"You look tired, Dante. Are the ARVs still working?" Emile pecks my cheek.

"They are. Just ... exams. They scheduled fourth grade Latin on the last day and then deliberations. You don't want to know the gossip I've heard in that room." I hang my coat on the rack and follow him to the kitchen. It's late afternoon and we make dinner together. A salad, cold fish, potatoes. When we first cooked together, we constantly ran into each other, but we've become a good team. I even convinced Emile to put on some Bach.

Afterwards, when we settle down on the couch, we watch the news and enjoy the silence. Eventually, I ask: "How are you doing?"

"Quite well." Emile smiles. "I have a beautiful daughter who will graduate this summer and a wonderful vampire by my side."

I chuckle. "You're not afraid my ego will grow too big if you keep complimenting me?" There is no risk for that, but the compliments do feel pretty good.

"Of course not. I can perfectly keep up with you. My beautiful, smart, caring mosquito." I snort and then laugh at the embarrassing sound that comes out. "Have you fed already?"

"No. I didn't have time yesterday. Well, I was too tired."

"Do you want to feed on me?"

"Are you sure?" He has offered before, and I have taken him up on it, but I like to check.

"Go on." He leans back so I have free range. I cup his cheek and peck his lips before I bite. I drink slowly because it feels less impersonal and Emile stays more aware for longer. When I finish, I lick and kiss his neck. Emile's eyes are closed, but he's breathing peacefully.

When he comes to, he looks up at me and mumbles: "Have you licked my neck again?"

"Yes."

"Naughty. Remember, no sexual acts." He smiles and I wrap my arm around his shoulder, so his head rests on mine.

"Licking is sexual?"

"For some."

"I was just licking over the bite."

"I know." Emile lifts up his head and looks at me. "You're too innocent. It was a joke. Your sense of humour is ..." He shakes his head. "Have you ever watched a stand-up comedian?"

"I haven't."

"I'm gonna correct that right now. I should have a recording still."

Emile looks through a bunch of movies and TV programs and settles on Wim Helsen. Whenever I don't understand a joke at all, Emile pauses and explains it, as if he just knows when it's simply not funny and when I have no clue. My chest feels tight from laughing. We sink into each other, close the space between us that wasn't even there anymore. At some point, Emile pecks my cheek and I kiss his when he focuses on the screen again. Emile turns back and puckers his lips and kisses my cheek again with a loud smack. It becomes a game and our lips end up pressed together, nothing more. We rub our noses against one another and I rest my forehead on his while I close my eyes and breathe him in. I feel so light I could float.

***

My thoughts are running despite my slumber. It's early morning and I'd love to revel in that moment between waking and wakefulness, but instead, I'm sifting through the remains of a nightmare. They're not frequent, but every once in a while, they visit and I can't close the door. These days, I can't remember what elements are dreams and what was real, but I guess it doesn't matter when it hurts equally.

"Dante? Are you awake already?"

I turn my head to the side and open my eyes. "Hm."

Emile turns on his side and reaches out to clasp my hand. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry. Just a nightmare."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I consider that. I've talked about my past, but not that, though he knows that's how I became what I am. "It's not about a single thing. I don't know what this one was about, but I dream about my father. The Plague. The monastery. The monk that locked me up. The one I killed. It's a mess in my head. Hazy."

Emile squeezes my hand. "That's natural. Your mind wants to protect you from your trauma."

"I know. But it's still there."

"Do you want to let it out?"

"Let it out?" I scoff. "I would have done that long ago if I could."

"But have you ever talked about it? Do you want to see a therapist?"

"And tell them what? Orphans don't go to monasteries anymore, monks don't whip people, or turn them into vampires!"

"You're not the first to be abused by a priest. We could try to cure your ... cancer. You can talk to me."

I sigh. "You're too kind. Too patient."

"You're my partner. Of course I want to support you. Wouldn't you do the same for me?"

I close my eyes and mutter: "I would."

"So, do you want to let things out?"

I look at the ceiling. "He made me drink things. They burnt. There were chains. Dusk. I love light, but I hate the sun."

"Because you're albino? Or another reason?"

"Albino. It's better since I have the immune system of a vampire, but my skin and eyes don't like a bright sun."

"I love your eyes."

"Even though they're red?"

"Because they're red." I hear the smirk in Emile's voice. "So your ideal present is a lamp or candles?"

"I don't know? My students have given me those baskets. My father gave me an unclear piece of glass once. That's the only present I've ever gotten. That type of things."

"A piece of glass? Do you still have it?"

I turn my head again and Emile's eyes are softer than a blanket. "No. I ... My father made me flee, when he was ill. I didn't take anything with me. And another family lived in the house when I went back. After ..."

"Do you wish you had something left from him?"

"Sometimes. I don't remember a whole lot anymore. I'm not sure what his voice sounded like. Or the shape of his face. I can't visit his grave. I have nothing. It was ... is ... was very lonely."

Emile rolls over to wrap an arm around me. His face is uncomfortably close and intimate, but I don't look away because it also burns in a way that reminds me I'm not a lone soul in a void. "It's okay to miss your parents. Everyone does. I miss my dad, and I still have my mom. But what you've been through ... You're strong. And you're not alone anymore." He pauses. "Do you want to meet my mom?"

"That's ... okay?"

"Of course. She knows I have a partner."

I keep silent for a while. "Thanks for listening. Do you want to talk?"

"I will when I do. I'm fine now. Let's just lie in bed for a while longer. What time were you gonna meet Charles?"

"Ten. Brunch hour."

"You can afford half an hour more with me then."

I snuggle up to Emile. It's hot already, despite the early hour, but I can stand the extra body heat for this.

***

"Dante. Look what I found. Something for you?" Emile holds up a copy of Shelley's Prometheus Unbound.

We're on a date in a cute little bookshop tucked away between bigger stores. The books are piled up on the shelves and on tables and I can barely see the other side of the store. The typical paper scent that is inherent to places that collect books permeates the air. It reminds me of monastery libraries and long days studying or writing or reading.

I take the book Emile holds out. It's a second-hand edition in English, but still in excellent condition. "Why do you think it's something for me?"

Emile frowns. "It's a classic, isn't it? And Prometheus is Greek. My literary knowledge isn't that bad that I don't know who Shelley is. Both of them."

"But Shelley's interpretation of the story is very different from Aeschylus. As far as we know it, at least. We only have fragments of Aeschylus' Prometheus Unbound, unlike Prometheus Bound."

"That's new to me. But if you're not interested in adaptations, I can put it back." Emile's hand curls over mine on the cover.

I shake my head. "That's not what I meant. I was just ... surprised. Prometheus is my metaphor for myself. When I'm at my worst. Or Frankenstein's monster."

"I didn't think you had the ego to see yourself as the love child and character of two famous writers." Emile smirks and I narrow my eyes. I can't bear jokes that make it seem so light while it weighs down so heavily on my shoulders, but Emile sobers up quickly. "You're not a monster. Never. Why Prometheus, though?"

A shrill emotion peeks over the edge of the abyss. "We should postpone that discussion until after our date. I don't want to ruin it."

"Dante." Emile levels me with a stare. "The point of a date is intimacy. Learning your thoughts is intimate. I care."

As soon as it appeared, the emotion ducks away. "Let's ... go to the park then. Not here. Was there something you wanted to buy?"

"Just this for you, if you want it. What about you?"

I gesture at the Murakami on the table next to me. "You wanted to read that one, right? We can both read it."

"You gonna read to me?" Emile chuckles.

"We could. It might be nice." I imagine sitting on the couch or in bed, taking turns to read out loud.

Emile smiles at me. "You're such a romantic."

When we safely have our books in a bag we brought, we seek out a bench in the park, but it's hot and all the free ones are in the sun, so we settle for the grass under a large oak tree.

"So, Prometheus?" Emile starts.

"I thought of it when I was sick. Because it was a cycle, like Prometheus' liver."

"But you're not ill anymore. Aside from your vampire cancer. There is no cycle."

"It just ... stuck." I can't remember anymore why the metaphor was so perfect. When else I have used it.

"Does this have to do with the monster of Frankenstein?"

"Its subtitle is The modern Prometheus."

"Frankenstein is the scientist. Not the monster. You were the victim. And the monster is not inherently bad. His first kill was by accident and he was lonely. He regrets what he did." And he commits suicide, but Emile strategically leaves that out.

"I know he made me into what I am, but that doesn't change my responsibility for what I could do because of what I am."

"And haven't you done good things?"

I think back to my self-doubt in May. "I guess so."

"Prometheus did good things too, didn't he? He helped the humans. He gave them fire."

"Which was exactly why he was punished."

"And do you think he deserved that? Do you deserve to be punished? I thought you didn't feel so guilty anymore. That you realised you are worthy of good things, and have done good things. You're a good thing in my life." I don't react because I don't want to deflect what Emile has said. It's true; I am good, sometimes. Often enough. And Emile misses Aurélie when she's gone, so he's happy to not be alone. He likes me. I care.

I change the subject slightly. "Jupiter is the bad guy in Shelley's play. In Hesiod, and probably in Aeschylus, Zeus and Prometheus reconcile after Heracles frees him because Prometheus reveals the secret about Thetis. Shelley didn't like that, and Jupiter loses the support of the other gods and his position at the top of the hierarchy."

"Is Prometheus the good guy then? Can't you choose who you are? The proud scientist or the one who cared too much and suffered for it or the hero?" That question leaves me speechless. It's nothing new, but it never sank in that if I am Prometheus and Shelley wrote him as the hero ... Prometheus was the smart one. The inventor. I'm not stuck as one version of myself.

Emile drags me out of my realisation. "You think too much. You're not Prometheus, and you're free anyway. There's no Zeus or eagle or Heracles, just you and me. People who love you."

I sigh. "You're right." I mentally wrap those words in a blanket and cradle them in my heart.

"Of course I am." He chuckles.

I raise my eyebrows and laugh incredulously. "How did I not notice your awful ...?"

"Humour?"

"Your humour is okay. It's more your ... ego. Even if you're also more caring and forgiving than I deserve."

Emile grabs my hand. "Not true. I'm exactly as caring and forgiving as you deserve. A little more confidence, please. You have to match my ego, after all."

I laugh. "I'll try. I have you for that. To give me compliments."

"I'll give you all the compliments I want as long as you stay by my side." I don't reply, but I hope that is a long time. I want to compliment him too, and love him, and see Aurélie's wedding if she marries, and talk with Charles, and maybe Gitte. I want to be free of guilt, of sickness, of immortality, but not free of life yet. No, this life is free enough.