( Louis' back arches as Lestat's blood meets his open wound, and his mouth drops open in a wide gasp. Knees come up, and the heels of his boots dig hard into the mattress. He's groaning, grabbing at Lestat with clumsy, bloodied hands, nails digging hard into his side through his shirt. All he can see, all his senses can focus on in any real coherent way is the sight of Lestat above him, lips and chin wet with blood. He's caught by a delirious flutter of concern for Lestat's appearance; he's always so careful, so fastidious, oh, he would hate the sight of this, even if Louis thinks he's radiant...
Louis sees him as if superimposed against a similar memory: Lestat above him on the night he was made — listen, keep your eyes wide, the light of an oil lantern spreading behind his golden hair like a halo, steady, Louis, that's it, drink, and the living sounds of the night all around them fading, insignificant beneath the powerful drum of Lestat's heart.
Louis lets out a plaintive sound, trying to lift a hand to Lestat's face, to stroke his cheek — he's so beautiful, and so frightened, and Louis wants to tell him it's all right, that he's doing so well, that Louis won't leave him, that he's holding on because of him, just like he had then, only now... )
Love you...
( It slips out without his meaning to say it, as if in some attempt to convey all of it at once, inadequate. Louis can feel Lestat's blood knitting the deep, internal wounds together, the heat of it, but God, he's still so weak. It feels too much like his consciousness is on a fraying tether. Perhaps it's his imagination, some hallucination of the body, but he thinks he can feel Lestat's blood moving through his veins, too — a strange, soothing sensation, a warmth like that which an infusion of strong mortal painkillers might bring. )
You have me, ( he murmurs, his speech quietly drowsy, trying to reassure. ) I'm all right, Lestat.
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Louis sees him as if superimposed against a similar memory: Lestat above him on the night he was made — listen, keep your eyes wide, the light of an oil lantern spreading behind his golden hair like a halo, steady, Louis, that's it, drink, and the living sounds of the night all around them fading, insignificant beneath the powerful drum of Lestat's heart.
Louis lets out a plaintive sound, trying to lift a hand to Lestat's face, to stroke his cheek — he's so beautiful, and so frightened, and Louis wants to tell him it's all right, that he's doing so well, that Louis won't leave him, that he's holding on because of him, just like he had then, only now... )
Love you...
( It slips out without his meaning to say it, as if in some attempt to convey all of it at once, inadequate. Louis can feel Lestat's blood knitting the deep, internal wounds together, the heat of it, but God, he's still so weak. It feels too much like his consciousness is on a fraying tether. Perhaps it's his imagination, some hallucination of the body, but he thinks he can feel Lestat's blood moving through his veins, too — a strange, soothing sensation, a warmth like that which an infusion of strong mortal painkillers might bring. )
You have me, ( he murmurs, his speech quietly drowsy, trying to reassure. ) I'm all right, Lestat.