His picture is taken, and Lestat makes a sound of protest—both for the flash searing his retinas as well as an immediate complaint for the fact he hadn't had a chance to pose, but it wears off quickly, too immediately fond. Too immediately thrilled, also, for being Louis' first subject.
He takes the photograph with eagerness as they walk, bringing it up to look at. The flash in the dim street makes the moment unearthly, all colour leeched from his skin. Over the top of his glasses, his eyes show up nearly ice-white and blue tinged, and his expression in this split second before he flinched is expectant, keyed in on where Louis is, what he is doing, what he is thinking.
A different artefact to the formal portraits they'd taken a century ago, posing with Claudia, the occasional business partner. That had seemed less like an art to Lestat then. He wonders if he would have liked this then, its imperfection and messiness, his imperfection and messiness.
He likes it now. A smile that none should describe as 'dorky' in earshot in case he never does it again, and then veering back into Louis' space as they walk to hold it up for him to see.
"See," he urges. "When I'm famous, you can make a small fortune if you wished." He tips his head in study. "I look like Kurt Cobain." His tone implies that this is a compliment for them both.
no subject
He takes the photograph with eagerness as they walk, bringing it up to look at. The flash in the dim street makes the moment unearthly, all colour leeched from his skin. Over the top of his glasses, his eyes show up nearly ice-white and blue tinged, and his expression in this split second before he flinched is expectant, keyed in on where Louis is, what he is doing, what he is thinking.
A different artefact to the formal portraits they'd taken a century ago, posing with Claudia, the occasional business partner. That had seemed less like an art to Lestat then. He wonders if he would have liked this then, its imperfection and messiness, his imperfection and messiness.
He likes it now. A smile that none should describe as 'dorky' in earshot in case he never does it again, and then veering back into Louis' space as they walk to hold it up for him to see.
"See," he urges. "When I'm famous, you can make a small fortune if you wished." He tips his head in study. "I look like Kurt Cobain." His tone implies that this is a compliment for them both.