Rude. And Lestat has said nothing unkind about Armand's ugly, dull clothing.

And then he is on the ground.

A shock, despite all he knows of Armand. What air has gathered in his lungs is expelled on impact, speckling the nearby ground in crimson, and staying that way as telekinetic force pins him harder. Like he could crack the concrete with his body. An acute pain where a rib dislodges. Bared teeth, a moment of wild animal panic and fury, claws scratching at the ground and drawing up dust, loose sediment.

Not quite his talent, turning the empty air into a fist. Little things instead, turning locks and breaking electronics. He wants to throw Armand into the lake, and maybe this desire tugs at Armand, feels like a sharp wind that rustles hair and coat tails, but that is all.

Here, then: an unbidden little ribbon of fear in the static haze of their psychic outpourings and minglings.