Reishi. Japanese, he'd said, and he knew some, but not enough. Eric was a vampire of the western world, and though he knew many languages, they were all Roman, Slavic and Germanic in origin, and he had no intention to open his mind to the East much more than he had to. He excelled in his chosen profession as the man of the north, tall and cool as ice, drawing people to heel no matter where he went.

This boy was no different. Even without the drug he'd have drawn him in eventually. So when Uryuu turned back toward him, and reached up to trail his fingers against his cheek, to let them slip down across his chest, his open shirt showing a whole swathe of pale skin, blue veins tracked through beneath the surface, he allowed him to unchecked, couched in self-satisfaction.

"They don't love me," he told him, softly. "They admire me, they fear me, they worship me, they want me, but they do not love me."

Eric's hand turned, vice like grip turning in on Ishida's wrist until he could feel the pulse heavy beneath his fingertips. He could hear it, and he opened his mouth as though he could taste it, the startling appearance of fangs in the hollow darkness of his parted lips.

He imagined himself glowing, his other hand shining as he brought it up to the young man's throat, as he trailed his fingertips against the pulse point there. He imagined sinking his teeth in now, and didn't, instead only leaning in to take a breath, to smell the anxiety and arousal in the sweat at his throat.

"Tell me what you want."