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Oh, what a valiant roar
What a bland goodbye
The coward claimed he was a lion
Sometimes. Sometimes Louis wakes up with a lump in his throat. A phantom pain, sheets soaked, heart racing. He can’t dream, but the body does keep score. And sometimes, that score comes back to haunt him. He thinks that this is penance for what he did; what he’s done, continues to do. He thinks this is it, and then Armand will reach out and trail his delicate fingers across Louis’ wrist and Louis thinks he can breathe again (never mind Lestat, never mind Claudia, never mind never mind never mind never mind never––
(I’m combing through the braids of lies)
It strikes him at the oddest moments. The hint of a familiar cologne on the breeze. A flash of glittering blonde in the haze of light from the streetlamps. The bluest eyes on a boy that Louis had mauled to the point of no hope for recognition. Maroon jackets in the fall that spook him so badly he would cross the street to keep them out of his view.
He breathes through his mouth. Tries not to vomit. The rolls of nausea that overtake him are almost too much to handle at times.
“I’ll never leave" ...
It’s hard to reconcile your abuser, Louis thinks, with the idyllic version of them you have in your head. You never remember the horrific parts quite as viscerally as the moments soft as gauze wrapped around a wound, soaking up last nights blood in the layers between your skin and his.
"Never mind"
It almost never leaves him. That haunting feeling of someone over his shoulder, critiquing everything he does. Laughing at him, furious with him, apathetic, irrational, angry angry angry–– always so angry. So bitter and tormenting. This, Louis thinks, this is what hell feels like. He tries, Armand helps, Armand loves, Armand nurses him back to living, no longer a shadow, now alive without strings. Alive without the constant fear. Without the anxiety. Without the cutting edge of a knife pressing into his throat with every word, every glance, every caress. Nothing ever came for free, and this wouldn’t either, Louis knew.
Our field of dreams, engulfed in fire
Your arson's match your somber eyes
It’s rare now, almost a century later, that the voice follows him, mocks him when Armand takes his hand, presses itself to the curve of Louis’ ear, and make him want to die. It’s rare, but Louis, ever the suffering saint, presses his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. Holds his breath until the stale air in his lungs makes him want to retch. Screams at a man who isn’t there but only in his mind. Only where he can be alone, because in these moments, despite Armand’s jealousy, he gives him the space he needs.
And I'll still see it until I die
You're the loss of my life