Work Text:
In an immortal existence, what made a night stand out among countless others?
Was it waking up alone in a coffin in your ex’s house after seventy seven years of sleeping in a bed that always felt too big and hollow? Was it simply laughing with your best friend in the backseat of a car? Was it being serenaded by your lifelong companion, overwhelmed with centuries of bottled-up feelings? Was it discovering the truth about Sophia? Was it tasting your maker’s blood for the first time in decades? Was it hearing the ghost of your daughter say that she hated you the most? Was it grieving the loss of your child with her father on a bench?
For Louis, it was always Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.
Lestat, who was looking at him with so much tenderness and fragility in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe that, after everything, Louis was still here, talking about a glimpse of an impossible future together.
“It could be nice.” Louis said, softly, still unable to take his eyes off Lestat.
“Could be.” Lestat whispered, scared that if he said it louder, he’d wake up from a dream.
And the silence and all that stillness was suddenly overwhelming. It had also been a memorable night for Lestat: waking up to a 3.1 Pitchfork review of the album, Louis emerging from his guest room, Dan’s evil tan, making Louis laugh in the car, the rehearsal, singing to Louis, the video, watching Louis taste his blood,Claudia, sharing a bench with Louis.
After all, what did it matter besides him? Then, in that impossible quietness, Lestat felt Louis’ pinkie brushing his own. It was an assurance that he was, indeed, still here. And Lestat wanted to cry, and scream, scared he’d start to float away with how much he was feeling. He wanted to live forever in that moment.
Lestat had to look at their hands to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He couldn’t resist looking back at Louis’ face. To those deep and sharp eyes that had captured his heart the second he saw him for the first time in Storyville. Except that, different from New Orleans, there was no need for bravado. Louis’s eyes mirrored Lestat’s in softness.
And it was getting really hard not to kiss him. But how did you do it? How did you just lean in to kiss the love of your life after all they’ve been through?
For the second time that night, Lestat had no clue about what Louis wanted. What about Lemuel? What about being companion enough for himself?
Then, again, in Louis’ words, who else was gonna have them? It was driving him mad because, as much as he wanted to beg Louis to come back to him, and be for him only, Lestat was content with what they had built in the last weeks. He was trying to be nice, as Louis said, because, for him, even an infinitesimal of affection from Louis was better than none.
So, in one of the most tempting decisions of his life, Lestat decided that, if Louis wanted to kiss him, he would wait for him to make the first move. In the bar, watching Louis revel in his blood, he had almost let his promise slip.
The kiss didn’t happen, but before Lestat could feel any kind of disappointment, Louis caressed the side of his hand with his pinkie. He was feeling alive again. Then, Louis averted his eyes and said.
“Earlier, you asked me if I imagined you in Paris.”
Lestat had indeed asked. He wanted to know if, in all those years they’ve spent apart, Louis thought about him. A self-absorbed part of Lestat had been delighted to read that Louis hallucinated him. But, then, in the car, Louis had said it was just because of guilt.
So, when Louis asked if he saw him too, Lestat did not want to let it show how desperate and pathetically obsessed he was. He tried to play it nonchalantly, making up his own little lie, pretending that he didn’t see his Louis that often, wearing the clothes from the night he was turned, at the altar—sometimes even with his human, brown eyes. Of course Louis had seen right through him.
And Lestat wasn’t sure why Louis wanted to go back to that conversation. He wanted to talk about the trailer park in the desert, evening primroses and the future, not the bitter past. Before he could tell Louis it didn’t matter anymore, Louis said.
“I lied.” Louis admitting it took Lestat by surprise. “Again.”
So, not even guilt made Louis think about Lestat? Was his spirit in Paris just another one of Louis’ and Dan’s literary inventions? Lestat’s unwavering gaze faltered for a millisecond. But, again, things were going so well, their hands still touching, so Lestat pretended it didn’t affect him.
“Hmmm.” He smiled, and he wasn’t pretending. He just wanted to keep things light after all that heavy burden from the night. “So, you did not imagine me devouring all of your photographs, at all?” He wanted to make Louis smile.
It worked, because Louis was smiling. “You did eat the ones I hated the most.” Then, he looked away from Lestat’s gaze, again. Almost as if he was scared to continue. “It’s just…” Louis took a deep breath. And Lestat, who always had something to say and loved to interrupt everyone’s line of thought, was quiet. Just waiting for Louis to tell him what he needed. “The guilt part?” They looked at each other.. “It wasn’t all of the reason I hallucinated you.”
And it was hard to admit it, but Louis was too scared to risk it not being honest. Because, in the end, wasn’t he and Lestat trying to hide the truth from everyone, even from themselves, what had always caused so much pain? To them and to others.
Present day Louis was way more talkative than the one from Dubai. And Lestat could spend the rest of eternity just listening to whatever he had to say. He kept talking. “I got mad at you for not telling me shit about yourself, from the years before we met, but didn’t I make up or omit a couple of truths just to justify the unspeakable things I did?”
From the beginning, Lestat saw Louis for who he truly was—the stubbornness, the devotion, the sorrow, the beauty. And when Louis believed everything he did was stained by sin, Lestat was there to love every part of him, unapologetically. His gaze never wavered, never changed. So why was it so hard for Louis to show Lestat even the slightest glimpse of vulnerability?
He had a lot to work on himself. And he was trying. So he continued. “So, yeah, I did imagined you eating all those colorless photographs, but I also pictured you walking beside me along the Seine, and seeing all those modernist paintings, trying to imagine if you’d like them or not, every corner with a piano was filled with you playing it, and,” he looked ahead, “I missed you so desperately that every strange I kissed, had your face. Then I had to kill them because they were not you. Because I had killed you.”
“Louis.” Lestat whispered and his heart’s pace was picking up. Louis’ own following. But he didn’t stop.
“And I imagined us, exactly like this. On a bench, talking for hours and hours and hours.” He shook his head. “But after tonight, I realized that my imagined version of you was just a fraud. Because you’d just repeat everything I told you to.”
“Like apple.” Lestat couldn’t help himself. He had, after all, almost memorized Daniel’s infamous book by now.
And Louis smiled. Because that was it.
“Yeah. Like apple.” He couldn’t hold it anymore, so he reached for Lestat’s hands and took them on his own. Lestat closed his fingers around his. “But the timing—my timing—was never right. Because I was just projecting you. I would make you say all the things I didn’t have the courage to. And I think all the shame and guilt I carried had shaped my Lestat”. My Lestat.
“And after all this time, you’re still the only one who sees right through me. Not the version I want you to see. Not the version I think I should be. Just… me.” He swallowed. “And I wanted you to know that I see you too. And there is no one else like you.”
He looked down at their joined hands. Then at Lestat’s eyes, which, at this point, were filled with the most precious bloody tears. His lips were trembling, but he didn’t say anything. Just kept listening to Louis.
“I told myself I imagined you just because of the guilt. But that wasn’t the whole truth.” Louis’ voice softened. “I imagined you because I missed you. And I had no idea on how to keep on living without you by my side.” Lestat’s heartbeat was loud.
“But it was never really you, right? It could never be. As much as I tried to imagine it, to get it from my memory, he never looked at me like you do.” With that much adoration, understanding, and love. “So, as I said it earlier,” Louis brought Lestat’s shaking hands close to his mouth and pressed his lips to his knuckles. “I prefer Lestat. I prefer you.” It was always him.
And for the second time that night, Lestat was crumbling in Louis’ arms. But it was alright this time. If his heart gave out, it wouldn’t be with disgust, or fear, or shame, but with relief. That Louis had missed him. That Louis saw him, and that Louis would choose him exactly the way he was.
Their angles on the bench were all wrong, but they managed to end up in each other's arms. Like they always did. No matter if it was in a hurricane or in the most mundane park in Montreal.
“It’s okay, it’s okay” Louis was whispering in his hair, just like he did before.
Lestat wanted to regain his composure and just thank Louis. For being honest, for everything. But it took him one look at Louis’ angelic face and he was crying again. His immortal companion was so beautiful. “I’m s-sorry.”
Different from before, though, Louis did not seem to mind Lestat’s outburst. He was actually smiling fondly at him. Louis rearranged their positions on the bench so Lestat’s head was in his lap. His golden hair framing his face as he stared up at his Saint Louis, the red tears drying, his eyes almost violet.
It reminded Louis of how they used to stand like this on their sofa in New Orleans. Sometimes, Louis would spend the night reading while caressing Lestat’s hair, and he secretly loved being interrupted by Lestat’s random questions and curiosities. They had always loved the idea of doing this out in the open, where they could see people on the streets, and the city alive. But, even for them, it wasn’t safe at that time. And for the way Lestat was looking up at him, Louis had a feeling he was thinking exactly the same thing.
They smiled at each other. Louis moved his hand to cup Lestat’s face, caressing his jaw. Lestat closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
The sky was turning a dark shade of blue which meant they’d soon have to get up and go home. But they both wanted to relish in the moment just for a little longer.
Then, Lestat broke the silence. “I have another question,” of course he did. “Did you really imagine that I had your initials engraved in the back of my pocket?”
And Louis looked away, scrunching his nose, smiling, the same expression from when he’d admitted the not much of a coincidence of buying a restaurant less than a mile from Lestat’s house.
“I did.” Louis admitted it.
Lestat wanted to bite him. “Who would’ve thought you were such a romantic, Mr. Du Lac?” He was almost floating with joy. “While we’re confessing our sins… I just wanted to say sorry for being so mean in that stupid song.”
“Woah-oh, the night’s for sale?” Louis teased and Lestat was giggling because that meant Louis did listen to his songs. He was ready to tease him back, but, then, Louis continued. “And what I meant is that I had your initials inscribed in that red suit of mine.” Lestat stopped laughing, and stopped breathing. “The tailor and everyone who saw it thought it was LDL for Louis du Lac, but it was because of you, Lestat de Lioncourt.” And the way Louis said his name.
Could anyone blame Lestat for having tears in his eyes again? It was embarrassing. He raised his hand to place it over the one resting on his cheek, then turned his head to place a small kiss on Louis’ palm.
“Why didn’t you tell me, mon cher?” Lestat asked gently. To know that Louis did these romantic gestures could have saved them so much resentment.
“Liked to keep a little secret close to my heart.” Is what Louis chose to answer. He had always been quieter with his affections, less willing to lay them bare, but it was always there, burning beneath his ribs.
“I know you know it, but I imagine you, too,” he confessed, and it felt good to say it out loud. “Sometimes I see your human eyes.” Lestat was the last person on earth who had seen those beauties. “And we match because I often imagine you in that red suit.” Why had he never checked their ticket pockets? “But I mostly see you wearing the suit from that night in St. Augustine.”
Louis nodded, his own eyes filling with bloody tears. He would never forget Lestat’s words—the first time someone had seen and loved Louis exactly as he was. He traced Lestat’s features with his fingers, gently. He was always beautiful, but it was something else when his guards were down. Louis hoped his gestures could convey what he could not yet say.
Louis nodded, his own eyes filling with bloody tears. He’d never forget Lestat’s words to him. The first time someone saw and loved Louis as he was. He traced Lestat’s features with his fingers, gently.
“What if, instead of the desert…” Lestat whispered, almost shyly, as though he were afraid of suggesting it. He didn’t want Louis to think he didn’t want to go to the desert. He would happily follow Louis anywhere. “We’d go to Paris?”
The suggestion took Louis by surprise because the idea was both lovely and terrifying. Could they give the City of Love another meaning? For both of them? After Nicki, Magnus, the Théâtre des Vampires, the Trial, Armand, Claudia.
Two years ago, they had skipped New Orleans, so maybe going to Paris could be a beginning—an honest one, where they could make new memories and have each other when the past became too haunting. Wasn’t that what an immortal companion should be?
So Louis agreed, “I’d love that”. I love you. That was what he wanted to say. The words had been lodged inside him for so long, like an apple in Adam’s throat, the forbidden fruit he had tried to hide, though it was there for anyone with eyes to see it.
And then Lestat was yapping about how he’d take Louis to walk in the boulevards, the jardins, the Place des Vosges that inspired St. Jacksons’ square. “And we can take the boat at night and we’ll go to Montmartre, la Basilique du Sacre Coeur,” Lestat went on and on, daydreaming about taking Louis to his favourite artistic corners.
“You’re sure any of these spots are still there?” Louis teased, putting a strand of hair besides Lestat’s ear. “It was like almost three hundred years ago.”
“I’m not that old, Louis.” Lestat protested.
“You’re pre-Revolution, baby.” The endearment slipped and Louis averted his eyes. He gazed at the horizon; they really needed to go. And that creature, who could have anyone at his feet, was trying his hardest not to float away over such a sweet nothing.
“Baby, hmm?” Lestat played.
“Shut up.” They could not stop smiling.
“Louis, can you show me the pictures you took?”
“Promise not to eat them?” he joked, but he was nodding. “Yeah, I can show you, but they’re not good”
“Who said that?” Lestat was genuinely affected. Louis wanted to kiss him. “Fuck them.”
“It was you, from my imagination.”
“Well, fuck spiritstat!”
“Yeah, fuck him, I guess?” Louis laughed, and Lestat had missed his Louis so much. Especially when he caught a glimpse of the human Louis slipping through the cracks, be it in the way his accent surfaced or in the way his eyebrows moved and his lips curled when he was flirting. It was getting impossible to keep his promise to wait for Louis to make the first move.
But the sky was getting purple, with some hints of orange. They had to go home. Would Louis keep sleeping in the guest room? Lestat looked up one last time at Louis’ face, trying to memorize every detail. As much as he wanted to live forever in that moment, Lestat still hadn’t figured out how to fight the sun, so he got up from the bench, doing a little twirl. He reached his hand for Louis, who was beaming at his silliness.
Louis immediately took Lestat’s hand and got up, so they could go home, hand in hand.
“Let’s go?” Louis asked.
Lestat nodded and meant to say “yes, let’s go” but what came out instead was “I love you.” Both of them stopped and Lestat felt so stupid. Had he ruined everything? But before he could panic or tell Louis he didn't have to say it back, Louis was tugging his hand hard. Lestat lost his balance from the force of the pull, then they were pressed together, from head to toe.
Louis reached up to caress Lestat’s jaw, just as he had been doing on the bench. Except now they were so close that they could feel each other’s heavy breaths. Lestat’s eyes were wide, his arms tight around Louis’s waist. Louis brushed the tips of their noses together.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.
As if there were a universe in which Lestat would refuse him.
Lestat nodded, their noses still brushing, until Louis’s lips finally touched his. It was sweet for a second. They were both a little hesitant, simply pressing their lips together. But it was them, so of course, of course they would know exactly what the other needed.
Louis bit Lestat’s lower lip, and it felt like their first kiss all over again. He slipped his tongue into Lestat’s mouth, and Lestat cradled Louis’s head in his hands, deepening the kiss. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
The sun was getting closer to the horizon. Louis kissed the scar on Lestat’s mouth, and Lestat tilted his head so he could kiss Louis’s neck. Their fangs descended with desire.They had to get home.
So, very reluctantly, Louis tried to pull away, even as Lestat continued pressing kisses along his jaw, his chin, everywhere he could reach.
“We have to go,” Louis whispered as Lestat sucked on his pulse point. It would certainly bruise. Lestat groaned and Louis smiled.
“Stupid sun,” Lestat said, indignant, and they were both laughing.
Louis reached for Lestat’s hand again, but before he could take a single step, Lestat tugged him back for one more kiss. And one more. In the end, they had to run to make it inside the house safely, but not even the most beautiful sunrise could compete with their light.