Foolish, maybe. Maybe he is being foolish, putting himself in a coffin with Lestat within twenty-four hours of a proper fight.
But the arm slung round his waist, the hook and catch of their legs, knee to knee, ankle to ankle, settling in warm together in this close space—
It is good. It feels good. Soothes the ragged quality in Louis that has persisted in the passing hours since Lestat stormed out of the hotel.
And Louis is still charmed, inevitably, by the little press of fingers to his cheek. The glint of glitter on fingertips displayed after.
"I don't mind it," Louis tells him, hand coming to rest over Lestat's heart. "I like it."
It clings. Louis knew that.
A light graze of fingers at Lestat's cheek in turn.
"Close us in," he murmurs. A few hours together, in the dark. Louis can't pretend anything other than the truth: he is comforted by this closeness, the way they fit together.
Homecoming. His home, still contained in the chest of the man laid alongside him.
Heart aching, near to overwhelmed, but overwhelmed is a natural state of being, and there are worser versions to be overcome by, certainly. Lightless darkness and they could be anywhere, any time, and there is just enough of a thread of awareness to prevent Lestat doing what his impulse would have him do, which is take Louis' face in his hand and kiss him thoroughly.
No, that would break something, and it isn't actually what he wants the most. What he wants the most is what he has right now. He's just being greedy.
Still.
No reserve in the way he tangles himself up with Louis as he settles, drawing them in close together. Lingers there, in these minutes of consciousness, to enjoy the nearness, the comforting quiet, the way he senses comfort in Louis as well, before finally giving over to a sun already sinking in the sky.
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But the arm slung round his waist, the hook and catch of their legs, knee to knee, ankle to ankle, settling in warm together in this close space—
It is good. It feels good. Soothes the ragged quality in Louis that has persisted in the passing hours since Lestat stormed out of the hotel.
And Louis is still charmed, inevitably, by the little press of fingers to his cheek. The glint of glitter on fingertips displayed after.
"I don't mind it," Louis tells him, hand coming to rest over Lestat's heart. "I like it."
It clings. Louis knew that.
A light graze of fingers at Lestat's cheek in turn.
"Close us in," he murmurs. A few hours together, in the dark. Louis can't pretend anything other than the truth: he is comforted by this closeness, the way they fit together.
Homecoming. His home, still contained in the chest of the man laid alongside him.
no subject
Heart aching, near to overwhelmed, but overwhelmed is a natural state of being, and there are worser versions to be overcome by, certainly. Lightless darkness and they could be anywhere, any time, and there is just enough of a thread of awareness to prevent Lestat doing what his impulse would have him do, which is take Louis' face in his hand and kiss him thoroughly.
No, that would break something, and it isn't actually what he wants the most. What he wants the most is what he has right now. He's just being greedy.
Still.
No reserve in the way he tangles himself up with Louis as he settles, drawing them in close together. Lingers there, in these minutes of consciousness, to enjoy the nearness, the comforting quiet, the way he senses comfort in Louis as well, before finally giving over to a sun already sinking in the sky.