Armand's own laughter continues. Through the outburst, through the breaking of his wrist which makes his voice twist, wounded, but uncaring. His clawing is so firm that the removal of his hand leaves behind further damage, and a torn-out nail. Stolen blood will mend Lestat, but only as quick as his system can distribute it to where the damaged tissue is.
He feels strange. Pain on a delay. Lestat's efforts are impacting him more than they should, lingering longer than he expects, pushing him harder, disorienting him further. He can't think of why; his mind is a downward spiral. Why shouldn't Lestat be good at everything, for no reason at all? Doesn't have to wait, doesn't have to learn, just gets to be Lestat, a perfect, beautiful, anglo vision of every talent, so desired he must run across the globe here and there, crying as though everything is so hard for him.
Who cares. They've all fucking suffered.
'Not enough to have it given once honestly?'
Armand has told him before. Meant it before, and was so desperate he accepted an anemic return. He doesn't learn. Lestat, saying I love you, an obvious lie. Louis, saying I love you, an obvious lie. At least Marius didn't pretend. He would never say it. He accepted Amadeo's devotion but never returned it.
'Did Louis ever say it? Has he ever given it to you, trusted you enough, even to placate you? Or have you just watched him love Claudia, and his mortal family, and Daniel?'
Splinters of it. Louis refusing to send the girl away, agonizing over her despite her endless horrid behavior; sitting with Daniel in Dubai, smiling at him, holding one of his books. Always someone else. Always looking away. (Claudia, Daniel, a fucking hallucination of Lestat.)
Broken and bleeding, Armand lifts himself up like a creature far behind the simple dead nature of a vampire. He looms towards the younger monster, the elegance of his drifting at odds with the horrible menace radiating off of him. He collects all the venom he has into something to offer up with hands so used to worship.
'Here, then, maybe you'll be the first person to try to get away from me and have it stick: I love you, Lestat.'
no subject
He feels strange. Pain on a delay. Lestat's efforts are impacting him more than they should, lingering longer than he expects, pushing him harder, disorienting him further. He can't think of why; his mind is a downward spiral. Why shouldn't Lestat be good at everything, for no reason at all? Doesn't have to wait, doesn't have to learn, just gets to be Lestat, a perfect, beautiful, anglo vision of every talent, so desired he must run across the globe here and there, crying as though everything is so hard for him.
Who cares. They've all fucking suffered.
'Not enough to have it given once honestly?'
Armand has told him before. Meant it before, and was so desperate he accepted an anemic return. He doesn't learn. Lestat, saying I love you, an obvious lie. Louis, saying I love you, an obvious lie. At least Marius didn't pretend. He would never say it. He accepted Amadeo's devotion but never returned it.
'Did Louis ever say it? Has he ever given it to you, trusted you enough, even to placate you? Or have you just watched him love Claudia, and his mortal family, and Daniel?'
Splinters of it. Louis refusing to send the girl away, agonizing over her despite her endless horrid behavior; sitting with Daniel in Dubai, smiling at him, holding one of his books. Always someone else. Always looking away. (Claudia, Daniel, a fucking hallucination of Lestat.)
Broken and bleeding, Armand lifts himself up like a creature far behind the simple dead nature of a vampire. He looms towards the younger monster, the elegance of his drifting at odds with the horrible menace radiating off of him. He collects all the venom he has into something to offer up with hands so used to worship.
'Here, then, maybe you'll be the first person to try to get away from me and have it stick: I love you, Lestat.'