Archive of Our Own

The revenant with soulless black eyes straddles him, the iron grip of its legs leaving him nearly frozen in place as its cold hands squeeze his neck, the long and hardened nails digging into his skin like bones trying to pierce flesh.

He gasps for air, wrapping his fingers around bony wrists in a weak attempt to free himself. It’s a struggle between immense strength from a vicious monster whose power seems entirely fuelled by misery and his own fatigued body, tired from hours of walking and hunger, just barely surviving in a land he does not belong in. 

The blood gathers in his eyes from the pressure exerted over him, his senses starting to weaken, desperation kicking in while the figure above him shows no sign of struggle.

He brings his leg up and knees the revenant on its side, causing only a slight, momentary loosening of the hands on his neck, but not enough to free himself. The gesture barely disturbs the creature physically and instead prompts it to become more aggressive, a loud shriek leaving its foul mouth.

Patting the space around him, he searches for something—anything—that can be used as a weapon or a distraction, but it’s all in vain. Nothing but wet soil, dead plants, and hints of slow under his fingers. He can hear the blood rush to his head, his ears ringing as he tells himself to keep fighting. Pieces of his life, of happier times, flash before his eyes, but they’re gone just as quickly.

In a flash, the figure above him changes. The black eyes turn blue, the grey skin turns white, blood drips from its mouth and seeps through a deep cut in its neck. The mouth opens but no sound comes out this time, only a hollow attempt at a scream.

He stills, loosening his grip on the wrists, trying to find a hint of something that’s not disdain or disappointment in those eyes. The pressure on his neck is so intense that he can barely open his mouth to beg, to ask for forgiveness. A chance at redemption.

He blinks, and suddenly it’s the same raggedy, emotionless creature growling and suffocating him. It lifts him by the neck and slams his head down. The little strength in him starts dissipating despite how his mind telling him to keep fighting, but his body has little else to give.

It can’t end like this. But the fight in him is gone. Slowly, he resigns to his fate.

The hands around his neck loosen with a sudden movement and the body above him thuds to the side. Weakly, he turns his head to watch as she repeatedly hits its head with a heavy rock, the blood sputtering around it and onto her face. She doesn’t stop until the skull cracks and the creature stops moving, distressed sounds leaving her lips, weakened by the force required of her.

Once she’s sure it’s safe, she turns to him, crawling on her hands and knees, and places a shaking hand on his face. The panic on her face is clear, but there’s relief in her eyes when she realises he’s still alive.

“Claudia,” he croaks weakly. His throat feels like sandpaper. It hurts to talk, to move. It hurts to be alive, in more ways than one.

He tries to reach up, to hold her face in his hands, and tell her it’s going to be okay even if it’s a false promise. A parent needs to do anything to comfort a child, even if they know there’s no hope.

But suddenly he can’t reach her, and the harder he tries to touch her the further away she is.

“Claudia,” he tries again, doing his best to get her to come back to his side. He can’t say anything else, all other words fail him. She does not react, simply stares at him, her face twisting into something sinister. “Claudia—”

He wakes up in a cold sweat, with his heart pounding in his chest, as if it’s trying to claw its way out of his rib cage.

The details of the dream are blurry at first. He’s unable to understand why his body is reacting so violently to it. All he recalls is a sense of darkness, of utter despair and hopelessness as he ran from a threat. He doesn’t want to remember it but, as always, the details come to him in fragments and he pieces them together effortlessly. The dream isn’t new; it’s a recurring one that he has carried with him for longer than he can remember. If he sat down, he could write it in clear detail, from beginning to end.

He sits up on the bed, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to rid himself of the memories, the images that haunt his mind constantly. His heart beats in his ears, frantic as always, as if he had truly been there seconds ago. It’s always so vivid. Leaves him in a well of darkness from which there seems to be no hope of escape.

“Louis,” he hears. A tentative, quiet voice speaking to him softly so as to not scare him.

He opens his eyes at the sound, but stays in the same position, trying to get his breathing under control, to get his heart to slow down before it jumps out of his chest. 

The bed moves slightly, the sheets rustling around him, and he feels a presence getting closer. He sees a flash of the revenant before it’s gone again and he digs his nails into the palms of his hands, willing his mind to get out of that place.

A moment passes—how long, he’s not sure.

Sometimes he can’t distinguish dreams from reality, and waits for the attack to come, all his defences up to fight against whatever has come to harm him. Sometimes, like now, his mind is kinder to him. Lifting his head, he looks around the room and it dawns on him where he is. 

His home. New Orleans. Far from the horrors of Europe.

A hand gently touches his arm and he startles, his fight or flight instinct kicking in for a second.

“Louis,” the voice says again, and it sounds like home, a comfort bringing him back to the present. Makes him feel warm, washing away the phantom cold that seemed to freeze him in place.

Blinking, he focuses on the figure next to him, feeling a lump in his throat. 

“It’s me, Louis,” he hears quietly. “You can trust me.”

He looks at the figure carefully, hesitating for a moment as the sense of familiarity grows stronger, and then he tentatively shuffles closer, and melts into the embrace that meets him.

At last, he exhales, his body still shaking with tremors of a nightmare that felt all too palpable, as if he had been transported back in time.

“Lestat,” he whispers, and buries his face in the crook of his companion’s neck, breathing him in. Home.

“You’re okay, my love,” Lestat says, calmly. He rubs soothing patterns on Louis’ back, and gently pulls him closer, holds him tighter. It helps. It grounds Louis. “You’re safe.”

Louis doesn’t feel safe when he closes his eyes.

Every sunrise is a challenge for him, always unsure of what awaits him once he falls asleep. Sometimes he’s lucky; when it’s Lestat greeting him on the other side. Lestat, bright and radiant and loving as Louis has come to know. Not the ghost dressed in white and stained in red. Dreams with Lestat were frequent, especially in Dubai, long before their reunion, when his heart and soul longed for Lestat’s presence and his dreams comforted him for a few hours.

But those dreams eventually gave way to  nightmares of his time in Eastern Europe and Claudia. These were recurring in the years post Claudia’s death and, although his mind has given him some sort of peace when it comes to Lestat, his subconscious wants to continue its torment in any given form. 

So—Claudia, it is.

Louis sighs and circles his arms around Lestat’s waist. “Did I wake you?”

“No. You didn’t.” It’s a lie and Louis sees right through it, but he appreciates the sentiment behind it. 

He doesn’t remember if he screamed this time. It has happened a few times—more than a few, if he thinks about it. The first couple of times, Lestat would panic, frantically trying to find a way to comfort Louis and understand what was happening. It didn’t work. Louis’ nightmare-fueled brain either wouldn’t recognise it was Lestat next to him, assuming it was a revenant, or he would think it was still the hallucination, coming back to taunt him again. The sudden movements from Lestat did not help, and Louis would shove him away or jump out of bed to put distance between himself and what he thought was a threat. It was a challenge for both of them.

They talked about it later on, and Lestat eventually found a way to be there for Louis without overwhelming him, waiting for the right moment to reach out and trying to say the right thing—if there even is a right thing to say in such a situation. It comes with a lot of patience and an understanding that only someone who can resonate with the trauma can respond to.

But Lestat tries.

He tries in a way that he never did in the past. He works so hard to make it all better, and Louis loves him madly for it. He doesn’t think he deserves this complete devotion sometimes. Most times. Yet he takes it in, and gives it back round.

“Sorry,” Louis says quietly, because he can’t help but feel guilty. Guilty for waking Lestat, for worrying him, guilty for disturbing their peace, guilty for not being stronger. 

Guilty for not saving Claudia.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Louis.” Lestat presses a kiss to his temple. “We’re in this together, are we not?”

“Yeah.” Louis swallows. It brings in another wave of emotions, except this time it’s overwhelming affection for having Lestat back, for feeling so cared for. He had forgotten what it’s like to have someone truly care for him without having set expectations in place. “Yeah, we are.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I hate my mind,” Louis answers on instinct. “But better than when I woke up.” His hear is still racing. It still feels too raw. But Lestat is with him—that helps.

“Will you tell me about these nightmares one day?” Lestat asks with some hesitation. He doesn’t push Louis, at least not after Louis continuously retreated in the beginning, refusing to talk about it, but his curiosity is there, along with his need to understand. Louis understands, because this need to know each other inside out goes both ways. “When you’re ready?”

Louis hasn’t found the courage yet. Part of him knows that it would help—getting it all out there instead of bottling it up and fueling these persistent dreams—but, despite all the decades that have passed, voicing the horrible things he experienced still scares him. He had only been able to recount parts of it in the interview. It’s almost as if keeping those memories locked away can help him pretend they’re just dreams, snippets made up by his subconscious, rather than traumatic experiences that changed the course of his life and led him deeper into a state of depression.

“I want to,” Louis admits. He wants to share everything with Lestat, the way they used to when they first met. It made him feel lighter, more so when he realised that he was being heard and, more importantly, understood. “In time. Will you be patient with me?”

“I will.” Lestat presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, and Louis melts into the touch, sighing and feeling a little more like himself. He starts to feel some distance between this place and the nightmare, coming back to reality. “Would you feel safer if we went to coffin and slept there?”

“We can stay here.” Louis turns his head and lays a kiss on Lestat’s jaw, feeling safer in his arms. The cold has since washed away. “It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re here. I just need you to hold me.”

And Lestat does just that. He leans back slowly, bringing Louis down with him, until they’re lying down. It soothes something in Louis, being held by Lestat, despite still feeling the aftershock of the nightmare. The trembling dies down eventually, but not his alertness, or his fear of falling asleep again. It gives his mind time to think.

Louis worries, at times, that he’s not doing much better than when he was in Dubai. He knows, objectively, that it’s not true. There had definitely been a shift since the interview ended and the reunion with Lestat. Things changed, yes, but that doesn’t mean he does not fall into old patterns—closing himself off, losing himself in his memories, spending time in quiet solitude. It’s not easy. He didn’t expect it to be—he’s well aware that progress is not linear, but sometimes he wishes it was.

He does feel lighter. He’s experiencing happiness for the first time in decades; a feeling that had become so foreign to him that it’s almost as if he had never felt anything like it in the past. It comes in the form of blond hair and a bright smile, as if the sun doesn’t stop shining when he wakes up every evening.

Then, suddenly, there’s a small trigger—a dream, a word, a memory, a smell—that takes him right back to a time when he was lost, holding on by a thread. It’s those moments that frighten him the most. There’s a fear that they’ll never stop coming and will hinder his progress.

He tells Lestat as much.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m pushing you away again.” Louis blurts out. They promised each other they would be more open this time around and, so far, they have been succeeding, with all its ups and downs. It’s easier to share things now that he’s confident they’re doing this together.

Lestat’s fingers stop stroking Louis’ shoulder for a moment before he replies. “I don’t understand.”

Louis worries at his bottom lip. It never gets easier, being vulnerable.

“I know that, some nights, I’m a little distant, as if my body is here but my mind is miles away. I don’t want you to think that it’s on purpose or that it’s your fault.” He moves his head, resting his face on Lestat’s pillow so he can meet his eyes. “I get in my head sometimes, you know?”

“I do.” Lestat looks at him for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Assessing, perhaps. It doesn’t make Louis feel nervous like it did once. That’s a step forward for them. “Are you in your head right now, Louis?”

“Yes.” Louis swallows. “One of those nights. Days. Whatever time it is.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Lestat asks, turning on his side, their positions mirrored. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I keep thinking—” Louis pauses, feeling a lump in his throat. He can’t help but feel that he’s thinking too much into it. But it’s better to share his thoughts with Lestat than to bottle them up again. “Thinking about all the times I withdrew in the past. How we drifted apart and it made us both feel miserable. I don’t want that to happen again.”

“I can understand that,” Lestat says. “But I do think it’s different this time. We are different, Louis. I think we’ve gone through enough and learned enough to do better now.”

“We have. I agree. Back then, I wanted you to be in a dark place, just like I was. But I don’t want that for either of us anymore. I never want you to feel that I don’t care about you. So you need to know that if—when—I’m not as present, it’s not because of you.” His voice wavers when he looks at Lestat then. “I need you to know. Because I can’t bear to lose you in any form again.”

Lestat is silent for a moment, his eyes not leaving Louis. There’s something in his expression that makes Louis ache, bringing out the protectiveness he feels towards Lestat. The feeling that would make him go to the end of the world and do the impossible if it meant seeing Lestat happy.

“I am not going to run away if a challenge presents itself,” Lestat says quietly. “I’m going to fight for you like I’ve always done. And I’m not going to diminish how you feel either, not after everything that happened. I love you, Louis.”

“I know.” Louis sighs. He believes it. More importantly, he sees the effort from Lestat, just as he hopes Lestat sees his own effort. “I still worry because sometimes I fall into old habits. There could be a domino effect.” A chain reaction that stems from Louis closing himself off, setting Lestat and their relationship alight. 

“You’ve experienced excruciating pain in all its forms. And, while I’m glad to see you coming to terms with everything that happened, I don’t expect you to be happy all the time simply because you’re allowing yourself to move on. It is not how grief works.”

Louis feels selfish sometimes. He knows that Lestat has experienced his share of loss and pain, too. They’ve talked about it at length since they reunited. If there is anyone still walking this earth who knows what Louis has gone through, it’s this radiant being he shares his life with.

“There is nothing I want more than to get through these challenges with you. We’ll face these ups and downs at each other’s side,” Lestat continues, voice soft. “I want us to get better together.”

Louis wonders what would have happened if they had put half as much effort into their relationship a century ago. Just as quickly, he brushes those thoughts to the side; it is no use dwelling on ifs. The focus should be on the present, he reminds himself.

“I want that, too,” Louis says. Together. It’s how Louis always wants it to be. “I think that being back in New Orleans is bittersweet. It’s home but, at the same time, it makes it so much easier to regress into who I was a century ago. Add the weight of everything that has happened since then and it’s just additional fuel to lock myself in the metaphorical burning room again.”

“Grief is a beast that never disappears,” Lestat says, speaking from experience. Too much loss between the two of them. “It dims down, I’ve learned, but in solitude and silence it can flare up again. You’re no longer running from it, Louis. You’re finally confronting it and taking the steps to find some sort of closure.”

Louis reflects on it. He isn’t running away from his pain. He isn’t pushing it down like he used to. He isn’t pretending everything is fine. He isn’t pretending to be someone he’s not. He’s not holding on to an illusion. He’s not shutting out the one who puts him above all else.

He looks at Lestat. “It’s progress, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lestat confirms, and he looks proud. Louis can’t remember anyone else ever looking at him this way. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“I wish it were easier,” Louis says, quietly. Not just for himself. For Lestat, too. He hates to think that Lestat also goes through these lows. More than that, he hates to think that Lestat had suffered for so long, mostly alone, that he’s accepted that this is just how things are.

“It does,” Lestat says. “At some point.” Centuries, at times.

“I worry about you, too,” Louis confesses, not for the first time. “I want you to come to me if you ever feel like everything is crumbling. Or if you’re hurting or struggling. If you need me, for whatever reason, come to me.”

“You’re my biggest priority,” Lestat says. It’s both a response and a way to deflect what Louis is asking of him—to be vulnerable and not carry the burden of being the strong one. “I’m fine, Louis.”

“You’re not,” Louis says. He remembers perfectly well the state he found Lestat in during the hurricane. One does not recover from over a century's worth of sorrow in such a short period. Louis places his hand atop Lestat’s and curls his fingers around it. “Neither of us is fine. But don’t think for a second that I could get so wrapped around my own issues that I’ll forget that you’re hurting, too. I won’t do that again.”

“I know, love,” Lestat says. He has that look on his face that makes Louis want to take him in his arms and stay locked in an embrace for years. “I will. I’m not withholding, it’s just—not easy. And I don’t want to burden you.”

“It’s not a burden,” Louis answers. “I want all of you, just like you have all of me. The good and the ugly. The joy and the pain. The highs and lows. Every single thing that makes you who you are.”

“It’s a lot,” Lestat admits. Louis knows, he has always been able to see just how much Lestat carries with him. But it’s easier when the two of them can balance the scales. “I don’t want to scare you away again.”

“You won’t,” Louis answers. The thought of leaving Lestat again is not realistic. He smiles then. “Nothing can keep us apart in the long run.”

Lestat reciprocates the smile, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “That’s why there’s no need to rush through any of this. We have nothing but time ahead of us.”

“And you’ll be with me through it all?” Louis asks.

“Always,” Lestat whispers.

It’s too much sometimes—these feelings he has for Lestat and how they manifest themselves. A touch, a word, a declaration, sometimes even a casual action has Louis falling deeper into these all consuming feelings. He wonders if Lestat realises that.

“Do I make you feel loved?”

Lestat looks at Louis, furrowing his brows ever so slightly as he takes in Louis’ question.

“I know I didn’t, in the past,” Louis continues. “I think I’m better at it these days, but I want you to feel it, just as I feel your love for me.” Louis had never been great at love confessions or reassurance, and he worries that his grief clouds his feelings more often than not, but never before had he felt such a strong urge to shower Lestat with affection. “I need you to know.”

“Have I done something to make you think I don’t feel your love?” Lestat asks, and his voice sounds so small that Louis worries he has said the wrong thing.

“No,” Louis answers immediately. “I ask because you display your feelings so openly, and I worry that I’m not doing enough. That I’m not matching up to you.”

“Love is not a competition, Louis.” Lestat strokes the back of Louis’ hand. “My feelings can be quite—intense and overwhelming, but it’s the only way I know to love. There was a time when I desperately wanted you to mirror it, but I don’t anymore, and that’s because you taught me that there are different ways to show love.” His voice softens then. “I know how you feel. Something inside me burns every time you voice or show it, but even when you don’t, I still know. These days, I’m sure.”

Louis feels relieved and warm. What he and Lestat have is both old and new, and sometimes he finds himself comparing their relationship as it is now to what it was in the past. They have gone through a lot of growth individually and together, and it shows in the way they behave in the present. But there is always a lingering fear that all this is temporary. Louis doesn’t want it to be. He won’t let it be.

“I love you,” Louis says, because sometimes he still doesn’t know how else to respond to such clear declarations of commitment from Lestat. But these three words hold significant weight for both of them. “Very much.”

Lestat’s eyes brighten, the way they always do when Louis says it, like every time is the first time. And Louis loves to see his tender expression, so filled with warmth.

Lestat leans in and kisses Louis softly. “I love you, too.”

Louis might be guilty of feeling just as strongly when he hears it, too.

He turns onto his other side, feels the warmth of Lestat pressing against his back and the duvet over them. Feels Lestat’s strong arms wrapping around him, the sound of his familiar heartbeat, and the softness of his skin—Louis wants his mind to take all of this in and take him to a happy place when he closes his eyes again.

“Will you tell me a story?” Louis asks.

They do this sometimes, when Louis can’t bring himself to fall asleep again. In the quiet of the early morning, Lestat will tell him past tales to distract and comfort Louis. Other times, Louis prefers to lose himself in Lestat’s touch, feel his skin and mouth until there’s nothing but Lestat consuming him body and soul.

“What will it be today?” Lestat hums, voice a little heavy with sleep. “Should I tell you about my first unofficial date with a beautiful man, some hundred and sixteen years ago?”

Louis smiles, feeling Lestat snuggling up to him. He places his hand over Lestat’s where it rests over his stomach. “Depends. Will I be jealous?”

“Quite the contrary. I think you’ll enjoy it.“

“Go on. I’m listening.”

Louis closes his eyes and lets himself be lulled back to sleep with the sound of Lestat’s voice in his ear, enveloped in his arms.

Louis skims, for the fifth time, the same passage of the book he’s reading. And, although the individual words make sense, he can’t seem to string them into coherent sentences. He’s not immersed in the story, can't even remember what the plot is, because he keeps getting distracted by Lestat’s touch.

He’s sitting at the end of the sofa, with Louis’ feet resting over his lap, while he watches his favourite show. Lestat seems to be almost distracted as he touches Louis—a featherlight touch on his ankle, an unconscious movement. He can never quite keep his hands to himself when Louis is near. Not that Louis ever complains; he likes it just as much.

It’s just that this reminds him of something he has not told Lestat yet. Something that he’s certain Lestat does not know about. And the thought of how Lestat will react when he finds out makes Louis feel nervous, though he is unsure why. Could be shame, could be fear. It could be anything.

Carefully resting the book over his stomach, Louis settles for observing Lestat. His serene face, curtained by the long blond locks, comfortably seated as if there is nowhere in the world he would rather be. What a sight he makes. Once, a long time ago, Louis would gaze at Lestat during quiet moments, but never long enough to be caught—at least not to his knowledge. These days, he doesn't hide it. He longs, and adores openly. Lets his love flow between the two of them loud and proud.

“I can feel you staring at me,” Lestat says, giving Louis’ leg a squeeze. His eyes do not leave the TV, but Louis knows his attention has shifted.

“You’re nice to look at.” An understatement, if anything. Louis does like to look at Lestat. He finds himself lost in his companion’s beauty more often than he should, almost as if making up for all the time he couldn’t do it.

“I would be flattered,” Lestat says, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. He finally turns so he can look at Louis, giving him his full attention. “If only I couldn’t feel how worried you are. What is it?”

“Nothing,” Louis lies, despite knowing how useless it is. Lestat will see straight through it. There are times when they can tell exactly how the other feels. Not being able to read each other’s minds did not entirely take this away from them.

“Is it the nightmares?” Lestat asks, placing his hand back on Louis’ ankle. Louis’ eyes drift down, seeing where they make contact. “Are you dreading going to sleep?” 

It’s not exactly what worries him but, in the end, it’s all connected. It’s as good a time as any to answer some of the questions Lestat has. Twist the cap so that the darkest parts of him can start pouring out.

Louis takes a deep breath and sits up, placing the book on the coffee table. He moves so he can be closer to Lestat, legs still resting over his lap.

“The nightmares are always about the last few years I had with our daughter.” Louis notices the way Lestat’s expression shifts the moment he mentions Claudia. It will never stop being a delicate topic. “There’s a recurring one where I’m being attacked by a revenant, and she saves me, but then she starts drifting away, and I’m unable to reach her. There’s another where she’s under the sunlight, radiant at first, and then slowly turns into ashes. In this one I’m unable to move and shield her. There’s another where they’re dragging her away from me.”

Lestat finds Louis’ hand and intertwines their fingers, allowing Louis to take his time, as he listens patiently.

“I see their laughing faces sometimes, mocking us.” Louis shakes his head. Doesn’t want to go too deep into the details right now. To give them the satisfaction of thinking about them long after their deaths. “The worst of what happened in Europe amplified, and it all circles back to the trial.”

“I’m sorry,” Lestat begins, and Louis stops him right there. He knows exactly where this could lead.

“Don’t. It wasn’t on you. We already spoke about it.” He brings Lestat’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “But we never spoke about what happened after they dragged me off the stage.”

There it is. The hardest step taken. An opening to a conversation he knows he needs to have with Lestat.

The details were removed from the book. Louis had told Daniel about it during the interview, but his editors clearly found no use for it. Lestat has no way of knowing, unless he can feel it when he touches Louis. And Lestat knows Louis' body better than his own.

“Louis.” Lestat tenses, his face a stone mask. Anticipating the worst. Lestat had been tortured at their hands, too. He is fully aware of what they were capable of. “What did they do to you?”

“They took me to the crypt,” Louis says. He can see it happening, as if he’s suddenly transported there again. Two of them grabbing him by the arms, and forcing him off the stage, away from Claudia. He had no strength to fight back as they dragged him down the stairs. “There was a coffin waiting for me. They shoved me inside, fingers digging into every part of me, and filled it with rocks so I couldn’t move.”

Lestat exhales, his hand tightening around Louis’.

“I could feel Claudia and Madeleine. I could feel all three of you. And then I could only feel you.” Louis remembers the sudden emptiness he felt. With the exception of Lestat’s murder, nothing had ever hit him as hard. He knew then that life as he knew it was over. There was little to nothing worth fighting for. “In my solitude, with no space to move, my broken arm reset itself.” He swallows, looking at Lestat. “My ankles healed, the flesh closing around the rocks.”

Lestat waits for Louis to continue, and when he hears nothing more, realisation starts to hit.

He looks at Louis’ feet, the back of his ankles pressed against Lestat’s thigh, and places his hand on Louis’ leg, runs it down until it wraps around Louis’ ankle, gently pressing over the flesh, the pads of his fingers stroking the skin.

“Louis,” Lestat says, quietly. “You still have them.”

“We keep the damage so we don’t forget the damage,” Louis repeats Claudia’s words. Lestat whips his head around, and his face seems to hold every single emotion at once. But anger—rage—burns strongest behind those piercing blue eyes. Louis doesn’t know what to make of it, but he figures that repeating such taunting words, albeit in a different context, may not have been his wisest choice. “You’re angry at me.”

“At you?” Lestat shakes his head, looking at Louis in disbelief. He clenches his jaw, looking away from Louis for a moment as he takes a deep breath. Then he meets Louis’ eyes again. “Never you. I’m angry at them. At him.”

Oh. There’s a sense of relief that comes with that. Louis is not sure why he thought Lestat would be upset with him, but the weight he has been carrying tends to speak louder than reason. Louis spent too many years walking on eggshells, doing his best to avoid confrontation, and part of him is still letting go of that.

“He’s the one who got me out, in the end. After months.” Louis huffs. He resents his own fragile state for believing Armand had saved him from his death sentence. The all powerful vampire could have destroyed the entire coven by himself if he had wanted to. Louis had known that much back then, he had seen his strength first hand. “I thought it would have been you. In the midst of my agony and hunger, I thought you would come for me. I think I even called out to you once, I can’t be sure.”

Louis doesn’t say it to hurt Lestat, but his words seem to have that effect, still, with the way Lestat’s expression goes from angry to sad.

“Forgive me,” Lestat says, ridden with guilt. “He drew me to Magnus’ tower right after the trial. I did not go there willingly. And then he told me you didn’t want to ever see me again. I thought—of course you didn’t. He orchestrated it to make it seem like I came back for revenge. How could I have faulted you for thinking otherwise?”

“I was not in the right state of mind to make judgments. All I wanted was someone to pay for what happened, and you were the easy target.” Louis exhales. “Of course I no longer blame you. But when it comes to him, I should have known better, even back then.”

“I wanted to tear him apart. Part of me still does,” Lestat says, voice flat. Louis can see the rage burning inside Lestat, can see how much he’s holding back right now. It will always be difficult. All of it. “For killing our daughter, for planning to have you killed, for bringing you all this pain. He’s—”

Lestat pauses, and makes to get up, put some distance between them, but Louis stops him. Refuses to let him go, even for a moment. 

“Stay. I want you close.” Louis is touch starved, he has come to realise. He had missed the feel of Lestat’s arms around him, the touch of his lips, the warmth of his skin after eating, the weight of his body on top of Louis. From innocent to intimate touches, Louis had spent decades craving a touch that could not be replicated or replaced by another. Everything else was lacking, in every aspect. He feels it might not be healthy to be this needy, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he has Lestat back.

Lestat hesitates but then relaxes slightly. He places an arm around Louis, bringing him into an embrace, and Louis rests his head on Lestat’s shoulder, puts a hand on Lestat’s chest to calm his erratic heart. Louis thinks Lestat may need this just as much, if not more.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Louis says. It’s difficult enough without having to bring Armand into the mix. Louis would rather forget about his existence for the rest of eternity.

“Then we won’t.” Lestat presses a kiss to Louis’ temple, allowing a beat of silence, while their heartbeats settle, before he speaks next. “You kept the rocks to punish yourself.”

“Claudia is dead,” Louis states. “Why should I rid myself of the reminder that I failed her? Why should I get to remove the traces of that day and give myself a choice when she didn’t have one?”

“You had no hand in what happened. You couldn’t have known that any of it would lead to her demise.”

“I could tell something wasn’t right with that coven from the very first night,” Louis says. There was something sinister he could feel when in their presence, and his gut feeling told him to run away with Claudia. He should have been stricter. But she was no longer a child that would do what her father told her. “I could have tried harder to make her see through their façade.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Lestat counters. He had always been the logical one when it came to understanding Claudia. Not only had he seen the same patterns she fell under in others, but he, too, had more similarities with her than either would care to admit. “They lured her in, like wolves in sheep’s clothing. They knew that Claudia was determined to find a place to fit in. You could not sway her from the decision she made no matter how hard you tried. And there’s no guarantee that they wouldn’t have gone after both of you, even if you left Paris.”

Louis had thought about this often. There are choices that, ultimately, only have one outcome. Claudia’s fate might have been sealed the moment they stepped in Paris, no matter what alternatives they explored.

Long before that, she had been doomed the moment Louis found her in that burning building. That’s a much harder pill to swallow.

“Is there—” Louis stops, trying not to go down a dangerous path. Except it’s constantly on his mind. “Do you think there’s a world where we could have saved her?”

Lestat doesn’t answer.

Louis lifts his head from Lestat’s shoulder to look at him, noticing how distant he seems, with the way he stares at the floor. Louis hooks his finger under Lestat’s chin and turns his face so they can look at each other.

The tears well up in Lestat’s eyes when he shakes his head slowly. “I think we both know the answer.”

Louis’ heart hurts, as if there is a rope tied around it, tightening with each breath he takes. He knows, deep down, but the confirmation makes him feel worse. He should have listened to Lestat that night, to his strict warnings about what would inevitably happen if they gave her the dark gift.

“Louis.” Lestat speaks carefully, the way such a delicate topic calls for. “We will always carry this guilt with us. We will miss her every single night for the rest of our lives and we’ll be haunted by all the ways in which we wronged her.” He glances to a spot behind Louis, exhaling sharply, before bringing his attention back to him. “Is that not punishment enough?”

Louis does not know. He doesn't think he can ever fully stop punishing himself.

It’s interesting, the way it works. He has done his best to try and get Lestat out of that dark place, but won’t allow himself the same grace. Perhaps it’s because Claudia trusted him more than anyone else. Perhaps it’s because it was his duty as her father to take on all her suffering. But he had done the opposite, blinded by his own selfish feelings. And when he realised what was happening, it was too late to backtrack. It breaks him to know he will never get a chance to explain himself to her or apologise.

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” Louis answers. “I shouldn’t have been spared. I should have died with her. Part of me did.”

Lestat’s expression turns into a pained one. Hearing those words from Louis shifts his whole demeanour, as if the thought of losing both Claudia and Louis could have led to his own demise.

“Claudia would not have wanted that for you,” Lestat reasons. “She loved you above anyone else.”

“And probably hated me just as much,” Louis says. He wouldn’t blame her. Not after realising how selfish he had been towards her, from the night of her turning all the way to her last moments. It was tough, battling between the love he had for her and what made him happy. More often than not, the two were at odds.

“If you’re to carry any reminder of the pain you feel, then let it be where you can’t control it.” Lestat rests his hand over Louis’ heart. “But these rocks represent the worst that’s happened to you. Let them go, along with the weight they bear.”

“I don’t think I can.” I don’t think I deserve it, he doesn’t say. Lestat reads between the lines nonetheless.

“Do they bring you closer to Claudia?”

“No,” Louis answers.

“Do they make you feel less guilty?”

“No.” The contrary, in fact. A constant reminder of his worst mistakes.

“No,” Lestat repeats, quietly. Knowingly. “There is no purpose to them other than to bring you pain.”

Louis doesn’t answer. There is no point in denying it. He simply watches as Lestat looks down at Louis’ ankles, and circles his hand around one of them again. A touch so tender that it nearly brings him to tears.

“Let me take them out,” Lestat says. He looks up at Louis with pleading eyes, as if the thought of Louis keeping them physically pains him. “Please.”

Louis opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He had not expected this, hadn’t even considered the possibility of asking Lestat to remove the rocks.

“In your own time, if need be.” Lestat strokes Louis’ skin, his hand warm and comforting. “Tonight. A month or a year from now. You say the word and I’ll take them out. I want nothing more than to relieve you of this burden.”

Louis lets out a shaky breath.

This is the one of the key differences between Lestat and Armand, after all. Armand had not cared for the rocks, had simply reminded Louis that they could be removed whenever he wanted to, with no concern as to why Louis still carried them. No concern for Louis’ grief in any of the years they spent together. For Armand, the only priority was to make Louis forget, make him move on from the biggest losses of his life as if they meant nothing. Armand wanted to be the priority, no matter what it took.

But Lestat—Lestat shares a heart with Louis. He knows when, and why, Louis is hurting, and he’ll do anything needed to bring a sliver of happiness or hope into Louis’ life, even if that means taking his own. There is an unspoken sense of duty between the two of them, to care and to protect, even with all the obstacles and hurt they find in the middle. Even in their toughest moments, a part of Louis never doubted Lestat’s love for him. And he is, once again, reminded of it.

Louis can’t come up with the words to respond, letting the silence stretch. When Lestat looks at him with a concerned expression, Louis’ immediate response is to draw him into a kiss.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he tastes the blood on his lips, until they break apart and Lestat wipes the tears from Louis’ face. Louis watches him, notices the red lining Lestat’s eyes, tears threatening to spill, while keeping his whole focus on Louis. Always Louis. No words are exchanged, but the actions speak louder than anything. And Louis feels so overcome with love that it makes him want to fall into Lestat’s arms and cry until all the pain goes away. Until it’s just him and Lestat and nothing else.

“Louis,” Lestat whispers, and the gentleness with which he speaks and touches Louis is heart wrenching. “Talk to me.”

“You,” Louis’ voice wavers, and he takes a moment before he continues. Words often fail him when he thinks about what Lestat means to him. “No one has ever shown me as much devotion as you do. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but you make me feel loved and cared for in a way that I didn’t think was possible.”

Lestat looks like he is moments away from staining his face with red tears. “There is nothing more important to me than you, Louis,” he says. “Nothing.”

Louis worries at his bottom lips as he contemplates everything. Lestat doesn’t press, simply waits for Louis to gather his thoughts.

“You would remove them for me?” Louis asks.

“Just tell me when,” Lestat says, hopeful. This means something to him, too.

“Will it hurt?” Louis had been unconscious when his ankles were slashed, his mind was hazy during the trial, and the pain he felt when he was in the coffin was so consuming that he couldn’t tell where it began and where it ended. “Will you—do something to my head, so I don’t feel it?”

Lestat exhales sharply. He looks petrified at the thought. As if Louis had just threatened to end his life for good.

“Louis, I need you to listen to me carefully,” Lestat says, cupping Louis’ face, his gaze locked with Louis'. Intense and vulnerable all at once. “I will never, ever, use the mind gift on you. Not that, not the spell gift. Not even for something like this.”

Louis’ lips tremble as he holds Lestat’s wrist so tight it could leave a bruise. Years of being deceived and losing pieces of his life almost blind him to the fact that it’s not something he should expect again. Lestat would not do that to him.

“Never, Louis,” Lestat repeats, firmly. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.” Louis has never trusted anyone more. Even when things were broken beyond repair, he knew Lestat. In a twisted way, he trusted him back then, too.

“I’ll find a way,” Lestat promises. “I’ll do whatever I can so you don’t experience the agony from that night again.”

“Okay,” Louis breathes. Slowly, he begins to nod. Acceptance, at last. “Let’s take them out.”

It takes some time, maybe weeks, maybe months until Louis tells Lestat he’s ready to do it. Until he tells himself that he's ready. During the time in between, Lestat does not pressure him, but Louis senses some unrest from his companion, almost as if he’s worried that Louis will backtrack on his decision.

He doesn’t.

There’s visible relief behind Lestat’s eyes as he takes Louis in his arms and kisses him. He tells Louis to stay home, and to not drink from his blood bags, because Louis will need to feed on something different for this.

The something different has him lying in bed, feeling very relaxed, if a little sleepy. The biggest change he notices, however, is the fact that his body is slightly numb. It’s an odd feeling.

“He’s been given sedatives,” Lestat had told Louis when he presented him with a man, possibly in his late twenties, to drink from. Unlike their usual victims, this one looked completely out of it, but definitely alive. “Intravenous sedation. Drinking from him will make you numb, but you’ll be awake through it all.”

“Can you feel this?” Lestat asks him now, sitting on the bed, and presumably touching Louis.

“No,” Louis answers. He can move very little, enough to move his hand and touch Lestat’s knee. “A little. There’s a very slight pressure on my leg.”

“Yes,” Lestat confirms, looking at the spot he’s touching. “I’m double checking you’re not feeling any pain.”

“How long is this going to last?” Louis asks. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of the night like this, although, drowsy as he is, it wouldn’t be so bad to close his eyes and fall asleep.

“One to two hours,” Lestat answers. “You may become a little sleepy, drift in and out, but there should be no pain.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I met a lovely nurse who gave me all the information I needed,” Lestat answers. “She was the one who took care of the young man I brought for your dinner, too.”

“And she did all of that willingly?” Louis asks, already knowing the answer.

“I may have used my charms.”

Louis hums. “From afar, I hope.”

“Naturally.” Lestat leans in and places a hand on Louis’ chest. “Are you ready, mon cœur?”

“Yes. Prop me up a little, will you? I want to see.”

“It will be easier if you lie on your front. The rocks are in the back of your ankles.”

“You can make it work,” Louis says, looking at Lestat with pleading eyes. “I want it to be like this, Lestat.”

“Are you sure?” Lestat looks a little concerned. “Louis, you won’t feel any pain, but it won’t be a pleasant thing to watch.”

“I’ll close my eyes if it becomes too much,” Louis says. He needs to see it, needs to know it’s real, and let some of the emotional weight he has been carrying go along with the rocks. “I will tell you if I need you to stop.”

Lestat understands Louis’ wish and gets up, helping Louis sit up, with a pillow supporting his lower back. He bends down to give Louis a kiss, caressing his face while they look at each other. Louis eventually gives him a nod, a final confirmation, and then Lestat sits at the end of the bed. There’s a towel on top of the covers, for the blood that will inevitably flow, and for the rocks to be deposited.

A small part of Louis, the one that actively seeks pain, is tempted to keep the rocks in a jar somewhere; as a reminder, perhaps, of what he once endured. A bigger part of him wants to forget they were ever in him to begin with. He doesn’t have to ask Lestat what his opinion on the matter is.

Lestat looks at Louis, seeking assurance, and Louis gives him the smallest smile.

Later, Louis will remember how Lestat’s hands shook before he steadied himself. The way he flexed his fingers and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Louis will remember the concern on Lestat’s face, both due to the fear of hurting Louis, no matter how gentle he was, and the reminder of what Louis had gone through. 

Louis will remember how careful Lestat was as he removed the rocks, bending down to kiss the skin around Louis’ ankles each time one of them was removed.

Louis will remember drinking from Lestat so he could heal faster, taking more than he should but being prompted to take as much as needed until he recovered. More, Louis. Drink.

Louis will remember Lestat’s blood dripping onto his ankles to help close the wounds.

Louis will remember the feeling of his own tears sliding down his face throughout.

Louis will remember being pulled into Lestat’s arms afterwards, holding onto him as if the world would end otherwise.

And, once it’s over—once they are out of him—Louis breathes, feeling lighter than he had in nearly a century.

“When we met, you saved me by telling me that I was loved. That you loved me,” Louis says, quietly, hours later. His head rests over Lestat’s heart, its steady beat like a calming sound under Louis. “Tonight you reminded me of what that love and devotion looks like.”

“I would take away all your pain if I could,” Lestat answers, his fingers gently massaging the back of Louis’ neck. “Absorb every negative emotion and shield you from harm.”

“I don’t want you to take my pain,” Louis says. “I want us to share it. You take some of mine, and I take some of yours. We take and send it back round to each other. Not just the pain. Everything.”

Louis looks up, trails his hand up Lestat’s chest until it rests on his neck. His thumb strokes the skin just above his collarbone, taking him back in time for a moment.

“You cleaned and healed my wounds.” Louis shifts, moves up slightly, resting his other arm on the mattress so he can properly look at Lestat. “I didn’t get the chance to do the same.”

Lestat gazes up at Louis with a curious expression.

Louis fixes his eyes on Lestat’s neck, follows the movement of his finger as he strokes the skin. Then, Louis bends down, pressing a light kiss to the hollow of Lestat’s throat. It’s the softest touch, before his head turns slightly and he lays another kiss. He does it again, and again, kissing along the spot where an ugly scar once was.

Lestat’s breath hitches, and Louis can feel him swallowing, his throat bobbing under Louis’ lips. He noses at Lestat’s neck, keeps trailing kisses, ever so slowly, until his lips find Lestat’s again.

Louis doesn’t realise he had closed his eyes until he opens them and meets Lestat’s red lined ones.

“Louis,” Lestat whispers, his voice trembling with emotion.

“I regretted it the moment I did it,” Louis says, fingers still resting on Lestat’s neck. “Regretted it before it even happened.”

“You shouldn’t,” Lestat answers. “It had to happen.”

“Don’t.” Louis shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Any of it.”

“What do you want?” Lestat asks, with the look of someone who would fly up to the skies and bring Louis the moon if he asked for it.

Louis ponders. He wants this. He wants Lestat and him and nothing else. For eternity, as was promised. As it will be.

Right now, he wants Lestat's touch. It's a simpler ask.

“I want you to make love to me,” Louis answers. “I want to feel you. Only you.”

Lestat looks at Louis with a soft expression, and, after a beat, he nods in response, both moving in sync until Louis is on his back and Lestat over him.

Lestat’s hands slide down Louis’ legs, shuffling down the bed so he can lay kisses to Louis’ ankles, the touch making Louis’ eyes flutter shut, so much more heightened now. There’s a kind of worship from Lestat’s side, treating Louis like a delicate being that can only be touched with gentleness. He feels like it, in moments like this.

Louis feels like he deserves it—to be cared for and loved. He has accepted it now. Lestat made him see that he is worthy of it, too.

Lestat, who works Louis’ open with his fingers, so slowly and carefully that it almost reminds Louis of the first time they ever spent the night together, back when Louis was inexperienced and had never felt such an intimate touch in his life, when Lestat opened a whole world of emotions and possibilities to him.

When Lestat slides in, Louis circles his arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer so they’re chest to chest. His legs wrap around Lestat’s waist, pulling him deeper, and they stay like that for a moment, gazes locked. Louis loses himself in Lestat’s blue-grey eyes. It’s as if sometimes he can see right into his soul, the walls collapsing to reveal the extensive fragility and beauty of the being Louis chose to spend eternity with.

“I love you,” Lestat says, lips ghosting over Louis’ as he begins to move, slowly rolling his hips.

“Say it again.” Louis loves to hear it. To be constantly reminded of it. He understands now why Lestat had craved those words before, when Louis was unable to utter them, because the need is now present for both of them. “Please.”

“I love you,” Lestat repeats, sealing his words with a kiss. “I always have.”

“Me too,” Louis answers, holding Lestat’s face in his hands, gasping as Lestat’s pace quickens. “You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

“Yes,” Lestat whispers, nodding his head, his lips brushing Louis’ as he speaks. “I do.”

Louis sighs, burying his fingers in Lestat’s hair, and holding him as close as he physically can.

The weight of everything that happened since he opened up to Lestat begins to catch up to him—expressing, in words, the aftermath of one of the worst days of his life, seeing Lestat’s protective side, feeling loved and taken care of, and, removing the rocks is an immense emotional rollercoaster that Louis had not been prepared for.

He pushes all other thoughts aside—all the grief, pain, mourning—and focuses only on Lestat. The gentleness with which he touched Louis earlier is still there. Every touch, every kiss is so featherlight, yet so charged, that Louis feels it down to his last cell.

Lestat’s lips are on Louis’ face, tender kisses laid on every inch of his skin, until Lestat is whispering words of adoration in his ear. And Louis takes it all in, buries his face in Lestat’s neck so he can breathe him in, feels Lestat envelop his every sense. It will never fail to amaze him—this connection, this deep love they have for one another. The kind of love Louis never thought he could have—or could even exist—until Lestat showed up in his life.

When they look at each other, soft gasps escaping their lips, Louis feels a wave of fondness crashing over him. He holds Lestat’s face, thumbs brushing the red tears that fall, and feels the wetness in his own eyes. Everything that has built up for years comes to the surface, and it feels cathartic to let it all out, and no longer feel like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It feels like a new beginning, the turning of a chapter. One that will bring new challenges, but perhaps less darkness and more light.

And when Lestat kisses him again, it feels like a confirmation. Louis smiles into it, kisses back, with nothing but love rippling through him.