And he bites down on the first impulse. The parts of him that wish to say something unkind, to offer provocation. They could fuck again. They could stop speaking of this. They could make Lestat's driver roam the city a thousand times over while they fell into each other.
Louis sighs.
"It ain't for you to worry about. I didn't want it to be something you worried about."
Now, movement. Restlessness that seizes him suddenly, and Lestat is pushing away, climbing over, a gripping hand shoving himself back into leather pants ridden low. A bad sign for the prospect of a circling drive, of a second round, although hope springs eternal. But, a flash of hurt, anger.
He levers himself into the opposite seat, hair a mess, clothes a mess. Vest tattered on the ground, given up as refuse.
"Why isn't it for me to worry about? Why shouldn't it be? Or do you have your valet ready with the memo to my lawyer when she finds you torn into pieces or burned to ash?"
If Lestat is wearing clothes, Louis should do up his own trousers. Realizes quickly Lestat has broken the button, feels some flicker of easy irritation over it. A mess, Lestat has made a mess of him. Broken button, Lestat's spend joining the blood staining his shirt and drying tacky on the straps of the harness, there is no way to make it all presentable.
Sighs again, frustrated. Obliged to settle for simply tugging trousers up, mirror Lestat and shift upright.
"Because that ain't gonna happen."
Direct. Confident.
"I got a handle on it, Lestat. The timing just got fucked up this time."
"Oh, the timing just got fucked up this time," is sort of flung across at the driver, as if he is a participant in the conversation and not an anonymous human behind a partition. There is, thankfully, no acknowledgment, nor acknowledgment sought.
Mocking, back to form, but this time there's less mischief, less lightness, something heated in the look steered across at Louis. "You don't know what will happen. You are one man against a society of vampires, which, by the way, is perhaps ten times more numerous than when you were made." He doesn't even feel high anymore, which is a different kind of distressing.
Vodka in a compartment somewhere, probably, but he doesn't seek it just now. "I had a handle on it. This time, I did."
None of this is what he wants to hear, but this throwaway mention, of drawing focus while he's at it, earns visible bristling.
"I did not ask you for that," is hissed, hands braced on either side of him, nails ruining the leather. "I want their attention. I demand it. I welcome it. I am the starring villain of your fucking book they are so mad about, so it's what I deserve, and stop telling me," a flash of bloodied fangs, "what is nothing to worry about, bordel de merde!"
The taste of Louis' blood, sampled from his fingertips on the balcony. Leading them here. Broken flesh beneath his tongue. Say they had the fire gift. Say they made proper use of their ambush. Say Lestat had not been there.
So it's what I deserve pulls Louis' focus, a heavy statement on the heels of the pieces of interview Louis has observed, a heavy thing to say when Louis has made no assertions about what is and isn't deserved.
"It ain't something for you to worry about," pushing, stubborn. Louis leaning forward into the space between them.
They haven't argued about the book. Louis hasn't said that he burned it, tried to burn it. That it happened anyway.
He likes Daniel alive, is the thing.
"And you don't deserve fucking rabble interrupting your tour. I got it. It's my shit, doesn't have to be yours."
They have the shape of reassurances, these phrases. You don't deserve implies generousity, and yet, the shape of Lestat's mouth is a hard, unhappy line.
"You knew I would worry," he says, still snippy, teeth bared and eyes bright, relentless. "You kept it from me because you knew that, and you knew that because I should. Why should I not, when if anything happened to you, if you were harmed, it would destroy me? Knowing you were courting these fights and I could have done something."
To stop them. To stop Louis. He is sure this is, too, why he has hidden it from Lestat. Not interested in the way Lestat might have his influence. Lestat, apart from it all, contained, like nuclear radiation, like a virus. His eyes sting, even though he stubbornly refuses to crumble.
Louis is close to him again, and it will always have an effect. Never mind having sated himself minutes ago, his blood warms, summoned, redirects the flow. Never mind the context, and that Lestat wants to shake him. He keeps his hands planted on either side of the seat, nails dug in, but doesn't lean back.
Unsatisfied with this nonsense reassurance.
And then a flicker of some other ill feeling at the question that follows. The implication of it, the way it doesn't feel like a true question, that all it says is Lestat could do nothing, nothing helpful, nothing wanted. A restless little fidget winding its way through his body.
"I would know," has a sulky slant to his tone. "I would know if you needed me and I could come to you."
The intricacies of the connection between them aren't always clear to Louis, but he knows that it is as Lestat had told him, just before Louis cut his throat: they are connected, bound by a cord Louis cannot see. But it's there. It is real.
Maybe Lestat would know. Louis cannot say for certain he would not.
"Even if it were in the middle of your show?" is unfair. Deliberately so. "Even if you were entertaining?" is even less so. Heavy implication, a little tell for Louis' jealousies, nurtured so quietly.
It hurts. A flicker of injury in his expression, the choking unfairness of these words. Maybe if he still did not taste Louis at the back of his tongue, was not maddened by the scent of his blood in this close space, he would do something other than—
"I am your maker," in a furious whisper. "You bled me dry and still, did I not come to you? Rescued you from the execution you court now? Is it not me who saves you, again and again and again? Fuck you."
And he cannot bring himself to shove Louis away, to strike him, even as anger runs hot through his body. To do so would invite disaster. He will not.
This is true. But it rings different than other descriptors that might have been used. His maker, his once-companion, his friend. Are any of those true? Can they be true anymore?
Fleeting, considering the passing invocation of the trial. How Louis stiffens in response as Lestat jabs at an old wound. Louis muscles through the ringing in his ears, asserts stubbornly, "I ain't courting anything. They're courting death by bothering me the way they been."
Bothering.
Side-stepping the rest. The assertion that Lestat saves him, again and again.
Flat, teeth bared and lip curled, like a dog on the verge of snapping. He is worried. He is afraid. That it presents as anger doesn't make this any less true. But anger, here, pushes past the rest, anger at the circular nature of the argument, the deflection and disregard of his own assertion, and Lestat turns his head to bark across at the driver, "Arrête," and the sudden squeal of the brakes indicates that his order was a little more than his voice.
Back to Louis. Lestat points imperiously towards the door past his shoulder. "Get out," vicious, and then suddenly louder; "Get the fuck out! Go swing your dick at someone who has the patience to indulge it, because it isn't me."
He had it in mind to ensure Louis was safely delivered to the basement garage of whatever hotel he was staying at, or perhaps, if he could convince him, his own. Somewhere safe and in easy reach. But there is no gratitude, only resistance, and so why should he?
A flashbulb pop of thought crystallizing in his head as Lestat snaps. Shouts. Voice filling the car. Louis flinches back, away, old wound caught in the reaction.
He is abruptly so, so angry. Angry for the flinch. Angry for being summarily dismissed. Angry at the imbalance between them, useless as it is to kick against it. Angry at himself, angry at Lestat.
Flushing hot then going so, so cold. No flare of fury to meet Lestat's, implosion rather than explosion, a vanishing even before Louis reaches a hand to the door.
"Fuck you, Lestat," in measured tones.
What else is there to say?
Louis is in absolute disarray. Nothing to be done for it. He pushes out the door anyway, onto the sidewalk, into the dark.
Lestat, louder, words chasing Louis out with a flap of his hand. A nasty sense of satisfaction for being able to kick Louis out immediately curdles, angrier for it. He is saying more, having flung himself in Louis' wake and caught at the door, shouting through it and into the street even as the car starts to pull away, "The next time I save your ungrateful self from another execution, you can find some other warm hole to put your pride," and a horn blares after the clumsy angle of the limo as it peels away.
He ducks back in, slams the door. It smells like blood and sex in here, and whatever scent Louis had worn to see him in, and if Lestat immediately collapses into somewhat confused, panicked tears, then his driver is paid enough not to make comment as he makes for the hotel.
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no subject
And he bites down on the first impulse. The parts of him that wish to say something unkind, to offer provocation. They could fuck again. They could stop speaking of this. They could make Lestat's driver roam the city a thousand times over while they fell into each other.
Louis sighs.
"It ain't for you to worry about. I didn't want it to be something you worried about."
no subject
Now, movement. Restlessness that seizes him suddenly, and Lestat is pushing away, climbing over, a gripping hand shoving himself back into leather pants ridden low. A bad sign for the prospect of a circling drive, of a second round, although hope springs eternal. But, a flash of hurt, anger.
He levers himself into the opposite seat, hair a mess, clothes a mess. Vest tattered on the ground, given up as refuse.
"Why isn't it for me to worry about? Why shouldn't it be? Or do you have your valet ready with the memo to my lawyer when she finds you torn into pieces or burned to ash?"
no subject
Sighs again, frustrated. Obliged to settle for simply tugging trousers up, mirror Lestat and shift upright.
"Because that ain't gonna happen."
Direct. Confident.
"I got a handle on it, Lestat. The timing just got fucked up this time."
no subject
Mocking, back to form, but this time there's less mischief, less lightness, something heated in the look steered across at Louis. "You don't know what will happen. You are one man against a society of vampires, which, by the way, is perhaps ten times more numerous than when you were made." He doesn't even feel high anymore, which is a different kind of distressing.
Vodka in a compartment somewhere, probably, but he doesn't seek it just now. "I had a handle on it. This time, I did."
no subject
Bristling in spite of himself. Saying this thing in spite of himself. Defensive. Pride stung by the implications.
"I play it right, I can cut down their numbers. Keep attention off you and Daniel too, while I'm at it."
As if that would be any more welcome.
"You're worrying over nothing. Bunch of fledglings barely half my age, it ain't gonna touch me in any way that matters."
Say less of the wounds Lestat had licked closed, the rest that are knitting even as they speak.
no subject
"I did not ask you for that," is hissed, hands braced on either side of him, nails ruining the leather. "I want their attention. I demand it. I welcome it. I am the starring villain of your fucking book they are so mad about, so it's what I deserve, and stop telling me," a flash of bloodied fangs, "what is nothing to worry about, bordel de merde!"
The taste of Louis' blood, sampled from his fingertips on the balcony. Leading them here. Broken flesh beneath his tongue. Say they had the fire gift. Say they made proper use of their ambush. Say Lestat had not been there.
no subject
"It ain't something for you to worry about," pushing, stubborn. Louis leaning forward into the space between them.
They haven't argued about the book. Louis hasn't said that he burned it, tried to burn it. That it happened anyway.
He likes Daniel alive, is the thing.
"And you don't deserve fucking rabble interrupting your tour. I got it. It's my shit, doesn't have to be yours."
no subject
"You knew I would worry," he says, still snippy, teeth bared and eyes bright, relentless. "You kept it from me because you knew that, and you knew that because I should. Why should I not, when if anything happened to you, if you were harmed, it would destroy me? Knowing you were courting these fights and I could have done something."
To stop them. To stop Louis. He is sure this is, too, why he has hidden it from Lestat. Not interested in the way Lestat might have his influence. Lestat, apart from it all, contained, like nuclear radiation, like a virus. His eyes sting, even though he stubbornly refuses to crumble.
no subject
Is such a nonsense reassurance. Bullshit, as Daniel would and has said.
Louis says it anyway.
Comes across the divide, leaning further into Lestat's space. Are they fighting? Is this a proper fight?
"Say I told you." Hypothetically. "What you think you'd do?"
Interfere. Louis is talking around this.
He knew Lestat would worry. Would do what he could to stop Louis. And Louis doesn't want to stop.
no subject
Unsatisfied with this nonsense reassurance.
And then a flicker of some other ill feeling at the question that follows. The implication of it, the way it doesn't feel like a true question, that all it says is Lestat could do nothing, nothing helpful, nothing wanted. A restless little fidget winding its way through his body.
"I would know," has a sulky slant to his tone. "I would know if you needed me and I could come to you."
no subject
The intricacies of the connection between them aren't always clear to Louis, but he knows that it is as Lestat had told him, just before Louis cut his throat: they are connected, bound by a cord Louis cannot see. But it's there. It is real.
Maybe Lestat would know. Louis cannot say for certain he would not.
"Even if it were in the middle of your show?" is unfair. Deliberately so. "Even if you were entertaining?" is even less so. Heavy implication, a little tell for Louis' jealousies, nurtured so quietly.
Unfair. Unfair, unfair.
no subject
"I am your maker," in a furious whisper. "You bled me dry and still, did I not come to you? Rescued you from the execution you court now? Is it not me who saves you, again and again and again? Fuck you."
And he cannot bring himself to shove Louis away, to strike him, even as anger runs hot through his body. To do so would invite disaster. He will not.
no subject
This is true. But it rings different than other descriptors that might have been used. His maker, his once-companion, his friend. Are any of those true? Can they be true anymore?
Fleeting, considering the passing invocation of the trial. How Louis stiffens in response as Lestat jabs at an old wound. Louis muscles through the ringing in his ears, asserts stubbornly, "I ain't courting anything. They're courting death by bothering me the way they been."
Bothering.
Side-stepping the rest. The assertion that Lestat saves him, again and again.
no subject
Flat, teeth bared and lip curled, like a dog on the verge of snapping. He is worried. He is afraid. That it presents as anger doesn't make this any less true. But anger, here, pushes past the rest, anger at the circular nature of the argument, the deflection and disregard of his own assertion, and Lestat turns his head to bark across at the driver, "Arrête," and the sudden squeal of the brakes indicates that his order was a little more than his voice.
Back to Louis. Lestat points imperiously towards the door past his shoulder. "Get out," vicious, and then suddenly louder; "Get the fuck out! Go swing your dick at someone who has the patience to indulge it, because it isn't me."
He had it in mind to ensure Louis was safely delivered to the basement garage of whatever hotel he was staying at, or perhaps, if he could convince him, his own. Somewhere safe and in easy reach. But there is no gratitude, only resistance, and so why should he?
no subject
A flashbulb pop of thought crystallizing in his head as Lestat snaps. Shouts. Voice filling the car. Louis flinches back, away, old wound caught in the reaction.
He is abruptly so, so angry. Angry for the flinch. Angry for being summarily dismissed. Angry at the imbalance between them, useless as it is to kick against it. Angry at himself, angry at Lestat.
Flushing hot then going so, so cold. No flare of fury to meet Lestat's, implosion rather than explosion, a vanishing even before Louis reaches a hand to the door.
"Fuck you, Lestat," in measured tones.
What else is there to say?
Louis is in absolute disarray. Nothing to be done for it. He pushes out the door anyway, onto the sidewalk, into the dark.
no subject
Lestat, louder, words chasing Louis out with a flap of his hand. A nasty sense of satisfaction for being able to kick Louis out immediately curdles, angrier for it. He is saying more, having flung himself in Louis' wake and caught at the door, shouting through it and into the street even as the car starts to pull away, "The next time I save your ungrateful self from another execution, you can find some other warm hole to put your pride," and a horn blares after the clumsy angle of the limo as it peels away.
He ducks back in, slams the door. It smells like blood and sex in here, and whatever scent Louis had worn to see him in, and if Lestat immediately collapses into somewhat confused, panicked tears, then his driver is paid enough not to make comment as he makes for the hotel.