( it's armand's age that makes his mind so richly colored, she imagines, or at least some affect of being the creature that he is. he feels things more deeply than anyone she knows — his mind is almost painful just in its own existence, with more vivid colors, more depth of emotion, brighter lights. the love isn't necessarily pure within him, but it is raw — some expensive slab of steak, something perfectly marbled, something fatty to sink your teeth into. daniel, louis, lestat. they've spun themselves into a tangled web, but it's not lacking it's own beauty, just as pain isn't lacking it's own satisfaction. the truth is it doesn't seem a poor exchange for love at all, really — love is painful. she's just never felt it, before.

admittance, )

There's a part of me that couldn't stomach the idea of something of his not also being mine, including his death. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive.

( she can't imagine armand's teeth in daniel's neck were lacking any possessiveness, so maybe he'll understand — rather, maybe she understands him just a bit more, in doing this. there's always been a baseline dynamic between them of eerie similarities, but she wonders if they aren't each others definitions, but synonyms to each other, slant differences to the same core concept. that concept, shameful, quietly spoken — )

I didn't want to be left out. ( there's more, that fear of a life within a bubble, a yawning, yearning need to be seen in every inch of oneself, if only to be found lacking. if only to know. her mind has jungle cat warmth in cupping armand's, a large, purring chest pouring over the back of his mind. rather than speak any of it, she says, ) Armand, Armand, Armand.