{ louis has his reasons to come to nocwich, ones that he has kept routinely. itβs deeply personal reasons that had shifted drastically. louis had lestat back. he had killed him, and now he had held his face once again, allowed the seduction of what had once been a vibrant flame to bring out the passion he thought had withered within over the decades since he left paris. lestat provoked a reaction unique in itself. it became apparent in the horizon where he was able to visit lestatβs domain, to see a piece of what made him.
the wolf killer with his pride preserved in a time capsule. at his prime.
he should know better when he told him about armand, let lestat shake louisβ domain with his bratty behavior shattering windows. they fell back into their ways, had argued and let the bitterness ring before it dissolved into a glimmer underneath the rubble. there lay foolish hope, or louis had believed it when they kissed. he wanted, he yearned, he felt shame.
the masquerade whisked him back into the current of dangerous waters. it mirrored their downfall, at a ball of all places, to feel their heartbeats sync again. how could he become so shameless? so befallen to the charm that once held him by the throat and possessed his every thought as if he were once a human at the alter. he fell for the pretty promises of having his pain taken away before, and he let himself think they could possibly make it work again. only since it became apparent they were more at equal footing in abraxas.
louis was ready. he wanted it to be them again.
heβs back at nocwich to see lestat again. louis has his answer. he waits. lestat has an infuriating way of arriving. he always did. except something is offβ¦
he continues to wait at the marketplace for hours, let his feet carry him throughout every part theyβve been together. three days. the next day he arrived and then nothing. the third day brought silence and the familiar feeling of an emptiness he had felt in his last days before he arrived. no warmth. no golden solace in a heavenly face with endless blood to his name. by the third day, he finds heβs walking towards the same park heβd become accustomed. itβs the bench an angel once showed him. here he was ready to lay with a devil again. his hand lies on the ends of one bench handle, fingers on the crafted design curling inwardly as he tries to reach out via network. itβs static silence. he jumps into the horizon next, and finds the same dreadful feeling.
no.
his hand grips harder. his touch is colder. the handle of the bench breaks instantly, the crack of stone a thunder in his ears. he immediately lays the broken bench handle next to him, trying to even a calmness that is becoming unsteady. heβll remain there for hours until he has to head back to solvunn. he canβt bring himself to speak as if saying something will make it true.
louis has never dealt with loss well; heβs worlds away, and he remains unchanged in this one aspect. }
ππ‘π π«πππ₯π’π³πππ’π¨π§.
the wolf killer with his pride preserved in a time capsule. at his prime.
he should know better when he told him about armand, let lestat shake louisβ domain with his bratty behavior shattering windows. they fell back into their ways, had argued and let the bitterness ring before it dissolved into a glimmer underneath the rubble. there lay foolish hope, or louis had believed it when they kissed. he wanted, he yearned, he felt shame.
the masquerade whisked him back into the current of dangerous waters. it mirrored their downfall, at a ball of all places, to feel their heartbeats sync again. how could he become so shameless? so befallen to the charm that once held him by the throat and possessed his every thought as if he were once a human at the alter. he fell for the pretty promises of having his pain taken away before, and he let himself think they could possibly make it work again. only since it became apparent they were more at equal footing in abraxas.
louis was ready. he wanted it to be them again.
heβs back at nocwich to see lestat again. louis has his answer. he waits. lestat has an infuriating way of arriving. he always did. except something is offβ¦
he continues to wait at the marketplace for hours, let his feet carry him throughout every part theyβve been together. three days. the next day he arrived and then nothing. the third day brought silence and the familiar feeling of an emptiness he had felt in his last days before he arrived. no warmth. no golden solace in a heavenly face with endless blood to his name. by the third day, he finds heβs walking towards the same park heβd become accustomed. itβs the bench an angel once showed him. here he was ready to lay with a devil again. his hand lies on the ends of one bench handle, fingers on the crafted design curling inwardly as he tries to reach out via network. itβs static silence. he jumps into the horizon next, and finds the same dreadful feeling.
no.
his hand grips harder. his touch is colder. the handle of the bench breaks instantly, the crack of stone a thunder in his ears. he immediately lays the broken bench handle next to him, trying to even a calmness that is becoming unsteady. heβll remain there for hours until he has to head back to solvunn. he canβt bring himself to speak as if saying something will make it true.
louis has never dealt with loss well; heβs worlds away, and he remains unchanged in this one aspect. }