ʟᴇsᴛᴀᴛ ᴅᴇ ʟɪᴏɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴛ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2018-02-06 05:06 am
youresovein) wrote in maskormenacelogs2018-02-06 05:06 am
( closed. )
WHO: Lestat & Louis.
WHERE: Heropa.
WHEN: February 14th, night.
WHAT: In which at least one meaningful gesture is attempted.
WARNINGS: Purple prose. Feelings. Vampirism.
[ It's a frivolous, overly commercialized mortal holiday, which naturally means that Lestat can't get enough of it.
It had been more than a century since he'd felt like doing much of anything at all in February, to put it mildly, and now his first modern Valentine's Day had grabbed hold of him and wouldn't let go. It's exactly the sort of over the top thing that Lestat adores — and that's the trouble. How do you give a meaningful gift to someone who seems so frequently immune to grand gestures?
Well, material gifts like clothes and jewelry, those were out. It doesn't truly count as a gift, Lestat was forced to admit to himself, if it's mainly so that he can appreciate Louis wearing them. All right, what else? A century's worth of books and films and art and music, and Louis had taken it all in while Lestat had slept. It's a jealous, wounded little thought that Lestat had decided not to pursue further, too embarrassed by his own culture gap, certain that his lack of knowledge would become apparent and lead to a bruised ego and a fight.
So he'd thought and he'd searched and he'd discarded any number of possibilities that had seemed too self-centered (most of the more fun ones) until finally, finally, Lestat had seized upon an idea. And despite all of that, he had still dithered until the last possible minute. He's still dithering now, though he refuses to admit that's what it he's doing, instead waiting poised at the threshold of the room, his rapt gaze aimed toward the window desk where Louis sits, absorbed in his writing.
Well, he really doesn't have all night. So he steadfastly ignores the fluttering nervousness growing high in his chest, strides across the room, and sets one of two freshly-bought cups of coffee on the desk in front of his fledgling. ]
I hope you aren't busy, because we're going out.
[ And he leans one nonchalant elbow against the back of Louis' chair. ]
WHERE: Heropa.
WHEN: February 14th, night.
WHAT: In which at least one meaningful gesture is attempted.
WARNINGS: Purple prose. Feelings. Vampirism.
[ It's a frivolous, overly commercialized mortal holiday, which naturally means that Lestat can't get enough of it.
It had been more than a century since he'd felt like doing much of anything at all in February, to put it mildly, and now his first modern Valentine's Day had grabbed hold of him and wouldn't let go. It's exactly the sort of over the top thing that Lestat adores — and that's the trouble. How do you give a meaningful gift to someone who seems so frequently immune to grand gestures?
Well, material gifts like clothes and jewelry, those were out. It doesn't truly count as a gift, Lestat was forced to admit to himself, if it's mainly so that he can appreciate Louis wearing them. All right, what else? A century's worth of books and films and art and music, and Louis had taken it all in while Lestat had slept. It's a jealous, wounded little thought that Lestat had decided not to pursue further, too embarrassed by his own culture gap, certain that his lack of knowledge would become apparent and lead to a bruised ego and a fight.
So he'd thought and he'd searched and he'd discarded any number of possibilities that had seemed too self-centered (most of the more fun ones) until finally, finally, Lestat had seized upon an idea. And despite all of that, he had still dithered until the last possible minute. He's still dithering now, though he refuses to admit that's what it he's doing, instead waiting poised at the threshold of the room, his rapt gaze aimed toward the window desk where Louis sits, absorbed in his writing.
Well, he really doesn't have all night. So he steadfastly ignores the fluttering nervousness growing high in his chest, strides across the room, and sets one of two freshly-bought cups of coffee on the desk in front of his fledgling. ]
I hope you aren't busy, because we're going out.
[ And he leans one nonchalant elbow against the back of Louis' chair. ]
no subject
Microwaved warmth does not quite bring his body temperature to a more human flush. His fingers are cold around his pen as he translates jotted notes into prose.
And then flicks wolfish eyes to the item set down on the desk, every other sense attuned to Lestat's presence at his back without yet lifting his head. ]
I am busy, [ he says, although it is not a defensive counter so much as factual information, nor is he so busy that his curiousity isn't piqued. Coffee they can't drink. The true definition of it being the thought that counts, perhaps.
Feather light, he moves his hand enough to rest the back of one knuckle against over-warm cardboard side of the cup. ]
no subject
Not too busy for me. [ He leans closer by inches, arm brushing the curve of Louis' shoulder so lightly it could be accidental. It isn't, of course. ] Come on, you have all night to sit around collecting dust if you want. But let's wander together for a while.
no subject
[ Louis has said before that he found those descriptions more than a little hyperbolic, but then, the truth of each other seem to come as spectres in reflection. Louis lays his pen down, then, in truth a little glad for an excuse to turn his mind off the page. Wandering is what his mind likes to do, so why not the rest of him?
He sits back in his chair, out of his studious curl, now lifting a look back and up at Lestat. Seeing that he's fed, at least to a point, and so the thing he was about to say -- to refuse -- stills on his tongue. ]
no subject
Maybe. [ A grin and a little lift of his eyebrows as he taps his boot on the hardwood. His eyes trace the curve of Louis' cheek. ] Something to take out of the attic and amuse myself with every now and then.
no subject
[ Louis lays the pen down, and goes through the ritual of tidying his work space, less inclined to his more negligent habits when he's occupying a shared home. (His own apartment is sparse, already a little dusty, books stacked and loose leaf pages scattered, candles with pooling wax hardened to their surroundings.
Better habits, here.) The sound of pages sheathing together seem to act as his verbal consent. ]
A while, [ in case said shuffling pages sound too eager or something. Perhaps, by now, anything that invites Louis' reserve is a good sign, considering his reflexive defense against anything that might be enjoyable, such as a midnight stroll with Lestat. ]
no subject
[ Teasing, pronounced more than a little like "finally," but still, see? Manners. And so Lestat stands back to give Louis some space, waiting with barely-sufficient patience, grateful for his own slightly ridiculous cup held between his hands. A little bit of nonsense to keep him from fidgeting like some overeager young thing. ]
I'll have you home by a respectable hour, monsieur.
no subject
[ Possibly because they are vampires, but also likely because while Louis agrees to a while, he knows all the same he could be coaxed into a wander that takes them just into the pale grey of pre-dawn if they're not careful. Such is Lestat's power, and his own distractable nature when invited to enjoy the world beyond his own chosen four walls.
He stands, hesitates, picks up the coffee cup, because clearly it is intended for him, and holds it with
a shade of awkwardness. Still dressed for relative comfort, in loosely draped wool and dark jeans, the simple glint of centuries old rings looped around two fingers as his only finery. ]
Where did you want to go?
no subject
Just out, you'll see.
[ Which does in fact imply a destination, but Lestat has already breezed right past thinking of it. He beckons Louis to follow him with a curl of his hand and heads for their entryway. He's dressed with relatively little flash tonight, for him at least, a black leather jacket thrown over an expensive cashmere sweater the shade (the man does have some minimal fashion requirements) of fresh blood.
And loose hair, because he'd read those passages of Interview with an especially close eye. ]
It rained earlier, and I found myself getting lost in all the reflections of the colored lights on the pavement, and the halos of fog around the electric street lamps, and I thought how good it would be if I had someone to enjoy it with. [ Lestat sets his useless human drink on the low table next to the door, and sweeps his own coat off a hook — long, dark wool, a little old-fashioned. He holds it up for Louis to step into with an inviting grin. ] And here you are.
no subject
There's a lack of malevolent energy, the kind he's seen before, when it comes to the kinds of trickery he's suffered before.
He drags long hair out from under the collar of the coat. ]
Did the scent of franchisable filter coffee likewise lure you in?
no subject
Leave it to you to take the poetry out of it.
[ Lestat adjusts the lapel of Louis' coat, not because he needs to, just for the simple tactile pleasure of being able to reach out and actually do it. And he'll hold the door, of course. ]
no subject
And outside, the world awaits in all its infinite detail and depth, an expansive sensory contrast to poring over sheaths of paper, black and white. Distant traffic, the thrum of electricity in the sky, under the ground, in the skins of buildings, and all this light. Not to mention, the sounds and sensations of a dense human population like nothing they would have imagined a mere century ago.
In his hands, the cup of slowly cooling coffee puts its remaining warmth in his hands, steam rising. Observing the sky, and awaiting direction, he says; ]
I noticed you made the news, recently.
no subject
Lestat glances up and down the rain-slick street as if only now deciding on a direction, and steers them left on a casual meander down the sidewalk. ]
Did you, [ Lestat says, but of course he did, Louis notices everything that makes it into print. Certainly that had been a consideration; Louis is always his intended audience, isn't he? And now Lestat watches him with keen-edged authorial agitation and tries his best to neither preen nor fidget as he asks: ] And what did you think? I expect you have some notes.
no subject
[ Said with a tone of someone who does not believe Lestat truly does, as affected as that glance left and right. ] But perhaps we do not share the same notions of magnitude. If it's notes you desire, then...
[ He turns his attention to the direction they're going, thinking. By reflex, his footsteps are as noisy as any human's, the gentle click and scuff of his shoes on concrete underlining his contemplation. ]
I can say I thought it was well considered, reflective, personal -- it would be easy to supply something rote. I expect you'll receive your share of write ins, now that your column's been given some press.
However--
'Grave Matters'?
no subject
The editor's idea, not mine, I assure you. It's a dreadful pun, isn't it?
[ Said with the cheerful lack of remorse expected of a man who relishes the occasional dreadful pun.
And there's a spring in his step, his mood instantly buoyed by the sincere compliments. It's an almost painfully earnest feeling, spreading a warmth through his chest that feels as real as the half-forgotten drink in his hand. ]
But you mean that, you thought it was well considered? I haven't done much short-form writing, and you know how I like to go on...
no subject
[ If he's humouring Lestat, it's with a certain tolerant ease, and certainly sincere. Resigned to sincerity, even. ]
A vampire advice column could become very kitsch, very quickly, if you don't treat such things with a little thought.
no subject
[ Lestat leads them on a left turn as they come to the end of the empty block, and Lestat throws his still-full cardboard cup in the nearest bin. With a sly grin, bathed in the golden glow of a streetlamp, he offers Louis his hand, warmed, for once, with something more innocent than blood. ]
If you'll allow me my one wicked scheme of the night.
no subject
Louis follows suit in discarding the cup, and looks at Lestat's hand, and looks at Lestat. Possibly that gesture of innocence is enough that he reaches past the curtains of his own reserve to place his hand on Lestat's open palm.
Silently, and with a slight look of warning angled over the top. He's not hungry. (He is, but, that's beside the point.) ]
no subject
Artificial warmth, but I can't say I mind. You?
[ Better to stroll like this, as far as he's concerned. ]
no subject
[ Droll, these days, rather than the sullen observations of years ago.
This feels both familiar and not, meanwhile. They've walked together arm in arm before, in decades and cities in which two men sharing affection in such a way never got so much as a sideways glance. They might have waltzed together, and lavishly dressed as they would have been, would likely have incurred little more than a reputation of eccentricity, depending on the company.
There are places now that would see two men walking hand in hand beaten. This doesn't cause Louis worry, god forbid, but having seen the rise and fall of certain social graces, he reflects, now, on what it means for them to be like this. Less with regard to risk, and more with regard to living in a century that recognises an explicitly romantic companionship.
Which buys Lestat some time, really, before Louis is moved to comment-- ]
You're in a strange mood.
[ Or so it seems, to him. ]
no subject
[ It's a genuine question, albeit in part because Lestat had been lost in one of his more pleasant reveries. Well, he supposes he probably is in a strange mood, but leave it to Louis to miss what he thinks ought to be obvious.
Lestat casts a glance at Louis by his side, dragging his thumb against the side of one knuckle. And he decides he'd like to hear him explain it. ]
Strange how?
no subject
[ Honest, at least. He does sense as though he is missing something, or perhaps that it's him, half a step behind. So he says; ]
Perhaps it's only that you've gotten your way.
no subject
[ He laughs, teasing without any bite to it, and lowers his voice to an unnecessarily conspiratorial volume. ]
No, I don't think it's that. But you're on the right track.