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.
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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.