Do you feel like this, and if there was any wander of his focus, anything less than precise in the alignment of his regard, it sharpens.
Has he made an error?
Actually, that's a deeply funny question to ponder, to feel as a reflex. Armand is aware he has made nothing but errors. Blunder after blunder. The idea that he is operating in a sustained mode of control is a fiction, a performance. As if he cannot see the odd repetition of it, of the coven invading the palazzo, of Lestat's effortless words in the catacombs and Lestat twirling on a stage, of Louis' lifting a camera to take, not his picture, but that of the empty space beside him, and Louis in the soft light of an empty gallery, and Louis in the rain on a bench, and of Daniel in their living room. And Daniel here, in front of him. Asking him what he feels, and how often.
The shame is immediate and overwhelming, eyes dropping to the table between them. He is the outcasted figure in Daniel's latest work and he has irrevocably and irresponsibly bound them together to a shared eternity, too weak to pull back the curtain and clean up his own mess. Half-blank, half-apocalyptic, and he lets his hands fall loose from the cup on either side of it.
"I didn't come to you to discuss how I feel," he says.
no subject
Has he made an error?
Actually, that's a deeply funny question to ponder, to feel as a reflex. Armand is aware he has made nothing but errors. Blunder after blunder. The idea that he is operating in a sustained mode of control is a fiction, a performance. As if he cannot see the odd repetition of it, of the coven invading the palazzo, of Lestat's effortless words in the catacombs and Lestat twirling on a stage, of Louis' lifting a camera to take, not his picture, but that of the empty space beside him, and Louis in the soft light of an empty gallery, and Louis in the rain on a bench, and of Daniel in their living room. And Daniel here, in front of him. Asking him what he feels, and how often.
The shame is immediate and overwhelming, eyes dropping to the table between them. He is the outcasted figure in Daniel's latest work and he has irrevocably and irresponsibly bound them together to a shared eternity, too weak to pull back the curtain and clean up his own mess. Half-blank, half-apocalyptic, and he lets his hands fall loose from the cup on either side of it.
"I didn't come to you to discuss how I feel," he says.