Chapter Text
Louis tore himself away from his book yet again, his gaze falling on Armand's suitcase, still there, unpacked. Armand had gone out to hunt, and Claudia was off somewhere with Madeleine. Louis closed his eyes, finally giving up the pretense of reading. He didn't know how to tell Armand that he wasn't ready for anything serious — that all he wanted right now was to have sex with an attractive man, which Armand undoubtedly was. The very idea of sharing his life, his coffin, with anyone other than Lestat felt profoundly wrong.
Once more, Louis conjured up the image of Lestat in his mind. He’d done it more this evening than he cared to admit. But Lestat had been missing for over two weeks now, and Louis couldn't help but worry. He needed Lestat's advice; he wanted to tell him that Armand was demanding more from Louis than a brief affair. Armand wanted him the way Lestat had wanted him: completely and possessively, and it was both frightening and irritating. Strangely, the Lestat in his imagination was a supportive partner: gentle, sometimes mocking, but never cruel or judgmental. Louis realized this was the Lestat he had fallen for when they first met. It had been Lestat's ability to truly listen and see him that had made Louis open his human heart.
Abandoning all attempts to distract himself with reading, Louis stood up. Grabbing his coat and hat, he hurried down the stairs and stepped out into the rainy Parisian night. At the far end of the long street, the lights of a small café twinkled, where a couple of young people danced to the music of a small orchestra. Louis instinctively reached for his pocket to capture the moment, only to remember, with a pang of annoyance, that he'd left his camera at home. He had no desire to go back for it.
He wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, breathing in the air of freedom and the postwar hope of a new life. Almost without realizing it, he turned into the park where he and his imagined Lestat often met. He sank onto a bench and took off his hat, tilting his face up to the dark sky. The park was empty. A fine, steady drizzle fell, and the lamp above his head buzzed incessantly. Louis felt himself growing drowsy.
He was almost dozing off when a soft, barely perceptible melody pierced the silence of the park. At first, Louis thought someone passing by was humming a tune to themselves, but the longer the music played, the more his heart swelled with a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. He opened his eyes wide and stared unseeingly into the darkness of the trees. At one of the highest notes, a familiar, tingling sensation began in his chest. The wind died down for a moment, the hum of distant human conversation hung in the air, time seemed to freeze, and the melody played on: soft and persistent. Someone had stopped time just for him.
Louis scrambled to his feet, looking around frantically. His hearing pinpointed the source of the melody, and he quickened his pace, breaking into a run towards the next alley. From a distance, he could already make out a small wooden object on one of the benches. A vague suspicion flickered in his mind, but he didn't allow himself to stop and think it through.
He nearly sprinted the last few steps to the bench. The music box looked exactly as it had years ago: silver bees on the mechanism glided smoothly up and down. It was the song written for Lestat's first love. But as Louis reached out a hand towards the box, the melody abruptly stopped. The wind rustled in the tree branches again, and fine droplets of rain fell on his face and shoulders. Time resumed its normal flow. In a panic, Louis turned around, hoping to see the box's owner. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know it for certain, but he felt it: Lestat had been here. Mere moments ago, he had stood on this very spot, winding the mechanism of the box.
Louis desperately grabbed the music box, ready to pursue whoever had disturbed his peace. But then his attention was caught by a book lying underneath it. It was a thin volume, clearly a recent purchase from one of the bookshops in the cheap section. With trembling hands, Louis opened it to find a stack of papers clipped together inside. The text looked like one of the many scripts Armand printed for the theater's productions.
Louis's eyes skimmed the lines. They caught on the list of characters, where, inexplicably, his own name was listed next to Claudia's. There were several notes in Armand's hand, and one in a different ink — bold, heavy strokes written in another hand:
"If Claudia's life means anything to you, leave Paris immediately. Do not speak of this note to Armand."
"Louis!" came Armand's distant call. Louis snapped the book shut and, with a nervous jerk, stuffed it into his coat pocket. He closed the music box, clutching it to his chest, and turned to face Armand as he approached.
"You've chosen a different spot for your brooding this time. I looked for you at our bench."
Armand was dressed in a long, dark coat, a deep green scarf wrapped around his slender, long neck. His eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses.
"I…" Louis began, unsure where to start.
Armand's gaze fell on the box in Louis's hands. A flicker of curiosity crossed his face.
"What is that, Louis?" Armand tilted his head owlishly, his large, unblinking eyes seeming to peer directly into his soul. Louis realized, a moment too late, that he should be shielding his thoughts.
"And now you shut me out of that beautiful head of yours, maître," Armand observed with a touch of sadness.
Louis tried to compose himself. He needed to ask Armand what this all meant, if he knew Lestat was in Paris. But instead, for some reason, he replied:
"I was preparing a surprise for you. So don't be offended if I'm a bit secretive these next few days."
"Is that so?" Armand's expression softened. He leaned in suddenly and pressed his lips to Louis's.
Louis tried to suppress his anxiety and return the kiss, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, and a cold emptiness was spreading in his chest. He stood there, his fingers digging into the wooden music box. Only one name hammered in his head: Lestat, Lestat, Lestat… Was he watching them now, as Armand kissed him? Could he feel how terrified Louis was?
"Are you not in the mood tonight?" Armand leaned back slightly and touched Louis's cheek. "Have I angered you in some way? Are you displeased with me?"
Louis shook his head and dropped his gaze. He had to do something to keep Armand from suspecting.
"I don't think living with us is a good idea," Louis said, changing the subject. He'd been circling back to this thought all evening, trying to figure out how best to say it. "Claudia respects you as the coven master, but she can't stand you as my lover. I don't want to make her uncomfortable."
Armand's eyes grew cold, the fire in them hardening into cold amber.
"Is this your surprise, Louis?" he demanded, taking a step back. "After I chose you over the coven I served for centuries?"
Louis closed his eyes for a moment: all these arguments were horribly reminiscent of his fights with Lestat. With one crucial difference: Louis no longer had the desire to argue with anyone about anything.
"I'm not saying I don't want to be with you. But why the rush?" Louis raised a hand in a placating gesture. "I'm just worried about Claudia. She's right: I've too often chosen other men over her."
"Claudia is forty years old. She is a grown woman and should be looking after herself. It would be appropriate for her to find her own place, rather than interfering with your happiness."
Louis felt a surge of anger at those words.
"Are you evicting my daughter from my home, Armand?" Louis hissed.
"She found the strength to forgive me for bringing her into this world, for all the hell she endured growing up! We've only just made peace, and you want me to throw her out? When you're this selfish, you sound exactly like…"
Louis stopped himself mid-sentence, but Armand understood perfectly well.
"Lestat?" he asked, unfazed, then suddenly gave an easy smile. "Forgive me, Louis. I didn't mean to anger you. Let's go, dawn is near."
"If you don't mind, I'll stay at your place tonight. It's too late to look for a flat now," Armand said softly, and Louis felt a pang of shame for his own words.
"Yes, of course," Louis nodded. His hand slipped involuntarily into his coat pocket where the book was hidden, and he tensed. "You can sleep in my coffin. I need to develop last night's photographs, I don't plan on going down for a while."
"If you don't want to share your coffin with me, just say so," Armand chuckled. He looked Louis directly in the eye and bit his lip. "I've lived a long time and can sleep without one. In a bed, like a mortal."
"You're lying," Louis smirked.
"You can test that theory tonight. Or..." Armand moved ahead and began walking backward, facing him. A subtle, knowing smile played on his lips.
"Or what?" Louis found himself smiling back, caught up in the mood. He glanced down for a moment; he was still sometimes awkward about flirting with another man. With someone who wasn't Lestat.
"Or you could forget your precious photography for one night, and we could spend it together."
"You want to make Claudia listen to your moaning?" Louis retorted with a disbelieving laugh.
Louis suddenly felt an inexplicable thrill — a barely perceptible shift in the air close by, a tingling on his skin as if from a heavy gaze. He whirled around, half-expecting to see Lestat or his phantom, but there was no one near them.
"Who said the moaning would be mine, Louis…" Armand whispered, closing the distance and exhaling the words hotly against his lips.
"Armand, enough, we're in public," Louis pushed him away awkwardly and started walking. Everything felt wrong and forced. He desperately wanted to be alone, to read what Lestat — or someone acting on his behalf — had left for him. "Not tonight, alright?"
"Thinking of your former companion makes you irritable, Louis," Armand remarked, as if in passing.
"Get out of my head, Armand, or you'll be sleeping under a bridge tonight!" Louis snapped, and without looking back, he set off for home. Armand caught up to him effortlessly and spent the rest of the walk quoting Shakespeare and musing on Parisian history. Louis wasn't listening.
Blood pulsed restlessly in his veins, his heart drummed a frantic rhythm in his chest. His entire being was focused on shielding his thoughts. He desperately wanted to call for Claudia, to ask if she sensed Lestat's presence in Paris, if she'd noticed anything. But he held back. Louis knew from bitter experience that conversations between him and Claudia could easily be overheard by other vampires, and that was a risk he could not take.
"...and that was when I met you, Louis," Armand's soft voice cut into his consciousness. He realized they were already at the door to their apartment.
Wanting to hear no more, Louis silenced Armand's stories with a kiss and, mumbling an excuse, locked himself in the darkroom.
Only here did he feel a semblance of relief. Louis slowly sank into a chair and leaned back against the wall. His hands still felt heavy from the weight of the music box, and Lestat's message lay hidden in his coat pocket. Louis rubbed his face and stared blankly at the row of photographs hanging from strings. They were all rejects, deemed not good enough — but what more could he do?
His gaze caught on a photograph of Armand, singed at one corner. Louis wearily rose, plucked it from the string, and studied the sharp, pale face looking back at him. Then he noticed writing showing through the paper. Louis turned the photograph over. On the back, in an uneven hand, was written:
"Mon cher, learn to shield your thoughts. You think too loudly."
In horror, Louis crumpled the photograph and flung it away. Without thinking, he set it alight, and only as he watched the flames rise — devouring the dark image — did he understand why this particular photo had been chosen for the note. Damn Lestat.