The proposition has him go still, thoughtful, looking Louis over as if there is more he can read in his posture and stance. A proposition that has, in the past, been nothing but fraught, and now they are here, in the year 2022, with guiltless human blood available at their fingertips.
The answer is that yes, Lestat would like to hunt. Would Louis?
It's possible there are better ways to find out whether or not Louis intends to hunt properly than by dragging Lestat along with him. By risking ripping open old scars less than twenty-four hours after they reunited.
Nights ahead, where I might live honestly, Louis had said.
"I'm not sure," is honest. Louis offers, "We can walk in the park. See what kind of mood catches us."
Even if Louis couldn't make himself ready now, couldn't risk beginning something as destructive as his hunts had once been, he would like to see Lestat return to hunting. He would like to know that Lestat will be able to feed himself.
Some past iteration of himself is groaning, fussing, scoffing at the hesitation he feels, the hesitation he indulges in. Louis inviting him out to hunt would have made his decade, eighty years back.
Thrills him now, too, but it all feels so momentous. Louis being here at all, Louis giving him care and forgiveness. What if they can't withstand it? What if something breaks?
But Lestat doesn't spend too long wringing his hands about it. It all feels a little beyond his control, anyway. Louis will stay as long as Louis wishes to stay. Lestat will hunt again, because he is a hunter and he would no sooner eat a rat in Louis' presence as he would roll around in the mud to undo all of last night's hard work. They will see what kind of mood catches them.
It is agreed. Lestat puts his boots back on, declines needing a coat (it is almost never that cold), and they leave the hotel. If the man working the desk or the man working the door notices Lestat's little Cinderella transformation, they know better than to emote it.
Outside, the sky is clear. The streets aren't flooded. There is a certain quality to the noise of the city that feels a little restless and nervous, to Lestat's ear, but there is the sound of traffic, of bars with the windows open, of music and laughter, all over the top of generators, sirens, patches of silence. Like the whole town is hungover, but shaking it off. The scent of storm clings to the brick.
They walk to Jackson Square. Lestat thinks he could find it blindfolded.
Or no, not nostalgia. Relief. A pain Louis hadn't fully understood or registered quieted.
Homesickness ebbed away. Gone now as they walk side by side the way they had before, and like then Louis is thinking of Lestat. Aware of how he moves, imagining what he might be thinking. And like then, Louis doesn't let himself reach for him. They only walk close, elbows brushing, as they fall into step together once more.
The park is windswept, scattered with debris, but whole. And there are no other visitors that Louis can hear, though the sound of the city has followed them, a melodious backdrop as they walk along the same winding paths they'd once taken together almost nightly.
"I been missing this place," Louis confides. Complicated sentiment, maybe something Louis can try to untangle for Lestat someday. (Walking through parks alone in Paris, dreaming of Lestat, choosing parks with some similarity to stem the homesickness.)
"You wanna walk, or you wanna sit?"
As if they aren't due a conversation. One pressing matter at a time.
He has not deprived himself of New Orleans completely. Yes, he has not gone out much lately, and somewhere in the past several weeks (or months?) he has not left his home at all, but such things happen, neglectful periods of time where he doesn't wish to go beyond his own walls. It's bound to occur.
But between these times, he has gone to Jackson Square. He has walked along the Mississippi. He has strolled down the Rue Royale. He has watched the buskers, and given them hundred dollar bills in their instrument cases. He has moved through the city like a ghost, a living piece of urban folklore. He has, just as often, imagined Louis beside him.
"Sit," he chooses, because they have done a little walking. It would be nice to indulge in the old rituals. "Our bench is this way."
"Our bench," Louis echoes, a murmur more for himself than Lestat.
Their bench, just as they left it. Their bench where they would spend long hours talking, nights together and then with Claudia. Louis runs fingers over the wood, down the wrought iron arms, before sitting. Hooks up an ankle, just as he'd done long decades ago.
They could talk about anything. Speak more on the Golden Girls, or the last movie Lestat remembers seeing. But those are things that might need to be saved, set aside, if Lestat's curiosity is such that he cares to ask his questions again.
"You okay?" Louis asks instead.
They don't need to talk about it. It's what the question means.
Here is the bench, there is the cathedral. A different soundscape, now. No quaint horse and buggies baiting tourists into generous tips. Someone is playing a metal-stringed guitar—although, Lestat must reminds himself, all guitars are metal-stringed now—and there are less people out roaming in the wake of the hurricane.
But it is their park, their bench, their cathedral. Lestat sits, as he has done many times, crossing a leg over, arms folding around himself.
"Me?" he asks, as if the question is odd. "Yes, Louis. Nothing has happened to me."
A lot of nothing. Louis, though—
"What about you? Did you come here become you're not okay?" An earnest question.
Briefly disorienting; Louis had never thought he'd be here again, and now he is, and for a moment they have slipped out of time and into the past.
And then Lestat speaks and Lestat arranges himself just so and Louis wants to press him, just a little. Nothing happened. Something happened. Long years alone, dwindling down into disrepair alone in a shack, that is something.
But Lestat looks so earnest. Louis sighs, soft.
"I wasn't okay for a long time."
He was alive, yes. But being eaten by his own grief. Living with the restless understanding that something was amiss, and not able to see it until Daniel lifted the blindfold from his eyes.
"But I'm okay now," Louis tells him. "I came because I'm going to be okay, and this helps."
Imagine talking about things. The freedom of that.
It has weighed on them, throughout these spare several hours they've shared together, the things still unsaid. A deliberate decision, but perhaps a habit. Lestat still remembers what it felt like, physically, to speak of her, like a great pressure in his chest that had only just begun to loosen. He has spoken her name to no one. He imagines—
Well, he doesn't wish to imagine, he wishes to be told, but perhaps again, that Louis has the same problem, had it, despite having had a companion all this time. Lestat believes him when he says he is okay now, or will be.
So, an explicit invitation. He unfolds an arm to brush his knuckles down Louis' shoulder as he says, "Tell me."
Remember all the ways they had touched each other in the thirty year span of their marriage. Covert, careful.
The world has changed around them. Louis could lean across the bench and kiss Lestat if he wanted. Maybe someone would jeer. It would be a lesser thing than it was once.
Louis had leaned in and kissed Armand in Paris, ignored the sour shout the act had provoked. He and Armand had touched each other in public since. Louis had touched men in public since.
Lestat draws his knuckles down Louis' shoulder and Louis feels it again, the weight of all their years apart. All that they'd missed.
Tell me invites so much that Louis is briefly overwhelmed thinking of all that Lestat doesn't know. And so he says nothing right away, instead settling himself on the bench, crossing his legs, stretching an arm across the back of the bench.
"I asked him if he saved me, and he said yes," Louis relates. This first thing. The bedrock upon which almost eighty years of companionship had been built. "We left together, after speaking to you."
Things Lestat must have known, must have understood.
"I didn't know he'd lied to me. I didn't know what he'd done before. I didn't know it was his script and his direction."
There are other transgressions. Louis doesn't care to speak them aloud just now.
Yes, some of this Lestat must have known. But some of it he does not. After all, did Louis not hear him call for banishment? See Armand in his place of privilege, watching? He feels something coil sharp in his chest as he listens.
An odd and sudden gravity, to evoke the last time they'd seen each other, those decades ago. Its evocation prickles cool across Lestat's skin, but he refuses himself the urge to look down or away. Watching Louis all the while. Uncurling a finger, letting his knuckle touch the weave of his coat at his shoulder.
"What did you know," he must ask, "when you were on the stage?"
What did Louis know? What did he know on that stage?
Lestat touches him, and Louis realizes, detached, that he does not want to be touched. He doesn't want to be touched and he doesn't want Lestat to stop.
Louis looks away, very still even as he lifts eyes to the sky above them.
What did he know?
Daniel had made guide rails, questions like touchstones, like scaffolding. Microphone, notepad. No more diaries then, not for recounting this.
Here, now, Lestat asks and Louis delves back into the tangle of recollection.
Louis thinks first of—
Hands lifting him out of his chair. Claudia, screaming her name. Losing his grip on her hands. Screaming and screaming and screaming—
No. Before that.
Madeleine, straight-backed and unrepentant, lifting a finger as the crowd jeered.
No. After that.
Claudia. He thinks of Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. The wilderness that was their daughter. Claudia, in her yellow dress. Claudia, forced into the chair beside him. She'd leaned into him, and he'd leaned back, and they were together.
No.
It is like touching a hot stove. Like holding a forearm in the sunlight.
(Maybe it will never hurt less.)
"I could see him from where I was sitting," Louis says quietly. "I remembered seeing him, behind Sam with his scythe. Holding all those mortals words in their throat."
A memory. All these years, it felt like a memory. A cornerstone upon which almost eighty years had been built upon.
"He told me he saved me," Louis repeats. "I asked, and he told me how."
Lestat does not think he remembers a Sam with a scythe, but he also did not ask this to quibble over the details. Regret, already, for the way Louis has gone quiet and still, his own nervous quiet stillness setting in as he tries to understand. Armand, taking the credit, such as it was. Of course he would see it that way.
Of course Armand would see it as opportunity. Would adapt to the surprise and betrayal of it. Adaptive, is Armand.
Finally, Lestat offers, "I didn't know," not that Louis is asking. Or perhaps Louis doesn't wish to know these things. Still, it is given. His finger remains where it is, resting curled there. "I thought you knew I had done what I did. I thought—"
He wets his lips, now looks away. Yes, a thorny memory lane. "I thought perhaps it wasn't enough."
A story Armand told to him, over nearly eighty years, and Louis had come to believe it.
(Had Armand taught it to him in some other, more lasting way?)
Lestat's finger is warm where he's laid it. They are quiet together. Maybe Lestat is thinking of that stage too.
By and by, Louis turns back to look at Lestat, take in the familiar profile.
Eventually, softly:
"Is that why you didn't say?"
Maybe in some other world, Lestat did say. And Louis would have said the cruel thing, said something to hurt him the way Louis had been hurting, and maybe they would have both been better for the ugliness of such an exchange. It would have been honest, at least.
Or—did it? Lestat tips his head, trying to will himself back there, back to Magnus' dungeon, back to Louis standing tall and cold over him, back to the taste of Claudia's ashes in the back of his throat. Was there a moment where he wanted to snap it, when Louis was condemning him? But I saved you, he might have said, this thing he thought Louis understood.
Maybe he had the impulse, and tamped it down. The weight of what he had failed to do, crushing the thing he had accomplished. "Besides," comes out a little lighter. Inappropriately, of course. "You weren't saying anything that wasn't true."
Lestat returns his attention to Louis. Nothing in his manner has changed, no withdrawal, maintaining connection with this singular light touch. His eyes are wetter, the crack of his smile wavery. This can't be called a shift in status quo.
Dips in closer a little to add, specify, "What you had hesitated over, a few short years back."
He'd killed almost all the others. Sam, gone. Armand, spared. And Lestat—
Louis' eyes drop to his throat, lift back to his face.
"What would have happened?"
Held behind his teeth are all the things Daniel intuited, drew out of Louis over the course of those weeks in the penthouse. Louis cannot yet say to Lestat, I regretted it even before I finished doing it. Can't tell him that it was that regret Claudia punished him for with long months of fury. Well-deserved, maybe, but Louis couldn't have fed Lestat into the incinerator. He couldn't.
Good that they can't read each others' minds, sometimes. That Louis won't know that twist of apprehension when his eyes drop to Lestat's throat, or, worse still, the odd prickle of something like anticipation, bedroom warmth.
No longer is it true, that the last time he was held lovingly was when his throat was being opened. But this had been true for decades.
Breathing slowly, aware of this minor point of contact. Choosing for it to be an anchor point. A welcome thing. They are here, not there. Lestat is alive, not dead. Louis remembers him.
Their hearts still beat in time. Easy as it ever was.
"You."
No satisfaction now, years later. Louis gave him death, of a kind. Now he's here, dug Lestat out of the ground.
"I killed all the rest of them," is something Lestat had to know. "It wasn't enough."
Well, they are vampires. Death does not have to mean finality.
But he understands. Remembers his own quiet refusal, and what came after. Felt it like a building collapsing within himself. Kept it all contained. Watched as if from a great distance as his erstwhile companion kissed his daughter's murderer. How it had felt like an unfair distribution of forgiveness.
"I might have burned," Lestat says, finally. "And lived to remember it. I'm not really sure."
He had sounded sure, he knows, speaking truths he believed, but he hasn't had an opportunity to test these things. He does not want to go into a fire. He does not want to step into the sun. (His hair, you know.) But perhaps he could. One day, he will know for sure, and he will have to determine what to do with that information.
It's for the best. It's true to Louis' nature, to punish Lestat far more cruelly than the fire would have.
Because Lestat has been punished. Louis saw it.
(It does not occur to Louis, not really, that he has punished himself too.)
"I believed he saved me. Believed it for a long time."
It had all come together in Louis' mind. When he had recited it to Daniel, Louis had seen it in his mind's eye: Armand, exertion written all across his face.
Lestat's fingertip remains, holds Louis in the moment. No perilous slip backwards into that memory, onto that stage.
Perhaps the accursed script had done its work even better than Armand could have anticipated, better than Lestat would have imagined. Stoking Louis' hatred and anger and dread so brightly that he could not accept Lestat's improvised apology any better than he could see Lestat's attempt to rescue him.
An attempt only. He was still cast into a slow death. He was still rescued from it by Armand. Claudia is dead. What material difference exists?
Well, a profound one, it would seem.
"When?" he asks. Better to keep going, at least for tonight. They could stay on that stage until dawn, if they let it keep them.
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The answer is that yes, Lestat would like to hunt. Would Louis?
"It would not spoil your visit?"
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It's possible there are better ways to find out whether or not Louis intends to hunt properly than by dragging Lestat along with him. By risking ripping open old scars less than twenty-four hours after they reunited.
Nights ahead, where I might live honestly, Louis had said.
"I'm not sure," is honest. Louis offers, "We can walk in the park. See what kind of mood catches us."
Even if Louis couldn't make himself ready now, couldn't risk beginning something as destructive as his hunts had once been, he would like to see Lestat return to hunting. He would like to know that Lestat will be able to feed himself.
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Thrills him now, too, but it all feels so momentous. Louis being here at all, Louis giving him care and forgiveness. What if they can't withstand it? What if something breaks?
But Lestat doesn't spend too long wringing his hands about it. It all feels a little beyond his control, anyway. Louis will stay as long as Louis wishes to stay. Lestat will hunt again, because he is a hunter and he would no sooner eat a rat in Louis' presence as he would roll around in the mud to undo all of last night's hard work. They will see what kind of mood catches them.
It is agreed. Lestat puts his boots back on, declines needing a coat (it is almost never that cold), and they leave the hotel. If the man working the desk or the man working the door notices Lestat's little Cinderella transformation, they know better than to emote it.
Outside, the sky is clear. The streets aren't flooded. There is a certain quality to the noise of the city that feels a little restless and nervous, to Lestat's ear, but there is the sound of traffic, of bars with the windows open, of music and laughter, all over the top of generators, sirens, patches of silence. Like the whole town is hungover, but shaking it off. The scent of storm clings to the brick.
They walk to Jackson Square. Lestat thinks he could find it blindfolded.
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Or no, not nostalgia. Relief. A pain Louis hadn't fully understood or registered quieted.
Homesickness ebbed away. Gone now as they walk side by side the way they had before, and like then Louis is thinking of Lestat. Aware of how he moves, imagining what he might be thinking. And like then, Louis doesn't let himself reach for him. They only walk close, elbows brushing, as they fall into step together once more.
The park is windswept, scattered with debris, but whole. And there are no other visitors that Louis can hear, though the sound of the city has followed them, a melodious backdrop as they walk along the same winding paths they'd once taken together almost nightly.
"I been missing this place," Louis confides. Complicated sentiment, maybe something Louis can try to untangle for Lestat someday. (Walking through parks alone in Paris, dreaming of Lestat, choosing parks with some similarity to stem the homesickness.)
"You wanna walk, or you wanna sit?"
As if they aren't due a conversation. One pressing matter at a time.
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He has not deprived himself of New Orleans completely. Yes, he has not gone out much lately, and somewhere in the past several weeks (or months?) he has not left his home at all, but such things happen, neglectful periods of time where he doesn't wish to go beyond his own walls. It's bound to occur.
But between these times, he has gone to Jackson Square. He has walked along the Mississippi. He has strolled down the Rue Royale. He has watched the buskers, and given them hundred dollar bills in their instrument cases. He has moved through the city like a ghost, a living piece of urban folklore. He has, just as often, imagined Louis beside him.
"Sit," he chooses, because they have done a little walking. It would be nice to indulge in the old rituals. "Our bench is this way."
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Their bench, just as they left it. Their bench where they would spend long hours talking, nights together and then with Claudia. Louis runs fingers over the wood, down the wrought iron arms, before sitting. Hooks up an ankle, just as he'd done long decades ago.
They could talk about anything. Speak more on the Golden Girls, or the last movie Lestat remembers seeing. But those are things that might need to be saved, set aside, if Lestat's curiosity is such that he cares to ask his questions again.
"You okay?" Louis asks instead.
They don't need to talk about it. It's what the question means.
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But it is their park, their bench, their cathedral. Lestat sits, as he has done many times, crossing a leg over, arms folding around himself.
"Me?" he asks, as if the question is odd. "Yes, Louis. Nothing has happened to me."
A lot of nothing. Louis, though—
"What about you? Did you come here become you're not okay?" An earnest question.
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And then Lestat speaks and Lestat arranges himself just so and Louis wants to press him, just a little. Nothing happened. Something happened. Long years alone, dwindling down into disrepair alone in a shack, that is something.
But Lestat looks so earnest. Louis sighs, soft.
"I wasn't okay for a long time."
He was alive, yes. But being eaten by his own grief. Living with the restless understanding that something was amiss, and not able to see it until Daniel lifted the blindfold from his eyes.
"But I'm okay now," Louis tells him. "I came because I'm going to be okay, and this helps."
Being home. Being with Lestat.
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It has weighed on them, throughout these spare several hours they've shared together, the things still unsaid. A deliberate decision, but perhaps a habit. Lestat still remembers what it felt like, physically, to speak of her, like a great pressure in his chest that had only just begun to loosen. He has spoken her name to no one. He imagines—
Well, he doesn't wish to imagine, he wishes to be told, but perhaps again, that Louis has the same problem, had it, despite having had a companion all this time. Lestat believes him when he says he is okay now, or will be.
So, an explicit invitation. He unfolds an arm to brush his knuckles down Louis' shoulder as he says, "Tell me."
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The world has changed around them. Louis could lean across the bench and kiss Lestat if he wanted. Maybe someone would jeer. It would be a lesser thing than it was once.
Louis had leaned in and kissed Armand in Paris, ignored the sour shout the act had provoked. He and Armand had touched each other in public since. Louis had touched men in public since.
Lestat draws his knuckles down Louis' shoulder and Louis feels it again, the weight of all their years apart. All that they'd missed.
Tell me invites so much that Louis is briefly overwhelmed thinking of all that Lestat doesn't know. And so he says nothing right away, instead settling himself on the bench, crossing his legs, stretching an arm across the back of the bench.
"I asked him if he saved me, and he said yes," Louis relates. This first thing. The bedrock upon which almost eighty years of companionship had been built. "We left together, after speaking to you."
Things Lestat must have known, must have understood.
"I didn't know he'd lied to me. I didn't know what he'd done before. I didn't know it was his script and his direction."
There are other transgressions. Louis doesn't care to speak them aloud just now.
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Yes, some of this Lestat must have known. But some of it he does not. After all, did Louis not hear him call for banishment? See Armand in his place of privilege, watching? He feels something coil sharp in his chest as he listens.
An odd and sudden gravity, to evoke the last time they'd seen each other, those decades ago. Its evocation prickles cool across Lestat's skin, but he refuses himself the urge to look down or away. Watching Louis all the while. Uncurling a finger, letting his knuckle touch the weave of his coat at his shoulder.
"What did you know," he must ask, "when you were on the stage?"
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Lestat touches him, and Louis realizes, detached, that he does not want to be touched. He doesn't want to be touched and he doesn't want Lestat to stop.
Louis looks away, very still even as he lifts eyes to the sky above them.
What did he know?
Daniel had made guide rails, questions like touchstones, like scaffolding. Microphone, notepad. No more diaries then, not for recounting this.
Here, now, Lestat asks and Louis delves back into the tangle of recollection.
Louis thinks first of—
Hands lifting him out of his chair. Claudia, screaming her name. Losing his grip on her hands. Screaming and screaming and screaming—
No. Before that.
Madeleine, straight-backed and unrepentant, lifting a finger as the crowd jeered.
No. After that.
Claudia. He thinks of Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. The wilderness that was their daughter. Claudia, in her yellow dress. Claudia, forced into the chair beside him. She'd leaned into him, and he'd leaned back, and they were together.
No.
It is like touching a hot stove. Like holding a forearm in the sunlight.
(Maybe it will never hurt less.)
"I could see him from where I was sitting," Louis says quietly. "I remembered seeing him, behind Sam with his scythe. Holding all those mortals words in their throat."
A memory. All these years, it felt like a memory. A cornerstone upon which almost eighty years had been built upon.
"He told me he saved me," Louis repeats. "I asked, and he told me how."
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Of course Armand would see it as opportunity. Would adapt to the surprise and betrayal of it. Adaptive, is Armand.
Finally, Lestat offers, "I didn't know," not that Louis is asking. Or perhaps Louis doesn't wish to know these things. Still, it is given. His finger remains where it is, resting curled there. "I thought you knew I had done what I did. I thought—"
He wets his lips, now looks away. Yes, a thorny memory lane. "I thought perhaps it wasn't enough."
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(Had Armand taught it to him in some other, more lasting way?)
Lestat's finger is warm where he's laid it. They are quiet together. Maybe Lestat is thinking of that stage too.
By and by, Louis turns back to look at Lestat, take in the familiar profile.
Eventually, softly:
"Is that why you didn't say?"
Maybe in some other world, Lestat did say. And Louis would have said the cruel thing, said something to hurt him the way Louis had been hurting, and maybe they would have both been better for the ugliness of such an exchange. It would have been honest, at least.
But that is not what happened.
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Or—did it? Lestat tips his head, trying to will himself back there, back to Magnus' dungeon, back to Louis standing tall and cold over him, back to the taste of Claudia's ashes in the back of his throat. Was there a moment where he wanted to snap it, when Louis was condemning him? But I saved you, he might have said, this thing he thought Louis understood.
Maybe he had the impulse, and tamped it down. The weight of what he had failed to do, crushing the thing he had accomplished. "Besides," comes out a little lighter. Inappropriately, of course. "You weren't saying anything that wasn't true."
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Because Louis was hurt. Because Louis was—
Not angry, not anymore. Empty. What was left was something colder, crueler. Pain with nowhere to go but out.
"I thought it was yours. Your play. Your revenge."
And that Armand had spoiled it for him, to some degree
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Lestat returns his attention to Louis. Nothing in his manner has changed, no withdrawal, maintaining connection with this singular light touch. His eyes are wetter, the crack of his smile wavery. This can't be called a shift in status quo.
Dips in closer a little to add, specify, "What you had hesitated over, a few short years back."
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He'd killed almost all the others. Sam, gone. Armand, spared. And Lestat—
Louis' eyes drop to his throat, lift back to his face.
"What would have happened?"
Held behind his teeth are all the things Daniel intuited, drew out of Louis over the course of those weeks in the penthouse. Louis cannot yet say to Lestat, I regretted it even before I finished doing it. Can't tell him that it was that regret Claudia punished him for with long months of fury. Well-deserved, maybe, but Louis couldn't have fed Lestat into the incinerator. He couldn't.
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No longer is it true, that the last time he was held lovingly was when his throat was being opened. But this had been true for decades.
"If what, chéri?"
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Lestat, who hadn't been in the mood.
Lestat, who had hardly risen to meet Louis when he'd spoken, accused.
Lestat, who is still touching him now.
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Lestat traces the stitching along Louis' coat at the shoulder with his fingertip, eyes darting to this point of contact.
"Who is to say you didn't succeed?"
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Their hearts still beat in time. Easy as it ever was.
"You."
No satisfaction now, years later. Louis gave him death, of a kind. Now he's here, dug Lestat out of the ground.
"I killed all the rest of them," is something Lestat had to know. "It wasn't enough."
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But he understands. Remembers his own quiet refusal, and what came after. Felt it like a building collapsing within himself. Kept it all contained. Watched as if from a great distance as his erstwhile companion kissed his daughter's murderer. How it had felt like an unfair distribution of forgiveness.
"I might have burned," Lestat says, finally. "And lived to remember it. I'm not really sure."
He had sounded sure, he knows, speaking truths he believed, but he hasn't had an opportunity to test these things. He does not want to go into a fire. He does not want to step into the sun. (His hair, you know.) But perhaps he could. One day, he will know for sure, and he will have to determine what to do with that information.
"Hadn't we all had enough horror for one week?"
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Because Lestat has been punished. Louis saw it.
(It does not occur to Louis, not really, that he has punished himself too.)
"I believed he saved me. Believed it for a long time."
It had all come together in Louis' mind. When he had recited it to Daniel, Louis had seen it in his mind's eye: Armand, exertion written all across his face.
Lestat's fingertip remains, holds Louis in the moment. No perilous slip backwards into that memory, onto that stage.
"I know it was you now."
And he knows it wasn't without great cost.
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An attempt only. He was still cast into a slow death. He was still rescued from it by Armand. Claudia is dead. What material difference exists?
Well, a profound one, it would seem.
"When?" he asks. Better to keep going, at least for tonight. They could stay on that stage until dawn, if they let it keep them.
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