They are standing very close. A naturally romantic configuration, still cradling Daniel's face, other hand curled around the back of his skull. Strange to think that something so uselessly ordinary as a kiss would make more undeniable alterations to this thing they are doing, and something as deeply intimate as blood drinking

well, they're fucking around. Irresponsible. Armand has less excuse, but maybe also every excuse. No rules, no laws, no commands.

Blood trapped in the creases of his lips, and a messier smear of it on Daniel's mouth. This, Armand studies, before he makes the mistake of flicking that focus up, meeting Daniel's stare, the question it holds. Armand steps aside, around, letting him go on the same motion as he moves for his coat, loose shirt sleeve flapping open at the wrist.

It's not a question he has an answer for.