Looking down at Lestat, Louis' expression cracks into something briefly, revealingly, lost.
They'd been happy. Claudia. (Madeleine. Madeleine, his daughter. His fledgling. Some part of the void in him is shaped like her.) Now Louis is here.
And Claudia is dead.
Louis doesn't make Lestat press him. He climbs in silently after him, and his heart aches to find how easy it is to simply fit himself beside and over Lestat. He still knows how to do this, as easy as drawing breath. As if they had never been parted, as if the years hadn't passed.
"Okay," is a quiet murmur, answering no one. Here they are. He reaches over the side of the coffin to drag the lid up and over, let it thump into place over them.
no subject
They'd been happy. Claudia. (Madeleine. Madeleine, his daughter. His fledgling. Some part of the void in him is shaped like her.) Now Louis is here.
And Claudia is dead.
Louis doesn't make Lestat press him. He climbs in silently after him, and his heart aches to find how easy it is to simply fit himself beside and over Lestat. He still knows how to do this, as easy as drawing breath. As if they had never been parted, as if the years hadn't passed.
"Okay," is a quiet murmur, answering no one. Here they are. He reaches over the side of the coffin to drag the lid up and over, let it thump into place over them.