Louis had recounted the series of apologies in New Orleans, the extravagance of each attempt, the persistence of them, how Lestat had made all his gestures on grand and grander scale, but this—
A simple string of words, offered so softly.
It is disarming in its unexpectedness. Louis is taken aback, and some flicker of that shows in his face, looking back at Lestat in his ruined velvet, his lovely hair drying into frizz, mascara dark beneath his eyes.
They hurt each other with such precision. Even after nearly eighty years parted.
"Do you still feel it?" is not an accusation. Only a carefully posed question, as Louis gathers himself.
no subject
Louis had recounted the series of apologies in New Orleans, the extravagance of each attempt, the persistence of them, how Lestat had made all his gestures on grand and grander scale, but this—
A simple string of words, offered so softly.
It is disarming in its unexpectedness. Louis is taken aback, and some flicker of that shows in his face, looking back at Lestat in his ruined velvet, his lovely hair drying into frizz, mascara dark beneath his eyes.
They hurt each other with such precision. Even after nearly eighty years parted.
"Do you still feel it?" is not an accusation. Only a carefully posed question, as Louis gathers himself.