Chapter Text
Something wasn’t right. Jon sensed it the moment Jonah crossed the threshold, steps so quiet and careful that if Jon hadn’t been in the room already, he wouldn’t have known he was home at all. His face was gaunt and pale, the corner of his eyes red as blood, and he held himself like a drunk man might. Jonah didn’t drink, though — or at least never more than a glass, never in excess. He hated all too much to lose control of his tongue and his limbs, especially in the company of his fellow men. If Jon trusted too much, then Jonah trusted no one but himself — even with Jon he still kept his secrets, as if they hadn’t been intertwined for years together.
Still, Jon knew him. And Jon knew, the moment their eyes met, that Jonah had done something terrible.
“What happened?” he asked, up on his feet in an instant. “Are you hurt?”
Jonah’s lips stretched into a thin smile. His teeth glinted. “Not quite,” he said. “Not for long.”
“Must I fetch someone?”
Jonah, to Jon’s great worry, began to laugh. His hands were trembling wildly now. “Certainly not,” he told Jon. “Do not ruin all the efforts I made to come to you.”
“You’re speaking nonsense,” Jon said tersely.
He wanted to move closer, but his feet were firmly stuck where he was. Some old, terrible instinct was screaming at him abruptly that he was in danger. That the creature in front of him was not Jonah at all, that Jon might as well be standing in front of a terrifying predator. Yet Jonah’s eyes, as red as they were, were Jonah’s. Sharp, intelligent, mindful. Why would I run from Jonah? He thought, trying to reason himself. Should I run from Jonah? Came right after, as panic blossomed in his heart. They’d heard so many tales, the both of them. They knew so much of what lurked in the night.
“It’ll be all clear soon,” Jonah told him, with the sort of soothing, cajoling voice he used when Jon was mad at him. He was the one who moved first in the end.
How did he do so, Jon didn’t see, however. One moment Jonah was standing feet away from him, still at the door, looking like death, the next Jon was in his arms, and Jonah’s utterly frozen cheek was pressed against his own. Terror properly seized him. Jon let out a strangled scream and tried to take a step back, but Jonah only wordlessly followed him, with the ease of their intimacy.
“Jonah,” Jon breathed, fluttering heart in his throat. “What did you do?”
“I chose to live,” Jonah said, his hand running gently over Jon’s back. “With you. Without fear of it ever ending by the hand of another or even by nature itself.”
Jon stared above Jonah’s shoulder, right where the door was still open. Should I run from Jonah? He thought again, and as Jonah’s lips, as cold as the rest of his body, grazed his jaw, sending shivers down the back of his neck, the question turned into Can I still run from him?
“What does that mean?” he pressed on, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“I removed us both from death’s grip,” Jonah breathed against him. He sounded almost giddy now. Oh how Jon wished he could pretend this was in any way drunkenness. “Or I shall, in an instant. Must you be afraid, my love?”
“You’re certainly not being reassuring,” Jon snapped, and tried to remove himself from his embrace once more. This time Jonah let him go, or almost, catching his face between his open palms, staring at him like he was drinking him in. His stare was so intense Jon lost the rest of what he’d meant to say.
“I went to Rayner’s,” Jonah told him, slowly. Jon’s heart missed a beat. “And when it was done, I left him and all the things he was offering me behind. I crossed through the woods, and I crossed the whole village, and I could have, at any moment, tasted any animal or human in my path. But I came back to you, Jonathan. It was absolutely necessary for me that it’d be you. You cannot fear me when I love you that much.”
Jon’s eyes fluttered; never once before had Jonah said those words. Six years, and every time Jon had professed his own feelings, unable to keep them for himself, Jonah had smiled and kept quiet, distracted him with kisses and other physical gestures. Jon had learnt to understand Jonah’s affection for him in other ways long ago, but the words felt like a punch in the stomach.
“I shan’t leave this room again without you by my side,” Jonah continued, hand tenderly sliding towards Jon’s curls. “Even if you feared me, it would be unacceptable that I let you go.”
“Jonah,” Jon breathed, shakily.
“Say yes,” Jonah ordered.
“I don’t know what I would be saying yes to, ” Jon gritted even though, deep down, he feared he might actually have known the moment Jonah had said Rayner’s. He glanced at the open door again.
“Say yes all the same,” Jonah pressed on, his grip on Jon’s curls tightening. “You shan’t even have to suffer, not even for a second, if Rayner’s words were true. I suffered a small death so that we might both never have to suffer it again.” Jonah was pulling firmly on Jon’s hair now, tugging until Jon leaned his head to the side, exposing his neck. He exhaled, deep and slow, and then before Jon could understand what had happened, they were both pressed against the wall, and Jonah’s lips were brushing against Jon’s throat. “Say yes,” he repeated.
I was never able to run from Jonah, Jon thought. Why would it be different now?
“Yes,” he whispered, and sharp teeth sank into his neck before his next breath.
He might have screamed, his legs giving out underneath him, but Jonah’s arm was wrapped firmly around his waist, and the wall supported the rest of his weight. In a matter of seconds the fear and the pain had receded, and Jon’s mind turned peacefully blank. Dimly, he stayed aware enough to realise that Jonah was drinking from him, that his hands were holding Jon so tightly Jon’s body would show bruises tomorrow. More than this, however, was the rightness of it all — Jon was feeding Jonah, and this was good. Of course it was good. Of course it was —
He didn’t know when Jonah stopped; by then whatever spell had taken Jon had been replaced by the headiness of blood loss, or so he presumed, and he could do nothing when Jonah brought him to bed, not even opening his mouth to ask what had happened. Jonah said something, but Jon couldn’t focus enough to understand it. Instead he only watched as Jonah stroked his hair, before bringing his own wrist to his mouth and biting it down.
More blood spurted out of him, sliding along his palm. Jon watched, and watched, and could not understand until Jonah was pressing his wrist against Jon’s lips. Slowly, with a sort of detached curiosity his usual self would be ashamed of, Jon tentatively lapped at the blood.
“Yes,” Jonah breathed. “Yes, beloved. You just need enough for the bond to be sealed.”
Jonah’s blood was warm and bitter, but Jon obliged all the same, clumsily trying to drink a bit more. It was not easy, and Jonah had to help several times, but it only ever seemed to make him laugh. His eyes, Jon couldn’t help but notice fuzzily, were shining brighter than Jon had ever seen them, the grey of them as polished and smooth as the finest silver.
“Next time, I’ll bring you a glass,” Jonah told him, sounding fond and amused. “Why not be civilised after all?”
Yes, Jon nodded, unable to worry about what next time entailed. Next time, a glass would have to do, surely.