Big questions, which apparently can take a back seat to more pressing matters.
Louis' thumb maintains it's steady back and forth across Lestat's cheek. Hooks a knee up alongside Lestat's thigh, little restless points of movement, ways in which Louis draws Lestat in more securely as he considers the question. Old habits, the way they align.
"They were already planning my death. They're eager for it. I want them focused on me. I welcome it," echoes Claudia, as self-assured now as she had been then. Calm, as he relates this to Lestat.
News that will be even less welcome than little jokes.
"They've grown numerous," Louis murmurs. Thumb following the cut of cheekbone, breathing soft in the dark, chest rising and falling in time with Lestat's. "Better to draw them into a conflict and thin them out, before they are able to make their dream of the Conversion something real."
A little derisive, but mildly so. The pull of the sun working its effect, as does the nearness of Louis' heartbeat, breath, the stroke of his thumb. Going perfectly still, until he has that sense of detachment from his own self, as if they are one being with two minds in this sightless space.
He has felt what it's like when Louis seeks his own annihilation. He has heard how it did not sound that way, when Daniel showed him the memory of Louis' challenge to the Many. Here, he picks through these words, sifts through them, silent and fretful.
Looping Lestat in alongside Daniel and his Talamasca contacts. Whatever the Talamasca intends, Louis assumes they have a vested interest in avoiding the Conversion. So Louis is a moving target. It is of use.
A train of thought curtailed as he considers Lestat has never seen him fight. Not truly. This evening had been a far cry from the hunting they'd done in New Orleans. Louis, grown into his power.
"And I do alright for myself," softly, remembering New Orleans. Remembering Lestat across the table, describing Louis drawing a knife and putting it to Paul's chest. Viciousness has always been in him. Maybe Lestat had always admired that.
This correction has its effect, Lestat allowing further misgivings to release, dissolve. Perhaps they will resolve again when the sun sets, but for now, allows it to make him feel a little better about things. His assistance welcomed. His presence given meaning.
And he thinks, too, of Louis drawing a blade to his brother's breastbone. Of an alderman torn so gruesomely that his admiration for the deed had outweighed the usual preoccupation with maintaining their discretion. Of the bits and pieces of people that they'd decorated their home with in their final night spent there.
Louis and his capacity for ferocious anger, a willingness to resort to violence, ruthlessness. The things Lestat had imagined would make Louis a good vampire for him to spend eternity with.
"Mmhm. Do you enjoy it?" A cheeky question, maybe. The hand resting on Louis' chest curls, taps a finger. "Just a little bit."
Near whispered, like Louis can tell Lestat, just for Lestat. This is a safe space, here.
(Daniel, two coffins away, delayed likely only by his own misgivings about the night's events.)
Lestat, asking this question in hushed tones. Lestat, who has seen Louis struggle, has seen Louis' temper, has seen the worst of his violence and matched it, outstripped it.
Louis' expression flexes tender in the dark, even as he weighs up his own conflicted feelings.
"I did," he murmurs, the outcome of a moment's accounting. A quiet confession. "I felt alive. Had a long stretch there where I didn't feel like I was."
Words that sidestep. It's complicated.
Courting a fight is all that he told Lestat. Louis hadn't lied. But there is also this thing, this quiet desperate thing propelling him to shake himself free of so many years of careful equilibrium. To reassert control after having ceded it for so long.
Fondness fills him. Inevitable, aching, hurtful fondness. That hand spreads flat once more, covering Louis' heart.
This, more than anything else, makes sense to Lestat. More than fighting this Conversion, the proliferation of vampires. Allows it to sink in, in the quiet dark, the even measure of their breathing and heart beats, before he draws focus with another tap of his fingers.
"Then see that you stay that way," quiet. "Don't let them take you from me."
So much time spent wanting to die. Lestat had found Louis that way, saying the words aloud in a confessional as if he could be absolved for the way he craved his own death.
At his lowest, his nearest to death, there had been Lestat. One way or another, he had been there to tug Louis back.
This vendetta isn't a prayer for death. Louis can promise that without any hesitation or omissions. His fingers slip into Lestat's hair, thumb at his temple.
"I'm not going nowhere," Louis promises. "I'm staying. They can't take me anywhere I don't want to go."
Inevitably, a trap door through which Louis might step again if he feels he must. But tonight, the soft sweep of fingers through Lestat's hair, his heartbeat steady beneath his palm.
"And I don't wanna leave," Louis tells him. "I mean to stay."
The most natural urge in the world would be to close the distance between them, press a kiss to Louis' mouth.
Terrible and hurtful that he cannot, does not, that Lestat must partake in the tedium that is counting his blessings, of Louis in the same coffin as he, Louis saying sweet assurances (even if they have loopholes, yes, Lestat notices), Louis alive and warm and welcoming. But he does it anyway, because he is a saint and a martyr. Or rather, because they are blessings, true ones, and it feels good to count them anyway.
A subtle shift, a closer entangling, and Lestat allows the conversation to do as he'd requested and appease him. Sleeping assured that Louis cannot easily go anywhere, while he has him in his claws.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Big questions, which apparently can take a back seat to more pressing matters.
Louis' thumb maintains it's steady back and forth across Lestat's cheek. Hooks a knee up alongside Lestat's thigh, little restless points of movement, ways in which Louis draws Lestat in more securely as he considers the question. Old habits, the way they align.
"They were already planning my death. They're eager for it. I want them focused on me. I welcome it," echoes Claudia, as self-assured now as she had been then. Calm, as he relates this to Lestat.
News that will be even less welcome than little jokes.
"They've grown numerous," Louis murmurs. Thumb following the cut of cheekbone, breathing soft in the dark, chest rising and falling in time with Lestat's. "Better to draw them into a conflict and thin them out, before they are able to make their dream of the Conversion something real."
no subject
A little derisive, but mildly so. The pull of the sun working its effect, as does the nearness of Louis' heartbeat, breath, the stroke of his thumb. Going perfectly still, until he has that sense of detachment from his own self, as if they are one being with two minds in this sightless space.
He has felt what it's like when Louis seeks his own annihilation. He has heard how it did not sound that way, when Daniel showed him the memory of Louis' challenge to the Many. Here, he picks through these words, sifts through them, silent and fretful.
Eventually, "You fight well," offered. "Viciously."
no subject
Looping Lestat in alongside Daniel and his Talamasca contacts. Whatever the Talamasca intends, Louis assumes they have a vested interest in avoiding the Conversion. So Louis is a moving target. It is of use.
A train of thought curtailed as he considers Lestat has never seen him fight. Not truly. This evening had been a far cry from the hunting they'd done in New Orleans. Louis, grown into his power.
"And I do alright for myself," softly, remembering New Orleans. Remembering Lestat across the table, describing Louis drawing a knife and putting it to Paul's chest. Viciousness has always been in him. Maybe Lestat had always admired that.
no subject
And he thinks, too, of Louis drawing a blade to his brother's breastbone. Of an alderman torn so gruesomely that his admiration for the deed had outweighed the usual preoccupation with maintaining their discretion. Of the bits and pieces of people that they'd decorated their home with in their final night spent there.
Louis and his capacity for ferocious anger, a willingness to resort to violence, ruthlessness. The things Lestat had imagined would make Louis a good vampire for him to spend eternity with.
"Mmhm. Do you enjoy it?" A cheeky question, maybe. The hand resting on Louis' chest curls, taps a finger. "Just a little bit."
Near whispered, like Louis can tell Lestat, just for Lestat. This is a safe space, here.
no subject
(Daniel, two coffins away, delayed likely only by his own misgivings about the night's events.)
Lestat, asking this question in hushed tones. Lestat, who has seen Louis struggle, has seen Louis' temper, has seen the worst of his violence and matched it, outstripped it.
Louis' expression flexes tender in the dark, even as he weighs up his own conflicted feelings.
"I did," he murmurs, the outcome of a moment's accounting. A quiet confession. "I felt alive. Had a long stretch there where I didn't feel like I was."
Words that sidestep. It's complicated.
Courting a fight is all that he told Lestat. Louis hadn't lied. But there is also this thing, this quiet desperate thing propelling him to shake himself free of so many years of careful equilibrium. To reassert control after having ceded it for so long.
no subject
This, more than anything else, makes sense to Lestat. More than fighting this Conversion, the proliferation of vampires. Allows it to sink in, in the quiet dark, the even measure of their breathing and heart beats, before he draws focus with another tap of his fingers.
"Then see that you stay that way," quiet. "Don't let them take you from me."
bow??
At his lowest, his nearest to death, there had been Lestat. One way or another, he had been there to tug Louis back.
This vendetta isn't a prayer for death. Louis can promise that without any hesitation or omissions. His fingers slip into Lestat's hair, thumb at his temple.
"I'm not going nowhere," Louis promises. "I'm staying. They can't take me anywhere I don't want to go."
Inevitably, a trap door through which Louis might step again if he feels he must. But tonight, the soft sweep of fingers through Lestat's hair, his heartbeat steady beneath his palm.
"And I don't wanna leave," Louis tells him. "I mean to stay."
🎀
Terrible and hurtful that he cannot, does not, that Lestat must partake in the tedium that is counting his blessings, of Louis in the same coffin as he, Louis saying sweet assurances (even if they have loopholes, yes, Lestat notices), Louis alive and warm and welcoming. But he does it anyway, because he is a saint and a martyr. Or rather, because they are blessings, true ones, and it feels good to count them anyway.
A subtle shift, a closer entangling, and Lestat allows the conversation to do as he'd requested and appease him. Sleeping assured that Louis cannot easily go anywhere, while he has him in his claws.