And Lestat is in this one, the coffin room that had been his, and then his and Louis', and then Louis'. A slow pacing around that takes him to his dresser. That he can't locate his slippers had been a possible sign that perhaps all his things had been stored away, or discarded, but no: he opens a drawer, and here they are.
They are talking in the other room about him, and Lestat takes off his clothes. The marks on his body—twinging, angrily red, most interesting patterns—will fade within the confines of a coffin and the crawl of the sun in the sky, but for now they persist. He presses his fingers against a particularly lurid spread of damage across his ribcage, and the slow spread of his smile at nothing shows only blunt teeth, and fades off into something more tense. The fire crackling in the hearth.
The pyjama pants he was looking for have that unused smell, but everything has been kept just so. They are still talking in the other room as he puts them on. Six years. One coffin. A most humble homecoming.
By the time he hears Louis approach, Lestat has turned back to the room, a white undershirt now pulled over his chest, being adjusted by the time he is no longer alone.
"Ça va?"
He isn't waiting for an answer, instead gesturing to indicate the uneven chamber. "If I must fetch the cabin trunk from the salon, you can at least help me get it up the stairs."
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And Lestat is in this one, the coffin room that had been his, and then his and Louis', and then Louis'. A slow pacing around that takes him to his dresser. That he can't locate his slippers had been a possible sign that perhaps all his things had been stored away, or discarded, but no: he opens a drawer, and here they are.
They are talking in the other room about him, and Lestat takes off his clothes. The marks on his body—twinging, angrily red, most interesting patterns—will fade within the confines of a coffin and the crawl of the sun in the sky, but for now they persist. He presses his fingers against a particularly lurid spread of damage across his ribcage, and the slow spread of his smile at nothing shows only blunt teeth, and fades off into something more tense. The fire crackling in the hearth.
The pyjama pants he was looking for have that unused smell, but everything has been kept just so. They are still talking in the other room as he puts them on. Six years. One coffin. A most humble homecoming.
By the time he hears Louis approach, Lestat has turned back to the room, a white undershirt now pulled over his chest, being adjusted by the time he is no longer alone.
"Ça va?"
He isn't waiting for an answer, instead gesturing to indicate the uneven chamber. "If I must fetch the cabin trunk from the salon, you can at least help me get it up the stairs."