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."
"Tell me," Louis coaxes, thumbs running in tandem along Lestat's jaws. "How'd you think your story was going to go?"
Maybe Louis can guess. Maybe it's only common sense, thinking of what Lestat had promised him once on an altar in New Orleans.
But he asks. Invites. Lestat has spoken of all the worst things today. It could be a balm to speak of good dreams, of what a life could be, the stories they tell themselves. What did Lestat wish to make of his life? Centuries of it, slipping by, what should it have been?
The tone of Louis' question is something of a guide—inviting, coaxing, away from the story of a stone tower. Difficult, this task. Retrospection so often leads back there. But—
"I thought I would be famous," Lestat offers, after a moment. "Immortalised in that fashion. Now it is the 2000s and I don't think a single soul in all of France could name a player of commedia dell'arte. The cruelty of being taken away from my life in Paris is matched only by the likelihood of one day dying drunk and penniless. Which is how I spent most of my free time, quite happily."
He steals one of Louis' hands, laces their fingers together. "And then I was a vampire. And I met other vampires and I knew I would do it differently. I went to the new world. I wanted to leave it all behind and be something else. I had hopes of finding my companion, but it seemed the least likely dream of all. But it wasn't. There you were, nearly my first night in America. Or it may as well have been, as I don't remember the others."
And then the rest. Louis is more than aware of all of his hope and dreams for them both.
So much would be different. Louis would be long dead, maybe.
Lestat is given custody of his hand. Louis squeezes tight, holds fast. Thumbs at the corner of his mouth, looking into his face. No pictures, nothing, only what Lestat has said of what came before. He is beautiful now. He must have been beautiful then.
"My destiny," Louis murmurs. Reminding. Lily's voice, teasing, flirting. She had been adept at maneuvering through conversation. And she had known him. Maybe she'd seen something, long before Louis did.
"You made it different for me," Louis murmurs. He has lived long enough to be sure now. "Made it different for our daughter too."
Claudia made in horror, yes. But look what she had chosen, when given her chance. A companion made from love, like Louis had been made from love.
A little, near-adolescent feeling heart flutter for this sentiment, drawing Louis' hand close to himself, against his chest. A little stolen, all of this, he thinks—they are not companions. There is a distance that exists despite their current configuration.
But Louis is being giving and Lestat is not of a mind to refuse.
"All the vampires I had met at that time," he says, "they lived in darkness and degradation. My maker, though the same as them, intended something different for me. He is the origin of my small fortune, anyway. He left behind a mountain of gold and garments in red velvet and rare pearls. He wanted a new kind of vampire in the world, even if he did not live to see it."
A little shrug. "That was what I wished to be, once I realised there was no return. To live in light. To be the gentleman death that courted his prey." His tone has that element of self-deprecation, a long look back on his fledgling ambitions.
"I don't know," finally. "The more I talk of it, the more I think I was only the lucky one. He stole me because I was blonde haired and blue eyed and enjoyed it while it lasted and that is all."
They are not companions. Not yet. An inbetween space, where despite all their intentions, the way gravity shifts, the magnetic pull of their connection, the relief of their closeness, all of this exists still. Not something past, but something present.
Louis' hand spreads across Lestat's chest. His weight shifts, tilting into Lestat. Pressing him more firmly into the seat.
"He stole you to get hold of all the things you are," Louis murmurs, fingers curling in the fabric of Lestat's shirt. Protective impulse, guarding his heart against what they speak of now. "What no one else had then and no one's got now."
It wasn't chance. Louis is certain it wasn't chance. Corpses on corpses, seeking something in particular.
Maybe only the pleasure of breaking one who would not acquiesce, would not beg.
The origin of Lestat's fortune. Money like a tether, keeping hold of Lestat for decades after.
Louis had never wanted to live off Lestat's money. Had felt guilt over what he and Claudia had taken in those early days of Paris. Did Lestat feel something like that too?
Lestat tips his head back against the headrest, watching Louis' face. Admiring it. His face is wet and eyes red, the occasional passing streetlamp casting unflattering pale light, blue veins and raw edges, but he offers a cracked kind of smile anyway as he covers his hand over Louis'.
"I think if you believe there is something special about me," has a touch of self-deprecation, but still sincere, "then it doesn't matter to me whether or not he did as well."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
Maybe Louis can guess. Maybe it's only common sense, thinking of what Lestat had promised him once on an altar in New Orleans.
But he asks. Invites. Lestat has spoken of all the worst things today. It could be a balm to speak of good dreams, of what a life could be, the stories they tell themselves. What did Lestat wish to make of his life? Centuries of it, slipping by, what should it have been?
no subject
"I thought I would be famous," Lestat offers, after a moment. "Immortalised in that fashion. Now it is the 2000s and I don't think a single soul in all of France could name a player of commedia dell'arte. The cruelty of being taken away from my life in Paris is matched only by the likelihood of one day dying drunk and penniless. Which is how I spent most of my free time, quite happily."
He steals one of Louis' hands, laces their fingers together. "And then I was a vampire. And I met other vampires and I knew I would do it differently. I went to the new world. I wanted to leave it all behind and be something else. I had hopes of finding my companion, but it seemed the least likely dream of all. But it wasn't. There you were, nearly my first night in America. Or it may as well have been, as I don't remember the others."
And then the rest. Louis is more than aware of all of his hope and dreams for them both.
no subject
So much would be different. Louis would be long dead, maybe.
Lestat is given custody of his hand. Louis squeezes tight, holds fast. Thumbs at the corner of his mouth, looking into his face. No pictures, nothing, only what Lestat has said of what came before. He is beautiful now. He must have been beautiful then.
"My destiny," Louis murmurs. Reminding. Lily's voice, teasing, flirting. She had been adept at maneuvering through conversation. And she had known him. Maybe she'd seen something, long before Louis did.
"You made it different for me," Louis murmurs. He has lived long enough to be sure now. "Made it different for our daughter too."
Claudia made in horror, yes. But look what she had chosen, when given her chance. A companion made from love, like Louis had been made from love.
no subject
But Louis is being giving and Lestat is not of a mind to refuse.
"All the vampires I had met at that time," he says, "they lived in darkness and degradation. My maker, though the same as them, intended something different for me. He is the origin of my small fortune, anyway. He left behind a mountain of gold and garments in red velvet and rare pearls. He wanted a new kind of vampire in the world, even if he did not live to see it."
A little shrug. "That was what I wished to be, once I realised there was no return. To live in light. To be the gentleman death that courted his prey." His tone has that element of self-deprecation, a long look back on his fledgling ambitions.
"I don't know," finally. "The more I talk of it, the more I think I was only the lucky one. He stole me because I was blonde haired and blue eyed and enjoyed it while it lasted and that is all."
no subject
Louis' hand spreads across Lestat's chest. His weight shifts, tilting into Lestat. Pressing him more firmly into the seat.
"He stole you to get hold of all the things you are," Louis murmurs, fingers curling in the fabric of Lestat's shirt. Protective impulse, guarding his heart against what they speak of now. "What no one else had then and no one's got now."
It wasn't chance. Louis is certain it wasn't chance. Corpses on corpses, seeking something in particular.
Maybe only the pleasure of breaking one who would not acquiesce, would not beg.
The origin of Lestat's fortune. Money like a tether, keeping hold of Lestat for decades after.
Louis had never wanted to live off Lestat's money. Had felt guilt over what he and Claudia had taken in those early days of Paris. Did Lestat feel something like that too?
no subject
"I think if you believe there is something special about me," has a touch of self-deprecation, but still sincere, "then it doesn't matter to me whether or not he did as well."
That, he could live with. Tolerate.
no subject
A firm assertion.
The point could be argued. All the things Louis doesn't know, all the things Lestat held back.
But Louis says this without any room for argument.
"I know you."
Bound together, forever. Always. All the worst of each other. All the best of each other. A light press of his hand over Lestat's heart, emphasis.
"He didn't."