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He wears a rosary under his shirts.
He's been wearing it every day since he was a teenager, since the day the first deviant thought crossed his developing mind and he got so scared he crawled off his bed and knelt at the foot of it to try and pray the evil away. He slept through the guilt and the tears, and come morning, he asked his Mamaw if she could give to him one of the many she had.
She was, of course, pleased. Her little man, following the destiny in and with God according to the Virgin Mary's example.
He wore it ever since. Clutched it between his fingers under the fabric of his clothes as a broad shouldered figure knelt at his feet, serving him in a way that no man should do to another man, one, two, three times until he could no longer count them with only one hand, every encounter far from another, secluded behind a dark alley, hidden behind a tree deep in the woods, as evil and sin should be.
And every night he would stumble back home, sticky between his legs, stained in more than just a physical way, and he would fall at the foot of his bed, clutch at his rosary, stare at the cruxified figure at the top of his bed.
O loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my skin. Oh, wash me, cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again.
It worked for many years. He'd sin again, he'd lay with a man, he'd shake apart with his own hand with lust colored images of the same sex behind his eyelids, he'd take a new girl under his care, give her a roof with the condition of paying with her body, and he'd pray for forgiveness, rosary between his shaky fingers, forehead pressed against his old mattress, and sometimes, when the guilt was too much, he'd go all the way down until his forehead touched the splintered wooden floor.
And then he came along.
Like a hurricane, like something Mother Nature had specifically made to torment his city. Like the tendrils of evil curling around him in his sleep, like the veil of dark thoughts that lingered inside his head, like the lusting that crept into his entire being and made him writhe and spend by his own hand.
Saint Louis, he said, velvety soft and reverent, as if caressing his fingers on the delicate fabric of each word, as if tasting the shape of them with the tip of his sinful tongue.
He'd gone home that night, seething with fury. He wanted to kill the man. He wanted to be the man.
And, under his covers, in the silent darkness of the night, he wanted the man.
Saint Louis. Murmured as if he were something consagrated, as if he were something precious. Purplish blue eyes shining with adoration, like a man seeking salvation from the Lord.
Saint Louis, Lestat's voice whispered against his ear, and he bit hard at the beads of his rosary with his teeth, one hand wrapped around his cock, two fingers of the other plunged inside himself, shuddering around the sensations as he came, splattering all over his stomach, rosary snapping until every bead hit the floor on a litany of sin.
O my Lord, I am sorry that I have sinned against you, he thinks desperately, but he does not get far after that. A strange veil of calm comes over him, his body sated and pliant as he sinks into the mattress and succumbs to an easy sleep, the first one in many years.
Sweet dreams, my Saint, a low, adoring voice croons inside his mind, and he lets it drown him into unconsciousness with the firm assurance that everything is alright.
(The next morning, he gets another rosary. He collects every bead of the other from the floor and puts it in a small box, hides it on the lowest drawer and pretends his shoulders do not feel heavier than before when he goes inside the church, knees burning from how long he knelt in prayer and asked for forgiveness inside his room.)
Lestat never asks about the rosary. That night at the townhouse with Lily, he watches Louis slip it out of his neck and place it on top of one of the bookshelves in complete silence.
When Louis surges from the couch right into Lestat's space and engulfs his mouth with his, he does not think of the rosary once.
Before he leaves the next morning, Lestat takes it with delicate fingers and puts it back around his neck with a tenderness that makes him ache.
"Goodbye, Saint Louis." he whispers to him, voice like a fingertip along his spine.
He throws up behind a bush on his way home. He locks himself in his room when he arrives, falls to his knees with bile still clinging at the back of his throat.
Large hands holding his waist, hard chest pressed to his back, heavy breathing against his neck...
"I confess to almighty God that I have greatly sinned," he starts, trembling as he grabs at the beads of his rosary.
Broad shoulders under his greedy hands, lips mouthing down his chest, lush hair between his fingers...
"In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do," Bruising kisses falling like stars to his mouth, long fingers deep in his insides, throbbing cock nestled on the small of his back, "Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault;" he chants and hits his chest, once, twice, until the hits pound inside his head, until the soreness between his legs feels like a punishment and not like vindication. "Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and Saints, to pray for me to the Lord our God."
He does it countless times, hits his chest with enough force to bruise, but nothing, nothing is enough to make him forget the teeth sinking in his flesh, the ecstasy of surrendering under the thrumming pleasure at every pull of blood Lestat took of him while pulsing rope afte rope of spend inside of him, filling him as he drained him, draining him as he filled him, taking and giving, sin after sin, and he thinks, furious tears in his eyes, I have been forever stained, Lord. I have been marked by the devil, and I will not give in again, but Lord, how I crave to.
"All these roles you conform to, and none of them your true nature," the bloodied creature in front of him roars, walking ahead and making him stumble on the steps towards the altar. "What rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrow."
He wants the creature to go away. He wants to crawl on hands and knees and plead for forgiveness at the feet of God, feel blessed by the forgiving hands of the Virgin Mary. He wants to fall on his back and spread himself open and offer himself to whoever will want him, stained, sinful being that he is, seeking punishment that will only give him momentary absolution, knowing he will fail again and again, like he failed the Lord, like he failed his Holy Mary, like he failed his brother, like he will keep failing his remaining family.
But then, in the midst of darkness; a bacon of light, absolution in the form of damnation, acceptance in the eyes of the very devil. "I love you, Louis. You are loved."
I am loved. I am loved. I am loved.
If not by God, if not by the Virgin Mary, let it be him. If it ain't from the Lord, let it be from him.
I am a sinner, Lord. I crave to give in. I am weak, Lord, I could not prevent it.
And when the devil puts his teeth to the side of his neck, drains the life out of him and takes away the sin and the guilt and the sorrow, he thinks, thank you, Lord. He thinks, thank you, Holy Mother of God. Let me be clean. Let me be consegrated. Let me be yours again, take me with you.
He does not get his wish. He does not perish like he deserves, does not die like he thought he would. He wakes up to a new world, throat burning with the familiar feeling of craving ten times intensified. No flesh, no bone. An empty vessel, something that ain't human no more. He wants the crimson blood pumping inside the veins of his brothers and sisters, and when he looks in the mirror, green eyes stare back at him, telling him what he already knows.
The Lord has abandoned him.
When Lestat starts to undress in front of him as he explains the ways of the vampires as if he ain't the vampiric version of a burnt toast, Louis adverts his eyes and brings his hand to his chest in such an instinctive way that he fears he might have flushed if he had the capacity at the very moment.
"Do not fear, mon cher," Lestat smiles and points at the dark wooden wardrobe beside his. "Your beloved artifact is there."
"It's a rosary." He grits out.
"Ah, oui, the Catholic tool for prayer and meditation." In a second, he's closed the small distance between his wardrobe and, Louis supposes, his. He trails his fingers airily along the rosary, and he would look curious if it weren't for the strange glint of amusement in his eye "Beads to symbolize the prayers of the faithful, crucifix as the passion and dead of Jesus, centerpiece for the Virgin Mary, am I right?"
His blood boils at the nonchalance, the way Lestat sounds almost mocking, how his jaw clenches tight as if he cannot begin to understand, nor does he feel the slightest want to do so.
"You've no right to judge my beliefs."
Lestat lets out a small gasp, "Oh, amour, that is not what I intend!" He places the rosary back to its place hooked on the inside of Louis' wardrobe and turns to him, unzips his trousers with a grace that should not be possible. "I am merely trying to understand why do you feel the need to carry something like this on you even when you are no longet tied by the morals and beliefs of those around us."
"You ain't gotta understand. You just have to respect it." There's a defensive note on his voice now. He feels like he's being prayed open by Lestat's violet-blue eyes, like all of his being, right to the core, is exposed completely to him. It feels unsettling. It feels invasive. Do not look at me, he wants to say, wants to beg. I am but a bag of bones and raw desire. I am but a man and a monster. I am something the Lord does not want anymore, and yet I carry him. Inside.
He still climbs inside that coffin. He still lets himself fall into the warm space between Lestat's legs, still presses feverish kisses to his pale skin, still bites at his jaw and his neck and his shoulder. He still gives into the tight heat of him, enveloping like warm velvet, chanting his name over and over again.
"Tu es saint pour moi," Lestat pants with every drive of Louis' hips into him, ankles crossed behind his back, legs firmly locked in place. He brings an unsteady hand to Louis' face and caresses it reverently. "Mon Saint Louis. Make me holy."
He comes so hard his entire body is still rippling with the aftershocks when Lestat wedges a hand between them and clumsily brings himself to orgasm too.
Saint Louis, Lestat called him, as Louis thrusted inside of him with reckless abandon. As if there's something left of him worthy of the Lord's mercy. As if his mere existence demands divinity, as if he's something human. Something clean.
He does not bring it up, and thank the Lord, Lestat doesn't either. He lets Louis bury his wet face on the curve of his neck and envelops him on his strong arms, as if shielding him from all the weight of his sins, and even if he knows Lestat couldn't care less about his all consuming guilt, he lets himself pretend otherwise.
When they wake up, he tells Lestat not to call him that ever again.
So, yes. Louis wears a rosary under his shirts. And the next years after their unholy marriage, he still takes it off every time they make love, and each time Lestat gives him a look that resembles too much one of resentment. Behind the amused expression he wears whenever their kisses grow heated and Louis hurries to take the rosary off, there's something quiet and dark that makes his chest tighten in some sort of twisted anticipation.
And then Lestat starts saying these things.
You are a challenge every sunset, Saint Louis.
I would glady fall to my knees in worship.
I am nothing but your devoted disciple.
Louis berates him every time. But Lestat knows. Lestat sees the blush on his skin, the way his legs tighten around Lestat's waist, how he clenches his fist on his hair and thrust inside his mouth deeper and harder. He knows it ignites something in Louis, and brat that he is, he pokes at it to pry him open and see how far he can take it.
It all comes to a head on a night like any other. Lestat has hunted earlier and is now playing some melody Louis does not recognize on the piano while he sits on the sofa, a book open over his bent knees.
"Would you try something for me, mon cher?" Lestat finally asks. He's stopped playing some time ago, instead pressing random keys with a slowness that can only mean that his mind is elsewhere.
"You throwing my own words back at me?" He pauses his reading and quirks an eyebrow, amused.
Lestat huffs. It blows a strand of hair off his forehead that then falls back into place a bit fizzier than before.
"S'il te plaît, chéri. You can say no at any time."
"Well, that sounds serious." He exhales and closes his book. No point in trying to return to it with the way Lestat is fidgeting on his piano bench.
"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about." He closes the piano lid and walks to the fireplace. He throws a couple of coals into the dying fire and undoes his cufflinks as the flames grow. "Come here, mon cœur."
Louis stands up slowly. He places his book back to its place on the bookshelf and walks to where Lestat looks at him, standing right beside their fireplace, his side profile glowing under the warm light that the fire casts over his face. When Louis comes to a stop in front of him, he lifts a hand and slowly, as if giving him time to stop his movements, he pulls the collar of his shirt down until the beads of his rosary are on display.
"Lestat, what--?"
"Take your clothes off, Louis." He stares at him, expectant. When Louis lets out a quiet gasp under his breath, Lestat smiles, strangely tender. "And keep the rosary on."
Louis' heart skips a beat. He flushes, horribly obvious, curses himself for letting Lestat feed him with the blood of the three men he drained yesterday. His stomach turns, his hands grow clammy. Worst of all, his cock twitches inside his trousers.
Indescent. Filthy. Unholy.
He does not say no.
He takes his clothes off, knows Lestat notices his trembling fingers. When he's done, he stands there, exposed to the warmth of the fire and Lestat's eyes, head hanging low.
"Look at me." His voice is tender but firm. He's looking at him in a way that makes Louis squirm, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly parted. With wonder, he whispers, "There you are. Mon Saint Louis."
Louis inhales sharply. His entire body goes taut, his breathing quickens.
Blasphemy. Profanity. Sin.
"On the couch, mon amour. Let me bask in your glory." Louis lets out a noise. A small, broken sound, something that seems to have been pulled out forcefully from the back of his throat. He stumbles on his own feet and lets the back of his legs hit the nearest couch, sits down against it with an ungracefulness that would have him embarrassed if he weren't feeling all of this.
Lestat falls on his knees. He does not try to press himself between Louis' legs, does not even make any point of contact between their bodies. His knees hit the soft rug under him and he stays there, hands on his thighs, fully clothed, kneeling right in front of Louis' naked form.
"You are beyond this guilt you carry, mon trésor. I see its weight baring down on your shoulders every day." He looks up at him with wide, shiny eyes. Adoration so profound it makes Louis' entire being flush under his unwavering gaze. Like the faith of a believer on the Lord. "This beaded vine you wear around your neck, it has been holding you back for years. Prisoner inside of a cage you do not belong to. But mon cher, it does not have to be like that anymore." Louis' breath catches in his throat when Lestat takes a hold of his hands and bows his head until his forehead is touching them, cradled between his. "Let me show you. S'il vous plaît."
He stares at the creature kneeling before him. He does it until there are tears brimming on his eyes, until there's soft kisses raining down over his hands, reverent and loving, so unlike anything he ever thought he would have that he fights back a sob and jerks his head on a nod.
Lestat makes a quiet, shushing sound. He places a final kiss to Louis' hands still cradled between his and lets them go in favor of touching his face oh so gently, tracing his features with a delicacy that one would use when handling precious things.
"You believe yourself a sinner." Lestat begins, does not stop his long fingers as he trails them over Louis' face, his jaw, his lips, his cheekbones, the ridge of his nose. Louis shivers against the coolness of his touch. "You think what we do is wrong. You give yourself to me in halves. You take this off and think it will make it less sacrilegious." At Louis' frantic negation, he thumbs at his eyebrow and tuts. "Oh, but you do, my heart. You take me in our bedroom, crawl between my legs, sink into the heat of me and pray your God will forgive you again." He rubs the pad of his thumb below his eye, back and forth as he speaks, velvety soft. "But Louis, there is no need for all that. You see," He leans forward, caresses down his chest until he hooks two fingers on the rosary. Louis gulps, clenches his hands into weak fists at his sides."I too have a God. And as I am his devoted disciple, he will grant me all of his mercy, and I shall share it with you, in blood, body and spirit."
There's nothing but a heavy silence after his words. Louis shakes his head weakly, licks his dry lips. His stomach burns with shame, cock hard between his closed legs.
"Quit spewing blasphemy." He spits out between gritted teeth. Forgive me, Lord, forgive me, he chants inside his head, over and over, but his own prayers are interrupted by Lestat's petal soft lips brushing the skin of his neck. He can feel the slight smirk against his dampened skin.
"Oh, but my God loves it so," Lestat purrs, an undertone of fond mockery in his voice when he palms between Louis' legs with the hand that is not still holding to the rosary.
"No, no, I ain't...it's not..." He muffles a broken noise with the back of his hand when Lestat rubs at the head of his cock in small circles.
"Merciful Lord, I come before you with a repentant heart," Louis' eyes widen in panic. This time, he almost breaks his neck frantically shaking his head. He doesn't try to speak. He doesn't think he could. Lestat pumps his weeping cock with a loose fist, thumbs at the newly blurted drop of precome, eyes pierced into Louis'. He stares up at him over his eyelashes, presses a reverent kiss to the inside of his wrist from the hand he's still holding up to his mouth. "Acknowledging my sins and shortcomings, I confess my need for your forgiveness and mercy." Lestat lets go of his cock. Louis gasps at the cool air that hits between his legs when Lestat backs a little, enough to kneel before Louis again, enough to...
He watches, horrified and spell-bound, as Lestat doubles forward, until his hair falls down his face, until his forehead touches the top of Louis' naked feet.
"Wash me clean, O Lord. Create in me a pure heart." He caresses adoring fingers over the visible veins of his feet, exhales deeply and brushes his mouth against each of them on a tender kiss. He's trembling ever so slightly, and in the daze of his fogged up mind he wonders if Lestat is as affected by this as he is. If deep down, by doing this, he's also seeking something that he hopes he will find in Louis.
He thinks of a child Lestat, that wanted to learn and belong and went away to a Monestary just to be dragged back to the violence of his household by his monstruous father and useless brothers. He thinks about the haunted expression on Lestat's sleeping face during a nightmare, thinks about the way he sometimes hears him beg, in the smallest of voices, God, please, please, save me.
It is this, the sound of Lestat's fragile pleads echoing in his brain, that makes him take his hand off his mouth and bring it down to rest on top of Lestat's bowed head. He caresses through the golden locks, roughly because of his shaky fingers, and sees the muscles of Lestat's back ripple and relax, as if strings have been cut off from his entire body.
"I trust in your unfailing love and rely on your grace to restore and renew me." Lestat finishes, and Louis tightens his grip on his hair and pushes him up to his knees again, faces so close his laboring breath makes the strands over Lestat's face flutter back.
"Off. All of it." He paws at Lestat's clothes, looks as he rushes to comply without thinking twice. Miles and miles of pale milky skin is revealed to his eyes, large hands discarding trousers and underwear until Lestat is back on his knees again, naked on all of his glory, a God of his own.
"Fuck." He swipes a thumb over Lestat's bottom lip, presses lightly at the center of it just to see it jiggle back when he lets go. Lestat's eyes are blown so wide he can barely see the irises anymore, gaze unfocused and mouth slightly open.
Louis swallows through the wave of prickling shame, spreads his legs a bit wider. "Please, Lestat."
And he does not have to say it. He does not have to voice it, because Lestat knows. He knows this, and he knows Louis, and it feels incredibly foolish now, to think it could ever be any other way. To think he would not let himself be swept away by this creature, this man. His Lestat. His husband.
"Purifie moi, s'il vous plaît."
And so he does. He cradles his man between his legs, arches his back when he swallows him down to the root. He throws a leg over his shoulder, whimpers when his warm tongue laps at the head, fists at the throw blanket on the armrest of the sofa when his cock hits the back of his throat.
"The heat of you," He babbles incoherently, and then accidentally thrusts forward, causing Lestat to choke and sputter. Spit and bloodied come dribbles from the corners of his mouth, blue eyes shiny with red tears, sweaty curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks. He pulls back a bit, relaxes his throat and swallows around him. Louis groans, threads his trembling fingers through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, so good, Lestat. You are so good to me."
It does not take long. The humilliation thrumming under his veins licks up at his spine and entwines with the coil of heat on his lower stomach, the acknowledge of how wrong this is, the shame and the guilt and the burning pleasure coming together until his legs shake and he lets out a broken shout. He spurts stripe after stripe of reddish come that Lestat swallows greedily inside his mouth, clenches his thighs around his head when the overstimulation stops feeling mildly pleasant and starts to feel mildly painful.
Lestat pulls off his cock slowly. He scrapes his human teeth at the head before he fully lets go, licks his swollen lips clean and looks up. He's absolutely wrecked. Louis sighs, beyond words. He cups Lestat's cheek with a hand and brings him up enough to kiss his mouth, but he's stopped by Lestat's hands.
He stares at him as he leans forward, smatters kisses to his chest, mouths at a dark nipple. Needy, he thinks fondly, and then he makes some broken, garbled sound from the back of his throat when Lestat parts his lips and closes them around the crucifix of his rosary, staring directly into Louis' eyes.
He opens his mouth so Louis can see his tongue swirling it around, tugs at it with human teeth until the rosary threatens to snap.
Louis does not stop him.
He watches Lestat spit the crucifix out, now shiny with remnants of spit and Louis' come, sticky against his chest.
With a voice so rough Louis' spent cock twitches weakly against the crease of his thigh, he says, "Do you think I am clean now, Saint Louis? Do I have your merciful forgiveness yet?"
And Louis. He snaps. It's as if the heavy chains of that old familiar shame suddenly break, as if the rosary stops holding the weight of his guilt. He does not feel less of a sinner. He does not feel absolved, does not feel forgiven.
But he also finds that he does not care. He could burn into the pits of hell tomorrow and he would. Not. Care. He looks at the man in front of him, this being that has taken so much from him and given so much of himself in return, an endless cycle of absolution that he does not know if he wants to find anywhere else ever again.
And maybe tomorrow he will regret it. Maybe in a few hours he'll dig his nails into the rosary, kneel in prayer inside their bedroom, door locked to keep Lestat out. Maybe all of this is meaningless. Maybe the world ends next week. Maybe he lives to tell someone about it.
For now, he slices a nail through the skin of his wrist, grabs Lestat's chin with his other hand, lets the blood pour out of him and stares at the way it drips down Lestat's forehead, trailing down his nose, his fluttering eyes, the curve of his upper lip, the tip of his lolled out tongue.
"You are forgiven, Lestat. For your God's love will never fail. For he is faithful in every way."
Lestat gasps. His fangs come out, grazing at the plushness of his bottom lip. His tongue swirls the small pool of blood gathered at the center of it before he swallows it down, teeth red and mouth a mess, mesmerizingly angelic as he throws his head back and lets the blood run down his throat.
"Louis, Louis, Louis," He's chanting, when the last of his blood as left his mouth. He grabs delicately at Louis' wrist and licks at the small wound that is already closing, follows the last droplets of blood and licks them inside his greedy mouth. "Mon Saint. My God. My merciful savior."
Louis nods. He does not know what he's agreeing to, only that he needs Lestat close, close, close. He grabs at his face with both hands and pulls him upward and then to the side, making them tumble to the floor. The rug softens their short fall, and Lestat wastes no time taking a hold of Louis' waist, looking up at him with wild, loving eyes.
"J'te aime, Louis."
Louis swallows the words with his mouth. He whines at the feeling of Lestat's giant paws grabbing at his hips, thrusts down against his hard cock and shivers when it slides between his cheeks. "I will grant you his mercy, you said." He takes Lestat's chin with his fingers, digs them at the hollow of his cheeks. "Through blood, body and spirit. So give it to me. Make me clean, Lestat."
His husband lets out a sound so similar to a growl he has to bite back a smile. He's pushed onto his back, legs spread to fit Lestat's broad frame.
He closes his eyes when Lestat leans over him to place a soft kiss to his forehead. When he moves down to do the same at the center of his chest and follows up with a kiss to each of his shoulders, he shudders and arches off the bed, flushed with embarrassment that no longer feels like a punishment.
Lestat presses a kiss to his lips at last. He murmurs, "Amen", against his mouth and Louis keens, broken, crosses his ankles behind Lestat's back and thrusts against him in needy movements.
"Lestat," He says, and doesn't care how petulant he sounds. His husband chuckles into his mouth and leans back into his hunches. He makes a small cut with his nail to his palm and coats his cock with the oozing blood, pushes the rest inside Louis with a single finger.
"Like this?" He asks, because of course he always has to make sure. Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes with fond exasperation.
"Yeah. Yeah, come on, honey, please,"
Lestat nods, grabs at one of his thighs with his bloodied hand and smears the skin carelessly when he pushes his leg back towards his chest. Like this, open and exposed, Louis searches that old burn of shame that washed over him every time he allowed himself to have this and exhales shakily when he finds nothing.
When Lestat is finally inside of him, he swears something in his chest lessens. He crosses his ankles behind Lestat's back, circles his small waist with his legs, pulls him close with both hands buried through his hair as he drives into Louis' with slow, pointed thrusts.
"I love the refuge of you," Lestat pants into his mouth, because he can never shut up. Louis whines, his half hard cock rubbing insistently against Lestat's taut stomach. "The site of the dwelling-place of your glory."
He cries out. Lestat's thrusts grow clumsy, hips stuttering when Louis clenches down on him and pulls him down into a kiss that is more shared panted breaths than anything.
"Inside me. Inside me, Lestat, we have to...we have to make sure..." His face flushes, so he hides it in the curve of Lestat's shoulder, his entire body rocking with each harsh thrust.
"Mon Saint Louis. Will you carry my child? Right here, where you can feel me?" He says, pressing down slightly against his lower stomach, "Une si bonne femme," and that's all it takes.
He comes in weak spurts, tightens his legs around Lestat and forces his face into his neck, piercing Lestat's own with his fangs. The blood pours inside of him at the same time he distantly hears something snap. Lestat stills against him, firmly pressed between his legs as he bites down into Louis neck in return and comes too.
They share the blood until Lestat's hips have stopped their lazy circles. Louis pulls back with a gasp, doesn't immediately close the wound just so he can see the crimson liquid trail down Lestat's body and hit his own chest.
When Lestat finishes drinking, he licks his lips and grins down at him, fangs out, hair tussled, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, blood spattered on some spots of his face.
Louis has never seen anyone look so deathly and glorious.
"You did not recite a Psalm to me while you were balls deep inside me." He deadpans, instead of doing something stupid, like weep from the overwhelming gratitude and love that fills his chest.
His man smiles sheepishly. He looks ridiculous, trying to hide behind a curtain of his hair with half his face caked with blood. Louis has never wanted to kiss him more.
Lestat crosses both arms over his chest and rests his chin against them. "I was under the impression you liked everything we did." He arches an eyebrow. "Am I wrong, chéri?"
Louis lets out a deep sigh. He wiggles, feeling something small under his right shoulder. When he looks down to the side, he finds the beads of his rosary scattered around the Persian rug.
He waits for the waves of guilt and shame to drag him down. He waits and waits and when nothing comes, he looks at Lestat's wide eyed, expectant expression and smiles.
"No. No, you're not." He lifts both hands and grabs at Lestat's face, brushes their noses together in a way, that, considering everything they just did, seems strangely timid and innocent. He thinks back to the very first rosary he ever wore and breathes. "Thank you."
Lestat nods quietly against him.
"Anything for you, Louis."