Lestat's hands come up, hover through this initial twist of activity. Decides, he will allow Louis to attend to this himself. He will likely not match the correct urgency, and this isn't exactly the appropriate time to set about tearing his clothes off. So: he waits until the shirt is shucked off, and then goes to take it from him.
"I can take these downstairs," he says, an offer that has the tone of intention. He does not really wish to leave Louis alone, but he less wants the scent of Antoinette to linger any more than it does now in their most private quarters, in their house. Logistically wise.
So much blood. He could have had it all to himself. No sense complaining about the waste.
His hand had already been in motion, towards their fire, before Lestat takes hold of the fabric. Louis' grip tightens, then loosens. Relinquishes the torn shirt.
"Outside," is about logistics too. Louis reels a step backwards, tugging his belt loose. Shucking off trousers. Blood lingers, splotchy patches on Louis' skin where it had soaked through layers of clothing.
Remembers Lestat suddenly, that first morning. Stripping out of his clothes, standing naked alongside his coffin. How the whole world had been rearranged around Louis, and Lestat had been the only fixed point.
This moment feels like a warped echo. The world unsteady, all things in the air. Lestat, steady, in spite of what Louis has done. What they have done to each other.
It is what he wants to be, after crumbling, after yelling, after clawing for unearned sympathy, something about the fractures he can see in Louis evoking the instinct to make himself useful. Reliable. The instinct that is a century and more the senior. A maker and mentor, or so this is who he should be. Lestat takes the clothes, watching Louis all the while.
Blood on his skin. Likely too dead to be safely licked away. A perverse thought that, of course, his mind produces, confronted with Louis' naked form.
"The incinerator," he confirms. A step away. "I'll be back in a moment."
Louis nods. A moment, to dispense with the clothes. The blood. Lestat goes and his scent lingers in the room. It evokes something near tangible. His presence remaining even while he is gone, down the stairs and out the door, into their little courtyard. Lestat and Claudia had hunted. Perhaps the incinerator still burns, and there is no work needed but to open the door to toss in Louis' discarded clothes. Jacket, shirt, trousers, all things fed to flame as Louis, alone in their room, stands between hearth and mirror.
Antoinette, clinging to his skin. The twisting urge to do harm, to claw her away.
She has ever had a gift for lingering, Antoinette. She is in the grooves of his skin, nail beds and knuckles, smeared and splotched across his body.
He does not step into the fire. But he thinks of scorching, of boiling. Whether it would cleanse her from them in a way Louis' violence couldn't. Is wrenched back from it by feet on the stairs.
The clothes are tossed in, and Lestat removes a cigarette from his pocket as he sets his mind on rumpled, bloodied cloth and wills it to combust, which it does. Focuses that fire, lets it burn with no fuel at all but his own command. If he wanted to cry for her it would be now, but the tears don't start. He is home, welcomed home. Nothing else matters.
He gets through half his cigarette and then everything is ash, so he pitches it in after the pile in the incinerator and returns to the stairs. There is not so much night left, which is reassuring. While Louis considers his own fire, Lestat leaves the dust of his own behind and considers sleep.
Not yet, however. "Oui," he says, as he enters their room. A look up and down of Louis, who has simply waited for him. "We should get you cleaned up, mon cher. And then come to bed with me."
The moment passes. The impulse to step into the fire, slipping through his fingers. Dissipates as Lestat's presence fills the room, draws Louis back into the present. To their room, to his own body.
A long moment passes where Louis searches Lestat's face. Maybe for tears, maybe for regret. For any sign that Lestat has taken the time to assess the wreckage, and reconsidered. That all their circling argument and tenuous dreams for the future have been weighed against what Louis took from him and were found wanting.
Whatever he finds, Louis' shoulder loosens. Turns further towards Lestat, back to the fire.
"Okay."
As Louis reaches out a hand. Invitation without forward momentum, beckoning Lestat from the doorwar.
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no subject
"I can take these downstairs," he says, an offer that has the tone of intention. He does not really wish to leave Louis alone, but he less wants the scent of Antoinette to linger any more than it does now in their most private quarters, in their house. Logistically wise.
So much blood. He could have had it all to himself. No sense complaining about the waste.
no subject
His hand had already been in motion, towards their fire, before Lestat takes hold of the fabric. Louis' grip tightens, then loosens. Relinquishes the torn shirt.
"Outside," is about logistics too. Louis reels a step backwards, tugging his belt loose. Shucking off trousers. Blood lingers, splotchy patches on Louis' skin where it had soaked through layers of clothing.
Remembers Lestat suddenly, that first morning. Stripping out of his clothes, standing naked alongside his coffin. How the whole world had been rearranged around Louis, and Lestat had been the only fixed point.
This moment feels like a warped echo. The world unsteady, all things in the air. Lestat, steady, in spite of what Louis has done. What they have done to each other.
no subject
It is what he wants to be, after crumbling, after yelling, after clawing for unearned sympathy, something about the fractures he can see in Louis evoking the instinct to make himself useful. Reliable. The instinct that is a century and more the senior. A maker and mentor, or so this is who he should be. Lestat takes the clothes, watching Louis all the while.
Blood on his skin. Likely too dead to be safely licked away. A perverse thought that, of course, his mind produces, confronted with Louis' naked form.
"The incinerator," he confirms. A step away. "I'll be back in a moment."
no subject
A moment.
Louis nods. A moment, to dispense with the clothes. The blood. Lestat goes and his scent lingers in the room. It evokes something near tangible. His presence remaining even while he is gone, down the stairs and out the door, into their little courtyard. Lestat and Claudia had hunted. Perhaps the incinerator still burns, and there is no work needed but to open the door to toss in Louis' discarded clothes. Jacket, shirt, trousers, all things fed to flame as Louis, alone in their room, stands between hearth and mirror.
Antoinette, clinging to his skin. The twisting urge to do harm, to claw her away.
She has ever had a gift for lingering, Antoinette. She is in the grooves of his skin, nail beds and knuckles, smeared and splotched across his body.
He does not step into the fire. But he thinks of scorching, of boiling. Whether it would cleanse her from them in a way Louis' violence couldn't. Is wrenched back from it by feet on the stairs.
"Lestat," before asking, "It's done?"
no subject
The clothes are tossed in, and Lestat removes a cigarette from his pocket as he sets his mind on rumpled, bloodied cloth and wills it to combust, which it does. Focuses that fire, lets it burn with no fuel at all but his own command. If he wanted to cry for her it would be now, but the tears don't start. He is home, welcomed home. Nothing else matters.
He gets through half his cigarette and then everything is ash, so he pitches it in after the pile in the incinerator and returns to the stairs. There is not so much night left, which is reassuring. While Louis considers his own fire, Lestat leaves the dust of his own behind and considers sleep.
Not yet, however. "Oui," he says, as he enters their room. A look up and down of Louis, who has simply waited for him. "We should get you cleaned up, mon cher. And then come to bed with me."
no subject
A long moment passes where Louis searches Lestat's face. Maybe for tears, maybe for regret. For any sign that Lestat has taken the time to assess the wreckage, and reconsidered. That all their circling argument and tenuous dreams for the future have been weighed against what Louis took from him and were found wanting.
Whatever he finds, Louis' shoulder loosens. Turns further towards Lestat, back to the fire.
"Okay."
As Louis reaches out a hand. Invitation without forward momentum, beckoning Lestat from the doorwar.