[ Lestat can't bring himself to look at the way Louis' seems to loll in his hold, all at once feeling too heavy and too light to stay put together. They've seen each other in so many states by now - they have wept, screamed, seethed; Lestat has bled, burnt and drowned, all for him - but Louis coming to any kind of harm.. it's something Lestat has never once allowed, but here is the undeniable sight of it, of Louis weakened in his arms and clinging to him as though these might be their last moments.
Lestat looks up finally, searching Louis' handsome face for any sign of relief... but it's then Lestat notices that he can't feel the warmth in his palm that comes when his tongue seals itself shut, or when he heals his wrist after sharing what he has to give, that there is something missing from him and something wrong with this, with all of this. He glances down, looking between his fingers where they're splayed across Louis' ribs, and sees with a shock of panic that there is still the slowest dribble of blood squeezing between them.
In blind panic he draws his hand back from the wound - which seems smaller where the flesh around the edges has started to knit together where Lestat's blood had made contact - but only by the smallest amount. It's not enough, nowhere near enough, to do what needs to be done to make Louis safe, to keep him here. Lestat feels the uncanny sensation of feeling something slip between his fingers, of falling from a great height with nothing to stop his descent, of feeling ash smudge between his fingers, a handful of sand, a crumbling fist full of dirt--
He tears into that same hand again with bared fangs, pulling at his skin so roughly that a small vein twangs and snaps like a rubber band against his teeth. There's blood smearing his mouth and lips now, though who the blood belongs to isn't clear. He doesn't seem to care in the slightest; instead much more preoccupied by taking the weight of Louis' body into his free hand and guiding him gently down into a laying position. From there, he lets gravity do the work as he presses his wound to Louis' wound again, and tenses his fist to encourage the blood flow. ]
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Lestat looks up finally, searching Louis' handsome face for any sign of relief... but it's then Lestat notices that he can't feel the warmth in his palm that comes when his tongue seals itself shut, or when he heals his wrist after sharing what he has to give, that there is something missing from him and something wrong with this, with all of this. He glances down, looking between his fingers where they're splayed across Louis' ribs, and sees with a shock of panic that there is still the slowest dribble of blood squeezing between them.
In blind panic he draws his hand back from the wound - which seems smaller where the flesh around the edges has started to knit together where Lestat's blood had made contact - but only by the smallest amount. It's not enough, nowhere near enough, to do what needs to be done to make Louis safe, to keep him here. Lestat feels the uncanny sensation of feeling something slip between his fingers, of falling from a great height with nothing to stop his descent, of feeling ash smudge between his fingers, a handful of sand, a crumbling fist full of dirt--
He tears into that same hand again with bared fangs, pulling at his skin so roughly that a small vein twangs and snaps like a rubber band against his teeth. There's blood smearing his mouth and lips now, though who the blood belongs to isn't clear. He doesn't seem to care in the slightest; instead much more preoccupied by taking the weight of Louis' body into his free hand and guiding him gently down into a laying position. From there, he lets gravity do the work as he presses his wound to Louis' wound again, and tenses his fist to encourage the blood flow. ]