DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND Dracula – Bram Stoker

CASTLES IN THE AIR

FOUR

26 MAY 1897

The days passed without my notice and I passed them in a pleasant, sleepy stupor, like an addict lost in an opium fog. Vladimir and I talked and slept and feasted on each other, some days never leaving the comfort of bed. I was slothful and greedy and prideful, but did not care. There were times, in the small hours of mourning, when I could not tell the difference between dreaming and waking. I existed somewhere in the middle, in a purgatory of my own making, of my own ebullient joy, and I loved it. Vladimir brought me food, and I ate it. He brought firewood, and I burned it. He gave me tours of the forest and castle, the two of us walking through the long corridors with our hands clasped, fitting a parodied description of a couple taking a turn about their cold, stone garden. He shared books with me with printed publishing dates far in the past, and he told me oral tales of the world he had known. I told him of the modern world and delighted in his disbelief. We debated often like schoolmates, played games like old friends, and coupled together like rutting beasts. We bathed together, and dressed together—when we bothered to dress at all, for my pretense to modesty had died a swift death. We walked and talked and made love beneath the black vault of starry skies.

I do not think I would have survived if not for Vladimir. If not for his care, his urging, I would not have risen from his bed. I would have simply stayed there and starved, slipping as easily into death as into a heavy sleep, a smile upon my face.

Sometimes we spoke, and sometimes we acted, and sometimes we lay quietly side-by-side, but not touching.

Sometimes we were strangers even to ourselves, and it was gloriously liberating.

"No one sees himself truly," Vladimir whispered in my ear, "because everyone stands too close. But I see you, my dearest. I see you and feel you and would know all of you—your body, your mind. Your precious heart and soul."

"And I you," I agreed, kissing him passionately until words fell away.

02 JUNE 1897

Vladimir caught me talking to myself in the looking-glass.

I was berating my reflection for the uncomely image it showed, for I looked wan and grey. The cost of feeding a vampire on my own blood. I was finding myself less strong each time he drank from me, and I took longer to recover day-by-day. But my fear was a small thing, and all religious reproach turned to ridicule in my head. I would no sooner deny him then intentionally starve myself.

I was made aware of his presence by a purring chuckle, for he had no reflection in the looking-glass. I turned, red to my bones with embarrassment.

"I have exceptionally good hearing, like a bat," he teased, playfully nipping my ear. Then he rested his head upon my shoulder and faced the glass, as if imagining what our portrait would look like together. I wondered what it must be like for him, not knowing his own face. A shame: a crime! for his beauty was a work of art. His fourteen-year-old self hung preserved forever in oil-paint, but the face preserved forever in flesh was one he could not remember.

I melted into the intimacy of his embrace, knowing full well that I would be as much use as a chocolate fire-guard if danger were to strike.

"Can you change shape?" I asked. "To become a bat, or a wolf, or some other nocturnal creature?"

I wondered if I had, again, placed my faith in unfounded superstition, but was relieved to hear him affirm my theory.

"Yes, I can," he admitted, "but I am not taken with transmogrification. It is a terrible bother, and it hurts," he bemoaned, leaning against me.

"It hurts?"

"Yes, of course." He nuzzled my shoulder. "How do you think it feels to break down and re-grow your bones in a different form, and all in the span of a single moment; to twist and condense yourself into a much smaller shape? I suppose I once enjoyed it, running and flying and climbing with claws instead of fingers, but now it makes me ache."

My lips twitched, curling upward. "You... are a vampire with arthritis?"

Vladimir lifted his head. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Oh no, my dear," I teased, kissing his forehead and then his sulking lips, "I would never."

It had not taken long for me to understand that Vladimir was of a very playful disposition, reminding me of the feline mousers who slept in my father's outbuildings, and I took great delight in teasing him. I had not expected to find such a youthful, frivolous humour in one so old, and had to keep reminding myself of his age once I had learnt it, for he did not look like a mature man, nor did he act like one. If I knew not the truth, I would have mistaken him for a beardless youth younger than I. An educated, well-bred aristocrat, for certain; a youth with wisdom beyond his years, but a giggling, gambling mortal prone to flaws like any other.

My favourite game was to goad his pouting temper by emphasizing his undead qualities, which he pretended to lament, but which were as much a part of him as his loving, unbeating heart.

"My hair does not grow," he explained, petting mine in example. "Nor do my fingernails, or eyelashes, and my skin does not peel or wrinkle or stretch. It does not change in any way except to become boated and flushed with blood. I cannot gain or lose weight, nor muscle. I cannot grow or shrink or lose what I have. I am what I was when I died, and shall always be."

"Preserved," I said, letting his fingertips roam across my human features, which changed from day-to-day.

"Yes," he said in a seductive cadence, rubbing my unshaved jaw.

I promptly took him to bed.

I feel selfish," I later confessed.

We were lying in bed: I, naked, and Vladimir wearing red lace that looked more confectionary than garment. I wondered if he knew how he looked, how sensual he was. I wondered how he could with no reflection to consult, and yet I did not for a moment doubt his sly, playful tactics. He would have made a bad gambler, for he could not hide his expressions, or seductive plots. I decided he knew exactly what he presented to me, stretched out languidly across the bed, dressed like something pornographic, and what the mere sight of him did to me. It made me wonder, so I asked:

"You can't feel pleasure, can you?"

I hoped that he would not make me go into the details of our coupling, despite the physical proof of my own enthusiasm.

"I can," he mused slowly, "just not in the same way you can. I can feel affection, and I can feel your warmth. I can feel that you're happy," he said, smiling in lazy contentment. "That's enough for me."

"But do you enjoy it," I asked self-consciously, "when we're together?"

Instead of answering, he walked his fingers across my torso. "You know," he purred, "a man of your abilities should not doubt himself."

He tipped his head up, body pressed against me, and nipped my earlobe, then followed the mock-scold with a forgiving kiss to my jaw, my neck. He lingered on my neck.

"But—" I began, but he silenced me with a finger to my lips.

"Yes," he answered plainly, crawling atop me to straddle my waist. His hollow weight pressed down, drawing us together by gravity, and a cascade of lace tickled my thighs. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, and he said:

"I like being with you very much.

"In fact, I should like to be with you again..."