No no no. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not part of the plan. He was supposed to keep being mindlessly cruel until they drifted apart or Monty cut ties with him and found someone better, someone who would worship at his feet and always be there and be uncomplicated - and presumably didn't want to drink his blood.
But no, Monty had the nerve to call his bluff, and kissed him like that, catching him off guard... and Ishmael's brain froze, only thinking yes, and before he knew it his mouth had opened under Monty's, and he was no longer gripping his arm like before, only pulling him closer to him in desperation, pinning himself securely between Monty and the table, the map upon it utterly forgotten.
This, he wanted this. How could he pretend he didn't? Where else would he find this addictive warmth, who else's heartbeat in his ears would be such a comfort, a sound and a rhythm he knew as well as if it had been his own? Who else but Monty could he trust, and trust to treat him not like the monster he often made out he was, a soulless, careless being, but like he was still living, breathing, petty and real and human and alive?
It was all an illusion, though, one that was never so convincing as now; and then Ishmael caught the arch of Monty's neck in the corner of his vision and remembered what was wrong about this, what he could not change, what was not worth it, however good it made him feel in the moment. What was a moment worth? Not enough.
It was a fight to break the kiss, aching as it was, but eventually Ishmael put a cool hand on Monty's cheek and pulled away. It was easier to look composed, as a vampire, because the flush he felt didn't show on his face: the heat of Monty's breath and touch and life were vanished in an instant, as if he had not felt them at all, and Ishmael was there, looking as he always did, supposedly inscrutable and impassive and unchanged.
They could not continue like this forever.
"You're in love with me," Ishmael said. Monty might deny it, but he had not phrased it as a question.
But no, Monty had the nerve to call his bluff, and kissed him like that, catching him off guard... and Ishmael's brain froze, only thinking yes, and before he knew it his mouth had opened under Monty's, and he was no longer gripping his arm like before, only pulling him closer to him in desperation, pinning himself securely between Monty and the table, the map upon it utterly forgotten.
This, he wanted this. How could he pretend he didn't? Where else would he find this addictive warmth, who else's heartbeat in his ears would be such a comfort, a sound and a rhythm he knew as well as if it had been his own? Who else but Monty could he trust, and trust to treat him not like the monster he often made out he was, a soulless, careless being, but like he was still living, breathing, petty and real and human and alive?
It was all an illusion, though, one that was never so convincing as now; and then Ishmael caught the arch of Monty's neck in the corner of his vision and remembered what was wrong about this, what he could not change, what was not worth it, however good it made him feel in the moment. What was a moment worth? Not enough.
It was a fight to break the kiss, aching as it was, but eventually Ishmael put a cool hand on Monty's cheek and pulled away. It was easier to look composed, as a vampire, because the flush he felt didn't show on his face: the heat of Monty's breath and touch and life were vanished in an instant, as if he had not felt them at all, and Ishmael was there, looking as he always did, supposedly inscrutable and impassive and unchanged.
They could not continue like this forever.
"You're in love with me," Ishmael said. Monty might deny it, but he had not phrased it as a question.
