Still sensitive enough for the continued gathering of crimson at his waterline, even as Lestat nods to this, attempts to let it in. The singular pronoun, the admission of a wrong thing. How habitual it had been to yell at each other about their various hurts and then wait until they decided not to be angry about it anymore, walls ignored rather than dismantled.
Tempting to make some excuse and scuttle away while the going is good, but the urge to remain in the same room as Louis overrides this easily.
"Eighty years on," he says. "More than that, even, and I am still unaccustomed to not being the only one you—"
A gesture, to fill in the rest of the sentence. Trust, maybe.
Trust. Of course he trusts Lestat. Louis had trusted him even when he had believed the worst, believed Lestat the architect of the trap that had killed their daughter. He had dreamed Lestat, a hallucinatory confidant.
Lestat has always been trusted. It's only—
"I don't want you to see me like that. To have all that in your head when you look at me."
There's no avoiding it with Daniel. Daniel had been there, in Dubai. He'd seen it. Unraveled it. Named it.
A pause, and Lestat leaves his post by the chair. Moves forwards. Close enough, then, that he can reach out and touch the collar of Louis' cardigan, unnecessarily adjusting. A recent habit for smaller, less pointedly intimate, but no less affectionate touches when the desire overtakes him.
"You have nothing to fear of how I might look at you. How I see you." A flutter of a hand at his chest. (More flattering details up close, like where rain didn't wash away a thin film of blood up the side of his neck, the clinging of micro-glitter next to his mouth lifted off the skin of someone unfortunate.) It's not about trust (or whatever other quality Lestat didn't verbalise), but isn't it? says the tip of his head.
He shrugs. "I will be here, anyway. I will always only be moments away from you."
Lestat is permitted this approach, these little touches. Louis meets him, fingers lifting slowly to skim a light, inspecting touch up the faint trail of blood at his throat. Press fingertips to collect the shimmer of glitter at the corner of his mouth.
"I came here because I wanted to be near you," Louis reminds him. "You and Daniel both."
There is no game.
If Louis had been wiser, he'd have stayed in Dubai. A defensible position, easy to draw those who might harm Daniel into the city to die. But they'd asked him to come, so Louis had boarded a plane. Promised Lestat his company for the duration of the tour.
Lestat holds himself very still at that touch to his neck, his face, breath held low in his chest while his hand rests butterfly-light at Louis' sternum. Be here, Daniel had advised, and Louis, too, asking for no greater purpose to his presence, save that his presence intrinsically has purpose.
"Yes," he says, still quiet between them. Resigned to the now predictable, familiar sting of being a third, perhaps the third, but in the mood to quietly ache about it rather than explode. Surely this will be fine in the longterm.
Still, he teeters on the edge of saying more, the urge to do so transparent in his expression, before saying, "I would like it if you spoke to me about hard things. Even when they have little to do with me, or nothing at all. It had been good for you, once."
Long ago. Park benches, walks through the Quarter, and Lestat had made himself an attentive listener.
There are moments when it felt close. Their night at the opera. Enclosed in Lestat's cottage, a hurricane battering the windows. Their shared pain, easier to access than long years apart and the damage Louis had collected.
His fingertips come away with a sheen of glitter.
"It was good," Louis agrees. The words he'd chosen for Daniel: a coal fire, vital, life-giving warmth. Lestat had been that. Could still be, maybe.
"I'll try."
An honest offer.
"We can try. I'll give you what I can."
Which parts, if any, will come easy.
His fingers catch the stringy ends of Lestat's hair. Smiles a little, for the mess of him. How lovely he is still.
I'll try twinges a little at despair, the part of him that yearns for all to be as it was without any effort at all—but is also very sweet and dear, this offer. Miles more than what he is owed, this he knows on some difficult to access level that knows he is owed nothing at all, really.
So. Lestat says, "Good," more of a breath than a word, and the balance between despair and gratitude resolves itself a little when he sees Louis smile, and his heart warms.
Ah, that's right, he is nothing of his best, composed self. This latest argument is nearly nothing compared to the one that broke them forever, although it had carried its echoes, as all of their arguments will, he thinks—so, some memories of carefully choosing his outfits with which to present his apologies, whether finely tailored and expensive or modest(-ish) and humbled, but always purposeful.
Instead, he is asking Louis to trust him with his inner demons again while looking like one of them. He draws some hair behind his ear as he says, "I was going to acquire a new camera for you, but they all look different now," so. No gifts, this time.
What business does Louis have with a camera? He'd barely made anything of his film in Paris.
"I'd rather have you back here," Louis tells him. "No need for a gift."
Equilibrium returning. Louis finding his footing. Packing the desperate, gnawing misery away, tamping it down and down and down. Lestat's fingers warming his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"Want a hand with this?"
A hand turning, displaying the shine of glitter on his fingertips. An offer, made in spite of the tentative quality to this conversation, their reconciliation.
No need for a gift, as predicted. But the apology had taken. So that is something.
But he can sense it, Lestat can, an easing in Louis. If not a relaxing, then a balancing. He will take it and it allow it to balance him in return, and even feel a little foolish for having cried so dramatically on the sofa not that long ago. See, everything is fine, and will continue to be.
He flicks a glance to Louis' fingers, momentarily puzzled, before he gives a quiet sound of recognition. Back to Louis. What other answer could there possibly be but—
"Sure."
And then waits to see what happens next. Will Louis lick his face clean. That would be good, if he's taking suggestions.
Louis doesn't belabor the point. They've had enough theatrics in the past twenty-four hours.
He trusts Lestat to follow as Louis turns, makes his way back through the archway.
Between the three of them, only Daniel and Louis have crossed into each others rooms. Lestat's has been left, sacrosanct, as far as Louis knows. And Lestat has not invited himself into Louis' room.
Louis makes the decision on the fly. Does not cross into Lestat's room, only passes through his own, heading towards the lavish en suite bathroom.
(Briefly grateful he is not led to his own room, where Louis will find a current bad habit for hoarding shopping bags still filled with their purchases, clothes strewn about in the drama of choosing an outfit for any given evening, makeup smears in the ensuite sink, and a series of slightly wobbly claw marks decorating the edge of the coffin within to mimic the keys of a piano.)
Glances around the place, as neat and tidy as Louis ever presents himself to be, of course. Into the bathroom, where he purses his mouth slightly at his own reflection. Okay, sure, a little messy. A glitterier version of the creature Louis had uncovered in New Orleans, those months ago.
Considers saying, You don't have to, but that would be stupid.
He doesn't have to be in New York at all. He could be in Dubai, in his tower, testing his new-found autonomy against any challenger that cared to heed his invitation.
He is here.
He is lowering himself down alongside the tub, testing the taps. Rachida has artfully arranged a number of bottles, various oils and lotions and soaps and shampoos and otherwise, and Louis is thinking about which suit Lestat.
"I can leave after it's ready," he is saying. "And you can soak."
Soak off blood and glitter in the privacy of Louis' bathroom. Lestat needn't feel obligated to test the outer limits of their tenuous friendship tonight.
Every now and then, Lestat feels a little like he is being led down a path by Louis, heading somewhere unknown and strange, too curious to resist. To an opera, to a living room in which awaits terrible truths, and now to the fancy little bathroom, the sound of running water. Feeling along the boundaries of whatever they are now, exploring murky shallows.
Incapable, personally, of figuring it out for himself, clinging close to shore until invited to stray a little further out. Here, Louis asks that, and Lestat skirts doubtfully around the question, before feeling exasperated at himself enough to just say, "I don't want you to leave," which is a true thing.
It isn't a request Louis stay, really, but he feels it. Stay here, speak with him, be near, don't go be alone and afraid and sad. Lestat relieves him of his intent focus, shifting aside to go and peel his shirt off, still damp with rain water, pale skin cold with it.
Louis lowers himself down to perch on the side of the tub as water rushes from the tap. Watches Lestat, taking in the flex of muscle, the expanse of pale skin.
"Alright," acquiescing. Inviting. Yes, Louis will stay.
And now there is some time to fill between getting undressed and the tub filling to an acceptable degree, which nearly makes Lestat laugh as he sets about taking off his boots. He has never been shy in his immortal life, not when it comes to something as ordinary as his body. He doesn't remember if he experienced it in his mortal one, if he broke from it early, or never possessed it to begin with. Still, some feeling of willing vulnerability by the time he undoes his belt, and pushes damp velvet down off his thighs along with the layer beneath.
Doesn't bother with treating the garment as anything but something that needs to be thrown away, nudging it aside with an ankle.
"I've made my requests of you," he says. Talk to him. Be his friend again. Share what Louis can. Lestat paces for the bathtub, stepping into it. A sigh out for the pleasant warmth, up past his ankle. "Do you have any of me?"
It clearly hasn't occurred to Louis, that he might have requests. That he might make demands.
Louis reaches up a hand, an unnecessary offering. Lestat hardly needs to be steadied.
"I can't think of any," Louis admits. No sense scrabbling for something insincere. Can only offer: "I want you to stay. I was pleased, when I realized you and he were traveling together."
They were good for each other, Daniel and Lestat. Louis is reassured by their burgeoning acquaintance, would like to see it become a friendship.
Lowers himself down, absorbing this absence of request. Tempting to overthink it. His conduct is perfect the way it is. He is a lost cause. Or, simply, whatever problems exist aren't ones that can be corrected out. He worries at it a little before putting it away, settling close to where Louis is perched, as if not wanting to lose out on proximity.
"He wondered multiple times if I might kill him," comes out more amused than resentful. "I don't think he minded when he thought it was a possibility."
It never was, not really. Even before understanding their friendship, the things they shared, the love they have, and Louis' desire to have him as his own fledgling, before all of that, Daniel was Louis' storyteller. Chosen for that, at least. Lestat did not really make sport of destroying the things and people that Louis cared about, no matter what the good people of BookTok have to say.
The most unsurprising news in the world. It might be tempting to presume that vampirism has instilled this lack of fear in Daniel, but Louis is well aware it's a pre-existing trait.
He leans over to take up the soft washcloth, unbidden, to dip into the rising water. Douses it, squeezing away the excess, as he tells Lestat, "He has never minded the possibility of a sudden death."
Maybe because after surviving San Francisco, all else paled in comparison.
Louis does not say this.
"Why did you go looking for him, Lestat?"
Unclear if this is safer territory. It feels easier than giving Lestat leeway to ask any questions that are surely waiting for the right moment, to talk about the immediate past. Lestat's presence on the tour. The surprise of him echoing back through Daniel's head so suddenly that night.
A quick search of Louis' face—is this a transgression, despite the gladness? perhaps—before that softens, and Lestat shrugs bare shoulders.
The water, lapping a little at curved sides as he draws his knees up, anchors his hands at the ankles. "My name," he says, "that, at first. Like a sudden swarm of butterflies in a garden—radio and conversation and TV and the internet. Not so noisy, just new." Seven unwanted sons deep and Gabrielle de Lioncourt started making up names, he supposes. No one else has it. Or it's just old. He doesn't know for sure.
Easy, then, to pick up when it became a public item. "I learned of the book. I read the book. Then the man who wrote it, also on the radio and on TV, an obvious vampire. I wanted to meet him. I was curious. I might have kept my distance if he wasn't attacked."
A beat, then Lestat says, "No, I wouldn't have. But it made for a thrilling meet-cute."
A flash of humor in response, a shadow of a smile. Yes, it likely made for a unique first impression. Lestat would like that. Would perhaps have sought an equally dramatic entry if one had not presented itself.
Louis works a lather into the cloth. Uses the sodden fabric to begin working the streaks of blood from Lestat's skin. Something to do with his hands. An excuse to touch Lestat safely. A test, seeing how much he can tolerate before he must leave the room.
"I owe him a great deal," Louis says. Soft. A little distant in spite of himself. Gone a few steps away with his guilt, with his pain. Sinking in to the loop of confirmation: he'd been in the building, and he hadn't realized what was happening. And now here they all are.
Beneath the water, nails dimple flesh. Not quite breaking it.
And Lestat submits to this attention, head tipping side. A hidden tangle of blonde hair where blood had dried into it like mud, coming loose beneath warm water and the texture of the cloth and focus. His eyeline skims away, looking at the rising surface of clear water, the distortions of himself through it. It's been a long time since he's been touched this way.
And it's happening so effortlessly. There were a lot of moments in the book that had made compelled him to rip it into little pieces, his first review to Daniel when he'd baited him to ask for it. One word, undeserving, which he had felt anger for, and then felt it burrow its way into him, and stay there, and become truth. Thinks it now, or, thinks it in the way a splinter is thought of when one accidentally makes contact with it.
A breath out, an agreement. Louis owes him a great deal and Lestat is aware of the ways he does as well, splinters or no splinters.
"Yes," is easy, and he looks back up at Louis to say it. "He finds the right kind of joy in it, I think. He reminds me of my own early days."
After the horror, anyway. One can't judge a whole vampiric life on a few hours of horror.
A little fragment of a memory—How could you keep it from me!—and then, what he barely remembers being his own voice—You have misunderstood everything. And then disaster.
"It would have ruined him, back then," Lestat says.
Not because he knows Daniel well, or understands what kind of young man he was. But he understands Louis' caution. He has felt it himself. But Louis had been wiser, and stronger, clearly, than Lestat had been. He sways a little, leaning into the touch at his shoulder. That he thinks of Nicki again, that he thinks next of Gabrielle, only confirms to him something that he knows is true.
All vampires share the same story. Face the same conflicts. It takes some conscious effort to draw himself away from the enticing whirlpool of his own past, sitting bare and vaguely out of time, the scent of floral soap and blood and Louis in the air.
Yes, he can relate. In too many ways. Maddening amounts.
His arms come out of the water, heedless of the mess that will be made as he follows impulse and circles them around Louis' waist. "I'm glad all the time that I made you," he says, gazing up at Louis with a certain kind of transparent adoration that both comes easier these days but harks to earlier history. "That you live still."
I'm sorry, he wishes to say again, but resists only because Louis will shush him if he does.
Emotion sticks in Louis' throat, disarmed by the combination of damp embrace and the expression Lestat wears. How underserving Louis feels of it, as much now as he had then.
Thank you, he'd said while the wind battered Lestat's little cottage. As rainwater dripped in through the ceiling. Insignificant words for the gift Lestat had given. Not just Louis' life, but the love in which he'd bestowed it.
Louis lays the cloth over Lestat's shoulder so he might touch his face. Wet fingers sketching along Lestat's cheek before Louis cups a palm there. Feels affection, overwhelming, alongside all other complicated, difficult emotion they feel for each other. Makes no attempt to break the embrace, looking into Lestat's eyes and feeling the way all things settle around them, the echoing of their heartbeats, their breath, perfectly in time.
"You saved me."
More than once.
"I'm glad it was you."
Is so deeply complicated. How many years, thinking Armand had saved him. How many years, thinking Lestat had damned both Louis and Claudia to the sunlight, washing his hands of their lives together.
How long Louis had loathed himself for loving him still, even after what had happened.
It's something of a guiding star, love. Lestat is more than capable of feeling a whole spectrum of contradicting things, sometimes violently, sometimes in ways that feel like demonic possession for how thoroughly it overtakes sense and reason. But if there is any opportunity to pause, then he can reach for this, this love, and make it make sense of everything. Unchanging and constant. For better or for worse.
His arms squeeze in answer, head tipping into the hand at his face. "You save me too," he says. "You give me reason."
And this will be so, no matter what they are to each other, or where they are. Of course, the reality of not being companions will continue to make him insane, but an insane person who would like to live out his eternity, and find the means to enjoy it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Still sensitive enough for the continued gathering of crimson at his waterline, even as Lestat nods to this, attempts to let it in. The singular pronoun, the admission of a wrong thing. How habitual it had been to yell at each other about their various hurts and then wait until they decided not to be angry about it anymore, walls ignored rather than dismantled.
Tempting to make some excuse and scuttle away while the going is good, but the urge to remain in the same room as Louis overrides this easily.
"Eighty years on," he says. "More than that, even, and I am still unaccustomed to not being the only one you—"
A gesture, to fill in the rest of the sentence. Trust, maybe.
lol the link
Trust. Of course he trusts Lestat. Louis had trusted him even when he had believed the worst, believed Lestat the architect of the trap that had killed their daughter. He had dreamed Lestat, a hallucinatory confidant.
Lestat has always been trusted. It's only—
"I don't want you to see me like that. To have all that in your head when you look at me."
There's no avoiding it with Daniel. Daniel had been there, in Dubai. He'd seen it. Unraveled it. Named it.
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A pause, and Lestat leaves his post by the chair. Moves forwards. Close enough, then, that he can reach out and touch the collar of Louis' cardigan, unnecessarily adjusting. A recent habit for smaller, less pointedly intimate, but no less affectionate touches when the desire overtakes him.
"You have nothing to fear of how I might look at you. How I see you." A flutter of a hand at his chest. (More flattering details up close, like where rain didn't wash away a thin film of blood up the side of his neck, the clinging of micro-glitter next to his mouth lifted off the skin of someone unfortunate.) It's not about trust (or whatever other quality Lestat didn't verbalise), but isn't it? says the tip of his head.
He shrugs. "I will be here, anyway. I will always only be moments away from you."
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"I came here because I wanted to be near you," Louis reminds him. "You and Daniel both."
There is no game.
If Louis had been wiser, he'd have stayed in Dubai. A defensible position, easy to draw those who might harm Daniel into the city to die. But they'd asked him to come, so Louis had boarded a plane. Promised Lestat his company for the duration of the tour.
"Do you understand?"
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"Yes," he says, still quiet between them. Resigned to the now predictable, familiar sting of being a third, perhaps the third, but in the mood to quietly ache about it rather than explode. Surely this will be fine in the longterm.
Still, he teeters on the edge of saying more, the urge to do so transparent in his expression, before saying, "I would like it if you spoke to me about hard things. Even when they have little to do with me, or nothing at all. It had been good for you, once."
Long ago. Park benches, walks through the Quarter, and Lestat had made himself an attentive listener.
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There are moments when it felt close. Their night at the opera. Enclosed in Lestat's cottage, a hurricane battering the windows. Their shared pain, easier to access than long years apart and the damage Louis had collected.
His fingertips come away with a sheen of glitter.
"It was good," Louis agrees. The words he'd chosen for Daniel: a coal fire, vital, life-giving warmth. Lestat had been that. Could still be, maybe.
"I'll try."
An honest offer.
"We can try. I'll give you what I can."
Which parts, if any, will come easy.
His fingers catch the stringy ends of Lestat's hair. Smiles a little, for the mess of him. How lovely he is still.
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So. Lestat says, "Good," more of a breath than a word, and the balance between despair and gratitude resolves itself a little when he sees Louis smile, and his heart warms.
Ah, that's right, he is nothing of his best, composed self. This latest argument is nearly nothing compared to the one that broke them forever, although it had carried its echoes, as all of their arguments will, he thinks—so, some memories of carefully choosing his outfits with which to present his apologies, whether finely tailored and expensive or modest(-ish) and humbled, but always purposeful.
Instead, he is asking Louis to trust him with his inner demons again while looking like one of them. He draws some hair behind his ear as he says, "I was going to acquire a new camera for you, but they all look different now," so. No gifts, this time.
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What business does Louis have with a camera? He'd barely made anything of his film in Paris.
"I'd rather have you back here," Louis tells him. "No need for a gift."
Equilibrium returning. Louis finding his footing. Packing the desperate, gnawing misery away, tamping it down and down and down. Lestat's fingers warming his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"Want a hand with this?"
A hand turning, displaying the shine of glitter on his fingertips. An offer, made in spite of the tentative quality to this conversation, their reconciliation.
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But he can sense it, Lestat can, an easing in Louis. If not a relaxing, then a balancing. He will take it and it allow it to balance him in return, and even feel a little foolish for having cried so dramatically on the sofa not that long ago. See, everything is fine, and will continue to be.
He flicks a glance to Louis' fingers, momentarily puzzled, before he gives a quiet sound of recognition. Back to Louis. What other answer could there possibly be but—
"Sure."
And then waits to see what happens next. Will Louis lick his face clean. That would be good, if he's taking suggestions.
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So little ceremony.
Louis doesn't belabor the point. They've had enough theatrics in the past twenty-four hours.
He trusts Lestat to follow as Louis turns, makes his way back through the archway.
Between the three of them, only Daniel and Louis have crossed into each others rooms. Lestat's has been left, sacrosanct, as far as Louis knows. And Lestat has not invited himself into Louis' room.
Louis makes the decision on the fly. Does not cross into Lestat's room, only passes through his own, heading towards the lavish en suite bathroom.
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(Briefly grateful he is not led to his own room, where Louis will find a current bad habit for hoarding shopping bags still filled with their purchases, clothes strewn about in the drama of choosing an outfit for any given evening, makeup smears in the ensuite sink, and a series of slightly wobbly claw marks decorating the edge of the coffin within to mimic the keys of a piano.)
Glances around the place, as neat and tidy as Louis ever presents himself to be, of course. Into the bathroom, where he purses his mouth slightly at his own reflection. Okay, sure, a little messy. A glitterier version of the creature Louis had uncovered in New Orleans, those months ago.
Considers saying, You don't have to, but that would be stupid.
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He doesn't have to be in New York at all. He could be in Dubai, in his tower, testing his new-found autonomy against any challenger that cared to heed his invitation.
He is here.
He is lowering himself down alongside the tub, testing the taps. Rachida has artfully arranged a number of bottles, various oils and lotions and soaps and shampoos and otherwise, and Louis is thinking about which suit Lestat.
"I can leave after it's ready," he is saying. "And you can soak."
Soak off blood and glitter in the privacy of Louis' bathroom. Lestat needn't feel obligated to test the outer limits of their tenuous friendship tonight.
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Incapable, personally, of figuring it out for himself, clinging close to shore until invited to stray a little further out. Here, Louis asks that, and Lestat skirts doubtfully around the question, before feeling exasperated at himself enough to just say, "I don't want you to leave," which is a true thing.
It isn't a request Louis stay, really, but he feels it. Stay here, speak with him, be near, don't go be alone and afraid and sad. Lestat relieves him of his intent focus, shifting aside to go and peel his shirt off, still damp with rain water, pale skin cold with it.
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They know each other too well.
They want the same things.
Louis lowers himself down to perch on the side of the tub as water rushes from the tap. Watches Lestat, taking in the flex of muscle, the expanse of pale skin.
"Alright," acquiescing. Inviting. Yes, Louis will stay.
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And now there is some time to fill between getting undressed and the tub filling to an acceptable degree, which nearly makes Lestat laugh as he sets about taking off his boots. He has never been shy in his immortal life, not when it comes to something as ordinary as his body. He doesn't remember if he experienced it in his mortal one, if he broke from it early, or never possessed it to begin with. Still, some feeling of willing vulnerability by the time he undoes his belt, and pushes damp velvet down off his thighs along with the layer beneath.
Doesn't bother with treating the garment as anything but something that needs to be thrown away, nudging it aside with an ankle.
"I've made my requests of you," he says. Talk to him. Be his friend again. Share what Louis can. Lestat paces for the bathtub, stepping into it. A sigh out for the pleasant warmth, up past his ankle. "Do you have any of me?"
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It clearly hasn't occurred to Louis, that he might have requests. That he might make demands.
Louis reaches up a hand, an unnecessary offering. Lestat hardly needs to be steadied.
"I can't think of any," Louis admits. No sense scrabbling for something insincere. Can only offer: "I want you to stay. I was pleased, when I realized you and he were traveling together."
They were good for each other, Daniel and Lestat. Louis is reassured by their burgeoning acquaintance, would like to see it become a friendship.
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Lowers himself down, absorbing this absence of request. Tempting to overthink it. His conduct is perfect the way it is. He is a lost cause. Or, simply, whatever problems exist aren't ones that can be corrected out. He worries at it a little before putting it away, settling close to where Louis is perched, as if not wanting to lose out on proximity.
"He wondered multiple times if I might kill him," comes out more amused than resentful. "I don't think he minded when he thought it was a possibility."
It never was, not really. Even before understanding their friendship, the things they shared, the love they have, and Louis' desire to have him as his own fledgling, before all of that, Daniel was Louis' storyteller. Chosen for that, at least. Lestat did not really make sport of destroying the things and people that Louis cared about, no matter what the good people of BookTok have to say.
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He leans over to take up the soft washcloth, unbidden, to dip into the rising water. Douses it, squeezing away the excess, as he tells Lestat, "He has never minded the possibility of a sudden death."
Maybe because after surviving San Francisco, all else paled in comparison.
Louis does not say this.
"Why did you go looking for him, Lestat?"
Unclear if this is safer territory. It feels easier than giving Lestat leeway to ask any questions that are surely waiting for the right moment, to talk about the immediate past. Lestat's presence on the tour. The surprise of him echoing back through Daniel's head so suddenly that night.
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The water, lapping a little at curved sides as he draws his knees up, anchors his hands at the ankles. "My name," he says, "that, at first. Like a sudden swarm of butterflies in a garden—radio and conversation and TV and the internet. Not so noisy, just new." Seven unwanted sons deep and Gabrielle de Lioncourt started making up names, he supposes. No one else has it. Or it's just old. He doesn't know for sure.
Easy, then, to pick up when it became a public item. "I learned of the book. I read the book. Then the man who wrote it, also on the radio and on TV, an obvious vampire. I wanted to meet him. I was curious. I might have kept my distance if he wasn't attacked."
A beat, then Lestat says, "No, I wouldn't have. But it made for a thrilling meet-cute."
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Louis works a lather into the cloth. Uses the sodden fabric to begin working the streaks of blood from Lestat's skin. Something to do with his hands. An excuse to touch Lestat safely. A test, seeing how much he can tolerate before he must leave the room.
"I owe him a great deal," Louis says. Soft. A little distant in spite of himself. Gone a few steps away with his guilt, with his pain. Sinking in to the loop of confirmation: he'd been in the building, and he hadn't realized what was happening. And now here they all are.
"Do you think he makes a good vampire?"
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And Lestat submits to this attention, head tipping side. A hidden tangle of blonde hair where blood had dried into it like mud, coming loose beneath warm water and the texture of the cloth and focus. His eyeline skims away, looking at the rising surface of clear water, the distortions of himself through it. It's been a long time since he's been touched this way.
And it's happening so effortlessly. There were a lot of moments in the book that had made compelled him to rip it into little pieces, his first review to Daniel when he'd baited him to ask for it. One word, undeserving, which he had felt anger for, and then felt it burrow its way into him, and stay there, and become truth. Thinks it now, or, thinks it in the way a splinter is thought of when one accidentally makes contact with it.
A breath out, an agreement. Louis owes him a great deal and Lestat is aware of the ways he does as well, splinters or no splinters.
"Yes," is easy, and he looks back up at Louis to say it. "He finds the right kind of joy in it, I think. He reminds me of my own early days."
After the horror, anyway. One can't judge a whole vampiric life on a few hours of horror.
"Did you choose him, knowing he would be?"
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But, working that soft cloth up along Lestat's neck, Louis considers coming at the question another way. Get near to the same truth.
"He asked for it, when we first met."
How many vampires do?
"He was too reckless then. Too young to understand the price he'd be paying for what intrigued him."
Unlikely that Daniel would use those words to describe his youthful shortcomings.
Louis' knuckles graze skin. He sighs.
"He's grown since. He's stubborn and insightful and curious. I thought he'd make the most of the Gift."
A soft swipe of cloth down over Lestat's shoulder as Louis tells him, "And I wanted him to live."
Maybe Lestat could relate.
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"It would have ruined him, back then," Lestat says.
Not because he knows Daniel well, or understands what kind of young man he was. But he understands Louis' caution. He has felt it himself. But Louis had been wiser, and stronger, clearly, than Lestat had been. He sways a little, leaning into the touch at his shoulder. That he thinks of Nicki again, that he thinks next of Gabrielle, only confirms to him something that he knows is true.
All vampires share the same story. Face the same conflicts. It takes some conscious effort to draw himself away from the enticing whirlpool of his own past, sitting bare and vaguely out of time, the scent of floral soap and blood and Louis in the air.
Yes, he can relate. In too many ways. Maddening amounts.
His arms come out of the water, heedless of the mess that will be made as he follows impulse and circles them around Louis' waist. "I'm glad all the time that I made you," he says, gazing up at Louis with a certain kind of transparent adoration that both comes easier these days but harks to earlier history. "That you live still."
I'm sorry, he wishes to say again, but resists only because Louis will shush him if he does.
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Thank you, he'd said while the wind battered Lestat's little cottage. As rainwater dripped in through the ceiling. Insignificant words for the gift Lestat had given. Not just Louis' life, but the love in which he'd bestowed it.
Louis lays the cloth over Lestat's shoulder so he might touch his face. Wet fingers sketching along Lestat's cheek before Louis cups a palm there. Feels affection, overwhelming, alongside all other complicated, difficult emotion they feel for each other. Makes no attempt to break the embrace, looking into Lestat's eyes and feeling the way all things settle around them, the echoing of their heartbeats, their breath, perfectly in time.
"You saved me."
More than once.
"I'm glad it was you."
Is so deeply complicated. How many years, thinking Armand had saved him. How many years, thinking Lestat had damned both Louis and Claudia to the sunlight, washing his hands of their lives together.
How long Louis had loathed himself for loving him still, even after what had happened.
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His arms squeeze in answer, head tipping into the hand at his face. "You save me too," he says. "You give me reason."
And this will be so, no matter what they are to each other, or where they are. Of course, the reality of not being companions will continue to make him insane, but an insane person who would like to live out his eternity, and find the means to enjoy it.
yada yada, holler for edits
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