Chapter Text
It went unspoken between them; Louis would travel with him when his tour began again. Lestat did not celebrate aloud, the circumstances of it too delicate to mark the fragile thing between them.
They flew directly to the next leg of the tour, the house on the coast now just a memory of a breath. Berlin and all its glass and metal and grey skies; the hotel was grand and spacious, high ceilings, bed posts and carpets. Lestat told the press that Louis was and old friend, and the mortal world accepted it without too much question.
Daniel had given them shit, as if he’d ever understand it. His interviews had resumed too, and though Lestat pretended a brattish indifference, each one clawed open old wounds.
Some nights, Louis vanished for hours. Not the way he used to – not to lose himself, but to walk, to breath, to test his solitude. He always returned before dawn.
Once, Lestat caught the faint smell of chemicals when Louis came home - not enough to worry, but enough to know. A slip. It passed as quickly as it came. He didn't ask about it. Some nights were better left to silence.
Louis watched Lestat perform from behind the stage, arms folded, a dark silhouette against the glittering riot of the stage lighting; flashing in and out of existence with the strobes.
Then it was over, Lestat disappearing back stage, the cold white lighting of the liminal space between the stage and the dressing room, busy, nameless strangers co-ordinating stage disassembly, the quiet hum of adrenaline in his blood dissipating. All he could think of was Louis, and there he was, waiting patiently.
“You were magnificent.” Louis stood alone in the dressing room, the dim light of the dresser illuminating him. The world outside blurred into silence.
“You say that every time,” Lestat smiled as he allowed Louis to pull him into his arms, faces mere inches apart, too close to focus his eyes. He focused on the feeling of Louis, their shared breath, Louis’s heartbeat. They stood for a moment, enjoying their proximity. “And yet, mon cher, it’s you I can’t get enough of.”
Louis smiled faintly and drew him close. The touch was hesitant but deliberate, the reach of someone trying again. His fingers traced Lestat’s jaw, down his throat. His pulse fluttered.
They kissed. It started softly, testing, both of them cautious. Lestat let himself melt into it, guided by instinct. Louis’s hands trembled once, but he steadied them against Lestat’s chest.
“It this alright?” Lestat murmured.
Louis nodded, breath catching. “I think so.”
They kissed again, slower this time, gentler.
Louis’s hands drifted lower; their bodies closer. Louis settled his hands against Lestat’s hips, their bodies pressing together as Lestat held the fabric on Louis’s back.
“Louis…” Lestat pulled back, searching Louis’s eyes, lips parted.
“I want this.” Louis whispered. “Please?”
Lestat nodded, letting Louis’s body press closer to his, hands moving over the small of his back, then lower.
Lestat closed his eyes, letting Louis fumbled with his button, then zip. When Louis’s hands reached to free his length from the straining fabric, he faltered. His breath hitched, his shoulders stiffening.
Lestat froze, pulling back to see his face better, his hands moving to his shoulders. “Louis?”
Louis shook his head, stepping back. “No, it’s – I’m fine. Just – too fast.”
Lestat didn’t move, watching Louis with concerned eyes. “All right.” He spoke softly. “Let’s stop.”
Louis pressed his palms to his face, breathing shakily. “I thought I could – I’m sorry.”
Lestat shook his head. “Don’t apologise to me.” Lestat said. “You tried, that’s enough.”
Louis let out a shaky breath and nodded.
Lestat smiled faintly, reaching out to slowly brush his knuckles against Louis’s hand. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
Louis looked at him, eyes glassy, searching, then nodded.
They stood like that for a long moment, silent but steady. Louis’s heartbeat slowed. The world began to return; the hum of the venue, the buzz of the city beyond the walls, the pulse of their hearts beating in a steady rhythm, together.
Louis leaned back. “I wanted to try.” He said softly.
Lestat looked over, his expression soft, voice low. “And you did.”
Louis began to fill more of his nights visiting museums and art galleries, the odd bar he’d half-convince himself to buy before changing his mind. On the rare evenings they had entirely to themselves, they’d walk the streets, visiting the many sights of the many cities together.
He attended a few more of Lestat’s shows, on the nights Lestat wasn’t under contract to be ambushed by Daniel for the documentary.
It had been a good show – better than the last. The energy had been almost holy. Lestat had glowed under the lights, a creature of myth pretending to be a man.
He’d arrived early, drifting towards the small, half-set up merch stand as Lestat entertained mortals at the meet-and-greet. Do you know how much mortals will pay to meet me? Lestat had asked one evening, delighted, as his manager added the tickets to the schedule.
When they returned to the hotel later, Lestat was still pacing with the kind of restless joy that always followed a concert.
Louis smirked as he opened his jacket, revealing the cotton shirt, painted with Lestat’s face, all glitter and glamour and teeth.
Lestat stopped mid-step, blinking. Then his grin widened. “You bought merchandise?”
“It seemed appropriate.” Louis said, settling on the edge of the bed, mouth twitching. “You’re quite the brand, apparently.”
He burst out laughing, something free, light, contagious.
“You look ridiculous.” Lestat laughed too.
“It’s your face.” Louis countered, pointing accusingly. “You sell these things.”
“I’ve signed at least a thousand.” Lestat smiled, sitting next to Louis, enjoying the happiness between them, like a break in a storm.
Louis tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you could sign this one? Mr Vampire Lestat, please.”
Lestat leant in, kissing the side of his neck. “Who should I write it out to?”
“Your number one fan.” Louis laughed, lingering between them like music, kissing Lestat’s forehead. “I think I’m gonna start wearing this all the time.”
The room backstage was small, clinical, too bright for a creature like himself. The light flattened his features, not the velvet shimmer of stage illumination or the low amber glow of candlelight. But he endured it, seated elegantly in the chair opposite Daniel for the latest interview session.
Daniel’s eyes were still sharp, still too curious for his own good.
Lestat had come early for his show for the interview, reluctantly leaving Louis alone. Lestat found himself missing him.
Daniel cleared his throat and shuffled his notes, though they both knew he didn’t need them. He had done this too long – the act of prying had become second nature. Behind the glass, cameras whirred to life, the red light blinking.
“Rolling.” Someone said.
And then there was only Daniel, leaning forwards, eyes like scalpels.
“Let’s start simple.” Daniel said, “You seem… happy.”
Lestat smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said of course I am, but also not at all.
“I am what I’ve always been, Daniel.” He replied, his voice smooth, velvet and smoke.
Daniel gave a small, humourless chuckle. “And Louis? Is he touring with you? I’ve heard rumours.”
Lestat hesitated, a fraction of a second – not enough for most mortals to notice, but Daniel wasn’t most mortals. He closed his mind, not wanting the prying journalist to route around for answers.
“He’s with me,” Lestat admitted, his voice softer now. “For a time.” His answer was more polite than it would have been without the cameras rolling.
Daniel nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. “So after the whole Dubai thing you found you’re way back to each other?”
Lestat chuckled, “You make it sound romantic.”
“Isn’t it?” Daniel leaned back. “Two star-crossed vampires, centuries of history, betrayal, heartbreak. It’s a hell of a narrative.”
“We aren’t together, if that’s what you mean.” Lestat replied, smile fading.
“No, of course not.” Daniel winked, tapping his pen against his notepad, studying Lestat. “Tell me about Louis now. What’s changed?”
The question sat between them, heavy. Lestat’s fingers brushed the edge of the armrest, small, restless movements.
“Louis is simply enjoying the rockstar lifestyle. Nothing better than music to get over a break-up.” Lestat said finally. “We have a way of orbiting each other, don’t we?”
Drop it. Lestat projected into Daniel’s head.
“Orbiting implies gravity.” Daniel said, writing something down in his notepad, ignoring Lestat’s glare. “Something pulling you back.”
Lestat gave a wry smile, projecting profanities into Daniel’s mind, watching him scribbling something into his notebook, then looking up sharply.
“He’s been… off lately. Withdrawn. The footage we have – when we catch him backstage.”
Lestat’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. “I didn’t know you’d been interviewing him.” He’s been through a great deal.
Daniel tilted his head, sensing blood in the water. They stared at each other; the room uncomfortably silent as they spoke through their minds. Because of you?
Lestat’s fangs pressed against his lips – not in anger, but restraint. Not this time.
“Cut.” Daniel said abruptly, rolling his eyes as the camera crew sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Take five please.” He waved them out the room, his eyes sharp, curious.
“Then who?” Daniel asked, waiting expectantly. “Look, everyone’s left, it’s just you and me. The cameras aren’t rolling.”
“It’s not your concern.” Lestat said, leaning forwards in his chair. “It’s not going in the documentary.”
“It’s caught my interest.” Daniel pressed. “Was it Armand?”
The name lingered in the air like a toxin. Lestat’s jaw flexed. There was a sudden stillness in his chest as if he’d forgotten breathing. Lestat didn’t answer. Daniel leaned forwards.
“Because when I spoke to Louis,” Daniel continued, voice low, clinical. “He avoided questions about Armand. Completely. And now you’re here, looking like someone’s twisted the knife.”
Lestat glared at him; his hands clasped in his lap. “You have no right.” He snapped, “You should tread carefully.”
Daniel blinked. “So, it’s true then. Something happened.”
Lestat looked up, his eyes glinting in the bright light. “You should be careful around Armand.”
Daniel frowned. “What happened to Louis?”
Lestat inhaled and let the silence stretch. He could hear the hum of the lights above them, the faint sounds of distant movement in the corridor. For a long time, he said nothing.
Then softly, he replied. “He was hurt.”
Daniel’s expression changed, “Hurt how?” Lestat stared at Daniel. Daniel’s pen stilled; his gaze sharpened. “Because last time I saw them together, Louis had just finished throwing him through a concrete wall.”
“Your maker has a sick way of retaliating then.” Lestat said quietly. The room seemed smaller now, the air tighter. Lestat didn’t say anything more, but the stillness of his body, the tension under his pale skin, said enough,
Daniel blinked, lost for a moment. “So, Armand did what, exactly?”
“He was hurt. That’s what matters.” Lestat snapped back, crossing his arms defensively.
“Was it... sexual?” Daniel asked.
“Va te faire foutre.” Lestat hissed.
“Jesus Christ.” Daniel said quietly. “After everything –“ He trailed off, thinking for a moment before his eyes sharpened. “And now you’re playing saviour?”
Lestat rose from his chair, the room felt suddenly electric.
“You think you understand him.” Lestat snapped. “Because you’ve written about him. You think you’ve tasted his pain through your interviews, but you haven’t. You couldn’t.”
Daniel didn’t back down. “Then explain it to me.”
For a long time, Lestat just stared at him. His hands flexed once, and when he finally sat down and spoke, his voice was quieter, more human.
“He doesn’t remember all of it.” Lestat said. Daniel listened, rapt, silent. “Armand had made sure of that. But what was left – there are things that can happen even to immortals that shatter something inside.”
The words hung heavy between them. For once, Daniel didn’t know what to say.
Finally, he asked, softly. “And what did you do?”
Lestat smiled faintly. “I stayed with him. I’m trying to help him.”
Daniel sat back, processing. The lines around his eyes deepened; he looked suddenly older. “You’re saying he’s – what? Traumatised?”
Lestat tilted his head, considering. “Mortals love their labels. Trauma, PTSD, addiction.” He paused. “It’s simply memory that refuses to die.”
“And you think you can fix him?”
Lestat shook his head. “No.” He said softly. “I can only hold him when it tries to swallow him.”
Daniel’s voice softened, reluctant. “Sounds wise. Not like the Lestat from Louis’s interviews.”
Lestat’s laugh was quiet, humourless. “You’ve only ever known the villain in Louis’s stories. The truth is more complex.”
The silence stretched again. The air conditioner hummed in the corner, the sound of static filling the space.
Daniel leaned forwards, elbow on his knees. “You know, maybe he should see someone about this?”
Lestat’s face twisted. “Yes, of course, a therapist who specialises in vampires.” He scoffed. “Shall we continue the interview before or after I choke you?”
“Fareed might know someone.” Daniel’s voice was quieter now, uncertain.
Lestat turned his head slightly, enough for Daniel to see the sharp gleam of his eyes.
“Louis would take some convincing, but…” Lestat stopped, considering his words. “I'm worried about him.”
Daniel nodded. “I can reach out.” Lestat nodded, a heavy silence falling over the two men.
Lestat stood, stretching slightly. His poise had returned – the performers mask sliding neatly back into place.
“I don’t wish to be interviewed. Do not follow me.”
"Come on man, that's not how this works..."
He moved towards the door; his footsteps soft against the concrete floor. Before he left, Daniel called after him.
“Lestat.”
He paused.
“Are you okay?”
Lestat turned, fully, his eyes soft. “If Louis is not okay, how can I be?”
And then he was gone, leaving the air heavy. Daniel sat in silence, staring at the empty chair where a monster had just borne what little remained of his soul.
Louis noticed the fabric folded in a neat square on the coffee table. He smiled, the memory of the stupid shirt coming back to him.
He reached for it, running his thumb across the soft cotton, unfolding it. There, in a flourish of silver ink across Lestat’s printed chest, was the signature.
For my number one fan. – L
Underneath, smaller: Always.
Louis let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it caught somewhere between fondness and ache. He pressed the shirt to his chest for a moment, shaking his head as the corners of his mouth twitched up.
The tour moved on despite them, the European leg of their tour racing past like a masochistic whistle stop tour of their memories.
Some nights, he still disappeared, returning before dawn. Some mornings, Lestat found the sink stained red, the glass untouched. There were good nights too, quieter ones, when they could talk or laugh, sit with music murmuring between them. The good nights were fragile, but there.
The heat of Barcelona swelled around them the moment they arrived, the short nights forcing them into their air-conditioned hotel room. It was modern despite the exterior, chrome, rounded edges and fancy lights.
Louis was quiet that night. He'd fed less lately.
Lestat poured them a glass each of blood. Louis accepted his, but didn’t drink.
“Would you like to walk with me?” Lestat asked, the attempt at lightness faltering at the edges. “There’s a fountain nearby, and an art museum. We could see it together.”
Louis shook his head, “I was going to check out the bars.”
Lestat sighed softly. “Bars,” He repeated, setting his glass down. “Tell me you mean to drink something worth drinking, or are you just trying to soften the edges?”
Louis raised his head to glare at him. “Lestat, it’s not like that.”
“Then what's it like?” Lestat asked, voice quiet but edged. He regretted it even as he said it - too sharp, too soon.
Louis only sighed. "I just want some air."
He left without another word.
Lestat waited patiently before dawn, the soft buzz of the city pressing against the windows. The blood in his glass untouched, turning unpleasant when he heard the door open.
Louis stepped inside, unsteady, the faintest tremor in his hands. The scent hit Lestat before anything else, the copper of old blood, the chemical tang of something human and synthetic, sour and heavy in the air.
"Louis," Lestat said standing. His voice was calm, measured. "You've fed."
"I have." Louis murmured, slipping off his jacket. His pupils were wide, too wide. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting." Lestat said softly. "I'm asking."
Louis didn't answer. He stumbled towards the bathroom, turned the tap, rinsing his hands. The water ran red. When he came back out, his eyes were glassy, unfocused.
"I told you, I'm fine."
"You're trembling." Lestat said. "You're not fine."
Louis brushed past him, pulling off his shirt. "Please." He said, exhausted. "Don't make this into a thing."
Lestat wanted to argue, make him listen, but instead he watched as Louis lay down on the bed, curling into himself. Within minutes, he was asleep. Shallow, and uneasy. Lestat stood for a long time at the foot of the bed, listening to his uneven breathing, the twitch of his limbs. There was nothing he could do but wait for the drugs to leave his system.
The following evening, Louis woke late, the sun already low. He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, silent. Lestat pretended to read, but every sound Louis made pulled at him.
"You could have said something," Louis muttered after a while. "Instead of staring at me all night."
"What would you have me say?" Lestat asked, closing his book. "Do you even know what you took?"
Louis’s jaw tightened. “You have a problem with it? You’ve been draining random groupies; I’ve seen you throwing up after your shows. I can smell it on you.”
Lestat stood suddenly; his composure cracked. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing? Last night wasn't the first time. How long until you start needing more, until it spirals out of control? I’m not trying to erase myself, Louis!” His voice rose before he caught it, the sharp echo slicing through the quiet.
Louis stared at him, their eyes locked, his mouth moving a few times as if to find the right words.
Their breathing filled the room, slowing as they regained their composure. Neither spoke, nor moved.
“I’m not trying to erase myself. And I'm not going to let it spiral.”
Lestat ran a hand through his hair, grounding himself in the motion. “Do you promise me that?”
Louis hesitated. “I… I don’t know what I promise.”
Louis rose to his feet, the anger now drained out of him, replaced by something quieter, sadder. “Do you expect me to sit back and watch you drown in it?”
Louis’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I can’t get him out of my mind. I still see him. I think it’s gone, but then it’s there again.” He spoke quietly, eyes glued to the floor. “I want to forget again, but I can’t.”
He looked at Lestat, his eyes watering, his lips wobbling with more words that he couldn’t find. Lestat felt the last of his anger drain, his shoulders dropping.
“I know.” He whispered, stepping forwards as Louis stepped back. “I know, believe me. Louis, this isn’t going to make you forget.”
Louis rubbed his hand down his face, shaking his head. “It's not a big deal, and I'm doing better. It just helps.” He said, defeated. “He goes away.”
“And after?” Lestat asked, searching Louis’s face for understanding. “When you’re throwing up uncontrollably? Shaking and sweating whilst it burns through you - I've been there. You've been there before.”
Louis didn’t reply, didn’t look at Lestat, just stood staring at nothing. For a moment, the only noise was their heartbeats over the distant hum of traffic. Louis sighed, sitting back on the sofa, resigned.
“You’re so much stronger than me.” He almost whispered, “You, Claudia, you weren’t broken. I don’t – I feel like I’m losing my mind. Why do you let me stay with you?”
Lestat approached slowly, sitting next to him on the sofa, facing him but keeping a distance between them.
“Louis, mon coeur, you’re not broken. You're stronger than you know.” He said, pausing. “I want you here, with me, because I love you.”
Louis looked at him, eyes searching over Lestat’s face. Lestat hesitated.
“What happened to me broke me too.” Lestat said, quieter now, eyes lost in memory. “I felt lost, afraid – there were nights where I’d wake screaming, I’d cry until I throw up. I’d disappear in my mind; it was as if I was still in that tower. I couldn’t tell anyone; I didn’t know how. I kept reliving it. I still – I endured. And I’m still enduring, but now it feels less like that’s all I have to do.”
He could almost smell the iron tang of the tower again, the sickening smell of decay, rancid and putrid, the soft crackle of firelight. The memory of Magnus’s touch, the sound of chains. He forced his eyes open.
Louis reached his hand out towards him, measured, deliberate. Lestat met him in the middle, their hands intertwining with a slight squeeze.
They sat together for a while, listening to the hum of traffic, the distant sound of the elevator, people sleeping below them.
“I wish I’d done more for Claudia.” Louis finally spoke. Lestat looked up sharply, looking at his heavy face. “She barely spoke about it.”
Lestat felt a heavy weight of guilt in his chest; suffocating, sucking the words from his lungs.
“Do you think…” His voice faded, as if searching for the right words and finding none. “She must have felt like this.”
Lestat closed his eyes, opening them to look into Louis’s searching gaze. “I couldn’t find the right thing to say to her. She needed a father – I didn’t give that to her.” Lestat felt a tear well up and run down his cheek, fat, ugly. “Every time, I just – “ He trailed off. Louis bowed his head, his own tears now flowing.
“I was so wrapped up in everything, I didn’t understand then.” He cried. “I didn’t know how it felt, I should have.”
Lestat shook his head, unable to find the words to comfort Louis; undeserving himself.
“When she asked about Magnus – I couldn’t – I wasn’t there for her.” His chest hitched as he cried, his breathing uneven, voice shaking.
“It’s not your fault.” Louis said eventually, rubbing circles over the back of his hand with his thumb, letting his tears fall freely.
“I failed her. I drove her away. I didn’t warn her properly – who’s fault is it if not mine?”
“Bruce.” Louis said, the name echoing through the room like a gunshot.
“When I found out I wanted to find him. I wanted to kill anyone who reminded me of him – I didn’t even know what he looked like.” Lestat laughed uncomfortably. “I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t. I was so wrapped up in myself, I just… I didn’t do anything.”
“We both let her down.” Louis whispered.
“Yeah.” Lestat nodded, his voice cracking. “Over and over. I failed her every time.”
Louis leant towards him, resting his head against Lestat’s shoulder as they wrapped their arms around each other.
“We both failed her. I by silence, you by violence.” Louis said quietly.
Lestat said nothing, his chest weighed down by grief. He searched for the right words but knew there were none. Claudia was gone, and nothing he could say or do would ever fix what had happened.
They sat together for a while, their tears drying where they fell. The city slept around them, the sigh of the traffic, the hum of hotel – the sound of a world that kept turning, even for the immortal.
Daniel handed Lestat the business card of a therapist, a fledgling who had stopped practicing a year prior upon their making but was interested in seeing another vampire.
Lestat had rolled his eyes – didn’t that seem too convenient, with seemingly every vampire wanting Louis dead after revealing their nature to a journalist?
Still, he tucked it in his pocket and didn’t think of it until after the show, back at the hotel.
The next night, the air between them softened.
Barcelona shimmered at night – a city made for creatures who loved the dark, despite the shorter nights of late Spring. The air was heavy with heat, perfume and cigarette smoke; the streets still crowded near midnight, laugher rising from the narrow alleys.
Lestat hadn't needed to insist this time. He told Louis they could blend in, walk the Ramblas like tourists, maybe have a drink.
They stopped at a rooftop bar overlooking the city. The air was still warm, the sea visible in the distance, silver under the moonlight. Mortals swayed to low music; their laughter muffled by the hum of the night.
Lestat ordered two glasses of wine for the illusion of civility.
They sat together on a couch under dim fairy lights. The music was soft, and for a while, neither spoke. They’d fallen into a rhythm, neither comfortable or awkward, just existing in each other’s presence.
He wanted to say something simple, something like you look beautiful tonight, but Louis’s face in the lamplight was tired, hollow-eyed. There was a gentleness to his silence that made Lestat ache.
Instead, he leaned back, watching the mortals dance below them. “Do you ever miss it?” He asked quietly.
Louis turned his head slightly. “What?”
“The simplicity.” Lestat said. “Being human, wanting things without understanding them. Eating just to taste, not survive.”
Louis gave a faint, humourless smile. “You miss being human?”
“I miss not knowing better.” Lestat said softly.
Louis looked back at the city. “Knowing doesn’t always make everything easier.”
“No.” Lestat agreed.
Louis’s eyes flicked back to him. “Lestat.” He grumbled. “What are you really saying?”
Lestat paused. He’d rehearsed this in his mind, the phrasing, the gentleness. He’d spent the last few nights reading articles on his phone, mortals explaining healing as if it were a formula. The words had felt sterile, insufficient, but the intent behind them, that someone could help Louis navigate what has haunted him, was what mattered.
“I think,” Lestat said finally, “that you’ve been carrying too much on your own.”
Louis looked down at his hands, silent.
Lestat continued softly, “And I think you don’t have to.”
Louis’s voice came low, hesitant. “What are you getting at?”
“I’ve been reading.” Lestat said, almost shyly. “About things that can help… doctors who work with the mind. Therapists.”
Louis turned his gaze sharply to Lestat, barking out a sharp laugh. “Therapists?”
“Yes.” Lestat said. “Someone who can help you with what you’ve been through. I’m worried about you. I think your drowning in your memories, you’re hurting yourself, I think you have an eating disorder.” The words felt foreign in his mouth.
Louis let out another soft, incredulous laugh, the sound dry, brittle. “You’ve been circling around therapy all evening and bring it up like that.” He shook his head with a small laugh. "Is this an intervention?"
Lestat blinked at him, looking for the right words, unsure of his reaction.
“If there’s a therapist who deals with vampires then sure.” Louis shrugged.
Lestat said nothing for a moment, watching him – taken aback by the ease of convincing him. He’d expected anger, betrayal, disappointment even. Not ‘sure’.
“Sure?” Lestat double checked, as though he’d heard wrong.
“Yeah, sure.” Louis shrugged, as though Lestat had offered to pull the curtains, to bring him socks, to dust a door frame. “Talking with Daniel was good, and god knows he’s no therapist.”
Lestat felt his own shoulders relax, the air lightening. He watched Louis for a moment, the way the moonlight caught in his hair, his profile looked as though it had been carved from marble – beautiful, fragile, untouchable.
“Daniel gave me a business card – a fledgeling. They were a therapist before they were turned.”
Louis nodded slowly, his eyes glancing up at Lestat, narrowed, not in anger but surprise. “You spoke to Daniel about me?”
Lestat winced slightly. “He asked. I didn’t go into detail – just that you’re struggling.” He tried to gauge Louis’s reaction but couldn’t, his eyes staring down into the crowd, unreadable. “And to watch out for Armand.”
Louis hummed, looking thoughtful but saying nothing. The city hummed around them.
“Do you think they can fix me?”
“Not fix, you’re not broken Louis.”
Louis looked away again. “You sound like one of those self-help books.” He brought his hands to his face, rubbing them down his forehead, his cheeks. “You’ve really thought about this.” He murmured.
“I have.” Lestat said. “Because I love you, and because I don’t know how to stop watching you suffer.”
Louis looked down again, silent for a long time. The night around them carried on; glasses clinking, laughter rising from the lower terrace. The world didn’t notice the two immortals sitting among them.
Louis’s eyes flicked back to him. “Did you ever talk to anyone? After Magnus?”
Lestat’s gaze drifted; his expression distant. “No.” He said softly. “There wasn’t anyone to speak to in those times.”
The honesty in his voice startled Louis more than any declaration of love could have. “Do you want to?”
Lestat looked down at his own lap, the glass of wine he cradled in his hand. “I regret the decades I spent convincing myself I was fine.” He said eventually. “The damage that silence did. The way I hurt others because I couldn’t face my own pain.” He paused, glancing at Louis.
Louis’s eyes softened, sadness and recognition mingling.
They sat there for a while, watching the night, fleeting, alive. Louis leant back against the couch; head tipped slightly towards Lestat. It wasn’t quite touching, but enough.
When they finally spoke again, the conversation was more mundane. Lestat horrified by the latest microtrend, the abomination of it, and Louis entertained by the absurdity of it.
They walked back to the hotel slowly, the city quieter now, the streets filled with the smell of beer and sea salt. Louis walked beside him, close enough that their hands brushed every few steps, the air lighter now.