How can it not be alright, when they are together?
Pleased with himself, with Louis beneath him, pliant and giving at the same time. He gives a quiet, appreciative sound for the feeling of Louis' hands back in his hair (gentle, this time), the grazing of blunt teeth. The way this contact twinges the bruising marks next to his mouth, and he doesn't care.
Lifts his head to look down at him with hooded eyes, and his broad smile shows fangs, just a hint, ignorant to the way this might, too, render a certain night in vivid hindbrain memory, simply a familiar show of want. Looking at him in the firelight that makes it into the open casket, and the angles of shadows where it doesn't.
"You've been so heartless," he says, knowing this is a ridiculous thing to say, mischief clear and present. "These years I've been denied, gazing on your beautiful face this closely. I should keep you here until I am satisfied."
And it does. It does drag something out of Louis' head, a thudding hitch of apprehension that is entirely at odds with the warmth in Lestat's voice. Irrational. Uncontrollable, this thing that cannot be shaken, cannot be buried. Cannot be sat outside of the coffin, will not respect the confines of this intimate space.
But it can be pushed aside. It ebbs, as Louis' thighs shift accommodatingly to bracket Lestat's hips. If Louis allows, the world will reorient itself around Lestat, and the way they touch each other. The way their hearts fall into sync, the way they draw breath in time. The bond between them has survived, grows all the stronger in proximity.
"How long do you figure, until you're satisfied?" Louis asks, mock serious in the face of Lestat's mischief. "A couple hours?"
Is this not akin to muscle memory? Is this not familiar, and easy to fall into?
Louis twines a lock of his hair around his finger, questions, "A couple days?"
Happily, Lestat settles between Louis' accommodating thighs, aware of all the ways they fit or don't fit together. He enjoys that he is taller, and enjoys when that matters not at all, and enjoys when it does. When the comfortable strength of them both means he can sprawl over the other man like so, and how used to it they are, all the ways two men can fit inside this small space that it's second nature to find those positions for their own comfort.
His chuckle is a deep toned thing, felt through his chest, against Louis'.
"Cancel your plans," he suggests. "Let's stay here, making love until we're half-starved. Like the old days."
Wishful, maybe, and a little exaggerated as far as how often Lestat could ever pull Louis off the streets for their mutual amusements—but all the same, a nostalgic little challenge. Kisses the corner of Louis' mouth, his chin, and ducking his head to land another on his chest.
Easier to shake the flutter of fear when they are laid so close. Easier to think of nothing but this moment when Lestat is easy and charming, when they are play-acting something out of the very beginning of their affections.
Even if Louis remembers the old days too. Struggling to keep his hunger in check. Lestat's exasperation, the clear sense that Louis was vexing him each time they had to consider a meal.
Louis puts that away too, as Lestat makes use of what little space can be afforded to them. Squirms downwards, puts his mouth to Louis' chest. Louis hums a low note, encouraging. Interested.
"Till you get bored," has the same teasing lilt, but it brings some little hurt with it. Some small pain.
Warm breath, first, spreading across Louis' skin, and then Lestat lifting his head to gaze up at him that small unit of distance he had managed. "Bored," he repeats, but the note of incredulity, wavering at its centre, departs from the playfulness they'd been maintaining. It would be easy to pivot again, melt words into his skin like I could never be bored with you, mon cher, but the word—
Like a sharp thing, under the skin. He, bored with Louis. The unfairness of the joke's premise hardens his expression, despite the twitched shape of a smile at his mouth. Not quite. "Do you think that at any time, I have ever been bored of you? That this is something that would separate us?"
Defensiveness, coiling like a snake beneath his ribcage, full of unspent venom. He'd made his case of variety, and they are flirting about silly things like fucking in a coffin for a week, and yet.
A misstep in the way Louis missteps, accidentally on purpose. Needling quietly, so quietly.
They have done their negotiating. Louis has been unable to keep away from him, unable to shut Lestat out. Algiers had been too far and too close all at once. Was there anywhere far enough to keep Lestat from him? Louis might have swam the Atlantic, after listening to the voices on that record.
Kill Antoinette, they'd said. But some small part of Louis is still stood in their courtyard, asking: Aren't I enough?
They won't survive the argument. (And Louis is laid out beneath him, at a disadvantage, if they ever—) Louis knows this, and it mitigates his answer, only just.
"We just ain't talked about whether or not you're still going to want for that variety. That's all."
Yes, he is on top of Louis, who is bare beneath him, who he has hurt immensely, who had trusted him with sharing his coffin when even Lestat might not have been too resentful if consigned to finding a place to sleep in the open. His nails don't bite skin and his fangs have already retracted, mostly not to get in the way of the slithery accusation he murmurs across that space now—
But also, purposeful. Some sense that he needs to be careful in his handling. That same sense that thinks he should let this go but cannot. So when he shows teeth, it's not with fangs, but all the same.
"You barely looked at me for years before that night, much less touched me. Bored?"
Under Louis' hand, that flash of anger doesn't catch. Becomes sullen, sulkier. Of course, rage can come from anywhere, including a period of silent treatment, the other side of a slammed door.
Not in this moment, regardless. Lestat's mouth setting, resistant to making peace but reluctant to make things worse. A hard stare snaps away, drops into the shadows nested near Louis' shoulder and green velvet as he refuses to say a dozen things he has the impulse to say. There is a great injustice here, and it is his doing.
Finally, he manages, "Don't you do it either," eyeline still aimed aside.
They couldn't survive another fight. The wreckage of their last is still untouched outside the warmth of this coffin. It is still written into Louis, in the part of him that cannot help but hear the whistle of wind, the sickening weightlessness of his own body. To provoke it—
Maybe there is some part of Louis that only wishes to see restraint. Wants to hear that there will be no one else. His fingers curl in at Lestat's hip.
And there's the thought he should get up and leave, to avoid the balance of this impasse tipping one way or another, but it's only a thought. There is no part of him that actually wishes to get out of this coffin, to be away from this intimate press of their bodies. Louis' hand tightens at his hip, and reflex has the hand resting on Louis' arm mirror it.
The rattlesnake tremor of tension ebbs. Lestat looks at him, an edge still present, tight in his expression, but something receptive to it too. Waiting for Louis to say whatever thing makes it right.
There's no immediate harsh snap, what with this first part working its power in further dismantling the tightened coil of his ill temper. (There's a non-zero chance that Louis will be made to regret his infraction, the word bored needled into sideways comments, until Lestat gets— well.)
He is wanted here, and this is the thing that matters the most. Some tension leaves his shoulders, and doesn't return when the next part comes.
Lestat touches Louis' face, a stroking of fingertips down the line of his jaw. It had been scarcely minutes ago since they had held each other and Louis had simply listened to Lestat sing so sweetly to them, and now—the faintest smile, edges softening once again.
A promise that loosens the tension in Louis' body in return.
See, how they come to agreement? Is that not a promising sign?
Claudia is not here to witness, to meet Louis' expression of hope with disdain. Louis notes it to himself, as his braces his heels in satin as he shifts beneath Lestat. Realigning, settling.
"Okay," Louis echoes. "Now come here."
As if is possible for Lestat to be any closer than he already is.
There's a future where Lestat will be forced to consider why he does the things he does.
And he will wonder, too, why he wasn't capable of doing so before. Why it could only happen while the taste of ash still lingered at the back of his throat, and all had been taken from him, and a streak of petty stubbornness, momentary, had been the only thing to save him from a properly cleansing fire.
Here, Louis relaxes beneath him, and the rich warmth of his voice goes down as smooth as— well, blood, of course, and Lestat can believe that he doesn't need variety, or a place to go for easy affection, or anything at all but Louis.
He smiles, shifting to accommodate that bid to come closer, as if he can be any closer than he already is. He will certainly try.
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no subject
Pleased with himself, with Louis beneath him, pliant and giving at the same time. He gives a quiet, appreciative sound for the feeling of Louis' hands back in his hair (gentle, this time), the grazing of blunt teeth. The way this contact twinges the bruising marks next to his mouth, and he doesn't care.
Lifts his head to look down at him with hooded eyes, and his broad smile shows fangs, just a hint, ignorant to the way this might, too, render a certain night in vivid hindbrain memory, simply a familiar show of want. Looking at him in the firelight that makes it into the open casket, and the angles of shadows where it doesn't.
"You've been so heartless," he says, knowing this is a ridiculous thing to say, mischief clear and present. "These years I've been denied, gazing on your beautiful face this closely. I should keep you here until I am satisfied."
no subject
But it can be pushed aside. It ebbs, as Louis' thighs shift accommodatingly to bracket Lestat's hips. If Louis allows, the world will reorient itself around Lestat, and the way they touch each other. The way their hearts fall into sync, the way they draw breath in time. The bond between them has survived, grows all the stronger in proximity.
"How long do you figure, until you're satisfied?" Louis asks, mock serious in the face of Lestat's mischief. "A couple hours?"
Is this not akin to muscle memory? Is this not familiar, and easy to fall into?
Louis twines a lock of his hair around his finger, questions, "A couple days?"
no subject
His chuckle is a deep toned thing, felt through his chest, against Louis'.
"Cancel your plans," he suggests. "Let's stay here, making love until we're half-starved. Like the old days."
Wishful, maybe, and a little exaggerated as far as how often Lestat could ever pull Louis off the streets for their mutual amusements—but all the same, a nostalgic little challenge. Kisses the corner of Louis' mouth, his chin, and ducking his head to land another on his chest.
no subject
Even if Louis remembers the old days too. Struggling to keep his hunger in check. Lestat's exasperation, the clear sense that Louis was vexing him each time they had to consider a meal.
Louis puts that away too, as Lestat makes use of what little space can be afforded to them. Squirms downwards, puts his mouth to Louis' chest. Louis hums a low note, encouraging. Interested.
"Till you get bored," has the same teasing lilt, but it brings some little hurt with it. Some small pain.
A misstep. (A misstep?)
no subject
Warm breath, first, spreading across Louis' skin, and then Lestat lifting his head to gaze up at him that small unit of distance he had managed. "Bored," he repeats, but the note of incredulity, wavering at its centre, departs from the playfulness they'd been maintaining. It would be easy to pivot again, melt words into his skin like I could never be bored with you, mon cher, but the word—
Like a sharp thing, under the skin. He, bored with Louis. The unfairness of the joke's premise hardens his expression, despite the twitched shape of a smile at his mouth. Not quite. "Do you think that at any time, I have ever been bored of you? That this is something that would separate us?"
Defensiveness, coiling like a snake beneath his ribcage, full of unspent venom. He'd made his case of variety, and they are flirting about silly things like fucking in a coffin for a week, and yet.
no subject
A misstep.
A misstep in the way Louis missteps, accidentally on purpose. Needling quietly, so quietly.
They have done their negotiating. Louis has been unable to keep away from him, unable to shut Lestat out. Algiers had been too far and too close all at once. Was there anywhere far enough to keep Lestat from him? Louis might have swam the Atlantic, after listening to the voices on that record.
Kill Antoinette, they'd said. But some small part of Louis is still stood in their courtyard, asking: Aren't I enough?
They won't survive the argument. (And Louis is laid out beneath him, at a disadvantage, if they ever—) Louis knows this, and it mitigates his answer, only just.
"We just ain't talked about whether or not you're still going to want for that variety. That's all."
no subject
Yes, he is on top of Louis, who is bare beneath him, who he has hurt immensely, who had trusted him with sharing his coffin when even Lestat might not have been too resentful if consigned to finding a place to sleep in the open. His nails don't bite skin and his fangs have already retracted, mostly not to get in the way of the slithery accusation he murmurs across that space now—
But also, purposeful. Some sense that he needs to be careful in his handling. That same sense that thinks he should let this go but cannot. So when he shows teeth, it's not with fangs, but all the same.
"You barely looked at me for years before that night, much less touched me. Bored?"
no subject
You start it, you finish it, Louis had hollered, vicious, across this very room. And Lestat had. Finished it.
They're toeing right along the line of a reprise, a second round. Louis' palm flattens across Lestat's chest.
"Don't make out it was that simple."
no subject
Not in this moment, regardless. Lestat's mouth setting, resistant to making peace but reluctant to make things worse. A hard stare snaps away, drops into the shadows nested near Louis' shoulder and green velvet as he refuses to say a dozen things he has the impulse to say. There is a great injustice here, and it is his doing.
Finally, he manages, "Don't you do it either," eyeline still aimed aside.
no subject
What had Louis wanted? Anger?
They couldn't survive another fight. The wreckage of their last is still untouched outside the warmth of this coffin. It is still written into Louis, in the part of him that cannot help but hear the whistle of wind, the sickening weightlessness of his own body. To provoke it—
Maybe there is some part of Louis that only wishes to see restraint. Wants to hear that there will be no one else. His fingers curl in at Lestat's hip.
"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "Yeah, okay."
An impasse.
"Look at me."
no subject
And there's the thought he should get up and leave, to avoid the balance of this impasse tipping one way or another, but it's only a thought. There is no part of him that actually wishes to get out of this coffin, to be away from this intimate press of their bodies. Louis' hand tightens at his hip, and reflex has the hand resting on Louis' arm mirror it.
The rattlesnake tremor of tension ebbs. Lestat looks at him, an edge still present, tight in his expression, but something receptive to it too. Waiting for Louis to say whatever thing makes it right.
no subject
Is it enough, to want Lestat the way he does? In all his imperfection, his inability to voice it? Against all reason?
"I want you here," Louis tells him, thumb pressing down along the planes of Lestat's stomach. "And I don't wanna share you. Not anymore."
no subject
He is wanted here, and this is the thing that matters the most. Some tension leaves his shoulders, and doesn't return when the next part comes.
Lestat touches Louis' face, a stroking of fingertips down the line of his jaw. It had been scarcely minutes ago since they had held each other and Louis had simply listened to Lestat sing so sweetly to them, and now—the faintest smile, edges softening once again.
"Okay," he says. "Alright. No more."
no subject
See, how they come to agreement? Is that not a promising sign?
Claudia is not here to witness, to meet Louis' expression of hope with disdain. Louis notes it to himself, as his braces his heels in satin as he shifts beneath Lestat. Realigning, settling.
"Okay," Louis echoes. "Now come here."
As if is possible for Lestat to be any closer than he already is.
🎀
And he will wonder, too, why he wasn't capable of doing so before. Why it could only happen while the taste of ash still lingered at the back of his throat, and all had been taken from him, and a streak of petty stubbornness, momentary, had been the only thing to save him from a properly cleansing fire.
Here, Louis relaxes beneath him, and the rich warmth of his voice goes down as smooth as— well, blood, of course, and Lestat can believe that he doesn't need variety, or a place to go for easy affection, or anything at all but Louis.
He smiles, shifting to accommodate that bid to come closer, as if he can be any closer than he already is. He will certainly try.