Chapter Text
"What do you mean, my fangs?" Carlos asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes to blink at his boyfriend in confusion. He'd laid down this afternoon to try to ease a burgeoning migraine; the next thing he knew the doorbell was waking him to find the room dark, sundown long past. He'd stumbled up to get the door before it registered that it was probably Cecil coming over after his show, and he could let himself in.
While the headache had faded, he was still disoriented from sleep. All the same, Carlos was fairly certain Cecil had never greeted him by saying his fangs looked lovely.
"There," Cecil said, pointing at Carlos's mouth. "They're an exquisite pair, let me say."
"What are you talking—ow!" Carlos reached up to his mouth, where something had cut his bottom lip.
"And sharp, too," Cecil said, in the same captivated tone with which he complimented Carlos's other features.
Carlos prodded his lip. It wasn't bleeding, but he did feel two sharp points, extending out of his mouth more than his overbite could account for. "Excuse me," Carlos said, leaving Cecil in the doorway while he ran to the bathroom. After making sure the door was shut and locked, he took the towel off the mirror.
Then stared. Slowly raised his hand to the glass, and kept staring.
Carlos's reflection failed to stare back. Primarily because he didn't have one. The mirror showed a faultless image of an empty bathroom.
Carlos looked down to verify his presence: hands, shirt, jeans, socks, all visually perceptible. But not apparently reflecting the proper quality of light for his looking glass.
Carefully he hung the towel over the mirror and went back to the living room, where Cecil was humming a polka to coax the TV remote out from under the futon.
"Cecil," Carlos said, "I have an important scientific inquiry. Can you see me?"
Cecil straightened up to study Carlos intently for a moment, then nodded. "You're looking beautiful as ever," he confirmed. "The points enhance your smile, if anything."
"I think there's something wrong with my mirror," Carlos said. "I'll have to run some tests."
"Oh?" Cecil asked. Before he could continue, Carlos grabbed Cecil's arm to pull him closer, staring deeply into his eyes.
Or, more accurately, staring into the reflections in Cecil's eyes. His lamp showed up clearly. Carlos himself did not. "A lot of tests," Carlos muttered.
"Carlos?" Cecil said. "You're pinching my arm."
"What? Oh!" Carlos let go, staring in shock at Cecil's wrist, circled in red and white strictures matching Carlos's fingers. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I was gripping that tightly—"
"It's all right," Cecil said. "Altered strength requires an adjustment period."
"Why would my strength be altered?"
Cecil was rubbing his wrist, but he gave Carlos a concerned look, as if Carlos were the injured party. "Carlos, do you know what happened to you today?"
"Today? Nothing in particular. Like I texted you, I went out to help the geologists and biologists explore the cave complex past the sand wastes. It's quite large; it looks like it might extend as far as Radon Canyon. And the biologists have already found several new species. There's a mega-bat, the largest Chiroptera seen in North America—"
"Yes, the bats," Cecil said, nodding. "And you encountered one of them? Its fangs, specifically?"
"Canines," Carlos corrected, "and yes, when we were tagging them, I got nipped. But it wasn't anything serious..." He trailed off, looked down at his hand and ripped the bandaid off his palm.
The marks underneath were barely evident, the scabs already healed into scars, as if they were weeks old, though they'd been an angry red when disinfected this afternoon. It had taken a minute to pry the bat off his hand, once it had sunk its teeth in. The bite hadn't hurt much—analgesic saliva, according to the biologists—but Carlos didn't care for being gnawed on, even in the name of science, and he'd been developing a headache. He'd called it a day for field work and went home to shower off the cave dust and change into a proper lab coat.
But by the time he'd gotten back into town, his head had been pounding terribly. He forgot about the shower, didn't even bother pulling the shades to block out the piercing sunlight, just buried his face in his futon and pressed a pillow over his head. And that was the last thing he remembered until Cecil had rung his doorbell.
His head didn't hurt anymore, and neither did his hand. On the other hand, when he pressed his fingers over his wrist he failed to locate any pulse. "Cecil," Carlos said, "are you telling me I was bitten by a Night Vale bat and now I'm becoming, what, a were-bat?"
"No," Cecil said, chuckling in a fond and only slightly condescending way. "A were-bat, what a silly idea! Therianthropes have the same mass in any form; how could a bat your size fly? No, you're becoming a vampire. Or have already become one, it seems."
"A...what?"
"A vampire—from a bat bite, no less, very old-school. I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of filing your change of status paperwork with city hall." Cecil paused. "...Do you know about vampires? Or are they like bloodstones and invisible architecture?—not that you're uneducated, of course! But there are shocking gaps in standard outsider curriculums..."
"No, I've heard of vampires," Carlos said slowly, considering. "I suppose that does explain the mirror. And the fangs..."
Or, technically, an extreme extension and sharpening of the maxillary cuspids; but Carlos had been in Night Vale long enough to call a fang a fang. Especially when he could slice his lower lip on them if he didn't take care talking.
The cuts didn't bleed, however, and he found they healed quickly. Experimentation revealed other benefits to his condition as well. If he didn't have the strength of ten men, it was at least two or three times increased; he could move a refrigerator or lift Cecil without much trouble, though he had to learn to be careful not to crack glass cups and beakers when he picked them up. And his vision was better than 20-20 for the first time in his life.
Sunlight now gave him awful migraines, so he switched to sleeping days and working nights. Since Cecil liked to sleep in anyway, he began staying up later after his show, to spend time with his boyfriend before Carlos went to work. He usually had the lab to himself now, unless one of his colleagues was suffering from insomnia. And no one on the science team was so gauche as to gossip about how their director now had eyes that glowed vivid green when they caught the light right, or canines to match a canine.
Cecil openly admired the new dentition on his show (Carlos recorded the daytime portions he slept through, to listen to during labwork), rhapsodizing about their gleaming crowns and refined points. "They're the perfect something extra to elevate that sculpted mouth from elegant, to a masterpiece worthy of being extracted and displayed in a museum," he would sigh, as Carlos rolled his eyes and suppressed a smile and refined his mathematical calculation of the line between flattering and unnerving.
For the first few days he only let Cecil admire from afar, not sure he could manage even their usual close-mouthed kissing without doing one of them injury. But given how Cecil was about his hair, Carlos wasn't surprised when he worked up the courage to ask to touch his teeth. He agreeably opened his mouth to let Cecil run a finger up and down the fangs.
Though he yanked back when Cecil gave a breathless yelp of pain, familiar from stubbed toes and pinched fingers. "Sorry, did you—"
"It's all right," Cecil said, inspecting the tiny crimson pearl of blood welling at the tip of his index finger. "I've gotten worse from papercuts and gremlins." He held his bleeding finger out to Carlos, casually asked, "Would you like a taste?"
Carlos recoiled as if Cecil were offering a slice of whole wheat bread. "What? No, of course not!"
"I'll just wash it off anyway; why waste it?"
"I don't want your blood!—At least not to drink; the biologists might like a plasma sample to compare with last month's—"
"But you're a vampire?"
"Not like that, apparently," Carlos said. "No thirst for blood here."
Cecil frowned at him. "Carlos, you shouldn't suppress your natural urges. —Or unnatural urges, for that matter; those tend to be even more trouble, if they go untended—"
"I'm not," Carlos said. "I don't have any bloodlust. It was one of the first things I tested; but no, blood smells as repellent to me as it ever did, and I'm sure it wouldn't taste any better. And I can consume regular food as before. It seems that part of the bat's, um, condition, didn't take."
Cecil was still frowning; but when Carlos offered to prove his appetite over dinner, he agreed.
Carlos was more grateful than surprised to be missing out on the traditional hunger of the undead. A general distaste for blood—among other bodily fluids—was one of the reasons he'd never studied biology extensively (a distaste for being bitten by random creatures was another reason, though in Night Vale that was moot.) It wasn't a phobia; he'd never fainted at the sight of gore. But he preferred blood, his own or other's, to stay on the inside where it belonged.
Cecil's attitude was more flexible; he prayed in a bloodstone circle like most upright Night Vale citizens and replenished the stones monthly without hesitation. Plus he'd lived through many more Night Vale Valentine's Days. So while he didn't press Carlos on the matter personally, he did fuss on the radio about his boyfriend's change in lifestyle, or lack thereof. "We're figuring out the mechanics of non-perforating kisses, and I can't say I mind the practice, dear listeners! But I do hope that Carlos can come to accept that such gorgeous teeth are meant for biting..."
Carlos found it endearing that Cecil would worry about him, in spite of his improved strength and healing and the rest. Though to keep it from getting out of hand—and deter Cecil from sharing every aspect of his life with the entire town—Carlos avoided giving his boyfriend more reasons for concern. He tried not to wince at bright lights around Cecil, or complain when he accidentally nipped his lips.
And he didn't mention it when he woke up one evening and found his vision had lost all color, as if he were living in a black and white movie. His acuity remained crisp and clear, but the color blindness did hamper driving to the lab, when he forgot whether a red light was on the top or the bottom; and the pH test strips he used for quick analyses were a loss.
The next night Carlos opted to avoid driving and work from home. He was feeling a little under the weather anyway, a tickle in his throat and joints aching with the onset of a cold. But surely his vampirically boosted immune system would make short work of a simple virus.
The night after that, he had dinner plans with Cecil, but Carlos overslept. Dinnertime was long past when he finally dragged himself out of bed. Swallowing water hurt his throat; he decided to make tea instead.
His phone rang just as the kettle started whistling. The combined noise was so excruciating that Carlos dropped to his knees on the floor, clapped his hands over his ears and shouted at them to shut up!
He was still on the floor an hour or so later—he wasn't sure how long, but the kettle finally stopped shrieking, having boiled off all the water. The phone had given up a little earlier. He'd bitten his fangs halfway through his bottom lip at its last earsplitting trill; there was no blood as usual, but it stung, if not as badly as his ears ached.
The silence helped ease that agony, but only for a moment before it was shattered by a deafening banging on his door. Carlos pressed his hands back over his ears and begged for quiet. Instead, the locks' tumblers crashed over the key, followed by footsteps thundering on the floor—apparently an elephant had come to call. An elephant with a booming baritone, that somehow didn't hurt quite as much as the rest, when it said, "Carlos? Oh, dear Carlos—"
Or maybe it was, Oh dear, Carlos; Cecil's inflection could be ambiguous.
Cecil took off his shoes, his stocking feet only hippopotamus-loud; though the shriek of tortured wood when he wrenched open the silverware drawer made Carlos curl into a fetal ball.
Then a hand touched his shoulder, and Cecil's remarkably un-agonizing voice murmured, "Carlos, here, please, open your mouth—"
Carlos reluctantly did, and jerked in painful surprise when the teaspoon banged against his fangs, ringing as loud as a gong inside his head. Then the spoon was past his lips, delivering a disgusting, warm, thick liquid that coated his tongue and dribbled down his unwilling throat.
He coughed—but the explosion of noise didn't hurt his ears; and when the spoon dropped out of his mouth, its clatter on the floor was reasonably painless. Carlos lowered his hands from his ears, cracked an eyelid to see Cecil squatting next to him, in full color again, his face screwed up in concern.
Carlos wrinkled his nose, working his tongue to clear off the nauseating metallic tang. "What kind of medicine—" he started to ask, then recognized the taste at the same time he noticed the paper towel Cecil had wadded over his finger.
Jumping to his feet, he grabbed an unwashed glass from the drainboard and filled it with tap water, not even checking its color before he washed his mouth out. "Blergh! Cecil, I told you, I don't want to drink your—"
"No, I told you," Cecil cut him off, in a tone Carlos had rarely heard from him in person and more associated with letters from Steve Carlsberg, "you have to listen to unnatural urges—"
"I don't have any urges!" Carlos cried. "Natural or unnatural!"
"Which is why you ended up so blood-starved that your beautiful brain nearly inverted itself?" Cecil said.
"Apparently, yes!"
"—Oh." Cecil rocked back on his heels, the irritation in his face lightening to puzzlement. "So you really don't want my blood? I thought you were refusing out of some misguided outsider etiquette."
"I'm pretty sure avoiding exsanguinating your boyfriend is good manners anywhere," Carlos said tartly. "But yes, I really don't want it. There are few things I can think of less appetizing than a mouthful of human hemoglobin."
Cecil looked disproportionately distressed by this revelation. "But according to the book—"
"What book?"
"I stopped by the library yesterday—or rather, woke up in the library last night—"
"You did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I haven't seen you since then. It was for work, there's a new read-or-die program. But as I was there anyway, before I fought my way out I took the opportunity to research vampires."
"Research?" Carlos repeated, a bit skeptically. It wasn't that he lacked faith in his boyfriend's scholarship, so much as in Night Vale in general.
"And from what I was reading, a vampire's mate is supposed to smell and taste delicious, like a dessert or an addictive drug—"
"...Cecil, what was this book called?"
"Ah, I don't recall the title, but it was a teenage girl's autobiography—the memoirs of one Isabella Swan?"
"Uh-huh. Remember what I told you about outsider fiction?"
"People actually write fiction about vampires?" Cecil said. "Whatever for? Though I suppose that does explain the implausible descriptions of mountains. Do you think the vampires were as poorly researched?"
"Likely even less so," Carlos said.
"But vampires do need to drink blood, whatever it tastes like," Cecil said. "Perhaps if you tried more, you could find what's palatable to you?"
"Hmm," Carlos said. "You have a point; I should carry out some experiments," and Cecil grinned to have inspired science.
Carlos's first stop was at the Night Vale Blood Bank, which looked startlingly like a traditional financial institution, but kept inverse hours. Which was likely because, he realized from the teller's toothy smile, its staff were vampires. Well, it made sense that they'd know the business.
His own smile worked wonders—Cecil wasn't the only Night Vale citizen to swoon at a prominent pair of fangs, and Carlos was willing to employ his location-specific charms in the name of scientific pursuit. He got a full selection of samples, A, B, AB, O; plus copper-based T and R; and a pouch labeled 31-Antartica that the teller slipped him under the counter with a wink, saying, "For our most special customers." (It was the same color and consistency as human blood, but seemed to move independently in the plastic pouch. Carlos left it in there with a mental note to burn it later.)
His first thought was intravenous delivery, but he was stymied trying to find a vein on his person. Which was in keeping with the biologists' observations that the mega-bat's circulatory system was vestigial, as well as the evidence of his own unbleeding lips and still heart. It seemed that vampires, ironically, had no blood of their own.
So ingestion it was. He tasted the various blood-types in a blind trial, squirting samples into sterilized teaspoons and recording his observations in a spreadsheet on his laptop. The scientific rigor didn't help, however; he couldn't choke down a single spoonful. As repulsive as warm, newly shed blood was, cold and stale was an order of magnitude worse. He doubted it could have much nutritional value anyway, with that taste.
So maybe it had to be fresh. There was a logical follow-up experiment, but Carlos hesitated, his metaphorical boot of science hovering over the figurative next step.
—And occasionally Cecil's habit of discussing Carlos's research on the air, often (coincidentally?) right at Carlos's eureka moments, led to a confusing mental echo effect, as if his thoughts were being narrated to the town just as he had them.
At last Carlos bit the figurative bullet and asked for a few blood donors among the science team. He was surprised but gratified by the number of his colleagues who showed up to volunteer their veins, but was disturbed by how many of them readily presented their wrists or necks on the spot, like they expected him to bare his fangs and bite—and were looking forward to it, by their expressions.
Some of them hadn't been in Night Vale long enough to account for suicidal behavior. The actual explanation didn't occur to Carlos until he caught two chemists with their heads together over a book—the same memoirs Cecil had been researching. Apparently in the absence of broodingly romantic vampires, lab-coat-wearing scientist vampires were a decent substitute.
Since Carlos wasn't positive how vampirism was spread, and personally had no desire to chew on anyone, he used hypodermic needles to draw samples via venipuncture. He dismissed the sample providers before any taste tests, in the name of objectivity, and to not offend his colleagues' generosity by spitting up their donations in front of them.
Fresh blood was...he drew the line at 'palatable'; but if he closed his eyes and swallowed fast, he could get it down. It needed to be less than an hour from the vein, so storage was out. And it had to be human; his stomach rejected other species' plasma. Even among the human samples, there were differences in taste from person to person, which he noted on a qualitative scale from "absolutely abhorrent" to "mildly revolting".
Fortunately there was a range of willing donors among the scientists—and the rest of the town, once Cecil accidentally-only-probably-on-purpose mentioned Carlos's predicament on his show. Further experiments proved that Carlos, if he ate real food regularly and drank plenty of water, could last three days before his vision lost color; and as little as a teaspoon of needle-drawn blood was enough to stave off the deprivation symptoms. So he was hardly in danger of sucking the town dry, and managing his condition was simply a matter of scheduling a regular rotation of donors.
Cecil was disappointed not to be included on this roster. "I can make myself available anytime..."
"That's not necessary," Carlos said. "There are enough volunteers for a six-month rotation and half a dozen extra for emergency coverage."
"But I don't mind—"
Carlos sighed and opened his spreadsheet. "I only included donors who fell within this range of the flavor spectrum," he explained, highlighting the "mildly revolting" rows.
Cecil scanned the list of names, then looked to Carlos, his face performing a three-act tragedy in two seconds. "But I'm not on there—does my blood taste that awful to you?"
"I'm sorry, Cecil," Carlos said. "It doesn't mean anything; taste is merely the chemical interaction of proteins with receptor cells on the palate. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you," and he closed his laptop and leaned over it to kiss Cecil, carefully around his fangs, as both apology and affirmation.
Meanwhile life in Night Vale continued as usual, given a value of 'usual' that wouldn't be accepted anywhere else. There was a puppy outbreak at the movie cinema; then a giant floating head over the scrublands, and after that the deadly sidewalk cracks. Carlos and his team were kept busy researching and occasionally saving the town, day and night.
With so much to do, it was only of passing note to Carlos when he started needing his glasses again for close work. And he'd finally mastered the trick of not slicing open his lip on his own teeth, so he only realized his rapid healing had slowed when he twisted his ankle running from an ox-sized basilisk. It was annoying when moonlight started to give him headaches, almost as bad as the solar-induced migraines; he ended up staying in bed for three nights come the next full moon.
Cecil brought him tea and aspirin (Night Vale's own FDA had yet to approve any other over-the-counter painkillers, and Cecil knew that Carlos didn't trust the wide variety of under-the-counter pills), massaged Carlos's neck and looked concerned. "It's just a headache; I'm not turning into a werewolf," Carlos joked, but Cecil went out and bought wolfbane garlands from the Ralph's to festoon both their bedrooms. Apparently while vampires were no big deal, lycanthropes were serious business. Or maybe Cecil was just worried about changes to Carlos's hair.
Carlos himself had bigger concerns. Such as arriving at the lab one night to find equipment smashed and tables overturned.
Cecil, who had come along to observe some science, looked at the piles of broken glass and inquired brightly, "Oh, are you redecorating?"
Carlos resisted the urge to kick half a shattered flask at him. "Not by choice," he said through gritted teeth. "I thought you said that secret police raids weren't scheduled for another two weeks."
"Ah, that," Cecil said, fetching a dustpan and squatting next to him. "I don't think this was the police. There were a few reports of a black helicopter over Big Rico's this evening—no one actually attested to seeing it land, of course, but who would?"
"Black? But why would the world government care about my research? I haven't seen any vague but menacing unmarked vans parked outside for months."
"Possibly it was at the behest of the local cabal," Cecil said, and then at Carlos's quizzical look, clarified, "The county's vampire cabal? You have paid your monthly membership dues, haven't you?"
"My what? To the what?"
Cecil muttered under his breath something uncomplimentary about outsider education, then explained, "The nation's vampires have an extensive network of cabals. Mostly to handle legal issues, I think. They're not very involved in Night Vale, but you should probably register. This might've been a simple introductory raid."
When Carlos thought back, he did remember receiving a packet in the mail inviting him to take advantage of an exclusive opportunity for people like him. He'd assumed it was another offer from the International Association of Generic Science. "They ransacked my lab because I neglected to sign up for the vampire rotary club?"
"Probably," Cecil nodded. "Unless any of your research could impact vampiric interests."
"Vampiric interests..." Carlos swore and ran for the refrigeration unit in the corner. Its lock still appeared intact, as were its contents. He sighed in relief and closed it up tight again.
Cecil didn't ask, just cheerfully helped sweep up the debris and set the tables upright. Though he frowned when Carlos asked for a hand carrying the dustbin of scrap out to the dumpster. "You can't manage it yourself?"
"My, uh, I wrenched my shoulder moving that table," Carlos covered, rather than admit that his strength barely exceeded a regular human's anymore.
Cecil didn't reply, just reached over to open Carlos's lab coat and yank up his sweatshirt.
"Hey!" Carlos glared, shoving the sweatshirt down again with his elbow.
"You've lost weight," Cecil said.
"It's just your imagination," Carlos said, pushing the bin towards the door.
Cecil followed him. "Your belt's a couple notches in."
"It's okay, I needed to lose a few pounds."
"No you didn't."
"What, am I too skinny to be perfect?" Carlos said, going for teasing but it came out harsh, by Cecil's abrupt silence. "—Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. But really, I'm fine."
"You don't appear fine," Cecil said, without further amendment, which was abnormal even by Night Vale standards. A month before the vampire bat attack, Carlos had had the flu, and Cecil had with complete honesty assured him that a sheen of fever-sweat perfectly complemented his complexion.
Carlos stopped wrestling with the dustbin to look at his boyfriend. Cecil's lips were pulled down, tight and unhappy. "Hey," Carlos said awkwardly. "I told you, I'm sorry; I'm just on edge tonight."
"Every night—you've been short-tempered all week," Cecil said, not unkindly but matter-of-fact. He cupped Carlos's cheek, giving him a look of such unvarnished fondness that Carlos's temper, however short, couldn't survive it. "I'm not upset, I'm concerned. You look...not as healthy."
Carlos ran an uneasy hand through his hair, though that wasn't where Cecil was looking for once. "How so?" While Carlos had never cared enough about his appearance to be bothered by his lack of a reflection, it did impede self-examination.
Cecil studied his face, brushing the tender skin under Carlos's eyes with his fingertip. "You've got bigger bags here than usual. And you're wan."
"I'm a vampire," Carlos reminded. "Pallor is part of the image. And I haven't been sleeping well lately, but that'll pass, it always does."
"And you're wearing a sweatshirt under your labcoat."
"It's a cool night." Lately the lab had been getting downright freezing, even for the desert; he'd been meaning to check for microclimate variations. Though Cecil was only in short sleeves now, Carlos noted, despite his usual sensitivity to chills.
"Have you been eating enough?" Cecil asked.
Carlos rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm eating. And yes, I'm drinking blood regularly, every three days; do you want me to show you the calendar?"
"Are you sure that's enough? Most vampires feed daily..."
Carlos grimaced at his stomach's queasy twisting. "It's enough for me; I doubt I could manage more. Besides, it may soon be a moot point."
"Oh?"
Carlos brought Cecil over to the refrigerator. The hum of its cooling coils tended to interfere with the secret police's listening devices. He took out one of the test-tubes of samples to show Cecil. "This might be what the cabal was after. I'm working with the biologists to develop an antidote."
Cecil examined the test-tube with polite incomprehension. "An antidote for what?"
"For the bat-bite. After everything else in this town, the cure for vampirism can't be too hard to crack," Carlos explained. "These compounds are almost ready to test. It's why I've been so busy lately."
"I see." Cecil brightened. "A cure, how interesting!"
"So you won't mind? If I become human again?" Carlos asked. "I thought you might be disappointed if I lost the fangs..."
Cecil smiled at him, looking him in the eyes, and not the eyeteeth. "They do give you a distinguished look, but your old teeth were perfectly lovely as well. And if this is the science you want to do, of course you should!"
The biologists had collected a number of mice, trapped near the mega-bat cave, that exhibited unusual hardiness, carnivorous tendencies, and telltale dentition. They were fed a steady diet of other mice, and occasionally increased their population by converting rather than killing their prey.
Carlos borrowed some of these subjects to test his possible cures. Compounds 1 through 16 were busts. Lucky 17—Carlos always had the best luck with primes, and since arriving in Night Vale had come to rely on this superstition rather than discount it—initially showed promise. The vampire mice injected with the chemical exhibited a reduction in tooth length and sharpness, and were no longer light-adverse. Moreover, a stethoscope detected the rapid patter of tiny rodent hearts once again pumping blood, their circulatory systems miraculously restored.
There were, unfortunately, side effects. For one, the mice's fur turned emerald green. Also they all died within forty-eight hours of reverting, for no reason that Carlos could determine. The compound was non-poisonous; the bloodtests came back clean, and the bodies showed no signs of physical infirmity. It was as if their hearts simply gave up and quit.
"Perhaps they were celebrating their restored mortality," Cecil suggested. He stopped by the lab every night after his show to ask about Carlos's progress, enthusiastic no matter how snappishly Carlos answered.
Which was, Carlos was ashamed to admit, more often the case than not. He still wasn't sleeping well. Though he was in bed the entire time the sun was up, hours longer than he'd ever slept as a mortal man, his repose was restless, tossing and turning. When he slept alone he was cold, but when Cecil shared the bed it was too hot. He woke every evening with his head aching, even with the blackout curtains drawn tight.
The insomnia upset his concentration and made it difficult to focus on his work, which didn't improve Carlos's temper any. The other scientists quit showing up at the lab at night at all; even the late-night staff at Big Rico's stopped trying to make small-talk with him. Only Cecil was undeterred.
Carlos would've been more grateful for his company if Cecil hadn't also continued to throw him worried looks like he was practicing for the Olympics fretting team. On the radio he'd soliloquize, "When someone you care about is suffering, it's difficult not to be able to help. Even when they deny wanting any assistance, their need can call to you in a louder voice, just as the light of a dying star is bright enough to shine through any curtain we draw in a vain effort to sleep through the night..."
"I'm not suffering," Carlos told Cecil. "You make me sound like some sort of undead invalid."
"But you do look ill," Cecil said. "Your face is getting pinched—and while your cheekbones are admittedly spectacular, I'd rather not have everyone in town seeing them so clearly."
"Then maybe you should stop talking about me on your show! This evening Herschel and Megan Wallaby showed up at my door with a tureen of liquefied chicken—not soup; a whole chicken. Head and feet and all. And they were sure to tell me that they didn't drain any of the blood after plucking it."
"Did you try it?"
"No!" At Cecil's anxious look Carlos took a deep breath, lowered his voice and said, "Animal blood isn't an option anyway."
"Don't drink it, then," Cecil said. "There are plenty of people willing to give blood for a cause as worthy as you—you can have as much as mine as you want—"
"Cecil, I don't want any of your blood! Or anybody else's!"
"Have you talked with other vampires about this?" Cecil asked.
"You mean the cabal?" Carlos had dutifully mailed a registration form and check to the county seat, and otherwise was taking even more care to conceal and encrypt his research. His lab hadn't been raided again, at least. "They didn't exactly seem interested in friendly collaboration."
"How about the other vampires in town? You're not the only citizen who's been bitten."
"I know," Carlos said. "There's the blood bank employees."
"I was thinking Club the Impaler," Cecil said. "You know, that discotheque down on Ouroboros?"
Carlos did not know it, and was momentarily distracted by Cecil saying 'discotheque' with a straight face. "It's where most of the local vampires hang out," Cecil explained. "Maybe some of them have the same problem with blood, and could give you advice? I'm sure they'd be happy to help out; everyone there is very friendly."
"And you know this how?" Carlos asked, mostly for the chance to make Cecil blush and mumble things like misspent youth.
Given how accommodating Cecil was being with his lousy moods, Carlos didn't have much choice but to humor him. Besides, he wasn't having any success with compounds 18 through 21. So the next evening he drove over to Club the Impaler.
Carlos arrived just as the doors were opening. The sharp-toothed bouncer waved him past the crowd waiting in front, saving him from the young women in line who gazed raptly at his fangs, fanning themselves.
He left the club an hour later and went to Cecil's. "So how'd it go?" Cecil asked as he let Carlos in.
Carlos shuddered. "Have you ever had blood wine?"
Cecil wrinkled his nose. "Unfortunately, yes."
"It's vile. I didn't think cold congealing blood could be any more disgusting, but mixed with enough spirits to actually ferment—"
"Here," Cecil said, going to his drinks cupboard and splashing a healthy dose of armagnac into a glass. "Get the taste out."
Carlos barely resisted the urge to swish the blessedly blood-free liquor like mouthwash. He settled for taking long sips instead, exhaling between them a heartfelt, "Thank you."
Cecil brought the bottle along as they moved to the couch. "How was it otherwise?"
"Not as bad as the wine," Carlos said, grimacing and taking another gulp of brandy. "But almost. They all wore black. And a lot of eyeliner. And they were all so young; I must have had at least ten years on the oldest person there."
"Likely it only appeared like you did," Cecil said. "Some of the regulars have been going there since the club was founded, over sixty years ago; they just were younger when they were bitten."
Carlos groaned. "So I'm old to have even become a vampire? That's not any better. It might be worse." Cecil helpfully refilled his glass in sympathy.
Sometime later that night, Carlos had relocated from the couch to the floor. The carpet was thick and comfy and less trouble to balance on. It was easier to stretch out his legs and sprawl, head tipped back against the couch cushions, admiring the slow sway of the lights overhead as he complained, "And none of 'em's heard of anything like my predimikent—perdicklemint—my problem. Everybody else loves blood. Guess I'm just a really bad vampire..."
He tried to take a consoling drink, only his glass was empty. When he reached for the brandy to remedy that, the bottle tipped over before he could catch it. Fortunately there were only dregs left, not enough to spill on the rug. But the reaching tipped him over as well, the couch sneakily sliding out from behind his back.
Before he ended up on the floor, he butted up against a warm body, warm arms wrapping around him. Carlos blinked up at Cecil. "Hi," he said.
"Hi, Carlos," Cecil said, as warm as his arms.
"Have any more brandy?"
Cecil smiled down at him. "Maybe save some for another night?"
"Mm, maybe," Carlos lazily agreed. It had done its job, anyway; he couldn't remember the taste of...whatever he wasn't supposed to remember tasting. Something awful enough to deserve forgetting.
Though drinking to forget wasn't really his thing; they'd talked about this—"Cecil?"
"Carlos?" Cecil replied, tenderly. He shifted Carlos in his arms, so Carlos was propped against his shoulder, his nose brushing the soft bare skin of Cecil's neck.
He breathed in, smelling static and purple and shadow and other things that shouldn't have scents at all. "Hmm," Carlos remarked, distracted. "I like how you smell."
"I like how you smell," Cecil said, combing his fingers through Carlos's hair. "I like you."
"I like you too," Carlos said, inhaling Cecil again, not just the impossible aromas but the warmth, too. He was so chilly all the time, even now with the brandy's heat and Cecil's arms around him.
"If you like me," Cecil said softly, "then why don't you taste me? Just a little nip," and he twisted so his neck met Carlos's lips, scraping the protruding canines.
"I shouldn't," Carlos mumbled, but he was feeling too loose and relaxed to pull back, and couldn't think of why he'd want to anyway. He really did like the scent on Cecil's skin. It might be as good under as well. He opened his mouth, letting the fragrant warmth flow over his tongue as he pressed his fangs a little deeper.
"Yes," Cecil crooned, low and encouraging. He arched his neck against Carlos's mouth invitingly, and maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. Or maybe Carlos just hadn't been this drunk since his undergrad years. Either way he was thirsty, and there wasn't any more brandy.
He bit down, and for a second it was as satisfying as the first bite of a perfectly ripe plum, his teeth breaking the tender skin, with the juice beneath surging—
Then it hit his tongue, hot and coppery and nauseating; and Cecil's breath caught in a suppressed yelp of pain.
Carlos shoved Cecil away and threw himself backwards, ending up sprawled on his side on his elbows. He stared blearily at Cecil, kneeling with his shirt unbuttoned and blood trickling down his bare chest from the two punctures in his neck. Cecil covered the wounds with one hand, reached out to Carlos with the other, asking worriedly, "Carlos—?"
"I—I'm going to be sick," Carlos said, and vomited up a mouthful of blood and a wasteful amount of Cecil's best brandy. The only reason it didn't ruin the rug was because Cecil quickly made a circling motion with his hand, muttering an incantation, and a small vortex opened up right under Carlos's mouth and caught his stomach's offering, before winking back out of existence.
Carlos stared down at the clean rug, dizzy from the vortex's rapid materialization and dematerialization, and the metallic reek of blood still in the air. "Okay," he said, "and now I'm going to pass out," which he promptly did.