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Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
In quick succession, annoying and unremitting, Lestat’s fingers drummed a pattern into the wood of the table before him, his free hand acting as its own table for his chin, sturdy and white knuckled. And he was staring, hard and unseeing at the wall, as if it had grown a face, against which he was currently in a contest of unblinking persistence. He’d been that way since their argument – since he’d insisted on being a nostalgia-ridden fool from the moment he’d awoken.
Louis refused to look at him from where he was seated across the room, book in lap, because he knew it was the desired reaction. But he saw the slouched silhouette in the peripheral of his vision; knowing he remained just for that, for such a reason, it was difficult to ignore.
Lestat had been in the same position for close to an hour now in any case. He was making a point of it. Louis didn’t need to look to know he’d barely moved an inch. Listening was enough. His message came across loud and clear through the echo of his fingers.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Outlasted and drained by that sound, Louis sighed loudly, closed his book, and set it aside. He wondered how it was that, even with all his time, all his education, and all his understanding of Lestat’s “dilemma,” he still constantly found himself losing their battles, these battles of wits and wills, as it were. Shouldn’t he know better by now? Shouldn’t he just walk away? Or could he at least win this?
But, then again, Lestat always had been the more stubborn one between them, hadn’t he? And Louis, the one to be soft, almost motherly in his compassion.
And how grateful he was, now more than ever, that Lestat could not hear his inner monologue. It would only make the fire within him burn all the brighter if he had. His gaze alone might have ignited the wallpaper.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
“Behaving like a child is no way to convince me,” Louis eventually relented and addressed him, crossing his arms across his chest at the same time, because he could take it no more. “I told you, our ‘family’ is already perfectly sized. We have everything we need.”
Lestat didn’t even turn away from the wall as he spoke.
“Perhaps. I just don’t see what the big deal is,” he grumbled. “Honestly, why are you giving me such a hard time about this, Louis? It’s not how it was before.”
Louis shot him an incredulous look. “Why do you never learn?” he countered. ”And how well did it work out for you then? You’re being irrational. What good would it do us?”
“It would please me,” Lestat said, but his expression wasn't pleased, but aggrieved, almost mournful as he went on. “And it would please you too if only you allowed yourself to be pleased by it.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Louis argued. But somehow Lestat’s face had struck a chord with him – it was decidedly less cruel than he had imagined it would be – more pleading. “Why are you so unsatisfied?” he found himself saying. Though, as he asked, he couldn’t help feeling that he knew the answer: Lestat was never satisfied.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Lestat’s mouth formed a thin line, tiny creases appearing on his forehead as his fingers stilled, and he moved them up to his face, where he began rubbing at the corner of his eye with his thumb.
Would he cry? The thought startled Louis. He’d seen such an act before, but Lestat had a habit of hiding his tears from him more than anyone, so not often. And Louis supposed it was a matter of pride – that he strove to be the strong one – that he thought it might make Louis think less of him for it. But he didn’t understand why.
It wouldn’t. After everything, how could it?
“It was today, the anniversary,” Lestat whispered then, a confession that made the world crash down.
Louis stared at him blankly, processing. He said nothing in reply. There was nothing he could say.
“I…” Lestat hesitated, then with red, forlorn eyes, he finally met Louis’s gaze. “I miss her,” he admitted.
Louis felt himself deflate, weak to their shared understanding, their companionship in this pain, and the vulnerability of it all. He stood, paused, and then leisurely walked over to where Lestat was seated, using his fingers to brush back the little spirals of hair in his face that had escaped from the rest, tied at the nape of his neck.
“As do I,” he whispered.
And Lestat looked up at him so sweetly that he could not resist moving into his lap to embrace him, to share in this misery they’d created together, so similar, in that way, to a beautiful little girl with fierce eyes and an even fiercer heart. He lingered, for they both desired the closeness too much.
“But looking for a replacement will not ease your pain, Lestat,” he tried to reason. “Trust me. I know.”
“It might,” Lestat argued petulantly, his voice vibrating against the column of Louis’s throat, but it was clear he didn’t truly believe what he was saying either.
Louis shook his head, feeling the blood welling up in his own eyes, brought there by the broken tone with which Lestat spoke. He hated it.
“It won’t,” he said.
And that’s all there was to it.
So, they sat like that for some indiscernible amount of time, caressing and comforting each other for all that they had and had lost. And for all they might lose again. Until, finally, the thirst tugged them to their feet and out of the sad safety of the flat.
Although they spoke no more of the issue, of Lestat’s desire to mend their aching hearts with another immortal “child,” it remained the unsaid theme of the evening. And each sent out their own prayers to the universe as they walked, still clinging to each other, arm in arm, for together they were a portrait of the past. And together they were all that remained of that time.
[...]
To whatever God might exist:
Please watch over our poor, wretched child, so that someday we may reunite with her in a better state.
And so when or if that day may come, with your permission, again our family might be whole.