A flicker of a look in Armand's eyes, his expression—a sympathy with some humour to it, for not wishing to derail things. There is a lot they might stand to lose. For Armand, an anchor in the sea of him. For Daniel—
Well. He has expressed before that Armand is frightening.
Focus sharpens at that next thing. He does not mind it if honesty is awkward. It could be a problem, if he is trying to be careful, and fails at it. Honesty has a way of rattling out of him when it comes, as if he'd been holding on to too much of it and has no way of gracefully setting it down. Slipping between his fingers, overflowing. Rare, that. Rarer and rarer as the time moved along with Louis.
"I want you completely," he says. Daniel is his. Has he ever possessed something, truly? Presiding over the coven like a boy given the leash to a wild tiger. A dim memory of a painting being displayed, and although it was known that it was Amadeo who painted it, the praise was awarded to the one who had tutored him. Lestat, never his, never even pretended at it. Louis, who did not wish to feel like he was owned.
But Daniel is his. His fledgling. There is nothing under heaven that could change this fact. And it gives him no right to anything beyond the knowledge of its truth.
He would like more, if given it. It takes barely any movement to press their mouths together again, and then follows slipping a knee on the other side of Daniel as he does so.
no subject
Well. He has expressed before that Armand is frightening.
Focus sharpens at that next thing. He does not mind it if honesty is awkward. It could be a problem, if he is trying to be careful, and fails at it. Honesty has a way of rattling out of him when it comes, as if he'd been holding on to too much of it and has no way of gracefully setting it down. Slipping between his fingers, overflowing. Rare, that. Rarer and rarer as the time moved along with Louis.
"I want you completely," he says. Daniel is his. Has he ever possessed something, truly? Presiding over the coven like a boy given the leash to a wild tiger. A dim memory of a painting being displayed, and although it was known that it was Amadeo who painted it, the praise was awarded to the one who had tutored him. Lestat, never his, never even pretended at it. Louis, who did not wish to feel like he was owned.
But Daniel is his. His fledgling. There is nothing under heaven that could change this fact. And it gives him no right to anything beyond the knowledge of its truth.
He would like more, if given it. It takes barely any movement to press their mouths together again, and then follows slipping a knee on the other side of Daniel as he does so.