Lestat wasn't a stranger to physical injury, nor to the agonies of recovering. New Orleans felt like a lifetime ago in many ways, but the memories of his wounds were still stark in his memories. Still, this was a new, fresh state of awfulness, the initial pains now coated with many new ones that spread throughout his body like a web.
He'd dragged himself into a basement somehow. A basement to what, he wasn't sure. That could be figured out later. He needed to conceal himself, to rest, to think what to do --
(Except he doesn't want to rest, not really, because resting will mean his mind is clear to remember the tidal wave of tragedies being held at bay. Claudia on trial, Claudia dead, Louis gone, Armand's sneer.)
It's a dizzying array of thoughts, and his whole body is weak enough that his senses are not what they once were -- so if there were to be footsteps, the arrival of another, he might not notice.]
[There's no question it's Lestat's pain that finally draws him out.
Nicolas has been a passive observer for nearly as long as he's not been alive -- almost two centuries now he's spent building layer upon layer of bitterness around himself like an armor, silently watching from the shadows as the world and all its former beauty, all its former meaning passed him by. He can hardly blame Lestat for reaching that tipping point... that point Nicolas himself had reached far sooner, it seemed, than most of their kind.
Perhaps this fresh anguish will finally bring Lestat down to the circle of Hell that Nicolas has been condemned to wandering alone for the past two hundred years.
Perhaps Lestat will understand now why Nicki can never forgive him.
It's all so familiar, when at last he can't resist the draw Lestat never ceased to have over him: cradling Lestat's head in his lap, carding his fingers through gleaming blond hair, the words of some French lullaby tumbling from his lips before he even realizes it's his voice murmuring softly into the dark silence. They've been here before, long ago. Back when they were lovers and Nicolas didn't trace his fingers over the angles of Lestat's face hoping to memorize every instant of misery that would never leave its mark on that perfect, flawless skin.]
[Lestat has felt so weak and pained that there is a long, peaceful moment when he thinks he may be going mad. And if he is, perhaps he welcomes it, if this is to be its form.
The feel of Nicki's fingers in his hair, his voice gently rolling through his ears, is like being pulled underwater by a siren. He thinks for a moment that he has conjured Nicki from a dream, dragged him forth in the form of a hallucination to be both an angel and a demon at once. He could be both, in his way, a reminder of fonder days and of horrific regrets, singing sweetly even as he memorizes Lestat's pain.
Lestat lays there, his thoughts dulled for a long while, willing to accept that he is conjuring ghosts in his darkest hour. The only thing that needles him otherwise is the feeling of his head in Nicki's lap, the angle of his neck and the feeling of legs beneath him. A dream could not hold him in such a pose, could it?
His voice is low and rough when he finally speaks.]
[Lestat is going mad, though; he has been all along, and that's been the point from the very start, has it not? They've gone mad, the both of them, and perhaps all of this seemingly eternal nightmare has been a fever dream the whole time, one they simply have yet to wake from.
Wouldn't that be nice?]
You are dreaming, trésor. Because only a truly unbridled mind could conjure an endless nightmare so cruel as this, n'est-ce pas? [If he's to believe his own lie that this is a dream, surely he's allowed to give in just a bit and press a kiss to Lestat's lips... those same lips that were warm, once upon a time.]
In the darkest moments, I endeavor to remind myself that... surely, one day, the both of us will wake...
[The kiss is a small blessing, a tiny miracle in the midst of so much torment. His entire body feels like a shattered vessel, and yet the kiss is the warmth of so many nights from so many years ago. It is their conversation, their bond made real, a reminder of something so sweet that had been dragged into the dark along with the sunlight.
He doesn't understand. It isn't possible. Perhaps if he were not so frail, he could fathom it.
Lestat moves one arm -- slowly, stiffly, painfully -- to touch the side of Nicki's face. It feels the same as it did before, eternally frozen in place. He doesn't understand still, but perhaps that does not matter.]
Perhaps.
But if I have conjured you in my dreams, then I do not wish yet to wake.
[Lestat's hand reaches his face, and if only because Nicki's far too drunk on the dream of what might have been to stop him in time, Lestat manages to grace cold, chiseled marble with familiar fingers impossible that they could feel so warm, even now for a mere instant before Nicolas catches his hand. Pulls it away.]
Non, chéri.
[Nicki tugs Lestat's knuckles beneath his lips to press a kiss like they might have shared as dandies centuries ago, but the mirth is lost to time and the gesture seems only melancholy now.]
You mustn't cling to this dream, nor to me. Smoke, mirrors, phantoms in the fog -- all more real than this moment beside nos amours, my Lelio. All to be forgotten when you finally wake.
It's the harsh contrast of affection and rejection, the yank between dreamy reverie and a darkness that could swallow them both whole. Even in its harsh discomfort, there is a familiarity there, an unbalanced sensation that reminds him of decades past and that final goodbye in the theater.
Perhaps it's for the best he is in pain and weak. If he were himself, he would babble questions, ruin the moment with his curiosity and mania. But frailty is an excellent suppressant, tamping down the wild swings of emotion, and all he wants is for Nicki to remain for a moment longer, for another moment after, for as long as he can keep him there. Even if he is truly illusion, even as he chastises him not to.]
Perhaps it will. But I have not woken yet. For the moment, I am here.
[The words make him smile. It's a true, genuine smile of the sort that hasn't crossed his lips in so long -- so long Nicolas had assumed he'd simply forgotten how to smile all together -- but Lestat always did have knack for proving him wrong. Lestat always did have a way of breaking through all his logic and defenses, and he really hadn't thought this through, had he?
It is him, and only Lestat could truly differentiate the dream of what he was supposed to be from the reality of Nicoals de Lenfent in the here and now. Lestat will always recognize him because their conversation will never end.
...and maybe that's why he can't resist rewriting the script he had memorized for this moment.]
Your pain overcomes you, amor. This is not the role you were meant to play, so tell me... tell me why you think the depths of despair will welcome your light? How can you presume to sink so low as this?
[Lestat wears a small, weak smile at such a question. Leave it to Nicki, beautifully mournful Nicki, to question whether he has earned the right to such miseries as this. Even when too broken to move, he must merit his sufferings.]
I am the maker of my own misfortunes. Whatever sorrows I have sunk to, they came about of my own making.
[He wants to touch Nicki again, trace his face, run his fingertips over features that he'd memorized so many years ago. Instead, he leans into the feel of his hands in his hair, the carding movements unwinding tangled strands.]
I do not know if that makes me worthy of misery, or is simply how I wound up in its path.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
devilsfiddler) wrote2016-12-30 02:21 am
Dated to sometime after Claudia's death/being thrown off the tower
Lestat wasn't a stranger to physical injury, nor to the agonies of recovering. New Orleans felt like a lifetime ago in many ways, but the memories of his wounds were still stark in his memories. Still, this was a new, fresh state of awfulness, the initial pains now coated with many new ones that spread throughout his body like a web.
He'd dragged himself into a basement somehow. A basement to what, he wasn't sure. That could be figured out later. He needed to conceal himself, to rest, to think what to do --
(Except he doesn't want to rest, not really, because resting will mean his mind is clear to remember the tidal wave of tragedies being held at bay. Claudia on trial, Claudia dead, Louis gone, Armand's sneer.)
It's a dizzying array of thoughts, and his whole body is weak enough that his senses are not what they once were -- so if there were to be footsteps, the arrival of another, he might not notice.]
no subject
Nicolas has been a passive observer for nearly as long as he's not been alive -- almost two centuries now he's spent building layer upon layer of bitterness around himself like an armor, silently watching from the shadows as the world and all its former beauty, all its former meaning passed him by. He can hardly blame Lestat for reaching that tipping point... that point Nicolas himself had reached far sooner, it seemed, than most of their kind.
Perhaps this fresh anguish will finally bring Lestat down to the circle of Hell that Nicolas has been condemned to wandering alone for the past two hundred years.
Perhaps Lestat will understand now why Nicki can never forgive him.
It's all so familiar, when at last he can't resist the draw Lestat never ceased to have over him: cradling Lestat's head in his lap, carding his fingers through gleaming blond hair, the words of some French lullaby tumbling from his lips before he even realizes it's his voice murmuring softly into the dark silence. They've been here before, long ago. Back when they were lovers and Nicolas didn't trace his fingers over the angles of Lestat's face hoping to memorize every instant of misery that would never leave its mark on that perfect, flawless skin.]
no subject
The feel of Nicki's fingers in his hair, his voice gently rolling through his ears, is like being pulled underwater by a siren. He thinks for a moment that he has conjured Nicki from a dream, dragged him forth in the form of a hallucination to be both an angel and a demon at once. He could be both, in his way, a reminder of fonder days and of horrific regrets, singing sweetly even as he memorizes Lestat's pain.
Lestat lays there, his thoughts dulled for a long while, willing to accept that he is conjuring ghosts in his darkest hour. The only thing that needles him otherwise is the feeling of his head in Nicki's lap, the angle of his neck and the feeling of legs beneath him. A dream could not hold him in such a pose, could it?
His voice is low and rough when he finally speaks.]
Have I conjured you? Are you a dream?
no subject
Wouldn't that be nice?]
You are dreaming, trésor. Because only a truly unbridled mind could conjure an endless nightmare so cruel as this, n'est-ce pas? [If he's to believe his own lie that this is a dream, surely he's allowed to give in just a bit and press a kiss to Lestat's lips... those same lips that were warm, once upon a time.]
In the darkest moments, I endeavor to remind myself that... surely, one day, the both of us will wake...
Won't we?
no subject
He doesn't understand. It isn't possible. Perhaps if he were not so frail, he could fathom it.
Lestat moves one arm -- slowly, stiffly, painfully -- to touch the side of Nicki's face. It feels the same as it did before, eternally frozen in place. He doesn't understand still, but perhaps that does not matter.]
Perhaps.
But if I have conjured you in my dreams, then I do not wish yet to wake.
no subject
impossible that they could feel so warm, even nowfor a mere instant before Nicolas catches his hand. Pulls it away.]Non, chéri.
[Nicki tugs Lestat's knuckles beneath his lips to press a kiss like they might have shared as dandies centuries ago, but the mirth is lost to time and the gesture seems only melancholy now.]
You mustn't cling to this dream, nor to me. Smoke, mirrors, phantoms in the fog -- all more real than this moment beside nos amours, my Lelio. All to be forgotten when you finally wake.
no subject
It's the harsh contrast of affection and rejection, the yank between dreamy reverie and a darkness that could swallow them both whole. Even in its harsh discomfort, there is a familiarity there, an unbalanced sensation that reminds him of decades past and that final goodbye in the theater.
Perhaps it's for the best he is in pain and weak. If he were himself, he would babble questions, ruin the moment with his curiosity and mania. But frailty is an excellent suppressant, tamping down the wild swings of emotion, and all he wants is for Nicki to remain for a moment longer, for another moment after, for as long as he can keep him there. Even if he is truly illusion, even as he chastises him not to.]
Perhaps it will. But I have not woken yet. For the moment, I am here.
no subject
It is him, and only Lestat could truly differentiate the dream of what he was supposed to be from the reality of Nicoals de Lenfent in the here and now. Lestat will always recognize him because their conversation will never end.
...and maybe that's why he can't resist rewriting the script he had memorized for this moment.]
Your pain overcomes you, amor. This is not the role you were meant to play, so tell me... tell me why you think the depths of despair will welcome your light? How can you presume to sink so low as this?
no subject
I am the maker of my own misfortunes. Whatever sorrows I have sunk to, they came about of my own making.
[He wants to touch Nicki again, trace his face, run his fingertips over features that he'd memorized so many years ago. Instead, he leans into the feel of his hands in his hair, the carding movements unwinding tangled strands.]
I do not know if that makes me worthy of misery, or is simply how I wound up in its path.