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"Does it?"
How little Louis has actually seen of it.
More than Lestat, but all at a great distance. Comfort with it, yes, but very little of it has touched him in any meaningful way.
He sips. Awareness rising in him of a missed meal. Disregulation in his meal schedule after so many years is a novelty. Not unpleasant
"It'll suit you too," he offers. "If you want it to."
If Lestat cares to mire himself in time again. Louis isn't sure he does.
How little Louis has actually seen of it.
More than Lestat, but all at a great distance. Comfort with it, yes, but very little of it has touched him in any meaningful way.
He sips. Awareness rising in him of a missed meal. Disregulation in his meal schedule after so many years is a novelty. Not unpleasant
"It'll suit you too," he offers. "If you want it to."
If Lestat cares to mire himself in time again. Louis isn't sure he does.
Lestat, who has only seen this barest glimpse of Louis' life, how he presents within it, nods once at this question. Yes, he is certain.
Less certain: what he wants. He hums an acknowledging sound and then hides an answer in a sip of blood. It would be generous of anyone to say that he had a plan all along, which was to deny himself the urge to go into the earth in the hopes that he would be found, some day, and now that he is, he must know what to do. His sip of blood is long and tolerant.
And himself enough to let his nose wrinkle in the aftertaste. Better than rat, which he'd consumed unflinching for no long, but maybe he would flinch now.
"I'm very adaptable," finally, diplomatic. This era will suit him if he chooses it, as will the next.
Less certain: what he wants. He hums an acknowledging sound and then hides an answer in a sip of blood. It would be generous of anyone to say that he had a plan all along, which was to deny himself the urge to go into the earth in the hopes that he would be found, some day, and now that he is, he must know what to do. His sip of blood is long and tolerant.
And himself enough to let his nose wrinkle in the aftertaste. Better than rat, which he'd consumed unflinching for no long, but maybe he would flinch now.
"I'm very adaptable," finally, diplomatic. This era will suit him if he chooses it, as will the next.
"I know."
Easy agreement. Yes, Lestat is adaptable. A gift for surviving, to weather the worst.
Louis watches him. Feels warmth curling in his chest at the sight of the wrinkled nose, some familiar sign of the old discerning taste.
"Will you let me buy you a cell phone?" is a little abrupt. Giving in to that flutter of warmth, of wanting to hold fast to Lestat even if he chooses to spend another hundred years hidden away while Louis walks into the world.
A belated question: Does Lestat know what a cell phone is?
Easy agreement. Yes, Lestat is adaptable. A gift for surviving, to weather the worst.
Louis watches him. Feels warmth curling in his chest at the sight of the wrinkled nose, some familiar sign of the old discerning taste.
"Will you let me buy you a cell phone?" is a little abrupt. Giving in to that flutter of warmth, of wanting to hold fast to Lestat even if he chooses to spend another hundred years hidden away while Louis walks into the world.
A belated question: Does Lestat know what a cell phone is?
That Louis is met with some suspicion for the proposal probably indicates that Lestat has some idea of what a cell phone is, if perhaps, not a very good one. He shifts the cup in his hand to swirl the liquid within, stopping it from getting texturally disastrous.
"Do they work well?"
Doubt.
"Do they work well?"
Doubt.
"Most of the time."
Louis is not going to start picking at the intricacies of cellular reception at this exact moment. His ankle nudges Lestat's as he turns just that much further into him, intent on his reactions.
"It'd be yours," Louis promises. "Could put music on it, take pictures."
Is he coaxing? He's uncertain.
He just wants something, a thread of something, to connect them. To be certain Lestat doesn't slip away.
Louis is not going to start picking at the intricacies of cellular reception at this exact moment. His ankle nudges Lestat's as he turns just that much further into him, intent on his reactions.
"It'd be yours," Louis promises. "Could put music on it, take pictures."
Is he coaxing? He's uncertain.
He just wants something, a thread of something, to connect them. To be certain Lestat doesn't slip away.
Lestat thinks of his tablet, which has his music. Uncertain if it takes pictures. If it is the same as a phone in enough ways to matter, that Louis is asking to give him this specific other kind of device. He supposes not, if Louis had seen it and is asking him this. Or knows it might well be broken, now.
Of course, all the things the tablet does for him, he did not set up himself. But, well, didn't he just say he is adaptable? He purses his mouth, thinking.
"Do they have Siri?" is halfway to a yes.
Of course, all the things the tablet does for him, he did not set up himself. But, well, didn't he just say he is adaptable? He purses his mouth, thinking.
"Do they have Siri?" is halfway to a yes.
"Yes."
Is this the deciding factor?
"Can change the voice on it, if you want. It'll speak French and all."
Maybe this has been offered already. But would the millenial know to offer French? Hadn't known to press Lestat into leaving that waterlogged cottage, or not in any way that might work properly to coax Lestat out of harm's way.
There are other virtues of a cell phone. Louis chooses to let this one simmer while he sips quietly from his mug.
Is this the deciding factor?
"Can change the voice on it, if you want. It'll speak French and all."
Maybe this has been offered already. But would the millenial know to offer French? Hadn't known to press Lestat into leaving that waterlogged cottage, or not in any way that might work properly to coax Lestat out of harm's way.
There are other virtues of a cell phone. Louis chooses to let this one simmer while he sips quietly from his mug.
"I'm actually quite fluent in American."
Teasing. Leaning, a little, into the Louisianian twang that has settled into his accent, even if he still reaches for the cadence that he'd found for himself, still sometimes avoids a graceless grammatical contraction. Regardless, a century away from the boat he'd stepped off from, if not so much distance.
To his ear, Louis sounds different as well. Not unpleasant. New Orleans, still a texture to his words, its broad vowels holding words with gentle hands. He could never fathom moving away, in these intervening years, not when the city whispers constantly in this specific voice, even as modernity tries to flood it out.
He toys with the cup, edge of his thumbnail sliding along the handle. "You don't have to buy me things," finally. "I have money."
Teasing. Leaning, a little, into the Louisianian twang that has settled into his accent, even if he still reaches for the cadence that he'd found for himself, still sometimes avoids a graceless grammatical contraction. Regardless, a century away from the boat he'd stepped off from, if not so much distance.
To his ear, Louis sounds different as well. Not unpleasant. New Orleans, still a texture to his words, its broad vowels holding words with gentle hands. He could never fathom moving away, in these intervening years, not when the city whispers constantly in this specific voice, even as modernity tries to flood it out.
He toys with the cup, edge of his thumbnail sliding along the handle. "You don't have to buy me things," finally. "I have money."
There's no reason it should catch Louis off-guard, hearing Louisiana in Lestat's voice in even minor measures, but it does.
Complicated, how he feels about it. How much he likes it. How the sound of it carries a muted pain along with it. New Orleans making its mark on Lestat, and Louis miles and miles away, losing his own accent for long decades. A sorrowful kind of symmetry.
"I know you have money," Louis tells him, setting aside his empty cup. Admits, quiet: "Lived off it for a couple months when we first got to Paris."
And he'd felt deep guilt about it, how they'd taken from him after what they'd done. What Louis had done. Claudia's anger simmering, remorseless, and Louis haunted, grief-stricken and guilty, using Lestat's money for that apartment, for clothes, for furnishings—
It had felt wrong.
But this, it's not only about the money they'd taken, not about repayment. Louis still likes to pick out things for Lestat. A phone is only the most acceptable avenue, utilitarian rather than the opulent whirl of goods they'd swept up when Lestat had first arrived in New Orleans.
Complicated, how he feels about it. How much he likes it. How the sound of it carries a muted pain along with it. New Orleans making its mark on Lestat, and Louis miles and miles away, losing his own accent for long decades. A sorrowful kind of symmetry.
"I know you have money," Louis tells him, setting aside his empty cup. Admits, quiet: "Lived off it for a couple months when we first got to Paris."
And he'd felt deep guilt about it, how they'd taken from him after what they'd done. What Louis had done. Claudia's anger simmering, remorseless, and Louis haunted, grief-stricken and guilty, using Lestat's money for that apartment, for clothes, for furnishings—
It had felt wrong.
But this, it's not only about the money they'd taken, not about repayment. Louis still likes to pick out things for Lestat. A phone is only the most acceptable avenue, utilitarian rather than the opulent whirl of goods they'd swept up when Lestat had first arrived in New Orleans.
He thinks he knew that.
The handful of months spent in Paris had consisted of at least one appointment with Roget. The theatre destroyed meant a shuffle around in various portfolios. Reports of what had been extracted, including his final letter. Money, then, shifted into a kind of interest-accruing hibernation. The practical things, done at his behest.
But Lestat does not recall feeling resentment or anger or really much of anything at the time and now, certainly not. He starts to say something like what he used to say, to express that all his wealth is Louis' wealth, and stops. If this is true, what does that say for the reverse?
Maybe what Lestat is saying: I can look after myself.
Suspects he will have to, at some point, but for now—
"Then, if it would please you."
His tone says: if it would please Louis, it would please him too.
The handful of months spent in Paris had consisted of at least one appointment with Roget. The theatre destroyed meant a shuffle around in various portfolios. Reports of what had been extracted, including his final letter. Money, then, shifted into a kind of interest-accruing hibernation. The practical things, done at his behest.
But Lestat does not recall feeling resentment or anger or really much of anything at the time and now, certainly not. He starts to say something like what he used to say, to express that all his wealth is Louis' wealth, and stops. If this is true, what does that say for the reverse?
Maybe what Lestat is saying: I can look after myself.
Suspects he will have to, at some point, but for now—
"Then, if it would please you."
His tone says: if it would please Louis, it would please him too.
"It would."
Maybe will have to say later, once a phone is procured, that it would please him also if Lestat were to use it.
But not now.
The far door opens once more. Rachida bears in a crisp brown paper bag, sets it by the window. A brief exchange between her and Louis, logistics only. A few lingering pieces of business, things that could not accommodate being upended just because Louis' life had been entirely upended.
And then she is gone. And it is the two of them, alone in a room again.
"I made guesses," Louis says. "What you might like to wear."
And may well be far off base. They have been apart for a long time. Lestat had been wearing expensive things, in spite of the obvious neglect. Louis has chosen some similar items. Draping shirts, gleaming black buttons for fastening. Soft, clinging undershirts. Loose trousers, waists nipped in. And Lestat's own boots returned, polished, repaired.
A humble offering. A start.
Maybe will have to say later, once a phone is procured, that it would please him also if Lestat were to use it.
But not now.
The far door opens once more. Rachida bears in a crisp brown paper bag, sets it by the window. A brief exchange between her and Louis, logistics only. A few lingering pieces of business, things that could not accommodate being upended just because Louis' life had been entirely upended.
And then she is gone. And it is the two of them, alone in a room again.
"I made guesses," Louis says. "What you might like to wear."
And may well be far off base. They have been apart for a long time. Lestat had been wearing expensive things, in spite of the obvious neglect. Louis has chosen some similar items. Draping shirts, gleaming black buttons for fastening. Soft, clinging undershirts. Loose trousers, waists nipped in. And Lestat's own boots returned, polished, repaired.
A humble offering. A start.
The human comes in, which feels odd. Far removed from the days of invisible servants, who could go anywhere and see anything and it didn't matter. They'd guarded their own privacy in New Orleans. A maid on occasion and nothing more intimate than that. Still, Lestat doesn't hackle, just curls his knees in slightly, watches the proceedings.
Like Louis has let in a stray cat, which happens to be a lion. He finishes his cup while they talk, a languid and luxurious drinking down of thick blood, twisting to set it down once she leaves the room.
"Oh?" at this news. Tempting enough to draw Lestat out of bed, finally, one last glance before pushing himself across the mattress to go attend to the bag. Not because he is so excited for new clothes, but keen to see what Louis would choose for him.
Hums over these items, drawing them out one by one. Garments made for men but with the textures and softness that he would still associate with women's clothes, trousers that hang like skirts and shirts that drape like blouses. Pleasing, this confusion, or mingling, whatever it is. These resemble, too, the things he'd been wearing last night, even if he barely recalls obtaining them, choosing them.
"I do," he says, over a shoulder. "I like them."
Like Louis has let in a stray cat, which happens to be a lion. He finishes his cup while they talk, a languid and luxurious drinking down of thick blood, twisting to set it down once she leaves the room.
"Oh?" at this news. Tempting enough to draw Lestat out of bed, finally, one last glance before pushing himself across the mattress to go attend to the bag. Not because he is so excited for new clothes, but keen to see what Louis would choose for him.
Hums over these items, drawing them out one by one. Garments made for men but with the textures and softness that he would still associate with women's clothes, trousers that hang like skirts and shirts that drape like blouses. Pleasing, this confusion, or mingling, whatever it is. These resemble, too, the things he'd been wearing last night, even if he barely recalls obtaining them, choosing them.
"I do," he says, over a shoulder. "I like them."
"You'll do for yourself, I bet."
Louis had guided him into the present day, but Lestat had found his footing eventually.
(A fond memory of the ways their wardrobes had complimented. Subtle matching between colors, small mirrors in their chosen accessories. Louis had enjoyed those things, minor ways to link them, if easy to overlook.)
"This is just for starters," Louis reminds, the curling pleasure in his chest rising as he watches Lestat handling his choices kept in careful check. "You can send Rachida out if you want. If there's more you think you need."
While he's here. While they're together. A offer guided by the anxious urge to get Lestat set up, well-stocked and safe, guiding the offer.
Louis had guided him into the present day, but Lestat had found his footing eventually.
(A fond memory of the ways their wardrobes had complimented. Subtle matching between colors, small mirrors in their chosen accessories. Louis had enjoyed those things, minor ways to link them, if easy to overlook.)
"This is just for starters," Louis reminds, the curling pleasure in his chest rising as he watches Lestat handling his choices kept in careful check. "You can send Rachida out if you want. If there's more you think you need."
While he's here. While they're together. A offer guided by the anxious urge to get Lestat set up, well-stocked and safe, guiding the offer.
Strange to imagine that a man's wardrobe can fit inside a paper bag, but, this seems to be achievable. Especially as he is not completely certain of the state of his things as they are now. Not just for the hurricane, but, the previous decades, years, months. At the bottom of the bag, he finds someplain but undoubtedly luxurious sets of underwear and socks, so he doesn't have to immediately add these little necessities to the list.
"These will do, Louis," Lestat says instead, looking over at him. Clutching the articles in his hands tighter, relaxing, before he says, with a tip of his head, "Should I change in the other room?"
A little bit of a real question, but delivered with some coy and proper affectation.
"These will do, Louis," Lestat says instead, looking over at him. Clutching the articles in his hands tighter, relaxing, before he says, with a tip of his head, "Should I change in the other room?"
A little bit of a real question, but delivered with some coy and proper affectation.
It's a real question, one Louis should think on with some seriousness. They've already been naked with each other, laid completely bare in the hours since they'd reunited and Louis had brought him here. But maybe there should be a point where some boundaries are reintroduced.
Maybe.
"You change where you want," Louis tells him, an easy shrug of acceptance as he leaves Lestat in custody of the bag and considers his own suitcase. "I won't mind."
A choice laid out for Lestat as Louis strips to the waist. His suitcase is neatly opened on its stand, waiting for Louis to make some selections of his own.
Maybe.
"You change where you want," Louis tells him, an easy shrug of acceptance as he leaves Lestat in custody of the bag and considers his own suitcase. "I won't mind."
A choice laid out for Lestat as Louis strips to the waist. His suitcase is neatly opened on its stand, waiting for Louis to make some selections of his own.
"Mm."
Lestat stays where he is.
But turns his back, and undresses without ceremony. Then, briefs first, followed by a pair of trousers of a dark grey with a subtle pinstripe, fabric draping save for where it buttons around his waist. A clinging wide-necked undershirt is layered beneath a loose button down of a deep rusty red. Some hesitation follows buttoning it closed halfway up his chest and tucking the loose tails into his waistband. And then undoing another button.
Familiar shades, somewhat familiar silhouettes, flattering his proportions in the way he'd been specific about back when, and still now. He skims his fingers over his knuckles. His little collection of rings, likely still hidden away in his home. Unless Felix stole them. In which case, he will remove Felix's spine.
"Voilà," he says, twirling back around. If he catches sight of a butt cheek by accident, it will be a good start to the evening, but he has been polite. "What should I do with the sleeves?" Rolled, unrolled and buttoned? He would like input.
Lestat stays where he is.
But turns his back, and undresses without ceremony. Then, briefs first, followed by a pair of trousers of a dark grey with a subtle pinstripe, fabric draping save for where it buttons around his waist. A clinging wide-necked undershirt is layered beneath a loose button down of a deep rusty red. Some hesitation follows buttoning it closed halfway up his chest and tucking the loose tails into his waistband. And then undoing another button.
Familiar shades, somewhat familiar silhouettes, flattering his proportions in the way he'd been specific about back when, and still now. He skims his fingers over his knuckles. His little collection of rings, likely still hidden away in his home. Unless Felix stole them. In which case, he will remove Felix's spine.
"Voilà," he says, twirling back around. If he catches sight of a butt cheek by accident, it will be a good start to the evening, but he has been polite. "What should I do with the sleeves?" Rolled, unrolled and buttoned? He would like input.
The twirl yields a glimpse of bare back, the flex of muscle as Louis' arms lift to guide down a polo, lightweight and textured. Regrettably, Louis had pulled on his trousers first. Utilitarian today, maybe in anticipation of excavating Lestat's cottage, worn canvas fabric artfully distressed.
It is a marked deviation. Louis is experimenting, not yet sure he is interested but willing to give himself the day.
"Come here," Louis beckons, reaching out with one hand while the other tugs clinging knit fabric into place over his chest and stomach.
An excuse to take Lestat by the wrist, run his thumb over the delicate tracery of veins there at the inside of his arm before fastening the button.
"Feel okay?"
It is a marked deviation. Louis is experimenting, not yet sure he is interested but willing to give himself the day.
"Come here," Louis beckons, reaching out with one hand while the other tugs clinging knit fabric into place over his chest and stomach.
An excuse to take Lestat by the wrist, run his thumb over the delicate tracery of veins there at the inside of his arm before fastening the button.
"Feel okay?"
Lestat gives up his wrists easily, holding himself still under the passing sweep of Louis' thumb, the gentle tickle of fabric drawn tighter to button. Sense memories of similar gestures in the past. Undoing shirt buttons. Applying gifted cufflinks.
Home, in little golden glimpses. How near it seems, how far away. He wanders a glance back up at this question.
"Yes," he says, unsure as to what metric they're measuring by, but all of them are at the very least okay. The clothes, probably. A glance aside locates a mirror on the wall, and he turns to it while leaving his other wrist in Louis' care. "Your valet has good taste."
He has not had much cause to preen in front of a mirror, lately. The only one in his cottage is in the door of its wardrobe, which is spotted, dusty, obscuring, and rarely entertained. Here, he pushes his hair behind an ear, angles his head, considering. Not so bad.
Home, in little golden glimpses. How near it seems, how far away. He wanders a glance back up at this question.
"Yes," he says, unsure as to what metric they're measuring by, but all of them are at the very least okay. The clothes, probably. A glance aside locates a mirror on the wall, and he turns to it while leaving his other wrist in Louis' care. "Your valet has good taste."
He has not had much cause to preen in front of a mirror, lately. The only one in his cottage is in the door of its wardrobe, which is spotted, dusty, obscuring, and rarely entertained. Here, he pushes his hair behind an ear, angles his head, considering. Not so bad.
"Rachida is very good at her work."
And due for a raise, perhaps, if Louis is going to spend more time stateside.
Louis looks him over, smiling a little at the small gesture of Lestat pushing his hair back. Remembering too the life they had together.
In the present, admiring the graceful drape of the sleeves, the fall of fabric around Lestat's still-narrow hips. Louis likes it very much. He is still handsome, even thinner, even marked by years of neglect.
"It's only a beginning," Louis offers. "I was thinking of what you wore before."
Maybe no longer relevant. Or maybe only a touchstone from which Lestat will build something else from when (if?) he continues updating his wardrobe.
"Are you still hungry?"
And due for a raise, perhaps, if Louis is going to spend more time stateside.
Louis looks him over, smiling a little at the small gesture of Lestat pushing his hair back. Remembering too the life they had together.
In the present, admiring the graceful drape of the sleeves, the fall of fabric around Lestat's still-narrow hips. Louis likes it very much. He is still handsome, even thinner, even marked by years of neglect.
"It's only a beginning," Louis offers. "I was thinking of what you wore before."
Maybe no longer relevant. Or maybe only a touchstone from which Lestat will build something else from when (if?) he continues updating his wardrobe.
"Are you still hungry?"
Yes, he can see it. Colours, shape, if all quite pared down compared to the ceremony of three piece suits, ties, hats, jewelry. One hundred years ago, Lestat wouldn't imagine stepping out onto the street in this current get up alone. And then things had gotten more lax over the years, even during the time they were together, and now, another shift in sensibility. Decades.
One last brush down over his hips to smooth out the fabric, and he dismisses the mirror, content. Circling around to go and address his boots, cleaned and dry, tracing his fingertips over the leather and then pausing as Louis asks that.
Well. Yes.
Lestat looks back at him over his shoulder. "I wouldn't want to eat you out of house and home," he says. There must be only so many bags of blood on hand for them.
One last brush down over his hips to smooth out the fabric, and he dismisses the mirror, content. Circling around to go and address his boots, cleaned and dry, tracing his fingertips over the leather and then pausing as Louis asks that.
Well. Yes.
Lestat looks back at him over his shoulder. "I wouldn't want to eat you out of house and home," he says. There must be only so many bags of blood on hand for them.
"You wouldn't be."
Dismissive. It is not a problem. Louis has endless reserves. It has been made very certain, established in the beginning and never one had the supply lapsed.
Louis has lifted his coat from where he had laid it the night before. Tests the fabric to find it still sodden and sighs. Seeks an alternative in his suitcase.
"We can go hunting," Louis offers, voice steadier than he feels. "For whatever you are in the mood for."
Rats, if Lestat wishes. Louis certainly has no standing to object.
And he is trying. Live honestly, he had said. Whatever form that takes.
Dismissive. It is not a problem. Louis has endless reserves. It has been made very certain, established in the beginning and never one had the supply lapsed.
Louis has lifted his coat from where he had laid it the night before. Tests the fabric to find it still sodden and sighs. Seeks an alternative in his suitcase.
"We can go hunting," Louis offers, voice steadier than he feels. "For whatever you are in the mood for."
Rats, if Lestat wishes. Louis certainly has no standing to object.
And he is trying. Live honestly, he had said. Whatever form that takes.
Edited 2025-01-14 02:31 (UTC)
The proposition has him go still, thoughtful, looking Louis over as if there is more he can read in his posture and stance. A proposition that has, in the past, been nothing but fraught, and now they are here, in the year 2022, with guiltless human blood available at their fingertips.
The answer is that yes, Lestat would like to hunt. Would Louis?
"It would not spoil your visit?"
The answer is that yes, Lestat would like to hunt. Would Louis?
"It would not spoil your visit?"
Would Louis?
It's possible there are better ways to find out whether or not Louis intends to hunt properly than by dragging Lestat along with him. By risking ripping open old scars less than twenty-four hours after they reunited.
Nights ahead, where I might live honestly, Louis had said.
"I'm not sure," is honest. Louis offers, "We can walk in the park. See what kind of mood catches us."
Even if Louis couldn't make himself ready now, couldn't risk beginning something as destructive as his hunts had once been, he would like to see Lestat return to hunting. He would like to know that Lestat will be able to feed himself.
It's possible there are better ways to find out whether or not Louis intends to hunt properly than by dragging Lestat along with him. By risking ripping open old scars less than twenty-four hours after they reunited.
Nights ahead, where I might live honestly, Louis had said.
"I'm not sure," is honest. Louis offers, "We can walk in the park. See what kind of mood catches us."
Even if Louis couldn't make himself ready now, couldn't risk beginning something as destructive as his hunts had once been, he would like to see Lestat return to hunting. He would like to know that Lestat will be able to feed himself.
Some past iteration of himself is groaning, fussing, scoffing at the hesitation he feels, the hesitation he indulges in. Louis inviting him out to hunt would have made his decade, eighty years back.
Thrills him now, too, but it all feels so momentous. Louis being here at all, Louis giving him care and forgiveness. What if they can't withstand it? What if something breaks?
But Lestat doesn't spend too long wringing his hands about it. It all feels a little beyond his control, anyway. Louis will stay as long as Louis wishes to stay. Lestat will hunt again, because he is a hunter and he would no sooner eat a rat in Louis' presence as he would roll around in the mud to undo all of last night's hard work. They will see what kind of mood catches them.
It is agreed. Lestat puts his boots back on, declines needing a coat (it is almost never that cold), and they leave the hotel. If the man working the desk or the man working the door notices Lestat's little Cinderella transformation, they know better than to emote it.
Outside, the sky is clear. The streets aren't flooded. There is a certain quality to the noise of the city that feels a little restless and nervous, to Lestat's ear, but there is the sound of traffic, of bars with the windows open, of music and laughter, all over the top of generators, sirens, patches of silence. Like the whole town is hungover, but shaking it off. The scent of storm clings to the brick.
They walk to Jackson Square. Lestat thinks he could find it blindfolded.
Thrills him now, too, but it all feels so momentous. Louis being here at all, Louis giving him care and forgiveness. What if they can't withstand it? What if something breaks?
But Lestat doesn't spend too long wringing his hands about it. It all feels a little beyond his control, anyway. Louis will stay as long as Louis wishes to stay. Lestat will hunt again, because he is a hunter and he would no sooner eat a rat in Louis' presence as he would roll around in the mud to undo all of last night's hard work. They will see what kind of mood catches them.
It is agreed. Lestat puts his boots back on, declines needing a coat (it is almost never that cold), and they leave the hotel. If the man working the desk or the man working the door notices Lestat's little Cinderella transformation, they know better than to emote it.
Outside, the sky is clear. The streets aren't flooded. There is a certain quality to the noise of the city that feels a little restless and nervous, to Lestat's ear, but there is the sound of traffic, of bars with the windows open, of music and laughter, all over the top of generators, sirens, patches of silence. Like the whole town is hungover, but shaking it off. The scent of storm clings to the brick.
They walk to Jackson Square. Lestat thinks he could find it blindfolded.
Edited 2025-01-17 04:26 (UTC)
A level of nostalgia is inescapable.
Or no, not nostalgia. Relief. A pain Louis hadn't fully understood or registered quieted.
Homesickness ebbed away. Gone now as they walk side by side the way they had before, and like then Louis is thinking of Lestat. Aware of how he moves, imagining what he might be thinking. And like then, Louis doesn't let himself reach for him. They only walk close, elbows brushing, as they fall into step together once more.
The park is windswept, scattered with debris, but whole. And there are no other visitors that Louis can hear, though the sound of the city has followed them, a melodious backdrop as they walk along the same winding paths they'd once taken together almost nightly.
"I been missing this place," Louis confides. Complicated sentiment, maybe something Louis can try to untangle for Lestat someday. (Walking through parks alone in Paris, dreaming of Lestat, choosing parks with some similarity to stem the homesickness.)
"You wanna walk, or you wanna sit?"
As if they aren't due a conversation. One pressing matter at a time.
Or no, not nostalgia. Relief. A pain Louis hadn't fully understood or registered quieted.
Homesickness ebbed away. Gone now as they walk side by side the way they had before, and like then Louis is thinking of Lestat. Aware of how he moves, imagining what he might be thinking. And like then, Louis doesn't let himself reach for him. They only walk close, elbows brushing, as they fall into step together once more.
The park is windswept, scattered with debris, but whole. And there are no other visitors that Louis can hear, though the sound of the city has followed them, a melodious backdrop as they walk along the same winding paths they'd once taken together almost nightly.
"I been missing this place," Louis confides. Complicated sentiment, maybe something Louis can try to untangle for Lestat someday. (Walking through parks alone in Paris, dreaming of Lestat, choosing parks with some similarity to stem the homesickness.)
"You wanna walk, or you wanna sit?"
As if they aren't due a conversation. One pressing matter at a time.
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