That might be a flaw in his grand declaration, if Lestat has no fucking clue where he's going, but then, maybe not. Enough that they can navigate the past, if not necessarily the future. Warms to that touch to his face, a turn of his head that nudges mouth to hand, not quite a kiss.
"Of course," is what he says. "First, there will be talent scouting. My lawyer has spoken of various agencies and record labels to begin conversations with, but there was a remarkable group I heard on our way out of Boston that I'll check in on and see if they would like to be rich and famous. I assume so. Most of them desire this, now."
Stealing back Louis' hand, Lestat relaxes a little more into the couch rather than his poise from between hugging and not hugging. "Meanwhile, there is much work to be done. My own composing. I don't think I've written anything properly for one hundred years. Rome can be built in a day or so if you're willing to fund it and make it so, but music?"
His fingers spread. "Who knows. But I cannot begin empty handed."
So he had meant it, what he'd said in New Orleans. Lestat, intending to tour. To put himself on a stage, take music to crowds of people. Louis spares a moment to wonder what it will sound like now. It has been so many years since the days when they would sit together in the parlor, Lestat at his piano and Louis with a book. (And Claudia, sometimes playing a duet, sometimes painting, sometimes writing—) What has Lestat's music become, in all the passing decades?
A hum of acknowledgement, some passing understanding of the limitations of capital where the arts are concerned. Louis, who has amassed a disgusting fortune in the buying and selling of artwork, is more than aware of how useless all that money is when it comes to the production of it. All the money in the world has not made Louis into an artist.
"Will you begin as we travel?" Louis asks. "Or will you take the time after?"
A tricky question. How careful they have all been, when it comes to discussing the future. The past is a wound, to be handled delicately. But the future, the future is a void. Only the immediate present is easily dealt with, and even then, there are pitfalls. The acquisition of blood. The book, hanging overhead.
But those things are less painful to touch than what came before and what may yet come.
It all sounds a little different to his whim of becoming a master pianist, visiting with orchestras, bell of the concert hall, preaching the gospel of Bach and Beethoven. But music nonetheless. Audiences, divine visibility, the sun.
He had composed only infrequently. Perhaps it's like Louis' eye—a curse, in some ways, to have an ear for perfection, to only know it when you hear it. Perhaps this whole endeavour will shatter apart when Lestat finds he can't match creation to expectation. Perhaps, too, he is past being perfect. He is, after all, not that.
And besides, the point of all this doesn't necessitate perfection. Just attention.
"I should thank you both for the way there are those who already know my name. Some of the work done for me."
Lestat keeps his fangs out of his voice, limiting his tone to a prod of teasing rather than a piercing.
This glancing invocation doesn't bring tension, but a sharpening of Louis' gaze. Attentive, scrutinizing Lestat's expression for any sign of temper before he answers.
"We can talk about if, you like," he offers.
A heady topic to cover on the heels of San Francisco. But Louis is willing. If it is near to Lestat's thoughts now, and he would like to proceed past this light nudge—
Yes, Louis would indulge him. He owes that to Lestat as well.
But Louis looks at him, so open and attentive, and Lestat finds himself looking away, looking past him. No sign of lost temper so much as internal decision making about whether this is a fuss he truly wants to make tonight, when everyone is feeling a little wounded. When the book has been something like that path they are talking about, a retracing of steps. And Louis only just got here. To New York. To the present.
So, a shake of his head, focus returning. "Why weigh down such a light hearted evening with such heaviness?" with a little smile. "Actually, I wouldn't mind getting out of this room, if you like to walk with me."
That moment, Lestat looking away from him, makes Louis' fingers itch to touch him. Touch him more intentionally than they are now, fingers to his cheek, to the long locks of his hair, draw his attention back.
How long it's been, since Louis felt desperately, clumsily in need of Lestat's intention. Louis shouldn't feel surprise, finding that need still somewhere inside of him.
But Lestat looks back, and smiles. Offers a respite.
"Yes," Louis answers. "I'd like to."
Was that in the book? Louis dreaming their walks? He'd missed them, among all the other parts of Lestat he couldn't shake from his mind.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That might be a flaw in his grand declaration, if Lestat has no fucking clue where he's going, but then, maybe not. Enough that they can navigate the past, if not necessarily the future. Warms to that touch to his face, a turn of his head that nudges mouth to hand, not quite a kiss.
"Of course," is what he says. "First, there will be talent scouting. My lawyer has spoken of various agencies and record labels to begin conversations with, but there was a remarkable group I heard on our way out of Boston that I'll check in on and see if they would like to be rich and famous. I assume so. Most of them desire this, now."
Stealing back Louis' hand, Lestat relaxes a little more into the couch rather than his poise from between hugging and not hugging. "Meanwhile, there is much work to be done. My own composing. I don't think I've written anything properly for one hundred years. Rome can be built in a day or so if you're willing to fund it and make it so, but music?"
His fingers spread. "Who knows. But I cannot begin empty handed."
no subject
A hum of acknowledgement, some passing understanding of the limitations of capital where the arts are concerned. Louis, who has amassed a disgusting fortune in the buying and selling of artwork, is more than aware of how useless all that money is when it comes to the production of it. All the money in the world has not made Louis into an artist.
"Will you begin as we travel?" Louis asks. "Or will you take the time after?"
A tricky question. How careful they have all been, when it comes to discussing the future. The past is a wound, to be handled delicately. But the future, the future is a void. Only the immediate present is easily dealt with, and even then, there are pitfalls. The acquisition of blood. The book, hanging overhead.
But those things are less painful to touch than what came before and what may yet come.
no subject
It all sounds a little different to his whim of becoming a master pianist, visiting with orchestras, bell of the concert hall, preaching the gospel of Bach and Beethoven. But music nonetheless. Audiences, divine visibility, the sun.
He had composed only infrequently. Perhaps it's like Louis' eye—a curse, in some ways, to have an ear for perfection, to only know it when you hear it. Perhaps this whole endeavour will shatter apart when Lestat finds he can't match creation to expectation. Perhaps, too, he is past being perfect. He is, after all, not that.
And besides, the point of all this doesn't necessitate perfection. Just attention.
"I should thank you both for the way there are those who already know my name. Some of the work done for me."
Lestat keeps his fangs out of his voice, limiting his tone to a prod of teasing rather than a piercing.
no subject
This glancing invocation doesn't bring tension, but a sharpening of Louis' gaze. Attentive, scrutinizing Lestat's expression for any sign of temper before he answers.
"We can talk about if, you like," he offers.
A heady topic to cover on the heels of San Francisco. But Louis is willing. If it is near to Lestat's thoughts now, and he would like to proceed past this light nudge—
Yes, Louis would indulge him. He owes that to Lestat as well.
no subject
But Louis looks at him, so open and attentive, and Lestat finds himself looking away, looking past him. No sign of lost temper so much as internal decision making about whether this is a fuss he truly wants to make tonight, when everyone is feeling a little wounded. When the book has been something like that path they are talking about, a retracing of steps. And Louis only just got here. To New York. To the present.
So, a shake of his head, focus returning. "Why weigh down such a light hearted evening with such heaviness?" with a little smile. "Actually, I wouldn't mind getting out of this room, if you like to walk with me."
no subject
How long it's been, since Louis felt desperately, clumsily in need of Lestat's intention. Louis shouldn't feel surprise, finding that need still somewhere inside of him.
But Lestat looks back, and smiles. Offers a respite.
"Yes," Louis answers. "I'd like to."
Was that in the book? Louis dreaming their walks? He'd missed them, among all the other parts of Lestat he couldn't shake from his mind.