Lestat closes his eyes as the other side of his throat is kissed. Spoken against. An internal pause at this invocation, us, that wrenches his heart around, and he is quiet.
Tender territory. What little he knows of Louis and Claudia's adventures in Paris nevertheless paint a picture of a period of happiness, of a life built without him. Free of him. Louis, who has missed him, has said so, wishes he was there, and Lestat can only say—
"Me too."
And try not to laden his voice with the weight of it, the hurt and the sorrow, and maybe come out successful.
It feels like a precipice, a nickname of old like a hand tugging him back from the edge of it. A sharp drop, otherwise, into some cold place.
It is warm here, held closer, kissed, murmured to. Maybe if Lestat was not counting on Louis to taste his blood again, he would say nothing, let it all evaporate into the warmth around him.
But he will taste, Lestat is sure, so he says, "What has changed?" A thicker quality to his voice, eyes now glossy but kept concealed where he closes them, tucked in so closely to Louis. "You escaped me. Why come back?"
The answer is all tangled up in their circumstances. Trapped in a place with no way out, with only each other to lean on. Louis knows it has changed things.
He knows Lestat isn't asking about how they live here.
The question is about New Orleans. The water-logged cottage. The hurricane. Their embrace in the middle of it all.
"Everything changed," Louis says quietly. "It all changed after I found out what was true about that night."
He slides a hand up between them, fingertips finding the edge of Louis' jaw. Brushing his thumb down his cheek, down to his chin, a gesture that perhaps Louis' nerve endings know well from a thousand times Lestat has touched him this way before.
"If I am the same thing I was when you left," he presses. A crooked little smile, all affection beneath the rest. "You know me anywhere."
Remembering the waiver signed as a hurricane bore down on the city. Private humor in that moment, the acceptance of true risk for the first time in so many years.
"But it ain't gonna be the same."
It will be something else. New. Different.
They are both of them changed. If the passing years have changed Louis, they have changed Lestat too. They've spoken not at all about it, but Louis is certain of it.
"It ain't gonna be perfect. But I don't want that."
Seventy-seven years of serenity, of all discord smoothed away. Louis can't abide it again.
It won't be the same, and it's taken as the assurance it's intended to be. Louis entering his shack and speaking such insight, reflection, wisdom, as though he had not spent decades hating and hating after all.
Lestat nods, barely, and it only needs to be that much with how close they are. Then, he noses in closer still so he can kiss Louis' mouth, like he had not been able to do for so long, like he had felt was a transgression even before that, when all things fell apart.
Gentle, sweet, brief.
"We visit Paris," he tells him. "When we leave this place."
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no subject
Tender territory. What little he knows of Louis and Claudia's adventures in Paris nevertheless paint a picture of a period of happiness, of a life built without him. Free of him. Louis, who has missed him, has said so, wishes he was there, and Lestat can only say—
"Me too."
And try not to laden his voice with the weight of it, the hurt and the sorrow, and maybe come out successful.
no subject
Louis can't be certain it isn't just pain, pain for them both over what came of Louis and Claudia in Paris. If they had gone anywhere else—
The thought is simply stopped.
Louis has weighed it all out before. If they'd done this, gone there. It had nearly killed him. And it changes nothing. Claudia is still dead.
A pause, quiet, while Louis continues kissing at Lestat's throat. Sucks over his pulse. Tightens an arm about his waist.
Entreats, soft: "Les."
Old nicknames. It still comes easy.
no subject
It is warm here, held closer, kissed, murmured to. Maybe if Lestat was not counting on Louis to taste his blood again, he would say nothing, let it all evaporate into the warmth around him.
But he will taste, Lestat is sure, so he says, "What has changed?" A thicker quality to his voice, eyes now glossy but kept concealed where he closes them, tucked in so closely to Louis. "You escaped me. Why come back?"
no subject
He knows Lestat isn't asking about how they live here.
The question is about New Orleans. The water-logged cottage. The hurricane. Their embrace in the middle of it all.
"Everything changed," Louis says quietly. "It all changed after I found out what was true about that night."
What Lestat had done. What Armand had attempted.
Now Louis knew all of it.
no subject
He slides a hand up between them, fingertips finding the edge of Louis' jaw. Brushing his thumb down his cheek, down to his chin, a gesture that perhaps Louis' nerve endings know well from a thousand times Lestat has touched him this way before.
"If I am the same thing I was when you left," he presses. A crooked little smile, all affection beneath the rest. "You know me anywhere."
no subject
Remembering the waiver signed as a hurricane bore down on the city. Private humor in that moment, the acceptance of true risk for the first time in so many years.
"But it ain't gonna be the same."
It will be something else. New. Different.
They are both of them changed. If the passing years have changed Louis, they have changed Lestat too. They've spoken not at all about it, but Louis is certain of it.
"It ain't gonna be perfect. But I don't want that."
Seventy-seven years of serenity, of all discord smoothed away. Louis can't abide it again.
no subject
Lestat nods, barely, and it only needs to be that much with how close they are. Then, he noses in closer still so he can kiss Louis' mouth, like he had not been able to do for so long, like he had felt was a transgression even before that, when all things fell apart.
Gentle, sweet, brief.
"We visit Paris," he tells him. "When we leave this place."
is this how territory
To go together to Paris. To walk streets together. See what changed. See what remains.
To do it all without Claudia.
Louis kisses his mouth once more. Murmurs, "Yeah. We go to Paris."
And remember her. Their daughter. Claudia.