#redstrng

[drwlf]

Smash or pass lestat but before he comes back into wolfs life xoxo

"Pass."

"I don't want to talk about him. He's gone, and that's all there is to it. He doesn't get to leave and still expect me to answer questions like this about him. So pass. And I'd appreciate it if we moved on."

SMASH OR PASS

[drwlf]

@redstrng / Lestat: " that's how people get killed in horror movies you know. " except it's the voice ( french drawl and all ) he loved in his youth whispering to him from the shadows in the corner of the hospital.

THAT VOICE STOPS ME COLD.

With its drawl and that faint French lilt curling around the consonants. It's been over two decades, but I'd know it anywhere. In my dreams. In my nightmares.

In the darkest corner of Bronx General Hospital at one in the morning, when I should be home sleeping.

I freeze with my hand on the doorframe as my chest tightens. As all air leaves the room. My back is to where he could be, to the corner where the voice came from, and I don't turn around. I can't. If I turn around and there's nothing there, I'll lose what's left of my mind.

If I turn around and he’s there, I'll lose it twice as fast.

How many nights did I wake up screaming for him? How many times did Carol have to talk me down from the ledge as withdrawal wracked my body and I begged for an end to it all?

But it's been a long time since then. Long enough that I should be past this. Long enough that on most days I am. I built a whole life out of the space he left behind. A career. A name on a door. Shifts and patients and ferns on the windowsill. The kind of routine that holds a person together.

And this is but a hallucination, right? It has to be. I haven't slept properly in days, and my brain is doing what all brains do when you starve them: filling in the gaps with whatever's lying around. In my case, the voice I've been holding onto for twenty four years.

I close my eyes. Count to five.

Nothing changes when I open them. I’m still not turned around. I’m still listening for him. All because some sick, traitorous part of me needs to. The young man I used to be. The one who waited by the phone for weeks, who would've done anything for him, is wide awake under my skin now, rattling at the bars. And he needs to know if this is real.

"Lestat?"

It comes out a rasp, so used to avoiding that name. I peer slightly over my shoulder, but quickly flinch back, afraid to look. Afraid I'll see him. Afraid I won't.

"If you're here, say something else. Please. If you're not..."

Get out of my fucking head.

[drwlf]

cont. + @redstrng

THE QUESTION SOUNDS NAIVE EVEN TO MY OWN EARS.

Of course he has. I know that. The rational part of my brain is well aware of what he is, what he's capable of. But the rest of me is swimming in thoughts too slippery and hard to hold. It might be the blood loss, or his pale, amused eyes, watching me like I'm a curiosity. Like I'm a toy.

I laugh a little, or try to. It comes out soft and slightly lopsided, my head too heavy to hold up properly as the room goes pleasantly blurred at the edges. Something I should be concerned about, but I'm not.

And I should be afraid, too. I should tell him to stop. To let me go. The words rise in my throat... but they never make it past my lips. I simply can't find the fear I know I should feel. Instead, there's a strange peace settling over me. A heavy calm, like sinking into warm water. If this is how it ends, maybe that's okay. Maybe I can just let go. Let him do what he wants. What he needs.

So I don't beg. I don't plead. I just let my eyes slip closed, let my head fall back against his shoulder and wonder out loud about things I've never experienced.

"What does it feel like?"

I turn it over in my head as I ask, trying to find the shape of what I actually want to know. Not whether it hurts. Not whether he feels guilty.

"Taking a life. Does it feel like anything?"

[drwlf]

cont. + @redstrng (Lestat)

THE ROOM IS SPINNING A LITTLE, WHICH COULD BE FROM BLOOD LOSS OR JUST FROM HIM.

The more time that passes, the harder I've found it to distinguish between the two. I've become unsure of so many things since he walked into my life. What day it is, what I'm supposed to be doing instead of this. Whether the version of me that existed before him is still in here, somewhere, or if he's hollowing me out and filling the space with himself.

I don't mind either way. Of that I'm sure.

His fingertip rests at my neck, cool where the wound was. I close my eyes for a second because looking directly at him sometimes feels like too much. Like looking at the sun. Or an eclipse. When I open them again, he's there, waiting for an answer to a question that shouldn't have any variables. I know it. I can feel it in the way he said it, soft as silk. There's no trickery here: he already knows the answer.

"No."

It's immediate and sincere, and I should be scared by how quickly it comes, but I'm not. I tilt my head, baring more of my neck without meaning to. Grown used to the offering.

"I don't think I could."

[eiqhtyone]

@redstrng sent : [TXT ;; hockey boy ] : don't get smug. (from les ofc heheh)

smirking , ilya runs their finger across the screen for a moment. smug was probably an understatement & they've never been any good at hiding it.

( text : lestat ) why not? i have earned it i think ( text : lestat ) very pretty sound you made last night.

[razedhell]

MERIDA I LOVE YOU HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!

MY SWEET BEE!!!! I love you more!!! Thank youuuuuu!!!!!!

[rinkholy]

@redstrng said: backstage, the space cluttered with costumes, props, & nervous energy. (HAHA SHANE AND ILYA AT ONE OF LESTAT'S SHOWS)

"So why did you feel compelled to bring me along again?" Shane doesn't mean to sound so irritated, but he's feeling anxious and overstimulated. He knows the first time he met Lestat was....not great, at least not by his standards, and the thought of being anywhere near him makes Shane sick with nerves. Loud noises always bother him, and even with his earplugs shoved firmly into his ears, it doesn't feel like it's helping much.

He sticks close to Ilya as they stand backstage, feeling like the walls are absolutely closing in on him. Shane clutches his hand tight, taking slow, deep breaths to try and calm the racing of his thoughts and his heart. Doesn't he stick out like a sore thumb? He should've told Ilya he didn't want to come, but he's always been so bad at telling him no.

"I think I wanna go home. Please?" he pleads, trying not to spiral into a panic attack. "I don't feel good."

[rinkholy]

@redstrng said: the shadowed corridor of a parking garage, footsteps echoing in concrete silence. (ok but picture it with me. vampire ilya leaves shane a note that just says "go" and this is where shane ends up and ilya having a lil hunt of his boyfriend....)

When Shane read the note, he knew exactly what Ilya met.

This is the kind of thing that Shane lives for, the excitement that rushes through his veins as he gets in his car. He knows exactly the place in downtown Montreal to go. There's a parking garage that stays open all night, but during the week, it's mostly empty. It would be perfect.

It doesn't take him long to get there. Fifteen minutes, tops. He knows Ilya wouldn't be far behind, and as he gets out of his car, he lets out a breath. Play the game, Shane. Play the game. He's already trembling with his want, but he walks all the way to the stairwell on the other end of the garage, steps inside, waits a few moments, then steps back out like he's walking back to his car.

It's not long that he hears a second set of footsteps pursuing him, just loud enough that Shane knows they're there. His heart rate picks up considerably, and he turns around, eyes wide. Play the game, play the game. "Is someone there?" he calls out, clutching his keys, trying to sound anxious, even if he feels anything but. "Hello?"

No answer. Of course not. He licks his lips and turns back around, walking to his car a little faster. Ilya's footsteps pick up, and Shane feels himself tensing in anticipation.