarled, tearing out of Devin’s arms in a flash. No, no, no, he was not going to bring that up now of all times, b*****d. Devin stiffened against the bed, eyes wide with fear, and heart racing like prey’s. Damn, he scared him, didn’t he? Zhivago suddenly felt like someone poured ice water into his soul. Devin wasn’t for yelling at, even if a human.

“I’m sorry,” Devin whimpered, entirely too pitiful for someone so large. That ice water turned into a glacier. “I’m sorry, I should have…Zhivago, please, I’m sorry.”

“Devin, stop sniveling, I won’t hurt you.” By the tenseness of his body, the man remained utterly unconvinced. That was the trouble about being with people you once tried to kill: they never can forget that you tried to kill them. Damn, damn, and damn, how to make this better? Zhivago still didn’t quite understand how the man worked. If this sort of thing happened with Edmund, then Zhivago could always just throw the nearest blunt object at his head to make it better, but Devin was a very different beast than Edmund, and anyway, trying to kill him probably wasn’t a very healthy response to the situation. Emotions had never been his forte, except maybe wrath. Zhivago was very good at being angry, but sensitivity was something he usually found better off repressed. Nevertheless, he had to do something or another. Touching, that pleased humans, no? Zhivago tentatively caressed the man‘s arm, half expecting him to snap and bite him. But Devin wasn’t Zhivago, and so no wounds were to be had. It appeared to have an effect at any rate. The man relaxed, though his eyes still had a frantic look to them. “…Do you want me to go?”

Another excruciating minute passed, and then Devin finally spoke up.

“No, just don’t do that. You reminded me of…well, it doesn’t matter. I take it that death’s a touchy subject for you?” Touchy? That was one way to put it. His own death was without a doubt the most horrifying experience in his life, and the thought of a certain other’s death haunted him in the bright hours.

“It’s not the sort of thing I like to talk about in bed or out,” Zhivago muttered.

“I didn’t know. Forgive me for bringing it up.” Devin said with the airs of someone in confession. His hand tightened on his arm. Perhaps he could fix this yet.

“What exactly do you want to know?” He said, though it pained him.

“Everything. One way or another, it shall happen eventually.”

Where to start? Dying was, contrary to popular belief, not a romantic process at all. It was messy, it was painful, it was hell. None of that “light at the end of the tunnel” nonsense, only slow suffocation and the knowledge that though his sire fed at his neck, Yuri Andreyevitch was utterly alone. Two bites to the throat, no more, no less, killed him: one to get at the delicious blood, the other to let in blood of a different sort. He feared the bites the most in the days before he had undergone the transformation. Yura had allowed certain vampires of the Zhivago coven to drink from him before, but they had caused the necessary wounds with a brief flick of the knife or a quick jab with a needle: never with their own fangs, lest their pet accidentally turn before a proper education. Teeth, even the sharp fangs of vampires, were entirely different: they left deeper marks and required to be under his skin far longer.

The biting, it turned out, he shouldn’t have feared so much as what came after. His sire came down swiftly on his neck, wasting no time on trivial matters such as reassuring his very apprehensive progeny-to-be. Quicker than flies, the elder Zhivago removed his fangs, and set out to lap up the gush of lifeblood in a way that would have almost been sensual if not for the people involved and the rivulets of red. And the bite did hurt, as did the one that soon followed, terribly at first, but there came a time, surely hours later, that he became numb. That was then he knew that he had been lied to again, and that was the last thing he knew before the world bled into grey. After that, time meant nothing, because everything seemed to happen at once and over a course of a hundred years.

Rhythmic spasms, an uncontrollable shiver. Warmth leaked out of his wounds, replaced by the painful chill of blood foreign. The noise of the coven home sharpened into silence, vision becoming clear with the sights of nothing. Something tightened around his throat, and though each moment he breathed less and less, the air burned more and more, yet still he couldn’t get warm. And his heart, it beat and beat and beat, faster and faster, and drowned out the rest of the waning world, even the seizures and the shudders. So fast, such a relief if it would only stop. Then it did.

“For starters,” Zhivago said impassively. “the whole business is vastly overrated…”




He was right. The food was entirely too vegetarian, and too mysterious. Zhivago prodded a bizarre yellow object curiously with his fork, wondering if it was a fruit or vegetable. He had solid evidence for the fruit side, but at the same time, it was about the same color as squash. Besides, what sense did it make to put fruit in salad? Zhivago didn’t count the peculiar conglomerations of lettuce and berries found in gourmet restaurants as salads so much as rather unappetizing table decorations. Then again, it seemed like something Devin would do. A misfit fruit alone in a mess of hostile vegetables, a quaint ode to the human condition or something artsy like that. He wouldn’t put it past the man to sneak psychology into breakfast. Zhivago stabbed the yellow thing harder. This time it wasn’t an effort to discover the true nature of his breakfast, but rather because he was bored and wanted to see if it would explode with juice. Disappointingly, it remained intact, if a bit holey. Fruit was only amusing if there was a risk of temporary blindness. He supposed that he could end the mystery and just eat the thing, but where was the fun in that? There were only so many amusing things Zhivago could think to do that didn’t involve weapons or a lack of clothing.

“I say, this thing looks a bit like a jaundiced eyeball, doesn’t it?” He remarked blithely, jabbing the object in question with manic glee. “You know, I’ve heard rumours of you being a resurrectionist. Interesting business, that is, but it’s far more fun to get the bodies in the ground than to dig them back out again.”

“You just killed tomatoes for me,” Devin said stonily. A tomato, was it? Interesting colour for one, hopefully it wasn’t poisonous. Devin had finally gotten the hang of preparing food that wouldn’t kill a vampire, but that didn’t mean he was infallible. Besides, men who regularly forgot their shirts should probably not be trusted to make life or death culinary decisions. Zhivago flicked the offending fruit at his lover.

“Being an invalid gives you the right to loiter, not litter,” Devin said, chasing after the wayward tomato. “And especially not with something so sacred as food.”

“Of course,” He muttered, biting back the urge to say something properly vexing in response. He didn’t quite consider salad food, but rather a graveyard of vegetable corpses. He had a feeling that would get under Devin’s skin, but there was always the risk that he might give up on the rest of the food groups. A patronizing lover was better than a dead one, and anyway, it didn’t seem like a good idea to anger people who let him crash in their beds.

“The body,” Devin continued “is a temple, and you should not throw away the offerings meant for the altar. Furthermore, it is blasphemous to let the temple fall into disrepair because of lack of holy water.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Zhivago drawled, stabbing another mystery vegetable. Damn, he could have sworn that man had only cut up tomatoes and cucumbers, and he knew both didn’t come in purple. Devin sighed in the way of a parent attempting to reason with a frustrating child, and slumped at Zhivago’s side.

“You, you are a very concrete person, do you know that? It makes me ill, even if you can not help it. One would like to think you got some sense of metaphor in all your years, but alas, none. Very well, it’s simple. You fail at taking care of yourself.”

“Are you insulting me?” Devin looked affronted.

“I can not help it if that is the truth. If you were so much pain as you said, then you should have come here earlier. You are prideful, yes, but that shouldn’t get in the way of your health.”

“Oh, I see now. Not insulting, lecturing. I liked the first idea better.”

“Do you think it is so wrong that I don‘t want you dead? You are busy always, I know that, and it must have been nightmarish after your boss died, but you should have found enough time to come see me, or at least visit a real doctor. They can actually do something for you than just tossing you some pills.”

“Real doctors won’t see me,” said Zhivago. “and I don’t trust them anyway. What could they do for me, eh? Nothing, that’s what. You don’t go to hospitals either.”

“That’s totally different. Too much death in the air makes a man crazy, and the last thing I need to be is institutionalized.” Zhivago was not sure he would be able to tell the difference between a mad Devin and a sane one. “They could fix your back, for one, and then you could go out and steal blood. I know that’s one of your few enjoyments, and you need to badly.”

“Thought you didn’t like that little fact about vampiric life? Thought you wanted me to stop?” Zhivago smiled, his eyes challenged. Devin, on the other hand, was far more direct in his emotions. A slight furrowing of the brow, a shrug of the shoulders, something in his eyes that spoke of despair.

“I don’t feed my snakes apples. I don’t like it, but you shouldn’t force an animal to do what is against its basic instincts. You said there was a child on the way here, looked like an orphan?”

“So? Did you want me to kill it?”

“Yes,” Devin said coldly, that look of sadness eclipsed by the fierce and forbidding vampireness that never failed to stun and impress Zhivago. “No one would have missed it or even noticed it was gone. And you turned down a perfect kill for what, so that I could feel better about you or something stupid like that? Because I told you, I don’t feed my snakes apples. It doesn’t make you happy, it doesn’t make me happy.”

“I don’t care what you think about me,” Zhivago hissed. “The only reasons why I didn’t kill that brat was because it was too public and that thing looked anemic. I would have killed it, and I would enjoy every second.”

“Good, lions should always enjoy eating antelopes. Nothing good comes from suppressing the animalistic side.” Devin stated, sitting beside the other man. He found himself suddenly entranced by those carmine eyes, and how perfect they would look if the pupils were just a bit different. So predatory for a vegan. He would have liked to attack his neck with kisses right then and there, but he had a slight suspicion it wasn’t the right time. Naturally, Devin had to prove him wrong then and there with a divine brush of lips against his scar. “And don’t lie, please. You care very much about my perception.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m completely indifferent about your thoughts.”

“Must you be so argumentative? I’m sorry, but that’s the reason I will never love you. Never, never, never. That’s the one vice I can never admire in a person. I‘ve never really liked you, to be honest,” Devin said sharply. Wait, what? What? He couldn’t possible mean that, simply couldn’t. He better not have meant it. Devin couldn’t be as harsh as that. Could he? He suddenly found that he couldn’t answer that question. Goddamn it, Zhivago thought he had finally found someone who wouldn’t kill him and he could admit to loving, at least to himself.

“What do you mean, Demaine, what do you mean you don’t love me? What the hell do you mean by that?” Devin laughed, only increasing Zhivago’s burning desire to rip apart someone, anything.

“See, there, you do care, silly thing. And I do. Love you, I mean. It’s utterly irrational, I know, and I hope you won’t take offense at that. You’re sadistic, you’re a mass murder, you’re ill-tempered, everything I should have learned to avoid by now, but you don’t hurt me and you’re interesting. Do you realize that? You are a very interesting person, and not just because of the vampirism. Oh, I’m starting to monologue, aren’t I? Yeah, I am. So there, it’s all cool.”

“You,” Zhivago hissed. “are an absolute a*****e. Don’t do that ever again.”

“I promise if you behave and learn how to take some teasing, so I imagine that I‘ll do it again very soon. Now, I was making a point somewhere and it went on a walk. Right, blood. You need it. If you‘re not ravenous now, you‘ll probably be tomorrow.”

“And what do you propose? I told you, I couldn’t hunt, still can’t. Are you going to go out and bring me back a tasty little morsel, is that it?” In fact, Zhivago had a vague feeling that was what Devin was proposing. There was still something predacious about him that was wholly inconsistent with how he normally presented himself.

“I can’t offer you that,” Devin said. “I have only myself to give, and I hope that is a suitable gift.”

“You want me to…kill you?”

“I much prefer living. Death isn’t necessary, I don’t think. You let others taste you, and you’re still alive a little. I don’t need all of this blood, and you do.”

“I could lose control, I could kill you. No. Absolutely not.” Devin wasn’t food. Once he had tried to kill him, but that was a long time ago and before he knew Devin was Devin.

“I have nothing to fear from death. And I could, you know, come back. I wouldn’t be me exactly, but I could come to terms with vampirism….and if I found that impossible, Edmund could change me back.”

“Please, just stop. You’re you, I won’t hurt you,” Zhivago said. Why did that man have to be so damn persuasive? And, truth be told, there was nothing he wanted more than Devin by his side forever more.

“It would be an infinite honor. And remember? A million little Devin atoms mixing with a million little Yuri atoms.”

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you? Very well,” said Zhivago. "But this was your idea, remember that."




The first time Zhivago met Devin, he tried to kill him. It was nothing personal, he was just there. That was how most things in life start, a fact that shouldn’t be thought about too much, lest one embraces Nihilism. After that, things got a lot more personal and a lot less violent. But one time, Zhivago finally killed Devin and this time it was personal. He didn’t mean to at first, honestly, but when he realized that he was dying, he had to speed up the process. The crucial part was that the thing that would finally kill Devin would be the thing that also brought him back. Whether or not he would be the same once he came back remained unknown.

But Zhivago liked to think that whatever happened, it would be okay. Either Devin would embrace undeath or he’d run for the cure the first chance he got. Whichever way, he'd find a way to be happy, surely he would...although Zhivago fully intended to keep him a vampire as long as possible. The man in question lay sleeping. Good, dawn was coming soon, and Zhivago liked to know that he actually did rest sometime. He was a little thinner, his fangs had started to form, and he clutched the sheets tighter than any human possibly could, but Devin still looked as much like himself as ever sleeping. Zhivago would watch him throughout the day and the night too, though his body screamed for sleep and more pills. It was contrary to everything he had been lectured about hours earlier, but Devin was his temple and he didn‘t want his temple to fall. He’d understand when he awoke surely, and if not, there’d be time to talk it over. Forever, in fact.




...Right?