go for blood

i didn't have it in myself to go with grace

David drops his feet down and leans forward until Michael isn't in his peripheral vision at all. "I told you I didn't want to hurt you."

He can hear Michael swallow. "It's not lasting hurt. I'm going to be okay."

"Did it hurt or not?"

"Were you hurting or not?"

David hisses through his teeth. "I can handle a little pain, Michael."

"Drinking my blood didn't hurt me as much as not drinking it was hurting you." Michael sounds so certain.

David isn't sure; he can't remember much of the past twenty hours or so, except that Michael had cared for him kindly and then slashed himself open, bleeding all over the bed.

He turns his head and raises his eyebrows at Michael. "And?"

Michael throws up his hands. "So why are you mad about it?" He leans forward, bringing them close. His eyes are dark glass-bottle blue and his hair looks soft, and thick, and the ends of his curls almost brush David's shoulders.

There is a long silence.

David looks at him, and looks at him, and looks away. He shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits finally, which is the partial truth. "I told you I didn't want to hurt you, and... you didn't listen."

Michael shifts, rocks scraping softly against each other under his boots. "I didn't think you meant it."

David frowns. "Why would I be lying, Michael?"

There is another long silence.

Waiting, David studies Michael. His brows are drawn together, as if he is both angry and at a loss. For someone who speaks both little and with little thought, he seems to give his answer unusual consideration.

"Michael?" David presses. Michael tips his head at his name, but doesn't respond. David asks, "Why would I be lying?"

"You were acting– pretty fucking weird, David." He runs his fingers over his jaw in what David has learned is a habitual movement. "You didn't exactly seem yourself."

Embarrassingly, the first thing that comes to mind is whether David did anything humiliating while sleep and blood deprived, a combination he doesn't have much experience with. He can't quite remember how he felt, except that aside from his agonizing stomach, he'd felt pleasant– or at least, pleasantly absent.

"Who did I seem like?" He tries to keep his voice low, even.

Michael won't look at him. Michael is a terrible liar, David has learned, with the most painfully obvious tells. "You were just– different, that's all."

David just waits. And watches. Michael is a guilty liar, and he will fix his own lies pretty quickly. David only ever loses the waiting game to Star.

After longer than David expected, Michael caves. "You just cared about me a bit."

Oh no. David raises his eyebrows at Michael and tips his head as if he is only curious and not panicked, his mind tumbling, grasping at hazy memories. "Oh? Did I say something to you, Michael?"

Michael shifts again. If David was perhaps... part of Michael's life, he would have to teach Michael to be less obvious. "It's not a big deal," Michael promises unconvincingly. "Definitely not a big deal."

It is to me. Hell, Michael. Anything to do with you is a big fucking deal to me. But David just lets him finish, and tries to douse the spark of impatience flaring in his chest.

"Look, the point is, you were acting like you cared about me, and I figured if you were sober, you wouldn't mind drinking my blood."

David lets that settle for a moment, and then repeats, "Sober?"