Chapter Text
Lestat had done well for himself–a reality I didn’t think possible after our meeting in New Orleans as he clung to his wooden piano, immobilized by the past. Perhaps the fact that I slipped into the present without him set him on this new path. And he was glorious, his blond hair in unkempt curls, the red liner, the ashen eyeshadow, his faux-drunken gait on stage, capturing the hearts of the masses beneath him.
It wasn’t without shame that I scrolled through every video of his performances I could find. When I ran out of the higher quality, professionally produced recordings, I dove into fan-posted content, unsteady hands producing amateurish quality. And once those became low in supply I resorted to the blurry videos, Lestat’s voice hardly audible over the crowd’s adoring shouts. Worse was the shame I felt at the thought he’d never know how many hours I spent listening to his music, intent on learning each lyric, funneling the words he penned for me into my chest. There was a sickness in how I created a Spotify playlist titled The Vampire Louis so that he might suspect I had made it.
I laughed at the millions of humans claiming to be his number-one fan. They didn’t know the blood-fresh stains on his teeth as he parted from their necks, gazing upon them as if all other creatures from this earth had vanished. They could never understand the impact of each song, as none were written for them.
His fans were attracted to more than his music–Lestat’s very name alone drew curiosity, with the overwhelming success of Daniel’s book. It wasn’t shocking to learn that Daniel became interested in Lestat either: a single point of view is limited, skewing the story with an imperfect and impartial memory. Lestat’s account could provide clarity: another book to correct my mistakes and make up for the Talamasca’s edits. And I suspect, to gain insight into vampires, now that Armand had made him one. Daniel came to me in Dubai out of respect for our joint odyssey, but he didn’t sit across from me to ask for permission.
“I don’t give a shit what Lestat does,” I said. “Alright?”
Daniel looked at me with that smug, self-satisfied smile, sipping blood from a wine glass. “He wants a book. He thought it would be courteous to let you know, but I find it interesting that of all the things you could say, you immediately default to not caring about Lestat. Aren’t we past that, Louis?”
“Fuck you. Besides, I didn’t expect anything else. I get a book, he gets a book–it’s Lestat. You might as well have told me the sky is blue and grass is green.”
“Lestat wants to set the record straight.”
“I wish you nothing but luck.” I lifted my glass to him. “Extracting the truth from that silver-tongued devil–you’ll need it.”
*****
Daniel called with what he claimed were updates, but these updates were a vehicle for his many complaints–Lestat, it seemed, was a more challenging subject to interview than I, which Daniel suspected would be the case but hadn’t been able to imagine the extent, the reality of who Lestat was. He tested Daniel: inflicting upon him a coughing fit, lighting the cameras on fire, destroying freshly made recordings, sobbing at the mention of my name, hysterics at the mention of Claudia’s, rage at Armand’s, and so on… Lestat, now a rockstar, was originally a man of the theater–dramatics were close to his sleeve, and he made full use of those abilities.
“He broke into a soliloquy! An hour-long monologue on the tragic loss of nineteenth-century Parisian fashion and the effect it had on his identity and his outlook on life. And you’re obsessed with this man.”
“Lestat’s upset with you about the first book, Daniel. You can’t seriously be telling me you expected anything different from him.”
“He wants his version out for the masses. I would’ve been happy spending the next two hundred years on a beach in Fiji.”
“Fiji? And you mock me for my little dishonesties. You want a story. He knows that, so he’s toying with you. Why don’t you get your head out of Armand’s ass and look at what’s in front of you?”
Daniel exhaled, pausing for a moment. “He wants to see you. He says it’ll help his memory.”
“No.”
“He says he wants to apologize for New Orleans. What does he mean by that Louis?”
I threw my head back, roaring with laughter and ending the call.
An apology wasn’t what Lestat intended–though he might’ve offered one, his lip trembling, practiced sincerity on his throat. Then I would’ve been in his orb, in that temporary bliss we lose ourselves in. If we struck only sour chords, I would’ve been rid of him and he of me. But through our worst moments, as I starved on the blood of rats, too weak to feel excitement, in the aftermath of a tirade, as we eagerly betrayed each other, we still yearned for the other’s company. Those long conversations that meandered, the days we whispered to each other in our shared coffin, were missed.
It was longing that persuaded me to offer Lestat my hand, that had me bring Lestat to one of the apartments I owned in the Quarter as an investment. Our history was reason enough–I couldn’t leave him to the wreckage, though I knew he could save himself from the hurricane. I suspect my arrival had been no surprise to him. For the first time in decades, the cord that attached us wavered. As my feet stepped on Rue Royale, I felt him. He heard my call as I approached his squalid residence and prepared himself accordingly. It was our reunion, and he wouldn’t risk an unsavory outcome.
We were, for the first time in an age, alone, and though yearning flowed from him, Lestat was respectful. In the beginning, he didn’t question or test my boundaries, and he treated my apartment as a temporary home, thanking me for my generosity. Once he was settled, I planned to return to my hotel room.
Then we faced each other, Lestat looking down to his feet and then up to me, smiling coyly, his plush pink lips as deceptive as they’d always been. “I suppose you’ll be going,” he said.
“The sun’s coming up soon.”
Lestat nodded to himself. “Will I see you again?”
“When the storm’s over, I’ll swing by. Take care of yourself, alright? I don’t want to come back in a week and find your skeleton in a corner.”
I made the steps to the door, my feet committed to the exit. Outside, the wind was howling and rain came down on the Quarter more violently than it had in storms a century ago. I hesitated as I neared the door, the sound of Lestat’s heart pounding in his chest eroding my determination. Lestat stood still, transfixed by our parting, and I felt his gaze linger on my back.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“Lestat.” My hand hovered above the doorknob. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
He laughed then, that uncontrollable, hysterical laughter that had haunted my memory–in those most passionate moments, whenever I was most vulnerable to him, that same laugh escaped his belly. I was enthralled by its untimely entrance every time. And, goodness, I started laughing too, laughing with Lestat, laughing at how incredibly miserable we had been, and laughing at myself for how susceptible I was to him after decades of trying to purge myself of the impulse to run to him.
“I’ll leave tomorrow,” I relinquished.
Tomorrow became the next night and then the next. And every night ended the same: I would begin to fulfill my promise that I’d leave, and Lestat would ask me to stay. After all that transpired between us, I expected we would have devolved into a bloody, beaten mess–but we hadn’t. Neither of us sought to provoke. Neither of us lost ourselves to the past. And, perhaps strangely, neither of us endured. We drank from alley animals and to Lestat, a raccoon had become a finer meal than a simple rat. He had changed in ways I never could have predicted. We adjusted to each other’s presence easily, reading, watching films, and listening to Argerich on his tablet. Above all, we spoke to each other–and in all my recollections, I’d forgotten what a thrilling conversational partner Lestat had been: animated, mesmerizing, and clever.
Our conversation began simply: reminiscing over the changing decades and indulging in the present comforts of modern-day society. And then, Claudia–our daughter, our sister, the girl cursed and blessed with the dark gift who we couldn’t live with or without. We cried. I held Lestat, and he held me. I wondered if this is how humans feel when encountering their former spouse after a long separation; if they experience this loss as deeply, or if immortality amplifies its weight. Lestat had no answer, but I found it in his broken blue eyes.
And then, as the storm lifted on the sixth day, and we found other sources of nourishment, Lestat’s condition improved. His skin and eyes became brighter, his sunken cheeks fuller. His tattered robe was replaced with a simple pair of trousers and a button-down shirt, and he was more similar now to the Lestat of my memory than the wretched thing I found in a woeful shack. He was a sight to behold, and he was eager upon noticing my attraction. We sat on the couch together. I read a novel while he read the news, and my attention crept above the pages, onto the slope of his shoulder, on a stray golden curl, on the pulsing vein in his neck.
“I don’t remember it like this, before, you know…” I said.
“We were happy, much of the time. But our minds gravitate towards the worst. What is there to ruminate on if not our most horrid moments?” Lestat smiled weakly.
There was a single cushion boundary that remained uncrossed for six nights as we shared this space. Lestat hadn’t mocked or questioned it, even as the distance between us seemed to expand without growing. When I turned to Lestat, the blood in my veins vibrated with thoughts of him–his breath on my neck, his hands on my arms, his mouth on mine, and the thousand and one ways in which he destroyed me. The space disappeared, and he sat beside me, having stalked his prey meticulously for hours upon hours.
“You said you are your own companion,” he said.
“So what if I am?”
He grinned strangely. “You don’t think you’ll become lonely?”
For the few days we spent here, we feigned friendship. I had been with him and then Armand, never quite knowing myself without someone else as my measure. I am companion enough for myself –he thought it was an admittance that I was no longer with Armand, but that the phrase hadn’t excluded him. Lestat took it as a claim he should quickly prove false. I provided him with no shortage of evidence–with a penthouse to myself, and the finest blood stored in chests for my consumption, I stayed in this small apartment with him.
“That’s a concern for the future,” I said. “Not something I’m worried about right now.”
“You have me, here, now,” he breathed. “Why would you be?”
I can’t wholly blame Lestat–I had willingly spent nights in this serpent’s den, allowing him to wind himself around me. He’d been careful in his method, and I had been willingly naive in allowing myself to be swayed. And he was wrapped around my neck, squeezing in such a way… My body yearned for closeness. Our bond swelled as the distance eroded.
“Tell me you haven’t missed me,” he said. I held my breath, watching as he read my face.
“Les…”
His fingers traced my jawline, his breath sweet under my nostrils. “You’ve consumed me, Louis, mind and body. Tell me I’ve been alone in my longing. I will leave you be.”
Silence caught my throat. The truth was difficult. The outcome of each decision lay before me: to climb over the wall of the bottomless well or to walk away, knowing I’d missed the splendor of the fall. I could commit to neither, whimpering. Lestat breached the thin line that separated us, placing a soft kiss on my lips, a taste, a scrap to test my appetite. He parted from me too soon, smirking and pompous as I whined at the lack of contact.
“Louis,” he breathed. “Mon cher.”
Mon cher, mon cher, mon cher– the words had filled my lonely nights as Armand and I held each other at a distance. His ghost crept up in the space between us on the bed, whispering and taunting.
I chased after those lips that enraptured and enraged me.
I buried my hands in his hair, pulling his face closer to mine, and he laughed against my kiss until I choked it out of him with my tongue. Love flowed from him onto my skin as I grappled with my actions–I asked myself what I was doing, but then he would silence the thought with another kiss. His hands slid under my shirt, and I had already begun to unbutton his, but my hands stopped, suddenly unsure of themselves.
“Come to me,” he said, pulling me on top of his lap. He was hard and twitching beneath me, anticipation coursing through his veins. He gazed at my naked chest and placed his hand over my heart to feel its beat and looked at me as if his eyes had never looked upon another sight.
“I missed you,” I confessed, more than I’d like to admit –remained unsaid.
“You missed me?”
Sleeping with Lestat was to surrender myself, and I offered every ounce of myself for him to feast upon. A nibble here, a chunk there: Lestat’s tongue tasted the sharp angles of my collarbone, my hips. His tongue dragged along the curve of my cock, his eyes flickering blue as the hottest flame. I gasped, grabbing fistfuls of cushions to gain my bearing. He devoured me, and I looked to the crumbs he left to reform myself, but he sought to mold me in his vision instead. The ceiling above us spun as Lestat slid into me, stretching his neck towards me.
I bit into him–the taste of his blood like honey, dribbling from the corner of my mouth. He moaned into my ear while I licked him clean, wrapping his arms around me as his thrusts slowed. When I was done, I looked into his eyes, and he kissed me tenderly, murmuring unintelligibly against my mouth.
“I love you,” he said.
I found the words close to my tongue, ready to echo his. And the ease with which they came to me was startling; I bit down on my cheek, hiding in the crook of his shoulder as he came, repeating the words with the last few thrusts until my toes curled as I spilled onto the seat, suffocating on the words I couldn’t speak aloud.
Lestat wrapped his arms around me, leaving a trail of kisses along the back of my neck. Our bond relaxed, a thread of happiness wound around the cord, but I couldn’t accept it. I had allowed Lestat to hope. Lestat had convinced me. Lestat had seduced me.
All we had were years between us, and the understanding that time lent. How much either of us had truly changed was still unknown. All that was clear to me was how powerless I was to Lestat, and how beautifully he abused the fact. While he stroked my arm, promising me a future I wouldn’t hear of, I swallowed thickly. If I couldn’t leave now, I would stay in his arms for decades or centuries, threatening a repeat of our past.
I pulled away from him and felt the room’s cold air on my back.
“Is something wrong, mon ange?”
My angel –I could cry. I drew my lips into a thin line, picking my clothes up from the floor. Lestat held his breath, and the happy cord we found unraveled in moments, slipping and fraying until its bitterness was left behind.
I dressed myself, turning away from him.
“You’re leaving?” I felt his hatred like daggers in my back.
“I’m going to my home in Dubai. My flight’s tomorrow.”
“When will you be back in New Orleans?”
“I don’t know, Lestat. I hadn’t planned on staying.”
“Your home is here.”
“I said I’m on my own, now. What happened tonight was–” A mistake? Trusting Lestat, returning to Lestat, spurning Lestat–I had at one time or another seen as mistakes. But loving Lestat? I swallowed as I pulled my pants on. “It’s better for me to be alone.”
“Go then,” he spat. “Go back to Armand so he can tinker with your head until he cuts this memory out of you, too. And then fuck him for another seventy years.” Lestat had begun to scream, and I couldn’t find it within myself to walk away before he was through. “Wretched as you are, all you deserve is that gremlin.”
I turned back to look at him with pity, my eyes watering. And then I stepped away, finishing my nightly promise that I would walk through the door.
“Louis!” he shouted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
There was the sound of wood snapping. My name became a massacre in his throat. His steps followed: one and then two. I heard his fingers crack as they rolled into fists. And then, as I placed my hand on the door, I braced for the impact, savoring the breathless moment before his cruelty. But Lestat stopped. His fists never came. My heart shattered as I turned the knob and walked away.
That wasn’t the last time we spoke, but in the moment it felt like an ending. I boarded the plane, extending my hand over the armrest onto the empty seat next to me. I purchased that seat, telling myself I wouldn’t want to endure another’s company on the way home. Only then could I admit that I’d gone to New Orleans intending to bring Lestat home. Home: to me. All the while, insisting I had to be alone. Had it been to torment him or to see if he would chase me? Or perhaps this was Lestat’s nature–to bring out every hideous and vile facet of me while calling me a beauteous thing.
Alone in the penthouse, a large and empty coffin, I played not one of his newer songs, but the original one he’d written all those years ago, reminding myself of what we had been. Come to me … He sang.
I couldn’t.
It would’ve begun with an apology if I allowed it, but I did not.