Chapter Text
The rain was pounding heavily on the car windows, making the world outside all blurry. The blond in the backseat slid a finger on the glass, frozen cold under his touch: he could hardly see the road they were passing through. Regent Street, he thought. The man settled back with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Frustrated.
That day was endless.
The driver, Graham, a seasoned man showing a remarkable salt-and-pepper beard, turned slightly to check him out with the corner of his eye.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur de Lioncourt. The Tube on strike and the weather didn’t help the usual traffic. It's been raining cats and dogs since this morning.”
Lestat chuckled, appreciating the informal words from the man. Any time he came to London, he requested for Graham to come and drive him home. The Scotsman was a familiar face, by now.
“I would be happier, dear, if dogs were really falling from the sky right into my arms.”
The man beamed, turning to look again at the street in front of them. The car moved a pair of metres forward, then stopped again with a deep purr from the engine.
Lestat closed his eyes and focused on the noises coming from outside: rain, horns, people talking on the sidewalk, the siren from a police car somewhere.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Any plans for tonight?”
The blond opened his eyes again, frowning as the lights from an approaching car hit the window on his right. He shrugged, as if Graham could see him, acting nonchalant, modulating his voice in a light, uncaring tone.
Because, for sure, he didn’t care.
“Nothing special. Gonna get something to eat. Watch something on Netflix. Sleep. Just me, myself and I.”
Fake.
You’re so fake.
The world's a stage to you.
“My grandma, bless her, said that the most important thing we all have to learn is being enough to ourselves,” Graham declared, nodding as if he had just told the truth that could disclose any mystery in the world.
Lestat bursted out laughing at the irony of it, getting a side look from the man at the wheel. “That’s true. What could we do if we’re not good with ourselves?”
You’re not enough.
You’ll be alone forever.
Solitude, that’s your fate.
Stop it.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He took it and stared for a moment at the name on the screen, sighing with relief.
David .
“Hey.”
“Hey. Are you already here?” David’s perfect English accent sounded familiar in his ears. He could envision his friend in his office at the King’s College, his desk clear from anything that could be an inconvenience, books in flawless order around the room, a cup of tea always ready. And, obviously, his appearance: an impeccable British gentleman, with all the right spirit and manners, in the body of one of the most beautiful human beings Lestat had ever set his eyes on. Lestat still felt no shame thinking about their first meeting, when he cheekily flirted with the Anglo-Indian beauty in front of him, getting no reaction except for a pair of raised eyebrows and a resolved no .
“I’m fine, thank you, how are you?” he asked, with no real resentment in his voice. He couldn’t hold grudges towards David.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you”. Then: “When did you arrive?”
Lestat moved the phone from his ear to check the time: 5:12 p.m. He had a watch once, but it had been a gift from him .
“Three hours ago. And I’m still in the car, caught in a traffic jam. It’s impossible. This city is impos-”
“I know, I know: this wouldn’t happen in Paris. Paris is the best city in the world. Paris is perfectly safe. Paris is the city of dreams. You can be whatever you want in Paris. You could have breakfast together with the rats of the Seine and still have good company.”
Lestat smirked. There was a never ending quarrel between them about the superiority of London or Paris.
Paris, obviously.
“Anyway, how are you? I want the truth.”
“I’m fine, really, stop asking any time you hear from me,” Lestat replied and sighed deeply. The rain had calmed down a bit, and the blonde saw two men walking together on the sidewalk under a big, dark green umbrella, the arm of the taller one around the waist of his companion.
He was fine.
Really.
“Just tired, you know. A lot to do at work, I mean, the new Shakespeare production… this rendition of Macbeth is way too avant-garde for the mainstream audience… Marius says we should change a few elements, or it’s gonna be a flop… why not a success, I say…”
The shorter man raised on his tiptoes and kissed his lover, cradling the other’s cheek with a hand.
Lestat moved his gaze again on the front window.
“Did you hear something from the others?”
“Who?” the French asked, raising an eyebrow. Play nonchalant.
“Lestat.” David’s tone was a warning more than everything else.
The blond huffed with impatience, feeling a meaningless anger rise. “Armand called me multiple times, months ago: I didn’t answer. I know what he wants to tell me, and I don’t want to listen. Now he keeps reacting to my IG stories with stupid knives emojis, the little demon. Eleni texted me a few times, and Daniel too. Just this, nothing more.”
David stayed silent for a moment. Then the question he wished to avoid: “Nothing from him?”
“Why on Earth should he call me after what happened?” He suddenly realised he was leaning forward on the backseat, elbows on his knees, his voice a little higher and meaner than before. From the front of the car, Graham was observing him in the rear-view mirror.
Calm down, princeling, calm down.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… burst out like this.” He settled back again, rubbing his forehead. He was tired and could feel a painful headache coming closer and closer. “You’re friend to both of us, you’re just trying to repair things between me and him. I would do the same, if it was you.”
“It’s up to you two.”
“It can’t be repaired, David. Irreparable damage.”
“It’s so unusual hearing this from you. Where is the Lestat I knew?”
“One of those first times.” He looked outside, as far as he could: he would be home in fifteen minutes, hopefully. “And, anyway, the last time I spoke to him he was very clear.”
“He was angry.”
“And threw all my things off his balcony.”
“He wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“Sure! He wasn’t, and I agree with him! Just talk to me, for fuck’s sake.”
David stayed silent for a few moments, letting Lestat’s words linger between them. He craved to see his old friend, his ex-lover, the one who, he thought, was the missing part of him: something he realised way too late, unfortunately. He desired to hear his voice again, being pierced by those emerald eyes, to see how his features softened when he smiled. He even longed for the black-haired man to talk to him about the most boring books ever written, until Lestat fell asleep, died of boredom or set himself on fire.
He wanted to kiss him, like they had done so many times without giving much importance to it.
He missed his Beautiful One.
“I’ve called him so many times, and you know it, but he never answered. I just wanted to talk to him, tell him how things weren’t as they seemed, even if he was never going to believe me… but he cut me off.”
When David spoke again, his tone was cautious.
“I’ve been invited to a vernissage tomorrow afternoon. Tate Britain, I can bring a plus one.”
“Why not?”
“It’s contemporary art.”
“So you’re trying to punish me.”
“Armand will be there, too.”
“You hate me for real, David.”
Silence again. Then…
“He’s taking Louis.”
Here it was: a strange feeling, rising from his gut. Anger. Jealousy. Envy.
When he spoke, his voice was barely controlled. “As a date?”
Unexpectedly, David laughed. “As a friend. Armand is dating Daniel. You’ve missed a few things, it seems.”
Tension left his whole body, and a sigh of relief escaped his mouth, not really relaxed, by the way.
“Lestat?”
“Uhm?”
“If you don’t want to come…”
“Said no man or woman ever to me.”
“Lestat!”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.” Suddenly, he felt his head going dizzy. “Yeah, sure. I can do it. Looking at an art I can’t understand and drinking champagne.”
“Are you sure you won’t make a fuss when you see him?”
“I won’t. I promised Marius I’ll behave.”
“Great, so…”
“Anyway, I can’t swear my manners to Armand will be civilised.”
“He’s being a good friend to Louis.”
“Oh, I didn’t expect anything else.” He rolled his eyes, as if David could see him. “For one afternoon I think I can tolerate the Little Fury.”
“Good, I’ll text you tomorrow morning. Now ,” a rustling of pages, “I have to go. Late afternoon lesson. Take care.”
“See you.” Lestat turned off the call and checked a few texts he had received while he was on the phone, or before: Daniel welcoming him back in London, Marius sending tickets for a new theatre show in the West End he had to attend, a text from this girl Estelle he had met once in a nightclub (what had happened after?)... and a notification from IG: louis_dulac posted a new photo.
Lestat clicked on it, and smiled at the familiar and yet (to him) heartbreaking view: Louis’ kitchen in the dim light of the rainy afternoon, the great window just above the sink in full display, a stack of books on the table and in the foreground a chalice of red wine and an impressive volume (Lestat calculated that, considering Louis’ speed at reading, he would have finished it in less than ten days). The caption: to monday.
No sign of the author, as in any other pic posted by Louis.
“Monsieur de Lioncourt?" Graham’s voice came unexpectedly and Lestat realised he had stopped the car in front of his house. He looked one last time at the pic, then switched off the phone, paid his driver and brought his things inside. As soon as he closed the door behind him, in the darkened hall, he felt again that sensation, so familiar to him: empty, lonely.
“Get back on your feet,” he heard his mother say. Well, he was there for a reason, wasn’t he? To set things right, to take up his life again. To make that feeling disappear.
Even without Louis.
He wasn’t going to make a mess.
__________________________
Soothing: that’s what rain was to him. A soothing balm on his forehead, lean fingers pressing lightly with small, circular movements on his temples when he was tired, and gently caressing his hair.
The sensation was as real as a memory.
Like this?
He turned the page of his book as he took a sip from his cup. Back from the gallery on that early Friday afternoon, that was part of the scenery he had envisioned for the weekend: chilling out with a book on his old armchair ( Why don’t you get a new one? I could buy it for you ), having a stroll in the park, going to his favourite bakery and his favourite vintage shop, watching a movie, getting ready for the Monday morning interview with this new Greek artist who wished to show his latest collection in Louis’ gallery ( Charming, isn’t he? ).
The Perfect Plan. Rain was only a well-welcomed addition.
It was the first weekend in a long row that he allowed himself some rest. And some time alone, that was sort of equivalent to rest. The last weeks - or, better, months - had been a long sequence of work, art shows, work travels, trips to someone’s house to spend a few days in social activities that, to him, at some point got overwhelming.
But everything was, nonetheless, an easy distraction not to think about that .
Now, after five months of a neverending routine, he thought that he could face three days on his own even if he didn’t keep his brain constantly busy with something to do.
In the end, it wasn’t different from any other time they had been closer and then far from each other. They weren’t just going to be like that again.
He settled back on the armchair, crossing his legs and pulling the sleeves of his worn-out, black sweater on his perpetually cold hands, a sensation he hated but to whom he was used to. He had a pair of gloves somewhere, he only had to find them in the chaos that was his house.
Come here, I’m warm.
You’re a block of ice.
Emotionless.
You feel nothing.
The black-haired man turned another page and started a new chapter: “ Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not waiting for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrei set off for home.”
He was so focused that he startled when something warm and soft pushed against his left leg.
“Where have you been, mon petit ,” he murmured, stretching out a hand to caress the ginger cat. Pantoufle purred against his fingers, then rubbed his head on the palm, his amber eyes shut. Louis closed the book and moved slightly on the armchair, making space as the cat jumped up and cuddled next to him, leaning his head on the man’s thigh. He hadn’t seen the cat since the evening before… maybe, he hadn’t really paid attention. He thought with a spark of guilt that he hadn’t been with them a lot in the last months: if Pantoufle was spending its time somewhere else, he should have known. The pet was under his care, after all.
Maybe you’ll start taking care of yourself, too.
As for old Cogsworth, he was exactly where he had left him coming home: stretched out on the sofa, snoring lightly, one paw trembling due to whatever he was dreaming of. The big, grey cat had greeted Louis once he had entered the flat, meowing insistently, a sound the man had immediately associated with a reproach that he probably deserved.
It was the ringbell who stirred him again, not more than one hour later. Louis raised his eyes from the pages to see that the weakening light from the outside and the persistent rain had left the room in half-darkness, except for the halo of light around his armchair and the flamboyant floor lamp that at first had seemed too exaggerated to him, although in the end had resulted being totally at ease in the patchy environment of his flat. Sat on the sofa, Cogsworth was already alert, waving his puffy tail, while Pantoufle was waking up from the same numbness Louis’ limbs had fallen in. The man stretched his arms and back as the ginger cat jumped on the wooden floor, padding merrily to the window to check who was outside, then switched on the wall lamps across the living room, the hallway and then down the stairs to the front door.
“You didn’t warn me you were coming,” he scolded, opening the door, “you could have texted me.”
“I did, indeed, at least two hours ago, but you didn’t reply.” Armand made his way into the house, the ends of his auburn hair wet from the rain. He turned as Louis closed the door and kissed him on the cheek. “How are you?” His voice was low, intimate, even if they were alone.
“If I say I’m fine will you believe me?”
The shorter man tilted his head on a side, examining him with his brown eyes. "Only if you're convincing enough."
Louis sighed and preceded Armand up the stairs. "There is nothing I shouldn't be fine about."
"Isn't Miss Havisham at home?” Armand asked, glaring at the door right on the lower hallway.
“ Miss Cormoran is at her sister’s house in Cornwall,” Louis gave him a cautionary look from over his shoulder, “for the whole week, until next Friday.”
“I can envision her pacing around her flat, in her old wedding dress, plotting revenge against everything and everyone.”
“She’s harsh, but she’s good… in the deep.” Very deep , Louis thought. He had been living in that house for six years now, and only in the last two he had come to know the kindest part of the woman. After all, he was the type of neighbour she liked: calm, silent, reserved. Especially silent.
“She swore revenge to happiness,” Armand replied, hanging his coat on the hook beside the flat main door. He threw a sly smile to Louis, his voice lower and ostentatiously seducing. “It means I can be loud tonight?”
Louis rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen. Behind, he heard his friend making voices at Cogsworth and Pantoufle.
Friends , that’s what they were. They had met four years before, sat close to each other at a debatable rendition of Romeo and Juliet , about which they discussed for hours in front of two wine glasses in Louis’ favourite wine bar, the little redhead showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge of French cheese and wines and cocktails that Louis confessed he knew very little about.
They had dated for a month, not going beyond a passionate kiss on Armand’s couch, in his perfectly designed apartment, in the luxurious neighbourhood of Mayfair, before mutually agreeing that besides the physical attraction neither of them wanted a relationship. Armand had been 21 at the time, a final year student of interior design, Louis 24, the new owner of a large space in Greenwich that would have become an art gallery, but concerning their still young age Louis felt that there was something more about Armand that he couldn’t grasp.
Armand was young, but when he talked you could perceive something that made him seem older than he actually was. There were things he knew everything about, and others completely alien to his world and his mind ( One obsession at a time ). Louis knew that his real name wasn’t Armand, and that he started being called like that when he was adopted from Eastern Europe, but not much more about this family (whose name wasn’t Leroux, as Armand was known), besides the fact that they were very, very rich. He had lived in Venice, Rome, Paris, New York, before settling down in London to study, but the time he spent talking about events from those juvenile years was quite rare. He had done theatre for a few years, in Paris as far as Louis knew, and was practical in a few things that went beyond the simple acting. He spoke perfect Italian, French and English, surprisingly enough was fluent in Latin as if it was a living language, knew a little Spanish and Arabic, but refused to use Russian. He could master a perfectly plain face, expressionless, the surface of a marble statue, and then completely change his features within seconds in an outburst of emotion, mostly laughter, totally unhinged, sometimes unable to control himself so sternly. He drew with remarkable easiness and had a talent with colours and proportions in perfect harmony with each other that made his job easier. Once, in a moment of weakness when he had been the one needing Louis’ help and proximity, Armand had told him about the wrong crowds he used to hang out with when he was younger, in Rome and Paris: three years before, and it had been the first time Armand had really allowed Louis to solve a bit of the mystery he was. An abandoned child, a lone teenager, a young man defining himself.
To Louis, he had always been the best of friends. It wasn’t unusual for him to appear out of nowhere at the gallery on lunch time, far from his own office just to take Louis out for an hour, sometimes a forced break he knew that the man needed, or invitations to events he’d be interested in, or getting to his apartment unannounced, or just a call to chat about anything.
What Armand did the most was taking care: to Louis it seemed a natural consequence of being abandoned for so long, on his own, a child who had grown up forgotten. Armand had taken care of him months before, after the break up, listening to his outbursts of anger in a strange mix of French and English or to his brooding and recriminations towards himself, putting aside all the bitterness and the nasty judgments he had cherished towards him, the blonde , for years because they weren’t what Louis wished to hear. He had stayed close for the time the man needed to recover (a presence , Louis thought, not always physically there but nonetheless on his side) and then had fed him with daily distractions to help him go on.
“Did you meet that client today?” Louis asked, putting the kettle on the burner, as Armand entered the kitchen.
“This morning. He showed me this loft he bought in Tokyo, you know… big money, big house. He needs someone to arrange things.” He moved a pile of books from a chair to the table and sat. “I said no.”
“Another one?” Louis frowned: chicken hawks, Armand had met plenty of them. He was 25, but looked much younger, so it wasn’t rare that he attracted the attention of older men in search of what Armand had classified as a rent boy or a sugar baby ( Do I need their money? I could buy all their houses in the blink of an eye ). And sometimes, Armand met them for work, being in the uneasy condition of refusing a job or taking it, hoping they got his refusals without any more fanfare. Louis supposed his friend was one of those people so beautiful and so radiant whose delicacy was often mistaken for weakness: Armand looked like a Botticelli angel, but could actually slit their throats without a second thought.
Metaphorically.
“Yes, unfortunately.” The redhead sighed, reading the cover of an art magazine as he spoke. “He said at the end of the houseworks I can stay in the flat as long as I want, without paying any rent, and wait for him, so that we can arrange things. But what is there to arrange if the work is over?”
“I’m sorry it happened again.”
“I’m just condemned to this beautiful face, I can do nothing about it.” Armand shook his head, as if to erase any thought concerning the unfortunate event from that morning. “But I got a call from a family in Kent, they saw the photos from that cottage in Yorkshire last year…”
“The one with sheeps in the yard?” Louis couldn’t suppress a laugh at the thought.
“Never again I want to see a sheep in a less than twenty-metres distance.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then moved his gaze around the kitchen to the living room. “So, what were you up to?”
“I closed the gallery earlier: no work this weekend. I was reading…” The kettle whistling stopped him. He took two mugs, the usual one from a tourist trap carnival in Miami for Armand ( We should go, once, why not? ), and poured in the boiling water. “Ginger and lemon?” The other nodded, taking the mug and the small tea bag from Louis’ hands before asking: “How is your book?” He frowned, scraping into his memories. “ War and Peace , isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s good. I mean…”
“So you’re definitely into Russian literature now?”
“I guess…”
“And into Russians? Ukranians?”
Louis laughed, sitting down in his chair in front of the kitchen window. “I’ve been, for more or less one month, a few years ago. I know a journalist who is, now, actually…”
Armand shrugged, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. “Nothing serious. We hang out sometimes, you know, cinema, dinner, theatre, clubs… the usual, right? Basically he minds his business and I stick around.”
“But he’s glad that you stick around.”
“I torment him.”
“I suppose he’s glad about that, too.”
“How do you know?”
“The easiest way to know what people think: I talked to him.”
“The easiest way would be reading minds.”
“But we can’t and I wouldn’t be so careless about doing it. Privacy.”
Armand stayed silent for a moment, sipping his tea. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Louis asked, genuinely curious. The redhead in front of him didn’t use to say thanks quite often.
“For introducing Daniel and me. It’s been… a gift.”
Louis looked at him with a fond smile on his face. “Early Christmas?”
“Yes, now you’re not supposed to give me that grey sweater we saw last week.”
The two laughed, then silence fell, the pounding of the rain outside and the purring from Pantoufle on Armand’s lap the only noises in the room.
“Tomorrow. I got an invitation to a vernissage at the Tate Britain.” Armand was lazily scratching the cat between his ears as he spoke, not looking at Louis. “I’m taking Daniel, but I can take whoever I want, so why don’t you come? At least Daniel will have someone else to complain with about the nonsense of contemporary art, as he says.”
Oh.
Perfect Plan Failed.
“Thanks, really, but… I have some things to do, I’m always at work, you know, so when I’m home I have to…”
“It’s in the afternoon, if you want, it starts at 4 p.m. A couple of hours, I promise, then you’ll spend the night and the whole Sunday doing whatever you want. And,” he added, “I know David has been invited, too, and Eleni, so you’ll meet everyone there, isn’t it wonderful?”
Louis sighed, defeated. “Ok, I’ll come. I haven’t seen David for a while… it’ll be good.” He was quite pleased, actually: besides Armand being Armand, Eleni was a spirit of her own kind, Daniel was good company, one of the most ordinary guys but yet extraordinary he had ever met, and David was a good friend, one he shared more interests with than he really thought, a voice of reason in a chaos.
He frowned, searching through his memories for the last time he met the Brit: one month before, maybe? He wasn’t even sure. On the phone, of course, but since the break up things hadn’t been quite relaxed between the two of them, too, even if David was, among them all, the only one really in balance between Louis and him . Not that Louis wished to know about how he was doing, what he was up to in Paris or wherever he was spending his days on the stage, so everything concerning him could stay out of his own friendship with David… nonetheless it still seemed strange talking to David with a third presence so close to them.
A quite annoying, fussy, stinging presence.
“Wonderful! Actually, I had already given your name to the organisers, so… I’ll send you a few details tomorrow morning. Just- oh . Oh, God.” Armand was looking at his phone, a sudden dismay on his face, his fingers on Pantoufle’s head still.
Louis frowned again ( Stop doing that, you’ll get wrinkles before you turn 30 ). “What?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Armand put his phone back on the table and resumed scratching the cat, avoiding Louis’ gaze, his features plain without any sign of emotion, a master of calm demeanour.
“What happened? What did you see?”
“Why are you so suspicious?”
“Because I know you…”
“I don’t know what you’re-”
“Don’t do that.”
“Really, Louis, you should c-”
“Armand!”
“Okay! Calm down.” Admirably, Armand didn’t even raise his voice. “Just, your phone… beware when you use it.”
“What should this possibly mean, mon Dieu .” Louis settled back in the chair, his mind wandering. A thought came up above anything else, a possibility he had never excluded. An eventuality he expected. That city was his home, too.
“Is Lestat here in London?”
Armand nodded slowly, now looking at him, a hint of contempt in the thin line of his mouth. “This afternoon.”
“And…” Louis searched for the right words, a strange sensation growing in his guts at the possibility that they could meet somewhere by chance. The city was huge, so the chances of meeting weren’t so fortuitous, but it had happened before, hadn’t it? The two of them out of nowhere in the same place. At least, if he had to meet him, he hoped the blonde would be alone.
“And,” he started again, “is he with…”
“Alone, he left the girl in Paris.”
“The last time I saw him he said they weren’t together, but,” Louis leaned his elbows on the table, “even if they are now, it’s not my problem. I’ve been very clear: it’s over, I don’t wish to see him or talk to him.”
Armand chuckled, unable to resist. “You threw all his things off your balcony.”
“And I’d do it again.” He would, for sure. He was still angry, and the time he had been a sad, crying thing was long over. Lestat had treated what had ever happened between them, in all those years, as a joke, a mockery, something else to play on the stage of his life. And this time Louis didn’t forgive him.
“I’m glad to see that you’re past it, now,” Armand said, his brown eyes softer.
“There isn’t much I could do other than being past it.”
“Right. So…” A playful smile curved the younger man’s lips. “Monday. The new artist…”
“No. It’s work. Charming, okay… but work.” Louis stood up and put his empty mug in the sink, hoping that it would be clear that this new side of the conversation was over. And that Armand couldn’t see the light flush on his cheeks. “And how do you know about him, anyway?”
Armand shrugged and put Pantoufle on the empty chair beside him. “Eleni told me. I mean, Louis, he has a boat.”
“You have a boat, too.”
“I have three, but I don’t live and travel the world on them.” He approached and lightly rubbed Louis’ arm. “It doesn’t have to be serious, right? It could be a let’s-pass-some-time-together sort of thing, you know, the kind of time you can spend in bed…”
“You didn’t even see him,” Louis replied, with a roll of eyes.
“Eleni pictured him quite well. Prepare for the interview, at your best. Relax, have a glass of wine. Anyway, I have to go, I’ll text you tomorrow morning.” Armand raised on his tiptoes and hugged him, Louis’ arms soon around his waist. Before letting him go, he kissed his cheek again. “Just check your phone, for once,” he added, putting on his coat and scarf.
“I’ll do. Take a cab, if you can, it’s still raining heavily.”
“Okay, maman .” And with a wink, he was gone.
With a sigh, Louis went back to the kitchen. A loud meow from Pantoufle told him that it was time for dinner for the two of them.
So, he was in London.
Louis resisted the temptation of taking his phone and checking all the socials where he could still find signs of him, just to see what Armand had found. A pic of him, merrily announcing to be in the city again? Some photos of the city? Of his house? No, don’t do it, he told himself, you’ve never done it so don’t start now. Go on, live your life. He treated you like crap. Was there even a need to still follow him? It was strange, actually, and all those thoughts were childish. Childish as the need to show Lestat that he had gone on with his life: now and then, at events, at home, images from his life he had kept posting just to make him realise that whatever had happened was the past.
You’re still suffering? Tant pis pour toi , I’m not. And I’m not sorry.
The break up hadn’t been his fault, anyway.
He took a chalice and filled it with red wine he had all the intention to drink (unnerving, the only thought of Lestat was unnerving, just like him) and searched for his phone to check the latest messages (and here they were, three texts from Armand telling him he was coming to his house).
He took his book again, and after putting in the oven something for dinner started reading at the kitchen table, just to busy his mind with something else that wasn’t blonde or French or a stage actor.
The other times, when he travelled from Paris to London, he always called or texted Louis upon his arrival.
Their relationship had been… strange. Peculiar. He didn’t know how to describe it other than that.
On and off.
Not a real relationship.
Friendship.
Friends with benefits.
Until the last time, before he ruined everything.
Écoute.
Let me explain.
You feel nothing.
They ruined everything.
After reading the same line for the fourth time, Louis surrendered to the undeniable evidence that he couldn’t focus. He took his phone, adjusted the book and glass and took a photo, then sent it to Armand.
The reply was quick: that’s how you’re preparing for monday?
It was going to be a long weekend.