Yuri wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside. Spring has come early this year. He nuzzles his nose deep into the fluffy pillow, hoping to get more sleep. The oversized shirt of a man twice his slim figure slips down his shoulder, revealing the pale white skin, soft and delectable like a mousse cake.
"Yuri."
A voice calls his name with tenderness and care. The low register only makes him more sleepy. He burrows his face into the pillow, covering his head with the duvet, determined to ignore the looming presence of the man over his curling nest.
"Yuri. You promised you would wake up early today."
Zephariel says, slowly with a sweet indulgence. He sits down on the edge of the large bed they share, picking up the stray strands of his beloved's opalescent hair and kissing them with reverence.
"Mister, it is too early," Yuri mumbles from the pile of pillows and the fort of duvet, "Give me ten, no, fifteen minutes."
"How long?" Zephariel inches closer to where the boy's head is supposed to be, placing a kiss on the mound of fabric and watching it shake with delight.
"Um. Half an hour?" Yuri lifts the duvet cover slightly, only revealing his watery, starry eyes dyed in amethyst sparkles. "Please?"
Zephariel swears he would die for the look in those eyes one of these days. But not today. He has something more important to do. A promise he made a long time ago. A bargain he entered into just to steal the jewel of his heart.
It has been one hundred years since the Night of A Thousand Deaths. The lab had gone ablaze. The newly acquired children died. The villains of the scheme were shredded into minced meat. No life was saved.
Except Yuri von Eisenberg, who, upon waking from the disaster, appeared to have lost his memory.
He stays the same seventeen-year-old boy; no trace of time mars his beautiful face. His mind grows sharper. He acquires the necessary knowledge to maintain the estate that was given to him under duress. The only heir of Lord Heron, who had taken an unknown murderer for a mate, and who wouldn't hear of any plans for revenge.
Zephariel pats his round head. Yuri is a good kid. Far too good and innocent still for this world. Yet, a part of him still longs to see that Supreme Deity again. Yuriel. That was the name he heard on that chilling, rouge clouded night. The silky opalescent hair shone like a trail of moonstones. The silver teardrop for the sorrow of the living. The halo upon his head. Yuriel was far more than whatever the word 'beautiful' can describe.
And the Supreme Deity disappeared as soon as the lab burned to the ground. A mission accomplished. He only cast a languid glance at the kneeling Zephariel, but it was enough to leave the God stupefied and agonized with a century of longing.
"Mister, is it not good? I can make do with fifteen minutes." Yuri tugs on Zephariel's shirt cuff. His voice is dripping with saccharine, honey-fused pleading.
"It's alright, little doll." Zephariel brushes his hair and kisses his face all over, making Yuri squirm with laughter. "And don't call me 'Mister,' we aren't strangers."
"The servants get upset when I call your name. I don't want to see them sad. And I also don't want to upset you." Yuri crawls onto the larger man's lap, puffing his cheeks. "Anyways. I'll release them soon. The servants, I mean."
"Well, I don't know about that, Your Excellency. The Eisenberg estate will be devastating if you do." Zephariel caresses the spark of joy lying prostrate on his thighs without care. The porcelain skin is smooth and tender, melting under his touch.
"But I don't care about the Eisenberg estate. Mister, you are way better at those things than I am. Plus, I can't imagine why they would want to be here forever. Inside a castle. So cold and lonely."
"Sweet shortcake, do you want to get out?" Zephariel asks, scratching his doll's chin like petting a lazy cat.
"I'd like to. I heard from Eliza that there will be a festival downtown soon. The milkman said if I come to his family's stall and stroll around with him, he will give me a secret treat."
Yuri blabbers on, almost purring from the comfort of Zephariel's scent. He misses the chance to see his nice 'mister' grow frigid for a brief second, the azure eyes clouded over with a dark storm brewing, asking him with darkness and hunger: "The milkman, you say?"
"Yeah, Edward the milkman. You know him. He said you forbade him and every delivery personnel from coming inside the castle. But why, though? They are so nice."
"When did you meet Edward the milkman, kitten?"
"Just yesterday."
"In your pajamas, I suppose?" He rubs on Yuri's cheeks. The boy responds in kind, ignoring the warning sign of Zephariel's strong grip on his lithe waist.
"No. In your shirt. I rarely get out of bed these days because I get so sleepy, you see. So yesterday, I figured I would run quickly to the kitchen, get a cup of tea, and go back to bed. Then Edward came in and – ouch!" Yuri yelps as Zephariel pinches his supple flesh. "What was that for?"
"A bad kitten needs to be punished," Zephariel demanded.
The indulgence has gone from his voice. The kind demeanor is replaced by the ugly fury born from a primal instinct and emotion he can't control. Zephariel looks at the boy, aging more than a hundred years old, on the giant bed, still keeping the same appearance of a seventeen-year-old beauty. The shirt slips off his shoulders, revealing the pale white skin without a single mark, trembling slightly in apprehension. The pink buds that bloom shyly on his chest are perking up from the cool air. The tremor in his voice as Yuri whispers, "Mister?" and the tears scintillating in his amethyst jewels only fuel the beast inside Zephariel.
Because the beast had stayed hungry for far too long. A century, and Yuri's heat hasn't arrived. There is so much that a benevolent and patient God like Zephariel could take.
And the tipping point surges up immediately to match his thirst. The scent of black rose, cardamom, freshly harvested oat, and vetiver pervades his nose. His mouth waters at the olfactory attack. His fangs grow sharp. Eyes blown wide open, he lunges toward the Muse, who is quavering like a baby deer in fever and helplessness.
The last thought he has in mind before sinking his teeth into the sweet, ripening peach is: The appointment.
And Edward must be dead.
Outside the castle gate, a frail figure draped in white overalls with long, dark hair, which is growing white at the tips, stands waiting. A footman unlocks the door, inquires with politeness, and rejection:
"I'm sorry, we don't have an appointment with that name today. Ma'am –?"
"Mister."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm a man." The mysterious person lifts his veiled hat, revealing the unfathomable dark eyes that glitter like a dream, smiling sweetly with his venomous words. "Tell your maester to come out. You know his name. The notorious Zephariel. Also," the white shadow passes through the gate, leaving the footman fall on the ground, eyes open. "I want him to release my child from the bond."