Louis favors him with a chuckle to make up for the medium, the fact that a grin would go unseen.
It fades, remembering. The hot burn of embarrassment, and worse, the blank sense of confusion, of something misplaced and Armand's serenity in the face of it. A few photos flutter into the appropriate box, released from Louis' scrutiny.
"Some," he admits. "Some I purchased from other photographers or collectors over the years."
Lestat has not done so much imagining of what Louis and Armand were like together. As if Louis had disappeared into a void.
He has what the book has said, in its brief way ('weird and sad'). He has what he knows and remembers of Armand. He has that one dark spark burned in him from fifty years ago. He has what he sees in Louis now. But the particulars feel beyond him. He can't fathom a week with the gremlin, let alone eight long decades.
All the same. Instinct tugs at him. Formless. Nothing to be made of it.
"Imagine my surprise," he says, "to open a book and see black and grey photographs, credited to Louis de Pointe du Lac. You should have Daniel release a sequel that is them alone, for my viewing pleasure."
Louis has yet to open the book, the controversial book, on his brand new coffee table. But he had allowed Daniel to select what he pleased. He should not find it surprised that they had made their way into the finished product.
"I doubt I have any better than what Daniel chose," Louis admits. "He would have selected the best of what I had."
and Louis hasn't read the book, he thinks, Louis hasn't checked what photographs were used and so Louis hasn't read the book, which is maddening, why would he not, did he even see it before it was released into the world, what does it mean that Louis hasn't read it,
It's disarming. Louis is quiet. Let's his fingers wander across the photos left on the tabletop. Which of these would Lestat like? Which of them would please him?
They are all of Paris.
"Alright," comes over the line. Soft. Fond. "I'll pick one out for you."
Opera, photographs, a trip to Vermont, promises to call. What else can he extract from Louis? It feels overwhelming, these small things that are not small at all. It makes him happy, a strange kind of thing to feel, after all the melancholy. Lestat could eat his phone for it.
He won't. This time.
But his impulse is to say I love you, in his sense of the call winding down, and in spite of having insisted on Daniel communicating exactly that, perhaps he should—
"I love you," murmured. Whatever they are together, or apart, if they are never companions again, this is simply always true.
Abruptly, tears prick at Louis' eyes. He blinks, and the tears spill over. He presses knuckles to his mouth, suppressing the swell of feeling.
Whatever he says will disappoint. He is so far away. He cannot do anything. Cannot touch Lestat. Reciprocate in a tangible way to make up for his inability to speak.
But he can't remain silent.
"Lestat," he murmurs, so deeply tender over the syllables of his name. Almost perfectly steady. A tremor, tell-tale, persisting as he says, "I'll see you soon. I promise."
But familiar. Odd, this feeling. It had been important to Lestat, in 1973, for him to convey this information to Louis, and there had been no thought at all to receiving it in return. It hadn't mattered. All that had mattered was trying to will that love to reach him, to take him by the hand, draw him back from something.
Some of that remains. Opening his mouth, knowing he won't hear it back, knowing that saying it is of vital importance. Louis says this instead and Lestat smiles, rueful, lets disappointment well up, and fade.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You know, just to make sure. And to imagine the crease of Louis' smile when Lestat says some stupid thing.
"These are your photographs?"
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It fades, remembering. The hot burn of embarrassment, and worse, the blank sense of confusion, of something misplaced and Armand's serenity in the face of it. A few photos flutter into the appropriate box, released from Louis' scrutiny.
"Some," he admits. "Some I purchased from other photographers or collectors over the years."
A tap of fingers on the table, a breath exhaled.
"I had them sorted, at one point."
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He has what the book has said, in its brief way ('weird and sad'). He has what he knows and remembers of Armand. He has that one dark spark burned in him from fifty years ago. He has what he sees in Louis now. But the particulars feel beyond him. He can't fathom a week with the gremlin, let alone eight long decades.
All the same. Instinct tugs at him. Formless. Nothing to be made of it.
"Imagine my surprise," he says, "to open a book and see black and grey photographs, credited to Louis de Pointe du Lac. You should have Daniel release a sequel that is them alone, for my viewing pleasure."
Less words to have to assimilate, for starters.
"Will you bring some?"
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Louis has yet to open the book, the controversial book, on his brand new coffee table. But he had allowed Daniel to select what he pleased. He should not find it surprised that they had made their way into the finished product.
"I doubt I have any better than what Daniel chose," Louis admits. "He would have selected the best of what I had."
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exasperated, fond,
and Louis hasn't read the book, he thinks, Louis hasn't checked what photographs were used and so Louis hasn't read the book, which is maddening, why would he not, did he even see it before it was released into the world, what does it mean that Louis hasn't read it,
"bring one. For me. One I would like."
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It's disarming. Louis is quiet. Let's his fingers wander across the photos left on the tabletop. Which of these would Lestat like? Which of them would please him?
They are all of Paris.
"Alright," comes over the line. Soft. Fond. "I'll pick one out for you."
no subject
Opera, photographs, a trip to Vermont, promises to call. What else can he extract from Louis? It feels overwhelming, these small things that are not small at all. It makes him happy, a strange kind of thing to feel, after all the melancholy. Lestat could eat his phone for it.
He won't. This time.
But his impulse is to say I love you, in his sense of the call winding down, and in spite of having insisted on Daniel communicating exactly that, perhaps he should—
"I love you," murmured. Whatever they are together, or apart, if they are never companions again, this is simply always true.
no subject
Abruptly, tears prick at Louis' eyes. He blinks, and the tears spill over. He presses knuckles to his mouth, suppressing the swell of feeling.
Whatever he says will disappoint. He is so far away. He cannot do anything. Cannot touch Lestat. Reciprocate in a tangible way to make up for his inability to speak.
But he can't remain silent.
"Lestat," he murmurs, so deeply tender over the syllables of his name. Almost perfectly steady. A tremor, tell-tale, persisting as he says, "I'll see you soon. I promise."
no subject
But familiar. Odd, this feeling. It had been important to Lestat, in 1973, for him to convey this information to Louis, and there had been no thought at all to receiving it in return. It hadn't mattered. All that had mattered was trying to will that love to reach him, to take him by the hand, draw him back from something.
Some of that remains. Opening his mouth, knowing he won't hear it back, knowing that saying it is of vital importance. Louis says this instead and Lestat smiles, rueful, lets disappointment well up, and fade.
"You will," he says, hush. "Bonne nuit, Louis."