Chapter Twelve Are You a Vampire?
Chapter Twelve
Are You a Vampire?
Haruki remained in the doorway. Rain whispered against the windows behind Renji.
The apartment had gone quiet after the record ended, but traces of the evening remained everywhere — two bowls on the low table, Haruki's empty glass beside Renji's, the sleeve of a record left half outside its place, a second indentation in the cushion.
Small disturbances. Evidence that, for several hours, Renji had not been alone.
"Then don't answer as my doctor," Haruki said.
Renji's hand remained on the edge of the door.
"I am no longer your doctor."
"You still become him whenever you don't want to answer something."
"That is an interpretation."
"It is an observation."
Haruki had not smiled. That was what made Renji cautious. There was no flirtation in his voice, no attempt to use charm against resistance. Whatever question he intended to ask had been carried here beneath the conversation all evening. Perhaps from the hospital. Perhaps from the tunnels.
Renji stepped away from the door.
"All right."
Haruki glanced towards the landing.
"Should we close that?"
Renji closed the door. The lock settled into place with a quiet click. Haruki removed the hand he had placed on the frame. He did not return to the centre of the room. He stood near the entrance, coat buttoned, shoes already on, his body prepared for departure even as neither man moved towards it.
Renji waited. Haruki looked at him for several seconds. Then he asked, "Are you a vampire?"
The words did not sound absurd inside the apartment.
That was Renji's first thought. Outside, spoken beneath fluorescent lights or against the noise of the city, they might have seemed theatrical — a question belonging to superstition, horror films or old stories told carefully enough that children could pretend not to believe them.
Here, surrounded by objects older than Haruki understood, the question settled naturally.
The sword. The records. The books. The repaired bowl.
All of it had been telling a truth Renji had spent centuries refusing to speak. Haruki had listened.
Renji could lie. The instinct arrived without effort.
It had been trained into him before many of the buildings in Takamori existed.
Denial required no preparation, no change of breath, no hesitation anyone human would notice.
Ridicule would be effective. So would irritation.
He could accuse Haruki of invading his privacy, misinterpreting old possessions, allowing the tunnel attack to affect his judgement.
He could ask whether the medication had caused lingering confusion.
Haruki would recognise the cruelty in that last one. It would still work.
Instead, Renji said, "Yes."
Haruki did not move. Neither did Renji. The word remained between them. Plain. Irretrievable.
For the first time in centuries, Renji had spoken the truth of his nature to a human who had not already known it.
There had been others, long ago, before the Accord perfected concealment, before secrecy became law rather than survival — people he trusted who had learned through accidents, wounds or impossible years passing without change.
He could not remember the last time anyone had simply asked.
He could remember even less clearly the last time he had answered without evasion.
Haruki exhaled. It was not fear. More like the release of tension held too long.
"I thought so."
Renji studied his face.
"You thought so."
"Yes."
"And still came here alone."
"Yes."
"That was unwise."
"Probably."
"You told no one?"
"No."
"Not Reina?"
"No."
"Ken?"
"No."
"Your mother?"
Haruki's expression shifted.
"Especially not her."
Renji folded his arms.
"You discovered what you believed to be the private residence of a vampire, concealed your destination and entered without protection."
"When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible."
"It was irresponsible."
"You invited me in."
"After you arrived."
"You also fed me."
"You brought the food."
"And played music."
"That is not evidence of safety."
Haruki's mouth curved faintly.
"You are very focused on the wrong part of this conversation."
"I disagree."
"Of course."
Renji watched him carefully. His heart rate had increased when the question was asked. It remained elevated, though not dangerously so. Haruki was frightened. Not of Renji. Of the answer. There was a difference.
"You expected me to deny it," Renji said.
"I expected you to tell me I was exhausted, traumatised or behaving irrationally."
Renji said nothing. Haruki noticed.
"You considered it."
"Yes."
"Thank you for not doing that."
The gratitude unsettled Renji more than suspicion would have.
"You should not thank me for declining to manipulate you."
"People are thanked for resisting easier choices all the time."
"It should not be necessary."
"No."
Haruki looked towards the shelves. Now that the truth had been spoken, he examined the room again. Not with alarm. Recognition.
"How old are you?"
"That is your first question?"
"It seemed less rude than asking whether you drink blood."
"You considered that less rude?"
"Marginally."
Renji almost smiled. He stopped himself.
"Approximately nine hundred and ninety-eight years."
Haruki stared at him. The reaction was small but genuine, his gaze moving over Renji's face as though searching for evidence hidden in familiar features.
"Approximately?"
"Records were not kept with modern precision."
"You don't know when you were born?"
"I know the season."
"Which one?"
"Winter."
"The year?"
"Not with certainty."
Haruki was quiet. Nearly a thousand years required time to enter the imagination. Renji had seen that calculation before — people began with history, wars, dynasties, cities before electricity, loved ones born and buried while one life continued beyond them.
Haruki looked towards the handwritten sheet of music on the wall.
"You knew the people who owned these things."
"Some of them."
"You said the bowl belonged to a friend."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Early last century."
Haruki's eyes returned to him.
"You said a long time."
"It was."
"To you?"
Renji considered the question.
"Yes."
Haruki looked around again. The apartment had changed simply because he now understood it. Every object had acquired the burden of time.
"What are you thinking?" Renji asked.
"That you weren't speaking metaphorically when you said no one knows you well anymore."
Renji's expression remained neutral. The accuracy of the observation made that difficult.
Haruki continued.
"And that you must find most conversations exhausting."
"That was already true."
"Nearly a thousand years, and you still avoid direct answers."
"I answered the important one."
Haruki nodded.
"Yes. You did."
The sincerity in his voice became dangerous.
Renji moved towards the window. Distance gave him something to arrange between them.
Rain streamed down the glass, reflections from the room hovering over the city beyond: books, warm lamps, Haruki standing near the door. Renji watched both versions of him.
"You should be afraid," he said.
"Are you going to hurt me?"
"No."
"Then what would fear accomplish?"
"It might keep you alive."
"From you?"
"From what knowledge of me places you near."
Haruki's expression became serious.
"The Accord."
"Among others."
"The Unveiled?"
Renji looked at him.
"This conversation is not about the investigation."
"You don't get to decide that alone."
"Yes, I do."
Haruki walked further into the room, his shoes sounding softly against the wooden floor.
"You told me what you are."
"Because you asked for honesty."
"But you won't explain what it means."
"It means you should forget this conversation."
"No."
Renji turned. Haruki stood several steps away.
"No?" Renji repeated.
"I'm not forgetting it."
"You do not understand the risk."
"Then explain it."
"I cannot."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
Haruki's jaw tightened. There it was again — the part of him that resisted command even when obedience would be safer.
"You trusted me enough to say yes," he said. "Don't treat me like a child immediately afterwards."
"I do not."
"You're deciding what I can know."
"That is not unique to children."
"You know what I mean."
Renji did. He looked away first. Haruki stopped advancing. The distance between them remained careful.
"You don't have to tell me anything about the White Lotus," he said.
Renji became still. Haruki saw it — again, the same brief fracture he had noticed in the emergency department. This time there was no blood loss to blame.
"I didn't come here to interrogate you," Haruki continued. "I'm not asking about the Accord or the tunnels."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Because I wanted to know whether what I was beginning to believe was true."
"And now?"
"Now it is."
Haruki removed his coat again. The gesture surprised Renji. He placed it over the back of the chair as though the question had not ended the evening, as though Renji's answer had not made departure more urgent.
"What are you doing?" Renji asked.
"Taking my coat off."
"I can see that."
"You're becoming repetitive."
"You were leaving."
"I was."
"And now?"
Haruki met his gaze.
"Now I don't think you should be alone."
Something in Renji hardened immediately.
"I have been alone longer than your Family has existed."
"That doesn't mean you should be."
"You know nothing about what I require."
"You said you required very little."
"I do."
"I didn't believe you then either."
Renji looked at him. Haruki stood in Renji's home, newly aware that the man before him was not human, and somehow considered Renji the vulnerable one. It was unreasonable. It was also close enough to the truth that Renji wanted him gone.
"You should leave," he said.
Haruki nodded once.
"All right."