Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not that big of a deal, squinting to cut sweet potatoes and nicking her knuckle instead. The knife drops to the kitchen floor with a clatter, glinting in the blue-dawn light, and Claudia crooks the bleeding finger, presses it against her mouth on instinct—unhygienic (Dad’s words), impractical (Dad’s words), regretfully inherited instinct (her words), but instinct all the same. She winces at the tang of her blood as she sidesteps the fallen knife, moving to rifle through the drawers for a band aid, except:

She winces. She doesn’t move. It’s not that big of a deal, cutting skin. Not a big deal at all, except, okay, fine, fine: last time this happened, she was fifteen and peeling sweet potatoes in a stuffy kitchen, her neck itchy and damp with sweat, the potatoes nearly slipping out of her palm as she leaned out the kitchen to check on her parents, who stood tucked away in a corner of the dining room, shoulders stooped and heads bent toward each other so that the sliver of empty space between them was heart-shaped, both of them standing with tense limbs and even tenser frowns. Claudia doesn’t remember what they were upset over—or, no, she does, she thinks, maybe it had something to do with Grandma telling Dad that him getting married was the reason she was now experiencing heart failure, or maybe something to do with Aunt Grace uninviting them from Thanksgiving and being the reason why now Claudia was stuck helping her Dad decode a sweet potato pie recipe he had printed off the New York Times, or maybe something to do with Claudia getting a C- in AP Lit for reasons that were honestly and actually out of her control (secret boyfriends were hard to keep up with and Dad’s English minor degree from the 90s or whenever didn’t mean Claudia had to be getting a 5 on the exam), or maybe Dad had finally seen her side of things and realized he didn’t like the engagement ring, or maybe her parents were getting a divorce not even a year into being officially married (okay), or maybe they were disowning Claudia (less okay), or maybe—something. Claudia doesn’t remember. In at least half the memories she has of them, her parents are sulking and grumbling and acting like the world’s falling apart. So so so dramatic. So fucking dramatic.

Claudia’s still bleeding in the present day. She’s bleeding from what she thinks is the exact same spot where she had cut herself at fifteen, vegetable peeler jerked too far and too fast that the sharp sting of shredded skin had made her yelp, made her parents shout from the dining room, made the peeler and sweet potato fall into the sink, made her parents materialize next to her, one of them at each side, both of them talking too loud and too fast, Dad yanking her hand when she tried to lick the blood, Papa snatching her hand from Dad’s grip and squeezing the cut between his hand, like pure pressure alone would knit her skin together, and. 

And now she’s here in a tiny apartment in Paris, blood souring in her mouth, aching viscerally for something, anything, everything, to take her back, back to home, back to the Thanksgivings where Aunt Grace gave her a slice of pie with a kiss to the forehead and a pinch of her cheek, back to the kitchen with her parents squabbling with each other over who put the band aids where, back to the tiny tiny tiny cage of a home she had spent a near decade scheming for a way out of, because said cage had just been that suffocating in spite of (or maybe because of) all that love, but, fuck, wasn’t it normal, a little, to miss cages when they were all you ever really knew anyway, wasn’t it acceptable to hate yourself to a level where the idea of apologizing to your supremely shitty father wasn’t all that rancid of an idea, even though cutting him out of your life had been one-part a survival gesture after he had fucked over both you and your dad with a long-term affair, one-part something you never actually did, one-part you reacting to him saying that raising you was just him enduring and enduring and enduring— 

Madeline takes Claudia’s hand. Claudia blinks, lips still parted where her still-bleeding finger had been pressed. There’s blood lingering at the tip of her tongue. The knife is still on the floor, glinting white as Madeline wraps her hands around Claudia’s and squeezes, ever-so-gentle.  

Madeline presses a kiss to the nail of Claudia’s crooked, slow-bleeding finger. When Madeline lifts her mouth away, Claudia’s blood is smeared against her bottom lip, dark and shiny. Claudia sucks in a sharp breath.

Madeline presses a bandaid against the cut. She presses another kiss, this time against the bandaid, soft and firm, her expression equal parts amusement and concern, and—Okay. So this really wasn’t a big deal at all. No-cage-required love was something that really could happen, and it really could happen to her. No biggie. None at all, none.

Today, 8:43 AM

Louis

Good morning, beautiful. Be sure to dress warmly today, it says you’re scheduled for snow in the evening.

By the way, at the exhibit I visited yesterday, the one I told you about?

Saw this painting–wonderful colors here. Looked even more incredible in real life, the blues really popped.

It reminded me of you—you have a dress just like this sitting in your closet here at home, remember? Do you want me to ship it over? It should still fit.

Louis

Claudia?

Claudia

hi dad

sorry

got busy

Louis

Too busy even for me, huh? :)

Claudia

yes :)

ill dress warm you bundle up too it says youre due for rain in the morning

and no on the dress

im good without it

Chapter Text

It’s not much, hardly noticeable. Deadly can-opener still in his other hand, Louis squints and holds up his thumb against the sunlight, watches the blood bubble and bead, running down into the hinge between thumb and palm. Louis tilts his head. The blood continues to flow.

It’s not much, this amount of blood. Truly, nothing, if compared to:

One—the first time Lestat had proposed. There had been no legal weight to it, but the devotion had been intense all the same, a promise murmured and pressed against Louis’s cheek as they both knelt in the tiny kitchen of Lestat’s tiny apartment. It had been the early hours of Valentine’s day, six months or so from the day they had first met, and Louis, then, was still jittery at the thought of looking Lestat’s way in public and Lestat was equally uncaring of how much Louis worried. Why had they been kneeling, Louis thinks it was—yes. Something. Something. Louis’s nose had been bleeding, Lestat had a free-flowing cut on his forehead, there had been a disgusting amount of bloodshed because—why? Kitchen accident, Louis thinks. Kitchen accident or something related to Louis trying and failing to visit the church at three in the morning before Lestat had found him and talked—dragged?—talked him into going back to Lestat’s apartment instead, and then: Lestat’s lips had been wet with Louis’s blood, his breath warm against Louis’s skin, and Lestat whispered that Louis could have his heart forever, if he wanted it? Did he want it? Did he? Did he?

Two—the second time Lestat had proposed. It had been less than a year since the first proposal, there still hadn’t been any legal weight to it, and the second proposal had been delivered playfully, lightly, said in the dark of Louis’s dorm room, both of them naked and sweat-drenched under the sheets, Lestat breathing into Louis’s neck, close enough that Louis could hear the click-click-click of Lestat grinding his molar teeth. The sound had been irritating enough that Louis grumbled something about Lestat heading back to the dentist and getting his impacted wisdom teeth finally removed, and Lestat had been—annoyed. Said something about how he was in his mid-twenties and so beyond the need for god or modern dentistry. Said something about making Louis come again. Said something about putting a baby in Louis. Said something about putting a ring on Louis’s finger. Lestat had been sweet, raising his head to bite down on Louis’s lips, hard enough that they had both woken up the next day with blood smeared all over them and the sheets. Another year or so later after a bad fight that ended with Louis stumbling back home dazed and with partially-scorched shoes, Lestat had grit his teeth, rubbed toothpaste over the minor burns on Louis’s hands, and told Louis that adoption was out of the question because Lestat had never actually been interested in raising kids. 

Three—the third time Lestat had proposed. This time, it happened a few months after the words had gained legal weight. The proposal had been delivered during a fuzzy near-dawn hour when there had only been enough light to see Lestat’s pinched lips. They had both been on the couch, Claudia had been fast asleep in a curled heap on the floor, the TV had been on, coating them in a cool blue glow, and—yes. It had been when Louis had messed with the remote, trying to shut off the TV, that something—slipped, what was it, jammed into his pinky finger and cut him deep enough that he hissed and dropped the remote near Claudia’s head. Louis had brought his hand close to his face, squinted and watched the blood flow, and Lestat had, ever so gently, taken Louis’s hand, kissed the cut even as blood dripped onto the sweat-soaked blankets that covered them, and then Lestat had asked—yes. Lestat had spoken with a hungry, ragged desperation, with a tremble Louis hadn’t heard in years, with an edge of fear Louis hadn’t heard ever, saying—if Louis couldn’t verbalize love the way Lestat always needed him to, couldn’t Louis do this much? Please?

Present-day: Louis continues to stand and watch his thumb bleed. He swallows. Read: tries to. He tries to swallow his every unspoken love-you-love-you-love-you for Lestat. He fails. It’s always there, stuck throbbing in his throat and never out his mouth or down in his stomach, the affirmations Lestat had wanted and the affirmations Louis had never said even when Lestat was at his sweetest, twirling Louis around on their wedding night, or at his worst, pressing kisses to Louis’s neck while still reeking of that perfume, the one that the other woman wore, the one that Lestat made sure clung to his skin like a second layer because he just had to rub salt into all of Louis’s wounds, repeatedly fucking with Louis’s head and heart just for the short-term attention it got him. 

Lestat had just—just—Lestat had just never been one for patience. There had only been so much of Louis’s hesitancy that Lestat would ever entertain. At some point, Louis had started living for it, that moment when anticipation mounted high enough and was finally met in full-measure, when Lestat pinned him down, dragging his teeth over Louis’s jugular with enough force that sometimes Louis genuinely worried that his throat would split, but even within that worry, there was—desire. Yes. The desire to get cut open, gutted, battered, and deep-fried like river trout out of love. All the blood each of them lost from trying to exacerbate each other’s gaping wounds had been worth it for those slivers of time where they were both settled, sated, and snug, resting easy with the knowledge that their heartbeats were finally in sync. 

His thumb is still bleeding. Louis should grab a bandage and deal with it, toss out the can opener and the abandoned can of chickpeas both in the trash as he goes. Louis should, yes, but he can’t move, can’t do more than watch the blood flow, feeling awfully far-away in his disgust, want, need—

Armand takes Louis’s hand. Louis blinks. Armand is saying something, tone exasperated, tone amused, tone concerned. It could be either of those three emotions, it could be all three. It’s Armand: Lestat’s long-ago ex from Paris; Lestat’s last-minute select for best man; Louis’s maybe-friend who visited art galleries with him while making a show of sending Lestat a selfie of the two of them together; Louis’s boyfriend and definitely-not-a-rebound; Louis’s deeply considerate and patient new lover who Lestat hadn’t even blinked at when Louis delivered the relationship update over a FaceTime session that had originally been scheduled to talk about divorce timelines but had devolved into a call about how if Lestat had been a little less insane then Claudia might not have abandoned them for France, of all places. 

It’s Armand. Louis blinks. Armand is squeezing Louis’s bleeding hand between his two hands. The pressure stings, unpleasantly so.

Louis tries to swallow again. He thinks that he should have told Lestat, maybe. Once, at least. Love you, love you, love you. Who was he going to say it to now—Armand? 

Louis did say it to Armand. Frequently. Eagerly. To express genuine affection for all the times Armand bought him roses and to placate for all the times Louis broke away to call Claudia and Armand subsequently sulked because maintaining relations with his daughter was, apparently, a more severe sign that Louis wasn’t taking their relationship seriously than the numerous times Armand had ended their dates for reasons that ranged from “work” to “esports tournament” to “skincare routine.” 

Sometimes, during the worst of it, Louis says it, tells Armand: You’re not that nice to me. The words always slip out carelessly, greased with guilt and a decent amount of annoyance, and each time Louis says it, Armand does this thing, sucking in his cheeks so his face gets hollowed out and small, and he looks back at Louis with hurt and a decent amount of annoyance. Sometimes, Louis will let Armand grovel and deny the statement. Sometimes, Louis will roll over and think about the time Lestat had tracked Claudia down in Paris, met her without telling Louis anything, and returned to New Orleans, collapsing in Louis’s arms, crying, apologizing, looking small, looking pathetic, and Louis—numb and hollow from how much everything hurt—hadn’t been able to do anything with Lestat’s earnest regret other than say: oh. And then: so you made things worse? Is that what you did? Made it worse than it already was, and you’re sorry, are you actually, are you? Are you? Are you?

Lestat had shut up. Lestat had left to live in the apartment that he thought Louis didn’t know about, the one where he had kept his affair going during their decades of companionship. Lestat had left and Armand had appeared, conveniently, in his place, with a soothing touch and endless encouragement for Louis to embrace the good parts of heartbreak, as if such a thing even existed. 

Present-day: there’s the short tear of Armand opening a band aid packet and it’s not much, hardly anything at all, but Louis hasn’t sent Lestat the divorce papers despite Armand’s increasingly insistent urging, Louis hasn’t stopped spending half of his nights waiting for Armand’s breathing to fall into a lull so he can click open his phone and stare at photos from his wedding, and Louis’s never been more sure that he’d rather choke up in Lestat’s presence for the rest of his days than have Armand—good, sterile, attentive Armand—patch up his wounds.

Today, 6:11 AM

Lestat

Why is my lawyer telling me that you want the piano

Louis

Because I want the piano?

Lestat

Tu es impossible louis

changing your mind every day

send it in writing for once and I will believe it

Today, 8:02 AM

Lestat

Even during this awful period of seperetion I still think fondly of it.

all the cold winter mornings we spent together.

Under the quilt, gazing into each others eyes for hours on hours

your warm hand in mine

Louis

I miss you

ⓘ Not delivered.

Louis

Separation*

Chapter Text

The rot in his freezer is nothing. It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing, only: 

One, said rot is specifically the blackened corpse of a duck Lestat had hunted down last month, having captured the bird only after a very long and otherwise very fruitless wading session through the lake, where, no matter how much he had held his breath and slowed his pulse, every movement set the ducks off into a blur of beating wings and misty sprays of polluted water; 

Two, Lestat had been looking forward to roasting the duck in the very near future;

Three, there was nothing else in his freezer;

Four, something about the duck’s regular presence in his freezer this past week or so had been soothing, it’s folded, skinned form reminding him of every hunting trip he had embarked with Claudia, with the two of them lacing their boots well before dawn while Louis (who still wearing his pajamas and not entirely awake) judged them from the stairway, the two of them squabbling during the drive, the two of them splashing through the lake and arguing over who was making more noise, the two of them standing still and with bated breath as the ducks flew over them in a thick, screeching spread of white and emerald green. Then they would get into position and Lestat would coach Claudia’s shots. As she posed, her face would scrunch up in concentration, eyebrows knitting close to each other, and she always looked so similar to how Louis looked when he read his books;

Five, Lestat needed oranges for the roasted duck he had envisioned; 

Six, Lestat didn’t have oranges in the fridge, rotten or otherwise; 

Seven, Claudia hated it when Lestat tucked orange zest underneath the duck skin, wrinkled her nose and said that the smell was too overpowering;

Eight, Louis hated the orange smell, too, and hated even more that Lestat took Claudia hunting at all;

Nine, Louis didn’t hate it so much when Lestat and Claudia returned in the early evening, sticky with the chemical soup of lake water, proudly bearing the fruits of their duck hunt. They would take to the kitchen, him and Claudia, talking over each other on if they should pair the duck with wild rice or jasmine rice this time around, and all the while, Louis would quietly take photos of them, standing a safe distance away and still radiating slight judgment over the meat consumption;

Ten, Louis never managed beyond more than a few polite bites of the duck but Claudia—young, ravenous, keen—devoured the meat with a ferocity that sometimes seemed to outpace Lestat’s own—

Lestat slams the freezer shut. It is nothing. It is everything. It is the memory of a daughter who likely would not even attend his memorial. It is nothing.

There is blood on his ring finger from where it got caught in the slam of the freezer door. Lestat didn’t even register the pain. He still hasn’t registered it, actually. He stares at the slow gush of blood from the cut. He watches a drop fall to the kitchen floor. He winces. 

Lestat raises his hand to his mouth and sucks on the cut absently, thinking: he could still eat the rotten meat and die trying to digest it. It could be an act of penance. A line of his obituary: died selflessly attempting to consume disease-ridden food because Lestat de Lioncourt was so opposed to ever wasting good meat. Possibly.

Dying that way would get Louis’s attention, which: unnecessary. Louis had appeared last night. Lestat had opened the apartment door expecting his DoorDash order and Louis had been there instead, looking unsure and beautiful. Louis had fallen asleep on Lestat’s couch an hour after appearing, mumbling something about a breakup (Lestat, in an act of restraint he didn’t know he was capable of, had managed to not laugh at the news). Why Louis came to him, after everything, Lestat doesn’t know, but Louis was—here. After everything. Here in the apartment, face pressed into Lestat’s patchworked cushion, the quilt Lestat had covered him with constantly shifting as Louis squirmed restlessly in his sleep, still looking unsure and beautiful, but Louis was still here. He was here with Lestat. That meant something. It had to. 

Dying from rotten duck consumption would not get Claudia’s attention, which: he could still see her face from when he saw her in Paris. Claudia had been near-tears, biting her lip, her normal garden posture wilting, blinking at Lestat, looking—hurt. Combustible. Betrayed. She had pushed him away, run off, didn’t contact him again after, and now all Lestat knew was that she hated him. Claudia hated him, truly hated him for Paris and everything else, didn’t she, probably hated him to the same degree Lestat had hated his father. She would probably deal with news of his dying the same way Lestat had dealt with own father’s death, by nonchalantly popping into the hospital at the eleventh hour and then ignoring any wheezed out apologies in favor of scraping his nails against a file, raising a cool eyebrow at any tears shed.

Lestat exhales. In his mouth, his finger is still bleeding, coating his tongue with blood. It tastes tannic and a little bit like the red wine duck jus he and Claudia had made together, once. Lestat’s daughter wasn’t as forgiving as Louis was: she didn't forgive him for burning the jus then and she wouldn't forgive him for anything now, either.

His daughter hates him. It's nothing. It is nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Today, 1:11 PM

Armand

Lestat

?

Armand

It’s an artwork that accurately captures my current mental state.

Lestat

Armand What are you talking about

Armand

Louis left.

Lestat

oh I know. heard. saw.

Armand

Of course you did.

Lestat

ok. So?

Armand

So I’m heartbroken, Lestat. Staring down at all my worldly belongings in a stupor. Exhausted, cold, and utterly spent.

Lestat

🤣

Armand

It’s not funny. This is awful. This is the worst I’ve felt in years.

Lestat

👍