“When he fed on me.” The correction feels important for reasons he can’t place. Neal doesn’t answer the question right away. He’s a painter, not a poet.

“Exhausting,” he says softly. “But not in a way that wasn’t worth it. The first time felt…”

He’s not sure how to put it, so he borrows words that come close.

“An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.”

It’s enough to get him going. “I’ve never felt so… close to anyone in my life. I don’t know if I ever will again. Every time was… the pleasure was debilitating, but that wasn’t the part that mattered.”

What mattered was being in Lestat’s arms, feeling so unbearably in synch with another person.