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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.