Unbidden, Louis remembers Lestat, soaked in blood and gasping, telling him: We are joined by a cord, by a cord that you cannot see, but it is real. It is real.
His thumb slides across Lestat's cheek. Reason. Unexpected, somehow, to hear that he is anything near to that for Lestat after all this time. After such a clear reminder of the ways in which they can fail each other. Hurt each other.
But it is as it ever was. Alone, together, and Louis falls into him again. The link between them, more than maker and fledgling, more than blood. Them. Who they are to each other.
Lestat, who has saved Louis time and again. Kind of Lestat to pretend Louis has done anything of the sort in return.
Still, Louis bends down to him. Kisses his mouth softly, chastely. Noses bump. Lestat tastes of trace blood, rainwater.
"Let me finish," Louis murmurs. "You still have blood in your hair."
Should he be indulged, Louis washes the night out of Lestat's hair, the glitter from his skin. Swathes Lestat in the warmth of oversized towels when he emerges, rinsed clean. It is late afternoon. They are all tired. Daniel is already closed in his coffin. Lestat will follow suit. And Louis will take to bed, in the quiet of his room.
They emerge, wet splotches on Louis' thin t-shirt, his cardigan slipped off and laid over a chair as they go.
"I'll say good night," Louis murmurs. An offer, ceding his hold on Lestat to return him to whatever he wishes to make of these last hours before sunset.
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His thumb slides across Lestat's cheek. Reason. Unexpected, somehow, to hear that he is anything near to that for Lestat after all this time. After such a clear reminder of the ways in which they can fail each other. Hurt each other.
But it is as it ever was. Alone, together, and Louis falls into him again. The link between them, more than maker and fledgling, more than blood. Them. Who they are to each other.
Lestat, who has saved Louis time and again. Kind of Lestat to pretend Louis has done anything of the sort in return.
Still, Louis bends down to him. Kisses his mouth softly, chastely. Noses bump. Lestat tastes of trace blood, rainwater.
"Let me finish," Louis murmurs. "You still have blood in your hair."
Should he be indulged, Louis washes the night out of Lestat's hair, the glitter from his skin. Swathes Lestat in the warmth of oversized towels when he emerges, rinsed clean. It is late afternoon. They are all tired. Daniel is already closed in his coffin. Lestat will follow suit. And Louis will take to bed, in the quiet of his room.
They emerge, wet splotches on Louis' thin t-shirt, his cardigan slipped off and laid over a chair as they go.
"I'll say good night," Louis murmurs. An offer, ceding his hold on Lestat to return him to whatever he wishes to make of these last hours before sunset.