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Lestat’s mouth moves in a way which renders Louis speechless several times a day. It’s too much- half of his day is spent reeling, looking away, recovering from sudden bursts of fondness and an uncontrollable aggression, an urge to hold Lestat close, wrap him in a blanket and pet his arms, his ridiculous golden locks, the subtly blushing tips of his ears.
He feels everything so strongly now. After a century apart, one tearful reunion in that rickety shack, yet another short lived honeymoon period followed by the unfortunate fallout surrounding Daniel’s crudely chopped up iteration of his story (it’s too far from reality, he tells himself, so he can sleep at night, when guilt overcomes him), Louis has come to terms with what Lestat is. Who he is. It would be an understatement to claim that his self-perception needs work, and he knows this, but if there is one thing he is sure of it is that despite his husband’s withholding nature – he knows him deeply. Every facet of Lestat has always been laid out in the open, vulnerable, for anybody’s viewing pleasure, with an almost painful honesty that beckons anyone who nears him to please, please understand me. Know me for the monster I believe myself to be. For the lover I know I am, for my heart that longs to break, again, again, again.
Louis doesn’t need to scribble in the margins of Lestat’s life story, extract information and analyse, work around his metaphors and flowery descriptions. He would like to know, one day, what the enigma that is Lestat has endured so bravely, but he understands now that all he has to do it look into his eyes, see the corner of his smiling lips wobble, accentuated by a scar so endearing that even the thought of it turns his legs to jelly.
He has to sit down. He’s been away from Lestat too long. Their last meeting had been a near disaster. It had been incredibly odd to see the man, who at the time of their meeting was clothed in a ridiculously passe suit, coupled with a tall hat (the memory of which always makes Louis giggle, much to Lestat’s displeasure), in an office setting, looking rather frazzled.
Yes, it had been odd… but it had tugged on his heartstrings in a way that made it impossible for him to keep his grin at bay. Lestat’s ire, his sarcastic remarks, the way his hands moved to illustrate every point he made (likely a gift from his Italian mother) blinded him. 100 years ago, this would have terrified him. To lose peripheral awareness for even a second would have spelled his downfall. Now, he welcomes it. To be filled with the sensation of Lestat’s undiluted attention being focused only on him is a feeling that could only be paralleled with the first time his lover's pearly fangs kissed his trembling neck.
His mind travels again to the memory of Lestat’s proud grin, that day. How he moved like a cat, all proud and elegant, prowling and preening after finally having caught his prey in a heavenly trap. What had angered him then, warms him now. Knowing Lestat had always been honest in his love and want. It saddens him, knowing how he had met that with hostility; and so he spirals yet again into What-Ifs. What if he had opened himself up. No– it wouldn’t have worked, he had to remain strong back then. What if Lestat had treated him better in his deepest depression. How could he have? What expertise could he have, when his only other love perished from the same illness? Louis could keep going forever, but his therapy is working, so he stops himself before the tears threaten to fall.
What happened, happened. What’s now, is now.
And what he wants now, more than anything in the world, is to see those lips he loves move like putty around kitten fangs, slightly protruding through uncontrollable laughter or passionate ramblings, outburst of emotion during which Lestat always loses his carefully curated composure. He wants to make him angry, to see that lovely snarl. He wants to prod at his pursed lips, pulling them up to kiss at the tips of his teeth. He wants Lestat to draw blood, to wipe it off his face with his sleeve, messy eater as he is.
Louis has a phone, and Lestat’s number. He knows instinctively that Lestat in all his theatricality would never block him, just in case. So he does the easiest thing in the world, and dials his number.
“Louis?” he hears, after two rings. He pictures Lestat’s mouth shaping his name, and finds himself tearing up. The voice on the other end sounds unsure. Louis' heart hurts more than ever.
A soft, trembling “Louis, are you there? Is everything alright, mon cher?” snaps him out of his daze. He is a man on a mission, lest he forget.
“Lestat,” he smiles, knowing Lestat can hear it. Knowing Lestat has watched his mouth move too, and learned how his words sound through happiness.
“Lestat, I–” he composes himself. Come on, Louis. You’re not nervous. “I just missed you. I wanted to hear your voice, cherie.”
The line goes silent, spare a soft buzzing and the sound of cars passing by. Is Lestat outside, Louis wonders? Does he walk the streets alone every day? Does anybody hold his hand when he feels too much at once, when the memories feel a little too much like reality?
His worries are interrupted by a sniffle, and a soft “I don’t want to fight anymore. Let’s not fight like this, my love.”
The Louis he once was would have steeled at this. Gone mad with the back and forth of it all. What about the lawyers!? You started this! You hurt me first! He knows, also, that they will fight again, and again, and again into eternity, but still, the Louis he is now finds himself answering with ease.
“Come to me, Lestat. It’s cold, and humid, and it’s stickin’ to my bones. Lemme hold you a little.”
“Humide? Mais Louis, you are in Dubai, non? Is it not-”
“I said come home, Lestat. Don’t keep me waitin’, now.”
“You- mais Louis, I- I didn’t know, I thought after the meeting–” A brief pause. A small puff of air, which Louis knows to mean that Lestat is straightening himself up, raising his head high again. Not a front, he thinks, never been a front. Always just been Lestat. “I’m coming, mon cher.”
Louis sighs in relief, and tries to busy himself, but after reading a single page of a book three times, he decides that there is no universe in which he could be nonchalant or patient right now, so he paces by the window, watching and waiting, holding his breath.
Every second feels like a minute.
Every minute, an hour.
Every breath feels louder than the last and he can’t wait, he’s eaten well but he feels cold, unhugged, he thinks I’ll just put on my shoes, take a walk, maybe my coat, maybe I’ll just run in the direction I think he might be and meet him halfway because I don’t want to wait anymore, I need him in my arms, I don’t care for humility–
A knock at the door, and his heart stops. It’s only been a week, but it’s been so long, it feels, since Lestat had smiled at him and meant it. He is overcome with a sudden nervousness. What if Lestat is still mad? What if he wants to talk it out first? What if.. What if– no.
He knows Lestat. He loves Lestat. He opens the door.
“Oh, mon cher, I was so glad when you called, I know we must talk but I can’t anymore, not right now, I just want–”
“I love you, Lestat”
Stillness. Lestat, frozen in his tracks, speechless. It scares Louis a little bit. He had never doubted Lestat’s feelings towards him– even when he believed them to be malicious and twisted, but suddenly he feels like a schoolboy, caught with a crush. Had he been wrong, somehow? Had he been too cocky, too sure?
But how could he ever think that, when he finds himself suddenly in a warm embrace, held closely to a heart that beats with his own, with his face in the crook of the neck of the man that he loves more than life itself.
“Stop thinking, Louis. Always thinking too much,” Lestat grumbles in his ear, the mild annoyance so overwhelmingly familiar that he has to pull away slightly, to watch his expression change, to see how his mouth will form the next words out of his mouth.
“I love you so much. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry I–”
A sweet kiss, a gentle end to his sentence.
“Non, Louis. Just tell me again, hmm? Let me hear it again?” His voice shakes, almost as if he believes he might not get what he asked for so kindly.
“I love you, Lestat. I love you, I love you, you’re everything. I love you.”
He moves his hands to Lestat’s face whent the tears start to fall, to catch them before they fall, to swipe his thumb across his lips, his scar, his fangs, fully extended in the heat of the moment, and kisses them both, then kisses his mouth, his cheek, his closed eyes, and he holds him the way he always wants to, and always will from now on, and pulls his soulmate’s head to his shoulder and laughs, delighted, enamoured, elated.
What may come, may come, but that’s of no interest to Louis right now. He has Lestat in his arms, safe and warm, his hand cradling long, lithe piano fingers, his nose inhaling the smell of home. For now, everything is perfect.