Louis nods. A moment, to dispense with the clothes. The blood. Lestat goes and his scent lingers in the room. It evokes something near tangible. His presence remaining even while he is gone, down the stairs and out the door, into their little courtyard. Lestat and Claudia had hunted. Perhaps the incinerator still burns, and there is no work needed but to open the door to toss in Louis' discarded clothes. Jacket, shirt, trousers, all things fed to flame as Louis, alone in their room, stands between hearth and mirror.
Antoinette, clinging to his skin. The twisting urge to do harm, to claw her away.
She has ever had a gift for lingering, Antoinette. She is in the grooves of his skin, nail beds and knuckles, smeared and splotched across his body.
He does not step into the fire. But he thinks of scorching, of boiling. Whether it would cleanse her from them in a way Louis' violence couldn't. Is wrenched back from it by feet on the stairs.
no subject
A moment.
Louis nods. A moment, to dispense with the clothes. The blood. Lestat goes and his scent lingers in the room. It evokes something near tangible. His presence remaining even while he is gone, down the stairs and out the door, into their little courtyard. Lestat and Claudia had hunted. Perhaps the incinerator still burns, and there is no work needed but to open the door to toss in Louis' discarded clothes. Jacket, shirt, trousers, all things fed to flame as Louis, alone in their room, stands between hearth and mirror.
Antoinette, clinging to his skin. The twisting urge to do harm, to claw her away.
She has ever had a gift for lingering, Antoinette. She is in the grooves of his skin, nail beds and knuckles, smeared and splotched across his body.
He does not step into the fire. But he thinks of scorching, of boiling. Whether it would cleanse her from them in a way Louis' violence couldn't. Is wrenched back from it by feet on the stairs.
"Lestat," before asking, "It's done?"