Tears aren't far, thickening now. He nods there against Louis' thigh, small but urgent motions. The thought is horrifying, of course, to be forced to abandon Louis to his miserable mortality, to an inevitable end, by his own hand that night or the drink decades from then, sorrow either way, to have had to move on from him despite how much he loved him, but this is what would have happened.
"Sometimes," and Lestat's voice is thicker, following suit, the tearful creak at the edges, "I wonder if my maker felt for me the way I did for you. When he followed me at night or saw me from the wings and the stands. If he felt love, then, while I felt horror. If in that way we were the same."
He shouldn't be saying any of this. Shouldn't be tasking Louis with the responsibility of making him feel better. But the words come anyway, teetering and shaky.
It feels correct, what Louis is saying. Words that penetrate, find a mark, confirm something he has known. That twist through him, sharp edged. That Magnus did not love him, he was not made from love, and why should that have been so? When those that brought him into the world couldn't love him, when Lestat drank of Nicki and discovered his hatred? When his daughter did not love him well enough to forgive him, if she ever did? When Louis, stroking his hair now, cannot bring himself to say it?
His breathing has become shallow, only realising he has begun to cry properly after it has started. He gives a groan of resignation for it, curling back up out of Louis' lap to press his palms over his eyes. He has never felt very ashamed of it, crying, but it cuts as close to it as it ever will now.
"I'm sorry," makes it out, words creaking beneath the weight of all he has to be sorry for. Starting with, at least, an unglamourous way to spend an evening.
"You got nothing to be sorry for. It ain't on you what he did."
Would it have made a difference if he'd said any of this earlier? In New Orleans, when Louis had been asking? Years later, when Claudia begged to know?
Doesn't matter. No need to go down that road.
Instead, Lestat is abruptly upright and Louis has to turn along with him. Touches him, light fingers first at his elbow, then at his shoulder, sweeping back the fall of blond to settle there.
A little more hiding, gasping, squeaking breaths between his hands. There is no other way to let it out. Nothing here in this car he could rend into shreds. Too conscious of Louis right next to him to upset him in this way. Cannot bring himself to run, to fling open the door and just go, not as long as Louis' hand is on him, touching his shoulder, his hair.
"I never," Lestat is saying, more or less coherent, "I never wanted to do it to you that way. To take your life, to take you away from what made you happy. I thought I could do it, that I could make our life together,"
and probably some other words, lost. Hysterical, from an outside perspective, but he does not feel so. Rational, to look at Louis then, to form a cracked, tearful smile at how beautiful he is, his fledging, and so concerned, and to flutter a touch against him.
"It is what I thought," he says, "in my coffin in New Orleans. That Claudia had only been trying to free you both. Magnus knew that much, didn't he? To go into the fire?"
Claudia, face creased in urgency: We have to burn him. It's the only way we'll know!
Even now, years and years later, Louis still flinches to think of it. Of even the possibility of feeding Lestat into the incinerator. He'd laid there on the floor, clutching Lestat's body, feeling how cold he was with the life bled out of him, and screamed. Screamed, and screamed. Then grieved, for years after.
Says, "No," so immediately that it nearly tramples on the end of Lestat's words. No, no, no these parallels cannot stand.
Difficult to measure how much touch Lestat can stand. If anything more would be too much to bear.
"You gave me a gift. It ain't your fault I couldn't see it."
He'd grieved. He'd grieved his life. He'd struggled with the way the mortal world clutched onto him, mortal prejudices, mortal structures containing him in a way they did not, could not contain Lestat. But all those things being true didn't mean—
"You ain't nothing like him. What we are, it's something else."
They are in a storm-torn shack, the winds rattling the glass in their panes which threaten to burst at any moment. Lestat listens to Louis with the same mute attention now as then, near fearful to receive it as completely as he'd like. (More makeup, here, though it hasn't survived contact, everything about him a little wilder than even then.)
Louis says this last thing, and there's no rebuttal. No denying it. His expression softens from the tension that had set in his jaw and mouth without simply crumpling.
"Yes," near whispered. Yes, it was something else. Still is. Perhaps there is something in him that means no one can love him, maybe so, maybe Magnus has made it stay the way he has made his blue eyes stay, but he made Louis. Perhaps no one else would have, could have done that.
He finds a hold at the hem of Louis' shirt, a small asking gesture.
A request, and Louis needs nothing beyond it. Senses maybe the kind of breaking, unraveling thing in Lestat he had seen in New Orleans, and goes to him, closing the slip of space between them. Gathering in the same action as Louis puts himself into Lestat's lap. Grounding, surrounding. Cupping Lestat's face in his palms.
"You weren't never that to me. Weren't never that to Claudia."
Their vengeful, furious daughter. She'd had so many names for Lestat, few of them flattering but none of them could be shared with the vampire Magnus.
Louis leans into him. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Look at me, telegraphed with his whole body.
"You remember what you said to me? You remember how it was with us, on that altar?"
Evocation of Claudia brings new tears, but Louis holds him so warmly and closely that he doesn't shatter. Lestat's arms go around Louis, keeping him close, an assuring weight across his thighs, further smothering those minor twinges that might want him to run away. He could just imagine his daughter, vicious and spiteful, taking his story and throwing it back at him.
(But she didn't. He recalls that. Even this sparer version of it, the worst she had done was doubt it. Accuse him of doing the murdering. Of lying. Kitten scratches. Perhaps she might have done worse, if she hated him enough.)
His arms are tight around Louis' waist, his ribs. Breathes the same air, world narrowing down to the tight intimate space Louis makes between them.
"I remember," he says. "I remember you reached for me."
How it felt like kneeling near a drowning man, hands out stretched, begging to be grasped but refusing to do more.
Louis had reached for him. Louis had taken him by the face, drawn him into a kiss.
Louis had said yes. This was the truth.
"You made me from love. Love you had for me. Made Claudia from it too."
If there was fault for Claudia, responsibility for Claudia, then it was Louis' to bear. Louis had begged for her, pleaded, and Lestat had said yes to him. Done what Louis hadn't yet worked out how to do.
"Said yes to you because of it. Because of the love you offered it with."
Little nods, not enough to disrupt the way their brows touch, hands fitful where they hold onto shirt fabric, grasp at Louis' shoulders, back.
Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. How sick he felt when he held her, fed from her, bled into her. How he can never tell Louis all he had felt that night, and has no reason to. Because then, no disaster, not for years. Claudia, his best student, his most unexpected pride. Claudia, whose judgment about what kind of life she and Louis deserved matched only by Louis' mercy.
"It was good," Lestat whispers. "For the three of us, there were times it was good."
This could never have been his interview. He would sooner eat the gremlin's fledging and all the crew before he utters such things, in this voice. Pleading with the universe to make what Louis has to say to him true.
Closer. He tucks his forehead against Louis' shoulder, holding him tightly. "You have it still," quieter. Wetter. "Always."
His hands form fists at Louis' back, fabric clutched there, shuddering through the great swell of feeling that presses against the interior of his ribcage. The painful extraction of something deeply embedded, healed over with scars, given to complications. Lestat can feel himself hold onto it stubbornly, hurtful conviction.
But this is true. Louis is alive. Something good, enduring.
Relaxing by degrees, grasp loosening. Hands spreading to lay against Louis' back, before, finally, lifting his head, hands coming up between them to touch at Louis' face.
"It was a gift he gave me," he says, eyes bloodshot but clear. "You make this true. I can't regret it, when you are near me."
Would it have changed anything in New Orleans? In those hard days, Louis struggling to be any kind of vampire, would it have made any part of it easier to know Lestat had regrets of his own?
But to speak them would have been to unspool the entirety of this story. And maybe that could only have happened now, decades later. After Louis had spoken his own pains into Daniel's recorder to be made into a book that Lestat then sought to answer.
"I didn't know it was a gift," Louis repeats, soft words between Lestat's palms. "I know what it is now."
Because the truth of it is simply:
"I only ever wanted you. What you promised me."
Not the power, not the immortality. Just Lestat, and the life he whispered to Louis, the never ending loop of love sent back and forth between them.
They both made it so difficult for themselves. Not Louis' fault alone, Lestat knows, but doesn't wish to raise that now while he is like this, while Louis will be compelled to reassure him or avoid it. It's enough to absorb these words, to feel the rush of affection.
His hand smooths around to the back of Louis' head. He would like to kiss him, but settles for mapping their brows together, the bridges of their noses. They would fall asleep like this, sometimes. No amount of closeness was too much.
Familiar touches. Familiar and intimate and achingly welcome. They have been so long apart, but see how easy it is to fit back together again.
Louis uses his weight still to hem Lestat in. No one is hiding. No one is falling away into the deep wrenching pull of memory. They are here. Lestat touches him and Louis breathes out, lets his hands splay out across Lestat's chest. Lays a palm over his heart.
Still, a struggle to offer: "I know."
Some trace bitterness, remembering how Louis had told Lestat everything once. All of himself, the most vulnerable pieces. Things he had never said aloud.
Unfair thoughts. Louis pushes them aside.
"You tellin' me now," Louis reminds him. Eighty or so years later, but still.
A nudge of his nose. Admits, "I been jealous. Envying Daniel getting to hear your story."
Little shifts, becoming comfortable in his seat while they are driven. Arms settled around Louis, gentler than the desperate cling from before but no less firm or deliberate for it.
A little scoff at this. Absurd.
"It's like I told you," Lestat says, "all of this is worthless if you are not audience to it."
Each song, each appearance, each outfit, each photograph, each interview. It does not surprise Lestat to imagine that Louis might believe otherwise, but this is the reality, as true as gravity. There is nothing about this absurd, indulgent spectacle that is not for Louis.
A moment's pause, watching Lestat's face. Feeling his heart beating, perfect twin to Louis' own.
Lifts his hand to cup Lestat's cheek, angle the closeness of their faces so Louis can kiss him. Soft, soft, all tenderness. A better answer than anything Louis might have said aloud, all of it lacking one way or another.
"Ain't worthless," Louis tells him, breaking the kiss. Remains there, close, so he can speak into the space between them. "Your story ain't worthless."
Easy, despite how rare it is, to tip his head and receive a kiss from Louis. Only going still when their lips meet, as if not to break it by accident. Breath held in his lungs, eyes closed.
Lestat raises his hand to press it over Louis' against his face. A shivered breath leaving him, another odd feeling, like a ripple of physical tension through his body. Trying to imagine what it would have been like to tell Louis all of these things is not a thought exercise he has engaged in much, but now, a minor twinge of regret.
Perhaps it would have been good to do so. Perhaps he should have trusted him to be as kind towards him then as he is being now.
"I felt I needed someone who would ask the questions," he says. "And then would ask them again and again if I do not answer properly, or when the story became difficult. Someone like your Mr. Molloy. I felt I couldn't do it by myself."
A little laugh, quiet and breathy, the kind that suggests this is a harder question to answer than it sounds like. That anything he says will be one answer of several.
"Well," Lestat says. "When he has asked all of his questions, it will be edited into a feature length documentary, or perhaps a mini series. It will go onto a stream service and people will watch it, I suppose. Humans, vampires."
He tilts his head as he looks at Louis, a hesitation, before he adds, "And then we will be two thorns in their sides, non? Your army of one will be an army of two."
Something Louis maybe could have guessed, if give opportunity. But Lestat says it aloud, offers it up and Louis smoothes fingers across the upturned planes of his face. Thumbs away lingering tear tracks. Tenderness in this too, a gentle examination of the familiar terrain of Lestat's face.
"You ain't gotta do that for me," Louis says softly, predictably. "Give up all your stories to them to protect me."
To divert them. Expose all his pain to ridicule and scrutiny for Louis' benefit.
"Not if you ain't gonna be able to live with it after."
Lestat gives a fond hum in the wake of this predictable answer. Soothed by the gentle strokes of fingers across his face.
"I would give up anything to protect you," he says. "Everything."
He runs his palm up the outside of Louis' thigh, too firm to be suggestive, just affection, just affirmation. "I know you don't need me," he adds. "You have all your resources. Your talents, your skyscrapers, your private jets. I hear all about it, you know, their furious whispers, chasing you, fleeing from you. I note the ones who are silenced after, the ones who give warnings.
"But I want to do it. And," a musical drum of his fingertips, "I would like us to have something in common again."
Louis has always needed him. Dreamed him when he couldn't have him, clung to a ghost when it seemed the man was lost to him for good. Louis had held on even the guilt had cut his palms.
Who is there be needs more than Lestat? It will always be him, an essential piece of Louis knit into the man hemmed in beneath him.
Louis presses their foreheads together again. Rests there, breathing. The world slides by outside the window, unacknowledged. Ramiz will drive in circles rather than interrupt. There is no hurry to conduct their business.
No hurry to circle his way back around to, "I don't want you to give anything up. Seemed like you already did, for a long time."
Lestat found in a water-logged shack, not even a piano to his name. Louis has not forgotten.
Doubt, still, for how necessary he truly is, that he is not just an anchoring weight, that the best thing Magnus ever did for him was leave, a final lesson he refuses to follow, but to speak it would be to ruin this rare sense of peace. He can believe that Louis believes it, and that is enough, it is much.
A fond noise, and he gently pushes where his forehead rests against Louis'. "Let us not pretend I am not doing this for myself," he says. "It is no great sacrifice to be a rockstar. To have a crew of people attend me as I tell my stories. To have someone care to hear it all. Someones."
He fidgets with a fold in Louis' shirt. "Two hundred and thirty six years. I thought I knew how this story would go. I thought I knew it well."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Sometimes," and Lestat's voice is thicker, following suit, the tearful creak at the edges, "I wonder if my maker felt for me the way I did for you. When he followed me at night or saw me from the wings and the stands. If he felt love, then, while I felt horror. If in that way we were the same."
He shouldn't be saying any of this. Shouldn't be tasking Louis with the responsibility of making him feel better. But the words come anyway, teetering and shaky.
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But Lestat is saying it now.
Louis' fingers stroke along his brow, return to scratching nails along his scalp. Little touches, anchoring, soothing.
"You ain't the same."
Something important to say, it feels to Louis. To say again and again if Lestat needs.
"Maybe he thought he loved you. But what he showed you, that ain't love."
And after: "And he ain't loved you any true way, if he did all that and then left you."
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His breathing has become shallow, only realising he has begun to cry properly after it has started. He gives a groan of resignation for it, curling back up out of Louis' lap to press his palms over his eyes. He has never felt very ashamed of it, crying, but it cuts as close to it as it ever will now.
"I'm sorry," makes it out, words creaking beneath the weight of all he has to be sorry for. Starting with, at least, an unglamourous way to spend an evening.
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Would it have made a difference if he'd said any of this earlier? In New Orleans, when Louis had been asking? Years later, when Claudia begged to know?
Doesn't matter. No need to go down that road.
Instead, Lestat is abruptly upright and Louis has to turn along with him. Touches him, light fingers first at his elbow, then at his shoulder, sweeping back the fall of blond to settle there.
"Don't do that. Don't hide."
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"I never," Lestat is saying, more or less coherent, "I never wanted to do it to you that way. To take your life, to take you away from what made you happy. I thought I could do it, that I could make our life together,"
and probably some other words, lost. Hysterical, from an outside perspective, but he does not feel so. Rational, to look at Louis then, to form a cracked, tearful smile at how beautiful he is, his fledging, and so concerned, and to flutter a touch against him.
"It is what I thought," he says, "in my coffin in New Orleans. That Claudia had only been trying to free you both. Magnus knew that much, didn't he? To go into the fire?"
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Even now, years and years later, Louis still flinches to think of it. Of even the possibility of feeding Lestat into the incinerator. He'd laid there on the floor, clutching Lestat's body, feeling how cold he was with the life bled out of him, and screamed. Screamed, and screamed. Then grieved, for years after.
Says, "No," so immediately that it nearly tramples on the end of Lestat's words. No, no, no these parallels cannot stand.
Difficult to measure how much touch Lestat can stand. If anything more would be too much to bear.
"You gave me a gift. It ain't your fault I couldn't see it."
He'd grieved. He'd grieved his life. He'd struggled with the way the mortal world clutched onto him, mortal prejudices, mortal structures containing him in a way they did not, could not contain Lestat. But all those things being true didn't mean—
"You ain't nothing like him. What we are, it's something else."
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Louis says this last thing, and there's no rebuttal. No denying it. His expression softens from the tension that had set in his jaw and mouth without simply crumpling.
"Yes," near whispered. Yes, it was something else. Still is. Perhaps there is something in him that means no one can love him, maybe so, maybe Magnus has made it stay the way he has made his blue eyes stay, but he made Louis. Perhaps no one else would have, could have done that.
He finds a hold at the hem of Louis' shirt, a small asking gesture.
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"You weren't never that to me. Weren't never that to Claudia."
Their vengeful, furious daughter. She'd had so many names for Lestat, few of them flattering but none of them could be shared with the vampire Magnus.
Louis leans into him. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Look at me, telegraphed with his whole body.
"You remember what you said to me? You remember how it was with us, on that altar?"
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(But she didn't. He recalls that. Even this sparer version of it, the worst she had done was doubt it. Accuse him of doing the murdering. Of lying. Kitten scratches. Perhaps she might have done worse, if she hated him enough.)
His arms are tight around Louis' waist, his ribs. Breathes the same air, world narrowing down to the tight intimate space Louis makes between them.
"I remember," he says. "I remember you reached for me."
How it felt like kneeling near a drowning man, hands out stretched, begging to be grasped but refusing to do more.
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Louis had reached for him. Louis had taken him by the face, drawn him into a kiss.
Louis had said yes. This was the truth.
"You made me from love. Love you had for me. Made Claudia from it too."
If there was fault for Claudia, responsibility for Claudia, then it was Louis' to bear. Louis had begged for her, pleaded, and Lestat had said yes to him. Done what Louis hadn't yet worked out how to do.
"Said yes to you because of it. Because of the love you offered it with."
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Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. How sick he felt when he held her, fed from her, bled into her. How he can never tell Louis all he had felt that night, and has no reason to. Because then, no disaster, not for years. Claudia, his best student, his most unexpected pride. Claudia, whose judgment about what kind of life she and Louis deserved matched only by Louis' mercy.
"It was good," Lestat whispers. "For the three of us, there were times it was good."
This could never have been his interview. He would sooner eat the gremlin's fledging and all the crew before he utters such things, in this voice. Pleading with the universe to make what Louis has to say to him true.
Closer. He tucks his forehead against Louis' shoulder, holding him tightly. "You have it still," quieter. Wetter. "Always."
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Would it have been better if he said all this before? If Louis had known, if Claudia had heard?
There's no good answer. Only guesses, and painful ones.
Even I wish you'd said would be useless. Accusing where Louis would rather be anything else.
"I know," Louis tells him. "I know, baby."
Falling short, Louis knows. Falling short because this can only get him so far.
"You saved me with it," is what Louis tells him instead. "Over and over. Kept me alive."
Not just at the theater.
"You ain't him. You never been, even when things were bad."
And they had been. But there is no comparison. Not for Louis.
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But this is true. Louis is alive. Something good, enduring.
Relaxing by degrees, grasp loosening. Hands spreading to lay against Louis' back, before, finally, lifting his head, hands coming up between them to touch at Louis' face.
"It was a gift he gave me," he says, eyes bloodshot but clear. "You make this true. I can't regret it, when you are near me."
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Would it have changed anything in New Orleans? In those hard days, Louis struggling to be any kind of vampire, would it have made any part of it easier to know Lestat had regrets of his own?
But to speak them would have been to unspool the entirety of this story. And maybe that could only have happened now, decades later. After Louis had spoken his own pains into Daniel's recorder to be made into a book that Lestat then sought to answer.
"I didn't know it was a gift," Louis repeats, soft words between Lestat's palms. "I know what it is now."
Because the truth of it is simply:
"I only ever wanted you. What you promised me."
Not the power, not the immortality. Just Lestat, and the life he whispered to Louis, the never ending loop of love sent back and forth between them.
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His hand smooths around to the back of Louis' head. He would like to kiss him, but settles for mapping their brows together, the bridges of their noses. They would fall asleep like this, sometimes. No amount of closeness was too much.
"I don't mean to hide from you," he offers.
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Louis uses his weight still to hem Lestat in. No one is hiding. No one is falling away into the deep wrenching pull of memory. They are here. Lestat touches him and Louis breathes out, lets his hands splay out across Lestat's chest. Lays a palm over his heart.
Still, a struggle to offer: "I know."
Some trace bitterness, remembering how Louis had told Lestat everything once. All of himself, the most vulnerable pieces. Things he had never said aloud.
Unfair thoughts. Louis pushes them aside.
"You tellin' me now," Louis reminds him. Eighty or so years later, but still.
A nudge of his nose. Admits, "I been jealous. Envying Daniel getting to hear your story."
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A little scoff at this. Absurd.
"It's like I told you," Lestat says, "all of this is worthless if you are not audience to it."
Each song, each appearance, each outfit, each photograph, each interview. It does not surprise Lestat to imagine that Louis might believe otherwise, but this is the reality, as true as gravity. There is nothing about this absurd, indulgent spectacle that is not for Louis.
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Lifts his hand to cup Lestat's cheek, angle the closeness of their faces so Louis can kiss him. Soft, soft, all tenderness. A better answer than anything Louis might have said aloud, all of it lacking one way or another.
"Ain't worthless," Louis tells him, breaking the kiss. Remains there, close, so he can speak into the space between them. "Your story ain't worthless."
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Lestat raises his hand to press it over Louis' against his face. A shivered breath leaving him, another odd feeling, like a ripple of physical tension through his body. Trying to imagine what it would have been like to tell Louis all of these things is not a thought exercise he has engaged in much, but now, a minor twinge of regret.
Perhaps it would have been good to do so. Perhaps he should have trusted him to be as kind towards him then as he is being now.
"I felt I needed someone who would ask the questions," he says. "And then would ask them again and again if I do not answer properly, or when the story became difficult. Someone like your Mr. Molloy. I felt I couldn't do it by myself."
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And he does. He understands the necessity of someone who will push, chase after truth even when it lives behind high defenses.
Even when seeking and finding it destroys all around it.
This is who Daniel is. The right man for Louis, the right man for Lestat.
His thumb sweeps back and forth across Lestat's cheek. Small movements, no possibility of dislodging Lestat's hand where it lies.
"What do you want at the end of it? When he's asked all the questions?"
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"Well," Lestat says. "When he has asked all of his questions, it will be edited into a feature length documentary, or perhaps a mini series. It will go onto a stream service and people will watch it, I suppose. Humans, vampires."
He tilts his head as he looks at Louis, a hesitation, before he adds, "And then we will be two thorns in their sides, non? Your army of one will be an army of two."
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"You ain't gotta do that for me," Louis says softly, predictably. "Give up all your stories to them to protect me."
To divert them. Expose all his pain to ridicule and scrutiny for Louis' benefit.
"Not if you ain't gonna be able to live with it after."
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"I would give up anything to protect you," he says. "Everything."
He runs his palm up the outside of Louis' thigh, too firm to be suggestive, just affection, just affirmation. "I know you don't need me," he adds. "You have all your resources. Your talents, your skyscrapers, your private jets. I hear all about it, you know, their furious whispers, chasing you, fleeing from you. I note the ones who are silenced after, the ones who give warnings.
"But I want to do it. And," a musical drum of his fingertips, "I would like us to have something in common again."
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Louis has always needed him. Dreamed him when he couldn't have him, clung to a ghost when it seemed the man was lost to him for good. Louis had held on even the guilt had cut his palms.
Who is there be needs more than Lestat? It will always be him, an essential piece of Louis knit into the man hemmed in beneath him.
Louis presses their foreheads together again. Rests there, breathing. The world slides by outside the window, unacknowledged. Ramiz will drive in circles rather than interrupt. There is no hurry to conduct their business.
No hurry to circle his way back around to, "I don't want you to give anything up. Seemed like you already did, for a long time."
Lestat found in a water-logged shack, not even a piano to his name. Louis has not forgotten.
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Doubt, still, for how necessary he truly is, that he is not just an anchoring weight, that the best thing Magnus ever did for him was leave, a final lesson he refuses to follow, but to speak it would be to ruin this rare sense of peace. He can believe that Louis believes it, and that is enough, it is much.
A fond noise, and he gently pushes where his forehead rests against Louis'. "Let us not pretend I am not doing this for myself," he says. "It is no great sacrifice to be a rockstar. To have a crew of people attend me as I tell my stories. To have someone care to hear it all. Someones."
He fidgets with a fold in Louis' shirt. "Two hundred and thirty six years. I thought I knew how this story would go. I thought I knew it well."
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