deathoftheauthor | the city

( 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.

[ His eyelids flutter ever so slightly at the touch of Louis' hands. So brave, carving a path for themselves across his skin, like a brand of his name on flesh never before seen or touched by another creature, not like this, not this body, not with this intimacy. How could he have betrayed Louis so much to ever believe that he might not want to look upon him so changed, that his lover might not want to make the decision on his own, that he could find things about him to admire still despite how inescapably inhuman he might look? It's so much he forgets to breathe, goes inhumanly still as though it might stop the clock and leave him here to succumb completely to the feeling of Louis' explorative touch meandering across his hipbones.

He flicks his eyes open just in time to meet Louis' emerald ones rising to meet his, and the sheepish look gives him a pretty good idea of where his focus might have been wandering. He might have teased, had Louis not said something so devastatingly romantic.

Lestat brings his hands to Louis' stomach, fingers on his ribs, palms flat across his pale skin, pushing lightly until Louis' back bumps against the tiles and they come together under the spray of the water. He kisses him, softly at first but slowly turning deeper; a hand comes up, fingers pressing insistently at Louis' chin, encouraging his mouth to open wider, to let Lestat in, to allow him to drink this moment down to the last drop as if it were the blood. ]

Oh, Louis... [ He sighs it, like he used to, but without any of the frustration or condescension. Instead, it's something quiet and almost childish, something reserved only for them and only for this moment. ] I'll never need anything more than that.

( Louis makes a soft sound into the kiss as his back meets the tile, a little gasp of surprise at the sensation of being pressed between the hard surface behind him and the hard body in front of him. His hands come to rest on Lestat's hips, nails pressing lightly into the skin; with a light shiver, Louis parts his lips and coaxes Lestat's tongue into his mouth with his own, craving the sensation of being claimed and devoured and loved through it all.

When Lestat speaks again, his sigh is so tender, and his voice so soft and earnest — and oh, though Louis may not ever learn to love himself, he's beginning to believe that Lestat actually feels that way, truly believe it deep down in his bones. That it isn't merely hope and fantasy, but true. That Lestat's interest in him isn't just infatuation, that he might remain once the novelty wears off, that this coming together might actually last. Not without considerable effort, of course, and not without trust and more than a little luck...

How like Louis to find some inner peace on the same night he finally killed a human being again. Perhaps it's the blood still working through him, in spite of the amount he lost, easing some tension in him. Or perhaps it's simply Lestat's presence, or Lestat's blood, quieting his mind. )

I haven't wanted to hurt you by speaking of it, but I wonder if that's made it seem as if I haven't thought of it, or that I don't truly wish to know. But I do. I want to know everything about you, Lestat.

( His voice is breathless from the kiss, but it still has that same dreamy quality to it, slightly weak and faint but very much in love. )

[ Lestat can feel the water soaking him through now, making his hair heavy and his skin slick and warm. It's not easier to touch Louis like this, because it's never difficult to slide hands over his smooth skin, but it's certainly different; the water changes the friction from something electric to something deep, as though instead of touching flesh he's touching something more ethereal, like his soul, like his energy. Lestat can feel in every fibre of himself the magnetised connection to the body under his hands, and for a moment it has him rapt as though staring into a bottomless pool of sparkling water. ]

I want you to know me.

[ It falls from him so suddenly that it surprises even him. His eyebrows raise slightly, pale colour touching the tips of his ears now visible as his hair clings to his face, but he presses his lips together as if to steel his resolve before he speaks again. ]

I have only ever wanted you to know me, even when the idea of it scared me more than anything.

[ Their long years together and every blow of words had been made in some way by Lestat's desperation to be recognised in Louis' eyes, and even though the guilt and the sight of himself so changed by his own foolishness undeniably frightens him in some way, this reverence in Louis voice and the tender honesty of his curious touches soothes him like a balm. For this moment he'd leave all inhibitions behind willingly, he'd devote himself entirely in whatever way he had to, just to keep this feeling alive in his heart. In both of their hearts.

He kisses him again, unable to resist the closeness, equally frustrated it isn't as close as they could be given Louis' condition, but determined to take exactly as much as he can get. He trails his tongue along Louis' fangs, along his blunt front teeth, along his lower ones and along his lips; he sucks his lower lip into his mouth, letting out a soft groan at the pull of resistance, the taste of him, the heat of him. The hand still on his torso slides upward, fingers pressing ever so slightly into his ribs, stopping just short of his wound before he finally, reluctantly, pulls back. ]

I think we've become quite distracted from the task at hand.

[ His voice is low and affectionate, and his expression betrays the fact that he doesn't care in the slightest. ]

( Louis shudders at the slide of Lestat's tongue against his sensitive fangs, desire taking shape as thirst and whipping through his veins. Louis can actually taste the throb of Lestat's heartbeat inside of his mouth, filling him, and Louis wants him so badly that he's dizzy with it.

And oh, his heart soars to hear that Lestat wants to be known, to think that they might have that connection for always... it takes the reminder of his loss of self-control to restrain himself from having Lestat like that, tasting him, feeling their blood mingling and their heartbeats becoming one. He knows that the veil comes down between maker and fledgling when they drink from one another, and Louis lets out a soft sound of yearning at the thought of finally seeing into his soul, the one that Louis has always above all wanted to understand.

Louis leans his cheek toward Lestat's hand, back arching more subtly into his touch as well. He snakes an arm around Lestat's shoulders, steadying himself with a small smile. He's looking at Lestat with that awestruck fondness again, and he lifts his other hand to trace the places on Lestat's handsome face where the pale blush still lingers. His fingertips love with the delicacy of a paintbrush along the shell curve of Lestat's ear. Pink, he thinks, a bit delirious. )

Have we?

( There's a sweetness to his voice that's almost innocent, and the plaintive way his voice turns upward at the end makes it clear he doesn't want this to be over yet. But Lestat is supporting his weight, keeping him balanced; he would feel worse almost immediately if he were to let go, and yet he doesn't have the energy to do much more than hold him and respond to his touches. )

I thought this was about washing up and getting warm again. Aren't we accomplishing both? You've been quite thorough.

[ Though he can't feel Louis' mind with any kind of clarity, Lestat is still certain there are aspects to their relationship that he can still divine without words to explain it, as if their connection is beyond anything they can learn from history, as if they're carving a new facet of their bond that can't be simply described as fledgling and maker, or lovers, or companions. In moments like this, where Lestat is so certain he knows exactly what Louis is thinking and feeling, it's almost as if their hearts are speaking to one another through sheer intention alone; or perhaps it's something deeper, their souls, maybe, connected through so much more than just the blood.

That being said, when Louis shudders with desire for him and wraps so languidly around him, that same desire drips like honey down Lestat's spine too, but there comes with it an innate sense of love, of adoration, soothing the heat of it to glowing embers rather than something animalistic and feral as it had been when he'd come home to Louis a week or so ago and they'd reconciled against one another on the couch.

He feels the slight arch of Louis' spine, one hand falling into the elegant curve of his lower back while the other lingers still around the wound. The feather-light touch to his ear makes him shiver, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lip as if he weren't already drenched by the warm spray of the shower. ]

I wanted to have you in and out quickly, so you could rest... [ He says, but there's a telltale tone in his voice that says he's not as remorseful as his words infer he should be, that he much prefers to be pressing Louis up against the tiles, hands holding their bodies together, close and tight, his lips trailing down the angle of Louis' jaw and to the lobe of his ear. ] I'm not sure that I've been as thorough as you say. I've had my mind elsewhere.

( Again, Louis wishes that he had the presence of mind and the blood in his veins it would take to properly appreciate this moment. Not even to do anything different, not necessarily — though there is a definite appeal to the idea of touching Lestat like this in another context, to finding out just what they can still feel. But if he had time, he would memorize every centimeter of Lestat's body with his hands, worshiping him with caresses.

Another night, he tells himself. They have time, don't they? He feels a tremor of doubt in him, and he tries not to think of how Halloween is approaching, and how he can't shake the superstitious fear that Lestat might vanish again. Akasha is gone, yes, but this place has such a hold on them, and people do go missing here without a trace...

Louis tips his jaw to give Lestat better access to his neck and his sensitive ear, making a soft sound in his throat. )

Have I distracted you? I should apologize.

( He doesn't, though. His voice trembles, and he shivers at the touch of Lestat's lips, fingers sliding into his hair again. )

[ Louis yielding to him in this way is staggering. Lestat already knows how much he likes to feel a body surrender under his, but when it's Louis he feels an entirely different energy to it; with humans it's expected, with Louis it's something to be treasured, to be grateful for, to cherish. As if to express his thanks, Lestat sighs softly against his ear, breath hot against the curls plastered against his skin by the water. His tongue runs along the shell and down to the lobe, beckoning it between his lips so he can graze it with his lower teeth before releasing it. ]

You don't sound even the slightest bit remorseful.

[ He murmurs admonishingly, though his mouth is curling into a smile even as he reluctantly pulls back; the longer he stays so close to Louis' veins, the stronger he feels the thirst prickling the back of his throat. Instead, he retracts his touch enough to slide curious fingers down Louis' arms and encourage his hands up and into the spray. There's blood in his cuticles, drying between his fingers, and Lestat's aren't much better. So he starts the patient process of sliding his fingertips against Louis', over his knuckles, palm-to-palm and then over the veins in the back of his hand, his wrist and back again to his nails. His progress is attentive, thorough like he wasn't before, surrendering his desire for his lover easily in favour of his desire to do as he intended in the first place; to clean him up. Enough, at least, that when he takes him to their bed and presses their skin together again in this way, he'll feel less like he's taken advantage. ]

There.

[ Finally, when their hands are clean and the only blood between them remains in the slowly healing wound on Louis' chest, Lestat seems happy enough with his work to press a kiss to Louis' waiting mouth. ]

( Pleased, Louis hums into the kiss, squeezing both Lestat's hands in his own. Being cared for like this is so precious, something that he's never allowed from anyone in his long, long life, and he feels so undeserving of such tenderness that he nearly wants to pull away. But he doesn't, too hypnotized by the sight of Lestat's long fingers caressing his own, the gentle scrubbing beneath his nails, until he's shining so clean and new that he might have been freshly-made from porcelain.

He bites at Lestat's lip a little as they kiss, teasing the swell of it with his teeth, and tormenting them both by licking just once at Lestat's sharp fangs. He withdraws only after a very long moment, eyes half-lidded as he gazes at Lestat, his heart thudding in his chest. The wound still aches with every throb, but he doesn't think he'll lose much more blood. And if he doesn't do anything foolish, and the City doesn't send him back to that party tonight to aggravate the injury, he just might be healed tomorrow evening when he wakes. In a few more nights, surely. )

Let me see your wrist?

( Louis asks softly, undemanding, turning Lestat's bitten wrist to see whether it's healed as much as it ought to have. )

[ Lestat almost feels his resolve slip in that kiss. Oh, having Louis be the one to tempt him and distract him is a novelty he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of, and he only hopes that the future brings them both many more opportunities to lure the other out of what should be done and further into the realm of want and need. Preferably with less bodily harm, though.

When Louis takes his wrist Lestat shows it to him with no resistance. The bite is healed, certainly, but there is a pinkness to the skin and a slight glossy texture that betrays the wound, the healing still not entirely complete. It's strange to see himself like this, marked in this way... and yet strangely exciting. An image flashes in his mind of his fangs twanging at his veins, the flesh pulping beneath his teeth, bruising. Could a mark be left on him now, here in this strange place? ]

It's slow. We are weaker here, it makes sense that the effects of the blood are weak, too.

[ He doesn't sound too concerned, distracted with his own thoughts as he is, but his eyes drop to Louis' wound and his eyebrows pull together a little. What he knows about their recovery time is warped now, and he wonders if he's made a mistake making Louis stand for so long. ]

Let me help you out. We shouldn't make any assumptions until we see you start to heal properly.

( Louis turns Lestat's wrist carefully in his hand, frowning with worry at the sight of the freshly-healed wound. It stands out so plainly to him against the skin around it; the light glints off the water as it rolls down Lestat's arm, and that only makes the texture more apparent. He makes a concerned sound, a soft cluck of his tongue, then lifts that wrist to his lips to kiss it gently. )

Very well. I'll take your lead, Lestat.

( He sighs, leaning his weight against Lestat again, putting complete trust in him. )

I've never been wounded this badly before... I have very little to compare it to. I suppose I don't know what to expect.

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