Work Text:
The reason he called Lestat was not because of anything Louis had said in the tapes or in the moments after.
It was not because Louis was thinking of him again, or even entirely because embodying Lestat, becoming a proxy for Lestat, was a, however oblique, way for Louis to be his for another moment. Another moment to add to his collection of moments, another attempt to fill eternity. A drop. A breath.
There were words weaving themselves perniciously through his thoughts, and whatever he said, none of those words were "boring" or "fascinating" or "fine”.
No, those were just performance notes, on which he reflected deliberately. The words that asserted themselves contrary to his intentions- contrary to any discipline he had ever possessed, internal or external to himself -had come from Lestat’s mouth.
No. He wasn't fine. I let go of him. It wasn't a misunderstanding, it wasn't an accident. I let go of him.
Louis had a habit, didn’t he, of laying his kitten scratches to creatures which could destroy him. A means of self-destruction, self-harm, a vestige of his humanity that had yet to be eroded by time.
He was refreshing. His particular peevishness, the pathos of it.
I watched him clutch the air. I saw him swinging, wild, as he fell through the clouds.
The pathos of it, the harm. It felt refreshing. The more Louis was pushed, the harder and less scrupulously he pushed back, until he was laughing and he was mean and he was beautiful in a new way.
And then there was a last push. The push too far. (Often, it was her. The wound of her, which he only ever pressed deeper into himself...The pain of her, that he so embraced, there was no reflex to guard himself from even the squarest, most easeful attacks. But she didn't love you. Not like he did. Not like I have.)
And it wasn’t an accident, the push too far. How could it be?
I did it to hurt him, and it did hurt him! And afterwards, he was a broken thing. I know, I saw, because I am the one who broke him!
He wondered how Lestat had actually felt, in the moment. Had he really come by that show-stopping remorse right away, or had there been a moment where he marveled? Lestat could be ever so theatrical about the damage he caused.
Armand was not marveling. The moment when Louis suddenly folded under his words had been like losing the wall he was leaning against.
But he could not say it had been an accident.
Or, he could not say whether it had been an accident.
I couldn't persuade him to return my affections, I couldn't force him to love me, so I broke him. What is worse than that? Crushing what you cannot own?
Was Lestat really that foolish? Or was it a special talent of Louis’, that the ones he loved would never know it? Lestat, who had so clearly made Louis love him long ago and over and over, weeping the contrary. Acting the fool.
I hurt the one...I hurt the only one...
Louis was a very feeling person. When he wasn’t feeling, he was bleeding, in great puddles in the floor for Arun to lick clean.
Or burning. But burning, this kind of burning, was new.
A new beauty.
A terrifying, fleeting thing. A beauty Arun could not kneel beneath. Had to tower over.
His anger he visited on the unworthy journalist. He did not let himself approach Louis until he was certain he had cooled his frustrations. It was a meticulous rhythm. A metronome. When the anger cooled, he went to the coffin and let Louis nurse from his wrist. When it heated, he left. Whether or not Louis called for him, whether or not he begged. He would get no blood from stone this day.
Louis renounced Lestat- again, and again, and again. His crumpled form, in the coffin. Arun felt too large- hulking and ungainly. Nursing Louis' broken reassurances.
I did it to hurt him, and it did hurt him!
It was like tearing the wings from a butterfly to keep it from flying away. The reward was a butterfly without wings. Did anyone covet such a prize?
Perhaps someone who really loved the butterfly. Someone who could love it without wings. Love it within an inch of its life.
He cleaned Louis' skin. Louis screamed.
What is worse than that?
He fed Louis from his wrist- a reward for enduring the cleaning.
He decided, somewhat to his own surprise and yet all too obviously and inevitably, that he could live with this. Live in this. He had despaired aloud, "Will I be on suicide watch for the next thousand years?" But if it came to it, he could bear that. The metronome. That was his instrument. The instrument he tuned with his manicured thoughts, played with his measured deeds. A metronome was not a thing of beauty, but one of consistency. You're boring! You are so boring!
The time came to dispose of the journalist.
And Louis stood.
Hobbled from his coffin, towered over Arun. Over Armand.
A beauty he could kneel beneath.
Louis let him cease to be hulking and ungainly.
Louis walked- labored, graceless steps. His hands catching him on the doorframe, on a chair, on the table.
I watched him clutch the air. I saw him swinging, wild, as he fell through the clouds.
Louis gave the journalist back his will to live.
Maybe the boy was a second chance at Madeleine. A second chance at a fledgeling who was theirs instead of his. It could be beautiful. But no. If it could be anyone, it couldn't be him. Someone so fascinating could die a fascinating death.
Louis rose again. Tottered back in the direction of the coffin. Arun stood in his shadow, prepared to catch him if his footing or his strength betrayed him.