Favor

Cain hadn't been this close to a true blood frenzy in a very long time, and the scent of fresh blood permeating the air wasn't helping any more than the werewolf's threats to tie Cain up and deprive him of blood. 

The wolf had no way of knowing that was one of Lord Solveig's favored methods of teaching respect to the newly turned vampires (as well as helping them learn their limits, to identify the tipping point between hunger and madness), but ignorance of Cain's situation didn't make him any more inclined to it. He'd been a particularly well-behaved vampire, so his master had only consigned him to such treatment a few times in the ten years he'd been under his heel. But just because he'd experienced it more than once didn't mean he would ever learn to enjoy the way helplessness gradually descended into frothing, blood-hungry insanity. 

But he also knew the werewolf was being as generous as he knew how to be, to even allow Cain near him, given what he'd been through with Crowe. He didn't blame Damien for being afraid of what Cain might do in his blood-hunger, given the cruelty he'd encountered in his first true feeding. 

It would have been so much easier to deal with this if the wolf could be enthralled. 

Not that Cain had any interest in enthralling him - he still hated the way that thralls responded to a vampire's gaze, and hated even thinking of it as a solution. But he couldn't deny that a pliant, submissive, and eager-to-please wolf would have been much easier to heal than a terrified, traumatized wolf gripping a silver dagger so tightly he found himself admiring the structural integrity of the hilt. 

Not that enthrallment wasn't traumatic. Of course it was. It was simply a more insidious and cruel trauma, the sort where the enthralled's own will and desires were gradually peeled away and replaced with the will of the vampire who owned them. Cain fought every day to obey Solveig, in part because he had no choice, but also because the more obedient he appeared, the more of his own free will he was able to retain. The more he fought back, the more of himself he would lose. He'd learned that very early on, and it was a lesson he was loath to revisit. 

So, even though he hated the idea of being restrained at the height of his unbearable blood-hunger, he recognized the necessity of it in a way he'd never seen the need for it when Solveig commanded it. He forced his hands to remain steady as he tore several strips away from the bedsheet, extending them in the direction of the werewolf (who insisted on watching him warily, even after all Cain was doing for him). 

"Where do you want me?" Cain asked, determined to do what he could to face this scenario head-on. 

Damien glanced at the bed for a moment, then said hesitantly, "Uh… the headboard is probably the most sturdy."

Cain nodded, because that was probably true. He wouldn't know from experience, as he wasn't in the habit of tying people up. He was an enforcer, not a captor. He killed, almost exclusively. The fact that he'd been entrusted to accompany the thralls back to the Solveig fortress was an anomaly, an assignment he was almost certain had been arranged by Crowe at great sacrifice. He wasn't sure what the man had promised Lord Solveig for the favor, but he was pleased that whatever the man's plans, he'd eventually managed to thwart them. 

"Should I tie your hands together or separately?" Damien asked Cain, holding up the strips of bedding and looking vaguely uncomfortable. 

Cain wanted to roll his eyes. He hardly cared how the wolf planned to restrain him - he didn't think the restraints would be necessary, unless the wolf decided to run away and leave him there, starving. At some point, Cain was certain his mind would break from the desperation for blood. He'd probably rip his own hands off if he couldn't get out of the restraints, though he strongly suspected the bedsheets would give before his undead flesh. "Whatever is more comfortable for you," Cain said, because this whole useless exercise was intended to bring the werewolf comfort, and so his own preferences were of no import. 

Damien looked even less enthused at this response. Slowly, he said, "I don't know. You're going to have to," he shuddered, and gestured vaguely at his bare chest, "You know...all of this."

Cain wasn't sure what the boy had against the word 'lick', but he wasn't going to push him at a time like this. "A looser restraint would be preferable, then," Cain said, "to allow for more flexibility of positioning."

Damien looked vaguely nauseated at the idea of Cain being 'flexible', and Cain didn't want to know what images were flashing through his head at that moment. Probably something to do with fangs and joints twisted at inhuman angles. But rather than discussing the matter further, Damien shrugged one shoulder, winced at the way the motion pulled at his ribs, and scooted backwards a bit. He gestured at the headboard, as if inviting Cain into a tavern, rather than asking him to approach his torture willingly. 

But Cain was nothing if not accustomed to willingly submitting to torture, and so he crawled awkwardly onto his bed, leaning his back against the headboard and extending his wrists in Damien's direction. His bed wasn't a particularly big one, but it was large enough that if Damien were to tie his hands to opposite sides of the headboard, he'd have very little of his armspan left to work with. He wasn't sure exactly how Damien planned on securing his wrists, but he hoped he wouldn't be left spread-eagle against the back of the bed. 

Not to mention the fact that if Damien wanted to stake him for the crime of killing his pack, this would be an excellent opportunity. Though if he tried something like that, Cain wouldn't hold himself back. He was fairly certain he could rip through the bedsheets before the wolf could get the stake into him. Maybe that was arrogance - he'd met plenty of other vampires who had died because of their overconfidence - but he hoped it wasn't the sort of pride he'd be forced to test. Damien needed him, after all. He was favored by Brinn, and that favor had spilled over to fall on Cain, too. 

Honestly, if this was what it was to be favored by a goddess, Cain felt a bit less bad about the fact that vampires had no deity of their own. This seemed like the opposite of finding favor - being trapped in a vampire castle, attempted enthrallments, mate-sickness that hit so hard it was liable to be confused for a sleeping curse… If he'd been the wolf, he would have thought the gods hated him.

A thought occurred to him, then, as Damien began winding the strips of bedsheet around his wrists. Perhaps the reason he was caught in these unfortunate circumstances was because he was bonded to a vampire. Perhaps it was the hatred the gods felt for vampires that made Damien's situation so awful, rather than the favor of Brinn that had so ruined Cain. All the awful things the wolf had experienced thus far might not be due to his own nature, but rather because of the nature of the one he was bonded to.

And if that were the case, then why had Brinn shown the boy the dubious favor of bonding him to a vampire?

Damien tugged at the first wrist, ensuring the knot he'd tied was tight. "It's not too tight, is it?" he asked.

It didn't really matter if it was; it wasn't like the circulation of blood in his body did much beyond carry the cursed blood to his extremities. He was fairly certain that the process didn't need to move quickly, just so long as the blood remained inside him. Still, he nodded. "Fine."

Damien moved on to the other wrist with trembling fingers. He wouldn't look Cain in the eye, and he wasn't sure if it was fear or shame that kept his gaze downcast - of course, it was wise not to look at a vampire for too long, but Cain had never even tried to enthrall the werewolf, and there was a small part of him that felt a little annoyed at the pointed avoidance. Considering the fact that Damien had practically made a habit of staring him down in most of their previous encounters, he found the change of behavior strange. 

Then again, maybe the werewolf was just unpracticed in knot-tying. "How's this?" he asked again, still not looking at Cain.

"Fine."

The werewolf stared down at Cain's wrists, the undead flesh almost as pale as the white sheets he'd wrapped around them. He finally moved, setting down Cain's wrists and crawling off of the bed. He walked along the right side of it, pausing near the headboard before reaching over, wincing a bit at the way the motion twisted his torso, and grabbed Cain's right arm. With a surprisingly gentle tug, Damien drew Cain's wrist to the bedpost. He left about a handspan of slack in the bedsheet-restraint, so Cain was able to move his arm a bit, but not enough to rest it comfortably anywhere near his body. As Damien worked, Cain found himself almost painfully aware of how the wolf's hands felt - warm, against his cool flesh - and he couldn't remember the last time a warm body had been so close to his, barring the always-unwelcome advances from Johann. Up to this point, he'd been far too preoccupied with irritation and annoyance, not to mention distracted by the smell of the werewolf's blood. But with the lull of conversation and an absence of things for he himself to do, the quiet motions and soft touches felt somehow more distracting than even the blood. He hungered, yes, but a small part of him was having trouble pinpointing what, exactly, he hungered for.

Damien finished securing his right arm, and walked around the bed, reaching for Cain's left arm. 

In a show of cooperation, Cain extended it towards him, because he'd clearly pained himself with the motion the first time. The werewolf's eyes flicked up briefly to meet his, a look of surprise crossing his face before it was quickly wiped away with a stony glare. The wolf then resumed the simple process of securing the restraint, before stepping back from the bed, eyeing Cain warily. 

"I could just leave, now," he said. 

Cain clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together tightly in an effort to contain the angry words and hot flush of rage those words sparked in him, but feared the look in his eyes spoke every bit as plainly as his lips might have. 

Damien fell back a half-step, clearly sensing the fury. Cain couldn't see his ears through the riotous tumble of curls atop the man's head, but he had the most curious conviction that his ears would be flattened against his head like a startled pup. Was it the nearness of the moon that made him feel the animal energy from the boy, or was it merely that Cain was only now really paying attention? He wasn't certain, but now was hardly the time to dwell on it. 

"I could," Damien said again, "but like you said, I'm hurt, and I'm too close to my transformation to reach full recovery. I barely survived the last one, and I'm in no position to risk that again." 

Cain still wasn't sure the boy should have survived the last one. He strongly suspected the boy's adoptive mother had something to do with that, though of course he had no real evidence of intervention. He had nothing to add to the boy's claims, and so he merely waited to see where Damien was going with this. Hopefully not out the door, leaving Cain tied to his own bed and slowly losing his mind to the blood-hunger.

"But even though I know I need your help, I don't want it," Damien said. 

The feeling, I assure you, is mutual, Cain thought bitterly. He'd never wanted to resort to direct feedings again, but given the method was far more potent than a method like the kitchen blood, and the fact that he could only drink Damien's blood, it was more than a mere possibility - it was the only alternative. 

"I need you to promise," Damien said. "That you're not going to bite me."

Cain had already made that promise, several times over. He hadn't bit Damien. He'd controlled his urges, even when his mouth had hovered over the throbbing pulse point in Damien's wrist, where the blood was so close to the surface it would have taken the barest effort, only the slightest pressure to pierce the skin and bring the blood to the surface. He hadn't done it, and Damien still hadn't trusted him. He couldn't help the fact that his fangs were out, that's what happened when a vampire tasted blood, even if that vampire had no intent to bite down. The only reason Damien thought otherwise was because he had so little experience with vampires (not to mention the fact that his only feeding experience had been at the hands of Crowe, who was considered cruel even by vampire standards). Blood hunger did not a monster make; at least, not immediately. And Cain had a lot of practice in self-denial. He was far more restrained than the average vampire.

Perhaps that, too, was pride though. As arrogant as he was to assume he could escape the bindings, perhaps it was equally arrogant to consider himself above the blood hunger that would eventually drive even the most self-contained vampire to do terrible violence. 

Still, it was frustrating to be told to promise something when the bindings that held him to the bedposts proved that his word meant nothing to the wolf. To make the same promise, again and again, with nothing to show for it. He'd already promised precisely what Damien was asking him to do, twice over. He hadn't broken that promise. Damien had simply spooked, and now Cain was trying to justify himself to a wolf that had no trust for him. 

Could he really blame him, though? Usually vampires forced their victims, their thralls, to trust them, through the power of their gaze and the force of a bite. They spent almost no time actually gaining legitimate trust. Cain was better at that than most, given how often he interacted with humans and had to find ways to be invited into places a vampire would typically be unwanted. This was no different, and feeling irritation wouldn't improve the situation at all.

"I won't bite you," Cain said. "I promise."

Damien looked vaguely mollified. "All right," he said, then stared blankly at Cain for a painfully awkward pause. 

Cain stared back at him from where he sat against the headboard of his bed, arms awkwardly half-extended, dangling from the bedposts. "Well?"

Damien frowned. "Well what?"

Cain lifted his chin in what he hoped looked like a gesture of invitation, and not a threat. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Damien said uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "It's just…"

Cain waited. 

"Where do I go?" Damien asked.

Cain stared at him. "Go?"

"I have all these cuts," Damien said, gesturing at his torso, littered with scrapes, bites, and bruises. "But you have to lick them, right?"

Cain nodded.

"So where do I go, to get close enough…"

Somehow, through sheer force of will, Cain suppressed the urge to laugh. Was the wolf embarrassed? He'd thoroughly tied Cain to the bed, only to discover he was uncomfortable with the position he'd put himself in? By his own hand, Damien was now being forced to essentially crawl into Cain's lap in order to get close enough to be healed by Cain's vampire magic. And he was looking for sympathy from Cain?

Smirking, Cain drew his knees up, widening the space between his legs to make room for Damien to crouch between them. Eventually, the wolf would need to crawl into his lap, but it was a reasonable compromise for the moment. "Here should be fine," he said, glancing pointedly at the space of mattress between his knees. 

Damien looked flushed, the expression a welcome difference from the pale, drawn expression he'd been wearing for much of the night. "Fine?" he repeated, his voice going a bit shrill. 

"Unless you have another suggestion," Cain said. He shouldn't be enjoying the werewolf's discomfort, but considering how uncomfortable the wolf had made him, he couldn't bring himself to care overmuch. 

"I don't," Damien said, crossing his arms over his torso. "I just… I didn't think this through, I think."

You don't say, Cain thought, a bit maliciously. He chose not to speak the words aloud, though from the way Damien's face reddened, his expression must have spoken for him.

"Fine," Damien said suddenly, "It's fine. It's all fine. I'm fine. This is fine." He didn't seem fine.

Cain waited. (What else was he to do, strung up like some snared game against his own headboard?) 

"I'll just," Damien gingerly crawled back onto the bed, crawling towards Cain, pausing halfway. "This is fine," he said again, and then laid his right hand on Cain's left knee, bracing himself as he crawled closer. The bite on his neck was still bleeding slowly, the wet blood trailing down his neck, pooled in the dip of his collarbone. As he bent forward, moving closer, another drop slid down the side of his throat, and Cain felt himself salivate with the sudden, urgent need to taste it. 

He must have made a sound, because Damien froze, one hand on Cain's knee, the other hovering beside his hip, where he'd been about to brace himself to move closer. "What," he said flatly, "was that?"

Cain swallowed, began to answer, "You're-" very tempting, he didn't say, snapping his mouth shut. "...close," he finally said, which he hoped was a less distressing answer. 

Damien stared at him for another long moment, before scooting forward the last bit, his long, lean torso now aligned with Cain's. "That's kind of the point," he said, then shut his eyes. "Just… get it over with, please."