[ As Louis stops and their dance comes to a natural pause, Lestat is quick to assume that his companion's mind has been completely taken over by thoughts of their long-lost daughter, that such a fantasy could only ever be so heartfelt the longer you stay foolish and Louis has never been truly foolish enough to let himself dream so freely, and now he's looking at Lestat and remembering her and remembering what happened to her, as if it ever left his thoughts, as if forgetting her for even a moment were possible — it isn't for Lestat, how could it be so for Louis?
But then he realizes that the expression on Louis' face, while emotional, is not necessarily sad; he looks like he's about to weep, yes, but Lestat recognizes this expression and recalls with sudden clarity walking in on Louis with his fingers softly caressing the oil marks of a large painting Lestat had purchased for the hallway of their flat in New Orleans, the pads of his fingertips tracing over the drawn sunset as though he might feel heat from it.
Louis is looking at him now the same way he looked at the sun then, like he can't believe such a beautiful thing could be real.
Lestat's expression falls into something tender. He'd wished for Louis to look at him with that level of emotion then, and to have it now, without any warning or chance to prepare for it has his heart hammering for freedom against his ribs. He takes up Louis hands in his own, brings them together, and then up to his mouth to kiss the line of knuckles on each hand. ]
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But then he realizes that the expression on Louis' face, while emotional, is not necessarily sad; he looks like he's about to weep, yes, but Lestat recognizes this expression and recalls with sudden clarity walking in on Louis with his fingers softly caressing the oil marks of a large painting Lestat had purchased for the hallway of their flat in New Orleans, the pads of his fingertips tracing over the drawn sunset as though he might feel heat from it.
Louis is looking at him now the same way he looked at the sun then, like he can't believe such a beautiful thing could be real.
Lestat's expression falls into something tender. He'd wished for Louis to look at him with that level of emotion then, and to have it now, without any warning or chance to prepare for it has his heart hammering for freedom against his ribs. He takes up Louis hands in his own, brings them together, and then up to his mouth to kiss the line of knuckles on each hand. ]
My heart..