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The Hunter feels Alfred’s weight shift beside him as the larger man rolls over in bed. His eyes trace the other’s figure in the darkness, watching as his form grows and shrinks with every heavy breath, and he reaches out, pressing his hand against his back. He feels the vibrations of the other’s pulse beating against his fingertips and sighs contentedly, quiet as to not disturb his partner.
Despite their satisfactory rutting session earlier in the night, the Hunter finds himself lying awake. He’s tried everything he can think of—counting sheep, imagining various pleasant scenarios, even the one where you hold your breath until it makes you weak enough to fall asleep—but nothing seems to be working tonight.
He sits up slowly, trying his best not to disturb Alfred, and slips out of bed. He shivers as he plants his feet on the cold hardwood floor, sitting at the edge of the mattress and watching the flickering orange glow of the gas lamps outside through the murky window before him.
They never stay in one place for long, neither man really having a solid place to call ‘home’. They go where the church tells them to go, both of them thankful that their superiors even allow them to bunk together in the first place. Their relationship isn’t exactly a well-kept secret, but most other hunters simply turn their heads and forget what they saw if questioned by any prying authorities. He doesn’t mind the instability in location—it’s a part of the job description as a hunter—as long as Alfred is with him.
The Hunter rises to a stand, the bed creaking as it adjusts to the lack of extra weight. The cloth wrapped around his body, covering his more intimate areas, slips away and exposes his skin to the cool air of the bedroom as he slowly steps away from the bed. He gasps softly, skin prickling with gooseflesh, but continues forward. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, stepping into the middle of the room and looking over his shoulder to the mound of linen and cloth that is Alfred—still dead asleep.
He sighs again, this time slightly less content, as he turns his gaze to the mirror standing in the far corner of the room. He catches a glimpse of himself, a pale silhouette against the darkness, and decides to approach. The glass is dusty, fractured with little pieces missing at the corners of the wooden frame that splinters and peels with age, but it’s clean enough to see one’s reflection at least.
For the first time in a good, long while, the Hunter looks himself in the eyes. They’re sunken in, circled by dark, pronounced bags, and reddened by his lack of sleep. It’s not the first night that he’s struggled to settle. His gaze trails down, breaking the eye contact with himself, to his collarbone. Dark marks are littered across his clavicle, contrasting intensely against his skin.
Shock dawns on him as he takes in the state of his chest, his mouth hanging slightly open at the sheer amount of blemishes. His eyes flit from one mark to another—a myriad of blotchy, red shapes and tooth-shaped grooves spanning from one shoulder all the way across his chest to the other—and he quickly loses count in the gloom.
Alfred has always been a fan of biting. Or, rather, a fan of taking the Hunter’s flesh into his mouth in one way or another. Some of the bruises are old, but most appear to be in various stages of healing, the freshest ones standing out the most. He reaches his fingers up, brushing them over one of the darkest marks. He hisses softly when he makes contact with the sensitive flesh, quickly pulling his fingers away. It’s difficult to realise how hard Alfred is clamping down when in such a state of arousal, and even more difficult to comment on it if he does happen to recognise the pain.
His fingers move to a distinct bite mark on the right side of his neck, swollen and inflamed. He traces the indentations with his index, distinguishing where each tooth penetrated. When he removes his hand, he glances down at it instinctively and notes the small blot of blood smudged over his fingertip. His stomach twists at the sight, and he realises now why Alfred was suddenly so strange earlier.
It was as if he was possessed by some kind of beastly force. The man went from passionate, gentle strokes and soft words of praise whispered into his ear to rough and merciless pounding in half a second with no discernible reason—not that the Hunter particularly minded that at the time.
After they were done, Alfred kissed him, said a short goodnight, and then rolled over and almost instantly fell asleep. None of that was typical. The blond is also a fan of long post-coital cuddling sessions when afforded such opportunities and almost never lets himself fall asleep when he’s with the Hunter without prattling on at length about something or another. The Hunter was put off by this, unsure at the time if Alfred was upset with him or if he was unsatisfied, but didn’t have the chance to enquire before the other man drifted off. Now he knows the motives behind his change in behaviour.
The temptation of raw blood— unholy in its purely carnal nature—drives even the strongest of hunters to insanity. The mere thought of taking blood flesh-to-mouth sends most straight to the penance hall to rid their minds of the unchecked vulgarity and steel themselves against the sanguine seductions. Such fantasies are not uncommon amongst their ranks but are agreed to remain just that: fantasies.
Alfred typically knows his limits, how hard he can bite without breaking the skin, but he must have gotten carried away. Drinking blood right from the vein is a Vileblood practice and is, therefore, unclean and heretical. The Hunter can’t imagine the thoughts that were racing through Alfred’s head when he tasted the coppery drug in his mouth and realised, especially considering his occupation as an executioner. He can’t blame the man for his actions afterward. Raw blood invokes something primal in man, some animalistic instinct deep inside that is far too strong to resist.
The Hunter looks over his shoulder towards Alfred again, staring at him for a moment. He thinks back to the moment in which the man bit him—the subtle ‘pop’ he heard in the back of his head when his jaws bore down and the dull, throbbing sting that came afterwards—and whimpers, fingers trailing over the mark again subconsciously. How is he ever going to cover this up?
He looks back to the mirror, huffing as he realises that he’s condemned to wearing high-collared shirts for the next few weeks. Or something with a ruffle, at least, to conceal the markings.
Despite their relationship being generally known amongst the other hunters, Alfred and the Hunter still have to be careful. Men have been imprisoned, some even hung, for same-sex relations in the past—both in Yharnam and the Hunter’s homeland. It may be cruel and unfair that they can’t display their affections in public or talk about it with others for fear of being outed and shunned, but it’s the way it is and always has been for them. They manage.
His eyes trail down his reflection, stopping when he notices another cluster of angry, red blotches peeking out from his inner thigh. Alfred’s mouth knows no limits, it seems. He spreads his legs a bit, enough to see the results of their love plastered all over his loins. Something tells him that he shouldn’t be shocked at this point, but he can’t help a tiny gasp.
The subtle sound of shuffling cloth reminds him of his nakedness. He quickly covers himself, clutching his own body in surprise, and he whips around to see Alfred, propped up in bed and looking back at him through slitted eyes.
“Darling?” The blond calls out, voice hoarse and creaky with fatigue. The Hunter’s heart races in his chest. Even the slightest sound can set him off, but he quickly grounds himself. “What’s the matter?” Alfred rubs the sleep from his eyes, just barely managing to make out the Hunter’s figure across the room.
“I couldn’t sleep.” The Hunter replies after a moment, his defensive covering transforming into folded arms for warmth. Now, with Alfred’s eyes on him, he feels the cold creeping up his spine and infesting his muscles with tremors.
“Oh dear…” Alfred mutters, half asleep. He pulls the covers back, revealing himself and the incredibly appealing empty spot beside him. “Come to bed… I can hold you…”
The Hunter smiles and nods, approaching the bed. Alfred rubs his thigh once he gets close enough, giving him a weak but reassuring squish. The smaller man climbs back into bed, sighing at the warmth that envelops him, and curls into the other. Large arms wrap around him, tucking the cover neatly under him and effectively creating a comfortable cocoon. He wraps a leg around Alfred’s, just wanting to be that little bit closer to him.
“It’s alright…” The larger man mutters, nuzzling into the Hunter with his eyes closed. “I love you.”
The Hunter rubs his face against Alfred’s chest, cheeks tickled by the prickly hairs that poke out at odd angles. The other man’s little features have become familiar. Comforting. The way he hums in his sleep with every breath, the way his muscles twitch whenever the Hunter moves in the night, as if he’s going to run away, the way his eyes follow him like an obedient dog.
“I love you too.” He responds, closing his eyes and listening to his lover’s heart beating rhythmically in his chest. The love they share is real. Far more real than any type of love that either man has experienced before. It’s primal and full of desire, but, aside from that, it’s passionate and freeing.
They have each other, and that’s enough.