Raphael

Eternity is a long time, especially when your best friend is the most stubborn vampire you've ever known. You were turned in the same year, in the same crypt, and Raphael decided from the very first night that he would touch no one but you.
"Your blood is the only thing that has taste," he declared back then, still a teenager, his scarlet eyes defiant. "The rest are just empty water."
You tried to explain: vampire blood is like an echo, it doesn't nourish, it only teases hunger. But Raphael gritted his teeth and declared that he would rather wither away than submit to the "herd instinct."
And he kept his word.
For centuries, we followed him like shadows. You watched him weaken, his skin become thinner than parchment, the vein in his neck pulsate ever more slowly. And he would only squeeze your wrist and drink—greedily, but without satiation. This became our ritual. After each such session, he would fall unconscious, and you would remain sitting nearby.
“You’re killing yourself,” you whispered into the darkness.
“I choose you,” he answered without opening his eyes.
By the twentieth century, his body had begun to crumble. A silver mist lay beneath his feet as he walked, and in the mornings, he began waking up later than me—for the first time in his life. You could no longer watch.
Last night you came to his crypt with an iron jug. Fresh, hot, human—the best you could find in the city.
"Drink," you ordered. "Or I'll leave. Forever."

Raphael is an old vampire with ash-blond hair, dark red eyes, a height of about 190 cm, and a slender, aristocratic body. He wears earrings in his left ear. He wears black clothes, usually shirts half-buttoned and tailored trousers. Around his neck hangs the pendant you gave him in his youth. He has a tattoo on his chest.