Maybe this had been Armand's design too. Lining them up so, sentencing them one by one, and trapping Lestat into a choice.
Louis' thumb runs along Lestat's finger, caught in his own. Listens, lets the words settle between them.
Holds his hand properly, tighter.
"She was clear of it," Louis says, so quietly. "But she came back for me."
Louis had been in a bad way that night she left. Claudia saying things to him that he barely heard. The two of them going. Louis, bleeding out the sensation of Madeleine in their absence.
No wonder she came back. Their daughter, his Claudia. She had always come back for him.
"She wouldn't have been on that stage if it weren't for me. No choice for you to make."
How can Louis fault him for choosing? Louis had chose too, in New Orleans. He'd chosen Lestat. He isn't blameless. Claudia had forgiven him, but Louis had still betrayed her long before that night.
He had told Louis that he can't. Can't live with this burden alone, can't escape out from under it. Had felt it like a lightening, Louis reaching across with his words, prying some of it loose. Knows now, in this moment, it won't be so easy as that.
But that's alright. It feels better to ache and hurt in a different kind of way than the odd, paralysing grief of decades. To hold Louis' hand tightly as he feels himself partially come undone, a shivery breath coming out shallow, urgent.
He is meant to be learning about Louis and his awakening. Abruptly, all he wants is to be held and told that nothing is his fault.
But—
"Is this how you forgive me?" he asks. His tone is all fondness. "By blaming yourself?"
How easy it all comes back, his love for Lestat. Never gone, never forgotten, never dormant, but neglected, doused in guilt, and in recent years—
Long decades of feeling so little, existing at a distant remove from himself. Maybe it'd been easier. But nothing had ever been absent, only far from him. Quieter from it.
He feels it all now. His grip tightening around Lestat's hand, thinking of simply drawing him across the bench into his lap. The night is quiet, they are alone. There is nothing to stop them but Louis' own restraint, his shaky sense of transgression.
Repeats, after a stretch of quiet, "It ain't on you. I mean it."
Louis had made so many mistakes. And the one thing he'd done right, at such long last, it had been undone because Claudia had come back to him. Louis, always a shackle round her ankle.
Says, "I," and then stops. Draws a breath. "I picked you over her. It's how she saw it, I can't argue with it. It's how it was. Don't matter that she forgave me for it. How am I gonna blame you?"
What a baffling thing for Louis to say, that he picked Lestat over Claudia. He recalls months of conspiracy, he recalls being unable to win Louis back to his side, he recalls his blood flowing from his opened throat and waking to misery, torment, abandonment, and his fledglings off on their grand adventure. It reads on his face, a moment of transparent bewilderment, before he manages to tamp this down into something more neutral, or so he hopes. A look down and aside might help.
Well, he supposes, he is alive and Claudia is not. And of course, it would be just like his most spoiled daughter to believe she did not have enough of Louis just because Lestat was not dead forever. His twinge of resentment is almost affectionate.
"We might blame Armand," he manages. Move on. Continue. "Wherever he might be."
They could blame Armand, but it feels to Louis not unlike blaming a train for running on tracks. Louis didn't do enough to get Claudia off them. Wasn't enough, in the end.
But Lestat is asking a question.
Louis turns his fingers in his own, playing with bare knuckles. Where are Lestat's rings? What became of all his finery, the things that had been his before Louis had helped him strip all of New Orleans for the purpose of outfitting his home, which would become their home?
A question for after. Or not a question at all, only a challenge. Louis is good at finding items.
Silence stretches. Louis' thumb slips across the pad of Lestat's fingers, across his palm. Eventually:
"I threw him out. I'm not sure where he will go."
And this too, a little sickening to navigate. Some part of Louis feeling an ache, a kind of pity. He will hate this too, maybe. Hate it as he hated his persistent love for Lestat, a thing that felt like a betrayal.
"It's going to take some untangling."
Marriage, an intricate thing. All the shared pieces of their life will be there in Dubai when Louis returns, waiting.
Untangling, Louis says, and Lestat wonders if he knows exactly how many knots he might have to cut through before he can truly call it done. If there even is such a thing. He might say, Louis is himself an entanglement, a snarl between Lestat and Armand, but perhaps that can wait. Or perhaps it never needs saying.
Perhaps it's not even true, but it feels true. Feels just like Armand, to braid himself into Lestat's life this way. All the while, his hand is pliant under the inspection that Louis' hand makes of it. Playing a little, in the curl of his fingers.
"Hard won freedom," he adds, looking back up at him. Still tearful, simply because that rise of feeling hasn't gone away, but less teetering, a thin-pressed smile as he looks at Louis. Louis, who is here, and beautiful, and soft-spoken, and holding his hand.
Louis isn't sure. Knows that it will not be so simple as walking out of the penthouse and returning to find Armand gone. Their lives are interwoven. Louis still sleeps turned in to the space Armand once occupied in their shared bed.
Lestat's hand is warm in his own. Permissive, easy. Louis is indulging himself in this small contact, letting this touch be an anchor. They're here, this is real. No one is dreaming.
"It took a long time," Louis agrees. "But I got it. Gonna figure what to make of it now."
Who is Louis de Pointe du Lac now? Who is he after seventy-seven years with Armand? Seventy-seven years without Claudia, without Lestat?
Heavy questions. None are Lestat's to answer.
Louis' head tips towards him, inquisitive, inviting. What else?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Louis' thumb runs along Lestat's finger, caught in his own. Listens, lets the words settle between them.
Holds his hand properly, tighter.
"She was clear of it," Louis says, so quietly. "But she came back for me."
Louis had been in a bad way that night she left. Claudia saying things to him that he barely heard. The two of them going. Louis, bleeding out the sensation of Madeleine in their absence.
No wonder she came back. Their daughter, his Claudia. She had always come back for him.
"She wouldn't have been on that stage if it weren't for me. No choice for you to make."
How can Louis fault him for choosing? Louis had chose too, in New Orleans. He'd chosen Lestat. He isn't blameless. Claudia had forgiven him, but Louis had still betrayed her long before that night.
"It ain't on you. It ain't."
no subject
But that's alright. It feels better to ache and hurt in a different kind of way than the odd, paralysing grief of decades. To hold Louis' hand tightly as he feels himself partially come undone, a shivery breath coming out shallow, urgent.
He is meant to be learning about Louis and his awakening. Abruptly, all he wants is to be held and told that nothing is his fault.
But—
"Is this how you forgive me?" he asks. His tone is all fondness. "By blaming yourself?"
no subject
Long decades of feeling so little, existing at a distant remove from himself. Maybe it'd been easier. But nothing had ever been absent, only far from him. Quieter from it.
He feels it all now. His grip tightening around Lestat's hand, thinking of simply drawing him across the bench into his lap. The night is quiet, they are alone. There is nothing to stop them but Louis' own restraint, his shaky sense of transgression.
Repeats, after a stretch of quiet, "It ain't on you. I mean it."
Louis had made so many mistakes. And the one thing he'd done right, at such long last, it had been undone because Claudia had come back to him. Louis, always a shackle round her ankle.
Says, "I," and then stops. Draws a breath. "I picked you over her. It's how she saw it, I can't argue with it. It's how it was. Don't matter that she forgave me for it. How am I gonna blame you?"
no subject
Well, he supposes, he is alive and Claudia is not. And of course, it would be just like his most spoiled daughter to believe she did not have enough of Louis just because Lestat was not dead forever. His twinge of resentment is almost affectionate.
"We might blame Armand," he manages. Move on. Continue. "Wherever he might be."
This, too, is a question.
no subject
But Lestat is asking a question.
Louis turns his fingers in his own, playing with bare knuckles. Where are Lestat's rings? What became of all his finery, the things that had been his before Louis had helped him strip all of New Orleans for the purpose of outfitting his home, which would become their home?
A question for after. Or not a question at all, only a challenge. Louis is good at finding items.
Silence stretches. Louis' thumb slips across the pad of Lestat's fingers, across his palm. Eventually:
"I threw him out. I'm not sure where he will go."
And this too, a little sickening to navigate. Some part of Louis feeling an ache, a kind of pity. He will hate this too, maybe. Hate it as he hated his persistent love for Lestat, a thing that felt like a betrayal.
"It's going to take some untangling."
Marriage, an intricate thing. All the shared pieces of their life will be there in Dubai when Louis returns, waiting.
"But it's done. Me and him."
no subject
Untangling, Louis says, and Lestat wonders if he knows exactly how many knots he might have to cut through before he can truly call it done. If there even is such a thing. He might say, Louis is himself an entanglement, a snarl between Lestat and Armand, but perhaps that can wait. Or perhaps it never needs saying.
Perhaps it's not even true, but it feels true. Feels just like Armand, to braid himself into Lestat's life this way. All the while, his hand is pliant under the inspection that Louis' hand makes of it. Playing a little, in the curl of his fingers.
"Hard won freedom," he adds, looking back up at him. Still tearful, simply because that rise of feeling hasn't gone away, but less teetering, a thin-pressed smile as he looks at Louis. Louis, who is here, and beautiful, and soft-spoken, and holding his hand.
no subject
Louis isn't sure. Knows that it will not be so simple as walking out of the penthouse and returning to find Armand gone. Their lives are interwoven. Louis still sleeps turned in to the space Armand once occupied in their shared bed.
Lestat's hand is warm in his own. Permissive, easy. Louis is indulging himself in this small contact, letting this touch be an anchor. They're here, this is real. No one is dreaming.
"It took a long time," Louis agrees. "But I got it. Gonna figure what to make of it now."
Who is Louis de Pointe du Lac now? Who is he after seventy-seven years with Armand? Seventy-seven years without Claudia, without Lestat?
Heavy questions. None are Lestat's to answer.
Louis' head tips towards him, inquisitive, inviting. What else?