"Our bench," Louis echoes, a murmur more for himself than Lestat.
Their bench, just as they left it. Their bench where they would spend long hours talking, nights together and then with Claudia. Louis runs fingers over the wood, down the wrought iron arms, before sitting. Hooks up an ankle, just as he'd done long decades ago.
They could talk about anything. Speak more on the Golden Girls, or the last movie Lestat remembers seeing. But those are things that might need to be saved, set aside, if Lestat's curiosity is such that he cares to ask his questions again.
"You okay?" Louis asks instead.
They don't need to talk about it. It's what the question means.
no subject
Their bench, just as they left it. Their bench where they would spend long hours talking, nights together and then with Claudia. Louis runs fingers over the wood, down the wrought iron arms, before sitting. Hooks up an ankle, just as he'd done long decades ago.
They could talk about anything. Speak more on the Golden Girls, or the last movie Lestat remembers seeing. But those are things that might need to be saved, set aside, if Lestat's curiosity is such that he cares to ask his questions again.
"You okay?" Louis asks instead.
They don't need to talk about it. It's what the question means.