The stairs to the attic creak under the weight of uneasy footsteps.
Slow — halting, even. Not a consistent, confident step. Hesitations and pauses; listening for the sound of movement up here, maybe in case sometime between them both retiring for the night he’d snuck someone in and this is about to be even worse than it already was going to be. Maybe it’s going to be fine. Maybe nothing is ever going to be fine again, ever, for the rest of her natural or unnatural life.
She’s not died, yet. It’s still natural until after that.
—anyway. She doesn’t announce herself, though if Lestat is awake it’s unlikely he somehow missed her coming, light on her feet but hardly catfooted, moving with unease and stilted impatience. She doesn’t say anything, but lifts the corner of his blanket and edges underneath it, the soft fabric of a robe (not a nightdress, a thing which she doesn’t own) bunching as it snags against the bedding, a hand finding his shoulder. And then her face,
He had spent some of that same evening laying on his side, candlelight flooding the angular attic room with warm gold, and had studied the cursemark on his wrist. It has been bleeding on and off all month from no discernible wound, no pain, no difference save for a slightly raised quality, like scarring more than a tattoo.
And it had stopped, and he let his fingers feel around the edges of it. It had been the place he'd offered Louis, dying and thirsty, to sink his teeth in, take from him. The same place Claudia had latched with teeth that grew from blunt to sharp with each swallow of thick blood.
Candles blown out. Resigning himself to another night of poor sleep.
So he is somewhere half-conscious when his ears prick after the sound of some approach, feet on the ladder, the floor on the other side of a privacy screen, and then around. Sleepiness keeps him still and sedated, not truly pretending at anything as he feels the mattress dip, the sheets shift, a warm body joining him and he is not confused about how it is. He is dressed as he usually is, a loose nightshirt that by now has been slept in enough to be soft and worn to the touch.
He might slip back into his drifting trance until she touches his shoulder. Gwenaëlle will hear a long breath out in the same moment he turns towards her, sleep-slow. It is an intimacy he appears to understand perfectly well, despite the way they have never shared it, putting an arm around her.
Tired, heartsore, lonely. There are no psychic glitches to carry these sentiments from one brain to the other.
The lingering tension, taut in her shoulders and the fitful grip of her hands, relaxes against him with a quiet, mirroring sigh; a hitching sound, snagged on tired tears. Her head feels full of cotton wool and her limbs heavy, and she knows it’s all in her head—
but she’s in there, too. Stuck there, the same as ever. Everywhere she goes, there she fucking is.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quiet into the darkness, a tactile thing at the closeness of her warm breath. “I don’t know why I was like that.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
after the curse-marks begin calming down.
Slow — halting, even. Not a consistent, confident step. Hesitations and pauses; listening for the sound of movement up here, maybe in case sometime between them both retiring for the night he’d snuck someone in and this is about to be even worse than it already was going to be. Maybe it’s going to be fine. Maybe nothing is ever going to be fine again, ever, for the rest of her natural or unnatural life.
She’s not died, yet. It’s still natural until after that.
—anyway. She doesn’t announce herself, though if Lestat is awake it’s unlikely he somehow missed her coming, light on her feet but hardly catfooted, moving with unease and stilted impatience. She doesn’t say anything, but lifts the corner of his blanket and edges underneath it, the soft fabric of a robe (not a nightdress, a thing which she doesn’t own) bunching as it snags against the bedding, a hand finding his shoulder. And then her face,
which is wet.
no subject
And it had stopped, and he let his fingers feel around the edges of it. It had been the place he'd offered Louis, dying and thirsty, to sink his teeth in, take from him. The same place Claudia had latched with teeth that grew from blunt to sharp with each swallow of thick blood.
Candles blown out. Resigning himself to another night of poor sleep.
So he is somewhere half-conscious when his ears prick after the sound of some approach, feet on the ladder, the floor on the other side of a privacy screen, and then around. Sleepiness keeps him still and sedated, not truly pretending at anything as he feels the mattress dip, the sheets shift, a warm body joining him and he is not confused about how it is. He is dressed as he usually is, a loose nightshirt that by now has been slept in enough to be soft and worn to the touch.
He might slip back into his drifting trance until she touches his shoulder. Gwenaëlle will hear a long breath out in the same moment he turns towards her, sleep-slow. It is an intimacy he appears to understand perfectly well, despite the way they have never shared it, putting an arm around her.
Tired, heartsore, lonely. There are no psychic glitches to carry these sentiments from one brain to the other.
no subject
The lingering tension, taut in her shoulders and the fitful grip of her hands, relaxes against him with a quiet, mirroring sigh; a hitching sound, snagged on tired tears. Her head feels full of cotton wool and her limbs heavy, and she knows it’s all in her head—
but she’s in there, too. Stuck there, the same as ever. Everywhere she goes, there she fucking is.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quiet into the darkness, a tactile thing at the closeness of her warm breath. “I don’t know why I was like that.”