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possibility of illness in the morning. He doesn't—for no reason he can comprehend. "Dull," he answers, like a sigh. Some tension finally relieved, though he is already bracing for more. "Not at all like Paris." A pause. "Or Philadelphia."

The pause in words is suffocating. Nicolas chooses to choke himself with cigarette smoke instead, looking away from Lestat—better than staring at him like a dog that's been kicked. Still wounded, after all there years. He ought to leave, he thinks. Brave the downpour and the

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at Lestat's eyes. "Ouais. Merci." There's the French. And once again the wound bleeds, in silence.

He knows Lestat too well not to notice. It seems a part of him—the twisted, wounded, betrayed part—still refuses to let him go. The first shot of nicotine against his lungs does little to alleviate the sting. Yet Nicolas musters a smile, stiff against his lips, barely glancing

/ what if.... i make canon nicki too...... what if..........

proximity like fire—almost enough to burn the cold away. Almost. He is still soaking wet and miserable.

"I left it at home." Scatterbrained as always, more keen to wrangle Sibelius than any household item. Nicolas bids his fingers still before slipping the cigarette between his lips, leaning forward towards Lestat to allow the other to help him with lighting it. He feels the

Strangers in a strange land, speaking a stranger's language. The urge to revert to his native French is strong, but Nicolas suspects he won't last long if he indulges in old habits. Instead, he holds out his hand for the cigarette, surrendering to the new. "Anything helps."

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someplace he can curl up and tremble—but Amadeo's arrival had rendered it all moot. It's making it worse. "𝘋𝘰 you need anything? Or are you going to continue tormenting me until I break down in front of you, as you've always enjoyed?"

"And you keep mistaking courtesy for patience." And Nicolas is running out of both. Already, cold sweat drenches his back, gathering at his temples. He had hoped to ride out this flare on his own, excuse himself quietly through the hallway of the university until he reaches

"Yes. Yeah. Of course." Americanism tastes wrong on his tongue. He shrugs it off, and fixes Marlena another apologetic smile as he slips past her threshold. "Sorry. I'm bothering you, aren't I?"

Even less expectation of being invited in. Nicolas realises that he still has his hand hanging in the air, awkwardly bent over his shoulder over the illusion of a fingerboard, and promptly lowers it as he nods, trying for a smile that doesn't look forced in all the wrong ways.

Drenched from the rain, having no choice but to sidle up beside him— He exerts a sigh, lamenting the lack of literally any other option. "Don't suppose you have another one of that?" Chin jerked towards the cigarette.

Then you're an anomaly. Everyone looks at me like I'm crazy every time I tell them my proposition.

I personally think they need to be shocked back into their senses. The faculty disagrees.

I wouldn't refuse that.

". . . I lost you, didn't I?" Faltering away from his roundabout explanation about all the why's the music department is sliding down into hell, Nicolas manages a nervous chuckle. This is what he gets for trying to make small talk. "That's okay. We can just sit in silence."

When the door opens at his face, he's caught in surprise, blinking down slowly at her. Yes, he must have sought her out the moment the music began. "Hi." A lame utterance as he gathers his attention about himself. "Nothing. I— I, uh, thought of you."