( Louis flushes slightly at the comment and can't think of a clever response, though he supposes Lestat has a point. This would be far worse in the heavy, complicated layers that they used to wear.
He's glad that Lestat can't see the grimace of pain on his face when the shirt has to come up and over his head. Ah, his chest isn't happy about that particular arm movement — button-up shirts are going to be in order for the next few nights, it seems — but he manages to stifle the sharp hiss of an inhale that wants to accompany it.
He's glad when it's over. The delicate brush of Lestat's fingertips on that ragged, sensitive flesh makes Louis shiver again, from a sensation that is neither pain nor pleasure but simply intense. His eyelashes flutter, and he makes a low noise of acknowledgement in his throat. )
Yes.
( Louis doesn't particularly want sympathy for it (though the caretaking has been shockingly lovely), but he doesn't want to lie to Lestat just to make him feel better. )
But it's better than it was before you gave me your blood.
( Louis' eyes flick down to Lestat's wrist. Is he hungry, Louis wonders? How much of himself did he pour into Louis in that dark, awful place? )
It might still be working. It's difficult to tell, with nothing to compare it to. But it isn't as sharp — more of a deep throbbing feeling. ( Craning his neck a little awkwardly to peer down at it: ) How does it look?
no subject
He's glad that Lestat can't see the grimace of pain on his face when the shirt has to come up and over his head. Ah, his chest isn't happy about that particular arm movement — button-up shirts are going to be in order for the next few nights, it seems — but he manages to stifle the sharp hiss of an inhale that wants to accompany it.
He's glad when it's over. The delicate brush of Lestat's fingertips on that ragged, sensitive flesh makes Louis shiver again, from a sensation that is neither pain nor pleasure but simply intense. His eyelashes flutter, and he makes a low noise of acknowledgement in his throat. )
Yes.
( Louis doesn't particularly want sympathy for it (though the caretaking has been shockingly lovely), but he doesn't want to lie to Lestat just to make him feel better. )
But it's better than it was before you gave me your blood.
( Louis' eyes flick down to Lestat's wrist. Is he hungry, Louis wonders? How much of himself did he pour into Louis in that dark, awful place? )
It might still be working. It's difficult to tell, with nothing to compare it to. But it isn't as sharp — more of a deep throbbing feeling. ( Craning his neck a little awkwardly to peer down at it: ) How does it look?