Creole Blood

He cocks his head, a slight frown forming on his lips.

Sometimes.

Another small flash of pain, intermingling with the warm thrill of such intimate proximity, and Lestat's fingers gently grasp his beloved by the juncture of an elbow to hold him close. "I'm not running from anything," he counters, a little overcome.

Perhaps there's only an hour left, at most. Such precious little time, no matter how Louis shuns the idea. It's somehow never enough.

Is anything ever enough?

Hidden away in the labyrinthine sprawl of the Night Island villa, he thinks of Marius, and that lovely amusing adage he'd once given about Alexander the Great.

The notion comes to him then; an impulse, impossible to ignore. Lestat smiles, the plaintive shadow of restlessness and discontent all but melting away for the time being. No amount of despair can dampen the fire in his spirit for long. He refuses it to be so.

But the aching stiffness of the death sleep is close, like tendrils of ivy creeping up through his bones. He wonders for one brief moment if it calls to Lestat in the same way, or does the ancient blood afford him some reprieve? Would it be foolish of him, to imagine what it might be like to share the dark confides of his coffin with his maker once more? If the slumber takes him now in Lestat's arms, would he carry him through the night as he did across the waters to London, or would be simply deliver Louis to his chamber like sleeping beauty?

With baited breath, Louis takes his hands regardless.