Chapter Text
Louis knows the night is a bad one only shortly after he walks into the kitchen and sees Lestat, hands shaking around his mug and staring into the distance.
He snaps out of it after the second time Louis calls his name, offering an easy grin and a wave of the hand, still subtly trembling. "Good morning, my dear Louis, how did you sleep?"
"Just fine, how 'bout you?" Louis offers, throwing out a threadbare rope. He winces internally at the tone, a little more accusatory than he wanted to.
Ever the actor, Lestat doesn't miss a beat. "Well-rested. A little annoyed once again at the lack of hair dye waking up, but perhaps the pink streaks were a little too much, mmh?" He tugs at a strand of his hair, frowning. "I think I shall dye it again tonight. What color do you think is good?"
Diverting, a long-known tactic. Louis knows he can't give him slack, knows he can't fall back into old habits, but the bond curls around his ribs, pressing at the edge of his lungs. He lets it slide, once, as the tension eases up when he doesn't press. "I did enjoy the blue," he decides instead, "it's my favorite color."
A beautiful red flush is his reward, and Louis files the image away in his mind to try and hold onto for eternity.
He reaches a hand over, intertwining their pinky fingers. Lestat offers a small smile back—genuine this time.
It's their kiss, now, as Louis has reined them back to a snail's pace. New rules, ones he settled down ten minutes into their adventure in trailer living.
A slow life in the middle of nowhere felt perfect for a slow love, as Louis had put it. Lestat giggled, asking whenever had he enjoyed things slow, and got a nose flick for the troubles. And perhaps he still kept himself busy, meetings and art galleries and stocks to bury himself in things to keep moving, but he did his best to enjoy the downtime.
Lestat had accepted the terms, and physical intimacy had been put off for the moment being, hugs and interlaced fingers and a chaste peck every now and then the furthest they would go. Lestat had pouted at first, but there was something held in his eyes, something that looked almost like relief. Louis did not know what to make of it.
I would be content to just look at you for eternity, my Louis, Lestat had said then, hurrying to assure him in the matter. I will never forgive myself for thinking that wasn't enough.
Silvery-blue eyes drink him in as Louis pulls away. He's learned, through years he doesn't want to dredge up, to not feel uncomfortable at the excessive staring. He simply pulls out a blood bag for himself, warming it up and tossing a few scoops of instant espresso in. It changed the flavor only subtly, but to his delight, caffeine does indeed still work on vampires.
"I would like to go on a walk together. Would you like to join me? There is a lovely little family of burrowing owls nearby," Lestat asks, picking up his Birds of the Desert field guide.
And Louis chuckles at that, because of course Lestat was entirely serious about his new birding hobby, of course he invested sufficient funds into a set of high-quality binoculars with thermal vision and at least a dozen books on the various creatures of Nevada to pour over with rapt attention.
Such a completely mundane hobby for a nearly three-hundred-year-old vampire, and he is nothing but enthralled.
"Of course," he replies, and his nose scrunches as he grins at Lestat's baffled look from his laugh. It's quickly morphed into what the new generation coined heart-eyes, and Lestat places a quick kiss at the bridge of Louis' nose before washing his empty mug in the sink. "What—hey," Louis splutters, and now it's Lestat's turn to laugh.
"My dear Saint Louis, you know I cannot help myself when you make that face; it's too adorable!" The end of the phrase turns melodramatic, Lestat raising a hand to his chest in faux-agony. "It causes emotions to flood through me, ones of—oh, what do the humans call it? Cuteness aggression!"
"Lestat, I'm nearly a hundred and fifty years old," Louis scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes. "Cute is a long-gone adjective to describe me."
"Never, mon trésor, you shall always be cute to me," Lestat replies, and it is filled with such sincerity Louis can feel the breakfast blood rushing to his face.
He clears his throat, gesturing to the book. "Tell me about burrowing owls, won't you?" He asks, and Lestat utterly beams.
"Such captivating little creatures! Much more engaging than your evening primroses, I assure you!"
Louis swats at him playfully. "Hey now, you wanted the primroses."
"Ah, that is true," Lestat concedes, pushing himself away from the countertop and flipping through for the right section.
But it's then, when he turns to show Louis the page, his face suddenly screws up in pain, and within the next heartbeat his knees buckle under him.
Louis is quick—ever grateful for vampiric speed—in placing down his mug and gripping his husband. Arms closing under his back and steadying him, he watches as Lestat groans, eyes squeezing shut. He moves a hand under the knees, bringing Lestat to the couch carefully.
"S-sorry, chéri," Lestat attempts to say, "I am having second thoughts on the walk it seems."
And Louis cannot help the snort he makes, shaking his head incredulously. "You are ridiculous," he states, teasingly, and earns a pained smile. A moment passes before Louis' face dips into a more serious expression. "Your hips, again?"
Lestat swallows, turning to look away.
It's one of the things Louis had filed away into the "Things He Shouldn't Force Lestat to Talk About" category. He's worked quite extensively (with the help of a vastly underpaid human therapist whom he offered extra multiple times) on the two lists. Things to push in order to keep communication open and things Lestat should reveal on his own time.
He doesn't like it. The two warring sides in his head. The one that wants to push everything, demand answers he so rightfully deserves, and the one that wants to give Lestat miles of slack again, to roll over showing his belly and remain placating in case pressing matters cause pain. Fight and fawn trauma responses, his lovely therapist's voice reminds him. He didn't like it, didn't like the T word especially in context of those years. Progress was slow in that regard.
But he created The List, and talked with Lestat about sorting questions into what he was simply uncomfortable talking about but necessary, and what would bring up trauma that needed to be dealt with in a more controlled setting first, and the hours-long discussion to get them to that compromise. Now he's here, staring down a beast he promised he wouldn't poke, though he wants to. He wants nothing more than to smash through the walls, cleave out the answers. Why, he asks, why are you hurting? Why won't you tell me? Why don't you trust me?
(Well, he knows the answer to that, as he dragged the blade across Lestat's throat. As he left with Armand as Lestat shook in the tower of his maker.)
Dr Fareed had theorized it might be somatic, a physical misfire of pain sensors in response to unhealed trauma. Of course, he wasn't allowed to actually examine, as a certain Cloud Gift had been used to escape the second he offered.
So, no knowledge if this was a somatic thing, or unhealed tissue like the wolf scars. There were scars there, crossing his thighs and up just shy of where his low-rise leather pants would sit. But the pain should've been fixed during transformation, so the other option was more feasible.
Either way, Lestat hid it well, dodging commentary about it and reawakening his acting skills to hide the pain. It was upsetting to watch, to say the least. But he needed to discuss things on his own time, and that wasn't now.
Louis pulls out a heating pack from the cabinet, plugging it in and offering it. Lestat takes it reluctantly, wrapping it around himself. Louis crushes a painkiller to dilute in another mug of blood.
"Thank you," Lestat murmurs as he sips, trying not to make a face as the medicine sours the blood. "Hopefully it should do its job in a few hours. I truly did want to see how the owls were doing."
Louis hums in sympathy. "I have a few online portfolios to look through, and a few emails I need to send. Let me know if it gets better, okay baby? Want me to grab your phone?"
"Non," Lestat shakes his head, raising a hand. A book flies into it, far out of Louis' collateral range. Wuthering Heights. "I promised TC an annotated review. Apparently, it is "my perfect brand of dramatic tragic romances" according to her."
"Mmn, one could say that," Louis replies. He decides to leave the rest of the story for Lestat to discover.
Of course, that wasn't all. Lestat and public book reading did not go together at all. He would do it in the solitude of his coffin, a small light and the inability to ignore those that needed him as he voraciously filled the hole of knowledge in his mortal life. It was one of his many habits now, chipping away pieces of his guarded secrets for Louis as he held the darkest ones to his chest. An attempt to make up for the silence on his physical pains, he offered something safer in penance.
The fact that his trauma around literacy was safer to talk about than whatever ailed him now had Louis' gut churning.
He pulled his laptop out on the kitchen counter and began writing emails to his staff, glancing at his husband from the corner of his eye every once in a while.
The silence is comfortable for a bit, only minorly disrupted by the scratching of a pen or the clicks of a keyboard.
Companionship in solitude, was the elaborate description Lestat coined. Something they had started up in their new lifestyle. Basking in each other's presence, enjoying each other's company without the need to give something. It had taken some getting used to, the shift between ignoring and accompanying. Long ago, such a thing from Louis would be seen as the former, nose buried in a book as his lover threw fits in desperation for his attention.
Now, it had gotten rather enjoyable, as the notion that they were still there, within reach of one another, even throughout doing their own things. It was like a safety tether keeping them together, and both started finding solace in what was once division.
Louis empties out his inbox, letting the soothing drumbeat of his maker's heart alongside his lull him into tranquility. He lights the vanilla candle on the table with the Fire Gift—a pitiful use of it, but use nonetheless—and leans back with a sigh.
A small whimper cuts through, barely audible to human ears. Louis' eyes snap over to the couch in concern.
Wuthering Heights is placed to the side, its reader curled up with pillows around him, squeezing his eyes shut and rocking himself gently. His arms cross over his stomach, holding himself tightly.
"Les," Louis whispers softly, getting out of his seat and quickly crossing the distance to his husband. It's a bad move, as Lestat flinches back violently, eyes opening and breathing quickly.
He seems to take stock of their surroundings, glancing around the room before landing on Louis. "Louis," he cries, barely above a breath. "It hurts. Please, it hurts." His arms tighten around himself, gasping for breath all of a sudden.
Louis nods. "Okay, it's gonna be okay. We'll get through this. Squeeze my hand?" He offers it out, but the other merely shakes his head.
"Non, no, I don't want to h-hurt you," Lestat sobs out, curling his legs tighter and throwing his head back upon the sofa. His eyebrows furrow, fangs partially dropped as he hisses in pain.
Louis bites his lip, trying to shake off memories. Lestat did not like being vulnerable. Any time he was cornered like this he would snap, bare his teeth like an animal and Louis and Claudia would once again be—
He breathes carefully, holding the breath for four counts and exhaling. He lets the feeling pass carefully, before picking out his words. "Okay, okay. What can I do?"
Lestat hitches a breath. "I don't know… I—" A small gasp, and suddenly every muscle goes shock-still. His eyes dart around wildly, pained whimpers passing through his throat.
It's agonizing to see him like this. He's seeing something, experiencing something that isn't here anymore. It happens sometimes with the worst of the pains.
Bloodied tears begin their track down his face as he swallows, shaking like a leaf. His lips form silent words, ones Louis cannot parse. It's French, quite possibly, from the shape of the words. Hitches of the throat and whimpers coalesce into gibberish.
"Lestat," he tries, leaning infinitesimally closer. "You're safe. You're in our trailer in Nevada. It's the twenty-first century. You're safe. It's gonna be okay."
Eyes squeezing shut, Lestat balls his fists, mutterings growing louder. Louis can just grasp part of it. "Please, please no. Please. I don't want it. Please, stop, please."
Louis wanted to vomit. He managed to hold the blood down at the last minute, continuing his repeated mantra to Lestat. "You're safe. It's gonna be okay. It's Louis, we're safe."
The words have no effect, it's obvious that Lestat is too far deep in the recesses of his mind. Pleas turn to screams turn to prayers, and Louis stills as psalms fall from Lestat's lips.
"L-let your face shine on your servant," Lestat says, hushed and quick, like anyone hearing would punish him for it. Perhaps they would. "Save me in your unfa-fa-failing love."
Perhaps it's the most gutwrenching of prayers heard from his lips. What once were cries for strength turned to cries for comfort, cries for sympathy. The last terrified plea before death.
And it's more than Louis can take, as he stands immediately, backing away and trying not to let tears of his own roll down as his husband writhes in agony.
Back in their emergency cabinet was small instant heat packs and a warming blanket. Cold only seemed to make these instances worse, but the warmth could bring him back. Louis quickly moved to the cabinet to gather supplies. The blanket—best on the market, fast in its heating—turns on, and Louis lays it carefully atop Lestat. He presses a smaller pack to Lestat's neck, hoping the shock of temperature change diverts his brain. He brings the candle too, the warm vanilla scent hopefully bringing him to the present.
Miraculously, it seems to work. Lestat closes his mouth as his body curls into the warmth. He blinks confusedly, brain trying to make sense of it.
"There we go," Louis soothes, "you're safe."
It takes a long time—thirty minutes, or an hour, Louis didn't keep an eye on the clock—of gentle coaxing and another heated blanket before the glassy look finally recedes from Lestat's tear-stained eyes.
"Louis?" He croaked out, blinking the last dredges of dissociation out as he stares at his lover. Pieces begin to fall into place, his expression slowly morphing into horror. "Louis I—oh mon Dieu, I'm sorry I—Did I hurt you? Oh, fuck, please, my Louis, I didn't mean it. I don't remember much of what happened, please forgive me. You look so scared, oh what did I do? I'm so sorry."
Before he can clam up, Louis slowly reaches for his hand, letting him pull away if he wishes. He doesn't, letting the familiar pressure comfort him.
"None of that. You didn't hurt me. I'm scared for you right now, not of you. You looked… tormented."
Lestat glances away, shame coloring his face. "I don't want to talk about it," he says, sitting up and pulling the blankets off. Louis sighs.
He knew this would be the response. Knew that Lestat would draw back up his walls at the slightest vulnerability. But he had hoped, every single time, that this would be different. That Lestat would let them down.
It could be better that way, maybe. Lestat wouldn't throw him a bone and he wouldn't treat it as a meal, excusing anything that came after.
He stopped that train of thought immediately. No, they're supposed to be working on it. Getting better. Lestat needs to work on it. He needs to work on it. He can't just ignore anything. He breathes through his nose.
"I know. I know. I wish you would. I don't know how to help you." It falls from Louis' lips, before he thinks, and he grimaces.
Push-pull, fight-fawn, he's dancing once again. Terrified to look the issue in the eye, desperate for answers. Were vampires so unchanging, body and mind? Could they ever fix this? Would they ever get out of their home in Rue Royale?
Lestat looks over at him, squeezing his hand. His smile is wrong, an actor's smile, his eyes guarded. The same look whenever Louis gets too close to something, always diverting. He stands slowly, brushing himself off and pushing away Louis' help. His eyes dart towards the door, his form too stiff.
He's trying to escape, and Louis would let him.
“You do plenty, my Louis. Your help is perfect," he assures, but it is all wrong. Picking back up his Birds of The Desert book, he makes his way to the exit. "I'd rather like to go for that walk, now. Would you join?"
And Louis, ever the same, follows him.