Archive of Our Own

The first time he sees him, the boy with the soft brown eyes, soft like the earth, damp after a fresh rain, Lestat thinks nothing of it. Maybe not nothing, but certainly nothing compared to what it will become. He has lived on this earth for years and centuries, human faces blurring together in the wake of time. So Lestat sees him, this boy-king, trembling under the weight of the Pschent, the responsibility given to him all too young (though all mortals, really, are children, compared to him), and merely takes in the name, the face, before sliding back into the shadows. He does not expect to think of this boy again.

He is startled, then, when the boy’s eyes snap to his, perhaps drawn by a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He has taken great pains not to be seen by the people, knowing that, in this life, the People of the Black Land see him as a god. They see him as their God of the Sun, the one who travels the Underworld at night. How could they not, with his golden hair and eyes that shine like the morning star? They’re not entirely wrong.

Lestat, concealed behind a pillar, watches as the new boy-king is anointed, purified with oils, his soft brown eyes, shimmering golden in the fading sunlight peeking through the pillars of the temple, confused and sad, holding on to Lestat like he is the only thing keeping him sane in this moment. As their eyes meet, the very air seems to be frozen in time, dust motes glimmering in the sun softly falling to a halt. Lestat tilts his head, smiles only a sad smile, tinged deep blue with melancholy, knowing this boy will, to him, be dead in the blink of an eye. And he is. Crowned as a child, buried as a child still. Lestat watches as a shadow as the boy’s small body is wrapped in white linens. He wishes, perhaps for the first time in his immortal life, that he could be those linens, suffocating the boy in their light embrace, wishes that he could see the boy’s eyes again, this mortal who seemed to truly see him, not just the God he is seen as.

He shakes his head slightly, to disabuse himself of the romantic notion, too human for someone like him. He is, after all, an immortal being, a curse and a gift at the same time, living amongst the mortals but always, always separate from them. He leaves the Black Land that night, whispering away through the deserts, to shake himself of the boy’s gaze on him, of his deep brown eyes seeing him in a way he has not felt seen before. This deeply mortal boy, who looked at him with an intensity that he is not sure he has felt before, seemed to look at Lestat as his savior, as a helper, as a friend, rather than the worship he has become accustomed to. This must be the reason, he thinks to himself, grasping at straws to justify the fascination. That this boy may have been the first in as long as he can remember to see him as human.

Years later, Lestat walks the streets of Rome, that golden, shining city with its ideas of the republic and philosophy and learning. He walks this life as a Patre, a senator of Rome, guiding the humans towards ideals that are better than humanity could ever be in reality. It has been a long time since he has dabbled in the drudgery of human politics, but he likes to dip his toe in the waters every few centuries or so, just to give himself something to do. He spends his nights roaming his vineyards, throwing parties for the mortals so he can delight in their humanity, their freedom, their life. Lestat had once thought the wine, the music, the company were enough to fill the endless hollow of his life. But now, as he walks through the halls, seeing nothing but the glittering masks of revelers, he wonders, not for the first time, if all of this, this republic, this empire, this involvement in human affairs, was ever really worth it.

It is at one of these parties, half-drunk on wine and music, that he lifts his head up from its reclined position on the chaise, a slow, languid movement, to wave to a newcomer. His heart skips a beat. For it is him, that Egyptian boy-king, now in front of him, walking at the side of another patre of Rome. It cannot be him. He forces his body to walk over to the man, to say the customary greetings, while never taking his eyes off the teenage boy at his side. The boy looks only at the floor, too shy, or perhaps too unversed in the Roman customs and language, to participate in the conversation.

The man next to him smiles, notices Lestat’s interest in his serving boy, waves at him, and the boy comes to stand at Lestat’s side, never taking his eyes off the floor. It is all Lestat can hope that he will see those eyes again, those unending pools of mahogany, umber, dusk. He takes the boy’s hand, softly, leads him into another room, one devoid of people. He knows what the boy must think he has been brought here for, so Lestat is careful to keep a distance between them. He sits, leaving the boy standing a few metres away, tilts his head, and stares, drinking him in. He’s never seen another mortal twice, never had the pleasure of seeing the same face in another human being. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, Lestat gets up from his chair, walks to stand in front of the boy. He grips his chin, lightly, tenderly, with only his thumb and index finger, and tilts it to face him. And finally, those eyes again. Those beautiful, lovely eyes.

And, just as the last time he saw them, time, that thing that plods ceaselessly forward, stops. For them, for him. Always for him. The sound of the party outside seems to die down, the very air between them caught with a stillness, so like death.

“Your name?” he asks, gently, trying not to startle.

The boy, now staring, cannot seem to tear his eyes away. “They call me Aloysius,” he answers. “I had a different one before,” his eyes slide to the right and his brow furrows, lost in memories, “but no one here can say it. I’ve half forgotten, I think, what it was.”

Lestat slides his fingers along the length of the boy’s sharp jaw, cups the curve at the back of his neck. “Aloysius it is, then.” A small smile graces his lips. “Would you talk with me, just for the night?”

The boy’s eyes snap back to his, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, then nods, slowly. “To just … talk?” he asks, the words seem stilted, the accent making them less crisp and smoother, like honey. His tongue darts out, and oh, how Lestat wishes to taste it. How Lestat wishes to take him away and hide him from the world, this cruel, cutting world which has forced this boy to ask such a question with such trepidation. But he manages to nod, swallowing harshly. “To talk.”

They spend the evening thus, sitting on the lounge, not touching, as Lestat finds himself coaxed by this familiar face, the familiar eyes, into telling stories he had long thought lost to time. The boy listens, nodding at the right parts, gasping at the right parts, smiling when Lestat says something amusing. And though he has not taken a mortal companion in millennia, Lestat thinks, yes, maybe this one. He need only exchange funds with his fellow senator to have this boy all to himself.

The seconds, minutes, hours, days pass, Lestat content to talk to his beautiful Aloysius. He does not want the boy to think he has purchased him for sex, purchased a vulgar word and sex not enough of one to describe what Lestat wants to do to this boy, this creature, this magnificence. Lestat likes to take the boy for walks in the crisp night air, as they walk through the Forums, a throng of people by day. By night, it seems that the architects of this grand city have built it just for him. For him and his darling Aloysius.

Sweet, honeyed nights pass like this, the two of them walking, just walking, Lestat taking mouthfuls and eyefuls of the stars, to thank them for sending this boy through the centuries to him. He has never encountered another immortal, he thinks. And though he knows this boy is not one of them, Lestat cannot help but wonder at the miracle that this boy has found him twice. That, he thinks, is enough. And so, almost drunk on their conversations and shared words and quiet strolls through the tranquil night air, Lestat forgets. Forgets the enemies he has made, as a patre of Rome, those who wish him dead but know better than to strike at Lestat directly. And thus it is that Lestat comes home one day to his house in upheaval, to servants running and shouting, hands full of blood-colored cloths, of buckets of water, movements frantic and faces full of sorrow.

He runs then, runs to his chambers to check on his precious Aloysius, to hold him in his arms, run his hands over the smooth skin on his face, his neck, his back, to drink him in, his vitality, to make sure he is all right. He enters the room, not thinking, not seeing it. Then he sees it, the stillness, the blood, the small body sprawled out on the floor, a spreading patch of dark red seeping across its white tunic. He buckles against the door, hands clutching uselessly at the frame, crawls, painstakingly, to what is left of his darling Aloysius, Aloysius, Aloysius. Not like this.

He cradles the boy in his arms, a broken sob strangling his throat, tears welling in his eyes, as he strokes the boy’s hair, his jaw, his lips. His hands shake, ever so slightly, as the boy’s eyes flutter open, as he raises a hand, with what seems like all the effort left in his body, to cradle Lestat’s jaw. The ghost of a smile graces his lips before his body goes limp. It is all Lestat can do not to roar, to scream, to howl, at the injustice of it all. At this boy, this lovely, lovely boy, who is the only human face he has ever seen for a second time in all his years on the earth. Lestat folds in on himself, over Aloysius, as if his body can become a shield that will protect the body from any and all harm. As the servants try, over and over, to pry the body from Lestat’s arms, it is all he can do to rock back and forth, cradling what is left of his treasured Aloysius, to run his shaking fingers through the boy’s hair, as the body grows colder. It is not until the dawn that Lestat allows the body to be taken from his arms, to be prepared for burial, a burial which Lestat cannot, will not, attend.

He has forgotten, in all his time, why he does not form connections with humans, why he grazes the surface of them and leaves the rest alone. He had long learned to keep his distance, to caress the surface of humanity without diving into its depths. And this death, this tragic, senseless death, forces him to remember all too well. He spends all day sitting on the floor, thinking only of Aloysius and his warm, golden brown eyes. He leaves at dusk, taking nothing with him. He finds a cave, one left alone by even the goat herders who frequently bring their animals to graze on this hill, shuts himself away.

He does not know how long he sits in the cave, staring at the stone cavern that has become his new home. Days blur into nights, and Lestat cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. He thinks, and dreams, only of Aloysius, of the graceful tendons in his neck, of the smooth curve of his waist, of the veins in his hands. These thoughts of Aloysius haunt him, every corner of the cave filled with the boy’s laughter, his eyes. But there is nothing left but silence, a deafening silence that stretches on forever. He leaves only to hunt, the occasional goat, sometimes a bird, before he returns to his solitude. He is out one night, forcing himself to feed, when he spots a boy, sitting on a rock, reading to the sheep. Lestat takes two faltering steps closer, wills it to be his dear Aloysius, returned somehow from the grave. It is only when the moon peeks out from behind the clouds that he realizes, no. Only a passing resemblance. But then, everything here reminds him of what he has lost. And so, on he goes.

Lestat finds himself in Aksum, after he has spent centuries wandering the deserts, sipping tea with fellow travelers in the shade of oases, feeling the soft sand trickle beneath his fingers. It is, he thinks, like the life of his dear Aloysius, his boy-king. Here, then gone. Not something he could hold on to, but ubiquitous, everywhere, covering everything in its light dusting. He presents himself here as an explorer, the likes of Marco Polo, of Ibn Battuta, drifting from city to city, from empire to empire. He is walking the markets one evening, taking in the stone obelisks and the chatter of people, outside now that the heat of the day has waned, when he sees him. And, like every time, the cruel mistress that is time drags this moment out for as long as she can. The moon halts her rotation, for just a moment; the birds freeze mid-air; the gently whispering wind quiets.

“Azazi!” A voice calls out, and the boy - young man, now - turns around to face Lestat, waves a hand up in greeting, and it is all Lestat can do to not wave back. He knows, of course, that the boy is not looking at him. But with his face like that, all glowing with a smile and crinkled eyes, Lestat can only watch, breathless, as the boy walks past him, embracing what seem to be his friends, as they run off together into the distance. He knows that he shouldn’t, that nothing good will come of it, but he follows them, hiding behind market stalls and buildings, just to catch a glimpse of his beloved Aloysius, his beloved boy-king, now his Azazi. Lestat lingers in the shadows of the market, his breath shallow as he watches the boy, his laughter ringing out like music. The sound, so sweet, cuts through him. His eyes track every movement, every gesture, as Azazi runs, free and unburdened. Lestat’s fingers twitch and, for a moment, he imagines running his hands through the boy’s hair again, pressing his lips to that warm, laughing mouth, drinking in those eyes. But no, he reminds himself. Not again, not after Aloysius, can he insert himself into this young man’s life, only to watch him die too quickly. In this life, he watches. He can only watch.

As he watches Azazi laugh, shove at his friends good-naturedly, Lestat feels it, that impossible distance, the unfathomable gulf between them. This boy, who has reminded him of the beauty and heartbreak that is humanity, is not his anymore. Cannot be his. Not in this life, not in any life. And yet, Lestat will never age, will never forget. He will live on in the desert, in cities that rise and fall, in faces that come and go, while Azazi’s smile will fade in time, like all things do. All things but him.

The joy on Azazi’s face is the brightness of a flame in the dark. Lestat watches, yearning to reach out, to touch him, but he knows, he must know, that this light is not for him. His heart stirs, but it’s only a shadow of what it once was, what it was with his beloved Aloysius. This boy will never carry the weight of centuries, will never know the endless ache of living while the world moves on without him. Azazi will laugh, will love, and will fade, but Lestat will remain, forever watching, but never touching.

He thinks then, yes. This is what this boy needs, to be happy. To be kept far away from Lestat. To live his own life, unencumbered. And this too, thinks Lestat, is what he needs. To watch from a distance, to glimpse, every century or two, to know his boy is happy. And with that, Lestat sighs a heavy sigh, a sigh that only an immortal can sigh, and turns away.

How many more times would it be? How many more lifetimes would he watch, helpless, as this boy lived and died? The thought is as suffocating as the desert sands, as the linens that wrapped around the boy-king. He could not save him, could not protect him. All he could do was wait, wait for the next life, for the next moment, when maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again.

Lestat has forgotten how to keep track of the minutes, the hours, the days, the years, the centuries. He wanders and wanders, his gold hair sometimes mundane, sometimes divine. His blue-gray-lilac eyes sometimes the stuff of legends, sometimes otherworldly, sometimes ordinary. He is on an island, far from the bustling cities where he formerly saw this creature, this human, who has somehow followed him through the millennia. He spends his day in a monastery, clothed in gold, in silence, thinking only of the heavy burden of time, the odyssey of recollection.

He is sitting, legs folded beneath him, head bowed in meditation, when he feels a presence at his side. He keeps his eyes closed, knowing it is only another member of their temple, come to meditate as he has. He senses the steps grow closer, hears the body fold itself in prayer, murmured supplications. It is only then that he dares open his eyes, glance at which of his fellow acolytes has joined him for the time being. And once he does, he cannot tear his eyes away. The face is familiar, all-too familiar. All too different at the same time. The warm, brown skin, the veins in his hands, the curve of his back. The eyes, though Lestat cannot see them, he knows are russet, coffee, mahogany.

He does not know how long he sits, sits and stares, until the boy lifts his head and looks back at him. This is the oldest Lestat has ever found him, he thinks wildly to himself, the oldest he has ever seen his boy become. And perhaps boy is not the right word to describe him, for in this life he is an old man; the veins Lestat noticed earlier are more prominent, on hands covered with sun spots and wrinkled. The curve of his back, not from his pose, but from old age. And oh, how beautiful he is, to have lived in this life. To have lived longer than he ever has once he has met Lestat. And though he had resolved to keep his distance, this time, he is the one frozen, limbs locked in supplication, in worship, to this boy, this old man, this kindly soul who had made him feel human once again.

He inclines his head, this old man who Lestat cannot help but see as the boy-king, as the Roman servant, as the young man playing with his friends, and smiles. “Are you asking the Buddha for anything in particular today?” he asks, a kindly twinkle in those eyes that haunt Lestat’s dreams. Lestat is struck mute, and is reduced to merely shaking his head in wonderment as he gazes on the man he has tried oh-so-hard to stay away from, to protect. The man’s smile widens, if possible, and he turns his head to face the statue placed prominently at the center of the temple. “Too often,” the man reflects, “people want things. Money, knowledge, love. They forget, I think, to just speak with the Buddha is a gift unto itself.”

And, oh, how Lestat wants to speak. To relive those honeyed conversations of Rome, those hours and minutes and days spent talking in the baths, spent eating dates and drinking wine, spent drinking in this boy’s smile.

“How long have you been at the temple?” the man asks him, genuine curiosity on his face. At this, Lestat tears his eyes away, the beginnings of a frown forming along his forehead.

“I’m just passing through,” he answers. “And you?”

“I came to this temple a young boy, and have lived here ever since. I find a peace in it, a stillness, that I have yet to find anywhere else.”

Lestat smiles, to think of the stillness he found watching the boy-king crowned, watching a young man play and laugh with his friends.

“Would you walk with me?” the man asks, and so the two rise, shoulders nearly touching, and languidly stroll the grounds of the monastery, hands clasped behind their backs. They walk in silence for some time, questions burning in Lestat’s throat, before he can bear it no longer.

“Your name?” Lestat rasps. Though he knows that this, like all their other encounters, cannot last, he finds he cannot bear not knowing all the names of this beautiful creature, all the ways by which he is called, all the syllables that Lestat may find on his tongue come dusk.

“Satria,” the man answers, chuckling. “I rather think my parents envisioned a different path for me, than one of quietude and contemplation.”

Lestat’s brow furrows; he finds he cannot parse the meaning.

“Ah,” says the monk, understanding Lestat’s confusion. “For my name means warrior. Although I like to think of myself as a warrior of a different kind, of gentleness, of kindness, of small deeds. That is a type of war, is it not? To bring beauty and calm to those who need it?”

Lestat finds himself nodding, for of course this boy, this young man, this elder, could have no other name. This gentle warrior, who has wormed his way into the recesses of Lestat’s ancient heart. Though he had planned to leave the monastery, he finds himself staying, walking at dusk with his monk, just like he walked with the young boy through the streets of Rome. Lestat relives those conversations, has them over again, though they are markedly different with the wisdom of one who has lived longer than that boy ever did.

The days pass, dappled moonlight through the pines until, one day, Lestat is awoken at dusk to a gentle hand on his shoulder. It is, to his surprise, not Satria, but another monk, a younger one, who gestures at him to follow. And follow he does, through the open courtyard and past the temple, until he finds himself in a sleeping chamber. And there, on the mat on the floor, is Satria. His wizened face, his chocolate eyes, seem to sparkle in the moonlight. He holds out a hand to Lestat, who walks forward, slowly, until he can kneel beside him, clasping his hand. He bows his head to their hands, intertwined, and lets out a sob, for he knows what must be coming. What comes for all mortals, what has come for this boy time and again.

Lestat stares at Satria’s wrinkled hand, the skin soft and worn with time. How many lifetimes had it been, how many more would there be? Was this the last time he would feel the warmth of this soul, this boy, this man? The thought gnaws at him, like a wound that never heals. He could not stop time. He could not stop this inevitable death. And worse, he could not stop his own relentless, unyielding hunger for what could never be. Every life, every death, was a reminder. Lestat had known this boy in another lifetime, in another form, but the soul was the same. He could not escape it, even if he tried. Each time, his boy-king, crushed under the weight of his crown, his laughing Azazi in the market, his sweet Aloysius, would slip through his fingers like water, like the sands of the desert he had wandered through all those years ago, blind with grief. How many faces would he see before the end? How many more would he watch, helpless to hold on?

The old man, the young man playing with his friends, the teenage boy in Rome, the boy-king in Egypt, merely smiles, a smile filled with acceptance.

“Come now, friend,” he says, softly. “You must have known this day was coming.”

A sob threatens to work its way out of Lestat’s throat, chokes the words he wants to say. He swallows it down, breathes, and says, “That doesn’t make it any easier.”

The man strokes his hand, softly, gently. “I must only return to the ocean. And, besides. There is always the possibility of rebirth. Perhaps we will meet again in the next life, as birds, flying together in a warm breeze.”

Lestat does manage to smile at this, though a smile tinged with melancholy, for this he can answer. “I do believe we will see each other again.” Lestat felt each breath like a drumbeat in his chest, as though the world was holding its breath alongside him. The gentle pressure of Satria’s hand in his felt like the last thread tethering him to a world he could never fully belong to. He counts the breaths, slowly, one by one, knowing that each one brought them closer to the inevitable silence. The night wraps around them, as though the universe itself were waiting for the final exhale. And so he sits, counting the breaths, until they stop.

Lestat makes his way to a city called Pataliputra, on the banks of the mighty Ganges River. He travels to the rolling fields of the Great Yuan, to the frigid winters of the north, to the sprawling, sparkling deserts of the Almohad Caliphate. And everywhere, he catches glimpses of his boy, holds on to them for as long as he can. A flash of silk and a burgundy turban here, a loud grin on the back of a horse there. A body dressed in furs and wool, in rough cloth, in linen. The grief of Aloysius once felt all-consuming, never-ending. It roared through him as fire, leaving only ash in its wake. It swept through him like a flood, leaving scattered debris throughout the wretched, open wound that Lestat has somehow become. These glimpses, through brief as they must be, stave off this feeling, if only for a moment. He cannot bear to stay away, he cannot bear to watch him die another time. And so, every time Lestat sees the boy, he drinks in the smile, the curve of his waist, the eyes, oh, the eyes, nods to himself, and continues on his way.

It is not until Lestat has made his way to the New World, drawn by the promise of adventure and excitement and a new continent that does not hold memories tied to this boy, that Lestat is drawn in once again. He is, just after dusk, wandering through the forests, taking in the new smells and new sights he has yet to have seen in his centuries walking the earth. He is washing his hair in a clear, spring pool when he hears a sharp crack. His body tenses and he whips his head around sharply,

“Who’s there?” he demands, eyes searching the treeline. Minutes pass, and nothing reveals itself. Lestat thinks it must have been an animal, and turns back to the pool to continue washing his hair. He has taken off his shirt and began to scrub it against some of the rocks at the edge of the pond, when he feels the cool, sharp bite of metal against his neck. He tilts his head slowly, curious to see who would dare threaten an immortal, and his gaze is met by those coffee-mahogany-russet-fire-brown eyes. Lestat’s eyes well up with tears, struck dumb by the blessing it must be to witness this boy time and time again, the curse to, over and over, watch him die. The young man’s brow furrows.

“Who are you?” he demands.

Lestat chuckles, despite the spear still at his throat. “An explorer,” he answers, having attempted to study the native languages of this place when news of the New World first reached Europe. After all, he has to find some way to pass the eons of time he has been dealt.

The young man narrows his eyes, presses the spear ever-so-slightly deeper into Lestat’s throat, where a few drops of blood begin to well. Lestat slowly releases his shirt from his hands, raises them to show he means no harm. He knows the boy is wary, so he begins speaking haltingly. “I do not mean you any harm. I just came to wash clothes.” With that, he gestures slowly at his shirt, still clinging to the rocks in the pond.

The young man nods, slowly, then removes his spear from Lestat’s throat, though he continues to hold it loosely at his side, ready to use at a moment’s notice. Lestat turns back to his washing, stands up to hang the shirt from a nearby tree branch, and goes back to sitting at the edge of the water. The young man, this whole time, has been tracking his movements, watching him warily as he slowly stands up and sits back down.

Lestat’s shirt is now nearly dry, and the young man has not spoken another word, merely tracked him with those eyes, those eyes. Lestat clears his throat, desperate to speak, to know. “Your name, please?”

The boy, who had relaxed somewhat, tightens his grip on his spear, knuckles whitening around it, eyes narrowing once more. “You do not need to know,” he bites back. “Just go back to your people.”

Lestat spreads his hands, desperately, placatingly. “I just …” he casts his gaze around, looking for any excuse he can come up with to see the boy again before he is bound to depart for the Old World once more. “Can you teach me to hunt? With that?” he points at the spear as the young man stares at him, eyes widening and mouth falling slightly slack.

With this, he manages to wring a chuckle out of his boy-king, his Aloysius, his boy with the wide smile playing with his friends, his holy man. “It is not for hunting,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “But,” he begrudgingly allows, “I will teach you to catch fish. Just today. Then you leave.”

Lestat nods quickly, a frantic motion of his head, before he glances back at the spear. “Show me?” he entreats.

“This pond is too small,” says the young man, shaking his head. “Come, there is a river not far that will provide much better fish for us.”

Lestat grabs his shirt off the tree branch, throws it back over his head. “May I at least know your name?” he asks once more, slightly pleading. “If I am to follow you off into the woods?”

The boy meets his eyes, russet-brown-mahogany meeting blue-gray-lilac. Lestat will never tire of this feeling.

“Matunaagd,” replies the boy. “He who fights.”

And Lestat smiles, for it is a familiar name. Not in sound, but in the meaning. Aloysius, Azazi, Satria, now Matunaagd. He wonders if all of these boy’s parents have looked, not at the face, but at the soul, and seen the same thing.

The two men walk the forest, not quite step in step, for Matunaagd leads the way, but Lestat follows close behind. They reach a river, not quite rapids, not quite languidly snaking through the forest, but somewhere in between. Matunaagd perches himself on a rock, gestures for Lestat to do the same. He holds the spear next to his head, poised, still, waiting. Without even the whisper of suggested movement, the young man strikes his spear down in a flash, then raises it above his head with a cry. “Ha!”

His smile is triumphant, his eyes gleaming. For there, on the tip of his spear, is a big, silvery fish. Wriggling about, gasping for water, Lestat rather thinks it must feel like he does without this boy, this warrior, he who fights. Lestat cannot help but grin back, a smile so wide it reaches his eyes, like it has not done in centuries. “My turn?” he asks, coyly.

“No,” says the young man. “First you watch more. Then you will try.”

And so Lestat watches, less the fish he is catching and his technique, and more the young man himself. Watches his nimble fingers as they twirl the spear as he waits for another silvery flash in the water, watches the tense muscles in his legs coiled and ready to strike, watches his eyes, his eyes, his eyes. Lestat is so preoccupied that, by the time the boy hands him the spear to attempt to catch his own fish, Lestat is no better than a newborn child. He can, of course, fish with his bare hands, has been doing it for centuries, but needs an excuse to see the young man again. So he does not approach the task with nearly his best effort.

Matunaagd, for his part, manages to hold back a laugh, though his smile once again crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You need more practice, yes?” he asks, fairly rhetorically, as anyone who watched this attempt would fishing would come to the same conclusion.

“Yes,” Lestat says, looking down at the water, a wry smile on his face.

And so, the two come to meet, most afternoons, at the same little pond. Lestat is old enough that the sun no longer bothers him, at least not in that late, hazy time after the sun has left its zenith and before dusk. They walk and talk in those woods, spend hours laying on their backs in sun-dappled clearings, run with the joy of children through the trees. Once Lestat seems to have conquered the spear, Matunaagd moves on to teaching him how to use a bow and arrow to fell larger game, like rabbits, beaver, deer. Lestat has long known how to take down these animals with his own weapons, his sharp nails and fanged teeth, but there is a simple joy to being with this young man in these woods.

It is on one of these afternoons, having killed a rabbit, skinned it, roasted it over the fire, sated from the thrill of the chase and the long hours stalking their game, that Lestat and Matunaagd are both laying, skin brushed pale gold from the sunlight filtered through the leaves, that Lestat feels the young man crawl up next to him, lay down right at his side. Lestat looks over to find the boy already staring at him, drinks in his eyes, lit golden by the sun, drinks and drinks and drinks in the sight. He would not need blood anymore, he thinks, if only he could look at these eyes every day, forever.

Matunaagd’s eyes grow soft, his lips part ever-so-slightly, his breath barely hitches. He takes one hand, callused from the spears, the bows and arrows, the knives, and places it ever-so-gently on Lestat’s cheek. Lestat cannot help the breath caught in his throat, the tears in his eyes, as he takes his hand and sets it atop the boy’s. Neither remembers how long they lay like that, simply looking at each other, feeling the other’s presence, until the sun begins to set.

The young man glances around at the sudden chill in the air, the darkening of the sky, and slowly removes his hand, facing away from Lestat to sit up. He sighs once, a heavy sigh, then stands and offers his arm to Lestat as if to help him stand, too.

Lestat, not knowing quite how far he can push, but not wanting the moment to end either, takes the hand, and pulls Matunaagd’s body on top of his. The young man lands with a sharp noise pushed out of his chest, hands bracketing Lestat’s head, the rest of their bodies pulled flush together.

He feels, rather than hears, their chests rising and falling at the same time, their heartbeats syncing, so that he cannot tell where he ends and where his beautiful boy begins. The boy, ever so slowly, lifts one of his hands to run it through Lestat’s hair, and Lestat just melts. He goes boneless, shuddering at the first touch of this boy, young man, elder, who has somehow been his companion through all the lonely years, in so long.

Matunaagd’s hand continues wandering, brushing Lestat’s forehead, his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips, his lips, his lips. It is all Lestat can do to keep his eyes open, to keep consuming this lovely, lovely young man, until, at last, he leans down and presses his lips to Lestat’s for the first time. It is brief catharsis and, as he pulls away, Lestat cannot help but surge up to taste the boy’s lips again, to drink him in, to devour him, his taste, his smell, his noises.

Soon, all too soon, the young man pulls away to flop down on the forest floor next to Lestat. “They’ll be wondering where I am,” he says, reluctantly, his voice gravelly. “Tomorrow?”

And so Lestat nods. “Tomorrow.”

Now that Lestat has a taste, he finds it will never be enough. They meet, over and over in their clearing by the river, no longer to hunt, but to trade sweet kisses, sweet nothings that float away on the wind.

It is on one of these days, these sweet, languid days spent, free as children, that Lestat is hit by a stray arrow, that must have been shot by other hunters roaming these woods. He does not register the pain at first, merely a pressure in his gut, when he looks down and sees the arrow protruding from his stomach. And then the pain comes. He buckles to his knees, watching the blood slowly seep between his fingers where he has clutched his stomach, manages to turn as he falls so he ends up on his back. He tries to shout, a garbled thing through the blood that has worked its way to his mouth, but Matunaagd hears him nevertheless.

The boy’s eyes widen as he takes in Lestat, crumpled to the soft earth, his panic a mere footnote for the fact that all Lestat can see is those eyes. Matunaagd runs over, presses his hands over Lestat’s where they lie on his stomach. “No!” he shouts, he screams, he raves. “No, no, no, no, no,” the words dissolve into muttering, the boy running his shaking hands over every inch of Lestat, his arms, his brow. Lestat tries to smile, to calm him down, to explain that all he needs to do is get back to his coffin on the ship and he will heal. But the world is beginning to fade in and out, and he catches only snippets of what happens next. A feeling of being lifted into strong arms, the jostling as he is carried through the forest, desperate and angry shouting, and then the dark quiet of his coffin. A soft kiss to his brow, the sound of the coffin closing, the rocking of the boat.

Days later, when Lestat has recovered enough from the wound, he jolts out of the coffin, runs to the deck of the ship, to find he can see only ocean. And he knows, deep with sorrow, that this time, he has left the boy behind, instead of the other way around. At least this time he did not have to watch him die.

He finds himself back in France, his beloved France, on what seems like the eve of something big. The world is changing, after all, and Lestat has learned to change with it. He meets with men in dingy bars, in alleys and back corners, slipping into the shadowed corners where secrets are whispered, not as a leader of this change, but as a silent instigator, quietly shaping the minds of those around him. He has long been witness to the neverending arc of human history and Lestat is not here to merely witness, as he usually does, but to live it, as he has not since those days in Rome that ended so tragically. He has only now found it within himself to try again.

It is on one of these nights, spent in a dark room, a group of men huddled around a dingy table, arguing and joyfully bickering, full of new ideas, that a pamphlet is slapped down in front of him, fresh ink still smudging on the edges, the words burning with a fierce, revolutionary heat: Offrande à la Patrie. Offering to the Fatherland. The title promises something grand, something visionary. It speaks of the Third Estate, of revolution, of the purging of the old world.

“Have you all seen this?” a man booms, drawing everyone’s attention. “Our revolution has a new friend! Someone wants to write about us.”

Lestat reads the pages, his pulse quickening. This, this is the fire he’s been waiting for, the spark that will burn away the centuries-old weight of monarchy.

“Who wrote this?” he demands, looking up sharply, scanning the faces of the men around him.

“That’s the thing, my boy,” he replies in a booming voice. “No one seems to know. A friend of the revolution, but not one bold enough to put his name to his words.”

Lestat frowns. A ghost behind the revolution? He could work with that. At every meeting, he scours the faces, hoping to find some clue to this mysterious pamphlet-writer, a man who seems to understand the true heart of the revolution, the need to purge French society, to forge a new beginning.

There are always new faces, and Lestat searches for this writer, the one whose words have captivated him. He has just about given up hope when, at one of these meetings, he is standing in a corner, watching the men give rousing speeches and jolly smiles, when a man stands up, pounds his hand against a table to get everyone’s attention.

“I need to introduce you all to someone!” the man booms, a jolly smile on his face. “We have all read his words, the magnificent Offrande à la Patrie, and now you may hear them in person!”

He gestures off to the side, and Lestat watches as a man makes his way to the front of the room. His breath catches in his throat. Those eyes, his eyes. For when he thought to meet this writer, this one who makes patriotic, revolutionary ideas sound like honey, he had never thought it would be his boy. His Satria, the wise monk, his Azazi, the laughing boy in the market, his Matunaagd, the wild young man in the forests. The music slows to a halt, the cheering of the men fades in his mind, and the entirety of his mind is filled by those eyes. The world itself must have stopped spinning, even if just for a moment, Lestat thinks wildly, for how else could he explain what he is feeling.

Lestat feels the world shift beneath him. He does not hear the words that come out of the man’s mouth, does not hear the rousing cheers, the stomping of feet, the clinking of glasses. He can think only of the smile, the long fingers as they gesture, the eyes, the eyes, the eyes. It is only when the speech ends that time seems to return to normal, the earth returning to its revolutions. The crowd erupts into applause, but Lestat doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear anything but the steady, thrumming pulse of his own heart as the man steps forward. Lestat sits in his corner, as if in a daze, as the man is brought over to him for an introduction.

“So,” the man says frankly, sticks out his hand. “The mysterious benefactor of the revolution.”

Lestat gathers himself together enough to press his palm to the other man’s, to give his hand a firm shake, and it takes everything in him to let go. “And you, the mysterious writer.”

“Ah,” says the man, shaking his head slightly and looking down at his shoes. “I did not mean to be so mysterious. I just … wanted to see what people would think of my ideas before I put my name to them. I suppose that makes me a coward, of sorts.”

And this, Lestat cannot abide. “No,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “Not at all. But now that you will put your name to them, can I have it?”

The man looks up, a small smile on his face, and Lestat is once again drawn into the orbit of those eyes, deep brown like the soil after a rain.

“Louis,” he answers, and this is the name that seems to fit him best. His Aloysius, his Satria, his Matunaagd, his Louis, his Louis, his Louis.

The two begin to work together after that, heads bent together over the dusty tables, as if in prayer (and it is, after all, a prayer for Lestat, or, at least, the closest he has ever come to believing in something divine). Their work together is not one of grand gestures; it is quiet, intimate. They spend hours in this way, debating ideals and crafting manifestos, sketching the future of a world that feels like it was made for him. Lestat stands on the sidelines as he witnesses the people gather in front of the Bastille, the new constitution, the gathering at Versailles.

But this time, he is not alone. This time, he stands with his Aloysius, with the boy-king by his side, as he watches the revolution unfold. There is a shared silence between them as they watch the aftermath of the burning streets of Paris, the smoke rising into the air, as Lestat chances a glance at Louis. “It’s strange,” he almost whispers, “how I can see the entire world burn and feel nothing, but when I see you …” he trails off, not quite sure how to explain what he is feeling. Louis, ever the author of the revolution, with his beautiful words, glances back at Lestat, a wry smile on his face, and says, “Well. It’s not our world that is burning. It is the old one, making way for a glorious future.” Lestat hopes he has not mistaken the glint in Louis’s eyes.

He watches and helps his Louis, his Louis, begin a newspaper, rife with hope for the future and ideas that Lestat has always seen humanity have, but never quite live up to. He supposes there is a first time for everything. Their newspaper, the voice of the revolution, the friend of the people, espouses freedom, the freedom that Lestat saw in the boy running wild through the forests, his Matunaagd. But Louis is not the same boy he knew. Not really. The fire in him burns brighter, but it also burns him from the inside. He speaks of freedom, of justice, of purging the old world to make way for the new, but Lestat sees the toll it takes. He sees the way Louis’s hands tremble from the pressure, the way his eyes become heavy, haunted, with every passing day.

Whenever they are apart, which they must often be, for all of Louis’s commitments to the revolution, he feels that familiar ache of longing, of hopelessness, of despair that has so often haunted him throughout the centuries. He finds himself reaching for Louis whenever they are together, the shortest brush of hands as they pass each other in the meetings, the flicker that comes every time their eyes meet. The revolution begins to mean less and less to Lestat, less interested in the unending toil of human affairs and more of his sweet Louis, his Matunaagd, his Satria, his Azazi, his Aloysius. His, his, his. For what is a revolution to this, what they have shared together? What is change to the ceaseless love Lestat has for this boy, a love he has held ever since that boy-king of long ago looked at him as a friend?

Lestat finds peace in the moments of shared laughter, of discovery, as they argue over the best way to phrase certain lines, the best language to use. He is reminded, then, of Aloysius, of the way they used to spend hours wandering through the forums, of Matunaagd and the conversations they would have, lying amongst the sun-dappled trees. He is breathless every time he learns something new about Louis, about his family and their lack of care for him, about the journey that brought him to writing.

They are writing, one day, Louis’s head bent over a table, Lestat sitting next to him, never touching, that Lestat notices Louis’s hands trembling as he writes, a sign of the pressure he’s under. Louis throws his pen down, puts his head into his hands, sighs, as he groans. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he mutters, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m drowning.”

Lestat’s heart twists. He knows this pain, the endless, grinding weight of a world that won’t change, no matter how hard you fight for it. Lestat sees his chance; he slowly, gently takes Louis’s hands in his, runs his thumb against Louis’s hand gently, pulls his hands from his face and clasps them between his own.

“Louis,” he starts, “I’m here. We’ll figure this out, together.”

At this, Louis looks up, a faint smile upon his full lips, breathes a deep breath. “Yes,” he responds. “Together, we always do.”

Lestat has long since given up human connection: which is to say, he has long since given up any human connection but his boy. The revolution has become all-but meaningless to Lestat, focused now only on drinking in the time he has with this man. And for an all-too-brief moment, there is no revolution between them. No pamphlets, no speeches, no cause. Just two souls, connected by time. But then, as always, the world intrudes. The revolution calls Louis back.

And this, of course, leads to ugly fights, to Louis complaining that Lestat does not care enough about their cause, about freedom, about humanity; to Lestat worryingly, frantically, trying to keep this wondrous human safe from harm. He has seen Louis nearly arrested, forced into hiding in the sewers of Paris, Lestat going nearly out of his mind with worry when he cannot see Louis for weeks on end.

“I cannot be safe!” Louis explodes one day, arms gesticulating wildly as he tries to make his point. They sit in Lestat’s home in the center of Paris, papers spread out across the table in between them. “That is the very nature of revolution! I am not any more important than anyone else in our struggle; how can I ask them to put themselves in harm’s way for our cause while I sit on the sidelines?”

And oh, Lestat’s heart breaks just a little at this, for how can his Aloysius, his Matunaagd, his Satria not see that he is more important, that he is the most important. He remembers those moments of quiet calm in the monastery, of deep peace in the forests, knows that this is what they could be without this brutal, devastating revolution, without his constant worry of Louis being in harm’s way.

“Because it is you!” Lestat explodes back, heart nearly beating out of his chest. “It is you, Louis, and you must be safe!” He stands to crowd Louis against the back of the couch, bending over him, fiercely grabbing the cloth of his shirt between his fingers, like it is his lifeline back to humanity. He must make Louis understand, he must, that there is nothing more important than him. There is only one way he can think to do this.

Lestat crushes Louis’s mouth to his own, a fierce kiss, teeth clashing, tongues warring in between their mouths. He pours all his love, for all the iterations of this brilliant, shining man he has met throughout the centuries, into this gesture. Louis, for his part, spends the first few seconds sinking into the kiss, before he puts his palms to Lestat’s chest and roughly pushes him away. His lips are swollen, his eyes flashing wildly, as his brow furrows and his chest heaves.

“You cannot … you cannot think …” he seems lost for words as his eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at Lestat. He stands from the couch, pacing around the room, while Lestat merely watches.

“Louis,” Lestat starts, only to be interrupted.

“No!” Louis shouts, the word forcing its way out with a sharp exhale. “You cannot … you cannot ask this of me, no matter the reason.”

Lestat exhales, a soft thing, his eyes melting like butter as he takes in his Louis, his Matunaagd, his Satria, his Azazi, his Aloysius. As he takes in the boy, the man, who has followed him through the centuries, who has brought an end to his unending loneliness, an end to the crushing depths of despair that Lestat found in the cold cave.

Lestat walks over to where Louis stands, slowly, gently, and takes the man’s hands in his. He brushes his thumb over the veins, the long fingers, and dares a glance into the eyes that have captivated him for centuries.

“I am not asking,” he starts slowly, “for you to give up your work. I know it is important, not just to you, but to the revolution. But I have seen you grown tired, sick from your time in the sewers. I know you are adored by the revolution for your words. But you are important, Louis. You are not just another face in the masses, not to me. To me, you are …” Lestat trails off, not sure how far he can go.

Louis’s eyes flick between their clasped hands and Lestat’s eyes. “To you, I am?” he prompts, albeit a bit nervously.

“Loved.” Lestat admits with an exhale. “You are loved, Louis,” he says softly. “Mon cher,” he whispers, like a promise, like a prayer.

At this, Louis bends into him, resting his head on Lestat’s shoulder, his body weight a comfort in Lestat’s arms. Lestat feels drips of wetness on his shirt as Louis throws his arms around him.

“Let me help bear the weight,” Lestat says. “That is all I ask.”

He feels Louis’s nod against his shoulder, takes the other man’s head in his own hands, cradling Louis’s jaw as if it is the most precious thing on earth. To him, after all, it is. What can be more precious than this boy who, hope against hope, he has found again and again, the soft chestnut, damp-earth eyes, the glorious smile.

They do not argue less, after that, but their arguments can now be ended with a soft kiss on the forehead, a hand held by the other. It is during one of these fiery arguments that Lestat’s fingers curl into his palms as Louis continues to speak, words of revolution spilling out in fiery passion. How long could Louis keep this up before the fire burned him alive? Wasn’t it enough, this beautiful life they had carved out in the shadows of Paris? The longer he watches Louis, the more it seems like the revolution isn’t something Louis is fighting for, but something he’s fighting against: against the weight of time, against the inevitable. And the worst part of it all: Lestat realizes he may never truly understand that. He may never understand why Louis finds the fight worth dying for.

Louis and Lestat take frequent walks through the streets of Paris, Louis breathing in the life of the city, gesticulating wildly as he shares new ideas for pamphlets and articles for his newspaper. Lestat sighs, pinching his nose. Is it too much to ask that they share one moment without the weight of the revolution pitching down on them? Louis looks over, brow furrowing into a frown.

“Am I boring you?”

Lestat shakes his head, tries to explain how he feels without Louis feeling he is giving up on the revolution, but it is not enough. It is never enough. How can he, after all, explain to Louis all that he feels for him?

“It is just,” he starts. “Do you ever think we have taken this revolution too far? Too bloody, too violent? It’s not what I ever intended it to be.”

Louis’s frown, if possible, deepens even further. “This is revolution,” he reminds Lestat, his words cutting. “Sacrifices must be made.”

“Is it too much that I wish the sacrifice was not you? That you would not have to give so much of yourself to this?”

“And I suppose you’d prefer me to give all of myself to you, then, is that it?” Louis mocks.

“Yes!” Lestat roars. How can Louis not see? It is easy to forget that Louis does not have the weight of all their past lives pressed down on him, cannot remember their easy days running through the woods, their quiet days spent in contemplation in the monastery, laughing free and wild with his friends.

They spend a few days apart, after that, both too proud to come back to the other. It is after another failed attempt on Louis’s life that Lestat comes, banging on Louis’s door, stunned into silence when the door opens and he sees his precious Louis, gloriously, wondrously alive.

The words fail him, for a moment, before he takes a deep, fortifying breath. “I’m sorry,” Lestat admits. “I don’t … I don’t want to ask you to give anything up for me. That’s the last thing I want. I just … I only want to keep you safe. Is that too much to ask? To see you safe?”

Louis sighs against the doorframe against which he is leaning, holds out a reconciliatory hand to Lestat.

“No, of course not. Of course not. But you must understand, this revolution … it is my life. To me, there is nothing better I could do with my life, don’t you see? To remake a country, to rebuild it. Don’t you understand?”

Though Lestat does not, he nods his head, finds himself pulled along into Louis’s house. Perhaps, as an immortal being, there is virtually no way for him to understand. For him, who has seen the rise and fall of cities, empires, has seen the annals of human history in all their forms and variety, what is another revolution to the love he shares with Louis? But, of course, Louis cannot know this, does not remember their past lives together, is not aware of those in-betweens when Lestat wandered the earth, lonely, alone.

It is not that Lestat stops worrying; how can he, when he has seen his precious boy die time and time again? Lestat sees Louis worn down, back nearly breaking under the weight of the revolution, and tries, in his own way, to mitigate it. He steals quiet moments for them in the park, nights spent under the heady influence of wine and Louis’s kisses. He watches as Louis is pulled deeper and deeper in, forming the backbone of new committees, working later and later, coming to Lestat’s home less and less often.

“You cannot stand in the way of progress, Lestat,” Louis says sharply one night, his face lit by candlelight, his eyes burning with the intensity of his words. “We cannot fight a revolution by sitting passively on the sidelines, as you seem to want to do. Where is your fire, your spirit, your love for change? What has happened to you?” Lestat’s chest tightens, as if he’s being suffocated by the words. The warmth between them, the closeness they once shared, seems to slip away, like smoke through his fingers. Was this the man he had loved so desperately, or had he only loved an idea of him?

The weight of their fight presses down on them, suffocating. The words have been spoken, and the damage is done. Louis stands across from him, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows on his face, but it’s the ache in his eyes that cuts Lestat the deepest. They’ve fought, they’ve yelled, words as sharp as knives, digging into wounds too old to heal.

“I care about you, Louis!” Lestat roars, “and I see what this revolution is doing to you! The way your hands shake, the way your back breaks under the pressure. You have asked me not to stand in the way of your work, and that I have respected. But to see what it is doing to you? You cannot ask me to stand on the side and watch.”

“I’ve told you,” Louis says, his voice low and trembling. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep going in circles with you. I-” He stops himself, clenching his fists as though the words are too heavy to speak aloud.

Lestat’s chest tightens. He wants to reach out, to pull Louis into his arms and say everything he’s been thinking. But Louis’s face, tight with resolve, tells him that such an act would be futile.

“You think you can change everything, Louis,” Lestat’s voice cracks, despite himself, as he steps forward. “But you can’t. You never could. This world, it doesn’t always make sense. You-” He cuts himself off, then exhales sharply.

Louis turns away from him, a slight tremor in his shoulders, but he says nothing. The silence between them is thick, almost suffocating. The weight of everything they’ve never said hangs in the air.

Louis’s hand tightens on the edge of the table, his knuckles white as he stands motionless for a moment, staring at the floor. When he finally speaks, it’s with a quiet resolve that makes Lestat’s heart ache. “I don’t know if it’ll be better. I just know I can’t keep pretending that this-” he gestures between them, his face raw with emotion. “This, with us, can just keep going forever. We can’t go on like we have been.”

Lestat steps closer, his hand reaching out, almost instinctively. He just wants to touch him, to hold him, to feel that spark of connection that always, always exists between them. But Louis flinches, taking a step back, the rejection stinging more than Lestat cares to admit.

“You think I’m just pretending, Louis? You think I don’t feel it? The pull, the weight of what we are together?” Lestat’s voice rises again, but this time it’s laced with desperation. “What do you want from me? You want me to stand by as you drown in all this? You want me to watch you slowly become someone I barely recognize?”

Louis looks up then, his face pale in the dim light, the same haunted expression that Lestat has come to know all too well. “You’re just trying to stop me because you want me to be yours, to keep living in whatever hollow cage you’ve built for us. But this isn’t about you. This is about something bigger. Something that matters.”

“Does it matter more than you?” Lestat asks sharply, stepping closer, his gaze burning into Louis. “Because that’s what it’s doing, Louis. It’s tearing you apart. You’re losing yourself in it. You can’t even see it, can you?”

Louis doesn’t respond. He can’t. The weight of Lestat’s words hangs in the air between them, heavy and unyielding. He’s caught between the life he’s trying to build, the cause he’s giving himself to, and the love he has for Lestat, a love he doesn’t understand, because how can he, when he doesn’t remember all their time together?

Lestat’s voice cracks again as he takes a step forward, his hand reaching for Louis, almost without thinking. “Louis, mon cher, please. Please. Just let me help you. Let me keep you safe.” The words feel foreign, like he’s pleading with someone he doesn’t fully know, someone who’s slipping further from him with every breath.

Louis takes a step back, his jaw tight. “I don’t need you to save me,” he says quietly. “I’m not yours to save. I’m not anyone’s to save.”

Lestat feels he can, once again, only watch from the sidelines as his beloved Louis is drawn deeper and deeper into the bloody conflict, Lestat’s desperation to shield him from the violence a rift between them. He cannot help but feel that the world has gotten in the way, has ruined this tender thing between him and the boy who he has traversed centuries to find time and again. He watches, helplessly, as the gulf between him widens, as Louis’s convictions become the third person in their relationship. It is when Louis has joined the National Convention, has become so deeply entrenched in politics that Lestat feels there is no place left for him, that the unthinkable happens. He knows his Louis, his beloved author, his sweet Aloysius, will stand by his convictions, no matter what, but he never thought that Louis would deliberately put himself in harm’s way for them.

Lestat finds himself at the trial of the king, this sad man with a weak chin, who stands bowed under the weight of the criticism against him. There is a fierce debate over his fate, this man who perhaps has done nothing wrong except to be born into the position he was, when he hears the voice of his beloved.

Louis’s words echo in the heavy air of the courtroom, each syllable an assault on the cause he’s spent years fighting for. “He must not die.” Lestat stands at the edges of the room, eyes wide with disbelief. What is this? His Louis, the man he loves, is offering himself as a traitor, and Lestat has no way to stop him. His fingers curl into fists, the urge to grab Louis and drag him out of the room overwhelming, but he knows he cannot. There’s a tremor in Louis’s voice, a fear Lestat recognizes all too well: the fear of losing himself, of betraying his own soul to the revolution. And for the first time in centuries, Lestat feels helpless.

Lestat watches as this only further inflames the debate, half of the room standing beside his Louis, the other half calling him a traitor to the cause. And, as the king is guillotined, he watches his Louis become more and more entrenched in the debates. He watches as his dear Louis fights bitterly with his words, words which once brought him to the very heights of power he may fall from now. He watches, near catatonic with helplessness, as his Louis is dragged before a military tribunal to defend his actions, heart stopping when he realizes, once again, as always, he may not be able to save him. His heart leaps when Louis is acquitted, rushing them back to his house so he can take Louis into his arms, reassure himself that his Louis is still alive.

They are in Lestat’s house, one day, a surprisingly calm day, when there is a knock at the door. Louis is upstairs, in the bath, so Lestat goes to answer the door. He is met by a young woman, holding one of Louis’s pamphlets, waving it around a bit madly.

“I have vital information!” she exclaims. “I had heard the author was here, and I must tell him.”

Lestat blocks the door with his body, cautious. “Tell me,” he says, his voice lowering.

“No.” she shakes her head vehemently. “It must be him I tell.”

Lestat hears Louis’s voice calling to him from upstairs. “Who is it?”

Lestat frowns, closes the door after telling the woman to wait for a moment, and walks upstairs to explain to Louis.

“She has information about our revolution?” his lover demands. “Let her in at once!”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Louis,” Lestat’s brow furrows as he tries to explain. After the trial, the mistrust spreading through their ranks, the tribunal which barely acquitted Louis, he cannot abide the thought of Louis speaking to a stranger. He knows there are still those who wish his dear boy with the chestnut-fire-russet eyes harm, and he must do all he can to protect him from it.

“I must speak with her,” Louis insists. He is weak, ill from the stress of his trial, and gestures impatiently to Lestat. “Bring her in here.”

And so it is that Lestat goes back downstairs, opens the door to the young woman, ushers her into their home. Lestat waits outside the door to the bath, counting down the moments until he can sit again with his beloved Louis, when the door is flung open and the young woman rushes out, clutching something dark red to her chest. He can only stare after her, confused, when he hears a cry from the bath.

“Help me, my beloved!”

Lestat rushes in, to see the water quickly becoming tinged with red. He clutches at the door frame, mind jumping back to his Aloysius, finds he cannot separate the two. Is it his destiny, then, to see his beloved Louis die, over and over and over again?

A strangled cry rips its way from Lestat’s chest as he runs the few metres to his beloved, his darling, cradles the wet body in his hands, runs a shaking hand again and again over his cheek. He bows his forehead to touch Louis’s, whispers frantic pleas, all while knowing that Louis is already gone.

“Mon cher, mon cher, mon cher,” he whispers over and over as he caresses Louis’s face, his eyebrows, those beautiful umber, russet eyes.

He had tried, tried to protect Louis from this: the violence, the rage, the fury of revolutions. And now, as his beloved’s blood stains the bathtub and the floor and everything around it, Lestat can only watch, powerless. A scream rips through him, but no sound comes out. Not again. Not again.

He goes back to the New World, to the place that he and Matunaagd had found peace and freedom in the wilderness. He finds that the forests have been cut down to make cities, loud and smoky, which just reminds him of Louis, the beautiful, broken revolutionary, of their fights, of their love. He makes his way west, to those still-untamed wilds, to try to catch a glimpse of the boy he used to know. He is drawn to that wild, wild west, to the unending deserts and the towering mountains, to the streams and valleys carved by time.

He finds a certain freedom in riding a horse, galloping as it does through the shanty towns and past the tumbleweeds. He decides in this life, in this iteration of himself, he will be an outlaw, living only for himself, throwing away those grand ideals of revolution and change.

When Lestat sees him again, he’s nothing more than a shadow in the dusk, a shape moving among the dry brush, the dirt of the desert kicking up around him like ghosts. At first glance, he assumes the boy is just another drifter, one of many that pass through the lawless stretches of the West. And yet, there’s something about him. It isn’t the dusty trail worn into his boots or the way his shirt clings to his lean frame, but the way he moves, like he isn’t sure where he’s going, but he’s going anyway.

Lestat watches him from the edge of a town, just another nameless town in a string of many he has found himself in, the fading light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the cracked earth. The boy doesn’t seem to notice him, but Lestat is now accustomed to being unseen, to blending into the landscape like a phantom.

Lestat’s lips curl into a small smile, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the boy’s face, the sharpness of his jaw, the mess of dark hair falling across his brow, his eyes, his eyes, his eyes. Those eyes. They’re familiar. For a moment, he wonders if it’s just the desert air getting to him, as it had in that cave all those years ago. Too much sun, too much dust, too many years between him and anything resembling a connection. But no, those eyes, he would know them anywhere. They’ve haunted him across centuries, across millennia. Even in the wild, where time doesn’t seem to matter, those eyes are still the same. And suddenly, the weight of the past comes rushing back, crashing over him like the waves he once sailed upon.

As the boy walks into town, his horse beside him, Lestat steps out of the shadows. The boy looks up, startled, his hand instinctively reaching for the revolver at his hip. He doesn’t draw it, but he doesn’t lower his hand either. Lestat notes the subtle tension in the way he stands, the wariness in his gaze. This boy is no stranger to danger, that much is clear. Yet there’s something else there, too, something softer.

“Easy, now, cher,” Lestat says, the term of endearment he last used with his boy slipping out, his voice smooth like velvet, as he stops a few feet away from the boy, clutching the side of a building to stop himself from moving any closer. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

The boy watches him carefully, sizing him up. He’s young in this life, no more than twenty, maybe, his skin tanned from the sun, his lips cracked from the dry heat of the land. But his eyes, those same dark, endless brown eyes.

“You ain’t from around here,” the boy mutters, his voice rough, like he hasn’t used it much.

Lestat smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. It’s something deeper, something dangerous. He can’t help himself. He’s always been drawn to Louis, but their life in France opened his eyes to that spark of defiance in this boy that he had never seen before.

“I’m just passing through,” Lestat says, letting his gaze linger a little longer than necessary. “But perhaps I can offer you some company. A drink, maybe?”

The boy hesitates, looking Lestat up and down, weighing his options. There’s a moment of silence, the sound of wind rustling through the sagebrush, and then the boy lowers his hand from his gun, though he doesn’t quite let it rest at his side.

“A drink? You’re a mighty strange man to be offerin’ drinks to strangers.” He eyes Lestat suspiciously, but there’s a glint in his eyes that suggests curiosity, too. “You don’t look like you belong in this place.”

Lestat lets out a small chuckle, stepping closer. “I don’t. But I’ve never been one for belonging.”

For a moment, they simply stand there, looking at one another. Lestat drinking in the vision of his Satria, his Louis, defiant in the face of a Paris aflame, his Matunaagd running free like a wolf. It is all he can do not to beg the boy to have a drink, to stay with him forever.

“Name’s Louis,” the boy says after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

And, of course, of course, he has the same name as the revolutionary in France, that brilliant writer who captured the soul of a revolution in just a few words. “Louis,” repeats Lestat, savoring the sound of it. It is said with a different intonation, a different inflection in this life, but the same name all the same. “I’ve known a few men named Louis.”

The boy narrows his eyes, taking a step back. “Well, I ain’t one of ‘em. I don’t know you, so unless you’re lookin’ for trouble, you best move on.”

Lestat laughs softly, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, Louis, I’ve never been one to shy away from trouble. In fact, I think trouble is just the sort of thing that keeps life interesting.” He can’t help but smile, a dark, wry smile that’s filled with more than a little bitterness, as he remembers their trouble-filled life in the streets of Paris. “I’ll keep you company, though, for a while.”

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of dust and leather and, for another moment, they stand in silence, each caught in the pull of something Louis cannot quite explain, and Lestat knows the reason for all-too-well. Louis finally lowers his hand fully and nods towards the saloon, the sounds of raucous laughter drifting out from the open doors.

“Guess we’ll see if you’re any good company, then,” Louis mutters, turning towards the noise. “First round is on you.”

As they walk together into the bright lights of the saloon, Lestat feels the weight of history pressing in on him once more. He’s felt this before. This pull. The undeniable connection he has to this boy, has had since he first felt the weight of that gaze from a boy-king, struggling under the weight of his new crown. It’s a dangerous thing, of course, but it’s one he can’t seem to resist.

Louis will never remember their past lives, everything they’ve endured together. He doesn’t know what he’s been through, what he’s been to Lestat. But Lestat remembers. He remembers every life. Every time they’ve met, and every time Louis has died. And in this moment, he knows, deep in his immortal bones, that Louis will die again. It’s inevitable. But for now, for this moment, they walk together. And that, for the first time in centuries, is enough.

And die he does. Die he has. Over and over again, through the centuries and millennia. An old man in a monastery, a young king wrapped in linen, an assassinated revolutionary. A young man, bleeding to death on the floor. Over and over and over again. And it is only in this life, this gorgeous, wild life, where Louis and Lestat ride their horses through the parched deserts and over the rugged mountains, that he begins to understand. The point of this was never to save Louis, to keep him safe by staying away. It’s become quite clear that he cannot, that removing himself or not will not be what makes a difference. But he can, perhaps, find a modicum of peace in their time together, in the moments in between.

And so, when Louis dies in this life, guns flashing in a firefight, the bullets that rip into his the lovely curve of his shoulders and the tendons and veins in his neck, those little pieces of metal that rip his beloved, his cher Louis apart, Lestat does not fall apart. For the first time, he does not weep. He holds Louis, gathers his bleeding body close, smooths the hair from his brow, wipes blood before it can fall into his eyes. He holds his brilliant, shining boy close, whispers in his ear. “Louis, mon cher, mon coeur. Mon coeur. This is not the end for us.”

And Louis, brilliant boy that he is, uses what is left of his strength to lift his arm up and place it over Lestat’s hand where it rests on his face. “I know,” he whispers.

Lestat gets his revenge, of course, on the men who took his Louis away, far too soon in this life, before they could have a chance to get back to what they once were. He returns to his life of wandering, but this time, it is more than wandering. It is seeking. He seeks Louis’s face everywhere, the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes, his eyes, his beautiful, umber eyes.

And that is when the war breaks out. He’s walked this earth through centuries of war, through revolutions, rebellions, and massacres, but this feels different. The Great War, they call it, but Lestat knows there will be more. There always are. Still, the scale of this one, the brutality, the senseless slaughter, it unsettles him in a way that no other conflict has. Perhaps because he knows that even this will pass, leaving nothing but empty fields and forgotten names. He enlists, not because he cares about the cause, but to make his way back to his always-beloved France, to the rolling fields and hills of wheat and lavender.

The trenches are endless. A labyrinth of mud and blood, stinking of iron and gunpowder, the air thick with the echoes of death. Lestat, always a ghost among men, moves through it with grace, unnoticed in the smoke and carnage. He watches the soldiers, young men, barely more than boys, march into certain death, their faces a mixture of fear and resolve.

He stands at the edge of the trench, eyes scanning the horizon as shells explode in the distance, their reverberations rattling the earth beneath his feet. His eyes, ever sharp, catch the glint of a soldier’s rifle, a familiar face, caught in the orange glow of a distant explosion.

Louis.

He hadn’t expected to find him here, not in this place, not in this war. He thought perhaps this time, after so many years, they might meet in some quiet town or distant shore. But the fates have never been kind to them, have they?

Louis’s face is covered in grime, his uniform ragged, the weight of war pressing down on him like a stone. But his eyes, those dark, chestnut-russet-damp soil-brown eyes, are unmistakable, even through the haze of battle. Lestat feels that familiar pang deep in his chest, a bittersweet ache that has never quite gone away. For a moment, Lestat wonders if this will be the one where his boy finally remembers. But it’s always like this, isn’t it? The cruel cycle of life and death. It seems, perhaps, there is no better place for them to meet again, not when their story has always been defined by endings.

The young man doesn’t notice him at first. He’s too busy, too caught up in the frenetic pace of war, the immediacy of survival. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Louis looks up, his gaze finding Lestat’s through the smoke. There’s no shock, no recognition in his eyes. Lestat’s mouth curls into a sad, knowing smile, but his heart, if such a thing still beats, aches with the weight of it all. He takes a step towards him, his movements fluid, almost ethereal, as if the war around them is nothing more than a distant memory.

Lestat steps closer, as though drawn by some invisible tether. The connection between them is undeniable, at least to Lestat, but Louis doesn’t seem to understand it. How can he, after all? He’s just a soldier. Just a man fighting a war he doesn’t understand, his memories lost to death.

“You look like you’ve seen something you can’t explain,” Lestat says, his voice soft, almost teasing. He watches Louis’s reaction, keenly aware of the subtle way the man seems to stiffen, as though the words touch something just below the surface.

Louis studies him, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know you,” he says slowly, but the hesitation in his voice tells Lestat otherwise. What may be, to Louis, an inexplicable connection, an unexplained drawing of his soul to Lestat’s, Lestat knows is the weight of the centuries, of their many years spent together, bearing down on him.

“I think you do,” Lestat murmurs, stepping just a little closer. He finds, for the first time, he is desperate for Louis to remember, to remember their walks through the Roman forums, through the jungles of the monastery, through the burning streets of Paris. Louis, though wary, doesn’t back away.

Louis shakes his head again, as if trying to dispel an odd sense of déjà vu. “I don’t-” he starts, but his voice falters, his words trailing off into the smoke-heavy air.

“Maybe you will. We’re meant to be friends, after all,” Lestat says softly, his gaze intense. “Very good friends.”

Louis doesn’t respond, but his eyes linger on Lestat and, for a moment, he seems to forget the war, forget the madness around them.

“What’s your name?” Lestat asks, the question not quite as casual as it might seem. He needs to know, always needs to know, what they call his Aloysius, his Satria, his Matunaagd, his Louis, his cher Louis. Perhaps, he can hope against hope, it will be Louis again.

“Louis,” the soldier replies, his voice hushed, almost as if saying it aloud brings something dangerous to the surface. Something he’s not ready to face.

Lestat’s smile is bittersweet. “Louis,” he repeats softly, savoring the name. Hope against hope. It’s a name that has now echoed through centuries. A name he’s come to cherish.

Louis hesitates, unsure of himself. Slowly, cautiously, he steps forward, drawn inexplicably to this man who feels both entirely unfamiliar and deeply known. There’s a quiet understanding that hangs between them now.

The war seemed endless, an open wound on the soul of the world. Trench after trench, day after day, the cycle of violence never stopped. Lestat was no stranger to war. He’d seen the destruction of empires, the decay of civilizations, the bloodshed that accompanied every rise and fall of humanity. But this, this was something else. This was a war of annihilation.

And yet, amidst the bloodied trenches, the whistling shells, and the distant cries of men who had given up their hope long before they ever saw battle, Lestat finds something different. It isn’t comfort, nor peace, but a strange, fragile connection that keeps him grounded when the earth felt as though it would swallow him whole.

It was Louis. It always comes back to him.

From the first night they shared a drink from a beaten silver flask beneath the weary stars, Lestat knew he was being drawn into Louis’s orbit once more. A part of him wanted to stay distant, to guard himself against the inevitable pain of loss. He had seen this pattern before. But for Louis … Louis was worth the pain, worth the love and grief all intertwined into one.

Louis speaks little about himself, but Lestat could see how the war weighs on him, the confusion in his eyes. Even in the midst of death, Louis has an openness, a presence about him, as if he weren’t truly of this world. He’s always had that, Lestat muses, something that drew him to this boy since the very first time they locked eyes in that temple oh-so-long ago. The first time he felt truly seen. He finds himself seeking out Louis in the quiet hours after the battles, when the fires had dimmed and the sounds of men’s anguish receded into the distance. Their conversations flowed easily, softly.

They fight side by side, Lestat trying his best to shield Louis from the worst horrors of it. It all comes to a head when they are crouching in a trench, everyone around them dead. The battle rages on around them, but Louis, his dear Louis, holds his arms over his head in an attempt to shield himself from the sheer scale of the tragedy, from his fallen brothers-in-arms who lay dead at their feet. He begins to shake, a tremor that starts in his beautiful, long-fingered hands and makes its way to the rest of his body. Lestat, upon glancing over, reaches to pull Louis into his arms. He pulls Louis onto his lap, rocking him back and forth, whispering, “Mon cher, mon Louis, it’s alright. It’s ok. I’m here.”

As Lestat continues to rock them back and forth, the tremors subside. Louis buries his face in Lestat’s neck, big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he confesses in a whisper, a prayer. He pulls back to look Lestat in the eyes. “It’s too … it’s so …” With this, the tears begin anew, and he throws his arms around Lestat’s neck, burying his face once more in the rough cloth of Lestat’s uniform.

Lestat’s love for Louis is a balm and a curse, an aching, delicate thing that hovered in the air between them, barely acknowledged but understood all the same. He wanted to protect Louis, protect him always, shield him from the horrors of the world. There was no shield thick enough, no distance far enough, to ward off the inevitable.

“I wish we were anywhere but here,” Louis says, his voice thick with weariness.

Lestat smiles softly, the smile not reaching his eyes. He, too, wishes for nothing more, wishes for an escape from the endless march of time. But he also knows the truth. There is no escape for them. Not for Louis. No matter where they go.

“I would take you anywhere, if I could,” Lestat replies, his voice hushed. Lestat carefully, oh-so-carefully, grasps Louis’s face in his hands, pulls it away from the crook of his shoulder where Louis has buried it. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

Louis’s eyes, those eyes that Lestat has held onto in his mind for millennia, lock onto his as Louis smiles a tear-filled smile. “I think …” he begins tremulously. “I think I’d just like to go home.”

Lestat’s eyes soften, he runs his thumb over Louis’s cheekbones, a soft, soothing motion. “I know, cher.”

They sit like this for a while, Louis in Lestat’s lap, drinking in the sight of each other. Lestat pulls Louis’s forehead to rest against his, hands bracketing Louis’s face as Louis’s eyes fall closed. “Just rest now. Rest, mon cher, just for a bit.” The endearment, first said in those quiet hours spent poring over speeches and cradling his dear revolutionary’s face in his hands, seems now forever tied to this man. And so they sit, curled into one another, until the night falls on the battle.

It is dark when Louis awakes. The trench is quiet for once. The usual cacophony of gunfire, shouts, and explosions had subsided, leaving only the distant groans of the earth, shifting and settling beneath the weight of war. The moon hangs like a pale sentinel in the sky, casting weak light across the muck and filth of the battlefield, making it all seem like a dream, or some strange, half-formed nightmare. He startles a bit, then seems to realize where he is, relaxing back into Lestat’s arms.

“You awake?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Of course,” Lestat replies easily. “Had to look out for us, didn’t I?”

Louis draws back, hands on Lestat’s shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes as if he thinks he can find the answer to a question. Lestat will never forget this moment, he thinks, as long as he lives. Just like he never forgot sitting on a bench with Aloysius in the forum, praying beneath the Sumatran pines in the monastery, laughing and debating revolutionary ideals in the dusty halls of Paris.

Louis bites his lip, furrowing his brow as if steeling himself for some impossible task. Louis’s gaze flickers to Lestat’s lips and, for the briefest of seconds, Lestat could’ve sworn he sees a tremor in the boy’s hands, fingers twitching as if to reach out, but hesitating. He finally raises a hand to Lestat’s face, caressing his cheekbones lightly, as if he can’t help it but knows he shouldn’t. Lestat’s breath hitches, he hesitates, unsure whether it’s just this moment or some wild, reckless instinct pulling him forward, pulling him towards a surrender to something he knows will only cause him pain. But it’s his Louis, his Satria, his Azazi, his Aloysius, and so he can do nothing but lean in.

Louis’s eyes flutter closed as Lestat’s mouth meet his with a sharp, sudden force that takes them both by surprise. Louis freezes, his body rigid and, for a split second, Lestat thinks he might pull away, that he might regret it.

But Louis’s hand slides around to the back of Lestat’s neck, and he kisses him back. The soft pressure of Louis’s lips against his, warm and full of something unspoken, send a shock through Lestat’s body, as if the war, the years, and the distance between them all disappeared in that single contact.

It was a kiss that tasted like salt, like the earth, like fear and longing all tangled up in one. Lestat could feel Louis’s breath, soft and unsteady against his mouth, could feel the way the boy was trembling slightly, just enough to tell Lestat that he isn’t alone in this.

Lestat deepens the kiss, just a little, pressing closer. The feel of Louis’s body against his once more was electric; each movement, each touch, a revelation. His senses are overwhelmed by the taste of Louis, by the warmth of his skin.

For a moment, Lestat keeps his eyes closed, keeping his hand on Louis’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the soft skin there. They both breathe hard, as if they had just run a great distance. Their foreheads rest against each other, the silence between them thick with something undefinable. And thus, they sit, breathing each other’s breath, until the sun rises and the battle begins anew.

Lestat had seen death in all its forms. He had seen men torn apart on the battlefield, bodies scattered like broken dolls, but none of it had felt as close, as personal, as when it was Louis’s, Aloysius’s, Satria’s life hanging in the balance. As the sun rises, the precariousness of their situation begins to rear its ugly head once more. Stuck in a trench, the enemy forces moving ever closer, even the slightest movement of them leaving their hiding place a plea to be shot.

The explosion then was sudden. A roar of noise and earth and fire. One moment, Louis had been sitting next to him, the easy silence between them interrupted by the crack of artillery. The next, Lestat was thrown to the ground, the world spinning in chaotic colors and sounds.

When Lestat comes to his senses, everything is blurry, but there is no mistaking the figure lying just a few feet away. The sight makes his heart lurch in his chest.

Louis.

Lestat crawls towards him, his fingers trembling as he reaches for the boy, the man, who is everything to him, who has somehow, against all odds, followed him and been his companion through the years, centuries, millennia. Blood stains the earth, soaking into the dirt beneath them, and Louis’s face is pale, his body crumpled, lifeless.

“No,” whispers Lestat, shaking his head, as though he could deny it, as though he could reverse time itself.

But he can’t. He knows that. He knew it when he came home to his dear Aloysius, splayed on the ground, blood seeping through his white tunic. He knew it when he held the hand of his dear friend Satria as he took his final breaths. He knew it as he watched the blood seep out into the bathwater of his dear revolutionary.

Louis’s lips are parted, his eyes fluttering open for a brief, fleeting moment. And Lestat would never forget the look in those brown, russet, damp-soil eyes, a mixture of acceptance and something else, something tender and sad, as if Louis had known this was coming all along.

“I don’t think I’ll be going home after all,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. And then, just like that, Louis is gone.

Lestat’s world collapsed around him. He cradles Louis’s body in his arms and lets himself weep. And the war around them rages on.

It must have been worth it, he thinks, he justifies to himself. It was worth it, he thinks fiercely. To have held him again, to have kissed him again, this boy who has helped Lestat stave off the loneliness, the sheer weight of time. I will find you again, he thinks, caressing Louis’s long fingers, the curve of his waist, gently closing his eyes. I will always find you.

Years go by before Lestat catches a glimpse of his boy again. He has decided, in this lifetime, to attend university, to study music and poetry and all the things that remind him of his cher, his Louis, his beloved. He is at a party, night air heavy with the buzz and chatter of voices, laughter, and the faint pulse of electronic music, when his eyes catch a glimpse of someone. He’s not sure, at first, what it is about the young man in the corner of the room, facing away from Lestat, holding a red solo cup in one hand. He’s dressed in a faded t-shirt and jeans, he seems unremarkable, but there’s something about the slope of his shoulders that seems heartbreakingly familiar.

It is only when the boy turns around, probably heading to refill his drink, Lestat’s blue-gray-lilac eyes briefly meeting russet-soil-brown, that Lestat straightens. The air, like it has always done when he sees his Aloysius, his Azazi, his Matunaagd, goes still. The chattering fades, the music distorts. Everyone at the party seems to be moving in slow motion, to have frozen in time, and the only thing permeating Lestat’s senses is him, him, him. He knows he is staring, and yet he cannot stop. It is his Louis, his Louis, back again. It it those eyes, eyes he has not seen since the trenches of France, and yet he has also seen in his mind’s eye every day since. This time, Lestat doesn’t hesitate. He drifts towards him through the throng of people, his steps measured, quiet, the chaos of the party a dull backdrop to the quickening of his heart.

When he stands in front of Louis, the boy does not seem startled. Instead, there’s a flicker of something. Maybe confusion, maybe familiarity. He doesn’t look away, not immediately, as if something about Lestat’s gaze invites him to stay.

“Hi,” Lestat says, aiming for casual and falling woefully short. “I’m Lestat.”

“Louis,” the boy answers, his voice a soft melody. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I think I’ve seen you around campus.”

Lestat smiles, gentle, soft thing, watching as Louis lowers his eyes, the way he shifts on his feet like he’s unsure whether to say more.

“I study music here,” Lestat says, quietly. “But I don’t think we’ve really met, either. Not properly, at least.” His gaze lingers on Louis’s face, studying the angles, the shape of him. “Maybe we were both waiting for the right time.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, intrigued, crosses his arms, and shifts his weight back and forth. “The right time for what?”

“To know each other,” Lestat replies, his voice almost like a whisper, though he’s standing just a little too close. “To share something real.”

And then, just like that, it begins again. Days turn into weeks, and Lestat cannot seem to remember what his life was like in those dull in-between years when Louis was not in it. Louis permeates everything in his life: the coffee shops they visit together, the quiet spaces of their dorm rooms, the conversations that stretch late into the night until they both lose track of time. They talk about everything and nothing: books, music, philosophy, the absurdity of life, of love. Lestat laughs harder than he’s laughed in centuries, the sound feeling strange but warm in his chest. Louis, as he has since their eyes first met all those centuries ago, makes him feel human again, not a creature trapped in the endless cycle of immortality, but someone who could almost touch something real, something that isn’t a shadow of the past.

Louis is a dream made flesh, a soft, gentle laugh that fills Lestat’s heart every time he hears it. And then, there’s the touch, casual at first, fingers brushing, hands resting on each other in the way people who don’t know yet that they’re falling in love do.

They fall in love slowly and all at once, at the same time. Lestat’s life is filled by Louis, by his smile, by the curve of his waist, the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes, his eyes, his eyes. Lestat loves him. Has always loved him, really, when he thinks about it. Loves him more fiercely than he thought possible. But Lestat knows this love is fragile, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. There’s no guarantee that he’ll get to hold onto it forever, and so he must now. Must press himself into Louis’s life before it is too late, again.

One evening, as they sit together on the rooftop of their building, drunk on cheap, shitty vodka, Lestat begins to wonder. He’s never told Louis about their lives together, never dared to dream Louis would take him seriously. But he finds, this go around, that he just might. After all, what’s the risk? If Louis thinks he’s crazy, he can always wait until the next life to find him again.

Louis is sitting next to him, their knees brushing together, the soft sound of the wind rustling in the trees below them, the distant noises of the city a melodious backdrop.

“I want to tell you something, mon cher” Lestat begins, his voice soft, almost uncertain. He’s not sure if now is the right time to tell Louis, if Louis will believe him but, he thinks resolutely, he wants to try.

Louis looks up at him, brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Lestat breathes out slowly, his mind racing as he weighs the words. “I know that we haven’t been together long. But I need you to know something. This … this isn’t the first time.”

Louis turns towards him then, his gaze intense. “Not the first time for what, baby?” The pet name, the first time he has heard it come out of Louis’s mouth, only seems to fortify him, to steady him enough so that the words can leave his lips.

Lestat leans back on his hands, feeling the cold concrete beneath his fingertips, eyes drifting back to the skyline, the lights dancing in the distance. “We’ve been here before. Not this roof, here, but. Together. Many times before, actually. In other lifetimes, in other centuries. We fall in love, and then … you die. And I live on.”

Louis is silent for a long time. Lestat feels the weight of the moment, the truth that he’s been carrying all these years, suddenly so heavy in his chest.

Louis chuckles, more of an exhale really, the ghost of a nervous smile crossing his lips as he looks at Lestat. “What are you saying?” he demands, incredulously.

“I can’t die, Louis. I never have. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me. I am. And I have known you before. Watched you die, over and over. I’ve watched myself lose you, over and over. But every time, I find you again. And we fall in love again.”

Louis blinks, a slow understanding dawning on his face. “You’re serious. Prove it.”

“I am.” Lestat leans in closer. “What can I say? You were a pharaoh, a serving boy in Rome, a monk in Indonesia. I saw you in the jungles of India, in the wild forests of Norway and Sweden, in the burning streets of Paris during the revolution. I have always waited for you, always loved you, Louis.”

Louis’s eyes soften, searching Lestat’s face.

“I’ve never told you before,” Lestat continues. “I guess it just … didn’t seem all that important. And unbelievable.”

Louis leans against the armrest, his brow furrowing, as he runs a hand over his jaw. The silence between them is thick, heavy.

He sighs, and rubs his temples before speaking. “Lestat … I get it. You’ve been through a lot. But this -” he gestures between them, the weight of their conversation settling heavily. “You honestly expect me to believe that we’ve been together for centuries? That we’ve lived all these other lives, and that you’re the same person each time, just waiting for me?”

Lestat freezes, the ease in his posture slipping as he watches Louis, his face a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Louis-”

“No, Lestat,” Louis interrupts, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You expect me to believe that all these things, these lives, you’ve been watching me die and falling in love with me over and over again, and I never remember? That’s some fairy tale, Lestat.”

Lestat’s blue-gray-lilac eyes search Louis’s face, trying to find some thread of hope, but it’s gone. The doubt is written plainly in his expression, the furrow in his brow deepening as he crosses his arms.

“Louis,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear it’s the truth. In every lifetime we meet, and we do always meet. Haven’t you felt a connection between us, right from the beginning? Like you’ve known me before? I’m not making it up.”

Louis stands up from the roof, pacing slowly. His footsteps are measured, his thoughts clearly racing. He stops by the edge of the building, looking out at the city lights, lost in thought.

“I want to believe you, I do,” Louis murmurs, his voice tight, “but I don’t know how. I just … it sounds too impossible. Too cruel. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Lestat, but it’s too much to ask of me.”

Lestat’s heart tightens and he pushes himself up from the ground, stepping closer to Louis. “Louis,” he says again, softer this time, his hand reaching for him. But Louis pulls away, not harshly, but with a careful, measured distance that feels worse.

Louis exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again. “I need time, Lestat. This … this is too much. I need to think about it. I need some space to figure out what’s real and what isn’t.”

Lestat stands frozen for a moment, the words cutting through him like a knife. He can see the pain in Louis’s face, the anguish in his posture, the way he’s almost trembling with the weight of disbelief and fear. For a moment, Lestat wonders if this will be the last time they’re together in this lifetime, if he’s already lost Louis, before they’ve had a chance to live out this lifetime.

“Louis-” Lestat starts, but Louis cuts him off with a raised hand.

“I just need space, Lestat. I’ll call you when I’ve figured this out. But I need time to think.”

Lestat nods, swallowing hard, as he watches Louis push open the heavy door and disappear down the dim light of the staircase. He stands on the stillness of the roof, the weight of the night pressing down on him like a suffocating fog.

Lestat tries to occupy himself, though nothing feels quite right without Louis beside him. Their friends have started to notice, wondering where Louis has disappeared to, and Lestat can do nothing except give a sad, wan smile and make up excuses about his coursework and studying in the library. There are no calls. No messages. No visits. The silence between them is loud, deafening.

Then, one evening, as Lestat is about to retreat into his music, he hears a knock on the door.

His heart leaps, a flicker of hope soaring in his chest. He doesn’t move at first, afraid that, if he does, he’ll realize he was just imagining things. But the knock comes again, louder this time, a steady sound that seems to echo through his bones.

Lestat opens the door.

Louis stands there, looking worn, but more resolute than before. His eyes are soft, but there’s something different in them now, something like understanding.

“I’m not entirely sure I believe you,” Louis says, his voice hesitant, “but … I believe you.”

Lestat’s chest tightens as he looks at Louis, unsure of what he means, hoping against hope that it means what he thinks it does. But then Louis steps forward, his expression no longer filled with doubt, but with something deeper.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand it,” he says. “I still don’t know what to make of all this. But I do know one thing: I want to believe you. I want to believe that we are meant to be.”

Lestat’s eyes fill with emotion as he reaches for him, this time not hesitating, not waiting for Louis to pull away. “You don’t need to understand it, mon cher Louis. You don’t need to believe in every word I say. You just need to believe in us. In this. In what we have now.”

Louis nods slowly, his eyes meeting Lestat’s. “I will,” he whispers. “I’ll try. I do have a question, though. Why now? Why tell me this now?”

“Because I’m afraid,” Lestat admits, his voice a whisper. “I’m afraid of losing you again. I’ve had so many years to think about this, and all I want is to make this time with you last.”

At this, Louis takes his hand, squeezes his fingers. “You won’t lose me, Lestat. I’m here.” And thus they sit, hands clasped, until Louis breaks the silence once more. “Tell me about it, won’t you? All of our lives together?”

And so Lestat does, regales him with stories of the brave boy-king, of the sweet servant, of the wise monk. Tells Louis of all his beautiful iterations, the dazzling revolutionary, the quiet soldier, the laughing boy in the market. Always, always, the laughing boy in the market.

“I remember your laughter in the streets of a city, long since forgotten,” Lestat says, almost in a reverie. “You were running, laughing with your friends, as you played games. The light caught your eyes and I saw you, as I always do.”

The next morning, sunlight filters softly through the curtains of Louis’s apartment, casting a warm glow over the room. Lestat stirs, his eyes blinking open, soft and unfocused for a moment before they settle on Louis. Louis smiles, just a little, and the ache in Lestat’s chest lightens.

“You’re still here,” Lestat murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“I’m always here,” Louis replies softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lestat’s forehead, his touch lingering. “And I always will be.”

The weight of last night’s confession still lingers between them, but there’s something different now, something quieter, something alive. The world feels fuller, like Lestat has unlocked a door to something they were always meant to have. Louis pushes himself up onto his elbows, brushes a soft kiss against Lestat’s mouth, as if he has been doing it all his life, and falls back against the pillows. Louis closes his eyes, a content sigh escaping from him. For a moment, Lestat wonders if the burden of their past lives together is too much, if it will one day catch up to them. But right now, right here, it doesn’t matter. They’re here. And that’s enough.

Later that evening, Lestat finds himself sitting beside Louis on the couch, a movie playing in the background that neither of them is watching. Louis is nestled against him, his head resting on Lestat’s shoulder, content and peaceful. Lestat is watching him more than he’s watching the film, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes flutter when he’s just on the edge of sleep.

It’s in these moments that Lestat feels the fullness of life in a way he never has before. The passage of time, the memories of past lifetimes, they don’t matter in the face of this. This moment. This love.

Louis shifts slightly, gently coughing, and raising his head to look at Lestat with soft, sleepy eyes. “You’re always so serious,” he murmurs, a playful glint in his gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

Lestat smiles, his fingers brushing through Louis’s hair, careful and slow, like it’s something delicate. “Just how lucky I am. That this time, this lifetime, is ours. That I get to hold you and kiss you and-” his voice catches for a moment, but he pushes through. “And love you. Without all the pain of the past.”

Louis’s smile fades, and he shifts so he’s facing Lestat more fully, propping himself up on his elbow. “You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t hurt,” Louis says gently. “I know it does. The past, those memories, they’re part of you, right? Part of us?”

Lestat looks into Louis’s eyes, his chest tightening. “It’s not that simple. It’s … it’s hard to watch you live and know that I’ll lose you again. That no matter how much I want this, I’ll never get to keep you forever.”

Louis reaches up, his hand warm against Lestat’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, baby. Not right now. And I promise you, we’ll find each other again. I know we will.”

Lestat’s lips quiver and he leans into Louis’s touch, closing his eyes for just a moment. “I love you, Louis,” he whispers, his voice full of the kind of sorrow that comes from knowing the beauty of what they have now is fleeting.

“I love you, too,” Louis replies softly. He leans in and kisses Lestat, a slow, tender kiss that feels like a promise.

Weeks, months, years pass, and everything feels perfect. They live in their own bubble, a world apart from the rest. Until, one day, Louis comes home from work, a sheen to his forehead, a glassy look in his eyes.

“Mon cher,” Lestat coos, pulls Louis into the warm circle of his arms. “Are you sick? Let’s get you a hot bath and a cup of soup.”

It does not seem urgent at first, this illness, just a cold. But it does not get better. The doctors tell him it’s something more serious. Something with no cure.

Lestat doesn’t know how to handle it. His mind reels, his thoughts spinning out of control as he watches Louis grow paler, thinner, weaker. He sees the toll the sickness takes on Louis’s body, and it’s as if his heart is being slowly crushed, piece by piece.

Every morning feels like a race against time, a race he knows he’s bound to lose. He tries to make it count. He fills their days with memories, takes Louis to the places they’ve talked about: quiet parks, cafes with the best espresso, long walks at sunset. He holds Louis close every night, feeling the warmth of his skin and wishing with all his heart that he could keep it forever.

But the illness only gets worse.

As the days pass and Louis’s illness progresses, Lestat becomes increasingly desperate. He brings Louis flowers, holds him close during the nights when the pain is too much to bear. The inevitable draws nearer.

One evening, as they sit together in their favorite cafe, Louis leaning against Lestat’s side, he turns to him with a soft, knowing smile. “You know, you don’t have to keep trying to hold onto me so tightly,” he says. “I know you want to. I can feel it. But it’s okay. I’ll always be with you.”

Lestat’s heart clenches at the words, and he can’t hide the tears that begin to well up in his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you again, Louis,” he says, his voice thick. “I don’t know how to let go.”

“You don’t have to let me go,” Louis reassures, his voice full of warmth. “Just love me while you can. That’s all I need from you.”

Lestat takes his hand, pressing it against his chest, right over his heart. “I’ll love you always,” he whispers, kissing Louis’s forehead, the taste of salt tears mingling with the sweetness of his skin.

That night, as they lay together in the bed they’ve shared for years, Louis looks up at Lestat, those eyes, those eyes, his eyes, that Lestat has never once been able to forget, not since he first saw them looking at him, steady, unwavering. “I know you’re afraid of losing me,” he says quietly, his voice rough but soft. “But you need to know something.”

Lestat shakes his head, his eyes once again brimming with tears. This is the hardest goodbye he’s had, he thinks, to be drawn out. After all, when it was quick and sudden, it was an adjustment, but one he could make swiftly. This, watching his beloved Louis, his darling Aloysius, his wise Satria, slowly wither away, has to be one of the worst punishments in the world.

“You won’t lose me,” Louis says gently, reaching up to touch Lestat’s face, his hand trembling slightly. “I know you’re afraid of it. But you never lose me. You’ll find me again. I know you will.”

Lestat swallows hard, his chest aching with the weight of those words. “But I don’t want to wait anymore, Louis. I don’t want to wait for another lifetime. I want to be with you now. I want you here. Forever.”

Louis smiles, weak but full of love. “You’ve always had me, Lestat. Always. And you will again. I know it.”

Lestat feels the weight of it all in this moment, the loss, the love, the impossible ache of knowing he can’t hold on to this moment forever. But, just for a moment, he allows himself to believe Louis. That maybe, just maybe, this time, their love won’t have to end.

The morning comes, and Lestat taps Louis on the shoulder to wake him up, to watch him tilt his beautiful face, his beautiful chestnut-russet-brown eyes towards the sun, to watch them glimmer.

“Louis?” he asks, a bit frantically, when Louis shows no signs of waking. “Louis!” Lestat’s voice is rising in pitch, shaking Louis harder and harder, until he pulls himself together enough to feel Louis’s pulse. There is nothing. He is cold. And Lestat is left with nothing but the memory of those last words, the image of Louis’s warm smile, and the promise that they’ll find each other again.

Lestat sighs, tears rolling down his cheeks, the ache in his chest growing with every passing moment. The sun rises, and another day begins. But he knows that, in this world of endless chances, there’s always hope. He’ll find his boy again, the one he is quickly finding he cannot truly live without. And they’ll fall in love again. After all, what could be a greater gift than knowing he gets to spend his entire immortal life finding this boy, time and time again, and loving him?