Disclaimer: I own very little.

A/N: I promised a friend of mine a vampire AU. See me deliver.

Blood and Tears

Prologue

Tension

The scent is driving him mad.

He knows he should just ignore it, not pay any attention to it, but such a thing is becoming increasingly more impossible. He cannot think of anything but the scent, can't concentrate on anything, can't help but look that way every five minutes. It could be explicable if it were the scent of blood, no matter what he can't ignore the scent of blood, but it's not. It's just… sweat, and healthiness, and the particular scent of the person, and he can't help but look into its direction whenever the scent reaches his nostrils again.

Maybe it's attraction, his traitorous mind suggests. Maybe he actually finds himself drawn to this person in particular and his fascination with their scent is just a symptom of that. He desperately wishes it isn't so, though; his life is difficult enough already without such problems. It'd be impossible, anyway. Attraction or not, he knows trouble when he sees it.

He just hopes the trouble won't see him, just yet.

Days pass and convince him it's true, he really has fallen for the worst person ever, the kind of a person he should avoid like the plague. He dreams of them as he dozes off in class, thinks of them as he stays awake at night, is driven mad by their scent every single day and can't help it at all. He can't do anything about it, though, can't become too involved, he's too involved already and he really should put some distance between them – a lot of it – but he can't do it and they are friends besides and it's all just so very, very difficult.

Damn himself, really, for falling for that stupid, gentle, dangerous and ever so caring Oishi Shuichirou.

And damn Oishi Shuichirou for being a hunter.

He's been having nightmares for quite a while, now.

It's normal, he knows, for someone like him. He's talked with others as well and knows that there are few who don't have them, so very few whose dreams aren't plagued with fear and death and so, so much blood. He dreams of pain, of battles, of wide innocent eyes staring up to the sky, unseeing. He dreams of losing things he values more than life itself, of gaining things he would rather die than receive. It's all so real he often wakes up with a scream, drenched in sweat, and the worst part of it is that some of it is indeed real and some of it may some day be.

Others are starting to notice, he suspects, his lack of sleep quite obvious when he dozes off at school, but it's those who ask him anything about it who will never truly know. He smiles at everyone who asks, says he's just been busy, you know, staying up late on his computer or watching the TV or working on his homework after spending the day out with friends, and everyone just laughs and believes him and never doubts his word. Those who will never ask just look at him, a sign of sympathy in their eyes, or try to smile and appear cheerful only for him to catch a hint of sadness in their eyes when they don't think he's looking. Probably he's the same way, himself, smiling when he'd rather cry, laughing when he'd rather lash out, doing his best to appear nice and cheerful and above all normal if one doesn't know what to look for. That's why nobody suspects a thing. That's why he can keep doing this.

Sometimes he almost wishes he truly were too weak to do this, could just break down and give up, turn his back on all this and leave it behind and never look back. It's impossible, though, as he well knows, he's never been a quitter and never will be and therefore he can't help but fight on no matter how exhausted or sad or terrified he is. There are people who depend on him, people who expect him to lead them, who have no one but him even when they don't necessarily realize it. It's his responsibility to go on, and therefore he can never stop, and all he can do is keep walking his chosen path and hope with all his heart it will actually lead him somewhere and not end abruptly.

He dreams and the dreams are real, too real, and inside the dream he reaches out shaking hands to gently close a pair of wide eyes, far too wide, and the sickening scent of blood surrounds him and even inside the nightmare he feels like being sick.

The next day he looks even worse than usually, and those same eyes look at him questioningly, worriedly, and they are again far too wide and he has to bite back a choked sob even as he pretends to be smiling.

It's no use, the false smiles, as he well knows. The only ones he can fool are those who don't really matter. Those who matter… They can smell his fear, his frustration, his exhaustion. They can smell how much he fears death.

And it encourages them.

He will always follow.

It's perhaps not the best course of action, as he well knows; in fact, it might be just plain foolish. Nevertheless, he will always follow, always stay loyal, never sway from the side of his chosen master. He has no obligation, no responsibility, no ties beyond his own promise, own decision. And that is more than enough for him, more than anything else could ever be.

He sees horrible things, true, things he would much rather never know about, yet he never wavers, never for a second doubts his loyalty. To him, there's only one master, has only been one master ever since he was a mere child, and even if he dislikes the path his master has chosen to walk he will not abandon them. It's his nature, always following, always obeying, not questioning his master's decisions no matter what his own opinion may be. Only if he thinks the decision will have bad results does he speak up, only if no one else is hearing, because no matter what the motives it's still disrespectful and he would never shame his master by questioning him in front of others.

Maybe it's love, maybe it's something else, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he will follow his chosen master until the end.

Or, should the master require it of him, beyond.

He is hungry.

This is hardly a surprise; after all, he is always hungry. No matter how much he feeds, he never seems to get enough. Nothing could satisfy this thirst, no amount of pain or fear could make him happy. He needs more, more, always more than he's already got, always more than he is offered. What he wants, he takes from the others, and what he has no need for he discards without another thought.

He is a hunter of the purest kind, a predator chasing prey, not choosing his victims beyond their being easily available. Anyone who comes across him at the wrong moment is good enough, anyone he chooses is marked forever. There aren't deaths, not many at least, but the rare times it happens he feels little remorse – who would have pitied the game when the hunter was roaming freely? It was simply for the better for everyone to stay put and hide and hope they weren't next.

At one point he may have pitied them, may have felt some remorse, but if that has ever happened he has forgotten it by now. Now there are only potential victims for him, only victims and the excitement of the chase, and the sweet, sweet blood he gathers as a reward for his effort.

The blood, and the hunger, the hunger that never goes away.

And thus he will hunt.