Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was one of those days; Momma was upset again, which meant Louis should stay out of the way. Death in the family hit the business hard. She’d said it a hundred times: over the phone, to guests at dinner, in her sleep when she dozed off on the couch.

Predicting her shifts had grown easier with time. When Daddy first passed, Louis had no time for guessing. Once anger took her, he couldn’t run faster to his room or the backyard.

He believed he slipped out into this world with a target on his forehead. Grace was her angel, Grace had potential. Paul was her baby, as fragile as he was. Louis was broken. What’s wrong with you?

He felt it through whispered exchanges between aunts, the spit that rained down from the pulpit, and the belt or the broom, whatever Momma could grab first.

Too quiet, too sad, too removed. Overwhelming yet insufficient.

Grace eyed him as he inched off his chair, plucking his plate from the table. She was wearing a familiar face, halfway distant and half-apologetic.

They all knew there was nothing to do, they could comfort one another when they had the chance. Roles were meant to be played.

Plate in hand, he ascended the stairs by twos. Reaching his room at the end of the hall, he flicked on the light and hit his door with his hip. Catching on the latch, it left the tiniest opening. Closed enough for privacy, without the noise of a full shut.

He set his plate on his nightstand and went to his bookshelf.

He borrowed a new book from the library. He was excited for this one: Carmilla. The librarian was impressed with how advanced his reading level was.

He brought it to his bed, tossing it near his pillows before returning to his food. His clock read four twenty-five.

He was always there at four-thirty.

Louis pushed the last corner of his sandwich into his mouth.

Paul’s door opened as Louis passed by. He could see his little brother’s lamp through the opening, the little ceramic angels gripped on to the sides. He looked down, finding Paul peering up at him.

“Louis?”

“Going downstairs.” He answered, depositing his book from one hand to the other. “Going to sit and read.”

“Debil.” Paul twisted on his doorknob, shuffling his feet.

“He’s not the Devil. Get back in your room.”

“Momma will find out.”

“Not if you shut your mouth.”

“God sees.”

Paul was good in mass.

He loved to sing hymns at the top of his voice, even if he fumbled a word or two. He was a favorite there, his cheeks pinched a hundred times or more by the time they returned to their car.

God’s rules never made sense to Louis. Unconditional love with conditions.

Said conclusions never freed him of feeling watched.

When he was Paul’s age, he had fallen asleep at mass. The smell, the organs, how both rose sweetly in his lungs. His head bobbed in the warm glow of the stained glass windows.

The instant they piled into the car, Momma turned back and smacked him across the cheek so hard it left him numb for the car ride home. She told him he was never to embarrass her like that again.

Louis hadn’t felt at peace there since.

“You tell her, and I’m tossing your toys in the creek.”

“No.” Paul used his door as a shield, leaving only a sliver open to peer through.

“You won’t tell?” Louis asked, brow raised.

“No.”

Louis continued on down the steps, satisfied. Momma was pacing about the living room, phone to her ear.

He slipped past, slowly opening the door to the backyard, curling through, and shutting it behind him.

Lestat was already there—the only time he was early, according to him—dressed in a bright yellow shirt and baggy jeans. There was a hole at the ankle of the left leg. A bruise under his eye was the same color as the plums on the sideboard. Louis’ stomach felt off at the sight of it.

He’d terrified Louis the first time they met.

The day before, Augustin had broken Lestat’s toy piano by ripping off three keys. A birthday gift from his mother, she had saved up the money to purchase it for his birthday just before their move. He had promised to hide it and play it only when Papa wasn't home. Now, he was too ashamed to tell her it was broken.

While Augustin was out, Lestat took one of his action figures and hid it at the back of the organizer in his closet. He thought it was clever.

His brother thought otherwise. He dragged him to the backyard, despite Lestat having told him where it was. He drowned himself in snot and tears, though his crying never helped. The punch that came dizzied Lestat to this day. Papa had gifted Augustin an old ring for his sixteenth birthday. It had sharp edges, Lestat knew it well, used to go digging for it to play pretend. He loved to be a prince and tell his stuffed bear to kiss his ring.

He couldn’t remember hitting the ground, just the blank nothingness before the world came back. His fingers were red when he touched his mouth. Augustin was laughing.

Lestat kicked him in the crotch as hard as he could.

His brother had gripped himself, falling to the dirt with a cry. Lestat jumped the fence and ran and ran and ran and ran.

Louis had seen the back of his head first, his golden halo of frizz. He was sitting cross-legged behind one of his momma's flower bushes—at the time, a new favorite reading spot of Louis’. Lestat had looked up at him, puffy and flushed, a thick line of blood dripping down his chin. Louis hadn't known what to do. Screaming seemed right, but Lestat stuck out a dirt-coated hand and introduced himself.

He explained everything that day: why his lip was bleeding, and how it wasn't as bad as the time when his father grabbed his head and shoved him into the table corner. He’d smiled and pointed to the scar by his mouth: that one took stitches.

He told Lestat everything, from Daddy’s death, to homeschool, his books and the beatings, Grace and Paul. Lestat soaked it up like a sponge.

He wasn't used to talking things over, let alone being listened to.

Three months had passed since then. Lestat used to come once a week. Then twice. Now he was there everyday.

“Louis!” Lestat grinned and enveloped Louis in a hug the moment he plopped down. He would glue himself to Louis if he could, and Louis wouldn't complain. The warmth was nice.

“Hello, Lestat.”

“I missed you so so much.” Lestat groaned. He’d been yelled at three times that day. Once, for tapping his pencil, a second for not paying attention, and another for trying to run out of the classroom at the bell. He wouldn't get a smiley face sticker this week.

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“Yes, but there was the whole night and then school.”

“That’s true.” Louis said after considering. “What happened to your eye?”

Lestat bit at his lip. “Papa came back yesterday. He smelled horrible. He got one hit, though.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s O.K. I have something,” Lestat giggled, sliding in close beside Louis. He opened his fist to reveal two neon candy packets on his palm. “I got them at recess. They’re sour.”

Louis shook his head. “I can’t. Mama’d know. They make your tongue look weird.”

“Eat it before bed. You can brush it off after.”

Louis hesitated before finally taking a packet to shove deep within his pocket. Satisfied in his gifting, Lestat unwrapped the other and deposited it on his tongue. He scrunched up his face. Louis had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.

“It’th weally thour.” Lestat croaked around it. He hollowed his cheeks and squinted at the discomfort.

“You don’t have to eat it.” Louis reminded him.

“It’th delithous,” he continued sucking for a moment before pushing it into his cheek, “really good.”

“Your tongue’s all blue. You look like a lizard.”

Lestat shot out his tongue, pretending to catch a bug. Louis rolled his eyes. The blonde smirked before inching his face closer, trying to poke him.

“You’re nasty, Les.” Louis said with a smile of his own, gently pushing his head away. The other boy just howled. “And loud.”

“You’re too nervous.”

“Yeah? When she finds you and whacks you over the head…” Louis shook his head and adjusted the book jacket.

“She couldn't catch me.”

“So you’d leave me to die?”

“No,” Lestat shook his head so hard it looked close to flying off, “I’d pick you up and we’d fly away like Superman and Lois.”

“Ain't ever seen you fly.”

“That’s how I get here,” Lestat settled his head on Louis’ shoulder and took a deep breath. It was harder for Louis to breathe regularly when Lestat was this close. “Will you read to me?”

“Last time, you fell asleep,” Louis pointed out, turning to the first page despite. The napping was fine, the drooling he wasn’t fond of.

“I won’t this time!”

“Shhhh.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Lestat whispered.

He kept his word. They were equally gripped, clinging onto the light of an afternoon sun being chased from the sky. It was difficult to tear themselves from the page, let alone each other. Carmilla had bid Laura a good night, how hard it was to part.

“I don’t want to leave today.” Lestat pushed himself against Louis and wrapped his arms around his middle. His bruises there had turned yellow. Louis rested his hand over them.

“Me either.”

“I wish I could stay with you.”

“No. Not here. We’d have to go far away.”

“We could build a house. A big one, with a hundred rooms.”

“Why a hundred?”

“I dunno. Why not?”

Louis couldn't really argue.

—

The television was blaring on Lestat’s arrival. He crept behind the couch and shot off down the hallway. He quietly closed his door and hopped three times. His face was burning, but he didn't care. He spun around for good measure. Louis made him want to jump around.

He took out his notebook and bright purple pen to draw their house of a hundred rooms. He concluded they would need at least twelve dogs—mastiffs, his favorite—two birds, a lizard, and maybe a cat.

His stomach twisted. Mama was in her bedroom and Papa wouldn’t cook, meaning Lestat would have to hope for an extra box of macaroni or cook some eggs.

Three eggs were left in the fridge. The butter was bad, but his stomach cried enough for him to toss it in the pan.

He knew he needed to be careful. Papa hated the smell of burnt eggs.

The house still drowned in the sounds of the television as he brushed his teeth. He made sure to sing the birthday song twice in his head.

His gums stung. Opening his mouth, he found lines of blood around his teeth. He licked at his wounds, coating his teeth in a pink film. It disappeared as he licked again.

He made sure to push on the bathroom sink handle four times to prevent any leaks. He didn’t want to raise the water bill or kill the turtles. He checked the four corners of his room, his closet and its four corners.

Crawling into bed, he watched the static of the dark dance before his eyes. He wondered if Louis was in bed too, how they might hold each other in the night.

A few streets off, in the hallway bathroom, Louis unwrapped the candy as quietly as he could and popped it into his mouth like a pill. His face looked like Lestat’s, a bunny sniffing the air. He grinned at his reflection. The blonde would have fallen over with giggles at the sight of him.

His spit was red when brushing his teeth; his tongue dyed a brighter pink. He thought about how he matched Lestat.

Chapter Text

Summer made itself known, heat choking Louis from room to room. He pulled the collar of his shirt back and forth, fanning himself. It crept up whenever he stopped.

His homework was splayed out in front of him, binders of pages he learned to print out with the help of a librarian when he first started school online.

He turned in his chair to look over at Paul. Skirting the edge of the carpet, he pushed around his plastic cars. Louis had played with him several times before, pretending to venture through their own little city. His city, at least, for Paul would lose interest, pulling his car away to another section of the floor.

Paul released his car then, a front loader. His gaze was frantic, popping firecrackers between walls. He mumbled.

“Paul?” Louis asked, the chair creaking as he turned further.

His brother raised his hands above his head as if to shield himself. “Make them go!”

“Who? What's wrong?”

Louis brought a hand to Paul’s arm, at which he wailed, contorting his face. He took it away, searching.

He heard Momma’s footsteps as she emerged from her office. He rose from his squat, looking over to her, desperate, gesturing to his younger brother.

“Momma!”

“What did you do?”

He flinched. “Nothing, Momma, Paul just—”

“Move!” She commanded, hand splayed on Louis’ face. She shoved him back, leaving him to find his footing. She dropped to her knees, curving her arms around Paul.

“They were there!” His baby brother sobbed out, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes.

Momma lifted him from the floor, Paul wrapping his limbs around her as tightly as possible. She cupped his head and rushed towards the stairs. Louis glanced at Grace, who watched wide-eyed, gripping on to the kitchen counter. He rushed up the stairs.

She was on Paul’s bed, him still in her arms, softly stroking his cheek with her thumb as she cooed. Louis entered, brows furrowed.

“Momma—”

“You get away from your brother right now.”

He drew closer despite. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

She lifted the same fingers that soothed Paul and swiped him across the face with the back of her hand. Pain tore through Louis’ jaw, lightning through bark. He lifted his hand to his face, the pain radiating out into his fingertips.

“You go to your room. Now.” Momma hissed between her teeth, adjusting Paul once again to lay over her shoulder.

He flew out the door, venturing towards the end of the hallway, to his little corner, to his quiet.

Passing the bathroom, he stopped to inspect himself. The marks spanned the entirety of his cheek, though the deepest sat at the top, just on the bone. He looked to his hand, finding little imprints of blood dotting his fingertips. His vision was hazing.

Hurrying to his room, he slammed the door, a tear already slipping over his lashes and falling down his cheek. He fell to his knees beside his bed as though in prayer, cupping his face in his hands.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” He wept, face pressed into the comforter, curling the sheets into his fist and pulling.

He never knew who he meant; himself, Momma, God.

Turning his head, he pressed his throbbing cheek down into the mattress. Louis fixed his eyes on the red, flashing numbers of his alarm clock. An hour more.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He whispered, again, to no one in particular. The numbers changed.

Fifteen minutes to time, Louis raised himself to his feet. With the ball of his palm, he wiped at his eyes. They felt foreign on his face, seemingly detached and reattached in the time passed. A last sniffle and he collected their book from his shelf.

He found Grace’s door open as he peered out into the hallway. She sat on her bed with her dolls, slipping them into rubbery pastel dresses. Her eyes shot up to look at him as he stepped out. He turned away quickly.

At the end of the hall, Paul’s doorway cracked just a sliver. Momma was still on his bed, holding him in the crook of her elbow, running the backs of her fingers down his cheek. He had fallen asleep, face shining with tear streaks. Louis rushed down the stairs by twos.

Outside, he deposited himself within the shrubbery, flipping through the previously read pages. They had begun Jane Eyre.

Lestat clambered through the broken gate, as though pulled by a string.

“Louis! Louis, Louis, Louis! Look!” The blonde fell to the ground knees first, sliding through the grass. He opened his fist.

“A tooth?”

Lestat grinned ferociously, a wide gap in the space his front tooth once occupied. “I was wiggling it all day, and I pulled a bit, and it fell out on my desk. My teacher gave me a sticker, look!”

He dug in his pocket and produced a sticker of a banana, decked out in sunglasses and snapback whilst mounted on a skateboard. It was outlined in a shimmery grey.

“How does he move the skateboard?”

“What?”

“He’s got no legs.” Louis poked at the curve of the banana.

“Oh.” Lestat looked it over. “I dunno. Maybe he moves it with his mind.”

“Right.”

Lestat patted the banana's head before slipping it back within his pocket. “I’m excited, my teacher said if you put it under your pillow, the tooth fairy will—”

Louis could feel his eyes hone in on his cheek. Louis thought Lestat was similar to a cat, the way his gaze dug into him. It hit marrow. He wrapped his hands around Louis’ face, careful not to touch the area.

“Why?”

“Backtalk.”

“Oh.”

Lestat inspected him, turning Louis’ head gently as he brought himself closer. Louis twisted his face.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving it butterfly kisses. It helps it heal faster. I'll do lots so it heals extra fast." He nodded, focusing on his effort as he began to count each blink under his breath.

The soft curl of Lestat’s lashes overwhelmed him. Louis’ mind went to breathing, desperate to snag air.

When his companion stopped, he pulled back. “It’ll be all right soon.”

“Thank you.” He said quietly. The other just nodded.

“Firefly!” Lestat gasped, attention suddenly behind Louis.

He turned about, searching for his eyeline. A flash. Dimmed by the late afternoon sun, only in the shadow of the bushes could it be seen; a miniscule firework amongst the leaves.

“Watch.” Louis said, focusing on the bug.

He used to catch them for Grace when she was first born. Even now could he see her bright face, hear her giggle as he would open his hands just so, revealing its twinkling light.

Louis reached out, cupping the bug in his hand. Lestat giggled and clapped, climbing around the other to inspect his hands. The glow slipped between his fingers.

“It’s so pretty.”

Louis watched him, the glow reflecting in his blue eyes. “It is.”

—

Lestat’s papa was gone again.

He asked Augustin, curious to know when he’d left, if he said where he was going. His brother had slammed and locked his door.

Luck proved to be on Lestat’s side despite; two boxes of macaroni and cheese were still in the pantry. He had to reach on his tiptoes, nearly falling into the shelves, but managed to pull it down by the bottom. The shuffle of the pasta within made him smile.

He loved the stovetop, that electric shade. He reached out and touched it when he was four, curiosity peaked. He sucked on his fingers for days after, trying to rid them of the ache.

The box had measurements, but he was unsure how to achieve them. Instead, he let the water run in until it felt right.

The pot was difficult to grip with the added weight. Wrapping two hands around the handle, he steadied himself on the walk back to the stove. He lifted the cookware to his eyeline, careful of his wrists, and placed the pot down.

Lifting himself up and down on his toes, he watched the water, awaiting the bubbles.

Straining proved difficult this time around. The hot water splattered the skin of his forearm. His arm throbbed as he checked the stove knob eight times to ensure the flame was out.

Eating quietly and running his hand over the burn, he pictured Louis at the table with him, though he struggled seeing him in his home. He shifted them to a busy street instead, sitting outside a restaurant, like he had seen on television. Louis had his book, and was reading to him.

Lestat finished quickly. He washed his bowl in the sink, returning it and his spoon to the cabinet and drawer respectively. He turned off the lights, shuffling in the dark to his room at the end of the hall. He donned his dog-themed pajamas in the glow of his nightlight, and climbed into bed.

His family was aware that sound danced through the walls. It was both siren and stocks, what mood drenched the house and what punishment you took.

They now illuminated his mother’s weeping. He raised himself up and stared at the wall to his right.

He couldn’t sleep, even though his body felt heavy. He knew what he could do, he was only right next door.

Lestat felt along the walls until he met the doorknob to his parent’s room.

It was pitch, save for the shred of city light shoving through the curtains. Lestat could just make out the shape of her, the rising and falling as she sobbed.

He turned and latched the door shut. The movement on the bed stopped.

“Mama?”

“Mon bébé, is that you?” She squeaked out, her anguish gripping her throat.

“It’s me.” He replied to the dark. The static was everywhere.

“Oh, my sweet boy. Come here.”

Lestat ventured forward, arms extended, feeling for his surroundings. He felt clothes beneath his feet, the cold metal of a discarded can. His knees eventually hit the end of the bed. He lowered his hands down to feel the sheets, slowly pawing his way up the bed, careful to avoid his mother's form as he dragged his legs up behind him. When his hands hit the pillow, he tugged back the sheets to join her under them.

He smelled his father. Even the weeks he was away, the scent of him lingered. Lestat wondered if it could ever be washed out.

Mama reached her hand out to him. First, over the top of his head and through his hair, before falling to his cheek.

“My beautiful baby.”

Lestat leaned into her hand. He never knew what to say on nights like these.

Her hand roamed again, this time to the hem of his pajama shirt. She lifted it, beginning to rub her in circles on his lower stomach, nipping at the waistband of his shorts. He inhaled.

Lestat had forgotten the first time, the memory drowned out by familiarity. In the dark, in this bed, by her hand.

Always when she cried.

He never mentioned it to Louis. He had, on occasion, been close; the words wrapped around his tongue like a cowboy’s lasso and never gave.

To do it meant wrestling with the feeling in his belly, where his stomach would contract and tangle up like a snake. He imagined it, his insides becoming a jungle, housing the reptile that was once his organ. The snake would be happy to live in the jungle, he surmised, so he should be too.

And Mama would be O.K. again.

—

Momma was at the hall mirror putting in her earrings. “Your grandparents’ll be coming in. I’ll be gone for a few weeks.”

“Where?” Louis questioned from the kitchen table, setting his pencil down on his worksheets, the final few before summer break.

“Up north. Hopefully, we make a sale on this property,” she skimmed her fingertip along her lip line. “You’re going to take good care of your brother and sister. I don’t want to hear anything about you mouthing off, you understand me? I’ll call you all in the evenings.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Momma looked back at him. She was grinning, head at a tilt as she began her approach. Her fondness always ate away at Louis’ flesh.

She wrapped her fingers around his chin and tightened her grip, making the skin of Louis’ cheeks puff from the intensity. The pains of nights past crackled through him. She placed a kiss on his cheekbone.

“You be good, now.”

Louis warned Lestat first thing that evening, head still pressed against his neck as they hugged. “My grandparents are staying for a few weeks.”

“Why?”

“Momma’s got a business trip.”

Louis knew business was a small fraction of her trips. He had alluded to this one afternoon as she swept, and soon had the broom to his back.

“We’ll have to go to the park again.”

“All right.” He sighed, pulling himself back.

“We'll still read.” Louis urged, lifting Jane Eyre and wriggling it about.

“I know.” Lestat puckered out his lips, pressing a pencil topper between his fingertips. He had brought it with him three days in a row. According to him, they were popular in his school. His was under his desk one morning, he said, and he plucked it from the ground at the end of the day. It was a blue whale, with a dot for its eye and a curved line for the mouth. He squished it down again, distorting the face.

“It’s fine, Les, promise.”

“You’re always quieter there. You never let us hug, either.”

“I know, I just—”

Lestat squeezed his blue whale again. Louis shifted, picking at a fingernail. He started again.

“I missed you a lot. Today.”

The blonde looked to him from the corner of his eye. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

He launched from his place, engulfing Louis in his arms. “I love you so so much.”

“You want to read?” Louis croaked, eyes shut from his smile.

“Yes!” Lestat wormed his way around, pressing the side of his face to Louis’ chest.

“What are you doing?”

“I like listening to your heartbeat.”

“You’re gonna fall asleep.”

“I won't.”

Lestat kept to his word. He laid there quietly, blinking, listening to Louis’ voice, pounding heart, and the whisper of the evening breeze.

—

“Louis?” Grace swayed as she tugged on the doorknob. She was in her purple nightgown, hair covered by her bonnet, framed by the bathroom nightlight behind her.

“You O.K.?” He asked, lifting himself up to lean back against the headboard. He hastily flipped the sheet of paper on his nightstand over.

“She’s leaving again?”

“Yeah. Up north.”

Grace looked to the floor, absorbing this. Louis took in a deep breath, moving over and tossing the covers to the side to reveal the open space. She smiled, hurrying to close the door and join him. He gave her the extra pillow beneath his.

“Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t like it when she goes away.”

He ran his tongue along his front teeth, rolling over. “I know. It’s just a few weeks.”

Grace’s breathing deepened quickly. Louis looked over his shoulder at her, finding her head pressed back against the pillow, mouth hanging open. He grinned to himself.

Louis reached out slowly to his nightstand, turning the page back. He ran his hand over it. Lestat said they would decorate each room differently, and bounce to each for a hundred nights, then begin again.

Louis asked him how they were meant to care for it all. Lestat had snorted.

We just will, Louis.