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.
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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."