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There were thirty minutes before Lestat decided to go onstage. Thirty minutes between his outburst at Gabriella and the destruction of the world. Before the Queen came and the vampires were set into an irrevocable state of rampage. Thirty minutes during which he had ordered privacy, so that he could sit with the love of his life and stare at the mirroring scar on his neck.
Gabriella had slithered away somewhere to the back of the bus, content to sulk in silence as she, no doubt, formulated some other plan to convince Lestat to perform. But Lestat could live for three more centuries and never care for Gabriella the way he cared for Louis now, sitting with him in their own personal bubble as the remaining vampiric world raged from outside the bus windows.
And, like a missile sent to give Lestat his death, the first thing that Louis said after she left was, "I'm proud of you."
The hit struck his chest before spreading to his entire body. It was a set of words foreign to the makeup of his mind. There was no version of Lestat who evoked pride in others. There were no actions he had performed that had led to these particular letters being put together and formed from a pair of lips.
Lestat shook his head, a disbelieving laugh bubbling from his lips. "What?"
Louis smiled, patient, loving; Lestat could see that now. It was as if an angel had descended and given him the sight to see all of the world's beauty. And here he was— perfect, radiant, loving.
"I said I'm proud of you. For standing up for yourself like that. I know that's not a small thing."
Lestat's hand drifted to his neck, fingers feeling the lingering scar that wrapped around it. He needed to be sure that this was real, that he was really back and that these words weren't part of some hallucination. He almost expected the scene to shift, for Louis to suddenly be wearing a dark red suit, and for the table to span the length of the bus, rather than just this small corner of the world.
But this was reality, and Louis was not a caricature of a New Orleans pimp from half a century ago. He was not cruel; he was not condescending or jaded. He was Louis.
"I—" Lestat paused, forcing himself not to deflect Louis' words. "I will admit, I do not know what to do with those words."
Louis smiled sadly. "Don't need to do nothin' with them. I just wanted you to know."
Lestat could feel his lip quivering, and it took an ancient strength to school his face in front of Louis. He could not believe this was real, that he had somehow returned to this gentleness with his companion. Not just the return from their unfortunate beheading, but their return from so many years of fighting, of misunderstanding, of hatred and contempt. When he had sat, they hadn't needed to exchange dramatic confessions or drag out their miraculous reunion. All that it took were three words, trailer park, birds, and evening primrose, and Lestat knew that some divine force—God, the universe, Fareed— had brought him back to Louis.
"Well, it means a great deal. It was not easy. She is… a very complicated part of me."
"I know. I know that."
"I am glad, Louis," he dragged out the name. "I am very glad. I want you to know these things."
"I do too, Les. It's better this way, I think."
"Yes," Lestat whispered. "I am learning that now. I am sorry I did not learn it sooner."
"S'okay. We have forever."
Lestat laughed. "I have never been so happy for the gift."
Louis let his fingers drift along Lestat's neck, then up to his cheek. The softest whisper of a touch. And this pace, this slow, careful version of love that they were discovering, did not upset him. Pinkies intertwined, truthful words, and chaste touches were a new language that Lestat was very happy to practice with Louis until they were both ready for more. But if it never became anything more, Lestat would be happy to share these moments with Louis for eternity.
"Me too," Louis said. His eyes were so bright in the light of the bus, but Lestat found something striking in his face. He bore small but distinct similarities to his brother. Lestat had forgotten the soft shape of Paul's face, his searching eyes, or the curious tilt to his head as he listened to the ramblings of pious birds. Louis held that same kindness in his face, and Lestat could see it clearly now.
"I saw someone, when I was… gone."
Louis leaned forward. "Where did you go?"
"I'm not quite sure. It was a dream of sorts, with all of my fledglings at a long table."
"All of your fledglings?"
Lestat held his gaze and nodded. He did not want to think about the version of Louis who had sat at the long table. He wanted to tell Louis about it even less. But this was what they were doing now— telling each other their truths.
"Yes, all of them except Claudia. She had said all that she needed to, I suppose."
"And me?" Louis asked.
"And you were… not yourself. You were an old version of yourself, from New Orleans. But not the same."
"Not the same."
"No. Much crueler. I am sorry, but my subconscious was not very forgiving towards you."
Louis frowned, and those beautiful fingers returned once again to his neck. The caress was so comforting that Lestat battled the urge to lay his head on Louis' lap and cry silent tears. Louis seemed to feel this desire, in its own abstract form, as it traveled down their shared bond and reached Louis' veins. And then Lestat felt himself being pulled into Louis' chest as his hand found a home on Lestat's back, rubbing soft circles into him like he knew how much Lestat needed it.
"We both had our moments of cruelty, back then. Don't go blaming your subconscious."
Lestat's breath shook.
"You are not cruel, Louis."
"I can be."
"Yes," Lestat laughed sadly. "You can be. But it is not who you are to be cruel."
Lestat wanted to say, I know that you love. I know now; I spoke to him. You have much more love than cruelty. But the words could not escape his chest. Instead, he simply said, "I talked to Paul."
Louis stopped, his hand going still as he slowly pulled back from Lestat. Realization clutched at Lestat's heart, filling him with fear. What if it had been the wrong thing to say? What if Lestat had already made the mistake that would break them apart again? Several minutes passed in silence before Louis spoke.
"What?"
"When I was gone," Lestat's voice was shaking. "After the long table, the scene shifted into a concert. I saw all of the people I had wronged throughout my life. They were all some kind of visions from my mind. But I don't think he was."
"Paul?" It was Louis' voice that shook now.
"Yes. He came to me, and I swore he had come from heaven, or— or, the afterlife."
"Why—" Louis' voice broke, and Lestat hated that he had inflicted this pain on him. "Why did he come to you?"
"He told me that…"
Lestat swallowed hard, and he knew Louis caught it. It suddenly became very impossible to say out loud. Lestat was imagining the aftermath of the confession, Louis laughing and denying it, or calling Lestat crazy for conjuring his dead brother in his dreams. Lestat had finally gotten this one, perfect thing, and he was deathly terrified to lose it.
"You can say it," Louis said, sensing Lestat's fear. And that hand returned, brushing his shoulder. The connection cleared Lestat's mind, separating his erratic catastrophising from what he believed to be true. Louis is here for me; Louis wants birds and a trailer and flower boxes; Louis wants to understand.
"He said that you love me. And that you could never say it because it was difficult for you."
It was like a tidal wave had crashed into Louis and knocked the wind out of him. His face was stripped bare with emotion, his eyebrows furrowed in a type of distress that Lestat had never seen from him before.
"Lestat, I—"
"You don't have to say anything. I just thought you should know that I saw him."
"I just—"
"I know, it's quite ridiculous. My subconscious can be a very imaginative place, like I said—"
"Lestat."
He stilled. Awaiting abandonment, perhaps awaiting a confession. He wasn't sure.
"I do."
Lestat laughed, but it was weak and pitiful.
"I do…" Louis took a shaky breath, "love you."
What do you do when the world rights itself? What do you do when you have gotten what you worked your life for? There were no words, in any language, mortal or immortal, that could describe the feeling of being told that you are loved. It was a rising in his throat and a tremor in his hands. It was a universe of constellations focused in the point of Louis' gleaming eyes— the eyes that Lestat had given him. It was simple honesty and patience and one small communication after another. It was gentleness after so many years of brutality. It was being understood, through every hideous thing he had ever done.
"You didn't pull Paul from your subconscious. I would like to believe it was him." A tear slipped down Louis' cheek. "And he was right. I should have told you a long time ago."
Lestat wrung his hands, over and over like it would ground him right here in this moment. It was such a small set of words, but it meant more to Lestat than anything he had ever been told. I love you.
"Je t'aime aussi," Lestat whispered. It was no secret, but he felt the need to say it, if only just to express his gratitude. "Tu es la plus belle chose qui me soit arrivée."
Louis nodded, red lines falling down his cheeks as he pulled Lestat close. The words seemed to spill out of Louis now, like a dam had broken open. "I love you. Je t'aime, Lestat. I love you." Lestat hoped the dam stayed this way forever.
In seventeen minutes he would take the stage, but in this miraculous moment, time did not move, the world did not spin, and the hands at the window merged with the beating of two twin hearts in love.