The fight is written all over Lestat's face, blooms still across his skin.
Louis wore their fight for weeks after. He wore the aftermath of the argument in San Francisco, but Louis can't say for certain how long.
All of it lives in his body still. Lanced and realigned, all ordered neatly once more, but painful still. Too near.
Lestat speaks and punctures the building heat of Louis' anger. Draws Louis' attention briefly from Daniel, a flicker of study to assess this quality in Lestat's voice.
Answer: "No."
Might be true.
Or it might simply be familiar, old habit, a wall lifting to bar Louis off from the question, the ugliness of the feeling held in his chest. True because Louis makes it true. Feeling compressed into disassociative nothingness, made into an absence..
Lestat had been adept at coaxing Louis from behind it, in the earliest stretch of their companionship. But they're a long way from those days. Louis does not wish to be coaxed. What he has is this glacial composure, something to hold fast to in the wake of all that's happened.
He comes up off the couch in a single graceful, terrifying movement. No manifesting into action by precise increments. Turning over choice phrases. Get to. Small boxes. Permission granted, permission denied. Daniel digging fingers into weak points, into fractures, chasing after—
"I'm not going to break myself apart to satisfy your curiosity."
Unkind. Uncharitable. A drawn line, because Louis has nothing else on offer.
no subject
Louis wore their fight for weeks after. He wore the aftermath of the argument in San Francisco, but Louis can't say for certain how long.
All of it lives in his body still. Lanced and realigned, all ordered neatly once more, but painful still. Too near.
Lestat speaks and punctures the building heat of Louis' anger. Draws Louis' attention briefly from Daniel, a flicker of study to assess this quality in Lestat's voice.
Answer: "No."
Might be true.
Or it might simply be familiar, old habit, a wall lifting to bar Louis off from the question, the ugliness of the feeling held in his chest. True because Louis makes it true. Feeling compressed into disassociative nothingness, made into an absence..
Lestat had been adept at coaxing Louis from behind it, in the earliest stretch of their companionship. But they're a long way from those days. Louis does not wish to be coaxed. What he has is this glacial composure, something to hold fast to in the wake of all that's happened.
He comes up off the couch in a single graceful, terrifying movement. No manifesting into action by precise increments. Turning over choice phrases. Get to. Small boxes. Permission granted, permission denied. Daniel digging fingers into weak points, into fractures, chasing after—
"I'm not going to break myself apart to satisfy your curiosity."
Unkind. Uncharitable. A drawn line, because Louis has nothing else on offer.