“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.
"Ah," Malcolm says at that explanation like it explained literally everything. "He preyed on your unfulfilled need for intimacy. Your longing for it." Malcolm levels his gaze at him. "You know it wasn't really intimacy, right? It was a trick."
Neal takes exactly the wrong thing from that statement, which isn't anything new--he feels guilty, looking down again at the sink. Another little pang of hunger hits him, and he thinks, for a second, he could show Malcolm what it was like. Prove to him what it was like. But then there's another stab of hunger and he bares his teeth, squinting through the weird pain of it.
"Is there more... in the fridge?" He can't make himself say blood.
He's definitely not at this particular moment, just going after the second (and then the third) bag of blood with a, uh, somewhat messy ferocity that leaves as much of it on himself and the counter and the floor as it does in his mouth.
When they're both empty, he's left staring wide-eyed at his gory hands, looking ready to be sick again. "What?"
"Did you think I told you that I understand the intensity of your loneliness because I wanted you to feel ashamed for implying otherwise?" Malcolm asks.
"That's not why I say things," Malcolm informs him, not waiting for him to finish the half formed sentence as it trails off. "I say things to give you context. I know exactly how hard that would be to resist. If you insulted me at any point, it was shrugging off my analysis like I have no understanding of what you're feeling. How long was it in your head? The vampire."
"Lestat," Neal says, still soft-voiced. "His name is Lestat."
Neal goes to wash his hands as he answers, using a paper towel to turn on the water so he won't smear blood on the handles, as though blood isn't already smeared everywhere else. Washing his hands means he still doesn't have to look at Malcolm. "I don't know. Exactly. The night I woke up from... dreaming about him is the first time I think I knew he was there. Even if I didn't know at the time."
"His name," Neal snaps, turning on Malcolm with fangs bared this time, the sudden anger--not uncommon--feeling incandescent rather than irritating and mostly controllable.
He startles a little at his own emotions, blinking a few times and backing off.
"He was in my head," Neal says, something of a protest against the idea that it wasn't intimate. There's a part of him that recognizes psychic invasion isn't exactly intimacy on equal footing, but that matters less.
The blood, cold from the fridge, is starting to warm a little in the air of the cabin. The smell is stronger. Neal lifts a clean hand to touch his neck in the spot where Lestat bit him and healed him and bit him again. "You don't-- The way it felt."
Neal takes a step back, struck in a spot he wasn't expecting, a place he doesn't recognize as a wound Rebecca opened and Peter salted with insistence that she really loved him. "What? No, Malcolm, I'm... He's not-- I know what he is, all right? I... He's what I am right now."
He looks down at himself again, smeared with blood, and gives a convulsive little shudder. "And he's been this so much longer. He--"
Neal closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, tries to put his thoughts in order.
"He just preyed on you all week. You didn't answer my messages. You didn't tell me where you were. You didn't think about George and who was looking after him one single time. And you think that was fine? What else do you think? After all that mind control, he has some kind of affection for you beyond how a connoisseur feels about a really good steak?" Malcolm presses.
“It’s not okay, I know it’s not okay, but the rest of— I don’t—I don’t know.” It’s desperate and angry and he bares his fangs at Malcolm without meaning to.
“I thought Rebecca loved me and she used me from day one, and when I finally realized she didn’t, everyone around me said she did. I don’t know how he feels. I don’t know how she felt, I don’t know how Peter feels, I don’t know how I feel. You’re the only person I’m even half sure about at this point.”
“She didn’t love you, Neal. You loved her and your friends were trying to cushion the blow of betrayal. I do know, okay? I’ve been there,” Malcolm tells him. “Better to let the truth go, then cling to a lie, I find.” He levels his gaze at Neal. “And I only know Peter from parts of a file, but from what you’ve said about him, it sounds like he genuinely cares about you but he’s just… bad at being a dad and at being a friend, but not from a lack of care. If you choose to go back there after you graduate, maybe you and he can reckon with all the ways he hurt you just for being, but for now I have to warn you that anyone who mind controls you into a stupor for days? Is not your friend, Neal. It’s fake. It’s jumping over the side right here on the ship. You’ll only graduate and find the life you want if you stop numbing and do the work. There aren’t any shortcuts.”
Had they been trying to cushion the blow? It felt like they were trying to punish him for falling for it.
“He has the ability, he can control minds, but that’s not what kept me there.” It’s semantics at this point, but important semantics to Neal. “I couldn’t leave, but it was… blood loss and disorientation, not some kind of active command. I just don’t want you to think…”
He’s not sure what he doesn’t want Malcolm to think. Neal presses a hand to his stomach, knots of anxiety that he’s typically accustomed to making him feel sick again. “I’m trying. I’m honestly trying.”
“He kept you there, but it’s fine because he was only eating you? Neal, how do you know he wasn’t still using his power on you? You were, as you say, disoriented.”
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“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.
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"Is there more... in the fridge?" He can't make himself say blood.
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"You're not actually hearing me, are you?"
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When they're both empty, he's left staring wide-eyed at his gory hands, looking ready to be sick again. "What?"
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Wait, no. "No, I didn't..."
Uh. He's a better liar than this. He really is.
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Neal goes to wash his hands as he answers, using a paper towel to turn on the water so he won't smear blood on the handles, as though blood isn't already smeared everywhere else. Washing his hands means he still doesn't have to look at Malcolm. "I don't know. Exactly. The night I woke up from... dreaming about him is the first time I think I knew he was there. Even if I didn't know at the time."
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He startles a little at his own emotions, blinking a few times and backing off.
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"Stockholm syndrome. To the max, because of the fake intimacy. You still believe it, even now that it's over."
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The blood, cold from the fridge, is starting to warm a little in the air of the cabin. The smell is stronger. Neal lifts a clean hand to touch his neck in the spot where Lestat bit him and healed him and bit him again. "You don't-- The way it felt."
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He reaches up and touches one of his fangs. The sharpness of it slices his finger and he winces. “I want this even less.”
Neal watches in morbid fascination as his finger heals. Then looks at Malcolm. "He's lonely, Malcolm. And he doesn't... know what to do about it."
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He looks down at himself again, smeared with blood, and gives a convulsive little shudder. "And he's been this so much longer. He--"
Neal closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, tries to put his thoughts in order.
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“I thought Rebecca loved me and she used me from day one, and when I finally realized she didn’t, everyone around me said she did. I don’t know how he feels. I don’t know how she felt, I don’t know how Peter feels, I don’t know how I feel. You’re the only person I’m even half sure about at this point.”
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“He has the ability, he can control minds, but that’s not what kept me there.” It’s semantics at this point, but important semantics to Neal. “I couldn’t leave, but it was… blood loss and disorientation, not some kind of active command. I just don’t want you to think…”
He’s not sure what he doesn’t want Malcolm to think. Neal presses a hand to his stomach, knots of anxiety that he’s typically accustomed to making him feel sick again. “I’m trying. I’m honestly trying.”
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