Chapter Two
For as long as he can remember, Harry's always been very passionate about cooking and baking. When he was little, he repeatedly asked his mother for an Easy-Bake Oven until she finally gave in. He used to love baking miniature cupcakes and biscuits for his stuffed animals.
When he was a teenager, Harry landed his first job at a restaurant as a dishwasher. His boss later promoted him to a waiter position, but he fired him after a couple months. Apparently waiting tables involved patience and a sharp memory, both of which Harry lacked.
As college approached, Harry's father pressured him into engineering, but that didn't spark his interests— not one bit. He ended up dropping out of university after failing most of his courses. He couldn't possibly pay attention to something so boring.
Then he met Liam at a bar and, well, things sort of just fell into place. He noticed Harry dancing drunkenly, swaying his hips back and forth, and offered him a job at his strip club. He handed Harry his card: a rectangular piece of paper with "Fool's Gold" written across the front in cursive font.
Harry had chuckled at the proposition. He couldn't possibly work as an exotic dancer. He didn't fit the stereotype— the dirty boy on the streets, scraping up enough money to buy drugs and alcohol. He came from a nice family in the suburbs. Sure, he wasn't rich, but he wasn't a beggar, either.
"Just give it a try," Liam had said. "You might just change your mind."
As it turned out, he did. One of the other strippers, Emerald, gave him a few lessons on the pole. After a few dances, he actually started to enjoy it. It felt like a huge rush— the spotlight, the money thrown on stage, the glitter and glam and golden thongs.
Stripping became second nature. Now, he doesn't think it's dirty. It's not sexual, not promiscuous, not degrading. It may seem that way to other people, but to Harry, it's just work.
Currently, Harry stands in front of his stove, hand grasping a wooden spoon. He stirs up some noodles in a large pot. He already prepared some medium-rare steak on the grill but wants something as a side dish. He likes cooking nice meals on a regular basis. It's a way to treat himself after a long day at work.
That's why he takes such good care of his kitchen. His flat looks rubbish on the outside, but over the last year or so he's managed to turn this disgusting apartment into a cozy home. Picture frames cover the walls, constant reminders of love and friendship. Little nicknacks decorate the fireplace mantel, each one reflecting part of Harry's quirky personality.
The fettuccine noodles seem nearly cooked, so he reaches over towards his cutting board. He grabs the clove of garlic and begins to chop it up with his knife, dicing it into small, bite-sized pieces. When he's finished, he scrapes it into the pot with the blade of his knife. He stirs it with the noodles and adds a bit of butter to the finished product.
Living alone has its ups and downs. He likes the privacy, the ability to do whatever he pleases. But he hates the lonely nights, the quietness, the lack of conversation for days at a time. Plus, he usually cooks too much food for one person, and leftovers never taste as good the second time around. So, yeah... that sucks, too.
He sits down at his dining room table. It's really just a foldable card table because he can't afford the fancy wooden kind. He's covered it with a tablecloth in an attempt to hide his utter stinginess.
The noodles taste slightly spicy, and he doesn't know why. He didn't add any spices—just garlic and butter and a bit of olive oil. The pasta burns his tongue and scratches down his throat. He only takes a few bites before stopping. He washes it down with a large gulp of water.
The meat satisfies him, though. The steak is perfectly pink in the middle. He's never been much of meat-eater, so this sudden craving catches him off guard. Maybe it's just weird hormones.
He decides to take a quick shower before work, washing off all the body oil, glitter, and bitter guilt.
~
Fool's Gold opens at eight p.m., but Harry arrives a little after seven to get ready. He stands in the dirty dressing room with all the other strippers. Smoke fills the room, distorting Harry's vision as he moves through the crowd of oily, sculpted bodies. He wrinkles his nose with disgust.
"Rose!" a raspy voice calls out.
Harry looks up to see another stipper called Jaguar. Nobody really knows his real name. Harry thinks it's Jackson, or maybe Jonathan, but he doesn't bother asking. Jaguar suits him, anyway. Freckles dot his cheeks in the shape of cat whiskers, starting at his nose and curling outwards. His hair is a light brown colour with red undertones. Harry thinks Jaguar has the best muscles out of all the dancers. He looks like a character out of Magic Mike.
"Yeah?" Harry answers timidly.
"Angel told me about what happened last night. You alright?"
Harry laughs nervously. "Yeah, I guess. I don't remember anythin'."
Jaguar glances down at Harry's neck, his green eyes widening. "Fuck, Rose. That's one hell of a hickey," he says in awe.
The bite still looks swollen and red, a small scab covering the torn skin. It feels dreadfully painful to the touch. He can still see the fading remains of pointed teeth marks.
"Here," Jaguar says, picking up a pallet of powdered concealer. He dips a fluffy brush into the light powder, then brushes it over the bitemark, trying to cover up the redness. "Don't want customers to think you're taken. It's bad for business," he explains.
Harry hums in agreement. "Thanks, Jag."
With that, Harry stumbles over to the vanity and sits down. He stares into the mirror and furrows his eyes with confusion. His reflection appears... translucent. Not completely invisible, but still faded. He can see the outlines of his cheeks and some of his facial features, but he looks blurred, as if he's peering into a foggy mirror after a steamy shower... except everything around him looks normal.
Harry frowns. He blames it on the heavy smoke in the room. It doesn't make logical sense, but it's enough to calm his nerves. Neglecting his fuzzy reflection, Harry blindly applies some gold glitter to his eyelids.
He stands up from the vanity and rummages through his bag. He ignores wandering gazes as he takes off his clothes and slips on his golden thong. He flattens out the creases with his palms.
Outside of the dressing room, the lights dim and the music starts to play. The beat vibrates the wooden floors, filling Harry's stomach with rattling nerves.
A hand rests on Harry's shoulder. He jumps a little and looks up to see Zayn, completely startled.
"Didn't mean to scare ya', mate," Zayn apologizes. "You sure you're okay from last night? You seem anxious."
Harry nods as he pushes back the curtain. "I'm fine," he assures.
Reluctantly, they go their separate ways. Harry heads up to the stage whilst Zayn occupies the main floor, offering horny men lap dances. Harry forces out a smirk as he approaches the golden pole. Fingerprints coat its shiny surface.
He looks out towards the crowd. It's fairly empty, which is both a relief and a concern. Less people equals less pressure, but also less money. The spotlight focuses on Harry as he grips the pole, eliciting a few hollers and whistles from the audience.
Harry slowly circles the pole, his hips swaying back and forth. His mind falls into a state of familiarity. He doesn't think— just moves. He moves to the beat of the music, remembering his routine with ease. He sticks out his bum and runs his fingers through his long hair. The loose ringlets bounce up and down whilst he wiggles his arse.
A large hand smacks his bum as another tucks some money into his waistband. Harry turns around to face the man. He's middle-aged, probably cheating on his spouse judging by the ring on his finger. Harry suppresses a scowl and continues his routine.
The spotlight feels hotter than usual. He pants a little, tongue poking out past his pink lips. He flips his hair and hooks one leg around the greasy pole, twirling around like a graceful ballerina. Some of the dancers can do flips and tricks on the poles like real gymnasts, but not Harry. He just spins around and grinds and shows off his arse. It's just as effective, though. The crowd loves it.
The song finishes, allowing Harry to let out a sigh of relief. The spotlight dims and Harry wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. He glances downward to see money thrown on stage. He collects it quickly, stuffing the crumpled bills into his thong.
With trembling thighs, Harry steps off the stage. Liam greets him with a comforting smile.
"Nicely done, Rose," he compliments.
Harry nods, his breathing heavy. His lungs feel tight and constricted.
"Thanks," he breathes.
"I like the gold contacts, by the way. It's a nice touch," Liam says.
Harry scrunches his eyebrows. "My what?"
"The golden contacts," Liam laughs. "They look quite nice on you."
Harry doesn't know how to respond because, well, he doesn't own golden contacts. He stares at Liam in silence for a few seconds.
"I, um, I have to use the restroom," Harry murmurs. "I'll be right back."
Harry scurries to the bathroom in the back of the club. He swings open the door urgently and slips inside, feet sliding over the cold tiled floors. He ignores the disgusting smells and gross surroundings. He's almost certain that this mold-filled restroom wouldn't pass an inspection. The stall doors lack proper hinges, the sink's drain clogs on a regular basis, and the hand dryer has been broken for three weeks now.
He walks up to the sink and stares into the dirty mirror. His heart jumps in his chest. He doesn't see anything— just air filling his space. He blinks a few times to make sure he's not hallucinating.
"Fuck," Harry breathes, pressing his fingers to his temples. Confusion begins to overwhelm his body. This isn't physically possible. He's never heard of reflections disappearing like this, apart from silly myths and vampiric legends.
"Rose."
His hairs stand on end. Goosebumps pepper his pale skin. He turns around on his heel towards the source of the voice. The bathroom's window is cracked open halfway. A man stands outside wearing a dark trenchcoat and trousers which, Harry thinks, is odd for the middle of summer. He's quite attractive with sharp features and a stubbly beard. His light blue eyes stare into Harry's with intensity.
"What are you doing there?" Harry panics. "How do you know my name?"
The man cracks a smile. "I've been watching you," he purrs. "You don't recognize me?"
Harry gulps and shakes his head slowly. "No. Should I?"
The man chuckles softly. "I suppose not. Sometimes venom fucks with your memory— gives you a bit of amnesia."
Harry narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"It's a long story," the man confesses, "but I know what you're going through right now. You must be quite confused."
Harry nods. "Yeah, definitely... and you're creeping me out, to be honest. Do you want me to call security?" he threatens.
A smug smile tugs on the man's lips. "You wouldn't do that. You want answers, don't you?" he taunts.
Harry frowns. "Yes."
"Well, I'm the only one who can give them to you. You ought to just come with me. You'll start to change soon and, trust me, you'll want to be somewhere safe for the transition," the mystery man rambles.
"Transition?" Harry spits. "Transition to what?"
The man licks his lips. "I'd like to discuss this somewhere more... private."
Harry laughs bitterly. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"I'm trying to help you, Rose," the man insists. "Let me help you. I'm guessing the craving's have already started, yes? You're thirsty for bloody meat. Your eyes have changed, too, and now your reflection has vanished. It's only a matter of time."
Harry chest tightens with nervousness. "Until what?"
"Oh, so now you want my help?" the man teases. "Tell your boss that you're going home early, that you're feeling ill."
"You want me to lie?"
"Not exactly. It's minimizing the truth."
Harry huffs. "How do I know I can trust you?"
The man bites his lip and glances down at the wound on Harry's neck. Most of the makeup had smudged off with sweat.
"I gave you that," he admits. "And if you're smart, you'll let me help you."
Harry hesitates for a few seconds. "I don't even know your name," he huffs.
The man touches the window sill, his hands pale and filled with blue veins. "It's Louis Tomlinson," he says.
"Okay," Harry murmurs, clearing his throat. "I'll meet you out back in a few minutes, Louis."
With that, Louis walks away, his heels clicking along the pavement. Harry curses under his breath and paces back and forth. He doesn't understand what just happened. He doesn't understand anything anymore.
He leans over the sink and splashes his face with cold water. When he looks at the mirror again, he doesn't see his reflection. He pinches his arm but, no, it's not a dream.
Harry runs a hand down his face and walks out of the bathroom. He's absolutely terrified. He spots Liam amongst the crowd, a black suit clinging to his fit body. He fidgets with his hands nervously.
"Liam?" Harry says, tapping his shoulder.
"Oh, there you are, Rose. A man at table seven would like a lap dance. Also, Jag took Star's shift, but they overlapped, so I'd really appreciate it if you took the pole at eleven," Liam rambles.
Harry pauses. "Actually, erm, I wanted to tell you that I need to leave early."
Liam raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"I'm feeling quite ill," Harry lies, placing his hand over his stomach. "I just threw up in the toilet."
Liam frowns. "I'm sorry to hear that. You should get some rest. Feel better, okay?"
"What about Star's shift?"
"I'll handle it," Liam insists, dismissing it with a flick of the wrist. "Take it easy."
Harry thanks him with a short nod. He disappears into the dressing room and changes into his normal clothes: black skinny jeans, a floral blouse, and some short leather boots. He stuffs his thong into his bag and walks out the back door. The outside air feels warm and humid. The sun has disappeared, leaving behind a black sky peppered with stars.
He spots a shiny red Porsche parked alongside the road. Louis sits inside, his fingers tapping the steering wheel with impatience. Harry bites his lip and approaches the car cautiously. Louis gestures for Harry to get inside.
Harry climbs in, welcomed by the feeling of leather-covered seats. The interior looks sleek and beautiful. It still has that new-car smell.
"Where are we going?" Harry asks.
Louis switches on the engine. The Porsche purrs loudly as he drives away from Fool's Gold. The sound of loud music and the sight of bright lights fade behind them.
"My house," he says after a few seconds. "It's been twenty-four hours since the bite. It's almost time."
Harry's eyes widen. "Time for what?"
"Look, I don't know how to tell you this gently," Louis says hesitantly. "I've only done this a few times before."
"What do you mean?" Harry presses.
"This wasn't my intention, okay? I didn't want you to go through this. I just wanted to kill you and get it over with."
Harry freezes at the word 'kill.' No words come out.
"The truth is," Louis sighs, "I'm a vampire and, well, now you are, too."
At first, Harry doesn't know how to react. He studies Louis's face as they drive along the dimly-lit streets. The Porsche's headlights illuminate the road before them.
"Vampire?" Harry chuckles.
"Yeah? You've never heard of them? The human-like monsters with fangs that drink blood?" Louis asks rhetorically.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Right. The same mythical creatures that talk like 'blah, blah, blah,'" he says, giving his best Transylvanian accent.
Louis scoffs. "That's very stereotypical, you know that? Also, the misconception that we can turn into bloody bats is absolutely ridiculous. And don't even get me started on Twilight."
For a second, Harry wonders if this man has some sort of mental condition. Then again, nothing really makes sense anymore. Ever since he woke up, everything's felt different.
"I don't believe you," Harry insists, crossing his arms over his chest.
Louis sighs as they stop at a red light. He switches on his blinker before turning to Harry. He opens his mouth, showing off his pearly white teeth. Harry doesn't understand, though. Louis's teeth look perfectly human-like. Before he can ask any questions, however, he hears a tick. His canine teeth lower slightly and sharpen to a point. Harry feels completely startled. Louis smirks and points to his fangs.
"See these babies? Sharp enough to cut through human flesh," he brags. The light switches green and he turns down a gravel road. Stones crunch underneath the Porsche's tires as they drive along, a canopy of trees hanging overhead.
"I don't understand," Harry huffs. "You're saying... I'm a vampire now?"
Louis nods. "The venom is currently saturating your cells."
"And you turned me into a vampire?"
"Yes," Louis says with a sigh. "But that wasn't my initial intention. I just wanted to suck your blood until you died."
Harry's eyes widen. "Why me? I don't even know you!" he demands.
Louis frowns. "My diet is different from most vampires. I don't kill innocent people. I only kill criminals, scumbags, those who won't be missed. Those who would be better off dead."
Harry scoffs. "I'm not a criminal, you twat. Just because I'm a stripper doesn't mean—"
"I know that now," Louis interrupts. "You have a mother called Anne and a sister named Gemma and lots of friends. I already feel guilty for judging you, okay? No need to make me feel even worse."
Harry blinks silently. "How do you know that stuff?"
"You told me yourself."
"I did?"
"Yeah, when we hooked up. Of course you don't remember, though."
Harry's face flushes, pink rising to his cheeks. "We hooked up?" he murmurs.
"Sort of. It was just an excuse to get you alone," Louis confesses. "But we didn't do anything together, so don't worry. I stopped myself because I— I couldn't kill you."
Harry frowns. "I still don't understand. Why are you helping me?"
Louis doesn't respond for a few seconds. Harry listens to the quiet radio buzzing through the car's speakers.
"I wish I had someone to help me when I was bitten," Louis grumbles, voice low. "I was so confused and scared. I didn't have anyone. My own family banished me and said I was a monster. The townspeople tried to burn me alive. They accused me of witchcraft because I never aged."
Harry's heart swells with compassion. "I'm sorry to hear that," he mumbles. "If you don't age, how old are you?"
Louis bites his lip. "I'm twenty-three."
Harry tilts his head to the side. "No, I mean, how old are you really?"
Louis's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "I don't know. What year is it now? I've lost track."
"2015."
"Well, I was born on Christmas Eve of 1789, so I guess that means I'm 226 years old," Louis says quietly, almost out of shame.
Harry looks surprised, to say the least. He watches Louis's face, how his blue-silver eyes focus on the road, searching for obstacles. Despite his vampire invincibility, he wants to be safe.
"You're pretty attractive for 226," Harry compliments.
Louis laughs cutely. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You don't look a day over 200," he jokes.
Louis rolls his eyes. "Maybe I should've killed you after all."
Before Harry can come up with a witty reply, Louis turns sharply into a driveway. It's located in the middle of the woods, trees lining the stone path. Distantly, he can see a log cabin nestled between some tall pines. It's topped with a chimney and decorated with square windows.
"You live here?" Harry asks. It looks like something out of a horror movie. Then again, perhaps his life has become one.
"Temporarily," Louis responds, unclicking his seatbelt. "I'll relocate eventually. Sooner or later, people start to realize that I don't age. Usually takes about ten years before I have to move again."
Harry swallows the lump in his throat. "Will that happen to me, too?" he asks worriedly. To be honest, he'd rather be burned alive for witchcraft than leave his family behind. They're all he had.
"Unfortunately, yes," Louis sighs. "I'll explain everything later. Just come inside."
Harry nods. He follows behind Louis like a lost puppy. His eyes fall to Louis's bum, admiring how his trousers hug his arse cheeks. Harry's only twenty-one years old, and here he is lusting for someone over two hundred years his senior.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Louis greets, unlocking the front door.
He pushes open the heavy oak door. It squeaks loudly, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. Then again, that may be a result of the sudden rush of cold air from inside the cabin. Although rustic on the outside, the interior appears relatively modern. Wooden panels cover the floors, dotted with rugs and sleek furniture. He notices the antiques that line the walls on shelves, from old soda bottles to random heirlooms. Each nicknack reveals a piece of Louis's past.
"Pretty," Harry breathes at loss of words.
"Thanks," Louis replies. "Make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?"
Harry raises an eyebrow. "You have human drinks? Like, besides blood?"
Louis chuckles as he steps into the kitchen. The openness of the cabin allows Harry to watch Louis grab a kettle a place it on the stove.
"That's another misconception about vampires," Louis laughs. "We don't just consume blood. We need it to survive, and if we don't have it, we'll shrivel up and die. It's a very painful way to pass away. You can eat or drink all the normal stuff you want, but without drinking human blood, you'll basically die of starvation."
"So vampires can consume normal stuff, too? Like tea or milk or biscuits?"
Louis smiles at Harry's excitement. "Yes. Although overtime, you'll lose your human tastebuds. I can't taste anything besides human blood anymore, but... but I still like drinking tea. I like the warmth of it. It's comforting."
Harry nods understandingly. "I suppose I have a lot to learn," he mumbles.
"Well, I have an infinite amount of time to teach you," Louis explains. He lets the tea simmer on the stove and turns back towards Harry, who sits on the couch awkwardly, hands folded in his lap.
"I know this probably seems really scary," Louis sympathizes. "I'm sorry I did this to you, but I— I'm going to make up for it, okay? I promise. I'm not a bad guy."
Harry frowns. "I believe you. I'm just confused about... a lot."
Louis picks up the kettle and pours the tea into two mugs. "Milk or sugar?"
"Just a bit of sugar, please."
Louis plops in two sugar cubes. He glances down towards the mug, watching as the cubes dissolve into the brown liquid. With caution, he carries them out to the living room and sits down next to Harry, handing him his mug.
"Thanks," Harry says softly. He takes a slow sip, sighing as the warm tea soothes his sore throat. The steam curls up towards his reddened face.
Louis sets down his mug on the coffee table. "So, the first thing you should know about being a vampire is that you don't have to, like, murder people on a daily basis."
"No?"
"No. Sucking the blood out of one full-grown adult can last you an entire month, maybe even more," he informs.
Harry shudders. "I can't—I can't kill anyone," he begins. "I'm too nice."
"I know you might think that at first, but your vampiric instincts will kick in eventually. You can't stop the urge no matter how hard you try," Louis explains.
Harry nervously plays with a stray piece of hair that falls over his forehead. He twirls the soft brown curl around his finger.
"What about animal blood?" he wonders.
Louis shakes his head. "That doesn't work. It needs to be human."
Harry chuckles darkly. "I guess I'll starve to death, then, because I'm not killing another person."
Louis places his hand delicately over Harry's thigh. His gold-tinted eyes look up with fear. He's scared of the future. He's too young to go through this.
"I'll help you, alright? For however long it takes," he assures. "And y'know, I usually break into prisons and take blood from the worst criminals, like child molesters or murderers, because they have life sentences anyway. It's not as evil as it may sound."
Harry sniffles. "How do you even break into a prison?"
"It's quite easy, actually," Louis mumbles. "Security cameras can't pick up vampires, so we just have to watch out for guards."
Harry takes a few seconds to process the information. To be honest, it didn't sound too cruel. Those criminals were going to rot in jail regardless.
"Okay," Harry says slowly, his voice barely a whisper.
"But you don't have to worry about that now," Louis insists. "You need to focus on your transformation because, well, it's not the most pleasant thing in the world."
Worry washes over Harry's face. "What do you mean?"
Louis squeezes Harry's knee with reassurance. "You're going to grow fangs within the next couple hours, and it'll be incredibly painful."
Harry whimpers. "How painful?"
"It's just a lot of pressure on your jaw."
Harry cups his cheek, terrified. "Anything else I have to know about the transformation?"
"Nope," Louis says instantly. "This the last step, meaning the venom has taken over most of your body. Your eyes have turned gold, which means you're hungry. They'll go back to green after you've drank some blood."
Harry grimaces. "That sounds absolutely disgusting."
"You'll get used to it," Louis shrugs.
"How will I know when my fangs start growing?" Harry worries.
Louis ponders that for a moment. "Well—"
Before Louis can answer, Harry lets out a loud, high-pitched shriek of pain. He clenches his jaw, hissing with agony. His eyes immediately start tearing up, glistening over his golden irises. That's another misbelief about vampires: they can cry.
"Shit," Louis curses, standing up from the sofa. He scurries into the kitchen, his heart clenching at the sound of Harry's cries, knowing that he caused them. He reaches into the icy freezer and pulls out a bag of frozen peas.
"Louis!" Harry nearly screams, sobbing into the couch's soft armrest. "It hurts!"
Louis hushes him and plops down next to him. He gently cups Harry's cheeks, his fingers cold like icicles. He presses the frozen bag to Harry's jaw.
"Here, this will help," he promises. "Just relax your jaw. It'll hurt more if you keep your mouth shut like that."
It feels like a thousand little needles pricking at Harry's gumline. His eyelashes flutter as a few tears drip out, trickling down his porcelain cheeks.
"Hurts so bad," Harry whimpers, voice shaking. "How— fuck— how much longer?"
Louis frowns and brushes the hair out of his golden eyes, using the other hand to keep the coldness on his jaw. "It could be a matter of hours. I'm really sorry. I know it hurts."
Harry clenches his fists, his nails leaving marks on his palm. "Ow," he whines.
"Here, squeeze my hand. It'll relieve some of the tense pain," Louis offers. He holds out his hand, his bones protruding from his pallid skin. Veins string through his hand like spiderwebs, connecting at certain points and then spreading outward.
Harry hesitates. "Don't want to hurt you," he chokes out.
Louis chuckles softly. "I don't feel pain anymore, Rose. Just squeeze my hand."
Bottom lip quivering, Harry reaches for Louis's hand. He crushes Louis's palm tightly until his knuckles turn red. Louis just sits there, culpability burning in his stomach. This is all his fault. He caused this pain.
"Tell me a story," Harry begs, eyes pleading. "Distract me, please?"
Louis nods. "O-okay," he stutters.
He has loads of stories. He's gone through so many lives that he's lost track. He was born in France, but he relocated after his transition. He never saw his family again. They're long dead by now, anyway. Whilst he continues to live for eternity, they already passed on.
"You told me about some of your tattoos yesterday," Louis starts delicately. "Let me tell you about some of mine."
Harry sniffles, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. "Alright."
Louis points to his arm. "I get a new tattoo each time I relocate. It reminds me of my journey," he clarifies. "You see this compass?"
He points to the tattoo on his forearm. It looks incredibly detailed. A star sits in the center with points going in four directions. The arrow points towards the word 'home.'
"Yeah," Harry chokes out, his sobs quiet now.
"I got it when I was a sailor in Spain in the 1800's," he remembers.
"Really? You used to be a sailor?"
Louis grins. "The greatest of them all."
Harry giggles adorably. "What about this one?" he questions, pointing to the stag on his bicep. It's beautiful with gigantic antlers. It almost looks like it's mounted to his skin.
"In the 70's, I lived in Canada," he explains. "I worked as a taxidermist."
Harry frowns. "A what?"
"It's a person who stuffs dead animals for a living."
Harry wrinkles his nose. "Seems like an appropriate job for a vampire, I suppose."
"It's not as morbid as you may think. Sometimes I stuffed people's pets— y'know, dogs, cats, sometimes even guinea pigs."
Harry laughs a little through the pain. "What's this one mean?" he presses. He touches the horseshoe on Louis's forearm. It's small, barely noticeable amongst the other doodles.
"I was an American cowboy back in the day," Louis recalls, using a classic southern accent. "Used to have a ranch and everythin'."
Harry chuckles, dimples forming in his soft cheeks. "Will you get a tattoo to represent living here, too?" he asks.
"Someday," Louis says with a nod. He presses the bag of peas closer to Harry's swollen cheek. "How does it feel? Still hurt?"
He nods faintly. "Yeah, but— but I'll be okay. Do you have any painkillers?"
"They won't work, unfortunately. Medicine can't help since your blood is saturated with vampire venom," he explains. "I'm sorry, Rose."
Harry frowns, poking his tongue towards the roof of his mouth. He can feel his canines sharpening and elongating. He nearly cuts his bottom lip on the razor-like point.
"You'll get used to the fangs," Louis promises. "And soon you'll be able to control them, like me."
Harry hopes he's right.
"Oh, and one more thing," Harry murmurs, struggling to talk with his swollen cheeks. He feels like he's holding marshmallows in his mouth.
"Yes?"
Harry smiles. "My real name's not Rose. It's Harry."
Louis pauses for a few seconds. "Harry," he repeats, liking the way it rolls off his tongue.
Harry spends the rest of the night with frozen peas pressed to his face, lulled to sleep by Louis's marvelous stories of world travels.