And Lestat has been here how long? Almost eighty years?
Louis is looking back at him so, so steadily. Lestat, speaking of losing interest in the hunt. Gaunter than Louis remembers him.
"Yeah," Louis agrees quietly. "I get that."
Pretend that is what Louis has been doing for the past twenty or so years. Losing interest.
Pretend that there weren't long years where Louis barely ate. Pretend he is not still there, sitting most days with his hunger. His hunger; it's been with him longer than Armand, longer than Lestat.
"Difficult to hunt in a hurricane anyway," saves them both from speaking of it too deeply. "You think you could make do with whats on hand?"
A toss up: would Lestat drink blood from a bag? Would he take a little sip from the other hotel guests? Would they descend to hunt rats in the basement of this place?
He thinks first of the hotel guests. The married couple in the room below them, flown in from Germany, whispering to each other about the storm. The musicians the floor further down, some awake, some asleep, one on a phone to a loved one in another state. An assemblage of executives from a construction company, one of them awake, on his computer, nursing a whiskey. Tourists, people passing through.
The usual fare, back in the day. But Lestat pulls back from this brief psychic wandering, focuses again on Louis. He feels hungry, yes, but he has become used to it. Like something splintered off in his flesh, worked around.
"What were you going to do?" he invites, a little gesture. Hungrier, in the soft way he asks, for an answer.
A question that gives Louis a little space to sit with his own curdling sense of shame.
Half-measures. All the ways he had found, they had found, to coax Louis to eat after his last stumble. (Armand, sitting across the table watching intently as Louis moved from course to course. Armand, rising to occupy Damek's abandoned chair.) He finds now the old defensiveness, embarrassment. The ways in which he failed before. The ways in which he was a disappointment, still misaligned in him.
Amusement, a crinkle around the eyes, twinged smile.
"A bag of blood," Lestat says. "One presumes."
But, says a hand, fingers opening and stopping Louis from explaining. "Yes, I know. For hospitals. This works for us?"
It stands to reason, if he thinks about it. A living man may bleed into a cup, and a vampire may drink from that cup whether that man lives and dies. It must be something about the veins, the heart, that allows death to poison it. Or something. He doesn't know, far from an expert—apparently.
Here, maybe Louis has something to teach him about blood drinking.
"I have it warmed," Louis tells him. "But it won't taste the same as it does when you drink from a vein."
Fair warning. Louis is watching Lestat's face so intently for any sign of—
Well. What had been there in New Orleans. Exasperation. Impatience. Disgust. Things Louis remembers very clearly, enough to inspire caution as they tread across this tender ground.
Maybe in the coming days, weeks, months, however long they have—the old arguments, the old exasperations, they surely can't be so far away.
Just tonight they are, it seems. None of those familiar reactions present themselves, not with Lestat watching Louis so intently. Here, a little twinge at his brow, like a question, but whatever it is doesn't make it all the way to words.
Likely better than the thin sustenance provided by rodents, no?
"I'll try it," he offers. And, to be clear, "Warmed."
All the pomp and circumstance of Dubai could not be collapsed into a suitcase. Louis isn't certain he had wanted it transported. Doesn't know that he wanted to touch it, just yet.
So they will try this familiar thing a new way. Together.
"Warmed," Louis agrees.
A single text, pinged back with an affirmative.
Louis had arranged adjoining rooms. Rachida is awake. Louis can hear her going about the business of preparation, and in this span of time Louis crosses to the elegant coffee table, the low couch beside it. Beckons to Lestat.
What can they talk about? They have said all the weighty things. The smaller exchanges feel fraught to Louis, difficult to navigate without tripping over one wound or another. They can have this little starting point: Louis, beckoning Lestat over as the far door opens, and Rachida sets two generous mugs onto the adjacent bookshelf without ever entering.
Lestat pauses a moment, absorbing what is a new information.
Minor, in the scheme of things, but Louis using his device to communicate, and then the sound of the door opening, and the scent of blood. Louis is not here alone, but has brought staff. Human staff, who understand his nature. Inconsequential information, maybe, except for all that it implies. A whole life sprawling out, full of arrangements, decisions, history, wealth, power.
Lestat isn't unfamiliar with the notion. He had Roget, back when, and a couple of other mortal contacts who understood enough of who they were dealing with. Reminds himself of this on the way to sitting as beckoned. Unseemly to startle at every little unexpected thing.
Unseemly to gaze at Louis, now that he is right here again, available to be viewed in vivid detail, but this one he can't help.
Louis touches Lestat's knee, rises from his seat to fetch the mugs. Nervous about presenting them to Lestat. Feels the spectre of their old arguments (of not-arguments with Armand) close to hand. But he bears the cups back to Lestat anyway, muscling the nerves away as he comes around to his answer.
"Egypt," Louis says quietly. He puts the mug into Lestat's hands. "Then port to port, for a time."
Wandering.
"New York, for a long spell after. San Francisco," with a moment's pause, looking at Lestat's face. San Francisco, weighted down by memory. "Then wandering again, wherever struck us."
Armand's words in his mouth again as Louis echoes, "Here, there, everywhere, and Dubai."
Lowering himself down to the couch once more, cup in hand, as he finishes, "And now, New Orleans."
Otherwise, his focus locks on Louis, this item largely forgotten where he balances it on his knee. Listens to this tale of wanderlust, the little discordant chime of a reminder, us, and the way one location blends into the general idea of more of them. Louis entering the States, leaving again. Never going south enough to be anywhere near.
And San Francisco, when Louis had been in a dark way. Maybe he should ask, Any favourites? Instead, he catches on this last thing. New Orleans, at the end.
The question must be asked. It can't abide going unspoken any longer. "To remain?"
Fair enough, isn't it? Louis had asked, Lestat had side-stepped. Lestat asks now, and Louis...hesitates.
Says nothing right away. He takes a long drink out of his mug, runs knuckles across his mouth. Louis knows his answer. He has already decided. It is only the unexpected struggle of saying it aloud, knowing what it will mean.
"No," is the truth. He owes Lestat the truth. "I'm not ready yet."
Where is home? It is still New Orleans. It is still Lestat. But Louis doesn't know that he fits back among these pieces. If he can grow past what the past eighty years have made of him if he tries now.
Strange that something can feel both devastating and calming. Lestat had, at least, tempered the impulse to hope very ardently, and now—
Now he knows. He nods. The storm outside batters the walls. What if the bricks come apart like autumn leaves, what if the waters rise and come streaming in through the closed doorways? He raises the cup in his hands to drink from and then pauses before it touches his lips when he remembers what it is.
Takes a sip. It is rich and vital in comparison to vermin blood, and he does not miss the urgent squirming of his prey between his jaws. Even so, he does not greedily take a second, settling the cup back down on his knee.
Considers grasping onto this one thing. Yet.
"Well. The city has not given you a warm reception," he says. "Perhaps next time."
"I'm not complaining about the reception. Feels right."
Walking into a hurricane, walking out of it with Lestat.
Sitting here now with him, watching as Lestat sips from the cup and suppresses the urge to prod at him, question whether or not it's to his taste. To drag an opinion out of him and dissect it. Some part of him wanting an argument, wanting to see Lestat's teeth.
Veers away from the impulse, offers, "I need some time. I can't...I need to figure what's left of me and what I want to make of it. If I got you..."
A trailing breath out. Overwhelming, the way he feels for Lestat even now. Louis can't do anything but feel it, to the exclusion of all else.
How forceful would a hurricane have to be to topple a building like this one? Quite strong, he supposes. World ending. The rattling of the wooden boards only makes the motionless walls around them feel sturdier. There would need to be simultaneous catastrophic events. Earthquakes and meteors.
At least he is keeping his histrionics within. Battened down. He tips his head after the distant baying of alarms. Ambulance, police? But Louis has trailed off, and Lestat sharpens his focus back to him again.
If he has Lestat, then there is no figuring himself out. No certainty about what he wants.
"Yes," he says, in that lingering silence. "I understand. I wouldn't..."
Lestat shakes his head, a motion that sways some hair from his face, communicates that whatever he was going to say is unworthy.
Fingers curling firmer around the cup in his hands, an anchoring. "I've been working on some compositions," comes out of his mouth, and he supposes, that's fine. "Nearly one hundred years since the last, so it seems like it might be time for me to create something new."
He can also do this. Work out what's left of him. What to make of it.
So recently, Lestat's voice had spilled from speakers in Dubai. A rare composition, made for Louis. Recorded again after for Louis with Lestat's voice alone.
Strange to feel some miserly anxiety at Lestat composing other songs, other music. Anxious at the thought of other muses.
Louis sips from his mug, deep swallows to give him time to wind his way towards the response he knows he should give:
"I'd like to hear them, when you're ready."
Because of course he does. Of course he wants to hear what Lestat has assembled. They have been so long apart.
And Lestat's piano had been broke. Louis had seen that, left it unremarked upon but much considered.
"You can make me wait until the tour," is a little teasing, in spite of Louis' eyes moving over his face. Studying. "I can be patient."
An amused little hum, and he lets himself be warmed by it. The promise of some future time, when Lestat has music to share, and Louis would like to hear it.
"You will have to be," matches tone for tone. "I like to take my time."
They are speaking in reverse, he thinks. He should be the one assuring Louis he can be patient. Louis is the one asking him to wait. He remembers the cup in his hands, brings it up again. Another sip, still small. His face still does not give away what he thinks of it.
His appetite, dwindled. He considers the things he wants to say, wants to ask. Takes a bracing breath in, looks up at him. "Will you tell me what happened?"
Lestat was always going to ask. Louis owes him an answer.
The explanation feels fraught, scattered. Daniel would make it easy, if he were here. Sum up all Louis' mistakes in a few sentences. But it's Louis' task now, to think on what's happened to him. To explain it, now that Lestat has asked.
But first—
"If you drink that," Louis prompts.
Is more certain now than he was that it is not to Lestat's taste. That he is politely withholding complaint. But he needs to eat. Louis can lead by example, but he will barter if he must.
A breath of a laugh, nearly, a look back down at the cup in his hands.
Very well. Lestat raises the cup, turning it, and tells Louis, "It tastes muddy," a long awaited complaint, but one offered with a twinge of a smile. "Like if the bayou could bleed."
But here, he drinks. He takes a longer draw this time, two swallows, and his tongue cleans off his teeth beneath his lips. Not quite dead blood, but close in how empty it is. None of the syrupy life sparkling through it. But, all the same, something satisfying about the way it settles in his belly, suffuses through him.
A small hummed sound, acknowledging it. Already feeling a little less dislocated from reality.
Muddy, Louis can live with, because Lestat does not put aside his cup.
"I think I've grown accustomed to the taste."
Or to hunger, living with his hunger. Ever present, his most faithful companion.
But he doesn't want Lestat to feel it. They need only tide him over, wait out the storm. Then Lestat can eat his fill.
In the meantime—
"Are you sure you want to talk about this now?"
Though if not, it'd beg the question: when? Louis has no sense of schedule, of what his life will look like now. He had needed to see Lestat. Now that he's here, Louis is less certain of what comes next. Has an understanding of what he needs, but less of where his feet should carry him, what he would even find back in Dubai when he returned.
He drinks down another mouthful, wonders after it, after Louis wishing to live honestly. Another surge of curiousity. Does Louis hunt anymore, or is it just the bagged blood? Supplementing with rats, again? How had it been with Armand, who had not even a trace of pity in his heart for mortal lives? Armand, more patient than Lestat, but perhaps just as invested in Louis' survival.
Swallows the blood, and his questions, looking back up at Louis. A moment of study, and then he says, "If you are not, then I am not."
He rotates the cup in his hands, adds, "Only, I am not sure how long we have."
This settles inside of him, aches. Eighty years for a few days. Not dramatic at all, he thinks, to equate this to a man dying of thirst and given a sip of water. Not enough, but desperately sweet. But he is nodding, yes, the storm damage, figuring out how to tell it, and his gaze dips down to the offered second cup. An instinct to say, Louis needs to eat too.
But that's just the same annoying bullshit when Louis would defer back in the day, when he'd let time spool out between hunts, find some excuse despite how clear the need was. So. Lestat flicks some hair back and finishes his present cup, thick warm blood swallowed down.
He takes up the second cup, a little gesture like Happy? as he brings it up.
"Perhaps," he says, "if the weather improves, we can tour somewhere familiar. You can tell it to me there."
He is thinking of Jackson Square, a preferred bench. It's still there, barring disastrous hurricane consequences.
Yes, Louis is happy. Unconcerned with his own hunger, for the moment.
"Bet you know the town better than me now," Louis admits. Lestat who has been here, stayed this whole time while Louis ranged far afield. Says to him, "You gonna take me on one of our walks? Like we used to?"
The very beginning of their courtship, long looping walks where Louis spoke and Lestat listened, asked questions, responded in kind. Louis had missed him. Had dreamed him, even consumed by his own guilt for doing so, to reach back for even a shadow of the comfort their companionship had been.
A little surreal, to think of reprising any part of the life they'd had together. Surreal to be here, sitting alongside him, close enough to feel Lestat's skin warming as he downs a full cup of blood, starts on another.
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Louis is looking back at him so, so steadily. Lestat, speaking of losing interest in the hunt. Gaunter than Louis remembers him.
"Yeah," Louis agrees quietly. "I get that."
Pretend that is what Louis has been doing for the past twenty or so years. Losing interest.
Pretend that there weren't long years where Louis barely ate. Pretend he is not still there, sitting most days with his hunger. His hunger; it's been with him longer than Armand, longer than Lestat.
"Difficult to hunt in a hurricane anyway," saves them both from speaking of it too deeply. "You think you could make do with whats on hand?"
A toss up: would Lestat drink blood from a bag? Would he take a little sip from the other hotel guests? Would they descend to hunt rats in the basement of this place?
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The usual fare, back in the day. But Lestat pulls back from this brief psychic wandering, focuses again on Louis. He feels hungry, yes, but he has become used to it. Like something splintered off in his flesh, worked around.
"What were you going to do?" he invites, a little gesture. Hungrier, in the soft way he asks, for an answer.
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"Do you know what a blood bag is?"
A question that gives Louis a little space to sit with his own curdling sense of shame.
Half-measures. All the ways he had found, they had found, to coax Louis to eat after his last stumble. (Armand, sitting across the table watching intently as Louis moved from course to course. Armand, rising to occupy Damek's abandoned chair.) He finds now the old defensiveness, embarrassment. The ways in which he failed before. The ways in which he was a disappointment, still misaligned in him.
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"A bag of blood," Lestat says. "One presumes."
But, says a hand, fingers opening and stopping Louis from explaining. "Yes, I know. For hospitals. This works for us?"
It stands to reason, if he thinks about it. A living man may bleed into a cup, and a vampire may drink from that cup whether that man lives and dies. It must be something about the veins, the heart, that allows death to poison it. Or something. He doesn't know, far from an expert—apparently.
Here, maybe Louis has something to teach him about blood drinking.
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It has done for Louis, for at least twenty years.
"I have it warmed," Louis tells him. "But it won't taste the same as it does when you drink from a vein."
Fair warning. Louis is watching Lestat's face so intently for any sign of—
Well. What had been there in New Orleans. Exasperation. Impatience. Disgust. Things Louis remembers very clearly, enough to inspire caution as they tread across this tender ground.
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Just tonight they are, it seems. None of those familiar reactions present themselves, not with Lestat watching Louis so intently. Here, a little twinge at his brow, like a question, but whatever it is doesn't make it all the way to words.
Likely better than the thin sustenance provided by rodents, no?
"I'll try it," he offers. And, to be clear, "Warmed."
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So they will try this familiar thing a new way. Together.
"Warmed," Louis agrees.
A single text, pinged back with an affirmative.
Louis had arranged adjoining rooms. Rachida is awake. Louis can hear her going about the business of preparation, and in this span of time Louis crosses to the elegant coffee table, the low couch beside it. Beckons to Lestat.
What can they talk about? They have said all the weighty things. The smaller exchanges feel fraught to Louis, difficult to navigate without tripping over one wound or another. They can have this little starting point: Louis, beckoning Lestat over as the far door opens, and Rachida sets two generous mugs onto the adjacent bookshelf without ever entering.
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Minor, in the scheme of things, but Louis using his device to communicate, and then the sound of the door opening, and the scent of blood. Louis is not here alone, but has brought staff. Human staff, who understand his nature. Inconsequential information, maybe, except for all that it implies. A whole life sprawling out, full of arrangements, decisions, history, wealth, power.
Lestat isn't unfamiliar with the notion. He had Roget, back when, and a couple of other mortal contacts who understood enough of who they were dealing with. Reminds himself of this on the way to sitting as beckoned. Unseemly to startle at every little unexpected thing.
Unseemly to gaze at Louis, now that he is right here again, available to be viewed in vivid detail, but this one he can't help.
"Where did you go?" he asks. "After Paris."
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Louis touches Lestat's knee, rises from his seat to fetch the mugs. Nervous about presenting them to Lestat. Feels the spectre of their old arguments (of not-arguments with Armand) close to hand. But he bears the cups back to Lestat anyway, muscling the nerves away as he comes around to his answer.
"Egypt," Louis says quietly. He puts the mug into Lestat's hands. "Then port to port, for a time."
Wandering.
"New York, for a long spell after. San Francisco," with a moment's pause, looking at Lestat's face. San Francisco, weighted down by memory. "Then wandering again, wherever struck us."
Armand's words in his mouth again as Louis echoes, "Here, there, everywhere, and Dubai."
Lowering himself down to the couch once more, cup in hand, as he finishes, "And now, New Orleans."
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Otherwise, his focus locks on Louis, this item largely forgotten where he balances it on his knee. Listens to this tale of wanderlust, the little discordant chime of a reminder, us, and the way one location blends into the general idea of more of them. Louis entering the States, leaving again. Never going south enough to be anywhere near.
And San Francisco, when Louis had been in a dark way. Maybe he should ask, Any favourites? Instead, he catches on this last thing. New Orleans, at the end.
The question must be asked. It can't abide going unspoken any longer. "To remain?"
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Fair enough, isn't it? Louis had asked, Lestat had side-stepped. Lestat asks now, and Louis...hesitates.
Says nothing right away. He takes a long drink out of his mug, runs knuckles across his mouth. Louis knows his answer. He has already decided. It is only the unexpected struggle of saying it aloud, knowing what it will mean.
"No," is the truth. He owes Lestat the truth. "I'm not ready yet."
Where is home? It is still New Orleans. It is still Lestat. But Louis doesn't know that he fits back among these pieces. If he can grow past what the past eighty years have made of him if he tries now.
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Now he knows. He nods. The storm outside batters the walls. What if the bricks come apart like autumn leaves, what if the waters rise and come streaming in through the closed doorways? He raises the cup in his hands to drink from and then pauses before it touches his lips when he remembers what it is.
Takes a sip. It is rich and vital in comparison to vermin blood, and he does not miss the urgent squirming of his prey between his jaws. Even so, he does not greedily take a second, settling the cup back down on his knee.
Considers grasping onto this one thing. Yet.
"Well. The city has not given you a warm reception," he says. "Perhaps next time."
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Walking into a hurricane, walking out of it with Lestat.
Sitting here now with him, watching as Lestat sips from the cup and suppresses the urge to prod at him, question whether or not it's to his taste. To drag an opinion out of him and dissect it. Some part of him wanting an argument, wanting to see Lestat's teeth.
Veers away from the impulse, offers, "I need some time. I can't...I need to figure what's left of me and what I want to make of it. If I got you..."
A trailing breath out. Overwhelming, the way he feels for Lestat even now. Louis can't do anything but feel it, to the exclusion of all else.
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At least he is keeping his histrionics within. Battened down. He tips his head after the distant baying of alarms. Ambulance, police? But Louis has trailed off, and Lestat sharpens his focus back to him again.
If he has Lestat, then there is no figuring himself out. No certainty about what he wants.
"Yes," he says, in that lingering silence. "I understand. I wouldn't..."
And now it is his turn to trail off.
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Quiet prompting.
Still no return to the question Louis had asked under the warmth of the shower spray. Will Lestat stay here?
Tamping down hard on the urge to say Come with me. A solution that's not a solution at all. It doesn't matter the landscape. It's the proximity.
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Fingers curling firmer around the cup in his hands, an anchoring. "I've been working on some compositions," comes out of his mouth, and he supposes, that's fine. "Nearly one hundred years since the last, so it seems like it might be time for me to create something new."
He can also do this. Work out what's left of him. What to make of it.
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Strange to feel some miserly anxiety at Lestat composing other songs, other music. Anxious at the thought of other muses.
Louis sips from his mug, deep swallows to give him time to wind his way towards the response he knows he should give:
"I'd like to hear them, when you're ready."
Because of course he does. Of course he wants to hear what Lestat has assembled. They have been so long apart.
And Lestat's piano had been broke. Louis had seen that, left it unremarked upon but much considered.
"You can make me wait until the tour," is a little teasing, in spite of Louis' eyes moving over his face. Studying. "I can be patient."
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"You will have to be," matches tone for tone. "I like to take my time."
They are speaking in reverse, he thinks. He should be the one assuring Louis he can be patient. Louis is the one asking him to wait. He remembers the cup in his hands, brings it up again. Another sip, still small. His face still does not give away what he thinks of it.
His appetite, dwindled. He considers the things he wants to say, wants to ask. Takes a bracing breath in, looks up at him. "Will you tell me what happened?"
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The explanation feels fraught, scattered. Daniel would make it easy, if he were here. Sum up all Louis' mistakes in a few sentences. But it's Louis' task now, to think on what's happened to him. To explain it, now that Lestat has asked.
But first—
"If you drink that," Louis prompts.
Is more certain now than he was that it is not to Lestat's taste. That he is politely withholding complaint. But he needs to eat. Louis can lead by example, but he will barter if he must.
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Very well. Lestat raises the cup, turning it, and tells Louis, "It tastes muddy," a long awaited complaint, but one offered with a twinge of a smile. "Like if the bayou could bleed."
But here, he drinks. He takes a longer draw this time, two swallows, and his tongue cleans off his teeth beneath his lips. Not quite dead blood, but close in how empty it is. None of the syrupy life sparkling through it. But, all the same, something satisfying about the way it settles in his belly, suffuses through him.
A small hummed sound, acknowledging it. Already feeling a little less dislocated from reality.
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Muddy, Louis can live with, because Lestat does not put aside his cup.
"I think I've grown accustomed to the taste."
Or to hunger, living with his hunger. Ever present, his most faithful companion.
But he doesn't want Lestat to feel it. They need only tide him over, wait out the storm. Then Lestat can eat his fill.
In the meantime—
"Are you sure you want to talk about this now?"
Though if not, it'd beg the question: when? Louis has no sense of schedule, of what his life will look like now. He had needed to see Lestat. Now that he's here, Louis is less certain of what comes next. Has an understanding of what he needs, but less of where his feet should carry him, what he would even find back in Dubai when he returned.
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Swallows the blood, and his questions, looking back up at Louis. A moment of study, and then he says, "If you are not, then I am not."
He rotates the cup in his hands, adds, "Only, I am not sure how long we have."
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How long will he stay?
(If he stays too long, he'll never leave.)
Louis puts his mug onto the table in front of Lestat. Silent offering. Drink this too.
"A few days," he says quietly. Nonspecific. "Wanna give you a hand with the storm damage before I go."
Maybe buy a cell phone. Exact some promises, some assurances. Bully this millenial a little.
"I'm just...trying to figure out how to tell it. What happened."
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This settles inside of him, aches. Eighty years for a few days. Not dramatic at all, he thinks, to equate this to a man dying of thirst and given a sip of water. Not enough, but desperately sweet. But he is nodding, yes, the storm damage, figuring out how to tell it, and his gaze dips down to the offered second cup. An instinct to say, Louis needs to eat too.
But that's just the same annoying bullshit when Louis would defer back in the day, when he'd let time spool out between hunts, find some excuse despite how clear the need was. So. Lestat flicks some hair back and finishes his present cup, thick warm blood swallowed down.
He takes up the second cup, a little gesture like Happy? as he brings it up.
"Perhaps," he says, "if the weather improves, we can tour somewhere familiar. You can tell it to me there."
He is thinking of Jackson Square, a preferred bench. It's still there, barring disastrous hurricane consequences.
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"Bet you know the town better than me now," Louis admits. Lestat who has been here, stayed this whole time while Louis ranged far afield. Says to him, "You gonna take me on one of our walks? Like we used to?"
The very beginning of their courtship, long looping walks where Louis spoke and Lestat listened, asked questions, responded in kind. Louis had missed him. Had dreamed him, even consumed by his own guilt for doing so, to reach back for even a shadow of the comfort their companionship had been.
A little surreal, to think of reprising any part of the life they'd had together. Surreal to be here, sitting alongside him, close enough to feel Lestat's skin warming as he downs a full cup of blood, starts on another.
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be strong eppy
sweats
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