When Lestat kisses the inside of his wrist, open-mouthed and hot against taut veins and fragile skin, it's Armand's turn to be betrayed by his reaction. His lips part from each other to show the points of his own fangs emerging, pupils dilating, droplets of ink spreading through red-gold. He keeps his hand in place, letting Lestat do as he wishes -- vampire intimacy, baring one's vulnerable skin to a fellow predator's teeth.

He can smell Lestat's blood on the air, three dark beads of it on his perfect cheek. Vermouth and annihilation, he'd told Daniel. Top notes of bitter botanicals and ashes, lower notes of orange peel, caramel, disaster. Heady, addictive for as long as you're drinking from the cup. Mortal blood recycled and corrupted by the vampire's heart.

Armand tilts his hand, enough to drift the pad of his thumb briefly across Lestat's lips, returning the ghost of that kiss. He smears it through the blood, pulls it back to put it bitter-painted into his own mouth, a rich redness of bruised grapes that they can no longer taste. Sucks it clean, then leans in to follow it, to press his lips against Lestat's, to offer him the dredges of himself.