Armand withdraws, and Daniel is still in space, but something tilts and says no, that's not how it should go. Buckles up against the fact that Armand should be allowed to bolt if he wants to, and that Daniel doesn't know what he'd do if he stayed anyway.
Want to watch a movie?
Want to make out?
Yeah, great, that'll work.
His hand is on his maker's side until the last second, until Armand is too far away, even with Daniel's arm extended. Lingering atom by atom, off of his hand, his fingers, the little clawed tips at the ends that exist now because of Armand. Daniel lets him go, even though he could stay, in this questionable apartment with mismatched lamps and a tacky ceiling.
The hand at his side, a problem. Armand too conscious of his breathing, his heart beat, the churn of warmth that comes from blood drinking. Too conscious of an absence of touch from a being who is not (or no longer) his prey. Too tempting to linger and find out what exactly Daniel is reaching for and be disappointed by the answer. A drug has a way of making everything seem very beautiful and important.
He swings the coat around his shoulders. Not running, or moving faster than he needs, but moving all the same.
"You have my number," he says, uselessly, but adds, "for anything you need."
Generous. But he would be curious to know of what that would entail.
The problem with drugs, for Daniel, is that he's convinced himself several times that they don't make him numb to reality, they just make the world feel like what it should feel like. Why shouldn't he be high all the time? He gets more work done, he feels better, he occasionally has cosmic mind-altering realizations. And then he gets sober, and remembers he's literally burning holes in his brain and risking all of his teeth falling out, a hundred other things
that don't matter anymore, being immortal.
This is better. He can still hear his own cautious, bitter thoughts, but the swell of euphoria is as powerful as anything.
"Are you sure?"
About anything he needs. About this having been a good idea. About leaving.
A flash of a glance back that is borderline hostile, as if resenting the concept that Armand might speak an instruction that he isn't sure about, that he does anything he isn't sure about. But this is, also, unbecoming of him, a firing synapse in the muddle that burns bright enough for him to wrangle his composure, nod back to Daniel.
"Don't send my regards," is wry, there, a joke, but he is leaving, and he can pretend that he is leaving because the task is finished, as opposed to a retreat.
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no subject
Want to watch a movie?
Want to make out?
Yeah, great, that'll work.
His hand is on his maker's side until the last second, until Armand is too far away, even with Daniel's arm extended. Lingering atom by atom, off of his hand, his fingers, the little clawed tips at the ends that exist now because of Armand. Daniel lets him go, even though he could stay, in this questionable apartment with mismatched lamps and a tacky ceiling.
no subject
He swings the coat around his shoulders. Not running, or moving faster than he needs, but moving all the same.
"You have my number," he says, uselessly, but adds, "for anything you need."
Generous. But he would be curious to know of what that would entail.
no subject
that don't matter anymore, being immortal.
This is better. He can still hear his own cautious, bitter thoughts, but the swell of euphoria is as powerful as anything.
"Are you sure?"
About anything he needs. About this having been a good idea. About leaving.
no subject
"Don't send my regards," is wry, there, a joke, but he is leaving, and he can pretend that he is leaving because the task is finished, as opposed to a retreat.