Ishmael watched him leave longingly, wrestling with a terrible urge to get up and follow him, to see where he sauntered off to next, to see where he might find him at home. But that was needlessly desperate – even if it didn’t feel like it right now, Ishmael was sure he was old enough to have learned a little patience.

He could wait until next time. He knew it was terrible, even, that he was already thinking about next time, about how to set things up smoothly, clever things to say or excuses he could make to find out more about him. “Come here,” Ishmael said to his bloodbank friend with a sigh, pulling him closer and returning to his neck to kiss him this time – because if he couldn’t fuck Monty tonight, he needed to fuck someone.

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