Lestat delicately draws a cigarette out, turning it to look at. Letting the end burn, smolder, with a touch of willpower. Was it conscious, to conceal the fire gift from Louis, all those years back? Conscious, to hide his flying? Instinct either way. The correct thing to do, after Louis' difficult relationship with being what they were.
He takes a breath, then offers it out—to share or to light Louis' own for him. It had never mattered before if he had a lighter, so it shouldn't matter now that Louis has he fire gift as well.
"You aren't going to sing, are you?" sounds more affectionate than disappointed. An exaggeration after all.
It had been ritual, back then. Lestat lighting his cigarette, then Lestat lighting Louis'. The little ways they tended to each other, small intimacies that could pass muster in the public eye. Lestat offers it out and Louis, cigarette already held between his lips, leans in to light his own off Lestat's.
Another little dip, another closed circuit.
Small intimacies, enduring.
"No," Louis confirms, a smile flashing up onto his face, just for Lestat. "You know I ain't never been much of singer."
Coaxed into it for Claudia's birthdays, as a wavering third when Lestat and Claudia vocalized at their piano. Always serviceable, never anything that might impress.
"I pity anyone trying to follow you anyways," is subtle praise. Lestat must know Louis' admiration is unchanged.
Out here, the air is sharply chilly and he'd left his coat inside. But his blood alcohol content is helpful, and it's a nice change to the crowded warmth they'd left behind. Lestat mirrors that smile as he brings his cigarette up to take a breath from.
Louis is not a singer, not a dancer, not an artist. He appreciates all these talents, admires them where they manifest in others, in those around him. But they don't belong to him.
Lestat leans against the brick, considering Louis in this lower light. Infinitely familiar, these little shows of deference, self-effacement. As if to make up for his pride in other things. An astute reader, a self-taught intellect, a businessman who cracked the code a long time ago and never wants for anything.
Those are all nice, of course. "I was leading," he agrees. "But leading is only touring you around the room. Displaying you to them as you turned in my arms. All were watching you, in New Orleans."
Maybe Louis didn't notice. Maybe they are naturally biased in this way, locked in on each other, the world melting away, but Lestat is very sure he's correct, consumed as he was in the task of facilitating Louis' steps. As if to say, behold. None of you knew anything about him, none of you ever will, and your petty lives are at a deficit for it.
"But you were a dancer before you met me," he adds, turning his cigarette aside to ash it. "As though there could be even more to love about you, when I was turning you, your blood offered to me memories of you doing your steps with Paul as a child. Again, at your sister's wedding. It made me think, won't it be wonderful, our eternity, that we can dance together whenever we wish? That for us, there will always be music."
He has a had a lot to drink, so maybe he can be forgiven for the ways his eyes go misty, maybe disguised in his look aside, where ash spirals and winks out. Well, perhaps he is permitted one or two indulgences, given how well-behaved he has been.
They are both indulging tonight, Louis thinks. Only Lestat has been drinking and Louis has not, so what excuse does he have for offering:
"Can still dance whenever we like."
As if it is so simple. Louis knows it is not.
He also knows that Lestat says these things and it becomes so difficult to breathe. Air caches in Louis' lungs. He'd been talking about moments ago here in this crowded, mostly indifferent bar. But Lestat is talking about New Orleans and the delirious perfection of that last dance. He is talking about who Louis was once, about the life they had together.
The altar. The things Lestat had thought then, and Louis hadn't known until now.
What else he can he do but make this promise?
"Still got an eternity for us to learn some new steps."
This on the heels of a drag off his own cigarette, looking away, into the warmth of the bar. The muffled attempts at a second Johnny Cash tune, some mismatched stomping of feet in time with the song. Exhales a cloud of smoke as he looks back, meets Lestat's eyes.
It's a sweet sentiment. An exaggeration, he thinks, about whenever, but the thought is kind, and he is in the mood to feel warmly to it.
Walks through parks, attendance at music concerts, opera dates, and now dances. They are installing quite a lot of promises into this friendship of theirs, making it even more of a treasured thing. Lestat watches him through the cigarette smoke, fond, feels his heart trip over itself when eye contact is made again.
"You can lead next time," he says. "Show me what I've missed."
A bracing breath of cool air and smoke, willing his eyes to dry up. It would be a shame for his mood to turn maudlin.
"Alright," Louis agrees, tone tipping mischievous as he cautions, "But they ain't exactly waltzing these days."
News delivered with some amusement, until Louis fully considers the possibilities. Thinks about dancing so close to him, in some other bar.
Louis lifts the cigarette to his mouth, watching Lestat. It is, as always, a pleasure to look at him. The miracle of him, so welcome. Louis will never be tired of studying him, watching Lestat bloom into this era.
"I'll show you," he promises, breaking the silence drawing taut between them. "Next time we spend a night in a bar."
He can think of all things that would come natural for him to do in this moment. Slink closer, lure Louis into something like a dance out here in the smokey alleyway, muffled music, the sounds of their boots scraping the concrete louder than the melody. Cocoon them in each other's proximity so that, like it always did, the world around them fades to nothing.
It itches, to stay where he is instead. Louis says next time, so Lestat will trust there is a next time. That Louis will reach a hand out to him and show him something. But until then—
"I have not seen your camera at all since we left," he says, mock-haughty, tapping some ash aside. "And now I have given two performances."
Lestat stays where he is and Louis observes him, considers the absence of proximity, the failure to reach out. Tries to untangle the quiet of the two of them here with the affection that came easy inside.
Tries to quash the uneasy feeling that it was more performance than sentiment. Puts the thought away, lets Lestat distract him from contemplating too deeply.
"Were those performances for me?" Louis asks, a little sly, a little teasing. Seeking a loop hole.
Has not truly examined the unease the camera sparks in him. It's complicated. Maybe more so than Lestat or Daniel wish to unravel with him.
These moments, where one imagines a thing being an obvious truth. Louis is teasing him, but all the same. Lestat is quiet a moment, considering the rise of feeling in him. Tempering it.
"Of course," he says. "Always."
Does he not know that? Is there a world where Lestat gets on stage if Louis were not present? —well, maybe. But perhaps not so joyfully.
"Of course," Louis returns, because in what world did Lestat offer anything less than perfection from the stage? In what world would Louis be dissatisfied?
Louis flicks ash from his cigarette, holding Lestat's gaze.
"I been missing it. Your voice."
Years away from New Orleans when Louis would hear him whenever he liked, whenever the mood struck. Years with only an inferior recording locked away, brought out only for Daniel's benefit.
A little coy. He could accuse Louis of deflecting, using flattery to steer him off the subject, but the problem is that it's already working. Lestat touching teeth to cigarette butt, unconscious flirting, as if it were still the 1920s and he'd found all these little subtle ways to make his desires and appreciation known.
But thoughtful, too. He says, "I feel you had not much to say about my singing in the book," and gives a shrug. "Only that one song."
He doesn't hold Louis to an answer, exhales smoke with a soft, dismissive sound. "It was strange reading. Dreamlike, at times. Like you are outside of your own house, and the door won't open. You peer in through the windows, which are fogged, obscured in lace, and you watch someone who looks like you and behaves like you doing all the things you did, with the ones you loved.
"And you would like them to stop," he adds. "Or do it differently. Or they do something else entirely. Of course you can't. Everything is locked inside."
Arresting to catch that familiar bit of work with cigarette and teeth, there and gone and replaced by a shrug of a breath before Lestat says these other things.
Lestat speaks of the book and Louis looks away. Distracts himself for a moment with his cigarette, flicking ash.
Refrains from the first words that come to mind: You were never supposed to see it.
That might sour things, Louis thinks. It might sour the camaraderie between Lestat and Daniel if Louis were to say aloud that he'd changed his mind about publishing at the last moment. It's between Louis and Daniel.
So he casts about for something else. Lands upon: "We make another book. Put new things inside to balance out the bad that came before."
Louis is already awash in enemies. So what if he publishes something else? What more can be incited?
Lestat only realises he is slightly braced for the conversation going awry when it doesn't, and he finds himself pleased. Relieved, despite being the one to nip at the edges of the topic. A stream of smoke leaves him with a mirthful exhale, a smile that shows up at the eyes.
"Another book," is agreement. And then, "Or another medium altogether. No one reads anymore, chéri."
As if readership is the concern, as far as the vampiric world is concerned. As far as this little sentiment, this offering, is concerned.
But what if they start a podcast.
And then, a slight swivel. Picking up on something from within, before he reports, "That is Jeannie. We should go in." Dropping his cigarette already, crushing it beneath boot heel.
Louis lingers anyway, drawing out that last drag off his own cigarette for the pleasure of Lestat's undivided attention.
A moment where Louis wants to demand escort back to their hotel room. There is a mini fridge. They could pour drinks. Talk. Lestat broached the topic of the book apart from the spate of angry vampires seeking Louis' death. They could be done with the close crowding of the bar.
But Louis acquiesces. Stubs out cigarette.
"Lead the way," he agrees, gracious.
No need to overstep, mistake friendliness for something it isn't. They've been having a nice night. They can keep on having one, alongside Jeannie and Mark and Daniel.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He takes a breath, then offers it out—to share or to light Louis' own for him. It had never mattered before if he had a lighter, so it shouldn't matter now that Louis has he fire gift as well.
"You aren't going to sing, are you?" sounds more affectionate than disappointed. An exaggeration after all.
no subject
Another little dip, another closed circuit.
Small intimacies, enduring.
"No," Louis confirms, a smile flashing up onto his face, just for Lestat. "You know I ain't never been much of singer."
Coaxed into it for Claudia's birthdays, as a wavering third when Lestat and Claudia vocalized at their piano. Always serviceable, never anything that might impress.
"I pity anyone trying to follow you anyways," is subtle praise. Lestat must know Louis' admiration is unchanged.
no subject
Out here, the air is sharply chilly and he'd left his coat inside. But his blood alcohol content is helpful, and it's a nice change to the crowded warmth they'd left behind. Lestat mirrors that smile as he brings his cigarette up to take a breath from.
"And anyway," he adds. "You're a dancer."
no subject
Teasing disbelief.
Louis is not a singer, not a dancer, not an artist. He appreciates all these talents, admires them where they manifest in others, in those around him. But they don't belong to him.
"You were leading, last I checked."
no subject
Those are all nice, of course. "I was leading," he agrees. "But leading is only touring you around the room. Displaying you to them as you turned in my arms. All were watching you, in New Orleans."
Maybe Louis didn't notice. Maybe they are naturally biased in this way, locked in on each other, the world melting away, but Lestat is very sure he's correct, consumed as he was in the task of facilitating Louis' steps. As if to say, behold. None of you knew anything about him, none of you ever will, and your petty lives are at a deficit for it.
"But you were a dancer before you met me," he adds, turning his cigarette aside to ash it. "As though there could be even more to love about you, when I was turning you, your blood offered to me memories of you doing your steps with Paul as a child. Again, at your sister's wedding. It made me think, won't it be wonderful, our eternity, that we can dance together whenever we wish? That for us, there will always be music."
He has a had a lot to drink, so maybe he can be forgiven for the ways his eyes go misty, maybe disguised in his look aside, where ash spirals and winks out. Well, perhaps he is permitted one or two indulgences, given how well-behaved he has been.
no subject
"Can still dance whenever we like."
As if it is so simple. Louis knows it is not.
He also knows that Lestat says these things and it becomes so difficult to breathe. Air caches in Louis' lungs. He'd been talking about moments ago here in this crowded, mostly indifferent bar. But Lestat is talking about New Orleans and the delirious perfection of that last dance. He is talking about who Louis was once, about the life they had together.
The altar. The things Lestat had thought then, and Louis hadn't known until now.
What else he can he do but make this promise?
"Still got an eternity for us to learn some new steps."
This on the heels of a drag off his own cigarette, looking away, into the warmth of the bar. The muffled attempts at a second Johnny Cash tune, some mismatched stomping of feet in time with the song. Exhales a cloud of smoke as he looks back, meets Lestat's eyes.
no subject
Walks through parks, attendance at music concerts, opera dates, and now dances. They are installing quite a lot of promises into this friendship of theirs, making it even more of a treasured thing. Lestat watches him through the cigarette smoke, fond, feels his heart trip over itself when eye contact is made again.
"You can lead next time," he says. "Show me what I've missed."
A bracing breath of cool air and smoke, willing his eyes to dry up. It would be a shame for his mood to turn maudlin.
no subject
News delivered with some amusement, until Louis fully considers the possibilities. Thinks about dancing so close to him, in some other bar.
Louis lifts the cigarette to his mouth, watching Lestat. It is, as always, a pleasure to look at him. The miracle of him, so welcome. Louis will never be tired of studying him, watching Lestat bloom into this era.
"I'll show you," he promises, breaking the silence drawing taut between them. "Next time we spend a night in a bar."
no subject
He can think of all things that would come natural for him to do in this moment. Slink closer, lure Louis into something like a dance out here in the smokey alleyway, muffled music, the sounds of their boots scraping the concrete louder than the melody. Cocoon them in each other's proximity so that, like it always did, the world around them fades to nothing.
It itches, to stay where he is instead. Louis says next time, so Lestat will trust there is a next time. That Louis will reach a hand out to him and show him something. But until then—
"I have not seen your camera at all since we left," he says, mock-haughty, tapping some ash aside. "And now I have given two performances."
no subject
Tries to quash the uneasy feeling that it was more performance than sentiment. Puts the thought away, lets Lestat distract him from contemplating too deeply.
"Were those performances for me?" Louis asks, a little sly, a little teasing. Seeking a loop hole.
Has not truly examined the unease the camera sparks in him. It's complicated. Maybe more so than Lestat or Daniel wish to unravel with him.
no subject
"Of course," he says. "Always."
Does he not know that? Is there a world where Lestat gets on stage if Louis were not present? —well, maybe. But perhaps not so joyfully.
"Were they not to your satisfaction?"
no subject
"Of course," Louis returns, because in what world did Lestat offer anything less than perfection from the stage? In what world would Louis be dissatisfied?
Louis flicks ash from his cigarette, holding Lestat's gaze.
"I been missing it. Your voice."
Years away from New Orleans when Louis would hear him whenever he liked, whenever the mood struck. Years with only an inferior recording locked away, brought out only for Daniel's benefit.
no subject
A little coy. He could accuse Louis of deflecting, using flattery to steer him off the subject, but the problem is that it's already working. Lestat touching teeth to cigarette butt, unconscious flirting, as if it were still the 1920s and he'd found all these little subtle ways to make his desires and appreciation known.
But thoughtful, too. He says, "I feel you had not much to say about my singing in the book," and gives a shrug. "Only that one song."
He doesn't hold Louis to an answer, exhales smoke with a soft, dismissive sound. "It was strange reading. Dreamlike, at times. Like you are outside of your own house, and the door won't open. You peer in through the windows, which are fogged, obscured in lace, and you watch someone who looks like you and behaves like you doing all the things you did, with the ones you loved.
"And you would like them to stop," he adds. "Or do it differently. Or they do something else entirely. Of course you can't. Everything is locked inside."
no subject
Lestat speaks of the book and Louis looks away. Distracts himself for a moment with his cigarette, flicking ash.
Refrains from the first words that come to mind: You were never supposed to see it.
That might sour things, Louis thinks. It might sour the camaraderie between Lestat and Daniel if Louis were to say aloud that he'd changed his mind about publishing at the last moment. It's between Louis and Daniel.
So he casts about for something else. Lands upon: "We make another book. Put new things inside to balance out the bad that came before."
Louis is already awash in enemies. So what if he publishes something else? What more can be incited?
no subject
"Another book," is agreement. And then, "Or another medium altogether. No one reads anymore, chéri."
As if readership is the concern, as far as the vampiric world is concerned. As far as this little sentiment, this offering, is concerned.
But what if they start a podcast.
And then, a slight swivel. Picking up on something from within, before he reports, "That is Jeannie. We should go in." Dropping his cigarette already, crushing it beneath boot heel.
no subject
Louis lingers anyway, drawing out that last drag off his own cigarette for the pleasure of Lestat's undivided attention.
A moment where Louis wants to demand escort back to their hotel room. There is a mini fridge. They could pour drinks. Talk. Lestat broached the topic of the book apart from the spate of angry vampires seeking Louis' death. They could be done with the close crowding of the bar.
But Louis acquiesces. Stubs out cigarette.
"Lead the way," he agrees, gracious.
No need to overstep, mistake friendliness for something it isn't. They've been having a nice night. They can keep on having one, alongside Jeannie and Mark and Daniel.