He thinks he remembers, but as soon as Armand's blood is in his mouth, memory is laughable. (A different kind of monster.) His blood defies a sarcastic, blunt writer's description, because 'taste' doesn't cover it, there is something more than that— all food makes serotonin, all addictive foods make dopamine, and he's found blood to be similar but greater, and this even greater still.

The thought comes to him as fast as it leaves his head: He's not going to be able to stop. He's not going to be able to tell when he feels better, because his mind is now utterly consumed by this. They can't read each other's minds but he feels Armand himself in the blood, like suddenly the silvery, strange bond is a physical thing, red now, liquid, alive, exquisite, and it's like his teeth are set into that and not something as inconsequential as a wrist.

Unconscious movement takes Daniel's right hand from Armand's arm to his side. A belated echo of the thought that's left him, a kind of warning, an earmark for eventual help. Still drinking, a spiral of flying ecstasy — not honey and pineapple, how fucking nothing is that, he's like a fire, like you imagine smoke might taste if it became tangible, burnt sugar and ice and colors — and that touch, that touch that says, hey, I am completely fucking checked out, I am not going to be able to do anything about it, this note is reaching you from somewhere else.