Armand looks like the monster he is as he steps closer, and it makes Daniel's pulse hammer faster— fear has always been an improperly connected wire in him, and dying hasn't untangled it to a healthy position. Impossible to tell the difference, in his moment, between terror and excitement, and he's flying somewhere on molten silk clouds far beyond an ability to inspect it.

A bite, pain that isn't really pain at all, and Daniel makes some small, gasped sound, hardly aware of it. One hand on Armand's side, the other pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

He had wound his arms around him, too, in San Fransisco. Sympathy for the devil, or a flicker of action before death. Here, Armand can feel him, see himself as Daniel sees him, and it isn't quite that he's beautiful— he's a centerpiece of reality, maybe Daniel sees too much of him, but he isn't afraid, not even of the parts that cut into his hands when he picks it up to look at, and he isn't repulsed, even when he's so fucking pissed off.

It feels good to be fed on. Did he believe it? Not quite this much. Jesus fucking christ.