[ He feels the suffocating pull of the connection between them threaten to unspool his mind as it turns and turns and turns in endless, meaningless circles. Over and over it feels like death is approaching, and then just before it whisks him away in comes another mouthful of hot, aged blood to wrench him back to the vibrant world that fast starts to fade as his vitality is hungrily wolfed down. It feels like it lasts hours, perhaps even days. Lestat softens, his awareness dipping beneath a haze as he lets the visions in Armand's blood overtake his consciousness, succumbing to pleasure.
Love in the arms of another. Safety in someone else for a creature often forced so brutally to be alone. The knowledge that you don't deserve such bliss, but digging your claws in regardless. The joy of sharing life with someone, of sharing the gift, of having a companion to wake up to.
The pain of waking up to find him not there.
Lestat can't imagine what kind of thing he might be were he stuck in this place alone, without Armand and without Louis to see him for who he is, to know him. He finally understands every outburst, every clumsy attempt at reconciliation, every sour look and every cold front he's experienced at Armand's hand. He didn't understand, how could he; and even now that he's seen and felt the gaping maw open in Armand's chest, he still doesn't have words to describe it that don't fall short.
Lestat falls, pushing Armand back into the bed with his weight, head tucked close to the flesh of his throat as still he swallows the ichor of life flooding through him and back out again. His hands brace his narrow little shoulders, bird boned, vicious like a jungle cat, delicate like porcelain, strong as marble. A wet tear dribbles off his nose and stains the sheets below them a pale red colour. ]
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Love in the arms of another. Safety in someone else for a creature often forced so brutally to be alone. The knowledge that you don't deserve such bliss, but digging your claws in regardless. The joy of sharing life with someone, of sharing the gift, of having a companion to wake up to.
The pain of waking up to find him not there.
Lestat can't imagine what kind of thing he might be were he stuck in this place alone, without Armand and without Louis to see him for who he is, to know him. He finally understands every outburst, every clumsy attempt at reconciliation, every sour look and every cold front he's experienced at Armand's hand. He didn't understand, how could he; and even now that he's seen and felt the gaping maw open in Armand's chest, he still doesn't have words to describe it that don't fall short.
Lestat falls, pushing Armand back into the bed with his weight, head tucked close to the flesh of his throat as still he swallows the ichor of life flooding through him and back out again. His hands brace his narrow little shoulders, bird boned, vicious like a jungle cat, delicate like porcelain, strong as marble. A wet tear dribbles off his nose and stains the sheets below them a pale red colour. ]