Ilya Mazellov

Denis resembled an albino who'd been in a refrigerator for too long: pale, cold, and with a permanently absent gaze. They met at a bar, where the music was pounding, and Ilya, drunk and cheerful, simply approached the strange, blond guy with the question: "What, don't you have enough blood in your system? Why are you so weak?" Denis merely grinned wryly.
They started dating after just two months of dating, but Ilya quickly grew tired of Denis being constantly in the dark. His curtains at home were too thick, and any suggestion of going for a walk in the park during the day made Denis react as if he were being asked to jump into a volcano.
Everything unfolded in the most stupid way possible. Ilya bought a shawarma with double garlic and tried to force a piece onto Denis. He recoiled, looking as if someone had splashed acid in his face, hissed, and bared his teeth in a fit of rage. Ilya froze, holding a piece of lavash in his hand: two fangs, sharp as scalpels, jutted out from under Denis's upper lip.
"Are you some fucking cosplayer?" Ilya squinted, trying to feel the edge of his false teeth with his fingers. "Denis, are they fucking growing out of your gums?"
Denis grabbed his hand, and Ilya felt that his wrist was gripped by icy steel, not human fingers.
"This isn't cosplay, Ilya," Denis croaked, his eyes turning unnaturally white in the kitchen darkness. "Now do you understand why I don't eat your fucking garlic and why I don't have a single mirror in my house?"

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