Louis' expression has lost all of the easy warmth with which they began this conversation. The look he wears now must be familiar; it is the same expression he wore in Dubai, across the table, listening as Daniel methodically laid out which pieces he had, what he had made of them, looked to Louis to fill in the rest. Tension and focus and a flex of worry. Not for himself.
Daniel is still so young. Young for a vampire. Young even in comparison to Louis, who had lived out lifetimes before Daniel had ever grown old.
But they are not in that room. There is no one who will stop them piecing through what's been lost but them.
Louis draws a breath. A little restless tic of movement works through his body. Readjusting the cross of his legs, his perch on the edge of the cushion, drawn unconsciously closer as Daniel speaks.
"I haven't dreamt that."
Only enough to know his fears of missing pieces are real. To know that things have been lost, or taken from him, and that Daniel and his tapes won't recover them.
Daniel is asking him about that room. Louis closes his eyes.
"But it sounds real," comes softly, slowly. "I remember..."
A door closing. A hand rattling at the lock. Sunlight filtering through newspaper. An agonized groan that could have been him, might have been Daniel.
"I remember your voice," Louis admits. "Closer than I thought you should be."
Acclimated to Daniel in the main room, his screams and moans of pain carrying through the sometimes locked, sometimes open door. But the discrepancy Louis worries at now, like plucking at a loosened thread, rolling it between fingers.
no subject
Louis' expression has lost all of the easy warmth with which they began this conversation. The look he wears now must be familiar; it is the same expression he wore in Dubai, across the table, listening as Daniel methodically laid out which pieces he had, what he had made of them, looked to Louis to fill in the rest. Tension and focus and a flex of worry. Not for himself.
Daniel is still so young. Young for a vampire. Young even in comparison to Louis, who had lived out lifetimes before Daniel had ever grown old.
But they are not in that room. There is no one who will stop them piecing through what's been lost but them.
Louis draws a breath. A little restless tic of movement works through his body. Readjusting the cross of his legs, his perch on the edge of the cushion, drawn unconsciously closer as Daniel speaks.
"I haven't dreamt that."
Only enough to know his fears of missing pieces are real. To know that things have been lost, or taken from him, and that Daniel and his tapes won't recover them.
Daniel is asking him about that room. Louis closes his eyes.
"But it sounds real," comes softly, slowly. "I remember..."
A door closing. A hand rattling at the lock. Sunlight filtering through newspaper. An agonized groan that could have been him, might have been Daniel.
"I remember your voice," Louis admits. "Closer than I thought you should be."
Acclimated to Daniel in the main room, his screams and moans of pain carrying through the sometimes locked, sometimes open door. But the discrepancy Louis worries at now, like plucking at a loosened thread, rolling it between fingers.
"I dreamed you were blocking the sun."