deathoftheauthor | the city

( continued from here. content includes: aftermath of a stab wound; blood, mild gore, vampire-adjacent topics; probably horny hurt/comfort. )

( Louis is too tired to protest for the sake of his dignity; he has very little of that left to be concerned with, and besides, Lestat has seen him in worse states than this. Not more injured, but worse off in other ways, certainly. Lestat had carried him just like this once before, hadn't he — the night Louis had burned down Pointe du Lac and left himself to perish in the flames.

He swims in and out of consciousness as Lestat carries him out through the third floor and the party, spared the knowledge of whatever uneasy looks they might get in this state. He's not asleep, not really, but he isn't entirely aware. He doesn't realize it's raining, or even that they've made it outside, until the first cool drops hit his cheek.

He looks up from where he's tucked his face against Lestat's jaw, breathing in the fresh air, the cool scent of the rain-soaked city streets. )

Ah... we'll be in a state when we get home, won't we?

Edited 2023-11-02 08:10 (UTC)

[ Lestat smiles at the sound of Louis' voice as he starts the on the path toward home; his speed more than that of a humans, his body moving so that the wind seems to whistle by them as he goes but without any kind of jostling, keeping Louis close and his steps even. It's a relief to hear his voice, his mind seeming to flood with it as though he'd been in some dark place until he spoke, though in truth he can't really remember what he'd been thinking about at all. ]

I dread to think. I'll have to avoid the mirrors. At least it's fitting for the time of year.

[ It's supposed to be a joke, but there's a certain amount of truth to it. Lestat can taste blood when he licks his lips, can feel it against his fingertips, so he knows that he must be covered in it. He feels revulsion at the thought of what he must look like, but resolutely he only allows his nose to wrinkle a little, focusing instead on their path home, and the man in his arms.

Home, that word again. Home. As vampires they have a habit of finding and making new homes for themselves quite often... and though nothing will ever compare to New Orleans, there's something about this littl spot they've carved out for themselves in this strange place that has Lestat feeling almost tender toward it. Like he'd be miserable if it were taken away. ]

We'll be home soon, Louis. Just a little longer.

[ He picks up his pace. ]

( 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. )

Thank goodness you were with me.

[ It doesn't fluster him, exactly, to hear Louis say such a thing to him - it's reasonably difficult to fluster a man who takes insults as badges of honour and compliments as stating the obvious - but it does make him feel a little better. Not only that, but the way Louis said it seems to speak to more of their nature than it might seem to an outsider; they have been covered in blood before around one another, after all, however rare an occasion... at least in this instance the outcome can be comfort. ]

I wouldn't have rather been anywhere else.

[ And its true, not only because being at Louis side makes the most sense to him, seemingly magnetised to one another as they are... but because he saw Louis enjoy himself, enjoy being strong, feeling strong... and he'd also seen him feed. Lestat swallows and feels heat follow it, blossoming through his chest, making his face feel slightly warm. The sight of Louis' fangs embedded in Dorian's throat is still burned into him, something he doesn't think he'll ever forget, though he knows thinking of it often is a terrible idea. ]

How do you feel, now you're out of there?

[ Is the blood still sustaining him? Is he hungry? Does he feel stronger out of the influence of that house? So many questions. Anything to distract them both. ]

( Louis is still watching Lestat's face, though now and then his eyes dance through the dazzling, impressionistic blur of the electric lights passing them by. He makes a soft sound, thinking. How does he feel? Better than he should, though objectively his condition is terrible. He still hurts, and badly, but something about Lestat's blood working on the wound, working through him, makes the pain feel almost disconnected. )

Mm... better, I think. Slightly clearer. I don't want to fall asleep quite so badly, though that might have to do with the rain.

( A fat drop slides down the bridge of his nose; his hair is beginning to stick to his forehead and cheeks in dark, unkempt ribbons. He tightens his arms around Lestat's shoulders. )

I won't ask you to let me walk.

( He says it warmly, fondly, in spite of the grim reason for it. )

Good. I wouldn't allow it even if you did.

[ His voice is firm, but the way he squeezes Louis' body tighter to him betrays how fondly he means it. He might be fully capable of hobbling around with a little help by this point, but Lestat can't shake that desperate need to have him in their bed - isn't it really no more than a pile of pillows and blankets? Still it feels like a bed, somehow. Like their bed. ]

Even if only for my own sake. It's not often I get to hold you like this for long before you start to complain. You'll allow me this little indulgence, won't you? You can protest that I took advantage of you as much as you like later on.

[ He manages a little smile, as the perimeter of the graveyard starts to come into view, and he begins to skirt around it. ]

( Louis huffs one of his quiet, incredulous laughs. He sounds very tired; speaking still makes his chest ache terribly, and laughing even more so, but he doesn't mind. He'll bear it. His fingers tangle in the back of Lestat's hair, holding onto a fistful of it. )

Very well. As long as you'll allow me the indulgence of complaining.

( He's wracked by a hard, sudden shiver, and he groans quietly as it passes through him, holding tight to Lestat. )

God. Is it cold, or am I?

[ That quiet laugh reminds Lestat so much of the often times he'll say something to make Louis incredulous in the handful of minutes they have between when the dawn starts to have an effect on him and when the death sleep finally takes him. Quietly, he adores those moments; it's Louis at his most unguarded, when he says romantic things without getting flustered, when he's honest and without inhibition. Lestat covets it greedily... but this, oh, he could easily live a thousand mortal lifetimes and be completely content to never see Louis so broken and exhausted again.

The shudder that goes through him makes Lestat hold him tighter. ]

It's chilly. The storm must have brought on a cold front.

[ He can't really tell if it's any colder than usual, but he says it anyway because a small white lie is so much easier to admit than the possible truth.

In a matter of moments Lestat is at the foot of the stairs to their apartment, then at their door, then angling his body inside. The lights are still on, the window is still open, it looks like they merely stepped out for a moment. He exhales, slowly, feeling the ridiculous relief of being home butt up alongside the anxiety over Louis' current state. ]

We should get you cleaned up, my heart. Do you think you could stand it? It might warm you up.

( It's a relief to be back in their quiet apartment, and though part of Louis knows that nothing in this city can be entirely trusted, the simple truth is that this place feels like home. Not the way their flat in New Orleans had felt like home for sixty years, but then, what could possibly replace that? They've made this little dwelling their own, carved out a comfortable, intimate space for themselves, and Louis feels safe here for now, in spite of everything that's transpired.

Louis nods. His hair is plastered to his face, clothing soaked and dripping onto the floor; he looks even wetter now that he's out of the rain. )

Yes. We both ought to shower, at the very least.

( He tugs gently at one of Lestat's curls. )

I think I can stand long enough to rinse all of this off.

I suppose I can allow that much...

[ Lestat muses quietly, managing a little smile for Louis' sake, and heading toward their very rarely used bathroom. Lestat hasn't really bothered to decorate it much during his whirlwind purchasing spree, so it remains the same as the living room had been when Lestat had seen it for the first time; drab, dreary, a little dated, very boring. It bothers him less though, both due to its lack of use and the fact that there are much more important matters currently at hand, but some small part of him finds it all too easy to start quietly daydreaming about updating it. Perhaps that'll be something to keep him busy over the next few weeks.

He carefully lowers Louis' feet to the ground, keeping an arm around his waist in case he stumbles, making sure he can lean his weight on the sink should he need extra support. ]

Take it easy, alright? [ He mutters quietly, voice full of concern but still firm. ] Hold on to me if you must. [ A beat. ] Do you need help getting undressed?

[ He doesn't know why saying something like that should make his pulse tick up slightly, but it undeniably does. Resolutely, perhaps only slightly annoyed with himself, he forces his expression even and calm. ]

( Louis hasn't let go of Lestat yet, one arm still around his shoulders. He meets Lestat's eyes in the mirror, his expression soft and open and just wide-eyed enough to make it clear that he, too, felt something when Lestat posed that question to him. He knows, of course, that it isn't intended suggestively — neither of them is in any kind of state for what that might imply on a better night, surely. But his eyebrows lift slightly, and he turns, resting his other hand lightly at Lestat's waist. )

If you wouldn't mind. I think some of the arm movements might prove difficult.

( He hesitates, tries to sound reassuring. )

I think the worst of the damage is already healed.

[ Lestat smiles, just a little, enough to make it clear how much he appreciates that small reassurance, that Louis is somewhat healed if not entirely. ]

Very well, then.

[ As if he needs telling twice. His movements are gentle so that he doesn't dislodge Louis' hands on him as he starts to undress him. Though Louis looks quite the sight like this - dampened by the rain dripping from his hair and the hem of his shirt, his make-up running, his body quivering from the cold - Lestat can't help but find him still so beguiling. ]

It seems it was a good thing after all that I dressed you in so little, don't you think?

[ A small grin as he starts to manoeuvre the fishnet over-shirt up Louis' body and off, taking the small t-shirt beneath it along with it. With his chest and the wound marring it fully on show, Lestat can't resist brushing the perimeter of it ever so slightly with his fingertips, brows knitting just a little at how it still seems so raw and slick with congealing blood, but soothes himself by shifting his glance toward Louis' face. ]

Does it still hurt?

( Louis flushes slightly at the comment and can't think of a clever response, though he supposes Lestat has a point. This would be far worse in the heavy, complicated layers that they used to wear.

He's glad that Lestat can't see the grimace of pain on his face when the shirt has to come up and over his head. Ah, his chest isn't happy about that particular arm movement — button-up shirts are going to be in order for the next few nights, it seems — but he manages to stifle the sharp hiss of an inhale that wants to accompany it.

He's glad when it's over. The delicate brush of Lestat's fingertips on that ragged, sensitive flesh makes Louis shiver again, from a sensation that is neither pain nor pleasure but simply intense. His eyelashes flutter, and he makes a low noise of acknowledgement in his throat. )

Yes.

( Louis doesn't particularly want sympathy for it (though the caretaking has been shockingly lovely), but he doesn't want to lie to Lestat just to make him feel better. )

But it's better than it was before you gave me your blood.

( Louis' eyes flick down to Lestat's wrist. Is he hungry, Louis wonders? How much of himself did he pour into Louis in that dark, awful place? )

It might still be working. It's difficult to tell, with nothing to compare it to. But it isn't as sharp — more of a deep throbbing feeling. ( Craning his neck a little awkwardly to peer down at it: ) How does it look?

Edited 2023-11-03 20:07 (UTC)

[ Lestat watches as his fingertips encourage a shudder to wash over Louis and... it really is a good thing that Lestat is so steadfastly focused on soothing his pain because something about seeing that cause and effect when it comes from him and results in such a strangely intoxicating sight from Louis is really quite dangerous.

He catches Louis looking at his wrist like this, of course, and he wonders what he might be thinking about - does he want more? Is the idea of Lestat's powerful blood in his body through some means other than the drink settling strangely in him? - but ultimately he feels a fraction better for knowing that it at least feels better, even if it still looks a mess. He's compelled suddenly by the strange desire to kiss the wound, perhaps even to slice his tongue open and lick the edges, clean up the thick clots with his lips instead of letting the water wash it down the drain--

As if breaking from a trance, Lestat suddenly realises that he hasn't even turned the water on yet, and leans ever so slightly out of Louis' hold to get it started. It also gives him a moment of reprieve from being so close to Louis' skin and from the coagulation of their blood smeared across his chest; enough time for him to catch his breath and rein in his wild thoughts. ]

It, ah-- It looks like a stab wound. [ He answers stupidly, but honestly. ] It doesn't look good, by any means, but you aren't spilling all over the floor any more, so there's that.

[ Lestat wishes he could be softer about it but there it is, and - trying not to think about blood spilling, how much they'd left on the floor in that corridor and in the dorm room, how much Lestat himself is covered in it, he kneels to unlace Louis' boots one by one. ]

Honestly, I thought the blood would do more, but... I suppose it makes sense that it didn't, for the way we are weaker here. Another day or so, and it should think it will heal enough for you to move around like usual.

( The sight of Lestat on his knees for him makes Louis' heart catch, a sweet ache spreading through him from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. It's such a gentle, considerate act of service, something so at odds with the arrogant, headstrong persona that he typically shows to the world. Lestat's bowed head and the line of his shoulders make him look almost courtly for a moment, and Louis reaches down with one hand to push his fingers through rain-soaked golden curls. )

Yes, I think a full day's sleep will have me feeling like myself again, if not completely healed.

( He's quiet for a moment, soothed by the background hiss of water spraying against porcelain. He leans his weight against the sink behind him. )

If you're worried, you can put your blood to it again. But you should feed first. ( He lets out a slow breath, gathering his confidence, before he offers... ) If you can't bear the bottles, then let me have it that way for both of us, and you can take it from me.

[ For a moment there, Lestat wonders if Louis has somehow managed to see inside his head and is now picking out thoughts and using them against him in this veritable onslaught of possibilities. He knows Louis means it in earnest, something to stop Lestat worrying, a way to ease the pain faster, a way to stop being such a burden though Lestat would never begrudge him that... but Lestat also can't deny how his mouth feels like it might be watering, how his fangs feel pushed up against his lips as he purses them slightly.

The laces undone, he busies himself lifting Louis' feet in turn so that he can remove each boot. He moves them aside, then slowly starts to rise. On the way up Louis' body, he passes the cloying scent of their mingled blood and feels an unmistakable throb of hunger somewhere deep in his chest. ]

So considerate, my heart, even when you are the one suffering the most. Can't you ever indulge and be a little selfish?

[ He teases with the smallest little twist of the corner of his mouth. He appreciates the offer more than he'll say - he doesn't like the idea of the bottles, still, nor does he trust the blood in them but... taking it after it's touched Louis' veins and become a part of him is something he hasn't considered until now. It could work. It could work all too well, in fact. It could become addictive like that, even though it isn't proper feeding and never will be, it will sustain Louis enough to make repeated feeding possible and... Oh, the possibilities.

Lestat's hands have been moving somewhat in autopilot, and he comes back to himself to find that his deft fingers are already working at the cold metal fastenings of Louis' jeans, the last item of clothing on him. ]

( Louis' pulse quickens when Lestat's hands find their way to his waist, the taut muscles of his stomach tensing at the contact. He lets out a slow breath, lightheaded again, bracing himself against the sink and counter behind him with one hand and keeping the other in Lestat's hair, wrist resting upon the junction of his neck and shoulder, as if that is just as necessary to maintain his balance.

He doesn't know how to categorize this feeling — nervousness, shyness, anticipation? None of them quite seem to fit. Perhaps just an intense awareness, the same as Lestat's touch to his wound had been intense, all of his senses focused upon one singular point of contact. How childish to be focused on such a thing now, of all times.

But then, is it...? They'd shared blood, after all, and Lestat had quite possibly saved his life. Wouldn't humans be thinking of intimacy at a time like this? Don't shared near-death experiences quicken something in the soul? )

Ah... well. ( He says, quiet and low, like he's admitting a secret. ) It wouldn't be entirely selfish on my part, you see.

( Louis' gaze lowers to the pulse in Lestat's throat, long enough to be meaningful, before returning to his face. )

I believe you understand.

[ The teeth of the zipper seem deafening in the still quiet of the bathroom. Lestat watches Louis' green eyes flick down to his pulse, feeling their twin heartbeats both tick up with the strange anticipation in the air. Talking about things like that when Lestat is moments away from having his lover completely bare makes the whole thing feel strangely charged, though with what he can't accurately say.

Instead, as if in compromise, he leans forward to press a kiss against Louis' mouth. His face is still covered in rain water and the remains of his own blood smeared across his lips and chin, but he's sure the sentiment will be appreciated regardless. He smiles, knowingly. ]

Oh, I understand.

[ Before he helps him out of the last clothing keeping him modest, Lestat seems to decide that it's only fair for him to follow suit, and breaks their contact just long enough to get his shirts up and over his head, shaking his hair loose, unfastening his various accessories, and kicking off his own boots in a manner that's strangely hurried compared to his normal careful routine. He shucks off his own jeans first, as if trying to prove to himself that it's not that big of a deal, and then helps Louis with his.

Naked around one another, for the first time in nearly two centuries; Lestat knows that practically he shouldn't be applying so much meaning to this - it's a necessary step, after all - but some part of him that still feels human can't ignore the slight warmth to his cheeks and the fluttering feeling in his chest. Resolutely making sure he doesn't stare, because he feels like if he starts then he'll find it difficult to stop, he guides Louis with both hands at his wrists to step into the warm spray making the little bathroom foggy with heat. ]

( The warm spray of the shower enveloping them is so overwhelmingly good, and Louis wonders why he doesn't do this more often. It isn't necessary, no, but the heat is intoxicating, drenching him, surrounding him, and he feels a faint echo of the same relief that mortal blood can bring. The guilt stirs in him again as he remembers how he'd lost control — guilt and shame and regret — but it's foggy and amorphous, and his mind doesn't seem to want to let him focus on it yet. Later, he's sure, he'll be haunted by it; later, he'll remember what he saw in Dorian's mind as he died, and wonder what any of it meant. But not yet.

Everything feels dreamy and hazy except for the handful of things that remain in sharp focus — most of all, Lestat's hands on his wrists, where his pulse feels as if it wants to leap through the thin barrier of flesh between them and join with Lestat's.

He lets out a soft sigh of satisfaction, eyes falling shut. )

God... how do I always forget what a luxury this is?

( He allows Lestat to support him, partly just for the excuse to be touched, as he tips his head to let the spray wash the cold rain from his hair.

Perhaps it's because they've been touching this entire time, and so the shift in intimacy is mostly a cosmetic one, or perhaps it's the present lack of expectation that he perform for or please Lestat in any way, but Louis feels less shy than he'd expected he would when finally bare-skinned with his lover. It is intimate, and devastatingly romantic, but his anticipated urgency is more a quiet curiosity. Almost innocent, if anything about their kind could be called that. )

Your makeup is running.

( As if that's what matters now. )

[ Lestat keeps his hands on Louis' wrists as an anchor point as he moves backward to guide him, and has every intention of staying there resolute to keep him upright, right up until he looks properly at Louis' face. If he'd been worried about being mesmerised by looking at Louis before, it's nothing compared to how he looks as the hot water pours over his body, seeming to melt away a layer of tension he usually keeps so steadfastly around himself, warming his skin from the cold night air and the chill of the rain, making it almost flushed from the contact of heat. The droplets flood his already slick hair and trickle down over his shoulders to make his pale skin shine as though polished; Lestat watches their progress with eyes, cat-like, somehow wondering how he'd never considered what a wonderful sight water on skin could be.

The last time he'd seen Louis in the rain hadn't been nearly so captivating, and yet it still makes him smile to think about it; the blazing emotion in Louis' eyes, the feeling in Lestat's heart that this might continue on and on in an endless spiralling circle of bursting apart and coming together like the waxing and waning of the moon... He feels the same way now, that this could be something he holds close to himself forever, that there's every opportunity for them to never part and for this intimacy to always be theirs. He only hopes that this time he's learned enough to keep it. ]

Yours too.

[ He laughs, his smile wider than his amusement would warrant, full of the warmth that seems to be radiating from Louis. Lestat releases his wrists only to slide his hands up his arms, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the angle of the bone at his elbow, the stretch over his biceps, his slender shoulders. There is no blood here, nothing to clean away, and yet Lestat is helpless to deny himself the opportunity to touch. ]

You still feel cold, but you're warming through. I can see it spreading across your skin. Do you feel it?

[ His fingers move to his collar bones, to the hollow of his throat and up his neck to his jaw. His fingernails press slightly once they reach the nape of his neck, tearing patiently and softly up through his hair, hands splayed wide and fingers massaging lightly over his scalp under the pretence of 'washing' his hair despite the fact that vampires have no need for such rituals and that Louis' hair is only wet from the rain and not remotely dirty. In reality, he just wants to know the feeling of doing something so attentive for him, so he basks for longer than is needed in the feeling of the strands curling around and clinging to his fingers under the warmth of the water. ]

( Louis lets out a pleased sigh at the drag of Lestat's nails against his scalp, and he finds his own hands moving up Lestat's chest almost of their own accord. He opens his eyes to gaze at him, making his way from Lestat's face and down his chest, and further... and back upward again with a soft exhale of a laugh.

He's so cool, even here, and his skin really is as smooth as marble — though Louis has never touched him like this before, he's spent decades gazing at him, looking at him beneath all different colors of light, and he's certain that this is a change from the way that it used to be. He wishes that he had more memories of Lestat to compare this to, because he's fascinated by every elegant curve of bone and shift of powerful lean muscle beneath flesh that looks carved out of stone.

Louis wonders with a pang whether Lestat is upset by the change in his appearance. He'd described such weeping in his book when he was turned, and he'd hidden himself away after Akasha's death, but Louis hadn't spent much time thinking about the emotional ripples that might come from Lestat looking different physically — he was the same Lestat he'd always been, wasn't he? )

Mm, I do feel it.

( He splays his hands against Lestat's chest, wishing that he could warm Lestat the way a mortal might. Something flutters in his stomach, and he says something that feels rather bold: )

We should do this more often. I don't know why I don't think of it.

[ He watches Louis take in the sight of his body and the feel of it, studying his reaction and finding it all too easy to recognise the somewhat far away expression on Louis' face, the one he gets when he's giving something a particular amount of thought, often more than it really needs. It isn't a bad expression by any means, he doesn't hate what he's thinking about, but Lestat has to wonder what has encouraged him to give the feeling of Lestat's body such intense thought. ]

Just yet another thing that never struck us as necessary, I imagine.

[ He figures that his curiosity can wait a little. Instead, he busies himself by sliding his hands up to Louis' hairline, pressing his fingers in and back a few times, carding his hair away from his face in a similar way to how Louis does it when it's dry, only this time the water doesn't let it fall unruly back into his face. ]

I wonder if there are more small luxuries we have been holding ourselves back from that we haven't realised yet. I suppose we have plenty of time to find out. [ A little hum of thought, and Lestat brings his hands forward, tracing over Louis' smooth forehead, his dark brows, the soft skin of his eyelids and his lashes. He swipes softly with his thumbs, washing away what remains of the makeup smeared there before doing the same to the apples of his cheeks and down to his jaw. He can't resist pressing a little kiss to his lips then, even though they need no attention in the process of his cleaning. ] We can do this whenever you'd like. Stab wound or no.

[ He smiles, tilting his head a little to consider his work, expression full of the fondness he feels warming his heart through whenever he looks at Louis. As it falls quiet, that curiosity rises in him again, so as he brings his hands down to rub over Louis' slowly warming shoulders and collar, it's with a quiet voice that he asks: ]

What were you thinking about before? You had a strange look in your eyes.

( A blink. )

Did I?

( He hadn't noticed, and hadn't entirely realized his thoughts had been wandering that way. He looks puzzled, then thoughtful as he tries to retrace his steps. Difficult when his mind doesn't truly want to land on any one thing for too long. )

I was just looking at you. Admiring you.

( He doesn't have the blood to blush, but he looks like he wants to, a soft smile on his lips. His hands trail upward, thumbs brushing Lestat's jaw, then caressing his face and cheeks with the same sort of careful movements that Lestat's just lavished on him. His hands are slightly clumsy from weakness, but it's worth the effort to see Lestat's handsome face emerge clean and shining and white beneath the streaks of blood and paint. )

... My thoughts were drifting, but I was wishing that that I could have seen you this way before you changed. Your recent change, I mean. ( So delicate, not wanting to upset him. ) To me you don't look very different at all, and yet I'm sure that you are, that you must be. And I was wondering what you think about that, and how it makes you feel, and why I hadn't thought to speak of it with you.

[ Lestat is happy with just the knowledge that Louis had been admiring him — it makes sense, after all, that Louis would get distracted with thoughts of such things given that this is the first time they've been in this way together, and Louis is never capable of just considering something simply, he always has to give it, what Lestat would consider, a ridiculous amount of thought. He tilts his head into each brush of his fingers, closing his eyes with a pleased little hum at the difference in heat between them now, Louis' hands ever so slightly warmed by the temperature of the water.

He blinks his eyes open when Louis continues to speak, therefore, surprised to hear him so... well, so honest. It's a difficult subject, and if Louis had asked him this a month or so ago, Lestat's answer might not have been the same as it would be now… but something about being pressed up with him like this, having gone through what they have, knowing without a doubt that Louis is wondering out of consideration and care rather than any kind of morbid fascination or disappointment over what can no longer be his body, makes him feel safe enough to answer earnestly; to return Louis' truth with some of his own. ]

I notice it too much, if I linger with my reflection. [ His voice is quiet, his eyes cast down, watching the progress of his own fingers across Louis' chest, following the lines of his muscle beneath his skin, the dip of his clavicle, skirting the edge of the wound. ] I see every place I've been worn away and made smooth. I can't help but see it.

[ He starts to rub at the blood drying there, letting the water do most of the work but gently helping it along with a small smile on his lips despite their conversation topic. ]

It makes me feel strange. Perhaps I haven't thought about how it makes me feel enough to have an answer for certain, or perhaps my opinion on it is changing under your hands. I'm not sure.

( Louis makes a soft noise, first acknowledgement and then warm appreciation, sighing at Lestat's thumb working at the sensitive skin of the wound. It stings, and beneath that it aches, but the tenderness of it is so sweet that he doesn't want Lestat to stop. He looks to Lestat's face, at the soft and thoughtful expression there, the bittersweet cast to his smile, and Louis feels a swell of protectiveness toward him that is completely at odds with his wounded and delicate physical state. Louis would gladly give his immortal life to keep Lestat safe, for whatever that life may be worth. )

It's all right if you aren't sure. Even if you aren't ever sure.

( His hands skim lower, tracing the shapes of Lestat's ribs, down to the sharp curves that mark his hipbones; he feels his cheeks humming with the effort to blush, finally, as if he's only now becoming aware of their state. With a little start, he realizes he's staring almost absently downward — getting an eyeful, as they say — and as he wrenches his eyes back up to Lestat's face with a sheepish expression, he vaguely resents that he isn't in the right mind to appreciate it.

A little self-conscious, but entirely sincere: )

No matter how time changes us, you'll always be my Lestat.

event log continuation; backdated to 10/27

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