Early 24th September, 1888 — The Abandoned House

Well, that had not gone to plan. Nothing about tonight had gone to plan. Kieran Abernathy had been as big a bust as the first bloodbank he tried - bigger, really, knowing what he did now - and by the time he'd started looking again, the Augurey was long closed, so he couldn't spring a drink on Beasley, either.

So he'd come back home, throat scratchy and dry and stomach still churning. He didn't think he'd have been above picking the first person he bumped into as he walked, tonight, even if that meant leaving them slumped unconscious in an alleyway - but it was too late for that too, the streets barren in the thinning darkness. So - it was fine. He'd been hungrier, in his lifetime. He could stretch his self-control a little further. He'd let himself back into the abandoned house, supposing he'd have another search for some homemade bloodbags (maybe one had dropped down the back of the couch, who knew, really) or have one of the others go out and fetch him an animal snack to tide him over.

It was never easy, though, being hungry. Not like this. His patience had been frayed by enough disappointment tonight that he wasn't as silent in closing the front door as he'd meant, was barely paying attention as he scaled the stairs and drifted into one of the upstairs bedrooms, creaking over the floorboards as he scanned the room for some forgotten bloodbag. Ishmael was so consumed by this that Monty's shadow appearing in the doorway almost surprised him.  

Almost. He could smell him as well as ever.  

"Where are the others?" Ishmael asked shortly, as though he couldn't already hear the empty hush of the rest of the house, Monty's heartbeat a lone sign of life. A thundering one.

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The others had gone out and Monty had taken the relative privacy to enjoy a bath. Perks of being a wizard was always having fresh water at your wand tip. The chill of the water had perked him up and now he was cleansed and he had dabbed a bit of what was totally not perfume on himself. After all, he liked to always smell and look his best. He had just finished drying off and fixing his hair when he heard someone come home.

Well, his privacy hadn't lasted long at all. It was late into the night so he did wonder who was stumbling home instead of staying wherever their night had been being spent. Slipping the now always present sun ring onto his index finger, he did his finishing touches to his appearance and rose an eyebrow at the sight of Ishmael who seemed to be on the hunt for something.

"Out and about, I suppose," he answered with a noncommittal wave of his hand. "What are you looking for?"

  

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Well damn them, being out. Leaving him here like this, backed up out on a limb and almost shaky from it. It was like an itch, the bloodlust, a sensation that got worse from merely thinking about it. The more you thought, the more tempted you were to scratch, until it was all but impossible not to.

Only this was a little more than scratching an itch. Ishmael swallowed, like that would do anything for his dry mouth. And Monty was no help, either. Ishmael was trying his best not to focus on his presence, but everything around him was heightened, and Monty the exposed nerve against the airless room. He smelled clean, and fresh, and of some other scent of his, bright and rosy as a fucking flower in the morning dew. Beyond all that: the blood coursing through his veins, so loud Ishmael could almost hear it rushing in his ears.

Ugh, humans. "Nothing," Ishmael said, a little more snappish than he'd meant. He cast his eyes around the room, pretending to concentrate again on this and not Monty, but eventually let out a sigh (and tried not to breathe in afterwards). "Something to eat," he amended, choosing honesty only in an attempt to make it sound offhand, casual, the sort of nonchalance that could be tossed out with a shrug. Better to stop thinking about it quick, so he could make it through another day or two.

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Ishmael seemed to be especially jittery. Monty couldn't remember the last time he had seen Ishmael like this. "Testy," Monty drawled as he made his way into the room and sat himself down on the bed. "Why don't you just go hunt or something. Or did you suddenly decide to become one of those vegan vampires?"

Monty chuckled at the idea. He had allowed Ishmael his blood before, finding it something interesting to do at the time. When had been the last time, though? Monty couldn't remember and obviously his blood was a precious thing. Montys vanity was such that it extended to thinking that his blood just had to be especially delicious to a vampire.

"When was the last time you ate?" He asked, doing his absolute best to keep an actual concern he felt out of his tone. Make it sound like he was merely curious or judgmental instead of the fact that he was somewhat worried.

  

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If he had half-hoped being in a demonstrably bad mood would have been sign enough for Monty to stay away, it had been for nothing because in he waltzed anyway, full of snark. It was one of the things Ishmael usually liked about him, but - right now, it was just nettling. Fuck.

He rolled his eyes at the first set of questions, scoffing aloud in contempt. What did Morales think he was, a fool who needed telling? Like he didn't know to hunt. He'd been doing this a hundred bloody years! Long enough, too, to have developed an informed outlook of his own on the alternative lifestyles some vampires led, like a vampire was somehow made to be a vegetarian. Not that animal blood much qualified them for that, either, however arguably less "immoral" it was - and that was not to say Ishmael hadn't tried it, in years past or on nights like these, when the rumblings of his appetite were hard to ignore and a mangy city fox might be enough to see him eke out a little longer before a proper meal - but he had long mocked anyone he encountered who tried to live by such a diet too seriously. It couldn't be done on animals alone, that much was self-evident. And it was not an existence worth one's bread and butter; whatever you tried, animal blood was tasteless and bland - and, admittedly, had always left him headachey and unsatisfied, pouty and predisposed to complaint.

Not so much as he was now, but he didn't expect animal blood would do any good towards staving off this either, the well of hunger in him that was deepening by the hour, and made worse by the lingering nausea. There was a little less snark in Monty's last question - or maybe Ishmael just hadn't been focused enough to hear it - but he gave in and granted him a real answer this time, halting in his fruitless search to fall up against the bedroom wall. Tucking a hand listlessly at the back of his neck, he leant his head back against the wall with a dull thud that didn't make him feel remotely better.

When had he eaten? "Tonight, technically," Ishmael intoned, not sure he had the energy for the condescension he would have liked to convey with it. "Had some trouble." Both in finding willing people, and then - "Didn't go down right," he explained thickly, gesturing at his throat with his free hand as if it might conjure up some bile or illustrate how sick he felt, like he could cough up the blood that had been so wrong. "I just - need something to get the taste out." It was dead outside now, and would be until dawn broke again, but perhaps he could actually wait it out if Monty stopped asking questions.

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A bad mood was definitely not something that Monty was easily deterred by. The contempt rolled quite easily off of him, figuring that Ishmael was just especially testy due to hunger. Monty was not a vampire and so he was pretty clueless about what Ishmael might currently be feeling. He had gone starving several days at a time in his youth though so he imagined that it was probably much like that. That gnawing feeling in your gut and other unpleasant feelings that made you feel like you could eat practically anything just to make it go away.

He wasn't being given any actual answers but Monty was not overly concerned about it. At least, not yet. He knew Ishmael was smart so it was a little bizarre for him to be witnessing this right now. If it had been one of the other guys telling him about this he would have been inclined to disbelieve them. But no, it was happening right now, right in front of his eyes.

Monty kept his eyes on Ishmael, concerned but hiding that behind his usual mask of indifference. It was hard to see Ishmael like this. And it was even more jarring to realize that he actually cared. What was that? He hadn't cared about someone besides himself in - well, he didn't think that had ever been a thing for him. And that? That was fucking terrifying. It was something he needed to bury deep because the only person you could really count on was yourself so it was best to just not care.

So, it had been diseased blood or something? Or just blood that didn't sit well with the vampire? "Ah. I guess even your kind has blood types that just don't sit well with you, huh?" Monty said, his mind working as it tried to figure out how to help without making it obvious that he cared. He wasn't even really doing so consciously, it was just the way the con mans brain worked by now.

He was about to suggest something along the lines of Ishmael perhaps focusing on other types of hunger because offering sex as a distraction was definitely something that Monty could do and had done numerous times before. Except those weren't the words that came out when he opened his mouth.

"There's always me. My blood would probably be heaven for you."

Well, fuck.

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   Ishmael

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He was still asking questions. Ishmael was confounded by it. He'd say Monty was only trying to be irritating, but - well, if Monty wanted to be irritating, he could do a hell of a lot better than that. (Not that Ishmael was especially easy to irk, on an ordinary day, so why he'd be purposefully trying when they hadn't even been in the midst of an ongoing row, he couldn't say.)

And it couldn't be that he cared - was worried - because that would hinge on Montgomery Morales being a creature able to show concern, which Ishmael wouldn't count on in any circumstance, not even to save his life. And that was fine - no one expected it of him, and their group's successes relied on his ability to not care about the people he was swindling. He didn't need Monty to care about this, either. Why would he? It would be ludicrous, frankly, for Monty to be worried about him: Ishmael was a vampire, a terrifying monster of the night or whatever, a hundred years old, had lived through more than most could imagine; he had sharp reflexes and sharper fangs and drank blood for a living. He would figure it out, like always. It would be absurd to imagine anyone feeling anxious for him. People ought to worry about themselves. And what was Monty? Some poor kid from the streets of London who had nothing to go on but his own charisma; someone Ishmael might have been, once - or might never have met, if life had unravelled differently. In truth, Ishmael should be worrying about him.

Either something odd had gotten into Monty or it was only morbid curiosity on his part, Ishmael eventually decided, raising a disbelieving eyebrow as he inquired about types of blood. "You could say that," Ishmael said. Werewolf blood, he might have specified, because that was what was proving so hard to digest tonight, soured on his tongue - but better not spread rumours like that, because: it was not his secret to tell; he suspected Monty might well have met Kieran before anyway, in his usual haunts of the city; and because, frankly, now wasn't the ideal time to get embroiled in a theoretical discussion about what made certain types of blood bad.

Any disbelief he was feeling there paled instantly beside the sudden jolt of incomprehension for what Monty said next, and if Ishmael's skin hadn't already been a waxen shade, he might've sworn his face went even whiter.

Was that a joke, or was he seriously offering? Not that it mattered, because - "No," Ishmael interjected immediately, automatically, with feeling. No, not him. Not because he wouldn't taste good (Monty's arrogance was overblown, obviously, but not as far off as he might have been) and not even because Ishmael hadn't drunk from him before... Because he had, a time or two. In the early days. From them all. But he had prudently curbed that habit, and didn't want to - wasn't going to go back to it now, just because Monty's blood was the only fucking thing he could smell in a mile radius.

"You taste like shit," he added, with a cutting glance, in hopes of covering his misstep.

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Well, wasn't that interesting to discover? He had never known to Ishmael to complain about blood disagreeing with him before so he was definitely curious about who had provided this blood and what was so off with them that their blood could make a vampire react this way. He very much doubted that Ishmael would be forthcoming though. The vampire was always so annoyingly tight lipped when he wanted to be.

No. And just like that, he was being given an out. To take back the offer because providing his blood would have meant something. At least, in his own mind. Not that he hadn't provided Ishmael with blood before but that had been way before when Ishmael had first entered his life. When the vampire had been nothing more than a curiosity to him, a young con artist just blossoming into the full blown criminal that he had now become.

And what was Ishmael to him now?

How annoying it was to find that he couldn't even answer his own internal question. Ishmael would probably mock him if he knew so Monty was very glad that vampires could not read minds like some of the fiction he had indulged in reading a time or two.

Monty rolled his eyes at the cutting glance though was surprised that it did cut when normally he might have said something along the lines of Ishmael having it his way. Normally, he would just slink off and let the other man deal with his shit on his own. If it were anyone but Ishmael - one of his other cronies, for example - he would definitely have just done that.

When had Ishmael slipped his way into meaning something to him beyond what any of the others meant to him? Monty couldn't comprehend it since he had literally never felt this way before. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had felt it when Ishmael had been within Hogsmeade when all the crap with the fog had happened.

Monty did not want to care but he did. Too much, he would say.

He was also pretty sure that the vampires words were a lie. He had provided blood to the vampire before, after all even if that was long ago by now. Monty stepped close despite his usual sense of extreme self-preservation telling him it was best to keep a distance from a crankily hungry vampire.

"Are you certain? I've never known you to complain about my taste before. Blood or otherwise," he said cheekily. Why was he pressing this? He should just leave the vampire to suffer through his hunger. "Just to get the taste out of your mouth. This look doesn't suit you at all."

  

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Monty only rolled his eyes, which meant he hadn't listened, wasn't taking this seriously, wouldn't believe anything Ishmael said for a second. Trust him to pick tonight of all nights to be interested, to decide to bother staying in the room long enough to try and call his bluff.

That definitely was what he was doing, stepping up to him like this, devilishly casual and carefree about it. Ishmael tensed against the wall ever so slightly, trying to fashion his scowl into something annoyed rather than outwardly apprehensive. Monty could see right through him, then, if he had decided it was a topic worth pressing.

Fortunately, Ishmael could be dogged too, and he had no intention of explaining himself if he could help it. (He wasn't sure he could explain it, even to himself, only that this was a boundary it felt far safer to keep. For Monty's sake. Or his own.) Instead, he pushed the heel of his hand into Monty's collarbone, his fingers grasping firmly over the curve of his shoulder, not putting any more force into the gesture just yet but making his position clear all the same, that he'd drive him back if he had to, that this little game of his was a mistake.

He scoffed at Monty's cocksure answer, the smug sod. The thing was, Monty was right. And Ishmael was thirsty.

It would be so simple. So easy. He was outright offering.

Ishmael gritted his teeth and shook his head towards the ceiling; better let his gaze linger up there than find his eyes drifting towards Monty's throat like a fucking animal. When he mustered up enough composure to look down, he jutted his chin out to stare Monty down. "And I didn't think me having to toss your body in the Thames would suit you much either, but you seem pretty damn willing to risk it," he shot back tersely. It always was a risk, whatever he pretended. Always. And sometimes it just wasn't worth it.

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Merlin, what was the problem? In Montys view, Ishmael should have been grateful at the offer of his precious life force. Why was he declining it when he could clearly use it? He doubted that Ishmael could be so starved that he could be a liability to Monty or the others safety. Ishmael had always been pretty careful about that in the past, Monty had always felt. So, there had to be something else going on here but Monty could not figure out what that might be for the life of him.

He eyed Ishmael when the vampire pushed the heel of his hand into his collarbone. He stopped there, his eyes taking in the vampires expressions as he tried to puzzle out what the hell was wrong with Ishmael aside from the obvious need for blood.

Monty scoffed at the vampires words. "So just take enough from me to tide you over until you can get more blood. You've fed from me before and I know you enough to know that you're capable of stopping yourself before you take too much," Monty said. The next words out of his mouth were ones he immediately wanted to take back.

They felt way too intimate, especially considering they came from a person that had made a life career around the fact that no one could be trusted. That had made it obvious countless times that he didn't even trust those within his own circle. "I trust you, Ishmael."

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   Ishmael

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He was being irrational. He was being irrational, and he knew it.

If he worked out the statistics, totted up the totals for the last hundred and nine years and made himself a balance-sheet, where would he be? Not too badly off, after all. There had been kills, certainly - not including those so close to death already that losing a little more blood would only hasten the process - but they had become rarer and rarer over the years, and by now, as many kills were carefully-assessed action in a pinch as they were honest mistakes.

So Monty had a point. Ishmael didn't usually have qualms, before he roped people into this little business of his, before he coaxed them into helping him out. He believed the things he said, usually, in the heat of persuasion: I can do this. I do it all the time. It's easy. It'll be fine. He never felt bad about doing it, either, even were it to go wrong: it was necessary to keep living, and he liked his life enough to want to keep it. It didn't hurt them to help. It wouldn't hurt Monty to help, either. This was no different, ought to be no -  

Monty knew him, though. Trusted... trusted him. Ishmael froze. He had no answer to that. What could he say; what would he say to that, if there weren't an iceberg in his throat? But I don't trust myself, Monty. Not with you. Perhaps nothing would go wrong, even on a night like tonight where he was hungry and unfocused and out of sorts - it would be over, and then Monty would be still more smug about it, going on - but if it did... If anything did go wrong, how would Ishmael forgive himself?

It was a stupid thing to imagine. Ishmael could feel the defiance in his face fading, his scowl dissolving to something else, an expression that was just - unsteady. Unsure.

And beyond that, beyond the fear of losing him and being at fault for it, there was a fear that was lesser but more real, a detail that made this more different still. Ishmael had never minded taking - of course he hadn't - but he liked better when, in drinking's someone's blood, he could give them something in return. Sex, money, a thrill - it didn't even matter what it was, but it made it more bearable, the whole thing. But what could he give Monty in return for this? They'd dealt in favours before - they didn't mind taking for a living - but that only meant that, here and now, there was nothing substantial Ishmael could give for what he owed.  

And it would have been nice, Ishmael supposed, to have had one human being, a fixture in his life, with whom he could exist without falling back into this, chained to his ordinary ways. One person - just one - he didn't have to owe for this.  

He couldn't say any of it, though. Even in saying nothing... he'd said too much already.

Choosing not to explain, however, didn't leave him much of an alternative. "Fine," Ishmael snarled, his patience splintering. "Your funeral." Annoyed at Monty and annoyed at himself and grasping him roughly by the other shoulder now as well, Ishmael pulled him in close, holding him firmly against him. Better not leave either of them any more time to think. He should have been more careful, given the pangs of unease and self-reproach in his gut, should have treated Monty more gently, better, but - too fucking late - maybe he'd make him regret this too - Ishmael inclined his head to the side and sank his teeth into Monty's neck.

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Monty didn't know what to make of the expression showing on Ishmael's face. Ishmael always seemed so confident, so sure of himself. It was what attracted him to the vampire in the first place. The look made him uncomfortable for some reason, he wanted to know what had the vampire so unsure about doing something he did tons of times with other people - even him, in the early days of their acquaintance - but he also didn't.

Ishmael wasn't saying anything, the silence stretching between them. Tension seemed to ripple within the silence though Monty had to wonder if that was only so for him. There was some sort of importance in this but the conman could not figure out what it might be. Monty Morales was not a man that did feelings beyond the ones he had for his own self. So why did it currently feel like that was not currently the entire truth?

Monty eyed Ishmael as the vampire snarled and grasped him by his shoulders and held him firmly against him. A hiss of pain escaped his teeth as the vampire sank his teeth into his neck. Monty was silent, pondering his own reasons for allowing Ishmael what he would have never let any other vampire in his acquaintance do. He could not fully understand them though that might have been because he was consciously doing his best not to think too hard about it.

As the vampire took what he needed, Monty found his arms wrapping tight around Ishmael, almost of their own accord. Pressing close like he usually did whenever he was seducing Ishmael into having a bit of fun in his bed. Finding some sort of comfort in doing so though he would rather shoot his own foot off than admit to the vampire that he was finding comfort in Ishmaels closeness despite the vampire feeding from him.

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I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, Ishmael thought, regret pulsing over and over, in tune with Monty's heartbeat as it filled his ears. I never asked for this - I don't want this - I don't - But the guilt faded too fast, as his teeth pierced through skin and artery walls and the well of blood burst up like a spring in the mountains, the same as in anyone. Guilt was no match for such a flood. He couldn't have said sorry if he wanted to, couldn't have undone this now, with his mouth pressed over the wound, the taste of blood on his tongue.

And it felt good. So good. Monty's blood wasn't special - people's tastes weren't like that, dependent on how you thought of them (what Ishmael was even trying to say here in his deliriousness, he didn't know); if they tasted different, it was all down to biology, to lifestyle, to the iron or the alcohol or the opium in their system that affected their blood - but it somehow felt even better than Ishmael had remembered or imagined it could. It was because of the bad blood from before, he knew, the first sensation all night to settle the nauseous, curdled feeling in his mouth; or perhaps just the sweet relief of quenching an aching thirst.

And, as ever, he didn't want to stop. Opening the floodgates never was an action easily reversed, even with a century of reinforced self-control, but it was especially painful an idea in the middle of this, with his face buried in the freshness of Monty's neck, trapped between his body and the wall, suddenly locked there in an embrace that wasn't even entirely of his own making -

Hardly consciously, Ishmael lessened the pressure of his grasp on Monty's shoulders, his hands still holding on enough to keep him here, to steady him if he drank too long, if the dizziness became too much, but his anger was slipping away from him along with his drying thirst, every mouthful clearing his head, deftly unknotting all the wrongness he had felt. It couldn't scrape away the foundations of guilt - those were already set. They'd be silent scars, like the needling image of puncture points in Monty's neck that he'd see for himself as soon as he pulled away.

It was time to do that, he told himself. It was like rousing someone from sleep, the himself locked in his head, at the whims of this addiction; it took a little time, a light tapping at the door that soon became hammering, gentle instructions turned to forcefulness. He had to stop - soon - now - even if that meant he'd have to be faced with Monty's dazed but knowing face, the "what were you so worried about", "why was that such a problem" that would be implied whether or not they were said - faced with the ridiculousness of his own disquiet. He'd done this to Monty before, years back. This was no different. Monty had fucking offered. It didn't mean a thing.

And if he didn't stop, he knew what would happen. He would keep drinking and drinking and drinking, and it would continue to feel good, blessed relief, and then Monty would grow paler, and weaker, and try to stagger back or fend him off or do nothing, nothing, until he was cradling a limp, bloodless body in his arms. Hell.

Well, that did the trick, just a bit. It pierced through the pleasure for just long enough to feel some air rushing in against the heat of their closeness, proved time enough for Ishmael to wrench himself off - to stop drinking. He left his mouth there a moment more, leaving a little pressure on the bite until the flow dried up. He pulled back, finally, with swollen lips, trying to avoid looking too much at the angry bruise he had left.

He clenched his mouth closed, not sure how able he was to speak, wanting nothing more than to rest his head back against the bedroom wall, close his eyes and gather himself together - But the concern flared up, sharp again, and instead he scrutinised Monty's face, hoping desperately - stupidly - that he was alright, wondering whether he'd taken too much. You okay? It was a question he had meant to ask with his eyes alone, but - sated and still a little delirious - Ishmael lifted one of his hands from the man's shoulder, letting the back of his fingers fall across Monty's cheek in a brief, unthinking caress.

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Monty had never really let any other vampire feed from him. Just Ishmael, when they were younger. It had merely been a curiosity back then. Something new for him to experience that had died off when he had grown bored of it and when Ishmael had found more reliable sources of blood. Well, actually, he didn't fully remember the reasons for their stopping it but Monty supposed that it did not matter very much in the long run.

It had been long enough, at least, that he had not been able to vividly recall what it felt like to have Ishmael feeding from him. There was a slight eroticism to it, in Montys opinion. He never had been afraid of some pain. Though he had forgotten just how disorienting it could be or how ill it could make him feel. In the back of his mind, he noted that Ishmael's grasp on his shoulders had lessened and he was assuming it was because Ishmael felt better now.

He wasn't at a point where he felt the need to try and pry Ishmael off of himself but had felt himself getting close to it when Ishmael finally wrenched himself away from him. Monty felt ishmael lingering there. Letting the flow stop, if he remembered correctly from the past. He felt nauseous and more than a little dizzy but seemed otherwise fine. His neck also hurt but he had expected that considering he had just had someone bite into his beautiful neck. Hopefully it would heal quickly though he did have salves to help with that.

Monty was not even sure which words to say to fill the empty, silent air between them. The caress, brief as it was, surprised him. One could say that it surprised him even more when he took the hand that had done it and kissed the palm of it. "I am a little dizzy and nauseous but otherwise fine. I knew I could trust you to stop in time. What were you so concerned about?"

Why did he feel like he knew what Ishmael had been trying to convey? Monty did not want to think too hard on it so chose not to, merely chalking it up to how long they had known one another despite feeling that was barely even the half of it.

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He regretted reaching for Monty's face as soon as he had, but - too late. He had thought he might halfheartedly disguise it as something else - wiping away a speck of blood or fixing a stray hair, fixing his collar maybe - but he hadn't, and rather than calling him out for it, Monty had done the unexpected thing. He had never used to be so unpredictable (a little capricious, perhaps, and self-indulgent sometimes; but these were characteristics mirrored in Ishmael, were things he liked, knew and understood) but now, somehow, Monty seemed more and more to be gaining the ability to catch him off guard, completely. Case in point: Ishmael’s rogue hand. Monty had taken it and kissed it.

It might be tender; forgiving; understanding; it might be any of those things or none, but it didn't make Ishmael any less uneasy about the situation. The fluttering nervousness in his gut should have been well buried under the relief, that stream of new blood in his system, shouldn't it? But it was still there.

Ishmael had to feel better than Monty must, though, he knew. Dizzy, nauseous. He was paler in the face than usual. Nothing strange in the description, nothing he ordinarily felt too bad about bestowing on anyone. But still - it was a little unfair, a little tragic, wasn't it, that the side effects of his own hunger were never truly diminished, never vanquished completely: they were always only transferred, shunted unceremoniously, to another body, another being, the same symptoms under a different name. Ishmael had done this to him. Ishmael did this to people all the time; he ought to be used to it. He would do it all his life.

So what had he been so concerned about? Ishmael was abruptly consumed by the tempting desire to slap some common sense into him. What the fuck did he think? You, he might as well have said, spelled it out for him again, the way he was seized with the irrational compulsion to care so much. I knew I could trust you... Motherfucker. He knew him well enough for that, granted him enough trust to put his life freely in his hands, hadn’t hesitated for a moment to help him out, but... none of that meant Monty knew what it was to care. Not like this.

He might laugh, if Ishmael dared explain it. He’d be scoffing all the way to hell and back, would probably never take Ishmael seriously again.

Not that Ishmael knew how to explain it in the first place. It was not the first time he’d ever felt this way, so - so protective of someone - but it was a feeling he fought as far as he could, a tacit vow made to himself... especially amongst humans. He wasn't an idiot. It was a recipe for disaster. (Emphasis, practically speaking, on recipe.)

“Forget it,” Ishmael said, rolling his eyes in an attempt to distract from the deep sigh welling up in him. It was better this way. “You wouldn't understand.” Honestly, he didn't understand himself, either. Who was Monty anyway? Barely halfway through his twenties, a thief and a liar by trade, as small and petty as humans came - Ishmael had never been anchored before; he might meet anyone, orbit them instead. And here he was. Of all the people in all the world... Unfathomable, the strength of this pull.

He wanted to tell Monty to rest, wanted to ask what he could do, wished there had been another way than this to return to normality, to looking Monty in the face, to inhaling him - him as a whole, as a human, and not just being assaulted by the nearness of his blood - although. Ishmael couldn't quite look him in the eye anymore, not after that. He licked his lips, though the blood was gone from them. The best thing to do would be to edge out, out from against him, out from the room, the house if it was not yet too bright outside -

Instead, he leant forwards, and pressed his mouth to Monty's for a moment. In answer to the kiss of his hand. As a quiet expression of his gratitude. A diversion, he supposed, from the question, somehow to stop Monty teasing out the truth from his half-answers - a way to stop him thinking about it at all.

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Monty personally didn't mind the after effects much. A nap, a bit of brandy, some good meat that he thought might still be stashed away somewhere and he'd be good to go once more. He didn't know why Ishmael was being so peculiar tonight. He was pretty sure Ishmael wasn't this way with the blood donors the vampire had. Not that he really knew and he didn't want to think about why he felt a pang of brief jealousy at the thought.

It shook Monty a bit to realize how cared about it made him feel. Not that he didn't often feel it but there was a different quality to it when it was coming from Ishmael. Yet again, it was not something that he wanted to think about. That felt a little like it might open a whole slew of things that Monty had never wanted to deal with.

"You might be surprised by what I can understand," Monty retorted, eyeing the vampire, wondering a little. Then again, maybe if he did he would then wish he hadn't understood. Montys thoughts were going round and round in his head and he didn't know what to do about it. Wondering things - worse, feeling things. The latter of which just might be the scariest thing in the world to the con man.

Ishmael couldn't seem to look him in the eyes anymore and that unnerved Monty a lot more than it should. Please, look at me, he felt the urge to say but didn't. His own nerves going off as he caught up with what was going on with his own self. The things he'd constantly been trying to bury.

But then Ishmael was leaning forward and pressing his mouth to his. And despite the fact that Ishmael had definitely kissed him and then some multiple times before, a realization hit Monty hard. Monty didn't know exactly when it had happened but he was in love with the vampire. Oh no. No no no. That was bad. He didn't know how to care about another person and yet without his permission, it had seemed to just happen. What was the deal?

Monty didn't want to think about. He definitely didn't want Ishmael to realize it. So, he opted for the easy of stopping either of them from thinking. He pressed his lips back to Ishmaels, more passionate, wanting to drown out thoughts until only basic instinct and desire remained. Because that was what he knew. That was what he was comfortable with.

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magic by mj