A very loud What the fuck are you talking about? is close to exploding from his throat. Louis, the same as all the rest? A statement so far from reality that it stuns Lestat instead, and as he's done so many times before, he only watches as Louis storms out from the room, teeth bared, eyes blazing.
He will close the door if Louis doesn't. Either way, an angry snap of punctuation.
And perhaps this is where he collapses into tears and regret. He remembers—he had read the book so many times, lingered over their fights, why it always felt a little misaligned to him despite the words possessing fidelity to his recollections. Then, of course, it would occur to him, they can only be written from Louis' own memory. No recollection of Lestat's anguish in his wake, no word of his sense of panic, nauseous regret. Self-loathing, when it was bad, shame.
Why would it be there, anyway? Why would Louis know any of that? When Louis views him the way he does, remembers him as wholly selfish, because of the wholly selfish things he does? He can feel it now, the familiar gravity of such a spiral, but finds himself simply standing in place, floating in place.
Then he moves. Here is a bottle of vodka, unopened, on the low table. He grabs it and flings it against the closed door, where it explodes into glitter. A vase of his requested flowers, batted aside, breaking and spilling.
From beyond, the muted sound of crashing, breaking, thumping will carry on until there is nothing left worth breaking.
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He will close the door if Louis doesn't. Either way, an angry snap of punctuation.
And perhaps this is where he collapses into tears and regret. He remembers—he had read the book so many times, lingered over their fights, why it always felt a little misaligned to him despite the words possessing fidelity to his recollections. Then, of course, it would occur to him, they can only be written from Louis' own memory. No recollection of Lestat's anguish in his wake, no word of his sense of panic, nauseous regret. Self-loathing, when it was bad, shame.
Why would it be there, anyway? Why would Louis know any of that? When Louis views him the way he does, remembers him as wholly selfish, because of the wholly selfish things he does? He can feel it now, the familiar gravity of such a spiral, but finds himself simply standing in place, floating in place.
Then he moves. Here is a bottle of vodka, unopened, on the low table. He grabs it and flings it against the closed door, where it explodes into glitter. A vase of his requested flowers, batted aside, breaking and spilling.
From beyond, the muted sound of crashing, breaking, thumping will carry on until there is nothing left worth breaking.