You wake shivering. Your eyes flutter open only to be met with a darkness you haven't adjusted to. The room is cold but there is a soft blanket laid over you, something you curl into once you consciously realize that it's an option, pulling it over your shoulder with a weak groan. Your body is sore enough that the small movement makes you wince. At least you are in a bed.
Wilbur.
You didn't know where he was, but even less so you didn't know where you were. Something creaks in the dark room, panicked eyes adjusting only to find a slowly spinning ceiling fan. You whine just slightly as you snake a hand up to your neck only to delicately run your fingertips over bites that this time you knew would be there. Part of you thinks you must be so weak to have given in to him and part of you craves his presence even now, a presence that was now achingly absent.
Wilbur.
Maybe you don't know anything about him, not really, just the lies he spun to get you close. It makes you nauseous for a split second, a feeling you push down. You want to know him, you want him to know you, even if, in part, he already does. You never bothered to lie, were always willing to be transparent.
That night when he meant to kill you, when he tried, but couldn't. A part of you broke.
You had wanted him to kiss you, had kissed him while drunk, and for him to be so cruel, to tease you with a death that would at least spare you the embarrassment. Wilbur had left you broken and you had crawled back to him on your knees, let him break you again.
Let him bite you.
A shuddering breath leads to tears as you exhale, hot droplets that burn the corners of your eyes and slowly slide down the slopes of your face as you stare into the darkness. You move, curl further in on yourself as you can't help but cry with a hand over your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.
You miss alcohol, the warm feeling of a shot, and the dizziness of drunkness. It's pathetic, whatever you've become.
A door creaks open and floods your form with a perfect triangle of warm light interrupted only by Wilbur's lanky shadow. You have nothing to save you, no stinging cross or whittled stake.
"Are you awake?" he whispers. He already can see you are but the words leave him gently as he notes the redness of your eyes and the wetness of your cheeks. You groan and he closes the door leaving the both of you in darkness. The bed is cold as you shift to a side and beg without words for something you shouldn't want at all. He crawls in beside you all the same, laying on top of the blanket and giving you enough distance that the both of you don't touch.
"Where are we?" you ask.
"My apartment, more specifically my bedroom," he says, and his eyes are closed when you dare to look at him. You swear there is more color in his skin even in the dark. Color brought on by blood he had drank from you. His brow twitches as he brings up his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose. It's only then do you notice the slight points of his ears, something so obvious that you had overlooked. He's a walking red flag, the epitome of a vampire.
"Am I dead yet?" you ask stupidly, another question, another thing to fill the cold space with anything but what needed to be asked, what needed to be talked about.
"No, god no, darling," he turns to you then, his pupils blown as they meet your gaze in the darkness. "I can hear your heart beating,"
"Have you always been able to? I mean I assume-" You cut yourself off and he hums.
"It's maddening, yes," he whispers and then he almost winces, a brief screwing up of his expression. "It's never been like this,"
He notes the tilt of your head, the confusion. He sighs.
