A fledgling fifty years in the making. Very sweet. Perhaps Lestat should send another batch of roses to Armand, except that it's actually worse this way when neither Daniel or Louis have to fumble through the natural divide between maker and fledgling, if fumbling is what they choose to do, and also except that Lestat is going to dropkick that gremlin off the side of the flat earth his stupid medieval soup mind probably believed in at some point.
Anyway.
An offered thanks, and he feels a twinge. Heartsore, still, probably all three of them, but the smile comes easy, easy to be generous as he says, "You're welcome," and looks back to Louis. A flicker.
"Thank you for telling me," because he had asked, and Louis had not decided to give him a short answer over the phone. Lestat would have accepted it. He would have had to.
Hug him, Daniel had said. Just as good to sit near him, probably, is what he meant, but there's also the truth that despite all they are to each other, despite exuberant embraces at the airport or the tight clutching in the throes of grief during a hurricane, Lestat has been struggling to remember if they ever did that very much. If in all his words and preaching about shamelessness and pleasure, the little cherishing affections through to the greater obscenities, he had somehow missed out on these simpler, less dignified forms of love.
All this to say, a small crack in veneer, and Lestat winds his arms around Louis, a doggish leaning in of his weight, chin to back of shoulder. Glad he is here again. Glad he persists.
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A fledgling fifty years in the making. Very sweet. Perhaps Lestat should send another batch of roses to Armand, except that it's actually worse this way when neither Daniel or Louis have to fumble through the natural divide between maker and fledgling, if fumbling is what they choose to do, and also except that Lestat is going to dropkick that gremlin off the side of the flat earth his stupid medieval soup mind probably believed in at some point.
Anyway.
An offered thanks, and he feels a twinge. Heartsore, still, probably all three of them, but the smile comes easy, easy to be generous as he says, "You're welcome," and looks back to Louis. A flicker.
"Thank you for telling me," because he had asked, and Louis had not decided to give him a short answer over the phone. Lestat would have accepted it. He would have had to.
Hug him, Daniel had said. Just as good to sit near him, probably, is what he meant, but there's also the truth that despite all they are to each other, despite exuberant embraces at the airport or the tight clutching in the throes of grief during a hurricane, Lestat has been struggling to remember if they ever did that very much. If in all his words and preaching about shamelessness and pleasure, the little cherishing affections through to the greater obscenities, he had somehow missed out on these simpler, less dignified forms of love.
All this to say, a small crack in veneer, and Lestat winds his arms around Louis, a doggish leaning in of his weight, chin to back of shoulder. Glad he is here again. Glad he persists.