This question is replied to with a sound. Maybe, maybe not.
And it doesn't matter. At least, now, the air around him feels a little less heavy, less full of psychic radioactivity since their first encounter in the alleyway. The blood of two humans and the sampling of Louis' blood, and some calm restored over the passing minutes, doing something to stitch these things closed.
"Not if you take it," is probably true. Lestat's mind feels—swollen, perhaps, like muddy rivers leaking past their delineations, like a mouthful of broken glass. Memories that don't belong to him, information he didn't ask for. The gifting of one shard won't relieve any of it, but perhaps it can have a purpose. Perhaps all of this can have had a purpose, and he won't just collapse on Daniel's chest and cry that Louis always liked his music.
Instead, he closes his eyes. Focuses, recalling this one thing, and parcelling it up carefully into a single crystalline fragment. The cool lights of the penthouse, Louis speaking in soft tones about making Daniel one of them, and the undercurrent of feeling—frustration, annoyance, disgust—that comes with making him rest. Here is Daniel, hands shaking over a plastic bottle he is trying to open, and the texture of his hair in the palm of your hand as you grip a handful, yank his head backwards.
The scent of sunlight on wet concrete. Light illuminating off of metal, drainage pipes, wheel hubs, the taste of blood.
Lestat doesn't shove this into Daniel's mind. Pushes it to the front of his own. It would be nice if it doesn't hurt either of them.
no subject
And it doesn't matter. At least, now, the air around him feels a little less heavy, less full of psychic radioactivity since their first encounter in the alleyway. The blood of two humans and the sampling of Louis' blood, and some calm restored over the passing minutes, doing something to stitch these things closed.
"Not if you take it," is probably true. Lestat's mind feels—swollen, perhaps, like muddy rivers leaking past their delineations, like a mouthful of broken glass. Memories that don't belong to him, information he didn't ask for. The gifting of one shard won't relieve any of it, but perhaps it can have a purpose. Perhaps all of this can have had a purpose, and he won't just collapse on Daniel's chest and cry that Louis always liked his music.
Instead, he closes his eyes. Focuses, recalling this one thing, and parcelling it up carefully into a single crystalline fragment. The cool lights of the penthouse, Louis speaking in soft tones about making Daniel one of them, and the undercurrent of feeling—frustration, annoyance, disgust—that comes with making him rest. Here is Daniel, hands shaking over a plastic bottle he is trying to open, and the texture of his hair in the palm of your hand as you grip a handful, yank his head backwards.
The scent of sunlight on wet concrete. Light illuminating off of metal, drainage pipes, wheel hubs, the taste of blood.
Lestat doesn't shove this into Daniel's mind. Pushes it to the front of his own. It would be nice if it doesn't hurt either of them.