Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
Dumb Bullshit to satiate my Escapism
Stats:
Published:
2025-10-06
Words:
3,708
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
66
Kudos:
294
Bookmarks:
48
Hits:
972

Untouchable

Summary:

Owen smelled like death. He looked like death. He was a harbinger of death, not to be touched, and yet a pale hand closed around his own and shook it firmly where he stood at the tall door to the Mayor of Oakhurst’s office, a welcoming gesture he hadn’t experienced since the disease took hold over a decade ago.

“Come on in, friend,” the man said, holding the door open to allow Owen to pass. Owen’s whole arm felt like it had been flooded with warmth, and it took him a second to realise that the kind words had been meant for him.

Or: Five times Louis touched Owen without fear, and one time Owen did the same

Notes:

(Conveyor belt guy voice) Guess we're doing Vampires SMP now.

Emboldened by the criminal lack of pre-canon Owen/Louis fics out there, I wrote this in pretty much 1 day over the course of 7 glorious hours of homosexuality, so apologies for any errors. For example, thank you to my friend who pointed out I'd been spelling Louis's name wrong the entire fic. you're a hero.

I've tagged for mild gore and rated teen for some relatively graphic descriptions of Owen's leprosy. Other than that, enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

1.

Owen’s skin was covered in death.

Scars, boils, a horrible grey sheen littered in open pink sores. The bandages hid them from sight, but nothing could mask the smell nor the way the infection had crept up his neck and mutilated his face, pulling at his skin until it sagged like the ragged robes he draped over his back when he entered the town each day. He was tired, too. Nobody talked about the tiredness. The toll that this disease took on him plunged far deeper than his skin, weakening his muscles and making it difficult to keep a hold of anything, even the handle of his axe, which bore the impressions of thousands of uses throughout the years.

Owen smelled like death. He looked like death. He was a harbinger of death, not to be touched, and yet a pale hand closed around his own and shook it firmly where he stood at the tall door to the Mayor of Oakhurst’s office, a welcoming gesture he hadn’t experienced since the disease took hold over a decade ago.

“Come on in, friend,” the man said, holding the door open to allow Owen to pass. Owen’s whole arm felt like it had been flooded with warmth, and it took him a second to realise that the kind words had been meant for him.

“You–” he started hoarsely, hesitating. “I’m sick.”

Surely, the mayor knew of him. The townsfolk had learned to recognise him by smell alone.

“Well, it wouldn’t do to talk out here.” The man gestured to the square around them, bustling with morning energy, cattle being led across the cobblestone and merchants calling out advertisements for their goods. It didn’t escape Owen that the business didn’t reach him, the people keeping a visible berth around his bandaged limbs and hooded figure. “Come inside. You asked to meet.”

Reluctant but not wanting to cause an argument, Owen took one last glance back at the street, then ducked his head and stepped through the door, his gait unsteady.

“Thank you, sir,” he croaked out, pressing himself against the doorway as he passed, hyperaware of the proximity of his damaged skin to the mayor’s right side.

A guiding hand landed on his shoulder as the mayor shut the door and followed close behind, and Owen startled even further, fighting the urge to flinch away.

“Call me Louis,” the man said kindly, showing him through the entrance hall.

Owen was quiet, but he swallowed and nodded as they rounded the corner to what looked to be an office. He didn’t understand. Maybe the mayor didn’t know Owen’s sickness was contagious, maybe he was somehow immune. Maybe he thought that the cloak and bandages were enough to keep the infection contained within the lumberjack’s body, though Owen knew that they were not. Whatever the reason, the hand on Owen’s back stayed there until they sat down, and it crossed Owen’s mind that he hadn’t been touched with such care since he was a child, his skin clean and still alive.

 

2.

“You talk to the birds?”

Owen could hear the barely contained amusement in Louis’s voice, and he would have found it offensive if he weren’t also enjoying the conversation.

“Yes, well, working in the woods doesn’t give a man much else that passes for intellectual company,” he defended plainly. “And if they hover for long enough, I can shoot one and sort dinner for the night.”

They were on the couch by Louis’s office window, across from the desk which Louis had never used around Owen. The curtains were drawn, letting the last light of the day shine through and brightening Owen’s end of the couch.

“I should think I’d count as intellectual company,” Louis said charmingly.

He was ridiculous, Owen thought. Jealous of dead birds.

“Then, I promise not to shoot you.”

The sun was going down by now, pink streaks painting the sky as it dipped below the horizon. Owen had come in the early afternoon with news of the progress towards the new mill Louis had approved, the subject of his original visit. There had been little to discuss, but as always, they’d found plenty else to talk about. Louis was like a drug to Owen, drawing him back in every time he found himself in the town square, pulling him into his orbit and derailing their conversations almost the second they began. He was the kindest man that Owen had ever known, and the most entertaining, though Owen could count the list of men he’d known on a single hand.

Eventually, the day darkened into twilight, and Owen knew he had to get home.

“The creatures will be out soon,” he said with a cautious glance through the window towards the stone bridge that would take him back into the forest.

Louis looked disappointed, recognising a goodbye when he heard it, but he hid it well. He nodded once.

“I’ll be here again tomorrow,” he said cordially, not asking so much as offering, which Owen had always appreciated.

Owen made a sound of agreement, his chest already humming at the prospect of seeing the mayor again.

He stood, the low couch groaning as his weight was lifted. Louis did so as well – he always insisted on showing Owen to the door, a guiding hand on his shoulder, a smile of  farewell on his lips. But as he sometimes did, Owen stumbled for a brief moment, his weakened muscles straining to keep him upright, and his hands shot out in a brief, private panic.

There was a body at his side in a flash, hands reaching, steadying, gripping his shoulder and forearm when Owen’s hands didn’t instinctively clutch at them like most people would. When Owen realised what Louis was doing, he froze, turning his head to find long silver hair hanging just a breath’s length away.

Louis’s gaze was fixed on Owen’s arm and feet, entirely focused on making sure he could hold his own weight before he let go. The action seemed obvious, instinctual, like Louis’s first thought when Owen’s legs had trembled had been to help, rather than weigh up the cost of touching his disease.

Owen had no idea how Louis could be so fearless of him.

Eventually, the hands on his arm left, and Owen found himself craving the touch again. He ignored it, and Louis led him to the door with some parting words that Owen barely heard.

“Thank you for visiting,” the mayor said at the doorway, and Owen stepped down onto the street and pretended not to see the people quietly scattering around him.

“Of course,” he hoarsely agreed.

There was a handprint burned onto Owen’s bandaged arm, and he ran his fingers over it the moment Louis shut the door.

 

3.

Slowly, Owen’s sawmill rose from the ground. He’d provided the idea and the blueprints, and Louis had provided the rest. It was a small building, sitting next to a river at the edge of town, powered by a large waterwheel like the town’s other mills were. Its position opened up the opportunity for work in the forests north of Oakhurst, as most of the others were situated to the east and west, making lumberjacks haul their felled trees ridiculous distances by horse or log driver if they lived in a different direction like Owen did.

“Come, we’re opening it tonight,” Louis had said during their meeting the morning after the construction was finished. “You should be there.”

Reluctance had swirled in Owen’s gut, meeting the knowledge of how the townspeople would respond if they saw him in the crowd.

“You’re the only one who’ll want me there,” he cautioned.

“Nonsense,” Louis dismissed sincerely. “Besides, none of them matter.”

It had been a strange sentiment to hear from the benevolent mayor, dimly echoing Owen’s own lonely existence, but Louis had said nothing else, and Owen had said he’d think about it when he’d left in the afternoon.

…Which brought him here, hovering at the edge of the small crowd of people who had come to see the mill produce its first piece of lumber in the fading daylight.

Louis was standing on the front deck of the building, alongside a few important people Owen hadn’t bothered to learned the names of. The man seemed to be looking for something, eyes scanning the small group…

They locked on Owen’s, and he smiled, quietly genuine as Louis’s smiles always were.

A buzz spawned again in Owen’s chest, and he pushed it down, offering a small wave after making sure that nobody else was watching.

The proceedings were short and practical – Louis said a few words, then some of the other officials spoke, and then a worker loaded the first log into the mill, and the crowd watched as it was carved into slim lumber. After everything was over, most of the crowd returned to their houses, wary of the creatures of the night, but Owen lingered, taking the opportunity to cast his gaze over the building he’d imagined, now in front of him in physical form.

The waterwheel had been disabled, drying slowly in the moonlight, which glinted faintly along the iron teeth and gears within the building. The structure loomed quiet and waiting, a great creature at rest, and Owen felt a strange awe settle over him: the knowledge that by morning, when the water was loosed and the wheel began to turn, his idea would wake and breathe.

Louis and his officials had also stayed, discussing something on the front deck in low voices. A short, stout man glanced in Owen’s direction, then murmured something to the others, and Owen watched as Louis tensed, his jaw rigid as the short man spoke. He looked uncomfortable, like he’d been roped into a conversation he didn’t want to be a part of, and the wind swept in and brushed the man’s long, concealing cloak aside just enough to reveal a single clenched fist by his side.

Owen knew instinctively that they were talking about his sickness.

The group disbanded shortly after, and Louis strode quickly down the steps to join Owen, tugging his cloak further around his figure.

“Shall I walk you home?” he suggested briskly, his voice slightly tighter than usual. A hand came to rest on Owen’s back – a faint spark of the word possessive sprang to mind, but Owen dismissed it – and he slotted perfectly beside him, herding the startled lumberjack down the path away from the river.

Owen could only wonder what the officials must have said to so clearly trouble the mayor, but it was late, and he was cold and tired, and for the first time, he leaned into the touch.

 

4.

Fall’s cool air was sharp and painful against Owen’s skin as he hid his arm behind his ragged cloak and fumbled with his bandages.

The cloths covering his right hand had unravelled – his own fault, he mustn’t have wrapped them tightly enough that morning, rushing to get into town – exposing the battlefield of discoloured sores and rotting skin beneath them and letting loose a horrific smell that not even he had grown used to. Owen’s face felt hot, and his palms were sweating, his left hand shaking as he tried to loop the unwilling bandage between his thumb and forefinger to no avail. It wasn’t working, and he felt like a mess, apologising between breaths to the man at the other end of the couch.

“Owen–” Louis tried.

Owen looked up quickly, then back down. “I’m sorry, just– Give me a second.”

He kept losing the end of the bandage, his grip strength fading, and with every failure, frustration built within him, a humiliated whir in his stomach at the thought of who was watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw pale hands and long, slender fingers reaching for his cloak, and he pulled away.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Louis was too close, having moved down the couch when Owen wasn’t looking, but he didn’t seem worried at all.

“Let me try,” the mayor said easily, and Owen stared.

Louis had seen what was beneath the bandages – albeit briefly, before Owen had realised and hidden the hand from sight. He knew it was hideous. Even if he didn’t care about infection, which Owen had begrudgingly accepted after a few months of the man’s stubborn kindness, the sight and smell alone would have surely been enough to scare him away.

“You can’t,” he choked, furiously shaking his head. “You can’t.”

He liked the way that Louis looked at him, kind and full of something he hadn’t experienced before. But that would all change if Louis was exposed to the horror that lurked beneath Owen’s bandages for long enough. He would come to his senses and realise Owen was hideous, like everyone he’d ever met had done the second they’d looked at him.

“You can’t,” Owen whispered, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away again when Louis slipped two fingers behind his cloak and drew it away.

He braced for disgust. For horror, for repulsion. Instead, cool hands wrapped around his own, and Owen stayed stock-still as Louis gently brought the unwrapped limb towards him, unfolding each curled finger with the care of a man handling something sacred.

Owen could only watch, unbreathing, as Louis took the filthy, unravelled bandage and carefully threaded it around the back of Owen’s hand, looping it twice between his thumb and forefinger, then across his knuckles, and wrapping the excess over his wrist, covering the gaps with tender care. All the while, he held cracking grey skin and blistering sores like Owen’s flesh had never been touched by the hands of disease, knuckles skimming over black patches and gnarled, bent fingers by accident, fleeting touches that not even a priest or doctor would dare to initiate. Owen’s heart was in his throat, choking any words he might have tried to croak out, and his vision blurred until he realised he still hadn’t taken another breath.

When it was done, pale hands cupped Owen’s own, and slowly, Louis lifted them and bent his head to place a kiss between his thumbs, barely a millimetre from Owen’s skin.

It was a note on a string, played loud enough to reverberate through Owen’s entire body. It was the brush of the wind, glancing over his bare skin in the forest. It was something singing inside of him.

Louis looked up at him, and his sharp eyes saw straight through the cloak and the bandages and right into Owen’s soul.

“Have you seen any doctors?” was all he asked. There was no judgment in his voice, no motive. He seemed to already know the answer.

Owen gave a small nod.

“They couldn’t do anything,” he said hoarsely. Then… “You should wash your hands.”

Louis hummed but didn’t let go of Owen’s hand. They stayed like that, slowly talking, conversation building again as Owen’s heart slowed down and retreated into his chest once more.

He wondered how Louis’s lips had tasted when they’d pressed against his skin. He wondered what they would taste like to Owen, and whether Louis would allow him to touch tender fingers to his face and hold his jaw.

 

5.

There was a ball being held in the manor house that Louis’s office was built into, music filtering through the walls like the breath of the building itself. It was easier to hear by the window, where the smooth notes floated in on the wind and the sound of chatter filled the air.

Owen was on Louis’s couch again. They’d resolved to keep each other company for the night while the rest of the town gathered just a few layers of brick away. It was easy to close your eyes and get lost in the music, but Owen had found himself lost in something else.

Louis stood by the window, swimming in shadow, the long folds of his cloak draping him like midnight spilling over marble. Even beneath the hood, his face caught the candlelight, pale and flawless, framed by strands of silver hair. Owen’s eyes traced him as though committing every detail to memory – the delicate curve of his jaw, the gentle set of his lips, the way his gaze lingered on the crowd below, humming almost imperceptibly to the music. Every one of his breaths was captivating, and Owen’s chest tightened with that lingering buzz that he could barely name.

“Have you ever been?”

Owen startled, pulled from his thoughts. “Sorry?”

“Have you ever been to one of these balls?”

Louis’s voice had a strange quality to it. Curious, yes, but also prying. Owen wondered what he was getting at.

He shook his head gently. “No. No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be welcome in such a place.”

Louis hummed thoughtfully, still staring out the window.

“I’ve been once or twice, when I was younger,” he shared without prompting. “I liked the music. The dancing.”

Owen let the idea wash over him: Louis, dressed handsomely in a waistcoat and a black necktie, moving through the crowd with a faceless townsfolk, his hand on their shoulder, the other on their hip. Behind the cloak would be a face more beautiful than Owen could imagine, tilted into the light of a grand chandelier, the blush of life kissing his porcelain skin.

“Why did you stop?” Owen asked, slightly breathless.

“The people.” Louis’s shoulders lowered a little, like a great sigh had breathed out all his troubles. “It’s too crowded. I much prefer it here.”

Owen allowed himself a private smile but said nothing, the buzz in his chest growing at the thought. Months ago, it would have been unthinkable that anyone would prefer his company to the company of hundreds of healthy townsfolk. Now, it just felt natural. Like Louis had taught him how to be loved.

Louis turned to him then, when that word – love – had finally settled in Owen’s mind as the right descriptor for the buzz that rippled through him.

“Would you like to dance, Owen,” the mayor said finally, the subtext peeling away and his voice finally honest. It wasn’t a question. He already knew what Owen’s answer would be.

Ah, Owen thought. This is what he’s been vying for.

Suddenly, the image of Louis at the ball shifted, and it was Owen he was dancing with, swaying by the light of the office fireplace and the candle on the desk.

“Who would I be to refuse?” he mused playfully, and he let Louis take his hand and lift him to his feet.

Owen had never danced before, but Louis knew exactly what he was doing. He drew them towards each other, took Owen’s hands, and placed them where they needed to be, and soon they were slotted together, Owen’s slouch positioning them almost at eye level.

Louis’s chin fitted perfectly over the curve of Owen’s shoulder, one hand holding Owen’s sick one, the other wrapped around the lumberjack’s waist. Owen’s free hand had found the mayor’s shoulder with Louis’s guidance, and Louis began to sway to the music filtering in from outside.

Owen’s skin burned in every place that they were touching – the pain, he was used to, but it was something different, too. Desire. A wish fulfilled. He let himself melt into Louis’s hold and felt the man’s soft humming through his chest, closing his eyes and losing himself in both the music and Louis’s presence, never having known it was possible to do them both at once.

The town faded away. Neither of them had ever needed it in the first place.

Eventually, the song ended, making way for muffled speeches, but still, Louis continued to sway. Owen wanted to make his home here, underneath Louis’s skin, surrounded by his smell, his breath, the sound of a song still lingering in the rumble of his chest. Maybe he would. Maybe the world could burn, and Louis would still be here, unafraid of him.

Owen was staring. It didn’t matter. Louis looked up at him and caught his eye, and Owen let him see it all.

A caught breath. Owen didn’t know whose it was, but then Louis was untangling their fingers and reaching, a cool hand brushing a scarred cheek, and Owen was sure he was going to fall apart.

“May I…?” Louis asked, barely a whisper.

Owen’s throat was tight, the buzz in his chest so urgent it was maddening, and he nodded, his eyes dropping down, down…

They were close enough that Louis only had to surge upwards a millimetre before their lips were meeting, and the world was infinite.

 

+1.

The cellar’s air was thick with the scent of earth and damp stone, and shadows clung to the low ceiling, pooling in the corners where the light couldn’t touch. Louis’s claws glinted in the lamplight, his eyes darker than the void itself in a way Owen had never noticed before.

He was a vampire. Suddenly, it was undeniable.

“Are you sure you want this?” Louis asked slowly, his figure finally uncovered. His ears were pointed, framed by curtains of silver hair that seemed to shine like they were bathed in moonlight. Between his lips sat pointed fangs, and it made sense now why his skin was so cold and pale, his gift taking the warm life out of him and replacing it with the great ice of immortality.

“Yes,” Owen said without hesitation.

Louis had told him everything he’d need to know, and more. Owen knew that this was the only cure for his disease. He knew that he’d be hungry, but he would also be powerful. He knew that he would live forever, and that Louis would, too, but they would live as outcasts, removed from humanity by their very nature.

Forever with Louis sounded like a dream. A cure, and he might as well be living in a fantasy.

“You’re not scared?” Louis asked.

Owen shook his head.

“Scared?” he repeated, reaching for his lover’s pale, uncloaked shoulder and running a hand over it, the other coming up to cup his cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

He was ready, he thought, baring his neck as Louis smiled softly.

He was ready for forever.

Notes:

And then they lived happily ever after and nothing bad ever happened to them.

Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Please I need someone to talk to about these two PRONTO. You can also find me on tumblr at howmanyholesinswisscheese :)