Good days, together in their house. These sounds finding them while they lounged in the drawing room, while Lestat played piano, while Louis spoke of books or the pair of them discussed plays or music or some other inconsequential thing. Their life, together, the sound of this city running in the background of it.
Louis' jaw works, has to wrest back some kind of composure as Lestat turns.
"I like that you do."
Louis has something too: Lestat on that balcony, speaking of New Orleans while they smoked. A last quiet moment, something wavering in Louis that maybe, maybe not—
How different it would be, had he changed his mind. (Claudia would never have forgiven him. She barely forgave him for the way he had failed her then.)
Smoothly, Louis lowers himself. Takes the washcloth from Lestat's hand, uses it to chase the last of the grime from Lestat's body. Methodical in this too, taking so much care in the way he touches him. When was the last time they touched? Louis had cut his throat. Lestat had been gone, he'd thought, when Louis had clutched him desperately up off the floor to his chest.
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Good days, together in their house. These sounds finding them while they lounged in the drawing room, while Lestat played piano, while Louis spoke of books or the pair of them discussed plays or music or some other inconsequential thing. Their life, together, the sound of this city running in the background of it.
Louis' jaw works, has to wrest back some kind of composure as Lestat turns.
"I like that you do."
Louis has something too: Lestat on that balcony, speaking of New Orleans while they smoked. A last quiet moment, something wavering in Louis that maybe, maybe not—
How different it would be, had he changed his mind. (Claudia would never have forgiven him. She barely forgave him for the way he had failed her then.)
Smoothly, Louis lowers himself. Takes the washcloth from Lestat's hand, uses it to chase the last of the grime from Lestat's body. Methodical in this too, taking so much care in the way he touches him. When was the last time they touched? Louis had cut his throat. Lestat had been gone, he'd thought, when Louis had clutched him desperately up off the floor to his chest.
And now, this. This care.