WeavingIris
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Louis had thought they might kiss on the bench. Thought they might kiss, and go home together, and more, because no matter how hard he tries to lie to himself, he's spent his whole time in Montreal imagining how nice a gold wedding band would feel on his finger. Except then, the world had tilted on its axis, the night sky had spun around him, and now…
An alternate take on the aftermath of the decapitation: After waking up first, Lestat ditches Gabriella, the band, and the concert to wait by Louis's bedside until he heals.
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"Yeah, and that's the problem," Louis begins. "You don't take it seriously. What did you expect me to do, laugh at your abuse?"
His stomach drops. God, how he hates that word. That word, and the i word, and the r word that he won't even touch. They follow him everywhere, they linger in his peripheral, they ring in his head like a cymbal. They get caught behind his tongue when he tries whispering them to himself in the mirror alone.
After Gabriella leaves, Louis helps Lestat come to terms with what happened to him.
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He had confessed this fantasy to Louis a couple of weeks ago in the privacy of their coffin, snuggled up together. ”What if,” he had started, becoming giddy and almost childishly shy as he introduced it, pressing his face into Louis's shoulder.
Louis kissed his cheek and squeezed him close. ”Anything you want,” he had said then.
"Wanna dance?" he asks now.
Louis turns Lestat.
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He doesn't really want to fuck right now, despite what his body is signaling. The prospect honestly makes him feel a little ill. Yet he would do anything to keep Louis here another five minutes, do anything just to keep feeling his hands on his skin. Maybe afterwards, if Lestat pleases him, he'll be held, kissed, and that gaping void will fill just the tiniest bit, the loneliness will become bearable for a little while.
A run-in with the local coven and a disagreement with his mother leaves Lestat in a bad place. He's surprised at who comes looking for him.