Each night she wakes him.
He doesn’t need to be woken; his vampiric senses do that for him, letting him know when the fatal rays of the sun can no longer hurt him. It’s a sort of slow, dreamy reawakening; shaking off his dreams, he surfaces gently to consciousness as those final, lingering rays slip away.
She wakes him anyway.
She reaches out, places her warm hand to his shoulder or face, feeling the smoothly sculptured bones under her palm. Or she slides her hand over the white expanse of his back, or perhaps traces a finger over the winglike collarbones and down his sternum. If she’s feeling playful, she might dip that finger in his navel or trail it over the soles of his feet, oddly vulnerable in the way they have invariably escaped from the blanket to stick out at the bottom, and laugh when he jolts away from her to escape the ticklish sensation.
Once he’s awake, she withdraws her hand, as there’s little place in their relationship for things like non-sexual touching. Her purpose met, she will jam her hands in the back pockets of her jeans (the action causing her breasts to thrust out enticingly, but she never realizes), or if it’s chilly in his room, she’ll cross her arms over her chest in an effort to keep the heat from leaking out of her.
She wakes him because she loves twilight. She tells him each time, and he nods gravely as if he hasn’t heard it a hundred, a thousand times before. She wakes him because, just like the rest of the world, she doesn’t want to experience a beloved thing alone.
“There’s nothing more beautiful and romantic than twilight,” she will often say as they stand on his balcony and simply look out. It’s not a prompt; she doesn’t say it as most women would, to remind him of love and tender feelings and that he should feel them for her. She simply knows he agrees, and enjoys it as she does.
No matter the weather, they always open the tall French doors and step outside, breathing the still-sun-warmed air as twilight casts blue shadows over their faces. If it’s warm, he doesn’t bother to dress, but steps onto the stone floor of the balcony, nude. One such time, when twilight had passed and the moon was ripe and round in the sooty sky, the sight of his pallid angles and hollows and curves affected her so powerfully that she cried.
Any other time, any other woman, and he would have felt like an idiot, and thought she was insane. But he understood what it was like to be overwhelmed by beauty, and waited until she was done. Grateful, she removed her own clothes and allowed the moonlight to silver her, and instead of crying (he had no tears left) he’d shown his own reverence of her beauty with his hands and mouth and cock.
She never came when he fucked her. She enjoyed it, he knew: her sigh of relief when he slid inside her, her moans and wiggles when he thrust in, the arch and gasp of disappointment when he withdrew; all told him she was reveling in the experience as much as he. But no matter how long he plied his fingers and mouth before, and no matter how skillfully he worked himself inside her, she never came.
He would, of course. The pleasure started in his toes and fingertips, and raced centerwards until it spilled from him. “I don’t love you,” he would gasp into her hair with each lunge of his spasming body, inhaling the earthy smell of her sweat and musk and arousal as his hips bucked frantically against her.
“I know,” she would croon back, clasping her legs around his waist to grip him tighter, pull him deeper. “I know,” she whispered in his ear as she smoothed her hands over his hair, his neck, his back.
Then he’d slip from her, his tongue laving various bits of her until he was positioned between her thighs. Parting her moist petals, he would lower his mouth to her and feast. Writhing under his ministrations, hands that had just caressed his hair now threaded through and tugged on it. Her feet would alternately skid on and pummel the mattress, trying desperately to gain purchase against his onslaught, to press herself even harder against the magic of his mouth and tongue and lips and fingers.
“I don’t love you,” she shouts as she comes, her body tight as a bowstring. “I don’t, I don’t.” Quaking, shaking, her voice trails away until she is mouthing the words soundlessly.
“I know,” he answers over and over until she’s finished, and then pulls himself up the bed and reaches for his packet of cigarettes as he reclines against the headboard. They permit themselves a small, almost token amount of physical affection after they fuck; it’s part of the whole experience, and they enjoy it without giving it any significance. It doesn’t mean anything more than the sex itself. She cuddles against him, and he curls his free arm around her, pulling her tight, while he brings the fag to his lips in the silent, ink-dark night.
The never speak of anything important during this time. They usually don’t say anything at all. This is a respite from their lives, this blue hour, and they don’t pollute it with talk of monsters, or death, or love, or any of the other painful and ugly things in the world.
Once her heartbeat returns to normal, and his cigarette is nothing but a scattering of ash dulling the gold on the saucer he uses for an ashtray, he will give her a slight squeeze with his arm, a miniscule hug of thanks, and they will part. Rising up from different sides of the bed, they dress almost soundlessly.
He turns on a light, and the world intrudes again. No more are they just two people enjoying each other’s bodies in the shadows of a room lit only by the moon and stars; once more they’re co-participants in a prophecy that neither wants to be a part of, but which both are compelled to follow, each for their own reasons. They leave his room, which reeks of sex and smoke and the temporary stanching of loneliness. They go downstairs, chatting amiably about real-world issues, and it’s as if nothing in his bedroom ever happened.
He wonders sometimes if she’d ever come to him, ever fuck him, without the twilight. If she needs it to share herself with him, that unreal time that is not day and not night— neither his world nor hers. It hurts him, for a moment, that she wouldn’t be able to accept him inside her without the twilight weaving its spell over her, and anger knots his hands into fists. He doesn’t want to be used, doesn’t want to use her. Not for sex. Not any more.
But what is the alternative? She feels the same, he knows, but they are powerless to end the pretense, to demolish the wall of illusion between them. His fists loosen as the anger flees, hopelessness taking its place. There’s too much fear and pain, and neither are strong enough to conquer those particular emotions. Neither is strong enough to be the first to admit the truth. Not yet.
And so they continue as they are. She keeps waking him to share the twilight with her, and he keeps fucking her, and they keep lying when they come, and that’s the most they can endure.