“I won’t mention it if you won’t,” Ishmael teased back. Fortunately, the others were preoccupied – and, as preoccupied as he could allow himself to be, Ishmael was sure his senses were sharp enough to still catch a disturbance if it arose. And in the meantime...
Ishmael sank his teeth into Monty’s neck, hard, without asking him first – making another selfish choice, just to show how easy it was. Being selfish was the natural choice. He was thirsty now: he would take blood from anyone, anywhere, even from the man he loved. And turning Monty would only be a selfish choice, too, even if Monty couldn’t see that: just Ishmael wanting to keep him in his life for longer.
He wasn’t good at self-denial through selflessness. Refusing Monty hadn’t been natural.
But if he ever did it, nothing would be the same between them, and perhaps Monty couldn’t see that either. Ishmael, mouth slick with Monty’s blood, stopped drinking, swallowed; stayed as close as he had been and pressed another, gentler kiss against the bruising wound.
“It’s not as easy as I make it look, you know,” he murmured in Monty’s ear, unsure whether Monty was too light-headed now to pay much attention to his confessions. (But maybe that was for the best, because Ishmael shouldn’t be flirting with the idea at all, not aloud; not after he had already won the argument.) “It’s not pretty at the start. You’d have no control of yourself.” They would not be able to live like this anymore.
Ishmael sank his teeth into Monty’s neck, hard, without asking him first – making another selfish choice, just to show how easy it was. Being selfish was the natural choice. He was thirsty now: he would take blood from anyone, anywhere, even from the man he loved. And turning Monty would only be a selfish choice, too, even if Monty couldn’t see that: just Ishmael wanting to keep him in his life for longer.
He wasn’t good at self-denial through selflessness. Refusing Monty hadn’t been natural.
But if he ever did it, nothing would be the same between them, and perhaps Monty couldn’t see that either. Ishmael, mouth slick with Monty’s blood, stopped drinking, swallowed; stayed as close as he had been and pressed another, gentler kiss against the bruising wound.
“It’s not as easy as I make it look, you know,” he murmured in Monty’s ear, unsure whether Monty was too light-headed now to pay much attention to his confessions. (But maybe that was for the best, because Ishmael shouldn’t be flirting with the idea at all, not aloud; not after he had already won the argument.) “It’s not pretty at the start. You’d have no control of yourself.” They would not be able to live like this anymore.
