A.N. I started writing this in the summer of last year during creative writing camp, so the flow is all convoluted and all that other nasty stuff, with the additional bonus of being written in a "poetic" style. This is the first part of a vampire!Kuroko story, so please enjoy! (Not that there's much to enjoy, haha)


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caroandlyn

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all that glitters

is not gold


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Part I

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(Present)

The thing is, Kuroko remembers. Flashes of red and flesh and gold taunt him in his dreams, screams of pain, pleasure, fear clawing out of his throat; he imagines a man standing in the distance, holding a finger to his lips, an all-knowing gaze and secretive smile flickering in the light, before he matches the phantom's face as his own.


"Kuroko," Kagami asks, shifting awkwardly on the couch while Aomine shouts something obscene in the other room. "You know you can talk to us—Aomine and me, I mean—anytime, right? That we'll be here for you?"

Kuroko nods slowly, drinking a mouthful of cold tea as an excuse to stay silent. The apartment is on the shabbier side, garish posters of 80's American punk rock bands and basketball not quite hiding the peeling flower-print wallpaper behind, but... comfortable. He thinks of his own luxury suite in upscale Tokyo, of empty walls and bare flooring, of sleek metal and thick glass entrapping him in spider-silk webs of loneliness.

"I know it's not really my place to tell you this," Kagami continues, oblivious, "but you need to take care of yourself more, idiot." He punches Kuroko gently on the shoulder, grinning. "You promised that you'd always be there for me always, didn't you?"

"I don't think Kagami-kun should be telling me this," Kuroko says, staring at his quicksilver reflection in the last dregs of tea. "He was the one who got a bad cold in the middle of summer, after all."

(And you have Aomine-kun if I'm gone, he doesn't say, and Kagami doesn't hear.)

"H-hey!" Kagami sputters, choking on his glass of apple juice. "I'd like to tell you, Mr. I-will-make-fun-of-my-pitiful-best-friend, that I was soaking wet and the temperature was fucking freezing at night!" He waves his hands in emphasis, scowling, before realizing that his words weren't exactly helping his case. "Anyway, haven't you heard the expression that idiots can't catch colds?"

Kuroko gives a wan smile. "I thought the saying was only idiots catch summer colds? And is Kagami-kun implying that he is an idiot?"

"What, no!" Kagami makes a face, slumping onto a cushion in defeat and flinging an arm over his eyes. "Just... be careful, alright? Have you heard about the serial murders in Ginza yet? That's near where you live, right?"

Kuroko shrugs. "I'll be fine," he says, setting down his cup onto the table. "I've survived up to this point in life, I am certain I can protect myself."

"Augh, you know that's not what I meant at all, Kuroko," Kagami says, huffing, burrowing his head in his hands. "Why are all my friends either major idiots or smartasses or both?"

"Birds of a feather flock together, the quote is," Kuroko says, and looks down at the empty cup below when Kagami hollers in comedic indignation.


Killing is too easy.

The woman screams, although slamming her head against the wall is enough to keep her quiet. Her blood is thin and bland, almost tasteless, but he drinks until his stomach is filled once more, until his hunger is satisfied.

He imagines her having a family waiting for her at home. Perhaps a husband newly home from work. Children playing with dolls, waiting for dinner that will never be served.

Bon appetit.


Sometimes, he wonders.

There is a man who moves into the suite adjacent to his own. Kuroko catches occasional flashes of his new neighbor—painful yellow hair, golden eyes, pale skin and a pink, pink mouth—and imagines a celebrity, perhaps an actor, someone who gives coy rebukes to over-excited paparazzi and wakes up at six o'clock every morning to style his hair.

He is half-right.

"You are Kuroko-san, right?" the man says sheepishly at his doorstep, scratching his head. "I'm Kise Ryouta—" and then suddenly, it all comes to him, because how had he not recognized the face that monopolized almost every billboard and advertisement? "—your new neighbor, it's very nice to meet you and can I spend please spend the night at your suite?"

Kuroko blinks at his new revelation, and then, as he processes Kise's words, blinks again. "Pardon?"

Kise flushes a light pink, as if just realizing the hidden connotations in his words. "No, not like that, I'm sorry if I caused any misunderstandings but I really need to get away from my suite because I think I have a stalker inside my room and I don't want to draw any attention by leaving or calling the police and causing a scandal but I really need to get away so please, please, please..."

"I understand," Kuroko says quickly, moving aside to let the older man in. "I have a spare futon inside."

Kise smiles brilliantly, brighter than the sun, pure joy unmarred by relief or caution. "Thanks, Kuroko-san! I knew you would understand." As he enters the apartment, Kuroko briefly wonders if the actor is faking, because surely somebody with a stalker would not be so carefree, be more cautious.

No. He is overthinking again, just like how he imagines those narrowed golden eyes filled with betrayal and worry and that soft pink mouth parting and then why why why

"Kurokocchi? Is something wrong? Are you having a seizure? Do you need to lie down? Did I surprise you too much? I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so so so sorry..."

"Ah... I'm fine, Kise-san."

"..."

"Kurokocchi?" Kuroko repeats, the name falling from his lips with the grace of a drowning swan. It sounds familiar, ringing on the edge of his memory, but he can not recall from where.

His guest blanches a pale, sickly white, leaning against a large glass panel that has the grand view of the southern Tokyo city. "It's... your nickname. I hope you don't mind," Kise says, and flutters long eyelashes that coat a good half-inch of his face when he blinks. "I'm sorry, Kurokocchi—Kuroko-san—if you don't like it and think I'm being too familiar I can always—"

Kuroko shakes his head. "It's fine, Kise-san," he says, and wonders where the fear that suddenly bursts in his chest, enveloping his heart, comes from. "I don't mind very much. Would you like some tea?"

"Thanks," Kise grins, and scratches the back of his mop of blond hair sheepishly. "You haven't changed much since the last time we met, don't you know?"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, no, I was just talking to myself. Sorry if I worried you, Kurokocchi."

"Mmm." He heats the kettle over the stove, adding in tea leaves from some randomly grabbed box—oolong? jasmine? green? A pscket of powder follows, surreptiously added with a flick of the wrist. "How are you liking Tokyo, so far?"

Kise leans back on his chair, crossing his legs and flipping out a smartphone. "I was born in Kabukicho, so I'm a native, actually. But I definitely like it here better than Osaka or Kanagawa."

Kuroko freezes, taking in the meaning of Kise's words. It is not unusual for children of prostitutes to integrate themselves into society, to forget their foul roots, but to think beautiful, rich Kise as the son of a whore; Kise, who earns more money than all of Japan's millionaires combined; Kise, who stands in his penthouse because of an overzealous fan...

"Oh," is all he can manage to say.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, silent and gaping, while Kise texts furiously on his kitchen counter. The sound of the kettle hissing draws him out of his thoughts, and he hurriedly pulls out two teacups next to the stove, pouring himself a little bit to sample first. The tea is bland, and tastes vaguely of oolong. He dumps the entirety of it down his sink, choking up the rest.

He pours another cup for Kise, away from the man's view, before carefully placing it in front of his guest. "Thank you," Kise says, placing his phone on the countertop as he takes a sip. Kuroko glances curiously at it, frowning slightly at the cryptic message displayed on the digital screen: I found him.


The sleeping drug works, although the effects take a little later more time than he expects. When he is certain his guest is asleep, he leaves, disappearing into the shadows with the ease of having done so many, many times before.

He returns to the apartment, dripping of blood, precisely at the witching hour.


Kise leaves the apartment sometime around sunrise, leaving behind a neatly folded futon and short note of thanks on the marble kitchen countertops, and suddenly Kuroko feels very small again, alone. There is takeout in the fridge, yes, but the microwave has yet to be installed; he forces cold rice and seaweed down his throat and tries not to choke.

Kagami texts him sometime in the late morning, careless slang and wrong characters littering his message: serial killer atk 2 dead b careful aomine says hi. Kuroko shuts down his phone, frowning at the strong scent that seems to permeate the room, a thick fog of vaporous iron.

Instead, he grabs his wallet and calls for a cab, headed for Tsukiji.

Seirin Coffee and Tea is located on one of the seedier roads of the district, and Kuroko's driver is all too glad to receive his dues and leave. On an outside patio, an elderly man sips morosely at a crimson-tinged glass, staring at the streets with blank eyes.

"Good morning, Kuroko-kun," Riko smiles from the cafe counter, tinges of color dotting her cheeks, crimson red lipstick stretching outwards into the sky. "The usual, I take it?" She adjusts her black apron, folding it carefully over her shoulders, and heads into the depths of the kitchen, returning moments later with a small cup of thick red liquid. "It's on the house for today. You'll never guess what—Junpei-kun's an otou-san now!"

"Congratulations, Riko-san," Kuroko nods, taking a sip of his drink. The cafe is empty except for the two of them, and the silence is almost disconcerting.

Riko flushes, her smile widening. "It's going to be a girl, I just know it. Now, if only that blockheaded moron of a husband would realize that as well..."

"I heard that!" Hyuuga yells from inside the kitchen, and pokes his head out of the door that connects the kitchen and the counter, wielding a still-steaming frying pan, his glasses askew. "Don't listen to that stubborn witch, Kuroko. We're going to have a son."

"Daughter."

"Son."

"Daughter."

"Son."

"Daughter," Riko says, smiling aggravatedly and spilling half of her own cup of red liquid. "Kuroko-kun, do me a favor and pass me a few napkins, will you?"

"Ow, ow, woman, let go of my ear," Hyuuga yells, trying to escape his wife's iron hold. "I thought you were pregnant, not on steroids."

"You're not getting out of this hold until you admit that I'm right," Riko said, smiling innocently as she wipes away the mess. "Thank you, Kuroko-kun. Could you be a darling and throw these away as well?"

Kuroko picks up the sopping wet napkins gingerly, keeping it out of arm's reach. A light-headed feeling comes upon him as he does, his surroundings blending into a collective eternity that engulfs him in seas of white—he sees a hand above him, a single ombre eye peering through the darkness, a silent mouth moving into a frown.

(Do you remember now, Tetsuya?

(

I hate them. I hate you. I hate everything.

) )

"Kuroko-kun!" Riko shouts, and suddenly he is back in the cafe, staring at the ceiling fan circle around lazily, the cold floor pressing against his back. The napkin lies in a crumpled heap beside him. "Kuroko-kun, snap out of it!" Her eyes are a deep brown, the color of soil and wood and rusting metal, and Kuroko despises them with a passion, more anything else he's ever known.

I hate you.

"Ah," Kuroko says simply, breathing hard as he peels himself upwards from the floor tiles. And then he smiles, because the only other option is to cry. "I'm sorry, Riko-san, Hyuuga-senpai. I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well right now."

"I can see that," Hyuuga rolls his eyes from behind his wife, grabbing Kuroko tightly around the arm. "And to think we were going to name you godfather, you idiot! Take better care of yourself, or you'll be dead before Shigehiro comes out of the womb, and then we'll have to resort to a human to watch over our first son."

Kuroko tenses in the older man's hold. "...Shigehiro?"

"Our son's name," Hyuuga says proudly, adjusting his glasses. "After Riko's great-grandfather. He was some super vampire or something like that, I don't really care, but her mother's always going on about Ogiwara-ojii-sama and how cool he was."

"Our daughter's name," Riko says, elbowing her husband in the chest, "is going to be Shigeko. I will not be the ignorant mother who names her first child after a boy!"

"And I refuse to be the imbecilic father who names his his eldest son after a girl!"

"Do you even know what imbecilic means, you moron?"

"I'd like to remind you I scored higher than you in the Japanese test we took back in the second year of high school!"

"That was only once, and by one point!"

"Kuroko, who do you think is right?" Hyuuga yells, grey eyes glinting a livid shade.

Kuroko stares at his hands, and imagines a boy called Hyuuga Shigehiro with messy brown hair and his mother's eyes, a leather ball in hand as he chases after a smaller boy with strange blue coloring and a fragile presence.

He thinks up a little black-haired girl by the name of Hyuuga Shigeko who still believes in icky boy-germs and old wives' tales, talking non-stop to a group of other little girls with perfectly tied hair in color-coded ribbons.

"Riko-san's argument sounds more logical."

"Ha!"

"Kuroko, you traitor!"

Maybe, he didn't want to face reality.


"On the subject of traitors, that rogue vampire around Ginza's getting more and more audacious," Riko says later, this time in a more subdued tone, cradling her stomach. "Twenty humans dead already, all with their necks brutally ripped out. If the humans haven't already started suspecting us, it'd be a miracle. Junpei's even thinking about moving us to the Southern countryside to seek refuge with his relatives."

Kuroko takes a few more delicate sips of his drink. "Do you have any idea of who might have done it, Riko-san?"

Riko sighs, ruffling his hair. "I wish I did. Maybe it was that Akashi Seijurou and his little troupe. Nobody's heard from them in three hundred years, who knows? They've certainly got no reservations in massacring humans, much less their own kinsmen."

"Akashi had a lover, didn't he?"

"He was killed about the same time Akashi disappeared, I think. Good riddance."

"Riko-san," Kuroko says, and sets his cup down gingerly. "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

Riko laughs, a dismissive, bitter sound. "Did some human lover of yours die? Kuroko-kun, once someone dies, they don't come back to life."


U didnt answer aomine & i worried r u ok? 1 dead ma-b more

Kuroko deletes the message once again, and stares at the ceiling.

He is still vaguely hungry.


His dreams are haunted with hair and eyes the shade of terracotta clay.

I hate everything.

He does not sleep that night.

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