Chapter Text
Just because Dejun is from Guangdong doesn’t mean he eats everything. A man from Guangdong can have preferences. As it were, Dejun liked his eggs boiled to the 15-minute mark and his meat fat-free and well-done, Gordon Ramsey be damned.
So finding out that his diet would be limited to strictly fresh human blood from now until the end of his accursed life was a pretty devastating blow.
His diet from hell began on a Saturday. He’d been working on the usual, tapping out song lyrics on his Notes app, when Xuxi and Guanheng had yelled at him over video call to come to the club with them.
Five shots and one screaming karaoke session in the Uber later, Dejun was at the club, completely wasted. He’d lost track of Xuxi and Guanheng at some point in the crowd, but he wasn’t worried; they were both tall and conspicuous enough to spot later. Speaking of, someone lithe and very attractive had wrapped his hands around Dejun’s waist.
“Wanna get some air with me, pretty boy?”
And that’s how Dejun ended up backed into a dark alleyway, with a beautiful stranger sucking the most mind-curdling hickey into his neck. At least, that’s what Dejun thought he was doing, until the stranger brought his lips against Dejun’s and Dejun tasted blood.
Dejun didn’t like the taste of blood.
“Wah!” Dejun let out an unattractive yell and tried to pull away.
“Hey, shh, don’t be so dramatic.” The stranger’s hold on his wrists suddenly grew vice-like. Dizzy with panic and blood loss, Dejun instinctively bit down on the stranger’s lip. Blood bloomed across his tongue.
“Oi! What are you doing with our bro!”
“Shit,” the stranger hissed, swiping at his mouth, “I thought you were alone.” Without waiting for a reply, the stranger streaked out of sight just as Xuxi and Guanheng rushed over.
“Xiao Dejun, you had us worried sick, young man,” Guanheng said in mock tears.
Xuxi peered down at him, eyes enormous. “Are you okay dude? You look super pale.”
“I’m fine,” Dejun waved them off, playing it cool. No need to let his friends know he blew a potential hookup by getting squeamish over a little biting. He tried to walk past them casually before he remembered the whole recent blood loss thing and tripped over his own feet.
So then of course they called a cab, marched him to his apartment, and didn’t turn him loose until he was in bed.
The next morning Dejun woke up undead.
Which brings him up to date with now, approximately two weeks later, somewhere between the depression and acceptance phases of grief. There wasn’t much to do about it, once Dejun had confirmed the new dental implants and aversion to sunlight and thirst for blood. Xuxi and Guanheng would feel guilty and worse, responsible, if Dejun told them what had happened, so that’s out of the question. Institutions and authorities would laugh. And the risk of going outside and putting someone else in danger is too high to attempt. Instead, he’s compiled a list of pros and cons to cope, and moral quandary slash dietary restrictions aside, it’s not a bad deal.
Pros of Being a Vampire:
- Being a vampire
(Being a vampire kind of suits him, Dejun thinks, because vampires are romantic and mysterious and tragic and so is he. Not to mention, Dejun is now one big step closer to his childhood idol, Robert Pattinson.) - Looking sexy like a vampire
(Dejun knows this for a fact because the second thing he did after his initial freak-out was take a shit ton of selfies. Vampirism didn’t alter his appearance much; just sharpened his bone structure a little more, and made his complexion a winter tone rather than an autumn. He posted some selfies on Instagram to see if anyone could tell the difference between his usual hot self and his supernaturally hot self. A majority of the comments were asking what filter he used, so he’s taking that as a win.) - Writing songs about being a vampire
(Sure, Dejun could have written vampire-inspired lyrics before all this, but actually experiencing the struggle brings a new level of authenticity to his craft.)
Cons of being a Vampire:
- Eating people
(This one’s self-explanatory. After that one time he visited a chicken farm and had to catch a rooster with his bare hands, Dejun refused to eat chicken for a whole week because it made him feel like a monster. How is he going to look in the eyes of society as a man-eater?)
So naturally, eating people is out of the question. It hasn’t happened, isn’t going to. Just like when he first realized he would never grow to be six feet tall, Dejun was planning to manfully accept his lot in life and carry on.
Except that he is so fucking thirsty.
He’s spent his entire existence as a baby vampire ordering takeout with increasingly detailed specifications for rare meat, something he would have never done two weeks ago, but it’s not enough. Dejun doesn’t want to kill people, but he also doesn’t want to die. There’s got to be an ethical alternative to this vampire lifestyle that isn’t the equivalent of a poor man’s keto diet.
Dejun’s writing another song about it (“baby, you’re a rare steak / but all I taste is heartbreak” ) when it hits him.
The stranger from the club.
He must have turned him while they were making out in that alleyway. Which means he must have been searching for prey at the club, and could still be. That makes him Dejun’s vampire sire, or whatever. If Dejun finds him again, gets some answers…
what was the club we went to last time called?
big huang: uhhhh i think it was called Vibe
big huang: why? u going without us bro? :(
big huang: is it bc u couldnt get laid last time
medium huang: ah xuxi, young master xiao no longer needs us as his wingmen. he has learned that in order to catch the worm, the early bird must fly from the nest on his own. we must sit back and support his quest for worm
big huang: lol worm
big huang: ur talking abt dick right
[read 10:38pm]
big huang: yoooo get it
It’s a warm, muggy night, but Dejun still puts a mask on to mute the scent of passerby, keeping to side streets as he walks the whole commute. By the time he gets to the club, his mask is plastered to his chin. Dejun’s hands are trembling a little as he hands the bouncer his ID. The bouncer looks at him askance.
“If you’re going to pass out, I suggest you find a different club bathroom to do it in.”
“I’m fine,” Dejun furrows his eyebrows in what he hopes is an intimidating way.
The bouncer shrugs and hands back the ID. “That’s what all the junkies say.”
Once he’s inside, Dejun’s nostrils flare. Just like last time, the club is loud, dark, and pulsing with people. There’s notes of other scents in the air—booze, sweat, Chanel—but the perfume of blood is thick and overwhelming and delicious.
This was a bad idea. Dejun hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until this moment, caught in a veritable buffet of prey. He shakes his head. Tries to focus on faces, hands, identifying features. It’s no use. Now that he’s here, Dejun realizes he can’t even recall what the stranger had looked like—only a vague recollection of a captivating shadow.
Holding his breath, Dejun pushes back through the throng of clubbers. Throwing open the club door feels like breaking out of water and into air. He staggers out onto the pavement and tears off his mask, dry-heaving. He’s shaking, which is weird, because it’s not cold out.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
Dejun looks up, frowning. It’s a man, a nice-looking one, around his height and approaching warily from a few feet away.
Dejun’s mouth waters. Something pokes his lower lip, and it takes him a moment to register that it’s his fangs protruding from his gums.
“I’m fine,” Dejun pants. He straightens up as best as he can while trying to put some distance between himself and the other man. Unfortunately, this results in him doing an awkward scuttle across the sidewalk like a bug. The other guy looks more concerned than ever. He takes a step closer right at the moment Dejun’s legs decide to give out.
“Oh geez—” Warm, square hands land on his shoulders, hauling him up.
“Not the shirt,” Dejun murmurs. “It’s my favorite shirt.”
The hands disappear abruptly and reappear at Dejun’s sides and pockets, leaving Dejun lying on the ground. Which is fine. It’s surprisingly comfortable on the pavement.
“Hey, stay with me, alright? Is there anyone I should call for you?”
Dejun feels himself being pulled up into sitting position by surprisingly strong arms. On reflex, Dejun inhales—Jo Malone, detergent, musk, blood, blood, blood—
Dejun’s body acts on its own. Pushes the man down with a straddle of his hips. Hands on his wrist. Mouth to his jugular. If the other guy says anything, Dejun doesn’t hear it, can’t hear anything over the thundering of his own pulse. Everything seems to narrow into a single point stuck between the tip of his canine and flesh. Dejun bites down, his senses filling with a burst of red flavor, then darkness.
Dejun blinks awake slowly, feeling warm and comfortable. Then his eyes snap open completely, because warm and comfortable is not how he should be feeling after last night’s fiasco. He freezes as he identifies the source of his warmth and comfort: the guy from last night, miraculously alive, and whose chest he’s currently pressed into.
Dejun watches with mute horror as the guy blinks and squints down at him.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Dejun scrambles up and away, hands instinctively going to his lap. Pants: thankfully intact, though the fabric is too fine and soft-pile to be his own. Ditto for the shirt, which he peers down the collar of for marks or—God forbid—stains.
The other guy sits up too, properly awake now, and definitely not dead. He’s got round, handsome features in a square-jawed face that’s not even mildly exsanguinated-looking. Dejun eyes the guy’s skin, the phantom memory of a warm taste surfacing. He must have taken very little blood from this guy, if he’s acting so normal. Still, Dejun feels slightly too sated for it just to have been a quick nip. He frowns.
“Who—where—?”
“I’m Qian Kun, I’m 25 years old, and I’m from Fujian,” says the guy, Kun, slowly and clearly like an elementary school teacher, “and this is my apartment. I brought you here because you passed out on me yesterday on the curb. Your phone was locked, so I couldn’t get a hold of anyone you knew.”
“Oh,” Dejun says dumbly, arms still wrapped tight around his navel. Kun’s eyes flicker downward and he reddens a little. Dejun tries not to stare as his bitey-senses zero in on the blooming of Kun’s capillaries, the quickening of Kun’s pulse. “Um—”
“We didn’t do anything last night, I promise!” Kun raises his hands, as if to show Dejun they were indeed sin-free, “I swear I would’ve taken the couch. You just. Wouldn’t let go of me.” Kun rubs his neck awkwardly, and that’s when Dejun sees it: the edges of a massive hickey peeking beneath Kun’s shirt collar.
“Ohhh my god.” Dejun sucks in a breath, mortified. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I seriously didn’t mean to do that, I didn’t know I was that out of control—”
“Hey, it’s okay, really!” Kun says, waving his hand. “It was obvious you had too much to drink. And I may not look it, but I’m pretty strong. I can defend myself. ”
Dejun exhales. Evidently, he had taken so little blood from Kun that the latter thought he was just a particularly messy drunk. It’s not the best impression to leave, but Dejun can live with that.
“You kept mumbling, though, saying you were hungry…should I be concerned?”
“What? No! Uhh,” Dejun’s brain scrambles for an out. Curse his upstanding character and inability to fib. He backpedals through the past minute of conversation, latches onto the first detail he finds.
“You—you’re from Fujian, right?”
Kun nods, nonplussed.
“I’m...from Guangdong.” Dejun takes a deep breath, and gives Kun a solemn look. “Haven’t you heard the saying? Guangdong people eat Fujian people.”
Kun stares at him. Dejun wills his pupils not to quiver. Then, miraculously, Kun laughs. “God, you’re right. I’m quaking in my boots right now.”
Dejun smiles back, relieved.
“Alright, Guangdong boy, are you still hungry? You should probably eat if you were that drunk last night.”
“Y—I mean, no, thanks,” Dejun catches himself. “I don’t want to impose.”
Kun raises an eyebrow.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Kun says, getting up and stretching. “I’m going to cook something either way. I make a great breakfast, you know.”
I bet you do, Dejun thinks, following Kun into the kitchen.
As it turns out, Kun is a wonderful cook. He makes congee thick with chopped chives and century egg, along with a tomato egg dish that Dejun knows would have brought him to tears had he still been human. The food smells good, but in the same way flowers and perfume smell good; pleasant, but not appetizing. Still, Dejun shoves his serving in his mouth to be polite, faking his best enthusiastic face. Kun gives him a funny look but otherwise doesn’t question it, just sets out another dish.
“I’m not much of a clubber, usually,” Kun explains as they eat. “I was just in the area because my boyfriend called me to pick him up, but then he left with someone else and forgot to tell me.” Kun rolls his eyes, exasperated. “But I guess it worked out, since I did end up bringing someone home anyway.”
Dejun startles at that, looking up with cheeks bulging with food. He swallows forcibly. “Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, boyfriend,” Kun confirms.
“Is your boyfriend okay with me being here?” Dejun asks, pushing eggs around his plate anxiously.
“Oh, yeah,” Kun says nonchalantly, clearing his bowl, “He’s a pain in the ass about a lot of things, but he’s not going to give me grief for being a Good Samaritan. Besides, we’re in an open relationship.”
“Oh.” Dejun doesn’t know how to respond to that. It comes as no surprise to him that Kun is cuffed: he’s got a clean apartment, a nice face, a talent for cooking, and a sense of charity to boot. The open relationship status is a bit of a surprise, considering how straight-laced Kun seems, but maybe that circles back to the charity thing. Dejun wonders what Kun’s boyfriend is like, this guy who goes to the club and leaves with other people and doesn’t text back.
He helps Kun clear the table when breakfast is over. They bicker good-naturedly over who gets to do the dishes, as if they were fighting over the bill at a restaurant. Dejun wins out with a dark pout and just the tiniest exertion of superhuman strength.
“Wow,” Kun exhales, leaning back against the counter, looking almost a little tearful, “I never thought I’d see the day when someone else washes the dishes in my house.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Dejun waves him off with a soapy hand. Then he almost jumps out of his skin when he turns and sees Kun has Dejun’s phone in one hand, tapping away. “Oi—what are you doing with my phone?”
“Calling myself,” Kun wags his own buzzing phone in Dejun’s face. “Next time you’re at the club you can text me, yeah?”
“Oh,” Dejun’s shoulders slump in relief. “Thanks, I guess.” Kun flashes him a grin, dimples widening. Dejun can’t help but grin back.
Kun’s fingers pause over his keyboard. “What should I save you as?”
“It’s Dejun. Xiao Dejun.”
“Nice to meet you, Dejun,” Kun hands Dejun’s phone back to him. “Don’t go passing out on other people, alright? Not everyone’s as nice as Kun-ge.” He ruffles Dejun’s hair and is waving cheerily when Dejun closes the door behind him.
Dejun leaves Kun’s apartment feeling more alive than he has in weeks. He’d missed the normalcy of being around another person, chatting and having breakfast and being treated like a human being. Looking for his vampire sire hadn’t worked, but maybe he doesn’t need supervision. Maybe he can hack this.
Dejun gets about another block away before he vomits Kun’s wonderful cooking into a shrub.