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The words are on the tip of his tongue.
Always, at all times.
They stifle him, make it hard to swallow. They don’t budge, refuse to roll of his tongue, making him choke on this place inside that cannot give. Cannot let go.
So much has changed.
So much has stayed the same.
And life, life goes on.
It’s unbearable.
It’s inevitable.
It’s the only thing that makes him breathe.
******
He’s never been afraid to touch him.
It seemed ludicrous.
Even when raving. Even when sobbing. Even when fighting the bonds.
The moment of stillness, under his hands, and then the quieting down, a rush of relief through Louis’ own limbs, a rush of power, which he had tried to ignore.
Shhh shhhh shhh.
Hush now, darling.
The way Lestat had nestled into his hand, while his eyes had finally closed in exhaustion.
The way the blood-shot eye had seemed to glow, just before golden lashes had hidden it.
He’s never hesitated to touch him.
Not after they let him.
Careful, Louis.
We don’t know what he might do, Louis.
He doesn’t know his own strength, Louis.
Something happened, Louis.
Yes. Something happened.
Something that shook all the others to their core, too.
He’s not sure how he himself feels about it all, if he is honest. Apart from the despair.
It feels… unreal?
Surreal?
Belief is belief and proof is… weird.
Job, and the Devil playing a game with God. Betting on Job’s behavior.
Did they bet on Lestat’s as well?
He is glad for his vampiric vision, for the excellent eyesight, which allows it for him to read to Lestat in a lone candle’s light. The flickering light gives Lestat’s face the illusion of movement, a certain liveliness that is otherwise unbearable to bear the absence of.
Earlier, a young one who dared was thrown back, against the wall, and shattered to pieces.
The hand which did this is back in the place it was before, palm up, fingers slightly curled, nails gleaming in the low light.
He reached out earlier, after, to trace the lifeline in the open palm, while the servants silently and efficiently scraped bone and brain matter off the previously white walls. The smell of the blood had been making his stomach growl.
Sometimes he wonders why they clean up for… who do they clean up for?
It’s probably him.
Him, the keeper.
There is this faded scar on one of Lestat’s fingers, healed long before he was turned, and now barely visible anymore, but still there, etched into eternal flesh, remnant of a life long gone. A scar, received at the same time he got the one at his mouth, as professed in a stolen moment in their bed, then.
Then.
Oh how he longs for then, at times.
The gleam in Lestat’s eyes, whenever they’d made love.
The utter sincerity when he said he loved Louis.
The slight dimming of the light when Louis had not been able to say it back.
The way Lestat had later averted his eyes.
The scream, stuck in Louis’ throat.
Fool, don’t you know. Don’t you know why? Why I cannot say it?
It had made him angry.
Helplessly angry.
Not saying it had not prevented the pain either.
Had not prevented the loss.
Louis can feel the words, at times, in his chest.
They want to jump out, to the beat of their drum.
It’s slower now, their drum.
His own rhythm has adapted to his.
It fits with the melancholy.
There is dust on Lestat’s skin once more.
Careful, sure movements, taking it off. The cloth glides along the features, a shadow in the low light. He uses a toothbrush for the eyebrows, and lashes, and then the vague stubble.
Soft scratching sounds, swallowed up by the scratch of the needle on vinyl.
Digital music is different. More clear. More direct.
It feels remote.
Two songs left, on this side. Enough time to brush the hair.
It’s not frizzled now. No, it’s smooth, feeling almost liquid as the strands glide through his hands. The curls are not very prominent, but the wave is there all the same, and he drapes it, carefully, strand by strand, knowing it will stay this way until the next time he will brush.
Or the next time one of them… tries.
Silly, futile tries.
They used to scare him.
They used to make Armand angry.
He sighs, putting the brush away, as the needle hits the label, and the arm lifts.
Silence, only the soft sounds of the old speakers, awaiting melodious instructions. Awaiting him to turn the vinyl. He knows what song will be next. Edith Piaf, because he was in the mood. And he likes the irony of he lyrics.
Non, je ne regrette rien.
Ha.
They have redressed Lestat only recently. The clothes are still good, easy to dust off.
Louis exhales, and then carefully folds the cloth, puts it and the brush and toothbrush away into the small, nondescript but elegant box that sits off, to the side.
His eye falls onto his sleeve, and for a moment he can see a wisp of fur there, black fur, turning gray.
He’s buried Mojo, a while ago, in their yard at Rue Royale.
He dug the hole with his bare hands, next to her broken fountain.
It felt fitting.
The plane was waiting for him.
He didn’t cry.
But he tried to tell him, tried to say the words when he was back, because his heart was breaking and he wanted to. And so he tried.
He tried.
He couldn’t.
They’re on the tip of his tongue.
Always, at all times.
*******
There was a phase, where he was into puzzles.
He did them, designed them, tried to find the logic in the patterns.
It was something to do, to take his mind off, after he had succumbed to the hunger.
After the hunger screamed for more.
He made one, after Bosch, too. He’d stared at it when he had finished it, the memory of the Mardi Gras theme sudden and vivid, taking his breath.
Armand had given it to Daniel, without another word.
Louis is not quite sure how.
That was the only time he’d tried to shake Lestat awake.
That was the only time he had cried.
***
He misses his coffin.
The bed is just not the same. Oh it is freeing, of course.
But the coffin had had a coziness that had been provided shelter. A restricted space, for them. Warm, comfortable, saturated with their smell.
The penthouse… smells clean.
The sheets are changed daily.
There is no dust anywhere.
New Orleans had been humid. Hot. Banana trees, and the Mississippi. People, everywhere. Music, dancing, Mardi Gras. His tomb. His grave.
His love.
Dubai is hot. Tinged orange and hidden by a shield, glittering like jewels in the night.
Anything he might want, at the tips of his fingers.
And nothing he actually wants there to hold.
The days and nights are dreams, frayed at the edges.
Controlled via an iPad.
***
The dust is back, and he suppresses a sigh.
No young ones now, and the layer of dust is thicker, too, he’s been… absent.
He’s trying not to feel guilty about that, too.
Sometimes the… building groans.
And he can feel that in his bones.
***
“I love the new painting.”
Armand’s eyes are ambers, boring into his soul. “A contemporary artist. I thought you might like it.”
Smiling is hard.
But the words were easy.
That is progress, right?
The weight of Armand’s gaze is heavy.
***
The lights in the mall are glaring, and too bright.
Laughter, talking, some kids screaming, and the moist sound of beating hearts, tempting him.
He walks slowly, as not to bump into anyone on accident. What if someone fell? What if someone knocked their head? What if someone… bled?
No, slow is good.
Appropriate.
The tailor shop is not that far off in any case.
The smell there is so nice, clean cloth, and the impression of steamed shirts, starch and heat, and intent, sharp edged and pristine.
“Mr. Du Lac! Good for you to come by. Your order is ready!”
He turns, slowly, pasting a smile on, a practiced little smile, all geniality, and sincerity. “I had hoped for it to be.” His old clothes are slowly crumpling, to dust. “Were you able to procure the lace I talked about?” He likes lace. Maybe it’ll…
The man stepping into the field of his vision is balding, and lean, the measuring tape around his neck, some chalk smudges on his fingers.
He nods, eagerly, the dark eyes on Louis’, glittering, with intelligence, and awareness. An awareness won over the years, as his own hair thinned, his own skin wrinkled… and Louis’ did not. “Yes, Mr. Du Lac, please come and see.” He waves his hand towards the back of the shop, where boxes are stapled onto each other. “I have been anticipating your visit. The lace came yesterday.”
The unspoken question as to the timing of Louis’ visit hangs in the air, unanswered, as usual.
Louis hums, his heartbeat quickening, just a bit. “Show me.”
He waits until the box is opened, the new, bespoke clothes revealed, before releasing his next breath. Dark suit, clean cut, a fabric and color which seems to pick up the colors around it, the mix of fibers sublime.
“Beautiful.”
He blinks, realizing he has spoken aloud, looking up to see the little pleased smile on the tailor’s face, and echoing it, this time a bit more sincerely.
The tailor nods. “It goes very well with the cloth you chose for the suit. The pattern is so subtle, it is hardly visible, and it echoes the thread structure of the lace. See? I will get you a magnifying glass…”
Louis holds up his hand, waves it, while stepping closer. “No need.” He reaches out, to hover the tips of his fingers over the folded cloth. The light catches his nails, makes them glint.
He withdraws his hand. “Please have them delivered out front. I have a car waiting. Send the bill in as usual.”
He nods at the man and then turns, stepping out of the shop, the weight of the world descending, onto his shoulders, like a cloak.
***
The boxes were delivered.
Now comes the hardest part.
***
He’s declined Armand’s offer for help earlier. Again.
It’s my task, Armand.
It’s his… burden.
He’s always surprised at how easy it is to move Lestat. Arrange the limbs. Lift him.
There is no resistance to anything Louis does, no locked muscles, no stiffness.
The skin he reveals when he pushes the old, moldy clothes off is smooth, and feels soft under his touch. The hair smells dusty, but pushes his nose into it anyways, draws in lungfuls of air, to catch the smell underneath the dust, underneath the absence.
Red falls into gold, is absorbed, and hidden.
The words are there, on the tip of his tongue, pressing against the shell of his ear.
If only he would…
He inhales, shakily, and then sniffs, to straighten up a bit, continue to undress him. Memories threaten, as always, and he pushes them away, pushes them deep, deep, down, down into the abyss of his soul, where all the pain resides, formed into a knot of void, tearing at him, with every heartbeat.
Decades they spent together, but it is always a surprise to see how lean Lestat actually is. How thin, and yet muscular. The sheer power of his presence when he moves hides the fact in obviousness, but in stillness the fact and what it means makes Louis want to weep.
He used to worship this body, just as his own was worshipped in turn.
He cannot think of that now.
He knows too much.
Feels too much, too.
Armand’s voice is almost neutral, almost soft, almost flat. Asking, again, despite Louis’ earlier answer. Louis knows he only wants to help, helplessly. It’s almost a relief that Armand feels this helplessness, too. “Do you need help?”
Do you want help.
Please let me help.
Louis shivers, and then shakes his head, looking up to catch his gaze, for a moment. “No.” His throat clicks as he swallows. “Thank you.” He offers a small smile, sincere and open, for just a moment, before it bleeds away.
He looks away, unable to hold the gaze.
Unable to speak more.
Armand’s presence lingers, in the corner of his eyes, for long minutes.
And then fades away, reluctantly.
Louis exhales.
Lestat is still in his arms, half undressed, head fallen back.
The throat is stretched, the slow drum of his heartbeat visible against the skin, the veins the faintest blue underneath.
He knows what ecstasy these veins used to hold.
He has not dared to find out what they hold now.
He wonders if he would be allowed to drink, like Armand was.
Or would he meet a similar fate like the young ones? Would whatever holds Lestat captive wish to destroy him, too?
It is almost incomprehensible that this body can so easily destroy.
Or the thing within.
Whatever.
He places Lestat on the ground, and then continues to undress him, slowly, taking his time.
Lestat has small feet for his size, and Louis suddenly chuckles, remembering a comment on this, and how Lestat had prided himself on them, since it had been a beauty standard in his time.
Louis had made fun of it, relentlessly, in their good times. Of course.
The socks he ordered are soft, and silky, as everything he uses to clothe him.
He idly wonders if Lestat still feels the ticklish qualities of his touch, and suddenly the moment is there, a memory, full-blown and immediate, of Lestat trying to get away from him, laughing and in tears, and squealing in a way that had Louis made laugh so hard in turn he could not breathe, while trying to hold onto Lestat’s feet, tickling the soles mercilessly.
They had rolled off the bed in a tussle, hands flying, legs kicking, Claudia rolling her eyes at them, and then joining in, to also tickle Lestat, under his arms, beneath the ribs, until he had begged for mercy. Until the smiles had been edged into tear-smudged faces, the muscles in their cheeks smarting.
Until Louis had bent down, to kiss the blood off Lestat’s face.
He realizes he is smiling, now, too, widely, while his vision fills with red.
How long ago was that?
There is a little white line under Lestat’s knee, a ragged scar, torn flesh that healed unevenly. Was it a childhood accident? The wolves? A beating?
Louis knows about the beatings. Has seen glimpses of them, through the blood. Has felt phantom pain.
All vampires are born from trauma.
The smile is still there, shattering, like glass under one of the blows.
It had been so easy to blame Lestat, to be mad at him, then.
They had taken that route, too.
Phantom shame, of something he could not possibly change.
Do they ever let go? Do these memories stay, bubbling up like air from the abyss of time’s drowning blanket?
He runs his hands up the calves, and thighs, to the hip bone, protruding almost sharply at this angle.
No shame in touch, no hesitation. Not anymore. He knows he’s allowed. He knows he’s welcome to. He knows he could probably take liberties, too.
Bury himself in the flesh, to find some solace.
Draw forth essence, to find that taste again.
To feel.
But he doesn’t.
The weight is missing on his tongue.
Has been missing.
The click of his throat is loud as he swallows, his throat closed off, and dry.
He chose satin boxers this time.
He chuckles suddenly, remembering the inane comment, a ‘priapus at the gates’.
The chuckle turns to a snicker, and he bends forward a bit, to press a kiss to the place just over the bellybutton, while his hand gives said ‘priapus’ a soft squeeze. No reaction, but then he hadn’t expected any, had not hoped for one.
Had he.
Liar.
He sniffs, shaking his head, and then reaches for the new shirt, smiling when he shakes it out a bit one-handedly. The cloth truly is superb, fine and almost sheer, the pattern catching the light exquisitely. It would look like a finely spun net of light if Lestat would move in it, the cut hugging his form like a shroud.
He clicks his tongue, and then shakes his head again to dispel the thought, watching the light play on his fingernails, and the mother-of-pearl buttons as he closes them.
So much skin is now hidden again from his view, and it is bitterness on his tongue. The freckle at the base of Lestat’s throat is still there though.
A small thing, just under the collar bone. The shirt tickles his skin as he bends forward to press his lips to it. Is it a kiss? A benediction? A plea?
Is there a difference?
The sob tears itself from his throat, loud in the quiet room.
His lips are on the pulse point now, feeling the thrum. The drum.
Their drum.
One upon a time it had been their drum.
Is it still?
There is a wail, stuck somewhere in his throat, where the words are.
Wake up, wake up. Please.
I cannot bear it any longer.
The stubble is soft.
The lips are so close.
Breathing is so hard.
The tremor is back, making his limbs shiver.
His chest feels like a hole, sucking him in, a void, a black hole.
No heart, just a shell, to keep it from fading away. A cage.
It’s not fair, he knows that.
It’s nothing he can control.
Armand looks so sad these days.
He wonders if he knows.
He pushes up, drawing big lungfuls of air, with the last of his strength.
Calm now, calm.
The pants still. And the shoes.
He refrains from touching the black boxers again.
The zipper is loud somehow.
The shoes are slippers, and there is a smile again, playing on his lips. Lestat would either hate or absolutely adore these shoes, wouldn’t he. Sleek and black, but no heel to it.
Louis chuckles, lifting his eyes to look at Lestat, whose head is still thrown back, expression still serene.
“Sorry, no custom boots without fitting these days…” He licks his lips, sobering.
No mortal has ever entered this room.
None of the others have been by, in a long while.
“Lestat, I…”
The words die, on his lips.
I cannot go on.
I cannot do this anymore.
I cannot watch you fade, like them.
I cannot pretend anymore.
I cannot.
Suddenly, it’s easy.
One last try.
“I love you.”
WakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeupWakeup.
Please. My love.
The devastation is total.
A total eclipse of the heart.
It should be impossible to feel pain like this.
Nothing can feel worse than this, can it.
That realization is almost relief.
It will be easy, will it not?
He picks Lestat up, like a child, in his arms.
The head rolls against his shoulder, against his neck, the arms fall down.
He knows when he puts him down again that the hands will fall to the ground, and one will lie there, palm-up, as if to reach for him.
He knows the hair will fall into Lestat’s face and stay there, if he does not brush it away.
He knows it will stay dusty, because he does not brush it anymore.
He knows the clothes will be tatters, eventually.
He knows Armand will rage, and cry.
He knows all this.
He knows.
The hair is a veil, hiding the ground.
Will the sunlight feel as golden as it looks?
“Sunlight in your hair…”
He must have said it out loud.
The palm is up, fingers lightly bent.
He cannot look at it.
The words, words saved and conjured, like a spell… the words have accomplished nothing.
He cannot tell anymore if he had believed they would.
He is just numb.
That’s a good thing, isn’t it.
He bends to collect the old clothes, balls them up in his hands.
Maybe he will take them with him.
A token for the ferryman.
He hopes the currency of his pain will be enough.