A sigh, a tilt. The ghostly feeling of Armand's hand in that same place, gripping his hair. Ghostlier still, his maker. Armand's maker. Common, petty violences. It all bristles beneath the surface like it should not, but if he breathes deep enough, focuses on Louis' scent—
What has Armand put in his head, really? He thinks of that last memory, stolen, puppeting Louis, toying with Daniel. No, not that.
"He showed me things," Lestat offers, finally. Forgets, maybe, the point of his configuration. Tilts, lays his head against Louis' knee where it angles just over the edge of the tub. "He showed me you telling him how you meant to take Daniel as your own. He showed me," a pause, a moment to swallow around the taste of blood, "he played for me your first interview. Daniel bleeding on the floor. You were calling to him, burned, behind a door."
He knew, of course, of this gruesome little scene. Told of it through words, recounting, watched as Louis and Daniel came to grips with it together. Not so visceral as this. Not so exposing.
no subject
What has Armand put in his head, really? He thinks of that last memory, stolen, puppeting Louis, toying with Daniel. No, not that.
"He showed me things," Lestat offers, finally. Forgets, maybe, the point of his configuration. Tilts, lays his head against Louis' knee where it angles just over the edge of the tub. "He showed me you telling him how you meant to take Daniel as your own. He showed me," a pause, a moment to swallow around the taste of blood, "he played for me your first interview. Daniel bleeding on the floor. You were calling to him, burned, behind a door."
He knew, of course, of this gruesome little scene. Told of it through words, recounting, watched as Louis and Daniel came to grips with it together. Not so visceral as this. Not so exposing.
"He showed me true things," is a late amendment.