“Stay out of my head,” it comes to him easily, the biting complaint, the one he’s clung to for weeks now. How long had it been since Louis left? How long had he been a vampire? It all swirls in his mind, he’s never been so unsure about anything in his life, even when he’d been drugged out, overusing so Armand would come save him, always hopeful he’d get close enough to the brink of death to be turned. It never worked. Why had it worked this time? Why had he finally been given it now? He didn’t want it anymore — did he?

“Hey, focus on me,” Louis speaks and then a warm hand is on his cheek and Daniel can hear the blood rushing through it. The way it sloshes around under Louis’ skin, the beat of his undead heart, pumping through him with a meal. Had he killed? More likely he had his blood bags on his plane, that private jet Daniel had gotten to fly on to get here from New York. He’s so tired of cold blood from bags, he wants something real, can feel his fangs pushing through his gums at the idea of being able to turn his head, to press into Louis’ flesh, to drink his fill from a pulsing heart.

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