He was on the couch. Now he’s in the kitchen, blood bag in his hands. He’ll marvel at the speed later. Right now there’s an animal drive he can’t fight to deal with first.
He sinks his teeth into the bag, hissing slightly at the feel of plastic giving under fangs instead of flesh, but then the tang of it hits his tongue and he’s too focused on sating the starvation of a newborn vampire to care about much else.
Sunshine flutters about her cage squawking and Malcolm looks over at her, then looks at Neal.
"Should I be concerned about you eating me?" he asks bluntly, the man who was largely unconcerned throughout the flood. Inquiring parakeets want to know.
Neal drops the now-empty bag, cognizant of the fact that he should pick it up, but also too distracted by:
A) How good that tasted and how much better it must taste fresh. B) How much he can still smell/hear/see/feel. C) The fact that he just about inhaled a bag of blood.
“Oh god,” is what he says, and jolts over to the empty sink to retch into it without actually throwing up. His body, it seems, is unwilling to give sustenance up to nausea at the moment.
“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.
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He sinks his teeth into the bag, hissing slightly at the feel of plastic giving under fangs instead of flesh, but then the tang of it hits his tongue and he’s too focused on sating the starvation of a newborn vampire to care about much else.
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"Should I be concerned about you eating me?" he asks bluntly, the man who was largely unconcerned throughout the flood. Inquiring parakeets want to know.
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A) How good that tasted and how much better it must taste fresh.
B) How much he can still smell/hear/see/feel.
C) The fact that he just about inhaled a bag of blood.
“Oh god,” is what he says, and jolts over to the empty sink to retch into it without actually throwing up. His body, it seems, is unwilling to give sustenance up to nausea at the moment.
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Right.
Question.
The question.
“I’m not going to eat you.” He’s not offended by the ask at least.
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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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