( Louis knows Lestat is clever and quick to learn new skills when he has a mind to, and that he can be single-minded and almost frighteningly driven when he has a goal to aim himself toward. But somehow, Louis is still astonished that Lestat would put all of that effort toward something entirely for him. The time it must have taken him, the skill to do it all right under Louis' nose when they spend so much time together — and the willpower to keep it all a secret when he must have been bursting at the seams to share it with his closest companion and his confidante...
To Louis, for whom a single thoughtful gesture means more than any material gift ever could, the imperfections only make it more beautiful. No studio, no band, no expensive equipment — just Lestat, and the truth of his feelings for him. )
It's perfect, Lestat. I can almost see you singing it. I can hear the way you're sitting in the sound of your voice, and in the distance from the microphone. And you're wearing your jewelry, of course — you always are, but I love the way it sounds, because I know the exact way you move without having to open my eyes...
( And, eyes shut, he leans in for a slow, sweet, and lingering kiss. )
I'm thankful that you didn't polish it so well that it lost its texture.
[ Lestat is surprised to feel something like relief unwind in his chest, like a rope loosened from around his heart, the faint buzzing of static in the air lessened, soothed by Louis’ joy to have this tape exactly how it is. Lestat is such a proud man, always so focused on perfection now that he knows it’s attainable and now that his senses can pick up on how short any given thing can fall from being so, and perhaps he’d found it a little harder than he’s letting on to allow the tape to exist and be so unlike what he’d pictured in might be. He hadn’t expected Louis to pick faults in the recording, but he hadn’t expected to be so put to ease by his acceptance, either.
He smiles, the hand not wormed between the ribbon and Louis’ fingers coming up to bring his chin closer again, for another sweet kiss so earnest it’s as though through it, he’s trying to communicate some greater feeling without words. Whatever that might be. ]
I’m thankful you enjoy it despite its texture.
[ He kisses him again, more brief but just as warm, and lets his other hand brush over one of Louis’ knuckles beneath the golden satin wrapped around it. ]
And, I’m thankful you didn’t take my note for a tease. Though, come to think of it, are you really going to keep such a suggestive note as a keepsake? You better keep it away from prying eyes.
( The brush to his knuckles makes Louis shiver and his toes curl in his woolen socks, and when Lestat says that, low and warm and fond, his heart skips in his chest. He lets out a breath of a laugh— )
What prying eyes?
( —and tips his forehead against Lestat's, the bridges of their noses nestled together in an almost-kiss. He's halfway in Lestat's lap now, one leg slung across his in his attempt to turn around enough to kiss him, comfortable, but humming with quiet anticipation now that he's been reminded of the last gift he has to unwrap. He's amused and not trying to hide it, the fingers of his free hand coming to play with the V of Lestat's housecoat, curling inward to lay between the fabric and his chest beneath it.
Playfully: )
It's the first time you've written a suggestive note to me in your own hand, too, you know. All the more reason for me to treasure it.
Hm, good point. I suppose we've stopped letting the world know our innermost feelings. For the time being, at least.
[ Even if Lestat has notes - mental and physical - for the next installment of the tale of his life, he's quite pleased there will at least be some aspects of their life together that can be his alone. He's not sure Louis would let him publish everything.
As Louis' fingers curls against his chest, Lestat moves the hand that isn't wrapped up in the ribbon to run along the lapel of the soft, silk pajamas. His touch is a little firmer than is necessary for someone appreciating fabric, clearly more interested in feeling Louis' chest rise and fall beneath.
He tilts his head, his nose sliding against Louis' until their mouths are a mere breath apart. ]
Oh, let's not call a rabbit a hare, Louis. You know damn well that I could write you something much better than that, given the opportunity.
no subject
To Louis, for whom a single thoughtful gesture means more than any material gift ever could, the imperfections only make it more beautiful. No studio, no band, no expensive equipment — just Lestat, and the truth of his feelings for him. )
It's perfect, Lestat. I can almost see you singing it. I can hear the way you're sitting in the sound of your voice, and in the distance from the microphone. And you're wearing your jewelry, of course — you always are, but I love the way it sounds, because I know the exact way you move without having to open my eyes...
( And, eyes shut, he leans in for a slow, sweet, and lingering kiss. )
I'm thankful that you didn't polish it so well that it lost its texture.
no subject
He smiles, the hand not wormed between the ribbon and Louis’ fingers coming up to bring his chin closer again, for another sweet kiss so earnest it’s as though through it, he’s trying to communicate some greater feeling without words. Whatever that might be. ]
I’m thankful you enjoy it despite its texture.
[ He kisses him again, more brief but just as warm, and lets his other hand brush over one of Louis’ knuckles beneath the golden satin wrapped around it. ]
And, I’m thankful you didn’t take my note for a tease. Though, come to think of it, are you really going to keep such a suggestive note as a keepsake? You better keep it away from prying eyes.
[ Okay, now he’s definitely teasing. ]
no subject
What prying eyes?
( —and tips his forehead against Lestat's, the bridges of their noses nestled together in an almost-kiss. He's halfway in Lestat's lap now, one leg slung across his in his attempt to turn around enough to kiss him, comfortable, but humming with quiet anticipation now that he's been reminded of the last gift he has to unwrap. He's amused and not trying to hide it, the fingers of his free hand coming to play with the V of Lestat's housecoat, curling inward to lay between the fabric and his chest beneath it.
Playfully: )
It's the first time you've written a suggestive note to me in your own hand, too, you know. All the more reason for me to treasure it.
no subject
[ Even if Lestat has notes - mental and physical - for the next installment of the tale of his life, he's quite pleased there will at least be some aspects of their life together that can be his alone. He's not sure Louis would let him publish everything.
As Louis' fingers curls against his chest, Lestat moves the hand that isn't wrapped up in the ribbon to run along the lapel of the soft, silk pajamas. His touch is a little firmer than is necessary for someone appreciating fabric, clearly more interested in feeling Louis' chest rise and fall beneath.
He tilts his head, his nose sliding against Louis' until their mouths are a mere breath apart. ]
Oh, let's not call a rabbit a hare, Louis. You know damn well that I could write you something much better than that, given the opportunity.