He'd managed to hold it together. For years: they'd diagnosed his cancer six years ago, and he'd never really fallen apart. At eleven, he hadn't understood the concept of dying; the realisation grew slowly, so that he could deal with it. Could live life like he was immortal, like every day was his last, so he could enjoy every precious second of it.
Something broke in him now, listening to Rick cry.
"No," He said desperately, too loud and too harsh, pulling away just to push Rick on his back, green eyes gone wide and desperate and wet. His gloved hands curled into his boyfriend's shoulders, as if to hold him down, trying to make it stop. "Y-you can't, Rick, don't cry, please, I can't fucking hold it together if you cry - just - Rick - stop it!"
That last part - he yelled, almost a scream, and for a second, just an instant, his face wasn't his, wasn't Lestat's: something dark and vicious and desperate, something curled up deep and savage inside, an animal ready to tear apart the world. Something he'd always had the potential to be.