He remembers being warm.
It was a glorious feeling, that living warmth. The way it was unconditional and always there; a steady constant in a world that was cruel and cold-hearted in ways that weren't ever meant to be directed to one single person.
He supposes that's what he misses the most, now that he's become what he is.
He hates being cold. The way that ever-lasting chill settled deep into his bones, never to leave, the day he died and became an immortal being is more than uncomfortable; it's simply unbearable. How can anyone, living or dead, deal and exist with that impossible cold coursing through them?
He certainly can't. Some days he just doesn't want to anymore.
And so he bundles up, deep into scarves and long coats and shirts made of warm cotton that supply a light warmth to a being who can no longer create their own. It's impossible for him to rely on the sun now to warm his skin and chase away the cold like it used to, lest he burst into flame and begone. A truly horrible fate.
He exercises daily in hopes that somehow, his body will adjust back to its old ways and create some sort of heat from the friction of his muscles straining to lift those weights, but he is always sorely disappointed. The results he gets are not the results he so desperately wants.
But if his body is able to create more mass where before there was none, why then won't it create some source of body heat? Weren't vampires' bodies supposed to be immortalized forever in the form they were killed in? He's been alive for so long, and yet some aspects of this unnatural life of his are still elusive and strange to him.
But one thing is certain; he's so, so tired of being cold. He wonders if that's why it seems most, if not all, his emotions have vanished as the years have drawn on. There's just no reason to put them to use if he can't feel good about himself, and that horrid, dreadful chill seeping through him.
There was a time when he'd gotten so desperate, he'd even gone so far as to try getting close to people, actual living human beings, to share their warmth without killing them. To have it always nearby, like a lizard on a heating stone, was comfortable for a long, long while. However, he soon realized that this was ineffective, and only ended up hurting him more than it did help, and he quickly enveloped himself away from society once more till his dark-skinned partner drew him back out again.
He'd become jealous, almost spiteful of those creatures he's able to tap into. He doesn't like feeling jealous of anything, let alone of creatures so pitiably weak.
He doesn't feel the hunger the way most new-born vampires feel it; they're savage in a nasty, ugly, desperate fashion that drink to survive and survive alone. They don't savor that hot heat that submerges inside them and coils around in the pits of their stomach before vanishing as quickly as it came like he does; sophisticated blood drinking at it's finest, he thinks. Is that why vampires drink blood? To be warm again? He's not sure, but that's the reason he gives himself everytime he digs his fangs deep into a new victims neck. He just needs to feel that hot hot hot energy brewing deep inside him like it did when he was alive.
Finas misses being alive, he now realizes.
Especially when it was such a glorious feeling to be warm.
And as he steps into the dark, cold night air every night, he wraps the scarf ever tighter around his neck, protectively hiding the spot where the cold first entered him, and hunts for someone new to aid him in his search for another brief glimpse into what it was like to have once been alive.