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Hands touch.
A heartbeat, tugging on his own.
There's a faint whirring overhead. Far-off footsteps, the noises that a building makes, creaking and settling.
Smell returns next. He breathes in a sweet, clean scent, unable to be placed in this floaty state, but something familiar, safe. Underneath sits something antiseptic and sterile.
His body comes back to him in segments— feet and legs, torso, arms and shoulders, head. They all feel strangely heavy, like earth's gravity has been cranked up to several times itself. There's a soft surface below him, most likely a bed. Something touches his left hand, a tickle that begins to irritate him the more he focuses on it.
He tries to shake it off but his limbs don't cooperate, bogged down by that drowsy feeling. At least his vision is returning now, lines of grey tiles on the ceiling gradually appearing the more he stares.
That's when the pain registers inside of his throat like he's just downed a hot coal. Swallowing is a long, dragging lick of fire. He adjusts the position of his head, trying to escape the soreness when he sees, down by his side, a flash of gold. His eyes strain and his head pounds as he brings the image into focus.
Lestat dozes in a chair at his bedside, cheek pressed against Louis's hand. Lestat's fingers are lightly touching his own still, grip fallen loose in his unconscious state. Soft hair drapes over his wrist. Lestat's mouth is slightly parted but there is a furrow in his brow that make him look tense. His presence brings Louis comfort and confuses him all the same. Why is he here? It feels familiar and foreign all at once— right scenario, wrong environment.
Louis's eyes scan down and catch the angry red line that slices through Lestat's neck. Ice cold water rushes over him, and suddenly, everything comes back at once.
He gasps as he's launched back into his body, gaining full control over all of his limbs. His head flies off of the pillow as his muscles convulse involuntarily, forcing him upright. A deluge of memories spills into his head. Orange, piercing eyes. A hand running over Lestat's lifeless form. His own body, grasping at the air.
His hands fly up to his neck.
"Louis," a voice is saying, "Louis!"
Something grabs his wrists, wrapping around them and holding them away from his body. Louis shouts, trying to push it away, but the vice-like grip doesn't budge even as he thrashes violently.
"Open your eyes!" someone is pleading.
With a yelp, his eyelids fly open and he stills, floored by the reverent gaze of his companion who stares unblinkingly at him.
"Louis," he murmurs in disbelief. "Louis. Are you with me?"
He attempts to speak but it comes out in a rasp, sending a sharp jolt of pain down his throat and forcing out a choked cough.
"Shh, shh. Careful," Lestat says gently. "Talk softly. Your vocal chords are healing. Do you remember anything?"
Louis groans, nods. He remembers more than he wishes. The utter helplessness, the bright lights that had blinded and disoriented him as he drifted in an out of consciousness. It's not often he seriously fears dying but he can admit that he had started to wonder there, near the end.
Lestat releases his wrists and briefly skates his hands across his cheeks before they come to rest on his shoulders instead. His wide eyes roam, checking over his body.
It all makes him feel fragile, exposed. He wants to hug Lestat, he realizes. He wants it very bad, to pull him into his arms and breathe him in, to bask in the relief of being safe and whole and together again. He wants Lestat to comfort him and whisper to him softly like how he did in their early days together.
That was decades ago, though. What of them, now? Louis had thought they might kiss on the bench. Thought they might kiss, and go home together, and more, because no matter how hard he tries to lie to himself, he's spent his whole time in Montreal imagining how nice a gold wedding band would feel on his finger. Except then, the world had tilted on its axis, the night sky had spun around him, and now…
"How long has it been?" he whispers scratchily.
"A couple of days. Fareed stitched you up and brought you to the bus. Then I brought you here," he says solemnly.
"Where is here?" Louis asks.
"Some hotel on the north side."
After a brief moment staring into space, Lestat takes a deep breath and begins to explain the bizarre circumstances, how his own severed head was plucked up by the Talamasca from a bowling alley of all places, how he was brought back to the tour bus and placed in his coffin to heal.
"When I tell you I awoke from near-death into madness— people I'd never even seen before, crammed into my bus like sardines and prattling on about the goddamn concert. They were keeping you downstairs," he says. "They tried to prevent me from seeing you. I didn't know how you were, where Daniel was, where Armand was."
It's unclear how much he knows about what happened to Louis in the butcher shop, how much had been relayed by Fareed. Opting to save that mess of a conversation for when he can think straight, Louis does not ask.
"Where is everyone now?" he says instead.
"I don't know," says Lestat as he shrugs, voice taking on a touch of delirium, "I threw my phone in the St. Lawrence."
"And the concert's off, I assume?" Louis asks, remembering how he had been begged for its cancellation.
Lestat huffs out a laugh, incredulous. "Fuck the concert."
They can both agree there.
Louis suddenly notices Lestat's haggard state: skin paler than usual, cheeks slightly hollowed out. There are dark half-moons underneath his eyes and his hair is flat and stringy, a far cry from its usual luscious condition. Healing from decapitation has taken an obvious toll on him too despite his older, stronger blood.
When he finally takes a look around the room he's in he finds it to be nothing special, a small desk and an extra chair the only furniture other than the bed. There's two doors on the far side and a window on the other. Beneath its thin curtains he can see where cardboard has been hastily taped up against the glass to block out the sun. The room is also, notably, lacking a coffin.
"You sit here this whole time?" Louis asks. Lestat eases himself back down into the chair next to his bedside.
"Mhm. I was worried you wouldn't remember what happened. I didn't want you to be scared or confused when you woke up. Didn't want anyone to touch you." His voice takes on a tremble as he continues, rambling faster. "When I woke up and you weren't there, I was- I was- ah, nevermind. I'm sorry if I overstepped, bringing you here. You can leave as soon as-"
"Lestat," he interrupts.
Teary blue eyes meet his.
"Thank you."
The tears spill over but Lestat quickly rubs them away, turning from Louis's gaze.
"Yes, okay," he says. "Of course."
It registers to him that beneath the thin blankets he's still wearing his ragged, blood-soaked clothes from that night. They stick to his skin uncomfortably. Why Lestat hadn't taken them off during the long hours of standing vigil, he can only guess.
"Think I'll shower now," he says.
He pushes himself upright again, groaning with the effort as the heaviness in his body persists, now joined by an ache that begins to set in deep in his bones. Turns out losing your literal head is a real shock to the system, even as an immortal.
"Let me help you," Lestat urges, placing one hand on his back and clasping the other around his to pull him up to a standing position. As soon as he's upright he stumbles, falling into Lestat's chest like a newborn foal. As he embarrassingly tries to get his legs back underneath him, Lestat holds him steady, Louis's face resting in the crook of his neck. The scent of him, sweet with a hint of iron from both the wound and the rushing blood beneath his skin, makes Louis's stomach clench with hunger. If they were both in a better way he'd be tempted to ask if he could drink from him.
Once they are both standing independently, Lestat fetches the second best thing, a blood bag from the minifrdige, and urges Louis to drink. He gulps it down quickly and immediately begins to feel better. Despite the comfort of a full stomach easing some of the dizziness, walking to the bathroom still proves to be somewhat of a feat so Lestat hovers over him, keeping a hand on his waist the whole time.
The hotel shower is a huge, open stall, complete with a bench jutting out of the wall on one side that Louis collapses onto, chest heaving with effort. A big hand rests on his upper back and gently rubs back and forth as Lestat watches him with a pained expression.
"I'm good," he pants, "I'm good."
Lestat's disposition takes on an uncharacteristic shyness, a phenomenon that Louis has noticed more these days. Looking at the ground as he asks, "do you uh, do you want help?"
It's not something he's going to be able to do on his own. It should make him feel nervous maybe, putting his body in someone else's hands after what happened. Yet he finds that he trusts Lestat. He kept him safe in the hotel room, standing watch while he slept. He'll keep him safe now, too.
He nods and almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation— it's not how he pictured getting naked with Lestat again for the first time in eighty years, but then again, when have they ever done anything conventionally?
Deft fingers skirt along his waist and grab the hem of his tank-top, pulling it over his head while being careful to not let it touch his neck. He notices that the brand on his chest is gone, disappeared into his flesh as if it was never there. Did Lestat heal it? He pictures him sitting over his sleeping form, rubbing fresh blood into the wound methodically. Maybe he imagined it. Whatever happened, he's thankful to avoid that reminder.
Shifting his hips, he assists Lestat as he pulls down his pants and underwear and tugs them off over his legs. Lestat takes his clothes off in turn, revealing his pale skin decorated with pink scars. He looks more sinewy than usual, muscles prominent from the stress of injury, yet gorgeous as ever. There's a shy expression on his face, falling short of playful but it could be, if the circumstances were different. If the circumstances were different, that look would've enticed him to run his hands all over Lestat, learn his body anew. Unable to resist getting a small taste, Louis reaches out and places a hand on his bare hip, just touching him. He rubs his thumb over where his skin is thinnest, stretched over the bone. Looking up at Lestat, he watches how his throat bobs, and for a moment, Louis closes his eyes as all else becomes background noise.
The moment fades, Louis pulls his hand away, and Lestat turns the water on, taking the detachable showerhead off of the wall and pointing it away from them until it heats up. Then, he directs it onto Louis's chest, letting some of the tacky blood seep down his body and onto the tile, swirling red down the drain.
The heat feels amazing on his skin, warming his cold bones like a fireplace in the winter, covering him like a blanket and making him feel a little less exposed. He closes his eyes, sighing as Lestat directs the spray to his head, getting his hair saturated.
"I'm sorry, the shampoo is not good here," he says. "It'll probably dry out your hair."
"That's alright," Louis says.
Long fingers find a place in his hair, lathering the shampoo and scratching lightly to dislodge dry flakes of blood. The pleasurable feeling of Lestat's nails on his sensitive scalp sends tingles down his spine.
"Mmm," he sighs. "That's nice. Smells good, at least."
Lestat hums a tune softly under his breath, threading his fingers through his curls to fully coat them. It's incredible how natural it feels, how simple it is to fall back into that easy intimacy with his maker after so long apart.
"It's cloudberry scented. Do you think that's a real type of berry?" Lestat asks.
"I don't know. Never heard of it."
"I would look it up on Google, but my phone is, ah…"
"In the river," Louis supplies.
Lestat grabs the showerhead again and rinses the suds out of his hair, using his hand to block the water from running down into his eyes. It trails down his head in rivulets, stinging a little at the boundary of his neck wound. He gets very close as he cleans his face, breath brushing against Louis's skin and making him shiver. He rubs the a cloth over his eyebrows, cheekbones, the edges of his lips. Every so often they make eye contact but Louis flicks his gaze away, overwhelmed. His jaw tingles where Lestat's hand holds it steady.
Next he begins to scrub away at him from shoulders-down. Red patches are sloughed off of his chest, revealing smooth skin beneath. His wrists are delicately picked up as his arms are washed, shoulder to elbow to wrist. Lestat uses his bare hands to clean each one of his fingers, carefully prying the blood from beneath his nails with his own.
After washing off his stomach, Lestat passes him the washcloth to clean between his own legs, avoiding his gaze to afford him a dash of privacy. Afterwards, Louis tilts his head back against the tile wall, lulled into tiredness by the rhythmic passes of Lestat's hands, the warmth of the water and the cloud of steam around him. His eyelids droop and his whole body enters a deep, slackened state as Lestat cleans his hips, thighs, then bends to his calves. It's only when he speaks that Louis is brought back to the surface.
"Louis, what is this?" Lestat asks, unsettled. He's tracing his thumb over Louis's ankle, the bumpy surface where his skin healed over the rocks. He freezes. The thought of trying to explain the horrors he went though after the trial right now makes him feel ill.
"I-" Louis starts, "I really don't want to talk about it now."
Lestat looks broken, eyebrows pinched in concern over huge blue eyes.
"It's not new. Something left over from Paris," Louis adds. "I'll tell you later, I promise."
Lestat presses his lips together tightly and rests his forehead against Louis's knee. "Okay," he murmurs.
Then, it's finally time to clean his neck wound. Lestat glances at Louis first to make sure it's alright, only beginning once he nods. Although he simply dabs gently around it, Louis hisses in pain.
"I know," Lestat soothes, "I'm sorry."
"s'okay," he responds, trying not to move his jaw.
Lestat never touches the wound directly, just cleans the blood off of the surrounding skin, rubbing in small circles. His touch is precise yet gentle and he works with rapt focus, eyebrows narrowed and tongue barely peeking out of his mouth. He's surprisingly good at it, diligent in his care. Louis fails holds back a smile as a sudden image comes to mind.
"What?" Lestat asks.
"Picturing you as a nurse."
This makes the corner of Lestat's lips barely turn up, the first hint of a smile all night. "Am I a sexy nurse?" he asks curiously.
"Hah. Something like that," Louis says. "You'd have to distract everyone when all of the blood bags go missing."
Lestat smiles again, small and thoughtful. Louis gets a final, gentle rinse, shower head on the lowest pressure. Then, he hears a sniffle. Glancing up at Lestat he sees that there are tears rolling down his face again, smearing red over his cheeks. It's almost fascinating, the way he can rapidly oscillate between emotions.
"Lestat," he calls, "what's wrong?"
His hand drops from Louis's neck, wringing the bloodstained hotel washcloth out and tossing it carelessly on the floor.
"I was so worried that you wouldn't wake up again," he says, voice cracking
Louis's heart softens in his chest. It's a little bit of an overreaction, maybe— they are immortal, after all— but he can't say he doesn't understand the fear. He had wrestled with it long ago in Paris, unable to come to terms with the horror of an earth that Lestat did not walk. Grabbing one of Lestat's hands, he places it against his heart. With the other, he gently wipes Lestat's face, thumb sweeping underneath his eyes.
"Hey," he reassures. "I'm alright."
"I don't know what I would do if I lost you," Lestat continues, looking into his eyes now. "I'd go back into the ground, this time for a hundred years. Five hundred."
"At least it would've made for a good song, huh?" he teases.
Lestat stares, mouth a tight line. "I don't like that joke."
Precious blood diverges from healing his injury as he feels his ears flush hot.
"Okay. Sorry."
Lestat still looks displeased, features tense, chewing at his bottom lip. Maybe it was a bad joke, but it had made him feel shy, Lestat's severity, the obvious magnitude of his feelings. It had made him want to turn his gaze away.
Maybe it can be different now, though. As different as trailer park living is from city life, as different as the modern age is from the 20th century he was born into. Maybe Lestat's vulnerability can make him brave, too.
"Hey," Louis says. "Come here." He holds his arms out wide.
Lestat immediately goes to him, falling into his chest. Strong arms wrap tightly around him, Lestat's fingertips digging into his back as he clutches him close. Louis holds him tightly in turn, chest to chest. It's warm at all the points where his skin touches Lestat's, both of their bodies still slick with water. Wet strands of blonde hair tickle his shoulders.
There's a sudden pressure behind Louis's eyes, to his surprise. The whole weight of the scenario hits him like a truck. He could lie to himself and say it's just Lestat's dramatics rubbing off on him, but he knows the truth, that something about being in his arms has always made him soft. Suddenly, he is very grateful to be alive. What a tragedy it would've been if he had died on that bench, full of longing, never getting the chance to feel Lestat's touch again. Tears well up in his eyes against his will, spilling over as his chest catches.
"Oh, my Saint Louis," Lestat says as he notices, lips brushing against his hair, "don't cry. I have you."
He hasn't heard that name in almost a century. It seems to press against something deep in his chest and he bites his lip around a whimper as he cries softly, throat stinging. He cries for what he had almost lost, he cries for the violation he suffered, for how afraid Lestat must've been, too. Lestat places his lips against his forehead and keeps them there. Silent red drops pass through Louis's eyeline, falling from Lestat's face still. A pair of crybabies, the two of them. Lestat rubs his back until he feels like he can breathe again.
After a few quiet minutes he traces his finger beneath the red ring of Lestat's neck, looking at where the flesh has mended back together. It looks much further along in the healing process than his own wound.
"You think it will scar?" Louis asks.
"I don't know," Lestat says. "But if it does, at least we will match."
Like wedding bands, he thinks.