The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and freshly baked bread.
The bustling streets of Paris in the late 1700s echoed with the lively chatter of merchants and buyers, horse hooves clattering on cobblestones, and the distant melodies of street musicians playing for small coins. The city was alive, vibrant, and full of energy that pulsed through every corner. Yet amid the clamor, Viktor moved unnoticed, like a shadow.
His dark cloak concealed most of his features, his cold blue eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Centuries of life had taught him how to blend in with humans, to remain unseen until he chose otherwise.
But today, something stirred inside him,a force he hadn't felt in before. It pulled him toward a narrow alleyway, just off the main square, where the noise of the city dulled and the sounds of an artist at work came into focus.
Viktor paused at the corner of the alley, watching the young man at the end of it. He sat on a low stool outside a small studio, a canvas propped on his lap, paint-smeared fingers moving deftly as his brush brought life to the empty surface. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed slightly, oblivious to the world around him. The sunlight filtered through the narrow opening of the alley, casting a warm glow on his skin, which was lightly bronzed by the sun.
Viktor's heart, silent and still for centuries, gave an involuntary lurch in his chest.
This was him. His mate. The one he had searched for, the one he never believed he would find. Viktor had long resigned himself to the endless, solitary existence of a vampire. But in this human, this fragile, mortal man, he saw something that stirred the depths of his soul.
What is your name? Viktor wondered silently, as if his question could be carried by the wind to the young artist.
The human's passion and zest for life radiated from him, drawing Viktor in like a moth to flame. There was something captivating about the way he poured his heart into his work, each stroke of the brush filled with meaning. It intrigued Viktor, fascinated him, and yet it terrified him. He couldn't simply walk up to the man and tell him he was his destined mate, the other half of his eternal soul. Not yet.
Viktor inhaled deeply, his senses heightened, taking in the intoxicating blend of the young man's scent, oil paints mixed with the underlying notes of warm skin, sweat, and the faintest trace of lavender. The scent awakened something primal within Viktor, a deep hunger not only for blood but for connection, for the life this man represented.
For the first time in centuries, Viktor felt alive.
He stepped forward, his movements smooth and soundless, approaching the artist without disturbing the rhythm of his work. He had no plan, only the overwhelming need to get closer, to hear the young man's voice and learn everything about him. Viktor was a creature of patience, but today, for the first time in a long while, he felt an urgency he couldn't quite explain.
The artist must have sensed his presence because he glanced up, startled. His eyes, hazel, flecked with gold, met Viktor's, and for a brief moment, time seemed to still. There was a flicker of recognition in the human's gaze, though they had never met before. A spark, a connection that neither could explain but both felt.
"Can I help you?" the artist asked, his voice soft but tinged with curiosity.
Viktor hesitated. He hadn't prepared for this moment, hadn't considered what he would say. He was used to blending in, not standing out. He cleared his throat, his voice smooth and calm. "I was admiring your work," he said, gesturing toward the unfinished canvas. "Your talent is... impressive."
A faint blush colored the artist's cheeks. "Thank you. It's a work in progress," he said, his tone modest. He wiped his paint-smeared hands on his apron, a gesture that was both shy and endearing.
Viktor watched the motion, the way the human fidgeted under his gaze, clearly not used to receiving compliments from strangers. There was a purity to his reactions, an openness that Viktor found disarming.
"I don't believe I've seen you around here before," the artist continued, tilting his head slightly as if trying to place Viktor. "Are you new to Paris?"
Viktor smiled, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "I travel often," he replied vaguely. It wasn't a lie, though the truth was far more complicated than he could ever reveal in a single conversation.
The artist nodded, accepting the answer without pressing further. "My name is Mikel," he said, extending a paint-streaked hand. "And you are?"
Viktor took Mikel's hand, surprised by the warmth that spread through his cold skin at the touch. "Viktor," he replied, his voice lower than intended.
Mikel smiled, a small, genuine smile that caused something inside Viktor to stir again. "Well, Viktor, you're welcome to come inside if you'd like to see more of my work. It's not much, but I'm proud of it."
Viktor hesitated. Every instinct told him to take things slowly, to retreat and observe from a distance until the time was right. But another part of him, the part that had always been dormant, wanted to stay, to learn everything about Mikel.
The temptation was too strong to resist.
"I would like that," Viktor said, his tone softer than usual. He followed Mikel into the small studio, a cramped space filled with canvases, brushes, and the scent of creativity. The walls were adorned with unfinished paintings, sketches, and notes, all chaotic but somehow beautiful in their disarray.
Mikel set his canvas aside and began showing Viktor some of his other works, landscapes, portraits, scenes from Paris. Each one carried a piece of Mikel's soul, and Viktor found himself more captivated by the artist than the art itself. He watched the way Mikel spoke, his passion for his craft evident in every word. The way his eyes lit up when he described his inspirations, the way his hands moved when he explained a particular technique.
Viktor realized that Mikel's passion was not just for art, it was for life itself. And that was what drew him in more than anything.
But beneath the surface of their casual conversation, Viktor's mind raced. "How do I tell him? How do I explain that he is the one I've been searching for?' He knew he couldn't rush this, Mikel was human, fragile, and Viktor needed to be careful not to overwhelm him.
Mikel was still speaking, describing a particularly difficult piece he was working on, but Viktor was only half listening. His thoughts were consumed by the weight of what this encounter meant. His mate, his one chance at love and companionship after centuries of solitude, was standing right in front of him, unaware of the depth of their connection.
"Do you paint, Viktor?" Mikel's question pulled Viktor from his thoughts.
"I don't," Viktor admitted, smiling faintly. "But I have an appreciation for art."
Mikel grinned. "That's good enough for me. Not everyone needs to be an artist."