#masteredinstinct

Your wings look fine to me is a cut too fine to bleed, the pain of it delayed but no less potent. His throat convulses around it, swallowing the ache until it becomes a facsimile of bearable.

His beloved Louis...always quick with the knife and slow with the kiss of apology; which comes in the grace of his perfect lips upturned. Teasing. It does its job and the ache is but a memory at sea in the fluttering of his heart. The power he holds, without ever having to lift a finger...

Even the banal seems an angelic performance. The caress of a book's spine, the turn of a page, the cradle of the heft of it held as feather light. It is the only use the shelves have served, the most acclaimed of minds lining dustless ledges his beloved sorts through each night. If that is what gives him passion then Lestat De Lioncourt will suffer his envy of them.

Ever short lived, his moments of bliss. Always the maddening turbulence craved at the point of fang. Ready to bleed him for his misdeeds. It quickens the beating of his undead heart, shines hope in the blackened pit of resignation hollowing sterling eyes.

Yes, fight Louis. These unceasing nights of forced comradery are far more draining than ones spent in seething animosity. The fine line dividing love and hatred never so thin as with Louis de Pointe Du Lac.

"I miss only what I love." An agonizing distance between them, the oppressive desire rising from the ashes of a smoldering fire, Lestat leans on the bend of his knees. Hands fold together to hold each other the way he longs to hold the ones fascinated by books.

a soft little hum leaves the elder as he sits back in his seat , fingernails tracing the pattern of the wooden piano in front of him. it is the only thing he has brought with him back to that hotel in new orleans , his dilapidated shack now decimated by the hurricane outside. why not leave new orleans ? it is his home. he's never felt that way about any place he has lived prior. the life he built here with louis might be gone , but it would always hold his heart with a vice grip. with @masteredinstinct's urging to at least leave the hovel of broken wood he'd called home for seventy years &* let fall to disrepair , he retreated with him to the hotel suite louis booked to come visit , bloody wooden piano in tote. the staff looked at him for the mess he was -- head hung , robe tattered , skin near gray. he simply followed louis' lead. he can only be grateful it was to a hotel room &* not straight into the sun with claudia. he can practically hear her screaming in his head that it's what he deserves.

so now he is here , listening to louis talk about the recent events with armand. about the interview &* what would come of it. it had made lestat smile -- honest &* open , amusement sparking back some of the light in his eyes. not at louis' pain ------ no , never ------ but at the idea of the whole world knowing the secrets of the vampires. the vampiric laws , shattering in his fledglings hands. the same laws that killed claudia. that nearly claimed louis &* lestat. of course it would come around again. if they died because of it now , it seemed only fair. can't cross the same burned bridge.

louis' story comes back around to one thing ----------- lies. lies he'd told other ; lies he'd been told ; lies he told himself. what was real ?

❛   what part ? it seems to me . . . truth is subjective. how you tell it , how i tell it , how armand or mister malloy or anyone else will tell it ------------- ❜ a clicks his tongue as he looks out of the window towards the storm ripping away leaves off trees far below. ❛   parts of it are true. parts are lies. i wonder how our realities would shape them. what parts of our stories line up. ❜ nail taps against the keyboard absently. ❛   i've thought about it for seventy years. wondered when exactly i became the villain. ❜ a frown pulls at his lips. ❛ perhaps the whole time. ❜ head shakes , then he takes a deep , shaky breath.

For Armand, these little gestures are something specific to Louis. He understands it to be domestic, like sitting together when they read, or absent-mindedly holding hands out of habit. He never experienced such a thing before. He thinks he might not experience it again in the ambiguous after, which he knows is coming. Has known for some time now, even when he tries not to think about it.

He will miss it. On the list of things he will miss, it is near the top, although he wouldn't be able to articulate why.

he ponders dubai's skyline . since the last day of their interview , louis has tried to grow use to the moments of silence . it had been centuries since he had last felt as if his thoughts were his own , untouched and unseen by any third parties , no hauntings to pick at them , no large amber eyes to judge their contents ㅤ ─ ㅤ for the first time in many many years , louis de pointe du lac had to be his own companion . and to be left alone with his own reflection had proved to be more frightening than his bloodiest of struggles .

daniel molloy , however , felt like a comfort . his occasional visits , though often justified through some professional courtesy , made louis feel less like an animal hiding under a porch and more like a real person . often times when he met the other man's eyes , a different brand of turmoil would awaken within him : louis had not been able to protect him . had not been there to defend him from the curse he too was plagued with now . THE DARK GIFT , which the journalist had taken to so well , had been thrusted onto his hands . and though louis had never wanted this , some secret horrible selfish part of him was relieved to know that molloy would always be there . THE WORLD WAS MORE INTERESTING WITH DANIEL IN IT .

emerald eyes squinted in deep thought . " i feel adrift . " louis finally answered . these days , he preferred having their talks out on the balcony . the dubai apartment was still filled with souvenirs of a past relationship he hadn't completely healed from . " the world seems much larger , now that i am alone . " louis tilted his head to smile at daniel , giving him a knowing look . " well , not alone . not really . "

it was safe to say that the aftermath of the interview, of that big fucking truth bomb he'd dropped between louis and armand, was not what daniel had expected. not that he'd particularly had any predictions for how things would go, but where they stood now, everything that had happened in between... not that he would complain about it. for him, the dark gift truly had been a gift. something that he'd begged for in the past, had begged both louis and armand for, when he'd been younger and more foolish. but now, amidst all the obvious changes, daniel molloy felt as though he had a whole new lease of life.

he was no longer burdened by the effects of age, no longer restricted and limited by the parkinsons that had been claiming him... and that felt so incredible.

of course there was the history of his own with armand that had been revealed to him, and all the complicated, messy shit between them. but right now, that wasn't something to burden louis with.

a smile of his own was shared in return, an almost playful sort of feel to it. " yeah, hate to break it to you but you can't get rid of me that easily. " because in truth, he liked louis, a great deal, and he did worry for him.

Why? Armand wants to ask. Why do you want to hate me? Why can't you? He isn't sure. He could probe Louis' mind to try to discern the meaning, the weight, the emotion behind his words - but he doesn't. If asked, he would say it's because he's respecting Louis' boundaries, he's learnt his lesson, he's trying to be better. The truth is that he simply can't be bothered.

Louis is free to think what he wants, and to feel what he feels. Armand no longer has any influence on that. Which is fine. He's good at being alone.

A minute flicker passes across Armand's expression: pain, maybe, longing. Not for Louis, exactly, but for what they once had and what might have been if not for Claudia, Lestat and the coven. Longing not to be alone. He buries it deep and pulls himself together, expressionless once more.

"Alright," he says, every bit a verbal shrug. "I wish you would, too, but not to worry. I can hate myself enough for the both of us." Is that true? Even he doesn't know but, even if it is, he didn't say it for its veracity. He wants Louis' guilt, and if not guilt then he'll settle for his pity. Anything's better than ambivalence. Hate would have been something.

such an amusing response. cue the tilt of his head, the twinkle of devilry in eyes against the dimmed backstage lights. ❛ is that what you think, louis? ❜ that same gaze curves the lines of louis' face, the drawn posture of his shoulders. letting it linger far too long. ❛ that i'd like to make you afraid of me? ❜

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐒, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐈𝐋. 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓, 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 any of the other ones. claudia will always love louis more than she loves lestat ... her creator who she saw as her father at one point in time now turned like something bitter in her mouth. when he grew to resent her, when he grew to simply put up with her presence because things didn't go the way he wanted. even now, claudia can see what louis does not. she can see the way lestat uses him, hurts him, manipulates him ... even if her daddy lou doesn't wanna see it with his own eyes. words make her jaw clench, but just a second, where she sits in one of the living room chairs. blood still dried on her fingers, on the corner of her mouth.

@masteredinstinct said, " THE BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS. "