Maybe Mr. Molloy missed a calling to be a poet. And no, not in the vapid romantic sense of the idea, because Daniel is about as unromantic as a rubber mallet, deliberately so—but not unsentimental. Every poet needs to be sentimental, even the kinds Armand has shown to favour, the odd ones, the cynical ones, who wield words like hardware, seeking the weak points, pounding them together to hold fast or break apart.

And even with talk of skies that are so dark as to be bright again, the poetry is in the asking. Finding a question that no one in Armand's long life has asked him, would ever think to ask him. Poetry in the feeling this induces, as poems do. As journalism can.

Does he have an answer? He kisses Daniel, and a fang catches the other man's lip.

"I don't know," he says. He has enjoyed sex. He has gone into that internal and selfish space, allowed himself to receive pleasure. It has been a long education, with few educators. He is certain an answer exists, but he can't summon it now. Now, now, feeling himself desperate. "Show me."

He could come like this, too, but he wants more. Reaches back to grasp at Daniel's hand, presses, an urge, and invitation to use his hand properly. Unabashed in a way he can't recall being before in this direction.