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Atsumu’s first thought when he comes back to is, Osamu.
He’s lying on the cold cobble-stoned ground in a side-alley and his back hurts. His entire body hurts, really; he feels like he’s been slammed into a wall, and then dropped from a ten storey building for good measure. The most painful, by far, is the side of his neck though: a hot, sharp, shooting pain radiating from it. Gingerly, he reaches up a hand and touches the wound, and then immediately regrets it, when that makes the pain flare up sharper. The skin around the puncture wounds feels hot to the touch. It’s the only part of his skin that still feels hot, he realises, horrified.
Fuck, he thinks, and then he thinks about Osamu again as he staggers to his feet. Osamu’s never going to let Atsumu live this down; of course he’d meet up with a seedy stranger for a hook-up and end up getting bitten. Fuck, he goes out for a hook-up and comes back a vampire.
Atsumu isn’t stupid; he knows what the hot throbbing in his neck means, knew what it meant even as the man was sucking the last drops of blood out of him, leaving him out here, dying. They learn about this sort of thing in school. Atsumu remembers getting the brochures in biology class, remembers being told to be as careful as can be around vampires. Anything more than thirty-five percent of blood taken, chances are, you turn. Something about a combination of the vampire’s saliva interacting with the organism and the body trying frantically to heal and regenerate with such a high degree of blood loss. All blood taken? Either you turn or you die.
Atsumu could have fucking died.
Fuck, he basically did die. The human part of him died.
He needs to get back to Osamu; Osamu, whom he left at home alone, going out to quell the urge for physical contact with someone, anyone other than who he actually wanted.
He isn’t even entirely certain where he is. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket: nineteen percent of battery left. Three bars of service. That’s not a lot, but enough to navigate to somewhere from where he can get home.
His body absolutely aches. His neck is still throbbing. He brings up a hand to feel at the wound again while he opens google maps with the other. It still feels feverishly hot and inflamed under his fingers but has already scabbed over thickly.
At least, he thinks a bit deliriously, it’s not an actual inflammation. He can’t get sepsis, and he certainly can’t die of sepsis anymore. He’s a vampire now. Fuck.
✩ ₊⁺🕸 ⋆♱⋆ ☾ ⋆♱⋆🕸 ⁺₊ ✧
Osamu is sitting on the sofa when Atsumu gets home. He jumps up as soon as Atsumu enters the living room.
“What the fuck happened?” he asks, sounding fabulously pissed off, “ya were gone for like six hours, I –”
Atsumu sees the exact moment Osamu notices the bite-wound, stopping in his tracks and staring, wide-eyed, at Atsumu’s neck.
“Surprise?” Atsumu jokes weakly.
“What the fuck, Tsumu,” Osamu says. And then louder, angrier: “What the fuck, Tsumu!”
“If it helps,” Atsumu says, “I didn’t want to get turned into a vampire today either.”
“No, that doesn’t help!” Osamu shouts, prowling towards him. He looks furious. Atsumu has never seen him this angry in his life. And he’s seen Osamu angry plenty of times. “I leave you out of my sight for one fucking day and– what the fuck happened!”
“I kind of misjudged a hook-up. Well, it ended up not being an actual hook-up,” Atsumu says, and Osamu, furiously, gets up right into his space, grips Atsumu’s shoulders and starts shaking him.
“What the fuck, Tsumu!” he shouts again. Atsumu winces: sort of a full-bodied wince, since his body still hurts like hell, and Osamu’s harshness isn’t helping. Osamu immediately lets go of him, but doesn’t move out of his space, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
His beautiful, wide arms, with his bulging biceps– and now is really, really not the time for that.
“What the fuck,” Osamu repeats again, softer now, and the fury in his face is making space for something else: fear. A sort of bone-deep terror which Atsumu immediately recognises, because the idea of Osamu almost-dying makes him feel the exact same thing.
Osamu. Almost-dying.
And then, only then, does the true terror of Atsumu’s situation set in: not that he’s a vampire; not that his body has been changed against his will; not that he can no longer feel his heart beat in his chest, his blood pump in his empty veins; not that he’ll bite and feed on animals and humans to survive; not even that he has no way of knowing, at all, what this will really mean for him, for his life, that it might mean the loss of friends and his career; no: the true, real terror that sets in, sweeping through and clinging to him, feverishly hot and cold as ice, making him shiver with the horrifying reality of it, is that Atsumu is no longer human, will no longer age as a human.
He’ll age slowly, so very slowly, almost like he isn’t ageing at all, while everyone around him ages normally, gets older and dies. Osamu will continue ageing normally. Osamu will die a normal, human death one day: and leave Atsumu behind.
Atsumu’s vision blacks out. His entire body gets clouded in a dark mist of rage and terror, his trembling, aching body reaching for Osamu before he can stop himself: his nails are turning into claws, digging into Osamu and drawing him closer, and a second pair of canines split out of his gums with painful ferocity, pushing his old, inferior teeth out, which fall bloody and useless to the ground, and then his mouth is on Osamu’s neck, his teeth piercing his skin like butter, sinking in.
Osamu is struggling in his grip, trying to break free, but Atsumu isn’t letting him; Osamu’s blood tastes so sweet, so perfect, everything Atsumu never knew he was missing: a symphony of perfection right there on his tongue, and Atsumu can feel it flow into him, and yes, yes, this is exactly right: because now there is Osamu not only on his tongue, but the very essence of his life flowing through Atsumu’s veins, a part of Osamu forever in Atsumu, the first blood he’s tasted in this new life, every drop reducing the ache in Atsumu’s body, returning his strength to him.
He doesn’t know how long he drinks for, but eventually Osamu stops fighting and starts slumping in Atsumu’s arms, clearly growing weaker: and only then does Atsumu stop, and draw back, because he needs Osamu to survive this, he needs Osamu to turn, he needs Osamu to be his, to be with him, always and forever.
He softly picks Osamu up: he weighs almost nothing to Atsumu now, and Atsumu carries him over to the sofa, sets him down and wraps a blanket around him, and then sinks to the ground right in front of him, putting a hand on him and watching, watching.
Osamu shivers slightly, and that’s when Atsumu snaps back out of his daze, and feels a completely new terror flood him, his body freezing up with panic.
Osamu is on the sofa before him, pale and shivering with blood loss, the wound on his neck a deep, angry red, completely out of it: and Atsumu did that. Atsumu did that to him. Atsumu just – bit him. He bit him. He was so scared to lose Osamu that he risked his life.
His hands clench into the fabric of Osamu’s shirt, his heart still eerily still in his chest even though it should be beating with the panic flowing through him.
“Samu,” he whispers, “Samu, come on, come on, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry Samu, I don’t know what came over me, Samu, please.”
They stay like that for what must be several hours: the sun slowly sinking outside, the room getting darker, and darker, Atsumu on his knees, hands clenched into Osamu’s shirt while his brother shakes, sweaty and unconscious and pale, through a transformation he didn’t ask for. While Osamu, who gave up volleyball to start a food shop, shakes through a transformation that will make almost all human food inedible to him forever, because Atsumu couldn’t bear the thought of being without him for even a minute.
Finally, Osamu’s eyes flutter open, and he stares at Atsumu. Weakly, he pushes himself up: his body stiff with the same ache his blood cured in Atsumu. Atsumu unclenches his hands, but doesn’t stop touching him: can’t bear to not be close to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words feel woefully inadequate in his mouth. There is no apology adequate for what he’s done: changed everything about Osamu’s body, about his life, in a hazy minute of a non-thinking snap-decision of fear. He’s done the same thing to Osamu that was done to him, only worse, because he did it to his brother.
Osamu isn’t speaking. He’s just staring at Atsumu, eyes wide, looking at him like he’s never seen him before. It’s unbearable: his silence is worse than anything he could possibly say to Atsumu.
“I’m sorry,” Atsumu says again, “I am, I don’t – I don’t know why –” he stops. Because that’s a lie, and they both know it: Atsumu knows exactly why he did it. And he’s more sorry than he’s ever been in his life, but at the same time he’s not: Osamu’s blood is thrumming through his veins, and Osamu wears the mark of his teeth. Osamu has a forever to spend with Atsumu now: Atsumu has made sure Osamu can never leave him, and there is a deep, satisfied possessiveness singing within him.
“Yes you do, and you’d better tell me the truth now , you arse,” Osamu says. “You are the worst person I’ve ever met, and if you lie to me right now, I will rip out your tongue with my new shiny claws.”
“Fine,” Atsumu says. “I needed to do it. You would’ve fucking – died, as a human, at some point, leaving me alone, and I would’ve had to spend eternity without you. You’re mine . You don’t get to – to not be with me, every fucking step of the way. You wanted to stop playing volleyball? Fine. But you don’t get to die without me.”
“I’m twenty-eight, you gigantic fucking idiot! It’s not like I was gonna die tomorrow! There was no need to bite me immediately! You could’ve waited and fucking asked! ”
“And what if you walked into traffic tomorrow? I told you, you don’t get to leave me,” Atsumu snarls, and then they lunge at each other at the same time, Osamu ruthlessly dragging Atsumu up by his collar, his kiss hard and biting.
“I hate you,” he bites into Atsumu’s mouth, “I fucking hate you, you’re the worst, I can’t fucking believe –”
It’s Osamu who draws back first, staring at him, eyebrows drawn together, a frown on his face, still a hand on Atsumu’s collar, Atsumu’s hands still on him.
“This needs to be it, then;” he says. “If I’m fuckin’ yours, or whatever, then you’re mine. No more running off to hook up with other men. You’re mine , and you’re gonna spend the rest of our freakishly long undead lives by my fucking side, making this up to me.”
“I only ran off because I thought I couldn’t have you ,” Atsumu says, “I don’t want anyone else.”
“Good. I don’t care,” Osamu says. “You fucking – drank my blood. Who does that?”
And then Osamu kisses him again, and Atsumu scrambles, frantically, for his clothes; Osamu rips Atsumu’s off without finesse, doesn’t take a moment to grab for lotion or anything else, only spits on his fingers: he barely prepares Atsumu at all, and it’s too dry, and only lubes himself up with his own spit again when he pushes his dick into Atsumu, and Atsumu doesn’t want him any other way: wants him feral and angry and desperate and all Atsumu’s, nothing else between them, just them and their own sweat and spit.
Osamu bites him when he cums: right on his neck, his teeth sinking into the existing bite mark so painfully Atsumu screams with it, and that’s what makes Atsumu cum, too; Osamu clings on, presses in deep, with his cock, with his fucking teeth, marking his territory, and Atsumu feels owned, and dizzy, and doesn’t regret a single thing.