Feeding

That was the first thought pressing against his skull as he crouched at the edge of the lake, the grass cool beneath his knees.

The second was worse. Heavier. Impossible to swallow.
He was hungry.

Not for food. Never food.
But for dreams.

The human boy sprawled just a few feet away breathed slowly, evenly. Rory Maclean.
Even asleep, he looked annoyingly perfect, his shirt collar still neat, pink hair catching bits of moonlight, lips parted just enough to make Ewan’s chest ache.

He hadn’t planned this.
He’d only come down to the lake to get away, from the house, from the guardian who never stopped watching him, from the endless rules: Don’t stand out. Don’t slip up. Don’t get caught.
But then he saw Rory, fast asleep at the shore, and the hunger surged like the tide.

Before he could stop himself, Ewan reached out.
Long, thin fingers brushed the sleeping boy’s cheek in a feather-light touch. Rory didn’t wake. He only let out a soft huff and shifted, long legs stretching out, one knee bent, an arm flung behind his head, the other resting over his stomach.

And with that touch, it began.

It was always like this.
Dreams weren’t taken with force, they were drawn out, spilled gently from the human heart like ink bleeding into water.

Rory’s warmth. His laughter. That easy confidence that clung to him like sunlight…
It all flowed into Ewan now, slow and intoxicating.

A delicious bouquet he hadn’t tasted in ages.
The hunger would’ve made anything taste rich, but this, this was Rory. That made it decadent.

Ewan had dreamed of this moment for years.

For a heartbeat, he let himself drown in it.
He felt the weight of Rory’s parents’ expectations, and the bright grin Rory used to shrug them off. He felt the wild joy of sprinting across a football field, classmates cheering his name.
And then…
A flicker of something softer, hidden.
An image of Ewan, standing by a classroom window. Only… not as sickly or strange as he always imagined himself.

His breath hitched.
No. This was wrong.

His hand trembled where it hovered over Rory’s cheek.
He could keep feeding. Could let the warmth fill the hollow inside him.
It was so easy. So natural.
And yet…

Ewan snatched his hand back.

Pain bloomed in his chest instantly, sharp as a blade. His body shuddered, starved of what it had only just begun to taste.

His guardian always said feeding was survival.
That humans wouldn’t miss what they lost.
That the old ways had kept them alive for centuries.

But Ewan couldn’t do it. Not to Rory.

Not when Rory’s dreams had seen him.
Held him.
Treated him like something worth remembering.

A low sound slipped from Ewan’s throat, half a groan, half a whimper. His limbs felt too heavy, his vision spotted. The hunger clawed through him mercilessly, demanding he finish what he’d started.

And then Rory stirred.

Ewan froze, heart hammering. The boy’s eyes blinked open, hazy at first, then sharp when they landed on him.

“…Ewan?”

The sound of his name was soft, confused, and it made something inside him twist violently. He should run. He should vanish back into the dark before Rory asked questions he couldn’t answer.

But he couldn’t move.

Rory pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting. “What are you doing out here? Are you…” His gaze sharpened. “You look sick.”

“I’m fine.” Ewan’s voice cracked, betraying him. His knees buckled, and he barely caught himself on his hands. The lake behind him rippled faintly, as if stirred by his weakness.

“Like hell you are.” Rory was on his feet now, moving closer without hesitation. He reached for Ewan’s arm, steady and warm. “Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No!” The word came out sharper than intended, too fast, too desperate. Ewan flinched at the way Rory blinked at him, startled. He forced his tone softer, though his throat burned. “Please. Just… take me home.”

Rory frowned. “Home? You can barely stand. You need…”

“Promise.” Ewan’s voice trembled. His nails dug into his palms. “No hospital.”

For a long moment, Rory studied him, that annoyingly direct way he had of looking at people, like he could see past their skin and into the truth underneath. Ewan hated it. He also couldn’t breathe under it.

Finally, Rory sighed. “Fine. No hospital.” Then, more gently, “But I’m not leaving you here like this.”

Before Ewan could protest, Rory slid an arm under his shoulders, steadying him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his touch burned straight through the fabric of his shirt, real and close.

Ewan stiffened, fighting the urge to lean in. His body betrayed him anyway, muscles loosening, breath catching, like Rory’s presence was the only thing holding him together.

“Careful,” Rory muttered, his voice low, more command than request. He smelled faintly of soap, salt, and sun, like someone who belonged outside, always in motion.

Ewan couldn’t look at him directly. Not at the way moonlight caught in his soft, pink hair, streaks of silver across the soft mess of it. Not at his eyes, clear and sharp even in the dark, watching him with that infuriating certainty. Rory always looked like he knew where he was going, like the world bent to make space for him. Someone meant to be in the spotlight, unlike him.

And here he was, helping him.

The thought twisted something in Ewan’s chest. His legs faltered again, and Rory’s grip tightened immediately, pulling him closer, steadying him with the ease of someone who never falls or stumbles.

Ewan’s throat closed. He wanted to say let go. He wanted to say don’t stop. Both truths warred silently inside him, leaving him breathless and ashamed.

“See?” Rory said with a quick, crooked smile, his voice right next to his ear, spoken as if it were the most obvious thing. “I’ve got you.”

Ewan’s pulse thundered. He hated how much he wanted to believe him.

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve him.

As Rory helped him up the slope, step by awkward step, Ewan glanced once over his shoulder. The lake was perfectly still again, black and endless, like it had swallowed his secret whole.

For now.

***