Onto his side, then, facing one another, clear-eyed and sober. Armand wanders his fingertips from Daniel's shoulder, over his chest. The evidence of bite marks, the wounds themselves faded, but traces of dried blood smeared with sweat and movement. It catches up to him that he sank his fangs into his fledgling at least three times and once in earnest, and that he'd been relatively restrained even then.

Something to think about. Daniel, so free and willing with his permission. Armand, who doesn't know what he is doing or will do at any time, these days. Land mines and trip wires.

The revulsion he had spoken of. The connection that tethers creator and created, the eternal imbalance of power. He doesn't feel revulsion now, that isn't the word any longer, not when he has now admitted to wanting something of it for himself. His fingernails play along pale skin, coarse hair, lines defined by bone and muscle.

"Is there any part of you that wonders at it?" His eyes, ticking back up to study Daniel's. "If what we are to one another creates the wanting."