He could have brushed some makeup over these bruises. Drank enough blood to get rid of them. Lestat could not state with honesty if leaving them so exposed was a conscious decision stronger than fuck it, but his chin tips up as Louis touches them. His own hand twitches like he could slap this gesture aside.
But maybe he is doing all of this for attention after all. He should let Louis' fingers linger.
"Then tell me about myself," he says, voice at a constant, low hum of upset vibrato. "You're so good at it, knowing all of me inside and out, better than I do myself even. Explain to me how this is not fine and what you do instead is more worthy, and none of my business."
At some point, pressing in closer, leaning into these accusing fingers. Letting them twinge slow fading bruises.
What happens if Lestat shatters? What happens if Louis pushes and Lestat breaks and—
Lestat steps into him. Louis' fingers press down, dimpling the skin. Neither of them have ever been good at retreating. Louis' temper is smoldering, catching, fed by frustration and the worry he's been carrying around with him since the very first stop on the tour. Lestat invites and Louis' jaw tightens and he thinks, Say nothing and he also thinks—
Fuck it.
"Because it ain't about punishment when I do it."
Is somewhere in the middle?
Punishment for them both. Punishment for Louis. Punishment for Lestat.
Or maybe it is only that Louis has only so many frames to apply, and he is using this one.
It hurts, and Lestat could not exactly say why, or describe the nature of the injury. What Louis is saying sounds true, impressed into him as his fingertips lay firm against tender, bruised skin. Tears break, spill, and it's annoying, annoying to display this kind of weakness when what he would prefer to show is strength.
Lestat turns, pushes Louis' hand aside with more resignation than anger, his other hand coming up to dash away streaking tears.
"Well I cannot do nothing," he says, voice thick, more misery than hostility, but both tangled together, fraught. "And nothing is all you have asked of me. All of this,"
turning back to him, a swing of an arm that gestures to, perhaps, the world at large, the club they just left behind, the baying of wolves at the edge of the woods,
Are they going to argue about this, or argue about them, about what Louis needs, what Lestat needs, the looming incompatibility of the two?
"You want me to ask you to stop?"
As if he hasn't been asking this. As if perhaps he makes it some formal thing, that might sway Lestat. They are both of them stubborn enough to dig in heels, to hurt each other, to recklessly careen towards altercations.
Louis could make bigger threats. Endanger himself.
He holds this card to his chest. They are not quite fighting yet, and that would make this a real fight.
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no subject
But maybe he is doing all of this for attention after all. He should let Louis' fingers linger.
"Then tell me about myself," he says, voice at a constant, low hum of upset vibrato. "You're so good at it, knowing all of me inside and out, better than I do myself even. Explain to me how this is not fine and what you do instead is more worthy, and none of my business."
At some point, pressing in closer, leaning into these accusing fingers. Letting them twinge slow fading bruises.
no subject
What happens if Lestat shatters? What happens if Louis pushes and Lestat breaks and—
Lestat steps into him. Louis' fingers press down, dimpling the skin. Neither of them have ever been good at retreating. Louis' temper is smoldering, catching, fed by frustration and the worry he's been carrying around with him since the very first stop on the tour. Lestat invites and Louis' jaw tightens and he thinks, Say nothing and he also thinks—
Fuck it.
"Because it ain't about punishment when I do it."
Is somewhere in the middle?
Punishment for them both. Punishment for Louis. Punishment for Lestat.
Or maybe it is only that Louis has only so many frames to apply, and he is using this one.
no subject
Lestat turns, pushes Louis' hand aside with more resignation than anger, his other hand coming up to dash away streaking tears.
"Well I cannot do nothing," he says, voice thick, more misery than hostility, but both tangled together, fraught. "And nothing is all you have asked of me. All of this,"
turning back to him, a swing of an arm that gestures to, perhaps, the world at large, the club they just left behind, the baying of wolves at the edge of the woods,
"is what I was made to do. So I will do it."
no subject
"You want me to ask you to stop?"
As if he hasn't been asking this. As if perhaps he makes it some formal thing, that might sway Lestat. They are both of them stubborn enough to dig in heels, to hurt each other, to recklessly careen towards altercations.
Louis could make bigger threats. Endanger himself.
He holds this card to his chest. They are not quite fighting yet, and that would make this a real fight.
"What do you need me to ask you, Lestat?"