Forrest had the oddest taste in his mouth right now. It was strangely familiar, even though it was also shockingly new and different from anything he was used to--there were notes of rust and rot and moldering dirt in there, things that should have tasted downright awful, but at the same time something about it felt almost addictively compelling. Forrest found himself swallowing gulp after great thirsty gulp of it as though his life depended on it.
That sounded odd inside his head, possibly even a little ominous in its own way; whatever it was he was drinking, wherever it was he was drinking it from, Forrest didn't like to think about what might happen if his real, literal life depended on more of it. That odd, rusty, unpleasant flavor was so strong in his nostrils, so intense on his tongue, that a part of him wanted to retch and spit and gag on the stuff as if it were poison. And yet he couldn't stop himself from guzzling it. And yet he put his warm lips against cool flesh and willingly, desperately swallowed it down until his whole body felt icy and numb with the constant influx of it. That was... that was odd, wasn't it? All of that was definitely anything but normal.
And yet it felt familiar. Forrest recognized the taste of it. He was drinking--he was drinking from flesh, he realized yet again, the revelation sliding so smoothly into his mind that he instantly knew it wasn't the first time his muddled consciousness came to that exact same conclusion--he was drinking blood from someone else's body and he recognized the flavor. How could that be? How could he know what it was like to drink another person's blood? Even with Afanasiy, even with the intimate link that bound them together as tightly as two people could ever experience, he never knew what it was like to feed. Their connection only went one way....
He'd forgotten Afanasiy, Forrest realized. Only for a few moments, but somehow the liquid coursing down his throat had distracted him from the immortal vampire who held him in an inescapable, blood-bonded thrall. That didn't seem possible, not really; there hadn't been a second in the last six months when he wasn't acutely aware both of the existence of the undead in a world that knew nothing of their presence beyond myth and folklore, and of the presence of Antony Voronin pulsing away in his own mind like a second heartbeat. He knew the secret name of his Master, and his Master knew everything about him. And yet, just for a moment, it had all simply slipped his mind. What else was he forgetting?
As Forrest slowly, gradually began to piece together the details that eluded him, he started to notice little things. A tiny little sound, somewhere between a moan and a thirsty gulp--not his own, although he could hear that as well, but the sound of another man drinking deeply and well from a vessel filled with glorious richness. Forrest recognized that sound, from a vacation in Greece at the end of a long day of hiking through the mountains. They'd gotten ouzo together from a little restaurant nestled into the foothills overlooking a tiny fishing village, and both of them were so tired and footsore and sweaty and rank that the strong liquor tasted like the best thing either one of them could possibly imagine. Neil made that exact same sound when he drank it. Forrest would never forget it.
He was drinking... something. So was Forrest. They were close, both of them drinking at the same time, and Neil--Neil smelled different than he usually did. It was a small, subtle thing, almost undetectable under the wafting scent of rust and dead earth that clogged his nostrils, but as Forrest paid more attention and his senses sharpened in fascinated interest, he realized that his lover had always possessed a distinct and particular aroma. Nothing bad, nothing he could even necessarily describe, but simply an identifying scent of self-ness that every human being gave off as identifiably as a fingerprint. He smelled like Neil. But he didn't anymore.
Now he smelled like....
The moment the thought popped into Forrest's head, his whole body convulsed with a start that made his neck burn with pain until the hands holding him in place gripped him tightly enough to cease his struggles. Neil smelled like Afanasiy. He smelled--not bad, exactly, but uniquely unalive in a way that only the undead possessed. Like must and age and that tiny hint of decay that gave certain cheeses their distinct flavors. It was the aroma Forrest had come to know as the unmistakable tang of the vampire; Afanasiy wore cologne to cover it up most of the time, but Forrest had gotten close enough to smell what was underneath it. Like when he drank--
Oh. Shit. That was where he knew the taste in his mouth from, wasn't it? From the singular occasion when he was allowed to drink Afanasiy's blood and bond himself to the Master's will. It was a memorable evening, to be sure, but it was only the once and Forrest had a lot of other things on his mind at the moment. Like the coolness in his extremities. Like the pain in his neck whenever he moved. It was so distracting that he almost forgot that he was guzzling down the elixir of immortality that was the blood in a vampire's veins. That seemed very important. Forrest hoped he didn't forget again.
