ㅤㅤ“ Stop. You will make it worse, myeh myeh— ” Childishly mimicking Nicki’s voice, a subsequent low timbre of a growl slips through as the other urges him to cease worrying at the wound, the contact from the hand resulting in an instinctual knockback of the blond’s fingers against the other’s in return, the uptick in the manifestation of puerile petulance rapidly quelling. Violet eyes glare down at the afflicted spot, but the digits curl inwards to begrudgingly retract, knowing that the fledgling was right ( même s'il ne l’admettrait jamais ), a deep breath taken in while considering the timeframe being evoked. Cheeks hollowing as teeth pluck at an innermost corner of his mouth, the Maker’s expression always struggled to hide his thoughts, a combination of one of the worst feelings he had ever experienced in departing from the (dis)comfort of the small confined world, the aperture of a narrow window rapidly expanding with such thrill of possibilities that lay ahead - given the chain of events, much to their detriment, Lestat previously wondered whether it had been the best or worst decision of his life, one that had impacted them both so heavily.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤLine of vision narrowing as the other’s aggrieved skin is prised apart once more, a furrow of the fair brow with the uptick in the younger’s pulse, its own meter of divination to harken the truth when one tried so ardently to negate otherwise. Rehashing a healing injury to a small emergent sound of protest, the blond stills as the immediate cut slowly stitches itself back together once more, the pain easing slightly while the puckered flesh surrounding the affliction remained raw and tender to the very air about them - there was a great difference in the satiating potency of their respective blood, but Lestat silently reasoned the dregs were a gift despite the limited impact they had to this grievous extent of harm, drawing towards a moment of acceptance that some uncharacteristic patience would be required to rest. Despite wanting this minor hell to be over with, if it meant being away from the tumultuous cacophony of the world that had been unintentionally cultivated around the performer, then perhaps it was for the very best ( il pourrait peut-être s'y habituer ).
ㅤㅤThe low undercurrent of laughter weaves its way through with the shift in Nicki’s weight against him, body adjusting accordingly as he peers across to the violinist, a gesture which Lestat had found difficult upon his initial visit, unable to make the fullest of eye contact in the aftermath of marred visage, an aloof artifice that did very little to hide the presence of a self-consciousness enveloped by a bruised ego. Dark hair shrouding the light, the blond’s temple burrows deeper against the pillow, line of vision tracing over the opposing excitable mien, feeding from the minutia of expression evocative of occasions where the friends had doubled over pealing with laughter - their humour could be crass, but what else could be expected on some nights, a comforting regression of youth, judgment in tow regarding their surroundings in spite of being just as equally damnable ( cela lui avait beaucoup manqué ). “ Misrememberings! You barely knew what to do when we were alone. Fumbling hands and panicked breaths… ” A self-indulgent lie, the flash of a wink highlighting as such, the Maker’s mirth softening by the press of the lips to his forehead.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe gesture grounds the blond, eases him into the transition of their rolling forms, a feigned grunt expelled as playful cadence momentarily strains in supposed effort. “ You are… heavier now. ” A palm smooths over an arm, fingertips gently kneading into the underlying flesh, noting how it naturally flexes and relaxes with the pliant contact, a firmer quality to it that may seem negligible, but Lestat notices it in comparison with their former reunion. “ Sturdier, ” he corrects with a rectification of his register. “ You are taking better care of yourself, despite… ” The contact withdraws, the elder’s head tipping further against the bedding layers, an indicative silence as if to say: my penchant of making a mess of things. A beat of silence, the threat of a morose spark threatening to settle when— “ Or… ” The depths of pupils broaden, the edge of a thumb lightly rolling down the outline of Nicki’s Adam’s apple, an inclination of countenance for lips to poise upon the bulbous spot. Lestat speaks against it. “ …I make him watch as you do. And when he reaches a point of no return, be that anger, jealousy or arousal, then, and only then, do I feed. ”
