Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rebirth. The very thought had terrified him. And when Lestat had told him that was what he was----reborn, he struggled to think what he'd meant. But now, as he stood in his apartment, a desolate place that could never really call itself a home, body gripped by the nails that punctured into the fine linen shirt that the same man who now bared his teeth into his neck had taken the care of buying, he understood. Even as his gaze hazed over, as he felt his ribs seem to crumble under Lestat's palms, finally knowing what the term "when your life flashes before your eyes" meant; he understood. And it petrified him. The very thought consumed his waking being, as he collapsed into the man who he damn near deemed the sun. The light who'd shown through the sorrowful days he hurled himself into, the man he'd dare to even call his lover. And as he slept, he tried to recall his humble beginnings, and the way he'd gotten himself here in the first place.

Antoine Marcel Durand, the youngest of the Durand children. The son of a merchant, and a business man. Though, as he had realized from a very young age, he was never an adequate enough son. Because he'd always be his father's daughter in his eyes. The only daughter to be produced before his dearly departed mother passed. Antoine, brought up as a young girl, had always been subsided to be forced into the role of caretaker. The only ever time he allowed himself the freedom away from his father, was when he would sneak into the Conservatoire de Paris to watch the students take piano lessons, dressed in his older brother's clothes. He remembered fondly of his instructor, who had at first taken him on in secret. By the age of 11, he was called a genius, praise from crowds he'd never thought he'd see the likes of. That was until, when he was 16, his father had appeared at one of his performances. The smile that drifted from his face in horror when he spotted him in the crowd was something that taunted his aching mind. His father, was of the belief that no son of his would take upon a position in the arts. He recalled the way he trembled, watching his father as he questioned his choice to live in this facade. He was well aware his father had intended to marry him off like cattle and spew the benefits of it. But when his father had merely chastised him for his pianism, he felt an odd warmth inside. His father, decidely claiming he'd preferred another son over a daughter, allowed him to be himself. If only Antoine had known it was a fickle trap.

Oscar Durand, the eldest son, had managed to do the unthinkable right under his father's nose. He'd fathered a child out of wedlock. And when he caught his younger sister, creeping out of the house late at night dressed in the clothes he'd worn as a teen, it didn't take him long to pick up on his secret. So, he plotted, and he waited, and he spoke to his father. He admitted to his crimes, and opened the tightly shut closet Antoine remained to hide in, revealing that Antoine shall very well live as his brother, only so that he may take the blame of Oscar's bastard child. Antoine felt as if he had been watching the events over again, feeling the tears stream down his face. Watching himself fall to his knees, begging for his father to listen to him. But it had done no such good. Antoine, sent away with half of the money that was intended to be his dowry, found himself on a boat sailing across the ocean to Louisiana.

His very own family's betrayal had shredded any pride or self pity he held. He spent his dowry on gambling, believing that he could win back enough money to go home. At first, it had been to fight for his place back in his family. But then, it had become an overwhelming need to visit his mother, who remained buried an ocean away from him. What money he did keep, he spent in bars, and on prostitutes. He knew very well that, with enough money, no women would care what parts he had. He merely craved the warmth of touch. To be held, to hold someone else. It wasn't anything sexual, just a desire that had pained him since he even learned bodies could touch in such a way.

A year passed, and the once glorious pianist had found himself tragically playing to a band of 5 drunks. Of course, he realized he lacked the skill he used to, and the only reason people still stayed, was because he was pretty and charming. That was until a golden haired boy scooted him over on the seat, praising his music and asking him if they could play a duet. Lestat De Lioncourt. The sun to his moon. If only he'd known at 17, that he'd find someone who would entirely change his perspective. Lestat was hellbent on improving Antoine's skills back to their glory days, helping him to learn how to compose his own pieces and soothing his aching hands so that they would play wonderfully again. His life had been entirely changed, and Lestat had taught him so many new things. He felt as though he was himself again.

But, it didn't last. Soon enough, Lestat began leaving. New friends meant no time for Antoine. And the only time he did spare for him, was filled with him complaining about his new companions. Months passed, and Antoine felt himself get progressively more ill. And that is how this night came about. Tonight, as he sat in front of his piano, hands rough and strained as he attempted to compose a new song for Lestat, he found himself teary eyed. His lover had abandoned him, night after night. And he had no understanding of why. He had sat there, his night robe wrapped over his body tightly, thinking of nothing but Lestat. It was as if this thought had summoned him, as Lestat opened the door, an annoyed look upon his face. At first, he began with telling Antoine about his lover he had left in France, Nicholas. Antoine had, of course, heard of the popular violinist, but this was new. He had never known him as a one of Lestat's lovers. It was a tirade, he bitterly discussed his disconnection with the man, at the continuous mention of someone named "Armand". He repeated himself, over and over again, and at the stupidity of his numbed out mind, Antoine had cracked a joke.

It had instantly changed the mood. The room felt tense as Antoine watched Lestat turn to him. "And what were you playing?" he asked softly. Though his demeanor remained sharp and terrifying. "It's not done." Antoine mumbled out, finding himself fidgeting with his hands to distract from the piercing grey eyes that tracked him like a predator. "Play it for me." Lestat demanded, though a smile remained on his composured face. Antoine looked up at him in horror. He couldn't even do it by himself, how exactly was he going to do it for him? "I can't..." He whispered, looking at his calloused hands. Lestat repeated his demand, and Antoine repeated his plea. Until he had decided to take it into his own hands, gripping the poor boy's wrists as he pushed his fingers down onto the keys, producing an awful sound. Despite Antoine's pained cries, Lestat did not let go. As he tried to push himself away, he was only wrapped in further.

That was how he had gotten here. How he had understood. Somewhere, along the reminder of his memories, he had felt something coerce its way down his throat, It was warm, metallic, copper. It smelled. And then it was gone. When he woke, he felt himself wheeze. The pain of his broken ribs leaving him restless. He couldn't help the tears that fell. And as he lay in that white bed, with those white cotton sheets, and the pain rising within his chest, he felt like his mother. She had always been ill, stuck in a room, stuck in that bed. He cried, and cried, until his voice was hoarse and his body could not produce anymore tears. His teeth, now sharp and brazen, punctured his lip as he tried to keep down the cough that found it's way up. And only then did he begin to question his new anatomy. His rebirth.

Chapter Text

Change, adaptation, to become what? His lover? His friend? His companion? No. Since the moment he felt the hunger, the pain that stained his gums as they ached to pierce somebodies skin, he became aware of the new dynamic between him and Lestat. To be reborn out of regret and grief, it slowly began to tarnish what'd they'd had. He began to realize it when Lestat had began to fully explain what Nicholas De Lenfant meant to him. What he was like, how he grew up, how they'd remained together through so much strife. He picked up on the similarities between him and Nicki, and it struck a cord within him. Antoine Marcel Durand remained as nothing but a subpar replacement for his sun's first love. A rebound, who Lestat had began to grow bored of, spending his nights out and about, tasting anything he might fancy.

At first, Lestat was enraptured by the young boy. Long wavy black hair that sat low, and was often pulled up in a ribbon, much like nicki's, though it didn't compare to the soft brown curls that lestat could coil around his fingers. Heavy but beautiful eyes that hadn't seemed to gain a wink of sleep in ages, a pale blue, like the hydrangeas he would pick for Nicki on there nights out in Paris. A skinny stiff frame, drowning in insecurity. And yet the confidence to know of his own beauty. The thing that really allured him, reminded him so much of his once beloved, was the boy's ability to play music like it resonated in his soul. Beautiful passionate melodies coerced Lestat's mind as he watched the boy, the crowd not half as enamored as him. He remembered the way Nicholas would string his violin, and compose the most harmoniest songs. He always admired talent, and Antoine seemed no different. Perhaps it was cruel, to think he wouldn't be as interested as he was if it wasn't for his department from his once childhood friend. But he couldn't think about it. He had to be selfish. No matter what it might cost. But nicki seemed to always haunt him, and all those similarities became a curse, as every reminder of Nicholas drove Lestat mad. He'd felt so much regret about leaving him, even if he knew he no longer wanted him there. And so, he began to leave Antoine. Overwhelmed by all the places Antoine seemed to lack. Nicholas was driven, and despite his downer look on life, he was passionate. He was willing to challenge Lestat, willing to be honest. And Antoine would not. He knew it was because the boy feared abandonment, so he sucked up so hard to Lestat that he felt like he was the one getting bitten. Antoine was willing to make Lestat the sun to his moon. But, in truth, he was more like the earth. His world revolved around Lestat. And that began to tire him. The more he detached himself, the worst he'd come back to find Antoine. He never complained, always resumed his place of listening, loving, and trying to care for Lestat. But even then, Lestat could see the pain in his eyes. He wanted him to ask where he'd been, to beg for him to stay, to finally express how he felt. But he didn't. And his admiration for him crumbled.

There was nothing left for him to come back to, not until he got word of Nicki's death. It had consumed him. And that one presence he denied so heavily before was not one he could abandon now. He wanted to be comforted, he wanted to be together again with Nicholas. So he went to the closest thing to it. It'd been months since his last visit. And he felt a sting in his heart at the sight of what seemed to be left of Antoine. He almost felt guilty, not knocking, not giving the poor boy some time to clean up. He was a mess, hair dry and ragged, his pale skin covered in sweat, his eyes sunken, face flushed, and all of his things scattered in the home Lestat had been willing to get for him. Still, he let his grief consume him, practically torturing the boy over a song, gripping his frail body in both hands as he sunk his teeth into his wet neck. Most would scream, or fight, or beg. But not Antoine. No, all Antoine could do was cry. It only fueled him more, as he continued to press so hard it was bruising the boys skin. He only stopped when he heard a crack and felt him go limp. A vampire turned out of regret and grief will be haunted by those emotions until the day he becomes dust in the wind. And that's what Antoine was. He was a vampire contaminated by the worst side of Lestat, and he knew it would either make him stronger, or turn him brittle like his bones. Still, Antoine remained. But the emotions he had felt as a mortal had only grown ten times stronger. And he found himself hiding away from Lestat, so that he couldn't judge the way he'd cry. Their relationship, to Antoine at least, seemed to die out when Lestat buried himself beneath the ground. Fifty years of slumber. Fifty years of waiting patiently, and attempting to hunt on his own. It was difficult for him, to have to kill people he'd seen in the same boat as him. "The Undesirables" as Lestat called them, most of them immigrants just the same as Antoine. A remorseful killer; One who always whispered, "Desole, mon ami." to those he took as victim to survive. A silly practice, perhaps, but it was the only thing keeping Antoine from throwing himself to the fire as Nicki had done.

Though, being cooped away in that house, without sunlight, or music, or anything that brought him happiness for that matter, seemed to be driving him insane. He felt his frustration grow continously, ten years, then twenty, and eventually he couldn't take it anymore. Everything overwhelmed him, and the tight built corset that had sufficiently hid his chest for the past 20 years no longer sufficed. One night, in the heed of a rainstorm, Antoine had failed to capture himself a meal. He'd been starving himself for weeks because people began to grow suspicous of the amount of deaths, and had begun to suspect those who were immigrants. The pain in his stomach at the feeling of emptyness consumed him, and before he knew it he was gripping at his chest, clawing at the tissue that had been antagonizing him so eagerly. If he didn't have any sanity left within him he might've even attempted to drink from the blood that dripped out the large gashes on his chest. Instead, he remained in that alleyway until sunrise. He gave in to the thought of death for a long while, tempted to just get up and walk into it, to experience the sun one last time. But then again, he knew he'd miss Lestat. So he instead covered himself as best he could, and attempted to walk home. He was unsuccessful, as the blood had stained his shirt, and his the 4 large gashes on each side still remained apparent. A women followed him home, begging for him to let her call for a doctor to come to his home. And eventually, he conceded. Unfortunately, it was the same doctor who had tended to his wounds two decades ago. The questions that all his neighbors asked themselves remained at the tip of his tongue. "Why do you still look 18? Why do you never leave during the daylight? What's happened to you?" It only drove the poor boy more mad, drinking the doctor so dry he looked like a rotting apple. He cried that night. Apologetic to the man who had been willing to care for him, to see to his health as Antoine had done for so many others. He buried him, carving a headstone into a slab of wood with his father's old rusted knife. He knew it was risky, but even then, the moral quelms he struggled with before still remained within him, and he wanted to honor him. In time, the gashes became scars, and Antoine continued in this city he hated; reading, composing, learning. Fifty years was a long time to reflect, so when when the year turned 1910, and Lestat finally awoke. He found himself seeing him in entirely new perspectove. No longer trapped within the Sun's light. Especially when he was tossed aside for a pretty little creole man that had caught his once lover's attention.