Quiet, Louis. Focus on me. Look at my face, don't look down. Look at me.
[ Lestat brings his chin up with a hand if Louis hasn't already raised it. He looks at him without fear and without judgement; the only expression leaking through his steadfast resolve being concern. Lestat knows this won't kill him, but even with that in mind there's something awful about seeing your fledgling, your lover, so wounded when you were supposed to be looking out for one another. Lestat knows it isn't his fault and isn't so vain nor self-flaggelating that he'll feel guilty, but it doesn't make him feel great either.
He holds Louis gaze a little longer before bracing one hand on his shoulder and wrapping the other around the handle of the blade. It's lodged in there deep and Lestat can feel how it resists when he firms his stance. He doesn't bother to count down, only inhales a slow breath he doesn't need and holds it-- and then pulls.
The knife jerks out of his chest and a thick swathe of blood follows, pouring down his shirt in a dark scarlet waterfall. Immediately the thirst returns with the scent and sight of it flowing so freely, and Lestat's only hope is to stay forcibly and determinedly on task. He can tell even like this that all the blood in Dorian's body isn't enough to heal this wound before it all pours back out of him, and without sparing more than a second to deliberate on it, Lestat decides to do what it is his instinct to do:
With one hand he shoves Louis' fishnet shirt and band tee up and out of the way, revealing Louis' pale stomach and chest and the gaping wound just below his clavicle. Then Lestat runs one of his fangs down his own thumb in a long, gory line, letting the blood spill into his cupped palm which he then presses to Louis' chest, over the wound, his fingers whisper soft against his ribs. ]
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[ Lestat brings his chin up with a hand if Louis hasn't already raised it. He looks at him without fear and without judgement; the only expression leaking through his steadfast resolve being concern. Lestat knows this won't kill him, but even with that in mind there's something awful about seeing your fledgling, your lover, so wounded when you were supposed to be looking out for one another. Lestat knows it isn't his fault and isn't so vain nor self-flaggelating that he'll feel guilty, but it doesn't make him feel great either.
He holds Louis gaze a little longer before bracing one hand on his shoulder and wrapping the other around the handle of the blade. It's lodged in there deep and Lestat can feel how it resists when he firms his stance. He doesn't bother to count down, only inhales a slow breath he doesn't need and holds it-- and then pulls.
The knife jerks out of his chest and a thick swathe of blood follows, pouring down his shirt in a dark scarlet waterfall. Immediately the thirst returns with the scent and sight of it flowing so freely, and Lestat's only hope is to stay forcibly and determinedly on task. He can tell even like this that all the blood in Dorian's body isn't enough to heal this wound before it all pours back out of him, and without sparing more than a second to deliberate on it, Lestat decides to do what it is his instinct to do:
With one hand he shoves Louis' fishnet shirt and band tee up and out of the way, revealing Louis' pale stomach and chest and the gaping wound just below his clavicle. Then Lestat runs one of his fangs down his own thumb in a long, gory line, letting the blood spill into his cupped palm which he then presses to Louis' chest, over the wound, his fingers whisper soft against his ribs. ]