Serious irritation, One of my kids used to do that when she was thirteen, you know, if I said her room wasn't clean enough she'd scream 'Then don't come in here', have you considered growing the fuck up? But this is discarded. Lestat has an excuse to be deliberately unhelpful, Daniel does not.
The other side of the weight is what tips furthest. Daniel hates to do it, hates succumbing to hurt feelings and indulging Louis' bullshit, reinforcing the stupidity of what's going on here, but what else is he going to do?
Disappointing. Bitterly so. Uncharacteristic silence remains for another few heartbeats, as though the tense nothingness is threatening further argument.
He lets him keep the last word, and leaves the room.
Lestat draws in a breath, as deep as he cares to allow, and tips a look back to Louis. Fond, despite himself. Sad as well. A myriad of complicated feeling left to flow like a bitter, briny undercurrent, untested, unable to reach for it. He feels like hammered shit, still, and is vaguely disappointed that he thinks Louis has likely rescinded his offer for a second helping of blood.
Last morning, he tasted the sun and didn't burn. He is almost sure of it. He does not want to think of how long it will all be for him, now.
"We love you," he says, in the tone of an explanation, the cadence of je suis désolée. "That is all."
And he takes his weight off the chair, and leaves for his own room.
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no subject
Weighing between—
Serious irritation, One of my kids used to do that when she was thirteen, you know, if I said her room wasn't clean enough she'd scream 'Then don't come in here', have you considered growing the fuck up? But this is discarded. Lestat has an excuse to be deliberately unhelpful, Daniel does not.
The other side of the weight is what tips furthest. Daniel hates to do it, hates succumbing to hurt feelings and indulging Louis' bullshit, reinforcing the stupidity of what's going on here, but what else is he going to do?
Disappointing. Bitterly so. Uncharacteristic silence remains for another few heartbeats, as though the tense nothingness is threatening further argument.
He lets him keep the last word, and leaves the room.
no subject
Lestat draws in a breath, as deep as he cares to allow, and tips a look back to Louis. Fond, despite himself. Sad as well. A myriad of complicated feeling left to flow like a bitter, briny undercurrent, untested, unable to reach for it. He feels like hammered shit, still, and is vaguely disappointed that he thinks Louis has likely rescinded his offer for a second helping of blood.
Last morning, he tasted the sun and didn't burn. He is almost sure of it. He does not want to think of how long it will all be for him, now.
"We love you," he says, in the tone of an explanation, the cadence of je suis désolée. "That is all."
And he takes his weight off the chair, and leaves for his own room.