malicewithheld
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“What-” Louis’ voice is wrecked. “What was that for?” he tries again.
Lestat grins suddenly. “Appreciating what I have made, mon cher. My finest creation.”
Louis stares at him, his face burning hotly suddenly.
“You didn’t make me, Lestat,” he protests against the swoop of his stomach, the sudden sharp ache of possession.
“On the contrary, Saint Louis,” he says conversationally. “Now, I will give you what you need, non?” -
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He had woken, disorientated and ravenous, to Louis standing silently at the end of the bed. “Hello Danny,” he’d smiled, and Daniel’s heart had kicked like a fucking drum.
Two good nights in Dubai.
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Louis, glitteringly modern as Armand has always found him, is an excellent tourist, throwing himself into the wholehearted pursuit of the city with an almost manic zeal. Thunderingly alive in Paris, thunderingly alive in Alexandria, thunderingly alive for the rest of their lives, wherever they might be.
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This does not come entirely naturally to him, Louis thinks. For all his preternatural grace little seems to come naturally to him at all.