Chapter Text
1973 San Francisco
The key just wouldn’t fit into the door.
You struggled with it, scraping the key against the black paint around the key hole several times, leaving faint white scratches.
It was your fault, if you had put down everything in your hand, which consisted of a leather suitcase, and a wrapped oil painting, then opening a door with a key wouldn't be as difficult as playing a buzz wire game. But you didn't want to, as the concrete floor in front of the door looked damp, covered in dusty foot prints, and what seemed like cigarette ashes. You didn't want to risk staining your bag or the painting. If only Armand and Louis had a door mat, then you could place all your stuff there.
The painting you were holding was of Armand. A painting done in oil, a medium you learnt how to work with for the first time during your trip. It sat by itself for six months in your rented apartment next to your bed, just drying. Armand's eyes staring at you from the painting as you slept, it was weirdly comforting. The problem with having a piece of self made artwork staring at you in your bedroom every night was, you kept on noticing details of the painting you could have done better, was the distance between the eyes accurate? Was the tip of the nose too big? You had to resist the urge to scrap it and paint it all over again every few nights.
Now it was wrapped in layers and layers of bubble wrap, some bubbles were popping under your right arm as you tried to open the door with your left hand.
You groaned, all these leaning down was hurting your back again. You had the metal chairs in the airport to thank for that. You sat for at least eight hours on the chairs, then another ten hours on the plane, you flew economy to save money.
The journey had been incredibly difficult for you, as you really liked your spaces and lounging. Spread out over furniture, stretched full length like a cat. Even back when you lived with Louis and Armand, you had never been able to sleep if the three of you shared a bed. You needed your own. A big one so you can roll from one end to the other.
You didn’t really tell Armand or Louis when you were coming back from your trip. The plan was always to return when you felt like it. Counting from the day Louis dropped you off at the airport, it’s been about five years. You figured you had done enough sightseeing for now, recorded down all the places you would love to visit again with Armand and Louis. You missed them, despite all that had happened before you left.
You still remembered the day you told them your intention to travel. It was three nights after their muffled arguments behind their bedroom door. You deliberately waited three nights, so they wouldn't think you were leaving because of it.
Louis was putting some blood stained laundry into the washing machine and Armand was sitting on the couch with a book. You stood by the door to your bedroom, watching the domestic scene unfold under the yellow ceiling light. It almost felt peaceful, but you knew how many fights and arguments had happened here.The dents on the wooden chairs, the marks on the couch, were evidence of what usually happened here.
"I am going on a trip, " You announced, your voice was quiet. "by myself."
The air seemed to still.
"Why?" Armand asked, his eyes looking up from his book.
"I have always wanted to visit Asia. Thought I could check out some asian vampire covens." You wrangled your hands together as you spoke. Why did it feel like you were doing something wrong?
It was true, partly. The real reason was that, you felt suffocated with their constant arguments. The constant reminders of your past you would rather forget. You needed to get away, let them figure out things by themselves, maybe with you gone things would be better. You were sure that you being Lestat's fledging was not helping that case.
Armand nodded, and returned his gaze to the book.
Your lips twitched slightly at his indifference. You wanted to look into his mind to see if he would miss you. If he was hurt or surprised by your decision to travel alone. If he thought you were selfish for leaving them in this mess. Anything but what he was portraying now, which was, frankly, he doesn't care.
You had stayed with them for so long now, since the events in Paris. When you followed Armand and Louis, and left Lestat in the dungeon. More than that, you stood by them as they threatened to kill Lestat, mute, you were about to be complicit in two of Lestat’s murders. You remembered how he stared at you blankly, his eyes hollow, then returned his attention back to Louis and Armand. You didn't want him dead, but the shock of what happened at the theatre and how you managed to survive had shocked you and put you on autopilot, so you just followed the two of them like a kite being dragged on a string. You kept on having nightmares of Lestat with his slit throat, shaking you and asking why you did it. You repeated your apologies again and again like a broken record.
Sometimes, especially during those arguments that seep through the bottom of the bedroom door, you wondered what would have happened if you followed Lestat instead.
“How long are you planning for?” Louis asked, washing his blood covered hands in the bathroom sink.
“Not that long.” You answered without thinking. Which was a very vague answer in the vampire perception of time. Could mean a year, a decade. You didn’t really know, you hadn't really planned the trip. You weren't much of a planner.
He didn’t push for an exact answer, and the house went into an oppressing silence again.
You cringed. The atmosphere, Armand didn't seem to care anymore and Louis, Louis seemed so tired physically and emotionally, you could tell he was doing his best putting up a front for you.
He was the one who drove you to the airport, and carried your bag from the car to the gates. Always Louis, Louis who bought you a travel guide two days after you said you were leaving, Louis who did research with you on the places you would like to visit, Louis who bought you a plane ticket and put it on your bed side table in an envelope.
“We will miss you." Louis said at the entrance to the airport, and when he saw that you didn't even pretend believing what he said, he held your shoulders, his face moving closer to yours.
"Armand and I will miss you. I know you don't think that right now, it had been a rough few weeks...and I am sorry. But he loves you very much, we both do."
You tried your best to believe it, and hugged him. "I will miss you too. Both of you."
Travelling alone had felt like therapy. You sent them postcards, it was usually very short, two or three lines describing your day. The idea that maybe they will put your postcard on the fridge, so a piece of you remain in the household motivated you to keep writing them.
It was nice not hearing your name caught between arguments the moment Lestat’s name slipped from someone’s lips. That was now replaced by chirping birds, nature and the sound of monks sweeping leaves in temples.
——
“This stupid door….” You muttered under your breath and twisted the key one last time.
The key finally clicked, and the door creaked open.
The scent hit you at first.
Young human blood.
Your fangs extended slightly, despite the fact that you have fed recently. You had drained someone outside the airport. A plump business man in a grey suit who was laughing and making sexist jokes to whoever was on the other end of the phone. You made sure to drink a little more than necessary, to look healthy and presentable for your reunion. For them. To show that you were capable of taking care of yourself.
The flat was dim, newspaper covering the windows to block the sun rays. You felt Louis’s mind before you heard him, a faint wince of pain, muffled by the bedroom door. Your senses reach ahead of you, and then you feel it.
Shame.
Sharp and raw like an open wound. And then something worse, a memory, unshielded flashes through you.
The light on the terrace. The sun. The impossible heat. His body curling away from it like burnt paper. Skin scorched into ash. The agonising scream, the pain of flesh burnt before Armand pulled him back into the building.
The memory punched you in your gut. You cowered forwards, dropping everything in your hand, the canvas crashing to the wooden floor with a thud. The suitcase followed, bursting open, scattering souvenirs across the wooden floor.
A young man was slumped in a wooden chair. The noise startled him and he looked up. Blood soaked into his striped shirt. His head hung limply, and blood dripped from the wound at the side of his throat. He saw you through his hooded eyes, he tried to speak, tried to lift a hand, to plead.
His breath caught and he stopped, dread and fear replaced the glimpse of hope in his eyes. He must have seen your fangs or your red eyes.
You did not care.
You staggered towards the bedroom door.
Louis was on his wooden bed. The burning scars made him unrecognisable. He was curled in on himself, hands half clenched, unmoving.
The blood tears came before you could stop them. Hot and stinging.
You dropped to your knees beside the bed. His damages were worse up close.
Your Louis, your sweet sweet Louis.