[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.]
[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.
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devilsfiddler) wrote2016-12-30 02:21 am
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.