Lestat knows Louis is lying. He smiles benevolently at Louis' downcast face, the gravity of his guilt anchoring him ever down to the uncommon filth of Lestat's existence. He is the stain Louis cannot scrub away, however he strives to. There is a romance to that, if only Louis would permit himself to see it.
"Of course you would," he lies in return, unburdened by remorse. He does not know if he is sparing or condemning Louis, or which of the two he would prefer. Perhaps it is both, or neither, or all of that and a hundred things more. "My constant Louis."
It does not matter what Louis might do, if Lestat were to depart unlife before him, because Lestat does not imagine worlds in which he does not exist. He covers Louis' hand on his chest with his own, tenderly, mapping the ridges of his knuckles with the pad of his thumb.
"Now - shall we hunt for the sacramental wine?" He teases, irreverent in the oldest sense.
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"Of course you would," he lies in return, unburdened by remorse. He does not know if he is sparing or condemning Louis, or which of the two he would prefer. Perhaps it is both, or neither, or all of that and a hundred things more. "My constant Louis."
It does not matter what Louis might do, if Lestat were to depart unlife before him, because Lestat does not imagine worlds in which he does not exist. He covers Louis' hand on his chest with his own, tenderly, mapping the ridges of his knuckles with the pad of his thumb.
"Now - shall we hunt for the sacramental wine?" He teases, irreverent in the oldest sense.