Louis lets people beat him at these kinds of games occasionally, if he didn’t, no one would ever play him! This is the face he makes:
However, there have been a few times he’s been legitimately beaten, and he always takes it like a good sport, and tries to reconstruct how they managed it. Usually it’s because Lestat, who has no poker face, saw Louis’ hand and unconsciously gave it away to the opponent.
This is the seedier side of literature and sometimes when it’s late, I cruise the streets until I find him….sprawled in some dusty corner of a well-used bookshop with pages draped over his bare arm, a glazed look in his eyes, high as a kite on Chaucer or Fitzgerald, and a trail of crumpled bills leading to the counter. As I pick up his inert body and walk past the shelves, dog-eared, greasy, stained pulp novels that have seen things, call me ‘Sugar’ and put their wares on display to tempt me. I keep going with his weight in my arms. For him, I cannot give in. It’s fortunate that I love him so…..even though he’s an addict. *shakes his head*
I-want-my-IWTV 