Still sensitive enough for the continued gathering of crimson at his waterline, even as Lestat nods to this, attempts to let it in. The singular pronoun, the admission of a wrong thing. How habitual it had been to yell at each other about their various hurts and then wait until they decided not to be angry about it anymore, walls ignored rather than dismantled.
Tempting to make some excuse and scuttle away while the going is good, but the urge to remain in the same room as Louis overrides this easily.
"Eighty years on," he says. "More than that, even, and I am still unaccustomed to not being the only one you—"
A gesture, to fill in the rest of the sentence. Trust, maybe.
no subject
Still sensitive enough for the continued gathering of crimson at his waterline, even as Lestat nods to this, attempts to let it in. The singular pronoun, the admission of a wrong thing. How habitual it had been to yell at each other about their various hurts and then wait until they decided not to be angry about it anymore, walls ignored rather than dismantled.
Tempting to make some excuse and scuttle away while the going is good, but the urge to remain in the same room as Louis overrides this easily.
"Eighty years on," he says. "More than that, even, and I am still unaccustomed to not being the only one you—"
A gesture, to fill in the rest of the sentence. Trust, maybe.