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“In my dreams…”
“You can dream?”
Louis’ jaw ticks, emotion still clawing deep within his throat. Thick and unwelcome. Choking him. Smothering him. The wind and rain outside is monstrous and wild and in its whirl he thinks of her— Claudia.
“Maybe it isn’t dreams,” he says gently, eyes down toward rotted floors. “Maybe… maybe memories? But I never… they don’t feel real.”
Lestat is quiet. He’s tucked himself into that sad, old chair with his arms enclosed around his figure, as if to trap the heat of Louis’ previous embrace.
“It’s that day. I see her like… like I was there.”
In these versions, Claudia’s eyes turn to Louis and she smiles. Or, she sings to him and him only—voice broken and slipping with pain as her skin collapses. Other times, she does nothing. She clutches Madeleine to her waist and stares up at the warmth of the sun and says nothing.
Louis brings a hand to his face. A flash of Claudia, skin charred and barely recognizable—matching his own from so long ago. So long that he’s forgotten its feel. He’s forgotten the pain that binds them. “We were cruel to her.”
“I was cruel.” Lestat grits, though his voice is shameful. His head hangs, eyes red with vampiric tears. “You… you were hers–She yours. I…” He nods slowly, more to himself than to Louis. “I was cruel.”
“You loved her too.” Louis says carefully; uncertain, maybe. He is all too familiar with Lestat’s love and yet he had never been too sure of his affections toward Claudia. A friend, perhaps. His fledgling, his own–nothing more.
“I love you.” Lestat chokes out and the admission pierces through Louis. “And you love her and through you, I… I tried.”
Rain strikes against the old home. Again, he is reminded of Claudia. Something of its nature and the comparison to hers. It sparks a memory of her warnings—leave him, come with me. Horrified to witness the one who loved her first sink within himself. Clinging to him, desiring his freedom more than Louis. Claudia’s cruelty was her love, her reason. She did so without shame and without fear. She harmed Louis’ heart more than once but it was all for good—for his good.
Louis thinks of the tugging from so long ago. Split in two at the behest of them both–stay, go, stay. How fierce they both were over his heart and how painful it felt to choose.
Louis laughs suddenly, though wet and choked. He wipes a hand across his face, draping over damp eyes. “You two are so alike,” he says.
What he fails to articulate is that Lestat’s cruelty is just as loving as Claudia’s and yet his–Lestat–is made of shame and fear. He clung to Louis so tightly that the bruises felt purposeful, deliberate. There was no letting go. There was only fear and anger of that fear. His claws have left desperate scars that even his undead body refuses to heal.
Claudia was everything Lestat could never convey and for that Louis feels somewhat grateful. Through Claudia, he had known what it was like to be loved by Lestat without the bruises, or shame, or fear.
Lestat makes a pained sound, head falling back against the worn chair. “I wish you would stop saying that.”
Louis’ lips crack into a small smile. Amused. “Is that so bad? She is yours.”
“Exactly.” Lestat pinches at the bridge of his nose. It looks more like to stop his tears than annoyance. “Shouldn’t every father wish the opposite?”
Louis can’t argue that. For all of Lestat that Claudia is—was—he can’t find it in himself to notice any of… him. For a while, he felt envy and the envy made him cruel. Louis was never like Lestat, despite being made of his blood. No, he suffered the crushing weight of being completely unalike and therefore, enamored. She was Lestat. Every part of her was. How awful. How awful that it was Claudia. Sweet and cruel Claudia who kept Louis together with pure, stubborn will.
Claudia, who, despite Louis’ own cruelty and pain due-in-part to her likeness–stayed.
Maybe this is what Claudia had taken from Louis. Her loyalty to the wrong people. She should have never returned. If she were unlike either of them, she would have been cruel that way–turned her cheek for good and never spoke to either of them again. But it was this pity, guilt. She must have taken that from them both. Their guilt.
She had an ability to subject herself to unhappiness despite craving more. Always craving more, desiring more. Louis could feel it in her, knew she was braver than him for it. She was drawn to misery and unfulfillment and yet—the one time she refused. The one time she chose herself–
Louis swallows hard. His mouth fills with the taste of ash.
“Look at us.” Lestat breaks the silence, standing in that suave, quick fashion of his. “Two weeping mothers.”
Louis, despite the sickness in his stomach, smiles. It’s somewhat fond, now. Despite the grief that rolls in waves. “What else would you suggest?”
Lestat looks down at him. His eyes are red and that beautiful, bright blue. The same blue of Louis’ own. “Well, mon cher,” Lestat sighs, “If I know our Claudia… I know she would hate us to dwell.”
Louis stares. Part of him wants to get angry. What could you possibly know of her? But it never comes. It’s so dormant, now, this anger. It’s as though it faded with Claudia—or the thought of her. As if the guilt tramples the fire. He thinks of how desperate he had wanted her, this small little thing barely alive. Her hands clutching him. Angel. Me–she called me an Angel.
His imagination transfixes her into an infant. Cradled in his arms with tiny lungs full of smoke and face twisted as she cries against the flames. He had seen her as a purpose. Claudia, was his purpose. How selfish and cruel of him. Perhaps, they weren’t so different after all.
“You’re right.” Louis says softly.
“Of course, I am right.” Lestat says, equally as soft. His hand comes out, a peace offering.
The shutters of the window slam against the old wood of the home. He thinks briefly of Claudia’s words, the ones before her death. He stares at Lestat’s hand and wonders–the wind howls. It's as though the hurricane had marked its spot directly onto them. Purposeful. If there is an afterlife–
“Take my hand, Louis.” Lestat says.
Louis blinks. His mind shifts from now to that church so many years ago. Blood and horror with love somehow bubbling over from it all. This is what it is to love and be loved by Lestat.
Louis feels a little suffocated now. A pressure builds up in his throat once more and thuds against his jugular. He brings a hand to it, turns his head from Lestat, whose hand slowly drops.
“I came to see you.” Louis says, clearing his throat. His words come out shaky. “I had to know, that's all.”
“That’s all.” Lestat repeats, voice quiet and weak. “You came to see me.”
Louis can’t look at him. Something in the back of his mind, like an instinct. Strangely, or not strange enough, he sees it manifest as Claudia’s strict gaze.
He half expects Lestat to argue. He tenses for it, even after so many years. His shoulders go a little rigid, his spine taut. But, it never comes. Instead, a thud and a hand tugging at his pants leg. Louis looks, then, a little alarmed–confused. Lestat is before him, blue eyes still red and terribly desperate. Clawing, tugging. Louis feels his pity roll over his grief and it brings his hand forward to cover Lestat’s own.
The storm rages. Wind slams into all sides, glass shatters distantly somewhere. Wood creaks and bends under the law of nature—Rough, wild, sweet, kind, cruel. Everything Lestat is and so, so much more.
“I wanted to see you.” Louis whispers. The point of Leatat’s nails dig through, clutching Louis’ shin, his calve. “That’s all.”
“That’s all.” Lestat nods, chin wobbling. Louis watches as Lestat’s teeth come forward to chew at the pink of his lip. Holding back, still—after all of this? After such loss and renewal?
Something slams against the side of the home and Louis’ head jerks toward it. He will never change, you know he will never change. A hand climbs up, curls around the sleeve of Louis’ coat. It tugs and yet Louis can’t find it in himself to give in—not like before.
He slips his hand away. Lestat’s chin trembles and his head drops. Surprisingly, there is no more fight. Not now, at least. Louis knows him well enough. It will take much longer before that happens.
“I’m staying for a while.” Louis says instead, “not long. Just to see home.”
Lestat nods, head still sunken. His grip on Louis’ pants have slipped. His hands now rest weakly in his lap. “Home.” He says, “Of course.”
“I’ll go now.” Louis says. His hand reaches out, gentle on Lestat’s shoulder. Just a touch. A kindness.
“Yes.” Lestat sniffs, blinking quickly and standing. He turns his back to Louis as he wipes at his dampened face. “But the,” He turns back, waving an arm toward the outside. “Such weather.”
“It’s alright.” Louis says, standing and offering a smile. “Nothing I haven’t seen.”
“Yes,” Lestat laughs, “Yes, I suppose.”
There’s a pause, a long, dreadful one. Filled with the howl and moan of wind and rain. Louis gives him one last long, kind look and turns.
“Louis.” Lestat says suddenly, as if the name slipped from him without knowing. Louis turns back. “Be well,” Lestat says, eyes teary once more. “Take care.”
Louis, despite the creeping ache filling his chest, smiles. His own eyes well. He turns before they spill and ventures into the unrelenting weather. It batters him instantly and he can’t help but laugh. In the wind he hears her haughty words and disapproving tone. In the rain, that pelts against his skin and soaks his clothes—her hands. Her tugging, her anguish.
Anguish.
Claudia. His Claudia—His purpose.
His anguish.