Daniel knows Elijah sees him as today's jenesequoi, the rage of white skin and blue eyes which should last the week and then spurn. Daniel can already feel Elijah's eyes begin to wander-- he's searching for the new fortunate victim. He remembers the scent of his cologne on his pale neck, can almost taste it again. And he knows that in another few days there shall be no more neck licking, lip-biting, fighting beating cuddling, hissing passion under the sheets, because he's old news. The intrigue is spent. The pulse that burned and heated through the waves of moans and heels skidding across mattresses is in the past, and the tasty kisses that covered each other has dissapated.
Daniel wants to cry.
They're over. Daniel's alone. Spent. Used. Thrown out, and washed up on a desolate beach.
