Looking back at him, hearing these words land, Louis' expression shutters. Goes briefly blank, driven away from the agony. A tinny ringing in his ears, a strangling pressure in his chest.
Louis wasn't there to see her. Claudia. He hadn't seen.
There is a void. For a terrible moment, something occupies it.
And when Louis fights past the knife-twisting agony of it, what crawls in afterwards is ugly, and bitter. If he pressed, would Lestat lose his temper? Louis sees that clearly too, what would come of it. How momentary the relief. How great the damage.
How cruel, to make Lestat into a bludgeon to harm himself with.
The silence has gone on too long, by the time Louis makes his way back to himself. Collects enough of his mind to dredge up a reply, and even then—
All he does is descend that last step, reach past Lestat to take hold of the lid.
"I'll get in when you do."
A reckless offer. (A conciliatory offer, an apology. One given the only way Louis is capable in this moment.)
The silence scares him. That's the word, so might as well use it. The anger dwindles as it stretches out, but liable to flare anyway if Lestat speaks now, so he remains helplessly silent as Louis finds his way out of it.
Eyes fixed on Louis as he moves down the stairs.
It has occurred to him that Louis could snap in some way. Could decide that of the vampires who deserve to die for Claudia's death, Lestat could be one of them. And why not? He was on the stage. No one was chaining him to it.
So there is a small scrape of heel to ground as Lestat takes a step back when Louis nears, but otherwise keeps himself poised. A glance down after the lid lingers, taking a moment for that uneasy tension within to unwind itself. He doesn't want to get into the coffin. He doesn't want to drink blood. Louis had no rest. Louis had no blood. Why should he?
But he steps into it. Fully clothed, still, no sense in getting caught horribly off-guard if the worst were to happen. Sits, hesitates, tipping a look up at Louis before he settles back on the blankets inside, raised on an elbow.
Looking down at Lestat, Louis' expression cracks into something briefly, revealingly, lost.
They'd been happy. Claudia. (Madeleine. Madeleine, his daughter. His fledgling. Some part of the void in him is shaped like her.) Now Louis is here.
And Claudia is dead.
Louis doesn't make Lestat press him. He climbs in silently after him, and his heart aches to find how easy it is to simply fit himself beside and over Lestat. He still knows how to do this, as easy as drawing breath. As if they had never been parted, as if the years hadn't passed.
"Okay," is a quiet murmur, answering no one. Here they are. He reaches over the side of the coffin to drag the lid up and over, let it thump into place over them.
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Louis wasn't there to see her. Claudia. He hadn't seen.
There is a void. For a terrible moment, something occupies it.
And when Louis fights past the knife-twisting agony of it, what crawls in afterwards is ugly, and bitter. If he pressed, would Lestat lose his temper? Louis sees that clearly too, what would come of it. How momentary the relief. How great the damage.
How cruel, to make Lestat into a bludgeon to harm himself with.
The silence has gone on too long, by the time Louis makes his way back to himself. Collects enough of his mind to dredge up a reply, and even then—
All he does is descend that last step, reach past Lestat to take hold of the lid.
"I'll get in when you do."
A reckless offer. (A conciliatory offer, an apology. One given the only way Louis is capable in this moment.)
no subject
Eyes fixed on Louis as he moves down the stairs.
It has occurred to him that Louis could snap in some way. Could decide that of the vampires who deserve to die for Claudia's death, Lestat could be one of them. And why not? He was on the stage. No one was chaining him to it.
So there is a small scrape of heel to ground as Lestat takes a step back when Louis nears, but otherwise keeps himself poised. A glance down after the lid lingers, taking a moment for that uneasy tension within to unwind itself. He doesn't want to get into the coffin. He doesn't want to drink blood. Louis had no rest. Louis had no blood. Why should he?
But he steps into it. Fully clothed, still, no sense in getting caught horribly off-guard if the worst were to happen. Sits, hesitates, tipping a look up at Louis before he settles back on the blankets inside, raised on an elbow.
no subject
They'd been happy. Claudia. (Madeleine. Madeleine, his daughter. His fledgling. Some part of the void in him is shaped like her.) Now Louis is here.
And Claudia is dead.
Louis doesn't make Lestat press him. He climbs in silently after him, and his heart aches to find how easy it is to simply fit himself beside and over Lestat. He still knows how to do this, as easy as drawing breath. As if they had never been parted, as if the years hadn't passed.
"Okay," is a quiet murmur, answering no one. Here they are. He reaches over the side of the coffin to drag the lid up and over, let it thump into place over them.