It is numbing, hearing them together. Lestat's frustration, ugly summation of feelings harbored for him, for Claudia. The sound of them, together on the bed.
The inevitability of her. Antoinette. Still alive.
They walk home, Claudia's simmering anger gathering heat. Louis does not join her in her anger. The numbness washes over him, a thick frost sharpening to ice, deadening everything inside of him.
They sit together. Claudia watches him as she draws, and the radio plays, and Louis tries to work out the depth of his own hurt.
It would be easier if anger would come. But it remains trapped, frozen, locked inside his body.
Lestat comes home, eventually. Lestat returns and he does not smell of anything but himself. He's been clever. He's always been clever, when it comes to concealing Antoinette. Laid low time and again by Claudia, inclined to pry where Louis is not.
They go together to coffin. Louis beds down, taking his rejoinders to Claudia with him. His understanding. The inevitability. Antoinette. Louis, and the ways in which he is not enough. (The memory of laughter, Lestat's laughter and absence of answer, the one time Louis had asked—)
Maybe he makes a decision then, that night. Maybe he decides when Lestat folds himself into the coffin alongside him, kisses him as if nothing has changed. (Nothing has changed. That is true.) Louis kisses him back.
Inevitable.
They hunt. Claudia watches Louis. Lestat goes about his business. Louis' hurt calcifies.
Lestat excuses himself from their company one night. Louis gives him an hour head start before he follows. Holds the thought in his head: Lestat said he was hunting alone, perhaps he is hunting alone. But Lestat hunts nothing but Antoinette's doorstep, vanishing inside. Louis stands in the shadow, watching the window for a long stretch. The decision Louis has carried crystalizes, turns from a passing thought to serious intent.
By now, Louis has no business to run. No mortal family to inflict his presence upon. Nothing but Lestat, and Claudia, their company, to occupy his time. Louis is patient. He waits, locked silent and cold in the tundra of his mind. He has a plan. He waits for opportunity. Does not consult Claudia.
Waits. And waits.
Waits for the night when Lestat and Claudia go together to hunt. A show of companionship in the wake of argument. It will pass, Louis knows. But they leave him and his qualms behind, and so Louis walks the well-worn path to Antoinette's home.
She knows, Louis thinks. She knows instantly upon seeing him in her doorway.
She has a slow-healing mark from Lestat's teeth at her throat.
In spite of it all, Louis has some mercy. (Has nothing but cold rage, easier to think through.) It is very quick, her death. He feels no relief, no particular pleasure. She's gone. He remains.
Louis sits. Lights a cigarette. Waits. No need to do anything else, when Louis is certain Lestat will find his way in due time.
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It is numbing, hearing them together. Lestat's frustration, ugly summation of feelings harbored for him, for Claudia. The sound of them, together on the bed.
The inevitability of her. Antoinette. Still alive.
They walk home, Claudia's simmering anger gathering heat. Louis does not join her in her anger. The numbness washes over him, a thick frost sharpening to ice, deadening everything inside of him.
They sit together. Claudia watches him as she draws, and the radio plays, and Louis tries to work out the depth of his own hurt.
It would be easier if anger would come. But it remains trapped, frozen, locked inside his body.
Lestat comes home, eventually. Lestat returns and he does not smell of anything but himself. He's been clever. He's always been clever, when it comes to concealing Antoinette. Laid low time and again by Claudia, inclined to pry where Louis is not.
They go together to coffin. Louis beds down, taking his rejoinders to Claudia with him. His understanding. The inevitability. Antoinette. Louis, and the ways in which he is not enough. (The memory of laughter, Lestat's laughter and absence of answer, the one time Louis had asked—)
Maybe he makes a decision then, that night. Maybe he decides when Lestat folds himself into the coffin alongside him, kisses him as if nothing has changed. (Nothing has changed. That is true.) Louis kisses him back.
Inevitable.
They hunt. Claudia watches Louis. Lestat goes about his business. Louis' hurt calcifies.
Lestat excuses himself from their company one night. Louis gives him an hour head start before he follows. Holds the thought in his head: Lestat said he was hunting alone, perhaps he is hunting alone. But Lestat hunts nothing but Antoinette's doorstep, vanishing inside. Louis stands in the shadow, watching the window for a long stretch. The decision Louis has carried crystalizes, turns from a passing thought to serious intent.
By now, Louis has no business to run. No mortal family to inflict his presence upon. Nothing but Lestat, and Claudia, their company, to occupy his time. Louis is patient. He waits, locked silent and cold in the tundra of his mind. He has a plan. He waits for opportunity. Does not consult Claudia.
Waits. And waits.
Waits for the night when Lestat and Claudia go together to hunt. A show of companionship in the wake of argument. It will pass, Louis knows. But they leave him and his qualms behind, and so Louis walks the well-worn path to Antoinette's home.
She knows, Louis thinks. She knows instantly upon seeing him in her doorway.
She has a slow-healing mark from Lestat's teeth at her throat.
In spite of it all, Louis has some mercy. (Has nothing but cold rage, easier to think through.) It is very quick, her death. He feels no relief, no particular pleasure. She's gone. He remains.
Louis sits. Lights a cigarette. Waits. No need to do anything else, when Louis is certain Lestat will find his way in due time.