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
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.