Chapter Text
You didn’t have to destroy the piano. Loved it more than you loved us.
“I loved you.”
When? B’cuz I didn’t feel it in the end.
Every day, Lestat would wake up in the wee hours of the morning in New Orleans, and he’d wake up alone. He had been there for weeks decades now, living off the very thing he used to scoff at, not even hunting for himself. His newest fledging-slash-prospective-bandmate was his only physical, living companion – a very stupid and annoying one at that – and it was taking everything in his power not to bury himself in the ground for another century once more.
Even his one worthwhile friend, music, did not have the same effect as it used to anymore, especially not since he smashed his beloved grand piano into splintered bits. He admitted times before that his temper controlled him, and it rang true even in solitude. As he played the keys, the notes did not fly off the sheet music like they did before, and every song he’d write was miles from capturing the anguish and loneliness he constantly felt until, one day, the damned beast could no longer be tamed. Disaster was unleashed upon the unsuspecting instrument.
He’d let the roof over his head fall into shambles. Honestly, he had no use for luxury anymore. He had no reason to take care of his living situation or, frankly, himself. His clothes were tattered, his hair felt disgusting, and his skin didn’t feel like his own some days. His fledgling (he can barely remember his name most days) often complained of the smell lurking; Lestat shrugged it off.
Oh, how the mighty hath fallen.
“Enough.”
So, if not the “piano” he’d carved out of wood with his nails and painted with his blood and the iPad he’d practically stolen from the fledgling, he had only his thoughts to occupy himself with. Years of guilt weighed on his mind, most of them in the form of a ghost, and he has had many a conversation with said ghost.
The ghost dressed itself in yellow — a yellow dress, to be precise. It was beautiful. It suited the ghost’s complexion, its pinkish eyes, its young face. But it was also offputting: it was torn in some places, patches of red splattered here and there. One would think it was a stylistic choice if they could see it. And the ghost’s hair, it was tied back with some strands of loose curls in front of its face, a face with scabs and dirt. Not a choice. He knew the ghost would ask its dad to fix its hair, just like he always would. Never a choice.
He’d talk aloud to the ghost because he could not read the ghost’s mind. A side effect of its turning, all those decades ago. Anyone hearing him would think he was sick. He mentally scoffed. What an inane accusation. Lestat never got sick.
But you got sick of me real fast, didn’t ya?
“I did not, mon petite.” He had not looked up from his wooden plank of a piano. He could never look the ghost in the eyes.
You wanted me gone. You were happy I was away so you could have him all to yourself.
Lestat had breathed in. His chest hurt daily. “But he did not want me. He wanted you.”
Until he wanted Armand. And where did that lead us? You, alone. Me, haunting you from my nonexistent grave.
“Do you not think I give no thought to that day? N-no remorse, no pain?”
Wasn’t it just another play for you? An elaborate way to fuck me over one last time?
“It was the biggest mistake of my immortal life. Do you believe I could be so heartless, mon cher?”
Don’t matter what I believe anymore.
He hadn’t responded.
Look at me.
He’d lifted his head.
The ghost had gone for the time being, but the voice forever bounced around in his head.
Lestat often had the same conversations with the ghost, repeating its words like a hammer pounding a stubborn nail. He lost count of how many times he’d said those exact words to it, over and over again. He’d try to convince himself he did everything he could, saving his love with all the energy he could muster, his ears bleeding onto the neckline of his shirt. He’d attempt to justify saving him and not the ghost. If it was the other way around, if he’d saved the ghost and not him, he didn’t think he could handle it; he was convinced he’d throw himself into fire or sunlight the moment he’d first heard his love spew his rightful vitriol in his face with his mouth, a mouth he used to kiss passionately.
He’d believed he could handle the ghost. Stupidly, selfishly, he’d thought he would be rid of the ghostly embodiment of his mistake years ago, simply have the memory of it haunt him forever. But it had been three years and seven decades.
Lestat had accepted that the ghost was never leaving. And he knew he deserved it. Another eternal punishment added.
He saw it again when his love stood before him for the first time in over seventy years.
The crowd chanted his name. He did not hear it, and not just because his in-ear monitors were working.
The drummer and electric guitarist improvised the final song on his setlist’s outro, keeping him in a trance as he stared out into the pavilion, eyes fixed on a specific spot.
If anyone went on social media later that night, there’d be no doubt that at least five fans would post about Lestat making eye contact with them. That was not the case.
It was his tenth show for the Europe leg of the tour. Europe, France, Paris. He should’ve seen it coming.
The ghost was back — the ghost he hadn’t seen in a few months.
Lestat almost stumbled on stage. It was not the fault of his heels. He was well-versed in heels. He knew it was the ghost’s fault. Sixty thousand pairs of eyes witnessed him nearly ripping his fishnet stockings, and they’d all think his heel broke.
His breathing became heavy. Yellow dress. Bright eyes staring back at him. Red splatters mocking him.
Somewhere in his mind, he heard the guitarist carry the riff’s last note and the cymbals ring out, and he took his cue. He bowed. He couldn’t breathe. He raised a hand to every one of his bandmates to recognize their work. His chest hurt again. He bowed with everyone. He wanted to cry. He left the stage, beads of sweat dripping onto his bare chest.
He thanked his team for their hard work, as he did every night, and mustered into his dressing room, locking the door behind him. He leaned against it in despair and hyperventilated.
All this? For me?
He pushed himself off the door’s support and began shedding his costume — heels, corset, and stockings, quickly replaced by a cotton robe.
A knock on the door. Lestat might’ve yelled at whoever it was to give him thirty minutes; he wasn’t sure. He could not think. His mind was on her now.
He grabbed a makeup wipe and a bottle of remover. She was sitting on his vanity, too close to him.
Looks ridiculous. Almost Mardi Gras-ish.
He didn’t answer.
I’m not gonna lie, I was kinda hopin’ you’d fall at some point.
“What is this?” he abruptly turned to her, his right eye’s heavy makeup smeared by the wipe. He did not dare meet her eye. “Are you making a mockery of me? Are you here to… how the people say, pray on my downfall?”
You knew I’d return eventually.
“And make me a fool in front of my audience.”
She laughed mirthlessly. Always did love an audience, Uncle Les. You make a fool of yourself, anyway. My fondest moments of ya are all foolish.
“What about me is fond?” He continued to wipe his face.
Your everlasting grief, maybe. Proves you might have a heart underneath all the vampire.
Lestat finished removing his makeup. He held the dirty wipe in his hands and looked down at it. “You should’ve been backstage with Louis. Every night. You should be backstage, here,” he choked, his voice cracking as blood tears threatened to spill from his eyes.
I know, she said, almost solemnly.
“I can never forgive myself.”
She was silent for a moment. That makes two of us.
He could no longer hold back the tears. Streaks of red left his face, falling onto his robe. “Please don’t go.”
I can’t. I want to, though.
Lestat lifted his head once more, finally taking in her face. Her beauty was unchanged. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she looked at him. He hated her. He missed her.
In his foolish nature, he tried to reach out to her. His hand was about to hold hers—
“Lestat!”
He turned at the sound of Louis’s voice calling to him from the other side of the door. Brushing his tears away, he replied with sweet words to his love, promising to be out soon.
He straightened himself up, facing the mirror again, finally alone.
She’ll be back.