Untangling, Louis says, and Lestat wonders if he knows exactly how many knots he might have to cut through before he can truly call it done. If there even is such a thing. He might say, Louis is himself an entanglement, a snarl between Lestat and Armand, but perhaps that can wait. Or perhaps it never needs saying.
Perhaps it's not even true, but it feels true. Feels just like Armand, to braid himself into Lestat's life this way. All the while, his hand is pliant under the inspection that Louis' hand makes of it. Playing a little, in the curl of his fingers.
"Hard won freedom," he adds, looking back up at him. Still tearful, simply because that rise of feeling hasn't gone away, but less teetering, a thin-pressed smile as he looks at Louis. Louis, who is here, and beautiful, and soft-spoken, and holding his hand.
Louis isn't sure. Knows that it will not be so simple as walking out of the penthouse and returning to find Armand gone. Their lives are interwoven. Louis still sleeps turned in to the space Armand once occupied in their shared bed.
Lestat's hand is warm in his own. Permissive, easy. Louis is indulging himself in this small contact, letting this touch be an anchor. They're here, this is real. No one is dreaming.
"It took a long time," Louis agrees. "But I got it. Gonna figure what to make of it now."
Who is Louis de Pointe du Lac now? Who is he after seventy-seven years with Armand? Seventy-seven years without Claudia, without Lestat?
Heavy questions. None are Lestat's to answer.
Louis' head tips towards him, inquisitive, inviting. What else?
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Untangling, Louis says, and Lestat wonders if he knows exactly how many knots he might have to cut through before he can truly call it done. If there even is such a thing. He might say, Louis is himself an entanglement, a snarl between Lestat and Armand, but perhaps that can wait. Or perhaps it never needs saying.
Perhaps it's not even true, but it feels true. Feels just like Armand, to braid himself into Lestat's life this way. All the while, his hand is pliant under the inspection that Louis' hand makes of it. Playing a little, in the curl of his fingers.
"Hard won freedom," he adds, looking back up at him. Still tearful, simply because that rise of feeling hasn't gone away, but less teetering, a thin-pressed smile as he looks at Louis. Louis, who is here, and beautiful, and soft-spoken, and holding his hand.
no subject
Louis isn't sure. Knows that it will not be so simple as walking out of the penthouse and returning to find Armand gone. Their lives are interwoven. Louis still sleeps turned in to the space Armand once occupied in their shared bed.
Lestat's hand is warm in his own. Permissive, easy. Louis is indulging himself in this small contact, letting this touch be an anchor. They're here, this is real. No one is dreaming.
"It took a long time," Louis agrees. "But I got it. Gonna figure what to make of it now."
Who is Louis de Pointe du Lac now? Who is he after seventy-seven years with Armand? Seventy-seven years without Claudia, without Lestat?
Heavy questions. None are Lestat's to answer.
Louis' head tips towards him, inquisitive, inviting. What else?