Reflects on whether things would be simpler for Louis if he'd followed through on his intent to release him properly. To have hated him alongside all the rest. But what can he say? Love is a curse.
And he steals comfort from the hand in his face, leaning into it, turning his face to brush his lips against Louis' palm, and breathes through the last shudders that had gripped his lungs, his heart. "None of you should have been," murmured there. It's their turn to hurt, he'd said, a declaration flung out to the audience.
Inviting their complicity. Their abuse. Riling them.
"We need rest," he adds, a breath out that is close to a laugh, but never makes it. Again, coaxing Louis into coffin. But it's daylight outside, the sun pressing against the windows. Staying out in it will do them no good.
There's less excuse now, Louis knows. There are two coffins in this apartment. There are the sewers accessible to them.
Louis does not volunteer this.
Nothing is repaired. Everything is repaired. Both of these things are true.
Tears still run silently down his face as he nods, jaw set. His palm aches where Lestat kissed. He cannot imagine getting into a coffin by himself. Has that been taken from him? The ability to find rest on his own?
"Mine's beneath that bed," Louis tells him. "Her's is underneath here."
The heel of his boot scrapes backwards, thunks softly against concealed wood.
Lestat rises out of his kneeling pose, keeping Louis' hand in his. No, there will be no leaving him. Not through the sewers, not even through the separation of another coffin.
The answer as to sleeping arrangement seems obvious, until it isn't.
Then, he pulls at Louis' hand to urge him to stand. After, he will go and lift the bed that conceals their daughter's coffin. The handsome perfume she favoured, the scented oils she used in her hair, the cheap cigarettes she sometimes indulged in are released with that movement, a sensory sketch of a fully grown woman of good taste.
He looks to Louis, a clear question entwined with the plain desire to lay amongst it all, as the daylight takes them away.
Standing alongside her coffin, scenting all the familiar notes of her in the air among the traces and trappings of the little apartment they had made their home, Louis feels grief twisting through him so strongly, a force powerful enough to break his body apart.
Their daughter. Gone.
The last dregs of closeness to be gathered are within her coffin. Maybe he should bar Lestat from it, but it would be a cruelty.
And Louis balks at the thought of sleeping alone.
"Get in," is far more tender a thing than the invitation Louis had extended before, in the ramshackle basement they'd stowed away in. "Please."
Lestat allows the relief to pull through him, and he nods. Okay.
Takes off his shoes, first, and then his waistcoat, his shirt. It's a practical kind of stripping, none of the careful choreography with which he might have undressed himself in Louis' presence before. Sooty, bloody clothes are abandoned in a heap until he is down to what will have to pass as pyjamas, undershirt and drawers. There is still grime clinging to his skin, still the scent of massacre in his hair.
It'll do. He steps into the coffin and kneels down into it. The dimensions aren't too out of proportion, not a child's coffin anymore, but it would be uncomfortable for they were more concerned about intimacy, if the deep sleep awaiting them wouldn't rob them of the senses to be uncomfortable.
Still pink satin, he observes, but with a grey sheen. Less frills, less frippery. His heart hurts. He reaches a hand to Louis to help him in.
A bloodier, stripped-down mirror, Louis takes the hand offered.
That has been the way of it, since Lestat excavated Louis from beneath the stones. Lestat extends a hand, and Louis takes it. This is the first moment where it feels like a fully conscious decision, rather than reflex.
Louis recalls the day they chose their coffins, the project of procuring and transporting them sight unseen into this room. He cannot think on it too long. It is too painful.
He lowers himself down alongside Lestat. Recalls still how they fit together, how to tangle their legs, to lay himself across Lestat's chest. Hip to hip, heart to heart. Louis' fingers hook in the collar of his undershirt.
"You meant those things."
A whisper in the dark, as the lid closes overhead.
It is easy, conforming his body to Louis', to make space for them both. They fit together perfectly, like they were made for each other. These are the kinds of things Lestat is still capable of thinking, even now, as he winds an arm around the other arm, lets out a long stream of breath at the innate comfort it gives him to do so.
And he will wait until Louis feels relaxed against him before he gives into the urge to enter that sleep state, knowing he will eventually have little choice in doing so anyway.
His hand goes up, cradling Louis' face, and he lifts his chin so that he can press a kiss to his brow as they are bathed in reparative shadow. "Every word," innately refers to the ones that were his own.
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no subject
Reflects on whether things would be simpler for Louis if he'd followed through on his intent to release him properly. To have hated him alongside all the rest. But what can he say? Love is a curse.
And he steals comfort from the hand in his face, leaning into it, turning his face to brush his lips against Louis' palm, and breathes through the last shudders that had gripped his lungs, his heart. "None of you should have been," murmured there. It's their turn to hurt, he'd said, a declaration flung out to the audience.
Inviting their complicity. Their abuse. Riling them.
"We need rest," he adds, a breath out that is close to a laugh, but never makes it. Again, coaxing Louis into coffin. But it's daylight outside, the sun pressing against the windows. Staying out in it will do them no good.
hoists bow
Louis does not volunteer this.
Nothing is repaired. Everything is repaired. Both of these things are true.
Tears still run silently down his face as he nods, jaw set. His palm aches where Lestat kissed. He cannot imagine getting into a coffin by himself. Has that been taken from him? The ability to find rest on his own?
"Mine's beneath that bed," Louis tells him. "Her's is underneath here."
The heel of his boot scrapes backwards, thunks softly against concealed wood.
and they were roommates
The answer as to sleeping arrangement seems obvious, until it isn't.
Then, he pulls at Louis' hand to urge him to stand. After, he will go and lift the bed that conceals their daughter's coffin. The handsome perfume she favoured, the scented oils she used in her hair, the cheap cigarettes she sometimes indulged in are released with that movement, a sensory sketch of a fully grown woman of good taste.
He looks to Louis, a clear question entwined with the plain desire to lay amongst it all, as the daylight takes them away.
and they WERE roommats
Claudia is dead.
Standing alongside her coffin, scenting all the familiar notes of her in the air among the traces and trappings of the little apartment they had made their home, Louis feels grief twisting through him so strongly, a force powerful enough to break his body apart.
Their daughter. Gone.
The last dregs of closeness to be gathered are within her coffin. Maybe he should bar Lestat from it, but it would be a cruelty.
And Louis balks at the thought of sleeping alone.
"Get in," is far more tender a thing than the invitation Louis had extended before, in the ramshackle basement they'd stowed away in. "Please."
no subject
Takes off his shoes, first, and then his waistcoat, his shirt. It's a practical kind of stripping, none of the careful choreography with which he might have undressed himself in Louis' presence before. Sooty, bloody clothes are abandoned in a heap until he is down to what will have to pass as pyjamas, undershirt and drawers. There is still grime clinging to his skin, still the scent of massacre in his hair.
It'll do. He steps into the coffin and kneels down into it. The dimensions aren't too out of proportion, not a child's coffin anymore, but it would be uncomfortable for they were more concerned about intimacy, if the deep sleep awaiting them wouldn't rob them of the senses to be uncomfortable.
Still pink satin, he observes, but with a grey sheen. Less frills, less frippery. His heart hurts. He reaches a hand to Louis to help him in.
no subject
That has been the way of it, since Lestat excavated Louis from beneath the stones. Lestat extends a hand, and Louis takes it. This is the first moment where it feels like a fully conscious decision, rather than reflex.
Louis recalls the day they chose their coffins, the project of procuring and transporting them sight unseen into this room. He cannot think on it too long. It is too painful.
He lowers himself down alongside Lestat. Recalls still how they fit together, how to tangle their legs, to lay himself across Lestat's chest. Hip to hip, heart to heart. Louis' fingers hook in the collar of his undershirt.
"You meant those things."
A whisper in the dark, as the lid closes overhead.
🎀 found it
And he will wait until Louis feels relaxed against him before he gives into the urge to enter that sleep state, knowing he will eventually have little choice in doing so anyway.
His hand goes up, cradling Louis' face, and he lifts his chin so that he can press a kiss to his brow as they are bathed in reparative shadow. "Every word," innately refers to the ones that were his own.