Distantly, he feels piercing nails. The rush of blood, over-active, streaking through his hair, down his neck. Goes still beneath it. Feels, oddly, like Armand is not underneath him at all, but standing over him, leaning down to hold him so. Drowning him in a pool of memory, while he bleeds his own into it.

Louis bending over Daniel, an embrace, saying, 'I chose you', and the way it was like ice water washed through Lestat.

But no, Armand is right here, his throat in Lestat's jaws. Absurdly, some part of him that feels entirely disconnected to the fight and warms to this offer, feels their configuration as an embrace. If there were no claws or fangs involved, their monstrous parts, that's what it would be. He could be here, cry in company. He has, of course, spoken to no one of his hideous jealousy, but it seems that Armand has felt it too.

There is no God, he's known all along, but he has asked oblivion plenty of times: why is he, Lestat, so difficult to love? When he loves so easily, so violently?

But they are fighting.

Fighting while all this sentiment spills out of him in a rush. This is no way for a predator to behave, to collapse under simple truths. That hand pinning his shoulder pushes, hard enough that the bone is liable to slip out from its joint. A physical pulling back as he psychically tries to retreat from the kaleidoscope. Louis, burned beyond recognition, crying out. The pain, the pain. Louis, cackling, I'm sorry, he doesn't mean it, meaningless words.

Another flicker. A big ol' butcher knife, eyes wild, fangs in a grin, blood on their faces. Yes, Louis can be quite cruel. The first thing Lestat knew about him. He thought: this would make a good vampire.

Continues to reach, trying to wade out from this swamp.