Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a lonely couple of days. Lestat's last encounter with Louis had predictably ended in argument once more and the sweet, bubbly taste of affection had soured like one glass of wine too many. The result was a sort of happiness hangover wherein it was no longer clear whether the universe was punishing him for having a good time and letting his guard down, or if Lestat himself was inflicting said emotional punishment. Either way, he had found himself moping as he wandered the streets at night, feeling as though perhaps he should leave town once again but unwilling to abandon Mojo. Usually when he was out of town he asked his octogenarian neighbor to mind his four-legged companion but she herself was visiting grandchildren in Iowa. 

Stupid place, Iowa, he thought resentfully, pushing a decorative bowl of fruit around the kitchen island and contemplating shoving it over the edge like a cat seeking attention. He was fully aware that it wasn't the state's fault he was alone and grounded as it were again and that only fueled his self-loathing. Mojo whined at his feet and he sighed theatrically for his furry audience. "Want to go for a walk?"

The black tipped ears perked up immediately and Mojo gave an excited albeit restrained yip of affirmation. Lestat had barely straightened his spine by the time the dog was at the door, panting and glancing between Lestat and the basket by the front door that held his leash.

"It's the middle of the night. As long as you don't wander too far no one's going to complain about leash laws right now." Lestat pulled on a coat more for appearances than for a need for warmth as he slid out the door behind the cheerful German shepherd. He was never sure whether Mojo actually understood the words he was saying or just the overall sentiment, but somehow either way there seemed to be no misunderstandings between them.

Unlike with some people.

He frowned as the petty thought rose and crested, feeling it settle like an oil slick on water. Was it misunderstanding between them? Well, that wasn't the point of this, was it. He wanted to go for a walk to clear his mind, not dwell on the past, however recent.

Glancing up for something to distract himself, he caught sight of the community postal boxes and recalled that only yesterday he had seen an email from building management, addressed to all inhabitants ostensibly but very clearly directed at him, reminding everyone to collect their mail regularly so as to avoid overfull boxes. His was sure to be overflowing as he often forgot about human mail entirely for months at a time. His habit of signing up for various newsletters on a whim then promptly forgetting about them did not help the situation. Bracing himself, he rifled through the keys on his chain, unable to recall or identify which was for the mailbox before giving up and glancing around to ensure no mortal witnesses would see him use the Mind Gift to unlock it. An avalanche of papers sprang from their confines and he jumped back with a small curse, less mentally prepared evidently than he had anticipated. He gathered the scattered mail and began tossing the assorted fliers, credit card offers, long since paid bills, and various other unnecessary bits into the trash can located by the building's entrance for just such a purpose. The handful of magazines he left on a small side table in case someone else wanted them. Who had an interest in "Birds & Blooms" magazines he didn't know, although he must have had a fleeting interest himself at some point to have subscribed.

That mundane task accomplished, he continued out the door, grateful that the rumbling thunder and heavy scent of oncoming rain in the air appeared to have driven most people indoors tonight. There was a dog park not far away and he made his way there, aware that even if he was in the mood to sulk and languish it didn't mean that Mojo wouldn't need to stretch his legs.

Upon arriving at the park, he sank wearily onto his usual wrought-iron bench, expecting Mojo to immediately run off. It was only when he didn't that Lestat noticed the dog was holding something in his mouth, watching him expectantly. Leaning forward he realized it was a letter he had apparently missed.

"Thank you boy." He accepted the offering with a quick head pat which seemed to satisfy the dog who at last turned to search for some small nocturnal creature to root out of hiding.

Lestat watched him for a moment, thinking absently that he would have to find somewhere to toss the letter on their way back, but running his thumb over it, he noticed an odd, bumpy texture that caught his attention. Glancing down he realized it was a wax seal with the shape of a water lily pressed into the center. Who would use a wax seal in this day and age? He slowly turned the envelope, wondering if it was some sort of gimmick to catch the eye for another piece of spam but the sight of the return address nearly stopped his heart.

Louis.

Why would there be a letter from Louis? They had phones, they had email, they could get to one another's houses in person within minutes. What was this? And why were his hands trembling as he pulled open the envelope to read its contents?

Of course Louis dated the top of the letter formally in handwriting that although not indicative of a quill, did indicate a fountain pen. Lestat felt a small tug at the corner of his lips despite his petulant annoyance with Louis.

13^th November, 1994

Les,

It always seems wrong to call you that; it sounds too similar to "less" and that is entirely contradictory to everything about you. "More" would be far more fitting. But I digress.

I didn't mean to insult one of your favorite films. I understand that it has been incredibly meaningful to so many audiences, especially within the queer community (have you forgotten I count myself among their numbers?). I just meant that the storyline didn't speak to me in quite the same way it does to you. I don't wish to continue our argument from Tuesday, just to apologize. Things were heated in the moment, and I fear I may have been overly harsh in my criticism, as well as too caught up in my own pride to hear out your objections. I considered coming by to speak to you in person, but I feared my presence would not be welcome for now. I hope a letter is less intrusive as it does not demand an immediate response (or indeed any at all if you would prefer). In any case, I reiterate that I apologize for the way things ended during our last visit.

Sincerely,

Louis

Lestat read the letter three times as though he hadn't already memorized its contents the first time, then slowly folded it and replaced it back in the envelope, carefully smoothing down the water lily seal with his thumb.

“I’m sorry”

Had either of them actually said those words out loud to one another before? They had had arguments and disagreements so many times both in the sixty-five years they had first been together and in the years since their reunion, and of course those arguments had at some point or another concluded, but always in some unspoken fashion. Sometimes it was a gift (usually on Lestat’s end), sometimes it was the ending of a cold silence (usually on Louis’ end), but it was always a distraction from the original issue, the dispute never actually resolved, simply ignored until it inevitably reared its ugly head again.

Something was most definitely percolating at the edge of his emotions, but it kept shifting, roiling, and foaming so that small bubbles of feeling would briefly appear but burst before he could see them clearly enough to name them. It made it impossible to even categorize the overall direction of the feeling. Was it sadness? Excitement? Anger? The shape would not stay put and he wondered if anyone had ever elicited so much conflict at once in him the way Louis did.

He did always love variety.

With that thought, one thing did become immediately clear. Louis may have given him permission not to reply but obviously he was going to. He supposed he could have called or even gone to Louis just then if he wanted but the letter felt like it deserved an answer in kind. So Lestat waited patiently for Mojo to tire himself out and come trotting contentedly back to him before returning home.

When he had purchased the apartment, he had asked the interior decorator to “go all out” as it were, not just selecting furniture and art pieces, but supplying the space with everything one could need. He knew the antique cherrywood desk had been given just such attention, but never had cause to make use of it in this space before. Thankfully there was a great deal of paper stacked neatly in one drawer, and a beautiful Mont Blanc, never before removed from its velvet lined case, but waiting and ready.

The wastebasket beside the desk was sooner filled than a single sheet as there were many false starts that left Lestat shaking his head in agitation. It shouldn’t be this difficult just to start a letter, should it? Yet here he was, writing some iteration of “Dear Louis,” or “My Beloved,” or “Now see here,”.

At last he gave up and settled for neutrality, deciding that despite his love of detail, perhaps the main body of the letter would be more important than the opening anyway.

Louis,

A handful of carefully phrased sentences later, Lestat paused and set the letter aside to consider whether he wished to continue with the letter. He found himself doodling on a page where he had begun another letter with “Mon cher,” and had no idea how much time had passed before he realized that the random body parts he had been sketching, elbows, hands, ears, they weren’t random at all, but parts of a whole person. One specific person in fact.

Pushing the paper aside he returned to the letter, trying to ignore the earlobe he would have been happy to be nibbling on just this moment. He decided to add just a bit more. He wasn’t ready for this conversation to simply dissolve back into the foam of indifference yet.

Content at last with the main body of the letter he paused before signing off. Louis’ “Sincerely” was humorous in its formality but he didn’t think it suited him to respond quite so stiffly. On the other hand, “Love,” would potentially leave Louis fainting like a Victorian maiden, with a little gasp and a hand to the forehead. He grinned at the thought and considered writing that down just to tease him. However an olive branch had been extended and he supposed he shouldn’t immediately use it to light a fire, so he toned the sentiment down to what he hoped was an acceptable level and left the ink to dry a moment while he located an envelope.

A moment later all was folded, addressed, stamped, and ready to go and Lestat stood, ready to take the letter downstairs, when he recalled the first detail he had noticed about Louis’ letter. Dropping back into his desk chair, he rifled through every drawer in the office before grumpily concluding that sealing wax had evidently not been a part of his interior decorator’s inventory of necessary items. He briefly recalled that his initial reaction to seeing the seal on Louis’ letter had been to scoff and think it absurd that someone would do such a thing in the twentieth century. Now he regretted his dismissiveness and debated how best to remedy the situation. The shops were all closed of course, this being the middle of the night, but that did not mean he couldn’t let himself into one, find a suitable seal, and leave some money as compensation on the counter before locking up again on his way out. He had certainly done that before when the situation called for it. A glance out the window however reminded him that the faint lightening of the sky meant he would be forced to retire soon and he didn’t feel in the mood to race the sun itself.

Instead he pulled out the original letter, studying the water lily pressed into the emerald wax and was struck with inspiration. He took up his Mont Blanc again, but paused, recalled that the ink it possessed was black, and set it back down. Black wouldn’t do here, but how to get the appropriate color?

A quick look through the kitchen cupboards found him a small dish designed for dipping sauces which would likely never be put to its intended use with him residing there. A few drops of water from the faucet should do the trick he thought, returning to the desk to remove the black ink cartridge and remove the nib of another fountain pen. At last, he used a fingernail to cut a small slice in his left thumb and squeezed a few drops of blood into the sauce dish, swirling the blood and water a bit with the pen as the wound quickly healed itself over.

Satisfied with the blend for the time being, he dipped the pen properly and carefully began to sketch over the edge of the envelope’s opening. It was more of a pale red than the natural pink shade it should have been, but he hoped the imprecise shade would invoke the image just as much as the imprecise lines.

There, that should do.

Now to wait and see what else Louis had to say.

Chapter Text

To a casual observer, it may have appeared that there was a statue in the back garden, seated on the fountain reading. He was pale enough and still enough. Even if one’s mortal eyes happened to catch the shift of a page of the book, it happened so quickly that one would be forgiven for assuming it had been the wind rustling the pages, or a trick of the moonlight.

For his part, Louis gave very little thought to his appearance, especially given how rarely he had company to whom he would appear. Instead, he was entirely absorbed in a dusty copy of Finnegan’s Wake, having decided to give the cyclical prose a third go-round as it were, and wondering if that might not be the entire point after all.

The songbirds served as a kind of reverse alarm clock, alerting him to the imminent sunrise and warning him that his reading hours would soon need to come to an end and he sighed and tucked the book under his arm to head indoors to the hidden crypt he had made. Ever since Lestat had burned down the servants’ cottage he was living in, he had half-heartedly made some repairs to the Victorian mansion he owned on the edge of town, making it as habitable as necessary for now.

Before he could quite reach the door, the sound of an automobile drifted to his ears from the front of the house. The postal workers must be out earlier than usual he realized. For a moment he pitied the deliverer. New Orleans was never as cold as places further north, the humidity saw to that, but November nights were putting a crisp chill to the air lately that could not have been fun for someone who otherwise might have been wrapped up asleep in a warm bed. Not that he could relate anymore, not having spent much time in bed in years.

Well, not sleeping anyway. The memory of the last time he had been in a bed would have brought a flush to his cheeks had he bothered to drink from anyone recently. He shook his head as if to clear away the thought.

He waited for the crunch of the tires to recede before collecting the mail. He tried to interact with mortals as little as possible these days.

Little post made its way this far out, especially since Louis was not one to put his information out into the world (one particular memoir spoken to a journalist withstanding). Spam was uncommon and there were few bills to pay beyond the basics, especially considering his reluctance to bother even turning on the lights when left to his own devices. As a result, today there was only one envelope sitting alone in the dusty mailbox and catching a glimpse of the handwritten address suggesting it was not a bill, Louis wondered if perhaps it had been delivered to him by mistake.

The faint scent of blood suddenly struck him and he thought for a moment that the sender had perhaps given themselves a papercut preparing the envelope until he saw the drawing on the back. He brushed a fingertip over it, wondering who would take the time to draw an intricate little peony in diluted blood. Of course he suspected he knew the answer even before he turned the envelope over to see the return address. A smile ghosted his lips.

20th November, 1994

Louis,

You could shorten my name to Lest, it sounds rather pleasingly similar to "lust" non?

Regarding the rest of your letter, I must admit I greatly appreciate the apology. I wish I could say my feelings were not hurt over our dispute but obviously that would be a lie, however petty. Seeing your remorse in such a tangible way did go a long way toward soothing the sting. I too would like to apologize for calling your taste outdated and dull. Your love of the classics in terms of the arts is honestly a part of your charm, not a strike against your character. Things did become heated as you said, hasn’t it always been so when we grow warm to one another again that we eventually overdo it? Perhaps with some distance we could better keep cool heads?

You said that the film did not speak to you in the same way it did to me. Am I correct in believing that it did, however, speak to you? It seemed as though you took away a different message from the story and I am curious to hear better what it was you heard, if you would be willing to try our discussion again.

Warm regards,

Lestat

Louis gently folded the letter, carefully pressing along its creases, imagining his fingers sliding over the paper in exactly the way Lestat’s must have. He tucked it back into its cozy envelope and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket as he returned inside, descending to the house’s cellar where he kept his coffin. Only once locked in and tucked away himself did he pull the letter back out and press his lips to the peony on the back, letting the faint taste of iron linger as he drifted to sleep.

When he awoke the next evening he was still holding the letter but some of the initial surprised pleasure of its receipt had dulled. He was unsure of where to go from here. He intended to respond of course, but how to go about it. The entire purpose of writing the first letter had been to offer a gentle apology, in hopes of not further rocking an already precariously floating boat. The relationship between Louis and his Maker had never been an easy one, especially as their disagreements tended to escalate into much larger disputes, as if they were always speaking different languages though their words were of the same origins. If all he wanted was to soothe the injured feelings of their last argument, then Louis felt it best they let the discussion lie. He could demur, give a sort of non-answer and let the matter settle like the dust over the neglected furniture he passed by without a second thought every day.

On the other hand, Lestat had asked and it would be rather hypocritical for Louis to have spent so many years criticizing his Maker’s reticence to speak of his own origins or greater knowledge of their kind, only to turn around and take a similar position, albeit regarding a much less pertinent matter.

Louis settled into the well-worn desk chair and reopened Lestat’s letter. They had spoken so much aloud and yet said so little in the time that they had originally cohabitated in that town house in New Orleans. He had learned nearly nothing of Lestat’s inner thoughts or troubles in that time, yet in the single night it had taken him to read the first autobiographical book Lestat had published he learned so much more than in all those years. To think too that he had written it in part in response to Louis’ remarks about his secret-keeping in the book Daniel Molloy had published. Perhaps the written word afforded them a common ground they otherwise seemed unable to achieve.

It was a possibility he felt he might not necessarily explore with someone else, after all, Louis didn’t feel he generally had much to say to anyone. With Lestat…

He rested a fingertip on the peony once more. One small sketch, nearly completely obscured by the tip of his index finger, yet it held the promise of something trying desperately to bloom.

Fine. The seed had been sown, let them see what would come of it. 

Chapter Text

Building management would have been delighted to learn how their email had been taken to heart by their sometimes-troublesome resident. They wouldn’t know of course, not spending time in the mail room in the middle of the night, how often Lestat had taken to checking his designated box. He was well aware that it was unlikely the postal worker would be out delivering at three in the morning, but letters did sometimes get pressed to the side of the box, it wasn’t unreasonable to wonder if perhaps he had missed an envelope, was it?

Each return to check he found himself holding his breath, though breathing was more of a habit than necessary now, and each reveal of the still empty box was something of a reverse Jack-in-the-box. All the coiled excitement sprang from him into its tiny void and bobbed from side to side as he checked the edges before falling limp and defeated.

Worse was when there was mail, but the wrong sort. Magazines at least he knew were not what he was looking for, but every regular envelope sent his heart racing and the disappointment at seeing the preprinted address of some uninteresting company had become outright nauseating. He once had flung an envelope from a life insurance company aside with such vigor that it startled a nearby resident he hadn’t noticed in the vicinity due to being so caught up in his frustration. When the elderly man had given him a questioning look, Lestat quickly explained that there was a spider on the letter and the man had nodded and carefully maneuvered his walker around the offending bit of mail as though worried the alleged arachnid might choose him to startle next.

It was thus fortunate for both Lestat and his neighbors that Louis’ response arrived only a few days later.

24th November, 1994

Lest?,

I'm not sure Lest suits either, doing something for fear of the alternative doesn't sound like you.

I do not think you were entirely wrong to call my tastes “outdated”. While I would argue that the classics retain their reputation because they explore certain timeless truths, clearly their methods of imparting those truths do not always hold up in terms of modern reception. At least it would seem so given what you said about the general current popularity of the film. (You said that they hold special showings of the film these days and people attend in costumes? Was that true or were you teasing?)

I think there were a number of things that put me off of the story if I am to be truthful. I admit my initial indignation was at the bastardization of certain classic pieces of literature and that, upon reflection, I can see how the film was not intended to be an exact portrayal of those stories but referential to some of their themes. Perhaps it was my expectation and the consequent disappointment at those expectations not being met that truly led to my displeasure more than anything the film itself did. Nonetheless, as a lover of some of those stories in their original forms a part of me was pained to see what felt like a mockery of them.

I do not wish to merely complain however. Despite my distaste I do recognize that you adored the film and I would like to know what about it you find so endearing. I think to learn what another person loves is to see a piece of their heart.

Sincerely,

Louis

Lestat ran a thumb over the page next to the last sentence. Louis had started another and blotted it out. He held the page up to the light, wondering if he could make out the ink beneath but was disappointed to see that he could not. What had Louis been about to add? The words he had not said somehow felt they might carry more weight than the words he had.

Should he ask about it in his return letter? He desperately wanted to, but a more mature part of his conscience whispered a reminder that Louis had chosen to redact the additional comment for a reason and it would show a measure of respect to refrain from pestering him about it. He heaved a weary sigh. It was so difficult sometimes, trying to respect others. Still, there was plenty else to respond to and he quickly returned to his apartment to begin.

He had visited a local stationery shop and found a delightful vellum that the clerk said was recommended for special events such as wedding invitations. The cost and quality agreed with her statement and Lestat happily purchased a whole set of pages. When the sales associate inquired as to the nature of the occasion, mentioning that they partnered with a calligrapher, Lestat politely declined the offer, but allowed the woman to sell him a set of midnight blue envelopes with gold lining instead. It was only when she asked if blue and gold were perhaps the wedding colors that Lestat finally mentally emerged from his musings about what might appeal to Louis to realize why the not so subtle fixation on his potential upcoming nuptials. With a smile and a wink he assured her that no wedding bells were in his immediate future at this point and left with both the stationery and plans for next Friday evening.

It was only upon completing his letter and carefully folding it that he remembered that he had not purchased wax or a seal as he had originally intended. He wondered briefly if he should return to the shop but a glance out the window revealed that he had spent longer writing and rewriting his letter than he realized and the first faint traces of dawn hovered just past the horizon. Anxious to post the letter before allowing another day to pass (although he doubted Louis was waiting as impatiently by his mailbox as Lestat had been) he decided to reuse his previous method of sketching in blood. However as he sat down with the small dish he realized that the pink peony would not work so well this time on the midnight blue of the envelope. Purple then, he decided, given how the blood would look against it, and proceeded to sketch a chrysanthemum over the edge of the envelope’s point.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he quickly slipped downstairs to drop it among the rest of the outgoing post, delighting to think how decadent and lavish it must look among the rest of the banal mail, and returned to his apartment to hide away just before the sun could creep over the city. 

Chapter Text

Louis was hardly one to wait by the mailbox like a lovestruck teenager. Honestly, knowing Lestat, he might forget all about the letter, or not even check his own mail for months at a time. Possibly because he was in Bangkok, or Bangladesh, or some other far away city by now. Who knew when, or if, he would ever receive a response.

Of course, Louis still had his daily habits and tried to maintain some external appearance of a diligent homeowner, even if the many layers of dust gathering in entire rooms inside of the house betrayed him as otherwise. Nearly no one ever saw that, but the postman did see the inside of the mailbox periodically (which had never struck Louis as strangely intimate before now) and he felt it important to check each evening whether anything had been delivered. It wouldn’t do to have mail sit there for the postman to see the following day after all.

He did this by moonlight as he had not bothered to replace the bulb in the lamppost out front, and as such he very nearly missed the letter. Even with his supernatural eyesight, the deep velvety blue blended so neatly with the shadows that it might have gone unnoticed had it not been for the ordinary postage stamp, somewhat incongruous with the otherwise elegant envelope.

His heart skipped a beat as he pulled out the letter and he told himself it was the passing fear that he nearly missed it, a fear he chose not to mentally explore further as he turned it over, admiring the sketch of a chrysanthemum on the back. His own choice to simply use his seal seemed rather banal by comparison to Lestat’s creativity. It felt a pity to slice the envelope open and break the lovely drawing, but curiosity got the better of him. Pulling the contents out, he unfolded the pages and smiled at the unnecessarily sumptuous vellum.

27th November, 1994

Cher Louis,

Doing something for fear of the alternative is absolutely in keeping with my character. Playing the piano because I can’t bear the silence, for instance.

That aside, what “timeless truths” do you feel were imparted in a more modern way here? That people have always desired each other carnally and always will? I’m sure that contributed greatly to the film’s popularity. I was not teasing you by the way; they do indeed hold showings which people attend in costume! Unfortunately, these are usually around Halloween, so we have just missed the chance to find one to attend ourselves. Perhaps next year?

Were you expecting a faithful adaptation of a classic? Either way, expectations are always the precursor to disappointment I find. This is why I try to go into things with no expectations of what is to come.

I don’t think the story was meant to mock the classics, but pay tribute to them, irreverent as that tribute might be. There are different forms of worship are there not? From churches decorated with gold in Rome to the crude crucifix carvings sold on the side of the road out west, they are all done in the name of Jesus Christ and is it fair to say one form of honoring the lord is better than another?

As for what about the film endeared it so much to me, I think it is perhaps just what I have said so far. It is irreverent, funny, and sexy. The first time I saw it was in a cinema surrounded by an audience displaying such visceral, yet varied reactions, that in itself was delicious. Some people were outraged (not unlike yourself), others amused, and some were of course, shall we say, aroused. The best were those who were experiencing conflicting responses, for example those who were aroused but angered by their own arousal, or those who felt they should be offended but couldn’t resist laughing at the absurdity. Seeing people respond so strongly, and so differently truly marked so distinctly what I enjoy about being among humans still.

You said that seeing what someone loves is to see a piece of their heart; I agree but I think it isn’t limited to what one loves, but more broadly to what elicits response, be it negative or positive. Certainly, in your more unhappy moments I still feel I see a part of you sometimes, such as when you object to a film you dislike. (In the event my tone is not clear, I must say I mean this in the most affectionate manner.)

Affectionately yours,

Lestat

Louis had intended to go inside and read the letter at his desk, but realized only once he had finished that he had read the entire thing standing stock still by the side of the road. It was as though seeing his name so gracefully written in Lestat’s elegant hand had mesmerized him and he had lost himself in the words that followed, the spell only broken when he reached the end. Grateful that he had no immediate neighbors to observe his surely odd behavior, he quickly returned inside to his desk where he imagined Lestat sitting in a similar position, etching his soft swirls over the page as he drafted this reply. The image brought forth a feeling not unlike a first sip of champagne and Louis quickly blinked it away, preferring his customary sobriety.

He knew he should answer, and would answer of course, but first allowed himself the secret indulgence of reading the letter two more times, less for the contents and more for the pleasure of imagining Lestat’s voice speaking the words aloud.

There was of course, also much to consider with regard to what Lestat had actually said. Louis wondered briefly at his ability to feign shallowness in person yet commit to page ideas that betrayed him as far more thoughtful than his outward persona. Or was the shallowness perhaps more honest and the thoughts on the page lacking integrity? Which version of Lestat was the truth? Louis sighed at the familiar, uneasy distrust this caused him but decided to set it aside for the time being. He liked the version of Lestat on the page, whether he was real or not, and decided he would answer that person. What harm was there in maintaining the illusion for now?

His own stationery was woefully ordinary compared to that which he had been sent and Louis wondered if he should purchase something nicer before sending his reply. Obviously, he wouldn’t choose something so dramatically rich as what Lestat had. (Was this just something he had on hand? Quite possibly.) Ultimately, he decided it would be silly to put off his answer just for the sake of aesthetics. He could purchase other stationery later if this chain of communication continued, as he reminded himself it might not.

The only consideration he gave to the appearance of his response came later as he was folding the letter to enclose in his, again, ordinary envelope. The green wax and lotus seal he had owned for some time, having received them as a gift many years before, but it occurred to him that he had used that twice now, while Lestat had taken a more clever route with his drawings. Perhaps Louis could acknowledge his efforts in his own silent way? He was never much of a hand with visual arts however, so drawing didn’t seem like the best option. He glanced around the study, wondering if there was something else he could use to press a design into the wax. Then it occurred to him, it didn’t necessarily have to be a design, wax would hold other things.

Most of the queen anne’s lace had disappeared for the time being this late in the year, but there was one small patch near the back door that had stubbornly held out longer. Louis retrieved a small flower from one of the bunches, careful to leave enough stem to drip a bit of wax over to hold it in place. It was only after he had finished, that it occurred to him that the postal service might be so rough with the letter as to tear away the flower, leaving Lestat to wonder at the tiny green stem emerging shyly from the wax. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now, he decided and put the letter away before he could change his mind. What would happen would happen.

Chapter Text

The next letter was nearly discarded because it had gotten stuck between the pages of a Texas Parks and Wildlife magazine (When had he even subscribed to that? When he and David Talbot had passed through Corpus Cristi a few years ago? Why?). So he was going to have to end that subscription for this unforgivable transgression, he decided as he angrily tossed it in the garbage. His irritation was short lived however as he sank onto a bench in the mail room, smiling at the narrow but careful handwriting in his hands.

“Oh I know that look.”

Lestat jerked his head up at the raspy voice and took a beat to recognize the elderly man he had nearly assaulted with his discarded mail last week.

The gentleman tried and failed to lift his walker to gesture at Lestat’s lap and the difference between his mental image which Lestat glimpsed, and the actual image he witnessed was so comical it nearly distracted him entirely from the next comment.

“From a special someone, eh?”

Lestat stared blankly for a beat, then realized the gesture was intended to refer to the letter.

The elderly man chuckled. “I used to have a pen pal of my own.”

Lestat raised an eyebrow. Was that the term for what he and Louis had? He supposed it wasn’t entirely inaccurate at the moment but seemed to fall laughably short of the full story.

“Gal in Oslo. We met during the war.” (Lestat briefly wondered if he meant the Swedish-Norwegian War and why an American would have been involved before realizing that despite his advanced age, the man was likely not two centuries old and the war in question was most likely the more recent, and perhaps to most, the more obvious, second world war.) “She sent me photographs of herself now and then, bare as the day she was born. Incredible woman. Never seemed to age a day. Those tits were as perky at sixty as they had been at twenty. There was this one photo of her lying on a bearskin rug and looking right at the camera; boy I tell you I never wanted to go back to Norway so badly in my life.”

Lestat’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, ready to ask further questions, assuming there must be a vampire in Oslo happy to send out pornographic self portraits, whom obviously he himself would be interested in making contact with.

The man continued however, “I would send her stuff too of course, usually just things like pressed flowers, but also money. Times were hard back then and I wanted to help her out.”

Lestat’s mouth snapped shut, realizing that his initial assumption was, once again, most likely incorrect and not the most obvious case scenario after all.

“And yourself there, son? Got a lovely doll of your own?”

The mental image of Louis sending a photograph of himself sprawled nude on a bearskin rug with a ‘come hither’ look finally was the thing that sent Lestat into peals of laughter. While he didn’t object to the image, he knew very well that he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing before Louis indignantly stuffed himself back into his clothing, leaving Lestat no time to properly enjoy the attempt.

The man seemed bemused by his laughter however, so Lestat wrestled his face back into control. “No, not a doll.” He replied finally, taking his letter and leaving the man perhaps even more bemused than before.

He waited until he was safely out of sight to take flight, landing silently on the rooftop where he was more assured of privacy, not to mention unobstructed moonlight. Only then did he even turn the envelope over. The small white petals were barely hanging on, but the faint scent lingered with them and in that he could easily lose himself, imagining a warm, quiet garden dripping with moss and dew and a hand in his. If only he could pull the flower free from the wax and save it, crushed petals and all.

Why this instead of the lotus stamp from before? Was Louis actually attempting to change things up as Lestat had with his different drawing? Or had he merely misplaced the seal among stacks of discarded books? Either seemed equally plausible, but Lestat decided to assume the former as a bit of a romantic, ever hopeful that Louis might match him in that regard someday. That settled, he at last opened the letter, eager to see if the contents revealed a similar mindset to what he hoped.

30th November, 1994

Lestat,

You also play the piano because you enjoy the sound of it though, no? Your aversion to silence baffles me. Do you not find it easier to think clearly without the debris of unnecessary noise?

I know you mean to tease but desire is indeed an element of some of the truths being explored. The notion that some follow their desires despite the harm it may do to others, especially the subject of their desires, for instance, or to those with whom that subject is already entangled.

I must confess, I am both disappointed and relieved to hear that we have missed the most recent opportunity to attend such an event. Perhaps by next year I will have had more time to acclimate to the notion. If we were to attend a Halloween showing, would costumes be required? I’m not sure I’m suited to that sort of attire.

Do you think your determination to not consider expected outcomes perhaps results in the negative consequences of your actions more often than not? You have to admit, you don’t always think things through and surely you realize that’s often your downfall?

It’s strange to hear you speak of Christ. I never got the impression you were very impressed by Him. I do understand your point however about different forms of devotion. I suppose you’re right. Still, I am accustomed to a particular form of adoration, and I will confess to being most comfortable with the familiar.

I appreciate your observations regarding other cinema attendees, but I would like to point out that in all of that, you did not actually explain your own reaction to the film itself, favoring instead to express your pleasure at the reactions of others. The way you explain it makes it seem like your attention was less on engaging yourself and more on the engagement of those around you. Even your next remarks about myself, indicate that you are observing me in a way that seems contrary to your usual self-serving hedonism. (Similarly, I mean this affectionately.)

Fond regards,

Louis

Well.  There were a few things to unpack weren’t there?

“I suppose you’re right.”

Reluctant though the tone was, there was still a gratification to seeing it written so plainly. When had Louis ever said that to him? Never, as far as Lestat could recall. How he longed to yell that from the rooftop in triumph.

Of course, there were some less flattering statements in the letter as well, such as Louis’ accusation that he didn’t think things through. He had so carefully planned the release of his book and music videos a few years back, structured specifically so as to gain Louis’ attention, had he already forgotten? Or had he thought it was all accomplished on a brief whim, rather than being the result of months of effort and coordination? Lestat knew he could be impulsive, but who wasn’t sometimes? If anything, Louis could probably benefit from being a bit more impulsive from time to time, he thought a bit grumpily.

As for his “self-serving hedonism”? Lestat’s hedonism almost always served more than just himself! Louis didn’t complain about him buying the latest and greatest in entertainment technology when he wanted to come to Lestat’s penthouse to watch a film!

Lestat began drafting a letter in his head, making these very points and more to Louis as he paced back and forth across the building rooftop. Better yet, he shifted his imagination to include flying to Louis’ house now and saying what he had to say to Louis’ face, a much quicker resolution.

Although… it wouldn’t be a resolution, would it? Lestat paused in his pacing. He might get his points out, but Louis would never simply agree and let it lie. He would retort, and Lestat would raise his voice and Louis would lower his in response, and it would turn into thunder and hisses and biting words and-

And there it was: the exact impulsiveness Louis was referring to.

Lestat sank down on the edge of the rooftop. Okay. He wouldn’t fly there right now.  Would Louis know how close he had come to going over there and starting a fight and yet holding himself back? Of course not, Louis would have no idea the impulse was there to begin with, much less how hard Lestat had worked not to follow it to its messy conclusion. Lestat supposed he could tell him in his return letter, but that would sound like he was asking for a pat on the head, wouldn’t it?

No, he decided, he would wait to write the reply this time. Eager though he had been to receive Louis’ answer he thought perhaps it was best that he hold off until he had a cooler head to respond. Louis could wait after all, he was far more patient than Lestat himself was, and probably far less anxious to hear back.

He sighed and carefully replaced the letter in the envelope and began to tuck it into his jacket pocket before pausing at the sight of the flower again.

Tiny white petals, somewhat mangled in transit, winked up at him in the darkness. True, they had clearly had a rough time in the journey, but they had made it here, hadn’t they? Sentiment may be fragile, but did that necessarily make it ephemeral?

He carried the letter by hand downstairs instead.

There was an echo to his footsteps in the stairway, but that wasn’t unexpected for a concrete column with metal railing. It was only when he paused that he realized the echo did not, continuing just a fraction of a second too long. Lestat froze and warily leaned back to peer up the steps. No one. He reached out mentally, feeling cautiously as a human would run a hand along a wall in the dark, searching for the light switch, afraid of brushing against something else. There was nothing.

A thousand different explanations tumbled through his mind, he had caught the faint sound of someone on another staircase further down, he had imagined the noise, it had been a stone falling, so many possibilities but all of them he instinctively knew to be wrong. What story should he tell himself then, to banish the disquiet?

He nearly laughed aloud as it occurred to him that he had not removed the film from the VHS player. Well, it would be a distraction after all wouldn’t it? And a rewatch might help him get into the mood to answer Louis’ letter with more objectivity.

He locked the door behind him and hoped it would be enough to keep out his fears. 

Chapter Text

It had not been that long. Not even a week had passed yet since Louis had penned his last letter, and taking into account how busy the postal service likely was, given the time of year.

Okay so he had forgotten it was a holiday season. And okay he only remembered because he had decided to venture into town as it were. He needed Christmas gifts anyway he realized since, despite being a loner, Louis did have a few friends and friendly acquaintances he considered close enough to warrant some material gesture of affection. If he happened to end up near a certain penthouse while shopping it would be purely coincidence. Who knew where the night would take him.

Who knew whether it would matter if he ended up at the penthouse anyway. Perhaps the reason Louis had not heard back was that Lestat was no longer in town. Maybe he had chosen to disappear to more tropical climes for the winter in order to avoid the cold he so detested. Alternatively, he could have finally decided to embrace the chill and visit Switzerland for ski lessons. It seemed unlikely but not impossible either given Lestat’s capricious nature.

Perhaps he was still in New Orleans and had simply already grown bored of their exchange. Louis told himself that was understandable; it had not been the most exciting of conversations after all. But goodness did walking around in the cold leave a dull ache in his chest.

He didn’t go to the penthouse in the end. Instead he returned home with a few packages whose suitability he was already beginning to doubt. He regretted having shopkeepers wrap the purchases for him, realizing only now that he could have occupied some of his time tonight with gift wrapping. Rarely did the nights feel so elongated, distorted like a hallway in a dream, and Louis found himself uncharacteristically restless. He tried to lose himself in a more recent and fast-paced novel, but found that even Mulisch’s The Assault could not hold his attention tonight.

He decided after reading the same page about eight times in a row and still failing to absorb what was happening that it was time to try something else. A starlit stroll might do him so good, despite the creeping chill of the damp Southern winter.

Claudia had once loved midnight walks, he recalled. When she was younger and their family newer, her mind still that of a child, she had been happy to walk the streets by lamplight, her smaller hands safely ensconced, one in Louis’ and the other in Lestat’s. It had been sweet really, so ordinary save for the hour of their meanderings.

He smiled in bittersweet reminiscence of the feel of her fingers curled around his, and the soft pad of her slippered feet next to him. There was still time before daylight, he could return to town, go to the townhouse, and wait quietly, as he had done so many times, in hope of hearing those faint strains of Mozart that Jesse had described. David Talbot might be there and wonder what Louis was up to, but it was not such a difficult thing to feign reading as an excuse to wait silently. No one ever questioned him remaining motionless and silent for extended periods as it fell in line so neatly with his usual hobbies. Still, David might be in the mood for conversation, or actually begin to wonder why Louis was taking a bit longer to turn the pages.

Or Lestat could be there.

It was strange, Louis realized, that he kept finding himself unilaterally yearning for post from Lestat and yet the thought of seeing him in person made him want to both recoil and reach out at once. He wondered at the contrast, quietly confessing to himself that he was accustomed to the contradictory impulses in Lestat’s presence. It was the singularly positive response to the letters that was the deviation.

The sound of a vehicle not far off interrupted his musings and he rounded the corner of a bend in the road to see the glowing white of a mail truck and an arm stuffed into a puffy jacket like a ham done up with twine. Louis neatly side stepped behind a magnolia tree so as to avoid being seen by (and by extension, expected to interact with) the postal worker, before approaching the mailbox at a very carefully controlled stroll.

He had braced himself so firmly for disappointment that the sight of a midnight blue envelope sitting serenely in the center of the box was almost a confusing sight but the smile that reached his lips betrayed his pleasure before he could even register it.

Determined to reign himself back in, Louis forced himself to remove the mail calmly and enter the house before sorting through it, opening the two other minor pieces of communication first and dealing with them appropriately before allowing himself to sit down at his favorite desk with the blue envelope. When he at last turned it over, he had to bite back a small laugh at the sight of a wax seal, not unlike his own, but golden with a very familiar stylized flower stamped into its center. Surely that was a joke.

7th December, 1994

Cher Louis,

Of course I love the music as well, but silence unsettles me. As to the clarity of my thoughts, well, I’m not sure that is so impacted by either music or silence.

Do I sense a bit of a barb there in your point about those who do harm pursuing their desires? I shall endeavor not to be too bitter, but I should point out that not everyone ultimately objects to being pursued in the film. Would you not say that there are multiple characters who experience an awakening thanks to these unexpected experiences?

As for the Halloween showings, costumes are not necessarily required, but I would argue they’re necessary for the true experience. You could always dress as the professor; that would be tame enough and perhaps befitting your personality, non?

It’s true that I can be impulsive, I admit. However I think you underestimate the extent to which I do plan some things. As for not anticipating outcomes, I think there have been too many surprising events in my life which I could not predict and were outside of my control for me to try to guess what’s coming next with any certainty. Do you not feel that external factors impact your life too much to feign absolute control? You didn’t anticipate my arrival, for example.

I never said I was terribly impressed by Christ, but I know your raised religion means a great deal to you, tumultuous though your relationship still seems to be. 

“You’re right”! The first time you have ever said those words to me and I have it in writing, dated, and signed! I shall note the occasion on all future calendars so that I may mark its anniversary.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a piece of art is hung or aired but no one is experiencing it, is it really art? I find people fascinating. I suppose it’s a more outward look than your inward one. Does it never make you feel lonely, spending so much time looking inward like that? As for this being contrary to my “self-serving hedonism”, is it? I think socializing is just another element of it. Of course I love pleasure, and others are often a vehicle for that pleasure as well. “It takes two to tango” and all.

All my affection,

Lestat

P.S. Do you like the seal? I was browsing for one in a bookstore and the shopkeeper insisted this one suited me, being “French and all”. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no and so I find myself sending you a symbol of religious piety. Perhaps you could consider it a sign of my devotion to you.

Louis snorted at the postscript and glanced out the window at the lightening sky. He would not have time to answer tonight, but after all, Louis had had to wait a bit longer for this reply. Lestat would not suffer for waiting an extra day either.

Still, there was time to read through the letter one more time, wondering at the question regarding whether Louis was lonely looking inward. They had spent so much time together, Louis had no trouble reconstructing Lestat’s voice and tone for the majority of his words, but that question gave him pause as he could not decide whether the tone carried judgment or concern. The earlier comment wondering if there was a bit of a bite to Louis’ words hinted at a slight bitterness that may have carried through the rest, although Lestat’s characteristically harsh sarcasm was largely absent, so perhaps the bitterness had been short-lived like so many of Lestat’s emotions.

Even setting aside the question of tone, the question continued to haunt Louis as he refolded and tucked away the letter to climb into coffin. Was he lonely? He was alone by choice, so the answer was surely no. When he was alone, things were fine; they were quiet and peaceful, both things he adored. When Lestat was around, they were messy and loud.

And colorful.

He closed his eyes and tried not to see midnight blue and gold in place of the darkness around him. 

Chapter Text

There was something caught on Lestat’s shirt sleeve beneath his coat and it scratched at the edge of his attention as he wandered the city. It left his thoughts split and so he was only somewhat aware that he was looking for something he could not define and unsurprisingly not finding it. Agitated, he finally gave up and decided to return home and only realized after several blocks that he was walking in the direction of Rue Royale.

He did still own the townhouse of course, and had the key, though unnecessary given the Mind Gift. In fact, it was still safely on his keychain with the fob in the shape of a coffin emblazoned with “The Vampire Lestat”, a holdover from his rock star days. He drew it out now and paused in his wanderings to consider. As far as he was aware, David Talbot was still staying at the townhouse, at least part-time, although he knew he still traveled often. They had not spoken much since the ill-fated Rio trip and Lestat was still unclear who owed whom an apology for that. He could go find out, he supposed, rubbing the irritant on his arm absent-mindedly.

With a sigh he repocketed the key and turned around.

There were no aged neighbors in the mail room this time and Lestat took the time to shrug out of his coat to investigate his sleeve first whereupon he discovered the culprit of his discomfort to be a small, glittery purple butterfly clip clinging to the fabric. He was baffled for a moment before realizing that it must have come from the stationery clerk’s hair when they had tumbled into bed earlier. Should he return it to her? Was this the sort of thing one would notice missing?

With a shrug, he tossed it into the garbage can to be lost among the junk mail.

He was greeted by a waft of perfume samples included among the many magazines stacked in his box this time. Many department stores desperately wanted him to purchase gifts from them this season and honestly, he very well might, with or without their numerous advertisements. They made their way upstairs with him anyway this time. After all, he was in an odd mood, alternatingly restless and yet unmotivated, perhaps flipping through their glossy pages would spark an idea of where to channel his energy.

Mojo greeted him at the door and for a few minutes the vague dissatisfaction was lifted as he petted and played with the dog. Having something to focus on outside of himself seemed to help and it occurred to him in passing that Louis may have a point about his attention being heavily focused outward.

As if summoned by thinking of him, he glanced up at the stack of mail and noticed for the first time that there was a plain envelope just barely visible peering from between the junk. He stared at it for a long time from his spot on the floor next to Mojo and wondered why he couldn’t bring himself to get up and read the letter. He should be excited, he had been so anxious for the others to arrive, and had been still checking his mail daily, surely he wanted to see what Louis had written back.

His eyes slid past the mail on the counter to the phone, pristinely sitting in its cradle near the sink and Lestat realized that he didn’t want to write to Louis, he wanted to talk to him. He wanted Louis’ soft southern drawl in his ear, the distant sound of his laughter and exasperation down the line. He wanted to tell him about the girl he had been with tonight, how her name was Dawn and it made him laugh for reasons he couldn’t explain to her, and how she smelled like melon and said she came from North Dakota but had come here for school. He wanted to tell Louis how she didn’t taste like melon or North Dakota, but like absinthe, a surprisingly licorice twist to her blood and her kiss that he didn’t know what to make of, but it made him want to go back for more. 

But Louis would think Lestat was trying to make him jealous by talking about another lover. Maybe he was? A little bit? Mostly he wasn’t though, Lestat just wanted to share. He wanted Louis to see Dawn as he saw her, understand why it was fun being with her. He couldn’t put his finger on why he wanted, almost needed, Louis to understand but he did. It was not the kind of love Louis wanted, however and that thought settled as a weight over his shoulders, keeping him pulled firmly to the ground.

It was not until the next night that he finally opened the letter.  

12th December, 1994

Lestat,

If silence unsettles you, are you bothered when you come to visit by how quiet it is here?

I did not intend there to be a barb to my comment, but perhaps I put too fine a point on it in my phrasing. I cannot disagree with you that multiple characters do seem to “experience an awakening” as you put it, but we don’t know what happens to them after the story. They may not have wanted such an awakening, or know what to do with it in light of the many tragedies which unfold especially at the film’s climax.

You have a point, dressing up as the professor would not be so bad, but what of yourself?

Of course external events impact my life in ways I cannot always control, but I can control myself and my actions in response to them. Do you truly feel that you cannot? You make it sound as though you are possessed at times. Or do you mean that events occur such that your actions have no impact? Is

(Apologies for the messy blotting out above. I would rewrite the letter, but I find I am nearly out of paper.)

I would be terribly impressed by Christ if I were convinced he existed. I remain at odds with my raised religion in many regards, yes, but if there were someone who truly believed that mankind could be better than they are and who advocated for forgiveness and acceptance like that, I would find that an admirable pursuit, wouldn’t you?

Surely I have agreed with you before. If nothing else on some piece of décor for the townhouse?

Of course art is meant to be engaged with, how many hours have I spent absorbing the words of poets and authors, or standing before a Renoir, feeling their sentiments poured onto page and canvas. If they didn’t wish it to be shared it would not be there for me to interact with. However, that’s the distinction I suppose, I find I am able to find meaning and emotion in that interaction without the company of others. If there was no crowd, would you watch a show by yourself? Surely with your television and VHS player you have done just that without anyone else around right?

 This may seem an abrupt change in topic, but do you have plans for Christmas? Armand invited me to his new property in New York, Trinity Gate. I believe he invited David Talbot as well, and he mentioned that you would be welcome to join us if you wished.

Warm regards,

Louis

P.S. The fleur-di-lis was lovely actually, perhaps the shopkeeper simply had a good eye for aesthetics.

Lestat scowled. His heart had skipped a beat at Louis’ question about his Christmas plans and he had immediately begun imagining the two of them curled up by a roaring fire, listening to festive music, and exchanging intimate gifts, perhaps some intimate kisses.  Unfortunately, the follow-up explanation of Armand’s invitation to Trinity Gate immediately doused his cozy fantasy. The thought of spending Christmas with that imp again. The first two in Miami had been fun, but the last one…

Well. It had been past time for them to all go their separate ways again anyway hadn’t it been.

Shaking his head to clear the memory, he returned to the beginning of the letter and began drafting a response in his head. 

The blotted bit gave him pause however. There had been a redacted sentence in an earlier letter, neatly removed, but this was messier, rougher, and longer it seemed. He held the page up to the light and peered through it. He thought he could make out some words, mostly mundane things like “what” and “when”, and was going to give up trying to make sense of it when he realized he could see “Aka”. The rest was too blurred, but the name was not difficult to complete.

Akasha.

What had Louis been trying to ask about her? Did he remove it for fear that even committing her name to page would invite her spirit to return in some way?

They hadn’t spoken of Akasha since Miami. Louis’ expression had always gone so distant whenever Lestat brought her up and he was never sure whether it was in cold anger at her or at him, or if it wasn’t anger at all, but some other unidentifiable emotion. Louis never said much, but listened when Lestat tried and failed to put into words what had happened. Writing it down was always easier, perhaps because he wasn’t being confronted with that unreadable look that left him defensive and ashamed without even knowing why. Trying to discern what Louis was thinking distracted him from his own thoughts, which made them that much harder to sort through.

He knew Louis had read the book he published which included a recounting of the events that occurred while he was with her, but Louis had never once commented on it, or asked him anything about it. What would he want to know now, years later? More immediately, would he be offended if Lestat confessed to trying to read his redaction and asked him directly about it? He had let it go last time, but curiosity was whispering urgently in his ear this time. 

Writing came easier right? Maybe this was the only way they could have a real conversation. Maybe this was the only way he could learn what was on Louis’ mind, maybe it was the only way he could answer the questions Louis was likely still wondering.

Maybe in a private letter Lestat could finally say the things he couldn’t bring himself to include in the book.

Maybe he could even tell Louis about the Presence he kept feeling just behind him until he turned around. 

With a certain degree of resolve he moved to the desk. 

Chapter Text

Louis was staring at a half empty suitcase as he had been for some time now. There were a handful of clothes and books haphazardly thrown in and lazily lying there, uncaring whether they gained further travel companions or not. Louis wasn’t sure he cared any more than his belongings, but it didn’t seem like much to be taking for a trip that would likely last a few weeks. He was fully aware that Armand would have everything he could want, as well as many things it wouldn’t even occur to him to want, but still.

The crunch of tires alerted him to the arrival of the postman and Louis rose, grateful to have a distraction from his pitiful packing job.

In truth, he had intended to leave sooner but realized he had not heard Lestat’s answer to his invitation to New York. If he was interested in going as well, perhaps they could travel there together. Hopefully by a more conventional form of flight than that which Lestat seemed to favor these days.

Although given how things had gone the last time they traveled together, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea after all.

Either way, he was glad to have another letter and an opportunity to see for himself whether the decision regarding transportation would even need to be made with another person in mind.

16th December, 1994

Cher Louis,

It’s not so quiet once you and I are talking, or otherwise making noise. Besides, even if I said yes, would you buy a boombox and start blasting music to make me feel more at home when I come to visit? That’s so very considerate of you.

Do you think the tragedies make their awakenings no longer worth it? It’s true, we don’t know what the characters would say themselves as the film doesn’t continue, but if you were to imagine for yourself what do you think? Would the main pair have been happier in a conventional relationship as they planned at the beginning? A simple marriage, then 9-5 job and raising babies presumably? You don’t think there would have been some faint ache in them they could never quite put a finger on for something missing, something that would leave them dully unfulfilled for the rest of their lives? Some longing to connect perhaps? Or do you think they would have been perfectly content, never knowing what they were missing?

As to the matter of costume, obviously I would dress as Dr. Frank-n-furter. I would like to think I have the appropriate physique to look rather stunning in such a get up, don’t you agree?

I don’t think it’s so much a matter of not having control over my own actions as it is not knowing what they will be because I don’t know what I would be reacting to until it happens. People have often surprised even themselves in extreme situations, I don’t pretend to be any better.

I understand that you blotted out your following comment for your own reasons, but I can’t help but wonder: were you going to ask about Akasha? If so, I am not opposed to speaking of her again.

Advocating for forgiveness is a different matter than achieving it. Christ may have had a great idea, but people don’t appear to have taken it to heart from what I can see. Real or not he doesn’t seem to have been all that convincing. Mind you, a great deal of imagery surrounding Him has stuck with us so maybe the real takeaway was more aesthetic than social. Not unlike the fleur-de-lis seal I suppose.

Did we ever agree on décor? I seem to recall you often criticizing my tastes as extravagant. Am I to take this statement as a belated agreement that I was correct about the Kashan carpet suiting the sitting room after all? You never did like the red of it, but it suited the paneling in there quite nicely, no? The only piece I ever recall you openly expressing pleasure at was the impressionist painting by some no-name artist, the one of the girl in the rowboat we put in the library. You were pleased with that one as I recall, although I don’t believe you used the words “you’re right” even then.

Of course I have watched shows by myself. In fact, I rewatched Rocky Horror just the other day as it happened to still be in the player and I needed a distraction. On which note, I have a possibly strange question. When we were in Rio, that night that we went out into the jungle and saw the anaconda wrapped around a capybara slowly squeezing the life out of it, do you remember anything strange? A feeling that someone else was there, watching us watch them?

I appreciate the invitation, but I think it’s best I not attend Armand’s Christmas festivities this year. Please feel free to give him a good kick up the ass for me though.

Affectionately yours,

Lestat

Louis swallowed hard at the image that came, unbidden, to mind of Lestat in Dr. Frank-n-furter’s ridiculous and revealing outfit. Despite his alleged immortality, Louis was quite sure he would die of embarrassment if he had to go out in public with Lestat dressed thus. At home, on the other hand…

Anyway, the important thing was that he had his answer regarding travel plans and he should act accordingly.

He frowned as he smoothed the letter out on his desk again, thinking more clearly now about the rest of the letter and somewhat troubled by some of Lestat’s questions. He had indeed removed the question about Akasha from the last letter for good reason and hoped that Lestat would not notice or pursue the topic. Every time her name had come up between them, he could practically feel the electrical charge in the air. There was an alternating current between them that threatened danger if mishandled and Louis was quick to admit he did not know how to handle it. Of course he had questions, of course he could tell Lestat had more he wanted to say, but it was a precarious line of conversation they were not ready to walk yet. It seemed unlikely at this point that they ever would be. He would have to be extra cautious in how he answered that.

As for the question about Rio… of all of the things for Lestat to ask about their time there, this Louis did not expect. Truthfully, he had no idea what Lestat was talking about. He remembered the night distinctly as they had all been somewhat awe-struck by the anaconda although none of them could quite place if it was residual human fear or the mutual respect of a fellow predator they were experiencing. Either way, Louis had no recollection of a sense that someone else was watching. Had Lestat sensed some other nocturnal creature he hadn’t noticed? Maybe a panther or a maned wolf was nearby as well and that’s what Lestat was referring to? Something in his phrasing felt ominous in its vagueness and Louis wondered if he should be worried, especially when it followed the earlier question about Akasha. Lestat wasn’t feeling haunted by her spirit, was he?

This was Lestat though. He was creative in general, surely this was a situation of his imagination getting the better of him thanks to the atmosphere of a nighttime jungle hunt.

Louis decided it would be best to take a reassuring approach in his tone, and he hoped it would carry through the next letter before he left for New York. 

Chapter Text

There it was again, that unmoored feeling. Lestat was wandering through a sea of businessmen and holiday shoppers with the strange feeling that they were so much further away from him than they really were. Two inches became two miles and everything was so muffled and distant. He had been shopping for a scarf for David, thinking it a rather humorous joke for a vampire really, when it had started again.

His mind drifted to the witches burned at the stake, who were never really witches, and he inhaled sharply. This was no time to break down in the middle of the street, people would think he was mad. As it was, it took all of his effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though he had no idea where he was going or how long it would take to get there. Just as he was debating finding a quiet alleyway to duck into and sink down on the concrete, a few faint strands of music reached his ears. It gave him a temporary sense of purpose, following the sound and he followed gratefully.

A group of carolers were gathered outside of a library and Lestat paused to listen to their rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” but found himself clapping with true enthusiasm after their haunting “Carol of the Bells”. A few bills thrown into a top hat earned him a shy smile from a young man with rosy cheeks which only grew rosier as Lestat’s gaze lingered. When he asked if the group would be performing anywhere else, the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed prominently as he admitted that they would be singing at a local church the following day. Well Lestat was raised Catholic after all, and one could not avoid church at Christmas as a Catholic.

As the crowd dispersed, Lestat took his leave as well, but only a few streets later realized someone was following him. At first, he assumed it was the caroler having slipped away from his choir group, perhaps hoping for a bit of a kiss and grope in some side alley. He reached out to see if he could hear the young man’s mind and see just what all he was hoping for tonight, maybe tease him with a flash of Lestat’s own, more sordid, imagination, but found nothing. He pulled his coat tighter. Not this again.

He began gradually picking up his pace, initially just enough for the humans on the streets to think he was merely in a hurry and so walking briskly. Soon it became a near run though and he considered taking to flight. He could certainly do it quickly enough to avoid suspicion beyond a quick blink or two if anyone had had their eyes on him at all. They would merely assume they had mis-seen something, that the blond-haired man had simply ducked into a business somewhere without them noticing, or they had imagined him altogether.

That wouldn’t work on the Presence though, Lestat sensed. He had a feeling he wouldn’t lose it so easily and he began thinking about where he could go. His first instinct was home, a holdover from when he was young, and home meant safety from the wolves if not from his family. His next thought however was of how many victims he had followed home and drained in their own living rooms with ease. There was no reason to believe the basic locks on his apartment door would do anything to keep whatever this was out, and he had no desire to invite it home. Where else then? Where had any of his intended victims ever gone in the event that they had eluded him?

He thought of the drug dealer he had been following for a few weeks now, off and on. The only thing stopping Lestat from killing him as of yet was intrigue; he was fascinated by the man and by his relationship with his evangelist daughter. If there was no place he could escape to that would be protected from the Presence, could he leverage a similar reason to at least slow its pursuit? How? How did one offer intrigue to a vaguely threatening something that never showed its physical self, much less its thoughts?

He couldn’t get away.

He was banging on the door, fists bruised by his own efforts but it locked from the outside and stone walls incarcerated even his voice.

He didn’t need to breathe, Lestat reminded himself forcefully to ignore the constricted airway. It didn’t matter anymore if he couldn’t draw breath, just keep moving.

Where though? Where?

He lost track of how many times he paced the room before collapsing in the center of it, afraid to be too close to the walls. They were getting closer, weren’t they? In a panic, he leapt to his feet and began pacing again, counting the steps this time to ensure that the number didn’t change.

“Eight-seven, eighty-eight.” When had he begun counting his steps? Lestat gritted his teeth and stopped saying the numbers out loud, ignoring the shifting shapes of them in the back of his mind.

If flight wasn’t an option, was fight? How was he supposed to fight an invisible Presence though?

Wolfkiller.

He froze and spun around so fast a woman carrying an armload of shopping nearly collided with him, losing some oranges in her abrupt halt. Lestat quickly bent to pick them up for her, apologizing absently as he glanced around, searching for any sign of the stalker.

“You alright there, hon?” The woman asked softly, moving the bag to her hip. She was matronly and dressed warmly and practically in a welcoming but no-nonsense kind of way that said she was on a mission. Lestat caught a mental glimpse of her two children, coming home from college to visit her later and the oranges in her bag being added to a pot on the stove with spices to make mulled wine for after dinner as they gathered in the living room to play board games and catch up. He was suddenly struck by the urge to bury his face in her skirt and sob until she agreed to take him home as well.

Ridiculous.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You look a little pale; you better get out of the cold here soon or you’re gonna catch your death.”

The laugh was an accident, as many of his were, and he could hear the slightly hysterical hitch to it, which was probably why rather than looking offended, the woman looked even more concerned.

“I’m sorry, you’re right ma’am. I’ll get indoors soon.”

She gave him a careful study, like a practiced mother determining whether her child was lying about brushing their teeth. Apparently whatever she saw convinced her, or she simply decided he wasn’t her problem, because she nodded and wished him a merry Christmas before continuing on her way.

The Presence, on the other hand, had not left, but Lestat could sense that it was further away. It seemed to back off when he was interacting with others. Was it shy? Or just trying to isolate Lestat so as to keep him an easier target? For what though, if it wanted to harm him it could have done so already.

Either way, if it didn’t like him talking to others, he could at least get a break from it. Steadier on his feet with this resolve, Lestat turned at the next corner, making his way toward Rue Royale.

Unfortunately, he found the townhouse empty and the thin layer of dust settled over every surface suggested that it had been for some time now. David had not been back lately then. Lestat ran a hand over the dust on the dining room table, like a soft blanket slightly muffling everything and sank into a chair, not even caring that his normally immaculate clothes would be covered in dust. It suddenly didn’t seem to matter any more than it mattered that they were covered in dirt when he had buried himself in the earth. Maybe he should just stay put right here and let the dust eventually cover him too and bore the Presence away.

He wasn’t sure how long he did indeed sit there, motionless, maybe a few minutes, maybe days. It was the faint sounds of someone next door putting on music that stirred him. Whitney Houston manically declaring her desire to dance hardly matched his mood right now, although he could understand the sentiment on other days.

With a deep sigh he rose, made a mental note to hire a weekly cleaning service, and locked the townhouse back up so as to return to the penthouse.

He nearly forgot to check the mail this time and watched himself unlock it automatically as if in a dream. When had even his own hands begun to feel distant and separate from himself? Only the sight of Louis’ handwriting brought his senses back into focus and there was a temporary relief, like a sip of hot wine on a cold day. Temporary, but no less appreciated.

Once upstairs he collapsed into the chair at his desk and pulled the letter out unceremoniously, not even bothering to look at the seal this time.

19th December, 1994

Lestat,

I don’t know if I would go so far as to purchase a boombox, but I could at least get a record player. Or have the piano properly tuned for you to play if you wish. I may not be much of a host, but that doesn’t mean I have to maintain something directly inhospitable.

I think Brad and Janet might have found a different kind of happiness. Perhaps their other predilections may have remained unfulfilled but that doesn’t mean they would not have found other forms of pleasure. Raising children and the satisfaction of seeing them go on to live full lives for example, may have been its own joy. They may have found a sense of purpose in spite of, or perhaps even because of, following societal expectations, especially if their purpose is socially driven. Your point is that perhaps there was a ‘longing to connect’, have you considered that that didn’t necessarily have to come in a sexual form?

Surely it would violate some decency code for you to dress as Dr. Frank-n-furter in public. I feel compelled to advise against it.

Do you feel surprised by your own actions sometimes? Is that not alarming?

I’m afraid I no longer recall what I wrote and blotted out.

You can’t seriously mean that you think the takeaway from Christ was the fashion. Even you wouldn’t be that shallow. There are some people who seem to have taken away the message of goodwill toward men, look at the humanitarian efforts of the Red Cross in St. Louis last year.

I still do not personally like the red of the Kashan carpet, but yes, I will admit that you were correct about it suiting the paneling. It really did bring a vibrancy to the room, so long as one is in the mood for its particular flavor of liveliness. I suppose in this regard, the rug is not unlike yourself. As for the painting, yes, it is still my favorite of all the pieces in the townhouse. There is something so wistful and dreamy about it that I can practically feel the warmth of the sun, hear the cry of the katydids, and smell the waterlilies. Do you not feel that when you look at it as well? Was that not why you chose that one?

I recall the night in Rio but I can’t say there was anything strange about it, beyond obviously the exotic sight of an anaconda killing its prey. Although I would imagine that, to the serpent, being observed by us was the strange encounter. If anything else was there it could only have been other jungle creatures. Did David say anything about it? He never expressed concern to me if he noticed something else watching us. Are you sure you aren’t just projecting your own sense of that oddness onto the situation?

I’m sorry to hear that you won’t be joining us in New York. I will, of course, edit your regards to Armand. If you want to “give him a good kick up the ass”, you can come do that yourself. I intend to leave the day I will be mailing this letter so I will include the address just in case you don’t already have it and would like to continue writing while I’m there.

Merry Christmas,

Louis

It was a letter, not a conversation in person, Lestat reminded himself. Still he couldn’t help but imagine Louis failing to meet his eye when he said that he didn’t remember what he was going to ask about Akasha. Of course they weren’t going to talk about it. Why would they, Louis had always been so good at avoiding talking about anything that might hit too close to something real.

And of course he would deny noticing anything strange in Rio, even though Lestat was so sure that something had been there.

And of course he would choose to go to New York to be with Armand just when Lestat needed him.

That last thought struck him belatedly and he almost gasped at the realization.

He needed Louis.

He let the letter fall to the floor as he buried his face in his hands.

Silence echoed through the apartment.

Chapter Text

Marius and Daniel were out for a hunt. They had agreed to come to Trinity Gate for a week (or at least Marius had agreed) but it seemed things were still tense between Daniel and Armand as Daniel’s every comment toward their host was full of vitriol. Armand, for his part, remained utterly inscrutable, without a single sign of remorse. Louis wondered if his former paramour truly was so heartless and found that he couldn’t answer that with any confidence. Marius’ silent, similarly inscrutable study of his fledgling gave away little except that he too seemed to lack certainty in his view of Armand. There was a great deal unsaid and while Louis generally preferred silence, the unspoken things seemed to crowd the house, leaving little room for true calm. It made for an awkward holiday.

So he found himself in a corner of the sitting room reading by the fire as Armand took a conference call with some Japanese investors in the study next door. It was still strange to him, the ability to speak to others so far away, but Armand seemed entirely in his element. Louis supposed there was a practicality to conducting business at a distance for them. The businessmen with whom he was speaking were able to work normal daytime hours while Armand could easily be involved as well, with the sun on their side of the world. Additionally, they rarely saw him in person and so his boyish, ethereal appearance was hardly questioned, not when he spoke so confidently and maturely on the phone, the voice of a well-seasoned leader. Louis found he felt a strange pride on Armand’s behalf for his success and determination, although he had never voiced this pride. One more thing left unsaid.

Before he could ponder this any further, he realized there was now silence from the next room. The call must have ended, and he assumed Armand would be finishing some further paperwork before joining him.

Instead, a moment later the young man entered the room with a furrowed brow and an odd question.

“Have you spoken to Lestat lately?”

Louis glanced at the page number to memorize his place and closed the book. “A few days ago, we’ve been exchanging letters.”

Armand raised an eyebrow as he took the armchair opposite Louis. “I thought he was still in New Orleans.”

“He is. Or was anyway.”

“Then why letters? Wouldn’t it be easier to talk in person or on the phone?”

You would think. Louis drew the book closer and studied its cover. He wasn’t sure he could answer the question, how to explain that some things were just easier said on paper than out loud and he and Lestat had never been very good at talking to one another so they needed something, even if it was a crutch. What was more, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to explain any of that to Armand. He wasn’t sure how it would be taken. It was always difficult to guess whether there would be jealousy or judgment or obsessive fascination with Armand and all three could be dangerous in his delicate hands.

At last Louis settled for shrugging and reminding himself that he didn’t owe Armand an explanation.

Armand seemed to disagree and the dissatisfaction was evident from the slight clench of his jaw. He quickly released it though, returning to his customary passivity.

“What about David?”

Louis looked up again. “David Talbot?”

“Do we know another David?” came the dry response.

Louis shook his head. “I haven’t heard from him in a while. I think he was still using the townhouse as a sort of base, but he’s been traveling. I don’t know where to though. Why do you ask?”

Armand leaned back in the chair with a frown. “Lestat just reached out to me.”

“I thought you were on a business call.”

“I was. Which is what made it particularly irritating. He always has had terrible timing.”

Louis realized he meant Lestat had used the Mind Gift to contact Armand and suddenly recalled the comment in his last letter about giving Armand “a good kick up the ass”.

“What did he want?”

“He asked me to contact David for him, presumably because he can’t do so himself and doesn’t know where he is to reach out to in a more human fashion.”

It was Louis’ turn to frown. “Why?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I thought I would ask you. I could reach out and find him, but I don’t want to do so if this is just Lestat playing some game or if David is trying to avoid him intentionally.”

Louis considered the last time they had all been together. David certainly had not been happy with Lestat, but his departure had seemed more a leaving to move toward something else rather than to move away from them.

“I don’t think he’s avoiding him. Did Lestat say what he wanted David for?”

Armand turned away to frown at the fire and his features were so breathtakingly beautiful when lit by its flames that Louis was reminded once more of how he had fallen so hard for this lovely creature, as dark and demanding as he could be.

“He wouldn’t tell me, beyond saying that he wanted to talk to him. It’s just-”

Hesitation was not like Armand and the uncharacteristic pause alerted Louis.

“It’s just that he seemed not like himself.”

“How do you mean?”

Before Armand could answer, they both sensed the return of their other companions and the stomping of shoes to remove snow confirmed that Marius and Daniel were indeed back.

“Never mind. I’ll reach out.” Armand quickly concluded and rose, to offer the seat closest to the fire to his Maker. 

The next few days passed in a terse sort of peace, the Christmas truce coming to its end as the holiday itself did as well. Louis found he couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject again, aware as he was of the already precarious state of détente. He worried that bringing up one old flame with another too much might be the thing to snap what he imagined to be Armand’s strained nerves. As it was, he wondered what might occur if Lestat sent a letter while he was there and Armand noticed.

Obviously he did notice when it arrived as it was after all his own mail it was delivered with.

They had gathered to see Marius and Daniel off, politely wishing them safe travels and ignoring Daniel’s mutter implying that Armand wouldn’t care if they dropped into the Atlantic and were eaten by sharks. Even with the sharp words, Armand watched them take flight, Marius arms wrapped protectively around Daniel and continued to watch the sky with an almost wistful expression as they slowly vanished from view.

Louis wanted to ask if Armand would miss him, but before he could even decide which “him” he meant, Armand turned on his heel and marched back to the house, pausing to check the mail as if it were an ordinary day. He casually began organizing the stack, many of which Louis realized appeared to be belated Christmas cards from various employees and business partners paying their seasonal respects. He wondered if Armand sent something similar out to them and tried to imagine him posing with a Christmas tree, a festive sweater, and an overly bright grin for a photographer. The thought almost made him chuckle, but he quickly bit it back as Armand pulled out a midnight blue envelope.

He stared at it blankly for so long that Louis wondered if he should say something before Armand calmly held it out.

“This appears to be for you.”

There was that slight jaw clench again, so fleeting it might have been a tic.

“Thank you.” He chose not to acknowledge it out loud.

“So you’re still writing letters then.”

“It seems so. I told him the address here for while I was saying. I should have asked, I apologize for the imposition.”

Armand waved a careless hand. “No imposition. I guess he’s not that worried after all.”

“Worried?”

Armand turned away. “I have another call to make. There is stationery in the desk drawer in the guest room if you would like to write him back.”

A business call the day after Christmas seemed unlikely to Louis but he knew better than to challenge Armand on this just now, so he returned to the guest room to read the letter. The holly sketched on the back brought the smile back to his lips briefly before opening it.

25th December, 1994

Cher Louis,

Joyeux Noël mon cœur! J’espère que tu as passé une belle journée de Noël avec tes amis! Vous avez fait des bonhommes de neiges? Ou bien, vous êtes tous allés à l’église pour la messe de minuit?

I did. There was this lovely caroler you see. I met him a few days ago and I couldn’t resist hearing him sing again. Don’t worry though mon cher, I didn’t offer myself to him on the altar like I did with you. I just drained him in the confessional booth after sucking him off in a different way. (Mais t’inquiètes pas, he was stealing from the church coffers.) 

Maybe you’re right about Brad and Janet and being happier if they were never sexually fulfilled. Maybe they would have been happier being on the PTA or PTO or PTSD, whatever it is. (Why do Americans love acronyms so much? It makes everything so confusing.) Although who knows, they might have ended up sitting in a church confessional with a choir boy’s pants around his ankles too.

(Tu sais, ce soir j’ai bu d’un trio de trafiquants de drogue qui avaient du vent dans les voiles et il est possible que cela m’affecte aussi un peu.) 

Decency codes are in the past mon amour. If a man wants to walk around in a corset and garter he can, if anything it would be in keeping with the whole outrageous rock star thing.

Am I surprised by my own actions? Is that a joke?

XXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXX

“Even you wouldn’t be that shallow”, chéri, have you met me? Besides, you can’t prove that the people working for the Red Cross are doing it because of Christ. Don’t let the name of the group fool you.

Is that what I am to you though? Red? A lively color but one that doesn’t suit your tastes except for when you’re “in the mood”? I chose the painting because I saw it and thought “My god that’s such sentimental bullshit. All out of focus so the details can’t ruin the dreamy softness with their sharp edges. It’s perfect for Louis, he prefers to recall things out of focus like this as well.” And I was right, wasn’t I?

Of course it’s easier to assume that I imagined things being strange isn’t it? Instead of admitting that something is not right, why not say it’s just Lestat’s imagination getting the best of him. Unless of course David corroborates my story, in which case it might be valid because David said so. In case you hadn’t noticed, David fucked off and left us both, il a filé a l’anglaise, alors I wouldn’t hold your breath for his opinion.

As for Armand, I still think someone should kick his ass but with Marius and Daniel around, I’m sure it was tightly clenched all this time anyway.

Je suis désolé mon cœur. Tu n’as aucune idée à quel point tu me manques. I miss the winters that we spent at the townhouse, with you decorating the Christmas tree, how lovely you looked in its glow. I never understood what bringing a tree indoors and dressing it up had to do with Jesus’ birth but I still think of you when I smell pine and it makes me long to be worthy of the person who so devoted himself to those old traditions. I told you; worship can be aesthetic.

Je t’aime,

Lestat

Wait. Louis glanced back at the date of the letter. December 25th was yesterday. The post wouldn’t be delivering mail on Christmas and there was no way it had traveled from New Orleans to New York and been delivered in a single day.

He flipped over the envelope and realized he had missed something that Armand likely had not: no stamp. The letter had not been delivered by the post office. What was Lestat playing at here? Clearly he hadn’t been sober when he wrote this, but the words still stung at points. Moreover, although alcohol tended to wear off rather quickly given their preternatural blood, he wasn’t sure how drugs affected them. They usually lasted longer in humans than alcohol did, didn’t they? What if he was still in the area somewhere and near incoherent? How would Louis even know unless-

Oh but he hated to ask Armand.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the young man appeared in the doorway. Louis had only to hold up the envelope.

“He’s not still here. I think he went back to New Orleans.”

Louis’ shoulders dropped although even he couldn’t say if it was from relief or disappointment.

“I reached out to him with the Mind Gift to check if he was still around.”

“Did he sound like… himself?”

The widening of Armand’s eyes would have been imperceptible to a human, or even to most vampires, but Louis had learned to read the subtle shifts in his face just enough to recognize that tiny gesture of alarm. “He did, why? Do you think he’s swapped bodies with someone again?”

That hadn’t even occurred to Louis but given recent events it wasn’t as absurd a question as it perhaps should be.

“No, I just meant that he seemed a bit… drunk maybe when he wrote this.” Louis gestured at the letter. “Or high, I don’t know.”

Armand rolled his eyes. “Well, when I asked if he had lost his mind, he rather grumpily told me to ‘shove it’. So I think he’s still very much himself, just hungover at this point.”

“I’m sorry.”

Armand waved an impatient hand. “You say that like he’s your child.”

“I’m not apologizing for his actions, that’s on Lestat himself. I’m just sorry that me being here drags you into it as well.”

“I still love having you here.” Armand replied softly. There was a mournful tenderness to his voice that was usually reserved for graveside goodbyes.

It struck Louis suddenly that Trinity Gate was a large property, especially for New York, and that Armand was usually alone in it. The coven master without a coven.

“You could come stay in New Orleans too.” Louis offered, knowing full well that Armand would not do so, or that if he did, it would not be the answer to his loneliness.

“Thank you.” He nodded at the letter. “Are you going back tonight?

Louis glanced down and the scribbled, scratched out sentences in the middle were the first thing that jumped out at him. He had blotted some of his own letters out, sure, but only small, neatly erased lines, not a tornado of lines drowning out whatever had initially been said in chaos. Honestly, did Lestat have to be so dramatic? Now that the immediate concern for his safety had been addressed, there was room for irritation to creep up on him.

“No. I think I’d like to have a night alone with you, if that’s okay?”

The tiny brightening of Armand’s eyes seized Louis’ heart. After all that had happened between them, that small spark of hope was still so painfully endearing. He briefly wondered if that look would ever have a similar impact on Daniel.

They broke into The Guggenheim that night and spent hours discussing art for old time’s sake. A sort of spell had been cast the moment they strolled past the first bewildered security guard that allowed them to imagine things had always been this way, that they had spent happy decades admiring the creativity of others in between joking and flirting in stairwells and quiet corners.

Only when they left, arms slung casually over one another’s shoulders, did the spell wear off and Louis’ mind drift back to the letter still sitting unanswered in the guest room. The irritation flared again that Lestat had tried to sabotage what could have and should have been a happy trip.

There was a pattern emerging, or perhaps that had been there all along but Louis had only started to see it since the reunion a few years ago. Lestat had a tendency to get excited about something, become energized by it, and practically vibrate with enthusiasm. It was like a car, speeding along, gas pedal slowly inching toward the floor until it was flat out. But just like the car would invariably begin to shake, so Lestat would begin to destabilize, still energized but unsteady, and eventually there would be a corner, he would try to take too sharp a turn and there would be a crash.

For Louis’ part he was always more aware of the crash because it was so often painful for him as well, being caught up in whatever disastrous consequences befell him, but he had never really paid any attention to the build up to it. Even this time, he himself had been happy about the letters. He had been enjoying the interactions, the tiptoe closer to a kind of intimacy, and it had never occurred to him that it was having the same effect on Lestat, nor that it would lead to a kind of overwhelm eventually.

Exhaustion swept over him suddenly. Whether it was the universe, or God, or karma, clearly Louis had displeased someone or something because coming so tantalizingly close to happiness only to have it ripped away time and time again could not be coincidence. He used to blame Lestat himself but now Louis wondered if he weren’t simply an instrument. 

Then again, if the roles were reversed, would Lestat see him as a burden in the same way? If Louis were clearly hitting a crisis point, would Lestat respond with irritation? Truthfully, he had, to an extent. When Louis had grappled with his newly minted vampiric nature and his reticence to kill, Lestat had been impatient and dismissive of his objections. Then again, was it not unlike the impatience of a parent whose child refuses to eat their vegetables? Louis still had not entirely come to grips with the morality of his situation enough to quite determine whether that was a fitting analogy but Lestat’s impatience may have been warranted to some extent even if he had been excessively critical at times. He never gave up on Louis though. He could have abandoned him and let him starve or become a revenant but instead he had pushed Louis to accept the situation, which in retrospect had been needed.

Was that what Lestat needed himself? Louis had been debating either ignoring the letter altogether, relying on his default silent treatment method, or replying to it as though nothing was wrong and simply disregarding the less polite moments. Maybe neither of those were right. Maybe he needed someone to acknowledge that he had gone off the rails here and push him to find his balance again? Was that even possible?

Louis resolved to try. 

Chapter Text

It was a pity about the elderly neighbor, everyone in the building agreed. He had been a decorated war veteran and several of his soldier friends would be in attendance at the funeral where he would be given a proper send off. The man’s grandchildren had been rifling through his apartment all day, their racket waking Lestat from his slumber at various points before he quickly returned to unconsciousness, still struggling to fight the pull of the sun. It wasn’t until later that night that he recalled hearing them talking about photos to use for the wake. He wondered if any of them had even known about the missing photos. If they had, no one would think to ask a random neighbor about Helena, which was a pity because now Lestat could confirm that the man had not been lying about her beauty.

He had never kept a souvenir from a victim before. He wondered if this was some lingering influence of Claudia’s, though thankfully a photograph was far less gruesome than her preferred souvenirs. Maybe some of the drugs had still been in his system that night, causing him to act out of character. Or was this out of character? Maybe the drugs had just shown him his true nature which he had been denying all this time?

Good lord he was starting to sound like Louis.

A scratch at the side of his coffin startled him away from that depressing realization. He rose quickly to feed and walk Mojo, motivated into swift action by guilt that he had left the poor dog by himself the day he went to New York. One day hadn’t done significant harm to anything other than a rug Mojo had soiled being unable to go outside, but still Lestat felt awful for having abandoned him. Especially when he was greeted with such loyal enthusiasm upon his return. How was Mojo still able to instantly forgive and still love him no matter how often he blatantly screwed up? The German shepherd grinned up at him over his water bowl and Lestat felt a lump form in his throat at the thought that he deserved better. 

“I’m sorry, boy.” He tearfully threw his arms around the dog who gave a cheerful “woof” and licked his cheek, possibly in forgiveness, possibly in simple joy at the affection.

On their way back from a long walk (Lestat had decided that he owed Mojo lots of time in the park these days), he realized that he hadn’t checked the mail since he returned to New Orleans. Somehow hand delivering his last letter had erased from his mind the post office’s normal involvement in the exchange process and he had entirely forgotten that if he was to hear back from Louis, it would most likely be sitting in the mailbox. What else had he been expecting? That Louis would show up on his doorstep and hand deliver a letter himself?

The stamp caught his eye before anything else this time. A simple, cheap postage stamp but with a bright yellow rose. Continuing their theme of sending flowers he supposed, but why that one? Didn’t yellow roses mean friendship? Were they friends? On the one hand, there was a relief that Louis viewed their connection as something amiable still, but on the other… Friends? More than half a century of life together, raising a daughter together, bonding in their grief over losing her, years of reconnecting, and they were… friends? How had Louis always had the power to both sting and soothe at once?

He tried to set aside his internal conflict for a moment. After all, for all he knew, that was just the stamp Louis had lying around.

27th December, 1994

Lestat,

Are you okay? I don’t know if you recall everything from your last letter, but you didn’t sound entirely sound of mind. I know you mentioned not being entirely sober and I’m not sure how seriously to take much of what you said if I’m being honest.

I also don’t understand; if you missed me, and were clearly willing and able to get to New York anyway, why not join us? I know you aren’t a fan of Armand but neither is Daniel and he tolerated being there for a week.

I miss those Christmases spent decorating the tree and listening to you play the piano too, mostly for the softness of them. It’s a softness we could have back if you could swallow your pride long enough to join in the celebrations next time you know.

Were you hoping to spend time with David instead? Is that why you were asking Armand about him? Or were you trying to ask him about what happened in Brazil? I didn’t meant to dismiss what you were saying, I just meant that I didn’t notice the same thing you did and wondered if someone else noticed. If you don’t think it matters whether someone else agrees with you then why ask me in the first place? I don’t quite understand the bitterness here.

In any case, please write back soon. I really would like confirmation that you are still okay.

Louis

P.S. Yes, you are “red” to me: intense and passionate and vibrant. You don’t have to insult my tastes in art just because we don’t share the same opinions on it. Besides it doesn’t make sense to condescend my tastes but then act angry that you don’t believe you suit them yourself. If my approval is so worthless then surely it shouldn’t matter whether you meet it or not.

It took all of his self-control not to set the page alight immediately or crush it to his heart and sob. Always the contradiction with Louis. Both the care and concern which Lestat desperately craved like a man lost in a desert seeking water, but also the condescending irritation as if Lestat were a misbehaving child. Was he being childish? Perhaps somewhat, but did that give Louis the right to talk down to him?

That last sentence too, Louis’ request that he write back soon. Every letter thus far he had responded to quickly, with the exception of one that he intentionally gave himself time to cool off before answering. Yet paradoxically, now that Louis wanted him to answer swiftly, a part of him internally wanted to cross his arms and refuse to answer at all. God, it was childish wasn’t it. Louis was right to note that Lestat’s actions and accusations made no sense.

He crumpled the letter up and threw it at the wall.

Mojo gave a happy yip and immediately retrieved the letter, setting it at his owner’s feet with an expectant tail wag, clearly convinced this was a game.

Lestat sighed and put the letter on the counter where it wouldn’t end up dissolved by dog slobber and found a toy to toss around for Mojo while he thought. Should he snap back, remind Louis that he wasn’t some head case Louis could just check in on at the mental hospital? Or should he remain calm and try to soothe the tension, return to a place of mutual respect? That would require him to be the bigger man and Lestat was not generally inclined to fall into the role he often thought of as the dupe. 

Rarely did he want to be told what to do. If anything, Lestat was usually the one telling others what to do, whether his wisdom was merited or not. He considered himself a natural leader if not a natural sage. Good leaders took advice though, didn’t they? Maybe it was time he learned to do just that?

Who could he talk to though? David Talbot was still missing and Armand was not exactly a neutral party to his relationship with Louis. The imp always had his own agenda and Lestat did not trust it not to include malice directed at him in this case.

Marius? Lestat was hit with a wave of longing in a such an unfamiliar flavor it nearly left him nauseous. He wanted Marius desperately but in a way he couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t sexual (although he was never one to rule out sex as an option), but it wasn’t as an equal friend either. It was vaguely similar to something else although he struggled to put a name to the feeling. It was…

It was like his longing for Gabrielle. Another wave of longing threatened to drown him this time and he sank to the floor against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. He wanted a parent, he realized, resting his forehead against his knees. How embarrassing, he was a grown man, and nearly three centuries old at this point.

pater noster, qui es in caelis

His sudden, sharp laugh was so close to a bark that even Mojo seemed to mistake the sound for one, softly barking back in response.

That father had been no better than his mortal one and he would be damned before he would pray to someone who had never answered a single, tear-stained prayer of his before. 

Still, there was Marius, Lestat though, raising his head. He had been there for Lestat in the eighteenth century when all hope had seemed lost, and again after Akasha’s death. They had spent one evening by the water’s edge recalling her beauty and power, not quite speaking of the painful loss directly, neither of them ready to confess to the depth of their devastation at their loss of purpose in the wake of her defeat. It was the closest Lestat had come to feeling understood in his grief and Marius’ hand on his shoulder as they had risen to leave was such a tender gesture of affection he had nearly wept then and there.

Yes, Marius would know what to do. About the Presence, about Louis, about, well, everything. Lestat closed his eyes, concentrating on the image of Marius’ face so as to fix him in his mind and reach out with the Mind Gift. But the image that immediately arose was the last time Lestat had seen Marius face to face, the day he burned down Louis’ cottage: the disapproval, and worse, the disappointment.

He opened his eyes again and clutched at his knees more tightly. Marius may well still be angry with him, and he didn’t think he could bear to hear him voice the displeasure that had been clear as day.

Day… there was Dawn, he realized. She wasn’t a parental figure by any means, but she was a neutral party 

Bolstered by this realization, he leapt to his feet, and grabbed his coat, before realizing it was the middle of the night and she was likely to be asleep. Perhaps he should call? And tell her it was an emergency? He didn’t want to frighten the girl with such an alarming call, but then showing up at her home unexpectedly at such an ungodly hour might do more to scare her than any phone call would. Better to warn her, he decided.

She was, as predicted, asleep and concerned by his request to talk to her, but welcoming and he wasted no time reaching her, glad that she didn’t know how far away he lived to question the swiftness of his arrival.

He was momentarily distracted by her appearance, warm and sleep-rumpled, a cozy sweater thrown hastily over slightly too-large flannel pajamas. How he longed to gather her in his arms and nuzzle into that flushed neck, savoring the heat of her skin before taking a long, slow drink of her strangely anise-flavored blood.  

That wasn’t what he had come here for though, he reminded himself as she beckoned him to the sofa and offered to make him a cup of tea. He accepted just for the sake of holding something warm in his hands if he couldn’t hold Dawn herself just now.

“So what’s going on, you seemed so distressed on the phone, are you okay?” She watched him with such innocent concern.

Springtime eyes . Lestat thought to himself that she really would have exceptionally beautiful eyes if she ever became a vampire. Should he make her one? Freeze the verdant shoots of her life here, in their lovely beginnings?

“Lestat?”

He realized he had been staring silently and felt the early tendrils of concern beginning to twist into disquiet. How easy it was to forget to make small movements, exaggerate his unnecessary breath, so as to prevent the unease humans would inevitably begin to feel in the presence of something some part of them recognized as other.

He pretended to clear his throat. “Yes, sorry, there’s just a lot on my mind right now.”

“Want to talk about it?” Dawn leaned back, seemingly reassured again for the moment.

“If you don’t mind.” Only when he opened his mouth again did it occur to him, rather belatedly, that he didn’t actually know what it was he wanted her advice on exactly. True he had been left rent by Louis’ letter but how to even begin to explain why, or even who Louis was to him? Louis had spent an entire night spilling his story to Daniel back in the seventies and there was so much more to explain now, he couldn’t even begin to imagine trying to catch Dawn up on any of it. His shoulders began to sink as he debated what were the salient points to hit, and really, at the end of the day, what did he want help with? What precisely was the problem?

“I have… a friend.” He began slowly, deciding to let the words flow. As always his mouth would decide what was happening in his head before his brain would. “A very close friend.” He amended, cringing a bit at the inadequacy of the term but plowing ahead nonetheless. “Who seems to think I’ve gone off the deep end a bit just because I got a little drunk on Christmas.”

Dawn shrugged. “Who doesn’t drink at Christmastime? Especially if you have to deal with relatives.” She sighed. “That’s the one good thing about being stuck here over the holidays. Not having to deal with my family’s drama.” She waved a hand as if to disperse the conjured image of distant relatives bickering. “Anyway, enough of my issues. So your friend thinks you have a drinking problem?”

“It’s not that exactly, more just that he seems to think I’m not… stable I suppose. I asked him about something that happened several months ago when we were on a trip to Brazil and he thought I made it up.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I thought someone had been watching us at one point.”

“Well maybe people were watching you, you are rather noticeably handsome.” Dawn grinned. “Or you know, the white tourists just drew attention.”

Lestat shook his head emphatically. “No we were in the middle of the jungle.

Her eyes widened. “Oh cool! What were you doing in the jungle?”

“We were hunting.” Lestat replied without thinking, impatient to get to more relevant points.

“Wow, what were you hunting? Panthers?”

He could have simply agreed with her. It would have been so easy, just a simple “mmhm” and move on. 

Instead a swirl of exhaustion, frustration, and anger took hold of him. He desperately wanted to explain, to make her understand the whole story, but he couldn’t. There was simply no way to talk around everything, even the simple fact of his true nature. It was like trying to get to know someone but not being allowed to ever hear their name, there was just something so basic, so fundamental missing from the beginning.

He didn’t make the conscious decision. He didn’t even remember moving. All he knew was that one moment he was trying to explain himself and the next she was in his arms, pale and limp, and the spilled tea she had dropped when he had snatched her to the floor was cool and drying on his sleeve.

He stared down at her green eyes, now glassy and blank and tried to find the guilt in him. It was there somewhere, he knew he would find it, or it would find him eventually, once the numbness wore off.

Night began to fade away and the emotional exhaustion was joined by physical. Only then did he carefully arrange her on the sofa, put away the teacups and dry the spill. Still the guilt didn’t come.

The Presence, however, did, and Lestat briefly wondered if he should find that reassuring now in its predictability. 

Chapter Text

12th January, 1995

Lestat,

I’m not sure if my last letter got lost in the post, or if you replied and your letter got lost in the post, but I haven’t heard anything from you since Christmas. Is everything okay? If you would rather we talk in person, you’re welcome to visit, or I could come there if you prefer? A phone call would work too if you would like. I just would like to know if you’re all right then I’ll leave you be if you want space.

Fond regards,

Louis

Chapter Text

A quartet of young vampires huddled in an alleyway, sharing a smoke and grumbling when Louis passed. He paused and turned to look them each in the eye, until, realizing who he was, they quickly dispersed.

Only once they were well away did Louis sigh in relief. He still wasn’t particularly fond of a fight and preferred to simply intimidate the riffraff away. Honestly, he didn’t know why they still even tried. Louis himself wasn’t all that powerful but they were unlikely to take him on, and even if they could, Armand or Marius would barely have to blink before they would go up in flames. Was it worth attempting to get some sort of revenge on Lestat for the whole business with the veil? Did these vampires not have lives?

David Talbot was on duty at the moment and Louis found him in one corner of the convent poring over an old tome.

“Anything good?”

“It’s a history of the Lithuanian language tracing back to its early origins.” David informed him brightly. “Supposedly from the perspective of an ancient Baltic vampire who watched the language evolve and become distinct from other Indo-European languages.” He carefully made note of his page and closed the book. “The amount of history witnessed by vampires who could give us a firsthand account otherwise lost to the centuries is extraordinary really. The Talamasca of course has extensive files but being able to count myself among them has truly opened some doors I expected and others I never even imagined.” He seemed to realize his enthusiasm was somewhat out of place and quickly sobered.

Louis wanted to remind him that this wasn’t a wake, much as the motionless figure at the front gave that sense. “I’m glad that you still enjoy learning and that there is so much to keep you occupied in that effort.” He replied sincerely.

David gave him a small but warm smile then nodded toward the front of the chapel. “No change, I’m afraid.” 

Louis shrugged. “I didn’t expect there to be. I assume if there is, we will all know about it more or less immediately.”

“I could stay for a bit, if you’d like some company.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m alright.”

David’s eyes dropped to the book in Louis’ hands. “Ah yes. Of course you would have some reading of your own.”

Louis didn’t correct him, and David gave him a quick peck on the cheek before departing.

Once he was sure David was gone, Louis mentally checked the rest of the building, ensuring that no visitors lingered. Satisfied that he was alone, he rose again and made his way to the front of the chapel where he sank slowly to the floor beside the figure, lightly resting his fingertips on one outstretched wrist as if checking for a pulse. There was one of course, slow and cold though it was, as if Lestat’s blood was only sluggishly flowing like half frozen water barely making its way down an icy stream.

As always, the sight of Lestat’s eyes open and unblinking left Louis slightly unnerved and he once again tried to follow the blond’s gaze but couldn’t identify what he might actually be looking at, if anything.

 There wasn’t much else he could do at this point, so Louis made himself as comfortable as possible sitting on the floor and pulled out a pen, quickly finding his place in the leather journal David had mistaken for a book. 

19th March, 1995

Cher Lestat,