( The rain seems to be rousing Louis a bit, giving him something less comfortable than Lestat to focus on. It's coming down steadily, the droplets pattering down against his face and hair and hands and quickly soaking through his clothes wherever his body isn't shielded by Lestat's. Lightning flashes, illuminating Lestat's face in stark white, and a distant growl of thunder follows on its heels. )
Oh, but you're always beautiful, even like this...
( Perhaps especially like this, Louis thinks to himself. But the thought is a dark one, and he consigns it to the realm of mild delusion brought on by severe blood loss. Louis knows how vain Lestat is, and how fastidious about his appearance, and how precious he considers the blood to be. He'd taught Louis that very early, and they had agreed upon that much, at least — that the blood is a sacrament, not to be wasted.
But Lestat only looks like such a perfect horror because he'd come to rescue Louis, and when Louis looks at him, faintly awestruck, he sees not a monster, but a glorious avenging angel. )
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Oh, but you're always beautiful, even like this...
( Perhaps especially like this, Louis thinks to himself. But the thought is a dark one, and he consigns it to the realm of mild delusion brought on by severe blood loss. Louis knows how vain Lestat is, and how fastidious about his appearance, and how precious he considers the blood to be. He'd taught Louis that very early, and they had agreed upon that much, at least — that the blood is a sacrament, not to be wasted.
But Lestat only looks like such a perfect horror because he'd come to rescue Louis, and when Louis looks at him, faintly awestruck, he sees not a monster, but a glorious avenging angel. )
Thank goodness you were with me.