Ensconced in the shadow of the village church's furthermost alcove, a little too like one of the many carved icons that looked out with their painted sightless eyes, Lestat smiles warmly. In Alain he sees a man perfectly preserved in his prime ---much like Marius in that way, yet the antithesis in many others---, somehow brimming with a distinct youth that touches him to the core. In the dim candlelight he reflects on the lovely vision of him; the faint receded lines of mortal age that still adorn the outer corners of his hazel eyes, and the lusciously thick clipped hair that felt good between Lestat's fingers.
Barely a decade in the Blood, this young one had; still being ever refined and perfected by the working of the Gift, night after night. Lestat's hands settle gently upon his shoulders, a thumb stroking over the soft fabric of his shirt. He kisses him tenderly on the lips, overcome with a powerful fondness that could have brought tears to his eyes.
Yes, his beloved Alain had read between all the lines of the books the blood drinkers throughout the world had dubbed the Chronicles; Kept safe the old trinkets from Lestat's brief stint on the rock music stage, from the MTV music videos, to the sole album record that had once sold copies by the millions.
How painfully endearing, to think of it.
"Because it was impossible not to. From the moment you returned home from university, grown and ripe for it, it was inevitable that I would bring you over and keep you. Selfish, I know. But vanity and impulse had no part in any of it. For once, I knew If I was to give it to you, I had to hold off. Would you have wanted it any other way, if you could change it?"