l'amour ; la mort

( ♜ ) ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  home,  that’s  right,  ❜ louis  echoes,  nodding  in  reassurance.  ❛  we  went  to  coffin  a  few  hours  ago,  when  the  sun  began  its  ascent  in  the  sky,  ❜  he  whispers,  fingers  carding  through  lestat’s  hair  over  and  over  again.  a  soft,  pleasant  hum  rumbles  in  his  chest  when  his  companion  burrows  closer  to  his  body.  louis’  hand  abandons  sleep-addled  tresses  for  lestat’s  waist,  tugging  him  closer,  impossibly  close.  his  heart  races  out  of  sync,  louis’  sluggish  beat  too  far  behind  from  lestat’s  now.  ❛  oh,  the  past,  ❜  louis  murmurs,  fond  and  sarcastic  in  equal  measure.  ❛  that’s  then,  baby.  this  is  now.  this  is  peace,  ❜  he  speaks,  mouth  moving  against  the  crown  of  lestat’s  head.

  blue  eyes  peer  up  at  his  lover,  glassy  with  adoration. ❛   quel  poète,   ❜  he  murmurs  softly,  lifting  a  finger  to  trail  across  his  lover's  cheek.  lestat  lets  out  a  slow  sigh  as  he  settles  into  louis’  embrace,  trying  to  drive  out  the  last  remnants  of  the  dream  with  the  knowledge  of  his  arms  wound  around  the  person  in  this  world  most  precious  to  him.  a  little  puff  of  laughter  makes  its  way  from  his  lips  at  louis’  gentle  teasing,  but  the  words  stick  in  his  mind:  this  is  peace.  he  knows  it’s  true.  still,  there  is  a  cruelty  to  that  peace  being  disturbed  when  it  has  been  so  hard-won.  even  so,  he  lets  himself  relax,  even  if  only  a  small  fraction  at  a  time.  his  hand  lays  splayed  against  the  silk  sleep  shirt,  a  deep  shade  of  green  this  night,  one  that  he  has  noticed  louis  favors.  lestat  is  all  too  familiar  with  feeling  unmoored–  there  are  few  sensations  that  have  the  opposite  effect.  this  is  one  of  them.

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It's tempting to believe him. Just hurl himself into this again, knowing how bad it can get. What does it matter now anyway? The first time around, he'd had so many hopes and expectations. He'd thought he knew what love must be about, what relationships must be like. He'd thought the two of them could add a child and become a family. He'd that that family could become an eternal version of the family he'd always thought he'd have one day.

Not now. So why is he still scared? Why's he searching Lestat's eyes for some confirmation that it really could be beautiful and not just a new kind of ugly.

"Some of it was beautiful the first time," he says, softly. Then, "But I don't want to hurt you again. And--"

Louis had hurt him. It was true, even if Lestat had hurt him far worse, far more often. Twenty years ago, he might have stopped Louis, insisted that he had never hurt Lestat at all. But in this moment, he has learned to accept the gray.

Louis could relitigate all of it. Bring forth his evidence this time. Give his fucking testimony.

But he has already done that, of course, and the thought of it is exhausting. The thought of saying any of it to Lestat's face is exhausting. It takes so much energy to believe himself before Lestat, and usually he gives in. Lestat's version is probably more accurate than his own. His memories are like a decaying fortress that he keeps trying to rebuild to protect himself, only for it to fall again and again.

Pointless. The pointlessness makes him laugh--more an exhalation of breath, like being hit in the stomach. "You think it matters to me? If you need me? I don't need you to need me."

The words are cruel, he can hear the cruelty in his voice and he holds onto it briefly. Cruelty is the only defense that ever worked, even though it hurts him, too.

The words pierce through as they're meant to and Lestat feels a hot spike of pain lance through him. "Yes," he says softly, something caught between heartbreak and simmering anger, "you've made that very clear."

"Is that who I am? The mortal thirty-three year old you met way back when?" Louis scoffs, shaking his head. "All right. Fine. Whatever you say, Lestat. I'm already ideal. I'm perfect to you, except you can't stand me half the time. If I don't baby you, you shatter. If I'm in a bad mood, you go fuck somebody else. I'd hate to see how you'd act with somebody isn't your ideal companion."

considering genevieve has only had one lover, she didn't think she had enough experience to answer. with rose, however, she had made sure the other woman felt love and cared for in every way imaginable, showed her attention and gave her the respect she did, indeed, deserve. after a moment of gazing at one another, genevieve's features soften that much more, enticed by both his looks and the tenderness of his words. 'yes — i would have to agree,' as often as she tried to keep her thoughts from wandering, genevieve can't help but to wonder how many lovers lestat has had in his lifetime. surely an inappropriate thought, one she would keep to herself, but something she can't help but to think, all the time. such a handsome creature; it was hard to believe he hasn't gotten anyone or anything he's ever wanted. then again, genevieve understood that being beautiful wasn't entirely positive. sometimes, it came with being seen as a object, a trophy to be won and put on a shelf. there were so many things she wanted to know about him, but now didn't seem like the time to ask.

she waits for lestat to stand, ushering him forward with a manicured hand, only to follow him out the door and step into his stride. she's barely taller than him in her boots, heels adding five inches for her to leverage, if needed. it was nice to look him in the eyes, this way, though she couldn't keep her gaze on him for too long, unsure if she could hide the intrigue portrayed there. 'it is a pleasure to have you here, monsieur de lioncourt,' genevieve states genuinely, trying to keep her tone professional, though it may briefly drift into one of admiration. she leads him up the grand staircase toward a short hallway with several locked rooms. she walks slowly, perhaps wanting to elongate this time they had together. 'what brings you, if you do not mind me asking? to the city, to my lounge . . .' hands clasp in front of her form as she stops in front of one of the suites, turning to glance at lestat once more. 'pleasure, of course, but may it also be for business?'

rich coming from him, really. lestat gets lost in the fantasy, sometimes, that he is not who he is. for no matter how he has changed, he is still the man who hurt the people he loved– the people he was supposed to love– all those years ago. he will never be free of what he did to them. nor should he be. and if that notion flickers over his expression, then he can only hope genevieve doesn't notice. should she have any desire to take him to bed, she need never know those parts of him.

the sweet roaming of her eyes– almost innocent– is soothing as it goes over him. maybe he can't be good, not at his core. but he can be sweet. he can be beautiful. and in fact it would be a privilege to be that for her; to be, for a moment, someone who could even begin to deserve a woman so enchanting. but something in the air changes and he lets the fantasy slip gently past. he is more than happy simply to converse with her as they fall into step beside one another. still, her manner is so utterly lovely.

'the pleasure is all mine, i assure you.' he offers her a smile, genuine admiration in his eyes. 'you run a truly remarkable establishment. i won't be able to speak highly enough of it.'

the question isn't one many ask with such earnestness– where lestat has come from, and why. so often it is mere polite conversation before more... intimate matters are discussed. ( yet isn't that all by his own doing? )

still, he is touched.

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