Easy acceptance, in the face of that probing. They'd gored each other multiple times during the interview, and guilt and blame aside, there's a kind of unspoken stalemate concerning Daniel publishing the book vs Louis having left him there with Armand. This affection has edges. But it was always going to; Louis is hard to hold on to, Daniel is hard to care for.
'Does it worry you?'
Getting a kick out of suicidal ideation doesn't mean it's not suicidal ideation.
Daniel had said it. Expressed it. What Louis had gone through, where he is now, that he may not be okay.
Too easy, that acceptance. Like it has been accounted for already. Lestat, still considering the tangled thing he's been given just now. Louis launching himself into danger. Louis doing so to protect Daniel. The numerous things that might have come of it.
Wanders into his bathroom. Someone has cleaned it of the crime scene mess it had been. The smell of cleaning chemicals stings the inside of his nose, and he backs out again.
'But he cares for you a great deal. The idea of your survival, your continued presence. You know he wished to make you one of us himself.'
Daniel isn't surprised that Louis feels profoundly inspired by violence, now that he's fled the psychic sedatives Armand was doping him with for decades. He's heard about his life, his one-man gang origins, his strife with Lestat, his brutal execution of an entire coven. He's experienced an outburst, one that nearly killed him. (Affectionate jokes about scary vampires. The scars he carries aren't from Armand.)
It's just that Louis is also fucking suicidal sometimes, and so, it does Daniel's head in.
A delay.
Eventually,
'He's said that, yeah.'
Still not sure if he believes it. Strange, to know that Louis told Lestat. He doesn't know why.
Back out into his bedroom, which has been set to rights from the latest mess he left it in. Sifts through denim, things spangled in sequins, leather. Very little in the way of ordinary civilian garments.
'In my experience, his desire to die looks like running away.' They are speaking in each others heads. Lestat doesn't need Daniel to state all he is thinking into articulated transmission. 'Like stillness. Surrender.'
He would like to be right. He would like it if Louis was not seeking death, still.
'Which does not mean I approve of his being ridiculous.'
Not from the camera, wouldn't that be nice. (Door slams. Footsteps. Metal door. The splintered panic of Armand shouting Louis' name, his own blood on the floor. Metal door again.)
Decides not to argue with Lestat, because it would be too fucking dismal. He doesn't want to. It's easier to be pissed off at Louis for this immediate thing, and just be pissed off for a day and then get on with things. What's he going to do, hold it against him? He doesn't think there's anything they could do to each other to get to that point.
'It's all technically fine. I'm just handling it gracelessly, but if I handled shit well all the time, I probably wouldn't be here.'
Does anybody become a vampire after making GOOD life choices??
'I got you something. And him something. Well. Mostly him. But I think you were looking for it.'
They can change subjects. Daniel grated out the apology. Dwelling on the whole thing sucks.
Lestat could point out that Daniel is doing it again. If less hurtfully.
Rolls his eyes instead, lets it be. Lets it all be technically fine, lets graceless handling take the blame. Daniel and Louis both could stand, he thinks, to try out admitting that things aren't fine and having a meltdown about it. Cry, even. Does wonders.
But he can tolerate a change in subject, particularly at the magic words: I got you something. Or Louis something.
'Oh?' And now his awareness presses in closer, and Daniel can probably feel it, like an overly friendly leaning of weight. Catches impressions of what it could be, but nevertheless, bids, 'Tell me.'
The last time they cried at each other it was when they realized they'd been tortured by Armand for a week, alright, they have stages to go through. And does Lestat really want to witness that kind of emotional intimacy from the other corners of the love triangle he's hallucinating??
So.
Magic words.
'It's a camera.'
Which Daniel is putting back into its box now that he's satisfied that it functions as well as can be expected. Batteries in, film pack loaded. No excuses.
'Not a good one. A good one would be the wrong move.'
A pause, in between spritzes of texturising spray.
Lestat is not so stupid that he can't quickly connect these dots, and only considers playing it for a moment. An amused, "Hm," to himself, finishing with his hair and turning from the mirror.
'You remembered,' the psychic equivalent of a sigh. All doubt, in this next part, 'And you wish me to give Louis a deliberately bad gift?'
'No, it's a great gift. He might hate it, but still.'
Work with him.
It's this or cocaine, and he thinks Louis has for real quit, unlike Daniel, who 'quit'.
'This has no settings. It's not even the full size ones, it's the significantly worse rectangle exposures. He can't overthink it, just point, shoot, stare at it, and it's stylishly Polaroid-y or it's got an in-camera development error.'
Wanders to where he has the photograph Louis gifted him, sitting framed on his dresser. Picks it up, considering, a blurry moment in time, Claudia showing her fangs. No overthinking, says Daniel, and Lestat heaves a sigh in the quiet of his room.
Yes, he can see this vision. And yes, Louis still might hate it. But he can live with Louis rejecting gifts. It's practically a love language.
All the same—
'You can explain it to him when you gift it. You two have unfinished business, and we have a long drive ahead of us.'
And if Daniel can sense something in Lestat's tone like claws very much ready to snatch this gift as his own despite these words— well, he's not imagining it.
'No way, it was your idea. You can just blame me for all the parts that suck. I'm a notoriously bad gifter anyway.'
See. Easy.
A long drive, though—
Lestat might be able to sense a brief hint towards reluctance. Should he go with them? Give them space? (Deal with Armand, on his own? He can't imagine the lurking ancient wants to be left behind.) He might have to end up being on the phone the whole fucking drive anyway, forcing Lestat and Louis to sit in bored silence as he gets work done, and potentially pulls over halfway through in some bed and breakfast town to have dinner with fucking Raglan. Hm.
But not distracted from that twinge. A little incredulous, a little amused (and so an apology did in fact get Daniel somewhere), Lestat queries, 'You're thinking of ditching us?'
The camera settled, at least. The other half of the thing he wants to give them still sits in a folder tucked into the shopping bag that he's putting the camera box back into—
Maybe not yet. He and Louis might argue still. He doesn't want to appear to be trying quite that hard to get out of a conversation, he doesn't want to add another emotional weight to a bad week. The timing is strange. Once they get to their next location, he decides. Satisfied enough to have had it printed out now, in civilization with appropriate facilities. Vermont? What the fuck is in Vermont? Hopefully electricity, at least.
'Not in earnest,' is wry. 'But I have shit to juggle, still.'
Work. Secret agents. Eldritch horrors with big amber eyes.
'Just trying to work out a schedule in my head that doesn't make anyone insane.'
'Louis hasn't been trapped in a car for hours listening to me argue with people who aren't him.'
But there's a note of humor to his (mental) tone. Daniel resolves not to try and find a way to weasel out of it, self-aware at least partially that he's just avoiding emotional significance like an asshole. And of course the very real element of anxiety concerning what, exactly, the fuck, he's going to do about the prospect of Armand tagging along from the shadows.
A mark against all Louis' assertions of fine and nothing to worry about that he sleeps so late. Rises with bruises not yet faded. (The perils of forgoing the restorative properties of human blood taken hot from the vein and relying on donations, collected, sealed, and reheated in a cup.)
He wakes alone. Lays in coffin and weathers the complex feelings that turn provokes, before emerging.
Sitting up in his coffin, he can hear Lestat moving in his room. Can see the sticky note on Daniel's coffin, an immediate herald of his absence. Feels something complicated about all this as well, and chooses to set these things aside.
The lid of his coffin thunks audibly closed, followed by footsteps, the softer click of a bedroom door swinging shut. In the privacy of his own rooms, Louis can observe the faded shadows of bruising at his throat. Let himself be annoyed by it. Fall into familiar rituals, early evening ablutions that are unchanged in spite of the last night's skirmish.
Louis takes his time. (Louis is uncertain what waits for him when he emerges.) But eventually, returns to the main room to summon Rachida. Today's fashion: a mid-weight, high-necked sweater of mossy green, slightly oversized. He'd bent to roll back the hem of deep gold corduroy trousers to accommodate heavier boots, dropped a leather jacket of rich, creamy brown onto the back of the couch as he passes.
Intends to go out, maybe. Attend to last minute errands of his own. Stubbornly refuses to be cowed by the potential for any repetition of last night's trainwreck. He intends on continuing to be difficult to kill.
He bends to collect the post-it from the lid of Daniel's coffin.
Louis is not given an opportunity to linger alone once he emerges from his room. On cue, the sound of a door opening, footsteps.
Hair: texturised. Outfit: a lot. Faux fur, firstly, a jacket with fuzzy leopard spots over miscellaneous silken black textures beneath, which are permitted to fall over a pair of tight-fitted jeans. Boots with wide heels elevate him a predictable amount, and violet Wal-Mart glasses hang from his collar.
Lestat, likewise, has an air of perhaps intending on going out, errands and murder, but who can say when he will also get fully dressed, makeup and accessories included, and then go nowhere for the night if he doesn't feel like it.
"Bonsoir," he says, a wiggly meander on his way over. It doesn't sound disparaging when he says, "Dressing for an innocuous night out?" Mostly due to the way it invites an impulse to touch the various textures within reach. Keeps his hands to himself, bundled behind him.
Sticky note slipped into a pocket as he turns, takes in Lestat in all his splendor. Maybe smiles a little over the choice in glasses. Curbs the impulse to reach for him, mindful that he woke alone. That Lestat is entitled to space, that Louis had requested separation in the distance. They've been skirting the edges of what had been agreed upon, but that's no reason to push further.
"I've a few last threads to tie off before we go," Louis confirms. "Thought I'd handle it this evening."
Innocuous allowed to pass without commentary, taking it on its face.
Will there ever be a time that even an offhanded compliment from Louis would not make the world spin a little differently, a little more optimistically? Only if Lestat were making his best effort to deny it, perhaps.
"You as well," on the way to, "if tender, still." His eyes lingering on where shadows have failed to fade on Louis' skin. Distressing reminders for him personally. The reminder of a restrictive diet. The old misgivings and fretting that always came out wrong and hostile between them.
Head tipped as he asks, "Perhaps I can make a donation before you attend to your business. I assume your staff aren't squeamish."
There is no confusion as to what Lestat means. Louis understands the offer perfectly, is only taken aback by its unexpectedness. Caught entirely off-guard by the ease with which Lestat extends something so intimate.
It can be nothing other than intimate. (The memory of dinners ending with Armand, crossing to occupy the vacant seat alongside Louis, bare his neck, tip into Louis' hands without any hesitation.)
Louis hesitates now. The offer tugs something tender and raw in his chest, and he knows less what to do with it than he does the bruises, vestiges of their near miss the night before.
"No one is squeamish," he confirms, feeling his way through his own uncertainty, the uneven beat of his heart. Wanting. Apprehensive anyway. "But you ain't obligated that way. I'll be just fine in a day or two."
Is this the right thing? Louis is guided only by his sense of boundary, how careful they are with each other, the sense that he would be transgressing. He woke alone. What else does that signal but a return to the status quo?
Unbeknownst to them, a parallel. A maker offering his blood to his fledgling. A similar but also entirely different kind of resistance. Unbeknownst to Lestat, some half-thought thing caught from Daniel's mind, of what he might or should do, pushing him past the delineated territories of who they are to one another.
But, Lestat must reason, this is immutable: he is Louis' maker. If nothing else, that is always what he will be.
A flicker of a smile. Leaning forward, teasing nearly, when he says, "You must tell me no, if you don't wish to. I have already settled it in myself."
The hesitation doesn't abate. It maintains, this restraint in Louis, as he looks into Lestat's face. All the things that he is, Lestat. The deep affection that Louis holds for him, regardless of what they are to each other in the moment.
Affection. Love. Things maybe better left untouched. Things Lestat may have left behind. Louis said so many things, in the book. They have been apart for so long. Lestat woke early, left Louis to wake alone.
Is it so easy to offer this? Is it obligation?
Louis can glean nothing from Lestat's face. He's smiling, teasing, and Louis is alone with his hesitations.
"You that worried for me?" Louis murmurs, which isn't a no. Not yet.
The smile and teasing dims, more of a shift in mood than a retreat. A shrug of faux-fur laden shoulders as Lestat says, "I don't like seeing you hurt," which
is a hilarious understatement. It is all very fresh, still. He can still feel the concrete crumbling beneath his nails from his frantic attempts to get to his feet as Louis was taken from him.
He could say: I am worried about you. Louis would say: you don't need to, I'm fine. Then Daniel will walk through the door and the thing will be lost, or they will simply circle the point until Lestat becomes frustrated or Louis crumbles and it will likely be the former because Louis is nothing if not stubborn in his suffering and perhaps it would all play out like this even if they were companions again. But he doesn't know.
How often did Louis drink from Armand? The book never specified.
"We are helping each other," he says, light. "Does it suit you to go out, wounded?"
A thing Louis could point out: It's hardly helping you to weaken yourself for me.
But it is much the same, Louis thinks, as the reason for their coffins dragged into one room. For Lestat in his coffin last night. They were attacked. This will ease some of what lingers.
Maybe it is nothing else. Maybe it is this simple.
Louis reaches out to take his hand. Squeeze his fingers a little in his own.
Assuring him, these words. Assuring him, this action.
Lestat will take it.
Allows his hand to be taken in turn. His nails have the remnants of black nail polish, slowly chipped away, but the flex and curl of his fingers is all familiar, very particular grace.
And certainly, part of him, most of him, desires to bare his throat to him, a tempting kind of too much, too far, too close that he considers as his eyes drag a look down Louis' jaw, his throat. Tugs at his hand, directing them both towards the couch nearby, sitting down and ushering Louis to sit with him.
Here, he can shrug off his jacket. The fashionable drapey thing beneath bares his arms, and a little rattling collection of silver jewelry hangs off his wrists. "Here," he says—directing Louis not to his wrist or throat, but touching his upper arm, between elbow and shoulder, where the artery is laid closed to the surface. "Straight from the heart."
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Easy acceptance, in the face of that probing. They'd gored each other multiple times during the interview, and guilt and blame aside, there's a kind of unspoken stalemate concerning Daniel publishing the book vs Louis having left him there with Armand. This affection has edges. But it was always going to; Louis is hard to hold on to, Daniel is hard to care for.
'Does it worry you?'
Getting a kick out of suicidal ideation doesn't mean it's not suicidal ideation.
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Daniel had said it. Expressed it. What Louis had gone through, where he is now, that he may not be okay.
Too easy, that acceptance. Like it has been accounted for already. Lestat, still considering the tangled thing he's been given just now. Louis launching himself into danger. Louis doing so to protect Daniel. The numerous things that might have come of it.
Wanders into his bathroom. Someone has cleaned it of the crime scene mess it had been. The smell of cleaning chemicals stings the inside of his nose, and he backs out again.
'But he cares for you a great deal. The idea of your survival, your continued presence. You know he wished to make you one of us himself.'
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It's just that Louis is also fucking suicidal sometimes, and so, it does Daniel's head in.
A delay.
Eventually,
'He's said that, yeah.'
Still not sure if he believes it. Strange, to know that Louis told Lestat. He doesn't know why.
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'In my experience, his desire to die looks like running away.' They are speaking in each others heads. Lestat doesn't need Daniel to state all he is thinking into articulated transmission. 'Like stillness. Surrender.'
He would like to be right. He would like it if Louis was not seeking death, still.
'Which does not mean I approve of his being ridiculous.'
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Not from the camera, wouldn't that be nice. (Door slams. Footsteps. Metal door. The splintered panic of Armand shouting Louis' name, his own blood on the floor. Metal door again.)
Decides not to argue with Lestat, because it would be too fucking dismal. He doesn't want to. It's easier to be pissed off at Louis for this immediate thing, and just be pissed off for a day and then get on with things. What's he going to do, hold it against him? He doesn't think there's anything they could do to each other to get to that point.
'It's all technically fine. I'm just handling it gracelessly, but if I handled shit well all the time, I probably wouldn't be here.'
Does anybody become a vampire after making GOOD life choices??
'I got you something. And him something. Well. Mostly him. But I think you were looking for it.'
They can change subjects. Daniel grated out the apology. Dwelling on the whole thing sucks.
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Rolls his eyes instead, lets it be. Lets it all be technically fine, lets graceless handling take the blame. Daniel and Louis both could stand, he thinks, to try out admitting that things aren't fine and having a meltdown about it. Cry, even. Does wonders.
But he can tolerate a change in subject, particularly at the magic words: I got you something. Or Louis something.
'Oh?' And now his awareness presses in closer, and Daniel can probably feel it, like an overly friendly leaning of weight. Catches impressions of what it could be, but nevertheless, bids, 'Tell me.'
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So.
Magic words.
'It's a camera.'
Which Daniel is putting back into its box now that he's satisfied that it functions as well as can be expected. Batteries in, film pack loaded. No excuses.
'Not a good one. A good one would be the wrong move.'
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Lestat is not so stupid that he can't quickly connect these dots, and only considers playing it for a moment. An amused, "Hm," to himself, finishing with his hair and turning from the mirror.
'You remembered,' the psychic equivalent of a sigh. All doubt, in this next part, 'And you wish me to give Louis a deliberately bad gift?'
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Work with him.
It's this or cocaine, and he thinks Louis has for real quit, unlike Daniel, who 'quit'.
'This has no settings. It's not even the full size ones, it's the significantly worse rectangle exposures. He can't overthink it, just point, shoot, stare at it, and it's stylishly Polaroid-y or it's got an in-camera development error.'
Are you seeing his vision, Lestat.
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Wanders to where he has the photograph Louis gifted him, sitting framed on his dresser. Picks it up, considering, a blurry moment in time, Claudia showing her fangs. No overthinking, says Daniel, and Lestat heaves a sigh in the quiet of his room.
Yes, he can see this vision. And yes, Louis still might hate it. But he can live with Louis rejecting gifts. It's practically a love language.
All the same—
'You can explain it to him when you gift it. You two have unfinished business, and we have a long drive ahead of us.'
And if Daniel can sense something in Lestat's tone like claws very much ready to snatch this gift as his own despite these words— well, he's not imagining it.
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See. Easy.
A long drive, though—
Lestat might be able to sense a brief hint towards reluctance. Should he go with them? Give them space? (Deal with Armand, on his own? He can't imagine the lurking ancient wants to be left behind.) He might have to end up being on the phone the whole fucking drive anyway, forcing Lestat and Louis to sit in bored silence as he gets work done, and potentially pulls over halfway through in some bed and breakfast town to have dinner with fucking Raglan. Hm.
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And then,
'Thank you for finding it.'
The gift he'd been looking for.
But not distracted from that twinge. A little incredulous, a little amused (and so an apology did in fact get Daniel somewhere), Lestat queries, 'You're thinking of ditching us?'
That will go down so well.
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Maybe not yet. He and Louis might argue still. He doesn't want to appear to be trying quite that hard to get out of a conversation, he doesn't want to add another emotional weight to a bad week. The timing is strange. Once they get to their next location, he decides. Satisfied enough to have had it printed out now, in civilization with appropriate facilities. Vermont? What the fuck is in Vermont? Hopefully electricity, at least.
'Not in earnest,' is wry. 'But I have shit to juggle, still.'
Work. Secret agents. Eldritch horrors with big amber eyes.
'Just trying to work out a schedule in my head that doesn't make anyone insane.'
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A shrugging tone carries this message.
'And Louis loves to behold your juggling acts. I would not worry.'
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But there's a note of humor to his (mental) tone. Daniel resolves not to try and find a way to weasel out of it, self-aware at least partially that he's just avoiding emotional significance like an asshole. And of course the very real element of anxiety concerning what, exactly, the fuck, he's going to do about the prospect of Armand tagging along from the shadows.
'I'll let you go. Be back soon.'
Camera in tow.
contribution delayed by Fashion.
He wakes alone. Lays in coffin and weathers the complex feelings that turn provokes, before emerging.
Sitting up in his coffin, he can hear Lestat moving in his room. Can see the sticky note on Daniel's coffin, an immediate herald of his absence. Feels something complicated about all this as well, and chooses to set these things aside.
The lid of his coffin thunks audibly closed, followed by footsteps, the softer click of a bedroom door swinging shut. In the privacy of his own rooms, Louis can observe the faded shadows of bruising at his throat. Let himself be annoyed by it. Fall into familiar rituals, early evening ablutions that are unchanged in spite of the last night's skirmish.
Louis takes his time. (Louis is uncertain what waits for him when he emerges.) But eventually, returns to the main room to summon Rachida. Today's fashion: a mid-weight, high-necked sweater of mossy green, slightly oversized. He'd bent to roll back the hem of deep gold corduroy trousers to accommodate heavier boots, dropped a leather jacket of rich, creamy brown onto the back of the couch as he passes.
Intends to go out, maybe. Attend to last minute errands of his own. Stubbornly refuses to be cowed by the potential for any repetition of last night's trainwreck. He intends on continuing to be difficult to kill.
He bends to collect the post-it from the lid of Daniel's coffin.
It's fine. All things, fine.
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Hair: texturised. Outfit: a lot. Faux fur, firstly, a jacket with fuzzy leopard spots over miscellaneous silken black textures beneath, which are permitted to fall over a pair of tight-fitted jeans. Boots with wide heels elevate him a predictable amount, and violet Wal-Mart glasses hang from his collar.
Lestat, likewise, has an air of perhaps intending on going out, errands and murder, but who can say when he will also get fully dressed, makeup and accessories included, and then go nowhere for the night if he doesn't feel like it.
"Bonsoir," he says, a wiggly meander on his way over. It doesn't sound disparaging when he says, "Dressing for an innocuous night out?" Mostly due to the way it invites an impulse to touch the various textures within reach. Keeps his hands to himself, bundled behind him.
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"I've a few last threads to tie off before we go," Louis confirms. "Thought I'd handle it this evening."
Innocuous allowed to pass without commentary, taking it on its face.
"You look nice."
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Will there ever be a time that even an offhanded compliment from Louis would not make the world spin a little differently, a little more optimistically? Only if Lestat were making his best effort to deny it, perhaps.
"You as well," on the way to, "if tender, still." His eyes lingering on where shadows have failed to fade on Louis' skin. Distressing reminders for him personally. The reminder of a restrictive diet. The old misgivings and fretting that always came out wrong and hostile between them.
Head tipped as he asks, "Perhaps I can make a donation before you attend to your business. I assume your staff aren't squeamish."
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It can be nothing other than intimate. (The memory of dinners ending with Armand, crossing to occupy the vacant seat alongside Louis, bare his neck, tip into Louis' hands without any hesitation.)
Louis hesitates now. The offer tugs something tender and raw in his chest, and he knows less what to do with it than he does the bruises, vestiges of their near miss the night before.
"No one is squeamish," he confirms, feeling his way through his own uncertainty, the uneven beat of his heart. Wanting. Apprehensive anyway. "But you ain't obligated that way. I'll be just fine in a day or two."
Is this the right thing? Louis is guided only by his sense of boundary, how careful they are with each other, the sense that he would be transgressing. He woke alone. What else does that signal but a return to the status quo?
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But, Lestat must reason, this is immutable: he is Louis' maker. If nothing else, that is always what he will be.
A flicker of a smile. Leaning forward, teasing nearly, when he says, "You must tell me no, if you don't wish to. I have already settled it in myself."
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Unbearable.
The hesitation doesn't abate. It maintains, this restraint in Louis, as he looks into Lestat's face. All the things that he is, Lestat. The deep affection that Louis holds for him, regardless of what they are to each other in the moment.
Affection. Love. Things maybe better left untouched. Things Lestat may have left behind. Louis said so many things, in the book. They have been apart for so long. Lestat woke early, left Louis to wake alone.
Is it so easy to offer this? Is it obligation?
Louis can glean nothing from Lestat's face. He's smiling, teasing, and Louis is alone with his hesitations.
"You that worried for me?" Louis murmurs, which isn't a no. Not yet.
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is a hilarious understatement. It is all very fresh, still. He can still feel the concrete crumbling beneath his nails from his frantic attempts to get to his feet as Louis was taken from him.
He could say: I am worried about you. Louis would say: you don't need to, I'm fine. Then Daniel will walk through the door and the thing will be lost, or they will simply circle the point until Lestat becomes frustrated or Louis crumbles and it will likely be the former because Louis is nothing if not stubborn in his suffering and perhaps it would all play out like this even if they were companions again. But he doesn't know.
How often did Louis drink from Armand? The book never specified.
"We are helping each other," he says, light. "Does it suit you to go out, wounded?"
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But it is much the same, Louis thinks, as the reason for their coffins dragged into one room. For Lestat in his coffin last night. They were attacked. This will ease some of what lingers.
Maybe it is nothing else. Maybe it is this simple.
Louis reaches out to take his hand. Squeeze his fingers a little in his own.
"It ain't as bad as it looks."
Stipulating.
But then—
"Show me where."
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Lestat will take it.
Allows his hand to be taken in turn. His nails have the remnants of black nail polish, slowly chipped away, but the flex and curl of his fingers is all familiar, very particular grace.
And certainly, part of him, most of him, desires to bare his throat to him, a tempting kind of too much, too far, too close that he considers as his eyes drag a look down Louis' jaw, his throat. Tugs at his hand, directing them both towards the couch nearby, sitting down and ushering Louis to sit with him.
Here, he can shrug off his jacket. The fashionable drapey thing beneath bares his arms, and a little rattling collection of silver jewelry hangs off his wrists. "Here," he says—directing Louis not to his wrist or throat, but touching his upper arm, between elbow and shoulder, where the artery is laid closed to the surface. "Straight from the heart."
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bow territory i think