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
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.