Nocturnal Bonds

The sun was still well below the horizon as Ansel exited the BART near his flat, and despite the city already beginning to take on a pre-dawn light, the nightwalkers were still out in force – shooting up, smoking dope, and acting generally insane. Rounding a corner onto Market, Ansel felt a gust of wind blow through his open jacket. He tugged it closed unconsciously even though he couldn’t really feel the cold. Instead, he was consumed by a dread-tired feeling, accompanied by the constant body ache, sore throat, and low cough that he’d had since coming down with something a week or so ago. And also, there were the nightmares; oh god, the nightmares. Around the same time of his sickness, he’d started having terrible dreams of a hooded figure with red eyes. 

These nightmares were all but forgotten, however, as Ansel’s apartment came into view. There, across the street, a real nightmare appeared to be unfolding as police milled about, highlighted by caution tape and flashing lights. Ansel stared as medics loaded a sheet-covered body into an ambulance. He thought it likely was just another junkie overdose… until the sheet slipped and Ansel caught sight of the body – emaciated, drained, and all white, like there was nothing left on the inside, just skin and bones. Ansel shivered and unconsciously pulled his jacket close again as he walked into his building, looking forward to the comfort of his warm bed.

"Well, there he is," said Ansel's flatmate, Francis, as Ansel made his way in the door. "Feels like I haven't seen you for days. Where you been? And also, you kind of look like shit." 

Ansel heard the words, but they didn't quite register. Instead, the pungent aroma of pumpkin and coffee filling the apartment was all he could think about. Normally he liked these smells, and the combo together was uplifting, if somewhat played, but today it made his stomach churn. 

"I don't think I'm feeling too well," was his only reply as he dropped his bag and made his way towards the balcony beyond the kitchen. Outside, ten floors up, Ansel gripped the railing and breathed in ragged breaths, trying to settle. 

"Whoa, man," Francis said, coming to the balcony door, eyes betraying a hint of worry behind stylish frames. "Seriously, you ok?"

Ansel, took another breath. "I think you were right about that sickness I had last week. Guaranteed it was Covid. I should have quarantined; and now I think I have Long Covid."

"Yeah, and you look like shit."

"You told me that already."

"Did I? Well, you smell like shit too then, is what I meant." 

Ansel missed the quip as it felt like a migraine was welling up behind his eyes. The sun was almost up, and the city was in full pre-dawn light now. Ansel had to squint as the light, though beautiful, seemed to be the source of his pain. He wondered to himself if sensitivity to light was another symptom. "I'm going to bed." Ansel said finally, surprised at the weight of effort it took him to lift one foot after the other as he moved towards the door. 

As he shuffled past Francis, he noticed something new about his roommate – his smell. He smelled… good? Not just like, clean, but like, deliciously good, almost arousing. Ansel paused a second and inhaled again, this time more deeply. 

"What are you doing?" Francis' voice cut in, snapping Ansel back to reality; he hadn't realized he'd stopped at the threshold, eyes closed, leaning in towards the source. 

"Oh, just noticing that you smell like shit too," Ansel shot back quickly, breaking the tension while moving back into the house.

"Ha,” said Francis. “Well, get some rest, and take a shower, you'll hopefully feel better, and hopefully smell better too."

"Right back atcha," Ansel said weakly, struggling to climb the stairs to his room. Opening his door, his head started to hurt again. The blinds were shut but light from the now-risen sun was creeping in at the corners. "This won't do," he said to no one, taking the next ten minutes to hang towels over the blinds. Finally finished, he collapsed into his bed and was sleeping like the dead within seconds.

***

At 630pm, Ansel shot awake, worried he had overslept and would be late for work. He couldn't miss any more time given how long he'd been away recovering from his sickness, even though it felt like he was still not back to normal. Rolling over, he felt his neck - still swollen, and could still feel lingering pain in his head and chest. He stumbled his way to the bathroom and flicked the light switch, but then immediately yelped in pain as white light cascaded around him. He'd been hating these new solar LEDs he'd installed ever since he started his night shift. Or did it start after that, he thought. He honestly couldn't remember; things were a blur since the sickness took him. 

Squinting away the light, Ansel tried washing out his eyes at the sink, but succeeded in nothing other than spilling water on the floor. Eyes screwed still, he groped his way to the rubbish. He felt around and finally found what he was looking for. The previous bulbs were still there. He took one, climbed apprehensively onto the sink, and replaced the solar bulbs with just one Edison bulb. "Better," he said aloud, voice raspy. 

Hoping down he forgot about the spilled water. His foot slipped out from under him, and he took a half turning fall towards the tub. His arm reached out in reflex, and he caught hold of the curtain, but of course this ripped under his weight, spinning him as he fell and landed chest first on the lip of the tub. Pain echoed through his chest and throat as he started coughing uncontrollably. 

He knelt next to the tub coughing spittle and phlegm into the white basin. A moment later he heard someone try his bedroom door; this was followed by banging. He tried to yell out that he was ok, but the coughing fits only redoubled with the strain. After a moment, it felt like he couldn't breathe, like something was wrong in his chest. He needed to cough but he couldn't, his airway was obstructed by something. He gagged… nothing. Then he gagged again. It felt like something was inside of him trying to make its way out. Another cough and the foreign body seemed to finally move up into his throat. The gagging became worse. He dry-heaved, but again, nothing. He reached his hand into his mouth, back to his throat, and felt something. He tried to grab hold but lost his purchase. It felt like the thing was moving. He tried again and this time got it. It felt boney, but also pliable and hairy. He almost lost it again but gripped harder and pulled. He felt the object sliding up from all the way down in his chest, moving through his throat, brushing against his tongue and then finally coming out with a nauseating slurp as he flung it into the tub with a loud squelch. He retched again, but still only dry heaves. 

Through bleary eyes he looked at the dark mass and reached for it thinking it was a hairball, like something a cat would hack up, but as his hand closed around the edge, he felt it move and squirm. He dropped it instantly and rubbed his eyes clear, but then wished he hadn't. There in the tub was a partially alive small black bat, flapping weakly in the basin. Ansel stared in fear, unable to fathom what had just happened.

Bang. Bang. Bang on the bedroom door. "Ansel, you ok in there?" Ansel's eyes shot open and awake as Francis' voice could be heard from the door. Ansel was in his bed. Oh thank god, he thought, it was just another nightmare. 

***

Later that night, or actually early the next morning, as Ansel walked back after another night shift that seemed to be slowly sucking the life out of him, he noticed he could not shake off an inescapable dread. It had been plaguing him since his nightmarish wake-up the evening before. 

He left his shift a half hour early because, one, the feeling of dread had grown worse as the night wore on, and two, he wanted to get in bed before Francis got up for the day. Francis hearing him flail about in his dreams and banging on the door in alarm had been embarrassing enough. Add to that the sexual tension that had been going on between them, not to mention the weirdly sexual but somewhat sinister dreams he'd been having about Francis too, and it all left Ansel feeling like he couldn't deal today. 

Threading his way through the night creatures near his building, Ansel wondered distantly why there seemed to be more than usual. He chalked it up to his early-leave from work; it was darker now than at his usual commute time. It reminded him of a saying he’d heard: “things are darkest just before the dawn.” He hoped this saying would be true for him as well. His life certainly felt dark of late, what with all the weird things happening to him. But, approaching his building, his thoughts turned darker as he remembered the emaciated body he'd seen the morning prior. That shrunken body was haunting to say the least. 

Entering his flat, Ansel felt relief as the kitchen was empty of life - no coffee or pumpkin aroma to set him off, and, best of all, no Francis. Ansel was about to head upstairs to his room so he could continue avoiding human contact, but an insatiable hunger suddenly took him. Instead, he wandered towards the kitchen looking for something to fill the hole inside of him, but nothing looked appetizing. In fact, any food he saw looked nauseating. Eventually, he settled on the idea of just making coffee. 

A moment later, coffee brewing, Ansel sat at the counter and tried to wrap his head around what was happening to him. None of this was normal, he registered, the dreams, the hunger, the fatigue. Long Covid could explain some, but too much seemed beyond science. "Fine," he said aloud, "to the doctor’s office I am resigned." 

Just then he heard movement upstairs. Ansel was about to abandon his almost-done coffee and bolt, but it was too late, the sounds were already coming down the stairs. Ansel turned and saw Francis moving gracefully down the steps, shirtless, wearing comfy sweats, and still sporting makeup around the eyes, though slightly smeared. 

"Well, there he is," Francis said, "and making coffee too? Is someone finally feeling themselves again?" 

Ansel inferred from Francis' cheery tone that his date the night before must have gone well; it had a post-sex chipper quality to it that Ansel had come to recognize from his longtime friend. "So I take it your date last night went good then?" Ansel joked.

"Ha. What makes you say that?" Francis said, plopping himself on the chaise nearby.

"Look at you. I know you. You definitely got some last night. So, who's the lucky guy?" 

"Aha,” Francis joked, bounding from his seat and starting to open windows near the balcony, “but it's not polite for a girl to kiss and tell you know. But if you must know, it did go well, very well. I'm sure I have the scars to prove it." He turned now and winked over his bare shoulder, but Ansel had already noticed. When Francis had moved to the windows, Ansel’s eyes had immediately fastened onto what appeared to be deep scratches on Francis' back, some looked to have drawn blood. Ansel stood mesmerized, transfixed. 

"Actually," Francis said, opening more blinds, "maybe you could help me with these?"

"What?" Ansel answered dumbly, still staring, “the windows?.”

"Ha ha, no,” said Francis as he reached for a glass and poured himself some water, “I mean help me with these scratches. Break off some of that aloe over there and rub it on me.” Slight annoyance at the way Francis pronounced 'aloe', he said it like ‘alloy,’ almost cut through Ansel’s stupor. Francis had spent a summer remoting in Hawaii during Covid and now he pronounced everything the way people did in "the islands," as he called them. 

"Yeah, sure," Ansel answered distantly, still staring at the blood-red scratch marks on Francis' back.

He broke off a small cutting as Francis came to sit on the stool in front of him, facing away. Ansel stroked the frond, letting the juices squirt out over his fingers, his eyes still on Francis. The aloe felt good between his fingers, lubricating while also sticky. He breathed in deep and caught a whiff of his roommate and felt himself stir. His hands reached out and began applying balm to wound, rubbing slowly in circular motions. 

"Oh shit," Francis pulled away slightly, "your fingers are ice-cold. Jesus." Ansel continued, unfazed, as Francis settled back in. After a moment, "mmmm, that feels good actually. Your cold hands are rather healing."

Ansel applied more lubricant and started kneading Francis more deeply, expanding to the shoulders and neck. He felt Francis soften beneath his touch. Without realizing what he was doing, Ansel leaned closer and inhaled again, letting Francis' scent wash over him, but Francis must have noticed.

"Ansel," Francis said, starting to pull away and spin around on the stool, "that’s probably good enough, hombre.” But Ansel didn't hear. When Francis came fully around, he gave a start. He saw Ansel rooted to the ground, hands still up, mouth open, eyes dark. The eyes. Ansel's usual brown eyes had gone a shade of deep purple it seemed. No, they were changing actually, right before him. They were now a light raspberry, bordering on red. Francis gasped and backed up off of his stool, knocking it to the ground. Neither noticed. 

"What the fuck man," Francis let out weakly. Ansel took an involuntary step forward, his eyes glowing red now. Francis danced back again, this time tripping slightly over the fallen stool. His hand reached out to the counter to steady himself, succeeding, but also knocking his glass and sending shards about. "Ah fuck," he said, turning away from Ansel and letting out a hiss as he grasped his own hand in pain, red blood already blossoming. He looked back at his roommate who was still moving forward, but Ansel’s eyes appeared transfixed on Francis' injured hand. Pain registered inside Francis, but just barely. 

Then Francis’ eyes went to Ansel's bare arm where a shard of glass appeared to be lodged, having careened from the counter. Blood started oozing from the wound, but it looked somehow different. Confused, Francis distantly registered the blood as black and viscous, looking more like honey or tar. He looked up at Ansel's eyes now. "Dude?" he said faintly, seeing a hungry look there. He turned to run but tripped again over the stool, falling on his face on the living room’s white fur rug, staining it red. 

"What the fuck, Ans…" Francis tried to say, but he couldn't finish. Instead, he felt the crushing weight of his flatmate's knees on his back. He struggled to turn over and would have yelled out but there was no air left in his lungs. Just then, he felt a cold hand grip him by the hair, pulling his head back in pain. He rolled his eyes up and back to stare at his roommate as he felt a cold iron grip from Ansel's other hand slide around his neck. Struggling to move, struggling for breath, Francis watched in horror as Ansel's face leaned closer, inch by inch. At the last moment, Francis noticed fangs protruding from Ansel's open mouth. The killing stroke came next as Ansel dove in, teeth first, and began to suck. Francis screamed, but nothing came out except a low gurgle. 

After what seemed forever, but also what seemed no time at all, the roommate rose up from Francis' limp body, eyes closed, and threw his head back, taking in a big gulp of air. Blood ran from his mouth and over his shirt as his chest heaved up and down. He felt ecstasy. He felt young. He felt alive. The weeks of sickness, the body aches, the pain, it was all gone. He was himself again. No, he was better than himself. He breathed again and then opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as a realization of what had happened began to dawn. He snapped his gaze down at Francis' limp body, and then immediately scrambled over the couch in horror, sitting with his back to it, the couch now hiding the carnage from his view. What have I done, he thought, this can't be real. He felt as if whatever was left of his soul was being ripped apart inside of his body. 

Just then he heard stirrings upstairs. Oh good, he thought as he let out a sigh, there’s Francis now, it was just another dream. "I should go tell him," he said aloud, "he'll get a laugh at this." His legs moved of their own accord as he made his way towards the stairs, unconsciously keeping his head turned away from the white fur rug. 

He reached Francis' room and could hear soft, new-age music coming from inside. He opened the door and entered. It was full darkness there, but he could see just fine. It smelled like sex in the room… 

sweat, … 

semen, …

and blood.

"Francis, baby, … is that you?" a voice called from the bed.