Lingers for a moment, hands hovered light on Louis' arms, before he gives in. Leans, arms wrapping around him, and the garish red lights and the repetitious electronic music and the clamour of many voices he doesn't recognise all go dim. A breath out, a relaxing, and he doesn't think it's just the MDMA-laced blood that has him feel so light.
Nods against Louis' shoulder, hasty. "I do," he says. Confessional, in the moment. The truth is, of course, he wants Louis there every night. Backstage waiting for him, waiting with him. Telling him he is incredible. Smiling.
Undeserving. But he waits for Louis to be the one to loosen the embrace, takes that time to ensure he won't look shattered with relief when they part.
They cannot stand here forever. (Louis would have held him through a hurricane, if survival instincts hadn't won out.) But Louis wants to stand here forever, running his palm up and down Lestat's back, fingers bunched in the collar of Lestat's suit under the curtain of his hair. Nothing is complicated when they are wrapped up in each other this way. It is easy still.
Long minutes of just Louis holding him. Stolen time, swaying together, before Louis takes a deep breath. His fingers nudge up along Lestat's hairline, then sweep back down to his shoulders.
"I'll be there," Louis promises, face turned in to say this words against Lestat's temple. Dare to press a kiss there, a little stolen brush of lips, before Louis unravels them. Catches Lestat by his arms before he can draw away and press, "You got a cell phone? Your lawyer get you set up with one of your own?"
He feels there is a hurricane. That they are in his old shack. That he never truly left it.
Something similar in the way Lestat looks at Louis as the hug releases him and his arms are caught. Maybe obscured from the brushstrokes of eyeshadow, the blur of colour on his mouth, the random shimmer of sparkle, platinum tones in curled hair, the scent of cosmetics and cigarettes. Maybe not. His hands catch at Louis' elbows as he registers what is being said to him.
Shakes his head, first, then stops, and before Louis can responds, corrects himself, "Yes, I have one." Battery dead, abandoned in his room, many unread texts. Not lost like the last one, or broken like the one before that, so, it's an improvement. "Do you want my number?
"I don't know it," hasty amendment. "But I can find out."
"Get your girl to send it to me," Louis tells him. "I already had Rashida send her all the ways she can contact me."
Which can be put into Lestat's phone, if they haven't already. Louis had almost thought Lestat would have no phone at all, aware that neither of the earlier attempts have stuck. It had been a bleak contemplation of alternate possibilities, of having to text Cookie to get ahold of Lestat.
Louis reaches a hand up, tucks Lestat's hair back from his face. It is like how they had parted in New Orleans. Worse than that, maybe. At least in New Orleans, he'd had some sense that Lestat was on his feet. Now, he is less certain. It feels agonizing.
"You'll call?" he invites, a wild gambit given Lestat's track record with phones.
Later, he may reflect on this exchange being the worst of things that could have happened. The way Louis is speaking to him, touching him, looking at him all gesturing to how Lestat must seem to him. How he hasn't wanted to seem to him. It had been his own task to heal, to get himself together, ensure that he become something—
Something else.
No room for that in the moment, as he feels some heartache ease. His own stipulations to himself, of what he could or could not bear as Louis' friend, becoming murky. Becomes conscious to the way he using Louis for balance, and refocuses. Doesn't move his hands, but lets his grip become a more conscious, reassuring squeeze.
Exceptions, maybe, for time zones. For Louis closed up in a coffin while Lestat ranges across the world.
Louis senses the way Lestat is gathering himself. Senses the moment slipping away, that he will have to let go. Release Lestat back to his party, his fame. His tour. Contain the fact that he doesn't want to let go of Lestat.
He will have to learn how to use his phone for more than just making it play music.
"Yes," Lestat says, with a steadier smile now. A hand fluttering up, palm laying against Louis' chest. A little patter of his fingers settling. Wants to say, he will feel better then. That they can have a drink and dance together and all those things he feels he is incapable of doing in this moment without feeling the desperation of wanting more.
Skip the drugs, maybe. Skip a party, even. But there, there it is again, and he draws in a breath to say none of these things.
Reflexive: Louis' hand coming up to cover Lestat's.
"Maybe you come with me to one," Louis offers. "Give me some opinions, like we used to do."
Going way back. Louis was still human, and Lestat a mysterious friend with an empty townhouse in need of furnishing. Safe memories, except for how Louis had wanted him then and felt such shame for it. Safe, but for the knowledge that perhaps Lestat had known this about him, lifted it from his mind then.
Louis puts all of this aside. Gives a teasing grin, admitting, "Probably more boring than your tour. But if you got the time and I'm near enough, maybe you tell me."
An open door, to match the one Lestat has left ajar for Louis.
Matching tone for tone, phrasing for phrasing, as if he doesn't feel a dizzying rush for such an invitation, as if he is not keenly aware of the overlap of their hands over Louis' heart.
Goodbyes traded, Lestat slinking his way out of the party, up to his hotel room, pawing through his things and making an impossible mess until he locates his cellphone. Plugs it into its charge cord, lights up a cigarette inside while he waits for it to warm up, sitting on the floor with his back braced against his coffin. Caught between the senseless urge to cry, and for what, or having a mortal summoned up to feed from, preferably someone well spiked.
He does neither, not yet. Turns his phone on after some fussing, and, on a whim, sees if this works: "Text Louis."
Louis is in his car, being ferried off down the strip towards his own accommodations when he receives a message: This is my number
Across from him, Rachida is tapping her way through the rearrangement of the week's itinerary. Humming about Phoenix, and how many other additional stops...?
It's doable. Louis has a private plane. He made a promise. (He wants to see Lestat.) They can make adjustments to accommodate additional stops. Rachida has concerns about security. Louis is less worried. Maybe welcomes the promise of an altercation, and maybe Rachida knows that. Maybe they are both politely avoiding discussing that.
Louis will get away with this for about as long as it takes Daniel to call him again.
Rachida has turned the tablet towards Louis to show off a Haring rumored to be going up for auction when his phone pings. Unknown number, but Louis is immediately certain of who it is.
Sends two messages back, expression so soft that Rachida averts her eyes to afford Louis some minor privacy.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Lingers for a moment, hands hovered light on Louis' arms, before he gives in. Leans, arms wrapping around him, and the garish red lights and the repetitious electronic music and the clamour of many voices he doesn't recognise all go dim. A breath out, a relaxing, and he doesn't think it's just the MDMA-laced blood that has him feel so light.
Nods against Louis' shoulder, hasty. "I do," he says. Confessional, in the moment. The truth is, of course, he wants Louis there every night. Backstage waiting for him, waiting with him. Telling him he is incredible. Smiling.
Undeserving. But he waits for Louis to be the one to loosen the embrace, takes that time to ensure he won't look shattered with relief when they part.
no subject
They cannot stand here forever. (Louis would have held him through a hurricane, if survival instincts hadn't won out.) But Louis wants to stand here forever, running his palm up and down Lestat's back, fingers bunched in the collar of Lestat's suit under the curtain of his hair. Nothing is complicated when they are wrapped up in each other this way. It is easy still.
Long minutes of just Louis holding him. Stolen time, swaying together, before Louis takes a deep breath. His fingers nudge up along Lestat's hairline, then sweep back down to his shoulders.
"I'll be there," Louis promises, face turned in to say this words against Lestat's temple. Dare to press a kiss there, a little stolen brush of lips, before Louis unravels them. Catches Lestat by his arms before he can draw away and press, "You got a cell phone? Your lawyer get you set up with one of your own?"
no subject
Something similar in the way Lestat looks at Louis as the hug releases him and his arms are caught. Maybe obscured from the brushstrokes of eyeshadow, the blur of colour on his mouth, the random shimmer of sparkle, platinum tones in curled hair, the scent of cosmetics and cigarettes. Maybe not. His hands catch at Louis' elbows as he registers what is being said to him.
Shakes his head, first, then stops, and before Louis can responds, corrects himself, "Yes, I have one." Battery dead, abandoned in his room, many unread texts. Not lost like the last one, or broken like the one before that, so, it's an improvement. "Do you want my number?
"I don't know it," hasty amendment. "But I can find out."
no subject
Which can be put into Lestat's phone, if they haven't already. Louis had almost thought Lestat would have no phone at all, aware that neither of the earlier attempts have stuck. It had been a bleak contemplation of alternate possibilities, of having to text Cookie to get ahold of Lestat.
Louis reaches a hand up, tucks Lestat's hair back from his face. It is like how they had parted in New Orleans. Worse than that, maybe. At least in New Orleans, he'd had some sense that Lestat was on his feet. Now, he is less certain. It feels agonizing.
"You'll call?" he invites, a wild gambit given Lestat's track record with phones.
no subject
Something else.
No room for that in the moment, as he feels some heartache ease. His own stipulations to himself, of what he could or could not bear as Louis' friend, becoming murky. Becomes conscious to the way he using Louis for balance, and refocuses. Doesn't move his hands, but lets his grip become a more conscious, reassuring squeeze.
"You'll pick up?" he counters, a fleeting smile.
no subject
Exceptions, maybe, for time zones. For Louis closed up in a coffin while Lestat ranges across the world.
Louis senses the way Lestat is gathering himself. Senses the moment slipping away, that he will have to let go. Release Lestat back to his party, his fame. His tour. Contain the fact that he doesn't want to let go of Lestat.
"And then I'll see you in Phoenix."
no subject
"Yes," Lestat says, with a steadier smile now. A hand fluttering up, palm laying against Louis' chest. A little patter of his fingers settling. Wants to say, he will feel better then. That they can have a drink and dance together and all those things he feels he is incapable of doing in this moment without feeling the desperation of wanting more.
Skip the drugs, maybe. Skip a party, even. But there, there it is again, and he draws in a breath to say none of these things.
"And you can tell me about your galleries."
no subject
"Maybe you come with me to one," Louis offers. "Give me some opinions, like we used to do."
Going way back. Louis was still human, and Lestat a mysterious friend with an empty townhouse in need of furnishing. Safe memories, except for how Louis had wanted him then and felt such shame for it. Safe, but for the knowledge that perhaps Lestat had known this about him, lifted it from his mind then.
Louis puts all of this aside. Gives a teasing grin, admitting, "Probably more boring than your tour. But if you got the time and I'm near enough, maybe you tell me."
An open door, to match the one Lestat has left ajar for Louis.
no subject
Matching tone for tone, phrasing for phrasing, as if he doesn't feel a dizzying rush for such an invitation, as if he is not keenly aware of the overlap of their hands over Louis' heart.
Goodbyes traded, Lestat slinking his way out of the party, up to his hotel room, pawing through his things and making an impossible mess until he locates his cellphone. Plugs it into its charge cord, lights up a cigarette inside while he waits for it to warm up, sitting on the floor with his back braced against his coffin. Caught between the senseless urge to cry, and for what, or having a mortal summoned up to feed from, preferably someone well spiked.
He does neither, not yet. Turns his phone on after some fussing, and, on a whim, sees if this works: "Text Louis."
Louis is in his car, being ferried off down the strip towards his own accommodations when he receives a message: This is my number
lil bow
It's doable. Louis has a private plane. He made a promise. (He wants to see Lestat.) They can make adjustments to accommodate additional stops. Rachida has concerns about security. Louis is less worried. Maybe welcomes the promise of an altercation, and maybe Rachida knows that. Maybe they are both politely avoiding discussing that.
Louis will get away with this for about as long as it takes Daniel to call him again.
Rachida has turned the tablet towards Louis to show off a Haring rumored to be going up for auction when his phone pings. Unknown number, but Louis is immediately certain of who it is.
Sends two messages back, expression so soft that Rachida averts her eyes to afford Louis some minor privacy.
Hello, Lestat.
I'll see you soon.