While three square meals a day seemed impossible on Conrad's diet, he knew, vaguely, in the back of his mind, that he should be eating more. That he often woke weak, grew crankier than usual at small setbacks both professional and personal, and was generally less the longer he went without eating. Or, well, feeding - because it was a thing done at, rather than for. He was feeding something that wasn't himself, rather than eating for, well, himself. He certainly didn't enjoy small plastic pouches of blood as he had once enjoyed food; what little flavor there was in blood, besides the obvious penny-in-salt, was abstract. Like hearing a color or finding sound had its own light, drinking blood was like tasting in fourth dimension.

It unsettled Conrad, and he was embarrassed on Worth's behalf doubly so; the only conclusion being that the guy had liked it, liked being bitten, because then why else would his blood taste like so much yes? Even at that first punch, that first taste, already exasperated with the need, Conrad had found that 'the fresh stuff' was more than 'not bad'. The fresh stuff, in as little sampling as Conrad had it, was fucking amazing. And the only descriptor Conrad could come up with, the first thought that popped naturally to his mind, was that he could taste Worth's emotion - the proof being that he could both hear and see that emotion, and, less pleasantly, feel much the same level of 'agreeable' in a situation Conrad was positive he ordinarily wouldn't. Wouldn't feel, that was, agreeable. To biting Worth. To biting anyone.

Because that level of 'up close and really fucking personal' had been enough of a mountain to climb just for the sake of feeding himself, now Conrad was doubly hit by the reality that, yes, it was so much worse than just a physical closeness. When he fed, he wasn't just putting his mouth on a body - he was putting something of another person's into himself, something more than the blood, something that affected him without his approval.

Conrad had spent the majority of his developmental years trying to get over having too many emotions of his own, and now cringed whenever anyone nearby would express... anything, actually. This was why Conrad behaved the way he did, at large - going out of his way to be a rude jerk, just to keep the atmosphere up, to keep the bitter walls between he and... well, whomever. Even happiness sort of bugged him. Anger, sarcasm, these were things with which Conrad could live easily - Veser Hatch being such a comfortable addition to his life as to be either of those at least half the time.

So the night came when Conrad decided to consolidate his livingroom into a working office, to free up the guest bedroom and maybe, without anything like actual interaction, imply that Veser could stay in a more permanent-type way. Get him away from the black eyes and bruised arms, the cracked ribs and the split lips. Not charity, no, maybe. Well. Conrad wasn't going to ask for rent - maybe, unless that was part of putting he and Veser on some sort of equal footing, as adults, as roomates. Probably. But Conrad was going to (again, vaguely, with implication) ask if (strategically) Veser was looking for any sort of apartment setup for himself (he was practically a squatter, after all), and what kind of price range Veser was going for (because, you know, pairing up with a roomy can cut all of that in half, and -)

They were not talking about it, Veser as nonchalant and proud as his - maybe - friend that was also (sort of) a vampire. They were not talking about it, that is, up until the point they got the last of the furniture out of the guest room - a heavy desk now settled beside the entertainment system. Veser stood, dusting his hands together, and scoffed.

"So you need a Renfield, is what you're saying."

Conrad's mouth puckers.

"It's a reference from -"

Conrad quips, "I read that book when I was your age," and, just like that, the non-spoken acceptance, "No eating cats."

"Can I bring girlfriends over?"

Now it is Conrad who scoffs. "This isn't your parent's house. If you're paying rent then I don't care who you bring over."

"Boyfriends?"

Conrad inhales, nods, eyebrows pinched together. "Give me a heads-up so I can leave, if you're going to - you know. With anyone. Overnight." Waving hands, puckered expression. "The walls aren't that thick, is all. And I could stand to get out of the house a little more."

"Huh," Veser's smile is easy, which of course makes Conrad uneasy, because he can read a hug in there somewhere and he never knows what to do with his hands whenever the members of his hands-y new social circle decide to invade his personal bubble. "Here I thought you were gonna lecture me about con-doms." The vowels are exaggerated into a sloppy British accent, with a toothy snicker.

"What? That you shouldn't flush them because it's bad for the plumbing?"

Veser clutches his ribs, teeth flashing in a snicker, and has to turn away from Conrad as if it's too much to even look at him in that moment.

Conrad bristles. "On that topic, I don't want anything suspect on the couch. You'll have to provide your own bed. And linens."

Veser laughs all the harder, waving at the air as if to plead that Conrad stop.

"... You've never actually had a sexual partner, is what you're proving here - otherwise you wouldn't be giggling over these very practical and necessary items of forethought," Conrad concludes with an arch sniff, wheeling the desk chair into place.

It was that easy for Conrad to move on, to put aside what had happened at Worth's clinic, to focus on more immediate problems. It was that easy, taking the recovery in stride, enjoying the contrast of Veser's peace in the wake of his panic. Easy to focus on furniture and vacuuming, playful elbow-shoves and the inevitable grappling hug from a boisterous tenant who, like, couldn't wait to sign on to that lease, dude. It was easy to forget the dry-throat trauma and the exposure, the suspicion of how Worth could have known to ask such exacting questions, known such intimate details; fucking stalker.

Easy for Conrad to enjoy the strength the 'fresh stuff' had given him, without having to explain to anybody else in the room exactly why it was he was in such a charitable mood, or looked particularly hale that night. Easy to put it all aside, to quiet his buzzing panic, to focus on the present friendship and not the bloodied struggle that had occurred the week previous - after which Veser had opened the bathroom door (prolonged knocking and verbal inquiry) only to scream in that half-mad way of his, waking Conrad from the brown-red smear of the bathtub in which he had fallen asleep.

Because yes, Conrad needed a Renfield. He needed someone who could run daytime errands for him and keep the furniture company when he was out at night. He needed someone who could maybe scream and then rant and then be totally okay and fine with the gore, just a face already used to this kind of situation, just an open ear and a closed mouth (however grinning) that rarely pried with any obvious questions. Comfortably uncomfortable with Conrad's (sort of, amateur) vampirism.