Lestat does not need to tell Armand that he's jealous, or that he still desires possession of Louis desperately. It is evident. It has been evident, for all the years between the three of them. And it fits as the perfect, warped mirror to the way Louis has been yearning for him all this time. Yearning, but not trusting. Moving on, but never healing. Lestat like a splinter inside of him, preventing the wounds from closing.
(Even the wounds Armand made. Just a bit clever, once in a while.)
They have ruined so much. They are alike in the worst ways. Armand could cradle him like this, and comfort him, and they could both mourn their mistakes. They are both too much. Lestat too passionate, Armand too cold. For a short time, those things made them successful partners. Intensity is alluring, no matter the type.
A short short time. A transformative time. A time that left Armand's heart shattered. He put the pieces back together, even colder, even harder. He cut himself on the shards but did his duty. He even did his duty to Nicki, the first lover-fledgling Lestat left to him. What a fool. Stupid, naive Armand, who despite his age, fell for it again. Another of Lestat's toys.
Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. Trying to get away from him. Thinking about Louis, and his cruelty.
If that's what Lestat likes, then he will oblige him. He'll let him have his fill. More than. Did they tell him? The details weren't all in the book. No, they didn't. A quick check, barely-there, as he pulls Lestat deeper, deeper, deeper. Into himself. Into a memory burned into him. Into an apartment in San Fransisco, where Louis is in the bedroom and Daniel is on the floor. The door is shut, Louis is screaming, and Daniel is nearly dead.
Armand lets Lestat have the table to sit at, a gracious host, while he picks up the puddles of shiny ribbon, to spool around his fingers, and run through the points of his nails like a needle scratching a record.
Louis' voice. It fills both their heads, loud and clear. It booms over other-Louis' begging, over Daniel's terrified wheezes, it plays, and plays, and plays.
no subject
(Even the wounds Armand made. Just a bit clever, once in a while.)
They have ruined so much. They are alike in the worst ways. Armand could cradle him like this, and comfort him, and they could both mourn their mistakes. They are both too much. Lestat too passionate, Armand too cold. For a short time, those things made them successful partners. Intensity is alluring, no matter the type.
A short short time. A transformative time. A time that left Armand's heart shattered. He put the pieces back together, even colder, even harder. He cut himself on the shards but did his duty. He even did his duty to Nicki, the first lover-fledgling Lestat left to him. What a fool. Stupid, naive Armand, who despite his age, fell for it again. Another of Lestat's toys.
Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. Trying to get away from him. Thinking about Louis, and his cruelty.
If that's what Lestat likes, then he will oblige him. He'll let him have his fill. More than. Did they tell him? The details weren't all in the book. No, they didn't. A quick check, barely-there, as he pulls Lestat deeper, deeper, deeper. Into himself. Into a memory burned into him. Into an apartment in San Fransisco, where Louis is in the bedroom and Daniel is on the floor. The door is shut, Louis is screaming, and Daniel is nearly dead.
Armand lets Lestat have the table to sit at, a gracious host, while he picks up the puddles of shiny ribbon, to spool around his fingers, and run through the points of his nails like a needle scratching a record.
Louis' voice. It fills both their heads, loud and clear. It booms over other-Louis' begging, over Daniel's terrified wheezes, it plays, and plays, and plays.
"He had a dark pull."
The tape begins.