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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.